#inky.fyodor

[inkykeiji]

character: fyodor x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, bratty reader, toxic relationship, impact play: caning, blood, physical abuse (fyodor breaks one of reader’s bones), jealousy (feat. nikolai), princess used as a pet name, reader does not know russian or ukrainian, size difference (fyodor is bigger than reader), one instance of Sir

words: 2.7k

You’re getting restless, he can tell; can see it in the way you’re running your index finger along the spines of the old, crumbling books as you listlessly pace around the library, collecting dust on your fingertip; can hear it in the way you sigh, soft and delicate, wistful and weary, shoulders deflating a little with the exhale. 

Bratty and bored, that’s what you are, casting longing side glances at your Daddy from the corners of your eyes, desperate and hopeful for him to take notice of you, of your current state, and relieve you of it. Bratty and bored, but brats don’t get Daddy’s attention, especially not when they know he’s busy. 

He wonders how long you’ll hold out before you succumb, how long you can reign in your inherent selfish and spoiled nature before the restraints finally snap beneath your yearning for attention.

Not very long, he wagers. 

“Nikki,” you whine a mere moment after the thought passes through Fyodor’s mind, the nickname stringy and drawn out.

“Yes, princess?” Nikolai responds without tearing his gaze from the pages of his book. 

“I’m bored,” you grumble with a pout, sauntering over to the plush armchair Nikolai is snuggled in and perching on the edge, ass and thigh pressed up against his resting forearm. 

The action surprises him slightly and he looks up at you, a question lingering in his mismatched eyes. 

“Is that so?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “So I came to see what you were reading,” you continue as a way of explanation, leaning forward under the guise of getting a better view of the book between his palms, swelling breasts—perky and practically spilling out from that slutty milkmaid dress Fyodor loves so much—pressing into Nikolai’s cheek as you do so. 

The curiosity on his face develops into something wicked, eyes darkening and smile furling in on itself as he casts you another glance.

Oh, he knows exactly what you’re doing. 

Holding out the book further, he leans into your chest, nuzzling your bosom ever-so-slightly. 

“It’s called Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka,” he says. “You can read it with me, if you’d like.”

“I can’t read Russian, though,” you frown, sounding as if you’re genuinely disappointed.

With a shake of his head, Nikolai laughs gently, the melody both fond and condescending.

“It’s not Russian,” he says. “It’s Ukrainian.”

At your lost look—eyes widened, brows wrinkled, head tilted, so precious, so pathetic, like a stupid little puppy—he laughs again, releasing a corner of the book and holding his arm out, welcoming you into his lap. “Here,” he beckons, nodding his head a little in indication. “I’ll read it to you, then.”

Holding his stare, you hesitate for a moment, as if you’re weighing your options, carefully considering your choices and determining which packs the most heft, the most hurt. 

Then you’re settling onto his lap a moment later, a little palm planted high on his thigh as you lean forward, scanning the page. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, resting the hinges of his jaw on your body, his back pressed flush to yours. When he speaks again, you can feel his voice vibrate against his ribs. 

At the commotion, Fyodor looks up from his rosewood desk across the room, pen hovering above his papers as he observes, dripping splotches of ink across the page.

Nikolai’s murmuring to you, slowly, softly, lips grazing the cartilage of your ear as he reads, too low for Fyodor to make out the words flowing from his mouth. 

But he doubts Nikolai is actually reading to you, your sweet little giggles and bashful fluttering lashes telling him as much, Nikolai nosing along your jaw as his lips continue to move, the ghost of a smirk playing with the corners of his mouth. 

And, for a little while, Fyodor allows it to continue, jaw flexing infinitesimally with every hushed sound you emit, nostrils twitching, on the verge of flaring with each calculated exhale. 

For a little while, he’s alright; for a while, he can handle it. 

But you all knew it wouldn’t last long. 

A little squeal breaks in your throat in response to something Nikolai’s done or said, chest hunching in on itself only stopped by Nikolai’s large hands on your waist, fingers splayed wide and keeping you upright, so long they’re overlaying your ribs, thumbs just beneath your breasts.

And that’s all it takes, really.  

The sound of wood scraping wood has your body snapping into action, a switch flipped—automatic, inherent—and you slip from Nikolai’s grasp easily, flitting out the door with the grace of a single dove feather. 

Echos of your bare feet slapping against marble fill the wide hallways, tangled with breathless bubbles of laughter and the muted stomp of his rubber soles against the pristine floor. He’s panting behind you, pushing his body to the limit as he shoves himself forward, lungs aching, outstretched hand missing the hem of your dress by the width of a hair, again, fingers curling into a fist of nothing. 

