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Fyodor Dostoevsky - Blog Posts
Fyodor’s ability is probably referencing many of his works like The Double and The Possessed and The Dream of a Ridiculous Man. Many of his other traits like gambling and the Sky Casino could come from his works like The Gambler. There are also shared themes with his works like The Grand Inquisitor with freedom.
I can’t help but think of Fyolai when I remember the story Dostoevsky wrote titled A Faint Heart
Does anyone else connect Fyodor Dostoevsky in the most recent stuff with Baba Yaga and other Russian/Slavic folklore? I know the irl Dostoevsky referenced folklore in his works. Maybe there is some connection. Both Fyodor and Baba Yaga are associated with skulls and are “immortal”. We see the two side of Fyodor in dead apple while he is “crime” is ability refers to its self as “punishment” which can be seen as life and death. Baba Yaga is a goddess of birth and death. There is the Cannibalism Arc in bsd while Baba Yaga is a cannibal. They both transform Fyodor takes over Bram’s body and Baba Yaga is a shapeshifter. Both are extremely smart and manipulative. Fun fact Baba Yaga can take the form of a bird. ;) Nikolai and birds ;)
Remilia scarlet getting railed and sucking my feet with flandre in j the ground
Both pf them suck my boots and i was walking through a ground filled with parasitic worms and they lick it all off.
Theyre supernatural they wont die from parasitic worms but that means parasitic worms will be as immortal as them, so poetic
But I also want cirno to lick my boots
“There is something at the bottom of every new human thought, every thought of genius, or even every earnest thought that springs up in any brain, which can never be communicated to others, even if one were to write volumes about it and were explaining one’s idea for thirty-five years; there’s something left which cannot be induced to emerge from your brain, and remains with you forever…”
— Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot
don’t shoot thy messenger.
I SWEAR THIS MAN DOES THIS ON PURPOSE. the way he tilts his head with a calm expression on his face like he accepted his fate is obviously a reference for jesus and he knows this. he literally deludes himself to think he is some sort of a savior and jesus, so much that he acts like one subconsciously. i mean of course asagiri is referencing all these stuff but it's not because fyodor really is jesus, it's because he thinks that he is. he sees himself above everyone and to him he is one of the few people who can 'save' everyone. look at him, bearing torture for our sins. oh god. i hate him
I MISS BSD UGHHH ASAGIRI PLS BRING BACK MY POOKIES FROM DEATH OR IMMA GONNAWOIDJSHDHDHDHHHDI
Haven’t finished any art this month so more wips and doodles :))
Full pieces and template under cut :)
I’m well behind on my art gifts so wip and doodles for now :))
been mostly focused on finishing up illustrating a bit of C&P for an assignment. About 1/3rd of the way done the last page :D
Initial sketch for one panel to the outcome under cut (aka me getting distracted by turning on and off layers instead of getting work done)
Crime and Punishment Part 1 poster for an assignment :)))
(I’ve only just finished part 4 chapter 2 and I cannot be normal about this book😭😭)
Fyodor Birthday doodles :))
(I am so normal about him :>)
close ups under cut
Fyodor doodle wips :) I should be able to finish by today but it might be a few hours till then so wips for now :))
Why, good morning.
I honestly love this post so much, it made me realize that Asagiri has definitely caused the BSD fandom to go batshit insane and I'm sorry OP but that image at the end really embodies just
We're all collectively pulling our hair out and screaming until June and when the June chapter comes, we'll be clawing at the walls :)
fyodor ability theory !!! please note this was originally typed in discord, so sorry if its short or messy lmao
SO LIKE-- we know the body was different, but when did the switch occur ?? cuz my theroy is switching concouisseness or bodies, but it could also have something to do with nikolai. so i was looking at the body, and on the face- were those stitches or bandages? what were they for? and THE IMPORTANT THING- WHEN DID THE SWITCH OCCUR? becuase the timeing is everything cuz it could tell us how its activated. but we also need to take into account karma, and what happened with the gaurd. i notced that the vampire was different from the dead body (lets call him 9).
so who was that, and where did he come from? the only way a body could have been like that is A) nikolai switched them out using his ability, or B) [personal take] if fyodor can actually switch bodies, when he enters or takes them over, the physical features shift to look like him. that would explain how he looked the same in the memories sigma is seeing. or it could also have something to do with the stiches on the face. but if the switch occurred, that would mean fyodor would have had to entered the body of someone else. and who would that be? THE HELICOPETER PIOLET. my theory is that fyodors ability is activated when someone harms him, so that would explain what went on in the dungeon after the guard stabbed him. he would have switched after being stabbed, and that is what couldve happened in the helicopter. and the reason the dead body looks different is bc after fyodor leaves a body, it regains its og features and form.
