★ BLOND BEATLE ★

bychit: concrete, like a bull

[fuckingfreud]

USSR. 1967-1990

Dean Conger.

[cinemaru]

Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears (1979) dir. Vladimir Menshov

[cinemaforester]

[fuckingfreud]

The Color of Pomegranates (Russian: Цвет граната, Tsvet granata; Armenian: Նռան գույնը, Nřan guynə), 1969, directed by Sergei Parajanov.

[communistprop]

3131.jpg

[bychit-blog]

mosteffectiveagent‌:

        yes, well. there’s no need for grandiosity behind closed doors, when it becomes much more fun to whittle away at his dear kuryakin with the odd quip here and there. the devilish gleam in his eyes softens, almost imperceptibly so; their communication feels as though it transcends a language of any sort, he muses, particularly when they work in perfect synchronization like a lethal waltz in the midst of a fire fight. ❝ i suppose you’re right, ❞ napoleon concedes, lifting his own spoon to dip it into the tart broth. it smells exquisite. not in the sense that it’s a michelin star meal, but in the sense that he imagines it might remind one of home. ❝ you know, comrade, i’m beginning to think you’re not quite as cold as the motherland. ❞ and he lifts the spoon for a taste. just as delicious as it smells.

            ❝ i am typically right. ❞ and truly, he cannot hazard the risk of being otherwise, not when it so often incurred a deadly penalty to boot. one tends to be fastidious when survival hinged upon making a correct sequence of oftentimes fortuitous choices.  ❝ you should get used to it. ❞ mentioned around his first mouthful, his gaze levels with napoleon’s own as the mild acidity of the soup mellows into a tartness that lingers in a congealed lump by the back of his throat. they’re far out of their element here, caught in pseudo-domesticity while they await on further instruction. the peace, while appreciated, proves unsettling for a man most likely to suspect it. regardless, illya is at ease, shoulders loose.  ❝ contrary to belief, i am not beyond being a capable host. ❞  

[bychit-blog]

mosteffectiveagent‌:

        this is for you, he says, and my, isn’t that something to hear from one illya kuryakin, all stiff shoulders and thick russian accent. he perks up from his seat, idly reading the newspaper which isn’t so much reading the newspaper as it is appreciating the gorgeous faces that made headlines, as well as noting any interesting advertisements for accessories here and there. he eyes the bowl briefly in mock suspicion, quirking a brow. ❝ trying to poison me now, peril? and to think, i was almost certain we’d been getting along. ❞

          yes, funny thing you are, napoleon solo. brimming with poor comedic timing and lacking apropos if it wasn’t self-serving. your charm suits you best when you’re most daft and beautiful. now, in the space of a fortunately well-appointed safehouse, there’s more of one than the other. illya prefers him this way, with the pomp and grandiosity beaten from his sails. his own bowl is seta short distance away, where he seats himself before and dips a spoon in to mingle cream with ruddy broth.  ❝ if i want to poison you, i will not spare you time to determine if i was. ❞

[bychit-blog]

for @mosteffectiveagent bc monty is a stain:

         ❝ this is for you. ❞ curt, with any excess in expression promptly trimmed down to size lest there be any presumptuous inclinations to a man whose imagination is best remembered as being provocative. one hearty bowl of borscht, deeply sanguine in a way that almost lends it a mirror gloss by the surface, were it not for the bright jackson pollock drizzle of sour cream, is set before napoleon. 

[bychit-blog]

just settles on his front across illya's lap, like one very attention-demanding feline, elbows propped on the couch cushion and chin settled on his palms. ❝ you don't intend to sit here all day, do you? ❞

           he does it as though it were the most natural thing in the world to undertake, this sprawling of a languid body across illya’s empty lap. it prompts a mild reaction, a fleeting ripple to his brow as he turns his attention upon the inevitable. ❝ what if i say that i do, cowboy? ❞

[bychit-blog]

mosteffectiveagent‌:

        ❝ you know, i beg to differ. us american agents — we’re sturdy. ❞ a pause. ❝ and i’m sure you know better than most that i’m quite good at handling a little bit of roughhousing… ❞

          ❝ not so sturdy when incapacitated. ❞ he shan’t remark more than he already has, and simply settles on indifference.  ❝ da, you are a dirty fighter. ❞

[bychit-blog]

mosteffectiveagent‌:

@bychit​    ♡    →    poker face ,  postmodern jukebox .

