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preciouslandmermaid · 2 years

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cold heart, warm hands (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 1/2

First off, I haven’t played a Call of Duty game in years. But, I remember crushing on Ghost back in idk?? 2010? Anyway, glad to see he’s getting the white boy of the month treatment. Glad we’re all totally NORMAL about him. Feedback is definitely encouraged and appreciated :)

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader!Assassin

Rating: Mature/Explicit (18+)

Fic warnings: angst, injury/bodily harm to reader + some hypothermia, graphic depictions of violence, blood, cursing/explicit language, knives as metaphors for sexual tension, reader is lowkey feral (I am channeling my inner Princess Monoke), slowburn, the inherent eroticism of catching feelings while running for your life, touchstarved!ghost, bonding, (there will be smut/porn in part 2) i needed a light plot because I cannot function without it, all the names of politicians are fake/do not relate to any living or deceased person.

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, though no other descriptors are used. Author isn’t well-versed in other languages, they’re just a sucker for Slavic mythology. Reader’s undercover code-name is “volchitsa” which translates to she-wolf (or bitch-wolf) in Russian.

Summary: Lt. Ghost is tasked with the extreme mission to extract code name “volchista” from her undercover mission in St. Petersburg. They briefed him on what little they knew of you, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the reality.

READ ON AO3 || 🔪🔪🔪

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

This is how it begins. You are a girl made of snow. You carve a pretty smile from the ice. You flatter the diplomats. You trick them. They believe you can be melted and molded. You impress the headmistress of the school. You trick her, too. A man from America comes. They replace your ballet with ballistics. You suspect they offer money to your family, your school. They roll your tongue until you can call upon any accent and shape around any language. When you’ve impressed them or pleased them, they give you tasks, and you carry them out with little question of who at the top of the pyramid pulls the strings. You are better with bullets than you ever were at ballet.

You thaw, in pieces, until the girl from the snow is a shadow, a puddle, a glistening drip of an icicle from the rooftop. They give you a name. A point of contact. A promise of extraction once intel is gathered. You don’t merely go “undercover.” You go underground. You enmesh yourself. They call you a wolf and release you among the pretty, bronze-polished sheep. After all, this is what your training was for.

Only now it’s finally time to go home.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Three years undercover?” Ghost says, reviewing your file, “you sure we can trust her?” He glances at your old photo. Pretty thing. He suspects that’s why they assigned you to rub elbows with high-ranking military officials and defense contractors. Three years is a hell of a long time to be someone else.

Price says, “I know you’ll make the right call if you think she’s compromised.”

“Naturally.” Ghost replies gruffly. He checks the intel for your rendezvous spot. A cemetery at the edge of the Vyborgsky District. At the stroke of midnight. How morosely dramatic. He’ll be a ghost in a graveyard. Is this Price’s attempt at humor? He considers asking Price why he’s not sending someone else out. Someone who shows their face in case some nosy do-gooder comes up asking questions. He shakes the thought from his head. It’s a stupid question that he already has the answer to.

Price selected him because the target, codename volchista, is one of the most dangerous operatives in the country. If anyone can take you down–if things get nasty–it’s him.

“You’ll be going in dark on this one until you reach the border,” says Price.

“Not a problem.”

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

It’s gray everywhere you look. Storm clouds loom over St. Petersburg and block the starlight. Gray and dark gray tombstones. The barren trees appear like black skeletons in the night, like echoes of lightning. Your breath mists gray in front of your lips. A family of gray moths dance around the ground-level lamps. The air tastes like impending snowfall, brisk and sharp on your tongue.

You check your watch. Three minutes until midnight. There is no one here but you. You are alone, with the gray ghosts, and the gray tombstones, and your gray, foggy breath.

The hair at the nape of your neck prickles.

Your knife flashes silver in the gray. Your blood roars in your ears. And you pivot like a dancer, like an acrobat, lethal and light on your feet. The resounding clang of your knife meeting another reverberates through the silent, empty cemetery. You lurch your body forward. You assume your cover is blown and they’ve sent this masked man to kill you. He matches your momentum and avoids your strike. You snarl. He is big but not as clumsy as you hoped.

A gloved, strong hand grabs your wrist, “steady on, volchista.” Their accent deepens their voice to a rough and pleasant burr. It’s like drinking whiskey. You stare at him. Only your contacts know your code name.

You say, “Lev sent you.” You pause. “You’re early.”

“If I'd known you’d try to skewer me, I’d have been punctual.” He slowly releases your wrist, though what little you can see of his gaze is dark and wary. Lev told you nothing beyond the meeting spot and where he stashed your equipment. It was safer (or so he said). He could’ve at least mentioned your point of contact would be wearing a costume so you wouldn’t assume it was an assassination attempt. Your eyes scan the graveyard, unable to shake the sense of paranoia that slithers around your spine. Whenever something felt too easy, you got anxious.

“Sorry.” You respond without expression. “Let’s go.”

You’ve walked these pathways hundreds of times. You know them in the dark, you would know them blindfolded. None of Petrovich’s men bothered you when you went to the cemetery. Though, they were never far. You incline your head faintly toward the familiar tombstones, to the names you’ve memorized as a game to keep yourself sane during these past three years of espionage.

You shoot a glance over your shoulder. Skull-man is walking eerily quietly behind you despite the bulk of body armor you can tell he’s wearing beneath his white, camo coat. His hood is drawn up over his head. Probably to hide the mask.

“What do I call you?” You ask once you’re close to the church.

“Ghost.”

You laugh softly. Although you will never see Lev again, you wish you could. You wanted to praise him for such a stupid, funny joke - setting up your extraction in a cemetery with a man named Ghost. You come to the church door where Lev has stashed your supplies. He’s left the key for you beneath a snow-capped rock. You kiss its cold, metal teeth in farewell before sliding it into the lock. The old, oak door creaks beneath your palm.

Ghost watches your back, checking behind you before you both go inside. The air smells of incense and candle smoke. The effigies on the altar glow with ethereal, flickering light. You crouch onto the ground and start tapping your knuckles to find the hollow floorboard. Lev said it would be about ten paces from the entrance.

Rap, rap, rap, rap. A flurry of snowflakes drifts across the mosaic, stained glass windows. You knew you tasted snow in the air. You idly wonder if the snow will feel different once you’re home again. You wonder if everything will be different considering the intel you gathered about Petrovich and all his followers.

Ghost asks, “why’d they give you the name she-wolf?”

Your smile is a knife.

You say while looking up at him; “I used to bite a lot during my training.”

Your knuckles find their treasured spot. You jam your knife into the edge of the floorboard, wiggling it, and it gives underneath your pressure. You tug on the backpack, holster your pistol and knife and hide your face in a scarf. You pull the rest of Ghosts' equipment out with a small gruff. The keys to the snowmobile parked in the shed outside bite into the soft flesh of your palm. You and Ghost will ride to the next point. And God willing, you’d make it over the border before anyone noticed you were gone.

Ghost, silent beside you, stiffens.

“Shit.” You hiss. You duck sideways, throwing yourself into the space between the worship pews. Ghost crouches into the one next to yours. The door to the church swings open. There is a burst of cold air and snowflakes and bright, roaming flashlights. With your back pressed against the hardwood and knife in hand, you glance across the aisle to Ghost and wait for his lead.

He signals the number three with his fingers. You nod. You track the lights as they move through the church, elongating shadows, and bouncing from the pews and pillars. Two have moved to the side of the church. A single target is walking down the main aisle. They’re trying to pincher you. Could it be Petrovich? Or were you betrayed internally? Or were they police officers? You hadn’t gotten a good look before hiding. Ghost’s entire body is taught like a loaded weapon. You feel it in your own spine and shoulders. The familiar, tense coiling. The single and narrow simplicity of setting a task and then completing it. You are going home. And nothing and no one will stop you.

A voice calls out in Russian. “Petrovich is looking for you. It’s too late for prayer. It’s time to come home.” It sounds close to the doorway. You roll onto your stomach and signal to Ghost: ‘Enemy’. Perhaps it’s presumptuous to assume he doesn’t know Russian after being assigned to a Russian-Evac Mission. You make a mental note to ask him what he knows (if you both survive). He tells you to ambush right, then signals the go-ahead.

You wiggle beneath the pews, getting behind your target, and crouch-walk toward him. You stay low and silent. From this vantage point, you can see they’re Petrovich’s bodyguards. They aren’t wearing tactical gear or body armor. They’ve got flashlights and pistols holstered at their hips. They aren’t expecting any sort of fight. You almost feel bad for them. Almost.

You are a deadly viper hidden in the grass, a wolf stalking her prey, an arrow finding its mark. Your knuckles tighten around the grip of your knife. The church is dark, save for the flickering candlelight, and the blue-white shine of their flashlights. You slam your boot into the back of your target’s knee, causing him to crumple. He grunts, in surprise and pain, and that is the last sound he creates because your knife lodges into his carotid artery. A warm gush of blood covers your glove, and it arcs upward, splattering and spraying onto the fine stonework when you dislodge the weapon. You kick the rolling flashlight aside and run on quick, crouched feet toward the door. You don’t even bother to check if Ghost is alright. You assume he is. If not…well…you’ll claw your way out of Russia yourself. There is no returning to this place.

The man at the doorway is panicking. He wildly waves his flashlight around the church while holding his cellphone to his ear. You snatch his wrist in a bruising grip and drag him toward you. He shouts. Your forehead smashes into his nose. His cellphone clatters to the ground. Your knife finds purchase through the thick fabric of his turtleneck. The gray sweater blooms deep, dark crimson–nearly black in the low light. He moans, you shove him aside and pick up his phone. He’s calling Petrovich, but the line hasn’t connected yet.

Ghost is suddenly before you. You meet his eyes. There’s a splatter of blood on his white camo hood. Your chest heaves with exertion, and the adrenaline of combat floods your senses until you are woven within it. If you don’t shake off Petrovich, then your extraction becomes thousand times more difficult.

You grab the bodyguard by the root of his hair, jerking his head back, and snarl into his face. “Tell Petrovich you’ve found me. Tell him I’m coming home.” You say in Russian.

“Traitor.” He spits blood at you. You haven’t removed your knife from the juncture of his shoulder and neck. You twist the blade a little. He grits his jaw from screaming. Prideful to the end. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the dark, hulking shape of Ghost with his knife in his hand.

“Last chance.” You warn. “I will feed you to the wolves.”

“I am dead either way.” His eyes flick to Ghost behind you. “He will kill you.”

