#fyodor bsd x reader

[yonseibananamilk]

“𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒎𝒆."

synopsis 𓂃𓈒𓍼ོ living with fyodor was the same as living without him. however, the night of his return reminds you, embarrassingly so, just how close the two of you are. literally. (~4k wc)

a/n 𓇢𓆸 i think i may or may not be starting to hate my writing BUT i really stretched beyond what im used to in certain parts of this and i am quite proud of myself for that ^^

content 𓍼ོ𓂃𓈒 canon compliant, suggestive themes(especially around the end), fyodor is very cold temperature-wise, soft!fyodor(hes soft in his own way), references to my work song fic ! + connected directly to it will come back as it is a part 2 ^^

ᡣ𐭩 special special જ⁀➴ this fic is in collaboration with @musamora ‘s new talk!fic ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و please try to check hers out too if you can — shes a brilliant writer and a lovely person overall <3

Books upon books knitted themselves compact inside the towering shelves that pressed into the walls of what you assumed was Fyodor’s home. He had never called it his home, in fact, you explicitly remember when he did bring you here —

“Welcome to this humble abode. Feel free to touch and grab whatever you desire. Everything here belongs to you, дорогая.”

— Ever since that blind date (gone wrong(but then right in the end)), the Russian had let you stay for as long as you liked. One night led to two, which led into you bringing over a few things for just a few more nights.

Which led to you staying with Fyodor for nearly a month now.

You shook your head at the thought. If anything, he was the visitor. The man was hardly ever home, therefore you weren’t even living together. And you were, like anyone else with experience in a leaky apartment, eager to accept a place as generous as this.

The house held two stories; the first floor with the living room, foyer, and utilities, and the second floor with the bathroom and bedroom. Not to mention there was even an accessible attic-study.

In the beginning, he had stayed the night with you on the couch while you remained upstairs. But it had been weeks since then. Your Russian companion, much to your dismayed crocodile tears, was now predominantly busy with his ‘mission’. You couldn’t argue with that.

Though, on one of the times when Fyodor did stay longer than just a few hours…

“Please? I don’t mind, I swear! Besides, we’re both adults, not some teenagers that’ll go off at the first brush of skin. You don’t have to sleep on the couch..!”

You didn’t want to admit that you had actually stained the sofa downstairs on the first day of being here — even if Fyodor knew about it already, with all his observance — and it also felt… wrong to have him sleep on the couch. Cold. In the dark. And very, very, very lonely.

With a desperate and dramatic gesture of your arms, you tried to make the bed as dreamy as possible to his cherry wine eyes. “See? So comfy!”

To prove your point even further, you jumped on yourself with a muffled noise in the comforter.

“How amusing.”

Your point was most certainly not taken.

Therefore, you began to deflate into the sheets. Even more muffled now, and perhaps even softer than before, you mumbled out — “Is ‘modesty’ really the only reason why you won’t share anything with me?”

Everything in the room stilled. As if gauging the weight behind your words. Then, faintly, a gust of a sigh fell into the golden air of your nearby nightlamp. The candle flame was tickled into a dance thanks to the Russian, twisting and spinning hypnotically.

So hypnotically that you failed to catch the shift in the bed beside your head.

Not until a chilled hand fell atop your head. Bony fingers of ice itself urged your face up and away from the fire. Your attention was rewarded with a smooth, humming smile.

“There is more, дорогая.” He admitted. “But those reasons have nothing to do with you. After all, you are the sole reason why I would like to sleep here.”

Briefly, so much so where you barely even caught it this time — a thumb brushed over your lips. Cherry wine eyes batted down at you, reflecting the flame behind your burning face. Like the sun was the center of his very being.

“Then why don’t you?”

As his thumb curled into the corner of your lips, the rest of his hand glided over your skin. Two fingers read the curves of your jawline. Its adjacent pair followed down to the side of your neck.

He could grab your entire head with ease.

Fluttering ties in your stomach unraveled and twisted again in an endless heap of knots. Why wasn’t he saying anything? What was he thinking of? Why is he getting closer?

A chilled breath brought respite to your burning cheeks. But only for a moment.

Why is he moving away?

“Be wary of the fatigue that will eat you, if you do not sleep soon, дорогая.”

Pale feet revisited the cold, yet still warmer than him, floors. Wood welcomed him with a tired creak, following the man’s every step until he reached the doorway. By then, you had turned off your back to finally face him yourself.

“But I’m not tired.” Horribly, a yawn tore through your last syllable. The heaviness of your eyelids was never apparent until now.

Another amused hum brought you back to the Russian before you, hand on the knob as he smirked down at you. Slowly, the sharp edges of his little grin faded into something softer, fuzzier.

A smile, he had gifted you.

“If you are not tired…” Your heart skipped a beat, anticipating every little thing for his next suggestion. As if crying out — “What? Yes? What is it?”

“Then remember this: there is danger in giving into one’s desires, дорогая.” Icy red eyes rove over your laden figure with an unreadable spark. He always looked at you so curiously.

“I would be wise to not fall victim to such dangers. As would you.”

The closing door halted itself instantly when you let out the smallest of huffs.

“My offer still stands…” With a dragging breath of protest, you fell underneath the blankets.

Black swirls encapsulated your mind as you managed to spin his words effortlessly; “Remember this: there is reward for passing through danger.”

…

Unknowingly shooting through the Russian’s morale — you fell asleep with the same singular weight of your own on the bed. However, the door was still ajar in the morning upon your awakening.

But that moment was weeks ago. The memory of it proven by the clear frown on your lips — twitching up and down every now and then based on whatever the book you read said.

You wouldn’t spend your time thinking about someone who wouldn’t even give you so much as a clear answer to ‘How was your day?’

A creak of wood whipped your head around in urgence. Only for nothing to be there.

Nothing but a pang of disappoint. All at the absence of a certain Russian.

Well. Maybe you would spend a bit of your time.

With a ruffled sigh you fell back against the chair, pages still in hand as the grandfather clock behind you whisked the day away. These moments of solitude had become a daily part of your life — ever since popping out of Fyodor’s floorboards like a daisy in the snow.

But they might as well have been your floorboards too.

The creak of wood glided past your ears. Followed by the light shuffle of a coat being draped over the rack nearby. Then the ghosts of footsteps slowly but surely making their way toward the living room.

“Hm?”

Much to his amusement, there you sat. Old book in hand atop the gentle rise and fall of your chest. In a peaceful slumber too.

“How adorable.” The R rolled after his deep chuckle, growing slightly in volume as he drew closer to your laden frame. “Falling asleep to folktales, are we? Hm, дорогая?”

Frostbite ghosted over your cheek. A chill fell over your fingertips — the lingering absence of your now-taken book. Burgundy eyes flitted over the title with a deep hum.

Surprisingly enough, you had managed to find one of the few English books that hid in his shelves. The vast majority were Russian(as he wasn’t the best with learning new languages).

“Orpheus and Eurydice?” His tongue read. “Now what on Earth compelled you to read such a tale..?”

Firewood slid off one another as it ate away at itself in incessant hunger. A desire for something warmer than what it already had. A rod poked it stable in no time.

“Perhaps my дорогая is more romantic than she lets on. It makes me wonder…”

The shadows around him chuckled in tandem before, again, rippling as the fireplace was muted once more.

‘What a foolish thought.’ His brain reprimanded.

Yet his heart leapt not once, but twice — as you began to slowly stir awake. With orange light painted across the dips of your babbling lips in a silent dance with dark.

“Uah… who’s there..?”

Raven locks fell to the side as he tilted towards you slowly. Akin to an animal watching something unusual. Unexplainable. Unimaginable. A thick silence filled the air as Fyodor lagged to translate your words — no thanks to the strange foreign tingling south of his head — all by the sight of you.

‘How vulnerable.’ He mused. ‘How adorable.’

Despite knowing full well what was coming out his lips — despite knowing just what it could risk for him —

“Федя is here.”

He had willingly revived something. Something that had lied dormant for dozens of hundreds of years. All for you. You and your daftly half-conscious state. He hadn’t been called such a simple name since childhood.

And since his family was alive.

Despite his already-dissipating regret, icy tips glided reverently over the crown of your head. The locks of it threaded like yarn. Each part sifted through like flour. The back of it all was cupped tightly — encouraging your limp head to face him.

“Fe… diya…?”

Oh how adorable you were. So sleepy you couldn’t even pronounce a simple nickname. A diminutive. An endearment.

Nor could you realize how special you were right now. Though, that was the norm at this point.

“Yes. Can you indulge Fedya for a moment, дорогая?” The Russian cooed with a smile both condescendingly familiar, and unrecognizably tender.

Your whined nod was enough to coax him closer. Arms atop the sides of the chair. Frosted breath wafting just shy of your pulse.

“Can you tell Fedya what you were thinking of? Hm?”

Lithe fingers haunted the cover of your little folktale with echoed taps. His cherry wine gaze hooked onto the half-lidded glaze in your eyes.

“Tell him what you were thinking of when reading such a story?”

As slurred syllables pooled from your tongue, Fyodor locked himself onto every quiver, bite, and sound. Each was greedily soaked into the prodigy’s mind — held in higher regard than any mazed tactic.

Although just as half-lidded as yours, his eyes were far more awake than they had been during his accursed mission earlier.

After all, if Fyodor knew such a sweet sight waited for him here — he would’ve destroyed everything in his path to get back as soon as possible.

Frosted breath ghosted over the angle of your jaw, waiting patiently for something more.

“I… I thought that Eurydice was very lucky to have been loved so dearly... Regardless of what happened at the end.”

Black brows rose at you. “Lucky?”

“Yes. I’m a bit envious — being loved so dearly is…” A shake of the head pauses your sleepy train of thought. With a deep breath, your head reclined further into the plush of your seat before correcting yourself.

“Being loved is a very lucky thing indeed.”

Well weren’t you the lucky one?

The gentle squeaks of the couch were thankfully muffled by your weight, settling further and further into its cotton fabric. Your warmth soaked into it well. Though, much of that warmth was the fire’s — which only seemed to be growing.

Just along the edges of your peripheral, a certain smiling Russian was also present — leaned over your shoulder closely. Close enough for the scent of black tea to flood your nostrils yet again.

“Could you imagine it?”

A chill ran over the hairs on the nape of your neck. Fyodor’s breath was cold. His lips too.

“Imagine being loved…?” Your voice was far softer than expected. “I… suppose it would be nice. Very nice, in fact. I’d like to be cared about…”

Shifting your eyes, the golden text of the book was now being circled by Fyodor’s idle fingers. Lithe enough to perfectly recreate the intricate cursive. And cold enough to make you shudder at the mere sight.

Nonetheless — the image of such hands snug around you was as warm as the shared fireplace.

“Wouldn’t everyone?” He cooed. Slender fingertips rhythmically tapped atop the book cover.

“Being loved…” Cherry wine eyes reflected the orange fire beside you. “Or wanted…”

You swallowed a lump in your throat that certainly wasn’t there before.

“Is a very human desire.”

Another swallow. Glued to the fiddling hands in your lap, your heart leaped with you upon asking;

“Do you desire it as well?”

Briefly did his eyes widen.

It was borderline impossible to catch Fyodor off-guard. But, as luck would have it, you succeeded at it like any other mundane task. You always did.

It’d be terrifying if not so attractive.

“I suppose…” Once unoccupied fingers found their way atop your shoulder. Chills ran through your arm. As well as an unwelcome spark through your entire body. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

A flicker of your shared fireplace caught your eye. Avoiding the piercing gaze of Fyodor Dostoevsky as he, much to your confusion, stared into your very essence. It was as if he was analyzing every curve and groove before completely committing it to memory.

That sly, condescending chuckle reeled you home to him. All semblance of earlier surprise had drained from his eyes. “What a curious question, дорогая. Were you picturing it in your mind?”

Blackberry strands fell against the white fabric of his shirt, flowing in tandem with the inching of his face.

“Thinking… pondering… wondering…”

Orange light danced within the seeds of his eyes.

“Imagining what it’d be like to be loved by me?”

You didn’t know whether to fuse with the couch or disappear completely.

Whatever happened to the fire danced over your already-burning cheeks — radiating against the chill of Fyodor’s face as he bordered closer and closer.

“Can you imagine it?”

Close enough to count each eyelash.

Close enough to taste the scent of black tea and iron on your tongue.

Close enough to feel the subtle heat of his cheeks.

“Imagine being loved by me?”

Your lower lip began to tremble. Sweat sprinkled from your shaky palms. That same spark shocked you from head to toe yet again.

Everything felt heavy. Heavy and warm.

And your nose itched. Itched and twitched. You couldn’t help but sniff — which only amplified the hot water in your eyes — already glittering in your lashes. The unsaid border between the two of you dwindled like a candle in the wind.

All you knew was that you were sweaty, shaky, and far too warm to be considered normal.

A snort caught itself in his throat. While perfectly timed with just how stiff you were getting, your little sniffle was not out of embarrassment. Simply an incoming sneeze that he would gladly bless you for in: 3, 2—

“Achoo!”

…

He did not want to finish that countdown.

“Woah…! I got my boogers on your face! Hah!”

“That you did.” The Russian begrudgingly muttered, closed eyes subtly twitching under the weight of your giggles and dabbing sleeve. “Bless you.”

Despite all your unceremonious, uncouth, undisciplined whatnots — the sheepish smile you flashed to him was hardly ignored. “Thank you… Did it get in your eye?”

“Fortunately not.”

“Aww. Better luck next time then.”

The caught snort from before clawed its way out of Fyodor and into a throaty, hearty, genuine laugh.

No cocky chuckles. No sadistic grins. No sly hums.

Just a normal laugh. With golden fire reflecting off the sides of his face like framing sunrays. And a usually imperceptible ombre of deep magenta in his otherwise black hair — thanks to the generous amount of light the fireplace provided a few feet away.

Sure, it was akin to the cawing of crows at the crack of dawn — Fyodor most certainly hadn’t laughed like that in what seemed like centuries. But it was touching nonetheless.

Very much so.

“It’s rude to stare, дорогая.”

It was even harder to look away when he was smiling so warmly.

“I bet Orpheus wouldn’t think Eurydice was rude — even when her boogers got in his eye.”

An unfamiliar emptiness frosted over your shoulder when the Russian leaned away. “Perhaps, дорогая. Perhaps.”

You couldn’t recall a time when he was ever so warm.

“There are no more wool blankets.” The Russian patted through the wooden cabinets with a small hum. “Дорогая, you wouldn’t happen to know where they are, would you?”

Looking over his shoulder, a cherry wine gaze poured over your freshly showered & dressed body. You learned to always stay snug for the cold that managed to occasionally sneak its nightly way past the fireplace — crackling happily a hallway down.

You hummed back, offering the man a smile warm enough to rival it. “I do.”

“And whatever happened to them?” Knowing lips cooed. The answer fell sweeter when it was from your tongue than his mind.

“I put them in the attic because they scratched at my face,” Rubbing at your arms, a wave of apology washed over you. Maybe Fyodor preferred blankets that way? Scratchy and itchy. He was a strange man after all.

Even more strange now that he was finally content with sharing a bed. You don’t think you’d ever seen a man smile for so long. However eerie though, at the end of the night, it was… endearing.

Tonight, he had changed out of the usual wear for war(or whatever he did outside of the house) — a fluffy white robe wrapped snug around Fyodor. Tied together by the loose cotton belt.

“And so you have been sleeping in a single blanket? Instead of the multiple wool ones I had given you?” The urge to hang your head was woefully strong. You opted to shuffle your feet instead.

“Yes, Fyodor. I… I can give you the blanket for the night if that’s what you want?”

Briefly, his roving eyes met yours. With a small lilt of his voice, which was another strange way of expressing amusement for him, the Russian cooed; “And leave a woman to fend for herself against the cold?”

Another spark of warmth crackled under your skin. The sensation swam through your bones in a melting frenzy that burned your face once it reached it.

“T-then we can share…?”

Cherry eyes crinkled in delight.

“Wonderful idea, дорогая.”

As your knees slowly crawled up to meet your chest, the sway of his hair encapsulated you in a garden of imagination — with cherry wine eyes to drink and straight locks that rivaled shades of the ripest blackberries. Such sweet attributes for such a cold man.

