Redundancy [Fyodor Dostoyevsky x Reader]

Chapter 3: Established Alliances

(Hi guys, leaving a little note that I'll be removing a little later. Life has been a little hectic for me lately, but I haven't given up! I'm also working on a new original project, something along the lines of a mystery. This chapter is severely NOT edited, I apologize. Enjoy!)

His appetite for sleep was insatiable. The warm promise that laid between the folds of the cacophony bedding, the sinking of the pillows laid beneath his head. Rest is necessary for the human body, more so the human mind. For someone like Dostoevsky, although, his mind rests for no one. Then, he would ask himself, why did it rest on her? The tips of his tongue, something that lingered upon it was her name. His nose caught that of old books, cigarette smoke. A hint of vanilla, perhaps the maraschino cherry. How he wish she would be as malleable, something to pop. To tie her stems with his tongue. He can't recall the traces of her hair, only how the wind carried it to frame her delicate features. He could recall the smoke that enveloped her figure, it acted as a curtain for his memory. How insatiable it made him, that she may also be looking up at the same sky. It's a wonder how god is so great, it's a wonder how they share the same sky.

Fyodor laid, sprawled on a bed alike the empty vase next to him. It's in one's desperation that he strives, the equivalent of water in the vase. The moment he would reap the rewards from his endeavours, flowers would present itself in the vase. Yet, a god he worshipped was so bountiful and forgiving, were these flowers he worked so hard for a part of his prayers? Would every sacrifice reward him with a world without sin? He wondered what she thought. Did you believe in God? Did you envy him for his mortality? His sin was that of thought. He was guilty of the same things he killed for, yet he was so readily excused by his purpose. Did he have the same purpose to you?

Arms pushed his body up from the hold the bed had on Fyodor. Hunched over, charcoal hair draping over his countenance, he let out a sigh. The light peeked through the translucent curtains, the rays felt piercing against his pale skin. That's what she felt like. For a moment, she was to him like the sun to a deprived individual. But, meanwhile the sun felt warm, inviting, yet easily overwhelming, you were the opposite. He craved you like he craved the sun, but you were shadowed. Hidden, cold, detached. Uninviting to his every whim. He saw the longing in her eyes. However, her longing was marked by the intent of death. He promised, with his hands reached against the sun stinging his skin, that your longing will be for him, when he was done with you.

However, for now he must cope with his actions. Afterall, she was simply something to be conquered. What use does a puppet have if their strings are broken, twisted?

"Seems like you had fun last night, Fedya!" Gogol's feigned jealousy leaked from his pores, the door hung open from the impact used to pry it. Fyodor let a scowl roam his face, eyes meeting with the other male.

"That's none of your business." He replied, finally pushing his whole weight from the bed to his feet. Nikolai made his way over, prancing his braid over his shoulders as he approached the dark-haired Russian.

"She's quite the looker, isn't she?"

"Does it matter? She's useful to the mission."

"And she smokes? I think you've got yourself some mommy issues."

Nikolai's smirk ran from one side of his face to the other, making Fyodor break eye contact and scoff audibly. Nikolai's hand laid upon Fyodor's shoulder, making him stiffen in response.

"If you don't care for her, then can I have her?"

Fyodor raised his eyebrow, fully turning towards him as his arms were crossed. Their eyes were locked, to which Gogol had a mocking mirth. He knew what he was doing.