You are uncertain if he is talking about Ghost, Petrovich, or someone else. You don’t care to ask. You click the bright red ‘end’ button on the call screen before it connects. Wordlessly, coldly, you yank your knife from his shoulder and spear him below his jaw. A torrent of blood gushes over his sweater, and your wrist and hand, and onto the shiny wood. He slumps, on his knees like a man in prayer, and you shut your eyes briefly. You take no pleasure in the killing. It was either them or you. Wolf versus sheep. It was survival. A singular question tightened around your neck like a noose. Who betrayed you?

Ghosts’ voice is low from somewhere over your shoulder. “What’d he say?”

“That I’m a dead woman.”

He shrugs his massive, bulky shoulders. You can’t ascertain how much of it is him and how much is his gear.

You sheath your knife. “Petrovich will come looking for me.” You nudge the fallen bodyguard with your boot. “No use hiding them. We need to leave. Now.”

He extends his hand, “keys.”

“Who said you were driving?” You scoff.

“I’m the one taking point.” He says. “You’re the escort. I drive.”

You drop the keys into his waiting palm. You simply don’t have the time to argue.

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

You get an impression of his true size when you’re perched behind him on the snowmobile. Your arms encircle him (as best you can), your cheek is pressed against his broad and muscled back, and the cold wind cuts through your scarf and bites your ears and nose. It’s dangerous to drive in the dark, but you have no choice. No alternative. You must take a risk with the dark forest full of birch trees and lonely pines to avoid the checkpoints at the borders.

Ghost is, at the very least, efficient. Your stomach swoops each time the snowmobile crests over a small hill and the vibration of the motor purrs beneath your legs. The world is a blur of grayish-white. Snowflakes and branches whip past your field of vision. You force your eyes to remain open, as snowflakes crystalize on your eyelashes, and try to keep watch of your surroundings.

You release a soft “oof,” when the snowmobile jolts over a hill and freshly fallen snow crashes over you and Ghost like a wave. The trees start to thin. Your fingers tingle inside your gloves from your lack of circulation due to how tightly you're holding onto him and the overall icy chill in the air. You suspect you’re about an hour from the second point. Possibly less, you hope, with how fast Ghost is driving.

A whirring sound, like a beast waking from its slumber, rises above the rushing wind. You twist your spine to look behind you.

You yell above the engine and the wind, “fuck me.” Above the treetops, a helicopter is risking the storm, its searchlight roaming through the forest. Only one man is hunting you. Only one man is desperate enough to send a helicopter in the middle of the night with little visibility.

“Ghost! We’ve got company.” You shout.

“That was quick.”

The snowmobile banks with a hard left turn. You bury your face in his shoulder blades to protect yourself from the sharp wind. You recall the map Lev showed you. You memorized the route to the second point. Something tugged at the corner of your mind. The helicopter’s searchlight scanned the thick, snowy landscape. It will catch up to you soon. Ghost weaves through the trees, but they provide little cover.

It’s dark. It’s snowing. The helicopter is faster than you. These are the facts.

If you stop, you risk Petrivoch’s men finding you. He sent a helicopter; you have no doubt in your mind that he also sent out snowmobiles and ATVs. The darkness is your best cover.

If you continue, you risk Petrivoch’s men finding the safe house. The only silver lining is that Petrovich doesn’t know who you work for. He doesn’t know you have help. He might assume you’ve been kidnapped. But, what if Petrovich thought you were dead? He wouldn’t chase after a dead woman.

You say, “Ghost, I have an idea. But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

He grunts.

“We need to crash the snowmobile.”

“You’re mad.” Is it the wind filling your ears, or does he sound a little…impressed?

You squeeze your fingers around your wrist when Ghost takes another sharp turn. You suspect he’s double-backing and confusing your trail while avoiding the oncoming helicopter.

“My other plan involved a sniper rifle and blowing out the searchlight. However, seeing as we don’t have a sniper, I’m going to plan B.”

“Crashing our only means of transportation sounds more like Plan-fucking-Z to me.”

“You have a better idea?!” You snap.

You continue, impassioned, “the storm will cover our tracks. We can walk the rest of the way. Petrivoch’s men won’t follow us if they think I’m dead.”

He mutters something under his breath. It’s too quiet for you to hear.

“Find a good place to stop with tree coverage and I’ll do the rest.”

“Jesus.” He grumbles.

You wait for the inevitable argument. The discussion about how the snowmobile could outrun the helicopter and whoever else might be pursuing you. You brace yourself, drawing counterarguments inside your head, preparing yourself as you have your whole life. The pine trees thicken, and the snowmobile gradually slows. His back is tense. You wiggle your tingly fingers inside your gloves. You slide your arms away from his solid, firm midsection and scoot to the edge of the seat when the snowmobile finally stops.

Ghost twists around, looking at you, his eyes fathomless beneath the mask.

“Your plan. What is it?”

You tell him. It involves tipping over (or crashing) the snowmobile, lighting it on fire, ripping pieces of your clothing and burning other remnants to imply that whatever was left was eaten by wildlife.

You peel off your bloodied gloves, “it’s not a perfect plan.”

“It’s bloody insane is what it is.”

You shrug, “and yet you agreed.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly the picture of mental stability, now am I?” He tears one of your shirts between his hands. You work quickly and silently in tandem. The helicopter is searching the less forested areas. It’s loud enough to hear, though you can’t see it or its spotlight through the thick evergreens. You tie together several pieces of fabric and shove them into the gas tank. After it detonates, although the helicopter won’t be able to land nearby, Petrivoch’s men will likely find the remains before dawn.

You reach under your shirt, toward your collar, and your fingers encircle the charm on your necklace. You tug. The thin golden chain snaps. It was your first gift from Petrovich. A symbol of your loyalty - false as it was. You hold it aloft and the tiny eagle charm glitters above the flickering flame of your lighter.

“I hope I am there the day they burn you.” You whisper with the trees, and the cold snow, and your silent Ghostly companion as your witness. You drop the broken necklace. You light the edge of the fabric. The smoke singes your nostrils and your eyes water. You run toward the trees and don’t look back.

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

You and Ghost put as much distance between yourself and the snowmobile before its explosion. Your muscles strain, your skin glistens with sweat, and you are hot and stuffy beneath your warm clothes. The pace he sets is brutal. You push yourself to keep up, never complaining, though your mouth tastes of copper from how many times you’ve bitten your lower lip. The storm rages and covers your tracks.

“The storm’s getting worse.” You say. You’ve never endured in silence for this long before. Not since your youth, you think. The howling wind cuts between you and him, dragging snowflakes in their wake.

Ghost barely glances at you. “Hadn’t noticed.”

If you squint, he blends into the world. A white-and-gray Grim Reaper here to collect your soul.

“Were you going to kill me in the church?” You ask. You remember how he approached you and the bodyguard. His cold lethality. The silence that shrouds him. His eyes were dark, too far to discern what emotion lay within. He doesn’t answer, but he does look over at you. You are mirrors of another. His face is covered by his strange, macabre mask. Your face is covered, in a heavy scarf, your eyes visible through the slit in the fabric. You speak through your eyes. Nonverbal. Expressive. Weighted.

You tilt your head slightly to the side as if to say ‘well?’

You wonder if he smiles beneath the mask. You wonder if he smiles at all. He turns away and checks his compass. For several minutes only your crunching footsteps and the wind screaming through the branches keeps you company. You don’t think Ghost (and by proxy the US government has betrayed you) but you aren't certain. Not until you have some type of proof or motive. The only people who knew about your meeting location were Lev, yourself, and Ghost. You know you didn’t slip up. And you’ve been in this field for too long to chalk Petrivoch’s appearance to coincidence and dumb luck. Someone is compromised.

You glance sidelong at Ghost through your snow-covered lashes. He’s big, he’s strong and efficient. You’re not a person who doubts their abilities and you’re not an idiot. You know a losing fight when you see one. In close-quarter combat, his reach is longer, and if he pins you then it’s over. If you plan to incapacitate him–it’ll need to be an ambush. It’ll need to be quick. You store the thought away for later. You’re not going to ambush him in the storm.

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

The snowstorm starts to ease, and he’s forced to admit that your plan to torch the snowmobile might’ve saved them. There’s a chance that the weather made it impossible for the helicopter to keep pursuing. However, he won’t know until sunrise. Either he’ll have Petrivoch’s men on his ass or it’ll be smooth from the safe house to the border. He prepares himself for the worst. Petrovich isn’t a man who gives up easily. Price’s file on him was stacked. Although most of the intel you gathered undercover was on a need-to-know basis, he knew the man was powerful, controlling, and deranged. A dangerous cocktail. It gives him all the more reason to wonder if you’ve been broken and brainwashed by Petrovich. But the thought holds little water. Your behavior has been motivated by survival. You handled yourself with extreme grace and brutality in the church. Price said you were good. He didn’t realize you were that good. The takedown of your target was effortless and clean. A thing of beauty, really. You function well under pressure. And you smile often for a woman trained to be a covert assassin. You’re nothing like he expected.

He announces, “we’ll take a break here.”

He watches you drink from your canteen. Your face glistens with sweat before you wrap yourself back up in your scarf and hat. You pack your canteen with snow and store it away, but he notices your hand flinch near your knife, the brief tenseness of your shoulders. He scans the darkness for threats. He meets your eyes with an unspoken question.

Your breath fogs in front of your mouth, hazy, obscuring your gaze from his for a moment. When the mist passes, your eyes are cold and narrowed, and you look like you want to skin him alive.

“I didn’t give Lev everything.”

His brow furrows, “what’re you telling me for? I’m not your superior officer.”

Your gaze softens imperceptibly.

“Someone ought to know in case Petrovich is still hunting me.”

“You don’t need to bargain your worth to me, she-wolf.” He says plainly. “I’ve got my orders.” He’s not sure what game you’re playing. And he doesn’t rightly care. Once you’re across the border, you’re someone else’s problem. Whatever intel you have, or don’t have, it doesn’t concern him. His only concern is making it out of this tundra with you alive. You adjust the straps on your backpack and nod, signaling with your hand that you’re ready to move.

The blue-black sky lightens, and stars fade from view. Tiny, blackbirds flit through the air. The terrain flattens. He recognizes this location from the map. The safe house is over the hill. It was a less straightforward route than if he had the snowmobile, but at least you’ve made it. He keeps checking your six–part of his job–and scanning the open sky for threats. The snow crunches underfoot.

He says, “we’re almost there. Come on.” He jogs ahead.

Something cracks under his foot. He spins, looking for you, and discovers you’re a few paces behind. Your arms and legs are spread akimbo and when you meet his eyes, there is controlled panic, and he can practically hear the gears turning within your mind.

“We’re on the lake.” You exclaim like it’s a brilliant revelation. “I remember seeing it on the map!”

The storm must’ve covered it. Fucking hell!

