Zur Heimat erkor ich mir die Liebe.

32. Just reading and writing sometimes.

[pale-elysium]

Masterlist

What little I wrote so far whenever I've been kissed by a muse (Nikto).

Oneshots

My Friend, Crocuta Crocuta

How Nikto met Sputnik.

Seven Stops

Nikto remembers you.

Musings about Nikto's military past

How did he become who he is?

Series

Hold The Line

You get a call from Nikto.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Momentum

Figure skating AU. Nikto will help you to the top.

The idea

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

[random-brushstrokes]

Cindy Rizza (American, b. 1984)

[weepingwidar]

Gary Bunt (British, 1957-2025) - The Storm (n.d.)

[hashpuppy2005]

Nikto smoking a cig

I miss my wife

Can you tell i miss my wife?

[n1k7o]

outfit idea from my friend. <3 another Nikto face attempt

[weepingwidar]

Martin Voigt (German, 1990) - Schwarzer Zwölfender (Black Twelve-pointer)(2020/2021)

[nguanblr]

Nguan, from the series “Singapore”

[theinternetarchive]

'stag at sharkey's,' oil on canvas; framed: 110 x 140.5 x 8.5 cm; george bellows american, 1909.

[dailyclassicart]

Akseli Gallen-Kallela - "Wild Angelica" (1889)

[pale-elysium]

[pale-elysium]

Hold The Line - Part 5

Part 4

tw blood (just in case)

The 5:43 PM train home is on time tonight and luckily you even manage to get a seat. With your temple leaning against the cool window you watch the city pass by on your way to its periphery. The weekend is ahead of you. And Andre asked you to have dinner tonight. Or rather he invited himself to visit you so you could eat together at your home.

It wasn't as easy with him as it always was on the phone when you made your round through the park. He was stiff and he seemed uncomfortable. Every passing park visitor received a suspicious glare and you felt a bit like you were on the run from some invisible threat rather than on a quaint walk through the park. You tried your best at small talk and to coax out the charming man you know is beneath this grim exterior somewhere, but it was no use.

He kept his answers short and tactical, no teasing or dry wit that you came to enjoy so much during your conversations on the phone. It felt like you disrupted some kind of rhythm in him, a sudden anomaly in a usually carefully controlled existence that he didn’t have time to adjust to after you insisted on going on a walk with him.

He indulged you as well as he could, that's what it felt like, but the tension wouldn’t leave him for the whole stroll and so he steered you decisively towards the park gates and the nearby tram station when you had made your way around the small lake.

At the station, you told him that you would like to meet him again and he looked at you with a mix of pity and incomprehension, seemingly still not understanding why you would voluntarily spend more time with him. But when your tram came rattling towards the platform, he grudgingly held out a phone to you to enter your number before he gently nudged you to board the car. When you picked a seat and the tram got into motion, you tried to catch another glimpse of him, but he was already gone.

You almost thought again that this had been the first and only time you saw him after another week of radio silence followed, but then you received a text with the dinner request for tonight.

You're not disappointed, no. Maybe disillusioned. The enticing man in your phone that gave you those exciting flutters in your stomach is a real person now. And this person is quite different and unlike anyone you've ever met. Perhaps this is why the strange first encounter didn’t discourage you, but rather made you even more curious about him.

Are you lacking survival instinct by trying to form a bond with this man or is there truly more to him, something that is worth excavating and cherishing if he allows you to see it?

The sun hangs low outside already and your train departs from another station on your way home. You leave the polished modern glass fronts of the buildings in the city centre behind and dip into the residential areas on its outskirts where you and thousands of others live stacked on top of each other in far less representative structures.

Sometimes the concrete blocks hold a strange melancholic beauty when the evening sun hits them right. Resembling ancient monoliths they proudly frame the city before sprawling fields and forests take over again, where civilization meets nature. One of those you call your home as well – not the most pleasant place to live, but conveniently located near the train that takes you to work every morning and with an affordable rent. And despite the grey concrete surrounding you daily that can look so painfully dull on a rainy day, you know you would miss it if you ever moved.

