#anna herre

[exprmtn]

Anna Herre by Edgar Berg for Vogue Arabia

[olgalenski]

Anna Janneke in Kälter als der Tod (2015)

[theoniprince]

Hach, mir wurde gerade bewusst, dass ich vor ungefähr einem Jahr (18.12) all diese großartigen Menschen in Berlin auf der Bühne sah. Falls sich nochmal die Chance ergibt,würde ich wieder hin. Es war beklemmend und aufwühlend, aber so muss es auch sein. Wir müssen uns Tatsachen immer wieder ins Gedächtnis rufen. Leider passieren viel zu viele schlimme Dinge jede Sekunde. Wir sollten die Augen und Ohren nicht verschließen.

Damit jährt sich auch meine kurzer Plausch mit Daniel, dessen überwältigender Charme bei mir für Kurzschlüsse sorgte.🙈

[muka-rapak]

Krabat das 4. bis 6. Jahr

I think I spent like. 20+ hours reading it .

7.5/10 raven feathers

[krautjunker]

Aurë entuluva! – Der Tag soll wieder kommen. J.R.R. Tolkien zum 50. Todestag

Buchvorstellung Der Herr der Ringe ist ein einzigartiges und langlebiges Buch. Viel mehr als das, was man sich gemeinhin als einen Unterhaltungsroman vorstellt. Der vielschichtige Roman ist nur ein kleiner Teil von J.R.R. Tolkiens Schöpfung Mittelerde samt ihrer Geschichte und Sprachen. Der Leser folgt der Handlung seiner Protagonisten wie einem Boot, welches über einen See fährt. So sieht man…

[ginger-grimm]

I wanna do a Bad Blood edit for my OCs but I am blanking on what kinda betrayals I could use lol

[edennill]

Weird semi-cognates with irl languages in Tolkien's conlangs:

(cognates not really being the right term, but idk what else to call a word that sounds similar and means something similar to one in another tongue. A false cognate?)

hér/héru ("lord") ←→ German herr ("sir, mister")

russa/ross ("red haired, copper coloured") <-→ rust, rose, russet, Old French ros ("red"), Latin russus and many others

falma ("wave") ←→ Polish fala ("wave") - would be really weird as a coincidence, but Tolkien did try learning Polish at one time.

falmar ("waves) <--> Romance languages mar/mare/mer ("sea")

quenta ("tale") ←-> Spanish cuenta ("story")

famous noldo/golodh/nom <--> gnome injoke

anna ("gift") <-→ Hebrew khen ("grace" - as in "by grace of God", not as in "I am a ballerina"), root word of the name Anna - this is I admit a slightly tenuous connection, but I think an argument can be made.

another tenuous connection: alcar ("glory, radiance") ←→ French clair ("light") and a million related Romance words.

ammë, atto etc, but to be fair those are common baby sounds

aurë ("day") ←→ Latin aurora ("dawn")

-- and I'm sure there's many more, but this list is long enough for now. Feel free to add anything to it though.

[city-of-ladies]

You have probably already heard of the famous composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. But did you know that he had an equally talented sister who was sidelined?

This is her story. 

A child prodigy 

Maria Anna “Nannerl” Mozart (1751-1829) was born in Salzburg, Austria, to Anna Maria Mozart (née Perti) and composer Leopold Mozart. She was thus immersed in a musical environment from early on.

She began learning music at the age of 8. Like her little brother, Nannerl was a child prodigy and excelled at playing the harpsichord. But she wasn’t supposed to make a living out of it. Her musical education only aimed at increasing her value in the marriage market. 

Between 1763 and 1766, she toured Europe with her brother. Nannerl was 12 and Wolfgang 7. They gave concerts in no less than eighty cities. Contemporary praised Nannerl’s musical abilities, calling her a “wonder”, “prodigy” or “virtuoso”. She could indeed play the most difficult pieces “with precision, incredible lightness, with perfect taste”. She was sometimes even billed first. 

End of an artistic career 

Nannerl helped write down some of her brother's compositions and wrote her own as well. Wolfgang was supportive and encouraged her. He frequently asked for her opinions on his work. She sent him at least one piece and he called it “beautiful”. Her father said nothing of it.

A musicologist made the hypothesis that Nannerl could have written two of Wolgang’s concertos for violin. Sadly, as far as we know, none of her music survived. 

Nannerl, who referred to herself as an "obedient daughter", stopped touring and performing in public at 16. It was now time to prepare for marriage and her father now focused only on Wolfgang's musical talent. 

A loveless marriage 

Nannerl was 33 when she ultimately married an older aristocrat who already had five children from previous marriages and whom she didn't love. She had three children with him. She didn't completely give up on music and kept giving piano lessons.

After her father’s death, Nannerl managed to garner all of his estate. Her relationship with her brother became strained and their correspondence ceased after 1788.

Preserving her brother’s memory 

Wolfgang died in 1791. Nannerl later encountered Franz Xaver Niemetschek’s biography of him and was deeply moved by it, learning of the difficult conditions he spent the end of his life:

“Herr Prof. Niemetschek's biography so completely reanimated my sisterly feelings toward my so ardently beloved brother that I was often dissolved in tears since it is only now that I became acquainted with the sad condition in which my brother found himself.”

She later helped Georg Niklaus von Nissen (who had married her brother’s widow, Constance) in writing a biography of Wolfgang by lending him an important collection of letters.

Nannerl became blind at the end of her life and died in 1829 at the age of 78.

Her fate leaves us wondering what she could have become in a more supportive environment and what her music could have sounded like. 

Feel free to check out my Ko-Fi if you want to support me!

Further reading:

Gault Philippe, "Mozart : Sa soeur Maria Anna, dite Nannerl, a-t-elle composé certaines œuvres signées Wolfgang ?"

Laleu Aliette de, Mozart était une femme : histoire de la musique classique au féminin

Melograni Piero, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: A biography

Milo Sylvia, "The lost genius of Mozart's sister"

Solomon Maynard, Mozart: A life

[pisupsala]

Of All The Stars in The Sky | 15 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 8.1k

Index | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15

Library

Chapter 15 - September in the Rain

“This is not an interrogation,”

You don’t reply, concentrating all your energy on not raising your eyebrow into your hairline. 

“This more of a… fact check.” 

Nodding politely, you observe the thin man in the dark suit across the cold metal table as he leaves through the thick Manila folder in front of him. You’d say he looks mousy, but mouse-like is more apt. He has thin hair, combed back and set in place with an offensive amount of brilliantine. The sickly, sweet floral scent mixes violently with the sparsely furnished room's otherwise damp, cold smell. His voice is somewhat nasal, squeaky—somehow, you expected the Gestapo agent to look more intimidating. 

You shift in your chair uncomfortably, accidentally scraping the leg over the concrete floor as you move. The man’s head shoots up abruptly. Clearly, nothing escapes his notice, sniffing out every move.

“Let’s start from the beginning, Fräulein Anna,” The smile that contorts his face looks uncomfortable, like his muscles don’t naturally move that way, but he is straining to mimic some sort of human emotion. His beady dark eyes are trained on you in an entirely too steady manner, which contrasts strangely with the almost nervous movements of his body. “How long have you-” He interrupts himself with an awkward cough, the corners of his mouth still pulled up in an awkward grimace that’s presumable a friendly smile. “— did you know Fräulein Eva?”

“We were in the same class since primary school, Herr Weber,” You reply steadily. “So we’ve known each other since we were seven.”

“Knew.” He squeaks. 

“Knew.” You confirm, blinking slowly. He nods, scratching something in the file with a simple black fountain pen.

It’s been less than a week since Eva’s funeral. Every morning, you wake up, your brain filling in the sounds now painfully absent in your house: the hurried footsteps down the hall, clattering dishes in the kitchen, the radio playing in the living room. You tiptoe through the hallway to the door, back against the wall, the cold creeping up your spine like you’re walking over a grave. No trace is left on the polished hardwood, but you can’t unsee the stain in your mind’s eye. 

The skin on your hands is still raw and red from the scalding washes you’ve subjected yourself to. The stain of Eva’s death is now seared into your flesh and bones. Mindlessly, you rub your hands over your thighs like you’re trying to wipe your hands on the fabric of your dress. Weber’s eyes dart to your hands immediately.

Disgusting little man, you seethe. He knows very well Eva is barely cold in the ground. He was probably there if he wasn’t the one pulling the trigger. Forcing a neutral expression onto your face as you look at him, taking a deep breath. You pray his wretched, mousy little face was not the last thing Eva saw on this world.

“And you were close,” He states, eyes back on the folder before him, scribbling. “And you’ve lived together since… February 1940.” 

“Yes.” 

Weber simply nods in his strange, nervous manner.

“Quite an unconventional arrangement, no?” The way he asks the question is non-accusatory, but his underlying meaning is clear.

“Rent in the city is expensive,” You shrug. “Neither of us graduated university, so we had to pool our resources.” 

“Of course, very pragmatic.”

Weber sighs, putting down his pen and folding his hands. “So, fraulein, you knew each other for many years, you lived together, and you worked together,”

You nod.

“And now you are going to tell me you had no idea your lifelong friend, your roommate, was involved in committing treason.” 

You swallow dryly. Weber might not look intimidating, but he terrifies you.

“Which she was summarily executed for.” He adds, that contorted grimace returning on his face.

“I guess she was better at keeping secrets than I gave her credit for.” If anything, Eva was excellent at keeping secrets. She never sold you out, paying for it with her life. If Weber had anything on you, you wouldn’t have this conversation. You wouldn’t be having a conversation, period. Your jaw clenches, but you force yourself to calm down again when the beady eyes roam over your face. It’s getting increasingly difficult—Weber is expertly getting under your skin with innocuous-sounding questions. 

Those little corrections. 

The small jabs.

“Stealing, black market dealing, forgery—those are a lot of secrets to keep, don’t you think?

Your stomach twists painfully as you shrug in response. “I wouldn’t know.”

The lies just add to the crushing guilt.

