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❁ ! 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 ! ❁

This is a part of the stanislav series, but is a stand-alone ! You don't need to read anything else to understand !

This is NOT a teacher x student story ! this is a teacher x teacher story !

this is a slow-burn ! not a 'quick-read' ! - meaning, the story itself is slow within character/relationship development, in turn, reasoning as to why it will/has a lengthy amount of chapters !

I try my best to avoid grammatical errors so you can have a smooth read !

❁ ! 𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜'𝙨 ! ❁

If you DO NOT feel comfortable with obsessive/possessive dialogue/behaviour, hateful/derogatory language, parasocial relationship dynamics, implied/expressed infidelity (not between the MMC and Y/N!), workplace co-worker dynamics, mentions/dialogues/descriptions of self-harm and other forms of mental-illness-based symptoms, explicit alcohol-use, dialogue/descriptions of domestic abuse, explicit sexual themes, or general mature themes/language. If you aren't comfortable with the listed warnings, I wouldn't recommend this fanfiction !

I would also like to state - compared to my previous writing, especially with sexually explicit scenes, this story in particular will hold less vanilla aspects - such as BDSM/S&M aspects - everything within such scenes ARE consensual, and is between two consenting adults.

- But if this will be discomforting to read in any other way, feel free to read anything else !!

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I will state - I am writing this story; one containing mass-amounts of mental health dialogues/themes, with the psychological awareness of people I am close with, to provide me with the best insight on how to produce this story to the best of its abilities, but without the ignorance of vague comprehension.

I am forever learning, and I have educated myself both on heavy research spent a stretched period of time, my own experiences on mental health, and with friends/family living with real life condition's/mental health experiences, so I would like to thank you all for understanding !

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Reminder - The storyline, nor the characters within this story are in NO way romanticizing or condoning any of these issues or any of the behaviours listed. The storyline, dialogue, and descriptions are all fictional and ONLY fictional use and writing. It is all fictional and just part of this story.

You have been warned. If you do not feel comfortable with these things, read something else.

❁ ! 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 ! ❁

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This is just a music playlist that has inspired the character/s and writing of the story !

Spotify Playlist Link -

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1j5H03dNzjjm3vLFEOcOU7?si=Zzsb60viRQS8_TX-n4Njzg

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- 𝙎𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙈𝙮 𝘾𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙧 • 𝙂𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙯, 𝙆𝙖𝙡𝙞 𝙐𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙨

- 𝙢𝙮 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣 • 𝘿𝙚𝙛𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨

- 𝘽𝙡𝙪𝙧 • 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙨

- 𝘼𝙣𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙡 𝘼𝙩𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 • 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙍𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙚

- 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙢 • 𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙁𝙞𝙨𝙝

- 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 • 𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙗𝙧

- 𝙃𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙊𝙛 𝘽𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙨/𝙂𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙏𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡𝙨 • 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙒𝙚𝙚𝙠𝙣𝙙

- 𝙇𝙚𝙨 • 𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙂𝙖𝙢𝙗𝙞𝙣𝙤

- 𝙃𝙖𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 • 𝘽𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚

- 𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡 • 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝘼𝙩𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙠, 𝙎𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙝 𝙅𝙖𝙮 𝙃𝙖𝙬𝙡𝙚𝙮

- 𝙂𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙞𝙣 • 𝙃𝙄𝙈

- 𝙙𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩 𝙢𝙚? • 𝙉𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙖 𝘽𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙩

- 𝙁𝙀𝙀𝙇 • 𝘽𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙡𝙙, 𝘽𝙐𝙍𝙔

- 𝘼𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡 • 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝘼𝙩𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙠, 𝙃𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝘼𝙣𝙙𝙮

- 𝙈𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 • 𝙇𝙖𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙝

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 - <3

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❝She's my serpentine, she's my collar,

I send a message, never call her,
And now I wanna taste another,
And it's safe in a persona, she's my collar,

Nothing to be justified yet,
She's the first I'm running with,

She's the one that gets my collar,
She's the one I'm running with.❞ ━ ♫

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In truth, I've come to find out that I can, in fact, be quite the apprehensive man.

I feel my muscles stiffen under my skin, the tautness of my jaw clenching unbearably tight to any reciprocated eye contact.

Then, I feel too hot for my coat within the teacher's lounge.

Though, it's only with her.

It's an unbearable torture harnessed by a woman who doesn't even truly comprehend the ways in which I feel around her.

It leaves me strangely bitter. Angry inside, possibly - disgusted. At myself. It's too much. And she, is unaffected. My saliva runs dry, and even to the simple murmur of my name passed over a meeting, uttered from her lips, leaves my ego disconcerted.

It's a bitterness that's caused by a multitude of factors. To how this woman has consumed my work, my mind, and my every breath, and to how reverential I've unknowingly become.

I am no religious man.

I am anything but. I'm not god-fearing, as I know I cannot run away from the sins I've already committed. From the things I hold such secretive shame towards.

I cannot be saved.

But for this woman to become borderline deific to me,

I don't know what will become of me.

I question my mind, how this has become what it is to be. But the answers refuse to meet me. Especially when I know she sees me too. Sees how my gaze lingers longer than what it should.

Especially, as I am a married man.

And she is, also.

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- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

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I cannot recall the specific time in which the line between love and hate blurred just as much as it did.

Such distinctive feelings that drive humans through the motions of opinions, their moral judgment, and their entire belief system. It dictates how we act, what we think of ourselves, and others around us.

And I had always believed marriage was always meant to be like this. To where the line between love and hate grew so incredibly thin. Where the fluctuating feelings of bitter annoyance, and wishing for closeness dilute whatever sappy vow's written at the altar.

Because even thinking of the words,'Till death do us part', horrifies me. That's much too late to rid this ring from my body, and to take my last name back from her clutches.

But she isn't my world.

My wife has become someone to idly sit at the back of my mind, as my work has become the forefront of what consumes my attention.

Many forms of paper-based certificates sit by my teacher's office - my own personal space within the school I work in. It harbours my work, my time, where my phone is placed on silent, and I flick through the unruly handwriting of teenage students lacking both sleep, and motivation to even show up.

I am at least empathetic in those social and emotional factors towards the kids. My wife, not so much.

From my youth, I had gained my bachelor's in psychology, followed by my master's, and eventually a PhD. Much work, though rewarding. I could be teaching as an official professor, but I've already worked up a very comfortable salary, and environmental familiarity here.

Jumping jobs now isn't in my best interest.

And I don't believe the idea would go over well with my wife, Ekaterina - preferably 'Katya'.

Especially as she works here too. She teaches math. Another level as to what students don't find so likable about her.

And right now, she's not acting quite likable to me, either.

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Her knuckles continue to rap against the half-opened, oak door standing between her and me, as she's begun to audibly interrupt my late, afternoon grading.

My eyes narrow as I watch the red ink of my pen taint the crinkled paper of a student's test, as the seniors have had to perform only a few hours ago. I'd best get this done whilst I can.

"Stan."

I hate when she calls me that.

She flatly speaks, knuckles thudding against my office door only louder to my refusal to provide attention. Clearing my throat, I'd finally lift my head upwards, grunting out a short,

"What?"

She frowns as I eye her hair; Her platinum-blonde hair is pulled much too tightly behind her head. a The bun it's in looks just as suffocatingly painful for the follicles. Though, not a hair is out of place. Pin-straight. Neat.

I can tell it's fresh; she gets her hair done routinely.

"It's late, just take the tests home to grade. I want dinner. I was thinking of pasta tonight,"

"I'll stay back. We drove separately; I'll come home once I'm done."

And I can almost feel the shift in the air, the scowl that I can feel seething through my body as it's pointed at me.

But it's nothing I haven't received a thousand times. At least now it's silent, as she does like to yell. My head dips back down, circling a numbered question a student has completely misread within the answer they've provided.

And by my dismissal, and physical rejection, she provides me her silent, yet signature, 'fuck you', with the slam of my office door behind her, as she finally provides me with peace.

Peace - and the freedom of what I prefer to truly stay behind for.

Then again, I don't know if she's stayed back today. Not Katya.

Someone else.

My chest begins to tighten, as if my breathing has become physically restricted. Both a pleasure and a pain that shames me for why I exactly feel this way. As it's for someone besides the one who carries my last name.

This paints me poorly, I'm aware.

Though, if I cared enough, I'd be affected much more than this. I'd be eaten away by guilt, a shallow man consumed by regret and the wish for different circumstances.

But I do wish the circumstances were different.

Because then, I wouldn't be in this convenience-marriage. I'd be with someone else.

My eyes fix upon the clock hung atop of the office door, the golden hue of the Friday evening emitting its ambience across the surroundings. The tight, familiar comfort of my gloves reminds me their here, hearing the black leather crinkle under the grasp of the test papers.

Scooping them up, even simply standing emits a strange form of exhilaration that ripples from the bottoms of my feet, all the way up my neck.

I'm going to see her.

At least - I hope so.

I hope she hasn't gone home yet.

Not my wife- not her. Her.

That 'someone else'.

My mind writhes in so many intense feelings at once, and the blood pumping through me ultimately quickens.

As soon as I'm out the door, leather-clad hand gripping the papers stashed in my grasp, I'm met with an empty school hallway. The ceiling lights harshly glisten across the polish of my leather dress shoes, and the many student artworks of the art kids are pinned on the speckled cork-boards dotted across the hallways' interior.

Barren, with disinfectant tainting the air, obvious that the janitor has done her rounds across the halls, every step of mine is audible.

The cheap, white laminate clicks under the heels of my shoes, and I am acutely aware of the emotions bubbling with such intense, visceral excitement across my body.

Because - the main teacher's lounge door comes into view.

There is a fifty-per-cent chance she's in there, or she's not. I stay to take my chances, and usually, I'm a glass-half-empty type of person. However, my perception of that analogy has begun to shift.

Feeling the steel handle under my grasp, I make no attempt at knocking, as I feel my feet leave white, laminate flooring, and greet grey, carpeted surroundings.

Coffee hits me.

The scent flourishes through my lungs, taking a heaping inhale of what's so familiar. I'm welcomed to the sight of a lengthy, oval table, a multitude of padded chairs surrounding its circumference.

Scattered coffee-mug coasters sit stationary upon the dark, almost black-wood top of the table, steam still rising from many of them. The mugs, occupied by teachers idly passing by, conversing in the corner kitchen hidden around the corner.

A diverse age range of teachers and staff hold conversations, soft laughter and casual jokes over their recent classes.

My interest isn't piqued.

I recollect my thoughts, sucking in a harsh breath through my teeth.

Only until I grunt a response to whom I believe to be one of the sports teachers who passes a casual, "Mr Dostoevsky, hey," To me, as if there is any need for power-based titles in a mutually respected environment.

My feet take my movements beyond me, already flicking my head in the direction of the surrounding teachers' lounge. Searching. I don't look inconspicuous, but that's the least of my concerns.

I feel the muscles under my brows scrunch in agitation, only building as I'd take a stare across the kitchen.

No sight of her.

Shit.

And my mind instantly reverts back into the glass-half-empty analogy. My jaw tightens, my teeth flatly gritting against each other in a brutal clamp of dissatisfaction, and undeniable disappointment.

I should've just gone home.

Settling to simply prepare a cup of coffee, I settle the tests atop of the kitchen counter with the air bouncing with layered voices.

My stomach churns, the leather of my gloves acting as a convenient barrier against the white cup beneath me, the boiling water I pour into it flushing a wave of steam into the air. Coffee, black, is my personal preference, though that doesn't limit me to other flavourful variants.

I'm open-minded, despite what most assume me to be.

And very much so, at that.

My lips press against each other, feeling the blood come through my pale flesh, anything that feigns liveliness through me. The purple-blue tint of my veins does little to make me look so full of vibrancy.

This coffee, that'll keep me up for much longer than necessary, will only add fuel to that fire. My eyes are already weighted by a consistent lack of sleep.

I slow the swirl of my teaspoon between my thumb and index finger, ceasing movement.

My entire body seems to cease movement.

In fact, my entire body feels as though it's shut down. My eyes flicker faintly wider, the heater that's cranked on so highly not being the aggressor for the temperature thrumming harshly through me.

I take an inhale, and I know why this is what's become of me.

A perfume that's grown so distinctively savoured, I've let my clothes sit unwashed, as it's stuck to the fabric.

It's potent.

It's sent my muscles stiff, and my thoughts beyond me.

Blood is pounding through my eardrums, muffling any sense of sound around me, beyond something so cheery, something that sounds perfectly articulated for me, and me only.

I don't move - as I can feel her.

Her.

Her body approached beside me, with the spoken greeting of a smiled,

"Mr Dostoevsky- Hi...!"

Something so casual.

Something that I savour beyond anything I've ever heard.

What's so casual to her, has become my lifeline. And she doesn't even know that.

She's making coffee beside me. Right next to me. I cannot seem to move, because I don't know if this will be the closest I'll ever get to her. God - I hope this isn't the limit.

Anything but only this.

I suppose beggars can't be choosers.

My blue eyes snap to the left of me, finally forcing myself to meet the sight of her.

It's all I need. This. The closeness. I sink my teeth into the flesh of my tongue, fingers twitching against my cup's handle.

In, and out.

I tell myself.

To breathe in, and out.

It does absolutely nothing for me.

The words I want to say bottle themselves at the back of my throat, unwilling to release.

'I like you're hair today.'

'I wish you weren't married like I am.'

'I wish you knew how much it physically hurts wanting something I cannot have.'

Many, many torturous things.

But I can only settle on what's appropriate. For what we are, and who I am to her.

"...Mrs L/N, Hello."

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- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

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She's a good woman.

I have absolutely no doubt about that. I understand from word-of-mouth mutters that Mrs L/N arrived here with the experience based on elementary school education, where she'd taught English for many years.

That's not to diminish her work- no. I absolutely do not believe that makes her any less qualified to work with an older generation of children. It's simply notable. Not everyone here is willing to work with anyone younger than a certain age bracket.

But she's more than willing. I think it's charming.

Not everyone can put up with young children, and not many teachers can even imagine themselves reading children's books to kids, and reminding them not to stick they're fingers in the sharpener holes every five seconds.

I know her to work with the juniors, even here, and she seems quite content with that. Whilst I, work with the seniors in psychology. Complete opposite spectrums of the age ranges we're working with.

And I can see how that translates through our actions, and how we're perceived by the children, and our fellow staff members. She's laid back, and the homework supply she provides is not so intimidating to where the kids feel inclined to lie about where they're crumbled up homework has went.

And I know this, because I also know how ruthless teenagers can be.

The things these kids so easily call their teachers behind they're backs are borderline despicable. But, I cannot help but mildly justify this by the fact that they're, in fact, kids. Acne-riddled kids edging towards adulthood, with no hesitation to pour their frustrations out through horrific gossip and scowls that'd burn through diamonds.

Despite this,

The kids love her.

And I mean that truly, without a doubt. Even to simply pace around the school grounds during breaks, or be passing down the halls, I've so commonly seen the beaming faces of kids passing large smiles towards her, and a quick 'hello'.

She never hesitates to share a grin so large, head whipping over her shoulder to watch the students pass her by. Only for her heels to stutter in their steps by the now-developed awareness of my eyes on her, not just the others.

She'd stare over her shoulder, feet slowing, expression unreadable. Only to quickly turn back forward, and continue her steps with a quickened kick in her walking speed.

She's a popular woman among the youth.

Loved.

And I can only assume her husband wouldn't be an exception to this.

A silver-banded, diamond-lined wing would envelope her ring finger, as I've noticed. I never questioned it, as A gold wedding band is worn upon my own.

And if that wasn't obvious enough about my relationship status, my wife is sure to make it known if she assumes my attention on her is wavering.

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Only a few scattered teachers spend they're time within the teachers' lounge.

Finding it to be the perfect space to spend a free period if they don't have a class to run, some sit themselves upon one of the many padded seats, files and papers sprawled out. The workload is heaping, but necessary.

Mrs L/N is sharing the same attentive occupancy on such activities - A bulging binder with the printed lettering of - Class B - English - semester 1 - printed against its front. Lined papers sit under her, painting the table in student work she's primarily focused on.

Her eyes do not spare a glance.

I'm almost waiting. Teetering between frustration and anticipation, unable to simply wish for something so minuscule.

A look.

A singular moment of perception that reminds me that I'm real to her. That I'm more to be acknowledged, beyond being simply 'Mr Dostoevsky' to her.

An undeniably ridiculous wish, but there's no law against it.

I stare with my body pressed against the wall by the windows dripping with recent rain, almost shamelessly. Because if she cannot see me, then she doesn't know.

Until she does.

I count the rapid pounds of my heart against my ribcage.

One - two - three -

One - two - three - th-thump- th-thump-

Over, and over again. A carnal, yet torturous symphony, conducted by her. Only her. Even as she is in an unbeknownst position beyond my reach.

God- I wish the circumstances were different.

Heat thrums through my body, settling across the pale flesh of my neck concealed under the thick cotton of my black turtleneck. The fabric is doing me no favours.

"Stan-"

My head remains unmoved. But my lids slowly settle into a lowered, almost half-liddedness of flattened exhilaration.

That's died down almost instantly.

My movement seems to be delayed, my body withstanding even the want to turn and face her, as my neck turns. A response barely leaves me, settling with a grunt.

Katya's jaw shifts, her softly bronzed skin tightening across her also-blonde brows. I feel the crinkled -thwack- of her hand shoving a stack of stapled papers into my chest, my frown deepening to the unnecessary force.

"Printed out the semester curriculum for you."

Even as she speaks, that tone of her voice drives me up the wall. She's displeased with me, even more so than usual. I take a sharp inhale, teeth biting against my inner cheek as the pain settles my anger.

"Yeah. Thanks."

I barely breathe out, seeing initial anger die to the dullness of my tone. Grasping the papers as my eyes hastily attempt to flick back to her- her, sitting at the table, my attention is forcibly yanked back by the cold flesh of Katya's hands grazing my neck.

Attempting to fix and fold over the fabric of my turtleneck, she's looking up at me.

"Stan- listen, I know things haven't been... great, between us,"

I can list a few reasons why.

Something deep within me bristles- maybe from the unwarranted touching, maybe the context of her words within this type of- not only public, but work-based environment, nonetheless, my body physically recoils as I retract her hands from mine.

"Not the place for this-"

Her head tilts, her face tainting in both irritation and pleading.

Our co-workers are looking at us. Great.

"Stan- Let's just talk, okay-"

"Just- stop. Stop."

There's no back-talk. My tone is unhappy, my expression and body language even more so. This is fucking humiliating.

This isn't the first time she's done this.

I despise having to bear the weight of her moods. The switches- to wanting me dead, to trying to gain my closeness back. I'm exhausted enough. And I've been exhausted for a very, very long time.

Her jaw tightens as her lips tighten in a scowl both raw and deadly, ripping her hands away from my gloved ones as she spits out a punctuated, 'fine'.

And with her departure being the teacher's lounge door harshly swung open and closed behind her, I am further greeted with many silent eyes blinking towards me. If I don't quit, I'll end up losing my job from inappropriate behaviour with my wife during work.

And worse-

She's looking up at me.

