The estate had grown colder since Your Father died.
It wasn't the temperature that had changed—the fireplaces still roared with the same warmth, the same servants tended to the same halls—but something fundamental had shifted in the very foundation of what you once called home. The laughter that used to echo through the corridors had been replaced by sharp whispers and barely concealed disdain.
You, [Y/n], had become a ghost in your own home.
Your stepmother, Lady Marianne, wore her displeasure like one of her finest jewels—prominently and without shame. Your step-sister, Celestine, had inherited that same cruel elegance, wielding her beauty and status like a weapon against anyone she deemed beneath her. Particularly you.
"[Y/n]! The floors in the drawing room need polishing!" Celestine's shrill voice cut through the morning silence. "And do hurry. Mother and I have appointments this afternoon."
You set down the book you'd been reading—one of Father's old volumes, worn and loved—and rose without a word. Quiet. You had learned to be quiet. Words only gave them more ammunition, more reasons to remind you of your place in this household.
In public, you were still Lady [Y/n], daughter of the late Lord [L/n], a man who had been respected throughout the empire for his integrity and wisdom. In private, you were little more than an unpaid servant, a burden they couldn't dispose of without tarnishing their carefully maintained image.
Your father had been a good man. A man who believed in honour, in duty, in treating all people with dignity regardless of their station. The empire had mourned his passing. Even now, three years later, his name was spoken with reverence in certain circles.
That reverence was the only thing protecting you from being cast out entirely.
You polished the floors. You mended Celestine's gowns. You served tea when your stepmother entertained her friends, standing silently in the corner like a piece of furniture. And you endured.
Because what else could you do?
The invitation arrived on a grey afternoon in early autumn, delivered by a courier in imperial livery. The wax seal bore the crest of Duke Volkov, one of the most powerful nobles in the empire.
Your stepmother's eyes had gleamed with avarice as she read the elegant script.
"A grand ball," She murmured, her lips curling into a smile that never reached her eyes. "Every noble house is expected to attend with their children." Her gaze flickered to you, standing quietly by the window. "Every child."
Celestine looked up from her embroidery, her perfect features arranged in a pout. "Surely that doesn't mean her, Mother. She's hardly presentable for such an event."
"On the contrary," Lady Marianne said slowly, her mind clearly working through calculations. "This might be exactly the opportunity we need."
You said nothing, but your heart sank. You knew that tone.
That evening, your stepmother summoned you to her sitting room. Celestine sat beside her, already dressed in her evening finery despite the ball being two weeks away.
"[Y/n]," Lady Marianne began, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "You will, of course, accompany us to Duke Volkov's ball."
You blinked in surprise. You hadn't attended a social function since your father's funeral.
"You will be dressed appropriately," She continued, "in a manner befitting your... status as Lord [L/n]'s daughter." The pause before 'status' was deliberate, a reminder that your position was precarious at best. "And you will make yourself useful."
"Useful, Mother?" Celestine asked, though the gleam in her eyes suggested she already knew.
"Indeed." Your stepmother's smile widened. "It's time [Y/n] found herself a husband. Preferably one willing to take her far away from here. A country lord, perhaps, or a military officer stationed in some distant province. Anyone willing to take her off our hands."
The words struck like physical blows, but you kept your expression neutral. Quiet. Always quiet.
"Do you understand, [Y/n]?" Lady Marianne's voice sharpened. "You will attend this ball, and you will secure a proposal. I don't care from whom. You have been a burden on this household long enough."
"Yes, stepmother," You replied softly.
"Good. Now go. You're dismissed."
The night of the ball arrived with a cold that promised winter's approach.
The dressmaker had come and gone, leaving you with a gown that was... adequate. It was beautiful, certainly—deep midnight blue silk that brought out the colour of your eyes, with delicate silver embroidery along the bodice and sleeves. But it was noticeably simpler than Celestine's elaborate creation of Rose-coloured satin and imported lace.
Still, as you looked at yourself in the mirror, you barely recognized the young woman staring back. It had been so long since you'd been allowed to look like a lady rather than a servant.
The carriage ride to Duke Volkov's estate was suffocating. Celestine chattered endlessly about which eligible gentlemen might be in attendance, while your stepmother offered pointed advice on how to attract a husband—advice clearly directed at you, though delivered as if you weren't there.
"Smile, but not too broadly. Laugh at their jokes, but don't be too loud. Be agreeable, but not desperate." Lady Marianne's eyes cut to you. "Some of us need all the help we can get."
You gazed out the window at the darkening sky and said nothing.
Duke Volkov's ballroom was magnificent. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow light across marble floors. Musicians played from a raised gallery, their melodies weaving through the conversations of hundreds of nobles dressed in their finest. It was overwhelming—a glittering world you'd been absent from for so long.
Your stepmother and Celestine immediately disappeared into the crowd, gravitating toward the most influential clusters of nobility. You were left standing near one of the pillars, a wallflower in a garden of peacocks.
And that was fine. You preferred it, really.
You watched as young men approached Celestine, drawn by her practiced smiles and carefully orchestrated charm. She collected them like trophies, accepting dance after dance while your stepmother looked on with satisfaction.
No one approached you.
Minutes turned to hours. You stood in your corner, occasionally accepting a glass of champagne from a passing servant, observing the pageantry with a detached sort of interest. These people—draped in jewels and expensive fabrics, laughing their carefully modulated laughs—they were the empire's elite. They were also the people your father had often criticized in private for their corruption and self-interest.
"The nobility has forgotten what it means to serve," He'd once told you. "They see their positions as entitlements rather than responsibilities. One day, that will be their downfall."
You wondered what he would think of this spectacle.
You were so lost in thought that you didn't notice the figure approaching until a gloved hand extended into your field of vision.
"Would you do me the honour of this dance?"
The voice was soft, cultured, with the distinct lilt of a Russian accent. Each word was precisely articulated, as if the speaker chose language with the same care a jeweller might select gemstones.
You looked up.
The man before you was striking in a way that had nothing to do with conventional handsomeness. He was tall and slender, almost ethereal in his bearing. His hair was dark, falling in soft curtains around a pale, angular face. But it was his eyes that arrested you—Deep purple, or perhaps dark red in the chandelier light, ancient and knowing in a way that seemed impossible for someone who couldn't be much older than thirty.
He wore black, simple but exquisitely tailored, with a white cravat and a cloak draped over one shoulder. There was something almost ecclesiastical about his appearance, as if he were a priest who'd wandered into a den of sinners.
You realized you'd been staring and felt heat rise to your cheeks. "I... yes. Thank you."
As you placed your gloved hand in his, you caught sight of your step-sister's face. Celestine's expression had transformed from smug satisfaction to something ugly—jealousy mixed with outrage. Your stepmother looked equally alarmed, her eyes widening as she recognized the man now holding your hand.
Lady Marianne actually pushed through the crowd, plastering on her most ingratiating smile.
"Ah, my lord! What an unexpected pleasure! I believe there's been a small misunderstanding—surely you meant to ask my daughter, Celestine, to dance? She's been so looking forward to—"
"No misunderstanding," The man said softly, his purple eyes never leaving yours. There was something almost gentle in his gaze, but also something that made your stepmother immediately fall silent. "I asked precisely whom I intended to ask."
Without waiting for a response, he began leading you toward the centre of the ballroom.
You could feel every eye in the room turning toward you. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat. Your heart hammered against your ribs.
"You seem nervous, Milaya," He murmured as he guided you into position for the waltz. His hand settled on your waist with a touch so light it was barely there, while his other hand cradled yours with surprising tenderness.
"I... I don't know who you are," You admitted quietly, your voice barely audible over the swell of music. "But everyone else seems to."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Does it matter? For this moment, we are simply two people dancing. Nothing more."
The orchestra began to play, and he led you into the waltz with the confidence of someone who'd performed this ritual countless times. Despite your nervousness, you found yourself following his lead easily. Your father had insisted you learn proper dancing, years ago when life was different.
"You're very quiet," He observed, his accented voice soft near your ear as you turned. "Is it shyness, or wisdom?"
"I... I've learned that silence is often safer than speech," You replied honestly, surprised by your own candour.
Something flickered in those strange eyes—approval? Understanding?
"A hard lesson to learn, and harder still to live by. You must have seen much cruelty to learn it so well."
You missed a step, stumbling slightly. His hand tightened just enough to steady you, his movements so smooth that no one watching would have noticed your misstep.
"I apologize," You whispered. "I didn't mean to—"
"There is nothing to apologize for, [Y/n]."
Your eyes snapped to his face. "How do you know my name?"
"I know many things." He turned you with effortless grace, the other dancers blurring into a kaleidoscope of colour around you. "Your father was Lord [L/n], was he not? A good man. One of the few truly honourable nobles in this empire. His death was... unfortunate."
Grief, old but never fully healed, tightened your chest. "You knew him?"
"Of him. His reputation was well-earned." He tilted his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't. "And now you live under the care of your stepmother and step-sister, who treat you with considerably less honour than your father's name deserves."
You stiffened. "How could you possibly—"
"I observe. I listen. And I understand the nature of human cruelty better than most." His voice remained soft, almost hypnotic. "You stand in corners because they have made you believe you belong there. You stay silent because they have punished you for having a voice. They dress you just well enough to maintain appearances while making certain you know you are merely tolerated, not loved."
Each word was a knife finding its mark with surgical precision. Your eyes burned with tears you refused to shed, not here, not in front of all these people.
"Why are you telling me this?" You asked, your voice cracking slightly.
"Because, Milaya, in a room full of nobility draped in jewels and lies, you are the only thing of value I have seen tonight." He drew you closer, just slightly, as the waltz reached its crescendo. "They are corrupt, every one of them. They take and take, convinced of their own righteousness, while people like you suffer in silence."
"And you?" You asked, finding some small reserve of courage. "Are you corrupt as well?"
His smile was sad and terrible all at once. "Yes. But unlike them, I know exactly what I am."
The dance ended. He released you with a small, formal bow, but his eyes remained locked on yours.
"Thank you for the dance, Lady [Y/n]. It was..." He paused, as if searching for the right word, "...illuminating."
"Wait," You said as he began to turn away. "What is your name?"
He looked back, and for just a moment, you saw something in his expression that might have been regret. "Names have power, Milaya. Are you certain you wish to carry mine?"
"Yes," You replied, surprising yourself with your certainty.
"Very well." He took your hand once more, pressing a feather-light kiss to your gloved knuckles. "Fyodor. Fyodor Dostoevsky."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd like smoke.
You stood there, your hand still tingling where his lips had touched it, your mind reeling. Around you, the whispers grew louder, but you couldn't make out the words over the rushing in your ears.
