#russianllterature

[blindshe]

@russianllterature   laure. you didn’t like but u get one anyway since you commented ha. have i mentioned how much i love you ?? like, so much. you’ve followed me everywhere since i first made reggie ( which hasnt been that many places, but the fact that you followed me at all is <3 ) and i don’t know what i would do without you. you’ve always supported me through everything, you’ve listened to all my breakdowns, and i genuinely consider you one of my best friends. and hey, im bringing reggie back !! im so excited !! thanks for being my friend, esp in a time where i need them. love you, pls don’t die going on adventures w elliot today. 

[mxwells]

     ❛           i    don't    often    get    the    chance    to      talk      to    someone    like    you.           ❜ 

@russianllterature​     liked   for   a   starter.

[initcne-a]

@russianllterature asked : 💔 [ ... ]

Her best friend and her brother aren’t away at university for more than a week and Darlene is still young, her face still round and soft, her knees and elbows scraped from jumping a fence last night while running away from the cops who busted a house party. She’s sitting in her windowsill with a cigarette she stole from her mother’s purse. It’s the middle of the day. The midday sun beats down on her. Darlene is supposed to be at school. Angela and Elliot are supposed to be at school. She doesn’t really like cigarettes at this point in her life. They burn her throat and she doesn’t like the smell. But Elliot and Angela say the smoking calms their nerves, so Darlene smokes.

She pulled the landline up to her room and she’s sitting with the phone in her lap and the receiver to her ear. Her scuffed knees are pulled to her chest and she presses the numbers for Elliot and Angela’s dorm into the phone. She scribbled the number on her hand the day they left and whispered the digits under her breath until they were inked into her brain. She chews her lip and bounces the cigarette up and down between two fingers.

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

“Hi. It’s me. Darlene. Again. You, uh, you guys said you would call me at least once a week, but I haven’t heard from you guys this week. I know it’s only Tuesday, but I really need to talk to you both.” She pauses to take a drag from the cigarette, lets out a little cough. “I started school last week, too. High school sucks. I don’t like most of the people in my classes. I can’t wait to get out of here and go to college with you guys.” Because, at this point, in her mind, the only way she’ll get out of Washington Township is by going to college, because that’s what people do. They leave their hometowns, they go to a nice university, and they get a job that they’ll be at for the rest of their lives and die paying off their student loans.

The idea makes her want to gag. Or maybe it’s the cigarette.

She audibly sighs into the receiver. “Just call me back, okay?? You said you would. Okay. Bye.” She slams the receiver into its holder and holds it there for several long moments, staring at the number pad with focused intensity, as if Angela and Elliot will feel her fervent stare through the receiver and phone lines.

Darlene gets into a fight with Magda when her mother gets home from work. They fight a lot. These days, Darlene picks the fights intentionally. It’s the only way to get the woman to even look at her. She’s barricaded in her room, red eyed and puffy eyed, the phone in her lap again as she punches numbers aggressively and presses the receiver to her ear again.

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

“Hi. It’s me again.” She sniffles and rubs her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. “I didn’t think you guys would be busy right now. But I guess you’re at a party or something. College parties would be fun, I think. Or maybe you’re doing homework.” Darlene pulls at a lock of hair now, sniffles again. “I have school tomorrow so call me after school, okay?? I think I’m gonna go. It’s better than sitting around at home, I guess. All right. Bye. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She slams the receiver down again and sets the phone on the floor by her bed.

She calls again in the morning, just in case.

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

She calls the next night.

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

She calls

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

on a Thursday

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

at three in the morning 

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

after a long night of working on code

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

after tagging a wall of the high school

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

after she screams so much that her throat feels raw

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

while the fist is still squeezing her heart

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE.

curled up in bed for the third day straight.

THE VOICEMAIL BOX IS FULL.

She throws the receiver against her bedroom wall, watches it split and fall in a mess of plastic and wires. Magda will give her hell for this tomorrow. But Darlene doesn’t care. She’s accepted the fact that nothing she does will ever be good enough for her mother, that causing a fuss is the only thing that will get Magda to look her in the eye. Or, at the very least, glance in her direction. 

