#fucking hell i hate russia and i hate russians for how their civilians get to not participate in this war

[mothmvn]

fucking sucks how this year has gone honestly. even the holidays will be shit because the entire time there'll be the threat of celebratory missile strikes on my home city

[jacensolodjo]

I really need people to stop with 'Russians gave up protesting after being knocked down so often'. Or any other variety of 'poor Russians'.

Like do you HEAR yourself? Do you even have an IDEA of how stupid that is? Yes, everyone has their breaking point but not an entire population.

What you are describing is more accurately "anticipatory obedience". By claiming defeat before you even start, you show the people who shouldn't have power how far they can go. A lot of these groups don't start out going 'hell yeah we're so badass we're so strong no one can stop us we're going to pull out all the stops ASAP'. They're going to be gradual. And it is the population's choice to push back or to just live life on their knees.

No group is powerful enough to suck the strength out of a population the moment they appear.

The NKVD is considered as bloodthirsty and murderous as they are because they executed nearly a million people in the time they were an entity. They chose to do it. They executed people face-to-face through their own initiative. Wanna know how we know? Because they'd shoot people in the street at the slightest provocation. Sound familiar? Yeah, Russians have been doing it again in Ukraine, just full on executing innocent civilians for no reason whatsoever. Even ones in surrender pose.

You get knocked down you get right the back fuck up again. Russians decided en masse they liked the new status quo. Russians hate that Ukrainians don't.

The West called Ukraine the 'most corrupt nation' but I guess they weren't paying attention to Ukrainian response to said corrupted government: it's called Euromaidan. And indeed, how could it be the most corrupt when you literally have Russia right the fuck there anyway? Every election is bought. Russians continue to love the status quo.

They just don't like it being brought up. They don't like being named guilty. They would rather make excuses than do anything remotely useful. To say nothing of their 'supporters' (seriously how do you continue to support a group like this at every opportunity but revile any other group who does the same shit? How do you sleep at night?)

Ukrainians fixed the problem of a corrupt leader. And, hey, so did Americans. Big Orange got ousted at the next election.

But where is Putin? Still in power. Sham election or not, there are other ways to overthrow leaders. Ukrainians showed Russians the way. But I guess Russians left their pen and pad of paper in their other pants.

Putin has been in power since 1999. Russians have had 2 1/2 DECADES. That doesn't happen unless you're really comfortable with the status quo. And don't give me 'but the USSR lasted--" there's a real big difference between gov't and leader so please. Or, perhaps more importantly: Russians have a history of being comfy with the status quo. They have been butthurt since 1991 when Ukraine declared independence. Because, again, Ukraine shows the way but Russians leave their note taking tools elsewhere.

Easier to die mad about it than to do something constructive, I guess.

[alightineverydarkness]

A Correction (For Jonathan Franzen)

As I stand in the sand, staring, enhanced, far into a field in front of me through the lens of a high-end rangefinder, measuring distances and angles to upcoming aims, and the smoke where our last shell hit is clearing, the colonel is repeating the word corrections behind me. I'd just relayed to him the distance and angle of our last hit, and he and the lieutenant are calculating new firing data taking into account wind speed, temperature, and our previous hit: the corrections. I cannot overstate the importance of the corrections, says colonel. A lieutenant colonel comes by, takes out of a pocket of his uniform what looks to be a page from a book, tears it up into neat rectangles and throws it down on the sand: there's your wind speed, boys, he says.

Bits of the page fall in a rough ellipse, like a soft vase broken upon soft sand. He takes two big, meter-long steps to the middle of the ellipse: that's four meters a second. Tear the page, throw it to the ground: there's your corrections. It was as if he was addressing me — I'd just finished re-reading The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen yesterday in bed (a yoga mat on wooden floorboard). I look around: is there anyone I could tell the whole story I see here?

Dear Jonathan Franzen, I'm sure you're so, so tired of this shit, but I have a correction. The gist of it is so simple and poignant even you couldn't make that shit up. It's "Ukraine", not "the Ukraine". No definite article, as with other countries — we're just like them. The Corrections refers to my country, in passing, as some kind of enclave or region, while Belarus, which gave gave free rein to Russia to launch their missiles from their territory, is treated with greater respect in the same sentence. I'd always suspended my disbelief there, choosing to refuse the notion that this book that made me wipe away tears on the subway, that I forced upon my reluctant friends, was written by an American man, who sees Ukraine and me just as one would expect, and the story is a lie, all sound and fury that adds up to nothing at all. Twenty years later, the, the echoes: a Z on a tank crushing charred civilian bodies, and a guiding light, Zelensky, the president.

I'd chosen to believe it was a slip on the part of your editor, no big deal, they would've fixed it if they looked over the text one more time. Hell, I was saying "the Ukraine" occasionally until like the fifth grade. Now I am standing in the sand in a uniform, in my pocket a phone randomly buzzing with friends chat's Discourse On Franzen. I find a moment to read a screenshot from the Meduza, a Russian media interview, and am crestfallen. How could he speak to Russians, how could he say these things! A friend says, I never managed to get past one tenth into The Corrections, I hated the guy. I think of attempting to respond, how, yeah, I know, I hate him, what a fucking jackass, I related so hard. No time, instead I just type 'he also calls us 'the Ukraine' in the book', but the message won't go through.

Now, late at night, again where I finished The Corrections yesterday, I'm imagining you tell your editor, a shadowy figure, over a desk in a dark room, the light from a desk lamp turning your glasses all walleye, 'The "the" stays. I know what I'm about'. You may or may not be smoking a European cigarette. Didn't happen, who cares.

Have you ever considered laser eye surgery, Jonathan. I'm clutching a $10,000 rangefinder, the smallest in its class, in the middle of a sand storm. The wind has picked up. The rangefinder's laser stumbles over sand in the air, returning a distance value of D = 8.3M. 'Not good', I yell to the colonel.

Man Interviewed Says He Doubts His Abilities To Judge Good and Bad, Proceeds To Judge.

Man says, how can you write off an entire country just because it's got an evil tyrant at the helm. I tell the man: my American, no one's writing anyone off; in fact, we're writing it all down. I tell him: my dude, Russia is a country all right, with a history, and its days are numbered, and it's about fucking time we took a long hard look at what the history of that country actually was. And I tell him that I was born in a country that saw that history unfold at its front door and had been a long-suffering neighbor in a house that had been robbed many a time. Even in my 27 years, Ive had a front row seat, and I hated the view.

Who wrote who off? I hold the people accountable. What happened to all the "would you kill Hitler?" party talk, I remember that was a thing at parties. Or do Russians usually say 'I'd probably sit it out and try not to think about it'? Can that be cured? These people have a Hitler, and it's been twenty years, and nothing's happened!

Man says, now's the time to come to Russia and support those opposed to the government. Now's the time to spend time, money, and mind there, pay taxes, now is the time to pay for Russian oil to make sure the inflation does not hit too hard those poor Russians that are opposed to the regime, even if you end up mostly sponsoring a genocide. Can't forget about those good Russians, they're good folks, they didn't vote for him, never hurt a fly, they've sat at home and been real quiet for twenty years, cause Russia is scary stuff.

