#It’s the BOUQUET OF DISSENT

[against-all-0dds]

this spring musical thing is taking up too much space in my mind rn.

reblog w the song lyrics in your head NOW. either stuck in yr head or what yr listening to

[dadsbongos]

P(AV) IN V

word count - 1.5 k / warnings - unprotected sex, pinv sex, vanilla :), make up sex, fem reader who wears skirt, not beta read

summary - you and pav fight... and then make up :3 with cool kitchen counter sex ~~~

“Late,” your words slice through the warm air as soon as the front door stutters open. Your icy tone dregs that welcomed warmth, blistering it down a raw, unforgiving chill, “Hours late.”

Pavel flashes a cheesy grin, manually crinkling the corners of his eyes, “My love! You’re alive, and you’re well! We’re both still alive and well,” his rambling persists as he slides through your frigid doorway and politely stops at the shoe rack, “How amazing is that, dearest? We could perish at any given moment should All-mer will, and yet we both still stand. Breathing. And well. And still…” he sighs, hesitant to break eye contact and pull off his boots (fearful your teeth will latch onto his neck the instant it's unguarded), “Still in love.”

Your folded arms remain firm over your chest, but the stiffness of such a guarded stance at least gives Pavel the confidence you won’t pounce as he unties his shoes.

“Yes, thank All-mer, my free fool has returned home. And in a lieutenant’s uniform no less… he shames us and his beloved All-mer for that. But yes, thank All-mer he’s home,” he’s wincing at the sting of your words, knowing exactly how terribly he’s set himself up, “Three hours late.”

Pavel finishes removing his muddied boots and settling them on the bottom layer of the rack in silence. Once that job is finished, he cannot hide behind the chore any longer -- now, he is forced to confront the full wrath of a woman scorned. Not just any woman, the only woman he’s sworn himself to; and not just any kind of scorn, the kind bred from arriving three hours late for anniversary dinner.

Finally, he weaves his fingers together at the pelvis and stares with those silvery sharp eyes; golden curls that have played you like a fiddle many times before falling over his forehead. As if he’s some kind hearted businessman from the center of town pleading for his wife’s forgiveness rather than the man he actually is.

He hasn’t even presented you with a ring, yet.

“I’m very, very late,” Pavel confirms, but it’s the last you want to hear. You already know this, what you want to know is what his reasoning could possibly be -- what made him think it was appropriate to come home without so much as a bouquet of flowers? He suspires sharply, so sharp it feels like a stab right in his lung, and shoulders scrunch towards his ears defensively, “I don’t have an excuse.”

“Pav…” you’re not keen as to why you trouble yourself groaning his name. It solves nothing, the only solace you scavenge is knowing it makes guilt bloom in his chest.

Even that is shallow.

“I don’t,” Pavel removes his hat and strips the monster’s hide from his back. Another way you know Pavel is not like the businessmen in town, when he steps forward more parts bare than clothed -- only a fraction of his intent is libido, “I was working, and then it was eight.”

“‘Working’,” you scoff, turning against the kitchen counter to pore into the steel sink. Colored blobs have pooled in the bottom, shifting in time with your unsteady rocking, “You’re obsessive, this is destructive. You’re going nowhere.”

“I told you,” now his sorrow is adopting irritation, brows furrowing and jaw tensing, “I told you exactly who I was, and you said you could live with it. I told you what I wanted for my life, and you went along with me anyway. I am sorry that I’m late, but don’t you dare pretend I’m doing this regardless of you.”

Unfortunately, you cannot dissent those points. Pavel was upfront that his life’s goal was different from other men. He was willing to meet standards such as marriage or pets or owning a two-story home, but didn’t need those things. He needed to kill the Kaiser. He needed revenge. He needed Godblood on his hands.

You were an unforeseen, much appreciated, highlight on his otherwise dismal path.

And now he was muddying it all, wasn’t he?

Pavel trudges further into the kitchen, naked bar the whities on his hips and socks on his feet. He’s comfortable again, and you must be too because your shoulders slacken. He feels more human now than he had during his entire drag of work. The men he bunks with are as hideous as wild animals, their immortal stench somehow worse. Pavel had begged for this temporary leave since the turn of the new year.

Only to finally return to you hours later than he’d promised. Pavel wisens himself to feel the shame searing through every heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” he slinks up behind you at the sink, tender arms and soft cheek melting your frostbitten exterior, “I have no excuse,” he brushes loose hairs from your temple, fingertips kissing tenderly over your skin seconds before his lips do, “You’re right, dear. I should’ve paid you more mind, but I am not graced with tact. I will be better to you.”

One of the things that drew you and Pavel to each other was a mutual understanding of fire. And hatred. And hiding beneath slumped bodies until soldiers left. You understand Pavel as much as you’re irritated with him. His obsession is your obsession. If you’d been able to dedicate yourself to combat training and wearing their ranks, you’d be no better than him.

“You’re forgiven,” you heave the words as you turn, floating your arms to loop around his neck, “But I wish you’d find a way to be more sensitive to these things.”

“I will,” he soothes.

In an effort to shift the mood, you poke a finger against his bare chest, skin cool from being exposed all day even in his discarded uniform, “Showing off to your superiors again?”

He snorts, a sly smile overtaking his face, “I have to advance at every given opportunity.”

“Bremen whore,” you ‘tsk’.

“Yes, yes, I love the attention.”

“You do have a very lovely body.”

And Pavel most certainly does love your attention.

“Oh, you don’t say?” his breathing turns cursory upon the implication of your words, “Would the pretty lady be willing to demonstrate?”

“She might. If you can promise to be good for her.”

“Always,” he swears it.

You jump back onto the kitchen counter, tugging Pavel between your thighs by the ankles around his waist, “Liar. Make it up to me.”

“If I must,” he makes a show of sighing, kneading the fat of your thighs -- pulling you closer to the edge. Calloused hands burrow under your skirts, tossing the flowing material up and snagging your panties down.

Giggling deliriously, you spread your legs as easily as he maneuvers them. Pavel slicks his right hand with his own saliva, then tucking the wetted digits inside you while thumbing your clit. He’s selfish at the end of the day, removing his fingers (sans the thumb twirling your bundle of nerves) to push his trousers halfway down his thick thighs.

He slides inside you with a heady grown, hands clenching tight around the fat of your hips. His brows pinch and lips pucker, neck craning to mouth at your neck. Kissing as he bucks leisurely into your drooly cunt, always dragging you closer. Pinning your hips with his as he babbles against your skin, nuzzling as if you’re silken.

Pavel pants and whimpers into your ear, greedily soaking up the way your nails dig into his arms and moans sing his name.

“Louder, my love,” he begs, a particular thrust driving your hips back on the counter. His hands claw you back down, “The neighbors should bang down our door- be louder, my love.”

“Insatiable,” you manage to squeal out, head tossing back until your crown is smothering the cold, hard cupboard behind you. Pavel nods shamelessly, now kissing up your cheek to your lips. Drowning out your cries despite his pleas to hear every single one.

Pavel staples you in place, pausing only a moment before hurriedly stuffing you with his cock. He stretches over you, again avaricious for your mouth on his, muffling his own groans under the sloppy stirs of his speedy thrusts. His thumb matches pace, drawing the shiver of his own name, narcissistically, into the apex of your thighs. Your mixing juices soaking his skin. Were he not edging close to climax, Pavel would be tempted to sink to his knees and worship with his mouth. The thought sears through his veins, body seizing -- he hunches unflatteringly, clutching you flush as he cums.

The sensation paired with his devoted attention to your clit cinches the knot in your gut, thighs squished around Pavel’s waist and gasps ragged.

“You’re so handsome when you’re not being a terror,” you coo as Pavel lays his head on your chest.

He snorts quietly, nodding and curling both arms around you, “So tired. You should carry me to our room.”

“If we move, you’re doing the carrying,” you yawn, scooting down to rest your back flat on the counter (causing the both of you to whimper in overstimulation at the jostling).

After a brief respite, Pavel murmurs, half-asleep on your chest, “I’m content to sleep here.”

“Of course…” you yawn again, louder, and scratch your nails through his tangled hair, “I am, too.”

“Of course,” he mimics, laughing tiredly even when you sharply yank a lock of his hair.

[la-femme-au-collier-vert]

A List of Works Influencing and Referenced by IWTV Season 1

Works Directly Referenced

Marriage in a Free Society by Edward Carpenter

A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Cheri by Collete

A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams

La Nausee by Jean-Paul Sartre (credit to @demonicdomarmand )

Complete Poetry of Emily Dickinson edited by Thomas H. Johnson*

Blue Book by Tom Anderson

The Book of Abramelin the Mage

The Savage Garden by Mark Mills credit to @speckled-jim

Midnight in Washington: How We Almost Lost Our Democracy and Still Could by Adam Schiff credit to @spreckled-jim

America and Dissent: Why America Suffers When Economics and Politics Collide by Alan S. Blinder credit to @speckled-jim

Dairy Queen Days by Robert Inman credit to @speckled-jim

Plan B 2.0: Rescuing a Planet Under Stress and a Civilization in Trouble by Lester R. Brown credit to @speckled-jim

Attila: the Judgement by William Napier credit to @speckled-jim

In A Heartbeat by Rosalind Noonan credit to @spreckled-jim

The Lost Recipe for Happiness by Barbara O'Neal credit to @speckled-jim

Toward a Christian Theology of Religious Pluralism" by Jacques Dupuis credit to @speckled-jim

Strawberry Hill: Horace Walpole's Gothic Castle by Anna Chalcraft & Judith Viscardi credit to @speckled-jim

Sailing to Byzantium by Yeats

The Circus Animal's Desertion by Yeats

The Second Coming by Yeats

Don Pasquale by Gaetano Donizetti with libretto by Giovanni Ruffini

Iolanta by Pyotr Tchaikovsky with libretto by Modest Tchaikovsky

Pelleas et Melisande by Claude Debussy

Epigraphes Antiques by Claude Debussy

Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992)

Nosferatu (1922)

The Graduate (1967)

Marie Antoinette (1938)

On the Origin of the Species by Charles Darwin

De Masticatione Mortuorum in Tumulis by Michael Ranft (1728)

Emily Post’s Etiquette

Bach’s Minuet in G Major (arranged as vampire minuet in G major)

Artworks referenced (much credit in this section to @iwtvfanevents and to @nicodelenfent )

Fall of The Rebel Angels by Peter Bruegel The Elder (1562)

