body chop

Twitter Serial Killer

27-year old Takahiro Shiraishi (白石隆浩) was arrested in late October of 2017 after police found nine dismembered bodies in his apartment in Tokyo, Japan. Takahiro was known as ‘@hangingpro’ on Twitter. He would often respond to suicidal tweets written by other people by saying things like: ‘‘Let’s die together.’’ Takahiro would then meet up with his victims and kill them that same day. Four of his victims are thought to be 17 years old, the remaining five were in their 20s and eight out of the nine victims were women - it has been reported that Takahiro had sexually assaulted them before ending their lives. After killing his victims, Takahiro would chop their bodies up in the bathroom with a saw and other tools. He would then store the body parts in cool boxes while disposing some of the flesh and organs in the trash.

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prison break |   iconic quotes (the comedy edition)

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“Armie, I’ve had many scenes with him and he’s such a nice guy, he’s lovely. And he makes me laugh everyday, he’s really funny. I think he knows if we’ve been out in the cold, you know, we’ve done some tough scenes in the past couple of weeks now but he kind of keeps the mood up, he brings out his guitar…”  - Alicia Vikander

What I Read This Week

(4/6/17)

I am so so stressed with finals so this week’s list is going to be very short!!! 
Stay tuned for a post about my summer schedule within the next few days.

Once You Go Greek by DefiantDreams, Mature, 39k
A fraternity fic wherein Yuuri and Viktor are in rival frats, but they fall in love anyway. My fave frat fic, it’s SO GOOD!!

“Be My Sex Coach, Victor!” by lucycamui, Explicit, 7.4k (WIP)
Yuuri Katsuki has always been his own worst critic, and a series of unfortunate short-lived relationships has him convinced that he flubs things more in the bedroom than out on the ice. So, of course it would turn out that the ridiculously charming Russian he’s matched with online is a pornstar. But perhaps, a ‘professional opinion’ is exactly what Yuuri needs… HOT DAMN I can’t wait so see what happens next… ;)

Nocturne by Nostalgia-in-Starlight (UniverseEndingParadox), Mature, 11k
It’s a charmed life, rife with luxury and glamour and a doting husband who gives him the world on a silver platter. But it’s also a peculiarly lonely life, being married to the underboss of one of the biggest ‘yakuza’ in operation. Victor wouldn’t trade it - or his husband - for any other world. Incredible mafia fic ft. mafia boss Yuuri!!!

not gold like in your dreams by ebenroot, Teen, 87k
“Victor, you could have let some psychopath into your apartment.”
“Oh come on, he’s not a psychopath,” Victor chides. Christophe makes a gesture with his hand that says ‘are you seriously this naïve or are you drunk at work again?’.
“Victor, you don’t know that. You don’t know anything about him. Whose name am I going to give to the police or face I’m going to describe to the sketch artist when they find your body chopped up like Hannibal Lecter’s side dish?” THAT ENDING OMG I AM STILL SOBBING I LOVED THIS FIC

Come Fly with Me by Multiple_Universes, Gen, 11k
Phichit and Yuuri work for a charter airline, the CEO of which is Celestino. One day they have to fly legendary pilot Victor Nikiforov who saved 232 passengers by making a miraculous landing. Can Yuuri get a date from him before the plane lands? And what will it lead to? Cabin Pressure is one of my FAVOURITE radio shows and this fic gave me life!! I am so happy someone made a Cabin Pressure AU!

empty spaces between stars by astudyinrose, Explicit, 32k (WIP)
Victor gets just as drunk as Yuuri at the Sochi Banquet, and they disappear together after the dance-offs. They wake up the morning after with rings on their fingers, and pictures of them kissing after getting married the night before are all over the tabloids… but neither of them remembers a thing. They decide to stay married for a while for the sake of Victor’s sponsorships, and in exchange, Victor coaches Yuuri through nationals… Oh my LORD I’m so glad my followers recommended this to me! I can’t wait to see what happens next!


(˃̶͈̀_˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾( ノ_ಠ)₍₍ (̨̡ ‾᷄♡‾᷅ )̧̢ ₎₎

Here’s to another week of great fic reading! Be sure to give the authors some love!

i’m dead serious when i say that if i die because i couldn’t afford health insurance i want my body to be chopped into pieces and dropped on the doorsteps of the nearest representatives who voted for this healthcare act and against universal healthcare in general

Hopper eavesdropping mileven


*mileven at cabin’s front porch*

Mike: im so sorry el, I have failed you

El: *sobbing*

Hop: *kick the door* HA I KNOW YOU WOULD HURT MY LITTLE GIRL I JUST KNOW IT! BOYS YOUR AGE ARE ALL SHITHEADS! NOW WHAT BODY PART SHOULD I CHOPPED FIRST?!

mike: sorry i cant save the baby bird el, I could do so much better

El: its okay mike *sob* this baby bird is now at the better place

The problem is
I still call myself a woman
and every time it drops from my mouth
the word feels like a bar of soap slipping
through my fingers,
fish out of water,
something I wish I could reel back into myself.
I call myself a woman and it feels like an accident:
like a six car pile-up just outside city limits, like
you were so close to home.
You were so close.
You could have been exactly
what they wanted you to be
when they wrapped you in a pink blanket,
when the doctor said girl
and they were so happy.
But how could the word woman
feel like such a stranger
when I have been wearing it my entire life?

The problem is
my gender is language I cannot speak, yet.
I go wide-eyed-jealous, sticky-handed child
reaching for the bodies of the strong-limbed boys
I have always wanted to look like.
I think of how many things I’d be willing to give up
so that I could look so long, so that I could look so flat,
look so sharp and so boy.
But my curves are something I am not ready
to be divorced of, yet.
I look down at my body and think
no, I will not abandon you. Not yet, not again,
not like the rest of them.
I think—Girl.
I think—Girl.
I think,
Girl, you have been unwanted in so many hands.
And I can’t turn traitor to my own powder pink.
I can’t bleed the woman out of my lungs.
I have tried.
She does
not
go
easy.
Instead, I wear woman like a coat two sizes too small.
It doesn’t fit, anymore, but it smells like home.

When I was thirteen, all my daydreams
were technicolor:
taking these heavy, useless things
on the front of my body
and chopping them off with a hacksaw.
I say I want the reduction because my back hurts–
because they have crippled my body into
something unusable.
What I am afraid to admit
is I want the reduction
because I don’t want
them, anymore.

What do you do when you are given the choice
between two costumes
and neither of them has enough elbow room?
What do you do when the word woman
is the only one that shares all the violence
that’s been done to you for daring to look so
sweet?
What do you do when the word woman isn’t
wrong—it’s just not the whole story?
And you don’t have a word for your story.
What do you do when you love that word–
woman. Girl. She. Her. Her’s–
but you don’t like how it looks on you.
But “he” just looks like it’s missing something–
the word man has never belonged to me without
woman in front of it.

Sometimes
all these words feel like an ancient text
that don’t have the degrees to decipher.
They don’t make sense to me.
I don’t want them. But I live in a society that says
I have to be one or the other, that there is no
in-between, just accidentally mismatching
of body parts. At the end of the day, I have no quarrel
with my body—only the things everyone else seems
to assign to it. Only these words that feel useless
up against the person I have worked so hard
to love.
Only woman: ill-fitting as it sometimes is.
What I want to know, is
am I allowed to hold woman at arm’s length
and love it like my favorite dress?
Am I allowed to put it down
when it is too heavy
to carry?

—  QUESTIONS FOR GOD, OR JUST ANYONE WHO’S LISTENING by Ashe Vernon