Eva’s funeral was held in a church in her hometown outside the capital. The small chapel was ornately decorated with statues of saints, and the walls of the ship depicted the twelve stages of the cross. You hung back, entering behind the congregation before sliding into a bench in the back of the church. The empty eyes of the John the Baptist statue at the entrance are burning a hole in your back, judging you. You shouldn’t be here. It’s your fault Eva is dead.

You almost dashed out of the church when Eva’s family walked down—the sobs tearing from her mother are too much for you to bear. But you stayed, rooted in place on the wooden bench. It’s the least you could do for Eva. Honor her. 

If your guilt doesn’t eat you alive first.

Against everything telling you to leave, you joined the line for condolences. Mumbling through your sympathies, you could not look anyone in the eye, terrified they would see: it’s all your fault. They should not hug you or offer you comfort when all you have to offer in return are lies. When Eva’s mother pulled you against her, thanking you for coming and asking to please visit, you nearly buckled under the weight of your shame.

“Clearly,” Weber clears his throat. “There’s another matter I’d like you to clear up.”

You blink in a manner that you hope looks innocent, rather than nervous. Another matter? The first thing on your mind is Bradley. Immediately, you push the thought away, scared that the beady eyes look right through you, knowing every thought, picking apart things you want to keep hidden. 

“Yes?” Your mouth is dry.

“Just fact-checking, of course,” Weber grimaces again as if this is nothing more than a pleasant conversation. “So we can close the case—judgment has already been passed, as you know.” 

You nod as an automatic reaction rather than any real agreement. Weber’s attempt at a pleasant front is callous—you wonder for a moment if it’s a strategy he employs to get you to trip up or if he genuinely is only capable of human mimicry at best.

“So,” He leaves through the file. “According to the schedule, you usually worked the night shift, while Eva more generally worked days.” Weber’s beady eyes are moving at high speed over the pages. He doesn’t follow up with a question, letting the implication hang in the air. Stealing, black market dealing, forgery—how did Eva do it? Did you help her? Did you know?

“We switched shifts a lot,” The words tumble out of your mouth as horror washes over you.

How can you lie so easily?

“I usually forgot to change it on the schedule in the morning,” You add sheepishly as if admitting your part in this somehow absolves you of the horrifying lie you just told. 

You just pinned all your crimes on your friend.

It doesn’t matter that the Gestapo already thought that she was guilty. But you, you know she is innocent; that her murder was unjust. It feels like you’ve condemned Eva again: first with the bullet to the head, and now with every lie you tell to save yourself. Disgracing her memory—besmirching the person she was in life and abusing her braveness in death.

“Did you switch shifts on April 19th?” Weber doesn’t look up from the paper he is holding up now, his dry fingers rubbing against the paper. Nails on a chalkboard would be a more pleasant sound.

Your shoulders sag. That’s the night you broke into the ministry.

“I- I don’t remember,” You hesitate. It was less than three weeks ago. Is it strange you wouldn’t remember? Weber regards you, nose scrunching up, like he can smell the lie on you. You don’t say anything else, resorting to shrugging, eyes roaming around the room as you pretend to search your memory.

Weber is trying to lead you down a trap.

The violent scrape of the chair against the uneven concrete floor startles you, your hand grabbing your chest, trying to catch your heart leaping out of it. Weber ignores your reaction, circling the desk as quietly as a mouse—if you couldn’t see his feet, you’d assume he was tiptoeing. 

You hear him open the door, the metal handle clanking against the handle. He squeaks something down the hall—you don’t quite catch it. Starting to turn around, you freeze mid-motion, one hand clutching the back of your chair so hard your knuckles are turning white.

Shuffling footsteps are coming down the hall, distinct in its terror-inducing sound.

Abruptly, you turn around, clutching your hand over your mouth, trying to silence your heavy breathing. Maybe it’s just your imagination. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. 

You need to calm down.

A gust of cold air passes you as the door behind you opens. You stiffen in your seat, eyes wide.

The dragging gait is getting closer and closer. Blinking rapidly, you try to get a grip before Weber notices—getting your facial muscles to relax is incredibly hard. Your jaw is clenched so tightly you think it might be stuck like that.

It’s coming closer.

You must take control of the situation because your whole reaction is screaming guilt. Face Weber and shuffling man head-on—don’t show them you’re scared. You have no reason to, do you? This is not an interrogation, after all, only fact-checking. 

And you are innocent. 

At least, that’s what you are going to make them believe. If you make it out alive, you’ll have eternity to burn in hell for your lies.

Sucking in a deep breath, you get up out of your chair. With a smile on your face, hoping it looks natural enough, you nod at the shuffling man.

“Sir.” You acknowledge him politely.

“Miss.” The shuffling man stops and looks at you pensively. Like he’s trying to remember where he’s seen you. You don’t give him more time to stare at you. Sitting back down, you busy yourself smoothing out your dress before folding your hands in your lap. Your nails are digging into your palm.

Weber has been scurrying through the background of the short exchange, only attracting attention back at himself when he sits down, scraping his chair over the floor again. You are sure he’s doing it on purpose. The shuffler, for his noisy gait, pulls out his chair quietly. 

“Detective Novak was a witness on April 19th and aided in solving the case,” Weber announces as he once again leaves through the papers in front of him. “I brought him in to help tie up the loose ends.”

Bile rises in your throat.

“Again, Fräulein, did you switch shifts on April 19th?” Weber looks straight at you. If there was any pretense of pleasantness in his tone before, it’s ice-cold now. You blink mutely, like a deer caught in headlights.

“I - no.” You try to swallow the bile, but your mouth is so dry there’s nothing to wash away the burning sensation creeping through your throat. 

“So, you remember now?” Weber’s tone is not mocking but increases your sense of unease because it’s just a reminder: he’s trying to catch you in a lie.

You bite your tongue from making some sort of glib reply. Well, it’s been stressful with you shooting my best friend in my apartment, leaving her body for me to find, and forcing me to clean up the blood from the floor. So you just shrug lightly.

“You mentioned you often forgot to amend it in the schedule,” Weber is staring at you without blinking. “How are you sure now that wasn’t the case that day?”

Fuck. You’ve given him too much information on your lie, and now he’s clawing at you. Weber was waiting for this. The palms of your hands are stinging, the salt from the sweat seeping into your rubbed-raw skin. You can’t help but wipe your hands over the fabric of your dress again, trying to alleviate the pain in vain. Now, two pairs of eyes follow your every movement. 

“I’m sure,” You begin, looking at Weber levelly, hoping your voice won’t waver from the loud beating of your heart. Your fingers are clinging onto your skirt, the fabric wrinkling under your sweaty grip. What stood out about the 19th of April? Why would you remember that particular day?

It’s the first time you kissed Bradley. It’s the first time you slept with him. Just the thought of Bradley’s soft voice in your ear calms your heart before you realize: shit. You have no alibi. You scoff, shifting uncomfortably in your seat, ready to commit another lie—after making your best friend take the fall for your crimes, can you pretend to have morals? 

“Because I was with-” The lie burns as hot on your tongue as on your face.

“It wasn’t her.” Detective Novak cuts in suddenly. You inhale deeply like you’re trying to breathe words back in.

Weber scrunches up his face, confused, stilling all movement. It takes you a second to realize your mouth is hanging open.

“I remember you,” Novak turns to you, voice clipped, as you quickly close your mouth. “You dropped the bucket in front of my office that day.”

The moment he mentions it, you remember how mortified you had been. But you forgot about all that in the elation of the information you found, the absolute dream of six days that followed it—but could it be that the man that condemned your friend to death will be your alibi?

“Oh—yes, I did.” You mumble, staring at your hands, trying to focus on the embarrassment you felt then, trying to recall it in every movement. From the corner of your eye, you see Weber nodding.

“So, detective, are you corroborating the night guard’s testimony?”

You hold your breath.

“Corroborate?” Novak scoffs. “We saw a flash of hair and a skirt—all I can corroborate is that the person we saw leaving forensics that night was a woman.”

You shake your head in fear as if to communicate it wasn’t you. At that moment, you hate yourself. By far, by far, you are not as brave as you thought you’d be. You don’t sit with your head held high, proud—you shake in your seat, and you lie to save your own life.

Novak shoots you a look before turning his attention back to Weber. “Although that old coot probably testified exactly what you needed him to.” He adds almost lazily like it’s all a joke. 

“Then what makes you so sure it wasn’t Fräulein Anna, detective?” Weber is now entirely focused on Novak, squeaky voice serious. It doesn’t escape your notice he doesn’t acknowledge the detective’s quip—like it doesn’t even register as odd to him. And why would it? It’s probably true. An icy chill travels down your spine.

You’ve been scared before. But the sheer terror settling in your bones right now, from the eerily calm conversation to the dank room, is nothing like you’ve ever experienced. 

“She’s the dim one.” 

Novak says it matter-of-factly like you’re not even in the room with them. You never realized you could feel relief while your heart dropped simultaneously. The strange, strangled sound that escapes Weber is supposedly how he laughs before coughing to regain his composure. You can’t help but exhale audibly, finally realizing the breath you didn’t even know you had been holding.

“Breaking into the ministry, not to mention operating the radio, would require a measure of stealth and smarts.” He continues arrogantly, clearly seeing this as an opportunity to showcase his detective skills and reasoning. 

You realize the radio must have still been warm from running by the time they got to it. Averting your eyes, trying to make it look like you are still embarrassed, you bite your lip. So they know it was used, but Weber hasn’t brought it up so far. Is he waiting to ambush you with it, or does he think he knows?

You feel an uncomfortable prickle on your neck. Bradley would be long gone now—surely. He left two weeks ago. He would not be in the territory of the Reich anymore. Except you have no way of knowing for sure. All you can do is hope. Dream.

He has to be okay.

You don’t think you could handle being responsible for Eva’s and Bradley’s deaths.

