#московское

[yesthatsatumbler]

Doing this with actually sensible options. Yes I know that this way it probably wouldn't get any traction. I don't really care. (Also fixed the title because it just made absolutely no sense otherwise.)

Feel free to mention specific songs in comments/reblogs (or tags, I guess, if you insist). Also feel free to just reblog - audience helps!

Music mood: Александр Пушной - Метро (the only remotely good song under 1 minute in length that I know of).

[marinsgroup]

«Динамо» (Москва) в финале Кубка России 2024

7 декабря в Москве определился первый финалист Кубка России среди мужских команд, посвящённого памяти легендарного советского волейболиста Константина Кузьмича Ревы. В этот день в полуфинале встретились команды «Кузбасс» (Кемерово) и «Динамо» (Москва).

Команда Константина Брянского полностью доминировала над соперником в первом сете. Динамовцы активно давили, не давая гостям шанса проявить себя. Как итог – 25:15 и 1:0 в пользу хозяев.

Во второй партии ход игры не изменился. Динамовцы играли раскрепощённо, были успешны во всех элементах игры. Связующий Павел Панков заигрывал в атаке и крайних нападающих и центральных блокирующих, а сам активно бомбардировал соперника мощнейшими подачами. Динамовцы выиграли партию со счётом 25:19 после атаки доигровщика Дениса Богдана.

В заключительном сете главный тренер москвичей Константин Брянский провёл ряд замен, выставив на поле доигровщика Антона Сёмышева, диагонального Максима Сапожкова и центрального блокирующего Фаннура Каюмова. Ротация состава никак не повлияла на итоговый результат.

Победа в конце третьего сета со счётом 25:19 досталась москвичам. А вместе с ней и путёвка в финал Кубка России.

– Мы не смотрели на сторону противника. У команды была задача – выйти в финал, мы её и решили, – прокомментировал игру главный тренер волейбольного клуба «Динамо» (Москва) Константин Брянский. – Ротация состава? Важно было посмотреть именно эти сочетания. В принципе, они все себя показали, все – рабочие. Поздравляю команду с выходом в финал.

– Мы выиграли, всё супер! Прошли в финал, сделали свою работу, ‒ поделился впечатлениями от матча доигровщик волейбольного клуба «Динамо» (Москва) Денис Богдан. – Соперник играл не боевым составом, но и опять же мы проделали много работы, это и принесло результат.

На следующий день, 8 декабря, определился и второй финалист Кубка России. Им стал волейбольный клуб «Зенит-Казань». Главная битва за золотые медали состоится 28 декабря в Москве на площадке волейбольной арены «Динамо».

Все новости волейбольного клуба можно узнавать на официальном сайте или на сайте информационного партнёра команды – компании «Союз Маринс Групп»

[sergey-aryasov]

[newssocialite]

Юбилейный Гала-концерт, посвященный 30-летию со дня основания Московского государственного хореографического училища имени Л.М.Лавровского

18 марта на Основной сцене Московского академического Музыкального театра им. К.С. Станиславского и Вл.И. Немировича-Данченко пройдет юбилейный Гала-концерт, посвященный 30-летию со дня основания Московского государственного хореографического училища имени Л.М.Лавровского. Московское государственное хореографическое училище имени Леонида Михайловича Лавровского было основано 1 октября 1993 года…

[searuss8]

Московское чаепитие на Тверской площади 🍎

[singerboyvids]

Platon ~ Московское Лето [Russia 🇷🇺] Platon ~ Moscow Summer

[runariya]

🥸🤫☠️ : JK

He wants something 🤫 as down payment before he lets u inside safe haven (a place where survivors go to seek refuge)

(yandere+smut+apocalypse) part of the prompt game pairing: metro inhabitant!Jungkook x survivor!female reader genre: apocalypse!AU, S2L, yandere-ish? warnings: survival after nuclear fallout, dark creatures, denied prostitution for safety, Jungkook is whipped from the start so that should suffice for yandere, foul language, smut, oral (f. receiving), squirting, JK comes in his pants, fluff, lmk if I forgot smth (still hate writing warnings) word count: 3.239 (upsiiii)

a/n: I couldn't rly make JK more yandere without it feeling a bit too dub-con, so I hope that's alright 💕 also it's heavily inspired by the trilogy '2033' by Dmitri Gluchowski (and to my Russian readers: Московское метро выглядит так круто на фотографиях в интернете, надеюсь, однажды смогу его посетить☺️)

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You’ve been wandering for what feels like years, though it could be months, or perhaps just weeks; time’s an abstract notion now, in this world broken to pieces and baked under a nuclear sun. 

With each step you take, the weight of exhaustion and your protective suit presses harder against your bones, but you don’t let it stop you. The world may be a dying beast, choking on its own ash and poison, but you still walk through it, a lone ember that refuses to snuff itself out. The remnants of cities whisper ghost stories to you as you pass, their bones twisted metal and crumbling concrete, charred earth for flesh. The wind sometimes hisses through the ruins, carrying tales of survivors—others like you, fighting, scavenging, enduring—and sometimes it’s silent, as if even the air is holding its breath for fear of what’s out there in the deep silence of the aftermath.

The black creatures—those twisted silhouettes of the apocalypse—roam the earth like shadows unbound from their hosts, moving through the poisoned fog with an unnatural grace that chills your very marrow. They are things of nightmares, remnants of the old world, perhaps, mutated beyond recognition by the fallout or born anew from the hatred that festers in the radioactive soil. 

Their eyes, if they have any, are voids, consuming light and hope in equal measure, and their movements are barely perceptible until it’s too late, until they are upon you, whispering your end in a language only the dead would understand. They hunt relentlessly, not for sustenance, not for survival, but as if driven by some primal force deeper than instinct, a desire not just to kill but to erase, to wipe away the last remnants of humanity like dust from the pages of a forgotten book. 

And you—battered, exhausted, teetering on the edge of oblivion—cannot rest, not here, not ever, because even in your sleep they find you, crawling into your dreams with their inky tendrils, reminding you that peace is a luxury no longer afforded to the living outside of shelter.

Your gas mask, an old friend now, covers your face like a second skin at this point, the filters clogged and heavy with days of dust, radiation, and fumes. You’ve noticed the way it pulls in air with more effort now, as if it’s trying to remember how to breathe. 

You check the filter again. It’s nearly gone, the little red marker ticking closer to empty with every breath you take. You’ll have to find something new soon or you’ll suffocate on the very air that should sustain you.

This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to find shelter. In those early days, the optimism hadn’t yet drained from your veins and the desperation to belong somewhere, anywhere, had clouded your better judgment. 

There had been men—those ones with teeth like wolves, eyes like death, always leering, always demanding. You’ve had to pull your knife more than once to remind them that your body isn’t for sale, that safety shouldn’t cost that much. That death, perhaps, is a kinder alternative to what they would have asked of you. 

You can still hear their laughter sometimes, echoing in your skull—mocking, cruel. You had fled from them, from their dark gazes and cruel hands, from the taste of fear that licked at your throat when their eyes lingered too long on your body. Better the damnation from outside than their promises of protection.

But today… today you find yourself at the mouth of the metro. The entrance yawns wide like a secret, and the shadow of it draws you in, as though it’s reaching out for you. Your steps falter, but only for a moment—just long enough to recognise the hesitation in your chest, the uncertainty gnawing still on your mind. The thought flickers briefly across your consciousness—what if the people down there are like those others? What if all you find is more violence, more degradation, more proof that humanity has shed its last skin and become nothing more than base instincts and brutality?

But the mask is running low, and you can feel that desperation is creeping back into your bones, burrowing deep. You tighten your grip on the strap of your pack, pushing the fear down, burying it beneath a layer of resolve. You’ve come this far; you won’t turn back now.

The entrance is quiet—eerily so, as you push the tall hermetic door open and step inside, closing it quickly after. You glance around, eyes scanning the wreckage for signs of life. There’s nothing at first, just the silent exhalation of wind and the low hum of the distant, underground world. Then, movement.