that was all for scenario B. scenario A, with nikolai, is that they already had the different body prepared, but this one is the most unlikely for a number of reasons, the main few being that 1- nikolai's grief was genuine, 2- the timing was iffy. but this also works well because i looked closely, and i cant really see the stab wound. this would mean the switch happened after fyodors last words, meaning something happened with the different bodies. like i said before, it all depends on the time.
like i said, typed in discord, so its not alot lol, but ill def add onto this bc i have alot more evidence/theories !!!
also you can see my decent to madness the other night at 2 am below if ud like
I finally read the newest BSD chapter
And
I'm just gonna freak out under the cut and give my long ass ramble cause-
HOLY SHIT??? I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE THE TRANSFORMATION SCENE ANIMATED?? PRAYING IT DOESN'T GET BOTCHED! 🙏🙏
AND ALSO BRAM LIKE?? KNOWING THAT SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING TO HIM BEFORE HAND AND WARNING AYA?? HE CALLED HER PRINCESS 😭
ALSO BRAM IS DEAD?? A TRIPLE SINGULARITY? Fyodor was practically sizing Bram up in the past?? Like "Hm yes, you'll make a wonderful body some day" Both Dazai and Chuuya are on the other side of the planet and Fyodor basically teleported back to Japan and I can't stop thinking about how
Dazai told Fyodor that Atsushi was his most valuable/powerful pawn, didn't he? I think so and NOW FYODOR IS WITH HIM AND DAZAI ISN'T. MAN I'M KINDA SCARED. Fyodor and Dazai think very similarly which means that Fyodor might want to use Atsushi for something?? Dazai didn't explicitly say who his pawn was, but because of how similarly the two think, Fyodor probably guessed. Sigma and Atsushi have a few similarities (Two toned hair - Two toned eyes. White hair - White hair. Both where black and white primarily. Dazai even refers to Sigma as "The Atsushi type" C'MON!) and Fyodor was using Sigma... So how does our main character fit into his plan if at all?
I just- I can't- I have too many thoughts we'd be here for literal hours so I'm going to stop typing and sit in the corner for a while.
nikolai bsd art!!!
I'm experimenting with art styles and i think this one is my overall favourite. I'm not sure why, I just think it's pleasing to look at. anyway, in case you voted on the poll, this is NOT the result, just a little doodle I did ages ago (4 days). Go vote on my poll now!!
BSD QUESTION
fellow bsd fans, please share your favourite characters for a little thingy that I'm doing (it's a secret) but instead of commenting just go to the 'ask me anything' thing and say there. I'd love to see you guys' answers! I will also follow and reply to whoever has the best opinion..
infinity aria ; prologue
fyodor dostoevsky x gn! reader. synopsis: two souls inexplicably intertwined, only for one to kiss death again and again, and for the other to stand witness. throughout the lifetimes, he watches you seek him out, curiously watching you seal your fate. read on ao3
warning : canon typical violence, mentions of death
author's note: holy SHIT i'm doing a series for once. this fic is set in the past, but eventually will become canon compliant. this is a reincarnated! reader fic. the chapters will be considerably longer (i'm aiming 2.5-3k words everytime, but this one will be short because it's a prologue.
Unnerving.
That was the first word you could think of to describe the feeling that seemed to crawl like a spider up the webbings of your veins when you entered the hall; this giant, grotesquely adorned opera hall with ceilings high enough to make one feel infinitely small, the arches too high to properly glean at the painted reliefs on them. The marble floor of the hall remains empty save for a few groups of guests. The linen note you received yesterday crumples in your tight grip. It states clearly in cursive, inked with clarity— that this was, or rather, should be the correct time and place for you to be here. With your best attempt, you try not to look lost, not keeping the eye or conversation of anyone for long enough to be able to feel the full weight of their gaze. Unremarkable people in their own right, yet the stateliness that their haughty gazes carried made their gaze a weight that rested heavily on your shoulders. Somehow, their superimposed, silent pride had made it a lot harder to freely move, every action carefully noted and judged, as if they were the sole authority worth doing so. Tonight only, they were all birds of a feather.
