#the way this has been in my drafts for ages

[marloree]

ᑎEᗯ ᗷOOKS ᗩᑎᗪ ᑎEᗯ ᗩᑕᑫᑌᗩIᑎTᗩᑎᑕES

Pairing: Librarian! Soobin × Bookworm! Reader

Genre: fluff

Word count: 1.5k

A/N: this has been dusting in my drafts for months, but I finally got to finish it! Hopefully the effort was worth it. 🥹

You, quite literally, never seemed to get your nose out of a book. No matter what you would be doing, a book was an essential. Eating, traveling somewhere, waiting for the next class - you always had a book in hand. Even if you were not reading at the moment, you for sure would still carry a book or two in your bag.

Books were your bread and water, your oxygen and sun. You wouldn’t lie if you said they were almost everything to you. Having developed a liking to fairytales in your childhood, it turned into something much, much greater as years passed. The little feeling of contentment you would feel when your mother read to you at a younger age turned into joy and excitement of seeking knowledge and getting to learn about worlds, lives and situations you never got to experience yourself.

Fairytales got replaced with books of a more serious nature, soon you replaced your mother in reading to you and read on your own. However, the thrill you felt while gulping a page after page didn’t go anywhere. If possible, it got only stronger. 

Reading was your favorite pastime and it wouldn’t be so difficult to guess what your favorite place to spend your time was, besides your room, of course.

That’s right - the library, the home of so many books. And, in a way, yours, too. It was like your second home. You could spend hours there, taking in the numerous beautiful covers that looked at you from all the bookshelves. Well, this is just what you usually would do: waking up early on the weekends just to go visit the local, oh so dear to you, library.

Having spent so many hours there, you were sure you have taken a look at every book and have talked to every librarian there. Or, so you thought. 

It was such a beautiful summer morning, beautiful and peaceful. The heat hadn’t reached its peak, the city hadn’t fully woken up yet, only the rare birds would chirp here and there. Just like the birds, you, too, were up at this early hour. You just finished your book yesterday night and couldn’t wait to read the continuation. But, for that, you had to wait until the library would open and you could finally take the needed copy. Anticipating the moment with every fiber of your body, you sat on the bed, dreaming of all the possible ways the story could take a turn to, while also not forgetting to glance at the clock every now and then. Of course you started preparing earlier than you should, taking an earlier bus as well: the excitement was running through your veins, replacing its natural content, no less.

A solid 10 minutes earlier than the most punctual librarian would open the door for visitors you stood at the entrance. Your feet tapped a beat only known to them, the book getting traveled from one of your hands to the other in a rather impatient manner. It felt like eternity passed when you finally heard the door being opened from the inside. You immediately turned to the direction of the noise, unwilling to lose even a second. Another moment passed and the door was finally open widely, welcoming the early visitor.

But, to your surprise, it wasn’t the usual librarian that greeted you, but a completely new and unfamiliar face. 

“Uh, good morning”, you muttered, looking up at the stranger, as if both perplexed and curious to see a new face.

The smile on the guy’s face grew wider, although he clearly was a bit nervous: it was his first work day here, or in a library at all, for that matter.

“Good morning, good morning!” He stepped aside, letting you enter the building.

In a moment, the curiosity towards a new face was long gone and forgotten as you laid your eyes on the needed cover, the second part of the book you’ve been longing to read. With a swift gesture, the book traveled into your hands, as you looked at it fondly, lovingly almost.

Your expression hadn’t gone unnoticed by the new librarian: he was taking quick curious glances at you every now and then, you were his first visitor, the first person he had to assist as a librarian. But, even so, his eyes sparkled almost as brightly as yours once he read the title on the cover. It was the name of his favourite series, too. In a few seconds, he walked closer to you, almost overwhelmed with excitement.

“Hey, I see you’ve read the first book, am I right? Did you like it?” The tone of his voice carried a hint of warning of a possible trouble: him exploding from his excitement. But how else could one feel when he, after months if not years, have finally found a fellow series reader?

“Yes, yes, I have!” You turned to him, your smile telling a similar story, "and I absolutely loved it!!"

The next thing you knew, you two started bombarding each other with questions regarding the series and other books of the author. Your enthusiasm was contagious, but no less was his. You kept on interrupting each other, speaking like you could never get tired. Surely, you could spend hours just talking about the thing you both loved - books.

You haven’t met many people who shared such a great amount of love towards reading, so you were more than happy to come across such a person. Your lively conversation went on and on, not seeming to be coming to an end at all. You talked and talked, trying to express all of the thoughts and emotions that got to be buried deep inside your brains for so, so long. Once you two finally shared everything you wanted about the book, your chatter quite abruptly came to a halt.

“Oh, I’m Soobin, by the way”, the librarian smiled with a hint of awkwardness, just now realizing he never introduced himself.

“It's so nice to meet someone who’s just as passionate about the series as I am”, your enthusiasm was over the roof, making you too occupied to notice the sudden feeling of awkwardness or to even remember to introduce yourself back. In your defense, Soobin hadn’t noticed he never got your name either.

“Wait, do you know N.N. too?” You suddenly hit Soobin with another question, remembering your second favorite author.

“Yes, yes, I do!” The awkwardness swiped off the guy's face once the conversation was once again turned to the topic he was so passionate about.

After rambling and rambling without seeming to ever stop or even take a breath, you finally shared everything you wanted - for the moment, at least - and, seemingly, Soobin didn’t have much to say as well.

“It's so nice knowing we share the same interest and even favor similar authors”, you sighed contently, “wait, we just have to get to know each other better.”

“Oh, you think so?” Soobin’s more shy and quiet nature immediately showed up once his favorite topic was taken away from him, “honestly, I’d love to, but I’ve been really busy lately, trying to balance my studies and work, and it doesn’t leave much time for anything else, you know,” his sigh was equivalent to how every student who ever had to take up both fields at once has felt.

“Hm”, you hummed, quickly coming up with a solution, “I don’t have much work on me currently, I could visit the library even daily!” You were so happy to finally find an eager book lover that you were forgetting you were talking to an almost absolute stranger. “If that’s okay with you, of course,” you quickly added.

A wide smile appeared on Soobin's face in an instant after your suggestion. “Of course, of course, I’d be so happy if you would! I doubt I’ll have much work during these first days, so it would be really nice of you if you’d come around.”

“Then I’ll surely come tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, too!”, your smile reached all the way from one ear to the other, “and I’ll definitely bring you a list of my most favorite books!”

“I will as well, then, and I’d definitely be looking forward to tomorrow!”

As you walked out of the library that day, the sun was shining so brightly and the birds were singing even more cheerfully than in the morning, nature seemed to be just as happy as you were. You were so excited about your future conversations, it felt like you've found a perfect, if not soul mate, then a book mate, for sure.

You carried the copy in hand, anticipating tomorrow. But, at the moment, your focus was slowly shifting towards the book. To read it, as always, turned into the main goal of the day. Overnight, preferably.

Meanwhile, among Soobin's daydreams, the realization that he still didn’t know your name crept and grew stronger. Well, he surely would ask you tomorrow. Unless the excitement lets it slip his mind once again, that is.

[sitp-recs]

Between the Power Lines by @tackytigerfic (M, 3k)

For Harry Potter, all roads eventually lead to Draco Malfoy. Or: this is not an AU! It's just Harry and Draco meeting by chance in an imported food shop in Connecticut and going on a road trip together. Featuring motels, cacti, Americana, and a hefty dose of pining.

In New Orleans, they got drunk on Bourbon Street, and Malfoy danced on his own (arms bare, laughing; Harry could have watched him all night) and later on, so late it was almost morning, they let themselves into the St Louis Cemetery—Malfoy unpicking the lock so sweetly—and walked around until the sky was pink-edged with the promise of another day’s heat. Then they sat on the steps of a crypt, watched over by sightless eyes of the statue of an angel. She looked exhausted rather than sad, Harry thought, and that made a lot of sense when he thought about his own longstanding, dull-edged grief.

It’s been ages (or 2 years) since I last wrote a rec for Tacky (I usually write for other readers, except when I’m reccing friends - then I write for them) and their birthday was the perfect excuse to put my reccing muscles back to work. I almost bailed out because I know this is one of T’s own faves and “what if I don’t do it justice?” but that tired angel banner has been sitting in my drafts for 3 long years and it deserves a proper rec!

Where to even begin? Anyone who knows Tacky is aware of their superb prose - rich and nuanced, compassionate, effortlessly funny, with a strong sense of place and a soft spot for suds scenes and filthy m-rated sex I mean devastating romance. Their writing breathes heart and personality, very much like Tacky themself. So knowing that this fic came out exactly as they intended it to should be enough to make you go read this right now, but in case you need further incentive, see below all the reasons why this oneshot is so special to me:

1. The *vibes*: if you thought that 3k is nowhere near enough to build the sexiest, most intriguing Americana atmosphere you’ve seen, think again. The aesthetics are impeccable here, decorating the beautiful and strange landscape - cacti and cheap motels included - into something peaceful and desolate, an overarching melancholy making it even more compelling. The dialogue is brilliant but the silences are just as loud and meaningful, with a quiet intimacy and a dreamlike quality that make you feel as if you're intruding a memory.

