#russia will never win

[herukapadmajungiansworld]

[laeana]

I love how we prefer to imagine and, even more than that, hope that the public votes are wrong and manipulated, because we do not want to think so many people may be terrible and ignore the distress human beings are going through at this very moment.

Antisemitism my ass, being sensitive to people’s suffering is just called being human.

[twpsyn-who]

Talking a little bit about 'boycotting Eurovision' under Keep Reading, feel free to scroll down if is not what you want to see.

The most used argument on the matter of banning Israel from Eurovision is the fact that Russia got banned from Eurovision, which is the worst argument anyone could bring.

Kindly reminder that Russia didn't get banned because of the war with Ukraine. Russia got banned because many countries has threatened to withdraw from the competition. Sadly, that's a big difference.

Yes, the countries has threatened to withdraw because they support Ukraine and see Russia as the party in the wrong. That was their reason. EBU's reason for banning Russian was because those countries threatened to withdraw, not because the war was bad and Russia must be stopped.

This situation isn't the same. Why? Because many countries support Israel in their genocide. Because this time around Palestine is the party in the wrong. Because we're taught to believe that Israel isn't in the wrong here.**

Boycotting Eurovision won't work. There are people out there who don't know the truth and want to watch Eurovision. There are people out there who don't care and will watch Eurovision regardless of the situation. There are people out there who, despite having the facts, still don't see Israel as the bad guy in this situation and will watch Eurovision. Sadly, boycotting won't work unless everyone does it.

The only way Israel will get banned, in my opinion, is by going through the same thing as Russia. If other countries threatened to withdraw- and not any countries, but the ones investing the most in Eurovision, then yes. That will get Israel banned.

Otherwise? The only thing we do is hurt artists that don't deserve it. Artists who use Eurovision as a way to get more exposure and experience. Artists who deserve to be heard.

Don't vote for Israel's entry. Don't stream their song either. Heck, turn off the TV when is their turn to perform.

**This whole situation (the war, not Eurovision) isn't only black and white. Civilians die daily because of this, all of them from both sides. Innocent people who has no fault. Let's not forget that

[medicinemane]

Man... the vast majority of people just uh... do not get geopolitical stuff at all

[homo-essentials]

people in the notes and comments have the right idea but you have to think of how normal games are and then throw it away.

In normal videos game, the enemy has a big health bar and you hit them and the health bar goes down. This is extremely well established as a trope, and has many subversions, alterations, sub-tropes, etc.

What war thunder says is throw away all that, lets pretend you are a living tank (or plane) and calculate exactly where your bullets would go and whether they would go through the enemy armor/hit a mechanical component/blow up the ammunition/kill the crew/etc. It's a game and player base that prides themselves on accuracy to the real world (that the gas tank is in the right spot, or the bullet speed is right) despite that fact that should be glaringly obvious to everyone *none of this is how it works irl*

The other element is war thunder is pay to win, you can unlock better planes and tanks by playing A LOT of warthunder, or you can spend a bunch of money to buy your favorite plane.

Despite all this (because of it?) they all have big nerd fights with each other on the forums about which tank is the best, and because the tanks don't have health bars, they're arguing about where gear shafts are located and the construction of special types of tank bullets, and because you have to invest a lot of time or money into unlocking a specific tank, some of the people who are arguing have the documents to prove that they're right on the internet because they work on the tank in real life.

Hey, treason is a serious crime and and punishable by death, but WHAT ABOUT THE QUALITY OF MY VIDEO GAME?!?

[short-wooloo]

I feel like people miss the point of the "war is bad" message

What it's supposed to mean is that war is terrible, it's destructive, it ruins lives, it leaves scars, and you should only partake in it when there are no other options, because even if you win, even if you survive, you will not be the same, which is why the phrase used to be more commonly known as "war is hell"

But "war is bad" seems to have been construed by people in fandom into "any fighting is bad, if you fight you're morally terrible and impure, you should not fight at all, no matter what", this is annoying in fandom, as it often misses the point fiction is trying to make, but what's worrisome is when people apply this to real life, as I have seen people do regarding russia's invasion of Ukraine

And that's almost never the point of "War is Bad" works

Works like Lord of the Rings, Avatar The Last Airbender, Transformers, The Clone Wars, Halo (especially Reach), etc all have themes on how horrible war is, but they categorically do not say it is wrong to fight, what they say is usually along the lines of "war is terrible, and what makes it so terrible is that we have no choice but to fight, it would be ideal if we didn't have to fight at all, but we must fight, because not fighting is not an option, because not fighting, not opposing tyranny, conquest, and evil only allows those things to exist unimpeded"

[diejager]

Could you please do a platonic yandere Vladimir Makarov with teenage daughter reader? Where he finds out that he has a daughter and is watching her but after awhile he decided to kidnap her to keep her safe from anyone and anything.?

Cw: DARKFIC, protective dad, kidnapping, spoiling, isolation, platonic yandere, tell me if I missed any.

He hadn’t expected his drunken one night stand to come back to him seventeen years later, at the peak of his revolution and power in the world. It had left his mind by the end of the week, where he spent a night with a pretty woman that he’d approached in the joy and mirth of winning a seat in the political image of Russia, his seat secured and power promised. He was - felt - unstoppable at that point.

Then he learned he had a daughter, a sweet girl that looked like a perfect mix of him and your mother. Thrust into the beginning of your adulthood and the closing chapter of your childhood, you had grown so prettily, adorable and loving. You were perfect in his eyes. Receiving the love of a mother, being pampered by her with the little amount of money she could scrounge to send you to school and provide for you. She truly cared for you despite being a mistake, a regret that reminded her of their coupling years ago.

While he believed in receiving motherly affection, he didn’t like the way you lived. So poor and hungry, denied the riches and luxury of his name and money. He wouldn’t have you live like that. So he took you, flew down to your quaint home, dressed finely and followed by his entourage while he stared down your mother, waiting for you to come back home from school. He’d forgotten her name - your mother - but all that mattered was you. He knew your name, your hobbies and preferences, but he’d like to hear them from you, to know you by your own words and acts rather than the video surveillance and all the digging he had his men do. 

And when he saw you in person, standing anxiously before him, you looked much more beautiful before him than through his screen. He saw the apprehension in your eyes, the small frown that pinched as you fussed about your mother’s fearful expression, using yourself to protect her from him and his men, ignoring her pleas for you to stand behind her, to let her protect you. But you were fiercely protective and loyal, something he expected from his daughter, yet was still surprised by the depth of it, blindly loyal and faithfully protective to a fault. 

“This…” she didn’t know how to explain this situation, he could see it as plainly as the blackness of his suit, “He’s your father, sweetheart.”

