Historical Story Prompts
  • Saw you needed help getting out of your carriage
  • You accidentally flung your dancing shoe across the ballroom and hit me in the back…or was it an accident?
  • Let me help you get your bonnet unstuck out of that tree
  • Scandalous ankles and/or unbound hair
  • You were signaling someone else with your fan to meet in the gardens and I thought you were looking at me…well this is awkward
  • Don’t mind me dumping water on you milord but your wig had caught fire, I think you got too close to the candles
  • really why does this party need 5-hour candles, can I hang out with you all my friends are already drunk and there are four more hours left
  • You caught me without gloves! I’m practically naked!
  • Sorry wrong sedan chair

this is so cute omg ;^;

i just wanna read a book without hyperventilating but it seems it’s not happening


Happy wedding anniversary Wolfgang & Constanze Mozart, married August 4, 1782.

“When we were joined together, my wife and I began to cry – everybody was touched by that, even the priest – they all wept when they saw how deeply moved we were in our hearts.” 

Featured here: “Mozart and Constanze on their Honeymoon,” date unknown; contract of marriage signed August 3, 1782; Tom Hulce and Elizabeth Berridge in the wedding scene of Amadeus, 1984.


historical otps: princess isabella of parma & archduchess maria christina

I am told that the day begins with God. I, however, begin the day by thinking of the object of my love, for I think of her incessantly.

Writing Prompt #228

The rain hadn’t stopped for hours now and gave no sign of letting up anytime soon; it seemed like this wasn’t going to be a short visit after all. It wouldn’t be safe to send him out in such a storm, so he would have to stay the night. The evening chill only grew stronger as she stared at him, uncertain of what to say.

“Would you like some tea?”

Artaxerxes II & Tiridates
“Eunuch Tiridates had been the most handsome and attractive man in Asia. The King was said to be greatly in love with him. When Tiridates died young, his death caused Artaxerxes enormous grief.”

Darius III & Bagoas
“Persian king’s lover Bagoas, a eunuch of remarkable beauty and in the very flower of boyhood, who had been loved by Darius and was afterward to be loved by Alexander the Great.”

Al-amin & Kauthar
“Al-amin, Caliph of the Baghdad and black eunuch Kauthar, his favorite. The king died in battle with his faithful lover, Kauthar.”

Alauddin & Malik Kafur
“Sultan Alauddin Khilji fell madly in love with the effeminate beauty of Malik Kafur who was very intelligent; the boy became his consort and the general of his army.”

Mehmed II & Radu III
“Radu Dracula was the source of Sultan’s burning love and passion, he became his male concubine, and they spent long days and nights together.”

Ivan IV & Fyodor
“Fyodor Basmanov, a favorite of Ivan the Terrible. The Russian nobleman was almost certainly a lover of the tsar. Feodor Basmanov was described as beautiful and in some accounts, effeminate youth.

Eastern lovers from 350′s BC till 1500′s

“Merciful Lord, hear my prayer. I miss him. Dear God, I miss him. Heavenly Father, I pray that you keep him safe and bring him home to me. The halls are quiet without his laughter, I miss his touch…I ache for his return. Gracious Father, you know I can carry the great sorrows with which you have tested me with but I cannot lose him. I cannot bear to lose him. Bring him home to me, bring him home. I want him here. I want him safe, with me.”

anonymous asked:

Its.OK if not but if you want would you write about George asking Martha to marry him?

He was pacing a little in the anteroom, trying to remember the story he had concocted on the way over. He had been passing by, and had been giving mind to when they last spoke at the Assembly, and she had never been far from his mind, and -

“Mr. Washington, what a pleasant surprise to see you here!”

“Mrs. Custis!” Oh, how fine she looked in all her flounces and petticoats! His brother had often joked that a dark-haired woman would be the death of him, and Lawrence had been right - he had taken one look at tiny Mrs. Martha Custis and been lost. She was everything a woman ought to be - kind, polite, clever, a good hand at cards and an even better one at a dance, and with a smile that would brighten the coldest of days. That she was also quite rich had been mentioned by one or two malefactors, but he would have loved her if she were the village barmaid with nothing to her name but the clothes on her back.

He took a moment to compose himself in the presence of such loveliness, and, stumbing for a moment, blurted out the very first thing that came to mind. “I have been giving some thought, recently, to the matter of Jacky’s schooling.”

“His … schooling?” Even so practiced a woman as she could not hide the slightest bit of disappointment in her voice.