2. The romance: at this point everyone and their dog know that pining!Harry is Tacky's jam - they luxuriate in making us all suffer with him until the realization that Draco has been loving him back all along slaps us in the face. Harry is so stupid and desperate and wanton, I love it. And the way Tacky reinvents this delicious trope to make it work in new angsty ways blows my mind. Imo the slow burn is particularly effective here, a feat in any 3k story, because the narrative gives us so much character insight. We learn all the little things that make these two lonely boys tick as we watch their ever-changing perception of each other evolve from a tentative truce to reluctant confidants to a comfortable, easy love that comes naturally and earned. We often get those bits of information from imagery and emotions alone, no dialogue needed, and a road trip is the best way to explore those dynamics in a smooth, unhurried pace.

3. The journey: this is truly an immersive journey, not only physical as we keep jumping from one destination to the next, but also emotional, as we learn more about their vulnerabilities and desires the more they gravitate towards each other. This story shows that being far away from home can be both freeing and grounding, when you’re stuck with your hot enemy someone who knows about your darkest hour. It gives you the chance to heal and visualize a different future without forgetting your past or letting go of that which has shaped who you are. I love their chance encounter and how this poignant 30k love story is told in such impressive economy of words.

TL;DR: if you’re a short form fan and prone to melancholy like me believe me when I say it doesn’t get any better than this. The whole road trip shebang mixing grief, romance and nostalgia wrapped in Tacky’s lush writing is a gift to any reader and an elegant work of art. Enjoy!!!

[flurry-of-stars]

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴- 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴- 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴𝕴-𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓘𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩ Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 8k 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: Man...it has been a while. I've had this sitting in my drafts since May. It feels amazing to finally get it out. So sorry for the long delay! I hope you all enjoy! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) 𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡

“Damn it–!”

A sharp gasp of shock escapes you as your dominant hand betrays you, releasing the cup of tea seconds before it can reach your lips. The fragrant liquid, thankfully lukewarm, splashes on your lap and coat before thudding to the floor, thankfully undamaged.

Curling your hand into a fist, you draw it close to your chest, holding it with your other hand.

A sharp, burning sensation radiates through your fingers and palm, each pulse of agony sending jolts of discomfort through your arm. Inhaling sharply, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to bear with the pain.

The pain was getting worse.

You were already well aware it was from the long hours you imposed on yourself as Fyodor’s translator. The lengthy days working away over these pages, treating each of his chapters with care to ensure each was translated perfectly from his native tongue into English, without his story being changed or translated incorrectly.

Well, at least hoped you were doing a good job of it.

You exhale sharply, releasing your pulsing hand from your gentle hold as you get up.

Bending down, your fingers curl around the gold handle of the cup, preparing to return it to its place on the small, new rolling table Dmitry had dropped off for Fyodor over the weekend. It's intended purpose was for a laptop but it made for a pretty good work space too.

Olga had bought it for him when she went into town, Fyodor had said. You smile. The last time you had tea with the couple had been pleasant…even if Dmitry had trouble speaking in English.

Your thoughts are disrupted as another jolt of pain shoots through your hand the moment you lift the teacup by its handle. Like a thousand little lightning bolts rippling through each digit down into your wrist.

Grimacing, you use your non-dominant hand to scoop the cup up, placing it down before you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up.

The bathroom in Fyodor's cottage was simple and practical, with only the essentials. Practical like him, you thought.

You couldn't help but admire the clawfoot bathtub, a novelty for you, and notice that there used to be a mirror above the sink, despite its absence now clearly marked by an outline on the wall.

You shrug off your burnt orange coat as you step into the cramped room, placing the wet fabric gingerly onto the sink, letting the dry portion hang off the side. With a determined effort, you grab the old sponge scourer nearby and begin scrubbing, trying to lift the sweet liquid from the fabric.

As you draw the sponge down the material, the pain flares up again. You wince, your hand trembling with each stroke, the sponge slipping through your fingers as searing pain ignites in your palm. You grip the sponge tightly, each squeeze sending waves of agony through your wrist.

‘Grit and bear it,’ you quietly whisper to yourself, taking a deep breath in to steady your nerves, ‘You can’t let something as silly as this stop you.’

You resume cleaning the coat, each movement accompanied by a few sharp huffs of pain.

Anger flares in your chest, mixing with the burning sensation in your wrist. You can't let something as trivial as a sore wrist stop you from salvaging your coat.

How pathetic would it be if a wrist injury kept you from cleaning your favourite coat? It would end up with a permanent stain, a constant reminder of your failure, and you'd have to abandon it—

Your anger falters, and your hand pauses mid-motion. 

Abandoning your coat was unthinkable. It’s a prized possession, one you couldn’t bear to part with. But if something loses its usefulness, it’s cast aside for something better, something newer, something more valuable.

No…no, no, no. You can’t let that happen.

As pain grips your hand like a tightening vice, you stifle a whimper, continuing to scrub the wet patch with increasing aggression. The determination to remove the stain overrides the pain throbbing in your wrist and hand.

You can’t let it lose its usefulness. You can’t let it be replaced by something better. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t…

No...no, it's okay....the stain is coming out...it’s all okay now… it's not damaged....it's still okay...It’s still wearable. It’s going to be okay…it’s still useful. It hasn’t lost its usefulness…

Breathing shakily, you glance at your wrist, the bandage damp. It’s not broken. No bones are sticking out, your fingers are intact, and your palm is still in place.

It’s just a bit of pain, that’s all. Some ibuprofen and you’ll be fine. There’s no reason to delay work over something that can be managed with a few pills.

As you hang your coat up to dry, you nod to yourself before leaving the bathroom.

You’ll take some ibuprofen and get back to work. The pills will ease the pain, and if they don’t, it really isn’t that bad. You can endure it. You have chapters to finish translating and only five days until the convention.

You have to keep going. 

You have to.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

A silvery light cascaded down upon her cheeks, casting an ethereal glow that seemed to transform her countenance into something otherworldly.

The teardrops that glistened upon her skin resembled stars, tracing a sorrowful path along the delicate contours of her face, only to fall, tumbling through the air like unheeded dreams.

It was in this moment that the true weight of my words struck me—a realization that pierced my very being. With my tongue wielded as a weapon, I had unwittingly thrust it into her heart, inflicting a wound far deeper than I had ever intended. How cruelly could one soul harm another in the throes of passion and despair?

My mind scarcely registered the sound of her chair scraping against the stone floor as she rose, her back turned to me, a sob escaping her lips that shook her entire form, quaking as violently as the bitter winds of winter might.

A constriction seized my throat, and my voice, once vibrant, was stifled in the depths of my anguish. In an instant, my body sprang forth, the chair clattering to the ground with a resounding thud. I could not permit her to leave. My heart, that treacherous organ, would not allow it; it throbbed with a fierce determination to bridge the chasm I had unwittingly created.

“No, wait, don’t go…!” I cried, leaping from my chair. I reached out to her, grabbing her wrist–

I tried to reach her—

Grabbing her hand in mine, I—

Fyodor’s pen clatters onto his desk as he rubs his face in frustration, letting out a soft groan.

No matter how hard he tries, the words refuse to flow from his pen as they once did. Gently, he pushes this page to join the other drafts for the latest chapter on the floor, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. 

Just days ago, his inspiration had been explosive. Like a match tossed into a canister of petrol, igniting his mind with a flurry of ideas so intense that he hadn’t slept, desperate to get every thought down.

Ideas had sprung to life like a box of fireworks.

Intense.

Bright.

Uncontainable. 

Now, pens lay empty on his desk, dried of the ink they once held, mere shells of their former selves. He had gone through so many pens and sheets of paper, he'd already needed to call Vivian purchase a restock of supplies on his behalf.

But now, he can barely write a few paragraphs without tossing the draft aside.

He’s gone back, rereading every chapter from the beginning to the latest. He’s even reviewed your translations, hoping that the sentences you’d woven beautifully in English would reignite something, anything within him.

But it has only led to more crossed-out sentences, reworked paragraphs, and shredded pages.

At one point, he even considered rewriting an entire chapter. One of the first chapters. Inhaling deeply, he pushes away from the desk and stands, moving through his room, lit solely by candlelight.

His steps are soft, boots gently tapping against the floorboards. As he moves, Tolstoy rises from his spot under his chair and trots after him, mewling and weaving between his legs.

Fyodor huffs, watching as the old cat bumps his head against his leg, meowing several times. Tolstoy lifts his paws towards him, making a kneading motion in the air. A plea to be held or pat.

