#medvezhonok

[ashmouthbooks]

Medvezhonok by lanyon & fanart by feanorinleatherpants

A6, selfended with the fanart placed on the “endpapers”. Bookcloth is silver & red, with winter soldier arm lines and the title printed on -the silver didn’t take the printing well but I think it looks ok! And I like the faded-looking title, it fits with the fic. the star on the cover is a cutout.

this is one of my all-time favourite winter soldier fics, wherein Bucky finds himself liberating and looking after a child created as an experiment with his DNA. the child is brainwashed (and beloved Bucky to be his dad) but through well-meaning but perhaps inadequate caretaking & affection they become a family unit. highly recommended!

[pyotrkochetkov]

[smileysvech]

baking sleeping bear pastries with andrei svechnikov

this is just so soft and domestic and I think it would cure me 🤧

tagging: @pyotrkochetkov @mendeshoney @ahoist @andreisvechnikov @comphy-and-cozy @laurenairay @thewintersoldierdisaster @barzysunflower @lovelyteuvo

[odinsblog]

Thousands of Ukrainian children put through Russian ‘re-education’ camps

New report details network of dozens of Russian camps aimed at giving children pro-Moscow views, with some children detained indefinitely

At least 6,000 children from Ukraine have attended Russian “re-education” camps in the past year, with several hundred held there for weeks or months beyond their scheduled return date, according to a new report published in the US.

Russia has also unnecessarily expedited the adoption and fostering of children from Ukraine in what could constitute a war crime, the Yale Humanitarian Research Lab report found. The report was funded by the US state department.

Since the start of the war nearly a year ago, children as young as four months living in the occupied areas have been taken to 43 camps across Russia, including in Moscow-annexed Crimea and Siberia, for “pro-Russia patriotic and military-related education”, said the report.

In at least two of the camps, the children’s return date was delayed by weeks, while at two other camps, the return of some children was postponed indefinitely.

Russian authorities sought to provide a pro-Moscow viewpoint to children through school curricula as well as through field trips to patriotic sites and talks from veterans, the report found.

Videos published from the camps by the occupying regional authorities show children in the camps singing the Russian national anthem and carrying the Russian flag. In separate videos, teachers, employed to teach the children, talk about the need to correct their understanding of Russian and Soviet history.

Children were also given training in firearms, although Nathaniel Raymond, a Yale researcher who oversaw the report, said there was no evidence they were being sent back to fight.

“Mounting evidence of Russia’s actions lays bare the Kremlin’s aims to deny and suppress Ukraine’s identity, history, and culture,” the US state department said in a statement. “The devastating impacts of Putin’s war on Ukraine’s children will be felt for generations.”

There is little information on the explanation given to children regarding delays in their return. An official at the Medvezhonok camp told a boy from Ukraine that his return was conditional: the children would be returned only if Russia recaptured the town of Izium, the report said. Another boy was told he wouldn’t be returning home due to his “pro-Ukrainian views”, the report said.

Some parents were told that their children will be released only if they physically come to pick them up. Relatives or people given power of attorney were not allowed to pick up the children. Travel from Ukraine to Russia is difficult and expensive, and men between the ages of 18 and 60 are forbidden from leaving the country, in effect meaning only the mothers of the children may retrieve them.

“A significant portion of these families are low-income and have not been able to afford to make the trip. Some families were forced to sell belongings and travel through four countries to be reunited with their child,” the report found.

One of the camps is located in Magadan oblast, roughly 6,230km (3,900 miles) from Ukraine. This puts it “roughly three times closer to the United States than it is to the border of Ukraine,” the report said.

Raymond said that Russia was in “clear violation” of the Fourth Geneva Convention on the treatment of civilians during war and called the report a “gigantic Amber alert” – referring to US public notices of child abductions.

The Russian activity “in some cases may constitute a war crime and a crime against humanity”, he told reporters.

Ukraine’s government recently claimed that more than 14,700 children had been deported to Russia, where some had been sexually exploited.

(continue reading)

[safetyrat]

pssssssst hey

can I hear about Slavic Tubbo? >:)

also hey hi!! :D

hello beloved mutual how have you been!!!!!!

he is so slavic coded and i have so many thoughts about language lets go

russian is his native language!

He is from a very rural part of the country so the way he speaks tends to you reflect that. very casual, very practical, swears like a sailor.

I think it took him a while to pick up english and he still does not agree with a single aesthetic decision in this language. he switches to Russian whenever he’d prefer to use that and gets frustrated when people don’t understand him like,, king.

tubbo with the thickest russian accent. close your eyes and imagine with me. thank you.

switches to russian to cuss the world out bi-hourly.

he does not approve that you cant do as many fun things with names in english as you can in russian, so he does them anyways. ranboolychik! tomkanyonak~ its absolutely meant to teasing and ironic but people have no clue what he is doing.

yeah he absolutely calls ranboo papulya when talking to micheal credit to manlet for that one again, that’s the most correct hes ever been.

speaking off, michael in russian is misha! which also means bear, so he will be bear coded from now on. I Understand that he Is A Pig, but you cant use that to make cute nicknames okay. he is my mishka :) my medvezhonok :)

1 | here | 3

[7ooo-ru]

Жуткий плюшевый медвежонок в трейлере фильма "Воображаемый друг"

Компании Blumhouse и Lionsgate представили трейлер к предстоящему фильму ужасов "Воображаемый друг", выход которого намечен на 8 марта.

Подробнее https://7ooo.ru/group/2023/11/17/659-zhutkiy-plyushevyy-medvezhonok-v-treylere-filma-quotvoobrazhaemyy-drugquot-grss-257325769.html

[master-sass-blast]

High as Hell.

Summary: In a reversal of the norm, you're in charge of caring for Piotr when he has his wisdom teeth pulled and has to recover from surgery and the drugs that accompany it.

Hilarity ensues.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader and Alexandra Rasputin x Nikolai Rasputin.

Rating: G.

Word Count: 2.8k.

Set before "The Long Awaited Arrival" and after "Children of the Gods: Part Four."