Man says, did someone expect literature to prevent this? Aren't books a bit like apples, and would you blame yourself if you ate apples from a Russian garden and the apple trees could not stop the war? Oh, man. Did you buy the apples? Aren't apples a bit like gas and coal, and would you blame the EU if it paid 35 billion euros (this happened) to Russia and it didn't stop the war? No, dude. Both with the apples and the gas, I'd feel pretty fucking shitty and complicit.

Here's the thing, man. Ukraine is a country. Always has been. Our history has not differed much from many countries of the world you would not deny agency like that in an interview to a Russian media. An American seems to believe this is, again, about America, and boy does that help Russia — let's doubt Ukraine exists, make it about the superpower beef thing, and if the battlefield (that I just happened to have been born on) gets genocided a little, well, tough. Russia is killing Ukrainians, but yeah, they meant the USA, who cares, starts with U, a dictator gets confused. No.

Russia and us, we had a history for centuries, from way before the Native Americans were first told to beat it. We sat next to a bully all school year and he beat us up and took our lunch every day. This is not a war between Russia and the USA. We did not 'become involved in a proxy war' — I can't believe I have to say this — the Russian Army entered Ukraine and Russian soldiers began a genocide, murdering, raping, torturing and putting into camps people of all ages, starving us to death in besieged cities, capturing and stealing our grain supplies, burning our literature in schools and libraries. Their methodic, perverted cruelty, their giddy slaughter, is aimed at Ukrainians specifically, it is the culmination of centuries of shit they put us through, hating us, envying us — this is not new. This is just the end of the school year, when the quiet kid calmly takes off his glasses and socks the bully in the jaw, hard.

Every day since February 24th ranks somewhere among top-100 worst days of my life. And you speak as if I am an idiot, fooled into obeying something I don't understand, while I just want the murder to end and I ask the USA for ammo.

This laser I am holding is so powerful, I could probably pop people's eyes like popcorn.

As an artillery man, let me make this plain: I WANT THE M777. I THINK IT IS GOOD, AND I LIKE IT. I want one so bad, I want to learn how to operate it. I have been training on weapons using 6000 mils but this rangefinder switches to 6400 NATO mils with a couple of clicks, and I am almost as adaptable, too. I'll type up a neat manual for my fellow artillery men if there's no Ukrainian one, and I want to fire the M777 at Russian soldiers that are trying to kill me, that are killing as I type this. I have a mind of my own and there is no moral wrong in me wanting this. I, newly a Ukrainian soldier (because I did not want to die), am asking for weapons (because I do not want to die); it just so happens that the Ukrainian president does, for the first time in my life, speak for me, and is relaying my message to the world. It is a feeling I have never known before, and it brings me to tears if I think about it too much, a sun of righteous anger so bright it makes my eyes burn.

If I could hit a sniper in the scope with this laser, it would probably hella completely fry up a brain. Man, it's like that bit in Infinite Jest.

On The Simpsons, I hit Jasper in the eye with my laser: 'My cataracts are gone. I can see again!'; then he is gruesomely obliterated by a 120 mm shell.

My twelfth New Year's was marked by my first attempt at willful abandon of consumerism. Year after year I'd seen, with increasing clarity, various hints my parents would drop regarding how unaffordable for us the presents I wanted were: a German H0 gauge train set, a camera; but I chose to not understand, and my parents would somehow deliver. Perhaps, my train set was one of the simpler, passenger variety ones (an engine, three identical cars), but it was of the very same brand I'd carried around catalogues of, with my set present in the back pages. It became a permanent fixture on the carpet in my room for years, even though the motor of the train quickly took in hairs and dust from the carpet, and the train wouldn't depart unless I gave it a push or dragged it along. Seeing an object from a catalogue of a German toy company materialize in my bedroom was my first taste of the realness of a vast, unfathomable world beyond Ukraine. Idly sitting in school and considering the fact that colorful pictures of train models in catalogues reflected reality, that these trains existed somewhere in the world, and were played with by kids like me, made my head spin, like trying to imagine how much a million of something is.

Next year, at twelve, I thought, it's time to be an adult and help my parents out a bit. I asked them for a Monopoly, equating my willingness to embrace a less identity-shaping present with maturity (unlike the train, I knew I had no way to play it daily), and thinking a board game had to be cheap enough to save the sides of the transaction the awkwardness. I'd played Monopoly before, with my cousin and her cool and beautiful friends (and occasionally in less terrifying company) a few times. It is all an anxious blur, but the first time we played it I was probably somewhere between the age of admiring the craftsmanship on the car figurine, and wanting to put it in my mouth.

On the evening of New Year's Eve, my father came home at the usual time, with a shopping bag in his hand that seemed to carry a flat box — which had to be my Monopoly, had to be. He did come into my room and put the bag on my bed, standing by it with a stilted smile. He wished me a happy new year in his ironically formal, uncool way; the bag contained a local generic version of Monopoly, called Monopolist. I wasn't then privy to the pitfalls and virtues of generic products; the thrift of a plain cereal or apple juice; the box seemed identical to my best recollection of real Monopoly, and yet, in the substitution of one sans serif for another and dethroning of monocled Mr. Moneybags, all magic had somehow been drained from the box.

I knew my father couldn't have possibly bought the wrong game by accident: some of his most prized possessions were a Parker pen, a vintage Levi's belt with a beautiful relief buckle, a Hohner harmonica. His stoic insistence on only buying licensed CDs in a country that record labels barely knew existed meant that his Bowie catalogue was sadly lacking, limited to 1995-2003 and a hits compilation. He prided himself on having never been a smoker; his possessions over many years amassed light signs of wear, but were, otherwise, anonymous, as if out of respect for the things, or in preparation for inevitably having to sell them. He seemed intent on living by the slogan the best or nothing, and life had taught him a hard lesson on how often he'd have to choose the latter.

'That Monopoly is SO expensive!' my father finally said, wrinkling his nose in mock disbelief, his smile now seeming apologetic, and I smiled too. We sat on my bed quietly, both feeling guilty despite having done nothing wrong, both smiling to make each other think we were happy. Somehow, for no reason at all, this evening had become one of the saddest of my life. I loved my father and pitied the both of us so, and there was nothing I could do.

The properties on the board, when they came to me, instead of the sophisticated Park Lane and Pall Mall, were all Kyiv streets: the stuffy, hot Khreschatyk, that as a kid I couldn't see for all the tourists, Lesi Ukrainky Boulevard, which I only knew as a drudgery of smog and traffic on the way to my father's office where I pirated Bowie mp3s. The dream of worldliness had been evicted by the smell of printer ink.

Instead of weighty and peculiar metal player tokens of Monopoly there were plastic cones, instead of festive red and green figurines of houses and hotels — cardboard disks with house and hotel icons. Their cardboard was thick, layered like cheap cake, with a little sharp bump on one side of the circle where it had been machined out of a larger cardboard piece.

I took a few out of a ziplock bag they came in, made sure they held nothing of interest on the reverse, and limply put them down. I surveyed this newly conquered domain, disheartened by how barren it was, my face flushed with sudden hot disappointment. Who could stay in a hotel like this, who could flatten themselves to the two-dimensionality of this cardboard disk? Could I ever ask that of any of my few and precious three-dimensional friends? And as my room over the years had gradually become shameful to me, embarrassing to show to my school buddies, so had this box, in a matter of minutes, because it too contained evidence, fresher and more incriminating, of how poor and dull our family surely was. I finally saw a fundamental truth so clear it was like steam had been wiped off a mirror in my mind.

I never dared to inflict upon my father the shame of playing that game; the next morning, I quickly stowed the box away on a low shelf under old coats in the wardrobe, and never once took it out after. Years later, whenever it caught my eye as I took my father's old coat, the word MONOPOLIST in generic font, an unplayed game's silent reproach, was a punch in the heart, a rush of guilt to the head.

What has the private Ukraine in my head known but this? Very little. A much-corrected history of taught inferiority, the state of being lesser, existing as a Russia with a twist. Our history books that I was taught on looked lame, seemed fanatical, and were subjective: and our history seemed impossibly unfair. I couldn't internalize the terrors we'd been through as a kid. How easier it was then to almost anticipate the Western leftist discourse: we must've been stupid to let ourselves get genocided so often, #peace.

Actually! In the 12th century, Moscow pops up on the map (Kyiv has been around for over six centuries, and a capital of proto-Ukraine, Kyivan Rus, for three). The Mongols siege Kyiv and occupy, eventually ceding control to Poland and Lithuania. By the 15th century things get so dire under Poland that a due rebellion is carried out. Meanwhile, the Golden Horde export us as slaves to the Ottoman Empire, totaling about 2 million people over the next two centuries. Then, in the 17th century, Cossack Hetmanate, the direct ancestor to Ukraine, is established through another rebellion, and finds itself surrounded by the same tedious enemies: Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania to the West, Tsardom of Muscovy to the East, and Ottoman Turks to the south. The Cossacks, an anarchic, cosmopolitan and intelligent bunch, had little respect for the antiquated imperial wretchedness surrounding them, and had no rulers but instead a hetman — military leader that was elected democratically. Unable to watch their way of life fall by the wayside, Russia struck deals with Cossacks, until in 1775 Russian Tsar gave an order to her general to occupy the Cossack Sich, as a state that had no right to exist. Enter the night of Ukraine: we are nowhere, split between Austrian and Russian empires for the next 150 years. Ukrainian language is banned from study and use. Ukrainians are serfs — peasant slaves for sale, including our most beloved poet and painter, Shevchenko, his self-portrait now on the 100 hryvina bill. WWI reaches us a colony in the process of self-determination, again, fighting for our right to exist, but the world turns inside out, and Ukrainians from fighting outward must switch to fighting inward, on different sides of the front. Now it is so dark blinking makes no difference. The USSR comes, and in modernized misery, starves millions to death by exporting all our grain in 1930s Holodomor. Millions die in WWII and millions in Soviet repressions. The light comes moments before I open my eyes: a chance to catch our breath, 30 years of freedom, 27 of which I have lived. There's no way it really was as bad as the history books say, right? Watch this, Russia says.

I've lived my adolescence in books and mp3s, my adulthood in screens and on keyboards of word and melody. I've been inside yet looking in, I let the world tell me about the country outside my door. I was told who I was, like many here. Fundamentally, I think, it just wasn't obvious, growing up, that one couldn't blame the newly free Ukraine for dowdiness and boredom of my childhood. When I was born, it had only existed for three years. But unlike Russian propaganda, the authority of a foreign people that have never tried to genocide you, but still saw you as lesser, we were not immune to. This ends now, though. The scales fall off eyes country-wide and now we know everything Ukraine has been told about Ukraine was either wrong or a lie.

When I was a musician, I would occasionally venture into Europe, whose point of view on us I had internalized, to play a show, and I would feel a refugee for the time spent, always conscious of my behavior and clothing, always worried about breaking some unspoken rules in this high society, always wanting to fit in. I'd agree with most of what Europeans had to say about Ukraine, complicit, I'd even pile on about how terrible Ukrainian music is, how bad the architecture, how insufferable the arts community. I had something to prove, speaking my acceptable English, wearing my one good my coat (my father's), playing the best music I could make — all to back up a claim that I am, while second-rate by origin, the same; yet I felt like an exotic animal all the more I tried. People seemed intent on sussing out what was different (bad different) about me, what character flaws exactly it entailed that one was a Ukrainian. And familiar blameless guilt would return, be it in a Berlin bar or meeting the eye of an airport official, who lingered on my passport for a bit too long, while I would be repeating a flawlessly pronounced 'thank you, have a good night' in my head, which would still come out hoarse, rushed, or mangled.

We were always told we were stupid. An ex-colony does not get to hang out with empires. All the cool bands are playing tonight: NATO, European Union, The Human Rights, but the bouncer says, looking away, sorry, buddy, not tonight. Have a night of your life.

The lies, the lies, why did I ever listen. On day one, German Finance Minister Lindner told Andriy Melnyk, Ukraine's Ambassador, that Ukraine had mere hours left and there was no use in helping us now — he was wrong, or he lied. He probably had his best apologetic smile on, too. Mere hours ago, then, Putin had refreshed Russians' memory on the big, strategic, infuriating things they've been taught about Ukraine. If his nose grew for every lie told, he would've violently destroyed the camera and sniffed the inside of the camera person's brain.

If I had listened to Minister Lindner and his German authority, I may have never had enlisted, instead cowering in the bathroom, guilty, waiting for the rocket.

If I listen to American leftists now, I am told Ukraine either never existed, or is all Nazis, for not wishing to return to Mother Russia's rotten womb. Gee, I wonder who told them that. They're all for peace, naturally; shame "peace" in this case means stop struggling and enjoy the rape. And naturally, our rejection of surrender is seen as fighting in someone else's interests — because weren't we Russia just recently?

You call this a proxy war, which echoes the Russian narrative, assuring that rare Russian soldier that didn't hate us already — by killing a Ukrainian in his home he is somehow fighting the USA. He is freeing a colony from its new empire. It's a shame that by this logic we are all not only Ukrainians, but also American agents.

I'm done believing we're the stupid ones. I'm done listening.

The fascist Russia's Z, a badly-drawn half-swastika, I discovered, has at least one deeply true meaning — Russia had no plan B for this war, and this cowardice and chaos is it, the last, the only plan. What we've been through already contains an entire alphabet of erasure, destruction, mass murder, in specific events, and this is its last letter, their last attempt. The fascist of today gets no chance: he is knocked out before he can finish drawing his swastika. Soon, after this, we will finally be free.

I don't know why the past was what it was, why a litany of our faults to a melody unresolved. Where we are thrust now the only possible music is stripped of harmony and only the rhythm, a fish skeleton of a waveform, remains. To write the first chord, we play on towards a beat of our own, the mortar launch a kick, the crash on Russian metal a cymbal, until nothing is left but the pulses of our in-phase hearts.

We have been fucked with by nerd ass jock empires all our life. Now at this war I have proof everything I've been told about us was a lie. I discovered that we are wonderful. 

