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shachaai · 16 hours ago

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[Hetalia Version] The Lindworm’s Lullaby

Chapters: 4/14 Rating: Explicit (For Gore) Main Relationships: Arthur Kirkland (England)/Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal) Characters: Arthur Kirkland (England), Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal), Original Child Character(s), Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany), Julia Blumenschien (Fem Prussia), Kiku Honda (Japan), Lovino Vargas (South Italy), Assorted Others Other Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Human AU, FBI Murder Mystery/Thriller, Case Fic, Adapted from a Hannibal Fic, Baby Fic, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Gabriel Fernandes, Omega Arthur Kirkland, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Single Parent Arthur Kirkland, Violence and Gore Canon-Typical to Hannibal Levels, Cute Moments and Murder, Murder Scenes, Dead Bodies, Poisoning, Discussions about torture/infidelity/rape

The FBI is called in to investigate when a series of bodies shows up around Ohio: all of them alphas, and all of them skinned alive. With the killer’s motives a mystery, Ludwig Beilschmidt pulls Arthur Kirkland from the classroom and his vigil at the comatose Madeline Williams’ bedside once more to lend his insight to the case - with very little mind paid to the fact that the busy Arthur, omega and single mother to a six month-old daughter, might have some scheduling issues. Necessity - and pressure from Ludwig - drives Arthur into reluctantly asking Gabriel Fernandes for a favour at short notice. Gabriel is delighted to help Arthur with babysitting - once he has, of course, recovered from both the surprise of learning that Arthur Kirkland even has a baby to care for and, presented with the adorable armful that is a sleepy Lenore Kirkland, feeling a little skinned raw himself.

*****

CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 2 | CHAPTER 3

*****

Chapter 4: fancy unto fancy

Arthur’s advice to Gabriel, mostly sent via text, is to take a longer and more circuitous route from Quantico to the Kirkland home in Wolf Trap rather than relying solely on the interstate highways. Fairfax County, where Wolf Trap is located, is part of the Washington metropolitan area and has the notorious achievement of being the third-worst area in the entirety of the United States of America for congested traffic. The effect is at its worst during rush hour, tired workers of the 9-to-5 regime making the commute to and from D.C., but the demands of the capital necessitate a workforce available at all hours of the day and night - and, thus, ascertain that the arteries which supply aforementioned workforce will never be clear.

Gabriel takes the - unavoidable - I-95 north from Quantico in Arthur’s thoroughly-used car, the faint odour of damp canine and baby shampoo in his nose. The olfactory mix is strange but infinitely preferable to the overpowering and abominably artificial pine of Arthur’s car freshener which had assaulted Gabriel as soon as he had gotten behind the wheel of Arthur’s Volvo, drilling something sharp, chemical and lime green straight through to the back of his skull with all the painful, migraine-inducing grace of an ice-pick. Snatching up the little tree dangling from the rearview mirror, Gabriel had (after reading the 100% biodegradable obnoxiously emblazoned across its chemical-soaked surface) thrown the freshener out of the driver-side window with extreme prejudice, wiping his befouled hand - somewhat - clean afterwards on the leg of his trousers.

Lenore Kirkland immediately demonstrates better taste than her mother by clapping her little starfish hands together and shrieking with glee as the little tree, caught at once by the wind, whips past her window, dropping her drool-wet stuffed dog toy from her mouth onto her lap.

The infant’s absolute delight at such a simple thing is a pleasure to witness, the joy of discovery suffusing Lenore’s little body entirely and rendering her a creation of pure and innocent grace. A spotless child of the biblical Garden, still unaware yet of the difference between the corrupt definitions of Good and Bad. Still unspoilt by either serpents or gods, untainted by the taste of bittersweet knowledge on the tongue.

Lenore all but glows and her sweetly childish jouissance draws the twitch of a smile from Gabriel when he glances at the infant every so often in the rearview mirror. Focusing on the night black of her curls when the memories of another happily shrieking little brunette girl threaten to rise up close to the forefront of his mind, distant days where it had been bubbles blown through golden baby bracelets entertaining the little one, Gabriel humming nursery rhymes himself rather than listening to the vibration of recorded strings on the radio.

For all she remains obstinately awake, Lenore is a pleasant enough companion on their hour-long journey through Virginia to her home. She ba ba bas her way through several Mozart suites on the radio and listens in rapt silence to Saint-Saëns’ The Swan. (Relative silence. There is something coloured neon yellow and green rolling around in the passenger-side footwell that rattles loudly every time it moves, which Gabriel strongly suspects is one of Lenore’s baby toys.) She coos in fascination at the bright yellow car in the lane beside them at one set of traffic lights, and makes a long drawn-out ohh of wonder when Gabriel points out a whale-shaped cloud to her on their right.

Gabriel turns off the interstate as they approach Wolf Trap, taking the smaller roads that twist and turn through affluent suburbia in an effort to avoid the Dulles Toll Road. Multiple signs point to the way to the Wolf Trap National Park for the Performing Arts and all its associated performance halls, to the Meadowlark Botanical Gardens and countless parks and nature reserves full of winding trails and fishing spots. Woods and forests nestle leisure, culture and art in their bosom, and each turn in the road brings a new little patch of houses, a few shops, another sign pointing the way to another park - or a much less halcyonic Walmart.

Lenore is still quietly singing to herself (motivated, now, by Bach’s Air on a G String) as Gabriel makes the turn down the road that the sat-nav promises him will be the final one before the Kirkland home. The road is lined with trees. The red evening sun flashes down on Gabriel’s arms as he passes beneath the foliage, the asphalt ahead lined by the shadow bars of overhead branches and the speckled pattern of leaves swaying in the breeze. Here and there, between the trunks either side of the road, Gabriel catches glimpses of endless fields and scrubland, large individual homes at the end of long driveways. As fewer newer builds - McMansions - as older, more traditional ones.

Obviously - and more obviously by the second -, Arthur Kirkland lives as far away from other people as both convenience and suburbia will allow him to. Even though he’s still driving down the same road as before it has been some time since Gabriel last saw a patch of dwellings clustered close to one another, and the distance between mailboxes along the road is growing cumulatively longer and longer with each one passed. And yet. The turn-off to the home of Arthur’s nearest neighbour, the one Arthur had referred to as Nancy, is, truly, quite difficult to miss. One bright red mailbox thrusts itself prominently out into the road beside a well-kept and clean beige gravel drive, with multiple bright flower stickers covering the mailbox and multi-coloured yarn knitted around its pole. Someone has hung Chinese-style lanterns in the nearby trees - along with what looks like a giant knitted ladybird.

Gabriel ignores it. (Both the turn-off and the ladybird.) He had made up his mind about what he planned to do with Lenore that evening the moment he had laid eyes on the child, and none of it had ever involved foisting Lenore on the infamously be-permed Nancy.

Almost a full eight minute drive after Nancy’s mailbox, Gabriel’s sat-nav announces the turn-off to the Kirkland residence - apparently the last residential stop on the road for miles.

Gravel and dirt ping quietly off the body of the Volvo as Gabriel makes his way up the Kirklands’ drive, the vehicle's wheels crunching over dried leaves and browning sticks that have fallen onto the lane. The land around the drive - Arthur’s land - is still heavily wooded, obscuring the much-awaited sight of the FBI professor’s home until, quite abruptly, the treeline reaches its end and Gabriel is there.

In contrast to many of the large houses and mansions Gabriel had seen driving through the county, the house Arthur and Lenore Kirkland call home is a relatively normal-sized abode. Built farmhouse style, the house is a glimpse of rustic domesticity amidst fields of long, whispering grass, its clapboard walls painted a homely white in defiance of the not-too-distant shadowy woods. Ivy and honeysuckle climb the posts supporting the covered porch and local vegetation grows wild right up to the steps.

The front of the house is slipping into dark shadow as Gabriel inches up the gravel drive, the sun descending in the sky behind the building to the right, over what looks like a large barn or shed out in the nearby field. The sunset blazes some of its last glory even as Gabriel parks the Volvo and lets its engine die, a moment of perfect, still beauty hanging in the air like a teardrop from a phoenix’s eye.

Lenore Kirkland abruptly realises that the car’s radio has been switched off and starts shrieking in outrage, bursting apart the moment’s peace like a soap bubble in the sink.

Gabriel winces but leaves the infant to it. No doubt something else will take Lenore’s attention soon and the shrieking will stop, leaving Gabriel free to occupy himself with the other distractions Wolf Trap has to offer him. Just stepping out of the car he can hear multiple dogs barking inside the house - prompting the ruefully belated realisation in Gabriel that he had neglected to ask Arthur just how many dogs the professor actually owned. Too lost in his own starry-eyed wonder at the revelation of Lenore’s existence at the time, his thoughts sent in too many directions at once after only just learning about Arthur’s motherhood.

Some of Lenore’s charm begins to fade when the little girl, rather than quietening down, screams all the louder when Gabriel unbuckles her from her car seat, thoroughly upset now that music time is at an end. Even bringing her small body up against his shoulder does nothing; Lenore stubbornly refusing to be placated by her mother’s scent on the scarf that Arthur had loaned Gabriel, turning her face away from Gabriel’s throat and throwing a truly impressive baby temper tantrum with flailing hands and feet kicking against Gabriel’s chest. All the while shrieking. All furious infantile betrayal and upset. Endless wordless noise that makes Gabriel’s eardrums ring with Lenore so close to them in his arms.

With the infant protesting so much and so physically, Gabriel settles on taking just Lenore up from the car to the porch for now. Leaving their bags in the car, the tall grass parting around Gabriel’s ankles like Moses’ first faithful steps out into the waiting Red Sea. A divine miracle of timely seasonality.

Lenore rewards Gabriel’s focus on her care by kicking him rather hard - for a six month-old in soft footed pyjamas - in the ribs, prompting Gabriel to lift her teary scowling face up and away from his shoulder when they reach the cover of the porch. She throws Kitty behind them in the grass, and tears the clip of her pacifier from her cardigan when Gabriel tries to offer her the nub to chew on, flinging both pacifier and its beaded cord down in a melodramatic clatter on the porch’s planks.

“That is hardly becoming behaviour for a little princess,” Gabriel firmly informs his charge, giving Lenore a gentle bounce in his arms. One, two: her mittens and the hood and little stubby tail on the back of her cardigan bounce as well. Her cheeks are red with fury. “Aren’t you going to welcome me to your home?”

Lenore yells even louder than before - directly into Gabriel’s ear. “Na! Nabayah!” And, louder and more defiantly to Gabriel’s third bounce - “NA!”

Her screeching has worked up the dogs inside the house even more. Judging by all the different barks, there has to be at least four canines in the pack; Gabriel can hear the thud of multiple heavy paws against the inside of the front door, the screen door rattling on the porch.

Inwardly, Gabriel sighs. It would be a bad idea to try and enter the house with Lenore in such a temper. Gabriel has some concern that Arthur’s dogs might actually attack him if they think he - a stranger - is endangering a member of their human family, so he takes a seat on the battered and creaking swing-seat nearby him on the porch instead. Rubbing soothingly against Lenore’s back even as the infant continues to scream, kick and flail at him, pushing his feet against the boards beneath them to set the swing-seat gently rocking.

If nothing else, Gabriel has to grudgingly admire the size of both Lenore Kirkland’s determinedly stubborn streak and her impressive lung capacity. Her passion for music. Perhaps Arthur has some fae banshee blood in him for his daughter to have inherited such a penchant for ear-splitting wailing, mother and daughter alike dark twin omens of imminent death and woe.

