#petya-in-a-cup

[storja-historja]

this is a little silly but just like with aqotwf your constant at home amongst strangers posting is influencing me to get into it soon enough💔💔 (also AA!! love your art so much! big inspiration!)

It's not silly at all! Honestly I'm glad people didn't mind and even curious abt whatever I'm currently into 😆 good luck if you're really going to watch it! Have a nice weekend!

(also aqotwf + at home among strangers mention makes me want to doodle a crossover nobody asked jdjdhfhk have a Kat having a little fun if they went to eastern front instead as a treat)

[petya-in-a-cup]

Are you still looking for people to talk with about Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs? Because I volunteer,,,

Oh absolutely, I'm always looking for people so please you're more than welcome!! That game has me in a chokehold

[turrettarot]

🔹Contributor Introductions!🔸

Adam ( @petya-in-a-cup​ ) has brought in their experience of creating fantastic art to beloved media, their character art an exciting addition to the deck!

[Image Text Transcript: Hi hi! My names Adam i use they/them, im an a future art major and possibly graphic designer. I’m into many fandoms including portal, mgs, yakuza, amnesia, pathologic and etc. Im excited to work on this project :) /end transcript]

[jamietukpahwriting]

Anna… As he thought of her, Sergei smiled—that dazzling, tender smile of his—and the Lady Lavinia, seeing it, edged closer. But Sergei was far away now… In the birch woods round Grazbaya as Anna ran toward him cupping fresh-picked wild strawberries for him in her hands… Anna, whose cry of “Look, Seriosha, oh, look!” had been the thread running through their childhood as she shared with him her delight in a ring of white and crimson toadstools, a new foal, a skein of wild geese flying south to the Urals. If only he could find a job that would make it possible for him to look after her, and Petya too. She’d looked so tired when he saw her last at the club, so thin. Or should he, after all, marry Larissa Rakov as the grand duchess wanted? He’d fled from the baroness’s pallid plainness, her boring conversation, but compared to the Nettleford girls, the grand duchess’s dumpy lady-in-waiting seemed a miracle of propriety and intelligence and she was certainly very rich. Her banker father had seen the catastrophe coming long before anyone else and transferred all his assets to London. If he married Larissa, he could make a home for his parents and the Grazinsky’s too.

—A Countess Below Stairs by Eva Ibbotson

[thepetiteninja]

Welcome to 2024

Hello again!

My most recent post was from 4 years ago. And so much had happened since, so I guess it's time for another update. I'm writing this for me who will be reading this entry after a few years, maybe when I remember to dig up my old tumblr account again just because I felt like reminiscing.

So anyway, I'm turning thirty this year. That hasn't sunk yet because more than anything — I'm getting married this year too. It's still to the guy I have been writing about years before. We're turning 9 years this 2024, and are tying the knot this October. He proposed to me two years ago. On top of the Singapore Flyer, 11.11.22. Damn, what a date.

But the past few years weren't all about butterflies and happiness. These past few years were actually some of the worst ones of my life so far. I'm in debt. But fortunately on a good payment plan now that I haven't missed. I risked a really good job to pursue hosting full time — that only lasted for 3 months. Then shifted industries because I wanted to still give myself a chance. And so now I'm still hosting but for e-commerce livestreams. Got promoted twice in a year. I'm now a trainer. But I still do copywriting on the side because it makes good money. At least now I've flipped it up. Doing my passions full time then writing on the side. I'm tired though, to tell you the truth.

Mind-wise, I'm confident. I know what I can bring to the table and what I'm capable of. I don't second guess myself too much now. I still work hard and multi-task. I know my worth. I know my strengths. I learned my lessons well. I've been through difficult times and now I've gained stability. I know I'm ready to fly. In a smarter, more mature way.

Life-wise could be better. Because the wedding is right around the corner, everything I'm earning is being poured to it. So you can say I'm still living paycheck to paycheck after all the great things I take pride on. I'd like to think I've planted a lot of seeds that I'm just waiting to harvest soon. Hopefully the wedding turns out great, so I could finally enjoy the fruits of my labor completely. To be honest tonight, dinner was just a pack of pancit canton and cup noodles. It's petya de peligro and I don't know where to get tomorrow's fare to work. But I'll get by. After a day, salary's gonna come. I really hope it gets so much better soon.

So these things, y'know. It's entirely great but minutely terrifying. And every single time God proves to me that there's guidance from above. You won't believe how many conveniently unexpected blessings I've gotten over the past tumultuous years. I can't even comprehend how I've weathered through all the moments I worried about. But I'm here, sitting on my couch, safe, satiated, typing whatever comes to mind. It's these reflective, peaceful pauses that makes you realize that despite the chaos, I'm actually okay. Barely breathing but pushing on.

I'd like to think future me who would be reading this somehow, someday, would look at me and say: "just wait, it's going to be better". Because I would be saying the same thing to myself who started this blog 10+ years ago. It had gotten so much better. Crazier, but better. I wish future me would say, "babe, we're a millionaire". But more importantly would love her to say, "we still love what we do". No matter what that looks like.

So there. I think that's an ample update about how I am now. And hopefully in a few years tumblr would still be here so I'd be able to read all this again. It's a good self-therapy shit. And also I just missed writing my thoughts like this.

Ok, I'm just rambling now. Until the next update!

[lady-stormwind]

Baking Buddies

Enchantimals Petya Pig Streuser & Nisha Baking Buddies dolls

[comradebezukhov]

I had a dream about a War and Peace Netflix show

The plot has been changed so much it’s barely War and Peace anymore, and it is super messed up. I’ll try to type it in chronological order because I can’t remember it very clearly

The show is called “War and Peace: Something something”

Julie Karagina married Anatole instead of Boris

And of course he keeps cheating on her

Boris married some kind of foreign royalty and we never see him again

Oh also Anatole is played by Timothee Chalamet

Anatole and Dolokhov has a threesome with a prostitute at some point

Pierre and Helene had a divorce

Helene’s new fiance insulted Pierre so Pierre had a duel with him instead of Dolokhov

Sonya is a ginger

Nikolai got to kiss the Tsar’s hand after a battle

The show basically keeps queerbaiting us with Tsarkolai

Vassily isn’t entirely bald, instead he has those Chinese Qing Dynasty hairstyle. Super random, I know.

Sonya accepted Dolokhov’s proposal but the card game thing still happened because Dolokhov was jealous(?) of Nikolai

They cast different actors to play a younger Natasha, Sonya and Petya

For some reason younger Sonya is not a ginger

Natasha & Boris and Sonya & Nikolai in the beginning of the show both become one-sided crush

Dolokhov isn’t involved in the abduction

Natasha does get onto Balaga’s troika but regrets it almost immediately

They end up being stopped by some soldiers/ officers

Marya becomes a pilgrim after OPB died

Anatole loses his leg as well as his penis in Borodino

Yet Julie still gets pregnant some time later

Petya died in Borodino

Andrei survived but never made a recovery, remaining weak and feeble for the rest of his life

Andrei and Natasha get married

They have a boy named Petya, a girl named Marya and another girl named Sonya I think

Pierre goes to Europe for some reason

Years later Pierre comes back to Russia, with his daughter and his son who are both illegitimate, to arrange things so that they can inherit his estates and stuff in Russia

The boy is named Andryusha I think? While apparently the girl is named Anya, after Pierre’s mother? (What)

They go to visit Andrei and Natasha in Bald Hills

Natasha tells Pierre about how Andrei and she had lived a happy life but now Andrei is old and all he is acting like his own father

And she is absolutely right Andrei is basically OPB 2.0

Also here old Andrei is being played by the same actor as OPB, adult Nikolushka is being played by young Andrei while their son Petya is being played by child Nikolushka

Old Natasha is another actress while old Pierre is played by Count Kirill Bezukhov

Nikolushka and Anya fall in love out of nowhere and he proposed

Ok the following part is kind of dark

Andrei falls ill and become bedridden.

He talks about how he hates being so old and weak, how he is not himself anymore and how he has already lived the life he wanted

He tells Pierre about some poison (?) that he keeps and ask Pierre to end him (wtf) and Pierre refuses

Next day Andrei lies dead with an empty cup at his bedside. It is unknown whether it was Pierre who did it.

Turns out it was Natasha. Andrei told her the same things he told Pierre and after a lot of crying she did as he said.

She sings to him while he closes his eyes

I know, what the actual fuck?

Yeah that’s all I remember about the dream. I’ll add back if I recall more of it later.

[dregstrash]

jealousy, the thing with claws (pt. 4)

A/N: I finally got this done! I know the demand of a Kiss was high, but you gotta be patient. I hope this installment is up to expectations and you guys keep around for part 5

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Tagging: @kestrel-of-herran @ipizzippy @stormwitchprivateer @queenghafa @ysitsohardtofindaname @shadowylighting @alittlelark @privateerrezni 

-

“I have a solution for you, King.” Ehri’s voice was a surprise in the throne room at this time of day. Nikolai looked at the clock on the wall and raised his eyebrow at his intended.

“What could you possibly mean, my sweet?” He smiled sarcastically looking up from his glass. He really thought having weekly public requests would have assuaged the fears that were running rampant in Ravka, but with each request and with each verdict the tension only rose. The people were scared. They were starving. They were on the brink of utter ruin. And Nikolai was only one man. 

“You don’t have to marry me.” She didn’t step up to the dais where Nikolai was still sitting in his throne. Ehri’s face was stone still, and there was a hard line of determination set into her mouth. “I can promise the Shu’s peace and cooperation without marriage.”

Nikolai chuckled bitterly, “Forgive me, but I’m not used to women who so obviously detest me, is this some sort of cruel joke? If so, I could lend you this joke book that Toly-”

“It’s possible.” Ehri cut him off impatiently, “It’ll be possible because I’ll be your emissary and become a Ravkan citizen. Duality of citizenship is being started in Novyi Zem and with a draft from you, it could be part of Ravka as well. As your emissary and as your citizen, I can be loyal to you, and speak in your behalf in Shu Han. My people still respect me and my father will have to honor that. We don’t need to marry.” 

Another laugh almost escaped him, but then understanding quickly followed. Dual citizenship? He had heard of the Novyi Zem government doing that in a way to appease the amount of immigrants they were migrating there. And he supposed that the thought had crossed his mind to implement it when his country was more stable and could handle the increase of their populate. But to do it now? Could it be possible? Despite the logic that was screaming at him to slow his racing thought, hope was bubbling up from a forgotten place and he flashed forward in time.