The communication between you and Andre had been limited to a minimum, just his request of coming to visit you and then him informing you that he would bring food with him. When you arrive at your station, you feel a mix of excitement and unease while you weave through the crowd of other commuters that hurry home with different levels of fatigue on their faces after the work week. How will it be with him on your second meeting? Which Andre will visit you tonight?

“Hello.”

When you open your door you’re met with a wall of muscle. He’s wearing the surgical mask again and if he wouldn’t hold two grocery bags in his hand, one might think you got involved with the wrong people and some grim debt collector has come for you. He really is a sight to behold, his broad frame filling out your doorway, an untamed aura about him. If you didn’t know him, you would surely change the side of the road if you came across him. But something you cannot name yet draws you in despite the lingering unease that his presence brings as well.

You let him in and politely he takes off his boots, neatly putting them beside your own shoes. He then turns and reaches out to trace a finger over the now closed door gap and the frame, like he’s probing if everything is fitted correctly. “Always remember to put the chain in and make sure to close the extra lock, dushenka. It’s important, okay?”

You blink at him and can all but nod at his gentle reminder. “Good. Now you show me your kitchen.”

It feels strange to have him in your home. He looks out of place in your hallway and even more so in your cramped kitchen. He seems less tense in here than he has been at the park, still he draws your kitchen curtains before he takes off the mask and places the grocery bags onto the small table and silently you wonder if it’s just the habit of a man constantly confronted with the worst that humankind has to offer because of his job, or if there’s actually something lurking in the shadows for him.

“How many more people are invited tonight? This can’t all be for us…” You say and take a peek into the bags to find not much that looks familiar to you.

“I promised to bring you things to try, haven’t I?” He says and points at the bag of Russian caravan tea that’s still displayed by the kettle on your counter. “You said you liked the tea. So I have brought more Russian things for you. And to have a full table is a sign of care.”

That brings the flutters back to your stomach, the same ones you felt during your weekly calls with him. Right now as he regards you with that gentle accented timbre of his voice that you like to hear so much, it’s hard to believe that he has shouted at you before, that this snapping beast is now unloading bags with treats for you onto your kitchen table.

“Bring some small plates, a sharp knife and forks.” He orders and you obey without a second thought.

“Zakuski first before dinner.” He says and opens an enormous jar of pickles with a pop. “You know what this is?”

“No.” You shake your head and take the fat pickle from him that he fumbled out of the jar with one of the forks you brought.

“Eat, these are good. Zakuski is many small cold dishes you eat before a meal. Sometimes they can be a whole meal as well. Then you have it with vodka. It can be anything – meats, fish, salads, smoked cheese, pickled things…”

Andre fills your table with various small servings. A bowl with crunchy little bread rings called sushki, a tin of sprats and pickled beet root. Each dish is explained and then you’re ordered to try it. Every bite you take he observes carefully and your approval is met with a content grunt before he offers the next treat.

“This–” He points at a plastic container with what looks like jellied meat. “Kholodets. Pigs feet in aspic. And this–” He pushes a small plate with mysterious white glistening slices of something towards you. “Salo. Salted pork fat. You try both.”

Your eyes widen and your head snaps to him. “You just brought these for the shock value!”

And then finally the smallest little twitch of his mangled lips and a glint of mischief in his eyes let the man resurface who caused you giddy butterflies in your stomach whenever you received a call from him, the one who made you throw all caution to the wind to follow the urge to try and get to know him.

“Maybe. But you are brave, are you not, zayka?” He purrs, a playful challenge in his icy-blue gaze.

It’s like your persistence and your patience with him have paid off in that very moment and immediately a bright grin spreads on your face. “How dare you! Give me those pigs feet!”

For the main course he has brought all the ingredients for Boef Stroganoff, ordering you to sit and enjoy yourself while he prepares the meal, but you insist on at least helping a little bit since he went out of his way to bring you all of those treats.

Grudgingly he allows it and so you’re given a knife to cut the pickles he brought into thin slices while he takes care of a hefty chunk of beef.

