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physalian · 6 months

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Physalian's Top 10 Narrative Pet Peeves

*For now*

In one way or another, these all boil down to “Author took a shortcut and I absolutely noticed”. In other words, most of these stem from Manufactured Sincerity.

All of these come with the caveat of *except when done well*. I’m ordering these from “I’m annoyed but I’ll get over it” to “Nope, DNF”.

10. Sad times = Alcohol

Everyone drinks when they’re depressed apparently. Only women or fat men are allowed to eat away their sorrows with ice cream and guilty pleasures. No one’s allowed to go on a self-pity shopping spree. No one just goes to bed.

They drink. Or they go shoot something. Or punch a wall. It’s usually out of a flask or a crystal decanter. It’s usually whisky (specifically bourbon) or scotch, or something out of a brown paper bag.

Maybe this is my own bias as someone who does not drink, but writers, please come up with more diverse ways to show your character is mourning someone or something, beyond immediately heading straight for the alcohol. Not everyone likes liquor, not everyone owns a decanter set and crystal glasses.

Let them eat or shop or sleep or get high, or watch their favorite show or a really sad movie or listen to emotional music. Let them cry if they’re bad boys. Don’t make them punch walls.

9. Down time = Sexy Times

This applies of course only to narratives with implicit or explicit sex scenes and what I mean by down time is those situations where characters are either on the run or have some crucial deadline to meet, some race to win, what have you, and the second they get some time to breathe and have a heart to heart, they both let their guard down and ignore impending doom and sleep together.

If you’re in the real world and you are that stressed for any of the reasons above, you’re going to be constantly looking over your shoulder, worrying about what you’re going to do next, wondering if you should even stop to rest, not be dead on your feet but have enough energy to bang.

Obviously if it’s played for humor, that’s different, but in dramas, or especially in environments not suited for intimacy (looking at you fantasy and sci-fi) it just feels ridiculous and particularly gratuitous. Non-aces please tell me if this is a legit thing you would do, I sincerely want to know.

It also tends to happen with near strangers who’ve only known each other for several days, possibly weeks with little buildup, and they also tend to be at each other’s throats bickering incessantly. Save the sex for after you’ve won and can really dedicate all your attention to enjoying it.

8. Pointless Filler Pit Stops

Or ones that last way too long for no reason. I love filler, but only *productive* filler. It doesn’t have to service the plot, but it does have to develop at least one character, a relationship, the lore, somebody’s backstory, or be really funny and/or interesting to sit through.

Usually, it feels like it’s there to pad the run time or slow the pacing, but rarely does anything for the overall story. A fair bit of season one of ATLA is filler pit stops, but even when they go to all these random places for one-off adventures, the story is still showing us the world they live in, making it a teachable moment, introducing important characters, foreshadowing, or is just mighty entertaining to watch.

ATLA has only one pointless filler pit stop: the infamous Great Divide. It doesn’t positively develop any of the main trio, we never see these side characters again, Aang’s story is a complete lie so it doesn’t develop the lore or the world, and, most importantly, it’s just frustrating to watch. Your first job as a writer is to entertain, and this episode is annoying.

7. Fridged Character Motivation

I don’t mind the “fridged lady love” inherently. It’s a quick and dirty way to give your brooding hero backstory and everyone is familiar with it. I’m annoyed at how it’s the only nuance these characters tend to get, like this man’s dead wife/girlfriend/dog is his sole motivation for everything he does in life and all his goals.

I like broody badasses. I don’t like one-note broody badasses. His character existed before he met his dead love interest. Who was he back then? Does he have any friends who hate the man he’s become? Old mentors who’ve lost their faith in him?

This man’s arc is usually not even therapy-via-violence to get over his dead wife, it’s just a ham-fisted excuse to make him mean and short-tempered. Who is he, unrelated to this fridged character?

6. Dumbass Villains

The villain has captured the hero and friends and plans some dastardly torture to break their will. The villain has all their tools prepared and monologues about how easy it’s going to be, and the hero usually says something along the lines of “you can’t break me” or “I can take it,” whatever. And after several pages or minutes of screen time, the hero’s right, and then the villain breaks out plan B: The hero’s love interest, or their parents, who have just been waiting in the wings.

Why is this almost never plan A? The hero can always handle the pain, and always breaks down the second it’s someone else’s health on the line. Why doesn’t the villain, who’s always pissed at the lack of results, start with the proper motivation?

It’s either this or they wait until the perfect dramatic timing to reveal some skill or weapon or ultimatum after precious time has been lost, deadlines have been missed, and money has been burnt. Or they’re in the boss battle and they wait until the hero thinks they’ve won to pull out their secret weapon.

Unless you can give your villain a valid reason to not start with all the tools they have at their disposal, it might as well be a reverse deus ex machina. Even if it’s something as simple as Plan B hasn’t arrived on scene yet.

5. Everybody Has a Somebody

A topic I plan to expand on so I’ll keep it short here. Basically, the story wraps up and every eligible single character has a love interest they’re in varying stages of romance with. No one is spared, or they’re already dead. It’s a race to the finish line to give these characters significant others because that’s just what you do, it’s what audiences expect, there must be a romantic subplot.

Particularly annoyed when it’s an ensemble cast and the entire hero team only has relationships with other members of the hero team and no one outside this unit of 6-10 characters (*cough* Percy Jackson *cough*). No one is allowed to be single, or happy that they’re single. Everybody has somebody, no matter how well developed or plausible this relationship is.

4. Half-Baked Twist Villains

No one likes these characters and I’m not saying anything new here, and yet it still keeps happening. This one comes from just recently rewatching the abysmal Cars 2 (which is older, I know) and just trying to untangle this plot. This plot, that Pixar rinsed and repeated in Incredibles 2, and really thought no one would notice. This plot, where the villain creates a problem that doesn’t exist to make their own agenda look better, whether that’s malignant superheroes or green fuel.

Both try. Neither pretend the story is absent of a villain, unlike, say, Frozen. Both movies have a villain, they just have a hidden identity. The reveal just never hits as hard as the writers expect it to because, once again, they didn’t actually do the work to write a competent villain, they just slapped a “villain” sticker on their foreheads and called it a day. Why? Who cares.

3. Consequenceless Revivals

I love revivals, I love bringing characters back from the dead, love watching it, love writing it, love the drama.

Don’t love it when they’re suddenly back with no explanation or price to be paid. A character death should be a major event, and if you kill a character just to make your audience sad, then bring them back with zero effort, death begins to lose meaning in your world. CW shows are particularly terrible at this, specifically the TVD universe and Supernatural.

In the earlier seasons, when Sam or Dean died and came back, they still experienced character growth by dying and the experiences in hell, the PTSD inflicted, the new emotional battle scars. Even when Dean died a thousand times in the “Mystery Spot” episode, the point wasn’t “ha ha funny Dean dies again,” it was exercising Sam’s crippling codependency on his brother, as Gabriel says. There are consequences, either for the character’s psyche, or a cost for bringing them back to life.

2. Wimping Out on Promised Death

This decision makes me want to throw the book at the wall, or pause the movie and walk away. It’s the penultimate battle, the prophecy is upon us, a character or one of two characters must die to save the day, it cannot be impeded, avoided, or circumvented. We’ve known this is coming since the story began and are prepared for the tears and bloodshed.

Then the magical miracle springs out of nowhere and everyone gets to live. Kill them. Please. Even if it’s my favorite character, I’d rather cry over their death than be disappointed by plot convenience. If this is the tragic, fulfilling end to their arc, then that’s how I want it to end. Rarely do these characters get revived in a satisfying loophole everyone should have seen coming. I just feel manipulated.

1. Forced Miscommunication

*Picture me walking a stadium hawking Pointless Drama like cotton candy and cans of beer* Cheap Drama! Anybody want some Cheap Drama? Cheap Drama!

In the real world, people make misassumptions all the time and many of us are conflict-averse. We avoid talking about our problems to those who’ve wronged us like we’re polarized magnets. Forced miscommunication doesn’t care about anxiety, which would be fascinating to explore as explicitly anxious characters suffering legit mental issues is under-utilized. No, these instances just have characters eavesdropping or snooping and, out of character, make all these outlandish assumptions, refuse to listen to explanations, and start a fight that lasts juuuuust long enough until it’s magically resolved without consequence.

It doesn’t do anything for the story. It exists independently of these characters’ relationship and has zero impact once it’s resolved. I am 100% down for a single miscommunication causing an emotional outburst so extreme that it has the offended party seriously considering the strengths of their relationship, but it never happens that way.

—

TL;DR: The existence of a trope does not do the job of writing a compelling story for you. If you can look at any one scene in your book and not explain why it matters, what impact it has on the plot, story, or characters, delete it or rewrite it so it does. Even if it only exists to be funny, there should still be something gained from the experience.