Gabriel will have to recommend Arthur get Lenore invested in swimming when she is a little older. With some training to accompany her natural ability, the child would be lethal underwater. Another Olympian for America or Great Britain’s swim-team - or a traditional ama of Japan, should the interest take her in that direction.

The wild grass in the fields continues to ripple and flow with the wind. In the distant trees, the shadows of birds take flight.

Gabriel begins to tell Lenore about ama as she continues to shriek against his shoulder and he continues to gently rock them both back and forth in Arthur’s creaking swing. Of the dwindling numbers of those freediving omega women of Japan who still dive without scuba gear or air tanks to bring up treasures from the deeps: seafood and abalones for shrines and the Japanese emperors. Shining sea pearls that had once birthed pearl aquaculture in Toba, Japan.

Ama begin their training in early adolescence, even before presentation of their secondary gender. Girls are favoured for the life due to the distribution of fat within their bodies, their perceived superior ability to hold their breath underwater for longer than boys. Of the secondary genders, omegas are preferred for their perceived purity. The touch of an omega is unable to taint the food or lustrous gems ama search for the way more carnal betas or alphas might do - but a truly talented beta or alpha could still, with enough persistence and patience for cleansing rituals, still be considered pure enough to remain an ama after presentation. The white uniforms - once, traditionally, only simple loincloths - worn by ama reflect their intensely honed skills and innate virtue, and their equally traditional headscarves are decorated with wards to bring them luck and protection whilst they dive.

Eventually, Lenore has to pause for breath. Eventually, Lenore has to pause for breath at a point when she is just too exhausted to pick up her wailing again afterwards, her small chest heaving against Gabriel’s larger one with tiredness. Sticky tears spot her cheeks like pearls and sea-spray.

“All finished?” Gabriel asks her then, his ears still ringing in the - relative - quiet.

Lenore hiccups back at him and burbles a long nonsense string of sad stuttering syllables, raising one of her hands to clumsily pat at Gabriel’s face again. Tug at one of his dangling curls. She smells like sour sweat and salt tears now over the creamy breastmilk note inherent to all infants, over the soft fruit and spice scents of her baby skin lotion and shampoo. Sadness and frustration.

“I know, ma boulette,” Gabriel comforts her, offering Lenore another gentle bounce when she hiccups wetly again, “I know. The universe is a large and uncaring place to exist within, and you are still so, so small. If God exists he answers prayers so rarely that to pray is to waste one’s breath, so scream as much as you feel the need to. If one cannot move Heaven, they must raise Hell instead.”

Lenore stares at him quizzically with her big, watery blue eyes, fat wobbling tears still clinging determinedly to her inky eyelashes. Gabriel brushes them away with the back of his knuckles before he lets Lenore snuggle-slump into the comfort of Arthur’s scarf again and all the scent trapped in its fibres, patting Lenore’s back with the slow and steady pace of a metronome to help her hiccups subside.

The sun has slipped well below the horizon now, somewhere behind the house, and long cool shadows snake their way up onto the covered porch where Gabriel sits with Lenore. It would hardly do for the infant to catch a chill so, after retrieving the abandoned Kitty and pacifier from the respective places Lenore had thrown them, Gabriel tries the door with the key Arthur had given him.

The dogs had stopped barking when Lenore stopped wailing, but they still rush out in an urgent wave of concern the moment the door swings open. And yes, dogs, plural: not two, not three, not even four but seven, a swirling maelstrom of wet noses and lashing tails that butt strongly against Gabriel’s ankles, knees and thighs. Two bark again at the sight of a stranger and one of the littlest - some terrier mix - growls, but all of them calm again when Lenore reaches down from her safe perch in Gabriel’s arms and babbles at them. Gives another little hiccup-hic, then giggles at herself.

Tails start tentatively wagging, and Kitty gets dropped again - bonking a momentarily confused border collie on the nose. Four of the seven dogs switch their priority from the stranger in their home to their need to go and relieve their bladders against a tree outside, leaving three - the terrier, an obviously elderly chihuahua mix with a tremendous underbite that may just be too tired to race off after the others, and a brindle-haired mutt with a sharp glint of intelligence in its eyes - to shadow Gabriel’s heels as he moves deeper into the Kirkland home, leaving the front door open behind him.

Even in the twilight gloom, Gabriel can see the continuous flow of being that moves through the Wolf Trap property, outside to inside to outside again. The interior’s colours are that of nature: that of stone and wood and foliage. The furniture is mismatched but alike in either deep orange, green, blue or brown, and the walls are painted a deep blue-green. Wide, open windows everywhere give sightlines to the fields everywhere around the main building, making the sky as much a backdrop of the rooms as the walls and ceilings are.

The front room - the living room - has a double-sized camp bed in it on one side. Arthur must use it as a daybed or casual nest for three sides of it have been piled high with overstuffed pillows, and the sheets in the soft basin that forms the middle of the nest are rumpled and unmade. It’s been recently used and smells strongly of both Arthur and Lenore from even a few metres away, a floating cloud of contentment that is drowsy with milk, with warm sunshine and sleep. The scent is as heavy in Gabriel’s nose as Lenore’s warm lulling weight is against his ribcage, a gentle tickling like featherdown at the back of Gabriel’s brain.

He turns his nose down into the collar of his shirt for a moment, breathing in the scent of his own cologne until his thoughts have lost some of their hazy edges.

The rest of the living room is dominated by bookshelves - packed tightly with a truly (fascinatingly) eclectic mix of fiction and non-fiction -, a fireplace, a dusty piano covered in tchotchkes, and several chairs. A table covered in shadowy unidentifiable objects has been positioned just so beneath one window so that, during the day, it must catch a favourable amount of light, but Gabriel cannot figure out what it might be used for until he switches on the overhead lights and literally illuminates himself.

Fishing. The crafting of fishing lures to be precise, though a line of fishing rods stand sentry on the wall beside the table, just waiting to be used. Drawers of bright threads and birds’ feathers sit beside rows of gleaming hooks, scavenged deer velvet and rabbit hair, a magnifying glass set up at the front of the table to study a half-finished lure waiting in its clamp for Arthur to return to it.

Gabriel admires both it and the rack of finished lures sitting at the back of the table: from what he can see, the craftsmanship of each of the lures is exquisite, the hooks beautifully, deceitfully, hidden from the sight of unsuspecting fish by glimmering scales and bright sprays of feathers. Lure by name, lure by nature.

Arthur has made an art of a bloodsport. Fishing is a hobby for the patient - and for the productive, taking life to bring life to others through food.

“Your mother is quite a remarkable man,” Gabriel informs Lenore, hoisting the little girl up in his arms again after she reaches down to wiggle her fingers at the brindle-haired mutt still dogging his footsteps. (Seeing that Gabriel is doing nothing of particular interest, the other two have given up.) “Isn’t he?”

“Ah-burr,” says Lenore quite seriously, and decides to wiggle her hot little fingers against Gabriel's face again instead, clumsily tracing the ridge of his nearest cheekbone.

Gabriel chooses to take that as agreement, silently observing the way the child’s pupils widen in wonder when she discovers the softness of his eyelashes - and making her giggle again when he blinks deliberately for her and tickles those lashes against her fingertips.

Brave curiosity ought to be rewarded.

The Kirkland home is, of course, not all rural serenity. Though the house is generally clean and obviously well-maintained, it cannot be denied that all the signs are there that Arthur Kirkland is the single mother to an infant child, with seven dogs, a very demanding and time-intensive job, and very little in the way of a support network. There is no dog hair on the furniture but the floor near the fireplace could do with some work, and chewed-up rope toys and tennis balls have been pushed under several seats and the nest Gabriel doesn’t dare to get too close to lest he mark it with his own alpha scent. Nearly every surface - including the piano’s closed lid - has been conquered by the type of clutter that always accumulates when raising a young child, and used baby bottles and empty mugs have been abandoned here, there and everywhere where an exhausted Arthur had no doubt left them during long and sleepless nights feeding Lenore.

Setting off to find the kitchen, the floorboards creak welcomingly under Gabriel’s feet. The brindle-haired dog and Lenore’s babbling keeps him company: both seem in happier spirits now, both equally fascinated by Lenore’s attempts to stick out her little pink tongue and blow raspberries at herself.

Gabriel wipes away the accumulating drool on her chin with Arthur’s scarf.

Beyond the living room, a small hallway leads to the dining room. The dining room table itself and two of its seats are currently occupied with dirty laundry - pre-sorted for a dark wash, lighter colours and woollens still dumped together at one side. Arthur must keep on top of the laundry; the dark pile is not too large and its contents seem relatively fresh, muddy towels, a few plaid shirts and some plain, darkly-coloured baby onesies waiting to be loaded into the washing machine in the dark kitchen just a little further on.

To the left is an open doorway leading upstairs. To the right is a mudroom, leading to another doorway outside.

Decisions, decisions.

Gabriel returns to the front room, negotiating with Lenore for a few moments to, firstly, wipe away the sticky tracks of tears from her face with wet wipes he finds on the piano, secondly, remove her from her little panda/fox cardigan, and, thirdly, place her in the baby rocker he’d spotted down by Arthur’s daynest. It isn’t the electronic kind but Lenore is still able to bounce herself if she wishes to, and the baby-proofed arch that hangs over her head is decorated with dangling bells and plush stars to encourage her to reach up and grab at them. Retrieving Kitty, once again, from the floor and handing her it earns Gabriel another point in the youngest Kirkland’s books - and the brindle-haired dog’s, who sits itself patiently and protectively down beside Lenore’s rocker as Gabriel leaves the house to go and retrieve both his and Lenore’s belongings from where he’d left them in Arthur’s car.

(As a group, Arthur’s canine pack make terrible guard dogs, but one of them, at least, might make for a ferocious nanny.)

Lenore is still, stubbornly, not asleep when Gabriel whistles all the dogs inside and returns to her side, but she seems placid enough with one of Kitty’s ears in her mouth again and her guardian dog’s nose resting on one of her little feet. The picture of a darling cherub, still all pink cheeks and glossy curls.

(As dangerous and deceitful a lure as the ones on the table.)

Surprisingly, peace reigns.

*****

Northern Virginia, including Fairfax County, is part of the Washington metropolis area: the third-worst congested traffic area in the USA, in terms of percentage of congested roadways and time spent in traffic. Of the lane miles in the region, 44 percent are rated "F" or worst for congestion. Northern Virginia residents spend an average of 46 hours a year stuck in traffic. (Fictional Special Agent Arthur Kirkland, dragged hither and thither at the behest of the FBI and with probably over a 100 hours stuck in traffic per annum with all his travelling to crime scenes, Baltimore and Quantico, is an outlier and should not have been counted.)

A little about ama. [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ama_(diving)]

If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell. - Virgil, Aeneid, Book VII.312

NEXT CHAPTER

#have some emotional whiplash with cuteness after last chapter's crime scene #Shacha fic #engport #aph Portugal #hetalia

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fangirlanxiety74 · 2 years ago

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Prussia and France!

Literally cannot explain to you why, but I like the idea of it. Feels like a really wholesome friends to lovers and since they’re a bit older than typical friends to lovers tropes, I think the dynamic of how it works changes. Spain is their goofy third wheel who would be dating them if it weren’t for him being in love with someone else (feel free to decide who for youselves)

Idk I just think its wholesome

Hey Hetalia fans! Yes you!

