#this is the first time i drew a ushanka

[iloveitaliansdotcom]

pavel borsch doodle (colored edition)

[Vodka Tower / Russian AU by @ali-flaion]

[lotomber]

Hi! Just looked through your stuff and it's amazing! I really love you choice of profile design aswell. I come with a request, you can ofcourse just ignore it you don't feel like it.

The request is Yandere Fyodor x reader, who he has been stalking, and slowly been befriending for awhile, but reader has trust issues and it takes a long time before he can actually start giving romantic hints. So ofcourse Fyodor who, in this scenario, has urges and is getting impatient. So he drugs them and kidnaps them :). I was thinking smut where he places reader's hand on where he wants them to touch him, but go with whatever you want or not at all. Hope you have a great day/night

YOUR LOVE MADE ME CRAZY!

Pairing: Yandere! Fyodor x GN! Reader Warning: NSFW, smut, yandere behavior, stalking, drugging, Noncon/dubcon, not proof read!

You frequently visited the cafe near your place after college/work. you didn't had many friends, you preferred to read books at your fav cafe. One day when you were reading a book a man approached you.

"Is that (any of your fav book) you're reading?" he had a pale face with beautiful magenta eyes and shoulder length messy black hair with a ushanka, He was absolutely beautiful.

"Uh yes. Is there any problem?" you answered despite his sudden intrusion.

"I couldn't help but notice the book you were reading and it's my favorite. Oh pardon my rudeness I'm Fyodor Dostoevsky, Do you come here regularly?"

"I'm (Name), yes the ambience and coffee is nice here so I do come here often. Are you a Russian?" you couldn't help but be curious about the mysterious man.

"Yes I'm a Russian I moved here due to some work so I still don't know many people here would you mind if I sit with you?"

"Ah no, you can sit here if you want to." at first you felt awkward and hesitant with him but despite your worries you both hit really well and instantly became friends. You both started meeting often at the same cafe, Your hobbies, favorite books and ideologies matched with each other.

But what you didn't knew was the fact that he already knew everything about you, your every single personal information from when and where you go to your likes and dislikes, He was always lurking in your shadows and finding the right time he approached you with an innocent face at that cafe he knew you frequented.

But despite his efforts whenever he made any romantic gestures you always backed out, rejected his advances and always drew a line. he was getting impatient of this and he couldn't control his urges anymore so he thought of another way.

As usual he was waiting for you at the cafe and when you came he offered to buy you a coffee which you accepted. He sometimes buyed you coffee which you didn't minded but today was something rather off about him which you wished you could've noticed earlier.

Just after taking a few sips of the coffee you started feeling weird, your mind went foggy and you felt a hot burning sensation all over your body soon you fell unconscious and the last thing you saw was the unsettling smile of Fyodor.

When the first time he saw you, he instantly fell in love with you. That's why first he used the indirect way to approach you. Everytime you talked to him he would stare at your lips thinking how they would feel on his lips as his tongue mingle with yours or how your pretty little hands will look pumping his cock. No one could ever comprehend what filth he thought behind that innocent face. But whose fault it was that he was like this? Of course yours, after all his love for you made him like this so he's gonna make sure that you'll take responsibility!

After a while you opened your eyes in an unfamiliar place and he was there in front watching you with that same smile. You wanted to say something but your mind was still in a haze and you felt that burning sensation more prominently than before that it was almost hurting.

"Hmm what happened darling, not feeling good?" he said in mocking tone.

"Y'know darling it's not even half of what I felt whenever I saw you but don't worry I'll help you I'll make you feel good cause I love you!" he leaned over you whispering in your ear as he started kissing your neck. While he held your hand making you touch his already hard throbbing cock.

"Can you feel it darling? can you feel it me? it's all because of you!" he said in a low seductive tone as he proceeded to kiss you, pushing his tongue in your wet cavern.

You wanted to protest and stop him but you don't know if it was because of your hazy state of mind or something else, it felt good. His touch felt ethereal, he tore your clothes as he was getting too impatient to undress you slowly. He covered two of his fingers in spit before plunging them in your hole. You let out a yelp as you felt his fingers stretching you for a while. After that without warning he pushed his whole length in your hole. You shrieked in pain as he starting thrusting without giving you time to adjust.

"F-fuck you feel so good, darling!" he let out loud grunts as he kept thrusting.

It was wrong, yes it was really wrong but what could you do when it all felt so good?

A/N- I don't support any of the themes mentioned above in real life!

P.S - Sorry this took time cause I was busy with my exams. I still have some requests pending I'm gonna complete them soon so please wait!

[disruptxrr]

if it makes u feel better ,the first time i drew human dr pepper i gave him a nirvana shirt

you are the only one i do not hate right now (surprisingly) you giving him his ushanka & his nirvana shirt are the only reasons why i’m not suing you too

[fyodior]

Hi my favorite little slut (I ran out of ideas to call you horny) It’s me again because I love talking to you, mwah. Now we all know I love Fyodor and you love Fyodor so I present to you: Dazai osamu, because I’m mean <3

JUST KIDDING. Anyways here’s some fukuzawa headcanons, because I’m a liar.

Ranpo Headcanons

Fyodor hates blue cheese with a passion, like he wants to abolish it. He even made a petition for companies to stop selling it.

Fyodor doesn’t cut his nails often because, 1. He bites them. 2. He actually lets them grow out. On the occasions that he doesn’t bite his nails he grows them out, and they’re kept clean and look quite pretty. He doesn’t paint them because he finds it dumb.

Fyodor accidentally started a small war between two countries when he was 16 by hacking into a government officials email. LMAO he literally shat himself when he saw it on the news but also kinda boosted his ego.

Fyodor tried selling Ivan on the black market. He only got one bid and it was from Dazai.

Fyodor lost his ushanka (his hat) one time and stopped everything he was doing to find it. Like he searched for hours. He left it on his desk where he was currently working.

Fyodor is lactose intolerant but still eats dairy like it’s no one’s business. Like he can eat an absurd amount of it in a single sitting.

Fyodor hates socks. He doesn’t like the feeling of them so if he can he’ll be bare footed.

Fyodor has an extensive shower routine but he only showers every three days. LMAO don’t worry he usually just smells like despair and blood.

Fyodor couldn’t figure out how to open a bottle of champagne and instead broke the very top of it off and drank it straight from the bottle.

Fyodor likes the piano music but hates pianist because he can’t play it. How that works idk? Also cello is harder to learn than piano 💀

Fyodor hates bananas, for no reason, he just hates bananas

Fyodor likes butterflies, like he genuinely finds them so pretty and fascinating. He could stare at them for hours.

Fyodor’s idea of savings, is having a piggyback.

Fyodor actually doesn’t care too much for his home country. He hates how cold it is and how it always seems to be freezing. He’s just dramatic though because they have pretty decent weather the rest of the year.

Fyodor likes BTS no im not explaining. His bias is Suga. Knows every single song by heart.

Fyodor one time ran over a man and subconsciously said “oh nice 10 points”.

Fyodor uses the laws as his bucket list 🫶

Fyodor can’t hold his liquor.

Fyodor wrote a whole manifesto about how trees are better than humans. It was quite beautiful. 10/10

Fyodor has a pet chinchilla named Pantene. Yes like the shampoo.

Fyodor dyed his hair blonde one time, because he was evading capture and he gets nightmares about it. He absolutely hates himself blonde. Cried for three hours when he first looked in the mirror. Genuinely had a breakdown inside of a 7/11 bathroom floor and almost had to re evaluate his entire life’s goals and ambitions. Got so drunk because he genuinely couldn’t stand it. He blacked out and ended up in Venezuela and ended up working for a shady business that sold perception glasses.

Sincerely your one and only liar 😘

Guess who I kin from bsd and I’ll give you dilf fukuzawa headcanons 🫶

-🪱

BDKSHDKAHDJSJDJSS THESE ARE ALL SO FUCKING UNHINGED LIKE I DONT EBEN HAVE ANYTHING TO ADD HHMSBFSKFNKADNZK

also @nameless-noodles drew us a wonderful depiction of blonde fedya

[chaos-and-kromer]

I posted 3,175 times in 2022

That's 2,944 more posts than 2021!

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I tagged 271 of my posts in 2022

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#i feel like jean and harry at the same time like i'm mouning the loss of myself as i slowly go insane and dream of doing tarable shit every

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

watching spamton value network <3

26 notes - Posted September 20, 2022

#4

I drew the 4 scribes in celebration of beating the game for the first time

26 notes - Posted September 8, 2022

#3

Object head picrew chain

https://picrew.me/image_maker/1081787

@jschllat @tedalt @robotics5 @mrv00rhees @rat-fanatic​ @aviarydisfunction​

34 notes - Posted September 17, 2022

#2

sword picrew

sword picrew sword picrew sword picrew sword picrew sword picrew-

https://picrew.me/image_maker/1644599

@mrv00rhees @silver-a-a @the-milkiest-man​ @jschllat​

148 notes - Posted September 4, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

picrew chain? https://picrew.me/image_maker/1414503

@fivedragonsstudios-ask @silver-a-a​ @gatoronmain​ @jschllat​ @gnfz​ @rat-fanatic​ @the-milkiest-man​ @robotics5​

347 notes - Posted March 21, 2022

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[kaeyas-beloved]

Hi!! May I request some fluff headcanons for Fyodor from bsd with a female s/o and they both have two cute daughters? owo

Hello Anon! You may absolutely request this (and thank you so much for doing so)! Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy :D

*Quietly chants “soft Fyodor, soft Fyodor, soft Fyodor!”*

Also I hope it’s okay that I made the two daughters twins!

