ex silentio | ivan goncharov x reader

ʜᴀʙɪᴛ

Habit

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴀ ʜᴀʙɪᴛ? ᴀɴ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏʀ ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ? ᴀ ʀᴇᴘᴇᴛɪᴛɪᴏɴ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴀ ʀᴇᴘᴇᴛɪᴛɪᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ, ᴀ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ʀᴇᴘᴇᴛɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴏʀᴛꜱ? ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜰᴇᴇᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɪɴɴᴇʀ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴɪꜱᴛ, ᴏʀ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴɪꜱᴛ ᴡʜᴏ ɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴄɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍᴏɴᴏᴛᴏɴʏ? ᴡɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴏᴡ? ᴏ, ʜᴇᴀᴠᴇɴꜱ, ᴏ ɢᴏᴅ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴇ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴏɴ - ɪꜱ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ʜᴀʙɪᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀɴᴅ?

. . .

When asked "which part of me do you want to eat," many people would get the wrong idea. Scratch that - everybody would get the wrong idea, some more perverse than others. Including yourself, but on that instance, you got back to your senses the very second they wandered astray.

"H-hair. Your hair," you stuttered. Frankly, to eat anything else wasn't appropriate, nor pleasant - even though the very thought of putting those elongated strands in your mouth seemed disgusting itself.

"I washed it yesterday, if that makes you feel any better," Ivan chimed. He snaked the hand away from your waist to flip his silver mane, a motion to show the pride he possessed for that particular part of his physique.

"Yeah, it does," you told him a blatant lie. "So what, you want me to eat it now or..."

"I'll make the cook - I mean, I'll prepare you something to eat with it. Would you like some... scrambled eggs? With smetana?" he suggested, to which you nodded - it didn't really interest you. You were unnerved however with the events that took place moments ago - the fact that you had to be separated from Ivan's narrow proximity. They formed a tint of spoiled behavior which you tried to diminish.

"Then wait for me here. I'll bring it to you," he moved away from you.

"Okay. But could I - could I come with you?" you found yourself asking before you could scold and stop yourself.

"Why? To take smetana from the fridge and watch me prepare eggs in five seconds?" He watched you with preservance, thick eyelashes evidently faulting his vision. You were left dumbfounded, but you still answered positively. With a short laugh, he offered you his hand to lead you to wherever the probable kitchen was. You took it and went on following right behind him.

"So you cook food for everyone here?" Your curiosity pealed.

"Depends on how many people there is and who they are," he gave you an uncertain answer, not before adding with eloquent pride: "However, I always serve Dostoyevsky personally."

"So, did you cook the breakfast that was left for me this morning?"

"Yes."

"Sweet. I now regret not eating it," you smoothly responded, which enticed a chuckle and a bashful statement coming from Ivan. "Don't be so cheesy, (Y/N). There's no need."

He took you to a room, who knows where in this maze, where a humble kitchen of sorts was established. All of essentials were there - nothing more, nothing less, and to your pleasant surprise it was quite tidy in overall. It reminded you of home.

The Russian went on to take a fine serving tray and glistening cutlery that was waiting for him on the shelf, but you remembered to remind him that there's no need for that. "I'm not your master, you know." He obliged and moved to the fridge to take the ingredients needed for making scrambled eggs - eggs. Before taking some of them, he checked the expiration date on the box, eyeing it suspiciously. "Is there anything you want me to add as a spice? We're a little short on them, but you might pick something available."