She's looking at me.

She spares a hesitant glance with her head only half tilted up, peering through her lashes. My lips thin, pressing firmly as every inch of my skin prickles instantly. Humiliation and anger and blatant shock waves through me, only intensified by the fact that she's witnessed every second of what's occurred.

The last thing I've ever wanted was for her to even catch a glimpse of how shitty my marriage is, especially during work. There are parts of myself I'd rather be kept in the confinement of my own home.

But at least she doesn't look disgusted.

At least there's that. It's more concern than anything else, and the eyes of others have already become the least of my concerns.

Because even if this is the eye contact I get, this is more than enough for me.

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We're not friends. Her and me.

We barely speak beyond a simple, 'Hello', and a, 'drive home safe', by the end of the day. That's only spoken if we're in the same air together.

It's restrictive, and it's simply not enough.

It's not something that satisfies me in any way. There is more I want. More I think about. Co-worker or not.

Married or not.

I don't care.

Because this- her- has become my world. My life. And she is less than aware.

From six in the morning, when both Katya and I peel ourselves from the envelopment of our bedsheets, I let her occupy the bathroom first as I'd tread down the hallways, and prepare our morning coffees.

She's just as displeased in the mornings as at any other hour of the day. I'd find suitable, black slacks to change into, and whatever I wear over my torso depends on the weather. It's been freezing lately.

And within a short half-hour, we're able to drag ourselves into our separate cars and head to work.

Beyond that, the hours of mine are spent with classes and heavy revision over the textbook, psych work we're covering, and an acute focus on the time. Keeping track of every passing minute to when I can see Mrs L/N finally make her way from the separate school buildings, to the teachers' lounge.

By the time I'd get home, we'd be spending the evening with a silent dinner over a tense, reluctant, one-to two-worded conversation, and the complaints of no sex at night.

As if that makes me feel any more inclined to provide what I know pleases neither of us. We don't click. There are things that I want, that she grimaces at.

I settle with deciding not to provide altogether. It'd feel forced any other way.

In turn, leads me to lock myself in the home-office, working on the psychology kids' practice exams recently submitted, and my wife to head off for her regular 'late night drives' I stopped questioning a long time ago.

Only for me to ultimately slip into bed around eleven at night, facing away from the door, eyes still open.

Listening to her silently unlock the front door, taking off her heels downstairs so it's not audible whilst walking upstairs.

I hear every sound. Every creak, every step that approaches the bedroom door. I control my breathing, slowing it. She usually whispers my name twice, to check if I'm awake. I remain unmoved.

And that's how,

Every,

Single,

Day,

Of this marriage is spent.

A poor excuse of a marriage based on the simple, hollow terms of finances, family connections and pressure. A wife who despises me enough to leave nightly, as if I don't know the things she's doing with another man.

There is no love here. There never has, and there never will be.

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- KATYA/ MRS DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

If I cannot find what I need from him, I'm more than happy to find it somewhere else.

I've placed my needs beyond many other things, keeping it as a fair priority to keep my sanity within the marriage. I don't blame him entirely.

We simply never found each other to be 'the one'. I don't think he saw me to be his dream wife, and nothing between us has ever thrived.

No conversation we've held has felt real or authentic, and it feels like I'm living with my co-worker. I am, I suppose. But that form of socialising doesn't automatically switch off once we're in the front door of our home.

I had no doubts that he wasn't an unappealing man. People tell us we're a 'good-looking couple', but they've never taken out the 'looking' part. We look good together. That's it.

He's not an ugly man by any means. Quite the opposite, truly. The jet-black hair he has is always freshly washed, glossy against the lighting. I often have to wake up to the loud revving of his electric shaver working against the back of his head to keep his undercut short.

I know he shaves at night; the bathroom will still smell like shaving cream and aftershave once I've come back home.

His eyes match mine, a sheer ice-blue, only his are more striking against the blackness of his hair, mine a better harmony with my own blonde locks. He's less concerned with his looks beyond hygiene and cleanliness.

Which only makes the amount of self-care I do seem exaggerated.

As much as I dislike my husband - for the fighting, the bitter comments he'd grunt under his breath, his disapproval for the more frivolous things I buy once in a while, I'm also aware of the agitation that's been building within me recently.

I'm not so sure why this is. Despite this being such a poor, loveless marriage, and my infidelity taking up my late-night, daily activities, I suppose the fact that I am still technically married makes the sight of my husband's eyes on another angering.

I know I don't have the right to be. But I can see it. The way his eyes linger on her, and not me.

━━━

"Mrs L/N,"

My feet quicken to catch up to the woman before me, my pace matching hers as her head flicks to the right, meeting my gaze.

"Mrs Dostoevsky... Hello,"

She greets, her voice both softened casually by our closeness within the school grounds, us passing by the garden beds and benches students usually huddle around during breaks. I never walk with this woman, and I can see the hesitance in her eyes as she turns her head back forward.

A faint frown breezes past my lips, as I force a kinder tone.

"I know we don't talk much- I thought we could catch up, since we're working with the same age group but simply different subjects,"

I say, my eyes fixed on the side profile of her face as all she replies with is what truly sounds like a forced, polite hum and smile. My brows furrow.

Is she serious?

As if I am that unlikeable, that all I get back is a hum and a smile?

I resist the scowl attempting to make its way atop of my features, listening to the mixed clicks of our heels mingle with each other. But something in me speaks before my social etiquette stops me, as it always does.

"You don't like me or something?"

I can feel the air between us tighten, as droplets of scattered rain begin to slowly piddle down the concrete pathways lined across the school grounds. Her lashes flicker wide, swallowing as she'd finally speak,

"I- no- I just never thought you liked me much, so-"

"And why would you think that?"

I know I sound sarcastic, I know I sound rude. But I also know that this is the woman my husband has eyes for. And I can only assume it's reciprocated.

My husband wouldn't bother with another woman if the attention wasn't mutual. He doesn't have the drive for that. And the way she's acting around me can only make me think she has eyes for him too.

I never did like her much, I don't know.

She should be back babysitting toddlers. She's not fit for teaching at an established place like this. I never thought she was fit, especially on the first day she arrived.

All smiles and our co-workers helping to set up her office, as she rambled on and on about her past curriculum teaching sticky-fingered kids. Charming.

She and I never met eye-to-eye well. Maybe that was my fault, as she did attempt to strike up a conversation with me on her first day, in the kitchen corner of the teacher's lounge. I didn't respond.

I had a headache that day.

My husband - Stanislav, I remember - something in his gaze had completely flicked into a different light. I didn't know what it was. I never thought of it too seriously - curiosity, maybe? I didn't blame him at first. She was the glittering new highlight of the week, a new co-worker to take up more space.

That glint in his stare never seemed to go. Not once.

And as much as I find this marriage to be loveless in every accord, I at least did wish that there would be times when he looked at me like that.

My internal bitterness bubbles through my stomach and up my chest, knowing i'm taking it out on her. But it's impulsive, it's anger-inducing and it floods out without control.

"...I- I should go- but... thank you for... speaking... to me-"

She laughs both weakly and with obvious discomfort, before making a sharp left, turning as her feet quicken, scuttling off towards one of the many student buildings. Her hand would grasp the handle of the glass, swinging doors, quick to yank it open, and slip inside to ultimately disappear.

Her perfume leaves me, the cold air rippling shivers under my floral blouse as the wet dirt takes over anything I can smell. Only now, do I like her even less. I had attempted to be nice, I had attempted to try and get to know her better. Only for her to blow me off.

Now I am convinced she's eyeing my husband back. Great.

━━━

"What am I meant to think-!?"

Stanislav tensely rubs his temples with his fingers, eyes closed as his black lashes lie against his purple-tinted undereyes. His black brows are knitted tightly, hand rubbing across the smooth length of his face as his pale lips downturn sharply.

"I'm trying to work, Kat, please-"

"Oh- so when it's at work, you throw a fit at me for trying to communicate, but when we're at home, you don't want to talk either-"

"Kat- you knew what you were doing at work- and frankly, it was mortifying! The entirety of the staff saw, Seriously."

His elbows rest against the wood of his office desk, only the table lamp highlighting his skin amongst the night's darkness gleaming through the window by the bookshelf.

My teeth ache in horrific pain to the tightness of my jaw, chest straining in the rise of shuddered, angered breaths.

"You- you don't even care that the entire staff saw- you only care because she saw-"

I speak through gritted teeth,

His head snaps towards me, my lips parted, slowly closing as the silence turns thick, and a strike of both trepidation and intimidation churns deep within my stomach. I feel myself almost shrink.

His palms press flatly against the wood of the office desk, the padded chair behind him screeching against the floorboards as he stands to his full height.

In my height, the top of my head just meets his shoulders. He's a tall man. About six-foot-three. As lanky as I am, I'm only about five-foot-two.

Height isn't the only thing that brings my head lower; my head drops as I listen to the blunt thuds of his work shoes meet the floor in slow, counted steps.

My lips press firmly shut, as the sound of my heartbeat thrums against my eardrums, a blurry form of dizziness washing through my mind and sight in nauseous waves.

He's a broad man also. Tall. Built by firmness and weekly measured athleticism I believe it is an outlet for him.

Leather, spice-weighted cologne pungently smacks my senses, his words both quiet, deep, yet dangerously hissed.

"Keep your nose out of my business, and I'll keep mine out of yours, Kat."

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

My throats is burning, dry, and uncomfortable.

The halls are empty, as every student that once took up the entirety of it's interior have flooded out, heading home. Meaning most teachers are still in the process of packing up, cleaning they're primary classrooms, and re-adjusting tables to there rightful spot.

I've had the entire past period free, but I know my wife has left early, and Mrs L/N is still within her classroom.

I know - I've been listening to the creak and shift of her adjusting the seats and tables, fixing the blinds, every single click of her heels against the laminate flooring.

Silent beyond my shaky breathing, my back has pressed against the wall beside the half-opened door, scraping up every ounce of mental preparation.

I'd like to speak to her. Properly. Personally.

I feel the need to. For many reasons.

But genuinely pushing myself to do so, when I've felt this mental barrier for so long, is the hardest part. I have to remind myself of that. I steady my breathing, and rebuild my original confidence I had towards the idea of this.

Actually doing this, is different. It's unpredictable, and if I cannot tell what's to happen, or how she'll react, I feel ultimately unprepared.

I need to get out of my head, imagine myself with only my flesh and bones, and a goal. Nothing more.

A co-worker.

That's it.

But I know there's more harboured within my mind. Motives and feelings and pre-conceived ideas formulated by the way I have been mentally conditioned to think. I cannot escape the mould of who I am and what my mind is.

I'll never escape what I wish to bury behind me.

Inhale, and exhale. One, two, three-

Once I listen to the queue of rattling keys inside the classroom, indicating to me that Mrs L/N is taking her lanyard and beginning her exit, I force my legs to move, stopping at the door with the leather of my gloves softening each thud of my knuckles against the wood.

I gently guide the door, it creaking open as my body's silhouette paints itself before me across the laminate with the hall lighting behind me.

"...Oh- Mr... Dostoevsky...?"

A voice of naivety and natural sweetness; my teeth threaten to rot by the tone that holds no ounce of offence.

I'm sickened and nauseous by the intimidation I feel. By a woman who's only expressed kindness and goodwill to me the day she'd stepped foot in this building.

The day I bathed myself in her scent and wished the sun to never set, as the way it made her skin glow, comparable to diamonds.

And she's looking at me. My skin prickles to her perception, to her awareness.

Lashes overlining her eyes, fixed upon me, and only me.

Beautiful in every regard, sickeningly beautiful.

I conjure up what I wish to speak, settling with what's to be appropriate within this one-to-one environment - especially as I am in her space. Her classroom. A guest.

"Mrs L/N..."

I swallow, watching as her lips faintly lift into a polite smile, lowering her key-connected lanyard atop of her desk by the front of the classroom, my eyes flickering over the decorative choices that so strongly juxtapose my ultimately monotone classroom.

"What can I do for you...? You never come to my classroom,"

She expresses, leaning herself against her desk, eyes softly tracking me as a wave of fluctuating heat and cold continuously flushes across my skin.

"I know, I'd like to speak- well- address Mrs Dostoevsky, and her..."

My silence is thick, weighted.

"Behaviour."

I feel myself mentally cringe at addressing my wife with my own last name, despite how unfortunately official it is. But even as I simply utter her name, I instantly catch Mrs L/N's face stiffening with faint tension.

"I- I don't mean to interrupt- I just don't know how to go about this conversation if she's probably waiting for you-"

Great. More damage has been done than I was aware of.

Fucking amazing.

She's not saying it, but I can tell the silent insinuation of 'I don't want to talk about her if she's here. I don't want to risk facing the she-devil'.

And if I could tell her I felt the exact same way, I would.

And I wouldn't call that woman a she-devil if she wasn't. The things she's done within the isolation of our own home to me- at me, is unspeakable.

But there's nothing to say for that. Nothing to gain from bringing those things to the light.

"She's off early. Doctor's appointment."

I state with more bitterness than intended, Mrs L/N's head retracting silently as she blinks, nodding slowly. I suck in a deep, cold breath, the air slowly leaving my nostrils as I attempt to reframe my tone a touch softer.

"Listen- I want to apologise for my... wife. I know you've seen how she is around me, and- how she's probably spoken to you. Poorly."

I exhale shakily, watching as her head dips down, watching the sun's glossy shine ripple over her heel-coated feet with every idled shift of her crossed ankles. She laughs weakly, and I only feel the guilt and mortification tighten across my chest and stomach.

"Yes- well- not everyone is going to be so fond of me, and I've learnt to... accept that; it's just life,"

"But it's not fair on you,"

"And you're in here, apologising on behalf of her behaviour, Mr Dostoevsky... I don't know what to tell you, but I doubt she asked you to do so, and... that's okay- I just- I just want you to know that I'm content with her not... liking... me,"

She smiles sadly, empathetically. I feel my frown deepen to the truth of her words.

Of course, my wife wouldn't ask me to do such a thing. She's not a woman of apologises for the things she's done. There's no reconciliation in the things she's ever done. The pain she's caused me, and others.

It's one thing for me to cope with the things she's done. I'll take the weight of Katya's actions completely.

From the bruises that littered my body from her outbursts, to the insults I'd received for not being able to perform in bed due to the pain my body was in-

To locking me out of the house and changing the locks, to consistently leaving me close to losing my career over her behaviour in the workplace, to the constant cheating-

But to Mrs L/N?

To receive even an ounce of that abuse in any form?

That's a completely different story.

I don't care what Katya does. The things she's said or done to me.

It's different when it applies to Mrs L/N.

"Mr Dostoevsky- I think you're a great teacher- you're very dedicated and honestly- one of the most intelligent men I've ever met in my career,"

Heat pounds through my chest, flourishing up my neck, through my fingertips and down my thighs, a strange mixture of nauseous exhilaration slamming through me-

"But I think- for her sake, and the sake of you're marriage, it'd be best if I kept my distance from her and you-"

And that flattery, that exhilaration, instantly gets slammed with a bucket of cold water.

Absolutely not.

"I know if I didn't like someone, I wouldn't want them around- I'm trying to have perspective, and I know me around you wouldn't be in her best interest-"

No- No- No-

This is the worst way these circumstances could follow through-

My teeth are buried against the flesh of my tongue, a metallic taste coating my mouth as I can feel my face undoubtedly scowl at her words.

"I'm- I'm still you're co-worker, Mrs Y/N- You shouldn't have to behave in a way to accommodate her emotions,"

She smiles sadly, shaking her head with both insecurity and doubt.

"Oh- I don't know..."

"Well- I'm telling you- don't be like this, please. We can talk- we can work together- there isn't any need for that bullshit about 'avoiding' me."

My words are uncontrollable, escaping me before I can restrain them. But she doesn't look at me with shock or disgust for the casual profanity and the harshness in my voice.

My chest is shaking, each breath shallow by emotion, by the frustration writhing through me.

Both protectiveness and defensiveness mingling together.

But she only smiles. A smile more authentic, raw. Beyond a platonic, co-worker-to-co-worker smile.

That's what I want. That is what I need.

And as I listen to her words, I can feel my blood flush through my skin, thrumming through my body that reminding me of my liveliness. The liveliness that only thrives under her influence.

"...Well- I'd like to hope so, Mr Dostoevsky,"

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

Maybe I've had a great sleep. Maybe this coffee beside me is perfectly made, and the teachers' lounge is quiet enough for me to hear my own thoughts.

Or maybe it's the way my mind is thriving with her across the table from me, working alongside me. We'd take into account the kids soon to graduate, the reservations, and the number of tables necessary for the masses of family members sure to show up.

Maybe I'm not so positive.

I never planned to grow a reputation of a brooding, twenty-eight-year-old man, but I suppose assumptions can be naturally made. I'm not the happiest looking man, I know that. But these graduation dinners had never been my most favoured school occasion I'd be obligated to attend.

Yes, watching the kids I once saw in metal-lined braces and short, still-developing limbs turn into young adults has been a rewarding opportunity, and seeing them gain their certificates is great. But on the teachers side of this event, it's pure, heated stress.

It's tiring and there's always fluctuating plans, little communication, and the adjustment of seating, to funds, to even venue locations depending on the year and the booking schedule. And we have to figure this out asap.

It's also a great social displeasure to me. Providing speeches and sitting at a tightly packed table, eating so casually with the staff members and teachers who attend.

It's not in my best interest at all. Even as I've witnessed over five graduation dinners within the years of me working here, I still never find pleasure in them. Only now - I hope to find the occasion greater than last year's.

As she's here now. And supporting her side of the workload, the planning, is my greatest pleasure.

If she asks for my support, then I wholeheartedly provide.

I've been rereading the information papers printed out towards the graduation dinner, the planned timeline and sequence of its schedule. My gaze would constantly dart up, watching her across the table, and it's as if she senses it.

Her head picks up from the English work she's organising into her work binder, flashing a soft smile. I try to reciprocate, mentally aware of how unnatural it feels to me, despite the authenticity behind my eyes.

My face doesn't so easily contort into something like that with ease, I've noticed. With her, it's different. Easier.

The silence in the teachers' lounge is easy to digest, coffee and her perfume brushing my senses. It's all I can smell. Only as my fingers slowly wrap around my coffee mug, her head picks up once more.

Attentive, her lips part as she speaks, my curiosity piqued.

"Are you cold? Your hands...? I don't mean to pry- I've just never seen them before-"

She nods towards my leather-clad hands, the black leather always coating the skin of my hands. Always. My gaze traces the black stitching that lines the end of the gloves, her curiosity piquing my own.

I hesitate, inhaling slowly, becoming all the more aware towards the inner lining of its material grazing my skin.

"...It's more of a... sensory... thing."

I mutter, though vaguely enough to keep anything towards the real answer far, far away from assumption.

I'm not completely lying. It is a sensory thing.

In my own way.

Even so, I hear her hum in thought, nodding slowly.

"You don't like textures against your hands...? like- touching certain things?"