Reblog with the rarepair you ship, and explain the dynamics or why you like it. I want to get to know some of the other rarepairs.

If you have any content for that rarepair you want others to see (whether you made it or not). I'll go read or look at the fanart and reblog it with my thoughts on it.

I know rarepairs so often get overlooked, and we all want a chance to gush over our ships, so this is your chance!

Edit: You can now see my responses under the tag:

#Aiyana Rare Pair Talks

#hetalia #aph #hws #hetalia rarepairs #rarepairs #aiyana rare pair talks #hws prussia #hws france #aph france #aph prussia

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hungry-for-tulips · 7 years ago

Video

youtube

♡Our second Valentine’s Day Video♡

Italy decided to cook a surprise dinner for Germany, but then Prussia comes along...

Watch our FrUk valentine’s day video here!🇫🇷🇬🇧

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ask-aph-polhun · 7 years ago

Note

How did prussia react seeing you two dating?xd

He was shock, and a little envious too. To help him pass this pain, please drop a like when you come across, thank you :(((((

#third wheel #hetalia #polhun #aph poland #aph hungary #aph prussia #aph gilbird

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thatsamericano · 4 years ago

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Take My Hand, Take My Whole Life Too

Pairings/Characters: America/Romano. Background Gerita, and Seborga and Prussia are there too. Very brief appearances from Denmark and Lithuania in the video, as well as a ton of other characters who don’t get lines.

Rating: Teen, but only for cursing. Very fluffy, and no warnings to speak of.

Word Count: 2518

Summary: America sends Romano a special video for his birthday. He isn’t Elvis Presley, but it’s the best rendition of the song Romano’s ever heard.

A/N: I wanted to post something fluffy for Romano’s birthday. This will be up on AO3 soon.

It had been a nice, quiet birthday for Romano so far. Feli’s macho potato had dropped by to spend the day with him, and Prussia had tagged along too. Savino was glad Gilbert and Marcello were here, because otherwise he would’ve been stuck third-wheeling the sappiest couple in the world on his own birthday. Spain and Belgium had said they would arrive in a couple hours, which Romano was looking forward to as well. Most of the people who had sent his little brother a happy birthday message had remembered to send one to him too. America had sent them both silly e-cards, and the gifts he’d sent had arrived a week early and would be unwrapped along with all the others after they frosted the cake.

Romano was not lonely, especially not for someone who would’ve had to fly across a whole ocean to see him. He only threw a spatula at Germany’s head when he leaned in to kiss Feli right after he put the cake in the oven because the sight of the potato bastard kissing his little brother grossed him out to no end.

Feliciano pouted at him. “Fratello, that wasn’t very nice of you.”

“I had to stop you two before I lost my appetite. I want to actually be able to eat a slice of cake later!”

Germany muttered something under his breath, and Seborga giggled while Prussia ruffled his hair. “Relax, Savi. It’s your birthday.”

Romano shoved Gilbert’s hand away. “I’m relaxing just fine, damn it.” He walked over to the counter to check his phone, which had received a few new messages since he and Feli had started making their joint birthday cake.

As he was reading a message from New Zealand (who seemed to be confused by the time difference and hoped their message had arrived on time), a new text popped up on his phone. From America.

“Huh, that’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” Marcello asked.

“America sent me a link to a Youtube video.” Alfred liked to upload a lot of strange things on Youtube, including cooking videos with his twin, recordings of him prank calling England, and the occasional stunt that would’ve turned Savino’s hair gray if he’d aged like a human. Seriously, what the fuck had possessed him to surf down a staircase on a fucking ironing board?

The message before the link was cryptic as hell. Happy bday. Here’s an extra present for you. 😉 Hope you enjoy.🎶 Knowing America, Romano wouldn’t have been too surprised if he’d opened up the link and seen that one Rick Astley song the idiota still thought was funny to send to people. But Feli immediately got excited about it.

“Oh, he finally sent you the video! I thought he’d do that a month ago!”

Prussia smirked as Feli rushed over to them. “Nah, Al had always planned to upload it today.”

Germany came over with a subtle hint of a smile on his face, like he knew what all this was about too. At least Marcello still looked baffled as he leaned over to get a look at Savino’s phone.

“What the fuck are you assholes up to?” Savino didn’t like this feeling. He didn’t like that everyone except his baby brother had been plotting something behind his back.

“It isn’t bad, Romano,” Germany promised. “Just open the link and you’ll see.”

Romano didn’t trust Germany further than he could throw him, and the guy was way too heavy for him to even lift. But if Germany thought it was okay, it probably wasn’t a video involving the kinds of ridiculous shenanigans America liked to film, and it certainly was nowhere near as heart-attack inducing as some of the videos he’d seen Fredo post (especially if Prussia or Denmark were egging him on). Savino squinted at Ludwig suspiciously before he clicked on the link.

It wasn’t Rick Astley. The video started with a black screen. “No, Gil, you’re supposed to press the red button!” The voice sounded like Denmark.

“Magnus, I pressed the red button!” That was Prussia.

“Guys, maybe we could use my iPhone instead?” America asked. His voice sounded uncharacteristically strained and nervous. “The quality won’t be as good, but at this point Vinny’s probably given up anyway.”

Suddenly, the image of a white dress shirt with a navy tie (and an inexplicable ukulele) appeared on the screen. The camera zoomed out a little, and he could see Alfred smiling at him in a crowded bar with many nations Romano knew well, and many who were only acquaintances. Denmark rushed past him, but Romano could scarcely take his eyes off America. He was wearing the same outfit he’d seen him in on the day of the last world meeting he’d attended a couple months ago in Berlin, and he was cradling a ukulele in his arms. His warm smile, as always, made Romano’s heart skip a beat. But there was a hint of anxiety in his crystal blue eyes, and that made Romano wish he was there to talk to America and help him with whatever seemed to be bothering him.

“Hey, Vinny! Right now it’s still January, but by the time I upload this video, it will be your birthday, so happy birthday, dude! I hope you’re having a good day with your brothers.” He chuckled. “You guys will probably need a huge cake if you’re gonna blow out all your birthday candles.”

Romano rolled his eyes. “That’s what numbered candles are for, idiota,” he murmured.

“Anyway, I know I’m not the best singer in the world—” Prussia snickered from behind the camera and America glared at him sharply before relaxing back into the smile he’d had on his face before. “But I’ve been practicing this song a lot, so hopefully you’ll like it.”

Romano wondered which song it was. If it was the Italian version of “Happy Birthday,” America wouldn’t need a ukulele, and this video would not be three and a half minutes in length.

America started strumming the ukulele, and it wasn’t the “Happy Birthday” song. Savino vaguely recognized the melody, and apparently Feliciano knew what the song was, because he was bouncing next to him and muffling squeals behind his hand. Savino was tempted to smack him, but that would involve looking away from his phone.

Then, America started to sing in a shaky but surprisingly clear voice, staring straight at the camera. “Wise men say, only fools rush in…”

Marcello gasped. “He didn’t!”

“Oh, he totally did,” Prussia replied smugly.

Savino was too emotional to talk. He teared up as Alfred continued with the next line. “But I can’t help falling in love with you.” Fredo’s voice was full of sincerity, like he actually meant it, like he actually loved him. For so long, Romano had assumed his feelings for America were completely one-sided, that he would have to ignore them as much as possible, vainly hope they might disappear, and move on with his life as best he could. But clearly, he had been wrong, and the proof was that America was serenading him with a love song. On his birthday.

America started walking backwards with his ukulele, and Prussia’s camera followed him. At the end of the first verse, he’d reached a booth with Spain, Portugal, Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg. They all held up signs wishing him a happy birthday in various languages as they sang the last line together. Spain waved and Belgium winked at the camera, and America grinned as he kept walking through the bar.

He briefly stopped by other groups of people to allow them to hold up signs wishing Romano a happy birthday as he sang. Russia, his sisters, and Canada. Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia and Poland. Hungary, Austria, Germany, Switzerland, and Liechtenstein. China, Japan, Taiwan, Vietnam, and South Korea. France, Monaco, all the UK countries, and Ireland. Australia, New Zealand, Seychelles, and Kenya. Greece, Turkey, and Egypt. All the Nordics too. It was the sweetest, most romantic thing anyone had ever done for Romano. America must have gone to so much effort to orchestrate something like this, to gather so many countries together in one bar in Berlin and convince them to go along with his plan. Savino smiled as he kept watching the video. Maybe Alfred wasn’t as good a singer as Elvis Presley or any of the many people who had covered this song, but his performance was heartfelt, and Savino loved every second of it.

Near the end, all of the countries sang the line “For I can’t help falling in love with you” together and held up their happy birthday signs. The bartender and some confused humans sang along with them. Savino laughed as Alfred chuckled sheepishly in the video, cheeks turning pink because this was an unusually public spectacle, even for him.

Alfred repeated the final chorus and sang with just him and the ukulele, as he had begun the song. “Take my hand, take my whole life too.” His eyes were shining with tears, and not the happy kind Savino had been shedding since the second line of the song. “For I can’t help falling in love with you.” He repeated the final line then took a deep breath.

“So, yeah. That uhh… wasn’t just a song.” America glanced off to the side. “I’ve kinda been hopelessly in love with you for a while.”

“About 90 years, give or take!” a tipsy voice shouted from off camera. It sounded just like Lithuania, the few times he’d had a little too much to drink at a speakeasy back when he, America, and Romano all lived together. Romano remembered those days fondly.

America hunched his shoulders with a pained look on his face. “Yeah. What Tolys said. You mean a lot to me, Vinny, both as a friend and possibly more, if you want that. If you just wanna stay friends, that’s cool. I hope you liked the song. Happy birthday.”

The screen abruptly cut to black, and the video ended. Savino wiped his eyes and looked up at Feliciano. “This is… this is why we had to fly back right away, isn’t it? Our boss didn’t call you.”

Feli shook his head. “I lied. America asked me to lie so he could surprise you with that video.”

“I can’t believe he did that for me.” Part of Savino felt like he didn’t deserve it, but a much bigger part of him was too selfish to care about what he did or didn’t deserve. He just wanted to be happy. “I wish he was here,” Romano confessed quietly. “I wish I could tell him I feel the same way.” And he wanted to kiss away every tear that idiota had ever cried over him, which was long overdue.

Savino ignored his little brothers cooing over what he had just said and tried not to bristle at the fact that even Germany seemed to think it was adorable. Prussia, weirdly enough, was too busy texting on his phone to join in on the overbearing fawning.

Gilbert chuckled at something on his phone. “Alfred’s a lot closer than you think. He decided to skip the Saint Paddy’s Day parade this year.” He grinned up at Romano, who instantly got the message. Alfred wasn’t celebrating with his Irish-American citizens. He was here in Italy, and it wouldn’t take much effort for Romano to find him.

He sprinted to his front door and flung it open. Alfred, who had been standing with his back to the front door, turned around to face him. “Vinny, I…”

Savino was too impatient to let him get another word out. He tugged on the collar of his emerald green t-shirt and sealed their mouths together. Alfred made a muffled sound of surprise and started kissing him a couple seconds later. He wrapped an arm around his waist, and Savino could feel that he was holding something wrapped in cellophane in his hand. He didn’t give a fuck what it was. He didn’t give a fuck about anything except the fact that Alfred was grinning against his mouth as he reluctantly pulled away for air.

