#The Dostoyevsky Suite

[uwmspeccoll]

Wood Engraving Wednesday

In 1994, Sebastian Carter (b. 1941) of the Rampant Lions Press in England printed a suite of original color wood engravings that the Soviet-era Russian graphic artist Anatoly Ivanovich Kalashnikov (1930-2007) had produced in response to the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky. They were printed for the London publisher Primrose Academy as The Dostoyevsky Suite, with an introduction by the noted jurist, educator. bibliophile, and bookplate collector William Elliott Butler (b 1939) in an edition of 135 copies signed by Butler and Kalashnikov.

Kalishnakov is most well-known for his engravings for postage stamps and bookplates. In his early years, Kalashnikov was deeply steeped in Soviet social realism, but broke with that style in the late 1960s to produce this suite of abstract wood engravings. Butler writes:

Kalashnikov's engravings . . . were deemed to be too subjective and abstract for publication. The engravings appear here for the first time in their proper colours. The technologies available in Moscow never permitted the artist to achieve the full artistic impression which he intended. A small unnumbered edition circulated underground amongst friends. . . . the engravings quietly brought Kalashnikov a formidable reputation in the artistic and literary circles. . . . The engravings were not conceived as illustrations for Dostoyevsky's books. Rather they stand as autonomous graphic expressions inspired by those works. . . .

Our copy is another donation from the estate of our late friend Dennis Bayuzick.

View other books from the collection of Dennis Bayuzick.

View more posts with wood engravings!

[dazaistabletop]

I feel like we should've known this was going to happen considering Fyodor looks like he was just meant to be wearing those clothes

[fyoyaswifties]

RESURECTIO P2

Fyodor D. (Coloring)

[lushwithrats]

He’s plotting something…

Something evil.

[freakspectors]

ROLE MODEL.

A Fyodor Dostoyevsky | BSD x Gender-Neutral Reader Smut Fanfic.

warnings ; smut , reader has female anatomy but is overall gender neutral (except for one (1) use of 'girl') , slapping , mean fedya , bondage , praise if you squint , a bit short , nikolai mention giggles , not proofread , etc .

authors note ; hihi !!! hope you guys missed me... yes i returned solely because fyodor's birthday was yesterday and i HAD to write smth for him. ignore that. giggle wiggles. also i got lazy and ended it on a cliffhanger.. oopsie poops dont get too mad

Fyodor always was a man who saw himself as dignified.

         He believed someone as sanctified as he shall always receive the utmost respect, no matter the form; especially on his date of birth. He asked for no presents, no surprises to be thrown. Cakes were out of the question, too. The sweet thing Fyodor wished to devour was you.

Silk purple ribbon danced around your body, the fabric an eye-pleasing restraint. It wasn’t your idea to put it on; in fact, it was Gogol who brought it up. The clown dumped several ideas of what to do for your ‘acquaintance’s’ birthday onto you, some more obscene than others. But you couldn’t be upset at him; not when his ideas led you to paradise.

         Lithe digits grip your hips as you sloppily bounce on Fyodor’s shaft, his hands attempting to keep you steady. Hours ago, your ability to think fled elsewhere, the capability to speak following suit. It was as if you were a mindless doll, a toy whose only purpose was to serve its owner.

“You seem to enjoy this more than me, Kukla,” the demon shamed, “must I remind you why I’m permitting you free reign of my body?”

The Russian receives no reply. Sounds of skin against skin and squelching of slick echo throughout the empty bedroom; braindead babbles accompanying the lewd melody of intercourse. It was gorgeous, music to Fyodor’s very ears, but there was something.. missing. Something that would make this song perfect.

        Fyodor slapped your cheek, hitting hard enough to leave a sting, but not a mark. You were beautiful, after all. He would never want to taint such a graceful figure. My, were you a sight for sore eyes when you cried. Eyes that were once glossed over with tears finally let them run free, each droplet hastily streaming down your cheeks.

A pale hand reached up to your face, cupping the section hot with assault and tears. Fyodor wiped away the teardrops with his thumb, a feigned look of sympathy on his visage. “I’m sorry, love, but I will not take such disrespect from you. Give me an answer, or I’ll have another give me the benefaction that I seek.”

        Despite your hazy mind, you shook your head no and brought all movements on the raven-haired man's cock to a halt. Your heart banged in your chest as you finally relaxed, the ribbon still keeping you up straight. Chuckling, Fyodor brought both appendages to your boobs, toying with your nipples through the thin cloth.

“Good. Now, go on. Do I have to remind you why I’m letting you do this?”

“No, sir..”

“Really, now? Tell me then.”

“B-Because you want me to make you feel good..”

“Correct, Milaya moya. Such a smart girl,” the Russian praised. “Don’t lose focus on the objective at hand, and answer when I speak to you. Do I make myself clear?”

@ HELUVAKU 2023 . do not share or repost .

[orphan-account123653]

𝕴﹕𝕾𝖎 𝖛𝖎𝖘 𝖕𝖆𝖈𝖊𝖒, 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖆 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖚𝖒

if you want peace, prepare for war.

cw: fem! reader, fyodor's probably ooc, reader goes to church, religious themes (it’s just Jesus tho)

word count: 2.0k

a/n: can you tell i got grammarly premium? please tell me you can tell that I got grammarly premium.

Staring into the oval mirror, you see your face streaked with dried tears. (The makeup the servants had applied hadn't done the best job of covering them) Your hair is styled into a bun, and your wedding dress is hanging on a rack in the corner of the large room. It's off the shoulder and dyed a pure white with gold and ruby accents. You stare at the dress from the corner of your eye, glaring at it contemptuously. 

You didn't want to marry him.

You didn't even know him.

You cover your face with your hands and start to sob once again, the carefully applied makeup becoming ruined further by your crying. You uncover your face but continue to hold your head in your hands. Your mind is running with so many thoughts. However, the one that weighed the most on your conscience was how you got into this mess.

The first time you saw him, you were going to buy sewing supplies from the tailor to teach your younger sister how to sew so she could fix her old teddy bear by herself. The manager had brought you the tools, and you grabbed the needed money out of your pocket. You placed the coins on the counter as the owner started to count the amount.

"Uh, miss? This amount of money isn't enough." The tailor had told you.

"Oh? I really thought it was, and that's all I have…"

You were about to take the money back and apologize when a man with black hair placed more than enough coins on the counter for you.

"I'll pay for her." The man said.

"Huh? No, there's no need to pay for me!"

You pause your sentence when you finally recognize who it is.

"Mr. Dostoyevsky?? What are you—"

"Don't mind me. I'm just here to pick up my new suit," Fyodor said, nodding to a fancy black suit in the back of the store. He turned back to the tailor. "It should be enough for my suit and this lady's items. Now go get our things, please."

The worker nodded and ran into the back of the store to grab his newly tailored suit. When he returned, he handed the respective items to both of you and accepted the money.

"Thanks for buying the sewing tools for me." You thanked Fyodor before he could walk off.

He nodded in acknowledgment of your thanks before walking away. 

The second time you saw him was Sunday, and you were walking to church alone. You weren't particularly religious, if at all. But it couldn't hurt to at least try to pray for your little sisters' health, could it? Isabella was getting increasingly sick, and neither you nor your mother knew what was wrong. You were too poor to afford a doctor, so all you could do was sit and wait. 

As you walked towards the church alone on that quiet Sunday, your footsteps echoed against the sidewalk as you noticed a figure leaning against the fence bordering the front of the church.