"Sort of- I suppose. I like having a barrier there between me and things around me... if that makes sense,"

I express lowly, feeling as though I'm saying too much already. But at least in that part, I'm not lying. I like a barrier. A barrier between my skin and others. A protective envelopment across my flesh, to keep me disconnected from the things around me.

So I'll never get attached.

She's watching my hands, irises twitching across the material of my gloves, before smiling faintly, head shifting back down to face her work.

"Well- that's nice... everyone has they're little ways of finding comfort,"

She comments as I swallow, nodding with a soft grunt of agreement. There is something so peaceful, so lovely, about someone finding the little quirks you have, and having no need to hold it against you.

It's refreshing.

I know she's working - I can see her writing little comments and circling certain area's of the paper beneath her in red ink, but I want to talk to her.

While I still can. While she's willing to, especially in this secluded area with nothing and nobody to ruin what I feel right now.

Because these moments that's begun to build between us - even if they're small, little 'hello's, and 'How've you been' comments - I'm happy.

I'm happy to go about this however she wishes. She's the ring-leader here. The dictator in whatever bond we're creating right now. And if she so suddenly wants nothing to do with me, I think I'd lose my sanity.

"...Mrs L/N?"

Even uttering her name is an adrenaline rush.

Because it's the excitement of speaking to her - of knowing things she doesn't know about herself.

The things I've wished dreamt for - the things that've left me sleepless at night, or wishing the dreams that occurred at night had never ended.

Her lids flick back upwards through her lashes, head still softly downturned as our gaze is matched, equal.

Reciprocated with nothing in the middle of us.

Perfect.

My eyes trace the curvature of hers, each individual lash, the soft pigment across her cheeks, the arch of her cupid's bow.

I shudder a silent exhale.

"Please correct me if I press any boundaries... but- what made you want to teach...? I suppose you'd have a different perspective than mine; I've never taught younger children as you have,"

I question, her face brightening into a large beam, her laughter a chest-warming song I repeat within my mind for as long as I can savour it.

"Well- probably the same reason you took up teaching, right...? helping kids- being in an educative environment, wanting to make an impact, that sort of thing... I don't know- it always appealed to me,"

She shrugs casually, though I can see how a simple question beyond basic co-worker-to-co-worker queries has made an emotional impact on her.

Which makes me think the way she's been treated by others - especially her own co-workers, hasn't been amazing. And in truth, I understand. From my experience within schools for over five years, the only other teacher I really speak to on a day-to-day basis, is my wife.

Especially on a personal level.

Beyond that, I'm not exactly 'friends' with my co-workers.

But I thought I was the only one who fell under those circumstances.

"The kids are... the kids are great. Yeah."

I clear my throat, sipping from my coffee slowly as I notice her enthusiasm to continue speaking.

Speaking to me- conversing with me.

I feel fucking amazing.

"Please don't take this the wrong way- but with you're type of certifications- I know you have a PhD and such... I thought you'd want to teach in higher education, Mr Dostoevsky- people do say you're overqualified for the job here,"

She giggles softly, and I truly don't take any offence to that. I know what co-workers say about me, it's been a light-hearted joke across the job for years.

"So- why are you still teaching the high school kids, Mr Dostoevsky...?"

She quiets, softening her tone into genuine intrigue as the answer has already burst through my mind with such intensity

I had planned to resign and work up at the local college campus over a year ago.

Then she'd started working here.

That's why I'm still here.

"...The familiarity. I'm used to this job in particular. I know the kids, I know the curriculum, the staff members."

An easy, pre-conceived answer I've had to use a multitude of times. It's never questioned, and it's a fair statement. I'm not a man of change, especially through environment.

Her head tilts, humming gently in acknowledgement as her eyes flutter back down to the papers beneath.

"...I don't mean to pry... I'd just felt as though working with you're wife would've been the first answer,"

She doesn't laugh, nor does she smile.

She's not asking.

She's sociable, but she's not stupid. She's aware. Knowing.

I've always liked a critical thinker; someone who can place the pieces together by their own accord. But so directly?

She's pushing me out of my comfort zone, but I don't feel threatened. If I can confide in anyone about my marriage, about my emotions and why I'm the man that I am, it's going to be with someone that's seen the prompted behaviour first-hand.

Someone that's seen the evidence behind the symptoms.

Her.

Never speaking, always knowing. A woman that puts me on the spot, and makes me think beyond what I've had to pre-package for everyone to digest without question.

Beautiful.

Only as I find the words I wish to speak, the words that aren't within my teacher-based thinking, but produced from my internal thoughts, I catch the scent of strong, spice-lined, floral perfume pushing through the air.

The teacher's lounge door opens, the distant voice of Katya conversing with the sports teacher instantly tarnishes both my comfort and social intimacy I'd so happily created with Mrs L/N.

I lock eyes with Katya as she steps into the room, her smile flattening as she catches the scowl that flashes upon my features, and the setting of the room before she'd even stepped in.

Where Mrs L/N is sitting before me, and nobody else is around.

And I can only wonder what Katya thinks now.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

𝘼/𝙉 - 𝙀𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙩 𝙨𝙚𝙭𝙪𝙖𝙡 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 ! 𝙄𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨, 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙚 !

━━━

The night weighs upon me; the mountains of work I've only been able to work minimally have now fallen to the back of my concerns.

The day has ended sooner than I'd wished.

She'd smiled at me today as we passed by each other across the school halls. It was brief, but not unwelcome.

Quite the opposite.

I could hear her heels click a mile away. Her perfume hung in the air even as we passed me by, and I may as well have been kissing the floor she'd walked on.

As self-deprecating as that places me within whatever dynamic I've delusionalised myself in, I don't care. My ego dies when she enters my perception.

Better yet - school photos had recently come in. Even with a recent hair trim and the shine of product highlighting my black locks almost synthetically, I never find it to be my most favoured event.

From awkward positioning, to my eyes burning from the flash photography, and the uncomfortable placement of my co-workers standing beside each other in crooked, forced smiles, I've grown forcibly used to it.

Only now, there are shameful benefits in this year's photography.

Where she's appeared in this year's staff photos. Softened grin and makeup aligned to her personal wishes, clothing a perfect balance of personal, and professional. She, permanently engraved in visual stimuli.

The photo sits tight within my flesh-lined hand - gloves gone, sitting across my work desk as the home office surrounds me.

It's crinkled already, and I cannot bring myself to put it down. I've deliberately folded it to cut out anyone else surrounding her, where she, is all I can see.

All I indulge in, despite the fluctuating feelings of intense heat and unbearable shame bubbling across my mind and chest.

I can feel a sheen of sweat lining my forehead, the front locks of my pin-straight hair matted down against my wet skin.

Eye's flickering, borderline twitching within their sockets as I swallow dryly, the saliva within my mouth doing little to coat my dry tongue. Especially as every inhale is shuddered, choked.

My exhales quick, quiet huffs, with my teeth biting so deeply down against my bottom lip that a wash of a metallic taste lines my tongue.

All in an attempt to keep myself modestly quiet, as if the courtesy of that will make up for how tightly I'm gripping myself.

One hand gripping that photo, the other intensely occupied under my work desk.

The spit on my hand can only do so much, as my mind, my imagination, takes on the brunt of the work. My brows crease tightly, narrowed, knuckles blaring white against my already-pale skin.

There's so much I want to say. Do.

So much. And I am drowning in it, every day.

The strained movement of my hand under the desk stutters in pace, the pleasure pooled across my pelvis aching up my stomach and thighs. Intense, inebriating me, ripping my morals and bearing me in unbridled indulgence.

That is what she does to me.

That is my life.

Every waking breath.

And to feel even a scraping of that, now, is already too much to comprehend, too much for me to handle.

If this is what it's like now, with my hand-

I feel my hand quicken, the slickness of my saliva making every stroke audible-

Then I can only imagine what it'd be like with the real thing-

The palm of my hand encompasses my mouth, my teeth baring down against its flesh as my eyes roll back-

I grunt harshly into my hand, the sound muffles as my body wracks in waves of hot, feverous pleasure, constant in repeating waves. My hand tightens against myself, the wet, warm evidence of my release coating my hand by its opaque tone.

Dropping the photo against the desk, my chest shudders in quick, deep gasps, reaching to retrieve a tissue from the box sat beside my desk lamp-

"Stan, did you get the email from-"

Every inch of my body stills.

And there is silence that screams louder than anything to be heard.

My sense of self seems to diminish, as I am left perceived, with my hand out in open sight, still coated in my release.

My head doesn't move. It cannot.

Only my eyes dare move, catching Katya within the doorway, hand still grasping the door handle. And a scowl so deeply burnt across her features, any words born within my mind of justification or explanation died.

At least, by the positioning of my hand, I know she cannot see the photo beneath me.

"...That's fucking disgusting, Stan."

As if she hadn't walked in on me. Then again, I can only be left questioning my morals for what I've done. As if the mortification and the flurried heartbeat of mine should leave me with bigger, more weighted questions for the type of man that I am.

Especially for doing such a thing.

I teach psychology. I feel as though a self-study is in order.

I hear the door swing closed behind her, my muscles finally relaxing as I envelop my hand with tissues, quick to wipe away what's tangible. I'll wash my hands soon.

Still, frustration has overcome me, indefinitely souring my mood.

Running my (clean) hand over my forehead, I lock eyes with the photo under me, and simply stare.

Stare as I have for hours.

Stare as I had when I was behind the camera-woman, taking this exact photo of her.

━━━

My back pressed against the wall, right beside her classroom.

I am insatiable, and it's to be my greatest demise.

Especially as I have stood here for the past twenty-eight minutes. Listening, counting each word Mrs L/N utters across the perimeter of her classroom, noting topics across what's to be argumentative analysis.

The respect I hold for English does breach past the bias I have for it. Just because Mrs L/N so skilfully delivers the subject in teaching, it is only a bonus to how necessary it is. Katya reminds me that it, to her, the English side of the curriculum is a 'total joke', with no applicable skills the kids could take on past graduation.

As to Katya, her bias is in Math. Understandably so; she teaches it.

But I still count English as something just as necessary. Having the keen ability to analyse tone through text, annotate and question the text that which the kids are reading, and to have a strong vocabulary, is necessary in terms of literary strength and emotional complexity.

Mrs L/N's voice bounces softly through the classroom, mostly silence reciprocated, which is a great sign. The kids like her. They'll be quiet and attentive for a woman such as her.

I count each word she utters. A wave of heat plummets down my body in slow, pulsating ripples. And only as the school bell rings, echoing across the halls, do the screeching of chairs fill the air and students begin to flow in an outward pace from the door.

Observing, my attention breaks from the students once they are all sure to have exited, with my head shifting towards the open doorway.

To gain a sight, a scraping of whom I hyper-fixate on.

I gaze across the interior I know well of, eyes almost twitching to find her-

And when I do, I let my appearance be known, an almost trembling hand reaching the door with a soft wrack of my knuckles.

As she stands by the board at the front, neck craned back to gaze up at the marker she's wiping off, her neck turns to me.

Eye's meeting, hers softening from her original seriousness to a note of acknowledgement. Entering the threshold - I step into the doorway of her classroom, watching her lower the board cleaner, passing me a very faint smile.

"Mr Dostoevsky,"

She expresses with a faint tone of questioning lined through her words, pressing the back of her clothed thighs against the edge of the front desk.

My stomach curdles, mind flickering back to what I'd done those nights ago. What she doesn't know I've done. Thought. Wished to have said.

I feel myself falter, mind slamming in waves of anxious nausea and almost pathetic excitement within the mere space of a woman.

My lips sting - blood tainting they're hue from how much I've been chewing at them.

"I- Can we... speak...?"

I barely force out, her body both relaxed yet assured, comfortable. That's all I'd want.

"...Yes- if you feel the need, I'm happy to,"

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

What's meant to be yard-duty, watching over the kids pacing laps around the school buildings during their lunch and sitting huddled in tight circles amongst each other, has me solely focused on the woman beside me.

Walking beside me, bearing ourselves through the chill of the cool wind as the clouds dilute the warmth radiating from the sun. My eyes are in a constant motion, consistently tracing every chunk of grass my dress shoes sink into, the chunk of life audible as it mingles with her steps beside me.

My hands are sweating, enveloped in my gloves, then further baking into the pockets of my black slacks. I count my breaths, feeling the cold air paint my lungs and exit my nostrils, feeling the sting of the weather bite against my skin.

She seems unbothered.

Unbothered as she walks beside me, the dull sunshine still catches her as it runs across her hair in a softened shine. Like the sun is kissing her directly, favouring her among the grey that is what's beyond us.

And I soften at the sight, just as she is walking, she, radiating anything but agitation, unlike me. Unlike me, who has been mentally reiterating all of which I could say over and over again, only to give up.

"Do you feel it to be appropriate that we're speaking like this...?"

My head is quick to attention, lifting so faintly as a tightness churns my stomach. Her perfume is coating me, the wind continuing to push her scent closer than even I can handle right now.

I trace my tongue over my teeth, counting them, reminding myself that I am tangible, physical, and whatever I say or do will lead to cause and effect. I cannot speak as if I will not be affected either.

"My wife is not a dictator. I'm an adult, I can speak to you if I want to,"

I exhale, my breath coated in a visible fog as I can feel her eyes lift towards me, every inch of myself tensing in reaction. If I dare reciprocate her gaze, I think I would crumble.

I feel my jaw grow taut, eyes locked down upon the grass that soon turns to concrete under our feet, walking across the school pathways that connect themselves amongst each other.

"Oh- well- that's a lovely mindset- so self-assured,"

She'd breathe out, blood thrumming up my neck and settling a deepened, uncomfortable hue across my face. I could crumble to my feet and disintegrate into the grit of the concrete at her voice.

By knowing that she's talking to me, looking at me, paying attention to me. My mind is still reeling, and I don't think it'll ever settle. I feel antsy. Hyperactive.

"I'm only concerned-"

She continues,

"I don't know how to go about this without coming off as rude, Mr Dostoevsky, but it's not easy to have a comfortable work environment when I've been receiving... improper treatment from my own co-workers,"

And a churned concoction of guilt and frustration steals upon me.

"I know."

I can only grit out, teeth unsettled, glued against each other in a painful grind.

"Which is why, despite my contract, I've already been planning on transferring my work to another school-"

I crumble.

I feel every inch of my skin burn, an insatiable fire flourishing by a flood of every heightened emotion.

I'm angry and irritated and conflicted, I'm anything but joyous.

And as I feel the boundaries strain, as I feel my stomach threaten me with nauseous regurgitation, I speak.

"I can- I can talk to her, I really don't see why you should have to leave because of her-"

"See, you cannot speak for her, Mr Dostoevsky. You do not need to negotiate her behaviour to accommodate me- if she simply doesn't like me- for whatever reason she has conjured, and you- not her- you, have come to me to apologise for her behaviour, then I know reconciliation won't happen."

"But I can work with her- I live with the woman, I know how she is,"

My chest feels like it's going to burst. My body is on fire, my fingers twitching, my fingers scratching against the front of my hands as the leather sits as a barrier between my nails, tearing through my skin.

She's silent, us slowed by the front of the senior building, shadowed by the overhanging roof shielding us.

"...I know you're trying to help, Mr Dostoevsky. But I also do not need the husband of the woman who hates me to continuously attempt to spare me from her emotions. It's not helping, and I'm beginning to think that the more we speak, the worse off both of us will be."

I shake my head-

"That's not- I think you're a very capable woman- but you don't think it's mortifying for me also...?"

I admit, watching her face darken as I've so obviously breached a social barrier from how taboo this topic of conversation is turning. But I cannot help it.

Because she's looking at me, really looking at me, paused, awaiting my words. If this is the way I must enslave her attention, then so be it.

"Mr Dostoevsky..."

Her head tilts in an almost lecturing form, disappointment, shock, all in one body motion. I take it without argument, feeling as though, as deserved as it is, I can only fixate on the crease of her brows, the soft, tightened purse of her lips.

"I know you know, Mrs L/N. I know you've seen how it is between her and me. In the staff room- she's literally pulled me out of my own running classes to act in such a manner-"

"I don't think this conversation is-"

"But you've seen it-"

She blinks rapidly,

"Yes- I have. I have- But if you truly love you're wife-"

"I-"

I sigh, swallowing as I look away, containing everything I should, and would say.

Everything. I've already crossed too many lines for one day.

"If you love you're wife, I think it'd be best if we keep to ourselves, so to speak. I'll run along with my errands to attend to, and you should also, and with that, there will be no issues."

"Mrs L/N-"

"I think these boundaries were a necessary topic of conversation- thank you for taking time out of you're day to speak with me,"

She's quick to dismiss, already turning away from me as she pulls the swinging door open, scuttling off inside as the leather material of my hand drags down the exhaustion enveloping my features, pinching the bridge of my nose.

━━━

The sheets contain me, the caffeine I had earlier keeping me up. My eyes are burning, staring at the ceiling as I lie against the right side of the bed, the furthest side from the bedroom door.

My limbs are heavy, unmoving as they sink further into the bed with each passing thought that circulates behind my eyes.

And only as I listen to the all-too-familiar sound of the front door opening, heels clattering off Katya's feet, blunt steps ascending the carpeted stairs, and the bedroom door quietly creaking open, so I speak.

"...You were out an hour longer than usual."

And she stops in the doorway, the hall light gleaming through, highlighting her silhouette that I don't spare a glance at. There's a sharp pang of tense silence.

"Why aren't you sleeping?"

She doesn't speak on behalf of her night out.

"Thinking."

"Of what?"

She approaches the bed, drawing her hair-tie out from her locks, placing it on the bedside table as she begins stripping herself of her clothing.

"Mrs L/N has plans to move workplaces by the end of the year."

"Good riddance."

I feel a scowl paint my features.

"Because of you,"

"Again - good riddance."

"...You can be very cruel, Katya."

She slides her underwear off, stepping into a loose nightdress she's pulled from the closet.

"I never took her to be a stupid woman. She's able to take a hint, and I'm glad she can."

And I can only turn, lying on my side as I face away from her figure, her shifting to lie beside me.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- KATYA/ MRS DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

I'm going crazy.

Surely that's the case.

I'll accept it as it is, as I know that can be the only reasonable explanation for the paranoia fueling my thoughts.

Or maybe my morning medication is throwing me on a loop. How am I to know when the world around me seems to be screwing me left, right and centre?

I had torn a hole through my pantyhose this morning. A large rip up the back of my right calf, only for the heel of my shoe to snap as it got caught in the gaps of a drainage barrier by the parking lot of the school.

Better yet, Stanislav was scrutinising me for how I'd made his coffee this morning. Too much sugar - said he felt as though his 'teeth were rotting from his gums' by one sip. A grown man to throw a hissy-fit over the sugar level within his coffee.

Maybe he does it on purpose. To get a rise out of me. It works.

I'm not proud of my behaviour. Albeit cruel in nature, as he's described it, I am aware of my unsaintly values, or - lack of.

I sleep with a man that's not my husband, I financially take advantage of him, his assets, his bank account.

I've hurt him. Physically.

Sexually.

