#i want to draw kostya too

[anarzaabloodladen]

🖤💖 "He looked so sick like he was dying, if I said he wasn't hot, then I'd be lying." 💖🖤

my favorite manwhore look at him dudes

[sapphicsaints]

that's when she knew she lost her

Tamar Kir-Bataar x f!Reader

Word count: ~3.4k

Warnings: Character death

A/N: This is based on the books! nsfw version here

Summary: She saw the look in Tamar's eyes when the Sun Summoner took her second amplifier, and that's when she knew she lost her. Not that she was hers to keep in the first place.

Kostya’s wind carries her, and she lands on deck with a thud grunting before rolling out of the line of fire, breathing out a sigh of relief. She made it off the whaler, back on the volkvolny. Her relief is short-lived as Tamar yells, “He’s up.”

The Darkling’s shadow monsters rise up from the deck of the old whaler. She curses but takes position, listening for Sturmhond’s whistles and orders. The next minutes go by in a blur, she doesn’t have time to think, no time to mourn, just barely enough time to breathe and take the next action. Her hands move rapidly to manipulate the water surrounding them. 

She collapses in exhaustion once they’re out of range, she notices there’s only two tidemakers left, including her. The others must’ve been up on the rigging. 

Her breaths come heavy, but her skin is glowing with the tell-tale flush that comes with using her powers. Her back is up against the rails, the cool metal digging into her spine, when Tamar leans up next to her. Her hand clasps her shoulder. 

“I’m glad that's done.” She says. 

Y/n turns to look at her, “Thanks the saints. I never want to see him again. Maybe his dead body.”  

“Maybe we’ll get that lucky.” 

“It’ll take more than luck.” She mumbles. Tamar’s arm wraps around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug. The action feels strange after so many weeks without any contact, but her arms wrap around her lower back, pressing herself into her. Tamar always runs hot, and her heat is welcoming this time. 

“We’ll celebrate later.” She says, her voice low enough so only y/n can hear. Her cheeks flush pink and her heart beats rapidly, the promise is enough to make her nerves tingle. She remembers the last time they ‘celebrated’ together.  

Flashback

They’d finally dropped the last of the slavers they’d captured off in Kerch and set sail again. Tamar practically dragged her back to their room and she was laughing the entire way. The laughter stopped when the door shut behind her, her body slammed into it. Her eyes widened and she bit her bottom lip out of nerves. Tamar’s thumb brushed lightly across her lip, tugging it free from the bite. Y/n’s eyes gaze to the floor, nerves starting to get the best of her. Tamar’s thumb presses under her chin, tilting her head up so their eyes will meet. 

“Are you nervous?” she asks

“No.” She replies a little too quickly, and grimaces, remembering Tamar can always tell when she’s lying. “Maybe a little.” 

“Why?” 

Y/n sighs, her palms coming up to rub at her eyes. “I don’t know.” Tamar tugs her hands away, and pulls her away from the door, yanking her flush against her chest, moving them towards the middle of the small room. Her breath catches and she freezes. Slowly she moves her arms so they’re wrapped gently around Tamar’s shoulders. She studies every inch of her face, but still avoids eye contact. 

“Look at me.” Tamar’s tone tells her it isn’t a question. She tears her eyes up from her lips to meet hers. “You’re fine. We don’t have to do anything tonight. Or ever.” 

Her eyes narrow at the last two words, and her hands come up to cup her cheeks, pressing their lips together with urgency. Tamar’s hands dig into her lower back, drawing their hips together. Y/n has a feeling this is the reaction she wants, and she gives right into it. 

End Flashback

“I’ll be looking forward to it.” The grin on her face is infectious but thankfully hidden, her face pressed into Tamar’s chest. Once her heart has calmed a little she pushes back. “We should get back to work.” 

“Probably.” Tamar sounds reluctant but presses a kiss to her forehead, and heads back to talk to Sturmhond. 

Y/n presses two fingers to her forehead, the spot where Tamar just kissed. She hears a snicker from behind her and whips around. Kostya, one of her closest friends on the ship, is laughing at her. She sends a spurt of water to his face, and that knocks the laughter off of him. He retaliates with a small gust of wind. 

“Oi.” Privyet’s voice comes through, “Quit that.” 

They start laughing, both looking slightly chastised. They stand to the side as the sea whip is hauled on deck. Her hand drifts nervously to her left wrist, the space where her amplifier hides. Taking a second amplifier sounds like absolute insanity to her, but thankfully that’s something she doesn’t have to worry about. She doesn’t move when the scales are offered, just exchanging a small glance with Kostya. Scales still freak her out somewhat and she shudders. For once, he doesn’t make fun of her and she’s grateful for it.

–

She knows her jealousy is stupid, but it’s reasonable to be upset that she’s kicked out of her room with barely any notice. Not to mention, nobody bothered to ask her, just “Tamar’s sharing with the Sun Summoner.” And now she’s in one of the old closets normally saved for less welcome guests. Her one bag is moved over quickly enough. At least she has her own space now, and doesn't have to listen to Tamar snore or sleep talk. In her opinion that’s a weak consolation prize, and not really much of a prize at all. Her things are quickly shoved away and she heads up to grab her rations while she can. There’s only two tidemakers now, and she has a feeling her schedule is about to get a lot more packed. She stops after a few drinks, keeping herself sober enough to post a reliable watch. 

The first half is quite calm. She missed the quiet ease on the Volkvolny, the relative safety of knowing you’re surrounded by people you trust. The waves are gentle, the ship gently bobs side to side. Y/n pinches her cheeks a few times to stay awake, making small talk with her partner. The lanterns and voices on deck catch her attention. Alina’s taking the amplifier. Her eyes widen, and her heart beats a bit faster - hopefully this won’t be what kills her, there’s much more poetic ways to go out. Her eyes immediately find Tamar standing next to Tolya, the two of them looking the part of solemn sentries. Sentries for a Saint. 

The power and light that burst from her is undeniable, and y/n finds herself taking deep breaths to find her calm again. She’s lucky she didn’t fall off the rigging. Her face feels like it’s been freshly sunburnt. As always, her eyes search for Tamar first. And that’s when she knew she’d lost her. The look in her eyes. Y/n didn’t know exactly what it mean’t, just that Tamar belongs to someone now. Well, Tamar never belonged to her in the first place, and theres a strong chance she’s reading into this too much, but she’s always been particularly perceptive, and her hunches usually turn out to be right. Angry tears prick the corner of her eyes.

‘You’re a mercenary,’ she thinks to herself, ‘not a jealous, petty school girl.’ She takes a deep breath and schools her features back into a look of awe, before anyone can catch on. Someone replaces her and she takes up post at the stern, ready to help move to ship along. It’s likely someone spotted the light show Alina put on, and the best they can do it get as far away as possible. 

–

The next few weeks go by quickly, and she barely sees Tamar. Well, she sees her everywhere, but rarely interacts with her. Is y/n avoiding her? Or is Tamar avoiding y/n? They never got to celebrate. Whispers say that they may be leaving to do something with the Sun Summoner and Nikolai. Saints, she feels like a whiny child. She resolves to find out more on her next watch with Tolya. 

Later that day

“Do you think you’ll go with him?” She asks, staring out into the horizon, keeping her voice just loud enough so he’ll hear. 

“With who? Where?”

“Captain. To Ravka, with Alina.” 

Tolya’s eyes are alarmed, like he didn’t expect her to know what was going on, or what was to happen. 

“Saints Tolya, i’m not stupid.” 

“Nobody called you stupid.” 

“Maybe someone should’ve. That’s besides the point.” She turns to face him, taking her eyes off the water momentarily. “Are you going with them?” 

He sighs. “Keep looking.” 

She rolls her eyes but listens. She’s surprised when he keeps speaking. “You’re not asking about me. You’re asking about Tamar.” 

“Well, you both go everywhere together.” 

“He thought about asking you along.” Tolya says. He’s talking about Sturmhond. Or Nikolai. Depends on the situation. I know they’re going to Ravka, but to do what i’m uncertain. 

“Really?” I hummed, trying to sound as disinterested as possible, it’s not working. 

“But after we lost Hendrik and Dmitri.” 

It feels like an iron fist is gripping her heart, and she chokes out her next breath. The other Tidemakers lost against the Darkling. It’s only her and one other now.

Tolya pauses. “After we lost them, you’re needed here.” 

“Needed.” I let the words roll around my tongue. Needed here. But wanted? What if I want to be somewhere else? “Thank you for the heads up.” She gives Tolya a terse smile, trying her best to look content. I can tell he isn’t convinced, but he does smile back. 

End Flashback.

–

Three nights later, Tamar finds her. It’s dusk, and she’s sitting up on deck, deep in conversation with Kostya. She feels a tap on her shoulder, and doesn’t turn around and hesitates before turning around. Kostya glares at her and she finally does. Tamar’s standing behind her, one hand outstretched. 

Tamar doesn’t miss the side eye y/n sends to Kostya, but chooses not to comment. It shouldn’t feel like she’s headed to the gallows, but somehow it does. She takes her hand, and lets her heave her up to her feet. She shakes her hand off as soon as they stand up, and sees the hurt flash through Tamar’s eyes. It’s enough to make her start chewing on her bottom lip, 

“Come on.” She says, taking the initiative and leading them below decks to somewhere more private. They end up in her room this time, and she chooses to stand on the opposite side of the small room, awkwardly scratching the back of her neck. For once, Tamar doesn’t speak right away, instead it seems like her eyes are taking in every inch of her - memorizing every detail. Y/n keeps avoiding eye contact, leaning up against the wall and tilting her head up to stare at the overhead. 

“We’re leaving tomorrow.” Tamar says finally. 

Her heart jumps, and the same tears from a few weeks ago threaten to prick her eyes, “are you excited?” She asks, keeping her eyes trained on the ceiling. 

Tamar sighs before crossing the room. Her hands cup her cheeks, guiding her back down to try and meet her eyes. “Why don’t you ever look me in the eyes?” She murmurs. Y/n doesn’t have a good answer, what’s she supposed to say?

‘I’m scared i’ll cry if I do. I know you don’t feel the same way. I’ll quite literally get lost in your eyes. It’s too intimate. It scares me.’ Instead she doesn’t say anything. 

“Give me something, please.” Tamar says, this is the most desperate she’s heard her voice. She cringes at herself when the desperation gives her a sick sense of satisfaction. Give her something? It’s been weeks and they’ve barely exchanged a word. If she wants something she can have her fury and pain. The sting that comes with feeling abandoned, discarded, tossed aside for the next big thing.  

“You want something?” She spits out through clenched teeth. Tamar takes a step back, her eyes widening slightly at her tone. Normally y/n is level-headed and calm, it’s rare to see strong emotions leak into her voice. “Weeks. You’ve rarely spoken to me. Granted I didn’t try very hard, I know you’ve been busy with your new Saint.” She struggles to keep her tone kind. “I’m happy for you, by the way, that you’ve found a purpose. And I get it, your life has changed. That doesn’t mean you had to …” Her voice breaks and she can’t finish her sentence. 

“Leave please.” She croaks. Tamar doesn’t move and y/n opens her mouth to tell her to go again, but instead she’s wrapped in a bone-crushing, enough that she can barely breathe, let alone move her arms and hug back. She doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t complain, relishes in the touch and contact. Her body melts into her, leaning slightly. Just one hug and she melts. ‘Pathetic.’ she thinks to herself. ‘You’re being pathetic.’ 

“I’m sorry.” She whispers, pulling back, and running a hand through her short hair. Y/n’s never seen Tamar like this, lost for words or confused. She always seems so self-assured, so strong in her conviction, fearless. 

“Sorry for what?” She knows the answer, but she wants to hear it - needs to hear it. Hear Tamar admit it, validate what y/n felt these last few weeks. 

“Neglecting you. I’m sorry that we didn’t get to celebrate.” 

Y/n laughs, not an amused chuckle or a happy belly laugh, one of disbelief. “If you think that’s all I cared about then you’re much less perceptive than I thought you were.” She tries to put the emphasis on ‘cared’, but it doesn’t come out that way. Care is more accurate, she still cares. 

Tamar seems confused, “I don’t understand.” Her tone is genuine and honest. Y/n feels herself soften more, a little bit of the ice melts away. She finally meets her eyes. 

“I care about you dimwit.” Tamar’s eyes narrow at the insult, but she doesn’t break eye contact. “I wanted … I still want more for us. I want to get to actually be with you, beyond just ‘celebrations’, and the occasional hug or kiss on the forehead when you remember.” 

“Why haven’t you said anything before?” 

Her voice raises slightly, “because you outrank me and I don’t want to be fired, because I thought it was obvious, because I thought you’d have said something by now.” The outranking part is true - not that it matters too much on the ship, but enough for her to be nervous. Rogue Grisha have difficulty finding safe employment in this world. Safe in the sense of nobody forcing her to serve an army or enslaving her. Her job isn’t safe by any means, but it's freedom.

“Quiet.” Tamar hushes her. 

She takes a deep breath before speaking in a normal tone. “Tell me I'm delusional.” She’d have laughed at Tamar’s expression if the situation was different. “Tell me you never wanted me. Tell me you’re leaving and not coming back.” Tamar reached out and held one of her hands. 

“You’re not delusional, I do want you, I am leaving, but I don’t know if I’m coming back.” 

“Three out of four, not bad.” 

Tamar huffs, evidently tired of the argument, before pulling her into a bruising kiss. It catches y/n by surprise but she returns the same energy.

Later, they're cuddled in her hammock together as Tamar whispers sweet things into her ear. Y/n is lost in her own world, but a pinch to her side brings her back.

“Hm?” She mumbles. 

“You need to get dressed.” 

She groans but stands up, getting some new clothes for herself. One hand braces against the wall to keep herself steady, she looks into the small mirror, her neck and chest are covered in small but deep purple bruises. Her jaw drops as she turns to look at Tamar, who just laughs at her. 

“Sit. I’ll heal them.” 

She jumps up on the chest, scooching until the back of her knees hit the edge. 

Her hands are gently as she grazes over the spots on her neck, and chest, leaving just one behind. Y/n rolls her eyes, it’s typical of her to do that - leave one in an area she can easily conceal. She heals the bite on her hand as well. The silence after becomes uncomfortable. 

“I don’t know what to say.” The words come out before she can think twice. 

“I’ll say I don’t regret a single moment of this. Of anything.” 

She lets out a small, sad smile. “I don’t either.” And brings her arms up to pull her into a gentle kiss. Nothing else needs to be said, they’ve come to an understanding. They both know it’s a goodbye kiss - a goodbye for now. 

–

The next early morning, she’s on watch as they leave. 

“Saint’s willing, we’ll meet again one day.” Her words came out low, almost like a whisper or prayer. They thankfully went unheard, and she waved to the dark sky as Tamar flew off in the hummingbird. 

Kostya clapped a comforting hand on her shoulder, “They’ll be alright.” 

She turns back, giving them a terse smile. He’d mistaken it for worry, probably a good thing. 

The crew makes themselves scarce for a while, keeping careful tabs on every hint of the Darklings location. If they were caught by him they likely would not survive, and likely would come to very painful deaths, something none of them were particularly interested in. She wonders if he would spare Grisha, she hopes not - if they were to be captured she’d rather get the same treatment as the rest of the crew, as morbid as that sounds. 

The next few months go by pretty quickly, and when she gets offered the chance to go to the Spinning Wheel, she takes it. A break from the seas will do her good. The idea of seeing Tamar doesn’t cross her mind, surprisingly. She’s become a memory - a good one, but a memory. 

– 

Spinning wheel 

It’s strange being with her crew on land. Everyone's the same, but a bit more tense. There’s a certain safety at sea - it’s more difficult to be ambushed. She’s surprised when Alina remembers her - even her name, and cheers along with the rest when she cuts the top of a mountain off. 

Y/n noticed the connection between her and Nadia almost immediately and it didn’t hurt like she thought it would, she offered her congratulations instead. 

An argument starts when Sturmhond tells her she’s going on the mission to hunt the firebird. Well, asks her, he knows he can’t really tell her to do anything. She supposes she should call him Nikolai now. 

“You’re the best tidemaker we have.” Nikolai says. 

“They could bring anyone else.” 

“Tamar asked for you.” 

“That’s the problem.” She whispers. 

He sighs, walking around the table to clasp a hand on her shoulder. “I know you two have history, but I’d feel better knowing you’re there. Tamar asked for you for a reason, and I doubt it’s to have a sordid tryst in the middle of the night.” 

Y/n’s eyes narrow and she glares at him as he laughs. “They’re taking Ana.” Ana is another friend from the Volkvolny, a Materialki that put the last amplifier on Alina. Her eyes light up, and the look on his face tells her he knows he’s won.

“Fine.” She says reluctantly. “I’ve always wanted to visit there.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“No, but it makes me feel better.” 

“Whatever it takes” he winks before leading them out of the room. 

The ambush surprises them all. She takes another look at the crew, a tidemaker isn’t completely essential, and there’s too much weight already. She can tell Nevsky is thinking the same thing. Despite her being Grisha, they became fast friends. 

“One last time?” he whispers to her. Not that they’d had times before, but she guesses he likes the dramatic effect.

“Lets do it.” She replies. He says something quiet to Alina before yelling, 

“For the 22nd.” He leaps over the side with his soldiers. 

“For Sturmhond.” She whispers before following them. Tamar’s scream is lost in the noise. 

[shuuen-no-cimory]

Ok today’s post is a bit different! These are Fatui Pyroslinger and Geochanter fanarts that I commissioned on (and also some gifted by) my friends! ALL THE RESULT WERE SO GOOD AND REALLY MAKES ME SCREAM AAAAAAAA Each artists who worked on these and my personal comment

1-2 -> https://twitter.com/nichi_ere

The idea for this first two drawing was, “I want you to make them as if they are kabedoning the viewer, with Pyroslinger looking at us with glee and excitement as if he said [Haha, catched, you’re too slow!] while on the other hand Geochanter looks rater exhausted and pissed as if he want to say [Can you stop fucking move? It’s troublesome]. Oh, make it fits for lockscreen.”

The result? IT WAS PHENOMENAL THAT I CAN’T STOP STARING AT THESE FOR DAYS. And I’ve been using the Geochanter as my lockscreen for MONTHS

3 -> https://twitter.com/oneslicedtomato

ANOTHER PHENOMENAL COMMISSION, I asked them to draw these guys in the middle of a fight but still willing to go on, hence all the scars and tatters. I gave them poses for reference and THEY DID BETTER THAN I EXPECTED IT’S SO AAAAAAAAA It really give that “Ya still wanna go?” energy and that just.... beautiful....

4-5 -> https://twitter.com/FauMe_FM TTTTTHIS IS A BIT EMBARRASSING BUT THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I EVER COMMISSIONED SOMEONE TO DRAW (SORT OF) OC/CANON STUFF ////// I mean, I love Geochanter so much ok I ship him (specifically my Geochanter OC, Grasha) with my Genshin oc and Nyuks make this SO CUTE I CAN’T. NYUKS EVEN GAVE ME A “THANK YOU” CARD WITH THEM IT’S SO CUTE I CRYYYYY

6-5 -> https://twitter.com/Saf_erring AAAAA MY BEST BUDDY ON SIMPING TO THE SKIRMISHERS, she’s into Pyroslinger and also had an oc that she shipped with my Pyroslinger, Kostya. I asked Ikan to draw Grasha that show a bits of his face AND JNSJGBSJDGBKSJGDS HE COME ALIVE???? HE’S SO HANDSOME I CAN’T??? WHY DOES IKAN GOTTA DO THIS TO ME MY HEART BLASTING.

And the second picture Ikan did was my birthday gift, she draw our OCs hanging out on bonfire with Pyro and Geo. In the story we made, my oc, Panya, is Kostya (Pyro’s) drinking buddy and they tend to get drunk together while her oc, Eleanor and Grasha (Geo) are there to keep eye on these two before they’re making troubles. I love this piece so much ;w;)

[mymostimaginaryfriend]

between a heart & a hard place

♛ 5x05: Teresa and James plan the heist (1.9k words; rating T; tags: missing scene, weaponized jazz music, angsty dancing)

➢ read on ao3 or below the cut:

The Van Gogh was beautiful. It was a shame they’d have to cut it from the frame, yet Teresa knew better than most that no beauty survived long in this world without collecting a few scars. So while it was a shame, it wasn't enough to stop her. Indeed, it’d be one of the only decisions she’d been forced to make lately that she wouldn’t lose any sleep over tonight.