I printed your college literary zine, man. Small Craft Warnings, Swarthmore College. I was so fascinated by the possibility of a sudden plunge, on the internet, out of time or place, into a wealth of young and careless poetry, that it just about made me dizzy. I wanted to print up and read a whole lot of them, go through them like historical documents, and I dutifully started with the exact edition where you took over as editor, and your future wife's long, ambitious poem about anniversarial dismemberment, was. I read your poem too, and a short story about the church, and it gave me hope, that I also didn't always have to write the way I do now. It made you seem more human, more real. And that Russian media interview was a correction, Jonathan Franzen, and now you are farther away.

God, what terrible timing, I thought, for about a millionth time in life. I'd just given my girlfriend an ebook of The Corrections I had hastily bought for eight bucks off eBooks.com. It was then only downloadable as some disgusting DRM-infested riddle of a file that neither of us have, and never will, manage to open. Brimming with due anger, I then pirated an .epub for her, but the chapter breaks and spacings were all messed up. I just wished I could somehow put my well-used paperback into her hand from here, to reach her from this war. The chapter name font was gorgeous, the title page for THE MORE HE THOUGHT ABOUT IT, THE ANGRIER HE GOT in that first edition being one of the prettiest pages I'd seen in a book.

I don't know if she'll finish the book now, though. Jonathan Franzen, it turned out, to a Ukrainian, is an ambassador of the country of This-shit-again-land. You can kind of foresee it in the Lithuania chapter, I guess. I don't know if they really were the struggling exporter of sand and gravel pictured in The Corrections then, but they certainly make state of the art thermal scopes now.

Today I called my girlfriend to tell her all this, we exchanged loud, ironic, exaggerated hellos. Then, clipped chunks of her voice telling some story I'll never hear, then an air raid warning, and then my phone went dead, and I lost my heart.

[oneofthosecrazycatladies]

Arrowverse Re-Watch: Arrow season 1, episode 1 “Pilot”

***Disclaimer: I recommend you read the tags before digging in to this review.

So I’m doing my annual Arrowverse re-watch (where I go back and watch all the Arrowverse shows in chronological order) and this year, I decided I would make these reviews/commentaries about each episode as I re-watch them.

So here goes... WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD

Oliver: The name of the island they found me on is Lian Yu. It’s Mandarin for Purgatory. I’ve been stranded here for 5 years.

Okay, don’t get me wrong, the main reason I love Arrow is because the characters are great and real and the stories are so interesting. And Stephen Amell is a fantastic actor, definitely one of the best in the Arrowverse...but hot damn just look at that body

I really don’t like objectifying anyone (of any gender), but art deserves to be appreciated and this body right here is art.

Okay I literally couldn’t find a gif of it anywhere, but that shot of Oliver looking into the mirror and the lightning flashes and you see him in the hood for like a split second...that shot...yeah I love that shot. Ugh it’s so amazing and just chilling.

Okay so apparently a lot of people hated the flashbacks...which I don’t understand??? But I loved the flashbacks. Mostly because I just love flashbacks in general. I mean, they weren’t always super interesting and a lot of the time the flashback storyline wasn’t really as interesting as the main storyline, but I still really liked the flashbacks. I actually kinda miss them sometimes.

TOMMY!

Like basically everyone else in the Arrow fandom, I miss Tommy sooo much. And I know, I know Colin has Chicago Med now, but I gotta be honest...I still haven’t quite gotten over that Tommy (any Earth version) wasn’t Vigilante. Like honestly, what was even the point of making him Vince (or Vinny they literally changed his nickname). God season 6 was such a fucking mess...but more of that later.

Okay so I have a bone to pick with this little moment where Oliver speaks Russian to Raisa. So like I guess it was supposed to demonstrate how Oliver has changed and all that...but like, Oliver’s not stupid. He wouldn’t be so careless as to speak Russian in front of his family and friends when he knows that they know he didn’t speak Russian before the island (thus revealing something about his time away when he’s usually so careful not to let things about that time slip).

I just don’t really like that moment because it seems a bit out of character for him.

Oliver: I didn’t realize you wanted to sleep with my mother, Walter.

Tommy: Have you noticed how hot your sister’s gotten?

It does kinda make me cringe a little though tbh. Although, full disclosure, the first time I ever watched this show, I did kinda ship them. I thought they had great chemistry. Better chemistry than Tommy and L*urel (but we’ll get to that later).

Tommy: So what’d you miss the most; steaks at the Palm, drinks at the station, meaningless sex?

Oliver: L*urel

Oh god here we go with this bullshit...can we just skip to the part where the writers realized that L*uriver was awful and they all jumped on the Olicity train?

Oh look it’s L*urel L*nce, the Queen Bitch of Starling City.

Okay that was an exaggeration...and I don’t actually hate LL, well at least, I don’t hate the idea of her. (Alright, strap yourselves in.)

I feel like LL was only the “real” LL in the first like 3 episodes of season 1 and then like the last 2 episodes before she dies. Every episode in between those she was like the off-brand version of LL. In the first couple episodes, she’s a pretty great character. She genuinely wants to help innocent people, she’s independent, she fights for what she believes in. Other than her being a totally soulless, cold-hearted bitch to Oliver, I actually liked her. But the whole Oliver drama really ruined her. And I blame the writers for that (namely the notorious misogynists Kreisberg and Guggenheim).

So first, they thought that “you cheated on me with my sister” was a great beginning to an epic love story. And then they made her totally cold to Oliver. Like look, as much as I dislike LL, I will always take her side on this issue. Playboy Ollie was a grade A fuckboy jackass and LL has every right to be pissed at him. But...then he spent five years in literal hell. Whatever mistakes he made before the island, he paid for them and then some. Now I know LL doesn’t know all the particulars of what went on in those 5 years, but she must’ve at least seen the movie Cast Away, right? I mean, from her perspective, Oliver spent 5 years completely alone on a deserted island. In that situation he would’ve had to teach himself to hunt and kill animals for food, he would’ve had to learn how to build shelters, he would’ve had literally no one to talk to or interact with for five years. She would’ve had to know that he probably has PTSD...and he comes back and she says “I’d hoped you’d rot in hell a whole lot longer than five years.” Like, are you fucking kidding me?! Why in the fuck would the writers think anyone would ship them with this kind of beginning? How are we supposed to have any sympathy for LL when she won’t even let Oliver try to apologize? And saying that he deserved what happened to him on the island? Jesus fucking Christ. God I couldn’t be more anti-L*uriver if I tried.

I get what (I think) they were trying to go for with LL, but they completely fucked up the execution.

LL: ‘Cause her body was at the bottom of the ocean where you left her. It should’ve been you.

“It should’ve been you.”

Okay bitch let’s go. No one talks to post-island Oliver that way. Ever. Oliver Jonas Queen is a gift to the world and I don’t care what dumbass Ollie Queen did you do not get to say that to Oliver. He has lost and suffered so much, too much. JFC where the fuck is Oliver’s unconditionally loving and supportive wifey when he needs her? Don’t worry bb, only two more episodes and you’re home free.

Mercenary Dude: What did he tell you, Mr. Queen?

Oliver: He told me I’m gonna kill you.

God yes where has this Oliver been the past couple years? Not the kill-happy Oliver, just the intimidating hardcore Oliver that can take down half a dozen guys single-handedly. That’s one of the things I hated about season 6 was how they wrote him so out of character just for plot. Ever since they introduced the newbies in season 5 they’ve written Oliver like he literally can’t even function without having like 5 other people out in the field with him. I don’t mind having a team (I love Roy and Dinah for example) but the team is just too big. (I’ll talk about that in much more detail when we get to seasons 5 and 6 [and that bullshit “civil war”])

Mercenary Dude: You’re delusional. You’re zip-cuffed to that chair.

Oliver: Not anymore.

*shivers*

God the MUSIC! Ugh I love the music in this scene when he’s taking down the kidnappers.

Oh yeah...and this incredible stunt...

And I love that you can tell that Stephen did all these stunts himself. But I especially love the above stunt because it’s so incredible, but like he just does it and it’s as if it’s no big deal because he’s just that physically fit.

QUENTIN!!!

With hair!!!

Oh Quentin deserved so much better than all that nonsense the writers put him through in season 6. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

I’m just so happy to see him! And to see the journey that he took in the first 4 seasons. (Seasons 5 and 6 [especially 6] weren’t the real Quentin. It had to’ve been one of his doppelgängers because the real Quentin is smarter than to be fooled by BS’ bs).

Ahh did you see what I did there?!

I love Raisa and I’m so happy they brought her back for season 6! I hope she returns again in season 7! I love the way she takes care of the Queen boys!

John Thomas Diggle is in the building ladies and gentlemen! This man is a gift and honestly I sometimes think we don’t deserve him.

Okay I kinda miss seeing Oliver in regular clothes. It seems like, ever since he became mayor, the only civilian clothes we ever see him in are suits. Don’t get me wrong, that man can fill out a suit, he looks delectable...especially when he’s just wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up (those arms!)

But I also kinda miss just seeing him in like jeans and a t-shirt. Maybe once he gets out of prison we’ll see more of that (since he won’t be mayor).

The whole workout/training sequence is just...

We were completely deprived of shirtless Oliver in season 6 and I just cannot stand for that. We better get like double the amount of shirtless Oliver in season 7 to make up for it.

Tommy: Now, by my rough estimate, you have not had sex in 1,839 days.

Yeah except for Shado and who knows? maybe Sara or even some random girl in Russia.

LL: I’m sorry about saying that you should’ve been the one who died. That was wrong.

Nice apology, LL (this is the real LL I was talking about earlier), but you’re gonna change your mind in like 2 episodes. @jbuffyangel calls this phenomenon “as the Lances turn” (referring to the crazy inconsistencies in how the Lances [especially LL] are written). And I love that phrase I’m totally gonna steal it because it’s so true, but I’ll discuss that more when it flares up in later episodes.

John: I would believe you, Mr. Queen, if you weren’t so full of crap.

John Diggle, ladies and gentlemen, taking none of Oliver’s shit since 2012.

Please, someone, give this man a medal.

Okay but did John and Oliver ever talk about Oliver putting John in that hold and knocking him unconscious? I don’t know why, but I kinda have this headcanon that they never actually did talk about it until like years later (probably after Oliver and Felicity returned from Ivy Town and Oliver and John made up) that John was just like “remember when you knocked me unconscious at your welcome home party”.

Okay I know that it’s Yao Fei’s hood, but I kinda wonder why Oliver didn’t get it lined with Kevlar from the get-go. I mean it’s not like he trained in medieval times and then time-traveled to the 21st century to start his crusade, like he’s aware that guns exist and that a lot of the people he planned to take down would use guns. I mean, he could’ve just gotten Anatoly or someone else in the Bratva, I’m sure they know people who know how to do that.

But at the same time, I guess it kinda fits with his whole persona and his plan. When he first starts out he’s not really waging a full-on war against all crime in the city, he’s just trying to take down the corrupt one-percenters and once he does that he hangs up the hood and moves on with his life. So it makes more sense that his suit is more “raw” because he’s more raw. He doesn’t have a team, doesn’t consider himself a hero. It’s just him and his bow and his list.

So I’m watching the scene where Robert kills himself and it makes me think of the scene in season 5 when Oliver is watching the video that Robert left him and Felicity comes along and is like “wow no prssure” and I’m like yeah! I mean, what a crazy and horrible burden to put on your child. I mean, there they are, Robert’s made all these mistakes, but instead of trying to fix these mistakes himself he’s like “nah I think I’m just gonna tell my son to right my wrongs and then blow my brains out right in front of him leaving him traumatized and completely alone”.

This is Robert:

Like jfc, no wonder Oliver’s so screwed up.

I just don’t get what Tommy sees in LL. I mean, throughout the season they just go on and on about how much Tommy and LL love each other, but I just don’t see anything between them. I mean what did they even have in common besides losing Oliver? I mean the only thing I kind of get about their relationship is LL encouraging Tommy to be a better person. Once again, it’s the idea of LL, but it didn’t really work out that way in execution.

And honestly, you know what the worst part about M*rlance was? Knowing that they only did it to create even more drama between Oliver and LL, but then the fact that the writers ended up dropping L*uriver in favor of Olicity made all that drama pointless. Now obviously I know that the writers didn’t know that L*uriver would be a total bust (though they should’ve) or what Felicity and Olicity would become at the time, but still...hindsight is 20/20 I guess.

Ah Moira, being shady af.

I miss her. I always loved her character and Susanna Thompson is such an amazing actress.

I miss her pretty much for the same reason I miss Tommy: the potential. Both Tommy and Moira never really got to see Oliver become the true hero that he is today. They never got to see Oliver fall in love and have his own family. I feel the same way about Quentin. They could’ve done some great things with him. I always wanted the writers to explore his relationship with Felicity more. They had a great father-daughter kind of relationship in season 2. And especially knowing that Felicity’s father abandoned her and Quentin had lost his daughter, I thought it made so much sense that they sorta would’ve adopted each other as a surrogate family. But no. Instead, the writers went with that BS bs (hehe I did it again). And now Quentin is dead; another great character wasted.

Anyway, that’s all for me about this episode. I hope you enjoyed my ranting and I’ll see you later for episode 2.

[thestuckylibrary]

Sorry, I hate asking in cos you probably get tons, but I've attempted looking all over and can you list any mail-order bride fics? I read the one called something like "hey, you're not too bad" amd now im hooked, thank you if you can, and thank you for serving this fandom with faith 😭

omg that was the first stucky fic i ever read :’D

but hey, you're all right by beardsley + [Podfic] by sisi_rambles

This is not my fault,' Tony lies. 'It was supposed to be a joke! Christ.'

'Thanks to your joke,' says Coulson, 'we now have a code three-four-delta, with the variable being a Russian immigrant. We're checking his background right now, but it might take a while. Meanwhile, I suggest you civilian-proof the Tower. If any SHIELD intelligence is compromised, I will hurt you.'