With his engagement to Ehri dissolved he could start focusing on the other countries breathing down his neck. Trade routes with the Shu could be possible. The dangers of Parem could be somewhat maintained. He could choose his own wife-- an image of raven hair and blue eyes invaded his mind. And his wretched, traitorous train of thought took him down the steps of the palace and into the Little Palace. It carried him through marbled steps and quickened heartbeats until he arrived in front of her door. 

He’d knock, and feel his heart in his throat. She’d answer and he could almost imagine the frown that would slightly soften at the sight of him. He’d enter without being invited in, and her sarcasm would sweeten the air. Nikolai would pace around the room. His glance would bounce around the room, because he didn’t want to see her reaction as he explained the new solution Ehri had. He just needed to get the words out and then worry about what she would think. Except when the words ran out, and only silence filled the room, he would turn to her finally and be greeted by a smile that was almost a smirk. She would tilt her head and try to hide the amusement in her eyes, and that’s what would undo him. It was that look that made him feel like he knew her better than anyone. And then he’d close that distance between them. He’d hold her face in between his hands, and feel overwhelmed-- like a blade of grass caught in a storm. Her eyes would drown him. She’d feel warm, and her lips would part so slightly. Then he’d finally kiss her-- like he’s wanted to ever since she agreed to be his general. 

He’d kiss her like the sun kisses the sky, and when it long since set, then he’d shower her with affection like the stars sprinkling the night. He’d hold her closer and closer until their breaths were one, and he’d finally let his heart sigh in relief. His heart would finally feel the edge of despair step down and for that brief moment it would soar with hope and happiness that had seemed so dead before this moment. 

Ehri coughed and Nikolai snapped back to the present. One of her eyebrows were raised expectantly. He opened his mouth to start to agree when his pride demanded something else to be asked.

“Do you really detest me so much, you’d do anything to not marry me?” 

For the first time since he’s met her, Ehri smiled, “I do not detest you, Nikolai. I detest that my life has been dictated to me since the moment of my birth. And I think we both know the lengths of which I would go to keep my freedom.”

Nikolai frowned at the thought of Isaak-- of the sweet boy who died with another man’s face. 

“Now, do we have an agreement?” She said crossing her arms.

This time it was Nikolai who smiled, “We do indeed, Princess.”

-

He didn’t wait to tell the rest of the Triumvrate about the change of plans. They’d agree with him. And it would be the best course of action, it might even increase their export and import. But he did have to tell Zoya. 

He remembered his daydream, and his steps hurried at the mere thought of how close to reality it could be. He could have it all-- Just this once he might be able to--

“Zoya,” Petya’s voice filtered in through one of the hallways of the Little Palace. 

Nikolai almost tripped as he slowed and softened his footfalls. His heart which had been racing, now felt cold and slow-- like it was trying to function through quicksand. 

He reached the corner where a suit of armor was placed, it was just enough space to hide behind as Zoya and Petya stood by a beautiful stained glass window. The reds and blues splashed pleasantly on both of them, and while Petya looked flushed and nervous, Zoya had a soft amusement in her face that Nikolai had not seen in a very long time.

“I-I know it really hasn’t been that long,” Petya continued to stammer. His feet shuffling awkwardly, “But--but there’s a war coming and-- And I don’t want-- I don’t want uncertainty or regrets to be my last thoughts, should I die--”

“I must have been a bad influence if I’ve gotten you thinking about your death, Petya.” Zoya laughed. 

He relaxed slightly and offered what looked like a smirk, “As you say, my flower, practicality is just ruthlessness.” He coughed then took a deep breath. Before sinking down on one knee. 

A sharp pain sliced down Nikolai’s hand and he glanced down surprised at the cut across his palm. He was gripping the armor’s jagged dagger so tight that the dulled edge cut his skin. But he couldn’t bring himself to tend to the wound because something else was cutting at him. It was the same roaring beast that reared its ugly head the first time Petya asked for his opinion about Zoya. The same creature that growled and howled when he caught sight of the couple was now shredding his slowed heart. Its claws ripped thoughts in Nikolai’s mind, conjuring up a thousand ways that he could have torn Petya apart or interrupted the scene in front of him. And Nikolai was sure he would have if it hadn’t been for the way Zoya was looking at the other man.

Her eyebrows were raised and her face was in complete stillness as Petya kept talking.

He took out a dazzling ring from his pocket and pressed it to Zoya’s hand. “This is yours. I want to marry you Zoya Nazyalensky. By the saints, I am honored as all can be that you’ve let me court you, and if you so wish it I would work my entire life to be a husband you deserve. I--I know that you do not wish to marry so quickly or so haphazardly, and you don’t have to answer me now. Just--When you decide, wear the ring-- then I will know. I love you, Zoya. I wish to make you happy.”

So do I, Nikolai thought numbly. His body wasn’t sure how to react to the shock that had started from his heart and then spread to his limbs. He wanted to run out of there, but also stay in place to see Zoya’s answer. He wanted to scream, but also never utter a single word again. His blood ran cold, but his heart seemed to flare angrily. Hundreds of contradictions were warring against him.

Zoya’s hand closed around the ring, and with the other, she cupped Petya’s face. Her lips upturned in a sad sort of smile.

“Thank you for being understanding, Petya.” She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. That’s what made Nikolai finally move. He moved back into the shadows that were behind him. He tried to even his breathing and to temper the dread and regret and disappointment that was poisoning his whole being. But he was only fooling himself. Because with each pained step, with each breath, with each passing thought, he was ruined and wrecked. The daydream that had spectacularly felt so close to reality had shattered and he was brought back into the jagged edges of reality.

[agateshot]

He has had quite a few visitors over the days, each one stranger and more baffling than the last. So many people have been coming to visit him, and it's not that surprising that he knew them-- he knows all of them.

What confuses him, is that every single one of them knows him. Everyone. The baker comes to visit and brings him a bit of his favorite bread, and the butcher comes along in the next hour to make it into his favorite sandwiches for him, telling him that if he had known when Sandra was planning to visit, they would have come together. Petya of course is quick to understand, but--

The steady stream of people don't stop there, giving him things, helping him in little ways.

Everyone calling him by his name.

It gets to a point where it's overwhelming, that even their gentle kindness has been too much. He can't keep the tired confusion out of his face anymore, but even then he isn't belittled for it or told that he's been ungrateful. The lady he's talking to, Yenna, gives him a kiss on the cheek and a hug, and tells him she'll make sure the word is spread that he needs to rest for a while. He thanks her, and she smiles at him, calmly leaving him to his thoughts.

A few days pass after that, and it's quiet, no one bothering him. Petya can't seem to wrap his head around it, how do all these people so effortlessly know him? He hadn't been aware that he had left such a strong impression with the Silver Knights, let alone people in the city.

There's a soft knock at the door, pulling him out of his thoughts, Petya blinking as the thin form of Princess Yorshka walks in, greatly taking him aback.

"Your guards--" He says quickly, but she shakes her head slightly.

"At the end of the hallway," She tells him, "Perchance thou hast been asleep."

"Damn my sleep," He grumbles, only for his face to go pink as he realizes he's cursed in front of Yorshka, adverting his eyes, "I mean… Your safety is more important than my rest."

"Wouldst thou have me call them closer?" She asks, and he nods. She ducks out for a moment, the sound of metal clad footsteps following.

He struggles to sit up as Yorshka comes back into his room, the young lady opting to crawl onto his bed instead of sitting on the chair, setting her basket on the table as she arranges herself so that she's sitting behind him without pinching her tail, pulling out a silvery brush to start pulling through his hair.

"Did you come all this way to groom me?" Petya asks, "That's a little silly."

"I should have come sooner," She admits, "But Lothric cautioned me that thy mood has been poor lately, and that today thou would enjoy some company again. He says he shall visit next time with mineself, but his brother has plans for a day with Lothric."

Petya nods slightly. Lothric kept doing that, knowing things, but in a way it was almost comforting. Almost. At least the mysterious little boy was consistent in his strangeness. Yorshka pauses, putting aside the brush to place her arms around him, and Petya realizes that for the first time since she was a baby, this was the only time she has touched him when he hasn't had the metal shell of his armor.

It slams into him with such a force that tears are rolling down his face, and try as he might, he can't keep them at bay with the palm of his right hand. Yorskha hands him a handkerchief and he thanks her, using it to wipe at his face.

"It's good to know you're safe." He tells her, "That I was able to keep you safe this long. It's been an honor and a pleasure being there for you, Yorshka. I'm sorry I won't be there in the future to continue to do so."

"Ser Petya…" She's got that tone in her voice, and curse him, curse his body, he can't even turn around to wipe her face! "Thy loyal heart hast not perished, nor has thy body. Perhaps thou shalt not be my guardian as thou has been for the years of mine life, but mine brother has always entrusted to me thy service as a Knight. As long as thou breath in loyalty to the moon, thou art my Knight, wherever thy duties and life bring you, and I should never throw thee away."

She crawls around him, coming to face him, taking her Knight's face in her gentle hands, meeting his agate eyes with her pale ones, the delicate featherlike scales that grace her cheeks and brow damp with her tears. She is as beautiful today as the day he had seen her, the pale pink tendrils peeking out from behind her redish hair.

"On the occasion mine brother need abdicate his throne, though in such an occasion I should hope it were in the happy pursuit of living a fuller life away from conflict," Always the optimist, of course, "It is true Knights, such as thineself, that I shall have to support me in my reign. Thou hast not lost any of thine worth in this accident, and thou must know this. Thou must."

"Is that an order, My Lady?" Petya murmurs, and Yorshka nods, eyes shining with a light that rivals the moon's.

"An order and a decree." She says, "And I knowest my brother shares mine heart in this. Thy duties shall change, they must. Cease thy dark thoughts in thine value, I, Yorshka, bid you. Thou hast always been by mineself when I should need thee, and thou shalt always be."

Petya nods, his mouth pulling down into a frown, trying and failing not to cry. Yorshka pulls him into a hug, and Petya returns it, burying his face in her hair.

They stay like that for a moment, Petya unable to let her go until the moment he does, cupping the side of her face in his good hand.