You hear him before you see him—a soft shuffling of boots against stone, the faint click of a weapon being cocked. You freeze, instinctively tightening your grip on your knife as he steps into view.

Tall. Taller than most of the men you’ve encountered in these forsaken times. Muscles sculpted from necessity, sinew and strength coiled beneath his clothes like a waiting beast. He’s staring at you through the mask, gun raised, the barrel pointing at your chest. For a second, neither of you move. Then his eyes flicker downward, just for a moment, taking you in, assessing, like all the others. You brace yourself for what’s to come.

But it doesn’t come.

“Take it off,” he commands, voice low, barely more than a growl. His weapon doesn’t waver, and his expression is hidden behind a mask, eyes glinting through the cracked visor.

You hesitate. There’s a moment where you think of running, but there’s nowhere to go. There’s only the metro behind him, and the world ahead, both full of uncertainties, both as equally capable of destroying you. You suck in a breath, let it fill your lungs like a final goodbye to the stale air in the mask, and then you reach up to peel it away from your face, your skin sticking to the rubber for a moment before it falls loose.

The air tastes strange on your lips—metallic, sharp, almost alien after all this time behind the mask. You lift your eyes to his, half-expecting some sort of reaction, maybe disgust, maybe lust. But instead… there’s something different there, something you hadn’t anticipated. His gaze softens, though his grip on the weapon remains steady. He stares at you as though you’re something out of place in this hellscape, something fragile, a curiosity more than a threat. His gun lowers, just slightly, but his eyes don’t leave your face, as he too rids himself of his mask. 

He’s younger than you thought. Ink spills across his skin—tattoos that ripple over his arm, dark lines twisting around muscles. You catch a glimpse of two piercings through his lip when he tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out, and then his lips curve, ever so slightly, not quite a smile but not quite hostility either.

“Shelter,” you say, your voice rough, the words like stones scraping against the back of your throat. You cough once, clearing the dust away. “I need shelter.”

He eyes you for a moment longer, his gaze wandering down your frame, but it’s not like before—not like the leering stares of the men who sought to take more than they were willing to give. This is different. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you, as though the mere fact that you’re still standing here, after all this, after the end of the world, is enough to stir absolute disbelief in him.

“Alright,” he says, after a pause that seems to stretch out longer than it should. “We’ll see.”

He gestures with his head, motioning for you to follow him into the metro. You hesitate for only a heartbeat before stepping forward. The air inside is cooler, the shadows deeper in the few flickering candle lights, and for a moment, you think you can almost breathe easier.

“Wait here,” he says, nodding towards a bench half-buried in dust. “There’s a process. Need to fill out a form.”

You blink. A form? The absurdity of it almost makes you laugh—almost. But you’re too tired for laughter, too worn down by the world to even consider the possibility of joy. So, instead, you sit with an exhausted plop. You watch as he disappears for a moment, hear the soft scrape of papers being shuffled, and then he’s back, clipboard in hand, a pencil poised like a weapon in his grip.

He doesn’t sit down. Just stands there, towering over you, his presence impressive but not oppressive. You glance up at him, and there’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel exposed—not in a dangerous way, but in a way that makes you feel seen for the first time in a long time. It’s unsettling.

He clears his throat, eyes flicking to the clipboard. “Name?”

You give it to him. He writes it down, slow and thoughtful.

“Age?”

Again, you’re honest, coughing right after. He writes again, his eyes lifting to your face between each question as if checking to see if you’re lying, or maybe just to remind himself that you’re real.

“Where did you come from?”

You answer, though the place you once called home feels distant, like something from a dream you can’t quite remember. His pen scratches the paper, and you almost lose yourself in the sound of it, that soft, repetitive scrape, the only noise in the otherwise still part of the metro.

“Any medical conditions? Injuries?”

You shake your head, your body numb to the aches and pains that have become part of you, the exhaustion that’s settled into your bones as permanent as the sorrow for the destroyed outside world.

He writes.

The questions continue. And all the while, his eyes keep returning to you, scanning your face as if he’s trying to commit every line, every shadow, to memory. You can feel his gaze lingering on your skin, not in a way that makes you want to shrink or hide, but in a way that makes you want to ask why he’s looking at you like that, why his lips keep twitching into something that almost resembles a smile, sometimes a pout. 

