Nikto Cod - Tumblr Posts

SCREAMING

A AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASDDHFHDHD DSHS

🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

eat up babes

Outfit inspired by this post :>

scared but tried to headcanon the design a little for when he isn't in full gear for missions... in other news i hhope to not neglect this account as much

Oh the things that I would do to have him look at me like this... 😔

He could murder me violently and I'd smile and say "Thank you! 😁"

Need him SO BAD,❗❗❗😫💦😫💦😫💦

i have hired this nikto to stare at you

"You drive me crazy."

Obsessed! Nikto x Reader

Word count: 2472

Nikto's POV! Sporadic uses of "Y/N" — otherwise, reader is referred as "You".

To say that Nikto is obsessed with you would be an understatement 😵‍💫...

Nikto's psychological state gradually deteriorates as you read!

Google Translate Russian lmao 💀,, please forgive any errors! 😟

Edit: Realising that this fic is darker than my usual works. Warning my readers for darker content!

Edit 2: Added the appropriate "dark content" tags. <3

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I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.

I've lost my mind long ago. We're losing it as we speak. I've lost myself long ago and I have not known what to do with ourselves.

Of course, not all was lost. I was cleared for service. I can approach situations without hesitation or uncertainty — but most importantly, kill methodically.

All I need are targets. Just give me targets. Nothing else matters. Nobody.

But I found you. I found you. And you found us. Although there was nothing to find, you found us.

How? It's a mystery. An enigma. An unsolvable puzzle.

My name is Igor. Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich.

Игорь. Igor. I—gor. Two syllables. Four letters, in English. A not so common name in Russia, according to the statistics: in 1991 — the year of my birth — approximately 37 baby boys born were named as such. In 2021, only 17 baby boys born were named Igor. I would assume the number declines each year — maybe less than a dozen Igors were christened this year. Or a single digit. Nine. Eight. Seven. Or even less than five.

October 13, 1991 was my exact date of birth. I was born in Novgorod, when Russia was still the Soviet Union. I had parents. A sister…

…Yet that means nothing to me.

Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich? That is foreign. That is not anyone that I know of. I am Nikto. I am no one. Nobody to know, yet somebody that I know of. Not this… Igor. I am nobody. Никто.

When the voices are quiet, that's when I can silently mourn the man that I once was.

Though, can you mourn someone whom you don't know? Can you mourn the faceless person in the casket, whose face is unrecognisable? Can you mourn at a funeral that no one attended, and hadn't taken process?

I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to repeat it, yes?

I knew it. We knew it. Everyone else knew it.

But you didn't. You. You.

You… remind me of someone.

They're dead now.

They were just a target. Too bad I can't remember who they were.

But you're not. You're more than a target.

You treated me with kindness when everyone avoided me like the bubonic plague. A Black Death following the death of the former Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich and the black, black blackness lingering — a reminder. But not anything that allows us to remember, or reminds us of who we once were.

I don't remember anything. I don't remember anyone. Photographs of my family before the torture are irrelevant. Documents stamping my existence could just as easily make us inexistent. Nobody exists any more aside from Nikto.

A cacophony of voices has infiltrated my brain. Our brain. We will never be me anymore. We are who we are now.

I am a broken man. I hear the voices of many men, who won't let me sleep, won't leave me be, won't give me peace. I was one of those men. Maybe all of the men are me?

But if all of them are me, and I am all of them, then who are we? What are we?

Then again… who I am is nothing. What I are is everything. What we are — crazy.

The pieces of the puzzle aren't fully there. Surely you must have been aware, my treasure?

You were doing your due diligence to arrange the puzzle pieces, so meticulously and with dedication, devoting hours of your time and wishing for the finished product to be cohesive, but you won't find that within us. How unfortunate.

Some of the pieces are missing. Some of them don't even fit. What you're left with is an incomplete picture — one which will never be completed.

No matter. You can be the missing puzzle piece, yes?

My fellow operatives named me Никто — “Nikto”, meaning “Nobody” or “No-one” in Russian — for… what did they say? My “uncanny ability to replicate other people and hide [my] true identity”? Ironic — seeing as replicating an identity is not the same as claiming your own, and being an individual. Having an actual identity, as opposed to being forced to think that being nobody can suffice.

Funny. I was apparently religious before all of this.

Have you heard of Orthodox Christianity? It's a branch of Christianity most often practised in Eastern Europe, in case you weren't aware. Orthodox Christians believe that Jesus redeemed humanity by sacrificing himself through crucifixion — unlike Catholics, who believe that Jesus sacrificing himself through crucifixion was all in an effort to redeem humanity.

Perhaps I was an altar boy in my childhood. Or wore a cross around my neck. Maybe I was devoted, and prayed in the morning, before a meal for grace, in the night, before a mission for mercy, during a mission out of desperation, and after a mission as gratitude.

Such bullshit.

Obviously, God doesn't exist — not in the ethereal, omniscient sense.

Oh no.

The God is You. You are my God.

Just like with Orthodox Christianity, and the salvation of humanity after the sacrifice of Jesus, your presence, your mere existence, was salvation. You brought redemption unto us.

Of course, following my torture, God became an abstract concept. How could the Holy Father abandon me? How could my prayers after the tortue be so wilfully ignored? Why would he actively play a passive role in my damnation, as I'm burned, as I'm beaten, as I'm bruised, abused, cut, and mutilated?

No one was born a sinner. Not even me, this nobody. So what kind of retribution was this — a disfigured face, ruined body, and voices which infiltrated my psyche, words equivalent to the evil of the Antichrist?

But You? You made it worthwhile. Your kindness. Compassion. Charity. It was all worthwhile. Even to gaze at You from afar.

Well.

For the most part.

We have repented for our sins: stealing Your dirty laundry, Your hairbrush, Your t-shirts, and other trinkets which we deem Holy Relics; using Your lip balm without permission, You none the wiser; committing sinful acts in the comfort of your own bedroom, only for You to return, oblivious. We apologise for that nagging paranoia, demanding You to turn around, to catch a glimpse of the eyes staring at You, but You not noticing us when we were camouflaged in the shadows. For stalking You and learning Your schedule. For hacking into all of Your devices and acquiring every little piece of information available from Your digital footprints.

