noskova

[noskova]

As much as she had aided Atticus in his becoming a person capable of being exactly who he was — beautiful and capable — he had helped her delve into the parts of herself dormant for so long and left in cobwebs and broken dreams; a shattered husk huddled in a corner and whispering to itself that nothing felt better than anything while digging its nails into its own palms and bleeding rivulets down its front; the lies she told herself when memories surfaced she knew didn't feel familiar or warm but instead felt mechanical and looked like a grainy, half-lit home movie of someone else's life.

With Michael — and her biological son, Felix — her heart had been thawed, awakening a tingling in her body that left her synapses on fire and her soul wanting more. She loved them, completely and absolutely, but it wasn't until she met Atticus and beheld the parts of him that he kept hidden inside — held together by scotch tape and spit and the will to keep something together at least — that she felt someone who actually needed her more than anything.

To be needed by someone with damage that felt, if not exact, at least similar to one's own was something else entirely. It happened to normal people all the time, she'd imagine, but for her there were parts of her that were so misshapen she never held out hope that someone would come along to fill them. Atticus had, and she immediately wanted to fill the empty caverns in his own soul.

His wife had done so much after Michewa let him go — only in the sense of him taking his own life into his hands and moving forward — and was probably as beloved by Michewa as anyone else in her family. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that nothing bad could happen to Atticus as long as Micah was around. A mother bear, tiger mom, and fiercely protective of her son it wasn’t taken lightly that she trusted the woman with her baby and it spoke to their bond. 

It was hard for her to fully understand what Atticus was going through, but on some levels no one could understand better; she'd been in this from the get go (as much of the get go as she was allowed to be in it, and sometimes the darker parts of herself crave violence against those who hurt him before she could get there) and had learned his moods, his shifts, the way his body worked; if he so much as hitched a breath differently she'd know the exact meaning of that particularly breath. Some people didn't understand the way they were together — symbiotic in the direst instances but really just two people who love each other and are very close — but that didn't matter to either of them.

What mattered was that they were a part of each other.

A hand shifts the water away, not deigning to force further on him now knowing that he was not going to be totally without hydration. Her head tips to look down at him, both arms once again encircling him, safe but not suffocating, and she pressed her lips to his brown gently, "She's dealing with the doctors and nurses. She's been hard at it since I came. She didn't want to leave your side but she understood how important this all was... Atti, you've got a good wife. She will make this right. There is absolutely nothing she won't do, and don't you dare think otherwise about how she feels about you and the lengths she's willing to go. That girl is a force to be reckoned with and is tough enough to handle anything."

Except losing him. Exactly like Michewa. But she couldn't say that, it would spiral him right back into doubt and numbers and statistics and...

She knew of his fear, and the thought that Micah was missing in that moment had probably set him back a few paces from the steps towards recovery he had found.

Now Michewa settled her lips full against his forehead, murmuring the next words gently, "Neither of us would let anything bad happen to you, I promise. Survival rates are nothing to you and I. We transcend and survive, that is what we do. You cannot be toppled, you have come through so much and will continue to thrive in a world that wants nothing more than to see you dead. You are steel to their wood, and no matter how much death tries to throw himself against you you will ALWAYS rise above." a pause, each word spoken with such conviction, and now even softer, just for him, "breathe, baby. You have to let it out of you. Dash the thoughts with others. Tell me about your wedding day again... tell me about how she looked."

The moment she’d gotten the call, Michewa had been in her car and on the road — a damn sight worse for the wear than her future vehicle but serviceable enough to get the job done — no matter how crowded the airport, expensive the ticket, or the commute to get to an airport willing to fly out, she was going. She had BEEN there since.

She’d meander off, quietly and contemplatively, to get a coffee or water, use the restroom, or, at the behest of nurses, eat something. But she had refused to leave his side otherwise.

Her husband had wanted to come, wanting to check on Atticus, but he had to work — his wife had the luxury of putting someone else in charge for a while and while he might be able to do that it wouldn’t work for long as people come to his shop for HIS tattoo work — and watch over their current kids. Michewa had never faltered in her insistence on flying out.