Yes, this is the story where the Winter Soldier is a Russian mail-order bride. Everything goes about as well as you'd expect.

and for more fics:

Sweet & Simple Things by Allecto

It's 1870, and when Bucky Barnes arranged for passage from Russia to the United States for himself, his sister, and their good friend Natasha Romanoff, he didn't know there were strings attached. Now Alexander Pierce has informed Bucky he's to be married to a rancher struggling to raise two orphaned boys. Bucky's job is to make the house a home for his new sons -- and whatever else his husband asks of him. But when his husband turns out to be none other than his childhood best friend, Steve Rogers, Bucky discovers that maybe, just maybe, his new family has made a home for him, too.

The Road to Hell is Paved with Tony’s Good Intentions by lillupon

“You know what, Rogers? Fuck that guy,” Tony says. “I’m going to find you the perfect man.”

And that’s how Steve ends up married to a 6-foot-something, 250-pound man with a cybernetic arm and a thousand yard stare.

[gay-jesus-probably]

so i’ve already done a well recieved text post on some actual facts about takashi shirogane and the entire thing is mostly joking but also completely my headcanons forever

but i figured in honour of season three just kidding i’ve been up all night reading voltron fanfiction havent gotten around to watching S3 yet so here some shiro headcanons that are actually my legit take on his life pre-kerberos

he’s only a partial american citizen. as a teenager, he was a japanese citizen with a school visa to attend the garrison, and after graduating he very easily recieved a work visa, but eventually for conveniences sake reluctantly went for partial citizenship once things started getting serious. he’s not happy about it. he’s in america for the space, he’s not a fan of the country as a whole.

and on the same note, due to being an american and japanese citizen, during the early stages of the kerberos mission set up (like years before launch) the publicity team initially tried to label him as an american astronaut. the second he found out, shiro very firmly demanded that everything related to him be marked with japans flag, not americas, thank you very much.

and again on that note, due to being the sole pilot of the furthest space mission ever, and doing it as a japanese astronaut, shiro met the prime minister of japan once. if there wasnt pictures of him with the prime minister, shiro probably would have convinced himself it wasnt real.

his first language was japanese, obviously. he learned how to read at about three, due to his parents reading to him literally every night, and also him being a genius. he didn’t give the faintest hint of a fuck about other languages, until he realised he wanted to join the galaxy garrison, at which point he went oh shit it’s only in english there, and started studying english like a madman. and spanish, because america’s got two official languages and you never know. and french and russian, because canada and russia are the other major players in space, and you can never be too careful.

mind you he learned these all in a purely academic setting as a teenager, so while he was fluent in all of them by the time he was old enough for the garrison, he was unpleasantly surprised to find that everyone used too much slang and contractions, and he was speaking in a very stilted and mechanical way with a hell of an accent. it took him about a year to get his english to a natural level, and he put up with harrasment for years until he managed to completely scrub out his accent. as a result, the majority of his friends at the garrison were other ESL students from overseas. he still kept every single one of his electronics set to japanese, and when tired, distracted or stressed, if someone tries to talk to him he is much more likely to respond in japanese without noticing. any time he’s returning from a trip home to visit his family, for the first week he starts every other sentence in rapid japanese, stops halfway through, thinks it over, and repeats himself in slower english. its rough to switch over.

he started going by shiro because in his first year, luck of the draw meant he was the only non-american in his astrophysics class, and the instructor was one who believed in groupwork and lots of it, so within a month everyone was acquaintances. there was mass confusion about if shiro’s name was shirogane or takashi, and attempts to explain made it worse. the matter was not helped by this being first year, and shiro not having the best grasp on conversational english. eventually he gave up and just told them all to call him shiro, because just shirogane sounded weird when everyone else went by their first names, and people kept pronouncing takashi weird so he gave up and took a nickname. it grew on him and he stuck with it.

while the garrison had the most international students out of any school in america, it was still very much a predominantly american school with 60% of the students being american. another 20% were canadian, british or australian. white native english speakers were a vast majority, and shiro had to deal with some racists. the racists he honestly didnt mind too much, because he could just physically drag them to an instructor he knew was sympathetic, explain what happened, and boom problem solved. what he absoloutely fucking hated were the weeaboos. he hated them. hated them so much. as a very attractive japanese teenager, he was getting weird fetishizing love letters at least once a month. and the amount of times he got invited to join the anime club. explaining to them that no he actually couldnt stand anime was too much of a chore to be worth it. eventually he worked out how to be juuuust enough of an asshole that they went away, but he wasnt in trouble for it. it was a very frustrating part of his life.

he grew up on hokkaido, specifically in sapporo because hunk and lance are both from tropical islands, keith is from desert texas, and pidge probably lived in the south her whole life because her father was a Big Deal with the galaxy garrison, which is the evolved form of NASA, and NASA operated entirely in the south. my canadian heart cannot handle an entire team thats used to just different shades of fucking hot, i need one of them to be from freeze your balls off up north, and its gotta be shiro.

although ironically, while shiro was more than happy to join the unofficial tradition of students from cold areas laughing at students from warm areas whenever the temperatures dropped, shiro was spending most of the year in florida, where the garrison is, and going back to sapporo during the summer for breaks, as the winter and spring break werent long enough to make the flights worth it. his tolerance for the cold dropped dramatically. his first year after graduating, he went back to sapporo in december for the first time, and was very displeased to realise that he was not prepared for the cold anymore. not prepared at all. oh god. holy shit.

after his application into the garrison was approved, things were a bit awkward for shiro because this meant unenrolling from the high school he’d been attending, and waiting to start class in the new semester at the galaxy garrison. he got the acceptance in spring. classes in japan start in april. classes in america start in september. it was like being on break, but it lasted half a year. it was surreal for shiro. i mean sure, there was preparing to go to america alone, but passport and visa prep only takes up so much time, and luggage/packing isnt a problem until the week leading up to leaving. he spent a lot of time lying around the house during that half year. you can only study alone for so long before you need to do something else. the sudden switch from the highly pressured japanese school enviroment to ~nothing to do~ was very jarring, but ended up functioning as a sort of gap year. as a genius kid, he was under a lot of pressure. being able to take a step back and breathe did him a world of good.

shiro is extremely foul mouthed, but has a reputation for almost never swearing. this is because he never completely gets the hang of english swearing, and decides to just not bother with working out how to properly say things that will land him in shit anyways. but he swears. almost constantly. just, in japanese. its hilariously common for other students to think “oh, there goes shiro, thinking outloud to himself” while shiro is actually violently swearing under his breath about forgetting his notes in his dorm. in his last year, he accidentally traumatized a first year from tokyo, when he was attempting to find a book he needed for his thesis from the library, and the computer he was using refused to cooperate. this led to him furiously cursing out the poor computer. in earshot of the first year, whose offended gasp was legendary. shiro immediately bribed her into secrecy. noone must know.

shiro realised he was pansexual during his half year hangtime between high school and garrison. while not exactly locked in the closet, he didn’t really think the information needed to be shared with anyone, and he was too busy with classes to really want to date anyone. he was only trying to hide his orientation from the weeaboos, mentioned earlier, who would have gotten even worse with the creepy fetishizing and never left him alone. he’s never really dated, and his experience is fooling around with other cadets, and the occasional one night stand when he was older with civilians his age in the nearby town. upon being considered for the kerberos mission, he immediately started very carefully making sure nobody found out about his sexuality. the first public broadcast from the kerberos ship was live to the world, and ended with shiro cheerfully declaring himself the first openly pansexual man in space. mission control had not been warned of this. the only parties warned in advance were sam and matt holt, and they both strongly approved of the idea.

after the kerberos team was declared dead from pilot error, it eventually came out that the garrison had no idea what caused the mission failure, and that the ship just suddenly lost communication and vanished, and that the pilot had been a convenient scapegoat. there was immediate backlash from a great deal of parties. over two dozen different LGBT and/or POC rights groups filed lawsuits against the Garrison, calling rascism and/or homophobia. international relations between america and japan turned frosty. shiro had previously been considered a national tragedy crossed with embarrasement for apparently fucking up such an important mission, but oh the speed at which that turned around. multiple cities, including sapporo and tokyo, comission statues of shiro practically overnight. he immediately swung around to national tragedy crossed with hero.