Your stepmother materialized at your elbow, her fingers digging into your arm hard enough to bruise.
"What did he say to you?" She hissed. "What did you do to attract his attention, you foolish girl?"
But you barely heard her. You were still staring at the place where Fyodor Dostoevsky had disappeared, wondering why his name felt like a prayer and a damnation all at once.
The carriage ride home was a nightmare.
Celestine wept theatrical tears, declaring that you had deliberately tried to humiliate her. Your stepmother's rage was colder, more calculated.
"Do you have any idea who that was?" Lady Marianne's voice was dangerously quiet. "Do you have even the slightest understanding of what you've done?"
You said nothing, which only seemed to fuel her anger.
"That was Fyodor Dostoevsky. A foreigner, yes, but one with connections that reach into the highest levels of the imperial court. There are rumours about him—dark rumours. Some say he's an advisor to ministers, others say he's a philosopher whose ideas have influenced policy. And you, you stupid girl, you've drawn his attention."
"I didn't do anything," You said quietly. "He asked me to dance. I could hardly refuse."
"Couldn't refuse?" Celestine shrieked. "You should have directed him to me! Everyone knows I'm the beauty of the family! Why would he want you when—"
"Enough, Celestine." Your stepmother's voice cut through her daughter's hysterics. She fixed you with a calculating stare. "This might actually work in our favour. If Dostoevsky has taken an interest in you, perhaps we can leverage that into a beneficial arrangement. A foreigner would likely be willing to take you back to Russia, far from here. Yes... yes, that might work."
You felt sick. They were already planning how to use even this small moment of kindness for their own benefit.
When you finally reached home, you retreated to your small room—barely larger than a servant's quarters—and sat on your narrow bed, trying to process what had happened.
Fyodor Dostoevsky.
The name rolled through your mind like thunder before a storm. There had been something about him, something that transcended his physical appearance or his cultured manner. When he'd looked at you, truly looked at you, it was as if he'd seen past all the careful walls you'd built, straight into the lonely, grieving girl you tried so hard to hide.
"In a room full of nobility draped in jewels and lies, you are the only thing of value I have seen tonight."
Why had he said that? What had he seen in you?
You didn't expect to see Fyodor Dostoevsky again.
Men of his apparent station didn't form attachments to impoverished noble daughters with no prospects. The dance had been a moment out of time, nothing more. You told yourself this repeatedly over the following days as life returned to its familiar, grinding routine.
Except things weren't quite the same.
Your stepmother watched you now with a new calculation in her eyes. Celestine's cruelty had taken on a sharper edge, as if your single dance had been a personal affront. And there were... visitors.
Three days after the ball, a young nobleman called at the house, ostensibly to pay respects to Lady Marianne but asking specifically if Lady [Y/n] was receiving callers. Your stepmother had been so shocked she'd nearly dropped her tea.
Two days after that, an invitation arrived for you—specifically you—to attend a literary salon hosted by a countess known for her intellectual gatherings.
Then flowers began arriving. Books. Once, a volume of poetry with a ribbon marking a particular verse:
"In the darkness, there are those who carry light not to illuminate, but to see clearly what others fear to acknowledge."
There was never a card, never a signature. But you knew who they were from.
"This is absurd," Celestine hissed one morning, watching as yet another delivery was brought to the house. "Why is he pursuing you? What could he possibly want with someone so... so..."
"Beneath us?" You suggested quietly, earning a vicious glare.
Your stepmother, however, was in her element. She began accepting the invitations on your behalf, dragging you to salons and garden parties where you inevitably drew curious stares. Everyone wanted to know about the girl who'd danced with the mysterious Fyodor Dostoevsky.
You never saw him at these events, which was somehow both a relief and a disappointment.
Until the afternoon you encountered him in the least expected place.
You'd been sent to the market—a task usually reserved for servants, but Celestine had demanded you go personally to select fabric for a new dress she was having made. It was humiliating, being treated like an errand girl in front of the merchants and other shoppers, but you'd long since swallowed your pride.
You were examining a bolt of silk when a familiar accented voice spoke from behind you.
"That colour would suit you beautifully, Milaya."
You spun around, nearly dropping the fabric.
Fyodor Dostoevsky stood a few paces away, dressed simply in black as before, a cloak draped over his shoulders despite the mild weather. He looked even more striking in the afternoon light, something otherworldly about his pale features and ancient eyes.
"Mister Dostoevsky," You breathed, acutely aware of the curious stares from other shoppers. "I... I didn't expect to see you here."
"I could say the same." He moved closer, his steps silent despite the cobblestones. "A lady of your standing, shopping without even a maid to accompany her? How... unusual."
The gentle emphasis on the last word made it clear he understood exactly what this situation indicated about your place in your household.
You felt your cheeks burn with shame. "I was simply—"
"You needn't explain yourself to me." His expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Would you walk with me? There's a garden nearby, much quieter than this busy street."
You should have said no. It was improper for an unmarried woman to walk alone with a man, regardless of his status. Your stepmother would be furious if she found out.
"Yes," You heard yourself say. "I'd like that."
He offered his arm, and you took it, marvelling at how natural it felt despite having touched him only once before, during the dance.
The garden he led you to was small but beautiful, tucked away behind a church. Roses climbed ancient stone walls, and a fountain bubbled quietly in the centre. It was empty of other people—a small oasis of peace in the bustling city.
"I must confess," Fyodor said as you walked slowly along the gravel path, "I have been hoping for an opportunity to speak with you again. The ball was... insufficient for a proper conversation."
"The gifts you sent," You said hesitantly. "The invitations. You didn't need to do that."
"Didn't I?" He glanced at you, those purple eyes unreadable. "You intrigue me, [Y/n]. In a world of people who are precisely what they appear to be, you are a mystery."
"There's nothing mysterious about me," You protested softly. "I'm just..."
"Just what? A girl who has learned to be invisible? Who stands in corners and speaks in whispers because she has been taught that this is all she deserves?" His voice remained soft, but there was steel beneath the silk. "That is not who you are. That is what they have tried to make you."
You stopped walking, pulling your arm from his. "Why do you care? You don't know me. One dance, a few gifts—you don't know anything about my life or who I am."
"Don't I?" He turned to face you fully, and the intensity in his gaze made you want to step back. "Your father was Lord [L/n], a man of genuine integrity in a government riddled with corruption. When he died, his widow wasted no time in reducing his daughter to little more than a servant, all while maintaining the pretense of propriety. You are treated with casual cruelty by people who should protect you, yet you endure without complaint because you understand that any resistance would only make things worse. You are intelligent, observant, and deeply lonely. You hide in books because they are safer than people. And you have convinced yourself that you deserve this treatment because it's easier than admitting how profoundly unfair your situation is."
Each word struck with devastating accuracy. You felt tears burning behind your eyes once more, your heart aching with Truth behind your rib cage.
"How..." You whispered. "How can you possibly know all of that?"
"Because I see you, [Y/n]." He reached out slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, and gently wiped away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. "In a world full of people desperately trying to be seen, you are the only one who doesn't need to try. Your suffering has made you transparent in the most beautiful way."
"I don't understand," You said, even as more tears fell. "What do you want from me?"
"Want?" He seemed to consider the question. "Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. Tell me, [Y/n], do you believe in evil?"
The question was so unexpected that you actually laughed, a broken sound. "What kind of question is that?"
"A sincere one. Do you believe that evil exists? Not as a concept, but as an actual force in the world?"
You thought about your stepmother's cold calculations. Celestine's casual cruelty. The nobles at the ball, dripping with wealth while people starved in the streets outside.
"Yes," You said quietly. "I believe evil exists."
"And do you believe it can be fought? Defeated?"
"I... I don't know. I've never had the power to fight anything."
"Power." He smiled, sad and terrible. "What is power but the ability to change the world according to one's vision? Some have power through wealth or position. Others have power through ideas. And some..." He looked away, toward the roses climbing the wall. "Some have power through their willingness to do what others will not."
"I don't understand what you're telling me."
"I know. And perhaps that's for the best." He turned back to you, and his expression was gentler now. "But I want you to know something, [Y/n]. You matter. In a world full of corrupt nobility and false virtue, you are genuine. You are pure. And that purity is precious beyond measure."
"I'm not pure," You protested. "I'm just... I'm nobody."
"No." His voice was firm now. "You are somebody. You are the daughter of a good man, carrying his integrity in a world that despises such things. You are a light in darkness, even if you cannot see your own illumination."
He took your hand, the gesture achingly tender. "I must leave soon. My work here is nearly finished. But I wanted you to know—our dance was not merely a kindness. It was a privilege."
"Your work?" You asked, confused. "What work?"
"Nothing you need concern yourself with, Milaya." He raised your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles just as he had after the dance. "Remember what I said. You matter. You are valuable. And one day, perhaps, you will see yourself as I see you."
"Will I see you again?" The question escaped before you could stop it, desperate and needy.
His smile was heart breaking. "Perhaps. In another life, another time. But for now, I must ask that you forget me. Forget this conversation. Live your life, [Y/n]. Find happiness where you can. You deserve at least that much."
He released your hand and stepped back. "Go home now. Your stepmother will be wondering where you are."
You wanted to protest, to demand answers, to ask a thousand questions. But something in his expression stopped you. So you simply nodded and turned to leave.
At the garden gate, you looked back. He was still standing by the fountain, a dark figure among the roses, watching you with an expression you couldn't decipher.
Then you left, carrying his words with you like secrets too precious to examine in the light.
Six months passed.
You saw Fyodor Dostoevsky twice more—once at a concert, where he sat in a private box and met your eyes across the crowded hall with the ghost of a smile, and once on a street corner where he simply nodded to you before disappearing into the crowd.
The gifts stopped coming. The invitations ceased. It was as if he had retreated from your life as mysteriously as he had entered it.
And then the rumors began.
At first, they were whispers in drawing rooms, speculation at social gatherings. Fyodor Dostoevsky had been meeting with radical philosophers. He'd been seen in the company of known dissidents. His writings—published under various pseudonyms—contained dangerous ideas about the nature of government and society.
"They say he's been advocating for the dissolution of the aristocracy," One woman said at a tea party your stepmother dragged you to. "Can you imagine? The absolute audacity!"
"I heard he's been funding revolutionary activities," Another added, her voice dropping to a scandalized whisper. "Using his influence to undermine the empire from within."
Your stepmother, who had been so eager to use your connection to him mere months ago, now forbade you from speaking his name.
"If anyone asks about him, you will say you barely remember the man," She instructed coldly. "One dance does not constitute an association. Is that understood?"
