#russian cutters

[alexxx-malev]

Russia. Volga river Волга

[gghostwriter]

Hiya! :D

Since askbox is open, may I please order some slight hurt-comfort based off of "From Eden" by Hozier? Harnessing the pure longing this song emanates to me fr.

Something like non-BAU!reader getting hurt by an unsub during a case (non-lethal but it does require a stitch or two) and spencer gets abnormally worried about this one person among the group of victims (maybe serial bank robberies) and when the team notices it and ask him about it he reveals to them that they're actually his roommate?

something romantic-leaning; I just like the idea of him standing outside the hospital room door [OMG LIKE THE SONG] because the doctors told him to wait before he could go inside sitting there like 🥺 "My roommate :(" and getting embarassed when the team calls reader his partner; "You're so worried it's almost like you're dating." sort of feel

Sorry if this is long btw! I tend to go all out on ideas! Pronouns are up to you though, feel free to change anything to your liking as well! :]

Thanks for reading! :D

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Trope: Roommates; Comfort, Fluff, Angst w.c: 1.2k A/N: There's so much interpretation for 'From Eden by Hozier' and I had a challenging time trying to capture which meaning I wanted to encapsulate. This is also by far the longest request I've written and honestly this took a life of its own but I still hope you like it! Main masterlist

Eden. // Spencer Reid

The monotone droll in the bank was white noise in your life that you learned to slowly hate. Day in, day out it was the same thing—customers withdrawing, depositing, and claiming loans. You liked numbers, that was how you ended up as a manager, but the cookie cutter business smile you had to keep on your face was a con you wish to part from. 

You sighed. Your roommate turned secret crush, Dr. Spencer Reid, had warned you about the serial robberies that had happened within the state of Virginia and Washington. He advised you to be vigilant and if possible, to keep your phone within your reach and you easily agreed having heard some of the macabre cases he’d been involved in.

You just didn’t think it would happen today.

“Get down on the ground!” A man’s voice echoed throughout the lobby, followed by a series of gunshots.

Spencer’s voice played in your head as if he was a lighthouse guiding you out from the panic. Hide. Don’t panic. Press the hidden alarm and dial my number.

You thanked your past self for programming his contact on speed dial. Volume down and no words uttered, you hid the phone inside your blouse hoping to not get caught.

“You there!” One of the masked men caught sight of you. “Outside. Now!”

You nodded, averting your eyes to show submission. Another tactic from Spencer.

Wishing the call picked up the trio of robbers voices, you stayed facing down on the lobby surround by the rest of the hostages.

Spencer, please. Please, get my message.

Just a few miles away, tension was high in the BAU conference room. The round table littered with folders and cooling coffee mugs. The team was running on a mixture of caffeine and sheer will to solve the serial bank robber case, tagged as priority by Strauss, that had been terrorizing states for a span of months. 

Spencer raked his already unruly hair. So far, the profile was incomplete. They knew there were three in the team but with varying heights and builds in various crime scenes, even that was shaky. What they were sure of was the sick game of Russian roulette they would play with their hostages, always with one bullet in a revolver and who ever is unlucky, dies with a hole between their brows and the remaining hostages are pistol whipped to unconsciousness. 

He knew he should stay objective. He knew that but how could he, when who he considers as his secret flower was at risk every second the unsubs were at large? It was his mission to keep you safe and the chances of you being caught in the line of fire heightened each second.

Vibration from his pocket brought him out of his musings. 

It was you. Right there and then, Spencer knew it was anything but good. You never called during work hours and with the last conversation between you having been about safety, it had settled in his stomach that the worst reality had come to fruition.

He picked up without saying a word, straining his ears to hear any distinguishable background noise. That was when he heard it—the authoritative, cocky voice yelling at you to come outside. His heart dropped. 

No. No. No. Anything but this.

“Sir, we just got a call,” Penelope rushed into the conference room. “There’s a live hostage taking at—”

“—Commerce Bank. 125 Independence Boulevard,” Reid interjected.

The profilers shared a look.

“That’s right,” Penelope muttered.

Morgan raised an eyebrow at him as he hurriedly stood up and collected his belongings. “Wait Reid—” causing him to stop in his tracks and turn to face back at the team. “—How’d you know?”

“Because Y/N works there,” he promptly exits the room, hightailing it to the elevator.

Emily looked at JJ. “Who’s that?”

She shrugged, lost too on who you were.

———

The team had split into two vehicles. Hotch, Rossi, and Reid in one while Morgan Emily, and JJ in the other.

Rossi glanced at Hotch, communicating the tension Reid was releasing from the passenger seat. In turn, Hotch sneaks a peek via the rear view mirror and profiles Reid’s ticks—hands clasped tight together, right leg shaking up and down, eyes shifting from left to right, and deep breaths through the nose and mouth. 

“Reid,” he called out.

Blown wide doe eyes meet his. “Hm?”

“We need you to stay focused. If you can’t do that, I’ll pull you out of this case.”

“I—I can do it!” His voice cracking.

“Are you sure, kid?” Rossi clarified.

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s just she’s my—” roommate but that singular title wasn’t fitting to describe who you were to him. No classification was good enough, really. “—I can focus,” he declared. 

There was a series of looks exchanged between the two senior agents. They didn’t need to be seasoned profilers to understand that their youngest is one slip away from panic.

Hotch sighed. “Alright, Reid, but you follow my orders. Got it?”

“Yes.” 

———

Einstein’s theory of special relativity was what came to mind as he paced outside your hospital room. The physicist implied that time moves relative to the observer. An object moving very fast experiences time more slowly than in rest and that was exactly what he felt as he paces back and forth outside your room, desperately waiting for any update—the good or the bad. Everyone seemed to be moving at a leisure pace while he, Dr. Spencer Reid, hangs on the precipice of elation and despair. 

The team had sent him away, to you specifically, when it was obvious that his otherwise objective mind was of no help in finishing up the case. Was it dreadful of him that he felt relief course through his veins when it wasn’t you that got the short end of the stick during the unsubs’ Russian Roulette? Yes, possibly but he was only human. A being filled with conundrums and good vs evil. 

The impact of today was eye opening. He could no longer deny to himself that you were more than just a roommate or an acquaintance or a friend. Oh, how hard he tried so hard to push away any thought that seemed any less innocent or chivalrous, but the idea of seeing those beautiful eyes broken and in pain made him want to face the truth. The truth being how deliriously in love Spencer Reid was with you. 

His phone rang, disturbing his mind-altering revelation thoughts.

“Hey kid,” It was Morgan. “How is she?”

Reid licked his lips, eyes trained on the still closed door. “I—I haven’t seen her. The doctors are still inside and I’m still here—outside.” 

“I know this isn’t the time but should we know who she is?” A pause. “Girlfriend?”

“No. No, she’s my roommate,” his sigh coated in despair, murky and sad enough for Morgan to notice.

“You sounded so worried. It’s almost like you’re in love with her or something.”

“I am—” your door opened. “I have to go, Morgan,” he hung up before another word could be uttered.

“Are you Dr. Spencer Reid?” The female doctor asked.

He nodded.

She smiled. “She’ll see you now.”

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[felinefractious]

You said in a recent post that they breed random white hairs out of purebreds, and while that is true, it doesn't stop them from turning up! I have a purebred Russian Blue (they were actually hoping she'd be showable) and she has a white flash on her chest.

You can see it here! (It kind of looks like the rim lighting that's on her neck, but it's a white patch.)

This is very true!

Breeding is for predictability not perfection, these are living creatures we’re working with - you’ll never get cookie cutter cats, and even genetics we understand rather well can surprise us sometimes.

That’s why there’s so much wiggle room in the cat fancy - why there’s penalties and disqualifications, why a cat can be a poor show prospect but a good breeding prospect, and so on.

She’s still a lovely demonstration of the silver tipping to their fur and their head structure, especially those big ol’ deep green eyes!

[suratan-zir]

They cut off the suspected terrorist's ear and made him eat it. They filmed this torture and proudly posted it on the Internet. (I do not suggest you watch it, obviously) Reporter for the Russian state channel Andrei Rudenko writes that “the disease of falling off ears will also befall other terrorists.”

Margarita Simonyan, a Russian media executive (one of the top propagandists) writes: "It wasn't ISIS, it was khokhols" (their slur for Ukrainians).

Now, what testimony do you think these terrorists will give? I don't think it takes that many cut off body parts before a person starts saying whatever you tell them to say.

What the fuck is wrong with this goddamn country? How do they manage to be so consistently and thoroughly fucked up?