The muscles in your legs are burning—his own legs are longer than yours, his strides more adept as they cover a larger area of ground, but you won’t give in; not until he catches you. 

And he’s close. 

Giggles are barreling up your throat and past your lips, an endless stream of amusement only slightly stuttered by your gentle, uneven huffs of exertion. The soles of your feet skid audibly on the marble as you sharply round a corner, skin squealing, but you don’t stop, not until you round the next curve in the knotted hallways, not until you realize that he’s no longer following you; that you are, suddenly and abruptly, all alone. 

Your feet scuttle to a stop, heaving chest adorned with dewdrops of sweat, glistening prettily in the warm lamplight of the manor. The silence is dense, ears ringing with the pressure, your own breathing muffled by it. The silence is heavy, crushing, almost, burdened by the immense scale and size of the manor, the whole structure so monstrous, so massive it feels nearly suffocating, like it could swallow you whole in a single gulp.

“Daddy?” you call out, voice small and hesitant, eyes darting around the empty space. The lamps on the walls waver for a moment, as if a breeze had somehow passed through the bulbs, but the air is stagnant and still. 

You turn slowly, balls of your feet sticking to the polished floor, gaze careful and cautious as it searches for any signs of life. 

“Daddy, where’d you—”

A large hand claps over your mouth and smothers your words, long fingers wreathing around your jaw, jagged nails digging into your cheek, and yanks you back against thin muscle and hard bone, engulfing you in darkness a second later. 

It all happens so quickly, so unexpectedly that you hardly have any time to meditate on the instance before you’re being whirled around, spine slamming against drywall, your body caged between the surface and the steady rise and fall of your Daddy’s chest. 

You had forgotten that this place contains many secret passageways and hidden rooms. 

You had also forgotten that Daddy knows all of them, and you know none. 

He’s got a large hand cuffed around either of your wrists, pinning them to the weathered wallpaper, warped and peeling, just above your head. 

You struggle a little, wriggling in his grip, and his fingers tighten in warning, palms pressing your limbs further against the wall, the bones of your wrist ground together in each of his hands, your features tweaking in a suppressed wince.

“Why are you on such bad behaviour today?”

“I’m not.” 

An eyebrow raises. “You’re not?”

“No. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

He laughs, nothing more than a gentle huff, and it sends chills skittering up your spine.

“You know how many lashes lying to Daddy gets you, don’t you?”

“Fifteen,” you answer dutifully.

“Yes. And how many lashes does flirting with someone else get you?”

“Twenty five.”

“Exactly. And how many lashes is that total?”

“Forty.”

“Forty,” he repeats slowly, as if he’s tasting each letter, molding it with his tongue. “Can you handle that? Do you think it was wise to act out in such a manner while Daddy was working?”

“You weren’t paying attention to me,” you say in simple explanation, though your voice is solemn, words filtered through a petulant pout.

“You have my full attention now.”

“Good.” 

Blinking twice, both eyebrows quirk. “Would you like to add to your current sentence of forty lashes?” 

“Depends. What else do you got?”

His tongue runs along the front of his teeth, curling over the edges, bulging beneath his top lip as he considers. “How about an extra ten for generally pissing me off?”

“Fifty.” you say plainly. “I’ll take them.” 

“Yeah? You won’t be able to sit properly for about a month or so.”

“I don’t care. Give them to me, I want them.”

Fifty it is.

He smiles at you then, and it’s sharp, it’s sinister, curling up at the corners and nearly furling in on itself, his eyes glowing. 

He says nothing as he latches a large hand around your bicep, grip just hard enough to be uncomfortable, just hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have a pretty cuff of all four fingers and his thumb, seared into your skin in brilliant blues, by the following morning. 

But then he tugs, and a yelp cracks in your throat despite your best efforts to keep it from happening. His fingers twitch, tighten, and you grind your teeth together, an attempt to keep from making another sound. 

Because you didn’t miss the telltale flutter of the edges of his mouth when you cried out, the way his chest puffed out just a little further, raising him to his full height. 

Because as well as he knows you, you know him, too, and the last thing you want to do is give him any further satisfaction; not after he ignored you all day, acted as if you didn’t exist, nothing more than a slightly irksome ghost lingering around the edges of his consciousness, gaze only occasionally flicking up from his thick books and crumpled papers and ink-stained fingers to trail you for a moment—to make sure you were still there—before returning to his work.

“I will not be restraining you,” he tells you, as nonchalantly as if discussing the snow outside, soles of his boots echoing against the marble as he stalks towards the wardrobe. “You move so much as an inch and I will add an additional five lashes. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

And you can’t suppress the smug little grin that slithers across your face as you assume the position—hips bent at a ninety-degree angle, chest pressed into the mattress, cheek nuzzled against the silk comforter—feeling exceptionally proud of yourself for remembering the Sir, for not giving him another reason to lengthen your punishment. 