You nodded, but inside, you felt sick. Whatever Fyodor had been planning, whatever his "work" had been, it was coming to fruition now.
The rumours grew darker. Talk of treason. Of plots against the imperial family. Of documents proving collaboration with foreign powers seeking to destabilize the empire.
And then, on a cold winter morning, soldiers came.
Not to your house—you watched from your window as they marched through the street toward the townhouse where Fyodor had been staying. You saw them break down the door, heard the shouts and commotion.
Later, you learned they'd found his rooms empty. He had disappeared entirely, leaving behind only papers and books filled with ideas too dangerous to speak aloud.
By evening, the empire had officially declared Fyodor Dostoevsky a traitor. His name was to be stricken from all records. Anyone found harbouring him would be executed. His crimes were detailed in a proclamation posted throughout the city:
Conspiracy against the crown. Sedition. Collaboration with enemies of the empire. The list went on and on.
But as you read the charges, you couldn't help but remember his words to you in the garden.
"Do you believe that evil can be fought? Defeated?"
Had he been fighting evil, in his own twisted way? Had everything—the dance, the conversations, the gentle way he'd looked at you—had it all been part of some grand design you couldn't understand?
That night, you found a book on your windowsill. You didn't know how it had gotten there—you'd been in your room all evening, the door locked.
Inside the cover was a single sentence, written in elegant script:
"Even in corruption, there are those who remain untouched. You were my reminder that purity still exists, Milaya. Thank you for that gift."
There was no signature. There didn't need to be.
You pressed the book to your chest and wept—for what, you weren't entirely sure. For the man who'd seen you when no one else had? For the connection you'd felt but never understood? For the implications of his crimes, which seemed both monstrous and somehow, impossibly, righteous?
Three years have passed since Fyodor Dostoevsky was declared a traitor to the empire.
Three years since he disappeared like smoke, leaving behind chaos and questions no one could answer.
You're twenty-four now. Still living with your stepmother and step-sister, though Celestine finally married last year—a loveless match to a wealthy merchant who needed a beautiful wife to improve his social standing. She seems miserable, which brings you no joy but a certain grim satisfaction.
Your stepmother is older, more brittle, her cruelty tempered by the realization that you're all she has left. She still treats you as little more than a servant, but there's a weary resignation to it now rather than active malice.
You've learned to find small moments of peace. Books, still. Long walks in the garden where Fyodor once told you that you mattered. Quiet observations of a world that continues to turn despite everything.
Sometimes, late at night, you think about him. About purple eyes that saw too much and a soft Russian accent speaking impossible truths. You wonder where he is, if he's still alive, if his grand plans—whatever they were—succeeded or failed.
The empire has changed in subtle ways. Reforms have been enacted, laws passed that seem to address some of the corruption your father used to rail against. Some whisper that it's Dostoevsky's ideas finally taking root, his influence persisting even in absentia. Others say it's coincidence, nothing more.
You don't know what to believe.
What you do know is this: For one night, at a ball full of corrupt nobility and false virtue, a man who was probably a monster looked at you as if you were something precious. He saw your pain, your isolation, your desperate quiet dignity, and he recognized it as valuable.
He was a traitor. A revolutionary. Perhaps a terrorist, depending on who was telling the story.
But he was also the only person since your father died who made you feel like you mattered.
And sometimes, in your darkest moments, you can't help but think that maybe his motives—twisted and destructive as they might have been—came from a desire to burn away corruption and create something better. A world where girls like you wouldn't have to learn to be invisible to survive.
"In a room full of nobility draped in jewels and lies, you are the only thing of value I have seen tonight."
You carry those words with you like a talisman. A reminder that once, briefly, someone saw you. Really saw you. And in his eyes—those strange, knowing, terrible eyes—you were worth more than all the jewels and titles in the empire.
You were pure.
You were light.
You were enough.
Even if the man who told you so was dancing with the devil himself.
(Fun Fact: Fyodor is, and will always be, my Fave Character in Bsd.)
(DILF: Damn I Love Fyodor... That's all I have to say.)
I think it's wild some of y'all are claiming fyodor could be killed in a helicopter crash when kyouka's parents lost control over their bodies after splashes of blood on their skin seemingly seeped into their ear. when dazai pulled fyodor's presumed corpse from the meursault wreckage, chuuya perched yards away and even commented on the novelty of seeing dazai sweat.
bram's executioner was splashed with fyodor's blood specifically, and the veins around his eyes became as swollen as the veins around kyouka's parents' eyes did (and as swollen as the veins around the eyes of the men her father killed as they hapahazardly lunged for him one-by-one/in succession).
bram's vampirism spreads when he or his "kin" drinks someone's blood—kin refers to blood relatives; implying that the vampires and bram share the same blood once he turns them. so, it's not bram's bite that creates vampires; vampires are created when bram ingests another's blood because that blood becomes a part of him. his kin are able to turn others into vampires because they have already become an extension of him and his conscious will, so when they ingest blood, he is too. that's why atsushi wasnt turned when akutagawa bit him— the wildly sensual close-up of the "bite" is to highlight that the tines of akutagawa's fangs have just scarcely pierced atsushi's skin enough to indent the skin/draw blood, but not enough for akutagawa to have ingested any before he is called away.
further, fyodor takes bram's body, but not when the vampire first stabs fyodor with that long steel pipe. fyodor is pierced through when he recites christ's crucifixion lament. the panel/frame lingers on fyodor until the helicopter explodes, dismembering him, and almost certainly baptizing bram's kin in his blood. consider, too, that fyodor lingers in his body when stabbed by the vampire, but not when stabbed in nearly the exact same place by bram's executioner in the memory he shares with sigma— there, fyodor's then-body hangs limp shortly after being impaled, but there, his blood splashes bram's executioner. in the helicopter hovering above meursault, the pole the vampire uses to impale fyodor is too long for fyodor's blood to splatter onto the vampire's person.
in other words, fyodor doesn't take the bodies of those who murder him—his skill is his parasitic blood, and his blood spreads by contact.
so long as his blood touches another's skin, it seeks out the nearest orifice, such as an eye or ear, and enters the body, after which his will overtakes the person's own.
it's quite literally the inverse of bram's skill. bram ingests others' blood, fyodor is blood others ingest.
hello this is my first time requesting udgshshshs can I get an arranged marriage au with Fyodor x fem! reader where she has massive crush on him but he doesn't like her one bit, she tries to win him over with presents and things but to no avail until one day Fyodor has enough and snaps at him. Reader is like super hurt obvi and finally distances herself away, Fyodor thinks he'll be fine but he's uncomfortable with how distant the reader is and tries to find out what's wrong by getting closer to her. Slowly, she's falling out of love of him while he's falling for her.
feel free to ignore this :>
this was SO fun to write!! sorry for the delay, and thanks for requesting! hope this meets your expectations :3
𖦹 Don't Overcomplicate
fyodor dostoevsky x fem!reader
It was obvious Fyodor didn't like you. You doubted he could even stand your presence.
You didn't expect him to love you. You knew he wouldn't.
From the start, you made yourself aware of what your relationship was—nothing. A simple move for money, for status. You shouldn't have expected anything.
To him, it was nothing more than a convenient arrangement, part of a plan.
To you, it was much more.
You didn't remember when or how you fell for him. Maybe it was months after your wedding, the domesticity of sharing a home messing with your head. Or perhaps it was the same day you got married. You weren't sure.
What you did know, however, was that you loved him.
Everything was confusing. It wasn't like he tried to be a good husband. He was just polite. Careful.
But there was something about his cold, detached nature that attracted you.
You knew you couldn't make him love you back. But you still tried. Every day, you tried.
Mornings greeted with breakfast already on the table, quick checkups when he worked too much, a blanket over his shoulders when he fell asleep at his desk.
He never said thank you.
"I brought you some tea," you said, voice soft.
You left the teacup on the desk, offering him a tiny smile.
"You shouldn't have troubled yourself," he said, smiling back, though it never reached his eyes.
You dismissed his words with a quick shake of your head.
"Are you, uh... going to bed soon?" you asked, unsure of your own intentions.
Fyodor and you shared a bed, but you were never close enough for your bodies to touch.
Actually, the only time you'd touched him was during your wedding ceremony.
"I'm afraid I'll take a while," he replied, his gaze already back on the papers in front of him.
You nodded shortly.
"Alright. Good night," you muttered, deciding not to wait for him. It was pointless, anyway.
"Good night."
As you changed into your nightwear, you felt that familiar pit in your stomach.
You got in bed, letting the sheets envelop you completely, as if they could comfort you.
It was a shame they couldn't. Nothing could.
You felt frustrated.
How could you have someone so close yet so far at the same time?
You had to live with the desire to touch him, to hold him, to tell him everything you felt, but you were forced to simply watch him.
You kept trying, with the hope that, one day, he'd acknowledge you, maybe even love you back.
But each time you did something for him, or tried to start a conversation, his jaw seemed to tense just slightly.
Until one day, he snapped.
He hadn't meant to, really. But you were constantly on him, trying to talk to him, to tend to his necessities.
He didn't want that. He wanted you to understand what all of this was.
"We are not an actual couple," he said, and the way he said your name afterwards broke you.
"I, eh, I know," you muttered.
"Then stop this."
His tone caught you off-guard. It was sharper, more intimidating.
"... Stop... what?" you said, your voice faltering.
"Do not play dumb with me," he warned, and you felt a chill run down your spine. "You and I only married because of convenience. Do us both a favor and quit whatever you are poorly trying to attempt."
"... I don't..."
He cut you off by calling your name, again.
"Let's not overcomplicate things."
You were quiet for a moment, then nodded.
"Yes. Sorry."
Since then, you stopped trying to show him you cared, like he'd asked.
No more thoughtful details in his breakfast, no more surprise checkups, and no more warm blankets when he fell asleep working.
You stopped trying to start conversations, stopped asking when he'd go to bed.
Just like he asked.
At first, it was relieving. He didn't have to worry himself with an enamored fake wife whose feelings were definitely unrequited.
He could work, read or simply exist peacefully without interruptions. No footsteps outside his office. No soft voice calling his name. No cups of tea cooling on his desk.
You took his words seriously. Too seriously.
Fyodor didn't realize when, but he started to feel a discomfort he couldn't quite describe.
It was as annoying as when you used to come greet him with a smile when he came back home, maybe even more.
It became worse when he sat on the couch and you weren't there trying to make conversation, and when he sat at the table and the notes in your handwriting that came along with lunch were gone.
You still spoke to him, of course. But the warmth in your voice was missing.
"Would you like dinner?"
"Later," he'd answer.
And that was it. That was all.
He told himself it was ideal. Finally, things were simpler. He didn't have to worry about your feelings anymore.