While you fish another pickle from the jar you glance over at him. Your little kitchen doesn’t allow for much space and you’re standing close to him where there’s room to work on the counter, your elbow brushing his every now and then. He has the sleeves of his sweater pushed up as he cuts the beef into bite-sized slices with your large kitchen knife.

The muscles in his strong forearms work beautifully with the movement, rather pale skin littered with various marks and slashes, a few moles and some dusting of dark hair. His hands are big and capable, thick fingers with blunt nails even though two of them seem to grow only halfway due to some damage. His left ring finger looks like it’s stiffened, held in place a bit crooked unlike its neighbours.

You’re caught up by the sight for a moment with your pickle in hand and then Andre glances at you. You snap into motion again, giving him a small smile and then resuming your work. If he had noticed you gazing at his hands, he doesn’t say anything.

“We make a big portion, dushenka. Then you can freeze the rest and have it for dinner after work next week.”

“Okay, but you take some of it home as well.”

“Nyet, that would be a waste.” he says, adding another slice of meat to the pile on his cutting board. “I will leave in two days for deployment.”

“What?” You gasp and then you slip and the sharp blade of the small pointy knife you’re using cuts into your index finger.

“Fuck!” You wince and a drop of blood drips onto your pile of sliced pickles. Instinctively you bring your finger up to lick your wound, hastily turning you get a piece of kitchen paper to stop the bleeding. But then Andre's large hand wraps around your wrist and stills all your movements.

“Easy… Show me.” He rumbles calmly and draws you closer.

He looks at the cut, some blood running down your finger and he clicks his tongue. “Oy, zayka. So careless.”

He then pulls you to the sink and lets cool water run over your finger for a moment, already reaching for a piece of kitchen paper, he wraps it around and then he gently leads you to your table by your elbow. “Sit, press on it and hold your hand up. Do you have bandages?”

“Um… Yes, there should be a first aid kit under the sink.”

You feel a little bit dizzy, your pulse pounding on the base of your neck and you also feel it throbbing in the fresh cut. When Andre finds the kit, he pulls out the second chair on your table to sit across from you and unwraps the kitchen paper, his knees brushing against yours.

In silent concentration he dresses your wound and you watch his hands work, deftly cleaning the cut with some alcohol and then applying a pressure bandage.

“We won’t be needing amputation.” He informs bluntly, his voice calm and levelled, but that slight tug on his lips is back again that you now know indicates mischief. “But the bandage might restrict your typing abilities for a few days.”

That does make you chuckle softly and he pats your knee before he neatly packs up your first aid kit again.

“I didn’t know you were leaving for a deployment again. There was no entry in your…” You trail off, biting your lip.

“Still, snooping around in my file, dushenka?” He scolds gently and you shrug sheepishly.

“The contract came in a few hours ago. On Monday it should have appeared in your little list.”

You nod somberly and he tilts his head, blue eyes looking at you like you’re a complete mystery to him. “I still don’t understand why someone like you wants to spend time with someone like me.”

There’s a beat of silence and you hold his gaze. “I hope that one day you will.”

Andre’s shoulders drop slightly and then he shakes his head with a dismissive grunt, rising from his chair and pointing a stern finger at you. “No more knives for you tonight. You stay seated, I make the Stroganoff.”

[missinglinksblog]

Durus (Porcupine), 2018

[motgarel]

I think about RCM equestrian cops a normal amount

[xoxunhinged]

Husband Nikto / Acts of Service

Part 14 | God Is In The Rain

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.

[pale-elysium]

Hold The Line - Part 4

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

When you enter the park you feel sick with nerves, but the people around you are oblivious to the turmoil inside of you, enjoying the warm spring air and the sprouting blossoms and leaves everywhere after a long winter.

When you looked up the GPS coordinates you expected some dingy place on the outskirts of the city but not a bench in a lively park on a sunny day. Maybe it's an olive branch? You don't have to worry, I'm no threat to you and I'm meeting you somewhere nice with lots of people around.

