Andre Nikto - Tumblr Posts
How would Nikto murder
With bare hands and from behind vibes
How would Nikto murder
With bare hands and from behind vibes
Circle him... Do it.... Crumple him into a ball
I feel like this thing
Circle him... Do it.... Crumple him into a ball
I feel like this thing
Circle him... Do it.... Crumple him into a ball
I feel like this thing
Circle him... Do it.... Crumple him into a ball
I feel like this thing
NIKTO
I was so tired while I was painting this. I hope it was worth it...😪
YESSS SSSIR!!!!! 😊😊🥰🥰🥰❤️❤️💋❤️💋💋❤️
👀 Sir?
Guys PLEASE does anyone know the name of the song from THIS editvvvv????????????!!!!
Been looking in the "Krueger" tags on TikTok to find the original video but I CAN'T 😭😭😭😭😭 (it wasn't me who downloaded the video — my friend sent it to me </3)
PLEASE SHAZAM HAS DONE *NOTHING* BC THE CLIP IS TOO SHORT N THIS IS SO GOOD 😭😭😭
wait a minute. pookie. how do we think nikto would react to reader asking him to clasp her bra...
Omg!!! Never in my life did I type out ideas so FAST!!! 🏃🏼♀️💨
Fem! Reader Asking Nikto To Clasp Her Bra
Word Count: 1719
Implies friends to lovers with Nikto. Atrociously down bad Nikto for Reader <3. Themes not dissimilar to this fanfiction (only less intense lol 💀).
Reader is addressed as "You". No Y/N used.
*Russian Speakers, please forgive me for any linguistic inaccuracies. This is the first time I tried to write in Russian without relying on Google Translate 🥲... If there's any errors, please let me know! 🙏
❗SUGGESTIVE CONTENT BELOW THE CUT! ❗ (No sex, but allusions to it). Readers are warned for suggestive content. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
…Did you say what he thinks you've said, or was that the voices?
Did he imagine it? Was it a hallucination, maybe? Perhaps he's just a maladaptive daydreamer, and he hasn't realised…
His thoughts — or the words spoken by the voices, he's not sure — whisper in an uncharacteristically gentle tone:
Ммм... красотка. А... така красивая... рядом со мной...
They whisper to him about you. To him, for you. And to you. But those words don't leave his scarred lips, his throat hoarse and vocal cords damaged
Treasure. So beautiful. And with me, with me...
No. Not with you. He could never be with you. All he can do is content himself
“—Nikto?" You asked gently, eyebrows furrowed over your eyes, instantly dragging him from his trance. "Are you... okay? Did you hear me?"
Ah. There's that angelic little voice. How divine...
Wait. So it wasn't a hallucination? He didn't imagine you asking him to clasp your bra? Unless he heard incorrectly? Surely he heard incorrectly.
Staring at you with a blank expression under the mask, his response was less like a question, and more like a statement, if anything:
"You... want me to clasp your bra. Yes?"
"...Yes, please," you said, a sheepish, lopsided smile on your face, as you bashfully looked off to the side. "It, er... it came undone as we were cuddling. And uh... well. You know. I tried to be subtle and do it myself, but... it didn't really go that well, did it? So... put me out of my misery, please."
You were so very… casual. True, you were embarrassed, but you didn't display disgust at the prospect of being touched; rather, you were... expectant, as if it's what you wanted, and it made Nikto's heart soar at the possibility that his feelings could be reciprocated.
But he wasn't going to delude himself more than he was already.
You brought this up so offhandedly, as if this was some passing topic of conversation or an ordinary occurrence, and a normal favour to ask of someone. Someone normal. Who was be to be a fucking pervert?
When that fact registered, Nikto probably: a.) clenched his fists so tight that the remaining nails on his fingers pierce his skin and draw blood — all in a desperate attempt to see if this was indeed reality, and not a hallucination; b.), short-circuited and got into an intense unintentional staring competition with you, eyes vaguely red and unblinking for minutes, disbelieving, still and not moving as much as an inch; and/or c.), popped the hardest boner in his life that he almost lost consciousness, fainted, and fell from the bed to floor.
"I... why?"
A laugh almost escaped your throat — almost — but you swallowed it in time, realising that to laugh could have been making a mockery of Nikto.
"Ah... these clasps are so fiddly, you know? And... well..."
Awkwardly laughing, you explained: "...I couldn't reach. Not without drawing attention to myself, anyways. But it's really uncomfortable having to hold your bra while you try to be discreet when you clasp it, you know? And..."
Obviously, Nikto was not someone normal. Isn't.
This was extraordinary. A gift. Oh, what a blessing this was!
To look at you and bask in your presence is salvation in it of itself.
To be close to you, within arms' reach, his strength and size ensuring that in his wildest fantasies you'd be beneath him, with no chance of escaping, and in a position where all you can do is accept what he forces upon you.
Of course, he would never do that. The voices seduce him, urge him, order him to, but he doesn't listen. He won't touch you without permission, or without explicit consent.
Simply living has become worthwhile, as he can breathe the same air that left your precious lips. The pain, the agony, the aching, and the inexplicable grief, the, sorrow, the woe, the burden, and the mortal suffering — all meaningless and trivial if it means that you are with him.