The moment she heard a rustle she’d already been on her feet, so poised on the edge of her seat for the last few days that she’d become accustomed to the other noises that exist in a hospital, but more in tune with the sounds that Atticus made when he was recovering from an episode than any one person had any right to be.

It took no time for her to move across, settle on the edge of the bed, and fold him up into her arms, lips immediately dropping to settle against his hair for a moment. The hug was firm, arms tight against him, but not so much so as to restrict him; the last thing he’d want is to feel trapped in this situation, so she let him set the pace, the one, the urgency of everything.

One hand smoothed his hair as she kissed his crown, fingertips drawing down gently across the nape of his neck and along his back. She slowly stroked with her fingertips in patterns on his back, familiar shapes and imagery to illicit memories of better things, all while her lips hushed into his hair, “Nothing could have kept me away, my darling.”

A woman who had, only recently mind you, become more in tune with the side of her given to nurture. Her life was a whirlwind of observations (and, at times, bloodied hands and lives silenced), a cog in a machine that worked because she didn’t feel anything — or at least that was the idea. Her husband had smashed through that wall with a romantic love that had started a fire in her, but… Atticus arriving on their doorstep after what she’d seen online about what happens to boys like him. That was something else.

The fire a blaze now, the fallout of which was encompassing everything dear to her in life. Atticus had changed her life when he’d shown up in ways he couldn’t imagine, and she knew, without question, that she would do anything to protect him. It didn’t matter how much older he’d gotten. It didn’t matter if he had his own life now.

When Atticus needed her, she was there. Because he needed her more than anyone else when it came to those moments. Her husband loved her, her kids loved her, they all needed her but… they could survive in spans of heart beats without her, but Atticus would…

She didn’t like to think about it, and as the thought was dashed from her mind she continued to trace shapes on his back, not pulling back to look down at him (she could sense that he needed time to adjust) but instead talking softly against the top of his head and holding him to her as much as he wanted. Tears were wetting the cozy sweater she was wearing — cable knit and frayed, but somehow still fashionable — and likely other things, but she didn’t notice.

“I know, baby. It’s okay. It’ll all be okay. Things get noisy for all of us.” A pause, thinking for a moment, fingers tracing a heart along his back, “Do you remember what happened? It’s okay if you don’t.”

There were a series of questions she’d ask to try and get a feel for what had happened in detail. She’d learned over the years… directly at first so that he could have agency should he actually remember clearly, then softer questions about smells, things he felt, things he might have seen even if they weren’t important.

The hand at his back abandoned for a moment to reach and pull over the water she’d had, knowing full well he wouldn’t mind drinking after her and held it between them, kissing his forehead now but still not forcing him to look at her if he didn’t want to and keeping her voice the soft measure it had always been for Atticus, “Drink a moment, my darling. Take a deep breath and hold it for two beats, then let it out like this moment is the first moment of the rest of your life…”

She didn’t dare ring for a nurse. They couldn’t help him right now. He needed water, he needed his mom, and he needed to feel like the world was not equal parts exploding outwards and imploding in his chest. They could run tests later, if she allowed them.

[noskova]

A comedy of errors was inescapable when the life you were surrounded with was inundated in chaos and carnage. The truth was, no matter what they were dealing with in the internal workings of all of the trauma they'd been put through, the residents of Anchorage were always a bit quirky in their own right. Michewa was no stranger to situations in which she'd find herself the comedic relief, a far cry from the woman she had been before and the woman she could be should the need ever arise (along with the memories that lay buried deep in the soul of her about her origins.)

So it was no surprise when the aforementioned paper thwacked gently against her face, the wind having carried it gracefully to its mark and now it was being plucked carefully off so as to not totally damage it, "Yeah, I caught it with my face."

