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last-grand-duchess-of-russia · 5 months ago

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Beyond, and modestly subsidiary to the tsarevich's larger apart ments - just as its occupants had been secondary to him in the eyes of the nation - were the bedrooms, classroom, dining and reception rooms of his four older sisters: Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia Their light and spacious bedrooms were furnished with simple ivory-painted and polished lemonwood furniture and English chintz fabric curtains. A stencilled frieze of pink roses and bronze butter flies above pink coloured wallpaper had been chosen by the younger sisters Maria and Anastasia For Olga and Tatiana, the frieze was of convolvulus flowers and brown dragonflies. On the girls' matching dressing tables there was still a scattering of boxes, jewellery cases, manicure sets, combs and brushes - just as they had left them. Elsewhere, on their writing tables, were piles of their exercise books with multicoloured covers, and in profusion on every surface, framed photographs of family and friends. Yet in the midst of so much typical, girlish ephemera, one could not fail to notice the presence everywhere in the sisters' rooms of icons and popular religious prints and pictures. By their bedsides there were gospels and prayer books, crosses and candles - rather than the usual clutter one might expect to find.

Rappaport, Helen. The Romanov Sisters: The Lost Lives of the Daughters of Nicholas and Alexandra. United States: St. Martin's Publishing Group, 2014.

1st photo of Maria and Anastasia Romanov's bedroom, 2nd photo of Olga and Tatiana's bedroom by Alexander Palace Time Machine

#ooc: post #ooc: history #otmaa #anastasia nikolaevna #anastasia romanov #olga nikolaevna #olga romanov #tatiana romanov #tatiana nikolaevna #maria romanov #maria nikolaevna #romanov family

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jcdas-a · 2 years ago

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hamish linklater. cis man. he/him. ⸻ i saw JUDAH PREAKER around THE FOREST, you know? the FORTY-FIVE year old that was driving from HARLAN, KENTUCKY when they saw the tree on the road. JUDE has been here for FIFTEEN YEARS and i think they were A GRIFTER before they got stuck in the town. with the way things are now, they are struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy and seek a way out without losing themselves or dying. lets hope you at least survive the night on their own.

DO NOT PRAY ANYMORE; THE SKY IS DEAF.

full name judah caelan preaker nickname(s) jude, judd, father ( per his priesthood ) age forty-five gender identity cis man orientation repressed bisexual place of birth harlan, kentucky date of birth september 14 faceclaim hamish linklater

former occupation career grifter positive traits benevolent, cogent, steadfast negative traits pious, headstrong, misguided moral alignment chaotic neutral parallels preston teagardin (the devil all the time), the priest (fleabag), john pruitt (midnight mass), sam foster (stay) current residency the town current occupation priest ( some meld between catholic with evangelical christian tendencies )

BIOGRAPHY tw for the following content: religious trauma, forced drowning, child abuse/abandonment, mentions of alcohol & mental illness.

you were an odd child, born to a peculiar family that lived in a little yellow house on the edge of a bluebonnet field. for years, these hues of pallid yellow and lavender paint your life━though they only paled as the years marched onward. your hometown is one that’s never felt quite new, rather, there’s always been a tinge of the past. like that old mining town, you were run down sooner than you knew.

the sacred walls of your little yellow house are where you’d tell your first lies. crosses nailed in each room, wallpaper cracking with temperature and peeling away at the edges. you spent your childhood wondering if it was always like this. soil-covered hands pressed together, you would pray for the unfortunate children down the road who’d just lost their gran. god, you would say, but you knew you were speaking to your father. the shadow in the door frame that stood in that small creak of light, a lean figure stretches out as if you did not see him there. oh, please bring them good graces in this time. let you take the pain from their shoulders. learning to be a ghost in your own home.

taught to behave like a young man ought to, taught to take the deer by the antlers but not to look it in the eyes. you knew only to pray for others, only to care for the world around you, rather than the bruises on your back, or the grazes on your knees━or you mother who left when you were too young to know. the woman who since lived with her new husband, and kids━leaving you and your siblings with him.

you're just a child that first time pa takes you and you watched him wash the sinners clean. you watched them cry out hallelujah and praise jesus, praise your pa. it was your pa’s hands on them, not god’s. pa tells you that god is in you too, and this will be the first and last time a reflection you recognize ripples across the water.

god is in you, boy. so you let your father take you to the water’s edge again once you were a bit older. you can still hear the hum of the hymnals even now. do you hear the word of god? have you believed another gospel? pa plunged you, washes you of the sins not committed at your hand, but rather, those of your mother. because if she could not be there, you would take her place. shoved beneath the frigid surface by the hands of your pa, under the guise that god made him do it, sending his own son thrashing like some wild thing your pa once claimed he could tame.

