simon doesn't come home often. there's little time to-- he's got things to do, enemies to seek out, missions to complete. so when he is home, the man's the clingiest thing in the world. he tells you he misses you in his own way : holds you closer at night, watches you with a subtle gentleness only you can recognize, seeks contact every single moment he can.
...which includes being your weighted blanket of sorts, you suppose.
this happens every time simon comes home from leave. you'd think you'd be used to it by now, all things considering ; you've been together for years, know each others' habits like it's your own. and this habit? you're more than familiar with.
"...stop it, you."
"no."
"you're heavy, si."
"...'m afraid you'll have to tolerate it." he murmurs, letting out a small huff-- slightly exasperated, more amused than anything as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, soft and sweet. he budges just enough to relieve some of the weight, but not entirely. "better?"
he knows the answer already. you can handle him-- you always do. doesn't stop you from protesting, although your laugh contradicts your feign annoyance.
The gym was quiet this late..Soap, Gaz, and Price had already cleared out after the brutal PT session. You were still there stripped down to your standard-issue sports bra and compression shorts, finishing up stretches. The fabric clung to your skin, thin from wear and sweat. Your nipple piercings pressed faintly against the stretchy material—two small silver bars that the bra wasn’t quite thick enough to hide completely under the gym lighting.
Ghost had lingered behind too, supposedly to “spot” you on the weights——In reality he’s been half-focused on the punching bag in the corner, his gaze constantly drifting to you.
You bent forward to grab your water bottle and the hem of your shorts dipped low. That’s when it started.
The tramp stamp came into view first.
A delicate design winding and curving across the small of your back—bold lines and gorgeous ink that the military regs would lose their collective minds over. The waistband of your shorts had slipped just enough to frame it.
Ghost’s gloved hand froze mid-wrap.
Then you straightened, turned toward him with that easy, clueless smile—the one that pulled your upper lip up just a little. The smiley piercing flashed inside your mouth, a tiny shiny horseshoe behind your teeth. You took a swig of water and your tongue piercing clicked against the bottle cap for half a second—another glint of metal.
He didn’t speak—couldn’t really.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, still smiling, completely unaware of the way his stare had gone dark behind the mask. His gaze flicked down again—because your bra had shifted. Both barbells were now visibly outlined, the little ends pressing against the damp fabric like they were deliberately trying to get his attention.
Your navel piercing caught the overhead light when you reached up to adjust your hair.. a small, jeweled bar sitting pretty in your stomach, right above the waistband of your shorts.
Simon’s brain short-circuited.
He could see the scenario in high definition without even trying: that tramp stamp under his hands while he bent you over the weight bench. The way the nipple bars would feel under his tongue if he got that bra off. How the tongue piercing would feel running up the bottom of his cock. How the smiley would flash every time you moaned. How that little navel jewel would jump when he was fully inside you...
His cock twitched hard behind his cargos. He had to shift his stance, suddenly grateful for the mask because the look on his face was anything but professional.
You straightened fully, still oblivious, and tilted your head. “You good, Lieutenant? You’re awfully quiet.”
Ghost swallowed. His voice came out lower, rougher than usual.
“…Yeah.” A beat. “Just… waiting on you to get started’.”
You grinned again—smiley piercing flashing—and turned back to your bag. The motion made the sports bra pull tight once more.
Ghost stared at the outline of those nipple bars like they’d personally insulted his self-control.
I notice alot of my followers on here skipping these posts just to mess with my lgbt ones, suspiciously the white popular ones.
Heres a not so friendly reminder, as an lgbt metis person, i dont give a single fuck what your blog is themed or if this is too painful for you to look at. Reblog this post. Reblog this post with the sources of the 751 children who were found.
Your compliance and silence as well as the compliance and silence of your ancestors is what allowed these schools to open and kill first nations children. The children of MY people.
Dont follow me if you cant reblog this post or the one with sources to your political blog or your most popular blog. Add trigger warnings if you must but if your political blog is only focused on the harms you personally face like being lgbt then you need to see some bigger pictures and stop being afraid of angering your racist mutural or actually saying some shit about racism. If you can reblog some antifa graphics or add blm to your bio to be a surface level ally, you can reblog some sources on the genocide first nations people faced and still face today.
I’d like to add this photo I took last night in Victoria of the statue of Captain Cook. Though I myself am not indigenous, I 100% agree that these murderers, kidnappers and rapists shouldn’t have huge statues and plaques that decorate them and say how “great” they were.
Here’s another photo of the legislative assembly from yesterday. Later on there were more items, candles and signs at the memorial, as well as a big poster with 1505 painted on it but I didn’t get a picture
People need to see this. Not just quickly glance at the photos and keep on scrolling. They need to see this.
I had seen the first picture of the church, but not the second.
I went to a “Cancel Canada Day” event and burst into tears - not because I was surprised to learn of the unmarked graves (survivors told us they were there. Our government pushed it aside, and we let them), but because seeing all the people gathered in mourning drove it home: They. Were. Children.
This is my country’s legacy - and it’s not history. The last schools closed during my lifetime. My Father went to school with students who lived at the local residential school, after it was changed to a boarding house (read: holding centre) for indigenous youth who went to local schools.
They were all children, injured, abused, and killed in my country’s attempt to erase them. I want the world to see this and hold the state accountable to *active* reconciliation> I mean we could at least truly adopt UNDRIP in action instead of words for god’s sake.
here you can read an article about a survivor of the church and some of the things he experienced to help put into perspective how awful and just how recent it was
cw: smut, blowjob, under the desk, f!reader, facef*cking, public sex, office sex, the usual <3
mdni
wc:1k
“Think she’s busy. Try her cell?” Simon releases a shaky breath as he speaks, his fist tightening around your hair, jeans bunched around his ankles. He glares down at you, obediently knelt between his legs underneath his desk. The space fits you wholly, allowing you to hide completely while still giving his legs the space to jerk and jolt as you work his soul from his thick cock.
Your lips are swollen and red from the friction, spit dribbling down your chin, throat dilating whilst he buried himself deeper into your mouth. Tears pooled behind your waterline as you try to stifle the lewd sound of your gurgles and gags; a degenerate symphony of indecency only you and Simon had the nerve to produce at work.
“Damnit. I’ll try her again.” You hear Price sigh through the phone, his voice growing increasingly irritated. You look up at Simon, who’s now shaking his head at you, his eyes dark and unfocused.
“You do that, sir.” He replied flatly.
You giggle quietly, pushing your tongue against his frenulum. He jerks forward, the muscles in his thighs firming under your grip, his breath catching loudly in his throat.
“You alright, Simon?” You hear Price’s suspicion growing by the second. Simon keeps the phone to his ear, his knuckles going white with how hard he was gripping the poor thing. He looks at you directly, eyes stuck to yours as you bob your head up and down his thick length.
“Yeah…’m okay. Somethin’ I ate. Not sittin’ right.” He lets out a quiet, shaky breath, bearing his weight on the back of his chair and spreading his thighs. He releases your hair, raising his hand to his mouth, cupping it around his face as you continue.
“You sure you’re alright, Lt?” Price’s voice lowered on the other end. You don’t let up.
His length grew harder with every stroke of your lips, his leg bouncing restlessly, his eyes squeezing shut as you worked your mouth over the ridges and curvatures of the throbbing shaft. He glares at you from behind his trembling hand, a look that usually meant one thing and one thing only; Dead meat.
His eyes travel down your face, taking in the sight before him. You, perched on your knees, freshly manicured nails digging into the meat of his thighs, taking every inch of his thick, burdensome cock the only way it was ever intended; Sloppy, sleazy, and unable to render whether or not you could breathe properly.
He clears his throat before speaking again. “‘M fine, Price. Stomach’s in shambles.”
“Right then.” He takes a beat before continuing. “If you lay eyes on my secretary, send her straight to my office, understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Simon answers, his eyes never leaving your face as he clicks the phone off.
The man was like a father to him, and yet here he was, defiling his poor secretary’s soft, sweet mouth like he owned the damned thing. He knew it was wrong. You knew it was wrong. But you took his length so well within your hot mouth, your wet, experienced tongue extracting the last bits of self-respect from his reserves.
“You’re gonna get us in trouble, trouble.” You smirk at the nickname, your tongue now slowed to a gentle swirl around the puffed, pulsing tip. It touches your uvula, causing your throat to contract and tighten around him. With a simple thrust of his hips, he pushes himself deeper into your mouth, his thickness stretching your throat with every inch he’s able to fit inside.
You watched as his thighs shook ever so slightly, his hand now cupped around your cheek. He studies you intently, gaze traveling down your face, hair, shirt—anything he could get his eyes and hands on.
He takes your head in both hands, and steadies both feet on the ground. You brace yourself on his knees before he stands, now towering over you with complete and utter control over your mouth. He bends his knees, accommodating the height difference between you before he begins to plunge himself deeper.
Simon starts with slow strokes, a salacious, foul groan emitting from his lips as he works his way deeper into your throat. He quickens his pace, satisfied with how much of himself he could shove inside your mouth without suffocating you to death. And still, just only half of him.
He pulls your hair back into a pathetic excuse for a ponytail, using his free hand to gently tuck unruly strands away from your face. An affectionate contrast to the aggravated, frantic ruts from his hips. You raise your arm, taking his balls within the palm of your hand. You give them a gentle squeeze, kneading them as he uses your mouth to his content.
“Fuck—’m close, sweetheart.” He grits. You respond by craning your neck, meeting his thrusts halfway. He falls over the edge, his orgasm thrumming against the walls of your throat. His knees shudder slightly, bending as though he struggled to hold himself in one piece. You feel hot ropes of his seed splash against your throat, his voice releasing a stream of deep grunts and whines into the silent air of his office. He stares down at you, watching intensely whilst he pulls you from his length. Your hair sat messily around your head, saliva coating your chin, and eyes glazed with pure carnal satisfaction.
Simon’s chest heaves sluggishly, his eyes stuck on the sight of you. You notice the appearance of his crow’s feet, a smile creeping to his eyes from under the balaclava.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
You clutch the files to your chest, inconspicuously slipping out of Simon’s office with him in tow. He grabs your wrist before you could walk away, lowering himself to say something in your ear.
“Fuck you later, love” He grits, a sleazy smack on your ass ringing through the quiet hallway. Heat flushes between your thighs, spreading to your face and ears. You turn to walk away, bottom lip clamped between your teeth as you make your way to the stairwell.
He watches you disappear into the flights of stairs, turning to walk the opposite way. He freezes.
Price, leaned casually against the doorway of his office, arms crossed tightly against his chest. His lunch threatened to exhibit itself on the carpeted hallway floor as he met eyes with the Captain.
“Still got the shits, mate?” At that point in time, he really did.
pairing : frank castle x fem!reader
warnings : size diff, hurt/comfort, reader cries, bad day, implied past struggles, petnames, wee little bit of babying, physical affection
summary : after having a bad day, you’re just glad to be able to come home to frank. you don’t mean to steal his clothes, it just kinda happens, layer after layer.
wc : 2.0k
it had been a really bad day. one of those long, draining ones where everything felt just a little too heavy.
you’d done your best to keep it together, pushing through the hours, keeping your head down, but by the time you got home, the weight of it all had settled deep in your bones. your chest felt tight, your throat burned, and the second the door shut behind you, the tears finally broke through.
you tried to be quiet about it. you knew frank was home - he’d told you earlier he was gonna be in for the night, promised to bring food, check in on you. you hadn’t expected to actually need it.
you weren’t sure what gave you away - the sound of the door shutting, the shaky breath you let out - but it didn’t take long before you heard his footsteps, slow and heavy, coming from the other room.
“sweetheart?” his voice was gruff, tinged with concern. “that you?”
you swiped at your face quickly, trying to get rid of the evidence before he could see it. “yeah,” you called back, but your voice wobbled, betraying you instantly.
he was in front of you before you could blink.
frank had this way of making you feel small, but not in a bad way. he was just… big. broad shoulders, solid chest, hands that could probably wrap around your whole waist if he wanted to. he stood close now, taking you in, dark eyes scanning every inch of your face.
“what’s wrong?”
you shook your head, trying to wave it off. “just - just a long day, s’all.”
he wasn’t buying it. his jaw ticked, but he didn’t push - not yet. instead, he reached out, slow and careful, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt. his hands settled on your shoulders first, then skimmed down your arms, squeezing lightly.
“c’mere, baby,” he murmured, voice softer now. and just like that, whatever was holding you together snapped.
you sank into him without thinking, pressing your face against his chest. he was warm, solid, smelled like leather and gunpowder and something distinctly him.
frank wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in tight, one big hand smoothing over your back. “shh, i gotcha,” he murmured. “s’alright, just breathe.”
you sniffled against him, fisting the front of his shirt. “i just felt like everything went wrong today,” you admitted, voice small.
“yeah?” he rumbled, rubbing slow circles against your spine. “you gonna tell me?”
you hesitated, but he just squeezed you a little closer, like he had all the time in the world. so you told him - about the little things that had piled up, the way everything just felt too much. he listened quietly, nodding, humming in acknowledgment.
when you were done, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “wish i could’ve been there, baby. would’ve made it easier.”
you let out a shaky breath. “yeah, you would’ve. anyway i just needed this,” you admitted, your voice cracking as you tried not to let the tears slip.
“yeah?” he tugged you even closer, so close you felt caged in, but in the safest way possible. “you stay right here as long as you need, baby. ‘m not goin’ anywhere.”
you weren’t sure how long you stayed wrapped up in him like that. long enough for the shaking to stop, long enough for the tightness in your chest to ease.
but eventually, you sniffled and pulled back a little, rubbing at your eyes. frank cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently under your lashes. “s’pose you ate somethin’?”
you shook your head.
he sighed, but it wasn’t annoyed - more fond, if anything. “knew i shoulda made you eat earlier,” he muttered, then tilted his head toward the kitchen. “go sit down. ‘ll get you somethin’.”
you almost protested, but he gave you that look, the one that meant there was no point arguing. so you listened, dragging yourself over to the couch while he disappeared into the kitchen.
it took about five minutes before the exhaustion really hit you. the kind that settled deep, made your limbs feel heavy, made you crave warmth.
without thinking too much about it, you got up, wandered into frank’s room.
his closet was open just enough to see inside, and you didn’t even hesitate, grabbing the first thing that looked warm and oversized - a dark hoodie, worn and soft. you pulled it over your head, the fabric swallowing you whole. it smelled like him, felt like him, and some of the leftover weight in your chest eased just from that alone.
you were still tugging the sleeves over your hands when frank walked in, carrying a plate. he froze in the doorway, brow furrowing.
then, slowly, his mouth twitched up at the corner.