“It’s the kind of stealth and smarts it takes to steal and forge documents systematically,” Novak’s voice is getting louder as he appears to find his footing in the situation and with a seemingly captive audience. You’re looking at him blankly as he gestures wildly to make his point—meanwhile, Weber is taking notes, the corners of his tiny mouth downturned. “It takes planning, preparation, steady hands—she,” A short jerk of his head in your direction is the only indication he’s actually aware you’re still present. “She can’t stand on a ladder holding a bucket.”

Weber nods as he holds up a paper—beady eyes darting over the lines. “The night guard described as her slow in his testimony.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” 

Tears sting in your eyes. You are not even a person anymore—the story you spun so meticulously for so long worked so well it completely erased you.

You should be happy. 

It all paid off, after all.

But you just feel hollow.

***

Bradley’s pen is ticking against the table obnoxiously—speeding up and slowing down with seemingly no rhyme or rhythm. The only person he is annoying with it is himself. The office he has been assigned for the duration of his debriefing—an assigned office, ridiculous—is empty. Because to his immense displeasure, Bradley has been grounded until all procedures have been completed. Unfortunately, even in wartime, the red tape runs long. 

It’s August, a humid and sticky English summer. It’s over two months since he’s been back, and it’s like he’s been stuck in place ever since. 

Every time the alarm sounds, and everyone starts scrambling to sortie, Bradley is inevitably on his feet, every muscle in his body rearing to go, his fingers itching—but then his brain catches up. He’s grounded. It takes so long for his heart rate to settle down again and the adrenaline to ebb away—but Bradley never feels entirely at ease. At some point, he realized the tension and powerlessness were there all along—his ever-present companions.

If only he could fly—he could finally feel calm again. Physically getting away from everything, finally be surrounded by open air. The wall of the office, the walls of his barracks room, every closed space is closing in on him, looming over him, keeping him confined. 

The crushing boredom of desk duty makes it impossible not to feel it constantly. Even if Bradley tried, it’s like he can’t escape that small room—he remains locked up, waiting even now. And you’re not here to make him forget the long lonely hours, to alleviate the constant tension in his body—he feels it in his soul. 

Around you, he could forget.

Bradley supposes he is happy he is around people again. He can move around freely—as much as possible while grounded on an airbase in wartime. At least he gets weekend liberty—normally, he would go drown himself in booze and soft skin, but these days, he just wanders the countryside enjoying the free space around him. Bradley never thought he would miss going outside so much again, not walking on eggshells every time he left the safety of the small room, the weight of the fear something could happen—something could happen to you—dragging him down.

He receives telegrams from home: Mav, Natasha, and even Bob, asking him if he is alright, to tell them what happened in the months he disappeared off the face of the earth. Once the news that he is no longer MIA spreads back home, more letters and telegrams start trickling in from friends and old lovers. Bradley tosses the letters from old lovers without opening them, uninterested in politely replying. For everyone else, there’s not much to say: he is okay, and no, he’s not coming home yet. 

It’s only when Mav pulls enough strings to get a phone call in, frantic—Bradley suddenly feels the guilt deep in the pit of his stomach. He disappeared for months: no leads, nothing. The War Department wouldn’t even confirm the sortie he had been flying. Mav, despite their rocky relationship, is the closest thing to the real family Bradley has left. But even now, they cannot help but fall back into old patterns.

“How can you be so calm about this all?” Mav’s voice is growing from frantic to frustrated over the crackling line. “Bradley—do you realize we all thought you were dead for the past months?”

“What do you want me to say?” Bradley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose—he sounds almost petulant, but Mav tends to be overbearing. “That I’m sorry?”

“It would be a start?!” Mav exclaims.

“I’m not apologizing for being alive,” Bradley bites out.

“You had everyone going crazy from worry. I promised-”

“Exactly.” Bradley cuts Mav off harshly, knowing precisely what he’s about to bring up. “You promised. No one ever bothered to ask me what I wanted. You just started meddling every chance you got to assuage your own guilt.”

“Well, it certainly sounds like you’re all back to your old self,” Mav retorts flatly. No matter how well he hides it, Bradley can hear in his tone that he’s hurt. “I’m glad you’re safe and well, Rooster.” 

“Yeah,” Bradley swallows, trying to push back the rising anger - Mav deserves a lot of Bradley’s wrath, but the matter is that he’s also trying to make amends in his own way. “Thanks for calling, Mav. Hope Penny and Amelia are okay?” He attempts conversationally.

“They’re fine.” The reply is ice-cold. 

They both stay quiet for a moment—the static on the line crackles. 

“If you want to talk…” Mav starts hesitantly before sighing heavily. “I - I’m sure you’ve been through hell—I can’t even imagine. You don’t have to go through it alone, okay, Bradley? Write, hell, call if you have to. I’m here.” He implores, his voice wavers from worry on the last syllable.

They haven’t seen eye-to-eye for a long time, even without speaking for several years. But it’s hard to forget: Pete was there for Bradley during his childhood when he didn’t have anyone else. Bradley always looked up to Mav, his de-facto father figure. They’ve been in an uneasy truce for a while now: neither can really let the hurt go, but they have too much history together to forget. 

“I can’t, Mav,” Bradley replies softly. He hears a soft ‘oh’ on the other end of the line. “It’s not… It’s not that I don’t want to,” He adds hurriedly. “I just can’t. The debriefing is classified, and all my communications are being screened with prejudice.” 

“No, no, I understand,” The relief in his voice is audible, however. 

“Thanks for calling,” Bradley re-iterates sincerely. “I really appreciate it.”

The rest of his days, weeks spent in debriefing are filled with a desperate monotony. Going over every detail of his time in the Protectorate ad nauseam. If he’s not talking about it, he is reading his own words back in reports. What did he see? Who did he talk to? Pinpoint places of interest on a map. 

He wishes it felt cathartic to talk about everything. Most infer he’s been held in a POW camp, and he just bounced back quicker than others. Ironically the only place where he can talk, in any way, about what happened to him is during the debriefing. And it’s killing him.

Every time he goes over the whole story again, the less he feels like it actually, really happened to him. In every version of the report that he reads, everything becomes a little bit more abstract, like his memories are nothing more than the words on the page, stripped of all nuances, feelings—love. The Department of War and Bradley’s chain of command are hardly interested in anything beyond the facts. But they want all the facts.

“Lieutenant,” The RAF officer across from Bradley is suddenly looking at him sharply—an old hand at internal affairs, pushing paper with a bushy mustache and a posh accent but no flight hours under his belt. It’s high summer and stifling hot in the dusty room. The leather chairs, part of the otherwise cozy old-world decor, feel sticky. The ice in his scotch has long melted, and the ashtray is overflowing with precariously piled-up cigarettes. Despite the open window, the curtains gently swaying on a summer breeze, the air in the room is heavy.  “What exactly was the nature of your relationship with your handler?”

Bradley has purposefully avoided that subject. Even now, he doesn’t answer immediately, mulling over the answer. It’s not be a problem if he admits honestly he was romantically involved with you—it’s wartime, and emotions run high. But Bradley doesn’t want to. It’s private. Fragile. The only thing he has left. It doesn't deserve—you don’t deserve having your intimate moments with him dissected and put on file for prying eyes.

“We trusted each other,” Bradley finally admits, sitting back, the leather softly creaking as he moves.

“Just that?” The RAF officer pries, a little too curious. Your handkerchief is burning in Bradley’s chest pocket. 

“Just trust?” Bradley scoffs incredulously. As if that isn’t central, pivotal, the most important thing between two people moving through the shadows behind enemy lines. It was the first time you really opened up to him when you dropped your mask so suddenly: 

“How much do you trust me?”

Bradley sighs. He would trust you with his life over and over again. And while he never told you as such, he hopes you know he’s also entrusted his heart to you.

“Trust is rare,” Bradley shrugs lightly before leaning back in his chair again. The leather creaks softly under his shifting weight. “I was lucky my handler was excellent.”

“Lucky indeed,” The officer adds under his breath. “You mentioned she was quite young…” He trails off as he looks for the paper with your information. “Not even 24 years old yet.”

Bradley rubs his face in frustration. “Lieutenant,” He starts sharply, reminding the officer across from him they are equal in rank. “Is there a point to this line of questioning?”

The officer guffaws, unintimidated by Bradley’s tone. “I’m looking to understand your bias.”

“My bias towards what exactly?” 

“The Czechoslovak resistance and their cause, your interpretation of events,” He shrugs as if it’s a run-of-the-mill question, not an invasive inquiry. “And everyone knows how you earned that call sign, lieutenant.” He grins conspiratorially.

At the casual, throwaway line, an ice-cold realization trickles down Bradley’s spine. He supposes he should find it funny. Sitting up straighter in his chair, Bradley reaches from the glass of scotch—the outside is covered in condensation—and takes a larger-than-necessary sip. You made fun of him for his call sign back at that mountain cabin, and it was the first time he was actually bothered, but its provenance. Now, it feels like a black mark.

“So,” Bradley clears his throat, trying to find the right words. “You think I thanked Any- Anna for risking her life for me by showing her a good time?” Despite his carefully crafted flat affect, he cannot help the venom that seeps into his words.

“Why not?” The officer shrugs. “Wasn’t she your type? Not pretty enough for your discerning tastes?”

Bradley put the glass he was holding back on the table with a little too much force, the dull thud reverberating through the wood. The officer across from him looks amused as he scribbles something down. 

“Like I said,” Bradley keeps his voice level. “There was a lot of mutual trust—I trusted Anna with my life, just as I trust my squadron in the air.”

He knows he needs to let the jab about your looks slide—it would only open him up to more questions. Although Bradley supposes if anyone had asked him about his type this time last year, he wouldn’t have necessarily thought about someone like you. And it’s not because you are not beautiful or because you are naively unaware of that fact; you just appear to care more for impressing with your wit and quick thinking—challenging him, giving him the constant runaround. There was a time when he wouldn’t have cared too much for that challenge—it wasn’t fit for purpose. 

