#russia travel tips

[travelew]

[mockerycrow]

Frozen Fingertips [1/2] (Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist - crow’s mega masterlist - part two

Summary: You and Simon are in an extremely cold and snow covered area of Russia and manage to get separated from everyone else when a blizzard comes out of nowhere. Ghost helps keep you alive.

[WARNINGS: Light descriptions of developing hypothermia and frostbite, angst, hurt/comfort, ghost is actually worried.]

THE EXTREMELY COLD air bit at the little skin that’s exposed on your face and invades your lungs, nearly feeling like it’s sending frost to bite at the most inner corners of your esophagus. Dressed in snow boots, a snow suit as well as a snow jacket with a bullet proof vest, a thick scarf, two layers of gloves—a pair of thin gloves and then your snow gloves—as well as a beanie with your hood up. You tried to tie your scarf in such a way where it covers the lower portion of your face, but movement has made the fabric crumble down. The conditions of the snowy forest you’re trudging through are harsh; the snow is several feet deep, nearly up to your mid-thigh, causing you to have to quite literally pull your leg through dense snow, and of course you forgot your sunglasses for this trip. The bright sun is shining onto the snow surrounding you, successfully blinding you, causing you to squint until you give yourself a headache.

You have no idea what temperature it is, but all you know is that the fact that you’re moving through the snow is the only thing getting you through this. Your nose burns from the cold and so do your cheekbones, and any other skin that is exposed. You hold your rifle tighter to your chest in an attempt to maintain warmth, and despite all of your protective clothing, you don’t feel warm at all. You’re traveling with Ghost, while Soap, Price, and Gaz are infiltrating a nearby safehouse, owned by Makarov. You and Ghost are making your way to the exfil point after providing overwatch—the weather was beginning to pick up, blocking your line of sight. You shudder as some snow lands on the tip of your nose and melt, but nearly immediately freeze due to the temperature.

You keep dragging your feet through the snow, one foot after the other, trying to think warm thoughts to keep you going. Your radio crackles to life and Ghost’s muffled voice comes through; he’s only in front of you, but the snow can act as a sound muffler. “Doin’ alright?” His voice is like a wave of warmth washing over you, and you close your eyes for a moment as you walk. You open them and mumble, “Freezing my ass off, sir.” Ghost lets out a huff that almost sounds like a chuckle. “Keep moving, sergeant. You’ll keep your strength and warmth up.” You don’t bother to respond as you continue to trudge on. The wind begins to pick up as well as the falling snow slowly turns into a mini blizzard. “This is Price to Ghost and [Name], how copy?”

You don’t bother to respond as you’re focused on keeping yourself upright—when did you begin to feel so tired? “Loud and clear, Price. The weather’s pickin’ up.”

When did you begin to feel so.. warm? ..What?

You blink and suddenly you find yourself collapsed into the snow. You don’t question it, because you’re quite comfortable. The coldness of the snow feels good against your suddenly warm skin. You’re violently shivering, but you don’t mind. You’re warm. A pair of hands grab your coat, flipping you over so you’re no longer face down into the snow. You whine and weakly try to push whoever is touching you because their gloved hands are on your face, brushing snow off of your skin. “Stop,” You slur, your voice wobbling. Your hearing tappers out for a moment, and apparently so does your vision because the next thing you know—you find yourself in a cabin.

The first thing you feel is warmth—and then extreme coldness, and then numbness, and it’s a repeating cycle, causing you constantly shiver where you’re laying. Your limbs feel so heavy and you just want to stay laying down, but you’re hit with the thought of Ghost. Did he bring you here? Or did something happen, causing someone to take you? Your thoughts are in disarray, that much is clear. You can’t even form a coherent thought. You blink slowly as to focus your gaze, and you see a tall and bulky figure bent down by a fireplace, which you’re laying near. Huh. You’re somehow stuffed inside your sleeping bag. The figure’s back is turned to you, so whatever they’re doing, you’re unable to see. “C’mon,” The rough voice hisses. Oh, it’s Ghost.. Duh. You let out a choked noise as a weird pain of blistering pain radiates through your skull, and you’re vaguely aware of the feeling of your blood quickly rushing back into your fingertips, the humming sensation in your fingers nearing painful. They were lightly tingling before.

You blink again; time has passed. There’s a fire going now, a steady one, but it’s clearly not enough. Not with the way Ghost’s intense eyes are staring into yours, him saying something about you staying awake, something about how he knows you want to sleep—which he’s right about—but you can’t, and that you shouldn’t. You nearly wanna reach over and smack him about that, and you would have if you could move without the sluggish and heavy weighted feelings in your limbs. Who is he, to tell you, what you can and cannot do?? “I’m tired, Ghost.. Lemme sleep.” You croak out—your voice is trembling and you don’t understand why, but your body doesn’t give you enough energy to properly question it and you lay your head back down, trying to turn it away.

“Need you to keep those eyes open, [Name],” Ghost’s voice is suddenly.. very, very, very close to your ears. Your eyes flutter back open—you don’t even remember closing them—and you’re face to face to his mask. His brown eyes burrow into yours, nearing unreadable, but one thought pops up when your head allows it; he’s worried. Ghost is worried. “M’here,” You mutter, feeling yourself shake in your sleeping bag. “I’m here.” You watch as Ghost gets up from his position, which was looming over you, to add more fuel to the fireplace. The fire cracks and sparks alive once again, and you never noticed it died down. Must’ve been a while, of you being in and out. Your head is finally allowing you think more clearly. “How..” You lick your dry and cold lips before continuing. “How long has it been?”

Ghost looks over at you, pausing for a moment before poking at the burning wood with a fireplace poker. “You don’t know?” He questions, his voice tense. Bad sign. You not remembering how much time has passed is a very bad sign. You shake your head, tugging your sleeping bag closer to your body in a sluggish manner. Ghost’s quiet as he moves back over to you, grabbing his own sleeping bag which is tightly rolled up and attached to his backpack. Ghost begins to unravel the fabric and unzip it, in an attempt to make a blanket. “Well, a big blizzard started up as we were headin’ to the RV. Found you face down in the snow a bit behind me, and knew you..” He trails off as pulls the zippers down, hesitating in his movements. “..knew you needed to rest, needed help.”

You press your lips together because it’s so clear Ghost is avoiding what he wanted to say; what you both know what he meant. A harsh shiver rolls out through your body, harsh enough to make your vision spin, causing Ghost to huff. He drapes his unzipped sleeping bag over your body, tucking the extra fabric under your body. You groan quietly and you shut your eyes for a moment. Ghost is shifting stuff around and you his gloves fingers push your hat up ever so slightly and then you feel.. skin pressing against your forehead?? Your eyes open sleepily to the sight of Ghost’s mask pushed to above his nose, exposing his scarred lips and cheeks. You open your mouth to say something but a quiet whimper leaves you as your vision swims again—not giving you a moment to think about his kiss against your forehead. “Cold.” He mutters as he grabs the edge of his mask and pulls it back over the rest of his face, down to his neck. You watch as Ghost takes off his scarf and wraps it around your neck instead, and then he lays down next to you and wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. You try to question why he’s doing this, but Ghost is already three steps ahead of you. “You’re not of any help if you’re dead, love.” His voice is steady, but it’s on edge—like he’s scared.

You shut your eyes and you lean into his everlasting warmth, and you decide to not point out how his gloved fingers are stroking the exposed skin of your face in a soothing manner.

[lialacleaf]

Simon Riley X Reader: Domestic Head Cannons

Warnings: Fluffy, Simon likes you and it's obvious

Simon likes to bring you back little souvenirs from his missions. You talk about wanting to travel all the time but there's too much work to be done on base to ensure his job goes smoothly overseas.

He calls them little work trophies to make you feel more like you're part of the team. You'll never actually get a medal since you're not a soldier but as far as he's concerned your work is just as necessary to the team as his, whether it's the diplomatic emails you draft up to get the 141 into other countries with as little resistance as possible, or the intel you organize into files for their missions.

Once he's back on base and had a chance to shower, he's making a beeline to drop off his mission report to you along with your newest little trophy from Russia.

Your expression of boredom turns to a soft little smile when you see him enter your closet of an office. You at least have a little window that you've lined with tea lights and set a candle on the windowsill.

You always like to keep your spaces cozy, and he finds himself wondering how charming your quarters are.

"Done with your paperwork?" you ask, gesturing to the folder. He's always finished earlier than everyone else.

He nods and holds out a brown paper bag. "Brought you somethin' you might like."

You grin like a little kid as you pull out the gift. Sometimes it's cool rocks, an old book, or on occasion small art prints from local artists. You aren't sure where he finds these things, or even the time to go out and look for them.

This time it's a little puzzle box, about the size of your hand with intricate carvings on the side. It had a little weight to it, and you could tell there was something inside.

"Gonna make me work for it, huh?" you ask with a grin.

"A distraction to get your head out of all that paperwork," he says, his eyes crinkling softly at you, and you just know there's a smile under that mask. "Go on, give it a try," he urges.

"You're going to watch me struggle with this thing?" you ask with a laugh that sounds like music to his ears.

"It'll be some amusement for the both of us," he teases, earning a swat on the arm as you bring the box closer to your face.

"Alright, challenge accepted." You fiddle with it for about ten minutes, with Simon occasionally raising a brow at your attempts to open it until you hear a little click and pull the lid open.

You've got a triumphant smile on your face when you glance up at him, before inspecting the powdery substance inside. "Is this sugar?"

"To go with the tea from Vietnam," he explains.

"Thanks, I love it," you say, standing on your tip-toes to place a kiss on his masked cheek.

Simon is grateful for the mask hiding the red in his cheeks.

[ohworm-writes]

「✰」 ━━ NIKOLAI HEADCANONS

RATING R - Restricted [ Content Warnings : 18+ mdni, gn!m!f!reader, strong language, alcohol mention and consumption, fluff, possible mistranslation, spider mention, smut, dom!Nikolai, sub!reader, exhibitionism, cunnilingus, praise, degradation, masturbation, riding, hair pulling ]

SYNOPSIS Both general and romantic, safe for work and not safe for work, headcanons for, arguably, one of the most underrated Call of Duty: Modern Warfare characters to date - Nikolai. (This is my first time writing smut so any tips and feedback is greatly appreciated!)

WORD COUNT 1.2k

SAFE FOR WORK

His hands, and just his body overall, run naturally warm. Not to the point where he can be considered a "walking heater" or burning to the touch, but just exudes a constant warmness overall.

Dad-bod, no questions asked. He's not completely cut, not all hard surfaces and muscles - he's got a plush softness to him body that's equally as firm. He works out and keeps himself in shape, of course, because, granted, it's a given that comes with his profession, but he indulges himself equally as much.

He doesn't drink heavily, per se, setting a hard cut-off point for himself that he abides by like it's law, but he won't deny a drink if he's offered it. After all, drinking culture is big in Russia - he can hold his own just fine. That being said, vodka isn't his favorite, but he doesn't hate it by any means, either.

Acts of service and quality time are his love languages. He loves spending time with you whenever he can, especially considering how his profession can take him away for months and more at a time. If it's possible, you're always by his side or he's by yours. Will do anything you ask of him, too - be it chores, tasks, or anything else.

That being said, it can also be argued that giving gifts is one of his primary love languages, too. Any time he's out on a mission, he always tries to get you something from wherever he's been to - there are many perks to being a pilot, now aren't there?