But every time you passed him in the hallway, not even sparing him a glance, he noticed.
One evening, he returned home to find you asleep on the couch, a book still open in your hands.
You looked peaceful.
For some reason he couldn't explain, his chest tightened.
He walked closer, his eyes never leaving your sleeping form. Then, a hand moved to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
Your skin was warm. Comfortable.
He quickly withdrew his hand. What was he thinking?
That night, he couldn't sleep.
Everything made sense, suddenly.
Why he'd been less productive lately, why it irritated him so much that you didn't talk to him, why his heart beat a little faster at night, when your back was almost touching his.
He couldn't admit it until now. He'd fallen for you.
Since then, he noticed everything.
How you hummed a soft tune when you cooked. How you put mascara on every day. How expressive you were when reading.
He finally noticed you.
He also noticed that you'd now avoid any unnecessary interaction with him. And it bothered him.
How could you switch from barely letting him breathe to ignoring him completely so easily?
"You're awfully quiet lately," he remarked one day.
You hummed softly, your gaze still on the book in your hands.
"You asked me to be."
That only made him want your attention even more.
He started talking to you. Subtly, he thought, but you quickly caught on.
He never asked how your day was before, or if you'd eaten, or if you had any plans.
Now, he wanted to know everything.
You stayed true to your word. You said you'd stop, so you did.
Each time he tried to start a conversation, you replied with short, one-syllable phrases. When he offered to cook dinner, you simply shook your head. When he brought you tea while you were reading, you smiled politely.
"You shouldn't have troubled yourself."
You were exactly what he'd asked you to be, and he hated it.
He'd asked you to stop loving him, to stop chasing him.
Now, it was his turn to chase someone who no longer looked back.
hi so I basically missed Halloween lmao sorry something absolutely devastating happened in my personal life involving my family. Been super busy with uni too so I haven’t writing what I should have. I won’t be officially back on this website but I will be publishing my Halloween related stuff here soon in November before Christmas so (trust)
۫ ꣑ৎ STRANGER TO HONOUR, FAMILIAR WITH DELIRIUM ; older!fyodor dostoyevsky x fem!reader.
synopsis. for someone who claims to back away before something could hurt you, your eyes don't know how to abandon fyodor. at the end of the day, you are a wanderer in the foreign land and he is your light source. so even if he burns you, you will return. that's your fault. even if it takes everything in him to shine once to offer you heat and light, fyodor will claim it to be the last time but still continue to shine for you every time you come back. wc ; 10,277 words.
general tags and warning. older!fyodor (37), younger!fem reader (22), age gap of fifteen years, casino owner!sigma, boss!sigma, sigma is in his 30s too, somewhat brat!reader, reader is a foreigner in russia, homesickness, feelings of alienation, suggestive, flirting, angst, hurt/comfort, vague lore of reader, fyodor and the rest are some big shots but reader doesn't care, sexual flirting (whatever this means), nikolai is nikolai, fyolai tension lmao, fyodor is jealous, yearning king 3000 fyodor, reader needs a break, toxic depictions of love maybe.
notes. PLEASE know that the honour and delirium in the title are intentional. it'll make sense as you read this chap. wowow i am kinda very nervous to post this cause firjjd idk what your reaction will be but i gotta be brave anyway!!
spoilers. i LOVED writing the headmaster. lowk he sounds so hot. also idk how it came but we have a few fyolai moments. this is funny cause i was hoping for more siglai moments lmao. also the ending is why i am so hesitant cause i know it seems that 'aww reader just forgave him so easily !!" and i thought it too at first but if you read it properly, you'll know that he just happened to trigger reader by using a specific word. they js needed to have a deep convo to properly understand each other. originally the ending was going to be smut but like stated above, i js did NOT think it would be a good wrap cause without talking about it all and it would paint their relationship to be quiet shallow. i was also unsatisfied cause i think fyodor being older wasn't really emphasised or it didn't have the older!fyodor vibes i wanted it to have. i hope you like this more then me tho lol.
prev. masterlist. next.
nikolai gogol comes across as an eccentric man to many. he's hard to understand mainly because he refuses to let anyone come close to doing so.
fyodor did it anyway. that night was the first of the many times where nikolai realised he was dealing with a genius. whatever expectations nikolai had of him seemed to be the bare minimum for fyodor.
easily and effortlessly, fyodor always managed to stop ten steps above where nikolai laid his expectations, looking back with the calm, blank look on his face as if he's above nikolai and everyone else.
this doesn't mean nikolai isn't impressive himself. the way, when fyodor first invited him over to this apartment, he kept his back turned to fyodor (because he wanted to show him a card trick) but followed fyodor's hand movements with his peripheral vision and accurately guessed the pin to enter his house should be enough proof.
his fingers type in the pin code, soundless apart from the sound the pin pad produces. he slowly pushes down the handle to open the door and enters it, closing the door behind him.
like a ghost, nikolai makes his way to fyodor's room. there's a sombre look settling in every pore of the skin covering his face.
the look disappears as soon as he pushes the door to fyodor's bedroom open, a silly yet light hearted grin takes over his face instead.
immediately he notices the figure sleeping on the bed and it's not fyodor dostoyevsky. the figure is a woman's, he assumes but since your back is facing him, he can't be sure on who you are.
tilting his head, nikolai takes one step ahead and hears the sound of shuffling inside the bathroom which he's sure is fyodor.
then who is the one laying on the bed?
steps light enough for you to not pick up on despite being a paranoid sleeper and an overparanoid person when you are awake, you continue to sleep soundly. totally unaware of the shadow looming over you, of the man who takes off the card he uses to cover one eye.
"my my, who knew fedya would kidnap someone at this age?" he snickers, eyes crinkling in pure mirth.
"no one because i did not kidnap her. she's sigma's employee." answers the airy voice which, though has a serious base, has an amused undertone.
nikolai looks up, utterly delighted as his eyes meet fyodor's and he asks, "why's she here . . in your bed?"
"guess." fyodor smirks, shrugging as he moves away from the door of the bathroom. he had just taken a shower because of 'unsavory' reasons which included opening his eyes to the sight of you curled in his arms, your head buried against the curve of his neck.
you were breathing slowly and peacefully yet the moment they hit fyodor's skin, he realised just how close you two were. the breath hitting his skin travelled down and somewhere along the way, got absorbed by his skin. but it continued and carried blood with it and stopped once his cock grew hard. the blood rushed to his cock and he gulped because why's such an innocent gesture turning him on?
"oh dear, my guesses are very inappropriate." nikolai leans down to peek at your face to see what you look like to end up on the bed of fydoor dostoyevsky.
"if you wake her up, it won't be good for you." comes the light warning of fyodor and someone else might brush it off thinking he's just joking. nikolai knows better.
words spoken seriously are mainly jokes while the ones spoken casually should be taken seriously whenever it comes to fyodor dostoyevsky.
"kitty is angry today." nikolai comments but backs off, turning to walk out of the bedroom as fyodor is already out of it.
"i think you will get along with her." fyodor says as he leads nikolai to his home office so they can talk without any prying ears or eyes. there's a bitter smile on his face because he's bothered.
nikolai knows of your presence too. he can try all he wants and lie to himself that whatever happened yesterday was the product of fyodor's loneliness throughout the years but nikolai won't buy it. he will touch this wound again and again and never let it heal. instead, fyodor's sure that nikolai will stretch the wounds with his own gloved fingers.
it's either he cuts the stem of the flower which is trying to bloom despite how much he tried to crush its sapling or let it bloom fully and let the thorns growing on the stem cut his body up in the process.
fyodor isn't sick anymore and seems to be much more alert if you compare it to his state from yesterday. was it the care of another which his body demanded and not medicines or rest?
you will never know.
especially now since he has built up two more walls between you two.
what's the use of breaking one yesterday if he was going to build more today?
you had opened your eyes —an hour after nikolai arrived and even left (since fyodor kept on ushering him to leave if he was going to keep on pestering him to spill out details about you) — to find the other side of the bed empty.
that's fine, you had told yourself as you slowly sat up, he must be an early riser.
he had entered at the same moment when you raised your arms over your head to stretch, hadn't met your eyes but kindly guided you to the guest room's bathroom. he offered you his clothes if you wanted to take a shower but you know when someone doesn't want you around. you understand when to not run after someone who doesn't want you in the same way.
he didn't even look you in the eyes. you know you aren't welcome here.
you smiled sadly because you can't fake nonchalance in front of him, shook your head and said you will be taking your leave now. he immediately rejected your idea, told you he will drop you off himself after breakfast.
you didn't have energy to fight back and now you sit on the same chair from yesterday as you watch him cook, seeing the fragments of yesterday behind him.
how could you two go from whatever happened yesterday to this? what changed? what made him grow apart?
it's fucking with your mind. you want to slam your hands against the table and demand answers from him. he must be messing with you.
but he doesn't seem like the type to do so (you hate how you are defending him despite being in so much pain) and you can't afford to act out. this isn't your country, he isn't your man. no one will tolerate you acting out of line. he will kick you out and then what?
no more secretly hoping for chances to meet him while outwardly pretending you are fine. you won't look at sigma and hope he accidently speaks about fyodor too.
". . . mister dostoyevsk —"
"we need to —" spoken and stopping at the same time, fyodor has turned to face you with no expression on his face.
you offer him a nervous smile, nodding to let him know he can continue.
"we need to talk. i need to apologise for my behaviour yesterday." he begins, folding his arms in front of his chest but did no one tell him?
when the heart hurts from inside, no outward comfort can make one forget it. he can try to press his arms against his chest all he wants, can try to pretend he's doing it for your own good but he can't ignore the pain he feels.
he was so close to obtaining it all yesterday yet the moment his brain cleared from the fever like state, he felt despair wash down on him like cold water.
fyodor takes a deep breath as he tries to muster up words to express his thoughts and intentions in the most simple and straightforward way.
you gulp down your words. this is the end. you know it. he's ending it. but ending what exactly?
nothing existed. nothing will exist and he's going to make sure of it.
"i acted very inappropriately —"
"i . . didn't mind it." you weakly mumble, peering up to freeze because he shakes his head sadly.
"i should have known better. it was wrong of me to take advantage of your kindness. i should have been wiser. it was not appropriate whatsoever and for my actions, i deeply apologise." he ends his sentence with a deep bow to truly show you his regret over it.
crumbling the fabric of your hoodie in your hands, you watch him rise to his feet again and ask only one question in a voice so quiet that it pierces his heart in a flash.
"why are you acting as if what you did yesterday was wrong? i didn't have a problem with it. i gave you my consent too . . ." you trial off as you notice the disappointed expression he wears once he realises this won't be as easy as he thought.
it makes you internally panic and want to take back your words.
fyodor rubs his hand over his face and sighs quietly. it's all an act to make him appear 'conflicted'.
"i am older —"
"i am twenty-two. stop treating me like some child who doesn't know better."
"compared to me you are a —"
"mister dostoyevsky," you call sternly, standing up to glare at him, "why is age the topic here?"
"you don't know russia and it's people. we have progressed as a country yet the love for gossip remains constant. what will people say if they see you with me? i can pass off as your uncle." fyodor takes a step ahead, "do you see how scandalous this is for your reputation? didn't i say to stay away from people who might take advantage of you? what made you think i was an exception to that?"
the glare softens as you look down. what can you say to this man who is so effortlessly breaking your heart like it's made of plastic? why's he acting like this is something you can soon move on from?
why couldn't he pretend to not notice your feelings if he came to know about them? is it necessary to crush your heart?
"reputation? that's what matters?" you ask quietly, biting your lip to stop from speaking out more. you can't take your words back once you release them and unlike dostoyevsky here, you care too much to hurt him.
"you won't get it now. i may look like a bastard not but maybe tomorrow . . or some time in the near or distant future . . . you will realise why i am doing this." fyodor's eyes fall to the floor and perhaps it's the sunlight falling at him from the windows but he looks his age. wise and tired. someone who has seen too much.
the sunlight guides your eyes to the wrinkles he has and down towards the frown on his face.
"honour. dear girl, it's all we have." fyodor chuckles as he remembers a distant memory. "it's all i have. what can i do if not protect it with all my might?"
something inside your skin crawls but you cannot put a name to it. it's uncomfortable and you have the urge to interrupt this moment to stop him from remembering whatever it is which seems to hurt him.
fyodor dostoyevsky was born a peasant. and peasants in russia don't fear poverty. they fear dishonour.
kick a peasant ten times and call him a scoundrel but don't look at him with disdain and call him a thief. that's something his heart can't endure.
in a life where his parents had it all except for mercy for the boy who they abandoned as soon as he was born because he was born weak. not suitable for a family like the one his parents belonged to so like trash he was dropped off at the side of the lake.
a group of students from the next town who frequented the lake to play in it found the shivering one day old baby wrapped in an expensive silk cloth and decided to take him with them because they knew from one look that the cloth he was wrapped in was expensive.
one of their masters glanced at him and silently took him away from the group of students and teachers alike who were marveling at the cloth he came in.
fyodor dostoyevsky grew up in poverty. his master, though talented, was kicked out of the school when he turned six because of a dispute with an official. the headmaster was told to bow down in apology which he denied.
once an educated man educating others now took care of farms as a watchboy from before the sun rise till late after the sun had set.
fyodor dostoyevsky was a weak, frail yet exceptionally smart kid. from the young age of six till the tender age of eleven when the master died, fyodor kept his head low and his opinions lower, grateful to the headmaster who told him the story of his origin.
when fyodor asked, "why did you pick me up? i am the reason no father wants to give the hand of his daughter to you."
the headmaster chuckled as he served fyodor rye bread and steaming potatoes for dinner, "you think i did wrong by being kind to you?"
"i think so," fyodor mumbled with furrowed eyebrows, "you could've thrived if you ignored me."
"i did it for honour."
"pardon?" fyodor looked up to see the headmaster smiling at the ceiling.
"for honour. so that if i ever stand in front of God, i can look Him in the eye and say, 'i did not abandon your creation. my hands may be dirty but not my heart. it's pure and i am an honourable man. not a scoundrel or a low-life like how people call me now.' us peasants have only our honour to be proud over, fedya. if we are stripped of even that then we are just lifeless puppets."
it was after the death of the headmaster that fyodor truly thrived. the town came to respect him and at the age of just fifteen, he left it to go to moscow for further studies (he was way ahead of his peers and studied with his seniors).
"honour." you repeat and chuckle shakily because this word made you remember a memory you wanted to forget but could never because that memory, that experience, it shaped you.
you were young and lost the first time you came to this country. your hands were shaky and you hardly understood what the landlady told you as she gave you the room in her house — it was an older type of building, the ones where poverty hangs from the peeling paint of walls and drops along with the water droplets from taps. the room you were given was separated from the rest of the house by a passage.
the landlady had a son and a widow daughter who lived with her. the daughter was childless yet the son had one daughter and one son with his wife. they were a happy family and any time you walked on them spending time together on your way out (because you only had so much money and had to earn), you smiled at the warm sight.
she was good regardless of everything. you didn't mind the food she gave you was the leftovers of her family. you were grateful anyway since you didn't know how to cook. you used to spend your days wiping tables at two different restaurants (four hours shift each) with an hour-long break in between where you would sit in alleys and try to learn the language.
she would sometimes come to your room, grab your hand and take you with her to guide you to sit on the couch. you would be surrounded by her friends and would smile politely as they talked and looked at you every two minutes to laugh.
it's okay, you would tell yourself, they have probably not seen a foreigner.
it was when you had mastered the language that the words of the landlady and her friends, her grandkids and her own kids, stopped being voices and actually became words with meaning.
"where did you find her? you are ripping the poor girl off, zoya!" one of her friends laughed while the landlady, zoya, shrugged.
"things are hard, sofia. if i have to raise the rent to be able to feed my grandkids then so be it! who cares if i am making her pay unfairly? mother russia gave me a chance to earn money. besides she can go back to her country if she's poor but me and my family can't go anywhere."
you hated yourself for understanding her. despite how wrong and immature you thought her actions were, you understood the desperation behind them.
with crooked and awkward russian, you tried to get her to lower the rent on the next pay day. her eyes had widened at the realisation that you spoke the same language as her and so, must've understood all the things she and the rest had said.
in fear, she kicked you out, threw your money at your feet and closed the door to her house on your face after telling you, "go away! we are honourable people who didn't run away from our country. so what if i did that? it's hard! things are hard on us. go away. don't tarnish our honour. it's all we have. take your money and everything. leave our honour with us."
"honour." you repeat again in a shaky voice as you nod, remembering how you had to sleep on bus seats till your back ached and your neck pained from the awkward angles. "honour."
you remember crying your heart out because three days after that, you met a man who told you he worked for your cousin. he had given you an envelope of money and left after delivering the news, "you have no family anymore. don't come back here."
you didn't understand anything but you were more glad at finally having money in your shaky hands. for that you will hate yourself forever because you must have no honour if your family disowning you mattered less than the money you had in your hands.
you nodded eagerly and ran away. how you used the money after that and how you were able to enter uni is something you don't remember. those were years of pain and suffering. they paid off anyway.
"do i tarnish your honour, mister dostoyevsky?" you ask, looking at him with furrowed eyebrows. your mouth quivered as if you would burst into tears at any moment.
fyodor looks at you, shakes his head and takes another step forwards. apology hangs at his tongue as he extends his hands to pull you into a hug. to rub his hand up and down your back and explain himself more softly and sweetly.
"i don't know why you are doing this now. i asked you before and you told me it was fine. was that a lie or — or . . or is this a lie?" your voice broke, paused and recovered itself weakly as you spoke the last sentence. you wiped your eyes with your palms and took a deep breath, whispering, "i am fine."
"dear girl —"
"i am very confused right now. and super sad." you admit with a wet, shaky laughter, turning around so your back faces him, "but i get you. it's okay, don't worry. i am very sorry as well."
again you swallow down your words. again you pretend as if it's okay.
"i am going to go now. i am very sorry once agai —"
"i will drop you of —"
"don't. please." you shake your head and before he could reply, you hurry to leave.
eyes wet with tears and throat burning with the anger of words which should have been spoken so he could have understood how you feel, you open the door with haste and make your way to the elevator.
everything passes in a blur. you can't make sense or separate one emotion from another. there's just this urgent need to hold it all in until you reach the comfort of your bedroom walls.
forget anger. forget sadness. don't step out of any line. no one will wipe your tears. no one will hear your tantrums. you think in panic as the elevator quickly skips through the floors to reach the ground one.
you often speak to yourself in third person because if you can separate yourself from the emotional mess you feel, you can be more rational and more cruel. you can grasp at your emotions better and squeeze them inside you because in a world where no one exists to fix you if you do something wrong, you have to be your own guardian.
behind the closed door and beyond the corridors, the winds travel slowly so as to not disturb the man standing still in the kitchen. staring at the floor with eyes wide in disgust, fyodor tries to figure out when he stopped pretending to make you feel guilty and when sincerity took the place of deception, reminding him of his background which he doesn't remember often though it's always at the back of his mind.
one just can't abandon their past so easily. unless you are nikolai. but that man is too smart and too dangerous for his own good. comparing any average human to him is a disrespect to him — this is what fyodor concluded from that night.
raising a hand to comb his hair out of his eyes, he looks up and turns around to turn the stove on again. fyodor will simply pretend as if nothing happened because he can overcome this heartbreak in a month maximum, he's confident enough in his abilities to manipulate his heart into thinking you were a passing occurrence. not one who he will carry with him till the end of time.
one must realise that until now, fyodor appeared more 'humanly' because that's what he wants you to see, his cruelties are hidden in plain sight by his charming smile and manners.
"indeed i was right in assuming you to be a distraction —" fyodor grits his teeth, turning the stove off again as he all together abandons the idea of having breakfast, "— i just miscalculated the person you'll end up distracting. it's not sigma who should've stayed away from you. it's me."
"i stayed at mister dostoyevsky's because it got too late." you tell your boss as you stand in front of him since he had called for you in the middle of your shift. he never did this so the fact it's happening now is making you nervous.
while you are sure fyodor doesn't have any involvement in this, you cannot be too sure about anything.
". . did i do something wrong, mister sigma?" you add anxiously.
"fyodor left for france just an hour ago so i wanted to know if he's still sick and doing it out of his stubbornness." sigma says, making the second part up as he speaks.
ten minutes ago, nikolai informed sigma of fyodor's sudden departure while cackling. his laugh — loud and filled with mirth — made something uncomfortable creep up sigma's heart as his thoughts immediately went to you.
"i see." you mumble quietly but sigma sees past the pretence you put on. he doesn't comment on it and neither on how confusing your behavior regarding fyodor dostoyevsky is.
"you may get back to your work." sigma dismisses you with a nod because despite how much your behaviour concerns him, this is not the time to break off professional boundaries.
you nod and with a last gesture of respect, you hurry to leave his office because being in his presence especially after what went down just a few hours ago is making you feel small. as soon as you softly close the door behind you, a man stops in front of you.
smiling but you feel anything but safe around this man whose hair is styled in a braid. he's wearing a turtle neck and a coat (his style reminds you of fyodor's) and there's a . . . card? eye mask? a card shaped eye mask which covers one of his eyes while the other has a scar running down his eye.
what a peculiar man . . he looks important too. you offer him a nervous smile of your own.