Alfred’s face was flushed, and he had to reach up to fix his glasses. “Wow. This t-shirt never worked before.”

Savino glanced down at the shirt, which read “Kiss Me, I’m Irish!” (of course it did) and snorted. “I didn’t kiss you because of a fucking t-shirt logo. I kissed you because I watched that birthday video you sent me, which was the most adorable goddamn thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“So you liked the song, huh?”

“I loved the song. And I love you too, Fredo.”

He heard sniffling, and it couldn’t have been Alfred, who was beaming at him like every prayer he’d ever uttered had been answered just by Savino saying those words to him. And the sniffling noise was coming from behind him. At least one person had followed Romano to the front door, but Romano had been too focused on America to notice.

Romano tensed up as America laughed and put an arm around his shoulder. “Germany, are you crying, dude?”

“I… I’m verklempt. That was a beautiful moment.” Savino glanced over and saw that Germany wasn’t the only one. Veneziano, Seborga, and Prussia were all standing in the entryway, and they all looked misty-eyed.

Romano groaned and turned to bury his face in America’s ridiculous t-shirt. “Seriously, did you come out here to fucking spy on us?! What the hell is wrong with you?!” America squeezed his arm around him in a silent gesture of support. He could probably tell how embarrassed Romano was.

“Well, you were the one who decided to run out the front door suddenly,” Marcello said teasingly. “You can’t blame us for wanting to see what was going on.”

Veneziano piled on. “It’s nice of you to visit us on our birthday, America. You can come inside if you want, or you can stay out here and kiss Savi some more.”

Romano growled and turned to shoot vicious glares at both of his brothers, but America didn’t seem bothered at all. “As tempting as it sounds to stand here and kiss Vinny all day, I think I’ll come inside.” He dropped his arm from around Savino’s shoulders and presented him with the floral bouquet he somehow hadn’t noticed earlier in his mad dash to the door. “These are for you.”

“Grazie.” Savino smiled as he bent his head to sniff the bouquet of red roses mixed with white lilies. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him.

“Anything for you,” America whispered, too quietly for the others to hear. He pressed a kiss to Savino’s cheek, grabbed his wheeled suitcase, and dangled out his free hand as they headed into the house behind the others.

Romano grabbed America’s hand and laced their fingers together. This was the best birthday he’d ever had, and it was due in no small part to the fact America was holding his hand right now and smiling like he was the one who had received everything he ever wanted.

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undeadhetalian · 2 years ago

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Honourable mentions

Austria/Hungary: Haha, I obviously have a thing for historical alliances. This definitely used to be among my top 10. Love me a girlboss x malewife pairing

Lithuania/Poland: Lithuania constantly being tired of Poland’s antics, 10/10 dynamic (similar to Gerita actually)

Belgium/Hungary: deep respect to hetalia lesbian ship enjoyers, there’s really not enough girls for us to ship tgt

Austria/Switzerland: Yes I have a thing for childhood friends to lovers, definitely reflected in my top 10 choices

Bulgaria/Romania: these two are already so adorable in canon, pretty self-explanatory

Germany/Japan/North Italy: I like Gerita but maybe Japan is tired of being the third wheel so let’s go

Greece/Spain: These two are surprisingly cute together, pretty good chemistry and little historical tension. I blame a few talented writers for this ;)

Egypt/Greece: I want something more wholesome than TurkGre, and Egypt is underrated in the fandom

Portugal/Prussia: I think I am the only one who likes this… No? There’s 2 fics on AO3? What is this madness jk. Anyway, I think I ship this for a similar reason as many of my top 10 - their personalities complement each other. (Almost) polar opposites on the surface, actually very similar deep down. One of my favourite shipping dynamics indeed

My Top 10 Hetalia Ships

Because no one asked for this :)

Fine, this post also serves as a shameless promotion to this ask game I want to participate in.

Ok, let's begin the list.

Engport

Spaport

Franport

Nyo Spaport

Itaport/Portvene

Turkport

Nedport

Engspa

Gerita

Engfraport

I’m sorry to say that 90% of them involve Port because he’s my fave now

From today onwards, I’m gonna spam this post with reblogs including my opinions about each of them + a list of honourable mentions

I will also assign a song to each of the top 10 because vibes

#self reblog #headcanons #undeadrambles #// dw the top 10 commentary IS coming #// not sure if I should make this a thread or use separate posts

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anobscurename · 4 years ago

Text

ocean eyes – chris evans

previous part: PART XV — masterlist

concept: the three times chris comforted you, and the times you returned the favour. the slowest of slow burns, the angstiest of all angst. part sixteen of many.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 3,8k

warnings: drinking, so much fluff, heartbreaking angst

author's note: this one, guys, gals, and non-binary pals, is for @fangirlovestuff because it's her BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABYYYY (and i'm sorry in advance). the songs are linked, so if you don't know them, you can check 'em out :)

In your ten months of knowing him, Chris had always known how to cheer you up, irregardless of how big or small the issue was.

You would even go so far as to call him a master of distraction – because by the end of the day, you wouldn't even have known you'd cried at all.

You could recall three times he had been there for you, and the two times you returned the favour.

The first time he had seen you cry – about three months into your living situation – he had been by your side immediately, pulling you flush against his body. He held you in his big arms for the longest time, and just waited the sobs out.

He wasn't the type of person to press, and he knew you'd tell him what was wrong if you wanted.

Instead, he asked you what you wanted.

You were lightheaded and cry‐drunk, so it took a moment to come back to yourself. "Huh?"

"Do you want to be quiet or loud?"

"I just..." You struggled to find words that didn't make you sound needy, but you found none. "I don't want to be alone."

"That's out of the question," he smiled knowingly. "So, what will it be, {your last name}? Quiet or loud?"

He had a twinkle in his eye, one that suggested his question delved deeper than the words implied.

"Quiet."

And then he was pulling you up off the couch and out the door in total disregard of your chosen attire.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"Chris, I'm literally in my pyjamas–"

But he was already opening the garage, the creaks of the gears overshadowing your weak protests.

"You're wearing pants this time," he winked at you. "So we have that going for us."

And then you were in the car, location still a mystery.

Any attempts to get a modicum information was shut down with a simple "it's a surprise."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"Because then it wouldn't be a surprise."

And you were glad he hadn't told you, because soon, you were pulling up outside a place you hadn't been to since you were a kid and going on school trips. You'd never been to any L.A. ones, having moved there only half a year ago. But the way your whole body immediately was overcome with such calm...

It was like you had been hoping to come here since you'd woken up that morning, and had received the news of your grandfather's admittance to the hospital earlier that night.

But there was no way for Chris to have known that your grandfather had taken you to the aquarium when you were young, telling you about all the fish, helping you make up increasingly bizarre backstories for them.

He just knew you had to leave the house, and go somewhere quiet.

And it was a weekday, so the chances of kids screaming and running through the aquarium hallways were slim to none.

So while you walked in the tinted blue light, eyes scanning over information plaques and watching the multi-coloured aquatic animals lazily drift past the glass panes in a comfortable silence, you reached out to give his wrist a gentle squeeze.

His hands had been sitting in his pockets, giving you your space, but hovering close enough to you to let you know you weren't alone.

"Thank you," you croaked out softly.

When you turned your head to look at him, he had been looking at you, a smile of heartwarming endearance on his face.

If you hadn't been so consumed by the exhibits, you'd have known that he hadn't taken his eyes off you the entire time, and you'd have known he also hadn't stopped smiling. Smiling at you, seeing just how happy you were, even though your eyes were still watery and worry was still thick in your throat.

He slid his hand out of his pocket easily to lace your fingers together, loose enough for you to pull away if you had wanted, but tight enough for you to know that he had no intention of letting go first.

But you didn't pull away, instead strengthening the intwining grasp.

And so you continued, walking through the aquarium in that comfortable silence. And at some point along the way, you found laughter again, pointing out the ugliest fish and saying it was him, only to have him gasp in mock surprise.

"My God, you're such a flirt," he'd say.

And then he'd point out the most beautiful fish he could find.

"That's you."

——————

The second time was a week later.

It was your grandfather again, but the issue had been more serious than any one of your family members initially believed.

You didn't cry this time, but Chris could sense the immeasurable sadness in your posture, the way you sat on the couch, staring blankly ahead.

He came to stand in front of you, and gently knelt down so your eyes would focus on his. Everything about his stature screamed concern as he caressed the hair away from your face.

"Quiet or loud?" He had asked so softly, so simply.

"Loud."

He helped you up, careful with your fragile state. He walked you to your room, into the bathroom, and left you to take a calming shower by yourself.

When you'd gotten out, gotten ready for whatever surprise excursion was next – dressed casually in a t-shirt and jeans, scuffed sneakers on your feet but Chris would claim you looked prettier than he'd ever seen you – Chris was waiting for you by the front door.

You knew better than to ask him where he was taking you this time. And honestly, you were too drained to even muster the words.

You wanted loud, to drown out the misery.

And you got what you wanted.

Chris had taken you to a local pop-up carnival, and in spite of the cloudy weather mirroring your emotion, threatening rain, it was filled with screaming kids and the sounds of joy.

"They come by once every six months," he explained while you waited in the line to enter. "I wanted to take you under different circumstances, but..."

"It's wonderful," you assured him, although your tone didn't sound like it.

He paid your entrance fees – buying a large roll of game tickets for the both of you – and with his hand ghosting over the small of your back, he guided you inside.

Your smile first came when you were on the ferris wheel, and it didn't fade until you were back home, saying good night.

You had spent the whole afternoon there, and even most of the evening, until around ten, when they had begun to take down the stalls and unpitch their tents.

"I'm totally going to crush you at this," you had grinned at him at some game or another. And you did, but only because he wasn't entirely focused on the game, but watching you.

He would tell himself later, as he lay in bed, the reason he couldn't take his eyes off you was because he had wanted to make sure you were alright, and having a good time. But that was a half truth. The full truth was simply because he couldn't stop looking at that smile he loved so much, on the girl he loved more.

A sense of pride would swell in his chest at the very thought of him having played a part in your happiness.

And so you did absolutely crush him. But only because he'd been distracted, and, if truth be told, because he let you.

You held your prize – a hilariously massive teddy bear, drowning you in its fluff – with both arms, laughingly taunting him for his loss, which had got him a much smaller bear (a participation trophy at best) which he carried in one hand.

You had also gone to the circus they had there, your teddy bear seated beside the two of you, taking up a whole seat by itself. You marvelled at the trapeze artists, the charisma of the ringleader, the fire juggler from Prussia, and even found it in yourself to giggle a little at the clowns who you thought you'd be irreparably prejudiced against since you watched Stephen King's It.

And if you were to now scroll back in your camera roll, you would find the hundreds of pictures you had taken together in the hall of mirrors, and the beautiful twinkling lights of the distant city that sparkled like their own constellation from your view at the top of the wheel.

But you wouldn't scroll back now.

Not now.

———————

The third time had just been a bad day.

Nothing set it off, but you'd woken feeling like trash, and it really didn't sit well with you.

It had been post kiss, post Vegas, in that week Chris had returned, and he could feel it the second you stepped into the kitchen.

His usual morning greeting of "good morning, Sleeping Beauty" fell short on his lips.

"Both," you said to him, already knowing the question he was going to ask.

You had managed to get yourself dressed that day, thinking that that one step into productivity would pull you out of your slump. It hadn't. So you told him "both," and he immediately complied.

