#i really went full fedya

[poeticruin]

how am i supposed to settle for what people call romance these days, when i want someone to look at me like a priest looks at a holy icon, pray for my love like a desperate person prays with a heart full of hope and sin for me like nothing holier could ever be done?

[raitonsfw]

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Trying to surprise Fyodor never went well; either he'd figure it out within the hour or Nikolai had to be the one to spoil it. And of course, the latter happened and there you were– trying to explain yourself with nipple piercings and a togue piercing... along with Nikolai and his godforsaken dick piercing.

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, fem!reader, polycule!fyolai x reader, piercings (reader has nipple & tongue piercings | nikolai has a jacob's ladder dick piercing), allusions of threesomes, blowjobs, & cunnilingus, banter, pet names (dove for reader & fyolai call each other kolya and fedya), use of nikolai's ability (he uses it to unclasp your bralette), fyodor feels the reader up cuz he's so fascinated by the piercings.

a/n: i'm definitely writing a part 2 to this dw, ik i kinda edged you in this but stay tuned cuz i'll most likely make this into a full writing piece. (me secretly obsessed with fyolai x readers) wc: 600ish. v-day list | m.list

thirst count: 1

divider credit: @hitobaby & @firefly-graphics

“Kolya… What is that?” You heard the conversation next to you as Nikolai changed into his sleepwear and you wanted to fucking smack him.

The entire week you both had hid your piercings from Fyodor, tiptoeing past him– you with your mouth closed most of the time and an extra padded bra on but Nikolai? He didn’t bother to really hide his, seemingly forgetting he had it due to his pain threshold. It worked out well for the most part and unless Fyodor intended to suck him off– or intended to make you suck him off– he didn’t notice.

Fyodor wasn’t very suspicious– after all he had been fairly occupied, even during your few sexual escapades with Nikolai. You both had redirected him each time his hands grasped at your shirt and he wasn’t much of a kisser– no that was Nikolai’s guilty pleasure, who gladly slipped his tongue into your mouth to taste the metallic bar every chance he got. He had positioned himself behind you on the pillow, leaning down to kiss you each time Fyodor lapped into your cunt, his white braid falling against your shoulder. And your hand would come up to squeeze at the bulge of his striped trousers, eliciting a sharp groan from him each time you did it. 

You were honestly surprised the both of you got this far without Fyodor noticing. 

“You like it, Fedya?” Nikolai cooed, thrumming his finger over the piercing. “Got it just for you.”

“How do I respond to that– well, I don’t hate it?” Fyodor’s eyes had dimmed, you didn’t know whether it was in lust or in calculation as he stared at the piercing– a jacob’s ladder piercing to be exact. It could very well be both plaguing his mind, the gears turning silently as he indicated each ring of the piercing against the underside of Nikolai’s dick.

“Dove’s got some too, don’t you?” Nikolai flashed a smile towards you as he adjusted his sleep pants against himself, flopping down next to Fyodor with a satisfied groan. “C’mon, he already knows now– what good can it do not to show him?”

“It was supposed to be for Valentine’s Day…” You muttered out with a quiet sigh, but you already felt Fyodor’s eyes on you– in fact he even moved off the bed just to find out for himself. He carefully undid the buttons on your pajamas and threaded over the light bralette you wore to sleep underneath it, his breath hitching in the process. 

“Some piercings?” Fyodor quoted Nikolai with a tilted expression and you stuck out your tongue, a surprised look crossing his face. “Oh-!”

“We made sure you wouldn’t notice, but Nikolai ruined it…” You pouted, your tongue sliding back into your mouth.

“Oops.” Nikolai grinned mischievously, felting his cape against the edge of the bed. “I forgot I even had the piercing.” 

“No, you didn’t.” You said pointedly as Fyodor slipped his hands into the crescented lace, running his thumb over the nub of your nipple piercing. You inhaled sharply, your hands coming up to hold his– suddenly it came loose with a slight tug and you looked behind you to see Nikolai’s hand delving out of his golden portal. 

“Lai–” You started, but Fyodor had already started to glide the bralette off with a smirk playing on his lips. You couldn’t really think straight as his fingers tweaked against the dull pleasure of your nipple– of the piercing that heightened almost every nerve there. A light moan fell from your lips, looking past Fyodor to Nikolai’s coy expression. 

“What? Fedya probably wants to see, right?” Nikolai chuckled, pushing you towards him and you both winded up next to him on the bed soon after your bralette was shed. “I do too– now strip for us, dove.”

[ririkoakashii]

୨⎯ " Made Just For You " ⎯୧

"You're pouring your heart out ,I'm acting like I knew, You held me so down, So down I never grew, oh I tried to find out, When none of them came through, And now I'm stuck in the middle, And baby had to pull me out, oh" - Streets by Doja Cat

Content Warnings: Smut, Fingering, Cum-eating, ADA! reader x Fyodor, Doggy style(?), Cock-warming, spanking, Fyodor is very ooc, Dom! Fyodor, sub! reader, slight thigh ridding, Cunnilingus , home office sex, cursing, petnames.

A/N: I hope you guys Fedoor lover enjoy this! and I'm sorry if you felt like my grammar(s) are wrong or smtg tbh english is not my first language and if you feel like you once read this on a draft paper from your classmate or smtg, no. You didn't. This stuff been in my drafts longer than my grandma but anyways I really hope y'all like this stuff

Words count:2681 words

ೃ⁀➷ Minors do not interact ˋ°•*⁀➷

. . . . . ╰──╮ ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶ ╭──╯ . . . .

Hands trembling, reaching out the door handle. Slowly, you open the door with hesitation. "Umm, sir? Are you in there?" Soon you spoke while opening the door that leads to that bastard's office. You might wonder who I'm talking about. one and only Fyodor Dostoyevsky. The wanted criminal, the manipulator, the leader of the rats in the House of the Dead, a member of the Decay of the Angels, and also the most dangerous ability user you've ever met.

You look inside the home office and see no sign of Fyodor. He'll usually let only God know what he's planning to do to get rid of the sinners. You came here because the stupid armed detective agency made you finish a mission as soon as possible. Your mission is to steal one piece of data from his computer, transfer it to a USB drive, and then return. But it takes you 7 months to do it, and right now you're going to accomplish it. You're tired of playing darling with Fyodor for 7 months—faking your name to him, trying to like things that he likes so he'll be impressed by you, acting so innocently to grow his ego. To be honest, you did lose your virginity to this devil/rat before anyone else in the agency.

You close the door behind you. Sighing, you walk closer to his desk. You swear that if he suddenly went up to the office you'd shot yourself to death, You open his computer, trying to find the stupid data that the agency wanted. Once you found it, you plugged in the USB. While you're waiting for it to transfer, you sit down in his office chair and think about everything you've done for him.

To be honest, you have had some great times with him. And you're kind of sad that you're going to leave him, but you have to. And after rethinking several times, Nikolai begged Fyodor to let you join the Decay of the Angels, but Fyodor refused despite your safety. And let's be real, you do have a little crush on Nikolai. Because, in nature, he is similar to you, and you are similar to him. 

Drifting off suddenly, a voice spooks you. "I didn't know you're a sneaky little bitch, Myshka, or shall I say y/n from the armed detective agency? You think I didn't notice you were faking your name, mousy?" You recognized his voice when it spoke to you. You didn't know when he was in the office, but he's been watching you for a while now. Standing up, you reply, "Ah! Fedya, dear, what are you talking about? I'm just in here because it's the warmest room in here! And who's this y/n girl you're talking about?" You lied (oh, come on now, you're y/n); "shall I call you by your full name, Myshka? Y/n L/N? I knew from the beginning, dearest. Should I kill you so no one remembers you, or… are you going to be our doll?" he paused. You were stunned by his words. You're not ready to die! And he knew that "Cheiri" is not your real name; he knew everything, including your mission. The agency was well aware that you were no longer the ideal candidate! "What'd you say, Myshka?" He inquires, resting his hand on your chin. "W-what do you mean by our doll?" Gulping you reply. You knew Fyodor was into punishing you (it's called crime and punishment for a reason), but you didn't think he was into sharing with you. "Oh, dear, do you think I'm going to keep in here all for myself? Ah, it'll be paradise if so, but dearest, have you forgotten? Paradise is so hard to achieve, and I haven't worked that hard to achieve it so easily. In order to achieve paradise, you must have an opponent." He began to whisper next to your ear. You glance toward the USB; you didn't have a choice but to pick the second option. You can escape later. Or so you thought.

Throwing your arms around his neck, you pull him into a passionate kiss, where he slides his tongue into your wet cavern. He put his hand on your waist. Another hand travels in your dress, groping one of your breasts and slightly squeezing it. You moaned into the kiss, your body becoming warm as well. He broke the kiss, and you're a panting mess. "I suppose you wanted to be our doll, Myshka. A whore who was made just for me." He says while rubbing both of  your cheeks with his thumb, and you nod. "Yes, sir, I was made just for you." Pleased with your response. Smirking, he kisses you again, but this time it's more of a hungry kiss, peppering your chin and neck with small kisses and love bites. "I'm going to mark you up before Nikolai can." He murmurs into your skin, sending vibrations through it. "Mhm, yes, please... Take me as yours." You mewl in his ears. It's like music to his ears; you're on fire with your cheeks flushed pinkish. Fyodor bit down on that one certain spot of your neck to earn an embarrassed choke-moan from you. "Ack!" You swing your hand to cover up the lewd noise you make. Fyodor notices it and grabs your wrist, stop sucking your neck. "There's no need to be shy, Myshka. I want everyone to know you're my slut who's drooling over her master's cock and moaning mess for me when I enters her." He whispers while removing your hand from your lips. He stared at you for a second before kissing you again.

His hands are now working on the front of your dress, pulling down the ribbon of your dress; he never broke the kiss while at it. He stopped kissing you and smirked to himself. You were confused by his actions; he sat down on the office chair and faced you. " Strip." You stared at him, not knowing whether you should strip naked or let him do it for you. "Should I repeat myself, mousy? Strip now; just leave your panties on. Did I really fuck you that good till it fucked your brain too, Myshka?" He spoke with a sadistic grin. 

You start to strip off everything you're wearing except for your white lacy panties which he likes to see you wearing. He stares at your naked body with no expression, but the bulge in his pants is evidence that he's turned on. " c'mere." He said this while patting his lap and motioning for you to sit on his thigh. You couldn't bring yourself to disobey him, so you sat on his thigh, facing him. His hand travels on your bare back and stops right on your ass, giving it a teasing squeeze that makes you bite your lower lips to keep quiet. He kissed you unexpectedly, and you swear you felt him smirking while he kissed you. While he was busy kissing you, you rolled your hips back and forward on his thigh, chasing your own pleasure.He immediately spanked your ass, which made you break the kiss. "What was that for? It hurts.." You hiss at the pain, which will most likely leave a red mark on your ass cheeks. "Oh? My little mouse is very needy, isn't she? And if you keep going, you'll stain my pants with your own arousal. Plus, you'll know who you belong to." He said this while rubbing that red spot on your ass while wearing his famous smirk. 

You're too needy to think straight, so you got up and sat on his desk, spreading your legs. "Please, Fedya.." you said while pushing your panties to the side so he'd get a full view of your glistening pussy. He moves the chair closer to you, resting his head on your thigh and caressing your left thigh with his other hand. "Please what, dear? I can't help you if you don't tell me what you want, Myshka." He threw a smile at you. "Fuck me like a slut, fuck me until I can't walk, punish me, degrade me, eat me out, fuck me until I forget everything but you." You beg him just to get a low chuckle out of him.

"As you wish, Myshka." He went closer to your crotch, both hands spreading your thighs and preventing you from closing them. While making eye contact with you, he kisses one of your inner thighs and begins to nibble on it with small kisses. A small whimper escapes from your lips, pushing your hips closer to his face. "I barely touch you, and you're so needy already. I wonder if anyone saw you like this. All desperate for me." He murmurs to himself, and without a word, he shoves two fingers into your wet pussy just to earn himself a high-pitched scream from you. He moves his fingers in a slow, torturous pace, slightly curling them upward to find a spot to make you see stars. You wanted his fingers deeper in your throbbing core; you rolled your hips, and as you rode his fingers, he pulled away. "Why did you stop? I want more,  please." You begged him; tears began to fill your eyes. All he did was give you a smirk. He didn't speak; instead, he buried his face in your crotch, giving it kitten licks. "Fuck-fuck more, deeper, please." You're too needy for him; deep down, he was shocked because for no reason you're in heat; he was about to punish you, but why? You're so horny when you're about to meet Lucifer himself.

He suddenly began to suck up your pussy that makes you shake so violently, and his hand that was wet from your juices went to rub your clitoral area in circles. " mhmm ahh more~" You mewl while pulling his hair so he'll get closer to your clenching hole, and it doesn't take much time for you to feel like you need to release. "Ah fuck! I'm cumming. Please, ah, Fedya ngh fuck! I'm cumming, I'm cumming!" He didn't stop sucking you at all when you announced you were getting close to your orgasm; instead of slowing down, he started to lap his tongue more deeply into your cunt. You feel a knot snap inside of you when you realize you squirted on his face. You were a panting mess, gasping for air. He collects your cum on his fingers, then taps it on your lower lip and says, "Open up." and you, being a good obedience pet, did what he said and started lapping your own cum on his fingers. He looked at you, slightly smiling to himself. "What's so funny?" You ask after licked his fingers clean. "Nothing, dear. It's just… It's only the beginning of our game, and you've already worn out. I didn't even properly fuck your pretty pussy yet." He's right. He's not going to let you get out of this punishment that easily.

He stood up, looking down at you who's lying on his office table, all messed up from him, just like he wanted. Leaning down, he kissed your lips while your naughty hands undid his pants. He notices it immediately, but he didn't let you stop; it's part of his plans after all. You can feel his cock pressed against your clothed crotch, but you want him inside right now. " Mmm Fedya, I want you.. inside of me.. I wanna carry your babies, please." You whisper to him while French kissing him; your hands wrap around his neck, and you don't want to let go. "Of course, dear. Even if your body refuses to carry my children, I'll fuck you until you can carry it." He murmurs into your lips, and you only hum in reply.

