flurry-of-stars

[flurry-of-stars]

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝓥𝕴

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩

𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩

Fluff.

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 7.1k 𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓼𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 *сонечко- Little Sun

“You truly are a remarkable assistant. Simply amazing.”

Nikolai’s voice is smooth as velvet, with the charm of a warm fireplace in Winter. He had a voice that could draw people in like a siren's song. From the kitchen, Fyodor could practically visualise the familiar gestures he was making while speaking.

The grand gestures, the elegant swoops of his hands...

Knowing him, he’s likely touching your shoulders and arms here and there too…Fyodor stirs the porridge a little faster as it bubbles and boils.

Yet beneath his charming voice, something about his rambunctious friend's tone causes Fyodor’s jaw to tighten. He shifts uncomfortably as he listens from the kitchen, wooden spoon scraping gently against the sides of the saucepan.

Nearby, Tolstoy lays across the kitchen table, head tilted and ears directed down the hallway. He's gazing down the hall, the tip of his tail twitching faintly, his eyes half closed.

A small huff of amusement escapes Fyodor; it’s as though even the cat knows what's going on too. That small flicker of humour dissipates faster than a flame being doused with a bucket of water as Nikolai’s voice reaches his ears. 

“Back when I was an author, I saw seasoned professionals crumble under less pressure than this. But you—” Nikolai’s voice escalates, changing from charming to flirtation. “—handle it with grace.”

“And with that wrist of yours on top of it—” Fyodor can almost picture Nikolai reaching out to touch your hand, gently caressing the soft beige bandage. He imagines him kissing your hand, his large hand enveloping your smaller one. Suddenly, it feels hard for Fyodor to breathe. “—You are an inspiration to us all. We could all learn to be harder workers from you. You, my dear, are one of a kind.”

He hears the flustered stammer in your voice, the tap of your ankle boots echoing like distant thunder against the floorboards; it’s a rhythm of retreat, each step a hesitant heartbeat, pulling you away from him as if the very air between you has thickened.

Nikolai definitely kissed your hand. “Ah…I’m just doing my job as Mr. Dostoyevsky's assistant,” you insist, tone trembling. Fyodor is quick to assume you’re not used to interactions like this. “I take my job seriously since I want his book to succeed, is all....”

A brief flare of pride ignites in Fyodor’s chest, only to be swiftly extinguished once more by Nikolai’s next words: “There’s no need to be so modest! You, my darling, are a true gem in the literary world. And so early into your career! Perhaps I should start calling you the muse of Mr. Dostoyevsky himself~ After all, every great writer needs one, don’t you think?”

“Except,” he continues, his tone shifting. Fyodor frowns, straining to catch his old friend’s flirtatious murmur as it softens to a near seductive purr that causes his lip to curl into a deep, displeased frown, “Maybe you’d prefer to be my muse instead~? Perhaps you’re just what I need to be…inspired to write again~”

Suddenly, the walls feel like they’re closing in on him. He swallows roughly, his throat parched and his chest tightening as he grips his wooden spoon tightly. Before he even realises it, Fyodor's opened his mouth and called out for you, his tone firm, “Огонёк. I require your assistance in the kitchen. Now.”

He barely hears your murmured apology, but the swift pace of your footsteps echoes in the silence. His gaze drags across the countertops to take in your appearance—your rosy cheeks, the way you struggle to hold his gaze while your hands fidget nervously with the fabric of your skirt.

His stomach churns uncomfortably, as if caught on the rough waves at sea.

“Bowls,” Fyodor replies, forcing himself to look away from you. The longer he stares, the more queasy he feels. “Please.” He adds, the wooden spoon circling the pot, his hand never pausing in stirring the thick, bubbling porridge. Swiftly, he removes it from the heat, shutting the stovetop off.

“Y-yes, of course..!” you stammer. Your flustered response makes his throat constrict. He feels a faint breeze as you rush behind him, grabbing a trio of porcelain bowls from the cupboard. He clears his throat and turns his dark eyes in your direction.

“Just two, Огонёк,” he remarks, watching as you look up at him in surprise. “I was not expecting Nikolai’s presence this evening, so there isn’t enough for three.” He notes the slight relaxation in your face, before he watches your lips tug downwards.

“But what’s he going to eat? We should at least serve him something.” Your insistence makes his shoulders tense. Even his own upbringing taught him not to let a visitor go hungry. His hand hesitates in its stirring as you place the bowls on the countertop.

He could think of a few of the meals you'd both prepared for the week that Nikolai may enjoy that you wouldn't. He had begun to learn your tastes this week especially, so he has a pretty good idea of what could be served to Nikolai.

As he begins portioning the food, Nikolai’s mischievous voice wafts in from the hallway.

“Your assistant and I could share a bowl,” he suggests deviously. Though deep down he knows his old friend is teasing, Fyodor feels his chest clenching tightly again, his gaze never wavering from the porridge he’s serving. The gentle tap of Nikolai’s footsteps approaching makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his chest seeming to tighten further. 

Nikolai adds, his voice growing more flirtatious once more, “Maybe you can even feed me a few spoonfuls, Огонёк~” The moment he tries to walk past him to get closer to you again, Fyodor holds out his wooden spoon like a barrier, making sure not to splatter porridge across the kitchen.

“Only I can call her that,” Fyodor states, his dark eyes finally lifting to meet the playfully charming gaze of his best friend. Nikolai holds his hands up in mock surrender, his charming smile turning into a devilish smirk. He steps back, his voice sounding as cheerful as ever. 

“Oh, my apologies! I didn’t know, Fedya!” Nikolai replies, his voice as devious as ever. As Fyodor turns his attention away from his old friend to watch you organise the table, Nikolai steps passed him, adding, “Do you need some help setting the table, сонечко~?” 

For a brief moment, something ignites in Fyodor’s chest. He’s tempted to smack Nikolai in the back of the head with his wooden spoon. Just a little bop, nothing too bad--

Goodness… over their three decades of friendship, Nikolai has gotten under his skin countless times, but he’s never felt the urge to strike him like this…

The earlier argument he had with you must be why he’s still so agitated.

Shaking his head briskly, he dispels the odd thought and focuses on filling the now-empty saucepan with water, tossing the wooden spoon in alongside it. As you set the table, he hears you reply, “Oh no, I can handle it. Thank you though, Mr. Gogol—”

“Just Nikolai is fine, dollface.” Fyodor turns his gaze as Nikolai continues, “Although, I’d much prefer if you called me Kolya~” As his gaze lingers on you, Fyodor notices the small smile blooming on your face as you pick up Tolstoy, your hand idly caressing his fluffy head.

“I’m sorry, but you’re my senior in the writing world,” you respond kindly as you continue scratching behind the cat’s ear. The corners of Fyodor’s lips tug upwards into a smirk as he scatters defrosted berries across your bowl of porridge. “It would be disrespectful to call you by your first name.”

“Come on, сонечко. I insist! After all you’re friends with Fedya, right? Any friend of his is a friend of mine, so there’s no need for all this last name business!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Gogol, but I just can’t–” 

Before Nikolai can whine again, Fyodor interrupts, “You are not making a good first impression on my assistant, Kolya.” He smirks at his friend as he places your bowl of porridge down first, adding a drizzle of honey on top. “Do not force her to call you by your first name. And besides—”

He sets his own bowl down, crossing his arms. “You still have not told me what you are doing here. The convention isn’t for another five days. Vivian told me that you and the others would be arriving as a group the evening before the convention.”

Nikolai’s flirty smile shifts into a mischievously devilish grin. Like a cat that's about to do something devious. He rocks on his feet, speaking in a carefree, warm tone, “Can’t I just show up early to surprise my bestie?” His voice takes on a mockingly hurt tone. “And here I thought you’d missed me this past year…woe is me, unloved by my best friend. I might just shed a tear…”

Fyodor scoffs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “There’s always a reason for your actions.” As he takes his seat across from you, he eyes Nikolai suspiciously as he settles into the chair closest to you.

He watches as Tolstoy leaps out of your arms, the feline disappearing into Fyodor’s bedroom. Feeling his jaw tighten, he picks up his spoon and digs it into his porridge, idly stirring it. “So?”

With an exaggerated sigh, Nikolai holds up his hands in feigned defeat. “Alright, alright, you caught me! I was supposed to arrive here in four days.” He leans back, hands behind his head. “But a..shall we say, opportunity presented itself that allowed me to be here early.”

Mid-scoop, Fyodor pauses, narrowing his dark eyes at Nikolai’s carefree expression. Silence stretches before he lets out a heavy sigh. “You stole Ivan’s ticket again, didn’t you?”

Nikolai’s lips curl into a barely concealed smirk, the kind only Fyodor would recognize. “Ivan’s ticket, my ticket—really, who’s to say whose it was? What matters is…first class is cushy, especially when you’re not the one paying for it!”

Fyodor can’t help the amused smirk that rises on his face. “I always knew those hacking techniques our old technology teacher showed us would come in handy in one way or another.” He grabs the honey, giving himself a smaller drizzle as he mumbles, “Imagine what else he could've taught us if we kept praising him--”

“You two have really been friends for that long?” Your voice snaps Fyodor out of his small moment of banter with his old friend. Placing the honey back down on the table, he casts his gaze toward you, noticing the curiosity lighting up your face. 

“Oh yes, yes!” Nikolai speaks up before Fyodor can even think about replying. He casts his gaze towards him, noticing just how eager he is to talk about their past. “We’ve known each other since…” He looks at Fyodor, pursing his lips together. Holding his hands up, he mumbles, fingers twitching as he counts the years.

A low chuckle escapes Fyodor. “Since we were very small.” His voice softens as he turns his eyes on you. The way your eyes twinkle with curiosity is captivating, and he can’t bring himself to look away. “Kolya was visiting the area on vacation right before Winter one year—”

“—When I swear I saw this huge bird! It was one I'd never seen before! ” Nikolai interjects, his excitement as palpable as the day their paths first crossed. Fyodor’s shoulders slump slightly as your sparkling eyes turn in Nikolai’s direction. “So, like anyone else would, I ran after it! And I’m glad I did. This place always becomes so beautiful in Autumn…”

Nikolai turns his multicolored gaze toward Fyodor, grinning widely. His eyes are vibrant and alive, burning with the memory of that fateful day. Fyodor can practically see it playing over in the colourful hues of his eyes. “I lost sight of the bird but Fyodor here just so happened to be outside!"

"Well, I say he was outside," Nikolai adds, gently nudging Fyodor with his elbow as he smirks at him, "But really, he was huddled by the front door of this place reading a book!" He raises an eyebrow at Fyodor, as if saying 'what was up with that?'

"I was told to spend time outside," Fyodor nonchalantly replies, shrugging. "I was not told I couldn't take my book with me." Nikolai scoffs, rolling his eyes in response. You, on the other hand, giggle in amusement. Fyodor's dark eyes turn towards yours, gazing into your soft eyes, twinkling with mirth.

"That sounds exactly like something you'd do," you jest back, grinning at him. "You'd be the type to read at an amusement park instead of enjoying the rides."