“There’s a USB in here.” You strip your backpack from your body and slide it easily across the hidden ice. “It’s more important than I am.”

Another crack reverberates beneath him. He’s hyper-aware of his size and the dangerous risk of getting wet at this temperature.

“What’re you doing?” He beckons with his hand while lowering his body, “this way!”

“Yeah, yeah, working on it.” You take a tentative step forward. Despite the logical distance, it feels like a chasm has split you from him.

“You need to get low.” He’s on his stomach on the ice and the next crack vibrates beneath his gut. “Spread out your weight.”

You nod. You start to crouch, but lady luck isn’t on your side. The ice ruptures. The crash, your yelp of alarm, and the splash of cold water are like a pike driving through his eardrums. He army-crawls toward your flailing arms. Your gloves scramble for purchase on the flat, slick ice as your head disappears underwater. Ghost unintentionally shouts your name.

He grabs you, pulling you up. You sputter and gasp, water saturating your scarf that’s peeled partially away from your face, and revealing your wild, stricken eyes.

“I’ve got ya.” He says, “I’ve got you.”

You cling to him and kick your legs underwater while he lifts you out of the ice trap. Your shivering body crawls across the ice alongside him, though he tracks your sluggish movements and rapid breath. He needs to get you to shelter immediately. The second you’re clear of the lake, he crowds you into his arms and lifts you in a fireman's carry.

You protest weakly through chattering teeth, “I can walk.”

“This is faster.”

He trudges up the short, small hill while carrying you and both backpacks. The sight of the safe house is like fucking salvation. It’s a squat, modest little wooden cabin. He can spot a chimney sticking up from the roof. If it doesn’t have wood, then he’ll start burning furniture. He needs to get you warm before you drop into severe hypothermia. The cold wind cuts across the air like a cruel cosmic joke. Draped across his shoulders, he can practically feel your desperate, galloping heart against his back.

“Stay awake.” He commands, voice brusque and sharp.

“Aye, sir.” You mumble.

“That doesn’t sound awake to me.”

“Fuck you.” You say this time, with more emphasis, more feeling.

He grumbles. “Atta girl.”

He shoves open the front door with his shoulder, kicking it closed, and deposits you in front of the cold, empty fireplace. You’re trembling worse than earlier, but you’re lucid. You tug your wet scarf off of your face and struggle to unlace your boots. Unfortunately, there are no logs beside the fireplace. He huffs. Plan B then. The cabin is a single, large room with the kitchen and sitting area sharing the space and a door that presumably leads to the bedroom or bathroom.

Ghost grabs one of the wooden stools and uses his tactical knife to hack a small divot in the wood so he can snap it with his foot. He breaks the stool into pieces, shoves them into the mouth of the fireplace, and starts the fire with his emergency fire starter kit. He shoots a glance over his shoulder to you. You’ve managed to get your boots and socks off, though the rest of your clothing appears to be a challenge.

Ghost shoves your trembling hands out of the way. He yanks your zipper down.

“O-oy!” You shout with surprise and indignation.

He says, “arms.”

You relax your shoulders, and he tugs the heavy coat off your body. Wordlessly, you lift your shaking arms, and he pulls the drenched mess of your sweater over your head. Your shirt and tank top comes next, then your sports bra, until you're naked from the waist up in front of him.

Your toned stomach muscles clench. A mapping of scars decorates your skin like battle trophies. If this was any other moment–he might’ve taken a second to appreciate the solidness of your form, the shape of your tits, the honed lethality of your biceps and forearms and stomach. There’s nothing waifish or delicate about you. You’re a weapon of flesh and muscle and hot blood. Your eyes focus on some spot behind him, and the firelight reflects and shifts in the depths of your dark pupils.

You lift your hips and (with his help) drag your soaked pants and underwear off your body. He does not think about your thighs or your calves. He removes a blanket from his bag and drapes it across your legs. The key to overcoming hypothermia is gradually warming the body. He strips himself of everything but his mask and underwear and sits behind you–bracing his knees around your legs and caging you with his body heat. He shucks his gloves off and gently rubs his palms along your freezing arms. The fire crackles before you. The knobs of your spine and the curve of your shoulder blades press lightly into the planes of his naked, muscled chest. You’re weirdly quiet.

“No cheeky comment?” says Ghost.

You blurt, “Lev’s the traitor.”

Ghost blinks.

“Enlighten me.”

“You saved me, not the USB.”

“USB means fuck-all to me. I don’t want you dead, she-wolf.”

You laugh weakly. A full-body tremor wrecks through you. He can feel it across his entire chest and straight to his groin with how he’s got you melded into him. His hands slow. He can feel each individual ridge of the scars on your arms. He can feel the fine, thin hair along your forearms. Your wrist bones and knuckles are the only fine-boned, delicate piece of you that he can touch. He glances down at the sleek musculature of where your neck meets your shoulder.