Losing Kostya wasn’t an option. The pain of lost beauty was nothing compared to the pain of lost power.

They gathered in the hotel lobby, using the private concert by a semi-famous jazz pianist as cover for some recon. Kelly Anne gamely chatted up the hotel owner while Pote stifled a yawn and nursed his beer. James leaned casually against the bar, seemingly entranced by the music. It was only because she knew him so well that she could see the relaxed demeanor hid a man at work, busy formulating a plan. He hadn’t said much about his time away, but it was hard to believe any of it had involved art heists.

She felt a frisson of worry about putting him in unfamiliar, possibly dangerous territory but she knew better than to underestimate him. It was a lesson she’d learned the first day they’d met.

She followed his gaze to the piano, wondering what he was studying there. Teresa had never thought herself a jazz fan before moving to New Orleans, but it had become the soundtrack of her triumphs and heartaches over the past year. She found herself drawn to the melancholy of it, the soaring heights of a trombone, the plaintive pleas of a piano. Rising, falling, rising again. Even now, each soulful note plucked at her heartstrings with the simple strike of a key.

The song was beautiful, perhaps James was merely getting lost for a moment in the music. He’d said she’d changed and she had, but she wasn’t the only one. When he’d left, there’d been sharp edges, edges that should have been honed to lethal blades by his work with Devon and yet the James who had returned had a softness she was unprepared for. A sort of fragile vulnerability that made her want to shelter it from the wind like a flickering candle flame, to nurture and feed it until it was strong enough to warm her too. Her throat ached at the knowledge of how easily it could be snuffed out.

She’d almost done it herself this past week. It’d hurt to see the light in his eyes dim when he looked at her but that had been what she wanted, hadn't it? This distance between them. If it wasn’t easy, it was necessary. She’d rather let the sun set between them than watch the light in his eyes permanently go out because of her.

Emotional attachments equaled vulnerability. Romantic attachments could get you killed. She had needed someone once and his loss had nearly destroyed her. She felt in her bones she wouldn't be able to survive losing James. If she let him into her heart, his death would take that vital organ with him. For as much as she thought about the future these days, there was a part of her relentlessly certain in the knowledge that they’d never get there. Not in one piece.

That didn’t stop her from wanting to reach out to him though—for comfort, maybe, or reassurance.  Perhaps it was the thought he no longer understood her that hurt the most, that made her want to seek communion with him skin to skin if not soul to soul. But that wouldn’t be fair to him, to push him away then pull him close just because she desperately needed someone—him—to tell her it’d be okay. That it was all worth it. She suspected his silence these last few days was answer enough.

It was for the best. The higher the climb, the longer the fall. She couldn’t afford weakness and neither could he. If he was no longer able to be as ruthless, then she would have to be ruthless enough for the both of them.

The song ended and she turned back to James to find that he wasn’t studying the room anymore. He was studying her, his expression inscrutable.

His gaze, like the silence between them, was heavy with unsaid words, words that might never be spoken at all but most certainly not here in public. Best to get back to business.

“You have a plan?” she asked, grateful that her voice remained steady.

He nodded.

“Walk me through it,” she murmured, eyes drawn back to the painting in question.

“Dance with me.”

Her attention snapped back to his face at his surprise counter offer. She’d expected a cool recitation of information—sight lines, security cameras, escape routes—not a softly uttered invitation to be close to him, to touch him for the first time since that night in New York.

“James,” she began, not sure if she meant it as the prelude to a warning or an apology.

A flash of emotion was quickly smoothed away by his normal mask of professionalism. “Relax,” he said, pushing off the bar. “I just need a reason to be in the northwest quadrant of the room.”

She shot him a questioning look and the corner of his mouth ticked up in muted amusement. “The dance floor,” he clarified, holding out a hand.

Right. Of course. The plan. Just business, just how she wanted it. She ignored Kelly Anne’s double take and took James’ hand, letting him lead her to the far side of the small dance floor.

Once it would have been a simple thing to step into his arms, but as the first few notes of the next song began, she hesitated. He might not recognize the tune, but after being a bar owner in New Orleans for over a year, she sure did.

They’re writing songs of love, but not for me. A lucky star’s above, but not for me.

If he noticed any significance, he hid it well, guiding one of her hands to his shoulder and holding the other against his chest. His other hand found her waist and turned her smoothly in the direction he needed to surveil.

She didn’t speak, letting him work in silence. She tried to concentrate on the people around them, the sound of the piano, the lights of the city beyond the windows, anything but the warmth of his body, not under the usual leather jacket, but the expensive fabric of his suit, his scent of new cologne and old cigarettes as foreign as it was familiar.

After a moment, he pulled her closer, leaning down to murmur near her ear. “We’ll do a smoke bomb, smash and grab. Extract the painting, ditch the van. Travel by motorcycle to the drop-off.”

“We?” Teresa asked, a little breathless. Some not small part of her wished she could watch him in action, especially in the kind of situation when no one was shooting back at them.

“Me,” James corrected. “You’ll be at the rendezvous point with Pote. I’ll use a two-man team—”

“One of the men?” Teresa asked. She trusted the crew that had accompanied her to Berlin to handle security but wasn’t sure who she’d recommend for a job that required the finesse of art theft.

“I know a guy nearby,” James told her and she let out a breath of laughter. Of course he did.

“You know everyone.” She turned to smile up at him but was taken aback by the seriousness of his expression.

“Not everyone.”

His words, or maybe the weight behind them, had her wondering if he was thinking of her.

She had done her best to hide her inner turmoil over the events of the last week. Suppressing her guilt and remorse over turning in Marcel. Hiding any misgivings she had about ordering the hit on the crooked cop with defensiveness or dismissal. She was la Jefa, it would do no good for anyone to see her doubts. So she'd put on strong front but hadn’t realized until now how much she’d depended on James seeing through it.  He always had before.

“You think we made a mistake,” she ventured, allowing space for his answer to clarify what was specifically bothering him the most. Perhaps it was vindictive of her to use “we” but distance or not they were still in this together.

James looked away. “It’s over now.”

“That’s not an answer,” she pressed.

He frowned, hesitating. “I did. I don’t know. You were right, the feds were ready to raid us. Bringing in Gamble would have been their next step.”

It was almost shameful, the intensity of the relief that washed over her at his words. But by James' grim expression, it seemed he grew even more troubled by the admission. 

“But?”

He glanced at her, eyes bleak. “His wife was home. She found him while I was still there.”

Teresa’s heart dropped in her chest. She knew from the news reports that there’d only been one victim that night but looking into James’ eyes she saw that it haunted him. The future that might have been. He’d have killed the wife too if she’d caught him. He’d have killed her for them.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, letting her hand find the tender skin of his neck and the staccato rhythm of his heart beat. “I’m sorry. But…”

His eyes briefly fluttered shut. “I know.”

If she couldn’t help herself from holding onto him a little tighter, it seemed he welcomed her momentary lapse. His hand sliding to the small of her back to draw her nearer until they were touching the entire lengths of their bodies, their only attempt at dancing a slight swaying from side to side.

“I just want to keep you safe,” he said, resting his cheek against her temple. She felt the old familiar panic at the implied even from yourself, but this wasn’t like Phoenix. He wasn’t trying to make decisions for her.  

Couldn’t he see that she wished the same safety for him? That everything she did was in pursuit of this shared goal?

“I didn’t think I’d be back here,” he continued, slowing their sway until he was just holding her. “And now...hope is a dangerous thing. It draws your attention to the horizon instead of keeping it on the danger right in front of you.”

She wondered if he was feeling it too: the walls closing in from every angle, the same echoing dread that haunted her midnight hours.  The ever narrowing window of daylight to that future someday.

But as the final notes of the song were played, even as the distance between them didn’t seem as vast anymore, even if for a moment she entertained the idea of not letting go, of leading him back up to the suite to finish repairing with their bodies what she’d bruised with her words, she knew that if they had any hope at all of that other life, they had work to do now.

James, as always, understood that better than anyone. He released her and smiled, eyes once again lit from within.

Many, many hours later while she waited in a safe location as he once again risked life and limb and freedom at her request, Teresa tried not to give too much credence to the sickening feeling in her stomach that the danger he’d mentioned earlier, the danger right in front of him that threatened their much dreamed about future…

....might end up being her.

(ao3)

[coeurvrai]

Nadya wakes up and tries to reach out to Marzenya, but is denied, and starts panicking. Honestly, I was expecting this to happen much sooner considering her goddess should care about how much she wants to and is making out with Malachiasz, but whatever.

Was this something the Vultures had done to her? Was she being punished for the power she used trying to escape? This was a different kind of quiet than before. This was worse than the veil. This was emptiness.

Calm down, she told herself. Figure out where you are. A stabbing pain went through her as the silence remained, the gods now more than just out of reach, but turned away completely.

Maybe she would never hear another quip after an errant prayer again. She shivered. It couldn’t be that. The gods wouldn’t have abandoned her. Not for a few doubts, not for kissing a heretic—not even that.

I mean, they are deities, Nadya, and deities are known to be petty and act in a way that is incomprehensible to humans, sometimes. It would be very typical for them to punish you for lusting after and making out with Malachiasz, especially when it is your divine mission to kill Tranavians and bring Tranavian under the gods’ rule again. Especially when your patron is the goddess of sacrifice and death, and that’s supposed to mean something.

Nadya tries to get up from where she’s laying and is met with a lot of blood and nails and glass shards. She manages to get off the slab, but falls to the floor, in a lot of pain.

She tries to find a way out.

Even if it was locked, she would feel less like she had ceased to exist. She had become nothing but the blood slicking the floor and blinding pain.

Edgy.

Nadya starts seeing things in the darkness watching her and coming towards her and tries reaching out to the gods again.

Anguish and a rage too fluid to fully define washed through her and she wanted to scream. She reached for the prayer beads she did not have and found nothing but Kostya’s necklace. She yanked it over her head and threw it across the room. She heard it hit the wall with a feeble, metallic clang.

“This isn’t fair!” she cried, to no one and to nothing because she was alone. Entirely alone in the kingdom of her enemies. Her best hadn’t mattered.

I hope Nadya doesn’t want that necklace back, because it’d be tough shit to find it again in the dark.

Also, this is hardly Nadya’s best. Or if it is, it’s sad and piss poor. She didn’t even last a hour before she got thrown into a life-or-death situation after their plan hinged on her not drawing attention to herself and fucked up that entire plan.

Then she blamed Malachiasz for Felicíja’s murder even though it was arguably the right thing to do in the moment, she had put herself in that situation in the first place and arguably Felicíja would still be alive if she hadn’t insulted her back and accept her duel, and Felicíja is her enemy and she’s supposed to kill Tranavians and has already killed Tranavians within the first five chapters of the book.

“I have only ever done what was asked of me,” she said, her voice feeble and broken.

Your god-given mission is to kill Tranavians and you kept making excuses for not killing Malachiasz, and then proceeded to act on your attraction to him. So, I wouldn’t say you’ve only ever done what was asked of you.

A line in a history book would half-heartedly mention the cleric who had tried to save Kalyazin but only managed to be forsaken by the gods. There would be no canonization after death for Nadya, just a quiet passing of the cleric who had failed.

Well considering there’s like 90 pages to go (dear god there’s 90 pages to go), I’m not holding my breath. Also, at least that way you’ll keep your promise to Anna that you won’t end up in the Book of Saints.

Nadya tries to pray to Marzenya again for something, anything.

Please don’t let this end here. If she cried out with everything left within her would she get an answer? Or would she have nothing but the ashes of the only thing that had ever made her life worth living? Zhalyusta, Marzenya, eya kalyecti, eya otrecyalli, holen milena.

Her plea went unanswered.

Nadya says a prayer that means nothing to me. Man, wouldn’t it’d have been cool if we had found out more about the actual religion stuff outside of the gods and how that work? Like how religion affects the lives of everyday people?

No? Okay then.

Anyways, Nadya notices a light in her peripheral and she went towards it, realising the light is coming from the necklace that Kostya had given her.

Some gods require blood.

She swallowed hard. Taking the pendant in her fist, she let the blood soaking her hands drip into the ridges.

She held it closer to her face, peering at the soft, almost eerie light.

“You deserve to know the truth about the beings that chose you.”

Oh for fuck’s sake, we’re going in this direction, are we? Anyways, so she suddenly hears a voice in her head, much like how the gods speak to her.

Nadya inhaled sharply, hit with a sudden barrage of images. The wave of pain that slammed into her nearly knocked her out.

Creatures with knotted joints like the whorls of a tree, faces enshrouded in fog, four eyes, six, ten. Beings with eyes on their fingertips, mouths at their joints. Iron teeth, iron claws, iron eyes.

One after another after another. Sinuous wings, feathered wings black as tar. Eyes of light, of darkness. And blood. So much blood.

Because that’s just it. It was always, always blood.

Feeling sick, Nadya dropped the necklace. The images stopped. She was panting, fighting for air.

Is it weird I’m being reminded of the Children of the Forest? Because I’m being reminded of the Children of the Forest for some strange reason. Also the volcra.

Anyways, it obviously has something to do with the Vultures. And I just cannot get over the fact that the Vultures sound so much like the Ironteeth witches, it’s quite unbelievable.

Especially because I know Emily Duncan is aware of Maas. Also, for someone who has been critical of the editing of Maas’ books in the past, her and her editor sure haven’t done much better. 

When she picked up the necklace again, she was careful to not touch the spiral ridges but apparently any contact was enough. When the cool silver touched against her skin all her senses were flooded with white light. Purity with rivulets of blood staining it all. It fell in tiny droplets, from her fingertips, off her arms. There was nothing but the blinding white and the blood.

Like this paragraph, for example.

“When the cool silver touched against her skin”??? Just say “when she touched the cool silver” or some shit, at least that way it isn’t so awkwardly worded. The rest of it makes me wanna roll my eyes and grab a sandwich.

Anyways, she tries talking to this ~mysterious~ voice and the voice answers back.

What is this? What are you?

“Does that matter?”

She was surprised when the voice—unusually high, like reed pipes—responded.

Are you … one of the gods? There were gods she had never spoken to, was this one?

There was a long silence, leaving Nadya suspended in the blood-soaked white space. She was vaguely aware her pain was only a dim buzz now. It surrounded her like a fog, barely noticeable.

Then: “Once upon a time, yes.”

This is totally related to that story that was briefly mentioned about a human or some saint that supposedly was able to obtain godhood, isn’t it?

And once upon a time that answer would have terrified Nadya. A few short weeks ago, the girl in a monastery who believed so wholly in her gods and her cause would have looked upon this with horror, disbelief. She would have written it off as hallucinatory heretical magic. But now …

Now she had allowed herself to doubt. Now she was tired. Now she had been forsaken and abandoned. She sat down, crossing her legs underneath her, conscious of the floor wet with blood beneath her. There was nothing left to do but hope for answers.

She literally believed in her fucking gods and shit like half an hour ago, and I just- this is what I mean about how nothing feels believable, that I can neither believe in Nadya’s supposed hatred and xenophobic tendencies to the point of wanting to conquer Tranavia and essentially prepared to participate in a crusade against them nor her supposed doubts in her gods and her cause with actions like sparing Felicíja and being attracted and caring about Malachiasz.

Nadya doesn’t have a proper character arc because Emily Duncan can’t be bothered writing out a character arc for Nadya properly.

She asks the voice how it can no longer be a god and the voice replies:

“How does a human girl become something divine and feared by the gods that gave her the power she wields?”

Oh, so we’re bringing the book’s tag line into this, are we?

I mean, it’s not like unfeasible that the gods might be afraid of a person they have given so much of their divine magic to - after all, I’ve fucked with God of War - but one) that magic is totally dependent on them giving it to her and ttwo) then why did so many of the gods grant her their blessings instead of just Marzenya especially since Marzenya is her patron?

Also, even if the magic that Nadya possesses all by herself makes her a threat, why did Marzenya even tell her about it in the first place? That seems counter-productive to me.

Anyways, Nadya asks the voice more questions and receives more answers, even if they’re not the answers she wants.

Where am I? What do you want? The being never answered her first question, but she held back asking again in hope she would receive some answers.

“Where you are is as irrelevant as it is immaterial. What I want is better answered by the question of what you want.”

Can I see you?

“You do not want to.”

Nadya flipped the pendant between her fingers. It had come with her. Had she been carrying this being around her neck all this time? Where had Kostya—of all people—found this? Why had he given it to her?

That’s a good question. Too bad Kostya’s greater relevancy to this book was left behind in Chapter 1.

Also, can I just say, carrying bits of/entire beings around with you attached to or inside of objects is a very specific niche of mine and I’m not afraid to say it. It’s literally one of the main points of one of my D&D characters.

Nadya remarks that she doesn’t know what she wants.    

“You think they can take your power away from you?”

I see someone has been watching the first season of Winx Club. 

Nadya states that they can because they’re the ones who gave it to her in the first place. The voice tells her that that’s not true.

“Our time together grows short. You must make a choice, little bird. Do you continue on with your wings clipped or do you fly?”

Darkness plunged back around Nadya—abrupt and severe—as the necklace slipped out of her hands and pain crashed back down onto her.

Oh dear fucking lord, is this thing connected with goddamn Malachiasz?! Is that what’s going on here? Because Malachiasz calls her little bird or whatever. Ugh. Thanks, I hate it and I want a refund.

Anyways, that’s the end of that chapter!

[hyba]

Hyyybbbbaaaa! How are you doing? Stopping in with a random ask for you =D What is your favorite piece of world building you've done to date for any WIP, past or present, and why is that your favorite one?

Hi Ren!!!!!!!!!!!! 😁😁😁😁 I've definitely missed writeblr's friendly neighbourhood positivity gremlin! How have you been? I'm sorry I didn't get to this ask sooner! I've been waiting for a quiet moment to go back to my inbox and answer everyone 😊 It's finally here!

Favourite piece of worldbuilding that I've done and why is it my favourite? That's an awesome question! Can I have a favourite one by genre or by WIP? Because I like to create fictional settings for all of my books, even more "realistic" ones like my murder mystery or Apartment! By doing that I get to bend the rules a bit and create my own societies, law enforcement practices, politics, economics, and other elements that work for the story and are loosely based on real world elements.

I put a lot of work into creating the entire continent where my fantasy books take place and how each setting is interrelated and unique. Each place has it's own special design that sets it apart from other places on the same continent. Even small unassuming places hold marvels and secrets that will make readers want to travel to these sights and see them for themselves! I want to go into all of the empires and states and fully detail why I love them so much and how different they are, but instead I'll just talk about the World Encyclopaedia which I mentioned a while back in a few posts. I'm working on what is basically an encyclopedia of that entire world, not just the continent in question, and it's written by an explorer that is really famous in the fantasy world and whose death is shrouded in mystery. The Encyclopaedia itself is referred to often throughout the different books. I just like that instead of creating a separate book that explains all the details of this world using my voice as the author, I get to explore everything from the perspective of this explorer instead, which I think makes the whole experience more immersive for the readers! 😁

For my murder mystery novel, I really, really love the town that I've created and the family histories of the main characters. The world that this book is set in - or at least this particular town, which has a very generic name at this point and is likely to continue having that name - is really elegant and sophisticated. It's fun to use that because these characters exist in this bubble that the reader will only ever see popped by characters that do not live in that same reality, or those that are trying to be a part of that reality despite the fact that they may not be able to. I don't know if I'm making much sense here, but the whole town is very near and dear to my heart and I continue to plan it and draw it and rearrange it in my head as I try to create this experience that isn't too far away from our realities as readers but that is far away enough that it seems like a relaxing and idyllic escape, despite the fact that obviously there's a pretty important murder at the middle of the whole book!

For my horror book, I really love this little fictional mountainside town of Kostya that I created. For Apartment, I love the creepy, grey, vast apartment building where pretty much the entire book takes place. For Mind Wars, I'm still working on worldbuilding but, man, do I have some exciting ideas that I can't wait to get down on paper!