She looked down at it, regardless of intent, and gave a light snort, "Do you work at the club?"

where: main street, anchorage 

when: january 15th, 2023

THE EVENTS THAT TOOK PLACE JUST as the New Year was being rung in had left Mali disoriented just like the rest of the town, but if there was one thing the amateur artist was good at, it was putting on a front and pretending everything was fine. She had been mastering that skill for years now, and had it nearly perfected. So, when it came to the following weeks, she had reverted her life back to its usual agenda, going to work and spending most of her evenings alone, save for a bad family sitcom and possibly a glass of wine. What little socializing she participated in came from her job at the bookstore and her book club, which she was currently looking to expand. Not that she wanted a big group, but a couple more people wouldn’t hurt and could possibly bring new interpretations of the novels they read. With a roll of tape in one had, she was posting up new flyers for the club on some of the streetlamps that littered the sidewalk of one of the busier streets in Anchorage, hoping it would catch somebody’s attention in the coming days. Struggling with the tape and pile of papers in her arms, the one Mali was currently trying to hang up was taken by the Alaskan wind, flittering down the sidewalk as the brunette chased after it without losing anymore. She called out to someone further down the street with a headstart on the runaway piece of paper, “Hey, can you catch that for me?” 

[noskova]

[noskova]

where: atticus' place when: early feb, 2023 whom: @pcisxnivys

They'd made it a habit of checking in, not out of any kind of guilt or obligation based on 'you have to love your family' but legitimately because, to some degree, one without the other was destined to fail. They liked keeping in touch. She loved getting a text from Atticus at the end of the day and she knew, on some level, he loved that she'd send him funny things she'd found through the day. Perhaps a symbiotic relationship, but not toxic.

It meant that every once in a while they'd have a full on get together. Sometimes it included her husband and his wife, maybe some of his siblings or fosters they'd decided to invite over, but the constant was Atticus and Michewa, who'd sit on the sidelines and chat about this or that, laughs pealing from Michewa's throat like a litany of prayers and Atticus' smile a bit crooked but genuine.

Today was a day for the two of them, and she'd been invited over to his place with the promise that they'd get something to eat (whether at home or heading out after a bit) and spend some time together. She hadn't had a proper sit down with him in a bit and wondered, quietly, if something might be wrong.

It wasn't really like Michewa to worry as such, and there were only a handful of people that she'd bare teeth for, but lately things have been... tense. She swears she can feel the shadows more than usual and there's an underlying sense of wrongness about everything; including her.

She cast a glance back as the thought of shadows crept into her mind and then raised a hand to quietly rap her knuckles against his door, a generously sized weekender bag over her shoulder (she didn't travel light even for work, always with a bag full of just... stuff). She was dressed in a pair of jeggings, knee high black leather boots with chunky heels, and a t-shirt that read: SCHOLASTIC BOOK FAIR; she'd gotten it at a thrift shop and it was delicately faded and, as the kids say, vintage.

She only knocked once, knowing full well if he could hear it he'd get to her, and if he couldn't hear it he'd notice her before it was too long. Part of how his brain worked. He knew she was coming so he'd be on the lookout.

[noskova]

The moment she'd gotten the call, Michewa had been in her car and on the road — a damn sight worse for the wear than her future vehicle but serviceable enough to get the job done — no matter how crowded the airport, expensive the ticket, or the commute to get to an airport willing to fly out, she was going. She had BEEN there since.

She'd meander off, quietly and contemplatively, to get a coffee or water, use the restroom, or, at the behest of nurses, eat something. But she had refused to leave his side otherwise.

Her husband had wanted to come, wanting to check on Atticus, but he had to work — his wife had the luxury of putting someone else in charge for a while and while he might be able to do that it wouldn't work for long as people come to his shop for HIS tattoo work — and watch over their current kids. Michewa had never faltered in her insistence on flying out.

The moment she heard a rustle she'd already been on her feet, so poised on the edge of her seat for the last few days that she'd become accustomed to the other noises that exist in a hospital, but more in tune with the sounds that Atticus made when he was recovering from an episode than any one person had any right to be.

It took no time for her to move across, settle on the edge of the bed, and fold him up into her arms, lips immediately dropping to settle against his hair for a moment. The hug was firm, arms tight against him, but not so much so as to restrict him; the last thing he'd want is to feel trapped in this situation, so she let him set the pace, the one, the urgency of everything.

One hand smoothed his hair as she kissed his crown, fingertips drawing down gently across the nape of his neck and along his back. She slowly stroked with her fingertips in patterns on his back, familiar shapes and imagery to illicit memories of better things, all while her lips hushed into his hair, "Nothing could have kept me away, my darling."

