#andrei the tiny

[trbotunnel]

he's 4'11,, but 5' around the ladies (he gets on his tippy toes) he wields a 10' pole btw

[madphantom]

This trenchcoat has been in such a massive amount of films by now

[pyotrkochetkov]

JORDAN STAAL & ANDREI SVECHNIKOV January 29, 2023 | © Josh Lavallee

[scarletwitch1918]

Commentators calling Andrey short is one of my favorite things that happens at every single tournament

[presdestigatto]

normalise blaming a certain someone for everything

[tvintedspvrkmoving]

@razorfst // @wolfskrieger

[vicsy]

gently holds

[sounwise]

Strictly speaking, prior to “Time Machines” the band was called “The Kids,” and before that it wasn’t called anything at all, and everything didn’t happen right away. Really everything started when I heard the Beatles. I came home from school at the moment when my father was taping “A Hard Day’s Night,” borrowed from a neighbor, onto a little Philips tape recorder. I’d heard some kind of scraps of the Beatles even before that, at someone else’s house. A tiny fragment of their concert (about five seconds) could be heard on the television, thereby demonstrating how far bourgeois culture had fallen. In class a photo of the Beatles was passed around: re-photographed multiple times, worn and cracked like an ancient idol, enough that by now it was impossible to tell who in it was who, but magic still emanated from it. So, I got home, and my father was taping “A Hard Day’s Night.” There was a sense that my entire life so far I’d been wearing cotton wool in my ears, and suddenly it had been taken out. I simply physically felt something within me churning, stirring, changing irrevocably. The Beatles days had started. Beatles were listened to from morning until evening. In the morning, before school, then immediately after and straight through until knock-off. On Sunday Beatles were listened to all day. Occasionally my Beatles-exhausted parents would kick me out onto the balcony together with the tape recorder, at which point I’d turn the volume up to full, so that everyone in the area would also listen to the Beatles. (original Russian text beneath the cut)

[—from Было, есть, будет… / It Was, It Is, It Will Be..., Andrey Makarevich (founder and frontman of Russia’s oldest active rock band, Машина Времени / Mashina Vremini / Time Machine)]

Собственно, до «Машины времени» ансамбль назывался «The Kids», а до этого он вообще никак не назывался, и все происходило не сразу. По-настоящему все началось, когда я услышал битлов. Я верну��ся из школы в тот момент, когда отец переписывал «Hard day’s night», взятый у соседа, на маленький магнитофон «Филипс». Какие-то обрывки битлов я слышал и раньше, где-то в гостях. Крохотный кусочек их концерта (секунд пять) звучал по телевидению, демонстрируя тем самым, как низко пала буржуазная культура. В классе по рукам ходила фотка битлов, несколько раз переснятая, затертая и потрескавшаяся, как старая икона, и уже невозможно было понять, кто на ней кто, но магия от нее исходила. Так вот, я вернулся домой, и отец переписывал «Hard day’s night». Было чувство, что всю предыдущую жизнь я носил в ушах вату, а тут ее вдруг вынули. Я просто физически ощущал, как что-то внутри меня ворочается, двигается, меняется необратимо. Начались дни битлов. Битлы слушались с утра до вечера. Утром, перед школой, потом сразу после и вплоть до отбоя. В воскресенье битлы слушались весь день. Иногда измученные битлами родители выгоняли меня на балкон вместе с магнитофоном, и тогда я делал звук на полную, чтобы все вокруг тоже слушали битлов.

[drewsbuzzcut]

Thinking about Andrei being a girl dad. It would literally be the cutest thing!!

[calliovera]

c r u s t

[changqwi]

more ship tag drops

( ♡ — tiny gestures but big love | mitsue & nikolai )

( ♡ — i never dreamed that i’d meet somebody like you | reiko & andrei )

( ♡ — my heart is so full of you i can hardly call it my own | marlene & mirage )

( ♡ — you gave me love and sanctuary in a lifetime of war | shanjie & snow )

( ♡ — you are the only thing that's right about this broken world | isabella & caleb )

[cordeliawhohung]

In Limbo [Chapter 5]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist

mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

at least he's not doing this for you

cw: panic/anxiety attacks, minor wound description, minor angst, minor fluff, hurt/comfort if you squint

wc: 4.3k

Your ears are ringing again. 

It’s torturous. Never-ending. Forever plaguing you the moment things should be quiet. A painful reminder that you survived, and continue to do so despite the fact you’ve never once deserved it. 

A cotton-like dryness torments your mouth by the time you finally come to. Everything slowly fades in, bringing you back to the present time, and it hits you all at once. Before you can even open your eyes, you have to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth just so you can let out a confused, gargled groan. Nothing comes easy after that. Your surroundings feel too bright even in the dim lighting that illuminates an unfamiliar red and black room, and lead heavy arms struggle to push your torso off of the soft, leather cushions underneath you. 

The room you’re in is unrecognizable, but if you had to take a guess, you’re probably still at John’s club. Yet, there is no faint hum of music, or overwhelming chatter and sour alcohol to fill the air. It’s a confusing predicament, one that has your mind spinning, yet you try your best to shake it off as you turn your attention to your own condition.

