#relationshi

being with fyodor dostoevsky

warning(s): depictions of toxic mindsets and unhealthy relationships

How do you end up in a relationship with the demon Dostoevsky, of all people, you might ask?

Well, it’s quite simple really: you weren’t given much of a choice. What Fyodor wants, Fyodor gets, after all.

And he had wanted you ever since the moment he first laid eyes on you.

There are two ways you can go about this: you can either pretend to understand his exalted goals of purging the world of sin and sit by and watch like a good girl, or you can try to run. If you’re smart, you’ll choose the former, because anyone can tell you the latter is not going to end so well for you.

But perhaps, it’s not all bad, because he is quite literally the most exquisite thing you have ever seen, and he comes back to you at the end of the day, without fail, laying his head on your lap as sheer exhaustion overtakes him, because he says that’s only place he has ever found any peace in.

He loves it when you read to him, saying that the sound of your voice is holy to him. You’ve never quite been able to understand what that means, and besides, when he’s whispering sweet nothings and beautifully soft lies into your ear, his silky voice is the one you’d call holy.

For all your coaxing and worrying about his fragile health, he doesn’t sleep much. Except for when he’s so tired that he physically can’t stand, and even then he prefers to collapse into your lap than any other place. Only then does he allow himself a few moments of peaceful slumber as you run your fingers through his hair while humming some old, forgotten melody.

He will flatter you and spoil you with the finest of everything, fancy dinner, couture clothing, or expensive adornments, that still pale in comparison to you (or so he says).

“Nothing compares the exquisite divinity that is you, milaya.”

But he has got a surprisingly short temper when it comes to disrespect. He never raises his voice or even his hands, but by the time he is done, you would be a trembling, cowering mess, trying to disappear into yourself in the corner.

Sometimes, when he’s in a mood, he’ll take you dancing. Not in a brightly lit room full of people, but on the lonely, moonlit rooftop of his home. With some mournful, classical cello melody playing in the background, he’ll delicately hold your waist and dance through the night. He’s light on his feet, and surprisingly good at moving his body, and dancing with him doesn’t feel like dancing so much as it feels like falling through some endless space, never reaching the ground.

He loves this influence he has on you, and how easy it is for him to affect you, even revels in it. Even so, when you close your eyes and lay your head on his shoulder, his heart does something weird in his chest.

It confused him too, at first. Why was he so attracted to a mere human being? What was it that made him long so to possess a person so ordinary and mundane? He is divine, after all, and gods don’t need other people’s company.

Still, it’s nice to have a…plaything, to amuse himself once in a while.

Or so he tells himself. But he’s getting a little too attached to something he considers a mere possession, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

Make no mistake, though, he is very fond of you. You’re his favorite little doll, after all, his perfect trophy to keep by his side as he burns down the world and raises it anew from the ashes.

There is nothing crude about him at all, and he walks with a strange kind of elegance to his fragility. But do not make the mistake of thinking he is soft. He is sharp and pointed and dangerous, and beautiful, like jagged pieces of cold glass from some old, haunted cathedral, and you cannot touch him without getting cut.

I wish it all can go back to how it was  ...