But, You forgive us, yes?

Don't look so horrified, dushka. We left no trace, yes? No evidence. You said You have forgiven all of our transgressions. Think of this as a confession, nothing more. Besides, we never tampered with You belongings. They're all still with us. Just like you will.

You are our oxygen. Without You, we can't breathe. Our lungs suffocate without Your natural scent to fill them, to keep us alive. Our eyes go blind with time without the sight of Your face, Your body. We can't hear anything other than Your voice — our ears tune out any frequencies and wavelengths that don't leave those pretty little lips, yet wage civil war amongst ourselves, spitting curses that cut like knives and pierce like bullets. And Your lips. And Your eyes. And Your eyebrows, hair, hands, neck, God — everything.

You won't abandon us, yes? You wouldn't abandon us, would you, мое сокровище? You are our treasure. I treasure you — all of us do: your pretty little lips, that speak in the softest of tones to us; those eyes that stare in slight fright, yet crinkle in as genuine of a smile as you can manage; those eyebrows that furrow over your bright eyes in the subtlest of frowns, in sorrow or frustration, maybe vexation — and that's just your face. What about your hair? Your hands? Your neck? Your body? What is there not to treasure?

Боже мой, Bozhe moy, my God. Oh God, it's as if an angel has descended and granted us salvation, a merciful deity absolving us of our sins and cleansing our soul. And both the angel and deity are You — working in perfect sync, so benevolent and forgiving, taking pity on a creature so pitiful, so ruined, so unfixable.

We can't remember what some of those was.

Those puzzle pieces, of course.

Zakhaev’s torture stole some of the pieces to the jigsaw, and the puzzle won't ever be solved. We ourselves interrogate, torture, eliminate, kill. Sometimes we dissociate. Other times I am completely in control. Yet all the time, we are committing sins, sins, sins.

And You forgive them. Forgive us.

Every prayer is us praying for you, to you, about you. And each one concludes with your sacred name, whispered in hushed tones as the syllables are too precious to utter out loud.

Poor, poor thing. You probably didn't even know what you were signing up for, did you? You probably intended to be charitable. Sympathetic. And you were, sweet one.

But you were naive to have assumed that we wouldn't become possessive of you like an unwanted stay mutt of its only bone. So innocent — perhaps stupid — but we like to think that you were misguided in your intentions, yet guided by some God.

An ignorant God? If You're the God to worship, then are You an ignorant one? An innocent, naive, and unconditionally loving one? Yet, one that, despite Their obliviousness, can knowingly soothe with a simple string of words? With a caress?

What an oxymoron. It suits You. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Aw. Are those tears, dushka? Let's wipe them, hmm? Kiss it better, yes? You will like our lips on you.

Don't scream. Don't hurt those vocal cords. We like the sound of your voice. We want you to talk.

There there, little one. You look beautiful when you cry, but you look most beautiful when you're smiling. Smile, hm? Do it for us. Your Nikto.

You don't have to be afraid, you know. Don't be afraid, krasotka. We love you.

Here, put your hand on our chest. Feel how our heart is beating? It beats only for you.

Our abdomen, our stomach. You feel how toned that is, yes? You feel the muscle?

What about our biceps? The strength in our forearms? They're all for you. We're all yours, yours yours yours.

Our blood looks good on you, dushka. The blood really accentuates your nails. But please, stop. Stop.

You don't have to scratch us, or scream. You know that none of that will change anything. You know that we will love you, even if you tell us you hate us. It's too late.

Get used to touching us, yes? What's left of us, anyways. Yes, our body won't be the most appealing, or the handsomest, but it's all for you. Every inch. All for you — just like how you are all ours.

You're ours, just as much as we belong to you. You could stab us with a knife and we'd smile. You could shoot us with a gun point-blank in the head and we'd thank you. What an honour it would be to live with you by your side, or die by your side. We're a dead man either way. Your dead man. Your Nikto.

You underestimated my capacity for violence. Or were perhaps too naive to understand it.

That's okay. Put your hand on my face. Just like that. See? Nothing to fear. It's just us. Your Nikto.

I can feel it shaking. Why do you shake so much, hm? Don't be afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of. You should know there's nothing to be afraid of. After all, you were fearless when it came to speaking to me, and weren't afraid to reach out to us. Surely you don't want to abandon us now?

That's too bad. You won't abandon us. We won't let you.

I'm crazy: I don't think I need to repeat it, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

So crazy.

So, so crazy.

I am already crazy yes but it is You who drives me to insanity do You know that? Why do You deny? Do not deny us this yes? Yes You do know that it is You who makes me mad beyond return of course You do You've always known it and You know it now little one You're just pretending feigning ignorance with surprise in Your eyes. Why pretend that it was all a pretense? Your kindness? Your sympathy? Your company? It was not pretense to us no it was everything. Everything we could have hoped for prayed for and lived for.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

So crazy.

So, so crazy, baby.

Craaazyyy. Crazy crazy crazy!

You have made us the craziest we have ever been from the moment we met Your eyes and will be forever driven crazier with Your around from the day You die. And that won't be anytime now, my treasure. We will treasure You, take care of You, keep You safe. You will want for nothing, we can assure You — nothing, nobody, no one. Only Nikto. Nobody will ever look at You, as their eyeballs will be gouged out for having the audacity to spare a glance at the pinnacle of perfection. And nobody will ever want You, nobody will taint that precious skin with unworthy fingers, as anyone who tries will have them broken have their bones crushed to dust their skin muscles and tendons ripped to ribbons until there is no body left.

Nobody will ever look at You. Only Nikto. Us. Forever, and ever, and ever and ever and ever we will have our eyes on You until our retinas dissolve and our pupils can no longer absorb light and we become blind and crippled, crying, crying crying crying for You, crying only for You. You crying out for us until Your voice is hoarse from moaning, until our name becomes a prayer just as much as Yours is to us.

We love You. Think of nobody. Only Nikto. Only of Nikto. Only for and against Nikto. We will live for You. We do already, do you understand? We're yours. Yours. Yours yours yours yours yours yours to have yours to hit yours to scratch with those nails yours to scream at yours yours yours yours yours. Yours. Yours! Yours!

Yours!

Y/N.

I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it. You should have known it.

And if you didn't know it, then You will know it.

Because You drive me crazy.

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A/Ns

Really really really Really REALLY had doubts about posting this and thought that no one would like it. I felt inspired and happy and proud of myself when I was almost finished but it took me days to conclude the work since I was second-guessing whether or not I should post this after all. Kind of embarrassed, in all honesty, but I decided to post it in the end since I quite like it. :'>

I just wanted to highlight your, @//connorsui, lovely, lovely words when you reblogged my last Nikto post 😭😭😭💘💘💘. To receive not only some compliments, but your thoughts on my headcanons AND analysis *AND* your evaluation of my post was so, SO heartwarming to wake up to in the morning 🥹🥹🥹💓💓💓, especially when it was so long!!! Like, what?!! 😢😢😢😢😢😿😿😿😿😿😭😭😭😭😭💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💖💖💖💖💖✨✨✨✨✨

Thank you so so so SO much for your positive feedback !!! I've read it over four times by now. O really appreciated and still appreciate it. ☺️💞🫶💖✨✨💕💕

(I also want to kiss Nikto's scarred face ☹️☹️☹️ just wordless acts of intimacy where words aren't necessary and just to show the man some affection, regardless of how he looks 😟💝 need that ugly traumatised Russian man SO BAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭)

Inspiration for this gained from:

thisvvv song!!! and Chapter 7 in Metro 2035 lol,, when Artyom was drunk and disorientated I thought it was written really REALLY well and I wanted to incorporate his meaningless drivel into this.

Nikto's voicelines and his various voices/sporadic changes in character

the Fandom Wiki

my own headcanons lol 😋

From fluff this whatever the fuck this is!!!!!!!!!! Hope you enjoyed 💗💗

Yall this is also super specific...

Do you think he has a scar on his forehead and he's tracing it?

@simp4konig

Words wouldn't be able to convey how down bad this art made me so I put it into a picture !! 😻😻💞💞💓,, sorry to disgrace ur art like this man 💀💀💀💀💀,,,, i literally dont eben know u and neither do you me im so so SO SORRY 😭😭😭💀... not really tho i have no shame when it comes to Nikto 😋

im sorry he looks weird here, im still adjusting with xp pen.... i haven't used a stylus for so long 🥹

God... I absolutely adore this fanfiction. My words won't do it justice. Please, please, PLEASE read it!!!!!!!!!!! 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 💞💓💞💓💞💜💜💝💜💞💕🛐🛐🛐

OP this BEGINNING??? HELLO??? I knew as soon as I finished the first paragraph that this work would be a masterpiece. 🥹💖

Calling Nikto's alters "demons" which are "neatly packaged inside of a human body" as if it's convenient for something so supposedly monstrous to take human form is AN AMAZING METAPHOR OMG because it suggests that Nikto became possessed — he is a Nobody because his soul was stolen by Zakhaev, and is No-one as the alters wage war amongst themselves. But it's clear that despite the voices which terrorise and haunt him, he has retained some self-awareness and humanity, since he is able to recognise that although his voices are uncontrollable, he's still the one in control, and can resist them. For Reader's sake.

And MAAAN LET ME TELL YOU AAAHEUHDSAAAAAHDJDSAAAASBDHSBSAASAAAADHHDSJAJSJSJDHDHDHDJSJAISNEISNSHSHDHDHDHDIDJDIDJSKAOSKDKD

That's it. That's what I'm telling you. 😊💞

NAH BUT HOLY FUCKING SHIT NOT EVEN ¼ IN AND THIS IS MAGNIFICENT!!! A MASTERPIECE!!! A WORK OF ART!!! A BLESSING TO THE EYES!!! AND IT ONLY KEEPS GETTING BETTER??? 1?1?@??#???😭😭😭💞💞💞💞💞

LIKE, THE PARAGRAPH WHERE READER IS "CHATTING" TO NIKTO AND IT EVENTUALLY CONCLUDES WITH A RUSHED, EMBARRASSED GOODBYE? THE EXTENDED METAPHOR FOR DEMONS AND CERBERUS?? READER'S INITIAL OBLIVIOUSNESS???

And then the abrupt POV change. I was eating Nikto's perspective UP!!!!!

"Wants you for himself, to himself. None of this we."

"None of this sharing. They didn't want to share, so why should he."

"But which Nikto? Which we?"

+ This entire paragraph had me like:

NIKTO GENUINELY UNDERSTANDS THAT HE IS NO GOOD TO READER AND HE DISTANCES HIMSELF FOR THEIR SAKE. IT'S SUCH A CLASSIC TROPE OF "I'M STAYING AWAY TO KEEP YOU SAFE" BUT IT WORKS SO SO SO WELL HERE!!!

AND THE IMPLIED CONTRAST BETWEEN READER AS THIS BEAUTIFUL ANGELIC BEING VS. NIKTO AND HIS DEMONS OMFGFHDHSJDHDDFSJS IM GONMA GO FWRAL 😭😭😭

"Because he wants you. And he's going to have you. And they all agree, and for the first time, everything feels like it's in unison."

I ASCENDED AND WENT TO HEAVEN

Everything about this is just so poetic: Nikto's violence and how both cathartic and euphoric it is; "Ghost becoming a ghost", and becoming the no-one that Nikto had become — with the exception of having no body, which has become mutilated in Nikto's hot white rage; Nikto taking Ghost's mask to wound the TF141 for daring to capture Reader and abuse them in such a way, which is a heinous crime in Nikto's eyes.

"[Nikto] stuffs the cracked skull mask into his pocket, an insult to the rest of the other man's comrades more than keeping a war trophy..." AND IT IS!!! AND THIS ENTIRE SCENE IS HORRIFIC. HORRIFIC. SIMON RILEY HAS SUFFERED, AND GHOST HAS SUFFERED TWICE AS MUCH, UNTIL HE WAS BRUTALLY MURDERED BY NIKTO HERE. I CAN EMPHASISE WITH TF141 BECAUSE THEY WOULD BE DEVASTATED. COMPLETELY DEVASTATED. 😭😭😭💔💔💔

...Yet from Nikto's POV, Ghost's brutal murder is justifiable??? It's horrific, but to Nikto, it's so euphoric, so satisfying, that as the reader, you almost feel that same sick sense of satisfaction to rip and tear Ghost to pieces.