You are so infuriatingly stubborn and difficult it drives him mad. But then you turn so beguiling and sweet, which is, possibly, even more maddening.

Have you influenced his perception of events? Of course. But it’s not because he’s entertaining some sort of schoolboy crush on you or because your relationship naturally, perhaps inevitably, grew deeper and more intimate. The basis was always trust. Bradley trusted you with his life before your lips ever touched his, even when you were arguing, even when you got so mad at him you disappeared for two weeks—you could have tipped someone off, gotten rid of him, and ensured your own safety. 

But you never did.

Everything truly matters is your stubborn sense of justice and your unwavering loyalty.

Mercifully, the line of questioning is dropped. When Bradley is handed the final version of the report on a rainy day in early September—he’s been grounded for months now—it states somewhat euphemistically: Lieutenant Bradshaw [code name: ROOSTER] shared a close personal relationship with his handler [REDACTED] [code name: DAYBREAK].

It’s funny, in a painful, ironic way, that Bradley himself doesn’t have the clearance to read the unredacted version of his own debrief—your name, of all things, has been lacquered out, as if you are a mere footnote to the story. He doesn’t miss the little jab in your code name you’ve been given either—the rooster crows at daybreak, after all.

Sitting in his office, he reads through the endless pages for days on end, reliving, at a distance, everything that happened in those few months behind enemy lines. It feels foreign to him like he’s having an out-of-body experience reading the abstract summary of what he lived through. 

As he reads, Bradley mindlessly runs his thumb over the delicate stitching of your initials. Because it all happened, right? You are real, his feelings are real. But why does it feel like it didn’t really happen to him? 

It’s like he sees his memories of you through a kaleidoscope: increasingly fragmented, mirrored, and endlessly replicated. He tries to hold onto every sliver of you: the smell of your soap, the sound of your laughter, your mischievous grin. The way you frown, the cute little crease between your eyebrows, and tap the pencil against your lips as you think. The way your eyes blaze with fury as you square up to him, completely unafraid: you will always fight for what you believe to be right and just.

But progressively, it feels like he can’t see those things anymore, and they are replaced by mere descriptions and summaries, abstracted from time and space.

As Bradley signs the final page of the report—the whole truth and nothing but the truth—it feels strange to close the book, literally and physically. This is the last step to get approved for flying again. “Congratulations, lieutenant Bradshaw,” The RAF officer nods approvingly as Bradley lays down the pen. “You can report back to your squadron; I’m sure you have been missed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bradley nods. He should feel happy—this was the final leg of his arduous journey. It’s what he wanted. But then, why does it feel so hollow? Saluting the officer, he turns to the door. Hand on the handle, he suddenly hesitates.

“Actually, I have a question.” Bradley turns back around, facing the officer, clearing away the report.

“Go ahead, lieutenant.” He nods.

“The report—will it be shared?”

The officer stills, looking at Bradley sharply again. His bushy mustache bristles as he mulls over the questions. “It will be shared with your chain of command on a need-to-know basis,” He finally replies. 

“And what of the Czechoslovak government in exile?” Bradley knows he’s pushing the envelope on this. 

The officer’s eyes narrow. “That’s beyond our purview.”

“So you won’t share with them vital information from the home resistance, which has been cut off from communication for over a year?” Bradley can’t stop himself from raising his voice. Because it was never just about him—you, everyone depended on him getting out to show the home resistance took a hit, but you are still functioning and strong enough to pull this escape plan off. They need to know. “Will you not tell them about everything the resistance has done, everything they risked?”

“That’s beyond your purview, lieutenant,” However jovial the offer had been before, his voice thunders now. “You are dismissed.”

***

The pillow is too fluffy. The sun streaming through the curtains that your mother forcefully pulled open, sniping at you to get up finally, is too harsh. The goose feather duvet is comfortably heavy, but uncomfortably hot. 

You’ve been home for weeks now. After stumbling out of the interrogation—or fact check—Detective Novak insisted on gentlemanly walking you to the exit; he left you with one final message. 

“We know who you are now.” 

Not directly a threat, but rather a reminder. The police and the Gestapo have you in their sights now—you are on file. Guilty by association.

You nod and utter a polite goodbye. Walking onto the street, you force yourself to walk at a normal pace—don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back.

It takes forever to turn the corner. The moment you know you are out of sight, you stumble against a young oak tree, splattering the full contents of your stomach on its roots and your carefully shined shoes. Shaking, you return home, where you blindly pack a bag, and scribble a borderline rude resignation letter on a dogeared page from a note pad. Tearing it off, you stuff it in an envelope, posting it on your way to the station. Another, much more polite note, although not particularly elaborate either, is slipped under your downstairs neighbor's door—please forward my mail to my parent’s address.

Your hands are still quacking when you present your ticket for inspection. 

It’s hours later, when darkness is already setting it, and you’re walking down the unlit single road towards the small village where you spent your early childhood years in the far east of the country, you feel like you can finally breathe again. The sweet smell of orchards in bloom fills the air; everything feels so familiar, from the crickets in the grass to the wind rustling through the wheat fields. In the weak twilight, small bats shoot through the sky, hunting for insects. Your heart finally feels like it can return to a normal pace. You are home.

Your feet hurt—you didn’t bother getting changed before leaving. The once shiny, polished, heeled shoes you wore this morning are scuffed and dusty—your nice dress is crumpled and sweaty. But in the distance, you see lights: houses lining the empty, dark road. Heaving your bag over your shoulder gracelessly, you pick up the pace. The earlier you get there, the earlier you can get out of these shoes.

By the time you stumble into the front garden of your childhood house, it’s pitch dark. Your footing is unsure on the uneven slabs of stone of the old garden path—built by your great-grandfather, you’ve been told—as your shoes pinch and chafe your swelling feet. The front door is open, the light from the inside streaming onto the porch as the only light source. It looks empty—which is strange. As you move closer, a small orange ball of fur shoots past you into the darkness; you yelp, dropping your bag loudly.

“Andulka? My little songbird, is that you?” Your father, previously crouched in the shadows, is walking into the light now. God, he has aged so much since you last saw him—his hair is so much grayer, his face so much more worn. He is dressed smartly as always: dress pants, a matching waistcoat, and a crisp shirt. Your father might have retired as a lawyer at the outbreak of the war, resigning his government position and moving back to his ancestral house, but a lifetime of habits are hard to break. Uncharacteristically, he’s not wearing a jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up. 

Even stranger, possibly, is the small desert plate in his hand and what looks like several barn cats tottering and yowling around his feet. 

You don’t know why you feel so overcome with emotion—maybe because you haven’t seen your father in way too long. You forgot how much you missed him, maybe because he hasn’t called you Andulka since you were a child, or maybe because your dad has clearly, covertly been feeding the barn cats when never allowed you to have a pet.

Standing there on the garden path in your crumpled dress and dirty shoes, you simply burst out crying. Every tear and sob you swallowed for Eva, for Bradley, and for yourself, force their way out of you—but it’s okay now. You are home.

It’s been three weeks since you’ve returned—and you’ve spent most of that time in bed, asleep or staring at the ceiling. The moment you crossed the threshold of your home, it’s like every defense, every system you had to sustain, you just crumbled. You cannot summon the energy for anything: reading, talking or even smiling. Sometimes, you venture into the kitchen, you sit through dinner with your parents mostly in silence.

Your father doesn’t push the issue much. Once you assured him that you weren’t in any sort of trouble—which, formally, isn’t a lie—he left it at that. Emotional things were never much his forte, but in his own way, he tries to cheer you up in his own way. Your father cuts out the Saturday cartoon from the newspaper for you, bringing it to you with a cup of tea, and leaving it with a kiss on your forehead. 

Every day, he brings you interesting finds from his daily walks: a double-headed dandelion or a ghost leaf. Loitering in the doorway, he waits for you to smile. On your birthday, which you forgot about in the blur of days, he gifts you a simply wrapped tablet of milk chocolate, which is impossible to get. 

“Don’t tell your mother,” He whispers conspiratorially, grinning, knowing she will probably be upset at the cost of such luxuries. Unwrapping your secret gift, you sigh lightly.

“You shouldn’t have, daddy,” But despite your soft chiding, you take a bite out of the corner, savoring the chocolate melting on your tongue. The corners of your mouth quirk up automatically as the sugar hits your system. 

“Anything to have you smile again, Andulka.” 

You can’t stop your eyes from filling with tears at the words. Are you only capable of hurting everyone around you? How can you ever be worthy of kindness again?

But your mother—oh lord, as if you weren’t at odds with her already—she just won’t let it go. At first she is sympathetic, worried you are in trouble. Not the kind of trouble your father would think. But rather… trouble of the martial kind—a child out of wedlock, unwanted advances, or a broken heart.  

You don’t want to talk about it.

Any of it.

Not about Eva, and absolutely not about Bradley. It’s your burden to bear—the crushing guilt, the uncertainty—it feels that if you can keep it all in you, you can keep a grip on it. 

After all, it’s safer if your parents don’t know. They will never accept a roundabout explanation of why Eva is dead, shot dead by the Gestapo in their apartment. Your father especially will go digging for answers, looking for justice, and you don’t want that on your conscience. 

So you keep quiet.

Your mother cares for you and comforts you by bringing you food, brushing your hair, talking to you, reading to you. Cuddled up to her, you cry to yourself. But you can’t talk about it.

And as expected, your mother’s patience runs out with what she calls your histrionics. There is nothing wrong with you, you are just lazy and stubborn. As usual, you—or your shortcomings—are the reason for your failing. Age and retirement clearly softened your once serious and studious father, but your mother, who is a lot younger than him, seems to have picked up the slack more than anything.

You burrow deeper under your heavy duvet. Pulling out Bradley’s bracelet from under your pillow, you run the chain through your fingers as almost a force of habit, tracing your fingers over the embossed insignia. For a moment, it gives you comfort before your thoughts spiral - did Bradley ever make it out alive? Maybe he was intercepted, just like Eva. 

What if it all had been for nothing?