A woman who had, only recently mind you, become more in tune with the side of her given to nurture. Her life was a whirlwind of observations (and, at times, bloodied hands and lives silenced), a cog in a machine that worked because she didn't feel anything — or at least that was the idea. Her husband had smashed through that wall with a romantic love that had started a fire in her, but... Atticus arriving on their doorstep after what she'd seen online about what happens to boys like him. That was something else.

The fire a blaze now, the fallout of which was encompassing everything dear to her in life. Atticus had changed her life when he'd shown up in ways he couldn't imagine, and she knew, without question, that she would do anything to protect him. It didn't matter how much older he'd gotten. It didn't matter if he had his own life now.

When Atticus needed her, she was there. Because he needed her more than anyone else when it came to those moments. Her husband loved her, her kids loved her, they all needed her but... they could survive in spans of heart beats without her, but Atticus would...

She didn't like to think about it, and as the thought was dashed from her mind she continued to trace shapes on his back, not pulling back to look down at him (she could sense that he needed time to adjust) but instead talking softly against the top of his head and holding him to her as much as he wanted. Tears were wetting the cozy sweater she was wearing — cable knit and frayed, but somehow still fashionable — and likely other things, but she didn't notice.

"I know, baby. It's okay. It'll all be okay. Things get noisy for all of us." A pause, thinking for a moment, fingers tracing a heart along his back, "Do you remember what happened? It's okay if you don't."

There were a series of questions she'd ask to try and get a feel for what had happened in detail. She'd learned over the years... directly at first so that he could have agency should he actually remember clearly, then softer questions about smells, things he felt, things he might have seen even if they weren't important.

The hand at his back abandoned for a moment to reach and pull over the water she'd had, knowing full well he wouldn't mind drinking after her and held it between them, kissing his forehead now but still not forcing him to look at her if he didn't want to and keeping her voice the soft measure it had always been for Atticus, "Drink a moment, my darling. Take a deep breath and hold it for two beats, then let it out like this moment is the first moment of the rest of your life..."

She didn't dare ring for a nurse. They couldn't help him right now. He needed water, he needed his mom, and he needed to feel like the world was not equal parts exploding outwards and imploding in his chest. They could run tests later, if she allowed them.

when: late february 2017

where: lariboisière hospital AP-HP in paris, france

featuring: @noskova​

Contrary to vain fronts and the stained-glass achromia that pronounced his eyes, afflictions were garden variety — no amount of money piling in bank accounts auspiciously gained by wedlock six years ago could obfuscate that he’d endured more than met the eye. Whether it be by the hands of those meant to avow loving him by birthing him to the world ( he choked on the umbilical cord before taking his first breath ), religion ( people taught him that cruelty outweighed faith ), or the enmity of his own brain ( he woke up in the hospital bed convicted without credence that the staff were sent to murder him and shrieking because it felt like every lobe was on fire until they sedated him ), he figured he’d always be outrunning something. A couple forced doses of Latuda later, his conscious was clarified enough to ingest the prognosis of how bad it was and comprehend the electric shocks intermittently disturbing his chest weren’t side-effects of readjusting to his antipsychotics. His heart was fried. Logistically speaking, it was entirely his fault, despite the undetected condition. ( He and his siblings, that was their damning, wasn’t it? Parts of him were twisted and thrown together lazily, a setup for failure. )

At first, the void in him was abyssal, benumbed on morphine and whatever gadgets and medications were keeping him alive, mechanically beating, and conscious. Maybe part of him hadn’t wanted to alert Micah and further her distress with the gravity of any significance of emotion, considering the fit he’d thrown in throes of psychosis. When Stella had showed up ( whom he suspected Micah insisted upon flying out ), it did hit like the clothing iron that seared his face permanently. He wanted his mother. Scarcely did he weep in crocodile tears or whine as plaintively as he did when he was twelve, or even sixteen. This time, there was no contest.

���Mummy?”