"Thank you." He says.

"Nay," She says, a shake of her head, "Thank thee, Ser Petya. Thy service to mine brother and mineself thou hast already given is that which cannot be repaid. It would be a failing and a dishonor to allow thee to face thine turmoil alone, one that shalt not happen. Now; if thou wouldst…"

She turns, pulling from her basket a few ribbons to present him.

"...Which of these shall I decorate thee with?"

There was comfort in familiarity, and Petya Lebedev, Silver Knight of the Nameless Moon, smiles.

[jubilee-lining]

@petya-in-a-cup

[herbertwest]

Six of Cups more like ‘Petya Has Two Dads and One of Them is Lenin’

[blooblooded]

Magic in the Northern Territories

“The old woman had appeared to be most friendly, but she was really an old witch who had waylaid the children, and had only built the little bread house in order to lure them in. When any child came into her power; she killed, cooked and ate him, and held a regular feast day for the occasion. Now witches have red eyes, and cannot see far, but like beasts, they have a keen sense of smell, and know when human beings pass by.” Hansel and Gretel, The Brothers Grimm.

FLORENCE AND FLICK

Against her better judgment, Florence Gauthier sought out the witch who was rumored to live in the Hinterlands woods. She was only 16 years old and had a problem that needed taking care of.

It took a day to travel from the gentle rivers and valleys of the Strath to the scrubby pine forest of the Hinterlands. She told her maid that she was leaving to visit her mother in Ile de Matane, nobody would suspect that she would go east. Out of all the Northern Territories, this was the wildest, the least populated. Perhaps that was why it was said that the witch lived there.

It was easier than she imagined it might be to find the witch’s house. Some fur-trader had pointed out the path for her when she came across him laying his traps. If Florence had been anyone else, she might have been afraid that this stranger might figure out what she was up to. But she was married to the Duke of the Strath and did not feel frightened at all. She preferred the presence of the common people to the Nobility.

To be safe, she dressed like one of the peasants. Just a simple wool gown that came down to her elbows and a shaw of rabbit fur. She tied her black hair back in a braided knot. No jewelry, nothing that could be stolen. It was safer that way.

Even seeing the witch’s house did not frighten her. It was just a little cottage. Two stories. A chimney. Stained glass windows. The thatched straw roof was all covered in moss. It looked the same as every other forest-peasant house in the Northern Territories. Florence had seen worse. The twisting stone hallways, cold rooms, and unsmiling portraits in her own estate were far worse. The Duke had taken to one of those cold rooms on their wedding night and she had decided that there was nothing worse than those portraits staring down at her.

“You can call me Stasya,” said the witch, not long after she invited Florence inside. Her accent marked her as being from Kimanka, that wretched bog-land full of savages. She was just a normal woman. A beautiful woman, maybe in her late 30’s. Stasya’s face was heart-shaped and tan, her long dark hair framed it in a pleasing manner. The clinging black dress she wore accentuated her exaggerated hourglass shape in a way that was almost obscene.

Florence sniffed when she heard that. What sort of adult chooses to be called by such a childish diminutive? It was the kind of nickname the parents from Kimanka called their children; Alyosha for Alex, Petya for Peter, and the like. It was strange and unsettling to hear a woman twice her age call herself that. “Stasya,” she repeated. “Right. Fine. Will you help me or not?”

She took a cup of tea that the witch handed to her but didn’t drink it. Every fairy tale her mother had ever told her about witches warned against consuming anything they gave you. That was how they trapped you. They liked to lure children into their homes with bread and sweets so they could eat them with their sharp teeth. Was Florence still a child? She wasn’t sure. 

Stasya’s teeth were normal. She had a gentle smile and her lips were painted red. “Show me your right hand,” she said.

Wordlessly, Florence extended her hand with the palm facing up. The witch took it and traced a finger up the middle. It sent a shudder running down her spine. “You’re reading my future?”

“Not many are able to see the future. Only those few whose minds are merged to the land beyond the stars. This only allows me to guess your fortune based on your character.” Stasya pressed into her hand. She smelled of peppermint and something else too, something like the greasy musk of snakeskin. “Your life-line and your line of Fate are merged together. Ambitious. Confident. If you were a man you would be a great leader. You could do great things.”

Florence snatched her hand away. “I will do things. I will be a leader someday. That’s why you have to help me. I’ve heard that witches are able to end pregnancies.”

 “You want me to help you kill the Duke’s child?”

“I’ll pay you.” Florence felt frustration build in her chest. It was hard to stay calm. Ever since she had gotten pregnant a few months ago, it had just become harder. Everything made her angry. She would scream at the servants and smash china against the floor. It was hard to focus on things, it was hard to even read. She was sick all the time and she hated the way that her body was changing. “I don’t want Rowan’s baby. I don’t even want to be married to him. I didn’t have a choice. So I’ll pay you. I have money, I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

A moth-eaten old cat rubbed itself against her legs. Florence bit down the urge to give it a kick. She hated this. She hated asking for help. Being vulnerable made her feel weak. The witch’s cottage was dirty and smelled like dirt and sour sweat. There were bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. She did not want to be there. 

Stasya drank from her own teacup. She watched the girl in front of her with eyes that were ringed with black liner. For a long time she did not say anything. Florence tapped her foot impatiently.

“Well?” she demanded at last. She could not stand to wait.

“What a stupid little mouse,” said Stasya, more to herself than anyone else. Her voice was thick and oily.

Embarrassment and rage rose to Florence’s face. She was not used to being disrespected. When she spoke, people listened. They bowed or curtsied, they followed her orders. The only one above her was her husband. She stood up with her fists clenched. “Excuse me? How dare you speak to me like that?”

Stasya leaned back. “You’re a stupid girl and I’ll speak to you however I want. No, I won’t help you. A child of noble birth? That is a rare gift.” She took a tin of peppermint candies from one pocket and ate one.“You’ve wasted your time. Scurry back to your husband’s bed, little mouse, your dirty stupid Strath people won’t want to know you’ve come here begging me to end your child’s life.”

There was no controlling her temper. It had always been her weakness. Even as a child, Florence flew into rages. She’d throw things at her mother when she tried to get her ready for bed. It was hard for her. She knew that she was smarter than most people. She read more. She knew things. She knew things about the world, this one and the old one. Nobody else understood.

She would not be disrespected. 

Florence drew back and slapped the witch across the face as hard as she could. She used her right hand. Her right hand, with its intertwined lines of Fate and Life. The blow rang out. Stasya’s skin was dry as paper and powdery-soft. The slap must have stung, although she was only 5 feet tall and had no muscles to speak of, the force of her rage saw to that. But the witch did not move or flinch. A red handprint bloomed across her lovely face.

This was only some peasant charlatan, masquerading as a magic user. A liar and a cheat. Not anything like the real ones. At her wedding, the owl-masked High Priest from the blood-magic town of Blagodat had attended, sitting at the left hand of the King. He had sliced into his own arm with a silver knife and compelled one of the serving girls to tear off her clothes in front of everyone. That was real magic. This was nothing.

A terrible smile twisted Stasya’s lips and she laughed. She put a hand to her face where she had been struck, then stuck the other into her pocket and cast down a pinch of herbs. She spat on the floor of her cottage. “Your son will be born broken,” she said. Her eyes glowed green. “Weak. Nameless and shameful, lower than a bastard.”

She knew a curse when she heard one. Florence bit down a scream. She whirled and knocked all the glass bottles and implements from Stasya’s table, sending them shattering to the ground. The cat was within kicking range and she sent a foot into its ribs; the yowl it produced did nothing to ease her fury. She stomped towards the door of the little cottage and flung it open. “You’ll regret this!” Her voice was high-pitched and girlish and did nothing to lend her any power. “I will make you regret this! Do you hear me? You’ll regret speaking to me like this! You should have helped me!”

“Get out of here, stupid girl,” said the witch. “Go back to your riches and your estate. There are worse things in this world than bearing a child. You’ll find that out soon enough.”

Florence slammed the door on her way out.

###

The baby was born 9 weeks prematurely, with a twisted foot and lungs that wheezed whenever he breathed. Rowan blamed her, of course. By that time he was consumed with the idea of seceding the Strath from the rest of the Northern Territories, but he still blamed her. He said that it was because she smoked too much and said that they’d just try again until they got a healthy heir.

Florence knew differently, of course. It was the witch. Stasya had cursed her for her anger. She had cursed her for overreaching, for her ambition. It was a punishment. She had stepped out of place and was being punished for it.

It didn’t work. Now she wanted two things. She wanted freedom for the Strath. She wanted the head of the Hinterlands witch. There was much work to be done.

###

The boy grew old enough to understand that there was something wrong with him. He was not like the other children. Despite everything, it made her feel bad. Her son was weak and broken. He limped when he walked. Even though she had taken him to some quack doctor who had broken every bone in his right foot to try and flatten it out, it had healed wrong and he still limped. There were mornings that he couldn’t get out of bed due to his pain and there were moments where he coughed and wheezed so severely that she thought he would stop breathing.

His name was Phillip but she called him Flick. It seemed more like a Strath name. Maybe it would help him feel less different.

She had grown fond of the boy.

“Why am I like this?” he asked her one morning, after falling into an asthmatic fit that had turned his face blue. Flick never cried. He got frustrated, but he never cried. He was a thoughtful, sly kind of child, always asking questions. He looked like she did. Dark haired and eyed, they had the same sharp faces and strong noses. “Do you know?”

Florence lit a cigarette. “You were cursed by a witch before you were born,” she said.

“That doesn’t seem true. Or possible.”

“It’s true. I was there.” He was only 9. She tried to hide how unwanted he was. Letting him know that she had never wanted him seemed cruel. Florence did her best. She encouraged him to read any book he could get his hands on. She hired men to teach him different skills: lock-picking, falconry, and how to set traps for small animals. She didn’t want him to feel useless on top of unwanted. “I slapped her because I was feeling a little too brave and she cursed you.”

Flick eyed her. His breathing was still shallow and he used a hand to push away the smoke. “There aren’t witches anymore. Reed told me that they all got killed off when Father was my age. Les yeux sanglants helped hunt them down.”

