Fyodor Dostoevsky X Reader - Blog Posts

thanks for requesting. im sorry this took so long to write i didn't have that much ideas of what to write for a part two. i can't edit older drafts for some reason so i had to take a screenshot of your request and redo this.

☆ the wolf in sheep's clothing [part two]

fyodor dostoevsky x male reader [he / him]

sypnosis: part two of a wolf in sheeps clothing.

the lowercase is intentional !

[part one]

days, weeks and months had passed by since fyodor's first encounter with [name]. ever since then, fyodor couldn't stop thinking of [name]. he was practically infatuated by the priest and his obscure preachings.

fyodor was interested. he was interested in both [name] and the man's preachings. he couldn't help but want more of them. he wanted to listen to more of [name], he wanted to be around [name] more. but of course, it was only for the sessions, right? fyodor didn't want to believe he was actually.. attracted to [name]. he refused to believe it. it was all just for the preachings is what fyodor made himself believe.

it was a regular evening, which meant another one of [name]'s preaching sessions that fyodor was looking forward to once again.

fyodor made his way to [name]'s church and he walked inside. the place hadn't changed much in the past few months. it was the same building, with more or less the same people inside. he had been in the building so much he could practically nagvigate the whole area blindfolded.

fyodor scanned the room, hoping to see where [name] was and he eventually spotted the man. fyodor walked up to him with a smile and a wave.

"good evening, [name]. it's nice to see you again." fyodor spoke, his voice nice and smooth. it was like music to [name]'s ears, a very pleasant song that [name] would have on repeat.

[name] nodded, smiling back at the man that had bumped into him many months ago. "good evening, fyodor." the man replied back before walking over to a pedistool to set up for his new speech.

fyodor followed [name]. he knew [name] wouldn't start until around half an hour passed, so fyodor decided a little more conversation wouldn't hurt.

"how have you been?" fyodor asked, still smiling at [name]. the black haired male's smile was quite unsettling, but so was [name]'s nature so it equalled out.

"fine, as always." [name] hummed, shuffling things around clumsily to get his whole 'stage' prepared for him. [name] believed his pedistool, his altar was a stage. he wanted to believe it was a stage, and that im a few years time the word of his new, true religion would spread. but, that was unlikely.

fyodor watched intently as [name] set up.

it was always like this. he always watched the other man get ready. fyodor watched how [name] would shuffle around multiple pieces of paper of his speeches, how he straightened himselt up.

fyodor was fascinated, to say the least. he enjoyed watching [name] do all of his tasks and devote himself to his cultist ideology. fyodor was definitely interested.

[name] looked up from his pedistool as he finished and he smiled. "you should go sit down, i'm almost ready now. i'm sure you'll like this session just as you like the others." [name] said to fyodor.

fyodor nodded and he walked over to the benches that were littered across the hall. he sat in his usual space where he got a clear view of [name]. he loved sitting there, sitting somewhere where he could see the person he was most interested in (for multiple reasons).

[name] watched as fyodor walked over to his usual seat before he walked over to the bathroom. he freshened himself up so he didn't look that bad infront of all of his followers. he then walked out and got to his stage.

[name] cleared his throat before he spoke to all of his followers.

"good evening all!" he calls out, his voice filling the room. everyone immediately turns to look at [name], amazed by his voice already.

"thank you all for coming. i can't wait to tell you some new things our true god has let me know!" [name] continued, a wicked glint in his eyes that most people looked past. they were too captivated by his voice to care about the nonsense he was going to talk about.

as [name] spoke, fyodor couldn't help but get more and more mesmerised by the man. the way [name] spoke was so captivating, the way he looked was just.. perfect. fyodor loved every second of it. he loved being around [name], listening to his preaches.

after the speech was over, everyone cheered. everyone applauded and called out [name]'s name, loving what he had just spoken.

everyone left, but not fyodor. fyodor walked up to [name] and applauded, smiling at the man.

