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dawn-of-worlds · 1 year

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Conquering, and to Conquer

This post is resolving last turn’s Event. Thanks for the excellent contributions. I loved every single one. :)

By the time the twins are 19, they have distinguished themselves in the maritime activities of their clan. When a voice from the hearth exhorts them to “go west, to the mysterious land where no man has yet set foot, and seek for traces of the missing God that created that it”, they see an opportunity—and, when an exiled calyptra offers Gehalla the locations of all the world’s lands (in exchange for only a little blood!), success is all but assured. (The map-like scar on his arm will eventually snake around his entire body.) In a few short years, they have amassed the resources and credibility they need.

On the Living Continent, they find curiosities—plants which only grow in moonlight, ponds which reveal themselves to be gigantic pitcher-plants, apes which scream in the voices of the dead, streams which flow into themselves in closed circles, snakes growing from the ground like vines, spirits laying illusory feasts, a whole ecosystem existing entirely within reflections. At a great orrery—whose builders are nowhere in evidence—they receive a vision of death.

Nqeom turns away from the vision and is blinded by the sun, but Gahalla is curious and delves into the vision. Gahalla sees their own certain death, but by their knowledge of this fate, is assured a future victory over their twin.

Out of this expedition comes Gehalla’s treatise, The Other Continent. His descriptions of its treacherous geography and sui generis biota are remarkably lucid, and certainly without equal for generations. His erudition will serve as a stylistic model for generations more. And his deductions about the nature of its architect are almost—but not quite—entirely incorrect.

They return covered in glory, bearing numerous priceless objects, and with a bare majority of their crew. Skillfully, they parley celebrity into wealth and position in Qaham, the region’s political center; in a moment of instability, their coup decapitates the city government and most of their serious rivals.

And, so, to empire.

They draw on the various military and administrative innovations of their day, and they perfect them. The traditional masses of archers are reinforced with spearmen who fight in close order, drilled and integrated into a cohesive instrument of unprecedented violence. Soldiers are paid, levied in quantities hitherto unthinkable, and led by a robust system of professional officers. They retain engineers to build war-machines, siege works, bridges, encampments. They require reports and taxes from conquered towns. They keep friendly rulers on every throne, and friendly spies beside them. They take hostages from the great families; they encourage residence in Ibai. Keen eyes saccade across the world, to evaluate, designate, and appraise. All land, all power, all life is in their gift, gathered up and parceled out—not too much, now, and not too little, and only for the loyal, and every penny of it in the great accounts.

They bring ceremonials, to impress upon all the justice and utility of rule. They extract tribute and service from lesser gods, and the spirits of wind and earth build their palaces and temples. Their bodies are guarded by the sturdiest men and their spirits by the sharpest diviners. Their wisdom is incandescent, their shadows dark as night, their movements leonine, each word an act of awesome and justified violence.

Even their lieutenants are almost divine, exalted and petitioned as emanations from the twin godhead. The court politics are legendary, and all the more legendary for being lurid, dripping with the vivid unselfconsciousness of something really unprecedented. For whose passions and vendettas were ever more pronounced? Whose bedchambers were ever so richly adorned with importance as those of the Prodigies and their courtiers, fed fat with plundered scale and significance?

And all the techniques of empire appear in them, fully formed, like a premonition of history to come, of which all later realizations are merely partial and imperfect. With vast energy and talent, they find allies—in every city and country, a division, a conflict, a way in. They worm like water into cracks. They inflict exemplary violence with studious and overwrought cruelty; reticent populations are relocated en masse. (In later ages, scholars will elaborate the virtues of their religious toleration, their hard line on banditry, and their promotion and securing of trade.)

Because they tax in money, the masses use cash; and because they command in Ibaiën, the viceroys speak Ibaiën.

They have as many faces as the moon, and all the terrible purpose of the sun. They enslave one town and promise universal freedom to the next.

And they win. Totally, overwhelmingly, inarguably. (Not every battle—here and there, some subordinate is turned back. But never indefinitely.)

See, the pearly coronets of thalassocrats, the two-feathered tiaras of chariot-lords, the tiered crowns of sacral kings and the fat scalps of Night-Singer elders, all piled in bloody, glittering masses at their feet.

They are the livid and marvelous fire of history, which shatters certainties like wet stones and reduces good and evil alike to a warm and fertile ash.

They are Gehalla and Nqeom, of the Kingfisher clan, of the line of Xallang the Boatswain the High Kings of the Golden Country, Gehalla and Nqeom, of the Kingfisher clan, of the unjustly dispossessed line of Oaqam, uncle of the Prophetic Twins.