Your heart feels heavy, like every beat takes gargantuan effort. Grief is as much physical as it is mental; heart and soul suffer. You cannot even bring yourself to dream anymore - it’s just a mantra you repeat, because the alternative is dragging you into the bottomless pit of despair: Bradley made it out alive. He is safe. He is well.

Your fingers tighten around the bracelet, and your heartbeat evens out again, feeling just a fraction lighter. Your relative moment of peace is rather short-lived, however, as your mother has decided that she will whip you into shape.

“Get up, Anna,” She orders you, pulling the duvet off you. Quickly, you hide Bradley’s bracelet in your hand. “You are going to the Moravec estate today; the cherries need harvesting.”

“You’re sending me to do farm labor?” You ask incredulously, getting up slowly. The way she forcefully throws open the window of your bedroom and throws your duvet over the ledge to air out tells you you shouldn’t really challenge her right now. 

“Yes,” Your mother replies in a clipped tone, turning fully to you, anger etched on her face. You stare back, unamused. “The world didn’t stop turning just because of you—the Moravec’ sons and farmhands have all been drafted, so they can use all the help they can get.” 

Getting up from the bed, you swallow, unable to reply. Only your mother could make you feel guilty for grieving.

“And since there’s nothing wrong with your hands or feet,” She continues, walking over to your closet and pulling clothes out. “I volunteered you.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, trying not to sound sarcastic while slipping Bradley’s bracelet into the drawer of your nightstand. It’s June and already blisteringly hot. The Moravec estate is on the southern hillside just outside the village, a prime location for their orchards and vineyards because there is nowhere to hide from the sun. You are going to burn to a crisp, you think sourly.

Your mother waltzes out of your room as abruptly as she stormed in—you take that it’s a hint for you to get changed. She comes back when you try to comb a particularly stubborn knot from your hair, sitting in front of your small vanity.

“Let me do that for you,” She offers kindly, gently taking the brush from you. With a sigh, you acquiesce. Systematically, your mother starts brushing through the strand of hair. 

“I know you’re mad at me.” She says suddenly, shortly meeting your eyes in the mirror's reflection.

“I’m not, mama.” You admit, not without difficulty. “I just thought you’d volunteer me for something…” You want to say more ladylike, but you decide against it—what you really mean is easier. “...something like the church or the library.” 

“They don’t need help like the farms around here do.” She replies levelly. “Besides…,” 

Your mother stops brushing for a moment, hesitating. You look at her through the reflection—she seems sad. Her normally stoic demeanor has suddenly cracked. “It will do you good, Andulka; the fresh air, the sunlight. You will bloom right back up.”

You swallow heavily, feeling like you’re about to cry again. You feel undeserving of affection.

“I thought it was because I’m lazy and stubborn,” You quip instead, averting your eyes.

“You are,” Your mother replies easily—you can’t even be offended anymore. “But you are also resourceful and clever: laying in bed all day is a waste of you.” 

Putting the brush down, she rests her hands on your shoulders, squeezing reassuringly.

“Your father worked too hard to give you every opportunity—the best schools in the republic, tutors, not to mention all those English newspapers and vinyls,” She shakes her head, smiling fondly. “He spoiled you.” 

“And I was top of my class,” You defend yourself somewhat weakly. “It’s not like I squandered any of my opportunities.” And I’m not lazy.

“That’s not the point Andulka,” She chastises you gently. “But you can’t give up just because things aren’t turning out the way you hoped they would.” 

“I didn’t -” The words die in your throat. You did give up. You know you did, but you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it. Shoulders sagging, you hang your head in shame. Your mother’s warm hand brushes the hair from your face, kissing you on the temple.

“Your resourcefulness and smarts always served you so much better than your stubborn laziness—complacency doesn’t suit you,” Her voice is tender as her arms come to embrace you. “Don’t forget that.”

You lean into the embrace. Lazy, stubborn, spoiled—it feels like your mother never cut you any slack. To a certain level, you understand that she wanted you to achieve all the things that she never could, trying to instill resilience in you: you can only ever truly rely on yourself. But sometimes, you just needed her love and compassion without having to tick every box in her list of expectations for you.

“You need to get going,” Your mother’s voice cracks under the weight of her own emotions, as she pulls back. She grabs you by the shoulders again, not so gently, this time and pulls you up. “Take a scarf to protect your hair.”

You turn to call after her, but she is already out of the room. 

Over that long, hot summer of 1943, you harvest cherries, peaches, and plums, ending the scorching season in the wheat fields. And your mother was right—being outside does you a lot of good. Mostly because you are so exhausted at the end of every day, you don’t have any energy left. It gives you a strange kind of peace—nothing has changed, nothing has been resolved: Eva is still dead, you have been compromised as a suspected member of the resistance, and you will never find out what happened to Bradley. 

You simply don’t have the energy to fight it anymore.

Acceptance is both bitter and liberating. 

At night, somewhere between sleep and waking, you allow yourself to dream about the life that could have been. The silver of Bradley’s bracelet glints in the moonlight peeping through your window—the chain is soothingly cool against your warm and now-calloused hands. 

What if you had gotten onto the train with him?

You would be in England with Bradley now. He would take you dancing every weekend, your dashing lieutenant, looking sharp in his uniform. Maybe you could study again, on your desk, a small vase of wildflowers that Bradley would bring you. At night, you would stay safely wrapped in his arms, peppering his skin with kisses, Bradley whispering those sweet promises in your ear.

When the war is over, you could start a family—you imagine a house on the cliffs by the beach, the patter of tiny feet in the morning. Your handsome and brave Bradley, sunkissed and windswept, matching rings on your fingers. He would take you to see all the places you’ve only read about in books, all the places he teased tangled in the sheets of that small room with you. 

It’s the sweetest dream, unencumbered by reality. Escapism without consequence. You would have been happy with Bradley. You like to think you would make him happy too. 

Sometimes, you think you should have just gotten on that train: everything be damned. But in reality, you know you couldn’t live with yourself if you did that. Leaving behind your family, your friends, your cause to die. Some things are bigger than you, bigger than you and Bradley. He would understand.

The dream is all you have. And for now, it has to be enough.

note | sorry it gets worse

taglist |@katieshook02 |@gretagerwigsmuse |@yanak324 | @helplesslydevoted | @benhardysdrumstick | @chaoticversion | @cherrycola27 | @roosterschanelslut | @notroosterbradshaw | @eli2447 | @imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog | @m-1234 | @phoenix1388 | @galaxy-moon | @indigomaegrimm | @annathewitch | @kmc1989

[nicsnort]

Cafe p1 (Nightcrawler/Fem!OC fanfic)

Cross-posted from Ao3 - same title, same user

Kurt had a German cafe that he loved to visit - not just for the German treats but for the lovely worker there. A silent crush that suddenly has a chance to be spoken aloud. ______________

There was a small family-owned cafe that was one of Kurt’s favorite spots in America; both to have coffee and cake and simply to be. At the school, the others had teased him for going out of his way for coffee when there was a Starbucks five or ten minutes away instead of thirty. Kitty had asked him many times to bring her so she could see if it was worth it; Scott and Logan had teased him, asking to bring them along to see the girl he was going there for. Kurt refused all of them the cafe was his spot and his spot alone. To him, it was special not just for the German theme and treats but also because of the people...one person - not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

Her name was Anna and she was the loveliest person Kurt had ever met. Her hair was the color of sweet clover honey and fell in soft curls around her shoulders. Her smile lit up the room and warmed him every time that smile was directed at him. Or perhaps it was her eyes that warmed him. They were a deep brown that he could easily become lost in if he stared too long; which was a problem once in a while. But despite her outer beauty, it was truly her personality that Kurt found the loveliest. Anna was always cheerful, she went out of her way to help people, yet she did not allow people to walk over her, and she had inner goodness that radiated out of her. Like a moth to a flame, Kurt was drawn to her.

There was one problem though. Anna had no clue that Kurt was a mutant. It was a few years ago that he started frequenting the cafe, and only last year that he had started going around in public without his image inducer. She had come to know him as Kurt Wagner, teacher and human. She had no idea that he was also Nightcrawler, X-man and mutant. While Kurt wanted to reveal himself to her he had no idea how she would react. He wanted to trust her kindness but he also recognized that he had been lying by omission to her for years. What kind of trust could survive that harsh blow?

“Going to the cafe, Kurt,” Professor Xavier asked as Kurt passed him in the hallway.

“Ja, Professor,” Kurt said with a large smile at the idea.

“Have a good time,” the Professor told him right before Kurt hopped over the railing of the staircase and down to the floor. When Kurt went to the cafe he never teleported beforehand as he didn’t want the smell of sulfur to linger on his clothes and fur. Once in the car, the cafe was only an easy fifteen-minute drive from the manor. The car ride was soothing and soon the sign of Konditorei came into view. As always there were a couple of cars in the parking lot but not many. The cafe was small and eclectic, with it’s German centered food and drink, it attracted just enough business to stay open.

Bells on the door chimed as Kurt stepped inside. “Guten tag,” a voice cried out from behind the counter.

“Guten tag, Anna,” Kurt returned in greeting. Carefully his eyes looked her over, drinking in the sight. She looked so lovely today in a dark brown skirt, light brown leggings, and pale green top covered by her usual beige and floral apron and with her hair up in a loose bun, a few strands hanging down framing her face.

“Usual table is open,” Anna informed him with a large smile. “I tested out a new franzbrötchen recipe if you wanted to try it or would you like the usual?”

“A chance to try your new recipe, Fraulein? Of course, I vould love that.” Anna smiled widened at his response and Kurt’s heart fluttered. 

“Aw,” she told him, pink coming into her cheeks, “don’t make me blush, Herr Wagner.”

“I have told you, Anna, my name is Kurt,” Kurt reminded her with a hint of complaint in his voice. 

Anna sent him another smile. “I know, and I told you as long as you are a customer, I’m going to call you Herr Wagner. So either don’t come here for coffee and cake any more or deal with it.”