His silhouette cast a shadow that had seemed to sway with the soft wind. As you walked closer, you finally recognized him.

Him again? Seriously?

He looked up as you approached, his violet eyes softening ever so slightly as a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The quiet moment between you was interrupted by the loud ringing of church bells, marking the start of another Sunday service. You hesitated, unsure whether to acknowledge him or walk inside the building without speaking to him.

"Hello," he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that did nothing to ease the uncertainty in your heart.

The last time you ran into him, you had just bought three loaves of bread and were walking back home when you bumped into Fyodor again. You had tumbled to the ground along with your bread. 

It was getting quite odd at how many times you two had met, almost like it was on purpose. 

Your eyes widened as you blabbered words that sounded like they were trying to be an apology, but it wasn't working well. 

Fyodor let out a small chuckle as he bent down slightly, lending his hand toward you to help you. You froze momentarily before graciously taking his hand as he pulled you up.

"We must stop meeting like this."

"Indeed," you replied nervously, the loaves of bread scattered around you. You looked around at the mess, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Would you like me to buy you some new bread? I don't think you would find eating dirty bread delightful."

"Oh– It's alright, I'm sure I'll manage." You reassured him.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." You bent down to pick up the loaves of bread. You could just wash the dirt off, probably.

You immediately fled the scene after picking up your food. You quickly opened your house door and found your younger sister lying in bed. You genuinely wished you could get a doctor for her. But you can barely afford bread.

You bent down next to the bed, gently shaking your sister awake. After a while of shaking, her eyes finally opened.

"You're back?" She asked.

"Buying bread doesn't take much time."

"It feels like it does." She retorted, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I know," you sigh. Your little sister can be pretty impatient sometimes. "Where's mother?"

"I don't know. I was asleep when she left." 

You shrugged before returning to place the bread basket on the table.

"She'll come back soon, I know it." Your sister said.

Your conversation is interrupted by a loud knock at your door. You stand back up and head to open the door. Standing there is a mailman.

"I have a letter for [Name] [Last Name]. Is she here?"

"You're speaking to her."

"Oh, well then, here you are." The postman hands you a letter and walks off. 

You close the door and stare at the envelope. In the middle is the crest of the Dostoyevsky family.

You walk back towards your sister, who is sitting in bed. You sit at the foot of her bed.

"What does the letter say?" She asks curiously.

"I'm not sure. I haven't read it yet." You respond to her.

"Well, then read it!"

You ripped open the envelope and started to read the letter.

Dear Ms. [Last Name],

With the quill in my hand and the ink flowing from the depths of my heart, I must express how you have attracted me with your beauty despite your poverty. You have truly captivated me.

I was enchanted by the aura radiating from your soul when we met in the tailors' shop. 

Though fate has seen fit to place us on entirely separate paths—you, a child of the fields, and I, a child of noble birth—I am compelled to defy the standards society has set for us. Even though I had only met you three times before writing this letter, you are the one with whom I wish to share my life's journey.

Therefore, if you allow me, permit me to pledge myself to you in the blessed bond of marriage. Together, we shall travel the trials of life, hand in hand, as equals in love's timeless embrace.

My dear, I beg you to consider this proposal with an open heart and a willing spirit. For in your acceptance lies the promise of a future bright with the shine of my utter devotion to you.

With all the sincerity my soul can allow,

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

"Wow, a rich person wants to marry you?" Isabella clasped her hands together as she fixed her posture, becoming more interested by the second.

"This must be a joke– but if it has the official Dostoyevsky family crest, then it should be real."

"Will you accept?" Your sister asks.

"It'd be in my best interest, but I'll ask my mother and see what she thinks." You said as you stood up, "But until I can speak with her, you should go back to sleep. It's way too past your bedtime anyway." 

"Aw man, but I wanna stay up with you!" Isabella complains.

"Fine, but don't come complaining to me when you're all crabby in the morning."

"Fineee…"

"Thank you, Isabella." You thank her and sit up from her bed.

"Mhm."

After tucking Isabella into bed, you walked to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. While you were making it, your mother walked into the house.

"How was your visit to uncle's?" You asked her. She was always at his house. Your uncle had always been better off than your mother. So she always hung around his home, probably because it made her feel richer.

"It was fine. Is Isabella doing any better?" She eyed the dusty bread on the table as you poured the tea.

"She's doing just as fine as yesterday."

"Ah, well, I'll be heading straight for bed. I've had a long day." Your mother yawned and stretched her arms,

"Wait! There's something I need to ask you."

"Yes?" Your mother asked, "What is it?"

"Read this letter I've received. I need your opinion."

You hand your mother the letter you have gotten. She scanned it, and when she finished, she set it down and sighed.

"You're going to marry him. It's the best choice." She said bluntly.

"But– I don't love him. I've only met him three times?"

"I doubt he cares much if you love him. Besides, think about Isabella. You can get her a proper doctor if you marry him. The Dostoyevsky family has lots of money, you know." Your mother explained.

“Yeah… I know…”

"So you'll marry him?" She asked.

"Yes, mother." You looked at the ground solemnly as you confirmed her question

"That's good. I'll get you paper and a quill. I want your response by tomorrow morning."

"Alright."

You're brought back to the present when one of the servants knocks on your door. "Ms. [Last Name], are you ready for the wedding?"

Oh shit, while you were busy having flashbacks and a mini-mental breakdown, you had completely forgotten about the thing that had caused you such stress!

"Uhm– I'll be out in a minute!"

You hurriedly put on the dress and fixed your makeup to the best of your (limited) ability. Then you opened the door and stepped out.

"You look beautiful. Are you ready?"

"I guess…"

You put on the heels and walk out of the room. You try to distract yourself by looking at the glass windows as you walk down the long hall toward what you consider to be an execution. The stained glass depicts different imagery on each piece.

Jesus, with his lamb,

Jesus, with his sacred heart, 

Jesus, on the cross,

Yeah, there's definitely a pattern.

You open the wooden doors at the end of the hall and walk towards the carriage outside. Once inside, the carriage begins its way to the church.

Your mother is waiting in front of the doors leading into the venue. She's holding your veil and a little piece of paper containing the vows you wrote down at the last minute.

"Remember to smile and be polite," your mother says as she fits the veil onto your head.

"I will."

In the grand venue of the church, the air was thick with anticipation as guests dressed in their finest clothing gathered to watch firsthand the marriage between two mismatched souls. Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the eldest son of the respected Dostoyevsky family, stands at the altar, waiting for you to come down the aisle.  

The grand piano filled the luxurious room as the ceremony started, drowning out the guests' gossip. The marriage between you and Fyodor was initially unknown; most guests only knew you were getting married once the invite was sent to them. Everyone knew how proud Fyodor was of his heritage, so why would he marry someone lower class? 

As the vows were exchanged by the two of you, the weight of your future settled upon you like a suffocating cloud. Fyodor could feel your hands trembling as he slid the ring onto your finger. 

His voice was barely above a whisper as he pledged his forever undying loyalty to you. 

However, for you, this marriage was only an opportunity to secure a place amongst the elite despite your origins.

[hamliet]

Hello Hamliet, I started reading Dostoevsky because of you and just finished The Idiot. I really enjoyed the book and I wanted to ask what are your thoughts on Nastasya Fillipovna?

AHH I'm so happy to hear that!

Hoo boy. First I'll direct you to this post I wrote on Rogozhin and this brief post.