Your face broke between pain, shock and disbelief, but none directed at her, only to him whom you glared so powerfully. You were still so determined to protect your mother, knowing that she hid him from you and had never tried to reach out to him —not that he could blame her, he wasn’t a merciful man, neither easily reachable, nor easy to face. 

He gave you his name and smiled, pulling the sweetest grin he could, seeming soft and tender for a ruthless man like him. All for his daughter, the gem that would inherit his empire. Ever so polite, you muttered your name, voice slightly shaky. You took after your mother, taking her last name rather than his, one that screamed power and danger, but he’d have it changed, no daughter of his wouldn’t be given the name Makarov.

He was satisfied with this, and with little need to stay here any longer, he stood and approached you, his hand calling yours to have you accompany him home. He would have you brought home, where you rightfully belonged. On a throne by his side, dressed in the best silk and fabric his money could gift you, given the best education and taught by the best academic in both English and Russian, and if possible, you’d be taught other arts: literature, ballet, piano, theatre and language. 

But he was… somewhat disappointed that you shook your head, declining his invitation to come willingly. He understood that you’d have to start over again, uprooted and starting anew in a strange world without your mother. Truly, he knew how that felt, but he’d grown, he became better and wanted the same for you: to be better and deserve better. 

“Mom!” your cries and scream hurt him, the sound chiseling at his heart, fighting him to return o your mother’s side.

His men held your mother back, careful not to harm her as per his words, he didn’t need her health jeopardised. He had plans of paying her for caring for you, giving her a monthly cheque to support herself, eternally grateful that she sacrifice everything for you. You were now under his care, protected under his watchful eyes and international spread of allies and influence.

“Don’t cry, милая,” he cradled you, seated on his lap as he wiped away your tears, his hushed but steady voice trying to soothe you, “We’re going home.”[darling]

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

[originalleftist]

So, this just happened (taken from Spoutible)

Yeah, Ukraine literally just kicked the Russian navy out of Crimea and made them go running all the way across the Black Sea.

People can talk all they want about a stalemate or Ukraine losing ground on land, but Ukraine is WINNING the naval war emphatically. And without those ships, it will be far harder for Russia to support its troops on land.

They lose the bridge to Crimea, they will probably lose Crimea.

Also, it will never not be both awe-inspiring and completely hilarious that Ukraine is winning a naval war against a major power while having no warships.

[barnacles34]

Diamond Ring (Karina x male reader)

tags: 2.4k, historical smut (French Empire), subby sub karina, marriage, and sex.

Wealthiest of them all, you are the Medici of North Europe. Your vast estates span back to the plantagenets - an everlasting relationship established between the English and French - Duke of Touraine, wealthiest of them all. 

It would be an understatement to state that you have seen greed - you are the epitome of greed, and even you would be appalled by the display of greed and such bad humors. And there’s no such thing as the French without bureaucracy: a long, lengthy, powerful bureaucracy.

And, you, Duke of Touraine, are the master of the bureaucracy. This wasn’t some practiced effort or a hereditary nepotist agenda. You were akin to Ivan the Terrible: all hereditary claims stripped, your entire family stripped of its glory and massacred in cold blood, but you weren’t killed - that was Frankia’s fatal mistake.

Coal turned diamond, endless pressure as if you were held under the deepest part of the Earth, and forced to endure its endless torture for years gone will drive anyone to adapt - it just happens to be you.

This backstory, alongside the natural cunning of the plantagenet dukes before you, led you to gain some significant, absolute, palpable advantage over all else. Stories of you utilizing those very debased by this society: cunning troubadours, your faithful concubines (most of which you never engaged with in lustful relief), and all else ignored with a distaste. Somehow, someway, this became the lever with which the entirety of medieval Europe moved, and you jammed it, over and over, until you became Master of Europe.

And, this lever, also became the bane that you resent - the lever that led you to fall in love with the serene, beautiful Karina. 

“Emperor Napoleon? He’s decided to invade Prussia?” You ask, with a pen in hand, mostly focused on the writing rather than the person begging to talk to you.

But when you hear that first word, laced with everything that you desire, deeply pavlovian, your eyes stick on Karina.

“Yes, Master, he’s set his sights on Prussia and likely Russia if he crushes the coalition.”

“He’ll crush the coalition.”

“What?” A surprised remark from Karina, she’s never so informal, dear bird.

“He has an army that has stuck with him since the time he first commanded control, dear. Experience in this dastardly elitist century beats all else. The only thing that could possibly kill his momentum is if his army is slowly dwindling, and that’s something that he hates to the very core, paradoxically, those who die first are one of the most faithful to him. He’d rather use them for menial and laboriously easy wins.”

“Excuse me, amor, but how would he go about this operation? Winter is rapidly approaching and the coalition is only of the most efficient winter warriors.”

“Confidence is a trap that is waiting to be set up. Expect some sort of feigned retreat, then absolute destruction.”

All of this conversation, natural to the core, all happened during the duration while Karina - now, your only concubine, and by proxy: lover - placed your favorite tea and a cup of the sweetest Swedish mead atop your table, that was brought across the Ottoman Bosphorus.

And during this moment, slight and short kisses were exchanged. First, she’d plant a peck on your cheekbone; then, she’ll decide that it wasn’t enough, then plant a peck on your lips; then, she’ll indulge her own desires, into a kiss that was more involved, of tongues and spittle.

It was clockwork, and she didn’t for a second notice this routine that she so adorably set for herself. And, how could you resist her? This matchwork routine never bored you, in fact, excited you to the very core.

And so, it’s very distressing when you can’t destroy her over the table, let her back bend in angles only ventriloquists even dare to attempt, let her throat return to its usual color after a daring handprint - white where you gripped - makes her squirt all over your expensive table.

But she leaves regardless, that’s her duty, because you’re so buried in work these past months, of course, being master of Europe is a job that’ll always be difficult. But, you don’t let her leave without a few words of encouragement. You grip her thin, soft wrist, leading her on so that her ears are closer to your mouth.

“I’ll fucking destroy you today.” The words had the intended effect, you felt the tremor in her body, that’s how you deconstruct Karina. If she’ll train you pavlov-style, you’ll fight back, fire with fire, and you’ll fucking win.

You let your hand go below her dress, and grab, hard, on the soft ass-cheek that so cheekily points towards you. God. You’re already salivating thinking of all the ways you can get Karina to wet your entire master bedroom.

It’s a shame she’s so brilliant at desktop research: you would’ve had her, under your desk, suckling on your nuts and your length till hell freezes over.

