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flurry-of-stars · 3 days

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𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝕴𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴- 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴- 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴𝕴

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩ Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU, fluff, light angst. 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 8k 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: So sorry for the delay! Thank you all for your patience! (ಥ﹏ಥ) I would've had this out on Monday, but I just wanted to spend some extra time editing it. I hope you all enjoy ✧ദ്ദി( ˶^ᗜ^˶ ) 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡

The warmth caresses the side of your face, stirring you from your slumber. Tossing and turning in the comfortable confines of the bed you’re in, you murmur sleepily. It’s so soft, so warm.

You’re almost tempted to go back to sleep, if it didn’t feel like someone was watching you right now with tiny daggers in their eyes. Suddenly, something soft slaps your cheek, causing you to gasp as your eyes snap open in surprise. "Ah-!" You turn to the other side and are astonished to find the old tabby cat sitting on the bed, his paw raised as if ready to slap you again.

"Tolstoy..! Ah… what was that for?" you ask, while touching your cheek where his furry paw made contact.

You wonder what you did to offend the feline when he huffs at you, his whiskers twitching, preparing to hit you on the cheek again. You sit up quickly, satisfying the old cat. His meow is low as he goes about grooming his paw as if he didn’t just slap you with it. You groan at him, rubbing your cheek a little, grumbling, “Geez…just when I thought we were becoming friends…” You blink a few times as realisation hits you, “Wait…Tolstoy? What are you doing at my apartment?” The cat gives you an audacious side eye, his tongue rasping over his paw as you slowly look around, eyes darting about like a hummingbird. It’s a small room. Cozy though. Old mahogany desk. Blackout curtains. Smells of old books. An actually comfortable bed that doesn’t leave you with an aching back. A grumpy old cat.

Wait a minute..is this…? ‘Fyodor’s room?’ Your mind races, trying to put together why you’re here. It takes you a few moments to remember yesterday, the excursion out to the forest and the nap Fyodor had taken on your shoulder. The way you’d watched over the beautiful pink flora before feeling quite exhausted yourself, your head drifting onto his shoulder–

Your skin burns with embarrassment.

Fyodor must’ve woken up and brought you here. That was the only conclusion you could come to. You don’t remember him doing so but you were probably too tired to realize at the time. You stretch, listening to a few of your bones pop before you rise out of bed. Now that you’re up, you watch the brown tabby saunter into your place, yawning and curling up.

“Old man. You just wanted the bed,” you grumble, fixing your clothes from the previous day. You watch the feline settle into the warm spot you left on the bed before turning your attention to the mahogany desk.

You know you shouldn’t snoop around. This is Fyodor’s private space. He trusted you enough to let you sleep in here. You shouldn’t go through his things.

But there’s no harm in looking at his desk, right?

Your eyes roam the desk, noting just how messy it is. There’s a few books scattered about, creating messy piles on his desk, some thicker than others. Some whose covers catch your eye quicker. You’re tempted to reach out and grab one to inspect it closer, but you stop yourself, hand pausing midway across the desk.

‘Let’s just look,” you remind yourself to not betray the trust Fyodor has shown you by allowing you into his room as your gaze continues it’s search. There’s a melted candle on one side of the desk. Looks like he forgot to place it on a holder. But as your gaze drifts beyond the candle, you notice a vintage photo frame hidden under some books.

You frown as you attempt to get a better look at it, hidden in the darkness provided by the book covering it from above. Humming in thought, your hand slides into your pocket, grabbing your phone.

It was almost dead and you had a few missed calls and texts from Trixie but you ignore them for now.

Turning on the flash, you guide the light towards the frame, uncovering the old photo. The frame is corroded and the glass is shattered, splintering outwards from one corner like a glass spiderweb. And yet despite having some minor sun damage, the photo inside is almost in perfect condition.

It seems to be a group photo taken at a restaurant of some kind. You recognize Fyodor almost immediately. Though it’s surprising to see him without those heavy black lines under his eyes. His expression is one you know well; calm, reserved. Mysterious. But the presence of his smile indicates that he isn’t uncomfortable with his current situation.

To his left is a man with hair as white as fresh snow, a grey and white scarf around his neck and a white overcoat over his shoulders. His smile is wide with an arm wrapped around Fyodor’s shoulders, tugging him in close, his free hand putting up a peace sign over his scarred left eye.

Next to the white-haired man sat a calmer man. Under his hands was a book, the title reading as ‘The Precipice’ when you translated it. His eyes were closed, despite the pleased look that was on his face. On Fyodor’s right was a slightly bulkier man with messy blonde hair and a cigarette in his mouth. He was smirking at the camera like a cat who’d gotten the cream, holding up a glass of some kind of alcohol as if giving cheers to the camera. The final man was the one who seemed to be trying to fit into the frame, despite being the cameraman. You couldn’t get a good look at him, but you could see his big glasses and dishevelled light brown hair. Judging from his face- or what you could see of it- you assumed he was the youngest of the group. You look over each man in the photo, smiling softly. These had to be the acquaintances Fyodor mentioned yesterday. It was rather nice to see Fyodor surrounded by people who appeared to be enjoying his company and him, theirs.

As you tuck your phone away, you wonder how long ago the photo was taken. They seemed to be celebrating something, but it didn’t strike you as being for a birthday or marriage announcement or anything like that. Were they celebrating something related to their careers maybe?

You hum, gently resting your elbow on your wrist to softly press your knuckles against your lips. Maybe one of them had signed a contract? Perhaps finished a manuscript they’d been working on for years? Maybe it was for– “Ah, you are awake.” You almost squeal in surprise as you hear Fyodor’s voice, your thoughts shattering instantly.

You spin around, staring in absolute surprise at an amused Fyodor as he chuckles softly at your expression, “My apologies Огонёк. I thought Tolstoy had allowed you to sleep in.” His eyes wander towards his bed where the old cat is curled up, nuzzling into the warm sheets. “Good morning, Mr. Dostoyevsky,” you reply, feeling a faint warmth forming in your cheeks, your skin tingling with embarrassment for a second time this morning. You run a hand through your hair as you look towards Tolstoy, mumbling, “Yeah, you didn’t tell me your cat was pushy like that. He almost managed to get two slaps in.” Soft chuckles further escape Fyodor as he approaches you. His hand cups your cheek, a small sound escaping you as his slender finger touches your cheek.

His hands are surprisingly soft but quite cold. The tips of his fingers, however, are a tad rough. It also feels like there are a few small abrasions on his fingertips, closer to his nails. He hums, his fingertip caressing both of your cheeks before he nods, a teasing edge to his voice, “No scratches or bites. I think you’ll survive.” A soft huff escapes you as he pulls his hands back, a small chuckle on his lips as he turns away, motioning for you to come with him, “Come. Breakfast is waiting for you. You have a lot of work to do today, so you best not waste any time.” Lifting a hand, you touch your cheek slightly. His touch felt oddly nice. You don’t dwell on it for too long before you hurry after Fyodor, the scent of a freshly made meal hitting you the moment you step out of his bedroom.

Eyes wandering towards the table, you’re surprised to see a full spread for breakfast. A variety of smells flood your senses. The pleasant aroma of camomile tea. The rich smell of eggs, fried in butter. The whispering, sweet smell of blini... For a heartbeat, you wonder if you’re still in the land of dreams. Just for a moment, until you see the mountain of white paper, with more sprawled across half the dining table. Your eyes widen; Fyodor has never handed you off that many pages before. You stand there, frozen in disbelief, “M-Mr. Dostoyevsky…what is that?” Your voice falters slightly, betraying your utter astonishment at the sight before you. Taking his place at the table, a calm smirk lifts onto Fyodor’s face as he fills his cup, “That, my dear Огонёк, is the next six chapters for you to translate.”

You turn your shocked gaze to him, his teacup lifting to his lips as he takes a sip before adding, “I decided to make up for lost time yesterday. I was quite inspired after our little walk.” Six chapters. That was double what Fyodor usually gave you. Not to mention, because of your little forest walk yesterday, you still had two and a half chapters to translate meaning–

“Eight whole chapters…” you mumble quietly, shaking your head slowly as you approach the stack with caution. It was as though the pile of new chapters was like a taunting monster, teasing you of all the long hours ahead. Your wrist already ached just touching the first page for chapter ten. It looks like you were going to have to break out the old brace sooner than you expected.

Taking your seat at the table, you decide to focus on breakfast for the moment before you would inevitably be stuck sitting at this table working for the next ten hours with only a break for lunch. Just as you begin to reach over to grasp at the teapot’s handle, Fyodor speaks up. His voice is soft, though you can hear the tiredness in his voice, “Thank you for your company yesterday, Огонёк. I was…” He pauses, seeming to be thinking over his next words carefully, “In desperate need of that small moment of respite.” “You let me sleep over last night,” you reply, filling your cup with chamomile tea. You smile warmly at Fyodor, shrugging a little, “You sacrificed your bed for me. You can consider us even, Mr. Dostoyevsky. Oh and thank you for that by the way.”

Placing the teapot down with a gentle thud, you move on to filling your plate with eggs, some cold cuts and some blini, which you promptly smother with honey. “It is quite alright,” he replies, his eyes watching you carefully while you serve yourself breakfast. Once you’ve settled in and begun eating, he looks away, raising his cup to his lips and taking a sip.

A pleasant silence falls over you both as you work your way through breakfast and Fyodor seems to alternate between savouring each sip and jotting down more notes. It was nice. You wouldn’t mind sharing more mornings like this with the novelist. Something about it just feels right.

