#c: sofiya

[doskorogorpg]

♦ NO MOURNERS, NO FUNERALS. AMONG THEM IT PASSED FOR GOOD LUCK.

name: Sofiya Maryin.

age: Twenty-Six.

race: Human.

powers / skillset: Hand-to-Hand Combat.

gender: Female.

SMUGGLER. Unsanctioned goods, contraband, weapons, people. Nothing was off the table. Nothing was too illicit for her. She could smuggle anything across enemy lines without a trace, and she did it with pride. Pride at how she can tip toe around, a thief under your very nose, and take your life's work in broad daylight because she never needed the disguise of night. But now, now she isn’t smuggling things out. She’s smuggling them in. Placing tiny changes all around the king’s city without detection and with delicious retribution.

Trigger Warning: Mentions of War.

She’s a warzone. The perfect product of war. And she knew vengeance deep down to her bones. She watched it fester within herself as she buried family in this god-forsaken war and she watched it fade over the years into hopelessness in the eyes of those she loved. But Sofiya clung to it. She chased it down. Pursued it like a ravenous dog. Sought after it by marching to the same beat her family always had: joining the army, despite her mother’s desperate pleas. She saddled up regardless of the dread of further loss because she thought she had to. A self-imposed destiny stemming from retributive justice towards the Gusev monarch which took everything from the South, from her. But she found it pointless. The Southern army had lost too much that now they were more akin to mad dogs circling each other, rendered ineffectual. And her only use to them was her family's long passed-down skills of smuggling to put more weapons and contraband in the hands of the useless. She grew sick of it. Sick of the squandering of her own talents. Sofiya wouldn’t be smuggling things out of the East anymore for the South. She would be smuggling something in. Herself.

Pretending to be another Southern asset taken out by the East and smuggling herself across the border, unnoticed by both sides. The easy part. Everything that comes after… Complicated. Complicated because she was clever. Sofiya wasn’t so blinded by her vengeance to think she could go at this alone. She needed a new unit. She needed disposable people. Individuals to distract her enemies while she smuggled herself past them all to claim her prize. The death of the Gusev Monarch. Every last one of them. So when the moment came. She took it. She did not hesitate a second when Svetlana knocked on the door of her ramshackle home in Rysk. In fact, she expected it, having left several clues for the spymaster in her illegal shipments to draw the eye of the Volki. Mikhail’s motley crew. And when she joined, she did not hold back. She gave them her all, night after night, to be known as one of their biggest assets and rise through the ranks to become first commander due to her knowledge of war tactics from her military background. Sofiya made herself irreplaceable. All so they could trust her with their lives. Trust that she will choose them over vengeance. But that was never in the cards. She would see the Gusev monarch die for their crimes, and the blood debt paid in full for the South.

YEKATERINA: She wouldn’t name it friendship, exactly. She would call it a necessity. A way in. It hasn’t escaped Sofiya’s attention that Katya was the favored by both Svetlana and Mikhail. Which meant she had to be Sofiya’s as well. In the beginning, at least. She stuck close to her side to make herself more noticeable, more useful. Until she didn’t need Katya anymore. Until she garnered enough trust to become Mikhail’s first commander. A coveted position only because it got her closer to her prize. Now when she sees Katya she doesn’t know what to call it as she did grow to enjoy her. But she still wouldn’t call it friendship. MIKHAIL: He calls the shots, but she builds his army. She takes them through the drills now. She has a say on tactics and placements of the crew. And yet, she still wants to be him. She wants his spot. Not to be beloved as he. But to be the centerpiece of the crew who will be the ones to end the Gusev Monarch. She wants the renown, and the retribution, of being the one to end Viktor. But she doesn’t know if that seems possible under Mikhail’s leadership. She doesn’t know if he has the guts to pull the trigger and bring this monarch crumbling down as she does. Still, she will remain at his side, despite this concern, if only to profit her own agenda. She will remain to make sure everyone in that castle burns, not just King Viktor. IGOR: An asset. Nothing more. He was all brawn, no brains, and Sofiya took advantage of that. She needs a powerhouse on her side in case things go awry. Not that they will as she is hellbent on everything falling into place perfectly. But if it were to go wrong, she has him. Her favorite little puppet. A stupid boy so blinded by his rage he’d do almost anything for the woman who filled him with thoughts of brutality on any human he despised; not just the monarch they chased after. And it didn’t matter that she was a human as well, a representation of what he hates, as she offered him enough power, enough control, that he saw past her faults.

SOFIYA MARYIN IS PORTRAYED BY RINA FUKUSHI & IS CURRENTLY TAKEN.

[crownsofesha]

~ The Wikipedia Page of Tsarina Sofiya Feodorovna ~

A big thank you to @lucky-content for the wikipedia template. I don't know how I would do this without it.

HQ Wikipedia version here

HQ versions of the photos under the cut (and apart of the wikipedia article I wrote that got cut off, and its my favorite part)

"Sofiya and Empress Odetta of Islavaria were friends since the marriage of Empress Odetta to Emperor Alexander II. “Sofiya knew what she wanted and no matter how difficult or impossible it was in theory, she would get it suprising everyone,” Odetta wrote in her personal diary. Sofiya and the Empress were the start of the Six Queens Alliance, bringing in their own allies to this meeting. Sofiya and Odetta long time friends, even in their old age, despite their age difference of sixteen years. “Odetta, my dependable friend. She was always there to lift me up and support me in my work whenever I needed. She was strong, and wanted to be for her loved ones. Her legacy is strong and I look forward to seeing what comes in honor of her,” Sofiya wrote after the funeral of Odetta in c 1856."

[steponmeinejghafa]

Little Crow Pt. 4

Summary: What started as a good day goes south to the point where you display "concerning" behavious on the playground, which leads your principal to call your parents to school.

Your age: 10

Six of Crows x fem!child!reader

Note: Pretend Pekka still lives in Ketterdam, and never moved far far away.

Taglist: @winstonthecow22 , @ell0ra-br3kk3r , @trashmouthsahra , @myheartfollower

Warnings: Blood, mentions of sharp objects, prejudices, fighting, yelling, arguments

---

You sat at the breakfast table with Wylan, who was helping you with your math homework a little bit last-minute. While he taught you how to multiply decimals, you wolfed down your toast and eggs which Nina made for you.

"So, you think of the times tables while you do these, okay?" Wylan explained, when Kaz emerged out of nowhere.

"Come on, little crow," he said. "Or you'll be late."

You hastily put your math in your bag, gave Wylan a big hug and a 'thank you', before bidding everyone goodbye and following your father out.

"Papa, guess what?" You asked excitedly while he sat in the carriage beside you.

"What, little crow?" He asked, not bothering to feign any interest as you both stepped out of the carriage, with him holding your hand as you crossed the street.

"I might get top marks in my tests this week!" You grinned. "Uncle Wylan helped me with my Math and a bit of Science, and Auntie Nej did Social Studies with me, and Auntie Nina did the rest of Science! I'm super confident in class and no one, not even Sofiya Reznik could answer the questions the teacher asked us!"