You broke the kiss because you needed to breathe, only for him to kiss your cheeks and say, "Stand up and bend over the desk, dear; I'm going to make you feel so so so fucking good." He demanded, and since you're so fucking needy, you did as he said. He's only in his boxers since his pants are across the room because of you.

Ass up in the air, panties around your ankle, waiting for him to ruin you in one thrust. "Mmm, can you hurry up a little, sir? It's cold."  Your desperate plea made him chuckle to himself. "My, my, tell me, dear, which one of your cute holes you want me to fill up with my cock? Your ass or your pussy?" He leaned down from behind you to your ear level, whispering those filthy things. "My pussy sir, since it was made just for you."

Smirking at your reply, he lined his erection and shoved it in your pussy, receiving a loud moan from you. He let you adjust his cock for a second, and you could feel his cock brushing your cervix, so deep in you, like you were becoming one. "My, you're so sinful yet so precious, like a fleshlight that was made just for me." His hands travel down to your hips, keeping you from moving too much. He then starts to thrust in your clenching hole slowly yet so deeply. Every thrust he made made you see stars, making you feel like a virgin again. You felt like you were getting closer as the tip of his dick brushed your cervix again, and that's where you came on his cock following with a moan; you swore you could feel his dick twitching inside of you.

And that's when you heard a groan from him: "Oh fuck-hah, I'm so close, mousy, I wanna fill you up.. Hah fuck!" He said between his breath, his thrust getting sloppier than before, and his movement—making your tits bounce, your mouth hanging open, eyes rolling to the back of your skull, your breathing getting heavier each time—the whole room got a strong smell of sex. You can't think. All you wanted was for him to fill you up with his thick cum; you'd never felt so satisfied by him before. "I'm cumming-you so fucking good, fuck-ahh, love." A second later, his white cement painted your velvet walls white. He's so fucking deep in you too. You don't want him to pull out of you, but he did, and all you could do was whine due to his cock leaving you feeling empty again.

He sat down on his office chair and asked you, "Don't you want to warm me up, dear? It's cold in here, isn't it?" He spread himself out, making some space for you to sit on his crotch, warming it. Your legs are sore and wobbly from the event, but he pulls his chair closer to the table where you got all bent over it, making it easier for you to sit on him. You tried to turn yourself around with the lack of energy you had, and you succeeded. You are now facing him, holding yourself up with both of your arms. His knee now touching your skin, he snakes his arm around your waist to help you warm him up. Pulling you down so his cock meets your entrance, he pushes you down to his cock, taking him all, making you wince due to your senses. You wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, hugging him like a koala, and your face snuggles up into his neck. His hand travels down your bare back, slowly drawing circles with his fingers. Slowly, you feel like you're drifting off, and the last thing you heard before falling asleep was, "My, you're so perfect, like we're meant to be together. Ah.. what's that you said again, love? You're made just for me? I'm so lucky to have you, and you will be mine forever because you're made just for me and I just made for you."

[kaus-quietis]

Greetings, Anon! Thank you for your questions. I have to admit, even in the past, I refrained from posting reactions or speculations as BSD chapters release, but you already knew that, so I will indulge you. I'll answer each part of your ask. BSD ch113 thoughts below, manga spoilers ahead.

♠ "What was your raw reaction?" It was not a calm, quiet one, I can tell you that. No, in fact I screamed with excitement as if I was in a Roman amphitheatre and my favourite gladiator just got back up on his feet, out of sheer force of will, grinning and sweaty. My scream was the fastest way I could "verbalize" the fact that I was overjoyed to see him alive again, even if it's in the 15th century, and on top of that he seemed to be some kind of spy monk all chained up and having what seems to be a ridiculous amount of fun getting caught and discussing with Bram. This is all very in-character for him.

♠ "Was that something you expected?" Absolutely not. Yes, yes, I truly did not expect a jump back in time and this infobomb drop, despite the fact that we did get a few hints that Fedya seemed present at past events when all the other character really appeared younger than him (near the end of S4ep3, where on a rooftop Fedya says "It's not V, it's Five" and I am seriously like bruh I give up what I want to say is I need more data to work with, what am I supposed to do with this, rationally speaking?). However, we can't yet extract anything conclusive from this. Is he ageless? A time-traveler? Immortal? Does he revive? When was he born? Was he born at all or created differently somehow? Is he of BSD's world, or an external one (Beast liveaction finale anyone?)? Is this all within the Book and he's just… idk flipping the pages? Anything is possible and I refuse to spend a lot of time working with incomplete data. This is not very follower-friendly (as in, my blog is basically inactive in-between), I know and I apologize, but if after many chapters there will be something worthwile to add to my essay (with what Fukuchi said in ch113 I already have important stuff to add), under those circumstances I will consider writing an update. It's not yet time.

♠ "<Was that> something you felt different for the characterization we all made for Fyodor?" Hmm, I would hesitate to refer to a characterization "we all made" for him (I wish! T o T), because my analysis and blog are but a tiny tiny part of the fandom (I think…? I wonder about my Fedya essay's reach or influence sometimes). But let's say here we refer to one that comes close to what I tried to show in my essay. In that case, I would say that there is nothing to fear here in this chapter, but it's very understandable to have massive trust issues at this point. We went through a miserable, miserable time when the previous ones made the guy who visually memorized a full deck of used cards somehow not notice Chuuya wearing contacts and fake vampire teeth, despite knowing the vampire race since… well, the 15th century! I cannot even begin to describe what I felt reading ch111.5-112, I was beyond repulsed. Lovers of "villain" characters understand the following thing well: in most media, our fav has to lose, he has to die or disappear at some point, with rare exceptions. I, too, know this well, but that was no compelling way to solve BSD's villain threat. I still don't know how BSD will wash away that narrative stain, as I consider it, but then again one of the reasons we love this manga is that it keeps us on the edge of our seats and the most absurd yet fun turns can happen out of the blue. We can reasonably ask ourselves: ok, what is the purpose of showing Fedya's backstory now? If it's for build-up, we can already start grinning like Cheshire cats. What could possibly be next? I'm cautiously optimistic, things look in-character and good to me. Very good, in fact.

♠ "Or do you think it is later on going add some depth to his character?" Backstories are shown usually for a very clear purpose. We don't know the purpose yet, but if it's done well, then… then my whole essay could be at risk lmao (and I love this sensation). New info could add so much depth to his character, in fact, that his previously observed traits could gain new meanings, or even contradictory ones. Whichever it will be, I think it's pretty safe to bet on "his backstory will be very relevant".

♠ Bonus: even if I enjoy going "full analytical" and enter conference speech mode when asked, I am driven by strong emotions, by which I want to say – I am not immune to assassin/spy monk Fedya chained up like that and having the time of his life again. I missed seeing him entertained like that, and his current …………. visual representation in the.. uh. ..chapter, yeah, well, it's doing things to my Depeche Mode-worshipping heart.

Anyway, to conclude with some facts we know as of now:

a. Fedya and Bram are inside the Bran Castle, close to the Romanian city of Brașov, "deep in the Carpathians" although not built at high altitude itself. It's basically a fortress built between 1377-1388, with several later additions. The BSD representation of it is very accurate to how it looks today. It's near perfect, actually, I applaud.

b. Bram mentions King Matthias, and in this context that can only mean Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary for 1458-1490. The meeting between Fedya and Bram thus happens some year during his reign, when Transylvania was still part of the Kingdom of Hungary. What is still strange to me is that I can't pinpoint Bram's exact position, as in… were his people independent? Or avoided? I feel like I need to re-read past Bram-related chapters to think about this.

c. Nevermind Bram, the things that Fukuchi says, those are the real goldmine here, but the gold is still… encrypted? I mean: Fedya made the DoA plan (more than confirmed now), and because Fukuchi asked for the condition to keep casualties under 500, Fedya respected that and we got entertained for like half of the whole BSD manga: using coin bombs for terror, for economic/political destabilization, using the vampire infection to avoid further violence, these things. The more you think about it, the more insane it gets. Since Fedya agreed to this condition, it means causing (more) deaths and violence were expendable things to him. (But imagine this: Fukuchi said "I want max. 500 deaths" and Fedya said "Yeah I can do that", now if Fukuchi would've said "I want max. 2 deaths" I really believe Fedya would've still said "Yeah I can do that". What can't he do, especially since murder for murder's sake isn't his goal?). This is in perfect harmony with his "necessary deaths only" approach so far, and much much more. There are far more implications in what Fukuchi said, which I won't type out here now. Gotta keep them and build around them for a future analysis update.

This was a rather long read, but still, I hope this satisfies your curiosities, Anon. *bows dramatically & disappears in a borderline insufferable ENTP way*

[herehavesomeheadcanons]

On the 8th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me… 8 Christmas Trees!

Tamaki Amajiki

💙🐱Let's be real here, getting the tree set up is a group effort with the whole big three. Although… Tamaki isn't much help. Mirio had the bright idea to visit a Christmas tree farm so you guys could pick out and cut down your own tree.

💙🐱It was cold and snowy, as most December days tend to be unless you happen to be anywhere south of Kentucky (*realizes Japan is south of Kentucky* FUCK- oh well). You guys were so caught up in arguing over what was the best tree that you didn't realize you had lost Tamaki! You eventually found him hiding in the middle of a grove of fir trees, just chilling. He looked so adorable that you couldn't help sneaking a cuddle session with him!

💙🐱Once you finally settle on a tree and get it home, Mirio and Nejire are struggling to get the tree to stand upright in the stand. You and Tamaki are standing by giving directions ("a little bit left… now right…" "that's too much! It's gonna fall down!" "Shhhh Tamaki it's fine.").

💙🐱Decorating goes pretty smoothly after Tamaki's initial panic attack about the tree falling down. Nejire uses her quirk to fly up and get the ornaments on the highest bows, Mirio is just tall enough to get most of the middle of the tree, and Tamaki sits on the floor slowly hanging icicle decorations. If you want to help hang ornaments higher, Mirio can give you a boost (and give Tamaki another panic attack while he's at it!)

Fyodor Dostoevsky

🖤🐀Decorating with him is not a group effort. He wants it to be a special moment for the two of you, and Nikolai's antics would absolutely ruin the romantic feel. Don't even try to act sympathetic for that crazy clown, you KNOW I'm right.

🖤🐀He'll take you to a Christmas tree farm because it feels more authentic, and real trees smell better than fake ones anyway. Also there's less of a chance he'll be recognized as a terrorist in a small town. Despite being an anemic wreck, Fedya is not bothered by the cold in the slightest. He's Russian, what did you expect?

🖤🐀Ok now here's the funny part. Even with all his careful calculations about the correct tree size… he still can't get the tree in the stand without help (I'm taking FULL ADVANTAGE of his canonic anemia for full comedic potential!) He'll struggle for a good hour and a half on his own before he finally asks for help. ("Myshka… could you please lend me a hand? I seem to have overestimated my strength…")

🖤🐀Other than that everything goes smoothly. For a rat, Fyodor has a great sense of style, and is slightly obsessive about how the tree is decorated. The lights have to be in perfectly neat spirals, as do the tinsel and garland. And the ornaments have be color coordinated.

Gaara

❤️🏜️How you got a Christmas tree in the desert I have no idea, but we're gonna say ninja magic because why the fuck not. It's Christmas, not everything has to be well-thought out.

❤️🏜️You'll be decorating with Kankuro and Temari as well. Family has to stick together around the holidays!

❤️🏜️Temari is the neat freak, Kankuro is the slob, and Gaara is just happy to be there. While Temari is repositioning Kankuro's ornaments and hitting him with whatever she happens to have on hand, Garra is just calmly hanging ornaments on the tree with a small smile on his face. It's really cute!

❤️🏜️If you want to reach the highest branches, Gaara can definitely give you a boost. No need for dangerous ladders, he'll lift you up with his sand. It's much safer!

Ling Yao

👑💛Knowing Ling, there is no way you guys went and got your own tree. You just hijacked Ed and Al's Christmas! The Elric brothers were just minding their own business trying to untangle the lights, when you and Ling just popped in through the window!

👑💛It's an entertaining afternoon, to say the least. Ling has no idea what he's doing, but he's certainly eager to help out (even if he's not actually much help…) Ed is going to get mad and start screaming at something every 5 minutes. The lights won't untangle, he's too short to reach a certain branch, Ling took the ornament he wanted to hang, etc.

👑💛Ling seems to have a fun time getting on Ed's nerves, honestly. He knows Ed can't do shit about it cause he's the emperor, and he's living for it.

Zenitsu Agatsuma

💛⚡Decorating with the Kamaboko squad is definitely something. They all have such wildly interesting personalities!

💛⚡Of course you have to go get your own tree. Inosuke definitely wants the biggest tree in the whole forest! But Tanjiro and Zenitsu are both a bit more practical, so they're the ones that ultimately end up deciding. Zenitsu whines about the cold the entire time, and only shuts up when you wrap an arm around his shoulder and hold him close while you walk. Then, suddenly, he's not cold anymore.

💛⚡Tanjiro and Inosuke try to work together to get the tree in the stand while you and Zenitsu stand by and give directions. Inosuke is not good at following directions at all, but he's strong.

💛⚡Insouke keeps trying to climb the fucking tree to hang ornaments on the highest branches, and knocking other ornaments down in the process. Tanjiro is the peacekeeper. Nezuko is just happily hanging ornaments on the lower branches. Zenitsu is constantly screaming at Inosuke. It's utter chaos.

Obanai Iguro

🖤🐍Decorating with Obanai is very much not a whole squad activity. Obanai is a bit of an introvert by nature, so he'd rather it just be the two of you (and Kaburamaru). There will be time to decorate a tree with the whole Hashira gang later, but now is not that time.

🖤🐍Yes, you have to go cut down your own tree. Thankfully, Obanai is not obsessive about this process at all. He's perfectly content to let you handle it, and then he'll help you carry it home.

🖤🐍Putting the tree up also doesn't take much time. He might not look it, but Obanai is pretty damn strong (for a 5'3 severely underweight stick figure who doesn't eat-). He's also generally good at following your directions.