Setting the mug down, coffee unfinished, he grabbed his keys off the counter. He called for Dodger, and you were in the car again.

This time, you already knew where you were going. It wasn't a difficult puzzle to solve, especially with Dodger there with you.

And your suspicions were confirmed when he pulled up to a remote beach, a hidden gem that only locals would know about.

And in the secluded bay, you walked alongside each other, Dodger prancing ecstatically into the water and darting across the sand.

You watched him greet other dogs, tail wagging. You encountered very few people, giving them a greeting smile in passing.

It really was the perfect mixture of both – serene in the best way possible, ocean waves loud in their crash on the shore.

Chris made no effort to hide his gaze on you this time, aside from a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose, obscuring his eyes.

"Why are you wearing those?" You chuckled.

"What?"

"You're wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. Did it not come with instructions or something?"

"Oh, that," he grinned. "I wear the cap for the aesthetic, sunglasses for the disguise."

You had to reach up on your tippytoes to do what you did next – which, if you were so inclined, could be referred to as theft in the court of law.

You easily snatched the cap off his head, and, dancing out of his reach, put it on. It was a size too big, and dipped into your eyes, making him laugh through the stern demeanor he was jokingly putting on.

"Give that back," he warned. "You're ruining the aesthetic."

You repeated him mockingly, and then he was chasing you down the beach, your squeals of delight interrupting the peace and grabbing Dodger's attention.

You weren't being chased down by one Evans anymore, but two, and hoping to find sanctuary, you made your way into the water.

The sea lapped eagerly at your knees, stray droplets clawing to soak into the frayed denim of your shorts.

Chris had been wearing jeans – not exactly intending for a beach day that morning – and you'd hoped that would be enough to halt the attack.

"If you think that some water is gonna stop me from righting this injustice," he began, equally as out of breath as you were. He had been holding himself back from outright catching up to you, and you knew that – Chris was the epitome of fitness. What did you expect? To outrun Captain America? – "nay, this crime, then you are dead wrong."

"I'm in international waters!" You called back, flicking the peak of his cap teasingly. "I'm out of your jurisdiction!"

"Fuck jurisdiction!" He yelled out, and then he was wading towards you.

Water slowed both of you as you tried to keep out of his grasp, but he had the benefit of being naturally quicker. He had you in a bearhug, trapping your body against his as you struggled to break free.

"Give it back," he playfully growled into your ear.

"Never! You'll never take me alive!" You fought the words out through your laughter.

And then Dodger was there too, all but pushing you over into the shallows of the shore.

You both lay there, allowing yourselves to be drenched, through and through, Dodger licking your faces excitedly.

And as the laughter slowly subsided and the cold the breeze introduced to your wet forms finally registered, you both got up.

"Alright, have your stupid hat back," you sighed, moving to take it off.

He captured your hand in a lightning quick grip, stilling your movements. "Keep it," he smiled. "Looks better on you anyways."

You smiled back sarcastically, rolling your eyes, before pushing him back down onto the sand playfully. "All this?! All this for me to keep it?!"

He propped himself up on his elbows to peer up at you, sunglasses knocked askew.

"Dodger, as my head torturer," you said to the exhilarated mountain of a dog. "I command you to execute this man."

———————

It was hard to watch a strong man crumble, and there were days when that happened, too.

It was the day of Dodger's operation – a hip surgery, nothing too life threatening – but Chris, with all his quick wit and charming smiles, was a shell of himself.

Of course, you were worried too. But Chris needed you more than you needed him, and so, in the mournful silence of the waiting room, you placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He flinched a little at the sudden contact, but didn't pull away.

"Quiet or loud?"

In all definitions of the word – in the hour he had been in that waiting room, leg bouncing – he never thought he could hate quiet as much as he did now.

"Loud."

It took some effort to tug him to his feet, his body sluggish with worry. But he was up, and you were guiding him to the door, leaving your number with the vet secretary for any updates.

You didn't want Chris to be worrying and checking his phone every five seconds, because you knew how that dread felt. No, he needed a distraction.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

You had never understood why Chris enjoyed doing that to you, never telling you where he was going to take you, but with the thrill of him not knowing, you got it. Spontaneity ran in his veins, and he didn't press like you so often did in the past.

You had been in L.A. long enough to find your own little secret spots, and to know exactly where you were without much guidance.

And if you were being honest with yourself, you didn't really know where you were taking him until your legs had absentmindedly taken you to an old vintage diner you knew had once been the talk of the town – filled to the brim with hipsters – before once again slipping into obscurity.

It was late into the night, but the diner was open 24/7, and you knew Chris hadn't eaten in a while.

When the bell jangled upon your entry, the waiters jolted, having taken to sitting down in the vacancy of their restaurant.

A few customers lingered here and there, club goers drunkenly scarfing down fries to try and sober up a little before hitting the next party and insomniacs downing their third cup of coffee that hour.

But for the most part it was empty, and, unfortunately, quiet.

"You here for karaoke night?" A bubblegum popping waitress asked. It really felt like the cliché, but it weirdly added to the charm. She stood, perched on the rubber stop of her roller skates, waiting for your response.

"Oh, hell yes we are," you grinned.

She took you to a table situated in front of a makeshift stage, a jukebox-karaoke machine hybrid standing proudly to one side.

Chris sat down, anxiety still heavy in his bones. You quickly ordered – two burgers, and a milkshake to share – before you were shedding your jacket and making your way on stage.

You didn't care about making a fool of yourself. The only thing you cared about was seeing Chris smile again, and in that moment, you'd do almost anything to make that happen.

You hummed in thought as you perused the songs available to you. You didn't expect much from the collection, given that the whole vibe of the diner was 50's through to early 90's. A total pocket dimension in time.

A song caught your eye and you grinned, selecting it immediately. Chris didn't want quiet – and you were going to be the loudest bitch here.

You could hear the whir of the machine as it came to life and you made your way to the vintage microphone. It crackled and whined when you pulled it closer to yourself.

You had caught the eye of the sobering-but-still-quite-drunk party animals, and they had come over to investigate.

"Sorry," you winced, voice booming on the mic. "This song goes out to my good friend Chris."

And then the music started to play, and he groaned. He knew the song decently enough, it having been one of your most replayed disco bops of the week.

"This is Sunny, by Boney M," you said over the intro. "Hope you enjoy."

And then you started to sing, intentionally bad at first to wheedle that cry strained laugh from Chris, and then finishing off in that voice he knew you had.

Every time the song mentioned "Sunny," you'd look directly at him, giving him an exaggerated wink. And at "I love you," you'd point at him, smile growing on your face as you danced ridiculously with the mic.

He was laughing, whole body shaking at how over-the-top you were being.

And when the song wrapped, you whooped into the mic, feedback squealing. "Thank you, everybody!" you panted.

The club goers applauded, screaming their drunken praises.

"YES, QUEEN!"

"YOU GO, BABY!"

"FUCK YES!"

"BEYONCÉ WHO?!"

That last one earned some shocked gasps and scolding. "Woah, dude. Too far."

"Thank you, thank you," you grinned, feeling alive. You could see the laughter starting to fade from Chris again, and so you moved to put on another song.

"This one," you whispered into the mic, "is a duet. So, please. Good friend Chris, wouldst thou riseth to the occasion?"

He shook his head, cheeks flushing at being called out.

"Oh, come on," you whined, the music already beginning to play out the intro. "For me?"

He narrowed his eyes at you, already smilingly weighing the pros and cons of his embarrassment. You batted your lashes. "I know you can sing, Evans. Don't start this shy shit now."

"COME ON, CHRIS!"

"YEAH, COME ON CHRIS!"

"Give the people what they want," you wiggled your brows.

He shrugged, muttering "fuck it," and reluctantly rising from his seat, he hopped on stage with one jump.

"You were working as a waitress at a cocktail bar, when I met you," he started singing flatly, eyes on yours, letting you know how much he didn't want to be up there. You arched a brow, pushing him let loose.

Slowly, with the encouragement of your smile, and the cheers from the drunk, he lost himself in the performance of "Don't You Want Me" by The Human League, even taking to dancing at your part of the duet.

And that's how you spent the rest of your waiting period – singing bad karaoke, shovelling food into your mouths between songs, and returning the favour of cheering on the clubbers when they had resolved to stay and sing because they decided the best time they were probably going to have that night was in that stuffy little diner on a street they probably would've walked right past on a regular day.

And when your phone rang for Dodger, you paid your bill, leaving a hefty tip in apology to the staff for having to endure your wailing. You said your goodbyes to your newfound friends of the night.

And Dodger was fine when you took him home.

And Chris was smiling again.

———————

You couldn't bare to dwell on the second time you took it upon yourself to cheer up Chris Evans, because the fact of the matter was, that just reminiscing about those other four had you muffling sobs all over again.

You thought about that day – the road back from Vegas, pulling off to Route 66, taking him to the food truck park – and the alcohol you urgently gulped down did nothing to numb you.

You had often looked back on those memories fondly. But now it was a gaping hole in your chest.

You were sitting on the balcony, overlooking the beach. In the distance, under moonlight, you saw a couple walking hand-in-hand, and you knew it was them.

"Thought I'd find you out here," a familiar voice said. It wasn't Chris', and that had you swigging another shot from the near empty bottle in your lap. "You holding up okay?"

"Ask me again in a month," you stated blankly. You hadn't even moved to address the newcomer, nor had you shifted over to make room for him. He sat all the same. "If you want to put a number to how long it takes to move on, ask Chris. The answer is a month."

It had taken a month for him to move from you to Lily. But it wasn't exactly like any of you had made your feelings and intentions known, aside from a kiss that you had claimed you'd been drunk for, and a confirmation of friendship.

If you let yourself think about it too long – which you had, on more than one occasion, this one specifically – it was your fault.

Sebastian reached over and gently pried the bottle from your iron grip. He looked at how much was left, surprised. And still, you gazed numbly ahead.

"This is how day one looks, huh?" He attempted a joke. Even he knew it fell flat, and instead took a sip to ease himself.

"The alcohol content in that bottle is directly proportionate to how many fucks I have left to give," you shrugged, voice monotonous.

"How much more are you going to put yourself through before you've had enough?"

"I've had enough," you sighed. "But I'll probably suffer a little more."

"You have more strength than I do, then."

His sympathetic arm wrapped around you, and you melted into his side, the comfort another person brought acting as a placebo salve to the pain. Like an ice pack on a shattered femur.

And you realised why you were so sad. Those memories meant nothing to you now.

They had lost their meaning because he wasn't there with you, on this roof, asking you that question when you needed it asked the most. Quiet or loud.

He wasn't there, and the taste of whiskey was chased away by ash.

#dina writes #dina cries #chris evans #chris evans fanfic #chris evans x reader #chris evans x you #chris evans/you #chris evans fluff #chris evans/reader #chris evans angst

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ao3feed-spamano · 3 years ago

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Cheerio, Stronzo!

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3k0zabm

by MxPepper

The newspaper club on World Academy consists of; The Director: Ludwig Beilschmidt - Highly respected, soars academically, very handsome. The Writer: Honda Kiku - Quiet, formal, nerdy. And The Photographer: Feliciano Vargas - Obnoxious, lazy, irresponsible.

Their dynamic is not what everyone necessarily envies. Feliciano hyping them all up, Ludwig keeping them out of trouble, and Kiku being the third wheel just following along. Though in the end, they get things done and can rely on each other. Though an accident at school leading to a student's death, and soon after another student's murder. It threatens to tear Feliciano apart, and with that the entire club.

