๐ฒ เฃชโ เฝเฝฒเฝเพโ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ [หrev(ษ)rฤ]. โฑ XVIII โ. renaissance man of the 21st century. hierophant of katabasis. โtherein lies sacred geometry of onanism, of ouroboros, of punishment.โ
not spoiler free. personal foremost; analysis ๐ฌบ creative. you must familiarise yourself with the etiquette before continuing onward and following. under sixteen (-16), do not follow.
no requests.ใปlatestโtempus edฤx rerum (f. dostoevsky x fem!reader); she was half a world away (t. caines x fem!reader)
๏ฃฉ 2026 ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โ no reposts. no stealing, modification, a.i., or inspiration (without asking) of works, ideas, themes. all graphics belong to the blog; do not save. no translations.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
โ Live Streamingโ Interactive Chatโ Private Showsโ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch โข No registration required โข HD streaming
wait okay because i have accumulated many new people on here. hi i am reverie and i am not normal about bungou stray dogsโ antagonist fyodor dostoevsky apologies in advance if nothing i say about him makes sense and i am also sorry if you witness me pseudo-philosophically posting about him late at night my brain cannot catch a break. just smile and wave thank you
dostoyevsky (author) stated he wanted to talk to at least one person about everything in the way he conversed with himself. itโs a simple and universal thought, but regardless, it has circled itself in my head repeatedly ever since i read it.
because, the words hold a deeper weight if you come from a similar plane of mind, which holds a contradicting desire of the same intensityโto not speak at all. it is a war of extremities: to kneel before another as they become the recipient, intimately familiar with the map of all the dents and ridges of your soul, like kissing the hand to recognise the fingerprints of your digits. or, to not bare yourself at all, but losing salvation of union. vulnerability is not vile if looked at properly; it is only fragile, and can shatter into the objects of pandoraโs box, including cruelty, if handled incorrectly.
and it is that war he (fyodor [bsd] โก) battles with himself. to trust is a concept foreign to his authorisation. the matter is not just being seenโif he were to be seen, he would have to be seen in all of his entirety. truly, he wishes a vivisection of the lowest crevices and and highest mountains of his anima, like a dissection to trace the gyri and sulci of the brain. misunderstanding is a parasite that has plagued himโit is why he longs to be known only in perfect totality and nothing less; it is what โeverythingโ means to him, out of his knowledge that he would not be known at all, if he were known only partly (all-or-none principle). such intensity he keeps under the layers of his intellect and emotional restraint, in efficiency for his goalsโis there a human who could hold all-consuming fervency without catalysing him, without suffering him? it is why he rambles so much from the intellect, in hopes that the quiet subtleness of his philosophy could perhaps be acknowledged through the permeable surface, personal analogies to reveal shadows of his soul.
a ๐ชก , centred and opening with an excerpt from on nietzsche, by georges bataille :
i. georges bataille defines โcommunicationโ; on nietzsche. ii. mansfield park (1999) iii. the bite by edvard munch iv. letters to vera, vladamir nabokov. iv. extracting the stone of madness, alejandra pizarnik. v. โฆ vi. nostalghia (1983), andrei tarkovsky. vii. drawing by tim dayhuff. viii. les films rรชvรฉs (2010), tim pauwels.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
โ Live Streamingโ Interactive Chatโ Private Showsโ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch โข No registration required โข HD streaming
ah, la mia BELLA DONNA!! โก this was so nice of you to send me and to include me in your rounds of ask gifts; thank you for thinking of me.
as for the colour, this shade of green is soo opulent ๐โโ๏ธ i am pleased by all earth tones. now i am so curious about the thought behind choosing this for me (if you would like to oblige!)
hello again!! tis i, โญ anon stopping by :D i hope i'm not sending too many asks before you have a chance to respond to the ones i've already sent, i fear i have a bad habit of forgetting when i've sent asks and getting surprised by seeing myself on my dash..... please do take your time though!! there's no rush to answer anything i send, i'm just happy to have someone entertaining my rambles <33
i do understand what you said in response to my last message, about missing the earlier arcs of bsd... it had a different feeling IMO, and maybe that is the sentimental part of me talking (i'm hopelessly nostalgic over the time period when i was reading bsd for the first time, so i can admit i'm biased T-T) but alas. i am looking forward to the next part though !! once i'm fully recovered from whatever...... THAT ending was, i'm sure i'll be thrilled to read the next installment.
