𝗲𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹 [bsd x reader oneshots]

FYODOR | WORDS LEFT UNSAID

[CONTENT]

This oneshot contains fluff, mutual pining, along with a female reader. This is oneshot has not been beta-read. Beware grammar errors.

The translation for the Russian phrases is located at the end. Please read the note about translations at the end of the chapter.

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The house was quiet, unnervingly so.

Fyodor remained in the doorway momentarily, taking in a short breath of burned-out jasmine candles and perfume. It was strange to return home to such an empty house, which his lover had left on a business trip multiple days ago—but the fragrance of her presence seemed to remain strong despite its owner's absence.

It was useless to remain inside the doorway; the man shuffling inside almost expected to hear smaller footsteps responding to his. But there was nothing, only the noises he made inside a lifeless house.

He went through his routine, though it was slightly altered due to the lack of another presence. Instead of sitting in the dining room to eat, he walked into the kitchen and looked inside the fridge. He almost smiled at the intricately organized interior, spotting a pre-made meal explicitly created for him. He heated it, making himself a pot of tea, and took both to his study.

He sat at his desk, settling into his chair to review documents from his subordinates' missions. His fingers mindlessly scrolled through hundreds of lines of detail, but he found his thoughts elsewhere. The normal control he had over his mind ceased the constant presence of laughter and a familiar silhouette resurging in his mind.

What about her made it so that she constantly persisted in his thoughts? He leaned back, humming as he contemplated the question.

Her routine.

The tendency she had to go to bed late (not unlike himself, she would often say) and awake closer to noon, and the struggle it took to wake her at any hour before then. A small part of him adored the creased line of her brow as she looked up at him with disdain, reminding him of a grumpy kitten.

The simple sandwich she would make every day with the same glass of juice, which she would take to the window seat of their living room and watch the world outside their space. She seemed to soak up the sun.

The way she would make herself a bath every Friday, filling it with a jasmine bath bomb and lighting multiple candles. She would tease him about joining her, knowing he was far too puritanical to take her up on that offer before they married. (They were already pushing it by living together pre-marriage).

He would find leftovers in the fridge, properly sectioned and labeled for him to eat if he ended up returning home past dinner. Each would be wrapped, and a sticky note with a sweet message reminding him to eat would be taped against the material.

Her tastes.

She liked coffee; he liked tea. There was an occasion when he made tea for both of them. He fondly remembered how her nose scrunched up and the funny expression she forced off her face, respectfully sipping the entire cup.

She liked spicy food; he did not. It almost baffled him how she could eat the spicy foods they came across in Japan. He was glad she kept his spice intolerance in mind whenever she cooked, though she constantly teased him.

But both of them liked physical books. There was something so innocently intimate about holding a physical book, able to notate and mark any interesting line. Feeling the texture of the worn pages against the skin, able to trade books with one another.

Her voice.

The curious quips she would respond with whenever they discussed life and its purpose. Each interjection reminded him of one of the aspects he adored about her the most, past the vein admiration of her appearance and personality—her intelligence. A sharp wit that maintained a steady pace alongside his own. Like an identical pair.

The firm reassurances she would declare moments before he'd leave, pumping herself up more than it did him. He had to admit, it was cute.

The small tunes she would hum whenever she thought she was alone, often mimicking the music that Fyodor would practice on his cello. She would deny listening to his practice sessions, but that humming always seemed to reveal otherwise.

Her expressions.

The small pout of her lips whenever she realizes he is leaving on a mission for a prolonged period. She always tries to hide her disappointment, but her feelings become obvious with the slight quiver in her mouth.

There was a sparkle in her eyes as she looked upon him with intrigue, listening intently whenever he took the time to explain an intricate aspect of his plans or the complexity of his philosophies.

The calm smile slowly appears on her lips whenever she sees him following a mission, and her eyes are filled with relief and sympathy whenever she looks upon his tired form. It was an expression that would remain on her face as she cared for him.

Her laugh.

The small giggles she would make whenever she came across a humorous passage in her books, attempting to cover her laughter with her hand.

The way she would bend over, wheezing with tears coming from her eyes as he accidentally (or not-so-accidentally) brushed his fingers against the sensitive area of her skin near her hips.

The way she dismissively huffed whenever someone would annoy her, hiding it underneath an irritated chuckle as she attempted to maintain her composure. But there was one aspect that he felt was missing.

It was strange to forget something about someone who remained so close to his side. It irked him, his fingers thrumming as he contemplated the trait missing from the set. If he was candid with himself, he adored millions of things about her. But there was one aspect that persisted above the rest.

"Федя? I'm home!"

He froze; his gaze shifted from the patterns of the ceiling to the entrance of his study as a slight knock was made against the wall. And standing there was the lovely woman he had chosen to spend his days with, her lips curled up in a familiar smile as she leaned against the study's door frame.

"I may have gotten you a few little souvenirs," she chirped, swaying a large, heavy bag in front of him like a pendulum. "I know you've wanted to expand your library, and I found a few novels that weren't in your collection."

In a quick moment of reflection and a surreal feeling of grounding, he realized the trait he had forgotten to count—his favorite aspect out of all of her personality traits and physical attributes.

Her heart.

Always thinking of others. Considerate and thoughtful. Despite their tainted world, there remained a kindness almost otherworldly inside her. It was rare to find someone who didn't always put themselves first, but there she was. His rare gem, a diamond amongst coal.

And he smiled.

"Thank you, дорогая. It was such a pleasant surprise. Come inside and tell me the details of your trip."

It was that heart he would protect.

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федя = fedya

дорогая = dear

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[AUTHOR'S NOTE]

[TRANSLATION NOTE: The translations in this chapter are not guaranteed to be completely accurate. While the English translations in the section above are the intended dialogue, these are only rough translations. Corrections to these will be made over time.]