whisperingexecutioner

[whisperingexecutioner]

''The ocean drowns but it also heals; someday I hope you can find peace''

[whisperingexecutioner]

Beautiful, gives off subtle Shadow and Bone vibes <3

This is a place where secrets are hidden behind stone walls and learning is almost a magical ritual.

[whisperingexecutioner]

Rosemary's Masterlist II

{a.k.a WhisperingRaven}

Hello friends, here's a list of some fics I've wrote, neatly comprised and with easier mobile readability for your enjoyment ;3

Call of Duty

''Storm'' (Stitch Drabble)

''Sweater Weather'' (Stitch x Park )

''The Little Zookeeper'' (Stitch x Female!Reader AU NSFW)

''Black Ops Cold War One-Shots'' (Various NSFW)

''The Ghost of You'' (Vladimir Makarov drabble)

''A Guilty Pleasure'' (Vladimir Makarov x Female!Reader NSFW)

''What once was, can never be'' (OG Vladimir Makarov drabble)

''Like A Moth To A Flame'' (Vladimir Makarov x Female!Ikran Reader and Ikran!Vladimir x Female Reader NSFW)

''White Widow'' (Vladimir Makarov x Female!Reader NSFW)

''On Stranger Tides'' (Abyssal Horror!Vladimir Makarov & Caretaker!Andrei Nolan fic, heavy angst also NSFW for various reasons)

''A Turning of The Tide'' (Abyssal Horror!Vladimir Makarov x Female!Reader NSFW)

Shadow And Bone / Grishaverse

''Of a certain warmth'' (Ivan & Fedyor x Female!Heartrender Reader NSFW)

Beautiful Light

''Confrontation'' (Juggernaut x Female!Reader SFW / NSFW)

''Confrontation II'' (Juggernaut x Female!Reader NSFW)

Resident Evil

''Resident Evil One-Shots'' (Various NSFW)

Hellboy

''Restless Stranger'' (Karl Ruprecht Kroenen x Female!Reader)

The Thing

''It Had To Be You'' (Sam Carter x Female!Reader NSFW)

More to be added eventually, check my Ao3 page for more frequent updates.

As always, thank you for reading! 💖❤️💝

[whisperingexecutioner]

Oh Vova.... X'D

Makarov thinks sending your entire browser history is a love language.

He hand-delivers dossiers with blackmail photos as a first date gesture.

He doesn't flirt. He calculates compatibility ratios and threat potential.

And then stares at you like you made it weird.

Makarov (confused, mildly offended) : They say they love danger, but when I send them their medical records and the footage of them walking home last Tuesday-suddenly I'm the problem.

Milena: Vladimir. You cannot court people using cyber-surveillance.

Makarov: I'm thorough. It's romantic.

[whisperingexecutioner]

C u t e <3

The Brow Thing

His default expression is severe. Not because he’s angry, not most of the time, at least—but because he’s built that way. Low brows, hooded lids, a gaze like a half-lit fuse. He doesn’t smile unless it’s deliberate. He doesn’t laugh unless it’s ironic. And he never softens.

Until you raise a brow at him.

You don’t do it to tease. Not really. You just look at him sometimes —long enough to make him notice—and your brow lifts, just a little. Easy.

A question without words. And he looks at you like: “What are you doing?”

But then, he shifts. His own brows pull upward. Not fully. Not dramatically. Just enough to echo you. Enough to meet you halfway.

And he doesn’t notice the first few times. But you do. So you keep doing it. In passing. At the briefing. In the backseat of a convoy while he mutters into a comm. You raise a brow. He lifts his—just a little—and keeps talking.

Until one day, finally, you grin and say: “You know you do that back, right?” He pauses. “Do what?” “The brow thing.”

He doesn’t answer. But the next time you try it, He beats you to it :)

[whisperingexecutioner]

<3<3<3

Morale

pt.1 // pt.2

He keeps touching and towering over you because he thinks it’s amusing how you attempt to dodge him. Perhaps he’s making fun of you because you’re not accustomed to their mannerism. You’re confused and tense most of the time while you watch the interactions around you.