But that's something never spoken of. If we don't speak of it, it never happened. But it did, and he likes to act as if it hasn't.

We.

Like to act as if it never happened.

━━━

I pull my hair back tight enough for the follicles to strain my forehead, the bun it's in, sleek, uncomfortably so.

Freshened up within the staff bathroom, I only occupy myself for a few moments within the mirror as I am soon to join the rest of my co-workers. A staff meeting. Sat at the oval table within the teachers' lounge to bore ourselves with semester-based updates and plans.

Awkward silences and the tense whispers of 'pass these around' as we shove stacks of curriculum notes amongst each other, it's a personally displeasing time for me.

And it is.

As I now sit here, staring at each and every face that surrounds me. The chemistry teacher, the woodwork teacher who works in the construction building by the back end of the school, the teacher aides, surrounding the table.

Every chair is occupied, as adults fumble with work papers and folders, opening, closing, and crinkles of papers being shuffled around.

And the position the three of us are in, is triangular. At one side, my husband, on another, and her - Mrs L/N at the other.

My face is scrunched; I can feel the crinkle of my brows and the press of my skin over my forehead. As the voices are blocked out, the topic is unknown to me.

As I watch eyes.

Unspoken, but met.

As if I am not here.

His dark lashes overlining his ice-blue gaze, which sits sheened with something I cannot quite identify. He's looking at her - looking, not at her clothing , not at her skin. But beyond that and I am both disgusted and horrifically intrigued.

Like a car crash. I cannot look away no matter how much it leaves a bitterness across my tongue.

The topic of school excursions comes up - I hear my name listed among the one of many teachers to attend such meetings.

But my brows narrow, fixed upon my husband. He's clean-shaven today. I can almost smell his aftershave from here.

Hair pushed back.

Only a few straight strings of onyx locks flicked over his forehead. As if there's a reason to make such a stronger attempt on his appearance than usual.

The muscles under his skin across his jaw are continuously clenching and unclenching.

Over, and over.

He blinks only once, down to his papers, before his gaze is immediately back on her. I glance towards her.

She is a woman of her own appeal. And I mean that in a sense less conventional than mine - as I am aware of my own physical appeal. She is under a different light than I, and I can at least acknowledge that.

I suppose I cannot hold blame towards Stanislav for looking at her the way he does.

There is a soft tilt in her head's angle and the papers under her hands are held by only her fingers, not her palm. Index finger idly flicking the top left corner of the paper atop of the small stack.

They lock eyes for only a moment - he tenses. Like a silent conversation I am blocked out of. One, they are shielding themselves away from.

And I come to pick something up very quickly. A sequence. A pattern.

He stares. She meets her eyes, only to look away once she realises he's staring too long. He looks away.

And she stares back up, as he is oblivious to such an intensely important factor of what I've just seen.

He will look back up, only for the moments he is unaware.

And I keep that in mind. As I fixate upon the way in which she stares.

As there is something too, that I am finding suspiciously equal to Stanislav, in her eyes.

Maybe I am going crazy.

Or perhaps I'm seeing what I truly believe I'm seeing.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

I'd dodged a flower vase thrown across the living room, smashing across the wall, right beside my melancholy wedding photo framed by the window.

I remember that day.

The mutters of hesitant vows and the quiet displeasure of our assets becoming joint. Anything possibly loving between us never existed. As what we 'have', is for financial and family-expected sustenance.

Water from the vase splattered down the wall, soaking and damaging the carpet that Katya so often scolds me for walking on with my shoes on, despite it being deeply embedded with heel marks from her stilettos.

You'd assume, for how hollow our marriage stands when it comes to affection, that this sort of argument would never be necessary.

As I've been docile to a woman who's done the worst.

But as soon as I am suspected of anything close to the same actions, I am so suddenly the devil incarnate.

"You don't think I see the way you look at her-"

My head snaps to the side - the television remote clattering across the carpet as I just miss it by what feels like a hair-

There is so much venom in her voice, her nostrils flaring, face scowling so deeply, almost inhumanely.

"Katya, you need to stop-"

"No, you need to understand that you're my husband- I have you're last name, I own this house-"

She's instant to retort, and I am aching and exhausted and unable to process what to do, or how to cope. The hair across my body is prickled upwards, spiked by nausea and anger, a torturous mixture that leaves me under her attack.

"You aren't gaining anything by doing this- acting like this- that's what you want from me, right-!? You're an insatiable woman who sucks the life out of everything-"

And it's a blur-

As what I say comes in my defence, yet also leads to my demise. They don't process it unless they are forced to acknowledge it. The abuse, said abusers cause.

But knowing it, acknowledging it, only leads to more anger.

Because they are being confronted with what's become of them, and the shame is too much to take in.

For when she so swiftly approaches, I cannot miss the hand that swings across my face, and the meeting of skin slapping skin rings through the room.

The air is cold.

The sun is setting, and I can see the way the dim, golden sun is lowering beyond the slats over the living room window.

There is silence and she smells like cigarettes, and as I drop my gaze downwards, I settle my sights on a droplet of maroon tainting the cream carpet.

And I now realise that once my mind comes back into my body, I am hunched in scorching pain, hand clutching my right eye as I hiss, resisting the urge to scream.

I'm gasping, excruciating stinging writhing across my skull, blinking, moving my eye around, only causing more pain.

The smell of something metallic pollutes my nose, my stomach churning as my hand clutches my eye, I realise that, is nursing a hand harbouring a pool of blood.

"You want to speak to me like that again-!?"

I cannot form a single response, simply panting in pain as the muscles across my neck and face contort and tighten with a winced grunt,

"I'm not stupid- I see it; you're a nasty piece of work, you know? You and her- the way she looks at you too, as if I wasn't in that meeting- as if I wasn't right there-"

And I am silent.

I swallow my stomach down, something in me shifting.

I recount Katya's words as she tosses the mug she was obviously planning to use as a projectile to the floor, feet slapping across the floor as she walks off, yelling at herself.

That meeting.

I crumble to the floor, kneeling as I take quick, shuddering breaths, unable to move. Cupping my eye that I know has been cut, most likely from her nails, as the warmth of my own blood in my palm is the only form of heat I have.

I recount her words.

Memorise them and dissect them.

Because her anger was directed towards me.

For looking at another woman. And she had brought her up, as if she were reciprocating that form of attention.

I've come to realise, I am wrong and overly hopeful within the worst of moments,

Or am I?

━━━

I run a wet wipe down the side of my face, the cotton tainting a soft, reddish brown by the blood dried across my face.

The house is silent as it's only inhabited by me, standing shirtless within the mirror's reflection. Showing me what I don't want to see.

As the many scars and patchy, still-healing bruises poison my skin, the dark circles under my eyes speak a thousand words. For the many nights that I've been left sleepless. Exhausted. I'm exhausted.

The wipe drags down my clean-shaven jaw, wiping away the bodily evidence that's already ruined the carpet. I'll scrub it out before she comes home. And only now, as silence runs through the air, do I question what could've been.

Not with Katya, not at all.

There is no love here in any universe, and there never will be.

As I can only imagine if it were a different case, with her.

Her.

If Mrs L/N were instead Mrs Dostoevsky and when we ate dinner together, if we'd laugh and if she'd compliment the food I'd make her. I'd like to think so. But I also don't enjoy fascinating such scenarios.

Because the simple fact of knowing they aren't currently real leaves me bitter.

Angry.

I have no control.

Over my life.

It'd be assumed that I do, as I'm an adult. I have bills and a thriving career and a wife.

But I don't. As I am barely a man, my career is poisoned with paranoia and the want for a woman I cannot have, and my wife is not truly my wife, as she is anything but human to me.

I want things I cannot have like a selfish child with no control,

Or,

I want things I cannot have because I am being abused and to admit being abused makes me a victim. Being a victim feels weak and I cannot be weak because I am a man and only a man to those with tunnel vision.

I am weak and I am exhausted, I feel nothing yet everything, I am angry but I don't want to be an angry man, as I do not want to essentially 'lose'. If I am mad, she 'wins', in my mind, as she's gained an emotional reaction out of me that she can thrive on while it spits back at me in mockery.

My emotions mock me, and I am then only a man with no control, so anything else about me rots within the background of my life.

That I am a highly qualified psychology teacher, that I've studied for much of my life.

That my ancestry is Slavic and Russian is my first language.

That my father was an alcoholic also enabled me to drink from a young age also.

That I actually enjoy cooking and taking care of myself. I like to run. I like winter. I'm a Virgo. I actually prefer tea over coffee.

Things that fall behind, things that aren't acknowledged when I am simply a man with anger, and that anger leads to her 'winning' if it shines through.

But.

But - but - but -

Without my anger, I wouldn't have heard what I now know.

That according to Katya's either highly aware, or, undeniably skewed perception,

She, was looking at me also.

And if that's the case,

Then happily, Katya 'wins'.

Because what emotions I have, who I am, have become so ultimately centred, and to her, unknowingly dictated by what she does.

Katya 'wins'.

I don't care.

Because if there is even the slightest truth to what Katya had stated - that she was also looking at me, and me in my entirety,

I am absolutely exhilarated.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

I want things I cannot have, and it's beginning to leave me with a pit embedded within my stomach.

I feel myself dissatisfied whilst I know what I want is there, yet beyond reach. There are too many barriers and what could be possible, isn't.

What I wish for is a woman and this woman has only spared me two glances this morning.

The first - her initial reaction to the still-healing cut scraped down the side of my eye, the skin flared with a purple-ish, pink tone tainting my skin across its blood-red slit.

Luckily by my medical visit - as I should've taken the week off, yet decided not to as I am now under constant paranoia of Mrs L/N leaving work for what feels like any moment now; there is no damage beyond my eyelid.

My tear duct, the facial nerves, and the eyeball itself hold no direct damage, but the wound had to be thoroughly cleaned to prevent infection. The tissue is said to repair within the passing weeks, but until then, I look dramatically wounded.

Something out of an action movie. I feel absolutely ridiculous.

It's nothing attractive, and I never aimed for it to be. But I do deeply care for my appearance under her judgment.

And she provided me with two glances.

Once - when I'd passed her in the teacher's lounge kitchen, standing silently beside her as I filled a white, porcelain mug with steaming coffee, she had lifted her head to the attention of movement beside her.

She looked at me once - as she could only see my right eye from her angle. My wounded side. She looked once, head dropping back to her mug she was preparing tea in, then almost instantly shot her head back up to the layered concoction of acknowledgement, awareness, and shock.

She'd given me a silent, yet screaming look of shock and the look of, 'what in gods name had happened to you?' which had left her lingering silently by my side for longer than even I had assumed.

I knew she wanted to speak.

I felt it and I wanted her to. I wanted to hear her voice and gain an insight into what truly empathetic queries she had, and it's not by assumption. I know it to be a fact. She's empathetic and she cares, even if it is by initial, generalised shock.

I'm fine with that.

Because it's attention, and it's attention from her. Which kept her standing by me, long enough to notice the fresh manicure she must have gotten over the weekend and the slightly different scent lingering under her perfume, which tells me she must've gotten a different shampoo than the original brand she was using.

Enough for my face to burn uncomfortably and my chest to seethe, slacks to grow undeniably - and shamefully tighter, just for her to take slow, hesitant steps away by the prompting sound of the school bell.

And I had lost her just as I had gained her.

But she had looked at me, and it led me to solidify what Katya had admitted.

I am thrilled and I have felt too much just for that moment. If I can barely process my thinking now, who knows how it would be if I genuinely had her as someone more than my co-worker.

If she were my wife.

And that - just the thought, breaks me down and sets me on fire.

I cannot handle it.

The thought is the forbidden fruit I hold my morals away from, as I know that if I indulged, I would be ashamed. That I would be fantasising about an already-married woman as my own, disrupting the imaginary 'balance' I have conjured in my mind.

I'd like to think that I am a man of order who has each day revolved around what stands to be of the most importance.

My work, what meetings I have, what schedule Mrs L/N has for the day. Those things dictate me. My mood. My emotions and well-being.

And once those things have been thrown off - like the actions of what Katya has done to me, and how actively Mrs L/N seems to be socially distancing herself from me (justifiably so, by her reasoning), I feel as though I am losing my mind.

Katya's mother had called her the night prior to this.

Questioning her on her well-being, and if she's taking her medication. The finances and the unconsensual conversations regarding 'grandchildren'.

That sort of thing.

It's not to be assumed that I don't like the idea of children. I work with them on a day-to-day basis. Tired, emotionally drained teenagers that vacuum the life out of me. But the idea of children with Katya is my own personal keyhole into what hell would be.

It'd be an absolute nightmare. To have kids with a woman I despise. To see genetic mixes of me and her forever surrounding me.

That's not the type of father I'd wish to be.

And besides that - I need balance.

My work is surrounded by kids. I don't know if I could physically, or mentally handle having to continue working with children at home too. And I wouldn't want that for my partner either - if it weren't Katya.

Mrs L/N doesn't have kids. That's one thing I know.

She's never explicit about her life outside of work. I have to find those details myself. She's not on public social media. She has no details of herself besides what's been listed on the school's website regarding the English and literature specialised work.

There is nothing, and my curiosity dies as I know I am in no place to ask.

I have no idea what type of love life she has with who she's married to. But I cannot think about it too long without wishing to tie a plastic bag over my head and suffocate myself.

It makes me scratch my skin until it bleeds and wish for my nails to scrape up the skin from my flesh. It makes me want to bleed out.

Knowing that there's another and there's a ring on her finger, knowing that she has an entire life beyond me that I cannot breach into.

━━━

"Just a moment-"

I'd have to step out of my classroom, gloved hand sliding the door closed with a quick tug.

Breathing shakily, both frustrated and in pain as I'd hold back from squeezing my eyes shut, my class would be left silent and perplexed by my sudden departure from the room.

Stepping outside the classroom, barely half an hour into the second-period lesson, I'd swallow tightly with a thin, folded tissue palmed to my right eye.

Skin split, that same, nauseating, metallic scent rippling through the air from the exposed, open skin. Stinging pain would shoot across my flesh, up my eyebrow and down my cheek, blood soaking into the tissue it so pathetically attempts to sponge up.

Yes. Because this is what I wish for. Skin split and horrifying pain aching through my face.

My back would press against the outside wall of the classroom, out of the perception of any students. Being seen as anything towards vulnerable, or even human to these kids is something I never want to occur.

Because I wish to separate my life from these kids as much as possible. What's human and real is reserved for my privacy. Not here.

And as I am so sure that by the current schedule of the teachers, the teachers' lounge should be empty, I open the door in hasty steps to retrieve more tissues.

Passing, pausing with my stomach churning, hesitating by the table as I see that Mrs L/N must've had a class schedule change.

Because she's the only one within the teacher's lounge, sitting by the oval table with a mug on a coaster, and some papers before her.

I feel my feet hesitate without even acknowledging it, her eyes flickering up with a wave of tense, bodily concern. Her back straightens, and she sits with attention, both our jaws taut.

Her gaze fixates on the blood-soaked, now almost dripping tissue I'm quick to rid of in the trash by the kitchen area, hurriedly bunching a clump of tissues to smack over my eye-

"I- Stanislav-"

And she, for the first time, has granted me a privilege beyond her comprehension.

For her to say my name- my actual, first name, with such a tone laced with worry and shock. Calling out to me.

Me.

Not simply 'Mr Dostoevsky'.

Me.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

There is a stationary, yet strangely comfortable silence between us.

As if no words are needed to convey the emotions gathered within the teachers' lounge.

I look over my shoulder. Still.

As she lowers the pen within her fingers, the gentle click of its shape is placed down against the table. Rain speckles the windows, streaking down the glass in straight arrows.

I cannot take my eyes off of her, as I watch the muscles of her throat shift with her swallow and the rise of her chest to her gentle breath.

"Stanislav,"

She repeats, my body rippling in an ache so strong my knees feel as though they'd buckle. Reminding me of how weak I've become to the judgment and perception of a woman that isn't mine.

I have no control, and she doesn't know it.

She's staring at my eye, where tissues sit bunched up under my hand, soaking up the blood oozing from my split skin. As if she wishes to question it, yet is too hesitant to do so.

And if I bring it up, I cannot help but assume I'd have to back-track on the conversation, before I'd admit who is the cause of it. I fear that that'd reiterate Mrs L/N's discomfort for Katya even more, and will simply prompt her further to leave.

The thought sickens me beyond comprehension.

━━━

"I won't question it,"

She provides a kind smile, and I fear it to be sympathy, rather than empathy.

"...I'd hoped as such."

"And I felt as such."

My knuckles click and crack as they tighten against the leather of the seat under me. The scent of antiseptic and peppermint air freshener threatens a migraine, and the lights are of the most hideous, blaring white.

The medical office within this school is quite private, rarely occupied. On the rare occasion - a child with a rare stapler through the finger, or a twisted ankle from Physical Education; there aren't many other students to enter here.

She oozes of perfume and that new shampoo, and I can assume she's rubbed hand lotion on, as when she pats my eye with a cotton pad soaked in anti-bacterial solution, it's all I can pick up on.

Standing in front of me, I can fixate on the ribbed cotton of her long-sleeve, the creases lined over her joints - her elbows and wrists. The faint outline of the padded cups of her bra through the cotton, too.

My eyes flicker downwards, feeling my muscles grow taut.

I stare at her heels, the gloss of the material encompassing her feet as the lights hit it.

My hands rest within my lap, knowing that with the free will I have, I could very much so simply reach, and feel her. Physically. Make that contact.

But I don't, and it pains me.

It absolutely kills me.

"I... Hope my wife hasn't been giving you hell lately,"

I attempt something that could be interpreted as humour, though it runs hollow with the way I see her head tilt softly, brows raised. She looks down, so gently grazing the cotton against the sides of the split skin.

"I should be saying that to you, Mr Dostoevsky,"

And I'm not a stupid man.

I'm quite an intelligent man, and I have the receipts to prove it as such. So I'm well-established enough to know that she knows.

At least - that's what I've gotten from her words. She knows something. Enough.

"If I am being honest, I'm only speaking to you now, as I know she's off on an excursion with her class."

"...I know."

"But I want you to know... I don't enjoy feeling as though I should actively avoid a colleague I think quite highly of,"

I feel my lips press firmly, my gloved fingers intertwining within my lap as I listen to the soft song of her heels clicking against the tiled flooring. Her keys attached to her lanyard rattle as she removes them from her neck, unlocking one of the many cabinet doors, rummaging through its interior.

My blood pumps through my body, thrumming against my chest and skull as I bathe in her presence, sucking it up as I push back the fact that I cannot be satiated. No matter how much of her attention and time I am able to bottle up.

I am a selfish man.

And only now do I begin to feel as though it's not something I should care for. If I am, or am nitsit's weight isn't as threatening as I thought it to be.

She slides out three thin, what looks like bandage packets, re-approaching me as my body retracts into the chair to her closeness. Her nails worked diligently to unwrap them, her voice filling the quiet air as the only other sound lining the room is the small air purifier sitting on the counter.