your father considers it only a miracle of god that you hadn’t drowned that day. you returned to your siblings, sopping wet on the porch of the little yellow house with the peeling wallpaper. you begin to pick at it when no one was looking, chipping away the watery gray floral print to unveil the wood paneling beneath it. life is stripped of its color but at least you're not alone in this suffering. not that it makes it any better that your siblings are subject to your father’s delusions. it stays like this for a long while. seeing your little sister off to the schoolhouse each morning, and making a point of not eyeing the brown and green glass bottles that she would string up on the tree in the front yard like liquor store wind chimes.

now ... your father wasn’t the man you thought him to be. when you're alone you consider that maybe he was always like this and that you were the last to realize, the last one to find complacency in your disillusionment. and while you very well make it out of harlan alive, you only last a short while before you find yourself betwixt in what you've only known to refer to as purgatory. you look a whole lot like pa these days, wearing black & looking like death incarnate, yet you’ve always got a hymnal tucked into the side of your cheek. through all the wretchedness, you are still holy; from where you’re standing at least. after all no monster would ever deem itself as such, this town has turned you inside out, sure, but it has also granted you something your life before couldn't: freedom.

#from.intro #𝐉. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀abt #ty and goodnight 🫡

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warscorned-a · 2 years ago

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I FORGOT SOFTNESS / BECAUSE IT DID NOT SERVE ME.

NICKNAME(S) baz, probably won’t answer to any others. ZODIAC scorpio AGE / D.O.B. thirty6, november 20th. PLACE OF BIRTH redacted, only alluded to the rural english countryside. GENDER / PRONOUNS cis man, he / him ORIENTATION repressed bisexual OCCUPATION sergeant for the london metropolitan police & bodyguard of the prime minister.

PARALLELS lenny bruce ( marvelous mrs. maisel ), paul spector ( the fall ), harry hart ( kingsman: the secret service )

POSITIVE TRAITS independent, ambitious, imaginative, competitive, reliable. NEGATIVE TRAITS enigmatic, nihilistic, domineering, perfectionistic, penitent.

BIOGRAPHY.

TRIGGER WARNINGS emotional / physic abuse, religious trauma, drowning, violence, gun use, mentions of war, mentions of ptsd.

TL;DR rural british evangelical - raised boy does what he knows how and bows to the hand that feeds until it ultimately strikes him down. and still, he becomes theirs to command: one of their finest assets even though he’s nothing more than a finger on the triggered. marred by war, this man now stands to atone for what he could not previously protect.

OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN

the dusty nowhere surrounding hartlepool is where you grew up, a wooded edge that kisses right up against town and teeters on shire lines. you were an odd child, born to a peculiar family that lived in a little yellow house on the edge of a bluebonnet field. for years, these hues of pallid yellow and lavender paint your life ━ though they only paled as the years marched onward. your hometown is one that’s never felt quite new, rather, there’s always been a tinge of the past. like this old mining town, you were run down sooner than you knew.

the sacred walls of his little yellow house are where you’d tell your first lies. crosses nailed in each room, wallpaper cracking with temperature and peeling away at the edges. you spent your childhood wondering if it was always like this. soil-covered hands pressed together, you would pray for the unfortunate children down the road who’d just�� lost their gran. god, you would say, but you knew you were speaking to your father. the shadow in the door frame that stood in that small creak of light, a lean figure stretches out as if you did not see him there. oh, please bring them good graces in this time. let you take the pain from their shoulders. learning to be a ghost in your own home.

taught to behave like a young man ought to, you are taught to take the deer by the antlers but not to look it in the eyes. you knew only to pray for others, only to care for the world around you, rather than the bruises on your back, or the grazes on your knees ━ or your mother who left when you were too young to know. the woman who now lives with her new husband, and kids ━ leaving you and your brother with him.

you were just a child that first time pa took you and you watched him wash the old town sinners clean. you watched them cry out hallelujah and praise jesus, praise your pa. it was your pa’s hands on them, not god’s. pa tells you that god is in you too, but this will be the first and last time a reflection you recognized would ripple across the water.