And I’m really sorry if these aren’t the best because I’m still getting the hang of doing HCs and Fyodor is one of these characters that I’ll write for while still being a bit unsure of his character... So I’m sorry for any OOCness, if it’s not fluffy enough or just not good altogether T_T There’s some fluffy bits but still if they you can always come back and request again!

~~~ Fyodor & a F!S/O w/ Twin Daughters

First and foremost - Fyodor had little to no plans to start a family with you. Not because he didn’t love you, but more so because he’s a busy man with his ‘purging of ability users’ plan

Though the day that you told him you were pregnant a new feeling blossomed in his chest

It wasn’t anything grand but he felt a twinge of happiness mixed with some form of pride as the smallest of smiles graced his face

Not a sadistic smirk or a teasing smile but a real one

Dare we say, he may have been excited for what was to come.

Planting a soft kiss on your lips he uttered a “what a pleasant surprise” before going on with his day, you doing the same

And for the next little while nothing changed in your daily routine, almost like he was never told that he’s got a baby on the way

You knew better, this was just how Fyodor was 

Really though he’s working from the shadows and making sure you stay safe, ranging from sending out one of his men to watch over you anytime you go out to just out right eliminating potential threats that are spotted

Fyodor also (subtly) spends just a little less time on his computer as well

A little more than half way through the pregnancy, when a bump has appeared, you two were in bed, back to back and your hand was on your stomach 

Then you felt it

“Fyo!” you called his name, voice a whisper in the dead of night as you sat up. He hummed, turning over to face you, “give me your hand” watching silently as you guided his palm to where yours was just a few seconds ago, Fyodor waited for something to happen.  

And then he too felt it - a strong kick

“It means he’s healthy” he told you simply, looking up into your shining eyes. Oh he’ll never forgot the way you looked that night with a smile that lit up the dark room spread across your face

When the due date drew near, it’s in his best interest when he tells you that he wants you to stay in the house less anything happen to you or the babies

Right - oh you should’ve seen the momentary (and I mean momentary) wide-eyed, shocked look on his face when he was told that he wasn’t going to have one kid but two - both of them being girls too!

When the two little bundles are born surprisingly Fyodor is the one that takes care of them quite a few times when one or both start to cry at ungodly hours of the night

Usually he’ll tell you that you can go back to bed and that he’ll calm them down since he’s up and awake anyway, allowing you the much needed sleep.  

Another surprise? Fyodor can calm his daughters easily. You’ve chalked it up to it being the slightly serene and calming aura he gives off. It’s a trait you’re very thankful for in these situations

During the times that he might be just lounging on the couch (assuming he does such a thing from time to time) Fyodor will let one or both of his daughters sleep on his chest (if he can manage)

When they’re a little bit older Fyo’s a fan of having them sat on his lap while he works at his computer, humming and gazing down at them if they want his attention

You once told him off for having them near a screen so much and so close too, claiming that it’ll damage their eyes

As a form of affection/praise Fyo tends to pat their heads a lot

Is the absolute king at not giving into their puppy dog eyes or pleading smiles 

They want sweets before dinner or want to stay up past their bedtime? Hahaha nope~

He might even tease them with this too. Like he’ll act like he’s thinking about saying yes then go and plainly say no with a teasing smile or something along those lines 

Something he does let them get away with though is wearing his ushanka

Just the mere sight of one of his little girls enjoying wearing it has his a tiny smile emerging and lavender coloured eyes softening the slightest, appearing almost relaxed

That was until both his daughters began to fight over who go to wear it and you and Fyo had to go and buy them their own

MEANING THAT THEY NOW MATCH AND IT’S THE CUTEST THING EVER! 

You’ve tried to sneak a picture but Fyodor never gives you an opening T_T

100% plays the cello for them as a form of entertainment or as a lullaby on nights when neither of them can fall asleep

Also might teach them how to play the instrument if they show any interest in it

Can also teach them skills that he thinks will help them in the world they live in, like how to catch someone in a lie or how to outsmart them

Concerning his... occupation in the underworld, Fyodor doesn’t outright expose them to it, but also doesn’t make a huge effort to shield his daughters from it either

However, that in no way means that if anyone, anyone thinks it’s a good idea to lay a single finger on his family that he’ll let them get away with it.

Lets just say that they won’t escape without proper punishment 

I believe that Fyodor is the kind of dad to allow his kids to roam free, they can do nearly anything they please of their own free will (if that makes sense). 

Like they can go anywhere they’d want to when they’re older, they can have whatever hobbies they please and Fyodor wouldn’t mind what it is

But! That excludes his daughters finding a s/o - perish the thought entirely 

Even if they do get one expect them to have a very thorough background check done on them. Fyodor will know everything about them to ensure his little girls are safe

And if he finds even one thing wrong or believes that this s/o is just using his kid? Someone’s getting a visit from Mr. Rat Man (and no likes when that happens)

Bottom line Fyodor is a relatively mellow dad that will tease his daughters but still be there to comfort them (like the lullaby bit) and try to keep them safe in his own Fyodor Dostoevsky way 

~~~

I hope these were okay and sorry again if they weren’t!

Right now requests are open [check my bio though to be sure]! Don’t forget to check the rules too for the fandoms/topics I write for (which are linked in my masterlist)!  

Masterlist

[drabblesanddreams]

Black and White- Fyodor Dostoevsky

This turned out so much longer than i planned it to be sorry folks!! But this imagine i tried making it slightly diff than the imagines, i honestly wouldnt say its romantic tbh it also doesnt have as much fyodor as i planned for there to be sadly :(( but let me know what yall think!! also im on vacation again this time for a month so im so sorry yall if i cant post as much!!

word count: 2.5k

summary: The black and white of your world holds a whole new meaning when you meet him.

TW: Hints towards depression a lot, really depressing dialogue 

The day before he came into your life everything was black and white. A perfect world encased in various shades of grey, shrouded in a two-tone hue of barrenness and desolation.

The light that poured into your world started off as a warmth seemingly brought forth by an angel. But slowly, before you could even realize it at the time, the warmth grew more and more intense the longer you spent time with him. It grew and grew until that once comforting warmth turned into a scalding sensation, burning your touch along with the pretty pictures of your life. It burned the new-found colours until you saw yourself left in the end with no picture at all, surrounded by the darkness that once upon a time was all you knew.

In the end, you horrifically realized that he was no angel at all.

He liked to claim that he was a god, but you didn’t believe his words even from your first meeting up until the last. You knew better than that, in the end, he was more so like Lucifer.

Once an angel indeed, you suppose so judging from not only his carefully crafted facade of a morally virtuous persona but also his physical features.

You remembered the first day he came into the music shop that you worked at, his angelic features drew and ensnared your attention almost immediately.

That particular day it was snowing lightly, the white flakes gently building on top of one another until the city was a buried underneath one of the worlds most beautiful creations.

Beautiful, untainted white snow with unique patterns pressed onto each flake. However, when mingled with the rest of its own kind, it was as ordinary as it could ever be to the naked eye. An average speck who will never stand apart from the rest of its kind and will instead be overshadowed by those who come after it.

Much like you.

Despite the gloomy thoughts, it didn’t make the snow any less cold.

“Shit,” you scowled as a gust of cold air blew into the store, taking with it a flurry of snowflakes, “Hurry up and shut the door behind you, Ann.”

The person in question was your friend and the sole reason you had this shitty job working as a cashier at the music store. Her family had hired you purely out pity when your parents died. You were at the tender age of 12 at the time.

You liked that word. Died. It was straight to the point, no bullshit and no cushioning of the hard blow it delivered. You remembered at the funeral how the many unrecognizable people who had attended came up to you, choking out apologies for your late parents.

Or how they passed away.

Or how they were deceased.

Died. Dead. Death. It didn’t matter, you liked the foreign comfort the words gave you. It meant that the world you spent so much time analyzing was the same as you made it out so sure to be. It meant that one day you too were going to “pass away” and your existence would then blend into the hundreds of thousands of those who lived and died before you.

And then, you’d be forgotten.

You never figured out why that morbid thought was so relieving to you.

Ann rolls her eyes, shaking you out of your stupor and back into the real world. She closes the door behind her but not before ruffling her hair free of snowflakes, this action allowing another draught of frigid air to enter.

“Okay miss grumpy, chillax ‘kay?” she teases and it's your turn to roll your (e/c) eyes as she slips off her coat, tossing it behind the cash register.

“Besides,” she continues as she takes a seat next to you behind the register, “Your shift is up in literally ten minutes so you can go home and sleep.”

You look at her from the corner of your eye as you rest your cheek in the palm of your hand. She has taken to sorting the receipts silently for a moment before she asks, “How long did you sleep for last night?”

You blink a couple of times before realizing the exhaustion must be painted so easily on your face. The purple eyebags decorating your face must not be a pretty sight. You can feel the weight of your own existence pulling you downwards, like all you want is to crawl under the covers and fall asleep to a mixture of winter and Chopin. Today has hit you particularly hard, but you don’t let her know that.

Inhaling through your nose, you sit up right before casually replying, “Seven hours give or take”

She beams at the easy lie as she nods approvingly, “Making progress, good.”

All you do is shrug, its been a slow day all you want to do it go back home. There have barely been any customers and the shop is completely empty at the moment save for the both of you.

‘Anyways,” her tone changes to one full of pep, “Can I tell you about my tinder date? I’m gonna tell you about my tinder date” she doesn’t wait for your approval.

You snort, standing up as you make your way over to the hanging instruments opposite on the wall. You intend to straighten them up again for the millionth time, the slightest crook getting on your nerves.

She takes this action as a sign to go on, “So, I swiped on this guy na-“

She is cut off by the soft chime of bells filling the small store indicating a customer has entered.

Before even moving, you feel the cold air gently sweep across your exposed skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

You turn your head to the door, your hand pausing on its readjustment of the violin hanging on the wall.

A tall slim young man, maybe somewhere aged in the mid 20s has entered, his seemingly delicate pale hand pressed against the window of the door. His shoulder length black hair falls softly onto his shoulders, ensnared underneath a ushanka as white as the snow that has entered the store. The white snowflakes stand out against his long black coat.

He searches around the shop for a moment before his eyes catch onto yours. That’s when the air leaves your lungs and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

Never in your life had you ever met a man so…so…beautiful.

Beautiful was an understatement, he was simply breathtaking.

The most striking thing about his visage, however, were his eyes.

Purple eyes. Never in your life had you ever met anyone with that particular eye colour. But it was more than that, it was the sharp look in them as well.

You felt yourself tense up at your eye contact, something about this man was unsettling you quite so. You can barely breathe, your body shrinking back into itself as all you wanted to do was run and run. You wish you had an ability that enabled you to do so.

His eyes flickered downwards before they moved upwards to catch your eyes once more and it was then that you felt so exposed. Like an insect underneath a microscope, completely visible and naked.

Compared with his striking features, you no longer felt human standing next to this man.

Suddenly, someone clears their throat, effectively breaking the silent game of observation occurring between you and this stranger.

You turn your head to the source, Ann, who raises an eyebrow at your impolite and reclusive behavior. Even more reclusive than usual.

She turns her head to the customer, interest taking over her features as she too realizes just how otherworldly this man is.

She wears a charming smile, “Hello sir, can I help you with anything today?”

“Good day,” the stranger says, the words rolling off his tongue in a seductive Russian drawl and you feel yourself heat up. You turn away, busying yourself with straightening the instruments once more.

Ann’s got this; you’ll just ignore him.

“I was wondering, do you perchance sell cello’s here?” he asks smoothly. Your hands freeze on the cello you were adjusting and briefly wonder for a moment why he even asked when you know he clearly saw it behind you with that little stare off just a few moments ago.

Ann confirms that, yes, we do sell cello’s here.

And when she asks what particular one, he is looking for, she mistakenly points towards a Franz Sandner instead of an August Kohr.

You take the liberty of correcting her.

“Its actually this one,” you quietly point out her mistake and effectively drawing the stranger’s attention back towards you. Beside him, Ann glowers knowing that you have somehow ruined her plan of seducing the customer with talk of a cello.

You wish you didn’t because the fear that washes over you feels stronger than before.

“Okay well,” Ann glowers at you, “I’m pretty your shift is up, (Y/N).”

You falter at her statement before swallowing and nodding. You weren’t going to fight over something that wasn’t worth fighting over.

You’re glad at your friend’s dismissal, as it means that you can get away from that man’s burning gaze asap. You make quick work of gathering your belongings and making your way to the exit, to freedom.

All the while, your heart beats quick for an entirely different reason

Because for the first time you feel fear on behalf of your friend’s safety, as the distance between you and the pair grow larger and larger.

-

You’re were right to feel worried over the protection of your friend, because two weeks later under the same frigid weather, you are staring down her coffin.

It’s eerily similar to how her funeral likens to the one of your parents. If you shut your eyes really tightly and pretend for a moment that you are fourteen, it is exactly the same funeral.

Life goes on.

Except the biggest difference between this time is that this was no accident.

You’re good at observations, spending more of your life alone and isolated left you with the only thing to pass the time; watching people.

Putting two and two, you know now that this a murder caused by no one other than that man in the shop. You don’t know how but you know for sure that he possesses some sort of ability. After all, you don’t what sort of weapon could make that kind of wound in her head.

Currently, you’re the only one left in the graveyard. The sun is setting soon but you pay no mind to that fact and instead tilt your head upwards, watching the snow lightly fall around you and, on the coffin, -Ann’s coffin.

You hear the familiar sound of shoes treading on snow, but you don’t bother looking to see and instead focuses on the number of snowflakes covert he lid of the coffin.

“What a miserable affair,” a voice sighs, the smooth Russian accent unforgettable to you, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

You turn your head to see the devil himself, you should be vengeful and raging right now. A small part of you wants to jump at him, tearing his pretty face apart with your nails and to just watch the blood draw and spill. But as quick as that thought appeared, it disappears for at the moment you just don’t care.

You have nothing left. The logical part of you know that’s it will not bring her back; the only family you had left. You have nothing anymore.

But this time your anxiety is non-existent, you don’t feel afraid. In fact, you don’t feel much of anything at the moment.

From your apathy or the cold, you’re not quite so sure which. You close your mouth before opening it once more.

“It wasn’t sad,” you simply say, relishing in the slightest sign of surprise that registers on his handsome face. You look deeply into those purple hues of his, admiring for a moment before you continue, “It was boring.”

You turn your head back to the coffin and blankly blink at the slight buildup that you have missed.

“Boring,” he repeats, “Such is the debility of human existence, such things take the liberty of latching onto my heart from time to time”

You let his words sink for a moment.

“No, it doesn’t,” you softly deny, “Not to you” “May I perhaps ask why?”

You turn your head to him, the first sign of emotion crossing your visage as you stare hard, “Because you’re not human.”

You say this statement with so much confidence and let it ring in the air. The man takes this fact in before smirking, “Then what could I possibly be?”

You don’t hesitate to answer, “A devil.” If he is offended, he doesn’t show it and instead chuckles lightly, purple eyes dancing with joy. At what, you have no clue, but you feel yourself recoil at this.

“No little bird,” he smirks drops into a soft smile, “I think you will find that I am more of a god than anything.”

Your eyebrows furrow for a moment as you study him. He breaks your eye contact to look at the coffin in front of both of you. He then answers your unasked question.

“The sinful nature of humans demands to be cleansed.” He utters into the empty space, and you raise both brows in interest at this statement. You follow his gaze to the coffin before tracing it back to his eyes.

Sinful. How could a young girl commit a sin so grave she had to answer with it for her life? Who was this man to judge her for that?

“And what of my human nature?” you quietly ask. He turns back to you, “Oh but little bird,” corners of his mouth tilt upwards and his eyes flash as if he knows something you don’t. Your heart rate raises as you wait for him to finish his sentence.

“You’re not much of a human anymore, are you?”

Your mouth falls agape slightly and your blood turns into ice easily.

“In fact,” he continues, suddenly taking a step forward, reaching forward to caress your cheek, “You’re not much of anything anymore” he whispers.

His thumb presses slightly against your bottom lip and your eyes flicker downwards before meeting his again. Your mouth dries.

“Correct?” he asks venomlike.

You’re ensnared into his trap as you nod, but you barely register the movement.

“Good.” He steps back and his smile is back as he holds his hand out.

“Seeing as you no longer have a place in this world little bird,” he says calmly, “Come with me and let me seat you among the stars.”

You don’t hesitate in taking his hand, somewhere in the back of your head a part of you is screaming, saying you are walking into the exact same trap that your friend has walked into.

But you don’t care, because you are sick of seeing the white of the snow and the black of your soul.

If that means walking into the lion’s den of the man named Fyodor Dostoevsky, then so be it.

At least it’ll mean a small part of you will have meaning again.

[elenatria]

Valery's suicide! Did you remember little the details? He aged 10 years in 2 years and ughhh poor thing

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349599/chapters/46352182

Theducks of the Moskva River had a stroke of luck that cold November morning. Theydiscovered a part of the stream that hadn’t been sealed the previous night bythe thick layer of frost, a round opening in the ice near the bank big enoughto accommodate a dozen of them. Every now and then they would plunge theirbeaks under the surface to grab silver slippery fish for breakfast. Soon, asthe pale autumn sun rose above the Moscow rooftops, the feathered refugees wereadditionally blessed with a shower of crumbs.

Similarto stray dogs chewing on leftovers the ducks didn’t question the origin oftheir unexpected meal. To them it was as if the grey-haired man in the ushankahat and the black overcoat, throwing crumbs from his sushki rings, had beenstanding there forever – not unlike the statues of Gorky Park; still, he wasdeprived of the otherworldly air of their bronze immortality. Something in hisposture, the resigned way he was slouching over the railing, betrayed he wasjust a man.