#writing advice #writing resources #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #writing #writeblr #character development #how to write #pacing #character death

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shaantiofher · 1 year

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Heres something small from my humble hands

I'm supposed to be studying but here we are... Anyways we mover

An essay I wrote for English to give homophopic teacher a heart attack she will not appreciate so hopefully it gets some love here

Stolen glimpses

To watch love grow into a glowing , sweet scented flower is , to me, both painful and beautiful. Being surrounded by man and woman falling, growing, loving and learning together makes people like me, those who crave the love of the same gender, think we will never fall in love. Until I met her

The sun was a dusty pink with patches of peach , as if it were blushing at the premonition of what was about to unfold beneathe it and she, she was just as radiant. Her elegant features and lady-like mannerisms juxtaposed with the hard and aggressive beat of the pop music playing in the back. She glanced at me for the thirteenth time that night, and yes I counted, and gesture upstairs, towards the bathroom, with her dainty hand. With another glance at me she disappered out of eyeshot beyond the stairs. Of course, I followed in suit, my friends protests unheard

Stumbling across campus hallway, hangover on the emotional high and alcohol from the previous night, I sifted through the unassuming faces that were not hers. Until I locked eyes with the object of all my desires. This girl I have been meeting in secret for the past 6 months. The person my heart beats for. The girl I fell head first in love with. The way our lips fit together like two puzzle pieces manufactured to fit perfectly together and how our bodies moved to our own secret beat will forever be burned into my brain on repeat like a glitching radio destined to play the same song until the end of time

All of these beautiful thoughts disrupted by one sentence. A girl next to me spoke of the suicide of an out and proud trans kid in our grade, only guilty of the crime of being a concerned citizen. Oblivious to the fact that she just burst my homo-erotic bubble and brought me back to my reality: my country and everyone around me was violently homophobic and we could never be together. Her exact sentence never registered in my head because the ground swayed beneathe me with my next thoughts:

The person who owns my heart, the better half of my soul and our shared earth-shattering love will be eternally down-played in history as a few glimpses stolen from across the hall, for if they knew we would never be clean or human again. (shout out to hozier)

#i knocked on wood and PRAYED when i wrote that line in paragraph 4 #those words will not come to pass i am speaking it into the universe as i type this #writers on tumblr #writers and poets #original writing #creative writing #writing #writeblr #writerscommunity #wlw post #wlw #i am a lesbian #lesbianism

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whumpshaped · 11 months

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HUNTER BECOMES HUNTER FOR THE BINGO

i didnt mean to lump so many of these together but i had a Vision and i couldnt figure out how to Not lump them together- also it got super long i am so sorry

masterlist bingo card

tw vampire whumper, vampire whumpee, mind control, death, murder, a whole massacre really, stalking, loss, grief, minor burns, conditioning, manipulation, threats, memory loss

As the days passed, Beck found it harder and harder to ignore the memories. Helle had done a wonderful job at making him remember, even when he wanted nothing more than to forget. All that conditioning, manipulation, paranoia, gaslighting– it was all coming back, and it all made him fear them again. It made him see how rotten to the core they really were, no matter how desperately he tried to stay ignorant.

And he was stuck with them. Stuck with a monster who was more than happy to exploit all his fears and desires, his wishes and his vulnerability. They allowed him multiple more chances to practise his magic, entirely confident that he wouldn't be able to do it; and they were right. It was a wretched fucking situation to be in. Helle was giving him more and more reasons to want to run, while simultaneously blocking one exit after the other.

He was a rat trapped in an impossible maze, and the floor was getting hotter by the second — no matter how fast he tried to run, no matter how many times he thought he saw a way out, the only thing real in his life were the burns on his little rat paws.

He wanted the easy bliss of memory loss. That was the only thing that could've made this all bearable. He wouldn't flinch from Helle brushing against him if he didn't remember all the times he'd cried for them not to. He wouldn't question their sweet smiles and honeyed words if he didn't remember all the times they'd hidden traps and lies.

He tried to pretend he was still oblivious. He remembered what it felt like to be under the vampire's spell. He remembered the unconditional trust, the love, the adoration. He could replicate it. He could make it a reality again, if he tried hard enough. He could manufacture those same feelings, possibly even hold onto the last remnants of his rose-tinted glasses. He just had to try harder.

Helle was on cloud nine; had been for the past week. Everything was going splendidly! Beck was slowly remembering his life from before, and while he was getting more and more anxious in a way that might've otherwise been a cause for concern, now that they knew he was a runt, it was merely entertaining. Beck wasn't going to run off, nor was he about to commit some atrocities against them. No, he was just going to sit there and take whatever they decided to put him through, like a good boy.

The thought made them shudder with pure excitement. This was everything. Everything they'd wished for after their siblings had left. Everything they'd wished could've gone right was now going right. Beck was the perfect thrall and the perfect sired, he was their prized possession, their pampered little lapdog, their most important project for the next several decades, if not centuries. The first vampire they'd make so obsessed with them that he wouldn't ever want to leave.

That was where Lady Marie had miscalculated, they thought. She'd tried to use fear as the primary motivator. They weren't going to be so stupid. They were going to use something far more compelling.

Of course, being the perfect candidate he was, Beck was already working hard to make their job infinitely easier. He was practically deluding himself into loving them, they barely had to say a word. Even with his memories returning, he seemed to be trying his damnedest to push them aside and stay good. What more could they wish for, really?

Helle stopped in their tracks, and the enthralled human they had with them followed suit. As exciting as all the planning was, and as untouchable as they'd felt in recent days, they had to stay present sometimes. Especially when they got the distinct feeling that they were being watched.

They turned around, squinting at the empty road and the bushes and trees on either side. They couldn't smell any humans other than the one they'd brought here... nor any vampires, really.

Maybe they were wrong. Who would come to their mansion anyway? No one had attempted to kill them since that poor fucker Beck had tried to hire, and the last attempt before that had been decades ago. Still... They had just properly kidnapped him. If his family was anything like him, they might actually try to get him back.

Helle shrugged and turned back towards their house, throwing the doors open theatrically and announcing they were home.

He never fucking heeded any warnings, did he? And he never ever considered that he wasn't invincible, that bad things could happen to him, that maybe his mother was right to worry.

Joey's heart was pounding loudly in his chest as he lay — hopefully — hidden by an overgrown barberry bush, waiting for the vampire to continue walking. Fuck. Fuck. Why weren't they going? Did they spot him? Did all the things he had rubbed into his clothes to cover his scent fail? Please no. Please, he just wanted to see his brother. He couldn't die like this.

He held his breath for as long as he could, squeezing his eyes shut in utter terror. The night was quiet and chilly, and he tried his best not to shiver lest he rustle any leaves and give his position away. It felt like an eternity before he heard footsteps again — ones that were slowly fading.

Never in his life had he exhaled so slowly and carefully before. He couldn't even imagine what the vampire would've done to him, had they figured out he was there. Would he have been turned into a thrall? Or simply killed? Or scared halfway to death, then sent away to bring word of just how much of a terrifying monster they were?

It didn't matter. They'd left. He was safe.

He cautiously crawled out from under the bush, unable to resist a closer look at the mansion. In a perfect world, the vampire would've been away for just a few minutes longer, allowing Joey time to peek inside. But of course, the world wasn't perfect, and he couldn't be lucky in everything.

He flinched at every little sound, expecting the front door to open and the vampire to find him just a few feet away from the walls, lying in the grass like an idiot. The thought nearly made him flee at the last second, but he persevered, eventually arriving to a spot right under one of the huge windows.

Oh, how wonderful it would be to break those damn windows during the day, and let the stupid bloodsucker burn.

Joey took a few steadying breaths, then began slowly rising to his feet. Just a peek. All he needed was a peek inside. Just one glance at his brother, so he'd know he was alive.

He almost ducked back down when he spotted the vampire from before. Thankfully, they had their back turned to him, granting him just a few seconds to at least look around what seemed like a huge living room. Should vampires even have living rooms? A question for another day.

The setting was perfect for some stalking, really. With the lights on inside and the darkness outside, Joey didn't have to try very hard to pick out even little details. The vampire was holding the thrall by the waist, beckoning to someone else. Fuck, were there more of them? Taking out one vampire was difficult enough as it was, but a whole den...?

He shouldn't panic. At least he would have valuable information to bring back for the hunters, right? Thank god he decided to go on this rogue mission!

But all manner of conscious thought went out the window as soon as the other vampire arrived.

That couldn't be right. Was he hallucinating? Were the sleepless nights finally getting to him? That couldn't be right.

Joey felt like he was going to pass out. Why...? There was no reason– Why did they turn Beck into a vampire? Was this real? Was this actually real? Beck should've been kept as a thrall!

Well, he shouldn't have been held captive at all. But being a thrall would've been reversible, it would've been something– something he could fix! But this...?

He watched with wide eyes as his brother hesitantly approached the human, looking awfully distraught and apologetic. Of course. Beck would've never hurt anyone if he could help it. God, this must've been... this must've been...

Joey froze when Beck glanced towards the window. For the briefest moment, he thought it wouldn't end badly — that was his brother, his best friend, the person he would've sacrificed so much for. Surely, Beck would be happy to see that he came to rescue him, right?

