#last days of the tsars

[karamazovposting]

Considering tattoos became fashionable between European aristocrats in the late 19th century and Tsar Nicholas II himself had a massive dragon tattoo on his right arm (that he got done during a trip in Nagasaki in the early 1890s), it's not completely anachronistic to imagine Dmitri Karamazov as having one or multiple tattoos.

Do whatever you want with this information, I'm just saying.

[in-my-feels-probably]

hi hi hi!!! i saw that you were open to shadow and bone requests and i was wondering if you’d be willing to write a nikolai lantsov imagine? just imagine princess!reader being forced into an arranged marriage with the second son of the king of ravka, and instead of going through with it she runs away. she then stumbles upon a particularly charming privateer who just so manages to win over her heart……

Enchanted

Request: hi hi hi!!! i saw that you were open to shadow and bone requests and i was wondering if you’d be willing to write a nikolai lantsov imagine? just imagine princess!reader being forced into an arranged marriage with the second son of the king of ravka, and instead of going through with it she runs away. she then stumbles upon a particularly charming privateer who just so manages to win over her heart…

and: btw I saw your post about sab season 2 and i would like to request something with nikolai. i dont really have any ideas but i love that blonde boy so anything that you'll write with him is going to make me happy- but if its angst please im begging for a happy ending im already depressed because im reading rules of wolves

and: omg omg omg enchanted x nikolai sounds so perfect 😭 literally written for him

Hi! I absolutely adore these requests, thank you for sending them in. And sorry for the long wait, I’ve been a bit busy. And please bear with me while I try and get the hang of writing for Nikolai, this is only my second time. Also, this request was combined with two others, I hope that’s alright, and sorry for anyone who’s request was altered a little bit to fit this story. I’m happy to accept another request if you don’t like this one. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this! 

(Warnings: arranged marriage, swearing, very very brief angst, very vague suggestive content, drinking, let me know if i missed anything)

—

You had nearly begged on your knees when you found out you were to be wed, pleading with your parents’ advisors. 

You were no fool. You knew that one day you’d have to marry, and you were prepared to do your duty. A Princess isn’t awarded the luxury of a choice, and you knew any match that was made probably wouldn’t be from a place of love. But you never thought your parents would be prepared to ship you off to a man none of you had ever even laid eyes on, and that’s including the advisors.

A second son, and a rumored bastard at that. It was all happening too fast, and you weren’t having an easy time processing it. 

“You can’t send me! We already have an alliance with Ravka, why send me still?”

One of the men had stood, trying to ease you. “You must go, Princess. We may have an alliance, but our forces need to be strengthened. Prince Vasily is already spoken for. Marrying you to Prince Nikolai is the fastest way.”

“I am told he is charming, if it is any consolation,” another man said, though his voice was firmer. “It is time, Princess, for you to do your duty. You will marry.”

You finally relented, your fate beginning to set in. “That’s it, then. When will I be expected to leave?”

There was a moment of silence, and an awkward shuffling of feet as the advisors stood. And then one of the men spoke, sending dread running through you like ice in your veins. 

“Your arrival is set for the end of the week. The King and Queen are expecting you.”

—

The journey passed far quicker than you had anticipated. A trip like that should have been grueling, yet each moment felt more fleeting than the last. By the time you arrived on Ravkan soil, you would practically be theirs. Upon your arrival, you were escorted to the Great Hall to meet the King and Queen. 

“Moi tsar,” you curtsied, keeping your eyes low. “Moi tsaritsa. It is an honor.”

The words tasted sour on your tongue, but you spoke them anyway. The King and Queen were not known to be the kindest of people, and you’d rather spend your time in a foreign country on the good side of the sovereign. 

“Princess,” the King greeted as he stood, his eyes racking your body. “You are as beautiful as they say. My son will be pleased. Unfortunately, your arrival has preceded his. He attended a meeting with our generals, and is set to arrive in a few days. The wedding will be in a fortnight. Until then, please enjoy our hospitality. I look forward to this new found alliance between our great countries.”

“As do I,” you said, forcing a smile. 

—

As the days passed, you grew more uneasy. The weight of your duties were beginning to drag you down, and you didn’t know if you could bear the burden any longer. 

Nikolai had yet to return to court, but with his inevitable arrival looming, it became harder to face each day. You were practically alone in the castle, having yet to make any friends. And you doubted the arrival of a Prince—the subject of scandalous rumors—would do anything to lessen the loneliness and fear you felt every night. 

One evening, the pressure became too great.

Despite your duties, and the anger you knew both countries would feel towards you, you fled. It was a rash decision, and a stupid one at that. But it was the only option that could give you your freedom, so you took it.

It led you all the way down to the harbor, which you briskly made your way to with little more than the clothes on your back.

Your window of opportunity was closing, and you took it. In mere hours, someone would notice you were missing from your room. Guards would be sent all throughout the palace, and they’d track you down if you weren’t quick enough. One way or another, you would marry the second Prince of Ravka. You’d be forced to. And although the thought of being alone in an open country you knew next to nothing about terrified you, it was less terrifying than the thought of being trapped in that castle forever. 

So you went. Fled, more accurately. All the way to the harbor, in nothing but a dress and cloak, with a bag of coins hidden in your skirts. 

As you approached the harbor, the shout of guards could be heard in the distance. “Spread out! She cannot have gone far.”

The Kingsguard.

You felt your chest tighten as you quickened your pace, pulling your hood over your head. You rushed as inconspicuously as you could, clambering to get as far from the palace as possible. Suddenly, you felt a hand on your wrist. 

“What’s the rush for, My Lady? You’re going to hurt yourself running in those shoes,” the woman said, her brows furrowing.

You stopped in your tracks to take her in, realizing she was standing next to a much larger man. She had axes sheathed at her waist, and a confused but intrigued grin. 

“Please, excuse me—” You stuttered out, trying to pull away.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” the man said, in a tone much gentler than his appearance. “We mean you no harm. What are you running from?”

“I need to get away from here, and fast,” you pleaded, deciding to trust these people who stopped you. 

“That wasn’t an answer to our question,” the woman said, easing her grip. 

You let out a frustrated sigh, turning to look over your shoulder before turning back. “Please, I’ll pay you whatever you want. Just let me go. I have to get out of here, and quickly.”

The woman shared a glance with the man, and for a minute, you were beginning to think you had been found out. They somehow recognized you, and would know that the castle guards were looking for you. If that was true, the pair didn’t show it, looking back at you. 

“We have a ship,” the man finally said, gesturing behind him. “And a captain. A name you’d perhaps recognize. Sturmhond.”

Sturmhond, you thought to yourself. The richest pirate on the True Sea? What was he doing in a port in Ravka? You shook your head, having no time for questions. 

“Would he grant me safe passage? I can pay, I have the means. Please, I need to know if this is my only option of getting out of here. I haven’t done anything illegal, I promise. I just need to go.”

The woman laughed, her relaxed disposition beginning to ease you. “Illegal would have been more fun. Don’t worry, Princess. We’ll take you to our captain. You’ll be safe with us.”

Your eyes widened, and you stepped back to retreat, when the man raised his hands in surrender. 

“We mean you no harm, Princess. Clearly, you’re in trouble, and we have the means to get you away from the palace.”

“Trust me,” the woman said, offering you her hand. “We have no wish to return to the palace.. I’m sure our captain isn’t too keen, either.”

You looked between the ship and back at the castle uneasily, when you heard another shout coming from the guards marching through the village. You turned towards the man and woman, who you just realized looked very similar. Siblings, perhaps, who had just gotten back from a journey at sea.

“Sturmhond is quite the character, but he’s a good man. You have my word,” the man said. 

“Alright,” you said, making your decision as you took the woman’s hand. “I’ll go. Thank you, uh…”

You trailed off, making the man smile. He led you towards a nearby ship, helping you climb your way onto it. 

“I’m Tolya, and that’s my sister Tamar. We’re part of Sturmhond’s crew. Come along, he’ll want to meet you.”

They quickly led you aboard a ship, ushering the crew to cast off. The crew looked around with confused faces, but listened anyway. As the ship slowly left the harbor, you were led downstairs to the cabins below. 

“Captain,” Tamar called, knocking on the first doorway below deck, before opening the door herself. 

“Do you want to tell me why my ship is moving away from the dock?” Sturmhond asked without turning around, shuffling through his cabin as he pulled on his coat. 

You cleared your throat. “That would be because of me, I think.”

Sturmhond turned around at the sound of your voice, his eyes widening as he took you in. “I don’t believe it. Good evening, Princess. I do hope you are well. Tamar and Tolya have treated you kindly, I expect?”

You shrunk under his gaze, letting out a nervous chuckle. “Is my title that easy to spot? You’re the second to figure it out, is it something I’m doing?”

“Tamar has a keen eye,” Sturmond shrugged, grinning. “But you’re also wearing an evening gown fit for court, and the jewels around your neck could buy a small country. Those things aren’t exactly subtle, darling. Even with that cloak.”

You nodded, still nervous but relaxing with his calm demeanor. “I was told you could grant me passage away from the palace? I can pay, I don’t expect you to do this out of the kindness of your heart. But seeing as we’ve already left the harbor, I don’t think you have any other option but to take me with you. Unless you intend on throwing me overboard into the bay, although I’ll thank you kindly not to do that.”

“In that dress? You’d sink to the bottom, darling. There’s no need to worry, Princess. You’ll stay dry on deck, that I can assure you,” he chuckled, motioning for you to sit. 

“We’ll inform the crew our trip has been extended,” Tamar announced, pulling Tolya behind her to leave the cabin. 

You sat in the chair on the other side of Sturmhond’s desk, and he sat across from you. He offered you a kind smile, one that surprised you. You had heard plenty about the infamous privateer. You hadn’t expected him to be this young and handsome. His reputation matched that of an old tycoon, not of what appeared to be an ex soldier. He looked at you with curiosity, motioning for you to speak. 

“So, would you like to explain to me why my ship is sailing back out to sea? Not that I’m upset or anything, I was dreading my return to Ravka myself. But as I understand it, you were asked to come to Ravka to strengthen a political alliance—”

“And how would you know about that?” You interrupted, raising a brow. 

He smiled, shrugging. “I have my ways. It pays to know lots of things about lots of things. Including which Princesses are being married off to far away royalty.”

“Do you know him?” You asked, your voice a little unstable. “The Prince, I mean. Nikolai. I could hardly find anyone who knew him, and any knowledge of him was limited. I went into this alliance blind, thanks to my parents and advisors.”

Sturmhond’s grin widened as he nodded. “I do know him, yes. We were briefly acquainted some time ago.”

“And?”

“He’s alright,” Sturmhond laughed, leaning back in his seat. “Dashingly handsome. A bit cocky for my taste, perhaps a little spoiled, but what royalty isn’t, right? No offense.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “None taken.”

“I suppose you’re lucky in that you’re set to marry him, and not the Crown Prince. Vasily is—how should I put this—well…”

“A bastard?” You finished, making Sturmhond chuckle, nodding. 

“He is, yes. Nikolai is, in another manner of speaking, the same as well. Is that why you’re running? You don’t want to risk your reputation on a second son who may not even be the second son?”

Sturmhond looked at you through curious eyes, although there was a little apprehension in them. A little vulnerability that you didn’t quite know what to make of. You shook your head, inadvertently easing his thoughts. 

“It’s just rumors, Sturmhond. Whether there is any truth to them, I don’t know, and I don’t care. History records names, not blood. A true Lantsov or not, it doesn’t matter to me. It’s not Nikolai’s fault who his true parents are, and he shouldn’t have to bear the consequences of their actions. All that matters to my parents is what he means for my country. His reputation doesn’t affect that.”

“And what matters to you?” Sturmhond asked, his eyes softening. “Your secrets are safe with me, and I promise to not throw you overboard for whatever your answers are. Why are you running, Princess?”

You sat in silence for a moment, letting out a heavy sigh. Sturmhond politely waisted for you to start, nodding encouragingly for you to speak. 

You fiddled with your hands in your lap nervously. “Nikolai’s blood doesn’t matter to me, truly. All that really matters is that he has a kind heart, and he makes living at Ravkan court for the rest of my life more bearable.” 

Sturmhond nodded as he listened intently. You continued.

“From what I hear, he’s a perfectly good man. Compared to my list of options, he was probably the best I could have hoped for.”

“Was? Or is? Do you intend on running forever? Seems like a waste of time in what is already a fleeting existence, Princess,” he said quietly. 

“I know,” you nodded, growing frustrated. “I don’t know why I did it. I just thought about being alone at court for the rest of my life, and even the promise of a semi decent Prince wasn’t enough to ease my fears. I just wanted control over my own life for once, you know? My own freedom. It was a rash decision, I admit. But it seems to be working well in my favor so far.”

Sturmhond nodded, standing up from his desk to pour two glasses of whiskey. You downed yours the second he placed it in front of you, deciding it was better to let the second one sit when he refilled your glass.

“And Nikolai? What are his thoughts on the matter?”

You shrugged, fiddling with the glass. “I don’t know. He hasn’t been at court since I arrived. I have yet to meet him. Although, once he hears of me running, I’m sure any first impressions he could have had of me are ruined.”

“I don’t know about that.”

You raised a brow, coaxing him to continue. “Really? Why is that?”

“From what I hear, Nikolai isn’t really one for court, either,” he started, shrugging. “He runs when he gets the chance, too. Why do you think he’s away from court so often?”

You pondered the thought for a minute. “I don’t know. I always assumed his duties took him elsewhere. He’s not the Crown Prince, so he doesn’t need to remain in the palace. He serves in the First Army, doesn’t he?”

Sturmhond nodded, grinning. “He does. Or, to put it more accurately, he did. I think he just loiters around neighboring countries until his Mother forces him to come home and make an appearance now.”

You chuckled, letting out a deep sigh. “Isn’t that a treat? Coming home for the first time in months, only to find out your bride to be has run away.”

“With a face like that, I doubt he’ll care much about anything once he sees you.” 

You felt the heat creep to your cheeks at his words, setting your eyes to your lap to avoid Sturmhond’s heavy gaze. You could practically hear the smirk in his voice as he breathed out a laugh. 

“Besides, I’m told the Prince isn’t expected back at court for a few more days. Plenty of time for you to decide whether or not you want me to turn this ship around. Who would I be to deny a Princess?”

You smiled, your voice soft. “And if I don’t want to turn around?”

“Well, you’re paying me. I don’t really care either way, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he said, grinning as he topped your glass off. “But just between you and me, I’d do it for free. Anything for a pretty face like that. Just don’t go telling everyone I said that, I have a reputation to maintain.”

You laughed, nodding. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

—

You spent the next few days on the ship, feeling more and more at ease the further you made it from Ravkan shores. 

At night, you longed for home. 

Not for you parents, or any of their advisors. But for your own bed—not on a constantly rocking ship—and the familiar trill of the birds outside your window on dewy mornings. For the library in the East Wing people seemed to forget was even there, and the soup the cooks would make when a chill was in the air. For the gardens midmorning where you could escape to when you wanted to avoid all the guards constantly watching you. 

Sturmhond did a good job at keeping you distracted from saddening thoughts, though. It was sweet of him, really. Making sure you had someone with you during the day, taking all his meals with you in the evening. 

Your time on the ship was the most relaxed you had been in a long time, actually, which you attributed to him. 

Sturmhond had quite the representation amongst high society—or any society, really—and he certainly met your expectations. He was charming, and attractive. Clever and ambitious, like everyone said he was. 

You hadn’t expected him to be as attentive as he is, however. He seemed to really enjoy a new guest on the ship, one that could keep up with his banter. He didn’t make you feel like a burden like your parents so often did, actually including you in his daily routine. 

Tolya and Tamar were great, too. Kind, and funny. Fiercely loyal and protective, both of their captain and of each other. They were the kind of friends you hoped to make during your time in Ravka. 

So far, it was off to a good start. 

As the days moved on, you found yourself growing closer to Sturmhond. You tried to stop yourself in the beginning. Despite not wanting it for yourself, you were engaged to Nikolai. Falling for another man wasn’t exactly a good thing for your future

But that damned smile.

His ridiculously attractive smile, and his stupid mop of hair that had only gotten longer from his time at sea. The infuriating way he’d look at you and make you want to shrink away from his gaze, but you could never bring yourself to look away. The obnoxious green emerald ring he wore that could probably buy a small village.

He had charmed you, despite your reservations, and you were practically head over heels. It scared the absolute shit out of you. 