EDIT: as soon as I finished this post, they put the "ear cutter knife" up for auction yes, it's the same knife

[badhabitscollection]

So Much (For) Blitz —An exclusive reveal of the star of Fall Out Boy’s latest album cover

Fall Out Boy’s latest effort So Much (For) Stardust) has been critically acclaimed and lauded by fans as some of their best work to date. The album artwork, prominently featuring a doberman, has left some puzzled and looking for additional context as to the dog’s identity and how the artwork came to be. The Bad Habits Collection is proud to bring you the exclusive reveal of the dog featured on the cover of their eighth studio album alongside the full story of how they were discovered.

�� 

When Fall Out Boy officially announced their eighth studio album on January 18th, 2023 and unveiled the album artwork for So Much (For) Stardust, there were a lot of opinions to be had. Some of the fans immediately felt connected and claimed it as their own, some compared it to Fiona Apple’s 2020 release Fetch the Bolt Cutters, and some downright found it revolting. Overall, most agreed that it was polarizing to say the least. Donned in an all black background, the front cover features both the name of the band and the album itself in the work of Omar Mroz (hereinafter referred to by his online moniker Mr.Oz). The text is covered in glitter and written out in the same style featured earlier in the rollout of FOB8’s album cycle with A Claymation Fall Out Boy Celebration, dropped as a surprise present from the band on Christmas one month earlier. The headlining attraction of this sideshow was in fact just a simple square box, containing a swirling artistic depiction of a doberman barking in the presence of a froth of bubbles.

From the moment I first laid eyes on the iconography of Fall Out Boy’s new era, I had just two questions in mind: Who is the dog? & Why choose the dog? A few obvious possibilities were immediately ruled out. Solely based on what’s been posted to social media, this dog did not belong to Pete, Joe, or Andy. Patrick has remained dormant online for years at this point, but still the odds felt slim. I did my best to brush it off, but ultimately I kept coming back to the thought of WHY? If you’re familiar with my previous work on the history of Take This To Your Grave’s album cover, you already know this type of sentiment means a lot to me. After a while of waiting for the band to bring up the topic in an interview or statement, I had essentially given up hope on any type of official explanation. It was at this moment, just 3 days before the release of the record, that I accepted the reality of the situation. This wasn’t a hot topic within the fandom. And no one was going to provide me with the answers I was looking for. If I wanted to know more, it was solely up to me. So… I got to work. — 

To take a step back, the artwork for So Much (For) Stardust first hit the internet on January 11th, seven days before the official reveal. Posted alongside the name of the first single Love From The Other Side, our barking pup friend was featured on the home feed of FILTER | NEWs on VK, a Russian social media site that I’ve been told is comparable to Facebook. The artwork was watermarked with a subtle, transparent white logo for FILTER in the background. Despite this post being up for five days (a millennia on the worldwide web), it wasn’t until the 16th that the fandom at large made this discovery, with many claiming it was an outright fake.

However, the *stars* started to align proving this leak to have a dose or two of authenticity. Mr.Oz’s claymation video from earlier in the rollout followed the story of a similar looking doberman, who just so happened to pose in the final frame in a style strongly resembling the leaked cover. 

Beyond that, a post from lyricist and bassist Pete Wentz’s Instagram dating back just two days earlier was quickly dug up. On the 4th slide of the carousel, there it was: a selfie of Pete with a Santa hat on and propped up on the shelf behind him... the physical painting of the doberman seen on the leaked cover.

All but confirmed at this point, one last clue presented itself online. The freshly created Twitter account “@muchstardust” popped up out of nowhere, making itself known by following myself and a few other notable hardcore fans in this space. @muchstardust made just one single tweet before being suspended (for reasons unknown). 

The post featured three images, the watermarked cover, Pete’s selfie, and notably, a compressed form of the actual photo taken of man’s best friend —the same one the leaked cover features an oil painting rendition of. 

—  As we all know now, this leak was indeed real and confirmed as the album artwork just a few days later by Fall Out Boy themselves. But that’s when the trail went cold. Later promotional photos featuring the band and taken by their long time collaborator Pamela Littky included another doberman, but clearly not the same one once examined a bit closer. On March 21st, the Chicago rock group posted “What do you think the dog’s name is? 🫧”, but never followed up with the answer. It’s as if they were taunting me specifically with how vocal I had been about wanting to solve this mystery. Just before the album’s official release, I was tipped off by someone with an early copy of the CD that the liner notes of So Much (For) Stardust credit Safia Latif for the cover painting and Jen Patterson for the photograph the cover painting was based on. With new pieces of the puzzle in play, my search for the dog in question was reignited. However, my leads proved of little to no help. I could not get in touch with Safia and could not properly identify Jen Patterson online for the life of me. Taking the hunt back to the drawing board, I reverse image searched the photo @muchstardust had originally provided, which even at this point, months later, was our only source of the actual photograph. Littered with results of the album artwork naturally, I did come across one potential connection. Once again, I found myself on the public timeline of someone’s VK.com profile. “dextromethorpan 3” had included the same photograph in a gallery of different doberman puppies posted on December 21st, 2020. This was…something. Sure, this photo likely did not originate from the VK profile I had unearthed, but at least now I knew it had been around the web for a few years. Scratching my head, I wondered how Fall Out Boy had originally come across this image. Was it something that came up on one of their feeds? Or perhaps just a keyword search? Taking it to different forms of social media, I found a potential match on the /r/doberman subreddit posted 10 months ago. Titled “Cool pic of us playing with bubbles”, the dobie in question featured strikingly similar features and color patterns, and was of course, playing with bubbles. 

So I did what any other sane fan would do… and sent a private message to the Redditor the night before the album dropped with Jen’s photograph. “/u/drc55555” responded Saturday morning agreeing that the dog did look a lot like their own, but that they didn’t recognize the photograph. I woke up in a cold sweat seeing the glimpse of the Reddit notification on my iPhone and replied informing them of the cover of Fall Out Boy’s brand new release and asking if the user was the Jen Patterson credited in the album’s booklet. A day later, they replied once again noting that they weren’t Jen, but that this has sparked a memory of another DM they had received in the fall of last year from an Elektra Records personnel, Fueled By Ramen’s distributor who Fall Out Boy had publicly rejoined the roster of just this January. Indeed, 200 days ago from this very conversation, a marketing representative from the label had reached out to the Redditor through the same platform letting them know that an artist they work with had come across the very same photo I myself found and that the artist had fallen in love with it, hoping to use it as part of the artwork for an upcoming project. /u/drc55555 had conceded that they regretted not responding at the thought of how their dog could have become famous. This is when I knew, I was HOT on the trail. Either a member of FOB discovered this photo of their dog while scrolling Reddit or had specifically sought out the same search terms as me, which meant the actual photograph used on the cover could have potentially been found through the very same method. My search accelerated and within a few hours I had run a variety of similar terms by Twitter, TikTok, Facebook, really any social media site I could get my hands on. Nothing had come up, but I hadn’t called it a day quite yet as one of the more obvious sites remained: Instagram. Heading to the explore page I have barely used in my own time on the platform, I typed in the same keywords that brought me to the pup’s uncanny match on Reddit: “doberman bubbles”. And there it was, exactly 60 rows down, right in the center, the original image of the dog I had been looking for all along along with an alternate photo of the same dog in the next slide in the same setting captioned “BUBBLES!!!!!”, posted —you guessed it, in 2020. 

—  With this case officially closed, I’m beyond stoked to introduce Blitz the Doberman to other fans of Fall Out Boy. At the time of publication, Blitz has 12.8k followers on his public Instagram account, which lead me to question how this match hadn’t already been made. Blitz’s bio reveals he was born on February 27th, 2019 and lives in Las Vegas with his human, one Jen Patterson.

In a beautiful twist of fate, within the hour of finishing the final draft of this piece, Blitz’s humans responded to my inquiry from earlier in the week. I spoke with Jen at length who was happy to share her story exclusively with The Bad Habits Collection. Similarly to the Redditor from earlier, a marketing rep from Elektra Records had reached out to her through Instagram on September 20th, 2022 inquiring about using a picture of her pup for one of their artists’ work, a message she initially regarded as spam. Eventually, she came to an agreement with Elektra, however, this story ended there for her. Up until Jen read the direct message I sent to Blitz’s account, she had not the slightest idea that he was featured on the cover of the new album of one of the biggest modern rock bands left in the world. I was shocked to hear this, but Jen on the other hand was incredibly excited to learn of the breaking news. I shared a photo with her of her name printed in the liner notes of So Much (For) Stardust, a cool moment for us both. Jen told me “I never considered myself a photographer, but that’s amazing!” When I asked about how Blitz already had such a huge following on Instagram, she told me all about how she’s networked with others in a doberman group and has kept a steady stream of posts coming on the daily. In discussion of what she’d like for others to take away from this article, Jen simply hoped others would get to know Blitz’s name —my entire goal of this investigation all along. Half-joking, she expressed that she’d also love to have gotten her hands on some merchandise with his face on it. Infinitely grateful for her responding to my DM and taking the time to talk with me, I’ve personally sent Jen physical copies of So Much (For) Stardust in both vinyl and CD format. I’ll be sure to update this write-up with a photo of FOB’s newest mascot posing with his album cover when they arrive! Closing out our conversation, Jen let me know that she “felt like if you hadn’t reached out, we would not have known.” To be honest, there were times in this journey that I thought it might be for the best if I gave up the search for this pup as to not invade anyone’s privacy. I figured if Blitz hadn’t already made himself known publicly, maybe there was a specific reason behind not doing so. I would have never guessed that reason was because his family were simply unaware of his new-found fame. I feel honored to have been the one to share this discovery with Blitz’s owners and again want to thank them for their contributions to this piece. Jen has also graciously shared the original photograph of Blitz the cover was based on in its full resolution, uncropped:

— 

After scouring the internet to to uncover this story, it all leads me to just one final question: Why Blitz? What’s the connection? Moreover, what’s the intended meaning here? Jen let me know that she herself was unaware of how and why the photograph was found and selected, but we can naturally draw our own conclusions. Discussing this topic with other longtime fans of the band, all have come to the same conclusion that Fall Out Boy’s latest effort features some of Pete’s bleakest lyrics in a long time paired somehow ever so perfectly with some of Patrick’s most uplifting and dance-worthy melodies to date. As my partner pointed out, the album artwork depicts a breed known for their usage as guard dogs with a tough exterior, but shown playing lightheartedly with what’s usually associated as a child’s toy. In the words of fellow Fall Out Boy historian and Bad Habits Collection collaborator Tommy McPhail, the cover displays “the epitome of boundless joy and simplified bliss amongst chaos”, a phrase that perfectly sums up the entire feeling artistically and masterfully expressed in So Much (For) Stardust in my own eyes. Fall Out Boy’s newest full-length studio record So Much (For) Stardust, produced by the legendary Neal Avron, is one of their strongest statement pieces in years and is now available everywhere music is streamed or sold. You can follow Blitz’s adventures on Instagram: @blitzdoberman —  “The kind of pain you feel to get good in the end. Inscribed like stone and faded by the rain: ‘Give up what you love before it does you in.’” Written by Alex Toor for The Bad Habits Collection

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Memento Mori - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: Do not forget that you will surely die someday, and as such, that is the more reason to live now. Fyodor returns to St. Petersburg, where a compassionate ballet teacher’s acceptance of life and mortality quietly transforms his jaded soul.

Warnings: heavy themes of existential dread, mortality and religion, some russian words used, spoiler to Fyodor's ability (even though everyone and their mom is probably up to date with the manga)

A/N: I always found it weird for an immortal being to be religious, so I wanted to imagine a reason for Fyodor's faith. Anyway, this was a good outlet for all my existential thoughts, and I hope I did the character justice

Words: 3,900

Our existence is quite fascinating: we are born from death and return to death once we are finished stealing breaths from the world. Our existence has two parts—the physical and the bodiless. The first represents your autonomy, your biology, while the latter represents the mind, the consciousness. 

19th century, Russian Empire

It was not uncommon for Fyodor to return home every five to ten years. Not out of homesickness, but there was something about the cold climate that always brought him back to St. Petersburg. He often found himself revisiting the same cathedrals and dark alleyways.  

Over the decades, places had changed, yet he remained the same. And circling around him were the same filthy, grotesque people—sinners with empty human souls, their hearts filled with religion and vodka. Religion to keep them fearful, and vodka to keep them compliant.  

Religion, in his mind, was a coping mechanism to manage the fear of death. And it was necessary because it thrived on fear. And what, he would ask, is the most primitive emotion in our brain? Fear. Fear is indeed primordial, clinging to us since the moment we are born.  

As humans, when we take our first breath, our first instinct is to cry and cling to our birth-giver. Why? Because we feel fear.  

The pavement was wet with snow that had fallen a few days prior and still plagued the stones. The sound of distant bells tolled in the background, marking the passage of time, but to Fyodor, time seemed irrelevant, like a vague murmur beneath the weight of his thoughts. The cold seeped into his bones, but it barely registered—his ushanka perched comfortably on his head, his coat keeping him mostly warm. Besides, he had a specific place he wanted to visit this time around. He had always enjoyed the fine arts, and ballet was no different. 

So there he stood, in front of the Mariinsky Theatre—a grand green-washed building. The architecture, coupled with the color of the opera house, reminded Fyodor of mildew. He entered and had someone take his dark coat, doffing his beloved hat politely before walking to his seat in the mezzanine. The seat loomed over the ground floor, giving him a perfect view of the performance as well as the people attending. 

He took a moment to observe and take in everything. The paintings on the ceiling were slightly more discolored than the last time he’d visited, and the people were the same cookie-cutter elites he saw every time. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they, too, didn’t age and that the same people came to the opera house each time. Everything was quite boring and dull, and he was tired of it all, but he still wanted to see the show. Giselle was one piece he had seen before but kept returning to. Why? 

It was probably the tragic story that began with Giselle’s all-consuming love that lead her to madness and death. Her transformation—from grief and heartbreak to forgiveness and redemption as she forgives Albrecht—it all leads Giselle to spiritual liberation, demonstrating the healing power of selfless love and the importance of moving beyond bitterness. 

He didn’t understand that. 

Giselle, in his eyes, was a naïve fool. The man didn’t deserve her forgiveness or pity. If a woman’s heart is moved to pity, it becomes more dangerous than anything. She is bound to want to save him, to bring him to his senses, to lift him up and draw him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and usefulness. And yet, such dreams were futile. Fyodor knew all too well how far that kind of idealism could lead.  

As the orchestra swelled, the soft, lively melody of the second act began, pulling him from his thoughts. The dancers took their positions, and he settled back into his seat, his gaze fixed on the stage. The performance resumed, the air thick with the delicate balance of art and emotion.  

He remembered everything that was supposed to happen, from the slight movements of each ballerina to the clicking of the wooden pointe shoes on stage. So it struck him when the lead—a fairly average-looking woman—came out in the second act with a violin. His usual disinterested gaze followed the ballerina. 

There was nothing particularly remarkable about her; she moved with the same elegance as any other ballerina, wore the same costume he’d memorized. But the fact that she decided to depart from tradition and bring an instrument on stage while also dancing made him almost reevaluate his opinion of her. On one hand, it was a pleasant surprise to see something different, opposed to the harsh rules of Russian ballet; on the other, why would she feel the need to defy tradition? 

With a few simple inquiries, he soon found out that the woman was a teacher at the Vaganova Academy of Russian Ballet. It was expected—being the only relevant ballet school in St. Petersburg, many ballerinas who graduated from this academy went on to perform at the opera house. 

The academy had the same sickly yellow walls he had grown accustomed to; almost everything in this city was like this. From the faces of the people walking the streets to the wood holding up and supporting the buildings, the color of decay that seemed to seep into every corner of St. Petersburg. 

The woman’s name was (Y/N) Agafonov. As stated, she was a teacher at this academy. 

The porter let him in without fuss, seeing the polite, respectable man as someone who belonged there, and he oh-so-politely nudged him toward the room where you held your dance lessons. The door was open, almost inviting him to glance inside. 

You stood in the middle of the grand dance room, your eyes soft yet stern, needing to focus on the girls before you to help and correct them. Yet you didn’t notice the eyes that were on you the whole time. He quietly observed everything, from the way you stood and walked to the way you spoke to the young women. So gently, as if afraid to break their hearts and confidence. 

As Fyodor observed the class, a peculiar thought flitted through his mind. How can such a gentle creature, such as herself, be stuck in such an unclean, unrighteous world? His gaze lingered on her soft yet commanding presence as she spoke to the young dancers. There was a part of him that expected her to break—to succumb to the world’s nature or fall in line like everyone else. But there was something in the way she held herself, something almost fragile but resolute. He couldn’t look away. And so he stayed—silent, watching, unable to understand why someone like her seemed immune to the harshness of her surroundings. 

Not long after, the class ended, and you let the girls stretch and leave. What caught your eye was the stranger standing outside the doorway. He could have been mistaken for a statue, as he presented so still and stoic. You took a step forward and gestured for him to come in. Without hesitation, he approached, his steps quiet, like a cat’s. When he stood at arm’s length, you offered him your hand. He stared at it for a few moments, contemplating before slowly, and surprisingly gently, lifting your hand to his lips and placing a kiss on your knuckles before releasing it. 