Author's Note: This will be the last post for this series for a short while (not a permanent stop, I promise). My shoulder injury flared back up during NaNo, and I need to take time off from writing to let things heal and see a chiropractor. Once I'm doing better and have a lil stockpile to post from, I'll be back!

I hope you all had a good Thanksgiving and spent good quality time with your loved ones. See you again when I'm doing better.

“Thanks again for helping me with this.”

In the waiting room seat next to you, Alexandra Rasputin waves her hand dismissively. “Ne volnuysya. It is not a problem for me.”

The two of you are sitting in the waiting room of a local oral surgeon. On the figurative chopping block today are your respective husbands.

As it turns out, dental care wasn’t necessarily the best in pre-or-post Soviet Union Siberia. Nikolai –Alex’s husband—is going “under the knife” (or, in this case, the dental scalpel) today to take out his impacted wisdom teeth and clear out any infection.

Your husband, Piotr, is also undergoing a similar such surgery today. He’s not dealing with any impaction, but this is the only place willing to use the amount of anesthesia necessary to numb him up for the surgery. It’s not an opportunity either of you are willing to pass up on.

“Relax,” Alex says when you can’t stop shifting in your chair. She favors you with a slight smile when you look over at her. “Medvezhonok will be fine.”

“Shit goes wrong a lot with anesthetics,” you mutter, eyeing the door separating the waiting room from the surgical area of the clinic.

“They do,” Alex concedes with a nod, “but valium is not the same as actual anesthesia.”

“They’re using five times the normal dose.”

“To account for Piotr’s weight and resistance to drugs.”

“But—”

“Malen'kaya ptitsa.” Alex squeezes your hand gently and gives you a softer, warmer smile when you look over at her. “Relax.”

You exhale and slump down in your seat. “Sorry.”

“No apologies needed.” She releases your hand and pats it. “It’s more for you than anyone else.”

***

As fortune would happen, Nikolai’s surgery finishes right around when Piotr comes to from his high –no pun intended—dose of valium.

Nikolai walks out of the surgery suite on his own two feet, thanks to only needing local anesthetics.

Piotr, on the other hand, is wheeled out in a wheelchair about two sizes too small to him by no less than three dental assistants. He gives you a dopey, bleary smile when he sees you and holds his arm out for a hug. “Myshka!”

“Trade.” Alex shuffles Nick over to you –he’s far more coherent, if a little puffy and spacey—then strides over and takes Piotr’s chair from the struggling assistants. She coaxes him into putting his feet in the stirrups, then wheels him towards the door with ease (which makes the assistants stare after her in equal parts bewilderment and envy). “Home with you, sladkiy medved'.”

You follow her with Nikolai in tow.

Nikolai gets into the passenger seat of Alex’s truck with ease. He even manages to buckle himself in –though he misses the clip a couple of times. He waves and gives you a parting smile, bits of blood-soaked cotton sticking out past the edges of his lips.

Piotr, on the other hand…

Alex grunts as she tries to manhandle her son into the passenger seat of the SUV. She curses in Russian, arms locking around his waist when he tries to stumble over to you –again. “Vo imya lyubvi Gospoda –yes, she is very pretty. You lucked out. Sit your ass down.”

Piotr laughs and holds his hand out to you. “Krasivaya zhena ... davay potseluy menya ...”

Alex lets out an annoyed huff. “You couldn’t have smoked weed in high school, huh? Built up any tolerance to this kind of shit at all? Ty tozhe dolzhen byt' tyazhelym, kak tvoy otets… blyad.” She rolls her eyes when Piotr continues to fight getting in the SUV –giggling like a madman all the while, and, hey, at least he’s entertaining himself—and jerks her head towards the driver’s side. “Get in. Maybe we can incentivize him.”

You get in the driver’s seat of the SUV –and, sure enough, Piotr goes willingly on the next attempt.

Alex buckles her son in, shaking her head all the while (though a fond smile tugs at her lips). “I can help you get him home and inside, but he’s all yours from there.” She pats Piotr’s chest a few times, then kisses his forehead before closing the passenger side door and heading to her truck.

You chuckle and take Piotr’s hand in yours. You kiss his knuckles, then grin when he gives you an astounded look. “Ready to go home, baby?”

“Kak ya nashel takuyu krasivuyu zhenshchinu?”

“I’m taking that as a ‘yes.’” You turn over the ignition, then steer the car towards the parking lot exit.

***

True to her word, Alex tails you back to yours and Piotr’s home. She helps you get Piotr up the stairs, inside, and to the family room couch, then makes sure you’re set before leaving with Nikolai.

“Call me if you need something,” she says, giving you an affectionate, maternal hug. “Day or night.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.” She smiles and squeezes your shoulder when you nod, then takes one last glance at Piotr and shakes her head. “Good luck.”

You see her out the front door, then lock it before turning and assessing your situation.

Piotr’s slumped across the couch. He’s staring at the ceiling like it’s revealing the mysteries of the universe to him. He’s got some blood crusted on his lips and chin, his cheeks are pouched out from where he has cotton wadded up in his mouth, and his eyes are so dilated they don’t even look blue anymore.

Hopefully his trip won’t last long. You check the instructions on his antibiotics and pain meds, then double-check the delivery time of lunch –a chocolate milkshake for him and a burger and fries for you—before heading over to the couch. “How’re you doing, baby?”

Piotr beams up at you. “Myshka! Come sit me.”

You bite back a laugh as he clumsily motions to the space on the couch next to him (which isn’t much, given his size). “Maybe in a bit. How’re you feeling?”

“I feel great,” Piotr says, with such emphasis and conviction that you don’t doubt him in the least.

“I’m so glad, honey. Can you feel your lips and mouth yet?”

Piotr opens his mouth to reply, then frowns. “But… do we feel anything, truly?”

And then, as if to drive home how high he is, he starts making fish faces with his lips (though, with all the numbing agent in his system, they don’t look very fish-like).

You giggle when your husband starts crossing his eyes to try and see his lips. “Okay, easy there, champ.” You place your fingers against his temples, gently pressing to guide his gaze –and attention—back to you. “How about we start you on the ice pack routine the surgeon talked about, and then we get some pain meds in you once your milkshake arrives. Sound good?”