Again, this is horrific. But I LOVE IT. I LOVE YOUR DEPICTION OF IT.

"And when he finally slides home, they slide into you, too. They slam their hips into you greedily, and you welcome it all."

"One and the same. Nikto. A saint, his halo casting crowns around him when the sunlight filters through the crooked blinds, highlighting the crooked nose and smile and the beauty of him all, inside and out. You wish he could go on forever."

"And when he finally slides home" I CAN'T MAN OP THIS IS TOO MUCH 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

PLEASW THE CYCLICAL STRUCTURE ONLY INSTEAD OF REFERRING TO NIKTO AS POSSESSED BY RELENTLESS DEMONS AND MONSTER HE IS READER'S SAVIOUR AND AN ANGEL AND I JUST AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL THIS IS ABSOLUTELY THE PINNACLE OF BEAUTY THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTION BECAUSE IT IS LIKE A BLESSING FROM THE HEAVENS 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐💜💜💜💜💜💓💓💓💓💓💝💝💝💝💝💞💓💞💓💓💓💓💓💓💕💕💞💞💞💞💞💓💞💓💞💓💕💓💕💕💕💓💓💓💓💓💜💕💜💕💝💓💝💕💕💞💕💜💓💜💓💜💕💜💕💞💞💕💝💕💝💕💕💞💕💝💕💝💕💞💞🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐

все: Nikto x Female Reader

They want you. Would you want them as much as him?

TW// minors dni, sexual content, violence/combat gore, crass language, Nikto's acute dissociative disorder, female reader being delulu, "female reader gets injured and Nikto snaps" trope, RIP Ghost my dude got killed here

oOo

They say KorTac keeps a live demon in its cage.

Well, multiple demons. Live ones. But they're all packaged neatly inside a physical body that apparently belongs to a human male. Its name, his name, is Nikto.

Nobody. Must just be his callsign, albeit an interesting one, because how can someone be called a nobody, to be okay with being considered a nobody. Your mama's not really keen on you being in some private militia, but you grew up with her putting stickers on your chore chart and telling you that she loved you, that you mattered, to make sure you ate three meals a day and went to bed on time. Daddy helped you move into your dorm, fixed your car, did dad-daughter hangout sessions. You had your friends, your pets. With how fucked up everyone was in KorTac, you're still sure that through all of the psychological messes and broken bones, they still had people, things, that they cared about, and were cared for in turn. Even the unbearable Konig is called Kilgore by Horangi, Zeus is ever the gentleman with everyone, and grumpy Mr. Oz is rubbing off on you.

But the demon seems to be okay with it. A nobody. But also a host to an open maw to hell, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake, with each of its faces chittering in hunger and fascination at their carnage. Many stay away as the default option. Dokkaebi says not to bother him. But your worst and best trait is your unending curiosity, and that childlike need to understand the good in everyone, so maybe that's why you ended up as a medic, and a damned good one at that. Even carried colorful animal bandages and candy to cheer someone up. Cerberus was a three-headed demon, but it was still three cute dogs, at the end of the day, right?

And that's why you do the exact opposite. You jog up to him the times he's spotted on base. Ask him how was dinner? Introduce yourself, blab about why you joined and your favorite ice cream flavors, the weather, and if he had a good day today. Did you know that Phillip Graves can't even microwave leftover pizza and got the hot explosion all over Darnell, and how boring it was sometimes when you weren't aligned to a squad? That you liked his flight suit and his helmet and heywhereareyougoingohuhhaveaniceday!

Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, because you were a sucker for love. A real sucker, a loser, falling for a man who looked at you through the slits of his mask as if you were a bug at the bottom of his shoe. Real smart of you. Couldn't heed any of the warnings about how the horde of demons in the fleshsuit wanted to be left alone, that they conversed with themselves only, and would rip and tear if anyone got too close. Eat away at your soft flesh and your bright eyes and your unnerving habit to smile and wave each time. That you became the hound, as if you wanted to be Cerberus' fourth head. Couldn't go anywhere without making sure you saw him at least once, begging for a glance back. Out here picking at petals like doeshelovemehedoesn'tlovemedoeshelovemehedoesn'tlovemeohhelovesmehelovesmetooforsure!!!; mad delusional just because you keep a notepad decorated with motivational sayings, and Nikto never swatted you away when you trailed behind on his heels.

You're weird; a freak. But you're happy. You hope maybe he he likes you, too, somewhat. Time passes, and he spares you five more minutes to swing your feet around at the latest gossip. Tucks one of your lollipops in his pocket, even. Strides past you into the helo, still, when he's signed to a new deal, but it's a work in progress.

Maybe?

You hope he never finds the framed picture of you smiling and Mr. Friendly photoshopped in next to you.

Hey, a girl can dream.

oOo

They like you.

We want her. We wantherwewanther.

And that was the issue.

Bring her to us. Yes, bring her. Bring her and don't let her out.

They don't want to let you out. And the bigger issue is, he doesn't want to let you out. They want you to themselves, but the Nikto that he considers to be his true self, wants you first. Wants you more. Wants you all to himself, with no crumbs left to spare, like a greedy child hiding his gift in the dirt. All for himself, because since the incident, when the fuck did he have his own mind for himself, haunted by all of him or the fractured bits of him that took on their own compartments in his head. They hunger, just like him, feel pain, fester, kill like him, speak like him, tell him he's diseased but not; some laugh, some cower, some want blood and flesh and bone, and some want to help. They laugh, and he laughs; they don't laugh, he laughs, and when he can't muster a bark, they laugh and scamper around his skull like echoes offering sinister judgement. But all the same, they remain trapped with him in this body, and sometimes, he realizes that it's just him, but when dawn comes, it's back to thousands of souls tearing at him to go hunt.

Killkillkillkillkillwehunger.

She looked lovely today, and you didn't tell her hello, you coward. Don't mess this up.

We need to sleep. We are tired.

Wants you for himself, to himself. None of this we. None of this sharing. They didn't want to share, so why should he. But which Nikto? Which we? Garbled, confused, hungry, fevered; don't ever let you catch him slip a candid picture of you out of his wallet before he goes to kill, to look upon it and let his eyes droop and his body soften. They dance in his mind; they croon at your face and form enclosed in laminate, because he didn't want the photo to ever be marred, as if a single fleck of dirt would render you dirty. The softness of your neatly tucked hair; the uniform did your body no justice, each curve and dip he soldered into his, no, their, memories; the face that invariably was ready to sport a cheeky smile. Different than them. A misfit. Beautiful.

Not like him. Not like them. We. Greedy, selfish, scarred, ugly inside and out. His mind was fractured, but the electricity and the taunting actions of man marring his flesh both didn't detract from his sins before and after.

He wanted you, and that was why he couldn't have you. Couldn't let them have you. Because once he gave in, once he let the floodgates open, to unleash ever single facet upon your form, you'd hate him. Really hate him, so he had to hate you first. Pushed you away starting from that day; no more animal bandages and your sweet candies. No more listening to your voice that he'd spill blood for to hear for a second. No more cheery hellos. The curve of your lips that beckoned him to give it all up, to grab your hand and run off together like some delusional fairy tale his babushka used to read him. Hurt eyes, downtrodden, kicking him in the gut. He ground hard at his teeth, enough to draw blood, at your muted stare that'd cast away from him. It was better this way. Better. But for who? No, it had to be better for you. You had to get away from him.

You had to get away from them.

But things don't work out the way they do. They don't, because he's the stupid one. An utter idiot, because he couldn't see how bleak the sky was with him ignoring you. How your ice cream didn't taste the same, and no amount of faking it was going to diminish how you didn't care anymore and started taking on riskier missions. Just like him, but he deemed that he could handle it, and you weren't the type to intentionally draw blood. But you took the risk, an absolute suicide of a mission, where the 141 was definitely on the prowl to lock down a rogue operation. Where they operated behind a two-faced mask of Western propriety, and there was no true capture-or-kill. Only kill once they captured, after they tortured the mind and body beyond repair to get broken bits of information. And they got their hands on you. Trapped you like a rabbit in a snare, and once he, once they, heard the last of your sharp warning to get the others out of there, selfless as usual, he lost it.

THEYHAVEHERTHEYGOTHERWEMUSTGOWEMUSTGOFASTERWEMUSTGETHER!!!!!

Blood pumping, eyes red, he swiftly dispatches his current missive and hightails it to you. Fool. He promised to ignore you, to treat you as if you never existed, but he just couldn't help but tap into the comm lines for every one of your missions. Couldn't stay away physically, so he soothes himself with your voice. Soothes them. Voice like honey, music to his ears. But they took you. And the music barked out sharp orders to stay away from those coordinates, to run and not come back for you, that you wouldn't talk. He doesn't listen, and he guns it with a stolen helo, to give in to the voices.

Because he wants you. And he's going to have you. And they all agree, and for the first time, everything feels like it's in unison. Tearing through each of the operatives like butter. The harsh bite of bullets shoot his nerves afire, and he grins, an utter madman, as he spills blood everywhere in his wake. Rushing closer and closer. Death, euphoria. And when he bursts in the final door, when he sees you broken and bloody, an arm bent at an odd angle, and your face kissing the concrete floor, he gives in again.

NO ONE MESSES WITH OUR FRIENDS AND OUR LIVES.

The crunch and bite of bone. Eyes just lovely to be gouged out. He bites out chunks of flesh off of the man rendering you near death. and it feels amazing; he feels as if he's rising to sainthood tearing the skull balaclava off of the head, doing the man a favor. Ghost becoming a ghost, taking on his name, a nobody. Ripping and tearing, flesh torn and bloody until he tramples the beating heart until he hears the sick crack of the ribs shooting into flesh. Glorious.

The voices jeer. Moremoremore. But he sees you, eyes wide, unmoving, mouth open, an unfortunate witness to the lengths of his depravity, and he moves. Stuffs the cracked skull mask into his pocket, an insult to the rest of the other man's comrades more than keeping a war trophy, and he lifts you up as if you weighed nothing and left a second wake of carnage behind to get you into the helo.

And once he had you. And once you were safe and tucked into one of his safehouses. And once he had you, not doing the right thing in taking you back to base, but keeping you. Away from others. Away, away, away from the rest of the world. Just you and him. Him and you, and the voices. Bits of him that were him. And once he had you, cleaned and bandaged, muttering softly as he set your arm back into place, you had him. You had him, hook, line, and sinker with one look, one call of his name, a hand reaching for him, to not ever leave you. A thank you hushed out from those lips, to come back.

You had better had no regrets. Because he gives in, not to the voices, but to you, his greed, to expose his ugliness. Tears off his mask without a word and slants his lips over yours. And you relish it. Kick off the covers and open the junction of your legs to welcome him in between them. Scars and all, ridges dancing along his face and body, criss-crossing down into the apex of his thighs. He's beautiful, and you preen yourself, as if two hands roughly shoving down your hair will do much, to better whatever presentation you had. He deserves better than this. What a beautiful man, and the scars only highlight the areas that you want to touch the most. Lips worshipping down the expanse of his throat, and you praise him. Hands wander. Up and down, round and around, mimicking the way you grind against him with wild abandon.

NiktoNikto. Oh, Nikto. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouloveyou-

Please let him know. Let them know. And you know about them, accept them in the way they are him, live in him, gnaw at his bones, because they make up the man that lingers after the remnants of your smile. Reveres you in silence, when he thinks that you're not looking. Couldn't throw or use any of the cat bandages or bear to taste the sweetness of the candies. So he hungrily devours the taste of your mouth endlessly, massaging the softness of your breasts, groaning when you paw at the zipper of his suit. Begging. Whispering the things you think of him, would do to him, if you would let him, everywhere in and out of his ears, playing with the broad expanse of his back as he flexes off his clothing. And off with yours quickly. Bodies meshing, touching, tasting, wanting. Devouring your breasts, pressed into the junction of your neck. Kissing down your stomach, and you keen when he latches onto your clit. Opening up your pussy. Your injuries feel like nothing when he decides to feast and feast and feast. Drinking from you as if he was afraid that this would be the last.

