#allure russia

[chictape]

Eniko Mihalik // Allure Russia June 2014

#eniko mihalik #fashion #editorial #allure russia

[a-state-of-bliss]

Allure Russia April 2014 - Kasia Struss by Giampaolo Sgura

#fashion #allure #kasia struss #giampaolo sgura

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

CAKE FOR A DEAD MAN (I)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER II

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 4.6k

WARNINGS: Angst, problems with food & image, mentions of stalking, unwanted gifts, death, violence, gore, blood, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Color, as most would say, is one of the best aspects of sight. It allows such a myriad of emotions to be expressed—even felt. Red reminds us of passion; navy for elegance and a certain mystique. Not only seen but processed on such a deeper level. Refractions of light that explode into the retina, rod and cone cells that send signals to the brain to help detect that phenomenon like a gift of evolution. 

But when you can’t see any of that—color—who’s to explain what the red of the roses actually looks like above a deep shade of gray? That navy blue looks even darker, too. Closer to black. Light purple becomes the same hue as the curtains your mother hangs on the windows, but you can’t tell if that’s really purple or not. How can it be anything other than slate? People tell you it is…at least, those who’ve already met their partners. Their soulmates. 

But there’s little hope for you on that front, really.

You wave to the photographer, calling out a broken Russian goodbye as he smiles warmly at you, nodding his head in your direction before watching you walk out of the studio room’s doors. A large gaggle of other finely-clad women surrounds you on the way to the changing rooms. 

Even with three-and-a-half years of living in this northern country, your mastery of the native language starts and ends with simple pleasantries.

The modeling agency was packed today and you still had so much to do. You stuff down your internal list of scheduled fittings, meetings, and more booked photoshoots that extend into the chilled evening of Yekaterinburg, Russia. There was just so little time. 

Gray hallways and white overhead lights meet your eyes between blinks, potted plants boring and drab. If you could see the shades in between the leaves you’d know you would find them beautiful, but like this…well, they’re just sad.

You shake your head and shuffle to the back of the group, throwing tiny smiles to the kind, and stunning, women who you’ve had little real conversation with. One kisses you on the cheek and pats your shoulder, and you laugh brightly before pulling to the rear, face heating.

“The bastard is finally dead!” The familiar voice causes you to freeze with one heeled foot in the air—fingers picking at the strap of your silk dress absentmindedly before it, too, stills. They were always forcing you into silk with feathered accent pieces of intricate detail. Like a bird, or, Seraph, more precisely. 

Blinking in surprise, you turn around just in time to lock onto the drained shades that make up Alyona Arkadyevna Solovyova before she grips your shoulders harshly. 

Her collarbone-length hair swishes heavily, but it’s not as violent as the smile on her sharp face. 

“Finally, little Солнышко! This is perfect news. The bastard is dead!” Alyona’s English is very good, and of course, it would be—when she was younger she dreamed of being an English teacher. That was before she realized she was just about the most attractive woman of her generation. The harsh Russian accent still bleeds through.

You laugh and grip her long, pale, arms; seeing her in a blouse and pencil skirt as you tilt your head, asking, “Christ, Alyona, give me a warning next time. If I rip anything I’m in deep shit.” 

“Gah,” Your friend waves a hand and releases you, tiny eyes creasing, “forget about that—did you not hear me the first time? My father, Seraph, listen to me! He is finally dead! It happened just this morning but I only got word ten minutes ago.” She laughs, throwing her hands up, and you hide your amused exasperation, limbs tired but it won’t stop you from appreciating your friend’s enthusiasm. Alyona squeals, “A train hit him!”

You cringe internally, face pulling taunt. “Oh,” your chest sputters as you clear your throat, “that’s, uh, that’s…great?”

“Of course it is!” Hands capture your cheeks, squishing as you worry about the state of your makeup. Alyona speaks brightly, “We need to celebrate, Солнышко. Come.”

Before you can protest she’s dragging you away from the other women and the direction of the changing rooms, all had stopped and were listening intently from behind; nosey. Everyone in the Allurement Modeling Agency building, AMA for short, just had that way about them—your business was their business and vice versa. 

And Alyona had no problem airing out her grievances with her estranged father to the choir. She lived for drama.

“Aly,” You huff a soft breath at her and her bobbing hair. She said it was blonde and you had no other option but to believe her. Not yellow-blonde, she had specified. Ice-blonde. “I can’t go out in company property. Plus, I have a photoshoot for Chanel in under an hour. The photographer needs me to be ready.”

But it seems your concerns fall on deaf ears and you can’t help but chuckle and grin at your friend's lack of care about work. She herself was a model, but the entire company halted when she said it should. 

You were truly surprised they hadn’t fired her yet. 

“And I’m sure Chanel has an absolutely hideous dress for you, my Seraph.” Ashen eyes turn back to stare at you, and once she realizes you wouldn’t fight her, her grip releases. “Some Медовик will do you good before the vultures close in, yes? Let us hope they don’t shackle you to those damning lace lingerie sets over cake.” 

Your head tilts with a short sigh, and you walk beside the woman in your clacking heels. The sound of the authentic honey cake seemed to itself to coat your insides with a lust for it—dripping layers of plush gray sponge with pale cream. Your mouth waters. 

“I’m only eating half a piece.” You settle slowly, though you hate your own words as your stomach rolls with hunger. Some time outside will do you good, anyway. Perhaps you’ll learn to photosynthesize like a plant. “I still have to be able to fit into those fabric contraptions, you know.”

Alyona squeals and loops her arm in yours easily, bright teeth in a grin like a cat. Ever one to run into objects and lacking a general ability to walk in a straight line, the support from Alyona was much appreciated. Her help with lending an arm went far, especially for you. 

Your heart warms with soft care.

“I’ll take it! We can split one.” When you both make it to the front of the building, having grabbed your jackets and purses on the way there, you come to three familiar faces while chatting with Alyona about both of your upcoming bookings. 

“I was under the impression you had the day filled,” Petya speaks, heavy accent like stone. The clean-shaven man in his late thirties was built and wearing a dark suit, the tallest out of the other two—Aleksandr and Yefim—who both wear similar outfits. They were resting in the front seating area of AMA as they’d been doing for weeks already, waiting for you to come and go like escorts.

Well, bodyguards, to be more precise. Yours.

You smile politely to them while Yefim sends one back with his boyish charm and dimples. “On break. We’re off to get some Medovik down the street. I can pay for you if you’d want a piece.” 

“Of course, the three will have to tag along, hm?” Alyona huffs, staring blandly as you both slow to a stop near the large white entrance, colored as if it was Heaven’s gates. Your friend had said coloring around this building was rare. Whites and grays. Green chairs, apparently. “I’m just ecstatic.” 

Petya didn’t like you, and, you assumed, Aleksandr didn’t either. With the ladder, his sharp face was always too blank to tell; body tight and unwelcoming with weasel-like eyes. Petya was simpler, blatantly more outward with his distaste.

“Not a smart idea. This isn’t a game to play, девушка.” Alyona’s face tightens, and you swiftly placate her with a squeeze to her bicep. You level Petya with a tilt of your head and a calm look. 

“What harm could a bite to eat do? It won’t cost you your life.” You chuckle smoothly. “Let me get you all something—it’s nearly noon, I’m sure you’re all hungry.”

“I could eat,” Yefim eases in, hands resting in his pockets as he stares at you. His accent was calmer than the others, and his face softer. Out of all of them, you liked him best. 

Your eyes rest on Yefim with a thankful expression. He smirks and nods. Aleksandr, as always, says nothing beyond a small scoff and a look around the room with shifting feet. 

When the tallest of the group does nothing to push back his sneer and heavy glare, you hum under your breath as you expect the words before they rush from his sharp mouth.

“I will have to speak to your mother about this.” The accent makes him sound so stiff—like a statue. A man built up of gravel and snow; concrete in his veins instead of blood. 

“Oh, yes,” Alyona mutters, “the Consul herself.” 

Your nose moves in a sigh, but you ease the situation with a simple, ���Do whatever you need to, Petya. I know it’s your job and I’m thankful regardless, but we’ll be back in less than an hour. It’s no big deal.” You pause, plastering on an innocent look. “We’re hungry.”

 For whatever reason you always envisioned Petya with dark eyes—blacks more deep than the clothes they put Alyona in to off-set your given whites when you two are fitted together. But the man’s eyes were so painfully light it made you not want to stare into them. 

Petya grunts and continues to glare, working his jaw. After a moment he lets off a large huff and shakes his head in disapproval.

“Half-an-hour. No more.” 

Alyona manhandles you out the door quickly, growling, “I do not know how you can stand this, Seraph. Bullshit, all of it.” 

“It’s only until everything goes back to normal,” you reason, hearing three sets of footsteps behind you as the guards follow into the chilled air of Yekaterinburg. There was no reason to take a car, everything was within walking distance of one another in this dense city populated by over one million people. “My mother’s worried is all. I’m not going to make their lives harder while they’re only doing what they’re told to do.” 

Light eyes dart to your face, your friend’s hand guiding you along the concrete with a dim concern. “I do not like all of this, Солнышко. It’s been months…Are the gifts still coming?”

Your expression tightens, lips going stiff. Alyona notices and changes the subject for now.

“Ah, but what am I doing—I’m ruining the celebration! Come, come, we will talk about my engagement to Nikifor while we eat.” 

Nikifor, her soulmate. The one who brought her color and music with his performance at a nightclub two years ago; the only thing standing in the way of their marriage was Alyona’s strict father. Something about the man wanting someone with higher standing than a musician for his famous daughter. 

“How is he?” You ask, blinking away the thought of finally being able to see color for the first time and how that must feel. A piece of you would always be envious of that. 

Alyona must have blushed because she always tilts her nose lower when she does. You smile and chuckle under your breath. 

“Wonderful,” is all she offers, but the giddy grin on her lips is knowledge enough. 

You both make it to the small bakery at the end of the long street, heels clicking and cheeks chilled. People had turned to look at you, gaping at the two models still in their expensive clothes and attempting to take pictures on their phones. All were strong-armed by the three men close behind you who bark things in Russian. 

Alyona opens the door of the bakery for you and you accidentally knock your shoulder into the frame, giving a sheepish smile before carefully walking to your regular corner table. Your tall friend goes to order while you take your seat with a sigh, Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim all shuffling in and sending glances to you; looking over the interior with sharp and calculating eyes. 

It’s like they think the sky’s going to fall, you surmise, twitching your lips their way. They’ve been here before with me, do they still not trust it?

Back when things had been less serious they’d allowed you to go where you wished with them—parks, for walks, stores—now it was only work and home. As if you didn’t already feel so trapped. 

“You boys can pick what you want,” you call to them softly. “My treat.”

“On the job,” is all Petya grunts before he takes his normal seat at the table closest to the door; everything in his bright sight. Your hand lightly tightens on the table, but you keep your expression placid. 

You’d tried to get him to lighten up, Aleksandr too, but the two weren’t as open to you as Yefim. There was a blatant distrust of Westerners here, even if you had given up your citizenship to move where your mother works in the Consulate building of this very city. 

While she was still employed by the American government, that didn’t stand in any sense with you. But on top of you being a famous model, your mother was well-known, regardless, and that ultimately fell back on you. 