Despite the mental fog that ravages your mind, you feel surprisingly fine physically. There’s no pounding headache, or churning sensation of nausea; the only thing that bothers you is a throbbing sensation in both of your hands. Once you’re able to get your eyes to focus, you realize they’ve been tenderly wrapped in white gauze. Tiny, faint patches of blood have bled through it, just to dry down a rusty brown.

It’s then that you are finally able to make sense of the ache that weighs in your chest. You recall Andrei, how you were unfortunate enough to run into him after making a wrong turn, his warning — always warning you — and how Simon found you. You tenderly rub at your raw eyes, taking care to avoid messing with the gauze too much, and you try your best to keep the frustrated sorrow stewing in your stomach at bay. 

All you want to do is pay off a debt, yet you keep accruing new ones. 

“Mornin’ sweetheart.” 

Flinching at the voice behind you, you cover your mouth with a squeak as you twist your body on the sofa. Simon towers uncannily tall behind you with a poorly made club sandwich in one hand, and a glass of ice water in the other. It’s only then that you realize you’re in a conversation pit — a sunken couch nestled in the center of the floor. He steps into the pit with ease where he settles a comfortable distance away from you on the couch before holding the glass for you to take. 

“Didn’t mean to spook you,” he apologizes. 

“It’s fine,” you quickly dismiss. 

You reach your hand out to take the glass, only to realize you can hardly grip it with the gauze. Its pristine, smooth surface just slips right along the cotton, so you grab it with both hands like it’s a warm mug. Once it’s free from his hands, Simon dives right in for a bite of his sandwich before leaning back against the couch. 

“How’re you feelin?” he asks, mouth half full. 

“Fine,” you reply with the glass pressed against your lips. It’s cold liquid washes over your dry tongue, reviving it like a desert turned to mud. Your eyes flicker around the room, taking in the sight. It’s the fanciest place you’ve ever been in, with mood lighting and rich, marble floors. “Where are we?” 

Before Simon can answer you, he dives in for another quick bite of his sandwich. He’s hardly sat down to eat the damn thing and it’s already nearly half devoured. You think back to the food you brought him from work — that delicious capellini pomodoro — and how it’s nothing but a pile of goo in the alleyway outside of the building. Poor man is probably starving, and you feel a pang in your chest at that thought. 

“One of the rooms Price saves for private occasions,” Simon explains as he wipes his mouth on the back side of his hand. “You were a little out of it after everything went down. Hardly responsive. Took you here to help you calm down. Pretty much passed out the moment you sat on the sofa.” 

Heat rises in your face, and you’re unsure if it’s in embarrassment or shame. You’ve never really been a fan of being vulnerable around others, and the idea of Simon having to lead you around the club like a zombie puts you on edge. Though, you’ve learned that oftentimes, vulnerability isn’t a choice. Not one that you get to make, anyway. 

“Tried to clean up your hands as best I could,” Simon continues. You look down at your palms and flex your fingers, testing the range of motion. The sting is dull, but still there buried deep underneath your skin. “I’m no doctor, but it should keep you together for now.” 

“Thank you,” you whisper before pausing. “How… how did you find me?”

“Boys up front messaged, sayin’ you were on your way,” he explains nonchalantly. “Took you longer than it should’ve to find me. Got worried, so went out lookin’ for ya. When I heard people talking in the alley, I figured you’d gotten yourself lost. I was right.” 

When you look away from your hands, you find Simon is staring at you. His dark eyes are endless voids in the dim light of the room, and you watch the way his jaw flexes and relaxes as he chews and swallows his meal. 

“That cunt in the alley. You know ‘im?” Simon then asks. 

Wounded hands reach for your chest as if you’re able to console the rabid pounding of your heart with touch alone. You recall Andrei’s eyes, and the bored expression of his tone. He speaks so softly, with warning soaking his words, but you know he has one of the worst bites. A bite you don’t want Simon to feel because of you.

“No,” you lie. 

Simon stares at you for a little longer, eyes scouring your face for any hint that you might be hiding something. He reads through your features like he’s done it a million times before; not just to you, but to everyone. Constantly searching; forever vigilant. You don’t feel like you can breathe until he hums and looks back at his food. There’s some comfort to be found in the fact that you know he has nothing to compare your truths and lies to — you’re burdened with always having to hide something that you don’t think you’ve ever been able to tell the truth before. 

“Shady stuff happens ‘round here more often than I’d like,” Simon says, continuing the conversation. “Probably another low-lifer. See ‘em here sometimes. Alcohol, drugs, and crowds breeds deviants. Probably gets a good kick outta intimidating women.” 

“Good thing they’ve got good security here,” you quip. It’s smarter than what you’d usually say — you blame it on the anxiety. 

Dark eyes land on you once more with a smirk. “Cheers.” 