"These are just some wound-closure bandages; you'll need to hold still,"

She breathes out, sliding the paper packaging off and into the small trash can by my right side. I can only nod, my throat uncomfortably dry as she begins the bandage placement.

She's close.

So, so close.

I feel her body heat, and I bask in her entirety.

I count my breaths. Every inhale, every exhale, matching the pace of hers as I watch her body movements.

The bandages tightening the split skin together do little to bother me - a simple sting, much more bearable than the initial act of the attack which caused this. But she's doing this. She's touching me and making willing contact.

I want to touch her; I think.

I'd very much like to, if she'd so let me have that opportunity.

But as I remind myself of the reality of what we are and the rings we bear on our fingers, I close those thoughts as quickly as they'd bloomed.

Yet only now, do I begin to let curiosity take me. Where I question her.

Her.

If she has ever thought of the things I've thought of. If - to what Katya said was true - that when she had looked at me, if she had even considered the feelings I may feel for her.

I'm quick to notice the soft coating of my own blood upon her fingertips, tainting her manicured nails as she moves towards the sink, twisting the handle as cold water hits the porcelain.

With my feelings telling me I should bite my tongue, I let myself become selfish. One time. I indulge.

"...I liked the way you said it. My name. First name."

And so suddenly, I feel both nauseous and excited, regretful yet thrilled. My body is reacting to a sudden, powerful surge of neurotransmitters and hormones induced by this woman.

Dopamine. The 'reward' chemical. Responsible for pleasure and motivation. Euphoria.

Epinephrine. Or Adrenaline - blood pressure. Heart rate. Fight-or-flight.

Serotonin. The 'feel-good' chemical. Regulates emotional patterns and holds responsibility over feelings of happiness. Also involved in the body's response to nausea.

Oxytocin.

A lot of Oxytocin.

And she looks at me, over her shoulder from the sink. She stares, for longer than even I'd assumed to be hetime limit of eye contact. She slowly turns the water off, it slowing to a trickle, ending to distant drops.

I can hear her exhale as she straightens her back, wiping her hands on the towel hung by the sink.

"I was going to apologise for it- It was... unprofessional. On my part."

"I prefer it- really-"

"But- I don't really think establishing a level of collegue-informality-"

"Call me by my name. My real name."

My skin is seething and there is something strangely tight within the air between us. My chest is pounding and I knoI'm'm sweating. My palms are clammy. She's looking at me.

Really, looking at me, her lips faintly parted, blinking once-twice- away to her bottom left side, back upwards,

And she smiles.

In a way that's almost timid. Maybe bashful.

And I shiver.

I think I've crossed a line.

But she's looking at me and I'm looking at her.

And she's smiling at me.

Only to murmur a quiet,

"...Well- Stanislav it is,"

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

She had missed work today.

She had called the day off, and it was marked as 'medical/sickness' upon the reports of work attendance.

And I had questioned why. For if there were a possibility that I were carrying something that'd brought her illness, or if the blood of mine that was on her fingertips was contaminated with something that'd lead her to the hospital.

But I have enough sense to know - by this current weather, it's simply a cold.

Even so, I cannot help but feel as though, since we were so close - where she had touched me, traced her fingers across my face and stood as something of a healer before me, tending to my wounds another had caused, that maybe I had caused her pain.

Where it feels as though that's all I can cause, as of late. At least, that's how Katya treats me. As though I cannot provide simple pleasures in a way to keep her satiated.

And in some way, some contexts - she isn't wrong.

I cannot provide the things Katya wants from me. Because what she wants simply doesn't fit within the things I'd like.

The things I'd quite like to try. If I did have the chance.

But I cannot.

So I don't hold it against Katya in its basic form - as I know she sleeps with other men. Who? I couldn't care less to know about. It's not my business, even if, by our relationship - it is. I'd rather not know.

There are things Katya would like, that I don't. That I now cannot give, because in truth, my libido around that woman depletes as soon as she even insinuates her desire to me.

Out of many things. Anger. Disgust. Discomfort. Repulsion.

And within the other part of my brain that makes itself assured to be known - I love another woman.

And if I were to even attempt providing pleasure to another, I'd cause betrayal, unknowingly to her, and to myself. Which does make me sound like a hypocrite in many ways.

As I boast of loyalty to another woman - whilst being married.

But by the end of the day, I have come to know myself as a man of selfish wishes. Impacted by outward stimuli, intensified by desires I romanticise without control.

I am a willing participant in my besotted nature, as I was never coerced.

And I still stand as one now. Even more so.

━━━

And she'd missed yet another day.

And another.

And another.

At that point, I was so very sure that she'd fallen terribly ill. Hospitalised possibly, or under some precarious surgery that'd leave her under bed rest for much of the year.

And that left me chilled.

Only - when she had returned, was I to make sure Katya would not witness what I were to do.

━━━

Roses felt too forward.

As they would scream of romantic advances - as many flowers would, I would find one that wouldn't blare 'I'm giving this to you because I have intentions beyond platonic'.

In a sense, I do. But those are buried when she stands by me. To stand, within the sunlight as the first glimpse of spring promises rebirth and fertility, her skin like honey glazed across marble whilst I evict myself to her shadow.

Roses feel obvious.

And if I were to leave the thorns, I'd make it seem as though I didn't care for her well-being. I am not a man of anger and blood against a woman, and nor will I induce that in another, by the carelessness of not removing the thorns from a flower gifted to her.

A carnation promised me much greater security.

A red carnation plucked from a hearty bush, its petals like ruffles, overwhelming itself.

The carnation's name is rooted in 'caro' - Latin, for "flesh".

And its ruffled petals resemble torn silk. Bruised skin. Satin ripped by and the hue of blush. I know too much and what she knows stands as a scraping of what's beneath the surface, and providing her with a gift of such weight is a strange guilty pleasure.

Following the idea of, 'I know something you don't know'.

And that both thrills and sickens me.

Evening stands to me with its juxtaposition of the relief of time, as I know my workload of today has sufficed, my hours spent. But knowing that I am to drive home through traffic that'll surely leave me in a distasteful mood, and cook dinner and eat it with a woman who's the cause of my wounds only bitters my emotions.

The sun is nice, at least.

It bathes me in a gentle blanket of warmth soon to cease once the clouds shadow it, yet my only comfort now, is her, as she's walking down the front steps of the school's front building.

She is to be the only one left here, as most have gone home, or haven't been attending work due to the fluctuating waves of illness polluting our co-worker population.

Her hand is buried in her cardigan pocket, fishing for her car keys as she walks down the steps. Head only lifting once her feet reach the concrete, she flinches with a step back - seeing me before her.

I feel my body stiffen harshly, taking in a deep inhale as I become acutely aware of how dry my lips are. The cold air sucked against them don't do me justice, nor does what I also know to be scarring, and fresh blood lined across the flesh from how cruel my anxiety has left me to be.

I am holding a scarlet red Carnation, singular, as I felt an entire bunch would hold the same intensity as a singular rose. I am silent and I count each time her lashes bat against her cheeks, each blink, each movement of her neck.

Up - to my eyes, down to the flower, upwards to my face once more, down to the concrete beneath her, and back to the flower.

The words I wish to speak escape me. Over, and over again.

Only holding a flower like a fucking idiot, standing before her as she provides only a crooked smile of confusion.

Her skin looks beautiful against the evening sun.

"...Flower. You were sick, so- flower-"

I barely breathe out, voice strained.

I truly did wish I had disintegrated into the floor at this moment. Left in a pool of dust.

"Oh- well- thank you, Mr Dos- Stanislav-"

She bashfully smiles, taking it within her hands as her grasp nurses it as if it were a child. Fingers so delicate, languidly grazing the soft ruffles of its petals as my lips press firmly against each other, exhaling in a shudder.

She brushes past me, making a bodily indicator - the flick of her head to insinuate me walking her to her car, and I oblige with not a single argument. Walking, she still holds it by its stem within one hand, her car keys within the other.

"Speaking of medical incidents, you're face is healing well- I'm so glad,"

She assures me with such cheerful warmth, the reminder of my injury being something now sugarcoated, rather than bitter. Part of the mortification and frustration of it has been shredded away - as it's at least become a topic of conversation between her and me.

"It's... fine. Showering with it is horrible; the soap makes it sting."

"It will... but just as any cut, it'll heal, and the scar won't be so horrible if you don't believe it to be,"

"At least, if I perceive it in a positive light,"

"Then it'll be a positive thing,"

She finishes my sentences, our shoes pressing against the gritted concrete as we approach her car parked by the entrance of the school.

"...It's hard to find... the good, in something like this,"

"Well- I don't know how you got it, and something in me doesn't want to know, but just as anything does, things heal. That'll heal."

"Even if the process isn't gentle."

"Even if the process isn't gentle."

She echoes, laughing in a soft, song-like form as she unlocks the front door of her car, my eyes flickering down to her number plate for much longer than I thought I would.

Stuffing the passenger seat with her purse and work papers.

She places the flower within the open pocket of her purse, resting, as if it's blooming from the leather-like material. She sighs, back straightening as she stands, turning to me. My body retracts, taking a small step back.

"What did you're wife say- when she saw the bandages?"

She suddenly questions, my jaw growing taut as my head softly tilts, my own queries weighing heavily.

"...I beg you're pardon...?"

My voice is so suddenly hoarse, her silence screaming within the air as she provides me a smile that looks so strangely sad, and knowing.

"...Nothing- I was just wondering, is all... have a lovely weekend, Stanislav. Make sure you sign off the papers for the camp,"

"The camp...?"

"The school camp- with the kids. The year level. I'll see you on Monday, Stanislav,"

She provides me with another smile, this time with a little more heart, both realisation and dread slamming over me in a horrific mixture.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

I do genuinely enjoy camping, for a variety of reasons.

There is mental clarity amongst the plants and dirt, with that stupid feeling you get with anything you do, eat, or say outside.

'I'm sleeping - but out in the woods, so it's suddenly exciting and fun.'

'I'm eating dinner - but without a kitchen and within the wilderness, so that makes it memorable.'

That sort of thing. I know the kids feel it too, each year, when it comes to camps. They're excited to be out in the woods, but not actually sleeping in the woods, as they'll be in completely constructed dorm-rooms laid out across the property, with heaters and actual beds instead of sleeping-bags on a gritty, uncomfortable tent floor.

They think they're camping because they're having what's essentially eco-friendly, wilderness-surrounded sleepovers with their classmates, whom they only see in school uniforms and academic settings.

I don't blame them.

I used to hold similar feelings when my father would take me camping. You'd be able to see your breath in the winter, and you're boots squelched against the mud. Camping, to me, was an exciting activity to where I thought - as a twelve-year-old boy would think - my father wanted to spend time with me.

Yet as I had quickly figured out - by the fact that it wasn't just him and me camping, but many of his friends he'd find from pool-bars and court-mandated rehab sessions, that he needed an excuse to leave the house and drink without my mother 'pestering' him.

I am close to thirty now. And it's taken me this long to process the undeniable fact that my father fluctuated between neglecting me, and quite happily enabling the behaviours I used to act out, by his coerciveness.

The kids I work with are faces with lives I only know of, if they wish to tell me.

If they wish to tell me of their shitty upbringing at home, I am trained in my duties as a teacher, to handle that. But beyond that, I cannot get so personal with the kids, that they risk growing emotionally attached to me.

And in quite blunt honesty - I don't care for the lives of these kids.

It's been that way for much of my life.

As I have come to the conclusion, that I am either too emotional, or not at all.

It's black-and-white thinking, and I have no control. I work the job that I do to explore my own interests in an educational setting. I'm not a man who'll spark inspiration or comfort for these kids.

I'm not that person.

She is.

And I am quite content with that.

She is able to think and analyse these kids in even the most nuanced detail. Her school kids love her because she loves them too.

My school kids like me - and only like me - as I provide them with the false comfort of empathy towards their age. I let them murmur excuses for not correctly completing the theory work, due to their teenage quarrels and stressors.

And now I am to see these kids within their bubbles, wearing casual clothes as they giddily question each other about whom they believe they'll be in a cabin room with.

Most dorms are shared between four to five students, each with bunk beds, basic storage, and, if they're lucky, an ensuite bathroom. Some camp properties offer gender-separated wings - though, this is fluid by the diverse kids we harbour among our school - and private rooms for staff - like this one.

Besides the teachers who share a room with the medically specific students they supervise, we're able to sleep within our own private rooms, which is more of a saviour than many think.

Attempting to sleep, the wall thin, with the other room housing roughly four, erratic teenage kids that have managed to smuggle in enough food and sugar to give them a high for the rest of the night isn't for the faint of heart.

━━━

It's already the first night of this camp, and Katya has already confiscated five phones from the kids. Which I find to be ridiculous. If the kids want to stay up the night, staring at a screen blaring blue light into their retinas, so be it.

But I cannot deny that my eyelids are weighing heavily. The camp counsellors are nice enough. Young, approachable, with just little enough of an age-gap, that the kids find them relatable.

Rain patters across the glass of the boy's cabin-rooms, where I do have permission to supervise. The teachers with titles beginning with, 'Mrs', or 'Miss', or, 'Ms', are the ones allowed to manage the girls' cabin-rooms.

They aren't as rustic, or cottage-y as they sound.

There are roughly five buildings amongst this massive property.

One - the boy's cabin-rooms encompassed within one building, rooms speckled by the lengthy hall it has with the door numbers in silver font across its wood.

Two - The same case for the girl's cabin-rooms.

Three - the food hall in which the students enter at least three times a day, morning, afternoon, and the evening, to eat across circular tables, grouped within their not explicitly stated, but heavily insinuated cliques they've formed.

Four - the large activity hall, mainly used for the students to watch movies within, play teamwork-based exercise games - mostly what cannot be done outside by rain or thunder, is done there.

And besides the bathroom buildings speckled across the property, there are the teachers' private rooms. The only peace we will have to gain any sense of solace away from these kids across this week-long camp.

The first day had begun smoothly as many of the other camps had. The students to arrive at the school, pack themselves within a bus they'll overfill with chatter and laughter, to travel over two hours towards the rural side of the state.

Once unpacking themselves and retrieving their luggage - some over-packed with bags among bags - usually the anxious ones, and the ones that couldn't care for having more than maybe two sets of clothing - the ones that are usually known to bully the anxious ones - will do what they always do.

And harass the camp counsellors and teachers - like me, for whom they'll be in a cabin-room with. Curious and excitable, we are quick to pack what looks like scuttling ants into the camp activity hall, reading out a list of names per room number.

From the quiet exclaims of 'yes's, and grunts of annoyance, you're always able to tell who's gotten placed in a cabin-room with their friends, and who hasn't.

I don't make the rules, as I don't usually dictate the student-grouping system for rooms, but I do catch hell for it either way.

I've already had to split up two fights among teenage boys unhappy to be placed together in a dorm, and my agitation has to be calmed, as even these small mishaps remind me of why I don't believe children are for me to have.

I teach kids. I don't want to continue that at home. Especially for how much these ones from my own work drive me up the wall.

But I can cope.

I always find a way to cope. Practice what I've studied for years. Perform my own psych-practice on myself. Overly self-analyse and conclude it to be either biological - from a hormonal reaction or tell myself to take three deep breaths and drink some water. As if that helps.

I can cope.

As I'd learnt today, she-

She-

Is within a room right beside mine.

The closest I've ever been to her in a way that blurs many lines.

And I am absolutely thrilled.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

My skull is shooting such intense pain through my entire face, and my nerves feel as though they're on fire.

The back of my right eye continuously thumps in a torturous, rhythmic song of pain, maybe out of spite, maybe out of simple bad luck. I'd stared in the bathroom mirror attached to my private room - the ensuite to where I am staying.

The first morning of this camp has arrived, and I have already had to pop painkiller medication and stare at my own reflection. My gaze fixed upon my forehead as I'd push back my black-hair, the pin-straight locks revealing the one vein visibly pulsating under my skin.

What a lovely way for me to start today.

A migraine is ever developing, and it's sure to truly stand by me for at least the entirety of today. Alongside rowdy, loud teenage kids, and the disorganised incompetence of these camp counsellors who forget that they cannot simply be likeable, as they have jobs to attend to.

They fall short on that part, as they've already failed to find the runaway kids who decided to scatter off during a forest walk last night, leaving me and the senior co-ordinator to venture off to find them.

It's only been the first night.

The first night, when I had slept in a bed of my own, without having to wait for another.

Where she is closer to me, than the person I hold such distaste for.

Katya is down the hall, on the right, right beside Miss Morell, the junior biology teacher. Whilst I, sleep only with a wall separating Mrs L/N.

━━━

I had wondered.

When did she fall asleep? Was she comfortable? Did she require the heater on, as it had lightly snowed last night? And if so, did the need for an extra blanket become required?

I had considered what soaps she had bought. If she had gone to the store prior to this camp, to buy travel-accommodative bottles and compacts to store her things. How much Shampoo and Conditioner did she bring? Is it the same brand that she's been recently using?

The brand name is permanently engraved within my mind.

Katya had begun to find it increasingly frustrating for how long I had been continuously standing in the health and beauty aisle at the store, last week.

From one bottle to another, I would unscrew the tops and attempt to search for the scent of what I know to be her most recent shampoo and conditioner. I know the notes. Citrus-y. Apple. Very sweet, yet organic.

She buys the expensive stuff, I've found out. Vegan. No Sulfates or Parabens.

I'd come to the conclusion that a woman's materialism comes in many forms. And it's not to say that materialism is harmful- no. I am not generalising every woman.

But I know how it dictates a woman's desires, when it comes in the form of purchasing and deciding what products they wish to own.

Some women like shoes. Nice, heeled shoes that will surely provide no support to the ankle, making them unbearable to wear. Or - on cosmetic details that are temporary, that'll become what's borderline a subscription to chip away at the bank account over the passing months.

I don't believe it's wrong for a woman to wish to feel beautiful. Quite the opposite, as I do not dictate the way in which a woman embraces herself. In ways that are painful, or not. In ways that are finite and expensive, or not.

She does this.

I know she does.

Her nails are temporary - they change shape and colours almost every month. She wears heels that audibly express her entry and exit with every step against concrete or tiles.

And she uses expensive products. Hair products. Perfume products.

She's a materialistic woman who holds value for herself - at least, I'd like to hope so. I cannot make instant assumptions based on outward materialism. I try to dissect her. I want to know her. And if she'd let me, I'd be ever so grateful.

I'd show her that. She'd know that I was grateful.

━━━

Her nails are red.

A scarlet red that doesn't age her but brightens her in a way that feels almost intimidating. Scarlet red.

My senses are being attacked every which way. From voices bouncing across the food hall, the lighting is unpleasantly bright, but at least they're yellow, and not a medical white. Circular, almost 'rustic' tables scatter across the glossy, wood flooring, and breakfast announces itself in audible chews and cutlery clanking.

My head is pounding, and I have also come to the unnerving conclusion that I truly despise change. As everyone around me - the kids conversing quite happily, despite it being around seven in the morning - and the teachers at the sitting around me.

Apparently, adults don't eat breakfast. At least, it feels like an unspoken fact that everyone simply abides by. We drink coffee and complain about whether our night medications had worked or not last night, and which kids had to be taken out of certain rooms due to noise complaints or fights.