Yefim’s gray eyes flickered to a case of Bird Milk Cake with a hidden longing as he grasped the back of his chair and slid into it—floorboards creaking loudly. You notice and chuckle under your breath, cheeks heating at the sight as the man’s gaze moves to you and blinks in surprise. He quickly averts his gaze and clears his throat, fixing the collar of his dress shirt.

You’d buy him a piece before you left; maybe kiss his cheek just to see him go all blurry-eyed. He certainly was adorable.

“The baker’s boy is staring again,” Alyona’s voice snaps into your head, and you peer at your friend’s face, startled. 

“What?” You ask as a plate is set in the middle of the table holding a single piece of Medovik. Your mouth fills with saliva, fingers immediately moving like a starved dog to grab a fork and cut into the layers; you shovel it into your mouth before you hiss to pace yourself. 

You chew slowly, swallow, and give Alyona a confused look.

She slides you an unimpressed frown. “The boy. At the front.”

“He’s probably gaping at you,” you take another bite, rubbing at your cheek with your free hand as people walking by the front window peek in with wide eyes; your men glare and move their chairs as the ground squeaks again. 

Your friend scoffs and mutters in Russian, shaking her head. Her hand waves quickly, barking, “Look!” 

Rolling your eyes with a small smile, you look over and dab your face with a napkin before you get locked into a staring match with the dark eyes of the man up-front. 

He wears an apron, head a mess of curls, and his upper arms stained with flour. You blink and pause, wondering if…perhaps…A pause, a sickly hope in your chest…but nothing happens and the contact is broken when he ducks his head before looking at the counter. 

Gritting your teeth, you focus back on your cake and shove aside the sinking feeling in your chest. 

Idiot, you criticize yourself. Now why would you think that would work?

“Nothing, then?” Alyona clicks her tongue and takes up her own fork. “Do not fret, we will find him eventually, Seraph.”

“It’s not like I would know.” The air goes a temperature warmer—bodies stilling. 

While soulmate colorblindness was simply the reality of life, diagnosed colorblindness was still a curse that couldn’t be solved. If you ever saw your soulmate…you wouldn’t even know it. 

All because of that stupid accident. 

You act unbothered by the shift in the conversation and sigh. “You said you wanted to talk about your engagement,” your words remind the woman and she sets off into a tangent about the dress and the location after a moment of quiet concern. A church, she explained, the big one down the road where they’ll be a few days after the civil ceremony and the outer city venue. 

Alyona is only twenty, but you know that it’s incredibly common here to get married this early. Listening, you offer input here and there, but as it always does, the topic falls back to you as you eat the slice of cake dedicated to a dead man. 

Your knife-driven problem. 

The gifts. 

Already, you begin feeling uncomfortable.

“Aly,” you try to grumble, resisting the urge to eat the entire piece of Медовик as you put your utensil down. Your hand jerks over the table and you glare down at it in annoyance, ignoring the tensed nerves. “It’s not important—”

“How many more pieces of jewelry has he sent, hm? Letters?” The woman shivers and rubs at her arms. “It is horrendous behavior. Total fuck-up. And the fact that no one has caught him? Gah!”  

Your spine straightens itself, eyes sliding to the people gawking outside the window and seeing the multiple faces, shuffling bodies that pile next to each other like sardines in a can. 

“I just don’t want to think about it, okay?” You shake your head, turning away as a pit forms in your gut; realizing the fragility of your psyche when you think about the fact that anyone outside could be the source of your problem. The stalker. “If it’s just the gifts I can deal with them—the letters I never even read. If I ignore it they’ll stop eventually. All of this can be one big bad dream.” 

Your hand continues to shake on the table, not exactly in your realm of control just as the inability to walk in a straight line is. It was no wonder why they never let you do runway shows, you think sarcastically. You’d be stuck in a photographer’s room for the rest of your career.

Alyona pushes a strand of her hair out of her face. 

“Seraph…you know it does not work like that.” Of course you did, but asking for help was never your strong suit. And your mother had already given you three well-trained bodyguards to escort you to and from work—that was more than enough protection. 

When you think of the expensive parcels that had been dropped at AMA’s front desk you had to restrain the honey cake coming back up your gullet. All of them had been expensive; pieces you could afford on a model's pension but still wildly elegant to even touch much less own in multitude. Gold bracelets inlay with black opal and sapphire, necklaces with Tanzanite, and rings of ruby, your mother had told you this when you had brought them to her off of only seeing washed-out tones on your part. 

You never showed anyone the letters; they lived in a lockbox under the bed in your apartment. Concerningly, lately the ‘presents’ had been losing the plot. Random bits of glass and shiny items—a slow deterioration but somehow even more scary. 

Even the older women at the front desk were softening the usual sneers they wore when you walked in every day, no longer chiding you in Russian they know you can’t understand. The way they seemed pitiful rubbed you the wrong way.

You pull your jacket closer to you and rub a hand slowly along your thigh in a soothing gesture. Aly pulls her brows in. 

“I want to help you, little Солнышко, but I don’t think this is something I can fix with my womanly charms.” Your lips release a snort, tiny chuckles hitting the air. 

Alyona joins you before silence once again lapses. 

“...Do you feel alright?” Your friend asks honestly. Worry was plain on her face. 

You smile, but your lungs tighten in your chest while your heart acts like a dancer and lightly skips beats. “By next month,” your hand shakes over your thigh, “all of this will be in the past. No one could keep this up forever. I just have to…wait it out. It’s only the gifts, I can live with that—jewelry isn’t hurting anybody except his wallet.” 

The woman narrows her eyes at you and frowns, but it’s not long before she goes back to her half of the Медовик and takes a bite with a moan of enjoyment. You rarely lied, so you supposed she had no trouble believing you.

If only you could fraud yourself like that.

“Quite a wealthy bastard, though, no?” Alyona slyly pokes fun and you blink quickly. 

“Aly!” 

“I am just saying!” 

You press your hand to your lips to hide your loud laugh, Yefim looking over with a certain airiness to his expression before Aleksandr jerks his shoulder to face him back forward. The two glare at each other as Petya stares violently at the front door—daring those outside to try and come in and ask for a picture. 

While you hadn’t come back to this bakery in a while, the three men always seemed to pick the exact same table; the one with the perfect view of everything going on near the door. While it was a small distance away, it allowed for quick action in any direction. 

You blink away as the wooden boards under the bodyguards’ table creak again, loud enough to cause Alyona to frown in that direction. Petya sends an annoyed look down and scowls. 

“How do you know he’s not just stealing them,” you bring back the conversation, smirking. “You know? Maybe he’s a,” your voice lowers an octave in fake secrecy and Aly’s eyes roll, amused, “jewel thief.”

“God above,” the woman huffs. “That would be the twist.”

The both of you joked and picked fun, but that half an hour went past quickly, and soon it was time to get back to the agency so you could change again. The photographer couldn’t take pictures of air and play it off as you with a smile and a nervous stutter. 

As you stand you stare long at the cases of baked goods, licking the remnants of cream off your lips 

“We can buy another, Seraph,” Aly suggests, fixing her coat. You shake your head immediately. 

“No, no, I’ve already had enough sugar. I had two muffins for breakfast. Chocolate.” Your face pulls into a cringe at the words. “Cheat day.” 

Alyona’s lips go tighter, but she says nothing as her hair is puffed out of her face. She out of everyone knows how demanding modeling can be—your entire life is dictated by two things: calories, and appointments. 

You turn to Yefim with his wavy hair and his soft, dimpled, smile; casual eyes. Not your soulmate, based on his lack of reaction the first time you had met, but in that time you’d grown a tiny crush on the man, admittingly. He was kind and treated you with respect. Capable and reliable—how could you ask for more than that? 

“Yefim?” Your voice calls out, a smile on your lips. The man looks over and blinks in surprise. He clears his throat, stuttering as he shifts in his seat. The wood tilts slightly under him and he steadies himself on the edge of the table.

“Да, Ma’am?” 

Restraining a giggle, you cock your head as Alyona snorts.

“Do you want a slice of Bird Milk Cake?” Petya slides you a blank look and Aleksandr taps his fingers to the table. You poke fun, “For when you’re on break, of course.” 

Yefim’s eyes sparkle in their colorless state, a handsome smile taking his lips back along his face. He makes a move to stand up, floorboards squealing loudly as weight is lessened. 

“I would be in your debt—”

The world explodes into a slate-gray blaze of heat and hellfire. 

Your body is thrown back before you can even begin to understand that you’re in danger, panic completely bypassed for a total blank sensation of confusion. Spine slapping into the glass of the window, your form is hurled by a vast boom out of the bakery entirely before it slams to the concrete multiple feet away. 

You slide, rolling in a mess of limbs and ripped silk. For a good moment, you have no idea what just transpired, confusedly lifting your head from the ground and blinking below you as everything rings. Your hand grips the side of your head, the thick liquid seeping in between your fingers as you peel it back and look with shaky vision. 

Blackened blood is coated along your palm, slipping along your wrist as you tilt your hand up in horrified uncertainty. 

Everything comes back in a millisecond of screaming and running feet; like a switch being flipped. You snap your head back to what remains of the bakery as blood slides down your temple. 

“A-Alyona?!” Heels sliding, you stand but stumble back down just as quickly, hands slapping against the ground as you raggedly cough more, chest burning from the force at which you’d been thrown. 

What the hell had just happened? An explosion? 

There was little left of the bakery beside the front door, smoke billowing out of the broken windows as gray flames spark with the familiar sound of burning material—a sharp burn is taken into your nostrils. 

Dragging an arm forward, you grasp something warm and wet in an attempt to get up again. You look to the side and immediately scream at what you see.

Yefim’s upper body was completely fine besides the burns and the lack of his hair, the peeling flesh…it was the absence of the entire lower body that struck you with waves of horror. You slam a hand to your lips and wail, slipping back on kicking legs as tears well in your tear ducts.

Guts were leaking over the concrete, and the dark, gaping, wound spread a fast puddle out around the sputtering that made his chest look like it was moving. Eyes flutter, lashes flapping quickly. 

He looked confused, and that was perhaps the worst part of it. 

Yefim died only half a man, his entrails pooling out of his ribcage, only twenty seconds after you’d asked him if he wanted a piece of cake. Your fingers hide the loud sobs as you stare into this blank expression, hand shaking so bad that it hits your nose. 

“I…I,” you stutter, shapes and flashes rushing back and forth at the sides of your vision. Pressure holds at your left shoulder. 

“Seraph!” The sentence falls off into feminine Russian cursing and screaming, a grip shaking you back and forth, urging you to listen. 

There are wails and the roar of cars, but you don’t have to be given a speech to know the truth about the toll as the fire burns hotter and the blood runs faster. Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim are dead. They had been sitting on top of something that had triggered when Yefim had released weight from it. 

The creaky floorboards. 

“Seraph!” Alyona tries again, grabbing you under the shoulders and dragging you away from the corpse as bystanders’ phones flash with pictures being taken. There’s just so much screaming. “Seraph, please, we need to move! The fire is spreading!”

They had been sitting right on top of it. But…but they always sat there…they…they were always…

In the corner of your eye, a dark phantom looms across the street as the first sirens of the police cars race down the road; a burning silhouette of black mist and ashen smoke.

As the bakery burns and the corpse of Yefim grows cold, it slips away into the forming crowd.