But the fantasy was shattered when the other vampire turned and followed his gaze, their curious red eyes settling right on him. An intruder. The human they'd failed to notice just a few minutes prior.

He ran without thinking.

He knew this was the end of the line for him if the vampire caught him, and he also knew that there was no way he could outrun a monster like that. All he could count on was Beck somehow holding them back, or distracting them, or– or–

He didn't know. He just ran, as fast as he could, hoping, praying he would live to tell the tale.

Joey only stopped when it felt like his lungs would explode otherwise, collapsing on the sidewalk from utter exhaustion. He waved off several people who'd tried to help, assuring everyone that he just needed a moment to get himself together.

"I s-saw a vampire," he choked out. "I– I'll b-be fine, I just... I just got scared."

"Where?"

"Is the vampire close?"

"Are we in danger?"

Joey shook his head. "Several streets away. I ran a lot."

He didn't start fully processing the events until he got home. Tears of helplessness and sorrow were streaming down his face, washing away some of the dirt that had stuck to it.

Honestly? He could've lived with Beck becoming a vampire. It wasn't a good situation, not by any means, but Beck was his brother, and he was prepared to love him through whatever nonsense he'd got tangled up in.

The thing that absolutely ripped his heart to shreds was the fact that there was no recognition in his eyes when he'd looked at him. The two of them looked so alike, there was no way to deny them being brothers... and yet, Beck just looked startled and confused. Like he was nothing but a stranger.

"Don't!" Beck cried desperately, grabbing Helle by the hand before they could've gone after the stranger. "Please, don't, you've already kidnapped someone tonight! Please, let him go!"

"Do you have any idea who that was?"

He paused, slowly letting go of Helle's coat when he realised they weren't going to hunt him down. "I... n-not really." Now that they mentioned it, the guy did look familiar in a way. Nothing he could pin down, though. He already hadn't been good with remembering faces before dying, and death certainly hadn't helped. "But it doesn't matter, I just don't want– I don't want more innocents getting hurt. Please."

Helle considered him for a second. "Do you really have no idea?" they asked again, gentler this time. It was beginning to make Beck feel quite stupid. Was that person important? Someone who had been close to him in his life?

The brother Helle had spoken of?

No, Helle had said he'd left behind a twin brother. There was no way he could forget–

Beck frowned. He... had no idea what he looked like. How could he recognise his twin brother, if he had no recollection of his own face, and no reflection to check?

"Who was it?" He sounded timid, as though he was afraid of the answer; and in a way, he really was. Did he even want to know? Or did he want to simply ignore all of this emotional turmoil?

The decision was made for him when Helle waved him off. "I will tell you later. Or the next time he shows up. I have a feeling he will not be alone."

"I have to go with them!" Joey demanded, and his mother sighed.

"Listen... As much as I want to go as well, I think it'd be counter-productive. If we tell the hunters not to hurt him, then they won't! We don't need to be there to enforce it, or... or I don't think..."

"But you don't know! They're hunters! They want to kill vampires, that's what they do, they don't care who Beck used to be! Especially since he didn't even recognise me!"

"Joey, if he doesn't recognise you–" Her voice broke, and she abruptly turned away with a hand over her mouth. She was trying to hold back tears, and Joey tried to remind himself that he needed to dial it back. It was a difficult situation for everyone involved.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, and his mother shook her head.

"No, it's... It's understandable. You want to protect Beck. I do, too."

"I know."

"I think..." She took a deep breath, wiping away a tear that threatened to betray just how emotionally exhausted she was. "I think if Beck doesn't recognise us, then we can't really do anything to help. I can't drag home an unwilling vampire. Neither can you. I don't even know if..."

"If we should," he finished quietly. His mother nodded.

The implications hung in the air between them, unspoken yet still so loud. What was the alternative? Let Beck live his new vampire life? Never talk to him again? The hunters wouldn't like that. Unless they figured out a way to make Beck remember, a way to show everyone that he was still the same awkward guy deep down, and not a dangerous monster... there was no way he would avoid a stake to the heart.

"I have to go, mom. If I do, maybe– maybe he'll realise who I am, and..."

She dragged both hands down her face, visibly frustrated with the whole thing. They both wished it could've been easier. "I'm scared," she admitted after a pause. "I'm scared of losing him again. I'm scared of losing you. I'm scared of being killed by the vampire who took him. I'm scared of seeing those hunters hurt him... I'm scared."

"You don't have to come. I can go alone–"

"Again?" Joey stayed quiet. Clearly, his mom hadn't yet forgiven him his little outing. "It doesn't matter what I say, does it? You'll go either way."

He didn't see a reason to lie or pretend. "Yeah. I have to be there. I know he'll be scared of the hunters, he needs at least one... semi-familiar face."

His mother nodded. "We'll go. We'll bring him home."

Helle wasn't the least bit surprised when they woke up the sound of glass shattering. It was the middle of the day, and they were pretty sure they could hear the hunters tearing down the curtains downstairs.

Great.

"Go into every room!" someone shouted.

Oh dear. They were going to trash the whole place.

Beck barged in just a second later, slamming the door shut after himself. He looked terrified, and for good reason; if he had been found alone, he would've had no chance of surviving against a large group of trained humans.

Were they trained? They sounded trained.

"What's going on?" he whimpered, reminding them of their younger self. Their first hunter encounter. Oh, they had been scared too.

"We have visitors," Helle replied with a soft smile. "Your family must have worked very hard to find such a big group."

"M-my family?"

"Who else?" They walked over and patted his cheek. "They want their darling boy back."

"I don't want to– I don't want them to be here!" he blurted out. "I want them to go! What if their hunters hurt me? What if they hurt you? This is going to be a massacre again, I don't want this, I don't want any of this!"

"They're upstairs!" came the voice from closer than before, followed by the sounds of quick footsteps on the carpeted stairs. Beck was sobbing by now, and Helle realised they hated it. They didn't want anyone else to make Beck cry. Or scared. Or distressed.

"Stay here," they ordered gently. "You shall be safe and protected so long as you do not leave my bedroom. Understood?"

"A-and you? M-Master, you can't–"

"Beck, listen to me. Do you understand?"

In the midst of all that chaos, the sound of hunters kicking down doors and breaking windows, he finally nodded. They couldn't resist giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before they shoved him towards the back of the room, then walked out into the hallway.

Beck was shaking uncontrollably. His mind was so consumed with panic that for a moment he even forgot he was a vampire, attempting to pull the curtains aside to peek out– He abandoned that plan very quickly when his fingers got scorched, letting out a cry of pain.

Stupid. He was so stupid. Stupid, weak, useless, possibly about to be staked within the next five minutes. Maybe Helle had already been staked! What were they thinking?

He couldn't pick out too many specific sounds from the hall, and it made him anxious. He heard screams, and cries, and... and sounds he couldn't even describe. He smelled blood, a lot of it, and it scared him, and all he wanted to do was hide under the bed and never come out.

But Helle had said his family was out there. Was it their blood? Was Helle about to murder his family? Would he even recognise their corpses? He suddenly remembered the stranger from a few days ago. Would he be among the dead? He looked so hopeful that night, in the window. Almost relieved, for a split second, before Helle noticed him. Helle never ended up telling him who that was.

"Beck!" someone shouted desperately, and he felt an overwhelming urge to answer, to run out of the bedroom and look for the source of the voice. "Beck, please, we need to go!"

Go where?

Home, a little voice whispered. You could go home.

But he was home.

In the end, it wasn't the strangers' calls that lured him out. It was a pained hiss from Helle, one he would've recognised anywhere, finally prompting him to fling the door open and rush outside no matter the cost. Helle was all that he had, and they were risking their life to keep him safe. There was no way he was going to keep cowering in the corner of their bedroom.

The scene in front of him was something out of a horror movie. All he saw was blood everywhere, painting the floor and the walls bright red. There were glass shards, limbs, and guts scattered about, the mutilated bodies of several people dressed in protective hunting gear, there was sunlight pouring inside from broken windows, silver weapons stuck between wooden floorboards or uselessly lying several feet away from anyone who could've used them.

None of that mattered. His eyes went to Helle immediately, and he dashed between them and a half-dead hunter who was just about to pull the trigger on her crossbow.

Several people screamed his name at the same time, but it was mere background noise compared to the sharp pain that exploded in his chest. He didn't look down. He didn't dare look down. He looked at Helle instead, drinking in the image of them being okay and alive, almost giddy at the thought of having protected them.

"She a-almost hit you," he stammered between two wheezing breaths, as an answer to the question he saw in Helle's wide eyes.

What the fuck are you doing outside?

"No!" Joey screamed, abandoning all precautions and running over to his brother. He tried not to think about the bodies he had to step over, or the sound his shoes made as his feet landed in puddles of blood.

It couldn't be. It couldn't be. It couldn't be.

"Beck!" He tired to pull him away, only to immediately be grabbed and thrown across the hall. He heard his mother's scream before he hit the ground with an agonised cry and a dull thump, and he knew just from the way he landed on his arm that it had to be broken. Still, he tried to get up right away, desperate to help Beck.

"Joey!" His mother ran over to help him up, wincing when she saw his arm. "Joey, you can't–"

"Is he okay?" he demanded. "Is he alive? Is he fucking alive?" He could see the vampire on their knees next to the body, and he felt his blood boil. How dare the fucking bloodsucker pretend they cared about his brother? When they were the one who turned him, the one who put him in danger, the one who– who had possibly gotten him killed? "Get away from him, you fucking monster!" he yelled, but he didn't even get a reaction.

"Joey," his mother tried again, her voice shaky and urgent. "Please, they'll kill you–"

"So let them," he choked out. "Let them. If Beck's dead, then I don't even care. But I need to know." He yanked his good arm out of her mother's hold and tried to approach the vampire again, but she ran ahead, blocking his path with outstretched arms.

"Is he alive?" she called, way less hostile than Joey had been. "Please, we just– we just want our family back!"

"You almost got your family killed," the vampire replied coldly, and Joey could've wept from relief. Almost. The stupid hunter missed. Beck was alive, he was alive, there was a chance–

A chance for what?

He stared at the bodies in front of him, slowly processing what this all meant. They were all dead. The vampire had killed seven hunters by themself, and now they were trapped in here with them, almost completely defenceless, and with a broken arm in his case. And the vampire was angry.

"We just wanted to get him back," his mother went on, and she sounded so heartbroken and scared, he couldn't imagine anyone wanting to raise a hand at her. And the vampire didn't, not yet anyway. They stayed in the shadows with Beck, never even looking at the two of them.

"How sweet," they said sarcastically.

"You wouldn't fucking know the first thing about it, would you?" Joey snapped. "No, you kidnap and murder for fun, you tear apart families, you– you're a fucking demon!"

"Stop," Beck begged weakly, and the entire mansion seemed to fall silent at his request.

Now that the stupid piece of wood was out of his chest and Helle was holding his hand gently, the situation felt less dire, but he couldn't handle the anxiety of listening to others yell at them. Were these people really his family? The ones causing all this destruction and fear, all this death?

"Why would you try to protect them?" the man — his brother — asked. Joel, was it? Joey. "We almost– almost got them, and... and you stood between..."

"I had to protect them," he said like it was obvious, and Helle squeezed his hand a little.

"You are so stupid," they whispered. "I told you to stay in the room." Although they were scolding him, Beck felt like the tone was somehow simultaneously loving. Not quite grateful, but... close.

"Don't you want to come home?" Joey tried again, and he could hear the woman — his mother — sobbing. His chest ached for reasons beyond the stake that was shot through it, and he wished he could've just said yes and gone with them. But they didn't feel like the family from his fragmented memories, nor did he want to make Helle angry with him.

"I don't think I should," he forced out eventually. Helle squeezed his hand again. Good answer.

"Beck–"

"He gave you an answer," Helle cut in before his mother could've said anything more. "Do not assume my patience lasts forever."

"Go home," Beck asked, the urgency evident in his voice. He didn't want more bloodshed. He didn't want his family to be killed, even if they'd made an attempt on Helle's life. Even if they'd scared him half to death and one of their hunters almost finished the job. "Please. I'm sorry I can't go with you."

"Of course you can," his mother breathed. "Beck, we miss you so unbearably much. We love you."

"I love you too. I think. I, I know I do, it's just... it's so hard to remember..."

"We can help you remember, sweetheart."

Beck shook his head. "N-no, mom, I– I need to stay. I want to stay."

I can't survive out there. Who will feed me? Who will protect me?

"Will you visit?" Joey asked brokenly.

He glanced at Helle, and he felt a sudden rush of terror. He had no idea what it was, but something about their expression told him that nothing good would come from it.

Would they kill his family just to keep him to themself?

He didn't want to find out.

"No," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

"How tragic," Helle remarked without any emotion behind it. "I do believe that is the end of this discussion, then."

Joey stepped forward, his grief making him bolder than what would've been smart. "You can't do this! You can't keep him from his family–"

"If you take another step," Helle began slowly, "it will be your last. Do you want your mother burying two sons?"

Beck closed his eyes, hoping Joey would make the right choice.

Please. Please. Just leave. Just leave me already. Forget me, and let me forget.

"Let's go home, Joey," he heard his mother say as calmly as she could.

"Mom..."

"Our door is always open to him. But we can't force him."

Beck sniffled, and this time he was the one squeezing Helle's hand. They gently brushed a thumb over his skin, silently reassuring him. He was making the right choice for his family, even if they were being so difficult about it.

So why did it make him want to cry so much?

"You really just expect us t-to leave without you?" Joey choked out.

"Okay, I think I have been more than patient." Helle stood up from next to him, and Beck turned towards his family in a panic.

"Go!" he yelled. "Go, please, just go! Mom, do something, take..." He trailed off as he saw his brother's eyes become distant and hollow. Why? Why couldn't he just leave? Why couldn't he leave when he was told to, why did it have to go like this?

"Joey?" His mother gently shook him by the shoulder, worried out of her mind. "Joey!"

"It will wear off," Helle said nonchalantly. "Joey, be good and go with your mother."

She flinched when Joey turned to face her, his expression way too blank for someone who had been so heated a moment ago. "Are we going?" he asked almost impatiently. So eager to obey the command.

Beck couldn't even say goodbye to him.

"We are," she conceded. "Goodbye, Beck. You know where to find us, if... if you ever change your mind. I love you. We love you."

"Goodbye, mom. I love you too." He watched as she took Joey by the hand, as though she expected him to suddenly forget how to walk properly because of the enthrallment, and led him back down the stairs. "Goodbye, Joey," he whispered.

His tears didn't start in earnest until he heard the front door open and close behind them.

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musamora · 11 months

Text

— 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖉𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓.

this is a sequel! read the first part here.

pairing: fyodor dostoevsky x fem!reader

content warnings: child abuse, childhood trauma, discussions of class disparity, embezzlement, alcohol, panic attacks, implied/referenced attempted drugging, implied/referenced loss of parents

author's note: i'm back! first, if you want to get updates surrounding this series, follow me here on twitter. and if you want to listen to some music while you read, might i suggest looking at some of my spotify playlists? enjoy!

would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!

It's funny, isn't it — to find similarities in two lives that seem to contrast on the surface, only to find matching melodies written throughout their pages. You know what they say. Don't judge a book by its cover.

An infiltration mission concludes with a realization. They smile at one another, knowing that they were never truly alone.

Unlike the everyday citizens of the bustling city of Yokohama, forced to chip away at their lives in their dismal office jobs, the affluent elite escaped into the idyllic countryside of its borders, seeking refuge from the watchful gazes of their employees and underlings while indulging in their superfluous, leisurely pursuits. Nestled amid the lush, green forests, an opulent estate stood, its pristine white concrete contrasting with the muted vegetation. Majestic frosted glass doors glistened in the warm embrace of the midday sun, beckoning visitors along a sprawling cobblestone pathway that stretched across the well-manicured lawn, where sleek limousines inched their way toward the entrance. Delicate planter boxes adorned with vibrant blooms scatter petals onto guests, adding an enchanting touch of natural elegance to the festive gathering.

Each one of these blue bloods was dressed in their finest brunch clothes — ladies swathed in flowy calf-length dresses that bounced with each step, gentlemen coated in strapping two-piece suits as their waxed loafers clopped behind them. Rumors whistled betwixt the lips of each cluster, tittle-tattling about the latest paltry fling or dalliance of the week. People glided in and out of each room, sipping on fine champagnes and rich wines, giving into debauched pleasures without thought of consequence. They slipped into conversations with ease, not bothering to remember names but feigning knowledge of other's affairs all the same.

A man entered through the threshold, eyes flickering from person to person. No one paid him any mind, unknowingly allowing the serpent with a silver tongue to slip inside, masquerading as a witless bachelor amongst a sea of dozens. The unforeseen mask of death entered the party without a second thought, his intentions concealed behind a manufactured smile. It only shifted when he looked towards his companion, a woman who stared with dazed, wistful eyes as she froze upon stone steps.

"Моя милая."

(Name) barely stirred from her thoughts, a distant hum on her lips as he guided her inside. They floated like specters across the shining floors, becoming the prime subject of whispers as they gave the room a once-over. Fyodor could not help the way his eyes drifted towards the form of his companion, who remained unsuspecting to his gaze while at his side, arm-in-arm, as she tuned into the conversations around them. She had slipped herself into an alluring, satin sable dress that was curled around her calves, swaying with each step, and was sinched to create a silhouette of empyrean grace and charm — a divine treasure escorted by her devout attendant, not that he would allow her to know that.

He paid special concern to the tension lined underneath the textiles of her dress, kneading at the taut muscles as he settled a reassuring hand against the small of her back, watching with keen eyes as she melted with each stir of his fingers — she was both in her element and yet not at the same time. But he had to admit; she was a sight for sore eyes amongst the vibrant, ostentatious heirs and heiresses that continued to babble on and on. It was hard to imagine her comfortable in a setting like this, though he was well aware she attended these types of gatherings when she was raised as a socialite in Moscow. Not that she particularly wanted to.

They locked eyes, and she found herself unable to contain the hitch of her breath at the sight of his tempting, devilish smirk as he teased the curled cherubic ringlets of her styled hair between two fingers. He leaned closer, his warm breath prickling the shell of her ear, a tremor rattling her spine as she remained a stiffened statue, the only indication of life being the heat that radiated off her skin. He reveled in the subtle details of her face as if he were admiring a Renaissance painting — the way her pupils bloomed as she subconsciously toyed with her lips.

"Не забудьте пройти мимо за́ла," he whispered in hushed breaths, pulling away before she leaned too far into him, withdrawing himself.

She whirred out a deafened whistle, imperceivably stretching her limbs as she answered with a silent nod, fleeing from his carnivorous grasp as she willfully threw herself into the throng of equally ravenous guests, who were prepared to gorge on her body as if she were an unsuspecting, innocent lamb — the main course for the event. But she was already equipped with the mental tools to deal with such stifles.

Another mission. They had snuck into the estate of the illustrious Amaterasu family, which maintained a myriad of associates with the officials of both Japan and Yokohama's governments respectfully. To her, it was no shock to uncover that these nouveau riche elites had achieved their financial status through devious and shrewd methods. They were associated with several embezzlement schemes that funneled donations from public works projects into their personal bank accounts, which unashamedly reflected in the luster of their décor. It was almost impressive — they were close to rivaling the Port Mafia with their connections. In the last couple of weeks, the Rats had steadily scrounged up intel about the household, pinpointing the brunch event as a prime opportunity, manufacturing invitations to slip in and string them up with a noose created by their own secrets — and (Name), with her background, was the best choice for the job.

She glided into conversations with a practiced ease, moving across the entry hall with fluid grace, her laughter both enchanting and unattainable as she remained an undetected outsider. (Name) nodded at their queries, careful not to allow her own name to escape her as she dodged their prying questions. No matter the setting, whether in Moscow or Japan, socialites were always the nosiest people in the room. Her twisted smile quivered, finding an air of amusement in their meager attempts to squeeze out the truth. She had plenty of experience avoiding this type of attention as the black sheep of her family, accustomed to much more animosity than prodding from meager-minded gossipmongers. And through each word that left her lips, she only emboldened herself as an entrancing enigma — she hoped it would draw forth the curiosity of one particular member of the party.

Her heels clicked with each stride as she scaled the grand staircase, ghosting past oodles of guests sampling their bubbling beverages, leaning toward one other in a vain attempt to hide their unabashed whispers. The blinding spotlight wasn't new to her, but embracing it was a feeling she would need to get used to. There was such a powerful sentiment in captivating the attention of dozens, and instead of retreating from the brilliant light into the comfort of the shadows, standing proud and tall.

Her eyes drifted to the steps, recalling the marble stairwell she climbed as a girl. Each element of this house was a strange picture of perfection, like it remained completely unlived in. It unnerved her — there were no dents or scratches that could depict the elements of a family home. Even within the suffocation of her childhood manor, the outside stranger knew it was lived in. The walls steamed with stories of generations past, tales of triumph and tragedy. Her own story lingered in the mold that set in those foundations. She frowned. It was so much easier for these families to hide their greed and vanity behind the blank canvas of their homes, but it signified one thing. They were also so much easier to manipulate.

"Excuse me!"

Perfect timing.

The swift footsteps of a tiny, guileless woman approached with a mission in mind. She had crimped charcoal hair that was pinned near the back of her neck and was swaddled in a dress that could trap heat. Her winding, animated grin grabbed the attention of every man she passed — at least to the average eye. (Name) watched each turned head as they eyed her glitzy, loud gown, practically licking their lips at the shameless declaration of wealth. She also caught the imperceptible downturn through the corners of the young woman's overdrawn lipstick, a small smile appearing on her own face as she recognized her.

The infamous sole child and heiress to the Amaterasu fortune — Amaterasu Kana. Even if she had not been debriefed before the mission, (Name) would've had to have been living under a rock not to recognize her. She was frequently featured on the front pages of Yokohama newspapers, photographed shaking the hands of bureaucrats and cutting the ribbons of upstart foundations. Though (Name) knew that most of the money that was donated to those charity events suspiciously disappeared into the pockets of its organizers.

(Name) bowed her head, purposefully concealing her expression. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Amaterasu."

"The pleasure is all mine." Goosebumps crawled across her arms despite the sleeves that worked to warm her body — Kana had the intonation of a shrill songbird, and (Name) had to withhold a wince as if she was the sole audience for a children's recorder concert, except without the endearment of childish passion. And much like a child, the small heiress rang on like an unrelenting church bell, prodding (Name)'s mind with a complete lack of shame as she bombarded her with a breakneck amount of questions. She would make an impressive detective if it weren't for her brazenness. Wealthy socialites always did this, but she was one of the worst (Name) had experienced by far.

Out of the corner of her eyes, (Name) spotted two of the heiress' bodyguards, dressed in black from head to toe, mumbling into their earpieces. If she had to guess, they were most likely searching into her background as their mistress attempted to distract her — not that they would be able to find anything. Fyodor guaranteed that their backgrounds had been wiped across the continent, besides their obvious national origins, erasing and stealing records until nothing remained.

"I must say, dear — you look lovely. Like a sparkling jewel," Kana interjected, tugging at the skirt of (Name)'s dress. "And this fabric is divine. You must recommend me your tailor."

"You are quite lovely as well." (Name) beamed at the woman, a rhapsodic thrill tremoring through her nerves at the envious lilt in Kana's tone. She lifted at the ruffles of her skirt with her gloved hand, a disappointed pout exaggerated by the furrow of her brows. "I'm afraid the dress was a present. I am unaware of its original designer."

It was a half-truth; the dress was a gift. However, the designer was not a famous one who completed commissions across the country. (Name) had been unaware that a familiar casino manager designed clothes until he approached her with a timid smile and an offer — becoming his experimental model in exchange for the products. Sigma already had a tasteful eye for fashion, but she had only then realized that he had created his own outfits himself, hiding his talent behind a wall of mediocrity and humility.

CLING!

A hushed commotion halted their bleak conversation, murmurs rushing through the agitated room as both of the women peered their heads around other partygoers. Another woman had apparently tripped over her own two feet while she descended the stairs, tumbling into a man beside her and accidentally splashing champagne on her white dress, the rest smashed with glass shards as it hit the ground. She blushed, apologizing profusely as the man helped her to her feet, only for him to respond with a judgemental sneer as he turned back to his discussion, leaving the poor woman stuttering as tears welled in her eyes. (Name) frowned as the girl limped away, her foot twisted at an odd angle, practically feeling her pain reflecting from memories many years ago.

"Quite a hideous little thing, now, isn't she?" an insidious, slithering voice whispered into her ear, making her skin crawl.

She couldn't allow a sliver of that internal empathy to appear on her face, lucky that no one caught the shallow breaths she took in as she compelled herself to remain stationary, resisting the urge to walk over and assist the girl. The elites would eat her alive if she showed even a hint of compassion — be as lifeless and perfect as a statue. (Name) hummed at Kana's insulting sneer in mock agreement, eyeing the woman as she was forced to link arms with her.

"Come now." Kana pulled on her arm, squeezing it with a bruise-inducing grip. "I must introduce you to some of my colleagues. There are some fine-looking gentlemen amongst them."

(Name) nodded with a hum but lost her breath and forgot her place as she paused at the border of the second-floor balcony, gazing over the opulent guests until she spotted the familiar face of her companion conversing with a group of well-groomed gentlemen. No one besides her knew that the man had no ancestral experience with affluence and riches, his charm allowing him to blend in with ease, enticing the people that surrounded him with faux allure as he feigned interest in their daily struggles. She wanted to roll her eyes — it took years for her to absorb a facade of stoicism, but he was practically the master of that craft.

However, there was one part of this mission that bothered her.

In many cases, she would've been accompanied by one of her subordinates, acting solely as a precautionary aid — and likely a human shield — in case the mission went awry. However, instead of a member of the countless contenders that she had considered and submitted to Fyodor to review for the task, she was met with the looming silhouette of the Demon himself sitting inside their rented limousine, a deliberate gleam in the narrowed cavern of his eyes. She had paused but didn't bother to ask about the altered plan. He would never tell her, hiding the truth behind a variety of well-thought-out excuses.

At least she wasn't paired up with Ivan again. A shiver ran down her spine. The man was obsessed with Fyodor and in turn, was equally as obsessed with her.

Nevermind that. In truth, she was delighted that Fyodor had chosen to accompany her today. But a part of her couldn't help but notice certain small aspects of his attire, particularly in the way his suit ever-so-slightly opened to expose the pale, blank canvas of his neck, unprotected from prying eyes by the lack of his signature ushanka. Her gaze traveled further down, ogling at the way the clothes were tailored against his lean body, unused to the sight of him outside of his normal button-ups and coat. And without a second beat, he glanced up at her, vibrant irises boring into her soul, a huff of amused air blowing out of his lips before he held her in a somnolent stupor.

That stupid, handsome bastard. She couldn't help but smile.

"Are you interested in that man down there?" Kana broke through the trance, forcing the pair of partners-in-crime to look away.

(Name) merely hummed, not too bothered that she was caught staring. "I apologize. I must've zoned out."

Kana blatantly ignored her questionable explanation, looking through the crowd until she spotted Fyodor. "He is quite appealing to the eye." A smirk curled up on her lips, one that made (Name)'s stomach roll. She eyed the heiress with a dissecting glare, arms tense as her jaw clenched. "Couldn't say I recognize him. Perhaps I should introduce myself once we return."

"Shall we?" Kana batted her eyelashes up at (Name), remaining blissfully unaware of the way the other woman's fists clenched at her sides.

She grinned through gritted teeth, releasing a tense cloud of electrified air. "I'd be delighted."

A modern lounge room stood within the heart of the mansion, exuding a further air of extravagance. It blended styles of both contemporary design and classic luxury, adorned with sleek block-like furniture and plush geometric textiles. Large, panoramic windows stretched from floor to ceiling, providing an unyielding view of the lush outdoor gardens and the vast stagnant pool to each observer.

Guests shuffled in and out of the room, holding their fragile cocktails that were stirred and crafted by an expert mixologist — and (Name) knew immediately that she had made it to the true center of wealth. These weren't only people who flaunted their riches; they held a manner of sophistication and generational duty with each stiffened motion of their bodies. Conversations intentionally touched on in-depth topics, opening the door to global investments and brandishing several philanthropic endeavors. Fortunes were discussed amidst sips of aged wine, and business deals passed between shaken hands and tipsy laughter. Her father would've been delighted to know his daughter was able to achieve a level of finite poise and refinement, much to her chagrin. She had never cared about such things, but old mannerisms seemed to die hard.

One spotless, shining grand piano settled in the corner of the room, attached to a dignified middle-aged pianist who played countless classical compositions, flipping through his repertoire with skilled agility — but she could recognize the lust for money that radiated in every crescendo, his shifting gaze eyeing the fat cats as they came and went. Softened melodies emanated from ivory keys, an ignored background to conversations. (Name) zeroed in on the sound, her hands cramping at a familiar tune, massaging her aching palms as he rendered each stiffened note. She sighed, shaking herself out of her reminiscence as she refocused her attention on her one-sided, lackluster conversation with the Amaterasu heiress that clung to her side.

"Each one of my governesses claims that I'm a reborn genius. From Einstein to Newton, their compliments never cease to make me blush."

(Name) bristled her shoulders, adverting herself away from Kana's boastful grin. "I can certainly understand why. You are absolutely impossible to underestimate."

Kana's cheeks reddened with demure delight, hiding part of her face with a wave of her hand as the backhanded meaning of the insult fell on deafened ears. "You are far too kind, dear."

(Name) disregarded the murmurs of the bashful woman as they glided into the center of the crowd. Kana attracted most of the initial attention from partygoers, much to (Name)'s relief and luck — she was a wealth magnet. It opened up the best opportunity for her to analyze each guest, combing through them to capture the perfect moment. She almost felt bad for the man she chose to push as she wormed out of the rabble, constructing a domino effect as he knocked over several others.

She didn't feel too bad, considering he was attempting to slip a familiar substance into the drink of a woman who remained obliviously chatting beside him.

Through a series of unfortunate missteps and collisions that she couldn't have calculated better in any other circumstance — a misplaced foot here, an inadvertent push there — a chain reaction was set off at a moment's notice. Several of the other guests lost place of their footing, glasses of fine champagnes and pungent wines flying in beautiful arches into the air, perilously headed towards the pristine ivory furniture. Shrieks of dismay cried out as many were splashed in the following seconds, soaked in sticky alcohol as they griped and groaned.

And in that unforgiving spotlight, gawked at by all, was Amaterasu Kana herself, bathed in a mixture of red and beige. She shook like an irate pomeranian puppy, snarling at anyone who attempted to console her as she screamed in outrage, stomping her heals against broken glass as attendants swarmed her, trying to ease their mistress through their attempts to rectify the pastel fabrics of her dress, but it was entirely in vain. It was absolutely ruined. (Name) smirked, releasing a mischievous chuckle as she slipped down a lone, umbrageous hallway while a high-pitched shriek wore at the foundations of the house.

She shuffled down the hall, approaching an intimidatingly large door. It wasn't a surprise that it seemed to be locked as she fiddled with the handle, but that wasn't a problem. She reached into her hair, pulling out a slender, metal hairpin from amongst her styled tresses. With a smile on her face, she funneled years of experience in breaking into her stepmother's study, her younger self carefully prying apart the rusting lock to snatch a few rare novellas into her current situation. She summoned a deep breath, bending the pin with one end shaped as a hook, the other remaining to act as a tension wrench. It slipped into the keyhole, and she applied an expert amount of pressure, listening with her ear pressed against the wood as she engaged with the tumblers inside. Her delicate movements felt like it took hours, careful not to allow the stressor of time to affect her judgment, and she let out a huff once she heard a familiar click, the mechanism surrendering as the entrance was left ajar.

The office was quite frigid compared to the warmth of the rest of the manor and seemed to rot like a bleeding heart in the foundations of its furniture. She muffled a cough, the air thick with the scent of aged paper, tall bookshelves lining the walls with volumes that encompassed decades of knowledge. The desk held a myriad of scars from its countless years of use, her hands brushing the dust on its worn top as her eyes scrounged through the scattered documents. And that was when she spotted it — a couple of bank numbers and a list of recent transactions between the family and those so-called charities.

Money may be enticing in itself, but to the rich, blackmail is worth its weight in gold.

She scoured the room, a flickering light catching her eye from its place high in an upper corner — a surveillance camera. But she wasn't the least bit worried. The entire feed was currently being filtered into the headquarters of the Rats, monitored by someone at every hour, and completely disconnected from the major security unit of the estate. She snatched the papers, carefully folding them and slipping them inside a pocket enclosed by a zipper hidden underneath the folds of her dress — bless Sigma and his never-ending ingenuity.

Her cunning hands fiddled with the window latch, cracking it open with tactful consideration. She bundled the skirt of her outfit into her arm as she clamored out onto a dormer, shutting it with a click and a snap behind her. Adrenaline empowered her muscles, an experienced skip in her steps once she removed her heels to race across panels, ducking underneath windows before climbing up to the roof of an outstretched hallway, relieved that the office was positioned away from the prying eyes of outside stragglers — most likely on purpose. She relished in the brush of comforting misty spring air as it caressed her exposed skin and fluttered betwixt the fabric of her dress, a stark contrast to the unforgiving winters of her homeland, using her energy to balance from one point to another carefully. And with a thud, she slipped through a sunroof into a claustrophobic entryway, landing like a cat.

She frowned, scanning the space. Fyodor had only told her where they were supposed to meet, but he never specified exactly what type of room it was. She braced a hand against an ornate wooden door, prying it open with a huff.

Her mouth gaped as she entered upon a verdant landscape, bathed in the mellow midday sun. Its grandeur was unmatched by any other element of the estate, an oasis of life and vibrancy. The glass walls, kissed by the sun's golden rays, glistened with a radiant luster — an invitation to all who adventured it. Its sheer size was awe-inspiring, a lush tapestry of luminance. Sunlight filtered in between cracks in the canopy, creating patterns of blossoming vitality as she gazed at rows of assorted plants, ranging from towering trees to delicate orchids. She was partially saddened to see that no one chose to traverse through its stone pathways, breathing in a deep breath as she closed her eyes, listening to the deafened beauty of nature, even if it was encapsulated in such a finite space.

Her feet pattered against the foliate corridors created through flora, pausing to look upon the radiance of a noble, granite gazebo. It wasn't the structure itself that caught her eye but the object inside. Underneath the dappled shade of its roof was a breathtaking, anachronistic piano, standing as a testament to time. The instrument, with its darkened, polished wood and ornately carved legs, remained as a silent guardian of past melodies. Its keys, weathered with age, held a timeless allure. Its wooden lid, left open ajar, revealed an ancient interior, an intricate trove of resonant strings and felt hammers tuned to perfection.

Her aching hands loosened as her dread transformed into nostalgic longing, eyes sparkling as she found herself mindlessly drifting to perch on the piano bench, arms floating above the keys with euphoric anticipation. The greenhouse went silent with her first keystroke, hearkening attention toward the woman at its heart, who caressed the instrument in the delicate folds of her fingers. With every passing sound, she melded into a statuesque mold, back straightened, and muscles strained as she gritted her teeth, a familiar melody rousing the granite columns. Each crescendo is intentional; each note is intentional. Her face faltered as her hand tumbled with a cramp, the noise coming out sharp.