Les yeux sanglants. The bloody eyes.Thinking about what they did to people in their gore-covered town sent shivers running down her back. It was said that their High-Priest wore a mask shaped like the face of an owl, that he read from an ancient Book bound from human skin, and that he carried a sword forged from star-metal. She would get to them eventually. Florence scowled. “There are still witches in the Hinterlands woods. They kill children and make people sick. They can control the plakal'shchitsa mutants that rip people limb from limb.”

“Then why doesn’t Father kill the witches?” Her son put one hand on his chest as if measuring each lung full of air. His breath rattled. “He should kill the witches instead of fighting the Imperials.”

Somewhere to the North, Rowan and his Partisan army were up to their knees in blood, mud, and shit. They had 20,000 men from the Strath. The Imperial forces of Ile de Matane and Kimanka numbered 50,000. It was not looking good. If they surrendered, the King promised that he would not execute all of them, only their leaders. Florence prayed that they would fight to the last man.

What would happen to her and her child if they lost? She didn’t want to think about it.

Years ago, she had prayed to the gods of the Strath every night that her husband would die. Now she prayed that he would live as long as he could against the insurmountable odds. It was ironic. She knew there were no gods but she still prayed.

“There aren’t many witches left,” she said. “But there’s thousands of Imperials and the things they do to us is worse.”

“The Imperials never cursed me and made me a cripple,” Flick said. There was a touch of unusual sulkiness to his voice. It was not like him. He had never complained about being unable to play with the other children. He busied himself with his hobbies, he read. Some of the children of the Duke’s men, Charles Bouvier and Reed Kimble, would make fun of him, but Flick had never seemed bothered. “Maybe they’ll win the war. I could work for the King when I grow up and be respected.”

Florence exhaled smoke through her nose. She looked at her little broken son. “If the Imperials win,” she said. “You’ll find that there are worse things than being a cripple.

DOG AND ANATOLE

Anatole Surkhov’s father was called the Butcher of Kimanka and he was the Commander of the King’s Imperial Army.

All manner of warfare had fascinated Anatole since he was little. He liked the idea of it. It seemed noble to him. He would go to sleep dreaming of holding a bright sword, he’d dream of being a hero and fighting against insurmountable odds. When he was awake, he would study old military strategies and practice his movements in the stables with a long stick. Becoming a soldier was impossible, of course, due to the unfortunate realities of the society he lived in. But it was something to do and it was something to cling on to.

By the time he was 14, he learned that his father was not the sort of brave knight he had read about. There was a reason Mikhail Surkhov was called the Butcher. 

“Get out of here, Valushka,” his father told him, giving him a swat. They were in the Great Hall of the estate, having just finished their dinner. His mother and sisters had already scurried away. The fire burned low. “The witch is coming to speak to me.”

Anatole felt himself blush at hearing the baby-like nickname for Valerie. His father had no idea that he had picked a new name for himself out of a book. He would never know, he didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found out. Something bad. He knew that the secret fantasy life he kept inside of himself was bad, but he clung onto it anyway in order to survive. Anyway, he had never been good at being Valerie. His mother said that his smooth tan face and brown curls made him pretty, he just didn’t want to be pretty.. “I’m not afraid of witches,” he said.

The Butcher was a huge man with limp blonde hair and a long beard. He wore his Imperial uniform at all times, the gold trim catching in the firelight. Wherever he walked, people treated him with solemn respect. “You should be afraid. They eat children like you.” He stroked his beard. “When I was a boy, there were witch hunters who weeded them out. Now there aren’t many left. Our new struggle is against the bloody-eyes.” He spat and made the sign against evil, his middle and ring finger pressed against his thumb.

70 miles south-east of Kimanka was the town of Blagodat. It was populated by blood magic users and was not a part of the Northern Territories. The stories that came out of that place were enough to make a grown man shudder. There were whispers about human sacrifice and blood spilt in their black temple. Rumor had it that they had poisoned the land in Kimanka with their magic until it was nothing but stinking bogs where nothing could grow and people starved.

Once, Anatole had seen the owl-masked High Priest of Blagodat. All the great families of the Northern Territories had gathered in the capitol to watch the traitor Rowan Gauthier hang. Anatole had been 10 and had seen men hang before, although the preferred method of execution in his territory was beheading. He remembered how the High-Priest had pointed at the purple-face, twitching body of the traitor on the gallows and whispered something to his own children.

“Why is the witch coming here?” he asked his father.

“I’m making a trade,” said the Butcher.

They sat in silence. Anatole watched the dying fire. His father did not tell him to leave again, maybe he wanted him to see what was about to happen. After all, he was his eldest child and his only son, even though he did not see him that way. The Great Hall was made of stone and grew cold; Anatole pulled his rabbit-fur cloak tighter around his body.

After an hour, one of the Imperials entered the Hall, escorting a woman in her mid-fifties. The Imperial looked nervous and shifty, he stayed a few paces in front of her, sweating in his uniform. The witch did not look nervous at all. Anatole thought that she looked sweet and elegant, nothing like the ugly, dirty witches in the stories he had heard. She had a smooth, heart shaped face, framed by long silvery hair. Long necklaces made of gold and bones hung around her neck and they rattled with each step.

“Count Mikhail Surkhov,” said the witch, without waiting for introductions or niceties. She walked right up to stand in front of the Butcher. “The sword-arm of the King. Have you agreed to what I asked?”

“It would be easy to do. Blagodat is home to less than 800 souls. And half of those are women and children.”

“Even the little ones can tear the guts from a man’s body with only their minds and a bit of blood.” The witch glanced at Anatole briefly. She had almond-shaped eyes as green as poison that seemed to gleam in the firelight. “The King would let you destroy them? Or would that be seen as genocide? He’s allowed the High-Priest into his own home in the past.”

The Butcher scoffed. If he was afraid of this old woman, he did not show it. Usually his gaze would linger on women’s breasts, but now he stared directly into her face. “The King is a stupid old man. I’m the Commander of his army, I’d make him see reason. He has reasons. The rumor goes that those Rift-worshiping pagans cursed his daughter.”

The rumor was that Princess Seraphine had been turned into a monster. All the maids and stable boys were gossipping about it. They said that the High-Priest had mutilated her after the King had begged him to help heal his daughter’s illness. They said that the Princess’s body was bloated and twisted, that she resembled one of the plakal'shchitsa, the crawling, crying mutants that wandered the borders of the Northern Territories in great packs. Anatole knew one thing for certain: that monsters must be killed.

The witch held up her hands in an understanding manner. Each palm had been tattooed with strange circular symbols. She smiled. “I don’t doubt your abilities, Commander,” she said. “I want them all dead. Their dark magic interferes with my own, makes me weak. I am just one old woman. I’ve told you about the High-Priest’s Book. I need it in my possession.”

The Butcher had no use for books. He did not read, he only had use for steel and the strength of his own hands. “You will have this Book. I only want the sword.”

Anatole’s ears pricked up. He loved all the old stories, the legends about magic swords, ones with names. When it came to learning about the lineage of the great families or about fashion, he felt like falling asleep. But swords? Great battles? Noble heroes who sacrificed themselves to save the innocent? That was what he liked best. So his father wanted a sword. Maybe it was a magic sword, if it came from Blagodat.

Bad magic. Blood magic.

The witch shrugged. “I have no use for such a tool. If you destroy everyone in the town and take it, it is yours. I only need the Book.”

“And what do you need that for? A Book of spells?”

The witch only smiled.

Anatole shrank down in his seat as he watched. He didn’t like the idea of slaughtering women and children. He remembered the High-Priest’s son and daughter, he had seen them years ago at the traitor’s execution. Fat, haughty, red-eyed things. The Butcher had no mercy for children. They would die screaming too.

The Butcher ran a hand through his long beard. “The town is surrounded by an iron gate that’s been fortified by their blood magic,” he said. “When Ray Gagnon attacked it 60 years ago, he could not get in. Even if my men take them by surprise, they might wait us out. If I do this for you, it will mean a siege. You’ll have to wait.”

“I’ve waited too long already,” replied the witch. “No. As a symbol of my trust, I’ve provided you with a weapon. Go to your kennels, Commander, you’ll find a boy there with the Ability to tear things apart with his mind. Your interest in people with powers that exist outside of magic is no secret. Use him and the iron gate of Blagodat will crumble.”

There were people who were born with powers in the world. Anatole had seen a few. There had been an old man who could send electricity coursing down his arms, there had been a girl who could read the thoughts of others. The Butcher had the old man torn apart by his hounds. He could still remember the screaming. The girl just went missing one day, but her fate could not have been much better.

It was better not to think about it. Anatole felt a twinge of pity, but it was better that his father focus his cruelty on people who were not him, his mother, and his sisters.

“A boy who can tear things apart with his mind,” mused the Butcher. “A useful tool, but a profane one. No offense to you, witch, but all this unnatural business is an affront to nature. All of you are no better than the crawling plakal'shchitsa mutants. They say that the High-Priest’s sword can cut through magic like a knife through butter and I’ll be glad to have it.”

The witch’s eyes glimmered. If she took offense, she did not show it. She was as sweet and lovely as ever. Her silver hair was like starlight. “A useful tool,” she repeated. “Think what you want. I only want the Book.”

“You will get it. You have my word. Every soul in that town will die at the hands of my men.”

The witch responded by bending in a curtsy. This act of polite submission was somehow chilling. She turned and left. 

The Butcher made a fist and pounded it against the table. The sound reverberated against the stone walls. It made Anatole flinch.

As much as his father terrified him, he was still desperate for his approval and love. So he didn’t move. He didn’t leave. He wanted to appear brave. A little nervous, Anatole brushed a few strands of brown curly hair from his face to look more presentable. “What was that?” he asked.

“Witches,” said the Butcher. “Dirty witches. Never get involved with witches. That bitch wants a Book? I’ll get her that Book. She won’t be happy once I get my hands on the sword that can split the universe.” Again, he pounded his fist against the table and stood up. “I’m going to take a look at this boy in the kennels. You go to bed.”

Afterwards, in the silent cold of the Great Hall, Anatole practiced banging his own fist against the table.

###

3 months after the witch came to Kimanka, the Butcher took 400 men and destroyed the blood-magic town of Blagodat. Every man, woman, and child was put to the sword. The maids and the stable-boys whispered about it for weeks, they whispered about how Mikhail Surkhov brought down the iron gates and destroyed the black pyramid.