But my two favourites I think are definitely my murder mystery town and my fantasy world so far, because they had the most work and effort go into them (it's a lot more work for me to create those kinds of worlds than, say, an apartment building) and they've been in the works for much, much longer (as in, years longer) than others, so they're definitely more developed and cooler to check out.

I feel like I could go on and on in detail, but I'll stop here! Thanks so much for sending this in 😊 I loved answering your Q!

[rockofcalifa]

Night at the IKEA

words: 8.7k | genre: action/comedy | warnings: non-graphic violence

 He looks at his wrist, reads the time, and sighs.

 Grigoriy is not, typically, a watch-wearing kind of man. He's not wealthy (or stupid) enough yet to purchase a watch he actually enjoys, and even so, he fully acknowledges that his phone already performs that function. But on the days he works, on days like this, he likes to have an easy, clandestine way to count down the slow eight hours of his misery.

 Well. More like twelve, today. He's already worked his regular shift, but he's going to be stuck here until god-knows-when tonight...

"Stop sighing, Grisha."

 Grigoriy startles slightly at the voice of Konstantin entering the room behind him. His friend, carrying an armful of items, walks around to deposit his haul onto the desk between them, careful not to disrupt the small potted plants sitting on the edge. During his tenure as manager, Konstantin and his horticultural tendencies have worked wonders for the appeal of the inherently unappealing office workspace, turning it into the sort fresh and modern room an IKEA office should be.

 "You agreed, remember?" Konstantin says. He picks up a plain black umbrella from the top of the pile, turning it around in his hands before tossing it into the basket behind his desk. "I mean, I can still do it, if you don't want to."

 No way is Konstantin staying late tonight. He's had a busy week and he deserves to rest. "No, no, I'm still doing it. I want the money. That doesn't mean I'm looking forward to being here all night, though."

 A red and white baseball cap joins the umbrella in the basket. Konstantin then selects an Iron Man pencil case, unzipping it to look through the contents for a phone number or address, but only finding some cheap pens and a black USB flash drive. "Sure, but don't act so cranky you scare this kid away, Grisha. I really need more hands on deck right now, and she seems like a good find."

 "Yeah, yeah."

 A pair of bifocal reading glasses. A baby's pink pacifier clip. A stainless-steel water bottle. Sunglasses. Grigoriy watches with disinterest as Konstantin goes through the rest of the day's lost-and-found items.

 "I'll have dinner waiting for you when you get home," Konstantin offers, turning to shut down his laptop and disconnect it from his dual-monitor setup.

 "As long as I don't also come home to a burning kitchen."

 "Grisha. Do you think so poorly of me?" Konstantin pouts, barely holding back a smile. Cute. "I wasn't going to make it myself, obviously."

 "Ah, okay. I understand." Grigoriy stands, Konstantin shoulders his laptop bag, and they exit the office. "Thank you, Kostya, I appreciate it."

 Konstantin grins.

 The IKEA warehouse always feels a little eerie at night. A little too vast, a little too vacant. Grigoriy and Konstantin are usually the last to leave at the end of the day, so he ought to be used to it by now, but he still feels the need to look behind himself, giving the huge shelves a critical, non-trusting look.

 They approach the main entrance, and Konstantin unlocks the sliding door with one of the keys on his lanyard. "You'll remember to lock up after me, right? And when you leave?" Konstantin says, handing the blue and yellow lanyard to Grigoriy.

 "I will."

 The doors slide open, revealing a figure standing nearby, a person dressed in all black who hurriedly looks up from her phone at the sudden movement, eyes wide.

 "Hi, Yevgenia Zakharovna," says Konstantin. "I'm glad you could make it out here tonight; I know it's kind of strange timing."

 "Konstantin Afansievich! Absolutely! I'm glad I could be here!" Yevgenia squeaks, and Grigoriy tries not to chuckle. Konstantin often has this effect on people, but this one seems a bit more dazzled than most.

 "This is my friend, Grigoriy Savelievich. He's going to be training you tonight."

 "Hey," Grigoriy greets, sticking out his hand.

 "It's nice to meet you, Grigoriy Savelievich." Yevgenia walks over to greet him, giving Grigoriy a strong, warm handshake and the full effect of her unfortunately attractive, albeit shy, smile. "Thank you for training me. I know you must be very busy."

 "Oh yeah, no problem," Grigoriy says.

 "Just call me if you guys run into any issues, okay?" Konstantin makes no move to actually leave, and Grigoriy sighs.

 "Go home, Kostya, we'll be fine." He nudges Konstantin across the threshold of the door and reaches for the sliding pane to close it manually. "Bye."

 Konstantin waves. Grigoriy locks the door.

 "Let's go up, shall we?" Grigoriy motions towards the unmoving escalators, and Yevgenia follows him, twisting her hands in her oversized sweatshirt sleeves.

 "So, IKEA, huh," Grigoriy says. Yevgenia gives a little nod. "What made you apply here? Did you just move into town?"

 "Mm, no, I've lived here for a few years," Yevgenia replies. "I work at, um, my friend's business. Part time. But I wanted to earn some more money, so..."

 "Cool, that's cool. Well, you've chosen a pretty good place to earn some extra bucks." They arrive at the second floor, and Grigoriy turns towards the furniture showrooms. "Tonight I'm going to show you around, tell you about some of our policies and procedures, let you in on all the dark IKEA secrets..." That manages to draw a laugh out of Yevgenia. "And then you'll get more specific training when you come to work. Sound good?"

 "Yes, Grigoriy Savelievich."

 They're standing by the first mockup living room, and Yevgenia is looking around, taking in everything with interest. "You have been to an IKEA before, right? To shop?" Yevgenia nods. "So you know how to use these to navigate around the showroom?" Grigoriy points to the blue and white sign hanging above them.

 "Sure. The numbers are for the different zones, and the lines show what's connected to what and what shortcuts there are, right?"

 "Exactly." Grigoriy gives a reassuring smile. "You're already an expert. We'll just quickly run through and I'll point out some things. I'm guessing Konstantin will have you working downstairs in warehouse and loading, because that's where we're short right now, but I want to make sure you know how to help people up here, just in case you have to."

 "All right," Yevgenia says, ever-agreeable, and they start walking. "What's your job, Grigoriy Savelievich?"

 "I'm a kitchen design consultant - well, that makes it sound classier than it really is. I help clueless people pick out the right sized countertops to match their tile, basically."

 "You must have helped a lot of people," Yevgenia says politely.

 "I guess. It's not the worst starving-artist job, by far. Much better than waiting tables."

 Yevgenia perks up and stumbles against the side of a floral-print BRÅTHULT. "Artist? Are you an artist, Grigoriy Savelievich?"

 Grigoriy scratches the back of his head, embarrassed that he'd somehow brought it up. "Ah, not really. I don't have any formal training, but I write music in my spare time.  I guess you could call it a hobby..."

 Yevgenia bounces back and forth on her feet, hands clasped earnestly in front of her. "No, Grigoriy Savelievich, just because you don't have training doesn't mean it can't be serious! I'm the same way, with film! I mean - " Yevgenia breaks off, self-consciousness catching up with her as well. "Well, it's not like I have the time or money to do that much, but, you know..."

 "I get it," Grigoriy says. "Hey, we have struggling artist solidarity. It's good."

 "It's good," Yevgenia repeats, smiling.

 "Speaking of, uh, whatever we were talking about, this is where I'm usually working," Grigoriy says as they walk into the kitchen showroom. "Let me show you how to use one of these kiosks."

 The exchange seems to have pulled Yevgenia out of her shell a little, because she talks more, laughs more, and even cracks a few jokes as Grigoriy shows her the employee equipment and walks her through the bedroom, storage, and children's sections of the showroom. Grigoriy is starting to understand what about this kid had Konstantin so enthused. Yevgenia is chill, her personality non-abrasive, the type who will probably work well with others. But she's also so attentive, listening to Grigoriy well and even asking questions of her own.

 "So, that's all the furniture, right?" Exiting the seasonal collections, they end up on the same landing by the escalators.

 "Yeah," Grigoriy answers. "And that's it for this floor. We'll go downstairs to see the decor and warehouse and stuff."

 "But..." Yevgenia looks to the huge, unlit open space of tables and chairs to their left. "We aren't going over there?"

 "I dunno, it's just the restaurant. I'm not sure there's anything interesting for us to see over there."

 " Grigoriy Savelievich, I heard food from IKEA is famous. You're not going to show me? What if someone asks me questions about it?"

 "Well -"

 ONE's eyes get even bigger and she tilts her head to the side. Fuck.

 "Okay, yes, we'll go over there." The extra minutes they'll spend wandering around the cafeteria and the kitchen are worth it for the pleased smile that breaks out across Yevgenia’s face. She and Grigoriy wade through the moonlit sea of tables, walking towards the back.

 Grigoriy doesn't stop, though, pushing through a set of doors going into the kitchen. He's only ever been back here with Konstantin, but he hasn't ever been told not to come back here, either. Still, he's not the most familiar with the layout, and he squints around until he finds the light switch.

 "Yevgenia Zakharovna, would you try to find where they keep the plates?"

 "Plates?" Yevgenia stares at him. "What are we doing? Is this some kind of quiz?"

 Grigoriy chuckles. "No quiz. We're going to eat meatballs. You said you were worried about customers asking you questions about IKEA's famous foods, right?"

 "Holy shit!" Yevgenia exclaims before catching herself and slapping a hand over her mouth, which just makes Grigoriy laugh even more. " Grigoriy Savelievich, you're my favorite person!"

 "Congratulations, you passed the quiz. I'll meet you at the walk-in fridge over there." Grigoriy points to a big stainless-steel door.

 "Aye-aye, captain!" Yevgenia jumps to look for plates, and Grigoriy goes to where he thinks he remembers the serving spoons are.

 It's a bit ridiculous that he's going to such lengths for the new employee he'd just met less than an hour ago. It'll easily add another half hour to the training time tonight, and Grigoriy already has dinner waiting for him at home (if Konstantin is to be trusted or believed). They'll have to wash all these dishes once they're done with them, too. But Grigoriy can't deny the lingering gratification of being called Yevgenia’s 'favorite person' a minute ago, nor can he deny that he and Yevgenia, for the past forty-five minutes, have been seriously vibing.

 He walks into the chill of the fridge and starts peeking at the contents of the various plastic-wrapped metal trays of leftovers on the shelves. The meatballs are, luckily, not hard to find. Yevgenia walks in shortly with two plates in hand.

 "You're not vegetarian, are you?" Grigoriy asks.

 "Nuh-uh. Gimme your meatiest of meatballs."

 "All right, meatiest meatballs, coming right up." Grigoriy opens the plastic wrap a bit in order to scoop a portion of meatballs for both of them, Yevgenia holding the plates steady.

 "Why does this remind me of that one scene in Spirited Away?" Yevgenia suddenly remarks. "You know, when the parents turn into pigs?"

 "That reminds you of this??" Grigoriy says incredulously. "There's literally no correlation. If this is any scene in Spirited Away it's when Haku gives Chihiro food from the spirit world so she doesn't fade away or whatever."

 "Aww, Grigoriy Savelievich, look, we're speaking the same cultural language!" Yevgenia beams.

 "Yeah, whatever." Grigoriy pushes the tray back to its spot and takes one of the plates from Yevgenia’s hand. "Now we just need to - wait - " He pauses and stares as Yevgenia takes a cold, dry meatball with her free hand and puts it in her mouth. "Seriously? We need to add sauce to these. And heat them up."

 Chewing, Yevgenia shrugs.

 Grigoriy laughs through his nose. "It's just that we're trying to give you the customer experience here... but, whatever floats your boat?"

 "I'm just hungry. Sorry, I didn't mean to offend the flavor gods."

 "Guy Fieri is going to come after you and kill you, so watch out," Grigoriy says, grabbing a jug of 'meatball gravy' and leaving the fridge.

 "I don't believe it. Guy Fieri would never hurt anybody."

 "Yeah, that's what he wants you to believe. You're buying into the propaganda." Grigoriy glances around and puts his plate down on the counter. "Ahh, we need some utensils. I'll grab them from outside."

 Without looking back, he pushes the kitchen doors aside and stalks singlemindedly over to the silverware station at the end of the buffet. A few seconds later he hears quick footsteps trailing after him.

 “Grigoriy Savelievich – in Flavortown they don’t call it ‘propaganda.’ It’s the ‘information menu.’”

 “And instead of Big Brother watching you, it’s –“ Grigoriy freezes at the faint sound of something crashing. “Did you hear that?”

 Yevgenia nods once, frowning, and tiptoes to stand next to Grigoriy. “It sounded like something shattering,” she murmurs. “Downstairs.”

 “Yeah. It did.”

 They stare at each other. Grigoriy is sure Yevgenia’s mind is racing as fast as his is. The sound is probably nothing. Stuff falls over sometimes. They sell plenty of ceramics and glassware – maybe a whole shelf became unstable, and they’re going to spend the rest of their night sweeping up shards of FÄRGRIK.

 That – or, there’s an intruder. Grigoriy has never dealt with that before, and he’s not quite sure what he’s going to do in that case. Especially since he has a new employee with him whose safety he feels responsible for right now.

 “It’s probably nothing,” Grigoriy whispers, reassuring himself. “Let’s check it out.”

 “Mm.” Yevgenia’s serious gaze is fixed on the brightly lit landing outside of the cafeteria. Grigoriy takes it as assent. He walks, slowly, cautiously, towards the light, straining his ears to hear anything other than Yevgenia’s quiet footsteps behind him. He hears nothing, feeling more relieved with every step forward.

 He’s just started down the stairs to the first-floor showrooms when he hears it.

 Laughter.

 Yevgenia’s hand lands on his shoulder as if to stop him, but he’s already frozen. Fuck. There really is somebody in here.

 “Dude, Jens, stop. Somebody’s going to hear,” says a deep voice. From the sound of it this person is not that far away, probably just a few meters from the bottom of the stairs.

 “With that spectacular fucking entrance of yours, there’s no way they haven’t heard us already,” retorts a second guy, maybe Jens. “I just think this situation is funny.”

 Grigoriy reaches a cold hand into his pocket and takes out his phone. He’s not panicking, he’s still thinking clearly enough, and he needs to act quickly before something worse happens and he freaks out. He needs to call the police before anything else. He needs to get himself and Yevgenia out of here, and then he needs to call Konstantin.

 “Just stay quiet and keep looking,” the first guy says.

 He unlocks his phone and opens to his keypad.

 “Cheer up, Sten, we just –“ Jens breaks off his sentence at the sound Grigoriy’s phone makes clattering down the stairs.

 “What - fuck - I can’t fucking believe you -“ Grigoriy hisses, whirling his glare around to Yevgenia on the step above him, who’s just wrenched the phone from Grigoriy’s hand and tossed it away. Like Yevgenia is trying to keep him from calling anybody. Yevgenia shakes her head emphatically, eyes wide and lips pressed tight.

 “Yevgenia Zakharovna?” Jens calls, tauntingly, still out of sight. “Is that you? We know you’re here, your car is in the parking lot…”

 “Do you know these people?” Yevgenia shakes her head just as frantically as before at Grigoriy’s whispered accusation.

 Grigoriy looks back down the stairs just in time to see two men come around the corner. He notes their fashionable all-black outfits right before seeing that both of them are carrying pistols.

 He gasps. Yevgenia’s fingers dig into his shoulder.

 “Hey, Genya, fancy seeing you here,” Jens says with a smirk. “I’m sure you know what we’re here for, so if you could just tell us where to find it, that would be a huge help.”

 Grigoriy focuses on breathing steadily.

 “I mean, it’s not like we expect you to help us, but it sure would make our lives easier. It’d make your life easier, too,” Sten adds.

 “Yeah, I’m not telling you shit,” Yevgenia says, her voice right behind Grigoriy’s ear. There’s a clicking sound, and Yevgenia’s arm extends beside Grigoriy, and fuck, Yevgenia is armed, too. “You guys should get out of here while you still can.”

 Yevgenia fires two shots into the air, vaguely above the other men’s heads, and Grigoriy flinches but lets himself be pulled up the last stairs and into the showroom.

 Right. They need to get out of here, and to do that they need to shake Sten and Jens, who he can hear coming up the stairs. They need to hide.

 “This way,” Grigoriy mutters, running in front of Yevgenia, a specific area in mind. They dash through the living rooms and the storage, and then he veers sharp-left through the shortcut to the bedroom furniture. A cursory glance at the options is all he needs before he’s dropping to the dusty floor and crawling under a queen-sized KVALFJORD draped with a long, patterned RÖDTOPPA. He scoots to the far side, and Yevgenia slides in next to him, facing the room, holding her gun at the ready.

 And then, for a few seconds, they wait. Evidently, Sten and Jens failed to realize they’d taken the shortcut, because they run into the room from dining as opposed to storage. Grigoriy doesn’t even have the time to consider the possibility that they could be discovered before the two men are rushing into the kitchen showroom.

 They lie in silence for another minute, listening, before Yevgenia rolls onto her back and exhales.

 “Grigoriy Savelievich, I’m really sorry about that,” she says quietly. “I’m so –“

 “Call me Grisha,” Grigoriy interjects.

 “Hm?”

 “We just got chased through an IKEA by men with guns. I think we’ve reached that point.”

 It draws a small smile from Yevgenia that quickly disappears. “Okay, Grisha. I’m sorry this is happening tonight. It’s my fault.”

 “I appreciate the apology, but I’d prefer an explanation.”

 “Yeah,” Yevgenia sighs. “Let me call someone first. Then I’ll explain.”

��Grigoriy lay listening and watching as Yevgenia pulls up the recent calls on her phone, calls the number at the top of the list, and proceeds to have a short conversation.

 “Alyosha?… Yeah, I have a situation… Jens Angström and Sten Blomstedt are here. They broke in… Yeah, the IKEA… No, we’re fine, but I don’t know how to get them to leave… I don’t – no, that’s the problem. I don’t know where it is either… The garage? Okay, tell me when you get close… Okay. Yeah.”

 The call ends. Yevgenia turns to face Grigoriy.

 “Some backup is coming to help us with get rid of those guys,” Yevgenia says. “My boss and probably someone else. We just need to not get discovered before then.”

 “Okay… So, what are they here for? Jens and Sten? They’re looking for something?”

 “They’re looking for some information that I hid -” she gestures around. “- around here. I don’t know how they found out, but, well, they’re here now. But the problem is, I hid it in one of the desks in the showroom, but it’s not in there anymore. I don’t know where it went, but they think I know where it is.”

 “What was it? Some kind of file?”

 “It’s a flash drive. Encrypted. It has important information about some certain business stuff – “

 “From your other job? Your friend’s business?”

 Yevgenia nods.

 “Is this some sort of…” Grigoriy hesitates to bring it up. “Crime thing?”

 “Uhh. Yes,” Yevgenia admits. “The thing I called my friend’s business is definitely not a legitimate business. And those two guys are from a rival syndicate. The Swedes.”

 Syndicate. Grigoriy gulps. That sounds pretty serious.

 “First, I somehow let them find out what my plan was, and then I lost the thumb drive, and then I dragged you into this mess. So, basically, I’ve been doing a great fucking job proving myself on this assignment.”

 “Let’s focus on how to resolve the situation as harmlessly as possible,” Grigoriy advises. “The self-critical post-op can come after the fact.”

 “Okay, mister therapist.” Yevgenia glances at her phone. “They’re going to get here in a few minutes, and I said I’d meet them in the parking garage under the building. But we’ll have to be careful not to bump into the others.”

 “The quickest way is to go back down those front escalators and to the left. There’s another set of stairs that goes down to the parking garage, and since it’s in an open area – well, I don’t know if that’d be safer or not.”

 “It should be.” Yevgenia turns and raises the bedspread a bit to glance around the room. “I’ll go first. They aren’t targeting you, so you should be safe.”

 “Okay. Let’s go.”

 Yevgenia quietly rolls out from under the bed; Grigoriy extricates himself with a bit more noise. It’s all silent as they navigate through the showroom, Yevgenia creeping out ahead to survey the territory and Grigoriy coming along carefully behind. He’s feeling the suspense, sure, but now that there’s no apparent danger he can’t help but feel like he’s watching his own personal action movie. It’s kind of exciting. And Yevgenia makes for quite the dashing action hero, if one takes the whole criminal element out of it.