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#cod nikto #nikto #nikto x reader #mwii nikto #cod #cod x reader #cod x you #cod mw22 #x female reader #call of duty mw2 #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #ravishing allure

[serenityinstone]

Feline Fiasco

Hetalia x Reader

This is written for a female reader but there isn't really anything specific that would suggest that besides a few references. If you want to read, I'm not going to stop you.

Also (Y/n) is completely uninterested in the countries for the majority of this, all she's interested in is the cats. This is way fluffier than anything else I've posted, which is two things, and this part is relatively America-centric because (Y/n) works for him. This is also way less quality work than those two posts but idk deal with it?

There is more to this but it's unfinished and I'll probably never post it. My friend also helped with the cat names so if you don't like them... uh assume that they chose them. One last note, I thought it would be funny to write the accents so you also have to deal with that.

As one of the many secretaries working in the White House, it was actually quite a surprise to you that you ended up as the main secretary to the human personification of the U.S.A.

Because of this, you had become quite close to Mr. F. Jones and more importantly: his cat.

You couldn't help but coo at the adorable and floofy feline. Sure, you should probably finish filing those papers, but national security can wait a few more minutes. Besides you couldn't resist the allure of the purr. It would be an understatement to say, when you learned that the other personifications also had furry friends of their own, you were excited.

America didn't want you interacting with the other countries, especially not Russia. But you honestly didn't care and you weren't the recording secretary for those meetings, so it's not like you were in attendance anyways. That somehow didn't stop you from having to tag along and meeting more nation cats; of which you weren't sure why they had brought them along in the first place. It's not like you were complaining.

Ball of fur after ball of fur. No cat went un-petted. Except for Germany's cat; he had evaded you time and time again. But no longer! For today was the last day and you were going to pet that cat if it was the last thing you did.

There it was. It's sleek black fur, the ribbon in Germany's signature colors around its neck, and that always alert look on its face. He would evade you no more. You crouched down in your very inflexible pencil skirt and prepared to pounce.

"Vhat are jou doing?" A voice thick with a German accent called out, startling you and the cat who decided to bound back towards him and into his arms.

"Uhhhh." You blanked.

"You're America's secretary right? Vat vere jou trying to do to my cat?" He questioned, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

You gulped and tried to explain your actions in a way that didn't sound absolutely ridiculous.

"I-uh. I wanted to pet your cat and… he kept evading me and I thought if I snuck up on him that I could pet him." You looked away and pitifully whispered, "Sorry."

"If jou vanted to pet him, all you had to do was ask."

"Really!?" Your eyes lit up and you looked up at the German with pure and unbridled excitement. He coughed and looked away with a slight blush resting on his cheeks.

"Of course." He held the cat out. You, with no hesitation whatsoever, immediately started to adore and love the cat, even shifting it from Germany's arms to your own.

As you continued to pet the cat, who despite his earlier refusal, seemed quite happy, you asked Germany a question. "My name's (Y/n). What's yours if you're willing to share? No pressure though."

His eyes widened a bit before he shook it off and gave you an answer. "Ludwig Beilschmidt." He responded, studying his cat. "Germouser seems to like jou."

You could barely stifle a laugh at the name he had given to the black cat. He sensed your amusement and gave an explanation.

"Feli- Italy named him. I vas going to name him Johann or something similar. Italy was zoroughly horrified by my suggestions and vould not rest until I vent vith his."

You smiled at the Italian's antics and shook your head with amusement. "Germouser is a fine name for an absolutely wonderful cat."

Germany seemed to get flustered again as he watched you coo at his cat, completely ignoring his presence. He would have just left him with you, but the meeting was starting soon and he didn't want to be late. Luckily for him, America decided to pop around the corner, demanding your attention. So you were forced to give up the precious kitty cat and return with Mr. Jones.

Alfred was annoyed. Not at you but at everyone else. Why did they have any right to be around you? You were an American citizen. His citizen. Sure, all you were really interested in was their cats. But what if you thought that they and their cats were so cool that you left him and went to live in a different country instead? He couldn't let that happen.

"So, (Y/n), dude, broette." He said on the way to the meeting room. "Here's the deal."

You gave him a look and raised an eyebrow.

"I need someone to watch Hero for me and my sitter flaked so you're gonna be watching him." He fingered-gunned at you and stars seemed to shine in the air around him. This, of course, was nothing new to you. It wasn’t like you would have rather been attending the meeting anyways.

So you stayed in a different unoccupied meeting room with a lovely, furry friend. It wasn't until he started hissing at a corner that you were in trouble.

"Hero, what's wrong?" You asked, concerned at the agitated cat. His tail bristled up and his ears flattened down as he took a defensive position. Out of nowhere another fluffy cat waltzed in from the very corner that Hero had been hissing at. It was Boris, a cat that belonged to Russia.

You hadn't actually gotten to pet him yet because to be honest, you were also scared of Russia. But… He wasn't around… and his cat was. And his cat was purring.

That was about all the reasoning that you needed to brush past Hero and scoop Boris up into your arms. The former started yowling for your attention and followed you as you went to sit down with the Russian cat.

You laid down on the plush carpeted floor and lifted the cat that you were holding up above you. Boris’ fluffy body was placed onto your chest and he immediately started purring louder once he got comfortable. He nuzzled his face into your neck, much to the annoyance of the American cat. Hero yowled at you and pawed at Boris, desperately trying to get him off.

Boris only gave him a smug look in return and kneaded into you, further solidifying his spot. Hero decided that it wasn’t worth the fight and that he was going to get his owner to remove the Russian cat and put him back into his mother’s lap: aka you.

The surprisingly smart and agile cat leapt around the room and pushed down the door handle, slipping out through the crack. You didn’t notice this as you were currently immersed in the bliss of a cat sitting on you and letting you pet it.

Eventually the purring lulled you into a peaceful and warm slumber, the two of you deciding to take a cat nap.

It would be Russia who found you first. Ivan realized that his cat had gone missing and he honestly didn’t care enough about the meeting to stay. It's not like anyone would try to stop him.

So as Hero bounded down the halls towards the meeting room, Mr. Ivan Braginsky came from the other direction; his sense of where his cat was at any one moment was completely uncanny.

The Russian gradually opened the wooden door and it quietly opened without any resistance. He turned his head towards where he heard purring and was met with a surprising sight. It was America’s secretary, with his cat, lying, with his cat.

You were breathing softly and the movements of your chest moving up and down also moved Boris. Ivan couldn’t help but faintly smile at the sight. Said cat opened a singular eye to acknowledge the new presence in the room. He flicked his tail and settled back into his spot. Not wanting to bother you or the cat, Ivan pulled out a chair and sat down. 

He pulled out some paperwork, seemingly from nowhere, and began to work on it. The sounds of your quiet breathing, combined with the light purr from Boris, made for a calming work environment. 

As the three of you remained in peaceful bliss, another kitty cat was running around the corner on the never ending search for food. Itabby trotted up and down the corridors looking for an open door that might lead to some food that didn’t come from England. Her golden fur glimmered as the sun shined through the many windows in the building. She looked over at a door that had opened slightly and was too blinded by the thought of food to notice the scarily familiar scent coming from the room.

Itabby scampered over to the door but screeched and meowed as she was sent flying by an American blonde and his equally irritated cat. She tentatively peered around the door at the scene forming.

“HEY!” Alfred yelled, startling both you and the cat. You shot up straight, Boris falling into your lap. “What are you doing with her?!” He yelled again, getting his face up into Ivan’s. The other man gave him an unamused look and stood up, towering over him. Alfred, despite this, did not back down and continued to stare angrily at him.

“Go away.” The white-haired male said, his accent heavy as he crossed his arms. “You have startled them with your unnecessary noise. You are just like the rest of your country.”

The air tensed and became heavier as the seconds went on. They began to size each other up as Hero, ironically, “heroically” walked proudly over to you and with his front paws, pushed Boris off of your lap. He quickly took his place and started purring. Boris’ fur began to puff up as he hunched down and prepared to pounce. His back legs flexed and he made the jump, sending both him and Hero flying towards their fighting owners, who were remarkably somehow not in a physical fight. Yet.

You very quickly realized that you did not want to be in the middle of  two superpowers fighting and quietly took your leave. (E/c) eyes met feline amber ones and you swept up the cat and made your escape, leaving behind the feuding men and cats.

Itabby snuggled into your arms as you finally slowed down to catch your breath. Her round tail whooshed back and forth as you tiredly walked through the long hallway. The two of you eventually ended up in the rose gardens of the meeting building. The area was well taken care of and beautiful if you did say so yourself. The meeting was taking place in England and Mr. Jones had told you about how the Brit enjoyed gardening, so it made sense as to why it was here.

Speaking of the British, you spotted a fluffy feline shape from the corner of your eye. It was deeper into the gardens and among the trees. Itabby finally decided that it was time to go and return to her owner. She gracefully leaped out of your arms and landed on all fours and trotted off to beg Italy for some pasta. You instead continued your approach to the cat, which at this point, you could tell was a Scottish Fold.

The left side of his face was brown and so was his tail. Alike to his owner, he seemed to have what you assumed were some kind of eyebrows and when he opened his eyes to look at you, his olive eyes stared into yours. He flicked his tail and layed back down onto the wall that he was laying on. His collar jingled as he moved and you quietly moved up to him. On the gold circle attached to the same olive color collar, was a name.

‘Scone’ You thought. ‘Oh my god. This is the most English cat name I have ever seen.’

You almost started laughing but the smoldering glare the cat gave you made you think otherwise. The stone wall was surprisingly cold for the summer sun and as you sat down, you took a look at Scone. He seemed to still be quite grumpy, but he knew you from earlier in the week, so he was not alarmed. You lifted up and moved your left arm forward to start petting him.

Scone was soft and clearly well-taken care of. His fur was clean and had no knots or dirt insight, despite laying around a garden for half a day. You continued your actions and the both of you started to fall back into slumber. Your hand hovered on the back of the feline and your head slumped alongside your body.

It was peaceful. With birds chirping and the wind lightly blowing. There was a river babbling somewhere in the background and it made for a serene scene. The only reason he had let you pet him was because you had fed him earlier in the week. He didn’t have his collar at that point so this was the first time you had gotten his name. Your eyes closed as you recalled the event from a couple of days prior.

The day after the plane landed you were on the hunt for felines. Armed with some cat food, a retractable mouse-on-a-stick and hope, you made your way around the building England had set aside for housing the rampant countries, and byproduct, their cats. France’s cat, Monsieur, was an absolute attention wh-. He really liked attention, and would rub himself against your leg anytime the two of you crossed paths. It’s not like France, or Francis, was much better.

It’s not like you minded petting him. He was adorable after all. The cat, not Francis. But you had wanted to meet as many other cats as you could and so you had to stop by Francis’ room multiple times to drop off Monsieur.

“Je suis désolé.” He said, taking Monsieur out of your arms. “He keeps getting out. But I guess he knows when there’s a lovely lady around.”

You ignored his attempts at flirting and instead scratched Monsieur’s chin one last time before leaving. He purred at you and while you felt bad about leaving him, you were on a mission! Besides, you had a certain Japanese cat to track down. Monsieur meowed at you as you walked down the hallway and if you didn’t know better you’d say so did Francis.