Anatole didn’t know anything about that. All he knew was that his father returned with the high-priest’s star-metal sword. The metal was black and shining. It was as long as one of the great-swords that the Imperial Army carried, but light enough to be swung one-handed. He watched his father sparring with his men and recognized deep feelings of envy.

He heard all about the boy in the kennels, the one his father called Dog. The Butcher laughed about that. He talked about all the ways a person can be made into an animal. Anatole never visited the kennels. He didn’t want to find out what was inside.

The witch came back soon after that.

“Where is the Book?” she asked the Butcher. The witch looked different. Her face was no longer sweet and gentle. Her eyes were as green as a snake’s. This time, the Great Hall was not empty. Dozens of men stood watching the witch with their hands on their swords and firearms. Anatole was there too, with his mother and sisters. He kept his arms around the littlest one to keep her safe.

The Butcher watched the old woman lazily. “It wasn’t there. I couldn’t find it.”

“Someone took it then. You let someone live.”

His anger flared. “Nobody survived. The men died first. We had our fun, then put the women and children to death as well. Everything burned to the ground, and the crawling wailers came afterwards to feast on the corpses..There was no Book. There was nothing.”

Anatole’s mother stared at her feet. All the light had drained out of her face years ago. She was nothing more than a dead woman walking around. Hearing the Butcher talk about the things he did during war no longer bothered her.

The witch smiled. Her red mouth was too large for her jaw. It seemed like it could unhinge. It seemed like it could swallow all of them up. “Nothing?” she said. “Someone took it. You have no idea what you’ve lost. You have no idea what was inside of it.”

The Butcher waved his hand at her. “Get this creature out of my sight,” he said.

Some of the Imperials approached her with their weapons drawn. A crack rang out and the witch’s face seemed to ripple. She shook her head. The men were unable to reach her, some infernal, invisible force prevented them from doing so. “Stupid,” she said. Her voice was thick and oily. “So stupid. Fine, Mikhail Romanovich. I’ll leave your stinking, cursed Territory. In three years you’ll be dead. And I’ll be back. Your people will suffer and bleed for your failure. Keep the sword and keep the boy. You’ll be needing them.”

It was a threat heard by everyone. It could not be permitted. The Butcher nodded to one of his Captains. “Petya. Shoot her.”

The man aimed his gun. Stasya flicked three fingers at him like she was swatting a fly.

Then the side of his head caved in like a ripe pumpkin. Brain matter splattered onto the floor and the man crumpled, his body twitching. It took more than 30 seconds to die and he died by pieces, painfully. All the witch had to do was look and point to release her terrible magic. One of Anatole’s sisters screamed.

The witch left.

It was the last anyone from Kimanka saw of her for a long time.

####

Everyone has a breaking point. There is only so much that a person can take. When Anatole turned 18, he decided that he was tired of the way his life had turned out. He realized that he knew someone who was even more tired. And he had let Dog out of the kennels. And his father had died.

Staying in their homeland was a death sentence. They left for the Strath to join Florence Gauthier and her Partisans.

Anatole took the Butcher’s star-metal sword. 

He never forgot about the witch.

INTERLUDE: A STORY THE HIGH PRIEST TOLD HIS CHILDREN

A thousand years ago, God opened a door so that he could communicate with humanity from His place beyond the Rift. The world back then was very evil and the people had no sense of right or wrong. God came into the world to change that and to help them.

Now, God has no Form, but is the Form of all things. Removed from time, from space, surpassing all things, and existing in all things as a kind of foundation underneath. The holy Book which is kept in the hematite edifice, is where God lives on earth, transubstantiated. 

In opening the door, He had ripped countless numbers of  weak, mewling creatures made of slime from where they belonged and trapped them on a foreign planet. Their purpose where they had come from was to be prey for the hungry Beasts of the Void. Now? They were disgusting and pitiful and the faithful utilized their ichor to better communicate with God and share his power. The faithful became very powerful. They spread the word of God.

But there were some who were jealous of the faithful’s power. These were the witches. Their own magic was weak and twisted: instead of coming from God, it came from inside themselves. This self-serving magic perverts the will of God. The faithful made a covenant with Him to rid the earth of these witches. For the wrath of God is revealed from beyond the Void against all evil and unrighteousness of these witches, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth.

It is the will of God that all witches be wiped from the earth.

JULES AND MARTY

Julia LaBelle was more excited for the baby to come than its own mother was. She had always loved babies. When she was a little girl, she’d carried a doll around with her everywhere and pretended to be its mother. Now she was 13, and the idea that there was going to be a baby in the house soon made her so excited that she could hardly sleep.

“What are you going to name it?” she asked Ivy one rainy morning. It always rained in the Hinterlands forests. The earth was spongy and the sky was always gray. Jules didn’t know anything different, but Ivy had lived in the Strath before Stasya took her in, and she said that the land there was green and gentle. “What about Daisy?”

“I don’t care,” said Ivy. She stared dully out of the window. She was plump, with big black eyes and a soft round face and could look pretty even when she was doing nothing. “Sure.”

Jules busied herself tidying up the small cottage. There was always so much to do. She had only lived there for a year, but she wanted Stasya to know that she was grateful. Not only for sheltering her, but for teaching her magic. Jules cooked and cleaned, she always kept her hair brushed and braided, and she never talked back. She was good and she worked hard. Someday Stasya would appreciate her for that.

On the other hand, Ivy was sullen and ungrateful. If their places were reversed, Jules certainly wouldn’t lay around all day staring at nothing. Maybe Jules was jealous. Stasya had told her that she was too young to carry the child, but she had always suspected that it was because Ivy was prettier than she was and Martin Bonneville had just liked her better.

Jules’s surname was a cruelty. LaBelle. The beauty. She was no beauty. She was scrawny as a rail, her hair was thin and limp. Her severe overbite gave her a permanently dull look.The illness that had taken her parents' lives had left her face scarred with crater-like pockmarks. No man would ever look at her twice.

Stasya had traveled to Kimanka a month ago. Something about a Book. Since she was away, Bonneville checked in on them now and then. The Hinterlands were a dangerous place for two teenage girls, regardless of their magic.

“Rose is a good name too,” said Jules. She grabbed the kettle and set it on a metal shelf over the fire to heat up. The cottage was small. It was too small for 3 people, and would certainly be too small for 4. Sometimes the thatched roof leaked. They did not have electricity, they could not watch television for the news. But it was their home. “What do you think?”

“I think,” said Ivy, putting her hands on her swollen belly. “I don’t even want this baby.”

“Don’t say that. You heard Stasya. It’s going to be a special baby, It’s going to be half-witch and attuned to the Other Place. It might even be able to go to the Other Place. There aren’t many of us left, don’t you want there to be more witches in the world? Stasya’s working hard on making it safe for us out there.”

“She’s lying. She doesn’t care about us at all.”

Jules felt a flash of irritation.She didn’t understand how someone could be so selfish. When the baby came in a couple months, everything would change and be better.

The one-eared old tabby-cat, Ames, wound herself through Jules’s legs. She was a fierce mouser, without her efforts the cottage would be overrun by vermin. Jules bent and picked her up to pet her as she waited for the tea to boil. The cat nuzzled against her face.

Rain came down hard against the window. When the kettle began to whistle, Jules poured water into two cups over raspberry leaves. That kind of tea was safe for expecting mothers. She drank her own tea slowly and read over a book about the magical properties of different crystals. Agate for strength and courage. Rose quartz for love.

The cottage door blew open and Martin Bonneville stomped in, followed by a torrent of rain. He was a stocky fur-trader of 20, tanned, with dark curly hair and a mischievous countenance. It was said that he could hear voices from the Other Place. Once Jules had asked him what he heard. Bonneville had only shaken his head and told her that he didn’t understand the voices, but that throughout it all there was a low, oscillating drone. The voices chattered to him all night long.

Jules didn’t understand the Other Place. Stasya said that it was a Void beyond the Rift and that their powers came from it. A Void populated by monsters. The blood-magic users of Blagodat worshiped a creature they said came from there. She felt like hearing it all the time might have driven Bonneville a little crazy. He was harmless and nice enough, but something was just…off.

It was called being a psychic. As far as Jules knew, there weren’t many of them in the Hinterlands forests, and even fewer were attuned to the Void. This was all a part of Stasya’s plan to make the world a better place for witches: she had to strengthen their bloodlines. In a few years, she would find a man for Jules too, either one with witchblood or one who was psychic.

“Girls,” said Bonneville. He shook water from his hair. “It’s really coming down out there. I'm soaked.”

“You want a cup of tea?” asked Jules.

“That’d be nice.” He set a brace of ermine down on the table. Their white pelts went for good money in Ile de Matane, where the Imperial Army used them for trim on their winter uniforms. He stepped up to Ivy and put a hand on her belly. “You hear the news?”

“What news?”

“The Butcher of Kimanka went and killed all the blood-magic bastards in Blagodat. Imperials burned the entire town to the ground. You two must feel a bit safer, eh?”

Jules made the sign against evil. That was what she got for just thinking about them. Blood-magic users were their old enemies. 70 years ago they had been witch-hunters. It was good they were dead. They were worse than animals. People said that they spilled the blood of children for their dark magic. She busied herself with the tea again.

They had something Stasya wanted. The magic Book. Other than the baby, it was all she could talk about any more. She said that there was great evil in the magic Book.

“I’m thinking about joining the Imperials,” said Bonneville. He gave one of Ivy’s breasts a little squeeze and she yelped. “Better than yanking weasels out of traps. They always need more men. Plenty of work these days, what with that mouthy cunt from the Strath who leads the Partisans. Those fuckers need weeding out.”

Jules handed him a cup of tea. He nodded appreciatively. As he drank it, his expression took on a far-off quality, as if he was zoning out. Probably listening to the chattering voices of the Other Place.

Bonneville’s hands were big and rough, scarred from the teeth of the animals he pulled from his traps. Two of his knuckles were split.

“Will you go kill one of the chickens?” asked Jules. “I can fry it up and we can all have supper.”

“Sure.” He stood and gave Ivy’s belly one last little pat. “Gotta keep this wee bugger fed so he can be strong like his papa when he comes into this world.”

He left to go back out into the pouring rain.

Jules sniffed. She gathered up the dishes and dumped them into the wash basin.