"that was an amazing speech, [name]." fyodor spoke, his words smooth and pleasing to [name]'s ears. "you never fail to impress me." fyodor hummed, smirking at [name] now.

[name] chuckled, feeling flattered by fyodor's words. he smiled back and nodded at the other man.

"why thank you, you never fail to flatter me." [name] responded, being just as flirty as fyodor was being just a second ago.

fyodor then realised, in that moment, that he was definitely into [name].

it was just because of the preachings or the sessions, it was because [name] was truly captivated.

fyodor was completely infatuated. he needed [name] now, or else he didn't know what he would do. it was like he was craving the other man, longing for him. he'd do anything he'd have to for [name].

fyodor then chuckled and he stepped closer to [name], putting a hand on his cheek and stroking it gently.

"you know.. i could give you something else to worship if you'd like." fyodor whispered into [name]'s ear, leaning in closer with that smirk still on his face.

[name]'s eyes widen briefly, but then he looks at fyodor, returning the smirk to him.

"oh, i'd love to see." [name] chuckled and then he leaned even closer, closing the gap between his and fyodor's face with a kiss.

the wolf in sheep's clothing definitely had more things than just his false god to worship now and fyodor now had [name] wrapped around his finger.

☆ author's note: i'm so sorry this took so long.. i hope you like it @ kaeiyokotoro ! i didn't know how to make a p2 so i really tried my best. keep requests coming !

☆ masterlist ▪︎ request

Hello, Hello!!

You said your requests are open, yes? Well, im here to submit one if it's not a burden <33

Can I request Fyodor Dostoevsky x Male reader who is a religious cult leader? (You can choose it's it's yandere, platonic, romantic, etc)

For example, the reader is a priest but is super nice, a little too nice-- Fyodor happens to run across him during in what the start of season four would be(when the ADA didn't listen to Ranpo's starting point) and deemed m/n as just: "a feeble priest" who invited him to church, however, when Fyodor decides to go to the church out of curiosity he finds out m/n is insane for whatever god he worships, instead of his soft and caring personality he had when he first met Fyodor; he now has a more crazed and insane one, "reaching the holy words" and screaming obscenities to the rest of the church members in the pews?

And possibly for an interesting touch(only for the drama because im quite obsessed with dramatic stories where characters get surprised when m/n does something), the reader usually keeps their eyes closed, eventually leading people into thinking that he is blind, only for him to open his eyes when he's doing cultist meetings?

I know this is such a strange ask 😭😭 and if it makes you uncomfortable I understand 100%, this is actually a storyline for one of my ocs, and I thought it would be neat to see this sort of storyline in your style and as a fanfic!!

(P.S I HAVE READ SOME OF YOUR WRITING AND I LOVE IT SO MUCH 😭❤️❤️ I don't request often either so I wanted you to know this is how much I appreciate your writing style)

thanks for requesting!

☆ the wolf in sheep's clothing

fyodor dostoevsky x male reader [he / him]

sypnosis: above!

the lowercase is intentional !

you were going about your day, on your way to your work as a priest before bumping into a man. this man was no ordinary man, it was fyodor dostoevsky, a member of the decay of angels. but you didn't know that yet, and neither did he know about your secret profession.

"i'm so, so sorry!" you stutter out with a bow, keeping a nice, caring persona on to lure fyodor in. your eyes are closed, so you can't make out what the man infront of you looks like, but you take a quick peak at him before closing your eyes again. "it's alright," he smirked. "don't worry about it." his accent was thick and heavy. you were now more curious about him. you were definitely going to try and lure him into your cult.

"my name's [name]. i am truly sorry for bumping into you.." your eyes are closed and fyodor can now understand why you bumped into him. you were probably blind, so he felt a little sympathetic towards your case, which was a surprise from him. "it's okay, don't worry about it truly. i'm fyodor." he smiled, even though you wouldn't be able to see.

you bowed at him again, still muttering a string of apologies before he takes your shoulder in his hand. "please stop apologising, i've already forgiven you." the contact made you shiver, but in a good way. you looked up at him again. "okay, okay. sorry. would you like to come over to come over to my church? i was just on the way now before bumping into you. it'll be my way of showing gratitude and forgiveness." you smile, but there's a hint of evil about your smile that fyodor doesn't seem to catch on to.

