#he never expressed affection before. but now hes deeply silly and has immortalized his old loved ones as puppets on his little show

[mothbug]

[soukokuwu]

➤ @fyowyn-writes said: okay clarifying that, s/o’s ability basically makes them immortal, but they can die it would just take several centuries to die from old age so they joined fyodor in order to find a way to get rid of their ability because you know that’s kinda his thing

➤ genre: angst

➤ pairing: fyodor x reader

➤ warning: death

➤ synopsis: fyodor has to choose — loving you or to love you?

➤ word count: 2.1k

➤ a/n: hi i know this came out super late and i’m very sorry ma’am, but i really hope you like this gwynn!! 🥺✨ sorry tumblr deleted your ask djsjds let me know what you guys think hope y’all enjoy this too!

The moment of separation

Forever is a long time.

Fyodor remembers thinking what a sin it is — immortality. You do too, over time. And so you wish you could end it.

But a wish is just that — an expression of desire. Never something that can be guaranteed. Though rumours have it that if there’s one thing that Fyodor can guarantee you, it’s death.

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Fyodor always had a house; a roof over his head. But never a home. It changed — only because of you.

You are the comfort in his chaos, the still in the waves, the knowing that some thunder might come with rain. It is weird, how Fyodor thinks he always knows what’s to come, but he doesn’t with you. With you he always anticipates, looks forward to the next day. And not for himself, but for you.

Everything has an explanation, but this emotion he feels? The small warmth inside his chest — the one he tries so hard to deny, the one he never expected to feel in this life — it grows every second he spends with you; subtly, slowly, just as the best things do.

The first time he lays eyes on you — he doesn’t bat an eyelash, doesn’t do a double-take. Only when you let your voice escape you, only when you offered to help him with his plans, give him all of your extensive knowledge. Only then did he offer you an ear. You vow to give him all you are in return for one thing, a simple prayer.

Death. Instantaneous, painless. Then cremated and thrown out to sea.

You played right into his wheelhouse — you tell him of your sins, of your ability. You tell him that you wish for him to grace you with the powers of god, to give you the salvation you needed. Fyodor has never had anyone that brave, that... foolish to ask anything like that of him. Which is why he agrees. Not only are you useful, you are an interesting one.

Maybe he will find more use out of you. Maybe.

He does.

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People are made up of their own sins, be it greed, lust, envy. Fyodor tries to figure out what you’re made of.

But his own answer frustrates him. When he tries to put a word to it, he remembers you getting up early to brew him coffee. He remembers you putting a blanket over him when he falls asleep in front of his blueprints. He remembers you holding your own when he talks down to you. He remembers you protecting him in missions, even over the littlest things.

Even domestic things. A pill on his pillow when he’s sick and refuses to acknowledge it. A tray of food (healthy ones too, because he’s anemic and you know that) in the microwave when he comes back late from surveying an area. A plan drafted up for the next mission when you know he’s too tired to do it by himself.

Sunshine.

That’s what you’re made up of. Warm, soothing. And he hates his answer. This... affection towards you. He can’t explain it either. He hates it too.

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Slowly, but surely.

That is you — fitting into your position in his life. One of great importance, one that pains him to deny to himself. It is bound to end in ruins anyway. And still, Fyodor can’t control it. No, no, he can. Could it be — he doesn’t want to?

The subtlety of inching closer to each other while looking over the details of the next mission. You on his left side, right hand taking refuge on the surface of the table for no purpose whatsoever. He on your right, left hand brushing against your arm, heartbeat drumming in his ears. Pinkies intertwined. But no words about that exchanged. Fyodor notices the goosebumps that form on your skin though, and for a second, he guesses — is this what hope feels like?

Late nights where he used to bug you to go to sleep — he prefers planning by himself after all — he doesn’t anymore. What is he wishing for? He’s puzzled himself. But then you remind him — every time the old grandfather clock against the wall strikes midnight, when your eyes automatically get a little droopy. Every time each minute passes after that, when your voice gets thick with sleepiness and you drawl out your words. And every time you try to stay awake and fail, when your head drops on his shoulder as you drift into sleep. And Fyodor feels... oddly blessed. Is this what he’s wishing for? A simple gesture such as being your shoulder to sleep on? Isn’t this silly? No, says his mind, not if it’s you. And he takes a closer look at you in your slumber.

Since when did you become so beautiful?

Conversations about your ability where he usually shows a distaste for it — he freaks you out when his disdain turns into praises. And the sweet moments in his mind vanish whenever he hears you say anything in relation to your coming death. His voice gets louder, tongue gets sharper, until it drives you away from the room, in tears. And it takes him but a while to find out why he’s acting this way now. He doesn’t want you to go.

Fyodor bangs the table as hard as he can, frustration taking over him, tears falling from his eyes in a silent cry. The last thing he wants is for you to know how deeply he cares. It would just cause more problems for both of you. And you would feel bad for him, won’t you? The guilt would eat you up, wouldn’t it? He doesn’t want you to feel that way. But he’s never felt this way before. He doesn’t know how to do this right.

And in the next room you lean against the door and fall to the floor. You drown your cries in polyester, hearing the bang that is undoubtedly caused by you. You thought everything was going well... were you wrong?

But the days after, when he apologises and gets the courage to call you names? He treasures them. No, not harsh names — but pet names. “Moya dorogaya (my dear),” he’d always call you. And you’d play along with a whisper in his ear, “moy dorogoy (my dear).” He doesn’t tell you, but it consumes him with happiness and relief when he hears you say the words with such tenderness. Fyodor always acts like he’s joking, and you always let him believe you think he is. But you both know the other is hiding something, and yet neither of you press on the matter. Some things are better left unsaid.

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Live in the moment, they say.

If that’s the only way to distract him from the horror that would be his future without you, then he figures he may as well take it.

“It’s the first time I’ve been with an older lady,” he jokes.

“Hey, I’m not that—”

Fyodor seals your words with his lips that night. As the alcohol seeps into both your systems, he makes the decision to cross the line. The promised time is soon, and he’d rather know every inch of you rather than spend the rest of his life wondering, guessing what you feel like. And he ignores the logical voices in his mind telling him to stop as his fingers dance across every single surface of your body, as his ears tingle hearing your moans that he is responsible for, as he smells the coconut of your hair, as he tastes the wine lingering in your tongue and the sweetness of your essence.

That night isn’t his first time ever, but he’s never felt passion that can mirror his experience with you. The way he doesn’t want it to ever stop, the way you look as you enjoy his each and every thrust, the way you blush when you realise he’s soaking in every ounce of you; the way you look — he wants it imprinted into his memories.

For a moment, after the deed is done, when you are lying bare against his chest, hearts beating as one — for that moment, he wonders if he’s able to change your mind.

But “thank you, Fyo,” you murmur. “You’ve made these past few months of my life more worthwhile than the previous centuries I’ve lived.”

In your words he hears the answer. And he realises.

The foolish one... is he.

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You taught him how to love, but you never taught him how to stop. Death already had you in its grip. But death cannot kill what never dies.

Whatever Fyodor felt — and still feels — for you, he wishes will disappear to the void, along with you and the memories of you. But he’s more rational than that. This will never go away. The warmth he knows he felt, the pain he still feels, and the sorrows that he has yet to felt. None of them will ever vanish.

Never. Unlike the light in your eyes as he presses his palm to your forehead, unlike the gratitude in your voice as you whisper a “thank you” to him before you fall lifeless in his arms.

Fyodor used to pride himself in being the leader of his organisation, in being a god of sorts. And now, with you gone — he doesn’t know who he is anymore. Every little thing that made him him, they’re all tainted with you. From his morning cups of coffee to the additional meticulousness in his planning, each and every part of his life you’ve invaded, and unlike you, they’re here to stay.

“We’re here, lyubimaya (honey),” Fyodor mumbles, holding up the urn.

It’s a beautiful day. The sand under his shoes, the ocean breeze singing past his ears, the sun slowly setting, reminding him of his sunshine. His sunshine who, after all those months, still sought death. And he didn’t want to be the reason you continued to resent life, so he gave in. He gave in to his love for you.

As he looks out at the horizon, he lets his mind wander aimlessly for once — to think irrationally for the first time in so long. Was it possible that you were watching over him? Rationality be damned, he wishes you are. It is lonely once again, without you. He doesn’t want to let you go, he thinks as he uncaps the urn. He doesn’t want the last remains of you to leave his side, he thinks as he tilts the urn sideways over the ocean. But “farewell, radost moya (my joy),” he bids to you as your ashes disperse themselves into the vast sea.

“I love you,” he mumbles, hoping it gets to you wherever you are. The words he’s never said to you, they suddenly come so easy now that you’re gone. He chuckles in self-deprecation. Oh, how human you’ve made him feel.

Fyodor acts as though the tears aren’t real. He doesn’t wipe them away as he watches the last of you slip away from him. He curses the tears for not blurring the vision of you flashing in his mind, for not marring the smile he remembers.

Love leaves memories no one can steal, and this love exists beyond worlds, this feeling won’t be separated from Fyodor no matter how much he begs for it to. And trying to forget you would be trying to forget the only home he’s ever known. It will be impossible, he is sure. And for the first time in his life, yet another first you have cast upon him, he does what he never thought he would.

Fyodor falls on his knees, the now empty urn falling in place right beside him. He doesn’t care for the sand staining his white pants or the water that runs across his legs. Gods aren’t supposed to feel this way, are they? Helpless, pathetic, and yearning for something they can’t have? Or is it normal to be a slave to love?

The tears now blur his vision completely. Not like he can see anything clearly anymore. Everything is murky with you gone. And he lets his sobs out this time. What a capable woman you are, he thinks, in life and even in death, because how amazing must one be, to be able to bring a god down to his knees?

He peers out at the sea, knowing your spirit is free. There is nothing left between the two of you now but an ocean of silence.

Fyodor is drowning in it. Forever.

And forever is a long time.

tags: @yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes