I Love This 

I need more of this family

Whoops

Not as she seems.

(Aldo Raine x Russian!Female!Reader)

For the lovely @strudelcreme, I hope both you and your lovely friend enjoy this ❤️💛 Happy Birthday 🎉🎉❤️

Smiling wasn't something that (Y/n) was all too familiar with.

Even before all of this, her life back home in Russia wasn't much better. The cold was still very much embedded into her skin, and even the fiercest fire couldn't warm her. The frost of memory was always difficult to thaw.

There were moments of happiness, she supposed, moments she chose to not partake in. But there was always one man that would try to pull her in. And he would never let up.

(Y/n) could still hear his southern twang on the wind.

"Alright, ya Basterds! Gather round!" Aldo ordered, and (Y/n) was the first to move. Once everyone was close enough to hear, Aldo began to brief them. "Now, as most of yall' know, me and Donny hear managed to get some valuable Intel from one of the Krauts we caught." Aldo informed. (Y/n) remembered it well. The man spoke perfect English and was more than willing to speak if it meant getting to live.

Too bad he was hanging off Aldo's belt now.

"There's a small shack just north of ere', and someone there has been handing out supplies to countering war missions." Aldo said. "Kraut also mentioned that the guy's Russian. So (L/n) get your ass over here." Aldo said, and (Y/n) simply nodded and didn't say a word. Her relationship with Aldo was a complicated one. He always tried to make her smile, with stupid jokes and even stupider impressions. At the time, (Y/n) found it terribly annoying, but now, as much as she hated to admit it, it was cute.

She couldn't remember the last man that put so much effort to get her to do something as simple as smiling. His advances made some unfamiliar feelings drudge up as well. Feeling that (Y/n) thought herself too broken to possess. It took (Y/n) a lot of time to accept the fact that she was in love. And it was a beautiful and scary feeling. What if he died? What if she died? (Y/n) couldn't bare all the grim possibilities that could make her love turn into a tragedy.

Once the team had been assembled and the others were stationed on watch, it was Aldo, (Y/n), Donny and Wicki.

The four walked carefully until the reached the edge of the woods, where an opening sprawled into a field. The shack became visible and (Y/n) could see a figure moving on the inside. Maybe this informant of theirs lived there, if that were the case...why did (Y/n) get a bad feeling?

She stopped in her tracks, which also made Aldo stop.

"What's the matter, (L/n)?" He asked, a look of concern washed over his face. (Y/n) knew that Aldo would listen to her. And when you had a man like Aldo listening, everyone would follow. She threw her head at the cottage, making Aldo and the others turn their gaze at the shack. "I don't see anything wrong with it, doll." Donny commented, his accent coming out thicker than ever. "I….I got a bad feeling." She responded simply.

Aldo scratched his head. "Donny, Wicki, you stay on watch and me and (L/n) will get a closer look." Aldo ordered, raising his hand to quickly silence any sort of opposition.

Aldo and (Y/n) began to approach slowly, keeping their eyes on the visible figure. Once they were close enough, Aldo motioned for (Y/n) to speak.

"We are here! Come out!" (Y/n) called out in Russian. The informant seemed frantic in his movements, coming outside and smiling widely. "You have no idea how good it is to see another comrade!" The man announced and that name made (Y/n)'s skin crawl. It brought unwanted memories to her. "Are you armed?" She asked, and the man raised his coat and hands to show no guns or other weapons. Aldo calmed down, and asked the man if he spoke English. The man nodded.

"Good, now...a lil' birdie told us you had some supplies to share? We're kind of in a jiff here." Aldo explained and the man seemed to nod his head. He walked inside and before they all knew it...they were surrounded. The fuckers were hiding in the house. (Y/n) looked at the man, before spitting curses at him in Russian. The Krauts were circling them like they were prey, conversing with one another in German.

Fear and nervousness was heavy in the air, and (Y/n) was wondering where the hell Donny and Wicki were. One of the Krauts crouched in front of (Y/n), taking her chin into his thumb and forefinger.

"So you're the famous Ghost. I have to say, you're too beautiful to be a ghost." The officer complimented and Aldo felt an anger bubble inside him. He had reasons for all his effort in making (Y/n) smile, mostly because he himself had fallen in love with her.

And to see this Kraut fuck try and woo her was absolutely disgusting. The men around them switched positions, talking to each other in German.

The two dog handlers headed toward the back of the shack, seemingly searching for something. The dogs used their snouts around some disturbed snow patches, barking soon followed. There was a basement door, hidden under the snow.