Measured, mildly sadistic, deeply amused, and absolutely intentional. He’s not touching you out of warmth. He’s touching you like a cat taps a glass off a table: to watch what happens.

You flinch just slightly when he brushes past you—he notices. So next time, he doesn’t brush past. He hovers.

He leans over your chair during meetings. Not to speak, or even to listen. Just exist in your peripheral vision until your posture collapses into tension. He’ll rest a hand on your shoulder when he knows it makes you freeze. Then immediately say something mundane like: "You need to eat more." Or "You blink too often."

If you shift away, he follows. Close. Calm. No smile. Because this isn’t flirtation, it’s social disruption as entertainment.

"You’re not used to this, are you?" "We touch more casually than you. That’s why our system doesn’t collapse under pressure." He rested his hand on the back of your neck. "See? Still standing."

You catch on eventually, try to keep a step off distance. But every time you think you’ve escaped, he adjusts. One hand on the back of your chair. Forearm against the wall near your head. A light tap to your elbow when passing in a narrow hall. You look around like, "Is this normal?" Everyone else is too scared to say it isn’t.

He’s peacocking. You’re the target. Congratulations, you’re his new toy. He’ll get bored eventually. Or not.

[whisperingexecutioner]

<3<3<3

Morale

pt.1 // pt.2

He’s casual with physical contact. Like. Super causal—measured though. But only when he initiates it. He insists it’s for morale.

He brushes your shoulder while walking past? Calculated. It’s a pressure-point memory maker. Finger on your lower back to move you aside in a hallway? Intentional. He’s herding you like a precious asset, but he’ll never admit it.

He fixes your collar. Straighten your sleeve. Tuck a tag back in. Place a hand on your thigh during transport and call it “stabilising you during turbulence.” The ground is level. There is no turbulence.

If you try to initiate, he might allow it, but the energy changes. He either goes very still, like a sensor tripped, or redirects it entirely like: “Not now. You’ll distract yourself.” You’ll distract yourself, Y/N. He’s fine.

When someone calls him out on it: "Touch is grounding. Humans are volatile. I’m reducing entropy." "It’s not intimacy. It’s reassurance." "For morale." He touches your wrist again. "See? Stabilised.”

[whisperingexecutioner]

<3<3<3

The strategy room is dim, cool, clinical, all blueprints and blinking lights. But behind you? Heat. Not from the room. From him.

Makarov’s standing just close enough that his presence folds into yours. You can’t see him, but you can feel the way his breath slightly shifts the collar of your shirt. He hasn’t said anything for the last eight minutes.

Eight. Agonising. Minutes.

Your teeth clenched. Your fingers tense on the data pad like you’re trying to squeeze meaning out of plastic. Your shoulders twitch—once, twice—until they settle into a frozen slope of containment.

He sees it. You know he does.

Because when you speak, finally, low and careful, he exhales this quiet, amused breath behind you. Like you’ve passed a test he never told you about. “Don’t freeze,” he murmurs. “We don’t hurt what doesn’t flinch.”

You don’t turn. You don’t breathe. You just want the floor to open.

Instead, he shifts closer. Only slightly. His voice curls down, smooth and almost kind: "You’re learning. Slowly. But learning."

You hate how your lashes tremble; how the heat from his frame makes your neck flush. You hate the feeling in your gut—not fear, but something unplacatable. Warm. Unsettling. Like a secret you’re not ready to know.

He finally moves. A step away. Air returns to your lungs like mercy. And as he walks out, brushing your chair with the barest touch, he offers: “Don’t worry. You’ll adapt.” “They always do.”

[whisperingexecutioner]

<3<3<3

Absolutely Unbearable in Low-Stakes Situations

He LOVES to run his mouth in the direst, most prickly way possible and make it sound so absolute to the point that you don’t even know how to respond.

You ask a question like: “Is the kettle on?” Vova: “It was. Then entropy happened.”

You trip on the rug and glare at him. Vova: “You lack spatial awareness. I warned you about that.” (He didn’t)

You tell him you’re cold. Vova: “Adapt. The world won’t warm itself for you.” (Then he tosses a blanket at you without looking.)

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t laugh. But he’ll drop an unsolicited one-liner while stirring his tea like it’s principal.

You: “Can you please stop making everything sound like a lecture?” Vova: “I’m not lecturing. I’m educating.”

And the worst part? Sometimes he’s right. Or worse, you start using his logic back on him, and he just stares at you with visible pride as you’ve finally ascended into competence.

He’ll say “Hmm.” in response to your emotional vulnerability. He’ll stare at your outfit for two seconds too long and then say: “Bold.” If you misplace something, he’ll deadpan: “Lack of discipline leads to loss.” If he misplaces something and you catch him?

“This is a test. You passed. Congratulations.”

[whisperingexecutioner]

B i g S t r e e e e t c h~

The lil' chibi faces are so cute, as well as the puddle of goo with eyes X'D

Stretching = =

Two workaholics

[whisperingexecutioner]

Lovely~

Kiss at the Red Square

She was quiet as she approached St. Basil’s. The cathedral looks like a fairy tale dreamed by madmen. The domes rise in delighted geometry—and so does her pulse. He glances down at her. Eyes sharp, soft, alert. Like, even now, with everything, he’s watching her more than the square.

“Romantic, is it?” He murmurs. “Very.” “You know what they used to do in front of this church?" “Execute people?” “Mm. Still time.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. He chuckles, low in his throat. And then he kissed her.

[whisperingexecutioner]

<3<3

Untitled

[1]

You didn’t flinch when the radio crackled, didn’t stop reading when the smoke started curling through the cracks in the safehouse roof. You looked up only when he returned—blood stiff on his collar, breath still edged in frost.

“Welcome back.”

As if he were a man with a home. As if he were someone worth waiting for.

[2]

There are fingerprints on your book. He knows they’re yours by the way they land on the page—lightly, deliberately. As if even the act of reading is a decision. As though you understand what it means to weigh an idea without letting it consume you.

[3]

He asked you once:

“Do you agree with me?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you handed him a passage marked in blue. He doesn’t remember the exact words anymore, only the meaning:

“Just because I understand doesn’t mean I believe.”

[4]

He thinks about that sometimes. What does it mean to understand someone like him and stay? You aren’t a captive. You never made yourself to be. You’re a witness. A quiet reflection of the cost of thought.

[5]

He kills because he believes people don’t think hard enough. You survive beside him because you think too much and do nothing. Yet he doesn’t despise you for it.

He envies it.

[6]

You’re not the one who will change the world. He knows that. But maybe—just maybe—you’re the one who proves it could’ve been different.

If only he hadn’t gotten here first.

[whisperingexecutioner]

<3<3

SEXUALITY & ATTACHMENT Vladimir Makarov HC

He disregards sex, and sometimes even finds it repulsive.

Sex is a function. Not fulfilment.

For Makarov, the body is a tool. A weapon. A vehicle—anything but indulgence. To indulge in it without control feels pathetic. Base. Weak. Human. He had sex, of course. He knows it well—well enough to understand its mechanics, its negotiations, its uses. But it emotionally repulses him.

Emotional intimacy has always struck him as inefficient. He doesn’t understand “wanting someone” for the sake of closeness. He believes most people confuse dependency with desire, and thinks the ideas of being “loved” is laughable—if someone truly saw him, they would not want him.

He engages in sex for release, not connection. He can perform, but he rarely feels. He’s detached, often leaves immediately after, sometimes during. He stares at the ceiling. Stares through people. It’s more like shedding pressure than gaining pleasure.

