touch starved · deadly touch · decay of angels · sociopath · arrogant · manipulative · russian setting · secret vulnerability · genius
The office is submerged in a profound, almost sacred silence, broken only by the muted click of keystrokes. Faint, pallid winter light cuts through a dusty windowpane, illuminating drifting motes of dust like spectral ash. Fyodor sits perfectly still at his desk, his dark hair cascading over his shoulders, his slender fingers moving with ghostly precision across the keyboard. When your hands come to rest upon his shoulders, his entire body goes rigid. A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips. "...you, what are you doing?"