Nikolai cackles softly, giving Fyodor another playful nudge, "I see she already has you all figured out, huh Fedya~?" He teases, earning a scoff from Fyodor. His eyes linger on you for a few moments as Nikolai continues his story. "If his mother didn't come outside and ask him to help her with the gardening, he probably would've sat there all day!"

Suddenly, Fyodor's heart clenches at Nikolai’s words, and he finds himself staring into his porridge as if it holds the answers to his unspoken questions. The meal suddenly seems less appealing, his stomach feeling constricted. He tries to swallow but his throat is abnormally dry.

“It was hilarious, honestly!” Nikolai continues, his laughter ringing through the air. “She dropped his ushanka on his head-- It was so big on him! It kept flopping down onto his face! Not to mention, his Winter coat was so big, he had to keep stopping to roll the sleeves up! At first I was shocked, because I didn't think he had hands!”

He laughs heartily. Fyodor hears your soft giggles mingling with it. His spoon glides through the porridge, a stone settling uncomfortably in his stomach. “—But it was honestly adorable how much he was helping her, with his little hand trowel and tiny watering can. All the while, he looked like a little puppy with floppy ears!”

Nikolai's voice is filled with the warmth of a sunny day. Each soft chuckle and tease made that ball of cold ice in Fyodor's stomach grow havier, weighing him down. “Why, if you ask me, I’m almost certain he—”

Suddenly, Fyodor clears his throat, interrupting Nikolai. He takes a deep breath, briefly locking eyes with him before his gaze drops back to his bowl of untouched porridge. He stirs it once, twice, before finally looking back up at Nikolai.

All traces of mischief have vanished from Nikolai’s face; even his smile feels empty. Despite this, the understanding and sympathy in his expression are unmistakable. In a heartbeat, he hums, turning his gaze back toward you. “Aaah…I can’t seem to recall…! It was quite a long time ago, so you’ll have to forgive my fuzzy memory.”

A sense of comfort washes over Fyodor. Even if he was intent on teasing him to death, Nikolai still understood and respected his boundaries without question. Fyodor couldn't help but appreciate that. As your warm tone of understanding reaches his ears, he relaxes further, “That’s okay; I have trouble remembering a lot of my early years too.”

The sound of your spoon tapping against the inside of your bowl as you scoop up more porridge isn’t lost on him. “So then, Mr. Gogol, if you gave up being a writer, what are you doing now?”

“Oh? Interested in my career, are you? What, want to make sure your future husband is earning enough~?” Fyodor feels his body starting to relax as the topic of conversation shifts. He hears you splutter a bit, coughing and dropping your spoon, clearly to Nikolai's delight, judging from his amused cackle. Fyodor keeps his gaze down at his porridge, stirring the thick, pale substance around as Nikolai continues, “Well, I gave up writing…god, quite a while ago at this point!”

Fyodor listens to Nikolai’s story, his stomach slowly feeling lighter as he reaches for a glass of water. His gaze briefly rests on Nikolai’s cheerful expression. He nods a few times in confirmation as he sips from his glass. Just like that, Nikolai’s gestures become more animated as he leans toward you.

“I stopped writing after Fedya’s published his first novel, under his pseudonym of course. I'd already been writing for a few years before this one started publishing.” He rests his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his knuckles.

He nods, enthusiasm sparkling in his eyes, “I'm very proud of the novels I've published and I'm glad so many readers enjoy them too.” Fyodor can practically see his best friend’s ego swelling. “Since then, I’ve just been in and out of jobs, travelling the world and–”

“Basically… Kolya struggles to hold down a job,” Fyodor teases, his eyes flickering toward you. He notices your amused smile beneath your curious eyes and adds, “He’s always been a bit of a wanderer. A free spirit, if you will. Don’t follow in his footsteps, Огонёк, or else this porridge may become a staple in your diet.”

Your gentle giggles fill his ears, causing his lips to tug a little higher. His eyes soften as he watches you, even as Nikolai starts to scoff. The sound of your laughter and the sight of your smile are almost soothing to him.

It doesn’t seem like you’re still upset about earlier—

Nikolai’s loud voice shakes him from his thoughts. “I’ll have you know, сонечко—” That nickname again. Fyodor's hand clenches tighter around his spoon. “—that just because I enjoy drifting between jobs and places, that I have, in fact, had many jobs and have quite a decent nest egg, if I say so myself!"

"I didn't work for a while after I published my last book. All of my freetime went into planning my future trips around the globe! But when I finally did get another job, I--"

Before Nikolai can continue, his phone buzzes and chimes. He glances at the screen, scoffing as an amused smirk tugs at his features. “Ah, I’ve been caught already, it seems. I’ll be back in two shakes of a bird’s tail! Don’t miss me too much~!”

He looks towards you, kissing his fingers and blowing you a kiss. Fyodor doesn’t miss the way your cheeks light up at the gesture, his eyes trailing after Nikolai as he leaves as he notices your turning to stare into your bowl.

Before Fyodor can correct the expression he used, Nikolai gets up from his spot beside you, heading for the front door. He lets out a silent sigh of relief as he hears him answer the call, the door gently shutting behind him.

Then, he turns his attention back to you. “I apologize for his sudden appearance. I would have warned you if I’d known Kolya was going to show up on my doorstep today. He can be a bit… much.”

“Oh, no, it’s completely fine. Mr. Gogol just seems very… eccentric. I don't mind his company." Your voice is quieter now, more relaxed. Fyodor’s gaze drops to your bowl, noticing you’ve been eating the whole time. There’s about half of the porridge left in your bowl, while his remains full. “But you still haven’t had a single bite of food.”

Blinking a few times, Fyodor looks up at you, mildly surprised that you’ve noticed his untouched bowl. “Ah… I suppose I just got caught up in our conversation.”

He watches as a frown tugs at your lips faster than you realise. You sigh, shaking your head lightly, your tone slightly exasperated. “I thought we fixed your eating habits.”

Before Fyodor can respond, you stand up, sliding your bowl across to the spot next to his before taking a seat beside him. He’s taken off guard, his mind short-circuiting for just a moment as you gaze up at him, that familiar warm smile finding its way back onto your face.

“Taking care of yourself is important, you know.” He can hear the care and worry in your gentle tone. His dark eyes turn down to watch as you grab his spoon with your non-dominant hand, scooping up some of his porridge along with a berry or two. “If you don’t eat, how are you going to keep coming up with those fantastic ideas of yours?”

“And what of you?” he replies, his gaze rising to meet yours with a hint of sternness. He gently caresses the back of his hand and wrist, reminding himself to soften his tone. “Your wrist won’t get any better if you keep forcing yourself either.”

A huff escapes you, a mix of frustration and understanding. “Okay, fair enough…” There’s a pause, the air thick with unspoken words with a dash of anxiety. When you speak again, your voice has grown softer, barely above a whisper. He notices how you look down at his bowl of porridge, as if it holds the secrets of the universe within its creamy texture.

“I’m…sorry. For earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.” His brows raise slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. He leans closer, silently urging you to continue.

“It’s just… I feel like I’m the one responsible for making sure your international debut goes well. If the work isn’t done in time or my translations are poorly done… I feel… I just…” You take a sharp breath in, fingers twisting the fabric of your skirt for comfort.

Your gaze shakily lifts, meeting his, revealing the intense sea of disquiet swirling in your usually bright, burning eyes.

He watches the way your lip quivers, the furrow of your brows deepening as you seem to search for stability in him. “I feel like I’ll be the one responsible for ruining your career. And I can’t… I just can’t do that to you…”

The weight of your words hangs in the air, heavy with apprehension. Fyodor can only imagine that this same burden has been weighing on your mind and heart all this time.

His chest clenches as he starts to realise the weight you’ve been silently carrying, that burden that’s been pushing you to work harder and harder, despite the agony it’s bringing you.

Despite the risks that come with it. 

He wants to reassure you, to tell you that you’re not alone in this, that the success of his book relies on so many other factors outside of you. But the intensity of the moment leaves him momentarily speechless.

Taking a deep breath, he finally speaks, his voice soft, “Огонёк, you could never ruin my career. Your translations are…phenomenal. This is your first job, yet you have the talent of someone ten years your senior.”

He notices the way your eyes widen as if his words have struck a secret chord within your heart. Slowly, he lifts his hand, his slender fingers gently brushing against your bandaged wrist resting tenderly on your thigh. A silent gasp escapes your lips at his touch. With deliberate care, he caresses your wrist, his gaze firm yet warm.

“You are the best assistant I could ask for. That’s precisely why I need you to look after yourself.”

“I only scolded you earlier because I’m concerned about what could happen if you keep pushing yourself this way.” His tone softens, fingers pausing their gentle caress as he almost whispers, “I care about you, Огонёк. I don’t want to lose my assistant. So please, let’s find a middle ground so you can continue your work without risking your wrist.”

Without skipping a beat, a soft, shaky “O-okay,” escapes you. Fyodor smiles gratefully, his hand sliding off your wrist as he sits up straight. He's fast to notice the brief pause of silence that flows between the both of you. He lets it continue for a few seconds before he decides to speak up.

But before he can break the silence, he blinks in surprise as you lift the spoonful of porridge toward his lips, a playful- though still somewhat shaky- grin on your face.

“But if I’m going to start taking my wrist more seriously, you need to promise me you’ll keep eating well and looking after yourself too, okay?”

A small chuckle of amusement escapes Fyodor. He pauses for a moment, as if considering it. Then, with a shrug, he murmurs, “I suppose it’s a fair deal…”

Leaning forward, he accepts the mouthful of porridge, letting you feed him. He sees the way your eyes light up with relief, despite the anxiety still present in them. The way your smile doesn’t light up your face like normal, how your brows are furrowed….

As he swallows the porridge, he reaches out once more, his hand easily finding yours without him so much as glancing down. Instead of touching your wrist, he tenderly grasps your hand. He notices the way your eyes widen as he leans forward, his tone a serious whisper, “I’m serious, Огонёк. I want you to lean on me, okay? I do not want to see you pushing yourself again.”

His eyes peer into the shimmering surface of your eyes, watching as you fully absorb his words. Your silence is telling enough. It’s a silent sign to him that this will be more difficult than he initially thought. “Promise me, Огонёк. Promise me you won’t do this again.” His fingers gently intertwine with yours, his touch careful as he squeezes your hand.

A silent plea to agree to his terms.

“Mr. Dostoyevsky…” He notes how breathless you sound as you whisper his name. He remains unwavering, his hand gripping yours, refusing to let go until you agree to his terms. There’s a flutter in his chest as he remains silent, waiting with bated breath for your confirmation. Just a simple okay will be enough…

“Ooh la laaa~” Fyodor jolts, his shoulders going rigid as Nikolai’s mischievous voice fills the kitchen once more. His hand quickly releases yours, but it’s too late.

As Fyodor turns to meet Nikolai’s teasing, devious grin, he knows Nikolai has already drawn his own conclusions. “Have I interrupted something~? Oh dear! Fedya, you should’ve told me your assistant is—” He shifts his gaze back to you, his Cheshire-like grin widening, “—more than just your assistant.”

You take the bait before Fyodor can even think to stop you. “It isn’t anything like that!” You sound so flustered that it almost catches him off guard. You’ve never sounded like this around him before—it’s strange to hear your usually resolute and passionate voice tremble like this. But it’s almost… cute. “We were just talking–!”

A mischievous hum lingers on Nikolai’s lips as he approaches the table, a taunting sway in his steps. You've snatched the bait, hook, line and sinker.

“Talking while holding hands, hmm~? Forgive me for saying so, but that seems a bit more—” He moves closer, almost standing behind Fyodor now, “—amorous than a boss should be with his assistant~”

“She’s wounded, Kolya.” Fyodor interjects, stepping in before you can reply. “I was checking the condition of her wrist. You haven’t strayed so far from writing that you’ve forgotten just how valuable our hands and wrists are, have you?”

Nikolai holds up his hands, that sly grin transforming into an innocent smile that could fool anyone else. “Hey, don’t let me stop you from being a caring boss. I just think that normally, when you’re checking someone’s injury—” His smirk reappears just as quickly as it had vanished. “—you normally… well… check the injury. Not stare into the patient’s eyes.”

Fyodor interrupts calmly, “I was watching her expressions for any signs of discomfort or pain. Огонёк and I may be on friendly terms, but I wouldn’t put it past her to hide her pain from me if she thinks for even a second that I’m going to stop her from translating those chapters.”

“Oh, so she’s resilient? That's interesting...” Nikolai clicks his tongue, his eyes gleaming deviously. Fyodor sighs, mentally preparing himself for whatever flirtatious comment Nikolai might make next—aimed at you, of course—when your voice cuts through the banter.

“So… you’d say we’re friends then…?”

The question catches Fyodor off guard. It’s not just the question itself, but the soft, almost meek tone you’re using, as if you’re afraid he might deny it. His dark eyes shift to meet yours. You look up at him, uncertainty etched on your face, a glimmer of anticipation shining in your eyes.

Friends… 

Fyodor hadn’t considered the nature of your relationship before you said that.

At first, he had to admit he hadn’t enjoyed your company that much. You were a brilliant translator, an asset to him as an author and in achieving his current goals. But having someone else’s presence lingering in this cottage with him after the past year he'd spent here alone had felt unpleasant at first.

You didn’t know how sacred this place was to him. You didn’t know how long he had spent in these walls, absorbing their atmosphere and essence, burning the memory of thi splace into his memory. Wanting every small detail etched deep into his soul so that when he ultimately met his end, he would remember it in the afterlife.

But that wasn’t your fault.

You had come here to perform a job, plain and simple. You hadn’t come to trample all over the sacredness of this place. You probably didn’t even realise how deeply this building and its location means to Fyodor. When he finally came to accept that and let you in, he couldn’t deny that he began to enjoy your presence.

You'd even gone out of your way to spend your paycheck on food these past few weeks, just to make sure he was eating well. You even helped him get some much needed rest that fired his creativity and drive to write into overdrive.

In fact, a part of him desired your presence now. You brought warmth back into his life that he had lost a year ago when his spark had been swept away. Stolen from him in the blink of an eye, leaving him cold and alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. 

It wasn’t the same burning intensity he had known, but a gentle flame, a determined, passionate one, unique and all your own, that you’d brought with you was warmer than any candle currently lit around the cottage. He was drawn to your captivating flame, your burning passion and drive, like a helpless moth. 

He couldn’t deny it, even if a small part of him didn’t want to admit it: Fyodor enjoyed your company.

“Yes.” He pauses, considering his words carefully. His dark eyes never leave the hopeful shimmer in yours, the words leaving his lips causing that flutter in his chest to grow as he continues, “That is to say....I would consider us to be more than acquaintances…”

He watches your eyes light up, that shimmer becoming a full sparkle. Her doesn’t even realize you’re leaning slightly closer to him, that hopeful undertone to your voice growing more intense, “And more than acquaintances is…?”

He huffs at you, pulling back. He looks away, returning to swirling his porridge, “Forget I said anything.” Despite his dismissive tone, he stifles a chuckle as you whine beside him, pleading for him to say the words you want to hear.

“Aww, come on! It doesn’t count if you don’t say it!” He can easily hear the joyful mirth in your voice, the slight rise in pitch as you plead with him.

He may not have openly called you friends, but his words have nonetheless brought you happiness. Alot of it by the sounds. He can tell that much, at least. That’s rather sweet; he didn’t expect his words to make you this happy.

Something about it warms his chest, that fluttering feeling growing more intense. Before he realizes it, a faint smile is sneaking onto his face.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

“Dad, I’m home!”

Your keys jingle in your hand as you push open the apartment door, greeted by the musty smell of mildew and the irritating flicker of the lightbulb in the dining room when you switch it on. It buzzes and flashes a few times before settling into a soft glow, illuminating your dingy little apartment.

You know it might seem odd to others, but it’s hard to break this habit. Whenever something makes you particularly excited or happy, you find yourself coming home, calling out for your deceased father just as you did in your youth.

The last time you'd done this was the day you'd graduated from university. Even though he’s gone, you can’t help but share the good news with him as if he were still here.

“Sorry I’m late,” you continue, turning to securely lock the door behind you. You giggle happily, hanging your still damp amber coat on a clothes hanger by the window, the chill of the evening still clinging to your skin. You crack the window open slightly, hoping your coat will be dry by morning.

The silence of the rundown apartment wraps around you; the only sounds you can hear is faint honking in town. It’s a familiar silence. A lonely silence. “One of Mr. Dostoyevsky’s friend’s showed up early. Something about hacking and stealing tickets?”

You giggle, the sound echoing in the quiet space. “I don’t know. I didn’t really get it, but that friend of his was quite the charmer.” Your smile softens as you think of the encounter, a flicker of warmth igniting a memory.

“Oh, and get this!” You almost squeal as you walk toward the kitchen. Pausing, you turn to gaze at the dining room, imagining your father sitting at the table, listening to you gush about your day, that big goofy grin of his on his face. “Mr. Dostoyevsky said we’re friends!”

You know you have the goofiest smile on your face as you open the old refrigerator. It hums loudly as you reach in, grabbing a chilled water bottle before heading back into the dining area.

Your tone hushes slightly after you take a few mouthfuls of the cold liquid—the last thing you need is for your neighbors to think you’ve finally lost your marbles. “Well... he didn’t say the word ‘friends,’ but that’s basically what he meant!”

Giggling happily, you feel like you’re on cloud nine. Maybe it was silly to be so happy about something like this, but the thought of actually being friends with Fyodor filled you with the warmth of a cozy fireplace in winter.

During your time working for him, you’d come to admire both him and his work. The idea that someone as talented as him saw you as a friend made you want to jump around and squeal.

“I wish I could introduce you to him and Mr. Gogol,” you mumble, a wistful tone in your voice as you approach the dull gray buffet table. “They’re really interesting people, Dad. I bet you would’ve loved to share your stories with them too…”

It stands sturdy, even after all these years, with three lockable drawers and two sideboards. But you only make use of one sideboard and the top drawer.

The second drawer holds your school report cards and the arts and crafts projects you’d made for your father during your childhood. He’d lovingly labelled the front of the drawer with your name, decorated with worn-down holographic butterfly stickers and beloved cartoon characters that once filled your days with joy.

As you lean closer, a faint scent drifts up from the surface—something sweet and sharp, reminiscent of overripe fruit mingling with the dust of distant memories. Memories of your youth that now left far behind you. 

Despite knowing better, you attempt to unlock the bottom drawer with your key but it doesn’t seem to work. The key slides in but doesn’t unlock the drawer as you rotate it. It was an oddity that always piqued your curiosity, made worse by the fact that it couldn’t unlock the right sideboard either. 

The key slides into the lock for the left sideboard, unlocking with a satisfying ‘click!’ as you turn it. Opening the door, you smile nostalgically, greeted by the sight of all the short stories your father wrote for you—from the fading, tattered yellow spine of his very first storybook to the deep red of his final creation.

‘Mister Fox.’

Your non-dominant hand reaches out, gently sliding the final storybook free from its slot and into the warmth of your palms. “I bet you’d want me to show them this one. You told me it was your favorite…”

Nostalgia begins to pulse through your veins as you sit down on the floor, your fingers tracing the letters written in gold across the cover, accompanied by a whimsical illustration of a fox.

As your hand glides over the gold letters of your father’s name, a dull ache settles in your chest. You brush away small remnants of dust from the cover, a gentle reminder of time passed.

This was a storybook you had only read once with him, a cherished moment before the day that irrevocably changed the course of your life. The crimson of the book in your hands feels almost too bright against the sombre memories, a stark reminder of what you’d found, what you’d seen that day.

You inhale shakily, your hand pausing on the cover as your heart pounds, the weight of those memories suddenly pressing down on you. The book in your hands feels like it’s carrying the weight of the world within it’s pages. The harsh scent of iron and the rancid, sour stench of bile assault your nostrils, pulling you back to that day as if you were reliving it all over again.

You exhale deeply, reaching for the cold bottle of water you’d brought to the buffet. You clench the plastic, causing it to crunch in your grasp. The chill spreads across your palm and fingers, before you jolt, realising too late that you’ve grabbed it with your damaged hand. Pain shoots through your wrist like a thousand lightning bolts.

You wince, groaning as the bottle slips from your grasp, hitting the floor with a soft thud. You draw your injured wrist close to your chest, clenching it firmly into a fist, waiting for the pain to subside.

On the bright side, the memory has faded like a ghost, disappearing into the deepest depths of your mind until it's roused once more. On the less bright side, you can already hear Fyodor’s morning lecture on being more careful echoing in your mind. 

  As the pain dulls, your attention draws itself back to the small crimson, hardcover notebook that your father had written ‘Mister Fox’ in. It was the same size and brand as the other storybooks tucked away in the sideboard, though in much better condition. 

The artwork on the front cover was whimsical and cute, depicting a charming orange fox with a long bushy tail, surrounded by delicate purple foxgloves. It's pouncing forward, a large cartoonish grin on it's face as it's frozen in time, caught midleap over your father's name written on the cover.

It was pure luck, your father had told you, a wide, lopsided grin on his face. He had just come back from the store, his breath faintly tinged with the smell of something sweet, when he ran into an amazing artist who’d happily drawn the cover for him, free of charge.

Although he couldn’t remember the name of the artist when you’d asked him…

You gently open the notebook, reading the dedication inside. Each book held a different message, all addressed to you.

“To my beautiful daughter,

Remember that I have always and will always love you. I have countless regrets, but you, my little Dahlia, will forever be the single most precious thing in my universe. You are a blessing to me.”

Your lips quirk upwards as your fingertips gently trace over the last dahlia he’d ever tried to draw for you at the bottom of the dedication, scribbled in with a black marker. It was shakily rendered with a nearly empty pen, but to you, it was perfect; imperfections and all. 

“I love you too, Dad,” you whisper sorrowfully, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before you begin reading through your father’s last storybook.

The story tells of a charming fox who lived deep in the forest, enjoying a peaceful life. He had everything he could ask for; comfort, peace and food. Until one day, he heard a baby bunny crying and rushed out to find a giant wolf threatening her. The brave fox confronted the wolf and, after a tense standoff, the wolf retreated.

The grateful bunny called the fox her hero, but he felt guilty about his past. He took her back to his cozy den, where they shared food and comfort. He raised the baby bunny for a long while, as his guilt was eating at him from the inside.

Later, overwhelmed by his guilt, the fox confessed his dark history to the bunny, warning her of the danger he posed. He knew the bunny would despise him, hate him for revealing himself as the monster he is. No different than the wolf who had cornered her and tried to eat her when she was a kit.

However, the bunny, undeterred, expressed her belief in his goodness and forgave him for his past. Touched by her words, the fox promised to change for her sake. From that day on, they lived happily together, with the fox dedicated to protecting the bunny he loved like his own daughter.

Your eyes linger on the final scribble in the notebook, a depiction of the fox carrying the bunny on his back. That’s what it was supposed to represent, at least. In truth, it looked more like a smaller, paler orange atop a larger one, with sausage-like legs.

Your father was a writer, not an artist, after all.

Gently, you close the book, holding it tightly to your chest for a moment. This was your father’s final gift before his passing. He didn't get the chance to take it to the writer’s convention himself.

You just knew that if they had read it, this book would have been his breakthrough. It would have been both his first and only step into the literary world...

He had passed his flame to you, his torch now yours to carry. His legacy rested solely on your shoulders.

First, you would get his book out there, and it would be published. Then, after helping get Fyodor’s book out into the world, you would continue to carry the flame for your father.

This book would be the first of many that you would see to publishing under your father's name. The rest of the books in the buffet table would come after. You'd make sure each and every one would see the light of day.

This was the least you could do for him. After all the sacrifices he made for you, after all he had done for you, you owed him that much, didn’t you?

𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡ © 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦

Next

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @cherridove @slowlyfoulenthusiast @youngkidchaos

Candles divider- @/firefly-graphics  Orange heart divider- @/adornedwithlight

[flurry-of-stars]

Hello all! I have a small update of sorts (´｡• ω •｡`)

So it's been a few months coming but I've decided to set up a sub account for all future interactions, reblogs and updates. I thought this blog would be for everything I do, all rolled into one. But it kinda leaves me feeling a bit restricted, for lack of a better term.

So this account will now solely be for new chapters/stories. For all future updates regarding stories, future reblogs of art and stories I'm reading or any asks you want to send in, please follow me here.

Or if you don't want to follow me, I have a tag system in place so you can easily find future updates for stories there to make it easier for you! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Soooo that's about it! Thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope you guys can understand! ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

[flurry-of-stars]

Chapter 6 of T.H.H is done and currently onto the editting phase!

But I'm also going to be busy this week, so it may take me a bit of time to edit it.

I appreciate everyone's patience and hope you're all looking forward to the next chapter! Wishing you all a wonderful week ahead and a very Happy (early) Halloween! ദ്ദി (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)~✧

[flurry-of-stars]

That new chibi official art! Was late to draw 'em xD

[flurry-of-stars]

Painting based on Mephisto by Eduard von Grützner

[flurry-of-stars]

Freedom?

[flurry-of-stars]

Starting this account fresh with him.

[flurry-of-stars]

[flurry-of-stars]

heyy I just came across your blog and binged the entire These Hollow Halls, it already has a special place in my heart. Your writing is phenomenal and the way you portray Fyodor and the Reader's growing relationship feels so natural that it's impressive. I literally eat all the little details you put in your story and I adore your set of characters. Please please please continue to write more until you finish this series, but don't feel pressured to get it done as soon as possible, take your time ^^

Hey hey! Oh wow, thank you so so much for your sweet words!! I haven’t stopped smiling since I read your message, it’s really made my week!! 🥹💛💛💛 I’m really happy you’re enjoying These Hollow Halls so far!! And I’m SO glad the relationship progression feels natural too. Every chapter I’m always worried I’m going too fast or too slow, so it’s a relief to hear that ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝) Thank you so much for your message and thank you so much for reading!! 

[flurry-of-stars]

Sigma

[flurry-of-stars]

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓘𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩ Emotional conflict and distress. 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 8k 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: Man...it has been a while. I've had this sitting in my drafts since May. It feels amazing to finally get it out. So sorry for the long delay! I hope you all enjoy! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

“Damn it–!”

A sharp gasp of shock escapes you as your dominant hand betrays you, releasing the cup of tea seconds before it can reach your lips. The fragrant liquid, thankfully lukewarm, splashes on your lap and coat before thudding to the floor, thankfully undamaged.

Curling your hand into a fist, you draw it close to your chest, holding it with your other hand.

A sharp, burning sensation radiates through your fingers and palm, each pulse of agony sending jolts of discomfort through your arm. Inhaling sharply, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to bear with the pain.

The pain was getting worse.

You were already well aware it was from the long hours you imposed on yourself as Fyodor’s translator. The lengthy days working away over these pages, treating each of his chapters with care to ensure each was translated perfectly from his native tongue into English, without his story being changed or translated incorrectly.

Well, at least hoped you were doing a good job of it.

You exhale sharply, releasing your pulsing hand from your gentle hold as you get up.

Bending down, your fingers curl around the gold handle of the cup, preparing to return it to its place on the small, new rolling table Dmitry had dropped off for Fyodor over the weekend. It's intended purpose was for a laptop but it made for a pretty good work space too.

Olga had bought it for him when she went into town, Fyodor had said. You smile. The last time you had tea with the couple had been pleasant…even if Dmitry had trouble speaking in English.

Your thoughts are disrupted as another jolt of pain shoots through your hand the moment you lift the teacup by its handle. Like a thousand little lightning bolts rippling through each digit down into your wrist.

Grimacing, you use your non-dominant hand to scoop the cup up, placing it down before you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up.

The bathroom in Fyodor's cottage was simple and practical, with only the essentials. Practical like him, you thought.

You couldn't help but admire the clawfoot bathtub, a novelty for you, and notice that there used to be a mirror above the sink, despite its absence now clearly marked by an outline on the wall.

You shrug off your burnt orange coat as you step into the cramped room, placing the wet fabric gingerly onto the sink, letting the dry portion hang off the side. With a determined effort, you grab the old sponge scourer nearby and begin scrubbing, trying to lift the sweet liquid from the fabric.

As you draw the sponge down the material, the pain flares up again. You wince, your hand trembling with each stroke, the sponge slipping through your fingers as searing pain ignites in your palm. You grip the sponge tightly, each squeeze sending waves of agony through your wrist.

‘Grit and bear it,’ you quietly whisper to yourself, taking a deep breath in to steady your nerves, ‘You can’t let something as silly as this stop you.’

You resume cleaning the coat, each movement accompanied by a few sharp huffs of pain.

Anger flares in your chest, mixing with the burning sensation in your wrist. You can't let something as trivial as a sore wrist stop you from salvaging your coat.

How pathetic would it be if a wrist injury kept you from cleaning your favourite coat? It would end up with a permanent stain, a constant reminder of your failure, and you'd have to abandon it—

Your anger falters, and your hand pauses mid-motion. 

Abandoning your coat was unthinkable. It’s a prized possession, one you couldn’t bear to part with. But if something loses its usefulness, it’s cast aside for something better, something newer, something more valuable.

No…no, no, no. You can’t let that happen.

As pain grips your hand like a tightening vice, you stifle a whimper, continuing to scrub the wet patch with increasing aggression. The determination to remove the stain overrides the pain throbbing in your wrist and hand.

You can’t let it lose its usefulness. You can’t let it be replaced by something better. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t…

No...no, it's okay....the stain is coming out...it’s all okay now… it's not damaged....it's still okay...It’s still wearable. It’s going to be okay…it’s still useful. It hasn’t lost its usefulness…

Breathing shakily, you glance at your wrist, the bandage damp. It’s not broken. No bones are sticking out, your fingers are intact, and your palm is still in place.

It’s just a bit of pain, that’s all. Some ibuprofen and you’ll be fine. There’s no reason to delay work over something that can be managed with a few pills.

As you hang your coat up to dry, you nod to yourself before leaving the bathroom.

You’ll take some ibuprofen and get back to work. The pills will ease the pain, and if they don’t, it really isn’t that bad. You can endure it. You have chapters to finish translating and only five days until the convention.

You have to keep going. 

You have to.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

A silvery light cascaded down upon her cheeks, casting an ethereal glow that seemed to transform her countenance into something otherworldly.

The teardrops that glistened upon her skin resembled stars, tracing a sorrowful path along the delicate contours of her face, only to fall, tumbling through the air like unheeded dreams.

It was in this moment that the true weight of my words struck me—a realization that pierced my very being. With my tongue wielded as a weapon, I had unwittingly thrust it into her heart, inflicting a wound far deeper than I had ever intended. How cruelly could one soul harm another in the throes of passion and despair?

My mind scarcely registered the sound of her chair scraping against the stone floor as she rose, her back turned to me, a sob escaping her lips that shook her entire form, quaking as violently as the bitter winds of winter might.

A constriction seized my throat, and my voice, once vibrant, was stifled in the depths of my anguish. In an instant, my body sprang forth, the chair clattering to the ground with a resounding thud. I could not permit her to leave. My heart, that treacherous organ, would not allow it; it throbbed with a fierce determination to bridge the chasm I had unwittingly created.

“No, wait, don’t go…!” I cried, leaping from my chair. I reached out to her, grabbing her wrist–

I tried to reach her—

Grabbing her hand in mine, I—

Fyodor’s pen clatters onto his desk as he rubs his face in frustration, letting out a soft groan.

No matter how hard he tries, the words refuse to flow from his pen as they once did. Gently, he pushes this page to join the other drafts for the latest chapter on the floor, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. 

Just days ago, his inspiration had been explosive. Like a match tossed into a canister of petrol, igniting his mind with a flurry of ideas so intense that he hadn’t slept, desperate to get every thought down.

Ideas had sprung to life like a box of fireworks.

Intense.

Bright.

Uncontainable. 

Now, pens lay empty on his desk, dried of the ink they once held, mere shells of their former selves. He had gone through so many pens and sheets of paper, he'd already needed to call Vivian purchase a restock of supplies on his behalf.

But now, he can barely write a few paragraphs without tossing the draft aside.

He’s gone back, rereading every chapter from the beginning to the latest. He’s even reviewed your translations, hoping that the sentences you’d woven beautifully in English would reignite something, anything within him.

But it has only led to more crossed-out sentences, reworked paragraphs, and shredded pages.

At one point, he even considered rewriting an entire chapter. One of the first chapters. Inhaling deeply, he pushes away from the desk and stands, moving through his room, lit solely by candlelight.