 They make it down to the garage without incident, avoiding glass shards from the window Sten and Jens had broken. “If they’re looking for a tiny little object, the first-floor showroom and the warehouse are probably the most time consuming to look through,” Grigoriy rationalizes.

 “That’s good, because I really don’t think it’s in either of those places,” Yevgenia answers. She identifies a strategic place to stand, somewhere next to a column they could hide behind but with a wide range of visibility. “And now, we wait. Or – I’m staying and waiting.” She shrugs. “Obviously you can do whatever you think is best.”

 “Right.” Grigoriy hasn’t considered that he could leave. Certainly it would be safer to do so, but what would Konstantin do? He certainly wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving the fate of his IKEA to some unsupervised gang members. If Grigoriy stays, he can give Yevgenia’s side an advantage that’ll surely resolve the situation with less damage to the store.

 “You aren’t going anywhere,” Yevgenia observes. “Is my company that enjoyable?”

 “Something like that.”

 “I’m flattered.” Yevgenia doesn’t look away from the entrance to the garage. “I thought you’d want nothing to do with me after you saw what I’m really here for.”

 “I’m more concerned than anything else.”’

 “Aren’t you afraid of me? I just shot at the ceiling of your IKEA.”

 “I don’t mean to condone crime or offend your sensibilities,” Grigoriy says. “But in retrospect that was kind of hot.”

 Yevgenia snorts. “In retrospect.”

 “Well, at that moment I was busy freaking out.”

 Yevgenia leans over, giggling. “That’s too cute.”

 It’s only a few moments before a car pulls into the garage. Grigoriy assumes this is the vehicle they are expecting, because Yevgenia waves at it, and it blinks its headlights.

 The car parks close to the store entrance, and they walk over to meet the two men who step out of it.

 “Guys!” Yevgenia calls, and she tugs on Grigoriy’s sleeve. “This is Grigoriy Savelievich. He works here and he’s been helping me. Grisha,” she continues. “This is Aleksei Fyodorovich, my boss, and Timofey Timurovich, my coworker.”

 “Nice to meet you, Grigoriy Savelievich,” Aleksei says. “Thanks for tolerating all this nonsense. I hope we haven’t caused you too much trouble.”

 “I’ve had an interesting night,” Grigoriy says. It’s not a lie.

 “Hey Grigoriy Savelievich,” Timofey acknowledges. “So, Genya, what exactly are we doing here?”

 “I just want to get the guys out of the building,” Yevgenia says. “Then I’ll quickly track down the thumb drive and get out of here.”

 “You think you can find it?” Aleksei asks.

 “Yeah, I know what I’m looking for. I bet it won’t take more than an hour.”

 “But – wait,” Grigoriy interjects. “Wouldn’t those guys just come back with more people?”

 Timofey gives him a weird look, but Aleksei nods like he made a valid point. “The key is that they think I know where it is,” Yevgenia answers. “They’ll probably assume that we’ll be gone with it by the time they get back.”

 “How does Grigoriy Savelievich factor into this?” Aleksei asks. “Is he going home?”

 “Uh, no, I don’t think so…” Yevgenia looks at Grigoriy expectantly.

 “I’m staying until the situation is resolved,” Grigoriy says. “My knowledge can give you the home field advantage, and the sooner you finish this and leave my store, the better.”

 “All right. I appreciate that attitude,” Aleksei says. “Genya, make sure he doesn’t die, okay?”

 They walk back into the store entrance, and Grigoriy dashes to the guard’s station nearby. The others watch as he pulls a view of all the store’s surveillance cameras, Yevgenia’s hand landing on his shoulder again as they crowd around. Two fuzzy figures are visible moving around one of the rooms.

 “That’s certainly handy,” Aleksei remarks.

 “They’re on this floor,” Grigoriy explains. “They’re in the ‘home organization’ section, probably looking in through all the storage units.”

 Aleksei hums in acknowledgement. “How do we get there?”

 “Well, there are three ways to get in and out of this room.” Grigoriy points at different views on the monitor to illustrate his point. “There’s a shortcut from the textiles section as well as the section before it, which is bathroom stuff, and the section after it, which is lighting.”

 “We can split up,” Aleksei says. “Let’s all take different exits to keep them from getting away. We’ll have to be quiet. Grigoriy can show us where to go, and then we’ll all take them by surprise and hopefully avoid too much of a confrontation. Okay?”

 “Okay,” Yevgenia replies. Timofey nods as well.

 Grigoriy cranes his neck to look back at Yevgenia. “I’d like to go pick up my phone from where you dropped it, though.”

 “Oh, right,” Yevgenia says sheepishly, dropping her eyes to the floor. “Yeah. Sorry about that. It’s my fault, so… yeah. I’ll cover any damage.”

 “I appreciate that.” Grigoriy catches a questioning look from Timofey and the frown Aleksei has directed at Yevgenia. “Don’t worry about it, it was just a little chaotic before you guys arrived. It’s no big deal.”

 “Okay,” Aleksei says, glancing between Yevgenia and Grigoriy before turning away. “If you say so. Let’s get going.”

 “Thank you, Grisha,” Yevgenia whispers once the other two are out of earshot. “I don’t deserve you being so nice to me.”

 Grigoriy just smiles before following the others.

 Luckily, his phone hasn’t incurred any apparent damage, having only fallen a couple of steps. He pockets it and returns to his companions at the bottom of the stairs, continuing past them to the entrance to the marketplace.

 They creep through tableware and the cooking implements. He’s tense, but not so focused on the task at hand that he doesn’t notice that the shelves are a bit of a mess. Sten and Jens have clearly swept through this area in search of the USB drive, not caring if they leave some chaos in their wake.

 It’ll be a bitch to clean everything up before tomorrow. He tries not to think about it too much.

 They enter the textile section. The shortcut is on the far side of the room, and Grigoriy can hear Sten and Jens shuffling about on the other side, which means that the reciprocal is true as well.

 Grigoriy doesn’t say a word; he just points at Aleksei and then points at the doorway next to the curtain samples. Aleksei nods and, gun drawn, walks to the entrance impressively silently. He nods to the other three, and they continue.

 “This is the lamest way I’ve spent a Thursday night in five years,” Sten remarks. Grigoriy, startled, gasps and freezes, but Yevgenia nudges him to keep walking to the next room.

 “Really?” Jens says. “What did you do last week?”

 “Last Thursday night I baked bread from scratch,” Sten says. “It was infinitely less lame than looking through stacks of fifty of, like, whatever the fuck this is.”

 Their voices fade as Grigoriy, Yevgenia, and Timofey walk into a second room of textiles, and then through the rugs.

 “I think those are file folder organizers,” Jens remarks.

 “They’re FJÄLLA, Jens. Obviously.”

 “Right, of course that’s what they are.”

 In the bathroom organization section, Grigoriy repeats what he did before, gesturing for Timofey to stand by the correct door, over next to the patterned towels. Grigoriy and Yevgenia creep through the shortcut to home decor.

 “I’ve finished with these, anyway,” Sten says.

 “Did you check thoroughly?”

 “Of course I did, Jens.”

 “I just can’t help but think it’s in this room,” Jens continues. “Since there are so many compartments.”

 “Right. Well, I’ll start on these over here.”

 Grigoriy and Yevgenia pass through the quietly ticking maze of clocks that is wall decor and finally arrive at lighting. The room is dark, all the sample light fixtures having been turned off for the day. Yevgenia points at the entrance to home organization and tilts her head questioningly. Grigoriy nods, then points to himself, silently asking if he should follow. Yevgenia points at the floor, telling him to wait here, before taking off towards the home organization room at a fast walk.

 Grigoriy can’t see what happens next. He stands in place, holding his breath, glancing between the way Yevgenia went and the way he’d run if he needed to escape, and listening.

 “Everybody freeze!” he hears Yevgenia bark. Jens yelps. Something falls to the floor with a muted thud.

 “Drop your weapons,” Aleksei commands. “I want to see them on the ground.”

 “Timofey Timurovich?” Sten says.

 “Sten Blomstedt,” Timofey answers. “Hurry up and cooperate, okay?”

 All Grigoriy hears for the next few moments are some quiet shuffling noises. It doesn’t sound bad, and he starts to breathe again.

 “Good,” Aleksei says. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Timofey Timurovich will collect your belongings, and Grigoriy Savelievich will show us the way out.”

 Grigoriy figures that this is his cue. He walks to the doorway and peeks into the room. Sten and Jens are standing in the center of the space, hands slightly raised, and Timofey is walking between them, picking up their guns from the ground.

 “We’ll walk you to the parking lot, and then you’re going to leave, okay?” Aleksei continues. “Surely you can find a more entertaining way to spend a Thursday night.”

 “I can think of several,” Sten replies.

 Aleksei and Yevgenia keep their guns trained on Sten and Jens as they move forward and start to guide them to the door where Grigoriy is waiting.

 “We’ll go out through the warehouse.” Grigoriy turns back into the lighting room and walks towards wall decor. “That’s the fastest way to get to the parking lot.”

 “We’re sorry for messing up your store, Grigoriy Savelievich,” Jens says. Grigoriy doesn’t respond. While he does appreciate that Jens understands the trouble they’ve caused, he’s not about to pardon it.

 “Well, we wouldn’t have ‘messed up the store’ if dear Yevgenia Zakharovna hadn’t been so stubborn,” Sten adds with a small smirk.

 “You broke a window to get in here,” Grigoriy points out, a bit annoyed by Sten’s attitude. “And it’s no one’s fault but your own. You could have stayed home and made more bread.”

 “Oh, come on,” says Sten. They’re stepping into the unsettling darkness of the warehouse. “We had to at least try to stop that information from getting out.”

 “Sure,” Aleksei says. “But – forgive me for asking – how did you two know about this?”

 “You know we can’t tell you about that,” Jens says, looking around at the shelving.

 “I swear the only people who knew I was coming here today were you and Tima,” says Yevgenia. “Like, I could be wrong, but I was pretty careful about it.”

 “So it could have been any one of the three of us who let something slip,” Aleksei reasons. “Tima, you don’t think you could have accidentally let some information slip, do you?”

 “Um. Me? No,” Timofey answers, trailing the group, looking uncomfortable holding three pistols awkwardly in his hands. Grigoriy is walking to the side, quietly observing. It seems to him like the conversation is high-stakes, but his companions are trying to approach the sensitive topic of leaking information rather casually.

 “I’m curious about how you know Sten Blomstedt here,” Aleksei says. It doesn’t sound like an accusation.

 “Oh…” Sten, frowning, turns to look as Timofey answers. “We’ve met before… personally. Not through work.”

 Grigoriy physically startles at the sound of a box being disturbed high on a shelf, to the right side in front of the group. He looks up, but it’s much too dark to make out the silhouettes of the items up above. He thinks, maybe, that he sees a brief flash of red light, but that’s probably the blink of a smoke detector –

 “Fuck, look out!” Yevgenia shouts, and she lunges towards Aleksei, who staggers as Yevgenia pulls him to the side. Grigoriy has just enough time to realize he doesn’t know what to do before a loud bang sounds and reverberates through the vastness of the warehouse. Grigoriy jumps, and he hears someone else yell, maybe Jens. There’s now a messy hole in the floor behind where Aleksei was just standing.

 “Alyosha, are you okay?” Yevgenia asks, eyes wide, gripping Aleksei’s jacket tightly with one hand.

 “I’m fine, Genya. It’s Lavro.” Aleksei recovers quickly from the surprise, raising his weapon to fire three times at the top of the shelf. “Cover Grisha and, everyone, keep moving.”

 Yevgenia rushes over to Grigoriy and grabs his shoulders, still looking a bit shocked. “Stay behind me, okay, Grisha? I won’t let you get hurt.”

 “I will,” Grigoriy assures him. “Now come on, let’s keep up.” Sten, Jens, Timofey, and Aleksei have moved ahead, using the mid-aisles displays as a bit of cover. Aleksei is still firing intermittently on the invisible enemy, who perhaps because of this hasn’t yet had the opportunity to return fire. Timofey looks conflicted, unable to help Aleksei while his hands are full.

 “Tima,” Grigoriy hears Sten say. “Now is the right time.”

 “Tima? What’s going on?” Aleksei asks, darting from behind one stack of boxes to another. He doesn’t look back, so he doesn’t see Timofey handing Sten and Jens’ guns back to them. A second shot from above hits the boxes Aleksei is hiding behind, and Grigoriy grasps the back of Yevgenia’s hoodie with both hands as they duck behind the closest stack next to Timofey’s.

 “They’re going to help us ward off Lavro,” Timofey calls.

 “Don’t!” Aleksei protests. “Shit, Timofey, did you already – now they’re –“

 “Stop worrying, boss man,” Jens says, returning fire on so-called Lavro. “We’re here to help.”

 “Who is Lavro?” Grigoriy whispers.

 “Lavro is a sniper who’s under one of Aleksei’s rivals within our syndicate.” Timofey moves to the next display, and Yevgenia, with Grigoriy still firmly attached, darts to occupy the vacated space. “They’ve tried to assassinate him a couple of times.”

 “Damn.” So. There are three armed, warring mafia factions engaging in a shootout in Grigoriy’s warehouse. Konstantin’s warehouse. Konstantin might have been able to find some clever way to resolve this situation, but Grigoriy is still glad he’s not here tonight. He recalls the conversation they had in Konstantin’s office not even two hours ago. He pictures Konstantin sorting through the day’s lost-and-found items, both of them blissfully ignorant of the criminal shenanigans planned for their poor, innocent IKEA.

 He sees Konstantin holding a black umbrella, a red and white baseball cap, and an Iron Man pencil case.

 He sees Konstantin unzip the pencil case.

 He sees the USB drive.

 “Genya!” He tugs hard on Yevgenia’s hoodie. “Fuck! Fuck, I know where it is.”

 “What?”

 Grigoriy bangs his head against Yevgenia’s back. “The fucking flash drive. I just remembered. I saw it right before you got here tonight. It’s back in the manager’s office.”

 “Where? Where’s the office?”

 “It’s back –“ Grigoriy lets go with one hand to point to the front of the warehouse. “It’s near the checkout. We can get there by going through the rest of the warehouse or by doubling back and going around.”

 “Let’s go around,” Yevgenia says. “The rest can hold their own against Lavro. He’s only going for Aleksei anyway, so he shouldn’t bother us… right?”

 “Yeah.” Grigoriy has lost track of the positions of the others; he looks up and sees that they’ve managed to move ahead by several aisles. “Let’s go.”

 They keep low to the ground and scurry back the way they came. Grigoriy feels safer as they increase their distance from the action. When they get out of the warehouse, he leads Yevgenia through the convoluted tangle of IKEA showroom space for the nth time that night.

 Back into the lobby, passing the stairs and cart escalator that lead down to the parking area; ducking low as they run through the lanes for checkout, so they won’t be seen by the five that are still engaged in the gunfight next door; past the little area they maintain for clearance or damage-discounted items; and, with the help of Konstantin’s set of keys, into Konstantin’s office down the ‘employees only’ hallway.

 “God, finally.” Grigoriy sighs and falls to his knees in front of the blessed box Konstantin’s desk. He sticks a hand in and rummages around a little before pulling the Iron Man pencil case out of the pile.

 “The whole thing is yours?” he asks, turning on his heels to face Yevgenia, and she nods and reaches out with one hand.

 A wave of sudden fear washes over Grigoriy. Because, yes, Konstantin has a high opinion of Yevgenia, and that has helped to influence Grigoriy’s trust of her thus far. But Yevgenia works for and with criminals, and that much, Grigoriy has no reason to trust. He wants to help Yevgenia, his new friend, but he really doesn’t want to be responsible for the harvesting of organs or the extortion of small business owners or whatever a crime syndicate does. He doesn’t want to help something bad.

 Grigoriy retracts his arm, pulling the pencil case to his chest.

 “I know you could take it from me if you wanted –“

 “I wouldn’t,” Yevgenia quickly interjects.

 “- but even so,” Grigoriy continues, gaze fixed on Yevgenia’s face for any sign of guilt or conniving. “Before I give this to you willingly I need you to tell me this information won’t be used to hurt people.”

 Yevgenia nods. “I get it, Grisha. But you can’t tell anyone about it, or you’ll put yourself in danger.”

 “Tell me.”

 “We collected a bunch of dirt on one of our most powerful enemies,” Yevgenia explains, maintaining Grigoriy’s eye contact, giving the perfect impression of honesty. “The big boss of Sten and Jens’ organization. And we were trying to pass it along to a journalist in a way where their identity would remain a secret.”

 Grigoriy tilts his head as he considers the story. It certainly seems plausible, but it’s also the perfect fib to get him to hand the thing over.

 “Please, Grisha, you can look at the files if you want. I swear it’s the truth.”

 “Fine, fine, fine.” Grigoriy all but throws the pencil case into Yevgenia’s hands. “If I find out you’re tricking me, I’ll be very disappointed, but for now, let’s just go.”

 “Thank you, Grisha.” Yevgenia cradles the pencil case like an ancient relic, removing the drive and pocketing it. Grigoriy stands and follows Yevgenia to the door. “I won’t let you down… Tima? What are you doing here?”

 Grigoriy steps into the hallway next to Yevgenia and sees Timofey standing a few steps ahead, one hand outstretched.

 “I hate to interrupt this touching heart-to-heart between new friends,” he says, “but I need the contents of that pencil case. Hand it over.”

 “What? Tima, no. It’s mine and I’ll hold onto it until we get back.”

 Grigoriy looks back and forth between the two coworkers. Yevgenia’s tone is carelessly friendly; doesn’t she feel the same trepidation Grigoriy does? Doesn’t she see the steely resolve in Timofey’s expression? She has to see it now, now that Timofey is extending his other arm too, the one with the gun in it.

 “It wasn’t a request,” Timofey says, harshly, like spitting out the words is painful.

 “Tima? Why are you pointing that thing at us?”

 “Give the thumb drive to me and you won’t have to find out.”

 Obviously, it’s a warning. Yevgenia just seems confused. “What are you talking about? You’d never shoot me; aren’t I your friend?”

 “Yes, we’re friends,” Timofey says, and he removes the safety. “But it’s not personal.”

 “It is personal,” Yevgenia insists.

 “I can’t believe this. Do you think so little of me?” Timofey says, and Grigoriy gulps, because now the issue does seem personal, like now Timofey has something to prove. “I’ll give you to the count of three. One.”

 “Genya,” Grigoriy croaks.

 “He won’t do it,” Yevgenia replies.

 “Two.”

 “He is going to, God, Yevgenia!” Grigoriy cries, desperate, because how does she not see it? How doesn’t she understand that in just a second she’s going to get hurt?

 If Yevgenia isn’t going to do anything to protect herself, then Grigoriy has to do it. He doesn’t give himself a moment to think about it; as Timofey counts ‘three’ he charges forward, dashing in front of Yevgenia, trying to reach Timofey at tackle him, disarm him, do something.

 “No!” Yevgenia shrieks, and after some loud noise and a confusing moment where Grigoriy doesn’t know what he’s seeing or what his body is doing – oh, he’s falling, he must be falling backwards – he’s caught and held up from behind, and it hurts, what the hell, he’s never felt pain exactly like this before. It’s all he can sense for an indeterminate amount of time, before his hearing and vision suddenly pop back into comprehension. Timofey is backing away, Yevgenia yelling at him to leave, her voice close to Grigoriy’s ears, too loud. But whatever she says gets Timofey to turn and run away, out of sight.

 “Grisha, Grisha, Grisha,” Yevgenia chants, voice quieter, more bearable. “Are you okay? Grisha?”

 “Fucking – hurts –“ Grigoriy rasps, and he yelps when Yevgenia’s arms tighten around him. “Christ!”

 “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry.” Yevgenia loosens her grip a little, lowering Grigoriy’s upper body a few inches to the ground. “It hurts because you got shot – which is my fault. I think he just got you in the shoulder but I need you to tell me if you feel like you’re dying for real or if it’s like it’s just your shoulder and that’s all.” Yevgenia speaks so frantically quickly that trying to follow her train of thought distracts Grigoriy from his pain for a moment, until Yevgenia’s question makes him turn his attention inward once again. He isn’t confident that he can differentiate between getting shot nonfatally and “dying for real,” but thankfully he feels more of the former than the latter.

