jugnus

[asagirisfavoritepen]

This is a panel from the new chapter

This is castle Bran from which Bram Stoker got the idea for Dracula

They. Look. The. Same.

Harukawa really knows what he doin'.

Also, I think it means that Bra-chan is from Romania which is wrong 'cause the writer is from Ireland.

[awoogayanderes]

in this life, we both die

➪ pairing : fyodor dostoyevsky x reader

➪ sypnosis : you prepare him for his death

➪ other notes : YALL KNOW I HAD TO DO IT. IDEC IF THIS FLOPS RAHHH, this is also like another take for what fyodor truly knows about his different lives ? this is trash but i had to write something…

“you are to impale him with your spears at dawn as the rooster crows !” lord bram yelled out. “yes my lord !” the knights said. “you know what to do,” lord bram says, turning to face you. “yes my lord,” you nod, bowing down. you nod for the guards to unchain the man in front of you, before they follow lord bram out.

you let a heavy sigh, but nevertheless grab your basket of what you’d call toiletries. “sit,” you simply say, hinting for the man to kneel down on the floor. “it’s quite dirty,” he says. “you’ll be dead in a few hours, what does it matter,” you say, kneeling down first. “who are you ?” the man asks, kneeling down in front of you.

“i’m a maid for my lord…but i try to make those who my lord punishes, comfortable before they’re executed,” you say, grabbing a rag before dumping it into a bucket of water next to you. “so you take pity on those like me ?” he asks, eyes peering at your every action. you cracked a smile, “you could say that,” you say.

wringing out the rag, you lean forward into the man, patting it on his face. “what’s your name ?” you ask, focused on the man’s porcelain skin. “what’s yours ?” he rebuttals. “i asked first,” he almost cracks a smirk. “fyodor…fyodor dostoyevsky,” despite you having never heard that name before, chills run up your spine. “my name is y/n l/n,” you simply say.

“you mentioned you were a maid, why ?” fyodor asks, as you use another rag to wet his hair. “my mother used to work for my lord,” you say, not having much of a care, he was going to die, what was the point of withholding secrets ? “she has passed ?” the man asks. your eye slightly twitches, “you talk a lot for someone who’s going to die,” the man only smiles.

“you aren’t here by coincidence,” the man suddenly says. you pause, looking at his face. “are you some type of fortune teller ? my lord detest those, a nutcase told him he was to turn into a sword,” you shake your head. “you’re my wife in a future life,” he says and you suck in a breath. “i’m not fond of men who have a foot in the casket,” you say, shaking your head.

“seven days after i am executed, you will plummet to your death,” fyodor says and that’s when you finally retract your hand. “my job here is done, goodnight sir dostoyevsky,” you say getting up, before wiping your hands. the man could only smirk at your flee to the cellar door, before leaving in a rush.

you wouldn’t have taken that comment so seriously if it weren’t for that same fortune teller that your lord had contracted, telling you that you would die within a few weeks, falling to your death just like your mother did all those years ago. you couldn’t help but feel suffocated by the thought, you wouldn’t let it be real.