drapetomaniee - Tumblr blog

[drapetomaniee]

[drapetomaniee]

[drapetomaniee]

[drapetomaniee]

[drapetomaniee]

[drapetomaniee]

I have dozens of AO3 tabs open on my phone. Many of them are my comfort fics that I’ll read at any given time on any given day if I just want to.

And I realised today that if something I write becomes a permanent tab on someone’s phone or computer, then the hours and hours of work and time and tears I spent creating it will be well worth it. 

So, write the thing. It’ll mean something to you, and you never know what it could wind up meaning to someone else.

[drapetomaniee]

via pinterest 

[drapetomaniee]

my entire life is just a test to see if i’ll commit suicide or homicide first

[drapetomaniee]

Wallace Polsom, Empty Nest (2021), paper collage, 20.1 x 25.1 cm.

[drapetomaniee]

nothing

[drapetomaniee]

Mu and Coco on Instagram / Etsy

[drapetomaniee]

Lisa Sheehan - Untitled, from the cover of “Chemistry World” magazine, 2020

[drapetomaniee]

The Clever Rat and his White Cat Nikolai

By Lilith Yksveotsod

Summary

Where Nikolai and Fyodor play rat and cat.

Notes

English is not my mother language so if there's any mistake please let me know.

This story can also be found in my wattpad's profile @lovchaery and in my AO3 profile @Lilith_Yksveotsod

The title of this story alludes to the chinese novel Dumb Husky and his White Cat Shizun

Have a nice reading!

Nikolai was bored, he had spent the whole day in Sigma's room, teasing him with his quizzes, questions and games until he ran out of patience and kicked him out.

Night had fallen and Nikolai, in turn decided to migrate to Fyodor's room instead of returning to his own.

Fyodor's room was exactly the same as Sigma's and his own.

Except, for little things.

Like the tea cups scattered around the room, on the bookshelf, on the desk, on the dresser and on the floor near the bed.

There were many books, books of all kinds - big thick books, thin books, small books, books with covers and even without them. And there were papers, clean papers and papers already written.

But the problem Gogol encountered was the fact that Dostoevsky was simply too calm and impassive, he did not get angry.

Making use of his ability, he had opened a small portal with his cloak close to the other russian's face, just the right size to pass his hand through.

He had been squeezing his cheek and fiddling with his hair for tireless minutes, but Fyodor remained unfazed.

Sitting on the bed with his back against the headboard, he devoted his attention solely to the book in his hands.

— Ah Dos-kun, why don't you hit me or send me away? - He whined.

In fact, teasing Sigma was countless times more fun.

— Dos-kun!!!

Silence.

At this point, Nikolai resembled a child throwing a tantrum.

— Dos-kun, has the cat got your tongue?

— I - He began, breaking his silence and speaking for the first time since Nikolai had entered the room - I'm waiting for that to happen - He closed the book and smiled mockingly.

Nikolai seemed surprised at first, but Fyodor soon saw the mischievousness of his smile infect those eyes that stared at him now.

The hand inside the small portal disappeared.

He watched Nikolai stand up and walk towards him, the feline preparing for the attack.

Nikolai's first move had been to walk across the bed, on all fours, on his hands and knees - like a cat - to Fyodor, then he gently held his face with his hands and sealed their lips with a kiss.

A fervent kiss, loaded with desire, wildness and a touch of gentleness.

Oh well, now the cat had really eaten his tongue.

The ushanka and top hat had already fallen from their heads amidst the commotion.

The once perfectly pristine white sheets now lay in perfect disarray.

Fyodor shivered as his shirt and coat were removed.

— Dos-kun? - he asked apprehensively.

— It's cold.

It wasn't that cold, it was late spring, the nights were usually pleasant. However, Nikolai had forgotten that due to his anaemia, he was always cold.

— I will warm you up - Said the platinum man, wrapping his arms around the body of the man below him.

Feeling Fyodor's breath close to his ear brought a comforting feeling to Nikolai, a feeling similar to when you hear a storm running outside and feel safe being indoors.

They stayed cuddled for a while, until the warmth of his lover's body warmed his own.

Fyodor was so comfortable and cosy that if he closed his eyes he could sleep right there, until he felt a shiver run through his body when alien lips kissed his neck.

It was time to play again, after all he was the one who had instigated the feline.