After what feels like an eternity, he finishes writing, his pen stilling against the paper. You think he’s done, that maybe this bizarre interaction will end and you’ll be allowed to rest, to sleep, to breathe for just a moment.

But then he clears his throat again. And this time, when he looks at you, there’s something different in his eyes. Something you can’t quite place.

“There’s one more thing,” he says, and the air between you feels too much like outside, chocking and not fit for you. 

You stiffen. You feel that old familiar dread curling up inside your chest again, clawing at your ribs. You’ve been at this stage before, the formality of it, the false promises of security, of kindness. The moment where it all comes crashing down, where the mask slips and you’re left standing there, alone and defenceless against the greed, the hunger that always lurks just beneath the surface of those too desperate to remember what it means to be human.

He sees the shift in you. You know he does. You see it in the way his brow furrows, the way he toys with his lip piercings as though he’s searching for the right words, something to say that won’t make you bolt for the hermetic door. He takes a breath, and for a moment, you think you might run, you think you might grab your mask and take your chances with the toxic air outside because anything—anything—might be better than this.

But then, he speaks.

“I—” His voice falters, and you see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows. His grip on the clipboard tightens, the knuckles going white. “I want to… I want to eat you out.”

The words hit you like a shockwave. You blink, stunned, and for a moment, you’re not sure you heard him correctly. Did he really just—? 

You stare at him, your mind racing, trying to process the absurdity of it, the strangeness, the unexpectedness.

He’s looking at you now, eyes wide, almost pleading. There’s no threat in his posture, no demand. Just… want. Raw and unfiltered. Like he’s asking for something he shouldn’t even be allowed to ask, but he can’t help himself. His breath is shallow, and you can see the way his hands tremble slightly, the tension in his body like he’s bracing for you to reject him, to walk away.

And maybe you should. Maybe you should get up, leave this place, leave him behind, leave all of this strangeness and vulnerability and run back into the wasteland where at least the dangers are known, where the air is poison but the intentions are clear. But instead, you sit there, frozen in place, your mind spinning, your heart pounding in your chest as you look at him.

He’s not like the others. That much you know.

He’s so painfully handsome, a rare sight in this broken world, and it’s been so long—too long—since you’ve felt the heat of another body, since before the fallout turned everything to pure survival. 

So, when the chance arises, when you catch the hunger in his dark eyes and feel the thrumming ache in your own bones, you seize it like a lifeline in the endless wasteland. Your fingers tremble as you pull the zip of your protective suit down, the rough fabric parting like a sigh, and you free your legs, peeling it off your lower half. You shift on the bench, boots still clinging to your feet as you raise them to rest beside you, and open yourself to him, your legs spread wide, exposing your cunt like a silent offering, need pulsing through your veins.

Jungkook barely hesitates. The clipboard thrown, clattering to the ground behind him, forgotten, his focus now laser-sharp on the sight before him, his eyes flickering wildly between your face and the growing wetness glistening between your thighs. He steps forward with a pull that feels almost sacred, falling heavily to his knees as if the ground beneath him is the only place he belongs. His warm, calloused hands trace their way up your bare legs, the roughness of his skin sparking something primal under your own.

He leans in close, close enough that you can feel his breath ghosting over your slick skin. He takes a deep breath, inhaling you, and the word falls from his lips like a prayer, “Fuck,” and then he’s there, tongue pressing into you with a hunger that’s suffocating, lapping at your cunt as if he’s desperate to prove himself worthy of it, as if he knows exactly how lucky he is to be granted this wish. 

A moan escapes your throat, unbidden, as his tongue forces its way into the tight heat of your hole, your hand reaching instinctively for his dark hair, fingers threading through the strands as you push your hips into his eager mouth. The sound that rumbles from deep within his chest vibrates against you, a groan of raw pleasure that seems to send waves of newfound pleasure coursing through your body, arousal dripping from you, coating his tongue.

