#she's not noting the russian because she has a translator- she would simply hear it in english either way | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

missbunnybunny · 9 months

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🫧『𝕺𝖍 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖎𝖘 𝖘𝖍𝖊? 𝕬 𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞 𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖞』🫧

Tw: dark kink, unprotected sex, non-con, dark content, rough sex, bondage, kinky, breeding, praise, degradation.

A/n: If something is incorrect, please let me know. using Google Translate for Russian words. I simply put down what came to me and spell-checked it. I'm not sure whether it even makes sense or not but enjoy!

Note: I'm interested in seeing how good my writing is, therefore I'm giving it my all. I have high hopes, for this one. This is a long boy. Your meal has been served, it was my pleasure serving you all 🍽️🤵🏽‍♀️.

🎐𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝟐🎐

Oh, Who is she...

-Russia, Kubinka.-

The sky was a never-ending sea of white and grey, with no sight of the sun to sprinkle a sliver of sunshine as the snow gently fell to the earth, painting everything white as far as the eyes could see. People were spotted marching up and down with their warm jackets and hats, guns in hand, flawlessly matching one stride at a time. Not one man, hair, or step out of line, just as they were trained.

An automobile stopped in front of a large structure, the driver's door opened, and a hefty man crouched down and carefully exited the vehicle. Soon after, three more doors opened, and three guys came out of the car, closely followed by a lady. Her e/c eyes surveyed her surroundings as she expelled a little puff of air and watched it develop and dissipate, demonstrating how chilly it was outdoors.

The group entered the building and proceeded to a table; the woman sat on a couch a few meters away from the table, setting her weapon down. Her colleagues each pulled out a chair and sat. You gazed at them silently as you picked up the riffle you had placed down as you walked in, taking it into your hands and starting to disassemble it. You were cleaning the scope aimlessly when you were dragged out of your thoughts by someone calling out to you.

" Rusalka." He exclaimed. Rusalka a water spirit or a water fairy. She was frequently linked to the mythological concepts of a nymph or a mermaid. The term "Deadly but Beautiful" was given to you by your superiors. You liked the name Rusalki because she was a deadly dead creature and cursed ghost that resembled a young woman. Your countless enemies would hear your name before being struck down.

timid, helpless, and frail, some would say she was. But even the most beautiful flower may be toxic when needed. Judging a book by its cover would get you killed. You were nothing but skilled, powerful, and lethal.

"Yes, Captain Azhdaya." It signified dragon. He had a bulky physique. His face is studded with minor battle scars, except for the bigger ones. One on his left cheek a few meters from his lips and concluding just shy of his ear, a scar at the bridge of his nose, and a split on his lip. "Your location will be here," he says, pointing to a map as you stand to investigate.

"You will cover the team from this distance." He ended by tugging his finger in a direction. It was an excellent location with lots of trees and tall grass; blending in with an all-white outfit in an unending field of white snow would make it simple to conceal from the adversary and get a vantage point at the same time.

A misty memory

Leshy, the forest's guardian. His honey-brown eyes examined the chart, humming a tune under his breath as he took everything in. At 5"8, he was a few inches shorter than the captain.

Vodyanoy was discussing options that they might take advantage of. The hues of the woodland were reflected in the eyes. They were two colors, yet they were as enthralling as an unending expanse of trees and flowers. He was 3 inches shorter and had less muscular mass than Azhdaya, yet he was still a terrifying opponent to face in a fight.

Chuma and Leshy were the same height. He was a man with few words. But he was always in the mood for black humor jokes, making you both laugh and smile as the captain gazed on in fear. His eyes were clear and wonderfully polished blue proportions. He was a lovely soul, like your brother, even though you threatened to slam your foot up his ass for nearly getting killed.

You made your way to the table while reassembling your riffle. As you read the orders, your pupils narrowed. Objectives Destroy the English task force and safeguard the nuclear weapons in the ware home. Your hand reached for your hat, pulling it down slightly and readjusting it.

" Put on your armor and prepare your weapons. We depart at 0800 and expect to arrive by 1000." Azhdaya spoke up, dismissing you all from the briefing to prepare for the upcoming expedition.

You all walked out of the room and into your individual rooms. There would be no time to waste. Blood would be spilled tonight, and your squad would either win or die at the hands of the enemy.

A haunting face

The trip was uneventful. You all sat in the rear of the armored truck, silently double-checking your coms, gear, and weapons. Your seat was at the rear, and you were staring out the window idly. Watching as the colors of the night and the red glimmer of the tailgate blended together in one fast move before disappearing into the darkness. Only to pick up again.

You'd lost count of time, your attention only on the glittering lights in the night. It was lovely. Azhdaya was checking in with everyone to ensure that everything was in order. The squad represented family to him. The boys were like the sons had never had, and Rusalka, like the youngest, leave her alone, and she was going to destroy the world.

His gaze was drawn to the short figure in the rear, and he made a mental note to ensure she was mentally sound. She was threatening the guys, telling them she'd stick her pistol up their asses if they died on her.

The car came to a complete halt. "Rusalka, we're here." The person next to you spoke, Chuma patted your shoulder and stated. You blink and glance up at him, then nod your head, rise up, and grip the firearm close to your chest.

The expedition had begun; for better or worse, may you all return home.

Is she a lost embrace?

You and your riffle were hiding on a hill. A light coat of snow covered your body from head to toe. If someone looked in your direction, all they'd see is a mound of snow, plants, and trees.

They might see the glimmer of scope if they looked carefully enough.

Do you copy, Rusalka?- As a voice spoke up to you, you heard the communication link come alive. That was your captain - Yes, over. -You talked quietly and quietly so as not to draw attention to yourself.

If you detect any activity, alert us - He said, staring out the window, his figure masked by the night's darkness. The others wait in their respective holdings for any others to either fire or rethink their future movements.

It was completely quiet. You had no idea how much time had passed. More snow blanketed your body like a giant chilly blanket, completely immersing you beneath it. Your hands were numb from the cold, and you had to push yourself to remain motionless as little shivers and trembles brushed your skin.

Am I in love with just a theme?

From the looks of things, tonight was going to be unremarkable. Until you heard it, that is. Your ears picked up on the faint crunching sound. It was too big for a cat, too quiet for a fox, and too tall for a dog. It was a person, but you had to make certain it wasn't a civilian.

You adjusted your riffle slightly and focused your attention on the shadows you saw slipping away in the darkness. When you saw it, they were holding firearms and wearing protective gear. -Humans- were the words that came out of your mouth as you turned on the coms connection.

You observed three towering people headed toward the structure. One taller than the other, he wore a hood, another wore what seemed to be a skull mask, and finally, a man with a Mohawk? You hesitated briefly, resisting the impulse to chuckle quietly. You had to admit it suited him. Oh well, He was still the enemy.

Static came from your coms, and it quickly came back to life to instruct you. -headcount?- he gruffly asked you. - 3, sir.- You hurriedly spoke. - Keep a lookout two missing people. He advised you that there should be 5. You dropped your sight and examined your scope.

You gazed about the area for a while before seeing it. A person towards the front of the building, next to a shrub. - 4 shrubs at the entrance - You spoke as you gazed at the man you would have missed if you hadn't seen his little movement.

Or is Ayesha just a dream?

You were told to shoot as soon as they broke through the door. The instruction was to shoot to injure and, if necessary, to kill.

Something caught your attention. You didn't know what it was, but something was awry on the opposite side of the field. Was it the stillness, the swearing misleading figures appearing in your vision?

You couldn't rely on your vision. The darkness and shadows might generate illusions that will stymie your enthusiasm and your team's life. The door to the building burst open while your attention was elsewhere. It caught you off guard. You looked up immediately to see that they were entering the building.

They entered the building, permission to shoot.- You talked softly but rapidly. As you waited, your finger slowly fell to the trigger. - Granted-, that was all you needed to shoot at the figure as it slowly made its way inside.

You kept an eye out for any opportunities. You pulled the trigger when you saw it. The bullet sliced through the air as it approach its victim. His leg was struck. His blood had stained the snow underneath him.

A mystery

From then on, all hell had broken loose. Ghost talked on the coms after Soap was shot. When he informed his crew that bullets had been fired, their senses went into overdrive. König was ahead of the group, gun lifted, trigger finger on the trigger, ready to fire on the suspicious enemy.

Ghost was on the right, Soap was on the left, and Price was just behind them. Soap was hobbling a little, but the gunshot had not killed him. Ghost unlocked the doors and searched the rooms for any indication or sight of someone. The weapons were reported to be at the far end of the facility, according to the information.

A gunshot struck the side of König's skull, missing him by an inch. As soon as the doors leading to the weapon room opened. He and his men retreated hastily behind the door and the walls, firing back at the culprits.

Both sides were heavily armed. It could be heard over the coms as the sound of gunfire broke out in the air. Making the night more silent, quiet, and foreboding. After a while, everything was silent; neither the wind nor the crickets wanted to make an appearance. Sometimes silence was never a good thing.

Oh, who is she?

You waited with bated breath - Leshy and Chuma were shot - a voice came through. Vodyanoy was there. You exhaled a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. You stood there watching as the man who had entered the building burst out the door.

You watched as the man with the Mohawk was assisted by a man wearing a helmet. The tallest of them all had the arm of the man in a skull mask over his shoulder. Their blood stained the snow with a brilliant scarlet tint.

That's when something occurred to you. - Vodyanoy, tell me where Azhdaya is. Unlike your normal calm and collected manner, you raised your voice. -The captain was shot in the abdomen.- As you received the news, your heart fell, throbbing and hurting. - I've already made the decision. But I require your presence.- You entered the building without hesitation, without caring if it would get you killed or if it was irresponsible.

The mission was successful, but at a high cost: everyone was severely hurt. The cost was cleared when the medical team came. Unfortunately, someone had to remain behind. You offered to remain behind because there wasn't much room in the truck, don't know how but it happened. Your team was against it, but you shot them down. You were the least harmed and would be hiding in one of the nearby hideouts.

Oh, who is she?

You arrived at one of the hideouts, an abandoned structure by a river. Your firearm was never far from your side or in your hands. Even though it was familiar ground, you could never relax your guard.

As you got closer to the building, you noticed a towering person. You'd seen him before. If you recall, he was the colonel on the other side of this combat field. You knew you could play the helpless citizen if you were simply charming to him. You could at the very least eliminate him and his squad.

You took a gamble knowing you were about to collide in this combat field unknown to him but not to you. He was tall, far taller than you would have anticipated. He towered over your commander. You choose to have some fun. You taunted him by messing with his thoughts. You become the night's shadow, the illusion that swirled in his unfocused eyes.

You observed him as he twisted and turned. Look to the right and left, up ahead and below. You chuckled a little, watching him feverishly search for you like a lost puppy. But you were disappointed since your spot had been snatched from you; you heard shouts and froze. The man in the skull mask exited the building beside the colonel. You made the decision to walk away from him. You locked eyes with him as he lifted his firearm and spoke harshly. " Get her."

A misty memory

You rushed out of there on your heels, seeking for a new hiding spot. You rushed through the deep forest, crouching low to avoid hitting a tree. You made the mistake of looking back and confronting death.

He was swiftly catching up with you. You ran and ran, and you appeared to have lost track of time, but one thing bothered you: they were both following after you, but when you looked around, you noticed the one with the skull mask.

You inhaled the frigid air, allowing it to enter your aching, anxious lungs. You proceeded to the abandoned building, taking in as much air as you could and watching for a while to be sure it was clear. You seek refuge in a dark area with access to the entrance and window.

You closed your eyes and lay back against the corner, rifle in hand, succumbing to tiredness and allowing sleep to overtake you. You were too sleepy to notice that your safe way was going to be your undoing.

A haunting face

As Ghost and König stood in front of the building König had seen you walk onto, it was late. Ghost had lost track of you, and the snow had made everything appear so familiar that he couldn't tell right from left. He waited until König returned, informing Ghost that he had discovered where you were hiding.

Now when they were standing in front of the building, Ghost crept inside quietly, not wanting you to flee. You being valuable to them since you know the ins and outs of the building. He creeps closer to the room, discovering you in a corner with a riffle in hand. Your head hung down, hiding your features. He eased you out of the corner.

He straddled your lap and took a knife from his thigh strap, pressing it to your throat. " You know, that's not nice. Everyone told you, you have a sexy waist." You voiced to him, as you looked him up and down, making eye contact, a little grin tugged at your lips.

Ghost's eyes narrow as he looks at you, moving his knife closer to your throat, a line of scarlet slipping from your slashed flesh. "I'm the one who asks the questions here." His tone was harsh and low. Sending shivers down your spine as his icy, almost lifeless eyes glared down at you.

You can feel his breath fan your face as he leans forward. You feel your cheeks get hot and flushed. Were you indeed roused by a masked guy riding your lap? Perhaps nothing is impossible in love and war.

Is she a lost embrace?

You heard a stir from behind you and tilted your head to see a tall man towering over the two of you. The moonlight behind him accentuated his silhouette. Huh? The lost puppy returned in search of his owner, you guessed. König kept staring into you quietly, observing your very move.

"as much as I would enjoy having you in my lap," you said to the masked man, carefully moving your hand, not revealing your plans for the following few seconds. "You've never said your name." You sweetly spoke, but they couldn't see it anyhow. Finally, make contact with your riffle and grip it tightly.

You heard him say, "König." His voice is deep and low, and just hearing it makes your stomach twist and spin. "Ghost," remarked the man next to you. "Rusalka," you say, raising your arm and smacking the riffle's bud into the ghost's face. Making him lose his equilibrium somewhat, providing you exactly the right amount of change.

König charged at you as Ghost was cradling his bloody nose. You couldn't feel his body as much as you wanted to. You turned and hurried out of the room you were in and into another. Will the mouse escape or will the cat devour the mouse?

I call her name

As you approached the front of the building, you could see the light at the end of the corridor. It was probably time to look for a new home, but unfortunately, like the cat that ate the canary, you were apprehended before you could safely fly away. Something heavy smacked your back, forcing the breath from your lungs in a huge gasp.

You're not sure how long you were out, but when you awoke, your wrists were bound behind your back and you were tied to a chair, your legs connected to the leg chair. "Well, aren't Kinky?" you said, glancing up at the two guys looking down at you. They look at you. Ghost approached you, his hands resting on your thighs. You could feel the marks framing the outline of his hands as he squeezed so hard.

"Since you don't want to behave, I'll teach you manners." Ghost spoke, harshly grading your chin. You felt hands on your legs before Ghost shoved it away. König knelt down and unfastened your legs. As König rose up and came to Ghost's side, you maintained eye contact with him.

Know that your thoughts were not going in circles. You noticed that it was cooler than usual. Looking down, you noticed your gear and jacket had vanished. Ghost came up behind you, untying your hands from the chair just to re-tie them. So you're not going to attempt anything.

Across an endless plain

Your face was smashed against the dirt floor in the blink of an eye, and your pants and underwear ripped off your waist as though a wild beast desired something more. Your cunt has been exposed to the stranger, Ghost. "You may scream all you want. It's just three of us here." As you felt something hard push against you, he groaned. "You want me to behave," you exhale, shifting your face to face him. "Make me," you spat in his face, you weren't going down that easy.

His cock pounding pierces your pussy lips and presses deep inside of you. Your eyes roll into your skull, erupting in a whining moan. You wept and pleaded in a high you'd never known, with each thrust driving your face further and harder into the floor, yet he never yielded. Instead, his muscular arms just held you in place until release arrived in the form of his sperm blasting forcefully into your womb. " Should've behaved." He talked as he stood, leaving your ass up on the floor, his cum flowing out of your pussy onto the floor.

In your haze, you noticed boots in front of you and looked up to see König staring down at you; you blinked up at him, blinking away the tears that had gathered in your eyes. From the fuck Ghost had given you. He lowered himself, stroking your cheek and brushing away some stray tears with his thumb. "We might let you go if you give us what we want." You forced your lips together tightly, not making a single sound. Looking him straight in the eyes.

She'll answer me

"She's a lot more stubborn than we thought, König." Ghost declared as he picked you up by your tide hands and watched your legs try to remain erect. Ghost's knife ripped your shirt, tearing it apart in front of their greedy gaze. His left hand touched your face as he raised his mask, tilting it so he could passionately kiss you. You trembled as an enormous chilly hand clutched your chest, his right hand still firmly gripping your roped-tied hands.

Squeezing and licking your nipples like a ravenous starving man. König sucked and bit, leaving a trail of vibrant markings from your chest to your stomach and then to your core. While pounding two of his enormous thick fingers into you, he spreads your lips while kissing and relentlessly sucking your clit.

Your thoughts were racing with pleasure and overstimulation. Your lips were still being taken. You fell undone under them, Ghost's ravenous lips snatched the chances to breathe. König sipped your juices, humming to himself as if it were his sole source of relief for his parched throat. As he drank his fill, you felt the vibration against your pussy, and he drew away, licking his lips and letting his hood fall back down his face. His gaze fixed on your crumbling body.

Ghost, you let go, and you fall to the floor, your legs too weak to support you." It appears that we will have to break her." You didn't know who said it since you were too fucked up to notice or care, "Bite me." Your response was more of a drunken rambling than confidently articulated.

Wherever she may be

You became crushed between Ghost and König, and König pulled his hood up and pushed your chin up for him, tenderly kissing you and caressing your hair. While ghosts' hands raced across your body, searching every inch until nothing remained untouched by his fingers.

You could feel König's cock throbbing and dripping little pearls of cum against your tummy. Your body was drawn up until you were hovering above his quivering, gushing tip. As he split you in two, your arms swiftly curled around his neck, covering your face in his chest.

König drove himself more and deeper inside you, and with each inch, you gasped for breath. "That's a good girl…" He praised you, and you let out a tiny curse in your native tongue, feeling as though his words had kindled a fire within you. Soon after, his base kissed your cunt's lips. He let you relax for a few moments before grabbing your supple hips. It began slowly and steadily until you felt something hard press against your ass.

You totally filled König and Ghost in one fast motion. They began to thrust; being full of könig was one thing. But being filled by them both over and over again had you groaning and moaning like the slut you were for them. Every vein pressed against your walls as they gently stretched you out, shaping you to the shape of their dicks with each deep push. Bouncing you up and down, hitting every deep area that had you seeing stars. Fuck, the entire cosmos.

Oh, who is she?

König was concerned that he would inflict too much harm on you. After all, you were so little compared to him and Ghost. Nevertheless, he was losing control of himself, his eyesight obscured by the need to fill you with his seed. His head and judgment, his cock longing for release. König held you to his chest. Something about the whole event you excited in a deep primal lust, a never-ending hunger.

The only thing your lust-filled thoughts wanted right now was to be taken from behind and in front by two huge beasts like them. The lack of König's cock was already causing your insides to ache for him, and you whined for him. König whispered into your ear as he gripped a fistful of your hair, his hot breath thick on your neck. "mine! your fucking mine." He hissed low and commandingly. how you loved it, squeezing them tighter.

In one seamless stroke, könig sheathed himself into you up to the hilt, one hand on your neck and the other securely gripping your hip. The loud yell that the movement elicited from you was addictive in and of itself. They couldn't get enough of you, making an obscene squelching sound as König and Ghost brutally pounded their big cock as if you'd vanish if they didn't.

They grunted deep animalistic grunts as they pushed into your swelling pussy and ass, and you swallowed them in and contracted around them like there was no tomorrow. Not wanting to give up the mind-bending bliss.

A misty memory

"дa да да да" [yes⁴] You screamed in pleasure, feeling your body tense and quiver every time König's balls made contact with your clit and his head pressed against your womb. " я кончу! чувствую себя так хорошо. заполните меня, пожалуйста." [am gonna cum! feel so good. fill me up, please.] You mumbled in your native tongue, head clouded with pure raw lust.

Their ears were filled with your moans. They totally engulfed themselves in you, with König pushing all of himself past your lips and his head pressing against your cervix. They didn't care about the lew sounds, popping in and out of you. Not with them making you feel so amazing. " I'm-A-AHHHHH!" You could feel his cock's head pushing in and out faster and harder, a couple of thrusts of their hips. With a loud cry that tore itself straight out of your lungs, you spammed and squeezed around them.

You'd never experienced anything like this in your life, and it rocked you to your core. Underneath them, you were a trembling mess. Squeezing around them, feeling you tighten and flutter, was enough to induce them to cum inside you.

His hips were forced against you, and his cock was shoved in as far as it could go. As he poured hot ropes of sperm into your womb, his veins surged and his skull flashed. They were coming inside of you in ropes and ropes, and you were breathing heavily. Their cocks beat rhythmically with your constrictions, their testicles contracting with each spurt of come blasted into your small pussy and tight ass. There was so much of it that it started to pour out of you and onto the floor.

A haunting face

You were in ecstasy. You were warm, full, secure, and safe. You'd just had the most exquisite fuck of your life by the same enemy you were supposed to kill, and they were remaining inside of you as if they'd die pulled out of you. You've never felt more at home than right now, beneath both of them. You turned your head and kissed his cheek, despite his hood covering it.

You awoke in the middle of them, it was still dark, König's hand was wrapped around your waist, while Ghost's hand was wrapped around your thigh. You gradually broke free from their grip. You discovered your gun and jacket. You hand no pants or underwear, much to your dismay. Just a jacket, some equipment, boots, a hat, and socks. You gazed at the two men, your hat partially covering your face, but it wasn't gonna work. Ghost wouldn't mind if you searched through his belongings; after some searching, you discovered what you were seeking.

You discovered his balaclava. It was just like his. Everything was painted on the skull. His eyelashes were virtually white, and it was rather sad that your enjoyment had come to an end while admiring their loveliness. Because of obvious reasons,-Rusalka, why is your line off?- The person on the other end of the telephone chastises you. - ну да xpн, Vodyanoy.- [oh fuck off].

Vodyanoy placed his palm over his heart and added, -The love, am touched. I got you what you asked for.- He chuckled, knowing you had a scowl on your face. He was the one person you could contact and ask him to deliver your clothing with no questions asked.

Is she a lost embrace?

You did take some Vodyanoy and Leshy, as well as Chuma on occasion. They accompanied you when you went shopping for new clothing and even underwear; someone had to carry your luggage, and it wasn't going to be you. Vodyanoy was the only one who knew your exact measurements; it was actually rather amusing. He looked like a lost child the first time he went to the store to assist you pick out new clothes.

You could hear tires crunching on the snow as you walked away from the building. " I finally tracked you down. Get your ass in the car before you freeze. Short bitch." He chastised you like a child caught sneaking a cookie when they weren't meant to. As you move to the rear, you give him the middle finger.

You were finally warmed up again after changing your clothing. "Sooo… What fucked you over?" said Vodyanoy as he drove in silence. He wonders if the cold has finally caused you to lose it and go around nude. "As if you'd know." If only he knew, you retorted cynically. You snicker that he could be having a heart attack.

Somewhere across the sea of time

It was approximately 0700 when you arrived at the base. You could still feel hot ropes trickling down your leg. You were sore. Your entire body felt like it was made of cement, weighing you down. You were about to walk into your room, but life doesn't work that way.

The captain wanted to visit you in order to obtain an incident report. "Rusalka, what has happened to your face?" He inquired. Remembering the vivid moment when Ghost slutted you out on his dick and banged your face into the floor."Nothing, sir," you say as you avoid eye contact, "are your injuries better?" You shifted the topic on which he indulged.

You were surprised to learn that the higher-ups were relocating the nuclear weapons and reassigning the personnel in charge of them. You were disappointed, which meant you wouldn't be seeing them again.

"Rusalka, I was wondering where you found that?" Azhdaya inquired, pointing to his face to indicate what he meant. Oh, you reasoned. Ghost's balaclava, which you stole. "In an abandoned building. I like it," you stated casually while caressing it. It was silky and smelled like tea and dark wood. You were reminded of him, but you wouldn't tell them the truth. A tiny white lie will not harm.

You were curious whether Ghost had worn it before you stole it from him. You miss his touch, and you consider yourself addicted to them.

A love immortal such as mine

Ghost and König awoke at 0800 in the morning. He gazed about, feeling the lack of warm skin underneath him. König sprung to his feet, having awoken from an abrupt shift next to his body. He two saw someone was missing, and you were no longer there.

Everything about you had vanished, even your weapon and ripped clothes. It was almost as if you were a ghost that appeared for one night of pleasure just to vanish into the darkness. They went around the building but couldn't find anything, which is when he discovered it.

There was something in his thigh pocket, where his regular skull balaclava would be. It was a white hat. The hat that you wore when they discovered you sleeping in the corner. He investigated for any other missing items and discovered that his knife had also vanished.

As König and Ghost stood there grabbing and repairing their equipment, Ghost stated, " Clever girl." His dark eyes narrowed as he glanced at the hat he clutched in his fingers. If he gets his hands on you again, he'll tie you up and imprison you in his house like an animal.

Will come to me

Soon after, König and Ghost were picked up and joined the others. Price enquired as to why they had split up, but Ghost disregarded the question by adding, "We were surveying that area when a storm caught us." He side-eyed könig who nodded in agreement.

When they landed in England, the Price informed them that their plans had been altered by higher-ups. Laswell informed them that the weapons had been relocated to an unidentified location. And that, for the time being, they would do other things until they figured out where.

König's shoulders fell, and Ghost remained cool on the outside, but he was in turmoil on the inside. It suggested that there was a little chance they'd stumble across you on the battlefield. König hoped to see you again, to feel your delicate skin, and to hear your whimper as you unraveled. He urgently needed you, your cunt, all of you.

Ghost was disappointed because he hadn't completed educating you who was in control. And that you were nothing more than his to break and train as he saw fit.

Eternally

You'd met the two men a month ago. To say you missed them would be an understatement; you were ravenous for them to break you, make you their slave for their cock, to give you pleasure. But you'd never say it to their faces. You enjoyed the sight in their eyes when they believed they could control you, and you liked being controlled by them. win-win.

You submitted to training, gaining new skills and experiences. You even earned your nursing license. You had a good time mocking Chuma for getting into problems due to Leshy and Vodyanoy. He was like the group's older brother… getting hurt for the stupid things his younger siblings did.

Azhdaya summoned you to his office. You were aware of the situation. You submitted your application for a move in two years. You adored your team, but you felt it was time to go out to new waters.

"Are you sure?" Azhdaya asks, setting the papers down and staring at you. looking for any signs of unpleasant emotion on your face. "Yes, Sir." You formed a little smile on your face and nodded. " Alright. " He sighed and continued to talk to you.

Immortal she

It had taken two years, but the day had finally come. Tomorrow was your departure day from Russia for your new home base. The crew surprised you with a farewell party. Providing you with goodies that you may not find in your new home.

Leshy and Vodyanoy were sobbing uncontrollably. Leshy shakes you back and forth, imploring you, or rather pleading with you, to stay with him. Vodyanoy clutched your leg as if he were a kid, imploring you not to leave him alone with Leshy, and explaining that Leshy was this and that. You stroked his hair. You could have been the one who lost a screw, but Leshy was missing the box and the lock that held it in place.

You ate and drank as if there was no tomorrow. They dropped you off at the airport the following day. giving you a hugs and best wishes. - The flight from Moscow, Russia, to London, England, is about to board.- The announcement was made over the speakers.

König tapped his foot nervously. Ghost stared at him as he waited in line with his other 141 task members, giving him a supportive nod. They didn't know anything about the newcomer. They were meeting them for the first time today.

A vehicle was spotted approaching the base and slowing down before completely halting. The door opens, and a figure walks out, their h/c hair gently swinging in the breeze that blows past the base. They exchanged handshakes with Price.

When könig and Ghost turned around, they could only gaze as your s/c skin sparkled in the sunshine. The way your h/c hair complemented and framed your face, making you appear ethereal. Most importantly, the sunbeams in your eyes, causing them to glitter like a Dimond on exhibit for its beauty.

Return to me

"прывітaнне, я Русалка. It's a pleasure to meet you, " [Hello, my name is Rusalka.] You spoke quietly, offering your hand, never breaking eye contact with Ghost and König as you smiled at them. They knew, and you knew it wasn’t your first encounter with them.

To be continued......Maybe, if people like it.

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valdaycare-au · 7 months

Note

How come exactly all of them got hired or found the job? (Like for example how did Sasha, who is literally from the russian tundra, found a babysitter job to be fitting, and how did all of them got to be in the exact same workplace???)

Heya! Iris here, in charge of most of the writing (the post text and even some of the in-character responses for the ask submissions) and lore alongside Domi who was in charge of the beautiful, crispy, amazing art you guys are being served with our blog! Now yes, there is lore, there is a story to be told about all of these and we actually planned to do a weekly post about the backstory of how the daycare came to be and how all of the sitters ended up in Little Wonders but both Domi and I are college students and alongside with the submissions, we got dumped so none of the lore tidbits we initially planned are done.

I do, however, have written very juicy notes about that so we'll give you a little preview of the sitter's backstories.

Please take note that this is written within the convenience that all of the agents are living in the same country (or in this case, are immigrants and/or have been born in said undisclosed country) and that the tale of their residence in that country isn't within the scope of this AU. After all, it is quite realistic for other ethnicities to move in and live in other countries for their own reasons.

So, let's begin! (I apologize in advance for the poor verb tenses [i made sure to beta read it, of course] and the google translated spanish. I should really get a hold of my past duolingo lessons 😔)

Sage - Ling Ying Wei

So she is the one that started it all. Little Wonders was quite the old daycare center and as an immigrant in a foreign country, it was quite hard to land a job because of racism and other horrible human things that weren't really inherently helpful. She landed the job at Little Wonders who was owned by an unknown individual who wanted to build a daycare. But the economical inflation caused prices to skyrocket, and the expenses in the daycare had grown demanding—Ying Wei ended up being alone after the owner and everyone else left due to the lack of budget and the loss of their clients because it has gotten unaffordable. (In short, you know those games like Lily's Garden? Yeah, she's Lily and the daycare is her garden.) Ying Wei felt lost, so she decided to vent it out to a friend and this friend decided to help out.

Skye - Kirra Foster

Kirra was the friend to the rescue. Having met in a forum online years (if not decades) ago, Ying Wei and Kirra are tight-knit and are like two peas in a pod that were separated from each other and had been joined again. She is, to put it simply, one of those dedicated online friends that you have. (Except that she actually managed to meet Ying Wei a couple of times and unlike most of us.)

In any case, Kirra heard that Ying Wei was suffering and told her everything. She flew to the country to console her, talk, and eventually offered to help her restore the daycare in its former glory for the reason that it held a special place in her friend's heart. She thought that it was quite absurd—why would Ying Wei, a normal employee, be left with this bankrupt daycare when it's supposed to be the owner's responsibility to rebuild it again? But nonetheless, she stayed and told Ying Wei that she'll only stick around once the repairs and the recuperation is done but like her internet bestie, she grew fond and excited for the daycare's great comeback.

We'll get through this, Ying Wei, you and I. You're the bloody rightful owner of this daycare, 'n we'll make it prosper again, yeah? [redacted] isn't going to get a single penny from when you finally make this work, hear me?

Kirra, I legally do not own the daycare nor do I hold the title. They're still going to get a cent.

Eh, fuck that! I'm telling ya, Ying, if they do come back, we're going to demand full ownership of this place, yeah? Cheer up, mate.

Sova - Sasha Novikov

He was a man destined for greatness—until some tragedy happened that had completely scraped his dream and his career down the drain. Immigrating to a different country, Sasha worked as a salaryman with a discouraged outlook in life. Despite being discouraged, he worked hard and diligently and earned promotions and raises to accompany his loyalty and services. But sometimes life grows bleaker and Sasha thought that his journey as a salaryman was now coming to a close. He decided that he wanted to do something meaningful and thought of jobs that would make him feel fulfilled—finding the hiring poster for Little Wonders flying right to his face (literally). He thought he wouldn't be accepted considering his experiences as a sitter was lacking, but he did. He immediately proved himself to Ying Wei and Kirra and became a formidable member of Little Wonders.

Wh-what the—? A hiring poster for a daycare?

Chamber - Vincent Fabron

Being a Frenchman born in a life of nobility and privilege; Vincent found himself enjoying life in another country after moving in with his parents after graduating with latin honors in Mechanical Engineering in France. It's not like his parents told him to get a job anyway and there's a vast new world to explore; so explore he did. Unfortunately, Vincent got carried away and ended up spending more and more until he was reprimanded by parents who didn't exactly care but felt like they should hold him off anyway.

He was forced to get a job. And getting a job wasn't exactly easy even with connections. If it were in France, he would've landed a job easy but this is a different country. He was forced to grovel. 5 months had passed, and he still wasn't able to find a job. In a moment of desperation, he found the job listing as a babysitter and for some miraculous reason, he was accepted. Maybe it was his strong demeanor, maybe it's his suave and silver tongue, but Vincent who only knew how to take care of dogs ended up as pretty problematic babysitter who tolerates children more than caring for them. Due to the lack of manpower, Ying Wei couldn't bring herself to fire him. He did and still does try to do his job properly and has resorted into doing administrative work more than actual babysitting for the daycare. (But with the presence of new competition, he finds himself working with the kids once more as he now sees his job being compromised.)

Madame Ling, I finally caught them like you requested.

VINCENT WHY ARE YOU HOLDING THOSE KIDS BY THEIR SHIRTS?! ARE YOU INSANE?!

Gekko - Mateo Armendáriz de la Fuente

Wanting to create money for himself and get a working experience from all those seminars his mother (practically) forced him to attend, young and bright Mateo applied for the job recently as a part-timer for the daycare under the recommendation of his family friend and considered aunt, Zyanya Mondragon (who has connections with Miss Ling but that will be elaborated in the future, hopefully?)

As a bubbly and cheerful young man with hopes and dreams (which the other sitters envy), he drew the attention of the children with extreme ease and was regarded as the rising rookie within the staff as he easily befriended the children and played with them. While Vincent saw and has since labelled the college student as a threat (just a little bitter), Sasha and Ying Wei found him as a great addition to the team and had considered hiring him as a full-time babysitter once he graduated college. Mateo is currently majoring in Architecture.

Tienes esto, pequeño. You underwent training, you even got a certification for babysitting specifically. You said you want to earn a little more money so you don't burden your mother, don't you?

L-lo sé, lo sé... I'm just worried that the kids I'll take care of won't like me... you know. They're kinda brutal, mi reina.

Ay, you're a nice kid, Mateo. Cree más en ti mismo, ¿por favor? You're going to do just fine.

Okay, okay, okay.

____________________________

In any case, these can still change overtime until it can be finalized. In the meantime, we both just want to have fun for now and enjoy writing how the sitters react to people wanting to date them. Would there be a dating sim revolving the mommies and daddies—I mean, the sitters in the future? No. JK. Unless? 🤨

We're glad that you're also having fun with this silly little AU that we have! (Hopefully you guys stick around us because we seriously have so much in store. We haven't even introduced the parents yet, but make your guesses!!) All the best and thank you so much for 100 followers here on Tumblr!!

We also created a Twitter/X Account too, yes this is an actual link and not a sentence I wanted to underline for emphasis (because we both thought that Domi might want to separate some non-AU art from her account, but we both love the reach it gives her). Please give us a follow! We love you!

-Iris and Domi

#daycareval #daycareval-ask #daycareval-lore #daycareval-comic #daycareval-story #daycareval-sage #daycareval-skye #daycareval-sova #daycareval-chamber #daycareval-gekko #valorant #valorant sage #valorant skye #valorant sova #valorant chamber #valorant gekko #valorant fanart #valorant au #daycare au

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fanfickitchenette · 2 years

Text

Friend of the Empress, Chapter Three

Orlo x Reader; Chapter Three-Rolling Balls and Finding Allies

Previous Chapter

You wake and consider the night before and what the future will be like in your friend's court once you are gone. Also, your translation skills need some serious work because what even?. You start to see the way of things and decide to stack the deck in Catherine's favor.

Note: if the word is underlined then that means you're hearing the word in Russian (which is not your native language) and you're not sure what it translates to. It just happens to be written in English here.

*no warnings I can think of for this chapter* BUT

TAGS for the story as a whole–eventual smut; talk of death, murder, SA (none in the story, just discussion); canon-typical violence; strangers-friends-lovers; angst; lots of platonic love; slow-burn

Word Count 3.6k

Chapter Three: Rolling Balls and Finding Allies

You wake up to the curtains being opened in your room and a quiet voice calling your name. Dilara is standing at the side of your bed, watching, as you blurrily scrunch open your eyes. The bed is luxurious, and it is tempting to simply roll over and resume your sleep. But you remind yourself that this will be your first day, and Catherine’s, in the emperor’s court. You stretch slightly before sitting up and greeting your maid with a smile. Other than a bob of her head she is silent.

For a moment the two of you simply regard one another—or, rather, you regard her, and she regards the linen on your bed. “Good morning, Dilara. I trust you slept well?”

“Good morning and yes, my lady. My sleep was fine. How would you like to start your day? I can have breakfast brought in for you or I could help you dress first. Whatever you’d prefer.” She makes her way to one of the wardrobes and opens the door to it, taking quick, small steps around the length of the bed. You lean slightly back on your hands and watch her. Catherine’s lady’s maid at home, Barbara, would shake you awake if you slept in. You became very accustomed to her sharp gray eyes glaring down at you while she would reprimand you for sleeping past midmorning. And her efficiency extended to Catherine as well—the older woman herding your blonde friend away from the salon where she’d read for hours on end before Lady Joanna could come to reprimand her daughter for willfully flittering her days away. Neither you nor she were ever late to a tutoring session or dinner event under Barbara’s watchful eyes.

You suppose, pushing the sheets away from your legs to swing your feet to the floor, that Dilara must be new to her post. Barbara was older than you and Catherine both, a woman in her thirties when you were a child. Maybe Dilara was not simply used to being a lady’s maid yet. She seems to be barely twenty by a day, if that even. You decide that you will wait and see if she becomes more comfortable with you before you push her on it. Her silent attitude may just be a Russian custom for lady’s maids that is not familiar to you.

“I’ll be fine to dress myself, Dilara. You could grab food and bring it to the room. Have you eaten yet?” She startles at this, and you can understand why. She isn’t used to the idea of spending time with you, instead rather waiting as the wallpaper waits for paintings to be hung upon it. Barbara, on slow days or early mornings, would break the fast with you and Catherine. It was something you enjoyed as it left the room feeling relaxed and you were able to go over the plans for the day at some ease. Lady Joanna frowned on it if it happened too often, but you are not Lady Joanna.

Taking a few steps from your bed to look out the window, you can see that there are plenty of servants flocking across the courtyard and grounds, military men standing and chatting by various pillars. The sun looks as if it has just stopped touching the horizon. With such movement at an early hour, you doubt Dilara would have had much time to eat before joining you. You glance back at her, standing on the opposite side of the bed as you, once again she just watches with wide eyes and thinned lips. “Have you eaten, Dilara?”

“Bread and water when I woke.” You nod in response, keeping your gazes fixed. This might be the first time she has not looked away immediately.

“And when did you wake? With the sun or before?” She hesitates to answer, shifting slightly.

“I believe,” Dilara answers, eyes still holding yours, “I woke about an hour or so before dawn. The candles burned down almost two notches by the time we blew them out with the rising sun. I help in the kitchens in the morning and stack items on the lawn for the afternoon court entertainment. Does this please you my lady? Did I not come to wake you soon enough?”

You shake your head in denial, wondering about the entertainment but putting a pin in it for now, “No, this time if perfectly fine. I enjoy sleeping in. I’d like you to bring a selection of food up with cutlery for two, if you would. I will dress in your absence.” You are glad she inadvertently mentioned that you might be spending time outside. You should be able to pick an outfit for sitting on the lawn. Maybe you will pack a book in a small handbag to carry with you as the ‘entertainment’ is unspecified.

Dilara dips you a curtsy but seems unwilling to go, “Are you expecting company, my lady? Should I ready the receiving room before I go?” So, you must be specific. You wonder if no Russian woman eats with her lady’s maid. It’s not as if you are going to the stables to eat with the serving men. Dilara will be your confidant by situation, and you intend to treat her as such.

“No, the second set will be for your use. I’m hoping to discuss the plans for the day and any upcoming events I should know about. I’d much prefer to do that while sharing a meal if we aren’t rushed for time. And could you possibly bring a selection of jams along? I’ve heard good things from my late uncle about some of the choices that Peter the Great had in his court for food and I’ve wondered if this emperor has kept up the same in his kitchen.” Again, she curtsies but says nothing else and swiftly departs. She looks over her shoulder twice, as though anticipating something that you can’t put a name to.

You attempt to shrug off her behavior and move to the wardrobe that Dilara opened. As you riffle through the dresses you brought (you only have enough to fill one wardrobe, not even touching the second) your mind drifts to your friend and the letter-writer in turn. You didn’t request to eat with Catherine as you imagine she and Peter will both need a lie in. Your mother was mostly tight-lipped on the subject, more of a realist who refused to sugarcoat her beliefs when she did speak, but she did tell you that there’s a period of time where recently married couples stay in their rooms more, sleep in later in the mornings and retire earlier at night. You’ve since put together that means vigorous rounds of sex in the beginning of a marriage. You do wonder at why it stops, if it’s as wonderful as some poets and Lady Joanna make it out to be.

You also wonder when you’ll be able to get Catherine alone and ask her about it. Maybe the two of you could have lunch together, privately, and discuss how it was. Was it earth shattering, was it all fumbling and awkward but turned passionate and all-consuming? Either way, you try to ignore that part of you that wonders if it was awful. If Peter’s disinterest in your friend would transfer to coolness in the bedroom.

You start to undress from your nightclothes, letting them pool at your feet as you pull the strings between your breasts that hold it tight. You’ve picked out your dress and shift for the day, a cool slate grey color that you’ll pair with a corset decorated with patterns of climbing ivy. The cut of the dress and bustle is elegant enough but shouldn’t be too garish for an afternoon on the lawn. You walk, barefooted, to the living room where the mirrored desk sits. As you work on managing your hair into the style you want it, which can be a long process depending on the day and need, your thoughts turn to the man who plagued your thoughts into sleep the night before.

You wish you knew more about him, even a name would be helpful. You could have asked Lady Georgina or Lady Elizabeth last night, but something warned you not to. Information is power, you do know that, and if people knew you were asking about him they might be able to turn it against you. You have no idea how, it’s simply a question, but you do not want more attention on yourself while Catherine settles in as empress. You will only have so much time with her, and you will not squander it by allowing petty snakes to inject venom into the situation. Lady Joanna would have you believe she is a lady of her own unique grace, and she is in a way, but you know quite a few nobles who act just as carefully catty as she can. May God forgive you for thinking so of your friend’s mother.

But the letter-writer seemed to be different than the people who stood around him last night. You’re not sure exactly what it was, but there was something you found in his countenance to be more welcoming than most. If somewhat awkward, as well. If he truly is the one who wrote Catherine’s letter then maybe he can be of use and solace to your friend when you are to depart. You hope you are wrong, that it’s just your nerves, but you believe that she will desperately need people to lean on here. Maybe you can ask Dilara about the emperor’s advisors, if she knows anything about them. But how to phrase the question?

Your hair doesn’t need much work to cooperate today, and you are putting the finishing touches on it when Dilara returns. In her hands is a handsomely filled tray, heaping with fruits, breads, and meats. You notice that on the two plates stacked on the side, are little pots of what you hope are jam. She sits the tray on the larger table between your two lounges. You go over and sit. For a moment she watches, not sitting to join you, before you gesture for her to sit across from you. Dilara does so, slowly. She places a plate, a cup, and utensils in front of you. A pause. Then she does the same for herself. You nod in satisfaction and pour yourself tea.

“So,” you snag some sausage for your plate, Dilara following your lead, “What do we have on the social calendar for this week?” Your maid, carefully adding some golden-orange jam to a biscuit, replies.

“Well, I believe that the emperor has a party planned in two days’ time.”

Dilara informs you of the party, of rolling balls on the lawn that the ladies do most afternoons (you wonder what the objective is, it surely can’t just be rolling them on the lawn), and she tells you what she knows about the company the emperor keeps. You should never have doubted how much she would know. Your father used to have servants listen into his business partner’s conversations when he left the room. He’d say that it wasn’t his fault that so many noblemen saw them as accoutrements and not humans with awareness. That theirs was the folly that brought him leads and investments that he would’ve never had otherwise. You suppose that there’s some moral greyness there but, listening to Dilara speak, you know he’s right.

Lady Elizabeth, whom you met last night, is the emperor’s aunt through the former empress. She has her hands on many people’s pulses, very aware and active in the goings on of the court. Apparently she treats her servants well, (when Dilara tells you this, the word she uses to donate herself and the other workers doesn’t sound like the one you were reading in the translation books. You wonder if it’s a local term for servant and the like. The way Dilara rushes through that point makes you not want to question her on it, so you decide to talk with Catherine about it later.) and is generally well-liked among the people in the palace. She’s also known to be a bit odd—not that Dilara calls the lady odd, but you hear the implication. You’re relieved to learn this about her, that she may be a person that Catherine might be able to go to.

Lord Grigor is a childhood friend of the emperor and remains his closest friend to this day. Apparently, you can expect to see him if you see the emperor and vice versa. Dilara mentions that Lady Georgina is also close to the emperor and you feel relief again. If the emperor counts a woman as a close friend then all may not be lost between him and Catherine. Dilara tells you of Velementov, a heavy drinker but he sends money from his pocket to families of fallen soldiers when he can, and of Archbishop Samsa who climbed the clergy ranks quickly. That he didn’t receive his calling from God until a later age, but that Dilara seems to like him more than some of the other noblemen.

You try not to rush her, and she finally gets to who you’ve been waiting to hear about. “And, of course, there’s Count Orlo. He’s from somewhere in the south, apologies as I’m not sure where exactly,” she takes the final sip of her tea, relaxed back into the lounge as you are, “But he’s been here about a decade. He served the former emperor, Peter the Great. Everyone used to talk about how clever he was, but it doesn’t seem like our current emperor likes him much. I remember, right before the old emperor died, he shouted something fierce at Emperor Peter for hitting the Count during a meeting. But I shouldn’t have mentioned that,” Dilara is immediately on guard, “Please, don’t take that anywhere, my lady. I’m sure Emperor Peter had his reasons for it, and they didn’t realize I was in the room. It’s not something I should be talking about.”

Beyond the name of some ladies, she doesn’t speak much more about the court after that. It’s disappointing that she won’t speak more on Count Orlo, she’d gone on more about most of the others, but at least now you have a name and a little something about him beyond his writing abilities. Dilara asks if you’d like to go out onto the lawn now. You didn’t realize how long the two of you have talked but the sun, not quite at the highest position in the sky, has certainly risen a bit. You follow her out onto the lawn, after grabbing Tom Jones and a small bag in which to carry it. You appear to be early, and you settle at a table under the canopy to wait and take a moment to examine the grounds. They’re certainly lovely, rows of trees in an orchard across the field in front of you, a forest beyond the carefully cultivated hedges around the palace grounds. The green of everything is vibrant and the Russian summer seems to be a refreshing heat rather than an overwhelming burn.

You’re just considering pulling out your book when the sound of women laughing reaches your ears. The servants around you start pulling balls out of crates and drinks start getting poured before the ladies even arrive. Even though it seems like you won’t be getting a private lunch with Catherine today, you are excited to see your friend at the front of the flock of women as they approach. On her right side, holding her arm and smiling while another noblewoman speaks is Lady Georgina. You nod to yourself, hoping that Catherine has been cared for in your absence. Now it’s your turn to meet the ladies of court.

Catherine sees you and her face lights up from within. You walk out to meet her. The two of you hug, Catherine having extracted herself from Lady Georgina’s hold at your approach. You smile at the other ladies, giving a barely there curtsy—in greeting, not in deference—and a specifically broad grin to Lady Georgina. You hope she can tell how grateful you are for her accompanying Catherine. “Good afternoon, ladies. I apologize for not greeting you all sooner. But now that that error is rectified, I hear we will be rolling balls?”

A woman you don’t know, wearing a rose taupe dress, furred shrug and a wig that is sitting more like a hat than a wig, gives you a broad smile and laugh, “We will have to show you how it’s done, Miss…I’m sorry I did not catch your name?”

You notice Catherine look at her sharply but push aside your friend’s reaction to keep the peace, “Lady Y/n L/n. May I ask for yours and for the name of the person who made you that wonderful dress?” Clearly the right thing to say, the woman’s tan skin flushes and the other watching ladies join in cooing over the woman’s fashion. Lady Svenska takes your arm to show you the balls while Lady Georgina reclaims Catherine’s arm. You note Marial walking over to stand near Dilara and attempt to engage your maid in conversation. You also notices that Marial is the only servant trying to chat. You wonder why, as it must be mind numbing to work and not chat in order to pass the time.

Rolling balls on the line is….rolling balls on the lawn. It’s horribly mind numbing but worse is the murmur Catherine gives you in a passing moment, “They cannot read and do not seem to want to,” before a thin, bird-like woman starts telling a tale of a hat she imagined up. You have been there too long, far too long with Lady Svenska fishing for compliments and then dolling out water downed versions in kind where the two of you sit on a small couch, before Marial says something as the balls are fetched, once again.

“Empress, you seem tired. Might I escort you to your apartments?” Catherine is quick on to take up the offer and you move to join her when Lady Svenska lays her hand on your arm, rising in your stead.

“Marial, you speak out of turn. You must wait for the empress or one of the ladies of court to address you. You cannot just speak.” Lady Svenska glances at you, “You are lucky to receive a serf I already trained. I know not how Marial was assigned to the Empress.” You glance at Dilara, her eyes firmly stuck to the ground as that word pops up again. What follows is a quick exchange between Lady Svenska and Marial. The servant is bitingly funny, and you find yourself biting your lip to keep from huffing out a laugh. It wouldn’t do to upset the court during your second day there.

Catherine and Marial manage to leave nearly an hour before you do. Lady Georgina joining into a conversation with Lady Svenska that you cannot pull yourself from with any kind of tact. Dinner is an impending thing, and you wonder if you will be able to dine with your friend or if fate will keep you apart all day. By the time you tell Dilara you would like to go back to your rooms, your good feelings toward Lady Georgina have all but evaporated. She does not seem as casually cruel as the lady hanging onto your arm but the intelligence in her eyes worries you more. You now doubt that she would truly be someone to stand on Catherine’s side.

You follow as Dilara leads you back to your rooms. Once you sit down inside the receiving room, you have decided what your next course of action must be. As much as you miss your friend, only a day into your stay, there are more important actions to be taken. “Dilara, could you send a message to someone for me? To ask if they would join me for a chat after dinner?”

Your maid, any relaxation around you earlier fully gone, nods and keeps her eyes down as she responds, “Of course, Lady Y/n. I can send a guard or go myself if you would prefer. I would sup in the kitchens if you would not mind.” You need to understand what a serf is but wish to not make her more wary of you. You will not ask her.

“That would be fine. I will write a message to be taken with a guard, you need not do it. After you’ve brought up dinner then you may take your time in the kitchens. After that, please bring some snacks I can offer my guest. Something for us to drink, as well. The night is yours after that.” You walk into your bedroom, parchment and inkwell sitting on the shelves along with your books.

“Very good. Can I ask who your guest will be, my lady? So, I might find a good drink to bring up?” It’s information. Information that can be shared or sold but you doubt anything in these halls would stay secret long. And there’s nothing nefarious or improper about your request.

“I’d like formally meet Count Orlo, if he has the time.”

#catherine the great #the great hulu #the great imagine #the great fanfiction #fanfic #count orlo x reader #orlo x reader #orlo is on the ace spectrum for sure #slow burn #friends to lovers

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scuttling · 3 years

Text

Interview

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina OFC Sophie Cortes Word Count: 1,729 Tags: SFW, Pre-relationship, First meetings Summary: Aaron finally gets the greenlight to hire a new agent. Collection: Sophie Cortes timeline, 0-6 Months at the BAU (See Masterlist for reading order) A/N: Sophie and Reid are partners, because I love them! Link to AO3 or read below!

It takes two months for Hotch to convince Section Chief Strauss to open a requisition for a new member in the BAU. There was a lot of paperwork to be filled out, including detailed explanations as to why he felt the team needed another profiler. He thought it was obvious: for all they do work together as a cohesive unit, Morgan and Elle were technically partners, and when she left, Prentiss took her place. Reid doesn’t have a partner, which makes him feel like a third wheel, sometimes.

(He won’t admit to it, but Hotch notices things. It’s kind of his job.)

Needless to say, the position becomes available, but it takes another couple of months—and several interviews—for Hotch to find the right person to fill it.

Agent Cortes comes highly recommended by the Intelligence Section’s unit chief, someone he worked on a case with in his early days at the BAU; she is young, just 29, but she is more than qualified, and the referring agent is someone whose opinion he respects, so he’s hopeful.

Gideon sits in on the interview because he respects his opinion, too, although Hotch will make the final decision.

Cortes is Latina, petite and polite, with a firm handshake, a warm smile, and dark, striking eyes. Gideon looks at her with somewhat passive interest (something only Gideon can pull off) as they go over the highlights of her resume.

“You have bachelor's degrees in Psychology and Sociology, and master’s degrees in Behavioral Science and Criminology, all from the University of Chicago. How did you manage all of that, at your age?” Hotch asks, wondering if maybe she is gifted like Reid.

“A lot of hard work,” she replies, and it’s an answer he likes. “I graduated high school, enrolled in a dual major program and completed the bachelors’ at 22. Then I was hired onto the Chicago Police Department, and I worked there and got my Criminology degree at the same time. The Behavioral Science degree came after; I began it in person, and they let me finish online when I moved here to join the FBI.”

“What interested you about behavioral science?”

“I grew up in a city that was rich with diversity, but I still noticed that certain people were susceptible to falling into certain patterns, and became curious about why we as people do the things we do. I was already interested in criminal justice, so it seemed a natural path to take.” He nods, jots down a couple of notes before looking back up.

“Tell us about your time with the Chicago Police Department.”

“I went through training while finishing my Criminology degree, worked a beat for about six months before being assigned to the Intelligence Unit; my sergeant found value in the way I was able to get people talking, and a large part of my work was with criminal informants. I worked in Intelligence for three and a half years, and for the last two I was on the Tactical Response Team as well.”

“Tactical Response—that’s SWAT?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you end up in SWAT?” Gideon asks, speaking up for the first time; she looks over at him for the first time, as well. “I mean no offense, you’re clearly more than capable, you’re just… small.” She gives him a brief smile.

“Well, there was a hostage situation, the team leader determined that we could get a vantage point from an air duct... and I was the only one who fit.”

“You don’t seem resentful of that,” Hotch notices, a bit surprised. It’s not an origin sorry everyone would be proud of. Her eyes turn back to him.

“I find it’s more important what you do with your time somewhere than how you got there. I contributed to many successful responses over the course of two years that had nothing to do with my size.” It is a great answer, and he holds back a smile of his own, simply nods.

“So you left Chicago to join the bureau; did you have your sights set on any department in particular?”

“I was torn between Language Analysis and Intelligence and ended up somewhere in the middle.”

“Intelligence because of your background, why Language Analysis?” Gideon asks.

“I speak 6: English, Spanish, and Italian as my native languages, plus Russian, French, and German. I have an ear for them.”

“Impressive,” Gideon says, nodding, lips pressed together. Cortes smiles, modest.

“It’s helpful; more than 30% of the population of Chicago speaks a language other than English at home.” Hotch does crack a smile at that, because the statistic reminds him of Reid.

“How would you describe your current role with Intelligence?”

“The official title is Intelligence Liaison. I’m part of a team that travels domestically and internationally, to law enforcement or government agencies, to debrief them on threats we’ve identified, or potential threat activity, and to help them formulate offensive countermeasures.” There is a lot of experience there that would translate well to the BAU, that much is clear. If anything, she may be overqualified, but they would never turn down the help.

“What’s the most frustrating part of your job?” It’s a question he always throws in, because true frustrations—and how one handles them—can say a lot about a person.

“When they don’t listen and people die. I do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen often.” He looks up from the form to the woman, who, in that moment, shows the things she’s seen all over her face. They’re gone from one blink to the next, and he breaks eye contact to choose his next question. No follow up needed there.

“It sounds like you have experience interacting with law enforcement, which is important here at the BAU. We can’t work on a case unless we are invited by the agency with jurisdiction, so maintaining healthy relationships is vital. We have a communications liaison who deals directly with police departments, sheriff’s stations, FBI field offices, and the media, but knowing how to handle them is a big part of the job.” It’s not a question as much as a confirmation, and she nods.

“I’m confident in my ability to interact with other law enforcement in a direct but respectful way. It’s something I’ve done a lot of as Intelligence Liaison.” He has one final question, and though he’s already more than pleased with the interview, the answer will make or break his decision.

“Why the BAU?”

“Curiosity is what got me interested in behavioral science, but it’s empathy that makes me interested in the BAU. My current work helps to save lives, but it’s all very large scale, and it can be detached, cold. I can be detached and impartial when I need to be, but I can’t deny it would feel like a better use of my skill set to make a more tangible difference.” He agrees, can already tell that she would thrive in the environment of their unit, and it’s just the kind of answer he’s looking for; he takes a few more notes, glances over at Gideon for input.

“Anything else you’d like to ask?”

“I think we’ve covered it,” he says, and he stands abruptly, which makes Agent Cortes stand as well. Hotch follows suit. “Nice to meet you. He’ll be in touch,” Gideon adds, shaking her hand briefly and leaving the room. She is left looking a little lost, and Hotch steps around the desk.

“I apologize for him, he’s a little…”

“Capricious?” she offers with a smile, and he laughs lightly.

“That’s accurate, actually. Please don’t take it personally.”

“I won’t. I’ve heard a lot about him, so he kind of lives up to my expectations.” She tilts her head, looking curious. “You don’t, though. Unit Chief Roberts told me you would be stoic; I expected someone much more aloof, but you’re actually rather warm.” He is a bit surprised by her directness, even more so that she would find him... warm.

“I doubt that my colleagues would agree with your assessment,” he says, thinking of the number of less than kind words used to describe him in the past. She just smiles again.

“I guess you really do need me on your team, then.”

He finds it hard not to agree.

“There are a few more things we’ll need from you, such as a psychological evaluation, recent performance reviews, a physical. I’ll be in touch with Agent Roberts, and then you, if we determine you are the right fit. I’ll see you out,” he adds, gesturing to the door, and she follows. The team, who was not yet in the bullpen when she arrived, looks on, curious, as they head to the glass double doors.

“Thank you for the opportunity to interview. I hope to hear from you soon,” she says with another firm handshake, and he nods.

“We’ll be in touch. It’s a pleasure to have made your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, Agent Hotchner.” She gets onto the elevator, and he heads back to the bullpen, stops specifically at Reid’s desk, though everyone is nearby.

“Congratulations, Reid: you’ve officially got a partner.” Reid smiles, looking pleased.

“Who is she?”

“Special Agent Sophia Cortes. She currently works for Intelligence. Bachelors’ in Psychology and Sociology, Masters’ in Criminology and Behavioral Sciences. Fluent in six languages. Got her start at Chicago PD like you, Morgan—Intelligence there too. And SWAT.”

“SWAT?” Morgan echoes, impressed. “She’s gotta be 5’2” out of those heels.”

“She’s got glowing reviews from her superiors there, and from her unit chief: he called her resilient, determined, empathetic, a team player. She’s good at communicating with law enforcement, victims, even unsubs. The BAU is the right place for her. We’ll just be waiting on paperwork to make it official.” He crosses his arms, leans back against the filing cabinet. “I’d have introduced you, but she doesn’t know she’s being offered the job just yet.”

“She must have made quite an impression on you for you to decide on the spot,” Prentiss says, and he nods his head in agreement.

“I think she’ll fit in well. I saw a little bit of each of you in her, and she’s very…” He tries to think of one word to sum up the woman he just interviewed, and decides with a half-smile: “warm.”

#aaron hotchner x original female character #hotch x original female character #latina original female character #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader

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gellavonhamster · 4 years

Text

random dracula reread notes

god this book is even better than I remembered

I mean, obviously it has some of the usual nastiness one would expect from a 19th century novel written by a white man, but on the whole... what a good book

like, it’s the Power of Friendship™. All the main protagonists genuinely love each other and hold hands all the time and let each other cry on their shoulder and kiss and make sure their friends get enough sleep. Dracula stood no chance against that

Jonathan Harker describing everything he had for dinner and making notes to ask for the recipes later is the cutest shit

never forget that Dracula had to clean and cook for Jonathan himself to make it seem as if there were servants in the castle

never forget Dracula’s straw hat “which suit not him or the time”

the first time I read this novel translated into Latvian, and now I am trying really hard to remember if that translation captured Van Helsing’s characteristic English-is-not-my-native-language manner of speech. I should also check the Russian translation at some point to see how it deals with this aspect

I want to be Mina Harker when I grow up and yes I know that presently I must be older than she is in the book

the dynamic between Jack and Van Helsing is so much fun because, on the one hand, Van Helsing respects Jack a lot as a fellow scientist and as someone who had saved his life, but he also pulls Jack by the ear when he’s being dense and tells Lucy something like “oh he doesn’t understand girls!” when Jack is in the same room. He’s Jack’s colleague and mentor but also his embarrassing uncle. Amazing

actually Van Helsing’s dynamic with everyone is adorable, he just literally adopts them all

I have a mighty need for a prequel novel(s)/series about the “wandering days” of Jack, Quincey, and Arthur, because you can’t just say stuff like “We’ve told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one another’s wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca” and not expect me to want to hear everything about that. “Do you remember, Art, when we had the pack after us at Tobolsk?” like what the fuck were you doing in Tobolsk in the first place, Quincey, I need to know

Jonathan/Mina are simply the best (and everyone who feels like we as a society need more depictions of wholesome and loving marriages should definitely check this book out), but my favourite love-related quote in this novel still is “and I love you with all the moods and tenses of the verb”, written by Mina to Lucy

Lucy! Lucy is a sweetheart, and while I think it is valid to read her as polyamorous, I feel the primary idea behind her saying she wishes she could just marry three men is that she felt awful knowing that she has to break the hearts of two wonderful men because she just doesn’t love them the way she loves the third one. On the other hand, everyone in this book seems a little in love with everyone else, so, like, valid regardless

I think I’ve said this before but I like how Jack is always a step away from becoming your typical Mad Victorian Scientist (he almost brought Renfield a cat just to see if he would really eat it - unethical, yeah, but interesting!) but he never makes that step because his heart is too kind. Also I think a lot about the way Lucy describes him in her letter to Mina as calm, resolute, and overall an excellent parti, and then we read his diary and it’s like “maybe if I overwork myself, my depression will go away, might also do some drugs for good measure”... somebody help him

Quincey’s proposal and what he said to Lucy after she refused him and basically everything he does in the book... can I marry him

also the only inaccuracy I sanction for the adaptations to come is letting him survive

I missed it somehow the first time I read this book but Van Helsing loves Arthur so much because he reminds him of his dead son... ouch

speaking of Arthur, I don’t hate him? Yes, he seems to have the least developed personality out of all the protagonists, but he also didn’t do anything wrong. Also it’s hilarious to me for some reason how one of his superpowers is summoning rat-catching dogs. He’s like a Victorian Pokemon trainer

imagine a horror movie focused solely on the voyage of the Demeter. Just this ship, its crew, and a vampire slowly destroying them one by one

I can’t believe Mina and Jonathan called their son after five men. FIVE MEN all those Albuses Severuses and Jameses Siriuses can’t compare

obviously now I want to watch some adaptation but also, based on what I’ve heard about most of these adaptations, I don’t want that. Help us Karyn Kusama you’re our only hope

#dracula #bram stoker #gella talks dracula #talk talk talk #the next logical step is to think about fancasts isn't it

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aki-draws-things · 3 years

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Fic title Meme: People Pleaser

OK, that was fun, and I can see clint agreeing on everything everyone may ask, except the don't consider this as a "payback" for the brainwashed betrayal time. They simply ask and are genuinely happy that Clint agrees to help.

I'm still trying to get in the right set to wrote them so.. I hope it's okay~

@captainjimothycarter

Anyone has other titles??? 💖

Title: People pleaser

Ship: Winterhawk

Tag: light angst, guilty clint, pre-relationship, first kiss

At first Bucky didn’t think much of it; he was still wrapping his own head around the idea of staying at the Tower, the idea that the rest of them were being almost friendly with him, the idea, for the first time in years, that he belonged somewhere. He didn’t have time to think of other things, but if he did, he thought back some time later, he would have seen it much sooner.

The Tower was chaotic, but in a good, functional way, with Stark constant chatters and babbles, Steve begging for him to “Just close your mouth as you eat breakfast Tony, for the love of God.” . Dr Banner with his calm aura always surrounding him, Bucky saw him angry, he saw the Hulk, he’d like not to see him around the Tower during fine mornings, thank you very much. Thor… Well, he wasn’t used to Thor honestly, and he wasn’t sure he liked his straightforwardness, but Steve always said he meant well so he could try a bit harder next time he was around. Natasha-- Natalia-- Natasha was the easiest to have around, more than once he found himself getting drawn toward her, her familiarity, her understanding; he could mutter in russian and she wouldn't need to ask for a translation, she wouldn’t tell him that he didn’t need to use that language anymore now that he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, Natasha would simply answer him.

And then, right when Bucky thought that maybe leaning on Natasha was the best choice if he didn’t want to worry Steve, Barton changed the cards on the table.

At first Bucky thought nothing of it, being around Barton was just as easy, something in his smile, something in his easy going way, something in how he seemed to understand his mood when not even Bucky fully understood them. He was always around, always close, hands hovering by but never touching unless someone started a contact, like he was afraid, craving the touch but afraid of it. Of asking.

He was different around Natasha, and Bucky thought that this was the reason he felt himself converging toward him in the end. Around Natasha he was physical, never asking, never waiting, he would flop down beside her and wrap himself around her one limb at time, and Natasha, scary, deadly Natasha, would lay there, perfectly comfortable with the archer turned octopus wrapped around her and lift a hand to scratch his head.

So Bucky took a step back, quietly, unconsciously; he didn’t want to intrude in that level of intimacy just because Natasha could understand him, it felt wrong toward someone who had been there earlier than him.

That was when he noticed it, one day when Natasha was away for a mission.

he walked, shuffled, okay, he dragged his feet inside the common room after a sleepless night filled with memories, and nightmares, and more nightmarish memories, his mind screamed at him to stay in bed, his stomach had a different idea and an empty, growling stomach in a time and place where he could fill it with anything he preferred was very hard to ignore. The compromise was to get back into bed after breakfast and call it a day, or a morning, depending on how fast he would get hungry again. no training, no walks in a park, no nothing.

Clint was there, he heard him before even entering the room, talking with Steve in the usual cheerful voice, agreeing with something Steve asked, Bucky didn't know what. When he walked inside Steve was leaving the table, positively glowing, he clapped a hand over Bucky's shoulder not seeing the light flinch and walked out. Clint chuckled and pushed a mug of coffee toward him before he even decided if he wanted coffee, he could as well accept it at this point.

"too physical, right? - he nodded toward the door Steve disappeared out. - he's like an overgrown puppy, unconcealed excitement and all."

Bucky just smiled quickly and sipped from the mug, coffee just as sweet as he liked. He watched as the archer drowned his mug empty and left it in the sink before sighing and stretching.

"better get going or I'll be late." without another word he waved at him before leaving the common room.

By nightfall when he met the archer again he looked tired to the bones, absolutely worn out, still he smiled as Bruce thanked him for something bucky wasn't paying attention to.

At first he thought nothing of it, until he saw his smile falter just slightly, the usual light in his eyes dimmed as he told Stark about a little inconvenience , or so he called it, he had with the hearing aids during the mission. Little inconvenience being the high pitched sound that left him swaying dizzily when Sam's new drone flew too close.

Stark grabbed the aids as soon as Clint took them out, muttering fast under his breath and searching for the problem dismissing with a wave of the hand Clint's quiet "I probably set them wrong, there's nothing wrong with them, sorry to bother.", like it had been his fault.

"it could use a bit more sugar…"

Steve looked at the cookies in front of him, the sugar, in bucky's opinion, was the least problem, they should resemble falcon's wings as Steve explained, and instead it looked more like a… bucky wasn't sure honestly. Not wings anyway.

"but I'm used to very very sweet things, that's just my mouth!"

Bucky blinked as Clint flashed an encouraging smile at the captain. He took a cookie. They definitely needed more sugar, on top of a better shape. Bucky almost doubted Steve put sugar in them at all.

The smile over clint's lips was real, he knew it, and yet it looked stretched, strained, painful, like he felt bad for saying something was off about Steve's cooking, like he offended Steve somehow. Steve simply took note of the sugar, "and the shape, Steve. I don't want to be the one explaining these are supposed to be wings." bucky added, and went to try and make the cookies again. They would eat cookies for a week, at that rate.

It took bucky almost a year to figure out a pattern, a whole year of clint's smiles that one after the next bucky wanted to steal from the rest of the team because they failed to see behind them. He loved the way Clint smiled, how the room seemed brighter when he was around. Maybe it was just bucky feeling that, maybe he was… was it love? He couldn't exactly go up to Steve and ask him, he couldn't be so blunt with Natasha either. Not to mention Clint.

The mission had been hard, flying aliens covered in spikes caused more damage than they thought, Clint joined when the fight had started already, coming from a completely different mission, bucky heard him talk to Natasha a week before.

He scratched his head, made up some kind of weak excuse when stark asked what took him so long, he apologized and bucky made a quick mental note to confront him on that, he had nothing to apologize for. He would definitely tell him that as soon as the spiky aliens were gone.

"fuck. I'm sorry Buck. I'm--"

Clint hung his head low, bucky barely managed to convince Steve not to feel guilty that one of the aliens stabbed him through the side, and it was hard to deal with the sad puppy eyes Rogers could make, he was too tired to deal with clint's guilt too.

"you've done nothing." he said and saw his shoulders drop even lower. "Nothing wrong." he quickly added.

"I was supposed to have your six."

Yeah, that was his position and bucky would be damned if he said he didn't trust him with his life.

"you saved a group of civilians stuck in a building. 7 people? Against one super soldier who will be up in a couple more hours."

Still that didn't ease the pain he saw in clint's eyes.

"okay. - bucky knew he didn't mean it, he didn't believe him. - okay, tell me what I can do to make it better. Serum or no you've been stabbed, because of me. Tell me how I can have your forgiveness."

That was… what? Bucky blinked, confused. Forgiveness? Was guilt so deep in his mind? Was that why he--

Oh, fuck.

Bucky sighed.

"a smile. - sap. He knew stark, and Natasha would say that upon hearing his request. - a smile and you're forgiven."

"it's a bit small. You can ask me anything you want. I can spar with you when you're up. I can… really, Barnes, anything. You got wounded because of m--"

"is that why you're always so compliant? Something happened and you try to.. Don't know, make up for that?"

He trembled, and bucky wanted to wrap around him and hold him.

"they shouldn't trust me. They probably don't but they try. So maybe one day I will have their trust back, like before my mind got fucked up by that crazy God." he blurted out and bucky couldn't help but stare.

"but really, tell me how I can--" Clint tried to change the topic again and bucky acted on pure impulse.

"if a smile is too little, then I want a kiss."

#Winterhawk #clint barton #james bucky barnes #Fic title meme #Aki writes

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jeffreystewart · 3 years

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Norsery Rhymes from A to Z Happy Thorsday – Prince Egil One-Hand, Berserker of the Many Rings Well here we are another Thor’s Day and another 20 min sketch of a Norse (and Germanic) mythological characters. This week it’s Egil / Egill One-Hand mentioned in the Egilis Saga.

TLDR at the bottom.

Hi name has been translated to ‘Awe’, or ‘Fear’, or ‘dread’ combined with ‘edge’ or ‘point’ of a weapon. Which unlike the farmer Giant Egil who shares his name, where the meaning had the context of being afraid of the sword. Egil here, much like Egill Skallagrimson, is meant to imply the use of the sword, and that others should be afraid of his blade’s edge.

His father was King Hring of Smaland, and Ingibjorg the Earl’s daughter of Gautland. As a young man, Egil and his friends were known for going around causing lots of trouble. Egging each other on to do dumber and more selfish things that upset and hurt the people and animals of the land. Loving spending more time in the forest than the city.

One day he and his friends decided to see who could swim across a great lake. During the swim a fog formed on the lake, and while his friends fell behind, Egil pushed on into it. But the fog went on for days, with no clear path to land no matter what direction he went. It’s not known if the fog was a natural one, or one sent by the Gods to punish Egil for his arrogance. But eventually there was a break in the fog on an unknown shore. Egil couldn’t stand, move or stay awake for another moment. He fell into a deep sleep that lasted nearly as long s his time in the fog.

He awoke to find himself in a large columned cave home, now the prisoner of a giant. Who informed Egil that he was now his goat herd, and that he would kill him if he did not perform his duties.

Over the course of the next year, Egil recovered from his near week long swim. He tended the goats, who were difficult for him, got stronger, and plotting his escape. At the end of that first year, Egil, after careful planning, managing to sneak away and run for his freedom beyond the Giant’s home. He had been swift and careful, and made a good distance. But on the fourth day from his escape he found the giant, with his large stride, and his intelligence, had followed Egil’s footprints, and caught up to him. Egil was caught again.

The giant, upset at Egil’s escape, but not wanting to kill him, clamped forty pound bands around each foot (or leg) that he would have to wear at all times.

