ex nihilo | fyodor dostoyevsky x reader

ᴀꜱꜱᴜʀᴀɴᴄᴇ

Assurance

ɪɴ ᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴɪɴɢꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴɪɴɢ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟʟ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴀʙʟᴇ ᴅᴇɢʀᴇᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱꜱᴜʀᴀɴᴄᴇ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪɢʜᴇꜱᴛ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴡᴇꜱᴛ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟ ᴇᴠɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ. ᴀ ᴡɪꜱᴇ ᴍᴀɴ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ, ᴘʀᴏᴘᴏʀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴇʟɪᴇꜰ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴠɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ.

- David Hume, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding

. . .

Ever since that day, everything made sense.

He wanted to love like a man, and oh, the surprise, he wasn't bad at it.

Deliberate were his actions. He was absorbed in gaining your trust, proving that you were deserving of his feeble affection - making you relax before him. Truth be told, he changed, far more than you did. Whereas his odd humor boomed, your teasing exaggerated. The both of you enjoyed it - you, however, did not dare let him come close.

Although you were wary, sometimes even defiant, he didn't try to force himself. Perhaps he was too patient, careful - scared, you could say. 

And this was one of the many traits that made you soften. Manipulation was no more - it was replaced with numerous apologies. It didn't take you much time to give in.

Intimacy soon paved its way into your lives as well, starting from small touches, more time spent together in silence, then moving onto grander things - cuddling sessions, preparing meals for each other (he actually tried, but failed), and an abundance of kisses.

Through time and effort, you met each other better. One of the many facts you've learned was that the house you were currently residing in used to belong to Fyodor's grandparents. The entire house held a history, and Fyodor loved explaining it to you. You were unsure if it was your own infatuation, or he was truly good at storytelling. Either way, you too enjoyed it.

There was a case, for example, of his old writing. He once dug those notes out, and gave them to you - in case they would interest you.

He had notebooks full of scribbles, doodles, many pages covered in chaotic handwriting. Some of them were empty, some of them had only a few words of content. You didn't bother reading them, although sometimes, involuntarily, your gaze would skim over a sentence, and you'd process it. It would end up being nonsense.

What remained in your memory was the amount of question marks those pages held. It was almost funny to you. Who was he asking? God, perhaps?

Or, it was directed to no one. He gave you nonsense to read, because it was worthless. Simple as that.

"Did you make any use of these?" You asked him, lifting one of the notebooks. He lifted his head above the monitor to look at you, and responded, "no."

"Maybe you could - although they don't make almost any sense to me..." You laughed. "But you certainly had plenty of ideas on your mind. You've written so much! Have you ever thought of becoming an author?"

"I'm more of a reader," he explained, "and although I do enjoy writing... I don't and can't see myself as an author."

"Have you even tried, though?"

"I have, actually." An absent smile was forming on his lips. "I wrote articles and essays online for fun. But you know what the internet is like."

"Full of brainless people?"