Words: 2560, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Hetalia: Axis Powers

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Multi

Characters: Germany (Hetalia), North Italy (Hetalia), South Italy (Hetalia), Spain (Hetalia), France (Hetalia), Prussia (Hetalia), Japan (Hetalia), England (Hetalia)

Relationships: Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), North Italy & Prussia (Hetalia)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Humans, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, sorta - Freeform, Protective Doitsu, Detective Axis Powers, Romantic Bastard Spain, Hurt/Comfort, Prussia is a flirty badass, Panic Attacks, Useless Allies, Except for France, neurodivergent characters, I'm Sorry, Bad Touch Trio | Bad Friend Trio, One-Sided Attraction, Fluff and Angst, South Italy Being a Jerk (Hetalia), Poor Germany (Hetalia), Author Is A Romano Apologist

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3k0zabm

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #hetalia #spamano #aph spain #aph romano #fanfiction

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leebird-simmer · 3 years ago

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Russian Fairy Tales Unit 3 Review: The Russian Revolution & the Assassination of the Romanov Family

Tsar Nicholas II (1868-1918)

- primarily of German & Danish descent; his last ethnically Russian ancestor was Grand Duchess Anna Petrovna (1708-1728), daughter of Peter the Great. - related to several monarchs in Europe: Kings Frederick VIII of Denmark & George I of Greece were his maternal uncles and Queen Alexandra of the UK was his maternal aunt. His first cousins included King George V of the UK, King Haakon VII and Queen Maud of Norway, King Christian X of Denmark, and King Constantine I of Greece. - Nicholas and his wife Alexandra were both second cousins (through descent from Louis II, Grand Duke of Hesse and his wife Princess Wilhelmine of Baden) *and* third cousins once removed (they were both descendants of King Frederick William II of Prussia). 1881: Nikki was 13 years old when his grandfather was assassinated in a pretty nasty carriage bombing, which he witnessed. This made his father Tsar Alexander III and made him the heir apparent. 1884: Nikki’s coming-of-age ceremony is held at the Winter Palace. Later that year, his uncle Grand Duke Sergei married Princess Elizabeth of Hesse and by Rhine. At the wedding, the Tsarevich met and admired the bride’s younger sister, Alix. Those feelings of admiration blossomed into love following her visit to St. Petersburg five years later (1889). 1890: Nikki goes on a “Grand Tour” with his younger brother George and their cousin, Prince George of Greece (Grand Duke George fell ill halfway through and got sent home). They visited Egypt, India, Singapore, Thailand, receiving honors as distinguished guests in each country. In Japan, Nicholas had a large dragon tattooed on his right forearm by Japanese tattoo artist Hori Chyo. It was during this trip that one of his Japanese escorts, Tsuda Sanzo, tried to assassinate Nikki with a sabre. He was left with a 9 cm forehead scar, but no life-threatening injuries. The “Otsu incident” as it is known *did* cut the trip short.

- Nikki’s father failed to prepare him for his role as Tsar, arguing that he was not mature enough to take on serious responsibilities: “Nikki is a good boy, but he has a poet’s soul...God help him!” - Alexander assumed that he would live a long life and had plenty of time to prepare his son; there was no need to start right away.

1894: Nikki joins his Uncle Sergei & Aunt Elizabeth on a journey to Coburg, Germany for the wedding of Alix & Elizabeth’s brother Ernest Louis, Grand Duke of Hesse, to their mutual first cousin Princess Victoria Melita of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. During this trip, Nikki proposes to Alix, but she rejects his proposal because she is reluctant to convert from Lutheranism to Russian Orthodoxy. When the Kaiser informed Alix it was her duty to marry Nikki & convert, she accepted, and they became officially engaged on April 20, 1894. Nikki’s parents had not been too impressed with Alix, but since Tsar Alexander’s health had begun to decline, they agreed to the marriage. In early November, Tsar Alexander III died at the age of 49, leaving 26 yr old Nicholas as Emperor of Russia. That evening, Nicholas was consecrated by his father’s priest as Nicholas II and the following day, Alix was received into the Russian Orthodox Church, taking the name Alexandra Feodorovna.

Nicholas chose to maintain the conservative policies favored by his father throughout his reign. While Alexander III had concentrated on the formulation of general policy, Nicholas devoted much more attention to the details of administration. Too bad this attention to detail didn’t keep him from making a series of TERRIBLE mistakes, starting from day one.

1. The Khodynka Tragedy (AKA “Dear Diary, My Coronation Day Has A Body Count)

2. Letting Jesus Take the Wheel

Nicholas believed that God chose him to be Tsar and therefore his decisions reflected the will of God and could not be disputed. This belief made him a very stubborn ruler who rejected constitutional limits on his power. It put him into conflict with the emerging political consensus among the Russian elite. It also created distrust between the Church hierarchy and the Tsar, when the Church *should* have been a reliable base for him.

3. The Russo-Japanese War

In fairness, the war itself was probably inevitable. What was NOT inevitable was Nikki’s bias against the Japanese as “small of stature, feminine, weak, and inferior.” This insistence that the Japanese were racially inferior and had a weak military prevented Nikki from seeing the obvious: Japan was absolutely destroying his navy. He had to begged by multiple advisors and relatives to pursue peace and even then, he was so reluctant to make concessions that his minister Witte had to go behind his back to end the war.

4. Anti-Jewish Pogroms

Publicly condemned, privately condoned, these pogroms killed thousands of Russian Jews. After the brave action of Jewish revolutionary Dmitry Bogrov, who assassinated Pyotr Stolypin in 1911, Nicholas relented and got the government to stop persecuting Jewish citizens.

5. Bloody Sunday

6. 1905 Revolution

Around August/September, after his diplomatic success in ending the Russo-Japanese War, Witte wrote to the Tsar stressing the urgent need for political reforms at home. With the defeat of Russia by a non-Western power, the prestige and authority of the autocratic regime fell significantly. The Tsar remained impassive and indulgent; he spent most of that autumn hunting.

In October, a railway strike developed into a general strike that shut down the country. In a city without electricity, Witte told the Tsar that “the country was at the verge of a cataclysmic revolution.” The Tsar was like “fine, you can have the Imperial Duma” and agreed to give up part of his unlimited power.

On November 1 1905, Princess Milica of Montenegro introduced Nikki & Alix to Grigori Rasputin.

Grigori Rasputin (1869-1916)

- born a peasant in a small village along the Tura River - almost nothing is known about his youth and early adulthood

1886: Rasputin travels to Abalak, Russia and meets a peasant girl named Praskovya Dubrovina. After a courtship of several months, they married in February 1887. Praskovya remained in Rasputin’s home village of Pokrovskoye throughout Rasputin’s later travels and was devoted to him until his death. The couple had seven children, although only three survived to adulthood.

1897: Rasputin leaves home to go on a religious pilgrimage. He was twenty-eight, married ten years, with an infant son and another child on the way. According to Douglas Smith, his decision "could only have been occasioned by some sort of emotional or spiritual crisis."

Rasputin may have spent several months at Verkhoturye, and it was perhaps here that he learned to read and write, but he later complained about the monastery, claiming that some of the monks engaged in homosexuality and criticizing monastic life as too coercive. He returned to Pokrovskoye a changed man, looking disheveled and behaving differently. He became a vegetarian, swore off alcohol, and prayed and sang much more fervently than he had in the past.

By the early 1900s, Rasputin had developed a small circle of followers, primarily family members, and other local peasants, who prayed with him on Sundays and other holy days when he was in Pokrovskoye. Building a makeshift chapel in Efim's root cellar—Rasputin was still living within his father's household at the time—the group held secret prayer meetings there. These meetings were the subject of some suspicion and hostility from the village priest and other villagers. It was rumored that female followers were ceremonially washing him before each meeting, that the group sang strange songs, and even that Rasputin had joined the Khlysty, a religious sect whose ecstatic rituals were rumored to include self-flagellation and sexual orgies. However, there have been several investigations into these claims, and nobody has ever been able to establish that Rasputin was a Khlyst.

Alternative religious movements such as spiritualism and theosophy had become popular among the city's aristocracy before Rasputin's arrival in St. Petersburg, and many of the aristocracy were intensely curious about the occult and the supernatural. Rasputin's ideas and "strange manners" made him the subject of intense curiosity among St Petersburg's elite, who according to historian Joseph Fuhrmann were "bored, cynical, and seeking new experiences" during this period. His appeal may have been enhanced by the fact that he was also a native Russian, unlike other self-described "holy men" such as Nizier Anthelme Philippe and Gérard Encausse, who had previously been popular in St Petersburg.

By 1905, Rasputin had formed friendships with several members of the aristocracy, including the "Black Princesses", Militsa and Anastasia of Montenegro, who had married the tsar's cousins (Grand Duke Peter Nikolaevich and Prince George Maximilianovich Romanowsky), and were instrumental in introducing Rasputin to the tsar and his family.

Alexei Nikolaevich (1904-1918)

The young heir was afflicted with Hemophilia B, a hereditary disease that prevents blood from clotting properly, which at that time was untreatable and usually led to an untimely death. As a granddaughter of Queen Victoria, Alexandra carried the same gene mutation that afflicted several of the major European royal houses, such as Prussia and Spain. Hemophilia, therefore, became known as "the royal disease". Through Alexandra, the disease had passed on to her son.

Because of the fragility of the autocracy at this time, Nicholas and Alexandra chose to keep secret Alexei's condition. Even within the household, many were unaware of the exact nature of the Tsarevich's illness. At first Alexandra turned to Russian doctors and medics to treat Alexei; however, their treatments generally failed, and Alexandra increasingly turned to mystics and holy men. Much of Rasputin's influence with the royal family stemmed from the belief by Alexandra and others that he had on several occasions eased the pain and stopped the bleeding of tsarevich Alexei.

It is unclear when Rasputin first learned of Alexei's hemophilia, or when he first acted as a healer. He may have been aware of Alexei's condition as early as October 1906, and was summoned by Alexandra to pray for Alexei when he had an internal hemorrhage in the spring of 1907. Alexei recovered the next morning.

During the summer of 1912, Alexei developed a hemorrhage in his thigh and groin after a jolting carriage ride near the royal hunting grounds at Spala, which caused a large hematoma. In severe pain and delirious with fever, the tsarevich appeared close to death. In desperation, Alexandra asked a mutual friend to send Rasputin a telegram, asking him to pray for Alexei. Rasputin wrote back quickly, telling Alexandra that "God has seen your tears and heard your prayers. Do not grieve. The Little One will not die. Do not allow the doctors to bother him too much." The next morning, Alexei's condition was unchanged, but Alexandra was encouraged by the message and regained some hope that Alexei would survive. Alexei's bleeding stopped the following day. Alexandra believed that Rasputin had performed a miracle, and concluded that he was essential to Alexei's survival.

The royal family’s belief in Rasputin’s healing powers brought him considerable power and status at court. The tsar appointed Rasputin his lampadnik (lamplighter), charged with keeping the lamps lit before religious icons in the palace, and this gained him regular access to the palace and royal family. Rasputin used his position to full effect, accepting bribes and sexual favors from his admirers while working diligently to expand his influence.

Rasputin was accused by his enemies of heresy and rape, was suspected of exerting undue political influence over the tsar, and was even rumored to be having an affair with the tsarina. Opposition to Rasputin's influence grew within the church. In 1907, the local clergy in Pokrovskoye denounced Rasputin as a heretic, and the Bishop of Tobolsk launched an inquest into his activities, accusing him of "spreading false, Khlyst-like doctrines".

In St Petersburg, Rasputin faced opposition from even more prominent critics, including prime minister Peter Stolypin and the Okhrana, the Tsar's secret police. Having ordered an investigation into Rasputin's activities, Stolypin confronted the Tsar about him but did not succeed in reining in Rasputin's influence or exiling him from St Petersburg. Rumors multiplied that Rasputin had assaulted female followers and behaved inappropriately on visits to the royal family – and particularly with the Tsar's teenage daughters Olga and Tatyana, rumors reported widely in the press after March 1910.

July 12, 1914: 33 yr old peasant woman Chionya Guseva attempts to assassinate Rasputin by stabbing him in the stomach outside his home in Pokrovskoye. Rasputin was seriously wounded, and for a time it was not clear if he would survive. After surgery and some time in the hospital, he recovered. Guseva claimed to have acted alone, having read about Rasputin in the newspapers and believing him to be a "false prophet and even an Antichrist". She was found to be not responsible for her actions by reason of insanity.

Russia Joins the Great War

June 28, 1914: Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, is assassinated by a Bosnian Serb nationalist in Sarajevo. The concept of Pan-Slavism and shared religion created strong public sympathy between Russia and Serbia. Territorial conflict created rivalries between Germany and France and between Austria-Hungary and Serbia, and as a consequence alliance networks developed across Europe. Nicholas wanted neither to abandon Serbia to the ultimatum of Austria, nor to provoke a general war. In a series of letters exchanged with Wilhelm of Germany (the "Willy–Nicky correspondence") the two proclaimed their desire for peace, and each attempted to get the other to back down. Nicholas desired that Russia's mobilization be only against Austria-Hungary, in the hopes of preventing war with Germany.

July 25, 1914: Nicholas decides to intervene in the Austro-Serbian conflict, a step toward general war.

July 28, 1914: Austria-Hungary formally declares war against Serbia.

July 29, 1914: Count Witte tells the French ambassador (a man by the delightful name of Maurice Paleologue) that Slav solidarity is nonsense and Russia has nothing to gain from this war.

July 30, 1914: Nicholas took the fateful step of confirming the order for general mobilization, despite being strongly counselled against it. Upon discovering this, Germany announced their own pre-mobilization posture, the Imminent Danger of War, and requested that Russia demobilize within the next twelve hours. In Saint Petersburg, at 7 pm, with the ultimatum to Russia having expired, the German ambassador to Russia met with the Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Sazonov, asked three times if Russia would reconsider, and then with shaking hands, delivered the note accepting Russia's war challenge and declaring war on August 1, 1914. Less than a week later, on August 6, Franz Joseph signed the Austro-Hungarian declaration of war on Russia.

Russia was grossly unprepared for this war. Germany had ten times as much railway track per square mile, and whereas Russian soldiers travelled an average of 1,290 kilometres (800 mi) to reach the front, German soldiers traveled less than a quarter of that distance. Russian heavy industry was still too small to equip the massive armies the Tsar could raise, and her reserves of munitions were pitifully small; while the German army in 1914 was better equipped than any other, man-for-man, the Russians were severely short on artillery pieces, shells, motorized transports, and even boots. With the Baltic Sea barred by German U-boats and the Dardanelles by the guns of Germany's ally, the Ottoman Empire, Russia initially could receive help only via Archangel, which was frozen solid in winter, or via Vladivostok, which was over 6,400 kilometres (4,000 mi) from the front line. By 1915, a rail line was built north from Petrozavodsk to the Kola Gulf and this connection laid the foundation of the ice-free port of what eventually was called Murmansk. The Russian High Command was moreover greatly weakened by the mutual contempt between Vladimir Sukhomlinov, the Minister of War, and the incompetent Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolayevich who commanded the armies in the field.

In spite of all of this, an immediate attack was ordered against the German province of East Prussia. The Germans mobilised there with great efficiency and completely defeated the two Russian armies which had invaded. The Battle of Tannenberg, where an entire Russian army was annihilated, cast an ominous shadow over Russia's future. Russia had great success against both the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman armies from the very beginning of the war, but they never succeeded against the might of the German Army. Gradually a war of attrition set in on the vast Eastern Front, where the Russians were facing the combined forces of the German and Austro-Hungarian armies, and they suffered staggering losses. Defeat at the front bred disorder at home. At first, the targets were German, and for three days in June shops, bakeries, factories, private houses and country estates belonging to people with German names were looted and burned. The inflamed mobs then turned on the government, declaring the Empress should be shut up in a convent, the Tsar deposed and Rasputin hanged.

Nicholas was by no means deaf to these discontents. An emergency session of the Duma was summoned and a Special Defense Council established, its members drawn from the Duma and the Tsar's ministers. The energetic and efficient General Alexei Polivanov replaced Sukhomlinov as Minister of War, which failed to improve the strategic situation. In the aftermath of the Great Retreat and the loss of the Kingdom of Poland, Nicholas assumed the role of commander-in-chief after dismissing his cousin, Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolayevich, in September 1915. This was a mistake, as the Tsar came to be personally associated with the continuing losses at the front. He was also away at the remote HQ at Mogilev, far from the direct governance of the empire, and when revolution broke out in Petrograd he was unable to halt it. In reality the move was largely symbolic, since all important military decisions were made by his chief-of-staff General Michael Alexeiev, and Nicholas did little more than review troops, inspect field hospitals, and preside over military luncheons.

Cut off from public opinion, Nicholas could not see that the dynasty was tottering. With Nicholas at the front, domestic issues and control of the capital were left with his wife Alexandra. However, Alexandra's relationship with Grigori Rasputin, and her German background, further discredited the dynasty's authority. Nicholas had been repeatedly warned about the destructive influence of Rasputin but had failed to remove him. Rumors and accusations about Alexandra and Rasputin appeared one after another; Alexandra was even accused of harboring treasonous sympathies towards Germany. One outspoken member of the Duma, far-right politician Vladimir Purishkevich, stated in November 1916 that he held the tsar's ministers had "been turned into marionettes, marionettes whose threads have been taken firmly in hand by Rasputin and the Empress Alexandra Fyodorovna – the evil genius of Russia and the Tsarina… who has remained a German on the Russian throne and alien to the country and its people".

The Slapstick Assassination of Rasputin

A group of nobles led by Prince Felix Yusupov, Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, and the aforementioned Vladimir Purishkevich concocted a plan in December 1916 to kill Rasputin, apparently by luring him to the Yusupovs' Moika Palace. The story that Yusupov recounted in his memoirs has become the most frequently told version of events.

Yusupov said he invited Rasputin to his home shortly after midnight and ushered him into the basement. Yusupov offered Rasputin tea and cakes which had been laced with cyanide. Rasputin initially refused the cakes but then began to eat them and, to Yusupov's surprise, appeared unaffected by the poison. Rasputin then asked for some Madeira wine (which had also been poisoned) and drank three glasses, but still showed no sign of distress.

At around 2:30 am, Yusupov excused himself to go upstairs, where his fellow conspirators were waiting. He took a revolver from Dmitry Pavlovich, then returned to the basement and told Rasputin that he'd "better look at the crucifix and say a prayer", referring to a crucifix in the room, then shot him once in the chest. The conspirators then drove to Rasputin's apartment, with Sukhotin wearing Rasputin's coat and hat in an attempt to make it look as though Rasputin had returned home that night.

Upon returning to the Moika Palace, Yusupov went back to the basement to ensure that Rasputin was dead. Suddenly, Rasputin leaped up and attacked Yusupov, who freed himself with some effort and fled upstairs. Rasputin followed Yusupov into the palace's courtyard, where he was shot by Purishkevich. He collapsed into a snowbank. The conspirators then wrapped his body in cloth, drove it to the Petrovsky Bridge, and dropped it into the Malaya Nevka River. interesting postscript: Rasputin’s daughter Maria later emigrated to France and then the United States, where she became a dancer and a lion tamer in the circus.

The February Revolution

By early 1917, Russia was on the verge of total collapse of morale. An estimated 1.7 million Russian soldiers were killed in World War I. The sense of failure and imminent disaster was everywhere. The army had taken 15 million men from the farms and food prices had soared. An egg cost four times what it had in 1914, butter five times as much. The severe winter dealt the railways, overburdened by emergency shipments of coal and supplies, a crippling blow.

Russia entered the war with 20,000 locomotives; by 1917, 9,000 were in service, while the number of serviceable railway wagons had dwindled from half a million to 170,000. In February 1917, 1,200 locomotives burst their boilers and nearly 60,000 wagons were immobilized. In Petrograd, supplies of flour and fuel had all but disappeared. War-time prohibition of alcohol was enacted by Nicholas to boost patriotism and productivity, but instead damaged the funding of the war, due to the treasury now being deprived of alcohol taxes.

On 23 February 1917 in Petrograd, a combination of very severe cold weather and acute food shortages caused people to start to break into shop to get bread and other necessities. In the streets, red banners appeared and the crowds chanted "Down with the German woman! Down with Protopopov! Down with the war! Down with the Tsar!" Police shot at the populace, which incited riots. The troops in the capital were poorly motivated and their officers had no reason to be loyal to the regime, with the bulk of the tsar's loyalists away fighting World War I. In contrast, the soldiers in Petrograd were angry, full of revolutionary fervor and sided with the populace. The Tsar's Cabinet begged Nicholas to return to the capital and offered to resign completely. The Tsar, 800 kilometres (500 mi) away, misinformed by the Minister of the Interior Alexander Protopopov that the situation was under control, ordered that firm steps be taken against the demonstrators.

For this task, the Petrograd garrison was quite unsuitable. The cream of the old regular army had been destroyed in Poland and Galicia. In Petrograd, 170,000 recruits, country boys or older men from the working-class suburbs of the capital itself, were available under the command of officers at the front and cadets not yet graduated from the military academies. The units in the capital, although many bore the names of famous Imperial Guard regiments, were in reality rear or reserve battalions of these regiments, the regular units being away at the front. Many units, lacking both officers and rifles, had never undergone formal training. General Khabalov attempted to put the Tsar's instructions into effect on the morning of Sunday, 11 March 1917. Despite huge posters ordering people to keep off the streets, vast crowds gathered and were only dispersed after some 200 had been shot dead, though a company of the Volinsky Regiment fired into the air rather than into the mob, and a company of the Pavlovsky Life Guards shot the officer who gave the command to open fire. Nicholas, informed of the situation by Rodzianko, ordered reinforcements to the capital and suspended the Duma. However, it was too late.

March 12, 1917: The Volinsky Regiment mutinied and was quickly followed by the Semenovsky, the Ismailovsky, the Litovsky Life Guards and even the legendary Preobrazhensky Regiment of the Imperial Guard, the oldest and staunchest regiment founded by Peter the Great. The arsenal was pillaged and the Ministry of the Interior, Military Government building, police headquarters, Law Courts and a score of police buildings were set on fire. By noon, the fortress of Peter and Paul, with its heavy artillery, was in the hands of the insurgents. By nightfall, 60,000 soldiers had joined the revolution. Order broke down and members of the Duma and the Soviet formed a Provisional Government to try to restore order. They issued a demand that Nicholas must abdicate. Faced with this demand, which was echoed by his generals, deprived of loyal troops, with his family firmly in the hands of the Provisional Government, and fearful of unleashing civil war and opening the way for German conquest, Nicholas had little choice but to submit.