“I’m fine, Tolstoy,” Fyodor murmurs, pacing the small room, his footsteps echoing around him. His gaze drifts from the feline to the cluttered shelf of books on his desk. His eyes skim the spines, each one bearing the name of a close friend.

The spines are covered in a thick layer of dust so dense that Fyodor’s finger leaves a clean trail when he brushes over them.

When he withdraws his hand, his fingertip is entirely black. He rubs the dust between his finger and thumb, studying the imprint with a thoughtful expression.

He moves along, using his fingertip to uncover each title, freeing each from the clutches of the dust that clings to them.

Each name represents a fond memory. Each book a reminder of his past, of times part of his heart still ached for. All of these books were cherished, beloved by him.

He felt as though these books were more than just the stories written inside. That they held his past memories in them as well.

Memories of when he received these books and those who were gracious enough to give them to him. It was foolish to yearn for the past. He was foolish to yearn for it.

His slender fingers continue along their path until–

His gaze shifts to the last book on the shelf, one coated with a thicker layer of dust than the others. Thankfully the dust had only accumulated on the plastic covering the book had been delivered in.

The grey hardcover book was missing its name along the spine, a fault by the manufacturer when they had first been in production five years ago. Fyodor was given the first copy to keep while the rest of the errors were destroyed.

It was his first published work—anonymously, of course. Vivian had created his pseudonym, a gesture for which he remained grateful, despite the name alias now representing something more painful.

His fingertip hesitates over the dust-covered spine, pausing as if uncertain whether to disturb it. It lightly caresses the edge of the plastic covering the spine before withdrawing, as if he had touched something he wasn’t meant to.

Inhaling deeply, his right hand caresses the back of his left hand, gently running up to a little ways above his wrist before slowly caressing down as he exhales. 

As he inhales deeply a second time, he focuses on the gentle caress of his right hand on the back of his left hand. With each breath, his hand traces a path up to just above his wrist before slowly descending again, as if following the ebb and flow of his breath.

The delicate movements were almost hypnotic. He exhales slowly, his body relaxing.

Why was he doing all of this?

His reason to write, to create and weave stories was no longer present. His writings, his novels….did any of it have a reason to exist when his own raison d'être was no longer–

He sharply exhales, glaring at the wall.

Suddenly, a loud mewl rouses his attention. He looks towards his desk as a furry paw plants itself on his arm. His dark eyes turn, gazing down at Tolstoy as he paws at his arm, mewling and chirping at him. He huffs, finally reaching down to scratch behind his ear.

“I said I’m fine,” he whispers, much more softly than before. His hand runs smoothly down Tolstoy’s neck, enjoying the softness of his plush fur. He follows the curve of his spine to the base of his tail before lifting his hand, returning to scratching behind his ear.

He turns his gaze towards the clock above his door. He hums softly in thought, finally pulling his hand away from Tolstoy’s soft fur. He gives a soft mewl, reaching out to keep patting at his arm.

However, Fyodor steps away, moving towards the door.

“It’s almost midday,” Fyodor murmurs to the feline, encouraging him to follow. His voice sounds breathless, even to his own ears as he runs a hand smoothly through his ruffled locks of hair, “I’m sure Огонёк has already gotten started on lunch.”

He pushes open the door, gratitude washing through him as he notices you kept the curtains closed and the candles lit just as he asked for hours prior.

He furrows his brow, puzzled by the unusual silence. Normally, you would already be bustling in the kitchen, clanging pots and pans as you prepared lunch.

You would look up and tease him, either about what took him so long to come help or ask if he was that worried about you burning the cottage down. A faint smile briefly flickers onto his face.

His leather boots echo against the hardwood floor as he makes his way to the only other room you could be in.

Suddenly, a sound of discomfort reaches his ears, prompting him to quicken his pace towards the living area. He grabs onto the door frame for support as he calls out in concern, hoping for a response, “Огонёк? Are you–”

He pauses, his voice catching as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes scan your figure, starting at your bandaged hand that is clutched tightly to your chest. Your other hand grips it fiercely as if trying to suppress the pulsing, burning pain underneath.

Pages are strewn about on the rolling table and the carpet, creating white patches around you. Even your pen is lost in the mess. But what captures his attention the most is your expression.

Though your eyes widen in surprise at his abrupt arrival, your face is twisted in agony.

 Your eyebrows are furrowed together, lips pulled back in a scowl, and your eyes are glossy. It's not difficult for Fyodor to piece together what happened.

You pushed yourself too hard.

Again. After he had told you not to. After you promised you wouldn't.

You should have listened. Why didn't you listen??

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, yet again.” His eyes are like cold steel, assessing every detail of your struggle, his eyes moving from your bandaged hand, to the twisted look of pain on your face.

How could you keep doing this to yourself? Why do you insist on suffering this way? Did you enjoy making yourself suffer, when he was right here to help?

Why didn't you ask for help?

He continues with a chilling calmness, each word enunciated with a surgical precision, “Your discomfort is palpable, and yet you persist as if it’s inconsequential.”

Were you doing this on purpose?

“Mr. Dostoyevsky–” You open your mouth, attempting to explain, but Fyodor’s narrowed eyes cut you off, silencing you with their intensity.

“It’s as if you’re deliberately ignoring the physical damage you’re inflicting on yourself,” he continues, his tone devoid of warmth. “Do you honestly believe that this relentless drive will yield any true satisfaction, or are you merely too obstinate to face the consequences?”

Why are you being so stubborn? Why can't you just listen to me?

You bristle at his words, your frustration bubbling to the surface. You move the rolling table to the side, “You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t handle!” you snap, moving the rolling table aside with a forceful shove. Fyodor’s eyes widen slightly, his usual composure momentarily disrupted.

He hasn’t seen this side of you before now. 

“I’m not going to stop just because you think I’m overdoing it!” Your voice rises, defiant and fiery as Fyodor goes ridged, his arms crossing over his chest, “I don’t need your approval or your pity!”

Fyodor doesn’t waver, his cold demeanor unmoved by your outburst,  “It’s not about permission or pity,” he counters, his voice retaining its unsettling steadiness. “It’s about your responsibility to yourself before you jeopardize your future.”

Your anger intensifies, a wave of frustration surging through you. “I don’t need a lecture on responsibility,” you retort sharply. “I know my limits. I’m capable of pushing through–”

Fyodor steps closer, his presence imposing, his tone taking on a steely edge. “Do you truly grasp what could happen if you persist?” His gaze pierces through you, forcing you to step back, dwarfed by his intensity. “This isn’t mere discomfort or fleeting pain. You risk a permanent injury that could render your hand useless.”

His voice drops to a frigid whisper, “Envision living with that consequence, knowing it was avoidable. Picture squandering your entire future because of a few extra hours of work. That’s the reality you face if you don’t step back and take care of yourself.”

For a moment, he notices your brows knitting together, your lips twitching as if about to curve downwards, your eyes appearing slightly glassy. But then, the fire reignites in your gaze as you step back, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively. “A few extra hours of work isn’t going to cripple me! You’re just being paranoid–!”

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа.”

Fyodor’s tone, colder than the snow that fell two days prior, makes you flinch, your eyes widening in shock. He remains unmoved, his gaze penetrating as if seeking to unravel the deepest recesses of your soul.

His jaw tightens as he delivers a single, icy command. “Остановись.”

Your hands clench into tight fists, your eyes narrowing with defiance. As your vision blurs and your chest tightens with the sting of anger and hurt, you glance back at the rolling table, where your work remains incomplete.

Inhaling sharply, you turn, grabbing your shoulder bag, which holds several more of Fyodor’s chapters. As you prepare to push past him, he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“Home,” you snap, “Since you clearly don’t want me here.”

Fyodor’s frustration is palpable as he follows you towards the door. The flames of the candles lining the hallway flicker wildly, some nearly extinguishing from the draft of your angry departure. “You are behaving like a child–”

“Oh, so now you see me as a child?” You retort sharply, not even glancing back. A harsh, humourless laugh escapes you as you wrench open the door. A frigid gust of air rushes in, extinguishing the remaining candles and plunging the hallway into darkness.

As the biting cold brushes against his skin, Fyodor’s body tenses involuntarily. You don’t look back as you leave, slamming the door behind you with a force that echoes in the empty hallway.

Fyodor stands alone in the darkness, his hands trembling slightly.

The impulse to chase after you gnaws at him, but his feet feel as though they are rooted to the spot by an invisible force. He stares ahead into the darkened corridor, his ears filled with the faint, almost nervous sound of his own breathing.

Even as Tolstoy approaches him, mewling and weaving his furry body against his ankles, Fyodor stays completely still, only the sound of his ragged breaths filling the dark corridor. 

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Brown, withered leaves, exposed once more due to the snow melting crunch under your boots as you storm away from Fyodor’s cottage, your shoulder bag swaying wildly.