"Reznik is the girl who's father is a professor, isn't it?" He asked. "I'm proud of you, Y/n."

"I need to go now, Papa," you said, nodding at his hand which was clutching yours tightly.

"Alright," he sighed. "But remember: never start a fight, always be the one to finish it, and please stay far away from Alby Rollins. I don't need Pekka breathing down my neck if you hurt the boy."

"I'm making no promises," you grinned and leaned against his side a little. "I've got this."

"Have a good day, little crow," he smiled slightly, letting go of you. Excited, you skipped in past the gates, running to greet your friends.

Kaz's skin prickled as he saw the children bustling about in the schoolyard. Almost all of them were mercher's children, and he knew they lived on the far richer side of Ketterdam.

Shaking off the feeling, he walked away, back into the carriage.

Your day commenced as it normally would. However, recess was the one part which caused your happy mood to sour.

You ran with everyone else on the playground, laughing as you all played tag. You'd been tagged, and chased relentlessly after a random kid from the other fourth-grade class.

You clapped him on his back and turned around swiftly, but you slammed bodily into Alby Rollins, Pekka Rollins' spoiled, rotten little boy.

"Sorry about that, Rollins!" You apologised hastily and tried swerving around him.

He shoved your shoulder and scowled, "Watch where you're going, Barrel trash."

You'd been called many names before, but that particular one struck your dignity hard.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as your e/c eyes blazed. "You take that back, Rollins."

He hit you on the shoulder, "Or what, slum rat?"

You noticed a sharp rock at your feet and picked it up, baring it at him. "Or I'll cut you."

His piggy eyes went wide, but he still held himself confidently. He kicked you on the back of your knees, causing you to tumble down onto the dusty ground. The stone in your hand cut a deep gash across your palm, but you didn't care.

"You'll cut me?" He scoffed, kicking you in the ribs. "You'll cut me? I don't think so, scum. Don't even belong here with us non-slum dwellers, do you?"

"I belong here just as you all do," you spat, trying to stand up, but he kicked you hard in the ribs again. You wheezed and collapsed again, arm clutching your abdomen.

"Think you're equal 'cause your Da owns a club?" He scoffed. "Kaz Brekker don't got nothing on Pekka Rollins."

But before he could even draw his leg back for another kick, you regained your posture and swung a fist at his nose with as much strength as your 10-year-old body would allow.

An audible 'crack' came from where your fist connected with his face, and he clutched at his jaw which you'd hit. The hit was cushioned by his round cheeks, but you weren't any older than him nor were your knuckles conditioned enough to handle a direct hit, and your fist pulsed with pain.

"You filthy Barrel rat!" He screamed, and knocked you down as he tackled you, his pudgy body weighing your down significantly. He threw punch after punch at your face and body, while you tried freeing your arms pinned under his knees. Around you, kids chanted 'fight, fight, fight!'

Of course no one was going to help. Your face was bleeding, and you could barely feel it anymore as he beat you bruised and bloody. Tears streamed down your face as you pleaded for him to stop. He didn't cease his relentless hitting, and no one dared touch Pekka Rollins' son anyway, so why would they attempt to now? You prayed desperately that someone went to get a teacher, and ignored every single insult he hurled your way. Regardless, a white-hot anger coursed through you, making you struggle harder.

You got an arm free from under him and caught his collar, before pulling him to the side hard enough to get him off one side of you. Wiggling out, you wiped a hand across your mouth for it to come down red with blood. Angry like a bull, you charged at him, fists swinging at his pudgy body as you hit and kicked every place you could reach. The other kids tried holding you back, but nothing would stop you from taking revenge for all he did to you.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF ALL THIS?" Exclaimed a teacher. Beside her stood Sofiya Reznik, looking worried for you.

"Miss!" Wailed Alby pathetically while you wiped the steadily drying blood from your knuckles. Dragging your sleeve over your face, you wiped off whatever blood you could, and had only just been able to think rationally and clearly, when another teacher seized you by the elbow and dragged you inside. It gave you some satisfaction to see that Alby was also being dragged with you equally harshly. Clearly these teachers weren't scared of Rollins the way the others were.

"I need some context on what happened," sighed the teacher who'd grabbed you, while you sat on a cot in the nurse's office, Alby opposite to you and mewling pathetically to the nurse and teacher.

You allowed the young man to start dabbing away at the blood on your face and replied, "He called me Barrel trash just because I bumped into him, accidentally. I apologised, but then he had to escalate it."

"...and then the shameless Barrel girl punched me!" You heard Alby bleat, while the nurse and teacher looked thoroughly done with is antics.

"It's on him cause he started it," you sighed, holding an ice pack to your eye, which was starting to bruise over. "He shouldn't have hit me."

"I didn't lay a hand on you!" He protested, but the teachers saw right through him.

"Silence, shevrati," you snapped, using the Suli insult you often heard Inej say. "That's what you are, anyway. A know-nothing."

"Kids, enough," the second teacher intervened. She glared at Alby, "And quit your incessant bleating, you've just got a bruised eye. A well-deserved one at that."

"How can you believe that-that slum rat over me?" He gaped.

"None of that, boy," scowled the male teacher. "Come on now, both of you, to the Principal. Goodness, the things you all do..."

You sat quietly outside the office, waiting, and heard the sound of branded leather boots against the tiles of the floor. You looked up to see Pekka Rollins hurry over to his son, and heard his angrily muttered insults towards you.

"Atleast now I know where he learned it all," you scoffed, looking at the man.

"Y/n?" A serious and familiar voice made you look up, and immediately your heart dropped to your worn-out shoes. Kaz was there with your Aunt Inej, Nina, Jesper and Wylan, and all of them looked beyond pissed.

"Hi..." you awkwardly said, holding up a hand to wave at them. However, it took you a moment to realise that their anger istelf wasn't directed towards you. Kaz was glaring past you and at Pekka, who was comforting his crying child.

"Not this stuff again," you grumbled and flicked Alby on the ear. "I didn't even break anything, so quit your bleating."

"Don't you even--" Pekka began, but was interrupted by the secretary.

"Um...are you Y/n's family?" She asked, peeking out of the office. Kaz and the rest of the crows nodded, and she said, "I need the father to come in, please."

"That would be something you don't want to do," Nina interjected. "Unless you want another fistfight on your hands."

She looked defeated, and replied, "Just- just decide amongst yourselves who is to come in."

They all looked at each other, and you facepalmed. You did regret it immediately, though, as your eye throbbed thanks to the bruise on it.

“Please, honestly, we just really need the fathers here,” said the young woman. Seeing their incredulous glares, she added, “I don’t make the rules.”

You tentatively gave Kaz a quick hug, before running back to the chair you'd sat in. He looked at you in a way that made your skin prickle with unhappiness

“Little crow…” Nina sighed, shaking her head. “You’re just like Kaz. Can’t back down from a fight.”