Literally. He was colder than the air itself when sitting on your bed. The man could’ve drunken up all the warmth in the room, and still ask for more.

“You’re freezing!” You whined out, curling into a shuddering ball. “Maybe you should take that blanket, you might as well take the ones in the attic too.”

A frown quipped its brows at you. Yet, despite all his shown annoyance, there lacked a general sense of danger that once lived within.

Every glare was now punctuated with a cooing riddle of warning but quickly followed by a soft smile — imperceivable to all he knew. Excusing you.

“And I assume that means you are warmer? Hm?”

“Well, duh. I’ve been soaking in the fireplace all day waiting for you.”

“Oh?”

Under the gentle fire of your candlelit bedside, a meek coral bloomed across the slim cheeks of his face. His ears were red too — how long had he been that way?

“So, you were waiting for me?”

“Yes.” An exasperated breath left you feeling flustered and confused.

“Diligently?”

“And I was very lonely the whole time.”

A sense of deja vu sprung over you like a freshly pouring fountain.

Candlelight brewed against his face. Cherry wine eyes raked over your every inch. Pale skin, now painted with pink, smoothly approached closer and closer and closer —

Until the two of you are face to face once again. Illuminated only by generous candlelight and warmed by a singular blanket, except for Fyodor leeching off your heat.

“Дорогая, if I didn’t know better, I’d assume you thought we were married. With you waiting so, what was the word...?"

Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

"Ah yes. Diligently for my arrival.”

Freezing fingertips grazed along the bridge of your jaw. Dancing over the skin like whistling air, then halting at the chin. Two fingers held it gently, softly, reverently even.

“Though, my words are not necessarily a complaint.”

Candlelight pooled over the side of his face, glistening in the corners of Fyodor’s eyes like water lanterns at nighttime. You could only hope he was staring at you because you looked just as beautiful.

Gulping, a strained noise tumbled from your lips —

“Oh? Whining now?” A chilling thumb ran over the shine of your bottom lip. He was closing in.

“I did not whine.” Your voice cracked. “I just—”

Words left you. Tumbling freely from your throat in an entanglement of broken syllables and whines.

And with each mishap, his grin only grew. Evident by the crinkled underside of his trailing gaze.

At long last, a semblance of defense clicked into mind — spilling out with almost-paralyzing heat inside. And yes. Your voice cracked a second time.

“You caught me off-guard!”

“I did?” He crooned. The weight of your blanket was peeled off — making way for Fyodor to finally join you. Which you would’ve been over the moon about — if your thoughts weren’t so scrambled. You only hoped his were, too.

Every restrained laugh. Every languid movement. Everything he did — you prayed that he felt even a semblance of the bashfulness you did. Maybe then, it wouldn’t feel so embarrassing.

“Oh, дорогая.” Frostbitten lips sighed. “You truly are adorable.”

Time melted into an infinity of simply you and Fyodor. With your brain dry of anything else to say, and his hopefully the same. With one last strained noise, you turned away to bury yourself into the cotton of your now-shared bed.

A candlelit silence bloomed over.

As the sheets’ soft heaviness cradled back over you, Fyodor included now, the man slid himself behind your burning face — peacefully watching the uncharacteristic heat fizz out of your little head.

Blackberry locks stretched over the expanse of the pillow like grape vines across a fence.

Amid all your muffled sounds, the cotton had begun to seep a sense of sleep into your skin, added on by Fyodor’s granted silence. With a sniffle, you reluctantly let go of his blundering words — slowly but surely relaxing into the candlelight bed. But not without an evident pout.

A haze of warmth enwrapped you. Cozy.

The edges of consciousness were held by none other than a familiar pair of cold hands. Which slithered their way around your waist — pulled you snugly against their owner’s body — allowing him to soak in the feast of your body heat.

Oddly enough, as the Russian slid himself closer, not an inch of his frigid temperature leaked into yours. Quite the opposite.

Your slumbering body thawed away at his cold one.

Save for one place that did not need any more warming. Like his cheeks, for example. Or elsewhere.

taglist ᯓᡣ𐭩 @aureatchi @soleelia + people that also wanted to be added but please know time is my greatest enemy

translations! (these are rough translations, and if there are any inaccuracies please let me know)

дорогая - ‘darling’ i just cant envision fedya saying ‘baby’. darling is the only accurate one.

thank you so much to @musamora for betareading again !!! she is quite literally the sweetest writer i know and this fic couldnt be possible without her ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂)⸝♡

also thanks to @/saradika-graphics for all the wonderful dividers! the images for the banner were either found on pinterest or edited by yours truly <3 thank you for reading !

© yonseibananamilk 2024 - please refrain from copying, plagiarizing and/or reposting my works on other platforms. reblogs, notes, and comments are very appreciated!

[judasgot-it]

String Me By My Sins, So I Can Be Clean

Scenario: You found out. Yandere!Fyodor x Reader. Part 1 Word count: 1.2 K @ceramic-raven because you encouraged me to write a part 2. I hope you don't mind being tagged <3

Sitting in your small bathroom, you stared at a small patch that stared back at you.

21 mg. Nicotine. A beige-colored patch.

Just a minute ago, it had been adhered to your skin while you were sleeping, as if you had put it on yourself.

You don't smoke. You never smoked.

The only person you knew to smoke was Nikolai or Fukuchi, but you didn't know them to use patches. They only smoked socially, on good days when they could people watch or when Nikolai could show off vape tricks.

Fyodor had never dared to touch a cigarette, always claiming it as a hazard to his health. His lungs were probably as weak as the rest of his constitution, so you believed it.

So why the hell was it on your skin?

You wanted to ask him yourself, but he was sleeping.

Was it a good idea to wake him up?

You looked out into the darkness of your shared bed with Fyodor, looking at his sleeping form. His small frame was curled in a pile of blankets, curled against a feather pillow - like the princess and the pea, as you could see that he never looked truly comfortable.

The patch could be left for the morning.

He was smart. It must have had some sort of reasoning, shouldn't it?

Fyodor always found things out with almost no context needed. He could figure out the reason. You trusted him.

-

You had gone back to the bathroom. The patch was missing.

The trash, for once, taken out. In fact, it seemed the whole apartment had been meticulously cleaned.

You remembered that patch stared at you. The pain of removing it from your skin. How hard you had to pull it from your skin.

So where did it fucking go?

"Hey babe!"

You called for Fyodor, knowing that he was most likely working on the same projects that he always was. Whatever it was, he would be able to answer you, right?

There was no response from him this time though. You called again, but you were left with silence.

Padding towards his 'office space' you found that he had his headphones on. Was he busy today and hadn't bothered to tell you beforehand? Usually, he was rather meticulous about that.

Gently, you poked his shoulder, hoping to get his attention.

Fyodor only grunted, giving a sign of recognition. You tried again, hoping he would respond.

"Are you busy? I wanted to talk to you about something that happened last night."

Fyodor turned only slightly, his eyes still facing his screen - absorbed on whatever 'work' was on his screen. Code that you never bothered to learn to understand, that became a source of frustration as it seemed more important now.

"Yeah, what is it?"

Complete disinterest.

"I found like. A nicotine patch, last night. On me. Fyodor, that's weird, right?"

His eyes finally looked at you, although they were only glancing, at best.

"It is. You don't smoke, do you?"

"What?"

You took a moment to look at him. What the hell was he implying by that? He knew you never did. You always rejected them, since he was so sensitive to smells.

"If you do, you can tell me. I won't judge you."

His voice was soft, unjudgemental at the implication of you even having an addiction. You tried to keep calm through you frustration.

"I don't smoke. You know I don't, asshole! It's really weird that it showed up on my body like that, isn't it?"

You hoped he would help you. But he didn't even seem to care about your predicament so far, instead lazily moving typing commands on his keyboard like a sort of wizard.

"It is weird. If neither of us smoke, then how did it get there, hm? Maybe someone is playing a prank on you. Do you have the patch? We can figure out more about it from there."

He had leaned back, as calm about this conversation as anyone could possibly be. You wanted to kill him.

"It was on the bathroom counter when I took it off last night. I can't find it though!"

You couldn't help raising your voice at the end. For some reason, your frustration was building up so easily it was nearly boiling over.

It wasn't fair to take it out on Fyodor. He gave you a look as well, because well, you knew that you were being emotional about this.

It was just weird. Why was this upsetting you so much? You weren't usually upset so quickly like this.

"Sorry. But I'm being serious Fyo."

Trying your best to calm down, you took a deep inhale. Your lungs filled with air, clearing your head, if only a little.

There was still a frustration coursing through your veins, making you want to pull at Fyodor's hair for being so...well, him. Just being himself, right now.

Is he doing it on fucking purpose? Is he trying to piss you off as much as possible?

He's the smartest man you know, this isn't any real detective work. Fyodor knows why you're feeling the way you are. He can clearly tell that this actually happened - that you aren't fucking crazy.

So why is he acting like you are?

"Of course you are. I believe you, sweetheart. But what's the real problem here?"

His tired eyes slowly blinked at you. There was an emotion lurking in there, but you really didn't know how to describe it.

It was gentle, but not kind.

"Well. It was put on me. That means someone is drugging me. It's violating."

"I can see why you feel that way, yes. But maybe it was just an accident? People on the street these days are rather crazy-looney."

Fyodor had the gall to laugh as he said that, finding humor in his own words as he didn't find your plight worth crying over. There was no fret - being drugged was an everyday occurance.

Tomorrow you could be stabbed with heroin and it would just be an everyday occurrence, right? Worse things could happen to you. Maybe you would accidentally inhale deadly amounts of cocaine since this was just normal.

"Oh I can't believe you."

You left the room. At that moment you just wanted to punch Fyodor.

Did he always look that punchable? With his stupid smirk and pale, dead-looking skin. His eyes seemed so dead, with no read smile attached to them.

It was hard to look at him without feeling enraged.

"And where do you think you're going, sunshine?"

"Anywhere! If I have to see you again, I would probably. Oh!"

You made a noise as you kicked the door, rushing to just get out and get away from the source of your anxiety.

It felt natural, running outside and walking - letting the adrenaline in your body take you as far as it would let you.

Where were you going?

A hand on your arm stopped you. You turned around, the calm face that matched the pale skin - his dead purple eyes were smiling, although it made you stop dead in your tracks.

Where were you going?

You didn't have anything besides Fyodor.

"Please. Just leave me alone."

"You're being irrational, my dear. It's embarrassing."

The hold he had on your arm was tight, some hidden strength he carried that you never knew existed. Pulled did nothing, and there were tears pushing against your face as you felt the feeling again -

Trapped.

"Please. Fucking just. Let me go."

Shaking his head, Fyodor pulled you in - his face rested against your forehead, but the pull his hand had on his scalp was anything but gentle.

He was mad. About what?

Why did it always end up this way?

Honestly this can be stand alone, but YAY i finally finished this !!!! To the people who wanted this, I hope you enjoy this cuz this was kinda lot for me idk why.

[shiveringgroovy]

for those drabble requests. can gender neutral reader cuddle up in fyodors ribcage all comfy like.

bonus points if it’s written in a sweet/fluffy tone despite the viscera the request implies but go crazy go stupid

Crawling into Fyodor's Ribcage!

Contents: Crawling into Fyodor's ribcage. As one does. Pairing: Fyodor/GN!reader, no y/n or physical descriptions used Warnings: Gore, body horror, unrealistic/fantasy situation, breaking bones, it's all consensual though don't even worry Notes: Anon, this has got to be the best first request ever. I love to torture my homunculi and get all up in their organs. [Coughs, the Fyovan fic]

You originally introduced the idea of "crawling into his skin" as an off-hand joke. Fyodor was experienced in the medical field, having performed fringe surgeries and operations on many people he came in contact with, perhaps even you. You could never be too sure with him, he could've very easily had you microchipped. You weren't exactly sure what he'd say to your request, but he responded by wordlessly handing you a scalpel. Shocked, you sat dumbfounded. "Are you serious?" You stammered, holding the scalpel with shaking hands. Not out of fear, no. Excitement. He nodded. "Go ahead," getting up to lay on the floor, smiling up at you. His black hair framed his face like a halo as he began unbuttoning his shirt. You knelt at his side and felt the protruding ribs under your fingertips, the rise and fall of his chest, and the beat of his heart. You wanted to be closer to that beat, those soft insides that invite you just beneath the dermis. He held your hand and guided the scalpel just above the sternum and led it down to the pelvic region, dodging the navel. The cut was sloppy due to your shaking hands and his limited vision due to positioning, but it worked. You gingerly slid your index finger past the cut, warm blood gushing from the wound like a lazy stream pooling on his abdomen. Fyodor hummed, signalling you to keep going. "It doesn't hurt, love. You don't have to be so gentle with me." He assured you with a hand on your shoulder. You felt your face burn up at his words and used both hands to seperate the cut, tearing more skin. The sound wasn't too pleasant, but the great reveal of his insides made your stomach turn with delight. You plunged your hand into his viscera with newfound vigor, it almost felt like being in a hot tub. You loved that sensation and your remaining hand joined the other. Fyodor gasped. You had been so preoccupied with his insides that you hadn't gotten a glimpse of his face for some time. His face was flushed pink and sweating, saliva trickling from the corners of his lips. It was pretty, you thought. "Doing okay?" You chuckled. Fyodor nodded. "Mhm... It feels nice. Different, but nice." His voice was wavering, struggling to keep composure, but he was clearly enjoying it. You noticed his ribs you so revered on the outside, now finally fully exposed. Hungrily, you hooked your fingers under the costal cartilage and pulled outwards, the sickening crack paired with Fyodor's pleased sigh filling your ears. Everything was exposed beautifully, the heart, lungs, liver, diaphragm... all for your eyes to drink in like fine wine. Then, an idea crossed your mind. A little voice telling you to crawl in there and cuddle up closer than anyone ever has. You nudge and adjust some organs out of your way, gently lowering yourself into his chest cavity. Your entire body was soaked in his blood, caking and cracking. The metallic smell overwhelmed both of you, hanging damp in the air like fog. You could taste the blood if you so much as opened your mouth to speak. Fyodor was still fairly quiet, save for a few gasps drawn from his bitten and bloodied lips. You rested your head on his throat, holding his heart in your hands and feeling it beat. "This is nice." You hummed, craning your neck to kiss his chin. "It is," Fyodor agreed. You two didn't get up for a long time.

