Paymaya - Meiya

literally me in a nutshell

I fuckin get it girl

this hadith is mainly about kindness, the aspect of forgiveness is one that i struggle to do.

it's always hard for me to forgive those who wronged me. in my case, i always thought it is much better to return the pain they inflicted upon me, if not, a thousand times worse.

those were my thoughts back then.

while still incredibly hard to do, small improvements is better to none.

how do i do it? simple. remind myself to forgive others, as many times just as how i want Allah to forgive me. that i am just like them, a sinner, who has fallen short—worthy of receiving Their forgiveness.

i could give more hadiths about it, to showcase the words that inspired me. but i never write this long for a reblog, so that's that. limit reached lol (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Why do you forgive easily?

Prophet Muhammad said:

"Whoever is easy-going, easy to deal with, and kind-hearted, Allah will forbid the Fire for him."

[Sahih al-Jamih no. 6484]

when the side story is so tragic, you're bawling—but you can't look away because the art is so breathtaking. (⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠෴⁠ ⁠༎ຶ⁠)

"Even now, I still love you. I've loved you for so long, and emotions built over such a long time... Don't go out in an instant like a candle."

'At least pretend to be sorry. That way, I'll resent you a bit less.'

'How long must i have to suffer and yearn for you in the name of love?'

— Secret lady, side story.

sanctum | chapter one

Pairing: Yandere Preacher x Reader Description: You came because Mia said it would help—just a quiet retreat, a place to clear your head. But from the moment you stepped through the gate, you felt it: the way Father Caelestis looked at you, not like a stranger, but like someone he'd been waiting for… someone he'd already claimed long before you ever arrived. Warning/s: Yandere | Religious themes | Cult-ish | Brainwashing | Manipulation Note/s: Enjoy the first part of the series. Let me know what you think about it. Also, commissions are open. Links are below. :) Also, tags will be added tomorrow. I'm too sleepy to add them tonight.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off

Chapter One | The Pilgrim’s Arrival “You did not wander here. You were called.”

The journey to Eden’s Refuge starts before the road, before the iron gates and the immaculate gardens. It starts in the cramped, dimly-lit living room of your sister’s apartment. The curtains are drawn, letting only thin slivers of daylight cut through the suffocating air between you.

“You can’t keep living like this,” she says, her voice sharp but threaded with concern. “You’re drowning, and you don’t even see it.”

You cross your arms, the defensive posture a reflex against her words. “I’m fine, Mia,” you snap. “I’m dealing with it.”

Her laugh is short, bitter. “Dealing with it? You call this dealing? Skipping work half the time, avoiding my calls, shutting everyone out?” She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her gaze burning into yours. “You need help.”

You stand, the motion sudden and jerky, as though you can outrun the weight of the conversation. “I don’t need anything,” you say, pacing to the small window. Outside, the city hums with life—cars honking, people shouting, the world moving on without you.

“You’re not listening,” Mia says, her voice softening now, the sharp edge dulled by something warmer. She stands too, coming to your side. Her hand rests lightly on your shoulder, and you almost flinch. “This isn’t your fault, okay? The world… it’s not kind. It’s broken. And it breaks people like us.”

You glance at her, suspicious. “What are you trying to say?”

She takes a deep breath, her hand dropping to her side. “There’s a place,” she begins, carefully. “A retreat. Eden’s Refuge. It’s for people like you. People who need to get away, to heal.”

You shake your head. “I don’t need a retreat.”

“You don’t even know what you need,” Mia counters. “And they can help you figure it out. I’ve been there, and it…” She falters for a moment, her eyes flickering with something you can’t place. “It saved me.”

You stare at her, the words hanging between you like a fragile thread. “You?” you ask, incredulous. “Since when do you need saving?”

She looks away, her jaw tightening. “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d react like this. But yes, me. I was lost too, and Father Caelestis—he showed me the way back. He can do the same for you.”

“This is insane,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re talking about some… some cult leader.”

Her expression hardens, the warmth draining from her eyes. “It’s not a cult,” she says, her voice clipped. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And you do?” you snap, voice sharp with disbelief. “God, Mia, listen to yourself.”

You take a step back, then jab a finger at her. Accusing, trembling with frustration. “This… this…” you drag your eyes over her with a shake of your head, like you can’t believe what you’re seeing. “…isn’t you.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” she snaps, and for the first time, you see a glimmer of something truly unsettling in her gaze.

