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@extasiie
EXTASIIÉ
ind. sel. rp blog for ANATOLE KURAGIN of ‘NATASHA, PIERRE & THE GREAT COMET OF 1812’— musical-based, not yet finished reading ‘war & peace.’ est august 2017, written by ros, varying levels of activity. canon, oc, and crossover friendly. please read rules before interacting. follows back from @avinkusprince.
☄ rules | about | verses | inbox ☄
Quickie before bed because i was scrolling thru @extasiie’s anadrei tag….. as you do…
ABOUT ME MEME: [3/∞] Favorite Characters Anatole Kuragin as portrayed in Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812
"Anatole is hot, he spends his money on women and wine."
This is the worst opera I’ve ever seen
@frxncaise // continued.
“I can imagine it. Well you simply must find a moment to see the sights on your own terms. It is not Paris, but it is charming in its own way,” he says, his eyes following the sweep of the dancers through the center of the room. “How long are you to stay with us in Moscow? I have the vague idea your father is in politics, isn’t that so? Well I don’t know a thing about all that and I don’t see much point in learning, but I do wonder what can he possibly be up to here, things being how they are with the war they tell us is still going on, somewhere.” Anatole Kuragin spoke of war as he might speak of the weather. How could he do otherwise, when it meant so little to him and his life here in the city? Truth be told, he never thought of it, and only did so now because he was confronted with the daughter of the French ambassador. If any of that nonsense with Napoleon were ever going to interest him, it would certainly be in proximity to a pretty, young French girl.
the great comet twitter 2/?
@polarean // continued.
“Oh sorry, you’re still talking?” Anatole says with blithe boredom. He stands in his boxers, leaning one hip into the mattress in a posture motivated by the drunken need to attach himself to something steady, but which undoubtedly adds something to his air of nonchalance.
He’d been pulling back the covers from their heap in the middle of the bed, but stopped when Andrei spoke up, and now looks over his shoulder with an assuming, condescending look. Andrei tries to get under Anatole’s skin with his cold avoidance, but Anatole knows conversely that the best way to get under Andrei’s skin is to look, and to let Andrei know his isn’t impressed with what he sees. He gives his reluctant roommate a scathing little once over, and smiles, as if Andrei’s insistence were funny. He scoffs, even, to try to make Andrei turn around — to be sure Andrei sees this look. ‘You can’t even bear to ignore me, and we both know it,’ it says. ‘How embarrassing. How desperate.’
What goes unacknowledged within himself is the immediacy with which he's rising again to the chance to get a reaction out of Andrei. It’s over, he doesn’t matter, Anatole keeps thinking, and still he wants to stoke Andrei’s anger. If he doesn’t care, why tease?
“I’m already over it, Andrei Nikolayevich,” he returns, in a mockery of Andrei’s stern tone, so Andrei can know just how stupid he sounds. “Honestly, why are you so obsessed with me?”
What kind of love are you?
Love as a Performance
Your love is a masquerade, a dance, a work of art. You love with a veil across your face, unable to allow anyone to see the real you. Can that be considered love, you wonder? As a performer, you have all your lines prepared, and you know exactly what to say and when to say it. You’re charismatic and bold, seductive and hypnotic. Your love is a snake’s melody, the siren song of the sea. Your love is enchanting. Your love is melodic. Your love is afraid and fearful and longing. You ache to tear the veil off, you ache to cast poetry aside for the sake of something real and gritty. You’re terrified of the very thought. Being loved by you is to be loved by an artist; it is to be a muse. It reflects others beautifully, but never, ever yourself. Not really. Not truly.
