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khodorkovskaya · 10 months

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14.07.23

watched my mum's homevideos yesterday and omg

maybe my grandparents did love each other, despite what my grandma claims..? bc every day she's like "thank god i don't have a man" or "my retirement wouldve been miserable if he was still alive". but they looked so happy in those videos! idk i feel like everyone's been super unfair to my grandpa bc he was ill by the end of his life and it was literally not his fault he went crazy like he had a medical problem. yes, okay, he did try to kill my grandma and my auntie with an axe, but it's sad that it's the only thing he's remembered for! and i don't think he was an alcoholic like my grandma claims. on all videos they took shots together and my mum said that he never drank in the house. i think he was just depressed and homesick and no one loved him and that's why he was miserable by the end of his life. i would've definitely vibed with him, i know it!

but yeah the videos were mostly of lviv. and they made me homesick even tho ive never been to lviv. but seeing my greatgrandma and all of those distant relatives ive never met made me feel this kind of longing for a time ive never experienced. everyone was always smiling and laughing and they all looked so happy. and beautiful. and i love how back in the day women wore those little babushka headscarves, i want to start wearing one too.

it's a shame that there is no audio bc there are many videos of my greatgrandmother singing and my mum said that ukrainian singing is the most beautiful thing in the world. and i would've loved to hear it. it's sad to imagine that so many folk songs and traditions have probably been lost.

there was also a video of my other greatgrandma's funeral. she was married off to a man 10+ years her senior and had 10 children. she was illiterate. and she died at 68. i wonder what she was like.

and on the video you see all of her children. and now the only one left is my grandma, the rest have passed away long ago. both her sons went to jail, one of them commited suicide and the other killed his wife. the son of the one who killed his wife is on the videos too, there's a video of his wedding. he worked with khodorkovsky and fled to lithuania after the whole yukos case thing. he's in his 70s now.

another woman from the videos i would've loved to meet was auntie nadia. she looked so wonderful! my own auntie went to visit lviv for the first time in like 30 years in 2013. and she saw auntie nadia and she was like 76 and had trouble walking. i hope she's still alive. she looked so wonderful! she couldn't have children of her own, so she took care of all the neighbourhood kids and everyone loved her, she was so lovely.

but yeah, time is weird. it's even weird to think that my greatgrandmother had a name, you know? idk how to explain it, but we're so used to our ancestors just being our ancestors that it's weird to imagine that they had all these whole lives of their own with their own friends and ups and downs and memories and dreams. like my greatgrandmother was called pani yankevichova (no idea how that would be spelled in polish sorry) or anastasia grigorievna or maybe she even had a nickname, who knows. and my other greatgrandmother was called arina but apparently that wasn't russian enough so her passport name was irina. and her husband called her arisha. i wonder how she felt constantly being pregnant and living in poverty...

even my own grandma, i dont really know know her. like yes, she's my grandmother and we used to be very close before she got really old and started having memory issues. i used to call her every day when id come home from school, we would skype for hours, she was my best friend. but seeing her on those videos of when she was in her 30s is like wow who is that? and seeing all of them hanging out in lviv and singing and dancing and hugging each other and drinking together and omg there were some clips of them eating what i think is pierogi/pelmeni/vareniki..? everything is in black and white but yummmm. my mum always told me that her lviv grandma's food was delish. but yeah, i would've loved to time travel to meet all of them. </3

#july

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therussiantreasures · 2 years

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Babushka Dolls

[email protected]

Are you looking for Russian Dolls for decorating your home. Kindly visit The Russian Treasures in 10 rue des Gallois 31400 Toulouse, France. Babushka dolls are Russian nesting doll toys that come in sets of five pieces. The word babushka implied “grandmother or old woman”. As a powerful female matriarch, she is the primary figure in the family and can be found throughout Slavic folklore.The Russian Treasures offers high-quality, handcrafted Russian nesting dolls. Visit:- https://therussiantreasures.com/product-category/matryoshka-russian-nesting-dolls/animal-nesting-dolls/babushka-dolls/ https://therussiantreasures.medium.com/babushka-dolls-8b70d537e631

Email:- [email protected]

Contact:- 33 6 50 78 07 99

#russian babushka #russian doll toy #babushka dolls

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save-the-sky · 3 years

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as a russian it triggers me so much when someone says babushka dolls instead of matryoshka dolls

especially when they pronounce babushka wrong

#i hate that even wiki says that the dolls are known as babushka dolls #by who?#show me that piece of shit and ill tear them to pieces #idk why im so mad about it #but i am #taskmaster #save talks #babushka is a grandmother or an old woman in russian #what it has to do with stacking dolls for fucks sake

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hurricaneonanesthesia · 2 years

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How about a Sova request where the reader and him are visiting his grandmother. Base on the Valorant Twitter during the agent takeover

Aaaa Sova, sova, sova <3

Nonny, sorry for the delay, but here it is! I hope you like it!

~Admin Hurricane

Warnings: google translated russian so theres a 90% chance that whatever it’s giving me is incorrect, so i apologize

Word Count: 350+

Genre: fluff, established relationship

Pairing(s): Sova x GN!Reader

You may be Sova’s partner, but obviously that’s not gonna stop you from being nervous as hell when he mentions that he wants to take you with him on his trip back to Russia

Obviously Sova is gonna give you a lot of reassurance stating that his babushka is extremely welcoming and that he’s told her nothing but good things about you.