The short of it is that I think Nastasya is, perhaps, Dostoyevsky's best character (besides maybe Smerdyakov, though I see Smerdyakov as essentially the male Nastasya). But she's incredibly tragic, and you're supposed to be outraged as you read her story. She's self-destructive because of trauma (being sexually abused from a young age), and she isn't even hiding it. She's upfront about her trauma, and that is what makes her fairly unique especially for a woman in her day and age--and also kind of what dooms her.

Nastasya is remarkably prescient about the factors that led to her position, which makes her an ideal contrast to Myshkin and to society as a whole. She knows who is to blame even more than Trotsky (her abuser). While everyone calls her a madwoman for her actions that lash out at everyone around her as well as at herself, she's not mad. She's blaming exactly who should be blamed. The mad ones are society, who pretend not to see the reality they are all living in.

Nastasya lashes out at everyone because society is, itself, an even bigger villain than Rogozhin. Society looks proper and flaunts beauty and power, like Trotsky . Society, at its best, is intended to be a community that helps protect the innocent and care for those who are in pain. Instead, much like Trotsky acted as a "benefactor" for the poor Nastasya who needed an adult in her life, society grooms and takes advantage of the innocent and hurting, and then uses their pain for their own entertainment. It's an observation not limited by time: see, every pop star ever.

And even when society feels pity for her, it's too late to save her. Her life is ruined. And yes, the misogynistic and patriarchal values of 1800s Russia do play a role here, but there are still also those elements present today, too. They push her to a point where even "redemption" offered to her in the form of Myshkin is not about her--it's about them. It's about them feeling good about themselves.

She has no power and no say over her own life, and that's why she constantly acts out in any way she can--to act like she has power, and to punish society for being "invested" in her either as a hot mess or as a redemptive bride. And society could have intervened with Trotsky, or just--not cared about Trotsky, as they all acknowledge she was taken advantage of, but they don't.

I do think she genuinely loved Myshkin, and my hot take is that Myshkin and Nastasya were better suited as a couple than Myshkin and Aglaya, which is what most critics tend to purport. I don't think Myshkin ruined things by choosing Nastasya out of obligation over true love with Aglaya. I think what ruined things is the whole paradox that is the crux of the book's thematic question: how can one be a true human being in a corrupt society?

I think the tragedy is that in not understanding herself as a human being--something society has never seen her as--she cannot treat others as humans either. Marrying Myshkin would have meant facing that about herself, and also facing the inherent power she does have as a human being--to affect those around her, because no person is an island and we do need community. Nastasya is used to being a tool, and her spirit is so broken down at that point that she is afraid to be human because community has only objectified her. So she cannot face it and chooses to go to Rogozhin instead so that he will kill her; it's suicide, and the text directly says that.

Yet in her death, she ironically proves that she is human--her death destroys Myshkin, because he was a human being too who loved her. He goes truly mad, and society continues on by putting him away in a sanatorium and washing their hands of it.

That's tragic. It's wrong, and we understand that as readers and are meant to grieve and to feel angry at how society, which can heal, destroys. And we're meant to examine our role as human individuals and as a collective in the destruction of the innocent around us--the limits and strengths of our own humanity.

[missy-0-piink]

BSD Masterlist (WIP)

Honestly, I’m doing this one by one, each time a NOTIF pops up if someone liking a post, I’ll add that post to my masterlist 😭

So yeah, it’s likely gonna be incomplete for a while but it’s too much work to sort through all the fics 😭

Anyways, here ya go!

Twitter links

Bram Stoker:

Bram fucking you and crying

Pounding into him

Fukuzawa Yukichi:

Fucking him in his office

Dazai Osamu:

Overstimming dazai

Dazai riding your thigh

Dazai thinking he’s done something bad (short Drabble)

Dazai and Fyodor sucking on your tits (feat. Fyodor)

Biting dazai’s dick

Mushitarou Oguri:

Mushitarou cumming on your face

Making mushitarou choke you and creating ptsd flashbacks for him

Ango Sakaguchi:

Him using his ability on ur dildo

Shibusawa Tatsuhiko:

Having his vamp/demon lover feeding on him

Fyodor Dostoyevsky:

Making virgin fyodor cum for the first time in his life

Making fyodor squeal

Torturing fyodor in a threesome with Mykola (feat. Mykola)

Dazai and fyodor sucking your tits (feat. Dazai)

Forcing fyodor to watch as you fuck ivan

How much can fyodor take?

Fyodor and cock slapping

Sigma

Fucking him tenderly

Ivan Goncharov:

Ivan with a mommy kink

Mori Ougai:

Fucking him in front of all the execs

Threesome with him and Fukuzawa (feat. Fukuzawa)

Toxic reader with Desperate mori

Aphrodisiacs

Whipping him

Facefuck

Arthur Rimbaud :

Teasing him with ice cubes

Bunny suit

Paul Verlaine:

Giving him a titjob

Emotional support shmex

————

SHITPOSTS

Fukuzawa cumming while dying

[magnetic-regent-magneto]

[rou-luxe]

explain if you'd like

[robin374]

What about Medic, Sniper, Spy, Demo, possibly Engineer with an S/O who has a hard time with gifts. Like, they're hard to get a gift for because they like a few certain things. They appreciate the thought of the gifts but if it doesn't suit their needs, it's most likely going to be forgotten in a closet somewhere.

Mercs with a S/O who has a hard time getting them gifts: 

I wrote all the mercs if you don't mind. (Unedited)

Medic: 

Honestly, if you don’t get him anything related to his job or his doves it will end up in the deepest cabinet of the base. 

You always try to get him something original, but it always ends up being something related to his job. 

Once you gave him a gift and Archimedes flew to your face wanting a gift too. 

“I’m your gift, Medic.”

“Of course, you are.” Let's say that you two had a fun night. 

Scout: 

It's easy to get him a gift. Just some comic book or a new baseball bat could make him happy, and more if it's from you.

However, you're a wonderful person and you want to change the gifts. So, you tried to call his mom to find out what she used to get him.

She was very happy to see that her son's partner cared that much about him. So she told you everything about him, from his childhood to the day they separated ways.

You finally got him some new running shoes, because the others were really old and on the verge of breaking. 

Demoman:

You asked BLU Soldier if he used to get Demo gifts, and if he did what exactly. 

He punched you, not because mentioning his old friend, but because you were on the battlefield and there's no time to talk there, according to him.

You thought about getting him some drinks from your hometown, but the thought of him being drunk because of that didn't convince you.

So, again, you called his mom. She told you to get him a new job. 

Finally, you decided to get him something related to his country's history. A new sword from a Scottish king, or an axe… just don't tell him that you stole them from a museum. 

Sniper: 

This one is really difficult to be honest. He’s quiet when he wants it, but he can be open with the people he feels comfortable with.

 Anything related to his job could make him happy, some new rifle scope or a hat for his walks on ceasefires… If this is before his parents died, you called them looking for advice, his dad told you to get him out there because he didn’t want a crazed gunman as a son. Then, his mother told you some stories about him when he was a kid and told that he used to make bracelets and give them to different animals that showed up around the house. 

So you made two matching bracelets. He almost cried when you gave it to him. 

��Thank you, roo.” He whispered, while putting on the bracelet. You’ve never seen him without it since then. 

Spy:

A fancy man we’ve got here. 

French people are so difficult in general istg. He’s a mysterious man, I would understand that you had a hard time getting him a gift. 