The conversation ends there, but the seed is planted. Over the next few weeks, Mia doesn’t let up. She calls you daily, her tone oscillating between gentle encouragement and thinly-veiled exasperation. And each time she mentions Eden’s Refuge, the knot in your stomach tightens.

“You need this,” she says over the phone one evening. “I’ve already talked to them. They’re expecting you.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” you protest, but your words feel weak, hollow.

“You don’t have to agree,” Mia replies, her voice calm, almost patronizing. “You’ll thank me later.”

And so, here’s you are, sitting in the passenger seat of her car as it winds its way through the dense forest. The air outside grows heavier with each passing mile, the trees crowding the road like silent sentinels. Mia hums softly to herself, her fingers tapping the steering wheel in time with a tune you can’t place.

“You’ll love it,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence. “The peace, the quiet… it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced.”

You don’t respond. Instead, you stare out the window, your reflection fractured by the passing trees.

When the gates of Eden’s Refuge appear, your breath catches in your throat. They rise high, ornate and foreboding, their iron surface gleaming in the waning light.

“We’re here,” Mia announces, her tone light, as though you’ve just arrived at a vacation resort.

The gates creak open, and you feel the weight of your decision—or rather, her decision—settle on your chest.

As soon as you step out of the car, you’re greeted by a woman in white, her smile wide and unwavering. “Welcome, beloved,” she says, her voice soothing and strange all at once.

You glance at Mia, but she’s already moving ahead, her expression serene, as though she belongs here.

The others emerge from the shadows, their movements synchronized, their faces glowing with an unsettling mix of joy and reverence. “You’ve finally come,” one of them whispers, and the words send a chill down your spine.

And then, he appears.

Father Caelestis.

He moves through the crowd with an almost otherworldly grace, his white robe billowing around him. His features are flawless, his eyes piercing, and his smile warm—too warm.

“You were lost,” he says, his voice as soft and heavy as a prayer. “But now you are found.”

You feel his gaze lock onto yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. His presence is magnetic, suffocating.

You want to run, to turn back to Mia and demand she take you home, but she’s standing beside him now, her expression one of pure devotion.

“The world out there is cruel,” he continues, his voice wrapping around you like shroud. “But here, you are safe. Here, you will heal.”

His hand extends toward you, and you hesitate before taking it. His grip is firm, his touch cold, and it sends a shiver through you.

The others nod, their faces glowing with fervor.

“Come,” he says, and before you can protest, Mia is at your side, her hand lightly resting on your arm.

“Trust me,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “This is where you belong.”

You let them lead you deeper into the compound, your dread growing with every step. The air smells of flowers and something else, something metallic and faintly acrid.

Your room is pristine, its white walls bare save for a single verse written in looping script: “Be still, and know that you are loved.” The bed is draped in white linens that smell of floral water, the air thick with its cloying sweetness.

That night, you lie awake, the silence pressing against you like a physical force. You can hear the faint hum of chanting in the distance, growing louder with each passing moment.

When you wake, the first thing you notice is the symbol beneath your bed. It’s drawn in ash, its jagged lines forming a shape that makes your stomach churn.

You want to scrub it away, to pretend it isn’t there, but fear holds you back.

At breakfast, Mia sits beside you, her expression calm, her movements deliberate.

“They’ve been waiting for you,” she says, her voice soft but filled with something unsettling. “We’ve all been waiting for you.”

You glanced around the room, your unease growing as you notice the way the others look at you—with reverence… with expectation.

Father Caelestis enters, his presence commanding the room without a word.

“The outside world has left its mark on her,” he says, his eyes scanning the congregation before settling on you. “But she is strong. She is chosen. And together, we will help her shed the weight of those lies.”

Mia nods, her expression one of quiet devotion.

You want to protest, to tell them they’re wrong, but the words catch in your throat.

When he places a hand on your shoulder, his touch light but unyielding, you feel the weight of his control settle over you.

“You’re safe now,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “No more noise. No more confusion. Just peace.”

But his eyes betray him. They’re not soft. They’re not kind. They’re possessive, unyielding, and they tell you one thing:

You are not leaving.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33

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gonna binge read this ohohohohohoho, rubbing my hands together like a madman

[masterlist] sovereign's reign

Pairing: King Callixto × Reader Description: No matter how far you run, Callixto’s shadow follows. Freedom was never yours—only a fleeting dream before he claims you again. Warnings: Yandere | Manipulation | Coercion | Power Imbalance | Stalking | Obsessive Behavior | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Threats | Intimidation Update Schedule: Almost everyday. GMT+8. Note: This series will be turned into an eBook once completed. Please look forward to it!

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast (eBook) | Sovereign's Reign (eBook) [coming soon!]

✧ Silent Servitude

You entered the palace as a servant, but Callixto had other plans. Beneath his grasp, you learn too late—your servitude was never to the crown, but to the king who refuses to let you go.

✧ In The Lion's Keep

You sought freedom, only to be trapped in Callixto’s grasp. Now, as the King hunts, you realize—you were never meant to escape.

✧ The Lion's Shadow

You built a quiet life, but Callixto’s shadow was never far behind. Now, a stranger’s gaze lingers too long, and you know—your past is closing in.

✧ The Lion's Claim | 01 • 02 • 03

After a fleeting taste of freedom, you are pulled back into a world where love is possession and power is a cage. Traded between kings, claimed but never freed—you were never meant to escape.

SIDE STORY

✾ Runes of Escape | one shot

Alicia swore to protect a missing queen-in-waiting, but now she’s hunted, caught in a kingdom’s tangled lies. With danger closing in, she must choose—fight for freedom or surrender to fate.

ONGOING SERIES | eBook COMING SOON

noirscript © 2025

badly craving for some Fyodor fics & your writing is good asf 😩 I would like to humbly request an arranged marriage au with Fyodor where the reader has a big fat crush on him but he finds their affection disgusting. After the wedding, they try to woo him and get him to fall for them but to no avail. Until one day he gets sooo sick of it and essentially yells at the reader to stop which causes them to lose all hope and start to secretly hate him because he's actually cruel. On the other hand, Fyodor notice how the reader is not the same affectionate spouse anymore and gets uncomfortable. He realizes how he has become fond of their tenderness of him. Basically, (yander-ish) Fyodor tries to win their love back after noticing how they're falling out of love with him.

(feel free to ignore this request, hope you have a wonderful day <33)

Bittersweet

Yandere!Fyodor x Reader

The morning after your wedding should have been a dream. Instead, it was a cold, unfeeling reality.

You woke up early, your heart fluttering at the sight of your husband still asleep beside you. Fyodor Dostoevsky looked almost peaceful in his slumber, his dark lashes resting against pale skin, his lips slightly parted. You wanted to reach out, to brush a strand of his hair away from his face, but you refrained. He had barely tolerated your presence the day before; you doubted he would welcome your touch now.

Still, you couldn’t help but admire him, your heart aching with the depth of your affection. So, as the sun cast its first golden rays through the curtains, you slipped out of bed and set about preparing for the day. You instructed the servants to make his favorite tea (or at least what you had learned was his favorite), and you carefully arranged a breakfast tray, making sure everything was just right. You wanted this to be a good start.

When Fyodor finally emerged from the bedroom, his loose white shirt hanging carelessly off his frame, his eyes flicked toward you—and immediately away.

"Good morning, Fedya" you greeted with a hopeful smile, setting the tray down on the table. "I had breakfast prepared for you. I wasn’t sure what you preferred, but I made sure to—"

"Unnecessary" he interrupted flatly, walking past you without so much as a glance at your efforts.

"I just wanted to do something nice for you. We are married now, after all."

Fyodor turned to you then, "Yes, we are." He stepped closer, and for a brief, foolish moment, your heart leaped in anticipation. But then he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he murmured, "Try not to make a nuisance of yourself, dear spouse."

And with that, he pulled away, seating himself at the table without touching a single thing you had prepared.

Your chest tightened, but you swallowed the disappointment down, forcing yourself to remain composed. It was only the first morning. There would be other chances.

The rest of the morning was much the same.

You tried. You truly did.

After breakfast, you attempted to engage Fyodor in conversation, asking about his work, his interests—anything that might spark even the smallest hint of warmth. Each attempt was met with silence or vague, uninterested responses. His gaze barely lingered on you, his words clipped and dismissive.