Royalty from the eastern world, Karina was suddenly here, in Paris. She cites her reasons to be fairly absurd, she was just forgotten: she wasn’t royalty to the extent of high status, rather a scholarly sort of lineage that lost any sort of favor with the Chinese Emperor, and to your understanding, was a sort of exile. You just hope, somewhat, that you provide her the homeliness that she deserves and desires.

Oh, and, yeah, it’s a fucking surprise that Karina loves to be submitted so fully.

—

The steam of the bath rose in the heavily humid room, dew drops form on your face - the day’s hardships melted off your face, physically and mentally. Especially because Karina was next to you, with a scrub that’s often too harsh for princely skin rubbed considerately all over your body.

“Eyes up here, amor.” While she scrubbed the remaining area of your chest.

“No.” As is, cause, how can anyone keep their eyes off.. that?

“Heyy!” She splashes some water toward you, some sort of cover to hide her beautiful breasts.

Oh, now her arms are covering it, such a shame.

“Karina, let me.” Pointing towards the scrub, and of course, Karina suspects some ulterior motive; and, it’s justified, you’ve failed 100% of the time to avoid her breasts.

You place your hand on her shoulder, let handfuls of water flow off the perfect curve of her back - you could do it for hours. Then lightly press on her skin with the palm of your hand; then, softly moving your palms around the entirety of her body while you are behind her.  She’d already washed, and your request to wash her body was a pathetic excuse to touch her body - but, she never seems to mind it, her face knits in a fake frustration, then when she’s turned around, she slowly vibrates against your firm touch.

Sometimes, this turns into a wet fuck session around the large bathroom, and today, might just be one of those days. Because, the hand that trailed her shoulders, then her collarbone couldn’t stop its firm grasp on her throat. 

She lets out the faintest gasp, she wants it, she so badly wants to be ravaged against these tiles of various blue hues. Her head retreats back, letting it slot right in the dip of your clavicle as you begin pinching her pink nipples - erect in a place as humid and hot as this place can only mean one thing only: an utter rutting desire to be fucked into oblivion.

She’s just begging for it, her resting head on your clavicle turns to the side, trying her best to goad you in some way - and, you’d wish she’d stop, otherwise both of you wouldn’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Yet, still, she nibbles on your earlobe, trailing kisses on the side of your princely face. If you asked her what reward she desires, and as a joke, she’ll say your dick, your hands, your lips, but sometimes you suspect whether or not that was some Freudian slip showing her true intentions.

That hand that endlessly teased her breast trailed down her body, letting you feel the curvature from the tip of nipple to her underboob, then the slight curvatures of her abdomen, sleekly muscular yet feminine. Then the purely smooth lower pelvis, and finally, her flower - a word that she begged for her pussy to be called, rather than it being used for its intended purpose, it quickly turned to a joke.

And… this is where she seriously breathes in, preparing for the soft onslaught she has to face with the pads of your fingers trailing over her sopping wet cunt. Circles around her hooded clit, wet to the touch, slick, and you’re just dying to have a look. And she’s just dying with the arousal, not even penetrative, and she’s already creaming on your fingers.

“You’re a fucking slut.” You nearly growl into Karina’s ears. 

And her eyes are closed, fighting back against the onslaught of pleasure, yet still, she has something witty to say, “I - I’ll seri- seriously just leave.”

“I doubt that, you good-for-nothing slut,” you tighten the grip on her throat, and she just begins gyrating her hips over your fingers, speeding up every so often until she’s just about to climax.

And then she’s just rutting her hips, against nothing, and every so often her pussy looks for the phantom feeling that your fingers left just at the cusp of her orgasm, leading to an unsatisfactory orgasm. Now, that’s fucking irritating, and she’ll press you until the end of time for that, and you’ll fucking love it.

The finger that dwelled on her wet cunt, that also left prematurely, swiftly went to her face, first, a soft slap on her cheek, then a shove into her mouth - there, she’ll taste the essence of herself. 

Oh, and she’s just loving it, you don’t even have to look at her to see in your peripheral that her mouth is just perpetually letting out these uneven moans - moans indicative of the highest pleasure - and her dilated pupils just rolling everywhere.

“How do you feel that you get an intense orgasm from just the cyclical motion of one or two fingers, huh?”

You pull her neck in, and she’s just blasted out of her mind - all sorts of pleasured, and she hasn’t even sampled the main course yet.

“I lo���ve it… so much,” you swore you could see heart pupils for a moment when Karina was staring at you: she wants your dick to punch against her cervix.

“That’s right. Who’s the master? Who owns you entirely?” 

“You! Amor, you are my master.” She’s back to reality, but she’s even more insatiable, the way her eyes dart every second down to your erect length.

Well, you’ll just have to give it to her.

This time, you both enter back into the knee-deep part of the bath, and as standard protocol would have it, she’s bent over, perniciously waiting and rutting.

And then you realize something, that she doesn’t have the largest bedazzled diamond ring on her ring finger. The smack was loud enough that Karina immediately, abandoning all pretenses of a submissive session, came over to attend to you. 

“I’m sorry Karina.”

And, she seemed to know exactly what you were thinking about, the facepalm, the tone.

And she hugged you, “That’s okay, amor, I would’ve waited until the end of time.”

A contradiction that shows how badly she wanted to be called your wife.

It’s rather ridiculous, this situation, this relationship, all of it, but you couldn’t be happier.

You’d propose, and she’d say yes, then you would resume destroying her soft and supple pussy, then cream it with your baby batter.

“I’ll get the biggest diamond ring.”

“Hmph. You better.” Pretty angel.

“That’s a yes?” You ask, just to be sure.

“Dummy.” Karina kisses you deep, stroking your cock while she’s at it. 

And she knows that you’re gonna say something stupid like, “cockdrunk slut, you want it so bad?” so she’d rather just seal your mouth with a kiss, either way, you’re happy to oblige.

Then, the fateful penetration, the way Karina still stares at you - the same as the day you deflowered her - is always the extra hardness that drives Karina crazy.

Face-to-face, your dick prods at her squishy entrance; then, you enter, the velvety folds full of the arousal that Karina accumulated, likely, from the assgrab at the office, so almost the entire day. That’s why it’s so soft, yet so succulent. Everytime you exit, her pussy drags along, smearing a trail of her delicate arousal, flowery, from her flower.

And, she’s just fucking losing it.

“I love it! Amor! I love it so fu- fucking much!” Her voice gets all manners of shaky, and misconstrued, yet she’ll still profess her love for you.

And, you just know exactly what’ll drive her over the edge. A grasp on her throat, and a steady stream of hard slaps against her ass, or the side of her thighs - any place’ll do, in fact.