SMACK!

A metal ruler smacked against her throbbing wrists, which were now smaller and thinner.

"Again," a sharp, cacophonous voice pressured from behind, forcing the tiny girl to straighten like a stick out of dread. A decrepit woman dressed from collar to ankle in billowed clothes as black as midnight — the widowed Akilina Kozakov, her governess — towered over (Name) with a striking gaze, lips pursed tight into a perpetual snarl. The child formerly adored music; faint memories of ancient melodies and creaking lullabies whispered into her ears as a babe as she was held in the arms of her late mother. But that was only until she turned five and was pushed into taking lessons.

She had previously revered the piano with wonder, tuning into the barrage of pianists that entered her home, dollar signs illuminated in their eyes as they sat to play for guests during gatherings. Through the shadows, she would remain hidden behind the wooden banisters as she hummed along to the tune with a shallow smile, tapping the softened skin of her fingers onto the floor. But they only remained bruised and calloused — she would've never imagined something that could sound so freeing could restrain her in her place on the ground.

Play perfectly, not passionately — that was the Yeliseyev motto.

She suppressed the exuberance of mellifluous spirit in her mind, the action becoming easier with each passing lesson — the passion seemed to dissolve from between her fingers whenever her hands floated above the keys. With every scream and slap, she felt the love she had for the euphonious instrument dissipate, muscles locked in a tense position, the only emotion surviving being never-ending dread. Like a grizzled falcon, her governess eyed her subtle motions, repetitively smacking the ruler against her palm to the tempo.

(Name)’s hunger-ridden body trembled as she approached the keys once more, picking up from the previous section that she had messed up, swallowing her saliva as she forced herself to play. She blinked back tears amidst shallow breaths, rocking with nausea as the room spun around her, shivering as illustrations of her ancestors stared at her from above, bounding closer and closer. Her eyes dug into her hands — too light, too heavy, too fast, too slow, too loud, too soft, too—!

SMACK!

Her knuckles pulsated with immense pain, and she choked down a cry. No one would permit her sobs, so she remained still.

"Ms. Yeliseyeva!"

"I'm so sorry, teacher. I—" Ms. Kozakov silenced her with the slap of the ruler against the lid of the piano, running the straightened edge amongst the dozens of scratches in its wooden top. (Name) withered into herself as a daisy shuddered by a blizzard, sniffling into clothes that overwhelmed her body, the hems surpassing her arms and legs as they rolled down more with each motion.

"Be quiet."

The woman crossed her arms with a humph, her sleeves swaying like bat wings. "Your older brothers were brilliant pianists when they were your age, even while multitasking their other studies and the affairs of the estate."

(Name) wobbled in the ginormous piano seat, breathing between gritted teeth as she bit back a sob. The comparisons had been a tiresome charade, paralleling her to brothers she would never relate to. She was nothing like them, who were born with a silver spoon nestled inside their mouths, the handle cradled by tender hands. They were beloved. Each of her brothers received praise and affection for their efforts, while she was expected to be their equal with none of the benefits. It wasn't a challenge to turn them into perfect, charming young heirs — it is easy to be perfect when you are loved beyond reason, but it is so difficult to be perfect when your flaws are pointed out with every struggle and strife.

(Name) did not miss the repulsed sneer on her governess’s face, knowing that it was hardly a fraction of the disgust the woman felt towards her. No one enjoyed acknowledging the aristocratic lineage of (Name)'s paternal line, but it was rarely ignored in conversation — sometimes, she wished it was. (Name) often found herself preoccupied with daydreams, basking in thoughts of daily grandeur — a life spent far from the eyes of the bustling city and into the lush forests of the Russian countryside, cradled in unrelenting adoration as she nuzzled into the warm embrace of her mother. Perhaps they would've planted a garden, the flowers bursting into full bloom with unmatched vibrancy as they occupied their days relishing life's simple pleasures. They didn't need anyone else as long as they had one another. But that was only a fantasy, only to remain in her mind as she tossed and turned at night.

"You are only expected to be perfect." Ms. Kozakov broke from her thoughts with a sharp kick to her shin, her pointed heels breaking the skin. "Perfect is the least you can be, and yet you are not."

(Name) bobbed her head only to feel another familiar smack against her spine. "Sit like a lady, Ms. Yeliseyeva. Not a penniless pauper. Play from that measure again."

So she took a deep breath, preparing herself to leap back into the fray.

Every key she flattened underneath her fingertips unlocked another fragmented mirror of her memories and, with them, the sorrow and anguish she had tried to bury beneath vivacious smiles and whispered assurances. The melody, originally composed to be smooth as a lake's shining surface, gradually grew more intense, reflecting the resurgence of her emotions. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, hands moving with a sense of purpose like a mouse scurrying into its hole, racing away from the shadows of her nostalgia. Perfection — those aristocrats always expected perfection from her. She was primarily too focused on the composition of her measures to relish in an end product. To the members of the Moscow elite, it did not matter if a song itself was beautiful as long as the instrumentalist was a pretty little possession for them to pocket. Pain intertwined with each chord as she tremoured through the bars. The gazebo echoed with rushes of raw despair and fleeting flashes of hope before it silenced in one sweeping motion, as if her past haunted the buzzing air into submission, weakening the plants as they remained stationary at their roots. Exhaustion overwhelmed her; the woman wiping her eyes and removing her gloves, only to find her palms pooled with sweat in every crevice, trembling with each breath.

And it was only in the wake of her calamitous concert that she noticed the pair of blinding tyrian eyes that stared at her from a distance, partially hidden behind a bundle of flourishing greenery.

"You play."

If she did not know any better, she would say his voice had escaped him in almost complete silence, a contrast to his constant assuredness and self-confidence. It wasn't a question. He knew that she played — she had mentioned it in passing conversations many years prior. But he hadn't realized that she truly played. She smiled at him, a melancholic smile that held a world of sorrows.

"I do."

His eyes softened their everlasting, piercing gaze as he stepped underneath the shade of the gazebo, eyeing the stains of tear streaks that sparkled as they cascaded her puffed cheeks, welling into pools of anguish. He withheld the urge to wipe them away, brushing back the ghosts that clouded her flourishing spirit, experiencing a sense of empathy that his words could never manage to capture properly. But he also couldn't help but notice the sputter in her fingers as they morbidly danced across the keys, elegance and grace summed in a single keystroke — imperfectly seraphic. He sighed, an amused quirk on his lips as her finger prodded one of the higher notes.

FLICK.

Small, calloused fingers flipped between bins of dusted and peeling record sleeves, a strangely inscrutable, world-weary expression drawn onto the face of such a young man.

"What're you looking for today, Федя?" a gentle voice broke into the muted atmosphere of his foraging. The adolescent, scrawny form of a teenage Fyodor didn't bother to turn around, regarding (Name) with a pointed look as she stood on her tip-toes, perusing into the bin from above his shoulder. They were currently nestled inside an old record store, which was run by a sweet, older gentleman who doted on both of them without restraint or care, slipping them small candies and allowing them free-range of his collections — they had proven to be remarkably responsible for their ages.

The devilish pair had crept away from their weekly church service while families and their associates indulged in lunch, knowing neither would receive even a crumb. They burrowed into the thin fabric of their coats, traveling arm-in-arm through back alleys and sidewalks as they scaled the Yakimanka district. It had become a frequent rendezvous point for them whenever they had the time to escape, sorting the containers of the store's collection as they hummed to the classics, reveling in a brief absence of thought or toil as they repeated the same task over and over.

"I need to find a Bach piece," he muttered, slipping the aforementioned record out from between the others. (Name) stared at the grime-coated cover, grimacing, but chose not to speak on it any further as they continued to browse. The orphanage had some of their more talented children partake in a youth orchestra directly funded by the church — and Fyodor, with his quick skills and sharp mind, picked up on several stringed instruments throughout his transition period from his childhood home. She had only learned about his melodious gift when they had run into each other at a charity banquet — or rather, she had spotted him there. If she hadn't been too embarrassed to approach the stage and draw attention to herself, one judgemental scowl from her father would've been enough to hold her back. He was formerly dressed in the finest the clergy could afford, which was surprisingly a lot, but somehow still remained so out of place. She had basically gawked at him the entire night and prayed he never noticed.

She was unable to pinpoint the exact reason she watched him for so long, entranced. Perhaps it was because of the way he played — so perfect, yet somehow strained. The entire orchestra seemed to be tuned to prime excellence, at least in the eyes of an outsider or an ordinary socialite, untrained in the art of true music. But the weariness was evident, each member slaving over the notes on the staff, mastered chords blaring between half-wrapped bruised and blistered fingers.