OOOO AND YOUR WIPS !! that is something else i'm excited to see, i patiently (and eagerly) await any new writing from you ๐๏ธ
- โญ
i apologise for keeping you waiting for a few more months, darling! i believe i will be a bit better with my responses, now that my semester is over. anyway, you never overwhelm me with your asks, i am always glad to see you (and for your knowledge, i have only one other to get to from you). โก
i am the same as you! one of the things on my to-do list is to literally reread BSD from the beginning, because my longing for the earlier arcs has just grown stronger since this hiatus (i say i hate this series and then wish for it to return lmao) + i want to refresh my characterisation โ i actually want to liveblog it on here and bother everyone hehe
i can finally write oh my gosh, my โญ๏ธ please wait just a little more! it is all iโve been waiting to do this summer. T_T and actually, if you see this, please look out tomorrow . . . i do have a little appetiser! thank you for being here, and as always, i hope youโve been doing well in the meantime
a blessed june from i, to you. may this month and the season treat you well, and do keep yourself hydrated, please! โก i type this on my new phone, as after years of keeping the previous, i have been gifted a new one ahah (truly new beginnings)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
โ Live Streamingโ Interactive Chatโ Private Showsโ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch โข No registration required โข HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
โ Live Streamingโ Interactive Chatโ Private Showsโ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch โข No registration required โข HD streaming
๐๐๐๐๐ถ๐๐. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.
๐ธ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k
๐๐๐๐๐. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy
part of my summerween series !
A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. Heโs grown used to it nowโevening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.
There are a million things in Fyodorโs life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he canโt pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.
Heโs certain hell is better than this. Itโs something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.
Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. Theyโll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.
The centuries old dรฉcor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didnโt live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.
Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.
Although now, itโs been a while since anyoneโs tried to move in, and heโs certain the only reason the house hasnโt been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.
Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, heโs forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when thereโs nothing left of the foundations but soil.
He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. Itโs been so long that heโs used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which heโd come to understand quickly, is no match for him. Itโs far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.
Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman heโs never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.
Heโs been through this before. Itโs a miracle the realtor hasnโt given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.
โHere it is,โ she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. โIt was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; itโs safeโฆ enough.โ
The two of you chat, but he doesnโt bother to listen in. Itโs all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? โ things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.
Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. Itโs clear that youโre impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.
That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.
โIโm truly sorry,โ she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. โBut I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I donโt even want to tell you about.โ
You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. โAre you telling me itโs haunted?โ
The realtor shrugs. โThatโs what people say.โ
โI donโt believe in ghosts,โ you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. Itโs been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.
He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he canโt remember the last time heโs ever seen anyone with such beauty.
Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesnโt matterโit canโt, and it wonโt. Youโll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodorโs eternal torment and quiet existence.
Still, he canโt help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.
You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses youโve traveled a long distance to get here, and youโve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.
A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.
You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.
You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that wonโt be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.
When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.
Itโs the time heโs been waiting forโa moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.
While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he wonโt be able to tell you more about it.
You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.
Heโs forgotten how long itโs been since heโs seen a woman, how long since heโs touched one.
Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.
Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesnโt plan on becoming one now that he is dead.
He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.
Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.
You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, youโre sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.
Itโs the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. Itโs the same blade heโs killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.
He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women heโd met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.
Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?
He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.
You donโt awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. Itโs a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.
You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.
Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.
He canโt stop looking at you, canโt stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if youโd sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when youโre asleep.
Surely, he can find a better use for youโit would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.
As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He canโt tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasnโt seen pictures of, the one that heโs certain someone as lovely as you must have.
The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.
The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.
Itโs almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping youโll pay attention.
You almost think nothing of it; things can move, canโt they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnightโฆ Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.
Itโs strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you arenโt inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.
You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.
Itโs the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. Youโre meeting a friend for lunchโthe only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that youโd been desperate to escape to.
Still, the board wonโt leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.
Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.
The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.
Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like heโs never read it before.
You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question youโve been dying to know.
โDo you believe in ghosts?โ
Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. โDid something happen?โ
You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. โNo, butโโ
โI told you not to move into that house,โ he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. โOver ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?โ
โNo particularly,โ you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. โBut Iโve made it one night already. Iโll be fine.โ
A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. โThatโs what they all say, isnโt it? Then they all die.โ
โVery dramatic.โ You take a long sip of your water. Sigmaโs features donโt crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. โIโm not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or notโฆ Because I donโt.โ
Sigmaโs eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. โWhether you believe in ghosts or not doesnโt matter. Thereโs something evil about that house, and youโre putting yourself in danger by living there.โ
The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as youโd left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.