Up and down, up and down, her breasts - perfectly aligned with the law of inertia, has a delayed bounce that just interests you to no end, and Karina will stare at you, confused at how a person could love someone’s breasts so much. You probably couldn’t name a single thing that you disliked about her body, or her personality or anything for that matter.

And that’s the progressive upscale, the deadly slope that you climb, your thoughts get more opulent and luxurious as you approach climax. Everything becomes one-sided truths, that’s when you know you’re about to cum.

“Karina, where do you want it?”

“I want it everywhere, especially inside me.” 

“As you wish, dear.” One thrust, then two, then three.

You grab hold of her asscheeks, one completely red and the other normal, both’ll get the treatment that you administer. Then you enter to the deepest part possible, and you’re just completely painting her insides, your throbbing length pulsating till the very last second.

“Argh!” You growl against her.

And she moans, squeals, an unintelligible amount of squirt trails down her legs while you’re still face-to-face. 

She’s on her 5th orgasm, she must’ve really like the assurance for the ring.

As you pull the plug, a stream of semen just trails out of her, passing her folds, then trailing against her left thigh - what a fucking sight.

And, with an intense propensity, you pull Karina down, holding all her hair as she cleans your cock.

When she finishes, remnants of semen still on her chin, looking up, she says, “Amor.”

And you reply, “Dear.” Rubbing her soft, pliant face.

[saintrosalyn]

Hear me out hear me out

John Price deserved to be divorced.

IM SORRY.

But young John Price who jumped the gun and proposed. Afterall it was well known how many men got married and had families while on deployment, if they could do it so could he. But he couldn't.

He was never home. Sitting next to his wife and his mind was still in middle of nowhere Russia.

And really there's only so much on person can take. His wife could forgive the forgotten gifts for anniversaries, birthdays, and Christmases. But she couldn’t even find comfort in his presence. She begged him to change, begged him to leave, begged him to choose her. And he did.

For awhile. Then it was back to the same. So she filed for divorce.

And think of the potential. Older, wiser, had everything and lost it John Price winning back the love of his life.

Who cares if she's already moved on with a husband and kids. If he could be a father figure for his men he could certainly step-up for his wife's kids. And her husband? Well, darlin, accidents happen all the time.

[pixiecaps]

trump: russia would have never attacked if i was the president-

moderator: trump the question was will you accept the results of the election regardless of who wins

[deaddee-anime-brownfanlady]

I will never understand the constant hesitation and back and forth bullshit from other countries when it comes to helping Ukraine not be completely fucked over by Russia.

Like Russia is out here getting help and weaponry from other dictatorship nations, be it getting missiles from the Iranian regime or drones from China to literally having help from North Korea in terms of actual having North Korean soldiers fighting alongside Russia against Ukraine on fucking Ukrainian soil.

But you still got either the U.S and the rest of Western Europe that are still hesitant when comes to giving advanced weaponry to Ukraine and letting them strike back and win this war.

I don’t get it, like do ya'll other countries want Ukraine to win this war or not. Or have Russia/Putin and the rest of these dictatorship nations have a field day fucking up everything in terms of global security in the next couple of decades because they see weakness in Europe and the rest of the West due to the refusal to stand up against tyrannical dictators and stand up for democratic values.

Ukraine is out here seriously trying there all to not have their country be fucked by a authoritarian regime and fighting for their survival and freedom and fighting for Europe security as well.

Yet you got European countries and certain people that are still 'whatever' when it comes to Russia imperialist invasion bullshit and still act like what's Russia is trying to do is still "No Big Deal".

[storiesforallfandoms]

nature trip ~ sergei "kraven" kravinoff;marvel

word count: 2675

request?: no

description: in which she's on a camping trip to explore and connect with nature, and she doesn't expect to run into anyone else

pairing: kraven x female!reader

warnings: swearing, one use of y/n, scary encounter with a jaguar but no one is harmed, mentions of cheating

masterlist (one, two, three)

My friends thought I was crazy when I told them I was going to northern Russia for a nature trip. Of all the places to go, they said, why would I want to go to Russia? Nobody understood that there was some of the most beautiful places in Russia, places that were hardly ever explored because everyone thought the same way as my friends did. Going there meant it was way less likely for me to run into anyone else. I could explore on my own, take in nature, reconnect with it. It's what I needed after the last few months.

My first night was very peaceful. I had set up camp far enough in a wooded area that, on the off chance anyone else was around, they wouldn't come across my camp. It was a warm enough night that I didn't need to have the extra cover on my tent and I could watch the stars before I drifted off to sleep. I woke up early enough to make myself breakfast from the small amount of food I had brought with me, pack up my camp, and set off to explore.

That is when things became much less peaceful.

I had found a trail to take. I was considering taking a break anyways. I had been walking so long that my legs were starting to hurt, and my water bottle was starting to run empty. So, I was in search of any body of water I could fill my bottle with and could sit down next to, when I heard the low growl.

I stopped. When there was no follow up noise, I was sure I had imagined it. But then I heard rustling, and then I saw the jaguar.

She was large, even at such a distance I could tell. She was low to the ground, stalking towards me; a predator stalking her prey. My heart was pounding so hard. I knew she could hear it. Predators knew when their prey was afraid, after all.

I knew coming across wildlife was likely. I thought it was something I'd be prepared for. But in that moment, I had never felt less prepared. My only thought was fight or flight, but I knew I'd never win a fight with a jaguar, and I likely wouldn't out run one either. I was completely helpless, with a large, snarling jaguar inching closer to me.

Suddenly, I wasn't alone. I thought I had imagined hearing more rustling, but then someone was stood in front of me. It was a man, and I truly had no idea where he came from. I could've sworn I was the only person out here. There hadn't been another campsite as far as I could tell.

He was stood between the jaguar and I, almost shielding me from her.

"Back down, girl," he said. His voice was both gentle and stern somehow. "This is not an enemy."

The jaguar lowered herself to the ground. She was still on alert, but it seemed like she was trusting this man. Her eyes kept flickering between us, a slight snarl still curled on her lips.

"Hey!" The jaguar's eyes snapped to him. "She's good. She's not here to hurt anyone. Walk away."

Her eyes found me again. I felt like she was studying me. I felt the need to shift so she could see my camping gear and understand that I wasn't going to hurt her. Not that she needed that reassurance. I'm sure we both knew she could easily take me down if she wanted to.

To my surprise, the jaguar rose from her crouched position. She kept her eyes on us as she stalked back into the woods.