And when he finally slides home, they slide into you, too. They slam their hips into you greedily, and you welcome it all. Equally as hungry, as ravenous, embracing him and them in entirety. One and the same. Nikto. A saint, his halo casting crowns around him when the sunlight filters through the crooked blinds, highlighting the crooked nose and smile and the beauty of him all, inside and out. You wish he could go on forever. You wish you could kiss him forever, love him forever, love them over and over until one last stutter of his hips, and you both lose yourselves in each other.

oOo

They say a person in KorTac keeps a demon in her cage.

Oooh taking off nikto's mask thoooo

when you saw nikto's face for the first time, it was on a balmy night. you were deployed to a small section of the middle east, hunting down one of zakhaev's groups. but it'd been so, so long, and even a man such as himself, one burdened by the need for revenge, can only wait for so long.

so, you set up camp for the night.

you traded cigarettes with one another. he had the cheap, crude kind-- the sort that you smoke only to take the edge off. (really, you only liked them because his chapped lips touched each one before he passed them onto you.)

you still remember the look in his eyes. he was magnetic, this character that disturbed you but drew you in with every little quip and brooding look. there was-- is-- something about him that you just can't shake.

the night set in, and after smoking for quite a while, you both got into the tent. it was small. if a strong wind came through, it would've knock it down with the two of you in it. but you weren't nervous, not with nikto around.

he always wore a face-covering, often a mix of fabrics and tactile material. you knew of the campfire tales from your rookie days of what he endured, of how zakhaev tortured him, each story more exaggerated than the last. you don't really know what happened, you just know it was bad enough for him to always hide behind a mask.

like a fool, you asked him about it. and he answered by turning around, presenting the clasp to you, daring you to release him from the measly pieces keeping the mask together.

you did. your fingers hesitated before undoing the clasp, but you did it. he did not flinch-- he wasn't bluffing or trying to prove a point. he just let you do it, and you weren't sure of why. maybe it was because you were alone, or that he liked that your mouth touched his cigarettes, or maybe he just wanted to give you something to write home about.

was he beautiful, or ugly? was he "atrocious" and "blighted by scars?" maybe. maybe not. this character that people formed, that he played into, was not all it was made out to be. he looked just as tired as everybody else, just as sullen. you saw him as andre that night, not just nikto, the man who kills and terrorizes.

YIsssisSSISISSSSSSSss

TITKTO IS MY FAVOURITE THING EVER OMG 🤭🤭💞💞💓

AMAZING!!! 😁😁😁💞💞💞

Practicing perspective, thanks for modeling Nikto.

It’s a bit off, but yeah.

NIKTO IN PASTEL COLOURS OMGHGGFGG 🥺🥺🩷💛🤍🩵🩵🤍💛🩷💞💕💕💖✨✨💛💛

HOW DO YOU DRAW NIKTO SO YUMMY-?!

i try!!! thank you!!!! love your writing too! :3

IT'S NIKTO WITH A KITTY ITS NIKTO WITH A KITTY ITS JIKTO WITH A KITYY ITS NIKT WITH A KITYY ITSNIKTOWITH AKITYY ITS NITKO WITHA KITTY WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH 😭😭😭😭😭😭💞💕💕💓💞💓💕💓💞💕

(I'm the cat guys 😼💫✨✨)

First drawing back and its nikto

slowly but… im drawing

AAAAHHEHAAAAHAHAHAHHH ITS SO PRETTYYYTYYYYYT WAHHHHDHHJ

THE COLOURS ARE SO SO PRETTU N AESTHETICALLY PLEASINGV AAAAAAHH THE NEUTRAL COLOURS AND THE PURPLE IN THE BG WORKS SO SO WELLLL DHSHDHSJSSS

KRUEGERS AND NIKTOS SUBTLEBLUSH ARE SO CUTE TOO!!!!!

Krueger's head makes me think that there's a big size difference between them and he's stood on his tip-toes 🤭,, and Krueger really REALLY wants a kiss but Nikto is staring at him unimpressed like: "😒".

Nikto wants to kiss Krueger even more than Krueger wants to kiss him 💘

Wanted to reblog initially but none of my initial thoughts were in the Bible n now i am homeless after an angry mob burned my flat down for blasphemy soo Amazing Art! 🙌✨✨💖

👋👋👋

YAYYYY IT'S FRIDAYYYY!!!! FUCKING FINALLY THIS WEEK WA SSO LONG FOR ME 😭😭😭😭

Anyways !!!! vvvvv

hate Hate Hate Hate HATE when some art depicts Nikto as this 10/10 Slavic man in terms of his face!!! Like!!! NO!!! THE MAN IS DISFIGURED AS FUCK. HE IS UGLY. FUCKING UGLY. UUUGLYYY. LET'S NOT KID OURSELVES. WE'RE NOT SIMPING FOR SOME HANDSOME HUNK. IT'S THE CHUNKS OF A MAN WE'RE INTO — NOT TO PUT THEM BACK TOGETHER TO "FIX" LIKE SOME JIGSAW PUZZLE, BUT TO APPRECIATE EVERY SINGLE PIECE!!! EVERY SINGLE DISFIGUREMENT!!! EVERYTHING!!!!!

Ahem. Got carried awya, 💀

Yes yes yes this this this and this!!!vvvvv:

Man is not loyal to anyone. All he is there for is to carry out orders. Not only does he unintentionally (I assume) dissociate when his alters take over, but he intentionally dissociates from the killing. Orders are orders, and a mission is a mission.

"All I need are targets. Just give me targets."

"Don't think of the enemy as human. They are simply targets."

//I actually didn't know that MP-[] stood for "Military Police — [Call-sign]" and that's SO COOL. NIKTO IS SO MUCH COOLER OMG. MILITARY POLICE???

Yes, it's inhumane. But it's what gets the job done. No point getting attached and letting emotional connections or the morality of your actions weigh you down — and no point in particular to be affected by how inhumane his methods are. He's a military, not a humanitarian, and it's not his fault if you get in his way or don't cooperate and risk jeopardising the mission.

"Watch your mouth. Or I'll cut your tongue out."

"You are a means to an end. Then you're nothing.

"I need you for the mission. Nothing more."

Maybe it's just me projecting but my Slavic family doesn't believe in medication either lol (not lol). Getting dependent on drugs to them is like being alcoholics and/or addicted to cigarettes. Don't rlly have an opinion on their logic, but that point of view is actually accurate for Nikto. Having had to rely on nobody but himself, to be dependent on drugs could lead chip away at the self-control he so skillfully mastered, until he's uncontrollable and all he can do is use drugs to dull and mute the voices.

Nikto laughing at other (enemy) soldiers' deaths is SO REAL!!! Some of of his voicelines were:

"Not today, motherfuckers!"

"Trying to kill me?!/You can't kill me!"

"(Laughs) More!"

Like, he's having the time of his life??? It's THRILLING??? EXHILARATING??? It's like it's a game to him lol,, like, he's having SO much fun! (he's killing people and could die at any moment).

Goes back to your point to his confidence on the field. Amazingly put 👏

I feel like he's borderline psychopathic with hints of sadism, since he doesn't strike me as the type to have a conscience per se, unless the voices quieten down and his alters abandon him.

***Actually, scratch that. As I'm writing I feel like he could be all three. Maybe the alters are psychopathic/sociopathic/sadistic respectively, and it's HE who is burdened with the consequences, the morality, and the emotional baggage. Idk tho this came to me as i was writing 🤷🏼‍♀️

//Genuinely terrifying to imagine him storming up to you and demanding you to tell him why you're looking at him id shit myself no joke 😨 the comparison is SO accurate ive felt that way irl 😰

//Him not understanding jokes 💀 HELP 💀💀💀💀

Love you for these headcanons. They're great. Your contribution was great.

BTW these r canon to me now 💕💕💕💕

(not proof read im so sorry but im in a rush ☹️)

Andre Nikto head canons

We have little information about Niko but here's what I've gathered..

((Also I'd like to kindly add, hi, hello, my name is Mika and I am a Bosnian. The chances of me adding some accurate slav head canons are always high but never low!!🙏🏻 ALSO IM TERRIBLY OBSESSED WITH NIKTO SO IF ENJOY THIS AND YOU WANT DATING NIKTO HEAD CANONS PLEASE LET ME KNOWWW))

Genuine head canons:

Andre Nikto (Никто) is a (scary) Russian military man, roughly 193/194 centimetres (when you compare him to Simon's height) He suffers with acute dissociative disorder (better said DID) yet is still serving the military cause of how he preforms during battle.., so the military still views him as a ideal soldier for combat despite his disorder..

No hate but from what I've seen in some art works claiming it's his "face reveal" you people have to understand that under his mask, his face is disfigured.. so, no he won't be an attractive super model under that mask of his..

I don't think you people are aware how badass Nikto is as a character, almost SIMILAR as Ghost who's in the military for the same reason as everybody else, to risk their life.

Although judging by Nikto's voice lines, he doesn't care who he's killing..if it were up to him, if his teammates serve him zero purpose he'd care less if they die..(after all, you're just a target..) but being a professional, he can't allow that to happen to his teammates

If you look up closely, Nikto wears a military uniform that is different from everyone else with MP-0 written on it. Now if you don't know, MP stands for Military Police (enforcement agencies connected with, or part of, the military of a state.) and zero next to it meaning "nothing" and this is important which is what Nikto refers himself as..

Yeah so about that..

I have a theory about Nikto's nickname

After being captured and brutally tortured with whatever sick tendency mister Z had in store for him. It was Mister Z that couldn't really get much Information about Andre.

They would start torturing him while repeating to Andre that he's nothing, he's no one, what he is is nothing but what he is is everything. Those words play in the back of his head and they never seen to go away.

(This is extremely relevant cause Mister Z tried to get to know a bit of Andre by looking through some research come to find his citizenship and language are censored making him a nobody. Keep in mind, if he found any information about Andre viewing from personal life etc. it will be used as blackmail..)

After recovering his scars and taken to therapy after 7 years he was diagnosed with DID

NOW moving on to the DID part

(What I said about the fact that people overlook Nikto's disorder, I mean it..

Some don't really write about his disorder which is fine but when someone does it gets messy. )

Alters aren't easy to deal with, it's actually gonna haunt you till the day that you die cause there's no cure for it. And in Nikto's case it's from PTSD and Nikto is very aware of his alters..

Let me tell you how Nikto's disorder affects him. Switching can be consensual, forced or triggered, Nikto values silence as much as the next person cause he's dealing with much inside his head already. The kind of guy that would "watch TV" while dissociating with a 100 yard glare with very slow blinking and a slight headache..

There are times where his personalities would correct him when hes referring to himself (example: I'm up..(his personality correctes him) WE'RE up..)

"He made us do this" (and other voice lines I can't recall..)

Maybe cut bits of an apple with a knife and eat it while watching TV..

He has medication prescribed for him but he didn't wanna depend on medications cause they're just drugs..they're nothing to him but just drugs..

He has dissociative amnesia too, sometimes he would wander around confused maybe even annoyed. The amnesia appears to be caused by traumatic or stressful experiences endured or witnessed..Although the forgotten information may be inaccessible to consciousness, it sometimes continues to influence behavior

Like I said he likes quiet people, someone who doesn't waste their air on small talk..

Example; don't really talk to him about the weather, unless you have something interesting to say but if the conversation is gonna go nowhere , don't talk..he finds that a waste of time

People assume just because he's Russian that he likes vodka, he doesn't like vodka...-He doesn't like any alcoholic beverage cause it makes his problems a lot worse,...maybe If you were lending him some as an offering, he'll take it but he has SOME self control, he's okay with coffee, though..

It's relevant cause he stays awake at late hours since he finds it difficult to sleep, he'll stay up late with no music, nothing, just a silent room. It doesn't matter if he tries the military tactic where you just close your eyes and turn off your thoughts, it's very different when you have voices screaming inside your head...

Despite everything he's still intelligent, so being smart + strength + sharp reflexes and you got yourself a criminal

Death doesn't phase him, but to him death is like sleeping, he's not scared of death considering that he's been through hell those past few months.

He likes the simple things, don't complicate anything..because he's quick with catching an attitude..be blunt and forward and stumble over your words..

Nikto shows confidence in the battlefield,just like König, except he has a high rush of adrenaline and will laugh at the enemies death.

Fun fact: in this one comic Price calls Nikto "psycho"

And it's without a doubt that he is one.., a sadistic, sociopathic, psychopath

After splitting, his alters can and will get more aggressive and do more harm and damage to others cause they're doing the most at protecting the host.. (depending on the alter, some wanna protect him while some wanna hurt him)

Oh by the way about the intelligence part, I mean he has a good good memory with remembering faces..

He doesn't like people looking at him funny, he'll get angry really fast and annoyed at the same time.., he won't show hesitation when it comes to approaching you and asking you what are you looking at (it's like trying to avoid eye contact with a homeless man Infront of a store, that's how scared you would be)

He's slow with jokes or any form of humor that you throw at him??? You'll be excited to tell him a joke, and when you do he just looks at you and tells you never to do that again..,or just straight up tell you he doesn't get it...??? and probably trying to explain it either he gets it or not he'll still tell you that it's not funny

He doesn't argue, or he does? Arguing with him will costs you avoiding getting objects thrown at you so you can get out of his sight..tragic, now you have a teammate that hates your guts and won't apologize for it.

UghghhhhGgHH

His body is so handsome in your style

Oh my God

His body type is giving big grizzly bear 🐻

The chest hair??? The poses??? His hands??? The way the clothes were drawn and how they hug his bod??? The mask??? Oh my godohmtgodOh myGod and the biceps holy fucking SHIT THE MUSCLES ASSHHHRHHHJJJFJK IDEAL MAN OVER THERE!!!!! SEXY SEXY MAN LOOK AT HIM GO OMGFDJJ 😳🫣🫣

Bear

STOP BC HES GIVING ME THIS:

INTIMIDATING ASS MAN IN THE FRILLIEST, PRETTIEST PINK DRESS EVER

(never read a batman comic n never will but TELL me this is NOT iconic???)

OP I LOVE YOU FOR THIS 💞💞💞💞💞

he's my little meow meow :3

YESSS SSSIR!!!!! 😊😊🥰🥰🥰❤️❤️💋❤️💋💋❤️

👀 Sir?

Omfg

I love this so fucking much oh my Fucking GOD

LITERALLY THEIR DYNAMIC!!!!!!!!!

LOVE THIS SO FUCJING MUCH AAAHAHDHJFJGJGKKKKJJFJnqn @!1!!!!!#

Go get him Krueger!!! No one else wants him!!! You have no competition!!! We're rooting for you, even!!!!!

Ah, yes. Krueger is a professional when it comes to dating those physically repulsive sexy Russian men! You can trust his approach

Words can't describe how much I love this.

Honestly, you🩵 and @lizzy019💞 are two of the most talented Nikto writers, and it's reached a point where words aren't enough anymore to convey my adoration for your works. Every post — fanfic, drabble, headcanon and otherwise, no matter how short — is so well done and totally accurate to what I would imagine Nikto to be like that there's genuinely nothing else I can add without regurgitating the same statements.

Your characterization of Nikto as a whole is wonderful. His speech? Behaviour? Gestures? How his actions speak louder than words, and convey through them what sentences never could? How I as a reader feel wanted, despite it being a short scenario, and how I don't have it in me to refuse him, either, since it's nice to be wanted like that, is just... 🥹

Anyways. Only going to be reblogging w/o tags or comments. But just know that your work has been so wonderfully written that words couldn't convey how much I enjoyed it.

Nikto who just doesn't let you leave his home after a one night stand.

You had a general idea of how one night stands went; you get in, you fuck, you get out. It wasn't really something you did often but when your neighbor who, in all honesty, has had your interest for a while asks... It was hard to keep your mouth from saying 'hell fucking yes'. Prior to this your interactions consisted of little more than pleaantries but you knew, from other neighbor's accounts, that he was more talkative with you than anyone else. And now you knew why.

Your neighbor did not disappoint. Nikto fucked the senses right out of your skull. Your clothes crumpled and discarded along with your inhibitions. You'd be feeling him for days; between your legs, in your mouth, in every bruise left on your skin and random twitch in your thigh. It was one hell of a good time but you knew how these things ended. Knew that once the breathing died down and the adrenaline left your senses it was time to put your clothes back on and skedaddle.

However Nikto finds every excuse for you to stay;

You shift to leave the bed but his arm casually wraps around you, pulling you back against him. You look back at him confused but his eyes are already closed and he only says one word. "Sleep."

The next morning you go to put on your clothes only to find they're nowhere in the room. Instead one of his shirts was left on the side of the bed you slept on. You tug it on and when you find him, he's doing laundry. "Hospitality. I clean them for you." He grunts. And so you end up chatting with him in the laundry room, helping out by seperating the clothes.

When that's all done you make one last trip to his room to double check you've left nothing behind. You announce your departure but Nikto stops you from in the kitchen, declaring he's already made breakfast for two. "Don't waste food." He says putting a plate in your hands. To his credit; it was a good hearty breakfast.

Another attempt to leave? He's rented a movie you mentioned, it has to be watched within 24 hours. "You wanted to see this, da. Come, we watch now?"

And another? "You've been wanting to learn how to bake, da? Let me teach you this recipe."

Another one? You can't leave without letting him show you one of his collections

Another? How about another movie?

And the final attempt? "It's too late to be out, better to just spend the night here." He says as if your home wasn't a hop, skip and a jump away from his.

You caught on, of course, but you don't really mind. It's been a while since you've felt wanted and the flattery had you beaming inside. You probably should be alarmed but he hasn't used any force, no intimidation, just a socially inept man trying to convince his pretty little neighbor to move in in the most roundabout way possible.

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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