“And you sit me?” Piotr asks, pouting up at you.

You nod, not even bothering to hide your grin. “And I sit you,” you promise. “We can watch some TV together.”

“National Geographic?”

“So much National Geographic, baby. As much as you want.” You giggle when he grins –you suspect, in a few hours, the expression won’t be quite so painless—then plant a kiss on his forehead. “Just a second, sweetheart. I’m going to get the ice pack, and then I’ll be all yours.”

A soft “yay” emanates from your husband as you amble over to the freezer.

***

Caring for Piotr, fortunately, is easy. You follow the intervals for icing given to you by the surgeon –twenty minutes on, ten minutes off, repeat throughout the first day and then no ice after that—and sit next to him on the couch while the National Geographic channel plays on the TV. You set him up with his milkshake and a spoon when the drink arrives –no straws, surgeon’s orders—and eat your lunch while he slurps down his shake.

You wind up sending Alex a Snapchat picture that shows off Piotr’s chocolate ice cream coated chin (special thanks to Novocain) and wide, slightly glassy eyes.

She sends you back a short video of Nikolai sacked out on the couch, sawing logs, with King –Alex’s black Pitbull—sprawled across his chest.

Once Piotr downs his milkshake, you administer his pain medication (which is also a ridiculously high dose, but such are the perks of being a pure grade Russian beefcake with high resistance to drugs). You finish off your food, help him do a saltwater rinse and change his gauze, then get him settled back on the couch and get the ice packs back on his cheeks. Once you’re sure he’s good to go, you start cleaning up from lunch and get going on doing dishes.

Fortunately, since the worst of the valium is working its way out of his system, he’s settled from being a boisterous, intoxicated handful. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his head bobbing as he starts dozing off, then jerk back up when a dish clatters in the sink or something exciting happens on the TV.

You finish loading the dishwasher and swing the door shut—

“Myshka?”

You smile at the sound of your husband’s soft, sleepy voice. You amble over to the couch, leaning over the back of the sofa so you can run your fingers through Piotr’s thick, dark hair. “What’s up, baby? Are you okay? Does anything hurt?”

Piotr sighs and leans into your touch. His eyes are closed, face slack with drug-induced exhaustion. “You hold me?”

Your heart melts at the request. “Yeah, I can hold you for a little bit, baby.”

He pouts. “You stay with me.”

“For as long as I can, sweetheart,” you chuckle, brushing your fingers across his forehead, “but I have to keep doing your ice pack routine. I’ll need to get up for that.”

“Nyet,” he whines, drawing the word out.

“Yes,” you reply, drawing the response out in equal measure. You laugh softly when Piotr opens his eyes and stares up at you blearily. “I’ll have to get up to put the ice packs in the freezer and get fresh ones out, my love. But other than that, I’m all yours.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. Pinky promise, even.” You interlock your pinkies, laugh when Piotr merely blinks at both your intertwined fingers, then pat his shoulder gently. “Make some room for me, big guy.”

He sits up so you can slide in behind him.

Most of the couch is already taking his weight, so being crushed isn’t an issue when he reclines back against you. You wrap your arms around his burly shoulders and kiss his temple when he rests his head on your shoulder.

Within minutes, he’s out like a light.

You giggle silent when Piotr lets out a massive snore. You wriggle your phone out of your pants pocket, then click onto your phone’s camera app and turn on the front facing camera. You take a picture of you and Piotr, add the caption ‘baby wanted snuggles,’ and send the message to Alex.

She replies two minutes later.

Russian_Mama: <3 <3 <3.

***

“Kak?”

You bite down on your fist to keep from laughing. Okay, so maybe hoping he’d sleep off the rest of his drugs was a bit audacious.

Piotr’s sitting at the dining room table, staring at a glass of milk like he’s seen the face of God. He gapes, blue eyes wide whilst he marvels at the beverage before him. He blinks, then looks up at you and points at his glass. “This is from korova, da?”

“Baby—” You burst into giggles, bracing yourself against the table as you try to regain your composure. “Baby –Piotr—I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Piotr moos –and, while it does clarify his question, it does little to help you remain composed.

“Yes,” you manage after a serious bout of laughter, “it’s cow’s milk, honey.”

“But… we do not have one.”

You snort. You can feel tears of mirth streaming down your cheeks. “What?”

“We do not have cow,” Piotr repeats, mooing again to try and drive his point home.

“I know, honey—”

“Then…” He stares down at his glass again, face alight with wonder. “How?”

“We got it from the grocery store, sweetheart,” you say, somewhat calmer. You wipe your cheeks dry, giggles leaving you in short, breathless bursts. “You can get milk at the store, baby.”

“But… we do not have korova.”

You nearly collapse from laughter all over again. “Piotr—”

“Is miracle milk!” Piotr exclaims, voice hushed. He stares at the cup with a certain ardor that only someone who was very high off their ass would be able to understand. “Ot Boga!”

It’s your turn to blink at him. “What, honey?”

“God,” Piotr whispers, as if there are conspirators trying to ascertain the secrets of the glass of milk. He points at his cup. “God sent us milk.”

Your ribs hurt. Your lungs burn. You’re pretty sure you’re going to die, and it’s going to be from laughing your ass off at your husband’s post-wisdom tooth removal high.

There are far worse ways to go.

***

Fortunately, the rest of the day progresses rather smoothly. You feed Piotr some mashed potatoes and warm soup for dinner –both blended to the point of not having any discernible chunks in them—and help him do a saltwater rinse before putting him to bed.

A good night’s sleep, fortunately, seems to finish putting Piotr’s screws back on properly. Come morning, he isn’t mixing Russian and English or attributing the work of grocery stores to that of an unseen deity.

This isn’t to say, however, that new complications haven’t arisen…

“No!” You laugh when Piotr pouts at you and –gently—press the tip of your index finger against his lips. “Absolutely not.”

“Are you saying you do not desire, moya dusha?” Piotr asks, feigning sorrow. “Does my wife no longer love me?”

“That’s not the issue and you know it, you little shit,” you retort, grinning when Piotr giggles and ducks his head. “The issue—” you smack his hand when he tries to take off your pajama pants again “—is that you are not going down on me with two fresh holes in your mouth.”

Piotr pouts again and lays his head against your stomach. He sighs –then peeks up at you, eyes pleading. “I could…”

“Not gonna happen,” you say sweetly, ruffling his morning bedhead with your fingers. “Pretty sure pubic hair counts as a ‘foreign object with the potential of causing infection.’”

Piotr scrunches up his face.

“Exactly.” You stroke your fingers through his hair and sigh lovingly. “I appreciate the offer, babe, but none of that is gonna happen until your mouth’s all healed up. I’m not consenting to it under any other circumstances.”

Piotr sighs, but relents. “Khorosho.” He looks back up at you. “Breakfast?”

“Absolutely, babe.” You pat his shoulder, then slide out of bed when he clambers off of you. “More applesauce and various lukewarm mushes for you, mister.”

…

Over the next couple weeks, Piotr recovers. He completes his course of antibiotics, stops needing the pain meds, and the holes in his mouth close without problem.

Once Nikolai recovers, too (the process was a little lengthier, given the infection he was dealing with), you and Piotr head out to Alex and Nick’s farm for a “we can finally eat normal food again” celebration.

Nick and Piotr are whirlwinds in the kitchen –and with Alex on “all things knife related” duty, you get the distinct pleasure of doting plenty of attention on King.

“Oh, you’re so handsome,” you coo from your barstool as King stands back on his hind legs so he can get his front legs into your lap. You rub his massive head, taking time to stroke his floppy, scarred ears. “Yes, you’re the handsomest baby, aren’t you?”

Alex chuckles as she expertly cubes a bowl of potato chunks. “He’s a good nursemaid, too. Took good care of papa while he was recovering.”

You praise King for his attentiveness –and then you remember something you’d been meaning to share with Alex. You giggle, then look over at Piotr. “Babe, you’re agnostic, right?”

Piotr looks up at you, expression confused. “Uh… da. Why?”

“I was just checking,” you say with an air of forced nonchalance. You wave your hand at him when he frowns. “You just had quite the ‘heavenly revelation’ about how we had milk during the first day of your recovery, is all.”

Alex snorts. “This should be good.”

“He couldn’t figure out how we had cow’s milk, since we didn’t have a cow,” you explain through your giggles. “And –even though I told him it was from a grocery store—he decided that God must have sent it to us.”

Piotr groans and drops his head in his hands while his parents laugh fondly.

You laugh with them, then grin and blow a kiss to your husband when he looks up at you.

[stuckylibrary]

Medvezhonok by lanyon

I want to recommend Medvezhonok by lanyon !!! Bucky/tws ran away from hydra and taking a child with him. Dad!bucky is so wholesome here 🥺

[danielpowell]

Yeah, Mike is kind of a fucking awful man, but consider he is my poor little medvezhonok and I love him

[jimmynovac]

my favorite fanfics

✫   A Complete Kingdom by komodobits ✫   Long Journey Home by sun_ripened ✫   Shadowboxing by iknowhowmystoryends ✫   me, myself by midrashic

oldies and goodies

✫   Medvezhonok by lanyon (Bucky Barnes) ✫   The Only Moment We Were Alone by emmbrancsxx0 (BBC Merlin)

[you-are-crazy-beautiful]

Was tagged by @illgiveyouahint 🥰

Top 7 films and tag 7 people

This is hard and I'm prob going to kick myself that I forgot some

- The Addams family (total comfort kid ever since I was a kid)

-The original Spiderman and Spiderman 2 (greatest superhero films of all time, don't @ me)

- Kajillionaire

- Rafiki

- Harry Potter and the half blood prince

- Portrait of a lady on fire

- Carol

Also shout out to A New York Christmas wedding on Netflix because it just warms and comforts me so much 🥰

I tag @floraflorenzi @sadgalzari @russian-medvezhonok @awakenedgays @some-days-we-get-sundays @fatoudixon @thestateofspirit

[dissident-vedder]

- once upon a december  ( 𝐄.𝐕. )

anastasia!au. 1900s!au. after [y/n]’s narrow escape from the alexander palace, she lost most, if not all, memory of her childhood, only remembering the tiny details that would help her later on in life. this is the first part of a duology.

THIS FIC CONTAINS a generalized russian accent; this story is both of my own creation and inspirations (listed below); mentions of death.

A/N - layout by @adoresobs​!

INSPIRATIONS -  @zodiyack​ ‘s princess. anastasia (1997).

TRANSLATIONS - 

бабушка! Помоги мне! не оставляй меня здесь!! (babushka! pomogi mne! ne ostavlyay menya zdes'!) - grandmother! help me! don't leave me here!

медвежонок! я не могу с тобой связаться! (medvezhonok! ya ne mogu svyazat'sya s vami!) - little bear! i can't reach you!

пожалуйста, не оставляй меня здесь одну! (pozhaluysta, ne ostavlyay menya zdes' odnu!) - please don't leave me here alone!

медвежонок! (medvezhonok!) - little bear!

мой медвежонок? это правда ты? (moy malen'kiy medved'? rto pravda ty?) - my little bear? is that really you?

[y/n/n] didn’t recall much from her life. at night, she would lay in her small cot in the orphanage she’s been in since as long as she could remember (literally), and just think back on her life, index finger tapping on the hand that was folded on her stomach, foot twitching as a cold breeze blew through the room. nobody knew anything on where or when she was born but generalized where she was from by her accent. her w’s turned to v’s, rolling her r’s whenever it was not necessary, and her th’s turned to either t’s or z’s. given by this, the overseer at the orphanage decided to call her the “little russian”. she gave her a fake birthday and age and decided that it was good enough. on some of the nights, she cried, not being able to see any familiar faces that she has possibly seen before coming to the orphanage, chest heaving as anxiety coursed through her veins, freezing her to her bed.

she’d go to sleep, head pounding, temples wet, curling into her body like she was hugging herself. her fingers cradled the necklace around her neck, the small disk engraved with together in london. during these moments, bright blue eyes would appear into her memory, a boy with dark hair and pale skin smiling up at her, and every time she tried to reach him, he would disappear into oblivion. she later learned to just stay put, watching them from a distance away. these dreams would seem so short, but when she would wake, the sun was already peeking through the windows, the lace curtains not stopping the harsh rays from reaching [y/n/n]’s eyes. 

she hated waking up. hated the fact that those blue eyes she’s fallen in love with would vanish when she opened her eyes again to meet the brand-new day. her eighteenth birthday was coming up, and with that meant that she would have to leave the orphanage for good. she would miss little natalie, who hugged [y/n/n]’s legs every time she got scared, who would run into her arms and hug her as tightly as she could every time she saw the older female. 

stepping foot into the snow, [y/n/n] breathed in the chicago air, which would get quite disgusting (according to [y/n/n]) during certain days, and she avoided all of the areas that would get especially rough. she walked, cheeks bitten with cold, breath coming out in little clouds in front of her mouth, arms hugging around her as she set her eyes on the city. she had to get a job, she knew it, despite not have worked a paying day in her life. she could get a cleaning job, maybe, since she was basically in charge of cleaning the entire orphanage as the younger kids played around. the older males would just sit around and talk, pretending that they were full grown men in a country club, apple juice taking the place of actual whisky. they never paid attention to [y/n/n] as she scrubbed the floor with a soapy rag, knees aching after having spent a few hours on them, making sure all of the mud and dirt was gone, a thing of the past. 

she didn’t care if she had to stay on her knees again, just as long as she had enough money for food and an apartment. maybe she could live in a settlement house, where the progressive women opened their doors to immigrants and people in need. 

“mrs. mcdowell, I’m back,” the young adult stepped foot into the house, taking off the small bonnet from her gibson bun, sweeping back a few of the tendrils of hair behind her ear. she put up her bonnet on the coat rack, feeling the overwhelming sense to take off her corset and lay in bed, but her grumbling stomach protested, asking for food aggresively as her feet carried her into the dining room/kitchen area. 

“i made some glazed ham, carrots, mashed potatoes, and some bread rolls if you want any,” the older woman ladeled a heaping scoop of said things into a china plate, picking up the silver platter mountained with yeast rolls. "i’ll pour you some whiskey,” she settled everything down and busied herself with taking the cork out of the clear ornate bottle she always poured her bought alcohol into, left hand carrying a small lowball glass. 

“i’m too young, mrs. mcdowell,” [y/n/n] objected, taking off her white apron and settling it on the back of her chair. the other woman held up a finger, wagging it from side to side as she moved to put the whiskey down, the brown alcoholic liquid sloshing inside of the lowball glass. “you work too hard, child, you deserve one glass before bed,” she remarked. “and i’ve told you to call me marie when we first met, did i not?” she raised an eyebrow as she set the alcohol down in front of [y/n/n]. 

“you did,” [y/n/n] nodded, picking up her fork and began digging in, eating as fast as she could in order to get to bed quicker and see those blue eyes again.

lately [y/n/n]’s dreams have become a bit more vivid, making her see images of fire and a large train driving away, picking up speed as a little girl screamed, “бабушка! Помоги мне! не оставляй меня здесь!” a small hand shot out, dainty fingers reaching for the mature hand that had stuck out from the back of the train, “медвежонок! я не могу с тобой связаться!” with this indicator, the young girl’s leg ran faster, heart beating against her chest as she tried to reach the woman with the white hair. 

“пожалуйста, не оставляй меня здесь одну!“ the girl cried, and their fingertips touched, the older woman’s lithe fingers wrapping around the girl’s wrist, but a rough bump on the track caused them to slip, the bairn flying back and hitting her head on the pavement. her eyes closed, pain exploding on the back of her head, breaths shallow.

“медвежонок!” 

[y/n/n] woke up with a sharp breath, a cold sweat lining her body as she panted, and she sighed, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. she hated that dream. hated seeing the grandmother’s face of anguish, hated seeing the fires blossoming everywhere, and especially hated the young girl’s cries for help. she must have been very important if she was scared to be in a place like that.

“next!” a man by the name of stone gossard yelled out, eyebrows furrowed as he shook his head, taking notes on the pad of paper he brought. “next!” came in a girl with [y/h/c] hair, wearing a white lace dress with fur lining, a part that kept her neck and wrists warm in the cold winter air outside. she carried a broom in hand, “i’m sorry, sir, but no one is out there anymore. that seemed to be the last one.”

stone’s furrowed eyebrows deepened, picking up the photograph of grand duchess [y/n] romanov, and realizing that they looked very similar. she would be the perfect bait for that $15,000 the dowager empress marie was willing to give to the person who found her last granddaughter first. stone thumped his fist on the table, causing [y/n/n] to jump in the air. “how would you like to be [y/n] romanov for a while?” he smirked at her. “i’ll give you half the profits.” 

“how much is the profits?”

“$15,000, and. . . from what i see you doing, you are not of high standing and could use some money.”

[y/n/n] looked at the floor, calculating how much half would be. $7,500 would still be a lot of money, she thought. she could use it for a new house, a new car maybe. 

“alright, i’ll be your grand duchess for a while,” she smiled at him.

[y/n/n] looked out of the ship’s window, head resting on her hand, watching seagulls fly and people walk past. she didn't want to leave her dorm, feeling a little sick at the moment, but she was bored out of her mind. the book she brought with her was already read twice, and the other form of entertainment was music, but the dining hall was closed until dinnertime. “dowager empress marie is currently in london,” stone had informed her when he asked her to pack. a few days had passed since that interactive, they boarded on a boat from ellis island in new york and were now on their way to london.

[y/n/n]’s dreams have taken a toll on her, the young girl no longer wanting to see the fires and the woman that struck a chord on nostalgia in her heart. but why did she feel like she remembered that place despite her not remembering what seemed like half of her own life?

the two of them met jeff ament, someone who used to be in the russian court, and during their travel, jeff made [y/n/n] study everything she could on the romanov family if she were to fool marie. it was everywhere, so many names and faces to remember, but she knew she had to do it. 

“shoulders back and stand up tall,” he scrutinized her way of standing. “and do not walk but try to float.” he gave her an encouraging smile, lending her a gentle hand as he helped her sit like a royal. “now, elbows in and sit up straight. and never slurp your stroganoff.”

“i never cared for stroganoff,”  [y/n/n] said delicately, making jeff smile widely. 

“spoken like a true romanov.” 

“now here we have kropotkin, who shot potemkin in the botkin,” jeff pointed at two faces in the book he held. “and dear old uncle vanya loved his vodka,” another face. “got it, [y/n/n]?”

“no!” 

“the baron pushkin, he was short. count anatoly had a wart. count sergei wore a feathered hat.”

“i heard he’s gotten very fat,” stone added.

“and i recall his yellow cat,” [y/n/n] got excited, pointing a finger in the air, smiling as jeff rose an eyebrow at stone.

“i don’t believe we told her that.”

stone shook his head in disbelief, eyes wide as they looked back on [y/n/n], who was merely looking at all of the photos, mumbling to herself, trying to remember all the names and important events they were involved in.

five days later, the boat landed in england, [y/n/n] breathing a sigh of relief when her feet touched dry land again. stone grabbed her hand and led her through the crowd, muttering something about meeting up with a man named edward vedder (preferred to be called eddie), who was close to [y/n] before the revolution happened. since the day of her family’s demise, he has been searching far and wide for the last grandduchess, the love he held for her still unbreakable despite it being almost 12 years since they last heard of her. 

[y/n/n] shook her leg in the car as stone drove down a narrow road, men in clean business suits and women in colorful dresses passing by them, head resting against the window. “how much longer until we get there?” 

“however long it takes,” stone grumbled, tapping the wheel with a finger, breathing deeply as the scenery changed. “he’s already in marie’s house, we’ll meet him there, and you just answer marie’s maid’s questions as truthfully as you can. is that simple enough?”

[y/n/n] nodded her head quickly, remembering the crash course he and jeff gave her. her heart beating quickly in her chest, anxiety coursing through her veins, but she cleared her throat and opened the car door, breathing in the scent of roses that were planted in the garden in front of the house. the necklace around her neck felt heavy for the first time in years, and she and stone walked up the large steps to the door. “what if i fail?” she asked him. 

“then we don’t get the profits,” he knocked on the door, the sound of shuffling coming from the inside.

“coming!” a female voice calling out from the inside. [y/n/n] crossed her arms, waiting patiently as the lock turned, opening to reveal a plump blonde woman, possibly in her late fifties, beaming up at them brilliantly. “we’re here to see dowager empress marie,” stone informed her. "i believe i’ve found [y/n] romanov.”

“her highness does not want to see any more people, but i’ll see what I can do,” the woman said. “come in,” she moved out of the way, the two young adults stepping in the amazingly furnished home. a man with dark brown hair and brilliant blue eyes looked up from his spot on the couch, and the sight of him caused  [y/n/n] to gasp. it looked like the man from her dreams. were her dreams premonitions? did they tell her of who she was going to meet or had already met? but brown hair and blue eyes were common traits, so she just shook her head and tried to take him out of her mind. why did he feel so familiar though? “sir,” the woman, who had introduced herself as ethel, said, “if you would please take a seat. i’ll be interviewing [y/n/n] alone in the other room.” stone nodded and sat down, ethel taking [y/n/n]’s hand in hers and leading her into another sitting room. 

eddie’s head perked up at the sound of the girl’s name, since it sounded a lot like a nickname for [y/n]. But [y/n] was said to be dead, though marie and eddie didn’t want to believe it. they were the ones who tried to help her escape, after all. but. . . the key word was tried. 

“alright,” ethel’s motherly tone resonated from out of the room, “ [y/n/n], meet dowager empress marie feodorovna, mother of tsar nicholas ii. your grace, mr. stone gossard believes her to be grand duchess [y/n] romanov.”

marie looks at her, a hard expression on her face, looking at her from the tips of her toes to the small stray hairs on her head. “you certainly look like my little bear,” she comments. “but are you really my little bear?” she raises an eyebrow at her. “sit.” [y/n/n] moves to sit in the large armchair need the fireplace, marie sitting across from her. 

outside, eddie listened to the conversation going inside the room, straining his ears to hear everything. “where were you born?” marie asked the female in front of her.

“peterhof, russia.”

“when were you born?”

“june 18, 1901. i am currently 19 years of age.”

“what was your favorite thing to do when you were younger?”

“pull pranks on the household staff,” she remembered short tidbits as this queenly woman quizzed her. “i used to kick and scratch at my playmates, too. because of this, I was called imp by father.” 

“did you have any pets?”

“we all did, but mine was jimmy, a cavalier king charles spaniel. he was killed in a fire,” tears flooded her eyes.

“what was your favorite subject in school?”

“i hated school,” she shook her head. “i would always try to bribe my tutors into giving me good grades. it didn’t work most of the time.” 

it was time for the hard question. “how did you escape?” eddie perked up, pressing an ear to the door, wanting to hear what this girl said. 

“i don’t. . .” [y/n/n] shook her head. “i. . .” she cuts herself short, furrowing her eyebrows as she looked down at her hands, neatly folded on her lap. “the wall in the palace moved. there was a young boy with brown hair and bright blue eyes. his name. . . it started with an e. . .” all this information came pouring out of her, and she wondered how she was remembering all of this now. “but he was my best friend. he didn’t care if i kicked him or scratched him, and he told me he loved me the same day we were escaping. and then, i remember an older woman, holding out her hand for me from the back of a train. she kept yelling that she couldn’t reach me, and i kept begging her not to leave me alone. and everything went black. that’s all i remember, i’m sorry.” she looked up to see the empress staring straight at her, tears in her eyes, flooding them as her chin trembled.