The Storm on the Sea of Galilee by Rembrandt (1633)

Three Peaches on a Stone Plinth by Adriaen Coorte (1705)

Strawberries and Cream Raphaelle Peale, (1816) credit to @diasdelfeugo

Red Mullet and Eel by Edouard Manet (1864)

Starry Night by Edvard Munch (1893)

Self Portrait by Edvard Munch (1881)

Captain Percy Williams on a Favorite Irish Hunter by Samuel Sidney (1881)

Autumn at Arkville by Alexander H. Wyant 

Cumulus Clouds, East River by Robert Henri 

Mildred-O Hat by Robert Henri (Undated)

Ship in the Night James Gale Tyler (1870)

Bouquet in a Theater Box by Renoir (1871)

Berthe Morisot with a Fan by Édouard Manet (1872)

La Vierge D’aurore by Odilon Redon (1890) credit to @vampirepoem on twt

Still Life with Blue Vase and Mushrooms by Otto Sholderer (1891)

After the Bath: Woman Drying her Hair by Edgar Degas (1898)

Bust of a Woman with Her Left Hand on Her

Chin by Edgar Degas (1898) credit to @terrifique

Backstage at the Opera by Jean Beraud (1889)

Roman Bacchanal by Vasily Alexandrovich Kotarbiński (1898)

Dancers by Edgar Degas (1899)

Calling the Hounds Out of Cover by Haywood Hardy (1906)

Dolls by Witold Wojtkiewicz (1906) credit to @gyzeppelis on twt

Forty-two Kids by George Bellows (1907)

The Artist's Sister Melanie by Egon Schiele (1908)

Paddy Flannigan by George Bellows (1908)

Stag at Sharkey’s by George Bellows (1909)

The Lone Tenement by George Bellows (1909)

Ode to Flower After Anacreon by Auguste Renoir (1909) credit to @iwtvasart on twt

New York by George Bellows (1911)

Young Man kneeling before God the Father

Egon Schiele (1909)

Kneeling Girl with Spanish Skirt by Egon Schiele (1911)

Portrait of Erich Lederer by Egon Schiele (1912)

Krumau on the Molde by Egon Schiele (1912)

Weeping Nude by Edvard Munch (1913)

The Cliff Dwellers by George Bellows (1913)

Church in Stein on the Danube by Egon Schiele (1913)

Self Portrait in a Jerkin by Egon Schiele (1914)

The Kitten's Art Lesson by Henriette Ronner Knip credit to @terrifique

Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion by Francis Bacon (1944)

New York by Vivian Maier (1953)

Self Portrait by Vivian Maier (Undated)

Self Portrait by Vivian Maier (1954)

Slave Auction by Jean-Michelle Basquiat (1982)

(Untitled) photo of St. Paul Loading Docks by Bradley Olson (2015)

Transformation by Ron Bechet (2021)

(Untitled) sculpture in the shape of vines by Sadie Sheldon

(Untitled) Ceramic Totems by Julie Silvers (Undated)

Mother Daughter by Rahmon Oluganna

Twins I by Raymon Oluganna

@iwtvfanevents made a post of unidentified works here.

Works Cited by the Writer’s Room as Influences

Bourbon Street: A History by Richard Campanella (as it hardly mentions Storyville I think interested parties would be better served by additional titles if they want a complete history of New Orleans)

Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino (This was also adapted into an award winning opera)

poetry by Charles Simic (possibly A Wedding in Hell?)

poetry by Mark Strand (possibly Dark Harbour?)

Works IWTV may be in conversation with (This is the most open to criticism and additions)

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, uncensored (There are two very different versions of this which exist today, as Harvard Press republished the unedited original with permission from the Wilde family.)

Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner

Warsan Shire for Beyoncé’s Lemonade

Faust: A Tragedy by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

La Morte Amoreuse by Theophile Gautier

Carmilla by Sheridan LeFanu

Maurice by E.M. Forster

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison (credit to @johnlockdynamic )

1984 by George Orwell (credit to @savage-garden-nights for picking this up)

The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

A Rose for Emily by William Faulkner

Gone With the Wind film (1939)

Hannibal (2013)

Beauty and the Beast by Gabrielle Suzanne de Villenueve

Music used in Season 1 collected by @greedandenby here

*if collected or in translation most of the best editions today would not have been available to the characters pre-1940. It’s possible Louis is meant to have read them in their original French in some cases, but it would provide for a different experience. Lydia Davis’ Madame Bovary, for example, attempts to replicate this.

** I've tagged and linked relevant excerpts under quote series as I've been working my way through the list.

Season 2 here

Season 3 here

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 3.22 (before 1950)

106 – Start of the Bostran era, the calendar of the province of Arabia Petraea. 235 – Roman emperor Severus Alexander is murdered, marking the start of the Crisis of the Third Century. 871 – Æthelred of Wessex is defeated by a Danish invasion army at the Battle of Marton. 1185 – Battle of Yashima: the Japanese forces of the Taira clan are defeated by the Minamoto clan. 1312 – Vox in excelso: Pope Clement V dissolves the Order of the Knights Templar. 1508 – Ferdinand II of Aragon commissions Amerigo Vespucci chief navigator of the Spanish Empire. 1621 – The Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony sign a peace treaty with Massasoit of the Wampanoags. 1622 – Jamestown massacre: Algonquians kill 347 English settlers around Jamestown, Virginia, a third of the colony's population, during the Second Anglo-Powhatan War. 1631 – The Massachusetts Bay Colony outlaws the possession of cards, dice, and gaming tables. 1638 – Anne Hutchinson is expelled from Massachusetts Bay Colony for religious dissent. 1739 – Nader Shah occupies Delhi in India and sacks the city, stealing the jewels of the Peacock Throne. 1765 – The British Parliament passes the Stamp Act that introduces a tax to be levied directly on its American colonies. 1784 – The Emerald Buddha is moved with great ceremony to its current location in Wat Phra Kaew, Thailand. 1792 – Battle of Croix-des-Bouquets: Black slave insurgents gain a victory in the first major battle of the Haitian Revolution. 1794 – The Slave Trade Act of 1794 bans the export of slaves from the United States, and prohibits American citizens from outfitting a ship for the purpose of importing slaves. 1829 – In the London Protocol, the three protecting powers (United Kingdom, France and Russia) establish the borders of Greece. 1849 – The Austrians defeat the Piedmontese at the Battle of Novara. 1871 – In North Carolina, William Woods Holden becomes the first governor of a U.S. state to be removed from office by impeachment. 1873 – The Spanish National Assembly abolishes slavery in Puerto Rico. 1894 – The Stanley Cup ice hockey competition is held for the first time, in Montreal, Canada. 1895 – Before the Société pour L'Encouragement à l'Industrie, brothers Auguste and Louis Lumière demonstrate movie film technology publicly for the first time. 1896 – Charilaos Vasilakos wins the first modern Olympic marathon race with a time of three hours and 18 minutes. 1906 – The first England vs France rugby union match is played at Parc des Princes in Paris. 1913 – Mystic Phan Xích Long, the self-proclaimed Emperor of Vietnam, is arrested for organising a revolt against the colonial rule of French Indochina, which was nevertheless carried out by his supporters the following day. 1916 – Yuan Shikai abdicates as Emperor of China, restoring the Republic and returning to the Presidency. 1920 – Azeri and Turkish army soldiers with participation of Kurdish gangs attack the Armenian inhabitants of Shushi (Nagorno Karabakh). 1933 – Cullen–Harrison Act: President Franklin D. Roosevelt signs an amendment to the Volstead Act, legalizing the manufacture and sale of "3.2 beer" (3.2% alcohol by weight, approximately 4% alcohol by volume) and light wines. 1933 – Nazi Germany opens its first concentration camp, Dachau. 1934 – The first Masters Tournament is held at Augusta National Golf Club in Georgia. 1939 – Germany takes Memel from Lithuania. 1942 – World War II: In the Mediterranean Sea, the Royal Navy confronts Italy's Regia Marina in the Second Battle of Sirte. 1943 – World War II: The entire village of Khatyn (in present-day Republic of Belarus) is burnt alive by Schutzmannschaft Battalion 118. 1945 – World War II: The city of Hildesheim, Germany, is heavily damaged in a British air raid, though it had little military significance and Germany was on the verge of final defeat. 1945 – The Arab League is founded when a charter is adopted in Cairo, Egypt. 1946 – The United Kingdom grants full independence to Transjordan.

[xtruss]

For Russians, Reading Is the New Resistance! What Bestselling Books Tell Us About How Russians Are Processing The War.

— MAY 14, 2023 | By Andrei Kolesnikov | Foreign Policy

Cathryn Virginia Illustration For Foreign Policy/Getty Images

When Russia launched the war that Russians must not call a war—the “Special Military Operation,” in the Kremlin’s parlance—many Russians immediately recognized the Orwellian reality in which they now lived. As forbidden language was replaced with official euphemisms and the authorities launched an increasingly harsh crackdown on dissent, many Russians felt a distinct sense of déjà vu. Suddenly, George Orwell’s 1984, a dystopian novel about a totalitarian regime in a state of perpetual war written in the 1940s, became the most popular fiction book. In 2022, it could be seen in the hands of people strolling on Moscow’s boulevards or lying next to vacationers sunbathing on Kaliningrad’s beaches.

1984 is not the only book on Russians’ wartime reading list, which offers a window into how the book-reading public is processing its country’s increasingly militarist and totalitarian turn. As the economy foundered, laws against opposition tightened, and news of Russia’s military failures in Ukraine began to trickle in, people started buying noticeably fewer business and self-improvement tomes and more fiction. Predictably, escapism was in high demand: Saples of romance, fantasy, science fiction, and detective books have grown especially strongly.

This year has seen a surge in the popularity of books, movies, and TV shows about spies and espionage. Cold War psychology is back as the Kremlin tells Russians they are fighting not Ukraine, but the “collective West.” The genre’s popularity also reflects a growing spy mania in President Vladimir Putin’s Russia, where paranoia reigns about internal enemies and foreign agents.

But the most intriguing part of the Russian reading list is on the nonfiction side. For about two months after the war began in February 2022, the bestseller on the Ozon online marketplace was the Russian translation of Man’s Search for Meaning, a book by the Austrian psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl. Originally published in 1946 under the German title, A Psychologist Experiences the Concentration Camp, Frankl explores ways to find strength and resilience in the midst of the worst possible adversity and oppression. The book’s revival is not exactly flattering to the Russian regime.