 “Not dying,” Grigoriy replies.

 “Oh, thank God.” Yevgenia’s relieved head hangs over Grigoriy as her posture deflates a little. “I was so worried – but!” Yevgenia’s eyes snap back open and she sits up abruptly. Grigoriy wants to laugh but doesn’t because it would probably disturb his shoulder. “It’s still my fault that you’re hurt. As if I haven’t caused you enough hardship tonight already…”

 “I’m the one who jumped out in front of you,” Grigoriy points out, voice weaker than he’d like. “And Timofey’s the one who fired the gun.”

 “I didn’t believe he would do it,” Yevgenia says, looking off into space. “Stupidly. I trusted him, or mis-estimated him. Stupid. You had to jump in and save me.”

 “Whatever. Now it’s your turn to save me and get me out of here before I really do bleed to death.”

 “Right.” Yevgenia smooths her hand down the leg of her pants, seeming to come back to herself. “You’re right. But I’ll make this all up to you, one day, okay?”

 “I believe you.” Although, Grigoriy isn’t sure what kind of relationship or contact, if any, they’ll have after tonight is over. “So, to get out of here…”

 “I’d like to avoid the warehouse as much as possible,” Yevgenia says. “It’ll be dangerous out there.”

 “I agree. If you look at the end of the hall, you’ll see an emergency exit. See it?”

 Yevgenia twists around to look. “Yeah. But won’t it raise an alarm?”

 “You can turn it off with Konstantin’s keys. Take the lanyard over there and try the key with the blue tape on it. It should work.”

 “And leave you lying here?” Yevgenia looks down with concern. “What if someone else comes by?”

 “Just go do it.” Yevgenia nods and stands. There are dark patches of Grigoriy’s blood on her clothes.

 While she’s fiddling with the door, Grigoriy lies there, feeling bad. He feels bad for whoever’s going to have to clean up his blood from the floor, he feels bad that Konstantin will need to find some way to fix all of this damage, and of course he takes some time to feel bad for himself. If only he were training some normal, boring kid starting a new seasonal retail job at IKEA, they would have had their leftover meatballs, finished the tour, and gone home by now. He’d be eating takeout for dinner with Konstantin right now, not lying in partial agony, bleeding all over the floor, probably a long night of medical procedures still ahead of him.

 “I got it,” Yevgenia calls, walking back to Grigoriy. She crouches down and gently tucks the lanyard around Grigoriy’s neck. “Do you think you can walk?”

 “I can try.”

 Yevgenia positions herself in front of Grigoriy and holds out a hand for Grigoriy to grab, on his uninjured side. She pulls Grigoriy into a sitting position, and it’s excruciating. Yevgenia tries to lift him up to stand, but Grigoriy’s legs give out and he falls back down, panting and blinking tears out of his eyes.

 “I don’t think I can do it.”

 “It’s fine. I’ll carry you.” Yevgenia crouches back down to look him in the eye. “It’ll still hurt, okay? The other thing I can do is go get help and come back, but I don’t want to leave you alone, and it would take longer.”

 “Just carry me. I’ll be fine.”

 “Okay.” Yevgenia weaves one arm under Grigoriy’s knees and the other around his torso. “Hold on with your good arm. I’m sorry, this is going to hurt. I’ll lift you in three, two, one.”

 “Hhh – aahhhh.” Grigoriy groans through his teeth as he’s lifted into the air. Yevgenia doesn’t seem to struggle with his weight.

 “Sorry, I’m sorry, Grisha,” Yevgenia says as she shifts Grigoriy a bit in his arms, triggering another wave of pain. “I’m going to carry you down to the garage. Don’t pass out.”

 Grigoriy can’t bring himself to reply. His head flops against Yevgenia’s shoulder and as they walk, he focuses on breathing steadily. Underneath the metallic scent of blood, he can pick out the comforting laundry smell of Yevgenia’s hoodie. He concentrates on it, closing his eyes. He hears the emergency exit door open in front of them and then close behind them. He hears Yevgenia walking over gravel before reaching smooth pavement. He thinks he can hear gunfire being exchanged somewhere in the distance.

 “Are you still with me?” Yevgenia’s voice comes out shakily.

 “I am.” Maybe Yevgenia will feel reassured if he keeps his eyes open. “Genya – are you crying?” He’s not sure why he asks; Yevgenia’s eyes in the moonlight are very wet, her face a little wet too.

 “No… maybe. Maybe not.”

 “I don’t want you to cry. I’ll be okay. We’ll both be okay.”

 “I know,” Yevgenia replies. “I’m just so upset that this happened to you. And I hate that you’re in pain.”

 Grigoriy sighs and closes his eyes again. There’s not much he can do about all that.

 The gunshots get louder as they advance further into the garage. Eventually Grigoriy opens his eyes to assess what’s going on, and he sees a few busy, confusing human figures battling it out by the checkout escalators. Somebody – he thinks it’s Aleksei – has made a shield out of a rectangular section of oak tabletop (LANEBERG, his brain oh so helpfully supplies).

 Yevgenia runs up to a car – he recalls that it’s the one Aleksei and Timofey arrived in, parked close to the front – and she opens the door to the backseat using the hand that’s also supporting Grigoriy’s legs. She sets Grigoriy down so he’s lying across the seats, apologizing again for the movements that put stress on the injured shoulder. Then Yevgenia is hopping into the driver’s seat, starting the car, and – nothing.

 “Why aren’t we going?” Grigoriy asks from the back.

 “I need to get Alyosha.” Yevgenia watches intently out the window, monitoring the fight. “If Timofey betrayed us, then he’s alone fighting against maybe four guys. He could have gotten hurt.”

 It made sense, or was good, even, that Yevgenia would think of her boss and try to ensure his safety even with another guy bleeding all over the car. Grigoriy can’t help but feel a little impatient, nevertheless. “I think I saw him a second ago. He looked fine.”

 “Good,” Yevgenia replies. She rolls down is window a little, to yell ‘Alyosha!’ out of it. “He’s coming here now.”

 Sure enough, a few moments later, Aleksei jumps into the passenger’s seat, slamming the door behind himself. “Let’s go,” he says, and Yevgenia pulls out of the parking spot and races out of the garage. A last gunshot follows their trajectory and misses.

 “Grisha is with us,” Yevgenia says. “He got shot by Tima.”

 “Oh!” Aleksei turns in his seat, evidently surprised to see him. “Grigoriy Savelievich! I’m so sorry about that.”

 “Me too,” Grigoriy says. “Where are we going?”

 “We’re heading back to our base,” Aleksei explains. “I can get someone experienced there to patch you up. It’ll be faster and safer than visiting a hospital and waiting around with a bunch of sick people, but I will take you there if you insist.”

 “Whatever you think is best.” He’s too tired to feel trepidation over visiting their lair. “I need to call Kostya and let him know.”

 Aleksei squints. “Who?”

 “The IKEA manager,” Yevgenia supplies.

 “Yeah. He’s my roommate, and he’s waiting for me to get home.” Grigoriy wiggles his good hand into his pants pocket and pulls his phone out, unlocking it with one of his thumbs. Aleksei tugs it out of his hand and opens to the keypad.

 “What’s the number?” he asks. Grigoriy recites it.

 Konstantin picks up after only a few rings. “Grisha?” he asks, but his voice through speakerphone is jarring and Grigoriy doesn’t know what to say.

 “Kostya –“ he starts, and doesn’t continue.

 “Are you done with the training?” Konstantin asks cheerfully. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

 “Well.” Grigoriy’s chuckle comes out as more of a cough. “It was pretty bad, actually.”

 “Aw, really?” Konstantin sighs. “That’s so depressing. Yevgenia Zakharovna and I hit it off really well. I was certain –“

 “No, no, Genya is great. She’s amazing,” Grigoriy says, making brief, slightly awkward eye contact with Yevgenia through the rear-view mirror. “We could have had a perfectly nice night at the IKEA. It’s just that – please don’t freak out – I got shot.”

 “You got WHAT?”

[jii-chandraws]

It been 5evr since I posted any art! So, here’s one of my latest OCs, Kostya Levski! Grumpy high school dropout, would probably steal your car, has hospital trauma gets into too many fights. I also gave him my chronic illness -- cuz how else does a man cope, y’know?

I’ll have to make some colored stuff of his bf Javier, and then draw them together (digitally, or at least make one of my traditional ones digital) cuz I never really draw more than 1 character. The earliest digital of him is the middle one, and the most recent one is the one on the right, iirc. His hair is the only thing about his design that’s truly changed. I wanted it to look lighter and messier. It’s definitely more fun to draw that way.

Within the time I been inactive here, I’ve graduated college with my 2 degrees, I have a retail job now, and I’m busy with weightlifting stuff. I have a competition in a few weeks. But I’m trying to draw more again!!

[poppy-in-the-woods]

Let’s Be Weirdos Together (Chapter 3)

Summary: Alice O’Riley is a lonely outcast. She’s ready to finish the senior year and get the hell out of her hometown… until she meets Kostya and he turns her world upside down.

Pairing: Kostya Bocharov/OFC

Overall tags: high school, romance, fluff, real person fanfiction, deffo smut in the future!

Tags for this chapter: high school, food, love at first sight.

Author’s note: So, here’s the third chapter, yay!. Thanks again to kostyaaas for encouraging me to post this and thanks to mycoolodessaguy for beta-reading this (They’re so cool, you should check their blogs if you haven’t yet). Hope you like this cheesy high school AU and remember that feedback is always welcome.

3 Sochniki and cat hair

Next day, when Letha and I arrived at the parking lot, Kostya was already there. He approached us as Letha parked the car, smiling.

—Good morning, my friends!

—Good morning, Kostya.

—How are you feeling today, Alice, my angel?

—Better, thank you—I replied, smiling back at him.

—Joroschó—he said. I was going to need an accelerated course in Russian if the boy kept switching languages.

He offered me his arm and I gladly accepted it. I thought I was the happiest person on Earth as we walked towards the school, with our arms intertwined. His muscles felt firm and strong and I wondered how his skin would feel under my fingertips. Would it be soft? Would it be cold, like his hands were?

—Have you brought it?—Letha asked, bringing me back down to Earth. He nodded.

—Brought what?—I wanted to know. Those two were plotting something.

—It’s a surprise—Kostya said, winking.

—Whatever—I rolled my eyes at those two dorks—. Kostya, you have cat hair on your clothes—I noticed, catching one of the little grey hairs from his sleeve and removing it.

—I thought I had removed every last one this morning…! My cat, Citrus, likes to sit on clean laundry.

—Isn’t that what all cats do?—Letha laughed.

—I guess so—he shrugged and we laughed—. Do you like cats, Alice?

—I love cats! I love animals, but my parents won’t let me have a pet—I said, pouting.

—That’s a shame. You should come to my house someday, and meet Citrus—he suggested.

—Yeah, sure.

We had the same first class, so we hung out in the classroom, chatting and laughing. I tried to make them tell me what was going on, but they wouldn’t spill the beans. Letha would make a zipper motion over her mouth and Kostya would laugh and shake his head.

—You will see it soon, I promise.

As the bell rang and other students entered the classroom, we sat at our respective desks. Letha winked at me.

—I see you have put on The Dress this morning.

Everybody has this piece of clothing that they put on when they feel especially happy, or sexy, or confident. Mine was a black and red dress my mom bought me as a present for my fifteenth birthday. It made me feel like I was the queen of the world and I wore it whenever I needed a confidence boost. The Dress was my armour and I was ready to step into battle.

Except… nobody seemed to bother me that day. No “killer!” whispered in the hallways, nobody bumping my shoulder as I passed… nothing. I told Letha how weird that was and she just shrugged.

—Maybe the universe wants you to have a good day—she said.

I was even acing all the questions and math problems, and Good God, I hated calculus! My dad wanted me to be an architect like him, but I wanted to be a painter.  As I headed for the tables outside the canteen for lunch (because the weather was still good and it would be a shame not to use them), I wondered if Kostya would let me draw him.

He was waiting for me at my usual table. He had his tray and another one filled with food, and a white cardboard box next to them.

—What is that?—I asked, looking at the box while I sat down. My bare knees brushed his slightly, making a chill run down my spine.

—Lunch before dessert, young lady!—he mockingly chastised me.

—Okay. Did you pay for my food too?—I asked. He nodded—You didn’t have to!

—It is no big deal—he said.

—It is for me—I said, looking straight into his eyes. That day he was wearing a black contact lens instead of the white one.

He smiled at me, noticing how our dialogue mimicked the one we had the day before and pushed one of the trays in front of me.

—Now eat—he commanded. I resisted the urge to make a snarky remark and began to eat.

He mostly looked at me as we ate. He also talked about how different school was in Ukraine, and how he missed being surrounded with people who spoke his mother language.

—I have to translate everything I said in my head before I say it, it’s exhausting!

—You could teach me your language—I suggested.

—I have found Slavic languages are pretty hard to learn for English speakers, but maybe someday—he said.

As I finished eating, he pushed the box in front of me. It was tied shut with a purple ribbon, forming a cute bow at the top.

—Open it—he encouraged me.

I did so, and inside the box, there were these cute tiny…

—What are these?—I asked.

Whatever they were, they looked fucking delicious, but I like to know what I am eating.

—They’re called sochniki—he explained with a proud smile on his face—. It’s a traditional dessert from Ukraine. We also eat them with tea.

Traditional food from his homeland? Fucking sign me up! I was already taking a bite out of one before he could finish the sentence.

—Ohmygod, this is so good!

—Thank you. Eat as many as you want, I made them for you—he said.

—Wait, did you cook these?

—I did. Letha told me you’re into gastronomy.

—Yeah. My mom’s a chef at a restaurant and she’s always trying new recipes.

Also, she made her own recipes. My father had dubbed her “The Edna Mode of cooking” and it was hilarious because she did look a bit like the character. I had inherited her short height and her dark hair. Thankfully, not her need for glasses.

—Can I take them home?

—Of course!—he smiled and I smiled too—Wait, you have some… some tvorog on your face.

He reached his hand to the corner of my mouth, wiping the cheese crumb with his thumb. He then proceeded to suck his finger clean and made a satisfied sound. I felt a weird thing I had never felt before, like a tingling sensation, but at the cellular level.

—They came out really well, didn’t they?—he said, unaware of what he was doing to me.

—Yes, they’re delicious—I said, trying to hide my arousal—. My mom is going to want this recipe.

He licked his lips and slightly leaned forward and I thought he was going to kiss me (I was so ready for it to happen…!) but then the bell rang, signalling the end of lunchtime. Kostya groaned and got up.

—Do you want to meet after school?—he asked— We could hang out and do our homework together.

—Yeah, sure. There’s this cool café downtown, it’s called Noir. We could meet there and have a drink while we study—I suggested.

—Sounds great! See you in the parking lot after school?

—Yeah.

[apexart-journal]

Kiran Chandra in Moscow, Day 1

As a person who navigates the world through language, thinking and meaning making through it, I was surprised that it wasn’t until I was aboard the aircraft- on my way to Russia - that I finally looked at the Cyrillic script with some attention. 

Such hubris. 

As a result, in the first 24 hours here my jet lagged, over stimulated brain is desperately trying to parse some sense from the P, the B, the N and the H- which are actually R and V and something and N respectively- from every sign in this country. Every signboard, billboard, advertisement is written in Cyrillic. As someone who orients through reading, I am lost. 

As a result I pulled a novice move (for a New Yorker) by taking the Metro in the wrong direction - reading Alekseyevskaya to be Akademicheskaya- which if they appear at all alike in English, you should see them scripted in Cyrillic.

I think too that the therapist I met this afternoon sized me up as a reading writing (no rithmatic) verbal type. I am supposed to go to talk therapy with her, but after talking she had me doing body work and breathing and drawing in the latter part of our session. Like Taga, my counterpart in the program, whose traversing NYC, this was my first experience with therapy.

So enough about language, I’m in Moscow: some vignettes

After napping to Hygee vibes - sounds of birds piped into the Helsinki Airport and cute Moomin characters pasted all over the Scandinavian layover, I took a smaller Aeroflot plane to Moscow. The flight was the first indication that I was no longer in Lapland. The male flight attendants felt it was perfectly normal to physically move me from the aisle as I was putting my carry on overhead, literally holding my shoulders and propping me into my seat area to get me out of the aisle, then prodding me in the ribs later to wake me up to ask me if I wanted to sleep (!) instead of eat. This felt bizarre and a tad aggressive. Yana, Marina and Kostya’s sixteen year old daughter brought this sort of behaviour up on her own later in the day. She’s visited New York and loves it, she even dreams of going there to study. NYC and Moscow comparisons seemed to be on her mind as she sounded apologetic for how dreary Moscow looks in April when they picked me up from the airport. Yana pointed out that in Russia people interact more phsyically and think nothing of shoving someone on the metro say, unlike New York where if you bump someone on the subway you have to say sorry, excuse me and apologize (for living). (My exaggerations), but these were her words.

I felt better hearing this.

And another airport vignette: my suitcase doesn’t arrive...on the carousel from New York/ Helsinki. Carousel number 7, where I waited in a calm dread, as I watched the last bags belch out and my NY and Helsinki shipmates disperse. So I begin to scan the room for someone I may speak to when from the corner of my eye I see a lonely and blue suitcase doing the rounds on an otherwise empty bed, carousel 6 from Riga had my bag, going in circles, almost lost. 

The Metro stations here are so beautiful, urban commuting is an aesthetic experience. Prospekt Mira, the station I live off, is done in a classical, social- realist harvest theme: dramatically lit, teal and white stuccoed, fluted pillars flank cavernous pink arches. Ornate brass fixtures for all the lights, not a bulb missing in 50 bulb a piece brass - more likely bronze- chandeliers! And there are at least 40 chandeliers per station. The depth and scale of these stations is off the charts. One needs a different measure, Soviet Era architecture was building to some other scale, intention and effect. 

Since I am on the topic, my morning activity with Kostya certainly had some shades of what I imagine Soviet era USSR in it. Tourists must be registered at an office. I have absolutely no idea how I would have done this on my own so all my gratitude to Kostya. The office is no where near the center- where one might imagine tourists would be closer to - so finding the office- filling out the forms -in Russian only-and then doing a Kafka like numbers game to figure out when you will be called to the desk of one of the registrars would all been beyond my powers. When our number was called we went running over to the desk, carrying our jackets and hats, and bags and documents and forms. A very large uniformed woman sat behind the desk. In front of her was a large black computer monitor, a relatively large black land line telephone and a larger than large white photocopier/ printer. The ergonomics of this architecture on her desk demand that we stand and peek over at her, even though there is a chair to sit in on our side of this state machinery. So we stand and are chastised for all the mistakes we have made in answering the questions, so then we are sent back to re fill the forms and take another number and wait our turn again. When the paperwork is finally cleared we watch as our second registrar, who also happens to be towering above Kostya and me, slowly make a photocopy of every page of my passport. Huge stamps are banged on all parts of the desk, she signs her name and date in calligraphic loops and flourishes and then a tiny slip of paper is given to me. 

Victory to the visitor people! 

I think I’ll stop on this triumphant note, which was just the start of my inspiringly full day here. 

[sapphicsaints]

that's when she knew she lost her

Tamar Kir-Bataar x f!Reader

Word count: ~4.4k

A/N: This is based on the books! I've posted this one previously but here's the full nsfw version, minors dni! sfw version here

Summary: She saw the look in Tamar's eyes when the Sun Summoner took her second amplifier, and that's when she knew she lost her. Not that she was hers to keep in the first place.

Warnings: angst, fluff, smut, praise kink, oral sex, fisting, rough sex, power dynamics, character death

Kostya’s wind carries her, and she lands on deck with a thud grunting before rolling out of the line of fire, breathing out a sigh of relief. She made it off the whaler, back on the volkvolny. Her relief is short-lived as Tamar yells, “He’s up.”

The Darkling’s shadow monsters rise up from the deck of the old whaler. She curses but takes position, listening for Sturmhond’s whistles and orders. The next minutes go by in a blur, she doesn’t have time to think, no time to mourn, just barely enough time to breathe and take the next action. Her hands move rapidly to manipulate the water surrounding them. 