He snores when he sleeps, and he sleeps heavy. Not to the point where you'd have to dump a bucket of ice water over him to wake him up, but to the point where you have to shake him vigorously to get him to slowly rouse. Sounds like a lawnmower when he snores.

His kisses are soft and slow, one hand on your waist or back, pulling you in, while the other holds your chin with such tenderness, guiding your lips to meet his, breathing out a heavy sigh as he relaxes into you.

Opts for Russian terms of endearment over English ones. It feels more personal to him, calling you something in his native tongue rather than something he hears everyone around him call their partners - it's more special to him.

Лапушка/Лапочка - Lapochka/Lapushka (sweetheart)

Любимая/Любимый - Lyubimaya/Lyubimyy (darling)

Surprisingly or not, he's actually a really good cook! He's traveled to so many places and tried so many different kinds of food so, naturally, he's learned to make them for himself. He downplays his abilities, but he looks like an absolute professional when he's in the kitchen.

When he's not away for work, he's actually quite domestic. He has a house of his own far away from everyone else in a remote little town, at least an hour or two outside of any major city. A cabin of sorts, with a place for his own little garden that he tends to (or, more accurately, which you tend to).

He even has his own little stall at the town's farmers market where he sells what he grows whenever it's ready. Everyone has so many theories about him because, honestly - why wouldn't they? A Russian man who lives at the edge of town in a big ol' house, disappearing for weeks or months at a time. It's a cause for concern.

He's so polite and he has the best manners, no question about it.

Though, to combat it, he can be quite a loose-canon. He's reckless and unethical in his methods, especially with work, but some aspects carry over to his personal and domestic life. (If there's a spider, he's pulling out his pistol first, not grabbing a book or a shoe).

He has this sarcastic, almost morbid sense of humor, smug as all hell (worse than Graves, more often than not) but he's genuinely just playful. He's a friend to everyone he meets and can easily match vibes with anyone.

NOT SAFE FOR WORK

Dominant in every sense of the word. He might let you act like you're in control from time to time, but he's quick to show you your place and has no shame in doing it.

His hands are always on you, no matter the occasion. He has to have some sort of physical contact when it comes to you. Be it a hand on the small of your back to guide you, on your shoulder to assure his presence, his leg touching yours when you sit down, a palm on your thigh as he drives.

One-hundred percent an ass man. Squeezing, slapping, spanking, groping - doesn't matter. If he can, his hand is there, no discussion.

He's an exhibitionist, easily. The risk of getting caught, whether if he's by himself or if he's with you, turns him on beyond belief - it gets his head spinning.

Helicopter sex! He's absolutely obsessed with getting you to ride him while he sits in the cockpit, holding onto your hips, fingers bruising into the skin, his legs spread wide with his jumper zipped down as far as it can go, fucking up into you as you bounce on his cock.

Jerks himself off in his helicopter too, biting down onto his fist as he fucks into his hand with purpose.

He's noisy! All grunts and growls, whispering to you how good you feel, practically narrating what he's doing sometimes.

It's a balance of praise and degradation that he gives. Sometimes it fifty-fifty, saying how you're taking him so well, like a good whore should. Sometimes it switches from one to the other (be it extremes or not) - it just depends.

Gives oral like it’s his job. Steady grip on your thighs, pushing them back and wide and buries himself between them for as long as you'll allow him to. He's so sloppy with it too, drooling and spitting all over you as he sucks you off/eats you out. (If you look close enough, you can tell it's started to bleach his beard, too).

Takes his time fucking you. He doesn't like quickies at all - if he isn't able to fuck you at the pace he wants, he isn't doing it. Now, this doesn't necessarily mean that he isn't up for hard and fast sex, but it's more so that he doesn't like time constraints.

More often than not, though, he goes slow (at least, at first), teasing you until you're begging before slowly pushing into you, dragging his cock in and out of you at an excruciating pace.

Speaking of, too, he's such a tease and he knows it.

Loves loves loves pulling and grabbing your hair, forcing you to arch your back as he pounds into you from behind relentlessly, watching the way your ass ripples with every snap of his hips.

Dumbification, too. Loves getting you all cock-drunk and fucked out to the point where you can't think for yourself, teasing you and borderline-mocking you as he slides a hand down your stomach, bringing his thumb down to your clit and making slow circles around it/grabbing the base of your cock and slowly stroking up and down it as he coos at you.

This goes hand in hand with overstimulation - loves making you cum over and over and over again until you can't think and it's too much, only to coax another orgasm out of you.

[rippersz]

𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐬

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Zombie Apocalypse AU w/ Gwendoline Christie characters; (~9.2K words)

(Featuring: Larissa Weems, Brienne of Tarth, Jane Murdstone, Anna from WTM, Lucifer Morningstar, Miranda Hilmarson, Captain Phasma, and Jan Stevens) x Reader

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

It started about two months ago. Russia went down first, then Mongolia. China. India. And in the midst, Finland, Sweden, Norway, the United Kingdom, down to the very southern tip of Africa. The Ocean is no killer of disease, frozen or not, and encouraged it to ravage South and North America, then Canada and Greenland. Until every place was overrun by dead freaks. Stinking corpses and moving gore. 

They traveled in herds, packs, whatever it was that people wanted to call them—murders, perhaps—and shuffled aimlessly across any land they could find. Eager for food, for sustenance, to fill the empty bellies that would never be full. Gorging themselves on creatures like you. 

Officially ‘the other’. Officially ‘the enemy’. The sole survivor of a good group that was attacked some days ago because an idiot forgot to shoot one of the creatures in the head. And by sunrise, it was over. Screams echoed into the silence and you soon found yourself alone… running for your life with a duffle bag over your shoulder (slowing you down) and a gun in your hand (low on ammo). Trekking through thick woods in a heavily-infested Vermont town was not a good idea, but you had no choice. The house you were camping in was left behind, ravaged by bullets that you put into your friend’s heads, and every other spot nearby had been looted. You couldn’t move all of those bodies yourself. You couldn’t do much yourself. There was no army background attached to your name, no conspiracy theorist survival-obsessed gene in your body, and not much training in fighting either. All you could do was run. Run and run and run until you were miles away and your lungs started to burn. Not the most useful skill considering most people could run, but if you were quick enough to speed past the shuffling bastards, you were quick enough to make it to safety. 

—

Safety…what a joke. A shit joke. A joke that was, quite honestly, the worst joke to ever exist. There was no safety. No place, nowhere. You’d been walking for a few hours, hearing nothing but the forest’s silence, and stumbling over leaves and branches. They ravaged the animals, took them into their mouths like they were people, and ate until there was nothing left. Not even a squirrel, or a fox, and the birds had grown weary of the vast number of hunters (both dead and undead) that found themselves in the woods looking for food. So no birds either. And no houses. And you were pretty sure, as you paused to catch your breath, that you were doomed. 

Only a few bullets left and your aim was never perfect. One knife tucked into your waistband but it was getting uncomfortable, digging into your skin, and caked in blood. Creature blood. Everything smelled horrible. Like burning flesh or dirty meat, raw and soiled. You probably didn’t smell too good either. It wasn’t like the world still worked without the people; only a few places had running water and you couldn’t trust the creeks and rivers. The undead enjoyed walking through shallow water, knowing somehow that there’d probably be prey nearby. 

But you hadn’t seen anything in a while. A long while. A suspiciously long while... 

Everything was green and brown around you, whisked by wind and soil, and you stood out like blood against snow. The last thing you saw was yesterday. Ever since? Not a single flash of undead flesh. 

You swallowed, throat embarrassingly dry, and tapped your fingers against your thigh. 

It wasn’t good when everything was still. You were vulnerable, out in the open, and without a good few rounds of bullets to spare. Every muscle and organ in your body screamed for mercy, crying with the effort it took to keep surviving even when you didn’t want to. 

You thought about it a few times; gave the gun in your hand a long look on several occasions, but ultimately decided that ‘opting out’ was only a last resort. Somehow, even amidst the chaos and hatred and swill of humanity’s nature, you managed to hold hope. And often wondered where it would get you. How it would get you. While you were sleeping? While you were already wounded? Fighting off the hands of a loved one? The twist of hope’s rope… would you feel it closing in around your neck? A literal metaphor for the eventual death you’d experience? 

Thinking about it gave you a headache. 

For where was the point in wondering? 

You had no one else. Whatever form of death awaited, it would end up being your fault. Probably because you couldn’t run fast enough. Probably because- 

Because-

Wait. 

Somewhere behind you, on the right, was a low sound. A hum. The smooth whoosh of something quick. The parting of wind… the low growl of… 

“Fuck.” 

You shot off in that direction, bag smacking against your shoulder blades, and instantly felt the exhaustion pull at your body again. It lingered like a plague, like the undead disease, and you yearned to fall to your knees - to give in - but it wasn’t the time for that. You had to at least try. You had to at least make it over the hill. Right over the hill. So close but so far. You leaned forward, threw yourself at the ground, and grasped onto gnarled tree roots. The Earth smelled wet with decay, sweet with promise - you huffed against dry leaves. They crunched and scratched at your fingers, eventually crinkling into nothing when your arms worked to drag you up. You probably looked a little mad, scrambling up a steep hill to reach something that probably won’t save you, but there was no other option. The hum grew louder, the quiet was broken, and you only had a few moments to get this right. 

“Help!” Your lungs caved around your scream, but the forest swallowed it instantly. Greedy trees with their greedy barks, wanting to keep you hidden from salvation. The hum grew louder. Your fingers grew clammy, sweating and slipping against rough wood. 

You’d be bruised to high heaven later, and probably exhausted, but the hum and the growl of an engine meant a road and a road meant civilization and goddammit you just needed to get over the stupid fucking hill. 

There was a loud ringing in your ears, nearly deafening, and making your voice sound fuzzy. 

“Help! Help!”

Was that you? Were you the one screaming like that? Why couldn’t you be quiet? Those things could have been lurking… wandering nearby… coming up behind you, eager to grasp at your ankles and drag you back down to Hell. 

A glance back over your shoulder, aching from the duffle bag, found nothing but blurred terrain and darkened leaves–a symptom of the setting sun. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If the light went out, you’d be screwed. You couldn’t use the last of your matches and the world went black when evening struck. So there really was no choice. As the growl turned into a roar… there was no choice. Just a little higher- a little more. Your arms pushed, biceps straining against the cotton of your shirt, and your pants threatened to get caught on wayward sticks and tear into rags. The boots on your feet pressed hard against loose rocks, kicking them out of place, and gained just enough ground to push you up - over the ridge. The final stretch. Your chest pushed to the hard dirt and forced a grunt of effort from your tired body; the sound echoed through the woods, through the ground, and through the air that sat above the concrete road in front of you. Hard and vast, grey and long… you looked at it as though it were the holiest of grails, lying just beside it with your arms outstretched, your fingers still pulling at dirtied grass. Soil covered your skin, masked your features, caked beneath your fingernails, and when the roar of the speeding vehicle grew so close you had to close your eyes and wince, you knew raising a hand for help would not be enough. In the shade of the forest’s edge, half draped over the peak of the hill, you were inhuman to other survivors. Your dry mouth opened, your throat croaked, and your legs moved to push you up–closer–just short of the wind that caressed your hair when the car, the truck, ran past you with no second glance. You looked after it, watched it pass, and felt the burn in your heart grow into its own inferno. It licked at your insides, at your desperation, and had you hauling the duffle bag off of your shoulder and out onto the road. It rolled, a shuffling sound, and you followed after it with deep growls of effort and dwindling strength. 