Indeed, if book sales are any guide, there has been a surge in interest in Nazi Germany among Russian readers—and that doesn’t mean the usual fare about Soviet heroism during the Great Patriotic War. Bestsellers among educated Russians include newly translated works, such as Sebastian Haffner’s Defying Hitler: A Memoir, which depicts the transformations taking place in Germany in the 1930s through the eyes of a young lawyer. There is a whole bouquet of parallels that Russian readers will surely recognize as they experience the transformation of Putin’s authoritarian regime to a hybrid totalitarian one: the persecution of dissenters; the progressive Gleichschaltung, or total coordination of public life with the regime; the willingness of ordinary people to obey; the temptations of self-isolation as people attempt to live a parallel, unnoticed life against the background of the unfolding nightmare; the feeling of a wasted life, like Haffner’s father in the book.

Nicholas Stargardt’s book The German War: A Nation Under Arms, 1939-45—published in Russian as The Mobilized Nation—has also become a bestseller, perhaps because Russians have found themselves mobilized in every sense. The book explores mass behavior during war, including the emotional mobilization in support of state power. The book’s popularity is another suggestion that the experience of Nazi society strikes a chord with today’s Russians.

A man reads a Russian translation of George Orwell’s book “1984” in Moscow’s Pushkinskaya Square on April 28, 2021. Dimitar Dilkoff/AFP Via Getty Images

In another parallel to the German experience, more Russians are now contemplating collective guilt and responsibility for their regime, the war, and the widespread atrocities committed by Russian soldiers in Ukraine. In this respect, the publication of The Question of German Guilt, a series of lectures given by the German psychiatrist and philosopher Karl Jaspers in 1945, has come at a very opportune moment.

The question of collective guilt or responsibility arose among the more reflective part of Russian society immediately after the invasion—so powerful was the shock. And these debates have not ceased. What is the difference between guilt and responsibility? Should liberal Russians who hold democratic views, take a pro-Western stance, and have opposed Putin all their lives, feel guilt or at least responsibility for what is happening? Should or could they have done more to oppose Putin? The German author Thomas Mann, taking offense at U.S. government restrictions on exiles like himself, once noted in one of his letters that he had begun to fight Adolf Hitler before the Americans did. The same is true of Russian society: Many people fought against Putin when, for example, European governments and companies were building good working relations with him.

Jaspers brings some clarity to this debate. There is a group of individuals legally guilty of Russia’s crimes, and there are other individuals bearing different degrees of moral responsibility. Ultimately, books like Jaspers’s help readers determine for themselves the extent to which they share responsibility. As the war goes on and Russia is increasingly isolated from the West, these reflections and debates are becoming more and more acute: Some Russians believe, as Haffner writes, that a dictator occupies his own nation before occupying another—while others reject the very idea that Russians are also victims. Russian civil society—split between those who left and those who stayed behind—is not as hopeless as some might believe if these discussions are taking place, and books like Jaspers’s and Haffner’s are being read.

With public protest of any kind now illegal and immediately broken up, reading has also become a form of resistance: By buying these books, Russians are comparing Putin’s regime with the worst examples of totalitarianism. Interestingly, they are looking to Nazi Germany, even though there are countless parallels between the Russian present and their own country’s past. The 1940s and early 1950s under Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin, in particular, were marked by paranoia and the persecution of perceived traitors, spies, and “rootless cosmopolitans,” in many ways analogous to how today’s dissenters are labeled “foreign agents,” “fifth columnists,” and “national traitors.”

One reason Russians are reading up on Hitler, not Stalin, may be that there is not much popular Russian literature about that era in the Soviet Union. Russia publishes many excellent academic books on the historical details of the Soviet period (as well as much pseudo-historical junk). But clever academic books are for a narrow, specialized readership, and the era when exposing Stalinism was popular among a larger public has long passed. Unlike in some other Soviet successor states—such as the Baltic countries and Ukraine—there is today no mass comprehension in Russia of the dark pages of the country’s own history, which is probably why the general public is more at ease with foreign experience. And it’s important to keep in mind that books on everyday life in Nazi Germany are bestsellers not among wide masses, but among a more or less intellectual segment of society.

Reading about past European dictatorships as a lens into the Russian present goes beyond the interest in Nazi Germany. Already in multiple printings is a new book by Alexander Baunov, my colleague at the newly inaugurated Carnegie Russia Eurasia Center in Berlin. Written for a Russian audience, The End of the Regime: How Three European Dictatorships Ended is devoted to the evolution and fall of the Franco dictatorship in Spain, the Salazar regime in Portugal, and the military junta in Greece. While the book makes no mention of Putin, Russian readers are good at sniffing out analogies. They dream of the Putin regime ending, too, or at least evolving into a less harsh form of governance. Naturally, therefore, they are interested in the process of how dictatorships fall and transition to another form of government. In Baunov’s book, readers are looking for examples—and for glimmers of hope.

Unwittingly, one of the Kremlin’s own policies may be boosting sales of books casting an unflattering light on the regime. A 2022 amendment to the law on the status of foreign agents requires that all books, articles, or other publications produced with the help of foreign funding to be prominently labeled as the work of a foreign agent. True to the dictum that forbidden fruit is always sweeter, that label will work like advertising to attract certain readers. The label has been slapped on many of the best and most popular Russian fiction and nonfiction authors, including Boris Akunin, Lyudmila Ulitskaya, Dmitry Glukhovsky, and Dmitry Bykov.

One crucial resemblance to Soviet times is the newly political role of reading. Unable to protest openly, people are expressing a different kind of resistance by reading literature that is banned, discouraged, or casts an unfavorable light on the regime—if only by comparison. At first glance, this kind of resistance might not seem like much, especially given the ongoing war, which a majority of Russians say they support. Yet the act of reading these books should not be dismissed lightly. It matters for the future of Russia which books its citizens are reading, and what kind of worldview they are forming as a result.

— Andrei Kolesnikov is a senior fellow at the Carnegie Russia Eurasia Center.

[jeremiahtheyankee]

Late April The Vyne, London Mid-afternoon @francesfitzroy​

Belgrave Square, early morning

Jeremiah splashed his face with water and ran his hands over his hair, still unused to where the length had been shorn short a few short weeks ago. The bath water had turned tepid faster than expected, or perhaps he’d dawdled too long. With a frustrated sigh, Jeremiah scraped at the dirt under his fingernails with a brush to try and speed things along. He knew the servants were supposed to help with bathing, but he abhorred it. Sometimes this was the only privacy he had besides sleeping.

He gave up on an egregious bit of grime under his left thumbnail, which was hardly noticeable, and dropped the brush over the side of the tub. He settled down into the water, letting it come up almost to his nose, and sighed.

It will be fine.

---

The usual crowd gathered for Jeremiah’s preparations. His valet, Perry, showed the marquess two cravats, one a deep blue, and one black.

“What about pink?” Jeremiah asked.

A chorus of dissent followed with votes for either blue or black. Jeremiah sighed. He was at least insistent on a dark green jacket, which was approved of, along with the black necktie. Perry dressed him, meticulous in every detail, and as he began to work the cravat, he looked to the others. “Do you think we are quite done here, my lord?”

“Oh. Yes. If you’d excuse us,” he told Mama and the rest.

---

Jeremiah wrung his hands in his laps as the carriage took him across town to the Vyne. Perry had been curious about the request for a pink cravat, and once Jeremiah explained how he’d purchased every pink flower he could find in the city to send to a lady, Perry agreed he should wear it regardless of what the others thought. 

He sat back and let his head rest against the carriage top, sighing, wishing he could have ridden over on his own, but it wasn’t proper to show up to a lady’s house in such a way (especially when the last time he had been there, well, another gentleman left with a broken nose).

When he finally arrived, he was ushered into the foyer and then to a drawing room. Tea was offered. He swore he only saw one bouquet of tulips in the hall, which made him nervous--he’d been assured the deliveries were made, but what if they were not well-received? He held a cup and saucer in his hand and stared at it worryingly while he waited.

[faimrpg]

Maccius arrives as it always does: with very little flair. Spring has fully settled now, and across Val Faim, trees blossom with pink and white flowers, nearly every merchant sets out grand bouquets in front of their displays to draw possible patrons in, and sailors return home from long excursions at sea to the arms of their loved ones—it is at this time of year that the Celestinian ocean is most peaceful. When Summer arrives, it will be so soft and lulling that the only way to move product to trade is by means of magic, and when winter comes, the waves will tower so tall any man who thinks to sail them will be dubbed out of his mind.

TRIGGER WARNING: Death, explosions, implied violence

Now, however, peace reigns. People settle back into their usual daily routines, and while the death of Hippolyte had been tragic, most are content to forget the event entirely. His blood was cleaned from the marble of the Summer Palace that same night—why should they carry his bones with them? It doesn’t take so much as a week before Hippolyte’s duty is replaced by someone else, who will tend the docks and its workers and ensure Val Faim gets what it needs. GHISLAIN in particular has taken much interest in this replacement, hoping to wring out of this execution whatever dor it will provide. A job on the top of the Azure Quarter, overseeing not only trade but also every writ of passage through the capital, is an incommensurate advantage. Maybe it’s crude to make a move so soon after a man’s demise, but Calandre’s word is holy: he was a traitor, and he got his due. Besides, the hunger for power consumes all else. Ghislain’s efforts come to the dismay of RÉGIS, who’d been hoping to wrangle a similar deal for themself, and become the new helmsman of the docks on behalf of Alain Gauthier.

Not all are content to return to the way things were—in fact, some find the idea abhorrent, and Alain has taken to tracking down those who speak with dissent about Calandre to a new level entirely. He has enlisted GISELE to pick out newfound dissidents, with a particular emphasis on ETIENNE. “Having someone as skilled as Etienne”, Alain explains, “certainly wouldn’t harm us, especially if they were already in our pocket.” As soon as Gisele is sent away with their goal, he calls for BEAU and explains in no uncertain words what he needs them to do, with a little bump in their pay to incentivize it.

Talk in the Underworld says that Hippolyte had some sort of allegiance to Widrowem, and that his plan was not to kill Calandre, but to warn her about Alain in order to earn Widrowem a foothold in Celestine’s court. Gauthier doesn't know how far back this scheme goes, or whether it has something to do with Widrowem’s insistence for Calandre to receive their ambassadors and listen to their offer.