“Taste so good,” he rasps between breaths, his voice rough and broken with want. “Fucking angel sent from heaven.” His gaze flicks upward, catching yours, his eyes wide with disbelief, adoration simmering beneath the surface despite the fact that you’re strangers, despite the fact that the world outside has crumbled to nothing.

You find yourself moving against him, riding the flat of his tongue, his fingers dancing over your clit in a rhythm that feels almost divine. His other hand grips your thigh, fingers pressing into your flesh with a kind of desperation, as though he’s terrified that if he lets go, you’ll disappear, that this will vanish like a dream.

“Yes,” you cry out, breathless and shaking, as he finds the perfect pace, the perfect pressure, his mouth and hands working together with an almost agonising precision. And neither of you can tear your eyes away from the other, locked in this frantic, desperate exchange of need and lust and something deeper you can’t yet name.

He gives you everything—every ounce of affection and euphoria you’ve been deprived of for months—and you can feel it in the way his own body trembles, the way his hips move mindlessly against nothing, rutting into the air as though he’s just as desperate to be filled with pleasure as you are.

“I’m close,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair, pulling him harder against you, urging him on, desperate for more, for him to push you over that edge.

And he listens, his tongue working with relentless skill, circling your clit with a pressure so precise it almost drives you mad, and then you feel it—your orgasm tearing through you with an intensity that leaves you breathless, shockwaves rippling through your body as you squirt onto his tongue, something you’ve never done before, the surprise of it lost in the haze of pleasure. Jungkook groans beneath you, greedily lapping up everything you give him, cleaning you with his mouth like he never wants to stop, his hips stuttering forward as he spills into his pants, caught in his own silent climax.

“Fuck…” he moans thickly and long, collapsing against your stomach as your legs tremble and fall to the floor, muscles too weak to hold them up any longer.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the silence between you filled only by the sound of your ragged breathing, the disaster of the world momentarily forgotten. But eventually, he pulls himself together, straightening up with a sheepish grin, adjusting his pants which are now damp with his own release, his expression cringing just slightly.

You quickly dress again, pulling your suit back into place, feeling a flush of heat creeping into your cheeks. There’s an embarrassment there, sure, but not disgust—not even close. If anything, there’s a strange sense of satisfaction, of relief, and you catch yourself hoping this won’t be the last time you see him, that he isn’t bored now that his hunger has been sated.

But as you reach for your pack, Jungkook’s voice breaks through the quiet, and he gestures for you to follow him deeper into the metro, his arm draping casually around your shoulders as if he can’t quite bring himself to stop touching you. “I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he says, a grin spreading across his face, his eyes bright with something that looks almost like joy—something you haven’t seen in anyone since the fallout. “You can stay with me if you want.”

There’s a pause, your heart skipping a beat at his offer, and you hesitate only for a second before whispering, “I’d like to stay with you, if that’s okay.”

He beams down at you, stars shining in his dark eyes like you haven’t seen in months, and he takes the opportunity to press a gentle kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Good,” he says softly. “I’d like that too.”

PART 2

[heghogsblog]

Московское наземное метро расширяется и следует в другие области. заявил мэр города Собянин. линии МЦД продлят до Калужской, Тульской, Ярославской и Смоленской областей.

самое лучшее! неважно, наземное- подземное.. наикрутейшее метро в мире!

сел и поехал в Тулу, когда захотел. за пряниками, или за тульскими ружьями, самоварами.

[vestaignis]