“Hey, he started it!” You scoffed, glaring at Alby, who stuck his tongue out at you.

You suddenly heard raised voices inside the office and shrank back against your seat, looking a little afraid. You’d never heard Kaz raise his voice like that, atleast not in front of you. To be honest, it terrified you to imagine your normally calm father standing there in front of Rollins, his eyes blazing and gripping his cane hard.

“Little crow, you’ve got a bruised rib!” Gasped Nina. “How did this happen?”

“He kicked me," you mumbled, pointing at Alby. The boy glared at you again, and you heard him scoff something which sounded like 'tattletale'.

Jesper knelt in front of you while Nina attempted to heal your bruised rib, and asked, "Did you win, little crow?"

You grinned and nodded, "Yeah, I did."

Wylan immediately smacked his boyfriend upside the head and scowled, "Jesper Llewellyn Fahey, we will not encourage this behaviour," he looked at you and sighed, "Y/n, I'm really disappointed in your decision today. Why did you hit back?"

"Because he--OW!" You exclaimed as Nina made a sharp turn of her wrists, fixing the rib which you'd bruised. "Auntie Nina, that hurt!" You glared at her.

"Listen to your Uncle, little crow," she frowned. "He's right. You shouldn't have hit back."

"He called me barrel trash. Why am I in the wrong here? Besides, I had apologised for bumping into him, and he just had to insult me." You scoffed at them all. "Papa would've understood."

"My little crow," Jesper spoke after a long time, startling you. "If someone decides to stoop that low, you have to control your own emotions and walk away."

"You guys fight people on a daily basis," you grumbled. "It's quite hypocritical for you to say that."

You were honestly livid with their behaviour, thinking they'd support your decision, but the more they spoke, the more you wanted to throw and break something.

You slouched in your chair and noticed Alby sticking his tongue out at you, as the crows looked at each other, their telepathic adult conversation going back and forth.

The secretary came in and gestured for you and Alby, saying, "Kids, the Principal wants to see you."

You stood up and glared at the rest of your family, who simply looked back at you the way grown-ups do when they want to make a point. You had no idea why they were against you on this, and felt another surge of anger go through you at their expressions.

Inside the office, you sat quietly next to Kaz, who was seething with anger. His rage wafted off him in waves, which made you scoot your chair as far away from him as you could. His eyes blazed with fury as he looked at Pekka, who held his son's shoulder as the boy sat down.

"Children," the Principal said gently, looking at the two of you. "Could you care to explain exactly what happened? Let's start with you, Y/n, dear."

You tried not to cringe at her tone. She spoke as if you both were in kindergarten.

"Well," you said, thoroughly tired of having to narrate the story over and over. "I was playing tag with my friends and I didn't hear Rollins behind me, so I bumped into him by accident. Naturally, I apologised, but he just had to hit me and call me 'barrel trash' and continued to bully me about my background, and he got physical, so I responded in self-defense."

“See, Mr. Rollins, I suggest you try to control the language you use around your child,” sighed the Principal, looking at the man.

“Yes,” said Kaz, his voice stone cold. “Preferably teach him not to mess with her.”

“Keep that mouth of yours shut, Brekker,” growled Pekka. “My son would never say such things! He doesn’t do it at home, why would he do it outside?”

“I can call one of our students in to confirm, if you’d like, Mr. Rollins,” the principal replied pointedly. She hated it when fathers excused their sons behaviour when they were so obviously in the wrong.

You glared at Alby, “Confess else I’ll do more than just bruise your eye. We both know what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he scoffed. “She pushed me and just began hitting when I asked her to watch where she was going.”

“That’s a lie!” You shouted. Kaz rested the tip of his cane on your shoulder to warn you not to get up, for he noticed you tensing to hit again.

“We are dishing out a week-long suspension to you, Alby Rollins,” said the Principal, writing him a slip. “For starting a fight, greviously injuring another student, and for name-calling as well as bullying on the basis of their background.”

“You can’t do that!” Gasped Pekka.

“I run this school, Rollins,” said the woman, handing him a signed slip. “I do what I want. And I want to ensure your son doesn’t repeat this concerning behaviour again, because if he does, then he certainly will not have any place here.”

“Looks like you’ve lost this fight, Rollins.” Your father smirked at him.

“As for you, Y/n Brekker, I’ll be giving you a two-day suspension for retaliating instead of telling a teacher. Physical fights are not tolerated here. Please go to an adult the next time someone does something like this,” she wrote you a slip as well and handed it to your father, who looked at you angrily. It made you shrink in your seat, and you hastily avoided eye contact.

You exited the office with Kaz, your eyes trained on the floor. You didn't want to meet the furious eyes of your family members, and knew no one would really sympathise with you.

The carriage ride, too, was spent in silence, with Kaz glaring at you, his breath coming out in barely controlled huffs, while Jesper made futile attempts to lighten things up.

Back home, you waited for your father to start yelling. And he did.

"Why would you take a challenge with Pekka's son, when I specifically told you not to?!" Kaz bellowed, livid.

"H-he started it..." you said in a small voice, eyes fixated on the floor, while the other crows settled around the living room. You knew you had messed up, but did it really warrant this reaction?

Your father scoffed, his hands gripping his cane tightly. "Does that mean you will fight back? How many times must I tell you? Never interact with a Rollins!"

"But...but he called me Barrel trash and so many more names..." you replied in the same voice, not wanting to move at all, but at the same time, your whole body trembled as your defense mechanism to run kicked in.

"So you hit him?!" This time it was Wylan who spoke up.

"He hit me first!" You exclaimed, sick of being told that statement.

"And you hit back?!" Nina interjected. You met your aunt's green eyes which held an anger you had never seen before, and it terrified you. "Come on, Y/n!"

"But--but--" You stuttered, however, no one wanted to listen.

"Y/n," said Kaz, his eyes on you. "Why did you have to react? Do you realise how far this has escalated?"

"N-no..." you replied. And you actually didn't. From the time you'd started going to the local school, Kaz always told you to stay away from Alby, but he never told you why. You knew he had a feud with Pekka, so what did that possibly have to do with you?

"What part of stay away from Alby Rollins was unclear?" Kaz seethed, his body tense and taut as a bow string, while his grip on the cane increased drastically.

"He bruised my ribs," you choked out, finally gathering some courage. "He kicked me, insulted me, insulted you, made me look like an idiot in front of my entire school, and you wonder why I hit him back?"

Kaz took a step towards you, but you flinched away, afraid. A look of shock passed over all their faces at your reaction, and Kaz looked hurt.

"Why can't you just understand?" You sniffled and ran up the stairs to your room, slamming the door shut and curling up on your bed to cry softly. Your eye still hurt, as did your ribs, and everything Alby said echoed in your mind.

A soft voice came from outside the door, in a language which was gentle on your ears.

"Little crow?" Inej asked, her voice muffled through the wood of the doorway, speaking in clear Suli. "Can we talk?"

"No," you scowled, replying in Suli. "Go away."