Anger and adrenaline still flood your mind, your body feeling rigid and tense. Your bare arms are wrapped tight around your body in an attempt to protect your exposed skin from the cold elements.

Honestly, who does he think he was, telling me what I can and can’t handle? He doesn’t even know me. I could handle this and more. If I really wanted to, I could even cartwheel right now! Juggle a trio of bowling balls even!

Well...if you had the strength--

An angered huff escapes you as you slip under the floral archway, the aroma of flowers doing nothing to soothe your furious spirit as their petals seem to curl further away from you and inwards. As if they aren’t sure what to hide from; the growing coldness or your burning anger.

Your boots click against the damp, slick cobblestone path, your eyes catching glimpse of a ball of vibrant orange up ahead. You glance up noticing a familiar orange tabby cat doing circles around a cute, handcrafted bowl with cute, tiny blue paw prints painted along the trimming.

Olga kneels down as far as her old body will allow her as she scoops the intensely smelling wet food onto the bowl, murmuring something sweetly in Russian as the tabby begins devouring the served food as if it would be starving.

As the elderly grandmother stands up straight, she blinks a few times, her eyes falling on you before she gives an old, weary smile, “Oh dearie! Why hello! What are you doing out here?”

Stopping at the gate separating you both, you watch as Olga approaches you, her steps slower and more careful than before, “Did Fedyka send you on an errand?”

You hesitate for a moment, boot tapping against the cobblestone path. You could just say yes and continue on your way. Olga would be none the wiser. But as you stare down at her, fully taking in her kind, warm smile, you feel your resolve caving, despite the anger still clawing at your heart.

“Not…exactly,” you reply carefully, still unsure if you should tell the elderly lady the truth. You could just save all your ranting and venting for later when you could call Trixie. But the idea is dismissed the moment you see her face fall. She moves closer, unlatching the gate and opening it.

“Here dearie, come in,” Olga insists, the loud creak of the old gate startling both you and the tabby cat. Although the feline quickly goes back to eating like her life depends on it, “I’ll make you some tea and you can tell me all about it.”

You hesitate to enter the elderly couple’s garden, your eyes flickering from Olga’s plump form to the cobblestone pathway leading to the bus stop. You hum, looking back as the tabby cat mewls cheerily, following Olga back up the cobblestone steps.

She stops, looking back at you. Her ears twitch as she mewls, as if asking if you're going to join them.

“Mitya is out today selling some of our homemade jam, so we’ll have the place all to ourselves. We can have some girl’s time.” A hearty laugh escapes her as she opens the door leading into her cozy cottage, the mushroom-shaped bell on the door ringing merrily as she opens it.

“It's been years since I last shared tea with my girlfriend's. Come, come.”

With a sigh, your mind is made up. You head after Olga, up the stairs and into her and Dmitry’s marital home. 

The moment you step over the threshold, warmth envelops you like a tight, welcoming embrace. A delectable aroma dances in the air, wrapping around you as if beckoning you deeper into the home with the promise of delicious, homemade food. 

The fragrant scent of fresh herbs fills your senses, mingling with the enticing aroma of deliciously seasoned meat and the sweet-tart notes of pastries cooling on a rack.

As your eyes begin to take in the small, cozy cottage, you notice the floral patterns on the walls, complemented by a beautifully embroidered tablecloth draped over an old, sturdy oak table.

Above the warmth of the crackling fireplace, an Orthodox cross catches your eye, hanging between photo frames that crowd the mantel. The more you gaze around the living space, the more religious imagery you see scattered about, alongside photos of faces you’ll never personally get to meet.

Your gaze drifts to the mantel, where Olga and Dmitry's wedding photos catch your eye, and your heart swells at the sight of her in an elegant wedding dress. One photo captures them at a sun-drenched beach, sharing ice cream and laughter, their joy palpable.

Another image shows them with someone else—Olga, Dmitry, and a heavily pregnant young woman—smiling warmly as they enjoy tea together at the same dining room table, a snapshot of blissful camaraderie.

The warmth radiating from these photos mirrors the inviting glow of the hearth.

An old rocking chair sits nearby, adorned with a warm knitted blanket made from light colored yarn. It seems the tabby cat has claimed this spot as her resting place for the time being. She yawns, stretching her soft body out before curling into a tight ball of fluff. 

Across from the rocking chair, a comfortable-looking recliner holds another similar knitted blanket, bunched on the seat as if someone shrugged it off before leaving. There’s a pair of reading glasses and an old, worn grey hardcover novel left behind as well, an old, fraying bookmark peeking between the pages.

To the right, the warm, welcoming kitchen beckons.

The cupboards are a pleasant, natural dark oak, accented with delicate floral designs in white and light mocha shades. One cupboard door features a painted bouquet of flowers that looks fairly new, judging from the light pinks and yellows used for the petals of the flowers.

One of the two stovetops burns intensely as a large pot of stew boils and bubbles away, the smell almost making your stomach growl.

On the windowsill, several small plants catch your eye—herbs, you realize, their names written in Russian on their pots. Beneath the sill, sweet-smelling pastries cool, their deep purple blackberry filling peeking out from beneath the small pastry stars on top.

And there’s Olga, murmuring to herself in Russian as she prepares the teapot. You hang back, quietly watching as she fills the delicate gold and blue metal teapot with water, the malty aroma of the black tea leaves wafting through the air.

Black tea...Fyodor had a habit of choosing those tea leaves too.

Once the pot is on the stovetop, she looks back at you, mirth in her eyes, “Come, come dearie. Make yourself comfortable. The tea won’t be long.”

Murmuring your thanks, you sit somewhat awkwardly at the sturdy dining table. The timber groans beneath you, as if annoyed to be roused from its peaceful slumber. You grip your black skirt nervously, picking at your tights while keeping your head down.

What should you say to Olga about what happened?

Olga and her husband seemed to know Fyodor very well—so well, in fact, that you briefly wondered if they were related. Their bond was strong.

If you dared to say anything against him, would she defend him? Would she be angry with you for storming out, for yelling at the man she spoke of with such fondness and care?

Maybe she would even be heartbroken that you, the one supposedly doing so much good for Fyodor, would turn around and lash out at him.

You grip your skirt tighter, your knuckles turning white as a flurry of thoughts and consequences clutter your mind.

Suddenly, the loud whistle of the teapot jostles you from your internal struggle. You look up to see Olga humming peacefully to herself, organizing a wooden tray with the teapot, delicate teacups, and a few of those delicious-smelling pastries.

She carefully approaches the table, placing the tray in the center before she sits down.

As she begins pouring tea into the cups, she looks at you gently and asks, “Now, tell me, dearie. What happened?”

She gently glides the teacup and saucer towards you, the spoon left inside the cup. You gaze into the warm liquid, getting a small glimpse at your reflection.

The weight of your argument with Fyodor still weighs heavy on your mind as you let out a deep sigh. Picking up the spoon, you begin stirring the liquid as you finally speak up.

Whatever would happen after you explained yourself, good or bad…you would just have to accept it.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Honestly, who does she think she is?

Does she foolishly believe her own stubbornness will somehow be enough to stop the damage she is causing to herself? Perhaps I really should have a word to Vivian about her…unruly conduct…

Thoughts swirl like a snowstorm in Fyodor’s mind, his dark eyes scanning your translations but not fully taking them in. He huffs, flipping back to the first page before admitting defeat.

He tosses the pages back onto the rolling table, dropping his weary body onto the window seat in the living space, his hands raising to rub his face.

A mewl comes from his side as Tolstoy joins him, bumping his head against his ankle. He slumps onto his side, his paws gently batting at his shoe.

Fyodor gives an irritated huff, his eyes darkening as he looks down at the feline, “You’ve been pestering me all day.” He grumbles, standing and moving past the clingy feline.

He makes a beeline for the kitchen, the dark tabby on his heels, mewling and chirping almost urgently. He huffs, stopping at the table, “You have never been the clingy type, Tolstoy. I hope you do not intend to make this a permanent habit.”

The feline leaps up onto the dining table, mewling and nudging his broad head against Fyodor’s palm.

Tolstoy didn’t care about the complexities of human emotions and relationships. He was just a house cat, desiring nothing more than scratches and food. Fyodor couldn’t help but envy his simplicity right now.

With a sigh, he absentmindedly scratched behind Tolstoy’s ear, the cat purring contentedly as he settled against the table. Yet, his mind was far from the soothing rhythm of the moment; it wandered restlessly back to you.

What is it about the young that they believe themselves to be impervious? Where do they get this delusion that nothing awful will ever befall them, until they stumble headfirst into danger, as if the world were a playground rather than a battleground?

Fyodor knew this truth all too well; he, too, had once been young and naive, with dreams soaring above the mundane realities of life. A life free from troubles and strife. A true paradise. 

But you… with God as his witness, you seemed determined to earn the title of the most bullheaded human. Your fierce dedication was admirable, yet it danced dangerously close to folly. Did you not see the precarious edge upon which you teetered?