[allollipoppins]

BIYAAMAYD Chapter 4 - Yuuri/Villain Harem Multishipping drabbles

Chapter 4 is now available on AO3!

1) Dance – Phichit

"Give me a show to die for, Puppet Master" he whispers in his ear. "Dance with me and let's pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist, yes?"

"Will you let the hostages go if I do?"

The Ringmaster chuckles. "I'm a man of my word, Puppet Master. But I'm not so sure I'll let you escape me so easily."

They stand face to face, circling each other in tune with the rhythm and atmosphere the song conveyed. Their limbs and bodies tilt and ripple, flexing and curving in harmony and in mirrored motions. The smooth, quick steps bring them closer then further away from one another, only ever touching through the gusts of hot air curling between their movements.

Neither pays heed to their unwilling audience, both lost in a world only their momentarily entwined hands and locked eyes can reach.

"I can always stay longer," the Puppet Master suggests as they sink to the ground, hands held high and poised in a praying manner as they put their legs into the next stance, ready to start ascending into harsher, springy steps for the continuation.

He swears the Ringmaster's answering smile could blind his audience if he willed it to. "I'd love nothing more."

2) Treat – Chris

"And what can I get you, sweetheart?"

Yuuri turns distractedly from the target, if only to nod in acknowledgement at the bartender, then takes a double turn.

The Dramatic Assassin in the flesh is currently standing before him, pouring the contents of his cocktail shaker into a tall glass filled with ice cubes and lemon, which he then puts in front of Yuuri.

"There you go, love, one mojito. It's on the house."

Yuuri eyes the glass suspiciously. At first sight there's nothing wrong with its contents: black straw in place, thin slices of lemon on the rim and mingling with ice cubes at the bottom, a clear green that reminds him vaguely of his enemy's own irises. Which, come to think of it, also kind of remind him of –

He shakes his head, chasing away that ridiculous thought. The pretend bartender only chuckles at his actions.

"It's only a cocktail, promise. No roofies, no poison, just a good ol' fashioned mojito."

He leans over the bar. "You can thank me later, my shift ends at 11." The Assassin winks at him and goes back to wiping shots glasses with his towel, whistling a tune the puppeteer can't catch.

Yuuri's eyes stay on him the entire time, sipping absentmindedly his drink and licking his lips to catch the remains of the liquid that escape his mouth. He doesn't miss once the way the blond's gaze focuses on him in these instants.

3) Sand – Georgi

Yuuri takes Georgi to Hasetsu weeks after they graduate, as a graduation present. The initial plan had been to buy himself a one-way ticket to Japan and fly off to Hasetsu to never come back ever again.

That, of course, had been five years ago. Now, a degree and a best friend later, he could not think of a better way to celebrate their newfound freedom, and friendship.

As much as he hates to admit it, he's glad that Georgi wasn't looking too forward to going back in Russia. Even though he'd admitted it was temporary – enough time to stay over at his parents' place and see the whole family again – , Georgi didn't have it in him yet to tell them Anya and him had broken up. Again. Yuuri had yet to get the "Met a pretty girl in the US?" talk from his parents, but it shouldn't take too long. Besides Georgi would be sleeping in the room next to his, rather than in the clients' section of the inn. Word of the only son taking a man back with him from his years spent studying abroad would definitely reach the whole village.

Not that he particularly cares at the moment. All that he wants right now is to spend his time in the hot springs, eat his mother's infamous pork cutlet bowl and take morning walks with Vicchan on the beach. All with his best friend in the entire world.

The next day, he finds the look on Georgi's face when the waves crash into them faster than expected is worth a thousand suns.

4) Salt – Eros

"Swallow," Yuuri commands. Eros does as ordered, the taste of fried egg and pork lingering on his tongue.

In the span of the half-decade they'd spent together, Eros had come to the conclusion that Yuuri had some sort of switch that made him change from his civilian identity to his vigilante one. He revered them both as one and only person, though he'd drawn a line between the imposing figure that was the Puppet Master and the comforting, loving Yuuri.

But to say he'd never once been scared of Yuuri Katsuki in the span of the last five years would be a fucking lie.

Somehow he's managed to make his boss lose his temper only twice – both times having coincidentally (or not) and indirectly involved his mother. He still shivers when thinking back of the way Yuuri's eyes had flickered when he'd admitted he found Mama Katsuki's Katsudon "decent".

After all, who the hell would dare call Hiroko Katsuki's homemade speciality "just decent?"

A man with dysfunctional taste buds, was what. "Even Victor Nikiforov had lost his grasp of English after having a single bite" a distant voice chimes in his ear.

He goes for the next bite, relishing Yuuri's smile at the gesture. No way in hell was he losing to that Russian imbecile.

5) Clip – Minami

"You should start off by cutting your hair. No respectable villain keeps a haircut like that." The Puppet Master, as he'd introduced himself, states and juts his chin in Minami's general direction. Shame overcomes his body in a matter of seconds. Being noticed by his problematic favorite is one thing; being judged for his lack of care in the hair department of all things, is another. And Minami only endeavours to please.

Before he can stop himself from committing something very out of line, he blurts out: "Would you teach me then? How to cut my hair?"

The masked man raises an eyebrow at his question. Minami, only realizing the full implication of his question, swears. What an idiot. What shit kind of villain asked his enemy for a haircut?

He's ready to take back his words when Puppet Master cuts him off, waving a hand dismissively and sighing. "Um whatever, I guess there's no harm in that. It's not like I have anything better to do for tonight. Got any scissors?"

In answer Minami only hands him his cards, taking them all out from under his sleeves one by one until they form a uniformed stack in his open palm, sharp edges glinting under the lamplight.

The man facing him sighs again. This is going to be a long night.

6) Bread – Victor

It doesn't take a genius to realize Ruthless Gold is looking a little out of sorts tonight.

Yuuri isn't sure what gives him away the most: his skin that looks a little paler than usual, the cheekbones which stand out more than usual (sharp enough he's certain he could cut himself just from touching one of his cheeks), the way his body moves far more slowly than it should as if the silver-haired villain were in a drunken or drowsy state, or the fact that his blue eyes lack their usual shine.