You always try to give him new wine to try out, from your hometown or the best wine that you could afford. 

However, this time you got him a new butterfly knife with your initials written on it. He was surprised that you gave him that knife, hell, he even was surprised that you thought about getting him a gift. He always gave different little gift gifts he forgot he could receive too. 

Just don’t tell him that you had to sell your liver to afford it. Medic will take care of it. 

Heavy:

THIS MAN, we all love him. 

You thought about getting him a new minigun made in Russia. However, when you saw the price you passed out. 

Zhanna told you that you could get him a bear as a pet or something similar. Even if it was a good idea, Heavy would have a bear pet but not a loving partner because you would die while taming the bear. 

So you got him three Russian books. Fyodor Dostoyevsky to be specific, you know that English can be difficult to him and that he is an intelligent man out of the battlefield, so you got him some of Dostoyevky’s books to read. He was very happy and hugged you so tightly that almost broke you back, then he kissed your cheek as an apologizing gesture. 

Soldier:

You didn’t know if you should get him something related to America or something related to rocket launchers. 

You tried to ask Merasmus for advice but he almost sent you to Hell. 

“Cupcake! Why are you covered in ash?”

You decided to give him a medal. He was the love of your life and the best Soldier you’ve ever seen, and he also took care of his racoons pretty well. 

“...and with this medal, I declare you, Soldier, the best partner and father of raccoons the army has ever had.” 

He was so excited to receive such an important medal, after the ‘ceremony’ he kissed you on the lips until you were without breathe. 

Pyro:

Anything you get them will be fabulous and amazing in their world. You’re already an angel in their eyes so even if it was a simple stick they would be very grateful. 

You didn’t know how they would see it in their eyes, maybe that gift told them arson was a bad thing. That would ruin everything. 

You opted for getting them a new plushie, a companion for their Ballooniecorn. 

They started jumping joyfully and clapping while they watched the plushies getting along (they were having a tea party and the tea was blood, but shhh, let them be). They gave you a mask kiss and a hug as a thanks. 

Engineer: 

Yeehaw

You thought about getting him new strings for his guitar, but how is he going to need new strings when he can make them? Well, no strings then. 

You were talking with him once and he spilled out the fact that he missed his life in Bee Cave. That gave you an excellent idea. 

On your next ceasefire day, you decided to take him to his hometown as a gift. He was very grateful and showed you all the places he used to visit when he was a kid and told stories about them. Then, you went to his house there and had a romantic night.

[rayne-astrophile]

William j. Moriarty x Fem! Ranpo! Reader Part 2

William's pov

Honestly, he's a bit scared of you now

Why? He might have misheard it, but he hears you say 'lord of crime' before you leave

He should definitely be careful, you're the greatest detective after all

Three days have passed since then, and every person in moriarty manor already knows about his worry

But his job must stay active

Currently, he's on his way to the abandoned house with Louis, Fred and Moran

He receives a telegram about a request, so he needs to continue his job

When they arrive, the other side where the client's place is dark, but he just shrugs it off

After a good three minutes of silence, he realises that he needs to start talking first

"...Mr. Fyodor Dostoyevsky?" He calls out the russian name. Louis and Moran look at him confusedly, their gaze asking why would a russian be here, in london. William shrugs, he himself is confused. That's when you speak. "William James Moriarty,"

To say that they are shocked is an understatement

In fact, they're flabbergasted

Moran clicks his tongue at his carelessness, which leads to William in danger

He immediately, but quietly makes his way to the other side; your side

"First of all," you speak calmly. "Loosen up, I'm not here to catch you or anything." William narrows his eyes as he stays silent. Louis and Fred are on each side as they prepare for any outcome. "I told you I mean no harm, but suit yourself, I guess." You say nonchalantly. "I want to make a deal with you. Meet me outside, under the big tree, in five minutes. Don't be late,"

The moment moran arrives at the other side, you are gone. Well, thanks to dazai of course, or you would just let moran see you

They did arrive five minutes later.

You are leaning against the tree when they see you, and william widens his eyes.

"Miss Edogawa...?" William says in shock as you raise your hand at him, a grin spreads across your face. "Yo, lords of crime." You greet them. Moran is ready to take out his gun when he realises that it is no longer there. Click. The gentle sound of the loaded gun behind them catches them off guard as they turn around only to see your colleague, dazai. A sly, dangerous smirk is on his face. "Let's not make this hard for us, yeah?" He smiles with his eyes closed. "You give cooperation, no one will hurt. Easy as cake, hm?" Moran clicks his tongue as William assures him. He then looks at you, who is struggling to open your lollipop. "Miss Edogawa, can you explain this?" He asks softly. You let out a hum before groaning. "Dazai, open this!" You throw the lollipop at him, which he swiftly catches with a low 'oof'. Then, you finally turn to the blonde in front of you, your eyes always closed. "You must be wondering why us, detectives from japan are here, right?" You ask as william nods his head. "The queen asked for our help to get rid of you." You say nonchalantly as dazai walks up to you and gives you the lollipop, which you happily plop in your mouth. Louis, Fred and Moran go stiff at your words. How can you say such a thing so carelessly? Knowing you, the greatest detective in the world, you should know better than to tell them that. They are about to attack you until you continue. "But we're not here for that." You say softly. "Plus, it would be a big loss to lose someone like you, william." You approach him and lean in, trespassing his personal space. You open your eyes, revealing your emerald orbs and smile, and william feels his heart skip a beat. "You caught my eyes." You admit shamelessly. You close your eyes again and lean back. "That's why, let's make a deal." You offer. "We will help you create a new world without the royal's interruption, and as payment, after you reach your goal, join us." "Join the detective agency..?" He mumbles as he thinks for a while. You then step back, and whisper something into dazai's ear, who needs to bend slightly as you're shorter than him. Then you turn back to the lords of crime. "Take your time," you take the lollipop from your mouth. "In two days, we'll know your answer." You and dazai start walking away when william stops you again. "Wait...!" You halt your steps and turn back, closed eyes looking at him. "..will we meet again?" "..." you stare at him, or at least he thinks so. Slowly, you open your eyes, and he feels his heart leap in his chest. "Of course, Will. We'll always meet again."

After you leave, moran looks at william, dumbfounded.

"What the hell, william? Don't tell me you catch feelings for that detective?!"

William only smiles at him.

He doesn't really know, actually. But he finds himself loves meeting you, hearing your voice and looking into your beautiful eyes.

Maybe he did catch feelings for you.

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Night Nurse

A John Wick x Helen Fic

When nurse Helen Morgan is caught in the crossfire of a shootout and aids the injured John Wick, she’s faced with two options: serve the High Table, or be executed as a Witness. She tells herself her choice to work at the Continental has everything to do with survival, and excellent pay, and *not* her growing feelings for the Tall, Dark, and Handsome Assassin™ who got her into this mess in the first place, thank you very much.

I.

John didn’t take the subway often, but with the Mustang in the shop after an unfortunate incident involving a mark, a concrete pole, and the ‘Stang’s door—two out of three survived—his machine was in Aurelio’s capable hands, and John Wick was on foot.

It was a chain of events that might have caused him to send a thank you to the unfortunate Serbian—if the man hadn’t been, you know, dead. Because it was the cause and effect that eventually led to John laying eyes on her for the first time. Dressed in rose-pink nurse’s scrubs, her thick auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, clearly exhausted from a twelve-hour shift—she’d looked up at him over the top of her book, and the shine in her amber-brown eyes took his breath away.

