It wasn't a secret that Kento Nanami is a romantic at heart; dreaming of a white picket fence life. A wife, kids, all that jazz. However, how he lived his life wasn't exactly marriage material. He swore that he wouldn't fall in love with anyone. He erected walls around his heart, guarding it behind lock and key.
And it worked. Until you came along.
You, with those long lashes and gorgeous eyes. That smile and oh how soft your hands were when they accidentally brushed against his, how you always spluttered out “sorry,” quickly and quietly - his demeanor didn't give anything away, but he felt like he was burning from the inside out whenever he was in your presence.
He started to linger around you, wishing to just listen to your voice or feel that electric buzz of cursed energy that flowed in and around you - unique, just like anything and everything else about you. Although quiet, he was satisfied. Did you think he was weird? Perhaps you did. But for Kento, being was enough.
“It isn't worth the hassle,” he tells himself. After all, he'll probably die early. On a mission. He probably wouldn't be grieved if he died right now. And you don't deserve that instability. You deserved a man that could come home, guaranteed, every single day. You deserve someone that could strike up a conversation with you so easily. Just like Gojo—
The mere thought has him fuming in a way he has no right to. Of course, you could choose to be with anyone you wanted. Still, the mere thought of Gojo Satoru, of anyone that wasn't him, being the only person to have the exclusivity of your affections, of those discreet glances, of knowing you like he wants to, has his heart thrumming against his ribcage at an unsteady rhythm and his jaw clenching like he wanted to chew on his own teeth. No, pulverice his own teeth.
Little by little, pebble by pebble, you have, unknowingly, broken down the barriers that Kento Nanami had built around his heart. All with just being there, doing nothing but existing.
“It isn't worth the hassle,” that's something he keeps telling himself, but he's made up his mind.
He's completely devoted to you.
Small gestures such as buying your favorite drink from the vending machine because he's seen you drink the same thing every time. Offering you some “spare” lunch because he “accidentally” made too much food yesterday. Giving you a ride home because “it's on his way” (it isn't). Finding little excuses every day so he could spend time with you. So he could get to know you outside of fighting curses or bad-mouthing the higher ups or teaching the students.
Kento Nanami, as previously mentioned, is a romantic at heart. He fully believes you're the woman that's supposed to be his until death do you part, but he just… Can't bring himself to do this to himself. To you. What if he doesn't come home again? What if he gets too injured by a curse and he's not the same again?
But even as the thoughts plague his mind and make his face contort into a worried expression, your presence eases his heart. Your presence, your soft “hey, what's up?” And he can just smile - a tiny one, sure, but a smile nonetheless.
“It's nothing,” he replied, “thinking about some curse.” Love is the most twisted curse, isn't it? Inserting itself like a nasty maggot and eating his dead insides and replacing them with a warm fuzzy feeling all over, a crave for you. A need for you, you, you, you.
Over the course of a couple of months, you've been growing closer to one another. Close enough to know you're not just a friend, but someone he holds dearly. Someone he cares about. Someone he loves against his will.
He remembers the first time you called him by his name. Until then, you've only called him Nanami - which is fine. He prefers professionalism while on the clock, but it slipped out of your lips so naturally, so easy. Like it was meant to be.
A curse had hit him. A Special Grade grade - it was supposed to be a lower grade. Still, he got too careless, and the curse hit him. “Kento!” You had yelled out, and, despite the pain that radiated through his entire body, he could still feel the movement of that nasty love maggot eating away at the last of his dead insides to make space for all of you. The last pebble of the wall around his heart being destroyed like it was never there.
“It isn't worth the hassle,” he tries convincing himself but loving you is like second nature to him. Running to shield you from a cursed energy hit, only to see you do the same for him. Loving and protecting you comes like breathing to him - no, like having a heartbeat. It wasn't a hassle. It was in his nature.
“It isn't worth the hassle,” but as he sees your worried expression and he brushes his thumb along your cheekbone with relief painted delicately over his features, he can't help but give you a kiss to your forehead and wrap two strong arms around you, keeping you close to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, a silent reminder that he was here. Alive. Safe. Just like you were. And he has to remind himself that this isn't a hassle. This isn't a chore. This isn't something he's expected to do - he just does it.
The silence after the fight settled. The air was crinkling with energy, his entire body was shaking with adrenaline and he could feel you, too.