You usher yourself into an adjacent room, pushing a heavy door on the far right side of the hall. Pinching at the hem of your opera gloves, your velveteen fingers lock the door behind you. When you turn around, you see the sender of the note in your palm, with his hands clasped in front of him. A pale young man, gracile and willowy in build, with unreadable yet deep eyes and pale pink lips curled in a sardonic, yet cordial smile. He was dressed in the fashion of the times; a violet cravat neatly tucked into his shirt, matching to the dim shade reflected in his eyes, a small brooch in the shape of an angel’s wings. Owing to the harsh weather, a winter overcoat was draped over the fineries, lined with fur— understated and respectable, yet not standing out. A glint of silver shines under his sleeve, hardly noticeable; not that of a watch or a bracelet, but the tip of a dagger.
You have no reason to believe that the reveal is not intentional.
In your life, you have only ever met Fyodor Dostoevsky four times in person; your correspondence has been limited to perfumed letters that are burned soon after they are read. The first time was in a chapel, his form sitting in a pew with unmoving tranquility, like that only ever found in placid, glacial lakes—counting the beads of his rosary although his mouth had not once moved in prayer. You do not recall why you spent so much time watching him, yet he seemed to command your attention with not so much as a word. He could keenly feel your observation, but for some reason you could not tell, he only glanced at you with a knowing smile, whispered a morning greeting, and left.
The second time, it was in midst of the crowd that followed a public execution, though you remember not what misdeed had led that young man to the scaffold, barely of age. A short drop; you saw the deadly tie placed around that man’s neck, the force not immediately snapping his neck, but rather slowly cutting off his breath, leaving him hanging limp off the rope. You did not wait long enough to see him pass away, but you heard the man next to you mumble something about how 'there's no hope for them, there's no hope for any of them…’ Rather than sadness or contemplation, there was a tone of cruel, self aware irony in his intonation.
Fyodor had stayed behind, observing the condemned man a few minutes more.
The third time, it was through an associate of yours. While you could not fathom why a seemingly devout man would associate with criminals, especially those that specialized in the matter of political assassinations, you did not question your new patron much. So long as he provided his support, it would be unwise to question generosity out loud. It would not be the first time people wore religion like a disguise for their actions, a pretty accessory that could be discarded at will. It wasn't until the past three months that he started becoming more actively involved in these…projects of sorts, and while you could not help but wonder how he seemed to convince your usually suspicious and steadfast superiors so quickly, he had still not given you a reason to question him. That first night you had worked with him is only a fuzzy memory now. By the time you had even reached the location, he was already leaving. When he closed the door behind him, he only expressed formal concern about the late hour and your return home, suggesting that he shall fetch a coach for the both of you.
While his back was turned, your fingers reached tentatively for the doorknob, silently opening it. In the dim candlelight, the glimmer of still warm blood shone on the floors, the limp bodies of around five men with their eyes blown wide lay scattered around the study. You were no stranger to bloody sights, however, the reason your mouth had become dry and your head felt heavy was not the slaughtered bodies of those targets, but rather the one in the centre.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, laying decidedly dead, with a bullet lodged in the middle of his eyes.
You closed the door the moment you caught a glimpse of that sight. Perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you. It had to be, for the man you know to be Fyodor was currently not too far ahead of you, standing on the edge of the road and talking to a coach. You wondered why he hadn't locked the door after the deed was done. If he had intended for you to see what you had. The ride home had passed in silence, and you bid him a quiet farewell, head swirling from the events of the night.
Tonight is the fourth time you have laid your eyes upon this strange man. One who has strangely made himself a recurring thought in your mind, an unwitting parasite. Usually, you had no choice but to curb your curiosity regarding certain people, given that asking too many questions could at best result in a stern rebuke or at worst, pointed violence. In that way, the new patron’s serene demeanor was disarming, yet could not entirely dispel the suspicion you kept close like an old friend. Before you could lose yourself in your silent perusal of his character any longer, the sound of his voice brings you back from your musings.
“Punctual, good. I trust you know what we're here for, so let us begin. Have you brought the vial?”
The glass sits cool near your skin, and with a quick reach from your pockets, you produce the item. The liquid inside was clear, smelling like nothing in particular; the vial itself was shaped like those typically used to store smelling salts; slightly darker in color. A blend of arsenic and atropa belladonna distillates, or so you have been told. The vial he had given you looked worn, your thumb could feel the scratches on the glass and an weathered old apothecary label that read an year and initials. For F.D, 1606.
These details remain in your memory, but they are like some sort of eccentric joke; disjointed and without meaning. Fyodor takes the vial, inspecting it for a moment, before giving it back. “It’s not full…but it will be enough for our task. Our guest will be in the box owned by his family, number five if my memory serves me. It will be high enough for no one to see you. The poison will take about an hour to act, and by that time the after party would have begun. Escort him down to keep up appearances, then lead him to one of the greenrooms. They will be empty at this hour. Wait till the body drops, and then meet me in the gardens with the corpse.”
You nod, movements a little exaggerated to combat the stiffness in your limbs. The stubborn feeling that accompanied the onset of missions like these; an ache in your head that felt as though someone was tightening an imaginary cord round your head. The feeling of bile in your throat that won't yet rise; no, that was reserved for after the body is buried. The danger makes you nauseous with anxiety, always has. Yet even as you hear the details of the disposal of the body, repeated by the man in front of you in a clinical tone, you hold yourself well. Back straight, looking at him directly, words uttered only with deliberation and no syllable empty when you discussed the details with him further; this is what you were made for.
Your composure is admirable, he thinks, if only you knew who exactly you were attempting to fool.
“Are you nervous?” He asks, without pity or mockery.
“No. Does something make you think so?”
“You are to kill a man in front of half the city, I would expect you to be nervous.”
You shake your head. “It’s what must be done.”
“I wonder if you say so with duty, or with compulsion?”
You run the words you are about to say carefully in your head, numerous times. Conversations were not a means of amusement to you, but rather a delicate game. The most convincing lies are poisoned by truth.
“They're one and the same.”
Fyodor's expression shifts, the slight mocking lift of the corners of his lips disappearing. There is sympathy where the lights meet the cold violet in his eyes. Not the kind of sympathy that results from care, but sort of a cynical disappointment that communicates that he was expecting something different; you recognize it, for you have seen it in several places. In your friends, in the eyes of confessional priests through the wood mesh, in the man you work for. “I must say, it is regrettable that you think so. But for a person in your situation, it was unsurprising. For the time being, this will suffice; now, head to the box hallway, the overture should begin soon. One last thing…”
“Yes?” You pocket the vial, ready for your cue to leave.
“... Your hands are trembling. It is unsightly, see to it before anyone else notices.”
The tremble of your velvet fingers stops once you begin to think about it consciously. Slightly embarrassed, you place your hands behind your back, clutching one with the other. It’s a strange feeling, for it's not the trembling that bothers you, but the fact that he could notice that small detail when his eyes seemed to be trained on your face the whole time.
“Understood. Goodbye, then, I’ll see you once I’ve administered the poison.”
“I hope you'll be flawless in your execution this time as well. Good evening.”
He gives a solemn nod, walking to the exit with light, fluid steps; movements as subtle and quiet as that of a ghost. As his back turns to you, your fingers itch to reach for the dagger on your thigh and thrust it into his neck, then twist and twist until you no longer feel seen in such an uncomfortably raw way. Till the discomfort of the moment fades and you no longer feel eyes in the back of your head even as he has walked out that door. When it shuts once more, you are left to quell the sudden rage that simmers under your skin, remembering what you are here for.
Unfortunately for you, Fyodor’s presence seeps into the mind like poison and sticks on it like honey.
infinity aria ; prologue
fyodor dostoevsky x gn! reader. synopsis: two souls inexplicably intertwined, only for one to kiss death again and again, and for the other to stand witness. throughout the lifetimes, he watches you seek him out, curiously watching you seal your fate. read on ao3
warning : canon typical violence, mentions of death
author's note: holy SHIT i'm doing a series for once. this fic is set in the past, but eventually will become canon compliant. this is a reincarnated! reader fic. the chapters will be considerably longer (i'm aiming 2.5-3k words everytime, but this one will be short because it's a prologue.
Unnerving.
That was the first word you could think of to describe the feeling that seemed to crawl like a spider up the webbings of your veins when you entered the hall; this giant, grotesquely adorned opera hall with ceilings high enough to make one feel infinitely small, the arches too high to properly glean at the painted reliefs on them. The marble floor of the hall remains empty save for a few groups of guests. The linen note you received yesterday crumples in your tight grip. It states clearly in cursive, inked with clarity— that this was, or rather, should be the correct time and place for you to be here. With your best attempt, you try not to look lost, not keeping the eye or conversation of anyone for long enough to be able to feel the full weight of their gaze. Unremarkable people in their own right, yet the stateliness that their haughty gazes carried made their gaze a weight that rested heavily on your shoulders. Somehow, their superimposed, silent pride had made it a lot harder to freely move, every action carefully noted and judged, as if they were the sole authority worth doing so. Tonight only, they were all birds of a feather.
