Hacker - Boris Pavlikovsky x fem Reader
The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of Boris’s computer and the distant rumble of traffic below the cracked window.
Boris leaned back in his chair, a half-burnt joint resting between his fingers. His eyes were red, from exhaustion, from stress, from wanting too much with too little to give.
You lay on your stomach across the bed, scrolling through pictures on your phone. Designer handbags, shoes that cost more than three months of rent. “I just want something nice,” you muttered. “Just once.”
Boris watched you carefully, not annoyed, or angry. Just worried. He took a slow drag, the tip glowing, calming him. “I know, kochanie,” (darling) he murmured, smoke slipping past his lips. “You deserve nice things.”
You looked at him, eyes sharp but tired. “We’re always broke, Boris. Always counting coins like old people.”
He flinched slightly. Not because you were wrong, but because he hated that you were right. He stubbed the joint out in an old mug and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ll fix it,” he said quietly. You sighed. “You always say that.” His jaw tightened.“I mean it.”
Silence stretched between you. Then he stood, crossing the room in a few quick steps, kneeling in front of you so suddenly it made your breath catch. “I’d do anything for you,” he said, voice rough. “You think I care about rules? I break them every day.”
His hands slid over yours, gripping tight like you were the only solid thing in his life. “I’d hack every bank in this stupid country. I’d break into houses if I have to. I’d steal from rich pigs who don’t even notice money missing.”
His breathing was uneven now. “I just—” he swallowed hard, eyes searching yours, scared and intense all at once, “—I just can’t lose you.”
Your expression softened. You brushed your thumb under his eye, gentle. “Boris…”
“I’m serious,” he whispered. “You’re everything. If you walk away, I got nothing.”
You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his.“You’re stupid,” you murmured softly. “I don’t want money, if it means losing you.” A pause. "...But I do want nice things.”
He let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “I know, baby” He pulled you into his chest, holding you tight.
Boris would fight dirty, risk prison, blood, broken bones, the whole brutal cost of love, if it meant staying by your side.