And they do not stop. The Occident is vast, and conquering it is the project of a lifetime; fortunate, then, that they have two. By the time they reach 50, the colonies around the Pearl Sea and the cities of the Two Rivers pay them tribute, the Night-Singers are subdued (though the terrain is largely untenable for extended campaigning), the strongholds of the mountain-dwellers have mostly surrendered, and almost the entire continent lives under the yoke of governors, viceroys, and “allies”. Nqeom is blind, now, after an assassination attempt involving an Oracle, whispers from the depths, and a poisoned dagger plucked from the pit of the Omphalos. He rules from Raoka, above the western plains; Gehalla from Great Ibai in the east. Both have taken on a kind of sorrow, which Nqeom expresses as anger and Gehalla as doubt.

And, then, there is Azimuth.

Still the religious and cultural capital of the entire continent, it would be a dicey thing to subjugate. But there’s a crisis. Etoios describes it as a controversy over the appointment of priests in certain southeastern towns, Qemek says it was the refusal of some blessing or ritual. Perhaps Nqeom never entirely believed that his would-be assassin acted alone. Perhaps he wanted to finish the job.

The theocrats in Azimuth makes a stand, foolishly. (Was it foolish? Is it possible for them to miscalculate?)

Nqeom returns from squashing rebels, calls up veterans from their pension-colonies to bolster his existing force—men who were with him at Xona, Angvao, the Three Streams—perhaps unsure of the loyalty of the regulars. Tributaries and allies grumble; he re-establishes their loyalty with threats, promises, executions. He probes the traditional boundary-markers; he summons his brother in Ibai, but receives no reply. (Was Gehalla forewarned by his vision? Did he avoid an appointed destiny?)

He raids outlying villages; the walls of Azimuth are manned, despite their disrepair. Tense scouts and fortress-commanders clash; clashes escalate; atrocity-reports filter into the panicking city. There are attempts at conciliation, sunk by haste, fear, and blunders. The outlying fortifications are taken. Leniency is offered in exchange for surrender; the messengers are killed by the mob. The city is encircled. The engines set to work. When the Arboretum is surrounded—still untouched, the city burning around it—the remaining Oracles sally forth. The first two volleys effervesce into rays of dusk and smoke. The third strikes home. Cothurni tramp the halls. In his wisdom, Nqeom restrains the sack after one day, and proceeds into the rings of the Arboretum.

So, who was she? Some sort of fishwife, alewife, housewife. Accounts agree, anyway, that she was no Oracle, just one of many who sought refuge in the Arboretum, and that she had seen her family killed and her city burning and unconquerable were her despair and anger.

The Arboretum is organized in concentric chambers--the first open to the public, the remainder requiring further tests of spirit and virtue. The innermost room contains the Tree, but there is one room beyond it, and there they meet.

It is dusk. His lieutenants could not follow him. Neither expects the other. He dies at a stroke.

But the destiny of conquest is stronger than flesh, stronger than steel, stronger than death. Its march will not cease. It will transform, transcend, seep, subdue, undo, and take, until man or the world is gone. His essence tears itself from his failing flesh, and he takes his place, stellar and supreme, in the heavens. Night is at his back, but he will never look upon the day. He is the Evening Star, and to him is given the Leading Edge of Night.

She staggers from the inner ring bearing his head, mostly dead of thirst, starvation, and sorrow. His lieutenants hang her by the wrists from the boughs of the Great Flowering Tree; they torture and flay her for three days—and, on the morning of the third day, she tears herself free, picks up her golden skin, and walks, bodily, into the rising sun. She is the Morning Star, and to her is given the Leading Edge of Day.

At dawn, she spreads her bloodied skin across the sky; he, at dusk, his blindness. They sit at the right and left hands of the sky, their ceaseless mutual conquest ever triumphant and ever incomplete.

Gehalla arrives on the second day, drawn, too late, by his burning curiosity. Grief consumes him; he retreats to Ibai; his heroic destiny cannot be consummated (can it?), but smolders within him like an immortal coal. His vast skill in alchemy and meditation ensures his unbroken continuity. He is the Old King of the Old City, wise, sorrowful, terrifying, and knowledgeable about all things under heaven.

