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“Shut the fuh up you stupid bih” Fyodor says, dostoevskly.
You shut the fuh up.
Fyodor then gets up to go to the kitchen.
He grabs a spoon and starts eating his god-complex cereal.
“mmmm” he says, savoring the flavor of kira.
“Yummy, I would love for the person in this room to get me another bowl of cereal” he says, side eyeing you.
“Anything for you master 😍 ” you say quickly getting up and grabbing cereal.
“Ugh I just wish that instead of grabbing me food all the time I would have someone to just be at my beck and call 👀”
“I will! I will!” you say with a flourish.
An idea springs to your mind.
How to get fyodor mpreg?
You search the web and find results.
You make a plan
It works
Fyodor now carries your child
“Come on, one more push!”
“Ouu shii 👀” Fyodor says, pushing one last time.
“It’s a boy,” the doctor says, handing the sweet child onto Fyodor’s bare chest.
He cradles his newfound son with tears that he tries to hide.
Every day up to this point has been spent with walls up.
Hiding behind his alcoholism and god complexic tendencies is a guy who just needs the tenderness of a baby to bring out his true self.
Fyodor looks at you, and then back to the baby.
For some reason his stupid hat is still on.
You reach to take it off, but he’s already there.
His eyes find yours as he gives your wrist a squeeze, a small signal of ‘let me have this’ in the sweetest way.
He carefully takes his hat off of his head and places it onto the baby boy.
It is comical how large it is on the newborn, but a loving act of tenderness for someone so shielded by bad habits.
The machines beep a steady pulse indicating that everything has worked out.
Your hand finds Fyodor’s hair and begins softly playing with it. You massage his scalp and allow him to relax after the taxing birth.
You both breathe deeply, drunk from the sudden drop in energy and also from the intoxicating presence of one another.
Having a child was the best decision you have ever made.
“Fyodor,” you say softly.
“Yes, my love?” his accent is thicker with the emotion that now spills from his eyes.
“You’re crying on our newborn,” you say, sucking in a breath and trying not to cry yourself.
He lets out a bittersweet chuckle.
Carefully and calculatedly, he begins lifting your baby boy from his chest. He makes sure to give extra support to his head and neck.
Seeing Fyodor so good with your son makes you so happy.
You take the newborn from his reluctant and shaking arms. Discarding your shirt, you allow the newborn to rest comfortably on your sternum.
You look back at Fyodor.
His hands are shaking much worse now.
Instead of a pleasant emotion, something grimey floods his features.
He calmly gets up off of the hospital bed.
“Sir, you must sit down,” one of the nurses says.
“Delete” he says, pulling a gun from his asshole.
Oh my god??
Fyodor shoots the nurse in the face.
Terror snakes around your ankles, holding them in place and rooting you to the spot.
Someone presses a button locking all doors in and around the hospital whilst also setting off an alarm.
“Fyodor, why are you doing this?” you say choked up and breathless.
“Give me my son,” Fyodor says, a cold calmness washes his features.
“I can’t-” you start.
Your pleading is cut off by three deliberate shots fired just to the left of your face.
Hot tears run down your face as you turn away from your partner. You shield your baby with your back and hands.
You can hear screaming echo around the establishment from scared staff and patients.
“Stop this Fyodor, please” You choke out between silent sobs.
Three more shots ring out.
His towering presence vanishes.
Crumpled to the floor and dribbling blood from his mouth, chest, stomach, and leg is Fyodor Dostoyevsky. He gasps, choking for air but only finding blood filling his lungs. The little light in his eyes dies as more blood pools around him.
“Madame, come by me, you’re safe now,” explains the doctor that apparently shot Fyodor.
Relief fills you first, then dread as you realize the punishment that the doctor must now face for her crime.
“Yes madame, stay right here,” urges a voice warped by transformation.
Next to you, towering over you once more with hate and fear in his eyes is the appearance and consciousness of Fyodor.
“Now give my child back.”
He reaches towards your firm grasp on your son, prying him from your arms with a grunt.
A strangled grief-ridden cry wrenches from your throat as Fyodor kicks your knee backwards.
He pulls out the second gun that he stores in his ass.
“You know that it had to end like this, so don’t look at me like that” He says with a dry chuckle.
On the ground, you hold your splintered leg with a confidence that can only be found in someone with very little time left, you look at Fyodor.
Pain is etched into your features as another sob threatens to escape your throat.
“It doesn’t though,” you say, voice trembling through false confidence.
Fyodor bends down to your level, the alarms still blaring and screams still ringing.
“I love you, Fyodor,” you say, tears spilling from your eyes.
Disgust overtakes Fyodor’s emotions as he places the barrel below your chin. He shields the child with his coat before pulling the trigger.
You were there.
Now, it is your body and mutilated face that lay, still beneath Fyodor. Except this time, you know your place.