🖤🐍Perhaps one of the least obsessive men out there when it comes to decorating. He's not haphazard and chaotic, but he isn't going to reposition your ornaments when you're not looking. He's just a sweetheart, honestly. His only request is that Kaburamaru can put the star on top of the tree!

Freed Justine

❤️🎄Decorating a Christmas tree with a Christmas tree? Fantastic! Throw in the whole Thunder Legion and you've got a recipe for a fun Christmas!

❤️🎄Team bonding time arguing over which tree is the best! You and Bickslow don't actually have an opinion, you're just giving Freed and Ever a hard time for shits and giggles. Eventually Freed will pick out a spectacular tree, once he learns to just ignore your pretend opinions!

❤️🎄It takes forever to actually get the tree set up, because Ever is the one directing the boys which way they should tilt it to get it perfectly even. It doesn't help that you're giving them wrong directions just to mess with them! ("Left… bit more right… now left… bit more… right…" "Ever, can we please hurry this up? My back is starting to hurt." "You're doing great Freed! Tilt it more forward, towards us!" "No that's not right, don't listen to her!" "Y/n, please-")

❤️🎄After like, 2 hours of torture for Freed and Bickslow, you can finally start decorating! Evergreen is still being obsessive over every detail, and repositioning everyone's ornaments. Bickslow likes to mess with her by putting ornaments in the worst possible spots. You and Bickslow are also definitely trying to secretly hang some of the smaller ornaments in Freed's hair. You make it a competition to see who can get the most ornaments in his hair without him noticing! ("Hm… that's strange. I could have sworn there were more of these ornaments, but I don't see them on the tree…" *barely stifled snickering* "what's so funny, you two?")

Envy

🌴🖤Ah yes, chaos time. When you dragged a whole pine tree into the house, Envy was definitely curious. ("What the hell are you doing, human?" "It's a Christmas tree, Envy.")

🌴🖤He's not gonna help you put it up, just watch you struggle. Good thing you planned for this, and had the Elric brothers come over to assist! With their help things go pretty smoothly.

🌴🖤He's not gonna admit it, but he's actually intrigued about this particular tradition. Also he just likes the shiny ornaments. I hope you didn't plan on making the tree look nice this year, because Envy is a little shit who loves to get on people's nerves. He's going to reposition your ornaments when you're not looking. Not to make the tree look better, but to make it look much worse. Somehow he'll also manage to get himself tangled in the lights so you have to help him out. Not certain how THAT happened… how embarrassing.

🌴🖤Try to hang ornaments in his hair. It'll be fun :)

[jomiddlemarch]

To be with you in hell

“You know, normal people watch dress up to watch Rocky Horror,” Alina commented, leaning back against the steel wall of the freight elevator. “I have fishnets and a pleather corset, I could’ve gotten dressed in like five minutes and we would have been on time.”

“While that conjures a truly delightful image, milaya, we cannot go against tradition,” Aleksander said. The tawny fur collar of his overcoat just brushed against the angle of his jaw, the line of his shoulder and sleeve almost painfully elegant. He’d had the whole kit ready and waiting, unlike Alina, who’d had to scour the local thrift shops for the past six weeks and even go to Jersey (Jersey!) to pick up the jade green high heels that were shockingly on point for the character.

“You’ve been doing this for how long again?” she asked.

“The past ten years,” he said. “It was Fedya’s idea.”

“That scans,” she said. She hadn’t realized when she and Aleksander quite how much time they would end up spending with his group of friends, all Russian immigrants or the first-gen children thereof, nor how much vodka she’d be offered when they hung out when she really just wanted a spritz or a rum and coke. Aleksander’s father had died when he was very little and he had what Alina called a challenging relationship with his mother and he referred to as an estrangement, so Ivan and Fedyor, David, Genya and Nikolai were not only his friends but his family. After the first group get-together Alesksander brought her to, during which she had been obviously (and in Ivan’s case, suspiciously) vetted by them, Alina had been welcomed to the fold as warmly and thoroughly as if she herself had grown up slurping borscht on the banks of the Volga. She had a particular friendship with Genya, who treated her like a sister, sharing clothes and scathing remarks about Nikolai’s latest girlfriend, and who rejoiced when Alina’s contribution to the pot-luck was budaatai khurga with plenty of cumin. It wouldn’t be on the menu tonight, when the meal was as carefully curated by Fedya and Ivan as the soundtrack leading up to the viewing. She’d been told they went all out and the caviar was imported, not domestic lumpfish roe, and they brought out the full silver tea service, polished within an inch of its life.

“You don’t really mind, do you?” Aleksander said. He suddenly sounded uncertain, young, almost shy, a complete contrast from his usual effortless confidence. “I can see how it might seem silly, childish, all this dressing up, the rituals—”

“You mean how you take turns and recite the lines along with the scenes and David plays his handmade domra and you always take Goncharov’s big soliloquy in the cathedral? How they buy a new batch of goldfish every year and then Fedya brings them to his classroom afterward because Ivan is, and I quote, ‘not cut out to own pets?’” Alina said, smiling as she spoke. Genya and Nikolai had filled her in separately, both of them starting by saying that Aleksander probably wouldn’t tell her everything she needed to know and also that he’d never admit it but he loved the whole thing, especially that monologue which always brought out his accent. Also that he’d never brought another woman to the watch-party, make of that what she would, Nikolai adding some roguish winking and Genya tapping her left ring finger before segueing onto a discussion of man-made diamond versus vintage stones.

“Yeah,” he said, mumbled really, which was unlike him and thus utterly adorable.

“I don’t mind,” she said, reaching up to touch the knot of his tie as if it needed straightening. “I love it, I love that I’m included in the traditional Goncharov watch and that I get to be Sofia and free up Genya from having to be Katya and Sofia, even if these shoes are killing me.”

“You can take them off,” he said. “Fedya will understand. They’re not canon and I can see Sofia walking around in her stocking feet.”

“It’s okay, it’s worth a little pain to pull off the look,” she said. “Authenticity is worth suffering for.”

“I believe a foot massage will be in order later tonight,” he said, all that shy diffidence gone and a wonderfully filthy gleam back in his dark eyes. “If you aren’t too stuffed with cannolis.”

“I hardly think that’ll be a problem,” she retorted. “I have it on good authority you eat most of those.”

“Fedya ratted me out,” he grinned.

“Worse. David,” Alina said and then the elevator doors finally, creakily, parted and they were in Ivan and Fedya’s enormous loft apartment which was somehow so much like winter in Naples Alina thought she could hear a church-bell tolling, the clock-tower struck, the bitter cold wind whipping through the alleys like ghosts seeking companionship, promising ice, not snow.

[qqueenofhades]

pel!ivan and fedyor went through a lot of ups and some downs from the end of pel and 2021 but they also celebrated 10 years together 🥳 i hope fedyor shoved cake into ivan’s face and also you know, im sure they were mushy like the saps they are

Ivan was supposed to be out of here ten minutes ago – actually, at this point, more like twenty – but the clients are still fucking talking, and if they keep it up much longer, he’s going to add it to the bill for “initial consultation.” Drew has a man-bun and unbearably hip black glasses, and works as a developer for some start-up app that he’s tried to convince Ivan to download at least twelve times. (What does the app actually do? Don’t know don’t care.) Mia is thin, blonde, waifish, smells like essential oils, and has been flitting around with her smartphone the entire time, getting in Ivan’s way as she snaps perfectly filtered pictures of the “developmental process” and posts them nonstop on Instagram. They both have a lot of opinions on how they want the energy of the space to feel, and a preapproved list of ethically sourced suppliers. They have paid some ludicrous price for this converted loft in Prospect Heights and chose the location for its proximity to the best farmer’s markets and hippie coffeehouses. Did Ivan die? Is this hell?

Somewhat ostentatiously, he looks at his watch. “Okay,” he announces. “I think that wraps up. You have work number, so – ”

“Oh, just one more thing!” Drew has recently read one (1) book on home design and thinks he’s an expert, so Ivan is forced to suffer his idiotic opinions about the kind of tile they want to use on the kitchen backsplash. Somehow, he manages not to roll his eyes directly out of his head, for which he should be commended. Ivan has discovered that the secret of successfully dealing with people, especially clients, is to smile and nod at everything they say, while mercilessly mocking them in your head. Amazing, the things you learn as a small-business owner in Brooklyn in the year of our lord 2021. Especially when it comes to renovating overpriced tiny gentrified apartments for insufferable techno-douchebags and their vapid influencer girlfriends. And people think Ivan might want to live like this more often? No fucking thank you.

Finally (it’s another ten minutes after that, this is definitely going on the bill), they more or less wrap up, except for the fact that Mia then wants a picture with the three of them. “It’s just so important to us that we’re supporting the immigrant community,” she explains earnestly. “After all, being open, tolerant, learning from our neighbors, people who are different from us, that’s what life is all about. We just love that you’re foreign. The energy feels so right, you know?”

Ivan wonders whether to inform her that he has lived in this country for eight years and been a full citizen (passport and voting rights and everything) for three, then decides that this would venture into sharing-personal-information territory and he is having none of it. His English has improved to the point where he can handle almost all business transactions by himself, but feigning incomprehension can sometimes get him out of them when they turn really stupid. Unfortunately, that isn’t an option here, and so he diligently leans into the frame, smiling half an inch, while Mia snaps a picture of “us and our adorable Russian contractor!!” Ivan informs her of the correct flag emoji to add to the filter, decides that he’s going to add an extra fifty bucks just for that, and finally, finally, makes his escape.

It’s rush hour, and the Q is crammed as Ivan heads into midtown. So much for social distancing and not getting too close to anyone, which is the only thing from the pandemic that he wouldn’t mind keeping. Only about half the crowd is wearing masks, including him, and so he gets off at Times Square, dodges the latest lunatic standing on a soapbox and shouting about how it is all a hoax, and walks several blocks uptown, just to get some space. He finally reaches the restaurant, where he has to flash his vaccination card to get inside (Ivan, who remains Russian to the marrow of his bones, is a little irked that he couldn’t get Sputnik here and had to settle for Pfizer) and climbs up to the open-air rooftop terrace. It is only when he spots his husband, waiting at a table that overlooks the glittering evening lights of the city, when Ivan pulls off his mask and allows himself to properly smile. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “They are the worst.”

“I figured it was something like that.” Fedyor musters a smile in return, though his eyes look permanently tired these days and Ivan would bet that he’s been scrolling through more depressing emails on his phone. Technically Fedyor is on a two-month sabbatical from work, but he can’t stop himself, and Ivan has had to pry it from his fingers on a number of occasions. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Ivan nods stoutly, they are furnished with the drinks and appetizers list, and when the waiter asks if there’s any special occasion tonight, tell him that they are celebrating their ten-year anniversary, albeit somewhat late. This was supposed to happen last spring, but obviously, nobody in New York was going out to a restaurant in the early months of 2020, and Ivan himself had barely gotten home from the hospital and still could be knocked over in a strong breeze. They’re celebrating a lot of things tonight, in other words, even if it’s now been eleven years, not ten, since the day Ivan marched into a Red Square coffee shop and engaged in – well, Fedyor has made sure to inform him that the first date didn’t go nearly as well as Ivan always thought it did. But it worked, didn’t it? Here they are, wedding bands on their fingers, a couple of successful American urban professionals who have built a nice life for themselves and are, if anything, even more madly in love than they were when this whole nutty adventure together first began. So really, if you ask Ivan Sakharov Kaminsky, it went just fine after all.

The waiter congratulates them, gives them two drinks for the price of one, and they both relax and start to talk, fully at ease in the way they only are in each other’s company. Ivan does his Mia impression in an extremely convincing falsetto (after all, [NAME REDACTED] has practice at this) and Fedyor almost dies laughing. They hold hands on the table – no need to hold them under the table – and gaze into each other’s eyes all they want, order dinner and dessert, and take a long time about it. They raise several toasts to this, to them, to ten years, may there be many more. Ivan pays the bill, his treat, and they walk slowly back to Times Square, hand-in-hand, Fedyor’s head nestled on Ivan’s shoulder. It’s New York. Nobody cares.

They ride the Q home, in all its smelly, secondhand glory, taking an hour to bang out to Brighton Beach and descending the elevated stairs into the familiar down-at-heel comfort of their Russian-American neighborhood, neon Cyrillic signs glowing in windows and somebody shouting about how if Sergei ever shows his face here again, she is going to cut his dick off. Ivan and Fedyor look at each other and snort, resisting the urge to shout up and ask what exactly Sergei did, and walk a few more minutes to their building. They climb up three flights of stairs to their apartment, unlock the door and the deadbolt, and step inside.

The instant they are home, Rasputin shoots out of nowhere, yowling as if he has been neglected for months, and curls himself around Ivan’s ankles (he is still liable to give Fedyor evil looks when he feels that this interloper has been stealing his human too often). Ivan sighs, trudges to the kitchen, points out to Rasputin that his food bowl is still half full, gets a wounded look in return, and adds an extra scoopful. Once the cat is happily snarfing down, Fedyor pulls Ivan by the hand, into the dim living room with its blowing curtains. “Come here, my love,” he says. “Hold me.”

Ivan does as ordered, because it’s his favorite thing in the world: cuddling Fedyor close, nothing but the two of them in all of time and space, swaying slowly in the blue hour with fingers and arms and hearts entwined. Ivan kisses Fedyor’s temple, and Fedyor nestles even closer, melted into his embrace. “I love you, Vanya,” he mumbles against Ivan’s collarbone. “I love you so much. I love you more than anything in the world. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too, Fedya.” Ivan leans down and kisses him properly, sweet and slow and lingering, as they continue to waltz in stately time to a music that nobody except the two of them can hear. “I’m still not always sure why you married me, but I am very glad you did.”

[haru-sen]

So. I’m rereading IAL again and I noticed. That sometimes Tataryn’s given name is spelled Fedor, especially upon introduction, but in later chapters it seems to semi-consistantly be spelled Feodor. What is Fedya’s full name? Fedor or Feodor?

I read this, sighed deeply, and went back to sleep.

Mostly because I thought I caught all those, damnit. His current given name is "Fedor." I was going to write a schtick about him using "Fedor/Feodor/Fyodor/Fedir" for different aliases, and thinking it was funny to confuse people (but not really?). I ended up not doing that. Not just because I couldn't keep it straight myself. Nope.

