#cod nikto x reader

On your phone, satellite images of the area showed no signs of civilization. Nothing but an unbroken canopy, green covering the screen for miles and miles. No structures, not a cabin in sight. But, again, it was Nikto.

As your gaze fell on the field again, every pore of your body screamed at you to turn back.

This is insane.

From the passenger seat, Dmitri vocalized, a strangled sound between a cry and a question, pulling you away from your thoughts. It hadn't eaten anything. And neither had you, though your body registered this like everything else lately: briefly, from a distance. The same way you watch a stranger across a platform before the metro blurs them away.

This body, this hunger, they didn't belong to you. She kept moving, even when you couldn't.

Each decision already swallowed by the next, like an improvised show that carried on simply because the lights were never turned off.

No turning back, the voice echoed in your head.

Back to where, anyway? Your passport was stamped with a name that didn't belong to you. What you had once called a life didn't exist anymore. And you were tired of running away. Tired of following instructions and letting people decide for you. Do this, don't do that.

Back in the car, you reversed and lined it up with the center of the gate.

"Hold on, Dmitri," you murmured, hitting the pedal without restraint.

The chains gave way with a loud bang, birds scattering away from the tree line.

If there were mines, the road would be a death trap. You'd be better on foot, cutting through the forest. So, you tucked the car away from the main line of sight as best as you could and walked back to push the gate closed again, the double panels squeaking as they swung.

Keys in your pocket, you turned again to the woods.

In its backpack, the cat shifted against your ribs, grounding you to the moment.

"Let's go home, boy."

・・・・・

You didn't believe your eyes.

In the heart of the forest, the weathered cabin emerged once again as a haven in the middle of nowhere, exactly as you remembered. And even with the deep soreness that had started to settle in your muscles, you couldn't fight back the smile that crept at the corner of your mouth.

I did it.

But as you tucked the receiver into the backpack's side pocket, the small wave of satisfaction was suddenly replaced by a cold, hollow numbness.

You never thought you would actually be able to pull this off. To find the cabin. Nikto. What would you even say? Honey, I'm home!?

Your nails dug into the palm of your hand, knuckles whitening as you stood before the door, mind racing and breath hitching. Would he answer it? Would he ignore you? Would he kill you?

The door opened before you could gather the courage to knock.

"Go away."

"No."

"We don't want you here."

"I'm your wife, you'll get over it."

His eyes gleamed, fire igniting behind them. Time stretched as you held your breath and waited for his next move.

"Fine," he muttered, opening the door just enough for you to get in.

The moment you crossed the threshold, warmth met you, not only from the fireplace that radiated through the tiny space, but also from something much harder to name. Home. Familiarity. Things that had once been a bad omen, the reminder of your captivity, the toxic lines that bound you to Nikto.

Exactly what you had been craving ever since you ran.

After placing Dmitri on the ground, it immediately stretched its paws, pacing in Nikto's direction to rub against his legs.

"You missed us, huh?" He said, kneeling to scratch behind the cat's ear, gaze still locked on you.

Like he was asking you, not the cat.

I did, you wanted to answer. I missed you, Nikto. But his betrayal, his abandonment, was still a twisted knife plunged into your chest, wound open, blood tainting your every thought. Even if you wanted, you couldn't bring yourself to say any of these words, not yet, at least. Not with the burning feeling that had been growing inside your chest.

The question lingered in the air as his eyes followed your movements, impassive.

You removed your boots, leaving them by the door, tossed the backpack on the couch, and threw yourself next to it. Head dropping back, you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

Nikto released a soft tsk-tsk, grabbed the backpack, and hung it on the coat rack. There it was. The domesticity. The routine. The you-cook-I-do-the-dishes. The easygoing scenes you played with him, like both of you were costars in a classic sitcom from the 50s about a regular couple and their daily struggles. It had made you sick before, made you want to crawl out of your own skin, to run away and never look back, to reclaim your freedom by any means necessary.

But not now.

He could have killed you. Could have left you to die. Could have exposed you. So many opportunities. Yet he didn't. Even after he had left, Nikto still made sure you had everything you needed to move forward. To live. That had to mean something. You weren't even sure if he was capable of love, not in the traditional sense of the word. But if actions indeed speak louder than words, Nikto's actions screamed.

"How did you find the dacha?" He interrupted your thoughts, pulling up a chair.

"You're not the only one with contacts."

That earned you a dismissive chuckle.