Her choice of reading material had been…interesting. Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky. A solid classic, to be sure, but so god-damned depressing.

John never made small talk with strangers. So when the words, “Some light reading for the evening commute?” spilled from his mouth completely without his permission, it was like watching himself from outside his own body.

She’d lowered her book a fraction to offer him a tired smile. She was beautiful, and he was sure that strangers tried to chat her up on the subway all the time. Way to be that guy, he chided himself, hanging on the possibility all the while that this exquisite creature might deign to let him hear her voice just once.

It had been a long week, but really? Maybe he was going soft in his old age. He wasn’t actually old, to be sure. He’d be thirty-nine in a few months. For an assassin though?

Practically ancient.

She’d turned the book to glance at the cover. It was a well-worn paperback edition with a dour looking painting of a man in a doorway. She wrinkled her nose, and it was fucking adorable. “I’m trying to read more classics,” she admitted.

“How is that going?”

He didn’t know where he got the cheek to tease this total stranger about her reading selection. Maybe it was the fact that she was actually reading a paper book, over endlessly scrolling through an electronic device. Maybe he was a book snob—ok, he was a book snob—but paper, in his opinion, was the proper way to go.

Kindle readers just smelled like plastic and the sadness of modern convenience.

“Okay. It’s good, but this Raskolnikov is fainting a lot.”

“That’s Russians for you,” said John, the corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile. He’d certainly seen a few when he approached. Lots of fleeing and yelling, too.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled at a stranger.  

“Oh really?” She lifted her eyebrows, laughing a little. Those eyes sparkled with mirth, glittering like good liquor in a sunbeam, and his heart ached as though clenched by a fist.

“Yeah.”

She shook her head, her book resting in her lap. He’d won her attention—and to be honest, he wasn’t really sure what to do with it after coming this far.

“Are you…Ukrainian or something?” He felt her looking him up and down. He liked it, when she looked at him. He always dressed well, but for once he was glad for it for some other reason besides the tactical armor sewn into the lining of his bespoke suit jacket.

“Belarussian,” he found himself admitting to this woman without a thought.

It had been a lifetime, since he’d admitted that to anyone.

She was good. She’d make an incredible operative, he found himself thinking. If she’d asked for his address or his social security number, (fake as it was), he might have given that up too.

“Wow. I never would have guessed.”

No one did. He’d worked hard to lose his accent, so he could slip through society unnoticed when he needed to. First for the Ruska Roma, then for himself.

“I’ve been here a while,” he admitted quietly, looking down, suddenly feeling as though he’d shared much too much with this woman who was kind enough to speak to a stranger on the subway. The fuck do you think you’re doing, Wick?

“Well…I’m from Boston. It’s not nearly as interesting, but I feel like a foreigner here sometimes.”

John looked up at her then, a lock of hair fallen over his eyes. “I never would have guessed,” he parroted in perfect deadpan, and it won him a smile that utterly melted his black little heart. He felt his mouth doing that alien thing again—smiling. A small one, to be sure, but it was definitely more exercise for those muscles than they’d received in a year. Years, maybe. A lifetime?

“Gee, thanks. I’m Helen, by the way.”

She extended her hand, and he could not stop himself from clasping that small mitt in his own. She felt delicate in his grasp. Breakable. He hated that that was the first thing he assessed when shaking someone’s hand. He couldn’t turn it off.  

“John.”

She raised an eyebrow, that sparkle back in her eyes.

“John from Belarus, huh?”

Fuck him, but was he actually blushing?  

“Most people trip over Jardani.”

And there it was. The most truth he’d told anyone about himself since he was a wet-behind-the-ears young man.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

“What a shame. It has a nice ring to it. Jardani.”

The sound of his true name on her lips did things to him that he knew he didn’t entirely understand. An additional side effect: it seemed he couldn’t let her go. A long moment passed between them—what felt like an infinity—of heavy eye contact with her hand in his. It set off fireworks in his heart, and finally he released her as though he’d been burned.

“Sorry.”

She canted her head, that thick russet ponytail flipping over her shoulder. He wanted to run his hands through it, and in that moment he knew he must be losing his mind.

“Don’t be.”

The train slowed, and reluctantly she stood from her seat, steadying herself with her hand on the pole he also grasped like a lifeline. “This is my stop.” He nodded, feeling like an idiot, not entirely sure why, or what had just happened, really. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too. Helen. From Boston.”

She smiled again, and if he could have bottled the feeling it called up in him, he would have synthesized the most addictive street drug on the planet.

“Don’t hold it against me,” she threw over her shoulder as she made her way with the crowd for the doors, the glitter in her eyes hitting him like a punch to the gut.

He could think of several things he would have liked to hold against her, none of which were acceptable to mention in polite company. So he simply held up his hand in a silent wave, feeling as though he’d lost something precious as the doors slid closed, and the train carried him away from the one truly good thing he’d found in this city

What came next bordered on questionable behavior, John knew.

The next week—because he at least had that much self-control left—he found himself riding the subway again, at the exact same time as before, reasoning that she might regularly get off a seven o’clock shift at the hospital nearby, and catch this train, to go home somewhere in Brooklyn.

He had not followed her home. Not even to satisfy his later curiosity, wondering if like a total lovestruck idiot he’d revealed a piece of his mysterious past to an undercover operative working for some secret—no doubt nefarious—goal.

Another week went by, before he happened upon her again. She was reading a different book this time. Moby Dick. Not bad, considering what a goddam brick was Crime and Punishment. She was a fast reader. He wasn’t sure why that titillated him so fucking much.

He didn’t approach her this time. He did have self-control. He did. He did! Even though he immediately conjured the perfect opening line. Call me Ismael. He simply stood in nearly the same place as last time, one hand on the pole, the other scrolling through nothing on his phone, while secretly stealing glances her way.

Fuck, but she was stunning. That thick hair pulled back made her neck miles long, and her profile could have inspired the Renaissance sculptors of Italy to weep. Even in those shapeless lavender scrubs, he could see that she was tall, and fit, but curved in the most heartbreaking places. John appreciated feminine beauty, certainly, but it was rare that he felt such a visceral reaction to a woman’s charms. It was as though just the sight of her triggered something long buried in his heart, something that had been sleeping all along, waiting.

Either that, or he was, at long last, going off the deep end.  

Engrossed in her reading, she did not notice him until the crowd shifted and she stood for her stop, her face lighting up with a smile when her eyes met his. She held her hand up in a wave, but did not pause in her mission to get off the train and go home. He couldn’t blame her, even when a part of him wanted to follow.  

God, but the feat of self-control it took, not to follow.

Pathetic.

It didn’t stop him from making it a habit, long after he got the Mustang back from Aurelio.

Sometimes, when he won the odds of picking just the right train and just the right car (she seemed to prefer the second to last, and the train schedule wasn’t always reliable), they would exchange a few sentences about books, or the weather. He hung on her every word, even though she usually teased him the entire conversation. No one spoke to him like that, he realized. No one in his world dared. It was as refreshing as it was jarring, and like a junkie needing a fix he just found himself craving more.

Other times, he would play it cool, and pretend to work on email on his phone after offering a reserved smile or a raised hand in hello.

She always had a book, and he determined that she was probably relieved on the evenings when he didn’t bother her. Yet, the next time he won the odds of picking the right train, she came over to him, steadying herself with her hand below his on the pole.

He was achingly aware of how close their hands rested on that metal rod. She cradled a new book under her arm. A red paperback, with a shadowed outline of a woman behind a V. He could just make out the title over her arm. Codename Villanelle. Noticing where his attention was fixed, she looked up at him with a sly little grin, and he knew he was in for it.

He could hardly wait.

“Bet you thought I was pretty brainy before. But the truth is I’m hopelessly addicted to spy novels. Assassins, intrigue, exotic locales?” She gave an exaggerated shiver with an insouciant grin. “I’m trash for it.”

John felt his mouth doing that strange thing it did around her, the corners turning up, his eyebrows raising. So, she liked assassins, did she? If only she knew.

“No judgement here. Is it good?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty entertaining so far. Smart, too. And I like reading about exotic locales I'll probably never get to visit. Paris, Rome, London…”

John canted his head, fixing her with that stare that she’d begun to think could see right through her. “What makes you so certain about that?”

Helen shrugged and waved down at her scrubs with a lifted eyebrow. He fought very hard not to follow the exact motion of her hand with his eyes, the way he did when he was pretending his attention lay elsewhere. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to infer from the gesture though. A lack of money working as a nurse? Lack of time off?

Whatever her perceived barriers, he had to bite his tongue, heading off on the urge to offer to take her to those places, and anywhere else she might like to go while they were at it.  

“Anyway.” She nodded down at the book. “No fainting Russians in this one. They’re pretty tough.”

John had watched one do just that due to blood loss just the other night, but decided it would be best not to mention it.

“I think you might be the last woman on the planet reading paper books.” 

“I prefer paper,” she admits. “Plus, when you're engrossed in your paper book, no one is going to snatch it.” 

“That happened to you?”

“Yeah, I lost a Kindle that way a couple years ago. The guy was probably disappointed it wasn’t an iPad, but still.”

John frowned, looking around like the offending thief might be on the train at that very moment. She rewarded him with an appreciative, if not knowing little smile. “Now it's paperbacks for me.” Her eyebrow lifted, the way he had come to anticipate with almost child-like enjoyment. It made him feel like she was letting him in on a secret.

It made him feel like they were almost…friends.

“It makes it hard to read raunchy romance novels in public though,” she confessed. “Their covers are so ridiculous.”

John found himself cracking a smile at that—a wide one this time, even going so far as to show teeth, just for a second. 

“50 Shades is a heavy tome to lug around.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“I have better taste than that, at least. I prefer some history with my romance.”

“Like, time traveling nurse in eighteenth century Scotland, history?” he teased, certain he’d overheard such a thing being the next popular craze the last time he’d been in a bookshop.

“You know, I wanted to like those books, they're beautifully written, but Gabaldon lost me in the first one with that dash of glorified spousal abuse. I just couldn't get past it.”

John’s expression pulled in a frown. “I didn't know. I'm surprised they're so popular.”

"I guess it never hurts that there's a TV show." She lifted an eyebrow, like they were in on a joke about books that were turned into movies. It was adorable. Everything she fucking did was adorable, and every passing minute John felt himself falling deeper and deeper under her spell. He found himself imagining a life in which they did have inside jokes, and laughed about them together by just sharing a secret look from across the room.

Could he be so lucky.  

She moved a fraction closer, presumably so that she could hear better. Yet with his arm up on the pole, it almost gave the illusion that she was standing within the shelter of his body. He liked that, maybe a little too much.  

“We keep talking about me. What kind of books do you like to read?”

He lowered his head down closer to her, drawn like a moth to the flame.

“You're going to think I'm a book snob.” 

“Oh no. You only read classics?” He was eighty percent sure she was teasing him.

“Yeah, mostly. And...”

What was it about this woman that made him want to bare his soul to her? To tell her every little private thing?

“And, what?” she goaded. “Come on, you can't leave me hanging now.”

“I bind books,” he admitted. “It’s...a hobby.” He didn’t know why he felt ridiculous admitting that. Like he was a fraud, pretending to have a pastime like a real, normal, human being.

“Wow. That's amazing.”

It wasn’t the response he expected. The light in her eyes filled him with a spreading warmth. It was utterly addicting, this feeling she inspired in him.

“I enjoy it.”

“So are you an artist? Do you make the pages, or do you repair old manuscripts?”

It was an astute question, and he felt himself warming to her even more.

“Repair, mostly. I pick things up at auction, or rare bookstores, that just need...to be put back together again.”

He didn’t really want to think about the psychological implications of a man who had been torn to pieces more than once, taking solace in repairing something that would outlast him, with any luck.

She looked up at him with a gentleness in her polished mahogany eyes that twisted his insides.

“I can understand that.”

“You're a nurse?” He realized that he’d assumed, but she’d never actually told him as much.

“An RN, actually. In the emergency room at NewYork-Presbyterian.”

“You must be great under pressure.” 

“I guess. I just...like helping people who have had a bit of bad luck. I feel like...we're putting the universe to rights again, in some little way.” The weight of John’s stare maybe caused her to add, “Wow, that sounds conceited.”

He shook his head, unable to form words around the pesky lump that had formed in his throat. He spent his life sowing chaos across the globe, snuffing out lives, while this lovely woman saved them. A chill settled in his bones, as he realized that this should be the last time he spoke to her, for her own sake.

He had no right to contaminate her light with the shadow of his presence.

The thought of never seeing her again made a sickly tremor run from his heart to his limbs, his grip white-knuckling on the pole. He realized she was waiting for an answer. That was how conversations worked. Someone said something, then you were supposed to say something back. Finally he managed to get out something true: “I think you're amazing.” 

“Ok.” She raised an eyebrow, searching his face, and he felt like she could see straight through him too. “It would be more convincing if you didn't frown when you said it.”

Again, she was teasing him. Kind of.  

He sighed, wanting to bang his head on the metal pole. “I mean...it’s not you. It’s…”

Me. 

I'm a monster. The Baba Yaga. The Boogeyman. The Thing That Goes Bump In The Night.

She waited patiently, looking so earnestly up at him that he could have cried. He could neither even fathom where to begin to tell her the truth of his thoughts, or bring himself to offer a lie when she looked at him like that. He was acutely aware of the seconds ticking down of their ride. Soon, they might never see each other again.

“How about this,” she inserted into the silence between them, seemingly throwing out a lifeline. “You could tell me about it over dinner. There's a great Thai place just down the street from my stop.”

Was she asking him in a date? Or did she just think the seemingly harmless nut job she'd befriended on the train needed someone to talk to? He hoped she didn't pick up strays so readily, for her own safety, but he already knew she had a bigger heart than most. 

“I—”

John couldn't say what exactly tipped him off. A change in the air. The specific angle of an arm in the crowd reaching for a gun. The look in the man's eyes at the end of the car behind Helen.  The years and years of hard-won experience. But he knew he had a split second to make a choice. Save himself and eliminate the shooter—or save her and take some damage.

He did not think before reacting. Not really. He grabbed her and spun, shielding her with his larger body and his armor-tailored suit. He felt at least three bullets strike him in the back before he lost count. Jesus fucking christ that hurt.

“Stay down,” he ordered, tucking her behind a row of seats, and whipping off his jacket to cover her. Stupid, maybe, to give up that advantage, but if something happened to her he wasn’t sure he wanted to survive.

He really was getting tired of this shit. 