He finishes the last bite of his sandwich before sinking back into the leather couch with a sigh. Despite how put together he comes across, there’s obvious bits of fatigue eating away at him. Heavy weights pull at his eyes making them more hooded than normal. Usually, you try not to stare too long, but there’s something wrong with him that your hazy eyes and anxiety riddled brain wasn’t able to notice before. 

Even with his scuffle with Andrei, his hands are in remarkably good shape. No split knuckles or irritated skin. If there’s any wounds from the knife that was drawn on him, you’re not able to see anything. Either he sustained none, or he patched them up before you woke up. But there’s something off about his face. Asymmetrical. A gentle swelling of his left eye hidden beneath an old, long healed scar. It’s difficult to tell in the dim lighting of the room, but you think there might be a small bruise seeping into the paleness of his face. 

“Simon, your eye,” you point out.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assures you. “Already iced it. I’ve been hit harder than that before.” 

Guilt rips through you like a bullet as you realize the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t just some simple run in with a bum on the street — this was Andrei. This is a deep mess that you’ve already been stuck in for years, and most certainly just got Simon roped into as well. You’re already brainstorming excuses and ways to beg Marco and Andrei to understand that this wasn’t Simon’s fault, but yours. But it’s too late. You can already smell is cologne and feel his hand on your jaw; back pressed against the wall; breath on your face; blood on the ground- 

“Hey, stay with me.” 

A warm hand braves the clamminess of your fingers as your cup is removed from your gasp, and you blink away the panic, trying to focus on Simon. It’s an embarrassing habit of yours — this terror. Some days, when you’re not smart enough to keep yourself distracted, it grips you so terribly you can do nothing but freeze. Let the world weigh you down. Sleep away the feeling until you wake up with little to no memory of what happened during your struggle. 

But Simon is grounding. You focus on the scent of him; that faint but lingering nicotine mixed with a gentle cleanliness. Despite his bad habits, he’s still considerate about it. There’s a texture to his skin, something there besides the bruise. A gentle five o’clock shadow. Faint, silvery scars that dance along the bridge of his nose. The flicker of his eyes as he tries to read your face. 

“Sorry,” you sputter. “I just… uhm…”

“I get it,” Simon interrupts. “Long night. We should getcha home, it’s gettin’ late.” 

Your lips press tightly together as you take a deep breath, willing your heart to stay steady. He’s too close for comfort, you realize, but the look in his eyes is the softest you have seen for quite some time. 

“Yeah,” you agree. “Thanks.” 

It isn’t until you make it outside in the faint glow of the sunrise that you realize just how long you were out. A cold breeze teases at the cotton candy colored clouds lining the horizon, and it reflects off of the screen of your phone as you free it from your pocket. It’s nearly seven in the morning. Normal people are getting up to start their days about now; enjoying a fresh cup of tea, and maybe a nice warm shower. Simon doesn’t say anything about the time, and neither do you. You don’t think you can take any more guilt than what’s already eating away at you. 

As Simon leads you to the car park, you find your eyes flickering to every poorly illuminated corner and alley. A part of you still fears that Andrei might still be lurking, ready to pounce, ready to get revenge. You certainly wouldn’t put it past him. He’s done worse, and will continue to do so. Yet, there is no such boogeyman waiting for you, and your travels go unhindered. 

Your pace slows as you near Simon’s vehicle of choice, and it’s then that you’re painfully reminded that you’d only ever seen him ride a motorcycle. This is the first time you’re seeing it up close; a sleek black body, a comfortable seat perfect for cruising, something that’s obviously well taken care of. Though you’re not too keen on driving what you consider to be a one way ticket to the hospital, you’d rather face your chances on that with Simon than alone walking home. 

“Here,” Simon says, pulling you out of your thoughts. When you turn to face him, you find his shoulders flexing as he slides his leather jacket off of his torso. He holds it out to you, already prepared for your arms to slip through the sleeves, and you bite your lip. “You’ll need this if you don’t want to freeze to death.” 

“Won’t you get cold?” you counter. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart,” he replies. 

You do your best to muster a look of disapproval, but Simon is unmoved by your expression, and instead shakes his coat, prompting you. Sighing, you give in and turn around to allow him to smother you in his coat. You try to remember the last time someone helped you get dressed, but you can’t. Something vague pokes in the back of your mind, attempting to convince you that you can, but the memory feels false. How long have you been like this? Taking care of yourself for so long that the help of someone else feels foreign? 

“Simon?” you ask. Your breath swirls in a white cloud in front of you before it quickly sputters and dies. The warmth of his jacket bleeds through your clothes and into your skin, staving off the bitter cold that attempts to ravage your senses. “Can I… request something?” 

He hums in response as he gently turns you back around to face him. His fingers fumble with the zipper for a short moment before he secures you, and then sneaks his gloves out of the pockets of the jacket before turning his full attention back to you. 

“Can you promise me you won’t tell Row about this?” you ask. 

Thick fingers curl and uncurl as Simon shoves his hands into his leather gloves. He’s already got a big palm and long digits, but the slight added padding of the gloves accentuates those features, and you find your mouth drying out. 

“Don’t want her to stress?” he concludes. 

You nod, and he nods back. 

“Your secret’s safe with me.” 

There’s only a few more quick steps Simon walks you through before you’re ready to hit the road. Once your new jacket is fitted around your body, he makes you wear his helmet as an extra measure of protection. He’s got a rather large head, and it smells vaguely like sweat mixed with fresh shampoo, but he’s able to get it secured well enough. He fixes his long sleeved shirt around the end of his gloves before swiping a black balaclava out of the jacket; something to protect his skin from the bitter wind you’re about to endure, no doubt. As he dons it, you try not to pay attention to the way it makes his eyes darken, as if they weren’t already intense enough. 

Simon hops onto the bike and motions for you to follow after him. It takes a bit of wiggling for you to get comfortable, as he has impossibly wide hips to accommodate, but you settle in with your hands respectfully on your knees. The engine roars to life with a jolt, rough vibrations rattling your bones in the process, and you hope Simon doesn’t hear you squeak. Before he takes off, he reaches behind him and grabs your hand, pulling you closer to him and moving your arm around his waist. 

“Hold on,” he barks over the rumbling. 

So you do. You try to keep your hands covered with the sleeves of the jacket to keep them warm while still keeping yourself secure just as he begins to pull out of the car park. There’s not as much traffic as there usually is considering it’s an early Sunday morning, and you have a feeling Simon is driving under the speed limit for your sake. Despite the lower speed, the howling wind is loud enough to drown out the ringing of your ears. 

You don’t realize until you’re about halfway home that you can feel Simon’s heartbeat. It teases your fingertips; strong and steady, as if the cruise is comforting to him. Bright sunlight bleeds through your eyelids as you close your eyes and try to get lost in the feeling. It’s so distinct you tell yourself that you can hear its reverberations travel throughout your body and meet your achy eardrums. You lean against him, chest pressed against his back, helmet resting against his shoulder, and allow yourself to get lost. The sensation is almost enough to drown out the ringing that plagues you, yet you’re ripped from it as you approach your dingy apartment. 

Silence falls as Simon kills the engine, and the two of you slide off of the bike where he assists in freeing you from the helmet before following you into the building. Neither of you say anything as you traverse up the stairs, fatigue too violent to fight off. This has been one of the hardest days you’ve had to endure in quite some time, and you can’t wait to fall asleep in the safety of your own bed and forget about it all until you wake up. 

The moment you step foot into the flat, you’re tearing Simon’s jacket off, ready to be rid of the sweat stained clothes you’ve been wearing for the better part of the last twenty four hours. You hardly manage to get your arm free from the right sleeve before a stinging pain rips through your hand. You choke out a wince as you bring your hand up, and you notice your gauze got caught. It would have torn free from your skin if it wasn’t for the dried blood welding it to your cuts. You make a foolish attempt to pull the rest of it free from your fresh wounds, which only earns you another jolt of pain. 

“Careful,” Simon chastises. He grabs your hand and pulls you closer to him, preventing you from messing with it further, and you look up at him with heavy, dead eyes. “Let me help.” 

Words bubble up in the back of your throat; sour ones that you have to force yourself to bite back as you allow Simon to help you for the umpteenth time since you’ve met him. He slips his balaclava off and doesn’t bother to fix his hair as he leads you towards the kitchen sink where his gloves quickly join his mask in his pockets. Your newly fixed sink turns on with a slight squeak as Simon wets his fingers and begins to rub at the space between your gauze and skin. 

Despite the cooling sensation, it still stings as the water mixes with your fresh wounds, but it softens your skin enough so that Simon’s able to pull the fabric free with little resistance. For the first time, you’re able to clearly see the damage done to your palms. Several deep, angry, swollen cuts line the meaty part of your hand, blending in with the lines that are there naturally. It’s hard not to grimace at the sight of it. You don’t think you want to ask what exactly he had to pull out of your skin. 

Simon’s thumb swipes over the sensitive skin just around the cuts and your eyes dart to his face. His cheeks are rosy with the November chill, but his eyes are glued onto your hand. It’s caring. So caring that it makes you feel sick. 

“I can come by in a few days to check up on it,” he says, eyes flickering to yours for only a moment. “You’d fallen into some gnarly stuff. Worried ‘bout infection.” 

“Why are you doing this?” 

Those words that you had to bite back earlier bubble up on their own volition, and they taste just as harsh as they sound. Even so, Simon doesn’t look at all offended. In fact, nothing about his stature changes at all. Maybe he’s used to the sting. Or maybe he likes it. 

“Doin’ what?” he challenges. 

“Why are… why are you doting after me?” you clarify. “I mean, you don’t even know me. Why waste your time?” 

“I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to waste. Everythin’ I do is intentional,” he corrects. 

“But why?” 

Simon doesn’t speak, but the answer is written all over his face. A heavy realization hits you, and you feel your stomach drop. 

“Row put you up to this, didn’t she?” you ask, voice soft. 

His lips press tightly together, but he doesn’t stay silent for long before he’s lowering your hand. “She’s worried ‘bout you.” 

Just as soon as that discomfort hits, it fades into your stomach and disperses until there’s nothing left. Maybe it should hurt a bit more knowing that Simon has only been doing this on orders of your best friend. You knew kindness never came cheap, if it ever came at all. Yet, you can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief. He has been nothing but compassionate toward you ever since the first time he met you, and yet he is not doing it because of you. 

You don’t owe him a damn thing. 

“Yeah… she always is,” you humor. “I’m just… glad you’re not doing it just for me.” 

The sun is fully over the horizon by the time you’re tucked safely into bed and Simon leaves your apartment. There’s a deep, ancient ache that stems from his cheek bone, to the back of his neck, all the way down his spine. He knows he should be used to it by now. His job has been full of nothing but perfectly timed violence, but it always takes a toll on his body. He ignores it as he rides through the morning smog and bitter cold. Instead, his mind wanders elsewhere — specifically the cause of all that ache. 

There’s something terribly familiar about that man who accosted you in the alley. A malicious glint in his eyes that’s too dangerous for any run of the mill thug to wear. Simon probably wouldn’t have ever noticed it if you hadn’t reacted the way you did. Paralyzed with fear, unable to do anything but freeze and throw up due to unbridled anxiety. When he asked you if you knew this man — this freak with his stony face and sharp knife — you said no. 

He didn’t believe you for a second. 

Which is why he’s back at the club, hidden far back in the surveillance room, scouring through countless rolls of film. This stranger — now a freak with a broken nose — arrived at the club fifteen minutes before you did. Nothing about it seems fishy. It’s not some stakeout, nor is he waiting in the shadows to pounce on you like a predator. No, this is simple coincidence, and he vanishes out of the camera’s sight within seconds. 

Then you arrive some time later, bashful and awkward as you talk to the bouncers at the main entrance. There’s no audio, but he can tell you’re asking for directions, yet when you set off on your own you make a wrong turn. Everything else after that, he remembers himself. Seeing it again doesn’t do anything to jog his memory, not even as the camera catches the man’s bloody face and freshly shattered nose. He’s as much of an enigma now as he was before. 

It’s just past nine in the morning by the time Simon decides he needs help. A deep burn irritates his eyes as he scrolls through the contacts on his phone where names begin to blur together in fatigue. Still, he finds the name he needs with little difficulty, and he’s impatiently awaiting an answer as he listens to the dull ring blare through the speaker. 

“Hello?” a voice greets through heavy panting. 

“Out of shape, Johnny?” Simon quips. 

“Cardio day,” the man responds simply. 

Simon hums as he leans back in the squeaky desk chair. Faux leather strains underneath the pressure of his weight, but he ignores it as his eyes focus back on the monitors in front of him. 

“I’ve got an assignment for you,” he says. 

“Pushing all the hard work onto me again?” Johnny teases. 

“You’re more tech savvy than I am,” Simon deadpans. “Listen, when you come in tonight, I need you to find the name of someone for me. Get on cam five and look at the time stamp around one fifteen this morning. There’s a cunt leaving the alley next to the VIP section, and I need to know who he is.” 

A quiet slurp followed by a loud gulp cuts through the static of the call before Johnny hums. “Right. Any physical description?”

“Bastards got a broken, bloody nose,” Simon answers. 

“New dance partner?” Johnny chuckles. 

“Somethin’ like that.” 

“Right. Well, I’ll be in this afternoon working on a project for Price. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Good man,” Simon concludes. 

The line goes cold seconds later, and there’s nothing but the strong whirring of computer fans to fill the silence. Achy fingers rub at his jaw as Simon rests his eyes for a moment. If that chair wasn’t so uncomfortably small, he’d probably fall asleep right then and there, but the storm of thoughts swirling in his head keeps him going. 

You’re in trouble. As for what kind, he’s not sure yet. All he knows is that he hasn’t seen someone that afraid since Tommy watched him slaughter a man saving his life back in the butcher shop he used to work at. He didn’t like seeing that in Tommy’s eyes, and he certainly didn’t like it in yours; that primal fear. He didn’t like how your brain and body seemed to shut down because of it, or how he had to carry you to safety so you wouldn’t have to pass out on the grimy ground. 

Simon has no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, or why it seems to haunt you so maliciously, but he does know that he’s killed before and he’ll do it again if it gets you to sleep any easier at night.

[romanoffsbish]

Carved With Love

Natasha Romanoff x Wife!R

Yelena Belova x Fem!R (The true love story 🥹)

Yelena’s in town for the holiday season, and who would she be if not wreaking havoc? | WC: 1,986

Warnings: Mentions of Neglectful Past | Siblings

Yelena was a menace; you knew that from the insight your wife gave you before she introduced you to her.

“Y/N, she literally blew herself up and said it was fun,” your wife had reiterated her stance, that being: Yelena was a complete and total maniac. “Sounds like she’d fit right in with you and your band of superheroes,” was all you’d said back while adding pasta to your cart.

The two of you had been together for nearly a decade when they found each other again, and though the blonde was wary of a meeting she quickly agreed after hearing that the two of you were married with kids.