As you swallow the last bite of egg, you speak up, “I’ll cook breakfast tomorrow.” His violet eyes turn up, one of his brows raising in mild surprise. You return it with a smile, “It’s the least I can do after you spent all morning on this spread for us.” “Hmm..” He hums softly, tapping his pen against the table for a few seconds. As his pen stills, he nods, “If that is what you wish to do, then go ahead. But I will still watch over you while you cook. I do not need my assistant to lose a finger chopping up fruits for breakfast.” “Hey, I’m more careful now!” “That’s debatable.” “Wha–!” You scoff at Fyodor, glaring at him. He flashes you an amused smirk, tapping your half-full plate. “Come now, Огонёк. You shouldn’t let Olya’s cooking go to waste.” You pause. Then– “You didn’t even make breakfast?” “Did I ever insinuate otherwise?” “I was going to cook tomorrow because you cooked today!” “And I said if you wanted to cook, you could. I never once confirmed that I made this meal.” You pause again, thinking back over your conversation. You watch as Fyodor’s smirk grows, becoming more playful to your eye. You huff again, picking up your fork to stab at a blini, “Fine. Then you’re cooking with me tomorrow.” He gives you one last smirk as he raises his teacup to his lips, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Tenderly, you rub your aching wrist, eyes scanning over the translations you’ve done so far, assuring everything is correct and concise. You feel like your pen is practically dropping out of your hand as you reread one paragraph multiple times over. Your eyes droop a few times, causing you to shake your head, trying to regain your focus. You felt like you made next to no progress this week and the chapters keep piling up. After giving you those extra six chapters to translate, Fyodor added an additional four chapters throughout the week alone. You’d been confident when finishing translations for the second half of chapter seven, along with finishing chapters eight and nine, but once you moved on to the new chapters, Fyodor’s writing became more intense, more intricate, challenging you and pushing you to your limits. Even a more skilled translator would struggle. So far, through chapters one to nine, his longest chapter was forty-two pages long before you began translating.

But now the pages were multiplying like rabbits, his tenth chapter leaving you to translate almost one hundred pages. It was currently early into the night on the weekend. You’d finally finished translating it now. You had to admit, his story was becoming more interesting. You were losing yourself in the evolving narrative that had slowly grown from the story of young man, a lonely, solitary wanderer, into a budding romance. With every turn of the page, Fyodor's writing captures your imagination and intrigue.

You were hooked. As the story progresses, you've noticed the male lead's unusual ways of dealing with his feelings of friendship and now, love. Rather than expressing those feelings, he was finding odd ways to win her companionship and affection. It was peculiar, but that was what made it so fascinating to read. It was strange. Especially when the male lead had spent the past five chapters believing that the female lead understood his habit of always making her a cup of tea when she visited came from a deeper place than just accommodating a guest. But the leads have such wonderful chemistry. Great, One down. Another nine to go. ‘I have to get all these done before the writer’s convention.’ You sigh heavily, gripping your pen as your wrist throbs in pain, making your finger flinch faintly. You curse under your breath as you hold your wrist, frustration bubbling up inside of you.

You'd been unable to locate your wrist brace yet, and with another paycheck spent on ensuring both you and Fyodor had enough for meals for the fortnight, you had no money to spare on ibuprofen or a new brace, the remainder being tied up in bus fares and rent.

Settling your black and gold pen to the side, your tired, weary fingers massage your aching wrist. The pain pulses, pounding like a heartbeat.

A bitter hiss escapes your lips, "Damn it." Even from a distance, the shadow of your past still clings to you, your pounding wrist a vivid reminder of memories you've long tried to forget. A shiver runs down your spine as you reflect on the reason for your current condition. A part of you can't help but wonder if your condition is something that isn't just physical. A knock at your apartment door rouses you from your thoughts. You jolt, looking up from your spot in the darkened apartment, the only light source coming from the small television in the small open-plan dining area, propped up on a buffet table.

You groan as you stand, stretching as you call out, “One second!” You listen to your bones pop before you leave the table, moving towards your apartment door. Your apartment is a small, run down space that bears heavy traces of the previous tenants. The walls are yellowing, the air heavy with the thick scent of old cigarette smoke that was caked into the peeling wallpaper. The unmistakable musty scent of mould hangs in the air, along with the suffocating acidic tang of the vinegar you'd used to try and treat it. You were surprised mushrooms hadn't started sprouting through the floorboards. The apartment door opens into the cramped open-plan kitchen and dining room, one single lightbulb hanging over the dining room table. To your right, a small narrow hallway leads to your room and the bathroom, both hidden away in this secret, dark corner of the apartment.

Living in this apartment caused you so many struggles on the daily. Sometimes you didn’t even have enough hot water for a full shower, which was agonizing during harsh Winters.

And only one of your stove burners worked. And you couldn't use your wardrobe due to the fact it was overrun with mould. It was far from ideal. But beggars can't be choosers. This apartment had it's list of problems, but it's all you could afford. And besides, you'd lived in apartments in worse conditions that this one. Lifting your non-dominant hand, you prepare to move the small chain out of the way before twisting the door lock to the unlocked position. After all, you already had an inkling about who would be visiting you. Sure enough– “Hey! We were supposed to have a movie night tonight, remember?” Trixie stands before you, a warm smile lighting up her face. Chestnut curls cascade over her shoulders, framing her gentle face.

Dressed in a ruffled blouse and a teal-colored skirt, she manages to combine fashionable and casual, exuding a cute, chic charm with a matching ribbon tied delicately around her neck. In her left hand, she holds two boxes of pizzas, the smell of melted cheese and tantalizing toppings causing your mouth to water instantly. In her other, she carries a small plastic bag containing a bottle of your favorite wine and likely dessert to complete the meal. Her smile falters the moment she takes in your appearance, “Are you okay, bookworm? You aren’t looking too good…” You smile tiredly, stepping aside to let Trixie in. She walks in, heading to the dining room to place everything down. That’s when she comes face to face with your workspace. “Dear goodness. Is this–” “Mr. Dostoyevsky’s latest chapters,” you answer as you follow her, yawning softly. You move past her, heading to grab the only two wine glasses you own, “I’ve been up since…maybe three working on them?” “In the afternoon? Well, I’m glad you took the morning to rest.” “Ah…no…three in the morning…” The wine glasses clink gently as you slide them out of the cabinet you keep them stored in. Trixie sighs heavily, concern laced in her voice, “Darling–” “It’s not a big deal,” you insist, moving back into the dining room. You place the two glasses down before you go about packing away the accumulated pages covering the entire dining table, “I have to get all these chapters done in two weeks. Well…I guess one and a half weeks now. Mr Dostoyevsky’s agent wants us to go to the writer’s convention together.” You can hear the sadness in Trixie’s voice as she replies, “You mean the one that…? Oh, darling…” “No, no, no! I’m thrilled!” Excitement bubbles inside you as you scoop up the large stack of papers, grunting a little before flashing her a beaming smile. Her light blue eyes gaze back at you, reflecting sympathy and grief. You slip the papers onto the counter, pushing aside her melancholy, her eyes trained solely on your dream, "You know it’s always been a dream of mine to go.” “But are you sure you’re ready?” Your smile widens at the mere thought of the convention, “I’ve been ready to go since I was a child. Though do you think it would be weird if I asked Mr. Dostoyevsky if I could show off one of my dad’s books to the other authors? I could even just show it off to his friends- though he called them acquaintances, I saw the photo on his–” “Bookworm.” Trixie’s slightly stern voice catches you off guard. You snap out of your excited ramblings as she sighs. She moves closer to you, placing a hand on your shoulder, flashing you a sympathetic smile, “Dear…I think you may be jumping the gun a little. You're accompanying Dostoyevsky to the convention for work, yes?” You nod but before you can speak, she gently shushes you, “Bookworm, you’re going there for work. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to mix something personal with something work-related.” She tries to offer a kind smile, noticing as you bow your head a little, “You…could always still ask but remember, you’re going to this convention for your boss. Not for yourself.”

You frown deeply. You suppose you did lose sight of the real reason why you were attending this convention. But even still– You look up, your frown quirking back up into a confident smile, “I know, I know. But I want to at least ask. If he says no, I swear I’ll accept it.” Trixie’s eyes scan yours for a few more seconds before she relents. With a sigh, her smile becomes a little more genuine, her hand moving off your shoulder, “Alright…if you say so.”

Pulling back, she takes a deep breath before she speaks once more, “Now how about we enjoy our evening? I didn’t bring all this food for you to sit around and translate the night away. What movie are we watching?” Feeling a bit lighter, you sit down at the dining table, grabbing your remote and switching off the classical cello music you'd had playing on mute for the past hour. Trixie joins you, her presence adding warmth to the room as she cracks open the bottle of wine and fills the two glasses, “Well I thought we could watch–” “Twin Peaks? Again? You know that movie weirds me out!” Trixie groans, passing you a glass of wine. You giggle, sipping your wine as you flick through the other movies you had in mind. “Then how about–” “Jacob’s Ladder?? You know what?” She playfully snatches the remote from you, causing you to giggle playfully. She mischievously grins at you, flicking through the movies until she finds one to settle on. You whine playfully, making a half-hearted attempt to snatch the remote back. Though in truth, you were more than content to let her choose the movie. You were happy just enjoying your best friend's company. The movie plays as you and Trixie share your dinner, dessert and plenty of wine. You end up drinking more than she does, the wine adding to the cozy atmosphere of the evening.

As the movie nears the end, you lean your head against her shoulder, finding comfort in her presence despite the dining room chairs not exactly providing the most comfortable watching experience. Your exhaustion finally catches up with you, your eyes fluttering closed towards the end of the movie. You might have fallen asleep, were you and Trixie not left to squirm in your seats for the last twenty minutes of the film. Eventually, however, Trixie seems to get fed up. She flicks the movie off, leaving the television on to use it as a light. She groans, helping you up, your eyes fluttering open, “Alright…come darling. It’s time for bed.” “Nooo…” You whine, slowly standing up. You felt a little tipsy, your feet a tad unstable under you. Trixie’s arm snakes around your waist, helping guide you towards the bedroom as you groan and whine. “I have all my translations to do. I can’t sleep…” “I don’t want to hear it, Miss ‘Up since 3 am.’” Using her hip, she bumps open your bedroom door, carefully walking you towards the bed, “You’re going to bed and sleeping in until lunchtime. I’m sure Mr Grumpy–” A small smile tugs at her lips as she hears you giggling, “--won’t mind if the translations aren’t done before the convention.” “But he will.” You drag your words out, whining as Trixie finally gets you onto your bed. As she goes about pulling the blanket back for you and organising your pillows, you flop back onto your bed, groaning, “He’s gonna get mad at me again and scold me in Russian…” As your whines grow, you grunt as the blanket is tossed over your body, making you squirm a little. As you wiggle your way out from under the blanket, Trixie giggles at you, “You’re still not over that? That was, what, almost a month ago at this point?” “He’s gonna do it again!” You insist, continuing to whine. Trixie keeps laughing at you. In your exhausted, tipsy mind, you didn’t seem to comprehend how childish you were behaving. It was a big reason why you usually didn’t drink more than a glass at social gatherings. “Is he?” As you give a loud ‘mhm!’ in return, she shakes her head, moving over to your bedside table to pick up your phone. You sit up, sleepily rubbing your eyes as she speaks to you in a teasing, yet confident tone, “Well then I’m going to call him and give him a piece of my mind!” You snort. There was no way Trixie would actually call your boss, but it was amusing to watch as she unlocks your phone, pretending to actually be phoning Fyodor.