For once, Ivy got up to help her. She washed her hands and patted them dry on the front of her dress. Her big black eyes were glazed and dead. “If it’s a boy,” she said, “I think I’ll name it Martin.”

###

When Stasya finally returned from Kimanka, she was in a deep rage. She slit Martin Bonneville’s throat like a hog’s and collected his blood in a white basin. She did not say why. She did not say anything to Jules, other than that everything that could have gone wrong, had gone wrong. The town of Blagodat had been destroyed, and the mysterious Book alone with it.

The baby came soon after that. 

Jules was only 13. But by then she had learned to harden her heart. The Hinterlands forests were not a kind place to live.

###

Jules woke with a jolt to the sound of truck engines and men’s voices. The sound filled her with terror in an instant. The cottage was 5 miles from any road. Nobody was supposed to be there! Not in the middle of the night, not ever.

She did not know what was happening, only that it was wrong, that it was very wrong. Nobody visited the witch’s cottage in the Hinterlands. Jules scrambled from her bed and pulled her robe around herself. It was a warm night and she hadn’t been wearing anything but a slip. “Oh no.”

Outside were 8 men and 2 trucks. The men wore the green camouflage uniforms of the Partisans. The paint they wore on their faces was smeared and distorted. She could see the silver light of the full moon reflecting off their smiling teeth. Each of them was armed.

They had come to kill them. It was the only conclusion.

Jules raced from her cramped attic bedroom and down the stairs to where Ivy and Marty slept. She almost tripped in her haste. They were already awake. Ivy sat frozen on her bed. Marty stood by the window, clutching Ames the old tabby cat. Both of them looked bloodless and terrified.

“Cellar,” said Jules. She yanked Ivy out of bed, then grabbed Marty by one arm. The little boy whined. He was only six. He hadn’t even started talking, there was something wrong with him.  “You two hide in the cellar. Don’t come out, don’t make a sound until you know they’ve gone.”

Ivy started to cry. Her whole body trembled. “What do they want?!”

There was no answer for that. The Partisans were like animals. Their numbers were less than a 3rd of the Imperial Army, but they made up for it with their startling brutality and focused on non-military targets to destroy the supply chain and sow terror. They burned down fields and slaughtered livestock. There was no controlling them.

The cellar was in the kitchen. Jules pulled up the door and shoved Ivy and Marty down into it. The cat yowled and ran away. Marty’s eyes were huge and scared and all she could do was pray that his fear did not trigger a seizure. “Hide,” she said. “Don’t even think about moving.”

“Come on out, little witches,” called a man from outside of the cottage. He spoke in French, but his voice had the musical, slightly nasal accent of the Strath. “Don’t make us burn it down with you inside.”

Jules bit down on her tongue to keep herself present, to keep herself from freezing in terror. She didn’t even know what she was doing, all that she knew was that she had to keep Marty safe. She would die before she let him get hurt. He was just a child, she couldn’t let him get hurt. Maybe if Stasya was there, things would be different, but she wasn’t and it was all up to Jules. She was 19, a fully grown woman, and she had responsibilities. 

What could she do against 8 soldiers with guns? She didn’t have any weapons to protect herself. Her magic was for healing, not for defending herself. They would kill her or worse.

She looked at Marty one last time. He clung onto his mother like a baby possum. Most of the time he screamed when anyone touched him, so Jules didn’t want to think about how scared he was. “I’ll be back,” she lied, then closed the cellar door and quickly kicked a rug over it.

Jules opened the front door to stand out on the stoop. She crossed her arms in front of her and tried to keep her face composed and a little fierce. She knew that she was hardly a threat.  Some of the Partisans laughed when they saw her. They were all boys her own age– after Rowan Gauthier’s rebellion 9 years ago, the King executed every man involved. She hated them and their trucks and their guns.

“You’re all far from the Strath,” she said. “This is Imperial land.”

That got another laugh. “Where are the other witches, girl?” asked the one who seemed to be in charge, a sandy-haired young man with a face like a knife. He kept one hand on the pistol at his side.

“I’m the only one here.”

“Oh, Miss Julia LaBelle, we know that’s not true,” said another one of them. He was young,  dark and handsome in a lanky way, and leaned heavily on a cane with an ornamental head carved like the skull of a fox. Unlike the rest of them, he wore plain black trousers and a matching coat. Maybe not the leader, but close to it. He had a self-satisfied look about him.“The villagers down the road say that you live here with a girl named Ivy Violet and her child. And the old woman. Why don’t they come out here to talk?”

“This is Imperial land,” Jules said again. She drew herself up. She was no loyalist, but she had followed the King her whole life. “Go home.”

A few of them made comments in English, a language she did not speak. The one who was in charge shook his head. “I like it better this way,” he said. “Fine. Ridgeway, grab her. Lambert, go inside and drag out the other ones. Find the old woman.”

One of the soldiers approached her. He was twice her size and had a gun. Jules tried to shove him away from her but he just grabbed her arm. Another shoved past and went inside. The man’s grip on her arm was tight. She twisted and slapped at him and her robe came open, revealing her bare legs. Some of the Partisans laughed.

“Kimble, maybe you’d like to remind your men that Lady Gauthier will have them all flogged if they behave indecently towards this girl,” said the young man with the cane. 

“Don’t tell me what to do, you gimpy faggot,” snapped the leader, Kimble. “Relax, nobody is interested in this scrawny pox-faced witch.” He snapped his fingers and some of the men began to pour gasoline around the cottage.

Now Jules was past scared. It was useless to fight, but that didn’t stop her. She didn’t care about herself, she couldn’t let Marty get hurt. If only Stasya had thought she was ready to learn defensive magic, maybe she could do something! But Stasya had never believed in her. Stasya never showed her the old spells, Stasya never explained their components, and because of that, something really bad was going to happen! Again, she slapped and shoved at the man restraining her, she kicked him with her bare feet.He yanked on her hair.

The other one came back, shoving Ivy through the door and dragging Marty by the scruff of his pajamas. The little boy struggled and squealed, his face was turning red. Ivy just fell down to her knees crying stupidly. “Old woman’s not in there, Flick,” said the man.

“Well she has to be somewhere,” replied the one with the cane, Flick. He smiled tightly. “Did you even look?”

“Nothing’s in there but herbs and a mangy cat.”

“Lady Gauthier is not going to be happy,” said Flick. He looked at Marty. “We want her to be happy. Where’s the old woman, girls?” 

Jules wanted to scream. She wanted to hurt them. The men continued to pour gasoline around the cottage. “My teacher will hurt you!” she said. She twisted uselessly. “When she sees what you’ve done, she’ll make you wish that you’d never been born! She’ll melt the flesh from your bones, she’ll make you rot! Let us go! Get your hands off him!”

“Fine. Where’s the old woman?”

“I know ways of making people talk,” said Kimble. He pulled a book of matches out of a pocket and used one to light a cigarette. “Me and the lads worked on that Imperial spy last summer.”

Flick coughed and waved smoke out of his face. “That isn’t necessary.”

Marty suddenly stopped wailing. His eyes unfocused and his body stiffened, then went completely limp. He would have fallen over completely had it not been for the soldier’s grip on his shirt. Violent spasms made his arms and legs jerk uncontrollably.

An epileptic fit was the worst thing that could happen at a time like this. They came out of nowhere, but could be triggered by stress. Most of them were small. The last bad one he had came after Ivy got into one of her moods and screamed at him for breaking a plate. Jules made a fist and drove it into the arm of the man restraining her to no effect. “He’s having a seizure, let go of me! Let go of me!”

“Quit fighting me, bitch,” said the soldier holding her. He gave her a hard shake.

Jules lashed out and clawed his face with her long nails, leaving deep gouges. The man screamed and clutched his bloody cheeks. Jules lurched away from him and towards Marty, whose eyes were rolling back in his head and had urinated on himself. Her only thought was to get to him. He had to be so scared. 

The man holding Marty must have been surprised, either by her sudden lunge or by the convulsing child, because he did not react immediately. Jules shoved his hand from Marty’s shirt and gently got him onto the ground. There were no rocks or glass that he could hit his head on. The little boy’s arms and legs continued to jerk and his mouth hung open in a silent rictus.

“It’s OK,” said Jules. There was only Marty. She wanted to hold him. “It’s OK, it’s OK.”

“Ridgeway!” Kimble snapped. “Will you do something about that?! We don’t have all goddamn night to waste on this!”

Someone must have hit her. Maybe with the butt of a gun, Jules had no way of knowing. She felt a sharp pain on the back of her head and then the world went dark.

The warm summer air soon filled with the smell of smoke.

####

THE COUNCIL OF MINISTERS DISCUSSES OLIVE

Beatrice Kosarin, Florence’s Minister of Propaganda, called a meeting of the Council of Ministers one autumn afternoon. All of them attended. Reed Kimble, the Partisan Commander. Anatole Surkhov, Field Marshal of the First Army. Prime Minister Florence Gauthier herself, of course.

And Flick. He had no fancy name or title. But he was invited to attend each meeting. He sat down in the chair next to Kimble because somehow that felt safer than sitting next to the others, at least they were countrymen. And he certainly did not want to sit next to his mother. She hadn’t even shown up yet. She was always late. Maybe that was for a good reason: after all, she did have a war to oversee and was the de facto ruler of the Strath and Kimanka. The Hinterlands and Ile de Matane would soon follow.

Beatrice eyed Anatole. She was a big woman with the kind of cut-throat intelligence that Florence favored. She looked exactly like her twin brother did, with her huge doe eyes and weak chin. Of course she looked like him, but she had the privilege of growing up on the streets instead of in a cage. Over the last few years she had released countless press-conferences that had slowly turned the will of the common people to Florence’s favor. “I’ve noticed that my brother has been spending more and more time with that awful little witch,” she said. “You know anything about that? He belongs to you, you should be keeping a closer eye on him..”

“I don’t control what Dog does in his free time,” said Anatole dourly. The war had left his eyes dead and hollow. All those men dying in the mud. He never went anywhere without his heavy body-armor. It had to be exhausting to live that way. “He’s fond of her and Marty. It’s good for him.”

“I worry that she’s bewitched him.”