"I'm on your side, my crow," she said gently. "But please, talk to me."

You sighed and opened the door, letting her in.

She came inside and sat on your bed, beckoning you to sit beside her. By force of habit, you did so and laid your head in her lap while her calloused hands stroked your hair comfortingly.

"Why can't any of them just understand?" You said, tears welling up in your eyes again. “I didn’t hit him just because I wanted to, I just was trying to defend myself…”

“I know, my little crow,” she said, “their reaction was way too uncalled for, but you see, your father just wants to protect you. Kaz and Pekka have had this feud going since a while now, and he just doesn’t want things to escalate. It might warrant your involvement, and he definitely doesn’t want that.”

You exhaled deeply and looked up at her. “I shouldn’t have hit him that bad, I know. I just—I felt so disrespected and so…pathetic…I didn’t know what else to do!”

“Look,” she said, “People will say what they want. As a female, and as someone from a slightly less privileged background compared to others, you’re bound to face this. People with closed mindset’s will treat you this way, and you have to develop a thicker skin as much as they have to recalibrate their way of thinking.”

“I think Ill go apologise to Papa, then…and to Auntie Nina. And Uncle Jesper and Wylan…” you trailed off. “I love you, Auntie Nej.”

“And I, you, my little crow.” She grinned and leaned down to press a soft kiss to your head.

You walked downstairs again with her and stood in front of the crows, who were assembled on the couch. You inhaled deeply and said, “I’m sorry for reacting like that. I know it was wrong of me to hit Alby, and Ill work on my temper a lot more from now on.”

“I’m sorry too, little crow,” replied Kaz. “I am aware that you don’t know what goes on amongst the adults and it was definitely wrong of me to assume you could figure it out.”

You nodded and went over to him, giving him a big hug, whispering, “It’s okay, Papa,” in his ear. The rest of the crows fell atop you two in a group hug, with both Nina and Jesper crying.

“So…as a way to shake off the horribleness of today…” Nina suggested when you all collected yourselves, “Why don’t we all go to the Kooperom for tea?”

“I could use a good plate of pie, to be honest,” said Jesper.

“Same,” you grinned, turning around in Kaz’s lap.

“Alright, grab your coats and let’s go,” smiled Inej, doing exactly that.

So, you all let go of your old anger and enjoyed together, laughing over plates of waffles and cups of tea till the sun began to set and the clouds turned grey with the onset of night…

———

I hope you all enjoyed this one <3

[earlgraytay]

ok but can we talk about how RoseMary is an obvious allusion to Katya/Sofiya, but they're a version of KatSoph that get to walk away from everything and live

like everyone compares Snowman to Katya but I think that's a pretty facile comparison, it's literally just the Mafia vibes of the Midnight Crew intermission and the hat that Katya wears in that one scene, tbh I think Snowman is mostly there to get us primed to think about Katya so that when Rose goes grimdark the allusion isn't lost on us

because like, look at everything about drunk!Rose! the orange cocktail dress! the poetic rambling where she's slurring her words so badly you can barely understand her! the obvious spiral into self-destruction that seemingly can't be stopped that's paralleled by her mother's alcoholism. like, it fucking screams Katya Goncharov the entire way through

and then of course time in Homestuck is a flat circle, the only way to get out of your doom is to scratch the timeline, and Dave (who I don't think is a Goncharov reference, don't @ me about Davesprite) helps Rose escape her doom in like three different ways

and then of course Kanaya is the codependent lesbian in the red skirt who's stabbed through the stomach in a confrontation with her mostly-platonic bestie who's gone mad with power! I mean for fuck's sake "Eridan" is an anagram of Andrey with the 'y' swapped for an 'i', Homestuck ain't subtle

but she comes back from the dead and she gets to kill both Andrey (Eridan) and the goat (Gamzee, at least until that got retconned). she gets to woo her girl. and she gets to escape time itself- at least symbolically by leaving the game and fleeing to Universe C

instead of being doomed by the narrative Rose and Kanaya get to abscond from it, in ways that their narrative inspirations never could. and I think that's beautiful

[lesser-known-composers]

Sofiya Gubaidúlina (b.1931) : Viola Concerto (1996)

Performers: -Lawrence Power, viola (Antonio Brensi, Bologna, c.1590) -

Ivan Volkov, conductor -

Orquestra Simfònica de Barcelona i Nacional de Catalunya

[sixty-silver-wishes]

Translated article: "Meetings with Shostakovich," Solomon Gershov

This is my original translation of an article originally published in Sovetskaya Muziyka (now Muzikalnaya Akademia), issue 12, 1988. As I am not a native Russian speaker, this translation may not be perfect; however, I have attempted to translate it to the best of my ability.

The original article: Встречи с Шостаковичем (mus.academy)

I want to start my short story about Shostakovich from afar. In our time, different people, for different reasons, have turned to me with questions about this, how, when in these circumstances, my meetings with Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich came together. At that time, I was young, an amateur artist, and Shostakovich was already a famous composer. Therefore, these questions were sometimes delivered with unambiguous notes of snobbishness and mockery. 

I had no relation to musical art, nor did I play any instruments. But that didn’t stop me from attending the concerts of the Leningrad Philharmonic, buying affordable entrance tickets, and listening to music, which opened to me a world of enchantment and beauty.

How then, after all, did my meeting with Shostakovich transpire? I was led to him at the house of the artist Boris Mikhailovich Erbshtein in the summer of 1929. (At that time, the ballet “The Red Poppy” was being staged at the Marinskiiy theatre, with Ulanova in the lead role.) Dmitri Dmitriyevich waited for us. He met us cordially. I managed to tell him a little about my modest success of my exhibition at the House of Art, not to mention the criticisms in the “Evening Krasnaya Gazeta” on a certain V. Gross.

Other meetings followed this one. I was well-received at his house. He lived there with his mother, Sofiya Vasilievna, and his two sisters, Maria Dmitriyevna and Zoya Dmitriyevna. I think it’s not a mistake for me to say they showed me some sympathy. 

Naturally, I wanted to paint Dmitri Dmitriyevich. But this proved to be a difficult task, as it was unbearable for him to sit still. A state of rest was organically alien to him, in view of his impulsiveness, mobility, even some nervousness. Still, it’s a wonder that Kustodiev could sketch a portrait of Shostakovich at the time when he was a boy, with his restlessness.

And yet I contrived to make an outline with the nature of the moment, when Dmitri Dmitriyevich was resting on the black leather couch, occupying three quarters of the area of the little office.

I showed him these little drawings sometimes. To tell the truth, they didn’t particularly move him, which didn’t affect my further attempts to draw him again and again. Unfortunately, a large amount of the drawings were lost for reasons I was not responsible for. Maybe some are left, which I gave to friends.

Our meetings in those years were mainly saturated with conversations about art, first of all about music and the people who created it. Among the many topics we touched on, I remember Beethoven. I was very interested to find out his opinion on the Heiligenstadt testament.