“Good,” he says, and oh, you can hear it, that minuscule barely there tremor of fury, wavering in the word like a maggot under his skin. 

He decides on his favourite cane, black ebony wood with the silver handle, made of pure platinum and topped with a sphere. This is a uncommon occurrence; he rarely uses this cane, for fear of breaking it on you, as he’s done to so many other so many times before. 

He’s unrestrained today: which is to say, he has decided to be unrestrained today, a conscious choice to be harsh, cruel, messy with it all. 

You know not to mistake this with true lack of control; he could be constrained and neat with all of his lines if he wanted to be, but he doesn’t want to be. 

Not today.

You don’t deserve it.  

Every smack of the cane against your ass leaves raised, swiftly swelling welts in its wake, first materializing in thin lines, then in thick, before the skin finally begins to tear, spanked raw and rubbed down from the constant friction. 

They crisscross over your backside, crooked slashes and streaks embellishing your bum and the very tops of your thighs. Each stroke of the wood leaves a sharp sting searing across your flesh, followed by a dull, deep ache, the pain so dense you fear it may never fully leave you, throbbing as it burrows into your skin.

He doesn’t demand you count aloud, nor does he order you to keep quiet, and for this you are thankful, little whimpers and soft cries building as the punishment proceeds, evolving into full on shouts and sobs, fingers sore and stiff from clenching the edges of the mattress, desperate not to move. 

Only five left, you’re thinking to yourself in an effort to self-soothe, when the end is finally in sight. Only five more, and then it’s over; and then I’ve taken it all.

The next hit comes not with the heel but with the handle of the cane; a sphere of dense platinum, heavy and hard as it thwacks your tailbone, higher than any of the other strikes have been thus far.

A scream splinters in your throat, and you shove your face in the mattress, a feeble attempt to smother it, whole body recoiling from the impact.

You can feel the bone fissure, sending bolts of jagged pain shooting through your backside, sharper than the blunt ache the wood commands. Your fingers curl in the sheets, teeth sinking into the plush flesh of the bed, quivering muscles gone rigid as you try not to move around too much, lest Fyodor add another five lashes to your nearly completed punishment. 

He makes a masterpiece of your backside, a landscape of dark violet and navy blue, glittering scarlet pooling in the grooves of fields, fragile skin split from the constant whack of the cane. 

“Beautiful,” he breathes, fingertips skimming over his work, catching on the rapidly expanding bumps and ridges, bulging and thickening as blood rushes to cushion the injuries.

He digs a jagged nail into the wound, drags it through the hollowed gouges and collects blood beneath the sawtoothed edge.  

In a week or so, after the final bruise has fully developed and the blood has seeped through several layers of tissue to the surface, your shattered tailbone will serve as a massive moon, hanging low and heavy over the landscape. 

It will be one of the most stunning pieces of art he’s ever created, he’s sure of it.

It will be one of the most painful, extensive punishments you’ve ever endured; he’s sure of that, too.

It was fucking foolish to have challenged him, you knew it was right from the start, but—as expected—you just couldn’t help yourself. The whorish need for attention was too potent, too strong to resist, to ignore, to shove away into a corner of your mind and let it fester. 

But technically, ultimately, you got exactly what you wanted.  

Because when it’s all over, when you’ve taken your fifty lashes like the good little girl you are and you’re sobbing into the mattress, smearing spit and salt across the silk sheets, he collects you in his arms easily, scoops you up against his chest with a bicep cradling your neck and an elbow hooked beneath your knees and begins carrying you towards the small in-house infirmary.

You wail into his neck, little fingers curling in the collar of his sweater and yanking, desperate to pull yourself close, closer, as close as possible, finding comfort in your very own monster, your personal hell; delicious, decadent, devious. 

“Daddy, Daddy, Da-Daddy!”

Tender hushes fall from his lips, soaking into the crown of your head as he scatters placating kisses across your hair. And he’s so gentle, he’s so careful, minding your fractured bone as he hugs you to his ribs, rocking your shuddering body in his embrace ever-so-slightly, grip tightening as another one of those rough sobs rips through your chest.

Most of his anger has calmed now, beaten from his chest with the whip of the cane against your supple skin, but a few cinders of fury remain, simmering low and hot and quiet in his words. 

“Maybe next time,” he begins, softly seething, accent thicker than normal, “you’ll think twice before pressing your tits into Nikolai’s cheek, yes?”

