𝗲𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹 [bsd x reader oneshots]

FYODOR | YOU ARE MY HOME (DON'T LET ME GO)

[CONTENT]

This oneshot contains discussions of anxiety, injuries, insomnia, intrusive thoughts, panic attacks, along with a gender-neutral 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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He had returned home.

Those words would have thrilled you with relief, having prayed for his safety and company for days, if not for the terrible condition he arrived in. He was wholly battered, covered head to toe in cuts and bruises. His eyes were sunken, darkened from multiple days without rest, but his irises continued to burn with that everlasting determination that drew you to him in the first place.

You helped him inside with unmistakable concern, a deep frown on your face as you attempted to balance being comforting but not patronizing with your worries. It always seemed to bother him when you fussed like that, so instead, you quietly wrapped his wounds; a gentle hum buzzed across your lips as you worked diligently to distract him and yourself from the thoughts bouncing against the walls of your mind.

Much to your dismay, this had become routine, with the raven-haired man consistently returning with injuries from his prolonged missions. Most would've been concerned that his foes were far too strong for him to take on the way he had been, but you knew it was precisely the opposite. It wasn't that he couldn't defend himself; sometimes he just wouldn't. Each injury would be a part of some ploy to distract his opponent, allowing him to have the upper hand at the cost of his health.

His intentions did nothing to make you less concerned, but you wouldn't tell him that.

Instead, you sent him to sleep for the remainder of the afternoon as had become routine, a gentle reminder that he would need to wake up for dinner, leaving your lips as his figure disappeared down the hall. But it was only when the door closed that you allowed yourself to fully let your guise drop, shoulders slumped as you ran a heavy hand through the tangled tresses of your hair.

You passed the kitchen without sparing it a glance, not bothering to cook until later, as had become routine—a routine you had purposely created after the third time he returned home injured. You could not cook for hours after he returned, unable to focus. Your body dragged your absent mind into the hall opposite your bedroom on autopilot as your instincts carried you with lead-like footsteps to a familiar small room. At some point, you had shut the door to the bathroom behind you, settling your body down inside the tub as you curled into yourself, allowing the cold touch of the porcelain to seep into your skin.

And the tears started to flow. It was slow at first, as it had become routine. But then your mind started reeling with those same questions, leaving the last of your resolve to crumble like ashes in fading fire.

What if he had fainted due to blood loss?

What if his opponents tried to take advantage of him?

What if he had been hospitalized?

What if he never returned?

Each scenario increased the tension in your muscles, your face leaning forward to bury itself into your knees as you muffled your pained sobs. You didn't want Fyodor to know that you had these thoughts and were always so terrified for him. That was the reason you only allowed yourself to deteriorate in the farthest room from him, as had become routine—a routine you purposely created after the fifth time he returned home injured. You could not stay composed for long after he returned, always managing to break back into this state.