Tamar had of course noticed already, confronting you about it one night after dinner. She joined you on deck, sitting next to you on a crate as you watched the stars twinkle in the sky. They were so visible out at sea, away from all the lights and clutter of the cities. 

“You’re not hiding anything from me, you know,” she smirked, sneaking your flask away to take a few sips from it. 

You feigned innocence, shaking your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tamar.”

“Come on, darling. Let’s skip the bluffing…you like him. It’s so obvious.”

“Saints, I hope not,” you groaned, scrunching your nose up at the thought of Sturmhond finding out. 

Tamar grinned at your embarrassment, chuckling. “Don’t worry. I may not swing that way, but I know the look when I see it. He’s all puppy dog eyes and desperate looks of longing when he sees you. It’s gross, really. I can actually hear his heart skip a beat when he sees you. He likes you, too. I’d stake money on it.”

You swallowed down your excitement, trying to think rationally. “Don’t even joke about that, it’s not funny.”

“I’m serious! You’re a catch, Princess. He may be my captain, but he’d be a fool not to want you.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, but we can stop there,” you nervously chuckled. “We don’t need this going to my head. I’ll do something stupid like staying on this boat forever.”

She grinned, nudging your shoulder with hers. “Would that be so bad?”

—

The next few days, you couldn’t get Tamar’s words out of your head. You went on with your routine with Sturmhond as usual, trying not to put much thought into it. 

Your feelings for him were true, that’s for sure. 

And when you’d catch him looking at you from across the deck, you’d swear by the look in his eye that he felt something for you, too. What it was, exactly, you didn’t know. 

But it was something. 

On your last evening before you had to make a decision about where you wanted to go, you skipped dinner. You couldn’t bring yourself to go along with your usual banter with Sturmhond, beginning to feel guilty about just how close and comfortable you’d gotten with him. 

You still had a duty to your country and your family, which meant at least a little to you. Plus, it wasn’t fair to make a promise to Prince Nikolai, only to leave him hanging when he returned to Ravka. 

You were leaning against the deck railing, watching the way the moonlight bounced over the still waters. So lost in thought, you almost didn’t register Sturmhond’s approaching footsteps. 

“A bit chilly for stargazing, isn’t it?” He asked, coming to stand next to you. 

You turned to see him, smiling when you noticed he was wearing his signature blue coat. You couldn’t remember a time since you met that he wasn’t dressed to the nines, no matter what time of day it was. 

“You know, for a pirate, you don’t really look like one.” 

He grinned, gently correcting you. “A privateer, darling, not a pirate. There’s a difference, I assure you.”

“Ah, a privateer. How could I have forgotten?” You chuckled, hugging yourself in an effort to shield your arms from the biting cold. “But seriously. The emerald on your finger is the size of a walnut, and that coat is fit for royalty. I find it hard to believe a privateer does well enough to afford things as nice as those.”

“Maybe I’m just good at my job,” he retorted, that signature smirk on his face.

It was enough to stir butterflies in your stomach, making you turn to look back out at the water. His gaze lingered on you a moment, and you could feel the heat creeping up to your cheeks under the weight of his stare. 

“You’re cold,” he observed, breaking the silence.

“I’m fine,” you tried to say, but Sturmhond interrupted you.

“I can practically hear your teeth chattering,” he laughed, shrugging his coat from his shoulders. “Here. Seeing as my coat is fit for royalty, as you say, I think it’ll suit you better.”

“Sturmhond—”

“Princess,” he mirrored, smirking when you relented, letting him place it around your shoulders. 

“Thank you,” you said softly.

You turned away from the water to face him, leaning back against the bannister. His eyes flitted up and down your form at his coat wrapped around shoulders, before his eyes met yours. He took a seat on the crate behind him, leaning back and settling into the post next to him. It was quiet a moment before he finally spoke.

“You weren’t in your cabin at dinner. Where have you been?”

You sighed, fiddling with the sleeve of his coat. “Thinking.”

“Thinking? About what?”

“About my future,” you said shakily, shoulders slumping. “Both the imminent one, and the one to follow based on what I decide tonight.”

Sturmhond nodded, seemingly lost in thought. “I’ve been thinking about that, too, if I’m being honest.”

You raised a brow at his words. He’d been thinking about your future? He’d been thinking about you? The thought was both intriguing and terrifying, and you hoped the confusion on your face wasn’t too apparent.

“Well, I…I’m sorry, what?”

“Your future directly impacts me,” he quickly corrected, suddenly steeling his face and meeting your confusion with his usual grin. “Where you go I go, remember? You are paying me, after all.”

You tried to hide your disappointment, forcing a smile. It was a foolish hope to have, that he’d think something more of you. But it wasn’t a hope you were ready to give up. 

Not just yet, at least. 

He seemed to notice your disappointment, brows furrowing. “Have I upset you?”

“No,” you quickly replied, trying to brush it off with a laugh. “No, it’s not you. I’m just not quite sure what I should do. I know you need an answer, and Ravka needs an answer, but…I don’t have one yet.”

“Why?” 

You shook your head, sighing in frustration. “Earlier, I had more than halfway made up my mind. I value my freedom, but I think I value my dignity more. I don’t think I could go anywhere and face anyone, knowing I’ve turned my back on my duties. It may have not been a promise I made for myself personally, but it is a promise I had every intention of keeping.”

“Then what’s stopping you?” He asked, a genuine look of concern on his face.

His eyes softened on you as your face fell, and you turned away from him as you felt heat creep up to your cheeks. You could hear him stand and approach you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. 

“Princess?” He asked, only worsening your embarrassment. 

He spoke again, finally getting you to acknowledge him. “You’re worrying me, darling. Surely it cannot be that bad.”

“But it is,” you groaned, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes to stave off the tears you could feel brewing. 

“Try me,” he said gently, carefully placing a hand on your arm. “You can tell me the truth. What’s stopping you from returning to Ravka?”

You could feel his touch even through the coat, which struck you like a punch to the gut when you remembered it was, in fact, his coat you were wearing. And to make it worse, that damned grin was on his face as he spoke with such a genuine kindness in his voice that it made you want to cry. 

You finally met his eyes, taking a sharp breath. Shit, you thought to yourself. You were really going to admit it. He eagerly awaited your response, which you finally managed to utter. 

“You.”

He sucked in a breath, withdrawing his hand. He looked up at the sky for a moment, before taking another breath and turning back to you. 

“Me?” He asked. 

“You,” you said again, exasperatedly laughing. “You, and your ridiculous clothes, and your infuriating charm, and your kindness and ambition…that damned smile.” 

Sturmhond’s cheeks flushed, and he took a step back, although he was grinning like a fool. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. You didn’t dare speak, waiting for him to say something. After an agonizing moment of silence, he leaned against the bannister, letting out a chuckle.

“What?” You forced yourself to ask, preparing yourself for his answer. 

“Saints, Princess…you’ve gone and done it now.”

You shook your head, your heart dropping to the pit of your stomach. “What?”

“You’ve managed to outdo me. On my own ship. Quite the feat, I’ll give you that,” he laughed, still grinning. 

You narrowed your eyes, still shaking your head. “Sturmhond, I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re saying to me right now. Will you do the honor of enlightening me, or are you going to stand there grinning at me all night?”

“You like my grin,” he mused, making you flush.

He spoke again, saving you from your embarrassment. “And it just so happens that I like yours, too. I like all of you. Very much so indeed, Princess.”

Your heart lurched into your throat at his words, and you had to grab ahold of the bannister behind you to keep yourself steady. He placed his hand over top of yours, his palm warming yours. 

“I cannot believe you beat me to the punch. It’s rude to upstage a captain on his own ship. You’re lucky you’re royalty. I’ll allow it just this once.”

You had just now calmed your breathing, beginning to take in the weight of his words, and what it meant for you both. “Sturmhond, I—”

“I have a confession to make,” he suddenly said in a very serious tone, startling you. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I must tell you something before either of us share something we can’t take back.”

“Alright…” You said uneasily. 

Carefully, he took your hand in his, giving it a squeeze. You let him hold it, waiting for him to speak. Absentmindedly, you comfortingly ran your thumb along the back of his hand, silently reassuring him. 

“My name isn’t Sturmhond,” he finally said, the nerves in his voice the worst you had ever heard them. 

Trying not to jump to any hasty conclusions, you nodded, squeezing his hand once more. “Alright…if it isn’t Sturmhond, then what is it?”

“Well, technically it is, but it also isn’t. It’s just a nickname—” He rambled, and you placed your other hand on top of his to stop him. 

“I gathered that much. What else are you trying to tell me? Go on, you can say it.”

He took a deep breath, his voice soft. “It’s true that people call me Sturmhond, but I’m much better known for my birth name…Nikolai. Nikolai Lantsov.”

The realization struck you like a bolt of lightning. You tried not to flinch in his grasp, but you knew he could feel you stiffen. You cleared your throat, feeling your voice begin to grow hoarse

“Nikolai Lantsov…as in Prince Nikolai Lantsov, second son of the Ravkan throne? Moi tsarevich,” you croaked out, attempting to curtsy. 

“Please,” Nikolai said, holding both your hands in his to keep you from bowing. “There is no need for such formalities, darling. If anything, I should be the one bowing to you.”

You stood up straight, shaking your head. “We’re long past that, don’t you think?” 

He chuckled, nodding. “I suppose so.”

The reality of your situation began to set in, and you couldn’t stop yourself from chuckling along with him. He smiled at the sound, raising a brow. 

“What is it?”

“I suppose my little dilemma is solved then,” you said, shrugging. “I was beginning to spiral, thinking my annoying habit of not being able to contain my feelings had ruined any decision I could have made. But of course—in your usual fashion—you’ve managed to upstage me. As is your right, it is your ship, after all. Well, I suppose there’s no decision to make now. At least, I think there isn’t…right?”

Any nerves you had mustered up were immediately squashed when Nikolai brought his hands up to cup your face, running his thumbs across the tops of your cheeks.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I’d take you wherever you wanted to go. All I can hope now is that you’ll allow me to join you…wherever that is.”

You brought a hand up to rest against his wrist. “Don’t you want to go home? You’re expected back in Ravka any day now.”

“I love my country, but I’m in no hurry to return. You’ve told me multiple times how dreadful court was for you—”

“That doesn’t matter,” you quickly said, squeezing his wrist. 

“Of course it does! I cannot ask you to return to a country you’ll be miserable in for the rest of your days for a man you barely know.”

“It’s a good thing you aren’t asking, then,” you reaffirmed, giving him a smile. “I told you. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. I said that I was afraid I would be all alone at court, and that I was afraid the man I am promised to wouldn’t want a life with me.” 

“What a fool he’d have to be to not want that,” Nikolai joked, making your grin widen.

You continued to reassure him, not convinced that he was believing your words. 

“You say that you’ll follow me wherever I go. Well, I want to go with you. Wherever that is. And I want you to go home. I may have not known you for long, but I’ve been around you long enough to know that you won’t truly be content if you’re tied to my wishes. And I know you’re too stubborn to admit that, so I’ll tell you my wishes, and I need you to believe me. I wish to be with you. I wish for you to return to wherever feels like home, and I wish for you to take me with you. If that’s Ravka, then Ravka will be home. Court will become much more bearable with you there. And if it begins to become too much, I know a certain privateer that can whisk us away for a few days.”

He was doing it again. Smiling like an idiot. He seemed to be in disbelief at your words, this being one of the very few times in his life that he couldn’t find the right words to say. 

“I didn’t mean to trick you, Princess. I should have told you who I was from the beginning.”

You shook your head. “I don’t blame you, Nikolai. If I was given the chance, I wouldn’t have told you who I really was, either. At least, not until I knew I could trust you. I would have done the same as you did. It’s alright.”

“I can’t believe my luck,” he grinned, taking your hand. “How is it that my betrothed managed to stumble upon my ship the very hour I returned to Ravka?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not one to believe in fate, and it sounds impossible.”

“Not impossible…improbable,” he corrected, smirking when you playfully narrowed your eyes up at him. 

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help but smile at your turn of luck. “Are we doing this? Are you going home to Ravka?”

“Are we going home, you mean? I can’t be expected to abandon my betrothed when she turns out to be the single most invigorating person I’ve ever met, now can I?”

“You cannot,” you agreed.

A comfortable moment of silence passed between you both, and you looked down at his hands as you held them in yours. The familiar glint of green on his finger made you chuckle. 

“I knew it, by the way,” you added, grinning. “This coat and that ring are far too ridiculous for a privateer. They’re fit for royalty. Fit for a Lantsov.”

“Am I to understand that you’re not interested in a Lantsov emerald for your engagement ring?” He asked, smirking when you quickly shook your head.

You laughed, pulling his hand closer to inspect his ring. “I said nothing of the sort. I was merely observing how ridiculous it is, as well as this coat. But I’m still wearing it, aren’t I? If I’m going to be married to a ridiculous man, I should begin preparing now, shouldn’t I?”

He narrowed his eyes, playfully jutting his chin up at you. “You just like the coat and want to keep it. It’s alright, darling, you can admit it. We can have your own fitted for you, all you have to do is ask.”

Nikolai gripped the hem of your sleeve, tugging you closer by the arm of his coat. You let him pull you, chuckling nervously when he drew you nearer. 

“I admit nothing, only that my future husband has a taste I will have to acquire. But I’m sure I’m up for the task. We have all the time in the world now, don’t we?”

“We do,” he smiled, settling his hands around your waist. “Although I’ll have to admit, I don’t think we know each other well enough to become husband and wife.”

You tensed under his hold, and he quickly retracted his statement, shaking his head. He didn’t give you enough time to truly panic, interrupting your train of thought. 

“And that’s perfectly fine, darling. Like you said, we have all the time in the world to get to know each other. I think I’d like to take advantage of that starting now. After all, it is our last night on the ship, isn’t it? At least, I assume it is. I expect you’ll want to set a course for Ravka now. Unless you’d rather I get down on one knee, and make a big show of it first. I can do that, if you wish.”

“I certainly wouldn’t stop you,” you chuckled, letting your hands rest on top of his as your tone shifted to a more serious note. “Are we really doing this, Nikolai? Returning to Ravka? Getting married?”

He smiled wider, a twinkle in his eye as he looked down at you. “I’ve wanted you since the moment you stepped foot on my ship, the second I laid eyes on you. And I’ve wanted you more every day since. I’m not one to believe in fate either, but I do think the Saints may have gifted you to me. Who knows what I did to deserve it, but you most definitely won’t find me questioning their will if you’re the result.”

You felt your heart swell at his words. He was right. Of all the ships in the harbor, his was the one you found yourself on. Of all the captains in Ravka, he was the one who took you in. The man you were supposed to marry, and you found yourself falling for him long before you even knew who he truly was. If that isn’t fate, then what is?

“I’ll take all the influence from the Saints I can get when it comes to explaining to your parents why I’ve disappeared right out from under them,” you said with a groan, leaning into him. 

Nikolai chuckled, holding you close. “My Mother will forget all about it when she sees my future safely secured with marriage. There is no need to worry, trust me.”

“I may not have to worry about her, but I do need to worry about Tamar,” you said, letting out a pained chuckle. “I think she staked money on our little situation.”

“She most definitely did. I expect Tolya will be paying up when they hear the news. Who should break it to him?”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I think that duty lies with you, as my future husband. If I’m going to have to listen to Tamar’s endless bragging about being right, then you should have to take half the burden in the form of telling Tolya. That’s how marriage works, isn’t it? Half and half. It’s only fair.”

It was his turn to groan now as he pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, taking yours in the other. 

“Alright, I’ll do it, but you have to accompany me. I think your presence will help soften the blow. What do you say, darling? After all…it’s only fair.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, squeezing his hand. “If I must. You’re lucky you’re pretty, Lantsov.”

“Darling, I’m lucky for a lot more than that,” he smiled endearingly, and you couldn’t help but smile back.