She holds a pillow over her face and screams and kicks her legs. The weight in her chest is crushing her, pressing her into her mattress until it will swallow her whole, and no one will notice, no one will find her, no one will miss her. Her mother hates her and her best friend and her brother have moved on from her. They’ve grown up, they’ve left this shit hole of a town, they’ve made new friends, friends who aren’t the annoying next door neighbor or the needy little sister, people who aren’t this horribly lonely and violently angry teenage girl.

[bigdlittleibignlittleozzo-moved]

@russianllterature

Tony was enjoying retirement. He loved the chance to travel wherever he felt like, do whatever he felt like. He had made his road trip around the country, and now he was just wandering wherever he wanted, Heston at his side, his ever faithful companion. 

They were in New York, visiting some of the old sights and sounds that Tony remembered, when he spotted someone that set off his radar. He was still a cop, underneath the the retirement veneer, and there were certain things that cops just noticed. This guy just happened to ping all of Tony’s buttons. 

He stopped at a hot dog vendor, bought a dog, and watched the other man from across the street, just observing. There was something off, something that had him on alert, but he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. He nudged Heston into walking along, keeping the other man in his sight as he followed him, needing to figure out what it was that was setting off alarms in his head.

Maybe he was getting rusty in retirement. Maybe he’d made a mistake. Maybe that was why he got caught. All he knew was that one minute the other man was across the street, being followed from a distance, and the next, he was standing in front of Tony, staring him down.

“Heya, nice day for a walk, isn’t it?”

[amity-and-enmity]

@russianllterature​

"Why don't eggs tell jokes?” Christopher asked over their shared breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. After a short pause, he finished, “They'd crack each other up." He didn’t even crack a smile at the lame joke but watched the boy’s reaction carefully.

[withinycu-arch]

@russianllterature​  will yield to temptation 

He had such a weakness for beautiful things. And death could be absolutely exquisite. Vampires could be absolutely delicious because of that. This one with his skin like moonlit milk and night-dark curls was no exception even or perhaps because of all the dead and dying surrounding them in the city. 

“What do you think I am?” Dorian asked with a remarkably genuine interest. After all their answer was as good as any, even his own. Even he didn’t know what he was beyond an anomaly. As immortal and perfect as a well maintained portrait. 

[spymade-a]

starter    call   -   @russianllterature​

“    are    you    an    art    lover    also   ?    or    are   you    perhaps    here    for    another    purpose   ?    ”    a    smile     graces    his     lips,    gaze    never    moving    from    the    art    he    had    been     admiring    until    the    other    had    joined    him.

[jozthen]

    in  any  sense  of  words  left  in  him ,   𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳  𝘪𝘴  𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥.

    he  had  never  travelled  before  in  his  life,   cooped  up  only  in  stifling  corners  of  black  rooms  and  choking  smell  of  blood  in  dark  rooms,   until  a  few  months  later  have  seen  him  in  SWEDEN.    overwhelming  than  baltimore  and  its  woods,  with  bustling  crowds  and  big  bricked  houses  and  having  nowhere  familiar  to  run  to;  and  yet,   he  finds  familiarity  in  the  dark  at  the  back  of  a  truck,   with  sharp  and  cold  metal  promising  hurt  by  the  men  who  drove  it  somewhere.

                        ‟     ...    ❜      he  stayed  still  behind  crates,  smelling  gunpowder  and  high  risks  of  uncertainty  especially  as  with  every  bump  on  the  road,  he  can  only  hear  the  wild  racing  of  his  heart  and  the  heat  of  his  mother’s  palm  on  his  cheeks.   careless,   reckless,   useless   —— surely  by  now  with  the  reminders  of  the  tip  of  his  father’s  wrath  on  his  skin,   alex  would’ve  learned  a  hell  of  a  curve.

    unfortunately,   getting  separated  on  their  first  international  getaway  is  unintentionally  not  on  his  list;   and  hopefully,   the  german  words  drilled  into  him  before  they  get  there  is  enough  to  keep  him  alive.   before  then,   escaping  capture  from  an  accidental  kidnapping  - -   alex  made  sure  not  to  make  a  trace  of  life  when  he  chose  this  as  a  hiding  spot  - -    is  the  topmost  priority.    honestly,   he  should’ve  checked  the  truck  first  if  there’s  someone  in  there  before  he  jumped  in  to  hide ...    STUPID  !  

                                   ▬▬▬▬  ＆；   @russianllterature​​  ， plotted.

[mostloquacious-moved]

@russianllterature​. [ ... ]

          “Often wonder what goes on out there.” They are, in fact, speaking of a more proverbial “out there,” because they are free to come and go as they please. Not that they made this obvious in such a short statement, though, this is in part because R themself is not entirely sure what out there fully entails. Outside this city?? Outside whatever limbo these two strange individuals exist in?? 

One leg is tucked to their chest and the other swings over the edge of the rooftop. Unblinking gaze rests, not on their shorter companion, but on the street below, all illuminated by car headlights and street lamps and tiny cell phone screens. There is a hint of an expression on R’s stoic face. The slightest crease of the brow, the subtlest of pressed lips. Wonder. Bemusement. Inquiry. Something.

[guadnahd]

🎼 🥺

Nocturne No. 20 in C-sharp minor, Op. posth. (Chopin)

Since we’ve not yet written with one another, I am going to base my interpretation of Allen and Boris’ relationship off of what we have discussed in private.

This piece is somber and (in my opinion) fraught with this sort of... delicate tension. As though any moment, something might break and give way to a tidal wave of raw and wild emotion. It’s very comforting and uplifting in its despair, which sounds like an oxymoron but... there’s security to be found when you wallow in your problems.

I think that Allen and Boris are a fantastic example of the phrase, “misery loves its company.” They will find common ground with each other through their loneliness and sorrow, their vices and bad habits. Their relationship (be it platonic, romantic, or something else) will be tense, as they may have a tendency to set one another off or cause one another to sink further into the parts of themselves that they’d be better off leaving behind.

The piece seems to struggle for that little bit of happiness. Often, it falls back down into deep, dark despair. The piece is listless and forever wandering. Every so often, the dark clouds break and a little bit of sunlight pokes through.

Even though Allen and Boris might drag each other down, they have the opportunity to be uplifting and comforting for one another. Theirs is a tumultuous partnership. They stumbled around in the dark alone; then, they began to stumble around in the dark together.

There is a false end in the piece that gives the impression of a happy ending. Then, it starts again. More highs and lows. More struggling, more sorrow. It crescendos and becomes more complex as it hurtles toward the true end. Frantic and desperate as it decrescendos into nothingness. After all the pain and despair, it ends on a high note.

In the end, the pair are destined to find ways to improve their situation and carve out a tolerable (if not happy) existence with one another. It’s just going to take some time and patience. Their journey won’t be pretty, but their happily ever will be sweeter for all of the turmoil they went through to get there in the first place. 

[glassmenagerieofmusesarc]

@russianllterature

As Henry’s bank account drained, so did his sanity as well. He felt imprisoned by his own decisions and he couldn’t remember the last time he left the apartment for anything aside from class or one of Bunny’s demanded outings. When he called Boris (a last resort of the most detestable kind), he was lounging around the house in his robe, downing shots of whiskey at three in the afternoon like his mother. “Can you stop by? Right away?” He pleaded. “I’d rather explain in person.” His paranoia had spiked over the past few weeks, driven by the constant threat of exposure and the petty mistake he’d made of ordering those tickets weeks ago. He could use access to some of Boris’ less savory connections.