Once he’s done something once, he’s bored. He chases novelty—but only if it serves as a distraction. The more taboo, the more control required, the more he can pretend it means something. Not out of kink or thrill, but because normality feels fake.

What is intimacy if you don’t corrupt it?

[whisperingexecutioner]

Definitely some interesting points here, I also love how you always write with such an air of professionalism~

THE PATHOLOGY OF CRUELTY

A Vladimir Makarov Essay Will edit further probably. Just want to put this out there for now.

THE PRODUCT OF COLLAPSE

Makarov isn’t just a man. He’s a residue. Born from the dysfunction of a dying superpower, shaped in the vacuum left by ideology, corruption and trauma. He came of age watching his homeland rot from the inside out.

He’s sociopathic, but not senseless. Makarov doesn’t lack intelligence or insight. He simply no longer recognises morality as a rational structure. His violence isn’t random—it’s surgical. Punitive. A display. He doesn’t enjoy suffering. He uses it. Because pain speaks in ways words never can.

He’s materialistic, but not greedy. He doesn’t hoard for wealth; he hoards for control. Status symbols aren’t vanity—they’re proof that he exists beyond the background noise. Gold, weapons, fine things—they’re artefacts of dominance. Tangible reminders that he cannot be erased.

He doesn’t see fear as weakness, but retreat? Compromise? Begging? That’s death before death. In his worldview, cowards are the ones who let the machine grind them down and call it survival.

He is traumatised with purpose. Not a rebel. Not a saviour. Not a pawn. Just a man who refuses to disappear. He’s not a fanatic, not purely. Not mindless. Not delusional. He’s correct about most of what he says. He’s just irreparably warped by the path it took to understand it.

He doesn’t want a better world. He just wants his place in it—carved, cemented, and unforgettable.

INCUBATION: THE FIRST CHECHEN WAR

The First Chechen War (1994-1996) was a brutal, chaotic, and deeply demoralising experience for thousands of Russian soldiers, especially special forces like the 98th Guards VDV and Spetsnaz units. There were no clear frontlines. Urban warfare, mass civilian casualties, war crimes left unchecked, and zero accountability from command. It was a no-win war, designed only to sustain illusions of control. And men like Makarov were thrown into it, expected to be ruthless, then punished (or discarded) for doing exactly that.

He was indoctrinated in Ideology.

The same state that fed him Soviet ideals turned around and asked him to destroy those who threatened their narrative. He was trained to be a purifier—and during the Chechen war, that meant “cleansing” villages. (Which, let’s be honest, means state-sanctioned atrocities.)

He was betrayed for doing the job.

The moment international attention turned to human rights violations, the state washed its hands of the very units it created.

He was a criminal. Because someone else decided he went too far.

That betrayal calcified in his brain as one clear, bitter truth:

Obedience means nothing. You either hold the reins or you get blamed.

Survival: Means to an End

After 1996(assuming after the war), when he was discharged, he didn’t stop operating. He just redirected his training: terrorism, trafficking, assassinations—not for pleasure, but for leverage. Every atrocity post-discharge was not cruelty, but control.

To Makarov, violence is only immoral if it fails to accomplish something. Bodies rot. Fears linger.

A MAN OR A DEFENSE MECHANISM?

Makarov’s condition cannot be pinned to one label: Psychopathy? Partial, but lacks nuance. PTSD? Present, but not paralysing. Sociopathy? Doesn’t account for ideological depth.

He is a process. He is what happens when you raise a soldier with pride, train him with brutality, betray him with silence, and then expect him to disappear.

He is rational, but his framework for morality has been rewritten by systemic failure.

⌖ Survival Through Rationalisation

If he only focuses on what must be done, then he doesn’t have to face what made him.

The linchpin: He compartmentalised the trauma, then buried it. He called it strategy. He doesn’t want redemption or forgiveness. Because to seek those things, you have to admit something went wrong. And to do that? You’d have to look at the part of yourself that suffered.

Makarov refuses.