Dostoevsky had undone the braid that held the other russian's hair back, platinum locks flowed loosely down Gogol's bare back.

Nikolai watched Fyodor as he shed his monochrome suit.

Fyodor was pale and thin, Nikolai compared him to a crystal ball made of the finest and most graceful glass, not permissible to the touch as if it would break at any moment.

And in like all fragile things, there was also beauty in that slender body.

There was only one word to describe what Nikolai saw.

Fyodor was magnificent.

Perhaps he daydreamed for too long, for those violet eyes stared at him in confusion.

— Hm? - He emitted a murmur.

— It's nothing - He smiled and devoted his attention to that body smaller than his own.

Nikolai's hands ran over every inch of his body, a different shiver running down his body with each touch.

As it went on, Fyodor had received kisses, caresses, touches and marks were left on his body.

Nikolai had received moans, sighs and scratches in return.

The white card of diamonds that Nikolai wore in his right eye had fallen from his face joining the white mess of sheets.

Now Fyodor could see his face clearly.

This land was indeed stained with impurity and immorality caused by its inhabitants, foolish and ignorant little sinners.

However, God had sent angels to walk among the sinners.

And for Fyodor Dostoevsky, Nikolai Gogol was one of them.

Nikolai was beautiful, not the ordinary beauty seen on the faces of models and film actors, but a beauty coming from a divine place, unattainable for ordinary people.

Oh, he certainly was an angel.

Even if he was an angel bearing the gift of rebellion.

He reached out his hand intending to touch that face, but was stopped.

Nikolai noticed the bruised fingers.

— Dos-kun! You have to stop this. – He said, referring to Fyodor's habit of biting his fingertips.

He kissed his fingers fondly, giving himself a mental reminder to take care of the injuries later.

Gogol interlaced his hands.

Bare skins met in friction, causing overwhelming sensations of immense delight.

Nikolai smiled as he noticed the blush appearing on Fyodor's pale face.

— Nikolai...ah - He said in a breathless voice.

It was just his name, there was nothing extraordinary about it.

But when his name was uttered by those lips, by that voice, Nikolai felt as if he had been saved. Saved from falling into the abyss to which he was bound to fall.

Nikolai did not like being bound by feelings, yet it was feelings like these that made him think that being a prisoner of them was not all bad.

After all, his jailer was Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Nikolai watched him.

His eyes closed, sweat sticking to the strands of black hair on his forehead, his expression bathed in pleasure, and his breathing out of breath.

Nikolai smiled and kissed him.

The fervour, the euphoria, the adrenaline crossing their bodies during the kiss, a rapture of emotions filling them from the inside out.

Ecstasy.

The fun had come to an end.

The grip on his hands loosened and Nikolai rested his head on Fyodor's chest.

He heard his racing heart begin to beat slowly again.

Minutes later, the two of them found themselves in a bathtub.

Hot water and foam washed away the impurity of their actions, but the essence of their caresses and touch remained present.

— Give me your hand. – He asked.

He held it out and Nikolai could glue the bandaids on his fingers.

They wouldn't last long, Fyodor would hurt his own fingers again the next morning, but Nikolai would glue them again as many times as necessary.

Nikolai washed the hair of a sleepy Fyodor.

The clothes were back on the bodies, and everything had turned white again.

Back in the room, Nikolai had collected all the empty tea cups he could find and changed the sheets, and Fyodor had remade the braid in a smiling Nikolai's hair.

Gogol lay down and Dostoevsky did the same.

Fyodor closed his eyes, he was satisfied.

Nikolai really knew how to put on a show.

Perhaps loving was too much for Fyodor, after all he was a ruthless and inclement demon, yet he could not deny that Nikolai Gogol caused a certain unknown effect on him.

Whatever that feeling was, Fyodor was for Nikolai.

Always would be.

— Turn off the lights. - He ordered.

— Dos-kun, I can't move. - He referred to Fyodor's lying on his arm.

But Dostoevsky didn't seem to mind, the body remained motionless.

Nikolai laid his hand delicately over his lover's eyes, so as to conceal the brightness of the room.

Already he had slept with the lights on anyway.

Notes

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!

See you soon.

– Love, Lilith

[drapetomaniee]

[drapetomaniee]

Ratitas 🐁✨

[drapetomaniee]

It's so annoying when you cross a road and a bus doesn't hit you.

[drapetomaniee]