        ❝  —  when it’s love ,  if it’s not rough, it isn’t fun .  ❞

       ❝  you do not fare well if i treat you rough, cowboy. ❞                           honest and true, he mentions off-offhandedly. 

[bychit-blog]

mosteffectiveagent‌:

        ❝ good. ❞ and good is all he says, lacking his ever-present cheek or glimmer of mischief. this is a man who traces his sentimentality for the holiday back to his humbler days, in which he and his parents would scrounge up whatever meal they could manage to afford, more than likely having endured some hunger the days prior to do so; it’d been a rough era, his childhood, and despite the path that he had taken in direct response to poverty he had known all too well, solo decides he wouldn’t change a thing, surrounded by a team he now trusts with his life. so he decides to fetch two glasses of the proposed drink, kept in stock for the season, and he saunters over with one held out in offering, mirthful in the way he returns the gaze. he’s never quite been known for leaving things at peace. ❝ no need to worry, peril — i haven’t sabotaged your drink. ❞

              he cares enough to question the credence behind napoleon’s intentions as one typically is, were they not clear as clean glass, from where he peers in and suspects so little. a remarkable thing, given their choice profession that made a game out of inveiglement and deception, living between the fleeting number of faces and names that weren’t their own. he barely remembers who he is on most nights when he retreats into the solitude of some ramshackle accommodation they wind up huddling in, away from the din of the city. but here and now, bearing scrutiny like a scalpel, there are no such double-takes over whose face he wears. illya waits on his drink to be brought his way, dreading the flavor of a beverage that went by the decidedly unsavory name of eggnog. the filled glass is received gingerly as he raises it up to study its milky, custard-like contents, looking as though it were some sentient puddle rearing for attack.  ❝ it is not your sabotage i worry. what is in this drink, cowboy? ❞

[bychit-blog]

mosteffectiveagent‌:

       ❝ a glass of eggnog, a couple of old records — nothing taxing, ❞ an evening of relaxation, and distantly, napoleon wonders if he might have a partner to sway with to the tune of old sinatra, if he can manage to be convincing enough. they really are the epitome of an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, aren’t they. ❝ you wouldn’t be averse to it, would you? ❞

        the question prompts a moment’s consideration, scales being set to weigh between any perceived loss or gain in accepting an open invitation. the lull of a scratchy record that plays to the rich crooning of chestnuts roasting lends more sentiment to what should otherwise have been sterile, mathematical deduction. his sights are tinged in warm yellow when illya regards napoleon with a slight softness to his countenance and shakes his head.  ❝ no. i suppose i am not. ❞

[bychit-blog]

mosteffectiveagent‌:

        ❝ oh, you know. ❞ and a dismissive wave of his hand, even though illya most certainly does not have the slightest clue as to what he might have in mind. ❝ i thought we might do something festive tonight. think of it as an early celebration for the holiday season. ❞

            festive, which leads him to draw some obvious correlation to the christmas celebrations that the americans have such a fondness for. a holiday to bring families together, even if it were for the one time on every calendar. should it not be a habitual practice to convene with kin, as opposed to looking upon it as a celebratory ritual? illya demurs.  ❝ you want us to do what exactly? ❞

[bychit-blog]

mosteffectiveagent‌:

@bychit well?

        ❝ — any plans for the evening, peril? ❞

        understandibly, he’s wary when napoleon opens his mouth. ❝ what plans do you mean, cowboy? ❞

[loafed-beans-deactivated2020082]

[fedkaczynski]

What’s funny is that this actually happened. 

[allamericankindofguy-actual]

I’m unfamiliar with this story please elaborate

[fedkaczynski]

Finnish soldier gets separated from the rest of his unit but he’s the only one carrying the emergency amphetamines for the unit, takes too many and goes on a one man rampage for like 2 weeks straight giving the opposing Soviet soldiers nightmares for decades. Oh and he did it all on skis. 

[ethereal-insight-deactivated201]

Did he survive?

[loafed-beans-deactivated2020082]

Yes, during his methed up 2-3 week rampage he got injured by a land mine, travelled 400km on skis, and only ate pine buds and a Siberian Jay that he caught which he ate raw. When he made it back to Finnish lines he was taken to a hospital where it was found his heart rate was nearly 200 beats per minute and his weight had dropped to 43kg (94.7lbs).

[doctor-roman]

His name was Aimo Koivunen if you want to look him up

[misteryada]

Those are the eyes of a man who has seen god and laughed

[gpsys0ul-deactivated20191106]

Henry Cavill | The Inspector Lynley Mysteries (2002)