You usher yourself into an adjacent room, pushing a heavy door on the far right side of the hall. Pinching at the hem of your opera gloves, your velveteen fingers lock the door behind you. When you turn around, you see the sender of the note in your palm, with his hands clasped in front of him. A pale young man, gracile and willowy in build, with unreadable yet deep eyes and pale pink lips curled in a sardonic, yet cordial smile. He was dressed in the fashion of the times; a violet cravat neatly tucked into his shirt, matching to the dim shade reflected in his eyes, a small brooch in the shape of an angel’s wings. Owing to the harsh weather, a winter overcoat was draped over the fineries, lined with fur— understated and respectable, yet not standing out. A glint of silver shines under his sleeve, hardly noticeable; not that of a watch or a bracelet, but the tip of a dagger.
You have no reason to believe that the reveal is not intentional.
In your life, you have only ever met Fyodor Dostoevsky four times in person; your correspondence has been limited to perfumed letters that are burned soon after they are read. The first time was in a chapel, his form sitting in a pew with unmoving tranquility, like that only ever found in placid, glacial lakes—counting the beads of his rosary although his mouth had not once moved in prayer. You do not recall why you spent so much time watching him, yet he seemed to command your attention with not so much as a word. He could keenly feel your observation, but for some reason you could not tell, he only glanced at you with a knowing smile, whispered a morning greeting, and left.
The second time, it was in midst of the crowd that followed a public execution, though you remember not what misdeed had led that young man to the scaffold, barely of age. A short drop; you saw the deadly tie placed around that man’s neck, the force not immediately snapping his neck, but rather slowly cutting off his breath, leaving him hanging limp off the rope. You did not wait long enough to see him pass away, but you heard the man next to you mumble something about how 'there's no hope for them, there's no hope for any of them…’ Rather than sadness or contemplation, there was a tone of cruel, self aware irony in his intonation.
Fyodor had stayed behind, observing the condemned man a few minutes more.
The third time, it was through an associate of yours. While you could not fathom why a seemingly devout man would associate with criminals, especially those that specialized in the matter of political assassinations, you did not question your new patron much. So long as he provided his support, it would be unwise to question generosity out loud. It would not be the first time people wore religion like a disguise for their actions, a pretty accessory that could be discarded at will. It wasn't until the past three months that he started becoming more actively involved in these…projects of sorts, and while you could not help but wonder how he seemed to convince your usually suspicious and steadfast superiors so quickly, he had still not given you a reason to question him. That first night you had worked with him is only a fuzzy memory now. By the time you had even reached the location, he was already leaving. When he closed the door behind him, he only expressed formal concern about the late hour and your return home, suggesting that he shall fetch a coach for the both of you.
While his back was turned, your fingers reached tentatively for the doorknob, silently opening it. In the dim candlelight, the glimmer of still warm blood shone on the floors, the limp bodies of around five men with their eyes blown wide lay scattered around the study. You were no stranger to bloody sights, however, the reason your mouth had become dry and your head felt heavy was not the slaughtered bodies of those targets, but rather the one in the centre.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, laying decidedly dead, with a bullet lodged in the middle of his eyes.
You closed the door the moment you caught a glimpse of that sight. Perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you. It had to be, for the man you know to be Fyodor was currently not too far ahead of you, standing on the edge of the road and talking to a coach. You wondered why he hadn't locked the door after the deed was done. If he had intended for you to see what you had. The ride home had passed in silence, and you bid him a quiet farewell, head swirling from the events of the night.
Tonight is the fourth time you have laid your eyes upon this strange man. One who has strangely made himself a recurring thought in your mind, an unwitting parasite. Usually, you had no choice but to curb your curiosity regarding certain people, given that asking too many questions could at best result in a stern rebuke or at worst, pointed violence. In that way, the new patron’s serene demeanor was disarming, yet could not entirely dispel the suspicion you kept close like an old friend. Before you could lose yourself in your silent perusal of his character any longer, the sound of his voice brings you back from your musings.
“Punctual, good. I trust you know what we're here for, so let us begin. Have you brought the vial?”