Did he not think you were capable of this? Did he not expect you to find him? Was he really leaving you behind? If this wasn't a test, you were just discarded then. What was he planning to do? Prey on another helpless idiot to call his wife? Someone complacent, docile enough to mend his wounds and learn Russian and take his boots off and sleep on his arms and beg him to fuck?

You're not the only deranged maniac in this relationship. You almost said it.

Your body shot forward, elbows resting on your thighs.

"How could you do this to me?" Your eyes remained fixed on the crooked wooden floor.

"What?" He mocked. "Give you a fresh start? New life? Money? Your precious freedom?"

Your head snapped in his direction.

Suddenly, you were pacing from one side to another, wearing down the already decrepit rug.

"You made me like this, and for what?" Both hands pointed toward yourself, as if to make him see what you had become, you laughed. "Just to abandon me?"

"It was easy for you."

You didn't even register crossing the room.

Several seconds simply gone from your mind, a blank space taking the place where they should have been. Opening the kitchen cabinet, one hand grabbed the bottle of vodka as the other pinched two glasses.

As you turned the bottle's cap, it hit you.

Two glasses. Why?

Why in God's name would you pour a drink for the same man who left you behind?

You didn't.

The vodka filled one-third of a cup and burned down your throat in a single gulp. Fire danced in your chest as you stared at the second glass.

"You couldn't have decided that for us," you said, putting the glass down and both hands on the counter to steady yourself, not daring to turn around to face him.

He was right. You hadn't wanted him. You ran away. But he didn't understand what it felt like to be you, to be in this situation. Neither did you, for that matter.

The shuffle of his footsteps met your ears, goosebumps rising on the back of your neck. Suddenly, his body was so close that a little nudge back was all it would take for you to sink into him.

You didn't move.

One of his hands brushed your waist, reaching for the second cup in front of you, as the other worked around to grab the bottle. After a clink and a gulp, he settled everything down on the counter again, his body still lingering at your back, the ghost of his breath hot against your neck.

"If you love me, why'd you leave me, Nikto?" You whispered, unable to hold the words that had tormented your thoughts over and over.

A dark, gritty sound escaped him. "Who says we love you?"

You quickly spun around.

"Don't you?" You said, tone harsh, chin raising to meet his gaze.

Nikto tilted his head, scanning your figure. With the balaclava slightly pushed up, the lower half of his face was exposed: patches of tight, uneven skin etched his jaw like the map of a disaster. Marred lips fused with an asymmetrical lower cheek, a glimpse of teeth giving him a permanent sneer. What had once terrorized you was now simply the face of a man you hadn't chosen to love, but did anyway.

He didn't answer the question.

Instead, he closed the distance, one hand cupping your jaw and throat, the other claiming your hip against his until no space remained between you.

His lips found yours before you could stop it.

Not that you would have. He was a starving man, and you would gladly let him devour you. Wax wings long gone, you had accepted the fall would kill you, but it was worth it, all of it, if only to touch the sun one last time.

The kiss was messy, frantic, the taste of vodka lingering between you in a drunken haze. You mirrored his stance, shifting your weight to align with his, and he answered, tongue demanding, teeth grazing your lower lip, a low groan trapped in his throat. His mouth broke away, tracing a path of soft kisses along your jaw, then your earlobe.

Like a feral animal made violent not by nature but by circumstance, Nikto was learning how not to bite the hand that fed him. Canines exploring your throat, his hot breath ghosted over the exposed flesh, a choked moan escaping you.

That undid him.

He began peeling away the layers keeping him from touching your skin, leaving you breathless in nothing but your underwear in the middle of the kitchen as his hands and mouth mapped every inch of you.

"I need a shower," you gasped out.

"Later," he rasped.

He dug his fingers around your ass and lifted you, the sudden movement pulling a gasp from you as your legs hooked around his waist and your arms found his neck.

Nikto carried you towards the sofa, one hand firmly holding you against him while the other grabbed the thick wool blanket and dropped it to the floor. He knelt and manhandled you onto your stomach, hands already pulling your panties down, mimicking the way he had done this before.

"Wait, wait," you breathed.

He froze.

You turned over.

"What–"

"Shh."

You grabbed him by the collar, legs parting to welcome his body over yours, lips searching for his again. The woodsy, amber scent that was so intoxicatingly him wrapped around you, sinking into your skin as though it had never left.

Palms flat against his chest, you pushed him to his back and straddled his thighs.

The mood shifted.

Nikto stared up at you wide-eyed.

Being underneath someone had always meant danger, imminent death. The type of adrenaline that made Nikto fight for his life, because the ones on the ground were the ones who got their throats cut. His body was tense beneath you, fists clenching, mind probably struggling to understand what you were about to do.

