#Russis

[minnesotafollower]

Russia’s Top Security Official Meetings in Havana     

On February 27, 2024, Nikolai Patrushev, Russia’s to security official, met in Havana with Cuba’s retired general Raul Castro. Other Russians in attendance were officials from Russian spy agencies like the Federal Security Service and the Foreign Intelligence Service in addition to officials from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the Ministry of Justice and other government agencies.[1] Patrushev…

[cryptocism]

could you possibly do Six in C6? He's my silly lil man I love him SO much I wanna spin him around and put him into a blender

in which it is the 80s and CRAYDL is a van. but like. a sentient van. herbie-style. idk this one got away from me

[russie-000]

"Has anyone ever felt that way about you?"

Lil Thad drawing I made based on Impulse #66, look at him he's so jolly!

[girlsandmachines]

Voitures à pédales, Russie, 1970s.

[frenchcurious]

Ryabushinsky House (Maxim Gorky House Museum) 1902. Malaya Nikitskaya 6, Moscow. Architect Fyodor Schechtel (1859-1926). - source Aure Bonmatí Mondéjar.

[peggyao3]

Behold, Feyd's slutty thighs 🥵

[Cropped and edited from this screencap, which is also in this video.]

And they just let him run around outside with THESE thighs? In THESE skin-tight leggings? Without a licence? Who will pay for the damage done to my ovaries from suddenly spitting out a dozen eggs and my teeth from gritting them too hard? (I think one fell out) 😩 I can't decide if I want to ride his thighs or spank them or bite them or all of the above 😩

Also — they really must have taped his equipment back between his legs to create such a snatched Feyd-Russy 😳

[makeila04]

I was playing as Adler in Liberty Falls, and when he drank a macchiato, he said, “Who wants to be my punching bag?” To which I thought, “Wait… that means, that… ADLER BOXES?!?!?!" (It should’ve been obvious, but whatever…)

So I started thinking about this, and I want to share it with you:

I imagine myself walking into his gym—or wherever he practices privately, alone, empty, probably in the dead of night. I imagine that after so many wars, especially Vietnam, he struggles with insomnia… so he takes it out on the punching bag late into the night… burning energy and… partly blaming himself… for something that happened nearly 30 years ago.

He… overthinks it, but then again, it’s not like he can just “turn it off” and move on.

Adler is so focused he doesn’t hear me. Or if he’s noticed me, he doesn’t care.

I walk in slowly. I’m behind him, so he probably doesn’t see me. Russell is 54 years old, and I’m so young… He’s a giant—6’1” (1.85 m), 209 lbs (95 kg)—while I’m barely 5’5” (1.65 m) and very slim…

The scene is hypnotic.

The gym is empty at this hour, lights off except for the dim glow of an industrial lamp hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows on the walls. It smells like leather, sweat, and a faint trace of tobacco mixed with something else—something that’s just him.

Russell is there, in the center, facing the punching bag. His torso, clad in a plain white tank top clinging to his body, glistens with a thin layer of sweat, every muscle defined by years of discipline. His skin, weathered by age and scars that tell a lifetime of violence. Every punch he throws is sharp, precise, controlled. No wasted movement. No grunts or heavy breathing like others. Just hits. Over and over.

He doesn’t seem to notice I’ve entered. Or maybe he has, and he just doesn’t care.

His mind is elsewhere. Maybe in a suffocating jungle thirty years ago, when he was still young and the weight of the world hadn’t fully hardened his face. Or in the latest mission, replaying mistakes he’ll never admit aloud. Or in his own reflection in the gym’s cracked mirror, wondering how much longer he can keep doing this.

I step closer silently, knowing any sudden noise might trigger his instincts. Small beside him, a shadow dwarfed by his imposing presence.

I stay. Watching.

Maybe he finally notices. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t stop. But for a split second, his icy blue eyes flicker in my direction—brief, fleeting���before snapping back to the bag.

He hasn’t kicked me out.

So I stay.