What he saw surprised him further—the subtle or not-so-subtle marks around your nail beds. Probably signs of stress and overthinking. He pondered the question: How can I relate to this woman? He believed he was nothing like you; you held a strange humanity about you, while he hadn’t felt human in a long time. He couldn’t relate to your gentle nature or soft gaze. Of course, he wouldn’t voice any of this. 

“Privyetstvuyu, miss Agafonov, my name is Fyodor Dostoevsky, apologies for intruding during your lesson,” he spoke, his voice low and almost quiet, as if sharing a secret. 

“Dobroye den, Mister Dostoevsky. It is quite all right; my lesson wasn’t disturbed, so there’s no need to worry. May I ask what business you have?” you said, your voice quiet and warm, as if still speaking to the girls. It filled the room in a soft echo. A quiet part of Fyodor admired your bluntness and need to get to the point, but this forwardness clashed with your way of speech. Your honeyed voice was calming, while your words were stern. It was obvious that you had a sharp mind, but your quiet, almost lamb-like demeanor contrasted with it. 

Fyodor cleared his throat softly before speaking again. “I had the pleasure of being at your last performance, so if you have time, I’d appreciate it if you would answer some questions about it.” 

You observed him for a moment, unsure of his intentions. Checking the ticking clock on the wall, you saw that it was late—past noon, with no more classes to teach. Perhaps you would indulge his curiosity. 

“I happen to have the time. Yes, we may speak in my office.” 

Fyodor hummed in acknowledgment before quietly following you. You entered the room and gestured for him to sit. After he took a seat, you soon followed, facing him. “May I offer you some tea?” 

“No, thank you,” he replied, his tone polite but detached. 

There was a moment of pause between you two. The man you came to know as Fyodor struck you as rather odd. His thin frame made him look as if he were swimming in his long black coat. His eyes, often described as windows to the soul, betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking or feeling at that moment. He looked pale and almost sick, faint bruises under his eyes likely from lack of sleep. He had an overwhelming air of fatigue, and yet he still looked elegant and put together. 

“You came to speak to me about my last performance, da?” you asked. 

“Da,” he replied slowly, his voice calm and measured, taking one more moment to choose his words carefully. His dark eyes held an intensity that could make any stone wall crumble. “I haven’t seen anyone perform Giselle’s part in the second act as you did.” 

For a moment, the thought flashed through your mind: Was he a critic here to berate me for choosing to go against the traditional interpretation? No—perhaps you were jumping to conclusions. He would speak, and you would discover his intentions. “Ah, you mean where Giselle enters the world of Wilis, where I played the violin?” 

“Da.” That was all he said, though something about his tone invited you to continue. 

“I took some creative liberty with that part, as it was my last performance,” you explained, pausing to consider whether you should delve deeper. “It may sound silly, but I often think about death—not because I wish to die, but because I know we are temporary. My small act of rebellion was a way for me to exercise the free will given to me by our Lord.” 

She remembered the first time she had stepped into ballet shoes. Twenty years have passed, she mused, in the way twenty years do—imperceptibly, until they are gone. We are often so focused on the cell that is our immediate future that we forget our fragility. Her body was now giving out on her; she felt herself slipping from the person she once was, her physical form no longer sustaining the life of a ballerina. Broken by the industry as she grew, her body had been molded like gum, her mind torn to shreds, yet she found strength in the weakness she had felt. The anxious little girl she once was had faded, replaced by a kind-hearted woman who saw that same frightened child in others and wanted to help them. 

This intrigued Fyodor. The woman before him hadn’t made her choice for attention or acclaim. It was more humble and personal, a way to come to terms with her mortality. This was a new perspective to him. As a man who had lived many lifetimes, he had grown desensitized to death and the fleeting nature of those around him. 

“That is an interesting perspective,” he finally said, though his tone didn’t convey approval. “You think about your own fragility and thus want to escape it by exercising your free will?” 

“You are partially correct, sir. I don’t wish to escape it; I want to come to terms with it. I know my death will come at one point, and I am not afraid of it. But perhaps…" there was a short pause, eyebrows furrowing, trying to find the right words "...perhaps, I don’t wish for my consciousness to be erased, to lose who I once was.” 

Sometimes, Fyodor wished his consciousness could be erased. The weight of his own memories—the unrelenting flood of time—pressed down on him, crushing his bones. He envied those who lived in blissful ignorance, their minds free of the burden of awareness. But perhaps that was the nature of existence, he mused. We all find our peace with it in different ways.  

Quiet eyes flickered as she watched him, her gaze momentarily distant. She, too, had once wished for a simpler life, one where she could close her eyes and not feel the weight of the years pressing in on her. Her body had once moved with the grace of a child, unburdened. But now, as time wore on, she saw her own fragility—her inevitable decline. 

He offered a small, contemplative nod. It was not in his nature to find kinship with another person, yet this woman stirred a faint echo of familiarity—a kindred desire for understanding amidst the ephemerality of existence. 

"So, you wish to accept death, but not to be forgotten?” Fyodor asked, his voice carrying a tone both curious and heavy—perhaps judgment, perhaps something else, something deeper, impossible to name. “You believe we can make peace with it, despite knowing it will come?”  

The woman paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered his question. A quiet hum of approval escaped her lips before she replied, her tone calm yet resolute. "Da, death is something unchanging, constant. Something that will come either way. And a part of me finds comfort in the fact that something is predestined to happen in this chaotic world.”  

As they spoke, there was a moment when their eyes met, and in that fleeting instant, neither spoke, yet something passed between them, an unspoken recognition—neither pity nor empathy, but an understanding that was both intimate and alien. Two souls, caught in the same current, yet separated by different shores. Before either could name it, the moment was gone, leaving only the quiet air between them.  

After a few more quiet inquiries about religion and philosophy, they parted ways—but not for long. Fyodor was left perplexed, he sensed that this woman was something rare, something he hadn’t encountered before.  

--- 

“You cannot age,” she murmured quietly, breaking the peaceful silence that had settled between them. 

Fyodor had anticipated this moment. He’d chosen to stay by her side through the years, knowing that eventually, she would notice—the ageless stranger who never changed while she did. He placed his teacup gently on the table, meeting her gaze as he prepared to respond. 

“That is correct. I wondered when you would bring it up.” 

The silence returned, heavier now, pressing down on them. She stared down, her hands fidgeting under the table, unconsciously picking at the skin around her nails, almost trembling. Her mind seemed to whirl with questions—how many years, how many lifetimes had he endured? Decades, centuries, millennia? She could only imagine the pain he must have felt, watching the world around him age and fade while he remained unchanged. After a moment, she looked up, her gaze softer, almost pained. 

“Fyodor,” she whispered, “aren’t you tired?” 

Another pause, this one stretching unbearably. Fyodor could feel her empathy radiating across the table—a kindness he had never allowed himself to indulge. He’d always regarded empathy as a weakness, an opening that could be easily exploited. And yet, something about her simple, compassionate question stirred something long-buried within him, something vulnerable he instinctively wanted to bury again.  

“Da, ya ustal,” he admitted softly, letting the words slip out like an exhale, as though he were surrendering a truth to the night. 

At this, a single tear slipped down her cheek, glistening in the low light. Her sorrow made him shift uncomfortably; he’d always hated tears, a visible testament to human frailty. But this time, he hated it for a different reason. This tear was for him. It unsettled him because she was weeping for him. It made him feel bare, more vulnerable. He almost wanted to pull away, to get up and leave, and never speak another word to her again, but he didn’t. 

“Please,” he murmured, his voice suddenly low and tense, “there’s no need for that.” His hand almost rose, hovering just above the small round table, as if he might wipe the tear away. But he stopped, uncertain. She raised her head, meeting his gaze again, her kind eyes searching his. 

“Pozhaluysta,” she said, her voice almost pleading. “I want to know. I need to understand.” 

And that he did. He spoke more words about himself at that table than he had in all his years of living. His silver tongue felt rusted, each word pulled up with effort, forcing him to pause often as he searched for the right ones. It was uncharacteristic of him, and yet it made the woman somehow happy that he was willing to share the burden. 

Speaking of burdens: his gift, he explained, had been a cruel joke. He remembered the first time he’d been killed—how young he was, how his lips coughed out their last breath, how cold his body felt when his soul was leaving. And yet, moments later, he was drawn back again, but into a different form, his chest still throbbing from the wound that should have ended him. He had gasped for air like a newborn, his body wracked with pain and confusion, holding his own lifeless body in his hands as he shivered and wept. He’d only been a child. 

Her face remained soft, solemn, though quiet tears slipped down her cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable. Her cold tea sat forgotten on the table as she listened, her heart aching. Only a child, she thought. He was only a child. Children, the purest part of humanity—the ones who needed to be protected and cherished. How could anyone harm a child? 