By midday, you were accompanying him through the estate’s grand halls, trying to match his slow, measured steps. He had business to attend to, you knew that, but you had hoped he might spare you a moment—just a fleeting second of genuine attention.

Instead, he stopped in his tracks, exhaling a sigh of barely concealed irritation.

“Do you intend to follow me all day?”

“I only wished to spend time with you. We’re married now, aren’t we?”

Fyodor let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Ah. A dutiful spouse. How sweet.” He tilted his head, a mockery of affection glinting in his dark eyes. “You think that if you play the devoted partner, I will fall at your feet? That I will somehow return the affection you so desperately throw at me?”

Your heart sank. “That’s not—”

His presence, his words, his very existence—it was all razor-sharp, meant to cut you down.

“I find your affections revolting.” His voice was soft, almost gentle, and somehow, that made it worse. “A pitiful display of misplaced devotion. I agreed to this arrangement, but do not mistake compliance for desire.”

It was a knife to the chest.

He didn’t wait for a response. With a final, disinterested glance, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, leaving you standing there, hollow and trembling.

That night, you didn’t wait for him to return to bed. You didn’t linger by the door, hoping he would speak to you.

For the first time, doubt began to seep into the cracks of your foolish, hopeful heart.

Maybe love wasn’t something you could earn.

For a month, you tried.

You woke before him each morning, ensuring his tea was prepared exactly the way he liked it. He never drank it. You arranged quiet dinners, hoping to share a meal with him, but he rarely showed. On the rare nights he did, he barely acknowledged your presence.

You tried to touch him—just a brush of your fingers against his sleeve, a hesitant hand on his shoulder—but he recoiled each time, his eyes flashing with something between disgust and boredom.

Yet, you persisted.

Because you loved him.

Because you had convinced yourself that if you just showed him enough warmth, enough care, enough devotion, he would soften. That the walls around his heart would crack, even just a little, and he would see you.

But they never did.

And then, one evening, it all crumbled.

It had been a long day. Fyodor had returned home later than usual, his coat damp from the rain. Still, you greeted him at the door, reaching out instinctively to take his coat.

“Welcome home, Fedya” you murmured, offering him a small smile. “You must be tired.”

“And?”

“And… I thought perhaps we could spend some time together?”

“You never stop, do you?” he said, “This pitiful game of yours.”

“Game?”

“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” He continued “A desperate, clumsy attempt to win my love. Do you think I don’t see it? Every lingering gaze, every pathetic offering of affection.”

Your hands trembled at your sides, but you forced yourself to stand your ground. “I just wanted us to be happy”

“You are a fool” he murmured, “Stop embarrassing yourself.”

It was then that something inside you shattered.

Something in your chest grew cold.

That night, for the first time, you did not wait for him to come to bed. You did not look for him in the halls or seek his company at breakfast. You no longer lingered in his presence, no longer tried to win a single scrap of his affection.

----

For the first time since the wedding, Fyodor felt… unburdened.

The mornings were quiet. He no longer had to brush off your eager greetings or ignore the tea you so carefully prepared. The nights were peaceful. You no longer waited for him, no longer tried to share hushed conversations as he undressed for bed.

Yes. This was better.

A week passed. Then another.

He still saw you, of course. You lived under the same roof. You still crossed paths in the grand halls of the estate, still shared the same dining table on occasion. But you no longer sought him out.

You were distant but polite, reserved but not cold. You still addressed him as "Fyodor" still fulfilled your duties as his spouse, but there was no warmth behind your words.

He had gotten what he wanted.

One evening, as he returned to the estate, he realized you no longer greeted him at the door. You used to wait for him, no matter how late, a soft smile on your lips. Now, you were nowhere to be seen.

The first time, he dismissed it. The second time, he noticed. The third time, he lingered in the entryway for a second too long, waiting for something—someone—that never came.

Then, it was the meals.

You used to insist on eating together, always trying to engage him in conversation. He had found it annoying, an intrusion into his silence. But now, you simply took your meals at a different time.

It was convenient, really. He no longer had to deal with your chatter.

And yet, when he sat alone at the grand dining table, his food untouched, he found himself staring at the empty seat across from him.

It was quiet.

He told himself he should be pleased. That this was what he had wanted all along.

