Преступление и наказание

     THE WAY DOSTOEVSKY SPEAKS isn’t limited to his ‘polite’ persona he prefers to put on while interacting with most people outside of Rats and DoA. He was raised with belief that you need to respect elders (particularly parents) and any strangers, which is why he’s almost always polite, no matter what kind of discussion he’s having.

He addresses everyone respectfully and most of time uses rules that apply to that country / language he’s currently speaking. It’s not rare for him to use contractions in more casual speech, but he prefers speaking without them, enunciating the words. In languages with T-V distinction (such as Russian) he speaks almost entirely using V pronouns; it’s extremely rare to hear him using T pronouns in Russian, even towards his subordinates.

     As an addendum to the headcanon post, I do find it important to point out that I headcanon Fyodor to have had a relatively normal childhood — at least, up until his mother dies, and as normal as it can get for someone with his intellect (he was extremely bored almost all the time and only long discussions with his older brother saved him).

I tend to base my Dostoevsky on the real Dostoevsky, and while I was skimming through his letters I did find a peculiar quote that was written around the time he was 16:

It is true that I am idle—very idle. But what will become of me, if everlasting idleness is to be my only attitude towards life? I don't know if my gloomy mood will ever leave me. And to think that such a state of mind is allotted to man alone—the atmosphere of his soul seems compounded of a mixture of the heavenly and the earthly. What an unnatural product, then, is he, since the law of spiritual nature is in him violated... This earth seems to me a purgatory for divine spirits who have been assailed by sinful thoughts. I feel that our world has become one immense Negative, and that everything noble, beautiful, and divine, has turned itself into a satire. If in this picture there occurs an individual who neither in idea nor effect harmonizes with the whole—who is, in a word, an entirely unrelated figure—what must happen to the picture? It is destroyed, and can no longer endure.

          ON DOSTOEVSKY’S PRACTICAL SKILLS. (that he picked up during childhood)

     Due to his upbringing, Dostoevsky possesses a few skills, ranging from woodworking (carpentry, to be exact) to hunting; although that doesn’t make him stand out since his older brother is capable of the same things. Despite being born in Moscow, a considerable amount of his life was spent in the countryside, in a house his family owns — it’s located in a hamlet near Sergiev Posad.

Ever since he was five, his family would spend their weekends in that house from May to October (typically depending on the weather), and move in completely during summer (excluding his father, who kept working in Moscow). During his father’s absence neighbors would teach Fyodor and his brother necessary skills to keep their life running smoothly in future: it wasn’t uncommon for something to suddenly break, so knowing how to fix minor problems (pipes leaking, locks breaking, fences falling, etc.) was essential. In addition, said neighbors sometimes took the kids to go mushroom picking, fishing or hunting.

CARPENTRY is a skill that doesn’t see much use ever since Fyodor left his family simply because there’s little to no need for it; but if required he would rather craft something by himself rather than entrust it to somebody else. As for why he acquired it, it’s because his family needed help with building a shack — later on, he would carve toys for his younger siblings. Additionally, since their house was a log house, it helped in maintaining it in the acceptable condition.

HORSEBACK RIDING was one of his favorite pastimes when there was absolutely nothing to do: it wasn’t uncommon for Fyodor to binge almost all books he’d bring with himself in an extremely short amount of time. While caring for animals isn’t something he enjoys (he doesn’t mind it), riding tends to empty his head a bit, which he finds rather relieving from time to time; he was one of the best amateur racers, but he never took it seriously.

MUSHROOMING, BERRYING, FISHING and HUNTING are quite common skills in hamlets, and since Fyodor’s family was poor and wanted to cut down costs as much as possible, procuring food from nature was an obvious choice (not that they relied on it fully). This also includes SURVIVAL SKILLS as when Fyodor turned twelve or so, he would go in the woods with his older brother for a few days to forage.

There are other activities he was doing quite regularly: planting and harvesting vegetables, berries and fruits, looking after the cattle (including helping herders). He and his older brother were always noted to be quite distant, much unlike all other hamlet kids, so instead of playing they spent most of their time helping around the hamlet, studying or teaching their younger siblings.

After his mother died (when he was fifteen) Fyodor started diving deeper into electronics and, essentially, learning how to create different, harder devices (he once was found disassembling a magnetophon at the age of ten), along with programming: it led to him being able to pull off annoying things like activating Moby Dick remotely with a chip planted in.

“Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?” // gogol ofc

J.R.R. Tolkien quotes; accepting.

“On their deathbed men will speak true, they say.”

J.R.R. Tolkien quotes; accepting.

     It does not bother Dostoevsky, though.

     He is perched on an ancient log (oh, but has it not become ice already? The surface is cold and slippery to the touch instead of a mushy rotten garbage the wood becomes), slouching, with a pose of a diligent student: knees together, hands resting on them intertwined with each other; it looks so stiff and uncomfortable that some shudder at a simple thought of spending mere minutes in it. The freezing gusts toy with his coat and loose hair hanging from under his hat (isn’t it a wonder how it stays on his head? Truly, a miracle of sorts — but the fur is riddled with snowflakes), and yet his gaze seems focused on a certain someone — after all, he is not alone in his hell he always called home.

     She is a nurse in that place called Chaldea (in that place that was called Chaldea, for it no longer exists: amusing, oh, how amusing it was to hear all about it — he almost wishes he had been there to watch the remnants scurry in desperation, just like rats from a sinking ship) and while they may have had encounters (or, rather, he has seen her around — she has not, not yet; he made sure to be out of her sight — who needs constant lectures about posture?), being left alone with her, a Berserker — even if she sounded sane, —  is nothing short of God’s will.