It took him a long time to learn to walk with that weight, while still being expected to perform his goat herding duties. He knew he could not simply run away again, especially slowed down as he was.

Time passed, and Egil got used to the weight, getting stronger and stronger, living a simple, but uneasy life forced to tend the goats. Feeding, caring, milking, and retrieving the ones who ran off.

It was seven years since his capture, and one night while off retrieving several lost goats, he came across a cat with golden eyes. Capturing it before returning to his captor’s home.

The Giant was curious how Egil had been able to find the goats in the dark. Egil told him that he cold see In the dark because of his golden magic eyes that had captured starlight in them. The giant not believing him said he’d never seen him use other eyes before and asked if he could see them. Egil at first refused, asking for a promise that the Giant wouldn’t steal them. When the Giant agreed, Egil uncovered the cat’s eyes from under his cloak, reflecting the firelight in them. Telling the giant that there was a magical procedure that allowed him to remove one set of eyes and replace them with the other.

The Giant after hearing this wanted them very badly, but knew he could not force Egil to tell him how to make his eyes exchangeable for the other. So he offered Egil his freedom for both the eyes, and the procedure to use them.

Egil agreed to the deal. The giant agreed to be tied to a column in the cave to avoid trashing about during the operation. But once Egil had the Giant’s eyes he apologized saying that the procedure had failed while throwing the eyes into the fire. The Giant, sure that he had been tricked ran to the front door of the cave, blocking the way and locking the door.

After a long while considering his options now, decided on a plan. After several days, he killed one of the goats and made a goat costume for himself. Egil getting into his disguise waited for the Giant to open the door for the goats to go graze, started a stampede. The Giant felt at each goat as it went by, and was almost fooled by Egil’s disguise before he realized he couldn’t hear the click clack hoof sounds on the stone floor from Egil. The Giant grabbed Egil, trying to kill him with his knife, missing Egil except for his left ear, taking it clean off. Egil in response cut off the giants hand holding him. Taking the hand still gripping him as he made his escape. Along with that hand came a large very valuable ring that Egil could wear as an armband.

He ran for his life for some time, knowing the Giant could still be following him with his other senses. After a while living in the wild, he came across a Viking ship and it’s company. Joining them he would have been a strange sight, with one, ear, metal shackles on his legs / feet, and Prince’s ring on his hand, and a giant gold ring around his arm. He was a strong man at this point, and learned to be a capable sailor. He would end up leading the company and another once when the leaders of both fought a duel where they both died. Taking the best 32 best from each band, he would go on to raid the Baltic lands. Collecting fame, fortune, and most notably, collecting rings, as he went. It’s never said if he is able to remove his foot / leg shackles.

One day while out in raiding he saw an island on which two giants, one a male Jotun with a sword, and the other female Jotun noted for wearing a very short skirt. Both fighting over a large gold ring, that appeared to be the giantesses. Egil decided to take the side of the Giantess, as he thought she was the more attacked party, and joined the battle with the giant. Cutting off a large part of the giants upper arm muscle. But the giant was able to get in his swing and took off Egil’s sword arm above the wrist. Egil just managed to get back to his ship, where they departed for safer shores. Leaving the battle unsettled, but the giantess able to keep her ring.

Egil’s crew tended to his arm as best they could, but were not healers or any skill or magic. Once back at port, Egil had not been able to sleep for several days from the pain of the arm. He went for a walk in a nearby forest, where he met a Dwarf child out fetching water. Egil gifted the child one of his gold rings without it knowing, dropping it in his water pail.

They parted, and after some time, an older dwarf appeared, asking who had given his child the ring, and wanting to know why they would so willingly part with it. Egil told him he’d given it freely, and that he both had many to part with and that in his pain, he could not appreciate his collection anyway. The older Dwarf thanked him and in as thanks healed the arm of all pain. He then painlessly fitted a Dvergr sword into Egil’s missing arm that would allow him to fight just as easily as if he had a hand, if not more so.

At some time after that Egil still in command of his company was raiding the Russian kingdom of King Hertygg, when his general Rognvald and ninety six men went to stop the Berserker Egil and his 32 men. Egil and his men won the battle, Egil losing only a few men, but the Russian men losing almost all of theirs. Rognvald himself mortally wounded and only just able to make it back to the King to report on what had happened.

It was here that the King’s man Gnodar-Asmund Berserkers-Slayer is introduced. Who himself was missing two ears from a time when his Blood Brother Aran came back from the dead and took them. On hearing Rognovald and his story Asmund would go to Egil directly. The two decided on a duel to avoid more lives lost. Three times Egil the ringed berserker with the sword arm and Asmund the famed Berserker-Slayer fought day and night into exhaustion, and without a winner. The fourth duel looked to continue the same way as the others, but as the fight wore on, Asmund managed to get just the slightest advantage, forcing Egil to surrender. Egil does so, much from his respect for Asmund, as for the safety of his men, Egil swore loyalty to the King.

Egil and Asmund swear themselves blood brothers. Becoming friends they would serve and adventure together over the fall and winter seasons. Setting out with 24 men on a voyage to find the King’s missing daughters Brunhildr. Who though a capable fighter and huntsman had been carried off by an ancient giant monster Hare. And Bekkhildur The Wise who had been carried away by a giant vulture.

It’s on this voyage that they track them to Jotenheim where they spend months searching shores, islands, forests, and mountains. One day, while their men were suffering from lack of food, they find in a river crosses valley a flock of giant unattended goats. When they go to take one of the Goats however they hear a booming voice from a tall Giant woman who asks who is stealing the Queen of this lands goats. The giantess Skinnnefja reveals herself as the Queen Arinnefja daughter. Telling the Egil and Asmund she will visit the Queen. Egil gives her one of his rings as payment for the trouble despite her protests.

The Princes goes on ahead giving her mother the ring and telling her of the men. The Queen askes her daughter to invite the men back to her. When they meet the Queen she seeming surprised at the appearance of Egil.

She finds they have not eaten for a week, and immediately goes to have a huge amount of foods like porridge and broth made for the group, asking them to tell their tale as they wait. They each tell their stories and afterword the Queen tells the men that her two Princely Giant brothers Guatr and Hildr had captured the Princesses to marry them. She offers the men treasures to help them on their quest, leading them to her vault.

There they see rare treasures beyond count, and in a place of prominence she sits a chest that opens to reveal a hand and quarter arm with a signet ring on it that Egil recognizes. Egil when touching the hand starts to feel heat in his sword arm. The queen tells him another story of a man who saved her from her brother Gautr who wanted to steal her ring, but lost his arm in the process. She then removes the sword from his arm and wraps the stump carefully in magic cloth letting him rest as his lost hand grows back, leaving a mark around the arm where it was lost. His sword refashioned for him to carry it.

The men with the help of their hosts are able to kill the giant brother and save the princesses from their forced marriage. Egil, Asmund and Arinnefja bring them home to the King. He offers Egil and Asmund either gold or his daughters hands in marriage.

Both men choose the princesses, to marry in a years time. Egil first going back to finally meet his family in their lands to re-establish his claim to the throne, Asmundr to find his family for the wedding in his lands, and Arinnefja to return to her lands to deal with her kingdom’s matters. Arinnefja is huge amounts of gifted drinks, butter, boars and other foods not native to Jotunheim. After the massive party that was the wedding, Egil married Bekkhildur and Asmundr, who had become ruler of Halogaland while there, married Brynhildr, each going off to their lands to rule there.

And wow, I did not realize this description had gotten so long. Hope you enjoyed it, but in case you skipped right here for the TLDR version.

- Dickhead prince gets captured by giant. - Tends goats for 8 years. - Escapes by tricking a Giant with a cat’s eyes and goats hide, - Cat and Goat not so lucky. - Giant loses eyes and an arm, - But Prince loses an ear, - But gets a giant ring. - Becomes Viking, - Starts ring collecting hobby, - Becomes Viking leader. - Defends a Giantess in a short skirt purely for honourable reasons, - Loses arm in the process. - Gives Dwarf child a ring while delirious in pain, - Child’s father heals his arm and gives him a sword arm. - Invades Russia, smart enough not to do it in the winter, - Defeats Russian army. - Fights soon to be BFF to a standstill 3 times, but loses in the 4th, - Become Blood Bros. - Goes off with new BFF to find captured Princesses, - Get’s hungry, - Finds the Giant woman he helped before is a Queen. - Queen shows him his old hand that magically heals him a new one. - Defeats Giants that kidnapped Princesses, - Saves the Princesses, - Get’s engaged to a Princess, - Goes home to be King, - Gets Married to a Princess.

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hawksmagnolia · 4 years

Text

The Depths Pt 3

The Depths: Bucky x reader Mermaid AU

Part One is HERE

Part Two is HERE

Masterlist coming soon.

Part Four release is Friday 31 July!

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2,315

Author’s Note: Please reblog and leave me some love. It really does mean the world to me! This has been an absolute labor of love and I can’t wait for next Friday. -xo-

The Depths Part Three: The Incoming Storm

she did

what any

rational woman

would do—

ever so calmly,

she reached out

& she tore

the starts

apart.

-amanda lovelace

I’d never been bound to any kind of schedule beyond the changing of the seasons and the pull of the tides. Those primal things that one who lives untethered to anything other than the sea instinctively knows.

The day it changed he sat on the crude wooden planks that make up his dock as he watched me crack crabs. As I picked out the delicate meat with my fingers I gave him some of the sweet meat of the claws.

“Sometimes, watching you eat is frightening.” I looked up, confused as I chew.

“You have those tiny little hands. They’re the same size as a child’s yet your claws…” He rubbed his chest absently and I know there are four thin scars from them there. I felt a wash of guilt and he must have seen it on my face. “I know it was an accident. And I can promise you that no fairy tale mermaid has teeth like yours.”

That’s because the fairy tale mermaids aren’t carnivorous predators. And I am.

I wrinkled my nose at him and he laughs. I’ve been practicing my human skills by imitating him. He’s a far better teacher than the selkies. He’s also been helping me with my English. When I am frustrated, I resort to swearing in Russian and find myself shocked that he is fluent as well.

He doesn’t explain why other than to say he spent time there. I do not like the expression on his face when he says this so I do not press him.

I cracked the shell of the body with my teeth and flicked the bits of shell back into the water for the little fish there to nibble.

“Why don’t you ever try to come on land?”

I stared into the crab’s hollow body. “I do not have a reason to.” I shifted my weight. I’d been spending more and more time in the shallow water so I can be closer to him. I have to keep my tail submerged to prevent it from drying out and cracking painfully. I can easily breathe in the air or in the water, simply by sealing or unsealing the fragile gill slits on the sides of my neck.

Having lost my appetite, I tossed the crab into the water. “Why do you not come into the water?”

“I can’t swim very well with only one arm.” He gestures.

“It is very shallow. I will help you.” I held out my hand and after a moment of hesitation, he pulls his shirt over his head and takes it. He slides from the dock and lands in the water with an ungainly splash. I laugh as he finds his footing on the round stones and mud at the bottom. I link my fingers with his and pull him towards deeper water. He kicks, keeping his face above the water until I twist my tail to give him some lift.

Now he is the one who laughs as he sits his weight on the end, the delicate fins brushing against the bare skin of his waist.

“I will never get used to the idea of sitting on a mermaid’s tail.”

I copy one of my favorite facial expressions, raising my right eyebrow at him. He laughs again, the sound echoing across the water. I love the sound of it. He likes to say I have taught him to laugh again.

He does not know that he has taught me to laugh again as well.

It all really started when he jumped into the water one day. He had been convinced that he wouldn’t be able to swim with only one arm.

She’d proved him wrong.

The muscles in his back and shoulders began to bulk back up, the muscles in his legs became more defined. Even Steve had noticed the change in him, asked what kind of routine he was doing so that he could copy it.

Bucky wasn’t sure how Steve would have handled the idea of a mermaid as a swimming coach.

The friendship that built between them was easy. Both of them feeling like outsiders around their own kind, a type of kinship between misfits. He knew he sometimes watched her more than a friend would but he kept those feelings pushed deep down in his heart.

And so his days went on like that. He stayed on his little farm near the banks of the lake, spending his mornings doing the work he alone put upon himself and afternoons he spent on the banks, bare feet dangling in the water off the makeshift dock he built.

Spending his time teaching a mermaid how to blend in on land.

He watches her as she practices making herself look human. She’s mastered eyes, bleaching the dark sclera into white, though they have more of an opalescent sheen than blank ivory. He can’t help but notice her chosen eye color matches his own. She also mimics his skin color, not quite the brilliant bronze from her first appearance here but a more subtle tan. Her hair remains a riot of coppers and bronzes while scales that arch over her breasts, curve over her ribs to her hips and tail are dazzling in the sunlight.

He’s taught her to braid her own hair though she learned the hard way she had to put away her fingertip claws, vanishing them into her fingers. When he asked where they went, she thought about it and then shrugged, another one of the human gestures she’d learned from him. Her small fingers are more delicate and nimble than his, she often convinces him to let her braid his hair away from his face since he cannot do it himself with one hand.

He’s careful to unbraid it when they part, lest anyone see it and ask how he did it.

The feeling of her fingers in his hair is soothing and sometimes he hears her humming under her breath. It’s no song he recognizes but it has the same style melody that one would associate with a lullaby. He asks her once but she clamps her lips together and refuses to sing it.

It occurs to him later that he may have literally heard a siren song.

He’s learned she cannot blunt all her teeth. Her canines remain sharp and when he calls her a water vampire, she demands he tell her what a vampire is. When he does, she’s fascinated and he finds himself telling her the story of Dracula. The story that he finds is still locked in his memory from when he and Steve saw the movie in the 1930s.

She asks about his childhood, curious what it’s like to be a human child. She tells him about hers in return, a childhood spent torn between two worlds.

He learns she hasn’t walked on land much since she was seven. When her father died. When he asks how many times, she doesn’t need two hands.

When he helps her translate her way of telling time into his, he learns she is far older than she looks. Based on her memories of significant weather events, he guesses her birthdate to be in the fall of 1920. She is literally just a few years younger than him.

He had guessed she was mid-twenties at the most.

He’d done some discreet research with the help of the Wakandan Princess. Shuri had brought him the information he’d requested with questions in her eyes but none had passed her lips.

Sedna. Inuit Goddess of the sea and marine animals.

Was it a coincidence that his Sedna shared a name with this Goddess? She’d claimed the selkies of Dutch Harbor had named her. Maybe they’d drawn inspiration from mythology. His old self would have brushed it off but hearing Steve’s stories about the God of thunder named Thor…well, the world was a very different place in this century.

All of that changed the day she’d come to him in a panic. The waters were acting strangely, stories of unnatural tides brought to her by the birds. Something was very wrong.

That was the same day His Royal Highness and two of his guards appeared carrying a large rectangular box.

“Bucky!” My voice is higher than normal, threaded with panic. It is early morning. I usually am asleep at this time, curled up on the bottom of the lake not far from his dock. It is safest for me to sleep there.

He appears from the door of his little home. He looks disheveled, dirty. He has animals he cares for, I suspect he has been up for hours.

“Sedna?” He jogs down the path that leads to the dock. “What’s wrong?” He takes in my appearance and comes to the dock, laying flat on his belly and grabbing my shoulders.

“Something is very wrong. The water…the water is wrong. There are fish coming out of the caverns, they say the tides are acting strangely. The birds, the land animals….everyone is running.”

His spring blue eyes search my face. “Running where?”

“Away. They all say something is coming. Something bad. Evil. Not right. They’re telling everyone to flee, to hide.” My voice shakes and Bucky puts his hand on the side of my face, his thumb tracing over my water-soaked skin.

“I will find out. Stay hidden. I will come back and tell you.”

I shook my head and felt the prick of tears in my eyes.

Apparently sirens can cry.

I hear voices coming from behind him. “I will be right back.”

And then he kisses me.

It’s not gentle. It’s a hard kiss of promise, one that fills me with a small measure of reassurance.

I’m still half-stunned when he pushes from the dock and heads towards the voices.

I hear the words that frighten me to my core.

“Where’s the fight?” He asks.

“On its way.”

Bucky stares at T’Challa. “How serious is it?”

He and Okoye exchange a glance. “Very. Captain Rogers is on his way to Wakanda now.”

“You think this Thanos will attack here?”

“We know he will.”

Bucky sighed and closed his eyes. “Alright. Let’s get it fitted.”

Once the arm is secure and the others have left after he promises to meet them at the palace within an hour, he heads back to the water’s edge.

He finds her waiting for him. She is leaning on the dock, her arms crossed, fingers interlaced. As he approaches, her blue eyes focus on him.

“It is bad.” It’s not a question. She presses her lips together into a thin line.

“Yes.”

“I know it is bad because you have agreed to an arm again.

He lays back down on the dock, propping himself up on both elbows and he puts his hands over hers.

“You have to go.”

Her eyes narrow. “Do you want me to?”

“No, of course not. But it’s not safe. You have to promise me you’ll go to safety.”

“The world is not a safe place. I accept this. I am not running away scared. I can fight.”

Bucky closes his eyes and presses his forehead to hers. “This is not your fight. This is not a fight you can win. I need you to be safe. Please.”

A sigh trickles over his cheeks. “Only if you promise to leave my Tear on.”

“I promise.”

When he pulls back from her, he’s stunned to see tears running down her cheeks.

“I will come back. I’ll come back to you. But you have to stay safe.”

She nods, and part of his heart twists when she doesn’t argue. He tilts her face up and kisses her again, this time softer. This one is full of promise, of possibilities.

“Go. I will see you soon.”

I wait until I can no longer see him before I sink beneath the surface, my fingers clutching the Tear in my hair. A small comfort is feeling the faint thump of his pulse through it.

Underwater, no one can see you cry.

I’m not sure how long I stay there. I fall asleep curled around one of the posts of his dock.

At first, I think it is an earthquake.

I awake in a panic, thrashing free of a nightmare but straight into another one.

Except this one is real.

When I break through the surface of the water, I hear sounds of war. Screaming, explosions, and horrible screeching that is not human or beast. I see black creatures with vicious claws and teeth run past, their frenzy destroying the small building.

They are headed towards the village.

The small fishing village where I have played hide and seek with the children. The ones where the mothers leave baskets of clams and crabs as offerings.

There is no one who can stop them. Bucky is away, at the palace which is the opposite direction. I hear the sounds of battle from there.

There is only screaming from the village.

There is no one who can save them.

Except me.

I push up onto the dock and sit, leaving my tail hanging down. Closing my eyes and gritting my teeth against the pain, the scales begin to part as flesh emerges. Fins become feet as I will myself to the form of a land walker. I grab Bucky’s abandoned shirt and pull it over my body as I breathe through the pain. It hangs over my body.

I pray that it’s not my funeral dress.

I grab my Tear and squeeze it, hating to break my promise, but there are children there.

There is no one else who can save them.

So I stand, raise my hands to the sky and rain down hell upon my enemies.

......to be continued...

Tag List : @nano--raptor @cchellacat @eurynome827 @jobean12-blog @book-dragon-13 @aesthetical-bucky @marvelgirl7 @sallycanwait68 @buckys-broody-muffin @softpeachbarnes @godofplumsandthunder @azurika-writes @ikaris-whore @this-kitten-is-smitten @randomfandompenguin @bucky-plums-barnes @bugsbucky @littleredstarfish @emilylyoness @hailmary-yramliah @daughterofsteven @crushedbyhyperbole @theycallmebecca @nomadicpixel @bluebell-24 @sevans-is-my-weakness @sebastiansloserclub @justvnash @worldofmarvelaficionado @undiscovered-misunderstood @throwmyheartawayagain @jewels2876

#Bucky Barnes #Mermaid AU #Not a Disney Princess #hbc drunk drabbles #The Depths #Allie writes #I am not sorry for what I did today

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strangerthingsharrington · 4 years

Text

Can’t Fight This Feeling

-15-

The walk down the long hallway was pretty quiet after hearing the stories that Dustin and Steve shared. Robin and Erica would come out with a question every little while about something that had happened in the last year and a half that the two boys would answer. But I didn't ask anything.

I was beyond upset that I wasn't kept in the loop about this, especially from Dustin. I understood wanting to keep me safe...but I wanted to keep him safe.

"You gonna be mad at me forever, Lou?" Dustin asked from in front of me during the walk.

I looked at the back of his hat clad curly head and sighed, "Just thinking."

"Thinking about how you're gonna be mad at me forever?"

"Possibly."

He sighed and turned to me, waiting till I took the few steps to be in sync with him as Robin, Erica and Steve walked in front of us.

"It's not that I thought you wouldn't be able to help us," he started, "because I know you would have been able to. You probably woulda thought of some shit to get us out of the messes before we were even in them. But there was no way I was going to expose you to everything if I didn't have to. We got brought into all this accidentally. We didn't go out in search of it.

"There was such a huge possibility of you getting hurt," his voice wavered, "I couldnt be the one to put you through that. You've kept me safe forever, Lou. I wss going to do the same for you."

I knew his heart was in the right place during all of this, nothing could change that fact for a second.

"While I appreciate the sentiment," I started, "I just...I dunno Dust, I just wish I knew. Nothing you say will change that for me. But...nothing I say will change your thought process and the shit has already happened.

"I won't tell mom," I sighed, because I knew that was something he was concerned about, "but...if anything ever happens with this shit ever again...you will tell me ASAP. If you don't, then I'll tell mom every single detail about everything."

"Fair," Dustin said immediately.

I grinned, "I thought so."

"Hey!" Steve whisper yelled, looking behind him to us, "Stay low!"

Dustin and I crouched down and followed behind the others, who led us to some sort of cabinet looking thing that we hid behind in a straight line. We could hear some chattering in Russian all around us, some staticky like it was coming through a walkie talkie and some voices that sounded like they were right near us.

Steve looked around the cabinet before looking back to us, "Come on."

We followed behind him to another wall that we stood against as we continued to hear the chattering of people around us.

Steve looked around the corner of the wall before motioning to us to follow again, "Okay, clear. Come on."

"Okay, that was close," Robin whispered.

"Too close," Dustin murmured.

"Relax," Steve said agitated, "all right? Relax no one saw..." he drifted off and looked around.

I stood next to him and looked in amazement and fear at what was in front of us. People milling about in uniforms and lab coats, stairs and doors with who knows what behind them. There were carts driving around too.

I looked around at everyone and saw guards stationed holding guns on the second level, watching for anything out of the ordinary. Five kids running around would definitely catch their attention. I saw him beginning to look our way, so I grabbed Steve's shoulder and threw my other arm out in front of the others behind me and forced them to behind some sort of cart on wheels against the wall.

"Shit," I whispered as my back slammed against the wall.

"I saw it!" Erica whispered, "first floor, northwest!"

"What?" Robin asked her.

"The Comms room!" she explained wide eyed.

"You saw the Comms room?" Steve asked, looking around the cart.

"Correct!"

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Positive! The door was open for a second and I saw a bunch of lights and machines and shit in there!"

"That could be a hundred different things," Steve mentioned looking to me.

"I'll take those odds," I stated firmly.

Steve stared at me intently before sighing and turning to look around the cart to see the main room, with the rest of us following suit and watching.

We pulled ourselves back against the wall and Steve looked to us, "All right," he instructed, "we're gonna move fast and we're gonna stay low. Okay?"

We agreed and waited for Steve to tell us when to go. He crouched and ran around the cart with us following, diagonal to where we were previously hidden, now hidden behind a box incased in a cage of sorts.

Men and women were speaking Russian all around us. I felt like I was going to be sick. This was all too surreal. I couldn't focus on the things going on around me. I just knew to keep following Steve, and to check behind me to make sure Dustin, Robin and Erica were there still.

We followed Steve as he crouch-ran to another metal box where we waited near the door that Erica had spotted. Someone was walking out, so we ran in after he left. After entering the room, I watched the door to make sure the others made it through, which they did.

I released the breath I had been holding and stood up, finally looking into the room, but I spotted the man in uniform sitting in a chair first. It felt like the wind had gotten knocked out of me. We had made it all this was just for it to end like this.

Steve closed the door and turned to face the man as well, still half bent over.

The man turned in his chair and saw us, he was confused. I heard a women's voice coming through the PA. The man stood up and stared at us, as we did to him.

His hand went to his right side, where I saw the gun holstered there for the first time. I had to think fast.

"Tread lightly," I said in Russian, taking a step towards the man. I was hoping he would think that I was supposed to be there.

He said something back to me, but I couldn't register it. I only knew the handful of words from our translation.

"Silver cat," I answered back, hoping it would make sense, but I was pretty doubtful.

I made a motion behind me for a tail to emphasize what I was saying as I repeated the phrase back to him.