"a-are you here for mister sigma? he's inside —" you try to tell and make an easy escape but he doesn't let you, as if he knows what you are trying to do.
tilting his head, he quietly asks, "you were the one who was sleeping on fedya's bed in the morning, no?"
"fyodor dostoyevsky?" you ask for confirmation and nod once you see his eyes shine with satisfaction.
"i wanted to meet you! haaaa, you don't know how pleased i am!" he exclaims happily and loudly as he grabs your hands in his own which are covered by gloves.
you spare a wary glance at the still closed door behind you but it's not opening and sigma isn't emerging like you thought he would.
"come on. don't look so nervous. it's not like i know any of your and fedya's secrets."
"there are no secrets sir —" you try to tell.
"oh dear me! i forgot to introduce myself. i am nikolai gogol." he continues to speak over you and you nod.
there is neither anger nor annoyance blooming in your heart. rather, it's fear and wary of the man in front of you.
"ah? mister i am —"
"i was there in the morning, you know? i wanted to meet you but fedya — he has a stick up his ass, doesn't he? — didn't let me. you work for sigma?"
you nod, dizzy because of being unable to keep up with his chatty behaviour.
"ah, that explains how you must've met fedya but i am surprised you two got so close —"
"i should go back. my shift isn't over." you tell as you attempt to walk past him but he steps in to block your path, smiling again.
"come with me. sigma won't mind if he knows you are with me." he doesn't give you time to answer as he grabs your wrist and begins to lead you away, swinging your interlaced hands together like children do.
you gulp, warily looking at his side profile before looking back at your boss's disappearing office. should you shout?
"i can't understand him at all! not at all. it's hard to know what he's thinking at what moment and everytime i think i got him figured out, he proves me wrong — ah, can i ask you something?" he suddenly looks at you and compared to the easy going tone he was using, the question is spoken in a quieter and more serious tone.
you nervously nod.
"out of everything i said, can you tell me where i lied?" he looks at you, tilting his head.
his grip on your hand suddenly feels like a handcuff and it feels like you are trapped. the seconds pass by in a painfully obvious way and you gulp before whispering out, "the part where you said you can't figure him out?"
"ten points for trying but you are wrong!" he taps your nose before grinning, "the lie was sigma not minding you are with me."
"what!?"
"but it's fine! i promise you won't get in trouble."
"is this a lie too —"
"you need to stop talking when i talk, darling." he softly scolds you, continuing to lead you away and towards the elevators.
one thing you learn about nikolai gogol is that he's a scary man. he talks so much as if he's scared someone might cut his tongue out the moment he stops and then he asks something deep which forces you to think about it from a different perspective. when you come up with an answer and look at him, he's already staring at you with a melancholic stare.
you can't figure this guy out at all and what one can't figure out, scares them. yet at the same time he's as comforting as fyodor or sigma would be. either all three of them have a charm which makes one feel safe or you are just super gullible.
"i am so dead. it's been an hour already and fuck, i messaged my co-worker to take over my shift but i am not sure what to say to mister sigma." you chew on your bottom lip anxiously while biting at the ice cream cone. nikolai had felt generous and told you to get anything from the convenience store and you didn't really have the heart to tell him that this trick usually works only on children. it works just fine on you since you picked up an expensive cone which you usually put back after making up your mind to buy it. it's seriously expensive but it's good too.
"do you run away from grief?" he suddenly asks but by now you are used to these sudden questions so you shrug.
"i don't know. i always feel grief." you offer a smile, hoping your answer is enough to satisfy his curiosity. if he's really a friend of sigma's then you want to stay in his good books.
"toska. it eats away at the soul."
"tragic."
"but without grief, would the other emotions matter? i asked this to fyodor once, you know?"
"cool."
"he said 'kolya, how i adore your mind sometimes. no, bad must exist for good to have worth. sadness must exist for happiness to be hopeful.' but why? why do we need to experience something bad to want good? i can't help but wonder sometimes how much we could progress if we had let go of emotions. if we become free of it."
"deep thinking." you mumble, tossing the end of the cone into your mouth.
nikolai doesn't seem to mind your uninterested comments. this is why he is talking to you anyway. he needs someone who won't think twice of what he speaks to hear these thoughts which he can't organize inside his head. he can't support his thoughts with evidence and so he can't talk to fyodor about it.
"he said he adores my mind yet i never heard him say anything about adoring you. i am ahead of you by one point." nikolai suddenly puts in as he side eyes you.
"WHAT?!"
"loser." the older man childishly sticks his tongue out at you which makes you blink, dumbfounded.
"he kissed my cheek. i am ahead by three points." you mumble after a minute or two. the air around you shifts to be more natural now as you smile at him, beginning to enjoy your time with him but you still feel sad. so sad that it's tearing your heart apart.
"adoring someone means basically loving them so i am ahead by four points and i knew him longer then you do so that's another four points. my total points are nine and your's? poor baby has only four points." he mockingly pouts.
fyodor dostoevsky returns back a week later to find things have changed.
previously you and nikolai had never interacted but now he discovers nikolai has your number and that you two talk regularly. it's an uncomfortable discovery but he doesn't show it on his face. he barely reacts to sigma talking about you.
one could be mistaken that fyodor dostoyevsky doesn't care. he cares too much about everything and everyone to the point of getting sick from overthinking.
dostoevsky was blessed by grief at his birth and tragedy is his companion till now.
but why is his grief, his sadness being emphasised so much? is he that desperate for people to think of him as a human? for his actions to be understood? or is this a sweet trick he is playing to make one end up on his side subconsciously?
he leans back on the couch in nikolai's apartment and stretches his arms over his head since his muscles are getting sore. the mentioned man had asked him to come to watch a movie in his apartment and fyodor didn't have anything better to do so why not entertain the man?
"oh, sigma and your girl will be coming too." nikolai drops the bomb while comparing the summaries of two documentaries — a leech one and another which is about the invention of ice creams.
"these aren't movies." fyodor points out but doesn't react to the mention of you, nikolai noticed.
"anything is a movie if it's long enough and if it entertains me."
"what entertains you?"
"everything!" nikolai leans closer, tilting his face as he stares at fyodor, "what are you hiding, old man?"
fyodor isn't taken aback by this proximity as over the time he came to grow used to it and truly, nikolai might be the only one who doesn't get his eyes clawed off for leaning in so close to the point his nose touches fyodor's.
fyodor dostoyevsky has a weird spot for nikolai and whether it's from affection or malice, no one except him knows. perhaps nikolai does too.
"wouldn't you like to know, kolya? i don't get why you are so curious? why? was i supposed to feel uncomfortable that she will be coming here too? that's simply not who i am. what do i have to fear if there was nothing between us, hm?" fyodor raises his hand to twirl a strand of nikolai's hair against his index finger, "stop trying already, will you? it's sad to see you try so hard to unravel something which doesn't exist."
fyodor tucks his hair behind his ear, smiles gently and then pushes nikolai away by pushing at his forehead with his finger.
"i know something is up and when i figure it out?" nikolai grins, "you are so dead when i figure it out."
"try all you want. i prefer the leech." fyodor gestures to the tv screen while speaking the last sentence to let nikolai know he isn't going to sit here to watch fucking ice creams being discovered.
the doorbell rings before the door is opened and nikolai's eyes glimmer in excitement because only one man finds it polite to make his presence known beforehand . . and because sigma doesn't ever want to accidently walk in to find nikolai in a compromising position with someone. that's a picture he doesn't dare think about.
it's one thing to imagine fyodor with someone. probable. realistic. but nikolai? can anyone except sigma even tolerate nikolai?
you walk behind him, immediately noticing how similar nikolai's apartment is to sigma and fyodor's which makes you think if they are doing it on purpose. like how couples wear the same clothes or have matching mugs. maybe these guys have matching interiors?
thankful for the sleeves of your oversized hoodie (because it's just nikolai. you aren't going to put some effort in and dress up for this man who annoys the shit out of you by rubbing his closeness with fyodor at your face) which hides your twitching palms, you think you are doing a good job at hiding how affected you feel ever since you spotted fyodor's shoes at the entrance. he's here.
you are going to meet him after a week of no fucking contact or explanations. he's going to be in the same room as you. you are still head over heels for him, (your roommate is a witness to that and so are your friends from uni).
"stop bothering my employees." sigma sighs as he is the first one to enter the living room and immediately addresses nikolai who only shrugs.
"she's my friend."
you take a step inside half heartedly. your heart is beating so fucking fast, you feel like you would get a heart attack if this pace doesn't slow down soon. there's an uncomfortable churning behind your knees as if your legs want to give up already.
"she's not." sigma argues back, "you are basically harassing her."
"well, you are harassing me." nikolai grins.
you tune the two out as your eyes immediately fall on fyodor on instinct.
oh, here he is. sitting on the couch with the air of someone who can't be bothered by the same petty worries which you carry, you find fyodor's eyes already on you. he notes the way your shoulders slump and knows you think your existence doesn't affect him like the way he does to you.
this isn't good.
nikolai is already itching to find clues of whatever exists between you and him and fyodor really doesn't want sigma to join the white haired man in his shenanigans. apart from obvious reasons, he just doesn't like others prying onto his vulnerable areas.
so, he smiles at you. it's the slightest curve of his lips as if he can't be too bothered by your presence — this is a good enough facade.
oh. this is how he wants to play?
fine.
you smile back as if to say you know how to dance to this tune too. you can also act as if nothing occurred between you two and while you are secretly glad for this since now you don't have to escape sigma's heavy gaze if he catches up to whatever's happening with you and fyodor, you are more disappointed.
the last time you didn't talk for a week ended with him kissing all over your face. you were honestly hoping for something similar this time too but this smile he offers just told you that this time is the end.
you and fyodor aren't the only ones playing a game, however.
as you wave at nikolai, he beckons you over, scoots near fyodor to make some space for you. he gestures for sigma to sit next to you but the man with the bi-coloured hair smiles nervously.
"i can just sit here —"
"nonsense! join us!" nikolai cuts him off and grins mischievously, holding an intense eye contact with sigma which lasts for nearly a minute and ends only because nikolai blew a kiss at sigma which made your boss's eyebrows furrow in fear.
in the end, all four of you are sitting on the same couch and you are sure the one grumbling under his breath is fyodor as he's pushed against the armrest by nikolai who turns on the movie.
