#dragomirov

[postcard-from-the-past]

Portrait of General Mikhail Ivanovich Dragomirov

Russian vintage postcard

[hyweluniverse]

Inna finds out she's morosexual

[idesofrevolution]

Hey! I have a small request regarding a story you wrote long ago in 2019, untitled on Tumblr and called "Musky Leathers" on blogspot. One of the MCs is a Russian biker named Maxim who grew up in Sevastopol. Without any additional context, the most plausible interpretation is that he is a Russian-speaking Ukrainian citizen and travelled/immigrated to the US with a Ukrainian passport, since Russian passports issued in Crimea after 2014 are not recognized by the US.

Can you make an edit to that post (either on Tumblr or on blogspot) so that his background could be more ... straightforward? As in, just from a typical Ukrainian or Russian city. I know I’m being entitled but honestly, I feel slightly nauseous reading sexy stories and the only thing that comes up in my mind is the KGB botox man. Also, if you want a guy brought up in machismo culture („proud, stolid, lionhearted”), a city known for heavy industries as his hometown would seem more suitable than Sevastopol, which is perceived more as a touristy place.   

The MC could be a Maksym Drahomiriv from i.e. Kharkiv or a Maksim Dragomirov from, say, Chelyabinsk. For the former case, he would still use Russian on a daily basis and only learned Ukrainian at school. If you have a knack for country boys, then a Ukrainian Maksym would be all the better :] A stereotypical Ukrainian accent when speaking Russian is very singsongy and viewed by city-dwellers in Russia as resembling that of rednecks.

Thank you so so much for the correction. On tumblr any edit I make won’t apply to the story that’s been reblogged already. But on Blogspot I will absolutely make that fix today. I’ll also fix it on the Tumblr post as well and reblog the fixed story.

Please reach out directly, I’d love to hear more direct feedback on things to fix from that story, as it hasn’t aged well due to the current conflict. I appreciate it tremendously. ☺️

[ckmorne]

Cassian Solomorne: Imperator. Warrior. Menace.

Cassian Solomorne – The Imperator of Orrinth

Cassian Solomorne never has to announce his power. His presence alone commands it. As Imperator of Kedros, the capital of Orrinth, he is a man shaped not by birthright, but by sheer, unrelenting will. He does not drape himself in nobility’s excess. His authority is undeniable, something beyond titles and crowns. Cassian Solomorne does not demand respect—he simply exists, and the world either bends or braces for impact.

Orrinth is the oldest superpower—a titan forged by time, tempered by war, and unshaken by either. It endures because of the Tessarim—the unrelenting magic of order, precision, and structure. Not because of divine favor, but because its people thrive on meritocracy. Diligent, driven, hardened by war, they have never faltered.

A Kingdom’s Sins, A Ruler’s Vision

Long before Cassian’s rule, Orrinth had no place for those touched by the chaotic force of Syn. Mutation and madness were once the same—to be warped by Syn’s magic meant violent, mindless rage. There was no time to distinguish who was simply changed and who was lost—so they ostracized them all.

It was not without reason, but that did not make it right.

Over centuries, the madness faded, but the mutations remained. By the time Orrinth realized the truth, the damage was done. They had feared the Touched for too long and, in doing so, had become monsters themselves.

Ixatulah Dragomirov did what Orrinth would not—she carved a sanctuary from the darkness. She built Noctrun, the capital of Sicaris, as a refuge for those cast out. And under her rule, an outcast’s haven became a kingdom, a power—a nation that did not need Orrinth’s acceptance, because it had built its own future.

Now, Orrinth has long abandoned its persecution, but the wounds remain. The old grudges have not faded, and memory is a heavier burden than history.

Cassian intends to move forward. He sees no victory in old hatreds, no reason to cling to a grudge between two powers that should be allies. The world is shifting, and he will not let Orrinth be shackled to a past that should have died long ago.

Presence, Demeanor, & Mannerisms

Cassian Solomorne doesn’t have to do much—things just seem to go his way, whether by fate, force, or sheer audacity

He is the sun—blinding, brilliant, inescapable. A force of nature in motion, he does not waste words, nor does he waste time proving what is already evident. But he will make time to rub it in.

His confidence is effortless, his presence a contradiction of criminally unbothered ease and intensity. Cassian laughs in the face of hardship—not out of defiance, but because he thinks it's funny. Sometimes, it is.

Cassian’s wit is a blade—sharp, cutting, and often aimed at whoever looks too comfortable. He is a man who never backs down from a challenge, but he does occasionally mock it for lack of effort.