His brow creased as he watched me, he shook his head slightly and said something else to me.

I looked back to the group behind me, wide eyed before facing him again.

"China," I said in Russian, but even I wasn't convinced by my performance.

The man scoffed and reached for his gun once more. I could hear my heart pounding and could feel the blood flowing through my entire body.

Steve let a guttural yell out of him and ran past me to the guard where he tackled him onto the control board where the man was sitting peacefully just moments ago.

I took a step back as I watched the scene unfolding in front of me. I stood with Dustin and put my arm around his shoulders, ready to push him behind me if anything happened.

The guard threw Steve off of him into the other control board that was next to them. He swung at Steve, but Steve, amazingly, dodged it.

He grabbed Steve and threw him into the other control board roughly, my chest was beginning to hurt because of how fast my heart was beating.

I let go of Dustin's shoulder and took a step forward, I'm not sure what for though.

Dustin grabbed my wrist quickly, "No," he told me.

I looked back at Dustin fearfully, Dustin's eyes widened for a split second before he shook his head, "Wait."

I looked back to Steve and the man, the guy went for Steve while he was still hunched over, but Steve elbowed him sending the man backwards. Steve tossed a phone that was attached to the control board in the air to catch with his other hand, and spun around just as the man was going to grab him again.

Steve swing the phone receiver into the mans face, knocking him out before he hit the ground with a loud thud.

Steve was breathing heavily as he dropped the phone down and pushed his hair back with his hand.

"Dude!" Dustin shouted, "You did it! You won a fight!"

Steve breathed out a smile at my brother before looking to me with a small shrug, "Told you I could take them," he said simply.

A relieved laugh escaped me as I went to him, "Are you okay?" I asked.

He grinned, "I'm fine, Lou."

"What are you doing?" Erica asked.

"Getting us our ticket out of here," Dustin said, I looked over to him just as he grabbed the keycard from the unconscious Russian.

"You want to walk all the way back?" Erica shouted.

Dustin took a small step towards her, "Well we could hang out for a bit, relax maybe have a picnic," he said sarcastically.

I rolled my eyes at the two of them and caught Robins eye as she took a step towards the stairs, she nodded her head to me then to the stairs. Without a second look, I went around Erica and Dustin who were still talking to each other and went to Robin and followed closely behind her as she started the ascent up the stairs.

There was a blue hue coming through the window in the door at the top. I could still vaguely hear the two of them chattering below us, but I could hear the whirring of machines and people speaking Russian. Robin and I looked at each other before opening the door to the little room and going to the second door and looking through the window.

"Holy shit," she said quietly.

I grabbed her hand, "Come on," I whispered, "we have the show them," I said before running down the stairs with her right after me.

"Guys," I called just before I reached the bottom, "look what we found," I said before turning and going back up the stairs, knowing they would follow.

I opened the door and held it for everyone. Robin and Erica went to one window and Steve, Dustin and I went to the other window.

There were people sitting and walking around in lab coats. Talking to each other and taking notes. But beyond that is what terrified me the most.

There was a machine spinning with a white light coming out of it...it looked like lightening...and it was shooting into a wall that looked like skin and was pulsating with a tear going down the middle of it that was a fiery orange colour.

This was the most scared I had been during this. Especially knowing everything I knew now about the upside down and demogorgons and every other crazy thing I've heard about recently.

I grabbed Steve's hand and he squeezed it tightly. There was a loud high pitched shriek sound that came out of nowhere that knocked the air out of my lungs. I took a unconscious step backwards into Steve's chest, he steadied me and squeezed my hand once more.

"The gate," Dustin and Steve said simultaneously.

"Come on," Steve said, tugging gently on my hand, "guys, let's go, now!" he said to the others as he led us down the stairs.

"Is this the gate gate?" I asked, still holding onto Steve's hand, "as in the upside down gate?"

"Exactly," Dustin said, "this is bad shit," he groaned.

"Um, Steve," Erica started, "where's your Russian friend?"

We all looked around the room and saw the floor empty of anyone. I looked to Steve to see his face had gone pale and fear filled his eyes, as the alarm blared all around us.

Steve let go of my hand and went to the door where we could hear people yelling, he opened it and stared. I took a step over to look and saw the man that Steve beat up bent over with other people crowded around him. They group looked to the room and saw Steve, before he closed the door quickly.

"Go, go, go, go," Steve said, motioning to the stairs that we had just descended.

Within seconds we heard the door opening and footsteps chasing after us. We went through the two sets of doors and into the control room, where everyone turned to look at us bewildered.

"Shit! Move! Move! Move!" Steve shouted as we ran through the room through another door and down more stairs.

They were right behind us, I was pushing countless bodies away from me as I contibued running.

We ran right to the giant light beam that was piercing the skin like wall ahead of us.

"Oh my God," I whispered as I really looked at what was in front of us.

Dustin was screaming next to me but I couldnt even comprehend it.

"Guards!" Steve shouted, "This way!"

We ran after him, he pushed someone in a hazmat suit out of the way on the stairs. We ran over towards a hall where more guards were exiting towards us, Steve pushed barrels over into them to buy us some time.

We ran away from the guards and into a different room, with Steve slamming the door behind him after he ushered us through quickly. Dustin, Erica, Robin and I ran up the few steps where I saw a vent.

"Go, go, go," I instructed as I lifted the lid of the vent up, basically pushing Erica then Dustin in. I grabbed Robins hand and forced her over to the vent.

I looked over to Steve and saw him struggling to keep the door closed. He was putting himself between the guards and us. He was basically sacrificing himself to keep us safe.

I caught his eye and he shook his head, "Go!" he mouthed to me, waving his arm.

I looked back to the open vent, and saw Robin with a foot into it, I looked back to Steve who was still shaking his head at me. I looked at my shoes, having a battle in my brain. I needed to make sure Dustin was okay...but he was with Robin and Erica. And I knew...if he could have survied all this other shit...then he would be okay.

"Robin," I said quickly, touching her shoulder, both her legs were in the vent and she looked at me with wide scared eyes, "please take care of him," I said quietly.

"Lou?" she questioned.

"Take care of Dustin," I emphastized, "make sure he gets out okay...I've gotta help Steve...you guys need to get as far away as possible."

She let out a little breath before nodding, "Be safe," she said before kneeling to get into the vent, closing the lid over her.

I turned and ran to Steve who groaned when he saw me, "Lou! You should have went!" he yelled.

I leaned my back against the door and planted my feet, trying to keep them on the other side for as long as possible, to make sure the other three got far away.

"Leave you with all the fun?" I asked sarcastically, "Never."

I squeezed my eyes closed and tried everything possible to keep that door closed.

But we could only last so long.

Steve and I were thrown against a wall where my back slammed harshly against it making me cry out.

The men came in with guns drawn and pointed at both of us. Steve and I both raised our hands in surrender.

Two men came forward, one grabbed me and the other grabbed Steve and stood us up harshly. He took my arm and twisted it behind my back and forced me to walk.

I was willing myself to stay silent. I was going to do anything I could to not show them my fear.

They marched the two of us down a few different hallways, my back was aching and my legs were burning.

Finally they stopped in front of a door and another guard opened it roughly, and the guard who was holding my arm shoved me through the open door into the empty room. I was expecting and hoping they were going to send Steve in too so we could try and think of something.

But that would have been too easy.

One of the guards stepped in the room with me, and began shutting the door, Steve was watching me with a terrified look on his face.

"Lou!" he shouted as he began struggling against his guard.

"Steve!" I cried, as I went to the door but the guard grabbed me.

I struggled against him, trying to wiggle free from his grasp as Steve and I kept shouting to each other. The door finally closed and I could still hear Steve shouting my name, but it was becoming more distant as I assumed they were taking him further down the hallway.

The guard released me and I took a few steps back to keep my back against the wall, I looked around the room to try and find something that I could possibly use as a weapon. But the room was bare. It was a cement room with a bench in it. Nothing more.

"Sit," the man instructed in a thick Russian accent.

I didn't move. I didnt want them to have any power over me for as long as possible. They already had too much power over me.

The man walked up to me until there was barely any room between the two of us. I stared up into his eyes and he grabbed my hands from my sides and pulled a leather strap from his pockets, wrapping them around and buckling them together, binding my hands.

He grabbed my bound wrists and tossed me over to the bench when I fell into the sitting position.

"Now," he began, "you wait."

——

Title credit to REO Speedwagon and gif credit to owner

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #stranger things imagine #stranger things #netflix #dustin henderson

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arcticdementor · 4 years

Link

Something strange happened to the news over the past four years. The dominant stories all resembled the scripts of bad movies—sequels and reboots. The Kavanaugh hearings were a sequel to the Clarence Thomas hearings, and Russian collusion was rebooted as Ukrainian impeachment. Journalists are supposed to hunt for good scoops, but in January, as the coronavirus spread, they focused on the impeachment reality show instead of a real story.

It’s not just journalists. The so-called second golden era of television was a decade ago, and many of those shows relied on cliff-hangers and gratuitous nudity to hold audience attention. Across TV, movies, and novels it is increasingly difficult to find a compelling story that doesn’t rely on gimmicks. Even foundational stories like liberalism, equality, and meritocracy are failing; the resulting woke phenomenon is the greatest shark jump in history.

Storytelling is central to any civilization, so its sudden failure across society should set off alarm bells. Culture inevitably reflects the selection process that sorts people into the upper class, and today’s insipid stories suggest a profound failure of this sorting mechanism.

…

Culture is larger than pop culture, or even just art. It encompasses class, architecture, cuisine, education, manners, philosophy, politics, religion, and more. T. S. Eliot charted the vastness of this word in his Notes towards the Definition of Culture, and he warned that technocratic rule narrowed our view of culture. Eliot insisted that it’s impossible to easily define such a broad concept, yet smack in the middle of the book he slips in a succinct explanation: “Culture may even be described simply as that which makes life worth living.” This highlights why the increase in “deaths of despair” is such a strong condemnation of our dysfunction. In a fundamental way, our culture only exists to serve a certain class. Eliot predicted this when he critiqued elites selected through education: “Any educational system aiming at a complete adjustment between education and society will tend to restrict education to what will lead to success in the world, and to restrict success in the world to those persons who have been good pupils of the system.”

This professional managerial class has a distinct culture that often sets the tone for all of American culture. It may be possible to separate the professional managerial class from the ruling elite, or plutocracy, but there is no cultural distinction. Any commentary on an entire class will stumble in the way all generalizations stumble, yet this culture is most distinct at the highest tiers, and the fuzzy edges often emulate those on the top. At its broadest, these are college-educated, white-collar workers whose income comes from labor, who are huddled in America’s cities, and who rise to power through existing bureaucracies. Bureaucracies, whether corporate or government, are systems that reward specific traits, and so the culture of this class coalesces towards an archetype: the striving bureaucrat, whose values are defined by the skills needed to maneuver through a bureaucracy. And from the very beginning, the striving bureaucrat succeeds precisely by disregarding good storytelling.

…

Professionals today would never self-identify as bureaucrats. Product managers at Google might have sleeve tattoos or purple hair. They might describe themselves as “creators” or “creatives.” They might characterize their hobbies as entrepreneurial “side hustles.” But their actual day-in, day-out work involves the coordination of various teams and resources across a large organization based on established administrative procedures. That’s a bureaucrat. The entire professional culture is almost an attempt to invert the connotations and expectations of the word—which is what underlies this class’s tension with storytelling. Conformity is draped in the dead symbols of a prior generation’s counterculture.

…

When high school students read novels, they are asked to identify the theme, or moral, of a story. This teaches them to view texts through an instrumental lens. Novelist Robert Olen Butler wrote that we treat artists like idiot savants who “really want to say abstract, theoretical, philosophical things, but somehow they can’t quite make themselves do it.” The purpose of a story becomes the process of translating it into ideas or analysis. This is instrumental reading. F. Scott Fitzgerald spent years meticulously outlining and structuring numerous rewrites of The Great Gatsby, but every year high school students reduce the book to a bumper sticker on the American dream. A story is an experience in and of itself. When you abstract a message, you lose part of that experience. Analysis is not inherently bad; it’s just an ancillary mode that should not define the reader’s disposition.

Propaganda is ubiquitous because we’ve been taught to view it as the final purpose of art. Instrumental reading also causes people to assume overly abstract or obscure works are inherently profound. When the reader’s job is to decode meaning, then the storyteller is judged by the difficulty of that process. It’s a novel about a corn beef sandwich who sings the Book of Malachi. Ah yes, a profound critique of late capitalism. An artist! Overall, instrumental reading teaches striving students to disregard stories. Cut to the chase, and give us the message. Diversity is our strength? Got it. Throw the book out. This reductionist view perhaps makes it difficult for people to see how incoherent the higher education experience has become.

…

“Decadence” sounds incorrect since the word elicits extravagant and glamorous vices, while we have Lizzo—an obese antifertility priestess for affluent women. All our decadence becomes boring, cringe-inducing, and filled with HR-approved jargon. “For my Fulbright, I studied conflict resolution in nonmonogamous throuples.” Campus dynamics may partially explain this phenomenon. Camille Paglia has argued that many of the brightest left-wing thinkers in the 1960s fried their brains with too much LSD, and this created an opportunity for the rise of corporate academics who never participated in the ’60s but used its values to signal status. What if this dropout process repeats every generation?

…

The professional class tells a variety of genre stories about their jobs: TED Talker, “entrepreneur,” “innovator,” “doing well by doing good.” One of the most popular today is corporate feminism. This familiar story is about a young woman who lands a prestigious job in Manhattan, where she guns for the corner office while also fulfilling her trendy Sex and the City dreams. Her day-in, day-out life is blessed by the mothers and grandmothers who fought for equality—with the ghost of Susan B. Anthony lingering Mufasa-like over America’s cubicles. Yet, like other corporate genre stories, girl-boss feminism is a celebration of bureaucratic life, including its hierarchy. Isn’t that weird?

There are few positive literary representations of life in corporate America. The common story holds that bureaucratic life is soul-crushing. At its worst, this indulges in a pedestrian Romanticism where reality is measured against a daydream, and, as Irving Babbitt warned, “in comparison . . . actual life seems a hard and cramping routine.” Drudgery is constitutive of the human condition. Yet even while admitting that toil is inescapable, it is still obvious that most white-collar work today is particularly bleak and meaningless. Office life increasingly resembles a mental factory line. The podcast is just talk radio for white-collar workers, and its popularity is evidence of how mind-numbing work has become for most.

Forty years ago, Christopher Lasch wrote that “modern industry condemns people to jobs that insult their intelligence,” and today employers rub this insult in workers’ faces with a hideously infantilizing work culture that turns the office into a permanent kindergarten classroom. Blue-chip companies reward their employees with balloons, stuffed animals, and gold stars, and an exposé detailing the stringent communication rules of the luxury brand Away Luggage revealed how many start-ups are just “live, laugh, love” sweatshops. This humiliating culture dominates America’s companies because few engage in truly productive or necessary work. Professional genre fiction, such as corporate feminism, is thus often told as a way to cope with the underwhelming reality of working a job that doesn’t contribute anything to the world.

There is another way to tell the story of the young career woman, however. Her commute includes inspiring podcasts about Ugandan entrepreneurs, but also a subway stranger breathing an egg sandwich into her face. Her job title is “Senior Analyst—Global Trends,” but her job is just copying and pasting between spreadsheets for ten hours. Despite all the “doing well by doing good” seminars, the closest thing she knows to a community is spin class, where a hundred similar women, and one intense man in sports goggles, listen to a spaz scream Hallmark card affirmations.

…

The bureaucrat even describes the process of rising through fraudulence as “playing the game.” The book The Organization Man criticized professionals in the 1950s for confusing their own interests with those of their employers, imagining, for example, that moving across the country was good for them simply because they were transferred. “Playing the game” is almost like an overlay on top of this attitude. The idea is that personal ambition puts the bureaucrat in charge. Bureaucrats always feel that they are “in on the game,” and so develop a false sense of certainty about the world, which sorts them into two groups: the cynics and the neurotics. Cynics recognize the nonsense, but think it’s necessary for power. The neurotics, by contrast, are earnest go-getters who confuse the nonsense with actual work. They begin to feel like they’re the only ones faking it and become so insecure they have to binge-watch TED Talks on “imposter syndrome.”

These two dispositions help explain why journalists focus on things like impeachment rather than medical supply chains. One group cynically condescends to American intelligence, while neurotics shriek about the “norms of our democracy.” Both are undergirded by a false certainty about what’s possible. Professional elites vastly overestimate their own intelligence in comparison with the average American, and today there is nothing so common as being an elitist. Meanwhile, public discourse gets dumber and dumber as elitists spend all their time explaining hastily memorized Wikipedia entries to those they deem rubes.

…

The entire phenomenon of the nonconformist bureaucrat can be seen as genre inversion. Everyone today grew up with pop culture stories about evil corporations and corporate America’s soul-sucking culture, and so the “creatives” have fashioned a self-image defined against this genre. These stories have been internalized and inverted by corporate America itself, so now corporate America has mandatory fun events and mandatory displays of creativity.

In other words, past countercultures have been absorbed into corporate America’s conception of itself. David Solomon isn’t your father’s stuffy investment banker. He’s a DJ! And Goldman Sachs isn’t like the stuffy corporations you heard about growing up. They fly a transgender flag outside their headquarters, list sex-change transitions as a benefit on their career site, and refuse to underwrite an IPO if the company is run by white men. This isn’t just posturing. Wokeness is a cult of power that maintains its authority by pretending it’s perpetually marching against authority. As long it does so, its sectaries can avoid acknowledging how they strengthen managerial America’s stranglehold on life by empowering administrators to enforce ever-expanding bureaucratic technicalities.

…

Moreover, it is shocking that no one in the 2020 campaign seems to have reacted to the dramatic change that happened in 2016. Good storytellers are attuned to audience sophistication, and must understand when audiences have grown past their techniques. Everyone has seen hundreds of movies, and read hundreds of books, and so we intuitively understand the shape of a good story. Once audiences can recognize a storytelling technique as a technique, it ceases to function because it draws attention to the artifice. This creates distance between the intended emotion and the audience reaction. For instance, a romantic comedy follows a couple as they fall in love and come together, and so the act two low point will often see the couple breaking up over miscommunication. Audiences recognize this as a technique, and so, even though miscommunication often causes fights, it seems fake.

Similarly, today’s voters are sophisticated enough to recognize the standard political techniques, and so their reactions are no longer easily predictable. Voters intuitively recognize that candidate “debates” are just media events, and prewritten zingers do not help politicians when everyone recognizes them as prewritten. The literary critic Wayne Booth wrote that “the hack is, by definition, the man who asks for responses he cannot himself respect,” and our politicians are always asking us to buy into nonsense that they couldn’t possibly believe. Inane political tropes operate just like inane business jargon and continue because everyone thinks they’re on the inside, and this blinds them to obvious developments in how audiences of voters relate to political tropes. Trump often plays in this neglected space.

The artistic development of the sitcom can be seen as the process of incorporating its own artifice into the story. There is a direct creative lineage from The Dick Van Dyke Show, a sitcom about television comedy writers, to The Office, a show about office workers being filmed for television. Similarly, Trump often succeeds because he incorporates the artifice of political tropes. When Trump points out that the debate audiences are all donors, or that Nancy Pelosi doesn’t actually pray for him, he’s just pointing out what everyone already knows. This makes it difficult for other politicians to “play the game,” because their standard tropes reinforce Trump’s message. If the debates are just media spectacle events for donors, then applause lines work against you. It’s similar to breaking the fourth wall, while the rest of the cast nervously tries to continue with their lines. Trump’s success is evidence that the television era of political theater is ending, because its storytelling formats are dead.

In fact, the (often legitimate) criticism that Trump does not act “presidential” is the same as saying that he’s not acting professional—that he is ignoring the rules of bureaucratic advancement. Could you imagine Trump’s year-end review? “In 2020, we invite Donald to stop sending Outlook reminders that just say ‘get schlonged.’” Trump’s antics are indicative of his different route to power. Forget everything else about him: how would you act if you never had a job outside a company with your name on the building? The world of the professional managerial class doesn’t contain many characters, and so they associate eccentricity with bohemianism or ineptitude. But it’s also reliably found somewhere else.

Small business owners are often loons, wackos, and general nutjobs. Unlike the professional class, their personalities vary because their job isn’t dependent on how others view them. Even when they’re wealthy or successful, they often don’t act “professional.” It requires tremendous grit and courage to own a business. They are perhaps the only people today who embody what Pericles meant when he said that the “secret to freedom is courage.” In the wake of coronavirus, small businesses owners stoically shuttered their stores and faced financial ruin, while politicians with camera-ready personas and ratlike souls tried to increase seasonal worker visas.

…

Ever since Star Wars, screenwriters have used Joseph Campbell’s monomyth to measure a successful story, and an essential act one feature is the refusal of adventure. For a moment, the universe opens up and shows the hero an unknown world of possibility, but the hero backs away. For four years, our nation has refused adventure, yet fate cannot be ignored. The coronavirus forces our nation to confront adventure. With eerie precision, this global plague tore down the false stories that veiled our true situation. The experts are incompetent. The institutions told us we were racist for caring about the virus, and then called for arresting paddleboarders in the middle of the ocean. Our business regulations make it difficult to create face masks in a crisis, while rewarding those who outsource the manufacturing of lifesaving drugs to our rival. The new civic religion of wokeness is a dangerous antihuman cult that distorts priorities. Even our Hollywood stars turn out to be ugly without makeup.

#james mcelroy #american affairs #read the whole thing

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finita--la--commedia · 4 years

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hello! back again to ask about Marina Tsvetaeva. I haven't read any of her work, and was wondering whether you still think starting with her letters would be best? (again, haven't read anything of hers)! If so, what letters would you specifically suggest to start with? otherwise, if u think beginning with some of her other work would be better - pls tell me what! thank you so much. Always in awe of your blog. many blessings x

[ it is going to be a lengthy post ]

Letters. Still – letters. Reading them, you will be able to see and feel her astounding, absolutely unique, “undressed” and tormented Soul and with that, to truly understand and feel through, – her prose and poetry … In her case, it is important.Everything about Tsvetaeva, you must feel and hear. Never “read” or, God forbid, - ”understand”. Here is the reference to the book of her letters on Goodreads:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/283216.The_Letters_of_Marina_Tsvetaeva?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=fvbRr8HRYi&rank=2It contains 800 letters. I never read that translation and I pray to God, - it is good. You don’t have to read all of them, I will give you the list of the correspondents with the commentaries below, so you knew who those people were. Also, you can read the letters and other works, like poetry, at the same time. Why not ?But…. the letters – first 😊 The spelling of the names may slightly vary in that book. Note that all those letters she wrote while being married. 1. To Nikolay Gronsky (1909-1934). A must read. They met in Spring of 1928, in Paris. Gronsky was 18 and Tsvetaeva – 36. A young talented poet, he was later tragically killed in a metro accident: hit by a subway car in the Paris metro, he was just 25. A suspiciously strange accident, indeed …. Yet, Tsvetaeva always believed it was, in fact – “an accident”. After he died, at the time, when their communications were already over, Tsvetaeva dedicated him a cycle of poems “Gravestone”:“Where did you go ? … Your soul —where did it go ? … Your face — where did it go ? Your face, your warmth,your shoulder — where did it go ?”

They took long walks and exchanged letters, which indicate that Tsvetaeva had a deeper attachment than that of a poetic master to a pupil, but by the late Autumn, their communication faded away … From her letter to him:“… a thirst for THAT OTHER self —not of the world of ideas,but of the chaos of hands and lips.

A thirst for the secret self.

The last self.

The imaginary self …”You can also read her letters to Pasternak, but I deeply dislike him as a person … for what he did to Tsvetaeva and what he did not do for her daughter and her son, because he was simply a disgusting coward. I do believe that Pasternak hugely contributed to what happened to her whole family, its tragedy and her suicide. By the way, the rope Tsvetaeva hanged herself on, was accidentally, given by Pasternak, when she needed to wrap her suitcase when evacuating. It is painful to read her Love letters to him, knowing all that and more. She was trustful and naïve. Not because she was a fool, but because she so strongly and stubbornly wanted to believe in the goodness of the humanity when there was and is – none.

2. To Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)Her letters to Rilke are all over the Internet I gave you the link to their correspondence in my previous reply to you. They never met, but wrote to each other intensely from May 1926 until Rilke’s abrupt death in December of leukemia. During that correspondence, Tsvetaeva fell in Love with him. She was 34 and he was 51.