My hands are empty though, folded against the table, one rubbing across my forehead as I take in a discomforted breath.

"Stanislav- do you want sugar with your coffee?"

There is a voice among the rest, adding to the unkempt orchestra of what's to be one of the most overstimulating environments. I don't look up, as I can't, even moving my eyes shoots pain through my skull.

"Yes-"

"With milk, or without-"

"This time, yes-"

"Lactose-free, or soy-"

"No- just- whatever is in the coffee pot- I don't care. Get me whatever is there-"

My voice is sharpened in a particularly bitter, demanding form that snaps my mind back to reality, only after whom I have spoken so harshly to, is gone.

Shit.

I am frustrated, and I pinpoint that to be by the core issue at hand. I am tired, my painkillers have done nothing, and I'd quite like to simply go home and take a proper shower in my proper home, away from these people wearing clothes too casual for what I am used to.

At least Katya is attending to the morning activities with a group of students across camp. I cannot bear the thought of listening to her this early in the morning. More than I have to, anyway.

The table around me takes in a tense silence, and I silently curse myself for the mistake of coming off as so human to those I don't wish to be seen as vulnerable in any form around.

Especially for snapping at another teacher I am sure is only attempting to be accommodating to me. My head is kept down, eyes lightly tracing across the wood indents and circular markings organically laced through the glossy wood of the table.

And as the sudden, thick scent of hot coffee flourishes through my senses and comes up through bursts of steamed heat from a white mug placed before me, do I truly curse myself.

Enveloping the mugs porcelain is scarlet red nails, tendons loosening and disappearing under the skin of her hand once she lets go. I so suddenly feel nauseous, and self-deprecating anger directed only to myself.

Now she thinks I'm an angry prick in the morning who talks to people like shit.

But as I listen to the chair beside me draw back with a soft creak, her body lowering into it - she is smiling.

Just in the same manner I cannot quite identify, as when she had smiled at me when she provided medical aid.

She smiles, eyes so gently tracing over the now-healed scar drawn under my eye.

I tense, swallowing as I feel my back retract and neck straighten.

"Someone's in a certain... mood, this morning,"

She humours, speaking with a soft laugh - like a giggle, almost - through her tone that shows there to be no harm caused, yet I count the seconds her pupils sit upon mine.

Anything beyond four to five seconds is considered 'too long' for eye contact. She's hit six seconds, before she exhales, throat shifting with a swallow and her hands nursing her own cup which she has taken a preference for tea, this morning.

I am both thrilled and guilt-ridden, yet perplexed and nauseated.

She enables this upon me and she is to blame, but I am not a childish man, as I know I am the one responsible for my own feelings.

But she smiled as she handed me coffee, as I had unknowingly snapped at her, making unkind demands that would surely cause offence.

And I am perplexed.

Yet I know there is something of a tendril seeping within the back of my mind, considering to if it were her own attempts of easing what she thought would be a rigid morning, or if, in again - unkind terms,

If she is what many could refer it to be - a 'doormat'.

I'd like to hope not. I don't wish to think of her in such a way.

Yet I also consider one other option I have so deeply buried within myself. As it's something I wouldn't exactly insinuate or outwardly mention.

There is no way to say it, but it can be felt. For how she speaks of me, to me. For this one instance -

There is something of a dynamic sprouting within soil watered by every little thing held between us.

Everything.

And the thought excites me.

It does.

I am not going to feign honesty and express that the way she has spoken to me does not thrill me to my core.

Because it does.

And those words are from her, and she, is the subject of my desires. Her chest-lifting breaths and intelligent mind, scent and body. My living and existing subject of what I am left besotted by, even as she is not aware.

But I am a man of fluctuating feelings and morals, as she leaves me bending them for her.

And I would never continue to feed into something like this - even if I am simply delusional for thinking it - I wouldn't risk it either way.

Nonetheless, I do. And I am. Because I am an unkind man at heart, and that is what is seeming to change the air between us.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

Despite how poorly I had spoken to her, she seems as sociable with me as usual. At least - when she feels comfortable speaking with me.

Which is selective for her, as whether she speaks to me or not is either dictated by work necessity, or if Katya is hovering around me. I don't blame her either way. I wish she'd remain by me as if she were tethered, but that's me being delusional.

The coffee provided by her is happily downed, though taken in slow sips to draw out as much time as I have with her. The sun has made an appearance for the first time this week - just as she has now begun to speak to me more casually over this camp.

The sun glitters within the textured glass lined by its wood trim, running streams of speckled highlights across her arm and the curvature of her ear, catching in the white of her eye. And when she speaks, I thank whatever deity had possessed her to take the time out of her day - especially after I had spoken to her in such an unkind fashion earlier - to continue speaking to me.

She's smiling, even. Nursing her white mug within her hand, a crossed leg under the table. She's dressed for the weather, though under the respect of both being professional, yet casual enough for this setting.

And I sit, and I bask in it.

I bask as I have over and over, and I seem to, and I will, until the day I pass.

I watch her.

The way she speaks, the crinkle lines in each corner of her eye, the way her face shifts to her expressions, the way she blinks once, then twice, then not once, for a lengthy moment of thought.

And I bask in it.

She's been on auto-play, so casually dissecting her own mind, her thoughts, laying them upon the table for me to indulge in freely. My body keeps fluctuating between hot and cold flushes, especially for the times she meets my own, unmoved gaze.

Within the minutes of her sitting beside me, holding a mug she's only sipped twice, leaving a faint lip print against the porcelain rim, she speaks to me as if there is nobody else here to fixate on.

I am a privileged man in this moment, and I savour that.

For her attention is paid to me, and I hoard it like a selfish billionaire. As I allow myself to be selfish, when it comes to her. My mind is blurred, and she taints it, she overwhelms it. As she always does.

I need relief, yet relief never finds me. My teeth sink into my tongue, deepening, until I taste blood coating my mouth.

Not enough.

"...I'm sorry- also,"

I hesitate, watching her face as she blinks, head turning as if she's waiting for me to elaborate.

"I've been having a rough morning- I never meant to speak to you so poorly, I didn't even know you were behind me,"

I run my thumb and index finger against the inner corners of my tired eyes, rubbing them as her gaze lingers. She inhales, glancing down, up again.

"It's quite alright- I didn't mind it,"

Her voice quietens as she glances to the chattering teachers beyond, who we are sitting with, who are occupied within their own mindless morning mingling.

My stomach tightens, and I exhale as I remain firm.

"But it isn't- I don't want you to believe it's simply 'alright' for me to speak to you like that. Or- anyone- any man-"

"That's not how I see it, Stanislav,"

She says my name-

"But it can be taken that way- ordering you around in such a manner, as an older man-"

"You are having a rough morning, no?"

She reminds,

"And to think- most of these people are incompetent- they wouldn't know what to do with an instruction if it was written down for them."

She laughs, before quietening once more.

"I can take an instruction, that's how I learn. And it's not going to kill me if you're a touch... firmer."

I am silent.

"...Firmer."

I echo. She stares for so long my blood runs hot and aches down my stomach, settling across my thighs.

"I'm telling you, Stanislav. I don't mind it if you're firmer with me. Just as you were when you had told me how to address you, to you're liking. Just as you were this morning."

She reiterates, my hands clammy within the leather that encompasses them, my breathing attempting to grow audible for how heavy it's beginning to become.

She's looking at me and I am both nauseous and utterly besotted, she's looking at me with her lashes overhanging her irises, and the pounding of my headache breaks down into something of a tender thudding.

Blood thrums through me rapidly, waves rippling down my stomach, as I become so acutely aware of my physical fervour. My depravity.

My heart is thudding, and I feel as though I am going to regurgitate my coffee. I can feel my hands twitching. Borderline shaking as I attempt to leave them occupied, to have them hold my empty mug.

I don't think I've felt like this in a long time.

Not to this intensity.

I can't get up.

Maybe she knows that. Maybe she doesn't.

I don't know. I can't think.

My hand runs down my face - even my skin is hot, my mind caked in such a heated fuzz that what she's saying fizzes behind my thoughts.

"That's- I don't know what you mean, Mrs L/N-"

"I always took you for an assured man- very organised; you know what you want,"

"I am- I do,"

My voice is strained, hoarse.

"I always liked that about you,"

I am going to throw up-

My elbow meets the table as I rest my jaw and mouth against the palm of my hand, feeling the quick, hot breaths of my exhales against my glove. My other hand is adjusting the fabric of my slacks under the table, with the inability to sit still-

"I always liked a self-assured man- very headstrong, in control,"

"I don't have control-"

"...No- I believe you do- maybe not at home, as I suspect..."

She's insinuating to Katya, I know it. She's not a stupid woman, and I never took her for one.

"But at work- I've never once perceived you any other way- you can be very authoritative,"

I wonder what she would think if she knew how I felt right now. How the things she says make me feel, and what they do to me.

Because I know how it makes me feel.

I know my body is writhing in all sorts of endorphins, testosterone, dopamine and an intense amount of Oxytocin. I know I can barely breathe, nor think. I know my slacks are too tight, and I am profusely sweating.

This is verbal foreplay.

This is what it feels like, and it is so in-between us; those around think this is a normal conversation.

They don't know how I feel.

Maybe she doesn't either.

Her brows begin to knit, face shifting into something of worry, maybe perplexion.

"You look hot- is it warm in here for you...?"

She reaches, nails gliding across my forehead as I almost retract from shock, but I am unmoved, and my skin is set aflame.

Too much-

Way too much-

The stimulation - small, yet ultimately powerful, runs down my neck and revolves deep in my stomach in the most sickeningly visceral way-

I blink rapidly, overwhelmed, and I am quick to remove her wrist - despite how much I want her to touch me.

I want her to touch me. I do.

I want her.

But not like this. Speaking is one thing.

Touching in this setting- is too much. Too much for public perception.

Too much for my body to handle.

"Don't-"

I hiss-

Her wrist is tugged away by my grasp, her eyes flickering wide as my force draws her touch away. Now she looks a touch shocked, maybe offended. Guilt steals upon my senses, and I try to soften my strained voice.

"I'm sorry- I- just can't right now,"

I barely speak, barely articulate myself. I sound nonsensical and senseless, and I see her even stand to follow me as I step away from the table.

"Stanislav- If I made you uncomfortable-"

The hall is already packing up, breakfast so luckily ceasing as I grab my coat sat by the table, everything within me cursing myself for how I've let myself end up in such a physical state. How I've pushed away what I want, how apologetic she sounded.

I'm not uncomfortable. I wasn't. I never was.

I felt amazing. Overwhelmed, nauseous, but amazing.

Just that - the way she spoke to me, was a drug. Euphoric.

But I cannot bear admitting I'm an addict, and I know the withdrawals I am to feel as soon as I leave her vicinity.

Because I am hit with it as soon as I step outside, the warm air fading off as the clouds conceal the sun, slow droplets of rain beginning to patter against the dirt I'm walking across, struggling to ease my heartbeat and process everything that just occurred.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

𝘼/𝙉 - 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨/𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚'𝙨/𝘿𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝘿𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝘼𝙗𝙪𝙨𝙚/𝙎𝙚𝙭𝙪𝙖𝙡 𝘼𝙗𝙪𝙨𝙚.

𝘼/𝙉 - 𝙄𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨, 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘼𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙚/𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 !

𝘼/𝙉 - 𝙄𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙙𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙗𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙨/𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙪𝙚𝙨, 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙘 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙤𝙣'𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚'𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩 ! <3

- 𝙝𝙩𝙩𝙥𝙨://𝙣𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮.𝙤𝙧𝙜/

-https://lila.help/

━━━

I'm locking myself away.

I am caving myself in as the door behind me is weighed by my back pressed against it, the lock turned. My shirt is uncomfortable, the cotton sticking to my back and chest as I so hurriedly fumble with the fabric.

Leather gloves tossed against the marble sink counter within the en-suite of my private room, the white, almost medical lighting does little to soften how my features appear in the bathroom mirror.

In fact, it makes it worse.

My stress and recent, constant waves of migraines and fluctuating emotions have taken a toll on my body. My skin is pale - more so than usual. The purple coated under my eyes is some of the only colours brought to my face.

At least my eyes remain the same unnerving, blue vibrancy I am often addressed for. My lashes are of the darkest tone, just as my brows are, sharp and arched by my constant frowning. My face still faintly smells of aftershave, the skin across my jaw and neck smooth from recent shaving.

I trace my features within the mirror as my hands brace themselves by the sides of the sink, half hunched over. My chest is still heaving. Skin that feels disgustingly coated in a sheen of sweat that only accentuates the shape of my bare torso.

Beyond the tone of my physique I have become so critical about myself for the past year to keep in shape, all I can see are the discoloured, bruised patches tainting my skin. Reminders of abuse I dismiss to spare my masculinity.

I feel my face tighten in a scowl, running my bare hands up my face, through my now-damp hair. This same routine I take in for every moment of emotional intensity.

Only this time, I am not locked within this bathroom as I have for the past hour out of being distraught or angry. Not like this. Not now.

This is different, and I am struggling to process this fact.

What I am feeling now, within this environment and routine I've conditioned myself within, is the complete opposite of what I usually feel.

This feels wrong. I am an adaptable man. It's on my resume.

But this is a type of feeling I don't quite know how to take in.

My chest continuously rises and falls, my blood heated, thrumming through my body at a constant pace. Any saliva within my mouth has dried off, leaving my throat so parched that cotton-mouth plagues me.

If I can barely handle speaking to her, how am I to handle the hypothetical scenario of any form of genuine relationship with her.

I sicken myself for my depravity, yet it's unbridled beyond my shame.

I am crumbled, my dignity dispossessed and my soul stripped from me. That is what it feels like. Every single day. Whenever I catch her scent, or share even the slightest reciprocated glance.

And knowing that there is only a wall separating what's to be our sleeping figures for the rest of this week has polluted any sense of tranquillity within me.

I am having a panic attack over a woman.

At least I have the will to admit this. I could be pathetic enough to deny it, but i'm not. I am having a panic attack.

Over a woman.

But at least this is a woman I want. Need.

Love. Deeply. In the rawest form a man could be in love with a woman.

Thinking that makes me panic even more.

I can't breathe.

Katya isn't speaking to me.

At least I am quite thrilled about that.

I know she's had her attention taken by her class and the work around her.

In fact - I've barely seen her this entire camp. Maybe a distant sight of her supervising an activity group by the forestry humbly surrounding the property, but not much else.

I'd much rather that, than have her helicopter me.

As far as she stands to me, she is only what pain she has caused me.

She brings pain. She delivers it, and she cannot bring anything else.

There is nothing human about that woman, besides her skin and flesh. Her skin and flesh that's pressed against mine with grit and friction so painful, forcibly placed upon me during the moments of my lowest stability.

Where my mind was overrun with melancholy and anti-depressants had become a medical suggestion, was when this occurred the most.

And I felt,

I felt,

I had felt.

Too much,

With no restrictions.

Where she had taken what were to be moments of bonding - in any general context, and contorted them by her anger and pride, and I had felt the bedsheet's under me chafe my back, my inner thighs burning in pain.

And my mind was lost, as I was stationary.

As I had felt, that if I had pushed her off, made any marks upon her - I would be the abusive one. There is nothing in me that feels inclined to harm a woman.

Even in defence.

And that's left me bruised by her hands so many times, as I would sit, and my silence echoed through my body.

The only times I had feared that it compromised my masculinity, were when I'd first met her.

Her.

Mrs L/N.

I remember that.

━━━

I remember it, so crystal clearly.

Clearer, as if I were vision-impaired beforehand, and I were gifted glasses.

Being the coldest month of the year within the states, the heaters were on full blast, and those who had to run classes that were across the school grounds spoke of leaving the teachers' lounge as if venturing out to a winter-coated hell.

And it was.

Every surface was utterly sodden by soaked rain sinking through shoes, dampening socks and souls.

Each breath was visible, clouds of grey hung low and often dropped waterfalls of rain over the passing hours.

Katya was hung up within the principal's office for her early-year scandal that leaked across the campus - the basketball team had found their Physical Education teacher taking much time out of his day, simply 'conversing' with Katya within her classroom.

And it wasn't simply 'conversing', as anyone with common sense understands that there is absolutely no need for the Physical Education staff to be within that side of the school grounds. They hold no authority there, nor classes, nor scheduled visits to where her classroom was located.

Especially - the dynamic was strange. Katya is pretty, in the way a woman conventionally can be. Generically, at least. Tall and skinny and triangular, brows drawn arched and shiny legs.

I never held much of a bond with the Physical Education teacher - Mr Rort. David Rort.

I had reported him plenty of times for his unnecessary need to enter the girls' locker rooms whilst they'd be periodically changing, and his closeness with my wife, though much of what was reported was diminished by the start of the year.

I couldn't give a shit if he were talking to my wife. That's nothing of my concern.

But the kids - the girls, that was my main priority of concern.

He, out of retaliation, entered my classroom as soon as my psych kids had been dismissed, with the whiteboard-wipe in my hand, rubbing off my handwriting.

What was I to think with no preparation for what was to come-

Just like mine, his hair was the darkest of black, though, older than I, it was already receding in a truly unflattering form. A dark coating of a 4 o'clock shadow ran across his particularly rounded face, and it almost seemed like he didn't have eyelashes. Only dark eyes brimmed with straight, full brows.

I always mentally recalled how damp he seemed to look.

Despite being the Physical Education teacher and main co-ordinator, even in the mornings, he seemed coated in a grease, his pink forehead glossy enough for me to catch my reflection.

I suppose I am being quite cruel here. But I am not going to sugarcoat what I recall of the known 'creepy teacher' who was known for eyeing teenage girls, and shoulder-rubbing with the female teachers.

Like - my wife.

He was a short, stubby man. Reminded me of my thumb. Thin, yet pudgy lips. When he smiled, it made his cheeks crease all too much.

I didn't know it yet-

Even the teachers avoided him like the plague. He smelt of cigarettes, sweat, and an old, peeling, leather sofa.

He had entered my classroom, accusing me of attempting to destroy his career, confusing me to be something of a 'pompous-fuck and a compulsive liar'.

Though I don't deny that I do in fact have self-respect, but if that is 'pompous' in his eyes, I'd like to see what arrogance is to him.

But a compulsive liar?

I had stated what he was doing, the things the girls within my class were speaking of in huddled whispers.

There was a new scent lining the air - a trail-

That is all.

Though I was unmoved. It, to me, is amusing now.

Only as I had exited that classroom, he had decided it'd be necessary to follow me all the way across the school grounds, up to the teachers' lounge, yelling all sorts of profanities whilst assuring me that 'I should be lucky' for him not hitting me for what I've done.

That was one of my favourite parts of the entire ordeal.

I know my body, I know my strength. And for a man like him - who felt the need to proclaim how strong he is, and how 'easy' it'd be for him to knock me out, rather than actually trying, speaks volumes to me.

Nevertheless, I felt pity. I didn't entertain his inflated ego - as he felt so big and manly, verbally announcing his anger and wishes to get violent for me 'staining' his reputation.