The sound of his punches echoes in the empty gym, each strike against the bag muffled by aged leather. There’s a rhythm to his hits, a precise cadence betraying years of practice. Not the wild swings of a novice venting frustration, but the calculated strikes of someone who’s trained until movement became instinct.

But his expression isn’t calm.

His eyes are focused, but the slight furrow of his brows, the tension in his jaw, suggest his mind isn’t truly here. It’s as if every punch is aimed at an invisible enemy—one he can’t reach or knock down.

Maybe he knows. Maybe he senses this isn’t just exercise. Not just a way to stay fit.

It’s punishment.

For his body. For his mind.

For the mistakes he can’t undo.

For the decisions that haunt him three decades later.

Sweat trails down his skin, dripping from his neck to his collarbones and down the grooves of his muscles. His back tenses with every motion, skin stretching over scars and knots of accumulated strain.

Then, finally, he stops.

He exhales slowly, dropping his bandaged fists to his sides. At first, he doesn’t look at me—just lowers his head, letting sweat drip onto the concrete floor.

But then, with the same deliberate slowness, he lifts his gaze.

His eyes meet mine.

There’s something in that blue stare—something unreadable. Not surprise, not annoyance. Not even acknowledgment. It’s like he’s trying to decipher *me*, to understand why I’m here, why I’m watching, why I haven’t spoken.

He drags a hand over his face, wiping away sweat, then speaks—his voice low, rough, edged with exhaustion.

- “Can’t sleep, or do you just like watching me hit things?” he said.

It’s a deflection. A wall he instinctively puts up.

Because he can’t sleep either.

But I know it’s more than that.

Estaba jugando con Adler como operador en Liberty Falls y al beber Machiatto dijo “¿quién quiere ser mi saco de boxeo?” A lo que pensé “Espera, eso significa que… ADLER PRÁCTICA BOXEO?!?!?!?” (En realidad debió ser algo obvio, no una sorpresa pero en fin…)

Asi que empecé a pensar en esto y se los quiero compartir:

Me imagino yo entrando a su gimnasio, o al gimnasio o dónde sea que practique mientras sea privado y solitario, todo vacío, seguramente de madrugada. Me imagino que por tantas guerras y especialmente Vietnam, tiene problemas de insomnio... así que se descarga en el boxeo hasta tarde... gastando energía y...en parte culpándose a si mismo... por algo de hace 30 años ya casi...

Él...lo piensa demasiado, pero claro, tampoco es como si pudiera "apagarlo" y ya...

Adler est�� tan concentrado que no me escucha, o si me ha notado, no le importa.

La imagen es hipnótica.

Entro despacio, estoy a espaldas así que me imagino que no me ve. Russell tiene 54 años y yo tan joven... Él es gigante, mide 1.85 y pesar 95 kilos...y yo mido 1.65 apenas y soy muy delgada....

El gimnasio está vacío a esa hora, con las luces apagadas excepto por la tenue iluminación de la lámpara industrial que cuelga del techo, proyectando sombras alargadas en las paredes. Huele a cuero, sudor y un leve rastro de tabaco mezclado con algo más, algo que es solo él.

Russell está ahí, en el centro, frente al saco de boxeo. Su torso pegado a una camiseta blanca y lisa, entallada a su cuerpo, está cubierto de un brillo tenue de sudor, marcando cada músculo trabajado con años de disciplina. La piel curtida por la edad, las cicatrices que hablan de una vida de violencia. Cada golpe que lanza es seco, preciso, controlado. No desperdicia movimiento. No resopla ni gruñe como otros. Solo golpea. Una y otra vez.

No parece haber notado que entré. O quizá sí, y simplemente no le importa.

Su mente está en otro lugar. Quizá en una jungla sofocante hace treinta años, cuando aún era joven y el peso del mundo no había endurecido su rostro del todo. Tal vez en la última misión, en los errores que no admite en voz alta. O en su propio reflejo en el espejo agrietado del gimnasio, preguntándose cuánto tiempo más podrá seguir haciendo esto.

Me acerco en silencio, sabiendo que cualquier ruido fuera de lugar podría hacer que su instinto lo lleve a reaccionar. Pequeña a su lado, una sombra mucho más ligera en comparación con su presencia imponente.