Not that he spends that much time looking at Ruthless Gold or caring either, thank you very much.

"Ruthless, when was the last time you ate?"

Said man turns lazily towards him, eyes lost in a faraway daze. "I don't know, maybe two, three days ago? A week? Hard to tell."

Yuuri has half a mind to want to scold him for his obvious lack of care, or slap him for behaving like an idiot. But the statement involuntarily makes warning bells ring in his ear.

Before he knows what he's doing, he's dragging Ruthless Gold bodily to the closest 24/7 grocery store, the both of them stumbling into the premade-food section. The cashier nods in their direction, seemingly too tired to care or notice who they actually are.

"There," Yuuri shoves a salmon and cream cheese sandwich pack along with a couple of dollar bills in Ruthless Gold's chest, shaking him awake in the process. "You go pay for that and eat it. Now."

He walks up to the checkout, not noticing how the villain's gaze shifts from staring at the sandwiches to his back.

"Ah,wait!" Victor yells, almost calling Yuuri by his name in the spur of the moment and catching himself in time. He jogs up to Yuuri, who represses a groan at having him breaking into his personal space. "Why are you doing this?"

Yuuri – or rather Puppet Master – raises an eyebrow. "Well, I can't exactly have my worst enemy starve to death, can I? Do me a favor and don't die on me when I'm not on duty."

The other gasps. "I am your worst enemy?"

Before he can take back his words, Yuuri is engulfed in a hug so tight he's close to losing his breath. "Oh, Puppet," Ruthless cooes in his ear, "you're my worst enemy too!"

In spite of the cowl and makeup shielding Yuuri's face, Ruthless can tell the puppeteer's cheeks are turning various shades of red. He puts his hands on his chest, pushing him away (and lingering a little on the muscles he feels under his palms, Victor notes with satisfaction). "Ye-yeah well," the vigilante turns his head away, stuttering slightly, "it's not that hard to achieve either. S' not like you're my only enemy, anyway." He goes for the sliding doors, rushing to leave.

"That's not what it sounded like, Puppet Master!" Ruthless calls after him as he exits the store.

He could steal the sandwiches and keep the money for all Yuuri cares. As long as he quits being such a dork.

7) Fish – Otabek

The first time Yuuri goes to Otabek's place for a date, he's not sure what to expect. After all, one can only think so much when the guy they're interested in asks "Are you coming in or not?". Blunt, short and simple with a commanding edge, something that suited the Kazakh policeman very well.

When it turns out Otabek intends to cook for him on their first date instead of giving him a one-night stand, he's pleasantly surprised to find that the cop is a perfect gentleman – not that he expected any less from him.

Otabek announces that he'll make fish shashlik but politely refuses Yuuri's help, despite his assurance that he follows rules to the t and is a good cook (an understatement if he weren't so humble, but he can't always take Eros' words for granted). Hopefully he can pay back the favor on their next date – because he knows there will be a second date, and a third date, and more to come afterwards. Yuuri mentally thanks all the deities he can think of for the fact that Otabek is a deist Muslim. Makes the prospect of feeding him katsudon all the more easy.

Yuuri wishes he could explore the rest of the apartment, maybe find out more about his new coworker, but he's not comfortable doing it without Otabek by his side; otherwise he might as well be intruding. For the timebeing he enjoys the view he gets from his seat at the counter, Otabek's back facing him while he marinates the fish with spices and other condiments, one hand sometimes swatting at his cat to keep him from nipping at the raw meat.

Besides, there's something fascinating and downright hypnotic about watching the Kazakh cook for the both of them, the swiftness and gentleness of his movements when he handles the food a nice change from the rougher everyday routines his other partners follow.

Who knows? If Otabek's in the mood later, he wouldn't mind seeing what else these hands are capable of.

8) Race – Yuri

Come sleep or consciousness, Yuri Plisetsky is always running for his life.

The voices are always there, somewhere at the back of his mind, taunting him and drawing closer at every corner. Most of the time he can take pride in admitting he has them under control, and rebuke any offered help; for every provocation he bites back, cutting into people with an ease and familiarity that is almost frightening and fills him with a near-maddening impression of power. But on other days, he feels more than ever the need to scream.

Celebrity enhances the dread pulling and tugging at something in his chest – his heart? He's been told he had none, that's impossible. Opening his eyes wide or keeping them tightly shut won't make a difference. All bodies turn to shadows, any frenetic, hysterical chanting of his name becomes a slur, an open insult and order to submit to a nameless crowd ready to engulf him, swallow him whole at any second. The world is his enemy, pushing him closer to the edge of a cliff by the minute and commanding him to dance, dance, dance, until he falls into the darkness.

Arms come to embrace him, a soothing voice starts to ring in his ear.

He's been caught.

9) Poor – JJ

Yuuri doesn't understand how anyone could possibly hate JJ.

Sure, the officer can come across as a bit of a brat at first sight. And that is as nice a comment as possible, especially coming from people who'd be willing to go much further in their criticism of one of the oldest members of the force. Yuuri himself had needed some time to rub off the initial discomfort he felt when around his coworker – but to be honest, this was in greater part due to a deep-rooted fear of cops and law-enforcement officers, nothing all too personal.

Most of what comes to his mind whenever he thinks of JJ is the quintessential image of the good cop; that one guy who wolfs down donuts after donuts with black coffee on a sunny day without gaining a pound, but who still has smears of jam and powdered sugar on his lips that he's more than happy to wipe off for him; the man who boxes shirtless and lets sweat gleam on his skin and tattoos, never stopping unless he's sure he's gone through his entire workout schedule; the person who, in spite of representing the next generation of a blue-blooded family whose connection with security forces dates back to centuries, always works hard day after day to prove his worth in a system that still spits on him for not sharing a full American inheritage.

It matters most on the days Yuuri pays him visits at the shooting range or the boxing club, catching JJ adjusting his engagement ring on his finger when he knows for sure the ring isn't too tight nor too loose on the digit. On days like this he lets JJ drag him out for burgers and fries and beer at the nearest diner – a common favorite – , then drive them up to the hills to watch the stars.

He always kisses him on the cheek when they drops him off, reassuring him he's as bright as any star in the solar system.

10) Rich – Seung

For a man who sells millions of copies of his books on every possible platform and writes articles for a crime magazine on a regular basis, Seung-Gil still finds it in him to live like a college student.

If he threw in a wild guess, his fellow coworker probably hadn't changed apartments since his first year in the US. Seung-Gil has the efficiency of a man who buys the exact amount of food needed for three daily meals and a monthly supply of dog food (with added treats and toys that, when asked, are of "utmost importance).

Fame has its perks when it all comes down to that: at least Yuuri knows who to contact when he's shopping for dog toys to celebrate Vicchan's birthday, or when he just wants to spend a Sunday afternoon in peace. But otherwise he two of them never waste money or food on mutual agreement, and always cook homemade side dishes for brunch. And when it starts to get warmer they'll snuggle on the couch, with Seung-Gil working on his drafts and potential future articles while Yuuri naps, the dogs never to  far away. He supposes he could get used to it.