Either way, nothing was going to stop you from petting Tama, Japan’s cat. He was an adorable little black and white feline with the cutest little bob for a tail. You had actually spotted him earlier and was about to go up to him before Monsieur literally jumped into your arms, demanding attention. Of course you weren’t going to say no so Tama quickly left your sight as you went to return Monsieur. 

Wait, isn't Monsieur just sir in French? Oh well there was no time to think about questionable cat names, this building was full of them.

Monsieur wasn’t the only attention whore of a cat. Prussia’s cat, Purrussia, wasn’t much better. He would follow you down hallways and meow with his scratchy meow at you while Austria’s cat, Allegro, whined behind him. He literally tried to jump up at you a few times.

Of course both of them were interrupted when Hero ran straight at you and tackled you like a professional linebacker. You had thought that it was mostly fluff, but no, apparently Hero could pack a punch. He knocked the wind out of you as you fell backwards onto the tiled floor. The cat sat proudly on you and looked around like he was waiting for something or someone. Whoever he was waiting for, however, wouldn’t show up fast enough to see Purrussia return the favor and tackle Hero off of you, much to Allegro’s horror. 

The white cat had a German ribbon as well but it looked like it was fraying at the edges. The reason you were bringing this up was because Hero was currently using one of the edges to try to choke Purrussia and Allegro was using the other to try to pull Purrussia away from Hero. Neither was really working and all it was really doing was making Purrussia more and more agitated.

“PURRUSSIA!!!” A shrill voice yelled out from down the hallway.

The cats stopped their roughhousing to see two of the countries barrelling down towards them. Well Prussia was. Austria was slowly walking over, looking more inconvenienced than anything else.

“Purrussia! Purrussia!” Prussia reiterated, pulling his cat up by its arms. “Did jou vin?!”

Everyone but the two Prussians stared in disbelief at his statement. The albino feline furiously nodded his head and if he could have talked you would have imagined that he would have been saying, ‘I’m awesome!’

Hero angrily meowed down below, as if to oppose Purrussia’s non-verbal statement. Allegro just haughtily licked his paw and stuck his nose up as if to pretend that he was disgusted with their fighting as if he hadn’t just been a part of it. Austria picked up his in-denial cat and you picked up Hero who calmed down as soon as you did. 

“Sorry about him.” You said, brushing his unruly fur down with your hand. “He gets a little competitive.”

“Ja. It’s fine.” Austria said, petting his own cat. “Purrussia is not much better.”

“HEY!” Prussia yelled. “My awesome Purrussia is doing his best! And besides, at least he actually does something!”

“Jour cat picked a fight vith a vall (wall) Gilbert.” Austria sassed.

“Vell jour cat’s piano playing is trash!”

Austria gave a gasp of horror before inching closer to the Prussian.

“Jou take zat back, RIGHT NOW!”

Prussia just laughed, still letting Purrussia’s back paws dangle as he held him like one would a toddler. He got in close to the Austrian’s face, smiling deviously at him.

“Nein.”

He suddenly, while still holding Purrussia, took off, running away from Austria. He wasn’t far behind though and you could hear the man yelling in German all the way down the far corridor.

“Well Hero.” You said, looking down at the cat who had made himself very comfortable. “That was weird.”

He just snuggled closer to you and you sighed. You scratched him once more before heading down the opposite hallway. The destination was clear, before you could continue your cat quest, you’d have to get this one safely back to its owner.

You suddenly snapped back to reality, still sitting on the wall. The sun was now high in the sky and the spot underneath you was no longer cold. You were especially warm as you now had a Scottish Fold sitting comfortably upon your lap. Quietly cooing at the cat, you looked to see if there was any way to escape your furry prison. The most important rule of cats: once a cat sits on you, you’re not moving until they do.

You sighed, legs uncomfortably stiff. Scone was far more content and his bushy tail occasionally brushed against your leg. It was incredibly cute but it didn’t make your back stop hurting from being hunched over for the last half hour.

Voices came from farther within the garden. There were two people currently engaged in a soft conversation. You caught bits and pieces of it; there was a man with a British accent and a man with what you thought was American until you heard him say ‘aboot.’ You couldn’t help but snicker at your own observation, disturbing Scone in the process.

He scornfully meowed at you and you offered pets in an apology. Around the corner turned Scone’s owner and a man who looked incredibly similar to America. They both turned to look at you when the Scottish Fold you were fondling stretched out to impossible lengths and complained like a cat while he did it. England looked down at your lap to see his cat very happily cushioned on your thighs. The man next to him was also holding a cat who again looked very similar to America’s.

They were clearly different though. This man’s hair was more auburn and his eyes were a shade of impossible purple. There was also more of a wave to it whereas America’s hair was as straight as hair comes. Familiarity lit up in your eyes, not for the man however.

“Maple!” You exclaimed, wanting to go to the cat but also not willing to disturb the one on you. “How have you been?”

The men stared at you, wondering if you were talking to them or the cat. Of course Maple himself answered this as he jumped out of his owner’s arms and darted over to you. He gracefully climbed up the small wall and placed himself down by you. Scone was on your lap and he was nicer than Hero so as to not push him off. You moved one of your arms to pet Maple and kept the other on Scone. They were so cute you felt like you were going to explode.

“Oh.” A quiet voice spoke out. It came from the man behind England. “You’re Alfred’s secretary right?”

You smiled and nodded at the man. “And I assume that means you’re Canada, right?”

He looked a tad taken aback before nodding himself. “Yeah…” He trailed off and England instead picked up the conversation.

“I thought you were supposed to be watching his furrball cat, Hero.” He walked over and leaned against the wall.

“I was. But then he and Boris got into a catfight… and then America and Russia got into a catfight.”

Canada laughed in the background but quickly covered it up. England stared at Scone, looking to see if there was anyway to get him off of you without being scratched himself. He had enough injuries, that should have scarred had he not been a country, from the cat. He shivered a bit, though also began to pet the feline, scratching his under the chin.

“That sounds like those two.”

You hummed in agreement, continuing your affections. Canada also came over to pet his own cat who ironically did smell like maple syrup. 

“Can I make you the villain of this story?” You asked England, gesturing to Scone. “I do actually have somewhere I need to be.”

“Oh I suppose I can assume that role.” He mused, carefully picking up his cat. He was not happy to be moved but England just shushed him.

Canada also picked up his cat who was slightly nicer about the whole thing. He fidgeted with Maple’s ear as he held him.

“I’m Matthew.” He said, carefully shifting Maple so he could put one arm out to shake your hand.

You finished the formal greeting. “I’m (Y/n).”

The other blonde butted in from the background. “I’m Arthur, love.”

“It’s very nice to formally meet both of you. Seeing you from across a meeting room doesn’t really count.” You smiled and gave a small pat to each of the feline’s heads. “Well I wasn’t kidding about needing to get somewhere. I really didn’t mean to get stopped as long as I did.” 

You playfully glared at the Scottish Fold sitting comfortably in his owner's arms. He promptly ignored you, instead turning around cutely. England apologized but you told him it was fine. You were at least 50% sure that Mr. Jones was probably still fighting with Russia. Those two really were like angry cats. You waved the two men off and went on your way to find out the answer to that question.

Instead of coming across two feuding superpowers, you came across two of the Asian nations’ cats. You had already met them both but this was the first time you were seeing them together. Tama was sitting up high on a shelf while China’s cat, Meowzedong, was angrily meowing at him from down below. Everytime he tried to climb up, Tama would use a paw and swipe a book or other object down at him.

You flinched as a very breakable, very expensive-looking, vase crashed down. It was this movement that alerted the two cats to your presence and Meowzedong wasted no time at all to come over to you and complain. Now you couldn’t exactly speak cat but you got the jist.

Bending down, you carefully picked up the cat. Meowzedong always had a weird clump of fur that looked almost like a ponytail that, no matter how much China cut it, always grew back. He yowled at you and pointed a furry paw in Tama’s direction. The other cat had already loafed on top of the high shelf and you looked at him, back at Meowzedong, back at Tama, and then back at Meowzedong again.

“I don’t know how tall you think I am but I’m not that tall.”

Meowzedong just narrowed his eyes and meowed at you again. You sighed, looking back at Tama. If he had a long enough tail to flick it at you he would’ve. Sensing the futility of his quest, Meowzedong instead spread himself out in your arms and if you didn’t know better you would have said that he was mocking Tama. And if you really didn’t know better you’d say that it was working and that the bobtail was getting more irritated by the second. The personifications might have had to act cordial but their cats had no such qualms.

Finally, Tama de-loafed himself and gracefully hopped down a few other layers before reaching the bottom. He gracefully walked over to you and sat on your foot… Well shoot. What were you supposed to do now?

So here you were, from one cat prison to the next. Standing in the middle of some random, out-of-the-way hallway because the nations’ cats were all attention-hogging, though very adorable, brats.

You didn’t know how much time had actually passed. There was no clock in the hallway, you didn’t wear a watch, and both of your hands were occupied so you couldn’t check your phone. As cute as they were, your legs felt like they were about to collapse in on themselves. You couldn’t even shift how you were standing because Tama had taken it upon himself to lay across both of your shoes. Your arms also felt like they were going to fall off at any second. Meowzedong wasn’t a particularly heavy cat but try holding anything over five pounds for longer than five minutes.

You were desperately hoping that either they would finally get bored and leave or someone would come to save you. Wow you guessed you really did need a “Hero” right about now… Dammit you thought that referencing needing a hero in your head would magically summon America or his equally hotheaded cat.

“Tama. Meowzedong.” You murmured. “Can you please get off?” You hoped to whatever god or gods were out there that they didn’t hear the desperation in your voice. Never show weakness to a cat.

The two cats made eye contact with each other for a moment and seemed to come to an agreement. Meowzedong stretched his body out before jumping onto the ground. Tama did the same but instead greeted Meowzedong when he landed.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration if you said that you collapsed onto the wooden floor below. You quickly got up however as you didn’t want them to see it as another chance to sit on you. At least not right now. You pulled out your phone to see all of the messages and calls you missed. You had put it on silent while watching Hero and forgot to turn it back to vibrate.

‘Oh my god Mr. Jones called me twenty-three times.’ You thought, frantic. ‘I’m gonna be in so much trouble!’

You raced down the hallway, startling a group of micronations as you went. There was no time to apologize! You had to keep your job! If not for you then for the cats!

Not even thinking to knock you burst open the door where America was staying, side note why wasn’t it locked? And were greeted with the sight of!... Mr. Jones… crying? His cat looked pretty dejected too and was currently hanging himself off the side of the bed like a rug.

“Sir?” His head shot up to look at you.

He quickly snapped his head back away, mushing at his face in an attempt to try to make it seem like he wasn’t crying.

“(Y-Y/n)” He stuttered for a second, before immediately going back to the hero persona. “Where’ve you been!?”

“Are you okay?” You ignore him, instead asking your own question.

You titiled your body to look at what he was looking at… Was that a framed picture of you?!

It didn’t matter because he was very quickly all in your face again. You could see what seemed to be a rapidly healing black eye and a tooth that hadn’t fully regrown in yet as he smiled at you. Just how long was he fighting with Russia for?

You sat him down on his bed, considering if you should even bother getting a medkit for him. Either way you ended up spending the rest of the day with him, watching movies and sitting what you considered a good ways away from each other on the plush couch. He apparently had a nicer room in all of England’s properties from when he used to live there during parts of the year.