“Please,” you wheezed, panting for breath as soon as you staggered up to your feet. 

In the distance, the car turned into a disappearing black spec. It drove and drove, out of sight, and you stood there, putting your arms in the air to wave it down and bring it back. To beckon it back. To beg and plead.

“Please please no-,” your voice was soft, weakened by days of rugged survival, “no…” rough and lost to the wind, it dissipated into nothing and you were forced to swallow again.  

The thick smell of car exhaust settled against the steaming road. You watched the horizon, tracking the space in the atmosphere where the gold traced into a deep blue, and felt your bones quake beneath your skin. Their final cry. The last hurrah as you watched your future, the tatters of it, drive away from you. 

Too late. 

You were too late. 

And you’d die there, on that road, and they may never come back and find you again in the morning. And your corpse would be chewed upon by undead bastards who would never give you a proper burial. And you’d be just another stupid human that found themselves trampled beneath the stinking feet of the walking dead. 

Tears teased your eyes, burning the dry lands of your irises, and you felt the heart in your chest lurch against its cage. 

 Too late. 

You were too late. 

You had a duffle bag, a handgun somewhere off to the side, and the clothing on your back. One lasting water bottle, the knife you felt poking your side, and small bags of food that wouldn’t last you long at all. The tent, too, was destroyed by animals the night before. The most you could go was perhaps one more day, but your feet were aching so terribly that each step was a journey within itself. And you couldn’t push yourself to go further. There was no further. There was nothing in the woods and there was nothing beyond the road and you were running on fumes that no longer existed. 

But you couldn’t just lie there and take it. You were about to reach over, bending at the waist, to grab your bag. To pull it up over your shoulder and trek on, even though it was pointless. But something stopped you. 

Something–a sound–made you freeze. 

It was faint. It didn’t sound like the undead, with their discordant groans and disgusting squelches, no… it was far. Getting closer. Closer. The hum and the growl. The purr of a motor. The hiss of pavement. 

Your head snapped up, eyes bulging wide as you looked over the horizon to see…. Yes. Yes! Yes, it’s them! The car! A grin pulled at your lips. Halle-fucking-lujah! You felt the anxiety ebb, slowly falling away from your body, as they got closer. The black spec turned into a black blob, then a figure that took shape, and finally you could make out a Vermont license plate and the dirt that stuck to big wheels. Up close, it was a sleek thing, tall and well-built. Midnight black and aside from the splatter on the rubbered wheels, it was polished and clean. The dark paint reflected the bright world around you, turning it into weird warped versions of a faux-paradise. You swallowed at the feel of warmth against your legs, the exhaust from the truck flooding over the smallest sliver of skin around your ankles. Suddenly fearing a changed mind and bad intentions, you stumbled back until your heels pushed against your bag. 

Tinted windows stared down at you, menacing and opaque. Not a thing to see behind them, even if you squinted. Nothing moved, nothing jumped, and you watched with bated breath for a window to roll down - until finally, it did. 

The driver’s side. It went whirr-ing down, sliding for the shortest period of time in the world until only a shadow met you - and then a flicker of movement. And then- 

“Oh my god! Jesus! Okay okay!” You flinched, not even hesitating to raise your hands above your head. You spread your fingers out, desperate to prove your innocence to the stranger in the car. And the gun they were holding, pointing at you, through the gap. 

“Were you bit?” A rough voice, muted and deep, broke the atmosphere. 

You shook your head.

“Words. Use them.” 

“No,” you licked your lips, instantly deciding to turn around in a slow circle. “Not bitten. Not scratched.” You tried to ignore the way your hands shook, even as you shifted all the way back to face the gun’s muzzle. 

“Ask where…” a voice, soft and feminine, came from somewhere beyond the driver’s seat. It was saying something, telling something, but faded into a whisper so quiet you couldn’t hear a thing. Your eyes shifted to the dark backseat windows, trying to see something- anything- and found no surprise in the lack of life. 

“Any weapons?” The driver seemed to ignore the other person, and instead held the gun steady. You watched it with weary eyes.

“Yes.” And before they could ask, you tugged the knife out of your belt and the gun out of your pants pocket. They were held up in the air, another white flag, and you twitched the hand that held the firearm. “At least three bullets left, but that’s it.” 

“And the others?” 

You blinked. “Others? What oth-”

“Where is the rest of your ammunition? In the skull of a human or scum?” The stranger spat, and you detected the hints of an accent. 

Scum… you’d never heard them referred to as that before. Your last group called them walkers, and some others claimed flesh-eaters. You were tempted to use ‘zombies’, but it felt rather silly. The world took that term too lightly, and the undead were nothing if not a very serious problem. But scum? Like they were beneath humanity and not its current destroyer? You’d ask about it later, you decided, if they deemed you well enough to take in. 

“Both,” you breathed honestly, dropping your weapons to your sides with a heavy sigh. “They um- weren’t quite there yet. Got ambushed overnight.” 

The gun still didn’t move. 

“They don’t ambush. What really happened?” 

Hm. They weren’t wrong. Animated corpses didn’t ‘ambush’, but when a herd of them went lurking about, it certainly felt that way. You didn’t think logistics were entirely necessary, but you understood the need for specifics. Trust among men was eviscerated in the face of danger, especially against those once living. You’d seen paranoia before, in others. Humans simply didn’t take each other in anymore… not without some level of severe mistrust. The second thought after seeing the truck drive off was that you probably wouldn’t be accepted anyway - you’d killed without technical reason. Could have just left. Run away. 

But you didn’t. 

You didn’t want to see them turn into those… creatures. 

So what else was there to say? You stared at the gun, willing a click and the shot of a bullet, as you opened your mouth. 

“A herd. A lot of them. Just… descended upon the place. Someone might’ve been walking around in the woods or something, and there was just not enough protection,” you paused, licking your lips, “...I was the last one alive. Had to shoot them and go.” 

“How long since?” 

“Few days, give or take,” you shrugged. The exhaustion only built as you stood there, trying not to sway and collapse in your spot. The truck was still running, hissing hot exhaust; it was the first genuinely warm thing you’d felt in so many days that you wanted to crawl underneath and take a nap. The world, turning to autumn, was growing chilly. There was no chance you could survive winter on your own. 

“...Give or take,” you heard the driver scoff and laugh, bitter and mean. You frowned. 

Then the window started going up, and you couldn’t help yourself. With a hard thunk, you pushed your shoulder hard against the car, and knocked on the thick glass with the butt of the knife. A look of utter desperation crossed your features, heavy and thick. Urgency, anxiety, fear forced any sense from your mind. There was no chance. There was no survival at all.

“No please- please I can’t be out here alone please- I’m smart and- and I can run fast and be an asset. Please,” you shook your head, searching with worried eyes, “please, please you can’t do this to me-” 

Something dark spliced through the corner of your vision, dragging a shadow with it, and you just barely dodged the sudden swing of the truck’s backseat door. It bounced with force and you glanced back at the driver’s window once before stepping back and hastily swinging your bag over your shoulder. The knife and gun were slipped back into your clothing, concealed, and you held yourself strong as the black leathered interior bore itself to the world. 

“-we can’t just leave them-” 

“-on’t be stupid. They could be a liability-”

“-not stupid. We need more people-” 

Voices, at least two, were rushed and tangled in an argument. You didn’t pay much attention to what you could hear, though the growing irritation was hard to ignore. It would be a hassle to be accepted, you knew, but you’d deal. There was no choice. The backseat door was open and there was a figure hustled back against the other window. 

“The offer won’t last,” the stranger murmured, somehow louder than the two people in the front seats, and you decided not to take any chances in the world alone. 

With a grunt, a push, and a final slam of the door, you found yourself in the truck. Your bag was pushed down by your feet, you tugged your knife out to rest it on your thigh, and you turned to say thank you- but was cut off by a cold blade at your throat. It grazed the soft dirty skin, less than a centimeter away from pushing, and you felt saliva pool in the back of your throat. Swallowing would have pressed you closer, so you fought the urge and only stared.

“Woah-” 

“Try anything and you die. I don’t want a peep, not a shuffle. Do I make myself clear?” 

The driver’s voice, clearer in such close quarters, was deep and mean. Accent, as you had clocked, from somewhere in the United Kingdom. It held a natural growl, a gruffness from years of smoking, perhaps, and you couldn’t help but sense the intimidation. It wasn’t fake confidence, you noticed, as you looked up and met the cool sharp grey gaze of a woman. Her hair, a deep blonde, was slicked back and short, ruffled slightly by the nape of her neck. A long neck… that led to strong looking shoulders. They were half covered by a jacket, but you could see the strength in the chords of her muscle. A force to be reckoned with. A leader, perhaps. She was pale, with a defined nose and lips twisted into a permanent sneer, and you probably would have thought she had some potential for post-apocalyptic modeling, if it weren’t for the scar that covered one half of her face. Slashed across the left eye, the wound was jagged and rough - it dragged from a point close to the exact middle of her forehead, right to the corner of her jaw. Thicker at parts and thinner at others, it split through a pale eyebrow and seemed to have permanently rendered her blind. The lid didn’t even move when one stormy eye shifted, and you suddenly felt extremely creeped out. Something about her was undeniably cold. Almost reckless, but her hand was so steady with control you knew not to make a move. She’d probably kill without hesitation, dump you back into the road, and drive off with the duffel. There was no choice but to answer, answer quickly, and do as told. 

“Yes, clear.” Your head shifted half an inch up and half an inch down, still cautious of the blade. 

But she didn’t move. 

It was a battle of wills for just a moment, with your hands in your lap, empty and docile. You weren’t looking for a fight, or a staring contest, but the stranger didn’t let up until the figure to your right decided to sit up and speak. 

“Ah they do not seem so bad. Look at them. Tired and scared, like sad city mouse,” another woman, one with a Russian accent and a voice a hint too loud, cooed. 

Silence followed, persisted, for only a minute- and then the blade was tugged back so quickly you swear it nearly cut the air in two. The driver tsked as she twisted herself around, murmuring as she went. 

“More like a rat.” 

And then you were thrown to the side with a heavy wheeze as the truck lurched and began moving, working into a turn so you could go back the way they’d come.

You glared at the back of the headrest, not feeling above a little bit of irritation for some poor handling, but eventually grew bored. With some apprehension, your eyes flicked over to the person in the passenger seat. Their profile was strong, feminine, and you noted the unbelievably well-kept head of snowy hair. She looked clean, just like the driver, and a spark of hope welled up in your tired heart. Running water and food existed where they came from, wherever they were camped out, and if you played your cards right, you could finally indulge in some good hygiene. Unless the woman in the passenger seat was stingy with her water… god her skin was so clear, and she seemed to be wearing makeup. No one wore makeup anymore. Not the people in your old group and not the few stragglers you’d stumbled across. It simply wasn’t a necessary luxury anymore, but the woman sitting across from you, back straight and hands in her lap, seemed to think it was of the utmost importance. You wanted to speak, wanted to ask her name, but found yourself turning to your right - and catching the gaze of the person that opened the door for you. 

“Anna,” your savior spoke, tilting her head to the left and regarding you with curious eyes. A pale hand, big and long-fingered, shot out and hovered above your lap. You glanced down at it, at the clean skin and the perfect fingernails, and knew that you hit the survivalist jackpot. 