Abdication & Exile

Nicholas had suffered a coronary occlusion only four days before his abdication. He first abdicated in favor of Alexei, but a few hours later changed his mind after advice from doctors that Alexei would not live long enough while separated from his parents, who would be forced into exile. Nicholas thus abdicated on behalf of his son, and drew up a new manifesto naming his brother, Grand Duke Michael, as the next Emperor of all Russias. He issued a statement but it was suppressed by the Provisional Government. Michael declined to accept the throne until the people were allowed to vote through a Constituent Assembly for the continuance of the monarchy or a republic.

The abdication of Nicholas II and Michael's deferment of accepting the throne brought three centuries of the Romanov dynasty's rule to an end. The fall of Tsarist autocracy brought joy to liberals and socialists in Britain and France. The United States was the first foreign government to recognize the Provisional government. In Russia, the announcement of the Tsar's abdication was greeted with many emotions, including delight, relief, fear, anger and confusion.

Both the Provisional Government and Nicholas wanted the royal family to go into exile following his abdication, with the United Kingdom being the preferred option. The British government reluctantly offered the family asylum on 19 March 1917, although it was suggested that it would be better for the Romanovs to go to a neutral country. The offer of asylum was withdrawn in April following objections by King George V, who, acting on the advice of his secretary Arthur Bigge, 1st Baron Stamfordham, was worried that Nicholas's presence might provoke an uprising like the previous year's Easter Rising in Ireland. In the early summer of 1917, the Russian government approached the British government on the issue of asylum and was informed the offer had been withdrawn due to the considerations of British internal politics.

The French government declined to accept the Romanovs in view of increasing unrest on the Western Front and on the home front as a result of the ongoing war with Germany. The British ambassador in Paris, Lord Francis Bertie, advised the Foreign Secretary that the Romanovs would be unwelcome in France as the ex-Empress was regarded as pro-German.

Even if an offer of asylum had been forthcoming, there would have been other obstacles to be overcome. The Provisional Government only remained in power through an uneasy alliance with the Petrograd Soviet, an arrangement known as "The Dual power". An initial plan to send the royal family to the northern port of Murmansk had to be abandoned when it was realized that the railway workers and the soldiers guarding them were loyal to the Petrograd Soviet, which opposed the escape of the tsar; a later proposal to send the Romanovs to a neutral port in the Baltic Sea via the Grand Duchy of Finland faced similar difficulties.

Execution of the Royal Family

The Romanovs were imprisoned in a series of decreasingly luxurious quarters until they finally ended up in Yekaterinburg at Ipatiev House, AKA the “House of Special Purpose,” perhaps the most ominous name one could give a house. In the early hours of 17 July 1918, the royal family was awakened around 2:00 am, got dressed, and were led down into a half-basement room at the back of the house. The pretext for this move was the family's safety, i.e. that anti-Bolshevik forces were approaching Yekaterinburg, and the house might be fired upon.

A firing squad had been assembled and was waiting in an adjoining room, composed of seven Communist soldiers from Central Europe, and three local Bolsheviks, all under the command of Yurovsky. Nicholas was carrying his son. When the family arrived in the basement, the former Tzar asked if chairs could be brought in for his wife and son to sit on. Yurovsky ordered two chairs brought in, and when the empress and the heir were seated, the executioners filed into the room. Yurovsky announced to them that the Ural Soviet of Workers' Deputies had decided to execute them. A stunned Nicholas asked, "What? What did you say?" and turned toward his family. Yurovsky quickly repeated the order and Nicholas said, according to Peter Ermakov, "You know not what you do."

The executioners drew handguns and began shooting; Nicholas was the first to die. Nicholas was shot several times in the chest (sometimes erroneously said to have been shot in his head, but his skull bore no bullet wounds when it was discovered in 1991). Anastasia, Tatiana, Olga, and Maria survived the first hail of bullets; the sisters were wearing over 1.3 kilograms of diamonds and precious gems sewn into their clothing, which provided some initial protection from the bullets and bayonets. They were then stabbed with bayonets and finally shot at close range in their heads. The bodies were driven to nearby woodland, searched and burned. The remains were soaked in acid and finally thrown down a disused mineshaft. On the following day, other members of the Romanov family including Grand Duchess Elizabeth Feodorovna, the empress's sister, who were being held in a school at Alapayevsk, were taken to another mine shaft and thrown in alive, except for Grand Duke Sergei Mikhailovich who was shot when he tried to resist.

An announcement from the Presidium of the Ural Regional Soviet of the Workers' and Peasants' Government emphasized that conspiracies had been exposed to free the ex-tsar, that counter-revolutionary forces were pressing in on Soviet Russian territory, and that the ex-tsar was guilty of unforgivable crimes against the nation. {My opinion: they’re right! They did have to execute the Romanovs. But that does not make it any less sad that five young people who had never held power, who did not choose their parents, had to die for the failures of Nikki & Alix. I think of all the other Russian youths shot and bayoneted because of the Tsar and weep for them as well, though their names and faces are unknown to me.}

#russian history #russian revolution #romanov family #study blog

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bts-reveries · 5 years ago

Text

waste it on me | part 13 (text below images)

bold: yn

italicized: miya

[normal text]: description

~facetime conversation~

i can’t believe you two were able to keep this secret!! when did he ask you out? [you questioned, getting comfortable on your pillow]

uhh, he didn’t really ask me out-- [miya said sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, fiddling with her stuffed cat]

YOU ASKED HIM OUT?? [you yelled in surprise, it wasn’t like miya to be this bold]

no [she laughs], we kinda just went for it

you just went for it? how does that happen

well we bumped into each other when i was getting my sister and i drinks at starbucks, and then we ended up staying there just talking for an hour-- and it wasn’t like normal talking! well.. we were talking normally to each other, but like.. not like we usually do you know? like he got shy and told me i looked pretty that day and i turned red and then he made fun of me-- but his ears were red! so he was shy too, so i started making fun of him and then we just laughed it off and then we left and went on a little date. it was pretty cute [she explained with her hands, fiddling with her fingers as she ended her little story]

what happened to miyeon’s drink [you ask with confusion, your eyebrows knitting together]

oh about that... taehyung drank it and so in the middle of our date we went through drive thru and got her a new drink [she scratches her head]

where’d you guys go for your date?

we went to a karaoke room, it was so much fun, i can barely sing, but his voice. ugh. he serenaded me with my favorite songs, listening to them now is so different and makes me feel all warm inside [she covers her face with her hands]

ugh you two are so cute, i’m so happy for you two. but now i’m an official third wheel, fuuun [you shake your hands in a sarcastic way]

what do you mean! no way, how about you? what happened with jungkook?

oh akferjknjr it was... normal surprisingly. the movie was about to start so then the lights started going down right? then a black figure ran up the stairs and was about to sit next to me and when i looked up it was him and he looked so scared and he tried going to a different seat, but it was the last seat left so i told him to sit down. he hesitated at first but then he eventually sat down and i offered him popcorn [you nod your head]

well he’s warming up to you, that’s good! did you two talk after that?

umm hello? the movie started, why would i talk, that’s rude!

okay okay, then when did you two talk?

after the movie. i was going on an on about how i loved ponyo so much and that i was craving noodles and ham after watching that one scene, you know that scene right?

yes, of course i know that scene [she slightly rolls her eyes, nodding her head]

well, i wasn’t really talking to anyone in particular, just looking straight ahead, and namjoon wasn’t even paying attention to me! he was just on his phone so jungkook responded to me instead

aww what’d he say?

“so nothing changed huh? still your favorite?” I SCREAMED-- internally of course.

aww he remembers?? [she covers her mouth]

i guess so~ then we just started talking and i was telling him if he’d like to go get noodles sometimes, as friends you know? and he said yes. i kinda screamed internally again [you smirked a little]

omg yay!!! that’s great news [miya couldn’t help but smile so big]

it is, i didn’t get his number though... it slipped my mind completely [you pout]

why not ask namjoon? he can ask yoongi, i’m sure he’ll give it to you

true, okay, i’ll text him later [you look off to the side]

did anything else happen?

we got kicked out... of the room, we didn’t notice how much time went by because we were just talking about random things.

like what?

well it was still about the movie, i don’t know why, but the image of ponyo transforming back into a little girl popped into my head and i couldn’t stop laughing, it was embarrassing... he was so confused and he was like ‘what’ and i was like nothing but i coULDN’T STOP LAUGHING IT WAS SO EMBARRASSING [you squished your face in embarrassment]

did you explain it to him at least??

well yeah, but throughout my explanation i still couldn’t stop laughing so i had to show him a picture.

wait is that the picture of jungkook that you showed us?

yeah! that was when he was looking at the picture i was talking about and he couldn’t stop laughing afterwards [you couldn’t help but smile, remembering how cute he looked when he was laughing, the first time in 10 years that you saw that bunny smile again]

wait wait wait wait is it when she looked like a chicken?? [she says in realization]

YES OMG ISN’T IT HILARIOUS

YES I LOVED THAT, SHE LOOKED LIKE THIS [she frowned, her mouth forming the perfect upside down ‘u’]

YES [you laughed]

wait hold on... where was namjoon throughout all this? [miya asks, remembering that he’s who she came with in the first place]

on his phone right next to me, i saw him roll his eyes when i asked jungkook about the noodle thing and he mouthed ‘third wheel’ at me [you say as you scratch the back of your neck]

wow we really need to get him someone

i don’t know anyone else though, do you?

no, no i don’t [miya thinks]

aww man, i don’t want him to be lonely

date him then

oh no, no, no [your eyes grew wide and shaking your head no]

he’s a great guy, he’ll find someone

yeah.. but anyways, i shouldn’t get my hopes up with jungkook, we’re just friends-- almost.. friends

yeah, you like him though, right?

i guess? i mean, i think so, i’m pretty sure i do-- but right now i just want to be friends

okay, well baby steps then

yes, baby steps-- speaking of babies, when are you and tae going to get married so you can have babies? i want to be an aunt soon

hold your horses yn, it’s been three dates, go tell that to my sister [she says with fear in her eyes]

YOU’RE RIGHT, it’s about time those two get married [it just came to you that they’ve been together for more than a decade already]

i know right, they’ve been together longer than i’ve known you-- oop, taehyung is texting me, hold on-- [miya’s camera went on pause as she read tae’s text]

what’d he say?

mmmm... he just told jin, he’s happy, but surprised that none of us told him, especially my sister-- oh-- oh i guess they’re both coming over now [she said with slight panic in her voice, not expecting them to come over this late in the evening]

oH? well, i guess these are the perks of sisters dating brothers.

i guess so

well anyways, you can call me or text me later, i don’t want to bother you and your boyfriend

nOT my boyfriend... yet-- he hasn’t asked

well it’s a given, now go get ready! text me what happens

okay okay, i’ll see you later then

~end~

You sigh, putting your phone down and getting comfortable on your bed, looking up at the ceiling and just thinking.

beep beep

You grab your phone, looking at the text you just received, frowning at the text you just got from an unknown number. Still, you replied, getting a response almost instantly, making your eyes widen.

waste it on me

☞part 13: who is this☜

→ pairings: jeon jungkook x reader

→ a/n: not too fond of how i did this one, felt like i could’ve done better :((

→ taglist:

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TAGLIST IS CLOSED!

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