I know, I deprived us all of a Fedor "Teddybear" Tataryn joke. I'm a monster. I also had this problem with Prescott/Preston, like several chapters worth of it, and I probably haven't caught them all in the AO3 version. (＃`Д´) At this point, I'm just trying not to de-evolve back into a fish. (ノ_<。)

[kikizoshi]

GoDost Historical AU: Sonya & Raskolnikov Room Meeting 2

An hour or so past midnight, in the sleeping town of St. Petersburg, a tiny apartment’s door suddenly became victim to an intense, forceful banging.

           The rattling and creaking of the door, followed by one final slam, roused the room’s tenant, a young, healthy civil servant of about twenty and three, who, having woken in such an abrupt manner, promptly flailed, toppled off the decaying couch on which he slept, and landed on the floor with a groan (whether from the floorboards or the man, it was hard to say).

         Cursing, the civil servant pushed himself up onto his feet and stared grouchily toward the door. The banging had ceased, and in lieu, some muffled, raggedy breaths could be heard. ‘My door’s attacker has tired himself out already,’ he thought, ‘and just at the beginning of his tirade! It surely serves him right, but what has he come for? I paid the rent already…’ Thoughts carrying on in a similar manner, the young man shuffled over to lean against a battered vanity, atop which many half-transcribed sheets of paper rested. He was careful not to displace any of them.

         He couldn’t simply rest, he knew, yet the idea of confronting whatever beast came walloping upon his door wasn’t a pleasant one. He sighed and gazed about the room. He had no choice but to meet his attacker, lest a second and third barrage rob him of the little sleep he could gain--or, Heaven forbid, break the lock, the replacement of which would surely tear a hole in his wallet--and shouldering this responsibility, the civil servant trudged back over to the couch, along the back of which was laid a drab grey undercoat. He swung the thin fabric around his shoulders--making no effort to wear it properly; his visitor could reap the hospitality he sewed--and turned round again to the door, wondering what to do.

         Just then, a stream of moonlight glinted off a polished samovar--the man’s one luxury--and for a moment, the twinkle whispered a wicked idea into his mind. As quickly, however, he shoved it away and spat at it for good measure. ‘And why would I do something like that? I’ve not even heard out this stranger yet! Though who would call upon a man in the dead of night--and not only call, but hammer!--without any slight inclination such as my own... Well, but I know not him…’ And again, the civil servant’s thoughts wandered.

         Suddenly, he laughed and said aloud, “But who would draw such attention to himself if that were the case?” Certain, then, he went to the door and amiably, in a full display of manners which he would have liked himself to receive, and knocked thrice upon the--surprisingly--sturdy wood door.

         “Might I inquire,” the civil servant began, raising his voice so as to be heard through the door, “what brings such a violent tirade upon my lodging at such an hour?”

         “Inquire trite.” A thin, exasperated voice, with an edge that the young man couldn’t place, sounded faintly back. “Let me in, Gogol.”

         Gogol, as the voice named, stood back and contemplated. Soon, he had a tailored reply, but at the impatient “now” proceeding the voice’s words, Gogol took firmly the door’s handle, unlatched the poor lock (which by then wobbled on a few loose screws) and opened the door.

         Not a word managed to pass Gogol’s lips before the man who called upon him--Fyodor Dostoyevsky, that was, a young student Gogol struck up a camaraderie with over the past few months--shoved past him and into the small room. Gogol smiled and shook his head, shutting the door (and for what it was worth, relatching the lock).

         “You could have at least a greeting,” he said, affecting offendence, “But- hey, what’s gotten into you?” Dostoyevsky, as though in delirium, paced around the room, muttering to himself. Gogol strained an ear, but managed to decipher nothing, and so moved cautiously closer, leaning against the vanity. His nose twitched at a faint iron smell. “Really, what’s this? It’s as though he’s gone mad! Surely you’re still with me, Fedya.”

         “I’m here, I’m here!” Dostoyevsky gritted his words, wringing his hands as though the noise buzzed around him.

         “Are you really?”

         “Yes, really. Quit with your stupid questions.”

         “Really?” Gogol squinted. Amid Dostoyevsky’s ramblings, a cloud had passed over the moon, casting everything in shadow. As such, Gogol could not see the panicked expression plaguing his friend’s features, nor make out the blood flaking his overcoat. “They’re not stupid. I may be blind, but my ears work perfectly fine. You’re practically hyperventilating!”

         In fact, quite the opposite was true. Dostoyevsky’s breaths weren’t fast, but they shook, and came at an uneven pace. The snow which Gogol noticed covering his friend when he came in had mostly melted by then, and he shivered and dripped onto the grimy floorboards.

         “Well, anyway,” Gogol started after a moment, “What have you come for? And so late?”

         “I…” Dostoyevsky began, but trailed off. He himself was quite incapable of answering such a question. Understanding that he must speak, however, Dostoyevsky made an effort to continue. “I needed… that is, I wanted… but no, no it’s all… Why have I come? The answer is quite… that is to say… Why have I come?” The last phrase, spoken as though without taking any notice of Gogol, worried said man further.

         “You’re shaking,” Gogol said, “Here, sit down here,” he pointed to the couch, “Don’t worry about dirtying it--I needed to clean it anyways. Hey, why simply stand there? Sit, I say!”

         “I’m not a dog,” Dostoyevsky spat, “You need not command me.” And, petulantly, as though to emphasise his words, he moved away from the couch. In his new location closer to the window, a stream of moonlight escaped the sky’s sheet of grey and illuminated a streak along the young student. Gogol set his jaw as the first spike of genuine dread shot through him.

         In a lower pocket of Dostoyevsky’s overcoat, the light caught on some heavily-embroidered purse, shot through with golden threads and splotched with a muddy, dull reddish-brown. The colour seeped from the pocket, streaking down the coat to join the melted snow on Gogol’s floor. When his eyes found the courage to travel back up to Dostoyevsky’s face, he drew a breath.

         “Perhaps I’m not the only one with evil in him,” Gogol said drew a breath. “I dare say you’ve done something despicable.”

         “And what if I have,” Dostoyevsky whispered, “what will you do? Call the porter?”

         “Well, and what if I do?” Gogol cocked his head. He was careful to hide the discomfort creeping up his spine by crossing his arms. “Will I meet the same fate?”

         Dostoyevsky was silent. For several moments, a tangible fog suffocated the room. It pressed in around both men, squeezed their lungs, crept into their minds and robbed them of their rationalism. Dostoyevsky’s eyes slowly, as though dragging across sand, shifted over to the samovar, matte by then in the darkness’ shroud. The same horrid thought passed over his features, and Gogol tensed. For two more minutes, they stood in apprehension. Finally, Gogol spoke first.

         “It won’t be as easy, anyway.”

         “What? What won’t be easy?” Dostoyevsky shook his head, tried to dispel the buzzing fog and, when he found he could not, scowled and turned from the samovar to face Gogol. “No, I won’t do that, why should I? You won’t tell anyone.”

         “Won’t I?”

         “No, you won’t. Of that I’m certain.” Dostoyevsky crossed his arms.

         “As certain as when you decided that,” Gogol pointed to the purse, “was a simply capital idea?”

         “It is,” Dostoyevsky hissed, “Or do you not trust me? Do you need me to spell it out?”

         “That would be appreciated,” Gogol said, voice carefully restrained. His eyes never left their intent focus on Dostoyevsky. “I, simple, mortal man as I am find it hard to understand, you know, how it is I am to… trust, a man in such an attire.”

         Dostoyevsky clenched his jaw. Was he to spill every detail of his plans to a man whom he knew for not even a full year? Was he to incriminate himself so thoroughly just for the sake of a slightly cleared conscience? Even if Gogol wasn’t one to speak, if anyone found out about their visit, he would surely be questioned. ‘And then it would all be over,’ Dostoyevsky thought. ‘My efforts would vanish into nothing, and nothing is what would come of me.’

         “Or maybe you don’t have a reason?” Gogol brought out.

         Dostoyevsky said nothing. The moon, finally unobscured by the passing clouds, shone brightly in the room once more, and the new illumination upon the weak man’s features--how gaunt he was, and, starkly, the copper blood--transformed him into a pitiful sight. Gogol pursed his lips, and Dostoyevsky couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was laughing at him.

         “And what’s your excuse?” Dostoyevsky snapped. “What with your misplaced emotions, you ought to be ashamed, and swear your devotion to the Tsar at once.”

         Gogol drew a breath, an angry twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth, “Ashamed of what? The only thing I have to be ashamed of is not turning you out right now! ‘Ashamed of my emotions.’ Bah! What’s there to be ashamed of? Tell me. And make it clear, mind you.”

         “Oh, you know very well. It’s the reason you’ve let me stay, is it not? Certain feelings for--”

         “Oh, you!” Gogol flung his hands up in exasperation. He hadn’t thought Dostoyevsky would be so crass as to say it aloud. “Out with it! Why have you come? And if you don’t care to answer, then I don’t care, and get out.”

         “Perhaps I don’t care to answer,” Dostoyevsky screwed up his eyes, “What will you do then?”

         “But you know very well what I’ll do!” And, in a state of frenzy, Gogol went over and grabbed Dostoyevsky by the arm with every intention of hauling--or, more likely, throwing--him out the door. Dostoyevsky paled.

         “No, I can’t go out there yet,” he brought out in a whisper so faint, Gogol nearly missed it. “I’ll leave you, certainly, but not yet.”

         “Now or later,” Gogol said, grip strong on Dostoyevsky's forearm, “What does it matter? Unless--no! You have a witness? A civil stalker? If so then they have every right by me to--”

         “That isn’t it.” Dostoyevsky pursed his lips. “I have a… premonition, and I’m sure I’m right. I can’t go out yet--it would be the death of me.”

         Gogol raised a brow. “So what? The ghost of whatever poor soul you killed wants revenge, is that it?” Dostoyevsky shook his head. “Well what, then? A demon’s come sniffing your malice and decided to take you in? Good riddance, I say! It’ll be all the better for the world.” Dostoyevsky’s downcast expression was soon joined by his eyes to examine a raggedy carpet gloomily, and Gogol scoffed halfheartedly, a pitying nature seeping into his angry tone. “And once more, your delicate sensibilities escape my reason. How a man can kill and yet be devastated by the tiniest outcry--it defies all reason.”

         A despairing look overcame Dostoyevsky’s face. Gogol felt a pang of guilt. ‘But why should I be guilty?’ thought he. ‘Fedya has surely killed a man--or a woman, more likely!--and for what? A decent purse and some change? No, not him, the crime doesn’t fit. So why…’ Gogol’s hand loosened, and fell to his side when Dostoyevsky pulled away.

         “You’re wondering why I did it,” Dostoyevsky said, “And… you’ve reason to wonder. But I’ve not time as it is--” A spasm crossed his face, and his eyes widened, purple irises laced with fear as he stumbled over to lean on the vanity, displacing a few neat stacks of paper. “I’ve not time,” he continued, “I can feel it. I just know… I’ll tell you later, but for now...”

         “What are you, dying?” Gogol faltered, could not figure out whether offering his arm would be justified, and stood in worried confusion.

         “I don’t… believe so. As said, I’ll leave you come morning, so please just let me…” Again his strength failed him. Concern dispersed the last of Gogol’s outrage, and he hurried over.

         “Well here, don’t strain yourself anymore. Sit.” And he guided Dostoyevsky to the couch, the latter collapsing onto it with a grimace. “Ah, water!” Gogol exclaimed, “But I don’t have any. I’ve not even any left-over tea. What to do, what to do...” He tapped his foot agitatedly.

         “It’s alright,” Dostoyevsky said, “I just… I need rest. Let me be.” He sank back against the couch, face scrunching involuntarily at the grime--though the couch was in no worse condition than his own, in fact, Gogol’s was cleaner--and pulled a tattered grey blanket round his shoulders. Gogol frowned at his friend’s condition.

         ‘To think this frail man committed such an act…’ Gogol thought, ‘It seems like such an impossibility, yet here he is, right before my eyes.’ He sighed and drug a hand over his face. “Here, give your overcoat to me,” Gogol said aloud, gesturing to Dostoyevsky’s huddled form, “You can’t sleep covered in blood, and I don’t want my couch smeared with it, anyway.”

         Dostoyevsky nodded, shakily removed the blanked and overcoat from himself and, handing the latter to Gogol, drew the blanket once more around himself and lay down, his back to the other. Gogol raised a hand, as though to touch Dostoyevsky, but cursed quietly and lowered it.

         For the next few hours, nothing but the sounds of Gogol’s scratching pen and Dostoyevsky’s ragged breaths could be heard dispersed in the silence. In a brighter hour, when Gogol was halfway into a new stack of transcriptions, Dostoyevsky suddenly was thrust into a wave of convulsions, for which caring spent several hours more into the morning. It was nine o’clock by the time Dostoyevsky’s faculties returned enough for Gogol to--hesitantly--deem him suitable for going out.

         “Wait,” Gogol stopped him at the door. “You’ll want an overcoat, but you can’t go out in that, covered in blood.” He pointed to the abandoned coat.

         Dostoyevsky shrugged. “Well, give yours to me then. I’ll be sure to return it.”

         “Give you mine!” Gogol exclaimed, “I don’t have one of my own!”

         “Haven’t you? You talked about saving for one, didn’t you buy it too?”

         “Oh, yes… Confound our Russia.”

         Dostoyevsky cocked his head to the side, amused.

         “I bought a new one, yes,” Gogol elaborated, “But some bastards stole it during a trip. I went to some important personage, to see if I might be avenged, but when at last he received me, I was turned out just as quickly! It’s a miracle I didn’t die of hypothermia on the way back… Such is the beauty of our glorious nation. So I don’t have one anymore.”

         Dostoyevsky chuckled, a frail, tinkling sound, and unlatched the wobbling lock. “Give your undercoat to me, then, and I’ll return it with an overcoat.”

         “Sure, sure, but only if you return both! I need them, you know.” And taking off his undercoat, Gogol paused once more, and quickly added, “If you get any blood on it, I’ll thrash you,” before handing it over.

