#the littlest indication that things won't go his way make him panic on the inside

[regrettablewritings]

All the Write Words, Pt.I (Library AU! Vladimir Ranskahov x Reader)

Prologue Part II Part III Part IV Part V

The S. Lee Public Library was just two blocks shy of Hell’s Kitchen. It was nowhere near as grand as the New York City Public Library, having far more comfort and far less elegance with its surplus of carpeted floors and bean bag chairs, but it still managed to obtain its fair share of visitors who found its location more convenient and appearance less intimidating.

And yet it was amazing how tense the environment could become once you’ve added a 6-foot, scowling, scarred, tattooed Russian ex-con to the premises.

“Behave, listen, and don’t get any ideas,” Anatoly had told Vladimir as he dropped him off. Like a suburban soccer mom who didn’t know how to quiet down in front of her child’s friends. America, Vladimir decided, had made a pussy of his brother. The thought made his gut churn with fury and his teeth clench ferociously. He absolutely refused to let this damned program do the same to him. He opened the door as angrily and demanding as he could, which was difficult considering that the entrance had been structured so as to avoid creaking or slamming to preserve silence.

The Russian dared not walk at a quick pace. He’d let them do the waiting, whoever they were. Show them who was boss. Make these book-humpers his bitches. He made sure his walk was commanding, just as serious as the look on his face. It was just loud enough that the blonde teenaged girl at the check-out desk heard him coming across the carpet. The small smile she’d been trained to wear was quickly wiped away at the sight of her oncoming nightmare: a disgruntled, tall man-child who looked like he was ready to make a deal or make a fight.

“O-oh. Can – can I help you?” she squeaked. Vladimir smirked inwardly as he saw her nervously fingering at the book in her hands. He wordlessly handed her the brochure Anatoly had given him; the very one that started all this shit. The paperwork had been done before Vladimir had even been picked up, with the only remaining bit being his signature (which Anatoly forced out of him). He had no choice but to come, but he was sure as hell going to make it his choice as to whether or not this would be of any use.

“T-the . . . The reform program?” asked the blonde as her eyes flickered back and forth between Vladimir and the pamphlet. The Russian could tell by the way her voice wavered that just on site, she was already intimidated by his presence. The fact that her voice faltered dramatically while saying “reform” only confirmed this further. Good. Like hell I will let this little suka order me about.

“Da,” he responded lowly, expression unchanging. If she was going to act this way, might a well give her something to actually fear. He heard her gulp nervously.

“Oh. Yes, well. Um. I’m Karen,” she introduced. After a quick moment of hesitance, she offered her small hand for a complimentary salutations. After it became apparent that the scary man before her was not in the market for greetings, she slowly retracted it. To fill in the awkward silence, Karen continued, “I kind of intern here . . . Oh, but that’s not exactly important right now. Who you need to meet is (Y/N).” She offered a small smile that curiously made Vladimir suspect that it wasn’t forced at all. “She calls the shots around here, so it’s more important that you meet with her first so that you can get settled.”

Karen’s eyes flickered around the area before landing to a series of shelves located near the back of the building. She pointed at the area with a pen and said, “Last I checked, she should be back there somewhere restacking the Shakespeare collection. I’d show you where precisely but I’m kind of . . . busy . . .” Her voice dropped. It was a bullshit lie if Vladimir had ever seen one.

Vladimir knew that much and he was a combination of pissed and indifferent. He grunted an indication of understanding and took off. It was only when he was far enough from the desk that he realized: Oh shit, the bitch didn’t point him into the exact direction he was supposed to go in. Wait, why did her care? He could totally take advantage of this; a king doesn’t wait on peasants, he could probably just go into the faculty lounge, nick some snacks, and wait for this (Y/N) to find him in there. Vladimir felt a smirk form on his face for a moment. It quickly scurried away, however, when he realized that if he couldn’t read the sign for “Shake-sphere” or whatever, he damn sure couldn’t make out “faculty.” Damn.

He tried his best to not look as panicked as he was beginning to feel but it was more than just difficult: it was embarrassing. He came in here big and bad, ready to raise some hell. But after all that peacocking and whatnot, what did he have to support it? At this point, he couldn’t raise a pencil to write the section he was supposed to be looking in.

“Excuse me, sir, but is there something you’re looking for?” The calm voice somehow broke through the noise Vladimir was most certainly not having in his head. It was light, in that way a person makes their voice to sound more appealing to a potential customer.

“Sir? Can I help you?” She came from behind one of the stack shelves. If it weren’t for the air of leadership or the fact that she had an abundance of keys on a chain hanging from her pocket, he would have just assumed she was yet another peasant.

Having never been much of a reader (that was more so Anatoly’s field), Vladimir did not frequent libraries. He had little to no idea of the diversity of librarians, nor did he really care to know of it. His best idea of what a librarian would look like basically boiled down to two images: a pasty-skinned old white lady with glasses on a chain, wearing a dusty old cardigan and some sort of brooch; or a busty bespectacled younger woman in a pencil skirt, tight and barely buttoned shirt who would take her hair out of its conservative bun before she started sucking your dick in the back of the library stacks.

She was certainly younger than the first category (that, and she was black), but she also didn’t seem to be the blatantly fuckable type like the second. The tight-fitting clothes were nowhere to be seen, instead replaced with an old sweater and well-loved jeans and sneakers. She was short already at a distance, but as her proximity closed in, it was only made more painfully obvious. She was about up to his chest, though just barely. And that wasn’t including the height her poofy, curly dark hair gave her. The lighting overhead showed Vladimir that her skin was the familiar color of peanut paste: a warm brown, smooth-looking. Unfortunately, the look on her face didn’t look as sweet as the treat her complexion resembled.

It was a tired one, a focused one. If this were a fairytale, she would be the one who would attempt to call the ruler out on his foolishness and knock him from the throne. In many of those circumstances, she would have been successful.

“Da,” was Vladimir’s go-to response. If he made his Russian roots clear, then this pipsqueak would surely assume the worst of him and back off. But to his surprise, all he got from her was a nod.

“Ooohhh, you’re the new guy,” she said. She held out her hand, only without the balk that Karen had. Vladimir hesitated to take it but quickly thought that maybe his size compared to hers would throw her off. She didn’t seem fazed as he took her smaller hand into his larger, rougher ones. He made sure to angle his shakes so that one of his many arm tattoos would show. If this girl saw it, however, she didn’t react the way he wanted her to.

“I’m (Y/N). I’m your boss. And,” she let his hand go and made her voice airy in a mock hippie fashion, poising her hands to create an invisible rainbow, “your guide into your new life.” Vladimir swore his scowl was making his facial skin rip at this point. What this little suka mocking him? His teeth gritted when he heard her chuckle a little in sarcasm. “Seriously, though, welcome to the team, Mr . . . Ranskahov? Am I pronouncing it right?”

“Da,” he said lowly.

“Oh, good! Well, if you’ll just follow me to the back, we’ll get you settled with some final paperwork . . .” She was already wandering in the opposite direction before she finished her sentence. Vladimir strongly considered just standing there. He didn’t want to do a damn thing this tiny thing said, especially after her little mockery of his situation. But then he realized it was either follow her and play along, or stay put and look like an idiot. And possibly deal with the nagging wrath of Toly back home.

“You don’t say much, do you?” (Y/N)’s question broke the silence of the faculty lounge. All she needed for him to do was write his name on three sheets, including one waiver form. She simply assumed he was taking as long as he was because he was being difficult. The truth was that even though his own name was one of the very few things he could write in English, it was still done with some difficulty.

Vladimir glanced up with his signature glower. “What makes you say such?” he questioned, his thick accent breaking the silence even harder.

(Y/N) shrugged, “Well, for starters, that right there is the most you’ve said since you got here. So far, all you’ve said was ‘da.’ And I don’t really take you for the shy type, if I must be honest. It’s okay if you’re not a big talker but I’m telling you this now to help you: things will go much smoother if you at least pretend to enjoy the people you’re with.”

The man grunted in response before returning his sights on the ‘r’ in his first name. Things went quiet for only fifteen more seconds.

“But you know? Maybe it’s just a sign that you’re a great listener. So . . . Even if you don’t talk much, surely you’ll learn a lot. That’s great,” the poofy-haired girl added. Immediately, Vladimir felt his grip on the pen tighten. It would’ve snapped into an inky mess if he hadn’t quickly forced himself back into a state of vague composure.

“Behave, listen, don’t get any ideas,” Anatoly said from the depths of his skull. Behave, listen, no ideas. Behave, listen, give them Hell. Behave, listen, blackmail and bribe. Behave, listen, make them bow –

“Hey, are you okay?”

He glanced up at her. Her brows were furrowed enough to become visible beneath the curly pile of locks that fell on her face. “You’ve been on that page for quite a while . . . Look, I understand if you don’t want to be here but – ”

The pen flew in a chicken scratch-y mess across the designated lines – What the hell did these peasants know anyway, it could’ve been cursive for all they could muster up. Wordlessly, he shoved the papers towards her and focused his attention elsewhere. But everywhere he looked, there were words: On magnets, on posters, files, snacks, backpacks, textbooks belonging to the interns, magazines. All in English. All reminders of the main foe at hand. The one thing keeping him from doing whatever the hell he wanted.

He heard (Y/N) hum with approval as she looked over the papers. “Alright. We’re good. Thank you, Mr. Ranskahov, I think this’ll do just fine.” He already hated that smile of hers. It made her cheeks round and soft. Like a little animal he could prey on. He also decided that he hated those eyes of hers when she looked back up at him. They were dark brown, too dark to see her pupils. He couldn’t read her soul and make her feel as scared as he wanted to if he couldn’t pinpoint the exact image of the pupils. Fuck’s sake, this twit was like a conniving rabbit or something –

“—if that’s alright with you.”

“Hm?” Fuck, had he really just spent the entire time thinking about the power she already held over him? As a peasant to a king?!

(Y/N) made that chuckle he already hated. “I was just saying . . . Well, since technically I am the one in charge of you—” (Vladimir felt his eye twitch; [Y/N] didn’t notice, too busy looking for a folder to add his papers into) “—and since I’d like to make sure we’re in a less strict and imposing environment, I thought it’d be better if I just called you Vladimir instead of Mr. Ranskahov. Sound good?”

Vladimir’s facial muscles worked in harmony to keep everything as calm as possible: his nostrils couldn’t flair, his eyes couldn’t form an escalated glare, and his teeth couldn’t grit as loudly. The fucking nerve of this – naporistaya suka! Did she have any idea of what he’d done? The things he’d committed to earn him the tattoos, the scars? Was there a brain underneath all that hair? Did she have a deathwish?

Behave, listen, no ideas. Behave, listen, play along. Behave, listen, lead the rabbit into the den. Behave, listen, then go for the kill.

“Da,” Vladimir’s voice strained. He considered throwing in a smile but instantly decided that that was where he would draw the line in this charade.

Per what was becoming the norm, (Y/N) didn’t seem to notice and was the one doing the smiling once again. “Excellent! Well, we’re not very busy today and there’s not a whole lot I can really have you do until this paperwork is looked over . . . Sooooo . . . Yeah, you’re free to go. See you on Wednesday, Vladimir!”

And with that, (Y/N) turned and waltzed out of the faculty lounge into God knows where, her abundance of curls bouncing and keys jingling with every step.

Vladimir stood wordlessly in the lounge of the S. Lee Public Library for what felt like eons. The S. Lee Library was two blocks from the beginning of Hell’s Kitchen. Eight blocks away from the garage Anatoly would supposed to be at until 5 PM. Vladimir glanced at the clock: 11:47 AM. His face immediately exploded into a nostril-flaring, teeth-gritting, super-glaring mess. He hated those cheeks, those eyes, that laugh –

Fuck it, Vladimir thought as he stormed through the doors for the long, unwanted walk. I hate her!