ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ · ɴɪᴋᴏʟᴀɪ ɢᴏɢᴏʟ ༉‧₊˚

ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ · ɴɪᴋᴏʟᴀɪ ɢᴏɢᴏʟ ༉‧₊˚

content. f!reader. fluff-ish, (hilarious) threats of physical violence, flower metaphors, love at first philosophical debate, flower shops, nikolai treats reader like a puppy. might turn into a second oneshot. not proofread.

author's note. i'm back .ᐟ and surprisingly with a little nikolai. i've been working through some extreme writer's block, but i actually really like how this turned out. it's my first time tackling nikolai's character like this, so hopefully it's good .ᐟ

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He never knew where he would end up whenever he had free time. A mall, a park, a zoo—didn’t matter too much to him. Nikolai bounded in-and-out of these places, delighted by the varied expressions of his unsuspecting victims, whether they were the tail-end of a harmless prank or something far worse.

An unlocatable humming accompanied the orchestra of fans that kept the space cool, and the bountiful stock almost made his jaw drop. The store was filled to the brim with luscious flowers that put the market stalls he had seen earlier to shame—sad that someone’s hard work was about to be wasted.

He pretended to be the average customer, humming the harmony to that distant voice as he perused the aisles, tearing leaves and plucking petals whenever he felt like it. It was a tranquil prologue to the sick pranks that formed in his mind.

He stopped at a cluster of daisies, which blossomed in various bright colors, allowing them to stand out between the exotic plants that flanked them. So, as predicted, he ripped a couple at the stem, chuckling to himself as they clumped onto the dirty store floor.

“Get the hell away from my daisies!”

Nikolai thrived in the unforeseen—though he certainly did not expect to be met with a trowel pressed dangerously close to his jugular, nor did he expect the cute Chihuahua-like woman attached to his handle. If this was his demise, he couldn’t say he’d mind. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She snatched the flowers from his reach, cradling the pot like an infant as her voice sweetened. “I’m sorry the mean man hurt you.”

“You’re like a little puppy! How adorable!” Her snarl did not help her case. “I’ve heard about people talking to plants, but you take it to a whole nother level, lady.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Why did you do that?”

“That wasn’t your question, though.” The glint in her eyes could melt icebergs, so he decided to cut his losses before she committed second-degree murder and mashed him into fertilizer. “But I’ll answer both, don’t worry! For the first, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m completely sane!”

“Sane people don’t have to say they’re sane,” she retorted as she hooked the tool onto her belt.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He turned to a patch of lovely black irises, their ribboning petals outstretched under sunshine that threatened to shrivel them, but they remained firm. His thumb brushed against their surfaces, careful not to tear one off while under a similarly threatening gaze.

“Rationality dies at the hands of complacency, like those so-called witches in Europe.” She eyed his hand when he removed his glove, contemplative as he cradled the flowers with a care she hadn’t seen. “We’re gifted with knowledge of the past—those accusers had to be fanatical or greedy. Possibly both! And because everyone else was so comfortable being complacent, rationality died, and those who opposed them were sent to the gallows.”

“In the end, those considered sane are no better than anyone else.” His one unconcealed eye struck her, overflowing with complexity veiled behind a villainous facade. She took to his words with a familiar hum, allowing Nikolai to look closer at her. He had to assume she owned this quaint little store; if her protective nature didn’t clue him in, the several layers of dirt stains on her overalls did. His eye trailed upward, lingering on her lips, which were pursued in contemplation. It made his heart leap—it would be so exciting to have such a reactive test subject.

“You’re right,” she sighed, then hit him with a pointed look, telling him she had noticed him eyeing her. “But what does that have to do with destroying my flowers?”

“Ah, yes!” He exclaimed. “Your second question. The answer to that one is simple. I did it because I can!”

She stared at him, bewildered, as he switched from the tone of a prankster to a monster, like a predator who bared its claws at unsuspecting, idiotic prey. But instead of running tail, she took a deep breath—she was obviously about to scream. That was okay with him, though he was admittedly disappointed at the idea of such a predictable reaction.

“I would usually say just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should, but I have a feeling you already know that.” So she wasn’t screaming. She was more composed than ever, not angry or upset—her eyes were so focused, and he felt himself drawn in. “But I’m confused. Why are you doing something bad simply because you can?”

He raised a brow. The answer was obvious, but a part of his mind felt that her question was only surface level. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve appointed yourself as someone who stands against society, correct?” she prodded, her fingers absentmindedly circling the rim of a pot to push the dirt inside. 

He assisted her, albeit poorly, as he overfilled some pots. “Correct! It’s what I do.”

She paused. “If you’re going against society, then doesn’t that mean you’re adapting your behavior around society?”

He stopped, frowning.

“You’ve claimed that you're above society, but what you’re actually doing is acting parallel to it. You’re not doing things because you can. You’re doing them because someone told you not to.”

Nikolai swallowed hard, trying to focus on her hand as she took it out of her glove to brush back her hair. “Society needs someone to play the monster. You’re right—the complacent are no better just because they fall in line—but that doesn’t mean your actions are effective. You’ve just fallen into the opposing line of thinking.”

He couldn’t find the will to look at her anymore. This strange Chihuahua-like woman, in only a couple of sentences, unraveled his entire purpose. His connection with Fyodor no longer felt personal—had he always been that easy to read? A part of him wanted to pretend he had never heard her words, to walk out the door and pretend she never existed. Nothing was stopping him, so why didn’t he? When he met her eyes, he remained speechless.

“I-I majored in philosophy in college,” she stammered, her hands returning to her plants as she sunk under the conversation’s sudden weight.

“...I underestimated you.”

His every action had been to spite society, but was that any better than conforming to it? He was no closer to freedom; his strings remained intact due to ignorance. Was that why Fyodor only acknowledged him for a moment before filing him away as another “fantastic” person he had met on his journeys? He slipped from his glove, prickling his finger on a leaf. He thought that someone understanding him was enough.

But no. He wanted, no—he needed someone to oppose him. Transformation requires a catalyst. He thought he could bring about change by himself, but someone equal and opposite to him—they would be his catalyst.

“You’re easier to read than you think,” she said, breaking through his thoughts. “It’s just that most people would rather stick with their shallow, first perception than dig any deeper. It’s how the world keeps spinning.”

Before he could find the words to implore her to speak, to tell him about anything and everything, the sound of a bell cut through the air. 

“Good afternoon, (Name)!” an older woman exclaimed, eyeing Nikolai before she glanced at the aforementioned—at (Name).

“Good afternoon, Yamaguchi-san. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

His hands fiddled with his overcoat. “Your name is (Name)?”

“It is.” He stifled his smile at her unamused expression, almost a pout. “What’s yours?”

“Hmm, not telling!” He poked her nose. “You’ll have to earn that when we meet again. Toodle-loo!”

But she caught him by the hand before he could exit in a grand spin. Her hand was warm, with a warmth that threatened to thaw at his frozen heart. “Hey! You’ll have to promise you won’t mess with any more of my plants. Got that?”

He should’ve said no; he should’ve said no and left. It had to be how she held out her pinkie or the twitch of her brow. He intertwined their fingers without a second thought, bringing the tip of hers to his lips as he delighted in her yelp. Another connection. Another string to tie him down. 

But this one would be okay.

“It’s a promise.”

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