“Darling,” he finally murmured against your hair, closing his eyes and allowing himself to relax. "I'm here." He assured you, his caresses on your hair and back a silent confession to his feelings.
Kento Nanami is a romantic at heart. And only you've been able to know how much of a romantic he truly is.
imagine a honeymoon on the coasts of malaysia with nanami.
he’s just retired as a sorcerer after the whole shibuya incident, finally deciding to splurge with all his jujutsu money. the location he’s been praying to go to for years and the woman he’s been dying to marry, both fulfilled at the same time. what more could he ask for?
he tries not to show it, but his excitement is so obvious with the constant drumming on his thighs and occasional squeeze of your hand. his gaze would catch yours, his hazel eyes piercing through you with nothing but pure adoration. the moment you land at the airport, kento does nothing but bring you to all the locations he’s saved on his phone. it tires you, but his happiness is contagious. having him by your side is the only method of recharging you need.
as selfish as it sounds, being the only person to see this side of him felt like all his love just went crashing down on you at once.
from the day you first met, the moment he went down on one knee, the moment he cried for you at the altar, to now- caging you in his arms with only the vast ocean in front of you. in all 28 years of living, you have been the only person to bring kento total tranquil.
and now, he can finally enjoy every moment with you. spend the whole day in bed with you, no alarms from any higher-ups; travel under the sun and shop little antiques for your new home. he feels giddy seeing the baby clothes on sale. you spot it too and laugh seeing his eyes set on the row of tiny onesies. you feel him flinch when you pick one up. it’s a light shade of green, bearing some resemblance to kento’s hair. you hold it up, “should we? as a little souvenir from this trip.”
he’s never brought out his wallet this fast. never in his career did he think about being able to have kids- it was too dangerous to even imagine. but seeing you reciprocate the yearning for a little human with your blood gave him the push he’s always needed. curse or not, kento swears to keep both of you in his arms reach, and to die happily knowing you’re safe.
that night in particular was the definition of intimate. you held each other close even after it was all over. he never let go. if possible, kento brought himself closer to you with only the intention to feel your touch.
to feel your fingers running through his hair, to wrap his arms around the outlines of your waist, to hear the heartbeat in your own chest, and to see the face of the only woman he’ll spend his lifetime with. a dream that seemed so impossible to achieve- complete in under a month.
being able to look forward for the time he has with you, rather than the days he has without you, is the one wish that never left his heart.
Content: in which toji is left alone and how he deals with your temporary absence
You have to leave for two weeks, something about a mission in another city. Your boyfriend, Toji, swears it'll be okay, even insists that time will pass by in a blink of an eye.
“‘m not a fucking child, ma. I’ll be fine. Just take care, yeah?”
And so, you peck him on his lips and wave goodbye before you get in the car. Then you’re disappearing in the distance. Toji shrugs, going back in feeling pretty excited to have the house to himself for two weeks — this has never happened before. As he sits on the couch, bottle of beer in one hand and tv remote on the other, he thinks about all the things he can do now.
The toilet seat can stay up, the bins will be full for longer, same goes for the dirty dishes in the sink, and he can watch whatever he wants; no more of those sappy romcoms with predictable plots and cheesy lines.
“’s gonna be fun,” he mutters, a growing grin on his face.
A couple days pass in relative silence, he stays out late, sleeps till noon and eats all the junk you’ve banned from the house. Toji cooks all the steak he wants and leaves the beer bottles to collect dust on the coffee table. And he accepts every invitation from his buddies to go out for drinks, watch basketball at the bar, and plays a couple games too.
He stays up all night, on the evenings he's not getting stupid drunk, playing videogames -- the violent ones you cringe at. During the day, he walks around the place in just his boxers, sometimes not even that, and it's liberating. All a man needs is to be free to balls naked in their own kitchen.
"You're not missing her at all?" Shiu asks, smoke blowing in his face as they stand in the back alley, leaning against the wall of the bar.
Toji snorts. "What am I? Five years old? I can last a couple weeks without being sappy."
His friend gives him a look, half of amused, half disbelieving and a hundred percent smug. None of them miss the death grip he has on his phone, the way his knee is bouncing, and how he isn't even looking at the hot chicks that sway their asses as they walk by.
It’s been great. Really fucking great.