End notes: "I'm in your walls!" Oh yeah??? I'm in your thoracic cavity feeling your heartbeat up close and personal. Loser. Also, I'm a horror writer and most of my stuff revolves around gore and body horror. I hope I did the fluffy part justice :P And if my anatomy and physiology teacher happens to see this, can I get extra credit or something 💯

[spacexseven]

tuna I'm about to go to bed but consider. demon au fyodor. hangs around you for no discernable reason. gives you terrible nightmares for fun (and later pleasant dreams as he starts to like you more, so he can see you smile when he watches you sleep). keeps wanting to play with your computer. ooo maybe he could possess your phone or something, so you can go out like normal but he'll Always Be There! Watching!

do u think gogol and sigma would be fellow demons or fyodor cultists

- 🩹

demon fyodor is a tech genius you heard it from us first! also also i like the idea of gogol and sigma being demons but like fyodor's little helpers mayb...ill think about it

cw: yandere character, stalking, invasion of privacy, hacking?, sleep deprivation, paranoia,

unlike dazai and chuuya, who came to stay with you because they have no choice, fyodor's just there because...he wants to. he hates humans but loves tormenting them, loves watching them lose their mind from weeks of sleepless nights and constant paranoia, loves watching them stare at him when he finally comes to claim his prize (their tortured souls), and loves the many fantastic emotions they show him. he's definitely a lot more...evil as compared to the other demons you may have met.

so you start off as his latest prey. maybe he saw you strolling past, maybe he just happened to land at your doorstep, but whatever cruel twist of fate brought him there, it sealed your life forever. you're just as entertaining as he'd hoped; he watches you 'patrol' your room with your phone flashlight and a useless object in hand, delights in the way you jump and knock over your water when he blows into your ear randomly, and most of all, he adores the fearful expressions you show when he's consuming you in your nightmares (literally).

while you're suffering from a lack of sleep and spending more time outside your home, fyodor puts his knowledge to good use and looks around your devices. he's become used to how they work after studying them for so long, and is able to easily infiltrate your computer and later your phone. (it's terribly funny to see you search up all sorts of outlandish things as a way to explain the horrors happening to you)

but you're persevering, to his surprise. and perhaps, that's what ultimately saves you.

though you're thoroughly sleep-deprived and trembling, you still go on with your life. you go to work, continue with your hobbies (even if the shaking hands and jumpiness doesn't help much), and try to keep up the image of a stable life. sure, you don't talk to people much anymore, and you need to try out new things every night that promise you a well-needed rest, but for the most part, you're trying.

this would be his favorite part, usually. completely destroying whatever will was left in you, watching you become a shell of who you were, but things were different this time. he's not sure what brought upon the sudden change, but he stops interrupting your sleep for just one night; and the soft smile that stays on your face the whole time mesmerizes him.

fyodor has seen his share of beautiful sights, but you stood out amongst them all. when he saw you whistling while making breakfast, the lost sparkle in your eye returning, when you look happy to return home after a hectic day for the first time in weeks, and when you're singing while cleaning up, the radiant joy almost blinding—that's when he knows what he really wants to see from you.

and when he takes a liking to you, no matter how twisted it was, he takes it to an extreme. he wants to be the sole decider on whether you'd be having a good day or not, so eliminating any influences in your life comes first. it wouldn't be fair if all his hard work was ruined because a friend buys you a cup of coffee or you're let out early by a superior who thinks you look too tired, right?

fyodor doesn't stop his torment; not immediately. he lets you bask in the joy of going about a day unbothered and feeling free, and then immediately snaps his jaws down on you to visit you in your dreams and frighten you. he loves watching all of you; scared, happy, carefree, stressed—but now, he can't help but be curious. what face would you show when he reveals himself to you? he's hoping it would be anger; a deep, violent, rage. something he hadn't quite had the honor of seeing from you yet.

there was only one way to find out...

[nightsadness]

Can I come with you?

Tags: fem!reader, angst

Pairing: Fyodor Dostoevsky x fem!reader

Warning: The death of a canon character, the reader longs greatly. There may be errors in the text, as I am not a native English speaker, I often had to use the help of a translator

A/n: I was inspired by the song "Ap$ent - Можно я с тобой? (Can I come with you?)" and wrote this headcanon based on the verses of that wonderful song. As I wrote above, I don't speak English, so I used a lot of translators, trying to write normally 😞. Please let me know if it's really bad.

Горят фонари Я бы до зари с тобой мог говорить

The street lights are on

I'd chat you up till dawn

Though you were no match for Dostoevsky in intellect, Fyodor thought you were an smart person with whom he could have a good conversation. In those rare moments when the man gave you time, you could talk for hours, mostly on quiet evenings, against the window, which was not covered by curtains, and thanks to this, the room was illuminated only by the bright light of the moon, giving its own special, peaceful atmosphere.

Но тебе снова пора Как всегда, какие-то дела с утра But it's high time for you to be gone

You've got work to do, as well known

You and Fyodor spent very little time together. You didn't like it, but there was nothing you could do about it. After all, Dostoevsky was obsessed only with his goal, and it was his first priority. You couldn't deny it. And you, no matter what, wanted to be with him and always waited for him.

Longing was your frequent companion when you felt the lack of a man's attention, but you didn't bother him, realizing the importance of his "purpose" realizing how much own plans meant to him. Every day you woke up and went to sleep alone. Though there were exceptions when Fyodor lay down with you, but, as a rule, in the early morning he was no longer in bed. And those moments were so rare that you could count them on your fingers.

Да, тут так себе вайб Видимо, пора. Ну что ж, бывай, родны край!

Yes, the vibes here're better be kept at bay

So, my land, bye-bye! Seams, it's time to go away...

That was the day. The day when you saw Fyodor for the last time in your life, but you hoped with all your might that it wasn't true. You couldn't even sleep for a few nights, thinking about him all the time. And you were not comforted by the thought that Fyodor was so damn cunning and clever, and he always had everything under control. Every day was a nightmare for you, because those damned thoughts were tormenting you from the inside.

По кустам ночной тропой Да, план отстой. Nocturnal trail is truly long

Yes, the plan is sucks

You heart sank into my heels, and there was a look of pure shock mixed with sadness on my face. You didn't want to believe that Fyodor was dead. How, HOW the hell could this have happened? Your breathing quickened at the news, and you fell helplessly to your knees, clutching your head with your hands. You'd always known his plan was a really sucks, and you'd even said Fyodor about it. But he didn't care what you thought of his goal.

To get your thoughts together, you decided to go for a walk. It was a blue night and a cool breeze was blowing. That's what you needed..

Всё давно позади Но зато есть вспомнить что и что обсудить

All in the past, the deeds we tried

But there are things to call to mind

It had been about six months, but you still wanted to be with Fyodor, to hold him again, to kiss him, to listen to him. You missed his attention, which he gave you, though rarely, but still gave it to you. Maybe he didn't really love you, and you were just a pawn...or maybe not? But that didn't bother you much. You wanted to be with him and only him. It's hard without him. So hard, such unbelievable pain. Every single day you remembered all the moments with him, that was your only consolation.

Если решишь уйти на покой Вдруг раньше, чем я — постой

If you decide to leave peace

before I do, hold on...

One day you were sitting on the roof of a high-rise building, looking up at the night sky, rubbing the pendant that Dostoevsky had given you. You never took it off, especially since the man was gone from your life. The longing was eating you from the inside out, but you had to be strong! Hah....You couldn't. Or just didn't want to, who knows. Your gaze was downward, the city seemed so small, and people walked around below like ants. Building was too high and you were sitting on the very edge. but it didn't scare you.

— Можно я с тобой?

nightsadness © 2024

[sanchoi21]

Intoxicating Violet

Fyodor Dostoyevsky bsd x reader

Waring: Its just comfort fic but may not be directly connected to the story line. It's only fluff but a bit mature. Image is from manga but eyes are painted by me.

You didn't know what to do, you were enchanted by him. From the smallest action he did for you, till his talks, his voice, or his ebony smooth hair, and ofcourse his enchanting violet eyes, you loved it all.

When the first time you two met, he was there standing alone in rain, with nothing shielding him from the divine showers of sky. Many people passed by him, but no one paid any heed. He looked sad, almost broken or perhaps lost in deep thought. You don't know what took over you, but you rushed towards him and shielded him with your red umbrella. After feeling the stoppage of downpour on his head, he lifted his gaze on you, those amethyst eyes, captivating yoi then and there. It was a unique colour, and you had never seen such beautiful eyes in your entire lifetime, but something dark and unsettling clouded those jewels. He blankly stared at you for a moment before asking, "Why? Why bother??" You couldn't help but feel a blush creep up your cheeks after hearing his deep voice, as if he wasn't handsome enough already. You simply replied, "I just wanted to, can't have you soak in rain, you might get sick." To tour reply he just chuckled a little and thanked you for your kindness, asking for your name.

And soon just like that, one meeting lead to another and he couldn't help but feel a lingering warmth everytime you two were together, initially he didn't realise what was this feeling, until one day when he saw you bleeding to death because someone had stabbed you thinking that you were the one who made them suffer, not knowing that they had got the wrong person.

As Fyodor saw you bleeding and unconscious, he couldn't help but panic to what might happen next, he needed you alive, he can't see you die not after all the deaths of his close ones he had experienced throughout the years. His mind was foggy as he waited for docter to treat you, he knew he had to take revenge on whoever hurted you like this, but his brain just wasn't functioning, he couldn't even figure out simple facts about the suspect which he can do in seconds on other normal days. He breathed a sigh of relief when doctor said that you are out of danger and that was the moment he realised, just how much you ate up his mind and thoughts, till the point to make him malfunction like that. His tough facade always crumpled when it came to you.

Days passed and he soon proposed you to marriage which you gladly agreed. After getting married life was good, infact felt like heaven, being beside Fyodor every single day filled you with joy. The only thing you didn't notice was that you never once got out of that house alone as he always insisted on following you just in case any trouble occurs. You didn't notice how one by one the people who hurt you, used to simply disappear from your life. You didn't notice how much deep you had fallen in love with him, till the point that maybe one day he might ask you to shot yourself, which you would do if he wanted. Being so much intoxicated by him, maybe wasn't good, but you didn't mind. You didn't mind his killings when he had shared about his work life and ultimate goal for those to you, you just wanted him safe. You really didn't care if he was a Devil disguised as an Angel, because only you knew that deep down he really was an Angel, a Lord who portrays himself as evil in order to lead people on the right path. Though his actions might be pure evil, but you knew the reasons behind those.

His touch was like fire on your heated skin, it's just like moth being attracted to the flame and going close to it, not knowing that one day it might be the reason for its death. You were the moth and he was the flame, despite being burned by him and his cold nature sometimes, you just couldn't get away. You were fully aware of the danger this man possessed but he was too sweet to get away from. He was like a drug to you, a drug which might harm you but feels just so good that you can never let go until you die. What can you do but just recieve love as he showered you with it, he never once hurted you or so he thought, but for him you were that flame for which he would sacrifice his everything, even himself. And who are you to deny the love of the Devil, when he was so sweet to you?

When one day he said that this might be the last time you see him, if he died, losing to Dazai, you broke down crying saying that, "Kill me first, it's better than seeing you die." To which he chuckled softly and pulled you close, patting your head, "Do you trust me?" Ofcourse you did, it was out of question but you still nodded. "Then till I come back, don't leave this house, don't believe if people tell you I died, I'll return back to you, I promise." Saying this he left, months passed which felt like millenniums, all these days you were alone, you felt empty inside still worried about him, but as he returned home, just as promised, though a bit injured, you hugged him tight never wanting to let go as he smiled down upon you.

This was your love, the love that you yearned for, just you didn't know that you will get it from such a dangerous man, but who are you to complain, when you will be cherishing it forever, just like he cherishes you.

[osamucide]

⊹ I AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A NASTY DOG!

. . . BSD MEN AS OVERUSED PORN PLOTS!

wc: 5.3k

cw: MINORS DNI—explicit sexual content, gn!+afab!reader, a lot of anonymous sex, dirty talk, BIG DICK MEN, probably a good amount of ooc, some questionable dynamics/dubcon that can be read through the lens of roleplay and/or prior consent. character-specific warnings—chuuya: public sex, penetration; dazai: penetration, riding, creampie; kunikida: professor/student, oral (m!receiving); fukuzawa: secretary/boss, office sex, oral (m!receiving), facefucking; atsushi: HEAVY DUBCON WARNING, stuck, perv atsushi, penetration; akutagawa: blackmailing if you squint, degradation, choking, penetration; oda: penetration; ango: public sex, penetration, riding; nikolai: dubcon, home intruder f!masturbation, penetration; sigma: a tiny bit of perv sigma, oral (f!receiving); fyodor: priest!fyodor, religion/blasphemy kink, christianity-specific, oral (m!receiving)

reid: putting my dual major in journalism to work by subtitling these like bad porn videos. little not so thought out drabbles many with no definitive ending just silly whore thoughts. some are more stupid than sexy but either way i hope you enjoy because this was a blast to write HAHAHAHA

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ CHUUYA NAKAHARA—HOT GYM BUDDIES CAN’T WAIT UNTIL AFTER THEIR WORKOUT TO FUCK!

“Yeah, that’s a lot better. Look at you, you got it,” the pretty redhead mutters, his hands still firmly on your hips as he spots your squat. “Give me one more, I know you can.”

The praise prompts you to draw in a deep breath that has nothing to do with your next squat; anyway, this gorgeous man, kind enough to help you with your form, believes in you. So you bend once more, squatting down, down, and pushing back up—until on your way back up, you feel your legs begin to buckle.

“Woah, woah.” It’s sweet how concerned he sounds as his hands fly up to the bar and his feet nudge you forward to help you replace the weight on the rack, but his hips end up pressed to yours, and you’re gasping. “You okay?”

You’re fine, caged between him and the bar as he leans over your shoulder to glimpse your face that’s flushed from exertion. Only exertion, surely, even though your ass is pressed firmly to his pelvis. He doesn’t seem hard, but you can still feel it, and it feels big.

“Yeah,” you breathe, moving to duck under the bar, but it’s low and you’re feeling a little dizzy, so you teeter backwards into him, and as his hands find your waist again. “Yeah, I’m about to be done anyway.”

“You should really stretch after maxing out like that,” he suggests, turning you around. “Don’t wanna be hurting, do you?”

But you can only look into his intense eyes and shake your head lightly before he’s easing you to the ground on your back, settling each of his knees over one of your thighs, and slotting his shoulder beneath your hamstring. He pushes forward, gently, slowly, looking to you for anything wrong; and there isn’t.

There’s nothing wrong, except for the fact that you can feel his huge dick against your pussy through both of your shorts.

It’s all you need to start moving blindly, reaching down for his waistband, pawing at his neck, mashing his lips to yours, and he doesn’t hesitate to do it back—he lets up on your leg only to slip your shorts off before your ankle is back over his shoulder and he’s grinding the head of his cock into your wetness.

“You gonna let me in, baby?” he pants hotly, looking down at you squirming beneath him. “Yeah, I know you will—you’re strong, you can take it.”

His tip catches on your clit, and you gasp before he’s plunging into you, setting a brutal pace. “Oh, fuck!”

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” he groans. “So fuckin’ tight.”

He hits the inside of you perfectly, his soft ginger hair falling loose from its low pony—you wish you knew his name so you could scream it, but you settle for moaning, panting, cussing, as he throws your other leg over his shoulder and drills into you on the gym mat. ⊹

⊹ OSAMU DAZAI—MY OLDER BROTHER ALMOST CAUGHT ME FUCKING HIS BEST FRIEND!

“Shit—I’ll be back, gonna go shower this off. Asshole.”

That was what your older brother, Chuuya, grumbled at Dazai before scurrying off to the bathroom. The three of you had just gotten back from getting ice cream, and Dazai had the brilliant idea of snatching Chuuya’s cone from him and sticking it in his hair. Cursing ensued the entire walk home.

And Dazai popped the tail end of his cone in his mouth and grabbed for your wrists as soon as your brother was out of sight, which leads you to now—in the living room, on the couch, bouncing furiously on his cock as he grunts.

“Osamu—be quiet!” you plead with him, but you’re moaning, too.

His lips fall into a grin. “Don’t worry, cutie, I can still hear the shower—fuck! Just keep—keep doing that, you feel so fucking good.”

So you reinforce your grip on his shoulders and slam your hips down to meet his, over and over, drawing sinful sounds from both of your bodies as you’re separated by a single thin wall from your brother—Dazai’s best friend, who would probably murder both of you if he found out you were fucking.

And then the water turns off. You muffle the choked cry you let out into Dazai’s shoulder, so damn frustrated that you won’t get there, not before Chuuya comes back—but Dazai’s flipping you onto your back, grabbing you by your hips, pulling you into him with such fervor that you almost shout.

“Need it, baby, I need to cum in this pussy—”

“Osamu!”

But even you can’t tell if you’re egging him on or warning him to stop—with no sound buffer and Chuuya undoubtedly coming back any minute, your body decides for you that you need it, too, you need to cum and you will, no matter how much your mind protests; your eyes flick nervously up to the hallway when they’re not rolling back from how Dazai’s rearranging your guts.

“He’s gonna come back��unh—and you’re gonna sit here with my cum in you, and he won’t even fuckin’ know.”

He’s digging his nails into your hips and ass, making you twitch, reaching down to rub your clit hard, and when you cum, clenching around him, he shoves his palm over your mouth and spills into you with a last few wet smacks.

Dazai’s scrambling back into his pants as footsteps pad down the hall; he all but throws himself at the other end of the couch as you curl up, dressed but fucked silly, focused on not letting the evidence of what just happened gush out of you and leak onto the couch.

“Fuck was that noise?” Chuuya mumbles, sauntering out as he’s tying his wet hair up.

“Hm? I don’t know, I didn’t hear anything.”