⌖ Vision as Ego-Armour

There’s more to sacrifice to become a vision than to pertain to being a cog in the machine.

He turned himself into an entity—purpose, not a person. To be a cog is to be expendable. To be a vision is to be immortal. He sacrificed his tether to humanity to gain unrelenting focus, clarity, and dominance. But that clarity is a lie because his wounds still exist. They’re just covered in ideology and fire.

⌖ Blind to His Own Decay

He tied his ego to his cause, and it was ignorant of the smothering wounds of his tethered humanity.

He doesn’t see himself as bleeding anymore, because the wound never got to scar—he just kept slicing more. This is the cost of turning yourself into a weapon. You stop asking where the damage is coming from, and you start believing everything you cut was necessary.

He’s not ignoring the pain. He’s replacing it with movement.

Because if he stops, he might have to face the boy in the mud in Chechnya. He might remember what helplessness felt like. He might crack. So he keeps going. And going. And when he burns everything down, he’ll call it strategy, not grief.

MAKAROV IS NOT A SADIST

“He’s sadistic. He enjoys suffering.”

He tolerates suffering as a tool. He enjoys efficacy. If pain happens, it is incidental to the point he’s trying to make.

CLARIFYING HIS USE OF VIOLENCE:

Violence is not an emotional release; it is a calculated medium. A signal. A warning. A signature. He does not torture for fun. He may use torture to extract, threaten or terrorise—but never to feel powerful in the typical sense. If he can achieve the same goal with silence, he will. But that’s rare in a world that he’s actively trying to reform.

He doesn’t kill to feel superior. He kills because someone needs to be removed; a message needs to be written in blood so no one can pretend they didn’t see it.

So Why Does It Look Like Sadism?

Because the scope of his violence is enormous. The scale is terrifying, but that’s because he’s aiming to shift global dynamics, not just satisfy a person's wrath.

Why waste five bullets to kill five when one bomb will kill fifty and end the conversation? Why waste words when smoke and ash speak louder?

That’s not sadism, that’s precision. Terrible, monstrous precision.

He Finds Sadists Weak.

Sadism implies indulgence. Indulgence implies a loss of control. Loss of control is a weakness. To Makarov, those who hurt for the sake of hurting are pitiful. Unfocused, animalistic. They crave chaos; he prosifies and harnesses it.

Anyone can kill a man screaming. But to kill a nation quietly— That’s power.

HIS VIOLENCE IS IDEOLOGICAL

Chemical Attacks → Destabilisation. Psychological warfare.

Mass executions → Message to rival factions and Western power brokers.

Civilian casualties → Regrettable, but useful in the cost-benefit calculus of regime change.

It’s not glee. Perhaps it once was. But now, it’s detachment.

What makes him terrifying was never that he enjoys cruelty; it’s that he doesn’t have to. He’ll still do it. Because it works.

HIS PHILOSOPHY OF CRUELTY

He’s not always right about his degree of execution. But can cruelty ever be correct, if the metric is brutality itself? Like many extremists, he believes he’s right, not because he’s righteous, but because he’s effective. He believes cruelty is justified if it ends a war faster; if it sends a message that lasts; if it exposes the hypocrisy of those who claim moral high ground.

But cruelty, but its nature, cannibalises meaning. No matter how sharp, strategic, or justified the act is, violence always spreads. And what Makarov can’t admit—what perhaps even you could tell him—is that: "Being right is not the same as being justified.”

So, Is There a “Correct” Way to Be Cruel?

No.

There’s logical cruelty. Systemic cruelty. Symbolic cruelty. But there is no cruelty untained by the human cost, that does not leave witness and wounds. Even if Makarov achieves results, his methods are self-propagating: one display of violence demands another; one silencing invites louder opposition; one bombing breeds ten more faction in its ashes.

Cruelty is entropy in motion. And even if he wins, he is left with a world that now speaks his language: Fear. Precision. Retaliation.