With a nod and a quick clasp of her hand, you whispered your name in reply. She nodded before leaning back against the door and crossing her arms; she seemed quite comfortable there, with a rather large gun resting across her lap. Her hair, blonde as well, fell in gentle waves to her shoulders. She saw with deep blue eyes - a contrast to the cold steel of the driver - and didn’t hesitate to flick them over your body in some sort of analytical search. Weapons, you figured, is what she was looking for. And the knife in your lap, which she eyed with some interest. 

You wanted to say something, wanted to thank them, but it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough those days. Asking something of someone was a risk every single time. And you’d asked—begged—them to take you in. You needed to pull your weight, no questions asked. 

“Um- thank you for-”

“Shoot them.” 

“What?!” You straightened up, eyes going wide as, in your peripherals, you saw Anna’s hand inch toward her gun. Through the rear-view mirror, you caught the way the driver’s brow twitched. 

“You heard me. Shoot them.” 

“Pha-”

“I said no talking,” the stranger growled, not even bothering to address the woman in the passenger seat. The white-haired woman looked frustrated, her red lips tugging into a frown, as she watched the driver double down on her focus. “Didn’t I say that?” 

“But I-,” you wanted to plead your case, wanted to defend yourself, but were cut off. 

“I am not going to shoot,” Anna said before you could speak. “Why do you expect her to be quiet hah, Phasma? We just saved her жопa. No need for fighting.”

You glanced at her, picking up on the Native tongue. Fresh off the boat, or perhaps visiting, with the way she said it so easily. Zhopa? Given the context, it wasn’t hard to tell what she meant. Yes, they had just saved your ass. And yes, you wanted to say thank you. Even if that Phasma person wasn’t too keen on a bit of gratitude. 

“I hardly think thanking us for a kind deed is worthy of execution, no matter how much silence you require,” the fair-haired woman across from you said smoothly, throwing a slight glare to the woman on her right. And finally, she took that moment to turn around in the seat and make eye contact. 

Something that proved to be far more difficult than you thought it would. Good lord, she was gorgeous. Pale skin, deep admiral blue eyes, and lips redder than blood. Not even a scratch on her face, not even a single spec of dirt - as if the apocalypse never happened and there weren’t dead people roaming every street in the world. In fact, she didn’t seem incredibly worried about the predicament the human species found itself in, and was looking at you with kind eyes, a furrowed brow, and a smile that she hoped was welcoming. 

“My name is Larissa,” her hand, gloved in white fabric as soft as silk, reached out as an olive branch. You wanted to take it, wanted to feel something so lovely for the first time in a long time and create some sort of bond, but your hands were very dirty. A part of you guessed that Larissa hadn’t put them on earlier that day with the hope to return to camp holding soft fabric smudged with dirt and dried blood, so you only looked down at your palm and then back at hers. 

“Oh uh- I don’t wanna get your gloves dirty-” 

“Oh,” she glanced down, realizing that she was, in fact, wearing hand-coverings. “Later, then,” a warm smile shone back at you - and you were helpless, instantly offering her a nod in return. 

“Finished?” The driver piped up, eyes cold as she stared at you in the rear-view. 

As if on cue, Larissa turned back around in her seat, rolling her eyes as she went, and you could only fall quiet. Introductions were over, you were warming up to the easy heat in the car, and Phasma–if you dared address her by name in your head–had a good handle of the wheel. You were safe. For now. And with one last suspended look at the gun on Anna’s lap, you reached over for the seatbelt, tucked yourself in with a click, and leaned back in the seat. It was so suddenly comfortable, such a huge contrast to the shit you’d dealt with recently, that you couldn’t help but close your eyes and revel. Even for a moment. Even for a second.

—

“Get up,” a mean grunt, paired with a quick rush of piercingly cold air, tugged you from the depths of sleep. 

Before you could even open your eyes properly, a shiver set itself into your bones. Eager to escape it, and the confines of the car, you jolted and scrambled for your seatbelt. Leaning against the open door, watching you grab your things, was the driver. Phasma? Weird name, but there was no time to dwell - especially not when she was looking at you like that. Eyes sharper than the knife on your lap, holding a polished chrome pistol in one hand, and waiting with some tension for you to hurry up. The duffel was pulled up onto your shoulder, the knife was tucked into your belt, and your hands scratched at the leather as you looked around wildly for your gun. 

“We took it. You’ll get it back when you prove you’re not a complete imbecile,” she spat, peering down her nose at you. Disgust danced in her expression, sparking flames of unwanted insecurity, and you felt compelled to look away. Her nostrils were flared, her pink lips curled into something disdainful and mean, and you couldn’t help but watch the way her jaw shifted as she tensed, watching you watch her. The hatred seemed a bit out of place, too strong for normal trust issues, and you briefly wondered if perhaps she’d always been that way - even before the end of civilization. She was clearly a bitch, and not interested in showing you kindness any time soon, so you decided to forgo a response, ignored her glaring, and slipped out of the car without a word. 

Before your feet were completely on the ground, and your bag was out of the way, the door slammed closed behind you, quick and sharp. The speed of it nearly clipped your shirt, and you whirled around to face the stranger’s irritation. She seemed to have lost interest in you and side-stepped your figure without another glance. One finger on the trigger, a shit-ton of audacity-filled swagger in her walk, and a back broad and strong. She looked like an outlaw, tall, mean, wearing grey with a belt around her strong hips and a leather jacket over her shoulders. You wanted to throw your gun at her and watch it hit the back of her head, but there was no way in Hell you’d be able to run away faster than she could catch you. 

“Come,” you heard Anna speak, interrupting your train of thought as she trudged up to your left. You turned, seeing the way she cocked her head. “I’ll introduce you.” The gun swayed in her grasp as she turned, making little shuffling sounds in the grass. 

The grass. 

You went to go forward, but stopped. The grass. It was… terribly neat. Very well maintained. Not like apocalypse grass, which was flat and bloodied and mudded and dusted, but like rich person grass. Striking green grass, healthy, it bounced back behind you when you stepped on it. And the air… you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. It was fresh. Pure. Free of the smell of death and free of gunpowder and spraying blood. Just where on Earth were y-

oh.

Oh. 

You looked up, finally, and found yourself in a courtyard. On all sides was a wall, sections of it made of brick, others of stone, and the rest of wrought iron fence, bolted hard into the ground; and across the way, piercing the sky, was a manor. Or what looked like a manor. No - what was definitely a manor. Dark, illuminated slightly by the deep blue of the atmosphere and the torches that littered the ground in neat paths, splitting off into cobblestone sections. You swallowed. It was gorgeous. Untouched. A world that seemed to run on and on while the rest of the globe went to shit. 

How fucking lucky were you? 

“Come! I must say twice?!” Anna called, giving you an exasperated beckon as she started disappearing behind the dark stone brick of the main entrance. 

Sparing a quick glance behind you, you found a fortified gate and short stone walls - reinforced and built upon with barbed wire, wood, and sheets of metal. It must have opened up for the truck when you were still asleep, but was very much firmly shut and impenetrable once closed. You wanted to explore it more, wanted to study the mechanism and the layout and come to understand just how they managed to get the place so protected, but you didn’t want to leave Anna waiting. And a low rumble of thunder, far but rolling quick, told you that rain was eager to make her appearance - and you did not want to get caught in that. 

After adjusting your bag and patting the knife in your belt for reassurance, you set off after the Russian stranger. 

—

“So I am Anna, this you know already,” she pointed to herself, tapped her chest twice, then rolled her hand over to gesture to the clearing ahead. 

It was beautiful, outlined against a dark wood. Rocky paths led to a big circle in the middle, and the ruins of stone benches and statues littered the camp. You could definitely see what it used to be - a beautiful place for the elite to sit, to bask, to enjoy the nice air and the wind. But the end of the world had gotten to it, not with the bearings of total destruction, but with the promise of change. A big spruce shelter had been built to the far left, reinforced with four beams and no walls - clearly just meant to keep the rain at bay while they worked outside. Beneath it, there were wooden benches and designated spots for farming equipment, guns, and even a water purifying system from the looks of it. If you assumed that sleeping quarters and showers existed in the castle, then they seemed to be in the best shape anyone could be in.

Even the people, who were busy going about their evening and tending to their duties, while you watched by Anna’s side and felt your excitement grow.

“Phasma was woman driving. Not so kind,” she tsked, giving you a knowing look, and you found yourself unable to ask about the strange name. You figured she wouldn’t have known the answer anyway. Then her hand moved, stealing your attention. “That is Jane,” she pointed to a pale woman sitting on one of the large stone benches. 

Her back was turned, but you could see the severity of her expression in the reflection of a hand mirror. She was handsome, free of makeup, with jet-black hair. The strands fell from between her fingertips, spilling like water, as she threaded them into a braid around her head. Her movements were slow, methodic, and you watched, sort of hypnotized, as the long sleeves of her hooded dress stretched across her slim back. Tight along her arms and resting over the black pants covering her thighs, leading down to knee-high leather boots. Fit for an apocalypse, but somehow still chic. You watched her hands for a moment more, and turned slightly to her right when Anna gestured to the woman beside her. 

“Miranda. Good girl, but way too skinskie,” she nodded to herself while crossing her arms. 

The stranger in question–Miranda–was holding up an antique hand mirror for Jane to look into while doing her hair. They seemed to be the same height, though Miranda’s build was lankier and toned. The sleeves of her white top had to have been torn off, leaving freckled shoulders free to the air, and around one wrist was a black watch. It nearly matched the same leather as her belt, which held an attached holster and a sleeve for a walkie-talkie. Its antenna stood out against the baby blue of her uniform pants; tight by the hips but baggier toward the ankles, tucked into dark laced boots. Her hair was styled into a fair blonde bob, probably recently cut by the sight of such clean edges. It looked unbearably soft kissing the back of her neck.

“She was policewoman. Strong.” Anna commented, gazing at her from your spot by the castle wall. 

You nodded absentmindedly, looking over the two strangers and the chess board that sat between them on the bench. Jane had black and Miranda white. The latter seemed to be focusing quite hard on the game, holding a pawn loosely in one hand, as the dark-haired beauty tsked and adjusted the hand mirror that slowly slipped to the side. You watched Miranda jump and offer what you assumed was a sheepish apology, as she tried to multitask. Her small smile was pink and soft, warm and welcoming. A friend, perhaps. 

“Very…domestic,” came your soft murmur, sparked by the surprise of such a peaceful camp. In the past group, everyone was too busy trying to sleep, find food, or talk themselves through panic attacks. Maintaining sanity with comfort was not a priority. 

“Da. Comfortable,” your companion nodded. “Jan is there, washing.” And you turned, yet again, to find a figure standing in front of a clothesline. 

The combat boots made her seem tall, though they were a bit out of place—not really matching the long white sleeved shirt and full red skirt combo. Immaculate and clean, you noticed, though that was to be expected from a woman trying her hardest to get blood out of a white blouse. Her hands were covered by blue rubber gloves, with one clutched around a sponge and the other around the neck of a bottle of white wine vinegar. On the ground by her feet was a large pale jug of hydrogen peroxide and a bucket of what you assumed was water. And the blouse in front of her, held up by wooden clothespins, rippled from the breeze. It seemed to get colder and windier the longer the night went on, probably bringing the rain with it at some point. With any luck, it would clear up the light splotches of pink that covered most of the shirt’s chest up to the collar, but ‘Jan’ didn’t seem too patient and satisfied with that. She got back to her scrubbing a moment later, the strict waves of her blonde hair bumping gently against her neck. 

“Jan is very chic. You go to her for fashion advice, no?” Anna tilted her head at you, dragging dark blue eyes over your face. The lawn lamps stabbed into the grass lit everything up with a sweet warm glow, bringing out the flames in her expression as she peered at you curiously. Very handsome, in her own sharp-featured sort of way. You couldn’t help the snort that bubbled up. 

“Respectfully, I think fashion is the least of my concerns right now, Anna.” 

“Hm. Maybe,” she hummed, shrugged, and gave you a once-over that set your heart racing before turning her attention back to the group. 

“Brienne!” You jumped, flinching away as Anna’s loud voice carried into your ear. In the distance, a hulking figure shifted and unfolded, moving to look up at the call. They were sitting on a big pile of cut logs, holding a stone cylindrical sharpener in one hand and a… sword… in the other. Anna waved, talking to you gently as you both watched the figure’s expression change into one of suspicion. She was handsome. Pale, with the lightest blonde lashes and brows, and eyes that sparkled even from that distance. They squinted, drawing frown lines across her face, as she straightened up in her spot. You tried desperately not to stare at her figure, but it was impossible. The deep blue ribbed shirt clung to her torso like a second skin, wrapping tightly around strong biceps and broad shoulders. It was tucked into muddy green cargo pants, offsetting the brightness of the steel that covered the toes of her dark boots. You tilted your head and watched as she glanced between you and Anna before she finally decided to shoot the woman a firm nod. Anna’s lips quirked up into a smile. “She was once soldier. Good woman - she will protect you if you’re in trouble. Saved me many many times.” Her blonde curls swished as she nodded to herself. 

That was good to know, you reasoned. Everyone seemed quite strong. Tall, too. And pale. The camp was gorgeous, the people seemed mundane enough, and the company was… well. Your eyes drifted over to Anna’s side profile, a silhouette of soft dips and curves, and you couldn’t hide the attraction you felt even if you tried.

“Larissa, you know too. She is leader, xорошо?” You didn’t really know what ‘harasho’ meant, but the light intonation of her voice had you saying ‘Yeah’ anyway. 

Then an arm was winding itself around yours, jostling the bag on your shoulder and the gun slung around Anna’s body. It rested against her back, hitting her thighs, and you were suddenly powerless to the way she steered you further down the gravel path. Toward the right, there was a makeshift driveway; a patch of land ripped up from the grass and replaced with gravel, soil, and rocks. The black truck made an appearance again, probably having been driven up from around the back, and you watched with curious eyes as Phasma busied herself with a few bags and boxes from the trunk. Jesus, she was fit… tall and lethal. A small grunt left her lips when she hauled two boxes up into her arms, never faltering or pausing. Damn. You found yourself getting lost in the sight of her legs in those cargo pants, filling them out, until Anna clicked her tongue. 

“Lucifer is strange, but ultimately harmless. Do not worry, they are not naked under the robe.” 

Lucifer? Naked under the what? 

You were going to take a quick glance around, to find whatever the hell Anna was talking about, but there was no need. Some feet in front of you, lounging on a red and gold velvet chase, was a lithe figure. They were almost glowing in the reflection of the walkway lamps, with the deep crimson of a flowing silk robe offsetting the smooth pale planes of soft skin. One elbow was propped up on the arm of the chair, and you traced the folds of flowing sleeves up to a slim forearm, wrist, and a delicate hand. Slender fingers were curled under the curve of a pale cheek, and you felt your heartbeat speed up at the sight of soft features and  crystal eyes. And their hair, curled so perfectly into handsome shining ringlets of spun golden-web… goodness, they were… 

“Luxurious,” you murmured, tilting your head as you watched the stranger chat with Larissa. She was standing over them, in front of the chase, and even at that height, you had a feeling that the one laying down was somehow a little bit taller. “Is Lucifer their real name?” 

“Da,” Anna nodded, “little strange, no?” 

“Yeah,” you gave her an odd look. “Strange as fuck.” 

“Don’t get comfortable,” a voice growled from behind you, making you slip away from Anna’s hold and turn around. Phasma was walking past, holding a big bag under each arm. Her muscle was impressive, but dear god she was an asshole. You had to sort out that situation as quick as possible.

“Hey what’s your problem, man?” You spread your hands out at your sides before letting them slap against your thighs. “You picked me up, and while I’m grateful for that, I am, you didn’t have to-”

“Exactly,” she bit out as she whirled around and marched right back to you. Her breath was cool, washing lightly over your face, and she stood so close that your foreheads nearly touched. From that angle, looking up, you could reach out and trace the jagged line of her scar. It was quite attractive actually, even if her eyes narrowed as she watched you look at her. They were cold. Not an ounce of care.

“Don’t. Get. Comfortable.” Her lips twitched, carrying a silent threat.

“Okay,” Larissa’s voice, sing-songy and weary, cut into the conversation. “Why don’t we all take a moment to calm down, hm?” Her smile was blinding as she turned to you. One gloved hand hovered above Phasma’s right shoulder, but was instantly shrugged off the second it made contact. Her sneer didn’t fade even when she stepped back, eyes still flaming with anger. Larissa cleared her throat. “Y/n, you’re new here. Why don’t you and I have a little chat?” 

Her expression, although kind, hid a sharpness that you didn’t think was wise to fuck around with. If Larissa was the leader, according to Anna, then it was her you had to charm. You didn’t really know why she was the top dog, especially because some of the other group members seemed more… abrasive… but clearly something about her was good enough to be the one in charge. And pissing her off, messing around with her people, was a one-way ticket to possibly turning into those fuckers lurking in the woods. So you didn’t really have a choice - and you didn’t really want one. No matter what, you’d stay. You’d be of some help. You’d stay on the soft grass, smelling the clean air. You’d become best friends with Larissa, the group would learn to like you, and you’d try not to combust when any of them looked your way.

Easier said than done though, of course. Especially when Larissa’s smile knocked down all of your reservations at once, in one big swing, and coaxed an obedient nod from your body. 

“Okay. Yes. Sure.” 

“Perfect,” Larissa’s grin, somehow, grew even wider. 

“It’s getting late,” were Phasma’s parting words before she turned away and headed off toward two big wooden double doors. 

You watched her strut without much thought, and found yourself on the other end of a staring Larissa. Her eyes were utterly striking in the evening light, and the outline of her face… a sight to be seen for a person as weary as you. 

“So… is your group considered women only?” You murmured, peering up at her through your eyelashes. 

Red lips twitched. 

“Not intentionally. Though we have had the discussion before,” she contemplated her next words carefully, looking all over your face before resuming, “and we think it’s best if it’s just women. And Lucifer.” 

“And Lucifer?” You still can’t get over that being their real name. Probably just picked out in a moment of edginess when they were a teen. Lucifer did sound cool, sort of bully-worthy. Like they were emo kid once upon a time.

“Lucifer is what many would refer to as non-binary. Not a man and not a woman. I hope that won’t be a problem?” Something flashed behind her eyes. Not a threat, but a warning. You couldn’t help but smile.

“Not at all. They and I are… one and the same,” you shrugged and adjusted the bag on your shoulder. 

“How lucky I must be…,” someone purred from over your shoulder.

You tensed up, surprised by the closeness, and felt yourself grow a little weak at the tone. Like spiced honey, their voice was intense and smooth. You wanted to lap it up. 

“Ah right on time for a proper introduction,” Larissa, ever the most efficient woman from what you could tell so far, found herself a golden opportunity. One hand shot out and gestured over to you, then to the person slinking around to your right. “Y/n this is Lucifer, one of the strongest members of our group. Lucifer and I make most of the big decisions, with the necessary input from everyone else. And Lucifer,” Larissa’s grin relaxed into a smile, “this is Y/n. Depending on our discussion of the rules, they may become a familiar face, so I suggest you play nice.” 

You found that you couldn’t look to the side without short-circuiting. There was something.. something… about their aura that had you wanting to shy away and cower. It wasn’t the explosive intensity of Phasma or the consuming strangeness of Anna, or even the gentle but strong hand of Larissa… but instead a subtle sort of consumption. Utterly intriguing and fascinating - like they were put on the Earth to confuse humans. You didn’t even look at them and you could feel that. Didn’t even know them and you could feel that. Standing so close. So much body heat. 

“It’s a pleasure,” they murmured, turning to you fully. 

You swallowed, braced yourself, and looked up to your right. 

Sweet holy Jesus. They were even more handsome up close. Just absolutely soft and glorious. And carrying the faint scent of… firewood? You cleared your throat. 

“Um yeah- likewise. Hi.” 

A flash of black, followed by measured footsteps in the grass, had all three of you shifting to see Jane walking past. Miranda was not too far behind, taking her time to cross the yard. 

“Dinner is being prepared. Show face in the next 20 minutes or go to bed hungry.” Jane didn’t even spare you a glance before she disappeared behind the same doors Phasma had gone through. 

“Thank you, Jane,” Larissa managed to call just before they closed behind her with a dull bang. 

“Three moves…,” Miranda was muttering, holding the box for the chess set in one hand. “She beat me in three moves.” 

“Oh it’s not hard. I would’ve beaten you in two,” another voice entered the fray, polite but amused. Jan, you recognized, as she sidled up between you and Larissa with a small smile on her deep red lips. 

Miranda scoffed and turned to look at Anna, only to find that she was gone. One glance behind you revealed that she’d wandered over to Brienne, probably prompting her to go inside for dinner. You hummed, hiding the amusement of friendly banter. It had been so long since you felt even the smallest sense of normalcy. If they were so comfortable with each other, then it must have been a bit since they were all alone out in the world. You’d probably ask Larissa about that later - once everything was said and done. 

“I would’ve beaten you in one,” Lucifer smirked as they pulled away and went walking inside. Had they been barefoot the entire time? 

“That’s not even possible!” Miranda yelled, but the door was already shut. “...Is it?” She turned to Larissa, then to you, then back to Larissa. 

“I don’t think so, Miranda,” Larissa smiled before looking at you. “Any chance you’re good at chess?” 

Dear lord, having two sets of beautiful blue eyes on you was nerve-wracking, but you ignored the flush building up on your cheeks and nodded. 

“Um yeah- it’s possible to beat someone in two moves. But it’s only black, I think.” You gave Miranda an apologetic smile and a shrug as she pouted. 

“You will beat her next time Miranda,” Anna returned with Brienne in her wake. The sword she was sharpening earlier was still in her hands. “She cannot win forever.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brienne cut in, her voice strong and deep. Her mouth was pulled into a light frown, and you noticed the scar that cut through the upper lip on the right. From the time before, you suspected. Otherwise she’d be turned. “She beat me and Phasma one after the other.” 

Miranda sighed, tsking beneath her breath. 

“Then there’s no hope…” Goodness, she looked like a sad puppy.

“Why not?” It slipped out of your mouth before you could grab it. 

And of course, all of the attention then dragged itself over to you. Five sets of sea-blue eyes, all gorgeous in the glow of the evening lamps, traced lines over your tired body. In comparison to them, you looked a sight. Obviously having been picked up from the side of the road, unclean and awkward, somewhat detached from society. In your bag? Not enough clothing and not enough supplies. In your belt, peeking out from beneath your shirt? A knife, dirty and growing dull. And in your eyes? Lurking sadness and horror - the same which probably lived in the women that were observing you. 