He recalled the way your eyes lit up when discussing your work, a flame that both intrigued and unnerved him. It was as if you were blind to the shadows lurking just beyond your fervor. How could he make you understand the balance between passion and prudence?

He huffs, a small smile playing on his lips. He wondered briefly if he had more grey hairs because of your impulsive, stubborn actions.

How many times had he found his mind wandering to you after you left for the evening, stressing and fretting like a mother hen?

Did she make it home alright? Did she eat? Is she taking the time to rest? How is her sleep schedule? She isn't staying up too late at night to work, is she?

His mind kept him awake a good extra hour each night as he stressed and worried about you.

It felt as if you were a tempest, sweeping through his carefully ordered life and leaving a trail of chaos in your wake.

Yet, there was something within that chaos. A certain warmth—a flicker of life that stirred something long dormant within him. He could almost picture you, fervently writing away at your translations, lost in the world of words, oblivious to the risks that accompanied such fervour with your condition.

It was infuriating, yes, but also undeniably captivating.

With a shake of his head, he forced himself to focus on Tolstoy’s rumbling, soft body, using the cat as a distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts.

Perhaps he should apologise for being so hard on you. Sit down with a warm meal and discuss things properly. Maybe he could even help you write the translations.

He just didn’t want to douse the flame of your passion.

After all, wasn’t it this very fire that made you who you were? Still, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. The world was far less forgiving than the safe cocoon you seemed to inhabit.

As he steps away from the dining table to brew a fresh pot of tea, he begins wondering if it was possible to find a proper way to guide you, without extinguishing that precious flame in your heart.

Above all, he wished to ensure you were ready for the challenging journey that awaited you.

The road ahead was fraught with uncertainty, and he feared it would be less about sunshine and rainbows and more about thorns and obstacles. His greatest hope was to prepare you for the trials that lay in your future.

He places the teapot onto the stovetop, reaching up into one of the cupboards. He retrieves the matching teacups, stepping towards the table to prepare everything for your return.

He huffs as he notices the once clingy, needy feline is now curled up, snoozing quietly at the end of the table. 

“I suppose you exhausted yourself chasing me around all day, hm?” He muses, resisting the urge to stroke Tolstoy’s soft fur, not wanting to risk the feline chasing him around for pats again.

As Fyodor leaves Tolstoy in peace, he hums softly and makes his way to the fridge, quietly sliding the door open.

His thoughts drift to what you might prefer for dinner upon your return. You had experimented with five different dishes this week, but most had earned only your disapproval so far. He surveys the remaining containers, a frown settling on his face. Given your past reactions, he doubted any of these meals would satisfy you.

He pauses, gripping the side of the fridge more tightly; whenever he was disinclined toward something heavy for dinner—or too preoccupied to prepare a proper meal—his mother would always offer him a warm bowl of манная каша.

A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he recalls how she would fill the bowl with nuts, fruits, and a drizzle of honey. Back then, he insisted that he didn’t need all the embellishments; plain porridge was sufficient. Yet, as he reflects now, he understands her desire to make it special and full of nutrients.

He reaches into the fruit box, only to find that with the season shifting toward Winter, the selection is limited to cranberries, apples, and pears. Disappointed, he crouches down and opens the freezer. There, next to the ice cube tray, sits a bag of frozen berries.

Perfect.

The sharp whistle of the teapot pulls him from his thoughts as he stands, the bag of frozen berries still in hand.

He places the berries on the countertop, removing the teapot from the stove, turning the hot plate off for the moment. Setting the steaming teapot at the center of the table, side by side with the teacups, he tries to recall where he last saw the bag of semolina when a sudden flurry of knocks at the door jolts him from his reverie.

You’re back already? But he hasn’t even had time to prepare the porridge. He calls out, his voice steady. “Come in, Огонёк.” After that, he heads toward the pantry, opening the doors to continue his search when another set of knocks echoes.

His lips press together in confusion as he closes the pantry. He was certain he hadn’t locked the door after you stormed out. Perhaps he had been too lost in thought to notice. But as he approaches the door, his frown deepens; it is indeed unlocked. He reaches for the handle, calling out, “Огонёк, the door is unlocked. Why are you—”

The door creaks open, a cold breeze sweeping in and playfully tousling Fyodor’s hair and coat. His eyes widen for a moment before returning to their usual calm.

Yes...that would explain why you weren’t opening the door.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

“--And so, that’s...what happened.”

Your retelling of events comes to a close, your fingers drumming against the table in a rhythmic motion. Your bandaged wrist rests tenderly on your thigh as you quickly add, “I know Mr. Dostoyevsky is only looking out for me. I know he doesn’t want me to end up in hospital or to lose the function in my hand…”

You pause.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the orange tabby trotting towards Olga, tail held high. She leaps up onto the grandmother’s inviting lap as you continue, “But this job, my work…it’s so important to me. I…” Your gaze drifts towards your bandaged wrist. You flex your fingers open slowly, “I want to be useful to Mr. Dostoyevsky. I have to be useful to him.”

Your fingers curl up tightly, causing another thunderous wave of pain to rush through your hand, into your wrist. You bite your bottom lip, suppressing those sounds of pain that threaten to leave you. Straining your voice, you continue, “His success as an author in the international world rests on my shoulders. If he fails, it’ll be entirely because of me…”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat, a shaky exhale escaping you as you stare at your hand—your stupid, wounded hand. Each pulse of pain feels like a reminder of what you suffered when you were small and vulnerable.

It's a burden you never asked for, a memory of your tainted youth...it looms over you like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash its fury.

Right now, that burden could cost you your job. Or worse; it could destroy Fyodor’s career as an author…and your own dream of becoming one. The weight of it all crushes your chest, tightening like a vice.

No…no, no…anything but that. Ruining your own dream was one thing, but dragging Fyodor down with you was unthinkable. You couldn’t let that happen. You couldn’t—

The sudden clink of Olga's teacup settling back onto its saucer jolts you from the whirlwind of thoughts in your mind, snapping you back to the present. Yet, the anxiety clings to you, heavy and suffocating. You swallow sharply, your breathing unsteady as you meet her gaze.

You had braced yourself for a scolding for daring to raise your voice at someone so important to her. Instead, you find warmth in her eyes—a glimmer of compassion that eases the weight on your chest.

A small, weary chuckle escapes her lips as she strokes the back of the tabby purring contentedly in her lap. “Oh, that sounds like our little Fedyka. I remember him scolding that rambunctious friend of his just like that so many times when they were young.”

Another chuckle follows, accompanied by a calm sigh. Her lips curve into a gentle smile, her eyes sparkling with a wisdom you can only dream of possessing. A flicker of hope ignites amid your anxiety, her presence wrapping around you like a comforting hug.

Olga leans forward, her gaze steady and reassuring. “My dear, I understand your need to push yourself. It sounds like you’re under immense pressure, feeling as if one misstep could make everything come crashing down.”

“But you must know his scolding came from a good place.” She leans back, her hand scratching the tabby behind the ears as she smiles warmly at you. “I know he worries for you, just as any good friend would.”

She pauses, allowing her words to settle before continuing. “I’ve watched over Fedyka since he was small. He has always been intent on ensuring the safety and well-being of those he cares for.”

Her gaze drifts to your bandaged wrist resting beneath the table. “I don’t mean to be rude, dear, but that fire in you—that passion and stubbornness—it’s a double-edged sword. While it drives you in your work, it’s also wounding you…causing you pain, isn’t it, dear?”

Her eyes return to yours, revealing a faint glimmer of nostalgia, of heartbreak beneath her warmth. “You are a determined young lady. But there’s a difference between determination and recklessness."

She reaches for the teapot, gently lifting it. “You should listen to him. I know you feel that everything rests on your shoulders, but it’s okay to take a step back. In fact, you should.”

As she refills her cup, her brows raise, and you feel the weight of her silent, parental scolding. “You were struggling to stir your tea just moments ago with that hand. I may understand your emotions and drive dearie, but that doesn’t mean I don’t agree with Fedyka.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, and you cough awkwardly, looking away. A fond chuckle escapes Olga as her tone softens further as she places the teapot back down. “I know that boy. Trust me when I say you can lean on him. In fact, I’d wager he’d prefer you rely on him than continue bearing this burden alone.”

You pause, the weight in your chest still heavy, a storm of thoughts brewing in your mind, looming and ready to engulf you. You glance up at Olga as she delicately sips her tea and blurt out, “But what if I’m the reason he—”

“Ah-ah,” Olga interjects gently, lowering her cup just enough to speak. “None of that, dearie.” She sets her cup down with care. “Your primary concern should be taking care of that wrist of yours.” Her gaze softens, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “Mitya and I want to see you succeed just as much as we want Fedyka to. So please…take his advice."

Your gaze turns downwards, gazing into the cold cup of tea before you. You stare hard at your own reflection, taking the time to really absorb Olga’s words.

