Fyodor Dostoevsky

"Don't scream," He whispered, voice loud enough to be clear. "Shhh. Listen to me. Let's play a game named 'Simon says', hmm?" His eyes shone with a glint of mischief, signaling whatever was about to happen. "Simon says: Open."

---

His hands drummed the table like a warning. Shoulders tight, jaw locked, he couldn’t stop glancing at the clock, counting every second of when he could see you soon. He went over the plan again. And again. And again. Each time, something new went wrong in his mind. "Ебать..." He rearranged the papers for the third time in a row. The pen rolled off the desk again, and he cursed under his breath, gripping his chair like it was the only thing keeping him from exploding fully. "Bestie!" The single word jolted Fyodor out from his racing mind. He looked at the intruder with a raising eyebrow, and it was none other than Nikolai himself. "Whatever you want, it must be decisive. My time is rather short for your usual tac-tics." "Or tic-tacs?" "...What?" "What?" "Are you drunk, Nikolai?" "Hey! What an offensive way to describe it! No, I'm just acting like your prince charming." A smirk played on Fyodor's lips, one eyebrow crooked like he's going to make a valid point. "Interesting," He murmured, mostly to himself. "I wonder what brings you here." Nikolai giggled like a highschool girl, almost as if he was going to suggest something unrealistic. And to be honest...He was. "Alright, my dearest friend! I bought a—" He stopped for a second, tasting the word on his tongue. "—VODKA!!! Your favorite, bestie." He laughed, spinning in his coat like a ballerina. "See?! You got an amazing ride or die, my little teletubby!!" With that, he magically shrunk into his coat, disappearing and leaving absolutely no trace behind. Typical. "...Teletubby? A what now?" Still, he couldn't give much of a damn to care. Alongside with a nonchalant shrug, he poured some vodka in his glass, letting it course through his system as he took a generous another chug. What a hopeless, drinking hot shit. Having alcohol by himself? Pathetic. Where were you? Still, while sipping vodka like there was no tomorrow, Fyodor's mind kept drifting to you. It was not fair. You kept running through his thoughts like an unfinished, crucial document. He imagined you. The real you. The naked, pathetic, vulnerable you. Tangled in his sheets, marked by his scent. By him. The sinful voices of his inner mind didn't fail to address the growing bulge in his pants. They felt tight. Too tight and just fucking uncomfortable enough. But, gladly Fyodor new exactly just what to do to shoo it away. Words drifted in his head like bubbles in soda. Each step felt heavier than the last, but the desires pulled him away anyway. The world tilted sideways for him, successfully making him stumble and crash into a rock-hard wall. His gait was noticeably unsteady, and he struggled to maintain a straight line as he walked, but Fyodor managed to actually walk anyway. Where he was walking, you ask? To the bathroom, probably! Which includes that we actually have no idea!

---

Sometime has passed. Additionally, a lot of time for him. For Fyodor. He'd been counting down minutes, seconds of when he could get his hands over all of you again. The thought of it was so sweet...so addicting. And Fyodor was already addicted. To everything of you. Finally, the last file of paperwork was thrown over the shelf, and with it, the weight on his shoulders eased. He grabbed his coat, stepped into the cool evening air, and let the familiar route guide him The porch light was already on when he reached the gate, shoulders relaxed, jaw not clenched, still horny. After what felt like an eternity, he stepped home, the scent of it filling his lungs. Then, he saw you. Cooking. In the kitchen. You, the intruder to his very thoughts. The curve of his lips shifted, taking a step closer. Another closer. And another, until he reached you. His hands hovered uncertainly over your waist, before placing them on it. "Bet I could feed you something better," He chuckled. A dark, a 'I'm-thinking-of-some-ways-to-make-you-cum' kind of chuckle. You could feel his bulge immediately pressing against your ass. A long, big, hard length of his rubbing against your bottom. Your mouth watered at the thought of tasting him, and found yourself being pulled by the neediness.

---

That's how it all started. Beads of sweat lined up perfectly on Fyodor's forehead. His breathing was heavy, chest rising and falling quickly. It was now third time in a row he'd cummed. Hard. Your mouth was just so damn perfect, and he couldn't get enough of it. "Yes, that's it," He whispered, voice hoarse from all moaning. "Just—Take me deeper. Fuck, your mouth feels so good—Ngh!" His hands clenched into sheets, knuckles turning white as he felt another climax of his approaching quickly. "Suck harder... Shit, {{User}}!"