Slowly, you reached for his hands and guided them to your chest.

A peace offering. A white flag raised to show him you meant no harm, not anymore.

And he accepted it.

He cupped your breasts and temptingly pinched your nipples, causing your hips to roll against his hard, strained cock on instinct, the fabric of his pants rubbing against your bare cunt. His calloused hands roamed over your body, learning you, and heat pooled in your lower belly.

Carefully, as not to startle him, you reached for the hem of his balaclava. Immediately, his fingers snatched your wrist, stopping you mid-movement.

It's okay, you reassured him with your gaze.

After several seconds, he softened his grip, eyes still locked on yours, and you pulled the fabric off, setting it aside.

It was the first time you had ever looked at him. Truly looked at him. Not from behind the eyes of a captive, but a lover. When your fingers softly caressed his cheek, he closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. To your own surprise, he was actually beautiful. Every scar was a simple reminder that he had fought. Survived. All to end up completely undone beneath you.

You bent forward, breasts pressed to his chest, and purred against his ear. "My husband."

Grip tight around your waist to hold you in place, hips jerking against your pussy, a broken, needy groan left him.

"Yes," he breathed.

Lifting his shirt, you pressed a kiss to his chest. "Mine." Another kiss, lower. "All mine."

"Yes."

You followed the trail of dark hair down his stomach, pausing to slowly kiss each scar, until your fingers found his waistband, worked the button and zipper, and freed the thick length of his throbbing cock. With one hand wrapped around it, the other cupping and squeezing his balls, you stroke it lazily before swirling your tongue over the glistening tip, making him murmur your name like a sinner who asks for forgiveness.

"Fuck, you are going to kill us, woman," he blurted out.

You hummed in approval, taking him deeper, the salty musk of his erection clinging to the back of your throat as he possessively tangled his fingers in your hair. Each one of his breaths was more ragged than the last as you flicked and teased, welcoming him further and further.

"Stop, stop, sto…" He cursed, fisting the wool blanket.

You laughed around his erection and sucked just a little longer before retreating.

Climbing over again, your hands over his chest to support yourself, you aligned the leaking head of his cock with your entrance. Then, inch by inch, you sank in, the sweetly painful stretch of his large, fat cock making you whimper.

"Fuck," Nikto exhaled, trembling from the overstimulation.

You stilled, breath caught, letting your body adjust to his overwhelming size as he twitched inside you. Slowly, you began to move, just enough for your hips to set a delicate rhythm, easing him in and out, more feeling than fucking. Head tipping back, eyes closed, you lost yourself around him, dragging, clenching, arching your back to feel him deeper, chasing the waves of pleasure.

"No more playing," he growled, rolling you to your back.

"Such an impatient husband," you chuckled, legs wide open to welcome him over you.

He leaned back slightly, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it over his head. Your eyes dragged up his chest, following his motion, and suddenly stopped at the shiny pendant he wore.

"Is that my–"

One hard thrust.

"I can't believe you stole my neckla–"

Another hard thrust.

"Nikto," you scolded him playfully, palm slapping the side of his body.

The serpent necklace, with the delicate flower at its center, swung around his neck as he thrusted again, and again, and again, stealing your words, your thoughts, your soul.

"We needed you," he rasped, bending over you to close the distance between your bodies.

Words failed you as he set a brutal pace, non-stop slamming into you.

"Yes, yes–" You cried out.

Your fingernails clawed his scarred back, probably the first marks on his body not born from hate.

"Beg for us," he panted.

"Please, Nikto," you begged.

"Yes?"

"Please, please, please…"

"Such a needy wife," he chuckled, adjusting himself.

The base of his cock started to rub against your clit every time he thrusted.

"Oh, God…"

He pressed wet, messy kisses against you, nibbling small bruises over your skin, panting and cursing and groaning, each stroke harder than the last as you wriggled beneath him, asking for more, for everything.

"Ours." His breath was hot against your neck. "Say it."

Pressure coiled tightly in your core, body stiffening.

"Yours," you surrendered once and for all.

The orgasm ripped through him, violent and all-consuming, and yours followed, the whole world narrowing to a black hole that swallowed you both at the same time, nothing but the two of you being torn apart and remade together, the cabin too small to contain any of it, the walls absorbing every broken syllable.

His damp body collapsed on top of you, the bliss of the orgasm stretching for a couple of minutes before he pulled out and rolled to the side.

Silence fell.

Eyelids heavy, limbs loose, you grinned at the ceiling.