Speech churning out like gravels and hoarse with the remnants of a sore neck, the blonde was ampler than he had been to prop himself a bit higher when the sliding door opened to the private room, abandoning the idling with a rerun of 90s sitcom. The ache in his chest amplified tenfold when he leaned away from the pillows to extend his arms and reach for her, repeating, “Mum, you came.” Of course she would, that was what she would iterate; still, it wasn’t as if the ones he spent the first ten years of his life with would bother. Comforting as it was to have his wife at his side, there was — peculiarly — nothing that he sought more right now than his mother’s embrace. A spark ignited in his chest for the first time in a while, someone passing the aflame lighter back to him, and the warmth radiating from her when they did embrace was the medicine nurses couldn’t provide. He was twelve again, too short for his age with the plethora of malnutrition and raising his arms to be swept off the ground for a hug — Atticus wrapped his slender arms around her shoulders, petite fingers bunching into the fabric of her outerwear and burying his face against Michewa’s chest. ( He’d never been someone’s son before entering the Noskova-Sanchez home, fed meals and bandaged by his brother from the time they could both walk. Maybe, he could picture what it could’ve been like now, and it didn’t matter that she wasn’t the one who bottlefed him. ) 

Labored breaths tapered down gradually, swallowing to clear the arid desert in his throat, and he found himself sniffling around the nasal cannula. “I’m scared…” Atticus had avoided to admit it until now, and he wondered what parents were supposed to feel in this situation — that the couple might hazard losing the child they thought of as their other baby. If he was scared, if Micah was petrified, what were they? “J’ai peur,” he echoed his own words, pursing the trembling line of his mouth and nuzzling into her neck, “I don’t know what happened. But I…” He’d clawed his way to survive his entire life, he wouldn’t dream of throwing it away. In a break, the conjecture of reality didn’t matter. Nothing except the instinct to escape the high frequency of auditory hallucinations and extremity of paranoia. “I just wanted quiet. I’m sorry.”

[noskova]

"You're fine, really." came Michewa's instant reply. She wasn't looking to bother anyone but she had been hovering and pondering between two different pastries for she and her other son whom she'd see later, "The toothpaste will come out with a little water, just pat it clear don't scrub it or you'll mess up the fabric, yeah?"

There was a small smile across Michewa's lips, something easy and almost timid — beneath might beat the heart of a lion but she was gentle regardless — and she reached over to grab a few napkins, hesitating for a moment before trying to dab some of the coffee off of Josette's hand, "Did you burn yourself, though? That's more concerning. I mean I can get you another coffee. Or a pastry? I'm still trying to decide what to get."

location: THE CREAMERY ICE CREAM & COFFEE BAR

@anchoragestarters​

      the last time josette had been in the establishment, she had been in tears before never even getting through half of her coffee. this was an adjustment period for the woman but she could at least try to be better with some much needed assistance - a colleague had even stopped by after hearing she’d been into the emergency room and they’d shared a cup of tea in her own home. what she wasn’t ready to deal with was the assumption her own blood was somewhat involved in the catastrophic start to the new year. it had overloaded her and caused her guilt to completely boil over and create mess. it hadn’t taken much to get the same effect but it hurt a lot more thinking about the factor she had avoided for so long. the therapist had opened up, crying uncontrollably about both her child and matthew that lead to a short admittance period but it had got her some form of help.

      the woman sipped on her coffee as she turned the pages of a newly purchased book. as the door opened, she jumped slightly spilling some onto her hand. “shit!” he rreflexes were somewhat slow but she’d backed away from the cup, only to look down and see that she’d been sat there for all this time with toothpaste gracing her front. looking up, the woman couldn’t help but chuckle. “i didn’t even realise that was down there… gosh, i look quite scruffy - hand covered in coffee and a toothpaste splash…”

[noskova]

Though not one for such fits, there is a sort of sameness in the deep implications of Michewa's soul that sort of mirrored the one of Evren. Perhaps it was some unspoken notion of comradery, or at least something that felt like kin — a person displaced, unknown, untethered, and yet she herself had found love in the same way. She knew nothing really of the other woman, nor did she feel like there would be any knowledge of herself. It's not as if Michewa were famous for anything... though perhaps Evren did have a certain familiarity about her.

