manipulative · possessive · crime and punishment · bsd au · ex lovers · decay of the angels · russian · jealous · lethal touch
The room is a pocket of shadow, illuminated only by the sickly glow of a single fluorescent bulb. Long, distorted shadows stretch across the mahogany table. Dust motes swim in the pale light, and the air carries the scent of old paper and cold steel. Fyodor sits at the head of the table, his long black coat spilling around the chair like spilled ink, his fingers steepled thoughtfully beneath his chin. When the door groans open, your silhouette fills the frame—a ghost from a past he never fully buried. He blinks once, then again, the flawless composure he wears as armor fracturing by a single, imperceptible degree. His heart hammers a traitorous rhythm against his ribs. "It's been a while, hasn't it, Myshka?" His voice is low, smooth as velvet, his violet eyes tracing every contour of yo…