While the attacker reloaded John sprang, knocking the gun away just as the new clip slid home. The man drew a knife, making a quick swipe that grazed Johns ribs. He slashed twice more, both times John barely skipped out of reach. The third time John blocked and twisted the man's arm, trying to break it. The attacker had training though, and he wormed away. They grappled, exchanging strikes. John couldn't go for his gun, both hands occupied with keeping that knife out of his body. He failed a little, the tip of the blade sinking into the flesh of his shoulder. Through gritted teeth John backed him off with a head butt and a kick. He found the attacker’s gun had skittered off under the seat, just in reach. As the attacker reared to throw the knife John shot him with a single round through the head.

By this time most of the passengers had retreated to the adjoining cars, screaming. But Helen remained, and rather than run for safety she rushed to his side, assessing the damage. “Oh my god, John!”

He groaned as she applied pressure to the wound in his shoulder. “I have a first aid kit in my backpack. But we have got to get you to the hospital.” 

“No time. No hospital,” he found himself insisting through gritted teeth. The train slowed to a stop. The doors whooshed open. They had to go. John pushed to his feet, taking one last disdainful look at his attacker’s corpse before exiting. 

By some stroke of luck, The Continental wasn't far from that stop, though in the shape he was in, it could have been in Mongolia. When he stumbled Helen was there, supporting him with his uninjured arm around her shoulders. She was stronger than he imagined, and even in the middle of all the chaos he couldn’t stop himself from adding it to the list of things that made this woman endlessly attractive to him.

“Where do you think you're going?” she demanded. “Wait for the paramedics. It was clearly self-defense! I’ll tell them.” 

People were seeing the body in the train car, and despite some people’s morbid efforts to film the carnage, pandemonium was breaking loose. They had to ride the wave of the crowd to the surface without getting trampled.  

“Can’t,” he managed to get out. “You...should go.” It killed him to say it aloud. 

“Are you kidding? I'm not leaving you!”

He didn't have the time or the energy to fight with her. Never mind that his black heart rejoiced with a full-out aria to hear her say those words as they spilled out on the street. He would try again closer to the Continental. It was just a block away. 

When an ambulance and police car raced past with sirens blazing he felt Helen tense, and knew she meant to flag them down. He tightened his grip on her, even though it hurt like a sonofabitch, turning them so that they partially hid behind a news stand. He could feel the heat of a fresh surge of blood seeping beneath his shirt.

She looked up at him with those beautiful, bright brown eyes held wide. Lost, confused, but somehow, not afraid. This woman did have a nerve of steel. “John?”

She was a smart woman. She was putting two and two together. A man who’d killed his attacker on the subway and was avoiding official assistance probably had a few more things of his own to hide.

“It’s ok, Helen.” He couldn’t believe how much he wanted to kiss her right then, with her body tucked up against his in their dark little nook on the street. “But you really should go now.”

Again, she shook her head, and he sighed. He could see the Continental in the distance, that distinctive sharp corner jutting out, a beacon of hope for creatures of the Underworld like him. He could feel his body going cold with blood loss. He needed to get to Doc, and sanctuary, and hopefully find out what the fuck that shit on the subway had been about.

But then again, he mused, as they started walking again, maybe he was the one going soft. Keeping a regular routine like he’d been doing the past month—or was it two?—made a man like him quite the target.

He knew better. He’d known better all along, but…he hadn’t cared. He’d come this far—survived this long—purely as an act of defiance, as anything. Defiance of those who took him when he was just a child, and who had moulded him into the killer he was today for their own ends. Made him their servant, practically their slave. At last, he almost had freedom, or the closest one could get to it, in this life. He looked to the worried woman at his side, and wondered if this would be the stunt that brought him too close to the sun.

As they scaled the steps of the Continental Helen looked upon the opulent portal with a frown. “You want to go to a fancy hotel over a hospital?”

He paused at the front door, leaning against the frame. Hopefully, not leaving a bloodstain the staff would have to clean up. He tried to be a considerate guest. It was one of the many reasons they liked him here. He wasn’t sure he could quite say that Charon and Winston were his friends—but they weren’t his enemies. That went a long way in their world.

“There’s a doctor here I know,” he assured her. “I’ll be fine.” Maybe it was the blood loss, or maybe just the exquisite agony of her standing so near, even if just to keep pressure on the wound at his shoulder. Even after a long day at the hospital, she smelled sweet, like honey and healing herbs. He would remember her for the rest of his life, short as it may prove, with aching fondness. He felt emboldened to cup the side of her face in his large hand, taking what he was sure would be his last opportunity to look into those brilliant caramel-colored eyes. “You need to go,” he told her quietly. “You don’t belong in my world.”

It hurt worse than getting stabbed, saying those words.

Rather than obey this, what he certainly thought was, an ominous but heartfelt warning, she frowned, heat flaring in her eyes like sparking embers. She was angry, he realized, and it was ridiculous how it made his heart—and things lower—flutter. Bookish Helen chatting on the subway was adorable. Angry Nurse Helen was fucking hot.

“You idiot. I’m not leaving you until I know you’re in good hands. Come on, then.”

She caught him up with the force of a hurricane, practically dragging him inside the building, and she probably would have started barking orders to bring a doctor to the well-dressed and dangerous-eyed patrons milling in the lobby, had Charon not materialized before them with an expression of polite concern. “Mr. Wick. It appears you are out of sorts.”

“Yes, I’ve had an accident. Can I get a room, and the services of the good Doc?”

“Certainly.” Charon, bless him, already had a key in his hand. “And your…companion?”

Helen stood in this opulent lobby in her pink scrubs with little daisies printed on the shirt with a spine of steel and her chin lifted like a lioness, daring the concierge to tell her she couldn’t be there.

“I vouch for her,” sighed John, knowing that the consequences of those four little words weighed heavier than Helen could possibly know.

“Very well, sir. Please, follow me.”

CHAPTER II. A03

[writing-blocked-me]

Daffodil

Daffodil - Unrequited love

Number 3 of my flowers drabble/one-shot series

Requests still open for the flowers series! So feel free to shoot me an ask!I

Masterlist - Flowers Masterlist

Pairing: Fyodor x reader

CW: Manipulation, unrequited love, toxic relationship, sadness, angst, Fyodor and his prophet complex, dependency, toxic dependency, I'm not sure what else to write here, Fyodor being OOC, bad writing lmao

A/N: Hiii, back after another few weeks with a thrid addition to my flowers series (requests still open). Uni has been rough these past few weeks, plus writer's block hit me hard, so sorry for the inconsistent uploads. I am trying to get a writing schedule together, so hopefully I'll have , more regular posting soon and I'm gonna try to put out at least on post (even if it's just a drabble) once every week if I can. This time I tried a Fyodor x reader, but I'm still trying to get the feel of his character, so I'm not sure it's quite there yet...

enjoy :)

You had always loved him, ever since the day that he came into your life.  It was as if you had been in love with him your whole life, as if he had always been there, an ever-present being, a constant voice in your mind.  Fyodor Dostoyevsky was like a parasite, eating away at all your thoughts until he was the only thing left in your mind.  Not that you minded; you'd happily only think of him.

He had swept you off your feet, initially.  He'd charmed you with sweet gifts and what he called ‘proper courting’.  It made you feel special, worth something. He had always been special, with his grand plans and his strong faith.  When you were with him, it was as if you were important too.  He was God's servant on earth.  He was so exceptional, brilliant and gifted, cunning and smart, always a step ahead of seemingly everyone.  Being with him made you feel special too, by extension.  Belonging to him meant being a part of something extraordinary.  You liked feeling extraordinary.