He tells you all about his hometown and mentions different landmarks that he wants to take you to take pictures at. Sova wants to do his best to immerse you into culture and upbringing. But of course, spending time with you is good enough for him as well.

You’re in awe of the snowy landscape when you step out of the plane, your eyes filled with wonder as Sova smiles down at you fondly. He gently tugs your hand into his, wrapping his fingers around yours.

“Come, there is much to see, and more that I want to tell you,” he laughs softly, pulling you along.

When you arrive at his house, he knocks twice before the two of you are greeted by an elderly woman, her eyes crinkled affectionately as she gazes at the two of you. “Саша, Эт�� было так давно*. Oh! And you must be Y/N, Sasha has mentioned so much about you,” she addresses you with a warm smile.

She definitely teases the two of you, asking when you guys plan on getting married to which both you and Sova are both left absolutely speechless because both of you don’t know how to respond.

Of course she’s gonna pull out embarrassing old pictures of Sova, showing them off to you with pride, meanwhile Sova is sitting next to you with a mug of warm tea in his hands and a blush on his face lol

Sova also takes you birdwatching! He’ll use his drone to snap pictures, or he’ll navigate his drone so that you have a better view of the birds in the trees.

Aside from birdwatching, he’ll teach you how to properly shoot a bow and arrow in the forest that he trained in behind his house lol, he has this really giddy grin on his face as he watches you successfully shoot out the targets that he set up for you to practice on.

“Very well done моя любовь**, you’re a natural,” he gushes affectionately to you.

Extras:

*Саша, Это было так давно - Sasha, It's been so long

**моя любовь - My Love

Reminder that my requests are closed for the time being! However, when I reopen them again, be sure to send something my way if you’re interested! Requesting Rules are here!

Want more of my writing? Be sure to check out my masterlist. Wanna know what else I’ll write for? Here you go!

Thanks for reading and have a lovely day!

#sova #valorant sova #sova valorant #valorant x reader #valorant x you #valorant x reader scenario #valorant x reader headcanons #valorant sova scenario #valorant sova x reader fluff #valorant sova x reader #admin hurricane #valorant #riot valorant #request #valorant x reader fluff #valorant headcanons

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staplegrapes · 2 years

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A Smile from Home

(Illya Kuryakin x Reader)

Summary: Exhausted and desperate, Illya brings his battered team to your door seeking shelter, doing the one thing he wanted to avoid, risking your safety.

Word Count: 3.0k

TW: Mentions of blood and canon typical injuries

✨Gender Neutral Reader✨

Also, it’s established that the reader is Russian.

Helpful: Babushka is the Russian word for Grandmother

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The crisp night wind seemed to leak through the windows of your small house. Though this valley was blessed with rich soil and plenty of vegetation for livestock in the summer months, the frigid winter nights brought forth by the wind trailing from the hills seemed to temper your love for your homestead. It was the sort of cold that could not be remedied with a cup of tea, rather that chill always sat in your bones. A strong knock on your door startles you from your thoughts.

You didn’t get many visitors to your farm. That being said, not once had someone knocked at your door well past midnight as someone was right now. Who could it be? A distant neighbor? Thieves? KGB? You had your knife if your hand as you reached for the door. Taking a breath, you open the door a third of the way open, just enough to make eye contact. But you don't make eye contact exactly. You're met with a broad chest at your eyeline, leading up towards a familiar face.

“Illya?” You see the tall agent, his features sunken with an exasperated look. It had been at least a year or two since you had seen or had contact with your childhood friend. Despite the cold wind swirling around the door the heat of the three individuals greets you, the small woman in his arms and the attractive yet equally exhausted man behind him.

“We need your help.” Illya pleas breathlessly, his eyes desperate contrasting his stoic and unmoving stance, you can tell he is giving you the option to reject them. You swing the door wider stepping back, letting them into your small home. Friends of Illya are friends of yours. Quickly, the dark-haired man clears your old couch as Illya places the woman on it.

“She’s wounded.” Illya stated, attempting to clue you into the situation. Though that was the one thing you were able to gather this situation from the blood staining her dress and the pained look on her face.

"Uh- There's bandages and cloth in the cabinet in that corner." you state, wracking your brain for any helpful information. The shorter man follows your directions quickly as Illya grabs your Babushka's sewing box, pulling out a needle and thread.

Seeing Illya holding the sewing box send you into a spiral of childhood recollections. The two of you spent much time together after school. Not much alike one another in any sense, it was the simple force of proximity that kept your bond strong. In your teen years, few months after Illya's dad was sent to the Gulag and his mother had since gone off the rails, he came to your door for the first time since the incident. Upon seeing him you were hopeful to help him regain his sense of purpose, but he had already done so. He coldly informed you that he was joining the KGB and was saying his goodbyes.

Lost in your memories, you were pulled back to reality by an unusual sound. English. Snapping your head up, you see the other man talking calmly to the woman in perfectly accented English. You’re not the best with the western language, but just from his mannerisms you can tell he is trying to soothe her. Yet, his caring act brought you distress. This man was not Russian. No way does a Russian speak without an accent like that unless they were raised that way and now this man seemed less and less Russian with every passing second that you continued studying him. But once again, friends of Illya were friends of yours. You weren’t going to attest now.

You wanted to offer help, but Illya and the man seemed quite capable of tending to this woman. With a space so small and such purpose in Illya's actions, you felt as you were in an invader in your own home. Illya was quite obviously well aquatinted with these people. Both he and the English speaker were focused on stabilizing the woman. The two moved in near perfect synchronization. To make yourself less of a bother, you moved into the kitchen and took up a seat on the wooden stepstool. It was a not much of a room but was separated from the rest of the home with a small door frame and a drape acting as a door.

You heard her cries as the two did whatever first aid they could to help her.

Your home was just big enough for you. It had a couch, table, two chairs and a bed. The kitchen and bathroom were the only things not in this main room. Four people made the quaint wood cottage feel compact.

So much of what was happening flew over your head. Firstly, why was Illya hiding out in the Russian countryside? Secondly, why was Illya with an American? Thirdly, how had he got so much more attractive in the course of a year?

The sounds die down after a bit. You hear the occasional creak of the floor and shuffling on the other side of the drape. The heavy footsteps identify the person pulling back the drape to the kitchen before you can even see their shadowed figure through the sheer fabric. Illya, with bloody bandages, bringing them to the basin underneath your faucet to clean them.

His long expression tells you he’s no longer immediately worried, yet there is still no reason to celebrate.

“You’re in hiding?” You whisper as he begins to wash the cloth of their stains.

He nods, continuing to wash.

“But you can’t say any more than that.” you complete your thought. He looks at you with a look of true regret.

“I am sorry. This is very important. Otherwise, I would never put you in danger.” His jaw clenches, a tell-tale sign he is angry with himself and with what he cannot do. You stand up next to him at the basin. Your hand goes up to frame his face.

“I know, don’t worry about it, Illyusha.” you say sweetly with a small smile. He should know by now you would always be there for him. He lets out a breath that you can see some of the tension disappear with into the air. You bring a hand to the base of his neck, pulling his head down towards yours to meet your foreheads.

"You will be safe here." You whisper.

He nods.

You two stay there for a moment before you hear the kitchen drape pull back once more. Going back to standing straight, you see the other man in the doorframe.

"Thank you for letting us in." The well-dressed American states in surprisingly good Russian.

“Of course.” You smile with a small bow of the head.

He strides closer, offering you his hand. “Napoleon Solo.”

“Y/N L/N.” American or not, Illya trusted him.

“It’s a pleasure.” he gives a small smile, obviously also troubled by tonight's events, but not one to give up on formalities.

"You weren't followed?" You ask, facing Illya once again.

Illya looks to Napoleon.

"Not that we noticed. We had quite the head start." Napoleon states looking down to adjust the cuffs of his dress shirt.

"No car to hide?" You asked.

"Nope. We caught a ride on an unsuspecting freight train and then caught a ride on the back of a farm truck until about two miles away." Napoleon answers. You stand there still quite impressed with his Russian.

"Anyways, I came to get some water for Gaby." He continues.

You hurry and grab a glass from your shelf and fill it with water offering it to him. He nods as he goes back into the main room.

With Napoleon's absence the space between you and Illya grows quiet. Illya was always a man of few words unless prompted. Watching him continue to wash the bandages you begin to pull a pot from your cupboard.

"What are you doing?" He asks softly.

"You three must be starving. Who knows the last time you had any food? Let me make some stew."

Upon your answer the silence returns. Both of you busy with your respective tasks. Invested in your cooking, you fail to notice that the water had stopped running quite a while ago.

You pull out some bowls and meet the gaze of Illya, wondering just how long he had been staring at you.

"Again, thank you so much." He whispers. You shake your head.

"Of course, now go feed your friends." You extend two steaming bowls towards him.

Though undeniably a bit small for four people, your home seems much warmer with the added company. Illya tends to the fire in the stove as Napoleon alternates between feeding Gaby and himself stew. You take up residence at the table mindlessly staring at Illya concentrating on the crackling fire.

Gaby seems to drift to sleep after a few bites, so Napoleon comes to sit in the chair next to you at the table.

"So, how do you know Kuryakin?"

“We’ve always been good friends.” you say. "We grew up together." You look at the dark-haired man. He seems satisfied with this answer, continuing to eat. Also satisfied, Illya steps back from the stove watching it continue to burn. Finally, begins to eat his food. As happy as you are to see him, you're worried he isn't well from all of this stress. He definitely is not the same Illyusha that would merrily skip down the road in grade school.

“It’s getting late.” You state, seeing Illya’s head lull to the side as he holds his empty bowl. The two share a questioning look before you cut them off.

“Gaby needs a proper rest. She can sleep in my bed. I’ll bring all the blankets I can to make the floor and couch comfortable for you two.”

“What about you?” Illya questions.

“I can sleep in the rafters of the barn.” Sure, it wasn’t the most pleasant place to sleep, but it would be alright temporarily. But Illya's eyebrows snap together in distain.

“No, that is too cold. You cannot possibly.” he says giving you a look of pure disbelief.

“I didn’t ask you, Illyusha.” You retort giving him an equally questioning look.

You hear Napoleon snort as he picks up Gaby and gently sets her in your bed. As he gets here settled, you pull every blanket you own out from under your bed and attempt to make a decent place to sleep on the couch as well as the floor towards the stove. As for Illya, he simply stands there, you're not quite sure why.

When you are satisfied with your work, you help Napoleon dress Gaby in some of your clothes, much comfier and cleaner than her current outfit. Once done, you take one sheet and one quilt as you gather your coat and plan to head out towards the barn.

"Alright, I will see you all in the morning. In the case its needed, there's a rifle secured to the underside of the bed." You note. You catch Napoleon's smile and nod. Illya does not react.

"Goodnight." You smile and shut the door behind you. The two men stand there in momentary silence, before, as always, Napoleon breaks it, in English.

“So that’s why you haven’t gotten laid since I met you.” He smirks. Illya is nowhere near as amused.

“Shut up.” He storms to the door following you, as he slips into his jacket.

“Your friend made it clear, peril.” Napoleon argues.

“I don’t care. Couch is yours. I am staying in the barn too.” He opens the door with a strong jerk, nearly ripping it from its rusted frame.

Taking a pitchfork, you flatten an area in the hay enough to give you a place to lay down.

“Make it a little wider.” You hear him request in Russian.

“Illya, please.” Undoubtedly, he was exhausted and needed to sleep in the warmth and quietness of the house, not in a drafty barn with odd smells, noisy animals and on a pile of hay nonetheless.

“There’s room for both of us up here. Besides, cowboy snores.” He smiles briefly.

“Alright.” you accept. In your experience it is easier to not argue more than once with Illya. You can tell by the look in his eye that this was now nonnegotiable. You continue to hollow out a side of the mound where you two can rest comfortably. Taking an old sheet, you lay it down on top. He sits down first as you slide down next to him pulling over a quilt on top. With his tall stature, he barely fits in the quilt, but it’s all you brought for yourself, so you would have to make do. He certainly doesn't seem to mind as he pulls you under his arm and closer to him. You're practically in his lap. That's one way to fit under the quilt.

The silence is too loud. The quiet interjections of breathing and shifting in the hay bring some relief to the silence.

“Thank you again for letting us stay here.” He mumbles.

“You’re always welcomed here Ilyusha." you look up to him and see the look of concern on his face as he stares at the wooden barn wall.

"Wish it could have been a less dire circumstance for you to finally visit me though." you smirk leaning your head into the crook of his shoulder.

He chuckles, "I meant to, KGB business never ends." And this is a reasonable answer, still unfortunate in your mind. A small gust of air seems to seep through the siding of the barn, sending a shill down your spine.

“Are you still cold?”

"Just a bit." You mention. He brings you in closer to where you were practically laying on his chest.

“You gave us shelter. The least I can do is keep you warm.” He smiles, kissing the top of your head.

The silence returns but seems much safer and less awkward. You were about to drift to sleep when a thought pops in your head.

“You recognized my Babushka's sewing box.” You state. Without hesitation earlier, he knew the exact place to find a needle and thread. Sure, it was a family heirloom you treasured, but how had he remembered that?

“Somehow I remembered the fabric.” He replies, eyes closed. "It was the same one you were holding when you stood at my door when she passed.”

Of course he recognized it. It was what you were holding the day you showed up on his doorstep crying hours after your Babushka had passed. You cannot even imagine how pathetic you must have looked, but Illya never described it. He simply brought you in and let you fall apart in the safety of his arms. That was years ago at least two years before he joined the KBG. Truthfully, after losing your Babushka and then Illya, you had no reason to stay in the city. Finally, two years ago you made a decision. That is when you chose to escape to the countryside where you made the rules, and the government had a little less worry for your doings. You informed Illya by letter of your new homestead but did not receive a reply back. He obviously did read your letter.

In the morning you woke up stiff. Illya was nice, but still you were quite unrested after sleeping on a pile of hay but it would have been worse if you hadn't been practically sleeping on top of Illya. As you rise up from the hay Illya begins to stir. Slowly he recuperates enough to look up to you, a small smile on his face, nothing out of his limited emotional palate, but enough to make you smile back at him.

The three of them stayed in your home for three more days. Gaby grew stronger and the men rested as well. With this added time, you had a chance to actually meet Gaby as Illya and Napoleon attempted to figure out their next move. They wanted to head towards South-Western Europe. You were able to get them a ride from a trusted neighbor into the forest at the base of the nearby mountains.

"Ok, Daniil will take you to the edge of the forest and from there you should be able to catch the morning cargo train back towards the west." You state, helping Gaby stabilize herself as she steadied herself on her feet for the first time in days. Napoleon took her arm as he helped her outside.

"Thank you, Y/N." the American says before walking outside with the woman who also gives her regards. You smile and wave at them. That leaves just you and Illya in the home.

"Ok, there's food in your bag that isn't much, but it should keep you three satiated for a few days." You hand him the bag. He takes it and immediately lowers it unexpectedly.

"That is quite heavy."

"I filled your canteens with water." His look softens in gratitude appreciating the detail even he had forgotten. He lets the bag sit on the couch as he places his hands on your upper arms, looking down to you.