Quotes from her letters to him:“For my soul is well-bred.” “Rainer, dusk is falling, I love you.”“Beloved, come to me often in my dreams. No, not that. Live in my dreams. Now you have a right to wish and to fulfill your wishes”3. To Alexander Bakhrah (1902-1977)He was 20, she was 31. At that time, he was just a young critiс Tsvetaeva had never met. She lived in Chekhia (Czechoslovakia) and he – in Berlin. She responded to his critical article on her poem and the epistolary affair had started. He published all her Love letters to him only in 1960 … “modestly” cut 1/3 out of them… 19 letters (1923), one (1924) and one (1928), when Love was already gone. Later those letters were re-published in full. No letters from him were saved.He caught her interest … and just like with Vishnyak and Pasternak before, and with Rilke, Shteiger, – later, she poured out at him all her immensity … And just like with everyone listed above, he simply couldn’t handle it.Then she met and fell in Love with someone else, in the real life: with Konstantin Rodzevich and this correspondence, as well as her Love to Bakhrah, – ended. Quotes from the letters to Bakhrah:“You have not understood my letter. You didn’t read it carefully. You didn’t take in my tenderness, nor my care, nor my human pain for you. You didn’t even understand me in myself: “and does it really matter - who is hurt ?! - to experience someone’s pain as your own – all of it you didn’t get .”“I cannot love myself, because I love; and don’t want to, because I love him.”4. To Konstantin Rodzevich (1895-1988)She was 28 and he was 31. They met in 1923 in Prague.Years later, Tsvetaeva confessed that Konstantin Rodzevich was her only true Love in life: the man who cared less about her poetry and till the very old age never understood what she Loved him for. He believed that she created a person he was not and fell in Love with that imaginary hero. Many thought and still do that the son she gave a birth to in 1925 was from him. The quote from her letter to him:“I’ve loved everything, I knew how to love everything except the other, the other who was alive. The other has always bothered me; it was a wall against which I broke, I didn’t know how to live with the living. Hence my feeling that I was not a woman but a Soul.You simply have loved me … I told you: there is a Soul. You said: there is a Life.”5. To Abram (Abraham) Vishnyak (1893-1944)I told you about him and Tsvetaeva in my previous reply. She published her letters to him and one of his in “Florentine nights. Nine Letters with a Tenth Kept Back and an Eleventh Received”.Quotes from her letters to him:“What is it to forget a human being ? - It is to forget what one suffered through him …”“Such things do not hurt me any longer, you accustomed me to them, you and everyone else …”“My total forgetfulness and my absolute failure to recognize you today are but your absolute presence and my total absorption of yesterday. As much as you were — as much you are no longer. The absolute presence in reverse. Such a presence cannot but become such an absence. Everything yesterday, nothing today.”“You make me soft (humanize, feminize, animalize) like fur.”“All these last years, my life has been so different, so hard, so icy that now I can only raise my shoulders and my eyebrows: is this me ?You soften me (make me more human, more woman, more animal) as fur does.”5. To Anatoly Shteiger (1907-1944). An absolutely must read. She was 44 and he was 29. There are 30 letters of hers saved to him from 1936 and only one to her, plus some excerpts she saved in her notes and as references to them in her letters to him. He was a young Russian emigrant-poet who lived in Switzerland, I posted a couple of quotes from his poems here. When they started an extensive correspondence, Tsvetaeva lived in Paris. A personal meeting between them took place only briefly before the correspondence had started, then he wrote her a deeply-confessional 16-pages letter to which she responded and this is how it started. She fell in Love with him. In the last, the only saved letter, he reminded her that in that first long confessional letter he tried very hard to explain to her that he was homosexual. She did not understand, didn’t catch it or, rather, what I think and believe, – she did not want to understand or catch. What she saw was only this: a young, broken-hearted man from a previous relationship, who is very ill with a tuberculosis, about to have a lung surgery and who came to her for a help. So she ran to help him, fell in Love, because she felt being needed. This what Tsvetaeva was about … As I say and write about myself: “I am there where I am needed. Make me believe I am needed … and my Soul will be yours … ”. She was the same. Quotes from her letters to him:

“I am longing for you. Never — without you. As — to be longing for a bread — means to be taken by thoughts about it. To be longing without a bread — means to be swallowed by it. Never in my life I’ve been longing – without a person. One thing — an overflow, another — emptiness. I will never be empty — by you. — I hope. (I think, I have never been empty even for a second).”

“And whether you like it or not, I already took you within, where I take everything cherished, without even contemplation, seeing it already within. You are my capture and catch, like today’s remnant of a Roman viaduct, with the dawn that breaks through and plunges in more faithfully and more eternally than the river Loing, into which it forever gazes at itself.”“But you, at certain moments, are I — to the point of strangeness”“Now I am thinking about you: thinking — you”“Your letter has gored my icy scurf, it opened up my own vibrant abyss – where you immediately and fully have engulfed yourself.”“I tell you in advance – whatever you will be, when you enter through my door, – I will be loving you anyway, because I love you already, because – the miracle has happened – and this is only about the degree of pain – the better you will be – the worse it will be – to me.”When she, finally understood the reason, why he couldn’t return her Love …. she wrote him a bitter and hurtful letter to which he responded:“Yes, you can be colder than a star if you want. I was always afraid of it.”In that last, the only saved letter, the young Shteiger with a wisdom of an old man, pointed out, in a form of a light and polite accusation, as a plain sad fact, at one of the very important characteristics of Tsvetaeva, that accompanied all to one of her relationships: all men that she ever Loved – she simply created in her exceptional unique imagination. She had to … to bring them closer to the level of the richness, vastness and the immensity of her Soul. But there were consequences: soon or later, that “image” fell off … So, Shteiger wrote to her: “You are so “powerful” and “rich”, you recreate the people you meet in your own way, but when their real, authentic image comes out, after all, – you get astonished of the vanity of those on who that “gleam” of yours is no longer applied by you…But what does the Person might feel when that created “image” of yours is no longer applied on him by you ? After you created it, enjoyed it and then – stop seeing it in him ?” . It is so very true. I do the same … From her last letters to him:“… I loved you as who I am, which is difficult to explain … ““That was a blow to my chest (in which you resided) and, if I did not fall down — then only because no human force can knock me flat any more, because I no longer permit this to humans, because I will die — standing up”“How many times ? Don’t I know that everything ends; don’t I believe that this (what is in me for you) will end one day, will ease me that I will think out of you: will become again an empty – bleak – and roomy house: domaine ?”She dedicated a cycle of poems to him “Poems To Orphans”, the 4 epigraph lines, only he could understand: “Baby walked along the road Shivering and turning blue An old woman walked that road She took pity on the orphan” Anatoly Shteiger will die of tuberculosis, in 1944 at the age of 37. So, what do you think ? Worth reading her letters first ? ***************************Now, prose and poetry.I can only recommend from what has been translated. If you spoke Russian, my recommendations would have been different. For example, I would have strongly suggested you to read her “Collated notes” and “Diary prose” she kept most of her life, but neither one of them has been translated. Some bits and pieces in various books, strangely translated as her “diaries” (!?!). Poetry.The problem with her poetry is the translation. She created words, which are untranslatable, therefore, in translation, you only get the meaning of what she wrote and in many cases, it is badly mistranslated, misinterpreted. Another thing, that she had an absolute pitch and considered the music her first language. You need to listen to her poetry in Russian to understand what she was saying in a poem … it is absolutely untranslatable. Don’t read anything translated by Elaine Feinstein. There is a special place in Hell for translators like her. She will go straight there, already reserved. Here is my short review of just 3 lines of Tsvetaeva, someone quoted, you will get an idea how bad her translations are: https://finita--la--commedia.tumblr.com/post/187285356964/your-name-is-a-kiss-of-snow-a-gulp-of-icy-springThe best translations, of her poetry, by my opinion, surprisingly, available free, on the Internet, by Ilya Shabat, a huge collection:http://lib.ru/POEZIQ/CWETAEWA/sbornik_engl.txtJust pick, randomly – any. Here is the pdf book with some of her poems I would also recommend:http://www.sumizdat.org/To_you_in_10_decades.pdfProse.

Unfortunately, I could only find one work translated into English, it is worth reading:“The Letter to Amazon” – 13 pages. You can download pdf file here, the button in the right corner, on top:https://www.researchgate.net/publication/319316122_LETTER_TO_AN_AMAZON_BY_MARINA_TSVETAEVAQuotes:“Listen to me, you do not have to respond to me, you have to just listen. This is a wound that I inflict right at your heart, at the heart of your cause, of your belief, of your body, of your heart.”“Weeping willow ! Inconsolable willow ! Willow – the body and soul of women ! Inconsolable neck of willow.”“In my youth I was quick to say to myself: I always fear letting go of the wave rising from me and carrying me to another. I always fear that I will not love anymore, that I will not learn anything anymore. But I am no longer young and I have learned to let go of almost everything – irretrievably”There is a semi-autobiographical story I would also recommend you to read, I think there is a translation: “The Tale of Sonechka”Quote:“– Marina, do you think God will forgive me for having been kissed so much ? – Do you think God counted ? – I didn’t count either.” Well … uhhhh …. let me know if you have more questions about her works, life, a family or about the correspondents I have listed above for each has a personal story.

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blankdblank · 5 years

Text

Loki Baby Pt 3

Pt 1 - Pt 2 -- @sdavid09, @theincaprincess tnx for helping me with some ideas for this and future parts

“You only stayed 15 minutes? Are you kidding me?!”

Crepes, eggs, toast and fresh fruit, the scents filled the air along with a whiff of brewing tea and welcomed the Prince back to consciousness. A wide grin spreading across his lips on his sitting up to look over the room he had been given confirming it wasn’t a dream. In his move to shift from bed he turned his head looking at the buzzing phone on the nightstand he had silenced the day before. Lifting it curiously he eyed the list of unanswered texts from Thor, whom he had sent a message the night before to keep him from flying into another downward spiral after the last time he imagined he’d been lost to his brother. With a sigh Loki raised the phone and went into the bathroom to freshen up before joining you.

“Good morning Thor. I am well.”

Thor promptly fired back, “Where is she keeping you?!”

“I joined Miss Pear on her trip to Paris. We will be back in a few days, upon which she is allowing me to move in with her.”

“Brother, Stark does not trust her!”

“Nor does he trust me. The trust of that Midguardian matters little to me.”

“Brother you should be careful.”

“I have consulted Heimdal, who informed me Mother approves of my place with Miss Pear.”

Thor, losing his protective rage asked, “Where are you going to live?”

Loki, “Fifth Avenue. Quite an impressive estate, even in the city.”

“Will I be allowed to visit you?”

“Yes, however you will be restricted against using Mjolner inside. Miss Pear has seen you call it before and does not wish for there to be any damage to the building.”

“Why would I damage your new home? Have you uncovered the mystery behind Miss Pear’s identity?”

“That matters little. I see no sinister motive or behavior from Miss Pear, no matter what Stark says. If there is a reason her name had to be changed I am certain it was for good reason.”

“Stark asked me not to share this with you, however, her technology is well beyond what even Stark can design. That is why he is frightened of her.”

“Her jet is more powerful too. However, Stark is not the only one with connections. Stark has been producing his own creations for just years now, her company has been around for over a decade now.”

“True.”

“Now, If you will excuse me, my breakfast is getting cold.”

“Stay safe Brother.”

“Try to not let Stark worry you. I will message you later.”

Once his teeth were brushed he exited the room and joined you at the table with an easy grin seeing you primped and fully dressed for the day, “My apologies, I had to message my brother to calm him down. He worries so since the last time he believed me dead.”

“Not a problem.”

Flicking his napkin out he then draped across his lap he said, “It looks delicious, thank you.”

“Well I figured you might be waking up hungry soon. Better to be prepared.”

Slicing a piece of the crepe off his eyes lingered on yours asking, “Busy day today, Miss Pear?” Lifting the piece to ease off the fork between his lips.

“Jaqi, and not really. Few brief stops, but all that should be through by three at the latest.”

He nodded as he swallowed the piece after chewing then wet his lips to ask, “I shall have a lunch prepared for you then.”

His brow twitched in your smirk at him saying, “No need to limit your day. You have my card, your key to the room is by the fruit bowl in the sitting room. Enjoy Paris, don’t limit your trip on my account.”

“I insist, Miss Pear.”

Making you chuckle to yourself, and playfully reply, “How could I argue against that, Prince Loki.” Looking down again to fill your fork his actions paused and he looked you over not understanding his moment of irritation at your addressing him formally after he had insisted on doing the same for you.”

Through the meal you shared more at his asking of your tedious stops before you filled the empty breakfast cart he pushed outside the room as you left saying, “Enjoy Paris. You have my number if you need anything and if you require it the app with the lettered boulder on it is a translating app.” He nodded and turned inside, closing the door and peering around only to feel as his moments of tentative inspection of his new surroundings had passed a smile spreading across his face at his freedom to inspect the city. Or at least the closest few blocks as to not wander too far should you return early or need him for something.

Mint green was the choice of shirt he had chosen, his smirk continued to spread in adding his new slacks and dress boots to complete the look after his daily primping had been taken care of. A stolen moment inspecting his reflection his heart fluttered on the cusp of feeling happy at the chance of freedom. With the key and card in his pocket he made his way down the hall to the elevator, a short ride later and the lobby sat mostly empty but no less full of life in the chattering of those scattered throughout. The streets seemed to give off a sensation of ease lulling him into the direction of the markets nearby.

Small shops welcomed and each held new glimmers of nostalgia he could possibly purchase to remember this trip. Not one in the first shop seemed right though, it had to be just right, if he was to be spending a great deal of time with you he would want it to be something meaningful. A tap of the app on his phone and he smirked as it translated the conversations of the people he passed in subtitles across the screen above the musical note icon he had to press for his worlds to be translated for them in return. This was enjoyable, simply sneaking peaks into the lives of those around him while he browsed.

Still he wished to learn for himself, he knew several languages from back home and had to pick up Mandarin and Russian when in hiding in his first trip to earth. But you spoke French and had hinted to knowing more languages as well, and traveled here often, the poetry and classics of this world often hinted to France or even Italy, so those were two he had to learn if not for his own pleasure but to possibly impress you.

It was something he wanted to shake, an overpowering urge to be worthy, to be impressive and treasured for himself, something only his mother had done. And now he wanted that from you, his tiny protector, he wanted, if he would see himself as a prize of some sort to be the best in your possession to keep you from wandering to any other. You had mentioned him traveling home, he could leave yes, but he never wanted you to be the one to leave him, because if he left to Asgard he could always come back, he would never just abandon you. Yet if this was truly just financial for you that notion absolutely terrified him. If it was just pity or empathy, it would crush him, if it was nothing more than a kind hand out instead of something genuine, something that could grow or be built on in time. He had found something, no, someone truly precious to him here, even if he didn’t understand why yet, and he never wanted to have that tie severed beyond repair.

Tapes and a book on learning French were collected and paid for from this shop and then he was onto the next where he found his reminder, a color splattered painting with a man and woman silhouetted under an umbrella facing one another with hands locked. You weren’t a couple yet your statement of holding an umbrella over his head stuck with him, a subtle beginning marked in something you both would only know. It was just a photograph sized painting on a flat easel he could easily mount with one of those annoying stick backed hooks from the commercials spouting that there was no damage to the walls that sent Hawkeye into a rant about decorations his girls wanted up that all decided to drop at the same time in the middle of the night terrifying the house with sudden screams.

Chuckling to himself he continued to browse around the block then went back to the hotel to wait for you. Lounging on a couch he kicked his feet up and settled back with book in hand hearing the first introductory statement on the learning French tapes he put on from the player he got from his bag when putting the painting away. Grinning to himself at the new challenge ahead.

Slender with a wooden handle coated in golden etchings tapering up to a silver column topped with a crystal flame with three bent prongs surrounding it the long elegant pen in your hand slid to the end of your fingers to be flipped up again to slide down once more above your lap. A rare design none on this planet could ever find again, at least not for the purpose intended, all contracts had been signed necessary and the pen tip had been twisted back inside again hidden behind the sliding hatch. Your godfather had given it to you and for what it could do it marked the half of your lineage from your mother’s side.

A long assumed dead race you and your father had helped tear from an extinction of a war through a wormhole landing you here, though taking out a blasted Dalek ship by crashing it into a hoard of Weeping Angels formations. Though one seemed to clip part of your ship landing you on this planet instead of the clear half of the galaxy Gallifrey. Stuck on this planet away from the restored planet your mother was currently serving a life sentence on, though you were allowed supervised visitations each decade. Another of which was coming up meaning you would have to think of what to say to Loki when they arrived with her.

It wasn’t hard keeping focused on the tasks sent to you here, tiny things here and there the Council had warned you of. True they could have just sent you the parts necessary, though with the strict limits on who could travel to this Earth your delivery had been backdated for quite some time, which for a race of time travelers was absurd to say the least. So the attack of the Chitauri Loki had led here was excellent, not exactly what you needed but it laid the groundwork to craft what you did from their core elements. Loki might not fully understand just what he had done for you but you owed him a great deal more than just suits and comfort.

A glimpse up had your grin easing across your lips again in accepting another piece of paper you eyed the basic write up on. The crude outline with your pen was corrected and edited into a far more logical plan none of these modern eclectic obsessed millennials all hoping to break their first million by hitching their wagons to your successful company. No matter what though their egos would never be pleased and you were starting to get quite a reputation as picky and honestly you didn’t really care as long as your task was being handled to the T. Tiny things you were allowed to assist with, and your tiny thing would coat most major cities by the end of three years from now, but it was allowed for the grander scheme of things. Major cities was where they went to remain on the borders, to blend in, to be seen but unseen, and you had to do what you could to destroy the few Weeping Angels that had fallen to Earth with you.

A few more flips of your pen and you pocketed your pen that eased right into its shrinking holster inside of your pocket to keep it from being stolen, through the stroll back into the hall you headed straight for the elevator. Turning at the cautioning sign you made the way to the stairs drawing out your phone at a call from one of your workers from New York. “Trish, how is the Bechkmen deal going?” You asked trotting down the stairs.

“Good, we have confirmation of the final delivery, that’s been emailed to you. Should be installed by next week. How’d the meeting go with Tula?”

“Good, not even 20 minutes and done.”

“You only stayed 15 minutes? Are you kidding me? How do you even do that?”

Softly you giggled, “What can I say, inherited my Daddy’s charm and Momma’s wicked schemes. Hard to argue with me, especially when my name’s on all the papers and buildings.”

She chuckled replying as you reached the ground floor, “About the papers, a certain Prince has been spotted on your arm in Paris, anything serious?”

With a grin you replied, “I’m going to be hopeful, so it could be.”

“Well I hope so too, Lord knows you deserve a good romance after all this business nonsense. Nonstop for years now with not a date in sight. I was about to buy you a cat.”

“Hey, cats are adorable, and would probably suit my lifestyle better than a puppy. Very self sufficient.” Making her giggle as you did, “I will be fine, enjoy your weekend trip with Stanley.”

She giggled again, “I will, enjoy your Prince.”

“I will, Ta.”

A buzz from your phone came from a message Loki had sent making you smirk, “Ordered lunch, hope chicken will suit your tastes for the evening.”

“Chicken sounds perfect. Be back in ten.”

Wetting his lips Loki fidgeted his fingers strolling around the table correcting the seats after timing your arrival to the second. Again he stole another glance at the tablet and eyed the confirmation box asking if he was certain if he wanted to place his order flashing over the itemized list of all he had chosen. The ding of the elevator spread a grin across his lips and he had to fight against racing to the door, a knock however had him heading over to it anyways. The food tray was eased in and emptied on the table with wine uncorked and the man accepting a bill from the amount you had given him earlier in case he needed cash then hurried out with a grin of his own. Again Loki circled the table correcting the alignment and grinned again hearing the elevator once more and the key in the door not a moment after.

Peering around anxiously he grabbed the tablet then sat on the edge of the living room feigning distraction so he could peer up aloofly with a quick grin, “Ah, just in time. Food only just arrived.”

“Good.” Crossing the room you eyed his rise from the couch and glanced at the tablet he seemed eager to show you, “Decide on your layout?”

“Partly,” he wet his lips and showed you the screen with the flashing confirm button making you smirk up at him, “Looks like all you have to do is push that button.” Passing him to stroll to the table you could hear him turn around, his lips pursed in a moment of panic until you turned lifting the wine bottle to fill the glasses set out.

“That’s it?”

Your eyes shifted to him and he inhaled straightening on his feet tapping his fingers against the back of the tablet, “If you are certain, just, hit the button.”

“You do, not even want, to check the list?”

“Why would I?” You asked lifting your glass to your lips for a sip.

“I-,” he glanced down at the tablet again then up to you and then down again and hit the button, peering up again just as fast when it flashed and turned to an icon spiraling then changing into another icon reading ‘Ordered’ looking up again he caught your smirk in extending the other glass of wine.

In a step closer he reached out accepting it with a sheepish grin melting wider at your lifting your glass in a mock toast in which his brow inched up and you said, “You don’t need my approval. You’ve got way more sense than others assume.”

After his sip he swallowed and his brow ticked up, “Many would argue that fact.”

“Oh yes, Banner for one, calling you a, bag of cats, I believe it was.” You said sitting down in the chair behind you.

“Among other things.” He mumbled and took another sip of wine lowering to sit in the chair at your left.

“You are not a bag of cats,”

“Clearly,”

Making you smirk as you teased, “Elk in a blazer seems more fitting,”

A chortle from him had him puckering his lips to keep from spitting out his wine in a playful glance sent your way in your lifting your forks and the lid to your food to be set aside. “Funny.”

“Well I had to mention the horns.” Making him chuckle in uncovering his own plate, “Lovely choice on lunch. Did you enjoy the city?”

“I traveled the block. It was fun.”

“Good. Saw some for a film if you were up for it tonight, unless you’d rather stay in? Get a glimpse of Paris at night.”

Loki grinned at you, “Sounds lovely.”

“Don’t worry, this theater plays the classics complete with subtitles instead of French dubbing, I have a feeling you’ll enjoy it.”

A day of relaxing and exploring for him lapsed into a night out where his hand fixed in yours again and he grinned kindly at the people you spoke with and he kept glancing back along the way seeing the familiar blonde disguised Natasha sneaking after you both. In a glance back down at you he wet his lips as you asked, “Just Natasha or is Hawkeye with her?”

“I, haven’t seen him.”

“Pity, he hates black and white films.”

“They follow you often?”

Smirking at him you replied, “They won’t for long, they always leave.”

“And why is that?”

“Let’s just say they always tend to get distracted.” A subtle reach into your pocket brought out your phone he saw as you were waiting for tickets, you tapped an app with a bright red A and it automatically triggered the phone Stark had given her to start broadcasting one of those screaming goats videos making her cuss and start frantically tapping the buttonless screen. Her stolen glance up at you both had her huff at your joint wave at her in her eye rolling turn away making you giggle and say, “You should have seen Hawkeye jump the first time I set that off.”

Making him chuckle, “How long have they been following you?”

“Them, few years. Mainly a few hours till I catch them then they can enjoy the city. One time Hawkeye brought his family out to Florida to see the sights when I caught him.”

“At least he’s getting some use out of it.” He wet his lips then said, “How did you do that? With your phone?”

“Oh, Stark uses the same basic security SHIELD does. Easy to hack and broadcast what you want.”

“So, if you can do that, why haven’t you broken up his company or anything like that?”

Smirking up at him you said, “Because I prefer to be a nuisance right back to him, not ruin the lives of all his employees.”

“Ah, because you couldn’t possibly just take over and knock him out.”

“If you knew my family you would know that to be impossible.” Stepping forward you selected the tickets and he paid leading the way into the theater, he wanted to ask more about your family but didn’t think it proper for knowing you for so little amount of time. Though it was added to his list of things to do once he had settled in.

Night again had him parting with you in opposite doorways and the morning had another parting after breakfast freeing the Prince to try for another round in the blocks of shops around the hotel. Two streets after he’d left he vanished from sight startling Natasha in her seat at a café, flinching clearly at his popping up in the seat beside her Loki asked, “Are you quite done stalking me?”

Turning her head she asked, “How did you spot me?”

Loki, “You have no shifting abilities, and what could Stark possibly want? I am sight seeing. Is he afraid more Chitauri are going to come raining down from the sky because that is what he is pushing me to.”

“Stark is more curious what Pear wants from you.”

Straight faced he replied, “She’s hired me as her personal hooker.” Natasha raised a brow at him and he said, “I’ve been alive for over a thousand and a half years, you would be surprised what I have learned. There’s your answer.”

“An entire wardrobe for her hooker?”

“Pretty woman is fairly common a film, besides, I perform better when I look good. A trait you might find sympathies with.”