"oh, well i don't see why not." fyodor smiled in response. "if you're insisting, i'll come along. i guess it is really the only way you could repay me." the black haired man continued smiling. fyodor was geniunely curious about your church. what god did you worship? etc, etc. those questions were running through his mind. he also liked how sweet you were, it was like he could take advantage of you if he'd like to later. but he was wrong, of course. you didn't show him how you truly were. a cruel, evil cult leader. you simply acted all sweet to lure more people into your trap.

the two of you then arrived at the church. it was lively as people were waiting for the next session to take place and they were waiting for [name] to lead it. you had a smirk on your face as you faced fyodor again. "you just sit where you like and have a little listen to my ceremony, okay?" you smile sweetly at him, but your intentions are far from sweet.

the atmosphere of the church was also quite sinister.. but fyodor couldn't tell what was off about the whole place just yet. he decided to go along with whatever you had planned. he sat down in a seat near the back and waited for you to start.

you walk to the altar and get your things ready to prepare your next speech for your followers. you enjoy the feeling that you have a new guest today - fyodor. maybe you'd convince him to join your 'true' religion in the end and get him to praise your 'true' god.

"greetings, guests!" you call out, finally opening your eyes to scan the eyes of the audience. fyodor was a little startled at first. he didn't think you could see.. but maybe that was just a slight misjudgment on his behalf, so he tried to brush it off and not seem ignorant.

everyone was already shouting praises at you, even though you had only said two words. everyone sitting in the rows at the church were all familiar faces that you knew. you took your time usually to greet each individual once you entered the church, but today was different. you were running late due to fyodor, so you'd leave all the friendliness with your followers to later.

"i assume everyone knows why we're gathered here today?" you ask and people in the crowd yell back a string of 'yes'es or just screams. "oh but of course, there is someone new here today!" an evil grin grows on your face as you turn to look at fyodor. "I hope everyone will be nice to our hopefully new follower!" your grin then turns into a sweet smile, hints of evil still around it. your voice was sickeningly sweet as well, starting to creep fyodor of all people out a little bit too.

"today we are gathered yet again to praise the true god!" you yell out, your voice starting to grow more and more menacing as you praised this false god. "not the ones those so called real worshipers follow.. our god!" everyone started cheering your name, they seemed to be just as brainwashed, or even worse than you.

fyodor was starting to get a little creeped out. he wanted to leave, and fast. he didn't intend on meeting a cult leader in the first place. he just thought he had bumped into a sweet, innocent and blind man. but oh how he was so wrong.

your words started to linger in fyodor's mind. everything you said about this god stuck out to him. some of his curiosity was peaked, maybe it was because of you - not the person you decided to worship. something about you seemed so interesting, fyodor forgot his intentions on leaving now. he wanted to stay and listen to your voice forever.

maybe it was your voice, the way you spoke about this idol you worshipped. or maybe it was how captivating you were, the way you faked your sweet charm just to lure him in. whatever it was, fyodor was definitely interested. he was definitely going to be coming back for more talks.. mostly because he wanted to be by your side though.

once the 'prayer' meeting was over and you had said goodbye to each of your guests, you decide to go back to fyodor and have a chat with him. he had a surprised look on his face the entire time you spoke and you were certainly amused by that. "well hello, fyodor." you spoke, a smirk on your face. it the exact one you had playing on your face when fyodor first came into the church. "i see you enjoyed your time here, yes?" you asked, leaning close to him. he immediately nodded, captivated by your alluring voice.

"yes, i did enjoy it. for more reasons than you may think, however." fyodor laughed lightly, looking at you. "it is safe to say, i will be returning.. only if i am not busy with my own plans you see." he smiled at you, slightly returning the smirk you had on your lips. "of course, of course! you are welcome to join us anytime. i will be delighted." you chuckled back, pleased to hear that the ravenette will be returning.

fyodor had practically forgotten who you were - a cult leader that just spewed obscenities to his followers. he had completely zoned out.. but he wasn't that innocent of a man either, so he couldn't blame you. fyodor was truly fascinated about your act, maybe he could learn a thing or two from the wolf in sheep's clothing...

☆ requests ▪︎ masterlist

☆ author's note: i don't know shit about religion or anything about church / priests, so i hope this was good... but seriously thanks for requesting and saying you love my work! i try my best. keep requests coming!! they may be a little slow due to school but i'll try get them out asap.

infinity aria ; prologue

fyodor dostoevsky x gn! reader. synopsis: two souls inexplicably intertwined, only for one to kiss death again and again, and for the other to stand witness. throughout the lifetimes, he watches you seek him out, curiously watching you seal your fate. read on ao3

warning : canon typical violence, mentions of death

author's note: holy SHIT i'm doing a series for once. this fic is set in the past, but eventually will become canon compliant. this is a reincarnated! reader fic. the chapters will be considerably longer (i'm aiming 2.5-3k words everytime, but this one will be short because it's a prologue. 

Unnerving.

  That was the first word you could think of to describe the feeling that seemed to crawl like a spider up the webbings of your veins when you entered the hall; this giant, grotesquely adorned opera hall with ceilings high enough to make one feel infinitely small, the arches too high to properly glean at the painted reliefs on them. The marble floor of the hall remains empty save for a few groups of guests. The linen note you received yesterday crumples in your tight grip. It states clearly in cursive, inked with clarity— that this was, or rather, should be the correct time and place for you to be here. With your best attempt, you try not to look lost, not keeping the eye or conversation of anyone for long enough to be able to feel the full weight of their gaze. Unremarkable people in their own right, yet the stateliness that their haughty gazes carried made their gaze a weight that rested heavily on your shoulders. Somehow, their superimposed, silent pride had made it a lot harder to freely move, every action carefully noted and judged, as if they were the sole authority worth doing so. Tonight only, they were all birds of a feather.

  You usher yourself into an adjacent room, pushing a heavy door on the far right side of the hall. Pinching at the hem of your opera gloves, your velveteen fingers lock the door behind you. When you turn around, you see the sender of the note in your palm, with his hands clasped in front of him. A pale young man, gracile and willowy in build, with unreadable yet deep eyes and pale pink lips curled in a sardonic, yet cordial smile. He was dressed in the fashion of the times; a violet cravat neatly tucked into his shirt, matching to the dim shade reflected in his eyes, a small brooch in the shape of an angel’s wings. Owing to the harsh weather, a winter overcoat was draped over the fineries, lined with fur— understated and respectable, yet not standing out. A glint of silver shines under his sleeve, hardly noticeable; not that of a watch or a bracelet, but the tip of a dagger.

  You have no reason to believe that the reveal is not intentional. 

  In your life, you have only ever met Fyodor Dostoevsky four times in person; your correspondence has been limited to perfumed letters that are burned soon after they are read. The first time was in a chapel, his form sitting in a pew with unmoving tranquility, like that only ever found in placid, glacial lakes—counting the beads of his rosary although his mouth had not once moved in prayer. You do not recall why you spent so much time watching him, yet he seemed to command your attention with not so much as a word. He could keenly feel your observation, but for some reason you could not tell, he only glanced at you with a knowing smile, whispered a morning greeting, and left.

  The second time, it was in midst of the crowd that followed a public execution, though you remember not what misdeed had led that young man to the scaffold, barely of age. A short drop; you saw the deadly tie placed around that man’s neck, the force not immediately snapping his neck, but rather slowly cutting off his breath, leaving him hanging limp off the rope. You did not wait long enough to see him pass away, but you heard the man next to you mumble something about how 'there's no hope for them, there's no hope for any of them…’ Rather than sadness or contemplation, there was a tone of cruel, self aware irony in his intonation.

  Fyodor had stayed behind, observing the condemned man a few minutes more. 

  The third time, it was through an associate of yours. While you could not fathom why a seemingly devout man would associate with criminals, especially those that specialized in the matter of political assassinations, you did not question your new patron much. So long as he provided his support, it would be unwise to question generosity out loud. It would not be the first time people wore religion like a disguise for their actions, a pretty accessory that could be discarded at will. It wasn't until the past three months that he started becoming more actively involved in these…projects of sorts, and while you could not help but wonder how he seemed to convince your usually suspicious and steadfast superiors so quickly, he had still not given you a reason to question him. That first night you had worked with him is only a fuzzy memory now. By the time you had even reached the location, he was already leaving. When he closed the door behind him, he only expressed formal concern about the late hour and your return home, suggesting that he shall fetch a coach for the both of you. 

  While his back was turned, your fingers reached tentatively for the doorknob, silently opening it. In the dim candlelight, the glimmer of still warm blood shone on the floors, the limp bodies of around five men with their eyes blown wide lay scattered around the study. You were no stranger to bloody sights, however, the reason your mouth had become dry and your head felt heavy was not the slaughtered bodies of those targets, but rather the one in the centre. 

  Fyodor Dostoevsky, laying decidedly dead, with a bullet lodged in the middle of his eyes. 

  You closed the door the moment you caught a glimpse of that sight. Perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you. It had to be, for the man you know to be Fyodor was currently not too far ahead of you, standing on the edge of the road and talking to a coach. You wondered why he hadn't locked the door after the deed was done. If he had intended for you to see what you had. The ride home had passed in silence, and you bid him a quiet farewell, head swirling from the events of the night.

  Tonight is the fourth time you have laid your eyes upon this strange man. One who has strangely made himself a recurring thought in your mind, an unwitting parasite. Usually, you had no choice but to curb your curiosity regarding certain people, given that asking too many questions could at best result in a stern rebuke or at worst, pointed violence. In that way, the new patron’s serene demeanor was disarming, yet could not entirely dispel the suspicion you kept close like an old friend. Before you could lose yourself in your silent perusal of his character any longer, the sound of his voice brings you back from your musings. 

  “Punctual, good. I trust you know what we're here for, so let us begin. Have you brought the vial?”

  The glass sits cool near your skin, and with a quick reach from your pockets, you produce the item. The liquid inside was clear, smelling like nothing in particular; the vial itself was shaped like those typically used to store smelling salts; slightly darker in color. A blend of arsenic and atropa belladonna distillates, or so you have been told. The vial he had given you looked worn, your thumb could feel the scratches on the glass and an weathered old apothecary label that read an year and initials. For F.D, 1606.

  These details remain in your memory, but they are like some sort of eccentric joke; disjointed and without meaning. Fyodor takes the vial, inspecting it for a moment, before giving it back. “It’s not full…but it will be enough for our task. Our guest will be in the box owned by his family, number five if my memory serves me. It will be high enough for no one to see you. The poison will take about an hour to act, and by that time the after party would have begun. Escort him down to keep up appearances, then lead him to one of the greenrooms. They will be empty at this hour. Wait till the body drops, and then meet me in the gardens with the corpse.” 

  You nod, movements a little exaggerated to combat the stiffness in your limbs. The stubborn feeling that accompanied the onset of missions like these; an ache in your head that felt as though someone was tightening an imaginary cord round your head. The feeling of bile in your throat that won't yet rise; no, that was reserved for after the body is buried. The danger makes you nauseous with anxiety, always has. Yet even as you hear the details of the disposal of the body, repeated by the man in front of you in a clinical tone, you hold yourself well. Back straight, looking at him directly, words uttered only with deliberation and no syllable empty when you discussed the details with him further; this is what you were made for.

  Your composure is admirable, he thinks, if only you knew who exactly you were attempting to fool. 

  “Are you nervous?” He asks, without pity or mockery.

“No. Does something make you think so?” 

“You are to kill a man in front of half the city, I would expect you to be nervous.”

You shake your head. “It’s what must be done.”

“I wonder if you say so with duty, or with compulsion?”

  You run the words you are about to say carefully in your head, numerous times. Conversations were not a means of amusement to you, but rather a delicate game. The most convincing lies are poisoned by truth. 

  “They're one and the same.”

Fyodor's expression shifts, the slight mocking lift of the corners of his lips disappearing. There is sympathy where the lights meet the cold violet in his eyes. Not the kind of sympathy that results from care, but sort of a cynical disappointment that communicates that he was expecting something different; you recognize it, for you have seen it in several places. In your friends, in the eyes of confessional priests through the wood mesh, in the man you work for. “I must say, it is regrettable that you think so. But for a person in your situation, it was unsurprising. For the time being, this will suffice; now, head to the box hallway, the overture should begin soon. One last thing…”

  “Yes?” You pocket the vial, ready for your cue to leave.

  “... Your hands are trembling. It is unsightly, see to it before anyone else notices.” 

  The tremble of your velvet fingers stops once you begin to think about it consciously. Slightly embarrassed, you place your hands behind your back, clutching one with the other. It’s a strange feeling, for it's not the trembling that bothers you, but the fact that he could notice that small detail when his eyes seemed to be trained on your face the whole time.

  “Understood. Goodbye, then, I’ll see you once I’ve administered the poison.”

“I hope you'll be flawless in your execution this time as well. Good evening.”

  He gives a solemn nod, walking to the exit with light, fluid steps; movements as subtle and quiet as that of a ghost. As his back turns to you, your fingers itch to reach for the dagger on your thigh and thrust it into his neck, then twist and twist until you no longer feel seen in such an uncomfortably raw way. Till the discomfort of the moment fades and you no longer feel eyes in the back of your head even as he has walked out that door. When it shuts once more, you are left to quell the sudden rage that simmers under your skin, remembering what you are here for. 

    Unfortunately for you, Fyodor’s presence seeps into the mind like poison and sticks on it like honey.

infinity aria ; prologue

fyodor dostoevsky x gn! reader. synopsis: two souls inexplicably intertwined, only for one to kiss death again and again, and for the other to stand witness. throughout the lifetimes, he watches you seek him out, curiously watching you seal your fate. read on ao3

warning : canon typical violence, mentions of death

author's note: holy SHIT i'm doing a series for once. this fic is set in the past, but eventually will become canon compliant. this is a reincarnated! reader fic. the chapters will be considerably longer (i'm aiming 2.5-3k words everytime, but this one will be short because it's a prologue. 

Unnerving.

  That was the first word you could think of to describe the feeling that seemed to crawl like a spider up the webbings of your veins when you entered the hall; this giant, grotesquely adorned opera hall with ceilings high enough to make one feel infinitely small, the arches too high to properly glean at the painted reliefs on them. The marble floor of the hall remains empty save for a few groups of guests. The linen note you received yesterday crumples in your tight grip. It states clearly in cursive, inked with clarity— that this was, or rather, should be the correct time and place for you to be here. With your best attempt, you try not to look lost, not keeping the eye or conversation of anyone for long enough to be able to feel the full weight of their gaze. Unremarkable people in their own right, yet the stateliness that their haughty gazes carried made their gaze a weight that rested heavily on your shoulders. Somehow, their superimposed, silent pride had made it a lot harder to freely move, every action carefully noted and judged, as if they were the sole authority worth doing so. Tonight only, they were all birds of a feather.

  You usher yourself into an adjacent room, pushing a heavy door on the far right side of the hall. Pinching at the hem of your opera gloves, your velveteen fingers lock the door behind you. When you turn around, you see the sender of the note in your palm, with his hands clasped in front of him. A pale young man, gracile and willowy in build, with unreadable yet deep eyes and pale pink lips curled in a sardonic, yet cordial smile. He was dressed in the fashion of the times; a violet cravat neatly tucked into his shirt, matching to the dim shade reflected in his eyes, a small brooch in the shape of an angel’s wings. Owing to the harsh weather, a winter overcoat was draped over the fineries, lined with fur— understated and respectable, yet not standing out. A glint of silver shines under his sleeve, hardly noticeable; not that of a watch or a bracelet, but the tip of a dagger.

  You have no reason to believe that the reveal is not intentional. 

  In your life, you have only ever met Fyodor Dostoevsky four times in person; your correspondence has been limited to perfumed letters that are burned soon after they are read. The first time was in a chapel, his form sitting in a pew with unmoving tranquility, like that only ever found in placid, glacial lakes—counting the beads of his rosary although his mouth had not once moved in prayer. You do not recall why you spent so much time watching him, yet he seemed to command your attention with not so much as a word. He could keenly feel your observation, but for some reason you could not tell, he only glanced at you with a knowing smile, whispered a morning greeting, and left.

  The second time, it was in midst of the crowd that followed a public execution, though you remember not what misdeed had led that young man to the scaffold, barely of age. A short drop; you saw the deadly tie placed around that man’s neck, the force not immediately snapping his neck, but rather slowly cutting off his breath, leaving him hanging limp off the rope. You did not wait long enough to see him pass away, but you heard the man next to you mumble something about how 'there's no hope for them, there's no hope for any of them…’ Rather than sadness or contemplation, there was a tone of cruel, self aware irony in his intonation.

  Fyodor had stayed behind, observing the condemned man a few minutes more. 

  The third time, it was through an associate of yours. While you could not fathom why a seemingly devout man would associate with criminals, especially those that specialized in the matter of political assassinations, you did not question your new patron much. So long as he provided his support, it would be unwise to question generosity out loud. It would not be the first time people wore religion like a disguise for their actions, a pretty accessory that could be discarded at will. It wasn't until the past three months that he started becoming more actively involved in these…projects of sorts, and while you could not help but wonder how he seemed to convince your usually suspicious and steadfast superiors so quickly, he had still not given you a reason to question him. That first night you had worked with him is only a fuzzy memory now. By the time you had even reached the location, he was already leaving. When he closed the door behind him, he only expressed formal concern about the late hour and your return home, suggesting that he shall fetch a coach for the both of you. 

  While his back was turned, your fingers reached tentatively for the doorknob, silently opening it. In the dim candlelight, the glimmer of still warm blood shone on the floors, the limp bodies of around five men with their eyes blown wide lay scattered around the study. You were no stranger to bloody sights, however, the reason your mouth had become dry and your head felt heavy was not the slaughtered bodies of those targets, but rather the one in the centre. 

  Fyodor Dostoevsky, laying decidedly dead, with a bullet lodged in the middle of his eyes. 

  You closed the door the moment you caught a glimpse of that sight. Perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you. It had to be, for the man you know to be Fyodor was currently not too far ahead of you, standing on the edge of the road and talking to a coach. You wondered why he hadn't locked the door after the deed was done. If he had intended for you to see what you had. The ride home had passed in silence, and you bid him a quiet farewell, head swirling from the events of the night.

  Tonight is the fourth time you have laid your eyes upon this strange man. One who has strangely made himself a recurring thought in your mind, an unwitting parasite. Usually, you had no choice but to curb your curiosity regarding certain people, given that asking too many questions could at best result in a stern rebuke or at worst, pointed violence. In that way, the new patron’s serene demeanor was disarming, yet could not entirely dispel the suspicion you kept close like an old friend. Before you could lose yourself in your silent perusal of his character any longer, the sound of his voice brings you back from your musings. 

  “Punctual, good. I trust you know what we're here for, so let us begin. Have you brought the vial?”