Unless he chops more furniture, the fire isn’t going to last long, but it should be enough to get you stable. That’s all that matters.

~~~~~~~

Between the fire raging in front of you and Ghosts’ solid heat at your back–your skin tingles as it regulates temperature and your circulation returns. Your eyes drink in the muscles of his thick thighs, braced on each side of you, and the peek you get of his black-and-white tattoo when his arms move. He hasn’t stopped touching you. His hands travel up and down your arms, to your wrists, and shoulders. How come you never noticed how big his hands were? A flush of warmth burns at the nape of your neck. You feel like you’re being surrounded by a large, jungle cat. And it’s tempting to close your eyes and melt into his warmth. You’re at the safe house. You’re almost home. It wouldn’t be so terrible to sleep, would it? Ghost would keep watch. He’d look out for you.

“Talk.” Ghost orders. “You’ve gotta stay awake.”

“About what?”

“I don’t care.” He huffs. His voice is warmer, as close as you are, and it drips like honey and vibrates across your back.

“I memorized names in the graveyard to keep sane.” You say, surprising yourself with the confession, your secret little game. “I can recite those.”

“Do it then.”

You stare into the flames until your eyes start to water and repeat their names. They were your first ghosts before you met this one. You numbly scratch at one of your scars. You repeat the names again. Ghost isn’t rubbing your arms, but he’s still touching you. His large, calloused palms have settled. One is on your hip, the other is clutching your shoulder and that arm squishes into your breasts. Your back is snug against the hard, muscled planes of his chest. He’s holding you?! You’re not sure why this realization comes as such a surprise. He’s sharing his body heat. There’s nothing tender or romantic about it. You’re his mission. Yet, this is the first time in three years that you’ve allowed non-transactional physical contact. Usually, if someone touched you, it was because they wanted something (or you were manipulating them to get what you wanted). Ghost’s motive isn’t ulterior. It’s transparent. He wants your continued survival. That’s it.

“You got quiet again, she-wolf.” He says with a breathy edge to his tone. “Better not have fallen asleep on me.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m awake.”

To add to your point, you wiggle your toes beneath the blanket. At least, you no longer feel like an ice popsicle, but you selfishly want to stay here–in the warmth, muscled solidness of Ghosts’ body. You close your eyes momentarily and try to absorb this moment into the fibers of your being, your essence, and your bloodstream so you can remember it on the cold, lonely nights ahead. Ghost’s breathing deepens. You only notice because of the proximity of his ribs to yours. His thumb glides along the raised bumpy edge of a scar near the end of your clavicle bone.

You say slowly, “that one was from Petrovich.”

If he wasn’t wearing the mask, you would feel his breath on your skin. His touch withdraws. He rests his palm on your forehead, checking your temperature before his hand glides below your jaw and registers your pulse with two fingers. Everything he’s doing is clinical and tied to survival. Yet, that doesn’t explain the slowness of his movements. It doesn’t explain why his touch lingers below your chin. Your pulse jolts and your breath hitches. His chest rumbles against your back in a low, deep hum.

“We need to change our route.” You say with Ghost’s thumb and two forefingers loosely wrapped around your throat. “Lev betrayed me. And he knows my exit plan. We need to find an alternative to the border.”

Ghost says, “then we better move before we waste any more daylight.”

His hand recedes from your jaw, and you are bereft of its soft pressure and warmth. Ghost stands up. And you twist your spine, drawing the blanket over your chest, and allow yourself the very selfish and human privilege to see him half-naked. As expected, he’s a fucking massive specimen of virility. You bite the inside of your cheek at the sight of his broad muscled chest, his strong biceps, veiny forearms, and capable hands, the cut of his v-line into his waistband, and the trail of dark hair that travels down from his belly button. Your eyebrows lift in surprise and appreciation. You don’t mind the mask hiding his face because his body is fucking spectacular.

He pulls his shirt over his head. You watch unashamedly at the play of muscles as they ripple across his chest and flex. The low-burning fire snaps loudly and sends a flurry of sparks up the chimney.

“Careful,” His eyes spark behind the mask, “you’ll drool on my nice blanket.” His tone brightens with gentle teasing. Somehow, the sound of his voice like that, deep and teasing, is hotter than the sight of his abs.

You smirk. “See, I thought you were cute until you got cocky about it.”

He scoffs. “Cute?”

Ohh, you found a little nerve. How delicious.

“Cute.” You affirm and say no more. You dig through your backpack and procure your last set of clothes. There’s no room for shyness or modesty in an active combat situation. Sure, no one is shooting at you. But that reality can change real fast. You shimmy your underwear and pants over your hips and quickly pull your bra over your head like the house is on fire. You feel Ghosts’ gaze on you. And it blazes like a hot brand across your skin. Forget the fire, the shared body heat, the blanket, all you need is a few seconds of Ghosts’ undivided attention, and you are burning up.

“Here, take this.” You underhand toss the USB to Ghost. He catches it effortlessly.

“Why?”

“In case you fail your mission, I don’t want to fail mine.” You open the closet door and pull a mothball, musty-smelling coat from the hanger. Your clothes drying in front of the fire need a few more hours before they’re wearable. Those are hours you don’t have.

“Lost faith in me already, have you?” says Ghost.

It’s your turn to scoff. “Hardly.” You level him with a serious gaze, “I’m trusting you with it, Ghost.”

He says, “Riley.”

“What?”

“My name. Simon Riley.”

Your heart stutters inside your chest. You weren’t expecting him to give you anything in return, let alone his name.

“Okay, Simon.” You smile tentatively, “let’s get the hell out of here, yeah?”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley fanfic #ghost x reader #ghost x you #reader insert #simon ghost riley reader insert #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon riley x reader #fic: cold hands warm heart

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damagedintellect · 10 days

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Fyodor x reader x Nikolai [Rich kids AU]

💌 Days of our Bungo : Part 2 💌

Summary: All of your fathers made a pack that whenever they had kids they would marry each other. It sounded like a good idea at the time but when the Sigma family was the only family to have a girl, and everyone wanted a bloodborne heir, things seemed a little complicated. After many arguments it was decided they would wait to see which boy, she, would fall for. Everyone always ends up having a crush on their childhood friend right?

Notes: Guess who had another Bungo dream, it was me! This time around the dream sequence started in the middle and just kept going so ima just fill in the gaps and start from the top.

Tropes: Sigma is your twin, Fyodor x reader x Nikolai, Fyodor is endgame, royalty/rich kids, Childhood friends, Mutual pinning but reader thinks it's one-sided, Nikolai knows its unrequited but he still loves you & Fyodor, eventual 🍋

💌 Word count: 4,812 💌 Part 1 | Part 3 coming soon

The following year everyone at the academy would be spending their junior year studying abroad. It excited you greatly. You had always wanted to travel out of the country but never had the opportunity. Every summer you had been busy with Ballet. You also didn't want to be separated from Fyodor or Nikolai. Which reminded you that even Sigma would probably choose to study somewhere else this year. Your heart dropped at the thought. Everyone had a different study of interest.

Being the Sigma family's heiress you weren’t expected to take over the family business. You had a certain level of freedom in your choice. You bit your lip. You liked things the way they were. How could you live without seeing Sigma, Fyodor and Nikolai everyday? You would all be making your choices by the end of the day and flying out as soon as the school could process your visas.

To your surprise Sigma, Ranpo and Dazai choose to study in England. You, Chuuya and Nikolai choose France and Fyodor was going to study in Russia. At the airport you were the only person who was teary-eyed. It was a new adventure and you knew it was going to be fun but you would miss your brother and your best friend. Of course you could alway write to them and they were only a phone call away but it would be different given the time zones and it wouldn't be the same.

The year went by faster than anticipated. You never expected Chuuya to take ballet with you and Nikolai but apparently outside of being there for poetry his brother pushed the idea on him. Chuuya ended up becoming a good friend and while Nikolai helped ease the homesickness you couldn't wait to be reunited with your family again. Despite Nikolai being with you in France he decided to take a little detour on the way back. He planned on going to Ukraine to visit his own family. So you flew back home with Chuuya but almost immediately parted ways after landing. Sigma would be returning in an hour or so, with that in mind you might as well wait for him. You sat on a bench zoning out as you heard someone ask you a question.

“дорогая, это место занято?”

You snapped your head around, mesmerized by the familiar voice. Softly you whispered the name of the man you missed so dearly.

“Fyodor.?”

You stood up astonished at how different he appeared. He had gotten taller in your time apart. His hair was also an inch longer than before but you've always liked that he kept his hair long. Fyodor cleared his throat realizing he was still speaking russian.

“My apologies, I forgot you are not familiar with my native tongue.” He set his bag down on the chair next to you and you took that as your opportunity to pull him into a hug while kissing his cheeks out of habit. Your French instructor wanted everyone to greet the people in your class with “La bise” and Nikolai would throw a fit if you didn’t greet him with kisses everyday while you were there. It's kind of been ingrained in your muscle memory for a year now. Fyodor's eyes widened as he tensed slightly but you didn’t notice.

“Fedya I've missed you so much!” You nuzzled into him. This was the best welcome home you could have imagined. “How? How did you know I would be here?”

“Nikolai sent me a letter. He wanted to be here for the reunion but his father wanted him to extend his trip. I had a feeling you would be lonely.” he pulled away patting your hair. As you waited for Sigma you both talked about your adventures abroad. Right as Sigma's plane landed he pulled out a small box.

“In the excitement I nearly forgot. Merry Christmas.”

You stared back at the box frantically. You had forgotten to bring back gifts! Opening the box you revealed a gorgeous locket. “Oh Fyodor, it's beautiful but I don't have anything to give you.”

His hand delicately touched yours as he moved to put it on you. “Well then in exchange for something equally as beautiful, you'll simply have to dance for me.”

You were taken aback by his words as he stood up to greet Sigma. Apparently you were so flustered Sigma even mentioned how red in the face you were. Fyodor only chuckled as you all made your way back to the manor.

After returning from the study abroad classes went back to normal. Only now you would often go out of your way to greet Chuuya since you were both good friends now. On Valentine’s day he asked if you could speak with him in private.

“I'm not one to beat around the bush so I'll just come out and say it.” Chuuya pulled out a box of chocolates and handed it to you. “I like you and after the study abroad I realized I miss hanging out with you all the time.”

You stared back at Chuuya like a deer in headlights. This was really unexpected. You got along just fine but you didn't think it was anything special. You thought Chuuya was a fine gentleman but you don't feel the same way. Ultimately it didn't feel like how you felt for Fyodor and that's not Chuuya’s fault.

“Oh Chuuya I'm flattered but-”

He held up his hand. “I needed to confess for my sake even if you did return the feelings so don't be goin’ and apologizing for things out of your control.” Chuuya sighed in defeat “You already have a crush right?”

You didn’t know how to respond to that but you felt eyes burning a hole in your skull causing you to turn around.

“You can come out of hiding now, I know you're there!”

When Fyodor didn’t want to be found he would climb on top of the roof's entryway and lay there watching the clouds. This was the first time anyone's found him out. He smiled of course you'd notice him. Fyodor was about to sit up when another voice joined the group.

“You found me!~” Dazai cheered in a sing-songy tune as he bounced over to the redhead's side.

Chuuya took a step back. “Hah!? Dazai what the hell? I told you not to follow me!”

“But Chuuya was hiding a box of chocolates. I thought they were for me. Plus it's not following If I showed up here first!” Dazai approached you, taking your hand to give it a kiss. “My sweet belladonna, when did you notice I was here?”

To be honest you were dumbstruck when it was Dazai who came out of hiding “I didn't, I was actually talking about Nikolai. You outed yourself.” Whenever you had the unnerving feeling of being watched Nikolai was always somewhere close by. It was something you surprisingly became accustomed to.

At first it scared the living daylights out of you. Someone had been following you and you didn’t know if it was a stalker, kidnapper or what. When you expressed your concerns to Nikolai he said that he'd been following you all day but he never saw anyone else watching you. You only laughed at the absurdity. That's when Nikolai started wearing a strong cologne that you swore could be smelled from a mile away. It was less unnerving knowing Kolya was just trying to make sure you were safe, in his own weird way. Bizarre, slightly creepy but ultimately sweet because he's one of your best friends and has come to your rescue once before.

Fyodor frowned, crossing his arms, he should have realized sooner what that smell was but it was fairly breezy and faint enough to disregard. Now that he thought about it he did recall the door opening twice before, but he assumed that the second time he heard the door it was someone leaving. He's relieved that he didn't make his presence known but he does wonder how the two taller men were hiding up until this point. He supposed it didn't matter as long as he stayed quiet but he fears his hiding spot may end up being compromised.

Nikolai ruffled your hair, appearing seemingly out of thin air. “As expected of my little dove,” He paused leaning down into your personal space “Although I was not expecting to hear you have a little crush. Should I be worried they'll steal you away from me.~”

Nikolai teased you as you rolled your eyes pushing him away. Dazai looked up at the top of the entrance briefly before asking “It's Fyodor right? The one you have a crush on.”

You tensed. Stupid waste of bandages. Of course the person from the detective club would figure it out. You were about to deny the allegations when Nikolai grabbed your hands laughing. “Good luck with that! Knowing Dos-kun, I should be giving you my blessing!”

You groaned “I never said it was Fyodor.”

