#russian)

For example, in English ‘t’ and ‘d’ are both alveolar sounds made by touching the tip of your tongue to the hard palate behind your teeth. In Spanish those same sounds are dental, so you touch the tongue to the teeth to make the sound. In Russian you touch the hard palate and the teeth at once - the sounds are dental and alveolar.

In Russian consonants are sometimes palatalized. This means that there is a regular version — for ‘t’, touching the tip of the tongue to the teeth and hard palate. For regular “l”, touching the tip of the tongue to the hard palate or right behind your teeth and resting the body of the tongue along the bottom of the mouth, etc.

Then some consonants have a palatalized version, which happens before certain vowels. You lift the middle of your tongue and use it as the point of contact with the roof of your mouth instead of the tip. So for palatalized ‘t’, the middle of your tongue touches the ridge of the hard palate, and the tip of your tongue moves down to rest behind your bottom teeth. For ‘l’, the same.

In Russian the distinction is meaning bearing. So mat (regular t) and mat’ (palatalized t)’ are different words (cursing and mother, respectively). Another explanation here. Here’s an IPA chart with animation and videos of sounds being articulated. Try clicking on the ‘t’.

Connor is doing this. He doesn’t hit every single palatalized consonant but I’d say he’s hitting 85-90% of them. It’s wild! He was clearly taught by sound/phonetically which is great. But Americans often have trouble learning palatalization as a meaning bearing sound difference (I know this because I’ve taught Russian many times and there are studies) and he’s knocking it out of the park for someone who doesn’t speak the language.

You can hear it in his very careful pronunciation of I love you to Shane in ep6 - palatalized consonants in this phrase are the t, b, l, and b and l together: я тебя люблю/ ya tebya lyublyu.

Also every time he says the word хрень/ khren’ (shit/fuck) - he says this in episode 1 on the phone with Alexei twice and in the monologue to Shane in episode 5. The kh, r, and n are all palatalized, he nails it.

He even gets it in some tricky spots:

In episode 1 on the phone with Alexei with the baby crying in the background, he says the words для/ dlya (for) and блядь/ blyad’ (fuck). These are both notoriously tricky for English speakers learning Russian because every single consonant is palatalized. He gets both right.

He says the word больше/ bol’she (more) a lot during his monologue to Shane in episode 5 and nails the tricky palatalized ‘l’ in the middle every time.

3. Lack of aspiration

In English we have some aspirated consonants. The means that when we say them we sometimes produce a little puff of air with them: p, t, k. The aren’t aspirated 100% of the time but we don’t use aspiration for meaning like some languages do (ex. In Hindi kal (no aspiration) and khal (aspirated k) are two different words (time, skin)).

In Russian these sounds (p, t, k) are not aspirated. It’s difficult for English speakers to pick up this difference a lot of the time because it’s so subtle and hard to self monitor when you’ve never had to do it before.

You can feel it by putting your hand or a piece of paper in front of your mouth and saying “tik tok” or “cat”, you’ll probably notice the little air puffs.

In Russian similar words have no aspiration-так/ tak (‘so’) and кот/ kot (‘cat’)

Connor is doing this pretty well. He struggles with non-aspirated ‘t’, which is pretty normal. He’s better with p and k.

The times his “okay” sounds really Russian? Not aspirating the k is part of that.

He does a good job not aspirating the k sound in fuck in English, which adds to his accent.

In episode 1 he asks Alexei on the phone (when the baby is crying) как папа/ kak papa (how is dad), and overall does a good job with not aspirating any of those k’s or p’s.

His non-aspiration is pretty good overall in the long monologue with Shane in episode 5.

In my experience as someone who learned Russian as a second language and then has taught it to others, it feels a little bit like swallowing back or speaking from the back of your mouth to avoid aspirating. Or try putting another sound in front of the aspirated letter. (ex. In English, peak vs speak - the p in speak is not aspirated)

4. Correct vowel reduction, mostly

In Russian, word stress affects vowel sounds. In the syllable that is stressed (emphasized), the vowel has its most typical sound. In all of the unstressed syllables around it, the vowel sounds “reduce.”

Ex. the word for milk is молоко/ ‘moloko’ and the last syllable “ko” is stressed/where you will put the emphasis. The other two o’s don’t sound like o’s as a result. Correct pronunciation of this word is more like muh-lah-koh. As you get farther from the stressed syllable in either direction, the vowels get more reduced (o reduces to “ah” and then ə (“uh”) when fully reduced). (Tricky note: in this word the first syllable, muh, isn’t as reduced as it could be because it’s first, so it gets a little boost from that.)