         Dostoyevsky took the coat with a smile. “If I did,” he said, “You’d never be any the wiser,” and he went out of the small apartment.

[prucanusuk]

The Seven Deadly Sins [2/9]

Chapter 2: Gluttony

Wicketly wakety splickety I ACTUALLY UPLOADED ANOTHER CHAPTER FOR THIS? INSTEAD OF JUST HIATUSING THE STORY INDEFINETELY?

Yep, another chapter, just for everyone! I want to thank aph-fedya and everyone else who liked my first chapter, for you all inspired me to write another chapter! Thank you so much!

Enough about me, though! On with the story!

Alfred loved to eat.

Anyone who hung out with him for even a fraction of a second could see that; he shoved hamburgers down his throat as fast as he could swallow and always capped it off with a large soda.

It was a miracle he as fit as he was with all that junk food he ate.

However, María knew something that many people did not.

Le encantaba la comida hecha a mano.

Alfred was a sucker for that "made-from-the-heart" stuff, loving that someone went through the effort to make him something to eat, never thinking he deserved something so nice.

Claro que lo mereces, tonto. Tu mereces el mundo.

María sighed softly as Alfred laughed when the goalie, un chico llamado Gilbert, made another joke, barely brushing her side and letting his boyish sunlight radiate in front of her.

Tan cerca, pero tan lejos.

"п-пожалуйста…"

Her soft smile suddenly turned jaded when he showed up.

Siempre tienes que aruinar el momento, imbécil.

"И- Извините, I-I mean s-sorry!" the colossal bear of a man apologized, blushing a color so red her Papá's tomates would be put to shame.

"M-May I sit with?" el monstruo said, biting his lip so hard María was surprised he didn't draw blood.

A pregnant pause washed over the table, as they were all unsure as to what to do. While they didn't want to outright shun Mr. Creepy, they were not at all appealed to the idea of him being anywhere near them.

"Si!" María muttered to herself as Gilbert opened his mouth, "Has que el maricón se vaya de aquí!"

Suddenly, Alfred laughed joyfully, making everyone stop and turn to him.

"V-Vany-I mean Ivan," Alfred quickly corrected, still chortling into his soda.

"What a dumb question!"

La cara del tarado made him look as though he was going to kill them all.

"Alfred!" Gilbert hissed as he slowly inched away from the madman and the seemingly mad man.

"What were you thinking?"

However, Alfred was soon jumping over the table in a fell swoop, subtly brushing fingers so only someone who was truly paying attention would notice.

Maldita sea.

Maria silently cursed in her head as Alfred looked at him with those huge, soft, hurt eyes that only she should have been able to see.

"No, Ivan," Alfred cooed softly, looking like a kicked puppy, "I didn't mean it like that, please don't cry."

Llorar? Que llorar, el nos va a matar en un minuto! Sálvate Alfred!

However, everyone was shocked as the death aura that surrounded their maker dimmed down and was replaced by a sad look.

"What did Alfred," he struggled to not say his pet name, que solo ella, solo ella, tenia el derecho de llamarle con un nombre como ese, "mean by hurtful words?"

"I meant," Alfred started, looking at his shoes como un perro malo, "that you should never have to ask. You are always welcome to sit with us."

"д-да?" he questioned, a truly ghastly smile breaking over his face, threatening to devour anyone within distance.

"Of course!" Alfred proclaimed, smiling brightly at him instead of her. "As long as I'm here, you'll always have a place to sit in this joint!"

There was another silence settling over the table as Alfred and he looked at each other with loving eyes for what seemed like an eternity.

Creo que voy a vomitar.

Thankfully, Gilbert broke the silence with a forced laugh, sweating bullets.

"Hey, Alfred, in case you haven't noticed, there isn't any space for, uh…"

"Ivan," Alfred said, looking annoyed at his teammate, "His name is Ivan."

"Right. There isn't any place for Ivan to sit here. We're all full."

Alfred thought for a moment and quickly snapped his fingers.

"He can sit at my place!"

Everyone stared as Alfred quickly threw away his wrappers and cleared his spot for his "friend".

María's eyebrow started twitching as he saw him getting his spot all cleaned up for su amor, su precioso perfecto Ivan.

"There! Now you can sit here, big guy!" Alfred cheerily said, tugging him closer to sit in his spot.

"н-нет," he stuttered, blushing at Alfred's actions, "This not necessary…"

"P'shaw, it ain't nothing big," Alfred drawled, smiling charmingly at a blushing Ivan.

"Anything for you, Ivan."

María saw red, and her smile was getting harder to maintain. La forma que dijo su nombre, como si era la única persona en el mundo para el, la hizo sentir furia como nunca lo había sentido.

"С-Спасибо," he stuttered, looking down at his feet.

"Вы очень добры."

As Alfred subtly blushed and smiled at whatever he said, María lost her last vestiges of patience.

"Me voy al baño," she said brusquely, getting up and leaving quickly before anyone saw her explode.

Fue tiempo a poner Plan: Siete Pecados Mortales en acción.

María gingerly sprinkled the last of the queso she grated on Alfred's chalupa.

Esto va ser magnifico.

María could just picture it now, Alfred realizing through probando su comida Mejicana how wrong he was in choosing him. He would soon grow tired and resentful of not having enough of her cooking, and when she hints at cooking for him every day, he would realize that Ivan was not enough to keep him satisfied, no como ella y su comida deliciosa.

La forma para entrar en el corazón de un hombre es por su estomago, no?

María smiled brightly as she put only a hint of Pico de Gallo in Alfred's chalupa and put the rest in hers.

Ella aprendió su lección de la ultima vez.

El hecho es que esto no es la primera vez que María trato de hacer comida para Alfred.

Two years ago, she made him some Carne Asada on Cinco de Mayo, claiming it was to help celebrate her culture.

Si, claro.

Alfred bought it, hook, line, and sinker, however, and happily thanked her as he chowed down on the meat.

María finally thought she won him over until something unexpected happened.

"W-Wow...this is really spicy!" Alfred said, sweating up a storm, trying his hardest to smile.

Mierda.

María's eyes widened as she saw Alfred race out of the cafeteria, some of the soccer members laughing as he ran towards the water fountain.

Eso…no fue como ella había planeado.

María winced, none too pleased about remembering that little incident.

That's why she came prepared, however, putting less spice in his and carefully labeling the foil it was wrapped in with an A so nobody would touch it.

"Mi hijita, estas lista para ir a la escuela?"

"Casi, Papá!" María shouted out, quickly leaving the kitchen to get her books ready, forgetting to put the chalupa in her lunch bag.

However, when she left, her Papi walked into the kitchen and saw something edible wrapped in foil, the letter A standing out like a sore thumb.

"Oi, bastard!" Lovino yelled out, "You nearly left your lunch here!"

"Aww, is my Lovi worried about me not eating? So sweet~" Antonio cooed as he snuck behind Lovino and gave him a hug.

"Get your hands off me, bastard!" Lovino yelled as he tried to elbow Antonio in the face.

Antonio, however, held on and pressed a kiss on Lovino's cheek, "Can't I just appreciate how loving and wonderful my husband is?"

Lovino quieted at that, looking redder than the ruby on his wedding band.

"Stupid bastard…" he mumbled as Antonio kissed his lips.

"Eww, come on Papá, Papi!" Mexico screamed, slightly embarrassed. "I'm still here!"

Lovino quickly parted and elbowed Antonio in the gut before he walked over to his daughter.

"Mi dispiace, mia figlia." Lovino said gently to his daughter. "Tu padre estaba actuando como un idiota de nuevo."

María giggled as her Papá looked betrayed at how Papi referred to his loving acts earlier.

"Esta bien, Papi," she said as she grabbed her lunchbox without knowing what chaos it would cause, "Solo no hagas un habito de besarse en publico, porfa."

"Te prometo, mia figlia." her Papi said as he gave her a kiss on her cheek. "Ten un buen día de escuela!"

"Si, Papi!" she exclaimed as she went with her Papá to the car.

Hoy va ser el mejor día de escuela de mi vida.

Todo estaba listo.

María smiled to herself as she went to her regular spot, not losing her temper even after he showed up with Alfred, looking at Alfred as though he hung up the stars.

No estoy asustada de ti.

María looked as innocent as possible when she exclaimed about not being able to eat another bite from the bag, saying she was too full.

Alfred, tan lindo, took the bait, asking her what she couldn't eat anymore.

Lo tengo.

María smiled as she explained how she ate un enorme desayuno, and her non-spicy chalupa was now too much for su débil estomago.

"Yo no supongo que tu puedes comerlo, Alfred?" she asked as her eyes glittered with faux sadness.

"As long as it's not spicy like your steak, I'm good," Alfred said as he reached forward to get the foiled tortilla from her lunchbox.

María blushed and smiled lightly as he passed her lunchbox back to her, fingers brushing slightly. She looked at him, smiling a huge, bright, smile.

Te gane, hijo de perra. Te…

María soon lost her smile as she looked into her empty lunchbox.

Porque esta vacío? Yo hice…

Her eyes widened with horror as her brain connected one and one together.

Her Papi was never affectionate unless her Papá complimented him.

Her Papá only compliments Papi when he does something super nice for him.

Como haciendo su lonche.

Un lonche para Antonio.

Que empieza con la letra A…!

"Espera!" María shouted, a little too late as Alfred ate half the chalupa in one bite.

The result was immediate.

Alfred spat the chalupa out, face turning plum. His tongue was out panting as he desperately tried to get some relief from the spice, eyes streaming.

Mierda!

The whole group panicked as Alfred started choking on the spice, sweat streaming down his face, head in his lap.

Que va a hacer ella ahora…?!

"Alfredka!" he screamed, forgetting about hiding who he really was. "Put this in mouth!"

He got his spoon and shoved some red blood-like stuff into Alfred's mouth.

Everyone quieted as Alfred stopped flailing and seemingly went unconscious.

Despues, su ojos azueles hermosos se abrieron de nuevo.

The whole table sighed in relief as their star player suddenly sat up.

"V-Vanya.." Alfred whispered as he put their hands together, also seemingly forgetting about the pet names.

"THAT TASTES SO GOOD!"

Everyone was startled as Alfred soon turned around and started devouring the rest of the red liquid in his bowl.

"Mhmm, it cools down the spice," Alfred moaned as he stuffed his face, "And it's sweet but the sour cream balances it out! What is it?"

"It Borscht," he mumbled, blushing at Alfred's use of his nickname, asqueroso. "Cold soup from homeland. Not very good…"

"Bullshit!" Alfred exclaimed as he drank some more of his soup, "This shit is dope! Did you make it?"

"д-да," he whispered, turning redder than Alfred when he was choking on the spices, "A-All by self."

"Dude, you gotta teach me the recipe," Alfred sighed as he gulped down the rest of his soup. "I'd eat it every morning, noon, and night."

"I-I…" he stuttered, his shyness making his glare look even worse, "I-I maybe…make it lunch for you daily?"

María's jaw slightly dropped as she saw la culebra no solo robo el centro de atención que debía haber sido suya, pero su idea también.

"Are you for real, dude?" Alfred asked, looking at him intently.

"д-да." he whispered, his face catching on fire.

"Hell yes!" Alfred exclaimed loudly as he put his arm around him, his blush getting redder by the minute, "I got a professional chef now, boys! Jealous?"

María smiled forcibly as her teeth gritted together.

Peor día de escuela de mi vida!

Aquí es donde llegamos ahora.

María's forced smile was becoming permanent as she saw them, eating lunch together on the other side of the table, Alfred growing sunnier and healthier by the minute as he gave him home-made lunches that should have been hers to give, never failing to deliver.

As they laughed together, brushing fingers as he "teasingly" fed him, María's mind was racing.

Tiempo para Fase Dos!

Your Dictionary:

Le encantaba la comida hecha a mano. – He loved hand-made food.

Claro que lo mereces, tonto. Tu mereces el mundo. – Of couse you deserve it, dummy. You deserve the world.

Un chico llamado… - A guy named…

Tan cerca, pero tan lejos. – So close, but so far.

п-пожалуйста. (Pazhalusta.) – Excuse me, please.

И- Извините (I-Izvineeti.) – I-I'm sorry.

Papá's tomates. - Father's tomatoes.

El monstruo. - The Monster.

Si! – Yes!

Has que el maricón se vaya de aquí! – Make the pussy leave!

Cara del tarado. – Moron's face.

Maldita sea. – God damn it.

Llorar? Que llorar, el nos va a matar en un minuto, sálvate Alfred! – Cry? What do you mean cry, he's going to kill us all in a minute! Alfred, save yourself!

Solo ella, solo ella, tenia el derecho de llamarle con un nombre como ese – Only she, only she, had the right to use pet names with him.

Como un perro malo. – Like a bad dog.

д-да? (D-Da?) – Y-Yes?

Creo que voy a vomitar. – I think I'm going to be sick.

Su amor, su precioso perfecto Ivan. – His love, his precious, perfect Ivan.

н-нет. (N-Nyet.) – No. (Informal)

La forma que dijo su nombre, como si era la única persona en el mundo para el, la hizo sentir furia como nunca lo había sentido. – The way he said his name, like he was the only person in the world in his eyes, made her feel fury like she had never felt before.

С-Спасибо. (S-Spasibo.) – Thank you.

Вы очень добры. (Vy ochin' dabry.) – You are very kind.

Me voy al baño. – I'm going to the restroom.

Plan: Siete Pecados Mortales – Plan: Seven Deadly Sins

Queso – Cheese

Chalupa – A tortilla made into a bowl that you can stuff however you like.

Esto va ser magnifico. – This was going to be magnificent.

Probando su comida Mejicana. – Trying her Mexican food.

No como ella y su comida deliciosa – Not like her and her delicious food.

La forma para entrar en el corazón de un hombre es por su estomago, no? – Wasn't the way to get into a man's heart through his stomach?

Pico de Gallo – Spice Used In Traditional Mexican Dishes

Ella aprendió su lección de la ultima vez. – She learned her lesson last time.

El hecho es que esto no es la primera vez que María trato de hacer comida para Alfred. – The fact of the matter is that this isn't the first time María that tried to make food for Alfred.

Carne Asada – Mexican Grilled and Sliced Beef, Can Be Spicy

Cinco de Mayo – May Fifth, Mexican/American Holiday

Si, claro. – Yeah, sure.

Mierda. – Shit.

Eso…no fue como ella había planeado. – That…didn't work as planned.

Mi hijita, estas lista para ir a la escuela? – Are you ready to go to school, my daughter?

Casi, Papá! – Almost, dad!

Papi - Daddy

Mi dispiace, mia figlia. – I'm sorry, my daughter.

Tu padre estaba actuando como un idiota de nuevo. – Your father was acting like an idiot again.

Esta bien, Papi. – It's okay, daddy.

Solo no hagas un habito de besarse en publico, porfa. – Just don't make it a habit, please.

Te prometo, mia figlia. – I promise, my daughter.

Ten un buen día de escuela. – Have a great day at school!

Hoy iva ser el mejor día de escuela de mi vida. – Today was going to be the best school day of her life.

Todo estaba listo. – Everything was ready.

No estoy asustada de ti. – I'm not scared of you.

Tan lindo. – So cute.

Lo tengo. – I got him!

Un enorme desayuno. – A big breakfast.

Su débil estomago. – Her weak stomach.

Yo no supongo que tu puedes comerlo, Alfred? – I don't suppose you could eat it, Alfred?

Te gane, hijo de perra. Te… - I won, son of a bitch. I…

Porque esta vacío? Yo hice… - Why is it empty? I made…

Como haciendo su lonche. – Like making his lunch.

Un lonche para Antonio. – A lunch for Antonio.

Que empieza con la letra A…! – Whose name starts with an A…!

Espera! – Wait!

Que va a hacer ella ahora…?! – What is she going to do now…?!

Despues, sus ojos azueles hermosos se abrieron de nuevo. – Then, his beautiful blue eyes opened again.

Borscht – A chunky, cold stew that is made of red beets and sour cream.

Asqueroso. – Gross.

La culebra no solo robo el centro de atención que debía haber sido suya, pero su idea también. – The snake not only robbed her spotlight, but her idea too.

Peor día de escuela de mi vida! – Worst school day ever!

Aquí es donde llegamos ahora. – So, this is where we are.

Tiempo para Fase Dos! – Time for Phase Two!

HOLI CANOLI MOLI ITS DONE

THIS WAS SO MUCH LONGER THAN I THOUGHT

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! This is honestly so unexpected long, haha ^^;

I hope you all enjoyed reading this, and know that somebody loves you…me!

[obiwan824]

Disney World Danatole x Reader Headcanons

A/N: I’M WATCHING DISNEY WORLD VIDEOS AND THINKING ABOUT IT BECAUSE I MISS IT SO MUCH. I got too into this I’m sorry.

Requested by anon

Dolokhov went a lot as a kid, his sister loved it there and so did he

He loved seeing her so excited

ANATOLE THOUGH

He never got to go, his father would never bring them

Helene, I feel like one of her friends invited her to go once and she couldn’t bring Anatole, but she brought him souvenirs and park maps and showed him ride throughs on her phone so he could pretend he went

He would look at it so wistfully

When Dolokhov bought tickets, Anatole freaked out

He started crying and jumping and laughing and then he kissed Dolokhov and pulled you into a full makeout session

He’s the kind of person to get really into planning

Planning Disney World is the best part honestly, let me tell you

He follows the blogs (May I put in a promo for a site called WDW Prep? On my last trip to Disney, I read that blog religiously for YEARS before I went. I’ve read every article, I get newsletters, you know. The site is so helpful, it’s the best, check it out if you’re interested! Promo over. Not sponsored, just my opinion.), he makes a planning binder

I honestly did this, but he would fill up a 3 ½ inch binder with thick worksheets and articles

He would be so excited

He makes a paper chain Mickey-themed countdown

Dolokhov is so happy that he’s happy

You help Dolokhov plan

Anatole is a Disney princess, okay? Just accept it now, because that’s what these headcanons are going to be about

I think you’d get the Royal rooms at Port Orleans

Anatole would love the portraits of princess on the walls, he just wants to be a princess

He’s a little kid, so you might get the pirate rooms (I think they’re at Caribbean Beach? Excuse me if I’m wrong, I haven’t been at Disney since April.)

He buys a tiara beforehand, you can pry these princess headcanons out of my cold dead hands

You get reservations at Cinderella’s Royal Table and Akershus (‘cause Anatole’s a princess), and probably lots of other character meals. (Definitely Crystal Palace, it’s a castle and it has Winnie the Pooh characters. Anatole loves Winnie the Pooh more than he loves life itself.) Dinner at Be Our Guest, Dolokhov even adores Beauty and the Beast- it’s a classic.

You decide to fly down, Dolokhov will never admit it but he’s terrified of flying, but Anatole adores it

He wears his tiara to the airport and on the plane

You sit in between them, Anatole gets the window seat

On the plane, Dolokhov surprises you both with pin trading lanyards

Anatole gets a princess one and you get one themed after your interests

When you get to the hotel and check-in, Dolokhov does the front desk work while Anatole takes your hand and drags you to the corner with the little chairs and the TV playing Mickey Mouse cartoons

Some people give him weird looks because of the tiara but one Cast Member compliments him

You go to the room and Anatole just

Dies

It would be hard to get the perfect room, so you just kind of told the Cast Members about the situation

Your Mousekeeper pushed the two queen beds together so that you could sleep in the same bed!

Anatole freaks out because of the little Mickey towels

Anatole, Dolokhov and you all go down to the store and Anatole gets an autograph book

Let’s be honest, you and Dolokhov both get one too

Every day, Anatole wears his tiara

He gets so many compliments and he just LOVES it

He does a lot of pin trading

He meets Ariel, I think she’s his favorite, and C R I E S

Anatole proposes to her because he loves her so much

All the princesses you meet love his tiara

Dolokhov cries when he meets Belle, though

One time you were meeting someone alone and they were like “Do you have a prince?” and you were just forced to point at the boy in the tiara and the boy crying because he saw Belle

“Those are my princes?”

“Charming.”

Dolokhov buys you and Anatole whatever you want

Just imagine walking hand-in-hand down Main Street with your boys

Lots of cheesy photo ops

“Fedya, get one of us holding Spaceship Earth!”

Dolokhov and Anatole are both so into thrill rides

But they both love everything

Dolokhov’s favorites- Space Mountain, Tower of Terror, Living with the Land, Great Movie Ride (I know it’s gone don’t tell me, I refuse to believe it), Winnie the Pooh,

Anatole’s- Rock n Roller Coaster, Frozen Ever After, Festival of the Lion King, Journey of the Little Mermaid, Seven Dwarfs Mine Train, Enchanted Tales with Belle, Peter Pan’s flight, Winnie the Pooh

Anatole loves the fireworks, but the loud noises kind of scare him, so sometimes you might skip the fireworks

He eats so much cotton candy it’s unreal

Gets a mickey balloon

Dolokhov would carry you around sometimes

Because if you’ve been on a well-planned Disney trip, and you’re like me and rarely go outside, THE PAIN AT THE END OF THE DAY IS UNREAL

Anatole goes to the Main Street barber shop and gets pixie dust in his hair

You get your hair done so that it’s pretty and sparkly (I did it once it’s fun)

Dolokhov would probably just get a haircut to make you happy

You throw pixie dust at him and he’s Sparkly for the rest of the day

He has like 100 layers of eyeliner on and all the children are somewhat afraid of him, which makes you laugh

I think Anatole is obsessed with Figment, he loves the ride

Dolokhov and you surprise him by buying him a stuffed Figment

He rides the carousel “‘cause I’m a prince!”

We all know he’s a princess though

Dolokhov adores Mulan and Pocahontas

Pocahontas meant a lot to him as a kid

You meet her in Animal Kingdom and he gets so happy

Late nights in Magic Kingdom are magical

Anatole gets a sword at Cinderella’s Royal Table and he kind of frowns at it and asks for a wand

He’s so excited when they give him a fairy wand

You don’t usually get to see this side of him, it’s cute

He cries on the way home

He never wants it to end

ME? PROJECTING MYSELF ONTO THESE CHARACTERS? IT’S MORE LIKELY THAN YOU THINK

yes there’s going to be a part two and an imagine this is obiwan824 we are trash for danatole here

EDIT: Forgot to mention. Magicbands- Anatole’s is pink, he decorates it, Dolokhov’s is green and Star Wars-themed. Anatole makes Mousekeeping envelopes to leave tips in. More projecting onto characters

[shitkkwrites]

Comfort

From one of my in-progress works, titled “Love Found, and Lost.”

Trigger warning for mentions of childhood / teenage abuse, so proceed with caution.

“Fedya?”

“Yes, love?” Alfred said distractedly, one hand preoccupied with his red, white and blue-colored fidget cube.

“Are... are you sure you can talk about it? I-I mean... it's okay if... if you don't want to,” Ivan said softly, slinging one arm around him. They'd ended up in Al's bedroom, which was decorated in what he guessed was a typical American-style: sports team posters all over the walls, one occupied shelf housing various football-related awards, a helmet that had a place of honor in-between all the accolades, comic books piled haphazardly here and there, the soft glow of a desktop computer whose screensaver had been set to dancing rainbow lines; a clothes hamper that wasn't half-full yet.

They'd ended up on his bed, which was cheekily decorated with a Captain America motif'd bedsheet, although there was a Thor plush toy on the bedside counter, looking really battered and worse for wear (it was Al's only memory from his previous home).

“W-well... I... I think I can, if you're here. You should know, me and Mattie are... different,” he began, his fingers idly flicking the fidget cube. “I look up to him like a hero. Which he really is. I mean...”

“Hm?”

“...haven't you ever wondered why it's just me and him in this house?”

 “Well, Fedya... I did think about it from time to time, but...”

“You see, it's like this. Me and Mattie aren't from here in Montclair. We used to live down south. Like, way down south,” he began, looking anywhere but at his boyfriend.

“Florida?” Ivan inquired, curious. He could only guess as to why Alfred was avoiding his gaze, but he decided to let his boyfriend do his thing as he continued talking.

“No. We're originally from San Antonio, Texas. Our parents... well, sometimes I'm envious of you and your mom. Your dad's a bit scary though.”

At this, Ivan could only snort.

“True, my father may be like that. But I know he cares about us siblings. He's just not... as... expressive, I think? Yes. Not as expressive as my mother is. But anyway, you were saying...?”

He then looked at Alfred, who'd stopped messing with the fidget cube and had placed it beside the Thor plushie, before picking up the battered stuffed toy and holding it rather tightly.

“Our parents... they only cared for their wealth and ambitions. Mattie wasn't supposed to be a lawyer, in all honesty. He wanted to be a veterinarian. But our perfectionist prick of a dad... had other ideas. So, Mattie was forced to become one. As for me? Well, I got lucky before they started forcing me to become an engineer...” he trailed off, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“Dorogoy, what do you mean—?”

“My mom didn't really care much about us. It was always our dad who ruled over everything back home. Maybe she was scared. Seeing him get corrupted by the money he earned. He... he wasn't like that before,” he broke off as he squeezed the plush toy as hard as he could to hide the fact his hands were shaking. 

“It was like... he changed overnight. And in a way, it changed everything in our family. I could tell Mom was unhappy, but she didn't want to speak up, because she was beaten whenever she tried to. I... we grew up hearing her crying every single night. It was...terrifying,” he muttered, fighting the urge to cry.

“Fedya...” Ivan said softly, before drawing the shaking American into a warm hug. “It's okay, it's alright... you don't have to talk if it upsets you,” he whispered softly, rubbing Alfred's back as he did so.

“I tried to sneak into her room, to tell her that the screaming was unbearable, but she'd just look at me before slamming the door shut in my face. Since then? I had to block it out. Every. Single. Night. There were other times Mattie would get beaten, and I'd hear him cry out, but I couldn't do anything. The next day he'd be all smiles and then tell me to keep my chin up as we headed out to school. And then...”

“And then...?” Ivan prompted, still rubbing Alfred's back. 

“I'd stay out of his hair as much as I could, of course. But there are times I'd get on his nerves, and then he'd beat me up too. Oh, it's nothing too serious, don't worry,” he broke off, trying to lighten the mood a little as Ivan's hands stopped running up and down his back. “Mattie was the one who had to bear the brunt of it all. Sometimes he'd defend me from our dad when I'd get into trouble. Other times I defended him, even if he told me not to.”

“Fedya... I didn't know. Are you sure you'll be okay? Talking about this?” he asked, an apprehensive tone in his voice before looking at Alfred once more.

“Y-yeah, I'll b-be fine,” he whispered back, both hands now all but squeezing the plushie he was holding. “I guess I just needed someone to... hear me out.”

“Fedya. If you're not okay with talking about it, we can stop here. I mean, I know it hurts. It hurts me, too. That you were treated that way...”

“Oh, V-Vanya...” he choked out, resting his head into Ivan's shoulder. It took a few moments for the Russian to realize that his shoulder was slowly getting damp.

“Shh... you don't have to continue,” he reassured the American, wrapping both his arms around the other trembling figure. “S-sorry.” 

“N-no, I... I can manage.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, skepticism in his voice.

“Y-yeah...” Alfred trailed off, not realizing that he was already crying hard in his boyfriend's arms. 

“W-well, anyway, things got to a head after my fourteenth birthday. I didn't know that Mattie was going to like, drop a bomb that one evening. When he came out to our parents... that's where things got really nasty.”

“How... how so?” Ivan asked, as he had an idea of how it felt. He'd come out to most of his family after he'd turned eighteen, and while the reception on his end was mostly knowing smiles from his sisters and (an unexpected) sigh of relief from his mother, his father was the hardest one to gauge out of them all.

“We were just about halfway done with dinner when Mattie apologized, cutting across the silence and then just outright saying, 'Mom, Dad... I'm gay,' and that set off the shit storm. Mom began to cry before bailing from the table, and while I was a bit surprised at his pronouncement, I wasn't expecting our...dad to stand up, and then point to another room of the house,” he began, stopping to catch his breath before he continued, 

“It was... horrifying. The silence was pressing down so hard, I almost went crazy. When he and Mattie left, and I was all alone at the table... that's when I heard... the screaming. It wasn't my mom though. It was Mattie...”