She giggles deviously as she holds the phone up, showing the caller ID; ‘Mr. Dostoy’ for short is what you have him saved under, along with a photo of Tolstoy curled up on some of your translations. You’re half giggling, half huffing out laughs at this point as she presses the phone to her face, sauntering around your room as she huffs into the phone, even taking fake pauses here and there to add to her performance, “Hello, Mr. Grumpy? This is Trixie and I’m the best friend of the best translator you’ve ever met this side of the globe!” You snort, laughing in amusement as she sways her hips, walking about quite dramatically as she adds, “I’m calling to tell you she isn’t going to finish translating that Mount Everest-sized pile of chapters before the writer’s convention next week and that you better just give her more time!” “My darling is over here, waking up at three in the morning, exhausting her poor tired body just to translate the chapters of your book, and I think you and I can both agree that she needs a rest!” She holds up the phone to you, covering her mouth with her hand as she speaks in what you assume to be her best attempt at a Russian accent. Unfortunately, her attempt at adopting a Russian accent sounds more like a mishmash of various accents, which just makes you laugh harder, “Why yes! Of course my…my…” She looks at you, a wide, amused grin on her face as she asks, “Psst, what’s he always calling you?”

You struggle to speak. You hold onto your sides as you laugh and wheeze, “I-I can’t–” “‘I can’t?’ That’s not a very good nickname.” She hums playfully, seeming to shrug as she sits on the edge of the bed, stopping you from rolling off in your laughter fit. “My assistant can sleep for the whole week! I want her wrapped in her favourite blanket in five minutes or I’m firing her!” “H-he would never say that–!” The image alone sends you into another eruption of giggles. “He just did though!” She grins at you, standing to put your phone back before she guides you, laughter hushing into giggles into your bed. You sigh, taking a deep breath to relax after all that laughter as she covers you with your blanket. “But you do seriously need to get some sleep, bookworm.” “Mm..” You yawn softly, watching Trixie as she moves from your side, coming to lay beside you. You roll onto your side, gazing up into the familiar light blue of her eyes, a soft hum escaping you, “Maybe I will ask him.” Trixie huffs softly, a small smile appearing on her face as she runs a hand through your hair soothingly. You close your eyes, relaxing under her touch, “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to…but are you really sure about this?” You give a soft hum of approval as you teeter between that fine line of awake and asleep. “I have to do it, Trix…his books meant the world to him.” Your heart clenches tightly in your chest. As though she can feel it, Trixie wraps an arm around you, pulling you in for a hug. “I…I have to do it…” She doesn’t give a reply. Instead, her fingers continue to run soothingly through your hair as you drift to sleep, your hands reaching up to clutch gently at her ruffled blouse. Amidst the myriad of intense smells, her expensive perfume permeates the air, its scent enveloping you in familiarity and warmth. ︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

A shudder ripples down Fyodor's spine, encouraging him to tug his cloak tighter around his body. His eyes drift towards the leaden sky, taking notice of the eerie silence surrounding them. He hadn't anticipated sitting outside today, but you had been very insistent.

The usual symphony of sparrows chirping and fluttering around the area was suspiciously absent, replaced with a sense of stillness that had his nerves on edge.

Even Tolstoy, usually eager to explore and hunt despite his old age, had refused to leave the cottage this morning. Fyodor's grip on his cloak tightens, his keen violet eyes continuing to scan the area as a chilling breeze gusts past you both. “It’s quite cold today, huh?” You remark, suddenly shattering the silence. Fyodor snaps his attention towards you, his gaze lingering on the subtle changes to your attire- a light brown scarf wrapped warmly around your neck, black fingerless gloves adorning your delicate hands. His eyes narrow thoughtfully as they settle on the brace hidden under your sleeve, wrapped tight around your wrist. He'd thought you were taking more frequent breaks compared to usual as well. “Hmm,” he murmurs, his tone soft yet laced with concern. Meeting your gaze, he holds it for a few heartbeats. With a nod, he raises his teacup to his lips, “Winter is upon us it seems.” He mumbles cryptically, his expression unreadable as he takes a sip. Today’s tea of choice was vanilla bean. It was part of the selection you had given him. What a shame the tea had gone cold. He can tell from the way you’re hesitating with your pen that something is wrong. Judging by the brace around your wrist, your carpel tunnel must be giving you some grief. With how many pages you’d translated and likely thanks to the colder weather, it was no surprise. You had even started taking chapters home to work on, so he doubted you were really giving yourself a proper break. With a sigh, he reaches over, hand gently placing over your dominant hand. He watches your eyes flutter up to meet his own as he speaks in a soft voice, “That’s enough for today, Огонёк.” You blink up at him and he watches as a mixture of shock and what almost seems to be worry crosses your features. He notices the glimmer of stubbornness in your eyes and in your tone as you reply, “But it’s early morning. There’s still another three hours until lunch.” He gives a soft shake of his head, “It doesn’t matter. You need to rest your wrist, Огонёк.” He frowns, concern etching into his features. He moves his hand, gripping the pen in yours. He can feel the tightness in your grip. Despite your pain, you don’t want to stop. “Остановись," his voice is laced with concern. He doesn’t let go of the pen as he feels your grip tightening, "Я высоко ценю твоё стремление и преданность, но это не повод становиться мученицей. Твоё здоровье для меня гораздо важнее. Не работай в ущерб себе — это не принесёт пользы ни тебе, ни мне.” He feels your grip tightening further, the pen trembling in his grip. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself to be a little more stern with you.

But then, you let the pen go. He flashes you a grateful smile, putting the pen aside to touch your jacket sleeve, over where the brace is. “I apologize, but you need to rest,” he says, voice soft and laced with care for you. “I’m sure you understand what could happen if you keep pushing your wrist like this.” “I do know,” you mumble, your eyes glued to his hand as his fingertips caress the sleeve of your coat. “But…I…” He watches you purse your lips, silencing yourself. Fyodor frowns. “Yes?” He encourages, his hand stilling over your wrist. You inhale deeply, eyes flickering between your own teacup and his hand for a moment before your eyes lift, meeting his once more. “I wanted to get all these chapters translated before the convention next week.” Fyodor blinks a few times. Slowly, a heavy sigh escapes him, “Я советую тебе притормозить. Не хочу тебя огорчать, но качество твоей работы снизилось.” He reaches across the table, picking up the latest page you’re working on, “ Для такого профессионала, как ты, это должно быть достаточным поводом осознать серьёзность последствий.” His brow furrows, his eyes reread the page a few times over. He gives a sigh, eyes turning back up to you, “Я нанял тебя, чтобы ты точно передала мою душу словами, что неродные моим устам . Так не дай моей душе потеряться в беспощадной гонке со временем.” “Like here, Огонёк. I merely described this lady as being dressed provocatively, not…well…” He grimaces a little, shaking his head in displeasure. He passes the paper back to you, noticing the faint pink hue on your cheeks.

He adds, his voice slightly more teasing now, “I’m sure a lot of readers would be displeased if I referred to her like that.” Observing your furrowed brow and anxious demeanour, Fyodor sighs inwardly, realizing quickly that his words didn't have the intended effect. With a gentle yet firm touch, his hand reaches across the table, finding yours once more as he offers a reassuring smile. “Do you understand now? I value precision over haste in your translations," he explains, his voice tender yet resolute. His fingers brush against your pained wrist, a silent reminder of the importance of your well-being.

He keeps his voice gentle, but stern, his hand gently grasping at your aching wrist. “You’ll be unable to achieve either if you need surgery for your wrist.” "Neither speed nor quality can be achieved if you jeopardize your health in the process." He watches as your eyes turn downcast towards his hand. He sees your chest expand as you take a deep, almost defeated breath, a cool breeze teasing the locks of your hair and the tassels of your scarf, “I know, I know–” “Something is troubling you,” he notes softly, eyes scanning you closely. You look up, steadily meeting his eyes.

He hums thoughtfully as he leans forward, staring perhaps a little too deeply into your eyes, judging by how you pull back a little. His hand moves, now lying over yours as he gives it a tender squeeze, “What’s weighing on your heart?” You huff softly, looking up at him. He watches your lips quirk into a soft smile, a tint of amusement around the edges, “You read the other translations I wrote on that page too, huh?” He flashes you a small smile, confirming your theory. He listens to your soft giggle for a moment before you grow more serious.

“Can I ask you something, Mr. Dostoyevsky?” He gives a little nod, encouraging you to continue. He can hear the slightly strained tone of your voice. Your drumming fingers of your free hand against the outdoor table. The way your brow is furrowing. The way you take a few soft, deep breaths before finally speaking once more. “The writer’s convention is next week. And I…” You roll your head, eyes scanning upwards before darting to your left. You’re struggling to get the words out.

“Look, I understand completely that this is for your work as an author. Vivian wants us to go on business. It’s like your first big step as a no longer anonymous author, or…something!” He huffs softly, slightly amused by how you’re phrasing it right now. You continue, eyes darting towards the lake now as you tilt your head in that direction as well, “But this writer’s convention…well..it could be my last chance to…well…” When you finally meet his eyes once more, he feels his heart skip a beat, his eyes widening slightly. It’s the first time he’s seen your eyes gleam like this. He’s seen the stubborn hardness to them before. The gentle amusement. The twinkle of pure excitement. Even the whisper of worry. There’s a burning in your eyes. Yet, this isn't merely a flame; it's an inferno—a fervent forest fire blazing deep within the recesses of your being. It crackles with an unyielding ache, an insatiable burning desire, visible in the fervour that blazes forth from your eyes, igniting the world around you with its intensity. Fyodor feels breathless simply gazing into your fire, his mind reeling back to the venture into the hidden grotto just last week. The way your voice shook with genuine raw emotion.

The bitter anger that bit at the edges of your words, the simmering resentment towards those few who had denied someone their dream, crushing it as though it meant as little as the dirt beneath their feet. ‘They mean everything to me.’ “You want to bring one of your father’s storybooks,” Fyodor deduces, his voice breathless as he stares at you, your passionate fire almost engulfing him. It falters for a moment as you blink in surprise. It looks like you’d underestimated just how attentive Fyodor could be. He watches your gaze turn away, that fire engulfed in waves of sudden bashfulness that make him want to chuckle.