“[y/n]?” marie breathed out. “мой медвежонок? это правда ты?”

all of her childhood memories came rushing back, the warmth of her grandmother’s touch, the scent of the cologne her father always wore, her mother’s hair tickling her cheek whenever she hugged her. everything. “it’s really me, baba,” she nodded, sobbing as marie hugged her tightly, crying everything she has been meaning to cry for all these years. she remembered seeing her family being killed in front of her, seeing the blood seeping out from the bullet wounds from the back of their heads, the adrenaline she felt when she fled the scene, angry men cursing at her. 

“i’ve waited for so long!”

TAGLIST:

 @stateofloveandvedder​ @state-of-love-and-lust​ @honeysympathy​ @grossgold​ @sea-sxns​ @d-arknecessities

[freshiegayboi]

Asking the Right Questions chap. 1

an older MCU fic of mine, but clearly one of the most popular fics I’ve ever written lol if you’re new and go snooping in my other content, don’t say you didn’t see the warnings

Tags: hurt Tony Stark, eventual Polyvengers, BAMF Jarvis, protective everyone, therapy positive, ABO universe (no lemons!), angst, hurt/comfort, Canon Divergence

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18842203/chapters/44717005

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was cold in the shop, colder than the cave, colder than space even though just the thought of that seemed impossible. Space had been an empty void of nothing, absolutely nothing but ice and fear and the awful feeling of being so utterly alone. He’d been so afraid, when he’d gone through that wormhole and been suddenly surrounded by so much nothing. And he was afraid now, but for an entirely different reason.

His eyes flitted over the monitors, watching as Clint and Natasha laughed, Sam telling some story with his arms in the air, the three of them sharing quite a large meal of what looked like fried chicken tenders and biscuits, thick mac and cheese and an unhealthy amount of mashed potatoes. The very sight of it made his mouth water, tongue coming out to wet his lips as he wondered if there’d be any left for him to steal, after the others had gone to bed.

He felt the same old worry enter his thoughts; that he was letting them down by not interacting, by staying locked up down here all day and night and only coming out after they’d all were long asleep, disappearing before they came back out in the morning. Sure he was available when duty called, already suited up and out to wherever they’d been called to serve up some good ole UN style justice.

Still, some part of him was relieved to not see Steve or their newest charge anywhere in frame. He’d seen them in the kitchen and had quickly switched feed, unwilling to let his thoughts drift that harshly. Not that he had much control over them in the first place, but it was his last ditch effort in staving off that panic attack he’d been fighting off since Steve had come and told him the news.

New York seemed so long ago, and he and the rest of the team had certainly come a long way, eventually moving from the easily blown up Tower to the Compound that was a bit easier to protect. On the surface, it had concrete shelters for the occasional tornado, safe rooms for anyone that might need protecting, and an excellent system of rooms for various purposes. It also had enough space to hide away the population of at least two large cities in the catacombs underneath, not that Tony planned on advertising that unless absolutely necessary.

But New York was far away, the Chitauri and Loki so very far away, but then all the shit with Killian and Extremis had happened, and hadn’t that left its own scars on his psyche. Then finding all the Hydra outposts after Steve and Natasha had outed the tentacle ridden hide of Shield to the world, saving all the outed agents that needed saving, sending condolences to the families of the ones they couldn’t save. Tony had been… well, more than a bit pissed about the lack of foresight on that, but it wasn’t as if the two of them had very much time to consult him about it. (Sometimes he wondered who they could have saved if he’d been told, even a day or two before.)

And of course Steve’s old war buddy (that Tony was at least 89% positive had been more than a “buddy”) turned out to be a Hydra ghost that had a hand in at least 30 assassinations in the past 50 or so years. Steve wanted to go after him, find him, help him. Tony wanted to leave the damn guy alone, since it was obvious what he wanted was little more than the ones who’d tortured him for 70+ years to mysteriously end up with a bullet between their eyebrows, but Steve was Steve. He was a friend, more than a friend sometimes; he was the one Tony went to when he had his breakdowns and panic attacks and Rhodey wasn’t there to help and he just… couldn’t stomach being alone. Even when Steve did stupid crazy shit and Tony was left to pick up the pieces, Steve always, in the end, came to help him.

The main issue, the whole reason Tony had been hiding out in the first place, was that Steve had taken him aside, sometime after the first mission to go stake out an old Hydra base, and had informed him that he needed to tell him something. Something important, something that would probably change things.

Tony hated change, had hated it every time something big happened and everything changed, but this was Steve, and if he said it was important, then it was important.

Finding out that the old War Buddy, Buck Barnes, best friend of Captain America and lover boy of the Howling Commandos, the guy that his father would mourn with the others, the man they had just recently found out was still alive... he was the one that'd done old Howard in. Had killed his mother . And yeah, that changed things, it really did, but...

But then Sokovia had happened, Ultron had happened, and things got a bit patchy. Tony had new things to have nightmares about, Steve was in his room a little more often than usual, and even when Tony explained that he and Bruce hadn’t actually made Ultron, the team felt a little more distant than he remembered them being. He didn't have time to think about Bucky or what he'd done, who he'd killed , not on top of everything else that was running through his already crowded head.

And the Accords, hadn’t that been a shitshow. Steve had been against them, of course, worrying that the government just wanted more control over everything they did. Tony knew that they needed structure, needed rules, or Sokovia would happen over and over again. New York would happen again. Eventually Steve had come around to the idea, and when the bomb went off and killed the Wakandan king and they learned it was Bucky, well, Steve had backup when he went to go get him. (And even if the thought of seeing him made Tony feel physically ill, he went because Steve asked him to, had practically begged. Tony couldn't say no to that.)

Now Bucky was with them, safe and under protection by the UN as a POW that had been brainwashed into doing all the horrible shit he’d done over the last 50 years, on the condition that they'd get his head fixed. The Accords were in effect, Zemo’s plan had pretty much no effect at all, and the team was stronger than it’d been before.

And then… and then Tony had gotten the file on the Winter Soldier, compiled by FRIDAY, and had found that Steve had been telling the truth, that… that he’d finally found his parents’ killer. His mother’s murderer. He’d finally found out why they crashed that night, why they’d been found strangled when they should have survived the crash.