“You didn’t have to.” Dazai interjected “You always bring handmade chocolates for him each year even though no one can find him outside of class.” Dazai waved his hand around, flourishing his explanation.

Correction, every year, since middle school to be exact. You made chocolate for both Fyodor and Nikolai but while Kolya gladly received the offer you've never actually given it to Fyodor personally. Since this was your last year before university you were determined to find him but then Chuuya confronted you and it turned into this mess.

Dazai pulled out said box of chocolates from his blazer. “When did you!-” You cut yourself off to look through your belongings. Sure enough it was missing. “Whether or not those chocolates are for him is no one's business but mine.” You tried to grab for the box but Dazai held it up higher, smirking.

Nikolai hugged you from behind resting his chin on your shoulder, preventing you from actually grabbing the chocolate. “Awwwww,” He pouted. “I thought I was special, I take back my blessing. I don't want to share you with Fyodor anymore!”

Turning your attention back to Nikolai you huffed. “That's a first, usually you're thrilled. Did you hit your head or something?” Brushing the hair out of his face you pressed your forehead against his. It was a little warm but not enough to cause concern but maybe you should bring him to the nurse just in case. Nikolai only stared back at you in disbelief. No witty remarks, no silly gags, just a far off stare. His shift in demeanor went unnoticed by you.

“Yeah maybe you should lay down for a bit.” You were still completely ignoring the fact that Dazai had your gift meant for Fyodor. Sigma has complained about Dazai's antics about as much, if not more than Nikolai's. While he's not a bad guy you still wonder what his goal was. As Fyodor's chronic chess partner there was probably no point trying to figure it out. You'd have to leave it be for now and wait to see if anything comes up later.

As Dazai watched you leave with a suddenly non verbal Nikolai. He grinned up at the rooftop. “It would be a shame for these to go to waste but with your name written on them? I'm afraid they might be too bitter for my tastes.”

Fyodor finally showed himself, leaning over the edge. “Then why get involved? I hardly see the merit in your little show.”

“Let's call it an intervention.” Dazai walked up to him waving the chocolate infront of the russian. “Why keep such a distance if the feelings are clearly mutual?”

Fyodor sighed, grabbing the box. “Again I fail to see why it is any of your concern.”

His concern was not about the feelings being mutual, Fyodor was always thinking of what could possibly express his feelings on white day. After a lot of thought he determined that gifting you land or a country would be sufficient, but doing so for years in a row would ruin the sentiment and he's aware that you are the sentimental type. Not to mention with your current age and relationship status, it would be misconstrued. So why bother? Fyodor was a patient man and he wanted his profession of love to be perfect.

Dazai chuckled to himself. “I don't think you'd understand even if I told you but let's just say,” He hummed putting his hand under his chin “You're not the only one interested in the Sigma family.” He offered a cheeky grin to the other who was clearly uninterested.

Dazai is right. Fyodor doesn’t understand nor is he that concerned either. The plan has already been set in motion and he wouldn't need to wait much longer. Although like he predicted earlier his spot was now compromised. Which is somewhat troublesome. He'll need to find a new place to hide in the future. Fyodor sighed but didn’t say anything more and left the other two on the roof. He had no business with either of them anyways.

“Hey jackass, are we done here?”

Chuuya crossed his arms walking up to his partner. When Dazai had approached him earlier even he wasn't sure what the mackerel's plans were but Chuuya wasn't too concerned. It's been hard for everyone in their grade level to watch (Y/N) pine after that anemic bastard for years. Honestly he felt bad but it's not his problem. He wondered if Dazai had the impulse to help or if he was plotting something else.

___

“I've talked it over with Dostoevsky, and after watching you over the years I can only assume you feel the same about this.” He chuckled a little too giddy for your liking. “We’ve decided that you and Fyodor are to be betrothed and will marry upon graduation!” Your father said it with a big smile despite your clearly shocked expression. Your mind was going a mile a minute with the sudden news. This was probably the worst case scenario. Sure your dad’s heart was in the right place, you knew he would do anything for his little girl but this was pushing the envelope even for him. Did he really have to get involved with your love life?

“We wanted to make the announcements at the beginning of the year but we thought it best to hold it off until finals were complete since they moved them up a great deal from past years. Although we’ve been mulling this decision over since you were kids, oh how the time flies. My little girl is all grown up now!”

He engulfed you in a hug but what you thought should have been warm comforting words only stirred the dread in your stomach. Since you were kids? Did Fyodor know about this? Is that why no one could ever find him on Valentine’s day, because he knew you were engaged. The more you think about it the more confused it makes you. If that was the case wouldn’t he have talked to you about it or does that mean he didn’t have a say in the engagement either? Would he even want to get married, let alone to you?

It seemed your father was ignoring your visible distress and was continuing on about the wedding plans. All things you thought you would have a final say in but it seems he’s already done most of the work with that as well. A ring was placed in your hand and you were to start wearing it tomorrow as would Fyodor. This was really happening. By the time you left his office you were at a loss for words.

Sigma caught up to you as you were making your way through the halls and you showed him the ring on your finger.

“I’m engaged to Fyodor.” It was still sinking in and part of you wanted to scream with joy but only just. The other half of you knew that it didn’t matter since Fyodor clearly didn’t feel the same way. If he did want to marry you surely he would have proposed to you himself instead of letting your fathers' make the declaration. Fyodor knows how much of a hopeless romantic you were for that kind of thing and you know how much the other craves control. Thinking back is that why he gave you his first kiss? Now you were even more embarrassed about that night.

Sigma looked at you with an incredulous look. He’s known about your crush for years but hasn’t said anything because it’s really not his place to say. “I would say congratulations but you look like you're about to cry and that doesn’t exactly bode well for me at the moment. On either front.” He opened his arms for a hug as you flopped into them. “Why? Did father ask to see you as well?”

“Unfortunately yes and if that’s what he called you in for I can only imagine what business he has with me. For all I know I’ll be arranged to marry Nikolai.” He grimaced just thinking about it. Nothing against Nikolai but he tends to drive Sigma up a wall with his spontaneity. “But that’s not important, why is my dear sister upset? I thought you were madly in love with Fyodor?”

You froze. “Our fathers’ have apparently been planning this for years,” you grew quiet, exponentially embarrassed and flabbergasted that your family knew. “Are my feelings really that obvious?”

Sigma sighs rubbing your back “To everyone but Fyodor it seems. Either that or he doesn’t want to bring it up? You can never tell with him.” You pulled away. That wasn’t very reassuring but it was better, not, to think about it before you talk to the russian in question. Who knows your dad did say that after observing you both it seemed like a logical conclusion, maybe the feelings were mutual. Otherwise you were going to feel like shit knowing that you’re basically taking advantage of him and that your entire marriage would be a sham and just a front for your parents business ventures.

Now that you’re no longer in the room groveling in embarrassment, you're pretty sure he said something about desiring an heir. Although you don’t want to think about that at all, in fact the thought mortifies you all together. It just makes you feel nauseous without confirming Fyodor’s feelings because what if he views you like a sister and you were expected to make a lovechild together. This was going to keep you up all night. Would Fyodor even bat an eye at the circumstances? You tried to ignore the train of thought pushing less than innocent images of your crush out of your head. It was only the beginning of the weekend but you were already dreading going back to class.

Sure enough when Monday came around it’s all you heard people talking about. Your engagement. The entire student body was in an uproar because you both came to school wearing matching rings. Well, it was that and an article about your family’s merger and that it was rumored to be due to the young love shared between you and Fyodor. Which was a bunch of bullshit that your fathers’ had planned for better business. Honestly you don’t know if it was smart or stupid of them. Although now many things from your childhood started to click into place beginning with your first playdate. You didn’t know what to make of it and you didn’t want to think about it anymore. It was too much for you and you wanted to rip the bandaid off.

When the bell rang you didn’t get up from your desk immediately, you were too tired from agonizing over what you would even say to Fyodor. You rested your head. Arriving at school had been a constant flood of peers congratulating you on your engagement. Girls were telling you that you were so lucky to be marrying one of the most handsome boys the school had to offer. It reminded you that despite Fyodor’s cold personality he seemed to garner a lot of popularity with the opposite gender. So many of these girls, who you've never seen before in your life, were coming up to you expressing their crushes for your fiance and how if they were to lose their chances it should be to you. This all felt like some elaborate prank.

You were dragged out of your thoughts when the murmurs from the hall fell silent. Slowly you turned your head to see Fyodor with a semi uncomfortable expression. It must be from all the attention the two of you were getting. His arm was extended as if he was about to pat your head but he continued to reach out offering to assist you out of your seat. Your eyes were trained on the ring on his finger. It suited him well and even matched your own despite the designs being different. Looking at your own, you only now realize how perfectly it was tailored to your personal liking. It matched the locket you've been wearing everyday. The one that Fyodor gave to you after returning from the study abroad. You wonder who picked out the ring if it matched the locket. Surely not your father. Maybe the Dostoevsky’s had a favorite jeweler they work with. Was that a mere coincidence?

Glancing up at Fyodor again you swallowed hard. This was the first time you've seen him since the engagement. You avoided his eyes directly as the heat started to spread to your face. In turn you didn’t get to witness how Fyodor’s expression softened immensely, finally being in your presence.

“How was your trip?”

You had tried to get a hold of him when your father told you the news but Nikolai informed you that his father was taking him to attend a business conference out of town and you didn’t want to pester him because it sounded important.

“As expected of a last minute venture.”

He frowned that you were hesitant to take his hand. Now that you were engaged, Fyodor didn’t feel the need to hold back some of his physical urges towards you. It baffled him that you weren't reciprocating like your usual persona.

“You haven’t been sleeping well, shall I escort you to the nurse?”

His tone was indecipherable as always. You sighed, grabbing his hand flashing your matching ring to him as he gently brought it to his mouth to place a kiss to the silver band. The action made your heart jump as you looked at him with wide eyes. You could hear the chatter of your classmates resume in the distance. He must be playing it up for the audience but it still managed to fluster you.

“That's not necessary!” You exclaimed bashfully before calmly adding. “I-I haven’t been but it's not that important. I, uh, do you mind if we go somewhere else?”

“Of course not my dear. As you wish.”

Your hand burned as he ushered you away from the crowds to the roof. The term of endearment made your heart flutter again. Fyodor checked if there was anyone else around before he motioned for you to sit with him.

Without hesitation you blurted out the demand that has been on your mind.

“You have to break the engagement.”

Fyodor blinked a few times before retaliating, wholeheartedly unsure as to why you would want him to do so.

“My my, I've been gone for three days and my fiance has had enough of me.”

The words were exhilarating to say out loud. He had been waiting years to call you his fiance, even though at the moment you appeared distraught. Fyodor shook his head playfully, smiling at you as you huffed.

“This isn't funny Fyodor, I'm being serious.”

“As am I. Why should I break the engagement? If you have a problem you should take that up with your father?”

He was trying to avoid how hurt he was at the notion. What happened to your feelings for him? He couldn't possibly have misjudged those could he? Dazai even confirmed them to be mutual unless that was his angle all along. That rat bastard sticking his nose in other people's business. If it wasn't frowned upon he would have him shot, stabbed, drowned and then shot again but this time by Chuuya for meddling.

The way Fyodor spoke so nonchalantly was unnerving to you. How could he be so unbothered? “I tried but he's planned everything to the letter. I didn't even get to choose my dress! So you need to be the one to break it off.” It's bothered you all weekend and kept you up at night. The only way to find out Fyodor's true feelings for you was to see how he reacts to you trying to stop your inevitable marriage.

Fyodor raises an eyebrow before wearing a very careful expression. It was actually Fyodor who made most of those decisions for the wedding. In the back of his mind he was worried that his father would deny his proposal if he didn't see any promise. Nikolai never had a problem being openly affectionate towards you and he knows your father had noticed that as well. Fyodor wanted to make sure he still had a chance to be considered a valuable suitor. He was thinking that at some point you would get to weigh in on the final plans anyhow. He favored being meticulous about those kinds of details, however he must admit that maybe for this instance he might have gone overboard but you deserved the world and Fyodor wanted to provide as much as possible.

“Is that why you haven't slept? You should try to rest while it's still free period. Our discussion can wait until you are in the right mind.”

He sounded concerned as he started taking his blazer off while pulling you into his lap. For the first time he didn’t know what to say to make you feel better. His body more or less moved on its own craving the closeness to ease the sting of you not wanting to marry him. What happened while he was gone? Did Nikolai make a move or did someone else capture your heart? Again he immediately blames Dazai for getting involved. Fyodor kissed your forehead holding you possessively against his chest. Where did he go wrong? His plan to win over the adults worked out perfectly. Why were you suddenly giving so much push back?