Alain, as is ingrained in his nature, fears the worst. The Widrowish envoy has long whispered of the need to unite their two kingdoms in marriage, and Calandre sharply rebuked each of these attempts. It could very well be that Widrowem tired of waiting, and found another way to ingratiate themselves upon the throne. If BEAU could dig through Hippolyte’s abandoned townhouse in Hightown, there’s a chance they might find something of worth linking him back to the foreign southern kingdom. “Anything works,” Alain says, pressing a small purse of dor into Beau’s hands. “Journals, letters, ledgers, books—whatever you can find, take it. And one more thing: find PATRICE, ask for their help. They might be a noble scorned, but they’re noble regardless, and if you need to take your time looking, having someone from a high-standing house with you might save your neck. Tell them I sent you.” Whether BEAU needs to split their new wealth with PATRICE goes unsaid, because Alain is gone before anyone can think to ask him.

Across the city, LIANE listens intently as Calandre explains her next task for her esteemed spymaster, with CELESTE close behind: she, too, wants them to go rooting around in Hippolyte’s grand old house. Not to find any links to Widrowem, but to find what they can on Alain Gauthier, who the Empress thinks was pulling the strings behind Hippolyte’s poorly coordinated assassination attempt and untimely demise. She might have given the signal for the axe, but it was Gauthier who hung it overhead.

Standing on the balcony overlooking the gardens, with the air cool, the weather fair, and Calandre’s tone mild, it is difficult to recall that a month ago she had stood here and watched one of her detractor’s bodies burn on the Pyre.

It is the virtue of the Summer Palace’s unique positioning that gives all three of them a perfect view when a flash of light and fury shakes Val Faim. The very ground rumbles. In a heartbeat, bursts of flame and thick grey smoke rise up into the air, somewhere close to the Prophet’s Tomb—the Tomb is thankfully unharmed, alongside Odeline’s tall-towering figure. The city immediately drops into complete stillness. They are left to do nothing but watch as the smoke grows and grows and grows, and while the shaking hadn’t lasted longer than a few seconds, it seems to reverberate through their bodies, like the very foundation of the Palace had been shaken and reaped them along with it. Before the rubble even settles, Calandre is swept away by HECTOR and VICTOIRE, each of them hemming the Empress like wings of iron and steel. In their ruler’s wake, CELESTE and LIANE are left to simply stare at the coiling plumes on the horizon and tremble. They watch the ruins with their arms interlocked, as the smog carries over a bitter taste of omens and defeat. Even in this state, the two spies are already planning their next move. It is the life they’ve chosen.

SAINTE and AGRIPPINE bear the brunt of the shock. They are nearly taken off their feet when the explosion occurs, as they were just on the outskirts of the tomb. They help one another to their feet and rush to investigate. The city guards who join the scene are met with a perturbing sight. Rubble lies everywhere, windows of neighboring buildings blown out, and in the epicentre of the destruction stands a mage, shaken and trembling, arms wrapped around herself and desperately attempting to cover the body of her friend, both their faces streaked with soot.

“He didn’t mean to do it,” the mage cries, unwilling to let go of her compatriot as she is pulled away, even as his body goes limp among the stones. “Henri didn’t mean for any of this to happen!” The street is soon blocked off entirely, and stunned passersby are urged to visit the Tomb or the Lion’s Mane for a drink to soothe their spirits, much to the chagrin of DEGARÉ, who has more clientele on their hands than anyone could be reasonably prepared for in such a short window of time. Yet the deluge of customers entails lesser known advantages for the club’s proprietor—especially in times of despair, when purse strings are loose and tongues even looser.

MICHEL and CECILE are commanded to take point on the clean-up of the building. Michel is tasked with coordinating the guardsmen clearing away rubble. Cecile’s role is to smooth over the ruffled feathers of angered noblemen and politicians who come calling to ask why the pesky issue of a desolated building and a dead man in its grip have yet to be resolved by the Empress. It’s tricky work, with even trickier tempers to handle, but they see it done, and within three days of the incident, it is like it never happened. Where the building sat before, now there are only ruins, a barren foundation to be covered up and built upon again by someone with grander designs.

SIDONIE is called upon immediately by Calandre, once the Empress is informed of what happened, along with HELENE. They are to interrogate the surviving mage, and find out what was their purpose in the heart of her empire—and what they hoped to gain from splitting it open. Was the dead mage a madman, or a fool? Were they foreign assassins, an honorless path already trodden by so many of her enemies? Were they zealots of a hidden coven, whose aims to control magic got the better of them? On these questions their fate, and that of so many others, rests unevenly. When the two go to meet her, the woman, named Amelie, is shaken into stupor, entirely unwilling to speak. Not even Calandre’s favored advisors can get anything out of her. Calandre listens intently when she is informed of the matter, and dismisses the two with a simple wave of her hand. “If she won’t tell us directly, there will have to be another way to find out what happened.” It is as much an admonishment as it is an admittance of a dead end.

She does not tell them she has other resources to call upon, and call upon them she does. They come to Val Faim in the shape of ROTH, ADRASTE, and MEDRAUT: two Chevaliers, and one Chevalier-in-training, recalled back from the border of Widrowem to investigate the truth of what happened with the explosion, and whether Alain Gauthier had anything to do with it. MATTHIEU is sent to greet them, as the present superior of the knight order—yet he is quickly rebuffed by his own compatriots, who are apparently more loyal to each other than to their Empress.

The wound of the incident heals relatively quickly, as unspoken horrors do. The death of the man who was supposedly to blame is quick to soothe any worried souls, and Amelie, once she has come to her senses and understood the risk she was in, confirms it to SIDONIE when the other mage visits her in her cell. When she speaks, the girl’s eyes are wild: “Not all is what it seems. My friend only wanted to stop something awful before it began, and it cost him his life.”

That very same night, a faceless assassin attempts to kill SAVATIER in the deepest recesses of the library—only for ISEULT to spear them down from behind a shadowed pillar before they have a chance to draw blood. By morning, Amelie has mysteriously disappeared. Investigations into her vanishing bear no fruit, save for a farewell letter the mage left for her family, now fallen into the hands of VIOLAINE. Amelie was from a noble house: if VIOLAINE wanted to, they could reach out on her behalf and deliver the letter, or they could keep it for later blackmail.

In the midst of all this chaos, Calandre finds herself desperate for a distraction, and can see that her court may very well feel the same. She writes to one of Celestine’s most famed artists, and by the end of the week, SYLVIANE has returned from their expedition into the Obsidienne, alongside their bodyguard, VASKA. Calandre orders them to enliven the palace grounds and paints a series of murals depicting her reigns’ latest achievements—as well as a new portrait to replace the one she had commissioned when she first seized the throne. It is a clever reminder that sometimes a gilded foil hides real triumph beneath. Yet SYLVIANE & VASKA have not come empty-handed, nor are they tongue-tied before Calandre’s command. They are determined to inform the Empress about the concerning sights they’ve witnessed in the Obsidienne. Yet all these attempts are brushed away, first as baubles of passing interest, then as outright fantasies spurned by the solitude of the scorched desert. The shapes of dead bodies awakened to walk, or rifts in the very fabric of the air that shimmer and wrinkle like human skin, and lead to nowhere should a soul step through, are torn from a different cloth than Calandre’s designs for her progressive reign. These old wives tales might be of interest to others: courtiers and commoners alike, such as SIDONIE, SAINTE & AGRIPPINE flock to listen to the painter’s tales. All Calandre does when she is remembered of these discoveries is flatten her mouth into a tight, disapproving line. Some overlook how the Empress’s moods are darkening by the hour.

Not everyone can turn a blind eye to her displeasure, especially those closest to her retinue. CYRIL is witness to Calandre’s frayed nerves firsthand, when ZHENYA pressures the Empress that the North will need more incentive if they are to maintain their trade deal with Val Faim. They are quickly dismissed from her side, and they run into the imperial tailor on the fringe of the hallways. Neither of them can help but eavesdrop on the sobbing fit Calandre falls prey to when she thinks she is alone for the first time. Something is breaking, but neither of them know what, and the decision about whom to ask for help lands in muddied waters. MELODIE, her closest confidante, seems the most obvious choice to be called at her side for comfort, but will Calandre thank them, or resent them for having her weakness noticed and exposed?

In Emperor Tristan’s days, talk spread as fast as a wildfire bracketed by dry grass. While Calandre’s reign has seen some of that blood-hungering cease, the sharks remain desperate for whatever falls into the water, and that hunger has not vanished entirely. It does not take long for many others to discover that Calandre might not be faring as well as she presents herself, in spite of the grand dinners and parties she has hosted in the Summer Palace to try and distract herself.

ROSALIND is one of the first outside of ZHENYA and CYRIL to find out, a not-so-well-kept secret falling right into the palms of their hands. The information goes from them to Alain—who is pleased to be informed. In an effort to secure their loyalty, he gives ROSALIND a task. “See if you engage YVON in a little tête-à-tête, and find out where their true loyalties lie. Lure them on our side, but only promise them enough to prove a guiding light. They are still young and mercurial enough that they must believe the choice is their own. Do this, and I’ll see if I can coordinate a certain royal jeweler’s fall from grace by the time Aude is through.” He leaves them there in the bustling Silver Quarter to make the choice on how to proceed on their own.

Secrets are unearthed, vows and oaths amassed—old debts are summoned up like the souls of the dead, and new scores are forged from thin air. For a while, it seems that Val Faim is pitching to a critical point, a colossus capsizing on its own weight. The threads roped around its people tangle and thrum. And then the skein seems to unsnarl. It lies very still, too much distance between its knots to ever properly destabilize it. The tapestry of faith and power has weathered more tempestuous times than this. The wind smooths over the dust, the storm slackens, and even the spring becomes spring once more. It’s on this day that the tides turn for good.

A Widrowem ship is spotted on the quiet sea, its sails as white as bones. Two ambassadors, themselves of noble lineage in those intricate Widrowish ways, where Gods are ancestors and night is day, step on the shore. CASSIAN and ROWAN have been sent to Val Faim on a mission that feels almost sacred. Yet their Thane’s anger, the chosen ruler of their realm, has nothing holy in it. Their homeland was promised a treaty and a throne years ago. So far, not a single audience has been granted, and this strange Empress balks at marriage as if it were carnage. To add the salt of insult to an open injury, their most trusted man in court was murdered without the right to trial. Hippolyte was gutted for spectacle, a debacle that echoed the barbarians of centuries ago.