Oh, hell, that was not how he had meant to start.“Yes, you mentioned he had been intractible of late. Of course he is too young yet for school, and that would spoil a boy like him, to be sent away too early, and of course a tutor would not do, either. He must have a… It occured to me that it…might be better if…” He was floundering, and loosing his nerve by the second. Oh, give him Indians, give him floods, fires, and the twelve plagues of Egypt, impassible rivers, razor-sharp rocks - give him anything but a woman and a message to give her!

“…he had a model to follow?” Martha asked kindly.

“Precisely,” George said, feeling bolder, wetting his lips again. “And I…would…would…”

“…Would like it to be you?” she asked, watching him very intently with one of her dear smiles.

Oh, if she would but stop looking at him so! It would undo him! “Forgive me, Martha, I have not words sufficient for this, I am not a poet, I cannot -”

“Are you asking if I would like to marry you, George Washington?”

“If you will have me, yes,” George said with a feeling of tremendous fear. “I have little land of my own, at present, and only White House, you know, which is scarcely fit for a woman of your -”

But he had not time to finish - there was a racket at the door and Master Jacky, the scamp of whom they had just been speaking, as well as Miss Patsy, sallied into the room at full gallop.

“To Mama, Patsy! Before the dragon gets us!” The two made a desperate bee-line for their mother’s lap, crashing into her without any regard for the close quarters in which she found herself. George pulled back, feeling sheepish, as Martha attempted to sort out what sort of game was going on. Of course the children would be about - it would have been silly to pretend otherwise. She was a mother, first and foremost, and her time was never really her own.

“We’re being chased by a dragon, Mama!” Jacky said quickly. “He doesn’t like grown-ups, so we’re safe now.”

“Oh, I see that,” Martha said with a smile, arranging Jacky on her lap and making room for Patsy as well, her arms tucked around both of her children. “Have you time to help me with an important question, do you think?” Both children nodded, immediately solemn. “How should you like a new papa?” Martha asked, looking first at Patsy and then at Jacky, who, at five, probably had a better idea of what having a papa meant.

“Do we need one?”

“Well, I am not sure you need one, John Parke, but Mama would like you to have one; they can be awfully nice sometimes. And– ” her eyes met George’s for a moment, full of sparkle, “-it would make your Mama very happy.”

“You should be happy, Mama!” Jacky opined. “But only if he’s nice,” he added, very serious. “Not Mr. Carter - he frowns all the time and he’s old.” He suddenly seemed to remember that George was in the room, and his eyes suddenly lit up. “Can we have Mr. Washington for our Papa? He’s got a uniform and he lets me ride his horse!”

Martha could not help but smile at those excellent commendations, obviously a great deal more important than her own. “Well, we shall just have to ask him, won’t we?” she suggested. “Politely, now, remember your manners.”

“Will you be our papa, Mr. Washington? And make Mama happy all the time? Please?” Jacky asked, and Patsy echoed “Please” just as she’d been taught. From behind them on her lap, Martha was beaming, her eyes bright with tears as she asked, silently, her own “Please.”

“I should be honored,” George said with a smile, and Jacky gave a wild whoop of joy and threw himself into George’s lap, and Patsy clambered down to wrap herself around his knee (the nearest part of George she could reach) and for a moment it was all tiny arms and fierce, sticky little hands, until there was another set of arms, longer and softer, and another set of lips, too, pressing a grateful, happy kiss to his cheek.

He had never felt a victory more secure and complete than this.

Carbon Black (RusAme Secret Santa 2017)

Written for the @rusame-secret-santa-2017 !!! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to @ask-navy-america !!!!!!!!! I’m your Santa! I hope you enjoy the holidays, and like this gift! All three prompts were really interesting; ultimately, I went with the prompt with Russia giving America a piece of shungite. It was really fun putting this together, and a pleasure writing this for you.

Synopsis: Some wounds can cut deep, breaking both the body and soul. When America’s Civil War takes its toll on him, Russia gives him a shard of shungite, a stone known for having medicinal properties. Though he treasures this gesture, when history works beyond the control of Alfred and Ivan, propelling America and Russia apart, he swears he no longer has a care for Russia or his people. But history may also make a liar out of America yet.

Word Count: 7375

Warning for mentions of blood and violence.

Carbon Black


The light call of seagulls traveled with the damp breeze across the harbor, lapping with the waves against boats and barges and buoys alike, audible even over the multilingual chatter of the amassing crowd. Clouds of an almost blinding whiteness drifted lazily across the sky, causing the sun’s light to blink on and off, its rays glinting off the insistent, splashing waves. Men and women talked with noble attempts at refinement, though too easily dissolved into excitement, eyes wide with intrigue as guests and hosts alike grew acquainted.