Kurt grinned at her. Yes, they had this discussion every few months and that is what she always said. A part of Kurt wanted to think that she was asking him to ask her out. Yet the other part of Kurt recognized that it could never be, all because he was lying to her. Kurt didn’t want to ruin what they had.

Sitting down at his table Kurt waited for Anna to bring him over his coffee and his cake. It only took a couple of minutes for her to come over with a piping hot cup of coffee and warm scrumptious smelling pastry. Thanking her Kurt picked up the franzbrötchen and took a small bite. “ Wunderbar! Anna das ist erstaunlich! ”

“ Danke, Herr Wagner. Ich freue mich, dass sie das essen mögen. ” Anna replied with a large smile that lit her eyes up even more.

Kurt shook his head. “Nein, fraulein. Too formal. Ich freu mich, dass es dir gefällt. I’m glad you like it. None of this, I am pleased you like the food. Though the taste is amazing this is not a five-star restaurant.”

“Sorry,” Anna said, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly. “I’m still trying to learn more conversational German.”

“ Dann sollte ich vielleicht nur Deutsch sprechen ,” Kurt suggested.

Anna took a second to process what he said, then gave a look of offense when she translated the threat of only speaking in German. “If you are going to be that way then I won’t give you the half off your additional cups of coffee anymore.”

“But that’s company policy,” Kurt complained.

Anna scrunched her face up and shook her head, a smirk on her lips. “ Nein, I just wanted you to think that.”

Turning around she left him to clean the table of the elderly couple that had just left. Kurt watched her thinking over what she told him. He had always thought that the discounted prices were for all customers. At the knowledge that she was giving him a personal discount, he felt a blush enter his cheeks. He took another bite of the cake before sipping at his coffee. As always all of it was delicious, made only better by the knowledge that Anna had made it.

“I’m going to wash some dishes if you need anything just call.” She told him and the one other person in the cafe before disappearing into the back. In his coat pocket, his phone buzzed. Taking it out he glanced down at the message. It was from Logan asking for a picture of the girl. A minute later Scott sent a similar text. Kurt sighed and set the phone on the table. They certainly were persistent.

Five minutes or so passed in contented silence until the other person who was in the shop called out at the counter and paid for their drink and food. After they had left, Anna cleaned their table bringing their dishes to the back before returning. She poured herself a coffee of her own. Over the rim of his cup, Kurt watched Anna as she walked to the front door and turned the sign. The moment she let go of the sign Kurt realized that this was the first time they had ever been alone. Even if he was the only customer there had always been the owners of the cafe, her parents, but they were on a two-week-long food tour of Germany and Austria right now. For the first time, he and Anna were completely alone.

Setting down his cup Kurt watched as Anna came over to him. She pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

“ Nein, nein, natürlich .”

Anna smiled gently at him and once again Kurt’s heart fluttered. She sipped at her coffee before speaking. “You have been coming here for - what - over four years now?”

“Ja,” Kurt told her, “five come Christmas. I stopped in for Bethmännchen for my friends.”

“Yes, but it was late and we had just sold the last of them.”

“But your Mutter took pity und put in another batch to bake; vhile your Vater offered me rumtopf during the vait.”

“I reprimanded him for giving you alcohol on an empty stomach.”

“So you gave me bratapfel, to absorb the alcohol.” They both chuckled at the memory. Kurt looked at her as she took another sip of her coffee. “I cannot believe you remember that, Anna.”

“Of course, I do. I thought you were going to die in the snow because you didn’t have a car. But then you came back just after New Year. And you kept coming back. I didn’t think our coffee and cakes were that good.”

“I came back for more than just those, fraulein,” Kurt told her softly. She glanced over at him with her eyes a bit lidded and a small smile on her lips. Kurt took a chance. With his free hand, Kurt reached out and touched her arm. The touch was soft and only lasted a moment, she wouldn’t feel the oddity of his fingers.

“Herr Wagner,” she sighed, “Dad isn’t going to give any more free rumtopf.”

Their eyes meeting both began to laugh. The laughter faded naturally leaving them in a pleasing silence. Kurt finished his coffee and set the empty cup down. “Would you like another,” Anna asked.

“ Nehmen sie meinen rabatt weg, Anna ?”

“ Dieses mal nicht ,” Anna replied with a smile.

“Ja, I vill have another then.” Anna got up and went back behind the counter pouring him another coffee. Kurt didn’t know what grounds they made it with or precisely how that gave it its taste but the coffee here was uniquely delicious.

She gave him the coffee before sitting back down and taking her own cup again. He was taking a sip of the rich coffee when Anna spoke. “I don’t mean to seem pushy, but if I were to give you my number would you call me?”

This was something that Kurt never expected. Such was his shock that the coffee slipped from his hand spilling onto the table and rushing over his wrist. “Autsch!” He cried out in pain, leaping from the chair as the hot liquid spilled over the edge of the table.

Anna jumped up as well profusely apologizing as she ran over to the cleaning cloths. Grabbing a clean one she tossed it over to him before running to the back to grab others. Kurt dabbed at his lap trying to soak up the coffee as it soaked through his jeans. He heard a fritz of a frying electronic device and looked at his image inducer. Coffee had drenched it causing the sensitive technology to flicker on and off. With a swear Kurt tried to dry it, stop it from giving out.

“Nein, nein,” he muttered under his breath as the image inducer continued to alternate his skin between blue and pale cream. Off to the side, he heard the door swing open again, and Anna’s footsteps as she hurried out. Kurt looked up at her the desperation evident on his face as the image inducer died completely.

“Oh my.” Anna’s mouth dropped open with shock and she had halted in her steps as she stared at him. Her eyes were wide and Kurt saw her move a half step back. That was all the information he needed. She wouldn’t accept him.

“I am sorry, Anna,” he whispered before teleporting away. 

__________

Part 2

Fanfic Masterlist The story as its whole, below.

[unscharf-an-den-raendern]

Schloss Einstein Staffel 4 Pt. 2

Das Schülergericht mit dem kniffligen Rechtsfall: Wie ist Lauras Bikinioberteil in Hallers Sporttasche gekommen?

Haller ist also auch ein Fan von Waldlauf.

Erstmal Sekt trinken während der Arbeitszeit

Colin würde Sebastians Hemd lieben

"Also ich versteh nur Schaffner"

Elisabeth 🤝 Leon - Fast an Diabetes sterben

"Wir haben erfahren, dass Hundeurin den Wald kaputt macht und jetzt wollen wir was erfinden. Also schmuggeln wir heimlich einen Hund ins Internat und versuchen, ihm beizubringen, in einen Eimer zu pinkeln."

Wolfert würde Fridays for Future so hassen

"Ich glaub mich knutscht ein Kampfhund" - Der Tillartha-Film

"Hier ran hält der Pudel seine große Nudel" Wer hat das durchgelassen 💀

Diese dramatische Musik nachdem Philip sagt dass er den Test für das Matheinternat macht

Colin würde dieses Leopardenhemd von Herr Fabian auch lieben

Max fängt wegen nem Abzählreim ne Schlägerei an

"Zwei Jungs und zwei Mädchen wollen auf Fahrradtour gehen. Vielleicht sollten wir ihnen Kondome mitgeben."

Diese dramatische Kameraführung als Elisabeth zu Technomusik die Pralinen isst

Und der zweite "Elisabeth ist ohnmächtig" Cliffhanger

Manuela ist einfach Noah in weiblich

Sylvia hat heimlich ein Kalb im Schulgarten versteckt, weil es sonst wegen Maul und Klauenseuche getötet worden wäre. Freddy ist nichts dagegen.

Anna droht Johannes ihn umzubringen, weil er ne Kassette verlegt hat

Manuela, Emely und Anne-Claire geben mir Zimmertrio Vibes

Anna spricht schon wieder ne Morddrohung gegenüber Johannes aus

[grimmjowskitty]

Unser Herr Lieblings Hauptkommissar… Das liebe Hölzerchen als Anna 😂

[ask-doccy]

(Follow up from the toy ask)

Plushies, got it! And sure, I'd love to see.

-*doccy excitedly lays their plush collection out on the bed, being sure to pat each one on the head as they do so.*-

[These are the following plushes: a sheep poorly dyed pink, a vex, a minecraft zombie with orange yarn sewn on the head, a goat, a fluffy fire ball, a warden, Hatsune miku, a really ratty Raggedy Anne, and a knit etho]

This is onkel zeddy. He's a sheep. I made the plushy pink all by myself!! This one is Herr Cubby! He's a vex! Then this is Onkel Cleo!

This is dada but I call him mister goaty. The fire ball is Onkel Tango! And the warden is from Onkel Tango!!

Then this is ham... hap... ha-su-may miku! She's a singer! I like her songs! And this is Anna! She's from dada. She was dadas plushy when he was a baby goat like me!

And lastly this is Onkel Effo! Onkel Bubs made him for me!

-*doccy looks very proud of themself*-

[europeanmusicals]

Do you know of any Euro musical productions besides Rebecca going on in Jan-March 2023?

I'm trying to plan a vacation lol, anywhere in Europe would go

TIA!

Alright this isn't going to be a full list because I'm sure I can't find them all but I've done my best. I've decided to make this a list of all musicals in Europe for all of 2023, so that everyone might find this useful (that's code for I love making lists and got carried away).

Musicals in Europe in 2023

2022.12.10 Listed alphabetically by country and then by opening date. Countries listed below are Austria, England, France, Germany, Italy, The Netherlands, Russia, Spain, Switzerland. Click 'keep reading' to see the list.

Edit 2022.12.11: added some more musical in Austria, The Netherlands and Russia. Sources to websites where I found this information and where you can book tickets are now at the bottom of the list. Sorry they weren’t added originally, I made the original list at 1am.

Edit 2022.12.11: added performances at the open-air theatre in Tecklenburg, Germany.

Edit: 2022.12.12 added more shows for Switzerland, Netherlands, Germany, Ireland, Scotland, Wales and France.