— A/N - Hi! This is SO long, I’m so sorry. And I’m so sorry for taking so long to get this out, I’ve been busy and had no time to write. But I finally forced myself to get this done, and now I have more time to write! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, let me know what you think! Thank you again for the requests :)

[poniranje]

The Slav Epic No. 1: Slavs in Their Original Homeland, Between the Turanian Whip and the Sword of the Goths

The Slav Epic No. 2: The Celebration of Svantovit, When Gods Are at War, Salvation Is in the Arts

The Slav Epic No. 3: The Introduction of the Slavonic Liturgy, Praise the Lord in Your Native Tongue

The Slav Epic No. 4: The Bulgarian Tsar Simeon, The Morning Star of Slavonic Literature

The Slav Epic No. 5: The Bohemian King Přemysl Otakar II, The Union of Slavic Dynasties

The Slav Epic No. 6: The Coronation of the Serbian Tsar Stefan Dušan as East Roman Emperor, The Slavic Code of Law

The Slav Epic No. 7: Jan Milíč of Kroměříž, A Brothel Converted to a Convent

The Slav Epic No. 8: Master Jan Hus Preaching at the Bethlehem Chapel, Truth Prevails

The Slav Epic No. 9: The Meeting at Křížky, Utraquism

The Slav Epic No. 10: After the Battle of Grunwald, The Solidarity of the Northern Slavs

The Slav Epic No. 11: After the Battle of Vítkov Hill, God Represents Truth, Not Power

The Slav Epic No. 12: Petr Chelčický at Vodňany, Do Not Repay Evil With Evil

The Slav Epic No. 13: The Hussite King Jiří of Poděbrady, Treaties Are to Be Observed

The Slav Epic No. 14: Defense of Sziget Against the Turks by Nicholas Zrinsky, The Shield of Christendom

The Slav Epic No. 15: The Printing of the Bible of Kralice in Ivančice, God Gave Us a Gift of Language

The Slav Epic No. 16: The Last days of Jan Amos Komenský in Naarden, A Flicker of Hope

The Slav Epic No. 17: Holy Mount Athos, Sheltering the Oldest Orthodox Literary Treasures

The Slav Epic No. 18: The Oath of Omladina Under the Slavic Linden Tree, The Slavic Revival

The Slav Epic No. 19: The Abolition of Serfdom in Russia, Work in Freedom Is the Foundation of a State

The Slav Epic No. 20: Apotheosis of the Slavs, Slavs for Humanity

Alphonse Mucha

Source

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

Today, Israel is voting in its local elections (for mayors and city councils). ALMOST all of Israel. The original date was at the end of October 2023, for obvious reasons, the elections were postponed. There were also a lot of mayor nominees, who were summoned for reserves service due to the war, and one of the reasons why the elections were postponed more than once, was to give as many of them as possible a chance to finish their service, and participate in their own election campaign. But even so, there are still hundreds of thousands of people from evacuated communities (displaced people, internal refugees, however you wanna call them), and therefore not everyone will be voting today. For the evacuated cities and towns, the elections were postponed until November. Looking at things, it's not sure they'll be back in their homes by then either, so IDK what their elections will look like. And then of course there are the hostages. Save for two, 4 years old Ariel Bibas and his 1 years old baby brother Kfir, they all had the right to vote, and none will get to. We remember them and hurt over their absence and everything being continuously being stolen from them on this day, too. On a side note, the national supervisor of these local electional is Rayan Ghanem. And if you know Jewish last names, you know Ghanem is not one of them. I'm trying to remember a time in apartheid South Africa when a non-white was a national supervisor of elections.

Despite still pointing out that the International Court of Justice has no right to judge the case brought to it by South Africa (becaue of SA's false claims to bring this case to court), Israel has filed a report in accordance with one of the ICJ's provisional measures, showing that its actions are in compliance with all of them (like providing humanitarian aid to Gaza, and doing all it can to protect civilians).

Meanwhile, at Harvard, just 6 weeks after she was appointed to lead the task force meant to combat Jew hatred, the university's antisemitism tsar has quit her position, with reports saying that she's frustrated over her inability to implement practical measures.

Remember when I wrote about Idan Amedi, the Israeli singer and actor that most people outside our country know from his role on Fauda? He gave a really moving speech when he was released from the hospital. I've wanted to share it for a while, but couldn't find it translated well. I found this bit:

But it really doesn't cover how moving the whole speech is (it's 9 minutes long). Among other things, he also thanked medical teams, assured Israelis we have the best ones, and apologized to his soldiers who died in the same incident in which he was injured. He also mentioned that he was unrecognizable when he was rushed into the hospital, and that doctors only identified him by the note that was attacked to his hand. It turns out, he really wanted people to see what he was talking about, and to understand that by the time he gave this public speech, he was already looking much better than on the day of he was wounded. So here is the image he shared himself on his IG (just scroll quickly past it, if you feel like it is too much for you, which is an understandbale reaction):

This is 68 years old David Edri.

On October 7, he was held hostage with his wife by Hamas for hours. At a certain point, he even covered his wife Rachel with his own body, in order to protect her from the terrorists' shots. They both survived. Yesterday, we got the news that he has passed away. His family said the trauma and stress from the massacre, and the news of its scale, had aggravated his medical problems for the last couple of months, until he could no longer go on.

This is 23 years old Raz Mizrachi.

In May 2021, she was injured in a vehicular terrorist attack in Jerusalem, but survived. On Oct 7, she was attending the Nova music festival. Her last phone call was to the police, to help instruct them on where she and dozens of others were hiding from Hamas terrorists, inside a public bomb shelter. Raz was murdered shortly after that. When her mom got a copy of the call's recording, she said it was a great source of comfort to the family, to know that Raz was a fighter till the last moment.

May their memory be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[adini-nikolaevna]

“Your sympathy is a great comfort to me and my daughter, who has endured such a severe trial at such an early age... She tells me that she would not for anything in the world wish to change the past, no matter how short, but happy it was; and I will never forget his look when the Tsar led her by the hand to his bed! It was pure happiness, and he recognized her all day when he was dying. He said goodbye to her, kissed her, and held her hand tightly in his until he died! We were on the road for four days and four nights, and she never left his bedside, kneeling next to him day and night, until at one o'clock in the afternoon she kissed him and he exhaled his young life! It was terrible for me, because I loved him very much and saw how all the happiness of the poor young bride had faded away... Minnie went to Darmstadt for the day to see his parents again. The whole dear family was so kind and sweet to her that the separation was doubly painful for her."

- Queen Louise of Denmark in a letter to Queen Victoria, on her daughter Princess Dagmar’s grief at the death of her fiancé, Grand Duke Nicholas Alexandrovich of Russia. Dagmar went on to become Empress Maria Alexandrovna as the wife of Nicholas’s brother, Emperor Alexander III. Their firstborn son was named after the uncle he never knew, he is known to history as Nicholas II, the last Russian emperor.

[thebadgerclan]

Salvation

Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x reader

Summary: You are his salvation...

A/N: This is based on the scene from Queen Charlotte where she finds out what the doctors have been doing to George (episode 5 I think?)

The demon was back.  After months of peace, of Nikolai’s mind being entirely his own, it was back.  The King had flown from his window three weeks ago, and since then, your contact with him had been limited.  It was a protocol that your husband had drawn up after his last battle with the demon, a contingency plan that he prayed he’d never have to enact.  But prayers weren’t always answered.

You now slept in separate chambers, your husband had returned to being chained to his bed and sedated.  Even during the day, a time that had been proven safe from the demon, Nikolai was distant, subdued.  You’d overheard him discussing it with one of his advisers: “Her Majesty is worried, moi tsar.”  “I cannot risk her,” your husband had responded.  “She is far too important.”

What little you saw of your husband broke your heart.  He looked exhausted, and you might have been able to chalk it up to the stress of the situation, had it not been for one minuscule, almost imperceptible detail.  Nikolai had brought in physicians from all over Ravka in hopes of finding a cure, and one, Doctor Laisia Orlov from Tsibeya, had some interesting theories.  At this point, Nikolai was willing to try anything to expel the demon from him, so he allowed Doctor Orlov to set up rooms in the Palace to do her work.

It was nearly a month and a half into your husbands treatment that you noticed it.  Nikolai had been meeting with his council when the Doctor entered, and when she walked near the King, he flinched.  You didn’t claim to be a medical professional, but you knew that a patient shouldn’t flinch when their doctor walked past.  From then, you noticed that Nikolai would mumble to himself, his hands would shake, his head would twitch.  Something was amiss, and it had something to do with Doctor Orlov.

It was two weeks after that that you got a feeling deep in your gut that something was wrong.  Not just wrong, but deeply, horribly wrong.  You pushed aside the papers you’d been going over and tracked down Nikolai’s valet.  He was flanked by four guards, which was extremely unusual, but they bowed when you approached.  “My Queen,” Akim, your husband’s valet, greeted.  “How may I assist you?”

“Akim, where is my husband?”  Before he could answer, one of the guards interjected.  “He is occupied, moya tsaritsa,” he said, which only raised your suspicion.  “Forgive me, but my question was not directed at you.  Akim, where is Nikolai?”  The valet shifted, and you pushed on.  “I will not ask again, Akim.”  “He is–” he cleared his throat.  “He is receiving treatment.  With Doctor Orlov.”

Again, your suspicion rose, but you forced yourself to remain calm.  “Well then, I should like to observe her work.  She is employing some revolutionary methods, is she not?”  “You do not wish to see that, Your Majesty,” said another guard, and your expression hardened.  “I am the Queen,” you said.  “You do not presume to tell me what I would and would not like to see.  Now, where are the Doctor’s rooms located?”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the first guard said.  “I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”  You drew yourself up to your full height, and while this guard was taller than you, he cowered a bit.  “I am not asking,” you said, voice icy.  “Now, tell me where my husband is, or I will have you charged with treason.”  “This way, Your Majesty,” Akim said suddenly, and you hurried to follow him.

The King’s valet led you into the kitchens and the storage cellar below, your concern growing with every step.  Then you heard it: screaming.  Nikolai, screaming.  You hiked up your skirts and ran down the corridor, panic bubbling in you.  When you came to a door, you slammed it open, the sight behind it igniting rage and horror in you.  Your husband was tied to a chair, a gag between his teeth, a red hot poker pressed to his chest.

“What is this?” you demanded, and Doctor Orlov paused.  “Untie the King.”  Akim and the four guards had trailed you, but all stood frozen.  “Untie the King!  I command you!”  “Queen Y/N, you cannot–”  “Do not tell me what I can and cannot do!” you snapped, composure completely slipping.  “I will have you hanged for this, do you understand me?  Torturing your King?”

“It is not torture, Majesty, it is medicine!” Doctor Orlov argued.  “You cannot have me hanged for practicing medicine.”  “I am your Queen!” you screamed, moving to stand nose-to-nose with the Doctor.  “If I wish for you to be hanged, then you will be hanged.  If I wish for you to be drawn and quartered, then you shall be.  If I wish for you to rot in a cell for the rest of your pathetic life, then you shall!  Get her out of my sight!”

The guards snapped to attention and dragged the Doctor out, and you turned your attention to your husband, who was being supported by Akim.  “Oh, Nikolai,” you breathed, and he fell into your arms, clutching your gown.  He was trembling, mumbling to himself.  “My love, what have they done to you?”  “Y-Y-Y/N?” he managed, and you nodded, cupping his cheek.  “Yes, darling, it’s Y/N.  Y/N’s here, I’m here.  It’s me, sweetheart.”

You felt him relax in your arms, and he let out a shuddering breath.  “Akim,” you called.  “Have the guards clear the halls and get a Healer to our rooms.”  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the valet said, hurrying from the room.  “It didn’t like her,” Nikolai mumbled, and you stroked his hair.  “What was that, my love?”  “It didn’t like her.  The demon.”  You were about to ask what he meant by that, but Akim re-entered.  “The halls are clear, Majesty.”

The two of you helped Nikolai to walk back to your rooms, and you changed him into his nightclothes, tucking him into bed.  The Healer arrived soon after, examining the King and healing the burns, rope marks, and leech bites.  “He’ll need rest,” she instructed.  “And he needs you.  After what he endured…”  “Of course,” you replied, thanking the Healer and dismissing her.

Nikolai was dozing, and you climbed into bed at his side, pulling him into your arms.  Already he seemed better, his face calm and relaxed, his tremor gone, no longer mumbling.  “Nikolai, darling?”  “Hmm?”  “What did you mean earlier when you said ‘it didn’t like her’?”  Your husband shifted in your arms so he could look at you.  “The demon didn’t like Orlov,” he explained.

“When she was around, it came to the forefront of my mind, it tried to get out.  And when she was…treating me, it would fight like mad to get free.  But when you came in there…when you held me, it went away.”  “Went away?”  “Mhmm,” your husband replied.  “When she was there, I had to fight to keep it at bay, but with you, it’s gone.  I don’t feel it at all.”  “Nikolai,” you said suddenly, clarity coming over you.  “Do you remember the night the demon came back?  When was it?”

The King thought for a moment before answering.  “I think it was the 8th, why?”  Suddenly, it all made sense.  “I was staying with my mother in Balakirev then,” you said.  “And that was the first night we’d spent apart since–”  “Since after the war,” Nikolai finished for you.  “Since I was infected with the demon.”  It all made perfect sense now: it wasn’t chance that the demon re-appeared, it happened in your absence.  

Now that he thought about it, more and more pieces clicked into place.  He’d felt the demon clawing at his mind before, when he was anxious or stressed, but when you were near, it released its clutches and left him in peace.  The Darkling had given him this curse, but the Darkling had never known love, never known the solace of another’s arms.  But Nikolai did, and it was that love, that solace that was his cure.  Not medicine, not science, not any religious ritual, it was you.  It had always been you.

“Y/N,” Nikolai said.  “You saved me.”  “I’ll have that mad woman hanged for what she did to you, I’ll–”  “Darling,” your husband said, smiling softly, brushing your hair behind your ear and cupping your cheek tenderly.  “As attractive as it is to hear you threaten someone on my behalf, that’s not what I mean.”  You heard a hint of his usual wit and banter slip back into his tone, and you knew that your husband was back.

“You are what keeps the demon at bay, my love,” Nikolai continued.  “When I feel it coming on, trying to get out, all I have to do is look at you, and it vanishes.  I have never felt its claws when I’m with you, when you’re in my arms.  Y/N Lantsov, you are my salvation, my solace, and my greatest love.”  Tears, happy tears pricked at your eyes, and you pressed your lips to his.

“If you’re making flowery declarations, then you must be feeling better,” you joked, but Nikolai was deadly serious.  “I’m not joking, Y/N.  The two months we were apart were the worst of my life. I couldn’t sleep, I barely ate, I was a shell of myself.  But an hour in your arms and I’m a new man.  You are my savior, Y/N.”  “Nikolai, I–”  “No, my love, you are.  My Queen, my salvation.”

You smiled, kissing him again.  “I love you so much, Nikolai,” you whispered, pulling him closer.  “I love you, I love you, I love you.  Saints, I’ve missed you.”  Nikolai nuzzled his face into your chest, happy to be held in your embrace.  “I love you too, my darling Y/N.  And I missed you far more than I could ever say.”  That Doctor would pay for what she’d done, but for now, you had your Nikolai, and he had his salvation.  His Y/N, his wife, his Queen, his love.

[copperbadge]

Sam, I must know what sort of things Gerald blogs about on his Tumblr. How old or active is his account? Is his identity a secret?

It's actually a reference to an older post where @dignitywhatdignity pointed out there was no way Ger wasn't on Tumblr. :D Reproduced my response below -- first, Photogram:

I can picture Jerry’s Photogram in my head very clearly because I’ve had to research the children of rich people and their fucking obnoxious instas, and Jerry’s is probably equal parts expensive cars, club glam, and scenic vistas, but mainly because that’s like…what you do. It’s just kind of the done thing, like wearing a shirt when you leave the house. 

Update: Gerald's photogram has shifted radically -- he still treats it as a Thing You Do but especially now that he's a dad it's a lot more Parenting Lifestyle stuff. Because a few of my friends have had babies in the last two years and I had to research the babies my fictional characters were having, the algo now thinks I have baby fever, so I get a lot of Parent Influencer content, and I bet Gerald does a lot of sly fun-poking at that stuff. Like, posting a photo of a bottle warmer and a bib-washing tabletop machine with commentary like "You cannot buy any of this in the shop I don't have, but if you're going to buy one stupid thing as a parent, buy the bib washer. Not a single shirt you own will be unstained but the bibs will be immaculate."

They don't post pictures of Serafina, though -- there are a couple of official portraits for PR reasons but day-to-day that shit is locked to friends and family only. (There are special websites for this, I have friends who use them, it's pretty neat.) The only time random candids of her are out there are usually when someone snaps Michaelis toting her around Fons-Askaz with her cousins -- the "King Emeritus and Royal Ducklings" are becoming a very familiar sight. At least once a week Michaelis takes Noah and Joan out for an afternoon in town with Sera in a snugli and the twins in a stroller. Don't ask him about his stepson and grandkids unless you really want to hear about them.