Already well acquainted themselves, Russia and America were among the few who maintained some decorum as they strode side-by-side along the harbor, Russia tall and straight-backed, his pressed uniform showing off the strength that dwelled beneath the fabric, and America looking drained and especially gray beside Russia’s stately appearance, though no less pleased.

“You actually did it,” America said, shaking his head, throwing a glance at the ships docked nearby. The sails and tricolor flag rippled noisily in the salty breeze.

Russia smiled. It was a clear smile- steady, plaintive, sincere. “I said I would.”

“I know, but…you actually did it.” A shaky laugh escaped America as he once more faced forward. Russia watched as America’s shoulders sagged, the pleased look becoming tinged with sadness. Unconsciously, America’s hand drifted to his waist, just left of his navel, and Russia did not miss the shadow of a grimace crease America’s face.

“America.” Russia delicately reached out. “You-”

Russia’s hand had barely clasped his shoulder when America swayed beneath the weight.

Except Russia had barely applied any pressure.

In a flash, Russia retracted his hand, instead reaching with both to support America, grabbing below his arms just in time to feel the thinned man’s weight. And just in time to feel the shaking beneath the pads of his fingers, a delicate, tremulous ripple that seemed to emanate from America’s very core.

For that is precisely where it came from. Such was the nature of civil wars. Battles between rivaling countries left marks primarily on the outside and burrowed in, the effects of war penetrating from the outside. But civil wars festered from within, the effects burning and ripping and slowly clawing their way out. The damage was felt before it was ever seen on a country’s body- at least, the injuries.

But by even this point, America was showing clear signs of being locked in a battle with himself.

“I’m fine.” America groaned as he glanced up, catching the unamused look Russia sent him, the kind that plainly told America not to insult either of them with such a lie.

America sighed, deflating in Russia’s hold. “I’m…not fine.” Again, that tremble, as the admission wracked through America’s body as a defeat all of its own. He shook as Russia’s hold grew more firm, almost fully supporting his weight as he America close. America would not meet his eye, instead seeming to curl in on himself more, head bowed, eyes to the ground. Along the harbor they walked, the empire and the country still green from independence, close physically, even as America tried in vain to create some distance. With every attempt, Russia’s frown deepened, and by the time they found a bench, he had acquiesced America’s silent request for space, but always a hand remained resting against America’s weary body.

Hunched in his seat, America’s breath came in long, ragged pants as he attempted to ground himself. And always, looking anywhere but at Russia. A hurt frown creased Russia’s brow, tugging at his lips as he regarded the man beside him. The blue eyes seemed over-bright when they flicked in his direction, widening for a heartbeat before glancing quickly away, prompting America to purse his lips in frustration.

“America.” There was something empowering in an independent country hearing their name. A few short syllables could be a vast reminder of who they were, and one step farther from what their existence had been. Now, however, the name was a fresh wound, half of a puzzle piece with the other half kept aloft, out of reach, lashing out to rip at its companion. And the other piece fought right back.


He had clasped at his chest again, could feel his own ribs through fabric and flesh alike. Realizing his moment of weakness, America withdrew his hand.


It came back red.

A broken laugh tore through America, tore through all pretense, all the marrow in his bones and blood in his veins, spilling from a wound that began from the inside out, clotted and dying the moment it left him, draining all charades and betraying everything Russia already knew he felt.

When America spoke, his voice quavered unlike anything Russia had heard from him before.

“Take me home.”

Something warm and aching settled in Russia’s chest. He nodded, gingerly securing America in his hold once more. He winced with America, cursing his large build, his calloused hands, every movement feeling like it could snap America in two. With every hitch in America’s breathing, Russia was sure he was the cause, that his hold had knocked the wind right out of him, that he was not supporting America enough, that he simply was not enough.

So lost in his worries, Russia started when he felt America’s hand on his arm, patting him gently. A gesture of gratitude? Reassurance? A warning he was being too rough? Or-

“Thanks, big guy.”


Oh, but it was said too softly, with too much gentleness, almost like handling glass. That was not the tone of the America he knew, the United States of America whose energy was tangible, whose defiant determination reverberated across borders.

Because the United States of America was not unified at the moment. This Civil War of north and south, it changed what it meant for Alfred to be America.

“I just…I need to be home right now.” Perhaps it was wishful thinking alone that made America’s voice sound just a bit stronger. But it was enough for now to drag Russia from his reverie, and once more support his ailing friend one step at a time.

America passed out twice on their trip to his home. Fortunately, it was not a long journey. Unfortunately, the excitement and delight and hope his people felt upon seeing the Russian Navy arrive to support them did not revitalize Alfred. It touched him, warmed his heart, kindled his hope. Yet he remained ripped in two, and it was this shattered half of a man that Russia supported through the doorway and straight to the couch by the fire.