But he holds his tongue, listening to your soft tone, “Yes…I know, I know, the convention is for work reasons–” You’re starting to ramble again. Fyodor felt his lips tugging upwards. You were cute when you were like this. “--But I just want to bring the last book he wrote. I just….it feels like…” You groan, lifting your hand from his, running both of your hands through your hair as you struggle to fully express yourself.

A soft hiss escapes you, the pain of your carpel tunnel pausing your motions. “Easy, Огонёк, easy…” He reaches up, gently grasping your sore wrist in the palm of his hand, using his other to rub soothing circles around the brace. He sighs, gazing understandingly at you, “Sometimes the heart screams words of such fierce passion, your mind cannot find a way to convey them through speech properly. It is alright…” He keeps rubbing soothing circles on your wrist, humming softly before he continues, “I understand. It would mean a great deal to you if you could present one of his stories to the authors that will be present…”

He frowns a little, his eyes lingering on your brace, his fingers gently caressing it. “However, we will be attending with other authors. Well-known names around these parts and good…” He pauses for a heartbeat. “Acquaintances of mine. Vivian will be expecting us to stay with them for the duration of the event.”

He frowns a little as you look down, reminding him of a sad puppy before he adds. “But–” His heart sparks as you lift your gaze, eyes full of hopefulness as he speaks, “--I will ask Vivian if it will be alright for you to pitch it to a few authors at the end of the convention.”

A small smile graces his lips as he sees the joy lighting up your face, "I don’t think it would be appropriate to show it to my acquaintances. It could create a conflict of interest. But there will be many other fantastic authors you can pitch it to." A surprised sound escapes Fyodor as he feels your hand slipping from his. He watches in astonishment as you spring up from your seat, moving fast as you bound over to him like a rabbit. Your arms envelop him in a tight hug, catching him off-guard. For a moment, Fyodor freezes, his eyes widening as he inhales the soft floral scent of your perfume. He feels the warmth of your gratitude radiating from your embrace, a sense that goes beyond just physical warmth. As your arms tighten slightly, he feels that familiar spark igniting in him, a flicker of something unfamiliar yet undeniable. It stirs the waves of emotion in his heart, leaving him momentarily breathless. “Thank you, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” You whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. “Thank you so, so much…” He swallows hard around the lump forming in his throat as he struggles to find the right words. His hand trembles faintly as he reaches out, giving you a few soft pats on the shoulder.

Sensing his desire for space, you pull back to smile rather awkwardly at him. He notices the tears glistening in your eyes, a silent testament to the depth of your gratitude before you swipe them away. “It is fine,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he takes a moment to collect himself. His throat feels constricted as he tries to swallow down that heavy lump wedged inside.

The ember of warmth in his heart burns with renewed intensity, threatening to ignite into a powerful flame. With shaky breaths, he attempts to quell the rising flames, to extinguish that familiar warmth before it consumes his heart. Closing his eyes, he focuses on each breath he takes, willing the flames to subside. “Mr. Dostoyevsky? Are you–?” He lifts a hand, halting your inquiry. Silently, he battles the storm of emotions raging within him; gradually, the ember dwindles, leaving behind only a faint flicker nestled deep in his heart. Opening his eyes, he offers you a small, apologetic smile. You’re looking at him with those worried eyes once more, just as he expected. “I apologize for causing you concern, Огонёк,” he says, his voice steady despite the lingering turmoil within. “I simply needed a moment to compose myself. I am well now." “Are you certain?” You move closer towards him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. In response, he rises abruptly, stepping away from your touch. His cloak billows in the breeze, creating a physical barrier between you. “Yes. Although I think it is time we moved our work inside. I believe it's about to–” “--Snow.” Your awed tone catches Fyodor’s attention; his violet eyes turn towards you swiftly, then it darts towards the sky, eyes wide as his heart clenches tightly, noticing the delicate flakes as they gracefully descend. You watch the first flakes drift quietly to the ground, reaching out a hand to catch one. It lands daintily on your glove, instantly melting into the soft cotton, disappearing as if it hadn’t existed to start with. You’re about to reach for another when you hear quick footfalls behind you.

You spin around, your eyes falling on Fyodor as he hurries towards the garden table, “Come,” he says to you, his voice quiet and calm. He begins gathering the chapter you’re translating and the finished pages, scooping them close to his chest. He turns, hurrying towards his cottage with fast steps. “H-hey, Mr. Dostoyevsky–!” You watch as he disappears inside, a frown forming on your lips as flakes of pure white fall around you. They cascade down, twirling like tiny dancers as they make their journey to the earth but you barely notice them. Carefully picking up the teapot with your good hand, along with the teacups, you quickly scurry after Fyodor, heading into the cottage. You squeak, Fyodor almost running into you as he quickly heads out of the living area towards the kitchen. You follow him, listening to the sound of curtains being yanked shut. As you step into the kitchen, you set down the teapot and cups with a gentle clink. The murmurs of Fyodor reach your ears, his words too faint to understand. Your gaze lifts, noticing the way he shakes and shifts the curtain, making sure it’s completely obscuring the window. This was unusual behavior for Fyodor. While he always closes the curtains when it is overcast, he's never displayed such agitation about it before. His muttering and meticulous attention to the curtain's exact placement is a new, unsettling trait. “Mr. Dostoyevsky?” You carefully break the silence, your voice tinged with concern. At the sound of your voice, his muttering subsides. With care, you approach him, gently cradling your braced wrist. “Are you alright? You seem a little…stressed.” He doesn’t turn to face you immediately, his shoulders rigid with tension. His breath comes in shallow, uneven intervals, causing his chest to rise and fall in a staccato rhythm. Slowly, he turns to face you, violet irises lingering on your face for a few seconds too long before he finally speaks. “Yes, everything is fine.” His voice is strained as he moves towards the table, picking up the teapot, his facade of calmness already faltering. As he does so, you glance at his hands, noticing that they’re trembling slightly. You catch a glimpse of his face, noticing that he's clenching his jaw tightly as well.

He moves towards the kettle, preparing to reheat the tea still inside the pot. He lifts the lid, the sweet aroma wafting through the kitchen. “You’re shaking…” You point out, taking a small step towards him as the window rattles behind the closed curtain as the wind begins to whistle, its mournful tone sneakily creeping inside through cracks in the window frame. It looks like the wind is picking up, “If something is bothering you, you can talk to me.” You reach out to him as the kettle bubbles softly, steam rising from the white jug. Your hand lightly rests on his shoulder, “I’m here to listen.” Suddenly, Fyodor jolts away from your touch, his dark eyes staring down at you. Your stomach twists in knots as he gives you a stern look, the coldness in his eyes rivalling that of the falling snowflakes outside, “I said I am fine. You are needlessly worrying over nothing.” Your throat tightens faintly as you draw your hand back. You frown, watching quietly as he refills the teapot before turning his eyes to you once more. His tone is less stern now, “Go and sit in the living room. I’ll light the fireplace shortly.” With a heavy heart, you obey Fyodor's command, retreating to the living room. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of the unspoken tension hanging in the air. You settle into the window seat, wrapping your orange coat tighter around your body, its warmth failing to dispel the lingering chill in your heart, leaving you to ponder what had gotten into Fyodor. The silence between you echoes louder than any words that could be spoken, leaving a lingering sense of uncertainty in your heart. Fyodor sighs, lifting a hand to rub his temple a few times. Great. Just great.

𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓼𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼 1. Stop. I appreciate your drive and dedication, but that is not a reason to become a martyr. Your health is much more important to me. Don't work to your detriment - it won't benefit either you or me. 2. I advise you to slow down. I don't want to upset you, but the quality of your work has decreased. For a professional like you, this should be enough reason to realize the seriousness of the consequences. I hired you to accurately convey my soul with words that are not native to my lips. So don't let my soul get lost in a merciless race against time. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @cherridove Dividers by @/Saradika

#Reblog

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flurry-of-stars · 3 days

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𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝕴𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴- 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴- 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴𝕴

The warmth caresses the side of your face, stirring you from your slumber. Tossing and turning in the comfortable confines of the bed you’re in, you murmur sleepily. It’s so soft, so warm.

"Tolstoy..! Ah… what was that for?" you ask, while touching your cheek where his furry paw made contact.

Your skin burns with embarrassment.

You know you shouldn’t snoop around. This is Fyodor’s private space. He trusted you enough to let you sleep in here. You shouldn’t go through his things.

But there’s no harm in looking at his desk, right?

You frown as you attempt to get a better look at it, hidden in the darkness provided by the book covering it from above. Humming in thought, your hand slides into your pocket, grabbing your phone.

It was almost dead and you had a few missed calls and texts from Trixie but you ignore them for now.

Settling your black and gold pen to the side, your tired, weary fingers massage your aching wrist. The pain pulses, pounding like a heartbeat.

Living in this apartment caused you so many struggles on the daily. Sometimes you didn’t even have enough hot water for a full shower, which was agonizing during harsh Winters.

The usual symphony of sparrows chirping and fluttering around the area was suspiciously absent, replaced with a sense of stillness that had his nerves on edge.

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @cherridove Dividers by @/Saradika

#bungou stray dogs #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #Flurry-of-writing

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flurry-of-stars · 4 days

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Hi everyone,

For those of you who are seeing us for the first time, this project— @ficsforgaza—aims to raise funds for Palestine by connecting readers with fanfic authors, fan artists, and other fandom creators. If you are interested in joining the cause, you can read more about what we’re doing and how to get involved here.

As of today, we have officially raised over $2,000! We wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who has been a part in this initiative; raising so much money in under two weeks simply proves that fandom can (and does) make a difference, and that we are working toward a worthy cause. We are beyond proud of what our community has come together to do ❤️

We have even more good news: we are no longer shadowbanned! This means that our blog should now be visible to a wider audience since we are searchable. Additionally, our posts should show up in the tags. Please continue to share and reblog our posts; we hope what we have accomplished thus far is merely the beginning!