Русский художник, представитель символизма и модерна,  Иван Мясоедов (1881, Харьков – 1953, Буэнос-Айрес) родился в семье  знаменитого художника-передвижника Григория Мясоедова. Был внебрачным сыном художника Григория Мясоедова и художницы Ивановой. Еще ребенком Иван Мясоедов начал учиться рисованию в частной школе, организованной его отцом. В 15 поступил в Московское училище живописи, позднее — в Императорскую Академию художеств. Он мало чем походил на своего отца, и никакой преемственности в искусстве  не было. Все, что было мило Григорию Мясоедову, Иван Мясоедов презирал (и наоборот). Его привлекали мифологические сюжеты, эпический размах, подвиги, боги, герои — все то, от чего бежали передвижники. Художник Иван Мясоедов был прекрасным профессиональным гравером, что стало причиной большой беды. Проживая с женой в бедствующей Германии в 20-е годы, он рисовал и печатал английские фунты- за что и был арестовыван как фальшивомонетчик. Три года Иван проводит в Моабитской тюрьме, где  расписывает тюремную церковь.  Выйдя на свободу, он пишет целый ряд ностальгических полотен и в 1938 году бежит с семьей в Лихтенштейн по поддельному чешскому паспорту (сам «нарисовал») на имя «профессора Зотова». В княжестве Иван Мясоедов стал придворным художником, создал великолепные эскизы почтовых марок. В Лихтенштейне художник вновь попал под арест за подделку  государственных кредитных бумаг, а всю его семью лишили гражданства княжества.  После непродолжительного заключения Мясоедов с семьей в 1953 году переезжает в Аргентину.  По приезду в Буэнос-Айрес Иван Мясоедов внезапно тяжело заболел и умер  от рака печени. Ему было 73 года.

Russian artist, representative of symbolism and modernism, Ivan Myasoedov (1881, Kharkov - 1953, Buenos Aires) was born in the family of the famous Itinerant artist Grigory Myasoedov. He was the illegitimate son of the artist Grigory Myasoedov and the artist Ivanova. As a child, Ivan Myasoedov began to study drawing at a private school organized by his father. At 15 he entered the Moscow School of Painting, and later the Imperial Academy of Arts. He was little like his father, and there was no continuity in art. Everything that was nice to Grigory Myasoedov, Ivan Myasoedov despised (and vice versa). He was attracted by mythological stories, epic scope, exploits, gods, heroes - everything that the Wanderers fled from.

The artist Ivan Myasoedov was an excellent professional engraver, which caused great trouble. Living with his wife in poverty-stricken Germany in the 1920s, he drew and printed English pounds, for which he was arrested as a counterfeiter. Ivan spends three years in Moabit prison, where he paints the prison church. Upon his release, he painted a whole series of nostalgic canvases and in 1938 he fled with his family to Liechtenstein using a fake Czech passport (he “drew it” himself) in the name of “Professor Zotov.”

In the principality, Ivan Myasoedov became a court artist and created magnificent sketches of postage stamps. In Liechtenstein, the artist was again arrested for forging government credit papers, and his entire family was deprived of citizenship of the principality. After a short imprisonment, Myasoedov and his family moved to Argentina in 1953. Upon arrival in Buenos Aires, Ivan Myasoedov suddenly became seriously ill and died of liver cancer. He was 73 years old.

Источник://kulturologia.ru/blogs/160919/44149/, https://dergachev-va.livejournal.com/86205.html,arthive.com/ru/artists/31745~Ivan_Grigor'evich_Mjasoedov/works/587071~Vid_na_SanSusi, /artifex.ru/живопись/иван-мясоедов-часть-1/, /artchive.ru/publications/4134~Zhizn'_i_udivitel'nye_prikljuchenija_Ivana_Mjasoedova.

[ivanseledkin]

Московское метро. "Маяковская"

[spoiledlbleach]

Ten people I'd like to know better

tagged by @worm-priest

last song: Московское время by Синекдоха Монток

fav color: blue

fav book: not much of a book reader :0 let's say the Portrait of Dorian Gray

fav movie: Challengers is my fav movie of 2024 its so goodddd

last tv show: finished Arcane, its also good

sweet/spicy/savoury: sweet ^_^

relationship status: single <3

last thing I googled: skizzleman's minecraft skin as a reference for my sketch

current obsession: im not really obsessed with anything rn really, just chilling and watching films as i go

looking forward to: the new years celebration

tagging: @kqluckity @zinzanish @wun4a @bittersweetresilience and just overall anyone who wants to do this :D (btw there's no pressure)

[merzkiygorodishko]

Ааааа... Ну это типо Россия и мой ОС Москва... Тут они типо ещё Московское княжество, молодые, зелёные... Вот

Russia and Moscow oc In the period of the Moscow Principality

[marinsgroup]

«Динамо» (Москва) успешно преодолело экватор чемпионата России  

Начало зимы для волейбольного клуба «Динамо» (Москва) ознаменовалось значимой игрой: 4 декабря на домашней арене бело-голубые встретились с командой «Оренбуржье» в рамках 15-го тура российской Суперлиги.