Tagged by: @charmantevamp
Tagging: @1end, @frxncaise, @polarean (for andrei, of course!), @melpomeneprose (uno reverse to your other account because i want to hear from my dear sister elenushka <3)
ooc;; to the person who just combed through my blog and liked a whole bunch of old stuff... hi ;) pull up a chair. stay awhile. yes, i'm this deranged all the time.
extasiie:
@frxncaise // comeback starter call! song: ‘bad boy good man’ — tape five
“I do hope it isn’t overwhelming you. They’re all so excited to have a veritable Parisian among them for the evening to approve their French.” One would say that the young man in his gleaming military jacket and a similarly gleaming smile were striving to offer comfort but he is not indeed striving at all. His ease is perfect, and his amiability irreproachable. He’d been mingling elsewhere in the ballroom for most of the evening, but couldn’t resist the urge to make an impression of his own upon the novelty guest. This is the first moment he’s caught her alone, and his tone is kind and conspiratorial as he continues in a hushed tone, “If you ask me, it is not for your benefit at all; they are showing off for each other. It must be daunting, all the same. Not a moment to breathe! If you’d like to ESCAPE to the veranda, only let me know. Or if you should feel like dancing,” he shrugs, taking a sip from his glass, “dance with me.” And a wink to accompany a joke: “The first dance is always free.”
For a brief second, she has slipped away from the crowd only to be joined by another guest. “Oh no, their excitement is rather refreshing after such a long journey.” Typically, she would be somewhat ostracized in her hometown. Forever an outsider despite having being a native Parisian. Never the centre of attention, the onslaught of people rush fighting for her time was uncommon. However, she remains wary as always, the words of her governess echo in her head: “Be careful of men.” Although she is admittedly a bit sheltered, she is not as naive as she seems. Her family’s money and reputation are enough to garner proposals from unsavoury suitors, and she knows so. After all, who would truly like her as she was? Her smile is kind and sweet, nothing less expected as a heiress and daughter of a renowned aristocrat. “I will keep your GENEROUS offer in mind,” she’ll innocently bat her eyes at him before retorting, “Is it free for you or for me?”
He likes that smile of hers, undeniably charming. But clearly it’s a guarded gentility, and followed by a witty little bit of badinage. Disappointing. He likes it when a young lady lets herself get a little flustered. So the first overture doesn’t win her favor, that’s alright. No rush, it’s only playful after all. And play is the most rewarding in games with an opponent. Anatole gives an airy little laugh over the rim of his glass, disarming the barb of her reply. “Mlle Leclair, I cannot imagine what a price your company might command, and would not insult you by imagining it requires any. How do you find the city? Keeping yourself entertained?”
@polarean
TO SPITE ANATOLE, ANDREI TURNS OFF HIS PHONE. he doesn’t know whether anatole sends anything more —- he doesn’t intend to receive it. and he has more important things to do. to nip this hateful, dangerous connection in the bud is the best thing for them both. it would never go anywhere, of course. anatole is a lout, and letting him do that ( the memory of it, the feeling of him imprinted in andrei’s skin, it pulses, and oh god ) was a mistake. so if anatole wants to be like that, so be it. so long as anatole never tells anyone what happened between them, andrei promises himself that he doesn’t care either. he’d made an error, done something hideous, something taboo, and he will correct it.
he’s about to go to bed when anatole comes back to their dorm, later than andrei had expected : at this poind, he’d learned to anticipate that anatole wouldn’t come back for the night at all. his phone is still turned off, and andrei, reading on the couch and nearly finished this chapter, doesn’t look up. this is how it has always been between them. quiet, tense. he adjusts his glasses, flips his page. they are not friends. they could never be more than what they are right now. no matter what either feels, which is nothing anyways. andrei must convince himself of this, because to imagine otherwise is to break every rule he’s set for himself.
“ i didn’t think you’d be back tonight, ” he says flatly, “ i was thinking that i might have a nice quiet night alone. or did you want to scold me some more for not being nice to you? ”
Anatole manages to get through the door and throw his coat in the general direction of the closet with minimal tells of inebriation. He acknowledges Andrei with a brief, wry smile, but when he sees that Andrei isn’t even looking, his expression falls and he turns away. “Cute. But how can I be mad when you clearly stayed up waiting for me,” he replies with a cloying, slightly slurred tone. “You shouldn’t have.”