“I owe you. For all of this."

“Just,” you smiled stopping yourself to think, “stop by again sometime, with a little less worry. Ok?"

“On my own?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Preferably.” You smile with a small laugh.

With that you get a rare, yet classic Illya smile. Not a small one, but a full toothy grin. You see a glimpse of the boy you had known your entire life. Picking up his bag once more and slinging it over his shoulder, he heads to the door. You follow behind him.

He looks at his companions loading onto Daniil's truck. You peer out there from behind him. After a few moments you wonder why he hasn't moved.

He looks down at you, a bit desperate.

"Illyusha?"

He brings a hand to the base of your neck and pulls you into a kiss. The first kiss you two have ever shared. Much overdue, but truly intimate, and everything you imagined kissing him would be like. It seemed like the world slowed down for a brief while to let you enjoy this moment you had dreamed of since secondary school.

"I will come back to you." he smiled brightly again, but promptly turning his back to you to head out the door.

You would hold him to that promise.

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#illya kuryakin #illya kuryakin x reader #tmfu fanfic #tmfu 2015 #tmfu #the man from uncle #reader insert #napoleon solo #gaby teller #fanfic

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coochiequeens · 2 years

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The face of war is a woman’s face.

In the midst of a war between Ukrainian forces and Russian-backed eastern separatists that has killed an estimated 14,000 people since 2014, many vulnerable or elderly women have lost their husbands to fighting and health problems and survive near the front lines alone.

“My husband died of a heart attack and my only son has disappeared. In my family, I am now the only woman left,” said Ala Nikolaevna, 73, a blind woman living in the Ukrainian town of Chasiv Yar, a few kilometres from the front line.

She cries as she recalls the last time she had hugged her son Oleg, who disappeared shortly after he had joined a paramilitary group in 2014.

Nikolaevna, who is blind due to diabetes, now lives alone in her three-bedroom flat. Her diabetes symptoms are worsening and her overall health is deteriorating as the heating does not always work in the war zone and she does not have regular access to drinking water either.

“When there is no heating, I put all my clothes on and pray. I have only one wish: that my son hugs me once again,” she says.

Alyona, 41, a social worker and volunteer, brings Nikolaevna food three times a week.

“Out of the 12 people that I work with, 10 are women,” Alyona, who did not want to disclose her last name due to the sensitive nature of her work, told Al Jazeera.

“Since the war started, all the men joined the military or looked for work in other regions of Ukraine, and there are now mostly women living on the front line alone.”

According to the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OHCA) (pdf), 1.6 million of the 2.9 million people in need of humanitarian assistance in eastern Ukraine are women.

“In this region, the only job a man can do is to become a miner; therefore, many men suffer severe health consequences and die young,” Alyona added.

“The front line villages are full of single mothers and babushkas (grandmothers).”

Lizaveta Zhuk, a public information officer for OCHA Ukraine, told Al Jazeera that: “In the government-controlled areas of Ukraine, 71 percent of heads of households are female. This share is even higher for those who are more than 60 years old, and reaches 88 percent”.

Jan Egeland, secretary-general of the Norwegian Refugee Council NGO working on the front line, told Al Jazeera that the older, predominantly female population in eastern Ukraine is very different to most other wars where the NGO is active.

“You cannot have a war in a place filled to the brim with old, freezing or vulnerable people, who are struggling to survive after eight years of conflict,” he said.

see rest of article

#Ukraine #women and war

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dailyunsolvedmysteries · 3 years

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Who was the Babushka Lady?

The Babushka Lady is an unknown woman present during the 1963 assassination of President John F. Kennedy who might have photographed the events that occurred in Dallas's Dealey Plaza at the time President John F. Kennedy was shot. Her nickname arose from the headscarf she wore, which was similar to scarves worn by elderly Russian women (бабушка – babushka – literally means "grandmother" or "old woman" in Russian).

The Babushka Lady was seen to be holding a camera by eyewitnesses and was also seen in film accounts of the assassination. She was observed standing on the grass between Elm and Main streets and is visible in the Zapruder film as well as in the films of Orville Nix, Marie Muchmore, and Mark Bell (44 minutes and 47 seconds into the Bell film: even though the shooting had already taken place and most of her surrounding witnesses took cover, she can be seen still standing with the camera at her face). After the shooting, she crossed Elm Street and joined the crowd that went up the grassy knoll. She is last seen in photographs walking east on Elm Street. Neither she, nor the film she may have taken, have ever been positively identified.

#The Babushka Lady #unsolved #unsolved mysteries #sixpenceee #mysteries

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dissident-vedder · 4 years

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- once upon a december ( 𝐄.𝐕. )

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

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

A/N - layout by @adoresobs!

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

TRANSLATIONS -

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

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

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

медвежонок! (medvezhonok!) - little bear!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“медвежонок!”

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

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

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

“how much is the profits?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“spoken like a true romanov.”

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

“no!”

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

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

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

“i don’t believe we told her that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“peterhof, russia.”

“when were you born?”

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

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

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

“did you have any pets?”

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

“what was your favorite subject in school?”

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

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

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

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

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

“i’ve waited for so long!”

TAGLIST:

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

#eddie vedder #olivia vedder #ed vedder #harper vedder #eddie vedder imagine #eddie vedder x reader #pearl jam imagine #Pearl Jam #anastasia au #alternate universe #1900s au #historical imagine #historical au #historical fiction au #historical fiction imagine

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weepingandgnashingofteeth · 4 years

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me:

my brain: Matryoshka dolls (Russian: матрёшка, IPA: [mɐˈtrʲɵʂkə]; also known as babushka dolls, stacking dolls, nesting dolls, Russian tea dolls, or Russian dolls[1]) are a set of wooden dolls of decreasing size placed one inside another. The name matryoshka, literally "little matron", is a diminutive form of Russian female first name "Matryona" (Матрёна) or "Matryosha".[2]

A set of matryoshkas consists of a wooden figure, which separates at the middle, top from bottom, to reveal a smaller figure of the same sort inside, which has, in turn, another figure inside of it, and so on.

The first Russian nested doll set was made in 1890 by wood turning craftsman and wood carver Vasily Zvyozdochkin from a design by Sergey Malyutin, who was a folk crafts painter at Abramtsevo. Traditionally the outer layer is a woman, dressed in a sarafan, a long and shapeless traditional Russian peasant jumper dress. The figures inside may be of any gender; the smallest, innermost doll is typically a baby turned from a single piece of wood. Much of the artistry is in the painting of each doll, which can be very elaborate. The dolls often follow a theme; the themes may vary, from fairy tale characters to Soviet leaders. In the west, matryoshka dolls are often referred to as babushka dolls, babushka meaning "grandmother" or "old woman".[3]

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100witches · 6 years

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18- Baba Yaga

18- Baba Yaga (Slavic Folklore).

This classic witch originates from Russian mythology and Slavic fairytales. Baba Yaga appears in various legends, often occupying the role of the witch residing deep in the woods that the main character must interact and barter with. She is the predecessor to witches like those found in the fairy tales of Charles Perrault, as well as those found in the Grimm Brothers’ works. Baba Yaga retains many unique characterizations and attributes not found in any other witch, however, making her singularly iconic.

Baba Yaga is described as a hideous, deformed, and vicious looking woman, resembling the classic hag archetype. In some versions of her story, Baba Yaga is not one, but three sisters all named Baba Yaga, each sister being older than the next. In this way, Baba Yaga is intimately connected to both The Graeae and the Moirai (#64), and illustrates the triple goddess. More specifically, Baba Yaga is a representation of the Crone phase, and is associated with death, darkness, and winter. Her function in the legends she appears in further matches this archetype, as she “may help or hinder” the characters that beseech her. She stands at the crossroads of death and mystery, allowing some to pass unscathed.

Baba Yaga is best known for two specific attributes that have defined witch iconography and contributed to Baba Yaga’s mythological uniqueness. Her residence, as well as her choice of aerial transportation, are some of the most distinctive out of any witch in this series. While most fairy tale and fictional witches fly through the sky on their iconic brooms, Baba Yaga sits her little old body inside a mortar, and steers her “spice-craft” with a pestle as rudder. The iconography and symbolic nature of this, with the mortar representing the divine feminine/womb and the pestle representing the divine masculine/phallus, shows Baba Yaga to be a character in balance with nature, called by some as a “phallic mother”. Other depictions show Baba Yaga riding through the sky in a cauldron, further solidifying the relationships between witches and their love of these cast iron pots (Ceridwen #56).

Baba Yaga’s hut is similarly iconic and unique, and has influenced centuries of witch-lore. Her house sits upon a pair of chicken legs (sometimes just a single claw). It jumps in the air and spins around, constantly moving from place to place and turning direction. I’ve seen dozens of references and depictions of witch-homes on chicken legs, but they are all imitations of Baba Yaga’s. Her yard is surrounded by a fence impaled with skulls, furthering her placement at the gates of death and dying. Her fowl-legged home appears in the earliest references to Baba Yaga, so whatever this strange attribute means, its intimately connected to her being.

The etymological roots and significance of her name are disputed. It’s generally agreed that the Baba is the same root as babushka, meaning grandmother. Other roots in Old Russian bring the shared meaning of Baba to “midwife, sorceress, and fortune teller”. The Yaga part of her name is less conclusive, however, with no root universally agreed upon. Some believe it has its origin in “serpent, snake”, while others see it from anything from “horror”, “witch”, “evil woman”, and “pain and worry”. In this way, Baba Yaga principally means Grandmother Witch, the Slavic etymological counterpart to the Italian version, Strega Nona (#21). Both Strega Nona and Baba Yaga are examples of the tradition of witch names ending in an A, with Baba Yaga perhaps being the earliest (See: Hilda and Zelda #36, Sabrina #62, Samantha/Endora/Clara #s 89/54/39, Glinda 76, et. al.).

In modern times, Baba Yaga has become more of a bogeyman character, used to scared children into good behavior. She’s described as flying through the air in her cauldron, stealing kids away to eat them. She is often shown as a consort to the personification of Death, sealing her Crone status. This association expands beyond the original source material for her, however, and while she is now often seen as evil, she was more thoroughly understood as being morally ambiguous. Baba Yaga’s ultimate good or evil was brought out by the decisions and/or actions of the main character in the fairy tale who interacted with her, serving as a reminder of caution, thoughtfulness, and sure-footedness.

Baba Yaga remains one of the classic hag witches from world folklore and mythology. I am absolutely enamored with her flying around in a Mortar/Pestle, as I find her to be one of the prototypes for modern Kitchen Witch iconography. Her witch residence goes down in history as one of the most unique, rivaled only by the far removed castles of witch/queens. I find her manifestation as three Baba Yagas, each living in a chicken-clawed home, to be her most allegorical and fascinating. In this way, Baba Yaga illustrates the singularity and unity of the Triple Goddess into one character, promoting the final stage of Crone as the most pertinent to the archetypes of witchcraft.

#witch #witches #witchblr #witchcraft #100witches #halloween #samhain #pagan #paganism #wicca #coven #magic #occult #baba yaga #mortar and pestle #Russian folklore #Slavic Folklore #Folklore #mythology

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blankdblank · 5 years

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Hobbit - Soulmate Pt 7

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 - Pt 5 - Pt 6 -

Tags –

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @ggbbhehe4455, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @admirationofarmitage, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @c-s-stars, @abiwim, @deepestfirefun, @evyiione, @lilith15000 , @c-s-stars, @abiwim, @deepestfirefun, @evyiione

…

Through the walls an alarm sounded stirring groggy Richard from his sleep with a grin at the reminder of your being under his roof. Nipping at his lip as he climbed out of bed he listened as you headed into the bath attached to your room and let out a soft exclamation, “Hot water!” Lowly he chuckled and ruffled his hands through his hair brushing it into place and pulled on a set of clothes and went to put together a simple breakfast you were soon joining him for in your leotard and sweats you were covering with a large sweater and your jacket after you set your bag and shoes on the ground beside your chair. When your plates were empty you planted a kiss on Richard’s cheek on the path to the door after you had added your shoes through his clearing the table. Under his arm you walked to the car as he cleared his throat and rumbled, “You’re finished at 1, correct?”

You nodded, “Yes. If you can’t get me-.”

His lips planted on your cheek cutting your words off, “I will be there Darling.”

Tilting your head back you rose up on your toes to kiss him on the lips as he held your door open for you. Pulling back you caught his growing smile watching as you climbed inside.

…

One had come quick enough and Richard parked in the same lot as before and curiously eyed the same row of cars from that morning all still sitting there leaving him to assume practice had just run late and to follow the same path he had seen you take to enter earlier that morning. Peering through these immaculate halls leaving him feeling a bit out of place he eyed the signs guiding him towards the lingering crowds in the dance halls all buzzing with news of the Bolshoi Ballet Principal Dancers turned Directors that all of the dancers were all grouped around in one of the open rehearsal rooms. In their conversation Richard eyed the pair staring directly through the glass wall dividing your practice rooms where you were with Dean still running through the final act of the dance again.

Akin to a magnet your performance drew him into the empty room he claimed one of the seats along the wall to watch your stunningly fluid and weightless motions and leaps between lifts making you seem as light as a feather with the ease Dean had led you through.

Each move, even in his familiarity with the show from his own role in it in school, seemed brand new and an entire seemingly unattainable level he had imagined such a young student to achieve. No matter who had approached the pair they were still watching you until your final giggling turn when you caught Richard in his spot by the door signaling the final exaggerated reach for your extended leg as Dean posed behind you resting his hand against the one you had extended above you to finalize the ending act motion the director had added signaling the crowd of dancers to fold in around you before the curtain would close. Up right again you giggled and smiled at Richard ready to approach him only to turn your head to the visiting pair that had entered the room through the door in the glass wall that called out, “Jaqieara” in matching thick Russian accents.

With parted lips Richard watched your brisk en point bouncing path to them where you stopped holding the tall position with ankles crossed while your arms crossed behind your back allowing you to tangle your fingers together as the pair, now the same height of you, locked their eyes on yours. Looking on Richard missed Dean and his Cousins grouping around him, Dean bumped his arm with his elbow as the dancers on the other side of the glass divider looked on jealously at their calling you over to speak with them without being told anything about you. “I love it when they drop by for visits.”

Richard glanced at Dean asking, “They visit often?”

Dean glanced at him and nodded with a chuckle, “Yup. Come out to see their Little Pear progressing.”

Richard’s brow rose, “Little Pear?” His head turned to watch you again as he caught the woman turning as she glanced at Richard with a stoic expression, to reenter the room as the man’s hand rose to stroke your cheek in his lean in to kiss your forehead while his other hand reached out to pass you an envelope you smiled and nodded as he smiled at you then turned to join his Wife, stealing a glance at Richard as well with a slightly softer expression before turning away. As the doors closed you turned in a step back and started the walk back to the group as Chuck snickered to himself saying, “That was practically a hug right there.”

Dean nodded then glanced at Richard again nudging his arm, “They’re her Grandparents, Mum’s side.”

Richard’s eyes settled on you watching your walk back to them as you lowered to the soles of your feet and relaxed your posture loosening the ache in your back.