You were awestruck at the action letting Fyodor move you as he draped his blazer around like a blanket. It felt like this was a dream like you would wake up from this fairytale that your brain knew you craved. The kiss to the forehead plus the way you were sitting, you've always wanted to sit with him like this but it was too good to be real. Since when was he so physically affectionate? It made your heart clench, it was all just an act. Your head was killing you from working overtime. Despite it all you still felt overwhelmingly safe in Fyodor's arms and your eyes fell closed as you got comfortable. You loved him but you hate this.

After a beat Fyodor spoke. “We couldn't break the engagement even if we wanted to, not without destroying the reputations of our family names while we're at it. Would it really be that torturous to be my wife?”

His words were as logical as ever. At least some things never change.

You didn’t have the strength to reply but you knew he was right. Although his voice sounded strange, you couldn't put a finger on why. The wording was odd even for Fyodor but like he said earlier you probably weren't thinking straight. You nuzzled into him further, not thinking much of it and drifted off to sleep. You already got your answer anyhow. Fyodor doesn’t love you the same way you love him. That was the only explanation. He cares for you deeply but you doubt he loves you as more than friends. It would hurt you if you weren't already prepared for this outcome. You've known for years that he just wasn't the romantic type and maybe that’s why it was so easy to crush on him, because you knew you never had a chance.

Love, romance, affection? Those were all ideas you wanted. Things you craved to have but the vulnerability that comes with it terrifies you. To lay yourself bare in another's trust. It's why you push Nikolai away as well. He loves you so much and you're mortified to take a leap of faith even though you know he would catch you. He always has.

___

Part 3 coming soon

Tagslist: @skullyz1 , @tttttttf , @ayameshu

#bsd imagines #bsd fanfic #bsd x reader #fyodor imagines #nikolai imagines #fyodor x reader #nikolai x reader #nikolai gogol x reader #based on a dream i had #xreader #x reader #my bsd brainrot is showing

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thealexandriaarchives · 11 days

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The Arrakis Royal Ballet in Arrakeen has just had a crisis of leadership under the management of the CHOAM Foundation which oversees its board, and Vladimir Harkonnen has been ousted as chairman, which means two things: Oh thank god we don't have to watch the same 5 Tchaikovsky shows over and over again this season, Swan Lake and The Firebird are FINE but GOD- and the Company's default leading man for every performance, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, will suddenly have to compete for his slot.

That's totally fine, but the next person to fill the board's slot is Leto Atredies, a man who's actively investigating the Harkonnens for using the Ballet for money laundering as well as reputation laundering, and his son, Paul Atredies, is about to make his international debut after being quietly... discouraged, from applying. Still, whether as a PR move or an olive branch, Leto suggests a Ballet to fit the bill: Giselle.

It's French, so it will give people something different from the aggressively Russian fare Vlad had selected for the last several seasons. ...A bit unfair, perhaps, Chani had been hoping for Balanchine outside of Christmas, but Feyd never expected he'd even get so much as Italian. Paul Atredies was taught by masters in the classical French schools and he's got the light, precise, delicate footwork and speed to show for it. Hell with that slight frame, and some of the moves Feyd has seen him do on TikTok, which is about the only place he's been able to perform up until now, there have even been whispers he could perform the female roles just as easily.

But Giselle is good. It will give Chani some space to show off her acting chops as she falls in love and goes insane, casts Irulan well as a cold and vicious wraith queen, ordering men to their deaths, and it's underperformed- often because it requires two strong male leads in the same company.

As soon as he hears the name Feyd-Rautha doesn't kid himself about which role he'll be playing. Even if he didn't personally prefer Hilarion to the lying noble prick Albrecht is revealed to be, there's no way the new chairman's son and anointed star is going to be the one drowned like a rat in a bucket by the end of act two.

Besides, Feyd knows what the last act requires physically, and he's seen Atredies throwing his whole body into full spins again and again through the air in his million dollar barre studio online. Feyd's just not going to let a spoiled green debutante get away with blowing this for everyone else.

So on the first day of rehearsals, while Chani and Stilgar are off with the set designer, discussing the frankly insane decision to replace the woods and lake with a desert terrain out of Lawrence of Arabia, Feyd-Rautha sidles up to their untested new danseur noble as he laces his shoes.

"I hear you're our new Duke of Arrakis."

#So a fun fact about me is that I did hardcore Russian ballet as a kid with a little old 70-something year old woman who Knew Her Shit until #I got too tall and she told me No Man Will Lift You'. So I took 10 seconds to think about this and I have something.#If people are confused on the last line i didn't want to spell things out too much but Albrecht is a Duke #duneposting #feydpaul #feyd rautha #paul atredies #chani kynes #dune fanfiction #feyd rautha fanfic #dune au #ballet au #dune

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houpss · 3 months

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Lily–9th member of SKZ

🧊—see you soon on crumpled sheets, dear ✥

🧊–BASIC INFORMATION ¡! ✥

Birth name:: Hwang Soyun | 황소윤 // Hwang Lily

Stage name:: Lily

Date of birth:: 05/08/1999

Height:: 170 cm

Place of birth:: Chicago, USA (She lived there for 6 years from birth, and then her family moved to Busan)

Nicknames::Teddy Bear, Beautiful lady from Stray Kids

Other Nicknames more commonly used by other people::The Golden Voice of Korea, little bear

Label::JYP ENTERTAINMENT (since 2014), SM ENTERTAINMENT (2012-2014)

Languages:: 100% English, 100% Korean, 80% Japanese, 70% French and Russian

🧊–LILY'S WORK ¡! ✥

:: Idol

Group:: Stray Kids

Debut:: 03/25/2018

Racha:: Vokalracha

Position (I remind you that there are no official positions, 9 rappers, 9 singers, 9 dancers and 9 visuals, bro):: main vocal

Official emoji:: 🐻 (skzoo look at the end of the post!)

Solo debut:: 07/14/2023

CHANEL AND BULGARI AMBASSADOR

🧊–RIGHTS AND REPRESENTATIONS ¡! ✥

Face, Body and Voice (Korean voice, singing and rapping):: 中村一葉/Nakamura Kazuha

Voice in English:: Danielle (New Jeans)

Piercings:: Navel piercing (from 2019-2021), lip piercing (from 2022), eyebrow piercing (from spring 2023)

Tattoos:: Small tattoo on wrist with the inscription "SKZ".

🧊–FAMILY ¡! ✥

Father, Mother, younger sister, older brother

See the following posts for more details. 🫂

LILY'S EDUCATION

Lily was a professional ballerina before her debut and attended the Universal Ballet Academy in South Korea,the Moscow Academy of Choreography, and the Royal Ballet School in the UK. Of course, she is a choreographer and professional ballerina. We can say that she is a dancer who became an idol, not the other way around.

SKZOO

ALL RIGHTS TO LILY ARE RESERVED BY ME, DO NOT COPY OR ACCEPT UNDER ANY CONDITIONS.

#stray kids headcanons #stray kids 9th member #stray kids female member #stray kids imagines #stray kids female addition #skz #Lily skz #stray kids female oc #fictional idol oc #fictional characters #kpop added member #kpop oc #kpop female member #kpop female idol

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hauntedbystorytelling · 7 months

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unknown dancer. Nicolas and Nadine Legat school.

src The Russian Ballet society

#dance pose #bending backwards #bent back #dancer #danseuse #Tänzerin #danzatrice #legat system #legat school #nadine legat #nicolas legat

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seat-safety-switch · 2 years

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“A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips,” my high school ballet teacher Miss Pirouette would sneer whenever she saw me with my usual lunch (four uncooked potatoes and half a jar of mayonnaise.) If this theory was true, and I had no reason to doubt a reclusive spinster who would later get arrested at the airport carrying a violin case full of Russian research chemicals, then automakers have certainly been putting a lot of things on their cars’ lips recently.

There’s a lot of reasons why cars are getting wider. The engineering answer is that a wider chassis provides a car with more stability, and more room to shove parts. The safety answer is that you need to provide more room for the metal to get all crunched up when you drive the front-left corner of the car into someone else’s front-left corner, because both of you are nearly sixteen meters away from the drivers’ side mirror. And the marketing answer is that people like a car with a big fat ass. Some part of our primate brain really loves wide-body race cars, and also having a deep enough storage pocket in the door to insert one (1) Subway party sub and completely forget it was ever there five seconds later.

This trend gives no sign of stopping any time soon. After all, there’s still some unused room inside highway lanes that they can take up. Unfortunately, parking spots haven’t grown in decades to match. This is because small business landlords are concerned about the difference in revenue between being able to accommodate only 240 cars, rather than the 325 that they need in order to keep their suburban strip mall in the black. In the 90s, some General Motors engineers were arrested after they were a little bit too loud scraping the paint off and redrawing the lines outside the local mall, so now everyone just parks in two spots. It’s the price you pay for stability.

So, once/if Miss Pirouette gets out of prison, she can go right back to driving her spindly Talbot Horizon to work. If she gets a little tired of driving, she can pull into the wheel well of a passing BMW luxury barge and just ride on the inside of the wheel the rest of the way there.

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ballet-symphonie · 14 days

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what's the deal with joy womack ? I got into ballet after the whole scandal at the bolshoi and i've always heard bad things about her but I don't really know the story. Also she apparently lied about her position at POB?

Ooof I'll try to do the quick version based on what I remember, she is basically one drama after another, she tends to...misrepresent information. She left BT after saying she had to pay or even sleep with someone to get soloist parts. This was disputed by some, and confirmed by others.

After she went to work i the Kremlin Ballet Theatre of Moscow, she became a leading soloist with them, despite often calling herself a principal. There was some tension here as she was making vlogs filming class despite her coworkers asking her not to and occasionally sharing some no-so-nice information about her coworkers, things got messy when she divorced her ex and she left, even after she got promoted to principal.

After Kremlin, she won a prize at Varna in 2017, did some unsuccessful company auditions, and did short stints at Universal Ballet in Korea and guesting around Bulgaria and Poland. At one point she was going back Russian State Theatre Arts Ballet Pedagogy and Choreography (GITIS) for higher education in pedagogy. She has repeatedly expressed disdain for both the American and Russian systems, and there is a lot of speculation that this, along with her desire to be a principal *asap* hindered her career.

She was at Boston Ballet for a short period, but didn't like the setup, said she preferred being in Russian/European companies where they provided more individual coaching and often more benefits (housing) and with low layoffs...yet she has also repeatedly complained about the low pay/exchange rate when she was working in Russia. She left here when COVID happened.

After trying a couple of times, I believe she got a "contractuelle" position at POB, where you're generally hired for specific productions (eg, something with a huge corps, or for a specific choreographic nice that a dancer excels in). POB, with its extremely involved hiring and promotion systems/competitions, takes a while to move dancers into the corps sometimes. I'm not sure if she was offered a corps contract and didn't take it, or didn't get one, but regardless, she's no longer working with POB.

And now, if you go to her website she's starting a foundation and a school and company....? This is in addition to her freelancing around and the project prima bars that I think no longer exist and some film work. She's just a lotttttt and does not portray herself as the most self-aware or humble person.

As far as my personal interactions with her go, I know she came to audition at my company before I started my professional career and was not accepted. I took a couple classes with her in NYC by chance, the diva attitude was overtly present.

I didn't do much googling here, of course open to corrections of this mass of speculation

#a rather dramatic post from me lo #enjoy

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yoificfinder · 11 months

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Hello! Thank you for all the work you put in this wonderful page. I was wondering if you had any recs related to langue/Yuuri and Victor learning each other's languages.

These are the ones I remember off the top of my head:

Bear Your Soul on the Ice by @diedraechin [E,488K] *WIP

At age fourteen, Katsuki Yuuri had been determined to be Japan's next great figure skating hope, but with no coach that would never happen, so his ballet instructor packs him up off to Russia to train with Yakov Feltsman. The Yakov Feltsman, otherwise known as the coach to rising figure skating star -- and Yuuri's idol -- Viktor Nikiforov.

From the rinks of Yubileyny Sports Palace in St Petersburg to the bustling city of Osaka and quieter Michigan suburbs, Yuuri chases his dream of skating against his idol and improbable best friend, getting tripped up along the way because growing up is never easy and it's even harder as an elite athlete with the eyes of a nation watching. But it'll all be fine as long as Yuuri doesn't do something stupid like fall in love with Viktor. Right? Right.

The Boyfriend Paradox by @japansace [T, 3K]

For some inexplicable reason, Yuuri speaks Russian.

Now, as everyone knows, there are only two viable reasons why anyone ever learns a foreign language:

1. For school.

2. To impress a foreign love interest.

And Victor can’t quite bring himself to believe that Yuuri would be at all studious enough to hunt down Russian classes in Detroit of all places.

(Or: Victor gets jealous of a boyfriend that doesn’t exist.)

Call Everything on the Ice... by @shysweetthing [E, 50K]

Victor learns Japanese while in Hasetsu. He doesn't tell Yuuri, and things get dicey when he overhears Yuuri and Mari talking about him in Japanese. Repeatedly.

(The subtitle of this fic should be: Victor Nikiforov really needs a hug. Luckily, he gets one. Eventually.)