Hero filled the gap in-between you of which America was mildly annoyed about. He kept trying to get you to use ‘Alfred’ but you insisted that it was unprofessional. He’d close the gap one day.

#hetalia x reader #hetalia #hws france x reader #hws america x reader #hws england x reader #hws canada x reader #hws russia x reader #hws china x reader #hws italy x reader #hws germany x reader #hws japan x reader #hws austria x reader #america x reader #canada x reader #england x reader #france x reader #russia x reader #china x reader #italy x reader #germany x reader #japan x reader #austria x reader #hws prussia x reader #prussia x reader #nekotalia

[talesofadragon]

𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬

Synopsis: The world was not created in colors to be lived seldom in white, black, or even gray. This is what Y/N believed, and she resolutely refuses to be told otherwise. But when a night at the city’s most prestigious nightclub triggers a series of misfortunate events, Y/N’s world of hues is thrown off balance, colliding with a stranger whose eyes may be blue but his world is a handful of shades too dark.  

Pairing: Mob Boss!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Mature scenes. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 2.8K

Chapter 1 - Flat White | Varicolored Schemes Masterlist

𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐖 York’s gateway to damnation.

Celebrated as the epitome of New York's nightlife, the club stood tall as a beacon of ecstasy. Its alluring neon lights and captivating fire displays worked their magic, casting a spell on anyone who entered. Not to mention how the bartenders' artistry in concocting sinful drinks and the hypnotic rhythm of the music had the power to transport patrons to the very edge of heaven's precipice.

Everyone loved Purgatory. Everyone except Y/N. She harbored not even a modicum of affinity for the newly inaugurated business. In her rather abashed opinion, Purgatory was a breathing disaster. The crimson walls reminded her of Christian Gray’s outrageous BDSM room, and the obsidian marble bar sparked memories of Voldemort’s reign of terror. Yes, black and red were colors that went well together, but the falu red walls were anything but flattering when the amber lights glided over them.

It was outrageous how long the waiting list was for a place as distasteful as this. Though the only redeeming factor, to some extent, was the quality of the drinks. But the bartender seriously needed to draw the limit for those who callously consumed alcohol as if they were born in Russia and had gained supernatural immunity against vodka’s kicks and punches.

Three guys had already attempted to take Y/N to the bathroom, which was a despicable shade of merlot, for a quick shag. And only one of the three walked away without the promise of a kiss from her pepper spray because he had been pulled by the ear by whom Y/N assumed was his girlfriend.

And to top it all off, Yelena, Y/N’s best friend, had disappeared somewhere in the crowd and wasn’t answering any of her texts. Feeling exasperated, Y/N retrieved her phone from her pocket. If Yelena continued to ignore her text messages, then it was time to make a call. Maybe the incessant vibration of her phone for a solid minute would finally capture Yelena's attention. The phone rang five times before Yelena finally picked up, and to Y/N’s misfortune, her friend didn’t sound alone.

“Please tell me you’re not on the phone with me while having sex with some guy.”

“I am not on the phone with you while having sex,” Yelena replied indignantly. There was some shuffling from her end of the line, audibly heard from the lack of blaring music. “I’m getting pizza with some people I met at the club.”

“You’re what? With who? And you didn’t think to tell me!”

“I’m telling you now.”

“How considerate of you,” Y/N seethed, gripping her phone tighter. She was already speeding out of the club, pushing her way through the drunken herd. “You couldn’t have informed me of your plans when you ditched me forty-five minutes ago?”

“No, because I didn’t have any plans forty-five minutes ago. I just had them five minutes before you called.”

Y/N inwardly groaned. Now that she was outside the club, she was certain that Yelena must have heard her. She forcefully yanked on the car door handle, hastening to insert the key into the ignition. "Seriously, Yelena? I can't believe you abandoned me for a group of strangers!"

"Hey!" Yelena chided. "I didn't ditch you for them. I ditched you for pizza."

“Yel—”

“Luigi’s Pizza.”

“Luigi’s! That’s all the way across town. Are you sure it's a good idea to go there with people you just met?”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to be talking on the phone while driving?”

“You’re on Bluetooth speaker right now,” Y/N fired back. She was starting to get visibly irritated.

“Good for you. Lock the doors while you’re driving, and keep the pepper spray close to you.”

Is she seriously going over a road safety protocol with me right now? Y/N thought. “You’re with a bunch of strangers. In a car that’s not your own. Going to goddamn Luigi’s at four in the morning! And you’re lecturing me about safety?”

“Yes,” came Yelena’s answer. Her tone was a perfect mix of exasperation and incredulity. “Besides, they should be more afraid of me than I will ever be of them.” Y/N couldn’t argue with that. “Now, let me focus on the road, птичка.”

“Are you really the one driving, Yel?” Y/N asked.

“Of course I am. You’d think I’d let some stranger drive me to Luigi’s?”

Y/N couldn't help but burst into laughter. It was such a quintessential Yelena remark. She was just about to caution her friend to stay safe when the call abruptly disconnected, leaving behind a resounding beep that filled the ensuing silence. She had to applaud Yelena for her dual role as both a nuisance and an entertainer.

Deciding not to bother and call again, Y/N focused on getting herself home. Fifteen minutes away from her house, she turned on her blinker and took a right turn. Unaware of the glass shards on the road ahead, Y/N let out a shriek when a loud popping noise flooded her ears. Her hands tightened their hold on the steering wheel as realization dawned on her: something was awry with her car. Its movements became increasingly hesitant, raising her anxiety levels with each passing moment.

By some stroke of luck, Y/N managed to park her car on the side of the road. Taking a few moments to collect herself, she focused on calming her racing thoughts. Without delay, she activated her emergency lights and cautiously stepped out of the vehicle. As she rounded the car, her gaze immediately landed on the deflated tire.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Frustration surged through Y/N as she swiftly retrieved her phone and dialed Yelena's number. The phone rang twice, briefly fanning the flames of Y/N’s hope, before the call abruptly ended. Trying once more, she stomped her feet on the road in frustration when it went straight to voicemail. "Goddamn Luigi’s! And goddamn you, Yelena Belova!"

When Yelena had invited her to Purgatory, Y/N didn’t think that she was going to be balancing on the edge of hell, her grip on sanity hanging by a thread.

She glared at her flat tire, her eyes wandering to the glass shards a couple of feet away and then to the dark sky above her. It was way too early for this shit. And while yes, Y/N did have a spare tire in her trunk, she had no idea how to change it. So, she did what any sane person would do in such a situation. She yelled out in frustration and kicked the goddamn thing.

After releasing her frustration, she got into the car and settled in the driver’s seat. Locking her doors and making sure her pepper spray was close by, Y/N started googling a 24/7 roadside assistance service. As her search results loaded in a flash, a sudden knock on her window stole her attention from the glowing screen, drawing her gaze to mesmerizing blue eyes on the other side of the glass.

Startled, Y/N jolted in her seat, instinctively leaning away from the window. However, her initial fear quickly transformed into astonishment as she focused on the man standing on the other side of the glass. He motioned for her to roll down her window, and she complied. Although the window only opened partially, leaving only a small gap, the stranger didn't seem to mind.

"Hello, ma'am," he greeted with a hint of a smile. His poised voice and penetrating blue eyes sent shivers down Y/N's spine.

She cleared her throat, trying to mask any hint of trepidation. "Hi," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt inside.

“I saw that you have a flat tire. Can I help you in any way?”

Y/N hesitated, glancing between him and her phone, unsure of how to respond. She waited for a moment, attempting to appear nonchalant, before replying, "Thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I'd rather call for roadside assistance."

"At four in the morning?" He tilted his head slightly to the right, and Y/N felt a nervous gulp rise in her throat. She couldn't tell if it was his chiseled jaw or his imposing gaze that unsettled her. "If you get a hold of them, it might take them an hour to get here. I can fix your tire in five minutes."

Y/N gnawed at her lower lip, torn between the convenience of accepting the stranger's help and her initial hesitation. She glanced between him and the road, contemplating her options. Did she really want to stay locked in her car for an entire hour, or did she want to get home quickly and rest in the comfort of her own bed?

"Besides a spare tire, I don't have a repair kit or anything," she admitted, her expression now tinged with a hint of hopelessness. While she was willing to accept the man's assistance, she feared that it might not be enough to get her back on the road.

The stranger's lips twitched, forming a reassuring smile that strangely comforted Y/N. "Don't worry about that. I've got you covered." His words seemed to carry an air of confidence that put her at ease.

Nodding her head, Y/N reached out to open the car door. The stranger fell back a step, extending a hand to help her out of her car. She cautiously accepted it, surprised by the softness of his touch and the delicate gesture.

As soon as she was out, he let go of her hand. Though his touch was polite and fleeting, Y/N found herself needing it to anchor her when she finally focused on him. She couldn't help but be struck by his height. Despite having to lean down to face her window, he easily towered over six feet.

Blinking owlishly, she fiddled with her keys before pressing a button to open the trunk. When the stranger passed her to grab the spare tire, she noticed him motioning for the two men in the black car behind her. She bristled, eyes wary. Her shoulders immediately relaxed when one of them fished out the tire repair kit and handed it to the stranger.

“Here you go, boss,” the man with brown hair tied in a bun said.

He straightened his black blazer, offering a brief nod in Y/N's direction. She eyed him curiously, following his light steps. Turning her attention back to the blond man, she couldn't help but feel intrigued. "What's your name?" she inquired.

He looked up at her, his piercing blue eyes meeting her gaze before he replied, "Steven. Though most people call me Steve, ma'am."

"Y/N," she clarified, introducing herself while absently placing a hand on her arm. Partly rubbing away the intrigue that slithered through her body and mostly attempting to conceal the areas her short mauve dress exposed.

“Y/N,” Steve enunciated. His delicate and euphonious words were a stark contrast to his intimidating stature. He studied her, regarding the way she shifted from one foot to another. She bit down on her tongue, ready to react in case of any abrupt movement. To her surprise, Steve shrugged off his jacket and extended it to her. “Would you mind holding on to it? I wouldn’t want to get it dirty.”

“Sure.” Her voice came out breathless, caught off guard by his request. She took the jacket from Steve’s hand, noting how he moved his fingers around to avoid brushing hers. The action was both welcome and disappointing because, despite Y/N's guarded demeanor, she couldn't help but feel drawn to Steve's enigmatic presence and the subtle grace with which he moved.

“You can put it on.”

“What?”

Steve laughed slightly at Y/N’s oblivious state. He regarded her as she hugged the piece of fabric close to her body, noting the way the faint street light glided over her soft features. “It’s cold. And if you insist on standing in the open road, I’d feel much better if you kept yourself warm.”

Y/N's fingers clenched tightly onto the fabric of Steve's leather jacket. The warmth that surged through her body in response to his words was palpable, yet she masked her emotions with caution. "It's alright," she responded carefully. "Thank you, but I really don't need to."

"I insist," Steve countered, his gaze carrying an air of authority. She found herself yielding to it, unable to resist. As soon as she placed the jacket on her shoulders, her nose embraced the dizzying scent of sandalwood and bourbon. She dug her hands into the jacket’s pockets, feeling at ease in Steve’s presence. “Do you live far?”