Despite your nervousness, you didn’t hesitate to come today. You knew immediately that the mail was from him, but when you wanted to send an answer, the address had already been deleted and your message couldn't be delivered. But you had so much to tell him. That there was no need to ask for forgiveness, that you had been the one who crossed a line with your invitation. And that you really enjoyed your conversations and hope that they will continue, in whatever way he feels comfortable with.

Slight unease nags in the back of your head though, wrestling with the hopeful crush you’ve developed. The rational part in you warns that you are meeting a paid killer.

You know almost nothing about him and what little you do is mostly worrisome. A Russian mercenary with almost no personal information who’s apparently capable of bursting into fits of rage. A man who has most definitely taken another's life before, who’s certainly trained in handling weapons of all sorts and could surely snap you in half easily. Those people that KorTac employs always felt distant and abstract at work. Just numbers in your database rather than actual people, curious individuals you interacted with from a safe distance, like watching deadly creatures in a zoo enclosure.

He might be a dangerous madman. But he’s also Andre who can put a smile on your face with a well placed teasing and witty comment, whose accent you adore hearing when he talks, who’s doting on you from afar, worried if you eat enough and if no one bothered you on your commute.

Could someone like this truly want to harm you? Maybe you’re too naive. But you also know from the restlessness you felt for the past month since you spoke last, that you need to find out for yourself or you will be forever left with unanswered questions.

—

Nikto doesn't take part in civilian life much, he doesn't belong here anymore.

When he entered the park, a cap pulled low into his face and hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, he felt exposed and not in control, like everyone who passes him on the winding dirt paths has their eyes on him and knows his deepest darkest secrets. The feeling of unease settles in his stomach, even though he knows it’s unwarranted. Because he is the one who watches.

After weeks of fruitless attempts to forget you and distract himself with work, he had to admit to himself that he had to face his demons. He had never cared about it in the past if he offended someone, never made the effort to make amends. But the thought that he might have made you scared and sad yet again caused him sleepless nights.

He needs to be honest for once in his life, be a decent man and apologise for his rude behaviour. You deserve that. He will reveal himself and then it will be easier to end it when he sees the horror in your eyes and make you understand that it’s better to stop whatever he has started here. Then you can both go back to business and forget about it.

Unfortunately though, you look like the picture of loveliness when you come into view.

He had picked the spot carefully before he sent you the coordinates. Exposed and lively enough for you to feel safe but with options around for him to stay concealed at first until the time is right to approach you. He came here an hour early to occupy his own bench a bit further down the path where it took a turn towards the small lake in the centre of the park.

His usual full-face mask was changed for a simple surgical one to not draw too much attention from the people around but to still keep his distinctive features hidden. A worn book in his hands and he’s just a man who enjoys a nice spring day in the park like everyone else here. Hiding in plain sight proves to be as effective as it always was.

You haven’t noticed him yet luckily, seemingly too caught up with your thoughts as you’re glued to the bench that he summoned you to. You keep looking at your phone, it’s already almost an hour past the time he gave you for your meeting. But Nikto had been watching you since the second you appeared, frozen in time and taking in the sight of you.

His plan was simple, straightforward. Wait for you to come, apologise, then politely end this strange friendship and slip back into the shadows where he belongs.

But the thought of setting that plan in motion suddenly makes his chest feel heavy with dread. Once he moves, you will be gone. A beautiful hallucination that will disappear as soon as he tries to reach for it.

The sight of you makes a feeling of possessiveness flare up inside of him. When was the last time he really wanted something? He’s being selfish again, just like when he pretended to be the charmer for you and stole your time just to get this dopamine kick that your laughter and attention gives him.

But what a blessing it would be to have you. What a balm for his soul your proximity would be if you allowed him to bask in your glow for a bit at least. Maybe it would blind him, but he wouldn’t care. It would be the sweetest punishment he could receive.

You look at the time again and your shoulders slump. He’s letting you down again because of his cowardice. Because he knows once he reveals himself to you, it will be over.