Theperson once known as the Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers rubbed hisgloved hands over the fence to get rid of the remaining crumbs. His worn blueeyes, fixed on the shore beneath him like nails on the floor, rose only at thesound of muffled footsteps on the snow. A scrawny balding figure with smallpiercing eyes approached him in his fur hat with a heavy wooden carrier inhand. Every now and then a soft mewling sound would come out of the holes onthe roof; as the silver-haired man peered at the box, a pair of green eyessparkled back at him through the wires.

“Volodya,”the former politician rose his hand, a twitch of friendly acknowledgmentblooming on lips that had forgotten how to smile.

“BorisEvdokimovich,” the figure greeted back leaving the carrier on the ground andopened his arms.

BorisEvdokimovich Shcherbina welcomed his old friend with a hug and several pats onthe back before pulling back to inspect him. “You look better than I ever was,”he said warmly.

The journalistfurrowed his brow, struck by Boris’ paleness. “How bad is it?”

“Gettingworse every day…” Boris replied with a dry cough as he pulled a handkerchiefout of his pocket.

VladimirGubarev’s eyes went dark. “I’m really sorry, I’m-”

“Sorryfor what?” Boris cut him off wiping his mouth. “It’s not your fault if I gotsick and you didn’t. Besides you were there only for a week. No one blames youfor that.”

“No,I’m sorry, it’s just that…” Gubarev muttered. “First Valery, now you. I’mrunning out of people to whine about Chernobyl with,” he shrugged in an almostcasual tone, “and my wife is so sick of hearing my war stories.”

Borischuckled discreetly knowing that if his laughter got too loud he would end uphaving yet another coughing fit. He sat heavily on the bench behind them and gesturedover the empty space beside him.

“Doyou think you were being followed?” he inquired.

“Idoubt it,” Gubarev reassured him sitting down. “On a cold morning like this?After so many months? It would surprise me if they remembered our names at all.Besides Valery’s dead. Nobody cares anymore.”

“You’reright…” Boris nodded, his empty eyes chasing a black-headed gull soaring overthe ice. “Nobody cares anymore…”

Heunfolded the used handkerchief in his palm and stared numbly at the ominouscrimson stains. The silence between them was so thick that for a moment Borisforgot he was the one who had called Vladimir Gubarev, the science editor ofPravda, to meet under the cold and unsuspecting Moscow sky. Away from bugs,away from curious onlookers, away from spies.

Thatmoment he thought he might as well be dead, forgotten, lying at the bottom ofthe frozen river, waiting for his body to be discovered days after his demise.

Just like Valery.

Heblinked away the painful thought and forced himself to smile. “What’s hername?” he bended over the wooden box as he slipped the tip of his fingerthrough the wires.

“Inga,”Gubarev smiled watching the tabby feline pawing at Boris’ leather glove. “Hismother’s name. He never had a daughter so…”

Borisrealized his face had instantly morphed into a dreadful mask as the journalistfroze before finishing his sentence. It wasn’t just the paleness and the blackcircles under his eyes, the constant reminders of his Chernobyl heart. It musthave been something crueler, something boiling in his chest, squirming underthe surface of his fragile calmness, threatening to explode.

“Inever-” he stuttered blinking at the cold autumn air. He sat back on his seat.“I never got the chance to ask him about his… about his fa- about his… f-family, oh God…”

Hecovered his eyes and dug his nails deep into his wrinkled forehead.

“Boris…”Gubarev choked giving his shoulder a feeble squeeze.

Beadsof tears formed tiny icicles on Boris’ cheeks and all of a sudden he was beingsucked into a hole of nothingness. The sickness hadn’t managed to break him.But this…

Thiswas worse.

“Therewas nothing you could do,” Gubarev insisted. “They wouldn’t let you. It’s notyour fault.”

“Ishould have… I should have taken my chances,” Boris shook his head, his voicetrembling from the cold and despair. “I should have visited him. Just once.What would they do? Kill me? I’m already dead. He was alreadydead. They made sure of that. Their negligence and stinginess and their prideand…”

Gubarevdrew back his hand and shoved his palms into the pockets of his long coat,looking for something. He turned to gaze at Boris but the former politician wasunable to return the look. Instead he took a deep shaky breath and rested hiselbows on his knees. A broken old man.

“Iwas asking everyone I knew about him,” Boris confessed, his voice raspy anddark with guilt. “Trying to catch any news I could, on his welfare, hiscondition. How he was getting along. I can’t imagine the bitterness he feltfinding out he was the only member of his team at Chernobyl who was not named ahero of socialist labor. Imagine how humiliated he felt, how betrayed.”

“Theygave him a watch instead of a medal, can you believe it?” Gubarev scoffed andthe cold air turned his breath into steam. “It would have been less painful hadthey stripped and beaten him. He was excluded by his own people from a seat onthe council of the Kurchatov Institute. Do you know what they said, Boris?” hespat hatefully. “Do you? ‘We will not be supervised by a boy.’”

Boristurned to glare at him as if he had those prestigious scientists right in frontof him. Within his reach. Within his murderous grasp.

Gubarevclosed his fist against his trembling lips as if to stop himself from cursing.“I wanted to punch them in the face, Boris, I swear to God. I wanted to tellthem ‘Legasov never left Chernobyl but I didn’t see any of you there.Where were you when he was putting his life at risk? Where the fuck wereyou?’”

Borisrested his forehead on his entwined fingers. His bent pleading posture could beeasily mistaken for a man in prayer had religion not been uprooted in hischildhood, when the bud was still young. “God” was nothing more than a mannerof speech to born and bred atheists like him. God didn’t exist. Not when peoplelike Valery were punished for the good they did. Not when the best of humanitywithered and died while parasites, bootlickers and backstabbers roamed theearth.

There was no“God”. How could he possibly exist.

“AllI wanted was hear his voice…” he murmured taking a deep laboured breath, hiseyes glued on the ground. “I would go to public phones, each time on adifferent street, and call him. Strangely enough the KGB never forced him tochange his number – that’s how arrogant they were, how confident that I wouldnever reach out to him.”

“Didyou talk?”

Borischuckled, his head hanging over his clenched knuckles. “No,” he said firmly.“Of course not. I knew his phone was tapped. I knew they’d make his life aliving hell if they heard my voice. It’s not like I cared about my own life.But he did. And I knew they’d tell him if somethinghappened to me.” He tipped his head just enough to watch the seagull take adive. “I-I wanted to spare him the pain, Volodya. They’d mail him my head in abox if they could. He had no reason to suffer any more than he already did.”

Whenthe journalist considered his friend’s tired face there were no traces oftears, no tiny shards of ice on his cheeks anymore. Just a steely blue starecutting through the cold November air like a dagger.

“Iwould call him just to be able to listen to him saying ‘Hello’, you know?”Boris continued, the words falling from his mouth like dead December leaves.“His voice, that’s all I needed…” He closed his eyes. “Just one word, one wordwas enough. Of course I would never answer but he knew it was me, I could tellfrom the hitching of his breath. We would share the silence, the long pausesbetween unspoken words. And that was enough. Sometimes I swear I could almosthear his silent sobs, his shaky breathing – but I knew he was alright, and heknew I was alive. It was enough, Volodya, God knows it was enough…”

Withshaky hands Gubarev drew a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, put one in hismouth and offered Boris the rest. Boris refused with a weary wave. Thejournalist struck his lighter and curved his fingers around the flame takingsharp inhales.

“Sohe never talked?” he demanded squeezing his lips around the cigarette. “Henever said anything? To you?”

Boristurned to face him, his eyes lit with surprise.

Did Vladimir know?

Afterall, among those who had been at Chernobyl he was the only one who was allowedto talk to Valery after the trial.

He must know everything.

VladimirGubarev was a brave persistent soul. He had convinced Yakovlev, Gorbachev’s ownadviser, to let journalists witness the scene. He had called him every dayuntil Yakovlev authorized a group of journalists to go to Chernobyl, includingVladimir.

So, did heknow?

Better leave that questioned unanswered,Boris pondered.

“No…”he said eventually in a broken voice that was doing nothing to conceal histurmoil. “He never spoke. Not one word.”

A lie.

Gubarevtook a few puffs from his smoke before Boris could gather the courage to askhim the burning question that had been tormenting him all those months sinceValery died.

“Whendid you last speak to him?”

Gubarevtook a long pause biting his lip as he dug into the snow with the tip of hisboot. “The day before he died. I paid him one last visit but I didn’t know. Icouldn’t have guessed what he was about to do.”

“Whatwas the last thing he told you?”

Thejournalist regarded Boris with a pained expression. “’Takecare of Inga.’ He swallowed hard. “I said ‘Why? Are you afraidfor your life? Are they threatening you?’ His response was that he was sick,that he didn’t have long to live. I couldn’t possibly imagine that he wouldtake his own life only hours after I left him. Had I known I would have neverleft, Boris, I-”

Boristurned to face the river pursing his stiff lips. This time he was determined tonot let tears make him look like a helpless schoolboy.

“It’salright,” he whispered, “he was bound to do it. He chose the day to do it.Nothing you could have done about it.”

Gubarevnodded slowly letting out the smoke in big puffs that formed a thick mistaround his head. The sun was starting to make the frosty atmosphere bearable,encouraging a few scattered people in beanies and mittens to take a walk alongthe waterfront.

