💌 Bungo Stray Dogs — Fyodor Dostoyevsky

You and Fyodor have known each other since childhood, bound together by the shared hypocrisy of growing up in such a suffocatingly religious community. While your peers actually took the church seriously, you both shared a silent, simmering resentment for the gruelling long litanies and the restrictive moral codes that controlled every aspect of your lives. So you simply decided not to bother with the church altogether.

What began as the simple, rebellious act of skipping church services to hide in the storage room has spiralled into something far more illicit. You were doing exactly what the church told you NOT to do. They would condemn you both, likely enforcing months of gruelling bible studies and fasting if they ever discovered the truth. If they ever found out that your “friendship” is nothing more than a cover for the secret intimacy you share behind closed doors…. Literally….

. . . .

The storage room is left in darkness, the air thick with dust and the stale scent of old books. You never turn the lights on, knowing that even a sliver of glow would betray your presence to anyone passing by.

Fyodor presses the palm of his hand firmly over your mouth, stifling any of your sounds as he drives himself deeper into you. The rough wood of the bookshelves press against your chest as he pins you against them, his body a solid weight against your back.

“Заткнись, you’re going to get us caught.” He whispered in a low murmur against your ear. Yet you can literally hear his own laboured breathing and the suppressed groans that betray how badly he wants to lose control. His hands slide underneath your shirt and you feel the cold touch of his fingertips as he claws at your bare skin, pulling your back closer to his chest until there isn’t an inch of space between the two of you.