“Fifteen minutes away,” she replied.

Steve was currently engrossed in adjusting the new tire, and Y/N took the opportunity to quietly observe him. Her eyes traced his skillful fingers as they gripped the tire, and she found herself captivated by his blond hair and the strands that fell gently across his eyes.

“New Yorker?”

She shook her head. “I actually moved here a couple of months back. I’m from Washington.”

“Really? That’s where I met Sam,” Steve remarked, gesturing towards the car parked behind them where the two men sat. Y/N’s gaze shifted to the tall, black man with a laid-back expression, whom she identified as Sam. “Him and Bucky, the one beside him, are my best friends.”

“Didn’t the one with the man bun, uhh, Bucky, call you boss?”

Steve chuckled. “Yeah, it’s definitely a long story,” he admitted, leaving the details unspoken. After a brief pause, his curiosity turned toward Y/N. “What about you?” he inquired. “Made any friends here?”

“Not much,” she hummed. “Except for a best friend who decided that forgoing a slice of Luigi’s pizza in favor of keeping me company would be sacrilegious.”

The roaring of Steve’s laughter was welcome in the dimly lit road. For a moment, he forgot all about fixing the tire, letting his attention fall on Y/N. His voice was full of mirth as he spoke, “Luigi’s is a godsend. Tell her to try the Brooklyn special. It’s my favorite.”

“Now I know what to get you as a thank you for your services.”

“Don’t you worry about that, doll.” Steve flashed her a winsome smile, and she just knew that the goosebumps on her skin were not caused by the crisp wind around them. I’m just glad to have crossed your path.”

As Steve spoke, Y/N watched him deftly dust off his fingers and tidy up the tools. The five minutes seemed to pass all too quickly, much to Y/N's disappointment. He efficiently organized everything back in its designated spot, and when she tried to lend a hand, he kindly gestured for her to stop with a raised hand. Meanwhile, Bucky stepped out of the car and retrieved the kit from Steve, who was now carefully placing the old tire in Y/N’s trunk.

“I really can’t thank you enough for this,” YN expressed sincerely.

Steve closed her trunk, leaning against her car with a radiant grin. “It’s no problem at all.” He fished out a card holder from the pocket of his jeans and offered it to Y/N. “If you ever need anything, or you lose your friend to Luigi’s and find yourself in need of someone to talk to, don’t hesitate to give me a call. Even if it’s at four in the morning.”

Y/N's gaze fixed upon the card, her eyes gliding over the elegant golden letters delicately engraved on the sleek black paper. The minimalistic design caught her attention, showcasing only the essential contact details. It held a certain allure, an understated elegance that piqued her curiosity.

“Thank you,” she found herself saying. She wished she could say more, but the whole encounter had left her astounded. It was a wonder her brain even managed to form two words.

Reluctantly, Y/N observed Steve nodding his head as he bid her goodbye. He took his place in the back of his car but didn’t motion for Bucky to move. It took her a moment, perhaps a moment too long, to grasp that he was waiting for her to safely settle in her own car before he would depart.

Immediately, Y/N jumped in her car and turned it on. She waved at Steve as he passed by her car and went on his way. Suddenly, a realization struck Y/N like a striking lightning bolt. Two thoughts reverberated in her mind with newfound clarity.

Yelena’s unexpected disappearance turned out to be far more favorable than Y/N had initially thought. And to add to the intrigue, Steve had not only left her with his phone number but with his jacket and an open invitation to call him whenever she wanted. The weight of these revelations settled upon her, igniting a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

The day was shaping out to be a good one. Or so she thought.

: ̗̀➛ Read Chapter 2 | Morally Gray

Series Taglist: @crazyunsexycool

From a "one shot" that was not supposed to exceed 6k words to a series, here's to hoping I make it a good one. Thank you for reading this! What are your thoughts so far?

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers #captain america #captain america x female reader #captain america x reader #avengers fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel mcu #avengers #steve rogers x y/n #mafia steve rogers #mob steve rogers #mob!steve rogers x reader #mafia!steve rogers x reader

[icarusallusion]

On the kick of relationships I feel were a bit wasted on lack of expansion and fandom media literacy.

Volgin and Ocelot. While they definitely do not stem from the same problems as Kazuhira and Quiet like I talked about in my other post, I still feel they aren't explained enough, hours of exposition but nothing quite explains why they are the way they are. Part of that leads to their allure as characters, the years of character building we don't hear or see, but their subtle relationship really falls flat on a lot of gamers I've found.

Into them themselves before I get into all the meta stuff.

Volgin doesn't waste time torturing and shocking people who minorly inconvenience him. He kills Granin pretty much just for fun, shocks and sexually tortures EVA, tortures his own men from the simplest lack of respect, and nukes a facility which kills multiple of his countrymen. All of these disturb Ocelot, but he never says much about it until it comes at the pain of Russia itself. (i.e killing Granin who benefits them and Russia in turn, not truly caring about torture when he learns its for a spy, feeling bad ahout killing Russian men even those who go agaisnt the GRU, and the nukes destroying Russian soil and countrymen)

However any time Ocelot calls Volgin out on his sadistic and cruel behaviors, Volgin never says anything truly negative back to Ocelot. For a man who does awful things to everyone else the way he hesitates to hurt Ocelot whether through physical or verbal means was always interesting to me.

Especially this interaction after Granin is killed by Volgin.

Volgin speaks down on Ocelot, however this isn't done in an insulting way, it's simply the truth in Volgin's eyes. Volgin raised Ocelot since he was 16, Ocelot is still decades younger than him, and is still ranks below.

To Volgin, Ocelot needs to be weeded out himself, of the care he deeply holds for Russia. Volgin undermines Ocelot and how he feels towards the war and cruelty surrounding it, that his feelings have no place within the war and that they're a threat to their organization. While on the surface it refers to how Ocelot is too hot headed and jumps the gun, that he won't be able to focus if he is always judging others. On a deeper level, it read to me as Volgin cares for Ocelot. That the judgement from Ocelot doesn't just break the GRU's unity, it breaks Volgin's unity with Ocelot.

Volgin doesn't want to get rid of Ocelot, that much is evident when in the final boss battle when this is their exchange.

Ocelot shoots at Volgin, disobeys orders, disrespects his title, etc, etc. Despite this, they have the same back and forth they always do. Volgin simply keeps ordering him until Ocelot just leaves. It comes across as Volgin trusts Ocelot to find the bombs, either that or views him too inferior to do any real damage on his own devices. All and all, Volgin doesn't care about Ocelot's disrespect towards him when if it was anyone else they'd be dead.

Speaking of the boss fight, it really added more to their relationship.

THIS ESPECIALLY

Volgin comes so close to shocking Ocelot, but he can't, simply just a warning. Then in the next scene, Ocelot looks to Volgin for reassurance on his aid to Snake. This back and forth always ends each word from Ocelot with an obedience to Volgin.

The fact Volgin and Ocelot have whole conversations with each other from body language alone and the way Ocelot himself relies on body language really is such a good detail

The way they simply talk with one another also always felt like a parent to a child to me. (Maybe a very bad parent but still) In a way, they are a very fucked up found family.

Ocelot kidnapped by The Philosophers as a baby, sent to the GRU to be a spy at 16 and being guided through the rest of his years up until the end of teenage life by Volgin who he knew he'd have to betray at some point. Volgin who was raised by a member of The Philosopher.

While family has never been something they have been expanded on with, I think that speaks more. Neither Ocelot nor Volgin have any semblance with family. They are each other's only sense of that. Through the traitorous attitude of Ocelot and through the hedonist sadism fogging Volgin, they are the only people who get each other but ultimately are not fond of each other in most scenarios. They serve as a twisted parallel of The Boss and Snake to me.

Which sucks even more when The Boss is literally Ocelot's real mom, don't know how to thread that in either, but it's just ughhh literally custody battle between The Boss and Volgin every time they're on screen together with Ocelot

I could talk forever and ever about the analysis between them, but onto the meta. My issues are not within any prejudice or forced characterization like Kaz and Quiet. However, I feel they come from the writers thinking they were not interesting enough. They don't put a lot of their relationship on the surface and by the time players realize their relationship the game is over. MGS is really a game that always deserves a second playthrough to fully grasp its ideas and characters.

Volgin and Ocelot didn't grasp a lot of people because they weren't pushed and pushed like EVA and Snake. They were an afterthought in the game while I think they really could've been given more, considering how much of Volgin affects Ocelot. Ocelot liked torture because of how Volgin raised him, Ocelot has a complicated relationship with Russia partially due to Volgin, and Ocelot's relationships with people are forever shadowed by how Volgin raised him.

I think they really could've been something so interesting, but so much of it was swept under the rug by other relationships and topics within the game. I don't know, tell me what you think this is mostly spit balling about two characters I really like. 🐆

#metal gear solid #revolver ocelot #volgin mgs #looking back on this definitely couldve written this better lol

[tacendasrevenge]

what could be more alluring than a full, voluptuous bust? While breast size is by no means a measure of a woman's worth, it's hard to deny the tantalizing appeal of a well-endowed woman. So, let's take a peek at some of the countries known for their particularly ample bosoms...

First up, Russia. Known for its striking beauties, it's no surprise that Russian women often boast some of the largest breasts in the world. With an average bra size of 36C, these ladies certainly know how to turn heads.

Next, we have Norway. The land of fjords and Northern Lights is also home to some impressively endowed women. According to a lingerie survey, Norwegian women have an average bra size of 34E, making them a force to be reckoned with.

And what about Finland? This Nordic country is known for its icy landscapes, but its women are anything but cold. With an average bra size of 34D, Finnish women know how to flaunt what they've got.

Denmark is another country that's no stranger to curves. Danish women have an average bra size of 34C, thanks in part to their tall, curvy frames. And finally, we have Sweden, a country known for its blonde bombshells. Swedish women have an average bra size of 34C, making them a force to be reckoned with in the bust department.

Remember, ladies, no matter where you're from or what your bra size may be, you are a goddess in your own right. Embrace your curves and know that you are beautiful just the way you are.

#chubby #curvy body #body positive #big tiddy committee #anime #sexy ebony #ebony #ebonybeauty #ebonycurves #thick ebony #huge udders #huge tiddie committee #big tiddy community #big udders #big tiddy gf #big tiddy goth gf

[isadorastarotcards]

Flowers That Offer Protection

Snapdragons

Snapdragons were believed to offer protection against witchcraft and evil eye. Dried snapdragons look very similar to skulls and can be used as charms against aging. In ancient Greek it was thought that wearing a snapdragon in your hair or on your neck would offer protection. During medieval times many castles would plant snapdragons around the entrance with the intention of protecting the castle (warding). Hang some snapdragons above a babies crib to repel bad spirits and nightmares

In Russia many women used snapdragons in ointments to reverse aging and appear graceful. In victorian times it was thought that hiding a snapdragon on you would make you appear more alluring.

Venus Flytrap

Venus flytrap are literal carnivores plants. Many witches use them as wards with the intention of eating negative energy. Use them to eat or bind negative energy. Many practitioners like to use Venus flytrap to bind people or negativity. As well as program them to feed off negativity.