The man turned to face me. It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. I couldn't understand what he was saying because his voice was muffled, but he was right in front of me. The edges of my vision was starting to go black. Next thing I knew, the man was rushing to catch me as I fell to the ground. My vision went black before I hit the ground.

~~~~~~

When I came to, it took me a while to remember what had happened. When it all came back to me, I sat up quickly. I had expected to find myself still on the ground in the woods, but instead I was laying on something soft; a bed. I looked around to see I was no longer in the woods, or even in my tent. I was in some sort of building, rounded and made completely of windows.

And I wasn't alone.

I jumped when my eyes landed on a man stood in the doorway. It took me a second to remember who he was.

"Good morning," he said, a light tone in his voice. "Are you feeling alright?"

I nodded. "What - uh - what happened?"

"You passed out," he explained. "It must've been the adrenaline wearing off from your run in with the jaguar. Or the shock kicking in. It's not an unusual reaction to have."

I tensed a little when he started to approach me. He noticed and stopped. He held something out to me, and that's when I realized he had been holding my water bottle, and he had filled it.

I reached out to take it from him. "Thanks."

The feeling of the cold liquid was refreshing. I downed nearly the entire bottle in one go.

I capped the bottle and looked back to my savior. "And thank you for saving me out there. How did you do that, though? I mean...she was a wild animal, and you just...talked her down."

"I have a way with animals," he answered, shrugging as if it were that simple.

I narrowed my eyes at him. I wasn't about to argue when it came to how he saved my life, but it didn't mean I couldn't be skeptical. How was someone able to speak to a wild animal to stop it from attacking? Even if he "had a way with animals", no one was that good with any animal.

"My name is Sergei, by the way," he said. I mentally noted his quick change in subject.

"(Y/N)," I said. "Where are we?"

"My home."

I looked at him with wide eyes. "You live out here?"

He chuckled. "It's that hard to believe?"

"Kind of. I did research about this place before my trip and there was nothing about anyone living out here."

"I like to keep it that way. Less people bothering me."

"Except for campers who run into angry jaguars."

He nodded, an amused smile on his face. "Yeah, except for campers who run into angry jaguars."

There was an awkward moment of silence. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do now. I guess I should've been planning to leave. After all, Sergei only saved me and brought me here because I had fainted. I wasn't supposed to be a guest or anything. But I wasn't exactly jumping to go back out into the woods again. I knew I would have to eventually, but the encounter was still too fresh in my mind.

Sergei broke the silence by saying, "I made food if you're hungry."

My stomach rumbled in response. We both laughed and Sergei gestured for me to follow him. I stood slowly from the bed, testing my ability to stand and walk after having been laid down for so long.

I couldn't believe how big Sergei's place was. I still didn't understand how he was able to live in secrecy like this. There was no way nobody had ever come across his place before. A giant dome home in the middle of nowhere was certainly enough to even just be added to a "trivia" section on Wikipedia when researching the area.

"I hope you like fish," Sergei was saying, snapping me from my trance. "The only other thing I have is some vegetable made food if you don't."

"I can eat fish," I said. "Do you gather your own food?"

"I catch fish to eat, and I have a garden," he explained. "I don't go after any of the other wildlife out here. I don't eat any meat."

"Just fish."

He gave me a look. I would've thought I had offended him, but there was a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I don't get along with fish as well as I do other animals."

He passed me a plate of his self caught, homecooked fish, as well as some of his home grown vegetables. To say I was impressed would be an understatement. I couldn't remember the last time I had ever met someone who was this self sufficient. I mean, I had one friend who had a garden, but she mainly grew a few carrots and strawberries. Sergei seemed to be completely living off the land.

I took a mouthful of the meal Sergei had given me. It was delicious, and a much needed change from the protein bars and other smaller foods I had taken with me.

"What were you doing out in the woods anyways?" Sergei asked me.

"Camping," I responded.

He raised an eyebrow at me. "In Russia?"

I nodded. "I was looking for somewhere that other people don't typically go to. Somewhere that I could be by myself and get in touch with nature."

"And you didn't prepare for the event of running into dangerous wildlife."

I looked down at my plate as I shrugged. There was something about admitting how unprepared I was for that situation that kind of made me embarrassed, although I wasn't sure why. Who is ever really prepared to run into a jaguar? Besides Sergei, apparently.

"I knew it was likely," I said. "I guess I just didn't fully prepare myself in the event of it happening."

More silence fell over us. I could feel his eyes on me, studying me the way the jaguar had. I didn't want to meet his eye, though. I was feeling a little intimidated, just as I had when the jaguar had been watching me so closely.

"Most people go to Canada to camp," he pointed out. "Or like...Australia."

I scoffed. "You saw how unprepared I was for a jaguar. You really think I was ready to go toe to toe with snakes and giant spiders?"

He chuckled. "No, I guess not."

"Besides, like I said, I wanted to go somewhere that other people weren't going to go to. Somewhere that I could just...be alone. That I could reconnect with nature and clear my head."

Sergei hummed. "There's a story there."

I dared to look up at him, trying to glare. I hadn't noticed before - mainly because I was fearing for my life - but he was an incredibly handsome man. His dark hair a little long and unruly, but not in a way that made him look a mess or anything. It made him more appealing, actually.

"There's a story as to why you're living all the way out here on your own and keep a low enough profile for no one else to know you're here," I retorted.

He nodded. "There is."

I kept looking at him, expecting him to go on. Not that he owed me an explanation or anything, just like I didn't owe him one for why I was on a nature trip the furthest away from society that I could get. But I'd be lying if I said my interest wasn't piqued.

He was looking back at me, though, the same look on his face.

I sighed. "My story is boring."

"Who says mine isn't?"

"I have a hunch there isn't much boring about you."

He smiled, but he didn't say anything else. I knew he wasn't going to back down. So, because my curiosity to know more about Sergei was killing me, I rolled my eyes and said, "I've had a rough few months."

He shook his head. "You gotta give me more than that."

I let out another sigh. "I found out my boyfriend of a year was cheating on me with someone from his work for six months. He dumped me and immediately started flaunting around his relationship with her. And the way I found out was because I was passed over for a promotion I had been promised weeks ago in favor of someone else who hasn't been with my company even half as long as I have, so I was driving over to his place for comfort and found him fucking someone else instead. Oh, and then my fish died."

"Jesus," he breathed.

I nodded. "Yeah. So...your turn."

He hesitated. For a second I thought he wasn't going to tell me, and I was going to remind him that I had just dumped my trauma on him so it wasn't fair to not tell me his. Finally, he said, "I needed to get away from my dad."

I looked at him for a moment before gesturing for him to continue."