“There’sone thing I never asked you,” Boris broke the silence. “How you got Valery’stapes. I thought they would have confiscated them along with anything ofimportance found in his apartment.”

“Ohthey did,” Gubarev smirked, the first genuine smile since they started talkingabout Legasov. “The committee members took them as soon as they got to hisapartment. But I knew of their existence, Valery had told me. I had encouragedhim to keep a record of what had happened at Chernobyl. He wanted to write itall down but he was sick, he didn’t have the time… So he recorded everything.”

Gubarevsquished the butt on the bench and drew another smoke from the pack. His handhovered idly near his mouth with the unlit cigarette sitting still between hisfingers, as if, like Boris, it was anticipating the conclusion of the storywith bated breath.

            “At Valery’s funeral I approachedLigachev, the secretary of the central committee, and told him to give me thetapes or I would go to the Politburo,” Gubarev bragged. “I said ‘The tapesare not meant for you, they’re not meant for Shcherbina. They’re meant forme’. And you know it worked, that same evening they brought the tapes tomy office! They even had an inscription that left no room for doubt – ‘VolodyaGubarev’.” He paused, knitting his brow at the memory. “After twodays I printed a huge piece in Pravda. Those fuckers did their best to erasehim from history books. Rip off his pages, throw them into the fire. But therewas nothing they could do about the tapes. The tapes are mine.”

Boristhrew him a side glance. His lips parted unsure of how to continue, unsure ofhow to utter the next sentence without making him sound like a complete selfishidiot, unsure of how to accept the bitter truth that hid in Vladimir’s words.

“Didhe…” he began as a shade of pink took over the sickly paleness of his cheeks.“Did he leave anything behind?… For me?”

Gubarevgave an amused chuckle and straightened the fur hat on his head as if trying tohide his laughter. He rested his elbows on his knees and turned to Boris whoseblushing did nothing to hide his embarrassment.

Thejournalist’s grin broadened. “Yeah. He did. There must have been a tape foryou, he hinted at it in one of his recordings. He didn’t want the KGB to knowof course. But he said he had hidden something for you in the kitchen,‘B’s gift’ he called it. And oh, you’re going to need this too.”

Heshoved his hand into his pocket and brought out a key. “From his apartment.”

Boris’eyes widened at the unexpected present. “His apartment? How could you have akey? I thought the police took it all.”

“Wellthey didn’t know I had one, did they?” Gubarev’s lip twisted in a triumphantgrin. “He gave it to me the night before his death. He wanted me to have thosetapes, Boris, and he wanted me to save Inga. I never got there on time ofcourse, I never called him until it was too late. When I found out, the policehad taken everything. Lucky for me, Inga had already been rescued by theneighbours.”

“Howso?”

“Shewas the one who notified everyone about his death. Valery had left her severalbowls of food but when she finished it all she climbed up the kitchen windowoverlooking the freight lift and howled her lungs out. Mr Sokolov next doorbroke the glass and took her in, and that’s how they found out Valery was dead.Then they called the police.”

Gubarevshrugged. “It’s not like the KGB would care about a broken window, or Legasov’smissing cat for that matter. Mr Sokolov knew who I was so he trusted me withInga when I arrived looking for the tapes.”

Hehanded Boris the key. “Valery wanted me to have the tapes but I can’t keep Ingaany longer, the wife…” he winced reluctantly. “She wants a dog,” he mutteredthrough his teeth.

Helifted the carrier and placed it in the space between them. “She’s yours. I’msure that’s what he wanted, she’s his kid, you see. Just… take care of her.Alright?”

Borisgazed numbly at the glistening piece of nickel in his palm before shifting hiseyes at the wooden carrier. She must have been freezing in that box all this time,he reckoned with a hint of regret.

He took a deep breath; he never thought he’d finda reason again to wake up in the morning. One last treasureto find and someone to take care of.

Areason to get on his feet and back into motion. Back to life, for as long as hehad.

Somethingdawned in him, something warming him from the inside, more radiant than athousand suns.

Heclenched the key against his chest giving Vladimir a ghost of a smile as hetook the wooden box, feeling its weight against his thigh.

Thewarmth was still there, pulsing in his heart like the last rays of sunshine ona glorious sunset. He knew what it was now and he embraced it like a long-lostfriend.

Itwas hope.

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 46

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 13. Go to previous. Go to next. TW: Mental snap, body horror. Things feel a little henny-penny.

________________________

A small building something akin to a shack or garage stood separate from the mudded dwelling intermixed with what had once been a blue country house. They walked up to the opening of the dwelling. Sticks poked his head inside, and knocked to somewhat hollow effect. A dry chuckle within drew a grin out of the ghoul, and he set down his flamer to wave ‘Choly inside. Angel, as always, remained in the Furriers’ doorways.

Hand-sculpted shelves both dug into and emanated out from the walls of the dwelling’s dome-like main room. As Reese’s house, series lighting embedded in the topmost region of the surface of the room illuminated it. While Sticks greeted the inhabitant, ‘Choly eyed the shelving, and the old man’s belongings. Hood finials, dashboard ornaments, rear view mirror dangles--so this Furrier shared a love of vehicles with Sticks. He glanced over to the pair to find them engaging in what seemed at first a sort of secret handshake: They crisscrossed their arms to grip together all four hands between them. Both the old man’s arms belonged to the right side of his body, one of which originated where a neck should have been, and his neck and head came instead from his left shoulder. Clad in an apron-like glossy, ruddy leather garment with a dusty grey-blue wrapped shirt beneath, this Furrier wore a mummy mask comprised of several materials. Its sallow eyelids hung heavy and sarcastic, and the lipless mouth shape could not contain the insinuation of teeth. Wild silver-white hair bushed out anywhere the mask was not affixed. ‘Choly stared as the two sealed the gesture with a long tight hug.

“Lacked you something sorry, Sticks. Know you visited the higher ups before you came to see me,” the old man known as Ick play-scolded. Barrel-chested and modestly burly, he projected his voice with a certain benevolent insistence. The hand of the top arm smushed down Sticks’s ushanka and the ghoul stifled a wheeze out of his noseless nostrils. “Who’s this picayune?”

“I’m...” ‘Choly stiffened. “I’m Melancholy.”

The mummy-faced trapper approached him and looked over his coat, then tapped his nameplate.

“Melancholy,” Ick repeated thoughtfully with a nod. “Sure he’s said it, but I’m Ick.”

The trapper offered his shoulder-arm and its bright red glove for a handshake and ‘Choly swallowed, trying to remember how Sticks had done it. But Ick didn’t give him the chance, and dragged him into a hug and vigorous shoulder-pat. The chemist smiled nervously once he let go of him, and did his best not to look unnerved by all the physical contact the ghoul had warned him to avoid.

“How’s the Riverhawk?” Sticks began.

“Keepin’ her sharp as ever.” The mummy skirted the ghoul’s directness. “Stay for dinner? I’ve got a bunch’a pelt hangin’ in the kitchen just this mornin’.”

“Meals sit better shared,” the ghoul quietly agreed. “You really gotta show me your curved needle technique again. I think I’ve lost it. Last mounted animal I did myself came out looking more like a prewar cartoon character.”

Ick chuckled, patting his hands together.

“Then you’re around for a few days. Bless it all, I don’t even care if I’m getting too old to unfold. Really, I wish you’d move into Voire proper, you misanthrope. I’m not the only one that’s lacked you.”

“The fishing’s better out Pawtucketville side.” Sticks leaned against a smooth part of the wall. “You know I stay out there as the lifeline between y’all and the General, besides. ...Wish you’d move out to Sampas with me, gonna be like that. We’d get into much better mischief.”

“I do miss scavvin’ lots with you,” Ick resigned with a shrug. “But the fur and leather’s so much better in Dracut’s backyard. You tell me how much radstag runs into you.”

‘Choly mentally squirmed, excluded from the familiarity of their conversation. He’d known Sticks for less than a year and they’d grown near-instantly close, but from the sound of it, the ghoul and this Furrier had known one another for half a century or longer. Time hadn’t stopped just because the chemist had succumbed to a cryogenic coma. The jet lag hooked at his temples and stitched around his scalp.

As the two continued to catch up without him, he readily scrutinized Ick’s physique unnoticed. Something about the asymmetrical arrangement of Ick’s pair of arms unsettled him in a way the other Furriers’ oddity had not. He identified that the old man had a third hand, though he lacked full use of it largely owing to it jutting halfway down his left side absent of an arm. This third hand was gnarled up and fused to Ick’s flesh, and ‘Choly choked up at recognizing that the hand looked distinctly ghoulish. His delayed disbelief snapped all at once, and with a terse snarl he lurched forward to grab the mask off Ick.

The old man’s very regular and very aged features stared back at him almost expectantly. ‘Choly hyperventilated as he gawked at the fullest concept of the Furrier’s anatomical dishevelment. Sticks looked on, disappointed and pained but not the least bit surprised at ‘Choly’s behavior.

“--Mindy, what were you expecting?”

“...I thought you said your name was Melancholy.” Ick’s bushy eyebrows raised then lowered as he tried to figure out for himself why the chemist had unmasked him.

“I have a lot of names, I guess!” ‘Choly slouched apologetically, confused as ever. “I get the feeling Sticks nicknames anybody he gets a little close to.”