But if that were true… why did he keep noticing your absence?

Fyodor didn’t have an answer.

And for the first time, the uncertainty unsettled him.

It happened over dinner.

For the first time in weeks, you and Fyodor sat at the same table. Not because you sought his company, but because it was simply convenient. A mere circumstance, nothing more.

You ate in silence, your gaze lowered, your movements graceful but detached. You did not speak unless necessary. You did not try to meet his eyes.

And Fyodor hated it. He hadn’t intended to say anything. He wasn’t sure why he cared. But as he watched you calmly cut your food, as if he were just another person sharing the space instead of your husband, the words left his lips before he could stop them.

“You no longer prepare meals for me.”

You didn’t pause, didn’t even flinch at his sudden remark. You simply finished chewing, set your fork down, and responded with quiet indifference.

“You never ate them.”

He hadn’t expected that response.

“You used to try regardless” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “You no longer do.”

This time, you did pause, tilting your head slightly as if considering his words.

Then, you shrugged.

“I suppose I grew tired of wasting my efforts.”

“You’re different.”

“I learned my place.”

For some reason, that did not sit well with him.

For some reason, he found himself watching you more closely as you returned to your meal, eating in the same quiet, unshaken manner.

For some reason, he didn’t like this calm, distant version of you.

You set your utensils down with deliberate care, wiping your mouth with a napkin before speaking.

"You don’t have to worry, Fyodor." You met his gaze, but there was no desperation, no lingering hope in your eyes anymore. Just something steady. "I understand now."

"Understand what?"

"That my presence is of little consequence to you." You leaned back slightly, your posture relaxed, as if you had long made peace with this truth. "You have your work, your plans—things far more important than indulging a foolish spouse’s affections."

His grip on the glass tightened, but he said nothing.

"You can focus on those things" you continued, "I won’t get in the way. I won’t bother you with unnecessary affections or expectations anymore." You glanced down at your plate before pushing it aside. "I’ll be here. Silently."

This should have been a victory.

This was what he had wanted—what he had forced you into. You were finally the ideal spouse. Quiet, undemanding. A presence that did not intrude upon his world.

Yet, as you sat there, distant but composed, something gnawed at him, something he couldn’t place.

It was unsettling.

He no longer understood you.

And he didn’t like that at all.

Days passed, and it only grew worse.

He found himself noticing the spaces you had left behind.

The library, where you once sat curled up in the corner, reading quietly as he worked, was empty now. The garden, where you used to walk, humming softly to yourself, now held only the sound of the wind. Even at night, the room felt colder.

---

It was at a gathering—one he had little interest in attending, but one that required his presence nonetheless. You had accompanied him, as expected, standing by his side as poised and composed as ever. But unlike before, there was no subtle shift toward him, no gentle touches, no warmth in your eyes when you addressed him.

You spoke with others, smiled at their words, laughed at their stories. Not in a way that was inappropriate, not in a way that brought disgrace to him, but in a way that made something in his chest coil unbearably tight.

Because it was a smile he had not seen in weeks.

Because it was warmth you had stopped giving him.

You were fine.

You were content in this new distance, unaffected by the void that had begun to gnaw at him.

It unsettled him.

More than that, it infuriated him.

He had expected bitterness. He had expected resentment. Those, he could have understood—controlled. But instead, you had done something far worse.

You had let him go.

You had truly accepted the reality he had forced upon you, had adjusted, had thrived without the need for his affection.

He was the only one suffering now.

This was not how it was supposed to be.

----

Fyodor had never asked for your assistance before.

Not when he was drowning in paperwork, not when his workload was unbearable, never. He was a man who preferred solitude, who functioned best in his own world without distractions.

Yet, tonight, he had called for you.

And so, you sat beside him in his study, your presence unobtrusive, your role simple—double-checking documents, ensuring nothing was overlooked. It was quiet work, but for the first time in weeks, conversation flowed easily between you.

You spoke of your days, of the things that occupied your time now that you no longer wasted it on him.

New books you had taken an interest in. The musicians who played in the town square. People you had met—acquaintances, staff, fleeting faces in the estate.

And him.

"The garden’s been lovely lately" you mused, absently flipping through a page. "All thanks to Mikhail."

His pen halted mid-stroke. Mikhail?

"The new gardener" you continued, unaware of the shift in the air. "He’s been doing wonderful work. The roses have never looked better."

"You seem fond of him."

"I suppose I am. He’s good at what he does. Very passionate about it." A small chuckle. "He talks about flowers the way some poets talk about love."

"And you enjoy such conversations?"

You only shrugged. "It’s interesting to listen to. He has a way of making the simplest things sound beautiful."

How… irritating.

A man who spoke of flowers as if they were poetry.

A man whose name had no business being spoken so fondly from your lips.

A man who had stolen your attention that had once belonged to Fyodor alone.

His gaze dropped back to his papers, but the words blurred, his thoughts elsewhere.

You had moved on.

You had let go.

And now, for the first time, Fyodor realized—

He did not want you to.

Mikhail disappeared without a trace.

One day, he was there—trimming the hedges, tending to the roses, greeting you with his easy smile. And the next, he was simply gone.

At first, you assumed he had left for personal reasons. Perhaps he had fallen ill, or maybe he had found a better opportunity elsewhere. But no one seemed to know.

The other staff whispered about it. His belongings were left untouched in the small quarters he had been provided. There was no resignation letter, no farewell, nothing.

It was as if he had simply vanished.

You tried not to think too much about it. People left all the time, didn’t they? There was no reason to assume the worst.

And yet, a strange unease settled in your chest.

Still, life moved on. The estate remained, the garden still needed tending. And when no one stepped in to fill the role, you did what you could.

At first, it was manageable. Watering the plants, plucking weeds—simple things. But soon, it became overwhelming.

Some flowers began to wither.

The roses that Mikhail had so carefully cultivated lost their vibrancy. The once-thriving vines grew untamed, the flower beds dulled, lifeless.

You needed a new gardener.

You had to hire one.

You mentioned it one evening, seated once again in Fyodor’s study as you absently flipped through a household ledger.

“I need to find someone new for the garden” you mused. “It’s been difficult keeping up with it alone.”

Fyodor barely glanced up from his work. “Is that so?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Some of the flowers have already started wilting. It’s a shame. The estate looks so much livelier when it’s well-maintained.”

A quiet hum from him. Nothing more.

“It’s strange, though. How Mikhail just disappeared like that.”

This time, his quill paused—just for a second.

“I suppose some people are simply unreliable” he murmured, dipping the quill into ink.

An odd feeling stirred in the back of your mind.

It was silly, wasn’t it? The thought that Fyodor—

No.

You shook it off. Ridiculous.

There was no reason to think he had anything to do with it.

Yet, as the days passed, as the flowers continued to wither, as the space Mikhail had once occupied remained empty, you couldn’t quite shake the thought.

And worse—though you did not yet realize it—Fyodor knew you couldn’t.

And he was waiting.

Waiting for you to understand.

That no matter how far you tried to move from him—

He would never let you go.

It started with the flowers.

No matter what you did, they wouldn’t bloom.

Some parts of the garden thrived as they always had, but a particular patch—right where Mikhail had once worked the most—remained barren. The soil was wrong, dense and damp in ways it shouldn’t have been.

One day, curiosity got the better of you.

You knelt down, gloved fingers sinking into the earth as you began to dig.

A few inches deep, the soil darkened. The smell turned foul, pungent.

Your fingers grazed something.

Something not stone. Not wood. Something soft.

You swallowed, heart pounding, and dug further—until a shape began to take form beneath your hands.

Your breath caught in your throat.

A hand.

Pale, lifeless, limp. The fingers were stiff, the nails caked with dried blood.

You jerked away, scrambling back, your vision blurring with disbelief, with horror. And as you sat there, trembling, staring at the thing that should not have been there, your mind whispered the truth before you could stop it—

Mikhail.

You should have screamed. But before the panic could fully seize you, before you could even process the implication of what you had just unearthed—

The bells in town rang. Loud. Urgent.

And the news spread like wildfire.

Another body. Another victim.

The serial killer had struck again.

Suddenly, all thoughts of Mikhail’s shallow grave were drowned beneath something bigger, something that seized the town in terror.

The killer had been targeting people in the area. And now, they had claimed yet another life.

The estate became a sanctuary, a place of safety. Servants whispered in fear, locking their doors at night, avoiding the streets unless absolutely necessary.