(Y/n)'s "comrade" also seemed very nervous. As the Krauts were busy searching with the dogs, (Y/n) scooted closer to the man. He was surprised. "Now you listen to me very carefully, comrade." She whispered slowly, her accent coming thicker than usual. The man didn't utter a word, fear evident in his eyes.

"You are going to help us out of this...and if you try and betray me again, I'll beat you up so bad God won't even recognize you. Understand?" She threatened. The man began to vigorously nod his head, making promises that he was going to help.

For his sake, he had better.

Donny signaled them to quiet down, as the soldiers returned. The officer's interest had shifted from (Y/n) to Aldo. They hauled the southerner to his feet. "What the fuck!? Don't you fucking touch me you Kraut fu-!" He was silenced by a punch to the stomach. Aldo knelt forward, and the men dragged him inside the newly found basement. The silence that settled could have killed (Y/n).

Her stomach pooled with dread, as her mind came up with alarming scenarios. The dog watcher's began to move around the perimeter. Time was running out, and Aldo could be in danger.

(Y/n) felt her eyes shift to the roof of the house, where she saw more movement. At first, it arose to look like another hidden Kraut, but Wicki was always the more stealthy of the group. Donny used to joke that he should have been called Ghost. Wicki detected her eyes on him, and with swift hand gestures, (Y/n) knew immediately what to do.

She watched the Krauts move toward the basement entrance, where they were unconsciously inching closer and closer to Wicki.

"Give me your knife." She told the man, and he immediately handed it to her. Once the Krauts backs were turned, she rushed the shorter one, plunging the knife into his neck. The dog was swift business as well, and (Y/n) was sure the dog was the only one she actually felt bad for.

The other Kraut didn't even have time to react. Wicki retracted his blade from the German's throat, with a satisfied smile on his face. (Y/n) stood in her usual stoic expression, looking to the basement. It was odd how the commotion didn't bring the officer back, but (Y/n) was going to get him soon enough. Right when she took the next step, a loud bang echoed, catching the trio off guard.

"Fucking hell!" Donny yelled, covering his ears, and Wicki cursed in German under his breath. (Y/n)'s heart picked up in pace, for she would recognize that sound anywhere.

It was a gunshot.

The Russian wasted no time in bolting in the basement, where she was greeted with a fairly large storage area. "Wicki, Donny, get your asses down here." (Y/n) whispered.

The trio descended into the basement, quiet as mice. Which was kind of surprising for (Y/n), seeing as Donny was a literal giant compared to both her and Wicki.

(Y/n) couldn't shake her anxiety.

Please be alive.

For the love of God be alive.

They soon reached a spacey room, it not having been filled with extra supplies. It wasn't until the trio turned the corner that the wave of relief washed over. Aldo was sat against the wall, a freshly fired gun in his left hand and a newly dead Kraut on the floor. He had a wild-like grin on his face. “Took you long enough.” Aldo laughed. He got to his feet, and before he was about to say anything more, he was wrapped in an almost bear-like hug. Needless to say, it caught the men by surprise.

(Y/N) buried her face in Aldo’s chest, muttering words of gratitude. “Thank God, you're alive…” she whispered, like she didn't want the others to hear her. Aldo chuckled softly, wrapping his own arms around the woman. “Im glad i made it too, darlin’.” He said. “Donny, Wicki. Go get the others and lets haul as many of these crates as we can. We gonna need it pretty soon.” He ordered. Donny and Wicki were smiling ear to ear, like a couple of school children, and Aldo was the older kid swatting them away.

“Sure, Lieutenant. We’ll see you two later.” Donny teased. “Much later.’’ Wicki finished before they both exited the basement, not forgetting to scalp the Krauts on their way. Now Aldo and (Y/N) were alone, still in each other's arms. Aldo felt eyes on him, so he looked down and saw something that he never thought he would see.

(Y/N) was smiling up at him.

She looked the happiest she had ever been throughout this whole thing. “Is that smile for ol’ me, darlin’?’’ Aldo teased, earning himself a semi serious punch in the arm. “Be quiet.” She replied softly. “Were you worried about me?” He continued. “Of course I was worried. You were gone and then the gunshot. Oh, you get the idea.” She replied in frustration. Aldo smiled, taking her face in his rough hands. He brought their lips together in a sudden kiss, which made (Y/N) gasp softly. The kiss held desperation, and a longing most beautiful.