"He wasn't a good man. He...he did terrible things. To my mom, mainly, but also to my brother and I. I was sick of it. This place used to belong to my mom, so I ran away from home one night and came here. I keep a low profile so my dad can't find me here."

"That's a pretty far distance to run."

"The further the better."

I stabbed at the food on my plate. Suddenly I was not feeling as hungry as I was before. Something about exchanging traumas left a sour taste in my mouth.

"That's why there's no record of anyone living out this way," I said, mainly to myself but Sergei was nodding along anyways. "Has anyone ever found you out here?"

He shook his head. "I'm not found unless I want to be."

"And...you wanted me to find you?"

"Technically I found you."

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, yes, but you brought me back here. And don't say that's because I fainted, because you could've just stayed with me in the woods and left when you knew I was alright. You're okay with me knowing that you're here."

For the first time, Sergei turned away from me. Now it was him who was unable to meet my eye.

"I don't meet a lot of good people," he finally said. "Out here, there's a lot of poachers and hunters. There's never anyone who is just trying to connect with nature. You...intrigued me, for a lack of better words."

I almost wanted to laugh. This man was living off grid in Russia, in a huge sanctuary that once belonged to his mother. He was able to communicate with animals in one way or another, he was completely self sufficient, and, once again, he was probably the most gorgeous man I had ever laid my eyes on. And yet he was saying that I was the intriguing one, just because I wasn't trying to destroy the nature.

When my food was gone, I reluctantly pushed my plate towards him. "Thank you, again. For...well, everything. I guess...I should probably get back out there."

Sergei nodded. "I guess."

I went to stand, when he added, "Or you could...you could stay a bit longer. If you'd prefer. I know it's not exactly camping here, but...there's no jaguars."

"That's a pretty good sales pitch."

He smiled. "It's up to you, but I don't often get company out here that I actually like. I...I wouldn't mind getting to spend more time together."

I tried to seem nonchalant. I shrugged my shoulders, as if I couldn't be bothered with the decision making, and mumbled something along the lines of, "I guess I could."

But Sergei could see right through me. The look he was giving me was enough to completely shatter the facade. "I would love to stay, Sergei."

In fact, I didn't care if I ever left.

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [1]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: below the cut - 2.2k words

you're the pampered wife of a russian warlord. ghost hunts you down and finds a use for you.

Hello loves, a brief intermission from me (quick I promise) - I thought it would be fun to cross-post my Ao3 fic Houndtooth on tumblr. It is still in progress!

Needless to say, this fic comes with some content warnings: implied SA (not by Ghost), drug addiction, waterboarding, and heavy physical violence.

Reader insert goes by her alias, Mia, a name she invented to protect herself in her previous profession.

​If I cannot be feared, I must be loved.

There’s something special about you. 

Something sickly. 

Your body, your lips, your eyes. Bait like dripping entrails in a loose twine net; dragging bloody along the wooded, overgrown path of your life, and luring ravenous carnivores to your trail around every bend. 

It’s something you’ve grown accustomed to, expectant of – that lecherous scrutiny, from any man you have ever met, or ever might. Used to the huffing snouts that suck in the vapour of your beguiling skin, tonguing it like they might ever get to take a bite. 

Offering mouthfuls of yourself is the only way you have been able to keep them at bay. Appeasing when necessary. Rebuffing only when you can be certain that your extermination will not be the consequence. 

Sometimes they gnaw at you anyway. Sometimes their canines sink rapaciously into your soft flesh, popping through your skin like it’s the velvety hide of a peach. They drink the sweet pink syrup until you’re bled dry, careful to spit out the cyanide core once they've finished. 

Until that poisonous pit, coated in the stringy viscera that those teeth had missed, was all that was left of you. 

So, when your husband found you, dressed as the hound-bait character you played along the redlight strip, you were allured by the promise that he might plant you again. Maybe, with his exorbitant riches and clandestine occupation, he might water you and fertilise your soil, he might let your pit sprout into a sapling. Maybe, your branches might blossom again. 

When he expatriated you to Russia, his snow-blown motherland, you imagined yourself a Tsarina; jejunely clinging to his arm like you might fly away with him, carried to an undefiled paradise as though he were your archangel and you his rapture. 

That was the last time you loved him. 

One step off that jet, the first leap with your exuberant paw; there was no paradise, no utopia waiting for you. Landing hard on icy cement, your husband was quick to stifle your lament. Offered you oxycodone like pebbles of dogfood in the palm of his hand, swearing you an unending supply – his remuneration for your services, whose nature you were not yet privy to. 

But those opioids were your wage. 

They were your shackles, too. 

Even if you managed to outrun your paralysing addiction to them, it didn’t take you long to be tackled and smothered by your intemperate dependence on your husband himself. 

On his status, on his money, on his reputation. 

Without, you would have been long used and discarded, tossed hollow and floppy like freshly flayed doeskin; exsanguinated by the very men he colludes with, the very creatures that slither into your home, that sit at your table and speak puzzles in their Cyrillic tongues. 

The very beasts who your husband endeavours to entertain and indulge with your presence at his side – a glittering trophy, or a ripe fruit, juicy and plump. He holds you in greedy hands and brandishes the shine of your skin, he polishes you with a firm palm on your ass, he boasts his possession of you with a hot tongue on your cheek. 

The prize they can never win, that’s what you are. The meal they can never devour. Only his teeth have the privilege of gorging on your supple flesh. 

With your English passport long stolen from you, you are left with no option but to be grateful for that fact – that your husband does not whore you out to his compatriots, does not sell your body for some other man to graze on or to pick at, like you used to do yourself. 

That is one of the few reprieves he offers you. 

Protection. 

Maybe, if you had never met him, you would have eventually crawled out of the chasm that your previous life had sunk to. If you had never met him, you might have found a way to break free from your dependence on those poppies. If you had never met him, you might have found worth for yourself beyond the coins hungry men would offer you in exchange for a taste of you. 

But any hope you may have had in those days is a distant, futile memory. A bittersweet daydream you sometimes venture to. 

Frozen in your sordid reality, you’ve no option but to indulge him. 

To oblige him, whatever he wants from you, you play the role he carved out just for you to fill. You massage his neck after a long day. You listen to his broken English as he does his best to explain what had happened at work, in as little detail as possible, in an effort to shield you from the truth of his profession. You swallow his cock when he asks you to. You pretend to let him satiate you all the same, a professional actor you are – you sing those moans for him, when he licks you, when he fucks you, when he pledges to impregnate you. 

He doesn’t know you’ve got a copper coil in your womb. You tell him there’s something wrong with his come, he doesn’t believe you. He sends you a doctor, and with his money, you pay them to lie. 

That’s the other perquisite, one you can’t belittle. 

His money. 

His mountains, mountains, mountains of money. 

None of it tangible, no real cash, no paper stacks tucked away in places any brave burglars might be able to find it. All of it digital, little numbers, binary code hidden behind so many layers of encryption it’s a wonder it can be counted at all. 

But there’s never a need to count it. All you know is that it is unending. 

He lets you spend it how you like, and there’s no amount of expenditure that could ever put a dent in his wealth large enough for him to notice. 

Still, the prince, he imprisons you in his castle. You can throw invisible money at whatever your bored and inebriated heart might desire, any priceless art, any extortionate car, any lavish designer shoes – and it means nothing. It fills no void. There’s nobody to show it off to. 

It appeased you, at first, after your stint of homelessness, then your weeks living in a dim red brothel, until he found you. When he offered you such a nauseating amount of money as payment for your salacious dance, that you felt your knees buckle beneath you at the sight of it. When he took you shopping and bought new lingerie to decorate you with, when he carted you giddy to his private jet. 

All too good to be true. 

And it was. 

Too late now, anyway. This is the hand you’ve been dealt; you play your cards as best you can. Close to your chest. Who knows when you’ll fold. 

You lean over the marble vanity, the harsh, downward lighting of the gaudy ensuite carves out the divots and lumps of your face that are typically imperceptible. 

You used to think you were beautiful. That’s what everyone told you. 

But watching your husband’s cold semen trickle down your décolletage, saturating and staining the invaluable lace and silk chiffon of your rosy babydoll, drying flaky on your skin – you can only see lipstick on a pig. An ugly little creature, destined for the slaughter. Your belly waiting to be made into crackling, your ass into bacon. It won’t be long now. 

You sense that you are beginning to overstay your welcome. What had once been pliancy had now turned stiff and sharp. Any sweetness you once felt for the man who swept you off your feet has since coagulated into bitter milk, too lumpy to swallow, so instead, you spit. 

The contempt inside your husband has been bubbling, fermenting. You can see it, and feel it, and taste it. He made it known to you especially tonight, fucking you with the brutality of a rabid animal, clutching and clawing, tugging and throwing, biting and beating. Painting you with his come to humiliate you, to degrade you, to remind you what you are, and always will be. He got some of it in your eye. 

There’s a bruise on your collarbone. It’s not the first he’s given you. It won’t be the last. 

You wipe away the crusting fluid with an opulent towel, dampened with warm water; lush white cotton turning creamy and black as it cleans away the come and mascara. You use it to dab clean your negligee. It’s your favourite one.  

Clink.

Your ears perk. 

Clash. 

Frozen on your feet, your head darts to face the door to the ensuite - heavy and ornate, it sits ajar. Last you checked, your husband was asleep, snoring like a fucking engine. The silence that follows the peculiar noise is what unsettles you most. 

Maybe it was him reaching for the pills on his nightstand, or readjusting the eiderdown duvet he sleeps under. But you’d expect a grunt, at least, some huffs of complaint as he was forced to do something for himself for once. 

Instead, quiet. 

You know that your husband keeps guns around the estate. Both figuratively, in the forms of armed and well-paid sentries that roam the grounds and stand guard by the doors. And, literally. A pistol in the kitchen, a shotgun in his cupboard, an assault rifle under the coffee table. 

And, you remember, a Beretta under the sink. 

With quivering and cautious fingers, you reach for the brass handle of the drawer. 

“Милый?” Sweetie?

You utter it softly, hesitantly, sweetly. He once told you your accent sounds native when you pamper him with pet names. English is your first language, Russian now your second. He doesn’t know how much of it you can understand. More than he believes. 

But there is no answer from him. Not a word, nor a groan, nor a snore. 

“Все ли в порядке?” Is everything alright?

Your careful fingertips dive into the drawer, momentarily peeking down to find the black metal. A pant of relief jumps from your throat when your fingers find it, that cold handle; you take it in the palm of your hand, it moulds to your grip like it was made for you. 

He showed you once how to load it. 

You remember. 

You clutch the slide with a harsh grip, tugging it back, click-snap. 

The safety is off. You’re not that stupid. 

“Дорогой?” Sweetheart?

Calls turn to pleas. 

You know vaguely the line of work in which your husband is a kingpin. You know it most likely involves bloodshed. 

And, so, you guess it involves fucking people over. That it incites vengeance. That it creates martyrs. 

Normally, the guards help you sleep, their thudding boots and murmuring chatter keeping the retribution at bay. 

Why is it so quiet? 

Thud.

Creak.

Now you resent yourself for calling for him. You’ve made your position obvious. You’ve handed yourself on a platter. 

Perhaps you can sneak to the hallway. 

Or, perhaps you can simply check to see if it’s your husband, skulking around your bedroom and choosing to silently ignore you out of spite. 

So on your bare toes, you glide along the glossy tiled floor, pit pat, pit pat. Feline fingers clutch the edge of the door. You gently draw it open, ever so slowly, the golden hinges moaning quietly at their awakening. 

You hold your weapon by your side. You keep your finger off the trigger. God knows what you’d do if you shot your husband by accident. You might be better off just turning the gun on yourself, in that case, rather than be left to the dogs. You know what their teeth would do to you. 

The bedroom is dark. 

The silvery glow of the moon is the only source of light, bar the dim orange now emerging from the open ensuite door. Your kittenish shadow stretches out before you onto the velvety carpeted floor, your shape carved out even through the sheer fabric of your negligée. 

“Не двигайся, черт возьми.” Don’t fucking move.

Your breath lodges in your throat, wedged in your trachea like you had swallowed a jagged rock. 

Not your husband. 

No, that voice is far too deep, too grumbling, too threatening. 

So who? 

“Кто ты, черт возьми?” Who the fuck are you?

You hiss it, a growl, though only the kind a snarling little chihuahua might spit out when touched by an overbearing hand. 

Hidden from the moonlight, the figure prowls through the shadow. Towering, imperious, that silhouette renders you frigid - you swallow as much oxygen as your stiff diaphragm will allow you. Not much. 

Four red beads of light stretch in a line where his eyes should be, reminiscent of a hunting spider; high enough off the ground that it might be crawling up the walls, hanging from its silk, ready to ensnare you. No, that’s just how tall the beast is as it stalks you. 

The glint of the moon reflects off the glistening barrel of his gun. Gun feels like an understatement. It’s immense, black. Machine more fitting. Pointed at you. Coaxing. Warning. He gives it a shake. 

“Брось этот крошечный пистолет, шлюха.” Drop that little gun of yours, slut.

The more he talks, the more you doubt. His accent is weak. Not a Russian. 

“Чего ты хочешь, мудак? Деньги?” What do you want, asshole? Money?

He scoffs. Arrogant. Scornful. 

“I don’t want your fuckin’ blood money, you evil little bitch.” 

English. 

Explains the accent. 

But, you’re left with more questions. One, what the fuck? 

“Drop the gun. Or I might get your blood on that pretty dress.” 

You hesitate. He pounces. 

“Сейчас!” Now!

[dostoyevsky-official]