You haven’t been texting much. Sure, you check in here and there, letting him know you’re alright, you’re safe, and makings sure he’s watered your plants. However, there are rarely any opportunities for phone calls longer than five minutes, no FaceTime either, and sometimes he goes to sleep without a ‘goodnight’ from you.
It’s fine.
At least, he can sleep at whatever time he wants without you whining about needing cuddles.
More days pass just like that.
And now he’s rarely leaving the house, finding his drunk friends boring, obnoxious loud, and suddenly he's realised they’re kinda fucking stupid. He starts to get sick of all the steak and fried chicken and takeaway, and instead he’ll text you for the recipe of your lasagne or that smoothie you make him in the morning that’s always greener than the last.
His feet tap on the floor when you don’t reply straight away. And when his phone lights up, he practically dives for it and grips it tight in his palm, screen threatening to crack, when it’s not from you.
“God fucking dammit, Shiu. Don’t fucking talk to me if it’s not important.”
The movies he’s been dying to watch are pretty shit. There’s no depth, no proper pacing, and the dialogue’s cheesy as fuck. Usually, you’d throw popcorn at the screen and complain about all those things, but he finds that he has to mutter them to himself for white noise. Even smirks when he thinks he got it exactly right, guessing what you’d say.
“She’d totally find that shit stupid. And that blood looks fake. It’s like they didn’t even try.”
Most of the phone calls on his history log are from him, more reds than greens. What the fuck have they got you doing over there anyways?
When you do reply to his ‘g’night’ and ‘hey, sleep well?’, he’ll have a go at you for taking so damn long. It’s just fucking ridiculous that you’re clearly sleeping well when he has to hit the gym and tire himself out to even get an hour of shut eye. Sometimes, he can’t even get any and he just paces the length of the living room waiting for a notification from you to pop up.
“Fucking come on! Y'r phone better be dead or something.”
Toji hates having dinner on the table; the seat opposite him is empty, the placemat bare and he feels a freaky fucking soreness in his chest. When that happens, he never finishes his dinner. Must be a symptom of early heart disease. Gotta talk to the doctors about that.
Eventually, you find time to speak to him for an hour, recounting all the crazy things you’ve seen and had to do. He doesn’t interrupt, he just grunts here and there, not even really listening but he urges you to keep talking when there’s a pause, like you’re unsure if you’re talking too much. And when you try to turn the conversation on him, asking about his day, he gives one word answers and then throws you another question.
“Yeah?” He grunts. “What else? Speak up, ma. Wanna hear ya. D’ya go to that shop? Yeah? Y’ buy anything? Send me a picture.”
The guys at work know better than to open their fat mouths around him when he turns up with an extra wrinkle and a ticking in his jaw. Toji is somehow even more sadistic and violent and eager for blood. Even finally accepts their invitation to go out for drinks and drowns himself in the extra strong shit. Assuming he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, they don’t question his sour mood.
But what they don’t know is that you texted to let him know you’re staying another week.
Fucking texted.
Didn’t even get to hear it from your own voice.
He buries himself in more work and stays at the gym for even longer, pushing his body so far, his mind quiets down and he don’t gotta think about the fact that he’s started sleeping on your side of the bed, that the house is losing your scent, and that divot on the couch where you always sat has flattened out.
The day comes, though, when you’re finally returning home.
“Y’ sure? Not gonna flake again? Be fucking sure, ma. Alright, get back safe.”
Toji throws all the rubbish out, washes the dishes and dries them, double checks that the toilet seat is down, and he’s followed your recipe for beef stew to the letter — it’s cooking in the oven, and it looks fucking great. Even exfoliated in the shower like you’ve been asking him to, almost took off an entire layer of skin. He doesn’t want to admit he feels pretty fucking fresh.
The door handle rattles.
He sits up. And then stands. Walks over to the front door, arms crossing and then uncrossing.
You’re here.
“Hey, Toji—“
Your greeting is smothered in his chest as he threatens to suffocate you with the hardest bear hug in the whole world. And though he’d never hurt you, if you weren’t a sorcerer, you’d have been in big trouble.
“Y’ hungry? Or y’ wanna shower first?”
His hands are all over you, lifting your chin to search your face for any scratches, even squishes your cheeks to be sure, and he’s patting you down for bruises or just to make sure all your limbs are intact. There’s a frown on his lips and it’s pretty darn cute.
“Aw, Toji, baby. Did you miss me?”
“No.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re not a child, blah blah blah.”
Walking past him to take your shoes off, hang your coat and roll your suitcase to the side, you’re inhaling the air and moaning about the delicious food in the oven. Oh, God. You’ve been craving homemade food for so long now. You might actually die if you don’t eat.
“Come here.” Your eyes dart to him, still standing by the doorway, fists clenching and unclenching. Toji looks furious. You look closer. No, he looks…embarrassed? “Said come here, ma.”
“Why?” You ask, head titling in curiosity and slight suspicion.
He grunts. “What? I gotta spell it out for ya?”
Laughing, you tap your foot on the ground and retort back, “Yeah, you might because you need to have a good reason from keeping me from both a good shower and a warm meal.”
Toji rolls his eyes and stalks over to you, yanking you back to his chest so he can wrap his arms around you and keep you still. It’s much softer than before, but you feel the same sense of passion, something that verges on desperation.
It’s almost like…
No.
It can’t be.
Oh, but when you feel his face bury itself in your neck and you hear that long inhale, followed by a deep groan vibrating through his chest, you’re absolutely sure.
Toji missed you.
An overwhelming feeling of love fills you, so does a sense of victory, and you just hug him back, inhaling deeply too. He smells like home, like reluctant cuddles, pats on the ass, and early morning sex. You thought you’d have the most trouble in the two weeks, which turned into three, but as it turns out, he didn’t fare much better.
Though he’d never admit it with his own mouth, his body betrays him.
Toji doesn’t let you get very far without a hand on you somehow, whether that’s a hand on your thigh as you eat dinner side by side, instead of across from each other, or you sitting on his lap as you watch the movie you want to watch. He even waits on the toilet lid as you shower, though that only lasts a couple minutes before he’s stripping and joining you.
“Y’r not washing y’r hair right,” he tuts.
Getting into bed is even worse because he’s practically lying on top of you the whole night, still sniffing your neck, and with his hands exploring your body. Not really in a sexual way, which is odd for him, but as if he just wants to feel you. He wants to feel your warmth, your softness, and reassure himself you’re home.
Soon, he’s out cold and you mumble a goodnight against his forehead.
He wakes up feeling completely refreshed, like a newborn, stretching and grinning about getting ready with the day, and frowns when you’re still fast asleep. Part of him wants to make sure you’re getting your rest, but that part doesn’t win for very long and the much bigger part is shaking you awake.
“Come on, ma. Fucking bored here. Wake up, yeah? Let’s get some breakfast. Wanna talk to ya.”
And when you do wake up, grumbling at how loud he’s being, he ignores the glares you’re giving and the swatting of his hands. Toji gives you a rare, wide, toothy smile and he says,
Depicted as an 19 year old. A selective mute, kind and intelligent student.
They used to attend a university of a lesser prestige with Atsushi Nakajima, until they were given a scholarship to a university nobody would ever decline.
Because of their uncontrollable fear of speaking, they are now conflicted with the newer environment of Aude University alone and incapable to take it easy.
Yet luckily, an old friend recognizes them. With the help of Sigma, (Name) is slowly but surely adapting to this university’s environs.
(Name) hasn’t had their major decided yet, but with their unconditional love for photography, they might just try that as their major. However they are holding back because they believe that their hobby should not turn into a responsibility.
Depicted as 18 years old. A caring and moral student.
Despite learning in a different university, (Name) & Atsushi find ways to keep in touch. And due to the distances of their universities, they decide to resort to social media.
Friends with Dazai Osamu, Edogawa Ranpo and Yosano Akiko, Atsushi is able to ask them how (Name) is doing whenever they do not seem to reply to him.
Since (Name) transferred universities, there’s no to say of knowing Atsushi’s major. Whenever (Name) asks, he seems to try and discard the conversation.
Depicted as 19 years old. A disciplined and determined student.
Sigma is a student that well known due to the fame Nikolai Gogol and Fyodor Dostoevsky carry—for Sigma is friends with both.
Despite only gotten into the university three years ago, Sigma is very aware of the surroundings and how to blend in with the others, being a character many find easy to cling onto. On the surface, Sigma does not find mind to it, but Sigma secretly feels pressured by the amount of students finding him reliable.
When (Name) transferred to Aude University, Sigma was quick to identify them even at a long distance, for Sigma holds eidetic memory. This causes Sigma to easily interact with (Name) again, earning Sigma another friend much trustable.
According to word, Sigma’s chosen major is business administration. But when asked, Sigma will also mention accountancy and management. Well, it isn’t much of a shock, since that determination is able to take Sigma places either way.
am I the only one who hates how chuuya is ruined in most of fanfictions? He is always either a girly tiny man who needs Dazai or a mean womanizer and a cheater, and I think both of them are wrong. This is my personal opinion but I think Chuuya isn't girly nor he needs Dazai, he was good before he met him and still is now (I think he hates him btw) and surely he's not a womanizer/cheater! I mean, I don't honestly think he's the type of man to go around to flirt with people. Did you see him? Not even when he's drunk he tries to find someone to 'have fun with'. He's SO loyal, even when he shouldn't. He almost DIED to rescue his partner THAT HE HATES, he would never cheat on his girlfriend/boyfriend. I think he'd rather brutally reject someone than staying with them and cheat, honestly.
“I want to give Fyodor my period cramps” this, “give fictional men your period cramps” that— I want to give Fyodor the burden of my fear of emotional intimacy and watch his fragile twink ass collapse under its weight. I also wrote a lovesick Fyodor drabble last year and wanted to repost it, but I decided to rewrite it.
“In the morning, you’re not in my bed / I’ll just sleep until I fall dead / To the memory of your lips / God, I’m so lovesick / What have you done to me?” — “Lovesick” by Laufey
warnings: hardly proofread. fyodor wants to p0ison the reader but he’s a chicken and doesn’t do it.
words: ~500
When Fyodor realizes he is in love with you, his initial reaction is to loathe you and he does not shy away from letting you know that. But mostly he hates himself for this weakness he is not used to.
He hates the hand that grazed against yours, so lightly you had hardly registered it. He hates how all the little muscles of his face, usually perfectly under his control, now seem to have developed a mind of their own. Idiotic smiles tugging at the corners of his mind at whatever you may say, his eyes following you everywhere and his cheeks flushing red when you reciprocate his smiles.
He hates how he wakes up in the middle of the night with trembling limbs and a dull ache in his chest, his body rebelling after he has tried to suppress and shake off the feelings he has for you. But mostly he disgusts himself when he wakes up to damp spots on his bedsheets and underwear, his breath still ragged as his mind is flooded with memories of shame-filled mornings in his youth. To lose control over his body in such a revolting way he has long grown out of is the most humiliating thing about desiring someone, he thinks.
He hates you for interrupting him while he’s praying, your face invading his mind in the midst of what is most holy to him. He hates how you and his shallow, yet nearly animalistic desire for you seem to have taken over his rational brain, putting his usual priorities last.
Fyodor is so lovesick that he feels constantly confronted by his moral compass, which he thought had been successfully exorcized from him after years of violating all sorts of social and ethical rules. Normally he would not hesitate to rid himself of inconvenient people, but anytime he sets his mind to poisoning your tea to make this agony that you’re putting him through stop, he cannot seem to do it. There are few things he cares enough about to bother loathing them, but cowards are most definitely on that list.
Not only is he at war with himself, he is also becoming an awkward mess when talking to you. At least that is how he feels. He is so used to never losing his composure or putting down his guard in front of anyone that he wishes for the earth to swallow him whole the first time that he stumbles over his words during a conversation. Terrified after that moment of weakness, he puts up even higher walls around himself, determined to lock you out.
Some people are not built to receive someone’s affection, they may yearn for it but it makes them sick.
Perhaps because the thought that someone would give them such a precious gift, one that no amount of money in this world could buy, although they have not yet seen all the despicable parts of them, fills them with enough guilt to be able to pay for all the sins they have ever committed, and more. Needless to say, Fyodor is one of those people.
Fyodor appeared to be engrossed in the bright screen before him, shoulders hunched as he bit at his thumb in thought.
It was a sight you were steadily becoming accustomed to. At times you doubted he even heard you entering his “workspace”, but you knew him better. Fyodor was a lot more observant than he let on.
There was no need to clear your throat or signal your arrival anyhow, you just saw his hand stretch out, ready to take the folder you brought for him, so you did just that.
It was the usual routine as Fyodor flipped through its contents, eyes scanning carefully. Even as he looked exhausted. In fact, Fyodor always had an aura of perpetual tiredness around him, so it was hard to read whether it applied to his current state. The late hour made you impatient too, wishing you’d at least get to sleep off the few hours before sunrise.
“I couldn’t get ahold of everything,” you said, keeping your voice even. “I’ve mapped out the building, so I’ll be able to retrieve the rest in quick time.”
It wasn’t so much as finding the papers, but copying them swiftly without notice that prolonged your job this time. Fyodor liked everything as he planned it, and when something went awry, it wasn’t so much as him adapting to the new circumstance than having predicted it itself.
Maybe that’s why you don’t feel worry now. He surely knew your capabilities–you’ve been doing these types of jobs for him for a while now–and you tried to be as strict with yourself as you could. Slip-ups happened, but there were rarely consequences for them. For you.
A thought to ponder over, indeed.
“I see. I would like to have it by tomorrow,” Fyodor said, glancing briefly at you, and smiled.
He always looked gentle, like this. A man who knew exactly what to say and when. All in service of getting what he wanted when he wanted it. It was easy to fall victim to.
You nodded, sensing the unspoken cue to leave.
And you were… you were leaving– yes. Your legs were already turning as Fyodor drew his gaze back to the screen, his lips parting to bite at his thumb again. You didn’t know what it was about that gesture, but it left a feeling of discontent in you.
And it kept on happening. Every time you came back, that small nagging voice in your head always guided your attention to Fyodor’s hands. For a man that seemed so easy to bodily harm, he had a knack for completely destroying his fingers. No wonder since he was a man of habit, but seeing that thoughtful look and calm demeanour combined with such an uncomely habit struck at your nerves.
It even got to the point of genuinely considering going to an actual drugstore just to buy him some nail recovery polish. Or something. You suppose straight-up bandages would go a bit far, though Fyodor didn’t seem the type to be offended.
Honestly, it was so absurd you barely had any idea how he’d react to that.
It irked you even now, as he worked in on your regular intel again. Fyodor’s hands were pale, delicate things, way swifter than you had thought as he typed away on the computer, both of you hunched over and seemingly breaking into a government organization that should definitely have better defences.
It was a slow procedure, but Fyodor’s focus didn’t waver once, just kept a steady pace of dedication you had grown to admire about him. If you had doubted him before, it was clear now, with every small precision and thoughtful act, his was not a game of chance, but planning.
And he was prepared for everything.
A small beep emerged from the screen. Your brows creased. “That’s supposed to be good, right?”
“I wouldn’t label it quite like that, but yes,” Fyodor’s eyes narrowed as he drew his chair closer, forcing you to shift more of your weight on the armrest. Your back was beginning to ache. “It will take more time this way, unfortunately.”
You nodded. To be honest, you didn’t mind the proximity. It took some time but you were proud to say you’d won some form of trust in recent. Or at least felt like it wasn’t too much of a hassle to be in Fyodor’s personal space like this. He does have a penchant for stabbing people, so it’s good to have a guard up, just in case.
It grew boring just watching on as time went by. By now the screen looked more like it behaved by itself, with Fyodor hitting a key here and there. You rose up and stretched, feeling a few joints pop. “I can’t fathom how you have the patience for this, I feel like an old grandpa just by standing.”
Fyodor looked at you, eyebrow raised. “Exactly. You’re standing, and I’m not. Small wonders help a lot.”
You hummed in agreement. But it was still rather stuffy in this room, the only light coming from the technology. There could have been a sun peaking through if only there were any windows. “Not just that, you’ve positively entered your hermit era if you keep plotting in your dark dungeon like this.”
“Is that bad?” Fyodor asked, almost seeming thoughtful.
“Very.” You shifted, leaning your weight on the desk to have a better view of the man before you.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said absently, head already turned to the screen.
Yeah, you doubted it. Not yet, at least. There was a lot more to be done before the next phase of his plane. You sighed, casting your gaze back to the screen.
The sound of tapping returned and soon you were in a struggle between keeping a facade of concentrated composure, and forcefully stuffing away any daydreams of buying that damned nail polish.
But as with all things, getting stuck in your head usually lead to idiocy in the real world. Without much thought, just as the screen behind you flashed, indicating you’ve finally made it in, your hand gently reached out, catching Fyodor’s mid-typing, stopping him on the spot.
He looked curiously down, blinking slowly.
You, on the other hand, were on the verge of chanting an inner mantra of stay calm stay calm stay calm and cool stay–
In moments like those, it was paramount to stand your ground. You touch remained firm, even if your pulse was rising by the second. Carefully, you turned his palm upwards, your fingers gently sliding along his skin as Fyodor tilted his head to the side. Observing.
“Now this is unexpected,” he remarked, but didn’t move away, compliant even now. You wondered if his words were true. He was never surprised.
You paid him no mind. Fyodor’s fingers shifted in sync with yours as you examined them, almost giving you more access to your curiosity.
“I like your hands,” you said, calmly. Testing the waters seemed safer, for now. “You should take care of them. It doesn’t go well with the image you want to send out.”
“And here I thought having layers was more eye-catching.” Damn. Fyodor was teasing you, by the sound of his tone. Almost playful as he reclined back in his chair and relaxed. The complete opposite of how you felt.
Forcing some semblance of control, you went on, “Not in the expanse of self-care. Really, I’m this close to booking you a manicure.”
A light chuckle escaped his lips. “I’ll respectfully decline. But it does warm my heart to see your concern.”
The weight of his gaze surprised you. It felt like being caged, every detail of your soul examined and studied in the blink of a second before his features softened into his usual pleasant smile. Amicable, and entirely fake.
You knew Fyodor was a man to keep your distance from. You’ve barely met any of his subordinates, yet even that small glimmer of information was enough to guess he wasn’t one to put his trust in others.
Hell, he wasn’t one to hold yours in either.
But this moment now… those moments… watching Fyodor was interesting. Seeing what he would do– even more so.
You didn’t have time to second guess yourself. You wouldn’t let your hand stay in another’s hold if you weren’t entirely against it, would you?
With that small confidence in tow, you–slowly, your full attention on Fyodor–moved his palm to the soft cushion of your lips. The kiss was scarcely there, shy of barely grazing his skin. It locked both of you in place, the build-up of something you weren’t entirely sure of engulfed the space in between.
If you were more observant, you would have noticed how stiff Fyodor’s hand had become, barely a waver in it. He was waiting, letting you guide the situation for reasons only he knew.
Your breath spilt against his skin as you said, “I wasn’t expecting to do this.”
“Weren’t you?” Fyodor’s brow raised.
You felt your skin warming. “You’re not pulling away.”
“Hm. Neither are you.”
Those words, simple and direct. It felt like permission, but to what? The fear of reading into this wrongly crawled into your belly, but you already fell into this situation. Might as well try–
“I wanted to see what will happen,” you said, not prepared for the intense look in Fyodor’s eyes. A moment later– your breath stilled in your chest just as the slow caress of Fyodor’s thumb brushed against your lower cheek, unexpected,
“What was that English phrase about killing curiosity?” The chair’s wheels scratched at the floor as Fyodor moved closer, leaning his weight on one armrest as he cocked his head in thought. “It’s very similar to a Russian one, so it can be a bother to mix up.”
Your answer came automatically, mind entirely on where you ended yourself up in. “How curiosity killed the cat? Yeah, I know that one.”
Fyodor hummed, pleased. “Yes, exactly. It’s a good phrase. Though a bit cliche.”
“Well, does it?” You swallowed. Your eyes never left his, still locked in place.
“‘Does it’ what?” He asked. There was no trace of his smile now. Just attention. All drawn to you.
“Kill it?” You searched his face.
“That is what you think of me? How cruel,” Fyodor said. His tone was playful still; you realised you liked it. Him. Like this.
Tentatively, you stood up. Life was about taking risks, right? “I can’t be blamed. You are hard to read.”
You weren’t sure how far you could push him, but the sight of his face morphing into one of surprise as your hand found balance on his shoulder, a moment later your legs dangling from one side as you found yourself seated on Fyodor’s lap. It wasn’t ideal, with too little space and two bodies in it, but feeling Fyodor’s hand finding its way on your hip, almost drawing you closer in help to keep you in balance, you weren’t about to complain.
You spun your head around, feining surprise. You forced your voice lower, hyper-aware of your newfound proximity. Faking being in control was pretty close to the real thing. Mostly. “Huh, curiosity can lead to some interesting circumstances.”
Nailed it.
“Indeed, you should be very careful with it,” Fyodor said. Despite his remarks, he leaned back again. The hand you held long left your cheek was now resting on the armrest, absently drumming into the plastic.
Fuck.
“I’m… trying. I’m guessing it’s fine for me to do this?” You wiggled your legs, wondering what exactly you wanted out of this. This felt nice, but you were nowhere near being comfortable enough with Fyodor to speak as openly as you wanted. Maybe there was a plus to this, the unpredictability of it all. He seemed way more at ease than you would like. “Where exactly are we going with this?”
“Why, I’ll be following your lead. It’s been amusing so far, I want to see what you will do.” And the bastard smiled.
Not ideal. But you brought this on yourself. The thought of that glimpse of surprise on Fyodor’s face from earlier made heat pool at your face again. You wanted to see more. Do more.
You leaned in, face scrunching in thought as Fyodor only looked down at you, eyebrow raised, almost beckoning you. The proximity felt nice, but something was missing. You tilted your head in contemplation.
“I think I want to kiss you.”
He leaned closer, the perfect image of composure. “I see.”
Your skin prickled, feeling his hand trail to your lower back, firm.
“Then go ahead,” Fyodor said, and your brain froze.
It’s funny when you reflect on it now, but then– you distinctly remember hearing those words, and you remember that it wasn’t you who moved closer. Or not just you. Your memory jumbled together the moment Fyodor’s lips were on yours. Other sensations became dulled, almost distant, and only his warmth engulfed you. You don’t remember when your hands trailed up, but you couldn’t forget Fyodor’s soft exhale against your lips as your fingers brushed through his locks. The kiss wasn’t even open, and it already sent goosebumps all over your shoulders and back.
It started slow, measured. You found yourself straddling him as the small, chaste kisses became heated, the warmth in your lower belly pooling as his hand held your face close to his. You’ve never been explored like this, Fyodor’s tongue licking its way into your mouth leisurely, prolonging every moment to its utmost.
“May I?” Fyodor whispered, his hand trailing down your neck and pushing the loose strands of hair away. Not that he needed to ask; you tilted your head, and his lips ghosted over your skin, their touch laden with so much gentleness you wondered where it all came from.
Fyodor’s manners were easy to notice, but here, now, he made you melt right into his hold. Chest to chest, your hands caressing his hair, neck, shoulders– silently encouraging as you become accustomed to the slow intertwined rhythm of your bodies.
It was irresponsible– enjoying this as much as you did. You didn’t know where this would lead to, or how you’d look Fyodor in the face seeing as you’d still be his employee. The dynamic had switched, forcing you into a completely new territory you weren’t prepared for.
But all that flew out the window as your hand found the hem of Fyodor’s shirt, your fingers coming into contact with warm, smooth skin, and Fyodor’s quiet exhale as he buried his face deeper in the crook of your neck.
“I’ll take that as encouragement, then.” You smiled, turning to kiss the side of his temple as your touch sent small shivers up Fyodor’s back, nails gently grazing at his skin. Whether he meant to say something in return… well, it seemed all thoughts were forgotten as you felt his muscles relax against you, body almost melting into yours.
You doubted he got to experience this often. Fyodor didn’t strike you as the type to go out of his way for affection– physical or otherwise. He reminded you of a cat, really, one that got too caught up in its self-sufficient world to realise it didn’t mind some tenderness when it was offered.
Fyodor might have craved it, even. You weren’t sure yet.
You stayed like that for a long time, the dim light flashing from the screens left for the future to worry over. Fyodor’s lips found yours a few more times, each leaving you feeling warm and at ease, as your tongues moved against each other lazily, more a lover’s exploration than those heated kisses you were used to seeing in the movies. Your breath did not hitch, nor did you feel like your heart was about to burst with desire.
No, you only felt Fyodor’s warm breath against your cheek, his lips pulling into a smile between chaste kisses as he pulled you even closer, hands firm around your waist as you squirmed now and then into a more comfortable position.
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The second comprehensible word Chuuya has ever said during Corruption. To be fair, though, his first comprehensible word was “dazai” and the two words are basically synonyms anyway.
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