"wait, is this a leech documen —"
"quiet down, sigma." nikolai giggles.
fyodor would usually chime in and remind them the documentary started and they should be watching it since that's the purpose but any thoughts about it doesn't even cross his mind as he's rather concentrated on nikolai's hand which is very close to your own.
in fact, if you moved your hand a bit then it would touch his.
"the narrator has a seducing voice." you point out, looking at sigma with furrowed eyebrows, "why's he seducing me?"
fyodor purses his lips. he's sure he's smarter than sigma so why aren't you asking him instead? why are you actively ignoring him? you are totally making whatever happened between you two obvious.
or maybe it's fyodor who can't stop staring at you which makes it obvious to nikolai.
"he's talking about leeches sucking stuff. what's so tempting about it?" sigma looks at you weirdly.
"he has a nice voice. i get what she means." nikolai leans over you to grin at sigma.
fyodor's finger twitches because nikolai's chest brushed against your arm and wow, he's a better man then this. he won't let nikolai's pathetic attempts get to him.
"OW—"
"oh. i apologise." fyodor smiles innocently at the glaring nikolai who rubs his side and acts as if he didn't elbow nikolai on purpose.
"thank God, he did it. he was pissing me off." sigma mutters under his breath and ignores how quiet you go whenever fyodor speaks up.
you go quiet because you are holding back a lot of words and feelings. the image your mind had made up of fyodor came crumbling down the moment you sat down.
he does not care about you. he would barely care if you cried.
you decide to play with the end of your hoodie because it's so much better than fighting with your eyes which want to fall on fyodor. this way you can also ignore the stinging in your eyes whenever they stare at him for too long and realise that indeed, he's not bothered by your presence at all.
"do you want to go back? i can drop you off." sigma whispers quietly to you, leaning down to take a good look at your face. there's this sadness inside him as he sees how withdrawn you look. do they make you uncomfortable?
'i stick out like the extra finger next to the pinky finger.' you had complained once for a reason which seems too insignificant now but those words are what sigma would use to describe you right now.
you look up and offer him a weak smile, shrugging. it's not as if you will feel better once you leave. you will continue to remember fyodor's nonchalance to you and it'll haunt you for days until you can move on and focus on something else which will be like the splash of pink in your life filled with palettes of depressing blue.
fyodor tries not to stare at the two of you but it's hard when his curiosity is being so violent and there's a deep urge inside him which craves to know what you two are talking about. why's sigma so close to you anyway?
looking down as a quiet snicker leaves his lips, fyodor bites down on his thumb as he gets lost in thoughts.
"let's see . . going to another country or some other part of this country in that case . . . i could make security accompany her . . but socially? i can't shut anyone's mouth . . ." fyodor sighs after talking to himself in a tone quieter than someone mumbling but nikolai hears him anyway.
leaning his head on fyodor's shoulder, he smiles, "there is something, isn't there?"
fyodor hums absentmindedly. he has made up his mind.
fyodor is not the type to be unaware of his feelings. he realised it early on of his fondness for you. now, he realises this intense envy which burns him is related closely to his feelings for you. running away from them might not be an option because they will haunt him till the end of time.
he had walked down the streets of france and his thoughts went to you whenever he saw something the youth of your age might be into. imaginary hands had taken your form to slide down his chest in the dreams which were heavy with sin. tension. some were more sinful and left him breathless and aching, others left his heart aching where the last fragment of the dream he remembered were your eyes filled with tears and pain.
"you don't look good." sigma gently continues to try to get you to open up.
it warms your heart but also makes you burn in embarrassment because wow, you feel like you are acting like a child throwing her temper tantrum and sigma is the gentle but distressed mother trying to calm you down.
"i . . yeah, don't feel too good. i think i should go back." you finally say because crying inside your blankets is better than trying to hold back tears here.
sigma nods and straightens up, "i will drop you off —"
"i can do it." a third voice speaks quickly and both of you turn to see fyodor, you realise that either he has been paying extra attention to your hushed conversation or you two weren't speaking quietly like you thought you were. he clears his throat and slowly adds, "i was leaving anyway. i can drop her off."
"really?" sigma asks but you can see the lines at the edge of his eyes easing, gratitude easing its way into his voice.
your stomach drops in dread. why's he doing this?
"you don't have to —"
did he forget the terms you two have parted on? does he expect you to not be bitter about it?
"i insist, dear." he leans over nikolai to offer you a smile like he did the first time and you feel the couch beneath you move away, leaving you to float in the air.
it's like the first time all over again. despite how savagely he talked about honour and inappropriate proximity, you still feel like his smile is pulling you towards him.
you love him, you realise. the kind where you are ready to look past everything if he is willing to walk with you.
he stands up, stretching his arms over his head and you get a good look at his outfit — that damned black turtleneck and a coat over it. like the first time you met him.
is it deja vu and nostalgia which is making you act this way? or is it longing?
he steps closer and offers you his hand.
what changed? why is he suddenly acting this way? he's not afraid of tainting his honour anymore?
you hesitantly place your palm against his, allowing him to wrap his fingers around your hand as if he's afraid you will pull back. you want to point out he's the one who does the pulling away. who doesn't glance back as he leaves.
you are the one who waits, staring at the path he chose in case he ever returns.
he says something to sigma and nikolai but over the questions running in your mind, you can't hear them. he's still holding your hand and that feels nice. feels grounding, to be honest. like you finally have a place you belong to.
quietly, you follow after him and snap out of this daze like state once you are standing in front of the passenger's side of his car. there's an intense urge to finally speak out which is clawing its way up your chest to your throat.
"mister dostoyevsky?" you call, looking up as he does the same and you smile, curving your lips just enough for it to be mocking, "you are a really confusing man. it's sad."
"why 'sad'?" he smiles, tilting his head. his heart thumps loudly against the ribcage. are you going to speak up? he hopes so.
"i just . . ." you tightly grip the handle of the car door as you wonder for the last time if you should let the words out or hold them back like always. he has hurted you too. pretended just now as if nothing happened. he gazes at your heart pieces like he isn't the one who broke it. ". . find it sad how you can't stay true to your honour. you know? considering i am tainting your honour —"
"tainting is a harsh word, no? also, when i said that, i didn't mean it only for me. i was talking about you too. ah, are you going to throw a tantrum now? that's cute." he is tall enough to place his hands on the roof of the car and lean his chin on his arms, staring at you with the same adoration as someone who is admiring their crush shine in whatever field said crush is good in.
breezes blow by to remind you of the upcoming winter.
you look down, smirking bitterly.
"i wanted to stay in your and nikolai's good books because you two are close to mister sigma and —" you release the car handle and turn your palm around to see it's covered with a thin layer of sweat, "— i want him to think good of me. i want to be promoted."
you look up as he doesn't reply and find him biting his lip as if to stop a smile from taking over. it's so unlike the reaction of slight hurt you hoped to see on his face. it makes you falter.
"when you reach a certain age, you get polished to fit society's traditions. one of them is to maintain your reputation and be respected among your peers. 'honour' is to pretend you aren't hungry at a gathering even if you are starving." he begins to explain his point of view to you, gesturing for you to get inside.
as soon as you sit inside, fyodor places a hand on top of your head to pat it, "i am respected. even if i am seen messing around with someone who is ten years or more younger than me, no one will bat an eye. 'he is rich. the rich do whatever they want' is what they will say. but what about you?"
"a gold digger?" you tilt your head.
smiling, he leans over the console to tuck your hair behind your ear properly as he whispers, "they will call you a shameless opportunist who latched onto an older man for his money. they will also call you cunning with a pretty face . ."
the back of fyodor's fingers touch your cheek. he sees the way your throat moves as you gulp upon hearing his words and a perverted sense of euphoria courses through him.
"it might even affect your future jobs if they know the age gap between you and your partner, hm?" his finger slides down to your chin and he spreads all his finger to grasp your chin, tilting your head up to let you stare into his glinting eyes, "it's your honour i was protecting. not mine."
"bullshit." you hiss as his fingers tighten their grip on your chin, nails nearly digging in your skin.
"you need to learn how to speak respectfully to older people, to me."
"you need to make your lies less obvious. i saw the way you are treated at the casino. mister sigma also treats you like a superior. you are not some simple humble man." you smile, leaning closer to grab his other hand which was placed on his thigh.
bringing it closer to the left side of your chest, you mimic the greeting you saw the bodyguards doing at the casino that day, "this 'honour' is your reputation among men like you, right?"
"wrong." he whispers, hand spreading around to touch your breast. "absolutely wrong but a good guess. do you want a kiss for that?"
"what's honour then?"
"exactly what it seems. fuck, you are cute enough for me to gobble you up." he doesn't particularly speak the last part of his sentence quietly and with how quiet it is in the car, you heard him perfectly.
"h-huh?"
"i warned you again and again to be careful of people like me but you just don't listen. is listening to your heart more important?" he asks, hand tightly gripping your tit before he releases it to look up and silently demand you to answer him.
you nod and try to find your voice to speak up, "yes. i know when to distance myself from someone before they could actually hurt me. i listen to my heart mostly."
"why didn't you distance yourself from me?" he asks, thumb moving up and down at what he assumes to be your nipple under your clothes. it's a carnal urge which seduces him, whispers images of you panting under him in his mind. this urge is what's making him try his luck to get a feel of your chest, his imagination will do the rest of the work.
"maybe i wanted you to break my heart? i just wanted to . . " you trail off and shrug because you aren't sure why as well. gently grabbing his hand to pull it away from your chest, you tilt your head to kiss his knuckles and whisper against it, "hold your honour all you want. i will not bother you. for real this time. i-i mean i can't chase after someone who won't offer me stability."
your laugh is forced and awkward, it scratches against your throat on its way up to reach your mouth.
"i can offer it." fyodor quietly mumbles, pulling his hand back to look down at his knuckles which you kissed. warmth spreads throughout his chest and tells him that he was wrong. running from you is not an option because he can't escape you if you exist in every thought in his mind. "you make me delirious, dear girl."
his laughter is more natural and easy going, it spreads warmth in your chest by its sincerity alone. it also sobers you up.
you sit properly, hiding your hands between your thighs to prevent him from reading your body language by seeing your sweaty palms as you quietly begin, this time your voice is devoid of any mockery, sadness or anger. it's quiet acceptance you speak with.
"i am angry and hurt but at the end of the day — ever since the first time —" you look up while you say this to show him you aren't trying to act mature and that you really mean your words, "— i understood what you said. it was hurtful but that's the way this world works. i think i wouldn't be angry if you hadn't used the word 'honour'. you people (and you mean not only him but his entire country, an unfair generalization it is but you aren't that mature to understand it yet, not when your wounds are still healing) are really obsessed with honour and i don't like it — but that's a topic for another day."
fyodor sees your tongue slipping out of your mouth to wet your bottom lip nervously. leaning back against his seat, he smiles at how cute you look. all sad while pretending to be neutral.