Meanwhile he also definitely has a secret super-weird tumblr and nobody can figure out if he’s roleplaying or shitposting or what when he posts stuff like “The family groupchat is all well and good until it starts heavily impacting local politics.” Are those horses really his or is he just visiting a barn? Is that…a photo of a plate full of appetizers at “My cousin’s latest house party” with Angela Merkel in the background? He certainly has some strong feelings about Princess Diana and equally strong feelings about Tsar Nicholas. Why is he one of only three people the official Eddie Rambler tumblr follows?

Gerald's tumblr has also slowed down since the diagnosis and becoming a dad, but the content is still random as hell and more authentically wild than his photogram. Again, no photos of Serafina, but it's very evident that whoever is running that particular tumblr has had a kid, or is pretending they have. He gets asks accusing him of faking shit for clout and every time he does, his response is simply to write the ask on a sheet of paper in longhand and photograph it in front of a famous European landmark and/or political figure.

Alanna tolerates this because it does keep him out of mischief and sometimes he takes Serafina with him to whatever landmark he's visiting, and she gets to have a quiet apartment to herself for a while.

(”Eddie Rambler’s on tumblr?” someone asks, and someone else replies “Name me one other TV chef brave AND stupid enough to be on tumblr” and then you realize it is in fact the official Eddie Rambler tumblr saying that.)

Eddie doesn't post to his official Tumblr anymore because he rarely has time and doesn't need to do the self-promotion, but Katie in Communications checks his inbox once a week and brings him the most entertaining asks to respond to. He's currently hovering somewhere around the level of Neil Gaiman in terms of "Famous people who are inexplicably on Tumblr."

Ultimately there develops a running joke that Jerry’s tumblr is run by either a) an upper-class vampire (rude) or b) the elected king of a micronation on the Mediterranean coast with a name nobody can spell (super rude!) 

One time Gerald accidentally pocket-posted a blurry selfie to his Tumblr but it was so poorly focused and clearly accidental that a bunch of people got mad at him for violating the privacy of the Duke of Shivadlakia. He had to pretend to have a week-long beef with himself to save face. He eventually got Noah to take a selfie with him, blanked out Noah's face, and then claimed the Duke had forgiven him and here was a selfie with him as proof.

It's a hard old life, being Duke of Shivadlakia, but someone's got to do it.

[worldoftheromanovs]

Alexandra Feodorovna’s Wedding Dress

“Her wedding dress was a magnificent creation; the outfit was so intricate that it took nearly an hour for Alexandra to dress. Her stockings were of lace, her shoes embroidered and decorated. Over these she wore layers of stiff petticoats. The wide, full skirt of silver brocade opened from the waist down to reveal a second underskirt of silver tissue, edged with fur. The décolletage was cut low, to reveal the neck and shoulders, and the gown had short sleeves trailing ermine-edged tippets. The tightly fitted, boned bodice was sewn with diamonds which sparkled with every move. The folds of the overskirt fell back to form a train, and a separate, sweeping court train of cloth-of-gold edged with ermine fell from her shoulders. Over this, Alexandra wore the imperial mantle of cloth-of-gold, lined and edged with ermine. These robes were so heavy that four pages had to help carry them.

Alexandra wore her hair swept back to emphasise her graceful neck and shoulders. Two long, twin side curls were attached to her own hair. Her long veil of tulle was held in place by a Russian Kokoshnik tiara, of diamonds set in platinum, and the Romanov nuptial crown of diamonds sewn on crimson velvet. Alexandra also wore a number of diamond brooches on the front of her gown, along with the jewelled chain of the Order of St. Andrew and strings of pearls around her neck. These jewels, as well as the tiara, had been wedding gifts from the late tsar, costing some 300,000 rubles ($150,000). She also wore the imperial riviére, a diamond necklace of 475 carats, and a pair of matching earrings. The earrings were so heavy, in fact, that they had to be supported by wires around the ears, which slowly cut into the flesh as the day wore on. Around her tiara, Alexandra wore a wreath of orange blossoms, brought from the Imperial Conservatory in Warsaw. Across the dress stretched the red ribbon of the Order of St. Catherine.”

[Greg King, The Last Empress: The Life and Times of Alexandra Feodorovna, Tsarina of Russia]

[otmaaromanovas]

Anastasia's personality

Lesser known quotes about Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov and her personality, from those who knew her and from Anastasia herself!

Happy reading :)

"Once they had seen this demonstration [of security dogs sniffing out objects], the Grand Duchesses often amused themselves by hiding objects on the island, and asking us to have them retrieved by the dogs. That was, above all, the favourite game of the youngest of the Grand Duchesses, Anastasia Nicholaievna. So the guide asked permission to take the Grand Duchess by the hand and let the dogs sniff it, who then disappeared into the island and brought back the hidden object. Of course, the Grand Duchess was hugely delighted." - Alexander Spiridovitch, Last Years at Tsarskoe Selo, Volume 1

Anastasia to tutor Pyotr Vasilievich Petrov: "Wikied P.V.P. I am very, very upsit with you. Why didn’t you write a litter to Maria and me? I’m telling you, you are very, very bad, extremely bad even. Maria and I have written you so meny letters and you haven’t replied. I am going to make mystakes on purpose. I alredy see where I made mystakes. Anastasia. 1909. 9 November." - Helen Azar, George Hawkins, Anastasia Romanov: The Tsar's Youngest Daughter Speaks Through Her Writings

"Sometimes, the Grand Duchesses would enter the thatched houses and strike up conversations with the peasant women. The male population worked far away, at fishing, Anastasia Nicholaievna made friends with an old peasant woman, whom she came to see in her thatched cottage several times, and with whom she had long conversations. The peasant was knitting a stocking, and showed the Grand Duchess how it was done. On her birthday, Anastasia Nicholaievna visited the old lady, and asked her how old she thought she was. When the old lady could not guess, the Grand Duchess announced proudly that she was eight years old!" - Alexander Spiridovitch, Last Years at Tsarskoe Selo, Volume 1

"We used to make long outings around the islands. One day, Anastasia Nicholaievna begged the Emperor to take her on one of these outings. The Emperor consented. It was a very long outing. We covered some fifteen to seventeen versts. Everybody, except the Emperor, was very tired, with Anastasia Nicholaievna at the point of tears. The people who accompanied the Emperor took turns carrying her pick-a-back [piggy back]. That outing was remembered for a long time." - Alexander Spiridovitch, Last Years at Tsarskoe Selo, Volume 1

"Anastasia Nicholaevna was a lively witty child, who developed rapidly in the midst of her sisters. Very mischievous, always gay she still amused herself with toys such as the little, stoppered bottles and pots which a doctor who visited the Imperial Family used to bring her. She and her brother got no end of fun from these things." - Alexander Spiridovitch, Last Years at Tsarskoe Selo, Volume 1

"Little Anastasie was delighted with the stir and bustle of city life and deeply interested in all she saw. The children developed a love for those little toy balloons which are sold in the streets. When they were very good I used to send out and get them one each. But Anastasie used sometimes to want me to stop the carriage and buy them from the men, and this, of course, could not be allowed. So I always said simply that I could not, without advancing any reason. She evidently thought force would have to be used to induce him to part with them, for one day she saw some little children walking on the Palace Quay, each one with a balloon. She drew my attention to them. "Look, look!" cried she; "little children with balloons; get out, take them from them and give them to me." I explained why that would not do, so she said, " Well, get out, and ask them nicely and politely, and perhaps they will give them to me."" - Margaretta Eagar, Six Years at the Russian Court

"Someone in speaking to me of the four little girls lately said to me, "...little Anastasie has personal charm beyond any child I ever saw."" - Margaretta Eagar, Six Years at the Russian Court

"I had got from England a preparation for the children's hair, and was rubbing it into little Anastasie's head one evening. She objected, and I said, " It will make your hair grow nicely, darling," so she submitted. Next evening I went to get the kappuka [solution] from the cupboard, and mademoiselle ran off into the next room. She returned dragging by its leg an awful dolly, a regular fetish, minus a wig, one eye, and an arm. She gravely took a little piece of sponge and began to rub the kappuka into the creature's head. I remonstrated, telling her I had to send to England for the stuff and did not want it wasted. She looked at me most reproachfully, and said, "My poor Vera! she has got no curls; this will make her hair grow." Of course, she got her way." - Margaretta Eagar, Six Years at the Russian Court

"Anastasia Nikolaevna was especially attracted to stores, where they sold doll shoes of various sizes…" - Sophia Ivanovna Tyutcheva, A Few Years Before the Catastrophe

Letter from Alexei to their father, Nicholas: "[22 Sept 1914] …Anastasia was throttling [tutor] M. Gilliard." This has also been translated as "…Anastasia was trying to strangle M. Gilliard" - George Hawkins, Alexei: Russia's Last Tsesarevich - Letters, diaries and writings

Letter from Alexandra to Nicholas: "Jan 6 1916 …Anastasia has bronchitis, head is heavy & hurts her swallowing, coughed in the night,, she writes about [Dr.] Ostrog.[orsky]. “Although he said that I look a little better than yesterday, but I am pale & my appearance is foolish in my view” just like the “Shvibzik” [her nickname] to say such things…" – Joseph T. Fuhrmann, Nicholas II and Alexandra Feodorovna. The complete Wartime Correspondence April 1914 – March 1917

Letter from Alexandra to either her brother or sister-in-law: "7 May 1913… Anastasia is growing gradually and is as funny as always." - Petra H. Kleinpenning, The Correspondence Of The Empress Alexandra Of Russia With Ernst Ludwig And Eleonore, Grand Duke And Duchess Of Hesse

The following are from Helen Azar, George Hawkins, Anastasia Romanov: The Tsar's Youngest Daughter Speaks Through Her Writings:

Tutor Pyotr Vasilievich Petrov to Anastasia: "12 October 1909. Hello dear, good, diligent, obedient (albeit not always), kind and affectionate (also not always?) Anastasia Nikolaevna!" - Helen Azar, George Hawkins, Anastasia Romanov: The Tsar's Youngest Daughter Speaks Through Her Writings

Anatoly Mordvinov to the Grand Duchesses: "September 19, 1915 My beloved torturers! I can’t express how pleased I was with your joint, dear, sweet letter… What terrible news, reported by my chief tormentor Anastasia Nikolaevna…"

Anastasia to Nicholas: "October 3rd [1915] …There was a psalm-reader who read so incredibly funny that it was simply impossible not to laugh"

Note from Anastasia to Alexei "…Now you, little piggy, know all the rooms…"

Letter from Anastasia to Alexei: "1 November 1915. ...My Dear and Darling Little Alexei! I haven’t forgotten my responsibility [to walk dog Joy], and every day either I or Madeleine or Tutles goes for a walk and it goes very well."

Last diary of Alexandra: "12/15 April. Marie comes with us [to Ekaterinburg], Olga will look after Baby, Tatiana the household & Anastasia will cheer all up." - Last diary of Alexandra Feodorovna

"Anastasia was not allowed to go to dinner, had to go to bed early, which was why she had dinner alone with the nanny in her giant lonely “upstairs”… So sad, these poor children live in a golden cage." - the memoirs of V. I. Chebotareva

Diary entry of the palace priest: "April 11, 1917 - …The former Heir was taken past my window in a wheelchair. Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna saw me in the window and loudly said to her mother, “Over there, the batiushka [father] is looking at us”" - Belyaev, Potapov, The Romanovs Under House Arrest: From the 1917 Diary of a Palace Priest

Letter from Maria to Nicholas: "April 1915 …The little Shvybzik [Anastasia's dog] just made a “governor” [accident] on Mama’s carpet, and Anastasia is not training him…" - Helen Azar, George Hawkins, Maria Romanov: Third Daughter of the Last Tsar, Diaries and Letters, 1908–1918

"...the most energetic and speedy - Anastasia Nikolaevna - had a rather silent, sedate and serious Navigator A.V. Saltanov [to look after her]. The latter ended up with most trouble and turmoil. Dear 'Nastasya', as the Gosudar [tsar] called her, was a trouble making tomboy. With her hair always messed up, always dishevelled, from morning till night she ran around the yacht, climbed up ladders, peeked where she should not have, until, with a lot of screaming she was finally led away and put to bed. Her parents said she was the "clown"." - Memoirs of Nikolai Vasilievich Sablin

"It was after Anastasia had arrived as a pupil that Gibbes met his first real problem. Still slightly built (she would soon grow rapidly), eager in her movements, her eyes sparkling with intelligence, she was self-possessed and in entire command of her features; he had met nothing like it any other child. Remembering a course in child psychology he had taken during one of his exploring periods at Cambridge, he tried as many innovations from it as he could; they did not shelter him from storms, usually sudden. Once, after a disturbed lesson, he refused to give her five marks, the maximum (and customary) number. For a moment the wondered what might happen; then, purposefully, Anastasia left the room. Within minutes she returned, carrying one of the elaborate bouquets that seemed always to be in waiting. 'Mr Gibbes,' she said winningly, 'are you going to change the marks?' He hesitated before he shook his head. Describing it long afterwards in a letter (1928) to the Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich, the Tsar's brother-in-law in Paris, Gibbes wrote: Drawing herself up to the most of her small height, she marched into the schoolroom next door. Leaving the door wide open, she approached the dear old Russian professor, Peter Vassilievich Petrov. 'Peter Vassilievich', she said, 'allow me to present you with these flowers'. By all the rules he should have refused them, but professors are human; he did not. Later, we made it up again, and I received my bouquets once more, for the Grand Duchess nearly always gave me one during those early years. I-well, I was more careful in my marking. We had both learned a lesson. Another morning would not be forgotten. There had been a children's fancy-dress dance at Tsarskoe Selo on the previous night. Gibbes, in tail-coat and white tie, waited at his desk for Anastasia to arrive. When she did, quickly and mischievously, her face was blackened like a chimney-sweep's and she carried a small golden ladder which she placed beside her while she waited for the lesson to begin. Gibbes, deciding to take no notice, was about to speak when he heard a rush of laughter outside the big double doors at the end of the room. They flew open, and through them there appeared the three elder Grand Duchesses with their mother. The Empress looked in horror. 'Anastasia!' she cried, 'go and change at once!' And, meekly, the sweep vanished. When she came back, her face scrubbed as red as a lobster, the gold ladder was still beside her desk; but everybody pretended not to see it and the lesson continued in the Empress's presence." - Trewin and Gibbes, Tutor to the Tsarevich

"Through the years he preserved from Tobolsk two cheap exercise books, each labelled ‘English’. ‘M. Romanof’ had written her name on one label. The other book belonged to A. Romanova (Shut Up!) Tobolsk 1917-1918.’ Grand Duchess Anastasia, more exuberantly talkative than her sisters, seized on one of Gibbes’s exasperated moments. When he told her to shut up, she asked him how to spell it and adopted it as her nickname." - Trewin and Gibbes, Tutor to the Tsarevich

"‘At the end of the farce [Gibbes reported] the husband has to turn his back, open his dressing-gown as if to take it off- Anastasia wore an old one of mine - and then exclaim: 'But I've packed my trousers; I can't go.' The night's applause had excited the little Grand Duchess. The piece had gone with a swing and they were getting through the 'business' so fast that a draught got under the gown and whisked its tail up to the middle of her back, showing her sturdy legs and bottom encased in the Emperor's Jaeger underwear. We all gasped; Emperor and Empress, suite and servants, collapsed in uncontrolled laughter. Poor Anastasia could not make it out. All were calling for a second performance, but this time she was more careful. Certainly I shall always remember the night; it was the last heart unrestrained laughter the Empress ever enjoyed.’" - Trewin and Gibbes, Tutor to the Tsarevich

"...Anastasia was the most amusing; she was always full of mischief. - “Anastasia is our family clown!” the Emperor once exclaimed, laughing, to my mother." - Olga Voronova, Upheaval

"Fleeting memories come back to me of those cloudless summer days. Pictures of the Emperor and his daughters at the Garden Party at Tsarskoe, the little Grand Duchess Anastasia, her cheeks scarlet with excitement, surrounded by a group of midshipmen, plying them with eager questions. “You will take me up into your conning tower,” her clear childish voice rang out above the hum of conversation. “Couldn’t you let off one of the guns and just pretend it was a mistake?”" - Muriel Buchanan, Ambassador's Daughter

"The youngest girl, Anastasia, was spirited, sly and playful; she would get under the dinner table and pinch the legs of some elderly statesman until her father pulled her out by her hair. She has been described as ‘a little inextinguishable volcano, with a world of her own’." - Bernard Pares, The Fall Of The Russian Monarchy A Study Of The Evidence

"The Tsar's youngest daughter was much the sprightliest and most entertaining. She had a comic gift as a mimic, picking out people's foibles in a way that made everyone laugh. "What a bundle of mischief," recalls her godmother, Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna, the Tsar's sister. There was also a serious side to Anastasia's nature. She had a restless, questioning intelligence. "Whenever I talked with her," says Count Grabbe, "I always came away impressed by the breadth of her interests. That her mind was keenly alive was immediately apparent." More than her sisters, Anastasia chafed under the narrowness of her environment and used her comic sense in revolt against it." - Count Alexander Grabbe, The private world of the last Tsar, in the photographs and notes of General Count Alexander Grabbe

"The Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicholaevna was sixteen or seventeen years old; she was short, stout and was, in my opinion, the only one in the family that appeared to be ungraceful Her hair was of a lighter color than that of Maria Nicholaevna. It was not wavy and soft, but lay flat on the forehead. Her eyes were grey and beautiful, her nose straight. If she had grown and got slim she would have been the prettiest in the family. She was refined and very witty. She had the talents of a comic actor, she made everybody laugh, but never laughed herself. It appeared as if her development had stopped and, therefore, her capacity faded a little. She played the piano and painted, but was only in the stage of studying both." - The Examination of Sidney Gibbes, The Last Days of the Romanovs

"The Grand Duchess Anastasia, I believe, was seventeen. She was over-developed for her age; she was stout and short, too stout for her height; her characteristic feature was to see the weak points of other people and to make fun of them. She was a comedian by nature and always made everybody laugh. She preferred her father to her mother and loved Maria Nicholevna more than the other sisters." - The Examination of Commissar E. S. Kobylinsky, The Last Days of the Romanovs

Hope you enjoyed reading and learnt something new!