He has no more patience for Andrei’s obviously affected coldness (up reading, on the couch, at this hour? On a school night? BEG a little louder to be noticed, why doesn’t he...), but it isn’t just a loss of patience that insulates him from Andrei’s ribbing. It’s the long evening out’s reminder that Andrei isn’t special, isn’t worth it. In fact, reminders are still freshly splayed in bruising blotches across his neck that are surely visible even before he pulls his shirt up and over his head, balling it in his hand as he heads for the bedroom.
What is Andrei’s petty little fit worth after all? Nothing. And how much energy does Anatole owe to an ass who doesn’t respect him? None. He finishes undressing for bed without another breath wasted on speaking to Andrei. And yet he still feels they’re not done here. There’s a lingering certainty that Andrei will come in, scowling at him, grabbing him, wanting him through the hate, in spite of the knowledge that this is OVER. But he won’t. And Anatole definitely doesn’t care.
@polarean
TO SPITE ANATOLE, ANDREI TURNS OFF HIS PHONE. he doesn’t know whether anatole sends anything more —- he doesn’t intend to receive it. and he has more important things to do. to nip this hateful, dangerous connection in the bud is the best thing for them both. it would never go anywhere, of course. anatole is a lout, and letting him do that ( the memory of it, the feeling of him imprinted in andrei’s skin, it pulses, and oh god ) was a mistake. so if anatole wants to be like that, so be it. so long as anatole never tells anyone what happened between them, andrei promises himself that he doesn’t care either. he’d made an error, done something hideous, something taboo, and he will correct it.
he’s about to go to bed when anatole comes back to their dorm, later than andrei had expected : at this poind, he’d learned to anticipate that anatole wouldn’t come back for the night at all. his phone is still turned off, and andrei, reading on the couch and nearly finished this chapter, doesn’t look up. this is how it has always been between them. quiet, tense. he adjusts his glasses, flips his page. they are not friends. they could never be more than what they are right now. no matter what either feels, which is nothing anyways. andrei must convince himself of this, because to imagine otherwise is to break every rule he’s set for himself.
“ i didn’t think you’d be back tonight, ” he says flatly, “ i was thinking that i might have a nice quiet night alone. or did you want to scold me some more for not being nice to you? ”
Anatole manages to get through the door and throw his coat in the general direction of the closet with minimal tells of inebriation. He acknowledges Andrei with a brief, wry smile, but when he sees that Andrei isn’t even looking, his expression falls and he turns away. “Cute. But how can I be mad when you clearly stayed up waiting for me,” he replies with a cloying, slightly slurred tone. “You shouldn’t have.”
He has no more patience for Andrei’s obviously affected coldness (up reading, on the couch, at this hour? On a school night? BEG a little louder to be noticed, why doesn’t he...), but it isn’t just a loss of patience that insulates him from Andrei’s ribbing. It’s the long evening out’s reminder that Andrei isn’t special, isn’t worth it. In fact, reminders are still freshly splayed in bruising blotches across his neck that are surely visible even before he pulls his shirt up and over his head, balling it in his hand as he heads for the bedroom.
What is Andrei’s petty little fit worth after all? Nothing. And how much energy does Anatole owe to an ass who doesn’t respect him? None. He finishes undressing for bed without another breath wasted on speaking to Andrei. And yet he still feels they’re not done here. There’s a lingering certainty that Andrei will come in, scowling at him, grabbing him, wanting him through the hate, in spite of the knowledge that this is OVER. But he won’t. And Anatole definitely doesn’t care.
anadrei?? in 2023?? indeed!! me and @extasiie as andrei and anatole from great comet, plus a sick pierre cosplay and some other broadway con looks !!!
ooc;; hello friends! this is just a little notice that i’ll be cosplaying anatole at broadwaycon tomorrow! you should say hi if you’ll be there! @polarean and i are hitting up the malloy musical meetup with anadrei vibes and god i would love to see any lingering survivers of the great comet fandom if they’re out there :)
Anatole should write his own "love" letters
I don’t think that will be necessary
Something stupid while I work on a ridiculously over ambitious crime and punishment thing that won’t see the light of day for many more days if ever
past hyperfixation has gripped me. send troops