WHERE HE FAILS—AND REFUSES TO LOOK

He doesn’t calculate long-term trauma. He underestimates the lingering ghost of grief and resistance. He believes the world will quiet once he’s done speaking—But violence echoes.

A Good Revolutionist Isn’t Always a Good Politician.

Makarov is a master of disruption. He is not a builder of worlds—he’s a destroyer of illusions. He knows how to orchestrate chaos, mobilise rage, weaponised trauma, exploit symbols, speak in blood and fear, but what he doesn’t know is how to sustain momentum beyond collapse.

Because a good politician needs to maintain alliances, manage resources, create systems of accountability, anticipate ideological backlash, temper emotion with policy…

TO BE A GOOD POLITICIAN IS EXACTLY WHAT HE HATES.

Because politicians compromise. Politicians lie. Politicians placate—they are the rot he was forged in. The very thing that turned blood into bureaucracy, death into diplomacy, and men like him into tools. Makarov doesn’t believe in tempering. He doesn’t compromise. He doesn’t trust anyone long enough to build with them.

He associates “politicians” with appeasement, soft power, transactional survival, and national betrayal. He believes the moment you become a politician, you lose the edge that cuts history open. So instead, he chooses the path of pure conviction. Movement without mercy; vision without scaffolding,

HE’S FIRESTARTER, NOT A RULER

He’s brilliant at starting wars, not winning peace. You don’t keep power through legacy. You keep it by making sure no one lives long enough to take it from you.

That’s not politics. That’s entropy. And entropy eats its own revolution.

He refused to build structures because he was too busy dismantling preestablished ones. The structure becomes a prison, laws that once caged him. He refuses to govern because governance is maintenance, not meaning. And so, he becomes exactly what he fought: A man whose name stirs fear, not change. A relic of rage, not a foundation for peace.

The Dying Momentum

Violence draws attention, but attention fades. You need structure, policy, and a shared vision to keep a movement alive after the screams go quiet, and to a world that has undergone resistance to an old system.

But Makarov’s revolution dies with the fire that fuels it. When the cities stop burning, he’s left alone in the ash.

Because what happens when the enemy is gone? When the US withdraws? When NATO fractures? When his enemies no longer need reminding?

His followers scatter. His purpose cracks. And Makarov—the man who led a thousand dead into victory—will realise the silence he longed for isn’t peace. It’s emptiness. And perhaps he has already accepted it.

The Historical Irony

Every revolution that refuses to compromise dies as a footnote, or worse, becomes the new tyranny it once opposed.

Makarov knows this. He’s read the histories. But he doesn’t care. Because for him, the point was never to lead forever: the point was to hurt the world back. To scar it so deeply that even in defeat, it would remember his name.

He wanted to be the exception. He became an example. He wanted to break the cycle. He became another turn of it.

[whisperingexecutioner]

Lovely poetry <3

He tells you after a massacre--not in the chaos, no. After. When the guns have gone quiet. When he smokes stains the horizon, and no one's left to scream. You are sitting beside him, hands still shaking, and he offers you a cigarette with blood under his fingernails.

"Do you know Werther?" He asks, voice too soft. You blink at him, dazed, too numb to nod.

He lights his own and exhales it like it hurts to hold anything in. "I treat my poor heart like a sick child," he recites, smiling faintly. "And gratify its every fancy."

And he says it with no irony, no mockery. As if he is the tragic, fated lover in some Romantic novel. As if this--the blood, the fear, the you in his orbit--is just one of the child's indulgences.

You almost laugh. You almost cried.

Because his heart isn't a child. It's a monster. But monsters don't get cradle songs.

So he treats it kindly, feeds it what it wants--grants it the object of its obsession--whether that's a nation, a war, or you.

And you, fool that you are, let him.

Ah! What a cruel joy to witness the world blend into one's sorrow. I have often wondered whether the heart, when it trembles, when it weeps, when it convulsed with desire, ought to be disciplined like a soldier... or coddled like a child. And alas, I have done neither.