The Empire crumbles, almost immediately, carved up between the lieutenants and the city-states, and doubting Gehalla is too wise (or too tired?) to maintain anything but the northern portion. But the Conquest remains, scarred onto the hearts of the people; kings strive to exceed the very stars in the sky, administrators impose their will with ever-greater vision and precision, and states war and consume and wither and die with greedy enthusiasm. The feedback loop of destiny has been set to spin, animated by the clashing of weapons and the unconquerable human spirit.

Create Avatar (-8): True immortals gain eternal life by dying. Nqeom and the Dawn Lady are now a two-aspected Avatar associated with dawn, dusk, destiny, and struggle. Gehalla will continue to rule in Ibai. Azimuth and the Oracles will rebuild.

2 points remain.

To clarify, the Morning and Evening Stars are tiny moons, not a planet.

Thanks again to everyone who took part! I think it added a lot of nice elements to the story that I wouldn't have thought of on my own.

#world 02547 diegesis #C looking down saying “you know what? That’s exactly the kind of energy we need up here. I’ll take ‘em both”#anyway I know these have been going out late #events have been occurring.

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aureatchi · 1 month

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⋆ ☽˚｡ 𓂃 ࣪˖ AND THAT DAY THAT WE’LL WATCH THE DEATH OF THE SUN . . . ft. FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

⟢ PRÉCIS. restless at an hour far too late to be awake, you take a quest to the personal library lit only by warm-toned ambient lamps and candles. however, you are greeted by one who chastises you to rest, and despite his pretty face you remain stubborn. in turn, he takes up a mission on his own; one that he alone will always win: to coax you to sleep.

◞ OR fyodor knows time is limited. if only you realized this was his labyrintian way of saying au revoir for now.

ᡴꪫ a/n. it’s always his lap. been thinking about this scenario for awhile + re-inspired by the friends who played with my hair this week hehe. it makes me feel so sleepy. started to cope with ch113. :’) i hope this is decent ᡣ𐭩

ᡴꪫ info. fem!reader. fluff; sweetly suggestive in one part…and then hit with a train of angst; i warned u. soft fyodor. comfort/hurt ↻. religious imagery. it’s u trying to get him to sleep too. both poetic and shakespeare ramblings. bsd manga chapter 113 + s5 finale spoilers. russian may be incorrect. ﾉ wc. 3.1k+

“Is there anything you find more powerful than manipulation?”

Seated on the armchair across from yours, the ravenette took a sip of tea from his mug before setting it down. A bantering parley had taken place in between you two, filled with giggles and smiles, but in a moment without thought, you had brought up a more serious topic.

“Actually, yes,” he responded.

“A woman’s intuition.” You didn’t miss how his gaze slightly lowered. “The woman’s gut feeling is superior. If a man were to try manipulating her, she would know. No matter how naïve she was, the body would give her a single signal that could unravel his entire disposition at the fingertips.”

You discreetly smiled, looking down at the mug. You knew Fyodor was referring to his experience with you. At one point in time, he tried to finesse you in schemes of calamity. But in response, you ruined him—he would dare not admit out loud that you had forcefully taken whatever mess his heart was and sewed it back together with the strings of your own soul. You did so without ever realizing either. After so many years on this earth, even he did not know how to mend himself.

Now, he could only look at you as being the single thing that didn’t go wrong in the wasteland of the world. The ravenette almost considered you not of the world—you were as divine as the angels, after all. Perhaps it was his excuse to add along another duty the Father had commissioned to him—Fyodor would assure your safety and happiness through the rest of time—even once he got his hands on that book.

Because if not plans that surged through his mind, it was his most cherished memories of you.

…

Even though the room wasn’t too hot and the bed wasn’t uncomfortable, you could not go to sleep. You had tried counting sheep in your head for hours, but you still ended up awake well past midnight and had enough sheep for dozens of herds.

You turned over in annoyance before you finally sat up. You didn’t understand why you felt such unease—maybe you drank your coffee too late in the day. A bad decision at that.

You tapped the other side of the bed for a final check. Empty. Fyodor was still up. You would visit him in the office later, but for now, you’d give him the privilege of being unbothered. You decided on another place to visit—somewhere that would calm you down so perhaps you could finally catch slumber.

The personal library.

It was the coziest place, especially during the late hours of the evening, where the lights were warm and dim, not too hard on the eyes. Where the shelves were packed with literature and knowledge permeated the room with its philosophy. Fyodor annotated everything—so most books were scribbled in almost illegible cursive Russian. You always told yourself if you didn’t start to learn his lingo, you would be locked away from the library’s secrets forever.