People are willing to do wild things, when all seems lost.

They pulled away from each other, eyes peering into one another. Sea blue into (e/c).

“Smile for me again, would ya’?”

And she did.

Everyday.

@strudelcreme @lemairepstuff @sergeant-donny-donowitz @jiejie-eonni-onee-sama @empress-writes @struggling-bee @jokersqueenofchaos @aurelie34-43

You probably heard we ain’t in the prisoner-takin’ business; we in the killin’ Nazi business. And cousin, business is a-boomin’!

brad pitt as LT. ALDO RAINE — INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS (2009) dir. quentin tarantino

Here’s a redraw of an old sketch I made from a few years ago, when I was geeking out about the formation of the post WW2 world order in the final years of the war. This is specifically inspired by the leaders of the “big 3” countries who led the Yalta conference in 1945, and who were famously champions (left to right respectively) of imperialism, capitalism, and communism. More excitingly, it’s cute to think the countries that these leaders represented imitating their bosses’ preferred modes of smoking tobacco products reflected their personalities, while coping with the stress and excitement of victory of war in sight – and trying to look fearless, inadvertently yet appropriately coming off looking truly evil.

Agincourt: The English beating the crap out of the French with longbows. Castillon: The French beating the crap out of the English with guns. Hundred Years’ War: One unholy mess. Check out Francis’ handgonne in action here.

So, commissions are open and there’s a special offer for June and July with commissions featuring France, Canada, America, and others. For the price list and samples, go here.

Holy Roman Empire, 1648.

Boom, this took forever and I’m dead now.

I drew this on a whim but later on when I was doing research on public crying I found a cool book about the history of crying in Britain, and after reading it I was struck with some thoughts on how this famously stoic boy feels about having cries. I think I’ve come across a few headcanons about sadboy Arthur Kirkland, based on stereotypes of the attitudes English people generally have towards being emotional. I wanted to explore a bit on how the history of norms about the general expression of emotions have influenced how England would have comported himself throughout time… what entails is some discussion of savoury subjects such as masculinity, dependency and British insularity as well...

(Disclaimer: norms around emotions and their expressions are obviously gendered in a country like the UK, so this discussion will be only applicable to a male-identifying England. CW for mentions of colonialism.)

In the present day, England is likely to keep himself from putting on displays of tears in public. He’s self-aware of the stereotype of the English able to uphold a “stiff-upper lip” in trying circumstances, and to a degree, adheres to it himself. This articulation of the myth of English stoicism arose recently, crystallized in the public mind through the propaganda of the First and Second World Wars, and packaged as an export of a stereotype (America being the most eager consumer of this, always happy to construe anything British to a way to patronize England. As you can imagine, he comported himself as eternally carefree as a moral counterbalance to England’s anal agedness).

The later Victorian years preceded the synthesis of this stereotype, when the association of tears with weakness and foreignness antagonized their shedding by English men. As Britain was reaching the peak of global geopolitical dominance, the physical and mental conditions as well as characters of its men became a matter of national security. A boy whose upbringing did not involve a disciplining with the Stiff Upper Lip ethic would become a man that threatened the upholding of imperial activities. Though Arthur later became a bit more aware of how the norm of the Stiff Upper Lip spawned from this ideology, at the time it wasn’t a matter for questioning, given the alibis granted by scientific inquiry. Darwinism and psychiatry shaped anthropological theories of weeping, which were made available for use to identify a human society’s proximity to either primitivity or civility – English/British society’s supposed exceptional ability to strictly regulate emotional expression marked them as superior, most obviously to non-white (or non-WASP), colonised societies, as well as to other Europeans. The incapacity to restrain passions was in turn pathologized as “emotional incontinence.” During this time, Arthur was most extremely committed to the repression of tears as a matter of conforming to the Age of Reason. But the sought-for clever, unsentimental disposition came at the cost of pre-emptively devaluing empathy. Furnishing the imperial superiority complex with the view that fellow Europeans were more prone to emotional excess, island-hood came to represent independence from the need for friends rather than the inability to keep friends at all.