"Andrey," he murmured.

"What?" You asked, turning your head to look at him.

"Our name… Andrey."

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Divider by @cafekitsune

You’d worked with soldiers before, men and women whose minds had been carved by war and stitched back together by duty.

But this one was different. His file was nearly empty, most pages redacted in black.

All that was left were fragments, birthplace unknown, military background classified, psychological profile marked unstable but contained.

They called him Nikto, the name meaning “nobody.”

When you asked your commanding officer why you were chosen, he only gave a tired shrug.

“You’re patient,” he said. “He doesn’t talk to anyone. Let’s see if he talks to you.”

The first time you met Nikto, it felt like walking into a storm.

He was already in the observation room when you entered, seated at the metal table with his gloved hands folded, mask reflecting the dim overhead light.

The room was quiet, too quiet.

Even the hum of the air vent sounded hesitant, like the air itself was afraid to breathe too loudly around him.

“Sergeant Nikto?” you said softly, taking your seat opposite him. “My name’s-”

“I know who you are.” His voice was low, filtered through his mask. It made every word sound detached, mechanical, impersonal.

You smiled, though he couldn’t see it.

“Then you know why I’m here.”

He didn’t reply.

You opened your file, pen poised, pretending to focus on your notes when really, you were watching him, the way he sat perfectly still, the way his shoulders were tense but controlled, the way the reflection of the light curved over the black visor where his eyes should be.

“You don’t have to talk,” you said after a moment. “But it helps. You’ve been through a lot.”

He gave a short, humourless laugh.

“That what the file says?”

“Among other things.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not unbearable. You’d learned that quiet wasn’t the enemy in sessions like this, sometimes, it was the bridge.

“You can start anywhere,” you offered gently. “A memory, a thought, something from the field.”

His head tilted slightly, a subtle movement. You felt the weight of his gaze even through the mask.

“No.”

You nodded, jotting down a note that didn’t really mean anything.

“Then we’ll start small. Do you sleep well?”

Another pause.

“No.”

It was something.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your arms on the table.

“Nightmares?”

He didn’t answer. His hands flexed, gloved fingers tightening just a little. You recognised that twitch, a defence, not against you, but against himself.

You decided not to push further. “Would you like to stop for today?”

He finally looked at you directly, and though you couldn’t see his eyes, you could feel the stare, sharp, assessing, trying to find the trap in your tone.

“I thought you’d push harder,” he said.

“I don’t force people to talk,” you replied simply. “You’ve had enough of that, haven’t you?”

Something flickered in his posture, almost imperceptible. Then he stood, pushing back his chair.

“We’re done.”

You didn’t stop him. You watched as he walked to the door, tall and composed, a shadow in motion.

Just before he stepped out, he hesitated. His voice came quieter this time.

“...What did you say your name was again?”

You told him.

He repeated it, once, carefully, as if trying to memorise how it sounded. Then he left.

And when you went to close the file, you realised you wrote nothing, just a single name at the top of a blank page.

Nikto returned three days later.

You hadn’t expected him to.

Most soldiers who walked into your office came because they were ordered to, not because they wanted to.

You were certain he’d vanish into the shadows he seemed born from, another unread file in a locked cabinet. But when you looked up from your desk that morning and saw him standing in the doorway, silent and still as ever, you felt a small, inexplicable relief.

“Sergeant,” you greeted softly. “You came back.”

“Orders,” he said.

You smiled faintly.

“Of course.”

But something told you that wasn’t entirely true.

He sat without a word, hands clasped on the table again, posture straight. You tried not to look for signs of emotion, but you noticed the smallest things.

His breathing wasn’t quite as sharp as before. His voice, though filtered, sounded less like a growl and more like a man speaking because he wanted to be heard.

You opened your file. The first page was still mostly blank.

“I thought we might start with something simple,” you said, setting down your pen. “Tell me what calms you.”

“Nothing.”

“Everyone has something.” You tilted your head.

“Not me.” He shook his head.

You studied him, searching for something to anchor onto.

“Do you read?”

“No.”

“Music?”

“Noise.”

You exhaled, more amused than frustrated.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

He gave a sound that might have been a quiet laugh, short and rough around the edges.

“That depends. You think I’m easy?”

“No, Sergeant. I don’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy like before.

It was quieter, almost companionable. You could feel him watching you, not with hostility, but curiosity, as if trying to understand why you still treated him like a person when everyone else spoke of him like a weapon.

You asked questions that didn’t need answers.

About the weather. About the coffee machine in the break room that never worked. Small, human things.