“Do you know what the most surprising thing about it is?” he said. ”In my opinion, it is that his Second Symphony was already written after the testament, and he finished it in C major.” After many years, when Shostakovich’s 13th Symphony appeared, it seemed no less amazing to me that the finale he wrote was also in this emotional key. 

We talked about the tendency towards atonality in music and the destruction of melody. Due to my commitment towards Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart, Shostakovich’s music seemed difficult to me the first time I heard it. Only when Mahler, Bruckner, Hindemith, Berg gradually grew closer to me did I understand his work. I was candid with him, and he was not offended by me. He said, “listen to more music, and different [music].”

We argued about literature. He was mainly occupied with Gogol, Saltykov-Shchedrin, Leskov. He really appreciated Kozma Prutkov and often quoted him. He loved that place where the following is said: “[while] throwing pebbles in the water, look at the circles they form; otherwise, such an activity would be idle sport.” (note- orig. «Бросая в воду камешки, смотри на кругу, ими образуемые, иначе такое заняте будет пустой забавою») I paid attention to his enthusiasm in his view on literature, which was characterized by the grotesque, satire, and sharp metaphors.

But one such interesting detail: Since childhood, the book “Tom Sawyer” by Mark Twain was on his table. Doesn’t that mean that something childish and mischievous sits in the depths of the soul of even a very serious genius?

Somehow, Dmitri Dmitriyevich invited me to the movie theater to see a film starring Buster Keaton, an actor whom, along with Charlie Chaplin, he was very interested in. The movie theater was located on Vosstaniya street (formerly Znamenskaya). The film brought us much pleasure. The tragic essence of Buster Keaton was constant with Shostakovich’s own mood.

On the way home, he suddenly said to me, “come home with me for a short while.” “Home” represented the character of Petersburg at the end of the century. We went through the front door, ascended to the fourth floor, and Dmitri Dmitriyevich turned on the light, and I saw that the main thing in the room was the grand piano. Without a word, he went to the piano and began to play Chopin’s Seventh Waltz. The waltz sounded marvelously beautiful, touching at the occasional rest. Then, we left immediately. 

Outside, I timidly asked him, “what is that room you have? We’ve never heard anything about it.” He answered that it was necessary for him to have a place where he could work in privacy…

I wanted to ask him why exactly he played Chopin, since it seemed that all of his musical works were very far from the spirit of Chopin’s music. But I calculated that the conversation was heading in an uncomfortable direction. I never visited that room again, but the episode has always stayed in my memory.

I knew that Dmitri Dmitriyevich was interested in the circus. Once, I invited him to see a performance by the famous strongman Chekhovsky. Shostakovich willingly agreed.

Jugglers, gymnasts, clowns, and trained dogs all performed in the first act. But with a particular impatience, we, like the whole audience, waited for the second act with Chekhovsky. His performance looked like this: He lay down completely flat in the arena, with a pretty big wooden shield over his chest. An automobile rolled over the shield, crowded with passengers, and afterwards, to the delight of the crowd, he got up as if nothing had happened. Then, he put a long iron pole on his shoulders, from which hung about ten people- or twelve! With all this cargo, the performer made circles from one side, then to the other. 

Why do I recount these episodes? I want to cancel the perception that Dmitri Dmitriyevich only saw the world from outside the window of his office. He loved life in all its manifestations.

For those who knew Dmitri Dmitriyevich closely, it’s no secret that he was a very cheerful person, loved sharp words, and appreciated this in others. 

In 1934, I went to Moscow. Thus, our communication was cut off. If we saw each other, it was only occasionally, at some concert already in Moscow. Only in the war years did our meetings resume. I lived at the time in evacuation in Novosibirsk, where Dmitri Dmitriyevich visited from time to time. In Novosibirsk, it’s well-known that the Leningrad Philharmonic orchestra evacuated there, led by Mravinsky and Kurt Sanderling. Ivan Ivanovich Sollertinsky also lived there with his family.

After the premiere of the Seventh Symphony in Moscow (1942), Kuibyshev, and Leningrad, Mravinsky prepared hard for it with his orchestra in Novosibirsk. I remember the first performance of the symphony in the hall of the Novosibirsk Philharmonic. The concert was a great success. I was amazed by what I’d heard. Present at the concert was Shostakovich himself, whom the hall enthusiastically greeted.

In 1944, Ivan Ivanovich suddenly died in Novosibirsk. His death produced a heavy impression on all who knew him. In the hall of the Philharmonic, a civil memorial service took place, where an enormous number of people gathered. I had to paint Ivan Ivanovich lying in the coffin. Later, in 1945, when the composer Georgiy Vasilievich Sviridov went to Leningrad, I asked him to give the painting to Shostakovich. Only after many years, when Sviridov was at my house (he came for a portrait of Shostakovich, which I decided to give him as one of Dmitri Dmitriyevich's closest friends), I asked him: "Did you give the painting of the deceased Sollertinsky to Dmitri Dmitriyevich?" And he answered me: "I kept it to myself." I understood him, and wasn't offended. Maybe he didn't want to cause Shostakovich even more pain.

Another small memory of the pre-war years. In Moscow 1938-39, there was a general meeting of arts workers at the capital on the so-called formalism in the works of musical and theatrical figures. I remember the speech of one orator- a music teacher. When, later, I asked Shostakovich his opinion on the speech, he, not thinking, answered, “what one composer says about another composer can be said without being a composer.” 

After the war, I returned to Moscow. One time, Shostakovich and I happened to meet outside. Dmitri Dmitriyevich was interested in what I was up to. I told him everything in detail. He left me his telephone number and asked me to somehow go with him.

I was surprised by his huge apartment in a building not far from the “Ukraine” hotel- almost without furniture. My attention was drawn to a portrait of the composer pictured at the piano- a gift by a Czech artist. His lifelike portrait did not especially produce an impression on me. But hung around it were others which I recalled- a portrait painted by Kustodiev, whose work I liked.

My meetings with Dmitri Dmitriyevich were broken off after then for a long time (until 1956). Letters rarely came to me from him. In one of them, he asked me to report to him in detail on the death of Boris Mikhailovich Erbshtein, our mutual friend. I fulfilled his request, but added that I was finishing a cycle of twenty works, dedicated to his Seventh Symphony.

I don’t know if other artists have attempted to depict the Seventh Symphony in paintings. But I got to work with great zeal. This applied not only to the period of the Great Patriotic War, but also the fascist invasion of Europe that started, for me, with the events in Spain.

Shostakovich was very interested in my reports. He asked me to go to Moscow and show him my works. Without delay, I collected all twenty pictures and sent them to him. Dmitri Dmitriyevich lived in a house on Nezhdanova Street. He let me know ahead of time on the telephone that he was already waiting for me. After a short conversation, we proceeded to the point. We looked at the pictures quietly (his whole family participated in this). Not a single word was said- no comments, nor compliments. When I finished showing them, I asked, “well, which one left an impression on you? You were quiet, and didn’t say anything to me.”