Smirking at him she raised her cup again, “Hooker,” taking a sip finishing the cup, “Hooker it is. Enjoy Paris, Prince Loki.” She stood up and chuckled to herself, “Oh I can’t wait to tell Stark.” Catching his smirk she said, “I’ll send you pictures.”

“I look forward to them. Enjoy your flight.”

“Oh I will,” she said lowering her sunglasses from the top of her head in her saunter for her sports car parked by the side of the street. Making him smirk and get up continuing on his way to explore more of the city in her path to the waiting jet.

Thor, fully enraged inhaled and in Stark’s irritated brow twitch at Natasha the blonde Prince stated, “My brother is no Hooker!”

Natasha shrugged, “I am merely stating the facts. She is dropping a lot of cash on him for someone she just met.”

Thor, “That does not mean he is her Hooker! He informed me Mother knows of her and approves of his place living with her!”

Stark, “Woah,woah! Living? With her?”

Thor nodded, “Yes, Loki stated that she had agreed to house him when they returned.”

Stark, ‘That was the first time they have spoken! He nearly destroyed the world!”

Natasha, “To be fair, the past few years we’ve done more damage than he has. Thor alone-,”

Stark waved his hand, “That is beside the point.”

Thor, “If Loki trusts her I trust her.”

Stark turned to him, “He’s stabbed you!”

Thor waved his hand, “He is my brother. What brothers haven’t traded non lethal blows from time to time?”

Sam, “Most siblings, at least on this planet.”

Vision next to Wanda stated, “Statistically, Sam would be correct.”

Natasha, “Either way, they know you’ve been having them followed. Pear’s caught us each time for years now.”

Stark, ‘I’ll just have to send someone they don’t expect.”

Pt 4

#Loki x Reader OC #Tale Teller’s 52 Week Writing Challenge

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apparitionism · 5 years

Text

Sound 7

I haven’t done any public-facing work on this in some time, but I’m still very much in the middle of writing a sequel to Soon. Here’s a piece of it. When last we checked in on our intrepid Russian translator and her beloved violinist (and child), it was 1963, and they were finding their shared life in New York rewarding in many ways, while difficult to negotiate in others—which, I must say, describes my own feelings about this project. Writing is sometimes like pushing an overloaded sled in the weight room: if you can budge it a yard, that’s a victory. This maybe moves Sound along less than a foot, but even so. (No links to the other parts of Sound, or to Soon, but the former are findable here on Tumblr and the latter is both here and, in improved version, on AO3.)

Sound 7

1964

The device is crafted to appear innocuous.

It hides inside a dictating machine, a Philips, the newest model. The machine works just fine, both while concealing the device and not, and Myka has to learn to use it; she has to commit to it, so that its presence in her possession will appear natural. She finds that she likes recording her thoughts this way, though she’s embarrassed by how awful she sounds when she plays it back; even at normal speed, her voice is pitched higher than she ever imagined. Has she heard herself like this before? She’s listened to so many people’s speaking voices on tape—Russian-speaking voices, back in those days—but never her own.

Christina is fascinated by the Philips and begs to dismantle it. Helena wrinkles her nose at its sound quality: she complains of a high hiss and tells Myka she can find her a far better piece of equipment if she is committed to making notes in this way.

Myka has kept from Helena the real reason she has taken up dictation.

She tries a fast translation of a page of the text she’s working on now, Bryusov’s “V zerkale”—“In the Mirror”—by reading Cyrillic on the page, then speaking it in English into the machine. It’s difficult to keep from simply reading the Russian aloud, so she imagines it spoken in someone else’s voice, leaving her to translate simultaneously, UN-style. She tries Helena’s voice... too distracting. Her grandfather’s and grandmother’s are too familiar, and thus untranslatable. Lullabies. Max? He has a lovely voice, but the problem with imagining him speaking is that she senses him also whispering his own translation right along with himself, and that’s no help. She settles on a departmental colleague, a native Russian speaker whom she knows not well but well enough; his quiet, measured tones turn out to be Goldilocks-correct. “He” reads her the Bryusov story, and she tells it to the machine: “I have loved mirrors from my very earliest years...”

She’d been baffled when Abigail first handed her the machine and explained what it contained, for she couldn’t imagine she knew anyone Abigail would possibly have an interest in bugging. Myka doesn’t have that kind of access, and she certainly doesn’t have the expertise needed to secure this thing in place and make sure it works. Or the nerve, she tells herself, but while that might have been true in the past, she isn’t sure it’s true now. She feels a certainty in herself when she goes to Russia now. This reason, this deal she’s made, it defines her. It’s a mission, a discipline. Like Helena practicing her violin, though Myka doesn’t know what the honing of her nerve is preparing her for. What her performance will be.

“You aren’t planting it,” Abigail had told her. “And anyway it’s just a piece. You’re passing it along.”

Myka’s flicker of disappointment at this news frightened her.

She practices taking the Philips apart, removing the device, hiding it on her person, and putting the recorder back together again: quickly, silently. It’s useful to need to keep this activity from Christina, though equating Christina with KGB, even in this little way, makes Myka morally queasy.

Myka knows KGB officers listen to the hotel rooms that she and other foreigners stay in; she knows her movements are tracked; she knows that everyone to whom she speaks might be an informer. She doesn’t know how much time she’ll have when the moment comes to hand over the equipment, and she doesn’t know where it will happen.

“Why can’t I just carry it on me?” she asks Abigail. “The thing itself?”

“This is safer. Trust me.” The don’t ask why wall in Abigail’s voice: whatever she knows about what might happen to Myka—arrest, search, worse?—Myka will need not to know it’s coming. Abigail has told her in the past that an expression of genuine surprise is difficult to fake, and similarly hard for other humans to dismiss.

“Oh,” Abigail also says, offhand but not, “you may run into someone you know. Don’t react.”

Be surprised; don’t be surprised.

****

The session is intended to produce a simple demo.

Helena is in the hallway just outside the booth when she hears the sound engineer take a call. She is about to leave for the day; she has just checked in, on that very telephone, with her booking service, but nothing other than the brief rehearsal she just attended is scheduled—not a surprise, here on this relatively quiet Saturday morning.

“Hey, H.G.!” the engineer calls to her. “Want some more practice?”

She takes the phone from him. The bleary voice of Ben Cone, in whose booth she had lately sat while he produced a song that swiftly hit number three in the nation, tells her that he is supposed to be putting together a demo, but his hangover is too fierce; can she fill in? He knows she knows what to do, he says, and anyway, it’s just a demo. Everybody should be there in a half hour or so, bye. Oh, but she’ll have to find her own singer; his passed out only a couple hours ago, still sleeping it off. In no shape, you know?

She thinks of Rudy Lewis: “I’m your man for demo vocals,” he’d told her, years ago. “Don’t you call nobody else.” His sugar voice. She would have called him; he would have done it. Cruel of fate to hand her this chance, so short a time after... well. She should not dwell on that, not now.

But then she does think about it, when the song’s writer, who shows up to play piano on the track—where’s Ben; hung over; no surprise—hands her the music.

The song is titled “I’ll Pass.” “It’s simple,” he says. “Just a ‘thanks a lot but no thanks’ lyric.”

Helena can’t discern his real intent here, for the lyric strikes her as... multilayered. The verses suggest that the singer’s beloved finds the singer inadequate, inappropriate, in response to which, the singer says in the refrain, “I’ll pass, baby; I’ll pass.” A rejection? Or a sincere, bleak promise to show a different self to the world? Rudy would have sung it with the full range of meanings right there to be heard. But it isn’t Helena’s job to care about the meanings. It’s her job to produce a demo.

She is to do it with this songwriter-pianist, plus a guitarist, a drummer, a bassist... and a young saxophonist. Helena tries to send the latter home, but he says he needs the money. He says also that he would be happy to play anything she wants, if saxophones aren’t her bag, so she hands him a triangle from a box of orphan percussion and regrets to inform that the middle eight will not belong to him after all. He looks at the triangle, looks at her, pronounces this the screwiest session he’s ever seen—how many can he possibly have seen?—and then starts asking about when to ring, when to muffle, how much shimmer, and is there a brass beater anywhere in this studio because everybody knows the sound from stainless is too cold. (Helena takes his name and his number and files them away for the future.)

The musicians run through loose takes, tight takes; Helena likes the loose takes, despite the songwriter hitting an off note or several. It’s just a demo, and the looser renditions give a better sense of the song’s potential. She considers sitting down with them in the studio to add her violin, but there’s no string arrangement, and inventing one, even something simple, would begin to define the song. The demo should suggest no strictures, just a loose sense of what this melody and lyric could become.

She tries calling a few vocalists, but—again no surprise for a Saturday—she can’t find anyone, and no singer she knows well is in the building, so she asks each of the musicians to try a few bars. The guitarist wins the brief talent competition, with a soar of a tenor that Helena can’t believe hasn’t been put on record before. (She is filing him away too.) He says nobody ever asked, that he only ever sang in church—but he never goes to church anymore, which vexes his mama. Further, he notes, “I can’t sing and play at the same time,” and while Helena is outwardly expressing sympathy for his mother, she is also worrying about her ability, even with experienced engineering help, to lay in a vocal right on such a spare arrangement.

Can the now-trianglist take over the guitar part? “No strings, sorry,” he says, and doesn’t that just fit the day.

And indeed it isn’t quite right, in the end, the way the vocal lies against the music. But Helena rationalizes it, intellectualizes it—it’s trying to pass as a right part of the track. “I’ll pass, baby”? Some can. But: for only so long. The length of a pop song, perhaps.

“I was thinking about Rudy today,” she tells Christina when she finally arrives home, far later than she’d imagined, after the lengthy mixdown. “It’s just a demo,” the engineer had complained. “How rough would you be on me if it was a real track?” Which had made Helena think of Phil, but that association, and its implications, were too much for an already overloaded day.

Christina’s reaction to Rudy’s name is a quiet “oh.”

****

It had been an unremarkable day in late May, and Helena and the rest of the musicians who had assembled for a Drifters session were waiting, smoking, and growing a little irritated, for they all had additional bookings, and the more sweet time the singers and production took to arrive, the more likely the musicians were to be late for those other sessions.

Irritation turned to blank incredulity when Bert Berns, who was to produce, and the other men walked in, for Bert said, with no preliminaries, “Rudy died last night.” He added, “Overdose.”

They recorded four tracks that session. Helena could not have said, afterward, what any of them were, save the final one, a song that had been intended for Rudy to sing: a ballad called “I Don’t Want to Go On Without You.” Charlie sang it instead... that he could do so said something about professionalism, or shock, or both of them together.

Who, hearing any of those tracks on the radio, would discern that they were documents of grief? They would seem like the simple pop songs they were, and was that an obscenity, or was it just an extreme version of the work that pop music was designed to do?

“How do I tell Christina?” Helena asked Myka. “What do I tell her?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know anything. My only thought is ‘the truth.’” Myka said this as if it really was the only thought she had right then, the only thought she knew how to think about anything.

But Myka was right, so the truth was what Helena told Christina: Rudy took too many drugs, and he died. Christina asked why, and Helena thought she was asking a medical question, about what the body could and couldn’t tolerate. “No,” Christina clarified. “Why did he want to?”

Helena did try not to lie to Christina. Shield her, but not lie to her. So she said, “I think”—because she did not, in fact, know—“I think it was because he thought the world had no good place for him. He wanted a place, yet there was no place. I think that at times he wanted to let himself forget all of that. All of what surrounded him.”

Christina said a weary, “Misinformed beliefs,” and Helena could answer only with “That’s right.”

Helena had assumed she would attend the funeral alone, but Christina asked to go, then asked if Myka would go too. But Myka said, “That’s not a picture we should make.” At this, Christina nodded, and Helena could not hold back a small internal push of pride at that knowing assent. While Christina took great satisfaction in being far more American than Helena herself was, she was persistently British in her understanding of appearances.

They went out to buy her a black dress.

“Is it for a very special occasion?” the saleslady asked, because Christina was unsatisfied with the first three she tried.

“Yes and no,” Christina told her. Helena felt the push of pride again. She looked at Myka, who wore a “what is she becoming?” face, and Helena wanted to take her hand and echo “I don’t know—I don’t know anything,” then follow that with “But isn’t it miraculous that we’ll both find out?”

That miracle meant Helena would not need to find her consolation in a needle.

The night after the service, she would have been desperate to hold any woman in the dark, but instead she was lucky enough to hold the woman she loved. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Myka said in that dark, the same words she’d said to Christina in her new black dress, afterward. She’d also said, to Christina, “How was it?”

Christina hadn’t cried at the service, but rather sat, eyes wide, holding Helena’s hand. She hadn’t even spoken until just now, and Helena was certain that only to Myka would she have broken her silence: “They said nice things about him,” Christina responded. Then she’d leaned against Myka, as if to reassure, as if Myka were the one in need of comfort, and said, “Not the right nice things.”

****

Tonight, late at night, Myka clearly expects Helena to be pleased, both about having been asked to produce the track, and about having done it. Instead, Helena says a bitter, “It’s just a demo,” and she doesn’t quite cry about Rudy, how he was not there but should have been, why he was not there to sing a song he should have sung.

“Nothing you do is just anything,” Myka says, kissing the corners of Helena’s almost-wet eyes.

“It was the work of just one afternoon,” Helena says, trying to shake off the sadness, yet also irrationally resentful of how Myka makes her want to shake off the sadness. “I’ll be surprised if I or anyone hears of it again.”

****

Myka’s handoff is easy. Like this: A week into her two-week stay, her two weeks of lecturing and researching, she is reading in Moscow University’s library. She is heavily supervised, of course, and she has already been told that she will be gaining no access to certain authors’ work: “Sorry, not available.” (The “to you” is implied.) The librarians are happy to hand her as many issues of Novy Mir as she wants, however, particularly since she is able to show them that she herself, Myka Bering, translator of many Russian works, was mentioned in a commentary written by its editor, Alexander Tvardovsky, in 1960. She does not point out to them that Novy Mir publishes several of those authors who are considered forbidden.

It is so easy: they do not want her to take notes, so she says, “May I use my dictating machine?” It is such a novelty that all the librarians must come and look at it, speak into it, hear snippets of their own voices. After all that, how can they say no? Myka promises to be quiet with it, but there is really no need. The library is libraryesque only in that books are on offer.

So easy: when a man approaches the table and points at the machine, her first thought is that he, like the librarians, wants to acquaint himself with the dictating technology. Instead he says the correct code word, and Myka answers him in kind. She demonstrates the Philips for him, and he thanks her. He then sits at a table of his own, not far from hers, and proceeds to ignore her completely.

She asks to visit the ladies room, which is of course in an isolated location, and she is given one of “the girls”—women who fetch books from the stacks for the mostly male scholars—as an ostensible guide. Ostensible because no American can be left to roam unattended, yet this particular girl wants only to go outdoors and smoke cigarettes. She doesn’t care in the slightest about Myka, who may be American but is just a woman, and old besides. So Myka goes into the washroom, calmly disassembles the Philips, removes the device, and puts it in the pocket of her suit jacket. She then just as calmly reassembles the machine, collects her watcher (who exhibits far more care in putting out her half-smoked cigarette, to save for later, than for her Myka-watching task), goes back to the reading room, reads and dictates for another hour, then goes to the man at his table. “I forgot to show you,” she says, “that the machine plays back at two speeds.” She hands him the machine and the device at the same time, listens to her own voice weirdly manipulated, and then it is done.

An hour more she reads and dictates, then she prepares to depart. The librarians, and Myka’s heedless escort who likes to smoke outdoors, wave her goodbye. She feels no need to look over her shoulder.

The summertime sidewalks of 1964 Moscow are full and bright. The weather is fine, just right for the young women to wear sundresses, for the young men to sport shirtsleeves. Their conversations are animated. They direct their eyes high, up at billboards, particularly film advertisements, and Myka tries not to read too much into the title of one: Den’ schast’ya, Day of Happiness. A girl in a lime-green shift pulls at the hand of her male companion and directs his attention to an elaborate wooden model train in a shop window; they both laugh. The train cars’ colors are washed out, too long exposed to light in that window, no buyers. While such a sight would have been sad in New York, here, for the young and sundressed and laughing, Myka infers that it’s a mark of all they believe they are leaving behind. The faded past; who needs it?

On these same sidewalks, though, as if they have been imported from that faded past, an older generation walks heavier. Silent. They dress as if they must wear all they own or lose it, no matter the weather. They find no distraction in advertisements, and they don’t bother with window displays. The past is always there; why be reminded?

Myka tries to remind herself, and keep in the front of her mind, that she has more in common with those who walk with weight. She is doing dangerous work. She will become careless if she forgets about risk and consequences. But a sharp lightness has come to attend her time in Russia... she keeps secrets all the time, no matter where she is, but the secret she keeps here, while she is here, is distinct: the threat of its revelation accrues to her and no one else.

The most salient secret she keeps at home is vastly different, in that its discovery would damage Myka, but reverberations from that discovery would very likely destroy Helena and Christina.

Walking down a summertime sidewalk of Moscow, responsible only for her own safety, affords Myka a guilty freedom. That such freedom should be one through which she is constantly followed and watched and listened to should be ironic, but instead it seems like part of a mistaken-identity comedy, one in which Russians have been told to follow and watch and listen to Myka Bering, but they are following and watching and listening to a person who feels free, and that cannot possibly be Myka Bering, so they are following and watching and listening to the wrong person after all. Who do they think she is?

Who does she think she is?

Her final event in Russia, a week later, is a reception for all the university’s visiting American scholars. Myka is one of only three lecturers who have come for these two-weeks; several more have spent the entire now-concluding summer term here in exchange for some Soviets who are probably at similar receptions on U.S. campuses. Different hors d’oeuvres, same receptions. More than a few are scientists, which helps to explain the heavy presence of people at this party who are clearly not academics. Myka meets several American diplomats, most of whom are probably straightforwardly State; some, though, must be CIA under official cover. Similarly, there are some actual Soviet diplomatic eminences, but also, plenty of KGB making their power known.

Myka finds herself chatting with two junior diplomats—or “diplomats”—one American whose name she did not quite catch, and one Russian, his name Nikolai. Nikolai will no doubt be reporting back to his superiors everything about his American interlocutors, regardless, but in this conversation he is just a young man, dark with a softness about his mouth. “What is happening in New York?” he asks her, and his English is all right, nearly full-speed, but she tells him he should feel free to speak Russian with her.

“Want practice,” he demurs. But he flashes her a small smile as he does so. In that soft mouth, his teeth are wolf-white. Nikolai has never skipped out to smoke, outdoors or anywhere else. He is clean.

The American glimpses someone across the room and makes a “come here” motion. Myka looks over to see who is approaching... and she understands why Abigail told her not to react. “Professor Bering,” the American says, “and Nikolai, I’d like to introduce you to Joseph Holden, the famous Olympic wrestler.”

Joseph has received the same instructions Myka has; he shakes her hand and says “A pleasure, professor.” Then he shakes hands with Nikolai. The clean Russian shows his wolf teeth again, more widely.

Myka does not know anything about this, whatever “this” might be. Her fizz of ire at Abigail for not being forthcoming is probably inappropriate and definitely fruitless in this moment, but she feels it. She looks at Joseph, who always seems to make easy situations less so, and she directs that fizz at him, too.

Myka and Joseph have one moment together during which they are unobserved, or at least less closely attended to. “Why are you here?” she asks him, because she can’t stop herself.

He laughs. “Oh, I’m finding Moscow really something,” he says, his voice fully corn-fed, but that is not the end of it. Quick, quiet, he adds, “I’m bait.”

Myka has no time or space to get more from him. Nikolai reappears, and Joseph turns back to him, his charm wide, open.

The burden of risk.

****

Myka returns home from her two weeks in Russia to find... difference. Her own blood is colder, because it always is after Russia, but also because she doesn’t know the contours of the operation she brushed past. She’ll find out soon enough—she won’t let Abigail fail to read her in, not on this—but she is still shivering.

Helena, meanwhile, is hot: her demo version of “I’ll Pass” is charting.

She’d had no idea, she tells Myka, that the demo was being cut for Lester Sill—he’d been Phil’s partner at Philles Records, but their relationship had soured. “As it would,” Helena said, and Myka recognized that little curl of lip. Sill was now at Colpix, hungry for talent... Helena had been told that when the demo was played for him, he’d listened through, then stood up and walked out of his office. “We’re done,” he’d said as he left. “Release it. It’s a hit.” Helena admits to Myka that she imagines—worries?—that all he had heard was some vestige of Phil’s style, some oddity that Helena had unknowingly reproduced. That that was what caught his ear.

“It’s just one hit,” Helena says, as if in apology, and Myka can’t understand why she isn’t thrilled to have done—on her first try!—exactly what she has always intended to do. Then Helena says, “It was an accident.” This gives Myka clarity: Helena doesn’t know how to make it happen again.

After any time in Russia, Myka is always a bit more Russian than she was before. Which is not to say that she will ever understand or feel with fullness what it is to be Russian... but some not-quite-Russian lives inside her, some unschooled child of all these: her grandfather, her grandmother, all the voices she has heard on tapes, all the words on the pages she has translated, KGB, dissidents, victims, perpetrators, even young girls in sundresses. They all wrestle for pride of place within her. Those real Russians never explain themselves, never step up and tell her, never sit her down and bleed into her bones. But those Russians, and even the not-quite-one who doesn’t fill her skin, they all know: there are no accidents.

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Sound #part 7 #Soon sequel #I know it isn't much #and I know it's been forever #plus some passages are still rough #but I do keep trying to make it real #in ways that complicate but also make motivational sense #and I'll keep doing that #because I owe it to these characters #who have moved so far beyond where they began #(anyway JH's significant line has been lying in wait since I started thinking about Sound)#(and so has that song title)#(which I may decide in the end is too heavy-handed)#(but it can deliver its thematic hammer for the time being)

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mamsellechosette24601 · 6 years

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Detailed description of Brazil's Great Comet of 1812

This is the stage with the denominations I gave to make it easier to follow

VERY LONG POST ahead, about “Natacha, Pierre, e o Grande Cometa de 1812”, the Brazilian version of Dave Malloy’s “Great Comet” which opened last Friday August 24th in São Paulo. In this post I will detail how this version differs from the Broadway one (keeping in mind that all I know from it comes from the YouTube bootleg), make some analyses and from time to time bring up War & Peace, because I can’t help myself. So of course, SPOILERS (for W&P, I won’t go beyond the part where tgc ends).

The Main Differences:

1- In this version, Pierre/Natasha was even more canon than in the book. I will explore the details in chronological order, but keep this in mind;

2- There were, of course, changes to the lyrics, driving it further away from the novel, and also making use of more explicit language;

3- Characters had more defining good/evil characteristics, so I think some of the subtlety was lost, but at the same time it helped to draw out more clearly some of the themes.

Because of my sitting position, I sometimes couldn’t see what was going on in the right, but had a privileged view of the actors walking around the tables to go up the central stage.

Once you arrive, there’s folk Russian music playing, waiters are bringing people food, and for the countdown, you hear ras, ras dva, and finally ras dva tri.

Act 1

Prologue

The Prologue is on YouTube, so I won’t go over it in detail, but a few observations: before the music begins, you see some soldiers fighting. The one in the center is Andrei, who seems to have been wounded – was that a reference to the novel, where Andrei is treating himself from the wound he received in Austerlitz? Also, Nikolai’s name (Natasha’s brother and Sonya’s fiancé) appears in the cast list, so I imagine one of the soldiers must have been him, as he doesn’t appear in any other moment.

When the chords started playing, I looked around and Pierre was standing right next to me. Status: choked by tears of joy.

During the stanza “And this is all in your program…” dancers come singing and playing instruments, walking around the tables, looking people in the eye to make sure they understand.

Pierre

Also on YouTube, so the only note I’ll make is: throughout the song, Helene is there laid back on the stairs next to Dolokhov, flirting openly with him and laughing at Pierre.

Moscow

The Akhrosimov residence is on the left stage, while the Bolkonskys live on the right.

The impression I got of Marya was that this version of her was nicer, less strict than Grace McLean’s. Yes, she worries a lot about the family’s name and cares for decency, but she’s not only old-school, she’s also out of fashion. During Prologue, the word they use for her is “careta”, which has this double meaning, and it shows. Her style is different from everyone else’s, brighter and floral, and during Moscow she shows off some dance moves and you just know that she’s doing it to embarrass Natasha and Sonya. She can be endearing and didn’t seem to hate Sonya that much.

Private and Intimate Life

So, turning entirely to the right stage now, we see Old Bolkonsky sitting on his chair and Mlle Bourienne dancing gaily to his right. He drools, and she cleans it from the floor. Instead of “a young suitor” or “some cheap French thing”, Old B. says he’ll look for a whore. He turns to the audience, asking if there are any whores there, and then turns to Mlle Bourienne. The whole show in general is quite explicit, which I will detail further.