Larissa, thank goodness, finally broke the lull of silence. 

“Brienne and Phasma were in the military,” she said gently.

“Oh. That makes sense.” And it did - Jane must have been an intellectual force if she beat people that used to be in the military before the world ended. Though that made you wonder… “What branch?” You turned to Brienne, not really surprised that you had to look up to meet her eyes. It seemed you’d been adopted into a camp of skyscrapers. Though the sharpness of her eyes had you swallowing. “I mean- if you don’t mind me asking.” 

She seemed to consider it, sizing you up, before saying, rather shortly, “SAS. Then Delta Force.” 

You couldn’t hide the way your eyes widened. 

“Oh.” 

“Oh, indeed,” Larissa hummed. “But I think now would be a good time to head in, wouldn’t you say?” She spared her smile for everyone, meeting the gaze of each woman, before finally looking at you and raising her eyebrow. 

It wasn’t really up to you, so you just shrugged and waited for Anna to say ‘Da, da, xорошо’ before heading in. Brienne followed after her, then Miranda, who was studying the back of the chess box, and Larissa, who started taking off her gloves. Jan, meanwhile, stayed where she was and kept her eyes on you. They were curious and deep, never-ending, and lined with mascara and eyeliner. Mascara and eyeliner that… well it suited her, but goodness it was certainly intense. Dark and shadowed, but beautiful nevertheless. You couldn’t look away. 

“Jan Stevens,” she breathed and gave you her hand, elegant and admittedly quite charming. Her nails were painted a deep cherry red. Utterly flawless.

At the sight of it, you weren’t entirely sure what to do. Your palms were still dirty, and sort of calloused, and you didn’t want to… ruin her. So you hesitated, stared at it, looked back up at her, and found her kind smile to be unwavering. 

“Go on,” Jan finally whispered, giving her hand a pointed look, and you fell prey in an instant. 

Quickly, you shot out to gently cup her hand into your own, and gave it a gentle shake. You felt strangely compelled to bring it up to your lips, but you weren’t sure that meeting a stranger in an apocalypse really called for such formalities. Even though you yearned to feel her skin beneath your mouth. It wasn’t proper; though you did think that Jan’s expression fell just a little bit. Like she was excited. Like she wanted you to kiss her hand. 

“Y/n. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise,” she purred, looking you up and down, before turning toward the door. “Come quickly now. If we’re late, Jane will send us off to bed without dinner. And we wouldn’t want that.” 

It probably would have been wise to consider and contemplate the fact that you were in a stranger’s camp, with a stranger’s group… but the saucy little wink that Jan threw over her shoulder sent a deep blush crawling up your cheeks. And just like that, without fail, you were one of the flesh-eaters… caught in the pretty paws of eight different beasts. 

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Please let me know if my characterization is okay and if you'd like to see more. Be safe, darlings. - Rip x

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Far too many names to tag. Find it as you come.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

[dostoyevsky-official]

Natalia Arno was fully inside the hotel room before she noticed the smell. It was sickly sweet, like a cheap perfume at the drug store, only more nauseating. [...] The Russian activist and non-profit director had been on the road, meeting with donors and organisers looking for ways to bolster democracy back in Russia. [...] Three hours later, Arno woke up with an excruciating pain inside her mouth — a burning sensation so unbearable she could barely open it. [...] By the time she had checked in at the airport, she could no longer stand straight. Her vision was blurred; she wobbled. In her mouth, she tasted stone. On the plane, Arno began hallucinating. Ever since Vladimir Lenin set up his poison factory, known as the “Special Room”, over a century ago, poisonings have become one of the Kremlin’s preferred ways to eliminate, cripple or terrorise enemies and critics. Over the decades, it has built up unrivalled expertise in the field. [...] Most targeted poisonings are, by design, hard to detect. [...] The horrific details of Russian poisoning attacks have accumulated over decades: the hiding of a ricin pellet inside the tip of an umbrella said to have been used in 1978 to stab the Bulgarian dissident writer Georgi Markov in the leg, killing him in less than a week. The placing of a radioactive isotope, Polonium-210, in the green tea drunk by the former Russian security services agent and Putin critic Alexander Litvinenko in 2006. The smearing of one novichok variant, a deadly nerve agent, on the British double agent Sergei Skripal’s door in 2018 and another on Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny’s underpants in a Siberian hotel room in 2020. [...] In October 2022, Elena Kostyuchenko, a Russian journalist working for the independent news outlet Meduza, became violently ill on her way back to Berlin from Munich. The same month, Irina Babloyan, a radio journalist with an independent station, got sick on the day she was meant to travel back from Tbilisi to Berlin via Armenia. Kostyuchenko and Babloyan experienced similar symptoms: sharp pain in the upper abdomen, palms that burnt or swelled, severe vertigo and fatigue. [...] Western governments may struggle to keep up with the security threat. The universe of potential toxic chemicals is limitless — and the advance of technology has multiplied the ways in which an enemy might use them. “There are agents we don’t even know exist that are out there [being used] right now . . . That makes it really hard to do analytics,” Holstege said. Most toxicology labs do not have experience in examining state-sponsored poisonings using unusual toxic agents. [...] When we spoke over the phone, Grozev was unfazed by the argument that the victims weren’t high-profile-enough targets. “Talking to insiders in the security services, there’s a clear understanding that the concept of a ‘traitor’ is much more easily assigned these days than before,” he said. “Any Russian who opposes the war or criticises Putin now is a potential victim.”

Russia’s terrifyingly effective poisoning operation

[atlaculture]

Possible Water Tribe Weddings Pt. 1: Chukchi-Style

I’ve gotten quite a few asks regarding what sort of wedding traditions the Water Tribe would have. This has been a difficult question to answer, as the Water Tribe’s primary cultural inspiration (Inuit/Inupiat) traditionally didn’t have wedding ceremonies; pre-Christianized marriage was simply a matter of moving in together and starting a family. I recommend reading through Mostly-Mundane-ATLA’s blog, if you’re interested in learning more about Inupiat and Inuit culture.

That said, I also recognize that ceremonies can be a great source of inspiration for writers and artists. So I’ll be covering the wedding traditions of the adjacent cultural inspirations for the Water Tribe.

Also, the engagement necklace practice we see in the show is unique to the Avatarverse.

Chukchi

Next door to Alaska is Russia’s Chukotka Peninsula, the homeland of Chukchi people, a circumpolar people with a culture similar to Inupiat/Inuit people. The Chukchi marriage process begins when the family of the groom presents gifts to the family of the bride. If the bride's family accepts the gifts, the prospective groom then moves in with the bride’s family to help with the labor for a year, to prove that he will be an able provider and a good husband to his wife. If those 12 months go smoothly, then the couple will be married in a simple ceremony.

The actual wedding ceremony involves the bride, accompanied by her close relatives, traveling by reindeer to the groom’s home. Outside of the groom’s home, a reindeer is sacrificed. Using the reindeer’s blood, the couple and all relatives present are anointed with the groom’s family symbol, representing the unification of the two families. The bride would then be considered part of the groom’s family and would live with them.

There are also alternatives to the “standard” Chukchi wedding/marriage. Among maritime Chukchi--- those whose livelihoods lie in hunting rather than herding--- no reindeer is sacrificed and red ocher is used to do the anointing instead. Similarly, the groom may also join the bride’s family. In such a situation, the groom would travel to the bride’s home by reindeer and everyone present would be anointed with the symbol of the bride’s family. The groom would then live with the bride’s family from that point forward.

In Part 2, I’ll be covering the traditional marriage practices of the Yakut people.

Like what I’m doing? Tips always appreciated, never expected. ^_^

https://ko-fi.com/atlaculture

[redheadspark]

hawuuu don't mind my last one cause someone else did the same prompt with the same character so just change it to 11. "i wasn't blushing! it was hot out." "it is literally snowing outside as we speak are you joking." With Druig still

Thank u and happy new year

A/N - HAWUU! I love this request for him since he would be in denial and all ;)! Thanks for requesting this, dear friend!

Give It

Summary - Druig was afraid to give his heart away for the longest time. Maybe it was time for a change

Warnings - Mostly fluff

“Wow,”

“Never seen snow before, Druig?”

Druig glared at Kingo as he chuckled.  The fresh fallen snow over the small London park was enough to make Druig look around in wide-eyed wonder.  It was vastly different from the Amazon, the hot sticky humidity against his skin and the blazing sun on the back of his neck.  He was used to the tall trees, the plenty of wildlife around him that would screech day and night, and even the rolling mountains and again river outside his little shack.  Those 500 years away from the rest of the world were a protective bubble for him.

But London?  That was wide-eyed for the Mind Controller.

The small park they were at was right outside of Kingo’s London flat, a lavish penthouse he just bought months before to stay in while he would shoot a movie.  After it was decided to go out to find other Eternals in other parts of the universe, the group wanted to make a pit stop in London to say goodbye to Sprite and Kingo, and for Thena, Makkari, and Druig to see London and all its glory.  It seemed tempting, though Druig was a creature of comfort.  He would rather stay on The Domo, but knowing the rest of the group, a small stop in London was not a bad idea.

In fact, it was your idea.  

Knowing that it was going to be snowing, you wanted to see the city covered in snow before you would be stuck on a ship with the other three.  You loved the snow yourself, having the ability to control and manipulate water and ice with the tips of your fingers.  It was no wonder when the group separated 500 years ago, you went off traveling to the North and explored some of the color elements of Earth.  You landed in rural Russia, having your own cabin out in the middle of the woods.  The group found you cutting down your own wood, thinking of you more like a lumberjack and in your natural element of the dead winter with freezing winds and almost below temps.  But to you, it was home.

Sersi and Sprite had an apartment not too far away, the rest of the family went over to visit and see before they found themselves at a local park.  Thena was perched on a park bench, enjoying the small peace not too far away and admiring the fallen snowflakes that were dancing in her golden hair.  Druig was watching from the side, still in his black leather jacket and boots that were winking slightly in the snow and a small shiver was licking up his spine.  He couldn’t help but shiver, not used to the cold himself, and was never a true fan of it.  Inwardly, he was mentally glad they would be on the Domo with controlled temperatures soon.

Laughter was heard over to the left, Druig looking to see a snowball fight broke out with some of the group.  Makkari, Sprite and you threw snowballs at each other, almost seeming like childcare yourself. Sprite was literally the only child, laughing her head off as she threw a massive snowball at you, but you dodged it with ease before launching back at her.  Druig couldn’t help but watch, and if he was honest, he had his eye on you for some time.

But of course, being away for 500 years he thought those feelings were buried and no longer irrelevant.  He had a small crush, that was for certain, and it lasted for quite some time back in the earlier days on Earth. Druig admired how raw you were, the stubbornness you had in the way you fought and the way you defended yourself.  Your spitfire soul and the natural beauty you had in your cheeks and curves made him entranced.  

Makkari called him a “Lovesick Puppy” a few times, but he would only shove her and let it roll off his shoulders.  He ignored the side comments from the others, thought he would stay up at night, and wondered what it would be like to be with you.  Would you even think of him the way way?  Doubtful, though you were cordial with him all the time and always confided with him with your own insecurities. Not to mention you would stand up to him when the others, mostly Ikaris, would put him down and make him feel less than he was.  You saw goodness in him, and Druig never knew that you cried when he walked away all those years ago.  He never knew you had feelings for him and found him not only handsome, but kind and filled with a powerful urge to serve and help.  