Deep down, beneath your drive for success and your fear of failure, you knew she was right. If you didn’t stop and rest like Fyodor had told you to, you would ultimately be the reason for your own failure. 

Your gaze drops to the cold cup of tea in front of you, studying your reflection as you absorb Olga’s words. Deep down, beneath your ambition and fear of failure, you know she’s right. If you don’t heed Fyodor’s advice to rest, you risk being the architect of your own downfall.

Fyodor could find another translator if needed, but if you continued to push yourself, you might lose the use of your hand entirely. You have to stop, even if that thought fills you with reluctance.

Yet perhaps there’s a compromise to be made. If only you could talk to Fyodor—

“Thank you, Olga,” you murmur, your mind racing with thoughts of how to make this work without needing to stop completely. You lift your teacup and down the cold, sweet liquid in one swift gulp before adding, “I need to go.”

With a warm, almost motherly smile, Olga watches you rise from your chair, her trembling hand still stroking the orange tabby’s fur. “Go on, dearie. I’m sure he’s waiting for you.” As you move quickly toward the door, she calls out, “I’ll send Mitya around in the morning with some more tarts for you and Fedyka!”

With that, you step out of the cozy cottage, taking the cobblestone steps two at a time as you make your way back to Fyodor’s place. Your boots greet the cobblestone path as you hurry on, the gate groaning low as you shut it behind you.

Technically, you owe him an apology, don’t you? This isn’t the first time he’s scolded you for pushing yourself. Ultimately, Fyodor is just looking out for you, as any good boss and friend should.

A friend…

Warmth flutters in your chest as you step under the archway of flowers once more. The golden orb in the sky slips shyly over the treeline, casting elongated shadows that dance across the forest floor. Its rays shimmer and create a mosaic of bright highlights that ripple with the gentle movement of the water.

The sky is a canvas of pale blue, tinged with hints of orange and pink, hinting at the day’s slow descent while still holding on to the lingering warmth of afternoon.

The lake’s surface ripples faintly as if greeting you, even if you know otherwise.

A friend to Fyodor…those few little words had you smiling a goofy grin from ear to ear. You’d only been working for him for a few weeks, but you had grown more comfortable with him. Learnt more about him.

You’d learned his preferred tea leaves, his favorite meals, and his love for the cello and classical music.

You knew how he would endlessly gaze across the lake whenever you both sat outside. You even knew why he pursued this career path. You both cooked and ate together for every meal, chatting and joking with each other.

You spent five days a week, ten hours or more each day with him. Sure, those were your regular working hours, and it was part of your role to be there, but that had to count for something!

…Right?

You reach the cottage door just as your thoughts threaten to spiral into another overwhelming storm. Curling your non-dominant hand around the door handle, you twist it and push the door open, calling out, “Mr. Dostoyevsky! I’m–!”

Your voice catches in your throat as you take in the sight before you. Standing in the candlelit entryway of Fyodor’s cottage is someone else—someone you could swear you’ve seen before. His captivating eyes turn towards you.

You swallow your words, taking in his features: a strong jawline and an old scar that runs from the top of his left eyebrow, down across his left eye and halfway down his cheek. Yet, despite the prominent scar, his complexion remains fair.

"Handsome" is the first word that comes to mind.

One vibrant blue and one calm green eye scan you from head to toe, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips as he leans against the doorway leading into the living area.

Most of his hair, white and soft looking, like fallen dove feathers, is tied back into a thick braid cascading down his back, while the rest of his fluffy hair delicately frames his face.

He stands with his hands in the pockets of his grey woolen trench coat that covers his darker grey sweater and white scarf. He straightens up, tilting his head as he continues to appraise you.

Like Fyodor, this man speaks with a deep, gravelly voice, laced with a thick accent that’s subtly different from Fyodor’s. Ukrainian, perhaps? “Why hello there. You must be the brilliant assistant I’ve heard so much about.”

His heavy black boots click against the wooden floorboards as he steps closer, and you find yourself rooted in place, gripping the door handle slightly. He stops just a few steps away, towering over you— he's taller than Fyodor.

“I… I wouldn’t say brilliant—” you manage to reply, earning a deep chuckle from him.

“It’s wonderful to finally put a face to the name. And what a pretty face it is.” He reaches out, capturing your non-dominant hand and lifting it to kiss the back of your fingers softly.

Your heart skips a beat, any word you mumble coming out as a stutter. You cough, trying to find a response as his unique eyes lock onto yours.

Then realization hits you like a ton of bricks. He’s one of the men from the photo in Fyodor’s room. Keeping your voice steady, you gently pull your hand back. “You… you’re a friend of Mr. Dostoyevsky’s. I saw you in that photo he has in his room.”

His eyes flicker with recognition, his hands sliding into the pockets of his black trousers. He tilts his head slightly, the mischievous smirk never leaving his face. “Ah, that old thing? I’m surprised Fedya still has it.” He takes a step back. “But you are correct, Огонёк~ I am a very close friend of his.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his teasing tone.

“My name,” he says, his voice a charming timbre, “is Nikolai Gogol. But please, I insist. Call me Kolya, darling~”

© 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦 ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ (SorryifImissedanyone!)

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[wylanslcve]

I love the way S2 showed the difference between how Jesper approaches a high-stakes situation in comparison to Wylan, specifically in the scene where they sneak into Pekka's estate by entering through an open window. Jesper practically jumps from the windowsill and then twirls his gun, whereas Wylan gently lowers himself from the windowsill before lightly dropping himself down when he's crouched close enough to the ground.

We know that Jesper thrives off chaos and spontaneity, hence why he leaps from the windowsill and immediately twirls his gun: he's diving head-first into the action. He actively seeks fights because of the thrill they bring him, because he "always felt better when people were shooting at him". You can practically see the adrenaline coursing through him.

Wylan slowly lowering himself until he's close enough to drop down is more careful and deliberate than Jesper's leap, and it shows the complete opposite: Wylan is more cautious and wary than Jesper because he doesn't thrive off the chaos of a fight. He doesn't find anything thrilling about being in a dangerous situation, especially when you consider his sheltered upbringing. (I say sheltered because, though abusive, his household never exposed him to the dangers of Barrel life. This is made clear in Crooked Kingdom when Wylan is reliving his first months in the Barrel, thinking about how "he might not have been happy at his father’s house, but he’d never had to work for anything. He’d had servants, hot meals, clean clothes. Whatever it took to survive the Barrel, Wylan knew he didn’t have it.") He doesn't want to get in trouble or get wrapped up in these sorts of situations because that's not who he wants to be - he doesn't want to be a criminal.

However, he inevitably leaps from the windowsill too (just when he's crouched low enough to do so) rather than slowly sliding off it and onto the ground, exemplifying how, despite how he doesn't want to be a criminal, he still contributes to the task at hand and gets involved in these types of situations. His hesitancy doesn’t paralyse him regardless of the fact that he doesn’t want to partake in criminal activity. Whether or not he wants to do it, this is the path he's decided to pursue and he needs to do his part.

This difference is also exemplified in the scene in S2E5 where Zoya and Tolya are recruiting the Crows for the heist to steal the Neshyenyer blade. When they offer payment for the Crows’ contributions, Jesper responds with “I like the sound of that” before taking a shot of something. In a way, it echoes the “time for a heist!” scene in season one, emphasising Jesper’s willingness to go on a heist due to the thrill it brings (as well as the prospect of a monetary reward). On the other hand, while Jesper is enthusiastically agreeing to Zoya and Tolya’s request, Wylan is giving him the bombastic side-eye due to Jesper's willingness to accept the mission without hesitation.

Again, Wylan can't fathom how someone could be so willing to go on such a mission, so he's side-eyeing Jesper in disbelief and almost disapproval but he's also not at all surprised because this is Jesper Llewellyn Fahey. Remember, Wylan doesn't thrive off adrenaline rushes the way Jesper does - he's only doing all of this because 1) his entire motivation is to "make his money, get out of town, and never speak the name Van Eck again" and 2) he pretty much has no other choice because he makes it very clear that "he would sell himself in the pleasure houses of West Stave before he’d ask for his father’s mercy".

[diornies]

playing pretend

[epicthemusicalstuff]

All stories are cycles. I’m sorry, I don’t make the rules. But they are cycles, and it happens again and again. Sometimes the same way every time. Sometimes details will change.

You tell a story, and it happens again, we get to relive it- the characters relive it. It happens again.

[platoapproved]

That's it? You're just gonna end it there?

[ineffectualbookseller]

The way Azirphale is underestimated and practically infantalized by heaven is so closely tied to his femininity and I think we should talk about it more because I just want to shout about how relatable the way he's treated in his workplace is as a woman working in a traditionally male field

It's in all the little niggling comments from your boss about personal things that hold no bearing on your work

and the assumption that what you're doing must be simple if it was assigned to you

your work is trivialized

and you get these the placating smiles when you're told plans and proposals are rejected and passed over

or when your complaints are dismissed

and you get more of the same from upper management

it all feels so frustrating and draining but you're at work so all you can do is take a breathe put on that mask and move on with your day

It is all so deteimental to your emotional well being and textually, so much of this is tied to Aziraphale's softness, his gayness - his femininity

The thing about working in an environment and gives you this feeling - of being simultaneously destrought watching your belief in yourself get chipped away but also just so irate becuase you know you don't deserve it - is how it builds. It sinks under your skin and feeds into this indignant dejection until you can have a moment of release - but Azirphale doesn't get to bitch about it over drinks with friends, he doesn't get a lunch break where he can go for a walk and listen to an angry scandi death metal playlist, he doesn't even get the chance to cry about it in the bathroom for 5 minutes before confronting it again

(And I talked a little bit about it in the tags of this beautiful photoset but this all comes into play whenever Crowley dismisses his plans or calls him an idiot. These are purely emotional reactions; I really don't think Crowley means much by it - he respects Aziraphale's opinion and genuinely thinks he's brilliant - but Crowley is so quick to use this terminology when Aziraphale is making a decision Crowley thinks is wrong and he doesn't know how much this hurts Aziraphale. Just like Aziraphale doesn't understand the true impact the Fall had on Crowley, Crowley doesn't understand the ways heaven has been tearing away at Aziraphale's self worth)

Aziraphale has been facing this constant drip of denigration since before the beginning of time and has never released the pressure valve. At this point, he's a bomb waiting to go off

[giuliettacapuleti]

Szabó P. Szilveszter and Vagó Zsuszi in Rebecca: A Manderley-ház asszonya

[muselexum]

[laurasimonsdaughter]

“Are you okay?”

He was startled so badly he almost fell off the pier, but he just managed to scramble backwards instead of forward. The voice had come from below, in the water, but suddenly a pair of smooth, chubby arms appeared over the edge, followed by a friendly looking face framed by a wet hood lined with thick fur.

Or not lined with it, made from it. And not a hood actually, but a whole, glossy, sealskin...

“Just for the record, I’m not here because of the tears.” Two large, black eyes looked up at him, but he was still struck speechless. “Well, I am, technically,” the unexpected stranger continued. “But just because you’re crying, not because you’re crying into the sea.”

“What?” he managed, weakly.

“The seven tears in the sea thing, it’s very outdated. And it only works on male selkies anyway,” they replied, just a touch defensively.

“Okay...” Selkie. He did know that word. That wasn’t- There shouldn’t- People didn’t actually still believe in selkies, did they? “I um, I wouldn’t have presumed.”

The selkie smiled a quick smile and gave him another inquiring look. “So, are you alright? You’ve been sitting here for a while...”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He hadn’t known for a long time.

Over the edge of the pier he could just see the selkie’s legs slowly treading water. Their pelt was wrapped around them, half floating on the water, and it seemed to stick to them without being fastened in any way.

“Do you want to talk about it?” they asked.

He shook his head, but still hesitantly cleared his throat. “Thanks for asking though.” People rarely did. But then, he rarely let anyone see. “How did you know I was here, if you were all the way under the water?”

“Tears of sadness salt the sea,” the selkie replied gravely, but at his first flinch of embarrassment quickly added: “No, come on, that was a joke. I just heard you, that’s all.”

“Oh,” he breathed. That was marginally better.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No! I mean, you don’t have to. You live here right? I’m not gonna tell you to leave.” That felt uncomfortably close to rambling so he gulped down a steadying breath and said:

The selkie pulled themself up a little higher and the further they lifted themself out of the waves the clumsier and more undignified their movements became. He watched awkwardly as they kicked their legs and tried to wiggle up past their chest.

“Uh, can I give you a hand?”

“Go on then,” they panted and he caught them by both arms and helped pull them up on the pier.

“It’s so bloody heavy out of the water.” The selkie sat down with a huff, drawing their pelt closer around them. “I‘m Einar, by the way.”

He smiled. “Søren.”

[strawberry-cow-smut]

Satan's Classroom Shenanigans

🌸Ageless + Minor = DNI🌸

Characters: Submissive, Top Satan (Obey Me)

Reader: Gender Neutral, Dominant, Bottom Reader

Exploring: Public Play, Secretive Play, Classroom Fucking, Blowjob, Exhibition (if you squint), Dick Riding, Overstimulation (Satan), Begging, Multiple Orgasms, Almost Getting Caught, Infirmary Fucking, Multiple Creampies, Abandonment of Restraint, Demon Form (though not playing a huge part)

Satan struggles to keep his head. Normally collected and focused, sharp as a knife in the classroom, he suddenly finds himself unable to think about anything aside from the menace hiding under his desk, prodding and rubbing at his cock during the last lecture of the day.

He's struggling to sit still. How could he when you're undoing his pants here of all places?! Do you have any idea how many people would see if he moved from his desk? What if the professor asks him to demonstrate a spell? You both would be exposed in a heartbeat.

You dig your nails into his thighs as his hips buck slightly, dick standing tall and proud before you. It's a miracle the tent in his pants didn't rip the fabric. He's leaking precum already and you've barely even touched him. He's so cute when he's this sensitive. You wish you could see his face right now, but that'd blow your cover, and you're going to be too busy blowing him.

His poor pen bears the weight of his restraint, teeth sinking into the cheap plastic covering and nearly puncturing the inkwell within the center. The professor's speaking. The class is entirely silent aside from them, and Satan couldn't stand to bear the embarrassment of moaning mid-lecture like Asmodeus had once done eons ago.

"Satan? Page 164, if you please."

Oh no.

He stands slowly, his left hand gripping the edge of his desk to the point his fingers turn white, his right hand shakily holding the textbook as he sucks in a sharp breath. The desk is at waist height, barely tall enough to hide you sucking his cock like it's the last source of water within an endless desert.

"Magical... Magical Creatures, Chapter Seventeen. The Gryffin is a-ah! A mythological beast whose body resembles that of a lion from the humAN world, and possesses the wings and head of an eagle. They range in size from as SMALL as ah... a mouse to as large as a small tank."

"Thank you, Satan. That will be enough. Are you alright?"

"Y-Yes! I'm perfectly fine! Just... a bit under the weather is all."

"Are you sure? I believe it would be in your best interest to see the nurse."

"I'll be j-just fine. I just need to relax a bit more."

Oh, he'll relax alright.

The professor dismisses him without another word, ending his lecture and instructing the class to continue reading the rest of the chapter on their own. Satan sits with a shaky sigh, cheeks flushed from embarrassment and sweat dripping down his face. He surely intends to show you who's in charge when the two of you get home, but as for now, you're the one holding the metaphorical leash.

As soon as he's relaxed enough, you decide it's time to up your game. Without any warning, your nose is pressed up against his torso, his dick down your throat as far as it can reach. It's a miracle how you can keep quiet with all the spit and the pace you're bobbing your head. He's digging his claws into the seat of his chair now, surely leaving deep cuts that go against the grain of the wood.

He's so fucking close to reaching a peak. Satan hides his head in his arms, forehead pressing against the cool lumber next to his open textbook. Tears prick the corners of his eyes as he struggles to resist coming undone. All he needs is just a bit more. He's torn between wanting to finish and wanting to maintain his dignity in front of his peers, but there's only so much he can do when you're sucking his soul out so feverously.

Satan gives up. He gives up almost completely as his body begins to shake and his claws dig further into the dark oak of his desk. He lets out a sharp whimper, filling your throat with a flowing white river. His classmates and professor look at him, concerned for his wellbeing.

Satan is panting, shaking, barely holding himself together at this point. He pants and takes a few deep breaths to catch his own before looking up at the professor.

"Satan? I do believe you'd better go to the nurse before your condition worsens."

You're quick to clean him up and fix his clothing. Satan's still shaky but agrees with the professor after noticing nothing would be amiss if he chose to stand, thanks to you.

"You're right, Professor. I'll be heading there at once. I-I apologize for concerning you all."

He gathers his belongings and shakily exits the classroom without another word. Some students utter words of concern as his legs threaten to give out with every step. You have no choice but to remain silent in place until the end of the lecture, only able to escape the room once all the other students and the professor have left first.

As the last of the students leave, you join the endless sea of demons and other magical beings flooding the halls between classes. You make your way to the nurse's office, deciding to check and see if your friend is "recovering" alright. Satan's in the third bed, closest to the wall and farthest from the door. The nurse is out for a moment, not an unusual circumstance considering it's their lunch hour.

"You! You almost got us caught with your little stunt in there! I can't believe you had the... the... the audacity to go that far! I didn't expect you to continue until I finished! We're unbelievably lucky the professor mistook me for being unwell."

Satan sighs as you draw closer and sit on the edge of his bed, taking his hand and bringing it to cup your cheek. He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone, sighing.

"Well... I suppose it wasn't all bad. That was... exhilarating, to say the least, even if it may be a bit troublesome to deal with the aftermath. Maybe this sort of thing wouldn't be bad every once in a while. I'm glad we got to explore this side of our relationship together."

He always gets so sweet and sappy after he's coming down from a high. It's sweet. He's always going on about how much he loves you and how he's so happy you both can be as rough or as gentle as the other needs them to be. Unfortunately for him, you're not ready to be sappy. There's still one more thing on your mind, and it's back in his pants.

You stand and pull the privacy curtain shut, closing the view of the bed off from the rest of the world. He stammers, questioning exactly what it is you're doing, a tiny glint of fear peaking through his normally collected demeanor. You turn towards him once more, staring him down as a cat does an injured mouse.

Your pants and undergarments hit the cold tile of the infirmary floor. You climb onto his bed, legs straddling his thighs as you pull his pants and boxers low enough to expose his half-hard cock. He's visibly excited, but his long refractory period prevents him from standing at full attention for a few more minutes. No matter, you reposition your core and take him in completely.

His growling and whining resurface and he lets out an unrestrained moan that fills the room. It's fortunate you two are the only ones in the infirmary, otherwise, there would have been no hiding exactly what's happening behind the thin white linen walls.

You grind against him with every drop of your hips, the pace unbearably fast as his erection continues to harden within you. Your nails dig into his chest, and his own claw at the sheets of the bed, eager to grab hold of something but not wanting to hurt you. He doesn't trust himself not to dig his claws into those thighs he loves so much when he can't even be bothered to restrain his voice for the moment.

Incoherent, muffled voices outside the door begin to grow louder as passing students flood the halls on their way to their dorms and extracurriculars. The only thing you're concerned with is riding him like the insatiable, cock-hungry animal you've become.

"Please! Ngh, fuck! I'm about to cum again! You need to slow down before-- Ah!"

Fuck his moans are beautiful. They start off melodic and end with an enticingly lewd growl. You didn't know he could be this expressive in bed before today. He's practically begging for mercy, still sensitive from the classroom shenanigans.

You do not grant it.

Satan's back arches and his hips thrust upward into you as he orgasms a second time. You're lifted up as his hips stutter beneath you, voice filling the room with lewd curses strung together as his eyes roll to the back of his head and the sheets begin to tear under his grip. He begins to still after a few moments, but you don't stop. You don't even slow down.

Satan's hands frantically look for anything to ground himself, worsening the tears in the fabric below him. His frantic gaze lands on the pillow lying underneath his head. He grabs at it, hoping for something to help relieve the intensity of the high you're pushing him towards, but in his overstimulated and careless state, he can't control his own strength. It takes mere seconds before there's a mess of feathery down and fabric scraps surrounding the head of the infirmary bed.

His eyes are starting to glow. Feathers are pushing out sporadically against the skin around his neck. Horns pierce through the golden hair on his crown His canines are growing sharper and his growls start sounding far less than human. There's not much left of his ability to control himself, though with you there was hardly ever any to begin with.

His claws slip from the mangled mess of a pillow and find their way to your hips, digging his nails into your sides and rutting up into your core; fucking his seed deeper without the restraint he desperately clung to before. His speed is almost unbearable. The way his cock drills into all the right places has you seeing stars and crying his name in response.

The thrusts are losing their regularity. Hips stuttering and nails threatening to pierce the soft skin of your hips, Satan bites down on his own lip until he's the one bleeding; filling you for a third time this afternoon.

It's almost unbearable. With the way his cum flows out of you like a river, you're mindlessly thanking yourself for having the foresight to make sure neither of you were still wearing your uniform pants.

With shaky legs and sweat covering both of your bodies, you fall to the side to catch your breath, grabbing some nearby tissues and cleaning the both of you up enough to at least redress before someone walks in and manages to put two and two together.

Satan's head flops to the side to gaze at you; chest heaving with every breath.

"Haah--that was... that was amazing." A hand comes up to push back his golden locks to unobscure bright green eyes, softening as they settle upon your glowing form.

His hand comes to rest gently against your cheek as he tilts your chin for a tender kiss, wanting to cherish this moment. As much as you want to indulge him and relish this moment, the growing sound of clicking heels interrupts the saccharine air of your post-orgasm bliss.

You shoot out of his infirmary bed, standing up straight and wiping the remaining sweat off your face in a flash, just in time for RAD's nurse to pull back the curtain and stick a thermometer in his mouth without a word. A minute passes silently without them acknowledging your presence. until the thermometer's beep cuts through the still air.

"Hm." The nurse pulls the thermometer out of his mouth and jots down the reading onto their clipboard.

"Professor called ahead for this one. Sweating, flushed cheeks, heavy breathing, abnormal behavior in class, sluggish and lethargic disposition. Sounds like a classic fever." The nurse turns towards you.

"You live in the same building, correct? Make sure he gets home safe and gets plenty of rest and fluids. He should be fine by Monday if he listens and takes some standard fever-reducing medicine from the drugstore. He's to stay strictly on bedrest until he can stand without losing his balance. "

"Oh don't worry. He'll definitely be getting that bedrest."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tags: @snowsnetwork

[kamamo1]

So I wonder what it was to make Season 3 flip Benedict's story book order to Colin/Penelope's.

Did Shondaland do the practical , "OK season one we did the mystery of the identity of Lady Whistledown, Season 2 the audience knows Penelope as Lady Whistledown, and then Season 3 is Penelope's Season with setup?"

Or what is it like they looked at the books and went 'Fuck, how are we going to drop a Cinderella retelling in the middle of the historical romance series without any similar fairytale retellings in the other plots?' So they felt they had to push Benedict's back?

Or was it a bit of both where they looked at Netflix reputation and went "We are obviously not going to be getting 8 Seasons with Netflix's track record, so we need to pay off this shit we set up from the past seasons before they pull the plug on us."

Just curious.

[femmefaggot]

ok hi haha lol I dont rly feel like going in circles in my head forever trying to figure out whether, among other "smaller" things, being left alone in a room w only media as a child and not feeling like I had even a semblance of a personality for most of my life counts as "trauma"

a lot of these parts of me are new, I'm just recently putting names to them and it feels as though I'm developing facets of personalities in my mid 20s after a lifetime of either feeling like I'm basically just ADHD in a person, an amalgamation of kins shoved into a body, or something made of guilt Also shoved into a body.

I don't like, claim to know what this means. but I don't think a lot of my current mutuals would feel comfortable interacting w me bc I don't necessarily believe in the black and white of what plurality is. I'm not able or planning on getting any formal diagnosis and while I'm discussing this w my therapist they're very much not one to pathologize

I definitely don't feel like one person but I dont think id count for most of you as a "system" as the different parts of me feel as though theyre still developing. take all of this as you will, I'm not going to stress my body out more by trying to figure out "what" I am as I've been doing that my whole life and I'm kinda tired of it.

I know that I'm not entirely one thing and feel Enough like multiple things for myself, but blurred in a lot of ways. like some sort of gem with many different facets.

not sure where to go w this tbh take this how you will. im not comfortable saying I'm leaning one way or the other regarding system discourse, (<- not a phrase i want to use but the best shorthand i have) as I genuinely don't believe the human brain is nearly that black and white.

I'm both "me" and very much not "me" at times. idk what this means but ik I'm not comfortable saying im just pandora and im not sure im "allowed" to say im a system and im not sure if it matters, or should matter, regarding friends. im going to be like this regardless, id unfollow me if this grey area im likely to stay in bothers you

if you don't want me refollowing I'd probably block, too, as my memory is bad

[beatx-mavie-archangelx]

Unpopular take?? I guess?

I don't think many people in this fandom understand how criminal organizations work.

If I had 1¢ everytime I read something along the lines of "Gashu is a horrible parent because he chose God/Asu-Naro over his kids" I'd be a very upset billionaire(hyperbole), because no?? He didn't??

That's not what makes him a horrible parent. That wasn't something he could actually choose. What makes him the founder of the Bad Dads Club is that he chose a kid over the other, which doesn't necessarily mean "I want Sei to die" but it still loosely translates into "I want Kai to survive." and this is not exactly a best dad behavior. THIS is what he could've avoided.

The choice wasn't between God and his kids, since, and I quote, "should you defy God... their blood will surely spill.". Ultimately, he could only choose how they would've died. So he chose the "safest" option, the one that gave one of the kids the chance of surviving, he chose God (being an empath, I can sense that he wasn't all that thrilled).

"b-but!! he could've still ran away!! 🥺" how? AS is everywhere in Japan. They'd be looking for him. He could change his looks, get fake documents, and try to escape abroad, sure, but again, how? Who do you think is making the fake documents? He's trapped.

Everyone in Asu-Naro is.

[mxrisacoulter]

endless gifs of marisa coulter ~(32/?)