When he finished, another silence fell over them, but this one felt different—lighter, calmer, as if a weight had lifted from his heart. She felt an urge to comfort him but knew he wouldn’t accept words or gestures. Instead, she rose quietly from the table and crossed to a narrow yellow wood cabinet. She opened it and drew out a silver cross necklace, holding it close to her heart before she returned to sit across from him, holding it out for him to take. 

“I know you don’t accept faith, but perhaps... wear this as a reminder. If you can, bring fortune to the world Fyodor, maybe even a blessing for the children who will follow.” 

But he did not accept, he politely declined the cross from her. “Perhaps there is a Devine being out there, something out of this world that we cannot see. But faith left me long ago, so I cannot accept this” he had said, what soon followed was a quiet apology for his heresy, a glance away as he spoke. She did not blame him and hadn’t pressed him further, only nodded as though she’d expected it, though a glimmer of sadness flickered in her eyes.  

--- 

What he thought would be a short visit to his homeland stretched from a few days to a few weeks, then to a few months, until it bloomed into decades. At first, he assumed this was a fleeting curiosity, one that would fade in a matter of days. But as years passed and he still couldn’t get his fill of her company, he began to wonder: Perhaps I misjudged the situation. Perhaps I was crass and too quick to dismiss her.  

He had found someone who brought him a rare peace and understanding, despite their clashing mentalities—a connection he never grew tired of. Every time they met, they found some new topic to discuss, and each time he left feeling more alive.  

As we have come to realize, life is fleeting, and time is a cruel mistress who waits for no one. Each second slips away, unnoticed and irretrievable, like sand through open fingers. We may comfort ourselves with the thought that existence after death is peaceful—just as existence before life was peaceful—as though one could simply slip away into sleep. And as all things, good and beautiful, must come to an end, so too did your life. 

--- 

She had held the cross out to him once before, fingers delicate, her gaze full of quiet insistence. Now, in the emptiness she had left behind, he found himself holding the small cross in his palm, its edges warm from her touch alone. He slipped the chain over his head, feeling its slight weight rest against his chest. He didn’t know if he could fully embrace her faith, but he wanted to feel a part of her presence linger. And maybe, in this quiet act, he was allowing her wish to come true, as her memory lived on in him.  

Fyodor stood in the dimly lit church, his eyes resting on the flickering candles. He had never understood this before—the way the simple act of remembering someone could tether them to the world long after they were gone. But now, as his thoughts drifted to her, he realized that this woman—her soft gaze, her gentle words—had become the anchor to his humanity. The strange pull he had felt toward religion, the gradual acceptance of mortality, it was all for her. Her belief, her grace in the face of death, had become his guide. He wasn’t just remembering her now; she had become a part of him. And in some way, by carrying her memory, he was keeping her alive.   

Rising slowly from his seat, Fyodor moved toward the coffin, his steps heavy. His cold, detached gaze softened at the sight of her, lying there in stillness, her expression almost peaceful. Was that the shadow of a smile on her lips? Reaching out, he clasped her hand—soft, motionless, yet warmer, somehow, than his own.  

He lingered in silence, his breath catching. How strange, he thought, that even here, in death, she still has the power to warm me. A sharp ache bloomed in his chest. For years he had watched her, a steady presence that grew unexpectedly precious, but had he ever told her? Had she known? The question hung there, unanswered, filling the quiet with the weight of all he’d never said.  

The cold silver lay heavy on his heart, like a whisper. ‘Remember me,’ it seemed to say, and in his silent acceptance, in the quiet solitude he vowed that he would. Fyodor closed his eyes.  

You wanted to be remembered, he thought. 

And I will remember you, dearest. But more than that, I will live by the lessons you taught me.

[straight-to-the-pain]

I don't know if anyone else in the whump community has read 'A Constellation of Vital Phenomena' by Anthony Marra but it is genuinely a really good book and also has some of the best depictions of torture and its aftermath that I have read in fiction.

I wanted to share some of my favourite quotes, hopefully without too many spoilers as it is out of context, but maybe skip this post if you don't want to know anything at all going in.

To give a brief summary, the book centres around the lives of people in Chechnya during the first and second war between the Russian government (Feds) and the separatist rebels. The main story focuses on a man (Akhmed) who is trying to save his neighbour's daughter from being killed by the Feds after her father is taken away in the middle of the night. He does this by taking her to a hospital where he then volunteers. One of the people in his village (Ramzan) becomes an informer for the Feds after being tortured, and this is explored in the excerpts below.

‘Information the Feds would torture them for was written here on the walls for all to see. It was well understood among the men that the Feds had as much sense as two bricks smashed together. It was also understood that pain, rather than information, was the true purpose of interrogation.'

'During his first detention in the landfill, in 1995, in the first war, he had refused to inform. They had wrestled down his trousers, shown him the bolt cutters, and still he had said no. Screaming, thrashing, with his manhood half severed, he had said no. He had done that, and now he was ready to start saying yes.'

'He would have confessed everything, but they didn't ask, weren't interested, threatened to cut out his tongue and put pliers to his teeth if he spoke one more fucking word. Electric wires were wound around his fingers. A car battery was drained into his bones. God might have been watching, but it wasn't God's finger on the battery switch. The interrogating officers didn't speak. Instead he was an instrument they played, performing a duet, and in their own way they conversed through his sobs. They both wore very shiny shoes. That was all he would remember.'

'He had trouble walking, He had forgotten torture could be so exhausting. The new interrogator, the one with less shiny shoes, held him upright, using his whole body as a crutch, and helped him walk. He carefully wiped Ramzan's forehead with a handkerchief before opening the door to the next room.'

'The interrogator with less shiny shoes crouched behind him. His hands were wet. Ramzan promised everything, and the interrogator, like the parent of a child too old to believe in ghosts, watched him with disappointment, his clear eyes saddened by Ramzan's sincerity. The interrogator took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, laid the live wires on Ramzan's chest and mapped the border of their shared humanity. Ramzan offered his soul. He begged to be enslaved. The known universe contracted to the limits of the cement floor, and on it, the interrogator was both man and deity, prophet and god. By ten o'clock the interrogator with less shiny shoes asked his first question. By eleven the electrical wires were unwound from Ramzan's fingers. By noon he was allowed to dress. By one he was on the FSB payroll. He kept thanking the interrogator with less shiny shoes.'

‘Greed didn’t motivate his informing, at least not primarily; primarily he informed by necessity, to survive, for his love and hate and above all awe of the power wielded by the interrogating officer with less shiny shoes.'

'That was his greatest fear. Could he stay silent? Could he withstand what awaited him? He told himself that his love for the girl should fortify him against any torture, but this, like so much of what he told himself, was a lie. After all, he was squeamish at the sight of blood, what would he say when lying in a puddle of his own? But he saw no other way. He would pray for the strength to stay silent, for a quick heart attack, and leave the rest to God.' (This is Akhmed POV)

'When they threatened to beat me, I said nothing, Akhmed. When they threatened to beat me, I said nothing. When they threatened to electrocute me, I said nothing. When they threatened to castrate me, I said nothing. I said nothing, Akhmed. Whatever you think of me, you remember that once I said nothing when a wiser man would have sung. And the interrogators, they couldn't believe it. They called in others to examine me. I was there on the floor, and above their faces were dark ovals silhouetted by the ceiling lights. They had beaten me hard and I couldn't hear right, but I kept saying no, with every breath I had. The main reason they let me go, the only reason they didn't shoot me right there was out of perverse respect, some sort of professional courtesy. But I wish they had shot me, Akhmed, because the good part of me died there, and all this, everything since, has been an afterlife I'm trying to escape.'

‘I knew what was coming. I knew it never stops. They put a shame inside you that goes on like a bridge with no end, the humiliation, the fucking humiliation of knowing that you are not a human being but a bundle of screaming nerve endings, that the torture goes on even when the physical hurt quietens. People treated me differently when I came back the first time.'

[rileyslibrary]

Living With Ghosts: 4. Pretty Broken

His body stands straight, but his mind betrays him. He still wears his gun around his left shoulder. It looks too heavy for him now, just like his conscience.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,150

Notes:

Warnings: Mentions of blood and war

As much as I like Ghost’s demeanor throughout the game, I cannot help but wonder what he would be like suffering the aftereffects of war.

Entire work on AO3

Table of Contents

———————————————————————

It’s been days since you last talked to him.

His inattentiveness, however, was not the outcome of your petty little brawl—not the direct consequence, at least. If you had to venture a guess, it’s because he was busy with other matters at the moment—far more important ones.

The Russian Mafia appears to have increased its presence in the region over the past week, raising suspicions of a potential terrorist attack. As a result, the CIA has requested high readiness from the Special Forces operators deployed in the area.