Connor is doing this pretty beautifully throughout. Even when the consonant palatalization or the vowel quality is a little off, he’s knocking vowel reduction out of the park, for the most part. I imagine this is because he learned it phonetically.

Every time he says отец/ otets (father), he correctly pronounces the ‘o’ as ‘ah’.

There are many good examples in episode 1, but here’s a couple that stood out to me — when he’s watching Shane speak French, he says просто отлично/ prosto otlichno (just perfect/excellent) and correctly pronounces it “prostuh ahtlichnuh”.

He says the word теперь/ teper’ (now) a couple of times, and correctly pronounces the first e more like i (и).

When he and Sveta are talking about the ASG and votes in episode 4 on the bed, he says голосовали/ golosovali (they voted) and correctly reduces all 3 o’s, since the syllable ‘va’ has the stress: “guhluhsahvali”

5. Intonation of questions, sentences

Something you might know about English is that yes/no questions have rising intonation, aka we contour our pitch/voices up at the end. Like if I asked you “do you know the way to the store?” I would raise my intonation/pitch at the end to indicate it is a question. We also use falling intonation but often differently from Russian.

In many of the situations where we use rising intonation in English (including yes/no questions), Russian uses falling intonation. So the question goes down at the end instead of up.

There’s more to it than this but you can hear Connor do this very clearly when he asks Svetlana questions.

In episode 5, he asks her if Shane is also mediocre when they’re talking about other players on the bed before the ASG. And he uses falling intonation perfectly.

In episode 2 he says “this year?” When Sveta is telling him he could win the cup that year. His intonation falls perfectly again - а этом году? / v etom godu?

He also says a word in ep1 that I don’t think gets translated (the subtitles say “speaking Russian”) and his intonation is just so good - Неужели/ neuzheli (really). (His palatalization here is also great!) He says it to Shane when Shane asked him not to tell anyone in the first hotel room together.

you’ve been in russia for two days and already want to leave.

everything's grey. the house smells like boiled cabbage and bitter cigarettes. the village has four streets and one rusting bus stop. — your mom insisted you come. “visit where i grew up,” she said. “see real life” she said.

all you’ve seen so far is a grumpy old woman who sighs every time you speak english. nadya, your mom’s childhood friend, lets you stay in the guest room and barely speaks. she chain-smokes by the cracked window and calls you “devochka” like you're five. she has a son, but you haven’t met him. apparently he works some local patrol job or something. military-ish. you don’t really listen. you just stare out at the snow and dream of your american life.

you’re alone when a storm started. wind howling, snow beating against the windows like angry fists. nadya went to her sister’s, muttering about cabbage soup and gossip. left you with a pot on the stove, said her son, rafe, would be back “maybe.”

it's been some hours. you’re wearing a white off shoulder knit sweater and fuzzy socks when you hear it. the front door slams open.

you freeze.

heavy boots. snow slushing on the tile. then, his voice:

“blyad… zakryto vse…” (fuck… everything’s closed…)

you poke your head out the kitchen and see him.

him.

he’s peeling off a military parka, face flushed from cold, jaw clenched. thick arms, broad shoulders. there’s a buzzcut under his ushanka hat, and god, it does something to you. he looks like he came straight out of some war movie except hotter. muscles under wool, face sculpted like marble, nose red from the cold. snow melts on his sleeves as he breathes heavy through gritted teeth.

he sees you. stills.

you raise a hand awkwardly. “um. rafe?”

he squints. “you’re… american?”

you nod, already cringing.

he drops the hat on the floor, runs a hand through his blonde buzzed hair. “mama said guest here. didn’t say… girl.”

you blink. “uh. sorry?”

he shrugs off the coat. beneath it, a black thermal shirt hugs his torso tight. marked abs. he kicks off his boots, sighs. then looks at you again with this unreadable expression.

“she said to tell you there’s soup. in the kitchen,” you add, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you sound, standing in this dim soviet kitchen like a tourist guide.

he walks past you. his shoulder brushes yours. he smells like snow and cigarette and gunpowder.

you turn back to the stove, flustered.

“you want some?” you ask, already reaching for the plates.

you stretch onto your toes to reach the cabinet. your sweater lifts, revealing your waist. you don’t realize it until you hear him behind you, voice low.