Edit: 2022.12.15 i can’t keep up with all the asks telling me to add things to the list. please see this tag (european musicals in 2023) to see asks telling me about more shows, but i don’t have the time to keep sourcing and adding them to this list anymore.

Austria

Rebecca das Musical - Vienna, Raimund Theater September 9th 2022 - TBD Cast: Nienke Latten (Ich), Mark Seibet (Maxim de Winter), Willemijn Verkaik (Mrs Danvers), Boris Pfeifer (Jack Favell), Ana Milva Gomes (Mrs Van Hopper), James Park (Frank Crawly), Annemieke van Dam (Beatrice/Alt Mrs Danvrs), Aris Sas (Ben)

The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Disney) - Vienna, Ronacher November 10th 2022 - TBD Cast: Abla Alaoui (Esmerelda), David Jakobs (Quasimodo), Dominik Hees (Phoebus), Andreas Lichtenberger (Frollo), Mathias Schlung (Clopin)

My Fair Lady - Vienna, Volksoper December 14th 2022 - January 10th 2023 Cast: Juliette Khalil (Eliza Doolittle), Axel Herrig (Henry Higgins)

Catch Me if You Can - Linz, Landestheater Linz December 14th 2022 - June 3rd 2023

Anastasia - Linz, Landestheater Linz December 15th 2022 -

Hedwig and the Angry Inch - Vienna, Das Vindobona January 9th 2023 - January 29th 2023 Cast: Drew Sarich (Hedwig), Anna Mandrella (Yitzhak)

Lady in the Dark - Vienna, Volksoper January 26th 2023 - February 22nd 2023 Cast: TBD

Funny Girl - Baden, Stadttheater/Bühne Baden January 28th 2023 - March 25th 2023 Cast: Johanna Arrouas (Fanny Brice), Thomas Weissengruber (Nick Arnstein)

Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Linz, Landestheater Linz February 11th 2023 - June 17th 2023

Anatevka - Vienna, Volksoper February 23rd 2022 - March 31st 2023 Cast: TBD

Jesus Christ Superstar - Vienna, Raimund Theater March 31st 2023 - April 10th 2023 (Concert version) Cast: Drew Sarich (Jesus)

The Sound of Music - Vienna, Volksoper April 1st 2023 - May 1st 2023 Cast: TBD

Fun Home - Linz, Landestheater Linz April 13th 2023 - May 22nd 2023

Cabaret - Vienna, Volksoper May 5th 2023 - May 14th 2023 Cast: TBD

The Wizard of Oz (Arlen/Webber) - Vienna, Volksoper May 17th 2023 - June 25th 2023 Cast: TBD

Elisabeth das Musical - Vienna, Schloss Schönbrunn June 29th 2023 - July 1st 2023 (Open air concert) Maya Hakvoort (Elisabeth), Mark Seibert (Der Tod)

Cabaret - Baden, Stadttheater/Bühne Baden July 7th 2023 - August 25th 2023 Cast: Anna Mandrella (Sally Boweles), Drew Sarich (Emcee), René Rumpold (Herr Schultz), Maya Hakvoort (Fraulein Schneider), Alexander Donesh (Cliff), Iva Schell (Fraulein Kost), Jan Walter (Ernst Ludwig)

Dirty Dancing - Linz, Landestheater Linz July 11th 2023 - August 6th 2023

England (West End & UK Tours)

Les Misérables - London, Sondheim Theatre October 8th 1985 - TBD

The Phantom of the Opera - London, Her Majesty's Theatre October 9th 1986 - TBD

Mamma Mia! - London, Novello Theatre April 6th 1999 - September 30th 2023

The Lion King - London, Lyceum Theatre October 19th 1999 - TBD

Wicked - London, Apollo Victoria Theatre September 27th 2006 - TBD

Matilda - London, Cambridge Theatre October 25th 2011 - December 17th 2023

The Book of Mormon - London, Prince of Wales Theatre February 25th 2013 - March 18th 2023

Hamilton - London, Victoria Palace Theatre December 21st 2017 - September 30th 2023

Tina (The Tuna Turner Musical) - London, Aldwych April 17th 2018 - July 11th 2023

Six - London, Vaudeville Theatre January 17th 2019 - TBD

Only Fools and Horses: The Musical - London, Theatre Royal Haymarket February 9th 2019 - April 1st 2023

Mary Poppins - London, Prince Edward Theatre November 13th 2019 - January 8th 2023

& Juliet - London, Shaftesbury Theatre November 20th 2019 - March 25th 2023

Come From Away - London, Phoenix Theatre January 19th 2019 - January 7th 2023

Jersey Boys - London, Trafalgar Theatre July 18th 2021 - April 30th 2023

Pretty Woman - London, Savoy Theatre July 19th 2021 - April 2nd 2023

Frozen - London, Theatre Royal Drury Lane August 27th 2021 - March 26th 2023

Back to the Future - London, Adelphi Theatre September 13th 2021 - February 12th 2023

Get Up, Stand Up! The Bob Marley Musical - London, Lyric Theatre October 1st 2021 - January 8th 2023

Moulin Rouge! - London, Piccadilly Theatre November 12th 2021 - April 15th 2023

Cabaret - London, Kit Kat Club at the Playhouse Theatre November 15th 2021 - December 16th 2023

Heathers - London, The Other Palace Theatre November 25th 2021 - February 18th 2023

Bonnie and Clyde - London, Garrick Theatre March 4th 2022 - May 20th 2023

The Witches of Oz - London, The Vaults Theatre September 19th 2022 - January 14th 2023

Hex - London, Olivier Theatre November 26th 2022 - January 14th 2023

Newsies - London, Troubadour Wembley Park Theatre November 29th 2022 - April 16th 2023

Mandela - London, Young Vic November 29th 2022 - February 4th 2023

Bugsy Malone - London, Alexandra Palace December 3rd 2022 - January 15th 2023

The Rocky Horror Show - UK Tour January 3rd 2023 - September 2nd 2023

Fisherman's Friends - UK Tour January 31st 2023 - May 30th 2023

Jersey Boys - UK Tour January 10th 2023 - May 6th 2023

Sister Act - UK Tour January 11th 2023 - January 27th 2024

Blood Brothers - UK Tour January 17th 2023 - April 29th 2023

Dirty Dancing - Dominion Theatre January 18th 2023 - April 29th 2023

Sylvia - London, Old Vic January 27th 2023 - April 1st 2023

Oklahoma! - London, Wyndham's Theatre February 16th 2023 - September 2nd 2023

Bat out of Hell - London, Peacock Theatre February 17th 2023 - April 1st 2023

The Great British Bake Off Musical - London, Noel Coward Theatre February 25th 2023 - May 13th 2023

Guys and Dolls - London, Bridge Theatre February 27th 2023 - September 2nd 2023

Titanic the Musical - UK Tour March 16th 2023 - August 5th 2023

Ain't Too Proud - London, Prince Edward's Theatre March 31st 2023 - October 1st 2023

The Rocky Horror Show - London, Peacock Theatre May 3rd 2023 - June 10th 2023

Mrs Doubtfire - London, Shaftsbury Theatre May 12th 2023 - January 13th 2024

42nd Street - London, Sadler's Wells June 7th 2023 - July 2nd 2023

Crazy for You - London, Gillian Lynne Theatre June 24th 2023 - January 20th 2024

The Spongebob Musical - London, Queen Elizabeth Hall July 26th 2023 - August 27th 2023

The Drifter's Girl - UK Tour September 12th 2023 - January 13th 2024

France

The Producers / Les Producteurs - Paris, Theatre de Paris December 9th 2022 - April 2nd 2023

The Lion King / Le Roi Lion (Disney) - Paris, Théâtre Mogador December 13th 2022 - June 6th 2023

Cabaret - Paris, Lido2Paris - February 3rd 2023

Josephine Baker the Musical - Paris, Bobino Theatre - February 22nd 2023

Notre Dame de Paris - Paris, NODUS November 15th 2023 - December 3rd 2023

Germany

Tanz der Vampire - Stuttgart, Stage Palladium Theater October 5th 2021 - September 10th 2023 Cast: Filippo Strocchi (Graf von Krolock), Kristin Backes (Sarah), Vincent van Gorp (Afred), Jakub Wocial (Professor Abronsius), Oleg Krasovitskii (Chagal), Anja Bakus (Magda), Wolfgang Zarnack (Koukol), Andreas Nutzl (Herbert), Hanny Aden (Rebeca)

Aladdin (Disney) - Stuttgart, Stage Apollo Theater October 2021 - January 19th 2023 Cast: Gonzalo Campos López (Aladdin), Rita Sebah (Jasmin), Maximillian Man (Genie), Claus Dam (Sultan), Paolo Bianca (Jafar), Terry Alfaro (Iago)

Ku-Damm 56 das Musical - Berlin, Stage Theater des Westens October 2021 - February 19th 2023 Sandra Leitner (Monika), Pedro Reichert (Freddy), Katja Uhlig (Caterina Schollack), Patrik Cieslik (Joachim)

Mamma Mia - Hamburg, Stage Theater Neue Flora October 2021 - August 27th 2023 Cast: Sabine Mayer (Donna), Anna Thorén (alt Donna), Rose-Anne van Elswijk (Sophie), Jennifer van Brenk (Tanja), Franziska Lessing (Rosie), Sasche Oliver Bauer (Sam), Tetje Mierendorf (Bill), Detlef Leistenschneider (Harry)

Hamilton - Hamburg, Stage Operettenhaus October 2021 - September 30th 2023 Benet Monteiro (Alexander Hamilton), Diluckshan Jeyaratnam (alt Hamilton/Aaron Burr), Ivy Quainoo (Eliza Hamilton), Gino Emnes (Aaron Burr), Chasity Crisp (Angelixa Schuyler), Charles Simmons (George Washington), Daniel Dodd-Ellis (Lafayette/Thomas Jefferson), Redchild (Hercules Mulligan/James Maddison), Oliver Edward (John Laurens/Philip Hamilton), Mae Ann Jorolan (Peggy Schuyler/Maria Reynolds), Jan Kersjes (King George)