He moves like he owns the ground beneath him—not with arrogance, but with the kind of certainty that dares anyone to challenge it. So far, no one’s been foolish enough to try.

He is impossible to rattle. He meets crisis with a smirk, pressure with a knowing glance, chaos with the kind of calm that makes others question if they ever had control at all.

He does not hesitate. Decisions are made quickly, often with a smirk, and occasionally with a wager attached. He’s been told he takes unnecessary risks—he prefers to call it "testing fate".

He will break the rules, rewrite them, or ignore them entirely—sometimes for strategy, sometimes just to see who notices

He is deliberate, but not rigid—a man of order and control, but also of adaptation. Where other rulers cling to tradition, he clings to efficiency. And if that means upsetting centuries of ceremony? Well, that’s just a bonus.

Stillness is not in his nature. Even at rest, he is moving, thinking, calculating.

But when he is truly still? It is not peace. It is the warning before the storm.

Cassian is too magnetic, too unshakable, too dangerously charismatic. It’s a gift, really. For him. Not for anyone else.

The Body of a Warrior-King

Cassian Solomorne was built not for display, but for war.

Every inch of him is function, endurance, and power—broad, thick with muscle, his body shaped by battle, labor, necessity. Not chiseled like a statue, but carved by survival.

His grip is vice-like, his hands large, calloused, rough with years of war and work. His fingers are long, dexterous—capable of both crafting with precision and breaking with ease.

His scars tell his story—some deep, some faint, each a mark of a battle fought and survived.

His skin is sun-bronzed but not dark, rich with color along his arms, shoulders, and back—evidence of years spent training beneath the sun.

His jaw is strong, with a bold brow, and sharp cheekbones—a face made for command, intensity, and a smirk that dares a challenge. Faint lines mark his brow, his mouth, the corners of his eyes—not from age, but from decisions no man should have to make. Not that they diminish his looks. If anything, they add to his undeniable, devastating charm—or so he’d say

His hair, a light golden blonde, is a permanent disaster. Short on the sides, longer on top, it is never neat—partly because he rakes his hands through it too often, partly because he just doesn’t care. If it looks particularly bad, it’s probably because he lost a bet.

And then, there are his eyes.

They are gold, but not the warmth of sunlight—they burn. Raw fire, deep honey, something ancient and unrelenting. They see more than what is spoken, cutting through falsehoods with ruthless ease.

It does not matter if he is grinning, jesting, or laughing—his gaze never loses its weight.

People look away first.

They always do.

And always, there is the cigarette between his fingers—not for indulgence, not for addiction, but because it gives his hands something to do. Sometimes, he barely smokes at all; he simply rolls it absently between his fingers, lets it rest between his lips.

It is as much a part of him as the steel at his hip.

Cassian Solomorne does not ask for dominance—he wears it. He does not demand respect—he leaves no other option.

And gods help the man who ever mistakes his laughter for mercy—or worse, thinks he’s laughing with them.

Cassian & Ixatulah – A Collision of Titans

Cassian Solomorne is many things, but to Ixatulah Dragomirov, he is something else entirely.

She is darkness—absolute, unyielding, inevitable. He is golden light—unruly, defiant, untamed.

She is control. He is chaos disguised as order.

Their relationship is not just a battlefield—it is a game.

Cassian is a menace. He makes bets he shouldn’t win, walks into traps he saw coming, and takes shameless delight in tormenting her in the pettiest ways imaginable.

And yet—she does the same to him.

A lost bet means public humiliation. A misstep means a trap waiting to be sprung. No mercy. No surrender. And yet, somehow, Cassian always walks away looking like he meant for it to happen. Sometimes, that’s the worst part

It is infuriating. It is exhilarating.

And beneath it all, there is something neither of them can ignore.

For the first time in her eternity, Ixatulah is not alone. And for the first time in his life, neither is he.

What’s the pettiest reason Cassian has ever started a war? (Be creative.)

[tba-rp]

BUZZ REQUEST PREVIEW

TYPE: Group / Familial

SUMMARY: Two brothers & 1 Sister, all pro hockey players. Each Dragomirov sibling plays on a NY Metro area team (Vadim - Rangers, Brother #1 - NY Islanders, Brother #2 - NJ Devils, Sister - NY Sirens). They're the children of a former NHL hockey player and an Olympic ice skater, so pro sports and winter sports especially has always been a part of their upbringing and childhood. Now, in New York City, they're locked in an absurd reality tv show about their journey towards the Winter Olympics 2026. Sibling rivalry to the max, ridiculous competitiveness, NY sports media and fan angst... they've got a lot to endure.