So to touch you? And so intimately? Oh… боже…
Not only does it demonstrate that, despite the grotesque monster that he's been transformed into, the prospect of his hands on your body doesn't repulse you, but it proves how you trust him. You trust Nikto enough to touch you. To be vulnerable with him.
You consider him trustworthy enough to feel your bare back, and to trace his rough, callous, quivering fingertips over the delicate lace of your bra. You have decided that he's worthy of such a privilege.
Still, he wavered in his uncertainty. He'd rather be certain, than ruin things with you. His everything.
"...You are sure?"
Eyes crinkling in a small yet kind smile, you assured him, that: "Yes. I am sure. Please, just do it for me. I'd rather you do it."
He did not want to fuck this up. No fucking way. Ни хуя сибет.
You're friends. Good friends. As a matter of fact, you were his only friend.
But he was so fucking hard that he was almost nauseous — and that was before he has even touched you.
From his hazy recollection of his past and his continuing life which he occasionally unintentionally dissociated from, he can't ever recall being so turned on — half the time, his dick doesn't even function the way it should do.
But for you? You needn't ask; the effect which you have on him is evident. Simply through existing, you're his personal aphrodisiac.
A snort escaped Nikto’s broken, deformed nose at the sight of you shyly holding up your shirt tightly over your chest with one hand, and steadying your bra in the other — if it was up to him, he'd have hurled the offensive piece of clothing into some obscure corner of the room, and stripped you both naked, uncaring of his scars or of how his body looked, just to have you once, once.
But it was not up to him. And he wouldn't do something that rash. He wasn't about to scare you off when you were good... friends. Friends. Yes.
His fingertips touched the junction of your spine, tracing the subtle bumps of the vertebrae. His touch was so delicate, so tentative, that you could have almost mistaken it for a gust of wind.
You shivered involuntarily, goosebumps forming on your arms, and Nikto's breath hitches when you flinch slightly, your back arching a little.
“Блать… душа моя…”
He's trying to be good, trying not to cross any boundaries. You've already been so charitable, so selfless, to offer him this. If he wastes this, or ruins things between you two by making you uncomfortable to the point you won't be on speaking terms, he would rather kill himself.
Gently, with shaky, shaking fingers, he reaches for the clasp of your bra, which is lose, and attempts to clasp it for you.
His big, callous hands weren't made for handling such small, delicate things.
He's breathing heavily, his mask doing nothing to muffle the desperate puffs of air, his throat constricting and going dry. Your hair stands on the nape of your neck, and you shiver again — only, it's not from the cold.
He's gritting his teeth, pissed off by how fiddly this is, but he wouldn't ever voice this out loud — any intimacy and touch is better than none at all.
By some miracle, he does it. And he thought that was that.
To quell his temptations, he gently pulled the hem of your shirt down, fixing the material and making sure the midriff was exposed, and respectfully averted his gaze so you could fix your bra, denying himself the sight he'd cherish until he was blind and engrave the image in his brain.
That was that, he thought. It wasn't really what he thought, of course, since he silently hoped, yearned for more, but he would be thankful for any scraps of affection that he was allowed to give you.
Except...
"...You can touch me, you know," you murmured, averting your gaze as your cheeks heated up. “That… was the whole point.”
Suddenly, he couldn't speak English.
Or Russian.
Or articulate himself in any way, shape or form.
He's struck dumb. Dumbstruck. Dumbfounded. Bewildered.
Really? Really? You had wanted him to do it?
Before he had the time to process your declaration, your smaller hands took his and guided them onto your chest — not over your shirt, but under — letting him cop a feel of the skin he so desired to.
No... not letting him. Encouraging him. With a smile so impossibly sweet and effortlessly sexy at the same time that he had to bite his bottom lip until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
He needed you so bad. So, so bad.
Both large bear-like paws clutching at your chest, he held your covered breasts as if they were the most precious objects in the world.
His. Eго.
Нет... не его...
Not his. Not ever. You were only taking pity on him, aware of how deprived he's been of physical intimacy, the boner always prominent when you're close. He's pathetic.
A silence enveloped you both, but it surprisingly wasn't an awkward one; rather, a pleasant, calming, and comfortable one.
Nikto's hands wandered absentmindedly across your torso, stroking your skin, gently groping the soft parts of you.
You moaned in content, closing your eyes as he massaged your flesh as if he's never seen women's boobs or a woman's cleavage before.
He had, in another life, but never yours. So this is different. Special.
His pupils were blown black with love, eyelids hooded with adoration and complete focus. Only you. And only you. Только ты.
He wouldn't... he told himself he wouldn't... he shouldn't go further... he couldn't do this to you. To himself.
What if he ruined your friendship? If he was without you and alone again, he would really kill himself after all.
He shouldn't...
He mustn't...
Really. Really. He ought to stop now before he loses himself.
Your eyes open, and you bless him with the privilege of watching you undress, the shirt slipping over your head and revealing your body to his starved, starving gaze.
It's too much...
…
…
…
...The bra came off not long after, along with all of your and Nikto's clothes.
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