Then, he said, “I really like all of these works. They all produced a profound impression on me.” 

Hearing this, I decided to be generous and told him to choose any one of them as a gift. He liked seven of the works. So then I said, “take all seven!”

When we parted, Dmitri Dmitriyevich said to me, “come tomorrow and have lunch with us at two in the afternoon. We will wait for you.”

1968. I was given a ticket to the Creative House of Composers at Repino. I went there not so much to rest as to work. Soon, I noticed something strange- an unfriendly attitude towards myself from some of the members of the Composers’ Union who lived there at the time, especially their wives. It seemed to me that they were thinking, “walking among us is some sort of ignorant person, clearly unacquainted with music.” Suddenly, Dmitri Dmitriyevich arrives at the Creative House (he visited yearly). We met like good friends. Often, we’d have lunch or dinner together in the canteen, and walk together along the ice of the Finnish gulf. The others’ attitudes towards me drastically changed. Those who had almost bullied me now let me pass anywhere: to the cloakroom, to the canteen… Such a change brought me undisguised grievances (огорчения), and I shared them with Dmitri Dmitriyevich. He completely shared my outrage.

One evening, Dmitri Dmitriyevich, Irina Antonovna, and I went for a walk along the bay after dinner. When our stroll came to an end, I requested Dmitri Dmitriyevich to pose for a bit so I could draw him. He said that it wasn’t especially possible for him to sit, he couldn’t. I enthused to him that the duration of his “torment” would only last about ten to fifteen minutes. But this didn’t help. On the edge of despair, I heard Irina Antonovna’s words addressed to him: “Well, let’s go briefly; sit for a bit.”

Such was my joy when Dmitri Dmitriyevich uttered, with a patter, “okay, let’s go.” And we went. 

And here the three of us were in my small room in one of the cottages on the Creative House territory. Throwing off his coat and warm boots (his woolen socks stayed on), he perched on the couch for me. I grabbed paper and a pencil, and immediately began to draw. But I didn’t get a pose, because Dmitri Dmitriyevich kept turning his head to the left, then to the right, the whole time. With difficulty, I asked him not to move for at least one to two minutes. In the end, he finally succeeded at this, and not without effort. I don’t know which one of us it was more painful for, me or him… He continued to sit motionless for no more than three to four minutes, during which I managed to do three sketches. Looking at the tired view of Dmitri Dmitriyevich, one would think that he had endured a hard physical overload.

I used these sketches of mine- the only material from nature- for work on the portrait. There were three variants. Each one was of a different color [palette], composition, and size. In 1977, one of them entered the ownership of G.V. Sviridov. 

Of all the iconography of Shostakovich I know of, I want to highlight a portrait by the artist I. Serebryan. I feel that this work is an enormous achievement in our art, and not only ours. Before artists stood a very difficult task, and how brilliantly and talentedly he accomplished it. 

I will stop at one final episode, not related to music, true, but quite instructive. It was in 1929 (if I’m not mistaken). In the Raphael and Titian hall of the Academy of Artists, a large exhibit was arranged of Leningrad artists of different [ideological] currents (разных течений), beginning at the ultra-left and ending at the Orthodox right. A work was exhibited in this display (a female portrait). The opening vernissage was scheduled one Sunday for two hours a day, but it just so happened that nobody invited came. A small group of organizers of the  exhibit trampled down the landing stairs, waiting for visitors. 

About five minutes before the opening hour, the figure of a lone man of small stature appeared on the horizon, familiar to every Leningrader. It was the President of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR, Aleksandr Petrovich Karpinsky (later, the Academy of Sciences transferred to Moscow). After a short pause, he took from the side of his pocket his old-fashioned pocket watch with a silver lid (its ticking was barely audible), screwed up his eyes to look at the clock face, and uttered, “the opening starts at two, but now it’s seven minutes past three.” With the raised watch lid, he passed each of the organizers in turn, showing them the watch face. This created an awkward situation. The reference to the fact that the public was expected did not convince him. He said, “it’s scheduled for two hours, we need the exhibit to open, despite the situation.”

And the opening took place in the presence of these four men, not counting the watchman. In the evening, I was with Dmitri Dmitriyevich and told him about this occasion. Having listened to me attentively, he uttered, “they taught your brother a lesson!!!”

I answered, “not only our brother; aside from our brother- the respected public!” (не только нашего брата, но и не нашего брата тоже— уважаемую публику!) 

Impatiently, I waited for Shostakovich’s new work to appear- the transformation into music of Gogol’s story “The Portrait.” It’s difficult to say what could have hindered this plan. I only know that it was not about a play, but an operatic show. 

Dmitri Dmitriyevich loved to repeat the advice of the famous French artist Edgar Degas: “if you have skill worth a hundred thousand francs, try to add at least one more sou to it.”

In conclusion, I want to talk about one characteristic particular to Shostakovich’s personality. I refer to his oratorical talent. In the Great Hall of the Philharmonic, his speeches before concerts were distinguished by freedom of expression, deep thought, and impeccable style. The enormous erudition of the composer caught my eye, not only in music. He spoke without supporting notes or abstracts. It was a delight to listen to him. When he spoke, he always waved his hands [in a ‘brushing aside’ motion/ отмахивался].

Several years passed. I knew that Dmitri Dmitriyevich was sick, and that his legs were seriously injured. The season at the Maly hall of the Leningrad Philharmonic traditionally opened with an author’s concert of Shostakovich. Knowing about the next such concert, I went to get a ticket. On the way there, already close to the Philharmonic, I met Dmitri Dmitriyevich. He moved laboriously. I immediately announced that I was going to buy a ticket for his concert. We parted then, so that we would meet the next day after the concert. But this was not destined to come to pass. When I went to Maly hall the next day, an announcement was hung on the doors that read that due to his illness, Shostakovich’s concert was canceled… Soon, I found out that he had a heart attack and was admitted to the hospital. 

That was my last meeting with the composer.

[karume-selfshipper]

F/O List

I don't have set anniversaries for everyone... yet. I've never kept up with these before. But I do know roughly how long I've been with each one, I love them so much that I forget things easily...