The instant he was laid down upon the cushions, America curled tight into himself, shivering in spite of himself. Already, Russia was piling blankets above and more pillows below, spending just enough time to get America into a comfortable position before turning his attention to the hearth. As he worked, Russia heard the sounds of shuffling as America moved achily into a different position. Now on his back, America glared up at the ceiling, lips pressed in a thin, determined line.

It did not take long for the crackling of a fire to pierce the heavy silence weighing between the two countries, mingling with Alfred’s tired, ragged breathing. Turning back to America, Russia regarded the look of frustration and exhaustion shadowing his brow.

“We should tend to that wound,” Russia said evenly, hoping for nonchalance. The change in atmosphere bothered him, the stark contrast between the incredulous joy America had shown when he first saw Ivan now felt like a distant dream.

America’s only answer was to turn his head away. Russia barely saw the small nod he gave as he peeled back the blankets.

Failing to fight back his own grimace, Russia once more set to the task at hand, not bothering to ask where America kept his medical supplies, opting instead to use this extra time to wonder and worry over this sudden detachment from his host. In the short time it took him to find supplies, Russia’s doubts had plateaued, heightened with time only to reach a dull, continuous churning in his gut.

That seemed nothing, however, to the gash seeping blood through America’s shirt. A small patch was visible even on the blanket he had pulled aside, and his palm was stained a shining crimson. The shadows of similar injuries littered America’s chest, tinted a dull golden-brown in the light of the fire as Ivan opened Alfred’s shirt. Most looked to be only recently closed, and barely healed. Without even really willing himself to do it, Russia reached down, fingers pressing beside one of the old wounds.

Dark skin twitched beneath his touch, and at last America’s gaze snapped to him, shimmering eyes wide, lips parted in a silent gasp. Their eyes locked, the many shades of America’s eyes reading a spectrum of emotions for the breath of a lifelong heartbeat.


“I wish you weren’t here.”

The suddenness of it struck Russia like a slap to the face. Reeling, he opened his mouth, not even sure what he intended to say-

“You’re the last person I wanted seeing me like this.”

Confusion, relief, guilt, remorse, realization. Each and every sensation slammed into Ivan simultaneously, rocking him to his score more than Alfred’s previous admission. Though he dared not believe, Russia held fast to this chance at such a reprieve.


Again, America cut across him. “After all you’re doing for me, all your support, all the things you said…believing in me…refusing to accept anything less than my reunification-”

“Because I want to only see you whole and happy again-”

“All of that, and I’m falling apart like this!”

America pressed clenched fists to his eyes, teeth grit as a pained moan escaped between them.

Russia’s shoulders sank, and the relief that washed over him was not guiltless; such an admission should not soothe him, yet it sounded so much better than the alternative, that America genuinely did not want to see him.

“You are surviving.” The wood creaked slightly as Russia knelt down beside the couch. “Every day you live is another victory.”

“I don’t feel like myself,” America whispered. He dragged his hands away from his eyes, which looked more red and swollen than before, and looked down at the wounds littering his body. “I feel empty. And…” He closed his eyes. Swallowed audibly. “Scared.”

Russia’s smile was laden with a tenderness too heavy for words. Skilled fingers carefully unraveled bandages, and his gaze shifted between America and his injuries as he worked.

“That is part of it,” he explained, voice steady even as he worked. “To feel all of this, any of it, means you are living, that still the United States marches on. If it were not, you would not be feeling any of this.” The physical and the emotional.

A dry, quavering laugh sounded. “Great. Just…great. So- ah- winning feels like losing.”

“Yes.” The cut cleaned and tended to, Russia guided America up so he could wrap it properly.

Read the full story on FF or Ao3.

Big thanks to everyone in my face-to-face life, on tumblr, and on discord for their help in varying ways with this. Including, but not limited to (cronchyshrimpbrigade) @purplepatchwork for keeping me sane, @derevosky, @skye–walker, @aphchiptease, @heytherefellowsapiens and @an-old-telephone for being extra pairs of eyes to read over my work and being a beautiful cheer squad, @orang3lover for the cat and Kaz memes, @cherryliqor for being too good, @cantankerouskaputnik and @yantiskra for always inspiring me to learn more, jonn-jonnzz for also being Too Good tm, @impossibilitygirl for seriously helping me feel good enough again to write, and to everyone in my life who brightens each year!!! There are too many to list fully, but with each passing fic, I sure as hell am gonna try.