She was grinning ear-to-ear, brimming with excitement about how unfamiliar this new job was-

Rain was pattering against the school windows, glass grainy, its texture shifting under the water, the students around the halls glancing with confusion for the stubby teacher scuttling behind me, calling me names.

I can remember the students sharing confused glances, some almost laughing, some quieting with trepidation - no student knows how to behave when teachers are not behaving in an orderly manner.

I didn't hold it against them.

And she was so, very, close-

Counting my steps, I could see the distance from me, to the teachers' lounge doorway. I'd reach there, have a coffee, and maybe edit the curriculum dates for test preparation.

That didn't sound half bad, actually.

But that seemed like a distant hope, when the seagull of a man was screeching, attempting to berate me for doing my job.

And with the turn of a corner, I had watched three women. One - the Biology teacher, Miss Morell, another - the senior co-ordinator, and-

My eyes had so sharply turned right.

We were parallel.

Me walking upwards, her walking down.

But I had looked, and I had looked so sharply, my face contorted.

My stomach tightened so intensely that I had tasted stomach acid.

I had seen a woman who brought the sun through the clouds and caught its golden rays against her skin.

I had seen a woman who, for that moment, looked at me.

Really looked at me.

She had taken note of my face - her eyes that indulged upon my features, lowered across my long-sleeve, down past my overcoat and slacks, down to the leather of my gloves.

She stared, only to look back up to my eyes, and she smiled at me.

I had never felt such heat and interest and fascination and nausea and awe and every single hormonal rush slam through me the way it did then.

It was comparable to taking the first hit of any drug.

It was everything - that's what I instantly thought of who she was.

Everything.

Everything I wanted to view within my slumber and wake up to, everything to become of me.

And she did.

Just as she did then, and just as she is now, where every feeling she's ever provided, has been anything but pain.

When I breathe her scent - it is my air.

And when she speaks to me, it is my reason for existing.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

My departure was unwarranted - the butterfly effect it caused truly a displeasure.

Now, as I have bottled myself within my private room for most of the day, unable to face what's outside these walls, I have had plentiful staff members come to the door.

Knock- knock- knock-

A repeating sound, reminding me of what deep shit I'll be in with my co-workers for disappearing right before camp activities. Where I was meant to be supervising my group.

I've provided no answers; they are most likely mumbling justifications for my behaviour by the fact that I am both higher within my position than they, and well-respected. I know it - which is why I'm not so entirely fearful of the consequences.

Though, my skin is beginning to burn from how long I have stood within this shower.

The rain of hot water splatters across my skin, leaving reddened patches up my shoulders and back. The pain relieves me as each exhale brings me seconds of peace.

Only to be replaced by inhaling the thick steam that's become a sauna around me, my black locks glued to my forehead and neck, I feel the muscles laced under my skin flex in discomfort to any faint temperature change amongst the fluctuating use of the water pipes across the camp.

My forehead is numb, skin pressed against the white tiles before me, as I have held back the need to repeatedly slam my skull against the ceramic. If I could, if I had the motivation to remind myself I have free will, I would.

Maybe it'd replace the tender migraine still lingering at the back of my eyes.

I'd hope it'd fuck up something in me, maybe some nerve damage, and let me collapse in this shower cube.

I'm just frustrated.

With myself.

And I have considered every single way I could approach her about this. About the way in which she had spoken to me, and if I'd feign being unaffected by it. But that - boiled down, would be me simply lying to her.

And that is not the way.

Not the way I wish to be perceived by her.

As I'd like to hope she sees my emotions in the ways only I do. Nothing else. No riddles or obstacles to get there.

And I stop myself there, when I think those words.

My skull pulses, blood thrumming as my body is sensory-deprived by the constant waves of water pouring down my limbs.

I stop myself there.

Wait- I wait.

I dissect my thoughts.

This woman,

It's breaking me.

In every way a woman unknowingly can break a man such as I. She is tearing my mind apart, making me think of her in ways that leave me perceiving her as already aware.

Already within my hold.

Because she doesn't see my emotions in the ways I do. She isn't mine to know me in the ways I want her to. She was never my woman to begin with.

She is breaking me, and the evidence paints itself to every single time I have thought of her as someone so genuine within my relationships. As if I had pre-conceived a relationship with her to begin with.

But what does it matter.

I am a willing participant within this psychosis.

A man of sinful indulgence.

Forever, as I am, as I always will be. An unkind man. A selfish man.

━━━

Only as the night blooms, illuminating the sky with only the brightness of the moon and stars, do ripples of tranquillity finally bless me.

I have become aware of how refreshed my skin feels, as I had basically isolated myself within the shower square for over an hour. My hair is still damp, loose strings of black glued against my skin as I had run a towel through it.

Sleepwear for me has simply become sweatpants and loose shirts, though it fluctuates by the weather.

My feet sit bare, though the carpet provides enough comfort. Any time I had visited one of these camps, I brought a candle. Wood and spice scented. It helps me find familiarity - as it smells like home.

Despite how horrible home truly is.

It's also greater lighting than what feels like sterile-white lamps. Absolutely not to my taste.

At least it's been lit atop of the bedside table for the past half-hour, enough of its scent circulating to distract me from this morning. My feet step into a pair of black sweatpants, sliding the waistband over my boxers. Only as I begin tugging the top sheet of the bed downwards for me to climb into-

There is precisely-

Two knocks at the door.

And I still.

My body instantly grows taut, paused in motion as my eyes dart to the faintly highlighted doorway by the candlelight.

It's too late for anyone to be at the door.

Nobody should be at the door.

Especially at this hour. It's past 10 pm at night. I am not scheduled for night-watch, and there is no suspicion of an emergency.

My face already tightens into a faint scowl, glancing for the nearest shirt as I approach the door, unable to find any rogue fabric to coat my torso.

Who gives a shit- I'm already at the door-

The dim hallway lights suddenly drown my doorway, my arm unnecessarily jerking it open a touch harsher than premeditated.

"What-"

I feel my throat almost instantly tighten, saliva flooding into my mouth as my stomach threatens me.

Fuck.

My back instantly straightens, shoulders rolling back as the mixed feelings of sudden exposure and every intense, overwhelming feeling slams over me, my skin prickling harshly.

My eyes are wide, incredibly so, looking downwards as I see her, seeing me.

Her.

She is in satin. Sleepwear.

Oh god.

This feels incorrect - as if I am seeing her in a state that isn't real. Or downright breaching business-casual perception.

I believe she is seeing me in the exact same state.

As her gaze flicks upwards - as I have nothing coating my torso, then downwards in widened shock, blinking rapidly.

I feel vulnerable. As if I am under a microscope. I am being viewed by her in a way I was never prepared for.

I never thought she'd see me in such a state.

"I- I can come back another time if-"

She begins-

"What- why are you at my door-"

There is no bite in my words; I'm overwhelmed, my throat is tight, my words are hoarse. I'm intimidated yet salivating.

She doesn't know where to look, as she stares down at the side, back to her feet, up to the light fixture by the door. And only when she hesitates to meet my gaze directly, do I see her pupils so inconspicuously flick back down to my skin.

My heart is slamming against my chest, my ribs literally aching in pain as my head turns from left to right out the doorway.

Checking for people, checking for those who may have caught an interaction they shouldn't have witnessed.

The halls are dark, the night weighing upon the hours where those around are sound asleep. Unaware.

And something seeps into my blood, pulsating through my mind, complicating me.

My morals and ethics.

As she is to blame. Always.

She's looking at me. Waiting.

"...I wanted to speak with you, Stanislav. About this morning... if I may."

Her words are barely levelled beyond a mumble.

Even she knows this isn't the way we should conduct ourselves socially.

But she has approached me.

Me.

To my door.

Wishing to speak to me.

Looking at me.

.

.

.

"...Get inside."

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

Darkness encompasses us.

My senses are blinded. My mind is in ruins.

The candle's fire flickers, bending, curving to the shift in the air. Illuminating us in flickers of warmth, sparks of its burning glow. As she stands before me, closing the door with gentle ease.

And we, are alone.

Alone.

In a way to where there is nothing to suspect us.

In a way where no eyes could possibly seek us out. No cameras.

Nothing.

She's looking at me. Her lips part to speak, though sit unmoved to her own hesitance. Even she knows this is not a situation to jest with. The feeling is completely and utterly mutual.

My brows are furrowed, words unspoken, the air heavy in warmth and tension unlabelled. I could call it fear. Apprehension. Possibly discomfort, for seeing each other in such states of dress.

This isn't what's to be expected. Us in such states. I understand.

She is alone, in the private room of her male co-worker.

There is nothing to justify this, and I know that if this is exposed to open eyes, she will be reprimanded, as she is the woman in this situation.

I have the power in this room.

I can dictate what occurs and what doesn't. Especially in her solitude. And if she did report my misconduct?

The principal, those around her, would pay no mind. They didn't when the Physical Education teacher was leering at the female students and getting much too comfortable with Katya.

And they wouldn't now.

But I am not the Physical Education teacher.

I am not that man. So what occurs between her and me, I must take into account with great care.

She's wearing satin. She smells like her shampoo and moisturiser. Clean. She's showered recently. She makes me sick in the best way I could ever experience.

The wind brushes against the windows, the surrounding forestry dancing against the breeze. Leaves rustling, the night wraps us in its quiet hold.

Everyone left to rest, to dream, but us, left in the reality of this scenario.

"...Why... are you here. Why were you there. At my door."

My words sound harsh - I'd never mean to speak to her so poorly. My feelings are erratic, having me attempting to manage them as my formalities are neglected. I'm tired, but I'm restless. I don't know.

I watch her chest rise as she inhales, the glow of the candlelight wrapping against the satin hugging her. I have to look away, as I feel my skin prickle almost instantly at the sight.

She shifts her weight from one side to the other, her words strangely sugary.

"...How is you're migraine coming along now...? I spoke to some of the teachers- they said it's common for you, it must be-"

"That's besides the question, Mrs L/N."

And her words cease. The sugarcoating is quick to be brushed away - I don't stand for it.

Her face shifts, softening into something more real. That's better.

"I... I seem to have guilt- I'd never think to drive you away; I made you uncomfortable at breakfast this morning,"

My brows narrow faintly, the black hairs sharpening into straight lines against the crinkles against the bridge of my sharp nose.

"Is that so...?"

I mumble. She seems prompted to speak more. I happily indulge in the feast she provides - her perspective. Her mind. I feast.

"Quite so,"

She assures, continuing,

"You're wife- Katya... had been asking for you; you hadn't left this building all day. I couldn't say anything, as I felt like I was to blame,"

My mood spoils.

"I-"

I breathe in harshly, rubbing my face with my palm,

"I don't care about Katya- okay? And no. No, no, no."

My hands shake dismissively.

"I'm in here on my own accord. You did not drag me into this room and lock me in here."

"I know- but I think I had pushed you're boundaries-"

And something bristles within me.

"Mrs L/N- stop. Just-"

I inhale sharply,

"Stop."

I exhale. Her head lowers faintly, chin shifting down in a moment of not submission, but acknowledgement. She's quiet, her hands languidly held in her lap as she stands.

Now it's much too quiet. But I need to collect my thoughts. Reconsider what I want to say, and how to go about this.

But - it is much harder than it looks.

Especially as I am still reeling over the fact that she is standing so close to me. In my room. Just her and I.

Stop.

I need to stop.

I take another moment to myself.

"...Do you take me for a fool, Mrs L/N."

It's not exactly a question.

I don't know what she was wishing to gain, as she spoke to me in such a manner in such a public setting. I don't know if she knows of how it made me feel. Maybe she does. Maybe that's why she behaved that way in the first place.

Having me react in such a way.

Both mortifying, and emotionally troubling.

Her head shifts, tilted to the side almost with a softened, questioning glance.

"I believe you know I think quite highly of you, Stanislav,"

She reminds.

"Do you now?"

"Quite so."

She assures.

My face tightens in emotional turmoil, frustration. Confusion.

"You spoke to me in a manner in which made me feel as though you take me for one."

"A fool?"

"A fool. Yes."

"May I ask how you came to that conclusion from what I said, Stanislav?"

And as soon as I am put on the spot, all of which occurred this morning seems to disappear from my memory. I blink rapidly, my chest huffing in irritation as I struggle to speak, words stuttering back.

She's staring, waiting for my response.

"Telling me to be firmer. Talking up to me. I'm not a naive man- and I don't believe you are aware of how speaking like that to others can make them think or feel."

And something weaves through her sight. As she takes me in, her lips so softly parting, resting in that manner. Something in her gaze makes me stiffen, my muscles growing visibly taut against the orange glow of the candlelight burning spice into the air.

"...And how did the way in which I spoke to you make you feel...? because I had never wished for it to affect you enough to have you stay in here the entire day,"

"But it did."

"And why is that? I had simply offered you my contentment for being more forward with me if needed. And - am I not allowed to hold admiration for you...? If this is about you're wife-"

"No- Katya has nothing to do with this. No-"

"If you thought me speaking to you in such a way would upset her-"

"I don't tell her what you say to me. I don't speak to her. End of story."

I state firmly.

"I was only attempting to be assuring- I feel as though there might be some miscommunication right now-"

Her tone smooths, as if she is pondering the entire situation at hand. My jaw tightens, a sharp breath leaving my nostrils.

"I... Mrs L/N- I just don't think it be best for you to speak like that. With both of us married- It can be taken the wrong way-"

And her brows flick upwards, raised to where her eyelids expose the whites of her orbs much more than before.

There is silence.

And I crumble.

My stomach tightens, as the air does also. It thickens, something thrumming through my body at a pace so fast I cannot brace myself.

Something has changed.

Something.

Shit.

Why,

The fuck,

Did I say that.

A wave of fridgedness slams over me, as if a bucket of ice-water has poured against my skin, every hair across he expanse of my neck standing straight.

"...Stanislav- did... did you take what I said- did you think... I was flirting with you?"

She enquires with such shocked disturbance, her entire body has gone tight. It's as if she's holding her breath, and the self-deprecating anger within me revs to life.

At a constant, torturous rate, my mind repeats-

Why the fuck did I say that-

Over, and over again. A broken, shameful record.

My jaw is unhinged, the choked sound of 'I-' leaving me, only to be cut off as any form of justification, argument, or explanation ceases to exist.

She's looking off, her lashes batting to anywhere but me as her mind seems to be in just as much turmoil as mine, my heart unbridled, slamming against my ribs.

But-

There is no benefit in denying what she is already aware of.

I took her words wrong; I placed them within a tone that was not originally for what she meant. I cannot take back what my mind had conjured.

Of course, I'd like to believe what she said was within such a provocative tone.

She is the woman I would much rather be married to.

I need to breathe.

Breathe.

"...Well- what am I to think?"

My words are harsher than I'd like. I don't mean to speak this way. But she does something to me that makes my jurisdiction over my own behaviour too loose to control.

Her gaze flutters back up to me, that original shock and perplexion dissipating as I can feel her intrigue from here.

At least she's not leaving. Leaving this room. She's standing. Listening to me.

That must mean something.

Something.

"What am I to think, huh...? I am married to a she-demon with no prenuptial agreement. I am married to a woman who you know- and I know you know, is abusive, and the one good thing I know is real, is another woman I work with. You. I don't think you understand how appalling of a situation this is for me."

Everything leaves me with no control-

"I have to go to bed, and wake up with that woman by the bounds of a marriage only meant for financial comfort and the coercion of our families. I don't love that woman. She doesn't love me. But I get to see you. I get to see you every day, and that has been enough for me."

I cannot read her expression, and I cannot control my own words.

I cannot control this, myself, my emotions.

"I don't get a choice. I don't have control over that woman. I don't feel like a real man with that woman, Mrs L/N."

Her eyes are at a constant flicker, bouncing against my features.

"You make me feel like a real man. You speak to me as if I am. So my apologies for taking you're words in a way that was led by my own personal wishes- in fact- I'm sorry for all of this- report me if need be. I don't care. Tell you're husband at home everything I've said."

My words are hissed, spoken more to myself than to her. My anger and restraint and energy were worn, my mind drained. Every pump of my blood reminding me of the adrenaline this has induced.

What she always induces.

Only now,

She is knowing.

There is silence.

I count her breaths.

Each rise of her chest, each shift of the candlelight against her skin. She's looking at me.

Really looking at me.

And she speaks, after a silence drawn so long, I forgot we were even alive in this moment.

.

.

.

"...Stanislav...?"

I stare.

I take in her scent. Voice. How who we are is now permanently altered. Reshapen by my hands.

"...Yes, Mrs L/N."

"...I'm not married, Stanislav."

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- STANISLAV / MR DOSTOEVSKY -

━━━

.

.

.

"...Excuse me...?"

I don't know how to define how I feel.

I don't know what's the most appropriate way to express the toxic concoction whirling through me. My mind, my stomach, my limbs.

Hot and cold waves rush over my skin, my body so tense, every muscle across my body is flexed.

She seems to be searching for the words she is wishing to speak, fingers fidgeting amongst each other in a hesitant dance of social trepidation.

"...I'd only begun receiving promotions within my work once I'd listed my title as 'Mrs', Stanislav. Nobody respects a woman who isn't seen to have as much stability and long-term success than a married woman."

She continues.

"All you need is one title. 'Mister'. Because respect doesn't vary for a man, married or not. But it does for a woman."

She exhales, face tightened with displeasure, disappointment. My stomach curdles, a frown deepening against my lips.

"The patriarchy is unforgiving."

I breathe out,

"That, it is,"

Her lips press firmly into a thin line of mental frustration.

"Miss... L/N,"

I taste the title, inspecting it quietly,

"...Y/N. Just as you are Stanislav to me. Y/N to you."

That's better.

"Y/N."

Perfect. Stable. Almost tangible.

Y/N.

Y/N- Y/N- Y/N- Y/N- Y/N-

Over, and over-

There it is. With her permission, in my mind, in my soul. On my tongue, dancing upon my senses.

Her name is a temptress, giving me a reason to need more.

Her name is all I need.

There is something in the glaze of her eyes once I murmur her name.

"...There is no other man, Stanislav."

She barely whispers out, and my chest sets ablaze.

There is no other man.

I am breathing fire and my skull thrums. My blood pumps, writhing through my body. I cannot breathe. The candle's spice mixed with her scent flutters over my senses, the quiet breeze passing against the window.

"...Why are you telling me this..."

I force the words out, her head shifting as our tones are met. Our tones are equal. Shuddered and whispered into the taboo laced through the air between us.

I know why she is telling me this.

But I don't want to simply jump to conclusions.

I simply want to hear it from her tongue.

I want to hear her speak.

"...I...I don't know."

"I don't take you for a stupid woman, Y/N. I never did."

"...I know,"

"You're an English teacher. I'm sure you're able to articulate an explanation thorough enough for me to comprehend."

"I'm aware-"

"Then tell. Me."

I'm hasty.

I am selfish, and I am overindulging.

Especially for what she is offering me. Providing me.

Her gaze flutters up, her throat bobbing as she swallows.