That’s where he is, you fool. It doesn’t matter how abandoned, lonely, or insecure you feel, for he had a job to do. He was right there, at the front line, risking his life for the nation’s—and probably the world’s—safety. You were the last thing on his mind right now; if you ever were anything to him but a mild inconvenience.

Let’s not forget that you also had a part to play in this operation; to actively scan land, air, and sea for irregular traffic and report to the CIA.

Well, not actively, per se—the safe house has a well-equipped wine cellar for that specific purpose.

“Surveillance Control Center,” they call it—SCC for short.

What was once used to store ruby-red Chianti Classico Riserva bottles can now be confused with the cockpit of a spaceship. The CIA engineers have outdone themselves with this one—you give them that.

The SCC is part of a computer network connecting every CIA safe house in the Mediterranean. It incorporates CCTV monitors, cameras, radars, and motion sensors designed to detect unusual movements in the region. Live-streaming feeds are processed using highly sophisticated software, which, upon catching unusual traffic, alerts the SCC’s terminal. The wine cellar also houses an arsenal of weapons and ammunition, just in case the shit hits the fan.

Your job, for now, is to oversee the SCC’s flawless operation and inform Laswell of any findings.

Boring; that’s what your job was. Boring.

“Christmas is coming,” Laswell’s voice sounded over the telephone, “You guys should do something to celebrate.”

“Do what, exactly, Kate? Go from house to house and sing carols on behalf of the CIA?” You reply, leaning forward as if you were trying to physically get your point across.

“If you’d stop being a sarcastic shit, then perhaps you could think a little better.” Her irritation rasped in her voice. “Do something together; think of it as a team-building event.”

He said he’d fix that attitude of yours; when was that team-building event going to take place?

She was right, though—as much as you’d hate to admit it. Christmas does bring people together.

You begin to reminisce about the good times back home when your family used to celebrate every year. You used to cook together, sing along to festive songs, watch Mr. Bean on television, and exchange gifts.

You remember your mother, who refrained from buying ornaments from the shops. She used to bake them instead—yes, bake them. She used to roll out the dough, give shape to it with cookie cutters and bake the ornaments so you would all decorate the Christmas tree with them. The entire house smelled divine with these four little ingredients she used in her recipe—cinnamon, salt, flour, and water.

Ingredients you already had in your pantry.

“Laswell, when’s my shift ending?” you asked in anticipation.

“It ended thirty-seven minutes ago. Tired of me?”

“I thought of something.” You announce, sitting on the edge of your seat.

“Wha-”

“I have to go. Over and out.” You report as you close the comms and head upstairs to the infamous pantry.

Cinnamon, salt, flour, and water.

You were determined to make it work, right here, in this safe house—with or without Ghost.

You hurried outside, scanning the area for the tree branches he trimmed a few weeks ago. If you tie them together, you could create something resembling a Christmas tree.

When was the last time he felt the Christmas spirit? Does he have a Christmas tree at his house? A family to sing together next to the fireplace? A warm, festive meal?

You moved frantically—part Christmas elf rolling out dough and baking ornaments, part Frankenstein trying to assemble a Christmas tree monstrosity.

Time flew by; hours passed like minutes as you worked hard, your creativity unleashed, putting forth your best effort to create something out of nothing.

To create festive decor out of raw ingredients.

To construct a tree out of stray branches.

To form a connection out of two peoples’ broken pieces.

“What’s that smell?”

You were so focused that you didn’t notice him standing behind you.

You turn around to see a wreck, the fragments of a man who has probably seen terrible things and done far worse.

“I—is everything all right?” You hesitate.

“Out of trouble, for now.” He replies.

His body stands straight, but his mind betrays him. He still wears his gun around his left shoulder. It looks too heavy for him now, just like his conscience.

“Yes, I know. I spoke with Laswell. I mean, are you all right?”

“Been better.”

His uniform is dusty, and his boots are covered in mud. There is a slight rip on his balaclava, teasing you with a subtle view of his jawline, like a Geisha exposing her nape.

“It’s over, for now.” you try to comfort him.

There’s blood on his left sleeve—a lot of blood. He just became aware of it as well.

“Not mine.” He announces and hides it behind his back. “What’s that smell?” He repeats, trying to avoid the conversation.

“Cinnamon.”

“Ya bakin’?” He seems shocked.

“Sort of; They’re ornaments for the Christmas tree,” you say, pointing in the direction of your most recent creation.

“A Christmas tree.” He stutters, glazed eyes darting left and right, assessing the new environment.

You want to tell him that there are no booby traps here, nothing dangerous to be careful of. You want to console him that there is no need to be alerted for an ambush here, for this is a safe space. No more killing, no more death, for now. Just you two, a hideous Christmas tree, and badly shaped cinnamon-baked ornaments.

“Do you like them?” You ask reluctantly, trying to divert his attention from this week’s horrors. “I couldn’t find any cookie cutters, so I shaped them with a knife instead. I tried to make them look pretty, but some came out broken.”

“Aren’t we all?” he mumbles as he walks towards the Christmas tree.

“Aren’t we all exactly what, lieutenant—pretty or broken?” you ask, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Pretty broken, kid,” he whispers as he picks up a shattered ornament. “Pretty damn broken.”

———————————————————————

Next ->

[therealdeathoracle]

I have a bunch of quotes from my old coworkers at my last job so I made incorrect quotes from the bsd characters. If this one is liked I can make another with quotes from my family I also have

Ranpo: “Jesus Christ it’s Pretzel Borne.”

——————————————————————————

Kenji: *accidentally kicks the water fountain*

Atsushi: *holds out hand* “Stop it.”

——————————————————————————

Kunikida: “Don’t worry, we made it, Dazai’s gone.”

——————————————————————————

Dazai: “Olaf doesn’t turn me on, but Sven does.”

——————————————————————————

Akutagawa: *in the distance and very unenthusiastically* “Run Forest run.”

——————————————————————————

Nikolai: *in a bad Russian accent* “OH MY GOATS! FYODOR, BRING IN THE AR15!″

——————————————————————————

Atsushi: *playing with a cup of straws*

Kyouka: *takes the cup away to put more straws in it*

Atsushi: *trying to grab the cup* “Why?!”

Kyouka: *hands the cup back*

Atsushi: *knocks cup over and throws straws everywhere* “Am cat.” *runs away*

——————————————————————————

(All over a radio)

Fukuzawa: *talking loudly*

Ranpo: *cringes really hard*

Fukuzawa: “Mind your business Ranpo.”

Ranpo: “You’re making my ears bleed, Fukuzawa.”

Fukuzawa: *quieter* “Oh, really?”

Ranpo: “Yeah, it’s fine though.”

Fukuzawa: *whispering* “Oh you sweet child, I am so sorry.”

——————————————————————————

Ranpo, Kenji and Dazai: *chanting cheese*

——————————————————————————

Teruko: “Jouno was in a good mood today.”

Tachihara: “Oh? Something must’ve happened, did Tecchou die?”

——————————————————————————

Dazai and Ranpo: *aggressively singing Africa*

Atsushi: *starts playing Africa on his phone*

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: “Hi, would you mind signing your rights away real quick?”

——————————————————————————

Tecchou: *whispering* “Jouno”

Jouno: *screaming from the other side of the building* “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT NOW TECCHOU?”

——————————————————————————

Ranpo: “DAD NO!” *oven starts screaming*

——————————————————————————

Kunikida: “The world is gonna end in 3 months, but you don’t care! You don’t care about inflation!”

——————————————————————————

Yosano to Dazai: “If you fall on the box cutter and bleed out and die then can we use you as a promotion for Suicide Squad?”

——————————————————————————

Dazai: “What’s the best way to traumatize a child? Shave their head!”

——————————————————————————

Kunikda: *puts an American flag pin he found on the floor on his shirt and immediately takes it off* “Actually in hindsight I don’t want someone to think I’m a crazy republican... I’ll give it to Dazai.”

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: “Have fun.”

Akutagawa: “I won’t but thank you though.”

——————————————————————————

Kyouka: “Do you want to see my PowerPoint on Halloween costumes?”

——————————————————————————

Nikolai: *in a bad Italian accent* “It’s a me a Mario you dirty ass bitch!”

——————————————————————————

Akutagawa: “Are you having fun?”

Gin: “No... are you?”

Akutagawa: “No.”

——————————————————————————

Dazai: “I do need serious help, but not for this.”

——————————————————————————

Ranpo: “My mouth is like a popper.” *starts making pop cat sounds*

——————————————————————————

Atsushi: “Kyouka! You’re fucking crazy!”

Kyouka: *holding an extremely hot piece of metal with her bare hands* “I’m sorry?”

——————————————————————————

Ranpo: *sitting on the floor in a massive pile of popcorn* “So... uh... Santa’s sack broke?”