Around the close of the Victorian era, the intertwined agonies of loneliness and repression of empathy -- particularly poignant when witnessing his state calibrate its technologies to wage violence and inequality at home and abroad -- inclined Arthur to take seriously complaints about the British “undevelopment of the heart” coming from perspectives of the British cultural elite, many of whom were already critically exploring other social mores. Intellectually, he had a general awareness of the conventions that bound himself and the English people, specifically those who were middle class. Yet, even in circumstances where he was in a place of repose and privacy, with the opportunity to weep – e.g. when affected by the catharsis spurred by the climax of a tragic play, after a gruesome battle on a foreign land, after attempting to comfort a struggling family – he’d find that he couldn’t. At that point he could not even be affected by stories of child suffering -- which were archetypical of Victorian heartrending stories, and which once could have evoked some adequate tears from him when it was popular to be evoked as such. By that point, he’d been comfortable for too long being held captive to his idea of masculinity. Meanwhile, amongst his fellow semi- or fullblown-alcoholic European peers, he gained a reputation as a weepy drunk -- in spite of weepy drunkenness having been a sign of foreignness. Inebriation was an easy escape from those terrible scruples. His drinking companions would have little sympathy to afford England during those fits of incoherent, pity-and-alcohol-fuelled blubbings.

Only with the social upheaval following World War II could norms have the chance to slacken, at least relative to British standards, which by that point were world-famously tight as straitjackets. Psychiatric support for weeping, trickling in primarily from America, encouraged discussion, at least, that recognized that the Stiff Upper lip ethic would be obsolete in the post-war era. Tears provoked by passion no longer were obviously the symptoms of a national traitor. For instance, Arthur came to find release in partaking in collective tear-shedding at emotionally-charged football matches, or during events symbolic of the decline of his empire. Despite his roughly century-long period of restraint, engagement in public rehearsals of catharsis didn’t always come without embarrassment or strangeness.

The period of the stiff upper lip was one of the most hostile to tear-shedding, but prior to this, Arthur had a liberal understanding of what it meant to cry. Throughout history, English society had variously regarded crying as a pious act, or as an intellectual act of sympathy, or a pathetic display of paternal affection, etc.. And with centuries’ worth of “maturing,” having more interactions with other nations, and becoming more self-aware, it became more important to Arthur to take these norms seriously, and more tactfully regulate the expression of emotion. With the 16th century reformation, he learnt from Anti-Catholics to avoid certain forms of weeping that represented the blasphemous and excessive frivolities that Catholicism spoiled religious Christian practices with. (This strengthened the foundation for anti-Europe feeling, but also further justified the feeling of superiority over the Irish). In the aftermath of the French Revolution and the 25 years of war that came with it, a triumphant yet jaded England harboured a special disdain for the seeming unrestrained passion and sentimentality that characterized France’s revolutionary condition. Since the onset of the 19th century, the restraint of emotion would last, to varying degrees, as an aspect of a certain kind of cultural conservatism.

Especially with hindsight, England did appreciate that the correlations of weeping with weakness, effeminacy, foppery, self-indulgence, madness, primitiveness, or degeneration etc. were not natural, and were products of ideological interests. But, having harboured a lifelong insecurity as an island situated a stone’s throw away from an unpredictably violent continent, it tended to seem necessary to adopt any behaviour that could defend him from the machinations of the outside world. His overall habits to repress feelings would be a difficult habit to discard, mostly because he couldn’t be motivated enough to be rid of it anyway. This made it tricky for the unexpected moments when the need for catharsis became too much. The reflex to smother instances of agonised feeling could be discomfiting due to the obsolete moral value the habit stands for. He occasionally indulged in some weeping so long as it’s appropriate and in private, but the sense of comfort that resulted would now be alien too.

And in turn, he couldn’t help his continued alienation from others. While it became more normal to be sceptical of the Stiff Upper Lip’s place in the world post WWII, and Arthur adopted more liberal gender norms, he couldn’t completely abandon old associations of maudlin sentiment so long as they persisted with some strength in English society. Being methodically uncomfortable in sharing these rare feelings with others, these days he’d find real comfort instead in his own geography, as he’s often done so in the past. He is always proximate to the ocean, or if not, to rain, or to sombre crowds of people -- with which he convenes, to observe the latent signs of their confident grieving in lieu of what he himself cannot express.

---

Tl;dr what if Arthur is just a boy about emotions but you also used English history to explain it.

Habsburg VS Hohenzollern Round 1

Based on a personal HC of mine that Gilbert wasn’t exactly the confident little shit we all know and love after coming out of his Duchy years. Not to worry though - Reiner and the Hohenzollerns fixed that up real nice.

My absolute fav

Two hits: I hit you, you hit the ground.

Eli Roth as Sgt. Donny Donowitz in Inglourious Basterds