OUR FATHER WHO ART BURIED IN THE YARD

god is in you, boy. so you let pa take you to the water’s edge again once you were a bit older. you can still hear the hum of the hymnals even now. do you hear the word of god? have you believed another gospel? you’re like an angel fallen in the dirt, something out of place prickling beneath all the holiness. you looked just like the woman your pa hated most, and this would be the sin for which only you could attest. so pa plunges you, washes you of the sins not committed at your hand, but rather, those of your mother. because if she could not be here, you would take her place. shoved beneath the frigid surface by the hands of your pa, under the guise that god made him do it, sending his own son thrashing like some wild thing your pa once claimed he could tame.

he considers it only a miracle of god that you hadn’t drowned that day. you were returned to your siblings, sopping wet on the porch of the little yellow house with the peeling wallpaper. you begin to pick at it when no one was looking, chipping away the watery gray floral print to unveil the wood paneling beneath it. life is stripped of its color but at least you were not alone in your suffering. not that it makes it any better that your brother is subject to your father’s delusions.

it stays like this for a long while. seeing your little brother off to school each morning, and making a point of not eyeing the brown and green glass bottles that he strings up on the tree in the front yard like liquor store wind chimes. your father isn’t the man you thought him to be. you consider that maybe he was always like this and that you were the last to realize, the last one to find complacency in his disillusionment. and that only makes it worse so he pledge that one day you’d leave that little yellow house. that you would rebuild himself like an old factory town and come back two times better than before. had only you’d known you would always be that odd little boy, with the odd family in the yellow house on the edge of town.

your brother is the first to leave, and there’s nothing left in a town that wasn’t made for staying so you follow him. you pledge yourselves to manmade horrors, trading one ghost for another if it meant the cause you had served was deemed more righteous than the last. had only you’d known that it would be another thing to sever you. you soar ranks, spit out commands like a morning prayer even when things had become everything but what you wanted. you were no longer fighting the good, noble war ━ you, and again your brother ━ were the casualties.

HEADCANONS.

served in the british military & was permitted leave after 10 yrs; swiftly arose in ranking for his aim as a sharpshooter. called for leave following his brother’s passing and has since been passed up with several ( theorized black ops ) agencies.

indecent and irritable but also charming and a great believer that perhaps there is still some goodness left in him.

never quite returned home following his service, worked in veteran affairs in bristol intermittantly before finding placement at the police academy in london.

third bodyguard personally contracted to look after the prime minister since his appointment & just wants to do his fucking job no matter how much he sorta hates it.

the brother who had the privelege of becoming prodigal. his brother died in the line of fire, and though not entirely unscathed, baz was the one to escape with a life he was never truly able to wholly return to.

avid wine lover, doesn’t drink much outside of classical swills. keeps the cork from every finished bottle & has red wine with almost every meal off duty.

reconnected with his mom following his brother’s passing and has since maintained loose contact with her.

studied briefly at the university of bristol, majoring in art history with a concentration in architecture.

undiagnosed tinnitus from direct exposure to an implosion on the battlefield; can indirectly trigger ptsd episodes.

a shadow that serves a purpose: sworn to protect and willing to die by the gun he lives by if it means no harm is inflicted upon who he was made to protect; though this was not his initial sentiment.

WANTED.

coming soon.

#⠀ ⠀ s. harris ⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀abt #lf.intro #these graphics SUCKK but i tried yall #adding more tmrw......

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betaejun · 17 days ago

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Muzic City 02

The morning sun barely peeks through Hongdae's streets as Taejun slips into his usual room at Muzik City, honey tea already warming his hands. Room Seven feels like an old friend now, familiar enough that he notices the slight scratch in the wallpaper near the screen has grown longer since last week. His phone balances perfectly on the music stand - a setup he's perfected over countless Saturday mornings - while he pulls up the backing track for his latest audition piece. The song fills the small space, and Taejun closes his eyes, letting the melody wash over him. The first run-through is always about feeling rather than perfection, something he's constantly reminded of. Still, his fingers unconsciously find the cross at his throat as he begins to sing, his voice carrying the weight of both his cultures - gospel runs learned in Chicago churches blending seamlessly with the subtle influences of Korean ballads his mother once sang.

Hours slip by like water, marked only by the steady decrease in his tea and the growing confidence in his runs. This is where Taejun feels most himself, in these quiet morning sessions before Hongdae properly wakes up. No need to navigate cultural expectations or worry about fitting in - just him and the music and the gentle morning light painting patterns across the karaoke screen. His voice grows stronger with each repetition, though something in the bridge still doesn't sit quite right. He makes a note in his phone, knowing he'll obsess over it during dance practice later. The morning staff have stopped checking on him, used to his serious practice sessions that stand out among their usual weekend crowd. Through the wall, he can hear the first regular customers arriving, their laughter and chatter signaling the end of his private sanctuary. But for now, in these last quiet moments, Taejun lets himself dream about standing on stage, showing them everything he is - the military brat who quotes scripture in two languages, the Korean adoptee finding his way home through music, the boy who believes some dreams are worth every early morning sacrifice.

#activitychellengejan25

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