You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, thatโs all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and youโd been too tired last night to notice it.
Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.
Itโs a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.
You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. Itโs old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.
For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. Youโll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.
That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesnโt get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.
It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.
You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.
The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.
You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesnโt slow down.
Shit.
Tomorrow, youโll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. Itโs not ideal, but thereโs so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.
You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. Itโs irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.
It doesnโt take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, youโve lost twiceโhavenโt even gotten close to winning.
He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you canโt submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.
You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when youโre not suspecting it.
If heโs trying to scare youโit isnโt working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like heโs a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.
You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. Thereโs a copy of the painting thereโyour painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.
Beside it, thereโs a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.
You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this wayโuntil a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.
He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.
Fyodorโs rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.
You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge youโd gained or not.
The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.
You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name nowโFyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than heโll ever know about you.
And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself itโs just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that heโs really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.
The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. Itโs getting hotter outside โ youโd almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though youโve lived many.
Just as youโre getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.
Itโs a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. Itโs enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although youโve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, youโre paranoid in this aged mansion now.
A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. Itโs just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that youโre far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.
Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.
You canโt move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, youโre frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.
Itโs all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.
One that you donโt wake up from.
Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you arenโt sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.
Itโs quiet. Thereโs no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.
After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isnโt what youโd put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you thinkโฆ or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.
โWhoโs there?โ You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. โWhat do you want?โ
Thereโs no response โ of course there isnโt. Youโre talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. Youโd checked more than enough times, just as you always did.
โI live here now,โ you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies youโd watched as a teenager had been any indication. โBut Iโll leave, if you want me to.โ
Thereโs no answer to that either.
You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as youโd made yourself believe that everything the โghostโ had done before was just a game, innocently played.
Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.
With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your witโs end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?
The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?
You shiver. Itโ s been a while since anyoneโs looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.
That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?
This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right โ you never shouldโve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.
Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.
The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghostsโhow they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.
Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and itโs just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.
There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.
Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. Youโll move in with Sigma if heโll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.
That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.
He says your name โ itโs no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. Itโs spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, youโve never said a word to him, even if all this time, heโs gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.
You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.
No sound emerges.
Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you canโt seem to snap out of it; maybe you donโt want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if itโs coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.
โFyodor,โ you mouth, instead of the scream that youโd anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.
You should hate him โ thereโs something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.
But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didnโt do him justiceโฆ or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.
โIโm too tired.โ
Youโre not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.
He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you canโt quite understand why.
โI know,โ he replies.
Itโs the first time youโve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.
You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if heโd let you. After the hell youโd been through the past week, well โ was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.
โWhy are you here?โ you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.
Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. Heโs there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one thatโs dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If itโs a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.
โYou wanted to leave,โ he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. โI couldnโt let you do that.โ
โHm?โ You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it shouldโve โ youโre so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. โWhy?โ
Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. Itโs slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.
Your clothing is thin โ it wouldnโt take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. โItโs been so long.โ
It doesnโt make sense, but you canโt muster up the effort to question him, not when heโs contemplating every word, like heโs hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.
โI thought youโd be like all the rest,โ he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. โThey were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. Itโs a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.โ
You blink. โItโs my home, too,โ you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.
Fyodor doesnโt move โ there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didnโt think a ghost capable of revealing. โOf course it is, darling,โ he says, so softly, it couldโve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. โThatโs why I couldnโt let you leave. Itโs your home. You belong here.โ
โRight,โ you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. โMy home.โ Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as youโd left them, nothing out of place. โWith you?โ
The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. โWith me,โ Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.
He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesnโt feel unfamiliar, instead, itโs as if youโre coming home, like the man youโve never seen until now was always meant to find you.
A thought that shouldโve scared you, even though it doesnโt.
Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. โYou should rest,โ he replies, keeping you at a distance. โIt might take some time to adjust.โ
โHm? What do you mean?โ you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.
There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it wouldโve killed you instantly.
The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isnโt really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.
โWhat did you do?โ you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you canโt feel them, can only see them in the mirror. โWhat did you do to me?โ
Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. โI told you,โ Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. โI couldnโt let you leave.โ