You tiptoed down the hallway until you reached the door at the end. You were thinking of picking up one of William Shakespeare’s tragedies and reading until either you fell asleep or the sun rose. You prayed it wasn’t the latter—though restless, you were exhausted too. And you didn’t want to suffer the consequences the next day.

However, you were surprised to see the door already narrowly open. The lights were on and the candles were lit, too—was Fyodor not in his office? He seldom worked anywhere else and would always go to you as soon as he finished.

You peeked through the slight crack in the door. He was indeed there—your lover’s back turned towards you, capturing all his charming enigma. How the man carried himself with the poise and elegance of a white dove, despite starting wars among nations. His mouth spoke of divinity while he ravaged the harmony of life with his hands. It was fitting; Fyodor was a juxtaposition in himself—you knew this, and so did he.

“You can come in.” A second of pure silence passed before you opened the door to step inside. Not even a single noise was made, and yet, he recognized your presence.

Almost shyly, you shuffled towards him. You did not plan for Fyodor to catch you—you were still in between deciding whether going inside was worth his lecture.

Because although the handsome workaholic stayed up until absurd hours of the night, he did not want you following his ways.

You circled the lounging area until you were in front of him, who closed the journal he was writing in.

“Lyubov, why are you still awake?” he asked.

Usually, you only stayed up out of anticipation in waiting for his return—whether from a mission or just to the bed. You were so stubborn that Fyodor would actually halt his work for a few days after being gone for awhile to sleep with you so that he was sure you were resting properly.

It was different this time. He had been home for the whole month, and despite being in his office for the majority of this week, you didn’t have any problem with going to bed without him until now.

You shrugged with a quiet, “I’m not sure.” You eyed the unfamiliar journal. “Are you still working?”

“Sort of,” Fyodor replied. “Would you like some chamomile tea? That will help.”

You shook your head. “What do you mean ‘sort of?’ Last time I checked, you were either working or not.”

“It’s not any more important than addressing the current problem at hand,” he calmly dejected the topic, leaving you confused.

“What’s the current problem?”

“You’re awake. You shouldn’t be at this hour.”

“Well, now that I’ve found you here, I don’t think I can return to bed unless you come with me.” You dramatically yawned before stepping closer to him.

“Let’s go sleep, Fedya.” You tried dragging him up by the arm, but he stayed sat on the armchair, much to your disdain.

“I cannot, I’m not done yet,” Fyodor replied. As you froze, he took your hand in his and brought you to his lap.

“However, you must sleep.” He let you shift so that you were comfortable. “You came here to read?”

“Yeah,” you replied as he handed you a book. What a mind reader Fyodor was—you were presented with The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. It would be the perfect reread.

“Why this play?” you tested.

“The pile of books you never put back on the shelves over there shows you’ve been reading a lot of tragedies lately,” he nodded towards the stack of books you read this week. “I thought you’d probably be in the mood for one by none other than the master of catastrophe.

“Plus, it’s fitting for you, too,” he added, voice a bit lower as he fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Hey!” You pouted, moving away from him, pretending you were insulted. Though you knew too that further proved his point.

“Maybe we should act it out,” you joked as you scanned through the pages to find a poem you were familiar with. “Act two, scene two.”

“Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia,” Fyodor recalled.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire;

“doubt that the sun doth move;

“doubt truth to be a liar;

“but never doubt I love.”

“Dlya neye, v iskrennosti,” you squinted, reading the little note by the quote you did not understand. The Russian laughed at your terrible pronunciation.

“Some scholars say that Hamlet used his words toward Ophelia as a manipulation tactic,” he stated. “He had a larger strategy at hand, and he rarely mentioned her unless she was on stage, with the exception of her death. If he harbored such a profound love for her, would Shakespeare not make it more direct? What do you think?”

You contemplated for a few seconds, eyes drifting amongst the shelves of books as you felt your lover behind you gently run his fingers through your hair.

“I think Shakespeare didn’t give us clarity for a reason. I’d like to believe Hamlet did love Ophelia. The story does not revolve around romance, after all—it revolves around revenge. A man with ambitious plans would not have love at the forefront of his head. Or, he wouldn’t speak aloud about it, at the least. Perhaps he was more reserved about that aspect of his life, too—he could’ve been shy to speak about it in front of all aristocracy—like you, for example.”

You giggled with a shrug, expressing your last phrase as lighthearted, but you still earned a slight frown from him. It was amusing that the nationwide terrorist was timid in everything concerning his love life.

