#pavel the man that you are

[piningintrovert]

Welcome to Smirk City, where the boys are hot and they like to fu— practice rigorous concentration techniques  

PIT BABE (2023), dir. Nopachai Jayanama

[forecast0ctopus]

hey its still star trek day in a few timezones

[phantomarine]

Shape language in Phantomarine - featuring the main three!

[wanderlust-in-my-soul]

I've already told you, you can do everything except kiss.

[daftmooncretin]

most iconic bridge crew moment has to be sulu chekov uhura and bones all talking mad shit about this politician spock was very diplomatically trying to talk to on call, and as the audience we assume the call ended BEFORE this roast fest started until the camera slowly pans round to reveal the politician guy still on the line listening to uhura call him an infuriating asshole straight to his face. and like poor spock is just trying to save his boyfriend and be diplomatic while his whole crew is LOOKING STRAIGHT AT THE SCREEN and being like “spock this guy sucks ass”

[thetunashop]

Pav Pav Pavel Pav Pav-

[queerbrainrot]

reason number 1 why I will never again post about Pit Babe publicly

Pavel will fucking crawl out of the shadows, materialize out of thin air, and fucking like that post.

But oh no, not the tame ones. Not the NORMAL ones. Only the worst, most unhinged and thirsty ones.

Or worse, he'll repost it or put it on his story.

[ziracona]

The fortune teller had shown him this. A week ago. Such a tiny handful of time.

He had simply thought, ‘the fuck was that?’ and shaken it off, to do his job. Like always. He had forgotten, turned away, and moved on.

Pavel was not supposed to believe in ghosts.

There is a fork in the road, and one leads down, endlessly, and you will not be the one to decide which way you go, but you will be the one to walk it.

It was too impossible to explain.

He didn’t think he could have with a year, if he tried. Everything, it was so easy to know, so impossible to express.

Pavel hadn’t wanted to die. He hadn’t wanted to kill Artyom. He had never wanted to drug him, and hand him over for interrogation. He had tried to explain that, but somewhere along the way, he had realized that was impossible too.

He didn’t hate the Spartans; he didn’t want to poison D-6, or Oktyabrskaya. But it didn’t matter, and it was as impossible to explain now, as that had been then.

No, it was more.

The simple truth was that D-6 was going to be taken over, if not by them, then by the Nazis. By Hanza. Maybe by a Ranger gone rogue. If they’d had a sleeper, who knew who else might be hidden inside. And it only took one to end everything.

They had to be the ones with D-6. People would die. Like a giant chess board, Oktyabrskaya would burn. Sacrifice a pawn. Take a bishop. There were no bloodless wars. This was the best that existed in reality: the war with the least blood. It was the best war offered. The lesser of evils. And the Red Line could provide that—equality, peace, order, structure, safety. Nobody else could be trusted to do it. Nobody else would. With every other faction, it would us vs them forever. With the Red Line, eventually ‘they’ would all become ‘us.’

But the rangers would not surrender. They would not give them D-6. It must be taken by force.

And that meant the only choice was how to do it. How many of their people died before the rangers were gone.

It wasn’t about honor and clean fighting. It was about strategy, and the most men going home still breathing. Even if it looked like this.

But of course Artyom had to be here.

It wasn’t fair. Hadn’t his luck torn him to shreds enough the last month already?

He had sort of hoped Artyom would be in Polis. Away from D-6, alive. Staying alive too. Shit. But here he was. And Pavel couldn’t let him through. He had orders, and the orders were right. The orders were ‘kill him.’

He was too strong, too connected, too lucky, too goddamn lucky. And he knew too much.

So either Artyom would die here. Or he would, and so would all his men.

Fair, right, love and war? At least that part was simple.

He couldn’t let him through. He couldn’t look the other way, or give up. Pavel had the same responsibility to fight as hard as he could, that he knew Artyom had, for his Spartans.

If only you’d taken the goddamn offer. WHY didn’t you take the offer? Why couldn’t you just join us? We would have taken you in! You could have stayed! I tried! I really tried! It didn’t have to end like this! This wasn’t the only version of the story.

But. Maybe it was.

The thought was a painful ache. He wished he only understood duty when it was his own.

There was nothing to do then, but kill each other.

Drawing on d’Artagnian was wrong. He hated it. He despised it. But he did it, because the only betrayal worse, would have been not to do it.

A rock and a hard place.

Nowhere left to go.

So he did the only thing he could, for either of them. He yelled.

Pavel mocked, and he baited, and he spat insults down from the roof and the scope of a rifle, taking shots at the friend down there who had saved his life three times, and was taking shots back at him. He played his part as hard as he could. If he killed Artyom, at least he would know Artyom was angrily firing back at an enemy, not dying for faltering on the trigger, not wanting to shoot a friend. And if Artyom killed him, then Artyom would live with the memory of how despicable and callous the traitor had been in his last minutes, not the pointless wondering of if it could have been another way.

It was the only mercy he had to give.

And as the fight drew on, and bodies dropped, and shots rang out, Pavel became more and more convinced it would be the latter.

Somewhere along the way, he looked over as a floodlight beside him shattered, and he realized he was the only one left. It was quiet in the yard.

Just him. Just Artyom.

“Come on up! Come and finish this!”

He reloaded, watching the ranger breach the first floor, hugging walls for cover, fighting in the way Pavel knew. It felt wrong to know. It gave him an edge, an edge he only had by working beside Artyom for so long in the trenches of the metro. He could only hope that Artyom held the same edge towards him, and take his next step forward.

Maybe this is what she meant, he thought, yelling insults of cowardice down the stairs, and taking expert shots at the man he had worked so hard to protect. Sending a bullet through his arm. Down is death. The other path is life. And it’s up to how quick Artyom’s draw is.

It almost felt out of his hands like that. And it was, as he caught a round in the side in exchange, another in the hip, and fell back, bleeding, up the stairs.

He kept shouting, kept taunting. Do not hesitate, d’Artagnian. Hate me, if you want to win. Remorse will make you slow.

Slow meant time to think. Slow meant time to regret, meant time to look back and think, ‘I could have made another choice.’

Pavel saw Artyom stick his head out from the edge of the stairwell, and shot him in the shoulder, taking a round to the chest in return.

That was the one. He felt it tear inside him, not pass like a lucky shot through muscle. That was it then. He was going to die, now. There was no way he could win. He would be too slow. It was over.

No. Unless he lowers his guard because he shot you, and you’re dying.

“Come on, Artyom, come on, come up here, blyadj! I I can't chase you anymore, but I can still put a hole through your head if I see it—don't you worry!” he called with all the venom he could muster, coughing the wet cough of blood, and dragging himself back, trying to find somewhere to retreat.

Artyom must have listened, because he stuck an arm out and fired blind, catching Pavel in the arm and the side. The force flung him to the floor, and Pavel grunted and coughed again, fighting a little to breathe and move at the same time now, dragging himself back along the floor. Unable to stand.

My filter is almost up. I can’t stand. It’s over.

There was no use. Even if he killed Artyom now, he would die before being able to deploy the virus in D-6. There was no longer a duty to kill Artyom. It would accomplish nothing, but the loss of a friend.

Pavel let go of his gun, and dragged himself back as far as he could, until he hit a little table by the far wall of the second story, and watched the entryway with something more like dread than he had expected. But not fear. —Pain. Sadness.

It didn’t have to be this way.

It hadn’t. It didn’t. But it was too late now; it was.

I wish I could explain. There must be words, somewhere, the right ones, that someone could have put into an order to make all this make sense to his silent musketeer. He understood, so there must be a way for someone else to as well.

But Pavel didn’t have it. He couldn’t explain that it had had to be this way, and what was done was done, and he had meant all of what he said, about the Red Line, about the metro, and about Artyom. It was just…

But I can’t. I can’t explain you are my d’Artagnian, and it’s okay to kill me here. And I know it.

So he would do what he could. It was easy, to kill an enemy and walk away.

Easier for Artyom, who would live.

But it wasn’t the truth. And he wished he could have kept that.

The tall shadow of the young ranger darkened the doorway to this last hall, and the bloodied figure approached and stood over him, gun raised, movements careful. He paused, surveying the clearly empty hands and weakened state of his enemy, and he lowered the gun.

There was a moment where Pavel thought somehow, things were not going to end the way he was so certain. Some strange miracle, like the other times Artyom hadn’t been the last thing he’d seen, but the person who’d gotten him back up instead.

Then Artyom holstered the gun, and drew a knife.

“Oh, a knife ah?” he asked, voice taunting, apathetic, eager. He knew it wasn’t ‘a’ knife. It was the knife he’d given him when they met. When they saved each others’ lives the first time, in that death camp. But there was no point left in saying that. He had not wanted to kill Artyom painfully. Why make him live that way either? Athos was supposed to look after d’Artagnian, after all. And he was also supposed to die.

“That ‘ma boy, that’s my boy! Давай - давай! No remorse, no reproach!” he called, fighting to make each syllable egg his friend on this one last time. “Давай!”

And Artyom came. No, ‘Why!?’ no angry shouts of blame, just silence and movement, falling on him almost like a cat, and dragging him up, a knife to his neck.

He should have slashed his throat. Pavel was as close as he could be to ready for that. It was the best he could offer, and he’d made it to the end.

And instead.

There was this.

The small dark one had grabbed him, and he’d been dragged into a memory like he was there again, in the flesh, his orders, less than a day ago. And at the mention, at the thoughts of infecting, poisoning Oktyabrskaya, D-6, Artyom, he had been overcome from the inside by something that felt like an echo and a whisper and a scream.

Pavel didn’t know the voices he heard, yet somehow he did. He knew them like he’d heard them all his life.

A good communist did not believe in ghosts, but he knew it was the phantoms of Oktyabrskaya, of everyone he had had to kill to get this far, reaching out for him. A cold, awful sound, like a dying breath, shrieking a testament to all his sins.

His bones felt like they were being overtaken by ice. His head was pounding, so much it was hard to see. And he couldn’t move. Everywhere, there were hands—arms—grey and boney and dead, charred corpses burned away so fast and so unfairly, so inexplicably, they couldn’t understand they had had to die. And Pavel didn’t know what they were, or how a cave of twisted bodies making up wall and ceiling and floor, hands everywhere you could see, devoid of muscle like a rotting corpse, could hold him back—could exist at all—but, they had him. They had him and he could not get free. He felt hands on his arms and wrists, ankles and feet, his legs, his sides, digging into his head.

They could not be this strong! Even wounded, he should have been able to break free, to run! But it was like he physically could not. Like they had been made to hold him, and him alone.

And across from him, in the dim red light of this impossible hell, was Artyom. No gas mask here, face clear, eyes almost blank as he stared back at Pavel. He didn’t look shocked. He didn’t look afraid. Like…like he knew.

A sudden terror gripped him. Pavel didn’t know how he knew, but he knew with absolute certainty in every fiber of his being that if he didn’t get out now, he was going to be here, feeling himself bleed to death while hands dragged him apart, forever.

“Hey! Artyom! What’s up with you!? Hey, hey! My friend! Artyom?!”

The response was automatic. He had not been afraid to die. But whatever this was? This, it terrified him. He could feel it trying to eat him alive, to tear back his soul piece by piece, like it was picking apart his skin, and he couldn’t even move!

A second cold wave of fear crashed over him as he remembered that he had seen this before, with the soothsayer. He had seen this exact scene, from the third person.

No, he realized with a terror like your grip on a cliff face slipping, From Artyom’s point of view. I saw what he’s seeing. And this is the choice.

God, he was going to leave him.

He had not moved when Pavel called out. He was just staring.

God please, no.

“Artyom! Artyom—please! Artyom!” he called, the terror in his voice now, “Don’t leave like this!”

Artyom took a step forward, and then another, like someone sleepwalking, and Pavel felt terror mingle with relief, and then he saw patches of Artyom grow transparent. Like he was…fading.

No.

“Artyom! Kill me!” he shouted, thrashing with building desperation, “Kill me! Artyom!”

The hands were sinking into him. Pain shot through his arms and legs, his gut, his forehead, and he screamed.

“Artyom! Help!” His voice was breaking, and he fought with everything he had, but it was killing him. It was making him like it, and he could feel it. “Artyom!”

His friend met his eyes, and Pavel felt despair run him through as he realized what was going to happen to him, now, and forever. He couldn’t take it, but he was going to anyway. There was nothing left.

And then Artyom’s expression changed, and there was a familiar look in his eyes. Pavel had seen it. Through the bars in that Nazi cell, and from the noose choking the life out of him at his public execution, one last time on his back in that plane, looking up at the frantic ranger trying to force a gas mask over his head.

Artyom ran for him.

Pavel wanted to cry. He felt like he was being ripped to shreds. “Faster...” he begged weakly, straining towards Artyom with everything he had, “Can't take it...”

Artyom reached him; fingers dug into his coat and ripped him free. Pavel felt himself fall back against the ground. Saw Artyom above him. But, his brain was past processing anything but the whispers of condemnation, calling him to join. Anything but the fear and pain of dying forever here.

The hands were everywhere. Still reaching, grasping, trying to pull him back. His eyes found Artyom’s.

“Anything...” he begged. Almost a whimper. He couldn’t find the words. He could never find the words, and it would be his soul this time. Because he couldn’t…

The Ranger was looking down with the same almost violent distress in his eyes as before, and then he dropped on top of him, dragging Pavel into himself. For a moment, he thought he was being attacked. “But not...” he pleaded weekly, voice muffled against the bloody Ranger armor, and then as no more pain came, he realized d’Artagnian was shielding him, and he stopped.

Things changed.

The shrieks faded, the chill, the hate. He couldn’t breathe, but Pavel didn’t care. All he had wanted, was to be away from those things, and he was. It was enough. He let his eyes shut.

Vaguely, Pavel was aware of being moved, but he was too weak to move or to look. Even choking poisoned air into his lungs was about to be too much. But then, there was a click, and his breathing eased again. An air filter… must have…

He tried to open his eyes. He wanted to say something. Maybe, ‘Thank you.’ But, that wouldn’t be right either. And his body could not find the strength for any words, and it dragged him under, into a deep sleep. Still breathing.

One last time.

[Part 2][Part 3]

[lobotobell]

Rewired

(normal version under cut)

[a-dash-in-the-middle]

hiiiii dash!!! 6 & & for your ask game

hiiiii ivyy

for 6 - art you want to hang on your walls

these are some of the postcards i am trying to actually hang on the walls(frames are hard for them) - and they inspired this ask actually

and for the rest i chose to limit myself to only the catalogues i have bc... i could get lost in the search for hours,... i really love art

thank you so much for this ask i have been meaning to spam you all with my estranged art tastes for a while now and you have given me the perfect push to show them a bit<3

[spinach-pine]

when you get in trouble and your parents have to discipline you.

[nterini]

Pavel’s acting here is so fucking good. I literally felt that look of sheer relief and gratitude. He so desperately wants Charlie to continue loving him the way he has always been (the way he’s wanted to be loved and taken care of)

you have to take care of me. do you understand?

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

{Nicola Yoon, The Sun Is Also a Star/ Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous: A Novel/ removed the French one / u.k / words by @not-sewell /old Spanish sayings/ paintings by ker Xavier roussel/ "Man sitting on a Log", 1893, by Karoly Ferenczy/Pavel benkov/ salman toor}

{Add if you know something in your language too}

[herpsandbirds]

May I request your silliest bugs?

Have you seen this silly ass man???

Peanut Bug aka Peanut Lanternfly (Fulgora laternaria), family Fulgoridae, Ecuador

In Ecuador, where Paxon and I both worked and met each other, this insect is called Machaca. It is believed, or so people say, that if a man is bitten by one, he will die within 24 hours, if he does not have sex with a virgin. They are incapable of biting people… 😑

Photograph by Pavel Krillov

Peanut Bug aka Peanut Lanternfly (Fulgora laternaria), family Fulgoridae, Guatemala

Photograph by Bernard DuPont

[evalevaeva]

Hi! Do you write headcanons? If not than you can just write it as a fic or ignore it. It's ok 😊.

Ryu sio falls in love with a soft and sweet female reader who genuinely cares for him and wants to be his friend unlike Nam soon. He was at first skeptical about her and used to be rude towards her. But slowly he realised that reader is actually a sweet person and wasn't pretending to get close to him. So he starts to like her and tries to win her love.

Thank you 😊

Ryu Sio falling in love with someone sweet:

thank you anon! is this how i make a headcanon

- i think he'd definitely be a bit skeptical after everything that happened with namsoon

- he'd be the type to fall in love at first sight

- he'd walk into the office and you'd be walking into the office with a coffee in hand and he'd be absolutely smitten

- he'd tell himself that he was just being tricked again, but he'd find himself taking walks around the office to catch a glimpse of you

- he'd eventually give your team more benefits, and eventually, he'll begin talking to you

- sio would convince himself that he was just using you to get over namsoon

- would see you as a replacement and would switch moods really fast

- he'd probably think that all your kindness was a facade

- would try to push you to your limit, but somehow, you're too patient and thought he just needed to vent anger

- but he'd find himself waiting for your calls, waiting for your texts and waiting for you

- you'd probably be a bit confused at first, i mean, your boss is literally taking an interest in you

- eventually, he'd find small things about you that he likes

- he'd be in his fancy car, passing the alleyway to your house and he'd see you helping a grandma carry her groceries home, and he'd find himself smiling and giggling like a teenage girl

- he'd find you feeding the neighbourhood cat, and he'd ask you if you like them

- if you say yes, be prepared to get kittens as your christmas gift

- this man doesn't hold back when it comes to you

- whatever you want, is whatever you'll get. he doesn't care if you wanted a mansion, he'll get it.

- he would feel doubts once in a while, but then he'll see your text and he's all good again

- he's definitely a hugger

- would lean onto you (eventhough hes two heads taller than you)

- definitely a gift giver and is big on pda

- wouldn't want you to be in danger because you're in a relationship with him, but can't stop himself from holding your hand or clinging onto you

- I'd like to think he would try to convince you to just become his assistant because you're too sociable with everyone in the office

- would get jealous and be all clingy when you take too long to talk to your manager

- would get jealous when you go out for lunch with your coworkers and not him, even though you spend way more time with him

- you'd make a bento box for him to bring to lunch, and he'd be all smiley the whole day, and he'd take a lot of photos of it

- would have a whole album in his gallery of just photos of the both of you and would open it everytime he feels stressed

- he'd probably hide the whole pavel thing from you because he doesn't want you to worry or think he's a monster

- if you did find out, you'd probably be more worried about him than you already were

- if you were worried he was overworking himself, now you were worried for his life

- you'd make him text you every few hours to make sure he's alright and he'd feel guilty because you're worrying for him

- he'd make sure you know his every whereabout so you won't have to worry as much

[chonkykitkatart]

Oh Pavel Yudin, The man you are

Such a man in fact, that i shaded him six times. All hail Pav