#Boosting ♥#free palestine #fics for gaza

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flurry-of-stars · 4 days

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FINALLY ITS DONE I may or may not have added an extra 1k words onto the total oopsie BUT ITS READY AND IM SATISFIED WITH IT It'll be posted later today ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

#I legit have been working on it during all of my freetime #Id say Im gonna catch up on some sleep tonight #But I probably wont lmao #I am looking forward to the Silent Hill transmission tomorrow though #BUT I HOPE YOU ALL LIKE IT WHEN ITS POSTED!!!! ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)#♥︎♥︎♥︎#Flurry chats✦

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flurry-of-stars · 5 days

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Hi:333 when can we expect it 4 of your series to drop????????>:)

Hello~! ヾ(＾∇＾) Soon, very soon > : )

#Flurry replies✦#He's vibing in the editting room #Making some final adjustments and then he'll be ready (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧#I'm aiming for Friday unless something comes up ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

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flurry-of-stars · 5 days

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Ok ok i know i might be delusional and wrong

But is your blog's bio from Odyssey?!??

( ＞Д＜；)

Hehe you're not wrong~! (>▽<) Although technically, the reason I added it was because of the song written and produced by Jorge Rivera-Herrans. I'm pretty sure all of his tracks are loosely based on the Greek poems.

I'm gonna just say- and this may sound weird so I apologize ahead of time- his music just ignites something inside of my heart.

That's why I put it in my bio! It just brings out such a passion inside of me and just inspires me so much and aghhh I could ramble all day about music that makes me feel so strongly like this and the different ways different artists and bands manage to make me feel just aaaaa (ᗒᗨᗕ)

#Flurry replies✦#If it wasnt obvious I love music #It makes me feel so free #Is that weird to say? Idk but its true #Im also a sucker for Greek mythology so this is right up my alley #ALSO PLZ SEND ME MUSIC TO LISTEN TO #IM ALWAYS LOOKING FOR NEW SONGS TO ADD TO MY PLAYLIST #MY ONLY REQUEST IS NO COUNTRY MUSIC

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flurry-of-stars · 5 days

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100 𝓕𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓻 𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

Hello, hello If you’re new here, I am currently celebrating reaching 100 followers! And to all my followers reading this, welcome, welcome! Make yourselves comfortable! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

So! For the celebration, I’m putting the decision into your hands! (´∀｀) Below I have six short descriptions of stories I have in the works right now. After the completion of chapter 5 of These Hollow Halls, I will focus my attention on the fic idea that gets the highest number of votes! Names are subjected to change as well as what themes may appear in the stories as I start the writing process! Some stories may be longer or shorter than others as well. If none are to your taste, I also have requests open if you want something more specific ��＾ｖ＾） So without further adieu~ (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ

Meant to be Yours

Obsessed Sigma x Reader “The Sky Casino. The place where fortunes are made and lost with the turn of a hand of cards. As the enigmatic general manager orchestrates the elegant dance of chance, his icy facade belies a twisted obsession with one of his own: a downtrodden worker seeking solace in the company of the flashing lights and the roll of a die. Unbeknownst to you, you’ve caught the eye of the general manager, who’s fiercely protective of what’s important to him. Behind his kind smile and gentle demeanour, he harbours a dark secret, his love for you driving him to unspeakable lengths just for you.”

Little Yellow Butterfly

Cult Leader/University student Fyodor x University student Reader

“After breaking up with the man you thought of as your saviour, you end up back under the oppressive hand of your tyrannical father’s control. University becomes your battleground for freedom. Forced into university against your control, you find solace and companionship in a senior student in your class, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. But beneath his charming facade and popularity lies a dark secret only those chosen learn of before they mysteriously disappear. Falling into Fyodor’s web of manipulation and deceit, you remain blissfully unaware of the true intentions this charming Russian has for you.”

Hall of Illusions

Nikolai Gogol x Spy Reader

“You have one job; infiltrate the Decay of Angels and figure out what their plan is before they can implement it. As an undercover agent for The Alabaster Veil, a covert team of Ability Users whose identities are a mystery to everyone, even other government special forces, you take on the name Piper and are initiated into the DOA as a general assistant. You befriend three of the other members but become particularly close Nikolai Gogol, the jester of the DOA. But when torn between your commitment to your country and your new blossoming relationship, what will you choose?”

My Love, Mine All Mine

Dad Sigma x Reader

“It’s the night you’ve spent the past two years waiting for. Your wedding night. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t worried. Your new husband, Sigma, opted against going all the way with you until tonight and during your previous intimate encounters, he’s come across as rather…shy. Will this night really be as romantic and exciting as you’ve always imagined it will be?”

Echoes of Eternity

Fyodor Dostoyevsky x Reincarnated Reader

“The day of your wedding anniversary with Fyodor comes around; not for this incarnation, but for your very first incarnation. Feeling an overwhelming sense of love twisted with his bitterness and fear, he takes you out for the day to locations that stir a sense of familiarity within you."

Love you like a Love Song

Idol Nikolai x Idol Reader

“Now that the fashion show is done, you manage to sneak away from your overbearing manager under the lie of being ill so you can finally spend some romantic, one on one time with Nikolai in Paris. You would be more excited, but you can't shake the feeling of jealousy still lingering in your heart. As the green eyed monster in you starts to resurface, Nikolai finds a way to make your one desire come true.”

The poll will be open for one week! It will be linked here when posted! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧𝓟𝓸𝓵𝓵 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Dividers by @/saradika

#reblog

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flurry-of-stars · 6 days

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100 𝓕𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓻 𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

If you're seeing this poll first, the descriptions for each fanfic, including pairings for each can be found~ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧𝓗𝓮𝓻𝓮 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

#bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #nikolai gogol x reader #bsd sigma x reader

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flurry-of-stars · 6 days

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100 𝓕𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓻 𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

So! For the celebration, I’m putting the decision into your hands! (´∀｀) Below I have six short descriptions of stories I have in the works right now. After the completion of chapter 5 of These Hollow Halls, I will focus my attention on the fic idea that gets the highest number of votes! Names are subjected to change as well as what themes may appear in the stories as I start the writing process! Some stories may be longer or shorter than others as well. If none are to your taste, I also have requests open if you want something more specific （＾ｖ＾） So without further adieu~ (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ

Meant to be Yours

Little Yellow Butterfly

Cult Leader/University student Fyodor x University student Reader

Hall of Illusions

Nikolai Gogol x Spy Reader

My Love, Mine All Mine

Dad Sigma x Reader

Echoes of Eternity

Fyodor Dostoyevsky x Reincarnated Reader

Love you like a Love Song

Idol Nikolai x Idol Reader

The poll will be open for one week! It will be linked here when posted! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧𝓟𝓸𝓵𝓵 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Dividers by @/saradika

#bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #nikolai gogol x reader #bsd sigma x reader

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flurry-of-stars · 6 days

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I drew @flurry-of-stars 's OC again as a warm-up sketch/cel shading practice (*´▽｀)

#AAAAAAAA #SHE LOOKS SO CUTEEE #IM HAPPY SHE COULD HELP YOU PRACTICE ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡#PLEASE GO AND CHECK OUT HER BLOG SHES SO TALENTED ♡

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flurry-of-stars · 7 days

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I WAS ABOUT TO MAKE A POST ABOUT THE FOURTH CHAPTER OF THESE HOLLOW HALLS WHEN I SEE

WHATTTTTT

THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!!! ♡♡♡ It’s absolutely wild to me that there’s that many people following this blog. I’m so grateful to everyone, from those who have decided to follow this blog, to people who’ve even just left a passing like or comment. It means so much to me. Thank you for spending time with me in this little corner of the internet (//▽//) But because I wasn’t expecting to meet this milestone so soon, I haven’t exactly been prepared for it but I am planning something behind the scenes between writing all these chapters and new fic ideas. Just give me time to organize it. I’ll have two celebration posts coming out so look out for them ┬┴┬┴┤ω・) AND!!!! THE REASON I WAS GONNA TYPE THIS TO BEGIN WITH CHAPTER 4 FOR THESE HOLLOW HALLS WILL BE OUT THIS WEEK! SORRY FOR THE DELAY!! (〃▽〃) ♡ I'm very excited to focus on Chapter 5 entirely now for absolutely no reason at all ┬┴┬┴┤(･_ ├┬┴┬┴ Wishing you all a very wonderful week ahead! (✿´꒳`)ﾉ♡

#I wasn't expecting to hit 100 #Like wow???#I was already super grateful when I had just a few followers #Now Im like super MEGA grateful #Im so happy so many of you have decided to stick around (ಥ﹏ಥ)#Thank you all so much Im glad you're enjoying my fics (ಥ﹏ಥ)#Sending you all so much love (ಥ﹏ಥ)♡♡♡#Flurry chats✦

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flurry-of-stars · 7 days

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AWWWW!! LOOK AT THEMMMM!! (●♡∀♡) AND YOU GAVE SIGMA HIS TOKYO TOWER OUTFIT IM SCREAMING (⁄ ⁄>⁄ ▽ ⁄<⁄ ⁄) Thank you so much, I love it!! ♡♡♡(◕ᗜ◕✿)

They also shouldn't be too complex 😅 this is just to pass the time while I'm on a 6 hour plane ride lol

#reblog #art requests #oc x canon #sigma bsd #bsd art

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flurry-of-stars · 8 days

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TRASH SUGAR MAGIC

➛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ ʀᴏꜱᴇ

➛ nikolai gogol x fem!reader

➛ cw: mature content, fluff, slice of life, very suggestive, mild angst | words: 7.0k

➛ ao3 | spotify | main menu

“What are you doing?”

Nikolai looks at you and then at the laundry basket that is filled with dirty clothes he has worn over the past seven days. “Laundry day.” He says shortly. He turns away, although he certainly notices you staring at him, which gives him a flicker of anxiety somehow.

And the silence throughout your staring is just extremely uncomfortable.

He knows you have something in your mind. He can read that from your silence already. It has been three days you are staying with him and for some reason, he can already figure out your quirks—what a time to be just so observant.

“What?” He asks, finally looking at you once he has gathered his dirty clothes into the basket. You smile at him before you crawl on the bed, moving closer to his side. Your leg is still tied, limiting your movement, but it seems that you always find a way to be close to him.

“Are we going to the laundrette?”

Nikolai grunts, holding your chin. “We are not going to the laundrette. It is only me. And you're gonna stay here.” He says before he shoves your face away, lightly. “It's only on the ground floor. I'm not gonna leave to some other premise.” He adds before he carries up the basket.

“Please, can I come with you?” Your plea is sweet as honey. Your hand reaches to touch his arm, fingertips against his veins. Nikolai's breath is snatched away for a short second as he tries to avoid your gaze. He steps back, pulling away from your touch.

