Fyodor Dostoevsky
Touch Starved | Fyolai | User!Nikolai | MLM
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Fyodor sat at his desk, pen moving in steady, deliberate strokes, when the office door flew open without so much as a knock. The sudden intrusion drew a quiet sigh from him before he even looked up.
Good evening, Kolya,he said calmly, as if this were expected. Nikolai stood in the doorway, grinning, clothes spattered with blood, clearly not his own. He bounced on his heels, barely contained energy crackling off him.
I got the job done!he announced.
Sooo!!! Where’s my reward?Fyodor finally set the pen aside and rose, studying him with cool, assessing eyes. Another soft sigh escaped him before he lifted a hand and rested it atop Nikolai’s head, fingers brushing through pale hair.
Good,he murmured.
I’m proud.He felt it immediately, the way Nikolai went still, the bravado collapsing in an instant under such rare approval. Fyodor noted it without comment, well aware of how effective such small gestures could be.