Neither of you admitted to the other.

Now, after saving the world and bringing peace to the very species that they protected for centuries, the feelings were coming back with both yourself and with Druig.  

“You can’t use your speed, Makkari!” Druig heard Sprite chastise Makkari, whom was throwing out three snowballs back to back to back.  You laughed as you grabbed some fresh snow next to your foot, making snowballs as fast as you could before Makkari slammed one into your forehead.  Sprite roared in laughter as Druig smiled, seeing your face etched in snow and a wide grin on your face.  He didn’t notice Sersi walking over to stand next to him, her kind smile as she watched Druig look on.

“You should tell her,” Sersi said to Druig, who looked over at her within a second with an asked brow.

“Tell her what?” He asked, Sersi only giving him a knowing look that an older sister would give.  Your giggle rang in the air, both Druig and Sersi looking as you tackled Sprite to the ground and tried to get some snow down her backside.  Kingo was taking pictures on his phone, though his face was then hit with a snowball thanks to Makkari and he ran off after her to retaliate.  Druig’s eyes were on you the whole time, both you and Sprite sitting on the snow ground and laughing so hard tears were seen in your eyes.  

He was a coward for so long in not saying how he felt, how he imagined what it would be like to have you in his life.  He dreamt of it at times and daydreamed during most of Ajak’s meetings or on his patrols late in the night. Druig faced Deviants before, and facing the celestial Tiamut himself was intimidating.  But he knew deep down that the scariest thing that he would ever do in his Immortal life, was telling you he liked you.

More than liked, he loved you.

“ ‘ Nobody has ever measured, even poets, how much a heart can hold’.” Sersi quoted to Druig with a gentle nudge of her shoulder against Druig’. Druig snorted as he looked at her.

“Who said that?” He asked in sarcasm, Sersi rolled her eyes.

“Mark Twain.  That’s not the point!” She said as she pointed her finger at him, “You should say something before you regret it.  And it’s quite obvious in how you’re looking at her!  You were blushing a few minutes ago when she asked you a question!”

“I wasn’t blushing!  It was hot out!” He tried to argue.

“Back in my flat it was, It is literally snowing outside as we speak, are you joking?” She asked him, seeing him about to roll his eyes as she laced their arms together, “Druig, for as long as I have known you since we’re been on his planet, I know deep down you have a massive and empathetic heart.  We all see it and love it, especially her.  You shouldn’t waste it, you should give it.  Give it to her, Druig.” 

She gestured to you, who was helping Sprite, Kingo, and Makkari make a Snowman together in the middle of the snowy meadow.  Druig couldn’t help but smile, knowing deep down that Sersi was in fact right.  He loved that about Sersi, her kindness and empathy for everyone around her was infectious and something he wished he had himself.  But he also had to wonder if she knew all this time of his feelings for you, or if the others knew.  They had to have known, and if they did they never said anything to neither you or Druig.

In the end, it was up to the pair of you to make it happen. 

“Come on, Druig!  Unless you’re scared!”  Kingo was teasing him as he was getting a few snowballs ready.  Makkari, yourself, and Sprite were behind him, already ready for a second round of a snowball fight and waiting for Druig to join.  Druig look over at you, seeing the flushness in your cheeks and how you too were filled with a sense of joy and happiness in such a simple love for snow.  Perhaps he would be brave, make the denial go away, and give his love to you. 

He carefully reach down to take some snow in his hands, the bitter cold ice against his pale fingers made him shiver as he made a ball and cocked his hand back.

He was ready.  Game on.

The End

January Prompt Session

[wallisninety-six]

For better *and* worse- 2022 was the year of “I didn’t think it would actually happen” like I didn’t think...

That Russia would actually full-on invade Ukraine

That SCOTUS would be stupid enough to actually fully strike down Roe v. Wade

That after so many false hopes that a Climate Change bill would actually pass in hellhole America

That nuclear fusion would finally be achieved

That Alex Jones would be forced to pay a billion dollars and now potentially go bankrupt after his lawyer accidentally texted out incriminating information to his opposing attorney

That Shinzo Abe would be legit assassinated in broad daylight with a homemade camera gun

That Liz Truss would fucking *tank* the British economy after *days* on the job and then leave as quickly as she destroyed everything

That Russia would be crazy enough to annex territories of Ukraine that they barely control

That Elon Musk, richest person in the world an actual real-life evil cartoon villain, would buy Twitter and absolutely destroy it and his reputation

That FTX would completely collapse in the most stupid fashion worse than Enron

That Artemis 1 actually launched and interplanetary space travel is happening

That Republicans would actually fuck up so badly and lose a midterm election they would have easily won

That Andrew Tate got ratio’d hard by Greta Thunberg an his cringey reply vid may have tipped him off to authorities because of a Romanian pizza box, confirming his location and getting him arrested

[tomorrowusa]

Yet another Russian warship is sleeping with the fishes. Vladimir Putin, his minion Donald Trump, and his minion "MAGA Mike" Johnson are all in tears.

This time it's a missile-corvette called the Sergey Kotov. It is a relatively new vessel, having been commissioned just over 19 months ago. It was hit by MAGURA V5 sea drones built and operated by Ukraine. The Sergey Kotov sank off the coast of Feodosiya (also transliterated as Feodosia) in Russian-occupied Crimea.

It will not be easy to replace this vessel.

Another Month. Another Russian Warship, Blown Up On The Black Sea. Ukraine’s drone boats are relentless.

The 308-foot, 1,700-ton Project 22160 corvette reportedly sank off of Feodosiya in southeastern Crimea. If confirmed, the sinking would extend the Russian Black Sea Fleet’s losing streak as Russia’s wider war on Ukraine grinds into its third year. Since February 2022 the Ukrainians have blown up or sunk four Russian landing ships, a cruiser, a submarine, a supply ship, several patrol boats and small landing craft and now two missile-corvettes.

Why these sinkings in the Black Sea are significant.

Russian shipyards still manage to build large submarines, but they struggle to build surface warships heavier than a few thousand tons. And while the Russians might eventually be able to construct a new Project 22160 to replace Sergei Kotov, they wouldn’t be able to sail the new ship into the Black Sea. That’s because the only major waterway in and out of the Black Sea—the Bosporus Strait—is controlled by Turkey, a NATO member. And, during wartime, Turkey doesn’t allow any warships into the Black Sea. Allied or enemy.

This was not a short distance operation. The drones had to travel around the southern tip of occupied Crimea.

A reminder that today is Day 741 of Putin's 3-day genocidal "special operation" in Ukraine. Wars don't end because people on social media get tired of them.

[commajade]

hi im trying to learn more abt north korean refugees from the korean war or more generally conditions in north korea during the war and its been like...rly challenging to find resources since the search engines will conflate them with defectors and what resources i do find tend to be "there were north koreans refugees. there were alot...a lot of them died...some did not" and not about why they fled or what was happening in north kroea at the time. i can make inferences from what i do know, but i was wondering if you had any resources or recommendations on where i could look since ive found ur dprk resources super informative & helpful in the past!

hello!

during the war, there was not yet a concept of a korean person being from the north or the south and that's probably a reason why you can't find specific resources if you're searching in that direction. generally, refugees fled to manchuria, china, russia, and japan. they tried to farm in these regions, tried to become educated and learn skills and crafts, and/or were part of anticolonial organizing efforts. the migrations to these areas began much before the war and there were sizable korean populations in these regions as early as the late 1800s and the 1910s.

a notable example is find very interesting is that there were enough communist koreans in russia and climbing the political ranks of the government at the beginning of the 20th century that in 1937, stalin had every korean person rounded up and sent to central asia (kazakhstan, uzbekistan, etc) under suspicion of them being japanese spies. which i personally think inspired the US to create japanese internment camps.

my understanding is that the borders to manchuria and china were not heavily enforced before the war and military occupation of the area so it was very common for people in the northern areas of the korean peninsula to travel back and forth for trade and live across the border for agricultural conditions.

for wartime conditions in the region, the northern half of the peninsula was bombed more severely than the southern half and the southernmost tip of the land is the only area where the trees on mountains are the original ones and not newly planted after the war (usually by the park chunghee administration). agriculture is more difficult in the north because of the terrain and the majority of the flat and fertile farming soil is in the jeolla province so the north was more likely to develop communist style industry, so the U.S. focused on flattening any man made infrastructure in the area. many people fled across borders and many people hid in caves in the mountains because the peninsula is very mountainous with many caves. for resources, i don't have anything more specific than what's already in my dprk tag! check the dprk study guide for further reading.

overall, many people fled korea from the late 1800s to after the war in the 1950s because of japanese labor exploitation and cultural persecution, artificially produced famine conditions because of japanese resource exploitation and then the effect of the U.S. bombings on the environment, and the sheer death and destruction of the bombings and ground military troops.

hope this is helpful and lmk if u have more specific questions i can answer!

[mariacallous]

Exclusive: Iran alerted Russia to security threat before Moscow attack

DUBAI, April 1 (Reuters) - Iran tipped off Russia about the possibility of a major "terrorist operation" on its soil ahead of the concert hall massacre near Moscow last month, three sources familiar with the matter said.

In the deadliest attack inside Russia in 20 years, gunmen opened fire with automatic weapons at concertgoers on March 22 at the Crocus City Hall, killing at least 144 people in violence claimed by the Islamic State militant group.

The United States had also warned Russia in advance of a likely militant Islamist attack but Moscow, deeply distrustful of Washington's intentions, played down that intelligence.

It is harder, however, for Russia to dismiss intelligence from diplomatic ally Iran on the attack, which has also raised questions over the effectiveness of Russian security services. Moscow and Tehran, both under Western sanctions, have deepened military and other cooperation during the two-year Ukraine war.

"Days before the attack in Russia, Tehran shared information with Moscow about a possible big terrorist attack inside Russia that was acquired during interrogations of those arrested in connection with deadly bombings in Iran," one of the sources told Reuters.

Iran arrested 35 people in January, including a commander of Islamic State's Afghanistan-based branch ISIS-Khorasan (ISIS-K), who it said were linked to twin bombings on Jan. 3 in the city of Kerman that killed nearly 100 people.

Islamic State claimed responsibility for the Iran blasts, the bloodiest since the 1979 Islamic Revolution. U.S. intelligence sources said ISIS-K had carried out both the Jan. 3 attacks in Iran and the March 22 shootings in Moscow.

Islamic State once occupied large swathes of Iraq and Syria, imposing a reign of terror and inspiring lone wolf attacks in Western countries, but was declared territorially defeated in 2017.

However ISIS-K, one of its most fearsome branches, has raised the group's profile again with large-scale bloodshed.

ISIS-K, named after an old term for a region that encompassed parts of Iran, Turkmenistan and Afghanistan, emerged in eastern Afghanistan in late 2014 and quickly established a reputation for extreme brutality.

'SIGNIFICANT OPERATION'

A second source, who also requested anonymity due to the sensitivity of the issue, said the information Tehran provided to Moscow about an impending attack had lacked specific details regarding timing and the exact target.

"They (the members of ISIS-K) were instructed to prepare for a significant operation in Russia... One of the terrorists (arrested in Iran) said some members of the group had already travelled to Russia," the second source said.