~~~

“No,” Victor says, skating up to Yuuri on the ice, “you have to push all the way from here, or you’ll never get the height you need for that axel.” He sets his hand on Yuuri’s ass, tracing the muscle group he’s referring to. “Not here.” He taps Yuuri’s thigh. He doesn’t know the words for the muscles in English, only knows how to show him.

Yes, technically he’s grabbing Yuuri’s ass, but how else is he to communicate?

Heels Over Head by @amarokster [E, 34K]

Victor attempts to find his feet in Japan but finds himself becoming obsessed with Yuuri’s instead as he fails to decipher the mysterious puzzle of Yuuri's constantly exposed ankles.

AKA “I went to Hasetsu and all I got was this lousy foot fetish.”

in the spaces between by sixpences / @thetwoguineabook [T, 7K]

Yuuri's life in St Petersburg is spread between four languages.

Repeat After Me by queenieofaces / @liesonthefloordramatically [T, 6K]

Victor learns language through mimicry, hears phrases and repeats them back until the inflection becomes second nature. Yuuri seems to communicate best through euphemism, through metaphor, through talking around the subject rather than approaching it head on, and so Victor tries his best to mimic him, to take his words and echo them back.

(Vignettes in language learning and communication, spanning the whole series.)

Russian for Dummies by @cutthroatpixie [G, 2K]

"Are you a beginner?"

Viktor was not a beginner. Viktor was the TA supposedly in charge of this study session. Viktor spoke Russian. Viktor was Russian.

"Sure!"

#yoi #yuri on ice #yoi fanfic #victuuri #yoi fic rec #language

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mariacallous · 4 months

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Yevgeny Moiseyev, the mayor of the Russian city of Kislovodsk, announced Sunday that a quote from ballet dancer and choreographer Mikhail Baryshnikov will be removed from a local choreography school because he spoke out against the invasion of Ukraine.

Photos published by the mayor show the following quote from Baryshnikov on one of the school’s walls: “I do not try to dance better than anyone else. I only try to dance better than myself.”

“I’m currently working to figure out who approved the idea to feature a quote from a person who, while he may be a genius, abandoned his native country and doesn’t support it, our heroic boys, or our president in the fight that we all, as a country, and as the entire city of Kislovodsk, are waging for our future, the future of our children, and the entire country,” wrote Moiseyev.

He said he’s ordered for Baryshnikov’s quote to be replaced with “the words of one of our geniuses, a true patriot of their native land.”

Mikhail Baryshnikov was born in Soviet Latvia. In the 1970s, he emigrated to the U.S., where he joined the American Ballet Theatre and began performing in films and on Broadway. He now leads the Baryshnikov Arts Center in New York. After Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Baryshnikov began raising money for Ukrainian refugees along with writer Boris Akunin and economist Sergei Guriev as part of the True Russia project. The Russian authorities have banned the initiative as an “undesirable” organization.

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afewproblems · 1 year

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Here is a Ballet Dancer!Steve/Fruity Four Dancer AU - courtesy of @magpiemuseum and this post! Thank you for sending this! I adore this idea!!

I’ll diverge from it slightly and suggest that Steve and Nancy met through ballet.

They dance together, are often partnered with one another in productions, they work well with one another and start dating fairly quickly, it works. Steve loves Nancy, and she seems to care about him deeply as well. But after Will and Barb go missing and only Will comes home, well…

Nancy just doesn’t have the heart to stick with it after that.

So she moves into jazz to express some of that anger and grief. Karen is disappointed in her daughter, that she didn't stick with it the way Karen did but she isn't going to be like her own mother, not again, so she agrees. Nancy has a knack for it, picking up the movements and techniques quickly, just like everything she does, it's with fiery, furious determination.

Steve keeps going with ballet, he's only allowed to because his teachers insist he's good enough to get a free ride to any school once he graduates. His father begrudgingly agrees but never attends another production after Steve turns 15. They don't talk about it.

The multiple concussions over the years eventually begin to affect his performance, the fight with Jonathan, the plate with Billy, the one lift another dancer in their company attempted as a joke during break that ended with Steve having to go to urgent care for stitches. Just his luck.

Now, he can't even handle one rotation in a pirouette without having to sit down until the spots in his vision go away.

He keeps at it, practicing, avoiding spins as much as possible, but since this won't enable him to get into college and his grades are slipping with the absenses and lack of interest, his father finally has the opportunity to tell him its over.

Steve starts at Scoops the day after graduation.

He meets Robin, it's not an immediate spark which is fine by Steve, he's still mourning the loss of his company and all the friends he had made along the way, the wonderful instructors he met over the years. Robin ignores him for the most part until she catches him in the back room one day, humming along to a Madonna song on the mall speaker system as he easily jumps through a pas de chat across the small space.

She interrogates him about this, but it's not as though he ever hid his ability, it's just not something he ever did through school. He had swimming for that.

She studies him for a moment before launching into a quick tap solo as Tiffany's, I Think We're Alone Now, plays softly in the background.

Steve claps with the biggest grin on his face as Robin shyly explains how she's been taking tap for years, in between band practice and the drama club, she hopes it will help her get to Julliard eventually.

It's better after that.

And after the Russians and the awful truth-serum makes its way out of their system, they sit in the bathroom stalls of Star Court. Steve tells her he's never felt like this with almost anyone else, and Robin closes her eyes.

She tells him about Tammy Thompson, and about Nancy Wheeler who she's seen in passing after tap, aggressively dancing in the small studio in Indianapolis her mother takes her to. She tells him that she'd always been jealous of how they'd look at him, how they would never look at her that way, and how it crushed her.

And Steve gets it. He slides under the stall to sit with her, and his heart hurts as he sees her tense up in front of him, he can't have that.

Steve bites his lip as he softly tells her about the guy in their company, the one who had tried the lift with him, you know, as a joke. The one Steve had tried to kiss the day before, not as a joke.

Danny had insisted it was fine, he wasn't interested in Steve like that, but they could still be friends and it didn't have to be weird.

And then he dropped him the next day. You know, accidentally, as a joke.

Robin grabs his hand at this and squeezes it tightly.

He tells her Tammy Thompson sounds like a Muppet so maybe they both have terrible taste.

They don't talk about Nancy. Not quite yet.

After Star Court burns down they are inseparable, two halves of the same heart, platonic soulmates Robin will say in the same breath as she calls him dingus.

He loves it.

They start at Family Video together, complain about Keith and his aggressive annoyance with Steve, but the job is easy enough and actually pays a dollar above minimum wage so Steve tries not to complain too too much. They dance in the break-room, Robin tries to show him some simple tap sequences while Steve corrects her positions. It's harder for Steve to nail down the foot rhythm, but the movements are easy enough. Robin is a little stiff, but she manages to eventually mimic the positions enough to satisfy Steve.

But if course it couldn't last.

Vecna nearly tears apart the world, he succeeds with tearing apart Hawkins and the Upside Down monstes rear their ugly flower faces once again. They meet Eddie, Hopper comes back from the dead, they close the gates, and Steve carries Eddie out of the depths of hell without bleeding out.

Max dies, or nearly dies, the explanation goes over his head as they sit in the waiting room of the hospital after Steve is finally stitched and bandaged up.

They all make it.

It's a long road to recovery, especially for Max with the extensive damage to her eyes and legs, but eventually she walks again, now with a cane which she uses to catch Mike in the ankles every chance she gets, so it helps.

Mike has no idea how she always knows it's him, it's baffling.

It's harder for Steve to move now with the build-up of scar tissue on his sides, it isn't until he cries out in pain after trying a simple jete that he grieves yet another loss.

He stops dancing after that.

Steve tries to be happy for Robin and Nancy, who finally, finally, start dating. Jonathan seems to understand, but his grief has always been quiet. Argyle helps, the two of them are seen together more often than not in the wake of Jon and Nancy's breakup. Steve knows exactly how it feels not to have someone to lean on in the aftermath of Nancy Wheeler. He's happy for them, or he tries to be.

He wishes he had that.

Steve still see's Robin, they are soulmates after all, but it isnt quite the same anymore. Nancy seems to have taken up the mantel of the other half of Robin's heart, and Steve?

It's fine. He's fine.

He starts spending a lot of time with Eddie. They commiserate about the kids and their attitude, Steve tells Eddie more about the Upside Down and how he got roped into it all.

The topic of dance comes up as an accident.

Eddie makes a comment about college and the future which prompts Steve to snort. It isn't as though he has any options anymore, he can't continue with ballet, he barely had the grades to graduate, he's going nowhere fast.

Eddie looks at him, his face surprised at first, whether by the information or by the dejected tone of Steve's voice.

He tells him about his own experience with dance, how after his uncle took him in that he found channeling his frenetic and nervous energy into contemporary dance.

Pouring his breath and emotions into the movements, it's always helped to slow his brain down from the constant mile-a-minute thoughts that used to over take him.

He tells Steve that despite the new scars that littler his torso, he's managed to keep up with the movements, that the practice seems to even help with the pain.

Steve is enraptured by the description, a small flicker of hope burns in his chest as he asks to see in a small voice.

Steve is immediately blinded by the 1000 watt smile Eddie gives him.

And oh.

Oh he's in trouble.