It’s Widrowem’s duty to put an end to tyrants. And that is what they came to do.

On that bone-sailed, hollowed-out ship rides another: KARINE, Alain Gauthier's closest compatriot in bloodshed. They, too, have been summoned from Widrowem with a similar purpose. With a hungry smile that cuts their jaw wider, they shake hands with Gauthier on the dock as he pulls them aside. They have business, and if there is anything KARINE thrives at, it is anything to do with death. Imagine their surprise, then, when they are tasked with a more simple duty. Not to kill, but to hunt. Amelie remains unfound, in a city packed to the brim with people, and no one trusts Alain enough yet in the Underworld to give him information of any worth. So he sets his favored assassin on the trail, and tells them not to return until they have what he needs in their grasp.

The stage is set, the spotlight positioned perfectly, the doors to the theater wide open to allow a spring breeze to flow through. Underneath that sweet scent is an undeniable trace of rot. With Widrowem Ambassadors on the scene, their expectations low and ambitions high, and warnings and whispers working their way through the Court—the show has truly begun. Hippolyte's death at Calandre’s command was a mere prelude. What happens now may very well change the fate of all those in Val Faim, forever.

Welcome to our second event! We realize this one is even lengthier than the first, so below, you’ll find a simplified summary and a timestamp breaking down important dates for the month. Like the first event, feel free to thread out flashbacks, continue your threads from the Anniversary timestamp at your leisure, and explore what your character might be up to throughout the month outside of where they’re mentioned in the event. It’s definitely a busy one!

SUMMARY: It’s Maccius, and springtime has officially arrived in Val Faim. What would be a relatively peaceful start to the season otherwise kicks off with catastrophe when a building explodes extremely close to the Prophet’s Tomb. Only one person dies, a man named Henri, who’d apparently been the cause of the explosion, but the details are murky. The only other individual who could provide any information explaining what happened, Amelie, is brought in to be spoken with but gives up nothing before eventually disappearing into thin air. All the while, Alain Gauthier is scheming in the background, trying to take advantage of both Hippolyte’s execution and the chaos caused by the explosion to get a step ahead.

He calls for one of his allies, KARINE, and asks them to help put the pieces together. Alongside KARINE come two Ambassadors from the not-so-far-away Widrowem, ROWAN and CASSIAN are here to negotiate a marriage contract between Widrowem’s Thane and Calandre… or to see if war might be the next best option, as Calandre’s stubbornness over the years has not improved. Calandre, wanting to lighten the mood in the Summer Palace and distract both herself and courtiers from these gloomy events, summons SYLVIANE to come to Val Faim and paint a beautiful new mural as a tribute to Celestine’s strength. With SYLVIANE is their bodyguard, VASKA. Less famous are the three Chevaliers Calandre brings back from the border of Widrowem to investigate the explosion and members of her court. ROTH, ADRASTE, and MEDRAUT might all be a little on the prickly side, but they’re here to see the rough work done. There is a general air of tension to the city. It feels like most people are waiting for the other shoe to drop.

TIMESTAMPS:

The Second of Maccius: The explosion occurs. Henri is dead, and Amelie is brought in to help figure out what happened.

The Sixth of Maccius: The rubble from the explosion is officially cleared away. Sylviane and Vaska arrive to paint Calandre’s mural.

The Twelfth of Maccius: Roth, Adraste, and Medraut make it to Val Faim and are set to the task of figuring out why Henri set the explosion off, how he did it, and where Amelie went. Calandre has given them full reign of the city and those they speak to for details.

The Nineteenth of Maccius: Karine, Cassian, and Rowan arrive in Val Faim. Karine is here on business for Alain Gauthier, but Cassian and Rowan’s goals are much more political.

If you have any questions pertaining to the event, please drop them in the Discord channel! If you need any help plotting, or getting things started, please reach out and we’ll see what I can do to help. The new characters (Roth, Adraste, Medraut, Karine, Cassian, Rowan, Sylviane, and Vaska) are all open for applications. Their skeletons will be posted throughout the day. Thank you again, to all of you, and happy one month of being open!

[devilbat]

Fall🍂, in Love

Warning: fluffiest fluff. Lol and implied smut

Loki x reader

A/n: this one was fun to write. I thought it was adorable. Please leave me loves, comments and reblogs I really do appreciate you.

This was you four date with the infamous god and reformed villain, Loki. Even after everything, the torture he went through and the abandonment he had felt. He was still charming and kind to you. You had meet him while walking you English Mastiff. When the dog found it fun to pull you down the park, going after a squirrel. You trying hard to get him to stop. With you intow running over the god knocking him down. Which caused you to trip, let go of the leash. Luckily the squirrel climbed the nearest tree, which had the large beast barking and jump along the base of said tree. It had to be these more sexiest man you ever laid on top of. If it weren’t for the fact you were cute he would have despised you. Though he did make you squirm a bit. But after a billion and a half apologies. It earned you, your first date with the devilishly handsome stranger, that same day.

After that, Loki asked you to dinner the following night which ended in a movie. You found out his love for classic horror movies. Third date was dinner in the park a week after that. He had set up picnic under the stars. Nice thing about Loki, he could used his magic to keep you warm from the cold crisp air. That same night as he walked up home. Were the first kiss you two shared. Ok, so maybe not the first one, it was more like the first make out. Now the fourth date was at your house, with the two of you making dinner together. Something cute, as he never really done anything like that. When Loki told you all about himself. Finding it cute on some of the more Midgard things he like, Like pizza.

Glass of wine in hand you set everything up. Letting the dough set up a bit before Loki arrived. Getting all the toppings set on the countertop. Music played low from the tv in the next room. Candles lite up the rooms. Dimly lit over head lights set the mood. You wanted this date to go off well. You were still a bit nervous about having him over. Sure you may have had a few other intentions on where and how this date was going to end.

         You were set now all you needed was a tall raven hair god to show up. Which should be now. And like clockwork there was a knock on the door. Once the door was opened, you were greated with a lovely arrangement of autumn flowers, burnt orange lilies, vibrant Red roses and golden yellow daisies. Making your heartbeat faster. At this rate you house would be littered with flowers. Each date he had gifted you the most amazing bouquet of flowers. He knew how to make a girl feel wanted. Holding on to you hand, as you went to take the flowers. He leaned in to kiss your cheek. A small hum vibrated in his throat as he did.

          "Darling, you look ravishing." Loki smiled, before pulling away. Following you into the house.

          "Thank you. You don't look to bad yourself." You teased, setting the flowers down on the island of the kitchen. Loki wore a black dress shirt with black slacks. His normal go to just with out the suit jack and tie. A few more button undone, showing far to much flesh. At this rate the other buttons may be join them. Let alone you lick what skin was exposed.

           Handing Loki an apron. The two of you got to work rolling out dough. Loki was struggling a bit as he kneaded the next set of dough. Watching Loki beat the dough made you giggle. He look like he was killing whatever beast the dough had become. Loki paused to softly glaring at you. His face had streaks of flour here and there.

      "And what's so funny, dove?" Loki questioned, looking back down at what he was doing.

        "Oh nothing," You giggled again. "It looks as if you are slaying a fowl beast." You stepped over next to Loki. "You need to be gentle, knead it not beat it. Think of it as when you are knead, fondling a woman breasts." Reaching your hand over to the beaten ball of dough, showing him. Never noticing the mischievous smirk on Loki's face. "Like that." You pulled a why a bit.

          "So like this." Loki purred as both his hands moved to tenderly knead your breasts. Making you squeak in surprise. To say his large hands did not feel amazing on you, would be an understatement. Though it was not what you wanted him to be kneading at this moment in time.

           "Loki!" You half moaned half hissed. Your hands smacked lightly on his. Making the god chuckle. "That was not exactly what I meant, but yes like that." Pulling his hands away from you. No matter how hard you didn't want them to leave. Beside leaving you wanting more, he left large flour handprints on your apron.

         "Ah, all right." Loki nodded, smirking again. Going back to working on his dough. You had already finished with yours and was letting it raise. "Darling, I think I need a little more help." Without a real warning, Loki pulled you over to him. Trapping you between him and the counter. His chest pressed against your back. Kissing your cheek before whispering. "I think your guidance is much needed here." Placing his hands over yours, his fingers laced with yours. Rolling pin placed into you hands.

        You started moving the rolling pin back and forth. You body moved along with the movement your hands made. And well so did Loki's body. Which started having a mind of its own. Loki groaned behind your ear. Causing your body to shiver. Loki losing all that was left of his focus, he started placing kisses up and down exposed skin. All along the back of your neck and shoulders.

          "Loki focus." You giggles wiggling around not thinking it would do more damage.

             "That's. Kind. Of. Hard. With. You. Bumping. That. Cute. Ass of yours." He murmured, in between heated kisses. His left hand releasing itself from yours. Only to plant itself on to you backside, with a hard squeeze. Leaving another floury handprint on your black skirt.

             "Oh my god." You hiss, rolling your eyes. Looking over your shoulder at him.

              "Why yes I em your god. I will have you kneeling, praising me before the night is through." He growled into your ear, before nipping at it.

             "I kneel for no one." You teased, throwing a bit of flour in Loki's smug face. Which was the wrong move on your part. He was a god after all. A god that would invade, conquer you without hesitation.

            "You know little mortal." Loki pause moving his other hand from yours.  "You shouldn't start a war with a god, when you know you can not win." He flipped you around, facing him. His hands on either side of the counter pining you. His lips were on you before you could protest. Kissing you hungrily. Pulling away from you lips. "You were made to kneel." His lips ghosted over yours. Before you knew what had happened, cold flour dusted down the from of your top. You squeaked at the sudden movement.

           "Oh it’s on, your majesty." You hissed, patting his cheek with a handful of flour. Slipping from under his arms. You moved behind him. With a loud smacking sound on Loki's very firm, very nice backside, was now covered with your floury handprint. "Hmm, you know I think the left side needs to." With out finishing, you grabbed a handful of Loki's right cheek. "Match the right side." You pulled away to admire you handy work. "Much better." Loki had yet to move, with a dark chuckle which came from behind you. You realize Loki used his clone. Pinning you once more against the counter top, facing him. "That is so not fair."

            "What is it you mortals say. Alls fair in love and war." Loki cooed into your ear. His hands kneaded into your ass roughly. His lips moved to yours, kissing you fiercely. You moaned against his lips, giving him access to invade you mouth with his tongue. Loki had you pressed into him hard. You could practically feel ever tone muscle in that gods body. He body was beyond godly.

            Loki finally pulled away from your lips leaving you breathless and swollen lips. Looking up at Loki with doe eyes. You hand moved to the countertop for balance. Your head turned fast looking over towards the dough you and Loki were working on. It had doubled in size. It was like watching the cult classic movie, the blob. It slowly oozed over the edge, ready to make its dissent down to the floor.

           "Looks like the yeast got just as excited as you." You laughed, moving in Loki's arms to move the blob of dough back on to the countertop.

          "Are you sure about that darling." Loki purred, pushing himself against your back. His entire body hard as a rock pressed along your body. Nothing and I mean nothing was soft on him.

           "Loki, Like the movie the blob, I'm hungry and if I don't eat. I may just eat you.

           "A sacrifice I'm willing to make. I surrender my body, for you to feast upon." Loki Offered himself up arm stretched out to the side.

             "Oh so you finally surrender to the more superior race." You snicked knowing your words would restart a 'war'. With a low animalistic growl, you found yourself in your bedroom. Being tossed like a rag doll on to your own bed, with a yelp. White puffs of flour dusted around you. Loki pounced on you like predator on his prey, before you had time to move. 

             "You. Little mortal, are a brave one. Taunting a god. Teasing him. Starting thing you know you cannot win." Loki kissed along your jawline and neck. Nipping his away along your throat.

           "Loki, what about eating dinner?" You moaned. You hands securing their place tangled in Loki's raven hair.

          "Oh I plan on eating. My little mortal has made me very famished. I plan on devouring my dinner." Loki hummed licking bits of flour off you collarbone. "Your 'other' dinner will have to wait, until I had my fill with dessert."

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Tom/Loki Tag's: @theoneanna @graveyard-groupie @silverquartx @moonfaery @kcd15 @moonlightprime @youveseen--thebutcher @shockwavee @sabine-leo @screw-real-life-i-pick-fandoms @vethrvolnir, @darkprincessloki92 @archy3001 @chaoticwithpurpose @paanchu786 @metalheadspider @myownviperroom @arosewithdaisies @jilldsumner @daughterofsunandmoon93 @too-cold-for-youhere @iamverity @sterwild @hiddlefan81 @matczvkv @desimarie12 @loser-alert @cest-le-temps-de-lamour @lucantis @sherlokiholland @kryptonite2116 @justthatfangirloverthere @littleredstarfish @amore-p-siche

[haledamage]

Pairing: Cait Cousland/Loghain Mac Tir

Story Summary: Word of a plot against Anora comes to light, and Cait Cousland and Loghain Mac Tir must go behind enemy lines to hunt down the source.

aka Cait and Loghain have to pretend to be married and attend a fancy Orlesian party. What could possibly go wrong?

Sequel to Yield though you don’t need to have read it to read this one. Rated E

“Good morning, Anora. Another bouquet of flowers arrived for you,” Cait called as she opened the door to the queen’s office. She hoped Anora was actually in there; she couldn’t see over the riot of flowers in her arms.

“They're lovely,” Anora replied unenthusiastically. Cait made her way in the vague direction of her voice. “Who are these from?”

She sat the vase down, the flowers covering the surface of the desk and hiding the mountains of paperwork that were probably on it. She pulled the card out of her jacket pocket and read it as dramatically as possible. “‘To the Radiant Anora Mac Tir, All flowers pale before your delicate beauty, but I hope they brighten your day just the same. Lord Otwin De Calis .’” She dropped the card onto Anora’s desk, to get lost among the rest of the chaos. “Should I know who that is? He sent me a bouquet too.”

“I'm not familiar with the name,” Anora said, appearing from behind an especially large pink rose. “What did your card say?”

“He said my beauty was mesmerizing . And something about my strength of character,” Cait rolled her eyes and dropped into an empty chair. “I think I'd rather be radiant.”

“At least he has a decent grasp of language.” Anora stood up to carry the flowers to the window to add them to her collection. There were over a dozen bouquets of various sizes and colors, all from hopeful suitors that seemed to think a bunch of roses would be enough to make them the next king of Ferelden.

Cait propped her feet up on the desk and watched her friend walk across the room and back, poised and controlled even after hours in this little room. “I suppose. Anyone who'd call you delicate doesn't know who they're dealing with.”

“Delicate next to you, maybe,” Anora said, eyes flashing with amusement. “I assume you've already sent replies?”

"Of course." Cait intoned in an expressionless voice, "Her Royal Highness and Chancellor Cousland are very flattered by your gift and your words, but completely uninterested. Try chocolates next time.”

“Good.” Anora pushed Cait’s boots off her desk and sat back down. “I received word from Warden-Commander Amell.”

That got the Warden’s attention and she sat up straight in her chair. “How’s Carah doing?”

“There may be a situation with the darkspawn in Amaranthine. She says she doesn’t need help at this time, but she’ll keep us updated.” Anora handed Cait the letter in question and she read over it quickly.

Once she’d handed the letter back, Cait slouched into her chair again. “Better her than me. I’ve got too many memories attached to Amaranthine. I’d rather be here.” Carah Amell was a natural-born leader and deserved every bit of praise and power they could give her. Cait only hoped that whoever she had helping her in Amaranthine knew more about politics than she did. Carah was a sweet girl; the bannorn would eat her alive if they could. “She’ll be a better Commander than I would be anyway. Patience of a saint, that one.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be killing darkspawn than glaring at politicians?”

Cait shrugged. “Nah. If I wanted the easy job, I’d have volunteered. I like it here, believe it or not.”

"Since you are here, I would like a word with you." Anora stared at her, inscrutable as always.

Cait grinned to hide her sudden unease. "Am I in trouble? Because it kind of sounds like I'm in trouble."

Anora laced her fingers together on her desk and said calmly, "When I requested you find a healthier way to spend your evenings than getting in bar fights, I did not mean to imply you should start having sex with my father."

Cait studied the queen, trying to read anything in her expression. She didn't seem angry, but beyond that she couldn't tell what she was thinking. Hoping she was reading this right, Cait kept her grin firmly in place and said cheekily, "You didn't explicitly tell me not to have sex with your father."

"I'll endeavor to be more specific in the future," Anora said dryly.

“Is this a problem, Anora?” Cait asked bluntly. She sat up straight again so she could lean forward over the desk and started gathering together a coherent argument in her mind, in case Anora tried to tell her to stop her relationship with Loghain. Could they even call it a relationship? An affair, maybe? Liaison?

Anora was still studying her, and Cait hoped her poker face was good enough. “That depends on you. What are your intentions with him?”

Cait started laughing. And then she kept laughing, until her sides hurt and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Anora just watched her stoically, patiently waiting for her friend to stop being so dramatic and answer the question. “I’m sorry, I just… I never thought I'd be on the receiving end of this kind of conversation.” Cait wiped the tears from her eyes and added, “We made it clear that we're not looking for anything serious. I'm not out to become your stepmother, if that's what you're worried about.”

Anora paused before quietly saying, “I'm worried about the opposite, actually. My father is a very loyal man. He does not do anything lightly.”

Cait watched her face for any kind of disapproval, but Anora looked as serious and unreadable as ever. “You're concerned that he's after a commitment and I'm just in it for a bit of fun.” She wondered how honest she should be. Anora seemed to just genuinely be interested, and since Carah and Leliana had left the city Cait was severely lacking in female friendships. But it was also Anora’s father that she was having ‘liaisons’ with.

Oh well. In for a copper, in for a crown. “I thought it might be the other way around, though now that I say it out loud it sounds stupid. Everything Loghain ever does is serious . He doesn’t know any other way to do anything.” She dropped her head to a clear space on the desk with a hollow thud. “He and I are a really good fit. Or we could be, if we decided to be. But I can't even get him to call me by my name when other people are around.”

Anora was quiet for a long time, but Cait stubbornly refused to look up and see the expression (or lack thereof) on her friend’s face. After an indeterminate amount of time, either seconds or hours, the queen simply said, “Perhaps I can help.”

She handed her a stack of papers as soon as she sat up again, and she flipped through them, trying to make sense of it. There were a lot of names she didn’t recognize and things written in very fancy filigree. “You lost me.”

“There are rumors of unrest in Orlais. Some courtiers seem to be upset that Empress Celene failed to acquire Ferelden after her plot with Cailan was interrupted." Anora didn't react to that, though her face went a little stonier. Cait sneered on behalf of both of them. "One of these lords, a Duke Dubost, seems to think he'll gain support if he succeeds where she failed. He seeks to supplant me, either by force or by marriage. And since I do not intend to remarry, not now and maybe not ever, it is only a matter of time before he tries something.”

Anora shuffled through the papers until she found the one she was looking for, and pulled a very fancy gilded party invitation to the front. “He is holding a fete at his estate in Jader and I would like you to attend. Find what he's planning and stop it.”

Cait could just imagine how well that would go. The Orlesians were sure to be very accommodating to the blighted Hero of Ferelden. “I'm behind you completely, you know that, but if I walk in there, everyone will either run screaming for the hills or fill me full of arrows.”

The look Anora gave her reminded her of the ones her mother used to give her, when she said something very stupid and Mother was too polite to tell her so. “That is why you will not be going as yourself.” Another shuffling of papers to bring a new one to the top, filled with Anora’s elegant handwriting. “You are Lady Adela Roth, a minor noble from near Highever. You were invited because your cousin, Elena, is married to the youngest son of a marquise, making you technically a noble in both Ferelden and Orlais. You said your Orlesian friend taught you some of the Game, yes?”

“Yes. Bardic basics, at the very least. Don't know that I'm ready for this , though.” Cait was pretty sure Leliana’s exact words were ‘if you keep punching every lord that insults you, there will be no chevaliers left without broken noses.’ Probably best to keep that to herself. “And what does this have to do with Loghain?”

More papers shuffling. “He is your husband, Lord Christoph Roth.” Anora paused, waiting for Cait to refuse, maybe. When she didn’t, she continued, “I did not feel comfortable sending you in alone, and as you said yourself, you work well together.”

Cait had a lot of questions, but she didn’t know where to start and doubted Anora would answer most of them. She liked to be cryptic, a trait Cait found equally frustrating in both Mac Tirs. “Did you ask about my relationship with your father out of genuine concern, or did you just want to make sure we wouldn't be too awkward on your mission?”