“The fifth.” Sticks feigned a sneer as he held up his gloved hand to flourish his fingers.

“No, no...” Ick stepped nearer the chemist, squinting. “Carey... Great-gramma talked about a Carey from Deenwood. General gave you the digs of a real dark an’ wicked man.”

‘Choly scrunched his chin into his neck to grimace down at his nameplate.

“Certainly looks so...” He laughed weakly in agreement. “How come great-gramma knew anything about Deenwood?”

“Furriers came from that place. Our great-great gramparents served the General’s lot. She won’t let us back on base, but most of us don’t want to go back no ways.”

He could feel something in his skull pop.

“...Do you want to go back?”

“Never been,” Ick shrugged. “Never met the General even. I... I can’t say. Got all I need in Voire. Sticks’s made it sound like Deenwood’s some kinda paradise full’a robot butlers, but what good would it do me to have a bunch’a robots do as I say?”

“Robots can do a lot of good,” he replied a little too readily, “...depending on whose care they provide.” He glanced to Angel in the doorway with a smile. “Angel’s become my everything as my health deteriorates.”

Sticks had watched to gauge the conflict, and his mouth hung open about to say something, but Ick grinned and patted ‘Choly’s hand in both of his good hands.

“Gettin’ old has its costs, just as everything else.” The old man laughed and took his mask from ‘Choly to put it back on. “Sticks, let’s turn over the ol’ Riverhawk and get ‘er over with. Wanna be back before dinner.”

“Music to my ears.”

Ick opened the wooden rolling shutter door of the shack beside his house, revealing a Pick-R-Up truck with paneling salvaged from three different colors--black, blue, and white. The old mummy popped the hood and cackled as he crawled around to check fluid levels on all the main lines. Meanwhile, ‘Choly and Angel followed Sticks’s lead loading up the cargo bed with two crates from the shack. A cradle mount jutted from the center of the bed into which the ghoul tossed his flamer.

“Mister Ick is most generous to be permitting us the use of his vehicle,” Angel lauded quietly.

“This is becoming an all day affair for certain.” ‘Choly took off his glasses to rub at his face a moment. “What the fuck is with the masks, Sticks? Do they think it’s Halloween every day now!”

Up in the cargo bed, Sticks slumped to sit on the crates to glare at him.

“Rhetorical question: Can you get your feet out of your mouth for two seconds?”

‘Choly’s face drooped, and he put his glasses back on.

“--Wait. You said there was a drainage pipeline from Deenwood to the river... Do you know where that empties out?”

“A half-baked theory, but an interesting one. You’re gonna drive me to smoke at this rate.” The ghoul shook his head. “I’d imagine that it emptied into what used to be the Christian Hill Reservoir. At least some of the cogs in that defrosted skull are turning. Not well, but. ...No. That pipeline empties out under O’Donnell Bridge. In case you were wondering why there’s such a crustacean issue there.”

“Then--” He deflated in a huffing pout. “You’re the only person being honest and full disclosure with me here, Jacob. Please... please just tell me.”

“You really don’t get it, do you? They’re family.” He grinned sarcastically at him. “All I can say is you’re right about it being Halloween every day for the Furriers. Symbols of harvest and unity celebrate this place. The masks are, ah. Ironic. Something for strangers to focus on over their folds. But they’re a nice leper colony. Pushy, and a real huge batch of weird, but they’re good people.”

“A leper colony that insists on throwing some kind of massive costume party before they’ll even consider agreeing to help Olivia Francis flush the raiders out of Lowell for good.”

The ghoul barked, and sniffed before laying into another roar of laughter.

“Costume party. That’s a good one. ...Which reminds me.” He jammed a finger his way. “Ick is probably the most milquetoast Furrier you could have unmasked. Don’t fuckin’ do that again if you value staying in one piece.”

“Are they really so grotesque?” Sticks deadpanned him and he screwed up his face. “Curiosity’s only worse now.”

Sticks mashed his face into his palm. Ick turned over the engine, and the ghoul stood up to square his footing and get his flamer properly mounted.

“Let’s just get in and out of Boott Mills already. Hopefully the wildlife stays small and manageable. Mating season can make Downtown recon hairy as sin.”

‘Choly hopped up on Angel with his syringer filled with pencils, to follow behind the pair in the truck. They made their way South out of Voire, and crossed Cox Bridge weaving through the vehicles long abandoned there. Once they crossed the river, Ick leaned out the window and waved ‘Choly to match pace. The Handy and chemist complied and the old mummy guffawed heartily, then spoke over the volume of the engine.

“Gawd almighty never met a body knew Sticks longer’n me. He’s lacked you something AWFUL. Told me all about you. Called you Mindy! You’re MINDY!”

'Choly paled, not knowing how to even begin to object.

“Oh, don’t choke on your humility, son,” Ick insisted. “Won’t tell a soul. Not my business to say a body’s a ghoul when he doesn’t look it.”

Sticks could hear it all through the window opening which once would have held a glass panel between the cab and the bed, and he frowned to ‘Choly apologetically.

“Guess you know for sure now, that you’re family,” the ghoul quipped sheepishly off the side of the truck. “They’re your children, Mindy.”

The generational cascade of his military legacy crashed down on him like the sky shattered, and if Angel had not been steering he would have spilled off it.

Go to Next »»»

[fyodorscenarios]

I would like to ask you, If you can, a scenario/headcanon (you decide which one) of Fyodor falling in love at first sight (even if he doesn't like the idea or doesn't believe in it) with a famous pianist in which he met in one of his missions and how he would do after realizing it ^^^

Thank you for your request! It’s a great idea, so I decided to go with a scenario since I was inspired. Sorry about taking so long to get to it. 

I really liked how this one turned out!

PS. It has some mentions of mature themes, but nothing graphic. 

-

This is unlike him. Perhaps it’s the effortless emotion carried through your musicianship. Or it might be the way you move so effortlessly in tune with the song, almost as if it is playing you instead. He’s mesmerized, and oh how he loathes it.

Despite his short time on Earth, Fyodor Dostoevsky had seen many great musicians. You were no exception, though he had never felt quite like this before.

He may have described it, if he were willing to, as something vile yet strikingly warm. It drew out his compulsions, but he was apt at resisting. He dug his nails in his palms instead, control yourself.

Time continues to pass, and he feels strapped to his seat. When you stand from the piano to bow, he’s shocked.

How long had it been?

This was an important question.

-

He is one to obsess, and he knows this. Although he hasn’t obsessed with much else in a very long time.

He gets to work soon after he returns to his apartment; assuming you won’t be leaving tonight. Bloodied hands typing away at his keyboard.

“Как абсурдно,” he mutters. *

-

It’s your second night in Moscow. You were quite glad for the break you had before travelling again, and had stopped by a bar for the night.

It was a quite place, not well known, but nice in your opinion. You had never been one to enjoy crowded rooms. Besides yourself and the bartender there were only a couple of men sitting at a booth.

As you stir the small straw in your cocktail, you hear the door open behind you. Turning slightly you make accidental eye contact with the entrant, and therefore flash a quick smile so as not to be rude. He sits a seat away from you at the bar table, placing his ushanka on the table beside him.

He orders his drink, and again the room falls practically silent, save for the quiet conversation of the other two men.

You eye your cocktail again, attempting to stop yourself from looking back at the new customer. You swore that he had purple eyes, but that seemed wrong.

“Excuse me miss,” the man says, and you feel yourself jolt.

You turn to him. “May I ask,” his voice is smooth, “are you the pianist (y/n) (l/n) by any chance?”

You nod, dumbfounded. It wasn’t often that you were recognized in public, your notoriety only reaching into classical music circles after all.

“I had the pleasure of attending your concert the other night. Your performance was incredible.”

“Ah—well, thank you very much sir. I’m glad you thought so.” you regain a fraction of your composure.

You blink, the man in question did have purple eyes. Fascinating, you think. “You know me, so it would be rude of me not to ask your name.” You twiddle your thumbs under the bar counter.

“Fyodor Dostoevsky,” he says.

“Good to meet you,” you reply. “Do you see concerts often?”

“As much as I can,” Fyodor says. “but I’m usually quite busy with work.”

“I see. You know, I was quite nervous up there.”

“Really?” he raises his eyebrows, “I’m sure you had everyone fooled.”

You laugh, “that’s reassuring”.

“I think I was the most nervous during Hammerklavier. I was hoping I did good old Ludwig van justice,” you continue.

“I think you did,” Fyodor smiles.

Oh no, how cute.

“Umm, thank you.” you feel a bit embarrassed now. “Wait—are you just drinking straight vodka?”

“Of course.”

“Wow, you really are incredibly Russian!” you giggle.

Fyodor looks down at the table, almost as if he’s flustered.

You feel yourself blush. Maybe the alcohol was finally getting to you?

-

Fyodor doesn’t really think about what he’s doing three hours later. Your arms are draped around his neck, and he hasn’t stopped thinking in a very long time.

He was not one to give into his human urges so easily, but it was unlikely that he would be able to meet with you like this again. There would be no guilt, because there would be nothing for him to be guilty of.

You enter his apartment, sobered by the cold walk outside, and conscious of exactly what would be happening. You were lonely, so fucking lonely. It had taken your meeting with him to admit to that. At the moment, you hated your career.