“Obviously, it could be taken as manipulation, too,” you continued. “But again, it’s not stated upfront for a reason. Shakespeare mirrors the complexities of a person in real life. You never quite know the truth of other people, no matter how much you think you know them.”

Fyodor nodded, satisfied with your interpretation. “I wholly agree. It is why Shakespeare is enticing to many—he creates characters that simulate life’s universal themes and relatable human emotions when reacting to those situations. I only disagree with one point you made.”

“Which one? You being shy?” you asked. He shook his head with a smile.

“Perhaps I will reward you with that knowledge if you sleep.” He chuckled when you groaned in disappointment.

“How about you just do your work while I read? Then, when you finish, we can leave together.”

“If it were that easy. You’re a distraction, milaya.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, I promise! I originally came here to read anyway—I won’t distract you this time.” You moved to one side of Fyodor’s lap so he would have space to do what he wanted.

He did not answer you, instead making a quiet “tsk” when his fingers caught on a tangle in your hair. Fyodor worked to gently separate the knot. The terrorist was a perfectionist, but the mindset further stemmed past reaching twisted goals to create a world without flaws. Three spoons of jam in his tea, faint scratches on a deck of cards, and ensuring he had the satisfaction of reaching the ends of your hair with his fingertips were a few details he keenly paid mind to.

You took his silence as a comply, and started to play out the tragedy of the Danish prince in your head while your lover brushed through your locks. Eventually, he picked his journal back up and continued to write information you paid no mind to.

…

You did not know how much time passed before you felt your eyes grow heavy. The faint ticks of the clock on the wall combined with the warm candlelight’s glow drew you to slumber. You closed Hamlet and shifted positions until you ended up straddling Fyodor. You buried your face in the crook of his neck until you could see nothing but dark.

“Sonnyy?”

He started stroking his fingers through your hair again, relaxing you even more.

“Lublu tebya, kak angel boga, kak roso lyubit solovey. S toboy vremya ostanavlivaetsya, yi ya zhivu lish mgnoveniam ryadom s toboy.”

However, the sounds of seconds passing by and intimate lighting adorning the room could not compare to the persuasion of your lover’s voice in his mother tongue. Foreign words spilled from his lips as rich as velvet, as soothing as a lullaby. If his voice, in general could put you in a trance, here he harbored the garden serpent’s master of temptation itself. Even if you did not understand him. Worst of all, he knew this. You had fallen into his trap long ago.

“Ya boudou skucha—what are you doing?”

You were drowsily planting kisses on his neck. You stopped once the room became silent and looked up, catching his half-lidded amethyst gaze. The conjurer’s expression was for once softened—or perhaps it had been the entire time you were with him. It was a gift only you were blessed with.

You smiled, a tad smugness in your look, before sitting up and giving him a shy peck on his lips.

For a few seconds, you were both frosted in that moment of time—his hands wrapped around your waist, massaging circles onto your skin under your shirt as you straddled his own, your eyes fixated on his almost surprised, slightly flustered violet stare. The candles illuminated the room in such a way that made you think it was really only you two who existed in the world—your two souls someplace faraway where nothing else mattered but the sounds of your heartbeats and what you would do next after his mouth slightly parted. You were the most beautiful thing Fyodor had laid eyes on, throughout eras of people.

You kissed him for the first time that night, and the ravenette kissed you back. It escalated to become sloppy—you were both too exhausted to care whether your lips were on his or if they instead trailed down to trace his jawline as sharp as those of the greek gods. Or when you were back on your lover’s neck—however, this time almost sucking, mesmerized by how easily you could bruise him. You did not need to wear lipstick to create deep red marks on Fyodor’s pale skin.

“I told you that you’d end up being a distraction.”

You shivered at cold fingertips dancing across your lower abdomen, though they were still quite far from anywhere you wished. You winced when Fyodor bounced you up in order to fix your position, but it offered a different effect.

“Careful,” he warned. “That spot is visible to others.”

Being the leader of the Rats in the House of the Dead and member of organization Decay of Angels placed the Russian at a high status in the underground world. He always restricted the places you could leave visible traces of affection on him whenever he had a new operation in front of him—Fyodor was one to uphold modesty.

You sighed softly before disconnecting your mouth from his neck, only to unbutton the top half of his shirt.

Like his hands, the demon’s heart was cold. He bore at least some sense of insensitivity to death—he had to; granting silence was part of his duty. However, something about you ignited a fire in him out of nothing, out of no help amidst ice—you were not given a flame nor torch to aid you.