Silence was the only reply Ivan could give, before threading one of his hands through Alfred's hair, giving him reassuring, gentle pats.

“And then... and then, after that, I tried to block it all out. It was... I couldn't do anything much. I wanted to run to my room, but hearing Mattie scream for his life... I tried to intervene. I-I tried to stop our dad, but...”

“But?” Ivan continued, waiting for him to continue.

“B-but... when I did get the c-courage to follow them into th-the living room? Mattie told me to... to stay out of it. Of course, I didn't w-want to. I'd heard so much, I don't like to hear those sounds anymore. I was halfway into the room when Mattie all but broke free from... from dad's hold and shoved me out of the room, telling me to wait for him after it was all over. So, I did the next-best thing: I-I fled to my room...”

“Oh, sunshine...” Ivan whispered softly. If he was an empath, he'd have exploded due to the rolling waves of sadness that were permeating all around his boyfriend right then and there. It was like a sea of nothing but blackness had rolled out from Alfred; the painful, heart-wrenching kind that could effectively rip a person apart to shreds in a manner of moments.

“I... I couldn't sleep that night. It was l-like, an hour before dawn when my r-room door finally opened and Mattie peeked in. It was then I knew he'd had enough. So, a year later we fled.” 

“It's a good thing you did... otherwise I wouldn't have met you,” Ivan began after a long silence, a smile crossing his face. He'd let Alfred melt into his arms, the way he was crying, and just whispered soothing things in Russian, even if he knew the other one couldn't understand it.

“So... you're also like me and Mattie...?” The sandy-blonde muttered hoarsely, shoulders still shaking from the latest round of crying he'd just released.

“Da. I haven't told you yet, have I?” He rumbled, unable to fight off the smile on his face. “And you thought I was straight?”

“Oh, Vanya, you have no idea,” Alfred muttered, still muffled in his shoulder. It was really warm there for some reason, and he just wanted to stay in that particular spot. “Well, now that I know you're also gay... it's kind of a relief, actually. What if I was dating someone who wasn't, and was just forced to? 

“Oh, sunshine. Even if I was straight I'd still let you date me,” he continued, this time gently taking Alfred by the shoulders and slowly moving him so they faced each other. “It's okay now...” he whispered, one hand slowly rising up so he could brush the last of Alfred's tears away. “I'm sorry if I was such an idiot the first few times you talked with me.”

“Yeah, you were a regal prick. A regal pissy depressed prick,” the American chuckled, a weak attempt at humor. “Glad to see you aren't. And you're still a bear.”

“Whatever, Fedya.”

“Love you too, Vanya,” he said back, quirky grin on his face before blinking in surprise as this time, it was Ivan who'd initiated contact by closing the distance and cutting him off with a soft, gentle kiss on the lips before he could say anything else.

Instinctively, he slowly wrapped his own arms around Ivan, one hand still hanging onto the plush toy as the other slowly wound its way into the ash-blonde hair, nudging his head closer, unwilling to break the contact between them. It felt so warm, really. Not like with the times he had to act like such a poser in front of his team mates with a girl hanging off his arms. This was just... perfect.

Unable to resist, Ivan then tilted backwards, bringing Alfred along with him as they fell onto the sheets, the Russian's arms wrapping around his lanky frame as he held him closer, afraid to let go of him now that he knew just how...wrecked his ray of sunshine was.

“I'll protect you,” were the first words Ivan whispered, slowly breaking away from Alfred's kiss before brushing a kiss on the American's nose. “I may not be as... good as Matvey in some aspects, but I promise you, I'll protect you. From anything. From everything. From the world, if you wish. 

“Matvey?” 

“Your brother.”

“Oh,” was all he had time for as Ivan began trailing a soft thread of kisses upwards from his nose, to his forehead, before going back down his cheeks and then burying his face in the crook of Alfred's neck.

“Vanya?”

“Yes, love?”

“Th-thank you. For hearing me out.”

[qqueenofhades]

So... Fedyor's and Ivan's first intimate night together sounded like it went off to a good start 👀🙄👀 (how to ask for deleted scene of that without asking for deleted scene)

Anonymous asked: so what you’re saying is, is that Fedyor was the first person Ivan slept with both consensually and where there was actually like a “yea i can’t wait to see you again” on both ends

yea no...i have NO feelings that make me feel soft about that AT ALL. nope. not at all.

thank you again for all your writing, i really look forward to everything you post!

Anonymous asked: Your highness, many praises for "the better half of me" , specially chapter 3. Humbly requesting another Fivan Smut.

You are all thirsty and demanding little busybodies and I salute that.

Have an extra-special Fivan First Time in Phantomverse Full Length Smut Chapter. It follows immediately on from chapter 1 of a sky full of stars, and is also available on AO3 for your sexy reading pleasure. Please note that this chapter is very definitely rated E, and can be found below the cut.

The bedroom door has barely closed behind them by the time they are kissing again, in deep, gasping gulps as if they cannot possibly bring themselves to stop. Fedyor grips Ivan’s shirt in both fists, pulling his head down and biting at his mouth, as Ivan utters a growly little chuckle deep in his throat that drives Fedyor even more insane. He has all kinds of plans about how he’s going to make the bastard suffer for the excruciating little pantomime he just put him through, but right now, he’s still too drunk on the euphoria of actually getting to do it. Ivan kisses like he punches (or at least so Fedyor presumes, since he’s never actually seen him do it): hard, straight, deep, and utterly without mercy, and Fedyor is already addicted to it. He steps on Ivan’s feet, then swings him around toward the bed and gives him a shove, and Ivan laughs out loud as he stumbles backward and sits down with a jerk. He looks startled but pleased at this evidence of ferocity. “Oh, Fedya, you are mad, aren’t you?”

“Very,” Fedyor informs him, hopping alternately on each foot as he yanks his sock off the other. “Because you are a dick.”

“But that seems to be something you’re into, huh?” Ivan says, with a dark, alluring playfulness that does absolutely nothing to get any of Fedyor’s wayward blood back into his head. He crooks a finger. “Come here. I thought you were swearing to punish me.”

“Oh, I am.” Fedyor strides to the bed, still fuming, and hops up onto Ivan’s lap, straddling him and bracing his knees on either side of Ivan’s hips. Then he reaches down and takes Ivan’s face in both hands, tipping it back and lowering his opened mouth to Ivan’s mouth beneath him, hot and hungry and soft and hard and relentlessly insistent all at once. Fedyor grinds his hips against Ivan’s, making both of them groan, until something occurs to him, and he pulls back. “Just to be clear. We’ve recently had some, um, communication issues. We need to be very certain that we both know what we’re intending here. I’m asking you to have sex with me. Is that also what you are doing?”

Ivan looks at him as if he’s either very dim or very adorable (possibly both). “No, why do you think that?” he says, giving Fedyor a brief heart attack. Then he adds, still utterly straight-faced, “After all, I often passionately kiss people that I am not at all intending to sleep with. Especially on their bed.”

“Oh my God.” Fedyor lets go of Ivan’s face and punches him in both shoulders. “I cannot believe I like you so much. You are the worst person.”

“Mmm?” Ivan turns his face up, his arms slipping around Fedyor’s waist and pulling him closer, their lips meeting and musing, as Fedyor’s hands stray to his back and slide up beneath his shirt. His fingers explore the hard, sculpted muscles of Ivan’s torso, their faces pressed together, their tongues slipping into the other’s mouth, as Fedyor scoots up on Ivan’s lap and Ivan puts one hand under his ass and hitches him still closer. When they break apart for air, Ivan murmurs, “I would also very much like to have sex with you now, Fedya.”

“Was that so hard?” Fedyor asks, with a bit of a huff. “You utter troll.”

Ivan quirks an eyebrow devilishly, but doesn’t deny it. Then he pushes Fedyor off his lap, provoking a little whine of deprivation on Fedyor’s part, and stands up. As Fedyor stares at him in bemusement, since this is not normally the next action performed by someone who has just declared their carnal intentions to you, Ivan unbuttons his shirt, pulls it off, and folds it neatly before putting it on the chair. He then does the same with his undershirt, and even though the scenery is spectacular, Fedyor has to ask, “What are you doing?”

“I am taking off my clothes,” Ivan says, as if Fedyor might have recently gone blind in addition to his other deficiencies. “I believe that is often a necessary prelude to having sex.”

“Yes, but – ” Fedyor feels once more blindsided, which might be a recurring theme when it comes to Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov. “Don’t you think we should – I don’t know – slow down and enjoy it? Let me do it? Or – something?”

He isn’t sure if Ivan’s version of sex involves nothing more than stripping off, pumping away, and then falling asleep immediately afterward, but he hopes not. Either way, even if they are now properly using their words, there is still no guarantee that they are actually communicating. Ivan unbuckles his belt, unzipping his jeans, and Fedyor springs off the bed, catching and holding them at his hips as he’s about to pull them down. “It’s not that I don’t want you to do that,” he says. “I very much do. I just – do you have another appointment tonight or something? There’s no rush.”

Ivan looks down his long nose at him, eyes crinkled in confusion. “I don’t understand. You said that you wanted us to have sex, didn’t you?”

“I do, I really do. Ugh.” Fedyor swallows hard, which doesn’t make his throat any less dry. “It’s just, haven’t you ever heard of foreplay?”

He uses the English word, because saying something like эротическое стимулирование (roughly “erotic stimulation”) is about as sexy as a colonoscopy. Then he wonders if perhaps Ivan hasn’t heard of it at all, but that doesn’t seem likely. He reaches out and puts his hands over Ivan’s, as Ivan himself is still looking supremely baffled. “It’s okay,” he says. “I want this. I want you. I just – you surprised me, that’s all.”

“You should be more direct, Fedyor Mikhailovich,” Ivan informs him, in a bossy voice that really shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does. “So explain what you want, if it isn’t this.”

“This is my fault?” Fedyor pokes Ivan in the ribs (partly because his abs are something to behold, Fedyor can’t keep his hands off, and he dearly desires Ivan to suffer at least twice as much as he wanted him to suffer before, which is saying something). “I wasn’t sure if we were dating for two whole months, now you come in and – and – ”

He splutters into impotent silence, since he doesn’t know why he’s arguing with Ivan when he really wants to be kissing Ivan, and when obviously nothing has happened that he actually objects to. He shakes his head, swears to himself, and says, “Okay. If you’re in the mood to lay down clear parameters, what do you – what do you want? What are you expecting? Hand job, or blow job, or you know, uh, full sex? Or something else? I have condoms and lube, I’ve done most of the usual stuff before, but nothing too insanely kinky. Not that that’s bad, if you’re into that. I could be up for experimenting. Just tell me what you’re expecting from me, what gets you off. I want this to be good for you.”

Ivan looks at him with the expression of a man who has been handed the wine list at a gourmet restaurant and asked to select just one. When he doesn’t answer, Fedyor finally begins to get a sense of what might be going on. Ivan might have had sex before, as evidenced by his no-nonsense undressing, but making love – that doesn’t even appear to be part of his vocabulary. There’s an uncomfortably long pause, as Fedyor’s words hang in the air. Then he asks, his voice very soft, “Do you even know what you like?”

Ivan starts to answer, then stops. He looks away, almost as if he’s ashamed, and his Adam’s apple moves up and down as he swallows. Then he makes an odd harrumphing noise, as if he’s trying hard to sound like his normal gruff self. “I am not a virgin, Fedya.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Fedyor takes a step closer, running one finger along Ivan’s broad shoulder, the strong arch of his collarbone, the heavy muscle of his upper arms, the fine, rough hair of his forearm, his big hands and long, capable-looking fingers. Ivan closes his eyes, a restrained shudder flowing through him, as if he is holding his breath. Fedyor lifts Ivan’s hand to his mouth, turning it up and kissing the calluses on his palm. Still more softly, he says, “It’s okay, Vanya. You can tell me anything.”

“I don’t – ” Ivan harrumphs again. “Fine. You know more about this than I do. I have not – before, with the others that I have been with, it is…” He shrugs defensively. “Look. I am not bad at it. In fact, I am quite good. I can show you, if you don’t believe me?”

He makes a grab for Fedyor’s belt, since Fedyor himself is still fully clothed, but he steps back and gently pushes Ivan’s hands down. “Hold on,” he says. “I did not ask you to sleep with me because that was all I cared about, only getting myself off. We don’t have to do this. We can just cuddle, or – or watch Die Hard 2, or something else. You know that, right? I still want to see you again even if we don’t sleep together right this very instant. I also do want to sleep with you, but if you’re not comfortable – ”

“No, it’s…” Ivan is clearly struggling to articulate a concept that he might not have ever processed consciously. “No, it’s not that. I want you. I want to do this. I want to make it good for you. I promise, I absolutely do not want to watch one of those baffling American movies more than I want to sleep with you. I just don’t understand why you don’t want me to…” He makes a helpless little gesture, encompassing a multitude of sins. “You know.”

“I do, I do want you to.” Fedyor reaches out and takes both of Ivan’s hands in his own, pulling him in so that their hips to brush, their chests touch. Their heads tilt down, their mouths coming close again, both of them shuddering at the jolt of electricity that burns through them, the raw, chemical need to be kissing again, to get back to what they were doing before their pasts so inconveniently intruded. “But I want to take care of you too, and I don’t think anyone has ever done that before.”

Ivan is silent. So silent that Fedyor is afraid that he’s somehow said the wrong thing, and has to finally venture, “Vanya?”

“Ah.” Ivan’s voice is thick – which sounds for a moment, though Fedyor has trouble ever imagining it from this man – as if he might be brusquely choking down tears. “Ah, but Fedya. I thought you said that I was the worst person. Earlier.”

“I did, but that’s not…” Fedyor lays one hand against Ivan’s cheek. “I was joking, okay? Teasing you. Because you like to tease me. I didn’t actually, literally mean it.”

Ivan lifts his head, his eyes raw and vulnerable and luminous in the sliver of city light that pries through Fedyor’s bedroom curtains, and Fedyor can see the fragility beneath the iron, the delicate soul that lies somewhere deep in this tough, scary, grumpy, standoffish man. It breaks his heart in half and puts it back together all at once, and he can’t think how to respond, how to answer, how to do anything but he does, which is to cup Ivan’s head in his hands again and sway back forth. “Vanya,” he breathes, enchanted by the way it sounds on his tongue, a key to a secret world that belongs to them alone. “Oh, Vanya.”

