Redundancy [Fyodor Dostoyevsky x Reader]

Chapter 4: Volatile

A's Notes: Look team, hear me out okay. A lot of things happened over these few months (all good things) but I promise my ass is back to my melancholy writing. Thank you for all your comments, they genuinely motivate me. Either way, I'm more than halfway through studying law in England and I bagged myself a boyfriend who is literally so handsome it's unbelievable. Either way, he was my muse alongside my sister who I'm writing this project for in the first place. Enjoy my incoherent rambling, degenerates!

This is unedited, and Fyodor is COOKED.

The fresh scent of dew flooded her senses, a sense of disillusion clouded her judgement. YN had been faced with this often, the struggle with derealization was constant since that one fateful night.

Crimson eyes and a nefarious facade, held up with a sinister personality, she wondered how he was faring. Was he thinking of her? Does it really matter, but was it mutual? She swore she often saw glimpses of the devil, out of the corner of her eye. Infinitely, YN was lost in thought, once again placed on her balcony with a cigarette in hand. In between her lithe fingers, ash falling from the neglected bud. Her lash fluttered against her cheek, making eye contact with the cancer-inducing orange. Her gaze followed the soft rise of the smoke, the red burn of poison.

A huff fell from between her lips, her left hand reaching behind her pocket to pull out a crinkled, pale envelope. With the rustling of the paper, she managed to unhand the stack of monies. With her cigarette now soundly placed between her lips, YN quickly palmed through the cash. Rapid and uncontrolled, she let out a satisfied hum.

–A few hours prior

"This should get you through the next month, at least." Mori commented, his dark black hair framing the sides of his face, alongside a grin. YN simply responded by dragging her payment across the table with her nail.

"How much is it?" She questioned accusingly, an eyebrow raised as her lips tightened. Mori only looked at her with an insincere grin.

"I told you to spy on him, not kill him."

"I told you, I didn't kill him." She huffed back, frustratedly running a hand through her hair.

"Then who did?" Mori fired back, his voice never betrayed an ounce of emotion, except his amusement. He was getting a ride out of her, and they both knew the end result. Her hands propped up in a defeated stance, YN simply gave him a tired glare. She knew this wouldn't be enough for the month, even with the simple means she lives by. The crude life of crime usually pays well, but never enough.

"Fuck right off." She spat, spinning on her heel as her hair whipped against her cheek. Before she could make her grand exit, Mori's voice shot through the cracks.

"Condolences on your friend, by the way."

YN could only replace her frown with a grin.

–

"Maybe I need to give my friend a visit," She voiced aloud to herself, fingers searching for that mark of comfort. Her hand caressed where she–or rather–he laid his own cigarette burn. A little above his chest, a little below his neck. If she were to cut him there with a knife, he would bleed out. How grotesque yet so utterly erotic it would be, to find his vocal cords only to rip them—to steal them, to play them on the violin. To play a piece for him, from him—of him. She'd love to make music with him. How fragile he was, how fragile he could be if she tore through the pretty lettering of his ego. She'd put his loyalty between her lips, play with it between her teeth before piercing it between her canines, the satisfaction of it: letting it bleed down the corners of her lips to stain her clothes, alike how he stained the corners of her mind.