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musamora · 1 year

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𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖌𝖔𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝖌𝖑𝖔𝖜 「𝔣𝔶𝔬𝔡𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔢𝔳𝔰𝔨𝔶」 ༉‧₊˚

this is a sequel! read the first part here.

content. f!reader. anxiety, child abuse, childhood trauma, grief/mourning, grounding techniques, implied/referenced sexual assault (not to the reader), loss of parent(s), misogyny, panic attacks, protective fyodor, unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied/referenced vomiting. not proofread. 10k+ words.

author's note. this will likely be posted around episode six's release (praying for my meursault frames, please bones). this will also be my last post before i move to college! i won't be posting for at least a week, unless i make some queued content. so see you guys soon, and enjoy this sequel (and wish me luck)!

would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!

𝖌𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖋 /ˈgrēf / ━━━ the anguish experienced after significant loss, usually the death of a beloved person (American Psychological Association).

synopsis. for many, grief can last a lifetime. (name) has been in a fluctuating state of mourning for her entire life, lamenting the loss of a life that she never was able to cherish. and after years of suppressing emotions and turmoil, it's time to finally face it head-on.

Headquarters was buried deep underground, a system of stone and concrete halls crisscrossed and hid the mysteries behind the organization far under the Earth’s surface—so far down that most of the lackeys never scaled the entire base. They traversed the corridors, fulfilling their duties with a sense of unease, aware that a single misstep could end with them becoming one of those hidden secrets. A particular few, considered the strongest and smartest of the Rats, were huddled together for a meeting in a small room to discuss their next mission. And at the head of the table was not the overlooming presence of their leader, Fyodor Dostoevsky, but of his right-hand, (Name) Yeliseyeva.

This wasn’t a common set-up for their meetings, which was made more evident by the chair that stood empty at (Name)’s side. She fiddled with the cracking leather of Fyodor’s swivel chair, humming as she tuned out her subordinates. Fyodor had placed her in charge of his usual tasks while he was away with a mission regarding the Decay of Angels, and as such, she led their meetings in his sted. It wasn’t a difficult task—there was much harder work she had to complete that didn’t require her taking on that leadership role—and she rather enjoyed the tempered atmosphere. Fyodor’s intimidating presence often left the others mute and shaken, so it was a pleasant change to hear some of them laughing amongst themselves, even if she wasn’t particularly close to any of them.

Some of them had moved on from discussing the laborious tasks they were assigned, instead focusing on optimal strategies for their next mission—so she decided to tune back in. While she was well aware that Fyodor would have the final say on these decisions, she knew it also didn’t hurt to listen to their suggestions in case someone struck gold.

“Oh, please. You wouldn’t be able to pull that one off without me. I should be the person leading that mission,” an abrasive voice bellowed from the opposite end of the table, cutting straight through another conversation. “Wouldn’t you agree, (Name)?”

“God damn it,” she thought, internally groaning.

This delightful character was a man only known to others as Solovev, and he had to be one of her least favorite subordinates. While she had a plethora of ones she disliked, he hit the top of her list—and the sole reason he was included in the meeting was because of his ability, which increased his strength tenfold. Otherwise, with an insultingly low intelligence like his, he wouldn’t even be involved with the organization.

(Name) was aware that Fyodor often hired cruel and selfish people to become subordinates—they were the most gullible people in their joint opinion and also the ones that truly deserved to be manipulated—but that didn’t mean she enjoyed the process of interacting with them. And it didn’t help that this man, unlike most subordinates, was very vocal about his disdain for her position—though he kept those thoughts to himself whenever Fyodor was here. However, when he wasn’t, Solovev made it his personal mission to one-up her with every chance he had. His insults and snide remarks had never worked, regardless, because, in his pride, his goal to annoy her became obvious.

“Hey, Kuznetsov!” he called across the table, trying to grab the attention of a subordinate who only huffed at him in response. There was a dark gleam in his eyes, which put every nerve of (Name)’s body on edge. “You remember that last lady we dealt with on that mission to the outskirts of Suribachi City, right? Remember what I did to her? What a beauty!”

But sometimes, there were moments when he successfully got under her skin.

With a barrage of lewd hand gestures, he explained in grotesque detail how he made the last moments of this woman’s life both miserable and humiliating. Each description made (Name) nauseous, simultaneously empathetic, and disgusted by the graphic nature of the encounter. Opposing organizations of the Rats often declared that they didn’t have morals, but she knew that wasn’t true—it was disgusting pigs like Solovev that were the real monsters. Neither she nor Fyodor liked the suffering of others unless they deserved it, only finding ironic enjoyment in the pain, but people like Solovev just enjoyed taking advantage of the weak. They revel in power, driven by lust and greed, as they take whatever they want.

But (Name) and Fyodor knew what it was like to suffer. To be taken advantage of.

Bang!

She froze as a fist slammed against the table, shaking the contents on top of it and startling everyone else. It began to splinter, and the subordinates scrambled to clean the messes of coffee and crumbled papers, but (Name) could only stare at Solovev’s hand.

"Ты маленькая сучка! Ты должен был сгореть вместе с ней!"

Her hands trembled as she hunched over in her seat, shielding her grim expression as she attempted to shuffle through her thoughts and memories rationally. She closed her eyes, breathing slowly as she fought back the instinctual tears that begged to surface. And with a vengeance, she shot a glare at Solovev, who sat self-satisfied in his chair. “This meeting is adjourned. You have your assignments for the next mission, and there will be no alterations. If you are caught doing anything less or more than you are supposed to, you will be dealt with. Understand?”

Solovev only gave her a mocking smirk. “Ah, sorry, (Name). I do tend to get a bit carried away with the details. I’ll make sure to keep those stories from reaching your delicate ears.”

She practically rattled in her chair, striking him with a look that could kill. Without thinking, she stormed over to his seat, grabbing the now-startled man by the collar. “The next time you open your mouth to speak to me that way, I’ll castrate you and shove your dilapidated cock down your throat! It shouldn’t be hard for you to swallow. Now out.”

He snarled with rage at the insult, especially since it came from a woman, but he somehow managed to maintain his temper as he took a cursory glance around at his co-workers. The misogynistic prick may not have been intimidated by her, but he knew with the tension in the room, it would be better to swallow his pride—because none of them were stupid enough to forget one thing. Most of the subordinates were not loyal to Fyodor in the slightest—other than brainwashed ones like Goncharov—but none of them would stand by if someone, even one of their own, tried to hurt (Name). The last thing any of them wanted was to piss off their boss by being bystanders in an assault, regardless of (Name)’s capability to defend herself. Solovev eyeballed the others as they ascended from their seats, each examining his next moves.

The chauvinist huffed, slamming his chair into the table before stomping out the door. The other subordinates soon followed suit, though some glanced back apprehensively at their superior. And then she was left entirely alone. She thought that the tension in her body would leave after Solovev was gone, that the room would stop spinning and she would stop sweating so much, but—

“Вам повезло видеть солнце каждое утро!”

She couldn’t help the way her body lurched, running into the adjacent bathroom to pour her guts out. Each limb shook beneath her, throaty sobs escaping her throat between heaves as her mind continued to spiral. Everything was too hot, but her skin was cool to the touch. She was dizzy, and her head hurt, and she was sweaty, and—someone lifted her hair from her face.

Shit.

There was almost no one that she wanted to see in that state, neither Fyodor nor one of her subordinates. However, the hands that caressed her back, so comfortable with touching her, alluded that it definitely was not a member of the Rats. For a moment, she wished she could think clearly again, but a cheerful voice broke through her haze of self-pity.

“My, my!” Nikolai exclaimed. If she wasn’t preoccupied, she would’ve found more humor in his enthusiasm. She had indeed gotten lucky—the jester was strangely the best person she could’ve asked for. “Seems I’ve arrived just in time.”

She leaned back against the bathroom wall, panting as she looked at Nikolai through tear-stained lashes. “Hey, Коля. Sorry for my current appearance.”

“No problem at all, dear!” He smiled brightly, squatting down on his knees to face her eye-to-eye. “Your beloved Nikolai is here to rescue you from your bout of tummy troubles.”

She smiled at the scatterbrained musings of the jester, watching him rant and rave over a variety of barely related topics before he zeroed back in on her.

“Hmm, did you have something bad for lunch? Something icky? Or maybe…” he trailed off, eyeing her with an owlish expression as he leaned in very close to her stomach. She bent her neck awkwardly to look at him with a raised brow, watching him analyze her abdomen before his grin widened. “…perhaps you’re carrying an adoring little addition to this world. Dostoy would be so pleased!”

It took her a beat to realize what he was implying, eyes bugging out as she quickly retorted to him with a shout. “I-I’m not pregnant!”

“Awwww, that’s so sad,” Nikolai pouted. “And here I was, excited to be an uncle.”

He giggled, covering his winding smirk with a gloved hand. “I can already just imagine Dostoy as a father.”

(Name) paused, stilling her racing thoughts as she rushed to erase the hundreds of images from her mind. Nikolai chortled at her rapidly shifting irises but spared her the embarrassment of commenting on her obviousness. She groaned, sullen, as she massaged the bridge of her nose.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

He halted, the gears in his mind turning, before shuffling through his overcoat, cheering with an aha as he found the object he was searching for. He flicked his wrist, and a small knife settled in his gloved hand, which was decorated with puffy stickers and colorful doodles. “I wanted to drop off a little present.

He tossed it into her hand. “I know you ‘lost’ your last one.”

"Thanks, Коля." The stickers forged a pattern of grooves that made it easier to hold onto, and she couldn't help the puff of laughter that slipped between her lips at the bizarre phrases written across doodles. She could even spot badly drawn versions of herself in there, along with Fyodor, Sigma, and the white-haired jester himself. It rolled around through her fingers, rocking in a repetitive motion that soothed her mind into a fog, resurfacing those same thoughts from before—

"Look what I can do!" Nikolai had snatched the knife out of her hands, launching it bottom-side up into the air before fanning out his overcoat to swallow it during descent. (Name) tilted her head, searching the room to find where it would reappear.

You could never know with Nikolai.

“Fucking hell!” a familiar, muffled voice screamed from down the hall. “There’s a knife in my ass!”

She gaped in disbelief, then practically threw herself onto the floor in hysterics. Tears rushed down her cheeks as she hollered, savoring the distraction from her disturbing reminiscence as she relished in the chorus of yells and guffaws echoing from outside the bathroom. Nikolai analyzed her with a slight frown; his face contorted in contemplation.

"Do I need to tell Dostoy to give you some time off?" he pouted, his bottom lip quivering in a dramatic, sorrowful facade. "Perhaps we could go diving off the Tojinbo Cliffs—or even better! Free falling!"

"I'll be fine." She quickly brushed him off, and for just a moment—and a moment was all he needed—he saw a shift in her face, a dread that hadn't been there before. "I must have some kind of stomach bug."

A trace of desperation appeared in the creases of her face. "Could you not tell Fyodor about this? I don't want him to be concerned with anything while he's on a mission."

"Sure! Pinky promise." He lifted her up by the arm, lips curling into a soft smile as he wrapped his finger around hers with a tap, holding it tight for a second. And then it was back to his usual antics, starting a discussion about his latest adventures as he escorted her out the door—his fingers crossed behind his back.

(Name) was ensconced in her office chair, thrumming her fingers against the desk's surface as she stared at the clock. In truth, she could've done anything else with her time. She had already wrapped up her weekly responsibilities, having completed them with proficiency due to their repetitive nature; however, it seemed that the lag of the week had taken a toll on her cheerless mind.

“Никогда не повышай на меня тон!”

She would do anything to distance herself from the persistent flood of memories that threatened to break down the mental dam she spent years constructing—even her paperwork. And a familiar date on the calendar loomed ahead, gawking at her with an irritating tenacity. She could never find the strength to celebrate it, despite her wishes to do so, only acknowledging it with brief, melancholic glimpses into the past.

So instead, she preoccupied herself with sorting through every nook and cranny of her office—not a corner went untouched. The room was usually what she had lovingly referred to as an "organized mess," where everything was cluttered but had a place in her mind. But her nerves forced her to be on her feet, shuffling around as she planned where to move this-and-that. She mostly found herself organizing her bookshelves over and over and over again—by book color, book height, author's last name, author's first name, book title, etc. It was during the sixth instant of taking the books off that she started to realize she was going mad, but there was nothing she could do, so she continued with her arrangements.

And she just knew that her appearance looked as awful as her mind, hair jostled like a bird's nest, and deep bags formed underneath her eyes. She hadn't slept more than three hours in the past week, her brain haunted by memories every evening. Each time she shut her eyes, even for a momentary reprieve, she found herself shrunken in a familiar study, the stench of cigars burning her nostrils.

She shivered, ceaselessly sorting through the books for the seventh time, her eyes unable to leave the cover of a familiar poetry anthology—her mother's. It was likely something her mother was gifted before she had started to work at the Yeliseyev manor. Most of the staff she was raised around had only one prized possession to their person—mostly clothing or photographs, but her mother had been an outlier with her book. An “outlier” was the term that was always associated with her mother, and it seemed with her absence, she had passed the title onto (Name). She often wondered if they were truly alike—many maids and servants told her so. But she knew that she would never truly know. The dead cannot speak.

But instead of skimming the book, her expression alight at the enchantment of a romanticized world, she found herself unable to bear the sight of it any longer. It had become too much of a reminder, outlining the canyon that loss had created in her heart—but perhaps it was not her loss to grieve. Her mother had to have had a family, at least at some point. Family was a concept that (Name) had never understood, and she believed she never would. She only had a few infantile glances at the kindhearted young woman. God, she was so young—(Name) knew she had to be older than her now. The gentle thrum of her voice still remained like ringing bells in the forefront of her mind, making her eyes water with each sweet syllable.

Knock. Knock.

The door to her office, which had rusted with time and moisture, creaked open. (Name) wiped her eyes, continuing to arrange the book in her arms as she didn't bother to turn around. It was probably one of her subordinates wanting her opinion or interference in a situation, so they could wait.

"I'll be one moment," she called with a dismissive hand, waving the person away. Their expression cocked in mirth, the patter of boot-clad footsteps and the swish of a thick coat accompanying their path as they slinked in behind her.

“Мышь.”

She stopped, her body unable to move or comprehend the word—more specifically, the speaker. It couldn't be him. He never gave her incorrect dates. His mission was supposed to last for another two days. She turned, not able to hide her surprise. “Федечка…”

Fyodor was already able to detect several abnormalities the moment he passed the door's threshold, alarms pealing inside his head as he took an inquisitory scan of the room. First, (Name) wasn't playing music—she hated the silence and constantly had something on in the background; said it helped her concentrate. Second, she didn't look happy to see him, which didn't help appease his unease. Her tone wasn't mad or irritated in the slightest, but he could see how lethargic her body had become since he last saw her. She was always elated whenever he returned, and this was the only time he had ever returned early. It made him wonder if she had hid this appearance from him every time he left.

However, the most conspicuous distinction that had set him on edge was, ironically, her organizing. He understood, better than anyone, that she hardly ever organized—he had even suggested it on numerous occasions, but he wasn't too bothered as long as her mess didn't spread to his space—let alone sort through everything within a seven-foot radius. It truly miffed him; he never thought that he would be befuddled by a collection of color-coordinated paperwork and alphabetically assorted books, but here he stood. And it had only cemented the corners Nikolai had surreptitiously brought up in their earlier conversation.

He had been in the midst of perusing through an agglomeration of reports from missions that pertained to a certain agency in the DOA's meeting room, which was established inside the Sky Casino. It had made it easier to communicate with each other while simultaneously allowing the members to keep an eye on the ever-so-antsy Sigma.

"Hey, Dostoy!" a shrill voice yelled from behind the door, practically busting it down with an impressive strike of the foot. It wobbled wearily, indented from the jester's previous assaults. He started on a tangent, ranging from his breakfast to the strange looks he had received from strangers on the street. Fyodor entertained him for a moment but knew that he needed to finish these reports if he didn't want their plans to be postponed, so he partially blocked the jester out.

He only tuned back in when his ears picked up one line about a particular person. "…and I was wondering if I could take (Name) out on a spa day."

Fyodor glanced up from his screen for a moment, raising a brow. "A spa day?" Then he huffed. "She wouldn't like that. Take her on a picnic instead."

He returned his eyes to the unremarkable words on his screen, accustomed to Nikolai's random suggestions. The jester seemed to enjoy spending time with his vice commander whenever he became disinterested in him or Sigma, and while he preferred that Nikolai occupied himself and stop distracting (Name) from her tasks, he wasn't especially bothered by their friendship. He had picked up on one oddity in Nikolai's behavior, though—he never asked Fyodor for permission to take (Name) places.

"I thought a spa day would be nice," Nikolai pouted, though he soon grinned at the morsel of fondness laced in Fyodor's silvery tone, concurrently realizing that he had grabbed his attention through his unusual suggestion. "You know, since she has become so busy with work."

The echoes of typing ceased.

"Yeliseyeva is competent. There is no reason for her to be overwhelmed," Fyodor declared with a thin layer of conviction, but he could easily see that this conversation had turned into a game — tug-of-war with bits of information, and he was on the losing side. It had become obvious that Nikolai had a camouflaged motive behind his implications, but he didn't know what. And he didn’t like it.

Nikolai sighed. "How else would you explain her frazzled appearance?" Fyodor had entirely halted his attention to his work, his thumb finding a place worn between his teeth as he found himself grasping for the answer. He hadn't assigned her much clerical paperwork, intentionally unburdening her obligations in preparation for her temporary leadership role at the base of operations. And it was not as if he hadn't left her in charge before; however, if a situation arose while he was absent, and she refrained from reporting it because of her distaste of internal turmoil, then he knew that he would have to be the one to step in.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers before he slammed the computer shut. Nikolai nodded at him as Fyodor strode towards the door, a calculated expression on the white-haired man's face.

"I will take care of it." And the door flung shut behind him. Nikolai slumped back in his chair, limp as a noodle as a self-congratulatory smirk unfurled on his lips, staring into the clouds that drifted into the floating building. "To be two birds in love, hmmm."

Fyodor was thankful that he had departed from the casino early — he feared that if he had remained away on that mission for much longer, he would've found nothing of her former self left. Throughout the years, he had seen small sprouts of this behavior on occasion. Mannerisms rooted in a past he didn't dare to explore, unease leading to over-correcting and excessive diligence — but it had never been so bad. Anxiety radiated off her tense body in waves.

The illogical, irrational side of him—one that he had long boxed away like a memoir of the past—pushed him to question her directly, to find the source of her pain as fast as possible, but his mind won over his heart. He knew that interrogating her would only drive her away, so he settled with following the conversation like normal.

He smiled tenderly. "It seems that I've returned early."

Her stupefied expression vanished, replaced with shaken lips as she attempted to hide the results of her breakdown with nimble fingers tapping against the books. "It seems that you have. How was the mission?"

"It went perfectly," he proclaimed, tone filled with humility despite the way he held his head high. Her eyes creased, ever-so enthralled in his antics—he could be so childish whenever it was just the two of them. "Everything is prepared for the next phase of the plan."

He smirked, slipping off his ushanka and setting it on a hook near the door. "However, that next step will not happen for another week." Her eyes sparkled at the underlying message, knowing breaks for either of them were both scarce and fleeting. "If you would allow it, I'd like to take a read of your collection. I've skimmed mine cover to cover multiple times, and I know you have excellent taste."

She stood to the side, allowing him to view her half-organized shelf while her hands caressed the spines with care. "Feel free." A puff of laughter escaped her lips, and she turned on her heels with a playful glint in her eyes. "Perhaps I'll borrow some of yours, too—if you'll allow it."

He chuckled, a shiver trailing her spine at his low tone. “Of course, любимая.”

His hand hovered over hers—

“Ты дышишь только потому, что я позволяю тебе это делать!”

She pulled in a tense breath, a horrid shudder making her hands tremble as she recoiled. His cool fingers contrasted with singed skin, the unexpected intensity sending her stomach into a tizzy. Fyodor removed his hand; his brows knitted as he allowed her a moment to collect herself.

"Is everything okay, любимая?"

She nodded her head, frozen in a perplexed scramble of thoughts, before she whipped back around to the shelf. He didn't need to know the reason she had become so frightened—his hand had come so close to it, too close. It burned, etched into her skin, and throbbed whenever she thought about it too much. She couldn't let anything, anyone touch it—she pulled at her sleeves.

"No, no. It's nothing."

Her eyes scrutinized the shelf, grabbing a couple of the books. "Take these." She shoved them into his arms but trembled once her fingers made contact with his skin. "I'll come find you after I place these other ones back."

He peered between her and the books that had been thrust into his arms, an atypical dumbstruck expression on his face before he snapped out of his stupor. "Have you received that vinyl yet?"

She halted, having already started to reorganize the books for the eighth time, and stared at him. It took her a moment to even process his question, scanning the room as she jumbled to remember what exactly he was referring to.

"The one you ordered from Italy?" he pressed, tone strained.

A vague memory came to mind. "Oh." She had received it a couple of days before but had lacked any motivation to listen to it. It had bugged her a lot since she had been awaiting its arrival for months—but she knew there would be plenty of time to play it later. The vinyl had remained in its sleeve, collecting dust as it leaned haphazardly against her bedstand. "That one. Yes, I have."

He shook his head, a crinkle in his eyes as he placed the books back down on her desk. "I'm assuming from your expression you haven't listened to it, no?"

"No, I haven't."

"Well, then." He strode toward the door, pushing it open as he turned his head to make eye contact with her. "Let's go."

She cocked her head, pursing her lips. "Go where?"

He raised a brow, a strange level of impatient desperation in his tone. "To listen to it, dear."

She stood still before rapidly gesturing to the cluttered shelves. "But my books—!"

"Will be there when we return," he interrupted, silencing her poor excuses with a lift of his hand. With a turn on his heel, he sauntered down the hall like a soldier on a mission. "Come along."

"Wait! Федя, I—damn it!" she grumbled, rushing after him.

Her bedroom had been located in a farther corner of the organization's base, both close enough to the center to keep her in the loop but far enough away to settle herself from the rest of the subordinates. And she loved her room—it was spacious and decorated to the brim with memorabilia and knick-knacks. However, she found herself flustered the moment Fyodor opened the door. It was a mess—her covers were unmade, her clothes were scattered across furniture and piled high in drawers, and her books were either knocked over or stacked tall on the floor. She quickly kicked a stray bra underneath her bed when he wasn't looking.

Fyodor made his way to the record player, a smirk on his lips, and he pretended not to watch her frantically trying to hide her clutter—that was the (Name) he was familiar with. His hand scraped across the player's plastic top, a fond glint in his eye. He had given it to her as a present when they left Moscow, wrapped in the finest bow he could afford at the time. Her eyes had shone with delight, and she had kept it in mint condition ever since. He lifted the top up; brow furrowed into a frown as he blew away the dust that had collected inside.

He scoured the shelves, only to find that each item was more unused and dirty than its predecessor. It was only as he took a step forward, wanting to have a closer look, that his boot thumped against a thin cardboard box, which fell to the floor with a thunk. He slipped it out of the package, relieved to see the vinyl wasn't scratched, before settling it on the platter and angling the tonearm.

(Name) had sat on her bed, eyeing him as she attempted to settle and breathe. It was only when the record started to play that she felt her body subconsciously relax beneath her, lying down on the bed. Fyodor remained on the floor next to her feet; his head leaned back as he let the mellow hum of strings and decadent swallows of brass lull him into a state of ease. And it was as if they had traveled to Moscow one more time; the snow settled between their fingers as the sun kissed their skin. It was just the two of them, as it should be. And then the fourth track crackled to life.

She was in Moscow again, but he wasn't with her. But she wasn't afraid, not here. The melody played through the form of a delicate hum, bright and cheerful the warblers that sat on the sill of her window, and her blurred vision watched as her reflection—no, her mother—swayed around the room. And those eyes, oh, she would never forget them for as long as she lived. Those eyes that glimmered in the dying light with such tenderness and love as the sun settled on the pair. But those eyes could burn, they could fear and cower, they could—

"Do you ever regret being born?"

The tranquility that had enraptured them, comforting and bittersweet, stilled. Each note of the record crescendoed and accelerated, crackling in the air with electrifying chords. She could feel it, barely, as tears burned her eyes, falling down her cheeks like a silent procession.

“Любимая…” He had crept onto the bed the moment she opened her mouth, scrutinizing her with calculated consideration. Her eyes were far, far away—each element of her sleeplessness adding to a sensation of antiquity. It was like she had been dehumanized, her soul leaking out with her tears as she was replaced with a porcelain doll—lifeless and unmoving. He hesitated—he hated that she made him do that—before setting his hand next to hers. “Why would you ask such a question?”

The question broke her out of her stupor, panic instantly registering as she realized the words that had tumbled out of her mouth. She knocked him out of the way, turning off the record. “I-I need to finish organizing." She ran to the door, covering a hoarse cough as she wiped her tears. "Those books—I need to organize—"

“(Name).”

He blocked her path, snatching her wrist—pain. Fuck, the flash of heat returned with a vengeance, searing her skin. She jolted at his touch, smacking the back of her head against the door. A groan fled from her lips, knees shaking before she dropped to the ground. Hard. Her head throbbed, unsteadily held in her hands as her limbs rattled. It hurt. The room spun. Where was she? Her wrists thumped with pain that synchronized with her pulse—make the pain stop.

Please.

An estate stood on the edge of Moscow, like a guardian to the glorious city. Centuries-old bricks of decadent limestone stacked on top of each other to create its looming silhouette, and a garden caught its shadow. She often found herself meandering its pathways, staring in awe at the gargoyles and grotesques that were engraved at the edges of dormers. Chatter would be heard from the entry of the estate, clusters of women bruiting about the latest affair or calumny. She’d find her ears burning if she remained in the ire of them for too long, their voices slipping into hushed whispers as they gawked at her with abhorrence. Her hands would drift across marble banisters, lifting the sticky remnants of polish between her fingers. Velvet carpets deafened her footsteps and aided her incumbent silence as she traversed the halls. The stench of smoke burned her nostrils, candles lit in their sconces—her father preferred to use arduous methods of lighting to maintain tradition. That word was muttered by the man so often she wondered if he had ever known a different one.

Her room had been situated on the eastern side of the manor down a narrow hall that was never used, with the intention to place her away from guests and servants. To many, the isolation would have been tormentous, but to her, the stillness nurtured security from the newsmongers of daylight. It was a refurbished laundry room, though refurbished would be an embellishment. The defunct tile floor remained with rust in its crevices, and the dampened walls developed mold from the humid air, but she preferred it that way. No longer would she need to concern herself with ears hearkening her every breath. In this room alone, she was allowed to exist as everything she was and forget about everything she wasn’t.

Brrrrring…

An ancient call bell had been fasted above the door to her room, vibrating with sound from the tug of a string located in a far-away study. Her father’s study. She prayed that it would one day crack, and she could remain in her silence once more, but the stubborn thing rang on. Her hands clammed with sweat at the sound, wide eyes ogling the golden glow bouncing from its metallic surface. She would have frozen in her place if it wasn’t for her innate survival instincts. It was imperative that she followed its corresponding command—come see me.

Her fist wrapped against the door to the study, three knocks on the polished upper panel. And then she waited, the atmosphere thick with the scent of fermented tobacco and cheap perfume. She hated the way it clung to her clothes.

“Войдите,” a low voice called from the other side of the doors.

She pried them open, wincing at the boisterous groan that reverberated into the hall, indicating her presence to the members of staff who looked on, weary. An opulent chandelier was the first thing to catch her eyes, the collection of Swarovski crystals scattering light across bookshelves piled with old documents and philosophical texts. And there stood him—her father, Ivan Pavlovich Yeliseyev. His shape changed depending on the memory. Sometimes he was drawn with softened strokes and bright silky fabrics; in others, he was illustrated with sharpened features and deep winter colors.

She curtseyed, keeping her head low. "Good evening, отец."

"(Name)." She took his pause as a sign, raising her head to watch his back. He was silent, adjusting his cufflinks as he gazed at the garden below the gargantuan bay window.

"I heard you were talking to our gardener. Mr. Volkov?" he inquired, a lilt in his tone that showed he knew far more than he revealed.

"Yes, sir."

He clicked his teeth. "About what?"

Her mind raced to remember the conversation she had with the older gentleman hours before, knowing each second her father did not receive an answer would only make him more agitated. "I asked him about the flowers they're growing this season."

"Did you only ask him about flowers, dear?" he queried, raising a brow as he finally turned to lock eyes with his daughter, eyeing her appearance by scanning her up and down.

She bowed her head. "No, sir."

"Oh, at least you're honest." He let out a huff of smoke, stamping out a cigar onto the carpet. "And for your honesty, I'll let you choose."

He didn’t need to show her what she was choosing; she already knew—because there was something amongst the overflowing bookshelves that felt out of place to those who entered the room. An enormous wardrobe settled between two shelves, its lacquered exterior contrasting with the worn wood surrounding it. She didn’t hesitate to open its door. She couldn’t hesitate. Her arm outstretched, still too short to reach without a struggle, and she pulled out a wide-leather belt with her trembling fingers. And her father finally moved from his spot, taking the belt from her open hand and gesturing towards his desk.

She knew what to do.

Look ahead. Always look ahead unless ordered otherwise. Never disobey a direct order. Count each breath. Do not stutter. Do not whimper. He will start over. Think ahead. Do not daydream. He will start over. Wrists are placed firmly against the edge of the desk. Never move them. He will start over. Sleeves are rolled up. Do not roll them down. He will start over.

"What is rule number one?" he began, striking the belt down against her wrist. She resisted the urge to flinch, focusing on the question. He always asked the same series of questions, and she could always provide the same answers to satisfy him. That routine almost became comforting, a predictability that was her one solace whenever she entered this room.

"Don't talk to staff unnecessarily."

"Number two?" He struck her wrist again. It sparked with pain.

"Don’t ask questions that shouldn’t be asked."

"Number three?" Another strike. Her arms began to throb.

"Do everything to protect the honor of this family."

"Good," he nodded to himself before striking the belt down on her wrists one last time. "And number four?"

"Don’t think you’re more than you are."

"And what are you?" He didn't explicitly say it, but to him, this was the most important question of all. He always leaned into her face as she gave her answer, eyes daring her to declare anything different. But, like always, the answer remained the same.

"I am nothing."

"Good, good. Very good, dear," he smiled, his threatening expression softening as he cupped her cheek with calloused hands. She wished that he wouldn't do this, wouldn't pretend to care. That he would stop playing games with her heart—because she knew that he was a liar, but she leaned into his hand anyway, desperate for touch.

"If only you would listen more," he sighed, and she almost chased his hand as he moved it away from her face. He circled the study for a moment, taking in the unchanging sight of his books and knickknacks before his pacing stilled, an idea sparking. He looked back at her, lips curled as he vainly tried to cover his insidious thoughts. "You will not leave this estate for a month."

She gasped, and her mouth moved before she could think. "What! No!"

His eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

She shrunk back as he rushed towards him. "I-I'm sorry!-"

"You disrespectful brat!" He slapped her, striking her with enough force to make her crash to the floor—hard. With his standing position, he ground his boot into her leg, watching her choke on her words. "Don’t ever raise your voice at me!"

She shrieked as he pulled her by the ends of her hair, forcing her to meet eye-to-eye with him. "You are just some whore’s daughter! You are the dirt underneath my feet, and you will do as I say!"

"I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry!" she cried.

"Silence!"

“No, no. П-Пожа́луйста, бо́г, нет,” she whimpered, curling into herself with each kick. The torment was relentless, sparks of pain traveling up her spine as she reached defeatedly for anything to stop it. Her fingertips began to turn frigid, shaking. At first, she thought the blood circulation in her hands had been cut off, but the sensation in her fingers wasn’t numbing. It was cold.

It was an object, a smooth object that cooled her singed skin, droplets leaking through the fabric of her sleeves and relieving her wounds. She grabbed it with a firmer hand, and it took a moment for her to recognize it. It was a water bottle—her water bottle. She had one that she placed on the bedside table of her room, a room that didn’t smell of mold and isolation. This room had been covered in bargain-bin books and cheap photographs, but they were far more valuable than some old records or decaying statues. And that was because she loved them. That man didn’t love anything. And she was no longer his to torment.

“Я здесь, моя милая. Я здесь с тобой.”

She huffed wetly, overwhelming relief filling her chest at the sound of Fyodor’s silvery voice—the same voice that had become her salvation as they survived side-by-side in Moscow, shivering together from their matching wounds.

He didn't understand—a rare and unwelcome experience for him, especially when it came to her. They had known each other for so many years, with so many memories shared between them. But despite their long companionship, they had yet to discuss those deep personal questions that most asked. It had become a silent understanding—the past was too painful to talk about, and it didn't matter to them anyhow.

But the past resurfaces to those who run from it with a vengeance.

He knew, despite some initial dread, that her panic had nothing to do with his ability. Fear of his touch was normal for others, but she had always been a dauntless one. She would place her life in his hands without a second thought, faithful he would care for it without any true reassurance—she just believed in him.

"Свои рождение было благословением, моя дорогая," he spoke, voice low as he searched her eyes, reading her features to find the slightest hint towards the source of her torment. "Сожалеть о своем рождении означало бы бросить вызов Его воле."

His sincerity only made her shiver, wiping the tears from her eyes. "But it can’t be. Not when it cost another life in return…"

"…life?" he pressed, his eyes narrowing as he inched closer.

She froze. It would be strange for anyone to admit such a deep and long-hidden secret, let alone for either of them to acknowledge that there was one between them. They had tacked the lives they had lived before their fateful encounter as inconsequential, even if it spoke volumes through their habits and customs. He ignored that she carefully eyed her surroundings before speaking to anyone, and she ignored that he spread his meals until he couldn't afford to. Those things didn't matter—the mutual silence had been enough.

But it could no longer remain that way.

She thumbed with his fingers, her voice hoarse. "…my mother…"

“Yes…” his eyes became distant, memories resurfacing. “I remember her.”

Because of his status, he didn't have many encounters with the Yeliseyev family, though the few glimpses he did have stood out. His prominent memory of (Name)'s mother was her shoulders—as strange as that sounded. They were always swathed with decadent jewels, and on the off-chance they weren't, they were covered in luxurious furs. The woman seemed to have disembarked from a démodé soirée clad in gowns that had gone out of fashion centuries ago. He remembered the sound of her shrill voice, declaring that she was a direct descendant of the House of Württemberg—most alleged she was a distant cousin at best. In honesty, he believed she was terribly gaudy, flaunting wealth that held no everlasting value.

This was in extreme contrast to her was her own daughter, (Name), who wore simple a-line dresses with plain laced boots. No one would’ve been able to tell she was an aristocrat if not for the delicate laces her clothes were made of. It was like they purposefully dressed her to blend in with the shadows, which harmonized with her timid mannerisms when they were children. He used to hear the whispers of the congregation and clergy, babbling about the young girl and her unorthodox decorum—and for months, he didn’t know who they were referring to.

However, the moment she crawled onto his window dormer, he knew it had to be her—but she was nothing like the rumors said. They had made her out to be an imp, a mischievous child who only brought despair to those who surrounded her. But those people were fools. When they first met, she looked upon him with world-weary eyes, ones that gazed at him without contempt but with awe.

“Pretty,” she had mumbled.

He had never been caught so off-guard by a single word before, and his initial impulse to ask her to leave vanished. Instead, he asked her to join him in his sanctuary and, in doing so, found the one person who would ever understand him.

“…that woman was not my real mother,” she snarled, shattering his reminiscence as she squeezed his hands. Her stepmother had been such a thoughtless woman, solely focused on preening herself in every reflective surface or scolding (Name) whenever she eyed her for an extended period of time. But her gritted teeth loosened, making way for a melancholic smile that held a lifetime of sorrow. “My real mother was a simple maid, a young one that my father had his eyes on.”

He stilled at her words, immediately picking up on her insinuation, but a question remained in his eyes. “...милая, where is your mother?”

“As I grew older, business partners began to question my legitimacy. Rumors constantly circulated about which housemaid I looked most like.” She swallowed harshly, looking away. “And one day, my father—no. That monster had heard enough. He became dead-set on extinguishing those rumors.”

“And so he did…” she trailed off, the next words remaining on the tip of her tongue as her jaw weighed down like it was imbued with lead. That sensation of pressure on her chest returned, heart hammering in her ribcage, but he held her hands tight. She was in Japan with Fyodor and not in Russia with her father. And looking into those eyes, which were filled with so much concern, she knew she had to tell him. “Along with my mother. He rid the world of those rumors and of her—permanently.”

For years, (Name) was told that outwardly expressing her grief would make it dissipate, that her tears would run dry, and she would be left content and full. But that wasn’t reality. A couple of harsh, grounding words from her lips wouldn’t make decades of heartache wash away but instead made it feel all too real. She knew that she was always, and would always be connected to her birth mother—that before Fyodor, her mother was the only person to love her so selflessly. And for the crime of nurturing a child with unconditional devotion, no matter their status, she was snuffed out as the cigar sparks under the sole of that monster’s boot. Nothing but a memory.

Fyodor had remained silent, contemplative as he traced the creases of her hands. He wasn’t shocked by this tale of cruelty; he had become quite familiar with the scandals of aristocratic families from the rumors that were circled by servants in the slums. What he was truly bewildered by was the fact that he had never looked into (Name)’s family in the first place. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it; he had wanted to investigate many times. But a rare feeling for him, guilt, stopped him. If it were anyone else, he would’ve prodded through their history without a second thought—but not her. Because he just knew, he knew that the moment he found out, it would instill in him feelings that he was too afraid to address. He wasn’t supposed to be attached to anyone, but she always broke through his walls.

He clasped her fingers with his own, his thumb kneading circles around her knuckles and drifting to rest along her wrist, causing her breath to hitch. Her eyes darted, and he surveyed each action of her face as she slowly looked down at the cuffs of her sleeves. Her lips pursed before she let out a tense sigh.

“He hated when I asked about her.” He glanced between her face and hands, his eyes asking for permission as he hooked his fingers on the edges of her sleeves. With no resistance to his advancements, he folded the fabric upward, revealing what she was staring at with such contempt.

And he was grateful she was too focused to look at him—that she wasn't able to see the way his jaw clenched and the way his eyes narrowed at the sight. He had seen these scars many times before, but hearing the story around them made the impressions on her skin feel so much deeper. Neither of them had revealed the secrets behind their matching markings—not because they were fearful of judgment from the other, but because they understood the necessity of leaving some things unspoken. Despite that, he couldn’t help how his muscles stiffened, fingers trailing the clusters of raised skin with such care.

The steps to his mission weren't important to him, not at this moment. He knew that, instead, he would prep his subordinates to visit a much cooler climate for their next operation—and he would only need a week to fulfill his goal. That the Yeliseyev family would be fortunate if ashes were left of them or that old estate. But those plans could wait.

“Those poems that you loved so much,” he muttered, raising her quivering hand to his lips, trailing kisses from her palm to her wrist as he held her tight. There was no need for her to explain any further. She was filled with a profound sorrow, one that he understood in such a personal and heartfelt manner. “Those were from your mother, were they not?”

Fyodor peered into her eyes, finding tear-filled ones gaping back at him. (Name) was only able to nod her head, biting at her bottom lip in order to restrain the waterworks. His expression softened, glancing at the familiar poem book that was perched on her nightstand.

“She had lovely taste. And if she was anything like you…” he raised his hand, hovering near her cheek to make sure she was comfortable. She leaned into his touch, letting out a sigh as she cupped his hand with her own. “Then I am certain she was lovely, too.”

And as the pain came crashing down with a vengeance, those tears were finally released. Her body was wracked with sobs, pressing wet kisses into his palm in the middle of shaking breaths. While it was true that words alone would never be able to sate her grief, the all-consuming understanding between the two orphans did wonders to relieve her suffering.

“Tell me, Федечка.” Her smile was small but genuine. “How did I ever become so lucky?”

He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. “No, солнышко. I'm the lucky one."

She sniffled, closing her eyes as she could feel her heartbeat in synchrony with his. He kissed her forehead, and she melted in the way his hands—comforting and gentle, caressed her face, mapping every freckle and scar to memory.

For the remainder of the week, (Name) was placed on a mandatory, badly needed break from her standard duties. Most of it had been spent bundled up in her room, re-reading her mother's prized poetry book for the thousandth time. Her fingers skimmed the pages with practiced ease, brushing against every indent and crinkle—it was almost like her mother was with her, that recognizable sweet tune of hers narrating the lines. And when she wasn't alone, she was cozied up in Fyodor's private study, a cup of tea hoisted in one hand as she read the stanzas aloud. The light thrum of her record player accompanied her voice, emphasizing each word with expressions and gestures. It caused his normal, stoic expression to melt, and he settled back in his own chair as he relished in the entertainment.

But tonight, she dashed towards his study, book in hand. Subordinates stumbled and stared as she barreled down a few, shaking their heads and deciding not to openly question their superior's giddy behavior—that had become a standard rule at this point. She dug in her heels, almost smacking straight into the wall before she fell against it, out of breath as her limp hand knocked on the door.

"Come in," Fyodor's voice called, an unusual lilt in his tone that was barely muffled through the wall.

BANG!

The door slammed against the wall, books shuddering on their shelves as an echo reverberated against the walls. She hissed through her teeth, sliding into the room before closing the door with a small click. It was obvious that she had gotten a bit too excited, but she couldn't help it! Fyodor had such a mischievous lilt in his tone when he had called her today, and that could only mean that he had interesting news.

The aforementioned man chuckled from behind his desk. “Good evening, милая.”

"Evening—" she panted, leaning onto her knees as the adrenaline wore off. "Evening, Федя."

His lips curled into a smirk, folding his hands. “It seems you’ve enjoyed this little break.”

"Yeah, it's been great," she sighed, not bothering to conceal the popping of her stiffened joints and muscles from her hours hidden in her blankets, settling into her designated swivel chair before wheeling it over to his side of the desk. A steaming cup of tea sat still at her side, slipping down her throat with the perfect blend of bitter and sweet. She leaned back into her seat. “Mmm, delicious as always.”

Thump.

She glanced to the side while she took another sip, watching as he placed a box from beneath his desk into his lap, fingers thrumming the lid—he only did that when he was roused by a discovery. Her brow quirked, setting her cup down.

“I actually called you here for another purpose besides poetry.”

"I’m listening," she said, eyes darting to the box every so often. He lifted the lid, not allowing her to see the contents inside, before placing two books of varying size and composition on the desk near her. "I have a small gift for you."

"Books?" She stared at them, examining the torn covers that had been shredded by years of use. Most of the novels that she had received from him had been entirely new and typically in mint condition, so it was strange to be given something so worn—not that she minded; a good book is a good book. Neither of these books had titles, or rather, they did, but they had been heavily smudged to the point of being unrecognizable.

"Hmmm, something of that sort," he mused, pushing them closer to her with his fingers. She stared at the cover of the large book, the pages underneath it bulking with plastic sleeves that threatened to slip off from the sides—a photo album. Her eyes struck him suspiciously, but he only flicked at cover with his hand, an expression she could only pin as self-satisfied on his face. Grime lathered the plastic, and the photos inside were unrecognizable from the fingerprint smudges and dirt. With an impatient groan, she yanked one of the photographs out, examining it with narrowed eyes.

But her hands quaked.

Those familiar eyes stared back at her, distant. The eyes that she could never forget. She would've mistaken the person in the photograph for herself if not for the foreign background and people. It was her mother, smiling towards the camera as she clung to someone's arm. Without a second thought, (Name) began to take out more photos, creating a timeline of her mother's life through each one. Her hand brushed against some bulking ink on the back of one, turning it—Иоланта (7-years-old). Her mother's name. She had never realized it, but she didn't even know her mother's own name. She ignored the tears that splattered against the protective plastic, setting the book to the side as her hands curled under the smaller, accompanying book that had been waiting patiently for her eyes.

The pages were worn, edges shriveled by water damage, and borders pasted with decorative newspaper—the handwriting may not have been familiar to her, but the stories that coated the pages on the inside were. Not a space had been left unfilled, beautiful cursive building elaborate plots that jumped between action to romance. Each was a somewhat more mature version of childhood tales that had been whispered into her ear during the dead of night, passed between one mind to another. Her mother had been the one to open her to a world beyond reality, existing in thought and illustrated on paper. And then she remembered one line from her mother's stories—the dead may not be able to speak in their silent slumber, but they could be immortalized by the hearts that they touched and the minds that they changed. She had become so much like her mother in spite of the separate life she had led, if only because of the kindness and compassion her mother had demonstrated that stood the test of worn-down memory. In those letters, a connection was found—her heart was not filled, but she felt comfort in the space, knowing the longing was only bittersweet.

And finally, she looked up at Fyodor between her wet lashes, only to find him beholding her with such fondness, such adoration. The smallest outline of wrinkles marred the pale skin around his eyes, the corners of his lips upturned without a hint of malice or venom. In her peace, he had found his own—and maybe one day, she could talk with him about his own mother, his parents. She could be the one to care for him, to hold him tight. To remind him that she would be his sanctuary for as long as he was hers.

"I was able to locate a distant aunt of yours. She wanted you to have these." He settled the box onto the desk with a thunk, lifting the lid to show an abundance of additional albums and journals nestled between wrapping, even a few pieces of cloth peaking out from the bottom.

"You'll have a lot to go through, so—" He stilled, his heart pumping as a wail broke his train of speech, (Name) frantically rubbing her eyes as her chest began to heave in between sobs. His face tightened, abandoning the box to settle a hand on her back. “Любимая—”

The first sense he could register was smell, the scent of flowers enveloping his body, recognizing a familiar body wash. The next sense was sight, a bundle of hair blocking his vision as he thought he had momentarily suffocated. And the last was touch, a nose nuzzling in his neck, tight arms wrapping around him as if he would disappear at any minute.

“Cпасибо тебе, спасибо тебе, спасибо тебе,” she whispered weakly, practically in his lap.

His hands floated around her waist before he sighed, pulling her into his arms as he settled her fully on his lap. A finger traced her hairline, followed by scattered, drawn-out kisses that marked a path from the center of her forehead to her temple.

"There is no need to thank me, любимая моя. I am only giving you the truth you deserve."

He traced circles into her waist, embracing the feeling of her so close to him, skin-to-skin, as they held on tight. The rest of the evening was spent whispering between the flips of pages by candlelight, (Name)'s hushed voice narrating tales from her youth while Fyodor watched in amusement—perfect reflections of the people they had once been and outlines for the people they would become.

ты маленькая сучка! ты должен был сгореть вместе с ней! = you little bitch! you should have burned with her! вам повезло видеть солнце каждое утро! = you are lucky to see the sun every morning! коля = kolya никогда не повышай на меня тон! = never raise your voice at me! мышь = mouse федечка = fedechka любимая (моя) = my darling ты дышишь только потому, что я позволяю тебе это делать! = you only breathe because i allow you to! федя = fedya отец = father п-пожа́луйста, бо́г, нет = p-please, god, no. я здесь, моя милая. я здесь с тобой = i'm here with you, my dear. i'm here with you. свои рождение было благословением, моя дорогая = your birth was a blessing, my dear. сожалеть о своем рождении означало бы бросить вызов eго воле = to regret your birth would be to defy his will. милая = dear солнышко = sunshine иоланта = Iolanta спасибо тебе, спасибо тебе, спасибо тебе = thank you, thank you, thank you.

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @imhandicapableofmath @seisitive @solandiss @ruru-kiss @kotysluny

#muse's anthology ‧₊˚ ⋅#f!reader #꒰ა ⎼ [fyodor]#₊˚ ★꒰ the sun and the stars #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor bsd #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x reader

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