Y sin embargo, me quedo ahí. Observándolo.

Tal vez él finalmente me nota. No dice nada. No se detiene. Pero hay un instante en el que sus ojos azules se deslizan en mi dirección, fugaces, volviendo al saco de inmediato.

No me ha echado.

Así que me quedo.

El sonido de los golpes resuena en el gimnasio vacío, cada impacto contra el saco de boxeo amortiguado por el cuero envejecido. Hay un ritmo en su manera de golpear, una cadencia precisa que delata años de práctica. No es el descontrolado de un novato que solo busca descargar frustración, sino el golpe certero de alguien que ha entrenado hasta que el movimiento se volvió instintivo.

Pero su expresión no es la de un hombre en calma.

Sus ojos están enfocados, pero hay algo en la forma en que sus cejas se fruncen levemente, en la tensión en su mandíbula, que sugiere que su mente no está realmente aquí. Es como si cada golpe que lanza estuviera dirigido a un enemigo invisible, uno que no puede alcanzar ni derribar.

Tal vez lo sepa. Tal vez pueda intuir que este no es solo ejercicio para él. Que no es solo una manera de mantenerse en forma.

Es castigo.

Para su cuerpo. Para su mente.

Para los errores que no puede corregir.

Para las decisiones que lo siguen incluso tres décadas después.

El sudor recorre su piel, escurriendo desde su cuello hasta la línea de sus clavículas y bajando por los surcos de sus músculos. Su espalda se tensa con cada movimiento, la piel estirándose sobre la forma de su cuerpo como un mapa de cicatrices y tensiones acumuladas.

Y entonces, finalmente, se detiene.

Exhala lento, dejando caer los puños envueltos en vendas al costado de su cuerpo. No me mira al principio, solo baja la cabeza, dejando que las gotas de sudor caigan al suelo de concreto.

Pero luego, con la misma lentitud, alza la vista.

Su mirada se encuentra con la mía.

Y hay algo en esos ojos azules, algo indescifrable. No es sorpresa, ni molestia. Tampoco es simple reconocimiento. Es como si estuviera tratando de leer algo en mi, de entender por qué estoy aquí, por qué lo observo, por qué no he dicho nada.

Se pasa una mano por el rostro, limpiándose el sudor, y entonces habla, su voz baja, rasposa, marcada por el cansancio.

—No puedes dormir, ¿o solo te gusta verme golpear cosas?

Es un intento de desviar la conversación. Un muro que levanta por instinto.

Pero sé que no es solo eso.

Porque él tampoco puede dormir.

[transparentgentlemenmarker]

La Russie veut la paix, les américains aussi pas l'UE pourquoi ???

[pop-art-sixties-seventies]

Binyaminson, Chevalier, Russie, 1967.

[haveyouseenthisseries-poll]

[oceanitiaearts]

Tsar Alexandre Ier de Russie ✨ (1777-1825)

-Ok I love using black and white with a pop of color

⚠️If you download and repost my art please tag me

[minnesotafollower]

Analysis of Cuba’s Current Economic Crisis 

“Cuba is going through the worst crisis it has experienced in decades, with widespread shortages of food and medicines, rolling blackouts and a sky-high 400% annual inflation rate. The calls on the communist leadership to open up the economy to the market are getting loud, even from close political allies.”[1] “But deep divisions at the top of the regime regarding how much freedom to give the new…

[foreverinthepagesofhistoryy]

New photo of Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna and Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna of Russia along with their mother Empress Alexandra Feodorovna, Old Palace Livadia 1909

Image kindly shared by Ilya aka LastRomanovs on Flickr and Sledstvie on Instagram

[russie-000]

Saw this image and thought of them

I love them both sm

[fidjiefidjie]

Bonjour, bonne journée ☕️ 🐟

Poissonnerie à Moscou 🇷🇺 Russie 1947

Photo Thomas D. McAvoy/ Life

[frenchcurious]

Station de métro Mayakovskaya à Moscou 1938. Architecte Alexey Dushkin (1904-1977). - source Dhona.