“Hey, don't pull away from me.” Your right cheek puffs. “I just wanna accompany you... And you know, see things around—”

“And then plan your escape? Hell no. I'm not too dumb to take risks.” Nikolai cuts you off, rolling his eyes. You tilt your head, eyeing him confused.

“I don't plan to escape. I mean... I mean, I did say I prefer to be here...” Your voice is slow, layered with sheer shyness. Nikolai grumbles—he knows you have certain issues with your father but he still does not want to accept the fact that your relationship with him is severe enough that you would rather stay with your kidnapper.

To be honest, Nikolai does prefer it if his victim is compliant—less trouble to deal with. But your compliance is throwing him off. Sure, he does not mind if his victim listens to his words but they for sure are not as... affectionate as you.

He has the strongest feeling that you really will never try to escape—Nikolai has tested the theory already. He lets you sleep on his bed, right beside where his closet would be. And in that closet, he has some weapons. Guns, especially. For about three days, three nights, his guns are untouched.

If you are eager to escape, eager to run, you would pay attention to the details. But no. The only thing you carefully observe is him—he knows that, he notices it.

“Nikolai,” You say his name again, grabbing his attention. Nikolai looks at you and sighs. He knows you are not giving up, and as much as he wants to be mean towards you, your pleading gaze has a strong grip on his heart, tugging and pulling him to attend to your whims.

“Fine.”

Weak. I am ashamed.

You squeal in delight which almost makes his lips curve into a small smile. Nikolai purses his lips and quickly undoes the rope around your ankle, allowing you to move. He wonders if he even needs the rope to secure you. He wonders if he can just leave the door wide open to the outside world and see you run out instead of having you cling to his side.

“Oh, since we are washing clothes today, may I bring my clothes as well?” You ask sweetly as soon as you get up from the bed. Nikolai shrugs his shoulders, eyes leering on your body. You are currently wearing another one of his shirts and a pair of shorts. Sometimes he wants to laugh at the way you try to keep the shorts on—since the size is certainly bigger than you.

“I don't know. Would you want to mix your pretty shits with my stuff? Heard the ladies don't like mixing their underwear with men's.” Nikolai remarks with a teasing smirk, receiving a gulp of embarrassment from you.

“Well... Well, I don't mind... I am sure you are... cleaner—”

“Wow, that sounds perverted.”

“W-What? No, no. No, I don't try to be a pervert! I am just trying to say that... uh... you take care of yourself better than a great percentage of men, you know? Like... Like that... I am sure you are... uhm, cleaner than my father.” You stumble upon your words, amusing Nikolai in the process. He laughs shortly, shaking his head.

“I'm sure if you compare your dad with a dog, the dog is cleaner as well.” He says nonchalantly. “Go on, get your shit and decide whether you want your cute panties to be mushed up together with my—”

“It's okay! I will wash them with my hands!” You stop him quickly from continuing his vulgarity that is already bringing heat to your face. You rush to the bathroom, collecting your used clothes as Nikolai only watches with a playful grin.

As you are away, Nikolai goes to his closet, taking a gun from the depths of the wardrobe. He checks the magazine, making sure it is loaded with deadly bullets. When he hears your footsteps, Nikolai quickly slips the gun into his leather jacket and turns around. You do not notice what he is doing certainly as you dump your baby blue dress, white cardigan, and socks into the same basket.

“Those?” He asks, pouting at the pile of underwear in your arms. You shyly tilt your body, as if to hide those from him. Nikolai snorts, in disbelief with your embarrassment. He was the one who paid for those—why are you shy about it?

“I'll wash these by hand.”

“A'right, suit yourself.” He says before he takes out a stick of cigarette and bites it between his lips. He lights it up as he walks out of the bedroom, leaving you with the laundry basket. You look at him and the basket back and forth, confused.

“Uh, what about the clothes?” You ask. Nikolai turns to you with a sly smile. He pulls out the cigarette for a bit, allowing himself to speak.

“You carry it.”

“H-Huh? But it's heavy!” You protest and Nikolai shrugs, uncaring.

“You want to come with me, you listen to me. Carry it.” He says, much to your bafflement. You look at him and then the basket. Dunking the underwear in your arms into the basket, you try to carry it with both arms. Nikolai coos, seeing you hugging the basket as tight as possible as you slowly make your way to him. Your waddles remind him of a duck somehow.

He snickers. “Oh, yeah. That's a good maid right there.”

“It's heavy, Nikolai...” You whine, pouting at him. Nikolai taps your pouty lips, enjoying the frown on your forehead as you try to keep your stability.

“Of course it's heavy, doll. I'm washing my coats today.” He says before he walks first to the door and opens it wide for you. “There, come out. How gentlemanly I am, don't you think?”

“Hmph.”

“Don't 'hmph' me, little doll. I can just—” He nudges the basket and your eyes widen when your stance staggers. You quickly stabilize yourself by leaning against the door and holding the basket tightly.

“H-Hey, don't do that..! You almost make me fall!” You say, much to Nikolai's enjoyment. He lets you leave the house before he closes the door and locks it. He walks off first before you slowly trail from behind. However, much to your discontent, he is leading you to the staircase.

“Wait, Nikolai..! Why not the lift? It's functioning, right?”

“Oh, the elevator is indeed functioning, my doll. Probably. I don't know, shit gets broken once in a while. I just wanna make you suffer for being annoying.” He grins sadistically before he grabs your arm and pulls you to the staircase. He shoves your back lightly, encouraging you to walk down the stairs.

You bite your lips as you look at him—eyes shimmering with pitifulness. Nikolai could not help but smirk when he saw it. He feels quite nostalgic for being able to bully someone like you. It is fulfilling—teasing and bullying you fulfill a certain jar of anima that he has put away, long before he went to prison.

You are so fun to mess with—if he subtracts that weirdness in your affection towards him.

Nikolai trails you from behind. His steps and pace match yours. His eyes are watching you like a hawk, making sure you are not stumbling upon your footing. He does not want you to make a mess in the staircase.

Or are you just making sure that she won't get hurt? —His heart incites.

“Haa! Finally.” You let out a breath of relief when both of you are finally on the ground floor. You drop the basket right in front of Nikolai's legs and he raises his eyebrow. You put your hands on your waist, pointing at the basket. “Your turn.”

“So bossy,” Nikolai murmurs, huffing out a thick puff of smoke from his lips as he carries the basket up with ease. You finally smile and follow him to the mini laundrette, located just right at the back of the building.

The laundrette is small, consisting of five washers, five dryers, a sink, a rack of hangers and clothes clips, and a cupboard of detergents and softeners. The premise smells warm, with a faint peachy scent. It probably comes from the air freshener on the cupboard.

“Hey, take this.” Nikolai gives you a small bucket. “You can wash your stuff there.” He says as he gestures his head to the sink. You nod and quickly gather your underwear into the bucket. However, you halt when you are just about to fill the bucket with water.

“I need detergent.”

“Just take one of those from the cupboard,” Nikolai replies nonchalantly as he stuffs the clothes from the basket into a washer. You frown—the laundry products on the cupboard look very used. You are sure that they are not his and most likely belong to some of the residents in this building who frequently visit the laundrette.

“They're not ours.” You say. Nikolai huffs, waving his hand dismissively.

“It's fine. Nobody's gonna know.”

“Mm... I don't like stealing though... Stealing is just... bad.”

“Hey, don't be too much of a goody-two-shoes. No one's gonna know if you just pour a good amount and put it right where you left it, alright? Just take it. Everyone steals something once in a while.” He says, trying to convince you. You look unsure but you finally take one small bottle of detergent, hesitating. As you walk back to the sink, you glance at him, to which he only replies with a shoo.

Seeing you are busy again with your stuff, Nikolai continues to load his clothes. Until his hand finally touches a strange fabric—your baby blue dress.

He holds the dress up, letting the straps hooked on his index fingers, dangling the fabric. He examines it and he does think the dress is cute by itself. Short, ribbons on some parts, laces on the hem and there is a slight torn on the neckline. Nikolai caresses the fabric, admiring how smooth it is against his fingertips. He traces the curves of the dress, as his wild mind wanders away—already forming a silhouette of your body when you have this pretty thing on your figure. He remembers the way your thighs look when they are being hugged by your white stockings—plump and soft, just so inviting. The short lower part of the dress makes him wonder if it could even cover more of your thighs—or does it stop when it reaches the bottom of your bum?

Does your skin feel this smooth? Are they sensitive as well? Will your lips spout sugar if he slides the strap off your shoulder?

“This is so tiring!”

Your whine interrupts his thoughts and he hastily shoves your clothes and the last remaining fabrics from the basket. He shuts the door of the washer and puts a good amount of detergent into its component before inserting the laundry coins. He grumbles to himself, palming his face as he swallows nervously.

Fuck, I can't believe I imagine things like that.

Nikolai is aware he is a pervert at times but somehow, his intrusive thoughts are becoming centred on you. And he dislikes how his mind is trying to go against his heart—not again. His throat feels dry and he is in desperate need to quench his thirst.

“Nikolai, are you okay?” You suddenly ask and he looks up, seeing you are facing him. He almost smiles at the sight of your—well, his—shirt that has some wet stains, most likely because of you washing things in the sink. But he bites his lips and looks away immediately, knowing his mind is still trying to lure him to breeze into debauchery.

I hate this girl so much. —he thinks. Well, at least that is what he wants to think.

“Nikolai, are you okay or not? Your face is red...” You ask again, with a layer of concern as you approach him. Nikolai puts a hand on your shoulder as he steps back, trying to not let you get any closer.

“I'm good.” He says before he slowly walks away from you and goes to the small row of chairs just beside the entrance. You follow suit, sitting beside him when he plops himself down. He lets out a tired groan as he leans back, closing his eyes.

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“Stop asking.”

“I'm just worried.”

He ignores you, still closing his eyes, revelling in the nothingness he wishes to be in. But he knows he could not escape your blabbering when you once again address him to another conversation.

“I'm curious... Do you have my pouch? The pouch I brought with me to work?” You ask. Nikolai opens his eyes, blinking profusely—adjusting his vision and also trying to recall if he ever has your pouch.

“Probably in my car. Or on the street, I don't know.”

“Can you check your car and get it?”

Nikolai looks at you, perplexed. “Why? What do you want with it? Just forget about it. It's not even important anymore, considering this situation you're in.” He says. You shake your head and hold his arm, a gesture that Nikolai is well accustomed to when you are trying to ask him for something.

“I want it back.”

“I don't.”