If he was the one to destroy the world to pay the price of ridding sin, you were the one who rebuilt creation from the ground and up. You were unfazed by the city ruins; you were unfazed by Fyodor Dostoevsky, the man most feared in the world. A duality: to them, his hands soaked in crimson blood, but to you, they clasped around yours in adoration.

And since he’d met you, his heart was filled with the foreign warmth of love. Accompanied were trust, vulnerability, and your sweet, honey-like kisses that you littered all over his broad shoulders and chest, because he deserved love everywhere.

He whispered against your ear, promising he would indulge you more another day, when you weren’t so sleepy. When both he and the moon had a little more time in the sky, was what he didn’t say. At the same time, he took a free hand to slowly guide your eyes to close, hovering barely above your eyelashes.

You complied, with no more complaints, as he kissed you on the forehead.

…

As Fyodor carried you down the hallway to the bedroom bridal-style about half an hour later, you dozed into dazy consciousness once again.

“You have…another mission, hm?” you whispered, recalling the preceding hints he had given you.

“Yes,” he quietly replied, walking into the dark bedroom. He tucked you under the covers before getting in right beside you.

“Truly, why were you in the library?” you asked, getting out your final curiosity before you fell back to dream.

“I did have a ‘sort-of’ job,” Fyodor replied. “Taking care of you. I was aware you’d show up.”

“Please stay safe, Fedya.”

…

You knew something was off with the thunderstorm that came several weeks later. A vampire apocalypse—however fictitious that sounded—was happening back in Japan, but Fyodor kept you overseas at where you two stayed before departing.

You didn’t ever touch his plans, but your mind finally processed how every event leading up until now seemed so wrong. The month-long stay—Fyodor had never done that before. The week you decided to read tragedies—you felt one even worse than those acted out in the theatre was coming. That night you stayed up—your gut was already screaming that he was about to depart again.

And how this time would be different than before. Your intuition had warned you, yet you still fell asleep and let him leave. You stood before the journal the conjurer made sure caught your eye that night. With shaky hands and heavy rain beating down on the windows, you flipped through the pages. Confusion and tears formed in your eyes at the vague implication of what was written.

Do not worry yourself with the death of all things that are seen and unseen by you. It is not an end, but the start of all things that are left to do.

Rodnaya, you asked what I did not agree with concerning your thoughts about Hamlet loving Ophelia. Have you ever considered a man having both love and ideals at the forefront of his mind? Isn’t love a dream itself?

…

Fyodor swore this when he judged how all could go wrong in the next step of his plan. Prior to meeting you, the calculating, confident smirk he always had on his face was authentic, and he simply assumed he would never fall to a mistake.

But now the plans were adjusted to work around you; the schemes all ended to benefit you, too. If he misjudged something, not only would it fail the perfect world God deemed it to be, but it would also affect you through and through.

Perhaps that was why he only almost saw you as an angel no matter how much you resembled one—no, you were far more glorious than one. You were human—so human that instead of looking down at him from above, you came down onto tainted soil and blessed him with a piece of heaven. Real empathy that now made him think of you as he sat with a rod pierced through his torso in the escape helicopter, doomed to death.

You truly did ruin him.

…

“Is there anything you find more powerful than manipulation?”

And Sigma wondered how such a man so immoral and cruel actually loved someone else. As he searched through the demon's memories, he realized he must go much further back in time to find any helpful information for the brunette ability-nullifier who assigned him.

Because if it was not anything relating to his plans that showed up through his search, it was every memory of you.

translations: (please pardon me if they’re bad, :’) correct me if you are fluent and would like to!)

dlya neye, v iskrennost : for her, in sincerity

sonnyy : sleepy

lublu tebya, kak angel boga, kak roso lyubit solovey. : i love you like an angel loves God, like a nightingale loves a dew.

s toboy vremya ostanavlivaetsya, yi ya zhivu lish mgnoveniam ryadom s toboy. : with you, time stops, and i live only for moments next to you.

ya boudou skucha[t po tebe] : i will miss you.

i heard if you rb, fyodor will come back to life. :’) reblogs are cherished; they are what support me the most. <3

someone should’ve warned me about hozier. only started listening to him last month and i…can’t stop.

#₊ ⊹˚✉︎𑁤 with love; reverie #𐙚 𖥔 ˖ fedya must be fancied .ᐟ #fyodor x reader #fyodor x you #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #fyodor fluff #bsd fyodor #fyodor angst #bsd fluff #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs #fyodor fanfic #fyodor imagines #fyodor headcanons #bsd x you #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor bsd #aureatchi

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