She collapses in exhaustion once they’re out of range, she notices there’s only two tidemakers left, including her. The others must’ve been up on the rigging. 

Her breaths come heavy, but her skin is glowing with the tell-tale flush that comes with using her powers. Her back is up against the rails, the cool metal digging into her spine, when Tamar leans up next to her. Her hand clasps her shoulder. 

“I’m glad that's done.” She says. 

Y/n turns to look at her, “Thanks the saints. I never want to see him again. Maybe his dead body.”  

“Maybe we’ll get that lucky.” 

“It’ll take more than luck.” She mumbles. Tamar’s arm wraps around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug. The action feels strange after so many weeks without any contact, but her arms wrap around her lower back, pressing herself into her. Tamar always runs hot, and her heat is welcoming this time. 

“We’ll celebrate later.” She says, her voice low enough so only y/n can hear. Her cheeks flush pink and her heart beats rapidly, the promise is enough to make her nerves tingle. She remembers the last time they ‘celebrated’ together.  

Flashback

They’d finally dropped the last of the slavers they’d captured off in Kerch and set sail again. Tamar practically dragged her back to their room and she was laughing the entire way. The laughter stopped when the door shut behind her, her body slammed into it. Her eyes widened and she bit her bottom lip out of nerves. Tamar’s thumb brushed lightly across her lip, tugging it free from the bite. Y/n’s eyes gaze to the floor, nerves starting to get the best of her. Tamar’s thumb presses under her chin, tilting her head up so their eyes will meet. 

“Are you nervous?” she asks

“No.” She replies a little too quickly, and grimaces, remembering Tamar can always tell when she’s lying. “Maybe a little.” 

“Why?” 

Y/n sighs, her palms coming up to rub at her eyes. “I don’t know.” Tamar tugs her hands away, and pulls her away from the door, yanking her flush against her chest, moving them towards the middle of the small room. Her breath catches and she freezes. Slowly she moves her arms so they’re wrapped gently around Tamar’s shoulders. She studies every inch of her face, but still avoids eye contact. 

“Look at me.” Tamar’s tone tells her it isn’t a question. She tears her eyes up from her lips to meet hers. “You’re fine. We don’t have to do anything tonight. Or ever.” 

Her eyes narrow at the last two words, and her hands come up to cup her cheeks, pressing their lips together with urgency. Tamar’s hands dig into her lower back, drawing their hips together. Y/n has a feeling this is the reaction she wants, and she gives right into it. 

End Flashback

“I’ll be looking forward to it.” The grin on her face is infectious but thankfully hidden, her face pressed into Tamar’s chest. Once her heart has calmed a little she pushes back. “We should get back to work.” 

“Probably.” Tamar sounds reluctant but presses a kiss to her forehead, and heads back to talk to Sturmhond. 

Y/n presses two fingers to her forehead, the spot where Tamar just kissed. She hears a snicker from behind her and whips around. Kostya, one of her closest friends on the ship, is laughing at her. She sends a spurt of water to his face, and that knocks the laughter off of him. He retaliates with a small gust of wind. 

“Oi.” Privyet’s voice comes through, “Quit that.” 

They start laughing, both looking slightly chastised. They stand to the side as the sea whip is hauled on deck. Her hand drifts nervously to her left wrist, the space where her amplifier hides. Taking a second amplifier sounds like absolute insanity to her, but thankfully that’s something she doesn’t have to worry about. She doesn’t move when the scales are offered, just exchanging a small glance with Kostya. Scales still freak her out somewhat and she shudders. For once, he doesn’t make fun of her and she’s grateful for it.

–

She knows her jealousy is stupid, but it’s reasonable to be upset that she’s kicked out of her room with barely any notice. Not to mention, nobody bothered to ask her, just “Tamar’s sharing with the Sun Summoner.” And now she’s in one of the old closets normally saved for less welcome guests. Her one bag is moved over quickly enough. At least she has her own space now, and doesn't have to listen to Tamar snore or sleep talk. In her opinion that’s a weak consolation prize, and not really much of a prize at all. Her things are quickly shoved away and she heads up to grab her rations while she can. There’s only two tidemakers now, and she has a feeling her schedule is about to get a lot more packed. She stops after a few drinks, keeping herself sober enough to post a reliable watch. 

The first half is quite calm. She missed the quiet ease on the Volkvolny, the relative safety of knowing you’re surrounded by people you trust. The waves are gentle, the ship gently bobs side to side. Y/n pinches her cheeks a few times to stay awake, making small talk with her partner. The lanterns and voices on deck catch her attention. Alina’s taking the amplifier. Her eyes widen, and her heart beats a bit faster - hopefully this won’t be what kills her, there’s much more poetic ways to go out. Her eyes immediately find Tamar standing next to Tolya, the two of them looking the part of solemn sentries. Sentries for a Saint. 

The power and light that burst from her is undeniable, and y/n finds herself taking deep breaths to find her calm again. She’s lucky she didn’t fall off the rigging. Her face feels like it’s been freshly sunburnt. As always, her eyes search for Tamar first. And that’s when she knew she’d lost her. The look in her eyes. Y/n didn’t know exactly what it mean’t, just that Tamar belongs to someone now. Well, Tamar never belonged to her in the first place, and theres a strong chance she’s reading into this too much, but she’s always been particularly perceptive, and her hunches usually turn out to be right. Angry tears prick the corner of her eyes.

‘You’re a mercenary,’ she thinks to herself, ‘not a jealous, petty school girl.’ She takes a deep breath and schools her features back into a look of awe, before anyone can catch on. Someone replaces her and she takes up post at the stern, ready to help move to ship along. It’s likely someone spotted the light show Alina put on, and the best they can do it get as far away as possible. 

–

The next few weeks go by quickly, and she barely sees Tamar. Well, she sees her everywhere, but rarely interacts with her. Is y/n avoiding her? Or is Tamar avoiding y/n? They never got to celebrate. Whispers say that they may be leaving to do something with the Sun Summoner and Nikolai. Saints, she feels like a whiny child. She resolves to find out more on her next watch with Tolya. 

Later that day

“Do you think you’ll go with him?” She asks, staring out into the horizon, keeping her voice just loud enough so he’ll hear. 

“With who? Where?”

“Captain. To Ravka, with Alina.” 

Tolya’s eyes are alarmed, like he didn’t expect her to know what was going on, or what was to happen. 

“Saints Tolya, i’m not stupid.” 

“Nobody called you stupid.” 

“Maybe someone should’ve. That’s besides the point.” She turns to face him, taking her eyes off the water momentarily. “Are you going with them?” 

He sighs. “Keep looking.” 

She rolls her eyes but listens. She’s surprised when he keeps speaking. “You’re not asking about me. You’re asking about Tamar.” 

“Well, you both go everywhere together.” 

“He thought about asking you along.” Tolya says. He’s talking about Sturmhond. Or Nikolai. Depends on the situation. I know they’re going to Ravka, but to do what i’m uncertain. 

“Really?” I hummed, trying to sound as disinterested as possible, it’s not working. 

“But after we lost Hendrik and Dmitri.” 

It feels like an iron fist is gripping her heart, and she chokes out her next breath. The other Tidemakers lost against the Darkling. It’s only her and one other now.

Tolya pauses. “After we lost them, you’re needed here.” 

“Needed.” I let the words roll around my tongue. Needed here. But wanted? What if I want to be somewhere else? “Thank you for the heads up.” She gives Tolya a terse smile, trying her best to look content. I can tell he isn’t convinced, but he does smile back. 

End Flashback.

–

Three nights later, Tamar finds her. It’s dusk, and she’s sitting up on deck, deep in conversation with Kostya. She feels a tap on her shoulder, and doesn’t turn around and hesitates before turning around. Kostya glares at her and she finally does. Tamar’s standing behind her, one hand outstretched. 

Tamar doesn’t miss the side eye y/n sends to Kostya, but chooses not to comment. It shouldn’t feel like she’s headed to the gallows, but somehow it does. She takes her hand, and lets her heave her up to her feet. She shakes her hand off as soon as they stand up, and sees the hurt flash through Tamar’s eyes. It’s enough to make her start chewing on her bottom lip, 

“Come on.” She says, taking the initiative and leading them below decks to somewhere more private. They end up in her room this time, and she chooses to stand on the opposite side of the small room, awkwardly scratching the back of her neck. For once, Tamar doesn’t speak right away, instead it seems like her eyes are taking in every inch of her - memorizing every detail. Y/n keeps avoiding eye contact, leaning up against the wall and tilting her head up to stare at the overhead. 

“We’re leaving tomorrow.” Tamar says finally. 

Her heart jumps, and the same tears from a few weeks ago threaten to prick her eyes, “are you excited?” She asks, keeping her eyes trained on the ceiling. 

Tamar sighs before crossing the room. Her hands cup her cheeks, guiding her back down to try and meet her eyes. “Why don’t you ever look me in the eyes?” She murmurs. Y/n doesn’t have a good answer, what’s she supposed to say?

‘I’m scared i’ll cry if I do. I know you don’t feel the same way. I’ll quite literally get lost in your eyes. It’s too intimate. It scares me.’ Instead she doesn’t say anything. 

“Give me something, please.” Tamar says, this is the most desperate she’s heard her voice. She cringes at herself when the desperation gives her a sick sense of satisfaction. Give her something? It’s been weeks and they’ve barely exchanged a word. If she wants something she can have her fury and pain. The sting that comes with feeling abandoned, discarded, tossed aside for the next big thing.  

“You want something?” She spits out through clenched teeth. Tamar takes a step back, her eyes widening slightly at her tone. Normally y/n is level-headed and calm, it’s rare to see strong emotions leak into her voice. “Weeks. You’ve rarely spoken to me. Granted I didn’t try very hard, I know you’ve been busy with your new Saint.” She struggles to keep her tone kind. “I’m happy for you, by the way, that you’ve found a purpose. And I get it, your life has changed. That doesn’t mean you had to …” Her voice breaks and she can’t finish her sentence. 

“Leave please.” She croaks. Tamar doesn’t move and y/n opens her mouth to tell her to go again, but instead she’s wrapped in a bone-crushing, enough that she can barely breathe, let alone move her arms and hug back. She doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t complain, relishes in the touch and contact. Her body melts into her, leaning slightly. Just one hug and she melts. ‘Pathetic.’ she thinks to herself. ‘You’re being pathetic.’ 

“I’m sorry.” She whispers, pulling back, and running a hand through her short hair. Y/n’s never seen Tamar like this, lost for words or confused. She always seems so self-assured, so strong in her conviction, fearless. 

“Sorry for what?” She knows the answer, but she wants to hear it - needs to hear it. Hear Tamar admit it, validate what y/n felt these last few weeks. 

“Neglecting you. I’m sorry that we didn’t get to celebrate.” 

Y/n laughs, not an amused chuckle or a happy belly laugh, one of disbelief. “If you think that’s all I cared about then you’re much less perceptive than I thought you were.” She tries to put the emphasis on ‘cared’, but it doesn’t come out that way. Care is more accurate, she still cares. 

Tamar seems confused, “I don’t understand.” Her tone is genuine and honest. Y/n feels herself soften more, a little bit of the ice melts away. She finally meets her eyes. 

“I care about you dimwit.” Tamar’s eyes narrow at the insult, but she doesn’t break eye contact. “I wanted … I still want more for us. I want to get to actually be with you, beyond just ‘celebrations’, and the occasional hug or kiss on the forehead when you remember.” 

“Why haven’t you said anything before?” 

Her voice raises slightly, “because you outrank me and I don’t want to be fired, because I thought it was obvious, because I thought you’d have said something by now.” The outranking part is true - not that it matters too much on the ship, but enough for her to be nervous. Rogue Grisha have difficulty finding safe employment in this world. Safe in the sense of nobody forcing her to serve an army or enslaving her. Her job isn’t safe by any means, but it's freedom.

“Quiet.” Tamar hushes her. 

She takes a deep breath before speaking in a normal tone. “Tell me I'm delusional.” She’d have laughed at Tamar’s expression if the situation was different. “Tell me you never wanted me. Tell me you’re leaving and not coming back.” Tamar reached out and held one of her hands. 

“You’re not delusional, I do want you, I am leaving, but I don’t know if I’m coming back.” 

“Three out of four, not bad.” 

Tamar huffs, evidently tired of the argument, before pulling her into a bruising kiss. It catches y/n by surprise but she returns the same energy. Normally Tamar’s a tease, takes her time, taunts her, but this time everything moves fast. She lets out a moan as her neck and chest are covered in small bites, she’s being loud but doesn’t care this time. Two of Tamar’s fingers are shoved into her mouth, and she sucks them eagerly, gagging slightly but that just makes the other girl’s fingers dig into her mouth further. Her shirt is ripped off, thrown halfway across the room, followed by her bra and her knives tossed into an open chest. Normally she’d throw a fit about that, but right now she doesn’t care. Y/n reaches for the bottom of Tamar’s top, starting to tug it over. 

“No.” Her voice is low and firm. Y/n’s eyes widen slightly before she removes her hands. Tamar flips her around, pushing her hands up against the wall, her body flush against it. The cool wood digs into her nipples, causing them to stand on edge. She moans as a hand comes around to rub circles into her clit. She shifts to try and reach for the other girl but Tamar’s body pushes forward to pin her back against the wall. 

“Did I say you can move?” Her lips graze across her ear. 

“No.” She gulps. 

“Are you going to stay still?” 

“Yes.” It comes out as a whisper. 

“And quiet?” 

She nods. 

“Good girl.” 

Y/n swallows a moan, biting harshly on her lower lip, as two of Tamar’s fingers push into her from behind, setting a brutal pace. She pants, her breaths coming rapidly. Another finger pushes into her, it’s taking most of her energy to hold back a scream. All she wants is to beg, beg for more, tell her how good it feels, but she knows if she opens her mouth it’ll stop. She’s nearly over the edge, her walls starting to tighten around Tamar’s fingers when she stops. A small whine escapes her lips. 

“Can you take my whole hand?” Her voice is back in her ear. Y/n’s breath catches. She’s done it once before, and it was incredible, but left her legs shaking for nearly an hour. She wants it, Saints she wants Tamar so bad that she’ll take her in any way she can. She nods. 

“Words.” 

“Yes please.” “What’s our safeword?” 

“Butterfly.” It comes out without hesitation, this is a routine they’ve danced several times before, and she loves the question. Something else pops into her head, and she turns over her shoulder to look at Tamar. The expression on her face surprises her, it’s full of lust, want, and maybe something mournful? She ignores the last part. 

“Can I do something first?” 

Tamar looks surprised but nods. As quick as she can on shaky legs, she turns and drops to her knees in front of her. There’s a small pain as the wood digs into her bare knees, but she ignores it, tilting her head up to make eye contact. Tamar’s jaw drops. Y/n had never gone on her knees without prompting before, and it isn’t something she loves, except with her - not that she’d ever admit it. 

There’s no hesitation as her clothes come off. One hand braces herself against the wall, and the other cups the back of her head to guide her forward. Y/n’s hands grip her thighs and her tongue comes out slowly, licking up and down her folds, savoring every taste. Tamar is soaking wet, and it makes her smile. She sucks lightly on her clit and Tamar moans quietly above her, Y/n has her coming undone quickly, she knows exactly what she likes, and one finger stroking the space just behind her pussy sends her over the edge, her hand twisting violently in her hair. She feels herself soaking, leaking slightly onto the floor. As soon as the other girl’s finished her orgasm, she yanks y/n back to her feet, barely giving her time to steady her legs underneath her, before giving her a rough kiss. One of her hands moves to slam her wooden chest shut, and she gasps as she’s bent over it. 

She bites her hand to keep back a moan when her fingers slam into her without hesitation. “You are so fucking good.” is whispered in her ear and she bites harder. 

Another finger goes in, that’s four now, “so good for me.” 

She whimpers, already feeling her legs going slack, her entire body weight shifting to lean on the chest. 

“Almost there love.” Her final finger slips in and she feels like she might cry from ecstasy, Tamar moves slowly giving her time to adjust. Y/n doesn’t want it, and breaks the rules - breaks her silence. Part of her is a brat after all. 

“Saints Tamar fuck me like you mean it.” One hand fists her hair, pulling her up so she’s looking right at the other girl. 

“Say one more thing and I'll leave you on edge for the rest of the night.” It’s an empty threat and she knows it but she nods anyways 

“Good girl.” Shivers run down her spine, and her toes curl. Those two words have so much power over her. Tamar’s hand releases her hair, letting her head rest back on down the chest, her fist pushes in and out of her brutally, and y/n draws blood on her hand from biting down so hard. One hand reaches back to try and grab Tamar’s free hand. She didn’t say not to move after all. She reaches it and grips it like a lifeline. Tamar rubs circles into the back of her hand. How is it she can hold her so gently with one hand and fuck her brutally with the other? 

Her walls pulse around Tamar’s hand and she finishes violently, her back arching and screams muffled by her hand. Y/n doesn’t move, knowing her legs would immediately give out from underneath her. It doesn’t phase her when Tamar moves and y/n hears the sounds of her dressing, and the door closing behind her. Part of her fears she’s just left completely, but she comes back with a bucket of water and a rag, and makes quick work cleaning them up. Her hands gently scoop her, wrapping around her stomach, and lift her into the hammock so her head is resting on her chest. 

She whispers sweet things into her ear, the words seem to blur as she’s lost in her own world. It could’ve been ten minutes or ten hours when Tamar’s pinch on her side brings her back. It must’ve been closer to an hour because her legs aren’t shaking quite as violently anymore. 

“Hm?” She mumbles. 

“You need to get dressed.” 

She groans but stands up, getting some new clothes for herself. One hand braces against the wall to keep herself steady, she looks into the small mirror, her neck and chest are covered in small but deep purple bruises. Her jaw drops as she turns to look at Tamar, who just laughs at her. 

“Sit. I’ll heal them.” 

She jumps up on the chest, scooching until the back of her knees hit the edge. 

Her hands are gently as she grazes over the spots on her neck, and chest, leaving just one behind. Y/n rolls her eyes, it’s typical of her to do that - leave one in an area she can easily conceal. She heals the bite on her hand as well. The silence after becomes uncomfortable. 

“I don’t know what to say.” The words come out before she can think twice. 

“I’ll say I don’t regret a single moment of this. Of anything.” 

She lets out a small, sad smile. “I don’t either.” And brings her arms up to pull her into a gentle kiss. Nothing else needs to be said, they’ve come to an understanding. They both know it’s a goodbye kiss - a goodbye for now. 

–

The next early morning, she’s on watch as they leave. 

“Saint’s willing, we’ll meet again one day.” Her words came out low, almost like a whisper or prayer. They thankfully went unheard, and she waved to the dark sky as Tamar flew off in the hummingbird. 

Kostya clapped a comforting hand on her shoulder, “They’ll be alright.” 

She turns back, giving them a terse smile. He’d mistaken it for worry, probably a good thing. 

The crew makes themselves scarce for a while, keeping careful tabs on every hint of the Darklings location. If they were caught by him they likely would not survive, and likely would come to very painful deaths, something none of them were particularly interested in. She wonders if he would spare Grisha, she hopes not - if they were to be captured she’d rather get the same treatment as the rest of the crew, as morbid as that sounds. 

The next few months go by pretty quickly, and when she gets offered the chance to go to the Spinning Wheel, she takes it. A break from the seas will do her good. The idea of seeing Tamar doesn’t cross her mind, surprisingly. She’s become a memory - a good one, but a memory. 

– 

Spinning wheel 

It’s strange being with her crew on land. Everyone's the same, but a bit more tense. There’s a certain safety at sea - it’s more difficult to be ambushed. She’s surprised when Alina remembers her - even her name, and cheers along with the rest when she cuts the top of a mountain off. 

Y/n noticed the connection between her and Nadia almost immediately and it didn’t hurt like she thought it would, she offered her congratulations instead. 

An argument starts when Sturmhond tells her she’s going on the mission to hunt the firebird. Well, asks her, he knows he can’t really tell her to do anything. She supposes she should call him Nikolai now. 