His steps are soft, boots gently tapping against the floorboards. As he moves, Tolstoy rises from his spot under his chair and trots after him, mewling and weaving between his legs.

Fyodor huffs, watching as the old cat bumps his head against his leg, meowing several times. Tolstoy lifts his paws towards him, making a kneading motion in the air. A plea to be held or pat.

“I’m fine, Tolstoy,” Fyodor murmurs, pacing the small room, his footsteps echoing around him. His gaze drifts from the feline to the cluttered shelf of books on his desk. His eyes skim the spines, each one bearing the name of a close friend.

The spines are covered in a thick layer of dust so dense that Fyodor’s finger leaves a clean trail when he brushes over them.

When he withdraws his hand, his fingertip is entirely black. He rubs the dust between his finger and thumb, studying the imprint with a thoughtful expression.

He moves along, using his fingertip to uncover each title, freeing each from the clutches of the dust that clings to them.

Each name represents a fond memory. Each book a reminder of his past, of times part of his heart still ached for. All of these books were cherished, beloved by him.

He felt as though these books were more than just the stories written inside. That they held his past memories in them as well.

Memories of when he received these books and those who were gracious enough to give them to him. It was foolish to yearn for the past. He was foolish to yearn for it.

His slender fingers continue along their path until–

His gaze shifts to the last book on the shelf, one coated with a thicker layer of dust than the others. Thankfully the dust had only accumulated on the plastic covering the book had been delivered in.

The grey hardcover book was missing its name along the spine, a fault by the manufacturer when they had first been in production five years ago. Fyodor was given the first copy to keep while the rest of the errors were destroyed.

It was his first published work—anonymously, of course. Vivian had created his pseudonym, a gesture for which he remained grateful, despite the name alias now representing something more painful.

His fingertip hesitates over the dust-covered spine, pausing as if uncertain whether to disturb it. It lightly caresses the edge of the plastic covering the spine before withdrawing, as if he had touched something he wasn’t meant to.

Inhaling deeply, his right hand caresses the back of his left hand, gently running up to a little ways above his wrist before slowly caressing down as he exhales. 

As he inhales deeply a second time, he focuses on the gentle caress of his right hand on the back of his left hand. With each breath, his hand traces a path up to just above his wrist before slowly descending again, as if following the ebb and flow of his breath.

The delicate movements were almost hypnotic. He exhales slowly, his body relaxing.

Why was he doing all of this?

His reason to write, to create and weave stories was no longer present. His writings, his novels….did any of it have a reason to exist when his own raison d'être was no longer–

He sharply exhales, glaring at the wall.

Suddenly, a loud mewl rouses his attention. He looks towards his desk as a furry paw plants itself on his arm. His dark eyes turn, gazing down at Tolstoy as he paws at his arm, mewling and chirping at him. He huffs, finally reaching down to scratch behind his ear.

“I said I’m fine,” he whispers, much more softly than before. His hand runs smoothly down Tolstoy’s neck, enjoying the softness of his plush fur. He follows the curve of his spine to the base of his tail before lifting his hand, returning to scratching behind his ear.

He turns his gaze towards the clock above his door. He hums softly in thought, finally pulling his hand away from Tolstoy’s soft fur. He gives a soft mewl, reaching out to keep patting at his arm.

However, Fyodor steps away, moving towards the door.

“It’s almost midday,” Fyodor murmurs to the feline, encouraging him to follow. His voice sounds breathless, even to his own ears as he runs a hand smoothly through his ruffled locks of hair, “I’m sure Огонёк has already gotten started on lunch.”

He pushes open the door, gratitude washing through him as he notices you kept the curtains closed and the candles lit just as he asked for hours prior.

He furrows his brow, puzzled by the unusual silence. Normally, you would already be bustling in the kitchen, clanging pots and pans as you prepared lunch.

You would look up and tease him, either about what took him so long to come help or ask if he was that worried about you burning the cottage down. A faint smile briefly flickers onto his face.

His leather boots echo against the hardwood floor as he makes his way to the only other room you could be in.

Suddenly, a sound of discomfort reaches his ears, prompting him to quicken his pace towards the living area. He grabs onto the door frame for support as he calls out in concern, hoping for a response, “Огонёк? Are you–”

He pauses, his voice catching as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes scan your figure, starting at your bandaged hand that is clutched tightly to your chest. Your other hand grips it fiercely as if trying to suppress the pulsing, burning pain underneath.

Pages are strewn about on the rolling table and the carpet, creating white patches around you. Even your pen is lost in the mess. But what captures his attention the most is your expression.

Though your eyes widen in surprise at his abrupt arrival, your face is twisted in agony.

 Your eyebrows are furrowed together, lips pulled back in a scowl, and your eyes are glossy. It's not difficult for Fyodor to piece together what happened.

You pushed yourself too hard.

Again. After he had told you not to. After you promised you wouldn't.

You should have listened. Why didn't you listen??

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, yet again.” His eyes are like cold steel, assessing every detail of your struggle, his eyes moving from your bandaged hand, to the twisted look of pain on your face.

How could you keep doing this to yourself? Why do you insist on suffering this way? Did you enjoy making yourself suffer, when he was right here to help?

Why didn't you ask for help?

He continues with a chilling calmness, each word enunciated with a surgical precision, “Your discomfort is palpable, and yet you persist as if it’s inconsequential.”

Were you doing this on purpose?

“Mr. Dostoyevsky–” You open your mouth, attempting to explain, but Fyodor’s narrowed eyes cut you off, silencing you with their intensity.

“It’s as if you’re deliberately ignoring the physical damage you’re inflicting on yourself,” he continues, his tone devoid of warmth. “Do you honestly believe that this relentless drive will yield any true satisfaction, or are you merely too obstinate to face the consequences?”

Why are you being so stubborn? Why can't you just listen to me?

You bristle at his words, your frustration bubbling to the surface. You move the rolling table to the side, “You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t handle!” you snap, moving the rolling table aside with a forceful shove. Fyodor’s eyes widen slightly, his usual composure momentarily disrupted.

He hasn’t seen this side of you before now. 

“I’m not going to stop just because you think I’m overdoing it!” Your voice rises, defiant and fiery as Fyodor goes ridged, his arms crossing over his chest, “I don’t need your approval or your pity!”

Fyodor doesn’t waver, his cold demeanor unmoved by your outburst,  “It’s not about permission or pity,” he counters, his voice retaining its unsettling steadiness. “It’s about your responsibility to yourself before you jeopardize your future.”

Your anger intensifies, a wave of frustration surging through you. “I don’t need a lecture on responsibility,” you retort sharply. “I know my limits. I’m capable of pushing through–”

Fyodor steps closer, his presence imposing, his tone taking on a steely edge. “Do you truly grasp what could happen if you persist?” His gaze pierces through you, forcing you to step back, dwarfed by his intensity. “This isn’t mere discomfort or fleeting pain. You risk a permanent injury that could render your hand useless.”

His voice drops to a frigid whisper, “Envision living with that consequence, knowing it was avoidable. Picture squandering your entire future because of a few extra hours of work. That’s the reality you face if you don’t step back and take care of yourself.”

For a moment, he notices your brows knitting together, your lips twitching as if about to curve downwards, your eyes appearing slightly glassy. But then, the fire reignites in your gaze as you step back, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively. “A few extra hours of work isn’t going to cripple me! You’re just being paranoid–!”

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа.”

Fyodor’s tone, colder than the snow that fell two days prior, makes you flinch, your eyes widening in shock. He remains unmoved, his gaze penetrating as if seeking to unravel the deepest recesses of your soul.

His jaw tightens as he delivers a single, icy command. “Остановись.”

Your hands clench into tight fists, your eyes narrowing with defiance. As your vision blurs and your chest tightens with the sting of anger and hurt, you glance back at the rolling table, where your work remains incomplete.

Inhaling sharply, you turn, grabbing your shoulder bag, which holds several more of Fyodor’s chapters. As you prepare to push past him, he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“Home,” you snap, “Since you clearly don’t want me here.”

Fyodor’s frustration is palpable as he follows you towards the door. The flames of the candles lining the hallway flicker wildly, some nearly extinguishing from the draft of your angry departure. “You are behaving like a child–”

“Oh, so now you see me as a child?” You retort sharply, not even glancing back. A harsh, humourless laugh escapes you as you wrench open the door. A frigid gust of air rushes in, extinguishing the remaining candles and plunging the hallway into darkness.

As the biting cold brushes against his skin, Fyodor’s body tenses involuntarily. You don’t look back as you leave, slamming the door behind you with a force that echoes in the empty hallway.

Fyodor stands alone in the darkness, his hands trembling slightly.

The impulse to chase after you gnaws at him, but his feet feel as though they are rooted to the spot by an invisible force. He stares ahead into the darkened corridor, his ears filled with the faint, almost nervous sound of his own breathing.

Even as Tolstoy approaches him, mewling and weaving his furry body against his ankles, Fyodor stays completely still, only the sound of his ragged breaths filling the dark corridor. 

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Brown, withered leaves, exposed once more due to the snow melting crunch under your boots as you storm away from Fyodor’s cottage, your shoulder bag swaying wildly.

Anger and adrenaline still flood your mind, your body feeling rigid and tense. Your bare arms are wrapped tight around your body in an attempt to protect your exposed skin from the cold elements.

Honestly, who does he think he was, telling me what I can and can’t handle? He doesn’t even know me. I could handle this and more. If I really wanted to, I could even cartwheel right now! Juggle a trio of bowling balls even!

Well...if you had the strength--

An angered huff escapes you as you slip under the floral archway, the aroma of flowers doing nothing to soothe your furious spirit as their petals seem to curl further away from you and inwards. As if they aren’t sure what to hide from; the growing coldness or your burning anger.

Your boots click against the damp, slick cobblestone path, your eyes catching glimpse of a ball of vibrant orange up ahead. You glance up noticing a familiar orange tabby cat doing circles around a cute, handcrafted bowl with cute, tiny blue paw prints painted along the trimming.

Olga kneels down as far as her old body will allow her as she scoops the intensely smelling wet food onto the bowl, murmuring something sweetly in Russian as the tabby begins devouring the served food as if it would be starving.

As the elderly grandmother stands up straight, she blinks a few times, her eyes falling on you before she gives an old, weary smile, “Oh dearie! Why hello! What are you doing out here?”

Stopping at the gate separating you both, you watch as Olga approaches you, her steps slower and more careful than before, “Did Fedyka send you on an errand?”

You hesitate for a moment, boot tapping against the cobblestone path. You could just say yes and continue on your way. Olga would be none the wiser. But as you stare down at her, fully taking in her kind, warm smile, you feel your resolve caving, despite the anger still clawing at your heart.

“Not…exactly,” you reply carefully, still unsure if you should tell the elderly lady the truth. You could just save all your ranting and venting for later when you could call Trixie. But the idea is dismissed the moment you see her face fall. She moves closer, unlatching the gate and opening it.

“Here dearie, come in,” Olga insists, the loud creak of the old gate startling both you and the tabby cat. Although the feline quickly goes back to eating like her life depends on it, “I’ll make you some tea and you can tell me all about it.”

You hesitate to enter the elderly couple’s garden, your eyes flickering from Olga’s plump form to the cobblestone pathway leading to the bus stop. You hum, looking back as the tabby cat mewls cheerily, following Olga back up the cobblestone steps.

She stops, looking back at you. Her ears twitch as she mewls, as if asking if you're going to join them.

“Mitya is out today selling some of our homemade jam, so we’ll have the place all to ourselves. We can have some girl’s time.” A hearty laugh escapes her as she opens the door leading into her cozy cottage, the mushroom-shaped bell on the door ringing merrily as she opens it.

“It's been years since I last shared tea with my girlfriend's. Come, come.”

With a sigh, your mind is made up. You head after Olga, up the stairs and into her and Dmitry’s marital home. 

The moment you step over the threshold, warmth envelops you like a tight, welcoming embrace. A delectable aroma dances in the air, wrapping around you as if beckoning you deeper into the home with the promise of delicious, homemade food. 

The fragrant scent of fresh herbs fills your senses, mingling with the enticing aroma of deliciously seasoned meat and the sweet-tart notes of pastries cooling on a rack.

As your eyes begin to take in the small, cozy cottage, you notice the floral patterns on the walls, complemented by a beautifully embroidered tablecloth draped over an old, sturdy oak table.

Above the warmth of the crackling fireplace, an Orthodox cross catches your eye, hanging between photo frames that crowd the mantel. The more you gaze around the living space, the more religious imagery you see scattered about, alongside photos of faces you’ll never personally get to meet.

Your gaze drifts to the mantel, where Olga and Dmitry's wedding photos catch your eye, and your heart swells at the sight of her in an elegant wedding dress. One photo captures them at a sun-drenched beach, sharing ice cream and laughter, their joy palpable.

Another image shows them with someone else—Olga, Dmitry, and a heavily pregnant young woman—smiling warmly as they enjoy tea together at the same dining room table, a snapshot of blissful camaraderie.

The warmth radiating from these photos mirrors the inviting glow of the hearth.

An old rocking chair sits nearby, adorned with a warm knitted blanket made from light colored yarn. It seems the tabby cat has claimed this spot as her resting place for the time being. She yawns, stretching her soft body out before curling into a tight ball of fluff. 

Across from the rocking chair, a comfortable-looking recliner holds another similar knitted blanket, bunched on the seat as if someone shrugged it off before leaving. There’s a pair of reading glasses and an old, worn grey hardcover novel left behind as well, an old, fraying bookmark peeking between the pages.

To the right, the warm, welcoming kitchen beckons.

The cupboards are a pleasant, natural dark oak, accented with delicate floral designs in white and light mocha shades. One cupboard door features a painted bouquet of flowers that looks fairly new, judging from the light pinks and yellows used for the petals of the flowers.

One of the two stovetops burns intensely as a large pot of stew boils and bubbles away, the smell almost making your stomach growl.

On the windowsill, several small plants catch your eye—herbs, you realize, their names written in Russian on their pots. Beneath the sill, sweet-smelling pastries cool, their deep purple blackberry filling peeking out from beneath the small pastry stars on top.

And there’s Olga, murmuring to herself in Russian as she prepares the teapot. You hang back, quietly watching as she fills the delicate gold and blue metal teapot with water, the malty aroma of the black tea leaves wafting through the air.

Black tea...Fyodor had a habit of choosing those tea leaves too.

Once the pot is on the stovetop, she looks back at you, mirth in her eyes, “Come, come dearie. Make yourself comfortable. The tea won’t be long.”

Murmuring your thanks, you sit somewhat awkwardly at the sturdy dining table. The timber groans beneath you, as if annoyed to be roused from its peaceful slumber. You grip your black skirt nervously, picking at your tights while keeping your head down.

What should you say to Olga about what happened?

Olga and her husband seemed to know Fyodor very well—so well, in fact, that you briefly wondered if they were related. Their bond was strong.

If you dared to say anything against him, would she defend him? Would she be angry with you for storming out, for yelling at the man she spoke of with such fondness and care?

Maybe she would even be heartbroken that you, the one supposedly doing so much good for Fyodor, would turn around and lash out at him.

You grip your skirt tighter, your knuckles turning white as a flurry of thoughts and consequences clutter your mind.

Suddenly, the loud whistle of the teapot jostles you from your internal struggle. You look up to see Olga humming peacefully to herself, organizing a wooden tray with the teapot, delicate teacups, and a few of those delicious-smelling pastries.

She carefully approaches the table, placing the tray in the center before she sits down.

As she begins pouring tea into the cups, she looks at you gently and asks, “Now, tell me, dearie. What happened?”

She gently glides the teacup and saucer towards you, the spoon left inside the cup. You gaze into the warm liquid, getting a small glimpse at your reflection.

The weight of your argument with Fyodor still weighs heavy on your mind as you let out a deep sigh. Picking up the spoon, you begin stirring the liquid as you finally speak up.

Whatever would happen after you explained yourself, good or bad…you would just have to accept it.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Honestly, who does she think she is?

Does she foolishly believe her own stubbornness will somehow be enough to stop the damage she is causing to herself? Perhaps I really should have a word to Vivian about her…unruly conduct…

Thoughts swirl like a snowstorm in Fyodor’s mind, his dark eyes scanning your translations but not fully taking them in. He huffs, flipping back to the first page before admitting defeat.

He tosses the pages back onto the rolling table, dropping his weary body onto the window seat in the living space, his hands raising to rub his face.

A mewl comes from his side as Tolstoy joins him, bumping his head against his ankle. He slumps onto his side, his paws gently batting at his shoe.

Fyodor gives an irritated huff, his eyes darkening as he looks down at the feline, “You’ve been pestering me all day.” He grumbles, standing and moving past the clingy feline.

He makes a beeline for the kitchen, the dark tabby on his heels, mewling and chirping almost urgently. He huffs, stopping at the table, “You have never been the clingy type, Tolstoy. I hope you do not intend to make this a permanent habit.”

The feline leaps up onto the dining table, mewling and nudging his broad head against Fyodor’s palm.

Tolstoy didn’t care about the complexities of human emotions and relationships. He was just a house cat, desiring nothing more than scratches and food. Fyodor couldn’t help but envy his simplicity right now.

With a sigh, he absentmindedly scratched behind Tolstoy’s ear, the cat purring contentedly as he settled against the table. Yet, his mind was far from the soothing rhythm of the moment; it wandered restlessly back to you.

What is it about the young that they believe themselves to be impervious? Where do they get this delusion that nothing awful will ever befall them, until they stumble headfirst into danger, as if the world were a playground rather than a battleground?

Fyodor knew this truth all too well; he, too, had once been young and naive, with dreams soaring above the mundane realities of life. A life free from troubles and strife. A true paradise. 

But you… with God as his witness, you seemed determined to earn the title of the most bullheaded human. Your fierce dedication was admirable, yet it danced dangerously close to folly. Did you not see the precarious edge upon which you teetered?

He recalled the way your eyes lit up when discussing your work, a flame that both intrigued and unnerved him. It was as if you were blind to the shadows lurking just beyond your fervor. How could he make you understand the balance between passion and prudence?

He huffs, a small smile playing on his lips. He wondered briefly if he had more grey hairs because of your impulsive, stubborn actions.

How many times had he found his mind wandering to you after you left for the evening, stressing and fretting like a mother hen?

Did she make it home alright? Did she eat? Is she taking the time to rest? How is her sleep schedule? She isn't staying up too late at night to work, is she?

His mind kept him awake a good extra hour each night as he stressed and worried about you.

It felt as if you were a tempest, sweeping through his carefully ordered life and leaving a trail of chaos in your wake.

Yet, there was something within that chaos. A certain warmth—a flicker of life that stirred something long dormant within him. He could almost picture you, fervently writing away at your translations, lost in the world of words, oblivious to the risks that accompanied such fervour with your condition.

It was infuriating, yes, but also undeniably captivating.

With a shake of his head, he forced himself to focus on Tolstoy’s rumbling, soft body, using the cat as a distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts.

Perhaps he should apologise for being so hard on you. Sit down with a warm meal and discuss things properly. Maybe he could even help you write the translations.

He just didn’t want to douse the flame of your passion.

After all, wasn’t it this very fire that made you who you were? Still, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. The world was far less forgiving than the safe cocoon you seemed to inhabit.

As he steps away from the dining table to brew a fresh pot of tea, he begins wondering if it was possible to find a proper way to guide you, without extinguishing that precious flame in your heart.

Above all, he wished to ensure you were ready for the challenging journey that awaited you.

The road ahead was fraught with uncertainty, and he feared it would be less about sunshine and rainbows and more about thorns and obstacles. His greatest hope was to prepare you for the trials that lay in your future.

He places the teapot onto the stovetop, reaching up into one of the cupboards. He retrieves the matching teacups, stepping towards the table to prepare everything for your return.

He huffs as he notices the once clingy, needy feline is now curled up, snoozing quietly at the end of the table. 

“I suppose you exhausted yourself chasing me around all day, hm?” He muses, resisting the urge to stroke Tolstoy’s soft fur, not wanting to risk the feline chasing him around for pats again.

As Fyodor leaves Tolstoy in peace, he hums softly and makes his way to the fridge, quietly sliding the door open.

His thoughts drift to what you might prefer for dinner upon your return. You had experimented with five different dishes this week, but most had earned only your disapproval so far. He surveys the remaining containers, a frown settling on his face. Given your past reactions, he doubted any of these meals would satisfy you.

He pauses, gripping the side of the fridge more tightly; whenever he was disinclined toward something heavy for dinner—or too preoccupied to prepare a proper meal—his mother would always offer him a warm bowl of манная каша.

A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he recalls how she would fill the bowl with nuts, fruits, and a drizzle of honey. Back then, he insisted that he didn’t need all the embellishments; plain porridge was sufficient. Yet, as he reflects now, he understands her desire to make it special and full of nutrients.

He reaches into the fruit box, only to find that with the season shifting toward Winter, the selection is limited to cranberries, apples, and pears. Disappointed, he crouches down and opens the freezer. There, next to the ice cube tray, sits a bag of frozen berries.

Perfect.

The sharp whistle of the teapot pulls him from his thoughts as he stands, the bag of frozen berries still in hand.

He places the berries on the countertop, removing the teapot from the stove, turning the hot plate off for the moment. Setting the steaming teapot at the center of the table, side by side with the teacups, he tries to recall where he last saw the bag of semolina when a sudden flurry of knocks at the door jolts him from his reverie.

You’re back already? But he hasn’t even had time to prepare the porridge. He calls out, his voice steady. “Come in, Огонёк.” After that, he heads toward the pantry, opening the doors to continue his search when another set of knocks echoes.