Want to find a book listed here? Reply, ask, or message me! I'd be happy to help!

[stray-kaz]

Patched : a Nikolai Lantsov x f!reader oneshot

Anon request: Nikolai is injured in the course of a fight and reader offers to tend to his wound. He is a stubborn ass and refuses...eventually giving in.

A/N: I think I decided to make this "best friends to lovers" trope. Hope that's okay.

18+ at the end!

Nikolai thumped through the door to his bedroom in the Spinning Wheel, landing hard against the wall and almost falling to the floor. If it weren’t for his gaze catching on you sitting on the edge of his bed, he would have given up and allowed gravity to take him. But as it was, he did see you and forced himself to straighten, using his shoulders to push his body off the wall, sheer will skewing the corners of his mouth into a smile facsimile.

“Hey, you” he said, and stumbled.

“Hey, yourself, Sobachka” you grumbled, standing and hastening to him. 

He pouted at the barely tolerated nickname coming out of your mouth.

“Don’t call me that” he mumbled back. “I’m not a puppy.”

“Then stop acting like one, moi Tsar” you retorted, pulling a face at him. “How bad is it?”

“It’s just a scratch.”

He sighed and collapsed into a chair, his head rolling back. You sighed even more heavily and knelt at his feet, feeling for the pulse at his wrist. It was there, and it was strong enough, but he was still an idiot.

“I heard that” he said, not looking at you. “You speak in your head far less than you think you do.”

“Good” you snapped. “Someone ought to tell you what they’re truly thinking. I’m not too scared to do it. You could have been killed, Nikolai. And if you had died, where would I be then?”

He heard the tears in your voice and sat up properly in the chair, reaching out to cup your face with one hand and tilt your gaze towards him. You sniffed, your gaze defiant, just in case he was going to tease you for caring too much. But he just leaned forward and kissed your forehead, his palm rough and soothing against your jaw.

“I don’t have an answer for that, darling” he said softly. “Other than I hope you would be all right. And that no matter where I ended up, I would worry for you.”

You breathed out sharply and rose up to lean your weight against his knees; they widened unconsciously, without Nikolai’s say-so, opening a gap big enough for you fit your body in between.

“Let me help you” you offered, sniffing away the last of your tears.

He merely shook his head.

“No.”

His tone was firm, brooking no nonsense, but you pressed on anyway.

“You’re a stubborn mule, moi Tsar” you told him, raising an eyebrow. “A scratch would not leave you in your current state. I can help you.”

Nikolai eyed you sceptically. 

“You know you don’t have to call me that” he said. “I’m not your king yet.”

Your eyes softened as you looked up at him and he found himself shifting in the chair, striving to get away from the unkempt love he glimpsed in your face.

“You have been my king since the day I met you” you replied. “You will always be my king, Nikolai Lantsov.”

He sucked in a slow, deliberate breath and made a decision. 

“All right, fine” he all but grunted. “You can help put me back together.”

As you reached for his shirt strings, he noticed your hands trembling, and felt the heat of your fingertips pressing through the material at his collarbone. You fumbled with the slim knot, eventually overcoming it, and pulled the cords free. As your hands dropped to the hem of his shirt and worked it up over his stomach, Nikolai couldn’t help the fresh grin tugging at his lips.

“Darling, if you wanted me to take off my clothes, you should have just asked.”

He expected a quip back, but instead, you just glanced away and pulled the shirt free of his head, sliding it off his arms. It left his hair mussed and your eyes dark as you searched him for the injury. It was more than a scratch, but could still have been worse. A long, inch deep gash ran along the side of his ribs, glistening wetly in the low light.

You whistled quietly and Nikolai sighed.

“I truly hope that is because of my impressive physique and not because I need stitches.”

“You need stitches” you answered flatly.

Nikolai groaned, throwing his head back again. You couldn’t help but smile.

“For a man so unafraid of anything, you sure are scared of needles” you commented, pushing yourself to your feet. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

Nikolai rolled his eyes.

“Why would I, when you treat me with such gentleness?”

You said nothing, slipping out the door and returning a few minutes later with a stoppered bottle of amber liquid and an armful of clean bandages, a length of catgut and a sterilised needle. Without a word, you handed the bottle to Nikolai but didn’t wait for him to drink before starting work on his wound.

He hissed through his teeth, yanked the stopper out and rapidly swallowed a third of the crown’s whiskey. 

“Am I your king now?” he groaned, tensing as the needle passed through his skin.

“Be quiet, Sobachka” you muttered, concentrating. “Don’t make me stab you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

You worked quickly and carefully, tying off the stitching with a tiny knot and spreading a new bandage over the neat black lines. You smoothed it down, your fingers lingering on the warm skin over the edge of the white padding. Nikolai’s eyes flicked to yours, warmed a little by whiskey but still clear.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re very pretty when you’re causing men pain?” he asked blithely, two fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of the bottle.

You snorted and stood up, gathering the remnants of your work and heading for the door. His voice stopped you at the threshold, called you back to him.

“How long have we known each other?” he asked you, head tilted curiously to one side as his gaze burned a scalding path from the top of your head to the scuffed toes of your boots.

“More than ten years, moi Tsar” you said softly.

He shook his head slowly and got up, wincing as the stitches pulled at him. You took a step in his direction, but he held up a halting hand and shook his head again.

“More than ten years” he repeated slowly. “And in those ten years, how have I never seen what it looks like when you desire a man?”

Your gaze plummeted to the floor and you moved your weight from foot to foot, suddenly unsteady in your own body. Nikolai reached you, his boots entering your limited field of vision. The tools of your trade fell from your hands as one of his hands grasped your chin and raised it so that you had no choice but to look into his blue eyes, now burning with twin flames. You could smell the whiskey as he spoke, but instead of making you uncertain, it liquefied your knees and heated your stomach.

“Until tonight” he finally added, his voice low and his gaze dropping to your parted lips.

You swallowed unsteadily, knowing you were trapped, he had caught you, doe to stag.

“Please, moi Tsar” you barely whispered, not exactly sure what you were begging him for.

He shook his head at you.

“Uh uh” he murmured, arching a single eyebrow.

You opened your mouth to speak again, knowing that your next utterance would sentence you to him for the rest of your life, death withstanding.

“Nikolai...”

The bottle shattered the second his mouth bruised yours, pleasure coursing through his veins and numbing the pain in his side as his head swam, his two empty hands finding you to hold onto, molding to your hips. He eased your lips apart and swallowed your moan as the tip of his tongue brushed yours, so lightly.

He couldn’t believe there had ever been anyone else before you, as his hands mapped the contours of your body, lavishing attention on your clothed breasts when you arched into his palms. 

You pulled away slightly and traced the edges of Nikolai’s bandage with your fingers.

“We can’t” you groaned, whimpering needily as his hand wandered down your belly to tease underneath the front of your trousers. “Your stitches, Nikolai.”

He shrugged, seemingly ignoring the prominent strain in his own trousers.

“No matter” he said casually. “You know what we can do? Or, what I can do?”

You gasped and your eyelids fluttered, but you forced your eyes to remain open to watch his whole hand disappear and feel his roughened fingers begin their work.

[ruumirmir]

𝘈 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘗𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦'𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘛𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴

Part I Part II

ੈ♡˳ Author's◇ note - Haha what if I pretended my shamelessly OCfied male reader was a character :))) Here's to me doing everything possible to build up my "reader" lore. Everything except actually drawing and naming him 😭 If you're curious about previous posts regarding my mans, you could skim over These!! Me when writing this: im gonna make up SO MUCH BULLSHIT about snezhnaya and the other harbingers.

𝘝𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 : ENG - Stephen Fu (Noe Archiviste from Vanitas no Carte) JP - Kento Ito (Dan Heng from Honkai Star Rail)

𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 : October 19 (Libra)

𝘈𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 : Northland Bank of the Fatui

𝘝𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 : Hydro

𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 : Cygnus Venatici (The Hunting Swan)

A senior branch manager of Snezhnaya’s Northland bank. As a fatuus, he is formally well-known as the Venator Dux, who mans the Snezhnayan Order of Gold and Exchange founded by the Ninth Harbinger. He hunts in pursuit of the Tsar's vision, but his loyalties are far removed from her.

𝘝𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦-𝘖𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰 Ah, the renowned traveller, in the flesh. A visitor to each of the seven nations, while your reputation has run across the continent twice over. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you've heard of the Snezhnayan Order of Gold and Exchange, that'd be me who's in charge of it. I am one of the agents within Lord Regrator's primary circle of officials, so you may address me as Venator dux.

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘵: 𝘐𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 I've been in my respective position for over a decade now, and for the last four years, have come across choice tales surrounding your name. A big fan of your work, really! Lord Regrator has had his interest piqued for a while now... so for the sake of civilized peace and alliance, let's get along... shall we? Try not to cause any trouble and I might consider putting in a good word for you.

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘵: 𝘋𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘉𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘬𝘴 A large bulk of my work is centered around days of scrawling pen over paper... but really, one can only digest hefty documents for so long. I've had my fill for many years on end-... now, I'd prefer to partake in more physical tasks.

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘵: 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 I fear the new batch of rookies are growing too lax in their combat training… perhaps it was my uninspiring teaching method today. As a Venator, it simply won’t do to disappoint them. Traveller, would you help a man out and join the session today? The trainees could do with a fresh perspective on things.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐𝘵 𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴

No shelter to be seen... here's to praying that you don't catch a cold. Oh don't worry about me, I seldom get sick.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 I've always wondered how the real clap of thunder would feel in comparison to a shock of electro. Unless you want to volunteer for that, watch your step.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐𝘵 𝘚𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 Eh... I've seen it once, I've seen it a thousand times. That being said, the nights that are covered in an impossibly slow curtain of snowfall are some of the rarer times I stop to admire it.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘐𝘴 𝘖𝘶𝘵 Finally. Some real warmth to my face. I am but a simple man, languishing like a wilted flower in the absence of our sun's blazing gaze.

𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵 Actually... I think I might just prefer the miserable winter cold over this.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘐𝘴 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 What's with the aggressive breeze today? Does the Anemo archon have bills to pay?

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 Good morning. I was about to stop by the city lake on my way to the bank and feed the local geese. You can come along if you'd like. Keep your distance from Tatiana though. She bites.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯 On a slow lazy day, I'd be waking up around noon. Fortunately, the weekend is right around the corner, so I can do just that.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 Although the Northland "bank" closes to the public by evening, the building itself stays open till midnight for other classified affairs. So I may as well make the most of my break time before I'm needed again.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 Oh, I must've lost track of time. It's quite late into the night, so before I go, let me walk you back to whatever establishment you're staying at... Oh, uh- I'm... not sure I heard you correctly. You said you live... inside... a teapot...?

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘚𝘯𝘦𝘻𝘩𝘯𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘯 𝘖𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘌𝘹𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 It was the very first decree of order at the hands of Lord Regrator when he came into power as a Harbinger many years ago; to inaugurate a faction dedicated to rearing the potential he painstakingly carved into the foundations of the Northland bank. It is just as the name implies. An executive body responsible for developing economic policies and providing regulation, consulting, and forecasting of socioeconomic and business development, ranging from simple roadside shops to production factories-Oh, have I lost you? Haha... don't apologize, I've seen that expression a couple times before. In simple terms: we help run the nation's cycle of mora, trade system, and citizen’s businesses.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘵 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 4] The title bestowed upon me, Venator Dux, signifies not just leadership but mastery over a successful hunt- or in some cases, a successful business strategy. The master hunter requires a discerning eye, a mind that can decipher the intricate patterns woven by our adversaries. Information is our ammunition, and knowledge is the silent arrow that strikes before the prey even realizes the hunt has begun.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘜𝘴: 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘴 Various forms of dance and song are the lifeblood of Snezhnaya’s festivals. During fall, you’ll find multiple dance troupes and clowns passing each village, town, and city to perform. I personally look forward to the dancers.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘜𝘴: 𝘓𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] Your little companion has stuck with you since day one? Truly? That is… a highly admirable trait, one that I will always stand by. Loyalty is not a mere pledge, it anticipates the unspoken desires of another; a commitment that transcends the superficial bonds of allegiance. I keep this ideal close to my heart... for only a single person.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 I was hesitant to use a delusion in the first place, so frankly, I’m glad to have been gifted this for whatever reason I was found worthy of. However… Lord Regrator harbours an uncanny dislike for my vision. It’s not something that has been brought up, but I can read between the lines.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦 You didn’t hear it from me, but I encourage the employees at the bank to keep a list of all the infuriating and rude customers. It’s to spice up all the sparring and combat practice sessions by naming and dressing up the dummies as people they’d like to kick- Ha!

𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 This wintry climate is harsh and unsustainable for various flora and fauna. The Charmomila flower doesn’t care about any of that. They’ll grow in obnoxious places if they want to. The real deal comes from the summer butterflies that feast on its nectar. After a while their wings turn a beautiful honey-yellow, which are harvested and brewed into the sweetest and most expensive nonalcoholic beverage you’ll find around here. I enjoy a glass of one semi-regularly on work mornings.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘈𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] He will have my sincere respect, always. Lord Regrator has built his empire up from a scratch in the dirt, something impossible to do were he a lesser man. His sacrifices of blood, sweat, and tears has bled into the policies that the bank stands on today. Money breeds imbalance and power, which in turn grants freedom and recognition if you are on the right side of the coin. Regrator is a utilizing man and he guards what’s his, zealously. He will take and take until his arms sag with the weight, and uphold his promise to give out the correct equivalents because he lets his value of fair exchange lead him like a vice. For as long as he stays true to his greed, I will be the hand that reaches forward to grasp what he desires.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘶𝘮 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] Lord Regrator expects a strict level of decorousness from everyone working under his name- from me to even the most forgotten grunts. It's nothing outrageous of course. You would only ever see the metaphorical boot-licking than a literal one. I find it a bit much sometimes but the public eye is nothing to scoff at. Especially to a man of his status. The Snezhnayan dvoryane make up more than a third of the Northland Bank's clientele- not to mention the stakes a couple of them have invested. And if there is anything that those feather-headed fools care about, it's posh theatrics. *Sigh* Still... I quite enjoy falling in step with Pantalone's politesse. He has a beautiful manner of speech that I've never been able to measure up to.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘎𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] …Why do I feel like you’re trying to fish for critical information...? Fine- I'll concede. It's your head on the line anyways. Lord Regrator is a big player in the system of underground businesses that connect Nathan and Snezhnaya. Technically it could be called a black market, but it’s mainly run by a small council of social elites from both nations. There are occasional hosted auctions, that my lord targets to buy out priceless artifacts from. I’m talking about lost pieces of history and endangered caged beasts over items with resell value. Now… with that being said, as long as this secret remains safe… so do you. It’s always me who’s dispatched to make sure it stays that way.