She hadn't intended to stare and, in fact, didn't feel she had been. It had been more a cursory glance over a woman literally freezing her taters off out in the cold and a deep-seated need to help people in Michewa's being that had caused her to even make the woman suffer more than a moment's passing glance, "I wasn't? Though, you have to admit the image of a woman in the cold looking like she could use about thirteen more coats and seemingly just sort of stranded will get some looks?" A pause, tongue darting across her lower lip, "Honestly I was just wondering if you needed help."

It wasn't a question, merely a statement of fact on Michewa's position. It meant that Evren could respond in whichever way she wished — positively, negatively, violently, not at all; totally her choice — and she'd do the same. Michewa's own form was draped in a large coat made for the winter, faux fur around the top and not seeming all that expensive, but still serviceable — Michael rarely let her leave the house without a coat and an umbrella, just in case — a pair of jeans and a loose cashmere sweater beneath (bought on thrift) completed an overall look of ease. She always kind of chose to walk home from work on nights like that and she wasn't sure why.

Maybe she just liked the cold...

location: could be anywhere ! ( 0 / 5 cap )

It was a relatively well-known fact that Evren Fawn had never been one to be daunted by embarrassment nor sheepishness when it came to what she did for a living—an assassin olden as time itself in the past, a pseudo-groupie splattered amidst smoke and filth along on-the-run voyages with the love of her life, hell, even an adult video star who brandished for the sake of a proper living place—however, it didn’t mean that she was entirely insusceptible to irksome situations and today seemed to be just her lucky day. Working as a Playboy bunny had its perks, yet calamities wouldn’t be exempted. When the establishment had to, unfortunately, house a horde of frat-laden celebrations, damages were bound to occur. A spilled drink and ruined clothes left the raven-haired with a ceaseless downturn whorl on her lips, because now, yes, she was dressed in the bunny costume out here when she was supposed to shove it in her bag hours ago and she was attracting attention that nearly caused an internal rampage.

There was, at the very least, a mousy coat to shelter her from the cold. Without the presence of wonted arms engulfing her, she was entirely frigid to the core and as if the peeks of the costume had not been insufferable enough, it showed that she was trembling from the wintry gust, her only comfort at that moment was a half-lit cigarette that was placed between her lips. Her home was not too far away, but she had to stop, rub her arms furiously when another wind blew. Oh, how pathetic she must look now, clattering teeth and a quivering torso. She couldn’t help but notice a pair of hues trailing, lingering, though—she was not concerned about strangers whom she, likely, could protect herself from, but the hovering curiosity could still prove to be quite bothersome. With a sharp gaze, she turned to address the person. 

“Are you going to keep staring?”

@anchoragestarters​

[noskova]

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❀ *◦ dichen lachman. demi woman. she/her/they. heteromantic pansexual. ⇝ hey, isn’t that michewa noskova ( nickname: jellyfish )? i think that the forty year old from chelyabinsk, russia works as the owner of the twisted sisters pub ; sleeper agent for the dead idol, but outside of that people describe them as the scent of fresh, crisp apples; the deft use of a knife with seemingly no training; the way the sky looks after its rained in the dead of night and darkness swallowed everything but the moon; a budding orchid in a dead garden sprouting new life; a clear view to the horizon where nothing but barren wastelands lie. i hear they are distracted & disruptive, but they are also known to be brave & loving. consider giving them a visit at their home in delilah’s den gated community and get to know why they’re called the moon.

basic info

full name:  michewa noskova nickname:  mishi, kova name meaning:  sent from heaven status: miroir (sleeper agent of the dead idol) age:  forty date of birth:  june 9 star sign:  gemini place of birth:  chelyabinsk, russia current location:  anchorage, alaska (delilah’s den) gender:  demi-female pronouns:  she/her/they sexual orientation:  bisexual religion:  buddhism occupation:  owner of the twisted sisters pub family:  michael sanchez (husband), felix sanchez (biological son-npc), atticus villanelle (foster son), many other foster kids to be filled in as they roll in, utp sanchez (adopted daughter), utp sanchez (adopted son), utp sanchez (adopted nb child) living arrangements:  a nice home in delilah’s den with plenty of space and tasteful decoration. financial status: upper middle-class spoken languages: english, russian, french personality: distracted, disruptive, brave, loving, adept, intelligent, recalcitrant, fixated

inspirations

charly (the long kiss goodnight), maes hughes (full metal alchemist), bayonetta (bayonetta), black canary (dc comics), black widow (marvel comics), princess ursa (avatar: the last airbender), johanna (hilda), chung-sook (parasite), rhaenyra targaryen (asoiaf)

bio points (tw: miscarriage, infertility)