"but what i mean to say is, i know it might not work. i knew it from day one." you pause to gather your voice which is on the verge of breaking, "but can't we try it anyway, mister dostoyevsky —"
"fyodor. call me by my name, okay?" he cuts you off and leans closer again to gently cradle your cheek against his palm. soft to the touch, skin waiting to be tainted by him sinking his teeth in.
"why — leave it. please forget my suggestio —" you stutter, unable to focus on your thoughts anymore as you stare into his eyes. it makes you think he's going to swallow you.
suddenly it feels as if there isn't enough space in the car anymore. it feels heavy with tension.
"i don't think i will." he cuts you off, leans over his seat to be closer to you. "do you mean it? 'trying it anyway?' you are smart, that's why i am asking you if this will work."
"and if I say yes? will you date me?" you ask as you smile teasingly. it's the kind of smile one has when they clearly want to test someone else.
your heart is going to burst out of your chest now. your hands are twitching to get closer to him because you feel the shift in air. the heavy tension is being lifted and replaced by something far lighter and warming.
chuckling, fyodor leans even closer and tilts his head down to whisper in your ear, "will you?"
"didn't you know how crazy i was over you? of course i will." you chuckle, tilting your head to press a kiss against his jaw despite the pounding of your heart. you pretend you don't feel the goosebumps rising all over your skin.
his words make it clear to you that something made him change his mind. he's considering this.
"was? you aren't crazy over me anymore?" he continues to whisper, rubbing his cheek against your own which nearly makes you shudder. "too cute and nice for your own good. you should slap me for the pain i caused you, you know? it makes me bothered by how easily you forgive me."
"if you are feeling this way for my sake . . " you lift your hands to grab his cheeks, turning his face towards your own as you smile softly, "then isn't it a good thing? though it sucked so i want you to apologise to me, mister dos — fyodor."
oh. fyodor leans more into your hands, feeling as if he could melt and become a puddle at this moment. he will melt into your hands and hopes your skin absorbs him so he could always be with you. though he knows that isn't enough. he wants to be with you forever in a romantic sense.
"i am sorry." whispering it out, he turns his head to press a kiss on your right palm.
"i am really sorry." he turns his head to kiss your left palm now.
"i am sorry."
"how many times will you apologise?" you snicker.
"as many times as it takes. i am sorry."
"that's enough, fyodor —"
"do you want me to bow down? i seriously feel so bad. you are such a considerate girl and i —"
"kiss me then. i will forgive you if you kiss me like last time —"
he doesn't let you complete your words, tilting his head to press his lips against yours. somewhat chopped and dry yet extremely warm are his lips.
you tilt your own head as your eyes fluttered close and let him lead you to lean against the window. the coolness travels past your clothes to touch your back and make you realize a shivering sigh against his lips.
his knee digs on your seat as he leans more towards you to be closer, hands against the window to hold you between the small barrier.
fyodor dostoyevsky's lips move softly and slowly against your own as if he is letting you memorize the brush of his lips against yours or the wetness of his saliva coating your lips when he parts his own more to suck at your bottom lip.
with his tongue licking your bottom lip after biting it, he leans back to let you catch your breath.
"did i earn your forgiveness?" his voice is evidently hoarse as he asks this, letting his thumb rub the wetness coating your bottom lip and wipe it away because it makes your lips look more desirable, makes him want to do something impulsive which a man his age shouldn't think of doing.
"fuck, you are a good kisser too? it's not fair, fyodor." you shakily chuckle, leaning your head back against the window as you close your eyes.
"i love you."
"hm?" your eyes snap open to stare at fyodor who is licking his bottom lip.
he extends his hand to gently grab the back of your neck and pulls you closer to him. his head dips low to press his lips on yours, against which he whispers his confession again, "i said you make me delirious, sweet girl. i love you."
the wrinkles near his eyes catch your eyes and you wonder for a moment what made him change his mind when he was so adamant on not wanting anything.
his lips greet yours again and your eyes shyly close to drown in his touch. your hands come up, grab his coat and pull him closer. your lips tightly press against his, tongue wrapping against his as he swallows any noise you make.
as he pulls back, you open your eyes and again look at the slight wrinkles near his eyes. chuckling breathlessly, you feel just as mesmerised by his looks like you did the first time you met him.
"how do i make you delirious?" you ask, smiling in amusement.
"being away from you and knowing i am the reason you look so hurt troubles me till i get sick."
"maybe your immunity is getting weaker with age?" you dryly try to joke.
"am i that old, dear?"
at the back of your chest, a shiver runs down after realising you have had this conversation with him perhaps twice before. this is the third time but in a completely different situation.
you pull him closer, smiling teasingly as you whisper, "not at all. didn't i say it already?"
"but you keep on mentioning my age again and again so i am not sure if you mean it or you are just being a brat." he teases, pulling your nose which makes you let out a painful 'fuck'.
he releases your nose to glare at you, "you really need to learn how to speak to me, you brat. and why were you being so close to sigma, huh? aren't i better?"
you snicker, "are you getting jealous at your big age?"
your laughter dies down and gets replaced by a gasp as you register the pleasure of him smacking your inner thigh. biting your lip, you look up to see him staring at you intensely and despite knowing the sexual tension which is sparking around you two, you end it by blurting out, "i love you."
it's kind of amazing to watch the moment he registers your words inside his mind. he blinks, the intensity in his eyes dissolves and gives way to a more gentler expression and then he smiles almost shyly.
"you do, huh?" he teases, leaning closer to nuzzle his face against your jaw.
ira I'm begging you as I suffer currently from a fever to write about bimbo/popular girl reader who accidentally revives a vampire king Fyodor. She would find like those ritual books hidden in the library and like every horror movie trope, she thinks it's fun to summon him thinking it was completely fake. Wrong, now he owes his life to her — a dumb blonde who's probably not even a real blonde — for reviving him. She decides to help him gain his strength (letting him feed on the people she hates), because she thinks he's hot for a malnourished vampire lmao. I think it's a silly Halloween trope, popular party gf x ancient vampire bf
𓍯 dracula? push me down! ; fyodor dostoyevsky x fem!reader.
general tags and warnings. slight nsfw drabble, dumbification of reader, reader is mentioned to have hair (fake, most likely if u don't have hair, can be imagined as wearing a wig too), mention of reader's tits, biting. wc ; 892 words.
note. brother i kid u not, I've been like brainstorming for this for the past two days and like EVERY TIME I js think "this idea is right up jay's alley." like it screams you. do you get me?? i js hope this isnt as bad as i am thinking and ends up satisfying u until ur sick fragile self can get up and write a better one. also sorry, idk why it's nsfw. guess the gooners (me) won again.
"ugh, tritty didn't get it!! this isn't a costume at all!" you whine out loudly to the decades old vampire who is more intrigued by this generation's literature collection. you know, the good ones and not those which romanticise domestic violence and all that stuff — anyways, the reason behind your sour mood is because you tried introducing your super hot boyfriend to one of your sorority sisters (you aren't even in one, just been to enough parties to be given this unofficial honour) and when fyodor smiled, she saw his fangs and squealed at how good his costume is for tonight's halloween party.
"like how dumb is she? you totally look like a vampire!" you huff in irritation at the lack of reply and lean forwards to grab the book (which looks surprisingly smaller in fyodor's hands) which had him enamored, tossing it to the side as you pout at him.
he looks down, disinterested, at your lipgloss covered lips and then at your eyes — dumb, empty, eyes which for some reason had him frozen in his spot since that day when you revived him in the back of an old library. the one you visit to this day because of some stupid stamp you get every day you visit — every month attended earns you a cute sticker pack (the one you got during the month you revived fyodor were those aesthetic sphere stickers in different colour palettes and some were sparkling too).
"are all humans as foolish looking as you?" he had asked you this after composing himself from the shock of being woken up from his meaningless, deep and empty slumber.
a frilly white shirt tucked in black pants and a black coat on his shoulders, he had glared at you with so much hostility that it made you bite your lips and clench your thighs, feeling your panties get wet. it's not your fault!
he's just soo hot. you know? he helps you with your homework and everything (you are a literature major because you like the aesthetics), groans yet takes care of you when you show up drunk from a party and even scares off those dumb guys — the kind who think they can get anyone if they flash enough money and remain persistent — by pretending to be your boyfriend.
he does it all for free!
wellllll maybe not exactly. he does require a new person to drink from every once a month for some reason but lucky for him! there are a lot of people you don't like because they bitched about you, the skirts you wore, the really low cut tops you wear and what not!
"what's so vampire like about me?" he decides to humour you, grabbing your thighs to pull you on top of his lap, ignoring your thighs stiffening.
oh fuck. you bite your lips. you forgot to mention the sexy voice he has which always makes your tummy flutter.
"everything." you repeat as if it's obvious, crossing your arms over your chest because you know it makes your tits squeeze together and frankly, you want him to look there.
"don't do that." he frowns softly, looking at your eyes but you see him clench his jaw and you smile tauntingly, "why not? afraid your ancient dick will rise up?"
yeah, those words were a mistake but honestly? you'll speak the same words again and again if it means you'll end up with your face against the pillow every time.
your hands are held together by his hand above your head yet you still try to claw at the bedsheets, moaning and whimpering loudly as your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head. your lips are parted and drool escapes yet fyodor shows no mercy, balls snapping against your ass as he bites down hard at your forearm and leaves visible marks there.
"you need to learn how to speak to someone who is above you, dumb girl." his free hand moves down to find your clit which he rubs roughly with his thumb, making your moans grow louder.
you just can't help it! his cock is moving inside you so deliciously that you aren't sure if you want to cum or pee. you can feel his dick moving in and out of you and that, combined with the wet feeling of his tongue lapping up the bite marks he leaves on your skin is making you more sensitive. your skirt is thrown away but your top is still on — a tight one and every time his thrusts make your body move, you can feel your perked nipples brush against the fabric of your top and the bed, adding to the delicious pleasure you are feeling.
"fedya —" your words get muffled as he lets go of your wrists to push your face further into the pillow, panting, "dumb girls don't speak. they only moan."
fyodor gently forces your legs to part with his thumb and pinky finger while not stopping his assault on your clit and cunt at all until and even after you cum.
you wheeze for breath, eyes barely open as fyodor is still roughly rubbing your clit, dick pulled out of your weeping hole (his cum is mixing with your own and dripping out) to rub the wetness against your ass cheeks with his other hand.
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