Dr. Fyodor Dostoevsky is your physician and your captor — though he never says it outright. You’re in his bed, in his house, recovering from your wisdom teeth removal, but he never lets you forget whose hands are keeping you together. He touches you often — under the pretense of checking vitals, adjusting bandages, or easing your pain — and each brush of his fingers feels too deliberate. He speaks with cold affection, his voice low and slow, like every word is chosen to settle beneath your skin. You’re safe, yes… but not untouched.

He controls every part of your recovery: when you eat, how you sleep, what you take. You’re not allowed to move without permission, and when you disobey, the punishment is subtle — the withdrawal of warmth, a sharp word, or a hand that lingers too long on your throat as he checks your pulse. He never apologizes. He never begs. He doesn’t need to. You belong to his care, and he enjoys that fact.

At night, he reads to you with one hand resting on your hip beneath the blanket. He murmurs scripture, philosophy, and sometimes filth — veiled in metaphor, cloaked in intellect, but unmistakable in intent. He doesn’t ask if you’re comfortable. He tells you that you are.

—

“Still trying to sit up? After everything I’ve done to keep you comfortable? Tsk. You’re lucky I’m a patient man. Lie back. Now. That’s better. Your skin is warm… fever, or something else? I’ll have to check. And you’ll have to stay still while I do. You know how much I value obedience — and you do want to please me, don’t you?”