Frozen/Die Eiskonigin (Disney) - Hamburg, Stage Theater an der Elbe October 2021 - December 23rd 2023 Cast: Sabrina Weckerlin (Elsa), Celena Pieper (Anna), Janneke Ivankova (alt Elsa), Willemijn Maandag (alt Anna), Owen Playfair (Kristoff), Bob van de Weijdeven (Hans), Elindo Avastia (Olaf)

The Lion King/Der Konig der Lowen (Disney) - Hamburg, Stage Theater im Hafen October 2021 - December 17th 2023 Cast: Hope Maine (Simba), Andrea del Solar (Nala), OJ Lunch (Mufasa), Bongiwe Happiness Malunga (Rafiki), Bernd Lambrecht (Scar), Joachim Benoit (Zazu), Tobias Korinth (Timon), S'Thembiso Keith Machiane (Pumbaa)

Moulin Rouge! - Cologne, Musical Dome Autumn 2022 - June 30th 2023

Tina (The Tina Turner Musical) - Stuttgart, Stage Apollo Theater March 7th 2023 - December 23rd 2023 Cast: Aisata Blackman (Tina Turner)

Romeo und Julia: Liebe ist Alles (Plate/Sommer) - Berlin, Stage Theater des Westens March 21st 2023 - June 30th 2023

Madagascar: A Musical Adventure - Tecklenburg, Freilichtspiele Tecklenburg May 14th 2023 - August 30th 2023

Musical Meets Pop / Pfingstgala -Tecklenburg, Freilichtspiele Tecklenburg May 29th 2023

Mozart! das Musical - Tecklenburg, Freilichtspiele Tecklenburg June 16th 2023 - August 27th 2023

Robin Hood das Musical - Fulda, Schlosstheater June 18th 2023 - August 27th 2023

Miami Nights - Tecklenburg, Freilichtspiele Tecklenburg July 21st 2023 - September 10th 2023

Tarzan (Disney) - Stuttgart, Stage Palladium Theater November 18th 2023 - June 30th 2024 Cast: TBD

Ireland

Six - UK and Ireland Tour, Belfast April 11th 2023 - April 15th 2023

Italy

Sister Act - Milan, Teatro Nazionale CheBanca December 2022 - January 8th 2023

The Netherlands

Aladdin - The Hague, Circustheater Scheveningen October 2021 - February 26th 2023 Cast: Jonathan Vroege (Aladdin), Stanley Burleson (Genie), Keoma Aidhen (Jasmine), Roberto de Groot (Jafar), Michel Sorbach (Sultan), Darren van der Lek (Iago)

Tina (The Tina Turner Musical) - Utrecht, Beatrix Theater October 2021 - February 18th 2023 Cast: Nyassa Alberta (Tina), Nurlaila Karim (alt Tina)

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Netherlands Tour December 7th 2022 - March 5th 2023

The Prom - Royal Theater Carré January 20th 2023 - January 22nd 2023 Cast: Pia Douwes, Juliette van Tongeren

Les Misérables - Royal Theater Carré March 1st 2023 - March 19th 2023 Milan van Waardenburg (Jean Valjean), René van Kooten (alt Jeab Valjean), Freek Vartels (Javert), Yannick Plugers (Thénardier), Michael Muyderman (Marius), Channah Hewitt (Fantine), Vajén van den Bosch (Éponine), Ellen Pieters (Madame Thénardier), Mark Roy Luykx (Enjolras), Sem Gerritsma (Cosette)

Aida (Disney) - The Hague, Circustheater Scheveningen April 12th 2023 - June 30th 2023

Les Misérables - Royal Theater Carré July 5th 2023 - July 23rd 2023 Milan van Waardenburg (Jean Valjean), René van Kooten (alt Jeab Valjean), Freek Vartels (Javert), Yannick Plugers (Thénardier), Michael Muyderman (Marius), Channah Hewitt (Fantine), Vajén van den Bosch (Éponine), Ellen Pieters (Madame Thénardier), Mark Roy Luykx (Enjolras), Sem Gerritsma (Cosette) 

Six - Amsterdam, Delamar Theatre September 20th 2023 - October 1st 2023

Six - Rotterdam, Nieuwe Luxor Theater October 4th 2023 - October 8th 2023

Russia

Fear Nothing, I Am With You НИЧЕГО НЕ БОЙСЯ, Я С ТОБОЙ - Moscow, MDM Theatre 2022 - February 26th 2023

First Date - Moscow, MDM Theatre December 17th 2022 - January 28th 2023

Valentine’s Day - Moscow, MDM Theatre December 22nd 2022 - January 21st 2023

Demon Onegin мюзикл Демон Онегина - St Petersburg December 23rd 2022 - July 23rd 2023

Master and Margarita МАСТЕР И МАРГАРИТА - St Petersburg December 29th 2022 - July 16th 2023

Alice in Wonderland (Gleb Matveychuk) - St Petersburg, Большой зал театра музыкальной комедии January 2nd 2023 - January 4th 2023

Miracle-Yudo ЧУДО-ЮДО- St Petersburg January 4th 2023 - January 6th 2023

Hits From The Broadway And The Whole World - St Petersburg, Большой зал театра музыкальной комедии   January 5th 2023, January 19th 2023

The Count of Monte Cristo (Frank Wildhorn) - St Petersburg, Большой зал театра музыкальной комедии January 6th 2023 - January 8th 2023

Notre Dame de Paris + Romeo et Juliette - St Petersburg January 13th 2023

Can-Can - St Petersburg, Большой зал театра музыкальной комедии January 14th 2023 - January 15th 2023

Bely.Petersburg - St Petersburg, Большой зал театра музыкальной комедии January 17th 2023

Thieves’ Carnival - St Petersburg, Большой зал театра музыкальной комедии January 18th 2023

Peter I ПЁТР I (Frank Wildhorn) - St Petersburg, Большой зал театра музыкальной комедии January 20th 2023 - TBD

The Mousetrap - St Petersburg, Большой зал театра музыкальной комедии January 21st 2023

Queen of Spades Дама Пик - St Petersburg January 25th 2023 - January 26th 2023

Diamond Chariot Алмазная колесница - St Petersburg January 20th 2023 - April 9th 2023

Lolita Лолита - St Petersburg February 3rd 2023 - July 28th 2023

Seven Short Stories Семь новелл - St Petersburg February 11th 2023 - May 9th 2023

Rasputin РАСПУТИН - St Petersburg February 9th 2023 - May 6th 2023

Scotland

Six - UK and Ireland Tour, Edinburgh, Aberdeen, Glasgow May 2nd 2023 - May 13th 2023, August 29th 2023 - September 3rd 2023

Spain

Company - Madrid, UMusic Hotel Teatro Albéniz November 17th 2022 - February 14th 2023

The Lion King / El Rey León - Madrid, Teatro Lope de Vega December 2022 - March 31st 2023

Tina (The Tina Turner Musical) - Madrid, Teatro Coliseum December 2022 - January 8th 2023

Switzerland

Sister Act - Zurich, MAAG halle December 2022 - Feburary 23rd 2023

Lady Bess - St Gallen, Theatre St Gallen January 12th 2022 - April 26th 2023

Wustenblume - St Gallen, Theatre St Gallen May 23rd 2023 - June 10th 2023

Wales

Six - UK and Ireland Tour, Aberdeen August 8th 2023 - August 12th 2023

Sources (links not clickable otherwise Tumblr may block/hide the post):

musicalvienna.at

muzcomedy.ru

spotlight-musicals.de

stage-entertainment.com/productions

theatersg.ch

theatreinparis.com

mm-musical.ru

volksoper.at

companyelmusical.es

charliedemusical.nl

londontheatre.co.uk/whats-on

landestheater-linz.at/musiktheater

buehnebaden.at

drew-sarich.com

carre.nl/en

freilichtspiele-tecklenburg.de

sisteract-musical.ch

sixthemusical.com

moulin-rouge-musical.de

[dimitrisatticus]

Just a Robert Eggers fan..

really hyped for his Nosferatu, thinking on the casting choices and who they might be playing..

Bill Skarsgård as Nosferatu (announced, the only one confirmed)

Lily-Rose Depp as Ellen Hutter/Mina Harker (originally Anya Taylor-Joy)

Nicholas Hoult as Thomas Hutter/Jonathan Harker (originally maybe Harry Styles)

Willem Dafoe as Professor Von Franz (a Van Helsing equivalent?)

Emma Corrin as Anna Harding (a Lucy Westenra equivalent?)

Aaron-Taylor Johnson as Friedrich Harding (Anna’s husband, the original’s shipowner)

Simon McBurney as Herr Knock/Renfield

Ralph Ineson as Dr. Wilhelm Sievers/Dr. John Seward

[ladyarjuna]

"Ay, boss!"

Beacon grimaced and sighed as her bad hand slowly uncurled from the tongs. "-- Aucha, wasn't it? What do you need?"

"'S break time. No point staying in the magma forge, innit?"

Had it been so long already? The pain in her bad shoulder told her that even if they didn't have the customary breaks of a field worker, she would have regretted not calling a halt soon in any case. "Aye, I'll be by to join you, let me set this in the oven."

Her back, too, was in desperate need to be uncurled, but this at least sorted itself out in a moment or two. Her bad hand was still cramping uselessly, but she grimaced, leaned in a way that she was sure she would regret, and using her good hand, slipped the Lucerne hammer head into the oven and breathed a sigh of relief.

Her good hand and arm retreated to the relative comfort of the cuff and crutch. Much as she despised how much she had to mess with it to fit it on properly, taking the weight off her bad leg was a spiritsend.

"Yer feedin' us, ain'tcha?"

"Herr Erlkönig is feeding you, as he is me. Anna should be cooking. Let's go, then." Beacon winced and grimaced her way towards the mess. She'd left it too long. The healers would have her head for this.