His lips press together in confusion as he closes the pantry. He was certain he hadn’t locked the door after you stormed out. Perhaps he had been too lost in thought to notice. But as he approaches the door, his frown deepens; it is indeed unlocked. He reaches for the handle, calling out, “Огонёк, the door is unlocked. Why are you—”

The door creaks open, a cold breeze sweeping in and playfully tousling Fyodor’s hair and coat. His eyes widen for a moment before returning to their usual calm.

Yes...that would explain why you weren’t opening the door.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

“--And so, that’s...what happened.”

Your retelling of events comes to a close, your fingers drumming against the table in a rhythmic motion. Your bandaged wrist rests tenderly on your thigh as you quickly add, “I know Mr. Dostoyevsky is only looking out for me. I know he doesn’t want me to end up in hospital or to lose the function in my hand…”

You pause.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the orange tabby trotting towards Olga, tail held high. She leaps up onto the grandmother’s inviting lap as you continue, “But this job, my work…it’s so important to me. I…” Your gaze drifts towards your bandaged wrist. You flex your fingers open slowly, “I want to be useful to Mr. Dostoyevsky. I have to be useful to him.”

Your fingers curl up tightly, causing another thunderous wave of pain to rush through your hand, into your wrist. You bite your bottom lip, suppressing those sounds of pain that threaten to leave you. Straining your voice, you continue, “His success as an author in the international world rests on my shoulders. If he fails, it’ll be entirely because of me…”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat, a shaky exhale escaping you as you stare at your hand—your stupid, wounded hand. Each pulse of pain feels like a reminder of what you suffered when you were small and vulnerable.

It's a burden you never asked for, a memory of your tainted youth...it looms over you like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash its fury.

Right now, that burden could cost you your job. Or worse; it could destroy Fyodor’s career as an author…and your own dream of becoming one. The weight of it all crushes your chest, tightening like a vice.

No…no, no…anything but that. Ruining your own dream was one thing, but dragging Fyodor down with you was unthinkable. You couldn’t let that happen. You couldn’t—

The sudden clink of Olga's teacup settling back onto its saucer jolts you from the whirlwind of thoughts in your mind, snapping you back to the present. Yet, the anxiety clings to you, heavy and suffocating. You swallow sharply, your breathing unsteady as you meet her gaze.

You had braced yourself for a scolding for daring to raise your voice at someone so important to her. Instead, you find warmth in her eyes—a glimmer of compassion that eases the weight on your chest.

A small, weary chuckle escapes her lips as she strokes the back of the tabby purring contentedly in her lap. “Oh, that sounds like our little Fedyka. I remember him scolding that rambunctious friend of his just like that so many times when they were young.”

Another chuckle follows, accompanied by a calm sigh. Her lips curve into a gentle smile, her eyes sparkling with a wisdom you can only dream of possessing. A flicker of hope ignites amid your anxiety, her presence wrapping around you like a comforting hug.

Olga leans forward, her gaze steady and reassuring. “My dear, I understand your need to push yourself. It sounds like you’re under immense pressure, feeling as if one misstep could make everything come crashing down.”

“But you must know his scolding came from a good place.” She leans back, her hand scratching the tabby behind the ears as she smiles warmly at you. “I know he worries for you, just as any good friend would.”

She pauses, allowing her words to settle before continuing. “I’ve watched over Fedyka since he was small. He has always been intent on ensuring the safety and well-being of those he cares for.”

Her gaze drifts to your bandaged wrist resting beneath the table. “I don’t mean to be rude, dear, but that fire in you—that passion and stubbornness—it’s a double-edged sword. While it drives you in your work, it’s also wounding you…causing you pain, isn’t it, dear?”

Her eyes return to yours, revealing a faint glimmer of nostalgia, of heartbreak beneath her warmth. “You are a determined young lady. But there’s a difference between determination and recklessness."

She reaches for the teapot, gently lifting it. “You should listen to him. I know you feel that everything rests on your shoulders, but it’s okay to take a step back. In fact, you should.”

As she refills her cup, her brows raise, and you feel the weight of her silent, parental scolding. “You were struggling to stir your tea just moments ago with that hand. I may understand your emotions and drive dearie, but that doesn’t mean I don’t agree with Fedyka.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, and you cough awkwardly, looking away. A fond chuckle escapes Olga as her tone softens further as she places the teapot back down. “I know that boy. Trust me when I say you can lean on him. In fact, I’d wager he’d prefer you rely on him than continue bearing this burden alone.”

You pause, the weight in your chest still heavy, a storm of thoughts brewing in your mind, looming and ready to engulf you. You glance up at Olga as she delicately sips her tea and blurt out, “But what if I’m the reason he—”

“Ah-ah,” Olga interjects gently, lowering her cup just enough to speak. “None of that, dearie.” She sets her cup down with care. “Your primary concern should be taking care of that wrist of yours.” Her gaze softens, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “Mitya and I want to see you succeed just as much as we want Fedyka to. So please…take his advice."

Your gaze turns downwards, gazing into the cold cup of tea before you. You stare hard at your own reflection, taking the time to really absorb Olga’s words.

Deep down, beneath your drive for success and your fear of failure, you knew she was right. If you didn’t stop and rest like Fyodor had told you to, you would ultimately be the reason for your own failure. 

Your gaze drops to the cold cup of tea in front of you, studying your reflection as you absorb Olga’s words. Deep down, beneath your ambition and fear of failure, you know she’s right. If you don’t heed Fyodor’s advice to rest, you risk being the architect of your own downfall.

Fyodor could find another translator if needed, but if you continued to push yourself, you might lose the use of your hand entirely. You have to stop, even if that thought fills you with reluctance.

Yet perhaps there’s a compromise to be made. If only you could talk to Fyodor—

“Thank you, Olga,” you murmur, your mind racing with thoughts of how to make this work without needing to stop completely. You lift your teacup and down the cold, sweet liquid in one swift gulp before adding, “I need to go.”

With a warm, almost motherly smile, Olga watches you rise from your chair, her trembling hand still stroking the orange tabby’s fur. “Go on, dearie. I’m sure he’s waiting for you.” As you move quickly toward the door, she calls out, “I’ll send Mitya around in the morning with some more tarts for you and Fedyka!”

With that, you step out of the cozy cottage, taking the cobblestone steps two at a time as you make your way back to Fyodor’s place. Your boots greet the cobblestone path as you hurry on, the gate groaning low as you shut it behind you.

Technically, you owe him an apology, don’t you? This isn’t the first time he’s scolded you for pushing yourself. Ultimately, Fyodor is just looking out for you, as any good boss and friend should.

A friend…

Warmth flutters in your chest as you step under the archway of flowers once more. The golden orb in the sky slips shyly over the treeline, casting elongated shadows that dance across the forest floor. Its rays shimmer and create a mosaic of bright highlights that ripple with the gentle movement of the water.

The sky is a canvas of pale blue, tinged with hints of orange and pink, hinting at the day’s slow descent while still holding on to the lingering warmth of afternoon.

The lake’s surface ripples faintly as if greeting you, even if you know otherwise.

A friend to Fyodor…those few little words had you smiling a goofy grin from ear to ear. You’d only been working for him for a few weeks, but you had grown more comfortable with him. Learnt more about him.

You’d learned his preferred tea leaves, his favorite meals, and his love for the cello and classical music.

You knew how he would endlessly gaze across the lake whenever you both sat outside. You even knew why he pursued this career path. You both cooked and ate together for every meal, chatting and joking with each other.

You spent five days a week, ten hours or more each day with him. Sure, those were your regular working hours, and it was part of your role to be there, but that had to count for something!

…Right?

You reach the cottage door just as your thoughts threaten to spiral into another overwhelming storm. Curling your non-dominant hand around the door handle, you twist it and push the door open, calling out, “Mr. Dostoyevsky! I’m–!”

Your voice catches in your throat as you take in the sight before you. Standing in the candlelit entryway of Fyodor’s cottage is someone else—someone you could swear you’ve seen before. His captivating eyes turn towards you.

You swallow your words, taking in his features: a strong jawline and an old scar that runs from the top of his left eyebrow, down across his left eye and halfway down his cheek. Yet, despite the prominent scar, his complexion remains fair.

"Handsome" is the first word that comes to mind.

One vibrant blue and one calm green eye scan you from head to toe, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips as he leans against the doorway leading into the living area.

Most of his hair, white and soft looking, like fallen dove feathers, is tied back into a thick braid cascading down his back, while the rest of his fluffy hair delicately frames his face.

He stands with his hands in the pockets of his grey woolen trench coat that covers his darker grey sweater and white scarf. He straightens up, tilting his head as he continues to appraise you.

Like Fyodor, this man speaks with a deep, gravelly voice, laced with a thick accent that’s subtly different from Fyodor’s. Ukrainian, perhaps? “Why hello there. You must be the brilliant assistant I’ve heard so much about.”

His heavy black boots click against the wooden floorboards as he steps closer, and you find yourself rooted in place, gripping the door handle slightly. He stops just a few steps away, towering over you— he's taller than Fyodor.

“I… I wouldn’t say brilliant—” you manage to reply, earning a deep chuckle from him.

“It’s wonderful to finally put a face to the name. And what a pretty face it is.” He reaches out, capturing your non-dominant hand and lifting it to kiss the back of your fingers softly.

Your heart skips a beat, any word you mumble coming out as a stutter. You cough, trying to find a response as his unique eyes lock onto yours.

Then realization hits you like a ton of bricks. He’s one of the men from the photo in Fyodor’s room. Keeping your voice steady, you gently pull your hand back. “You… you’re a friend of Mr. Dostoyevsky’s. I saw you in that photo he has in his room.”

His eyes flicker with recognition, his hands sliding into the pockets of his black trousers. He tilts his head slightly, the mischievous smirk never leaving his face. “Ah, that old thing? I’m surprised Fedya still has it.” He takes a step back. “But you are correct, Огонёк~ I am a very close friend of his.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his teasing tone.

“My name,” he says, his voice a charming timbre, “is Nikolai Gogol. But please, I insist. Call me Kolya, darling~”

𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡ © 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦

Next

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ (SorryifImissedanyone !)

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @cherridove @slowlyfoulenthusiast

Candles divider- @/firefly-graphics

Orange heart divider- @/adornedwithlight

[flurry-of-stars]

rip to my sanity

[flurry-of-stars]

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

*taps microphone* New chapter for These Hollow Halls coming soon--

[flurry-of-stars]

first post on a new art blog

[flurry-of-stars]

sigma truthers. i’ve come bearing food

I DREW HIS HAIR SHORTER THAN CANON IK srry the angle made me nerf your princess hair sigma…

[flurry-of-stars]

Lovely supporter, I hope this message finds you and your family in good health and high spirits.

This is Eman Zaqout a Biotechnologist and PhD student from Gaza. I've started a fundraising campaign and urgently need your help to spread it to the world, after losing my house and my job in the genocide in Gaza and living in a life that you can't bear watch it behind screens.

I hope you can take a look at my campaign on the pinned post on my profile, and help us by donating or sharing our campaign to reach the largest number of supporters.

Thank you for your continuous help for the Palestinian cause until freedom is achieved.