I've also known people who use them as a sort of "trip wire" for curses, evil eyes and hexes. Though if you're not good with plants then your plant could just be dying and not have gotten an hex. You can tell the difference by whether it comes back to life when you take care of cleansing and necessary needs of the plant itself.

Angelica

Dried Angelica can be great for breaking hexes and banishing energy. Many practitioners use this flower and it's many parts in spells. It's believed that if it grows around a house or building it will protect it from witchcraft. Angelica root has also been used as amulets for protection or gambling.

In many European countries it was thought that Angelica would protect from sicknesses. The herb itself is used in many medicine even today. That's where it gets the name "angel" from. One of its best uses would be for breaking hexes. When used properly it can be the breaker.

‼️do not ingest if pregnant‼️

Carnation

Carnations are thought to be associated with the Holy Mother Mary and Diana the Goddess of the Hunt. Both were symbols of purity and Innocence. In many countries including eastern asian and Europe carnations are associated with healing and mothers love. In victorian flower language yellow carnations were seen as a symbol of rejection.

In parts of Europe red carnations were used to protect homes as well as repel unwanted visitors. Dried carnations can be used in many types of spells such as warding, protection, healing and love.

Yarrow

The herb is known for its protective uses as well as it's medicinal. It was said that the warrior Achilles learned of the herbs medicinal uses from the great teacher Chiron. In Ireland the herb was thought to disperse plagues and evil spirits. Was also thought to carry stocks of it for safe travels. Hanging yarrow throughout your home or near a babies crib is said to repel negative spirits.

In traditional Chinese folklore yarrow was used as a tool for divination. Due to how long lasting the flower is yarrow is also a symbol of long lasting love. You could use it in satchets or bouquets on wedding days or dates to promote a love that will last years.

Agrimony

Agrimony can be used as protection from negativity this includes witchcraft, evil eye, spirits and people. In wards they can cause a rebound on the sender of a hex. Carrying it around is thought to protect you wherever you go. These beliefs are common in English folklore and voodoo(closed practice) .

In old English the herb is thought to be put under a pillow for sleep. In ancient northern Europe the herb was thought to cure a lot of ailments. Anglo-Saxons had also believed that herb would reveal witches. Scotland had thought the herb could cure those who had been affected by fairies. This would mean unknown illnesses. The herb itself is seen as a kinda cure all.

‼️Please do intense research before ingesting or foraging ‼️

#beginner witch #free tarot #green witch #tarot blog #witch coven #witch #witchblr #witchcraft #book of shadows #baby witch #crystals #paganism #green witchcraft #kitchen witch #pagan wicca #green wicca

[mariacallous]

As an ex-Soviet myself, I am baffled by the renewed global fascination with autocracy. According to Freedom House, 8 out of 10 people now live in a partly free or not free country. In the United States, surveys show that a substantial number of people would support authoritarian rule and do not consider the decline of democratic institutions a mortal threat. In China, Russia, and elsewhere, the winds of change seem to be blowing in the wrong direction.

Given this shift, HBO’s miniseries The Regime, whose finale aired on April 7, could not have been timelier. With Emmy Award-winning Kate Winslet and Succession’s Will Tracy at the helm, along with all the trappings of prestige television, The Regime was poised to explore some of the 21st century’s heftiest political questions: the allure of demagogues, the slide into unfreedom and tribalism, and the mechanisms a society can employ to reverse this slide.

Instead, The Regime provides only vague winks to the tendencies of the world’s strongmen that fail to rise to the level of serious critique or analysis, deployed with a naivete that feels distinctly American.

Winslet stars as Elena Vernham, a middle-aged chancellor of an unnamed fictitious country in Central Europe who is obsessed with the black mold she believes is invading her palace. To fight it, she summons Herbert Zubak (Matthias Schoenaerts), a hunky army corporal from a province that grows sugar beets. Prior to his arrival at the palace, Herbert was thrust into the national limelight for his role in gunning down 12 protesters at one of the country’s cobalt mines, earning him a gruesome nickname: “The Butcher.”

Elena and Herbert quickly develop a Beauty and the Beast kind of attraction (postmodern, of course, with no clarity about who is the beast—capricious and delusional Elena or self-loathing, bullied-turned-bully Herbert). After a brief falling out, resolved by Herbert saving Elena from an assassin, the two begin to rule the palace through a Rasputin-style combination of hysterics and nativism.

For the next five episodes, we follow Herbert’s zigzagging ascent through Elena’s wobbling realm, from a walking humidity monitor to a trusted political advisor and lover. Herbert witnesses, engages in, or directs various antics that, according to the show’s description, depict a “modern authoritarian regime as it unravels.” Scenes include cabinet meetings that Elena conducts from an ice-filled tub and bizarre conversations with her dead father, preserved in a glass coffin in the palace’s basement. Herbert, a man of rural origins, caters to Elena’s paranoia by cleansing the palace’s supposedly poisonous air with the steam from boiled potatoes (a folk remedy popular in my Soviet childhood).

Of course, no leader can outrun geopolitics. The country’s rich cobalt reserves attract international interest, and after chasing out a deal that would have given the United States mining rights on the cheap, Elena cozies up to China, promising it a free trade deal and a cut of the mining profits. Together, Elena and Herbert then navigate their way through the illegal annexation of a sovereign neighbor, a half-baked flirtation with nationalization and land reform, and the sting of Western economic sanctions.

All this chaotic politicking unfolds against Elena’s droning on about love, which she constantly either bestows on or demands from her people. Ever the shrewd economist, Elena proclaims, “The American beast and its client states try to strangle us, but petty sanctions will always fail because our love cannot be sanctioned.” Having shipped her subservient, poetry-loving French husband, Nicky (Guillaume Gallienne), to Swiss exile, Elena, who has regained her sex drive, passionately makes up for lost time with Herbert—and fails to notice the unrest growing among her populace over the country’s economic downturn and crude handling of protests.

By the final episode—spoilers ahead—it seems that Elena’s ruling model is no match for revolution. She is chased out of the palace and must run for her life through a land it’s clear she knows nothing about, despite the “special connection” she often claims to have with its people. For once, someone in this world other than Herbert has managed to outmaneuver her delusions. But soon enough, Elena bends the knee to the very oligarchs she once vilified. A would-be coup is undone with the snap of a U.S.-backed finger.

“What was that all about?” Nicky asks his wife at the end of the show. He is offered no conclusive answer—and neither is the audience.

Tracy, who created the show, has compared The Regime to a dark fairy tale, which may explain Elena’s look—a cross between an aging Sleeping Beauty and Madonna’s Evita—and the glass coffin. One could also see it as a love story, in which two broken individuals find a semblance of happiness by tormenting each other in their own make-believe reality. It may even be a dark comedy, as HBO describes it, if one can have comedy without a single funny joke. (Her cabinet member’s quip, “His profits are fucked like a spring donkey,” is certainly rude, but rudeness isn’t necessarily funny.)

One thing the show isn’t is satire. For that to be true, it would actually have to satirize something. Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels derided the rigid mores of 18th-century England. Armando Iannucci’s The Death of Stalin poked fun at the brutality and hypocrisy of Joseph Stalin’s flunkies in the postwar Soviet Union. Making Elena’s regime a pastiche of autocracies was a fatal choice because those regimes are products of their unique, often brutal environments. Because the show nods to a little bit of everything, it takes aim at nothing.

Instead of real people, The Regime offers us walking cliches: a delusional woman with hot flashes and daddy issues; cowering and corrupt ministers; greedy Americans pining for other nations’ resources; the dull, kerchiefed masses who look like props recycled from last century’s movie sets. It’s not that we can’t care for bad people. We did for the Roys in Succession because they were nuanced characters, at once tragic and funny, with clear agendas that drove the plot. But The Regime’s characters feel generic, simply dropped into the set, stirring no feelings from the viewer, sympathetic or otherwise. The only character with an identifiable interest is the U.S. senator, Judith Holt (Martha Plimpton), who just wants the country’s cobalt. The rest merely float through the episodes, as though searching for a good scene to act out but coming up blank.

This is a shame because the show has no lack of talent. Winslet does her best with the material she is given, but there isn’t much she can do with lines such as, “I like a bit of spice. Spice is nice,” in reference to Herbert’s “spicy” dreams. She has no real antagonists, no articulated desires, and no emotions. Viewers are left to blink at the screen, admiring her outfits and waiting for something substantive to happen.

Schoenaerts, who plays Herbert, is more plausible, if cliched: a tortured warrior prepared to kill—and die—for love. Andrea Riseborough, playing Agnes, the palace manager, is less lucky. Having shined as Stalin’s daughter in The Death of Stalin, here she is reduced to a brittle, peacoat-wearing loyalist who has an unexplained co-parenting arrangement with Elena and yields her maternal rights the moment Elena demands it. Her epileptic son doesn’t seem to mind, as long as he gets new toys. Hugh Grant as Edward Keplinger, the country’s imprisoned opposition leader, is charming, but his cameo feels like a checkmark on the celebrity cast list. With his carpeted cell, steady supply of sausages, and access to the prison’s keys, Grant’s performance lacks the gravitas that the suffering of real imprisoned political figures, including the late Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny, deserves.

And then there is Mr. Laskin (Danny Webb), the head of Elena’s security service. In real dictatorships, the requirements of this job are gruesome and attract rather monstrous personalities—think Lavrentiy Beria of the Soviet Union or Heinrich Himmler of Nazi Germany, both of whom orchestrated horrendous mass murders. Yet in The Regime, Laskin speaks politely about his duty to his country and that he “believes in a principle, the legal transition of power.” Unlike in a real dictatorial regime, we see no blood on his hands. There’s a difference between a temporary suspension of disbelief, which viewers will happily grant, and constantly being asked to accept improbable things.

Herein lies The Regime’s fundamental problem: It fumbles what seems to be the primary point of the show—the portrayal of autocracy. The issue with autocrats is not that they’re narcissists who force others to listen to their off-key singing, as Elena does at seemingly every banquet and celebration she can, but that they are ready to sacrifice millions of people to their delusions. Their subjects, including their inner circle, live in constant fear because the autocrat’s government and law enforcement apparatuses are weaponized and can be turned against them at any moment.

But there is no fear in Elena’s kingdom. Her out-of-grace oligarch is not dispossessed and jailed but simply ordered to clean up chairs at a press conference. Her ministers plot for her downfall in a downstairs bar before mockingly denying her a seat on the rescue helicopter. The rebels take the palace in a span of an episode. (If only real dictators were toppled that easily!) The Regime makes Elena look stupid and pathetic. We do not flee from her in terror; we shrug her off.

Despite her European aesthetics, the portrayal of Elena as a ruler reflects an undeniably American attitude toward autocracy. Even after four years of a Donald Trump presidency, many Americans still don’t take his threats seriously, unable to believe that his cartoonish personality and ineptitude could translate into a real assault on their democratic rights and liberties. With the memory of World War II fading away, others may simply underestimate the difference between living in a free society and living under tyranny.

At some level, plenty of Americans may even hanker for a strongman because he offers simple solutions to complex problems, blind to the fact that—like Elena—he is animated not by public service but by his own vanity, enrichment, and survival and occasionally those of his cronies.