ALIAS: KC

CHARACTER: Vadim Dragomirov

CHARACTER BASICS:

Vadim is most known for being a fun, reckless athlete who competes at everything and seems to excel at everything. He’s the guy who is charismatic and charming so it doesn’t seem as obnoxious as it usually would if he was full on egotistical and smarmy that he’s so lucky and gifted. He’s a quick learner and he loves to experience new things and meet new people. At times his positivity or extroverted nature can be infectious and overwhelming but there’s a sort of earnest, good-intentioned aura about it all that makes it easier to swallow. He's the class clown, joker, rambunctious challenger who pushes people to their limits but not to break them. Instead he seems genuinely interested in pushing people to be better, to seek improvement and excellence in their own field or right. Some people, the more cynical and pessimistic perhaps, find this amount of positivity to be nauseating and difficult to endure, but those who appreciate it can see that at his core he’s just avidly and aggressively supportive.

REQUEST : They were raised between Russia and Michigan, and their parents marriage has always sort of been more of an obligation than love but they were devoted partners who raised their kids with love. Each sibling has had to figure out a way to make a name for themselves and to not be held under the Dragomirov/Drago name but it's difficult to leave the shadow of this kind of legacy. I'm hoping for a wide array of personalities and motivations, goals and life journeys, so I'm open to different directions beyond the 'Look at the Dragos in NY/NJ.

Disclaimer

[willow-mortem]

I'm playing a lot of D&D these days

Here comes Mileïna Dragomirov, my bloodhunter ! 🩸⚔️🎲

[tosimornottosim]

smoochsmoochsmoochsmooch

[lightexudes]

          ALEX GAVE A ROLL OF HER EYES, chuckling derisively through an amused smirk. “oh, that’s adorable,” she answered, sounding genuinely entertained by the prospect. “i haven’t done my homework since the eighth grade. my brother justin, though? total nerd. you won’t even have to bribe him to get him to help you.”

          STARTER CALL. || @irridesen.

[newgenesisx]

Ekaterine Dragomirov Weasley: Boticary / Sugar Baby 

[thepumpkinpatched]

Charlotte Avery Dragomirov || For @tosimornottosim‘s Drama BC.

No one ever calls Charlie by their full name, except for their parents, and most people don’t even know it. They don’t mind, though. They like things that are short and simple. It was always easier to say Charlie than it was to say Charlotte, anyway, and they always had a hard time introducing themselves. Charlie dealt with Selective Mutism throughout their childhood - an anxiety disorder that hindered their ability to communicate.

Thanks to the loving support of their mother (and the more ... awkward support of their father), and a lot of good therapy, Charlie has learned a lot about managing their anxiety, and considers themselves to be in a pretty good place. They found, and still find, a lot of comfort in the company of animals, and have a particular fondness for both snakes and pitbulls. Though they’ve gotten better at handling their social anxiety, they’ve yet to overcome their hydrophobia.

Charlie is still a quiet person, not speaking much and seeming rather stoic, but they’re actually quite friendly and enjoy the company of other friendly and fun individuals. They like people who are more talkative than them, because they don’t feel so much pressure to fill the silence.

Charlie has had stomach problems for almost as long as they remember, and a lot of foods make them feel ill. Because of this, they’re loosely vegetarian, and avoid a lot of heavily processed or sugary foods, keeping as healthy and natural as possible.

As a teenager, Charlie fell into a rough crowd, following their two close friends into trouble and a criminal career. They had a bit of a wake up call when their friend was sent to prison, and turned their life around. Today, Charlie is a law abiding citizen, with dreams of an athletic career.

Private Download.

Hydrophoic / Vegetarian / Athletic / Animal Lover / Friendly 

Become A Superstar Athlete

Pansexual | Genderfluid | She/Her They/Them He/Him

Hair One | Hair Two

[teatimeatwinterpalace]

Portrait of Sofya Dragomirova by Repin, 1889. Daughter of Mikhail Dragomirov, military theorist and Governor General of Kiev, Podolsk and Volyn.

[ckmorne]

Ixatulah Dragomirov: Undead and Overworked

Ixatulah Dragomirov – The Regatrix of Sicaris

A ruler wreathed in legend, Ixatulah Dragomirov is Sicaris—its architect, its foundation, its pulse. She does not rule by inheritance or conquest. She rules because no one else could. Though, if someone else wanted the job, she wouldn’t object.