When Chuuya turns toward the kitchen, Dazai tosses you a wink. Your face burns as you feel yourself leaking. ⊹

⊹ DOPPO KUNIKIDA—COLLEGE HOTTIE SUCKS DICK FOR EXTRA CREDIT!

"You do realize I'm going to have to fail you," your professor informs you, looking into your eyes with a little regret. Truthfully, you've always been personable in class and shown promise as a student, and he's disappointed. Not in you, just in your poor academic performance during your final semester.

"There has to be something I can do to make up for it," you nearly plead, hands clasped together on the edge of his desk as you look to him with hope. You know you've been slacking, but you need this class to graduate.

"I don't know—" He sighs your name, clearly confliced. Your attendance record is less than impressive these days, and Kunikida's enforced a strict class participation policy throughout his years of teaching—as well as no extra credit—something he makes clear to all of his students in all of his classes, and you especially should know better after taking his classes for four years. "I don't know. Like what?" Maybe you can do a few credits in the summer and still walk at graduation, or pick up an internship. But he wants you to take the initiative and accountability.

He doesn't really know how to protest when you're slipping out of your seat and sinking to your knees as a spark starts to gleam in your eyes. You rattle off a few academic ideas for posterity, but ultimately find your hands sliding up his thighs and fiddling with his belt.

Fuck it, you think, you'll be out of here soon enough. Plus, Kunikida's always been kind, compassionate, understanding, and sexy—too invested in his field to even notice that handfuls of students on campus would throw themselves at him given the chance. Maybe he'll finally understand, you muse to yourself, as you work his hardening cock out of his dress pants.

He chokes out your name when you take his length in both of your hands; he's all the way gone when you're swirling your tongue over his tip, giving in to your little idea for extra credit sooner than he'd ever admit to himself.

"Oh, fuck—" He's staring up at the ceiling of his office in pure bliss because his student is working hot, sloppy kisses down the underside of his cock. His hands twist into your hair, and you gaze up at him, doe-eyed, as his head falls forward and he looks at you through his glasses. "Keep going. Don't fucking stop."

He's trying not to thrust into your mouth when you fondle his balls; his pretty blond bangs are dampening with sweat, and you can't take your eyes off him as you bob your head faster, hollowing your cheeks around him and moaning at the taste of your professor's cock heavy in your mouth. He twitches and jumps at your attention to detail—your fingers raking tracks down his thighs, your frantic tongue, your fluttering lashes and sugary moans, gags, and slurps that are music to him.

You know, as he falls apart more and more by the second, you won't have to worry about this class anymore.

"Unh—uh, yes, oh, fuck, we'll work something out, yeah, gorgeous? Just don't stop—d—don't stop, don't fucking stop, I'm gonna cum down that pretty throat, yeah, and we'll get it all figured out." ⊹

⊹ YUKICHI FUKUZAWA—NAUGHTY SECRETARY SEDUCES HOT BOSS!

You're perched on his desk when he returns from the meeting—Yukichi, your boss, who, lately, you can't stop thinking about climbling like a tree. You're sure your coworkers see it, too, but you're his personal assistant; no one gets to be as close to him as you, and he trusts you.

Which is why you'll put the moves on him today.

He runs a hand through his silver hair—obviously stressed—sighing as he pulls his office door shut and turns to you. He speaks your name, holds a few papers in your direction, begins instructing you on what he needs from you next.

But you know better what he needs. The papers that make their way into your hands are quickly forgotten about on his desk as you uncross your legs and hop down, sauntering up to place on hand on his arm, the other on his chest.

"Sir, you look so tense. Are you sure there isn't anything else I can do?"

He makes his way to sit down in his office chair, disregarding your touch in a way that has you following after him like a puppy in need of attention.

He doesn't answer, but he also doesn't protest when you settle between his knees beneath his desk and push his yukata and haori up to pool around his hips. His dick is thick and veiny, even soft; when you spit in your hand and begin to work him up and down his mouth falls open with a sigh, and he grows at least two inches as he hardens beneath your grip.

You didn't think you'd be able to fit his absolute monster cock in your mouth, but you find yourself, throat open, with your nose pressed to his happy trail as you swirl your tongue and breathe through your nose frantically; he holds your face down, speaking very little but making up for it with the way he grunts hotly in that deep, rough voice as he bucks into the back of your throat.

"Unh—ugh..."

You breathe through your nose as his hips fall into a brutal pace; his hands on either side of your head keep you pinned in place as he uses you, takes his stress out on you. Your fingers massage his balls, and you can't help the way you hum around him when he twitches in your mouth.

Yukichi pulls out of your jaw and you gasp for air, wiping the spit that drips down your chin with the back of your hand, but he's not done. When he does speak, it's demanding, low, and it makes your cunt throb with need.

"Get up. Get up, sit on the desk. 'Need to fuck you."

You do as you’re told, open up for him with no hesitation, smiling as he works his fat cock into you—yeah, his stress will be gone in no time with the way he fucks your hole so hard and fast that you shake with each creak of his desk. ⊹

⊹ ATSUSHI NAKAJIMA—STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR WITH MY SEXY NEIGHBOR!

"Ah! Atsushi, open the door!"

"Um," he frets, punching the button until he's sure it'll break. If it's not broken already. "I—I can't, it's not working!"

Not working? Is he fucking serious? You're trapped in the door—all you did was try to reach back out for your bag you'd set by the elevator and now you're stuck, by the waist, between the two sliding maneuvers, your bag dangling from your hands.

"It's supposed to have a sensor! It's not supposed to even close when someone's on the threshold!" you cry through your teeth as you try to squirm out. Atsushi's mind is already working, though, over the way you're pinned in half, wiggling your ass as you struggle against the industrial strength of the elevator door. "Atsushi, help me, please call someone or something—"

But his hands are on your hips, pulling backward, and you can't help the noise of surprise that slips out of you.

"Atsu', I seriously don't think that will work, please, just call—Atsushi!"

His hands shake as he slides your pants and underwear down your thighs, exposing your ass; he tunes out your protesting as he undoes his belt. You hear the clink of it hitting the ground, you feel his fingers dipping into your cunt from behind, and he cannot be fucking serious.

"I'm sorry," he cries like it's out of his control—he feels like it is. "I'm sorry, you're so hot, you're right here, I've wanted this for so long."

And you feel yourself beginning to drip at his desperate tone. You can't fucking believe it—this is depraved. This is some shit you would've never expected from the sweet, cute boy in the apartment across the hall who helped you drag your bedframe and couch from this very elevator to your room but here he is, prodding at you with his pathetically leaky cock while you're stuck in the damn elevator door.

And you'd be frustrated with how your body reacts, but as he slides his dick along your cunt, drenching himself in your wetness, you can't help but arch back into his touch.

"Atsushi, you have to fuck me, please."

And he does, fast and unpracticed—he whimpers for you, tells you you're all he thinks about when he jerks off; he confesses that he looks through his peephole when he knows you're leaving for work or school just to get at least one glimpse of you everyday to fuel his imagination, and you gush around him, the pain of the door trapping you falling irrelevant, drifting out of your mind, as he buries his face in your shoulder and humps into you like an animal, pounding against your cervix.

"Fuck, that's right, so good, so, so good—better than I could've imagined—agh, fuck, that's right, take it all, take it, take it, take it...!" ⊹

⊹ RYUUNOSUKE AKUTAGAWA—HOT BABE HAS NO MONEY, LETS THE DELIVERY BOY DESTROY THAT PUSSY!

You rifle through your wallet and hum when you come up short. "Um, I... know you said you don't have a card reader, but I don't have enough cash."

The delivery boy looks at you with little more than boredom until you invite him in.

"Here, let me look in my room—I might have more stashed somehwere..."

He stands over you, searching you with his curious gray eyes as you dig through a drawer, a bag, another bag, only to come up short again. You even peek under your mattress for good measure, but you're just out. You turn to him sheepishly.

"I, uh... I don't have enough, I'm really sorry."

"Well, I can't leave without some form of payment," he deadpans, and you try to think of something, anything—you have a few giftcards for other delivery services, some jewelry—but he's letting his bag fall off his shoulder and grabbing you by the hips before you can register what he means.

You end up face down, ass up on your bed as a compromise, his hips rutting into you from behind as he holds your wrists behind your back. Ryuunosuke his name tag read—you're quick to adopt a way around that mouthful, moaning out, "Ryuu, Ryuu, please!" as he splits you open and calls you a whore.

"Fuckin' slut—"

When you're able to glance back for a second you can see his pretty black hair swaying with each rough thrust, and you're sure he's hitting your lungs—he's so fucking deep inside you, and you're gasping, moaning for more.

"—so eager to—unh—take this dick. Probably hiding your cash somewhere."

But whether you are or not doesn't matter; your eyes are rolling back to the hard smack of his hips against your ass and the white-hot pleasure that rolls through you every time he plows straight into your g-spot, and he's throbbing inside of you at the way your cunt grips him. Your pizza's getting cold on the counter in your kitchen, but you don't care—not when he bunches his fingers up in your hair to arch you back up to him so he can wrap his other hand around your throat.

You hold onto him as he bends you, pulling air down into your lungs when you can, and his gravelly voice barrages you with more words that make you gush around his cock.

"Gonna let me cum in this pussy so you don't have to fork over a few bucks for a pizza? Pathetic."

His teeth sink into your shoulder, his other hand reaches down to torture your neglected clit, and you're sure he's gonna break you over this, your hot delivery boy who just so happened to have the idea to fill you up as payment. You pant his name desperately between thunderous moans—you're gonna cum soon. ⊹

⊹ SAKUNOSUKE ODA—THIS PLUMBER FIXED MORE THAN JUST MY PIPES!

"Okay, that should do it." The man stands up, back to a height at which he towers over you, and you lean on the doorframe to the kitchen as he shuts the cabinets beneath your sink. "It's all movin' again."

You were in your robe when you answered the door, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't run to the bathroom to fix your hair and swipe on a little lip balm while he was working. Really, you hadn't meant to try to fuck the plumber. But this man was gorgeous, with his auburn hair, stubble-lined jaw, large hands, broad shoulders. You felt your eyes widen when you first laid eyes on him, and now you'd been throbbing thinking about what those thick fingers could do other than plumbing.

You pull your robe tighter around yourself, hoping to subtly accentuate the outline of your body. "Thank you so much, really, I don't know what I'd have done without the sink."

"Probably used the dishwasher a lot more," he cracked dryly, and your previous words suddenly feel stupid, but it only serves to make him hotter.

"How should I pay you?" You stride over to him. "Cash?"

"You can just pay online." He looks tired, but he has a well-meaning smile on his face.

You look a little incredulous. "Really? I can't—do you accept tips? Seriously, top notch work and super quick. I can't not thank you."

"I'm really not supposed to take tips," he drawls, running a hand through his hair. You find yourself biting your lip; you can't look away from him. You must look like a rabid animal right now, but you can't help it.

He doesn't tear his eyes away from yours.

"I mean, unless..."

Those three words are what find you on your back in your bedroom with your robe thrown open, the sweet and efficient plumber named Sakunosuke standing at the edge as he impales you on his cock. He worked you open with those fingers first, fast and harsh, just how you begged him to, but nothing could've prepared your weeping hole for the stretch of his fat dick—and now he's pounding into you, his hands clutching your waist as you hold your legs open for him to thrust deeper, deeper.

“Oh, shit. Unh—so wet—“

His groans come from his chest, deliciously—he looks a little like he knows he shouldn't be doing this, but your cunt is sucking him in like it was what he was supposed to come here for all along. You spasm and clench around him and he throws his head back, your whole body rippling as his strong hips and heavy balls smack lewdly against your ass with each thrust.

“Mmph—fuck—break that sink of yours more often, alright?” ⊹

⊹ ANGO SAKAGUCHI—I JOINED THE MILE HIGH CLUB (EXTREMELY RISKY)!

The man you met in the airport bar—oh, he’s pretty.

He's even prettier in your mind when the pilot announces phone permissions now that you're in the air, and the first notification your phone receieves is from him.

I have an open seat next to me in first class. Come visit.

You don't hesitate for a moment. You stride forward from the economy section, past the flight attendants who protest at you flimsily to search for his seat number—you see his unmistakably gorgeous hair, his glasses, his sharp side profile as he speaks to an attendant, catches you in his peripheral, and then shoos her away.

There's hardly niceties before one of your legs is slung over his knee and he kisses you with fervor. You don't think too hard about the people around you—none of whom can actually see you but without a doubt will know exactly what's happening in a few minutes—as you grind down onto his thigh, bite his lips, draw soft gasps from him when your knee nudges his bulge.

Before you know it, his cock is free and he slides your underwear to the side so you can sink onto him; he groans shamelessly when your wet heat envelops him completely, causing heads to turn in your direction, but you just brace your knees against the airplane seat and your hands on his shoulders make quick work of milking him of everything he has.

He kisses you, hot, heavy; he smells good, he smells expensive, and you tear his dress shirt open to rake your nails down his chest as he grabs your hips, letting his head fall back and a full-bodied moan into the cramped air of the plane as he does so. You lift up to let him thrust, let lewd smacks resonate throughout first class, and with your chest in his face he rides your shirt up to latch his teeth to one of your nipples; you echo him, moaning unabashedly, running your hands through your hair, gripping him as people look on.

"Fuuuck, yeah, feels so good," he praises from beneath you. "Knew I had to fuck you from the second I saw you." His eyebrows draw up in concentration as he looks down at where your bodies meet and continues fucking up into you hard. "Hah—listen to that cunt cry for me. You like being watched, huh? Gonna let me fuck you 'til the plane smells like sex? Huh?"

You nod, messily, desperately, and he quickens his pace ever faster, pulling you back down into a sloppy kiss.

An attendant awkwardly approaches in the aisle, but the gorgeous man who's destroying your insides just holds up a palm, shoos her away again.

"Fuck—so sexy. Keep takin' this dick." ⊹

⊹ NIKOLAI GOGOL—LUCKY INTRUDER GETS TO FUCK HORNY VICTIM!

You're splayed out on your bed, two fingers stuffed deep in your cunt—and he's just surprised you didn't hear him breaking the lock on your front door.

When you meet his eyes, you're so glazed over with pleasure that you barely miss a beat, your gaze only blowing wide when he peers around your bedroom doorway. His snowy white hair, his sharp features—you can't find the sense to be alarmed at this unfamiliar man, the one holding your laptop and—is that your wallet?

Doesn't matter—they're clattering to the ground, another factor here you can't find it in yourself to care about as his gray eyes are locked onto you fucking yourself open on your sheets. The sheen of sweat that covers your skin, your desperate moans as you grind your clit against your palm, the obscene squelching that comes from your wet cunt—they all serve to propel him over to you, prompt him to dig his already-hard cock out of his pants as you just watch, beg him with your stare to come fill you up. You're so lucky he's here, really—you look like you're struggling to get deep enough with your pathetic little fingers; he guesses it's only fair that he repay you for the material goods he's about to rob you of and pawn off on whatever sucker will buy them for cash, right?

"Right? I'll help you out—" He gives his cock a few pumps as he positions himself between your legs, "—looks like you need it, sweetheart."

You can only bite your lip to supress the moan that leaves you as he enters your cunt and lifts your fingers up and out of you by your wrist to swirl his tongue around them, lick them clean. He's huge—even your third and fourth fingers weren't enough to prepare you properly for the burglar’s dick in your needy pussy, so you let out strained combinations of gasps and screams when he starts to drill into you mercilessly. You can't help the way your ankles link behind his back, the way you reach for him—and he smiles wickedly when your eyes roll back.

"You like having a stranger's cock deep in your guts, huh?" he speaks between deep sighs and grunts. You can only babble your incoherent agreement, your laptop and wallet forgotten, the actions of this man forgotten, everything but how desperately you need to squirt all over him forgotten—you reach down and rub your clit, play with your nipples as your mouth is frozen open as you moan, moan for this man who's just broken into your home. "Uh—yeah, you're gonna like takin' all my cum, too, I bet." ⊹

⊹ SIGMA—MASSEUR HELPS HIS SEXY CLIENT RELIEVE STRESS!

"Oh, yeah—right there," you groan softly as the heel of his palm meets the center of your back. You've been looking forward to this full-body massage the whole week, and this man was not disappointing.