“I don't see why it can't be both. You leave in four days. I've already taken the liberty of having some dresses made for you.” Anora sat back in her chair, apparently taking Cait’s lack of dissent as approval. Maybe it was; Anora’s plan was foolproof, and probably even Cait-proof. She couldn’t think of a way to refuse without just seeming childish.

Business concluded, the stern expression on the queen’s face faded into a small, sympathetic smile. “Some time away will do you good. Who knows, maybe spending a week pretending to be a married couple will give you and Father a chance to work a few things out.”

Cait knew that Anora meant well, but when she put it like that, it just sounded like a threat.

-------

Loghain was having a good day, which, for him, mostly meant a quiet day. He spent the day in his room, at his desk, answering letters. Some of them had been there for weeks, waiting for him to find time to reply, but even if he was no longer a teryn or a general, work kept piling up just the same. No messengers came to his door with news of a new fire he needed to put out and the only sound was the scratch of his quill and the cold wind whistling through the half-open window.

He should have known it was too good to last.

Three terse, loud knocks on his door broke his mid-afternoon solitude. He tried not to growl at whomever was on the other side. "What is it?"

Cait breezed into the room like she belonged there, kicking the door shut behind her and moving through the space with her easy, thoughtless grace. She'd never been in his room before; until this moment, Loghain didn't know she knew where his room was.

She was in one of those Nevarran-style suits she was so fond of, with their high collars and thousands of tiny buttons, her hair in a neat braid and, near as he could tell, she was unarmed except for a stack of papers. Probably, that meant she was here on business.

"Warden," he greeted because he liked the face she made when he did.

"How many times do I have to ask you not to call me that?" Cait asked, making a face like she'd just bitten into a lemon. Without waiting for a reply, likely because she knew she wouldn't get one, she added, "Are you in the middle of anything?"

"Nothing that can't wait. What is it?"

She looked around for a place to sit and, finding no other chairs, sat down on the edge of his bed. She held out the stack of papers she'd brought with her. "Anora has some work for us."

He flipped through the pages, skimming over the words to try to put together the story. "She wants us to pose as a married couple to infiltrate a party in Orlais and stop a plot to overthrow her rule."

"You caught on a lot faster than I did." Loghain couldn't tell if the wide smile on her face was from nerves or excitement. Probably both, knowing her. "We leave in four days. Take a carriage there, snoop around for a while, come home with the evidence we need. Easy as lying."

"I see," he said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible, "and Anora sent you to tell me in hopes of softening the blow?"

Cait laughed, a warm, throaty chuckle. "Is that what I do now? Here I thought it was my job to make your life more difficult." Her eyes were as warm as her voice, but much sharper, seeing through his attempts at stoicism. "I know we're asking a lot of you. She's asking a lot of us , really. If you don't want to do it, I won't push."

"And what happens if I refuse?" he asked. Spending any time playing nice with Orlesians was pretty high on his list of worst nightmares. Judging by the way neither Cait nor Anora were ordering him to do this, Loghain assumed they were aware of that.

"I don't know," she said plainly, shrugging one shoulder. "Maybe she sends me alone. Maybe she finds me a new Lord Roth. Maybe she replaces us both. It needs doing no matter what." She paused, still watching him. Her stare was like a physical touch, and could make him feel underdressed even in full armor. Finally, quiet and honest, Cait added, "I'd prefer it's you."

"Hmm. And why is that?" Loghain knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it - or the excuse she made instead.

"We work well together." Her lips curled in a sly, private smile. "You know we do. If I have to go to Orlais, I want to do it with someone I know I can trust. And Anora must have chosen us for good reason."

She was probably right. His daughter was not the type to throw her greatest supporters to the wolves. She was also not the type to have only one motive behind anything she did; life was a game of chess for Anora, and they’d just have to hope that they weren’t being cast as pawns.

Cait held his gaze unblinking, not quite a challenge but close. When she looked away, it didn't feel so much like a surrender as it was a mercy. There was something she wasn't saying, but he tried not to make any assumptions. She was not in the habit of keeping secrets. If she wasn't talking it was because she wasn't ready to.

"I'll do it," he said, as if there was ever really any doubt.

Her face lit up with a pure, joyful smile that hit him like a suckerpunch and he regretted his decision immediately. "Good. We leave in four days, as I said before. Anora is providing us with clothing, but the rest is up to us. We'll make our way to Highever first, then take a more discrete carriage from there."

There was nothing he needed to add to that, so he just nodded.

Cait nodded too and slid off the bed. "I'll let you get back to your work, then."

She hovered for just a moment more. She looked like she wanted to say something, or was waiting for him to. But she didn't, and neither did he, and then she left as quickly as she'd arrived.

The room was cold with her gone, and too quiet. Her perfume lingered in the air and on his sheets from the handful of minutes she'd spent on his bed. Sleep tonight was going to be impossible.

He struggled to remind himself to think of her as the Warden. To maintain that careful distance between them. That distance closed a little more with every moment spent with her, and every day it got harder to remember why he thought he needed it.

Loghain had not loved many people in his life, and all of them were dead now except his daughter. But the Warden-- Cait --she was Celia’s ferocity and Rowan’s grace and Maric’s charisma all wrapped in wildfire and he knew if he fell for her he wouldn’t survive the impact.

A week in her constant company would probably kill him.

He turned back to his desk, but just stared unseeing at the blank page in front of him. He couldn't concentrate to write anymore, his focus chased away by easy laughter and storm-colored eyes and the scent of summer flowers. With a frustrated growl, he stormed out of the room to find something else to occupy his thoughts.

[niccolocraxxi]

❛ WE’RE NO ANGELS ❜ — CHRISTMAS ‘56

NICK SHOULD’VE BEEN IN TAHOE HOURS AGO.

He kept telling himself that all day. Well, most of the day. There were those instances where Nick didn’t think about anything at all except for her. When his mind was clear and he wasn’t thinking with his cock, he could feel that sense of dread and guilt that he usually felt during those times in between. When he wasn’t between her legs or she wasn’t on her knees, his apprehension was a dark cloud over his every move. Again, when he wasn’t thinking with his cock. When he was, his wife, his girls didn’t even exist. There was only her, the insatiable blonde he’d left in bed while he slipped away quietly to his bathroom. They’d gone at it — again — for about an hour before they both passed out. And, like the other times they’d gone at it throughout the day, there was no flight home or obligation to be met. Just him and her. Fucking, and fucking well.

It had become something like a sport for the two of them the last few months. The first couple proved to be far more casual in comparison. Those many hours after that forgettable Hollywood party was meant to be nothing more than a one night stand. They both seemed to play their role well, embracing the game they implicitly accepted the moment they started going at it in his dark suite at the Cipriani hotel. But then he woke up the next morning and she was gone. Usually, the girl being out before breakfast was a relief, so it caught him by surprise when her absence made him feel a certain level of disappointment. After that, as cool as he usually liked to play things, it became important for him to know more about her. Enough to fill her place — or was it her Mother’s? — with any and every type of bouquet available, at least.

At no point since were things not hot and heavy between them. But in comparison to now, their trysts had been far more infrequent. It made sense considering who and what she was in L.A. and what he was in Vegas. He had to split his time between there and Los Angeles, which made it difficult early on to set a guaranteed time aside. But, without noticing, that’s exactly what NIck started doing. Soon, he was making plans with her. After a while, he’d even make special flights into town just for her. Without realizing it, he even let slide some of his other ongoing trysts, as if they could no longer hold his attention; as if they no longer mattered to him.

He let out a soft groan as he stepped into the shower, feeling that familiar burn and exhaustion in his legs that usually followed a day’s full of fucking. He winced a moment later when he realized that his dick was just as sore as his legs. Nick was finally thinking with the head above his shoulders now and he told himself he had to get cleaned up and get to that private airfield where a plane had been waiting for him since early that afternoon. Visions of the disappointed faces of his wife and daughters seemed to flash in his mind and he tried to concentrate on how good that hot water felt when he finally turned the shower knobs accordingly.

   ❝ You gotta go home, Nicky, ❞ he muttered to himself.

To his credit, he did try earlier. After round three, he’d slipped away for a shower just like he was doing now. The only difference was that she had to follow him in. As if she didn’t want him to go. Whether that was true or not, the thought alone had thrilled him. So, too, did the look in her blue eyes when she got down on her knees for him as if to entice him to stay. Clearly, he stayed, and now here he was trying to get cleaned up again, after round five. In his head, he was proud of himself for being resolute this time, having not even checked to see if she was awake before getting up. For several minutes while still in bed with her, he literally lay there just trying to find a sense of urgency that would get him to finally leave her home so that he could get back to his. A lesser man would’ve folded, but not Niccolo Craxxi. Not this time.

But then there was that dissenting feeling in his whole body that made him wonder if he wanted to go at all. Nick’s eyes seemed to open wide at the thought, a comical realization as he stood in her shower, feeling and now watching the water cascade down every muscular bulge and cut of his well-maintained body. Suddenly, he didn’t quite know how to feel. The guilt over his wife and daughters was still there, but so was the realization that he was not only addicted, but now easily swayed to the alternative. The last several hours with her being the primary evidence. Stop it, he was quick to tell himself. Go home to your wife and kids. As if in agreement with that voice in his head, he nodded firmly to himself. But then there was that other voice again. A Devil on his right shoulder that rivaled the Angel on his left. The one causing all this trouble.

    Turning down Faye Fairaway was hard.         Even on a day like today — Christmas Eve.

[helshades]

I always pronounced it "Her-my-own", despite being a native speaker, as I never came across it and was still a child at the time. It was only when Book Four came out, and - thankfully - Krum was a non-native speaker, that I learned the real pronunciation. English is stupid. It's like what Shaw used to say about how you could spell "fish" legitimately as "ghoti", as the whole language needs to be changed in its written form.

Like all truly great literary references, that one’s inappropriately attributed, as I’ve just been reliably informed that the first known occurrence of the ghoti joke was made one year before (George) Bernard Shaw was born—in 1855, in a letter Charles Ollier wrote to Leigh Hunt; on the third page, Ollier mentions that his son William ‘has hit upon a new method of spelling “fish”’. The word doesn’t appear in the writings of Shaw himself! It is a wee bit disappointing, yes.

Although… to be frank, the only real dissent between Bernard Shaw and I would be that ghoti business and the overall question of spelling reforms—which I shall oppose, as long as there is a brain cell left in me, for every language I’ll ever know. Spelling reforms are for quitters, ducky. FOR QUITTERS. Also: nobody ever pronounced diagram gh as f at the beginning of a word, it only happens the end of morphemes after diphthongs au and ou; women is an exception; and the only way ti can be pronounced like sh is when it precedes the phonems -al, -an and -on. The only logical way to pronounce ghoti would be, in the end, like ‘goatee’. FAKE NEWS!!!