this a view of someone who's ignored european developments since 2007, opting for a rosy, outdated view of european politics, i.e. the exact type of american committing the exact type of mistake i'm warning about.

to address this point by point: not only has inflation been a global issue, but the US has consistently enjoyed the lowest inflation of any developed economy. american CPI has remained below the british, polish, and eurozone average numbers. european economies have to deal with fallout from the russian invasion of ukraine that the us can ignore: notably, in energy prices, as the US became self-sufficient in energy (and never imported any from russia to begin with, something squeezing the german economy). america is also not hosting millions of ukrainian refugees.

when discussing european instutions—and "europe" in general—one has to be more specific. do you mean the overarching institutions of the EU, criticized for a democratic deficit that many have pinpointed as one source for euro-skepticism and the rise of the far right? the EU Council, widely ignored and headed by charles michel, an incompetent, blatant nepobaby appointment whom everyone grinds their teeth over? the EU parliament, recently filled with a fresh batch of far-right hooligans, which functions more or less as a rubber stamp for the commission? the EU commission itself, headed by VdL, the latest in a string of failed local politician commissioners (who remembers the alcoholic swindler juncker?) masquerading as technocrats? the ECB, which smothers the monetary (and through the maastricht criteria, the fiscal) policy of eurozone members, thereby fueling resentment, far-right movements, and economic disparity? and all of this held hostage by the veto of one orban or fico, —or the german supreme court, when it decides it's had enough with public investment. those institutions, which remain so opaque that even educated americans—and europeans—aren't entirely aware of their function?

or do we mean the institutions of individual countries, ranging from undemocratic autocracies like hungary to the fief of the jupiter king, who called elections in june, lost them, refused to nominate a prime minister from the winning coalition, didn't name any for over a month, and then appointed a rightwing politician from a party that scored dead last, sidestepping his own centrist party? the UK, where sir keir is handing out five years in jail time to climate protesters, raising tuition fees, relying on private investment companies, and through rachel reeves' plan to fix the alleged budget hole left by hunt before further investment, again enacting austerity? this is all front-page headline news from the last half year.

european countries indeed have cheaper healthcare costs, better pensions, and other public goods that the united states does not. when considering "quality of life," remember, however, that most european countries have unemployment rates considered astronomic in america, especially for under-35s:

to focus again and again on european social democracy is to ignore that it has been steadily eroded since the end of the cold war and especially since the great recession by neoliberal political forces that crush the left and open the door for the far right. in the most blatant example, beside's macron's legislative politricks, the IMF-ECB-EC troika cut off euro cash liquidity flow to greece when syriza was trying to undo austerity under varoufakis. the greek collapse consigned a generation to economic failure, killed seniors, and curtailed possibilities for the youth. this erosion happened even in the nordic model, long imagined by americans as nothing short of a utopia:

In part due to the scrapping of wealth and inheritance taxes and a lower corporate tax than both the U.S. and European averages, Sweden has one of the most unequal distributions of wealth in the world today: on a level with Bahrain and Oman, and worse than the United States. Perhaps most dispiriting for Sanders, Sweden also now hosts the highest proportion of billionaires per capita in the world. Many of the country’s trademark social services are now provided by private firms. Its private schools even benefit from the same level of state subsidy as public schools—a voucher system far more radical than anything in the United States and that Democratic politicians would be crucified for advocating. Both here and there, right-leaning commentators in 2020 decried Sanders’s portrait as little more than what Johan Norberg, Swedish author of The Capitalist Manifesto, has called a 1970s “pipedream.” On this, Swedish observers on the left gloomily agree: despite official rhetoric, the “Nordic welfare model” is now more nostalgic myth than reality. (x)

to problematize further, there's an unadressed first world perspective: who's getting the good quality of life, why are the main economies of the EU so wealthy, and how does the EU continue to enrich itself? there are certainly many living outdoors today, drowning in the mediterranean, or dying of exposure in białowieża. fortress europe is a crime against humanity—and it doesn't beat back the far right. it weakens civic and human rights, undermines legal oversight, and criminalizes humanitarian engagement, allowing an authoritarian creep.

you shouldn't understand the political and the historical as a snapshot in time, but as a moving train. this is the state of europe today. all of the above is necessarily a simplification and an abbreviation, but there's a trajectory you can begin to trace out: given all of the above, where do you think europe is headed?

[baby-tini]

i cannot stop thinking abt the idea of fyodor being previously married long ago, living on the outskirts of russia, truly in love with his wife. but ofc something happens. she gets murdered, or he outlives her, etc. so he spends the rest of his life looking for her reincarnations. the first time is a shock, immediately recognizing her quirks and attitude. but she doesnt remember him in that life. no matter how hard he tries. then the search is on. ofc his mission takes him wide and far, but he’s fyodor. sometimes he finds her, other times he doesnt. she never remembers him. except in this life… where a chance meeting at a coffeehouse, bonding over ‘his’ pumpkin stew (it was originally her recipe) on a snowy winters day, the light in his eyes glints just right, so utterly in love with his previous wife… and it clicks for her. she remembers. she remembers him, their love, their life together. all those meetings. how he must love her… but. theres one problem. the ring on her finger. in this life, she’s been happily married for three years, by a sweet man, who takes such good care of her. someone she does truly love.

none other than fyodor’s biggest rival. osamu dazai.

-💕

Ooooh tea!!!! Fyodor would kill Dazai, and I'm being so serious when I say that. He'd. Kill. Him. This woman that he's been in love with for centuries, his everything is with Dazai, Dazai of all people?!?! He's quite disgusted, he's such a down-grade in Fyodors eyes. This isn't a contest too win you over, this is Fyodor coming too collect what is rightfully his, what belongs to him. This will end in nothing but blood-shed, and really, this is all your choice, but doesn't really matter who you choose because the other will not relent. If you choose Dazai because of how long you've been married for and you're happy in this relationship, Fyodor will be waiting around every corner too take you back with him and if you choose Fyodor because again, the wide range of history that you have with him... you'll just be adding more fuel to the fire that is Dazais want too keep you with him. I can't really think of a situation where you'll still have freedom. Because, if it was anyone else, they'd have no problem getting rid of that threat but... it's not. They competing against someone that is able too predict their movements to a "t" and they don't like that, not one bit and you'll be caught in the crossfire, no matter who you choose or where you go, the other will not let you go.