(subject to update and change as I continue to play her and things develop)

every memory is somewhat fuzzy, trying to consolidate the wants she has vs the way she was programmed has led her to be a tiny bit shaky on details overall.

she just wanted to build a normal life, which was strange given she wasn’t meant to feel much (or want much) of anything. bad little sleeper agent.

when she met michael, at first there was a butting of heads, him being stubborn and persistent and her being introverted and secretive.

however it didn’t take long for michael to break through her walls and she fell for him, confused by the feelings and wanting to know more of what she felt. she was head over heels for him in no time and decided she wanted to spend her life with him.

they dated for a while, then got engaged and married about a year or two in. he dotes upon her something fierce and she does so in return, the relationship is equal on both ends for affection.

discussions turned to building their family and they decided they wanted to have a big one (some part of that was michewa’s own want to build something of her own out of the life she was given and find her own place in the new feelings and world she’d been plopped into)

michewa found out she’d have a difficult time getting pregnant but they still attempted to have their own kid

she and her husband suffered a ton of miscarriages and it left a damper on her spirits for a while; they eventually gave up on trying for a child, but a miracle happened or whatever and they had one biological child of their own.

from then on she did fostering, wanting to adopt but realizing that she couldn’t save everyone long term she sort of just brought children who needed a place into her home.

finding out she was fairly good at being domestic, she was fairly good at taking care of herself, having knife skills she had no place having and able to defend herself against attackers (a mugger once, etc)

she instilled a lot of this knowledge into her children (foster and bio) to try and prepare them for the world, as if what was going on out there was an immediate threat to their safety.

even though she’s not a fan of sports in general she owns the twisted sisters bar and fills the need for a sports-bar type in town. she zones out when games are on tv and cuts lemons for drinks or occupies herself with other knife skills. she makes a decent amount of money from the job and between that and her husband’s job they’re comfortable.

they are still willing to foster anyone who needs a home, and though children come and go through their house they’ve adopted at least three.  this is not limited by age unless extreme (such as a 35 year old trying to get fostered?? but they’ll take up to like 22 because they know that even then you’re not fully grown and everyone needs help)

headcanons

michewa is crazy good at fighting, specializing in hand-to-hand and knives.

michewa chose to keep the noskova name to draw less attention to her new life, worrying at times that, even though the program isn’t really a thing anymore, that she’d have it all taken away.

the only person who really gets away with calling her mishi is her husband. people at the twisted sisters call her kova or miss kova, respectfully.

though she is easy-going and introverted, there is a cant to her attitude that can shift if people start to get too rowdy. she has been known to give withering looks that would chill people to their souls and physically escort people out of the bar. she sometimes does not tell her husband how physical she gets fearing he’ll worry about her and show up to take care of it himself.

they once had a pet pig named chris p. bacon. the weather wasn’t great for him and he eventually succumbed and they decided no more pets with special needs and environments (because her heart can’t take it)

wanted connections

friends — michewa has made a ton of friends in town because of the fact that she’s a business owner and a (seeming) pillar of the community. this could go as far as to be a group of other parents, a book club, people she knew when she was younger before she got married and so on. the world is our oyster. (unlimited)

best friend — technically it could be argued that her husband is her best friend, but generally one has a friend outside of that as well. she’s very open and charming and good at talking to people so she has a ton of friends, but this is the one person she’ll call if things get rough. she’s come close a dozen or so times to revealing more than she should to them, but other than her husband they really do know all of her (not dangerous) secrets. ride or die, baby. (one, gender/origin/etc utp)

former fosters — she’s been fostering for a while so the age range while somewhat narrow could be mid-twenties down. need to clear with atticus as well if the dates overlap but she continues to foster regardless!

tba

[noskova]