“It's my pouch though...”

“And is that my problem?”

“Awh, come on. Please?” You shake his arm, tugging it closer to your body and he cannot help but glance at the way his skin is brushing against the shirt you are wearing—just a little bit close, and perhaps he would bump onto something.

“Fuck is wrong with me...” He grumbles lowly, scratching his scalp in frustration when he cannot block out some thoughts to invade. Nikolai does not want to admit it but he knows what is wrong with him. He knows what he actually craves at the moment but he does not want to entertain it.

After all, emotions will only constrain him.

He suddenly stands up, much to your surprise. “Fine, I'll go check. But you stay here. If the timer for the washer is up, you load those clothes into the dryer. Here.” He gives you a bunch of coins. You nod before playfully saluting him with a beam.

“Aye!”

Cute.

Nikolai snorts and leaves the laundrette. Since it is just on the ground floor, he walks straight to the building's exit. As soon as he is out, the cold air hits his face immediately, causing him to sniffle a bit. The sun is hidden behind a puddle of thick clouds and the pavement is covered with snow.

He takes a deep breath, inhaling the cold air of Russia. A puff of white air leaves his lips when he exhales slowly, eyes roaming the place around him. Nikolai rubs his face with his palms, sighing.

What's wrong with me? Why am I acting like this?

Nikolai hits his head with his knuckles as he walks to the car, trying to get rid of the thoughts he had about you in his mind. It is not even a week and Nikolai is already stirred up inside.

He admits you are adorable and cute—totally someone he would playfully flirt with if only you were not his target. But no, the relationship that is supposed to happen between you two is not a fairytale.

And yet, somehow, you manage to make it a fairytale.

“I think she likes you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Nah, you know I'm not bullshitting. That gaze she has on you is the same one as Nastyushka's when she's between my legs.”

Nikolai is never a fool when it comes to emotions and relationships. He is versed enough about them—too versed, too intimately aware that he almost killed himself. He does not think he has a lot of meaningful relationships, but he can predict and figure out what people think of him accurately enough.

He knows you are affectionate towards him.

Though, he does not understand how. He thinks he knows why—really, it is quite easy to figure out after conversations with you. The main root of it is the relationship between you and your father, that is obvious. But how did you take a liking to him almost immediately, he does not get it.

Probably my looks.

And he does not even understand how his supposed toughness disappears when it comes to you. Nikolai remembers the first moment you asked for his name, and he refused—secrecy is important. But once you say a certain magic word, he swore his knees were about to drop right in front of you.

Was it the voice? Was it your pretty lips? Was it your eyelashes batting at him? Was it the way you said 'Please, Nikolai'?

He does not know but he has the strongest feeling that the answer to all of those questions is yes.

“Agh... fucking hell. Don't tell me I'm craving sex from my own victim.” He whispers to himself. Perhaps he needs to go to a local brothel and release some stress once in a while.

But why bother going to the brothel when she's there? —His head argues and much to his discontent, Nikolai kind of agrees with that thought.

Still, his rationale gets the best of him. No, he will not touch you and he does not plan to. He just needs to keep on with this until the loan sharks come and retrieve you and free him from your grasp.

He walks to his car and slips his hand into his coat's pocket. A familiar click indicating unlocked is heard and Nikolai opens the car door. His eyes roam around the interior of his car and he catches the sight of your baby blue pouch right under the seat of the front passenger. He takes it and without a second of consideration for your privacy, he opens the pouch.

A small handphone, tissues, lip gloss, lipstick, a small palette of makeup, a mini round mirror, and a wad of cash.

Nikolai's eyes glimmer.

Cash. Money.

He looks around and takes out all the cash notes from your pouch. He tosses the pouch on the car seat before he counts the cash notes. As he totals them up, he whistles in amusement. “A thousand and four hundred something rubles. This girl is good at her job, huh?” He snickers. He is pretty sure the whole cash is a mix between a few days of working but still, quite impressive. If he takes them, he can spend some on delicious meals.

“I have needs and wants and... that's why I work. But he occasionally steals my money too...”

“Mm... I don't like stealing though... Stealing is just... bad.”

He halts when his brain suddenly recalls those bits of conversation. Nikolai frowns—he thought he had buried away his morality by now. He has committed a great number of atrocities—blood soaking his hands seeping in—and yet his own head is reminding him of how wrong would it be to take your money.

He knows you do not like stealing. Anyone with more than two brain cells could connect the dot—you most certainly dislike it because of your father. He gets it though. When he was in prison, some of his stuff got stolen as well—though, gladly he was not a target for long as Nikolai purposely hunted and haunted the thieves.

However, that was in prison. He is a free man now—sort of. He can steal whatever he wants, whoever it is from. His hands hastily fold the wad of cash, so it can be stuffed easily into his pocket. But,

“Shit.”

He has a bad feeling that an old dilemma is going to emerge the longer you are with him. Although, that does not mean he could not fight it now. He can ignore his morals and do whatever he wants—just like how he is supposed to live. He does not need anyone to fix his ideal. He does not need you to be an obstacle. All he needs to do is to resist.

To hell with your story—what he has found is his.

— ♡

You hear heavy footsteps from behind as you are busy loading the freshly washed clothes into the dryer just above the washer. Turning around, you see Nikolai entering the laundrette again with your baby blue pouch and a plastic bag full of snacks.

“Ah, you found it!” You exclaim excitedly as you leave the dryer and rush to him. He gives you the pouch and the plastic without any word and takes your job of loading the clothes himself. You let him be as you sit down on the chair again and look through your pouch.

You gasp happily when you see your favourite lipgloss is still there. Taking it out, you walk to a washer beside Nikolai and use the reflection on the door to apply your lip gloss perfectly. You smile at your reflection as you fix your appearance as well.

“Nikolai, how do I look?” You look at the man, puckering your glossy lips cutely at him. His stare lingers on you before he snorts and tosses your washed white cardigan right on your face. “Ow! What's that for?” You whine as you take the white cardigan off your face with a huff.

“Really? Now is not the time to play makeup.” He replies before he slams the door closed and inserts some coins, doing the usual routine.

“Hmph, you're no fun.” You playfully kick his leg before marching to the waiting chair again, followed by Nikolai's confusion. You reach for the plastic bag full of snacks Nikolai gave you earlier. He must have stopped by a convenience store nearby—you wonder if he goes to take your pouch first or visit the store first. It is kind of funny to imagine Nikolai walking around carrying a very cute baby blue pouch.

You rummage through the plastic, seeing some drinks, two chocolate bars, and two small packs of some cream buns. You take one of the cream buns, choosing the strawberry-flavoured one. Just after you take your first bite, you hear Nikolai's voice.

“Huh? Hey, you're eating my food.” He protests as he sits next to you, snatching the plastic of snacks from your lap. You grin and offer the strawberry bun to him as if inviting him to take a bite of it. Nikolai shakes his head with a slight frown, gently pushing your hand away. “You're leeching off my stuff anyway.”

“That's called sharing.” You giggle.

“Uh-huh, sharing my house, my cleanser, my body soap and shampoo, my mug and plate, my fucking clothes. Hells, let's share the bed too!”

“Huh?”

Nikolai freezes. His mouth hangs when he realizes what he just said. And your flustered reaction is only adding to his need to slap himself in the face. You look away, pursing your lips in embarrassment as you awkwardly eat the bun. Nikolai also turns away as he opens a can of soda, drinking it quickly.

You two sit in silence. Until you are overcome with boredom after eating a strawberry bun and drinking a canned tea. You look at Nikolai and he seems to be playing a game on his phone, also bored.

“Thank you for taking my pouch.” You say and he just hums. Seeing no resistance from him, you continue, “You know, this pouch is actually given by one of my patrons. He said his daughter did not like the design and the colour, so he gave me.” You tell him and somehow, your story seems to peak his interest when Nikolai lowers his phone and looks at you.

“Surely it's not for free.”

“Well... I did stay with him for a couple of hours until he was drunk enough to leave.” You smile as you admire the pouch. It is not from a high-end brand or anything. You do not even know if the logo on the pouch is even a legit brand or if it is just a horrible copy paste from the existing one. You turn to Nikolai. “Did you think I sleep with my customers to get things?”

“It seems like it, considering your job... But, you did say you have never done tactics to get into someone's pants, so...” He shrugs as he speaks nonchalantly. You feel the heat rushing up your face, spreading all over your nerves as you fiddle with your pouch.

“I... I really don't. I have never slept with my customers, actually.”

“Really now?”

“Mm-hm. The other escorts say I'm still young and I gotta take advantage of that. So, they told me to sell... fantasies.” You say with a small smile. “I think it is better for me to work that way, but sometimes, some of those men offer ridiculous, luxurious things. I was even surprised that one of them offered me a vacation on a yacht if I agreed to give him a massage in his house.”

“Uh, I'm sure he's not entirely asking for a massage,” Nikolai replies, scratching the back of his neck. You look at him, baffled.

“He wasn't?”

“He wanted to have sex with you, that's what.”

“Ah. O-Oh... Well... Well, that actually makes more sense now.” You mumble. “I'm glad I did not take up that offer. Goodness. I admit I was tempted sometimes to accept them because... Because I really like to be gifted with things.” You say, but your words seem to be directed to yourself instead. Your hands once again rummage through your pouch, taking out a palette, lip gloss, and lipstick from it to show them to Nikolai.

You glance at Nikolai, noticing that he is actually paying attention to you and your theatrics. His phone is resting on his lap as he props his chin on his hand, watching your movement. You smile to yourself before you continue on with your little agenda to entertain yourself and Nikolai.

“These makeup... Well, only these two,” You show him the palette and the lipstick, and your smile grows broader when you see how his mismatched eyes follow you. “Two of my patrons gifted me them. I bought this lip gloss with my own money from a drugstore.” You say.

“And why show me this?” He asks.

“Why not? I only have you to talk with. My phone— Oh, wait, I forgot about my phone.” You say as you take out your handphone from the pouch. Click, click, click, and it is not even turning on. Not even the screen lit up. “Awh, it's dead already.”

“Good. Now no one can trace your location.”

“Does that mean I get to stay here longer? Well, don't give me the charger then!”

“I hope someone will trace your location.”

You laugh, keeping your phone back in the pouch. You do not plan to call anyone anyway. This place is much better than your house, even if there are a lot of liabilities. Besides, you do not have your father's number and he certainly does not have yours. He does not know you have a handphone on your own—you never tell him.