——————————————————————————

Yosano: *finding out she has covid at 11:59 on New Year’s Eve* “WELL HAPPY NEW YEAR I GUESS!”

——————————————————————————

Ranpo: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO?”

——————————————————————————

Kenji: “Let’s play Pictionary!”

Dazai: “Oh no.”

Kenji: “AND NO IT IS NOT A PENIS!”

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: *high out of his mind* “I am not high, I am medicated.”

——————————————————————————

Fukuzawa: “I AM THE PRESIDENT!”

——————————————————————————

Akutagawa: “Why do you need a little hole?”

Chuuya: “Just in case, you know?”

——————————————————————————

Dazai: *stamps Kunikida with a void stamp* “You didn’t get a D!”

Kunikida: *grabbing his pants* “Then what’s this?”

Dazai: “Not a D.”

——————————————————————————

Tecchou: “Cooled pillow water would be a great invention.”

Jouno: “I am terrified by what cooled pillow water could be.”

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: “What kind of boss do you think I am? A good one??”

——————————————————————————

Gin: “Behead him!”

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: “What did you say to me?”

Akutagawa: “Gin said you’re the coolest guy she’s ever met.”

Gin: “No no, get your facts straight. I said, YO CHUUYA THE COOLEST MOTHERFUCKER I’VE EVER MET!”

Chuuya: “Now that’s more accurate.”

——————————————————————————

Tecchou: *still talking about what cooled pillow water would be*

Jouno: “You are not going to convince me that you didn’t piss on your pillow and are trying to make up for it.”

——————————————————————————

Fukuzawa: “Do I ask why you chose to play a female gnome and not a male?”

Ranpo: “We needed a minority.”

——————————————————————————

Ranpo: *extremely offended* “Do you not like pepper on your salt?”

——————————————————————————

Dazai: “Chuuya is a World War II!”

——————————————————————————

Kenji: “As an empath I sense you’re having love troubles.”

Dazai: “Nah man that’s just the depression.”

——————————————————————————

Chuuya and Dazai: *Thursday, August 25th 2022, 2:30pm-9:00pm... Incident: The “Fuck You” Day*

——————————————————————————

Dazai: “You know what?... Unfucks your mom!”

Akutagawa: “My mom?”

Dazai: “Yes.”

Akutagawa: “Ok.”

———————————���——————————————

Chuuya: “I just fucking wanna get these balls in... DON’T take that out of context!”

@stinkyme

[brosauce]

Faketober Week 4:

Day 22: Dancer (russian dancing kangaroo)

Day 23: Food (tomato fella who throws explosives)

Day 24: Fangs (cookie cutter shark furnace guy)

Day 25: Derpy (child creation turned to life)

Day 26: Organs (regional gulping evo that's a liver)

Day 27: Shell (walnut tank man)

Day 28: Rodent (capybara car battery)

[mookybear12404]

Top favorite things about the Wolf 359 Liveshow in no particular order:

-Each of the voice actors somehow look JUST like I imagined or close to how I imagined their characters which is a huge bonus for me

- The way each of the characters carries their script stands being SO IN CHARACTER. Eiffel so nonchalant, Minkowski so neat and orderly. Lovelace literally carrying hers onto stage like it’s a weapon

- The whole “Are you sure it’s not the microwave?” Bit

- Zach jumping back and forth to both sides of Minkowski as he switches from voicing Dr Hilbert and Eiffel. Just how FLAWLESS he is and how it gets faster and faster until the crowd busts out laughing

- Zach angrily gesturing at the air where he was standing previously

- Him arguing with himself so furiously he just starts jumping in front of Minkowski and cutting her off the stage

- LITERALLY JUST THE WHOLE BIT OF ZACH PLAYING TWO CHARACTERS

- Lovelace practically booping Minkowski’s nose while angrily pointing at her

- “Can I interest you in an alternate problem?”

- “have you tried turning it off and back in again?” *cue three very slow head turns* -Eiffel's shenanigan's with the playback recorder backfiring on him for the rest of the show

-Eiffel banging his head against the wall after his review with cutter -EIFFEL DOING A BAD IMPRESSION OF DR HILBERT WHICH IS JUST ZACH DOING A BAD IMPRESSION OF HIMSELF DOING A GREAT IMPRESSION OF A RUSSIAN ACCENT

[alexxx-malev]

Russia. Volga river, fishermen Волга, рыбаки

[malice-death]

Something something, college/human au, with Murder Drones.

This is just me doing drabbles until I can fully flesh out this idea.

I just going use this for all my information, so I’ll just reference this when I make more parts.

Now onto the characters.

Uzi Doorman: Uzi Doorman (lol)

N: Nathaniel Wolfmoore

V: Vanessa Cutters

J: Jessica Snip

Cyn: Cynthia Wolfmoore

Tessa: Tessa James Elliot (She already had a name, so why not use it.

Thad: Thad Cold

Lizzy: Lizzy Walkers

Doll: Dolia (Instert Russian Last Name)

Khan and Nori Doorman

And others which are just side characters.

000000000011100000000111000000300005

Summary: Uzi had been attended college for a while and never used it as a chance to even get to know anyone on campus.

That changes when she decides to go to the college’s JcJenson’s (In Spaaaace) coffee shop.

———-/———————/——————/———/———

The alarmed went off for another minute, until a tired hand knocked the clock to the floor, killing the sound it produced.

The hand belonged to that of a tired young woman, who slowly rises from her bed.

She knew that going for a seventh round on Fnaf was a stupid idea. Scowling so early in the morning.

Swinging her legs over her bed, she begun her usually routine.

Going to her closet to grab something simple to wear for the day.

That simple attire literally being her black t-shirt and black jeans.

Still she hauled herself to her tiny kitchen apartment and just threw two waffles in the toaster.

While they cooked, Uzi went to work on making sure that she had all she needed for her classes.

She kicked herself for having classes until the end of the week.

Still she just wanted to get through her second year quietly, just as she did last time.

After breakfast, Uzi went to the door, donning ber jacket and beanie. Her backpack snug in her back.

Making sure she had her keys and wallet, she walked down the steps out of her apartment went to motorcycle parked at the edge of the lot.

Pulling off her beanie, and placing on her helmet, she revved up the bike, and headed off for the campus.

(That’s all for this part, hope to have two up soon.)

Thanks for reading.

[chongoblog]

FUCK IT IM GOING TO TALK ABOUT THE PRESTIGE (2006) WHICH IS MY FAVORITE MOVIE EVER

Okay this was originally just gonna be a silly addition to a shitpost but I'm dedicating a whole ass post so I can gush about The Prestige (2006), which is my favorite movie of all time.

Before I go into it, here's what it's about. Some of you may be familiar with the plot of The Prestige, but for those of you who aren't, do not be alarmed, the summary that you're about to read is considered safe. And any spoilers are after the read more.

The Prestige is a movie directed by Christopher Nolan, who also did Memento, Inception, and Dark Knight, which are all also incredible, but I'll save rambles on those for a later day or for a white guy who makes film-based video essays on Youtube. The story revolves around two rival magicians played by Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale, leading to it being called "Batman vs. Wolverine: Magic Edition ft. David Bowie". Oh yeah also David Bowie is in this as Nikola Tesla. The movie opens with a magic show that ends with the death of Wolverine, with Batman being the primary suspect. The story is framed as Batman reading through Wolverine's diary in jail as they attempt to learn one another's tricks.

Just like any magic show, learning the secret to the tricks reframes parts of the movie, so I'm putting the actual analysis behind this spoiler cut. If you haven't seen The Prestige yourself, PLEASE find a way to watch it. I can't recommend it enough.

Okay, now that the noobs are gone, I'm gonna refer to them by Angier and Borden instead of Wolverine and Batman. And now that you know the twist because you TOTALLY didn't open the read more without watching it, we'll call the surviving Borden twin "Fallon", since the difference between the two twins is a very big part of the movie.

Before I go into anything I'm gonna say this miscellaneous thing because I literally just realized it after loving this movie for YEARS. This story contains the feud of two visionaries who constantly sabotaged and stole from one another while they tried to do amazing things in their field, and such a feud led to some significant violence. But anyway, enough talking about Tesla and Edison, let's get onto the actual story of Angier and Borden. (As snarky as that comparison was, it really adds to the speeches Tesla gives Angier, along with the parallel between cats and birds but thats a whole other rant)

One thing I adore about the movie is that it addresses a theme of sacrifice in exchange for spectacle. Sacrifices had to be made in order to put on a show. Borden obviously knew this perfectly well, since he was actively playing out that sacrifice. But Angier was obsessed with discovering a way to bypass that sacrifice. You can see this with how Borden's far less bothered by killing birds while Angier has Cutter create contraptions to save the birds. Angier begins to understand the sacrifice while using a double, but even the sacrifice of being under the stage while the audience applauds is too much for him. In the end, Angier DOES sacrifice, but also doesn't. His sacrifice isn't half of his life in the way Borden/Fallon's is (with each one living half of a life), but living half of the life by way of Russian Roulette (with entering the machine either killing him or letting him live his full life). Ironically the "die or live a full life" thing comes back for the Borden/Fallon combo in the end.