Eddie is beautiful when he dances, it's a fascinating departure from the precision of ballet and even the fast pace of tap that Robin has shown him. Eddie left his hair down so the curls sweep around him as he moves.

This is all storytelling and emotion, it's deliberate but free, and Steve can hardly breathe as Eddie finishes.

"So what's the verdict big boy?" Eddie pants as he pushes his wild curls out of his flushed face.

Fuck, and that image alone has Steve blushing as well.

Steve swallows roughly, "Think you could show me a thing or two Eds," he murmurs softly as Eddie laughs.

They spend the rest of the afternoon with Eddie correcting Steve's posture and positions, slowly directly his movement, and letting his hands linger on Steve.

He's still physically sore by the end of it, and he wants nothing more that a couple of tylenol and a long warm bath once he heads home for the night, but Eddie's smile and the memory of his hands and gentle patience leave Steve feeling warm and hopeful for the first time in a long time.

He doesn't have to give up something that had been such a large part of himself for so long.

He can still dance.

It feels like he can breath again.

Steve goes to sleep that night and dreams of dancing with Eddie.

And in this one, he doesn't drop him, not once.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie #steve x eddie #stranger things season 4 #afewproblems writes #fanfic #head canon #steve harrington is a dancer #the fruity four #platonic stobin #robin buckley x nancy wheeler #the fruity four are dancers au #eddie munson is a dancers #another stranger things dance au? its more likely than you think #may as well give the people what they want!#@magpiemuseum

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homomenhommes · 15 days

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THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … May 10

c.308. BC – Little is known of Theocritus, the first great voice in the homoerotic pastoral tradition. He appears to have been born in Sicily in the late fourth century B.C, and to have lived both at the court of Ptolemy Philadelphius (patron of the great poetic school of Alexandria) and in Syracuse, where he is reputed to have died around 240 B.C

His significance for gay literary history resides in the fact that five of his thirty Idylls map the emotional and poetic terrains of intense—especially frustrated—homosexual desire that later poets would explore in greater detail.

For example, "Hylas" (Idyll 13)—one of the most famous homosexual lyrics of the ancient world—subverts the traditionally heroic values of Greek poetry by noting how even Hercules could not resist loving a beautiful boy, "golden-haired Hylas," who drowned when, trying to fetch water for his lover, he was pulled down by the nymphs of the stream who fell in love with him and wanted to keep him as their own. Hercules, unable to save his lover, lapses into madness in his grief. For Theocritus, love's power is stronger than the physical might of even the greatest hero.

"For a Boy" (Idyll 29) warns a beautiful young man who scorns the speaker's love that he too will age and his beauty lose its freshness. Thus, if he does not "show more kindness" and "return the love of a man who is true" now when he is young and lovable, no one will show him any affection later when he himself is old and desperate for a beautiful young man's attention.

The speaker of "For Another Boy" (Idyll 30), who finds himself falling in love again after a particularly painful experience, knows full well that "as a man grows old, / he should steer himself clear of the love of young boys." Love, however, answers him that the only alternative to loving a boy is to cease to exist.

His Idylls are the source of a homoerotic pastoral tradition that includes Virgil's second eclogue, Spenser's Shepherd's Calendar, and Barnfield's Affectionate Shepherd, as well as anticipates the homoerotic confusion in the Forest of Arden in Shakespeare's As You Like It, Milton's "Lycidas," and possibly even Whitman's Calamus poems.

1866 – Léon Bakst (d.1924), Born as Lev Samoilovich Rosenberg, was a Russian painter and scene- and costume designer. He was a member of the Sergei Diaghilev circle and the Ballets Russes, for which he designed exotic, richly coloured sets and costumes.

At the young age of twelve, Léon won a drawing contest and decided to become a painter, but his parents did not really take a shine to it. After graduating from gymnasium, he studied at the St. Petersburg Academy of Arts as a noncredit student, because he had failed the entry, working part-time as a book illustrator, though, he would eventually be admitted into this institution in 1883.

At the time of his first exhibition (1889) he took the surname of "Bakst," based on his mother's maiden name. The surname "Rosenberg" was thought to be too Jewish and not good for business.At the beginning of the 1890s he exhibited his works with the Society of Watercolourists. From 1893 to 1897 he lived in Paris, where he studied at the Académie Julian while still visiting Saint Petersburg often. After the mid-1890s he became a member of the circle of writers and artists formed by Sergei Diaghilev and Alexandre Benois, which later became the Mir Iskusstva art movement.

In 1899, he co-founded with Sergei Diaghilev the influential periodical Mir Iskusstva, meaning "World of Art." His graphics for this publication brought him fame.

Beginning in 1909, Bakst worked mostly as a stage-designer, designing sets for Greek tragedies, and, in 1908, he made a name for himself as a scene-painter for Diaghilev with the Ballets Russes. He produced scenery for Cleopatra (1909), Scheherazade (1910), Carnaval (1910), Narcisse (1911), Le Spectre de la Rose (1911), L'après-midi d'un faune (1912) and Daphnis et Chloé (1912). During this time, he lived in western Europe because, as a Jew, he did not have the right to live permanently outside the Pale of Settlement. During his visits to Saint Petersburg he taught in Zvantseva's school, where one of his students was Marc Chagall (1908–1910).

Bakst died on the 27th of December 1924, in a clinique in Rueil Malmaison, near Paris, from lung problems, (oedema). His many admirers amongst the most famous artists of the time, poets, musicians, dancers and critiques, lead him to his final resting place, in the Cimetiere des Batignoles, in Paris, during a very moving ceremony.

1952 – Robert Triptow, born in Salt Lake City, Utah, is a writer and "the last of the underground cartoonists." His 1989 anthology Gay Comics is one of the earliest histories of the subject, and won the first Lambda Literary Award for Humor.

As a cartoonist, Triptow's contributions to Howard Cruse's Gay Comix began with issue #2. He succeeded Cruse as editor of Gay Comix, from issue #5 (1984) through issue #13 (1991).

As a journalist, Triptow has contributed to The Advocate, Bay Area Reporter, Frontiers, The Sentinel, and other West Coast gay publications.

1961 – Born in Whangarei, New Zealand, Blyth Tait, son of a horse breeder, won his first two of four world equestrian games gold medals at twenty-nine and his first two of four Olympic medals two years later at Barcelona in 1992. That year he topped the world standings at #1, a position he held for almost all of the 90s.

At the 1996 Atlanta Olympics, Tait won a gold in individual eventing and a bronze with his team. Returning to the Olympics in Sydney in 2000, he was given the honor of bearing New Zealand's flag in the opening ceremony's parade of global athletic hotness, which for the first time included his partner Paul O'Brien, also on the equestrian team. Horribly, days before his competition Tait's horse died suddenly in quarantine, his back-up horse was rendered lame, and he failed to medal.

At the Athens Olympics in 2004, he ranked fifth. After several years in retirement, he tried to win a spot on the New Zealand for the 2012 London Olympics. In the history of New Zealand Olympians, he ranks fourth in total medals earned.

He resides at the property he owns with his long-term partner Paul O’Brien in Karaka, south of Auckland.

1962 – The California Supreme Court overturns the sodomy conviction of a man caught by police in a public restroom by use of a peephole drilled into the roof.

1974 – Quentin Elias (d.2014) was a French singer, actor and model. Of Algerian heritage, he was the original lead singer of the French boy band Alliage with Steven Gunnell, Roman Lata Ares and Brian Torres from 1996 to 1999. After his departure from the group, he relocated to the United States where he developed a solo singing career singing in English and French, releasing a number of albums, EPs and singles through his company Quentin Elias Music and distribution by Electro Boy Inc Records.

In New York hereleased the single "Always the Last to Say Goodbye", produced by Christian Moeyaert. He also performed at local gay venues and events such as Splash Bar, and Tom of Finland events.

He also worked as a model, acted in a number of feature films, television series and on stage and was featured in a number of advertisements. He took part in documentaries notably The Adonis Factor appearing on the documentary's promotional cover. He was active in body training, tattooing, in photography and in active blogging of his progress, all the while releasing more materials online.

He was briefly involved in solo adult maturbation appearances on the Randy Blue gay male site under the pseudonym Q. He made a comeback in France starting in 2011, appearing in a number of tours, made new releases for the French and European markets, including remakes of earlier Alliage hits and had a number of appearances on popular French reality television shows and on talk and entertainment shows talking candidly about his past. On 25 February 2014, Elias died at his home in New York City.

1990 – On this date OutRage!, a United Kingdom direct action group is formed. OutRage! is a direct action campaigning group in the United Kingdom which was formed to fight for what they saw as the rights of Lesbian, Gay and Bisexual people. It is a radical group which has frequently been criticised for being extremist; members have been arrested on some OutRage! actions. For a time in the mid-1990s, some OutRage! actions were perceived as being a version of outing, where Gay activists assert the alleged private homosexuality of public figures as part of a political campaign.

Marc Hall and his prom date JP Dumond

2002 – On this date Canadian Gay teenager Marc Hall won an injunction permitting him to bring his boyfriend to his prom.

Marc Hall v. Durham Catholic School Board was a 2002 court case in which Marc Hall, a Canadian teenager, fought a successful legal battle against the Durham Catholic District School Board to bring a same-sex date to his high school prom. The case made Canadian and international headlines.

Marc Hall v. Durham Catholic School Board began when Oshawa, Ontario's Monsignor John Pereyma Catholic Secondary School asked students attending the prom to submit the names of the guests they intended to bring. Hall, who is gay, submitted the name of his 21-year-old boyfriend, Jean-Paul Dumond, and was denied on the grounds that homosexuality is incompatible with Roman Catholic teaching.

Supported by his family and a wide variety of community organizations, Hall thus took the school board to court in a two-day hearing that began on May 6, 2002. Hall's lawyer, David Corbett, argued that the denial of his request violated the Ontario Education Act, which requires school boards in the province not to discriminate. The school board, on the other hand, argued that court interference in its decision would amount to denying its religious freedom.

Corbett argued that an organization that accepts public funding (Catholic school boards in Ontario are fully funded in the same manner as public schools) has to be accountable to the same laws (including anti-discrimination laws) as other public institutions. The school board's lawyer countered that Section 93 of the Canadian constitution protects the Catholic board's rights to conduct its affairs in accordance with Catholic teaching.

In addition, Corbett noted that while extramarital sex is also contrary to Catholic teaching, the school board had previously allowed pregnant, unmarried students to attend the prom.

On May 10, Justice Robert McKinnon granted an interlocutory injunction ordering that Hall be allowed to attend the prom with Dumond. The justice also ordered that the school would not cancel the prom. Hall attended the Prom with Dumond that evening.

16 notes · View notes