——

You couldn't really blame her for wanting to meet them more, especially your daughter, the eldest, who shared a name with her. They clicked instantly. Then there were your sons that you carried back to back, Andrei and Aleksander, who were bonded like twins. It was like they gained a triplet with their aunt. Then there’s the latest, Flora, who was just turning six months old and who was absolutely in love with the blonde.

The group were nothing but trouble, you adored that.

When you met her, your heart had doubled in size as you realized she was just trying to forget, to be a kid. Something you knew she never got to be, so just like with your own children, you let her get away with it all.

Natasha didn't much appreciate that, well, truthfully she adored just how much you already loved her sister. But, she was a bit jealous that you were so lenient with her, even if she knew you weren’t with her because she needed the structure and redirection you provided her.

As of right now, she thought you were also insane, "Detka, I don't think you thought this through..." Natasha mumbled against your temple from behind, where she stood with you securely in her arms, and you shook your head and softly chuckled. "It's fine baby."

Natasha currently feared for everyone's safety as her sister held one of those little orange carving knives.

"Oh my gosh, Y/N Romanoff, look!" Yelena shrieked, and your wife sighed when she felt your body relax. There was no hope left, you were at her sister's mercy. Yelena held up a stencil and you smiled. "It's cute."

"No, it is badass!" Yelena corrected, only to be met with a glare from her sister. "Watch your language."

"Natasha," you scolded instantaneously, "Lighten up."

"But she —," Natasha went to defend her decisions but quickly cut herself off when you turned with a glare.

Everyone got away with murder, except Natasha. (Well, in this symbolic context that is…)

Yelena smiled smugly at her sister, she even stuck her tongue out to mock her as you weren't looking. The redhead flipped her off, and your daughter gasped. "Mama! That's the bad finger!" Your eyes widened. "Natasha! What are you now? Some sort of hypocrite?"

"Predateli'," Natasha grumbled, making your daughter laugh alongside her aunt who was taping the ghost cat on a zombie dog's head stencil to her large pumpkin.

(Traitors)

"You all behave," you scolded the entire room before leaving to the kitchen to collect the cookies. Natasha tried to follow you, like a hurt puppy, but you made her stay behind to make sure nobody had a carving crisis. 

Which was in vain because when you came back in the room you found Yelena had upgraded to your sharp carving knife, and you nearly dropped your plate.

"Yelena honey, that's too dangerous," you practically shrieked, but not really to avoid her hand slipping. Not that you didn't have faith in her trained hands, but you knew accidents could happen regardless of skillsets. The blonde pouted up at you, and Natasha watched you once again melt into her little sister's charm.

"I can't use the little orange one," she pleaded for your understanding, "It is too tiny and ineffective."

"Okay," you folded instantly and your wife's eyes widened with flashes of shock and betrayal. The one time Natasha had done the same thing years back, before your kids, you'd given her a safety lesson.

“This isn’t fair,” she grumbled to herself, but she also let it go when she saw you sitting with her sister, eyes focused in on the way she carved the pumpkin and mouth at the ready to give her advice or a light scold.

Natasha let her festering resentments go, and shortly after joined you all at the table so that the youngest member of the house could play with the guts. It was a perfect moment of domesticated bliss, and the redhead couldn’t help but to feel at peace in current company.

Then the following morning came, and you learned a few things. Yelena had a new favorite holiday, and in turn a hobby, carving, which piggybacked right off of her other, bugging her older sister as if it was her job.

"Natasha," you tried to calm her, your hands on her tense shoulder as you kept her from lunging at the blonde. "You need to calm down my love, I can..."

"No!" Natasha cut you off, "She will do it, not you."

"She's our guest," you reminder her, but she merely rolled her eyes—something she never did towards you. "More like a pest, Y/N/N, make her leave before I do."

Your eyes narrowed fast, and your wife cowered at the sheer intensity. "Apologize to her, right now Natalia."

The redhead held back a scoff. Yelena had carved a face only a mother could love into her favorite fall leather jacket, yet she was the one who had to apologize here.

"I'm sorry, parshivets," she begrudgingly spat at the grinning blonde across the room. "I accept, cyka."

(Brat / Bitch)

You sighed, and regretfully turned to face the smug blonde. This was partially your fault too for having let the girl get away with murder up until this point.

"Yelena, now it's your turn." Yelena frowned, but then she nodded and relaxed her features. "Sorry sestra," her tone was genuine, "I will buy you another one."

"No, you don't have to," you let the girl off the hook. "Yes she does." Natasha rebuked your words in a flash, then she intelligently rephrased, "No you don't."

You smirked and rewarded her with a kiss that she tried to melt into, but once again Yelena interrupted with a rumbling stomach. "Can we make pancakes?"

Natasha's hands harshly gripped your hips, and you smiled at her in understanding, she missed you. "How about you go get the kids up while we make breakfast?"

The redhead reluctantly let you go with a nod, but before she got too far you pulled her in for another kiss. "I'll be all yours soon, just have some patience."