Before it was a kingdom, Sicaris was Noctrun—a fractured refuge for the forsaken. From the beginning, Syn’s chaotic magic pulsed through its streets, shifting, reshaping, unbound by order. It was Ixatulah who bent that chaos to her will, shaping its walls, its laws, its very bones with her own blood and sweat—guiding the tide rather than resisting it.

The city is alive, bound to her as she is to it. And at its center, she endures. An unfortunate reality, really.

A Kingdom at a Crossroads

For centuries, Sicaris and Orrinth stood on opposite sides of history. Once, the people of Orrinth cast out those mutated by Syn’s magic, condemning them to exile. In Sicaris, the forsaken found refuge. Under Ixatulah’s rule, they became something greater than mere survival. They became a force. And though time has reshaped the world, scars remain.

A new ruler has risen. Cassian Solomorne—Imperator of Orrinth—comes to her with a bold proposition: to bury the past and forge something new. He seeks not just peace, but partnership, an alliance to redefine the future.

But peace is never simple.

Sicaris does not forget, nor do its people forgive lightly. Some see Cassian’s offer as an opportunity. Others call it betrayal. And within Orrinth, the same struggle brews—factions war over the idea of elevating Sicaris as an equal.

Ixatulah, ever the sovereign, walks the tightrope of diplomacy with the same unyielding grace she carries into war. The difference, of course, is that war involves fewer insufferable meetings.She will not kneel to history. She will not be controlled by the past, nor by those who wish to shape her city into something lesser.

And yet, for all her certainty, this is the first time in centuries someone has stood before her not as an enemy, not as a subject, but as an equal. She isn't sure if that is progress or simply another headache.

One thing, however, is certain: Ixatulah Dragomirov will never be ruled.

Bound by Love, Trapped by Undeath

Ixatulah should have died. She was meant to die.

But her people—terrified of losing the queen who had given them a home, the ruler who had protected them for centuries—refused to let her go. In desperation, they performed the greatest magic they had ever attempted, an act of necromancy so powerful it ripped her back from the afterlife, binding her to the world against her will.

They saved her. They doomed her. Next time, she’d appreciate a conversation first.

She awoke, immortal, unchanging—wrong. Trapped in a body that no longer belonged to her, she learned what it meant to endure, not by choice, but by force. To rule forever, whether she wished to or not.

She did not want eternity. And yet, when she looked upon her people—the same souls who had stolen her rest out of love, out of devotion—she could not leave them. Even through the agony of her unnatural existence, she remains. After all, what kind of ruler abandons their kingdom? A sane one, probably.

For them. For Sicaris. And, apparently, for the amusement of whatever cruel cosmic force thought this was a fine joke.

She does not age. She does not weaken. But she is not free.

And in the rare moments when she allows herself to slip into the deep, meditative state that sustains her, she dreams—not of rule, not of power, but of the moment she was stolen from death.

A nightmare that never fades. Not even the centuries have dulled its charm.

The Presence of the Regatrix

Despite her unassuming height, Ixatulah Dragomirov’s presence is immense. She does not need stature to command a room—her sheer force of will is enough. To stand before her is to feel the weight of centuries pressing down, to sense the power coiled beneath her stillness—vast, inescapable, waiting. Most react accordingly. Some attempt bravery. They rarely do so twice.

Her form is sculpted not by vanity, but by purpose—womanly yet unyielding, shaped by strength rather than softness. Beneath the flowing darkness of her silks, the body of a warrior remains—honed, disciplined, forged in conquest. Though she rules from the throne, the battlefield is still hers. She does not merely fight—she dominates.

She is as striking as she is unnerving—her beauty severe, almost inhuman in its flawlessness. High, sculpted cheekbones cast shadows beneath hollowed cheeks, tapering to an elegantly contoured jawline. And her lips—full, dark, unreadable—are neither cruel nor kind, but something between, a line of quiet judgment or, at times, the barest hint of amusement when someone inevitably disappoints her expectations.

But it is her eyes that linger in the minds of those who meet her. Deep, abyssal voids of pure black, fringed with thick, ink-dark lashes. They do not glow. They do not flicker. They consume.

She has been told they are unsettling. She considers that a compliment. The screams, however, are excessive.

A Wit Like a Blade

Ixatulah is not cruel—but she is merciless.

She has an uncanny ability to see through people, to tear open wounds they thought long healed, and to strike with devastating precision. It is not a game, nor a weapon she wields carelessly, but should she be provoked?

Her words become lethal.

A shame, really—some people truly believe they will be the exception. Optimism is a fascinating thing.