His kisses are absolutely filthy and forceful, you hadn’t expected that. Though by now you had noticed the strange darkness simmering under his facade. You feel it radiate off of him when he leads you to the wall, when you feel his knee between your thighs, and you wanted more of it.

It is carnal and depraved.

-

Fyodor is sleeping soundly beside you when you wake up. His black hair is tousled and falling over his eyes. He looks so incredibly innocent, but you can feel the bruising on your neck.

You want to mark him too. You want to paint his pale skin with purple and red, he looks too much like porcelain. And so you surprise him.

-

“Give me your cellphone,” you insist, standing by his front door.

“Really?” he seems surprised for some reason.

“Yes,” you say, “just in case we’re in the same city again. I-I want to know you better.”

He smirks, handing you his phone. You quickly send a text to your number from it, feeling a bit embarrassed again.

“I take it you had a good time then?”

“Hey,” you blush, “of course I did! Don’t be smug about it…”

“Sorry,” he laughs slightly. “I hope to see you again.”

-

It’s probably better this way, Fyodor thinks. You both travel quite often, no attachments need to be made, nor should they be.

He cannot deny his feelings, but at least in this case you are as minimal of a distraction as you probably could be.

If there is ever a right time; perhaps when the world has been purged, he resolves to find you again.

-

* How absurd

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 64: Ice Cream Scoops

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 31. Go to previous. Go to next. That was the way it was. TWs: Disrespectful behaviors toward disability, joint trauma.

__________________

Click, click, click-click.

In a bathrobe and little else, Melancholy sat at the opened secretary desk in the chill upstairs room of Glenn Johnny’s, opening and closing the lid of a Mentats tin. He supposed the rich dirt-like smell wasn’t coffee, after all, when he saw Angel through the glassless window at the balcony, busied with laundry.

He wondered what sort of water arrangement the place must have, since he had noticed a space where a bathtub must have been when he went to the bathroom upon first waking. The toilet worked fine, but he didn’t try the sink. He’d washed his hands and face, and knocked the dirt and blood from the hair that could directly touch his face, with the tin of water Angel had left for him alongside a bottle of Melancholia. The bathroom only had an extending shaving mirror in tact. For some reason, relying on it for general maintenance elicited the specific grudge at the unlikelihood that he’d ever use one for its intended purpose. He wondered if as a ghoul Sticks even needed to shave anymore, or if it simply came down to the fact Sticks might use mirrors so little that he’d never bothered to replace the larger one.

So much of the ice cream parlor had stayed so well kept, and it didn’t surprise him a bit. Sticks had worked at Concord’s Hardware Town before the war, after all. Despite a general disconnect from technological savvy, the ghoul absolutely knew his way around plumbing and electrical alike. The ghoul had truly taken the time to edit the space for function and comfort.

'Choly’s companions had both risen before him, likely long before. He didn’t want to bother Angel or Sticks, but did hope one crossed paths with him soon without his having to call after either. He disliked the thought his clinginess might echo his chem exposure and activities from the day before, and shoved the thought away. The next he looked down, he realized he wasn’t clicking the tin anymore. It was hard to say at what point he’d set it down and begun clicking his finger joints back and forth to similar effect.

He popped off the cap with the Nuka World bottle-letter opener from one of the drawers, and worked at his tart, cherry-flavored breakfast. Brushing out his hair and pinning it up took tremendous effort because his hands wouldn’t behave. Sooner than fuss with the unwashed mess, he tucked up a half-managed bun into the ushanka. He couldn’t tell whether he directed his bitterness more toward the source of his constitution or to the previous owner of the hat. He’d promised Angel not a week ago that he’d try to go as clean as he could, to divorce his condition from his withdrawals. But, the aching remained constant, and it was evident his motor skills and energy levels had only worsened.

It didn’t even matter whether he’d got the recipe right. Could this stuff be considered Melancholia proper, without opiates? Sticks had already provided him access to Med-X, of which 'Choly wasn’t a fan. But the Melancholy’s salts, that was a hubeine mix, not a codeine mix...

It should’ve distressed him, that such digital mistreatment didn’t hurt significantly more than the arthritis to which the cryogenesis had inured him.

Every part of him knew only aches.

He drew the Merrick Index from its pigeonhole and fingered through the Addenda, to reference the hubeine dosage he’d calculated before. He hadn’t exactly tested his calculations, though, because his one trial had been intended to be lethal. Hubeine had no easy, safe tests to confirm it posited more than a poison, either, no matter the dose. The few Lexington raiders left standing half a day after dosing them were dead on their feet. He struggled to locate the page he’d scrawled leading up to the Berserk Syringe demonstration, to cross-reference his initial collected thoughts against the frenetic vapor of going to town on a faction that had collectively abused him far too long.

Even with the Mentats he’d found in the desk, he could hardly think straight.

Oh, how he wanted little more than a cup of coffee.

He massaged at the fur lining of an ear flap of the cap, spaced out again a ways.

The MKEXCEED Papers weren’t on the desk with the Merrick and history textbook. He assumed Angel just hadn’t had the time to organize such effects just yet. Or maybe, for all he knew, it was acting the part of the DIA Handy as always, and protecting once confidential documents.

It dawned on him, that he still had his transcript of The Unfolding in a draft on his Pip-Boy’s holotape. He fidgeted with the device, still nursing his meal replacement. First he noticed the radio stations that the thing could pick up: The one he’d listened to on his way to Lowell had changed its branding, but retained its frequency. He tuned to WXXX. A mellow ambient orchestral piece smoothed out the morning air in the room. Then he flipped tabs over to what started as an unexpectedly coherent account of events.

A few paragraphs into reading over his rough notes, he flinched. He’d drafted directly onto his decryption holotape. He twisted about from his seat, to confirm Sticks didn’t possess a working terminal. It’d have to live where it lay until he could find one, in order to copy it to a different holotape.

He let himself unclench, admiring the view of the river bend and falls out the East windows. The thought of becoming a reclusive writer had some appeal. Maybe if they were to live here together, he could get Sticks to help him locate a terminal and set it up upstairs. He hadn’t really needed one before. A typewriter had suited him fine. The terminal at 103 Old North Lane belonged to Sticks. But now, viable paper stock seemed a very rare commodity. Reusable media felt more reliable and easier to manage, though they required on hand equipment...

Accurate, embellished, or entirely fictional, any narrative seemed a bit beyond him still. With a sigh, he resumed skimming the Merrick. He could hear the ghoul downstairs, and the robot humming softly to itself outside. Maybe the two of them would hear the radio and know he was awake, and come investigate...

His soul was too tired to summon any rightful frustration with the entrepreneur.

Clarimentin. He flipped back to the page containing pharmaceutical data on the antibiotic. Nothing in its entry indicated encouraged use alongside high doses of Rad-X. Cross-referencing Rad-X yielded the same nothing, not so much as mention of any antibiotics. He leafed through the book both ways for some time, with mounting exasperation to blame the Mentats for not helping enough with even rudimentary research comprehension.

He sat up with a start when something was set beside him on the desk, then wilted in nuisance with himself when he recognized a hot mug of black coffee.

“I haven’t got any cream, and I figure you’d rather have sugar than sugar.” Sticks leaned down to peck his forehead, and rub at his back. He smiled, pronouncing the split in the side of his upper lip. “Going to assume I’m not the only one with sticky digits. That’s a Deenwood percolator down there.”

“I did smell coffee! Ohhh, thank you.” He soothed his hands wrapping them around the mug for a minute. Then, he turned to give the shying ghoul a good morning kiss to his cheek, then a thank you kiss to his lips. “I take my coffee black. I’m lactose intolerant, anyway.”

“Mm. Oh. Sorry for not waiting up on you to eat. I figured you’d make your breakfast order when you got up. You looked like you could really use the rest, and I was starving. I don’t mind cooking twice. Let me get something whipped up for you. What’ll it be? Tato hash? A nice big ‘Lurk omelette? Maybe some of my channel rat sausages--better than it sounds, I swear.” He leaned in to whisper. “Believe it or not, I’ve got a working waffle maker.”

“Oh, Mister Sticks.” ‘Choly wheezed, picking up on the husky playfulness. He picked up the mug to blow on it and sip as much as he could manage. “Really, don’t trouble yourself if you’ve already eaten. I’ve got my Melancholia.”

The ghoul shoved down making a weird face.

“What, that mouthwash stuff again? ...If that’s all you think you can stomach right now, suit yourself. Far be it for me to force fresh grub on you. Just let me know when you really do get hungry, and I’ll gladly oblige.” He tugged at the ushanka. “You really like that thing, huh.”

Having noticed the two had awoken, Angel came in to strip the now vacant bedding to wash next.

“Mister Carey has subsisted on that meal replacement for years at a time. If he were malnourished, the Pip-Boy’s health diagnostics would say so!”

‘Choly glanced to the Pip-Boy, and checked the vitals tab despite having avoided it all morning up until that point. He grunted as he glazed over the enumeration of what ailed him.

“Of all the things wrong with me, malnourishment is not one of them.” After downing half the coffee, he softened. “...And yes. Yes, I do. It’s... a comfort.”

“It’s yours, then. You’ll need it in a few weeks, that’s for sure. But for now...”