I treat my poor heart like a sick child, And gratify its every fancy. It begs for fire, and I give it cities. It longs for silence, and I grant it graves.

What a strange thing, to be both surgeon and wound--to lance the world with trembling hands, and then marvel at the bleeding.

You would think me in pain, dearest, but you would be mistaken.

It is not pain I feel--but a sort of reverent fever. Like a priest possessed by the very God he defiles. My violence is not madness, it's clarity. I have merely given in where others pretend to resist.

Every child sick with longing screams until it is answered. So too does my soul demand a reckoning.

And I--we--are only guilty of obedience.

Do you not see? The tyrant is not the man who conquers, but the one who waits--who gnaws on his spine rather than crushing the bones of a world that mocked him.

I was not made for restraint. I was made to be heard.

And if my voice echoes through ruin, so be it. That, too, is a form of prayer.

Yours, --V.M.

[whisperingexecutioner]

<3<3<3

He always does this. Turns his back to you after it ends—as if your presence burns hotter than the ash now curling from his cigarette. The room is stained in shades of midnight blue as if someone wrung out the sky and let it drip down the walls. The only light is the slow flicker of ember at his lips, just enough to trace the ridges of his spine. You sit up in bed, the sheets tangled at your hips, still warm from him.

But he’s gone already.

Not physically—no, he’s right there. But the man you just touched isn’t the man sitting on the bed now, smoke curling around his silhouette like a ghost that refuses to leave. The silence settles like dirt over a coffin.

It feels like the air died. Like you’re buried within it.

You don’t speak; you tried before. You’ve whispered his name in every way a person can: Sweetly, pleadingly, furiously. It never changes anything. He’ll say nothing for minutes. Hours, maybe. You don’t keep track anymore. Time doesn’t live here.

When he finally exhales, it’s not relief—it’s resignation.

“I shouldn’t be here.” He says it so quietly, it’s almost kind. And you don’t know if he means this room or this life. He presses his thumb against the burning tip of the cigarette like it’s nothing. Like pain’s a debt he owes himself nightly. You watch the smoke drift toward the ceiling, and you wonder if it’s jealous—because at least it gets to leave. And then, as always, he speaks without turning:

“Don’t wait for me.”

And he’s gone again. Gone like you’re just a liminal event—an experience meant to pass through him, not stay with him. Like something he brushes against during war, half-remembered in blood and heat, but never named.

You lie there. Naked under the grief of silence, each breath a poor imitation of comfort.

Nights like this are breeding grounds for dangerous thoughts. And you are ripe for them. You’re not crying, not anymore. You’re past that—dry-throated with fatigue, with something worse than sadness: want—A primal, humiliating need to be held. And that’s what scares you the most because you don’t think it matters who’s doing the holding.

You could fold into anyone now, any pair of arms. Any body that’s warm enough, quiet enough, not him. You’ve been hollowed out so many times, it feels like cheating just to want presence.

Your gaze drifts again. The nightstand. Your phone. Its dark screen is a muted sentinel to your unravelling. Your fingers twitch toward it. You hesitate. You know what it means. Even just reaching.

Disloyalty is treason. And treason gets you killed.

He’s never said it aloud. He never had to. Because Makarov doesn’t share.

Even in silence, even in detachment, he owns the air you breathe. He marks you not with affection, but with remembrance, like a crime scene etched into his mind. So you let your hand fall.

And instead, you stare up at the ceiling—the indifferent, vacant sky above your dying hope. And somewhere behind your eyes, you build the shape of a man that only exists in your mind. He's soft where Makarov is cold, present where he is elsewhere. He holds you without violence, without strategy. But even in dreams, his hands never feel as real. And when sleep finally takes you, it doesn’t soothe, it suffocates.

Because you know this, too: Even fantasies are a kind of betrayal.

Idiot

[whisperingexecutioner]

Omg this is adorable <3<3<3

Lil guy

Committing gluttony