[inkykeiji]

I think it's terrifying how sane Nikolai actually is, he plays the clown but he KNOWS exactly what he wants and how to play the character. Anyway! Do you think Nikolai and Fyodor would ever agree on sharing a reader? They have such an interesting dynamic with each other.

omg i agree 100%!! nikolai is genuinely petrifying and so so so interesting, i rly love the way he uses tones of voice and can switch between them with such ease aaah it’s v scary but v impressive; i feel like you never really know what you’re going to get with him and when he’s being serious vs when he’s saying shit just to say it—definitely super difficult to read; i wonder how well fyodor can truly read him,,,,, fyodor is so intelligent and so perceptive but nikolai is so unpredictable so??? i dunno hehe i’m just thinking out loud here c:

ooooh okay so i rambled a ton under the cut but!!

ah!!! a very interesting question!!! i want to say no—not completely, anyway. i always see fyodor as ultimately in charge when it comes to their dynamic, despite nikolai’s own dominance and intellect. i think they’re both insanely selfish, and i definitely think that they could possibly lend out a reader to one another, or play with a reader together, but i don’t see them being able to fully share a reader in a relationship split equally right down the middle. one of them would need to ultimately be in charge/in control. i can see fyodor allowing nikolai to fuck around with his reader (as long as he has asked for explicit permission first, of course) and i can see nikolai offering his reader to fyodor or instantly agreeing to fyodor getting to fuck around with his reader if fyodor asked for it, but i can’t see them entering into a relationship with a reader where they are both equally The Boss (for lack of a better term lmao).

i actually think nikolai, if he truly and genuinely fell in love with someone, would become a bit of a yandere. i think having something that now matters very much to him—something that is, essentially, a ball and chain latched around his ankle, something that keeps him from being truly free, something that could be wielded as a weapon to hurt him or control him—would make him extremely protective and possessive over them, extremely neurotic and emotional over anything that remotely has to do with them. now he must guard them with his life, because he won’t be able to handle losing them (in any capacity).

i also think he’d probably resent his darling a little because of all of this—the stress and the restrictions and the utter commitment the relationship is (ie now he HAS to watch over them, now he HAS to make sure they’re safe all the time or he suffers extreme anxiety and can’t focus or function, etc) and how he’s essentially become a slave to it.

he trust fyodor, mostly; he trusts fyodor as much as he is capable of trusting anyone, anyway. he knows fyodor will take care of nikki’s precious lil baby and that there’s no hope of said precious baby getting hurt or taken away from him when they’re in fyodor’s care. they’re safe (and ‘safe’ means many things to nikolai, including trapped) when they’re with fyodor—they’re as safe as they possibly could be when not under nikolai’s direct supervision. as such, he’s alright with lending them out to his boss when asked, and sometimes even gets giddy at the prospect of watching or being involved. (i alsoooo kiiiinda have a headcanon that nikolai likes being praised by fyodor and pleasing him so he’s never going to deny his bestest friend whatever he’s requesting).

sorry omg i feel like this answer totally went off the rails LMAO but yeah!!!! those are my thoughts!!! i just think fyodor’s too jealous to fully share as well—the idea of giving someone else an equal amount of power over his baby isn’t something he’s particularly fond of. i rly do think fyodor loves being in power,,, it’s that god complex idk~

[inkykeiji]

hi clari! happy friday! how's it going? y'know i checked tumblr earlier and idk why but fyodor saying "yeah?" in your new fic made me laugh. he talks so proper in the anime so it took me off guard. how did you find writing him for the first time?

hi hi!! HAHAHA this bit right there???

he does talk very proper and formally and i tried my best to keep him that way throughout the piece! but for this line in particular i thought like it felt like a natural response; i wanted to keep his tone from the anime/manga but to also make him sound and feel like a real person instead of a robot. i also like the ‘yeah?’ because he’s beginning to lose his temper here—she’s really pushing him and she’s holding her own against him with quite a bit of sternness, and i could see him losing some of his more formal speech qualities when his emotions begin to surge ever-so-slightly out of his control, like during moments of intense anger or lust, especially since i headcanon him to be someone with extreme control and precision over his feelings, and that this control comes with ease to him; unthinkingly, almost—innate and automatic. so the moment he has to actually consciously reign himself in, it’s plausible that his speech might suffer a bit because of it. idk!!! just my interpretation hehe(*/ω＼*)

this was my first time actually writing dialogue for him instead of a lil atmospheric piece and i really enjoyed it!!! tbh i thought he’d be harder to write since he can be so ambiguous but he came really easily to me!! he’s quite fun to play around with, especially since he’s so different from dabi; despite sharing a few traits they manifest very differently within each character and it’s fun to explore + apply that hehe c: