#{ musings; sigma } | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

musamora · 10 months ago

Text

ɪᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ · ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ʙꜱᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ༉‧₊˚

featured. osamu dazai, chuuya nakahara, fyodor dostoevsky, nikolai gogol, sigma. content. f!reader. based on a request. mentions of alcohol (dazai), mentions of food, nicknames, slavic dishes. (minor) spoilers for stormbringer. translation at the end. not proofread.

author's note. this was an incredibly fun request! these men either shift between being incompetent, or not being reliant on others, so it took a sweet turn.

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

synopsis. the kitchen can be many things. a refuge from the toils of everyday life. a workshop for the creation of exquisite tastes. an assemblage of conversation over collaboration.

but one thing is certain—a well-endeavored meal can warm the coldest of hearts.

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 arrived home late one evening, tromping through the doorway with the confidence only a drunken man could muster. It had been one of those nights, ones in which he was all too aware of the hollowness of his own heart. One of those days where everything was too loud, the ones where he picked up every minuscule detail, whether he wanted to or not. So, he had taken to a drink or two to fill a void, only to dip into another—before he knew it, the room was spinning, and he found himself kicked out of the bar.

But he still had you to return to, so he gathered any soberness left within him and clambered to place his trench coat and shoes in the spots you had set out for them. He was glad you didn't hear him walk in. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been granted the opportunity to take in the view. You pranced around the kitchen, a lifted twirl in your heel as you stirred ingredients in a saucepan, the domestic mess of powders against your skin.

You were all his. The reason he had a home to return to. His sanctuary from his own mind. He often fretted—though he pretended not to—about the idea of you being taken away from him, a fact that he had come to accept as his reality. But in these simple moments, he allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy that you encompassed for a moment longer.

His arms fit snug around your waist, his head like a puzzle piece against the curve of your shoulder. "Is that for me?"

You hummed, pressing a peck on his cheek as you leaned into him.

"You'll always have a meal to return home to, Osamu."

Yeah. He'd indulge for just a little longer.

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 did not expect to pass out. He had returned home from a weeks-long mission overseas, anxiously awaiting the moment you reunited and ran into his arms—only for him to arrive early to an empty home. You were at work, and it wasn't his fault the couch clung to him like a vice! For a moment, he thought he had been dreaming of the fresh smell of savory pasta sauce and spices.

Wait. He can't dream.

He cracked open his eyes, his vision steadily straightening out, and trudged into the kitchen with a befuddled pout, his sight narrowing in on exactly what you had been up to.

"Babe."

"Chuuya!" you yelled, almost losing your grip on your spoon before you managed to catch it, clutching it close to your chest as you twisted the knob on the stove to place the heat at a simmer. "You scared me!"

His arms crossed as he leaned on the doorway. "What're you doing cooking in here by yourself?" he asked sternly, scanning the contents of the pot along with your face. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he was mad. But you did know better, catching onto the subtle tilt of his brow, narrowed in simultaneous amusement and disappointment. Cooking was often a partnered endeavor.

You couldn't resist laughter, cupping his cheek as if comforting an upset child. "You've had a long week, and you looked so peaceful lying there. I couldn't bring myself to disturb you."

He would've been quick to argue—you could wake him anytime, no matter the circumstance—but a thought overwhelmed him and kept his mouth at bay. You had done something for him, not with anything to gain, but simply because you cared. He was used to it happening the other way around, but this. . .this felt nice.

So, he relented, his ginger locks tickling your skin as he tucked his face into your neck with a sigh. "Thank you, baby."

𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 had been busy preparing the next phase of his plans, though you supposed he was always busy—too busy to take care of his own basic needs, that was for sure. He was always sorting through different data, exploring multiple angles to achieve his goals.

With the many tasks flooding his brain, he hardly had time to abandon his screens. The skin of his thumb had worn from his subconscious biting habit as he looked over another spreadsheet of banking information, his hands about to slide over the keys yet again.

The scent of stroganoff stirred him from his trance. His eyes shifted to find a steaming plate of the delectable dish sitting next to him on the desk. And he finally registered the firm hand propped against his shoulder, with you looking upon him from above with a sweet but knowing smile.

"Eat."

He wouldn't have customarily taken kindly to such a harsh demand, but he bent to the stern look of your gaze, one that hid behind it a level of care he ravenously craved. You worried for him, not in the same fashion as his so-called "friends," but with the genuine desire to see him thrive, no matter the circumstance.

So, the demon allowed himself a momentary reprieve, kissing a smile into your hand before taking a bite of the dish.

"Delicious, as always, моя милая."

𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈 had practically burst through the door, prepared to recount the travesties and trials of his day. That was until he caught onto the unmistakable scent of savory pirozhki filling. He followed his nose like a bloodhound, the smell creating a distinct path into the kitchen, where you stood, unaware of the man behind you as you mixed spices into a pan.

"What'cha cooking, dove?" His breath bristled against your ear as he sprung up next to you, using his ability with a shit-eating grin. Your expression mirrored his own, used to the stint of your lover's sudden appearances.

"I found some old Ukrainian recipes online and wanted to try them out." You held out a spoon, and he bit into the filling without a second thought—a mistake. He clutched his throat as his eyes watered, realizing it was too hot for consumption far too late. He finally managed to choke it down, releasing a loud whew!

"Trying to kill me so soon! How cruel!" he exclaimed.

Your laughter roared throughout your home, a shaking hand rubbing his back as you wiped tears from your eyes with the other. "Is it good?"

He brought a finger up to stroke his non-existent beard, humming a quick tune. "Hmm, perhaps a cup of chili powder."

"Коля," you deadpanned. "That's too much."

He sighed, a pout settled on his lips, but you caught the hand sneaking into the interior of his overcoat, snatching his wrist before he poured something irreversible into your dish. He cackled, attempting to pull away as you chased him around the kitchen island.

For a moment, it felt as if you were the only two people in the world—free of restraint. He could feel the bonds tied around him loosen. He could reach out, taste that sensation of freedom for himself. A freedom he had always found in you.

𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐌𝐀 had arrived back to his section of the Sky Casino earlier than he expected, having a strange lack of paperwork. But he simply decided to take it as a sign that he had been doing good work, and ignored the anxious feelings that always sprung from not having anything to do.

"I'm home—!" he called, but was stopped in the entryway by a sweet aroma. It was intoxicating, and he couldn't resist the temptation to lurk into the kitchen.

"Welcome home, honey!" you called back, your voice echoing down the hallway. He stripped himself of his coat, leaving it folded on one of the benches before he trekked across the threshold, a curious shift in his furrowed brow.

You were baking cookies, fluffy chocolate-chip cookies. He couldn't resist the smile on his face, even if he wanted to, nor could he ignore the bubbling warmth in his heart. But he couldn't help his confusion.

"Cookies?" he asked, dipping his finger into a batch of dough before he popped it into his mouth. "What's the occasion?"

You swiped at him with a flour-coated hand before dusting the rest of it off on a towel. "You've been busy lately, so I wanted to make you something sweet," you stated as if it were the simplest thing. But those few simple words took him aback.

You cooked for him. No one had ever done that before, not without being an employee or attempting to manipulate him—or both. And in a matter of seconds, only enough to let in a sweep of hot air from the oven to warm his skin, he realized something that had long remained empty had been filled. He felt whole.

"Sigma!" you exclaimed, and he realized that he had tears streaming down his face. The look of concern drawn through your strained lips, your furrowed brow, and your shifting eyes only further set in his new reality—he had his family. He had found his home.

"I'm okay, love. Just. . .thank you."

моя милая = my dear коля = kolya

TAGLIST: @lovedazai @osameowdazai @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @ajaxism @himikoslove @little-miss-chaoss @justcallmesakira @sillyspookycat @aureatchi @mxxny-lupin @emyyy007 @betweensinners

691 notes · View notes

musamora · 1 year ago

Text

𝖓𝖎𝖈𝖐𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖘 「𝔪𝔲𝔩𝔱𝔦」 ༉‧₊˚

characters. bungou stray dogs. osamu dazai, chuuya nakahara, fyodor dostoevsky, nikolai gogol, sigma.

content. f!reader. mentions of violence, mentions of suicide attempts (dazai), alcohol (chuuya), harassment (chuuya), cussing, general sappiness. not proofread.

author's note. this started as a writing exercise to get my writing inspo flowing again, and then i began working on it on and off for a week. so enjoy! this is also an attempt to nail some of their character's down, so hopefully it isn't too OOC.

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

synopsis. what nicknames do the bungo stray dogs boys call their girlfriend?

𝗢𝗦𝗔𝗠𝗨 𝗗𝗔𝗭𝗔𝗜 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥 ⋆ 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗔𝗗𝗢𝗡𝗡𝗔 ⋆ (𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘)-𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡

The darkened alleyway had become thick with the stench of gunpowder and smoke, streetlights barely illuminating your path in the hush of night. You patrolled the area with quick, swift feet, hovering your gun near your hip in case of an ambush. Each step made your heart pound, sweat mixing with humidity to drench your skin as you inched toward the corner.

However, to both your dismay and prediction, Dazai wasn't taking this mission seriously—though he rarely did. It both aggravated and appeased you, knowing that if the situation became dangerous, he'd straighten up in a heartbeat. That didn't mean that his blissed smile and the skip in his step as he went on about the euphoria of death and the many methods he could die from didn't unnerve you.

Knowing him, he wouldn't mind getting shot.

"You know, my dear," he smirked, leaning close to your shoulder to whisper into your ear. "You're very sexy when you're serious." "Dazai," you chided, face stilled into an unamused expression. He fell back dramatically, flailing his hands into the air in surrender. "Oh, belladonna! That stern stare — I hope that beautiful expression is the last sight I see in this cruel world!" he cried, but much to his disdain, you had already rounded the corner, completely done with his antics. "(Name)-channnn!~ Don't leave me hereeee!"

𝗦𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗧𝗜𝗘 ⋆ 𝗛𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗬 ⋆ 𝗪𝗜𝗙𝗘𝗬

It had been a strenuous day at the office for everyone, including you—a plethora of insane missions always followed by mountains of paperwork that never seemed to end. It was almost too much to bear. You huffed, leaning against your hand as you desperately tried to not fall asleep due to your exhaustion.

A pair of large, warm hands rested on your shoulders, massaging just the right spots in your taut muscles. You sighed, allowing yourself to lean back in your chair and enjoy the temporary reprieve. However, the owner of those hands had different plans, hot breath blowing against your ear as he bent down to rest his chin on your shoulder. Dazai chuckled to himself, enjoying your immediate reaction to straighten up, eyes pointed to the screen in an effort to avoid reacting.

You were just too cute.

He cooed out a plethora of sweet nothings in a low, hushed timbre as he tempted a flustered expression out of your face. And one thing that everyone should know about Osamu Dazai—he always gets what he wants when he puts his mind to it.

"Heyyy, sweetie. How's the paperwork going?" You continued to type. "Why won't you pay attention to me!" he wailed, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he slumped against you. "Come onnn, honey. Don't you love me anymore?" You typed harder. He sniffled. "My little wifey doesn't love me anymore." You paused. "Whaat? Too forward?"

𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗙𝗨𝗟

Only strays wandered the streets at this time of night, but Dazai found himself itching to join them with each passing second. Sleep never easily came to the former demon prodigy. He found that each time he closed his eyes, he was only met with flashes of the past and disillusions of the future. His sharp mind would continue to turn like a machine, processing every granule of information as if he were inspecting an hourglass—a process that had become routine for him.

"Osamu..."

However, your intrusion into his nightfall rituals had soothed his instinctual aches. His eyes glazed over your drowsy figure, admiring the displacement of your hair and the heaviness of your eyes with an emotion he could only describe as awe.

Because in these moments, you didn't even have to be awake and looking at him to make him feel invigorated—feel alive. And with you, he didn't hate being alive anymore, didn't hate acknowledging his human flaws and issues. He just embraced it, even for only a second.

The rational part of his brain dissipated when he felt your warm, bare skin brush against his bandages, snuggling up to him. He knew his brain became useless in your presence, overcome with pure adulation for your mind, your body, and your very soul. So instead, he pulled you close, nuzzling his face in your neck and listening to the rhythmic pulse of your heart as it worked to soothe him to sleep.

"Good night, beautiful."

𝗖𝗛𝗨𝗨𝗬𝗔 𝗡𝗔𝗞𝗔𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗘

The murmurs of the restaurant had been dampened by a luxurious and vast velvet curtain, enclosing the entire booth to separate you from the other patrons. Lights sparkled from a dazzling chandelier, creating ribbons of gold and white on the tablecloth. This was a special occasion since you rarely had dates outside of your apartment. Chuuya always wanted to take you out more often, to show you off and treat you to the finest, but there never was time. So even when you insisted you could stay inside for a date this evening, he had already planned on spoiling you rotten.

He watched your expression between folded hands, hiding his smirk as the waiter set down an extremely expensive bottle of red wine. You had insisted on getting the more recent and cheaper version, not wanting to splurge too much—which, of course, insulted him. How could he not provide the best for his partner whenever he got the chance?

"Stop gaping, babe," he tutted at your widened eyes, tone lighter than the biting edge it usually held. "Whaddya say we snap over the 1959 Chateau Latour, hm?"

𝗗𝗢𝗟𝗟 ⋆ 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬

You had been working the late shift at your office building, slaving the day away only to come out on the other side with an aching back and a small paycheck. Despite Chuuya's suggestion that you could quit your job and let him take care of you, you wanted to maintain your independence and some additional money, which he understood. So here you were, trudging home from the train station with heavy feet and tired eyes. Seeing the apartment complex in the distance made your heart soar, a pep in your step as you started to practically glide down the sidewalk.

"Heyyyy, baby. Lookin' good tonight. That outfit for me, huh?"

Grimacing, you ignored the disgusting cat-calls from the random stranger in favor of increasing your speed to reach the building. You could practically smell the woody cologne coming from Chuuya's jacket, but your blissful thoughts were interrupted by a set of hefty footsteps behind you. This would've been normal during the day, but no one else is out this late at night—except one person.

With tremoring fingers, you lifted your cell phone ever-so-slightly, finding that strange man walking at a brisk pace behind you in the reflection. It set off too many alarm bells in your head, and your walking turned into sprinting.

It just so happened that Chuuya was leaning on one of the pillars outside of your apartment complex. He never liked when you worked the late-shift, and he definitely didn't like when you walked home by yourself—however, you had insisted that you would be fine. He relented, enjoying the independent aspect of your personality, but he still had his precautions.

He straightened up with a passive expression when he saw your shadowed silhouette in the distance, but his eyes narrowed, and his shoulders tensed once he spotted the man who was running after you. Using his gravity manipulation, he pulled you closer to him and had the pervert sink into the ground, sizing him up with burning eyes.

His gloved hand went to your back, easing your trembling body. "Go inside, baby. You don't need'ta be involved in this shit." He watched carefully as you rushed inside the lobby, before slamming the man onto the hard concrete, a foot digging into his spine. "Listen, shithead. You ever look at my doll again, I fucking swear to God—" He never let you walk home alone after this, not like you were complaining much. And that man would never bother you again, if he was even still capable of walking.

𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦

It had been an absolutely draining day for Chuuya. With his position as an executive, you would assume that he wouldn't have to deal with the low-life freeloaders that the Port Mafia was bound to have, but it was exactly the opposite. He had been stuck for hours finishing a bunch of incident reports due to the destruction of properties on the southwestern side of Yokohama—incidents he was somehow not involved in.

He groaned as he entered the apartment, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it with his hat before a hearty aroma hit him. He followed his nose to the stove, finding an intricately wrapped dish with a note taped on top.

Make sure you eat before you go to bed. You need to grow big and strong. Love you! ♥

If it were from anyone else, he would've ripped the note apart when he hit the jab at his height—and he definitely scowled a bit—but there was a hint of endearance in his expression. He lifted the tin foil covering the food, feasting on the sight of penne alla vodka.

A raspy sound took him out of his ogling, his eyes scanning the darkened living room to find the one person he had been dying to see—you. And what a sight you were, drool trailed down your chin, a half-empty dish of pasta lying limply in your arms, and hair tousled as your neck bent at an awkward angle to rest against the cushions.

He couldn't help a small laugh at the sight, placing your plate on the coffee table and wiping the baby hairs out of your face, leaving a fleeting kiss on your forehead. In moments like this, with the disarray and train wreck his life had been, he found himself grateful for such simple, domestic sights. It enveloped him in a sense of peace, feeling at home for the first time.

"Hey, princess," he whispered with another peck to your temple. "I'm home."

𝗙𝗬𝗢𝗗𝗢𝗥 𝗗𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗘𝗩𝗦𝗞𝗬 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

The pet names featured below are in Russian.

𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥

Fyodor rarely, if ever, used nicknames of any kind in public. With his specific occupation, it would be detrimental to reveal any kind of attachment to anyone, regardless of whether you were capable of defending yourself. However, rarely does not mean never.

It was an unusual occasion; a completely public date at a local café—you knew that he loved his tea and suggested it in the off-chance that it would possibly sway him to join you. You assumed that he'd say no, but he always found himself having a hard time denying you when you proposed it so sweetly.

However, you knew that you needed to be efficient with your time. You enjoy each other's company in a secluded corner of the café while also multitasking on your own work. The room emitted a wonderful ambiance that made you feel productive and inspired, though it was simultaneously cozy enough to relax in—for you, that was. Most of Fyodor's work required him to be in seclusion, so instead he enjoyed the view—both of the skies outside and a couple of stray glimpses at you.

"Drink for (Name)," a barista called.

Fyodor looked toward you expectantly, but you were far too in your own little world to notice. He would've normally broken your workflow, but he found himself oddly compelled to let you continue—he was awfully fond of the way your brows narrowed as you concentrated. So instead, he retrieved your drink, settling it on the table with a small clink.

"Here you are, dear."

𝗠𝗜𝗟𝗔𝗬𝗔 (милая) ⋆ 𝗥𝗔𝗗𝗡𝗔𝗬𝗔 (радная) ⋆ 𝗟𝗨𝗕𝗜𝗠𝗔𝗬𝗔 (любимая)

It was in the privacy of your shared home that his native tongue came out, engrossing you with his rich Russian accent—he knew the effect it had on you, so sometimes he toyed around with you by slipping it into everyday interactions.

You walked into his computer room, careful to not trip on wires as you carried in a steaming thermal mug of fresh black tea. He was often far too engrossed in his work to eat or drink, so you found the least you could do was to make him some tea whenever you weren't busy.

You placed it next to him, leaning over to take a curious glance at the screen—not understanding a word of it—and you were about to silently exit when he placed a cold hand on top of yours. Your brow raised, watching the smile that appeared on his lips.

"Thank you, милая." You sputtered over your words at the praise, watching in anticipation as he took a sip. He hummed at the nectarous flavor, slouching as the tea worked to soothe his throat. The tea circled in the mug as he swirled it, watching carefully as he could feel your composure melt away. "Delicious as always, радная." You mumbled a quick thank you, turning like a gazelle on your heel to escape his predatory gaze, but his hand pulled you back. Completely captive in his hold, you looked back, a knowing smirk on his face. "Stay for a moment, любимая. I'd like to hear your thoughts on something."

𝗠𝗬𝗦𝗛𝗞𝗔 (мышка)

You honestly had no clue how you had gotten into this position.

One moment, you were cleaning around various rooms, making sure everything was dusted and organized. The next, you were sitting in Fyodor's lap—though you couldn't say you minded. An occasional hum vibrated against the top of your head as Fyodor concentrated on a book in one hand, the other fastened securely around your waist, rubbing circles into the clothed skin.

It took every ounce of self-control you had to limit your face to a neutral glance, staring at the words in his Russian novel as if you were trying to decipher them—you were; you didn't know a lick of the language. You leaned against his shoulder, listening to the faint thump of his heartbeat as it lured you into relaxation. His eyes began to drift from the page, finding your internal struggle incredibly amusing. He titled his face, holding back a smirk when you made a startled noise from a kiss to the temple.

Cute.

In these moments, he felt human again. Everywhere else in the world, he was either treated as a god or a demon—and that was the way he had orchestrated it. But here, in the home you both created, he felt that he had finally received his sanctuary. A place where he sat, welcomed and unjudged for his sins.

"You're quite warm, мышка," he teased. "Perhaps you are developing fever. Hm?"

𝗡𝗜𝗞𝗢𝗟𝗔𝗜 𝗚𝗢𝗚𝗢𝗟 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

The pet names featured below are in Ukrainian.

𝗟𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗞𝗔 (ластівка)

The fluorescent lights above burned your eyes as you scoured the aisles of the store aimlessly. You were on your weekly grocery run but had decided to make something different for dinner this week. There was only one problem—you didn't know where the ingredients were. You normally would've just asked one of the staff members, but you had unfortunately come into the store at a very late hour. Every time you looked at an employee, their eyes were glazed over as if wishing for the sweet release of death. So you decided to search on your own.

You scanned the shelves for a particular dressing, not finding it in its usual spot. It was only with a quick glance to the top shelf that you found it, teetering on the edge as if tempting you. Gritting your teeth, you outstretched your arm as you braced your other one on a lower shelf, only to shriek at the feeling of two hands supporting your hips. You whipped around to find the pervert who had touched you but found nothing. And then you looked down.

Damn him.

Two familiar gloves emerged from golden portals, and a mischievous chuckle accompanied their exit from down the aisle. You looked the white-haired jester up and down, crossing your arms with a pout.

"Did you have to startle me like that?" "Ohhh, sorry, ластівка," he cooed. "I only want to say hello!~"

𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗞𝗔 𝗠𝗢𝗬𝗔 (маленька моя) ⋆ 𝗠𝗢𝗬𝗔 𝗞𝗢𝗞𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗔 (моя кохана)

How did you manage to get into this mess?

Oh yeah, Nikolai suggested it.

The classic jester, in his hobby of wreaking havoc everywhere he goes, suggested a fun date-night idea—to light bin fires around the alleys of Yokohama until the police caught on. At first, you had been chasing after him in an attempt to stop him, but it had all been in vain. He would let you grab him, only to chuckle as he teleported away with his cape. So instead, you opted to stick by his side and make sure he didn't cause too much harm.

You stood a couple of feet away from the blazing fire, your body resting in the tranquil glow of the chaotic light. Despite the oddities that came with the situation—and every situation that involved Nikolai—there was something so welcoming about the discord. Perhaps you had finally become used to Nikolai's antics. The aforementioned jester had been gaping at you for some time, an unreadable expression on his face as he watched your features through the fire.

"You look breathtaking in the glow of a flame, маленька моя."You stilled at his serious tone, fumbling over a response, but a crescendoing wail of sirens broke the silence. Nikolai smirked, grabbing your arm with one hand as the other went into his overcoat. "Oops!~ Looks like the police caught on. Come on, моя кохана! This way!"

𝗗𝗨𝗦𝗛𝗔 𝗠𝗢𝗬𝗔 (душа моя)

A refreshing breeze rushed past your face as you settled, watching the sun make its descent below the horizon of the city's harbor. Your legs dangled dangerously over the edge of a steep cliffside, yet you found no fear remaining in your heart. Perhaps you have become accustomed to a life of chaos; find beauty in the entropy and contradictions of life.

Nikolai couldn't help but stare at your face as it was outlined by the shadows of the dying sunbeams, awe-struck by your beauty. You were ethereal to him, everything he ever wanted to be and wished to have—so grounded and yet freer than ever. He knew that the relationship between you two, something neither of you had dared to label, should've made him feel constricted. It tied him down to the ground, and he should've been fighting for the skies.

But he didn't.

He felt free. And he knew that it was most likely his heart tricking him, stringing him to a relationship that would disappear with the wind—that he had truly become the fool everyone thought of him as. But he didn't care. Not anymore. Not with you by his side.

He snapped out of his philosophical contemplation as a soft hand cupped his cheek, thumbing at the performative mask that he wore. And he folded it like a deck of cards, removing it before placing a chaste kiss on your palm.

"Somehow, I feel freer than ever before. And it's all thanks to you, душа моя."

𝗦𝗜𝗚𝗠𝗔 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥 ⋆ 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗧

It was a known fact that the Casino's manager had a rigid schedule, packed with meetings and event dates that he had to prepare for. Everything had to run perfectly inside his casino, and he would be damned if it didn't. However, Sigma always made it a mission to purposefully bump into you throughout the day. He had memorized your schedule easily, finding that there was only so much you could do in a finite building in the sky.

He would often find you either in the library or viewing deck, either in your own world reading a book or watching the real world from the skies. Even he had to admit that he could never get tired of the sight of the Earth from down below, contemplating the lives of those who lived on the ground.

"Good morning, dear," he greeted you at the entrance of the viewing deck, noticing a stack of books in your arms. "I see your trip to the library went well." "It was. I'm going to thumb through the newest shipment of fiction novels this afternoon," you replied, your hand already tapping on one of the hardcovers in anticipation. Sigma always made sure to buy the best books for the casino, and you knew he was often swayed by your own favorites. "I'm glad you're so interested in them." He knowingly smiled before a memory came to mind. "Could you hold off your reading for one moment, dearest? I've received a new layout for our casino's fliers and was hoping you'd take a look."

𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 ⋆ 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬 ⋆ 𝗦𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧

The anxious casino manager often forgot to eat because of his destructive work habits, often going hours without consuming anything in order to constantly maintain peace in his casino. It was a terrible habit that caused more stress for both of you, so you decided to enact a plan. Whenever you noticed his workload was becoming too much or he seemed too frazzled, you'd step in to make sure he was getting everything he needed.

A small (underlying word: large) part of him secretly reveled in this, both having the opportunity to be doted on—and be simultaneously scolded—while also relishing in a couple stress-free moments with you. And he also gets to enjoy your cooking, which he personally found better than the casino chefs'—but that's because he was biased.

On his worst days, you'd prance into his office after the casino lunch rush, carrying in tow a small bento packed with his favorite comfort foods and a cookie for dessert. He would look up from whatever paperwork he was slaving away on, a small smile on his tired face.

"Thank you, my love." "You really need to eat more, Sigma," you lectured, placing the bento on his desk to take his face into your hands, analyzing his eye-bags with a concerned expression. "You're gonna get sick." "I'm fine, lovely," he replied, cupping your hands with his own. "You don't need to worry about me." You struck him with a pointed glare, crossing your arms and tapping your foot as he began to work on paperwork again. The clock ticked by a couple of seconds, your maternal scowl deepening with each moment that passed where he didn't reach for the food. "Sweetheart," he sighed before relenting and reaching for the bento. "Fine. For you, I'll eat some. But only until C4276 finishes his blackjack game."

𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗠𝗬 𝗟𝗜𝗙𝗘

The casino had been blasting with the sounds of the band in full swing long into the night, people dancing and chatting amongst themselves as the casino reached the peak of its ability. This new gala had been an exhilarating success, drawing in new patrons as cash flowed out from dealers' hands. It had been perfect, but it was obviously a lot on Sigma.

That was the reason you insisted on co-hosting it with him. He watched in amazement as you worked the crowd tonight, acting in concert to keep the patrons happy and to maintain order. You had been his perfect match, which showed just how much you watched over the casino.

He found you later that night standing on your private balcony, pausing at the entry to fully take in how beautiful you looked in your formal ensemble. The stars seemed to drift to your body like a satellite, casting you in a distant heavenly glow. But everything was silent as if you two were the only ones left to watch over the world as the clouds wandered by.

The anxiety and fear he always felt had been pushed to the side, melting away with the utter sense of belonging that you had engrained into him. You had shown him that he wasn't a mediocre man but a capable and strong individual capable of loving and being loved. You turned as the balcony door shifted open, welcoming him into both your arms and heart.

And he fell for you even more.

"Ohh, love of my life," he mumbled, nuzzled into your shoulder. "What would I be without you?"

милая = dear/darling радная = dear любимая = beloved мышка = mouse ластівка = swallow (bird) маленька моя = my little one моя кохана = my love душа моя = my soul

TAGLIST: @imhandicapableofmath @seisitive @solandiss @ruru-kiss @sillyspookycat @kotysluny

1K notes · View notes