He works his way down your back, twisting knots out as he goes—his lithe fingers feel like heaven against you, overworked from hours at your desk hunched over your computer.

But it's a full-body massage, as mentioned before; when his fingers dig into the plush of your asscheeks, you can't help the groan that leaves you.

"That okay?" he inquires; you think you hear a shake in his voice.

"More than okay," you reply, thinking you could fall asleep as he works you into relaxation. You could close your eyes from how good it feels, or you could peek behind you and see his face burning with blush at your sounds. You do the former, but smirk a little at how sweet it is of him to check in.

He checks in again when his hands are inching your underwear down, and you tell him of course, he's the professional.

He's still the professional when he climbs up on the table behind you and buries his flushed face into your cunt. You arch up and back, crooning, as his hands stay massaging you, spreading you apart, kneading your ass with career expertise and plunging his tongue into you with enthusiasm.

"Oh! Oh—feels good," you breathe, grinding back into his face, onto his nose. He laps at you happily, this masseur you've barely looked upon for a total of twenty seconds, but you can't lie to yourself and say you didn't think he was pretty when he led you back to his room; he hums into you, sending you shivering, twitching. "Please, more."

"Mhm," he mumbles, releasing one of your asscheeks to lay back beneath you and insert a long, thin finger into your pussy; you sigh, you settle onto his face, and his tongue speeds up in this new position in a way that rips a high moan from your lungs.

Not hunched, but arched, the stretch feels heavenly on your back in combination with the way he pumps another finger into you; you graciously sit up, throwing your head back, begging, pleading for more until his tongue settles into a tight back-and-forth rhythm over your clit. "Please, please, please—"

You grind against his nose, your moans become more erratic, and you dig a hand into his hair as your hips move in dizzying circles over his head.

"Cum for me?" he asks, muffled by your pussy; you'll ride him until his face is soaked. ⊹

⊹ FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY—CONFESSING MY SINS ENDS IN HUGE CUMSHOT ALL OVER MY FACE!

“And I’ve been terribly, terribly lustful, Father Fyodor,” you say with regret. “It consumes me. I really never used to be like this."

"Temptation lurks everywhere," the priest sympathizes. You can barely see him through the grate, but his soft, forgiving voice sounds close to you. "The Devil and his army are constantly exploiting our vulnerabilities to try and turn us to sin, but worry not, child of Christ; we're human. I'm here to guide you. Continue."

You shift on the wooden seat in the booth, crossing your hands tighter over your lap. "That's really all. It's been very concerning to me. I think about it... I think about it so much."

"About what?" Father Fyodor prompts, and you bristle even more at being asked to elaborate.

"Sex," it barely comes out as more than a whisper. "I can't help it—it's everywhere. It leaves me feeling so... exhausted and frustrated, and the only thing that helps is... Well..."

But you're met with silence. You know he wants you to go on. You're here to confess, after all.

"...touching myself. I do it at least once a day. It's like a burning within me—nothing helps but—but—cumming all over my fingers." Your voice is laced with shame—the throbbing of your cunt as you talk makes you feel all the more guilty, and you can only imagine how he's shaking his head. "That's all. That's all."

"You'll do penance," he says, comfortingly. "When we bring our sins to the Lord and repent he cleanses us of them."

The grate pops out of the window, and you see the the waist of his alb as he speaks his next words.

"You'll take communion, now—" the cinctures around his waist fall undone beneath his hands, and the alb is hiked up to reveal a leaking cock, pretty and pale and bobbing in the air of the confessional. "—and be saved from the flames of perdition.”

"Yes, Father, please. Anything to be saved." But your mouth waters in a way that you know has little to do with your thirst for salvation.

"Take this; eat. This is my body," he recites the scripture as his length reaches through the window; your hands, eager and already on the threshold, accept him willingly. As you wrap your mouth around him, he groans, and it's like seraphim singing their holy, holy, holy.

"That's it—child of God, follower of Christ; I absolve you of your sins," he gasps as his tip hits the back of your throat which was begging for forgiveness moments ago. His hands reach through the window to stroke either side of your face, and then hold you in place to fuck your throat. "The Lord will forgive you for this." ⊹

[underpaidimmortal]

something something breaching containment

[angelsrcute]

I suck his dick, it's big, it's very-very big! ᝰ.ᐟ✮⋆˙

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd make you cockwarm him while he works, the door unlocked, his dick so close to your g-spot but he wouldn't let you move! hands keeping your waist in place as his dick keeps you all stuffed n warm.

“I'll be done soon, sweetheart, you can wait a little more right? So, be a good girl n stop movin’ so much.”

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd praise you for sucking him off so good, tears forming at the corner of your eyes as you try not to gag on his huge dick. Guiding your tongue on his dick, gently holding your hair, shooting thick ropes of cum in your mouth.

“God, your mouth feels so good, my sweets. Keep goin’ alright? looking so pretty f’ me.”

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd taunt n insult you while you gag on his dick, roughly grabbing your hair and making you take him fully. Your mascara n lipstick all ruined, eyes rollin’ back when he cums in your mouth. :(

“You look like some cheap whore like this, y'know. I bet you're getting wet from me degrading you, hm? As expected.”

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd fuck you in a mating press, his big cock stretching your insides, hitting your womb. Pressin’ his hand on your tummy to feel his dick in you, making you whine. Your tummy already full from how much he cums, you definitely can't go for another round.. + he's gonna fuck you till you need a wheelchair.

“It won't fit? Don't worry, darlin’. Gonna make your cunt remember my dick, don't worry! Even if it does forgets, I'll just fuck ya again.”

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd fuck you till your dumb n can only think of him and his dick if you do decide to act all bratty or he'd just tie you up n put a vibrator on your clit and watch as you squirm around trying to get a release, but he turns off the vibrator just when you're gonna cum. :(

"Should've thought before being like that, what did you expect, princess? acting all flirty with that random guy, trying to make me jealous."

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who’re either super experienced from sleeping around or just fucking virgin losers, walkin’ around with that big ass dick in his pants.

— FYODOR, Leona, Dazai, NIKOLAI, Beel, Chuuya, Diavolo, SEBEK, Lucifer, Malleus, MAMMON, Jack, Blade, Neuvillette, Sampo, IDIA, Zhongli, Scara, CHILDE, TOJI, Jing yuan, Gojo, Sukuna, NANAMI, Dr. ratio, Wriothesley, ALHAITHAM, CATER + your favs.

[rottenstrawberrigirl]

I seem to have forgotten to reblog this one, so I will discuss both of them in the reblog I promised to do again. Forgive me if it ends up being too long, although something tells me you won't mind if it is. 😅

I recommend that everyone start reading this series, and I guarantee you won't be sorry. It's very well worth your time, and it's like one of those masterpieces you come across on AO3, except it’s on Tumblr... Don't regret afterward why you waited so long to begin reading it, so claim your own seats now. :3

Creatura innocentiae - Fyodor x Reader

PART I PART II

Synopsys: In a secluded village ruled by devotion, where sacrifice is a form of love and faith demands blood, you are forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

Warnings: No ability au, cult themes, religion, manipulation, murder, death, graphic violence and depiction of blood, dehumanization, power imbalance in relationships, emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, gaslighting, brainwashing, philosophical musings on love, faith, and autonomy.

These themes will be present throughout all parts of this fic. Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: The people have asked, and so here it is—another story featuring cult Fyodor! (Note: This is not a continuation of Ultima Sacrificium). This will be a multiple-part series, an undertaking that has me shaking in my boots. I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I enjoy writing it!

Word Count: 7,200

What is love, exactly?  

Is it the absence of fear—the willingness to be vulnerable? To let yourself be known, to be accepted, and in turn, to know and accept another? Or is it something darker: a devouring hunger, the need to consume until the lines between you blur and dissolve?  

Perhaps love is neither of these. Perhaps love is sacrifice.  

That is what you’ve been taught. That is what you’ve always known.  

Love is the red that stains your hands, the warmth that spills from you into the chalice, filling it until it overflows. Love is the smile of the priestess as she raises the cup to the heavens, the murmured prayers of your people as they partake of your offering. It is the ache in your body after each cut, the burning sting that lingers long after the blade is gone.  

You were born with a gift, the blood of apostles coursing through your veins. Your mother tells you this gift sets you apart—makes you holy. Your lineage is pure, unbroken since the time of the first apostle, the one who communed with God and returned with commandments and covenants carved into his flesh. You are the living proof of that covenant, a vessel of divine will.  

Your blood is sacred. Your body, an altar.  

You are also her favorite lamb.  

The priestess—the High Priestess, your mother—says so often. She says it when her hand cups your cheek and her eyes gleam with pride. She says it when she watches you kneel, docile and sweet, always so docile and sweet, before the altar. You hold very still when they put the rope around your neck, your heart calm, your steps obedient. You trot along so happily when they lead you to the place of sacrifice.  

They do not even have to tie you down. You lie so very still.  

When the blade comes down, it cuts through you like butter. You offer no resistance. You bleed so prettily all over the white robe that marks your holiness. When the crimson pours from you, it is beautiful, they say. It runs smooth and golden, like delicious honey. 

God herself whispers to the High Priestess that you are her favorite lamb. You are the lamb with the softest wool, the lamb with the sweetest eyes, the lamb with the most trusting gait. Your cries are the prettiest, your bell the shiniest. When the blade cuts, your blood flows clean, your flesh opens like a ribbon unwinding, like shining yarn spinning out onto the altar, sacred and infinite.  

And your eyes—your animal, dumb eyes—hold no accusation.  

This is why they love you. This is why they call you blessed. You are the lamb who gives everything and asks for nothing. You do not fight, you do not bite. You do not make them see the burden they place on you.  

You are God’s gift, her favorite. That is why they love you.  

It is another lovely morning. The village has gathered in the grand wooden church to welcome a new life into the fold. The High Priestess, rests her hand on your shoulder as she recites from the tome, her voice soft yet commanding. Your thoughts drift, not to her words but to the bundle of innocence on the altar.  

The child’s arrival is a reminder of the cycle: birth, sacrifice, and servitude. The blood that flows through you—the divine gift passed down from generation to generation—will now mark another soul. Another child to be bound to the community. Another life to be claimed by God.  

Your father stands at the edge of the ceremony, as he always does. His gaze is downcast, his presence barely noticeable beside your mother’s radiance. He is a quiet man, small and obedient, a shadow of the High Priestess’s power. You often wonder what your father might have been like before your mother. What parts of himself he sacrificed to remain in her orbit.  

You kneel before the child, the robe you wear heavy with the weight of your purpose. Though you are an adult, the sheltered life you have lived has left you unformed in ways you cannot explain. Your days are dictated by rituals, by prayers and offerings, by the endless cycle of giving. You have never left the village. You have never known a moment where your body was not watched, your steps not dictated by the expectations of others.  

Your mother calls you divine. You feel more like an artifact—precious but inanimate, bound to the will of those who hold you.  

Her hands, as always, are warm as they guide you.  

You hold out your hand, trembling slightly. The baby’s forehead is smooth, untouched by the world, unmarked by sacrifice. Your blood, drawn from your palm, pools into the small silver chalice. The room is silent but for the murmurs of anticipation. Every gaze is fixed upon you.  

The blade, your constant companion, is an extension of your soul. It cuts so effortlessly—an offering so pure, so sacred. You dip your fingers into the chalice, the blood still warm, and trace the child’s forehead with the mark of the divine.  

The seal that binds this child to the community. The mark that ties them to you and the God you both serve.  

“In the name of our God,” you intone, your voice steady, though your heart wavers. “I bless thee with the blood of divinity. May you give as freely as she does, and may your soul be as pure.”  

The crowd bows their heads in reverence. The baby is returned to its mother, who smiles with quiet joy. You watch, still kneeling, your fingers stained red with the blood that defines you.  

This is love, isn’t it?  

To give everything of yourself until there is nothing left. To be adored not for who you are, but for what you provide.  

But somewhere, in the deepest part of you, a quiet voice whispers: If love is sacrifice, why?

Why does it feel so much like theft?

---  

The sun dips low on the horizon, painting the valley in hues of molten gold and soft pink. The flames crackle in the rustic heart of the community, surrounded by dirt paths and timber homes adorned with garlands of wildflowers. Chants ripple through the gathered crowd, a haunting melody that rises and falls like a breath.  

As you walk among them, hands reach out, brushing against your robes, grazing your fingertips. You keep your eyes cast low, always aware of the weight of their touch. They call you their savior, their precious lamb. They murmur soft praises, their voices as reverent as the prayers they whisper to the heavens. You smile at them all, meek and kind, because that is what they expect of you.  

Because that is what you are.  

But you are not part of their revelry—not truly. You are both above it and apart from it. Too sacred for the mundane, yet too ensnared to escape.  

They came, as they always do, led by one of the cult’s missionaries—strangers seeking sanctuary, redemption, or something they cannot name. A group of four approaches the square, their steps hesitant yet guided by curiosity. Among them, one figure stands out.  

Unlike his companions, who wear expressions of tentative hope or awe, this man moves with unsettling calm. His dark coat sways with each step, and his pale hands rest idly at his sides. His gaze, sharp as razor, sweeps over the scene, lingering on the faces of the villagers who rush forward to greet them. Children dart past him, their laughter ringing as they offer garlands of wildflowers. Women follow, balancing baskets of bread on their hips, their blessings a cascade of honeyed words.  

The villagers’ warmth finds little purchase in him. He bows his head briefly but does not take the offered garland. The refusal isn’t rude—it is deliberate, as though he already knows the weight of the rituals and chooses not to sully them with empty gestures.  

You watch from the edge of the square, though you hadn’t intended to join the crowd. Your role as the sacrificial vessel makes you a fixture in the community, both revered and burdened, and yet his gaze finds you as if drawn by some invisible force.  

When your eyes meet, the world narrows. His are a shade of purple you cannot place—endless, like a winter river, a color that doesn’t belong in the warmth of the valley. A quiet stirring blooms in your chest, like the first pang of a wound, and you quickly look away.  

The High Priestess emerges from the crowd, her presence as commanding and warm as the rising sun. The villagers part instinctively, their heads bowing as she passes. Her voice, kind yet unyielding, carries through the square.  

“Welcome,” she says, her smile practiced and serene. “You have come far to join us. We are honored to receive you.”  

The missionary steps forward, clasping his hands together in reverence. “Mother Maria, these are the seekers I found beyond the valley. They have come to learn the truth, to find purpose in our fold.”

The High Priestess studies the group, her sharp eyes pausing on each face until they land on the pale man. Her smile does not falter, but the air around her sharpens.  

“And you?” she asks, her voice soft but probing. “What brings you to our sacred land?”  

He steps forward, his movements unhurried. Bowing slightly, he clasps his hands behind his back. “I am drawn by the promise of truth,” he says, his voice low and smooth, each word carefully picked out. “All my life, I have sought it, and I believe I will find it here.”  

His companions shift uncomfortably, their nervous energy a stark contrast to his poise. The High Priestess’s smile thins, almost imperceptibly, before she nods. “Truth is indeed what we offer. But truth requires sacrifice. Will you accept what it asks of you?”  

“Gladly,” he replies, his gaze steady.  

The High Priestess holds his gaze for a moment longer, then turns to the villagers. “Prepare the cleansing waters. Our new friends must be purified before they join us at the feast.”  

And so you now stand beside the High Priestess at the stone basin where the sacred spring pools cool and clear. Your hands holding the sacred bowl of anointing oil. Its scent was sharp and metallic, mingled with the faint iron tang of the single drop of your blood that had been mixed into it.

“Before you may break bread with us,” the High Priestess intones, her voice soft yet resolute, “you must set aside the burdens of your past lives. This water will cleanse your path, and this oil will mark the first step toward truth.” 

A trembling woman steps forward first, kneeling before the basin. The High Priestess murmurs a blessing as she dips her fingers into the bowl, anointing the woman’s forehead with a streak of oil. She guides the woman’s hands into the water, watching as her expression shifts from fear to quiet reverence.  

When it is his turn, the pale man steps forward without hesitation. He kneels, his posture straight, his head slightly bowed. The High Priestess reaches for the bowl, but her fingers still as she looks at him. For a fleeting moment, tension crackles between them, unspoken but palpable.  

Then, slowly, she dips her fingers into the oil and presses them to his forehead. The warmth lingers, and he closes his eyes as though in prayer.  

“You carry no fear,” she remarks softly.  

“Fear is a choice,” he replies, opening his eyes. His tone is calm, yet there is a subtle edge to his words—a challenge, quiet but deliberate.

Her expression remains unchanged, though her eyes narrow slightly. She motions for him to wash his hands, and as he does, his gaze flicks to you. You feel the weight of it, sharp and unrelenting.

But you do not look away this time.  

Under the open sky after the cleansing, long tables groan with the weight of food: roasted meats, fresh fruits and steaming bread. The villagers—families, children, elders—gather in celebration, their voices mingling with the hum of the torches and the soft rustle of the night wind. The scent of wine and cooking meat fills the air, thick and intoxicating.  

The feast spills into the courtyard, a sprawling affair where life and ritual intertwine seamlessly. Plates are passed with laughter, cups brimming with wine are raised in toasts, and bowls of fruit are shared between children with sticky hands and shining eyes. Beneath the surface of the revelry lies the unspoken truth: this is a celebration of service, of sacrifice, of taking joy in what has been offered.  

You are not seated among them, not truly part of this gathering. You are both guest of honor and object of worship, and even in celebration, your place remains apart.  

At one of the tables near the edge of the festivities, he sits. His presence is understated but magnetic, drawing your attention again and again. He does not eat much, nor does he join in the villagers’ laughter. Instead, he watches in serene silence, a shadow of a smile on his lips. 

His dark eyes sweep over the crowd, taking in the scene with a quiet intensity that makes your chest tighten. He sees everything—the reverence in their glances toward you, the careful choreography of a community bound by something unseen. His companions sit with him, their discomfort gradually giving way to nervous smiles as the warmth of the celebration softens their edges. But he does not soften. He remains apart, like you, even when surrounded.  

You notice the way he holds himself: isolated but not uncomfortable. Detached but not cold. He moves little, as though every moment of stillness is a choice.  

When his gaze finds yours once more, it is as though the air between you thickens. For a moment, the world around you blurs. The laughter, the clinking of goblets, the soft rustling of the wind—all fade into a distant hum.  

There is only him.  

His dark eyes seem to hold something you cannot place, something unsettling and sharp—a knowing, a deep, calculating curiosity that makes you feel as though you are being seen for the first time. Your breath catches as his lips curl into the faintest of smiles. The expression isn’t warm. It is quieter, sharper, almost as if he carries a secret meant for you alone.  

You cannot look away.  

The moment stretches until your chest tightens with the strain of it, and you force yourself to turn your gaze to the food in front of you. Your heart pounds in a rhythm you cannot explain. You wonder if anyone else noticed the way he looked at you, or if it is something only you could see.  

You feel his gaze again, even when he is not looking at you. It lingers, a rope stretched taut between you both, one that will not break.  

The feast continues. The villagers laugh, their joy spilling into the cool night air. Yet, though you are surrounded by celebration, you cannot stop thinking of him. You catch glimpses of him between the faces at the long table. The others shift and laugh and drink deeply, but he remains steady, his movements as precise and deliberate as his words had been.  

You wonder, if he sees you for what you truly are. Not the lamb, the holy offering, but something else. Something unknown.  

The thought makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t understand.  

---  

Days pass, as they always do.  

The sun had long since set, leaving the valley cloaked in shadow. The High Priestess’s home stood at the heart of the village, a structure of wood and stone adorned with intricate symbols of devotion into its walls. It was a place where warmth was performative, where every smile and gesture carried a double promise.  

Inside, the flickering fire cast long shadows across the main room, its golden light unable to dispel the chill of tension that lingered in the air. You stood beside your father, your hands clasped in front of you, waiting.  

It was tradition: a private supper between your family and the newcomers, an act of hospitality meant to welcome them. But you knew better. Hospitality was a veil, a courtesy offered with sharp teeth behind it. This supper was a test—a subtle but ruthless scrutiny that no one could escape.  

Your father adjusted the goblets on the table for the third time, his nervous fingers trembling slightly. “Are they nervous, you think?” he asked softly, not meeting your gaze.  

“They should be,” your mother said from across the room, her voice sharp yet measured. She stood near the fire, her white robes glowing in the shifting light. “Truth demands reverence. Only those who understand this will remain.”  

Your father nodded quickly—too quickly—and you felt a pang of something close to pity. He never challenged her, never pushed back. You wondered if she even noticed how much weight he carried to keep her world in order, how his silence shaped the foundation of her power. His submission was a lesson you were never allowed to forget.

Your eyes drifted to the table, to the goblets your father had lined so meticulously. You thought of how often he moved in silence, his presence fading into the edges of her authority. His hands trembled not from age, but from the strain of servitude.  

The first of the newcomers entered, hesitant and uncertain, their shoulders hunched under the weight of the High Priestess’s gaze. One by one, every night, they came and went, each leaving with lowered eyes and nervous smiles. You remained mostly quiet, watching as your mother’s words—soft and smiling—peeled back their defenses with careful precision.  

Your father, dutiful as ever, poured wine into their goblets, his trembling hands careful not to spill. You watched him with a tightening in your chest, the tension in the room coiling like a spring.  

And then it was his turn.  

When Fyodor entered, the room seemed to shift. His movements were fluid, as though he had already rehearsed this moment in his mind. His dark coat was gone, replaced by the white robe of a supplicant, but the simplicity of the garment only emphasized the sharp angles of his face, the cool, precise energy that surrounded him.  

His gaze swept the room, lingering on the fire, the worn table, and finally on you. His eyes paused, and there it was again, that unsettling feeling from the way he watched you—not with the reverence you were used to, but something sharper. As though he saw through the layers of expectation draped over you.  

“Welcome,” your mother said, her tone light but pointed. “You honor us by joining us this evening.”  

He inclined his head, his hands clasped behind his back. “The honor is mine, High Priestess.”  

He took his seat at the table, and your father poured his ceremonial wine, the trembling of his hands spilling a single drop onto the polished wood. Fyodor accepted the goblet with a quiet thank you, his eyes flicking briefly to you before returning to your mother.  

“We have found that those who come to us seeking truth often carry burdens from the world outside,” your mother began, her words smooth and rehearsed. “What burdens do you carry, Fyodor?”  

He sipped the wine slowly, his movements deliberate. “We all carry burdens, no? Mine are no greater than those of any man who seeks meaning.”  

“And yet,” she pressed, leaning forward ever so slightly, “You seem unshaken. Most who come to us are eager to shed their burdens, to kneel before the divine. But you... you carry yourself differently.”  

He met her gaze evenly, his expression unreadable. “I hold the belief that I kneel in my own way.”  

The fire cracked softly, filling the silence that followed.  

Your mother’s lips tightened, though her composure did not break. She leaned back, her eyes narrowing slightly. And then, as if testing both of you at once, she turned to you.  

“What do you think of our guest, my child?”  

The question caught you off guard. Your pulse quickened as you glanced at Fyodor, his sharp gaze already on you. His expression betrayed nothing of what he was thinking in that moment, and that somehow terrified you. 

“I... I think he speaks with conviction,” you said finally, your voice measured. “It is rare.”  

“Conviction is admirable,” your mother said, though her tone had grown colder. She gestured for your father to refill Fyodor’s cup, and he obeyed quickly, his trembling hands spilling a few drops of wine onto the table once more.  

“Careful,” your mother snapped, her voice cutting like a blade. Your father flinched, dabbing at the spill with a cloth.  

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on the interaction, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles, it felt like understanding—something quiet and unspoken passing between him and your father.  

“Your child is observant,” Fyodor said softly, his eyes returning to you. “Rare, indeed.”

“They have been raised to see the truth,” your mother replied sharply, her suspicion deepening. “It is their duty to understand what others cannot.”

He inclined his head slightly, a faint smile brushing his lips. “A remarkable gift, to be so attuned to truth. Few possess the clarity to rise above their own fears and expectations.”

The room fell silent, the words hanging heavy in the air. Your breath hitched as your mother turned back to you, her gaze sharp and searching.

“Have you grown timid, my child?” she asked, her words laced with quiet menace. “You hesitate more often than before.”  

“I... I have been reflecting,” you said finally, your voice small but steady. “On the path you’ve set for me. On how best to serve.”  

Her expression softened slightly, though her gaze remained piercing. “Good. Service requires focus. Distractions lead to ruin.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Fyodor, then back to you. “And you are not easily distracted, are you?”  

“No, mother,” you replied, though your voice lacked conviction.  

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on you, quiet and piercing, before he leaned back slightly in his chair. “The strength of their will reflects well on their upbringing,” he remarked. “Few can maintain such clarity when placed under so much... weight.”

Your mother’s lips curled faintly, though the smile did not reach her eyes. “Weight builds character,” she said curtly. “And clarity comes from discipline.”

“Discipline,” Fyodor murmured, as though weighing the word. His eyes flickered to the fire, the light casting fleeting shadows across his face. “A virtue that molds strength and focus, no doubt. And yet... even the finest melodies are not born from silence alone.”

Your mother’s expression did not falter, though the room felt colder for it. “Only weak voices fear silence,” she said finally, her tone clipped. “The strong will always be heard.”

The words hung in the air like a closing door, shutting out any chance for response. The tension that had built over the evening seemed to settle over you like a shroud, heavy and unyielding, wrapping itself around you with quiet insistence.

By the end of the evening, as Fyodor rose to leave, your mother placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm. Her fingers pressed into your skin, a silent command to stay grounded, to remain tethered to her will.  

“Do not stray with him,” she murmured, her voice low and meant only for you. Her words slid between you like a blade, cold and deliberate. “There are paths you cannot walk, no matter how curious you may be. Do not forget your duty.”

Her grip tightened on your shoulder, just enough to make your chest tighten in turn. “Your future has already been secured,” she continued, her tone soft but unyielding. “Do not squander what has been arranged for you with fleeting distractions. You belong where you are needed, my child. Where you are destined.”

Then, her hand eased, and she leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. The gesture was warm, loving, but the weight of it was undeniable. It was not affection, but a mark—a silent claim, binding you to her will. Her lips lingered just long enough for her breath to ghost against your hair. “Remember who you are,” she whispered, the words as much an order as an expression of care.

The weight of her words sank in, unspoken but unmistakable: the engagement. It had loomed in the background of your life like an unfinished prayer, a promise made on your behalf that you had not been given the right to question.

You glanced at Fyodor, who lingered at the doorway, his dark eyes catching yours once more. The air seemed to shift between you, an unspoken tension thrumming just beneath the surface. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, his voice smooth and composed, the words polite but aimed at you rather than your mother.

Your mother’s hand remained on your shoulder, her presence a wall between you and the door. “Do not forget your place,” she whispered as Fyodor turned to leave, her voice as sharp as the steel she so often wielded in ceremony.

Her warning echoed long after he was gone, her words a chain you could not yet break.  

---  

The weeks since Fyodor’s arrival had passed like the turning of a slow wheel, the rhythm of village life unchanged but for the murmurs that followed wherever he went. The people had embraced him and his group with a swiftness that was almost unnerving. Children brought him flowers, their giggles rising like birdsong as they placed the blooms in his hands. The elders nodded in satisfaction, their wrinkled faces lighting with approval at his humility during communal tasks. Even the skeptical seemed disarmed by his quiet confidence and sharp wit, his every action a masterstroke of timing and grace.  

Yet, to you, there was something unsettling beneath the surface.  

You watched him carefully. There was a deliberateness to his movements, a precision that felt unnatural. He walked as though every step was part of a dance only he could hear, every word chosen with the precision of an arrow. And yet, despite your unease, there was a pull to him, like the dark waters of the river: cold and dangerous but impossible to resist. The pull lingered, growing stronger each time you saw him, until his presence became a constant undercurrent in your thoughts. 

And you couldn’t help but wonder—what would it feel like to let yourself fall into those dark, unyielding currents? To surrender to the cold pull, knowing there would be no way back?

The sound of the ceremonial bells pulled you from your thoughts, their solemn toll reverberating through the wooden church. The candles that lined the space cast flickering shadows across the gathered congregation, their flames bright against the deepening dusk.

This was a sacred night, one that would truly bind the newcomers to the community, sealing their integration with an oath to serve the divine. 

The group stood in a line before the High Priestess, their white robes glowing in the soft light of the candles, their heads bowed in solemn reverence. Even in their uniformity, Fyodor stood apart, as he always did. His posture was relaxed but not disrespectful, his expression unreadable. He wore the robe as though it were a costume, an adornment that could be shed the moment it no longer served him.  

In your hands is the small bowl of crimson liquid—your blood, drawn hours earlier, thick with divinity mixed with anointing oil. Its sight sends a shiver through the group, though none dare speak. The ceramic was warm against your palms, though it felt heavier than usual tonight.  

Your mother stepped forward, her voice ringing through the church with a practiced authority that silenced the crowd.  

“You stand here as seekers, strangers to the divine. But tonight, you will be bound to our truth, reborn as one with this community. Are you prepared to leave behind what you were?”  

A murmur of assent rippled through the group. Some voices trembled with fear, others spoke with quiet certainty. Fyodor’s voice, low and steady, cut through the air, drawing your attention despite yourself.  

“Step forward,” your mother commanded.  

One by one, the newcomers approached her. She dipped her fingers into the blood, marking their foreheads with the sacred blessing as they bowed their heads in submission. The ritual unfolded as it always did, a solemn repetition of words and gestures. Yet when it was Fyodor’s turn, the moment seemed to stretch.  

He stepped forward with that same deliberate grace, his movements unhurried but precise. His gaze met your mother’s with an intensity that did not falter, the air between them charged with unspoken tension.  

“Kneel,” she commanded.  

He obeyed, lowering himself to the ground with a calm that bordered on defiance. He looked like a man kneeling of his own volition, not one forced to bow.  

Your mother dipped her fingers into the blood, but instead of marking his forehead, she paused. Her gaze turned to you, sharp and expectant. “Come,” she said. “Place your hands upon him. Channel the divine insight.”  

Your breath caught. You had never been asked to do this before. The bowl in your hands seemed to grow heavier, the scent of the oil rising like smoke to suffocate you. Slowly, you stepped forward, setting the bowl down on the altar before kneeling in front of him.  

Your hands trembled as you reached out, resting them lightly on his head. His hair was softer than you expected, but his presence felt sharp, overwhelming. The noise of the congregation—the chants, the crackling of the candles—faded into a dull hum, drowned out by the pounding of your heartbeat.  

You closed your eyes, trying to focus on the divine connection you were meant to channel. Yet all you could feel was him. The steadiness of his breath. The quiet tension coiled in his body. The way his very existence seemed to demand your attention.  

“What do you see?” your mother’s voice cut through the haze, expectant.  

You opened your eyes, startled, and found Fyodor looking up at you. His gaze was piercing, calm yet devastatingly aware. There was no fear in his eyes, no deference. Instead, there was something that stripped you bare—a knowing, as though he could see every thought you had buried deep.  

“I…” The words caught in your throat.  

Then his lips moved, so faintly you almost missed it. A whisper meant only for you:  

“You bleed for them. But will they bleed for you?”  

The words hit like an arrow to the throat, leaving you breathless. Your hands jerked back as though burned, and your heart thundered in your chest.  

Your mother’s gaze bore into you, her eyes narrowing. “What do you see?” she demanded again, her voice growing cold.  

You forced yourself to look away from him, your trembling hands lowering to your lap. “I see… clarity,” you said finally, though your voice wavered. “He carries clarity.”  

Your mother studied you for a moment, her suspicion evident. Then, without a word, she marked his forehead, murmuring the blessing with an edge to her tone. She gestured to the congregation, signaling the second part of the ceremony.  

“The waters of renewal await,” your mother announced, her voice carrying over the crowd. “As children of the divine are first welcomed, so too must our newest seekers be reborn.”  

The group was led toward the river, that snaked just outside the church, its surface shimmering like molten glass in the torchlight. An ancient tree’s roots reached toward the water’s edge, twisting and intertwining with the stones that framed the riverbank. The current hummed softly, carrying the weight of generations past.  

One by one, the newcomers approached the river. Your mother took each by the hand, murmuring blessings before the attendants guided them into the water. They were gently lowered beneath the surface, the current swirling around them, and when they emerged, gasping and glistening in the firelight, the water clung to their skin like a second robe, consecrating their transformation.  

When it was Fyodor’s turn, the moment stretched again. He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes flicking to yours for the briefest moment before returning to your mother.  

She took his hand, her grip firm, and guided him towards the river’s edge. “This water cleanses,” she intoned. “It washes away the remnants of your former self, the burdens of your past life, leaving you free to serve.”  

The attendants lowered him into the river. For a moment, it felt as though the heavens themselves leaned closer, waiting. The current surged as if tasting him, its pull cold, and the uncanny stillness gripped the air, as if even the wind dared not move. 

When he emerged, his hair plastered to his face, his eyes sharper than ever, he did not gasp as the others had. He rose to his feet with an unshaken calm, water streaming from his robes. His gaze found yours again, and the weight of his whispered words returned, heavier than before.  A fleeting thought filtered through your mind: Would they bleed for me? As I do for them?   

When the ceremony ended, and the congregation erupted into joyous chants, you found yourself unable to join in. Fyodor stood among the others, his expression serene, but when his eyes met yours again across the clearing, it felt as though the ritual had bound something unseen between you both.

The sounds of the crowd became hollow, their jubilation a distant echo. He was all that remained. The air between you filled with an unspoken understanding that you dared not name.

You were skittish, of course, like a cornered animal. And you squirmed—not to escape, but to inch closer, as though his gaze has already avowed you. But what use is there for such a connection, when the end is as inevitable as the tightening snare, already closing around you both.

---  

The announcement of your engagement came as no surprise.  

For months, you had felt it coming: in the quiet tension in your mother’s tone, the way her hand lingered on your shoulder during evening blessings, and the faint but insistent weight in her gaze whenever she spoke to you. It wasn’t love she offered in those moments, but a kind of ownership—a reminder that you were hers to mold, to shape, to offer as she saw fit.  

The ceremonial bells tolled at dawn, their echoes rippling across the valley. You rose without hesitation, the weight of the day already pressing against your chest. Your mother was waiting for you, her hands warm and steady as they guided you to sit before her. 

She began braiding your hair with practiced precision, her fingers gentle as they wove the strands together. The scent of sage and beeswax clung to her robes, a reminder of the sacred rituals that bound you both. 

"You’ve always had such beautiful hair," she murmured, her voice soft, almost wistful. For a moment, her touch lingered, more a mother’s than a priestess’s. "Do you remember when you were little, how you’d fuss when I braided it too tightly?" 

You nodded, though your throat tightened at the memory. "I thought you were punishing me," you replied, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. 

She chuckled softly, the sound rare and fleeting. "Never, my child. I only wanted you to look your best." 

Her fingers paused for a fraction of a moment, resting against your temple. "You’ve grown so much," she said quietly, the words carrying a weight she rarely allowed herself to show. Then her hands resumed their work, and when she finished, she placed her hands gently on your shoulders. "There," she said, her voice soft but steady. "You are ready." 

The warmth of her hands lingered as you rose, her gaze following you with something that almost resembled pride. Yet beneath it, you could feel the unspoken weight of expectation, as heavy as the ceremonial robes draped across your shoulders.

You carried that weight with you as you stepped into the grand wooden church, its high vaulted ceilings towering above like the heavens themselves. The air was heavy with the scent of burning herbs—lavender mingling with a faint undertone of sweetgrass. Smoke curled upward, coiling like restless spirits toward the intricate carvings that decorated the beams, each depicting scenes of devotion and sacrifice. Candles lined the altar and walls, their soft, flickering light casting long shadows that seemed to shift with the murmurs of the congregation.

People stood in hushed reverence, their faces illuminated by the golden glow. All eyes were on you and your betrothed—Abel—as you knelt together on the raised dais at the center of the sacred space. 

Abel knelt beside you, his head bowed, his posture straight and unassuming. His robe hung neatly on his frame, its stark simplicity emphasizing his earnestness. He was the ideal partner for someone like you: devout, humble, willing to serve without question. You could see why your mother had chosen him. He was what the village valued—what the cult demanded. 

Yet when you looked at him, you felt nothing but a hollow ache. 

Your mother’s voice carried through the church, steady and commanding. Her words wrapped around the congregation like a net, binding them in shared reverence. 

“May this bond bring harmony, as two threads are woven into a single tapestry. May purpose guide them, and may their lives serve as offerings to the divine.” 

Her gaze swept across the congregation before settling on you. The weight of her presence was palpable, pressing against your chest like a stone. 

“Abel,” she intoned, turning to him. “Do you accept this bond, this sacred duty to serve beside them in devotion and purpose?” 

“I do,” he replied, his voice calm and steady. 

The crowd murmured in approval, a low hum that rolled through the church like distant thunder. 

“And you, my child,” she said, her attention returning to you. Her voice was softer now, but it carried an edge of expectation that left no room for hesitation. “Do you accept this bond, this sacred duty to serve with him in faith and unity?” 

Your hands clenched tightly in your lap, hidden beneath the folds of your robe. Abel’s gaze flicked to you briefly, his expression warm, even reverent. He looked at you as though you were a gift he had been unworthy to receive. 

The thought made your chest tighten. 

“I do,” you said at last. The words tasted foreign in your mouth, like something borrowed. 

The murmurs grew louder now, the congregation’s approval rising like a tide. Your mother lifted her arms, her robes catching the candlelight as she began to recite the vows that would bind you and Abel together. 

“I give you that which is mine to give. I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.” 

Her voice was steady, deliberate, each word falling like a stone into still water. 

Abel repeated the vow, his voice soft but unwavering. 

“I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night, and the eyes into which I smile in the morning.” 

Your mother’s gaze moved to you. The air seemed to still as she spoke the final words of the vow. 

“I pledge to you the first bite from my meat, and the first drink from my cup. I pledge to you my living and dying, equally in your care, and tell no strangers our grievances.” 

The silence that followed was almost suffocating. 

You repeated the words, your voice steady but hollow. They rolled off your tongue like a prayer you had recited too many times to feel their meaning. Yet each word seemed to settle in your chest like a weight, binding you to Abel, to this life, to this role you had never chosen. 

As your mother raised her hands in blessing, the congregation erupted into murmurs of approval. A collective sigh of satisfaction rippled through the church, their voices carrying into the evening as they began to move toward the feast awaiting them. 

But you remained kneeling on the dais, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. The smoke from the incense stung your eyes, though you weren’t sure if that was the reason they burned. The whisper of movement behind you was so faint you might have missed it, but then his voice followed. 

“Congratulations.” 

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see Fyodor standing at the edge of the dais. His expression was calm, but there was something in his eyes, something that made your breath hitch. His white supplicant robes, so similar to yours, seemed to carry none of their weight. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, though your voice betrayed you. 

His gaze flicked briefly to Abel, who stood a short distance away, speaking with the elders. “He seems... reliable,” Fyodor said, his tone measured, as though he were commenting on a piece of furniture. 

“He is,” you replied, though the words felt bitter on your tongue. 

Fyodor stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the faintest smile playing at his lips. “Do you think he’ll understand you?” 

Your breath caught. Something in his tone—quiet, knowing—stirred a knot of frustration in your chest. “What is that supposed to mean?” you whispered, your voice tight. “You’re always speaking in riddles.” 

“Not riddles. Questions,” he corrected with a soft smile, his voice like a whisper of smoke. “Do you ever ask them yourself?” 

The memory of his whisper at the river returned unbidden. You bleed for them, but will they bleed for you? His words had rooted themselves in your thoughts, growing like weeds in the cracks of your carefully constructed faith. 

“At the river,” you began, your voice faltering. “You said something to me. Why?” 

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Because it’s the truth. You give them everything—your blood, your life, your love. But what do you receive in return? Do they even know you, beyond what you offer?” 

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of your robes. “That’s not how it works,” you whispered, though your voice quivered. “I’m here to serve. To protect them. That’s my purpose. That’s why they love me.” 

He regarded you for a long moment, his expression almost gentle. “And who protects you?” 

The question lodged itself deep in your chest, and you looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “You don’t understand,” you said quietly. “This is how it’s always been.” 

“Ah,” he murmured, the faint smile returning to his lips. “I can understand the comfort of tradition. A powerful thing, isn’t it?” He straightened, his tone shifting to something lighter but no less piercing. 

You turned back to him, anger and something deeper—something desperate—flaring in your chest. “What do you want from me?” 

His gaze lingered on you, searching, and then he stepped back. “Nothing,” he said softly. “I suppose I’ve overstayed my welcome. Enjoy your new kinship, won’t you?” 

Before you could reply, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, his presence dissolving into the sea of voices and movement. His words remained, echoing in your mind like a bell tolling in the dark. 

Who protects you? 

---

PART II

[takumifujiwarastan]

men who treat you wasting even a single drop of his cum like a sin. men who replace their cock with their fingers after blowing a massive load into you to stuff his cum in real good as it tries to seep out of your puffy cunt.

men who grab a fistful of your hair and make you lick his cum off of the bedsheets if you even dare to wipe the extra off of your hands.

men who collect the sticky substance on their thumb as it drips down your chin and stuffs his digit into your mouth, ordering you firmly to "suck."

his cum is like a blessing to you, and he makes sure you treat it as so. or he may have to stuff you even more full than you already are <3

TOJI, SUKUNA, gojo, nanami, EREN, LEVI, ryosuke, KEISUKE, DABI, tachihara, DAZAI, chuuya, F Y O D O R, +your favs!!

[r3stingangel]

You wanna know what I hate? People who don't tag properly, whether it be on AO3, Tumblr, ECT. Tags exist for a fucking reason.

A great example of not tagging properly is a fic I found that was marked "Dazai/reader" so it must be an x reader, right? WRONG! It was a Dazai x AN OC. AN OC WITH A WHOLE ASS NAME.

It pisses me tf off

[osachiyo]

❛ WHAT'CHA READIN'? ❜

𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — dazai, chuuya, fyodor, nikolai x fem!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 & 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — n/sfw content, teasing, edging, getting caught while reading erotica/smut, full nelson, oral (m recieving), cock warming, kolya's is the longest bc yea, squirting, kind of 4th wall breaking in kolya's etc • here it isss !! i didn't expect so many people to want this but im glad i got to write it. anyway, happy reading and i hope you enjoy !! not proofread

ps. reblog to show your favorite writers support, they're greatly appreciated ! <3

𝟎.𝟎𝟎𝟏 — 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈

his hands flew to her neck, squeezing not too hard — but firm enough for her to get dizzy with pleasure. "lily, you're simply ethereal like this," the man on top of her groaned, hips still pounding away, his pelvis slapping against her thighs with each thrust. she moaned, nails raking down the crown prince's back, all while —

"..her pretty cunt squeezed around him at the heartfelt praise,"

you felt someone whisper from behind your shoulder, making you quickly slam your book closed and whip your head towards that direction — only to see your boyfriend, dazai, standing there with a cheshire-like grin on his pretty face.

"i didn't know you were into historical books, babe!" he said with a teasing tilt in his voice, making your right eye twitch. "r-right... ahem — anyway, you really shouldn't sneak up on people like that, osamu," you scowled, clutching said book close to your chest.

"yeah? and you really shouldn't read dirty books at work like this, sweetheart," he tilted your head up to face him, "what if it was kunikida-kun instead of me, hmm?" his voice was playful, and if you knew him, you knew that he was hinting at something — if it's wasn't obvious already by the prominent bulge in his slacks.

"well, aren't you eager?" dazai huffed out a laugh at the way you grinded on his thigh, trying to reach your precious book that was in his hands now. "her back arched like a cat's as the prince pounded away at her — not having an ounce of mercy for the poor maiden," dazai read in a mocking tone — all while flexing his thigh under your cunt, which you were humping for dear life. "please," you pawed at his chest, hips twitching with the need for release.

"please what, baby?" he grinned mischievously, free hand snaking down to land a playful smack on your breasts, before squeezing them. "please let me cum," you whined once more, batting your wet lashes at him in hopes of getting at least a tiny bit of mercy.

"well.." dazai hummed, placing the book to the side, before sitting you fully on his lap and unzipping his slacks — "since you want it so bad, work for it."

𝟎.𝟎𝟎𝟐 — 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀

you and chuuya were in his office, with him working and you on your phone.

chuuya noticed how unusually quiet you got — and how.. strange you were acting as you scrolled further down on your cellphone.

his eyebrows furrowed as he saw your pupils dilate, your breathing getting uneven and you clenching your thighs.... oh.

a smirk found it's way on his handsome face as realization hit him — you dirty, dirty girl.

"what'cha readin' there, babe?" chuuya raised an eyebrow at the way you flinched when he suddenly spoke up. "um.. just some romance story, you won't like it, chuu," you tried to keep a straight face as your boyfriend got up from his seat, and stalked closer to you.

"oh yeah?" chuuya inquired further, "let me see."

"NO!— i mean — you really won't like it, babe," you smiled nervously and clutched the little device closer to you, which only made chuuya's grin spread further. "riiighhtt."

a gasp tore from your lips when your phone was snatched away from you by the ginger man — he was way too fast and strong for you to fight back, so you just sat there — blinking dumbly as he read the contents of your little "romance story."

"really? a mafia boss x reader? heh," chuuya snickered, voice holding a teasing tilt to it, "ya got a thing for boss, or somethin'?"

"NO! oh god, chuuya — give it back!" you finally recovered from your state of stupor, lunging at chuuya — who caught you in his arms with ease. "easy there, sweetheart. now, how about i give you the real fucking thing instead of this stupid... fanfiction, yeah? bend over f'me, doll."

loud clapping could be heard from outside of chuuya's office — it was so embarrassing if anyone walked by, especially akutagawa, but chuuya didn't seem to care one bit.

your tight little pencil skirt was bunched up, panties pulled hastily to the side as chuuya's narrow hips slammed against your ass, gloved hands gripping your hips so hard that you feared it would leave marks. "you like that, baby? like it when i grind into you like this?"

chuuya slowed his thrusts only to grind his hips in circles — making you see stars as you desperately clawed at the mahogany desk.

a sudden knock on the door sent your mind spiraling from pure pleasure to uneasiness. surely he wouldn't —

"come in, akutagawa."

𝟎.𝟎𝟎𝟑 — 𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑

"don't flip the page, darling, i'm not done yet,"

you flinched at hearing fyodor's smooth, rich voice from behind you — startling you enough to drop the book from your hands, which conveniently landed on your lap. you looked behind to see your husband, who had a smirk on his handsome, pale face — "f-fedya!" you smiled nervously, "you were.. behind me this entire time?"

"why of course, my dear. i was wondering what type of book my beloved wife is into, and i.. certainly didn't expect this."

fyodor's tone was condescending, derogatory even — making your face heat up in embarrassment and shame. "now now," he tilted your chin up to look him in the eye, "there's no need to be ashamed, darling. though i can't deny that i'm a little upset from you going behind my back to read something so sinful," fyodor clicked his tongue, shaking his head gently before narrowing his amethyst eyes at you, "i believe you need to.. make up for this little... mistake of yours. won't you be a good girl and do as i say?"

you gulped before nodding hesitantly, sweat dampening your palms at the sheer nervousness you were feeling.

"good. on your knees."

fyodor held your head down on his cock, the small tuff of black hair tickling your nose —he didn't give you a chance to catch your breath. the feeling of the tight walls of your throat, along with the pretty view of you looking up at him with those teary eyes almost had him going feral. he wanted nothing more than to just pull your head back and face fuck you — but no, he had you cock warming him with your cute little mouth instead. all while he read his own book.

now, you might want to think twice before reading something so filthy behind his back again — unless you wished for an even worse punishment, that is.

𝟎.𝟎𝟎𝟒 𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈

"dove, can i ask you a little question?"

nikolai wrapped his huge arms around your waist, pulling you back against his chest and resting his head on your shoulder, waiting for an answer with a grin.