Motion by motion you could feel their eyes on you. Each year was the same, always silent, always painful, but you all held the tradition of this forced encounter to pretend like they hadn’t done something so impossibly cruel decades prior. Word of their being there had spread through the students with all watching and wondering why they had chosen your dance to observe, their answer coming as the others in your rehearsal barely drew a moment of attention from them away from you. Every move and breath they watched like a hawk with their stern gazes fixed on you explicitly. There was no reason for them to be here past the prestige they brought to the schools exhibits by bringing such amazing dancers and members of an unsurpassed seemingly perfect dance company in the world, even if all they did was sit silently murmuring to each other and detailing your every moment.

Through the glass walls they still watched and you ignored, hoping they would look away just once allowing you to breath without fear of bursting into tears at the painful loss their presence reminded you of. But nevertheless the doors were opened and they passed through after your final resting position, thickly in Russian accents “Jaqiearae” was called.

Drawing in a steady breath you smiled at Dean in his parting wink and trot to join Richard and the boys. Damn your feet hurt. Your former slippers had ripped in your last practice halfway and you had to pull out your new pair. Still they were far too stiff for a performance just yet when you had started this morning, but no doubt as you toed your way over to the pair and they caught your using their breaking in technique their version of smiles eased onto their faces.

In a glance at your Grandmother you smiled stating, “Babushka.” Then glanced at your grinning Grandfather as your fingers laced behind your back, “Babu.”

Thickly he stated in Russian, “Flawless as always my Little Bubble.”

You smiled then looked to your Grandmother in her cold demeanor stating with a broken regret filed expression in her eyes she refused to voice as she looked on at the mirror image of her lost child not counting your eyes and the slightly curved and muscular form unlike her wispy tall figure. “Certainly your studies and our notes have imprinted on you. There is quite a list of our own Principals that cannot hold that Grand Allegro lift like your partner and yourself. It is pleasing you have found a partner to trust so freely, unlike the rotating set in Julliard.”

Your Grandfather asked, “Have you decided on graduating early or not?”

“Not yet. There are a few things I have to consider through this last semester before my summer semester back out here.”

Your Grandmother nodded, “True. It is a hefty decision. Clearly you have gained an impressive amount of skill from that school. It is not something to squander easily.” Her eyes shifted to the group of teens and Richard, “Who was that man watching you? You smiled at him.”

“He’s my Mate, Richard, Armitage.”

Her eyes scanned over him as she stated, “Your children will be tall.”

As she passed through the doors your Grandfather cupped your cheek smiling at you with a far softer expression he was free to show in her absence, “My little Bubble,” His lips pressed to your forehead, “I am pleased you have found your Mate. Trust me, she will not make the same mistake twice. We wish you the happiness in the world. You are timeless and without flaw when you move with so much in your heart flooding around you, even in her icy state she can see it, tears, always when you dance. So much farther you’ve grown past your Mother.” After a reach in his pocket he drew out an envelope in a deep red with etchings of mistletoe leaves and berries over it, “Happy Christmas. Another will find you in New York for your birthday.”

“Babu-.”

His hand patted yours, “We heard of your sudden arrival. Let an old man spoil you.” His eyes darted to Richard then back to you, “Your children will be tall, with glowing eyes.”

Softly you giggled as he shared his love, a sentiment you returned watching him join her before you turned and lowered finally to the soles of your feet to walk back to the waiting group gathered around your bag they had grabbed.

Your smile grew as you claimed one of the seats to remove your slippers you put up in your bag as you said to Richard, “Sorry, things ran a bit late with our guests.”

Richard nodded glancing at the crowds following the pair heading for the parking lot then looked back at you as you tied your shoes over the socks you had added, “No need to apologize. Everything go alright?”

You nodded and stood accepting your sweater from Dean you pulled on as they hugged you and followed the group of females waving at them motioning to meet them outside. “Ya. As good as it can.”

“Oh?”

You let out a weak chuckle and wet your lips making sure you were alone before you grabbed the envelope from the chair and eyed your bag on Richard’s shoulder as he held out your jacket for you, with a loving expression hoping to simply help, “My Grandmother disowned my Mother when she believed her to be trading down by marrying my Father, her Mate.” Richard’s lips parted, “A couple years later I was born and my Mom died without having spoken to them since. So, I’m sort of a, redemption, for them.”

Richard closed the distance cupping your cheek as your eyes started to fill with tears, and you drew in a trembling breath as he wrapped you in a tight hug, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “Is there anything I can do?”

Your arms snaked around his middle, “The hug helps.” You mumbled against his thick sweater making him hug you tighter. When you finally stepped back you sniffled and flashed him a quick smile, “Hungry?”

“Sort of. You look hungry, take aways and movie marathon till dinner?” You nodded and his eyes shifted to the envelope, “Christmas card?”

You nodded and slipped it in your bag as well, “With a check for the account my Grandfather opened for me here.”

Richard’s brow rose and you added, “He like to send me money when I’m here. He knows I work but he likes to be sure I have enough to be comfortable here on my own.”

He nodded, “They don’t like your friends?”

“They’re impressed with my partnering with Dean. If you mean the stern looks that’s just how they are most of the time. They did mention us having tall children with glowing eyes.” His brows twitched up again, “They are still Grandparents, demanding babies is part of the job I guess.” Making him chuckle as you led the way out to his car.

“Let’s get you something to eat Darling.” Wrapping his arm around your back.

Pt 8

#Richard Armitage x Reader OC

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