His pale-blue gaze is fixed on you from the distance, eyes burning already because he feels like if he blinks you will be gone.

The pages of the book he's holding crease because he’s gripping it so tightly. And then you turn your head and your eyes meet his.

—

Shifting on your bench, you look around, your teeth worrying on your lower lip and your hands clasped in your lap. Why would he go out of his way to set up this meeting just to leave you sitting here? Maybe something happened that prevented him from coming. Or you’ve been fooled.

You’ve been waiting for almost an hour here now with your reeling thoughts. Every time a man comes walking down the dirt path your pulse quickens and you tense up, only for each of them to walk past you.

The minutes trickle by maddeningly slow, but when an hour has passed you sigh deeply. Have you missed something in his message? The coordinates are correct, you’ve checked them at least ten times over the past hour, but he hasn’t appeared yet.

You brace yourself to get up and leave this silly dream you had behind. Your gaze sweeps over the park – a woman playing with her dog on a meadow, a couple pushing a pram further down the path, two old men with canes talking on a bench underneath an old oak tree.

And then you notice another park visitor. On a bench in the distance there's a man. Dressed in dark clothing he’s holding a book in his hands and despite the cap that sits low, you can see that he’s looking at you. You’ve been so deep in thought and so caught up with your nerves that you didn’t really pay much attention to your surroundings. But as soon as you meet the strangers' eyes, he lowers them to his book again.

You feel your pulse flutter at the base of your throat. Could it be…?

From what you can see of him from a distance, the man looks somewhat gruff, clad in dark fabrics, face concealed behind a surgical mask. Wouldn’t that be something Andre would do? Surely he would not approach you with grand fanfare and open arms. And maybe he is nervous as well.

You look at the time again and more than an hour has passed now. Either you leave now or make one last attempt to solve the mystery that has been plaguing you ever since you spoke to him for the first time.

With weak knees you rise from your bench and make your way down the path towards the man. He doesn’t move or look up from his book when you approach.

“Andre…?” Your voice comes out quiet, almost like a whisper, but the man doesn’t move and only answers with a slight jerk of his head and a low grunt, his eyes still cast down.

“Sorry.” You say sheepishly and swallow hard and you’re ready to bolt. All of this was a mistake and it led you to bothering a stranger who’s trying to read his book in peace. Stiffly you turn on your heels, ready to leave, but then the man tosses his book onto the bench and rises to his full height, pale-blue eyes now meeting yours.

They are the first thing you notice with the way they contrast among all the dark fabrics, looking almost unnaturally clear and misplaced on him. He’s tall with broad shoulders and a muscular build, a surgical mask covering most of his face.

For a moment you both just stand there frozen in place. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn't have to. You know there and then that it’s him.

You’re about to lose yourself in his icy gaze, the skin around his left almond-shaped eye more textured than the other side. But then you’re pulled out of your stupor when the mask he’s wearing draws your attention.

“Do you have hay fever?”

“What?” He rasps and it’s like he’s coming to his senses as well again. You’d recognise this gravelly voice anywhere.

“The mask…” You tilt your head. “Because of the pollen everywhere at the moment…”

He stares at you like you just asked him to solve some difficult equation before he clears his throat and speaks again in a low rumble. “No, it’s… For something else.”

Then suddenly he straightens his spine and shakes his head, squaring his shoulders like he’s trying to find his footing again.

“I asked you to come here so I can apologise for my rude behaviour and for raising my voice the last time we spoke. You did nothing wrong, I lost my nerves and that should not have happened. I will not bother you anymore from now on.” He says robotically and you stand there stunned once more.

“You are not bothering me. Not at all…”

He cocks his head like you just said something incomprehensible and you take a tentative step closer.

“I’m not mad at you, I shouldn’t have been so forward. It’s just… I thought since we were getting along so well on the phone… That it would be nice to meet in person.”

“You should not be spending time with a man like me, dushenka” He replies after a moment and his voice gains that gentler tone again, the one he uses when he dotes on you. “I am not what you think I am. It is better if we do not speak anymore…”

You don’t know it, but when that mix of sadness and disappointment settles on your lovely face, Nikto panics internally. This is not how he planned this. Why are you still here? Why don’t you see the danger in front of you?