"...For many times, I had taken into consideration the way we would speak to one another- how... personal it felt- and I could always swear it to be you looking at me-"

"So you knew-"

"I didn't want to make hollow assumptions-"

"You knew how I felt for you-"

"Is it so wrong that I wanted to enjoy it...? I don't have a husband, Stanislav- I don't have what my female co-workers have; They have partners who dote on them. I just wanted to feel like what I thought was real, was actually real,"

Her face shifts with pulses of guilt, self-deprecation. Every emotion I know all too well.

But I cannot help but soak in her words.

But this is something.

This is more than enough. This is everything I want. Need. Have lived for.

"And it is real. I'm telling you, it is, Y/N-"

My words lace with such imploring force, I am not even conscious of the fact that I am approaching her, most likely intimidating her.

Her body stiffens as she takes sharp steps back, barely whispering my name in anxiety that aches heat down my stomach.

The waves of her scent grow stronger for how much closer I am to her-

"You knew- You knew how I felt. That I'm quite fond of you, Y/N. More than fond."

"...I- I know-"

"No- you don't- you don't know even a percentage of what I have. What I have to give. As I am only a man. And this- you- are the only thing I have ever been so keen on,"

I sound absolutely insane. I know that. I can see the way she's attempting to digest my words. But she's here. She's standing before me, knowing the door is close. She could leave.

She knows that.

But she hasn't.

Her hair presses into the wall as I am looming so close- I can smell her shampoo. I can feel her body heat.

I'm shadowing over her, her body encompassed by me. Her chest rising and falling, shallow, eyes taking me in, though not with fear. Maybe it's the darkness. Maybe it's her senses.

Her pupils are dilated.

And she breathes out, her words whispered.

"...I've rejected men before. When I've been out- I've refused other men's attention-"

"For my attention,"

My words are hoarse, strained as she nods in a sort of bashful tone,

"...And- it makes you feel good- my attention,"

She cannot meet my gaze. Not an ounce of her can. Her breathing is uneven, and I only notice now how violently my hands are trembling.

She nods, another timid, but ultimately agreeing nod.

"...I'm not proud of having feelings for a married man,"

She uttered, her words seeping into my body and soul, my chest in flames, my heart pounding.

That's what I wanted.

This - this is my own moment of heaven.

My hand lifts to my other - the band wrapped around my ring finger as I rip it from my skin, the rounded indent pressed into my finger being the only evidence left of it as I place it on the drawer beside us.

It clinks, left as her brows shift upwards.

"That- what that thing represents- that is nothing to me. You know that. We both do."

Even speaking like this makes me feel euphoric. Even seeing her reciprocation. Her mutual emotions.

Her fervour.

I'm alive.

I am finally alive.

Because of this insatiable woman.

My ring-free hands hesitate, the veins laced under my arms pulsating as they rise by her arms.

I want to touch her. I want to feel her skin against my hands and take in her body heat and feel her blood pump and listen to her every breath-

She's taking in the sight of my hands. Considering. Contemplating. Not until she says the word. Makes an indication.

Not yet.

I don't beg. I don't plead.

My heart is pounding.

And I watch with great intent as she slides her hands up, up across my arms, touching my skin, giving me her physical permission.

My breath stutters, inhaling sharply to just her flesh against mine as my face creases in pleasure, feeling it ache across my body. My hands graze up her arms, her shoulders, basking in the softness of what's exposed.

What I have wanted for so long.

I feel it, bathe in her touch, bask in her warmth. I coat myself in her scent, merge my sensations with hers.

Tracing every line, every mark, every curve to my unbridled, besotted exhilaration.

"...I can give you attention. I can make you feel good. I want to make you feel good. With time- I can learn you- appreciate you, the way you want me to,"

She swallows, running her hands up by my elbows, fingers brushing over my skin, my forehead grazing over hers-

So close- all of this-

Too much-

Yet so, very good.

"...I did something wrong, didn't I- I should have told you- made it known that I knew-"

"This is enough- this is all I wanted, Y/N. I'm not going to reprimand a woman for simply wanting to be admired the way she should be,"

I persuade, her nails grazing across my skin as I run my nose down the side of her hair, breathing in her scent. I mentally track her hands, the way I feel her hand envelop the back of my neck, as if trying to draw me closer.

"...I never- I never thought you'd be like this-"

She whispers, my nose running across her ear, the sight of her neck arching back faintly, as if she is offering her skin being enough to drive a man into insanity.

"I couldn't have ever made it known,"

My words mingle against her neck, taking in her scent, breathing her in, as I so gently test her waters. Her boundaries and what she wants.

My lips graze against her neck, pressing a languid kiss against the innocence of her skin, and she inhales. A shaken inhale that makes her dig her nails into my neck, making me groan-

"Fuck-"

I pant into her skin, listening to her exhale-

"I've- I've been quite fond of you- since my first day at work-"

She murmurs,

"That's it-"

"I'd keep track of you're free periods- of when we'd be alone in the teachers' lounge together-"

"Uh-huh-"

My lips trace up across her neck, lining her jaw as I feel rippled shivers weave through her skin, my hands finding the sides of her neck as I angle her jaw-

"...There's- there's no other man, Stanislav,"

She reiterates, my eyes flaring, a choked breath taking me as I grunt,

"Is there just...?"

And recognition takes her.

"...Always been- there's always been you- the only man there,"

And an almost unsettlingly large smile steals upon me, a dangerous mixture of euphoria, exhilaration and need slamming through me-

My lips press against hers, her muffled hitch buried against my lips as I drown in her lips and adore her taste.

I'm alive.

This is what pulses life through me.

Our breaths mingle amongst each other, the warm mixture of passionate flesh pressing against each other filling the air.

I'd die without this.

If I had never felt this, I would surely die.

I've never felt so good in my life.

Her nails bore into the back of my neck, a hissed moan escaping me as my knuckles whiten, holding her neck close, as if I am trying to merge her with me.

In ways, I am.

If I could, I would.

She's kissing me back.

She's kissing me.

Once upon a time, I would be lucky if she passed a glance towards me once.

And now, she's pressed to the wall. She's touching me. Grabbing me. Kissing me. I resist searching, exploring her body. I resist touching what's below her shoulders. Not yet.

I adore this woman, I think.

I think that. Over and over.

I'd do anything for this woman, I think.

And she's kissing me as if my thoughts are hers. As if she wants me the same ways I want her.

I am the only man for her.

I think those words.

Her own, too.

I am, the only man, for her.

I will be the only man for her.

I always have been.

━━━

Chapter Text

━━━

- Y/N / MRS (MISS) L/N -

━━━

I am cursed with beauty, and I am a woman of never-ending isolation.

There is a sense of feigned hope within the realisation that, as a girl grows into her body, she comes to understand that there is power within the assets she possesses.

If you are pretty enough, you may be eyed like a doll on a shelf, considered for picking. Too pretty, and that alone ostracises you from the world by the objectification it brings.

Not pretty enough, and you will chase conventional standards far beyond you're reach.

All of which leads to loneliness beyond comprehension.

But every woman holds anger within her soul, as once the layers of who we are, are stripped away, and expose the human within us, men are to walk away.

To men, there isn't any fun when a woman is more than just a woman, but a human being with feelings and likes. Dislikes. Hobbies. Memories.

That is the realisation that was born in me the moment a dress hugged me in a way my mother disliked, as the fabric was fitted around the developing curves of a girl turning into a woman.

That realisation hit me as soon as blood had left me - menstruation, to weigh new responsibilities upon me every single month. Access what sanitary items my body prefers. Not to wear certain fabric colours during such a time.

Diminish the visceral pain that the womb provides, plaguing the life of a woman, for simply being born a woman.

When I was twelve, there had been a time in which a man had followed me into the women's bathroom at the diner my mother took me to.

When I was fifteen, an older boy I had gone to see a movie with attempted to put his hand under my dress within the darkness of the movie seats.

And for every single boy that had come and gone through my life, filtered out by a lack of shared interest or my lack of sexual reciprocation at such a young age, I had considered this credible proof to that love does not exist.

Not in the way movies or books depict it.

No woman around me had enough courage to validate how morbid these types of incidents are.

As it's easier to tell one another to conceal our skin and do not engage with men at all, rather than address said issues directly.

And so, I did.

With any prior interaction I had with men to be polluted by exploitative lust and empty words of assurance, I had never married.

I never had a proper 'boyfriend', or, any romantic bond that felt 'real'.

A tragic woman, I am.

I know I hold shame for myself. Pity. For fearing the idea of venturing into a dating pool and searching for 'the one', when it feels so unrealistic. Maybe I am too cowardly to try.

Besides - feeling inadequate besides my male colleagues is nothing uncommon to me. Men in general, even.

But-

But-

I had remembered black hair, straight and cut across his forehead, just by the backs of his ears. Cheekbones defined by shadows, his jaw and face so clean of any scruff that I am so used to seeing.

His pale, glacier-blue eyes brimmed with crow-like, black lashes. Thick, overshadowing everything he sees. A shield.

A guarded man, in every sense of the word.

I had remembered the way he had looked at me, my first day at work.

Something stole upon my modesty. My justifications for feeling the way I do, for how tainted every man's stare is. Or - what I am used to seeing.

But those moments, where he held a locked gaze with me, pushing over four seconds, were something unthinkable to me.

I had felt fear.

And I had felt something taboo.

He is an older man. Older than I, with more of a settled structure to his work. His life. Sometimes, I liked to loop the senior building in which is personal office resides, often with the door a touch open. Just to gain a second glance at the way in which his head would be dipped down, fixated on papers under him.

His onyx locks hung down as every part of his office would be so, very neat. Not a stationary supply out of place. No papers sprawled on any surface. No sense of uncertainty or lack of authority among his possessions.

I had quite enjoyed that aspect of who he was.

But beyond that, he never exactly spoke to me. He never made further advances towards me, other than the occasional stare and the times he'd linger by me for moments too long.

As I have no kind words to say for his wife, I had always known that to be a reason why he never spoke to me in the ways I did, admittedly, want him to.

I had gained an interest in a man, and I had to digest that. But said man, is legally bound to another woman I was so sure he truly disliked.

His nose would scrunch up to her simple utterance, and he would physically withdraw to her closeness. Every single time.

But beyond that, I was comfortable.

I accepted soaking in what I was so sure to be his glances towards me. It was just enough for me. As I thought, there was nothing beyond that.

Never did I think, this would happen.

━━━

He's gone quite insane, I believe.

I've always been content with the insability of a man who works beside me every single day.

But this-

This is everything I had thought of within the back of my mind, but restricted it to just, the back of my head.

Never did I think this would bear fruit into something that would genuinely occur. That would facilitate itself into reality. I'm scared. I'm excited. And all I can think of, is that there is a man who is quite fond of me, so my mother's words aren't true anymore.

There is a man who does like me.

Even if what we have is now kept behind closed doors.

A part of me fears this structure, but another part of me couldn't care for the fact that, in definitive terms, he is having an affair.

We never had sex.

We never touched one another under our clothing that night. We had kissed - heavily, I may say, and there was a moment of clarity, consideration, and the need to state to one another-

This is for us.

For us only, and nobody else to see. Its privacy is sacred, and nobody is to know.

So, nobody does.

But now, my feelings for him have fluctuated. Changed forever by how inappropriately physical our co-worker-based relationship has become.

Despite this, I have come to a few formal conclusions.

One - I could not care for Katya's opinion, if she were to find out. I will never justify my actions to an abusive woman, and just as Stanislav had stated, I always knew she was abusive.

It was simply never my place to state it to him. I knew that wouldn't translate well in any case. I think he also knew.

Two - The feelings I have had for that man have slammed into me so hard, after our private moment together. As if a dam had opened.

I had underestimated what I had felt for him, and now that there is something of mutual reciprocation, it's as if everything within me has burst at the seams.

Nobody knows.

Nobody but him.

━━━

(Hello ! - Next chapter will continue on with Y/N's POV also!!)

Chapter Text

━━━

- Y/N / MRS (MISS) L/N -

━━━

I had a dream that night.

After he had kissed me that night. Touched me. Maybe my brain was attempting to process what had happened, and what could have happened, if we had gone further.

It tried to fill in the blanks.

Or maybe, the effects of such simple stimulation were much more long-lasting than I had anticipated.

Either way - I was absolutely astonished by the vivid details my brain has exemplified within my slumber.

He doesn't know.

Nobody knows.

I had considered what face he'd make if I told him.

That I dreamt of if he skinned his hands from his gloves and felt the warmth of my skin against his. Under clothing and fabric. Bodies pressed against one another. Bare.

Nobody assumes a teacher has a life outside of teaching. Nobody assumes someone such as I can conjure up such fantasies.

I feel like a teenage girl once more. Afraid and conflicted with my own sexuality, whilst battling the fluctuating feelings of seeing a man, as a man. Being able to recognise sex appeal in a man's individuality, whilst still having to recognise that they have to be professional in at least some manner.

It's hard to separate the two.

Appearing as professional, and being human. What's fake and real.

It's hard to recognise him as just an overly qualified senior Psychology teacher who's in realms beyond me in authoritative status. Yet still treats me as an equal. Or - more than.

He touched me and spoke to me in ways I could've never considered to be realistic. Never did I consider that a man could be reduced to something almost primitive in the raw state of his carnality.

I sometimes forget that, under his qualifications and just how many certificates he has, he is just a man.

And he is no exception to lust.

Nor am I.

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He doesn't look at me when Katya sits beside him.

He doesn't look at me when he and she are supervising joint camp activities.

I know it's not for me to take it personally. I'm quite aware of how undeniably disheartening the situation is for him, and how little wiggle-room he has with that woman.

Lying financial binds, physical and what I am sure to be emotional abuse among the ropes of having careers at the same place, I cannot imagine what he views hell itself to be, compared to that.

I can only watch from a distance as his hands are crossed over his broad chest, observing as the students take part in swimming exercises within the camp river. Some tie survival ropes and knots by the rocky edges of the water, and some sit grouped away from the activities altogether, rejecting the idea of participating.

It would be my job to encourage them to be active in any way, but my mind is overwhelmed. I cannot stop thinking. In general. I cannot restrain the waves of thoughts of feelings bursting against my skull.

It's not anger. I feel no anger, no envy. No jealousy. My feelings aren't so ugly.

Why would I be a jealous woman, when that man has already proclaimed himself to be the one?

The one that was always there?

But, maybe it's helplessness. I think that's how I'm feeling. The circumstances are different now, between him and me. For good or for worse, I'll let nature take its course.

And as my gaze flickers up, I only notice now that his head has shifted. Gazing over his shoulder towards me, as I stand by the wood-lined pathway between the main concrete connecting the camp buildings, and down towards the river pier.

Distant, adolescent laughter lines the air, friend groups scattered, bobbing in the water as they swim by one another. Camp counsellors scattered about, watching as different kids leap from the piers, bursts of water splattering from the impact.

And for this moment, I am lost in a time before. Before I was so fixated on the gaze of a man who had only just now advanced.

A time in which this was my focus. This was all I had. My job, working with the kids, observing their social patterns and the cliques they'd unknowingly formulate by one another. Simple treasures among rewarding work.

Before all of this.

Only-

My head flicks up, the sudden, sharp sound of skin hitting skin fuelling my attention. Only as I catch the sight of Katya's hand, paused mid-air by the aftermath of her impact, do I catch on to how openly, without care, she will outwardly harm her husband.

His head hangs for a moment, before he rolls his shoulders back, composing himself just as fast as he had been struck across the face.

My stomach is knotted.

That confirms it. I am angry, and helpless. And utterly nauseous.

I can feel how deeply my shoulders have tightened at the sudden sight, especially with how not a single soul around besides the trees and breeze had witnessed such a thing.

Nobody.

But me.

She looks back towards me-

And I can only look off, staring as heat runs up my throat, saliva overfilling my mouth as a warning of possible regurgitation. Staring off into the boys' cabin-room building, the clamminess of my palms running down the sides of my skirt in an attempt to ease the sensory disturbance.

She doesn't know.

I don't think she knows.

Well - I cannot be so sure, now that I think back.

It wasn't simply a one-time thing, for when she'd accuse me of being romantically involved with Stanislav. She'd insinuate it in multiple cases, or outright accuse me of it.

And as much as I truly do despise that woman, she isn't stupid enough to state such claims without credible evidence, in some form.

I knew Stanislav had an interest. Some sort of interest in me, in any way shape or form.

But I did not know how far, and deeply this had run, for even his own wife to assume I was in on it. And if she thought that then, I wonder what she thinks now, as she was so quick to strike her husband for simply looking over his shoulder towards me.

What does she know. What does she assume.

My shoes gently crunch against the grass I step back onto, as inconspicuously as I can.

I need time. A break. Somewhere that isn't here - that's private. For just a moment, before I vomit my lunch across the plants.

And only as I approach the outside bathroom set just beside the nature-walk trail connected to the outward, dirt track, do I find air.

Even if the air feels heavy and smells of the distant earthiness of the shrubs and forestry surrounding the outside of this brick-lined bathroom building, I don't complain. even the tiles under my shoes crunch with dirt grit trailed in by kids' dirty sneakers as they'd filter in and out, but at least now,

I am alone.

Out of sight.

Even swallowing sounds too loud in here.

My saliva is thick, and my limbs are too taut with frustration and exhaustion. My entire mind has been thrown off, my thinking, my judgement, my emotions. Everything.

I'm angry at her. I'm overly excited and infatuated yet cautious of Stanislav. And I am conflicted with myself, yet oddly curious, but ultimately defeated.

What a horrible whirlpool of emotions.

My guilt for him keeps piling on, and I am still in shock.

I knew she behaved in such ways, but to genuinely perceive it live - that's an entirely different experience.

It's more visceral. Stomach churning and disgusting to take in.

Even I feel violated by what I saw, and I can't imagine how he feels now.

The plastic mirror before me is enough to take in my somewhat grainy reflection. I do accept that it's plastic for safety reasons, especially in such an environment, but the hazed texture isn't helping me gain a sense of self.

I cannot settle into my own skin.

My senses are blurred. I can barely see myself in my own reflection. My breathing is too loud. I smell cigarette smoke. I feel uncomfortable in my own flesh.

But-

Cigarette smoke.

I feel the muscles across my face twitch - none of the kids I am aware of who do smoke, smoke around here. They seem to prefer partaking in the habit outside the cabin-room windows, which seems less effective to me.

I can only shift my head to the side so faintly, still partly angled to the mirror before me as I catch the sight of the sun hitting blonde hair, thumb hitting the edge of a cigarette to flick the ash off, as she slows by the bathroom doorway.

My body stiffens, my mind barely able to consider what to do for how quickly she's approaching.

Her boot drags against the cigarette butt she dropped to the dirt, grinding it into the innocence of the dirt quite cruelly. My lips flatten firmly, standing in front of one of the many steel sinks lined across the brick wall.

Her head picks up, eyes only opening a touch wider in recognition.

With the only emotion she wishes to express is one she shares with me shamelessly.

Her emotions are ugly. The scowl lined across her sharp features and the hate in her eyes is all the more demented.

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