[pearlywritings]

Behind the wall of falling snow we love

synopsis: Pierro is a mysterious man, the kind that guards his secrets well. One of them is being you, his lovely wife, his heart, his everlasting lover. And tonight he is finally stealing you from your duties and bringing you to his residence where you can drop the masks you wear for the people of Snezhnaya and be just a married couple.

pairing: Pierro x fem!reader

tw: smut, established relationship, immortal lovers (you and Pierro are Khaenri’ahns), religious themes, sliiiight a/b/o feature, oral, biting, unprotected sex, obviously size difference

word count: 8.1k+ words in total

author’s note: the words of prayer are actually a translated and altered from French song Ave Maria Païen from Notre Dame de Paris musical.

Ave Tsaritsa, please pardon me, if in your house I have come begging.

The Cathedral of Tsar the Saviour is a majestically built and decorated temple, having been honoring the previous Cryo Archon in the past, and now being full of prayers offered to the Tsaritsa. Today the official designation is the only reminder of in whose name it was founded, as every last piece inside and out was completely replaced with symbolism of the new deity, and Pierro personally made sure of it, solidifying her position and showing what a good and valuable asset he was.

And still is.

Ave Tsaritsa, no one ever taught me about kneeling.

Half-truth and half-lie. The people of Khaenri'ah had their ruler, to whom bowing heads and, on occasion, getting down on their knees was an etiquettish must. But they never had a god to humiliate themselves before. Even now, he doesn’t quite do so, always proudly standing akin to a frozen statue near the goddess, that is not his. Nor yours.

Ave Tsaritsa, please will you keep me from the misery, madness and fools, who rule this evil world?

That's what the purpose of the Harbingers is - enlightening the Snezhnayan people according to the wishes of Her Majesty Tsaritsa and ensuring that nothing can undermine their faith in her and push them off the intended path. Who knew that religion can be such a powerful instrument? Too bad it ended up in his and your hands. Of that he also made sure.

Ave Tsaritsa, I'm a stranger and you're my last recourse.

You were strangers to this snowy land; weakened and exhausted by the curse were your bodies the first time you ever saw your future salvation. Back then the kindness in her eyes wasn’t hidden behind a veil, and the heart, not yet frozen, tightened at the display of your tightly intertwined fingers, the stubborn desire not to let go of each other’s hand touched the deepest parts of her immortal soul. Nowadays Pierro may call it a memory that’ll never be proven existent, because the only person capable of telling it has locked herself in the Zapolyarny Palace, rarely appearing in front of anyone, and The Jester, despite the folly of his code name, is not an idiot to go and flaunt around about his dear one.

Ave Tsaritsa, please can't you hear me? Please take down all these walls between us. We all should be as one.

A wall between a follower and an Archon…foolish to try and break it. But the Cryo Archon heeds as she is fond of your singing, and you can hardly call yourself her follower, having willingly become an instrument in the silver-haired wise and cunning man’s hands. You became the holy wonder of Snezhnaya - a maiden, who hasn’t grown older a day over the centuries, and many generations came to witness your divine service and had your voice stuck in their minds, piercing their very souls. And the man could claim with certainty - you were loved by the people.

Ave Tsaritsa, please watch over my life night and day.

She really doesn’t, but Snezhnayans do, however it was by your wish and with your consent, that he put you before so many watchful eyes, and the Archon’s ones as well. But then again, if you want to hide something precious, you should put it right before the seeker’s nose. He made you adored, he secured your safety with the right deeds of yours - all Abyss would break loose if something happened to their cherished high priestess and no one would like to incur the wrath of the Tsaritsa and the Harbingers.

Ave Tsaritsa, oh please protect me. Please guard me and my love; now I pray.

His stone heart flutters for how softly, how tenderly have you sung of who your heart is beating for. Not for the deity, no - it’s pumping blood for the very man who is standing in the shadow of a wide pillar, gazing at you from behind a mask and holding a thick cape similar to his own, with his plans quite evident.

Tonight you are leaving with him.

Ave Tsaritsa. Amen.

You breathe the last words of the song against your hands, clasped together in front of you in a prayer, and the sound seems to infiltrate every corner of the grand catholicon. Your figure is ethereal, kneeling on the steps before the huge stained glass of the Cryo Archon your words were directed to. Basking in the light of the moon, pouring through the glass and painting you in the sacred blues of Her Majesty's robes, you look like a holy being, and had Pierro not known you were a sinner like him, he would've been tricked by your false chastity. Whiteness of the high priestess’s robes is pure, much purer than the snow outside, but now tainted by the colors of the Archon you both swore to serve.

Even if she doesn't, Pierro watches you, and his gaze will never waver.

Your archbishop’s crown reflects the light and diamonds gleam coldly, just like they are. The long veil hides your soft pretty hair he loves running his fingers through so much. It soothes him, reminds him of the times he used to witness you braiding them in the morning and unbraiding in the evening, sitting on the edge of your shared bed and talking about everything and nothing.

Now this became a privilege, one you are granted only once every couple of months. Sometimes separation is unbearable, but the different flight of time immortals experience makes it more tolerable. And you both know - it’s a small price for the power you managed to obtain.

Slowly you open your eyes - breathtaking cosmic crystals, that shine with pretensive innocence and have fooled and enchanted much more mortals you care to count. You are already doing so much for them, no need to try and remember every single one, it’s the clerics’ job and they fulfill it excellently under your guidance.

Pierro thinks this position suits you. You are not stupid, far from it, while leading others along the path he wants, you see right through it, never forgetting your homeland, never forgetting who you are, never forgetting the pain. You always were like this, even half a millenia ago your ingenious character intrigued him and pulled him to you like a magnet. Winning your affections and uniting your destinies by marriage is still one of his biggest personal achievements.

Despite being cursed, he is a blessed man and was one long before the doom was brought upon his nation. You are his eternal blessing.

You descend more gracefully than the deity behind you ever could in Pierro's eyes, because you were descending to him. Robes and the veil flow behind you magnificently - a sight he witnessed thousands of times, yet it still gets to steal his breath away, because you look like a lovely bride to be wed.

And I would marry you again, in every other world or timeline that is existent.

That’s what you told him when he admitted the reason for his awe-stricken expression during your first century of living in the land of snows. Even now, the cold and terrifying advisor of the Tsaritsa feels the same.

“Have you waited for long?” You start speaking not even halfway close to him. The question echoes in the majorly empty space, and prompts the man to step out of his hiding spot, becoming the victim of the moonlight as well.

“No, I have not,” his answer is short, but only because he doesn’t like getting personal before you two are back in his manor, where he knows no one can interfere. You simply nod at that.

“I’ll go and change. Will you wait for me, Lord Pierro?”

Always.

“Of course, Your Eminence,” he doesn’t ask you to take your time, and you know that while he is an embodiment of patience, you don’t have any second to waste.

Putting the crown on the pedestal and laying out your ceremonial clothes for the trusted deaconesses to take care of tomorrow, you can't stop the excitement pouring from your heart. Two months ago you couldn't meet due to the passing of the Eighth Harbinger - you were busy with the memorial service to commemorate La Signora and your beloved was stolen away by his duties and complications, caused by her death. While you did not hold anything against the fair lady, your thoughts were far from mourning, only thinking of the wasted time with an edge of bitterness. It happened before, and you learnt to bear with that, but even with all your practiced patience you'd never want the repeat of that three-year long occurrence when you haven't seen or heard from him at all due to your respective occupations.

You sigh in relief when the heavy fabric and furs are brought upon your shoulders, hiding the elegant, yet simple outfit, reserved for your outings. The weight of his big gloved palms is also welcomed and the deep sound of his voice washes like calming waves over you.

"Should we be on our way?" You don't see him, but you know the glow his eyes possess. Usually unreadable, they glint with emotion, the one - you can proudly declare - reserved only for you.

"Yes, we should, My Lord. We have quite a number of things to discuss and settle."

The staff of the Jester's manor know that their master and the head of the priesthood have business to discuss and under no circumstance should they be interrupted for the night and the next day. Fireplaces are lit and fresh wood is prepared. The room, that became your personal chambers in his estate, is cleaned and readied for your most comfortable stay, and the servants make sure to move as far away from the West wing, where it and the living room you use for your discussions are located. Eavesdropping is akin to a death sentence, but many would consider themselves imbeciles for trying to sneak on the two most respected and praised people in the whole country.

How fortunate it is that the Jester's personal chambers are in the same wing, just at the other end of the corridor? Servants have just one part of the building to avoid during those times, not worried about accidentally doing something wrong in regard to him and you.

Little do they know what exactly happens behind the closed door, since no one is allowed near them during these particular times. They can’t even fathom the sins your bodies bask in, perfect images crumbling down and revealing the real yous, wild and yearning, drinking up each other's touch like a life-saving water of the oasis, work talk replaced with sweet moans and low grunts and long-forgotten names occasionally slipping past your parted lips.

This is why the sheets get burnt after every stay of yours. Staff members know that's being done to prevent anyone from feeling tempted to steal and sell the fabric, touched by the skin of the Saint. In reality no one needs to know of the reasons behind torn holes and stains.

Pierro destroys them personally in the morning, as you calmly sip on your tea, seated in the armchair of his bedroom with nothing but the silk bathrobe covering your body (replaced by just his shirt occasionally). Only then you devote some of your time for actual discussions and planning, while having an amazing supper and regaining your strength for another couple of rounds, that do not even have to include the bed.

Sometimes, though, the discussion starts when servants leave you till the next evening - the time you inevitably shall depart.

"Anything notable on your side?"

You hum, plucking a pristine white petal from the water surface and twirling it between your fingers. The large floor-installed pool is enough to fit at least three people of your lover’s complexion, but there is only you, water up to your collarbones and pleasantly hot against your skin. Hundreds of petals float around you, covering your body from two piercing eyes and occasionally bumping against your bent knees, and you don’t even want to think how many flowers the servants wasted just to “please” you.

“Nothing much, and nothing of concerning importance” you admit with a huff. Church is actually a pretty good source of information; with Snezhnayan being such good believers and followers it is not hard to gather intel through confessions and later pass the concerning ones to Pierro for him to see if it actually can cause harm. But as of later it was very calm.

“Though I must admit, one young lady really caught my interest,” you throw the petal away and sink a bit deeper, water pooling around your neck now. You lift a leg, stretching a little, and from the corner of the eye watch the half-naked man, seated on the edge of the pool, following with his attentive gaze the path the droplets make down your smooth skin before they disappear somewhere at your thigh.

“And that is?” Oh, these eyes. If you were standing, you’d certainly sink onto the nearest piece of furniture, unable to fight its magic even hundreds of years later. His mostly bared body becomes the next victim of your fascination, and you bite the inside of your cheek, feeling that tingling sensation at the tips of your fingers.

“Well…” you hum again, holding his inquiring gaze and slowly, teasingly lowering your leg back into the water. “If you take all of your clothes off right now, I might tell you."

'All of his clothes' is an open shirt and a pair of pants, both made of a very light fabric. He probably abandoned the robe while walking through your bedroom, and the mask was most likely taken off there too.

"Oh?" His chest shakes with a deep chuckle, that has that specific dark edge to it, that makes you aware of why people submit to him. "It seems the information is really not of such a great importance, if you are asking me to undress in exchange."

"Mmm, you saw through my intentions. But can you really blame me? It's been so long…" Your voice trails off and you sigh, diverting your eyes elsewhere, sight quickly obscured with the images of your last encounters, making your heart clench. You must stay unbothered, but this is so excruciating, being trapped in the land of raging blizzards and frozen landscapes and the loving touch becoming not an everyday thing, but a seldom occurrence. The memories of what it used to be like are almost non-existent at this point, having been wiped out of your mind with the new reality. 

Gaze falls onto your wrist and a small smile tugs onto your lips. An intricate band of the metal one would never find again and the stones that lie deep down in the mines of the miasm-contaminated homeland, rests against your skin, gleaming beautifully in the light. The same is wrapped around Pierro's wrist, just a bit wider than yours - one Khaenri'ahn tradition you were allowed to preserve - the symbol of your marriage, which in the broad daylight stays hidden under your long sleeves.

The rustle of clothes doesn't register in your brain right away, but when it does your head whips to the side, just in time to see the silver-haired man sit back down, carelessly dumping his nightwear near the side of the tube.

"Happy now?" All sorrowful thoughts leave your mind instantly when all of his body is on display for your hungry gaze. With a soft splash you lift yourself slightly, enough to get on your knees and move closer to him. His braceleted hand immediately takes a hold of yours and you comfortably lean your chest on his thigh, using an elbow to create support for your head to look up at him. 

"Yes, I am. Thank you, my love."

My love. Sometimes Pierro thinks you are just a dream, a pretty, nostalgic dream, where love is not just a concept. Snezhnaya and the closeness to the Cryo Archon affected him far more than you. He toughened up, his gaze got heavier and frown deeper, lips are always drawn in a tight line and voice is even and cold, lack of emotion coming straight from his almost destroyed heart. Just one part is still alive, and warm, and capable of feelings. 

This part is loving you.

"Do I deserve to be told what caught your interest?"

You smile at that, happy that he is willing to engage in a chat that doesn't relate to your plans at all. It's one of the things that serves as a reminder that you are special to him, more special than anyone and anything else, be it the Tsaritsa or your scheming.

"Oh, that's a funny thing!" Beaming, you trace one of the scars on his abdomen with your finger, noting with a smirk how it tenses under the touch. "One of your colleagues gained a faithful admirer. Quite a hopeful one, if I am being honest."

Pierro hums, showing that he is actually listening, and reaches his hand to gently pat your hair. You are so pretty, leaning on him, breasts pushed against his leg, back arched and fingers caressing his stomach, which soon becomes an absentminded gesture as your unkissed mouth moves in speech.

"She's been coming every week for three months already, lightening candles for his safe return."

'Not Arlechino, not Columbina,' he notes, attempting to distract himself from the image before him, but still noticing every single detail about his perfect wife. Hand slides to graze the side of your face and put a stray lock behind your ear. You glance up at him and, holding his gaze, turn your head in the opposite direction to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, just above the wedding band. Pierro sharply inhales.

"Either way, she's been confessing her affections and, as the priest described it, did so "in a dreamy voice a young girl would talk about upcoming marriage". You think I spoke to my parents the same way about you?"

Your gaze turns curious and the notion of your question finally manages to return his focus. It's not often that you voice the things from the past, but on particularly calm days like today it just slips.

"I don't know. Did you?"

"I don't remember…"

Yes, that is why. And sometimes it just hurts.

"But no matter. Honestly I am quite surprised that people like her are a rare occasion. I mean, all of the Harbingers have qualities that might make you fall in love with them."

"Do many live or get close enough to witness those?" Pierro raises a brow and you roll your eyes, poking his side.

"Fair point. That's probably why she chose to fall for Childe. Young, energetic and outgoing he seems to wear his heart on his sleeve."

"Tartaglia, huh?" Makes sense, if he thinks of it. "But a marriage? Already?"

"Of course not! All I said she sounded like that, the only way the wedding is happening is in her imagination!" You burst into giggles at your lover's silly assumption, not missing him huff and tighten a hold on your hand.

"You are quite talkative today."

"I haven't seen you for four months! I missed you! You can't seriously expect me to be silent just staring at you with wide lovesick eyes."

As the man watches you dig your elbow in his thigh to push yourself off of him to stand up with the most fake offended look on your face, he thinks that his life would've ended had you succumbed to the fall of Khaenri'ah. You are the one keeping the part of him alive, cradling his heart in your loving hands, passing your warmth and aligning his heartbeat with yours. 

Pierro loves you with everything left in him, and he himself can't measure if it's a lot or a little. He doesn't remember what it's like being humanly soft - but you tell him he is doing enough. And he chooses to believe you.

When a shadow is cast upon him his attention is stolen back by the present. Even with his huge complexion he has to crane his neck a bit to look at you, standing at your full height and staring down at him.