Ahem. To quote Charivarius (1870-1946), a.k.a. the greatest troll in the English language, a.k.a. someone who really knew where things are at:

Dearest creature in creation,Study English pronunciation.I will teach you in my verseSounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.I will keep you, Suzy, busy,Make your head with heat grow dizzy.Tear in eye, your dress will tear.So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.

Just compare heart, beard, and heard,Dies and diet, lord and word,Sword and sward, retain and Britain.(Mind the latter, how it’s written.)Now I surely will not plague youWith such words as plaque and ague.But be careful how you speak:Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;Cloven, oven, how and low,Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.

Hear me say, devoid of trickery,Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,Exiles, similes, and reviles;Scholar, vicar, and cigar,Solar, mica, war and far;One, anemone, Balmoral,Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;Gertrude, German, wind and mind,Scene, Melpomene, mankind.

Billet does not rhyme with ballet,Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.Blood and flood are not like food,Nor is mould like should and would.Viscous, viscount, load and broad,Toward, to forward, to reward.And your pronunciation’s OKWhen you correctly say croquet,Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Ivy, privy, famous; clamourAnd enamour rhyme with hammer.River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,Doll and roll and some and home.Stranger does not rhyme with anger,Neither does devour with clangour.Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,And then singer, ginger, linger,Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.

Query does not rhyme with very,Nor does fury sound like bury.Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.Though the differences seem little,We say actual but victual.Refer does not rhyme with deafer.Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer.Mint, pint, senate and sedate;Dull, bull, and George ate late.Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,Science, conscience, scientific.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.We say hallowed, but allowed,People, leopard, towed, but vowed.Mark the differences, moreover,Between mover, cover, clover;Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,Chalice, but police and lice;Camel, constable, unstable,Principle, disciple, label.

Petal, panel, and canal,Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,Senator, spectator, mayor.Tour, but our and succour, four.Gas, alas, and Arkansas.Sea, idea, Korea, area,Psalm, Maria, but malaria.Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,Dandelion and battalion.Sally with ally, yea, ye,Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.Say aver, but ever, fever,Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.Heron, granary, canary.Crevice and device and aerie.

Face, but preface, not efface.Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.Large, but target, gin, give, verging,Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.Ear, but earn and wear and tearDo not rhyme with here but ere.Seven is right, but so is even,Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.

Pronunciation – think of Psyche!Is a paling stout and spikey?Won’t it make you lose your wits,Writing groats and saying grits?It’s a dark abyss or tunnel:Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,Islington and Isle of Wight,Housewife, verdict and indict.

Finally, which rhymes with enough –Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?Hiccough has the sound of cup.My advice is to give up!!!

Unless we heed Mark Twain’s advice:

For example, in Year 1 that useless letter ‘c’ would be dropped to bereplased either by ‘k’ or ‘s’, and likewise ‘x’ would no longer be part ofthe alphabet.  The only kase in which ‘c’ would be retained would be the ‘ch’ formation, which will be dealt with later.

Year 2 might reform ‘w’ spelling, so that ‘which’ and ‘one’ would takethe same konsonant, wile Year 3 might well abolish ‘y’ replasing it with ‘i’ and Iear 4 might fiks the ‘g/j’ anomali wonse and for all. Jenerally,then, the improvement would kontinue iear bai iear with Iear 5 doingawai with useless double konsonants, and Iears 6–12 or so modifaiingvowlz and the rimeining voist and unvoist konsonants.

Bai Iear 15 or sou, it wud fainali bi posibl tu meik ius ov thi ridandantletez ‘c’, ‘y’ and ‘x’—bai now jast a memori in the maindz ov oulddoderez—tu riplais ‘ch’, ‘sh’, and ‘th’ rispektivli. Fainali, xen, aaftesam 20 iers ov orxogrefkl riform, wi wud hev a lojikl, kohirnt speling inius xrewawt xe Ingliy-spiking werld.

Another solution would be to start writing English phonetically, of course, but even then I’m not entirely sure any of us is mentally equipped for triphthongs. Better learn it the hard way and roll with it, you know.

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tagged by: @violet-dissent

tagging: @wave-born | @spacedadoftheuniverse | @cartoonygothica | @schwarzpaladin | @sakuraari and whoever wishes!

rules: bold the aesthetic that applies to your muse

                             𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐋.

tired eyes.  coffee stains on the table.   listening to the bustle of the city. unmade beds.  loose ponytails.  sunlight seeping through the curtains. chapped lips.   walking barefoot across the floorboards.  dusty dictionaries.   black and white reruns.  huge sweaters. the ticking of the clock.  hearing birds in the morning. fireplaces.  falling asleep during class.

                            𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄.

freckles.  the sun rising. watching the sea. taking shots of the city.   historical museums.  bright eyes.   looking up at the clouds.   walls covered in artworks.  drawing in  the middle of lessons. tracing your fingers on the sand. painting for  hours. staying in uncrowded coffee-shops.  worn paperbacks.  messy braids.  going to bed with your socks on.

                             𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐐𝐔𝐄.

dark hair. a little sophisticated. always observing the world around you. intricate designs.high ceilings.  extravagant musical pieces.   dim lights.  colourless photographs.   fancy furniture.   pale skin.   hearing soft footfalls coming from outside the room.  mischievous looks. bitten nails.  candlelight dinners.  dark shades of lipstick.

                             𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋.

chandeliers.   the clinking of a teacup.   laced clothing. modern architecture. light hair.   watching the view from the terrace.  hidden birthmarks.  drinking tea in the morning.wandering about in an empty building.   botanical gardens.  old films.   ancient marble sculptures.   expensive perfume.  breakfasts in bed. reading about mythology.

                             𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂.

compassion.  short writings on scraps of paper.  blushed cheeks.  a bouquet of roses.  reading collections of poetry late at night.   loose hair.  carpeted floors.   attending operas. faint music playing in the background.  staying under the covers until midday. the night sky. streetlights. picking flowers. dancing around in silk dresses.  scented candles.

[xtruss]

VLADIMIR PUTIN AND ANGELA MERKEL: THROUGH GOOD TIMES AND BAD

Up-and-coming leaders

In 2002, Angela Merkel was the head of what was then Germany's main opposition party, the Christian Democratic Union (CDU). Putin was the fresh-faced president of a new and modern Russia. After meeting Putin in the Kremlin, Merkel reportedly joked to her aides that she had passed the "KGB test" of holding his gaze — an allusion to Putin's earlier career in the Soviet security agency.

New chancellor in town! Putin had built a friendship with Angela Merkel's predecessor, Gerhard Schröder, and the two men remain close to this day. By late 2005, however, it was clear that Merkel was set to dethrone the Social Democrat Schröder. Talking to Merkel in Russia's Berlin embassy, Putin pledged to expand the ties between the two countries. Merkel described the dialogue as "very open."

A friendly ear for Putin! About a year later, Putin shared his impressions of the woman who had since become Germany's chancellor: "We don't know each other on a very personal level, but I'm impressed by her ability to listen," he told Germany's public broadcaster MDR from Dresden, adding that listening was a rare skill among female politicians.

A gap in Merkel's armor! The German chancellor has a well-known fear of dogs. Still, Putin let his black lab Konni wonder around the Sochi venue when he welcomed Merkel there in January 2007. Was he trying to intimidate her? Merkel seems to think so: "I believe the Russian president knew very well that I wasn't thrilled by the idea of meeting his dog, but he still brought it with him," the chancellor said in 2015.

Too thin-skinned on media! By 2012, Vladimir Putin had taken on a harsher course towards the press and political dissenters. When asked about media freedom while in Saint Petersburg, Merkel responded with a barely hidden jab at her fellow leader: "If I were to get sulky every time I opened a newspaper, I wouldn't last three days as chancellor," she said.

Talks continue into the ice age! Relations between Moscow and the West took a steep plunge after the annexation of Crimea in 2014. However, Putin told German media that he still maintained a "business-like relationship" with the German chancellor. "I trust her. She is a very open person. She, like anyone else, is subject to certain limitations, but she is honestly attempting to solve the crises," he told Bild, a German daily.

No insult intended but ...! "I don't mean to insult anybody, but Ms. Merkel's statement is an outburst of a long-accumulated anger over limited sovereignty," Putin told the press in Saint Petersburg in 2017, commenting on an election campaign address that the German leader had given in Munich. Merkel's so-called "beer tent" speech saw her urge Europeans to rely on themselves amidst disputes with US President Donald Trump.

Rolling with it! Just a month after Putin's remarks on sovereignty, the two leaders were photographed talking at a G-20 summit in Hamburg. While the topic remains a mystery, both Merkel and Putin used strong gestures. At one point, as Putin wags his finger Merkel looks away from him and rolls her eyes. The moment quickly went viral.

'We have to talk to each other'! When Merkel arrived in Sochi in 2018, Putin welcomed her with a bouquet of flowers. An offer of peace? An act of gallantry? Sexism? The rationale didn't really matter in the big picture. Appearing alongside Putin, Merkel said dialogue needed to go on. "Even if there are grave differences of opinion on some issues, we have to talk to each other, because otherwise you just sink into silence."

Handshake in 2020! Angela Merkel met with the Russian President in the Kremlin in January 2020. Since then relations have again deteriorated over the Russian involvement in Ukraine, but also over its treatment of dissidents. Most notably of dissident Alexei Navalny who was arrested upon his return to Russia from medical treatment in Germany.

— Author: Jan D. Walter, Darko Janjevic | Deutsche Welle

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In this work, Ai Weiwei quietly transformed the utilitarian fixtures in several Hospital ward cells and medical offices into delicate porcelain bouquets. The artist designed intricately detailed encrustations of ceramic flowers to fill the sinks, toilets, and tubs that were once used by hospitalized prisoners.

Like With Wind in the New Industries Building, Blossom drew on and altered natural imagery as well as traditional Chinese arts. Rather than referring to national iconography, however, the flowers here carried other associations. The work could have been seen as symbolically offering comfort to the imprisoned, as one would send a bouquet to a hospitalized patient. The profusion of flowers rendered in a cool and brittle material could also have been an ironic reference to China’s famous Hundred Flowers Campaign of 1956, a brief period of government tolerance for free expression that was immediately followed by a severe crackdown against dissent.