“that mine?”
you blinked innocently. “no.”
his eyes swept over you, taking in the way his hoodie draped over you, how the sleeves hung past your hands.
his smirk deepened. “you sure ‘bout that, baby?”
you flushed but didn’t answer, just wrapped your arms around yourself.
frank exhaled, setting the plate down before walking over. “y’cold?”
you nodded.
without a word, he hooked his fingers under the hem of the hoodie, adjusting it on you before smoothing his hands down your sides. it should’ve been nothing, just a small touch, but the way he did it - so deliberate, so gentle - made your breath catch.
“looks good on you, sweetheart,” he murmured, tugging lightly at the oversized sleeves. “knew you’d be cute all wrapped up in me.”
your face burned, but before you could say anything, he was steering you back toward the couch.
“c’mon, baby, eat somethin’ first,” he said, squeezing your hip. “then we’ll talk ‘bout how you’re stealin’ my shit.”
you huffed but let him guide you, sinking onto the couch as he handed you the plate. he sat next to you, one arm slung over the back of the couch, close enough that his body heat seeped into you.
you picked at the food for a second before glancing at him. “are you gonna make me give it back?” you said, the small smile on your face giving away the fact that you already knew the answer.
frank smirked, reached over to tug the hood up over your head. “nah,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against your temple. “told ya - you can have whatever you want.”
you didn’t mean to steal more of frank’s stuff. it just kinda… happened.
first, it was the hoodie. then, at some point during the night, you tugged off your socks and found a pair of his thicker ones to put on instead. then, when you got up for water, you spotted one of his beanies on the counter and pulled it over your head without thinking.
you were comfortable. warm. the weight of the day had eased off your chest, leaving only a pleasant kind of tiredness.
frank noticed immediately.
you caught him watching you from where he sat on the couch, one arm slung lazily over the back, legs spread wide. his dark eyes flicked over you, slow and deliberate.
“… somethin’ you wanna tell me, sweetheart?”
you blinked at him, feigning innocence. “no?”
his lips twitched. he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “you sure ‘bout that, baby?”
you fidgeted under his gaze, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie further over your hands. frank let out a low hum, and before you could react, he reached out, catching your wrist.
his hand swallowed yours easily, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “lemme see somethin’.”
he tugged, just enough to make you stumble forward, and suddenly you were standing between his legs, looking down at him.
his free hand landed on your hip, big and warm, while the other pushed up the sleeve of his hoodie. his thumb brushed over your pulse point, slow and steady, like he could feel how much your heart had picked up.
“real cute,” he murmured, voice low. “you think i wouldn’t notice you pilin’ on all my shit?”
heat crept up your neck. “i was cold.”
frank huffed out a soft laugh, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “ah, i see. that why you took my beanie too?”
you hesitated, then nodded through your smile.
his lips twitched again, but instead of teasing, he reached up, adjusting it over your ears. “s’pose i can’t be mad, long as it’s keepin’ you warm.”
you exaggerated your exhale, making it look like tension was slipping from your shoulders. frank chuckled in response, but he wasn’t done with you yet. he shifted, tugging lightly on your wrist again until you got the hint and climbed onto his lap.
you weren’t small by any means, but compared to him, you might as well have been. his arms wrapped around you easily, pulling you against his chest. you let yourself sink into him, pressing your face into his neck.
frank chuckled, his hand running slow over your back. “jesus, sweetheart. if you wanted me to baby you, you coulda just asked.”
you mumbled something incoherent against his skin.
he smirked. “what’s that, baby?”
“shut up.”
frank just laughed again, low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest. you felt the press of his lips against your temple, then his nose nudging against your hair.
“you know you can just tell me when you need this, right?” he murmured.
you hesitated, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. “… s’not that easy.”
he exhaled, squeezing your waist. “i know, baby. but you don’t gotta wait ‘til you’re feelin’ like shit to come crawl into my lap.”
your face burned. “i did not crawl into your lap.”
frank smirked against your temple. “nah?” he teased. “kinda seems like you did.”
you groaned, pushing at his chest, but he just tightened his grip, keeping you right where he wanted you.
“s’alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “i like takin’ care of you.”
you swallowed hard, heart flipping in your chest.
frank sighed, shifting slightly so he could rub a slow hand up and down your spine. “been runnin’ yourself ragged lately,” he muttered. “shouldn’t take a bad day for you to slow down.”
you knew he was right, but you didn’t know how to say that out loud. instead, you curled in a little closer, letting yourself just… be in his arms.
frank let you, rocking you slightly, his fingers tracing slow patterns against your back.
“y’gonna stay here tonight? you better.” he added, before giving you a chance to reply.
you nodded anyway.
“yeah, thought so,” he murmured, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “means you ain’t takin’ that hoodie off either, huh?”
you shook your head.
he sighed dramatically. “shoulda known. losin’ all my shit to you, huh?”
“yup,” you murmured, voice muffled against his chest.
frank huffed, but there was nothing but warmth in it. “yeah, alright, sweetheart. long as you’re warm.”
he paused, then smirked. “but you do this again, least you could do is grab one of my shirts too. would look real cute sleepin’ in one’a those.”
you groaned, hiding your face in his neck, your eyes shutting as the tiredness took over. “frank.”
he just laughed, arms tightening around you. “s’alright, baby. you know you can take whatever you want.”
You never knew your stoic across the hall neighbor, until he graciously helps you with your groceries. And then with your broken heater, without you even asking. And without accepting any payment.
notes; hehe new series!! here’s the meet cute and frank flirting thru fixing random shit for you, this is gonna be a slooooow burn
word count; 3k
part I of just across the hall
next
It starts with groceries.
You only set the tons of plastic bags at the top of the stairs for a breather, hanging your head and blowing the air out your cheeks. You had ditched your coat that day, thinking that it would be warm only to be completely freezing all day.
It's the kind of cold that sticks in your bones even after climbing four flights of stairs, holding seven heavy grocery bags. If you were to check your phone you'd see it's only fifteen degrees out, and frankly it's a wonder you aren't crying from how much your joints ache from it. Trying to find the "tough cookie" you were raised being told was in you, you huff to try and pump yourself up. It's only.. twenty? Thirty? However many more stairs.
You make a groaning sound like maybe you will cry after all. Not to be mistaken with the groan one of the more creaky steps makes a second after. Turning, you find a pair of dark, implacably deep eyes staring up at you. You recognize him immediately, he’s your neighbor from across the hall. Despite that, the most you’ve interacted is polite nods, goodmornings and hellos from you and grunts in reply from him. Even his name is lost on you.
You sigh softly and throw him a nod, promptly doubling over and tugging some of the bags to the right side of the stairs, expecting him to shuffle past you. But he doesn’t. He nods to the sea of plastic and takes a second of squinting, averting his eyes, nervous ticks that don’t make you think he’s insecure per se, more so you think he hasn’t talked to anyone in a hot minute. Then he speaks, and his voice is lower, more gravelly than you imagined, even though his scraggly beard and burly frame is nothing short of gruffly masculine— “You uh, you want help with that?”
You smile, without really meaning to. Your words are breathy, “Oh, no, no, I’m— I’m okay, I’m almost there.” Your neighbor glances away and his brows furrow. Expecting him to finally get on his way, you start to collect the loops of the bags in your already red fingers. But suddenly he’s beside you, already straightening up with all the bags in his large hands. You open your mouth to insist that it really is okay, but then his fingers brush your palm as he takes the two you grabbed, and you’re caught up trying to recount the scratchy feeling of his callouses.
“Still another floor,” he grunts, nodding his head curtly in explanation, and turning to climb the next flight. There’s barely even a flex to his shoulders at the haul. You hurry to walk next to him; the least you can do is give him company, right? Even though a guy like him doesn’t seem to need it much.
Or maybe he just makes like he doesn’t. Because once you get talking, he seems fine to keep it going. Gruffly, not much of a social butterfly, but with the easiness of a man that maybe once upon a time, really was talkative. “God, you’re a lifesaver.” You sigh, looking at your feet and smiling down at them in reply to your neighbors indifferent sound.
“Couldn’t let a lady carry all this up the stairs.” He shrugs your compliment off. Old school. You kind of liked it.
“So.. not because you saw I’m like, crazy out of shape?”
He laughs. More of a low, brief chuckle, you guess, but it’s not forced. You return it when he tilts his head side to side, humming dubiously and squinting up at the landing above, “Nah, well.. just uh, looked like y’needed a hand.”
“Well, my ego says thanks.” You sigh, pulling the heavy door onto your level open. Theres just a ghost of a smile on your neighbor’s lips, the corners tugging upward underneath his facial hair. But it’s there. “Y’know, and uhm. Me too. I say— uh, just thank you.”
He shakes his head in what you guess is as close to a ‘you’re welcome’ you’ll receive. You expect him to leave your groceries by the door and retire to his own across the hall, so you rub some warmth into your knit sweater clad arms and wait for him to drop the bags. But moments go by, and he’s standing at your apartment door, eventually squinting and cocking a brow at you. “Oh!” You let out, immediately turning pink from embarrassment. At least that warms up your freezing cheeks a little.
Turning the key, you step in and gesture to your kitchen counter, mumbling another thank you and quickly realizing he had a clear look into your living room, entryway, obviously kitchen— your entire life, practically. The thought pops into your head that it might be a mess or god forbid you left something embarrassing lying over the couch. You’re snapped out of it before you can busy around your apartment cleaning everything like a psycho, because suddenly your neighbor is standing right in front of you, and just as suddenly, he appears double as broad. And he smells fucking amazing, too. Like cologne and a lived-in musk that isn’t overpowering, isn’t nasty. It’s manlier than any of the men you’ve ever gone out with who brag about how much they bench, in a quiet yet very clear way.
“Uhm, thank—“
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he cuts you off, shaking his head and reminding you with a lift of his brows that you’ve said that a million times. You smile at your feet, embarrassed all over again.
Maybe it’s because of that embarrassment that the words slip out without you meaning them to, maybe it’s that meek part of your brain that desperately wants to leave a good impression on practically everyone ever. But you find yourself saying, “Do you want some coffee?”
He hesitates. You see it in the way he averts and squints his eyes, lips just barely parted. Just when you’re about to backtrack and say that it’s okay, he doesn’t need to say yes, you’re just trying to thank him— he nods. “Sure. If it’s no bother.”
You nod right back and let a smile overtake your face. “It’s not!” You slip past him in the small entryway, heading to the coffee maker. Looking over your shoulder, your neighbor is leaning against the opposite countertop and looking around the place. You hope not to judge it; because it’s definitely privy to some critique. Small, kind of shitty, but you have to pat yourself on the back that it’s pretty neat. And you don’t have the worst decorative eye, either.
“I’m uh, I’m Pete.” He grunts while your Keurig grumbles to life. You reach for another pod for yourself, catch his dark chocolate eyes in the meantime. Weirdly, you hadn’t even realized that you didn’t know his name at all. Pete.. didn’t really suit him. But who says that out loud? You tell him your own and he nods, his jaw feathering under his beard. You think you catch his lips moving silently, like he’s testing out the syllables of your name on his tongue.
“Kinda weird,” you laugh lightly, handing him your nicest looking mug, baby blue with navy paisleys around the rim. “I’ve lived here, what, nine months? And I never knew your name.”
Pete grunts, a faint smile tugging at one of his lips. You predicted right; he drinks the coffee black, doesn’t ask for any sugar. You dump a generous amount in yours, though. “Yeah, well. Ain’t good at the whole neighbor thing.”
You nod your chin to the pile of groceries on the counter behind him, grinning at his handsome side profile as he averts his eyes. “I happen to think you’re pretty good at it.” He hums. Squints a little and presses his lips after a greedy sip of coffee. You curl your fingers around your cup, sighing softly at the heat of it. The air was absolutely frigid in the apartment, you were surprised that your shower water didn’t freeze the moment it left the faucet. “I’m sorry about, uhm.. how cold it is. Heaters broken, and y’know how the landlady is.”
That seems to grab Pete’s attention. His brows draw, and you take the chance to really look at him. He was undeniably handsome, dark hair, a bulky nose and puppy-dog eyes even despite the clear hard shell he wore. He wore solely dark colors, a black hoodie under a black jacket, dark, nearly black jeans. Like he was going to a funeral, or mourning, you thought. Definitely the brooding type. But he had this weird charm, cool and without any effort to have it, it simply rolled off him in easy droves. The set of his shoulders and the heaviness of his steps; calm, but not off-guard. He nods thoughtfully, and you’re noticing his little mannerisms. He tilts his chin and averts his eyes around the room as he speaks, punctuating each word with a nod or a shake of his head.
“How long’s it been broken?” He sets down a quarter-full mug beside him on the countertop, brow tight. You shrug, fisting your hands in the sleeves of your sweater to warm your fingers.
“Maybe.. a month?” He nods almost gravely. It’s not much longer before he thanks you for the coffee, waves off your own thanks for the help, and returns to his door across the hall. You spent the rest of the afternoon and the sacred time between laying your head on the pillow and drifting off thinking about him, endlessly. Trying to recall that distinct smell that lingered on his neck, every gravelly word he uttered. Putting the pieces together as they came back to you while you brushed your teeth or slipped on fuzzy socks. The interaction coupled with the blessed knowledge that tomorrow was a Sunday, you sleep like a baby.
—
You intend to spend the next morning lazy. You wake up just before noon, eating cereal on your couch and rewatching episodes of House MD you already know the plot twist of. Fresh morning light that nearly smells like linen filtering in through your window, and just as you’re settling into your couch, decked in a cotton Victorias Secret set and with hair in a protective braid, there’s a knock at your door. You sigh, setting down your steaming cup of coffee and getting ready to let a solicitor disrupt your ‘me-time’-morning. But when you open the door it’s none other than your neighbor. Whose eyes look even better right in front of you than they do in the back of your eyelids.
“Hey.” It’s all he says, grunted low, his expression almost shy. Crazy for a macho, rough-road man who looks like he could crush your femur in his palm. Strangely, you don’t even think of that. Instead you focus on his perfectly fitting gray sweater over dark blue jeans— simple and handsome. Your eyes catch on the toolbox he’s holding. “You uh, mentioned your heater. Figured..” his eyes leave yours for an instant, he squints. “S’too cold t’be waitin’ for the landlady to send somebody. You’ll uh.. you’ll freeze, y’know.”
You nod, a little stunned, a little delighted as you step aside to let him in. In a sigh, you say, “You’re absolutely my favorite neighbor.”
That gets a chuckle out of the guy. You’re starting to learn him, like a little girl figuring out how to balance her weight on a bicycle. Without any worded instructions. You just.. Find it out. He doesn’t laugh, not outright, not with his chest. He huffs through his nostrils, he barks a rough sound, his cheeks push up into his eyes just barely enough for you to decipher that he’s smiling. He brushes past you and makes his way to the radiator, silently looking over it like he’s sizing up his workload.
“You’re really, really too kind, Pete.” Something about the square of his shoulders stiffens when you say his name, but you keep on. “How much will I owe you?”
Pete shakes his head firmly, not even looking at you where you lean against the kitchen island. His mouth yawns open like he’s about to speak, but you cut him off. “Oh, come on. I need to pay you, you can’t work for free. Especially not on your day off.” He makes a noncommittal sound, scratching his beard as he shakes his head yet again. You huff like he’s ridiculous. “Please. I don’t like having debt.”
Maybe that gets him. Finally, he grumbles over his shoulder, “Y’can make me some coffee.” As if that comes close to settling the matter, but it’s something, and you’ll take it. Your freezing apartment is one less thing you have to worry about, so it’s onto the next; your closet is a total wreck. So, you leave your bedroom door wide open a few feet deeper into the apartment than the radiator, and try to give him as much company as you can with a wall between you. You figured he wouldn’t like you hovering over him while he worked anyway. And you’re right.
You don’t talk his ear off. But when you do talk, about the dog you’d been eyeing online and trying to work out the logistics of hiding from the landlady, or about your older coworker— well, you can’t see it, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. A smile that’s careful, hesitant like he doesn’t quite remember how, like he’s trying to retrace his steps.
When you’re finished with your closet, and you wander into the living room sighing, “I feel lighter! And this heater, too, thank god I can finally stop calling Ms. Jiandinski for it.. I can’t thank you enough, Pete,” he feels something he doesn’t need to find his way back to. The guilt, it’s familiar, clenches at his chest as naturally as the filling of his lungs when he breathes. Something is just slightly off-kilter, though, he’s terribly aware of it as he chews the inside of his cheek and cranks the wrench taut. It’s guilt, yes, but the source is.. falsity. He’s a fraud. A liar, in a way. And though he does it every day, lives that lie— it feels wrong to let it touch you.
So he doesn't look up from the heater he’s busting his ass over (and the effort’s pretty visible in the noticeable bulge of his biceps under his rolled-up sweater sleeves, you try to not stare,) when he grunts, “Frank.”
Your brows draw as you take a sip of your now-cold coffee you forgot on the counter. “What?”
Frank stops, looking over his shoulder at you with a feathering jaw and a grave look in his eyes. They hold your gaze for a lingering moment, enough time for something warm in your chest to stir, before he looks away and nods tightly. “My name. It’s Frank.”
“…Not Pete.” You’re thoroughly confused, now, but something about his tone with the admission makes you feel as though it’s more than what most people get out of him. He nods again, silent. So you mirror him, tilt your chin curt and firm. “Frank suits you better.”
His lips turn upward almost imperceptibly, and he looks back to the heater. Clicking the funneled paneling back into place, and twisting a bolt first with his calloused fingers and then with the wrench, Frank mutters, “I’m, uh. All done here.”
As he stands, you smile toothy and cross your arms. “Okay, seriously now. I owe you more than a cup of coffee.”
“Nah, you don’t.” Frank shakes his head adamantly, squinting at the window and then you. You huff indignantly. What a stubborn ass. Well, stubborn ass that has now done you two favors and won’t let you do more for him in return than click a button on your Keurig. You tilt your head and lift your eyebrows, trying to bully him into it. But he doesn’t seem the pushover type.
You pout. Luckily you aren’t looking at his grip on his toolbox, because otherwise you would see the flex of his fingers when you make that damn face. He doesn’t make any moves to leave, just turns his cheek. “C’mon.”
“C’mon nothing,” he mocks in a huffed chuckle, like you’re ridiculous but he doesn’t have the heart to be completely annoyed. He even punctuates his point with your name, firm and no-nonsense. He really was a stubborn ass.
You shift your weight, chew on the inside of your cheek. Nodding slow, you narrow your eyes at him. He mirrors you, like he sees the gleam in your eye. You’re up to something. But you nod, quicker, like you’re sealing off the deal. “Okay. Well.. Thank you, Frank. I’d say I owe you, but..” You shoot him a grin, cheeky as anything as he makes his way to the door, pivoting on his heel to look back at you.
That’s the first time Frank really does smile back at you. Teeth and all. It’s weird, the feeling it stirs in you. Like you want to chase it, over and over, keep this rugged, solitary man across the hall smiling constantly, with his shoulders too broad and heavy to not have some old weight. And the busted nose, the perpetually furrowed brow, the..
You remind yourself that you can’t let this go too far. Whatever is nestling in the silence between you two right now, the one you don’t know how to break, it would be smartest to leave it at… Friendly neighbors. Nobody wants their much-younger neighbor to come onto them, act like there’s something there when there isn’t. You don’t wanna ruin the one friendship you have in the building, besides the one you have with the resident fire escape tabby who’s owner lives in the apartment above you.. But, Frank’s eyes give you a moment of privacy, then land on you intense as ever. He taps the handle, muttering, “Lock this.”
frank "I know you can, but let me help you" castle
fem reader, 1359 words. frank with a hyper independent reader that’s often reluctant to accept his help. he aims to serve
You're excessively independent, maybe to a fault. You like to do things for yourself, by yourself — that's just the way you are. You've become so used to doing everything on your own, that when Frank came into the picture, you found yourself struggling to adjust to this new and foreign dynamic. It had become rather difficult to calibrate yourself to such a vastly polar change.
Frank's not much good with expressing himself. Words of earnest emotion are tricky for him, he doesn't like to do it. He's not someone that can vocally communicate feelings, someone that can say exactly what they're thinking in that regard. He much prefers to show it, prove it by doing things — doing things for you so that you know what he often fails to convey.
He knows you to be someone that values independency. And while he doesn't try to change that per say, he does try to alter it, doing so subtly and gradually so as to get you to let up just a little bit of your self-appointed control.
It was a bit of a task: to find a solution that allows him to prove his love by serving you, while somehow managing to uphold the sense of independence you're so clearly caught up on. It was about a compromise, helping you without diminishing you.
He learnt that you respond particularly well to a phrase, a simple little saying that permits his help: "I know you can, but let me help you," or alternating strains of it, depending on where he sees fit. But the premise of it remains the same each time: you're capable, but you shouldn't always have to be.
It varies, when and where he says those few little words to you. Often, it's when he's trying to be chivalrous and gentlemanly. Though, trying is hardly the word, he doesn't need to do that — it's natural to him, only you're not always so typically keen on it.
Like that one time when he came home to you groaning and mumbling curses from the bedroom; he thought the worst of it, naturally. And when he stepped in with his gun drawn, he immediately lowers it — the sight of you sitting on the floor amongst furniture parts the reason for retracting his weapon. You're on the floor amongst pieces of wood, screws and instructional papers, all of which scattered around in what he imagines to be from a moments frustration.
"What you got there?" he had said, voice sort of amused from his placement in the doorframe.
"It's supposed to be a dresser," you said, eyes closed so as to avoid the pile of illogical mess surrounding you. You received the incorrect parts, you were sure of it.
"Never would'a thought that, baby," he teased, in which he recognised instantly to be a mistake. You weren't in the mood for that. "Jus' playin' with you, sweetheart," he said as he stepped into your shared bedroom, pushing his sleeves up. "Lemme give it a go."
"I can do it," you reached for the instructions on the floor, hindering him from his help. "I just need a minute."
"Yeah baby, I know," he nodded, sitting on his knees across from you.
"I can do it," you repeated, putting particular emphasis on your ability to see this project through.
"Didn't say'ya couldn't," he picks up a piece of wood, matching it with another almost immediately. "What?" he said, meeting your eyes that were boring into his — he couldn't be serious, he did that so quickly. "You gon' give me that or you gon' keep being a goddamn pain in my ass?" he eyed up the instructions, one upping your defensive tries with gentle abrasion.
You tightened your hold on the directions, firming your ground. "The second."
He stood with his usual groan, heading for the door when you stop him with repeated calls of his name.
"Yeah that's what I thought," he turned back and took the instructions from your outward, extended hold. He stepped over the piles of wood planks and metal screws to meet you on your side this time. He paused and as he lowered himself down onto his knees again, he pressed a kiss on your hairline. "Jus' try'na help you, baby. Stop givin' me a hard time."
Or when he tries to carry your shopping bags, much less when he actually tries to pay for it.
Often, he joins you when you go shopping, keeping you company —keeping you safe— for when you flick through rails of clothes or skim shelves of collectibles. He'd tag along, stalking behind you almost as he watches you pick through items that momentarily catch your attention. He would always vocally question whether the hangers of clothes were too heavy to be lugging around or if the multiple little items in your hands were too awkward to hold, but you'd always decline his offers, pretending you need to have them all in your hand so you can make up your mind on them. And as that almost never works, he'd instead be preemptively adding up the prices in his head, trying to figure out the total so he can have the cash ready by the time you get served.
He would intervene, sticking out a handful of cash to the worker, stern inflexible look on his face. Of course, they wouldn't ignore his tries, not with an expression like that. They'd take his money and ring you up, stuffing the receipt in the bag. And when you'd try to take the bag, he'd get in there first; large hand taking up all space of the handle.
You'd walk towards the exit together, your mouth forcibly zipped until you reach a place of somewhat quiet outside the store. You hand would be pandering his, attempting to take the bags from his hold.
"Cut it out, these're my things. Jus' bought 'em," he'd pull himself away, small smirk on his face.
"Frank," you'd giggle faintly, closing the distance as you further your tries. "Come on."
"Nah," he'd shake his head, slipping his other, free arm behind you, hand on the small of your back as he leads you away from the store. "You're jus' gon' say 'thank you', and that's it, yeah? No more 'bout it."
"Can I at least pay towards it?"
"Nah, you gotta let me do sum' nice and be quiet 'bout it," he would say, pulling you into his side so he can press a kiss to your temple.
"I don't like that."
"Yeah, I know, baby," he'd chuckle. "You're too goddamn proud."
And sometimes, when you're feelings particularly weak with sickness and internal grime, he'd think you to finally be infirm enough to allow his help without so much as a discourse or disagreement. Only that's not true, even defeatedly laid in bed under a mountain of blankets, you'd still try to pretend that you can take care of yourself. Which of course, isn't the slightest bit true.
You would try to move about, hobbling out of the bedroom only to be stopped by a wall —Frank— there's no other way to describe him. He'd turn you around, eyes stern as he gestures you back to bed. He'd shake his head, arms folded so as to broaden himself further.
"Ain't happenin'," he'd say, almost like a tut. "Bed," he would have said, word simple and effective — direct.
You wouldn't be completely willing to accept, but you'd be a little more forthcoming than usual: a small mumbled comment under your breath being your only form of dispute before you drop yourself back into bed. He'd then walk over, footsteps heavy as he meets you on your side of your shared bed.
"Jus' lemme take care of you, yeah?" he'd comment, tucking you in the covers. "Makin' it so goddamn difficult," he would have brushed his knuckles over your cheek, caressing the side of your face with as light a touch as he could muster.
With most, Frank's patience runs thin, but with you, he'll repeat himself forever if it would mean he can help take care of you.
… his little miss independent.
⎯ ☆ ⎯
was from my frank frenzy the other week where all i wrote was frank frank frank. got a couple more so good luck
WORD COUNT. 1228
SUMMARY. frank comes to collect you from a nightout with your friends. you're sloppy and slurring, tripping over your words and feet in a way that shouldn't fill him with as much adoration as it does.
DISCLAIMERS. for the plot it's the readers bday, but has no relevance - just bc she gets absolutely sloshed and she’s out with her friends. one tiny suggestive mention but that's it. just frank babying her and being all gentle and helping her into his truck
Your messages had hardly been concise, to an untrained eye it'd be mumbo jumbo, a casual slamming of keys on the screen, but to Frank he knew what your nonsense texts meant; somehow, and rather bizarrely knowing that 'raedt ihn 1p' did in fact mean 'ready in 10.'
He was already outside the club awaiting your drunken, stumbling arrival, he didn't need the reminder be where he needed to be. Nine minutes had passed since your text and he hops out the truck, stepping around the heaping pile of junk to meet you kerbside. Frank places his phone into his jean pocket and directs his attention back to the bar doors — gaze almost surveying as he filters his focus through the groups of inebriated individuals in the smoking area.
Though his dark darting eyes still when he recognises a friend of yours, cigarette hanging out her mouth as she seemingly describes a story with theatrics, it inevitably catches his attention until you step into clear view. He leans backwards and against the passenger door of his truck behind him, getting comfortable as he watches you just simply exist. From afar he watches you —well, twenty or so feet away— you're smiling and laughing, chewing on the straw from your drink as you make input with that said story. You look happy, most genuinely.
He can't help but mirror you, match the joy that seems to spread in your face. Though he realises where he is, standing in the middle of the street in front of a truck, watching a group of women outside a bar — that doesn't exactly bode well. And with that thought shocking him back into reality, he lowers and shakes his head, hoping the act will straighten out that grin he can't help.
"Frankie," he hears a loud voice, your voice.
He directs his eyes back to how they were a moment ago and he sees you jumping on the spot, arm up in the air as you wave at him. Smile so sincere that it made the one you had on your face a minute ago look almost fake. He watches you as you hug your friends, giving them all a little individual moment before you stumble away, shoulder bag dragging on the floor with each uneasy step.
Frank's eyes remain locked on you, attention hawk-like as he watches you totter closer and closer towards him. As if he was weary of someone else snapping you up.
"Hi," you smile and grab his extended hand, the one he was holding out for you to take.
He brings his other hand out from behind his back and places it across your elbow, dual hold on your arm keeping you stabilised.
"Hey, baby," he greets, voice low and gravelly.
Your name gets called from where you were standing a minute ago, though you can't make out the direction from where it came. You twist your head left to right, back to left, trying to locate where your friends had disappeared to.
Frank chuckles, the noise deep but slight. He nods behind you, gesturing to the smoking area from where you stumbled away from.
"Right over there, baby," he guides, eyes directing your gaze.
You twist around, the sudden motion making your head spin. You make out a rather hazy image of your friends, all of them right where you left them.
"Get that birthday dick, babe," one shouts and another punctuates it with a heckle and hoot, holding up her drink to cheers you in spirit.
Your mouth hangs open enthusiastically and your eyes squint, almost like it was a laugh so quiet that no noise came from it all. You give them an unstructured wave goodbye and turn to look at Frank, giving him a small head shake and a giggle.
"They're… gross," you slur, wiping your eyes.
Frank straightens his amused grin and looks over to your friends.
"Your girls got rides comin'?" he questions and you give him a singular nod, the motion almost unconvincing, "sure?"
"Abso-pos-a-fruitly."
His smile spreads, features entertained. Frank releases his hold around your forearm and reaches for the truck door behind. Pulling you away carefully, he tugs on the door — opening it for you. You stumble over your own footing as you itch closer to the door, ankle rolling in your high-heels over the uneven weight you just rested on it.
"Easy there," he supports you, holding you up by your underarms, "steady, sweet girl."
"God, my feet kill," you exaggerate, features almost dramatic in their wild movement.
"Yeah, I bet," he glances down to your feet for a moment and then up to you, eyes unknowingly filling with adoration, "let's get you in the truck first, huh?"
"But my feet," you whine, reaching down, trying most miserably to undo the clasp.
He gives you a solid nod and bends, either arm coming up behind you. He settles one behind your knees, the other on the small of your back — distributing the weight of you he found no such trouble. Bridal-style, he lifts you and sets you in the passenger seat of his truck; placing you carefully inside.
Frank releases his grasp around you and lowers either arm down to your feet, the ones you have preemptively lifted up for him to take. He shakes his head as if to hide his smile, and then wedges your foot between his thighs — holding it there in place.
"D'you have a good time?"
You bite down on your bottom lip and smile, head nodding dramatically as if to further emphasise it. "I did."
"Yeah?" he hums.
He lowers his gaze from your own and directs it to the clasp he's struggling to undo, fingers too large for something so fiddly. With much an effort, he removes your first heel and drops it into the foot well of the truck. He sets your foot down and picks up the other, placing it between his thighs like the one before.
"Get any special birthday treats, my girl?" he asks, eyes flicking up to yours.
You giggle mirthfully and lean in closer to Frank. "Oh yeah."
"Yeah? What?"
"Lots, and lots, and lots of shots," faint lines of joy crease in your face as you whisper. You stick your blue tongue out and bite down onto it lightly, pulling an exaggeratedly playful face. "Like so, so many," you whisper.
Frank unclasps your heel and places it with the other, lowering your foot like he did with the one before. He settles his hands over your knees, using them as leverage and stability while he itches in, closing the distance.
He presses a kiss to your lips and pulls back, the sudden motion like a jolt.
"D'you have a smoke?" he questions, tasting faint cigarette amongst the cherry and vodka and grape and tequila and raspberry. It was slight, but he knew it was there.
You shake your head diagonally, not quite a yes, not quite a no. You instead lift a hand, pinching a small gap between your thumb and index. "Only a little," you slur on your words.
"Only a little," he repeats after you, rugged voice soft in a way that's reserved for you alone. He smiles down at your lap, the act an effort to hide it. "Get that belt on baby, and we'll get you somethin' to eat."
⎯ 𑄹 ⎯
its so hard to not make a tipsy reader sound cringe!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This is really short compared to my other works, but I thought it was something sweet and nice.
The TV murmured softly in the background, a calm, detached voice narrating the migration patterns of emperor penguins as snow blurred across the screen in grainy footage. Y/n stirred beneath the blanket she’d half-kicked off in her sleep, her cheek pressed awkwardly into the couch cushion, neck stiff from the angle. It took her a second to orient herself. Another to realize the room felt colder than it should.
“Nikto?” she mumbled, voice rough with sleep as she pushed herself upright. The blanket slid the rest of the way off her and puddled on the floor at her feet.
The documentary continued on, penguins huddling together against the Antarctic wind, but she barely registered it. Her eyes had already locked onto the tall, black-clad figure standing just inside the living room.
He wasn’t in full gear.
That alone told her more than words ever did.
The tactical vest and weapons were gone, replaced with a long, dark, long-sleeve shirt clinging faintly to his shoulders. His hair was damp, dark strands still clumped together, water droplets catching in the low light. Showered, then. Either at home before coming in here, or—more likely—at work, leaving the rest of his kit abandoned in the car to deal with later.
“Hello,” Nikto said simply.
His boots made a dull, solid sound against the wooden floor as he crossed the room toward her. The house creaked faintly with the shift in his weight, old boards complaining under someone who carried himself like gravity paid attention to him.
She shivered before he even reached her.
“I forgot to turn the heat up again,” she muttered, rubbing her arms as goosebumps rippled across her skin. Pajamas only did so much in a house that seemed to bleed cold through the walls at night.
Nikto didn’t comment on it—he rarely did. He crouched down in front of the couch instead, balanced on the balls of his feet with effortless control, and opened his arms.
It was an invitation, not a question.
Y/n didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward immediately, pressing her face into the warm column of his shoulder, arms sliding up around his neck as if she’d been reaching for him in her sleep already. The contrast was instant—heat seeping through fabric and skin, grounding her back into her body.
He wrapped his arms around her in return, solid and encompassing. For a few quiet seconds, he rested the masked side of his face against the top of her head, unmoving. Breathing slow. Steady.
Then one arm shifted under her knees, the other under her back, and he lifted her as easily as if she weighed nothing at all.
“I told you not to sleep on the couch,” he said as he straightened, her weight secure against his chest. “It is cold downstairs.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she replied, a yawn cutting her sentence in half as she buried her face into the side of his neck. The faint scent of soap clung to him—clean, sharp, familiar.
She always liked this part.
Being carried. Being gathered up and moved somewhere safer, warmer. Especially nights like this, when he came home late and the house felt too quiet without him. He didn’t do it when he was injured, and he didn’t do it when his mind was too loud—but tonight he had said I, not we.
That mattered.
It meant his thoughts were aligned. Calm. Focused.
He took the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, careful not to jostle her as the cold air gave way to the slightly warmer upper floor. She let herself relax fully against him, eyes half-lidded, content in the steady rhythm of his movement.
“Mmm,” he said after a moment, voice low. “Do I need to write it out for you and stick it to the front of the TV?”
She huffed a sleepy laugh. “No.”
“I am considering it.”
“I was trying to wait up for you,” she admitted softly.
“I told you not to do that either.”
He nudged their bedroom door open with his shoulder and crossed the room, setting her down gently on the mattress. The bed dipped beneath her weight, blankets cool but welcoming.
“I like doing it,” she said, rolling onto her side to watch him.
“And I would like you to stop doing it,” Nikto replied, already moving around to his side of the bed.
She smiled faintly as he reached for the blankets and tried to pull them free from beneath her. “You can’t really stop me.”
He paused, just long enough to glance at her. “I will always find a way,” he said evenly. “Lift your ass.”
She rolled her eyes but complied, lifting her hips so he could straighten the bedding properly. He climbed onto the bed beside her afterward, tugging the blankets up around them both and settling back against the headboard.
Without prompting, he opened his arms again.
Y/n rolled into him immediately, fitting herself into his chest as if it was where she belonged. His arm wrapped around her waist, firm but careful, and his other hand rose to thread slowly through her hair.
The motion was absent-minded and repetitive. Familiar.
The house was quiet now. The TV downstairs continued to speak to no one. The cold stayed outside the bedroom door.
Nikto rested his chin lightly against her head, breathing deep and even, anchoring himself just as much as he anchored her.
Sleep came easier like this—for both of them.
And for Nikto, that was what love partially looked like when it was just him and not the voices.
You are a witch preparing for winter. Luckily, you have an extra set of hands - if they'd ever help.
Content:
Possessive behavior, Semi-Safe/Semi-Sane/Consensual Intimacy, implied (pseudo) cannibalism, Violence and Death, Unhealthy but Happy Relationship
You haven’t been the same since the ritual.
Souls are tricky things, somewhere on that rickety fence between the Seen and Unseen, a bit of practical magic so common that people don’t think much of it.
Souls are like stones or plants. Abundant, but varied. Some are rare and precious, some are beautiful, some are poison. One soul does not weigh the same as another, and the beings that deal in their collection and sale value them differently. Souls aren’t rare and only some of them are powerful.
It’s a narcissistic misconception of humans - even the ones that can perceive beyond the physical world. That a soul is considered precious and coveted and powerful by all things of heaven, hell, and beyond.
Not so.
That said, like a bit of gold or a well-woven blanket, a soul can be commodified. Reshaped and displayed, butchered for parts, sold…
The selling of a soul has its merits, though not many. High risk, high reward sort of gamble. Tempting for clever witches - or desperate ones.
You were neither when you built the summoning circle that night.
You weren’t looking to forge any contracts or make deals beneath that moon. Didn’t expect to invoke any infernal beings or heavenly apparitions with the stars.
Well, best laid plans and all that - not that it had been an especially well laid plan anyway.
Baring your soul that deep into midnight had not yielded the results you intended. Or maybe it had and your expectations were just skewed. Souls are tricky things.
And yours hasn’t been the same since.
You always rouse as the sun begins to set. Late afternoon at the earliest, when most everyone else is finishing their suppers.
You can manage stark daylight, but poorly. It hurts your eyes and prickles your skin. A deep hood and long sleeves does the trick when required, but you don’t make a habit of it if you can help it, if only for the teeth that bury in your throat when you return.
Tend the garden in the dying rays, light the shop candles before night nestles in. Say your blessings, leave your offerings, wriggle out from beneath clingy weight to secure any provisions or materials from the town.
As the temperature cools and the shadows deepen, you settle into your work.
The shop once belonged to an apothecarist. Died in a plague some four decades ago, or so you’ve been told. No one of any skill or natural talent replaced them afterwards. Too frightened, perhaps, of what could be lingering within.
It wasn’t haunted until you (and your shadow) occupied it.
You’ve stocked it up quite nicely now. Herbs and spices, vegetables and fruits, roots and seeds. Thistles hang from the ceiling and bones rattle in the drawers. Mortars and pestles line a wall, weights and measures beneath the counter. Not a single thing labeled or organized, the latter of which disconcerts your… companion.
Fickle is not the word for him, but it’s the one you use.
(And he is a he, at least according to the long, thick cock he crams into you every chance he makes for himself. Though you suppose such trifles as gender are superfluous to nonhumans. A categorical fallacy for your own ease of reference.)
You told him once, that if he did not like the disarray of the shop, he was welcome to rearrange as he saw fit. In response, he left teeth rings around the base of each of your fingers, telling you how easy it would be to bite them off. He didn’t, of course - wouldn’t - but you spent a good portion of that evening updating the inventory logs (sat on that long, thick cock.)
The shop was never reorganized.
Tonight you wake to his tongue, a dark and wicked thing, improbably dexterous, lapping at your thighs.
“Winter comes,” he drawls into your skin. His voice is dredged up from the deepest pit in his chest, scrapes against his throat before nuzzling into your ears.
“I thought so,” you sigh, sleep laden and languorous. “Felt it on the wind yesterday.”
He hums. Or maybe it’s a growl. It’s hard to say when he’s sinking his teeth into the plush of your thigh, though he does it without hurry.
For a creature without definite expiration, there is little need to be hasty.
You click your tongue when he threatens to break skin. His jaw locks like that, just on the verge of taking without being asked. This is his price for greeting the evening with you - or so he claims.
“We’ll have to begin preparations,” you muse to the inky ceiling. “I’ll make a list over tea. You’ll help, won’t you? What kind of winter will it be?”
He relaxes his bite, laps at the iridescent fluid left on your skin. His saliva, or what passes for it in this vaguely human form.
“Long,” he drawls. An unseen thumb rubs circles into your calf. “And frigid.”
You hum, can already see it in your mind. Howling winds and a silent earth. Still and peaceful, little creatures huddled down and hibernating. It was a good, warm, lush summer that promises a sweet, abundant harvest.
“A lot of snow?” you ask, fingers buried in something almost too coarse to be hair.
He unseals his mouth from a fresh, livid mark on your hip. “Da. Snow.”
Your fingertips trail over the gnarled, raised topography of long-healed wounds. Marks that go beyond flesh, wounds of essence. No matter his appearance, he will always be scarred - disfigured, even.
Sometimes you fancy that he was some fearsome fae king or warlord of hell before retiring to become yours.
Sensing the direction of your thoughts, he nips at the meat of your thumb. Draws blood the time. You hook your index finger around a too-sharp canine and shake a bit. He grunts and slides his tongue over the pinprick of blood.
“Any storms?” you ask.
“Two,” he rumbles around your finger. “Maybe three.”
You didn’t used to love winter so. But this will be your third with him. As the climate chills and the nights lengthen, he comes into his patron season. It’s helpful to have a thing of the cold and dark when times are lean and everything (even people) lose their pretty foliage.
“Shall I expect more pelts, then?”
You balked the first time he brought (more) death to your door. Thought him cruel and ruthless. Perhaps he is without you to metamorphose the slaughter into necessity.
Furs for warmth, meat for food, bones for your work. Nothing gone to waste under your care.
“Pelts,” he agrees, “skins, down.”
You trace your thumb over the bridge of his crooked nose, press between his brows when he tries to tilt his head into the warm apex of your thighs. He bares his teeth against your wrist but cannot defy you.
“Tea for that drop of blood,” you bargain.
He sighs deep and vexed. “Mistress.”
Before slithering from your blankets, though, he buries his nose against your pubic mound and takes a deep, noisy inhale.
“Nikto!”
A village girl comes a little after the sun has fully set.
You finished your tea (and bread, for the price of a wet, filthy kiss) while making a list of preparatory chores. Have started grinding up rosemary to replenish your stock.
Nikto senses her before you do, pthalo eyes flicking up. She hesitates at the closed door, poised to knock, then decides against it and simply pushes in.
You pretend as if you’ve just glanced up from your mortar, an easy smile at your visitor.
“Good evening,” you call.
“E-evening,” she replies, lingering in the door.
While you’ve taken measures to keep the air of the shopfront clean and light, it’s something of a fruitless endeavor when Nikto’s made his den here. (Or more accurately, in the room behind the shopfront, where you dwell.)
Still, she only wavers another moment, finding nothing immediately alarming or perilous. She can’t see him lounging on the back counter like a lazy cat.
“Have you need of something?” you ask.
Your easy, friendly tone loosens her shoulders, coaxes her from the doorway.
“I’m here for something for my grandmother?” she says.
You tilt your head. “Anna?”
She blinks. “How did you know?”
Because Nikto grumbled it just now.
“You have her eyes,” you lie. “I have her medication just over here. One moment.”
You turn away to collect the little parcels that make up Anna’s bi-weekly order. Brews for her tea, ointment for her joints. You’ll mix extra as the chill sets in, fewer trips while seeing her through the harsh season.
“Usually Alexei comes to collect these things,” you say.
She rocks back and forth on her heels, a more curious eye trailing over your wares now.
“Mama and I have come to take care of nana. She’s getting older, you know. And this town has better prospects than our old village.”
You hum in agreement, neatly bundling all the items in a cloth and tieing a length of twine to secure it.
“Uncle Alexei is away with papa to finish sorting matters back there.”
“So you and your mother have come ahead, then,” you summarize.
“Mhmm!”
“Well, Anna is lucky to have you. She speaks fondly of you and your mother,” you say.
The girl lights up, cheeks rosy with pride. You slide her grandmother’s order across the counter.
“Anything else?” you ask.
“No, thank you!” she replies, dropping coins into your palm.
You glance at them (overpaid as usual, oh Anna) and sigh fondly.
“Hold on,” you call, “here.”
You pass her a little jar sealed in wax. She accepts it with a bemused smile.
“What is it?”
“For travel sores, when your father and Alexei return.”
She absolutely beams. Any apprehension she had when entering your shop is long melted away.
“Thank you, Miss!” she chirps, waving, and sweeps out the door.
Niko pounces in an instant, arms so tight around your waist that you don’t even stumble from the force.
“What’s gotten into you this time?” you ask.
“You were thinking of those men,” he grumbles. You’d call it childish if he wasn’t damn near mauling your neck.
“They’re well-paying customers,” you scoff, “and more good will is never remiss.”
He snarls, but moves on quickly. “You were so kind to that little girl. She had stars in her eyes.”
You hum in question, surprised.
“Makes me think of you with little ones. Younger ones.” He’s near rambling, drool soaking into the collar of your dress. “My brood. Clinging to your skirts and your hips. Getting sticky hands in the beeswax.”
You huff out a startled laugh. “You’re thinking of babies?”
He moans into your ear, pressed tight to your back. Broad palms knead at your lower abdomen.
“Little voices calling ‘mama’. They would all adore you, want to be just like you. Mother is god in the hearts of children.”
“All?” you repeat, twisting to stare owlishly. “How many is ‘all’?”
“As many as you will let me breed into you.”
Another laugh escapes you, a bit bewildered. He’s never spoken like this before, never seemed interested at all by the women (or their husbands) that come to the shop to ease their pregnancies or births.
“You couldn’t stand to share my attention,” you scoff. Which is to say nothing of it even being a possibility. You’re not sure that you and he could produce viable offspring.
He pauses, nose in your hair, considering.
Finally, he grunts, “Maybe.”
You’d thought so.
It’s not just the change in your natural sleep rhythms. You crave the iron of raw meat and inhale deep the burn of black smoke. Sometimes, you’re too preoccupied with the spill of ink on parchment, or the length and depth of shadows.
Subtle things, perhaps. A change beneath the skin, in the dark parts of your eyes.
You used to ask your questions in the sun, and look for the answers in the bloom of flowers or swirls of clouds. Now you whisper into abyssal shadows and they whisper back with a man’s rasp.
Not everyone can see it, the unusual glint in your eyes or the sharp edge to your smile. For those that do, it’s something of an open secret - that you provide more than helpful tonic and tinctures for common ailments.
A serum against pregnancy. A syrup for unkind spouses. Cut cords for bad friends and bent coins for poor business partners.
Tonight it’s the smith’s daughter. She’s just come into adulthood this past spring. A crown of youth on her brow, vitality draped around her shoulders. Darkened, this eve, by deals made with her as the currency. You see it beneath the sweep of her skirt, a chain of her father’s own making, a key in the hand of the mayor’s son. It drags her step in your doorway, rattling along the wood floors.
“Irina,” you greet.
She doesn’t admit it right away, demuring to purchase her father’s usual burn salve. You don’t pry, instead taking your time to spoon the thick, cloudy mixture into a small jar.
“You’ve…”
You tilt your head to show your attention, expression open. She clears her throat, smooths her skirt, tries again.
“My father designs to wed me to Boris.”
She blurts it like the words escaped between the gaps in her teeth, looks shocked in their wake You flick Nikto a reproachful glance.
“Is that so?” you reply mildly, as neutral as you can manage.
“I don’t want to,” she whispers, as though it is a shameful secret. But there is little shame to be found in your presence, and when your expression only reflects polite interest, she repeats herself, stronger. “I don’t want to. Boris is a coward and his father is…”
Mean. Lascivious. A bastard with a heavy hand and wine for blood, kind only to coin.
You don’t make her say it all aloud, you’ve heard it just fine.
“Is it an ear you’re after?” you ask. “I’ll listen.”
You do not offer more. It is something she must request of her own will. For your sake as much as hers.
It only takes another breath for her to gather the courage.
“Would you help me?”
“I would.”
You don’t jump as Nikto pours himself over your shoulders, teeth already scraping the nape of your neck. He’s hard and insistent against your spine, where scars of his teeth have begun to blossom. You sense that you’ll have a new notch for the collection soon, already feel slick and achy with the promise of his maw.
“What will it cost?” Irina asks, fidgety.
Your cunt three times over. Your blood on my tongue. Your juices down my throat.
“That will depend on our solution,” you say over Nikto’s sibilant entreaties.
Irina’s brow furrows. “Not coin?”
“Maybe coin,” you correct. “Do you want any of these three men dead?”
She startles, pales. Nikto groans in your ear, hips jerking hard, cock catching on the laces of your corset. Irina mistakes the sound for your shop settling, eyes flicking nervously around as if either of you will be caught.
“N-no!” she answers. “No, that’s too - I just want papa to change his mind. O-or for Boris to… to wed someone else. Is that wicked of me?”
You shake your head, soften your smile to ease her conscience. Once upon a time, you stood on the other side of the counter like she is now.
“Then coin won’t be necessary. I have a different price.”
Her shoulders lower, just a bit, curiosity where she should be wary. Coin is a paltry payment in comparison to things a creature like you could request instead.
“What is it?”
“Scrap from your father’s forge, as much as you can manage, and whatever Boris gave you for your hand. Bring them to me tomorrow night.”
You fish a shirt button from beneath the counter. Prick your thumb on a needle and press the droplet of blood that wells into the smooth surface.
“This is a contract of my services,” you explain as it dries in the open air. Nikto inhales deep and ravenous, tongue flicking over the shell of your ear.
“If you take this, there is no going back. Do you understand?”
Irina hesitates; she’s always been a smart girl. That’s why she knew to come to you.
“What happens if I don’t come back with the payment?”
You flick a glance at Nikto, but he’s too busy toying with the ribbon around your throat. Patience fraying with each beat of your heart.
“Even I don’t know, but I’d rather neither of us find out, yes?”
“Alright. I understand.”
She accepts the bloodied button and drops it into the pocket of her frock.
“Tomorrow,” she promises, and steals out into the night.
Nikto bends you over the counter, heavy body flattening you to the polished wood. It’s unnaturally warm beneath your cheek. You suck in as much air as you can while he paws at the hidden parts in your skirts. He growls to find you wet and willing (always, regardless of what your mouth says) between your thighs.
“Tithe,” he rasps, sinking to his knees.
Massive arms snake around your thighs as he finds his home between them. Buries his nose in the soft crop of curls so that his tongue and lips and teeth can partake in the sweet offerings below.
“All this for a severed tether?” you gasp, hips twitching in a bid to escape the too much, too fast, too good of it all.
His grip does not relent. On the contrary, it only tightens, dragging you down to smother himself in your cunt.
“Yes,” he hisses.
He takes and takes and takes. Sucks your clit until it’s throbbing at the slightest touch. Licks at the rim of your cunt, forcing his tongue deeper and deeper. Impossibly deep, until you feel the tip of it curl against the hard wall of your cervix, the root of it as thick as two of his fingers.
Your knees have long given out, your voice but a weak trill in your throat. It’s only when he hears you sniffling that he wrenches himself away.
“Give me,” he demands, surging up.
Laves that slick, black, inhuman tongue up your jaw, over your cheek. Doubles back to swipe at half-dried tears that dripped down your neck and onto your hands. He makes an obscene sound when the salt mixes with the dried blood on the pad of your thumb.
“I want to eat you,” he snarls, baring his teeth against the tender veins of your wrist.
“Maybe one day,” you pant, “when I’ve passed on. You can have my corpse.”
His eyes snap open, a manic rage burning so hot it feels cold.
“Never,” he snarls, cruel fingers plunging into your tender cunt.
You cry out and grip onto his shoulders, fresh tears sliding down your hot cheeks. There is no mercy in Nikto, not even for you. He strokes and pets your walls relentlessly, abusing all the sensitive places he’s long mapped out. Brutal as the muscles in his arm bunch and jump with the pace and force of it.
“Never,” he repeats. Teeth in your throat but you can still hear his voice. It’s so loud and rough that glass rattles. “Just like this. You stay just like this for me. Mine, all mine. Always. My little witch.”
He makes you cum on his fingers, then jerks his angry cock using your release to ease the way. Spends himself in burning, sticky ropes directly onto your clit. As you drag in ragged breaths, he draws his sigil inside your cunt with your mixed fluids.
The bond has long been formed, there is no need to renew it. Your soul is no more or less his than before. You still shiver with the memory, an echo of the sublime sensation of your soul taking new shape. Making room for something else to lace through it.
“S-someone is coming,” you whimper, weak in every sense.
“Dmitiri,” Nikto answers. You knew who it was, of course, but you don’t think he would abide you saying any other name right now.
“Leave his order on the counter and make sure he pays,” you sigh, limping away in search of water.
Nikto may be a bastard, but he manages to follow your orders most of the time.
Irina returns the next evening with all that you asked. A bucket of metal scraps and shavings. In a little velvet pouch, a simple gold engagement ring.
“The button too,” you request.
Nikto, raven-shaped this evening, swoops in to snatch it from her fingers. She yelps, moon-eyed as he perches on a tall shelf and swallows the button down his scarred gullet.
“Should… should it eat that?” she asks.
You don’t even glance at him. “Too late now, isn’t it?”
She doesn’t look amused so you laugh softly and assure her, “He’ll be alright. He’s done it before.”
You turn away, scooping up the items for the spell.
“Now then, take this pin. Carve your name into one candle, and Boris’s name into the other,” you instruct.
“Which one is which?” she asks, a green candle in one hand.
“Your choice,” you reply simply.
When she’s done as you ask, you tie a piece of twine between the two, about halfway down. Set them on a metal plate facing each other and light first Irina’s, then Boris’s.
“Pull up that stool. Watch the candles burn down to the wick.”
It takes nearly an hour. You keep half an eye on it. Watch the candle meant to represent Boris start to eat at the twine, a slow encroachment towards the midpoint. Only for Irina’s flame to latch onto its end of the tie and scorch through the knot, the remaining length falling away.
Irina gasps softly, glances up to find you already watching. Studiously turns back to observe the remainder of the melt.
In the meantime, you continue forming the other half of your spell. Irina has been too preoccupied to notice the raven’s disappearance. Nikto is behind you again, guiding your hands to carve the woodblock in neat little peels. His fingers are threaded between yours, dripping raw power that you shape with intent. If Irina were to look, it would just seem that the candlelight casts strange shadows down your forearms.
When the candles have burned down to nothing, and Irina turns to you expectantly, you press a finger to your lips.
“Do not speak again until sunrise. When you get home, throw this into the hearth, as deep as you can get it. No trace of it will remain, rest assured.”
You press the carved wooden key into her palm. Her eyes trace the unfamiliar runes in wonder, but she keeps her silence and takes her leave with one final, grateful nod.
It is only just past midnight, but you yawn. The connection between Irina and Boris was not a strong one, but severing the covetous teeth of the mayor’s greed was tedious.
He has a weakness for fair hair and light eyes - both qualities passed down to Irina in lovely spades. Qualities his own wife doesn’t possess, but he would gladly see in his son’s if he had his way.
“Nikto.”
“All for a severed tether,” he purrs.
You tsk at him, shove his face away when he tries to steal a kiss.
“Finish the spell and then you will be rewarded,” you huff, waving him off. “Useless thing.”
He moans softly, eyes burning into you. “Useless,” he agrees, sharp teeth grazing your cheek. “Worthless.”
“Out with you. We’ve not all night,” you chastise.
He sinks slowly into the shadows; his eyes are the last to disappear.
Winter preparations are well under way.
A small mountain of firewood is steadily accumulating in the backyard, stacking higher and wider by the day. You’ve already finished harvesting the last of the garden, drying, preserving, and pickling by the jar. Have knitted half a dozen more shawls and socks with thick wool yarn.
Cough medicines, warming tinctures, lotions and ointments. You’re accumulating your winter remedies along the back wall and in crates beneath the counter, well-stocked for the town and smaller surrounding villages that frequent your shop.
Thus far, Nikto has brought you two pelts, and promised two more before the season truly sets in. A new pillow has also been added to your nest bed, a puffy, heavy thing of feathered down and cotton.
You like it so much that you bounce on Nikto’s cock until morning when he brings it to you, spitting into his mouth whenever he opens it in supplication. You drop lavender buds into the casing and breathe it deep as he lays you down after daybreak. It makes an excellent throne for your pelvis when you’re too worn (or over-pleasured) to hold yourself up any longer.
Still, as promising as your preparations are, you need items unavailable even in town. The journey to the nearest city is one day's (or night’s) walk there, and another back. Well worth the trouble.
Nikto has no particular affection for any dwelling, so long as it’s yours. He’s just as eager to travel as you are.
Before nightfall, you drop off any orders expected in your absence, and receive well wishes from your customers. No one asks why you are traveling alone at night. No one warns you that it would be too dangerous.
Nikto accompanies you along the well-trod road, a hooded figure more likely to be mistaken for the grim reaper than your familiar. He’s human enough if you don’t look at him for too long. A tall man thick with muscle, broad-shouldered, built for labor. Likely malformed beneath the scarf hiding his features below those blue eyes - or perhaps just shy.
Just don’t try to peer into the depths of that hood, or ponder that mysterious scarf for too long. The moon acts as a strange prism, waters down the light into eerie refractions. One might start to imagine sharp teeth peeking through ripped lips. Or glimpse poorly sewn hills of flesh, nothing but dark, empty space between the seams.
Luckily, there are no travelers on the road this late into the night. Any errant gaze is that of night creatures, and those know well to avoid the shadow at your side - and you by extension.
The trip into the city is no great adventure, but you weren’t looking for one. Nikto, you sense, is something almost like disappointed. You arrive in the small hours of the morning, just as the earliest risers have begun their day.
The innkeeper seems surprised by such an early (or late) guest, but is happy enough to welcome you in. Bread has yet to be bought from the baker, but there’s stew that’s been simmering overnight. It’s warm and hearty and thick. You eat two bowls with a cup of peach wine, pay for food and board for the next two days, and retire to the second story of rooms.
The bed is not nearly as comfortable as yours. The blankets are thin and woven, though they are layered enough to be warm. The mattress and pillow are both straw - comfortable by most standards, but a poor substitute for your cotton and wool and furs and down.
You make due on Nikto’s rumbling chest (prideful that you miss what he has so diligently provided) and let yourself drift into slumber.
At midday, you wake. City merchants aren’t accustomed to your odd hours, and you don’t want anything to be out of stock - you’re not the only one that’s made the journey for winter.
Luckily, it’s an overcast day and the sun isn’t too obnoxious when you venture out. You get a sweet bun from the bakery to tide your hunger while you shop. Follow Nikto’s whispering for directions, or to pick the best items of any selection. Spoil yourself a bit on honey from abroad and a new grimoire.
Return to the inn at the brightest part of the day for a nap. Rouse again in the late afternoon for more exploring and shopping, as well as a drink at one of the alehouses.
You’ve no friends in the city - or anywhere, really, for that matter. But being surrounded by good spirits and bright noise provides an unusual source of energy. There’s a band to watch and strong drink, some gambling that you amuse yourself meddling in from afar.
There are eyes on you, but there always are in such a busy place. You tend to attract very few gazes, but the ones you do will return time and time again, musing at the lone figure by the wall. None are brave enough to approach - especially not when it grows dark enough for Nikto to reveal himself.
Even he is in unusual form, telling you stories of a bygone time. A time when perhaps he was more finite than he is now. He uses names you’ve heard before, in passing, and chuckles at exploits more mortal than he deigns to participate in now. You like to hear it, like to provide him with the excess buzzing in your veins.
When the crowd begins to thin, you take your leave. He stays at your side (always too close, nearly underfoot) all the way to the inn, and is waiting in your room when you come up with the meal. He manhandles you into his lap and feeds you with his fingers, pours water into your mouth from his.
You stave him off until your food settles, and then he’s taking you into his lap. Has you twice before you doze off. Wakes you three hours later with his tongue lapping at your swollen folds. Has you twice more before you settle in properly until dawn.
The second day passes in much the same fashion as the first. Your indulgence this time is a pretty, slender knife, a length of ribbon, and a simple burgundy frock. The combination has Nikto salivating by the time you return to your room to rest. Not that there’s much to be had with you splayed out over your new garment, his hands and mouth and cock working you over until a puddle of slick and cum forms beneath your writhing bodies.
You send him to wash the stains in annoyance, and it’s returned seemingly pristine - though he gloats that the scent of your coupling remains. At least to him.
Nasty creature.
“If I get tired, you will be carrying me,” you huff on the road home.
He nuzzles his nose into your temple, a silent assurance that you need only say the word.
Halfway there, a band of highwaymen makes the fatal mistake of trying to ambush the two of you. Aware that anyone coming from the city will be laden with coins or goods, they would be correct if you were anyone else.
You click your tongue, steps never faltering.
“Kill anyone that’s taken an innocent,” you call over your shoulder.
“Mistress,” Nikto churrs into the air, breath so cold it sinks in the chilly air.
An unnatural growl reverberates off the trees. You don’t spare a glance behind you, steps easy and light, crunching over dead leaves and dry twigs.
A hand lands on your shoulder - heavy… and then not. Heat splatters and soaks into your sleeve, dripping down towards your wrist. The severed arm falls with a wet, fleshy thump.
Always so messy.
You tilt your head, veer off the road and follow your intuition until you find a stream. Humming, you shed your clothes and saunter into the gentle current. It’s frigid, only just unfrozen. You sigh, minding your step for slippery rocks as you wade deeper. The water rises past your scratched calves, over bitten thighs, soothes your well-used cunt and the bruises on your hips. Tingles over the silvery flesh of your scarred back until it’s nearly to your breasts.
Only then does the water darken around you.
Nikto’s hand closes around your wrist, draws your arm back until he can lick away the smears of a stranger’s blood.
Feast before the season’s famine.
You moan softly at the drag of his serpentine tongue along your skin. The ball of your shoulder, the curve of your tricep and bicep. Tickling the bend of your elbow… up your forearm… and wrist. Twisting between each digit. You lean into the sturdy pillar of his body until his other arm curls around your waist. You stand with him in the water like that, cradled by shadow and bathed in moonlight.
He is never hasty, but tonight he’s unusually slow. Almost lazy.
Wait, no. Not lazy.
Deliberate.
Each flick of his tongue, scrape of teeth, brush of lips is applied with the same care and reverence afforded to an altar.
You tilt your head to rest against his shoulder, bare your throat. Peer through lidded eyes at the thick fingers twining with yours.
It’s as if he plunged his hands into a fireplace and didn’t care to dust away the charcoal and ash afterwards. It fades at the forearm into alabaster. In the crease of his elbow, it looks like he has ink for blood. You know from experience that it tastes of almonds and tannins, heavy on the tongue like thick wine.
You let him lay you down on the bank, dry and clean. He pampers you on his cock with slow, languid rolls of his hips. Grinds deep, pulls out only halfway to massage the head into that sweet spot over and over until you’re shuddering apart with a deep, heavy moan. He finishes on your stomach and thighs, drawing symbols into your skin before rubbing it in.
“Nikto,” you croon, thumb drawing a line down the left side of his face. From forehead, over his eye, down to the corner of his mouth where there’s an unnatural split. He lets you scrape your nail against the big canine, amusing yourself on the sharper bicuspid just beside it. “My Nikto.”
He purrs into your chest, drooling down your sternum.
“Who do you belong to?” he asks.
You smile, indulgent.
“I belong to Nobody.”
There is a possibility of a second part. Maybe. If that's something people want.
nikto will bash a guy's face in with his bare hands and then goes back home to you, petting and caressing you like you're made of glass. blood stains his hands so deeply — he's convinced that he's forever impure.
but for you, he'll try to have a gentle touch. try to keep from tainting your skin with the same rotten hands that have brought death countless times. but when you reciprocate with your own softness, it's a struggle to not claw at you in an attempt to pull you fully into him, as though he could hide you inside of himself and away from the rest of the world.
no, he doesn't deserve you. he knows that much. but nikto will do what he can to make sure you believe that he's truly worthy of you.
Y/n exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound half a sigh, half a reprimand aimed at herself. She shifted her grip on the shovel and placed one gloved hand against her lower back, pressing there out of instinct more than pain, even though there was no one around to see her or scold her for it. The driveway stretched out in front of her in uneven bands of cleared asphalt and packed snow, the edges still rough and unfinished. It had snowed all night—thick, heavy flakes that fell without wind, piling up quietly until the world looked muffled and subdued. Now the storm had finally passed, leaving behind a pale morning sky and air so cold it burned faintly in her lungs.
She had no idea what time it was. Early, she thought. Too early for neighbours to be awake, too early for cars to be moving on the road beyond the trees. That was part of why she’d come out here in the first place. Normally, she liked this kind of work. There was something satisfying about it—the scrape of the shovel against pavement, the steady rhythm of lifting and throwing, the way the driveway slowly reappeared beneath her efforts. Shovelling meant silence, meant music humming faintly in her ears, and meant feeling useful and capable in a way that sitting still never gave her.
Today, though, every movement felt heavier than it should have.
Her ribs protested each time she twisted, a dull ache flaring beneath the thick winter layers. Two broken ribs, still healing, still reminding her of the careless fall down the stairs that had put her there in the first place. She adjusted her stance to compensate, working slower and more carefully, even though impatience tugged at her. The cold helped numb the worst of it, but the pain was there all the same—persistent, irritating.
And then there was the other thing.
She swallowed and glanced down at her stomach, though there was nothing to see. Five weeks. Barely anything at all, really. No one would know by looking at her. She barely knew herself, except for the constant low awareness humming at the back of her mind and the way every sensation seemed newly important. She’d found out only a few days ago, the news landing somewhere between disbelief and quiet shock. Her sister had been the first person she told, the words tumbling out in a rush over the phone, as if saying them quickly might make them less real.
Nikto didn’t know.
The thought sat heavy in her chest, more uncomfortable than the cold or the ache in her ribs. Normally, there was very little that Nikto didn’t know about her—no matter how much he claimed not to care about details, he always noticed. Too much, sometimes. He read people with the same precision he read terrain or threat patterns, picking up on small changes without seeming to try. She had joked once that it was like being studied by a man who’d memorized the manual before she’d even realized there was one.
She would have told him already if she could have.
But he was gone. Off the grid, unreachable, exactly as he’d warned her he would be. When Nikto said not to call him during a mission, he meant it. Not out of cruelty or distance, but because the world he moved in did not tolerate unnecessary connections. He had been gone three weeks now, and she had learned long ago not to count the days too carefully. He came back when he came back. Anything else was wasted energy.
She thrust another load of snow aside, breath fogging in front of her face. It felt strange—wrong, even—that her sister knew something this important while her husband didn’t. Especially when it involved him so directly. Especially when it was, in a very literal sense, half his doing.
A small, humourless huff escaped her at that thought.
Then again, maybe it was a good thing he didn’t know yet.
If Nikto were home—if he were standing here now—she wouldn’t have been holding the shovel at all. He would have taken it from her without asking, his grip firm and final, already turning her toward the house before she could argue. He wouldn’t have raised his voice or lectured her. He never did. He would have simply told her to go inside, to sit down, and to make tea if she absolutely had to be doing something. And then he would have finished the driveway himself, ribs or no ribs, weather be damned.
She could picture it perfectly. That quiet, immovable certainty. The way he decided things once and expected them to be followed.
Nikto was old-fashioned like that. Not loudly, not performatively, but in the way that mattered. He believed certain roles existed for a reason, shaped by survival rather than theory. Men provided. Men took the heavier load. Women worked too—of course they did—but there were lines, especially when it came to injury or pregnancy. It wasn’t about control. It was about responsibility.
It didn’t bother her. She had grown up with the same ideas, after all. They were children of the same era, raised in the long, uneven shadow of the Soviet Union’s collapse. Their parents had lived in a world that preached equality loudly while practicing it unevenly. Women worked. Women endured. Men were still expected to step in, to help, to protect, especially at home. Y/n had been taught that everyone should be capable, but also that a man who didn’t offer help was doing something shameful.
In small northern towns like theirs, that belief was woven into daily life. Men who let women struggle alone were whispered about. Old women noticed everything. They commented freely and without mercy.
Y/n almost smiled at the memory of her babushka, sharp-eyed and relentless, cornering Nikto years ago in the kitchen and demanding to know why he hadn’t married her granddaughter yet. Nikto, backed quite literally into a wall, had taken it in silence, his expression unreadable. A few years later, he had proposed. Y/n had said yes without hesitation. Her babushka had lived just long enough to see the wedding—and to begin pestering them about children with the same enthusiasm.
She hadn’t lived long enough to see any of it happen.
The thought tightened something behind Y/n’s ribs that had nothing to do with the fracture. She shoved another line of snow aside harder than necessary, the scrape of the shovel sharp in the quiet morning. Her brother’s wife had discovered she was pregnant three days after the funeral. Her sister never would be. And now—now it was her, standing alone in a frozen driveway, carrying news she hadn’t yet been able to share.
She could practically hear her babushka’s voice in her head, clucking and scolding her for being outside at all. Go drink tea, it would say. Have a man do this.
But she had been raised to work. To pull her weight. To not pay someone else to do a job she was capable of doing herself. Hiring someone—or worse, leaving it half done—felt like admitting weakness. She wasn’t weak. Not yet.
She paused, leaning lightly on the shovel handle, and let out a slow breath. The air bloomed white in front of her face and drifted away. Half the driveway was still buried, and she had already been at it nearly thirty minutes. Her shoulders ached. Her ribs throbbed. And beneath it all, there was that quiet, careful awareness she couldn’t shake.
She straightened, adjusted her gloves, and set the shovel back into the snow.
Just a little more, she told herself.
Nikto wasn’t here to stop her.
And until he was, she would keep going.
It was her own fault that her ribs were broken after all.
That thought came to her every time she moved the wrong way, every time her chest pulled tight or ached deep beneath the bruises that still mottled her skin in shades of yellow and purple. She didn’t blame the stairs. She didn’t blame the house. She blamed herself because she should have known better.
She’d been at her brother’s place for a week, long days spent painting walls that never seemed to end and keeping her nephew entertained while her sister-in-law was away on a work trip. The house had smelled like fresh paint and old dust, and the days blurred together in a way that made people careless. She had left a paint can at the top of the stairs—open, of course, because she’d been planning to go right back for it. She remembered turning too fast, her foot catching, and the sudden lurch of weightlessness as her body pitched forward.
She remembered the sound she made when she hit the step. The sharp, breathless crack of pain through her chest. She remembered her brother grabbing her before she could tumble the rest of the way down, his hands rough and panicked on her arms as he hauled her back upright.
It hadn’t even been a long fall. That was the part that still confused her. Somehow, despite being caught before she reached the bottom, two ribs had fractured anyway. The doctor had explained it clinically—angle, impact, bad luck—but it hadn’t made it feel any less ridiculous. Ghost pains still flared through her torso when she thought about it, her body remembering even when she tried not to.
Nikto didn’t know.
That, more than the injury itself, was the part that sat wrong in her chest.
If he knew about the ribs—really knew, with the same clarity he brought to everything—there was no chance she would be out here shovelling snow. He wouldn’t argue with her. He wouldn’t raise his voice. He would simply remove the shovel from her hands, and that would be the end of it. He had a way of deciding things that made resistance feel pointless.
The doctor hadn’t wanted her doing this either. She knew that. Broken ribs weren’t something you powered through, no matter how stubborn you were. Her chest was still tender, the skin discoloured, and the muscles stiff and uncooperative. But the driveway needed clearing. Snow didn’t care about doctor’s orders, and neither did he about the possibility of someone showing up and finding the place half buried.
Her arms worked. Her legs worked. She could breathe well enough as long as she moved slowly.
She had already cleared half of it.
Stopping now felt stupid.
She set her stance carefully and shoved the shovel forward again, the blade slicing under the top layer of powdery snow. It scraped suddenly, catching on ice or a hard, packed ridge beneath. The jolt ran straight up the handle and into her chest before she could react. The wooden grip slammed into her ribs, directly over the injury.
Pain detonated through her torso—sharp, blinding, and immediate.
She cried out before she could stop herself, the sound torn from her throat as her knees buckled. The shovel slipped from her hands and disappeared into the snow as she dropped, breath knocked clean out of her lungs. She wrapped her arms around herself instinctively, as if pressure alone could hold her ribs together, and swore under her breath in broken, breathless fragments.
She barely registered the sound of tires crunching over snow.
A black Lada 4x4 rolled into the cleared portion of the driveway, dark and unmistakable against the white. The engine cut. The door opened and slammed shut almost immediately, urgency in the movement. Footsteps crunched fast over snow.
Hands gripped her shoulders.
Firm. Certain. Familiar.
She didn’t have to look to know it was Nikto.
Not just because she knew the vehicle—knew its sound, its shape, the way it always appeared without warning—but because no one else touched her like this. His hands were steady, controlled, fingers spread just enough to anchor her without squeezing. He didn’t shake her. He didn’t pull her upright right away. He assessed.
“What did you do?” Nikto asked.
His voice was low, even, but there was an edge to it that made her chest tighten for reasons that had nothing to do with her ribs. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded focused.
She sucked in a careful breath through her mouth, riding out the worst of the pain until it dulled to something manageable. “I’m fine,” she said automatically, even as she knew it was pointless. She shifted, preparing to stand.
Nikto didn’t let her do it alone.
His hands slid from her shoulders to her waist, grip firm but measured, and he helped her up in one smooth motion. He turned her to face him before she could look away, his gaze sweeping over her with unnerving precision. He was dressed in black—combat gear still dusted faintly with road grime and snow, mask in place as always. He didn’t like being seen without it. The only time it ever came off was at home, with her.
She reached up and rested her hands on his shoulders, wincing as her ribs protested the movement. “I jammed the shovel into my ribs,” she admitted. “I broke—”
“Your sister already told me,” Nikto cut in quietly.
His eyes didn’t leave her face as he said it, blue-grey and sharp, tracking every small change in her posture, her breathing, the way she held herself. He was cataloguing information the same way he always did, building a picture faster than most people could speak.
She closed her mouth, exhaling slowly.
Nikto released her and bent to retrieve the shovel from where it lay half buried. She knew what was coming next. She opened her mouth to argue—because she always did, because stubbornness was a language they both spoke fluently.
She didn’t get the chance.
Nikto straightened and stepped into her space, lifting one gloved hand and pressing two fingers gently but decisively against her lips. The touch was light and controlled, silencing her without force.
She stilled immediately.
“My wife should not be shovelling,” he said, voice calm and absolute, “while pregnant and injured.”
He removed his fingers and turned her by the shoulders, guiding her so she faced the house instead of him. There was no hesitation in the movement, no room left for discussion. “Go make tea,” he continued. “Warm up.”
She turned her head back toward him anyway. “I can do it, Nikto,” she insisted, stubborn even now.
“Yes,” he agreed without hesitation. “And hurt yourself more.” He pointed once toward the door. “Go.”
The argument drained out of her in a tired sigh. She didn’t like it—but she knew better than to push when his tone went like this. She obeyed, moving carefully toward the side door, every step measured to avoid aggravating her ribs.
She glanced back once. Nikto had already started working, shovel moving with brutal efficiency, clearing snow at twice her pace as if the task were nothing. He didn’t watch her go. He trusted that she would.
Inside, she closed the doors behind her to keep the cold out and sat on the stairs to wrestle her boots off without bending. It took longer than she liked, but she managed, nudging them into place on the tray with her feet before standing again.
She moved into the kitchen slowly, methodically.
Two mugs. Kettle. Water. Plug it in.
She found the black tea without thinking—his favourite—and set the honey beside it. The familiar routine steadied her hands, grounding her in the quiet domesticity of it all.
Outside, the scrape of the shovel continued, steady and relentless.
Nikto took care of problems.
And right now, she was one of them.
She didn’t like being the cause of problems. Never had. It sat wrong in her chest to think that she might be the reason someone else felt unsettled or distracted, especially when that someone was Nikto. He worried in his own way—quietly, constantly, with a vigilance that never really shut off. He watched her the way he watched everything else in his life: alert, assessing, always looking for signs of harm before it happened. In his mind, discomfort wasn’t something to be endured. It was something to be eliminated.
Now that her sister had told him—without asking her first—that she was pregnant, Y/n knew that vigilance was going to tighten into something far more restrictive.
Nikto was going to be everywhere.
She could already picture it. He would shadow her movements through the house, subtly positioning himself between her and anything remotely heavy or sharp. He’d insist on doing the lifting, the carrying, and the bending. He would not let her shovel, would not let her stack firewood, and very likely would not let her drive herself to work anymore. He would take her to the bank, walk her inside, and wait until he saw her safely through the doors before leaving. If he had the time, he might even stay parked outside until she came back out again.
The thought made her huff softly, equal parts fond and resigned.
She didn’t hate it. Not really.
There was something deeply comforting about being cared for with that level of certainty. Nikto didn’t hover because he was unsure; he hovered because he was decisive. He knew her—knew her moods, her habits, and the way she held herself when she was tired or in pain. He didn’t need to ask what she wanted. More often than not, he already knew, and if he didn’t, he would solve the problem anyway. Sometimes that was exactly what a woman needed: someone who didn’t require instructions, someone who simply acted.
But that same certainty could become stifling.
He had always been jealous. Not loudly or irrationally, but in a way that was sharp and watchful. Even when they were teenagers, he’d kept a close eye on anyone who lingered too long around her, anyone who laughed too freely or stood too close. Back then, it had been raw, unrefined—an instinct he hadn’t yet learned to temper. As they grew older, it had softened into something more controlled, more socially acceptable.
After the torture, though, it had changed again.
For three months after he came back, it had been worse—different. He stayed close, closer than before, as if proximity itself were a form of protection. His jealousy sharpened into something almost obsessive, his protectiveness bordering on possessive. He never said it outright, but she could feel it in the way his gaze followed her and in the way his body subtly angled toward her in public spaces. She wasn’t entirely sure why it had intensified like that, but she suspected it had something to do with the fact that she didn’t recoil from him afterward.
She hadn’t minded the scars. She hadn’t minded the mask, the dissociation, or the way he sometimes referred to himself as “we.” She had looked at him and seen the same man she married—changed, yes, but still him. Maybe that mattered more to him than he ever admitted.
Because despite everything, he never left.
He was always nearby when he was home, always within reach, offering his version of care in small, practical ways. He brought her tea without asking. He adjusted the thermostat before she could complain. He positioned himself so she didn’t have to face crowds alone. Nikto didn’t say “I love you” often, but he showed it constantly, through presence, through action, and through control over the chaos around them.
A small smile touched her lips, and without thinking, she pressed her hand lightly to her stomach. There was nothing there yet—no curve, no visible change—but the knowledge of it settled warmly under her palm. Something was growing there. Something fragile and real.
She was snapped out of her thoughts by the kettle’s sharp beep.
The sound echoed in the quiet kitchen, pulling her back into the moment. She moved carefully, lifting the kettle with both hands and pouring the steaming water into the mugs she had set out earlier. The tea bags darkened the water almost immediately, releasing that familiar, comforting scent. She set the kettle down in the sink to cool, already planning to wash it later—after dinner, most likely.
Dinner that Nikto would almost certainly make.
She smiled at that too.
He cooked whenever he was home, and he was good at it—unnervingly so. He moved through the kitchen with the same quiet competence he brought to everything else, chopping and stirring with practiced ease. He never seemed too tired for it, never treated it like a chore. Y/n liked to think it was a healthy habit for him, something grounding and safe. Occasionally, a darker thought crossed her mind—that maybe he trusted his own hands more than anyone else’s when it came to food—but she dismissed it with a quiet laugh.
No. He just liked cooking. He always had.
It was, after all, how he’d won over her family.
Her babushka had adored him from the start, but her parents had been more skeptical. They respected his desire to serve, to protect his family and his country, but they didn’t like how long he intended to be gone or the dangers he willingly stepped into. Eventually, though, Nikto had cooked for them—meal after meal, patiently, persistently—and somehow that had been enough. Food had softened their resistance in ways arguments never could.
That hadn’t changed the reality of his absences.
These days, he worked for a private military company, going on missions and training, sometimes for weeks at a time. Mandatory stretches on base still took him away, and all told, he was gone for nearly half the year. The house felt emptier then, quieter. The loneliness crept in during the evenings, in the spaces he normally occupied.
But he always came back.
And when he did, the house felt right again. Grounded. Safe.
The sound of the door opening carried through the house—soft, deliberate, unmistakable.
Y/n looked up from the counter without thinking and turned away from the kitchen, moving back toward the entryway just in time to see Nikto step inside. Snow dusted the shoulders of his jacket and clung to the edges of his boots, already melting into dark patches on the rubber. He closed the door carefully behind him, locking it with a quiet, practiced motion before crouching to untie his boots.
He moved with the same controlled precision he always did. Each lace loosened, each boot set neatly onto the shoe tray beside hers, aligned heel to heel. He adjusted hers without comment, nudging them so the melting snow wouldn’t spread across the floor. Only then did he shrug out of his jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door, smoothing it flat as if wrinkles mattered.
Y/n lingered a few steps away, arms folded loosely around herself. When he straightened and looked at her, his gaze sharpened immediately. He exhaled through his nose and crossed the space between them in two strides, reaching for the sleeve of her jacket without asking.
“Hold still,” he muttered.
She did, bracing herself. He eased one arm free carefully, slow enough to avoid jarring her ribs. Still, a hiss slipped from her lips when the fabric tugged just wrong.
Nikto paused instantly.
“Easy,” he murmured—not an apology, just a warning—to both of them.
They worked the jacket off together, his movements deliberate and protective. Once it was free, he hung it beside his own and scanned her face, eyes narrowing slightly at the tightness around her mouth.
“How did you get that on?” he asked, already turning toward the kitchen.
“With a struggle,” she replied dryly, following him up the three steps and into the warmth of the room.
The kitchen smelled faintly of tea and honey, the air still holding the quiet from before he arrived. Nikto went straight for the table, lifting one of the mugs and testing the temperature with a cautious sip.
“Mmm,” he hummed.
He reached for the honey jar she’d left on the counter, twisting the lid open and pouring a careful stream into the mug. A drawer slid open; a spoon appeared. He stirred slowly and methodically, then tasted it again before setting the spoon down. Satisfied, he placed the mug in front of her chair and returned the honey to its place.
Only then did he sit.
Y/n lowered herself into her chair with care, wrapping her hands around the mug gratefully. The warmth seeped into her fingers, easing the lingering chill from being outside. She watched the steam curl upward, collecting herself.
“When did my sister tell you?” she asked finally, lifting the mug and taking a cautious sip.
Nikto leaned back slightly, one arm resting on the table. “We stopped at the grocery store. She was working a till.” His mouth twitched faintly. “She talks too much.”
Y/n smiled despite herself, stifling a laugh before it could escape fully. “You didn’t have to grow up with her.”
“No,” he replied, eyes flicking to her. “But we have eaten dinner with her.”
That earned a quiet shake of her head.
“She did not say how far along you are,” he added.
“Five weeks,” Y/n answered. “I missed my period. Took three tests.”
Nikto nodded once, absorbing the information. “Did you fall before or after that?”
“Before,” she said quickly. “It should be fine.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Did you call the doctor?”
“Not yet,” she admitted. “I was going to next week, if you didn’t come home.”
“You should have called when you found out,” he said, voice even but firm, taking a sip of his tea.
“I know,” she replied, wincing slightly. “But I’m glad I didn’t know before the fall. I would’ve panicked.”
That earned another low hum from him. He set his mug down and rubbed his temples with two fingers, eyes closing briefly.
“Are you okay?” Y/n asked, watching him carefully.
“We are fine,” he said. “Just a headache.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “Did you hit your head on the mission?”
“No.” He picked his mug back up. “No more shovelling. I will arrange for someone else when I am not here.”
The tone left no room for argument.
“Okay,” she agreed quietly.
“No drinking,” he added.
“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes fondly. “And you can’t bring Krueger around the house. I’ve seen him smoke half a pack in the garage.”
Nikto scowled. “We do not invite him. He invites himself.” He shot her a sharp look. “We do not even know how he found this place.”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” she said. “I never met him before he showed up.”
“He is not welcome when we are not here,” Nikto said flatly. “We don’t trust him.”
“Oh?” she prompted, though she already knew.
“He murdered his parents. Civilians too,” Nikto said, gaze dropping to the table. “We do not want him near you alone.”
She nodded slowly. She remembered the warning—remembered the night in the garage, the alcohol loosening tongues, and Nikto’s sudden seriousness cutting through the noise.
“He’s your acquaintance,” she said mildly. “Not mine.”
“He is not our friend,” Nikto corrected. “He wants reactions. He gets them from us.” His eyes lifted to hers. “You will not tell him about the pregnancy.”
“My sister’s probably told half the town already,” Y/n sighed.
“Then tell her to shut up,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead again.
She studied him for a moment longer, then pushed herself carefully to her feet. He watched her go but didn’t stop her. She headed upstairs, slow and deliberate, and returned a moment later with two pills. Without a word, she set them beside his mug.
Nikto glanced at them, then at her.
“Take them,” she said softly.
He hesitated only a second before nodding.
The house settled into quiet again, the kind that came with familiarity and understanding rather than tension. Outside, the driveway lay cleared. Inside, the tea steamed gently between them.
For now, everything was under control.
Nikto’s hands closed around her hips without warning, firm and certain, and he drew her down onto his knee in one smooth motion. There was no force behind it—just confidence. Y/n let out a small, startled breath as she settled against him, instinctively bracing a hand on his shoulder even though she knew she wasn’t in danger of slipping. He wouldn’t allow that. He never did.
Without letting go of her, he reached for the pills she had set out and tipped them into his mouth, washing them down with a measured swallow of tea. The mug made a soft sound as he set it back onto the wooden table. A moment later, he reached for her mug as well, pulling it closer and placing it beside his, well within her reach.
She waited a second, then picked it up and took a long drink, the warmth easing down into her chest. When she set it back down, her hand returned to his shoulder, fingers curling lightly into the fabric there. His arm remained around her waist, loose but present, a reminder that she was exactly where he wanted her.
“When are you going to tell your parents?” Nikto asked, voice low and even.
She tilted her head slightly, thinking. “Assuming my sister hasn’t already beaten me to it? Probably next weekend. They’re coming over for dinner.”
“We will make it,” he said immediately.
She smiled faintly at that. She knew what he meant. Not them—him. Nikto cooked when it mattered, and when it came to her parents, it always mattered. She wasn’t bad in the kitchen by any means, but she lacked his precision and his instinct for timing and flavour. More than once, he’d threatened her—half-joking, half-serious—that she’d poison them all if she interfered.
“I can help,” she offered anyway.
“And poison us all and the thing?” He shook his head, a quiet chuckle vibrating against her back. “No.”
She huffed softly. “Fine. I’ll make everyone tea.”
“That,” he said, “would be better.”
His thumb traced slow, absent-minded circles over her stomach, the touch grounding and careful. Y/n leaned back into his chest, the weight of the morning catching up to her all at once. She’d been up too early and pushed herself too hard, and the constant ache from her ribs made every movement a small effort.
“Is the medicine helping?” she asked, her fingers drifting to one of his tattoos, tracing the dark lines with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his rough hands.
“It will,” he replied. “Finish your tea.”
She did, lifting the mug again and drinking more quickly than she probably should have. Across from her, Nikto did the same, draining his mug in a few efficient swallows.
She glanced at him over the rim. “Why are you in a rush?”
“We need sleep,” he said simply. “You too.”
“I’m not that tired,” she protested weakly.
“You are not arguing as much as you normally do,” he countered, reaching over and taking her mug from her hands to drink from it as well. “You are tired.”
Her eyebrow shot up as he drank half of what remained. “Hey.”
“You are too slow,” he replied, pressing his forehead briefly against hers before nudging the mug back toward her lips. “Drink.”
She sputtered a little at the suddenness of it but complied, sipping until he was satisfied. When he decided she’d had enough, he finished the rest himself and set the mug aside. Then, without ceremony, he shifted her off his knee and to her feet.
She caught the mugs before he could forget about them and carried them to the sink, setting them down with care before following him upstairs. Her movements were slower now, the fatigue more obvious. Nikto noticed, of course.
He paused at the spare room, glancing inside thoughtfully. “When we know the gender, I will build things for the baby,” he said. “And you will paint.”
She smiled tiredly. “You might want to tether me to you. I might fall down the stairs if we’re painting.”
He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the joke. “We can arrange that.”
His hand closed around her wrist—not painfully, just enough to guide her—and he pulled her into their bedroom.
Once inside, he released her and turned his attention to himself first. He stripped with the same unhurried efficiency he brought to everything else, peeling off layers without fuss. His movements were controlled and deliberate, as if conserving energy even here. He pulled on a pair of loose pyjama pants and rolled the waistband into place, glancing at her to make sure she was still standing steady.
“Sit,” he told her.
She obeyed, lowering herself onto the edge of the bed with a quiet sigh. Nikto stepped closer and helped her out of her clothes with far more care than she’d ever give herself. He eased fabric over her arms, paused when she winced, and adjusted his grip. Every movement was calculated to minimize discomfort. When she was finally back in her pyjamas, he guided her gently down onto the bed.
“If we sleep all day, it’s going to mess up my sleep schedule,” she murmured, already feeling the pull of exhaustion.
“It will not,” he replied, climbing in beside her. “You need sleep.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. He was already settled, one arm coming around her, drawing her close without pressure.
Her eyes fluttered shut despite herself.
Nikto stayed awake just long enough to be sure her breathing evened out.
Appreciate it’s been quite some time! But my favourite man has made a reappearance.
Masterlist | Previous Part | On AO3
“I miss you,” he rasps softly, trying to keep his damaged voice quiet over the phone.
You watch him through the screen, the video a little blurry because the connection isn’t the best. Nikto has gone back to base; it was a sad farewell on the doorstep where your hand didn’t really want to let go of his larger, calloused one.
He promised it was only for a few weeks. He bought you a special phone for the privilege of having the house to yourself, telling you to turn it on at a specific time. When he called, you could have jumped for joy. It’s so different from your last separation—that dreadful enforced loneliness.
You wondered whether you’d ever see him again, feel the pressure of his palm against the nape of your neck, or inhale the soft scent of masculinity that clings to him. The heaviness of love weighed upon your tongue as his broad shoulders made their way along the garden path he laid himself, rounding into the outline of a soldier unfamiliar to you. Even now, it plays inside your throat, teasing words itching to escape, cloying and drenched in affection.
Except that you still have no idea just how to present that particular feeling to him, a man so doused in complication. You’d love to bathe him in devotion, to see to it that he never lived another day without knowing exactly what he means to you. But nothing with Nikto is ever straightforward. He entered your life in the same way a cannonball charges at its target, rearranging everything in his wake, turning you upside down, and demanding a space for himself that now only he can fit within.
It’s a start, though: weekly calls while he’s working, when possible. You shouldn’t wish for too much from a creature as undomesticated as Nikto—even if he does now place his house shoes next to your own on the mat before bed.
“I miss you too. Are you busy?”
From what you can see of the pixels, his room is dark and sparse—cold grey walls without personality. In a similar way to his own home, he seems to change chameleon-like depending on his location. With you, Nikto is a stray cat basking in the luxury of having a warm place to pad around. At work, he becomes something very different.
Andre alone is the only version you don’t know, the one you don’t understand fully. Maybe you never will, and that is the charm of him. There is always one secret place you imagine vividly in the vestiges of his personality. Three sides to his mask, a duality built from self-preservation and harsh lessons.
From the small snapshots he’s revealed of his past, you’ve realised he truly doesn’t remember all of it. Life for Nikto has been divided into a 'before' and 'after', the watershed moment where everything changed acting as the barrier between them. You never push, and following the quiet moments after he tells you a half-recalled memory, you silently cherish it long after he falls asleep.
Nikto shifts a little in his narrow cot, the stark white sheets contrasting in high definition with the black of his gear. Potently blue eyes are framed by the greyish paint still smeared around them. He took off the balaclava for you, insisting that you also removed something in turn.
You chose your sweater, and his brows quirked as if you were teasing him with the gesture.
“Always busy, not of the good kind. You are watering my potatoes well? There is a drought coming,” he replies, looking at you seriously, as though you’re solely responsible for his firstborn-potato child.
“Yes, I’ve been watering them! There are little leafy bits now above the soil and everything.”
His face brightens.
“Take a picture for me? I wish to see.”
“Honestly! You’ve got your lover on the phone and the only thing you’re interested in is your bloody potatoes.” Rolling your eyes, you watch his torn mouth curve into the closest thing to a grin he can achieve.
“There are other things I am interested in, milaya… but I cannot have them currently.” Those sharp blues narrow, the feline shape surrounded by more lines than usual. He’s tired and it shows, a few bloodshot strands weaving through his eyes.
“Hm,” you reply, smiling too now. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Andre.”
“No? You do not think I want you in my lap?” He pauses, running a tongue across his teeth slyly. “Believe me, this is a far preferable way to spend the evening than here in this shithole.”
“It’s lonely in our bed…” Stretching, you give him a view of your cleavage, enjoying the way his lashes flutter rapidly at the sight. “I have no one to put my cold feet on.”
“Poor you, little one,” Nikto growls gently, a low rumble ebbing through the tiny speakers of your phone. “However do you manage without me?”
“I don’t; I just suffer until you get back.”
“Suffering is part of life. I suffer also.”
“None of your trademark gloomy flirting tonight, Andre; my broken heart can’t handle it.”
“And what is the best way to mend this, hm?”
He tucks a muscled bicep behind his head, its bulk flexing and tensing deliciously in view of the lens. If you didn’t know him so well, you’d swear that was done on purpose. Nibbling your lip, you gaze at him steadily.
“How much work are you prepared to put in?!”
“As much as it takes… I am not afraid to get my hands dirty.”
Nikto is enjoying this as much as you are; you can tell. His irises have that feral look ranging into view through the glacial colour. The tone of his rough voice has dropped down into the gravel that makes your knees feel weak and doughy.
“You know… I think I miss your hands the most, actually…”
He scoffs, balancing the phone against his knee so you get a glimpse of his burly chest stretching his compression gear.
“Not my tongue, milaya—especially when it utters such sweet words to you?!”
“What sweet words! Other than ‘water my potatoes’ or ‘fill the bird feeders once a day only or the squirrels will get fat’?!”
“Those are romantic. This shows I care for your environment.” Infuriatingly, he chuckles under his breath. “I care for you. I give you a beautiful home. I grow food for you with my hands. What more is there to romance than this?”
“True, but you can’t fool me, Andre,” you answer tartly, even as humour ricochets inside your lungs. “I know you have flowers and hearts in you somewhere.”
“You are fooled, little one—here you are believing I would not endure a thousand agonies for you, all because I do not make grand statements,” he points out gently, a wry smirk tugging the scar tissue on his cheek upwards. “Words I am not gifted with, I admit this. But I show you in other ways… no?”
“I couldn’t possibly say!” Stretching languorously, you focus on him.
“You cannot say? Do you forget how much you enjoy my cock milaya?”
“Andre!” A small flush of warmth trickles up your neck and hits your throat, making you gulp. Rapturous desire curls like thick smoke deep within your stomach.
The missing of him feels almost touchable in that instant: his broad shoulders, the taste of his mouth pressed against your own. You think you’d sell an organ, actually, to have him here, legs tangled together while that faint, spiced smell he wears permeates your bed sheets.
“You are shy on the telephone, mm?”
Nikto’s eyes are glittering, two bright shards of ice dangerously watching you from the glum dimness of his room. You could orbit those eyes, make them the centre of the universe in ways you haven’t yet.
“I think we are long past being coy—do you not?” He runs his tongue across the front of his teeth teasingly, knowing the effect that particular nonchalance has on you. “I am not fooled so easily as you are, milaya.”
“I’m not being coy!” Bashfully, you try and conceal the fact that your faux outrage was a front for the ill-disguised fire ignited in you at the thought of writhing underneath him night after night. “You just took me by surprise with your decidedly coarse words!”
He laughs—a true and honest thing. Something you adore the sound of, actually, rough and strangled as it sounds coming from his damaged voice box. It’s so familiar to you, and you like to imagine you’re the only person in the world that can coax that genuineness out of him, silly as that notion is.
“I am coarse and not fit for the civilised world you inhabit, little one. But still, I thank God every minute for allowing me the pleasure of coming home to you. Though I doubt he still listens to me.”
“God has nothing to do with it,” you snort. “Your sheer determination and skill with an electric drill were far more relevant.”
Nikto rasps out a chuckle again and you watch him tilt his head, trying to relieve the pressure on the damaged side of his face. As he does it, a purple handprint hones into view on his neck. A choke mark, violent against the already furious outlines of war on his skin.
“Rough night?” Your voice is wry, but inside, quiet fear starts to wrap its own tendrils around your heart. It’s so easy to forget he makes a fortune from death, and in doing so marks his own back with a target.
His pupils flicker, dilating slightly then losing focus. So often you get a sense he is leaving you for somewhere deeply agonising. It pulls at him, the memory of that place, always trying to tug his mind where his body no longer resides. Nikto coughs abruptly; his jaw twitches as if he’s holding back a rising tide. Then he relaxes, and the Andre you know has returned.
“Take off your shirt, da?” he murmurs hoarsely. “We have the best seats in the house for this show.”
“What’s in it for me?!”
You find he reacts best if you pretend you haven’t noticed it—the odd pause or jerk of his head like he’s silencing a voice irritating his ears. But you see everything, each small gesture and torment that still runs through him. Some days a trickling stream, and others a raging torrent.
“Nothing. Other than knowing that I ache for you, milaya. That I would take the moon and stars for you and hang them within our home if it pleases. That I would snatch the sun from the sky to warm your heart, no matter how much it burns me.”
Our home. Said so casually, almost an afterthought. But the weight of it may as well be concrete poured into your ears. The confirmation, even in a small way, that he views you as home. Frankly, you knew it already, sensed it within him like a small seedling about to rupture the soil and head towards the light. But it means everything. Andre means everything.
So you do it.
He lets out a deep, rumbling noise of pleasure at the sight. Your pliable flesh exposed to him on the grainy video link adds a strange sort of forbiddenness to the proceedings. You feel on show, nothing more than a delectable goodie displayed in a shop window for his appreciation.
“Good,” he rasps softly. “Now the skirt.”
Again, you follow his command as if your life depends on it, wriggling out of your clothes.
“Leave the panties,” Nikto barks suddenly, and your hands freeze, poised to roll down the waistband of your underwear. “They are only removed when they are soaked. When we can see through them, da?”
“Yes,” you huff, your fingers shaking a little while you lean the phone up against your pillows to give him the ideal view.
Nikto rests a cigarette at the corner of those crooked lips, while you sit placid and tame for him. You watch the lighter spark, the cherry burning brightest amber and then dull red while he takes a long drag.
“You are so good for us, milaya.” Huskily, his long dark lashes flutter at you, while his voice turns to thick gravel. “So good. When we are home, we bring the romance you are craving.”
“I don’t need romance. I just need you.”
He grins lopsidedly.
“You will have us, little one, and the romance. We have a proposal for you—one we would get on our knees and beg for acceptance of.”
But you’re so lost in the image of his glacial gaze fading in and out of focus between long pulls on his smoking cigarette, that you entirely miss the intensity beyond that very mysterious statement.
“Ghetto” is a high taste level art form that has been twisted to be seen as lowbrow and vulgar due to the propaganda from white supremacy. Personally, as I was growing up, I was conditioned by other white people that I went to school with to think “ghetto” was bad or embarrassing when in actuality, the whiteness I was surrounded by was ultimately trashy, ignorant, and narrow-minded. I had to grow out of that conditioning of seeing my beautiful people that way when the white people I was around smelled like their pets, drove big muddy trucks, and chew tobacco and kept a bottle of their residual spit. When I moved to Atlanta when I was 18, I experienced so much unique blackness so abruptly, that it was like I was seeing again. I was finally around BLACKNESS and it was so fun, engaging, and beautiful. Ghetto to me is whimsy and enthralling. Ghetto is loud and unique. Ghetto is beautiful.