     “Miss Nightingale, what do you think about snow?” The question is muffled by the raging blizzard, but it still reaches her — it should reach her in clarity; Dostoevsky leans forward and carefully scoops some snow (it is fresh, loose and even fluffy; it prickles the skin so pleasantly and it melts a tiny bit under his rather artificial heat) and presses it together, before starting to mold and polish it with bare hands — after all, he is a Servant, and he does not need gloves.

         *taps mic* ahem, do you like your villains smart? do you like them to justify their horrible actions with religion while also having a weird charm of a rat? if so, allow me to present a brand new blog for FYO.DOR DOSTOE.VSKY from bung.ou stra.y dog.s ! the blog is based solely on manga ( & dea.d app.le somewhat), so please, keep it in mind.

                  “ Oh? Are you sure about that? I think it’s most fitting and by my experience, by what I’ve seen with a man almost as intelligent as you, you’d be surprised how you’d benefit from it. ” 

                  “ Haha! It’s only harmful if you don’t pace yourself well. First we’ll do easy stretching to warm up your twig body and then we’ll start with a simple walk. ”

                   “ Hou? What’s with that look, Dostoevsky-san? You should be excited you’re getting our help in improving your health. ”

the fact that they came down into this basement at all is unusual for them — or maybe it will no longer be unusual, but is a new development that speaks of their growing comfort in this place and the way they’re feeling more at-ease as a person allowed to act as they will. no matter what the truth of it is, their expression is guarded, slightly mismatched eyes of silver-and-jewel-toned hues betraying some sort of secret concern they keep held within their chest; no matter how cold they may act, they can’t help the genuine warmth and care they feel for those that surround them.

the demon dostoevsky, holed up in this dark basement and illuminated by the blue light of screens they couldn’t begin to make sense of even if they wanted to, is not exempt from that fact.

their care isn’t at odds with their observant eye, quick and critical, and the question he asks as them almost bristling. their eyes dart pointedly to the desk and the empty bottle beside him before shifting quickly back to the red depths of his own. “ you have one there. ” there’s a cool clip in their words, but the hardness of their expression has softened some. “ but i can get you something else, if it will get you to eat. ”

in truth, their feelings towards him are complicated: while they know he’s done terrible things and that the organization they’ve joined by his offer has done and will continue to do terrible things, he’s given them purpose and a home. it’s impossible for them to think too badly of him, even within the rational parts of their mind. ( he’s why they; have a name now — a name they’ve taken for themself but haven’t quite managed to associate with themself yet. )

“ and how do your eyes not hurt, staring at screens all day like that? ”

     there are times, rare and fleeting times when you wonder, just how your heavy gaze feels (it is not you who stares at the crimson abyss of omniscience; does it pull? does it attract? does it repulse or does it induce nothing? for every person there is a different answer — they call eyes a mirror to the soul, yet yours only reflect others, with clarity perfect; after all, there is a deep void behind the initial reflection), for them to ask such an off-topic, jarring question. ah, but your sclera is most likely tainted with red, giving your eyes a pinkish tint in the corners: sadly, there is nothing you can do about it, as it is an unfortunate side effect of staying up too long (there is no ‘too long’ for you, as you will labor for as much as God wills you to) in almost complete darkness.

     “So, you knew?” an imperceptable hint of devilish tease stains your voice (of course not, you figure, what happens behind your closed doors is—). “Yet what if the bottle happened to be empty?” (with how they are eager to have you eat, it makes for an amusing oversight) “It would mean I have to enjoy your generosity dry — and I find it to be a torture of its own kind.” that is your truth: you were always taught to never eat anything without accompanying it with a drink of any kind (and, truly, even when you had to endure, you saw food as a bother, not a pleasure), so it is an unfortunate habit of yours.

     (... but you never directly answer them: it is up to them to make a decision; you refuse to do so — oh, it is so, so, so boring and tedious to always order everyone around as otherwise nothing gets done (or it does, but with a certain russian peculiarity you happen to loathe with your whole being) and—) you move your hand closer to your face, fingertips tracing your chapped lips as you cast a momentary glance towards the sandwiches (you still do not hasten to even pick one up — your hunger is rather muted and mild, swirling at the bottom of your stomach; you surely can afford ten, twenty, thirty minutes of a pleasant discussion before the inevitable meal), nails picking at the dry skin.

@crimesplit​

“Looks as though that Mafia’s failed to catch themselves a tiger. I thought the bounty would be enough incentive for competence but…” Fitzgerald clicked his tongue. Of course, it would have been so much simpler if that Port Mafia had just learned to perform to their expectations, but what else could one expect when entrusting such an important task to others? “They’ve failed, old sport. So, tell me.

“What are you going to do about Operation Bounty failing?”

     A silent chuckle escapes his lips as lips are curved in a smile so often seen. “Only God may know,” is what falls from them — to indulge others in his plans always proves to be a waste of time and words; and would this man even listen? Oh, no, he will not: why entertain him then — small talk is such a chore.

🤡 *hands him a gummy vitamin* *hands him a gummy vitamin* *hands him a gummy vitamin* *hands him a gummy vitamin* *hands him a gummy vitamin* *hands him a gummy vitamin* *hands him a gummy vitamin* *hands him a—

     ... And before he knew it, there is a heap of these brightly colored gummies in his hands — all thanks to this clown. Hungry he is not, nor he plans on having a ‘snack’ — even if he did plan to, these gummies would not suffice.