"what is it, kolya?" you tried to turn to face him, but nikolai's grip only got tighter — his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, "who the fuck is 'toji fushiguro' and why were you reading smut about him?"

nikolai felt you stiffen in his arms — a shiver running down your spine at his warm breath hitting your skin, along with the embarrassing fact that your boyfriend had seen what you read on your phone. fuck.

"hmm? no denying?" he teased, freakishly large hands skimming over your torso, then settling all the way up to your breasts. "he's just a.. fictional character, love," you winced at how fucking embarrassing that sounded — which only resulted in nikolai letting out a snicker.

"really? you wound me, sweet pea — am i not good enough for you, that you have to settle for reading smut about fictional men?" he dramatically put a hand over his chest, but you both knew that was not true. "i'll just prove myself to you then, mm?" nikolai grinned, planting a kiss on your clothed shoulder.

you groaned, "n-no! baby, it's just —" "full nelson, huh?" nikolai cut you off — his expression dark as a borderline scary grin settled on his lips. "that was the position right? you could've just told me you wanted to try it! come on, little dove — i'll show you full nelson."

that's how you ended up with your legs against your chest, nikolai's huge arms hooked under your knees to keep you secured against his chest — all while his thick cock plowed into your cunt.

your mouth dropped into an 'o' shape, drool dribbling down your chin to your tits — the mounds bouncing up and down erotically as you were drilled into from below.

"god, just look at you,"nikolai groaned — his arms flexing beneath you as he bit the juncture of your shoulder, the soft skin littered in bruises and bite marks. his heavy balls were clapping against your ass with each rough thrust — your pussy felt like it was splitting in half from the sheer girth of his dick.

"oh yeah, baby — cum f'me, a-agh — cum on this cock," nikolai's voice was slurred, thick and heavy with lust as he encouraged you to soak his length in your juices.

and soak him you did — spraying your arousal all over the floor, his cock and balls were dripping with it — as you went limp in his arms. but he didn't stop, no — he didn't stop until he was cumming deep in your womb, the creamy substance leaking from your cunt from just how much there was.

© 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐘𝐎 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 ─ do not copy/translate/repost and/or recommend any of my works on different platfroms under any circumstances. reblogs greatly appreciated !

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[honeydazai]

୨୧·࣭࣪̇˖ sending them suggestive pictures while they're at work

feat.: Dazai, Chūya, Ranpo, Fukuzawa, Fyodor, Sigma

content: nsfw, female reader, spanking, sexting, oral sxx, masturbation, semi public

It's not unusual for DAZAI to tap away on his phone during work hours, so no one — except for Kunikida, who still hasn't given up on glaring — pays it any mind when his smirk widens at his screen. What remains a secret, however, is that he's not looking at some funny tweet but instead at your tits, the blue lace of your bra making for a pleasant contrast in colour.

He's awfully smug about the whole ordeal, really; also, who is he not to play along? He definitely sends you not only some appreciative words back, but also a picture of his own, featuring either his hands — he does know that you're quite fond of his fingers, after all —, his face — because you can never complain about that! —, or his by now half-hard dick, pressing against his trousers, even though taking soft nudes borders on workplace indecency. Oh, and your pictures are definitely saved and stored away on his phone for later usage.

[new message from Dazai] “someone's needy, harassing me during work hours! just kidding bella!! you're so cute xx stunning too! how am i supposed to listen to kunikida any longer when you're so so pretty? :( ill call out sick, be there in 20 x”

CHŪYA really doesn't expect to see anything but a picture of a dog you saw outside or of a particularly pretty flower when he spares a brief glance at his phone during a Port Mafia meeting. It's already disrespectful, though he doesn't plan on anyone noticing the miniscule action — that is, until he all but chokes on his coffee at the photo of you, legs spread wide, two fingers deep inside of yourself, wearing not only his favourite lingerie set, but also one of his ties.

He tries hard to ignore the way everyone stares at him when he, all too abruptly, excuses himself to the bathroom, his face bright red. In the safety of a stall, he really can't do anything but shove his trousers to his knees, one hand immediately closing around his dick while he types your number into his phone with his free one — and while he might snap at you, oh so flustered, he's also so damn turned on that he can barely focus on anything but the sound of your voice and your photo.

“Fucking Hell, babe—, God, with how Mori was looking at me, I bet he knew what was up. Fuck—, send me another one, please, I'm so damn close, ah—”

Business meetings aren't RANPO'S favourite way to spend time. They're awfully boring, making him huff and sigh when he has to sit through them — though this one gets a lot more interesting the moment he clicks on a text message from you. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of your panties, pure lace and hiding not even the slightest bit just how wet you are, thighs glistening, though that's about all the physical reaction he's going to show. The fact that his dick strains against his trousers is no one's business.

He is, however, quick to text you back, amusement dripping from his messages, and if Fukuzawa wasn't already watching him with sharp eyes, he'd sneak away to the bathroom to call you. For now, you'll just have to do with sexting — this meeting is going to go on for a while, especially if he won't soon start contributing, and he's unfortunately got better things to do.

[new message from Ranpo] “having fun without me? youre so mean. at least send me more pics im dyin g here... maybw bend over or— ooo i know, we bought that toy a while ago, right? why don't you use that one for me, doll....”

FUKUZAWA sucks in a sharp breath the second his eyes fall onto your form clad in nothing but one of his yukatas, and even though he attempts to remain calm, he's already blushing, arousal churning low in his stomach. Really, he was just trying to take a miniscule break from all the paperwork he's facing — besides, the cat ringtone signaling your message did sound rather urgent! —, though now he's not certain whether he can focus on it again.

He ends up typing “This is most inappropriate.” in response, though he never sends it, instead replacing it with a “You look stunning.”, only to never send that one either. In the end, he just quits work a little earlier that day and hurries home faster than he'd ever want to admit, cheeks still flushed with arousal when he joins you in bed, immediately slotting himself between your pretty thighs, long fingers spreading your folds apart and into your cunt to prepare you — only to realise you've long done that yourself. How convenient. He might reprimand you a little afterwards, though both of you realise it's not to be taken seriously. When he's honest with himself, he rather liked that photo — and he'll definitely keep it.

“That was awfully inappropriate. Darling, you know I enjoy getting to hear from you during the day, and yet — what? I didn't mind you wearing my clothing in the slightest. I was worried about someone from the Agency seeing the picture. In fact, wear my clothes again whenever you feel like it. Please do. You looked quite irresistible.”

It's almost unfair just how seemingly unbothered FYODOR is. When checking his phone during a Decay of Angels meeting, aware that you know not to contact him except for important reasons, he merely glances at the photo lewdly depicting your raised skirt and the curve of your behind before putting it back into his pocket. Really, it's downright adorable that you're attempting to tease him — you should know better by now, darling.

While he doesn't bother with a response, he certainly makes sure to pay attention to you when he returns home. And, oh, the next time you want to toy with him, he sure hopes you remember this very moment, of you bent across his lap, his hand coming down ever so often on your butt, on the soft skin of your upper thighs, making you cry out with every slap. The marks, at least, will serve as a nice reminder, especially when you keep forgetting to thank him for every hit.

“There we go, dear. Ah, ah — don't cry now. This is what you wanted, is it not? My undivided attention — and you certainly have it, now. Which number were we on again? Tell me, darling, or we will have to start over, I'm afraid.”

The second SIGMA spares a quick glance at his phone, only to stumble upon a rather revealing picture you just sent him — and, God, 'rather revealing' is an understatement when he's able to see just how wet you are, thighs spread for the camera —, his face heats up significantly, earning him some odd looks from the other men he's currently in a meeting with. In a desperate attempt to regain professionalism, he clears his throat, trying to simply continue, but it's as if every thought has been erased from his mind and was replaced by you.

When getting home that evening, he's calmed down considerably, cheeks still warm with the memory of you being this bold, though his sudden calmness might just change when you expect him in that exact same position, legs wide apart, the smile on your face teasing — and who is he not to end up on his knees in front of you, tongue flattening against your cunt while both of you let out breathy moans? In the end, he's all but begging you to return the favour.

“Ah, God, I'm close. At least finish me off, please—, you were really cruel today, dear. Make it up to me? Please? Oh, fuck—”

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[nightsadness]

Hi! I thought I'd take applications. Call me "Undertaker" (pronouns she/her) I'm 19 years old and I'm not a native English speaker, but I'm slowly learning , so far my level is A2.

I write: angst, fluff, yandere, headcanons, reactions, romance

I might write: smut, NSFW.

I don't write: yaoi, yuri, pedophilia, plots based on real murders, racism, excessive violence, coprophilia, incest.

Mortal Kombat

Bungo stray dogs

That's not my Neighbor

Mortal Kombat:

Sub-Zero (Noob Saibot/Kuai Liang/Bi-Han), Scorpion (Hanzo Hasashi), Erron Black, Kabal, Raiden, Johnny Cage, Liu Kang, Reptile, Shang Tsung, Kung Lao, Smoke, Night wolf, Rain, Fujin

Bungo Stray Dogs

Dazai Osamu, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Ranpo Edogawa, Mori Ogai, Kenji Miyazava, Rando (Arthur Rimbaud), Saigiku Jōno, Edgar Allan Poe, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, Sigma

That's not my neighbor:

Francis Mosses, Steven Rudboys, Angus Ciprianni, Izaack Gauss.

I also write for absolutely any female characters x fem!readers (any relationship BUT NOT YURI!!!!).

[chuuyrr]

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐙𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 .ᐟ

feat: dazai, chuuya, fyodor

ꨄ˙ CW(s): gn! reader, mentions of alcohol (reader is drunk)

ꨄ˙ SYNOPSIS: in which you drink too much and don't even realize that your boyfriend is your boyfriend or you might as well be drunk in love

in the dimly lit bar, the air was filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses. you found yourself swirling the remnants of a colorful cocktail, the room around you blurring as the night progressed.

DAZAI sits beside you, and couldn't help but notice your flushed-pink demeanor, fueled by the drinks you had consumed, and giggles to himself.

in your tipsy state, you tilt your head, looking at dazai with a playful suspicion. the room spun slightly, and you sway on your seat, trying to focus on his face.

"you know," you slur, "you're a suspicious stranger. i bet you've got some secret agenda." you point an accusing finger at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

dazai, amused by your playful accusations, couldn't help but giggle even more, "oh, do i now? well, i'm just a harmless 'stranger' who happened to find the most adorable drunk person in the entire bar."

you raise an eyebrow skeptically, still not recognizing him, "adorable, huh? well, mr. stranger-fanger, you're gonna have to prove it." you cross your arms, a challenging smirk on your flushed face.

dazai, seizing the opportunity, wraps his arms around you with a mockingly serious expression, "see? no danger here, just a guy who appreciates adorable drunks."

you broke into a fit of giggles, melting into his embrace, "well, you're not that bad for a stranger, i guess."

completely unaware that the 'stranger' was, in fact, your boyfriend, you continued to enjoy the whimsical dance of laughter and teasing, creating a memory that would undoubtedly be cherished in the days to come.

"i'm gonna be serious though, i am your boyfriend," dazai says to you.

you blink softly at him, your tipsy-drunk state had somehow lead you to look at him as such. dazai blinks back before a grin starts to tug on his lips.

"do i have to remind my dearest? well, then. buckle up because you're in for a treat!" he says before he instantly starts peppering your face in kisses as he holds you tightly.

you immediately start to squeal and giggle as you are reminded of the constant kisses that your boyfriend would give you admist the alcohol in your system.

"osamuuu!" you say in a soft whine before he pecks your lips.

dazai grins even more widely at your cute little whine as he cups your face now, "that's more like it. goodness, such an adorable drunk you are, hmm?"

CHUUYA watches with a mix of concern and amusement as your cheerful demeanor transformed into a tipsy state.

as the night wore on, chuuya decides it was time to take you home. he gently placed his gloved hand on your shoulder, trying to capture your attention, "hey, it's getting late. how about we head home?" he suggests, his voice warm and caring.

however, in your inebriated state, you misinterpreted the situation. you gasp sharply before you squirm in your seat and whine softly, "nooo, i'm having so much fun here! plus, you can't take me home! i have a boyfriend!"

chuuya was flabbergasted, but he couldn't help but chuckle at your resistance afterwards upon seeing this, "come on, baby, i'm not a stranger. i'm your boyfriend, and I just want to make sure you get home safely."

now it's you blinking softly, looking at him with a mix of confusion and innocence, "boyfriend? really?" you giggle, completely unaware of the true nature of your relationship.

"you're being so silly right now, i almost can't with you," chuuya sighs, still laughing softly, "geez, i didn't know my baby can be this forgetful with this much alcohol."

undeterred, chuuya continued to coax you gently, his amusement growing as you stare at him in awe as you begin to pat his cheeks in your warm hands, "this pretty face is all mine?"

chuuya chuckles again, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks as he takes your hands in his before leaning in to press a lingering kiss on your lips and whispering, "i'm all yours, baby."

the night unfolded in a blend of laughter, warmth, and the endearing challenge of convincing you that the 'stranger' was, in fact, the person who cared for you the most, and you couldn't help but giggle even more into the kiss.

FYODOR observes your increasing intoxication with a measured gaze, a sense of concern clouding his usually composed demeanor.

as the night unfolds, you continued to enjoy the array of drinks that nikolai had generously provided you two. fyodor, recognizing the potential consequences, decided it was time to intervene. he places a hand gently on your arm, his touch sending a shiver down your spine.

"dear, perhaps it's time to slow down," fyodor suggests, his voice calm and measured as he tries to get you to stop.

you looked at him with a tipsy grin, oblivious to the fact that fyodor was your boyfriend, "but nikolai is just being generous. no harm in a few more, riiight?"

fyodor's piercing gaze held a mixture of concern and determination, "i'd rather not see you regretting this tomorrow. let's enjoy the night responsibly," he insists, attempting to guide you away from the tempting allure of more drinks.

however, in your intoxicated state, you resisted his efforts, misinterpreting his intentions, "oh, come on! live a little, stranger!" you playfully tease, unaware that fyodor was the person you were romantically involved with.

fyodor couldn't help but hide a small smile at your playful antics, though he inwardly feels a twinge of sadness at being referred to as a stranger, maintained his composure.

he observes you with a subtle sadness in his eyes, a fleeting emotion that betrayed the depth of his feelings. still, he wasn't one to give up easily.

with a gentle touch, he cupped your face, making you meet his gaze, "remember, i'm the one who cares deeply for you," he murmurs with a faint smile, his eyes staring in yours.

"i may be a stranger in this particular scenario, but i am not to you," fyodor replies softly, realizing that your drunken state was proving to be a barrier. yet, he didn't relent.

the realization began to dawn on you, your intoxicated mind slowly connecting the dots, "wait a minute... you care about me? really?"

fyodor nods, his eyes holding a mixture of hope and longing, "more than you can imagine."

you blink softly, still processing the situation through the haze of alcohol. before you could react, fyodor leaned in, pressing a soft and lingering kiss against your lips. the touch was tender yet filled with an unspoken depth of emotion, an attempt to bridge the gap that had momentarily separated you.

as the kiss unfolded, a subtle warmth spread through you, and the fog of intoxication seemed to lift momentarily. the taste of familiarity mingled with the hint of sadness, creating a poignant moment that transcended the blurred boundaries of the night. fyodor then pulls away, his gaze searching yours for any signs of recognition.

there was a pause, a moment of suspended realization. slowly, your eyes widened, and a spark of recognition flickered within them. "wait," you whisper, your voice carrying a mix of surprise and clarity as you smile. "you're not a stranger, only my fedya kisses me like that!"

a soft smile tugged at the corners of fyodor's lips as the weight of being called a stranger lifted. the kiss had served as a catalyst, a bridge that connected the fragments of memory scattered in the alcohol-induced haze.

"my, my, how could you forget your fedya, dear?" fyodor sighs, shaking his head before he kisses your lips again and whispers, "traitor.."

ꨄ˙ A.N.: i feel like i might have written fyodor in an ooc-ish way, and if i did, i apologize !! haven't written for him in so long and i don't write for him as often as dazai and chuuya. this is also kinda silly i think now that i've finished writing this lol !! thank you so much for reading until the end (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)