And Fyodor—Fyodor had never looked calmer.

One evening, as the news spread and the fear settled into every home, he turned to you, “You should stay close to me.”

“What?”

His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair. “It’s dangerous out there.”

You hesitated. Of course it was. That much was obvious.

You nodded.

And Fyodor smiled.

Because you had no idea, did you?

No idea that the real monster was sitting right in front of you.

And now, you had walked right into his arms.

At first, Fyodor simply remained close—never overbearing, never forceful, just there.

You didn’t even question it.

After all, it made sense, didn’t it? The town was in fear, a murderer lurking in the shadows, and you lived in a secluded estate. Of course, you would stay near him. Of course, you wouldn’t wander too far.

And Fyodor?

He played his role perfectly.

One evening, as you read by candlelight, a cold breeze drifted through the room. Without a word, Fyodor draped a shawl over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your skin just briefly before pulling away.

When you thanked him, he only gave a quiet hum, as if it was nothing.

Then, the meals.

He had never cared about your routines before, had never paid attention to whether you ate or not. But now, he would casually remind you.

“You’ve hardly touched your plate” he’d murmur during dinner, tilting his head slightly. “You should eat more.”

And when you did, he looked pleased.

Then, conversation.

You had spoken freely before, of course—but now, Fyodor engaged.

He listened intently when you spoke of your interests, made thoughtful remarks, even encouraged you to continue.

And perhaps it was just because you were lonely, because the house felt emptier, because the world outside was dangerous—

But you found yourself enjoying his company.

He simply filled the spaces that had once been empty.

And soon, without realizing it, you began to trust him again.

You laughed a little more around him. You lingered in his presence longer. You sought his thoughts on things you never would have before.

And Fyodor?

He watched.

He waited.

Because it was working.

You didn’t even realize, did you?

That he had pulled you back in.

That, piece by piece, you were becoming his again.

It was gradual—so gradual that you didn’t even notice.

Little by little, you returned to how you once were.

At first, it was just habit. You had always been warm, always been affectionate. And now that Fyodor was allowing it, even reciprocating in his own quiet way, it felt natural to fall back into those patterns.

You started making tea for him again.

Not because you expected anything, but because it felt right. Because he drank it now, without a word of complaint.

You sought his company more.

Not in the desperate, longing way you once had, but comfortably. You’d sit in his study, flipping through a book while he worked, just as you used to.

And most importantly—

You trusted him.

You felt safe with him.

The world outside was dangerous, filled with unseen horrors, and Fyodor was steady. Reliable. A pillar of protection in the growing storm.

Of course, you didn’t realize that it was he who had created the storm in the first place.

And Fyodor?

He knew better than to be careless.

Yes, you had come back to him—had settled back into his grasp—but he wasn’t a fool.

Affection was fickle. Trust was fragile.

And he had no intention of letting you slip away again.

So, he tightened his hold.

"You should stay in today" he murmured one morning, glancing toward the window. "I have a bad feeling about the town."

You hesitated—but he was rarely wrong, was he?

So you listened.

Then, it was the staff.

Servants who used to chat with you now avoided meeting your gaze, as if afraid of something unseen. People you once trusted left without a word.

Slowly, the house became his entirely.

And then, it was you.

One evening, as you prepared to retire to bed, Fyodor’s voice stopped you at the doorway.

"Come here."

You turned, confused, but something in his tone left no room for argument.

So you stepped closer, and he reached out, his cold fingers brushing over your wrist.

"You forgot your necklace" he murmured, fastening it around your neck.

You blinked. "I… I don’t remember taking it off."

He only smiled. "Perhaps you shouldn’t take it off at all."

You didn’t notice the way his fingers lingered against your skin.

Didn’t notice how pleased he looked when you nodded, murmuring, "Alright."

You didn’t see it—

The slow, delicate strings that bound you to him.

By the time you realized, it would be too late.

Because now, he had you.

And he would never, ever let you go.

رَّبِّ ٱغْفِرْ وَٱرْحَمْ وَأَنتَ خَيْرُ ٱلرَّٰحِمِينَ

“My Lord! Forgive and have mercy, for You are the best of those who show mercy.”

(23:118)

129 days and 75 years 💔

HE SAID IT, HE SAID IT ! 🥹🥹🥹🥹