The glass sits cool near your skin, and with a quick reach from your pockets, you produce the item. The liquid inside was clear, smelling like nothing in particular; the vial itself was shaped like those typically used to store smelling salts; slightly darker in color. A blend of arsenic and atropa belladonna distillates, or so you have been told. The vial he had given you looked worn, your thumb could feel the scratches on the glass and an weathered old apothecary label that read an year and initials. For F.D, 1606.
These details remain in your memory, but they are like some sort of eccentric joke; disjointed and without meaning. Fyodor takes the vial, inspecting it for a moment, before giving it back. “It’s not full…but it will be enough for our task. Our guest will be in the box owned by his family, number five if my memory serves me. It will be high enough for no one to see you. The poison will take about an hour to act, and by that time the after party would have begun. Escort him down to keep up appearances, then lead him to one of the greenrooms. They will be empty at this hour. Wait till the body drops, and then meet me in the gardens with the corpse.”
You nod, movements a little exaggerated to combat the stiffness in your limbs. The stubborn feeling that accompanied the onset of missions like these; an ache in your head that felt as though someone was tightening an imaginary cord round your head. The feeling of bile in your throat that won't yet rise; no, that was reserved for after the body is buried. The danger makes you nauseous with anxiety, always has. Yet even as you hear the details of the disposal of the body, repeated by the man in front of you in a clinical tone, you hold yourself well. Back straight, looking at him directly, words uttered only with deliberation and no syllable empty when you discussed the details with him further; this is what you were made for.
Your composure is admirable, he thinks, if only you knew who exactly you were attempting to fool.
“Are you nervous?” He asks, without pity or mockery.
“No. Does something make you think so?”
“You are to kill a man in front of half the city, I would expect you to be nervous.”
You shake your head. “It’s what must be done.”
“I wonder if you say so with duty, or with compulsion?”
You run the words you are about to say carefully in your head, numerous times. Conversations were not a means of amusement to you, but rather a delicate game. The most convincing lies are poisoned by truth.
“They're one and the same.”
Fyodor's expression shifts, the slight mocking lift of the corners of his lips disappearing. There is sympathy where the lights meet the cold violet in his eyes. Not the kind of sympathy that results from care, but sort of a cynical disappointment that communicates that he was expecting something different; you recognize it, for you have seen it in several places. In your friends, in the eyes of confessional priests through the wood mesh, in the men you work for. Where expectations die. “I must say, it is regrettable that you think so. But for a person in your situation, it was unsurprising. For the time being, this will suffice; now, head to the box hallway, the overture should begin soon. One last thing…”
“Yes?” You pocket the vial, ready for your cue to leave.
“... Your hands are trembling. It is unsightly, see to it before anyone else notices.”
The tremble of your velvet fingers stops once you begin to think about it consciously. Slightly embarrassed, you place your hands behind your back, clutching one with the other. It’s a strange feeling, for it's not the trembling that bothers you, but the fact that he could notice that small detail when his eyes seemed to be trained on your face the whole time.
“Understood. Goodbye, then, I’ll see you once I’ve administered the poison.”
“I hope you'll be flawless in your execution this time as well. Good evening.”
He gives a solemn nod, walking to the exit with light, fluid steps; movements as subtle and quiet as that of a ghost. As his back turns to you, your fingers itch to reach for the dagger on your thigh and thrust it into his neck, then twist and twist until you no longer feel seen in such an uncomfortably raw way. Till the discomfort of the moment fades and you no longer feel eyes in the back of your head even as he has walked out that door. When it shuts once more, you are left to quell the sudden rage that simmers under your skin, remembering what you are here for.
Unfortunately for you, Fyodor’s presence seeps into the mind like poison and sticks on it like honey.
i thought dazai started balding.
Gakuen bsd illustration for AGF2023
listen i'm brainrotting about this fyolai fic idea ive had for a while
phantom of the opera style au with cabaret star nikolai and fyodor as the spirit in his mirror that talks to him in the guise of an angel. the trail of mysterious murders and missing persons lead nikolai back to the man in the mirror whose voice he hears every night, until he gets pulled by the strange 'angel' to the other side.
ugh i need to start getting to it but EXAMS 💔💔💔 i haven't been studying for SHIT all i think about are these mf gays 💔💔💔
reading up again on russian history (i've never stepped foot there in my life), early 1900s fashion and musicians JUST to write this reincarnation fyodor dostoevsky fic knowing my entrance exams are coming
how brainrotted can a girl get
Fyolai but Fyodor is a vampire
TW for gore and blood
