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sigmoon · 9 months

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𓇢𓆸 Wildflowers under the summer rain

Chapter one: Orange Lilies

An introduction, a prologue to the actual story. Reader realizes that she’s developing feelings for Fyodor and thinks back to how their time together started. This chapter contains the essentials of y/n‘s backstory and what led to her and Fyodor working together. // The first five or six paragraphs take place a bit further into the story, then there’s a small time skip to the past and the story starts from there on.

Pairing: Fyodor Dostoyevsky x reader

cw: Mentions of PTSD, s*ic*dal thoughts, violence, abuse, a teeny tiny mention of smut if you squint.

You hated him.

Every fiber of your being shook with fury when your mind started to wander again, decorating the corners of your mind with pictures of him. If you lost your focus for a mere second, his familiar voice rang in your ears and his face was everywhere, even when you closed your eyes. That damn face; the almost sickly pale visage, with unflattering dark circles and that never-ending smug expression, that you’ve wanted to wipe off of his face ever since the day you first met him. Everything about Fyodor was infuriating, from his tiring preaching about God to the way he carried himself with a sense of superiority over you, no, even all of humankind. His presence made you sick, yet you craved it and felt even more on the edge than usual when he wasn’t near. Mindless gnawing on your fingernails, tapping your foot under your desk while you were working, a tightness in your chest that made you fear you’d suffocate; you felt restless, your brain foggy until he was somewhere, anywhere near you again.

And you hated how much you needed him, hated how you caught yourself staring at him when he didn't notice, hated how good his praise felt when you finished a task successfully. You hated how your words came out less harsh than intended when you wanted to snap at him, hated how you suddenly blushed when your hand grazed against his, your entire attitude softening like a boiled potato.

You internally scolded yourself when, after he walked past you, you inhaled his scent as deeply as you could and enjoyed it. Or, even worse, when your hands slipped between your thighs or under your shirt when you lay in bed at night, a slideshow of images of him playing behind your closed eyes. And when the ecstasy subsided and the clarity of what you’ve just done set in, a cocktail of shame, humiliation, and denial of your feelings rushed through your body and kept you awake for hours.

However, your confusing need for his presence was completely involuntary, of course, nothing you had any sense of control over. Because despite feeling a little less fidgety and under the weather, you found yourself to be no less irritated by him when he was near. After all, you still found him insufferable, right?

His tirades about creating a better world, when he made an effort to hold a conversation with you, have always made you want to vomit. Besides the fact that he was a textbook hypocrite, you had experienced the cruelty of the world you lived in first-hand, and hearing a man as pretentious and vile as Fyodor blabber about being the chosen one to rid the world of its sin and atrocity, caused you to shake with the urge to jump up from your seat and strangle him.

Because how could he even remotely understand the agonies of your existence? How could a person as wicked and indifferent as him comprehend what you’ve been through, let alone be the one to rid the world of such horrors? But in one regard, he was right. The world was a hideous place, a place where common sense, sincerity, and empathy were more rarely found than diamonds, and that realization has accompanied you since your childhood days.

You've been under Fyodor’s wing for months now, but the events before your time with him in the cold, poorly lit underground facility where the background work of his schemes took place, felt like they had happened just yesterday. Long before Fyodor, that merciful saint, managed to free you, an inmate of the high facility prison for ability users, called Meursault, you had met one bad decision after another and catapulted yourself deeper into the pits of misery than that monster, an abuser you didn’t even bother to view as a fellow human being, ever could. When you, even years after it happened, still felt his hands on your body, smelled his scent, and saw his face in every man that walked your direction, you made a choice that you prayed would finally bring you peace, even if it would only be for a single night. One night during which you didn’t wake up in a cold sweat, wanting to peel your skin off and hyperventilating until you fainted. One night during which you didn’t stare at your bedroom ceiling, wondering how many people would miss you if you were gone. You were willing to do anything to achieve that feeling of justice that the law failed to give you, a system that did everything to protect a man from the consequences of his actions, even if it was at the cost of a girl’s will to live.

That urge to get revenge was your last straw, that spark that kept you going. After years of being tormented by your bloodthirsty fantasies in which you returned all the suffering and came up with the most vile and unspeakable things, you finally managed to make them reality.

Your ability, a fickle one, hard to tame and a mystery even to yourself, came in handy. Your relationship with your ability was complicated, to put it mildly. You always knew that something about you was different, a little off, and you knew that it scared those around you who were aware of it. The ability itself was subtle but still harbored such force and intensity that you seemed to have an aura around you that made most people avoid you. This isolation, which was familiar to you all your life, left you no choice but to discover and explore your ability all by yourself, and although it always remained hard to grasp and even harder to tame, you soon figured out that it enabled you to not only make people feel weird about you but also to inflict tremendous agony upon others. Bitter and vengeful as you were at this point in your life, this realization caused you to feel almost blissful with excitement.

You figured out a suitable punishment for your abuser, and once your deed was done, he was nothing but an empty, broken shell of a human, a pile of flesh and bones that longed for nothing else but the sweet relief of death. But you were not going to grant him this, no, he needed to live with this indescribable pain and not be freed of its shackles.

As enjoyable as this unspeakable act was for you, you still felt unsatisfied. Breaking the monster wasn’t enough, no, there were many other people out there, even in your own life, who never got what they truly deserved. Drunk on that feeling of your newfound power, one victim became two, then three, then so many that you lost count. Wherever you looked, you saw injustice that you urged to do something about. However, it was naive of you to think that you’d get away with this purging. Since your ability left no signs of physical violence on the victims, and they all seemed to have been tortured with the same method, all traces soon led to the only possible culprit. You knew what reputation you already had, thanks to your ability, so it was no surprise that those who were aware of it were quick to snitch on you.

One thing led to another, and before you properly realized it, you sat in a ridiculous-looking, transparent, floating cube, imprisoned and surrounded by countless identical cells, in each one an inmate, one more despicable than another. As if receiving a life sentence for being an ”individual too dangerous and unstable to remain among civilians“, as they so eloquently put it, wasn’t bad enough, being in a place like Meursault was beyond humiliating.

Deindividualization by being given a number, constantly on display for guards and your fellow inmates to watch, even having your vitals monitored, made you almost lose your mind after less than a week. To the great amusement of the guards, who harbored nothing but contempt for the prisoners, you threw almost childlike hysterical tantrums after only a few days, you even stooped so low as to beg them for mercy, to free you. You didn’t belong in this place, you screeched, you did what was right, what the executive forces of the state failed to do.

Your misery only worsened from there, and after being mocked and ridiculed by the other inmates, who were delighted by your pathetic display of despair, finally being entertained a bit in this dull place, you even pleaded for the guards to just finally execute you, to end everything because you couldn’t take it anymore. But your wish wasn’t granted, of course, and you soon gave up trying to find ways to end it yourself, in your cell, as the damn cube offered no suitable solution.

You lost track of the number of days you spent in Meursault by the time Fyodor, or rather, a few of his subordinates, carried out their superior’s plan to get you, that infamous ability user, out of Meursault. Your doings didn’t go unnoticed by Fyodor, who seemed to have his eyes all over the world, and he was quite intrigued by your ability, curious how he could utilize it for himself, mold and shape you to become a perfect new pawn for his own shady schemes...

Next chapter

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Hio’s note: Thank you for reading the first chapter of „Wildflowers under the summer rain“, I hope you enjoyed it :) I’m very excited to share many more chapters with you, and finally get the ideas that have been brewing inside my mind for a while out now. If you think a content warning is missing, don’t hesitate to let me know.

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