With that, he pulls Ivan close, Ivan doesn’t resist in the slightest, and they kiss so long and so slow and so deep that it feels as if it invents its own sort of time. The world turns one way before that kiss, and after it, it turns another, as Fedyor reaches up, unbuttons his own shirt, and shucks it off. Softly he says, “Vanya, would you like to come to bed with me now?”

“Yes.” It bursts from Ivan as if it’s the only thing he can think of, something that he barely feels worthy of but wants more than life itself. “Yes, I do.”

“Okay.” Fedyor reaches out, undoes the last clasp of Ivan’s belt, and pulls it off, followed by his jeans. Ivan stands still as a statue, as if he was perfectly willing to undress himself but having someone else do it is almost unfathomable, and a shiver runs through him from head to toe as he stands there in nothing except his briefs. Fedyor looks him luxuriously up and down, then says, “Do you want to take off mine, or should I?”

“Oh, I’m doing that,” Ivan orders, sounding more like his businesslike self, as he steps in and removes Fedyor’s trousers with a method that can only be described as “surgical efficiency.” When they have been disposed of, the two of them walk back to the bed together, and each take charge of stripping off their own underwear. Then they are in nothing but their skins, and the only thing that separates them is air. Fedyor feels that prick of instinctive shyness that you always feel the very first time you’re naked with a new lover, in case there’s some secretly grotesque feature that the others failed to mention and they are actually repulsed. He works out, he eats healthy, he takes care of himself, he can be confident that he looks pretty good. But there are always the weird moles, the wonky toes, the wibbly parts of yourself that you don’t like or don’t want to see in the mirror, and it’s been a long enough dry spell that it’s his turn to feel an unwelcome attack of nerves. He looks down at the floor, barely breathing.

“Fedya.” Ivan’s voice makes him look up. “Fedya, you are…”

He stops, clearly struggling for the words. He reaches out with one broad palm and ghosts it along Fedyor’s arm, then does the same with the other hand, gripping his biceps. “Beautiful,” he says almost disbelievingly, but not as if he’s in any doubt that it applies. Only that he’s in doubt that he gets to say it, that he gets to be standing here and seeing this, that it’s so much more than he has ever dreamed or felt like he deserved. “You are beautiful.”

The low, reverent whisper of his voice, the way he sounds like he has been stabbed through the heart and utterly slain, makes gooseflesh rise in cold ripples along Fedyor’s arms. He’s outwardly confident, he has had no complaints from his past lovers, he is clearly the one who will have to take more of the lead here, but he can’t recall that anyone has ever said that to him in that awestruck tone of voice. He bites his lip, moving closer again as Ivan continues to touch him, lightly and softly and slowly, as if he’s never actually done this with another man while they’re both naked. In fact, Fedyor realizes, it’s almost certain that he hasn’t. Ivan looks startled and intrigued and turned on all at once, getting on his knees and running both hands down Fedyor’s hips, the lean lines of calf and thigh, circling around his ankles and the tender hollow of the bone. Ivan even investigates Fedyor’s toes, which he can’t recall a boyfriend ever doing (except for one weirdo off Grindr with a foot fetish, who was rather swiftly disposed of). Fedyor giggles, a little unsteadily. “Come back up here.”

Ivan runs both hands over the tops of his feet, then slowly makes his way northward again. He still hasn’t ventured anywhere 18+–rated, as if he is taking his time about getting there now that he knows their night together isn’t contingent on him giving Fedyor an orgasm as quickly as possible. He stands up and touches Fedyor’s collarbone and shoulders, his chest and nipples, the muscles of stomach and back. Fedyor used to swim competitively, and they’re still pretty trim, if he says so himself. Ivan draws the rough pads of his fingers over Fedyor’s skin, provoking another round of shivers, until Fedyor is feeling very adored and worshiped indeed but also almost out of his damn mind with lust, and in the mood to progress the activities to those of an explicitly adult nature. “Vanya,” he says breathlessly. “You are very sweet, but I really want to fuck your brains out. Is that okay?”

Ivan looks surprised. Then he laughs. “You want to fuck my – ?”

“As you would put it, that is normally implied when I say that, yes.” Fedyor tries not to shift too impatiently, but he might pass out if there’s any less blood in his head. He makes a demonstrative gesture at himself. “I’m suffering here.”

“Ah,” Ivan murmurs, with the air of a repairman confronting a difficult but fascinating mechanical problem. “Then we have to do something about that, of course.”

With that, he sweeps Fedyor up and carries him bodily to the bed, settling him down on the pillows and clambering onto all fours above him. He makes a move as if to finally go down, then stops. “You said that you had condoms. Do you want one?”

“If you’re just going to…” Fedyor is tryingto focus long enough to produce coherent speech, but it’s an almighty struggle. “You know. I’m clean, I’m not – I don’t – any diseases or anything.” Great, look at them being all adult and responsible and attempting to practice clear communication and safe sex, but he is desperate. “You’re fine to just, uh. Go for it. For the love of God, please go for it.”

Ivan considers for a final moment. Then he braces himself on both hands, slides down, and does at last, and comprehensively, go for it.

Fedyor jerks, clutching fistfuls of the bedclothes and involuntarily arching his back, as Ivan reaches up with one hand and pins his hip flat again. He doesn’t break stride, sucking Fedyor’s cock down deep and then licking a slow stripe up the underside, swirling his tongue elegantly around the tip and working him over until Fedyor is swearing profusely and doing his best not to thrash. Instead, he links his ankles around Ivan’s shoulders, sturdy and strong and moving in time to the bobbing rhythm of his head, digging his heels into the unyielding muscles of Ivan’s back. Ivan doesn’t let up on him until Fedyor is whimpering for mercy, on the very edge of coming, and seeing double. Then Ivan pulls away, his mouth wet and obscene, as he wipes it with his hand. “How are you feeling up there?” he asks, as if he doesn’t good and goddamn know. “Do you want me to finish this?”

“It’s either that,” Fedyor manages to get out, “or I murder you.”

“Tut, tut.” Ivan grins, adopting a mocking scold. “For someone who claims that you like me so much, you do threaten violence quite often, my fierce little Fedya.”

“Do not call me little.”

“Mm, maybe not.” Ivan leans down and kisses very low on Fedyor’s stomach. “This isn’t little, I’d say.”

“Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov, I swear – ”

“Shh.” Ivan pushes Fedyor’s legs to either side, holding them firmly down with each of those notably large and obnoxiously capable hands, and then goes back to finishing his work. It is, by any metric, a resounding success, and Fedyor loses track of empirical reality, his higher faculties, and for a moment there, his own name. When he finally returns to earth, he can only make out the sight of Ivan propped up on one elbow next to him and looking insufferably smug. “I told you that I was good, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Fedyor mutters, still feeling as if his spinal column has been removed. “Yes, you did say that.”

Ivan leans down to kiss him again, his mouth still tasting saltily of Fedyor, and they roll over in the bedclothes and make out for a few moments, as Fedyor hasn’t figured out how he is going to take his revenge but is determined that it will be spectacular. They need a few minutes to recover and stagger to the bathroom to drink some water, then return to the bed and flop down side by side like beached whales, giggling helplessly. Fedyor has had a boyfriend or two, but he still isn’t sure that he has ever experienced anything quite like this, the ebbs and flows, the mess, the daze, the delight, the enjoyment of the interlude just as keen as the activities themselves. Their fingers grope toward each other and clutch hold, as Fedyor lifts Ivan’s hand to his mouth and kisses it. They pant and wheeze in an undignified fashion, with no attempt to look pretty or perfect or like anything except sex-stupefied horndogs in their first post-orgasmic haze, which is what they (or at least Fedyor) absolutely are. But no matter how resoundingly he has gotten a happy ending, he has not forgotten his own plans to inflict one likewise upon Ivan, and he wants to do a very thorough job of it. Especially since Ivan doesn’t necessarily know what he likes, this is going to require a bespoke basket of boutique sexcapades, all of which makes Fedyor sound like a much more experienced lothario than he actually is. Yet as is the case in everything, practice makes perfect.

When both of them are on the road to recovery, Fedyor sits up. “I am going to conduct some important science experiments on you,” he informs the intrigued-looking Ivan. “If I do anything that you don’t like or that does not feel good, you tell me, okay? And I will stop. But you have to tell me. Not just put up with it because you think that it is what I want to do or whatever. What I want to do is to make you happy and to help figure out what you like, and I can’t do that unless you tell me what you really feel. Yes?”

“Yes,” Ivan says slowly, as if he’s trying to contemplate the idea, to wrap his head around it, and then finally manages to do so. “Yes,” he says again, louder. “I trust you, Fedya.”

Fedyor smiles at him, then reaches over, opens his bedside drawer, and pulls out his lube, squeezing it into his hands and working it until they’re warm. Then he sizes up Ivan like a painter deciding where to make his first stroke on the canvas, reaches down, and takes Ivan’s erection gently in his palm, sliding his thumb slowly up to the base of the thick shaft. A dry handjob is no fun for anyone, so Fedyor makes extra-sure that there is enough lube, watching Ivan’s face to be sure that this is going well. “Mmm? How about this?”

“Fedya,” Ivan says, sounding a little breathless. “You are very beautiful and you have my cock in your hand while you look like absolute sin. I do not need a chemistry experiment.”

“Good to know.” Fedyor bites a grin, feeling slightly diabolical himself. He tries a few strokes, slower and then faster, changing the pace and pressure, as Ivan is the one suddenly scrambling for purchase on a swiftly tilting planet. But before he brings him all the way off, Fedyor lets go, re-lubes his hands, and turns Ivan over, stroking along the muscled curve of his ass and circling around his entrance. “This?” he asks. “How does this feel?”

“Fedya – ” Ivan bites another curse. “What do you think?”

“Words, Vanya. Use them.”

Ivan rolls his eyes at the heavens in mute appeal, as if this must be his divine punishment for being such a snarky bastard (and, you know, he’s not wrong). “It feels good,” he grits out. “Do you want me to write a dissertation? With footnotes?”

“No, that’s fine.” Fedyor teases at him, opens him, slides one slick finger into Ivan’s tight and intimate heat, pushing and circling until he can slip in two. Ivan growls, recoiling up onto all fours, as Fedyor climbs up behind him and positions himself more conveniently for continuing his work. He reaches around with his free hand and takes hold of Ivan’s dick again, matching the rhythm of his strokes on the outside to the insistent pressure on the sweet spot inside him. When he finds the right place, Ivan actually yelps, and Fedyor smirks. “That,” he informs the very startled Ivan, “is where the man’s G-spot is located. It is the sensation of pressure on the prostate that feels so good. Did you know that?”

“I did not know I was dating a – ” Ivan breaks off to swear. When he stops swearing, he manages, “A fucking professor of anatomy.”

“Maybe a fucking professor.” Fedyor has to pay attention to what he is doing with both hands rather than witty banter, but he leans forward long enough to catch the shell of Ivan’s ear with his teeth. “Or a professor of fucking. Take your pick.”

“God almighty,” Ivan manages through his teeth, the muscles in his forearms straining as he braces himself on Fedyor’s mattress, and this right now, this should be carved in marble by Michelangelo (also a noted devotee of gay sex, if Fedyor recalls) and kept there forever just like this, perfect. “You are actually going to kill me, Fedyor Mikhailovich.”

“I did promise payback.” Fedyor increases the speed to ruthless levels. “Maybe next time you won’t be such a little shit, huh?”

Ivan is gasping too hard to really put much heat into it, but he still manages to aim a look over his shoulder suggesting that if this is his “punishment,” then Fedyor should probably get ready for maximum little-shitness at all times. Fedyor supposes that it is a bit counterproductive of him to reward bad behavior, but then, he’s already admitted that he is completely gone over Ivan Sakharov either way, even and (inexplicably) especially when he is such a total, godforsaken grump. He can feel in Ivan’s body that he’s close to climax, perhaps the first one that has ever been deliberately and carefully coaxed out of him like this, and feels an indecent, shivering thrill, even beyond the simple physicalities of what they are doing. It’s bewitching, intoxicating, as necessary as blood and as sweet as ambrosia. That Fedyor could be responsible for reducing a man like this to utter, incoherent cursing, the barely bridled strength in Ivan that could tear someone else apart, completely yielded up to his will, trusting him to take this body, this heart, this soul, and do whatever he pleases – to trust that it will not hurt. Fedyor is only beginning to grasp what must lie under all this, but it breaks his heart nonetheless. No, he swears, knowing somehow that even if this is their first night together, it will not be the last. I will never, ever let someone hurt you like that again.

It’s only a few more moments until Ivan is completely, outrageously losing it, as one of Fedyor’s hands turns warm and sticky and the fingers of the other are clenched slick and tight until it seems as if they have briefly been melded into one flesh. Then, as Ivan is still flat on his stomach and gulping whooping breaths as if he has been chased by a train, Fedyor smirks, pulls both hands carefully free of their entanglements, and goes to the bathroom to rinse off. When he returns, Ivan is still in the exact same position as before, and Fedyor climbs onto the bed, unable to resist a little poke. “Are you alive?”

“No,” Ivan says, voice muffled. “Ask again later.”

“Good.” Fedyor slides down next to him, throwing his arm over Ivan’s sweaty, trembling back. “So, it is fair to say that you liked that?”

“I think it is fair to say so, yes.” Ivan’s voice is extremely dry, but he shifts and rolls over to face Fedyor, their noses brushing in the dark, their heads very close on the pillow. “I shudder to imagine what you are going to do to me next, you demon.”

“Oh,” Fedyor says in a voice low with promise, reaching for the quilts and pulling them up around their waists, their naked, entangled bodies. He can definitely feel the sheer sweet satisfied sleep of sexual satiation pulling at him, but he pushes it off. He doesn’t want to do that, not quite yet. He wants to lie here in the dark with Ivan in his arms and savor every instant of what has just happened, play it back in his head, be sure that he doesn’t ever forget, not as they both should live. “Just you wait. I have plenty of ideas.”