Reed Kimble laughed. He was Florence’s right hand, but the unrelenting cruelty of his burnt-earth approach to warfare was concerning. “That witch girl must like big cocks,” he said in his rough voice. 3 months ago a Loyalist peasant had tried to slash him across the throat and it was only just healing. “Can you imagine them fucking? It would be like a bear trying to hump a rabbit.”

“Don’t speak that way when there’s a lady present, mon cher,” Flick said pleasantly. “Have some civility.” He did not want to get into it that afternoon. His pain radiated dully up his right leg, all the way to the hip. Some days were better than others, but it never went away completely. He would never be quite free. Taking morphine helped, but he tried to avoid that since it affected his lungs and made his asthma worse.

But Beatrice never took offense to that kind of vulgar talk. She had heard worse growing up on the streets, and even worse than that among Florence’s armies. The men treated her like one of the lads. She could relate to almost anyone and used her words to blend in, chameleon-like. There was a reason that Florence had appointed her Minister of Propaganda. “Maybe Jules hasn’t bewitched Ivan. She doesn’t seem very good at what she does. Marty is what? Six years old and he doesn’t talk. Have you heard him squealing and grunting like he’s some kind of wild animal? Poor little thing..”

“That’s probably why Dog likes him,” said Kimble. “They can communicate through yap-yap-yapping.”

Flick kept smiling but he felt a twinge of protective irritation. He saw a bit of himself in the half-feral witch boy. Both of them had been born with disabilities to mothers who didn’t want them. It was easy for him to remember being six years old and the frustration of being different. “Marty’s just slow. His fits can’t help.”

“In Kimanka we leave crippled and abnormal babies in the swamp.” Anatole’s face was contemplative. “It’s more merciful than letting them live.”

Beatrice laughed. “Your people are all sadistic barbarians. In Ile de Matane, we send the interesting ones to the freak shows. When I was 15 I saw a girl there with nubby flippers for arms and legs.” She nodded at Flick. “Maybe you have a back-up career for if this war doesn’t work out.”

It was pointless to say anything to defend himself, and why should he? Flick knew that his body was of no use to his mother’s cause. He had accepted that a long time ago. He lived in a world where there was no space for him, but the whole point of the Revolution was to make a space. Florence wanted to make their land a better place for people who were different.

It still hurt a little. He was only 19 and had never had friends.

Flick tried to meet Anatole’s chilly gaze. Out of all of them, he at least should understand what it was like to be different. But Anatole hid it better than he ever could. All he got was a disdainful little sneer from the arrogant pup.

He hated all of them.

No. They all hated each other. Their differences and motivations were all too great. The only thing holding them together was their near-fanatical loyalty towards Florence.

Speak of the devil. Florence slammed into the council room. Even though she was in her late 30’s, she had the unstoppable energy of a teenager. Everything she did was passionate. She had a fire inside of her heart that could not be dimmed. Sometimes Flick hated her, but he would never stop following her. You cannot stop following a person like that. It occurred to him that he would probably die for her if she asked him to.

“Friends,” said Florence, half breathlessly. She had worked herself up into a frenzy for this. Her black eyes shone and there was a flush to her dark brown skin. The dress she had chosen for the day was made of red velvet, with fur trim. “This is a big one. I’ve received intelligence that a survivor of the blood-magic cult of Blagodat is living in Ile de Matane and serves the King.”

‘Received intelligence’. That was a nice way of putting it, after all the work Flick did to get her that intelligence. He could have died. All she cared about was her information.

“Why do we care?” asked Beatrice Kosarin, ever the skeptic. She rested her chin in one big hand.

Florence smiled at her. It was more like she was baring her teeth. “I care,” she said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Not exactly motivating, Prime Minister.”

“My father killed every man, woman, and child among the bloody-eyes six years ago,” Anatole’s tone was stiff and haughty. “There were no survivors.”

“Maybe the Butcher missed a few,” said Kimble, reclining in his chair. “Or took a few home for his dogs. They say the High-Priest’s son’s body was never accounted for afterwards.”

“Partisan rumors and lies.” Anatole’s face was getting red. He had never been able to hide his emotions. That was a little trick Flick had learned from his mother.

“Will you people stop arguing?” snapped Florence. She took a cigarette out of a silver case and lit it. “Flick, tell them what you told me, boy.”

They all looked at him. Flick cleared his throat. He knew he should stand up to keep their attention, but with the pain it wasn’t worth it. “One of the King’s concubines is a girl named Olive Vernier. Rumor has it that she’s risen through the court quite quickly and has become one of his favorites. She sits at his right hand and has become pregnant with his child.” He used two fingers to smooth down his mustache, a nervous habit. “I’ve heard that this girl has red eyes and the power to bewitch the minds of men.”

“And how did you hear that?” asked Beatrice.

Flick looked at his mother. She shrugged, exhaling smoke. Throwing him under the bus. “I was in the Capitol last week and had a dalliance with one of the palace guards. Considering the delicate position he was in, I don’t think he had any reason to lie to me.”

Over the years, Flick had found that one of the best ways to get information was to act as a honeypot. He seduced people and got them to tell him their secrets. An easy way to spy. It worked best with men, since he could use blackmail afterwards to ensure their silence or service. It didn’t bother him. He liked sleeping with men and women. It was taboo to do so in the North, but it made his job easier. All he was really good for was getting information.

Reed Kimble’s mouth twisted and Beatrice grimaced after this blunt explanation of his own deviance. They wouldn’t dare say anything though. Not in front of Florence. Anatole, on the other hand, was not a thinker. “You pimped yourself out to some Imperial for useless information?” he asked with disgust. “You let this man do things to you? Are you sick? What’s wrong with you?”

Flick gripped the handle of his cane but his smile was light and easy. “Don’t test me, Tolya, you won’t like what I might say about what’s wrong with you.”

The flush was spreading down Anatole’s neck. The overly-intimate diminutive made it worse, Dog was the only one he allowed to call him that. It was so easy to provoke him. For someone who clung to stupid ideas like integrity and courage, he had a terrible temper. His hand twitched towards the sword at his side. “The only reason I haven’t challenged you to single combat  is because beating a cripple into the floor would bring me no honor.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I’m a cripple, then.”

“I told you once to stop bickering like little boys,” said Florence. She flipped through some papers on the table. “I won’t tell you a second time. Flick, shut your big mouth for once. Field Marshal– I don’t know what to do with you, you need to calm down. The only thing you people need to know is that I need this blood magic girl here. I need to speak to her. I need to know what happened that night, I need to know about the witch’s Book. Go get her for me.”

It was no use fighting her on this. Once she made up her mind, that was that, she would never let go. Florence was prone to bouts of manic passion, but beneath it all was a dogged focus. 

“You seem to be collecting magic users, Prime Minister,” said Beatrice. Glancing at Anatole, she shrugged. “I want it on the record that I think it’s unwise. We’re already babysitting two untrained, half-feral witches. We all heard what happened to the Butcher of Kimanka when he failed to control his pets.”

Florence’s face was wreathed in smoke. Her black eyes glittered. “I am not the Butcher,” she said. “And there’s only one magic user I’m interested in: the Hinterlands witch.”

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 6.27

1358 – The Republic of Ragusa is founded. 1497 – Cornish rebels Michael An Gof and Thomas Flamank are executed at Tyburn, London, England. 1556 – The thirteen Stratford Martyrs are burned at the stake near London for their Protestant beliefs. 1743 – In the Battle of Dettingen, George II becomes the last reigning British monarch to participate in a battle. 1760 – Anglo-Cherokee War: Cherokee warriors defeat British forces at the Battle of Echoee near present-day Otto, North Carolina. 1806 – British forces take Buenos Aires during the first of the British invasions of the River Plate. 1844 – Joseph Smith, founder of the Latter Day Saint movement, and his brother Hyrum Smith, are killed by a mob at the Carthage, Illinois jail. 1864 – American Civil War: Confederate forces defeat Union forces during the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain during the Atlanta Campaign. 1895 – The inaugural run of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad's Royal Blue from Washington, D.C., to New York City, the first U.S. passenger train to use electric locomotives. 1898 – The first solo circumnavigation of the globe is completed by Joshua Slocum from Briar Island, Nova Scotia. 1905 – During the Russo-Japanese War, sailors start a mutiny aboard the Russian battleship Potemkin. 1914 – The Illinois Monument is dedicated at Cheatham Hill in what is now the Kennesaw Mountain National Battlefield Park. 1927 – Prime Minister of Japan Tanaka Giichi convenes an eleven-day conference to discuss Japan's strategy in China. The Tanaka Memorial, a forged plan for world domination, is later claimed to be a secret report leaked from this conference. 1941 – Romanian authorities launch one of the most violent pogroms in Jewish history in the city of Iași, resulting in the murder of at least 13,266 Jews. 1941 – World War II: German troops capture the city of Białystok during Operation Barbarossa. 1946 – In the Canadian Citizenship Act, the Parliament of Canada establishes the definition of Canadian citizenship. 1950 – The United States decides to send troops to fight in the Korean War. 1954 – The Obninsk Nuclear Power Plant, the Soviet Union's first nuclear power station, opens in Obninsk, near Moscow. 1954 – The FIFA World Cup quarterfinal match between Hungary and Brazil, highly anticipated to be exciting, instead turns violent, with three players ejected and further fighting continuing after the game. 1957 – Hurricane Audrey makes landfall near the Texas–Louisiana border, killing over 400 people, mainly in and around Cameron, Louisiana. 1973 – The President of Uruguay Juan María Bordaberry dissolves Parliament and establishes a dictatorship. 1974 – U.S. president Richard Nixon visits the Soviet Union. 1976 – Air France Flight 139 (Tel Aviv-Athens-Paris) is hijacked en route to Paris by the PLO and redirected to Entebbe, Uganda. 1977 – France grants independence to Djibouti. 1980 – The 'Ustica massacre': Itavia Flight 870 crashes in the sea while en route from Bologna to Palermo, Italy, killing all 81 on board. 1981 – The Central Committee of the Communist Party of China issues its "Resolution on Certain Questions in the History of Our Party Since the Founding of the People's Republic of China", laying the blame for the Cultural Revolution on Mao Zedong. 1982 – Space Shuttle Columbia launched from the Kennedy Space Center on the final research and development flight mission, STS-4. 1988 – The Gare de Lyon rail accident in Paris, France, kills 56 people. 1988 – Villa Tunari massacre: Bolivian anti-narcotics police kill nine to 12 and injure over a hundred protesting coca-growing peasants. 1991 – Two days after it had declared independence, Slovenia is invaded by Yugoslav troops, tanks, and aircraft, starting the Ten-Day War. 1994 – Members of the Aum Shinrikyo cult release sarin gas in Matsumoto, Japan. Seven people are killed, 660 injured. 2007 – Tony Blair resigns as British Prime Minister, a position he had held since 1997. His Chancellor, Gordon Brown succeeds him. 2007 – The Brazilian Military Police invades the favelas of Complexo do Alemão in an episode which is remembered as the Complexo do Alemão massacre. 2008 – In a highly scrutinized election President of Zimbabwe Robert Mugabe is re-elected in a landslide after his opponent Morgan Tsvangirai had withdrawn a week earlier, citing violence against his party's supporters. 2013 – NASA launches the Interface Region Imaging Spectrograph, a space probe to observe the Sun. 2014 – At least fourteen people are killed when a Gas Authority of India Limited pipeline explodes in the East Godavari district of Andhra Pradesh, India. 2015 – Formosa Fun Coast fire: A dust fire occurs at a recreational water park in Taiwan, killing 15 people and injuring 497 others, 199 critically. 2017 – A series of powerful cyberattacks using the Petya malware target websites of Ukrainian organizations and counterparts with Ukrainian connections around the globe.