Natasha and the Bolkonskys

Natasha arrives and the awkwardness of the moment is shown by Mary going down the stage and getting lost as she wanders through the right-side tables trying to reach the central stage. Once they meet, they say their famous greetings and Mary just looks back at Old Bolkonsky and shakes her head, like saying “err... this girl is CANCELLED”. They keep silent, just smiling a lot in the fakest way possible, and they walk a bit around the central stage, one getting in the way of the other, before Mary starts “AND FROM THE FIRST GLAAAANCE”. There’s no sitting at the table, as it wouldn’t work, once only the people on the right would be able to see it.

About Mary’s character: she’s self-assumedly plain, but her costume is quite glittery. The Mary we meet here is haughty, I sensed in her more pride than in the book or in Gelsey Bell’s version. The audience stands on Natasha’s side, and her quick escape from the house seems more rightful than childish.

No One Else

Also on YouTube, so everyone can go there and see how beautiful it is, with the blue lighting and Andrei coming to dance with Natasha and lift her up in the air to fly away. An important detail about the translation: instead of “The Mooooooonnn….”, right in the beginning, Natasha sings “The Bluuuueeeee…”. The Moon is still very much present during this song, but this change connects with the deep significance blue lighting has in the play in general, and even more in this version specifically. On Broadway, blue lighting appears during No One Else and by the end of Dust and Ashes. For me it always seemed an indicator of purity, honesty, real love, as it was put in contrast with the dominating red and yellow lights, the two-faced and ill-meaning aristocratic society. Now this view was enhanced, for when Natasha acknowledges the colour, it becomes something else: the sky. Those who have read War & Peace or at least watched BBC’s 2016 miniseries, will remember the deep connection there’s between Andrei and the “lofty, infinite heavens”. Throughout the novel, the sky is a symbol of God, joy, eternal love that knows no bounds, love for the world, for our fellow men, for those who have done us wrong. Natasha lives this sky, lives the blue. She’s already found what Pierre is looking for, and from now on we will watch as she loses touch with it and attempts to regain it.

The Opera

Sonya began singing and detailing everything and I didn’t even remember that it wasn’t in the original language. It was so good. Now, a few book characters appear in the cast list, such as Vera, Berg, Julie, Boris, Anna Mikhailovna, Anna Pavlovna, Prince Vasili, Denisov… I think they were all just named extras in The Opera. No references to them at any other moment.

After Helene talks to Marya and the girls, Marya turns to them and says Helene is a snake, followed by hissing sounds. Beautiful. I think Helene was also wearing a snake-shaped necklace but I’m not 100% sure.

The ballet and the actual opera were everything you could expect.

Something that happens in the translation all throughout the play is that most of the time in Portuguese, you can’t say as much as in English with the same amount of syllables. An example is “tickle”, which in Portuguese is “fazer cócegas”. I’m mentioning it because I was very curious about this translation, and so “I’d tickle you all if I could” became “I’d like to dance with you all”, because a literal translation would never work. For me, it became less dream-like, and so that’s an example of how translation can get in the way.

Anatole’s entrance was not as remarkable, as in the stage there is no door, and so he just walked up the stairs, but he walked up-stage just as he should (no contact with the audience, however). Instead of “good-looking”, Helene calls him “gostoso”, which is a more explicit form of “hot”.

Natasha and Anatole

This one, even the interactions, were very similar to Broadway. But the impression this Anatole gives is quite different from Lucas’. Watching the Broadway version, I can never get very angry at Anatole, simply because Lucas Steele is too charismatic and has this “good guy” aura around him. I would call him ignorant, cocky, selfish, but not evil. One can even believe he’s in love with Natasha (in a shallow way). Now, someone would have to really distort everything to defend Brazil’s Anatole. It’s impossible not to realize that he’s only seeing Natasha as an object, he’s very vulgar in his gestures, and yet you can also understand why she is being fooled, what she sees in him is not what he’s showing the audience. Of course, I can’t speak of it universally, but I watched the play with some family members who didn’t know anything about the story, and they all felt pity for Natasha, none of them accused her of being “dumb”. Maybe it was to their own credit, maybe to the actors’. I personally liked this version of Anatole a lot, as it better suited my Pierre/Natasha/Andrei sensibilities, and was in a way still able to redeem Natasha’s actions – the trap throughout the play was just too well set.

Natasha didn’t sing the part that isn’t in the album (“nothing, it was nothing…”), which made me a bit sad.

The Duel

Let’s talk a bit about Pierre. Most of the time he’s sitting down in the middle circle, he has a drowsy, drunk look, as if almost falling asleep. In “Pierre” and “The Duel”, people don’t call him “old-man”, but refer to him rather as “imbecile” and “buffoon”. It makes him all the more pathetic in the club, dancing and drinking, pretending he belongs in the group, when deep down he very well knows everyone there is just laughing at him. And because at first glance he does look blind to the insults, people just find him more and more pathetic. In a way, this version of Pierre reminded me of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot, but I will talk more about this in “Pierre and Anatole”. Also: “Oh, dear Andrei’s betrothed?” was ON POINT.

So, more examples of how this production was more explicit. Anatole says “I’ll possess her”, instead of “I’ll make love to her”. For contemporary audiences, the second one is an euphemism for the same action, but in the 19th century it’d be understood as “courting”. There’s an ambiguity in English which is lost in the Portuguese translation, and in this case it further condemns Anatole. The same happens in “Pierre”, for “he’s charming, he has no sex”, would have meant that Pierre had no gender, but in Portuguese they translated it clearly to mean that he no longer practices the action of having sex. I’m detailing this because I find translation fascinating and all in all, I think all these little changes helped set up Natasha and Pierre as a more obvious pairing than they originally are (genderless old-man vs sad buffoon... I mean, there is a different feel to it, isn’t there?).

A bit now about Helene. She wore tights, black boots, a bathing suit and an army’s jacket for all the “party” scenes. She was literally all out there. And while this contributes to making her more “slutty”, her reactions during the actual duel were quite redeeming. Before realizing that he had not been shot, Pierre crumbles into a semi-fetal-position, and so, adding to a very long cry when Dolokhov shoots, Helene also rushes to Pierre to make sure he’s okay. So yes, Helene is full of malice and loves tricking people so she can have things her own way, but she doesn’t want anyone to die. Not for her. When Anatole says that she “brings out the beast in men” and she replies with “what can I say, it’s a gift”, she seemed tired, to me. Like she has to keep this evil reputation and has maintained it for so long that at this point doesn’t even know how to act any other way, but is still capable of some regret. I don’t know, I like to think this about her.

When the duel is over, one of the extras gets out of the stage helping Dolokhov. They came right past me and couldn’t move through, it was too narrow for two guys at once, so the one carrying Dolokhov told me “excuse me, he’s badly wounded”. I moved out the chair, they passed, Dolokhov in pain, and this one interaction that I got made me extremely happy.

Talking to Pierre, Anatole says “be glad, YOU live to love one more time”. I’m telling you this show has a Pierretasha agenda.

Dust and Ashes

The beginning of the song was very good, more than ever I felt Pierre’s tiredness of living in ridicule, but I didn’t think the ending was as impactful as in English. My favorite line, “did I squander my divinity, was happiness within me this whole time?” didn’t make it into it, they translated to something I can’t quite remember. Now, Pierre sang “They say we are asleep until we LOVE”. Yes, this happened so it could fit into the syllables, but I really like this shift from romantic love to a more general love, maybe the same pure love I talked about in “No One Else”. And of course, by the end of the song, lights shifted to blue.

Sunday morning

I don’t have much to say, except that the three remained in the left stage, with Sonya holding two mirrors and Natasha a candle. We don’t see them going to church, it’s just mentioned.

Charming

There was no change of clothes nor Helene giving Natasha her necklace, but Helene’s actress gave a complete show. She was there using the entirety of the of the central stage, lights turned green and were flickering by the end, it was hypnotical and the song people applauded the most. There was this very funny moment when Helene starts raising her skirt and Natasha is blushing and thinking “wait, is she really doing it”, and then just rushes to her and puts her skirt down, embarrassed and smiling.

The Ball

During the ball, Natasha wore a white and red gown, which matched perfectly with Anatole’s suit. You just really want Natasha to escape from Anatole’s clutches (I’m not going solely by my biased views. That’s the impression my aunt who had no idea of the story got. She really hated Anatole and really shipped Pierretasha). Throughout the song, Natasha is saying that she must leave him and other similar things. Then, in the end, after they kiss, Natasha says something in the lines of “I don’t leave him”, and so when they rush to leave the stage there’s this feeling I didn’t get before that maybe something more would happen between them. We know it isn’t the case, but for someone who was seeing it for the first time, it could have been ambiguous. The play had certainly been so far explicit enough for it to be a possibility.

Act 2

Letters

This one was very nice. Pierre was in the central upper stage, Natasha in the left, and Mary in the right. There were extras around them holding paper and a plume, writing the letters as the characters dictated. Pierre says he’s found the number of Beelzebub (which is me second favourite name for Satan after Mephistopheles) and actually says “six-hundred and sixty-six”, which brought some peace to my soul. When the Golden Trio sings together (Natasha, Pierre and Mary are a golden trio, hear me out), they’re not meeting round the circle and looking at each other in the eye, something I always loved about the Broadway version, but each in their own corner, the holophotes shining bright upon them. In a way, it intensified how lonely they were at that moment, while also hinting that they would come to cross paths in their parallel journeys.

While the Golden Trio is singing, Anatole and Dolokhov climb up the stage, and you see Dolokhov composing the loooooove letter. The letter then makes its way to Natasha, going through the hands of the people sitting nearer the upper part of the stages, and only gets to her when it’s time for her to reply. So, during the entire “Natalie, Natalie” thing, Anatole is in the central stage making sexual gestures. You really don’t want Natasha to fall for it. And then she does. Nothing new under the sun. Natasha and Anatole didn’t share the stage, Anatole remained in the central and Natasha in the left, glancing at each other voluptuously across the room. This happened a lot in the play in general, there’s much less people crossing one another when they are not next to each other physically.

Natasha and Sonya

Not much to say, it was heart-breaking and similar to Broadway.

Sonya Alone

It was beautifully sung and there was a sad purple lighting, but I think this song suffered a bit from translation. Instead of “I’ll stand in the dark for you”, Sonya would say “I’ll guide you through the darkness”, which for me is something less Sonya-like. I don’t think she believes she’s capable of guiding anyone, she herself is afraid of the dark, but even so she’ll stay there for her cousin, and for me that’s what makes the song so powerful.

Preparations

The translation was surprisingly good, like in The Opera, it took me a while to remember it wasn’t in English. Dolokhov’s actor did an incredible job overall, and this song had one of the funniest scenes: instead of Natasha appearing to Anatole in a ghostly light and almost making it seem like he might care for her, Anatole sings that part to Dolokhov as if he were Natasha. He hugs him from behind and points out his “traits” suggestively (quel pied, quel regard!) while Dolokhov is just like “hey man, no homo now, I’m mad at you”. It was a great scene.

Balaga

I must say that “Balaga” was the most well translated song, because just like in the original, I couldn’t understand a word of what was being said.

The Abduction

“Adeus meus bons ciganos, a festa agora é outra; adeus Matryosha, deixa eu te beijar; lembra de mim, Steshka, adeus, adeus, adeus; au revoir, meus bons ciganoooos, agora adeus, adeus, adeus”. I might have been the only one singing along to Anatole’s goodbye, but it was lovely. Then, everyone started dancing and they were so energetic and there was this violent orgy and one of the dancers was dressed up as a bear… yeah, we got some chaos. But I was sad that it wasn’t The Chaos we get on Broadway, once the other main characters didn’t join up. Marya was there, dancing by herself and having the time of her life around the left-side tables, while Helene, Anatole and Dolokhov were in the central stage doing what they are best at. Unfortunately though, at no moment did Helene come down to meet up with Marya, something I was actually hoping would happen. Now, I imagine there was someone dancing in the right-side as well, but I couldn’t see who they were. By the show’s logic, it’d have been Mary. If anyone knows, please share this info, I appreciate it, thanks a lot.

In My House

“Não entra no meu LAAARR, VermEeee”. “Verme” means worm. Another word they used at some point referring to Anatole was “crápula”, and I’ll adopt it from now on.

Anatole runs from the left stage, where he had been face to face with Marya, and goes to the central one, where he’s still able to see Natasha, grab her hands and try to pull her, but a servant stops him. Anatole escapes leaving Natasha with the fur-cloak (which was actually just a mantle, because “casaco de pele” is too long).

This song was not as scary as when Grace McLean sings it, but still amazing, and Natasha’s acting was heart-breaking, all of her a wounded bird.

A Call to Pierre

Pierre’s “Whaaaaaaat” was very funny, he had been asleep when the servant called him and was probably facing now a hangover, so it sounded a lot more like someone who had been awoken in the middle of their sleep cycle and is still trying to decide whether they care enough about what is going on in real life, rather than sheer surprise. But then he goes to Marya and by then is fully energized and ready for the job.

The “Natasha, and ANATOOOOLE KURAAAAGIINN” part was more sung than said with anger and disgust.

Instead of “so I’m not the only man chained to a bad woman”, Pierre said “so I’m not the only one suffering in the hands of the Kuragin”, which I thought was a nice change. Pierre loves his Natasha and it’s counter-nature for him to vilify her.

Find Anatole

When Pierre meets Anatole and Helene, he calls them “bad blood”. As you can see from the changes I’ve mentioned so far, the Kuragins were really set up as a team of vulgar evil incest-ish siblings.

Pierre and Anatole

During the discussion, Pierre and Anatole stand on opposite sides of the main circle, just like in the duel. Pierre chocked Anatole Darth-Vader-style, and also holds an imaginary object to “smash his head like this”.

So, in “The Duel” I mentioned that Pierre reminded me of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. In a nutshell, The Idiot is someone so good and pure that society can’t help but see him as pathetic and stupid. Before, Pierre was a bad kind of idiot, fooling around with people who despised him, but now he’s a good kind of idiot. When Pierre takes back his words and asks Anatole for forgiveness, the latter feels completely superior, like he’s just made a complete fool of Pierre, but the more arrogance he shows, the lower he gets. Anatole, in his small-mindedness, is incapable of perceiving the magnanimity of Pierre’s actions, and more than ever I felt how out-of-place Pierre was in this society. People will always see him as a buffoon, but at least now he can recognize in himself that it isn’t the case.

“Para PETERSBUUURGO” was great. Anatole’s actor in general did a wonderful job, he could hold very high notes and sometimes really sounded like Lucas musically.

Natasha didn’t appear taking poison, we only hear about it later through Sonya.

Natasha Very Ill

Natasha, indeed, was very ill.

Pierre and Andrei

This was a very emotional song. Maybe it was just me, but you could really see how heartbroken and shattered to pieces Andrei was. We don’t see him taking his father’s chair; instead, when he tells Pierre goodbye, in the upper part of the main circle, Natasha is there in the lower one, glancing at him. Their eyes meet. I died.

Pierre and Natasha

Amazing, brilliant. My heart stopped during Pierre’s speech, it was so special to hear it word by word, in the language I had read the book. They’re standing next to each other and Pierre actually kneels down. He kisses Natasha’s hands, and she softly touches his face. Natasha cries “tears of gratitude, tears of tenderness, tears of LOVE” (romantically, or the “infinite heavens” type of love?). When Natasha leaves the room smiling, Pierre tries to get up, but stumbles and almost falls. He takes a long while trying to put on his cloak, but no one in the audience laughed. We just had silly smiles on our faces. It was magical to be so close to Natasha and Pierre that you could actually see their tears. I feel like my crops have been forever blessed.

The Great Comet of 1812

Oh wow. So, the lightning. The lights don’t go fully out, as on Broadway. Instead, there’s this opaque white light and the comet is reflecting on the light-bulbs of the central “chandelier-complex”, turning everything silver. The sky Pierre describes, is not only starry, but the moon is also there, Natasha’s symbol, shining alongside the comet. And then guess what. The lights turned blue and Natasha was there across the main circle. Pierre and her look at each other and at the “chandeliers”, which are now lighting up yellow, bursting with new life… only, instead of “into a new life”, guess again what was it that Pierre said? “I. Woke. Up”. That was the final line. Pierre woke up to the sky, the sky Natasha used to live so vividly, and is now regaining the capacity to do so. Andrei’s sky, which he now couldn’t be further away from. This show really broke me.

During the applauses, they all sing goodbye my gipsy lovers. I was singing along with them, even though I had no voice left from emotion. I looked around to see the faces and I don’t think anyone had cried, I hadn’t either, but people’s eyes were shining and we all smiled.

10/10, because I will never give anything tgc-related a grade lower than that.

PS: sorry about grammar mistakes, I know my prepositions are a bit messed up.

#natasha pierre and the great comet of 1812 #natasha pierre e o grande cometa de 1812 #war and peace #natasha rostova #pierre bezukhov #andrei bolkonsky #anatole kuragin #helene bezukhova #marya dmitryevna akhrosimova #sonya rostova #fedya dolokhov #mary bolkonskaya #são paulo #brazil #broadway #great comet #tgc

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quiviktories · 5 years

Text

( demigirl ) haven’t seen QUINN-VIKTORIA “QUIVI” NIKOLAYEVNA around in a while. the ADELINE RUDOLPH lookalike has been known to be (+) DILIGENT & (+) GENTLE, but SHE can also be (-) INTIMIDATING & (-) STONE-FACED. The 23 year old is a JUNIOR majoring in AMERICAN SIGN LANGUAGE. I believe they’re living in FIDELIS but I popped by earlier and no one answered the door.

okie dokes y’all I’m rly sad my muse for Link n Eden just lightning mcdied but as an apology ( to myself ) I’m bringing perhaps my OLDEST OC to Lockwood !! ( I’ve had Cyrus for three years , Quivi’s existed for five. ) But she’s actually a more fantasy-oriented OC so it was fun modernizing her up for Lockwood !! So more abt my battle princess under the cut. // like to plot after reading the intro

TWs: Violence, death, emotional abuse, mentions of mental illness ( ocd ), ptsd

BASICS / HISTORY

Most important facts abt Quivi are she’s 6′3, has a six-pack, and can drive. Also bi bc I can’t write straight OCs with my bisexual ass.

OKAY OKAY ALSO RLY IMPORTANT FACT : She’s selectively mute , so Quivi will either be communicating through written words or sign 90% of the time. There’s two reasons for this :

Quivi’s first language is not English ; if you can’t tell already , she’s Russian , and she’s still learning English. She’s more of a visual than auditory person so writing English is easier for her than speaking , and she’s honestly very insecure about it , so she chooses not to speak partially because of that. She learned sign very easily and is more comfortable with it than speaking.

The other reason . . . is bc of her past but I’ll b getting to that.

So she was adopted. Quivi doesn’t know where her biological parents are from , but as a baby , she was taken in by a Russian businessman named Nikolay Andreyevich and . . . she had the same birthday as his biological child , Lukas. Exactly. Birthday was April 8th 1996 ( tech as of rn Quivi’s 22 but I just put 23 bc it’s easy ) , so even though Quivi and her brother weren’t blood , they were always referred to as twins.

Now their father was a bit of an asshole , to say the least. You know how sometimes parents often pit children against each other ?? Well , you might expect me to say he did that to the kids to try and see who could run the company.

He didn’t !!

No instead he decided which one was going to lead ahead of time and treated the other one like dirt

So yeah Quivi was the one who was treated like dirt

This was because Lukas was going to be the heir, and Quivi was going to be his bodyguard. So Lukas was spoiled rotten and Quivi was trained extensively and given brutal criticism so she’d come out tough as nails and only focus on being the perfect soldier / bodyguard.

She was taught to keep her emotions inside , never to express herself , and to always be silent. And she’d be verbally berated and chastised if she failed to comply with either - she had to be a stealthy , emotionless machine. And . . . yeah. That’s the second reason for her selective mutism.

So yeah , that was her life up until she turned eighteen. Because at that age, their father died, and now it was just her and Lukas.

And he treated her exactly like their father did. He was a spoiled brat and believed Quivi was there to simply act as his bodyguard. And yeah , she obeyed him. But Lukas didn’t have his heart set on being a businessman , no - he wanted to be famous. And he ended up climbing his way to become an Instagram influencer and even bought his way into getting a record deal so he could put out bad Youtuber music.

...Quivi hates his stuff. To this day

Quivi was eventually cast to the side to the point where her brother wouldn’t even acknowledge her as his bodyguard. He acted like she wasn’t even there. And Quivi hated the way he treated other people - when they turned twenty , he got a woman pregnant and never bothered to see her again. And Quivi ended up finding her and helping her take care of the child when she was born.

And that was around the point Quivi decided her brother was a fucking dickhead and stood up to him , cutting him out of her life. And she focused on making a life for herself , and used what she got of their father’s inheritance ( because their mother insisted both twins get something ) and paid to go to Lockwood.

PERSONALITY / CHARACTER

Quivi is the epitome of someone who looks rly scary and intimidating but oh my god is she not. She’s very gentle , very polite - always uses formalities and puts others before herself. Holds the door for twelve people before going inside herself.

But also , she can fucking fight like there’s no tomorrow. She was trained for years , and she probably knows a few ways to kill a man. Was trained with a few weapons just in case , and definitely is a master of self-defense.

She has OCD and as well PTSD from her childhood. I will very rarely mention this in threads , but it’s important to note. ( I have both , as well. )

She never really had nice / fun things as a kid , so she has a lot of catching up to do. The little things make her so happy , like McFlurries , bad pop music , the cliche Shakespeare stories everyone reads , etc.

But , again - she was never encouraged to show emotion. So she comes off as very neutral because of this reason - but trust me she feels a whole lot and when she does smile it’s a sight from Heaven.

She’s a sporty person !! She’s into fencing , but that sport’s not offered at Lockwood , so she’s also on the gymastics team. Even has a varsity jacket for it.

Also in Theatre ( the club ) !! Not as an actress , however. She’s on the set crew. But she wants to be an actress in it someday , or even do some sign translations for the audience.

Tatiana was a stranger to her. But the stranger you know everything and nothing about , because you hear about her all the time from everyone else. So yes , in a curious manner did Quivi pick her name - but you know that feeling you get when you wonder if you were the deciding vote in that shit ?? Quivi wonders that ( obviously , she wasn’t , but she gets that feeling every time someone brings up Tatiana and the Watershed )

God I love her she’s my gentle giant bby and again I’ve had her for . . . five years n tbh like Cyrus a good portion of her character was originally made to Vent my own stuff out so. She means a lot 2 me.

Hope y’all love her.

WANTED PLOTS / CONNECTIONS

sb in Theatre who wants to get Quivi onto the stage tbh that was the First thing I thought of

sb who Quivi can teach Russian or ASL !! Also others who know ASL would b great bc that’s Quivi’s preferred method of communication

Someone who Quivi can trust with actually talking to ?? They’d have to be really close , though , because Quivi only speaks to the people that she trusts

A nerd who Quivi befriends and just. Listens to them talk about the stuff they’re interested in. Bc honestly learning and listening is what she likes to do - not like Ami who fuckin CAN’T STOP WON’T STOP with the studying but. Quivi’s literally been deprived of so much. She likes to learn what she doesn’t know.

Sb who sorta thinks Quivi is all SUPER FUCKIN SCARY AND PROBABLY A BITCH bc of the RBF but when they actually meet her,,, they think she’s so sweet

Lowkey a fuckboi or sb who could flirt w/ her n she just. Turns em down. Stone-faced. Might kick them and make ‘em fall or smth idk Quivi’s that person who tells u to go chop a guy’s dick off when he says one rude thing 2 u

Literally okay in my personal headworld / lores it’s a part of Quivi’s culture to settle things like minor disagreements with a duel to the death and it was a running gag on earth that Quivi would see ppl get in2 like. Twitter fights. N comment “challenge them to a duel to the death” n everyone else was like QUIVI NO

she’s... kinda like Diana. like, Wonder Woman Diana.

I call her Wonder Woman a lot

Bt this is Watershed so it’s very different from that!! Lowkey tho I’m proud of the world I created for her like I literally made a whole language + alphabet for her world

#k the gif doesnt rly... suit quivi much but in my defense i am Gay.#i'm so excited 4 her rn i just. god. i love quivi.#( abt. || broken glass broken hearts #water:intro #lmk if there's anything else i need 2 tag !! goin off the triggers list rn #emotional abuse tw #death tw #mental illness mention #ptsd mention #violence mention

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