And somewhere between your third question and his fourth quiet “no,” something in the room shifted.

When the clock on the wall struck the hour, he didn’t move to leave.

“Why do you do this?”

The question caught you off guard.

“This?”

“Talk to people like me.”

“Because I think people like you deserve to be heard. Even if it’s just once.”

He didn’t respond, but the way he leaned back slightly, the way his shoulders loosened, it was as close to surprise as you’d ever seen from him.

Later that evening, long after your shift had ended, you found him outside. The compound was quiet at night, the security lights casting long shadows over the concrete.

Nikto stood under the roof.

“You don’t sleep either?” you asked gently.

He turned his head slightly but didn’t face you.

“Not often.”

You joined him, standing beside him in the pale glow. The sound of rain filled the silence between you.

“They say talking helps.”

“They say a lot of things.”

You smiled softly.

“You really don’t make this easy.”

“You shouldn’t waste your time on me.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He looked at you then, and even through the mask, you felt the weight of his gaze.

“You’re not afraid of me?”

“No,” you said truthfully. “Should I be?”

He seemed to think about that before answering.

“Maybe.”

Something about the word didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a warning.

Before you could reply, a crack of thunder echoed across the compound. You glanced up at the sky, and when you looked back, he was already gone, swallowed by the rain.

But on your desk the next morning, you found a single piece of paper under your coffee mug. No name, no signature, just one sentence written in sharp, deliberate handwriting.

I sleep sometimes when it rains.

The rain became a pattern.

Every few nights, when the sky darkened and thunder rolled in the distance, you would find him standing in the same place, under the awning beside the eastern barracks, where the lights cast a soft glow on wet concrete.

He never said anything when you joined him, and you never asked permission.

You just stood beside him, sharing the silence, the sound of rain filling what neither of you could say aloud.

In your sessions, the air began to feel different.

He spoke more now, never much, never personal, but enough that you could glimpse the man beneath the mask. His voice, once cold and clipped, began to carry traces of warmth.

When you teased him gently about his pessimism, he almost smiled.

Almost.

It was during one of those sessions that you mentioned you’d been walking the training grounds alone after hours.

He froze.

“Alone?”

You blinked at the sudden edge in his tone.

“Yes, why?”

“Not safe,” he said flatly.

“I know how to look after myself.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gloved hands pressing against the table. “No. You don’t.”

It wasn’t meant to insult you, but it made your pulse quicken all the same. “And you do?”

“Yes.”

“Are you offering to train me, Sergeant?”

“If you can keep up.”

It started as instruction, measured, and professional.

You met him in the gym after hours, the lights dim, the sound of rain faint beyond the walls. He showed you how to stand, how to throw a punch properly, and how to block.

His movements were sharp, efficient, and controlled. You tried to mimic him, though your attempts were clumsy at first.

He corrected you with light touches, adjusting your wrists, your shoulders, your stance. Every contact felt electric. You told yourself it was just adrenaline, but the way his hand lingered a second too long told a different story.

“Good,” he murmured once, his voice lower than usual. “Again.”

You swung, hit his palm, and hissed softly at the impact.

He caught your wrist before you could pull back.

“You tense when you hit,” he said quietly. “Relax. Trust yourself.”

You met his gaze and something about the way he said trust yourself made your chest ache.

“I trust you,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His hand tightened slightly, just enough to let you know he’d heard you. But he didn’t speak.

He stepped back instead, distance reclaimed, the wall between you snapping back into place.

Training ended soon after.

The next week, everything fell apart.

An alarm blared through the compound one night, a short, sharp warning that sent everyone scrambling. You ducked for cover as gunfire echoed through the corridors. The attack was over quickly, but when you stumbled into the hallway, heart pounding, you found him there.

Nikto moved like lightning, weapon drawn, eyes scanning every corner. When he saw you, his composure broke for the first time.

He grabbed you by the arm and pulled you into cover.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was working-”

“You should’ve stayed in your office.” His voice was sharper than you’d ever heard it. “You could have been killed.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted.

He looked at you and then, to your surprise, his hand came up to your face. A gloved thumb brushed over your cheek, checking for blood. His touch was firm but trembling slightly.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.

“So are you.”

He let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“You’re stubborn.”

“Occupational hazard.”

The tension softened for a moment, but when you saw blood seeping through the fabric of his sleeve, your stomach dropped.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” You reached for his arm, ignoring his half-hearted protest. Pulling him into your office, you grabbed the first aid kit.

He sat still while you worked, saying nothing as you cleaned the wound. Your hands brushed against warm skin, scarred and rough beneath the edges of his glove. He flinched, but not from pain, from the contact.

When you looked up, he was watching you. The silence between you burned.

“You shouldn’t-” he began.

“Care?” you finished for him. “Too late.”

He didn’t answer.

He just looked down at your hands, still wrapped gently around his arm, and murmured,

“You’ll regret that.”

But you knew, deep down, he wasn’t warning you. He was warning himself.

You didn’t see him for three days.

After the attack, after that moment in your office, Nikto disappeared. No messages, no reports, no word from command.

The emptiness of those three days dug under your skin like a splinter. You told yourself not to care, he was a soldier, missions came and went, but the silence pressed against your chest until it hurt to breathe.

When he finally returned, you found him where you first met him, at the firing range, long after midnight, the fluorescent lights harsh against the concrete.

The air smelled of gunpowder and rain.

He didn’t look up when you entered.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said quietly.

He reloaded his weapon.

“Been busy.”

“Liar.”

He fired again. The sound split the air like a thunderclap. You flinched but didn’t move.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“Neither should you.”

That earned you a glance, sharp and brief.

You stepped closer.

“Talk to me.”

He shook his head once.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Yes, there is.” You stopped just behind him. “You’ve been shutting me out since the attack. You think I don’t notice?”

He turned then, slowly, the barrel of the gun pointing safely down, but his body was tense as a coiled spring.

“You shouldn’t care about me.”

“I do.”

“That’s your mistake.”

You met his gaze, or where his eyes should have been behind the black visor.

“Maybe. But it’s mine to make.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The rain tapped softly against the metal roof, the only sound between heartbeats. Then, with a slow exhale, Nikto reached up to his face.

You froze.

His fingers brushed the edges of the mask and for a heartbeat, you thought he’d stop. But he didn’t. The straps loosened. The mask came off.

He kept his eyes on you as he lowered it.

Beneath the layers of metal and kevlar was a man, scarred, tired, older than his years. His skin bore the marks of burns, his jaw uneven from old injury, but his eyes were alive.

You didn’t flinch. You stepped closer.

“Now you see,” he said quietly, almost bitterly. “This is what’s underneath.”

You reached out, hesitant but sure, your hand finding his cheek. His breath caught when your fingertips brushed over the scars.

“I see you,” you whispered. “And I’m not afraid.”

“You should be.”

You shook your head.

“No. You saved me. You’ve been saving me for weeks.”

He closed his eyes then, leaning ever so slightly into your touch. When he opened them again, the armour in his voice was gone.

“I can’t… feel like this. Not again.”

“Then don’t fight it,” you said softly. “Not with me.”

For a moment, you thought he’d pull away, and then his hands were on you, rough and shaking, pulling you against him.

The kiss was desperate, almost clumsy at first, as though he hadn’t let himself want something this much in years. You could taste the restraint he’d been holding back, the fear and the longing all at once.

When you broke apart, he stayed close, forehead pressed to yours.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he whispered.

“Then show me,” you said, breathless. “Show me what it means to stay.”

He didn’t answer but the way his hand slid to the back of your neck, the way he held you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world, was all the answer you needed.

The world had a way of quieting down after a storm.

A week passed since that night at the range.

The base had gone back to its usual rhythm but for you, everything felt different.

The memory of his kiss lingered like smoke, like something that could vanish if you dared to breathe too deeply.

You hadn’t seen him since. Not properly.

He was there, somewhere between missions, but always slipping away before you could find him. You told yourself to let it go, that maybe it was easier that way. But when you caught your reflection in the glass of your office, you’d see the faintest smile, the shadow of his touch on your skin, and you knew it wasn’t over.

And then, one night, it wasn’t.

You were closing up, the soft hum of the fluorescent lights filling the quiet, when the door opened.

Nikto stood there. No mask. Just him, raw, uncertain, but there.

You set your clipboard down.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“Old habits.” His voice was lower than usual, like he’d been fighting something all day.

You gestured for him to come in.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Didn’t know what to say.”

“You could start with ‘hello’.”

That earned the smallest flicker of a smile.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

He stepped further inside, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

His eyes stopped on the window, and for a moment, you both looked at it. The faint reflection of two people who had been strangers, soldiers, ghosts of themselves, and somehow found each other in the space between.

“I spent years thinking no one would ever look at me again,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper. “Not without fear. Not without pity.”

Your throat tightened. “And now?”

“Now you look at me, and it feels like breathing for the first time.”

You crossed the room slowly, stopping just in front of him.

“Then don’t stop.”

He hesitated, as if waiting for you to pull away. When you didn’t, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.

“Neither do I.”

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as it found yours.

“But I want to try.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Then we start here.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

The world outside moved on, but here, in this small, quiet space, there was only the two of you.

Nikto brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering longer than they needed to. You leaned into the touch, your eyes closing.

“You make me feel…” he started, then shook his head, searching for words that never came.

“Alive?” you offered softly.

He nodded once.

“Yes. Alive.”

You smiled faintly, tracing the line of his scar with your thumb.

“Then stay alive with me.”

He didn’t answer with words. He leaned down, his lips finding yours.

It was a promise sealed in warmth, in the slow rhythm of two hearts that had learned to trust again.

When you finally pulled away, you stayed close, his forehead resting against yours.

“You once said you were made to disappear,” you whispered. “But I see you, Nikto. Through the glass, through everything. And I’m not letting you fade.”

He breathed out, the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Then I’ll stop running.”

Outside, the rain fell heavier, washing the world clean.

And for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t see his reflection in the glass anymore.

He saw you and the life waiting beyond it.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

"Ja, it's too sweet. I'll need another cup. Plain.

"You know, Liebling, you should be careful drinking too many of these. It's maybe why your sleep is so poor."

You glared at him at his sudden audacity. "Fuck off—"

He was quick. As always. He knew, tightening his grip on your trembling hand right before you pulled it away.

"Nein, I'd rather fuck you instead."

----------------------------------------------

Nikto made you lose your fucking mind, but Krueger took you like you never had a brain, to begin with.

Your pussy had gone numb ages ago, and that ass was broken. You weren't sure if you were screaming, crying, or throwing up, but you sure as hell knew that your voice was shot, and you were akin to a rag-doll, the way they manhandled you.

You just took it because you had to. They were both see-sawing in and out of you at their own pace, their own manner, holding you up as you went boneless. What orgasm number was this? Number seven? You couldn't tell or remember, and you weren't sure whose fingers were rubbing your clit again.

You could only wail as your cunt clenched, along with your asshole. A deep, masculine grunt behind you massaged your brain. If you had one, that was. All you could think about was choking on dick and the dick that was enjoying your pussy for the fifth time.

Okay, so maybe you could think a little bit. But if Krueger's giant fingers kept plugging in and out of your asshole while he beat your cunt up from behind, you'd be down to one percent of one braincell. There wasn't really a way to process information if Nikto had you plugged on his end, also. There was only feeling and sensation and spit and cum and sweat and bodies on bodies on a bed that had half-collapsed onto the floor. There was the smell and the taste of man, hoarse grunts and wicked praise.

Euphoria. Dark mascara and lipstick smudged on the sheets and your face, and yet, Nikto looked down at you with silent adoration. Nothing but that. Even while you were fighting for your life, you inwardly purred at his gaze of veneration, of how gentle his hands were, even though thick inches had your lips stretched and drooling. Your little connection. Your little secret. There was no doubt your face was a mess with cum and drool and spit and mussed makeup, but the way he looked at you...

God, he fucking wanted you. And that was the true euphoria. That was what made this all worth it—

"MMmmmmph!!!"

Well, that and Krueger's need for constant interruption. Had you squealing when he took his body down to cover yours, fucking you prone-bone, one hand toying with your clit, the other squeezing your tits like he owned them. Because that was how it was, how he laid it all down. You were a goner once you shakily took his hand and agreed to this devilry as a curious cat that had to know what he seductively promised. You let the devil in.

Didn't you know the devil had his own terms?

"Krueger," Nikto finally spoke. More like warned, because it was a warning. The devil may have had his way, but no one outsmarted the devil's devil, the man who wrote the contract. "Ei."

"All right, all right. Not so rough. I get it. Relax. I got carried away maybe."

Liar!

"I'll be gentle."

Liar!!!!

He was a liar! And you meant to convey your objections to Nikto, but those fingers were going crazy on your clit, and that cock was beating up your guts like never before. Hot breaths fanned your cheek as he dropped his head down to utter filth into your ears. He wanted you to scream. To let them both know how you liked your titties played with and how much you liked dick and how much he loved your pussy and how he'd wanted to be buried in you forever and he'd give you everything you wanted—

How he was going to fuck you all night long during your R&R, and he'd give up everything to watch Nikto cum in you over and over and over and over...

----------------------------------------------

"Nikto, he's touching me!" you whined, swatting Krueger's hand away from your waist. "He's touching me!"

"Liebling, putting eight packets of sugar into your coffee is a sin." You hissed as the uncaring brute diluted your super special high octane coffee monstrosity with more java. He ruined it! And he didn't even care as he did so, drowning your sprinkles into the depths of the drink. "Hier. This is much better."

How was this much better? The latte was no longer a latte. It was nearly all black, and your whipped cream had deflated. You glowered as you begrudgingly took the drink so you could scramble up next to Nikto on the couch, gagging as you tasted it. Yup. It was indeed ruined. No more sugar, no more joy, no more colorful arrangements.

Just black coffee. Like the soul of the man over there, walking around in the nude in the open air. For a man who was very secretive about showing his current mug, he sure didn't care that he was as naked as a jaybird in the middle of winter. Didn't care that he'd interrupted yet again another R&R.

And you yourself couldn't resist his lurid call to work his way into your panties, all the while kissing Nikto. You had the worst self control on the planet. Everyone knew this. Nikto knew. Krueger knew especially. Yet this game of being coy and modest carried on, the pretense before getting your innards rearranged by some serious inches.

Maybe it was time to get a therapist. You sighed into the cloudy skies, snuggling closer to your man as you took in the mountainous view on the private villa's balcony.

You were never going to admit how sore you were. Nope. Never going to admit that the sore was most delicious, and you discovered new muscles and positions you'd never seen.

Never going to toss that horny dog a bone, especially.

"Haven't been to Estonia in a while, Nikto," Krueger casually stated, plopping down next to you, with a good chunk of his weight intentionally pressing into your side. He took a sip of his coffee and stretched out an arm before letting it stake its claim around your shoulders. "Not a bad idea to come here."

Nikto regarded him in silent amusement. "You know there are cameras here."

"Ja, ja. Das ist gut. You know, I don't mind giving you both free souvenirs. I'm a very generous man." A confident smirk graced the both of you, his brown eyes crinkling in dark humor, so much so that you bet they were darker than his cursed cup of coffee. "Feel free to finger yourselves to me all you want."

You wanted to clobber this idiot.

"But, it's just that," he lazily continued, smoothing callused fingers over your cheek, not even Nikto spared from his touch, "when the two of you fuck while watching me, and I know you both will, I want a camera there. Send a poor soldier a gift while he's hard at work.

"I'll be waiting."

Rolling your eyes, you glowered at the grinning buffoon, who nipped at your ear and playfully rubbed at Nikto's head. You heard Nikto snort and return to drinking his coffee. It was going to be a long, long series of days with Sebastian Krueger.

This R&R was a lot more complicated than you expected.

Alejandro straight up laughs at you when you tell him to use his words. stops his hand when you take a hold of him, stares at you for about 5 seconds before breaking into laughter, grabbing your face and squishing your cheeks together gently. "you think you can tell me what to do, mi amor? you're fucking adorable." before you can even think to answer you get pinned to the bed; he'll make sure you won't be saying any words when he's done with you later.

Rodolfo depends on his mood. if he's feeling more dominant he chuckles, kissing to your ear while his hand trails between your legs, whispering every detail of what he want to do to you. if hes feeling more subby tho, he looks up from where he was kissing, cheeks hot as he stammers a bit. "por favor.. solo déjame hacerte sentir bien.." he pleads softly, a soft whine escaping his lips when you pull him up by his hair, eyes lidded and pleading while his fingers dig into your soft skin,

valeria? dont even fucking try. she doesnt take kindly to brats (even though she loves breaking them). her fingers caress your thigh higher until you stop her, telling her to use her words. she stops in her tracks, that look in her eyes that you know too well. "say that again pequeño.." she hums lowly, if you actually do? before the last word even leaves your mouth you have her hand leave a burning sting on your cheek. "again?"

Graves is a bastard. he tries to get frisky with you, but you stop him and tell him to use his words. he stares before chuckling. "let me show you, yea?" soon enough you find yourself tied up, ball gag in your mouth and his hands and lips all over your sex. he's working relentlessly, abusing all of your good spots until you almost cum - then stopping. you buck and whine, he grins. "what, you want something? use your words, baby." you try to babble against the gag, but the cocky smile on his face tells you that you're in for a long night.

König gets absolutely flustered when you tell him to use his words. "what?" he fumbles and blinks, you chuckle at his embarrassment from being put on the spot like that. gets frustrated at his inability to do it, to talk dirty to you, your laughing making it worse even if it's without malice. eyes darken a bit when he decides to just take what he wants, pinning you down and bullying his cock into your poor hole until you apologise :[