Yelena was leaving after the holiday's event, and the kids were going to Wanda's for a spooky sleepover. You'd planned accordingly, and your wife smirked at the reminder, chastely pecked your lips then ran up the stairs with a reinvigorated pep in her once glum step.

"Get the chocolate chips," you instructed your sous chef, and she did so with a smile. Yelena was learning to cook from you, you never outright said it, but you worried about her eating habits. All she could make was mac and cheese and that was artery clogging if not met with a balance of other things besides takeout.

Yelena appreciated your concern, it was clear to her that you were the perfect match for Natasha, because you were an even better platonic match for her. The way you let her just be who she was, who she was discovering herself to be with her newfound freedom, meant the absolute world to her. You were a light that she found comfort in, and would never let go of.

Once you showed Yelena how to make the batter you let her ladle it onto the griddle. "Don't flip it yet," you instructed, your back was turned but you were aware of her piqued curiosity and she was enamored by your spy like skills. "You're like a super mom or something."

"It's nice to see my skillset is appreciated," you teased the younger girl as you returned to her side and gently bumped her hip. "I appreciate all of you, sestra."

It took you a second to reel in your emotions, you'd only been hoping that she wouldn't hate you, but it turned out that she actually liked you, and you didn't want to cry and make her reevaluate that judgement.

Instead you settled on hugging her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake as you showed her the indicators for flipping before finally letting her flip the pancake.

Just as you settled a pancake on the plate you heard an obnoxious scraping on the glass. "What the—." There before you was a focused blonde, the tip of her tongue rested on her lower lip as she carved your perfectly round pancake into a ghost cat. You shook your head with a fond smile, "You really love knives, don't you?" Yelena mirrored your expression and nodded as she now carved an eye into a pumpkin. "They are so cool."

"Natasha loves her guns the same." Yelena flinched, "Guns are too rigid, and loud. Knives are fun, you can do flip tricks with them and they're just as lethal."

You noted her clear discomfort with firearms, and filed it away in your mind as a later topic of discussion, and fortunately the kids came barreling into the kitchen. Yelena dropped the knife and, just like every morning, she greeted the little boys with the tickle monster.

Then came your daughter’s greeting, “Yelena Belova!"

Yelena then followed her lead, “Yelena Romanoff!"

You shook your head at their antics, then you returned to your task at hand, and began to set the table. You placed the blondes masterpieces in their designated spots, a pumpkin for each boy, the cat for her parrot, and the torn to bits pieces went to the toothless baby.

You were gifted two perfectly sized hearts, topped with fruit and whipped cream. Natasha got zero change to the shape, but instead, she was gifted icing words.

“I’m not eating that,” Natasha growled, and you bit back a laugh as you saw the script. “What’s it say?”

Natasha shook her head at you, and glared in her sister’s direction as you attempted to read the Russian out loud, “Tvoya zhena lyubit menya bol'she.”

(Your wife loves me more)

“Damn right,” Yelena teased as she sat in front of her own pancake, “Don’t worry sestra, she loves you too.”

“You two, knock it off and eat your breakfast,” your mom voice came out, and everyone was suddenly sat. You nibbled on your food while making sure your baby didn’t choke on hers as she gobbled it down like a cat (Liho and Bob) being fed at the normal time everyday.

Once breakfast was finished you sent the kids to the living room with their aunt to watch cartoons while you and your wife cleaned up the mess left behind.

As you were packing up the fruit you felt two arms snake around your waist, and a kiss placed on your neck that you instantly melted into. You felt her smirk but ignored her smugness as you lazily cleaned up.

"You're spoiling her," Natasha groaned, you shrugged and turned around to face her with a genuine smile. "I'm just giving her the same chances I did you."

Natasha frowned, "I hope it's not exactly the same."

"That’s disgusting!" Yelena groaned from the couch and you giggled into your wife's shoulder. Avoiding the question in your kids eyes, and leaving Natasha to answer it. The redhead smirked, throwing her sister a wink before she completely pulled you out of the room.

Two could play at this game…

—

[uluvjay]

Christmas tree farm- A. Svechnikov

Andrei Svechnikov x fem! Reader

In which you and svech go to pick a tree but he has a little something more planned..

Warnings?; none really, pure fluff, crying, kisses, a bit rushed sorry

Day 8 of my ficmas celebration!

For as long as you could remember coming to the Christmas tree farm with your family had always been your favorite part of the year, and now you get to do it with your boyfriend Andrei.

For the past four years you two have came to the same farm you went to growing up to pick a tree, you’d find the perfect one and Andrei would chop it down for you.

This year you were picking a tree for your first home together rather than the tiny apartment you two had been living In for the past four years.

“How tall are the ceilings again?” You questioned, turning to Andrei

“Nine feet.” He smiled.

“So we can get a bigger one this year?” You beamed

“Yes, you can get a bigger one.” He laughed as you clapped your hands happily and took off towards the taller trees.

Andrei smiled as he watched your frame get further and further from him, his hand tightly clenching around the velvet box in his pocket.

He eventually found you by the eight footers, hand on your chin as you inspected each one.