“you always dress like that?”

your heart skips. “what?”

he doesn’t answer. you turn, and he’s looking at you. not rudely. not exactly. but looking. eyes trailing from your waist to your face like he’s trying to figure something out.

“it’s cold,” you say dumbly. “just… sweater weather.”

he smirks, just a little. then sits at the table, arms folded, watching you.

you serve him like you’ve done it a hundred times—ladling soup into a chipped bowl, finding bread in the fridge. hands trembling a little.

when you put the bowl in front of him, he murmurs, “you look like slavic wife.”

you blink. “what?”

he shrugs, eats a spoonful. “like girl from home.”

you snort. “i am in your home.”

he chews. then, with no warning, asks:

“you have boyfriend?” your heart thuds.

“what?” you say again, but this time it’s sharper.

he stares at you, eyes unreadable. “just ask. not many girls come here.”

you cross your arms. “why do you care?”

he gives a low laugh. “don’t. just… look like someone should care.”

you don’t know what to say to that. the kitchen suddenly feels too warm and smaller than it already is. you fidget with the sleeves of your sweater.

he eats in silence. then mutters, almost to himself:

“would take care of girl like you.”

you don’t even know if you were meant to hear it. but you did. and now your heart won’t slow down.

you don’t mean to linger in the kitchen. you don’t mean to stare when he licks the soup from the spoon.

but he’s sitting there like —arms big and lazy on the table, eyes on you like he’s not really hungry for soup at all.

“you’re from city.” he says finally, tone low.

you nod, laughing nervous. “yeah. figured?”

he licks his lips, tongue slow, and you hate that it makes your thighs press together.

“figured.” he repeats. “you look soft.” he shrugs. “just… different.”

you don't say anything. try to walk away —maybe to the sink, maybe just to breathe—but he stands before you can, blocking the small kitchen path.

you look up at him. you don’t mean to. but you do. he's way taller than you up close. face carved and rough. buzzcut sharp. blue icy eyes. god.

you try to speak, but his fingers reach out, grazing the edge of your sweater where it had lifted earlier.

“you wear this to tease?” his voice is hoarse now.

you go still.

“n-no—”

“but you bend like that,” he says, voice low. “reaching like that. little sweater lifting. like you want me to look.”

you feel hot all over. cheeks, chest, everywhere.

your voice is barely a whisper. “you were looking?”

he doesn’t deny it. instead, he moves closer.

“are you cold, milaya?” (sweetheart)

you shake your head, but your body’s already giving you away—arms crossed, chest heaving.

he lifts a hand, brushes your hair back behind your ear.

“you look cold,” he says, but there’s a dark smile on his lips. “you need body heat. da?”

you can’t answer. you nod. stupid. silent. soaked in something you don’t want to name.

he leans in slow. you feel his breath before his mouth.

“you american girls always so shy?”

“maybe it’s your buzzcut,” you whisper, trying to joke. but your voice is shaking.

he huffs a laugh. “you like it?”

“yeah,” you murmur. “makes you look mean.”

he grins. “i am mean.”

then his lips are on yours.

the kiss is rough. not sweet. not gentle.

his hands find your waist like they’ve been there before. he walks you back until your hips hit the counter. you gasp into it, and he takes that as permission — his tongue slipping in, tasting, teeth grazing your bottom lip.

your hands are on his chest before you realize. he’s hard under the thermal shirt, solid muscle and heat. you fist the fabric, try to pull him closer. you hear him groan.

his hands move lower. squeeze your hips. pull you forward. you feel the outline of him through his pants—hard, thick, heavy. your head’s spinning.

“you wear nothing under this sweater?” he breathes against your throat, fingers slipping under the hem.

you try to lie. “of course i… i am—”

he pulls back just enough to lift the sweater. you flinch, but he hums in approval. “fucking knew it.” his hands find your bare waist, sliding up slowly. fingertips hot, greedy, reverent.

“look at you,” he growls. “standing in my kitchen like something out of dream.”

you press your thighs together.

he notices. of course he does.

“you’re wet?” he asks, almost amused.

you look away. embarrassed. turned on beyond words.

his hand comes down to your thigh, under the hem of your sleep shorts.

“hm?”

“yes.” you breathe. you’re soaked.

“good.” he murmurs. “then let me feel.”

and when he finally does— when his fingers find the heat between your legs, slip past the fabric— you moan so soft he nearly loses it right there.