“You’re the best tidemaker we have.” Nikolai says. 

“They could bring anyone else.” 

“Tamar asked for you.” 

“That’s the problem.” She whispers. 

He sighs, walking around the table to clasp a hand on her shoulder. “I know you two have history, but I’d feel better knowing you’re there. Tamar asked for you for a reason, and I doubt it’s to have a sordid tryst in the middle of the night.” 

Y/n’s eyes narrow and she glares at him as he laughs. “They’re taking Ana.” Ana is another friend from the Volkvolny, a Materialki that put the last amplifier on Alina. Her eyes light up, and the look on his face tells her he knows he’s won.

“Fine.” She says reluctantly. “I’ve always wanted to visit there.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“No, but it makes me feel better.” 

“Whatever it takes” he winks before leading them out of the room. 

The ambush surprises them all. She takes another look at the crew, a tidemaker isn’t completely essential, and there’s too much weight already. She can tell Nevsky is thinking the same thing. Despite her being Grisha, they became fast friends. 

“One last time?” he whispers to her. Not that they��d had times before, but she guesses he likes the dramatic effect.

“Lets do it.” She replies. He says something quiet to Alina before yelling, 

“For the 22nd.” He leaps over the side with his soldiers. 

“For Sturmhond.” She whispers before following them. Tamar’s scream is lost in the noise. 

[petrichorate]

Anna Karenina: Thoughts

Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)

Bonus: Matt and I were so exasperated by a particularly frustrating scene of Anna Karenina that we wrote and recorded a song about it—give it a listen here :) 

It’s difficult for me to articulate how much this novel and War and Peace have meant to me. More than anything I’ve learned in university, these two books have shaped my worldview, revealed to me so much about my own experiences that I could not express on my own, and even changed and strengthened my perspective on religion and what I want to do with my life.

I love the ending of Anna Karenina. I was discussing it with Matt, who also read the book, and the conclusion is a bit abrupt and unexpected—but Levin’s final thoughts really touched me to the core, because the questions that he had been chasing after are the same ones that I’ve been facing in my own life. They are questions of what I want to do and who I want to be, and how religion relates to my daily existence, and how to work toward becoming a better person. Because Tolstoy wrote War and Peace so much earlier than Anna Karenina, it seems to me that in the first, he uncovered the puzzle—and in the latter, he completed it. Pierre in War and Peace and Levin in Anna Karenina appear to me as very similar characters, perhaps the two characters with which Tolstoy himself most identified (after all, Tolstoy had a very complex and fraught relationship with religion as well). I love, especially, the way Levin admits at the end that he will not magically transform into the loving, generous figure that he aims to be—instead, he will still get frustrated, still be afraid; yet to me, this sounds very similar to the concept of continence in Aristotle’s virtue ethics, where the practice of virtues is a virtue in and of itself (a theory that has always fascinated me). 

After reading Anna Karenina, I think I’ve also arrived at a much better understanding of the changes Pierre underwent in this passage: “This was an acknowledgement of everybody’s capacity to think and feel for himself, to see things his way; an acknowledgement of the impossibility of ever changing anybody’s mind by words.” I marked it when reading War and Peace, partly because it rang true, but also because it bothered me. “Why,” I thought, “would you just give up on trying to change other people’s minds?” Of course, everyone has the right to think for themselves, but that shouldn’t be an obstacle to trying to express your own views if you truly believe in them. Now, I feel as though I was taking Pierre’s message in too blunt of a light—the way I presently interpret this excerpt is that it is indeed very, very difficult to change someone’s mind in an instant. No amount of reasonable argument can bring someone over to my side so quickly—but the way forward is for both sides to open up a little, to at least hear all perspectives instead of shutting down and rejecting the first hint of a contrary opinion. Perhaps my interpretation will change in the future, but I’ve found this idea to be strangely comforting, especially in many recent heated conversations and arguments over political views. 

Of course, there are parts of the novel that trouble me—particularly, the way Tolstoy writes female characters. But for a novel published in 1877, I feel that the most productive way for me to learn from it is to acknowledge the parts that are problematic, try to view them in context, and regardless draw my own learnings and insights from the passages that move me. And beyond that, I do deeply relate to many of the feelings roused in Anna and Vronsky’s relationship—Tolstoy describes not a meaningless hysteria, but a feeling that resonated intensely with my own experiences.

Here are some passages that I marked as particularly striking:

The famous first line, but so very true about the nature of happiness vs unhappiness: “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

On the strange, rivalry-like friendship between Oblonsky and Levin: “They loved each other, in spite of the difference in their characters and tastes, as friends love each other who become close in early youth. But in spite of that, as often happens between people who have chosen different ways, each of them, while rationally justifying the other’s activity, despised it in his heart. To each of them it seemed that the life he led was the only real life, and the one his friend led was a mere illusion.”

Levin, on using words and eloquent language to cover up the most important questions: “Listening to his brother’s conversation with the professor, he noticed that they connected the scientific questions with the inner, spiritual ones, several times almost touched upon them, but that each time they came close to what seemed to him the most important thing, they hastily retreated and again dug deeper into the realm of fine distinctions, reservations, quotations, allusions, references to authorities, and he had difficulty understanding what they were talking about.”

Oblonsky, on idealism:  “‘So you see,’ said Stepan Arkadyich, ‘you’re a very wholesome man. That is your virtue and your defect. You have a wholesome character, and you want all of life to be made up of wholesome phenomena, but that doesn’t happen. So you despise the activity of public service because you want things always to correspond to their aim, and that doesn’t happen. You also want the activity of the individual man always to have an aim, that love and family life always be one. And that doesn’t happen. All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life are made up of light and shade.’”

On the rapid fading of camaraderie:  “And suddenly they both felt that, though they were friends, though they had dined together and drunk wine that should have brought them still closer, each was thinking only of his own things, and they had nothing to do with each other.”

On how dependence can feed tenderness, and the cruelty and pleasantness of turning common sayings into special declarations: “He said to her the things that are usually said in society, all sorts of nonsense, but nonsense which he unwittingly endowed with a special meaning for her. Though he said nothing to her that he could not have said before everybody, he felt that she was growing increasingly dependent on him, and the more he felt it, the more pleasant it was for him, and his feeling for her grew more tender.”

Levin, on setting new and lofty life goals after being rejected: “He felt he was himself and did not want to be otherwise. He only wanted to be better than he had been before. First, he decided from that day on not to hope any more for the extraordinary happiness that marriage was to have given him, and as a consequence not to neglect the present so much. Second, he would never again allow himself to be carried away be a vile passion, the memory of which had so tormented him as he was about to propose. Then, remembering his brother Nikolai, he decided that he would never again allow himself to forget him, would watch over him and never let him out of his sight, so as to be ready to help when things went badly for him. And that would be soon, he felt. Then, too, his brother’s talk about communism, which he had taken so lightly at the time now made him ponder. He regarded the reforming of economic conditions as nonsense, but he had always felt the injustice of his abundance as compared with the poverty of the people, and he now decided that, in order to feel himself fully in the right, though he had worked hard before and lived without luxury, he would now work still harder and allow himself still less luxury. And all this seemed so easy to do that he spent the whole way in the most pleasant dreams.”

Levin, on wanting to recreate his childhood in his future: “The house was big, old, and Levin, though he lived alone, heated and occupied all of it. He knew that this was foolish, knew that it was even wrong and contrary to his new plans, but this house was a whole world for Levin. It was the world in which his father and mother had lived and died. They had lived a life which for Levin seemed the ideal of all perfection and which he dreamed of renewing with his wife, with his family—Levin barely remembered his mother. His notion of her was a sacred memory, and his future wife would have to be, in his imagination, the repetition of that lovely, sacred ideal of a woman which his mother was for him.”

Levin’s fantasies of his wife being interested in all that interests him: “‘Splendid! To go out with my wife and guests to meet the herd... My wife will say: “Kostya and I tended this calf like a child.” “How can it interest you so?” a guest will say. “Everything that interests him interests me.”’”

On being tender toward the weaknesses of someone you love: “Anna smiled, as one smiles at the weaknesses of people one loves, and, putting her arm under his, accompanied him to the door of the study.”

Vronsky, on splitting his world into two halves—of which his half is the only real one: “In his Petersburg world, all people were divided into two completely opposite sorts. One was the inferior sort: the banal, stupid and, above all, ridiculous people who believed that one husband should live with one wife, whom he was married in church, that a girl should be innocent, a woman modest, a man manly, temperate and firm, that one should raise children, earn one’s bread, pay one’s debts, and other such stupidities. This was an old-fashioned and ridiculous sort of people. But there was another sort of people, the real ones, to which they all belonged, and for whom one had, above all, to be elegant, handsome, magnanimous, bold, gay, to give oneself to every passion without blushing and laugh at everything else.”

A true saying: “‘No one is pleased with his fortune, but everyone is pleased with his wit,’ said the diplomat, quoting some French verse.”

Anna, on the impossibility of waiting for calm before thinking: “She kept telling herself: ‘No, I can’t think about it now; later, when I’m more calm.’ But this calm for reflection never came; each time the thought occurred to her of what she had done, of what would become of her and what she ought to do, horror came over her, and she drove these thoughts away. ‘Later, later,’ she kept saying, ‘when I’m more calm.’”

On the greater misery of remembering shameful events than that of remembering bad actions: “In his past, as in any man’s past, there were actions he recognized as bad, for which his conscience ought to have tormented him; yet the memory of the bad actions tormented him far less than these insignificant but shameful memories.”

Levin, on the excitement of beginning new projects: “Spring is the time of plans and projects. And, going out to the yard, Levin, like a tree in spring, not yet knowing where and how its young shoots and branches, still confined in swollen buds, will grow, did not himself know very well which parts of his beloved estate he would occupy himself with now, but felt that he was filled with the very best plans and projects.”

On children’s power to point out what we do not want to see: “This child with his naive outlook on life was the compass which showed them the degree of their departure from what they knew but did not want to know.”

On wanting a third person to be present when we are with someone with whom the situation is awkward: “Without realizing it, Alexei Alexandrovich now sought occasions for having a third person present at his meetings with his wife.”

Kitty, on her first taste of a spiritual life which seems “lofty”: “It was revealed to her that, besides the instinctive life to which Kitty had given herself till then, there was a spiritual life. This life was revealed by religion, but a religion that had nothing in common with the one Kitty had known from childhood and which found expression in the liturgy and vigils at the Widows’ Home, where one could meet acquaintances, and in learning Slavonic texts by heart with a priest; it was a lofty, mysterious religion, bound up with a series of beautiful thoughts and feelings which one could not only believe in because one was told to, but could also love. Kitty did not learn all this from words. Mme Stahl spoke with Kitty as with a dear child, whom one looks upon fondly as a memory of one’s youth, and she only once mentioned that in all human griefs consolation is given by faith and love alone and that no griefs are too negligible for Christ’s compassion for us, and at once turned the conversation to something else. Yet in her every movement, in every word, in every heavenly glance, as Kitty put it, especially in the whole story of her life, which she knew from Varenka, in everything, Kitty learned ‘what was important’, which till then she had not known.”

On Varenka’s maturity and beauty coming from inner faith: “But Varenka, lonely, without family, without friends, with her sad disappointment, desiring nothing, regretting nothing, was that very perfection of which Kitty only allowed herself to dream. From Varenka she understood that you had only to forget yourself and love others and you would be calm, happy and beautiful. And that was how Kitty wanted to be.”

Kitty, on being more willing to open up to anyone but her own mother: “‘Il ne faut jamais rien outrer,’ she told her. But her daughter said nothing in reply; she only thought in her heart that one could not speak of excessiveness in matters of Christianity. What excessiveness could there be in following a teaching that tells you to turn the other cheek when you have been struck, and to give away your shirt when your caftan is taken? But the princess did not like this excessiveness, and still less did she like it that, as she felt, Kitty did not want to open her soul to her entirely. In fact, Kitty kept her new views and feelings hidden from her mother. She kept them hidden, not because she did not respect or love her mother, but because she was her mother. She would sooner have revealed them to anyone than to her mother.”

Kitty, on not wanting to acknowledge things because being mistaken would be too terrible: “Her guess was something she could not tell her mother any more than she could tell it to herself. It was one of those things that one knows but cannot even tell oneself—so dreadful and shameful it would be to be mistaken.”

On time: “‘But time is money, you’re forgetting that,’ said the colonel.  ‘Which time! There are times when you’d get a whole month away for fifty kopecks, and others when you wouldn’t give up half an hour for any price.’”

On differing views of the country: “But, despite his love and respect for Sergei Ivanovich, Konstantin Levin felt awkward in the country with his brother. It was awkward and unpleasant for him to see his brother’s attitude towards the country. For Konstantin Levin the country was the place of life, that is, of joy, suffering, labour; for Sergei Ivanovich the country was, on the one hand, a rest from work and, on the other, an effective antidote to corruption, which he took with pleasure and an awareness of its effectiveness. For Konstantin Levin the country was good in that it presented a field for labour that was unquestionably useful; for Sergei Ivanovich the country was especially good because there one could and should do nothing.”

On Levin and his brother, and differing views on “knowing” groups of people: “Besides that, though he had lived for a long time in the closest relations with the muzhiks as a master and a mediator, and above all as an adviser (the muzhiks trusted him and came from twenty-five miles away for his advice), he had no definite opinion of the peasantry and would have had the same difficulty replying to the question whether he knew the peasantry as to the question whether he loved the peasantry. To say that he knew them would be the same for him as to say that he knew people. He constantly observed and came to know all sorts of people, muzhik-people among them, whom he considered good and interesting people, and continually noticed new traits in them, changed his previous opinions and formed new ones. Sergei Ivanovich did the contrary. Just as he loved and praised country life in contrast to the life he did not love, so he loved the peasantry in contrast to the class of people he did not love, and so he knew the peasantry as something in contrast to people in general. In his methodical mind certain forms of peasant life acquired a clear shape, deduced in part from peasant life itself, but mainly from its contrast.”

Levin, on pursuing the common good because of reasoning and not because of heart: “Konstantin Levin regarded his brother as a man of great intelligence and education, noble in the highest sense of the word, and endowed with the ability to act for the common good. But, in the depths of his soul, the older he became and the more closely he got to know his brother, the more often it occurred to him that this ability to act for the common good, of which he felt himself completely deprived, was perhaps not a virtue but, on the contrary, a lack of something—not a lack of good, honest and noble desires and tastes, but a lack of life force, of what is known as heart, of that yearning which makes a man choose one of out of all the countless paths in life presented to him and desire that one alone. The more he knew his brother, the more he noticed that Sergei Ivanovich and many other workers for the common good had not been brought to this live of the common good by the heart, but had reasoned in their minds that it was good to be concerned with it and were concerned with it only because of that. And Levin was confirmed in this surmise by observing that his brother took questions about the common good and the immortality of the soul no closer to heart than those about a game of chess or the clever construction of a new machine.”

Sergei Ivanovich, on being proud of being interested in “stupid” things: “After the doctor’s departure, Sergei Ivanovich expressed a wish to go to the river with a fishing rod. He liked fishing and seemed to take pride in being able to like such a stupid occupation.”

Levin, on words taking away the subtlety of visuals: “The brothers had to pass through a wood in order to reach the meadows. Sergei Ivanovich kept admiring the beauty of the wood overgrown with leaves, pointing out to his brother now an old linden, dark on its shady side, rippling with yellow stipules and ready to flower, now the brilliant emerald of that year’s young shoots on the trees. Konstantin Levin did not like talking or hearing about the beauty of nature. For him words took away the beauty of what he saw.”

On youth and admitting that something is difficult: “Behind Levin came young Mishka. His fair young face, with a wisp of fresh grass bound round his hair, worked all over with the effort; but as soon as anyone looked at him, he smiled. He clearly would sooner have died than admit it was hard for him.”

On thinking that you are personally facing the most complex problems and are handling your tough circumstances better than anyone else could: “Every man, knowing to the smallest detail all the complexity of the conditions surrounding him, involuntarily assumes that the complexity of these conditions and the difficulty of comprehending them are only his personal, accidental peculiarity, and never thinks that others are surrounded by the same complexity as he is. So it seemed to Vronsky. And he thought, not without inner pride and not groundlessly, that anyone else would long ago have become entangled and been forced to act badly if he had found himself in such difficult circumstances.”

On closeness: “These two men were so dear and close to each other that the slightest movement, the tone of the voice, told them both more than it was possible to say in words.”

On death and inevitability: “Death, the inevitable end of everything, presented itself to him for the first time with irresistible force. And this death, which here, in his beloved brother, moaning in his sleep and calling by habit, without distinction, now on God, now on the devil, was not at all as far off as it had seemed to him before. It was in him, too—he felt it. If not now, then tomorrow, if not tomorrow, then in thirty years—did it make any difference? And what this inevitable death was, he not only did not know, he not only had never thought of it, but he could not and dared not think of it. ‘I work, I want to do something, and I’ve forgotten that everything will end, that there is—death.’ He was sitting on his bed in the dark, crouching, hugging his knees and thinking, holding his breath from the strain of it. But the more he strained to think, the clearer it became to him that it was undoubtedly so, that he had actually forgotten, overlooked in his life one small circumstance—that death would come and everything would end, that it was not worth starting anything and that nothing could possibly be done about it. Yes, it was terrible, but it was so.”

On despising in others what you are proud of in yourself: “He was a gentleman—that was true, and Vronsky could not deny it. He was equable and unservile with his superiors, free and simple with his equals, and contemptuously good-natured with his inferiors. Vronsky was like that himself and considered it a great virtue; but with respect to the prince he was an inferior and this contemptuously good-natured attitude made him indignant.”

Anna, on making up for lost moments and on comparison with the imaginary: “She studied his face to make up for the time in which she had not seen him. As at every meeting, she was bringing together her imaginary idea of him (an incomparably better one, impossible in reality) with him as he was.”

Vronsky, on feeling less love for Anna because of the growing intensity of her love: “But he could not immediately recall what he was going to say. These fits of jealousy, which had come over her more and more often lately, horrified him and, no matter how he tried to conceal it, made him cooler towards her, though he knew that the cause of her jealousy was her love for him. How many times he had told himself that her love was happiness; and here she loved him as only a woman can for whom love outweighs all that is good in life—yet he was much further from happiness than when he had followed her from Moscow. Then he had considered himself unhappy, but happiness was ahead of him; while now he felt that the best happiness was already behind. She was not at all as he had seen her in the beginning. Both morally and physically she had changed for the worse. She had broadened out, and her face, when she spoke of the actress, was distorted by a spiteful expression. He looked at her as a man looks at a faded flower he has plucked, in which he can barely recognize the beauty that had made him pluck and destroy it.”

Anna, on the incomprehensibility of Vronsky leading a life outside of his life with her: “‘Yes, but I can’t bear it! You don’t know how I suffered waiting for you! I don’t think I’m jealous. I’m not jealous. I believe you when you’re here with me, but when you’re alone somewhere leading your life, which is incomprehensible to me...’”

Stepan Arkadyich, masterfully bringing together people and “kneading the social dough”: “On entering the drawing room, Stepan Arkadyich excused himself by explaining that he had been delayed by that prince who was the perennial scapegoat each time he was late or absent, and in a moment he got everyone acquainted with everyone else, and, putting Alexei Alexandrovich together with Sergei Koznyshev, slipped them the topic of the russification of Poland, which they both seized upon at once, along with Pestsov. Patting Turovtsyn on the shoulder, he whispered something funny to him and sat him down with his wife and the prince. Then he told Kitty how beautiful she was that evening, and introduced Shcherbatsky to Karenin. In a moment he had kneaded this social dough so well that the drawing room was in fine form and ringing with voices.”

Levin, swirling in the first heights of love: “He did not know that Levin felt he had grown wings. Levin knew that she was listening to his words and liked listening to them. And that was the only thing that mattered to him. Not just in that room, but in all the world, there existed for him only he, who had acquired enormous significance, and she. He felt himself on a height that made his head spin, and somewhere below, far away, were all these kind, nice Karenins, Oblonskys, and the rest of the world.”