“See one you like yet?” He questioned, one of his hands coming to wrap around your waist and pull you into him.

“The one on the far left so far, it’s fluffy and the perfect height I think.” You smiled, leaning into his body.

He inspected the tree that you had mentioned, his eyes examining how it had the same fluff as all your trees previous but was just taller.

“I like it.” He smiled.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm, think it’s the one.” He confirmed watching your face as you looked over them all again.

“I think so too.” You smiled.

After chopping the tree down the two of you made your way to the front, netting the tree and putting it on top of his suv before heading back in to get some hot chocolate and walk around the rest of the farm.

“Hey come this way.” Andrei called, his hand wrapping around yours as he lead you to the trees they had lit up for pictures.

“Are you gonna take our picture?” You laughed.

“No I heard they had a photographer here today” he spoke looking around.

“Really? They’ve never had one before.” You spoke a bit confused.

“Maybe it’s new” he smiled and soon a woman approached you two asking if you wanted your pictures done.

“That would be great, thank you.” Andrei spoke as he pulled you into his side and you both began to smile at the camera.

However after the third shot Andrei had pulled away and when you looked over you watched him drop to a knee and pull something from his pocket.

“Wh-what is happening?” You spoke as you felt the tears beginning To fill your waterline.

“Y/n these last five years with you have been absolutely amazing, every year we come here and pick a tree and I want to do that with you forever. I want to walk this farm every year to find you a perfect tree, I want every Christmas with you, and eventually a family of our own. I want you forever, will you marry me?.”

“Yes! God yes” you cried, tackling him into a hug before he could even stand on two feet.

His strong arms wrapped around you tightly, holding on so tight as if you were going to slip away.

“I love you so much.” You spoke as he finally pulled away to slip the beautiful diamond on your left hand.

“I love you more.” He smiled pulling you into a soft kiss.

Cheers from behind you pulled you out of your bubble of bliss, turning around you found your friends and family gathered together. Your parents crying while friends and teammates yelled out congratulations.

Even the ‘photographer’ was behind her camera crying, a big smile on her face as she watched you two.

“You hired a photographer to?” You smiled.

“Had to make it perfect.” He laughed pulling you into another kiss.

“Everything you do is perfect Mr. Svechnikov.” You laughed.

“You’re perfect Mrs. Svechnikov.” He smirked down at you.

-

[murdersuicidematinee]

Space Jam: A New Legacy

Welcome to the world of Tiny Don Cheadle, where only scoring a million points in super-basketball can facilitate his master plan to put LeBron James in Game of Thrones. Or Something. We watched Space Jam: A New Legacy and came away knowing less about the plot than before we went in. It's a lot like The Emoji Movie, but infinitely more embarrassing on pretty much every level. 

Featuring: the Star Wars memory hole, Andrei Tarkovski's CATS, cami's casketball, live subtitles for American listeners, podcast therapy, and LeBron's special move that kills Bugs Bunny.

Movie: Space Jam: A New Legacy (2021) Director: Malcolm D. Lee Rating: ah shit lads, just remembered I don't care at all

Follow our Patreon for show updates, episode notes, stills and more!

intro and outro music: "Everyone in Town Wants You Dead" by Singing Sadie

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Opinions on Carnotaurus, they've always been one of my favorite dinosaurs and its very funny seeing people deny feathers on dinosaurs from the perspect of having the one dinosaur where most evidence (as far as i know, might need to catch up on some reading) points to no feathers. Its a real spiders georg situation

like carnotaurus has amazing skin impressions and no signs of feathers, which is fine! We know lots of dinosaurs probably lost their feathers at big sizes! but we still don't really know that a scaley fossil indicates no feathers. We need more taphonomic data on that, and such studies are hard to come by.

Anyways, feathers, no feathers, whatever. The most interesting thing about Carnotaurus is that its a sosig (sausage).

(by Andrey Atuchin, CC BY SA 4.0)

Abelisaurs were cursorial acrobats. They could turn on a dime and their long, ovular bodies helped with that, as well as their muscular legs and tail. Their heads were attached to strong necks, so they could just attack prey with their mouths while moving fast.

This was important, because most Abelisaurs in the late cretaceous were the top predators of their ecosystems, and what lived in their ecosystems?

Giant fucking titanosaurs

So being able to turn and move quickly gave these guys a leg up on the slower-moving giant bird giraffe-elephants around them

they didn't need their arms for hunting or movement anymore, so that's why they're so small - muscles in the neck region of dinosaurs tend to occupy a similar space as the muscles in the arm region, so more of one leads to a loss in the other. Strong neck for strong bites = weaker arms.

That said, what's weird is that they have a fully 360 degree rotational arms, which is not actually common, so it doesn't seem like something arms that aren't being used would have. Perhaps these tiny little nubbins were used for display - with bright colors or the like - and rotated around in the socket. Dinosaurs are very much Display oriented animals, as we see in living birds and the variety of display structures in extinct forms. this may just be the weirdest take on that theme!

Plus, the horns are Spiffy