And you could be forgiven for thinking that perhaps since Angier is attempting to find a way to create spectacle without harm, he's in the right here. After all, in the end, the only thing he's truly sacrificing is himself. While Borden/Fallon's lifelong sacrifice had a dramatic impact on Sally and Olivia (the two main characters who truly did nothing wrong and did not deserve this), if Angier just did this trick and called it a day, it wouldn't hurt anyone except his own clones, which seemed to accept the coin flip. But the other aspect of Angier (and to a somewhat lesser extent Borden, and to an WAY LESSER extent Fallon) is obsession with being the best. And in terms of that particular theme, I think that the film says all it needs to about that.

I'm sure I could go on, but I've spent the last few days adding more and more to this draft so I figure I should just let it go into the world. I love this movie so so much you guys.....

[milo-knight]

Wolf 359 Role Swap AU Ideas

(By me... someone who's only finished half the podcast so far)

Officer Minkowski : Communications

+ A no-nonsense woman who has the Pryce and Carter manual memorized, Officer Minkowski spends her days tirelessly combing the known universe for even a hint of a signal from alien life. Unfortunately for her though her superior, Commander Eiffel, is unduly incompetent- causing her to spend just as much time (if not more) resolving the issues he causes as she does actually searching for signals.

"Officer Minkowski, reporting for duty."

Commander Eiffel : Navigation / Commander

+ The assumedly inept, lazy, and overly unserious leader of the USS Hephaestus- Commander Eiffel treats the remote space outpost as his personal playground. Whether he's recording his daily 'Captain's Logs' documenting absolutely nothing but his own idiotic philosophical musings or merely pestering Officer Minkowski to 'get this thing to pick up the top ten hits of *this* century' Commander Eiffel manages to annoy pretty much everyone onboard the USS Hephaestus near hourly. The one compliment Office Minkowski can give him is that he's good in an emergency. Then again... his lack of skill (or perhaps simply his laziness) in his day to day tasks has been the leading cause of 99.9% of the ship's emergencies.

"Hello dear listeners, and welcome to today's Captain's Log."

Dr. Lovelace : Science Officer

+ Unwilling to talk much to anyone, Dr. Lovelace spends most of her time in her laboratory doing "research". What this research is? Unclear. But it keeps her busy. And keeps her angry. She acts like she hates it- but if she hates it so much- why join the crew in the first place? Odd... But she's good at her job. Scary good. Even if she can be a bit brash. More 'pull off the bandaid quick' than 'take a deep breath and count to three' in her methods. She's an asset nonetheless, taking to this mission like a duck to water... almost as if this isn't her first rodeo...

"Don't interrupt me when I'm doing these tests otherwise I might just move from petri dishes straight to the human trial phase. Got it? Oh god, why are you looking at me like that? I was just joking!"

Cutter : Autopilot / Artificial Intelligence

+ The overly cheery, overly biting, and overly analytical auto pilot of the USS Hephaestus. He controls just about everything. The lights, the engine, the temperature, the access to water, the air. What doesn't he control? Now that's the million dollar question. Good thing his programming prevents him from doing anything that could jeopardize the safety of the crew. Not that he'd ever purposefully put the crew in danger... no... of course not. He's everyone's friend of course. Right?

"Officer Minkowski, you look... troubled. Should I turn up the heat in your quarters? I hear intense heat is an excellent way to destress. Really helps just melt all your worries away. Right?"

(Former) Commander Hilbert : Former Leader of USS Hephaestus Mission

+ Dead. Or... not? When Commander Hilbert arrives everything seems to go topsy turvy. Last anyone knew of him he was in a tiny little spaceship blasting off to Earth. And now he's here. Cold. Gloomy. Russian. He doesn't seem inclined to partake in any chit chat, simply wandering the ship while he waits for his ship to be repaired. Honestly, he acts like he's still Commander. Why do they even listen to him again? Oh yeah... the virus...

"Do not talk to me. Focus on your work. My ship must be repaired. Ms. Hera is expecting me back, I assure you."

Ms. Hera : Leader of Goddard Futuristics

+ Bubbly. Sassy. Strangely argumentative in a way most CEOs of major corporations would try not be (at least publicly). She's polite only when she has to be. And she's kind only when it suits her. While Cutter has full control of the station, she has full control of Cutter. And everything honestly. Thankfully she and Commander Eiffel seem to be rather friendly. So that means she has to be on their side. She has to.

"Officer Minkowski if you ever take that tone with me again- just- don't you start that with me."

[unhonestlymirror]

Why Kadyrov’s death will certainly be pleasant and joyful, but will not change the political situation in occupied Ichkeria

This is not the first time they have buried him and, unfortunately, most likely not the last. I would like to be wrong, but so far, this is the case. History shows that the abomination of the human race is tenacious like no other. Kadyrov’s potential death now is simply the death of the governor of the occupying russian government in Ichkeria. If this one dies, they will install a new one. In the same Ukrainian temporarily occupied territories, collaborators explode beautifully, but the army of russian occupiers knows only the language of physical destruction, and to destroy it, you need military and weapons, and also international support.

Whether Kadyrov is replaced by one of his offspring or, for example, a lord or Delimkhanov does not change the situation globally. Primarily because no one withdrew the russian army from Chechnya and the Caucasus as a whole. They weren’t even transferred to Ukraine. In Chechnya, they “love” Putin and Russia so much (and Kadyrov is precisely the russian government) that this requires a regular armed professional army of one hundred thousand. In Chechnya, they “love” Putin (and before that Yeltsin) and Russia so much that they have been destroying a small nation for 30 years.

Today, occupied Ichkeria is an “Akhmat” concentration camp. When russians shout about the “Chechenization of Russia”🤡 they, as usual, can not take russian propaganda out of their mouths. Inhuman torture and genocide were brought to Chechnya by russia and the federals (occupier army), and not vice versa.

Russian propaganda is far from just “Kremlin” - so-called. “Independent” russian media work for the russian world and support for the occupation of Ichkeria - news about every fart of Kadyrov and practically nothing about the Chechen battalions fighting for Ukraine since 2014. There is little about how they torture and kill - unless it is about the persecution of homosexuals. And so they persecute - kidnap, torture, execute - everyone in general.

By the way, about the Lord and Delimkhanov - they, together with Kadyrov, for example, personally torture and rape women. And no, these are not stupid funny clowns. These are terrible cruel people who kill ordinary people with impunity. This is also normal for Westerns. Westerns deport Chechens from the resistance to Russia, who are then tortured and killed there.

Lyulya (Kadyrov) and his image are part of russian propaganda. That clever part of it in which the New York Times publishes an article about “Putin’s opponent” Girkin. “Kadyrov’s men” are part of the russian army, but the “independent Russian media” call it “Chechen troops”🤡

Kadyrov is a squalor and a cruel creature, but they comment on his every fart, making all Chechens look like stupid idiots - only covertly “ч*рки”. They don’t name it, but the image takes shape. Compare Lyulya with Dudayev, Maskhadov, Isa Munayev, Muslim Cheberloevsky - these are the representatives of the “Chechen troops”, this is the army of Ichkeria.

Today, five (!) Chechen units are fighting for the freedom of Ukraine and the independence of Ichkeria, and volunteers keep coming and going - the russ cutter is sacred. And this is the hope for justice. "Why don’t the Chechens rebel?" - that is, military resistance - absolutely fierce, which is now constantly at the forefront of making the russians truly good - is this not resistance? There are only less than two million Chechens - this is the Odesa region in terms of the number of people. Which has been destroyed not only over the last 30 years - cruelly and mercilessly, under the indifference of the rest of the world.

Despite the fact that the world does not care about Ichkeria, the Chechens fight - with weapons in their hands. What can a small people do in Chechnya itself, where a 100,000-strong russian army is fully armed? Once Ichkeria won a war with russia, for which it was punished with institutionalized genocide.

As soon as Ichkeria is not only recognized by the international community but also supported with weapons for military resistance to the russians - then all the occupiers inside and collaborators will be destroyed. In the meantime, we are fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Ukrainians for freedom and independence. Both our struggle and the fact that after such destruction of the nation, there is still resistance in spite of, not thanks to.

Today, we are fighting for the free world. A world without a racist terrorist federation. We have a common enemy. The name of this enemy is russia.

Marşo ya joƶalla.