Giant Teddy Bear: Over 6' and usually sweetheart underneath

Klaus von Reinherz (Blood Blockade Battlefront/ Kekkai Sensen) [June 3]

Broly (Dragon Ball Z)

Fatgum/ Taishiro Toyomistu (My Hero Academia)

All Might/ Toshinori Yagi (My Hero Academia) [May 18]

Ganondorf (Legend of Zelda)

Hulk (Marvel)

Gometetsu (Naruto)

Rappa (My Hero Academia)

Jasper (Steven Universe)

Hazel (RWBY)

Raditz (Dragon Ball Z)

Bowser (Mario)

Juugo (Naruto)

Android 16 (Dragon Ball Z)

Adaman (Pokemon Legends Arceus)

Hildwin (AFK Arena) [May 5]

George Haskill (Tomorrow's Nadja) [June 8]

Joesph Joestar <specifically from part 3 atm> (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure) [Jan 2]

Gang Orca/Kugo Sakamata (My Hero Acedemia) [May 16]

Sckrunkly Type A: They need a hug, a hot meal, and nap (both look like it and act like it)

Levi Akerman (Attack on Titan/ Shingeki no Kyojin)

Qrow Branwen (RWBY)

Madara Uchiha (Naruto)

Gaara (Naruto)

Eraserhead/ Shota Aizawa (My Hero Academia)

Larry (Pokemon Scarlet/Violet)

Wolverine (X-Men)

Batman/ Bruce Wayne (DC)

L/ Lawliet (Death Note)

Jigen Daisuke (Lupin the 3rd) [July 17th]

Sckrunkly Type B: They only look like they need TLC

Piers (Pokemon Sword/Shield)

Kankuro (Naruto)

Tomura Shigaraki (My Hero Academia)

Gajeel Redfox (Fairy Tail)

Brassius (Pokemon Scarlet/Violet)

Sckrunkly Type C: They act like they need TLC (AKA Hypocritical Gremlins)

Kakashi Hatake (Naruto) [Apr. 27]

Piccolo (Dragon Ball Z)

Steven Starphase (Blood Blockade Battlefront/ Kekkai Sensen) [Dec. 10]

Neji Hyuuga (Naruto)

Saitama (One Punch Man)

Vegeta (Dragon Ball Z)

Sir Nighteye/ Mirai Sasaki (My Hero Academia)

Seto Kaiba (Yu-Gi-Oh)

Tyrian Callows (RWBY)

James Ironwood (RWBY)

Reigan Arataka (Mob Psycho 100)

Jet (Cowboy Bebop)

Bardock (Dragon Ball Z)

Nebulous Space: I just think they're neat!

Kisame Hoshigaki (Naruto)

Leonardo Watch (Blood Blockade Battlefront/ Kekkai Sensen) [June 5]

Zed O'Brien (Blood Blockade Battlefront/ Kekkai Sensen)

Steg (Steven Universe)

Lady Urbosa (Legend of Zelda)

Balalaika/ Sofiya Palovna (Black Lagoon)

Bayonetta/ Cerasa (Bayonetta)

Itachi Uchiha (Naruto)

Genos (One Punch Man)

Claude Faustus (Black Butler)

Beast/ Hank McCoy (X-Men)

Present Mic/ Hizashi Yamada (My Hero Academia)

Frieza (Dragon Ball Z)

Alucard (Hellsing)

Arthur Watts (RWBY)

Hidan (Naruto)

Kafka (Honkai Star Rail) [June 9]

Himeko (Honkai Star Rail) [June 9]

Dan Heng (Honkai Star Rail) [June 9]

[dear-indies]

hello! i was wondering who some of your favorite female and nonbinary faceclaims are that are in their late 20s to early 30s. i always love all of your suggestions and who you like seeing. thank you so much in advance!

Non-binary:

Kiley May (1987) Cayuga and Mohawk - two-spirit and genderqueer trans woman (she/they).

Erika Ishii (1987) Japanese (she/they/any).

Mae Martin (1987) - non-binary (she/they).

Elliot Page (1987) - trans non-binary - (he/they).

Lio Tipton (1988) - non-binary (they/them) - no resources since coming out as non-binary.

Nico Tortorella (1988) -genderfluid, queer, pansexual, and polyamorous (they/them).

Sushant Divgikar / Rani KoHEnur (1990) Indian - genderfluid (he/she/they).

Morningstar Angeline (1990) Navajo, Blackfoot, Chippewa Cree, Nez Perce, Shoshone, Mexican, and Unspecified White - non-binary (they/them) and pansexual.

Dom Provost-Chalkley (1990) - genderfluid (they/them) - no resources since after coming out as genderfluid that aren't above 100px.

Bethany C. Meyers (1990) - non-binary and polyamorous (they/she).

Olly Alexander (1990) - non-binary and gay (he/him).

Nayuka Gorrie (1990) Gunai, Gunditjmara, Wiradjuri, Yorta Yorta, Scottish (they/them.)

Jayr Tinaco (1991) Filipino - non-binary (he/they).

Vico Ortiz (1991) Puerto Rican - non-binary (they/them).

Jacob Tobia (1991) Syrian - non-binary (they).

Theo Germaine (1992) - non-binary (they/them).

Poppy Liu (1992) Chinese - non-binary (they/she).

E.R. Fightmaster (1992) - non-binary (they/them).

Dorian Electra (1992) - genderfluid (they/them) - has ADD.

Sonny Kiss (1993) African-American - genderfluid and transfeminine (she/he).

Olive Gray (1994) Zambian / English - non-binary (they/them).

Mason Alexander Park (1995) Mexican and White - non-binary - they/them.

Emma Corrin (1995) - non-binary (they/them).

Bilal Baig (1995) Pakistani - non-binary genderqueer (they/them).

Third gender:

Kiley May (1987) Cayuga and Mohawk - two-spirit and genderqueer trans woman (she/they).

Jade Willoughby / Ellyn Jade (1990) Ojibwe and Jamaican of Afro Jamaican, Taino, and British - two-spirit (she/her) and not straight (otherwise unspecified), and has Nephrotic Syndrome and Celiac’s Disease.

Women:

Meaghan Rath (1986) Ashkenazi Jewish / Goan Indian.

Wunmi Mosaku (1986) Yoruba Nigerian.

Ali Stroker (1986) - is paraplegic and bisexual.

Chai Fonacier (1986) Bisaya Filipino.

Kiley May (1987) Cayuga and Mohawk - two-spirit and genderqueer trans woman (she/they).

Jillian Mercado (1987) Afro Dominican - has muscular dystrophy.

Aidy Bryant (1987)

Michaela Coel (1987) Ghanaian - is aromantic.

Jessica Marie Garcia (1987) Mexican and Cuban.

Amiyah Scott (1988) African-American - trans.

Sharon Rooney (1988)

Mae Whitman (1988) - is pansexual.

Kelly Marie Tran (1989) Vietnamese.

Daniela Vega (1989) Chilean - trans.

Jessica Kellgren-Fozard (1989) - has Ehlers-Danlos syndrome with Marfanoid phenotype causing blindness in one eye and deafness - lesbian.

Kylie Bunbury (1989) Afro Guyanese / Swedish, as well as Polish, English, and German.

JuJu Chan (1989) Hongkogner.

Emily Coutts (1989) - is queer.

Shaunette Renée Wilson (1989) Afro-Guyanese.

Hannah John-Kamen (1989) Nigerian / Norwegian.

Danielle Brooks (1989) African-American - has openly dated a woman in the past but has not commented on her sexuality.

Megan Stalter (1990) - is bisexual.

Stephanie Hsu (1990) Taiwanese.

Lolly Adefope (1990) Nigerian.

Aiysha Hart (1990) English and Saudi Arabian.

Sibongile Mlambo (1990) Zimbabwean.

Damaris Lewis (1990) St Kittitian.