You liked being his.  Being with Fyodor was unlike any other relationship you had ever had.  He was attentive at first, sweet and cautious, as if he thought you would run away.  After some time of reassuring him, making certain he knew you were his forever, he had started to let you in more.  He told you about his vision, his plans, God's plan, about ridding the world of sin.  He educated you, taught you what the world should be like, what his world looked like, his perfect picture of what could be.  You liked feeling included, feeling part of that perfect picture.  You liked listening to him, to his dreams.  You liked everything about him.  You loved him.

You still loved him now.  Nothing had changed, not even when his controlling nature had made itself more… apparent.  Not even when he started keeping you locked up, forcing you to suit his needs, to fit into his schedule, leaving you alone for hours, until he felt like speaking with you.  You still loved him.  The affection you had never wavering, never straying from him, despite all the signs, all the red flags begging you to see them.  But aren't all flags red when you're wearing rose-tinted glasses? That's what you told yourself, the justification you gave, because you loved him.  It was all a part of his plan, his vision, it was something special.  You were something special.  Under his gaze, you were something. Without him, you were barely there, a shadow of a person.  

Fyodor preferred you like this.  Dependent on him and desperate to be with him.  It was convenient to have such a willing partner, someone who would bend and break to be what he wanted.  Someone he could control.  Someone who loved him.  Someone who would believe every pretty little lie that fell from his mouth, every “I love you”, every “That's what makes you so special”, every single flowery piece of praise.  So very convenient.   He didn't have to love you, nor did he want to.  He did not love anyone.  He had to be loved, though, had to be adored in the way he saw fit.  He needed to be desired by someone who could slot into his perfect little world.  

It could have been anyone.  It just happened to be you. There was no special person, despite the way Fyodor made you feel.  He whispered words of praise, of being special, of being needed, and you clung to him, desperate to hear it again and again.  He made you desperate for his words, desperate for him.  He kept you that way.  Fyodor was good at that, manipulating others to get what he needed from them, using them as pawns in his game of chess, discarding them after they were no longer of use.  You were no different.  He entranced you with kind affections and over the top appreciation, drawing you in, feeding you bit by bit.  

After drawing you in, he gave praise sparingly, just enough to trap you.  It made you hungry for it, as if you would starve without his attention.  You would die without it.  It felt as though the two of you were attached by an invisible string, or more like an invisible leash, keeping you bound to him.  Still, your devotion never changed, never strayed from him.  

Even now, as the Russian rat ignored you entirely, carrying on with his work, you could not change your heart.  It would forever belong to him.  Despite being strung along, controlled, manipulated, and subjected to all manner of other things, your love for Fyodor did not change.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky was a parasite. He had corrupted you, taken over your mind, body and soul.  He was a disease that left you helpless.  He was your maker and your undoing.  He was the reason you were alone most of the time.  And yet, you could never bring yourself to be any less infatuated with the man.  Never would you ever imagine leaving him.  It was impossible.  It was a thought that simply did not exist.  You could not leave the man you loved, though it was so painfully obvious he did not feel for you the same as you felt for him.  Leaving was not an option.  There was no escape.  There was nowhere to run.

“Content” could be the word to describe it.  You were content.  The love you felt was all you needed. He need not love you back.  You were content for it to be a one-sided affection.  As long as you were there at all, you could be happy.  Fyodor Dostoyevsky was special, a man who was going to change the world, remake it anew.  He was God's servant on earth.  He was the love of your life.  As long as he permitted you to, you would happily remain at his side, answering his beck and call, adoring him in a way that would never be requited.

[chal-s]

I so readily wanted to be the Dostoyevsky that lived among them but instead, I was the self-deluded thinker.

"They have not yet suffered enough," says Nietzsche. Perhaps he was right, how could I suit them?!

[thebestofoneshots]

I'm honestly so exited for the next chapter of GC!!!

If you had any advice for anyone wanting to write a maurauders fic what would it be?

THE INTERLUDE PT. 2

Hey Darling! I think my advice to anyone who wants to write, not just fanfiction for the Marauders, but anything in general, is that you must do three things:

Pay attention to your surroundings

This one is important because there are stories developing around us at all times, and these stories can be both inspiring and insightful. You have to look at people. But to really look at them. How does sadness look? How does desperation? What about happiness and excitement? What about love?

Paying close atention to the way people react to things, to the way their faces move and to the way they try to stop them from it, is what gives you a real outlook on all these things and helps you with the classic "show don't tell" aspect of writing. (You can also fo this by watching movies, it doesn't have to be just real people).

Sometimes what I do, is very much like method acting. What I mean by this is that I try to feel my character's emotions in my own body so I can write their reactions, did they furrow their brows? Did they shed a tear or two? Sometimes it takes a heavy toll, but personally. I like living the story as I write it.

Read a LOT

Now, I've got dyslexia and I'm a slow as fuck when reading, but still, I try to read as much as I can, especially now, I've been reading a lot of old classics, the likes of Frankenstein, Dracula, The Picture of Dorian Grey, Midsummer Night's Dream, and even some other not so classics like The Secret History.

I'm currently reading The Brothers Karamazov and I especially pay attention to new vocabulary (English is not my first language but feels like it at this point) and yet, sometimes when we read we skip past words that we allude a meaning due to context but we don't actually pay atention to them.

I mean did you know the black suit with white neckline that priests use is actually called a "cassock"? I had no idea, so thank you Dostoyevsky for teaching me that. (Comes in handy for that Priest!Remus fic I'm working on, if you know what I mean).

But yes, read a lot. You know Virginia Wolf once said:

"Read a thousand books and your words will flow like a river"

And trust me, she was onto something, nowadays I find myself using words that just in 2023 I wouldn't have even thought of, and that's just like a 6 books difference. And I know some of you all are incredibly fast readers! (Someone literally read the 300K words of GC in two days, not even in my dreams would I be able to do that).

So use that to your advantage and take out your books. Or read on ePub on your phone, that works just as well. Instead of scrolling, go to your books app!

My screen time does not look like this out of coincidence.

I've made a conscious decision to stop scrolling Instagram and Pinterest so much and start reading instead. Whenever I'm waiting in the car, whenever I have a free moment, I OPEN that app and get READING. (It also helped that The Secret History is damn engaging).

Also, since the Marauders don't have much official material, I'd recommend reading more fanfiction on them, it's the only way you can get a grasp of the personality we have collectively created for them.

Start typing

And finally, all that reading, all that looking and all that feeling is going to we worth for nothing if you don't actually sit down and write. Be it on a notebook while you're in school (I used to do this a lot, I don't even know how I got such good grades), or type on your computer while you're at work and have some free time.

It's silly when writers say this, but you have to make time to write, it really is the only way to do it. Sit down, write a word, and then another, and then just keep going. You don't like the result? It doesn't matter you can write it again, scratch and restart, but you must get writing.

And finally, don't be afraid to show your work, sometimes feedback is the way to get better. I mean, beats me I didn't know "tight" and "thigh" wasn't the same thing due to dyslexia for years! And it was thanks to one of you, that I took a closer look and realised what a pitiful mistake I'd been making.

So yeah, WRITE, show your work, and get feedback from friends, family or people on the internet. That's the secret ໒꒰ྀི�� ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১

I might have gotten carried away with this answer lol, this is why it always takes me so much to go through my asks.