  The glass sits cool near your skin, and with a quick reach from your pockets, you produce the item. The liquid inside was clear, smelling like nothing in particular; the vial itself was shaped like those typically used to store smelling salts; slightly darker in color. A blend of arsenic and atropa belladonna distillates, or so you have been told. The vial he had given you looked worn, your thumb could feel the scratches on the glass and an weathered old apothecary label that read an year and initials. For F.D, 1606.

  These details remain in your memory, but they are like some sort of eccentric joke; disjointed and without meaning. Fyodor takes the vial, inspecting it for a moment, before giving it back. “It’s not full…but it will be enough for our task. Our guest will be in the box owned by his family, number five if my memory serves me. It will be high enough for no one to see you. The poison will take about an hour to act, and by that time the after party would have begun. Escort him down to keep up appearances, then lead him to one of the greenrooms. They will be empty at this hour. Wait till the body drops, and then meet me in the gardens with the corpse.” 

  You nod, movements a little exaggerated to combat the stiffness in your limbs. The stubborn feeling that accompanied the onset of missions like these; an ache in your head that felt as though someone was tightening an imaginary cord round your head. The feeling of bile in your throat that won't yet rise; no, that was reserved for after the body is buried. The danger makes you nauseous with anxiety, always has. Yet even as you hear the details of the disposal of the body, repeated by the man in front of you in a clinical tone, you hold yourself well. Back straight, looking at him directly, words uttered only with deliberation and no syllable empty when you discussed the details with him further; this is what you were made for.

  Your composure is admirable, he thinks, if only you knew who exactly you were attempting to fool. 

  “Are you nervous?” He asks, without pity or mockery.

“No. Does something make you think so?” 

“You are to kill a man in front of half the city, I would expect you to be nervous.”

You shake your head. “It’s what must be done.”

“I wonder if you say so with duty, or with compulsion?”

  You run the words you are about to say carefully in your head, numerous times. Conversations were not a means of amusement to you, but rather a delicate game. The most convincing lies are poisoned by truth. 

  “They're one and the same.”

Fyodor's expression shifts, the slight mocking lift of the corners of his lips disappearing. There is sympathy where the lights meet the cold violet in his eyes. Not the kind of sympathy that results from care, but sort of a cynical disappointment that communicates that he was expecting something different; you recognize it, for you have seen it in several places. In your friends, in the eyes of confessional priests through the wood mesh, in the men you work for. Where expectations die. “I must say, it is regrettable that you think so. But for a person in your situation, it was unsurprising. For the time being, this will suffice; now, head to the box hallway, the overture should begin soon. One last thing…”

  “Yes?” You pocket the vial, ready for your cue to leave.

  “... Your hands are trembling. It is unsightly, see to it before anyone else notices.” 

  The tremble of your velvet fingers stops once you begin to think about it consciously. Slightly embarrassed, you place your hands behind your back, clutching one with the other. It’s a strange feeling, for it's not the trembling that bothers you, but the fact that he could notice that small detail when his eyes seemed to be trained on your face the whole time.

  “Understood. Goodbye, then, I’ll see you once I’ve administered the poison.”

“I hope you'll be flawless in your execution this time as well. Good evening.”

  He gives a solemn nod, walking to the exit with light, fluid steps; movements as subtle and quiet as that of a ghost. As his back turns to you, your fingers itch to reach for the dagger on your thigh and thrust it into his neck, then twist and twist until you no longer feel seen in such an uncomfortably raw way. Till the discomfort of the moment fades and you no longer feel eyes in the back of your head even as he has walked out that door. When it shuts once more, you are left to quell the sudden rage that simmers under your skin, remembering what you are here for. 

    Unfortunately for you, Fyodor’s presence seeps into the mind like poison and sticks on it like honey.

first chapter of my multipart fyodor reincarnation fic almost done ... we love to see it..

need to yap to someone abt this dostoevsky fic idea in my head So Bad i'm so mentally ill