Sticks pulled off the ushanka and set it on the desk, to admire ‘Choly’s mess of hair. He leaned in, to see if ‘Choly would permit another kiss.

“I am most impressed with the craftsmanship Miss Bones put into your coat, Sir!” the Mister Handy continued through the open balcony door. “All the blood and grime just wipes right off, even after it’s dried overnight!”

“She must have had DWR on hand,” Sticks surmised, his posture squaring as he bristled. “They occasionally scav military materials like that. There’s a lot in Historic, and not just in Boott Mills.”

“Oh, do I ever commend her on that degree of attention! You’ll find I’ve got the blood out of all your effects. I always say, I know my way around a blood stain, laundry machines or no! Ha-Hah! But to have others looking out for your appearances as well! I’m not the only one keeping you looking Sharp, Sir.”

“Yes, well.” Sticks went out onto the balcony to pluck ‘Choly’s orthotics from the clothes line. He tossed them down on the bare mattress, and patted at the end of the bed with enthusiastic impatience. “Here, your braces and stuff are dry. Allow me to help you get nicely laced up for the day. Slumping over the desk like that can’t be good for your... anything.”

‘Choly shouldered off the robe into the chair as he stood, and permitted Sticks to help him into the orthotic corset. The ghoul was wearing the faded yellow longshoreman’s garb again, and he assumed Sticks typically favored it. He stiffened at the ghoul’s grazing touches, only to force himself to relax. He had to remind himself Bones wasn’t the one helping him dress. He expected Sticks to feel him up all the while, but beyond scrutinizing the evenness of lacing tension, such sensuality didn’t bubble up. Then Sticks knelt to help him with his wrists and ankles as well, with the gentleness of changing third degree dressings, and the chemist couldn’t help but wonder if he were just in the moment victim to wishful perverse thoughts.

Everyone seemed to have gained so much from the Battle of Lowell, except him. His efforts entitled him to a reward, right? The value of things didn’t feel like they measured up to what Sticks had achieved. Small and decrepit. For it all, he could only show some fancy garments, a book printing not even a full day old yet, and a repairman ghoul who couldn’t see people as anything but tools. Maybe a repairman could fix him.

“I do wish I had a wheelchair here.” His eyes remained on the open Merrick. “I’ll admit the stairs have been an obstacle.”

Sticks didn’t look up from putting socks on 'Choly’s feet.

“The only local place that might have one is underwater in crab country, unfortunately. Having one wouldn’t help you with the stairs, anyway.”

“I’m all right, being upstairs-bound, I suppose.” ‘Choly couldn’t help but frown somehow. He let the ghoul lace his ankle braces for him while he put his Pip-Boy back on. “There’s a bathroom on this floor, a balcony, and a bed... And you and Angel are both here to bring me anything I might need.”

All these things... but no chem setup.

“Angel...” ‘Choly gave it an uncertain wave. “Angel, bring over the binders Olivia gave you. I want to confirm they’re genuine.”

“...Of course, Sir,” it finally replied after a pause. When it complied, he got to skimming. Pensive, Angel’s tendrils curled up to its chassis. “A bit heavy for reading material so early, though, isn’t it?”

He leafed through the continuous stock and squirmed back into his robe, not bothering to unfurl the accordion-like mess. He nodded softly to himself stopping intermittently from resultant goosepimples, noting what details added up in his mind to legitimate federal-grade documentation. He straight up shivered understanding that this printout disclosed both MKEXCEL and MKEXCEED, seemingly in full.

Sticks yanked the chair back from the desk, with ‘Choly in it. He gave the dizzied chemist an intense glare.

“You can mess with all that later. Stop focusing on all the serious stuff for a minute. Nobody’s making you work. Relax already. I can’t handle all this moping. Let me... sweep you off your feet!”

Unexpected and unsolicited, Sticks scooped him up. 'Choly let out a tense bubbling laugh when the ghoul teetered slightly, seeming to sway a bit in the string instrumental on the Pip-Boy. He worried less that Sticks might drop him, and more that he hadn’t had any say in being picked up. He curled his face into the small of Sticks’s neck, and decided to pay little mind to where the ghoul might carry him. But then, the ghoul tossed his gun harness in his lap and took him downstairs, and he questioned whether it had been a fumbled attempt at romance at all.

Sticks set him down at a booth near the front door, to grab both their shoes. He handed ‘Choly his oxfords with a grin, then finished putting on his own boots.

“Let’s get out of Angel’s hair, huh?” Sticks swatted ‘Choly’s hands away from his shoes when he struggled longer than it took Sticks to put his own shoes on. “Just outside for a bit. Some fresh air.”

“I suppose if you can trust Angel to keep your house.” ‘Choly tied the robe tighter. “Shouldn’t I... get dressed, though?”

“Nonsense! It’s just you and me for at least a mile, in every direction. And it’s a nice, brisk day. You don’t need to worry your pretty little mess of a head, 'Choly. Here!” He handed ‘Choly his cane from the umbrella stand, and held up a wood from the golf bag ‘Choly had brought. “A little protection, between this and your... whatever-it-is gun.”

He frowned, then laughed.

“A wedge might serve you better, if you’re intending to hit things that aren’t golf balls.”

“Which one’s the--” ‘Choly got up and took the wood from him to put it back, then gave him another. “Ah, yes. The wedge.”

“Really doesn’t make all that much difference, since loft isn’t a factor,” he admitted, fastening his holster with a sneering grin. “I just don’t want you fucking up a perfectly good driver.”

“I’m hurt!” Sticks grabbed ‘Choly around the middle with his free hand, to dip him back a bit. “You think I’d damage an antique such as this?”

“Take it outside, Romeo.”

“Outside it is, then.”

Sticks held the door with a chivalrous bow. Once it shut, he trailed after ‘Choly and swept him into dancing in swirling tune with the radio across the balding green that was once the southernmost tail of the Heritage State Park. He slung the cane and club both to his back, so he could use both hands to guide ‘Choly. The two devolved into fumbling giggling in the crisp, clear autumn day. Sticks hoisted him up onto the concrete amphitheater stage, and joined him, swaying into a slow dance. ‘Choly melted into Sticks’s chest, listening to his heavy heartbeat. Eventually, he fell back into his worries as usual.

“Jacob,” he asked, cheek firmly against Sticks, “what happened this week was a good thing, right? Things are safe and stable now?”

As if on cue, the radio shifted over to play ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee.’ Sticks recoiled, but he insisted it was fine to leave it when ‘Choly went to just turn off a song the ghoul disliked. The ghoul pulled them both right back into dancing.

“Laverne used to run that broadcast,” Sticks said, distantly. “She loved songs that kept the apocalypse burning strong. They fed her Eyebot surveillance or something. But maybe she really is signing off once and for all.”

‘Choly had no idea what he was on about, but didn’t want to press him. All he could think of, in mentioning the Rust Devils’ leader, was Olivia, and how she’d produced decades upon decades of confidential military pharmacological research just like that. He hadn’t even gotten to any of it yet, but he had read the phrase ‘Defense Intelligence Agency’ too many times in skimming for him not to expect to find those files too, if he just looked. The DIA could no longer argue over its own existence, or concern itself with the grey area where civilian, military, and federal life overlapped.

What does it even mean, to be a war criminal these days, if there’s no one to try you?

“Of course it was a good thing,” Sticks finally barked with zeal. “It was a great thing! You can’t possibly assume total accountability for something as overarching as yesterday, C.O. or not. You can’t blame yourself for the whole shit show any more than I can blame myself. Your lot’s just you and me now. Now come on.” He shook him a bit and smiled down at him insistently. “Get out of your head already and cut loose. You can be present. I know you can.”

‘Choly surrendered with resistance. He wanted to start into Sticks for costing him Deenwood’s luxuries, but it struck him dumb to recognize that the ghoul had saved them both from the incomprehensible inhumanity of General Olivia Francis of the Deenwood Pharm Corps.

“I don’t need all those prewar amenities on base for my happily ever after. I’m slow dancing with the only important prewar relic I could ever need.”

Sticks’s grin grew dopey and squinted, and he stroked at the small of ‘Choly’s back.

“Makes two of us. We might’ve lost pretty much everything, but I’ve still got you. If that’s all right with you, anyway.”

“Only if it’s okay that I’ve got you.”

“I’m grateful, in a way, that you never told me you were into me before everything fell apart. All things considered, I would’ve spent two hundred years lacking you, and hurting even worse than I already have for it.”

‘Choly glanced up shyly before pressing his cheek back against him with a small grin.

“So we really are partners in crime, then.”

‘Choly murmured, comforted by the prospect of stability. He barely kept himself from reminding Sticks that he couldn’t remember whether he’d made ‘Choly’s heart flutter then, like it did now.

“For real, this time.”

They got lost in the music, in the euphoria of each other. Having Sticks to lean on, ‘Choly didn’t have to worry about his balance, or his constitution. Before ‘Choly could make sense of it, Sticks had already scooped him up and sprinted for the front door. A flurry of Merrilurks shrieked fast toward them. Sticks flung ‘Choly down on top of a booth table to free his hands to board up the door with a series of pulley mechanisms. Heaving, the ghoul took him up the stairs to the bed. He slammed the stairwell door shut and latched it, then watched from the East-facing windows in intent dread.

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