And he hadn’t talked to Steve since. He couldn't, couldn't look at him when he was so busy helping Bucky back on his feet, not when he felt his windpipe slowly crushing in and his chest filling with molten lead any time he was even in the same room. Hell, the same fucking building. He could smell the scent of the broken alpha when he went into different rooms, his own instincts battling with his absolute terror.

The smell of an approaching alpha made his hackles raise as he turned away from the monitors, his own synthetic pheromones leaking out into the room to let whoever it was know that he was on the edge, and not to be messed with. He watched the door to the elevator, waiting for tense seconds until it opened and Natasha walked through, a plate of steaming food in her hands.

She walked up a respectful distance, then raised a brow, the look perfected like only an alpha could do. Tony refused to turn throat, raising his own brown in question.

“Figured even our resident genius needed food. It’s damn good.” She lifted the plate in question, waiting for his permission to come closer and give it to him.

There was no question who the superior in this room was though, especially given extenuating circumstances. Tony finally glanced down, allowing her to finish her walk over to his desk, placing the plate heaping with chicken and biscuits on top of a mountain of mashed potatoes, white gravy covering it all on the desktop beside him. Then she took a respectful step back and he felt himself relax a little, even as his instincts begged her to come closer.

Something must have slipped through his mask of indifference, Natasha glancing at the camera feed before speaking again. “You know you’ll have to come out of hiding some time, medvezhonok. All of us do.” And with that she turned foot, face as placid as when she’d come in, and headed back to the elevator, leaving him to his steaming plate of goodness that was, unsurprisingly, the best fried chicken and biscuits he’d ever had. If he wasn’t currently avoiding the both of them, he’d have begged them to teach him how to make more traditional southern food. They seemed to have some kind of innate talent for it, despite being Brooklyn boys through and through.

Busying himself with blueprints for the next Starkpad and all the new projects that needed to be approved from R&D, he worked through until 3 in the morning, after which the stains of gravy and hardened scrapes of mashed potato had left a caked substance on the plate. Checking the camera feed he found no one about, no one lurking or otherwise awake. Which, it was 3 in the morning, it’d be strange if they were.

Sneaking upstairs, he put his plate in the dishwasher, grabbed the box of leftover chicken tenders, glanced back toward the guest rooms. Then headed back down to the shop.

[askamurderclown]

I’m shocked! To think that you keep birds in a cage... Even if it’s a big one... Well, but I’m sure you take good care of them. And, anyway, as for names... How about Oksana or медвежонок (Medvezhonok)? (I used Cyrillic cause I’m not sure how to write it with English characters)

I got them a cage when I found out red pandas sometimes eat birds. Before that they had free reign everywhere, but they only stay in it when I’m not there to keep an eye on everyone. I’m not thrilled with it, honestly. Either way I’d have to keep someone locked up.

Oksana is a nice name~ I’ll try it out with her. Thank you!!

[ili-here]

Hey so this is kind of in response to one of your old posts about diminutives. I thought it would be cute in an aged-up otayuri fic for Yuri to call Otabek medvezhonok/misha because Otabek actually does has an affinity for bears. But I kind of wanted to turn it into something like Yurionok? But like Otabek isn't even a Russian name. Do you think any of these sound believable and/or cute?? Bekezhonok (my fave by sound), Otezhonok, Beksha, Bekasha, IDK any ideas? Would this even work?

Hey, thank you for your question. 

I wouldn’t use “Misha” as a diminutive for someone whose full name isn’t Mikhail. If you want a diminutive for the Russian word for ‘bear’, use ‘medbezhonok’ or ‘Mishka’. 

As for fusion with Otabek.. I’d ask someone who speaks Kazakh in case it resembles anything bad in that language (I don’t speak Kazakh at all), and if it doesn’t, there can be quite a few fake words you could choose from: Otamishka, Bekved’, Medbeka, Bekvezhonok or (one I would personally go for) Otabek (or Bek) Potapych. The last one is a first name/patronymic combination where the patronymic is a typical patronymic used for bears (Mihal Potapych) in fairy tales. Using full names (name+patronymic) is in no way the reprimand it is in English; instead, it’s highly respectful when used between strangers and playfully cute (something like calling your close friend “Doctor So-and-so” if they’re actually a doctor) between friends and family, so “Bek Potapych” sounds cute, ridiculous and playfully respectful, to my ear. 

Either one of those words is okay, I think, but I also think long composite nicknames will evolve over time into something shorter and possibly very different, like “Otamishka” might become “Mish” (and confuse the hell out of everyone who doesn’t know his name isn’t Mikhail), Medbeka would probably turn into “Meka” or “Mebeka” (the last one would then naturally become “Bemeka”, and that one is so ridiculous it just could stick, out of sheer idiocy of the way it sounds) and so on. But again, I don’t speak Kazakh and have no idea which ones of them could be bad in Kazakh, I’d check that, too, if I could.

Anyone on my dash speaks Kazakh?..

[theodoredimas]

Share your self care tag!

Tagged by @clarkgriffon thank you dear!

🌿 Favourite comfort food Chinese food or cutie tangerines

🌼 Favourite alcohol (or hot drink!) I’m not much of an alcohol drinker, I’ll have a glass of wine every now and then, but my go to drink is either mint or green tea

🌷 Favourite relaxing activity Knitting or writing

🌸 Favourite fluffy/feel-good fic I don’t know if you would consider it fluffy or feel good, but this is the only fic I’ve read multiple times, Medvezhonok by lanyon

🌻 Favourite calming scent Burning bay leaves or frankincense

🌺 Favourite relaxing (or uplifting) song Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole

🌵 Favourite white noise A fan

🍄 Favourite book to get lost in Just Listen or Along for the Ride, both by Sarah Dessen

💐 Favourite chill-out TV show The Golden Girls or The Nanny

🌹 The best advice you’ve ever had Never settle for less than what you want both in life and in relationships because you’ll regret it for the rest of your life

Tagging @snowingincamelot @elektranhatcios @lilsreinhart @damn-salvatore @chenford-lost @thatbuffy @iaintnosidekick