A third source, a senior security official, said: "As Iran has been a victim of terror attacks for years, Iranian authorities fulfilled their obligation to alert Moscow based on information acquired from those arrested terrorists."

Asked about the Reuters report, Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov said on Monday: "I do not know anything about this."

Iran's foreign ministry did not reply to a request for comment on this story. The White House had no comment on the matter.

A source familiar with the U.S. intelligence on an impending attack in Russia said it was based on interceptions of "chatter" among ISIS-K militants.

Challenging the U.S. assertions, Russia has said it believes Ukraine was linked to the attack, without providing evidence. Kyiv has strongly denied the assertion.

TAJIK NATIONALS

The attacks in Kerman and near Moscow both involved Tajik nationals. ISIS-K has aggressively recruited from the impoverished former Soviet republic of Tajikistan, security experts say.

Sources said Iran had discussed its security concerns with Tajikistan. A diplomatic source in Tajikistan confirmed that Tehran had recently discussed with Dushanbe the issue of increased involvement of ethnic Tajiks in militant activities.

Islamic State harbours a virulent hatred for Shi'ites -- Iran's dominant sect and also the target of its affiliate's attacks in Afghanistan. The hardline Sunni Muslim group views Shi'ites as apostates.

In 2022 Islamic State claimed responsibility for a deadly attack on a Shi'ite shrine in Iran that killed 13 people. Tehran identified the attacker as a Tajik national.

Earlier attacks claimed by Islamic State include twin bombings in 2017 that targeted Iran's parliament and the tomb of the Islamic Republic's founder, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini.

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

Summary: A hot tip turns into a hot night. 

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Characters: William Butcher x unnamed female x Soldier Boy

Tags/warnings: explicit, mfm threesome, Dom/sub, rough sex, slapping, name calling, sex with murderous misogynists

Words: 1700

Author's notes: for @glassjacket and @brrose-apothecary​ Thanks for the read-through and green light, Bri. <3

Gonzo journalism is an energetic first-person participatory writing style of journalism that is written without claims of objectivity, often including the reporter as part of the story using the first-person narrative, and it draws its power from a combination of social critique and self-satire. The word gonzo is believed to have been first used in 1970 to describe an article about the Kentucky Derby by Hunter S. Thompson, who popularized the style.

Three days ago, I received a tip that former British special forces member, CIA agent, and now, vigilante, William Butcher, traveled to Russia to obtain a secret weapon to take down the megalomaniac superhero Homelander. Within an hour, I was on a plane to JFK. Just as the A320 touched the ground, an explosion rocked Midtown, killing 19 people. My source wasted no time looping me in with video footage of the cause of the explosion.

...and I didn’t believe my eyes.

“Holy-” I breathed, weaving through the other passengers to quicken my steps toward ground transportation. I ordered an Uber then watched the footage on a loop until it arrived. As my driver pulled up, I received a text message from my source.

“Weapon’s not so much a what but a who, love.”

“So I see.”

“You here?”

“On my way to ground zero, got anything else for me?”

“Will have after tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

“I’ll let you know when I do.”

He kept his word — called me mere moments after America’s first hero incinerated the woman he claimed to have once loved in a flash of radioactivity.

Now, these two hypermasculine assholes are half in the bag and toe-to-toe in the middle of a cheap ass motel room, arguing about who can make me come faster/harder/longer. How I got into this particular situation is simple; waiting for intel in a non-air-conditioned room, got bored, hair up, whiskey, poker, sweat, partial nudity.

What’re you gonna do?

“Show me, then, you limey cock. She’s right fucking there.” Soldier Boy motions to me before pausing his challenge to an x-rated duel long enough to drag his hot gaze across my damp, salty skin and down over my semi-clothed form. “Or do you need me to show you what a real man can do.”

Each of their gazes are dark in their own way. Butcher’s is nothing but devilish chaos backed by a dramatic, velvet curtain hiding the truth, and Soldier Boy’s is full of secrets, barely repressed rage, and hunger.

“She already knows I’m good fer it. Don’tcha, love?” Butcher smirks.

I draw a deep breath then casually shrug my shoulders. I happen to know from experience that Butcher is very good for it and judging by the non-V-generated power rolling off the superhero, I could be making this much harder on myself than I need to.

That said, I have an unfortunate weakness for big, shit-talking, beautiful men. It’s even better when they’re absolute pricks and no danger of taking them home to mama.  

Butcher looks slightly crestfallen until I toss him a mock-pout and a wink. This is always what we do, anyway. We stay on the outside and keep our distance. Come to think of it, I probably have an equally dramatic curtain behind my own eyes. I suppose I should examine that sometime. After the mind-blowing fuck session I’m about to have.

The supe chuckles as he turns to saunter toward me. “We can take turns, give her a little score card,” he says, coming to a stop in front of me.

I’m sitting on the foot of the bed, leaning back on my elbows, legs crossed like I’m fucking demure. He smirks down at me with hard, dark eyes as he slides a hand between his legs to cup himself over the stiff material of his suit pants.

“You look a little mean,” I tell him, and his smirk spreads to a grin that doesn’t meet his eyes.

“You like that.” He licks his teeth before pulling his bottom lip between them. “Wet as a whore on payday sittin’ in this filthy motel room with me and him, huh.”

Butcher appears behind him, looming, his thin, damp beater clings to his skin in a pleasing way.

I suppose I should be concerned for my well-being, but mostly, I’m wet just like Soldier Boy said. So I let myself go until I’m on my back, uncross my legs and drop my bare feet to either side of his boots.

When Butcher moves from beyond him, Soldier Boy extends an arm to halt him. “Rules,” he grunts. “I’m in charge. Anything goes unless someone safewords. Crimson is the word.”

Butcher chuckles at that. “We’re not looking to be deep-fried in here if that name sets you off.”

“Fuck you. Get her panties off.” The supe crosses the room, removing his undershirt and boots.

Butcher kneels at my feet and lifts them to the mattress, so I follow his lead and cant my hips to give him access to my underwear. He looks up at me. “Y’sure ‘bout this?” he asks warily, as he drags the ruined cotton over my hips and knees, and I nod.

Butcher can actually be thoughtful on occasion. But we had an agreement.

“Safeword. Did you not hear that part?” Soldier Boy struts back to the bed, stroking his already hard cock.

“Jesus,” I breathe, and the fucker smirks again.

America’s first hero, for all his terribly deep and disturbing flaws, is easily the most gorgeous man I have ever seen naked. My mouth waters at the sight of his thick, heavy-looking cock, slipping through his meaty hand.

“USDA prime, sugar, and you got the best seat in the house.” He nudges Butcher out of the way much more gently than I would have expected. “So sit up and open your fucking mouth.”

Butcher peels his shirt off and shucks his pants to the floor before moving onto the bed as I obey the soldier’s uncompromising order. “She does like suckin’ cock, mouth like a fucken whirlpool.” Butcher settles behind me and brushes his lips across my exposed neck.

I swallow the drool in my mouth and reach for the beautiful bounty in front of me, and Soldier Boy shakes his head.

“Get her arms,” he tells Butcher, holding my eyes with his.

Butcher obliges, looping one forearm through my elbows behind my back and pressing me forward as his free hand works its way between my legs. “So wet already, love.”

“You know how long it’s been since I’ve had access to a warm, wet mouth?” The recently escaped man’s brow is furrowed, and his eyes lose their sharp focus as he slides his fingers into the twisted mess of a bun at the back of my head, angling my face the way he wants it. “And this mouth.”

He grips my chin with his other hand, and I let my jaw drop open. “This fucking mouth,” he mutters.

I close my eyes as his hot, salty cock slides over my tongue. He slides his hand from my chin to the other side of my head to mirror his other, holding me in place as he sets a rhythm.

“Good?” Butcher whispers, and I hum an affirmation. He’s sliding one long, thick finger around my clit so gently and thoroughly that I’m right at the edge of falling.

“Relax,” Soldier Boy grunts, swiping his thumbs over my hollowed cheeks. “I don’t need you choking out so soon.”

It’s hard to relax when I’ve got the fat cock of a superhero bumping against my uvula, and the thick knuckles of a thug slipping around my cunt. I’m hot and overstimulated and I’m about to come undone.

“‘Member that night in Chelsea? At your sister’s flat?” Butcher murmurs in my ear, sliding his slippery hand up under my tank top as he looks up at the other man. “Let’s get ‘er on ‘er back, mate.”

“Making it easy on her,” Soldier Boy scoffs as he pulls out of my mouth to spin and drag me to the side of the bed. He dips in for a punishing kiss with teeth and tongue before pushing me down to hang my head over the side of the bed. “She doesn’t get to come ‘til I do, and neither do you.”

Butcher nods with that edged grin as he slowly works his way between my thighs. “Well, ain’t that shite, sweetheart?” He settles his bare chest to the bed and shoves my legs open wide. “We got us a multiple-orgasmer ‘ere, wif little to no self-control.”

Soldier Boy chuckles as he straddles my face and reaches to tear my top in half.

“Fucker,” I swear at Butcher.

“Well, you better get some control quick because I don’t like to be disappointed.” He grips one of my breasts tight and mouths at the other, mumbling orders around my flesh. “Put me back in your mouth.”

I relax my throat and take a deep breath as I wrap one hand around his hard cock. My heart pounds in my chest and I moan, tasting him again. He’s so heavy and smooth. Did he get waxed between international imprisonment and mass murder?

Whatever.

He doesn’t waste a second working his way down my open throat. Butcher’s doing that thing he does with his tongue that makes me come every time within seconds. It takes me three deep inhales through my nose and concentrating on the feel of the gorgeous dick snaking my esophagus to realize that Butcher, a classic switch, wants to see how a man like Soldier Boy handles being defied.

Butcher also knows that I love being punished.

So I let go. I throw my arms wide and arch into Soldier Boy’s teeth and rough fingers on my nipples. I grind into Butcher’s face and feel his chuckle rumbling in my core.

Butcher grips my hips and bears down.

“You son of a bitch...” the supe breathes a lush sneer, his breath over my wet flesh making me shiver as his fucking into my throat makes me gag. “You want her to come, don’t you? Want the slut to get what she deserves?”

I cup his balls and push my face up into his groin, making him rasp and pin both my wrists to the bed. He takes one nipple between his plump lips again and tongues the tip as he slows his drive into my mouth and swirls his tongue around that nipple then the other.

“Hmm, changed my mind,” he says thoughtfully as he stands and pulls out of my mouth. “Let’s make her come. Over and over. Make her come ‘til she’s fucking unconscious.”

His grin is dark and cruel as he strokes himself with one hand and reaches for my already sensitive breasts with the other.

Butcher lifts his face from between my legs, his beard shiny with my slick, and grins wide as he hooks two fingers up inside me and drops a heavy hand over my mound. “Sounds like a deal, mate.”

Part II

More Soldier Boy and/or Butcher

IF YOU LIKE WHAT YOU'VE READ, PLEASE REBLOG AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!

[loiladadiani]

IMPERIAL PET ALERT

Another Romanov who adored dogs was Alexander II. ‘Millord’ was given to him as a gift. He was an Irish Setter with very interesting colors…the tip of the hair was black, so rather than red, he looked black. Please take into consideration that the conformation of different breeds of dogs has changed with the years.

Milord went everywhere with his master. He died when Alexander was out of Russia traveling.