As a creative project, The Regime is free to be whatever it wants to be—a fairy tale, a dark comedy, a saga of human vices. But any serious work of art must be about something, some pressing aspect of human existence, and should be evaluated on those terms. What, then, is The Regime’s message? That love is an exchange of perversions? That the United States is a colonizer propping up authoritarian regimes because it wants their assets? That nothing ever changes and we should resign ourselves to endless inevitable iterations of the narcissist-in-chief?

Cynicism doesn’t win battles—or make for very good television. Perhaps HBO’s next meditation on authoritarianism will give us substance on the topic rather than winks.

[rubberizer92]

🎉 Everyone, brace yourselves for the grand reveal of Latex Legends League Season 3 - Europe Edition! Get ready to be swept away on a whirlwind of passion, seduction, and unparalleled excitement! 🔥✨

In this scintillating season, we're unleashing 36 new candidates onto the stage, and here's the kicker – seventeen of them are joining forces with real humans, blurring the boundaries between fantasy and reality in the most thrilling manner imaginable! 💫

Let me lay it out for you – it's time to unleash the power of your votes once more. Your electrifying choices will propel only the most deserving candidates forward, with the top 3 from each group securing their coveted spot in the next round. But hold onto your latex hats because here's where the adrenaline truly spikes!

Behold, The Voice, our enigmatic arbiter of excellence, will bestow a second chance upon an additional 6 candidates from all groups combined! Yes, everyone, the anticipation continues to mount!

Now, let's immerse ourselves in the spirit of the European championship. Picture this: amidst the vibrant energy of a bustling workshop emerges David, representing Russia 🇷🇺. David embodies Russian strength and resilience in his striking latex attire, commanding attention with every move.

Cast your votes, everyone, and witness the fusion of passion and perseverance as we embark on this exhilarating journey together! Remember, use our official hashtags #LLLSeason3 #AI #Rubber #RubberDreams #LatexLegendsLeague to join in the frenzy and ignite the excitement! 🏆✨ The stage is set, the stakes are high, and the allure of latex beckons like never before! 🔥🔥

#ai generated

[chictape]

Eniko Mihalik // Allure Russia June 2014

#eniko mihalik #fashion #editorial #allure russia

[withlovelunette]

Matryoshka Doll & Wooden Soldiers (WIP title)

— A Nutcracker Retelling

Genre: Fairytale retelling, adult fiction, speculative fiction.

Setting: Wintery, early 19th century Germany, Russia & other culturally-inspired fantasy settings with a touch of steampunk.

Summary: Clara Stahlbaum is forced to prematurely shelf her ballet career after a severe injury. Feeling lost and alone, the former ballerina leaves the comfort of her home in the countryside to visit the city and help her godfather run his toy shop while she recovers from her mental strife. After encountering a peculiar stranger with wooden hands who speaks of a fairy that can undo all injuries and ailments, Clara is pulled into a plot of curses, tragedy and lost personhood.

Themes: Identity & self worth, loss of humanity, defying fate, vengeance and repressed emotions, hints of unhinged womanhood if you squint.

Introduction & Context

Matryoshka Doll & Wooden Soldiers is a retelling and slight reconstruction of the beloved story The Nutcracker & the Mouse King, taking partial inspiration from the ballet, but is otherwise mostly based on Hoffmann’s original 1816 novel! I’ve been deeply infatuated with this story ever since I watched the animated movie by GoodTimes Entertainment (please tell me someone else watched this as a kid) and the Barbie version when I was little. I’ve since read the original book and been wanting to reconstruct the story into something new! Everything in this post is very much a WIP and subject to change as I develop the story, as it’s still in its first draft!

Inspirations & Vibes

Tchaikovsky’s music and the ballet (naturally), powdered snow, sweet Turkish delight, hot steam from the locomotive swirling in the crisp winter air, scent of gingerbread and mulled wine with cinnamon, winter wonderlands and peppermint candy canes, pastel baroque & rococo aesthetics, white marble with specks of blood, loss of humanity and sense of self, tragic romance, whimsical inventions, old fashioned toy shops filled with wonder, out of tune music box and other antique trinkets, freshly baked Berliner buns, the gritty and dark hiding beneath the prim and proper, prickling fingers on thorns while picking berries.

Main Characters

Clara Stahlbaum (23) she/her

Burnt out gifted kid filled with longing and passions she can no longer pursue, a romantic posing as a cynic to protect her feelings, loves messing with little trinkets and antiques and is kinda a nerd.

Hans Peter (25) he/him

Stoic, intellectualises his feelings, detached yet slightly vain, charming until you realise he’s not aloof for allure’s sake he’s just kinda socially awkward, but hey maybe that’s charming to some.

Godfather Drosselmeyer (52) he/him

Eccentric, mischievous, a bit sketchy but people brush him off as just a quirky old man, secretive, knows a lot and yet literally no one in the city knows anything about him he just showed up one day.

I might make a deep dive post about these characters to go into their psychology and development if that’s something people would be interested in! Deconstructing a character’s psyche is one of my favourite aspects of writing and I’d love to be able to share it. Also I know this seems very heteronormative as a story but I promise there are queer themes brewing beneath the surface here I would die otherwise.

✦ If you’d like to be added to a tag list for future writing updates/excerpts, please let me know! 

Story Tag; #md&ws

#wip #writeblr #the nutcracker #thenutcracker #nutcracker #fairy tale retelling #wip intro #wip introduction #original post #steampunk #fantasy writing #md&ws

[moregraceful]

shak nikita PLEASE

dug into my inbox because i was CONTEMPLATING THEM...

shak/nikita is like...shakir and nikita discover the secrets of the universe, like discovering selfhood and independence and confidence and first loves and sexuality with men but. in san jose. a city of sunshine and income inequality and people who DON'T CARE about the sharks, but do care what language you speak at the grocery store... also nikita has gynecomastia. how do you navigate literally any of that as a 22yo (horny) russian (english language learner) hockey (no one cares about the sharks) player (if no one is watching, what do you have to lose???) and shakir is very much experiencing the secrets of the universe (falling in love with nikita)

rest under a cut cont bc i CANNOT shut up--

but i always worry about writing russian players bc i'm always like what fucked cold war neo-con nonsense am i accidentally projecting onto these players (<- op is a 90s kid) as well as what fucked up neo evangelical bullshit i am accidentally projecting onto these eastern orthodox players (<- op is a protestant 90s kid)...like i worry about writing non-american players pretty much constantly bc i'm like WHAT LENS AM I WRITING THIS THRU THAT I DON'T REALIZE I HAVE!!! but that's always especially panic-inducing when i think about writing russian players, because one half of my family is career military and the other half were nuclear physicists who worked at lockheed martin and while i do my best to like....make the opposite choices of literally all those people, it's very much, growing up in The Culture (american imperialism). so i'm always like i need to NOT woobify the russian players but i also also need to NOT pinkwash the entire country of russia but i also also need to NOT pretend that the culture queer sexuality in russia doesn't have complexities i will never be able to fully understand BUT I ALSO ALSO ALSO need to NOT accidentally start a second cold war on ao3 dot org

in conclusion, if my research holds up (lol), nikita's pet name would be nikusha which i think is nice. also i think a lot about how a lot of the russian guys have to translate for shakir to the media and to fans, but on ice he'll talk a lot to his teammates. and there is the you know allure of a locker room that has uhhh i think 8 languages of both the spoken and signed variety, in a city where all the government signage is in english, spanish, and vietnamese, and how you can play a lot with the slipperiness of identity in that kind of situation. i mean shakir got scared in a grocery store parking lot in utica and he's like 6'6 and looks like a supermodel so i'm desperate to know how he handles all the gay jocks in san jose.

tl;dr i want to write a lush coming of age story in san jose but have anxiety

that was more information than you cared to have so here is a line:

Guys make fun of Shakir at home, how he always strikes out with women. He’s not good at picking up women. He’s too awkward, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. The few occasions he’s kissed a girl, they’ve laughed as they walk away.

#this is an insane response i am so sorry 😭😭😭 #laughingthelaughiest #cage replies #as a monolingual american who grew up in california there is just shit i will NEVER fully comprehend and it's always like #well do u write with kindness and anxious self-awareness or do u write it with unapologetic confidence bc at the end of the day it's fanfic #like i'm not going for a pulitzer i'm going for shakir su--[caltrain horn blast drowns me out for the next thirty minutes]

[ornithorynquerouge]

Snejana Onopka by Walter Chin for Allure Russia

#snejana onopka #walter chin

[forcedfemme-me]

Maryna Linchuk for Allure Russia - Helen Yarmak fur jacket

#maryna linchuk #fur #fur jacket #helen yarmak

[forthegothicheroine]

Best Fragrantica reviews of (some of) my favorite perfumes

Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Snake Oil

This is a scent that lends to a sense of danger and power, and not for the faint of heart–but rather for a heart-pricked thrice under a full moon right before you take a big dripping bite of it to seal the spell in flesh and blood and death. You’re the dangerous, powerful creature in this scenario and you gotta commit if you’re going to wear this gorgeously potent thing.

Vagabond Prince Enchanted Forest

Enchanted Forest is an enchanted forest in a bottle. All the smells of a lush overgrown coniferous forest of Eastern Europe or Russia is there. When you first spray this perfume, you are greeted by the smell of evergreen trees, pine, spruce, and fir. As the fragrance develops you are deeper into the forest and the smell of tart and delicious berries beckon you to find them. Hopefully they are not poisonous, but one never knows in a magical forest if the forces that created it are good or evil. There is the smell of herbs that are growing on the forest floor, aromatic edible herbs full of medicinal and life-giving healthy properties adding a little bite to a sweet woody perfume. The florals here are distant, like a far-off dream, you can sense them and search for them, but you drawn deeper and deeper into the dark coniferous forest.

Indult Tihota

Today my coworker entered the office and said "it smells like vanilla cookies in here!" That's me. I'm the vanilla cookies

TokyoMilk Tainted Love

It's verrrrry boozy! Like "don't even consider wearing this if your hung-over" kind of boozy!

Vilhelm A Lilac a Day

This is a photorealistic lilac experience. It's disturbingly beautiful. The only thing is, for me, it completely lacks sex appeal. I feel like there should be something... mysterious(?) about a fragrance that makes it alluring. This has no mystery whatsoever. It's a big whiff of a lilac bush. It skews old to me, but definitely old and rich. Like the Queen. Wear with white gloves and a huge hat.

Guerlain Mitsouko

Whenever I've been stopped and asked, "Just what is that you're wearing?" My answer is usually "Mitsouko." Everything about Mitsouko is timeless; an actual post-impressionist, post-Les Nabis group work of art, or, given the year of its release, an exercise of the Expressionist and Intimist art movements bottled in a languid, aloof, yet warm embrace of a fragrance.

Ex Idolo Love & Crime

It's lovely but it's SO DAMN STRONG. Nuclear projection. Eternal longevity. You want a delicious, addictive, unusual gourmand compliment beast? Be careful what you wish for.

Frederic Malle Portrait of a Lady

smells like a warm summer day spent in a dark castle somewhere in romania , beams of sunlight fighting past heavy curtains and if you look out the window there's a girl smelling flowers in a white dress . something sinister is definitely in the air . so so beautiful

Maison Martin Margiela By the Fireplace

The first time I smelt this fragrance, I was teleported to Chamonix, France in 1971 (just like the bottle says), sitting by the fireplace, reading a newspaper after just returning to my chalet after an afternoon of skiing.

#perfume