Dianne Doan (1990) Vietnamese.

Jennifer Cheon (1991) Korean / Mexican.

Tanaya Beatty (1991) Da’naxda’xw and Himalayan.

Michaela Jaé Rodriguez (1991) African-American / African-American, Puerto Rican - is trans.

Jari Jones (1991) African-American / Filipino -trans.

Ariana DeBose (1991) Puerto Rican, African-American, possibly Italian / English, Scottish, French - is bisexual.

Sofiya Cheyenne (1991) Taino, Dominican, Syrian, and Italian - has spondyloepiphyseal dysplasia congenita.

Nyma Tang (1991) Ethiopian [South Sudanese].

Sarah Kameela Impey (1991) Indo-Guyanese / British.

Naomi Ackie (1992) Afro Grenadian.

Storme Toolis (1992) - has cerebral palsy.

Dilraba Dilmurat (1992) Uyghur.

Lydia West (1993) Afro Montserratian / Irish.

Jessica Henwick (1992) Chinese Singaporean / English.

Sky Ferreira (1992) Ojibwe, Cree, Chippewa Cree, Cheyenne, Brazilian of Portuguese and Possibly Other descent, Galician Jewish, Bukovina Jewish, Irish, Scottish, English, and French - has Chronic Lyme Disease.

Zión Moreno (1992) Mexican [Unspecified Native American and Spanish] - is trans.

Simone Recasner (1992) African-American and White.

Jesse James Keitel (1993) - is trans.

Lily Mae Harrington (1993)

Yalitza Aparicio (1993) Mixtec and Triqui.

Olivia Liang (1993) Chinese.

Beanie Feldstein (1993) Ashkenazi Jewish - chosen not to label her sexuality but is openly dating a woman.

Frankie Adams (1994) Samoan.

Rhiannon Clements (1994) - was born with a foreshortened left arm.

Khadijha Red Thunder (1994) Chippewa Cree, African-American, Spanish - is pansexual.

Jasmin Savoy Brown (1994) African-American / English, German, Norwegian, some Scots-Irish/Northern Irish - is queer.

Eve Lindley (1993) - is trans.

Bronwyn James (1994) - is queer.

Coty Camacho (1995) Mixtec and Zapotec - is pansexual.

Simone Ashley (1995) Tamil Indian.

Sasha Lane (1995) African-American, Māori, English, Scottish, Sorbian, French, Cornish, distant German, Italian, Belgian Flemish, Russian, and Northern Irish - is gay and has schizoaffective disorder.

Sophia Taylor Ali (1995) Pakistani / Sicilian Italian, Danish, Norwegian, German.

Bolded - has resources at time of posting!

Thankl you! It's so nice to know people like my suggestions please let me know if you'd like more!

[change58designs]

YouTube specialty

-

https://www.upwork.com/fl/~019dc2557e0b1bdb09

https://www.upwork.com/freelancers/~0157374b1deb48bd6e

https://www.upwork.com/freelancers/~017d8d9ef1828f224d

https://www.upwork.com/freelancers/~01542fe5a31302839f

https://www.upwork.com/freelancers/~01d23b196e8824e8b9

https://www.upwork.com/fl/~01959f0fc97f9990cd

https://www.upwork.com/freelancers/~01ab6f9b6e68749f0f

[opswimsuit]

"Sofiya Lyskun (Ukraine) - Superb platform diving" を YouTube で見る

[advance-emmeline]

Seeing Henry had helped more than she thought. Maybe it was just seeing him alive and in one piece. So many people had died and she couldn’t help but worry for the dwindling list of people she had left to her. Especially those who weren’t Order members, who may not know how to protect themselves. People like Sofiya, who already had enough trauma to deal without her adding to it all.

She stepped into Sofiya’s shop, fiddling with the lunches she had packed for the both of them and entirely unsure whether not she had overstepped with all of this. 

“Thought you might like some company and a bit of lunch.” She said, attempting to smile.

@nottsofiya​

[kingmeshacklebolt]

He hadn’t spent much with Sofiya lately. Though, he’d not spent much time with Valka lately either. If he broke rules while looking for Anson he didn’t want to risk her going back to that horrid place. She’d done enough for this job and this war. 

Now he sat in his empty apartment without Anson, feeling too small in this place by himself. Cloud and Nimbus sat curled up on Anson’s side of the bed. Elrond had flopped down on his feet. When he’d Floo’ed Sofiya in a desperate attempt at company, he hadn’t even been sure whether or not she would show. Now she stumbled out of his fireplace and he could almost cry in relief at a familiar face still unharmed.

“Sofs, hey.” He said, voice cracking. “Long time no see.”

@nottsofiya​

[nott-amused-archive]

@nottsofiya

pray for me if you still believe

          sometimes i just feel like nobody’s listening 

or moves in a way that i cannot see

           save the music now ringing in my ears

[edith-clearwater]

Edith was out shopping for a wedding present for James and Lily, considering that their wedding was only days away and she wanted to find the absolute perfect gift. Having known the two during their years at Hogwarts, she had often seen the dynamics of their relationship close enough from their presence in the Gryffindor common room, and some days it still seemed so odd to think that at one point they had ever disliked one another. Or rather, that Lily had ever disliked him. Anyone who hadn’t known them back then might not think that now, as the two seemed like a very loving couple. 

This was why, unfortunately, that Edith was having a difficult time deciding what the perfect gift would be. She wanted to make sure that it was perfect, before settling on one thing. Window shopping was never usually her forte, considering Edith always felt that she had to go into a store to truly get a sense of what they had to offer, so it wasn’t all that surprising that she found herself roaming several stores before wandering into one that seemed rather promising. While admiring a delicate little trinket on one of the shelves that she wasn’t quite sure what it was, Edith took a step back, wanting a better look, and accidentally stepped on someone’s foot. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry, are you alright? Sorry, I’ve been so clumsy lately.”

@nottsofiya

[ronanvludolf]

( &&. @xsofiya )

“I’ve got one for you: why did the Ukrainian break his arm raking leaves?” Ronan began, his feet resting on top of the table before him and his legs crossed at the ankles. He was aimlessly flipping through a magazine the cleaners had left on the coffee table, featuring articles on highlights and hot spots of Oslo, when he’d decided that goading Sofiya would likely prove to be more entertaining. Arguing with Alphonse might have been “poking the bear”, but getting on Sofiya’s bad side was like terrorizing a dragon. “He fell out of the tree.”

Unable to help himself, he laughed, tossing the magazine down on the table and taking a swig of the beer he’d gotten for himself.

[snailsnfriends]

c!tommy (times have changed, but so have people. not all people, but most.)

snow and dirty rain (richard siken) / the return (mary oliver) / arcade 005 (donald yatomi) / wild geese (mary oliver) / may we love children who love the unloved things (nicolette sowder) / childhood bedroom (r/liminalspace) / dogfish (mary oliver) / (henry james) / what the living do (marie howe) / forgiveness (sofiya inger)