"But you are right," white lashes flutter when a warm palm cups a scarred side of his face, but he doesn't let himself succumb to the peaceful feeling, not yet, "it's time to finish with the conversations for today. Let's move to the bedroom."

Pierro is convinced that your body was created for worship. So soft, skin smooth despite all your hardships, locks thick and heavy, cascading down your shoulders, lips plump and sweet, lower one seductively caught between pearly teeth as you lead him back to your room, holding his wrist with both of your hands.

You are bared to each other, and can sense the space filling with the heat of arousal your bodies radiate. Every step closer to the bed ignites a small fire in the pit of your stomach, fueled by anticipation. Just a couple of meters and he'll push you down and pin with his weight, caging you with no thoughts of letting go for a long while, oh, you can already feel it with every cell.

With an abrupt stop you tug him closer so his body practically bumps into yours, and, releasing his wrist, cup his face instead.

"You are so handsome," you smile, standing on your tiptoes to reach and plant a kiss in the corner of his mouth. "And I bet you'd look even better on top of me."

Tempting, but he has other plans for now.

Your eyes grow wider, but a sparkle of excitement is clear in them, when the tall, broad man slowly, not breaking eye contact, gets down on his knees. Well, he did say your body was created for worshipping, so it makes Pierro your most devoted follower.

His lips are a relief against your heated skin and you sharply exhale, sliding palms to the back of his head. The kiss lingers against your stomach, the only 'ugly' part of your divine body. The place where the curse decided to bloom, circling your waist akin a wide belt, variations of dark splotches creating a bizarre picture on the canva of the skin. Still it is lesser than his is, but the price you paid for it was a devastating one.

"You are beautiful," he whispers, pressing another kiss, and then another, and then some more, leading a path down your pelvis. "So, so beautiful…"

"So now we are exchanging compliments?" Your fingers play with the longer strands of hair at the back of his neck as you are looking down at him, not missing a move, not missing the way his eyelids slide close, when he is almost there.

"Rather speaking truth," is his short answer, before his hands start prying your thighs apart. 

"One leg on my shoulder," the command sends shocks through your body and you immediately obey, almost too excitedly throwing your leg over his shoulder. A kiss to the inside of your thigh is your reward.

"Now stand still, and once I secure my arms, put the other one too."

The anticipated display of physical strength makes you lose your voice for a moment and all you can do is quickly nod.

"Words, my dear, I need your words."

"I-I understood."

"Good girl."

The praise makes you blush and is enough of a distraction from what he is in the process of. But not a minute later, both your legs are on his shoulders, their broadness giving you enough room to keep your thighs spread. The globes of your ass are literally resting in the crook of his elbows, arms reaching up your back and palms splaying against your shoulder blades, creating a perfect support to lean into.

Your breath hitches when his warm breath ghosts against your slicked folds and heart begins violently beating with your body realizing the sheer strength of its partner and future pleasure this man is going to provide. And oh Archons, centuries proved how masterful he is in both.

First shudder wrecks your body when his thick tongue traces along your slit, coating it with saliva and teasing you with flicks of the tip. You blissfully sigh, closing your eyes and enjoying the small shocks sent down your spine with every drag of his wet muscle, before he steals your breath away by dipping it inside.

Pierro hums, content with tasting you again after so long, and you are so pliant in his arms, putting an ultimate trust in him, that his own sex swells at the thought. The tip of his tongue catches against your clit, which makes you gasp and tighten your hold on the back of his head, involuntarily bucking hips forward. But he is not going to give you everything right away, no, he is going to show you his faith slowly, so you can understand every single notion behind his actions of praise and worship. 

That is why he is drawing his face away, smirking at your needy whine. Attention shifts on your thighs - the last time he thoroughly marked them, so harshly in fact, so you would’ve still had them aching for days to remember the time spent together. Now your flesh is so pristine clean, that he hardly suppresses the urge to bite you right away. Instead he wills himself to plant kisses, sucking the skin occasionally to leave the blooming spots to darken later in beautiful hickies, undeniably hidden by your long and many layered garment. The hairs of his beard tickles you, contrasting with the slight tingles of pain, when he decides to lightly catch the skin between his teeth and urge you to pant and squirm in his hold.

"Stop teasing me…" You try to turn his head back into the direction you most need him in, but yelp, when he digs his nails in your back and bites on your other thigh. "Pierro!"

He only groans, flexing his shoulders to shift you in a more comfortable position, licking the stinging spot he's just abused.

Biting your lip, you have half a mind to reach a hand and touch yourself since he doesn't, but the man knows you well. He glares up at you, the dangerous glint in his eyes doing not much to scare you, but that's not his intention. It's a warning.

"Don't look at me like this," you huff, still taking one of your hands from behind his head, but reaching to cup your breast instead, "I can take a little bit of teasing, but not when you give me a taste and then ignore my aching."

The way you roll the erected bud between your fingers ignites fire in the pit of his stomach, leaving his cock half hard. Who is the one talking about teasing?

A soft cry leaves your lips, when he finally dives back in. Your lover sucks on your clit like there is no tomorrow, pressing the tip of his tongue against it hard. It twitches in his mouth from stimulation and your back arches, fingers grabbing and messing his hair from the intensity he's attacked you with. 

Pretty moans and deep groans fill the room as he delves his tongue into the hole - rubbing against your walls deliciously. Slick gathers at his chin and slowly drips down, just a couple landing on his twitching length. You taste divine, in all the years of his life he's never drunk anything that would come close in comparison to your nectar. He grinds his face deeper into your pussy, beard tickling the insides of the thighs and nose nudging the swollen nub, as he savors you.

Your heels dig in his back, your own arches into his arms, and you feel so so heavenly. The palm pressing on his head is as secure as his own hold on you, not letting him back off this time, so unwilling to lose this building pressure in your belly, that'll soon explode, giving you the sweet release you've been yearning for.

Pierro relishes in your throaty whine when he drags the first orgasm out of you, gulping down whatever your spasming cunt has to offer. He feels your legs trembling, but he also knows that this tiny form of relief is nothing compared to how strongly he can actually make you cum on his fingers and cock, when you writhe and thrash under him, begging for no more, or when you are stuffed to the brink and unable to move, weakly clawing at his shoulders to stop. He wonders where tonight will lead you two to.

With an oof your back hits the bed, and his arms slide from under your body. Your hand drops to your side, as the one that was fondling with your chest rests on it, feeling your heart beating against the outstretched palm.

"See, was it so hard?" You smile at him, rising to his feet and wiping his glistening mouth and chin. "Maybe I should sit on your face more. It brings you to action faster."

Wordlessly Pierro grabs your waist and shifts you higher on the bed, climbing onto right after. He lets you wrap your arms around his neck and bring him closer, slotting your mouths together and sharing a kiss full of unspoken passion. He presses himself on you, pinching your hip and making you gasp, allowing him to push his tongue into your mouth. You taste yourself and moan, sliding your own appendage against his, licking at it playfully.

Only you make him feel like this - hot, bothered, desperate, thoughts reigned by you, - everything the Jester is not, but your husband is. Only your touches and your embraces can comfort and relax him, only your kisses steal his breath away and cloud his mind, only your softness against his sturdiness is a perfect match, one that makes so much sense. Only with your heart his agrees to synchronize, sharing one beat, one melody. Only because of you he still knows what love is and that this is the feeling you two share.

When he breaks apart, chest rising and falling in sync with yours, he can't help but focus on your neck - another canva begging to be painted and who is he to decline? Your head falls back as his teeth graze down your throat. Legs, having a mind of their own, spread, and Pierro doesn't miss a chance to use it.

Your cunt is still sensitive when he plunges a long finger inside. Walls flutter and tighten around sudden intrusion, and the skillful thumb starts drawing slow circles on your clit.

"So tight…" He growls into your skin, leaving a tenth hickey on your neck and collarbones. "In four months you must've forgotten the shape of me…"

"I'll be quick to remember, mmm," you bite your lip, when he starts moving and curling his digit, all the while switching his attention to your full breasts. Your moans grow louder than before as he teases your pebbled nipples with his tongue, enveloping them in his mouth, gently sucking and releasing with a wet pop, blowing cool air on them right after only to feel you squeeze his finger.

Pierro is working your open with one and then two digits, not forgetting to play with the bundle of nerves, making the slick gush that soon even you could hear the squelching noise your pussy is making. What would've made you shy and embarrassed on your first couple of nights with him, now turns you on more than anything, prompting you to roll your hips to meet his own movements. Sometimes you feel his hard dick brush against your thigh and you gaze at him in silent question. He shakes his head, declining your help, and adds the third finger.

Now that's a really tight fit and he has a hard time dragging three fingers against your gummy, but resisting walls. You attempt to relax, but there is little you can do with how big everything about him is. Your body grows restless and fingers dig into the pillow above your head, back lifting off the mattress in a sensual arch and feet planting to bend the knees. Once or twice his real name drips like honey from your swollen lips and the man's heart skips a beat or two, your own name whispered between your ribs as kisses are pressed against the skin of your stomach.

When his mouth envelopes your clit again your moans get louder and thighs twitch to close around his head, but he uses his now free hand to push them away and pin you by the lower stomach down. Your fingers reach in his hair again, tugging on silver strands when he sucks particularly hard or curls his digits and brushes that delicious spot inside, that makes you see stars bright enough to outshine the ones in the sky.

Pierro loves when you grab onto him, doesn't matter where or how, he just loves having your hands on his body: holding, caressing, palming, squeezing, cupping… Every single touch makes him aware of your mood and desire to have him, which makes bringing you to mind-blowing orgasm even more satisfying. You inevitably scratch him, leaving a mark of your own.

He softly hisses as you dig your nails in the back of his neck, almost breaking skin to draw blood, and with a trembling scream cum. Pierro fingers you through your high, feeling your walls spasming and slick running down his hand and your thighs, soon to ruin the sheets, and watches you shudder, mouth hanging open and sweet noises creating a pretty melody. Could anyone witness a scene more divine? He can swear he is the only one.

You bite your lip when he plants a kiss to your clit and slowly pulls his fingers out, leaving you so empty, and more yearning than before.

"I want you," is your breathless demand, hands reaching for him. The man quickly grabs them, bringing closer to his mouth to kiss every single knuckle.

"Patience, my dear," is his quiet murmur, which makes you grimace.

"What is here to wait for? I've been waiting for so long, I have patience of a saint!" Literally. "Tonight is the only time I can forget about it, please don't take it away from me, I know you want me too."

And you are right. After having your taste and getting to feel the welcoming softness of your pussy he wants nothing more to sink in and mold you back to the shape of his cock.

Then why wouldn't he do just that? Taking wife's lovely advice never hurts.

He places a large hand above your head to steady himself, preventing him from crushing you with his burly mass. You hold your breath in anticipation, when the big mushroom tip parts your lips and presses against your opening. With a deep inhale Pierro grits his teeth and pushes inside, stomach immediately flexing when your walls swallow an inch. His gaze is on your face, making sure you are alright as he is slowly working his massive dick into your cunt. He knows you can take him, even if sometimes after big breaks your body screams that it can't, but the habit of checking on you just never died.

As he finally fully settles inside, he understands that his ability to move is to be cruelly tested. Your walls have an almost vice grip on his girth and the man above you groans as you tighten even more with sweet moans falling from your lips. Hair disheveled, hands fisting the shits beside your head, legs desperately trying to wrap around his wide waist but to no avail. Your struggle - to embrace his body, to take in his girth, - amuses him, but he has some pity for his dear wife, as his big scarred palms slide down your hips, leaving a trail of fire igniting sensations on your skin, and up to your knees, grasping under them and securing your legs where you want them, where he wants them. You cannot escape, you are his.

"If you don't relax, I won't be able to move."

"But it's-" you mewl when he experimentally rolls his hips.

"Don't tell me it's too much. You've taken it for centuries, don't tell me you can't take your husband's cock now," the man smirks at the way your eyes light up, and the hand with a bracelet on it reaches out to him. He lets himself a moment of vulnerability, leaning forward and into your palm, eyes sliding close and hips stilling, pelvis pressed impossibly close to yours. You feel the hairs of his beard grazing your skin, and softly run the thumb over his lips, usually drawn in a tight line. Breath chokes when he opens his mouth and bites the tip of your finger, gently catching it between his teeth. Your heart skips a beat and you tighten again, eliciting another groan from him and prompting the jaws get a little bit tighter too.

"Relax," sounds more like an angry order, but you know it's just because the man is slowly but surely losing control because of your body.

"What, can't you take your wife's pussy?" You cheekily shoot his words back at him and instantly regret it.

Because Pierro lets go of your poor thumb and launches forward, crushing you a little with his weight, and closes his mouth on your neck. Your whole face goes red from how lewdly you moan when teeth bite hard on that special place that makes you go absolutely wild once stimulated. You still haven't figured out the cause of these, and making you a subject of Dottore's research is the last thing Pierro would do in his life. You discovered it after the curse settled in your bodies and just decided to embrace this new feature, since it proved not to be causing any harm. Quite contrary, it brings you unimaginable pleasure.

Your whole body heats when he tightens his jaws a little more and you claw at his back. You have no idea what you want - him to let go or stay like this, but the unbearable need for him to move gnaws at your insides.

The man smirks when you arch into him, breasts pressing to his chest and pelvises flush against each other. He rolls his hips again, and this time his cock slides smoothly between your walls. 

"Good job, love," you shudder and whimper when hot breath ghosts against your ear. Pierro murmurs quiet words of consolation, licking at the bruised place, where the dents of his teeth are already becoming pretty pronounced. He doesn't forget to thrust into you, setting a steady pace and trying some angles to find the perfect one to hit all your favorite spots.

It takes a bit of time, but he figures it out, grabbing you under one knee and pushing it forward to put you in a position that lets him reach deeper, tip kissing your cervix. From now on he grows relentless with only one thought in mind - to satiate you. He fills you over and over with his length, bulging veins caressing your walls, eliciting the sweetest noises your throat is capable of producing, each one sending shivers down his spine. 

"More… Please, more…"

You look truly debauched under him, so different from the serene and gentle expression everyone is used to. Only he can see you like this and it feeds his ego, eyes glinting with lust and thrusts growing even more relentless, each bursting pleasure. Skin slaps against skin, sound mixing in you joined noises of bliss. Pierro is grunting above you, pace hard and deep, driving you closer for the third orgasm. He releases your knee, but throws that leg on his shoulder instead, leaning on you even more, so you practically scream when thick hairs on his abdomen start rubbing against your neglected clit.

“Just like that…” he murmurs, both palms firmly planted on both sides of your head as he practically pistons his dick in your cunt. You can only wrap your hands around his arms to steady yourself at least somehow, but it all comes crashing when the tight knot in your stomach snaps.

Your eyes grow wide in the mind-numbing orgasm and your head falls back. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you reached your high this time, your stamina failing you, absolutely destroyed by your husband’s actions. He is still moving inside, helping you to ride it out, snug between your walls, where he belongs.

However you both know it’s far from the end. Suddenly he picks his speed, changing deep and hard pace to a fast one, driving himself into you almost wildly, chasing his own high this time. Your grip onto him only gets stronger, nails biting in his skin as your pussy tightens every time he pushes in. Pierro’s name flows from your lips like a mantra and he lets out a growl-like grunt of your own name. The loud squelches that your recently milked cunt make are clouding his mind and making his reddened cockhead leak with arousal.

Your gaze is hazy from overwhelming pleasure, but even in such a state you could see his tense jawline, blown pupils, drops of sweat sliding down the side of his face and flaring nostrils. The sight makes your pussy contract especially hard, forcing the man to choke and halt in his movements. He feels the telltale signs of his orgasm approaching, and knows, that you are hanging at the brink of yours as well.

“Cum with me,” you frantically nod at his request, heating up from the way he grunts, rutting into you, nudging your pulsing cervix as he fills you with his hot cum. It triggers you and with a loud moan of his name you let the orgasm wash over you again.

Your lover is gentle, grinding slowly, pushing out just a little and then all the way in to keep his load inside. He pants heavily, shoulders dropping and head lowering to press his forehead against your knee, eyes sliding close to catch a small break from the first long-awaited release he’s just experienced.

Moments like this - away from his duties, with you in his arms, filled with absolute bliss, - remind him happiness is possible, that he can rest in your embrace and be caressed by your love, be it in the form of emotional connection or the primal need to mate through sex. Sometimes one thought of you is enough to make his day brighter. Seeing each other is a blessing, since he doesn’t have time to hide in the shadows of the Cathedral to watch you speak to the Tsaritsa’s people, and you have no opportunity to slip out unnoticed and unquestioned to go and visit him. This is why every touch of your hands, every kiss, every thrust, every word exchanged in the privacy of his manor matters, and you try to go as long as your bodies are able to.