“fuck.” he hisses. “this pussy wet for me, isn’t it?”

you nod. you don't even care if it makes you weak. you’re panting. you’re barely holding onto the counter when he pulls his fingers from your underwear, slow, like he’s savoring every second. he looks at you with those blue icy eyes.

but then? he pulls away.

you whimper. “what—”

he cuts you off, licking his fingers. “we don’t fuck in kitchen.”

you blink, dizzy. “why not?”

“mama would kill me.” he shrugs, casually grabbing your hand. “you know how old russian women are. sacred kitchen, sacred table. no sex.”

your thighs are still shaking and he’s making jokes?

but you don’t argue because now he’s pulling you down the dark hallway. his grip is strong, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. the storm outside howls louder, wind slamming against the windows. it doesn’t matter. nothing exists but him.

his room is small. military neat. sheets gray, floor cold. he shuts the door behind you. doesn’t lock it. doesn’t need to.

“bed,” he says, voice rough, accent thicker now. “go.”

you do. you sit on the edge, hands in your lap, heart pounding. he stands over you, shirt still on. muscles flexing under black fabric.

“take off,” he nods at your sweater.

you hesitate. still, you pull it off. slow. your nipples hard in the cold air.

he watches. hungry and proud.

“you look so fuckin’ malyshka like this. too soft for winter.”

you shift. “is that a bad thing?”

you don't even understand what he's saying but it's the way he says it.

he kneels between your legs. his big hands slide up your thighs.

“no. you’re too soft. too small. too pretty. good thing.”

your breath catches. “then why are you still wearing clothes?”

he grins. “you want to see so bad, da?”

then he stands. he peels the shirt off, slow, deliberate. his body is unreal. broad chest, scars across his ribs, abs like stone. the buzzcut just does it with all that muscle. like he’s some war god.

but when he unbuckles his belt, everything inside you goes still. he drops his pants. underwear next. your jaw might hit the floor. because his cock is bigger than imagined. thick. heavy. veiny. hanging long and hard between his thighs.

your thighs press together out of instinct. your mouth goes dry. he notices—of course he does.

“mm?” he smirks. “you scared?”

you blink fast. “that’s not… gonna fit.”

he laughs, low and deep. it’s so russian it sounds illegal.

“oh, mila. i’ll make it fit.”

and then he’s on you.

pushing you back into the mattress, climbing over you like he’s claiming land. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lips.

“sure you want it?”

“yes.”

“then open.”

you do. he kisses you again, harder now. one hand sliding between your legs, back into your underwear, finding that wet heat and groaning.

“you’re dripping for me,” he growls. “fucking little thing.”

you moan when he starts rubbing slow circles on your clit, two fingers deep now.

“feel how tight you are,” he mutters. “this tiny pussy… kak eto voobshche vozmozhno?” (how is this even possible?)*

“please, rafe,” you gasp. his eyes flash.

“you beg so sweet, malyshka.”

he lines himself up, and even just the tip of his cock makes you cry out. it burns. stretches. but fuck, it’s so good.

he goes slow at first—muttering in russian under his breath.

“takaya uzkaya… suka…” (so tight… fuck…)

“ty moye malen’koye sokrovishche…” (you’re my little treasure…)

every inch feels like too much, but you don’t want him to stop. his hands grab your hips, pinning you in place.

“take it,” he growls. “take all of me.”

you’re gasping, eyes rolling back. it’s too much. feeling him everywhere. his hips snap harder now. deeper. your legs are shaking.

you feel him in your stomach.

literally.

“you feel me here?” he pants, pressing a hand to your belly.

you nod frantically. “yes— yes fuck—it’s so—”

“takaya malen’kaya” he grits. “and taking me so well.”

and then he loses it. the rhythm breaks. the thrusts grow wild.

he flips you over like you weigh nothing, fucks you from behind like it’s instinct—big hands gripping your waist, teeth against your neck.

“gonna fill you up” he grunts. “you want that?”

you whimper. “yes—yes, please— come inside me.”

“my cum. fuck— deep inside your pussy.”

when he comes, it’s with a growl in your ear and a final, brutal thrust that sends you over the edge.

you’re both breathless, sweaty, wrecked.

he stays inside you for a moment, not moving, just breathing heavy against your back.

“bozhe…” (god…) he mutters. “welcome to russia.”