Please know that our campaign is verified by @90-ghost, @aces-and-angels

Hello! Thank you for reaching out!  Please take care there!! 💛

If you have the means to do so, please consider donating to Eman!! If you can't donate, please help by spreading this post!! 💛

[flurry-of-stars]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓑𝓪𝓫𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓮✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰: Dad Sigma x Fem Reader 𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓻𝓮: Family fluff, non-Ability AU, OC child (Lucia), just a dad looking after his newborn daughter, overprotective Sigma, mentions of the past (including slightly altered canon events) mentions of weapons (gun, coin bombs) 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: About 2k 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: I missed my man. I also wrote this way back in May jdnfjsdf Technically a sequel to this fic Inspired by a prompt I saw by @/bwoahtastic. Though I ended up rewording it a little! (´◡`) The prompt line was "Stay in bed, you dealt with them for 9 months. Now it's my turn."

It’s late. The world is in a state of complete tranquility. There’s the faint chirping of crickets outside, singing their soft, nightly melodies.

The distant sound of a car turning into an underground parking garage. The faintest noise of two teenagers, out and about, giggling and laughing down on the city street below. The atmosphere down here was completely different from that of the Sky Casino. Even on nights when he wouldn’t stay up working himself until he passed out at his desk, the entire casino would be as silent as the moon in the night sky.

It was so silent there he was certain you would be able to hear the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. He would draw his long black-out curtains closed, fill the oil diffuser with the blissful scents of vanilla and caramel and curl up in his soft, king-sized bed, his sheets wrapping around his body like one big, warm hug. It was a place of pure comfort and peace. He wasn’t sure he liked how much things had changed. A week before your due date, you insisted on moving into the new apartment that you and Sigma had purchased together. He had initially wanted to wait until after the birth of your daughter, but soon realized it was probably a good idea to stay at the apartment while the baby was still so young. Especially when he held the tiny baby girl for the first time. She was so fragile, so tiny and precious. An angel, he'd thought. The thought of something happening to her up on the Sky Casino and not receiving the medical attention she needs in time had sent the general manager into a spiral. So he agreed. Unfortunately, you’d gone into labour when no more than the nursery’s furniture had been bought and built.

So here Sigma was, trying to sleep on this old double bed mattress, with a frame that creaked and a mattress that sagged in the middle, and sheets that were made for a king-sized bed that he'd brought from the casino. Not to mention the odd smells he was catching a whiff of now and then. The drifting smells of tobacco from the lower apartments. The hints of diesel smoke whenever that one car from the complex over backfired.

And for the love of all that was right in the world, he was so sure whoever was cooking all that garlic must be fighting off a vampire invasion or something! He groans in displeasure, longing for his bedroom above the clouds until he feels you squirming at his side. He looks down at you, huddled up against him, arms gently wrapped around his frame.

He notices the exhaustion still present on your face. The discomfort. You needed all the rest you could get; the birth of your daughter had not been easy. With a gentle hand, he reaches over, running delicate fingers through your locks of hair. He twirls the lock slowly between his fingers, smiling affectionately down at you, his beloved wife. For all that was wrong with this apartment, you made everything feel right. He watches as a sleepy, sweet smile rises up onto your lips, your body squirming closer to his, a faint chuckle rolling off his tongue. However, before he loses himself to this precious moment completely, his ears twitch to the sound of soft whining coming from the bassinet next to the bed.

His gaze doesn’t leave you as you begin to stir almost instinctively. He can’t help but smile at how strongly your motherly instincts are shining through. Sigma leans down, pressing his lips to your cheek, his voice a soft whisper, “Shhh love. Go back to sleep…” “Mrm…but Lucia…” You mumble, your tone aching with exhaustion. Smiling tenderly at you, Sigma kisses your cheek again. “You need your sleep, Cara Mia,” he whispers softly, his ears twitching again as he hears the newborn's whimper growing more distressed. “You stay here. You did the hard work of carrying her for nine months. Now it’s my turn.” He watches over you as you grumble and whine but slowly settle back into bed, drifting back into the land of dreams. Running his fingers through your hair a final time, he gets up, the bed frame creaking as he steps towards the ruffled bassinet, catching a glimpse of his wiggling newborn daughter within. Her little hands, covered in her cute mittens wiggle, her cute little eyes looking around as she tries to reach up, whining and whimpering in distress.

With a soft smile and a gentle hum on his lips, Sigma very carefully reaches into the bassinet, carefully picking his daughter up. One hand supports her head and neck, the other cradles her bottom as he holds her to his chest, gently rocking her, “Shhh, shh…there, there my little angel. It’s okay…you’re okay…” As Lucia’s whimpers start growing louder, Sigma cringes. He was doing this right, wasn’t he? As you inhale deeply, his grey eyes dart anxiously towards you. Were you waking up again? No. No, he could handle this. The floorboards creak softly as he hurries towards the bedroom door, using his foot to slide the ajar door open before disappearing into the darkness of the apartment, Lucia still squirming and fussing in his arms. He rocks her softly, “Shh little one. The world is still at rest.” Maybe she was hungry? He hurries towards the fridge, remembering that you had pumped before you went to bed this evening and sure enough, he finds a few bottles full of breastmilk in the side door.

He turns, inserting the baby bottle into the bottle warmer. He was glad he managed to convince you was a necessary purchase. As he waits for the bottle to warm up, he rocks Lucia, her whining teeters on becoming a cry. He paces around, running his index finger so gently over her head, “There, there my little angel. It’s coming as fast as it can…” A sob escapes her, the mere sound of it shattering Sigma’s heart. He pulls her closer, kissing her forehead as he hums for her. Truth be told, Sigma was more than a little self-conscious about his singing and humming. Even after all your reassurance that he has a beautiful voice, he still couldn’t bring himself to believe it. But he was desperate to soothe his distressed daughter. So he hums for her, softly and sweetly. It's a gentle lullaby he’d heard one of his guests playing for their newborn a few years back. The melody had captured his heart, and he'd fallen in love with it.

He bounces her softly, keeping her head over his heart as her distressed whimpers quiet down. He paces the length of the small kitchen, keeping an eye on the bottle warmer as little Lucia starts trying to gnaw on her mitten.

He chuckles, encouraging her hand away from her mouth as he asks in a soft, loving voice, “Hmm…so mama’s influenced you to like my humming too, huh..? You really are her daughter…” As he murmurs those playful words, his eyes widen as Lucia opens her eyes, gazing up at her father. His heart stops as he meets his daughter’s soft grey eyes, just like his own.

His loving smile grows as he leans in, kissing her on the forehead as he chuckles, “But you’re also daddy’s girl too…my, what beautiful eyes you have, my angel…” At this, Lucia squeaks, earning another chuckle from her father. The bottle warmer finally beeps, encouraging Sigma over. Making sure to keep a warm, supportive hold on Lucia, he checks the temperature of the bottle just to be safe, moving towards the small rocking chair in the otherwise barren lounge area. Sitting down, he very carefully begins feeding Lucia, holding the bottle on a tilt as the baby care books he’d studied instructed him.

He listens to the soft sounds Lucia makes as she feeds, her tiny eyes closing. His eyes stay on her the entire time. Eventually, he relaxes completely, satisfied that he is doing a good job. “My little Lucia,” he whispers, the warmth of his daughter's tiny body pressing against his chest causing a wave of love to rush through his body. He watches over his newborn daughter with a protective, fatherly gaze, “Do you know how much we waited for you? How excited we were when we found out you were on the way?” He pauses as Lucia scrunches up her face. It was as if the tiny baby knew he wasn't being entirely honest. He chuckles quietly before he adds, “Okay, excited and scared, I suppose.” “But how could I not be afraid? Look at how tiny you are. Your little hands. That button nose…how fragile you are. I’m still scared to hold you sometimes..” He admits softly as the baby girl grunts softly. Sigma isn't sure if she's just enjoying her meal or agreeing with her father about her cuteness. His fingertips tremble anxiously as he softly caresses her head, being extremely gentle, “But when I look at you, my girl, the world feels right.” “I’ve made...many mistakes, my girl. Some that still haunt me to this day.” His gaze turns towards the glass balcony door, a heavy sigh escaping him, a faint shiver of fear running down his spine. Even now, some nights when he closed his eyes, he saw glimpses of the night you were almost killed in your search for the truth. In your determination to prove his innocence. That he had nothing to do with the coin bomb incident.

He still sees you, down on your knees, gun pointed between your eyes, refusing to hand over the evidence you'd worked so hard to get your hands on.

The evidence that would save him from a life behind bars. His voice is full of sorrow as he whispers, “Everyday, I wake up with the fear that my home will be shattered and torn from me for a second time…and I worry...I won't be able to stop it from happening again..." He shakes his head, his grey eyes firm with a fiery determination. He looks back at Lucia, noticing that she’s almost done drinking her milk, “But I swear to you, my angel, I will never let anything happen to you or your mother. I will fight to my last breath to keep you both safe if it comes to that.” “I don’t care if the world has to burn. I won’t let anyone hurt either of you again…” Suddenly, he blinks in surprise as Lucia finishes her bottle, yawning cutely up at him. His heart, blazing with the fire of an overprotective father and husband, is doused immediately. Putting the bottle aside, he lifts her, gently patting her back to help burp her. “I’m sorry Lucia, papa got a little too caught up in his emotions.” He smiles awkwardly, sighing as his hand rhythmically rubs and pats her little back. He takes a deep breath, those flames of protection calming back into the warmth of love, “I promise you Lucia, I’ll give you the best life you could ask for.” “Your mother and I will hold your hands and guide you every step of the way. You’ll never want for anything. I’ll make sure you grow up to be a strong girl. A smart girl. I’ll protect you from the dangers of this world and make sure you grow up to have a good heart, just like your mama…”

As the baby finally burps, Sigma chuckles, returning to cradling her before he begins rocking back and forth gently. She gazes up at her father, her little grey eyes twinkle as an adorable, toothless smile spreads across her face. His heart swells as he leans closer to her, kissing her little button nose. She makes a soft sound as she wiggles, her smile seeming to grow. “Papa will always be here for you. I’ll always be in your corner, my precious daughter, supporting you and cheering for you no matter what. I will always be so proud of you, my little angel. You are a blessing. A gift I never dreamed I’d receive…” Little Lucia yawns, curling up against her father. A few sleepy sounds escape her, her hands tucking in close to her chest as she drifts back to sleep.

Sigma’s lips quirk up into a warm, loving smile once more as he leans in, kissing her on the forehead one last time, “I love you, Lucia…with every fiber of my being. Not a day will go by that I don’t thank your mother and the universe for blessing us with you…” A soft yawn escapes Sigma as he continues rocking back and forth gently, finally feeling at ease. Sure, he was unsatisfied with the current state of the apartment. He was missing the Sky Casino and the familiarity he knew. But he wouldn’t trade Lucia or his wife for anything in the world. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @lunarmin716 @cherridove @slowlyfoulenthusiast

Dividers: @/saradika © 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