[wldbirds]

𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑷𝑶𝑻𝑺 𝑯𝑰𝑴 𝑨𝑻 𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑬 .  seeing boris again , is like watching an old , yellowing film .  unwillingly the scene plays before his mind ;  that awful summer at francis’ holiday home and the events the followed --  the death of bunny ,  the gruelling investigations , and how the group had all but disintegrated in the aftermath .  guilt rises to the surface like bile , but he pushes it away at once .  they are no longer children , they could never be again , after that summer . 

still he embraces boris , with as much affection as he had back in college --  in his old , charming ways , his hand lingers on the small of the others’ back .  would he reject gustave after the role the viscount played in his conviction ?  he longed to say something about it , deny the truth of his forced confession , but nothing could take back a prison sentence , or those wasted years . instead his hand tightens  briefly in silent apology .  

              “    --  boris  . “  his breath leaves him , an exhale . “  it’s you !  “  / @russianllterature​

[mxwells]

     ❛            don't    be      scared.      i    just    need    you    to    come    with    me    for    a    minute.              ❜

@russianllterature​

[initcne-a]

@russianllterature asked : 💝 [ ... ]

“I want you to know I love you.”

She smiles, through the tears. Something sad. Something else she can’t quite place. She leaves the cramped hospital room and makes her way to the nurse’s station. 

“My brother’s awake,” she says. “Elliot Alderson??”

“Someone will be right there.”

The nurse turns her attention back to the computer screen but Darlene continues to stand there with her hands sitting atop the counter. She picks at her nails and bites down on her lower lip. That is her brother in there. It is, at least, someone who wears her brother’s skin and someone who has her brother’s face. It’s someone she loves and someone who says he loves her, the way brothers and sisters do love each other. He says he loves her, anyway, and it felt genuine.

She was expecting to feel more guilt. She was expecting her stomach to twist in on itself even further and her heart to leap directly out of her throat and her shoulders to dislocate from how tightly they’ve tensed. I know. I know. I know. I know you’re not Elliot, not fully Elliot, anyway, you are Elliot but you’re not Elliot yet I love you all the same. Maybe it’s because she didn’t hear judgement in his voice. Maybe it’s because he understands. He has to understand. Darlene wasn’t expecting him to yell at her, nothing to that caliber. She wasn’t expecting him to take it so gracefully though. I know. I’m sorry I’ve been keeping this from you. I missed you all so much and I didn’t want to ruin the good thing we had going. You were my way back to him.

And there’s still tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t feel any of those somatic signs of panic. Her head feels clear, her chest feels light, her shoulders and stomach feel relaxed. She stands there at the nurse’s station and she realizes for the first time that she’s been waiting to hear him say that. Him, specifically. Whoever he is. He wears Elliot’s face and skin and clothes and their voices are close enough, but the cadences don’t quite match up, and there’s a sort of edge to his eyes that she doesn’t see in Elliot’s eyes, so she knows she wasn’t waiting for Elliot to say it, she was waiting for him to say it.

“Is there something else I can help you with, hon??”

Darlene shifts her gaze to the nurse. Another smile twitches across her face. “No. Thanks. I got it.”

She’s expecting to feel her heart pounding against her chest as she walks back into the little hospital room, but she doesn’t. She stands at the other end of the room for a moment. Elliot’s face has changed again. The tears have welled in his eyes. He looks confused. Disoriented. She moves to the side of the bed and leans forward, and for the first time in years, Elliot himself meets her gaze.

She smiles. Her voice cracks. “Hello, Elliot.”

[troublewheeler]

# pwease

what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone

Commie Bastard

what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone

what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone

lonewolf — convolk

my muse’s last text to your muse

MIKE: I feel like I died then came back to life but nothing is real anymore MIKE: What the fuck did u GIVE ME BORIS

send me # for cell phone headcanons about our muses !

[noblecide2]

@russianllterature​ liked .

“ Can I have some now and give you some money later ?? I’m broke .”

“ I’ll owe you big time .”  Where the money would come from , he had no idea ; He hadn’t conjured up a plan yet , but that was a problem for future Tate . He knew where Larry would keep his wallet before going off to bed , so maybe he could lift some cash then --- He would probably just come to the conclusion that it was Constance , after all , and would be too afraid to approach her about it .