She does not raise her voice, does not waste effort on empty threats. Instead, her wit cuts—swift, precise, inescapable. By the time you realize you've been flayed open, she has already moved on.

Perhaps, if you are perceptive, you will catch the faintest glint of a smirk in those abyssal eyes as she executes the final blow.

Ixatulah & Cassian – A Collision of Titans

Their relationship is not gentle, nor simple—it is a battlefield, a war of wit, dominance, and will. Where Ixatulah is stillness, control, and unyielding endurance, Cassian is motion, provocation, and relentless charisma. He challenges her in ways no one else dares, refusing to treat her as a god or a ghost—only as a woman. A bold choice. A foolish one, perhaps. But bold.

Their relationship is a never-ending game, full of sharp words, calculated risks, and escalating retaliation. A lost bet means public humiliation, a moment of weakness means an expertly placed trap, and neither is above petty sabotage—because what is power, if not the ability to make an opponent suffer in deeply inconvenient ways? Cassian once smoked out her chambers in Kedros, a decision he would later regret. In return, Ixatulah ensured his wardrobe consisted solely of Sicarian ceremonial robes—exquisite in craftsmanship, unparalleled in suffering.

And yet, beneath the games, beneath the war, they see each other. They push, they provoke, they clash. Ixatulah has tested every known method of discouragement. He remains undeterred. Either he is fearless, or he is very, very stupid. She suspects the latter.

But in a world where neither has ever belonged, they have found something dangerous, something undeniable.

Not a weakness. Not a chain. But a rival. A most irritating rival. And neither of them will ever walk away.

Who do you side with: the immortal queen or the insufferable menace who won’t leave her alone?

[cfireweasley]

Charlie estava feliz. Sua profissão era o que mais o orgulhava, aonde colocou todo seu empenho.  Aquela seminário era importante e ele desejava fazer jus a carreira construída muitas vezes em abdicações da família, vida social e até mesmo amorosa. Seus ouvidos estavam atentos ao discurso, mas seu olhar recaiu sobre o homem que sediava o evento. Agradeceria o convite e a elaboração quando tivesse a oportunidade, isso se conseguisse cruzar a vergonha que fazia suas bochechas aquecerem esporadicamente. Percebeu que estava sendo observado, tanto quanto não conseguia desgrudar os olhos dos lábios que se moviam a cada resposta. A filosofia que debatiam parecia se sincronizar a cada sentença. Como poderia vê-lo pela primeira vez e concordar tanto com seu posicionamento? “Acho que nós bruxos temos tanto medo deles quanto eles de nós. Um METEORO chinês não irá dizimar nossa população” ele brincou com a metáfora sobre os dinossauros, exibindo um sorriso para os jornalistas, mas logo este sorriso foi direcionado ao homem ao lado “Os dragões permanecem incompreendidos e correndo risco de extinção. Sabemos um dos motivos, não é?” perguntou à Andrei, voltando a envolvê-lo no assunto. Charlie sabia que deveria palestrar sozinho, mas dialogar com Dragomirov parecia muito mais interessante. Ele queria saber o que o outro pensava, queria conhece-lo. Apenas não sabia o porque daquele impeto.  “O mercado clandestino! Pode parecer lucrativo luvas de quadribol de couro de dragão agora, mas o preço que pagamos com o sangue derramado? Não teremos mais raças deles em dez anos.” 

[tosimornottosim]

[pixiehobbit]

One of my oldest ocs, reimagined as a dnd character! His name is Viktor Dragomirov and he’s my son.

[figuresinthevoid]

The Wanderer

Ilya Yefimovich Repin (Илья́ Ефи́мович Ре́пин, 1844-1930), Russian painter.

Affiliated to Realism, part of the Wanderers art group, this artist will appropriate many styles, focusing on portraits, historical paintings and genre scenes. He will also, many times, pay tribute to the great figures of his country.

(Details. The pictures show, in order: Portrait of Sophia Mikhailovna Dragomirova, general Mikhail Ivanovich Dragomirov's daughter, 1889 ; Sadko, 1876 ; The Zaporozhye Cossacks Replying to the Sultan, between 1878 and 1891 ; Raising of Jairus' Daughter, 1871 ; Grand Duchess Sofia at the Novodevichy Convent, 1879 ; Portrait of Elizabeta Zvantseva, 1889 ; Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on November 16th, 1581, 1885 ; Arrival of the tsars Peter I and Ivan V, 1900 ; Taking a rest, 1882; and, finally, Portrait of Yury Repin, 1882)