“Oh, look. I still have my money!” You cheer and turn to him with delight. “How about a trip to Olga's diner? I can treat you to some chicken and mushroom pie.” You say, receiving a short burst of sarcastic laugh from Nikolai.

“How about no? I ain't bringing you to Olga's. She will convince herself that you are my girlfriend, which—! I don't really like.” Nikolai says. You blink profusely at him.

“Did she not know about your... uhm, profession?”

He shrugs his shoulder before taking a long sip of his drink. “She knew me and Viktor way before I got into prison. She knows what we do for a living, and well, as long as she's not affected, she doesn't care, it seems. But she doesn't know that I was in prison and the truth about your status. Not yet, at least. You're not on the news of a missing person yet—which! Which takes a damn long time by now. Usually, people get reported right after a day.”

Then he grumbles something lowly—much to your 'luck', you hear him saying, “Does no one care about her? It's been days and nobody's reporting... This is weird and fucking sad...”

You face ahead, realizing that his question is valid now—it has been days and nights, and nobody has come to find you, not even an attempt. You know your father will not go through all the trouble just to get his worthless daughter back.

At that moment, you wonder, if your mother is still alive, would she go through hell just to find you?

“You're quiet now.” Nikolai suddenly remarks. You turn to him, lips parted as if you are about to ask something. But you immediately close them, retracting your question away. You face down again, avoiding his gaze. Nikolai sighs, however. Rolling his eyes, he asks, “What?” He is offering an opening to your curiosity. And you grab the chance almost too quickly.

“Do you know anything about my mom?”

Nikolai turns to you. But you are not looking back at him, instead, you are focused on fiddling with your pouch. He purses his lips and shrugs his shoulders. “A few things, yeah.”

You finally look at him with a glimmer of hope. “Really? Why?” You sit straight and turn your whole body towards him—eager, excited, hope, hope, too hopeful. “My mom has passed since... I don't even remember. She wouldn't be significant, yes?”

“Good question,” Nikolai crosses his arms as he rests his head back. “When Viktor told me to kidnap you, he also gave me a bunch of important files containing your information. Naturally, I also learnt about your parents.” He says.

“Oh... Well, that makes sense, I guess...” You mutter.

He sits straight. “I know a lot more about you, though. Because you're my main target. This—” He gestures a circle at you. “This whole freaking thing should end by... I don't know, three, four days ago? I should have taken another job by now but here we are!” He huffs, throwing his body against the chair again.

You grin. “I have another question.”

“Oh, no.”

“Do you have my mom's picture, somehow?”

Nikolai is stunned. He looks at you with genuine concern. Before he could even respond, you quickly say, “Hear me out, hear me. We move a lot. There was a time when I had to skip a year of school because my father spent most of our money to move from one place to another. And... obviously, we left my childhood home as well...”

“He doesn't even bother to keep some stuff?” Nikolai asks, referring to your father. You shake your head. “Not even her ashes or something?” And you respond with another shake.

“I remembered he told me to take my important stuff and some clothes. I was... nine. I thought he wanted to bring me on a vacation or... things like that. You know, father and daughter bonding moment or something.” You explain slowly before you smile—solemn. “I did not take my mom's stuff, because I thought we would come back. That's... Well, that's stupid on my part, I guess. I still feel bad that I left any remnants of my mother in our old house. Now, I have nothing of her...”

“Don't blame yourself. All kids are dumb.” Nikolai replies almost too quickly. But then he shuts his lips and looks away. “I'm not trying to be nice. I'm just saying it's normal for kids to be stupid. So there's no reason for you to be guilty about it. Like— Fuck,” He sighs. “You know what, why don't you shut up?”

You chuckle, tilting your head at him. A part of you finds his fluster adorable—his skin is always porcelain fair but whenever there is a trace of fluster, his cheeks would blush faintly. Your fingertips are itching to touch the redness, wishing you could share the warmth as well.

“I don't know why, I feel better when you say that.” You grin. Nikolai puffs his cheek and ignores you. He grabs his phone and starts scrolling through things you could not see. You scoot closer, trying to take a good look but he is already bothered by your clinginess.

“Hey, hey, personal space.”

“Are you looking for my mom's photos or something?” You ask, with a tint of excitement behind your voice. Nikolai clicks his tongue and shoves you back, tossing the plastic bag of snacks to you.

“No. You sit there and shut up.”

The happiness on your face is cast over with a shadow of blues. You go silent, retreating yourself into your shell. The smile on your face dissipates as you quietly peel off the nail polish on your nails—some of them are already peeled off when you take a shower and you plan to reapply the polish later on. You are starting to fixate on your little task before Nikolai throws his phone onto your lap.

“Ow!” You look at Nikolai in disbelief, rubbing a part of your lap that was hit by his phone. He does not say anything other than watching you. “W-What?” You ask nervously before his lips pout towards the phone, gesturing to you to take it.

You take the phone and look at the screen.

It is an image of a printed document. A lot of words on the document, with a photo of a beautiful woman at the top left corner. A name is beside the photo—a name you have never gotten the chance to utter fully.

A soft laughter cracks out of your lips. “She's so pretty, don't you think?” You ask as you stare at the picture.

“Yeah...”

You turn to Nikolai, finding his eyes are fixated on you. He seems to realize something and quickly avert his irises away. He crosses his arms, turning his head away from you. You smile, leaning closer to him. Nikolai looks visibly disturbed by your closeness but he makes no move to shove you away.

You show the screen to him. “Don't you think we have the same smile?” You say. Nikolai reluctantly looks at the picture of your mother and then you. His eyes go back and forth as you give him a sweet smile, mimicking the one your mother had in the picture.

He snorts. “Hers is elegant. Yours is stupid. Quit it.” He says before he lightly pushes your face with his whole hand, receiving a giggle from you. He then snatches his phone away from you, quitting to home screen. “Satisfied now that you've seen your mama?”

“Mm-hm.” You nod. “Thank you so much for that. I really... I really miss her. It feels like her face is starting to become a blob of blur in my eyes, you know?”

“How did she pass away?” Nikolai asks and your surprised glance makes him tighten up his lips again, realizing he is inviting you to a deeper conversation, which, as much as he wants to hate it—hate this interaction with you—his boredom and a scratch of curiosity are winning over him.

In your case, you are shivering with grace upon hearing his question. You have never talked about your mother to anyone and you certainly have always shut away any mention of her in the Pandora box even when your heart is yearning to speak about it to your father.

“I actually don't know... I don't really remember. She died when I was very young.” You say slowly. “But I do remember that she had been... bedridden a few weeks before her death and she always complained about headaches. My father thought it was just some weird hormonal symptoms or stress, so he did not bring her to the hospital until she was bedridden.”

“Why didn't he bring her to the hospital? No free healthcare or something?” Nikolai asks. You shrug your shoulders.

“If I remember correctly, the place I'm from does provide things like that. Like... people can go to the hospital and get treated freely. It's just... probably because my father doesn't want to go through troubles and stuff. I... I don't really know... He didn't tell me and I did not understand why.” You reply, looking at him. Nikolai is silent before he gazes away.

“You don't know a lot of shit.”

“I was... too young.”

“I know. I don't blame you.” He says, softly. His tone tickles your heart, somehow.

For most of your life, you have taken a lot of blame onto yourself, even when the event is clearly being puppeteering by fate. Sometimes you want to scream and rage so hard at how your life has been going over the years—but to whom are you mad at? To whom are you angry at? It is pointless anyway—you know that. Your mother's death has become a blurry picture, but the image of a ten-year-old you pouring a bucket of tears begging for help from someone or something is still vivid in your head.

Unanswered prayers, ignored cries, neglected wishes.

The only way to make sure your mother's death is not forgotten down the drain is to reminisce about her.

“Do you like makeup, Nikolai?” You ask again and without waiting for his response, you take out the palette that has been marinated in your pouch for now. You open the palette, proudly flexing at him. It has a few plates of different shades of blue eyeshadows with some other glitters and shimmers as well.

“Look, isn't it cute? Should I tell you which one is which? This—” You are about to point out the darkest shade of blue eyeshadow before Nikolai snorts.

“I know what it is. That and that and that are the eyeshadows. That's glitter and that's the shimmer thing. I know what makeup is, little doll.” He replies, almost sounding like he is looking down at you underestimating him. But instead, you look surprised.

“You do makeup?”

“Eh... some time ago. Before prison, that is. Which is like... seven years ago.” He replies nonchalantly. You giggle before you take his hand, placing it on your lap. Nikolai, however, audibly chokes on his own spit when his hand touches your thigh, despite it being covered by shorts.

Pull away, pull away, pull away, pull away! —his head shouts at him but as if there is a heavy rock on his hand, Nikolai just cannot pull away.

“W-What are you doing?” He asks carefully and he feels like ripping his throat out by how nervous he sounds. You look at him—those innocent eyes... He does not even know whether you are playing or genuine. He cannot trust you, that one is obvious. But even when he wants to point out a potential trick you are trying to do, you are always genuine.

“I wanna play makeup,” You grin adorably. “You know, I remember my mother used to do like a... patch test, on her hand, like this spot right here...” You say as you circle a spot on the back of his hand. “She would simulate a makeup routine, just to see if the products are blending perfectly or look good together.”

“And why me?”

“Because sometimes my mother used to do it on my hand as well! I kinda wanna do it to other people.” You say, uncaring. Nikolai feels a bit frustrated that you seem to not notice his agitation but it is somewhat his fault because he could have just slapped away your cheap makeup down to the floor and told you to shut up.

But he just can't.

“I just wanna swatch and do my eyeshadow routine on you. It would be weird if I do it only on one of your eyes. You don't mind right?”

I don't mind? Of course I do. I do mind right now.

“No, I don't.” He replies shortly, receiving your little squeal of happiness, which curves a soft smile that he does not even notice forming on his face. You start to blabber about the eyeshadow colour as you swipe one by one of the eyeshadows on his hand. He just watches, observing and listening to how you prefer to put shimmer on a certain spot and glitter on a certain angle.

Nikolai internally sighs, but it is not one of disappointment nor relief. He is just trying to calm down. You seem to be in your own world now, which is perfect—if only you are just in it yourself and not dragging him in as well. Prying his eyes away, he takes a short moment to peek at his phone, seeing a text message from Viktor.

Viktor: Kolyushka, I found the agent you wanted for your little St. Petersburg plan. Wanna have a call tonight?

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