Команда Константина Брянского очень уверенно провела первый сет: бело-голубые вышли вперёд на несколько брейковых очков благодаря эйсу диагонального Максима Сапожкова, блоку Ильи Власова и реализации нескольких доигровочных мячей. В дальнейшем москвичи спокойно довели партию до победы со счётом 25:21.

Во втором сете Брянский выпустил на поле центрального блокирующего Фаннура Каюмова. Он дважды подряд успешно закрыл нападающих соперника в середине партии, а последующий эйс его коллеги Максима Белогорцева ликвидировал вопрос о победителе сета. На площадке появились и другие игроки резерва хозяев – связующий Алексей Кураш, доигровщик Никита Зудин, либеро Егор Ковалёв. Замены не повлияли на ход игры – 25:18 и 2:0 в пользу «Динамо» после очередной мощнейшей атаки Сапожкова.

В третьей партии возможность проявить себя резервистам дал и главный тренер «Оренбуржья» Павел Борщ. Молодые волейболисты гостей играли раскрепощённо, а динамовцы на старте партии допустили ряд ошибок. Шаг за шагом бело-голубые сначала отыграли отставание, затем, благодаря опыту и выдержке, получили три матчбола в концовке. Соперник сражался до конца, однако точку в матче поставил доигровщик динамовцев Ярослав Подлесных точным пайпом – 25:23, и чистая победа «Динамо» (Москва) со счётом 3:0.

– Сделали достаточно для победы, получилось задействовать большое количество игроков. Наверное, это всё, что можно сказать об этом матче, ‒ прокомментировал игру главный тренер волейбольного клуба «Динамо» (Москва) Константин Брянский. – В третьей партии соперник стал рисковать на подаче и отодвинул нас от сетки, мы не могли сыграть первым темпом, почти не могли играть остро. В самом начале допустили брак, стали уступать четыре очка, которые в дальнейшем отыгрывали. За счёт большего опыта, за счёт более надёжных действий в итоге и удалось выиграть сет. Ребятам большое спасибо.

– Играем чуть-чуть под нагрузкой, поэтому где-то ошибались, а так встреча оставила хорошее впечатление, рабочая атмосфера, ‒ поделился впечатлениями после матча доигровщик волейбольного клуба «Динамо» (Москва) Ярослав Подлесных. – В третьей партии у соперника появились молодые ребята, на них ничего не давило, вышли, скажем так, покайфовать. Мы же в концовке собрались, нужно было давать результат. В итоге смогли переломить ход партии.

Следующий домашний матч «Динамо» (Москва) сыграет 11 декабря в 19:00 с волейбольным клубом «Факел» из Нового Уренгоя.

Все новости волейбольного клуба можно узнавать на официальном сайте ‒ https://vcdynamo.ru/ или на сайте информационного партнёра команды – компании «Союз Маринс Групп» ‒ https://www.marinsgroup.ru/press-centr.html

[mariacollection]

Московское блинное обжорство приобретало на Масленицу какие-то фантастические масштабы: съесть за один присест по двадцать штук блинов считалось ни во что, так, «легкой закуской», а знатоки заглатывали блины целиком, не жуя. Собственно, в Москве полагали, что только так, не разжевывая, и надо их есть (кстати, резать блин ножом считалось грехом). В результате Масленица была самым горячим временем для московских врачей: дежурной болезнью в это время был заворот кишок, и кое-кто, особенно из чтущего традиции московского купечества, отдавал от обжорства Богу душу.

Вера Бокова «Повседневная жизнь Москвы в XIX веке»

[searuss8]

Москва фольклорная. Московские сезоны Московское чаепитие на Тверской пл...

[timeskver]

Решаю задание 00:33

Вместо "Московское княжество" пишу "Московское ханство"

Думаю, пора заканчивать на сегодня и идти спать