[jamietukpahwriting]

Anna… As he thought of her, Sergei smiled—that dazzling, tender smile of his—and the Lady Lavinia, seeing it, edged closer. But Sergei was far away now… In the birch woods round Grazbaya as Anna ran toward him cupping fresh-picked wild strawberries for him in her hands… Anna, whose cry of “Look, Seriosha, oh, look!” had been the thread running through their childhood as she shared with him her delight in a ring of white and crimson toadstools, a new foal, a skein of wild geese flying south to the Urals. If only he could find a job that would make it possible for him to look after her, and Petya too. She’d looked so tired when he saw her last at the club, so thin. Or should he, after all, marry Larissa Rakov as the grand duchess wanted? He’d fled from the baroness’s pallid plainness, her boring conversation, but compared to the Nettleford girls, the grand duchess’s dumpy lady-in-waiting seemed a miracle of propriety and intelligence and she was certainly very rich. Her banker father had seen the catastrophe coming long before anyone else and transferred all his assets to London. If he married Larissa, he could make a home for his parents and the Grazinsky’s too.

—A Countess Below Stairs by Eva Ibbotson

[theranskahovs]

Light as a Feather *Piotr x Reader* Smut

Warnings: smut. (well, oral. female receiving) Word Count: 1200 A/N: feedback + requests are always welcome :* p.s. sorry im a hoe Translations:  кукла - doll

You squinted at your phone, scrolling through Instagram and trying to decide what you should comment on your friend’s photo. A rerun of a random show was on TV, and Piotr was barely watching it. He’d been more cuddly than usual lately, always pulling you close to him and pressing his body to yours. So when he patted his thigh and tried to pull you closer to him, you scoffed in horror.

“I’ll crush you,” you argue with a pout. 

Piotr chuckles, “You’d still be light if you were sitting on my face.” You blush at his unintended double meaning. 

“Um once again, I’d crush you..” He just scoffs in disagreement and reaches out to you. You comply, letting him pull you onto his lap.

“See? Am fine,” he points out, nuzzling his way to your neck to place a sloppy kiss there. 

“Mhm,” you mutter, turning back to your phone. Piotr rests his chin on your shoulder, watching you scroll through your feed. He occasionally grunts when he sees you like an unworthy picture. He quickly grows bored, trying to focus his attention either on the TV or your phone, but fails. 

His hands become heavier on your waist and thigh, as he presses kisses to the back of your neck and shoulder. You unconsciously lean back into his touch, and he takes that as a sign to slip his hand up your shirt. You pretend to not know what he’s doing, but it’s hard when his rough hands are playing with your breasts. You set your phone down and turn to face him. 

“Yeah, Petya?” Your question sounds almost innocent but he’s focusing on the way your thighs feel around his. He ignores your question, instead placing his hand on the back of your neck, leading you down for a kiss. You smile against his mouth as he squeezes your ass, pushing your skirt up out of the way. 

He looks up at you, his thumbs stroking your hips. You’re half-straddling him, with his leg in between yours. You pull away and tilt your head to the side, waiting for his answer. Teasingly, you grind down onto his leg, gasping at the perfect amount of friction. 

“You seemed bored,” he comments, lifting up his left leg so you slide further up onto his waist. You squeal, placing your palms on his chest for support. 

“You were the one clinging onto me for the past hour,” you argue, although he was right. His thumb brushes over your clit, still separated from him by your panties, but you smirk at his touch anyway. 

He lifts his head off the back of the sofa, bringing his lips to the top of your stomach. He softly kisses all the way down, past your bellybutton, to the top of your panties. 

His fingers dance under the waistline as he makes eye contact with you. “Let’s get these off, yeah?” You nod eagerly, getting up to toss your underwear off. He looks at you like you’re a goddess, a mix of adoration and mischief in his eyes. 

“Come here, kitten,” he commands, his accent suddenly more prominent. He curls a finger at you, and you practically melt. He pats the sofa on both sides of him, and you straddle him. 

He pulls you onto your knees, so your thighs are touching the back of the couch and you’re facing the wall. You realize what he’s doing and stiffen up a bit. He strokes your thighs reassuringly and lightly pulls you over his face. “See? Light as a feather.”

Before you can refute his point, he places a kiss to your inner thigh and you’re hyperaware of his warm breath on your core. He pulls you fully into him, and you stagger forward, palm against the wall and the other on your boyfriend’s shoulder. 

Neither of you mind, though, as he’s already placing teasing kisses up and down your pussy. You’re embarrassingly wet as his tongue traces your entrance, dipping in for only a fraction of a second before he moves on. 

Your fingers clench on his shoulder as he licks his way up to your clit, slowly tracing circles. He pulls away to take a breath and peer up at you. He waits until you look at him and then tells you, “You taste heavenly, кукла.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you notice your wetness on his mouth. He sends you a smug smirk and a wink, and goes back to eating you out. You swear it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. 

His hand cups your breast, massaging it nimbly in his hand. He tweaks the hardened nipple, and moves onto the other. 

He sucks on your clit gently, and you moan softly. The sound is slightly muffled as you bit your lip. The hand that Piotr was resting on your waist dances down your body. He places his index finger in his mouth, making sure it’s wet before gently pushing it into you. 

It’s not too much, but it’s not enough, either. Piotr waits until you’re stretched out, then adds his middle finger. He pushes deep into you, searching for your g-spot. After a second, you cry out and squirm against him. 

“Do you like that, kitten?” he asks, resuming his work on your clit while you freely circle your hips onto his fingers. 

“Yeah,” you confirm, a bit breathless. The combination of Piotr’s tongue, fingers, and the position you’re in have you easily getting closer and closer to orgasming. 

Your hand that was on the wall settles onto the back of the couch for better balance. You’re rocking forward a bit, desperate to feed the fire building inside you. 

You’re panting as Piotr adds a third finger, while alternating between soft sucks and rough licks to your clit. “Piotr,” you whine out, one of your hands reaching up to grasp at his hair. 

“Cum for me, baby,” Piotr commands, his idle hand squeezing the back of your thigh.

At his words, you do. It’s like waves crashing against a seaside cliff as you cum with a long moan. Piotr’s fingers slow inside you, and he stops his assault on your clit, knowing how oversensitive it can get. Once you’ve rode out your orgasm, he places his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean. His mouth returns back to you, making sure he gets everything. 

Shakily, you sink down to your knees, and pull your boyfriend in for a lazy, drawn-out kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair as you get your breath back. “That was amazing,” you say, placing a kiss to his jaw.

He smiles at you, squeezing your waist. “Agreed.”

[limitofquestions]

Is #1 too on-the-nose? If not, how about #9? (Thank you for these dribbles I'm eating them up)

1. Don’t leave (SepAnx)

Viktor could tell when a panic attack was imminent.

They weren’t always triggered; sometimes the anxiety just showed up out of nowhere. The warning signs were always there, if he knew where to look, and years of being at Yuuri’s side had certainly taught him that.

He recognized them almost at once when Yuuri took his hand in the car.

It wasn’t a sensual touch. It was hardly a touch at all, his fingers limp over Vitya’s. They were just there, a quiet cry for help, and Viktor immediately took them, raising them to his lips and kissing them warmly.

Not yet, Yuratchka. We’ll be home soon, he thought, trying to send Yuuri strength and love through his touch. Somehow he managed to keep up the mask up until the point where Petya left them at the stairs, as usual, before he clasped Viktor’s hand with desperate force.

“We’re almost there,” Viktor murmured reassuringly as he hurried toward their door. “Just a minute, hold on just a second longer, Yuuri…”

He fumbled with the key for a moment before he pushed the door open, nudging the space with his foot to prevent Makkachin from jumping out. As soon as they were inside, he lifted Yuuri up, bridal style, and carried him to the sofa. It was a mark of how close he was to the breaking point that his lover didn’t make a single noise of complaint.

He settled him down, stroking his soft hair reassuringly. Makkachin, sensing that something was wrong, nosed at Yuuri’s hand.

“You’re home now. It’s alright, Yuratchka,” he said. “I’ll get you tea and a blanket, okay? I promise I’ll be right back.”

He made to move, but Yuuri caught onto his jacket.

“Please, don’t go,” he said in a strangled voice. His eyes were wide and afraid, not quite lucid.

“I’ll only be going to the kitchen and bedroom, I’ll be back in less than five minutes,” Vitya said, cupping Yuuri’s face. “You can watch me, see?” He pointed to the hallway.

Yuuri shook his head frantically. “Please, don’t leave me, Vitya,” he pleaded, looking like he was about to cry. Viktor’s heart broke a little.

“N-no, of course, I would never,” he lied, kneeling at Yuuri’s side. “I will never leave you, I promise.”

He couldn’t bring himself to admit the fact that he had already broken that promise. More than once.

And that is the last of the meme drabbles! I hope you enjoyed them! I’ll probably post them on AO3 in a few minutes because why not~