Only when you let go of his wrists and relax in his hold, does he stop his movements and carefully drop your leg back onto the bed. Then, ignoring your protests, he slowly slides out, mesmerized by your gaping hole, desperate to be stuffed again by his still hard cock, so wet with your juices it almost shines in the dim light of the bedroom.

You scowl at him for leaving you empty, but your gaze doesn't lose softness reserved for this man only. The amazed way his eyes are glued to you warms your heart and lessens the ache in your core from being ripped of the opportunity to cockwarm him.

"See something you like, my dear?" You flash him a knowing grin and run one of your hands sensually down your body. Star-shaped pupils dart at the movement and immediately sharpen, when two fingers reach and spread your folds. "Do you, perhaps, like the mess you made of me?"

"I do," he breathes out. "Always do."

With a sweet smile you reach to his shoulder, gently sliding an open palm over tense flesh. You are far from satisfied, desire igniting even brighter in you, so you use his moment of distraction, lure him in with your moves, only to gather your strength and roll your bodies, reversing the position. Galactic eyes widen slightly, when his back hits the mattress and your body hovers over his.

"My turn," you lunge forward and bite on his neck, pride stirring in your chest when your lover's self-control slips and he actually moans.

"You…" You hum at his low growl, lapping at the bitten place, knowing that the job to arise his hunger here is done.

"Yes?" With a cheeky grin you face him, closely watching his expression, loving the way his lips parted in silent pants.

"A wicked woman."

"Wicked? How rude and salacious calling a high priestess such names."

"Not her," a big scarred hand reaches forward and cups your cheek. So warm. "But the woman I married."

"Oh? So it's a good thing?" You lean happily in his hold, rubbing against wide palm. Pierro slowly lifts his upper body, steading yours on top of his with the hold on your hip, and takes the sitting position with you settled on his thighs. Hot breath brushes against your lips and you let your eyelids slide close.

"The best."

As he indulges you with a fervor-filled kiss, you reach between your bodies and graze just the tips of your fingers against his cock. Two sets of eyes fly open at the same time, but while he stares at you with yearning, your eyes crease in mischief. Simple caresses soon turn into your palm wrapping around his girth and slowly sliding up and down his semi-hard length. The bite you've granted him just moments ago does it work magnificently, turning him on the same way it was with you. Attempts to restrain his hips from jerking up to thrust into your hand don't go unnoticed by you and you tug on his cock roughly to elicit a groan out of him and bury your tongue in his mouth.

Palm which was resting on your cheek up to this moment abandons its place and drops to your other hip. Thumbs smooth over the night sky painted skin of your waist, soothingly rubbing. It makes you hum in content, caressing the cavern of his mouth languidly.

Palming and groping continues for a while, shift in pace obvious after the previous round (if you were to count by the times your lover came). His cock finally stands proudly against his toned stomach once again and you lift yourself with his help, lining the tip to your hole. 

Pierro feels how his own semen drips down onto his length as you position your body the most comfortable way possible given the challenging stretch your thighs have to endure because of the wideness of his figure, including the hips. Pussy inevitably releases thick white substance, coating him and surely ruining the sheets even more.

Your walls show no resistance when he slides back home. How fascinating this part of your body is - molding to his shape quickly no matter how much time has passed since the last time. He knows he is big, he's made you drool and cry and mindless plenty of times in the past (he still can, but it takes more rounds and much rougher behavior), yet your pussy always takes him.

As if to prove the statement, you press a palm against your stomach and feel an outline of him, nestled deep inside your heat, a prominent bulge appearing whenever he shifts.

"I missed this…" You admit with a smile, rubbing up and down, absolutely enjoying the view of his greeted teeth, heavily rising and falling chest. “Mmm, I can feel you twitch inside…” Your teasing voice is so beautiful and the man can’t help it but lean forward and kiss the column of your throat.

“I missed this too…”

“Then let’s take the most we can from this night, shall we?”

As your lips meet in another kiss and hips start rocking again, Pierro silently agrees, secretly, just like every time, praying to no one in particular for the night to never be over.

taglist: @we-wo-we-wo, @secretartisanclodhairdo​, @eiscoathanger​

[foreverinthepagesofhistoryy]

Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna in bed recovering from her bout of measles and double pneumonia, spring 1917

❧ “Maria took her turn, who until now was her mother's greatest support. Even in the first stages of her illness, she hoped that she would be able to avoid staying in bed. She intended to endure until her father returned and she begged Baroness Buxhoeveden not to trouble her mother when she also developed a fever. At last, however, her exhausted nature betrayed her very badly. Along with the measles she suffered double pneumonia and reached the gates of death. In her feverish delirium and nightmares, she saw terrible soldiers who came to kill her mother and she shouted in terror, "Crowds of peopl... dreadful people... they re coming to kill Mamma!! Why are they doing these things?" - Romanov Royal Martyrs ☙

❧ “She was now anxious about Marie Nicolaievna on latter had been taken ill much later than her sisters, condition was aggravated by a severe attack of pneumonia of a virulent kind. Her constitution was excellent, but she had all she could do to survive. ☙ - Pierre Gilliard, 13 Years At The Russian Court

❧ “On 19 March I received a note from the Empress that Maria Nikolaevna is dying and asking for me. The messenger told me that Anastasia Nikolevna is also very sick; both had pneumonia, and the latter also became deaf due to the ear infection…I tiptoed to Maria Nikolaevna. She was lying there, white like linen, her eyes, naturally large, seemed even larger, temperature was 40.9, she breathed oxygen. When she saw me, she made some attempts to pick up her head and started to cry, repeat-ing: "Anya, Anya." I stayed with her until she fell asleep.” ☙ - Anna Vyrubova

❧ “Apparently Maria's and Anastasia's illness broks the tamp remained normal; they are weak and slept all day, of cours with breaks.” ☙ - Tsar Nicholas II diary entry, March 20th 1917

[the-last-tsar]

"Just as Nicholas felt intimidated by his father, Alexandra had the same feelings towards her mother-in-law. The cheerful and effusive Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna knew the whole society of St. Petersburg, for she had had a long period of adaptation from her arrival at court, as the bride of Tsarevich Alexander, to the moment of ascending the throne as Tsarina. She cared about the way she looked and dressed with pomp and luxury. She was known for her flawless skin, even after old age. Legend has it that she was one of the first people to do peeling. It was difficult for Maria to leave her old post and make room for her new daughter-in-law and new empress. It did not take long for the raids between them to begin. One of the first issues involved the state jewels. Maria did not want to give them up to her daughter-in-law, despite the fact that she had a beautiful collection of personal jewelry. Alexandra, resentful of her mother-in-law, wanted to refuse the pieces taken from the Dowager Empress, which the young woman, as a new Tsarina, was supposed to wear. To minimize friction and avoid further scandals, it was decided that the jewels would be under the responsibility of the Treasury, and could be requested by the two when certain events required their use, such as the coronation of Nicholas in Moscow. The influence of the Dowager Empress on the life of the couple continued intense for several years. She appointed all the servants of Alexandra and, having more experience in state affairs than her son, thanks to the complicity she had with her husband, Alexander III, took upon herself the duty of becoming an adviser to the young Tsar. The couple had meals with her in Anichkov, and even after they moved they used to have breakfast with Maria every day. The different personalities and tastes of the two women, however, meant that there was little understanding between them."

Os Últimos Czares (the last tsars) | Paulo Rezzutti

(loose ttranslation)

[nopanamaman]

do you read the fanfic people make? if so, do you have any personal favourites?

Oh man this is gonna be a LONG post

I do read fanfics about my OCs whenever I can! It's always interesting to see different interpretations of your characters. Sometimes they even influence my own perception of them a little bit!

Of course I wouldn't go as far as to say that fanfics have altered any canon story beats, but certain minor character details have definitely been planted in my mind that way. Like I think at this point I'll just accept Arthur's last name as Sokolov because I read it in some fanfic and it stuck lmao

I remember being very impressed with the character writing in Everything Turns Out Fine for Once - I think that was the name? It was a longer work about Sanya and Yura looking for Anya and Dmitry after they escaped. The author got a really nice read on everyone's personalities!

I also recently read a (fairly depressing) Temnova/Olya fic that I enjoyed quite a bit. Just for Today was the name, I believe. The atmosphere of being stuck at a corporate party you don't want to be part of was spot on🥴

There are also a bunch of nice fics in Russian. I read Грань not so long ago and it was a very interesting little exploration of Tsar.

My all-time favourite fic was also a Russian one, and was written by my friend. It was a very poetic exploration of Nadya's relationship with religion, and it had contributed a lot to how I saw that character myself back in the day. Sadly, I don't think it was ever published publicly.

Also I started doing consistent character writing relatively recently - that is, began writing out the events of PAFL in a straightforward novel format a little over a year ago. While it has helped me flesh a ton of things out both character- and storywise, it's also given me a bigger appreciation for fanfic writers that manage to put out huge chapters semi-regularly hahah

It's also very interesting to see how the written canon differs from fan interpretations, sometimes in rather surprising ways. I think if I ever end up releasing that massive slab of text, expectations on how certain characters behave would be somewhat broken

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Alexei  navalny did not like tragedies. He preferred Hollywood films and fables in which heroes vanquish villains and good triumphs over evil. He had the looks and talent to be one of those heroes, but he was born in Russia and lived in dark times, spending his last days in a penal colony in the Arctic permafrost. A fan of “Star Wars”, he described his ordeal in lyrical terms. “Prison [exists] in one’s mind,” he wrote from his cell in 2021. “And if you think carefully, I am not in prison but on a space voyage…to a wonderful new world.” That voyage ended on February 16th.

Mr Navalny’s death was blamed by Russian prison authorities on a blood clot—though his doctor said he suffered from no condition which made that likely. Whatever ends up on his death certificate, he was killed by Vladimir Putin. Russia’s president locked him up; in his name Mr Navalny was subjected to a regime of forced labour and solitary confinement. Mr Navalny will be celebrated as a man of remarkable courage. His life will be remembered for what it says about Mr Putin, what it portends for Russia and what it demands of the world.

A man of formidable intelligence, Mr Navalny identified the two foundations on which Mr Putin has built his power: fear and greed. In Mr Putin’s world everyone can be bribed or threatened. Not only did Mr Navalny understand those impulses, he struck at them in devastating ways.

His insight was that corruption was not just a side hustle but the moral rot at the heart of Mr Putin’s state. His anti-corruption crusade formed a new genre of immaculately documented and thriller-like films that displayed the yachts, villas and planes of Russia’s rulers. These videos, posted on YouTube, culminated in an exposé of Mr Putin’s billion-dollar palace on the Black Sea coast that has been watched 130m times. Despite the palace’s iron gates, adorned with a two-headed imperial eagle, Mr Navalny portrayed its owner not as a tsar so much as a tasteless mafia boss.

Mr Navalny also understood fear and how to defeat it. Mr Putin’s first attempt to kill him was in 2020, when he was poisoned with the nerve agent Novichok smeared inside his underwear. By sheer good luck Mr Navalny survived, regained his strength in Germany and less than a year later flew back to Moscow to defy Mr Putin in a blast of publicity.

He returned in the full knowledge that he would probably be arrested. On the way back to confront the evil ruler who had tried to poison him he did not read Hamlet. He watched Rick and Morty, an American cartoon. By mocking Mr Putin, he diminished him. “I’ve mortally offended him by surviving,” he said from the dock during his trial in 2021. “He will enter history as a poisoner. We had Yaroslav the Wise and Alexander the Liberator. And now we will have Vladimir the Poisoner of Underpants.”

Mr Navalny was sentenced to 19 years in jail on extremism charges. He turned his sentence into an act of cheerful defiance. Every time he appeared in court hearings via video link from prison, his smile cut through the walls of his cell and beamed across Russia’s 11 time zones. On February 15th, on the eve of his death, he was in court again. Dressed in dark-grey prison uniform he laughed in the face of Mr Putin’s judges, suggesting they should put some money into his account as he was running short. In the end there was only one way Mr Putin could wipe the smile off his face.

In his essay “Live Not by Lies”, in 1974, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, a Nobel-prize-winning Soviet novelist, wrote that “when violence intrudes into peaceful life, its face glows with self-confidence, as if it were carrying a banner and shouting: ‘I am violence. Run away, make way for me—I will crush you’.” Mr Navalny understood, but instead of running he held his ground.

His great strength was to understand Mr Putin’s fear of other people’s courage. In one of his early communications from jail he wrote that: “it is not honest people who frighten the authorities…but those who are not afraid, or, to be more precise: those who may be afraid, but overcome their fear.”

That is why his death portends a deepening of repression inside Russia. Mr Navalny’s murder was not the first and it will not be the last. The next targets could be Ilya Yashin, a brave politician who followed Mr Navalny to prison, or Vladimir Kara-Murza, a historian, journalist and politician who has been sentenced to 25 years on treason charges for speaking against the war. The lawyers and activists who continue to defend these dissidents are also in danger. Since Mr Putin’s return to the presidency in 2012, the number of prisoners has increased 15 times. Even as the remnants of Stalin’s gulag fill with political prisoners, professional criminals are being recruited and released to fight in Ukraine.

Mr Navalny’s death also casts a shadow over ordinary Russians. In Moscow and across Russia, people flooded the streets at the news. Before the police started to arrest them, they covered memorials for previous victims of political repression in flowers. Yet that repression is intensifying. Since the start of the war in Ukraine, 1,305 men and women have been prosecuted for speaking out against it. A wave of repression is also swallowing up people who never before engaged in politics. The president will shoot into the crowds if he must.

For the West, Mr Navalny’s death contains a call to action. Mr Putin considers its leaders too weak and too decadent to resist him. And for many years Western politicians and businessmen did much to prove that fear and greed work in the West, too. When Mr Putin first bombed and shelled Chechnya in the early 2000s, Western politicians turned a blind eye and continued to do business with his cronies. When he murdered his opponents in Moscow and annexed Crimea in 2014, they slapped his wrist. Even after he had invaded Ukraine in 2022, they hesitated to provide enough weapons for Russia to be defeated. Every time the West stepped back, Mr Putin took a step forward. Every time Western politicians expressed their “grave concern”, he smirked.

The West needs to find the strength and courage that Mr Navalny showed. It should understand that Mr Navalny’s murder, the soaring number of political prisoners, the torture and beating of people across Russia, the assassination of Mr Putin’s opponents in Europe and the shelling of Ukrainian cities are all part of the same war. Without resolve, the West’s military and economic superiority will count for nothing.

Western governments should start by treating people like Mr Kara-Murza as prisoners of Mr Putin’s war who need to be exchanged with Russian prisoners in the West or prisoners of war in Ukraine. They should not stigmatise ordinary Russians living under a paranoid dictator and his goons, or put the onus on ordinary people to overthrow the dictator who is repressing them.

The best retort to Mr Putin is by arming Ukraine. Every time America’s Congress votes down aid, Russia takes comfort. The leaders assembled at the Munich Security Conference, who heard Mr Navalny’s wife, Yulia, speak of justice for her husband’s death, need to stiffen their resolve to see through the war. For their part Ukrainian politicians must see that standing up for Russian activists and prisoners is also a way of helping their own country—just as Mr Navalny called for peace, for rebuilding Ukraine and the prosecution of Russian war crimes. Liberating Ukraine would be the best way to liberate Russia, too.

The voyage ends

After he had been poisoned, Mr Navalny returned home because he believed that history was on his side and that Russia was freeing itself from the deadly grip of its own imperial past. “Putin is the last chord of the ussr,” he told The Economist a few months before he took that last fateful journey. “People in the Kremlin know there is a historic current that is moving against them.” Mr Putin invaded Ukraine to reverse that current. Now he has killed Mr Navalny.

Mr Navalny would not want Mr Putin’s message to prevail. “[If I get killed] the obvious thing is: don’t give up,” he once told American film-makers. “All it takes for evil to triumph is the inaction of good people. There’s no need for inaction.”

Mr Navalny’s death has seemed imminent for months. And yet there is something crushing about it. He was not alone in believing that good triumphs over evil, and that heroes vanquish villains. His courage was an inspiration. To see that moral order so brutally overturned is a terrible affront. ■