She abandoned those macabre thoughts, her hands exploring a section of more recent records, grand Tchaikovsky compositions, and brilliant Chopin arrangements reflecting the overcast sun on each rivet of their silvery surfaces. One sparkled in the faded beams of midday, the vivid palette of the sleeve clashing with the doleful paint of the store's walls. (Name) tugged the ravenette by the edge of his jacket without a word, guiding him along into the cozy lounge area stationed in the back, which rouged from the light of an ancient, crafted glass lamp — and underneath that was an arenaceous record player. She plopped down onto the floor, striking the boy with a knowing smile as she patted the spot beside her, slipping the disk out of the sleeve and delicately settling it on top of the platter. Fyodor sat carefully beside her, ensuring he didn't stumble due to his weak constitution, watching as (Name) settled the tone arm on top of the record, their expressions completely contrasting as it spun to life.

"It's a 1942 Steinway," a soft-toned adult voice shattered his reminiscence, her face cleared of tears as she caressed the lacquered surface of the piano with maternal care. "I haven't seen one of these since a spring exhibition at the Naoumov's family estate. We didn't even have one."

He smirked, crossing his arms as his eyes trailed across the piano's reflective ebony veneer, having an equal appreciation for the splendorous ivories. "You know your instrument, милая."

She huffed, an amused quirk to her brow. "Of course I do." Wavering fingers tampered with the black keys, creating a dissonant chord. "The piano is such a lovely instrument. So versatile, despite being so stationary."

"My father preferred—" she started before cutting herself off with a frown, chewing on her bottom lip. "Never mind what he preferred. It doesn't matter."

Serenity enveloped the greenhouse, a calm hush settling over both of them. (Name) spun her head with a dazed hum as leather footfalls echoed closer, clasping Fyodor's outstretched hand as he helped her to her feet, ushering her outside through an unlatched window panel, noting her entranced stare at the gazebo as it grew smaller and smaller.

(Name) strutted through the expansive, narrow halls of the underground facility, a skip in her step as she practically danced in her swath of comfortable pajamas — the rest of the Rats had fled from the base to return to their civilian lives and homes, letting her release the precipice of her jubilation and energies. The mission had been a smashing success, with the Amaterasu family begging on their hands and knees for the evidence of the transactions to be erased. Fyodor drained their accounts as they bumbled sob stories on the other line, watching with amusement as all of their "hard-earned money" filtered down the drain and into the Rats' den. It was their fault, anyway.

But never mind that. Even through the exhaustion they both had faced in the events of the day, Fyodor had invited (Name) away from their routine twilight tea, emploring her to meet him in a spare room in the base's lower levels. She rubbed her arms with a shiver as the air became colder with each step, eyes sparkling as a door, identical to every other one, beckoned her with silent promises of mystery and allure.

With the tap of her signature knock, she twisted the knob, opening the door wide after a moment of silence. Her eyes squinted, adjusting the blurred shapes that stood stagnant in the dismal candlelight, filling her body with the smoky scent of jasmine. But once she could finally make everything out, a gasp involuntarily tumbled from her lips.

In the dead center of the room, surrounded by mirrors that enclosed the space as it reflected over and over, was a proud and tall but incredibly familiar grand piano. She remained standing in the doorway, lips pulled into indescribable awe, before being broken from her trance as wooden legs scraped against the tiled floors. Her gaze adverted to the other corner, where Fyodor was sitting on his chair, resting his signature cello between his feet as his eyes traveled across her face, reading her like a book.

That stupid, handsome bastard.

She shut the door behind her with a click, swiftly inspecting the instrument as she lifted the lid in disbelief. Every key and every string was identical to the piano from the gazebo. WIth her foot, she tapped at the pedals underneath it, raising her eyes from the floor to the man in front of her, one question remaining on her mind.

"...why?"

She knew from experience that there was no point in inquiring about the how or what of the piano's alarmingly sudden presence. He would never answer, and she was honestly too mindblown with the idea of such a large object being carefully snuck inside — without her knowledge, to add — to consider the process. She hoped that, at the very least, he would reply to that one question, even if it was in his own roundabout sort of way.

"It's about time we have our duet, don't you think, любимая?"

He chuckled at the obvious excitement in her eyes as she ignored his loose-ended answer, her body practically beaming as she plopped onto the piano bench with a sweet giggle. Her fingers experimentally thrummed to the end of the keys, masterfully creating a simple scale without looking down. He followed in her stead, gliding his bow across the cello strings, already aware that they had been perfectly tuned. And then he looked up.

"Rachmaninoff's Sonata in G Minor."

The same record from the little shop in Moscow. She smiled. He had remembered all this time.

"Andante."

Her hands raised, as did his bow.

"Ты некомпетентное дерьмо—!"

His adolescent body couldn't even muster a flinch as one of the orchestra attendants struck down onto the neck of a woodwind player with a thin metal rod — the comedic shriek of a piccolo almost sounded humourous, if not for the pained groan that followed from the instrumentalist's lips, wincing as a bruise bloomed on their skin. The tension was thick enough to slice through with a knife. For weeks, they had been the subject of the relentless regime marshaled by their conductor, a man who reigned a reputation for being, as the elite delicately referred to it, "strict." Their sugarcoating was a laughable understatement. He was a tall, imposing man whose brow was eternally furrowed, wielding his authority over the children like a dictator. His baton raised once more, prepared to unleash a storm of fury upon the trembling orchestra. There was no room for error, no grace for a missed note or a falter in tempo.

They had to be perfect.

The opening bars of Bach's St. Matthew's Passion flooded the room in a cacophony; the once expressive piece transformed into a living nightmare. The conductor's harsh movements pushed the orchestra to the brink, racing across the measures without care to the straining children, their fingers cramped as they attempted in vain to keep up. His eyes filled with a venomous mixture of disdain and rage, singling out individuals and humiliating them with a single glance.

"Громче, Достоевский!"

The nape of his neck bruised shades of violet and vermillion, mistakes met with a torrent of spinning insults, some of the more sensitive members sobbing silently in their seats. That despotic conductor would wave his baton, signaling for an attendant to strike at the offending musician with their metal rods, partially stained crimson from broken skin. It dragged on for hours, the music background to the relentless assault on their spirits. Most were only struggling to make money to take home to their families, not having a choice if they wanted to eat the next day — child-labor laws didn't extend to musical groups associated with the church. The children knew they were being taken advantage of, but they didn't have a choice.

Fyodor hid the prologue to his insidious thoughts through a carefully crafted glare, willing the conductor to drop dead from his eyes alone — he could easily kill him with a single touch, but not yet. It wasn't the right moment, people would see. But the man would pay in due time for his sins, corrupting such youthful passion, funneling it into a lifeless musical machine.

The conductor lifted his baton once more, the orchestra members tensing as they straightened their backs to play. Perfect. That was all they needed to be. Absolutely perfect. The beaconing image of the results of the elites' generosity, who watched each child with eyes of feigned sympathy. Only one gaze ever stood out amongst the rest.

"Федя?"

The timid whisper of that childhood nickname cut into his memories, lifting his eyes from staring at his trembling hands towards his effervescent sweetheart, forcing him away from the pain with a small, empathetic smile — that same benevolent smile. Their wounds were identical in multiple ways, and she'd never let him forget that. He wasn't alone anymore; neither of them were — they would play together, unburdened by the narrow judgment of people who no longer mattered. She tapped her foot to an unheard rhythm, brow perked up with child-like wonderment.

"Ready?"

In their years together, they had found harmony in a profound and transcendent symphony, the intertwining melodies of two hearts creating a masterpiece of shared experiences — from clinging to one another on a weak window dormer, one a daughter beatified with the warmth of life and the other a son burdened with the frost of death, only loved by parents that had long departed from the surface of the living world, to cross the continent, hand-in-hand as they faced each new day with no fear, knowing they could surpass every challenge if they remained side-by-side. They had become a complex but wonderfully synchronized composition. And in this refrain, as they entered the next section, there was no need for a conductor at the reigns, easily harmonizing with empathy only shared between the two, seeking to comprehend their hopes, dreams, and fears through the other's lens. Melodies of lifelong laughter rang clear and true, circling a lightness into their lives that could be found nowhere else.

In their grand composition, harmony did not mean an absence of discord — that is not the way life is, but instead a divine interplay of differences and similarities. Like contrasting, dissonant notes, they retroactively complemented one another, enhancing their strengths while compensating for their weaknesses. It was no static composition but a work of living, breathing art, evolving and blossoming with each passing day. Notes were fed by the warmth and care that filled each rest and the tenderness that arose as they allowed each other to shine in the solos.

In their duet, they had found the transformative power that allowed two kindred souls to intertwine, and whenever they played in truly perfect accord, appearance no longer mattered, instead producing a deeply fulfilling lifelong bond that neither of them could've possibly imagined.

The Demon smiled at his divine treasure, forever devoted as she awaited his que. "For you, моя милая. Always."

(моя) милая = (my) dear не забудьте пройти мимо за́ла. = don't forget to pass by the reception room. федя = fedya любимая = darling ты некомпетентное дерьмо—! = you incompetent shit—! громче, достоевский! = louder, dostoevsky!

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#muse's anthology ‧₊˚ ⋅#f!reader #꒰ა ⎼ [fyodor]#₊˚ ★꒰ the sun and the stars #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor bsd #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader

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