Levin, seeing people differently when he is in love: “They arrived at the meeting. Levin listened as the secretary haltingly read the minutes, which he evidently did not understand himself; but Levin could see by the face of this secretary what a sweet, kind and nice man he was. It could be seen from the way he became confused and embarrassed as he read the minutes. Then the speeches began. They argued about allotting certain sums and installing certain pipes, and Sergei Ivanovich needled two members and triumphantly spoke at length about something; and another member, having written something on a piece of paper, at first turned timid, but then responded to him quite venomously and sweetly. And then Sviyazhsky (he, too, was there) also said something ever so beautifully and nobly. Levin listened to them and saw clearly that neither those allotted sums nor the pipes existed, and that none of them was angry, they were all such kind, nice people and things all went so nicely and sweetly among them. They did not bother anyone, and everyone felt pleased. What Levin found remarkable was that he could see through them all that night, and by small tokens, inconspicuous before, could recognize the soul of each and see clearly that they were all kind. In particular it was him, Levin, that they all loved so much that night. It could be seen by the way they spoke to him and looked at him tenderly, lovingly, even all the strangers.”

A beautiful scene (so beautiful that it made Levin cry)/how love makes you see the world as a more beautiful place: “And what he saw then, he afterwards never saw again. He was especially moved by children going to school, the grey-blue pigeons that flew down from the roof to the pavement, and the white rolls sprinkled with flour that some invisible hand had set out. These rolls, the pigeons and the two boys were unearthly beings. All this happened at the same time: a boy ran up to a pigeon and, smiling, looked at Levin; the pigeon flapped its wings and fluttered off, sparkling in the sun amidst the air trembling with snowdust, while the smell of baked bread wafted from the window as the rolls appeared in it. All this together was so extraordinarily good that Levin laughed and wept from joy.”

Anna, on being physically and uncontrollably repulsed by someone: “Alexei Alexandrovich sighed and fell silent. She played anxiously with the tassels of her dressing gown, glancing at him with that painful feeling of physical revulsion towards him for which she reproached herself and which she could not overcome. She now wished for only one thing—to be rid of his hateful presence.”

More on Levin and the madness of love—letting others take control and sensing that everything will be well: “Levin continued in the same state of madness, in which it seemed to him that he and his happiness constituted the chief and only goal of all that existed, and that there was no longer any need for him to think or worry about anything, that everything was being and would be done for him by others. He even had no plans or goals for his future life; he left it for others to decide, knowing that it would all be wonderful.”

Anna, Vronsky, and the burdens of being kind (and some strange views on being “manly”): “He, manly as he was, not only never contradicted her, but had no will of his own, and seemed to be concerned only with anticipating her wishes. And she could not help appreciating it, though the very strain of his attentiveness to her, the atmosphere of solicitude he surrounded her with, was sometimes burdensome to her.”

On valuing others’ judgements of your art more highly than your own: “About his picture, which now stood on his easel, he had one judgement in the depths of his soul—that no one had ever painted such a picture. He did not think that his painting was better than any of Raphael’s, but he knew that what he wanted to convey and did convey in this picture no one had ever conveyed before. He knew that firmly and had known it for a long time, from the very moment he had begun painting it; nevertheless people’s opinions, whatever they might be, were of great importance to him and stirred him to the bottom of his soul. Every observation, however insignificant, which showed that the judges saw at least a small part of what he saw in this picture, stirred him to the bottom of his soul. He always ascribed to his judges a greater depth of understanding than he himself had, and expected something from them that he himself did not see in his picture. And often in the opinions of viewers it seemed to him that he found it.”

Levin, on his previous expectation that his marriage would be unique, unlike all other people’s lives: “As a bachelor, seeing the married life of others, their trifling cares, quarrels, jealousy, he used only to smile scornfully to himself. In his own future married life, he was convinced, there not only could be nothing like that, but even all its external forms, it seemed to him, were bound to be in every way completely unlike other people’s lives. And suddenly, instead of that, his life with his wife did not form itself in any special way, but was, on the contrary, formed entirely of those insignificant trifles he had scorned so much before, but which now, against his will, acquired an extraordinary and irrefutable significance.”

Levin, on feeling idle after marriage, and on blaming Kitty: “Levin smiled at his thoughts and shook his head at them disapprovingly; he suffered from a feeling akin to remorse. There was something shameful, pampered, Capuan, as he called it to himself, in his present life. ‘It’s not good to live like this,’ he thought. ‘It will soon be three months and I’m not doing anything. Today is almost the first time I seriously got down to work—and what? I no sooner started than I dropped it. Even my usual occupations—I’ve all but abandoned them, too. My farming—I almost don’t go to look after it. I either feel sorry to leave her or see that she’s bored. And here I used to think that life before marriage was just so, anyhow, didn’t count, and that real life started after marriage. And it will soon be three months, and I’ve never spent my time so idly and uselessly. No, it’s impossible. I must get started. Of course, it’s not her fault. There’s nothing to reproach her for. I must be firmer myself, must fence off my male independence. Or else I may get into the habit and teach it to her… Of course, it’s not her fault,’ he said to himself.”

Levin, on feeling unhappy from being loved too much: “Levin told his wife that he believed she wanted to go only in order to be of use, agreed that Marya Nikolaevna’s presence at his brother’s side did not present any impropriety; but in the depths of his soul he went away displeased with her and with himself. He was displeased with her for being unable to bring herself to let him go when it was necessary (and how strange it was for him to think that he, who so recently had not dared to believe in the happiness of her loving him, now felt unhappy because she loved him too much!), and displeased with himself for not standing firm.”

An interesting sentence; how can one prescribe inner peace?: “The doctor explained that the illness came from fatigue and worry, and prescribed inner peace.”

On being in love with many different people: “Countess Lydia Ivanovna had long ceased to be in love with her husband, but she never ceased being in love with someone. She was in love with several people at the same time, both men and women; she was in love with almost everyone who was particularly distinguished in some way. She was in love with all the new princesses and princes who had come into the tsar’s family. She was in love with one metropolitan, one bishop and one priest. She was in love with one journalist, with three Slavs, with Komisarov, with one minister, one doctor, one English missionary, and with Karenin. All these loves, now waning, now waxing, filled her heart, gave her something to do, but did not keep her from conducting very extensive and complex relations at court and in society.”

On not being to learn by rote education the things your soul really desires: “The father and the pedagogue were both displeased with Seryozha, and indeed he studied very badly. But it was quite impossible to say that he was an incapable boy. On the contrary, he was much more capable than the boys whom the pedagogue held up as examples to Seryozha. As his father saw it, he did not want to learn what he was taught. But in fact, he could not learn it. He could not, because there were demands in his soul that were more exactly for him than those imposed by his father and the pedagogue. These demands were conflicting, and he fought openly with his educators.”

On the conditions of being uncomfortable: “A man can spend several hours sitting cross-legged in the same position if he knows that nothing prevents him from changing it; but if he knows that he has to sit with his legs crossed like that, he will get cramps, his legs will twitch and strain towards where he would like to stretch them.”

Anna, and the desperation of keeping a love that is lessening: “‘He looked at me with a cold, stern expression. Of course, that is indefinable, intangible, but it wasn’t so before, and that look means a lot,’ she thought. ‘That look shows that the cooling off has begun.’ And though she was convinced that the cooling off had begun, still there was nothing she could do, she could not change anything in her relations with him. Just as before, she could only try to keep him by her love and her attractiveness.”

Anna, on being afraid of seeing another cold expression, but staying resolute in tying Vronsky to herself: “She anticipated with horror the repetition of that stern look he had cast at her as he was leaving, especially when he discovered that the girl was not dangerously sick. But all the same she was glad she had written to him. Anna now admitted to herself that he was burdened by her, that he would regret parting with his freedom and coming back to her, but in spite of that she was glad of his coming. Let him be burdened, but let him be there with her, so that she could see him and know his every move.”

Kitty, on sometimes trying to observe Levin as an outsider: “To others, she knew, he did not look pitiful; on the contrary, when Kitty watched him in company, as one sometimes watches a person one loves, trying to see him as a stranger, to define the impression he makes on others, she saw, even with fear of her own jealousy, that he was not only not pitiful but very attractive in his decency, his rather old-fashioned, bashful politeness with women, his powerful figure, and his—as it seemed to her—particularly expressive face. But she saw him not from the outside but from inside; she saw that here he was not his real self; there was no other way she could define his condition.”

Anna, on energy to do anything coming from love: “‘They’re very nice, but I couldn’t get caught up in it. Energy, you say. Energy is based on love. And love can’t be drawn from just anywhere, it can’t be ordered. I love this English girl, I myself don’t know why.’”

On good conversations: “Over tea the same pleasant, meaningful conversation continued. Not only was there not a single moment when it was necessary to search for a subject of conversation but, on the contrary, there was a feeling of having no time to say what one wanted and of willingly restraining oneself in order to hear what the other was saying.”

On fighting, and wanting to end the fight, but also not wanting to yield: “She was glad of this invitation to tenderness. But some strange power of evil would not allow her to yield to her impulse, as if the conditions of the fight did not allow her to submit.”

Levin, as an unbeliever, unconsciously and necessarily turning to God when there is no one else to turn to: “‘Lord, have mercy, forgive us, help us!’ he repeated words that somehow suddenly came to his lips. And he, an unbeliever, repeated these words not just with his lips. Now, in that moment, he knew that neither all his doubts, nor the impossibility he knew in himself of believing by means of reason, hindered him in the least from addressing God. It all blew off his soul like dust. To whom was he to turn if not to Him in whose hands he felt himself, his soul and his love to be?”

Anna, on being irritated by a sense of tranquility, or taken-for-granted-ness, in Vronsky’s love: “Even the rare moments of tenderness that occurred between them did not bring her peace: in his tenderness she now saw a tinge of tranquility, of assurance, which had not been there before and which irritated her.”

Anna, on wanting to stay calm but needing to win the fight even at her own ruin: “For a moment she recovered herself and was horrified at having failed in her intention. But, even knowing that she was ruining herself, she could not hold back, could not keep from showing him how wrong he was, could not submit to him.”

Anna, berating herself to Vronsky: “‘Leave me, leave me!’ she repeated between sobs. ‘I’ll go away tomorrow… I’ll do more. What am I? A depraved woman. A stone around your neck. I don’t want to torment you, I don’t! I’ll release you. You don’t love me, you love another woman!’ Vronsky implored her to calm herself and assured her that there was not the shadow of a reason for her jealousy, that he had never stopped and never would stop loving her, that he loved her more than ever. ‘Anna, why torment yourself and me like this? he said, kissing her hands. There was tenderness in his face now, and it seemed to her that she heard the sound of tears in his voice and felt their moisture on her hand. And instantly Anna’s desperate jealousy changed to a desperate, passionate tenderness; she embraced him and covered his head and neck and hands with kisses.”

Anna, loving the sleeping Vronsky and thinking with apprehension of the waking Vronsky: “He was in the study fast asleep. She went over to him and, lighting his face from above, looked at him for a long time. Now, when he was asleep, she loved him so much that, looking at him, she could not keep back tears of tenderness; but she knew that if he woke up he would give her a cold look, conscious of his own rightness, and that before talking to him of her love, she would have to prove to him how guilty he was before her.”

Anna, on knowing herself: “‘I don’t know myself. I know my appetites, as the French say.’”

Levin, on the difference between thinking about doing something good and actually doing it: “Formerly (it had begun almost from childhood and kept growing till full maturity), whenever he had tried to do something that would be good for everyone, for mankind, for Russia, for the district, for the whole village, he had noticed that thinking about it was pleasant, but the doing itself was always awkward, there was no full assurance that the thing was absolutely necessary, and the doing itself, which at the start had seemed so big, kept diminishing and diminishing, dwindling to nothing.”

Living for the belly versus living for the soul; on goodness: “‘Fyodor says that Kirillov the innkeeper lives for his belly. That is clear and reasonable. None of us, as reasonable beings, can live otherwise than for our belly. And suddenly the same Fyodor says it’s bad to live for the belly and that one should live for the truth, for God, and I understand him from a hint! And I and millions of people who lives ages ago and are living now, muzhiks, the poor in spirit, and the wise men who have thought and written about it, saying the same thing in their vague language—we’ve all agreed on this one thing: what we should live for and what is good. I and all people have only one firm, unquestionable and clear knowledge, and this knowledge cannot be explained by reason—it is outside it, and has no causes, and can have no consequences. ‘If the good has a cause, it is no longer the good; if it has a consequence—a reward—it is also not the good. There for the good is outside the chain of cause and effect.’”

Levin, realizing the uselessness of trying to explain everything through physical means: “‘I used to say that in my body, in the body of this plant and of this bug (it didn’t want to go over to that plant, it spread its wings and flew away), an exchange of matter takes place according to physical, chemical and physiological laws. And that in all of us, along with the aspens, the clouds, and the nebulae, development goes on. Development out of what? Into what? An infinite development and struggle? … As if there can be any direction or struggle in infinity! And I was astonished that in spite of the greatest efforts of my thinking along that line, the meaning of life, the meaning of my impulses and yearnings, was still not revealed to me. Yet the meaning of my impulses is so clear to me that I constantly live by it, and was amazed and glad when a muzhik voiced it for me: to live for God, for the soul.’”

On the inability of reason to find love for others: “‘I sought an answer to my question. But the answer to my question could not come from thought, which is incommensurable with the question. The answer was given by life itself, in my knowledge of what is good and what is bad. And I did not acquire that knowledge though anything, it was given to me as it is to everyone, given because I could not take it from anywhere. ‘Where did I take it from? Was it through reason that I arrived at the necessity of loving my neighbour and not throttling him? I was told it was a child, and I joyfully believed it, because they told me what was in my soul. And who discovered it? Not reason. Reason discovered the struggle for existence and the law which demands that everyone who hinders the satisfaction of my desires should be throttled. That is the conclusion of reason. Reason could not discover love for the other, because it’s unreasonable. ‘Yes, pride,’ he said to himself, rolling over on his stomach and beginning to tie stalks of grass into a knot, trying not to break them. ‘And not only the pride of reason, but the stupidity of reason. And, above all—the slyness, precisely the slyness, of reason. Precisely the swindling of reason,’ he repeated.”

On philosophy, and how it tries to explain things by drawing a complex map of what we already know innately: “‘And don’t all philosophical theories do the same thing, leading man by a way of thought that is strange and unnatural to him to the knowledge of what he has long known and known so certainly that without it he would not even be able to live? Is it not seen clearly in the development of each philosopher’s theory that he knows beforehand, as unquestionably as the muzhik Fyodor and no whit more clearly than he, the chief meaning of life, and only wants to return by a dubious mental path to what everybody knows?’”

Levin, wanting to have a “loving conversation” after desiring to change himself but not being able to think of anything; on being annoyed that one cannot immediately be as good as one hopes to be: “Keeping a tight rein on the good horse, who was snorting with impatience and begging to run free, Levin kept looking at Ivan, who sat beside him not knowing what to do with his idle hands and constantly smoothing down his shirt, and sought a pretext for starting a conversation with him. He wanted to say that Ivan should not have tightened the girth so much, but that seemed like a reproach and he wanted to have a loving conversation. Yet nothing else came to him mind.  ‘Please bear to the right, sir, there’s a stump,’ said the coachman, guiding Levin by the reins. ‘Kindly do not touch me and do not instruct me!’ said Levin, vexed by this interference from the coachman. This interference vexed him just as it always had, and at once he sadly felt how mistaken he had been in supposing that his inner state could instantly change him in his contacts with reality.”

Levin, feeling an internal spiritual change despite being disappointed in his very human behavior: “He was glad of the chance to be alone, in order to recover from reality, which had already brought his mood down so much. He remembered that he had already managed to get angry with Ivan, to show coldness to his brother, and to talk light-mindedly with Katavasov. ‘Can it have been only a momentary mood that will pass without leaving a trace?’ he thought. But in that same moment, returning to his mood, he felt with joy that something new and important had taken place within him. Reality had only veiled for a time the inner peace he had found, but it was intact within him. Just as the bees now circling around him, threatening and distracting him, deprived him of full physical ease, made him shrink to avoid him, so the cares that had surrounded him from the moment he got into the gig had deprived him of inner freedom; but that lasted only as long as he was among them. As his bodily strength was wholly intact in him, despite the bees, so, too, was his newly realized spiritual strength intact.”

Levin, on believing something (and not needing to go through the whole process of coming to that conclusion again): “He did not recall his whole train of thought now, as he had done before (he did not need to). He was immediately transported into the feeling that guided him, which was connected with those thoughts, and he found that feeling still stronger and more definite in his soul than before. What had happened to him before, when he had invented some reassurance and had had to restore the whole train of thought in order to recover the feeling, did not happen now. On the contrary, now the feeling of joy and reassurance was all the more alive, and his thought could not keep up with it.”

Levin, on his new, spiritual feeling not changing him immediately, and not giving him magical understanding, but instead bringing meaning into his actions: “‘This new feeling hasn’t changed me, hasn’t made me happy or suddenly enlightened, as I dreamed—just like the feeling for my son. Nor was there any surprise. And faith or not faith—I don’t know what it is—but this feeling has entered into me just as imperceptibly through suffering and has firmly lodged itself in my soul. ‘I’ll get angry in the same way with the coachman Ivan, argue in the same way, speak my mind inappropriately, there will be the same wall between my soul’s holy of holies and other people, even my wife, I’ll accuse her in the same way of my own fear and then regret it, I’ll fail in the same way to understand with my reason why I pray, and yet I will pray—but my life now, my whole life, regardless of all that may happen to me, every minute of it, is not only not meaningless, as it was before, but has the unquestionable meaning of the good which it is in my power to put into it!’”

[baby-born]

What to do with the child at the airport?

TSA Kids Animation

What to do with the child at the airport? This question arose in front of me and my sister, the mother of my two favorite nephews bones and Christine, quite unexpectedly.

To sit in the flight all together, I have registered for the flight in advance, even at home. We specifically decided not to hurry with the arrival at the airport, so that children do not get bored too much time at the airport, since waiting for a flight at 3:00 in front of us.

My sister was very worried how her kids will behave in an airplane. Naughty children - disgruntled neighbors. Despite the fact that Costa for 9 years, and Christina - 3 years, for each of them it was the first air travel.

The appointed time we arrived at the airport, where it turned out that our flight was delayed by 2.5 hours. What to do?

Leave the children in the room mother and child, which is at the Domodedovo airport, we could not, as the eldest child, crutches, it was already 9 years. Let me explain that a mother and child room is designed for children up to 8 years old, disabled children under 14 and pregnant women. One of the advantages for the future, it is available for passengers 24 hours 7 days a week. As we were told airport personnel there you can find toys, upholstered furniture, toilet room and even a kitchen for preparing meals for children. Perhaps now I experience only with their own children.

AIRPORT HACKS FOR LOUD CHILDREN!

We went in search of adventure, as announced by the children, and went to look for a post office Russia, where we bought postcards and stamps. Opening hours 8:00 - 20:00. Along the way we rode the elevator and escalator, you look at airplanes and even took a few pictures. For Christine it was all very exciting, but exactly Kostya missed. But in the post, he enthusiastically wrote a letter to Pope, and Christina, with our help drawing plane. Of course, it has to return from leave children themselves dragged their cards, but that's another story.

We thought that we went around the airport, and the time before boarding was still a lot of - 1.5 hours. I jumped on the distillation nephews on the marble tiles on the floor, depicting birds and planes. But children soon lost interest in our attempts to entertain them and said they wanted to eat and drink. As it turned out, it was our salvation. We headed towards our departure gate and a new quest, already now the food.

The best airport in the world for kids, Changi Airport! (Singapore)

Accidentally we came across a cafe Mumu. It's a pity we did not know about it in advance. As it turned out, there is a large children's room, where there is no age limit. Therefore, Kostya and Christina could play together, and we are quietly having coffee with milk, my favorite bird and planned our holiday. As a result, we almost missed the flight because the first swing with her sister, then the children for a long time saying goodbye to the other guys.

On landing we ran four, that is forces. But as shown by our first flight, and simulated fed babies sleep the entire flight. And all the coloring that we have so carefully prepared and hidden from children to entertain them during the flight, we did not come in handy. Of the additional bonuses from the neighbors on the plane we have a minus karma. Of the important conclusions - you can not plan everything for sure, but the problems themselves always decide!