“What do you mean? I thought… I thought we could just go for a walk and see if–”

“Nyet!” He hisses and with a harsh movement he reaches up and pulls down the surgical mask he had been wearing. His eyes are wide and he gets into your face. “Look at it! Look closely.”

You flinch when he’s suddenly so close to you and you can’t suppress the gasp that escapes you at the sight of him. It’s difficult to look at, there’s no denying it. And all of a sudden this man before you makes much more sense to you. The secrecy, the temper, the harshness. You cannot even fathom what he went through.

His wide gaze holds yours captive and he nods. “That’s the truth, dushenka. And that’s why you should go home now and move on.”

You’re silent for a moment, just taking him in and he lets you. In a second it will be over, he thinks. Then you will have come around and understand that it is better that way.

But why does your expression soften the longer you look at him?

“I don’t care about that.” You say and hold his gaze. “But I do care about the conversations we had. How you made me laugh. Anything else is not important.”

Nikto’s fierce frown smoothes and in that moment he realises that he doesn’t have any control over the situation and that you are far mightier than he thought. Far more than you even realise yourself probably.

“It is for your best, zayka moya…” He attempts again weakly but you just shake your head.

“It’s such a nice day and I came here all the way from the other end of the city…” You glance at the mask that’s now dangling limply from his hand before you search his gaze again. “Would you come on a walk with me?”

He seems to wrestle with his thoughts for a moment, but then he offers you his arm in an oddly chivalrous gesture and you take it without hesitation.

“I've tried the tea you recommended. I really loved it.”

You steer him onto the dirt path that leads down to the lake where ducks and swans usually swim and it feels a bit like you're leading a wild animal on a leash that you just tamed.

“Did you?”

“Mhm…”

“I will bring you more things to try then, dushenka. Sweet or savoury. Whatever you want.”

[unsociableraccoon]

I was wondering... Does anyone here have any book recs to learn more about Russian culture? Fiction or nonfiction that represents it, shows habits, or simply portrays characters in an authentic way.

I've been wanting to expand my knowledge so I can write a better Nikto. Any recs are welcome! 🖤

I'm currently reading: Bread and Salt - A Social and Economic History of Food and Drink in Russia

[daisycuttter]

I have a russian cookbook from the nineties with some very interesting (and questionable) recipes.

(I could send you some if you need inspiration)

[daisycuttter]

The book is from 1996 and has some fairly traditional /old recipes. I personally haven't tried any of them yet but I'm going to in the near future.

I also really love whatever is going on in the background of these pictures...

if you need more or are looking for specific recipes, I can post more.

Also here are some russian movies:

Околофутбола - is a movie from 2013 about russian hooliganism (I like it)

9 рота - is a movie about the tragedy of the Afghanistan war. It follows a group of sowiet soldiers (we are watching it in school currently and haven't finished it yet but it was pretty good)

[pale-elysium]

I love everything about this! The fun witches cauldron cover! The cute illustrations! The way this fish peeks out of the dough! The little radish artworks! And they knew what they were doing with those tomatoes and the cucumber.

[pale-elysium]

Hold The Line - Part 3

Part 1 – Part 2

He recalls the moment when they let him see his face for the first time. Or was it his face anymore? Because whatever was looking back at him from the small bathroom mirror in the hospital was nothing he recognized. The blue eyes felt faintly familiar, but even they looked dull and tired as they stared back at him, blood-shot and the skin around the left one red and twisted, his eyesight there a bit murky ever since.

A priest had come, he remembers, to hear his confession shortly after he arrived at the hospital after they’ve recovered him. Was he ever a true believer? He isn’t sure, but when the old cleric with the black robe and the grey beard urged him to recite the psalm of repentance with him, he knew it by heart and the words flowed muffled from his now mangled lips.

After two months in bandages and excruciating pain whenever they had to change them and clean the damage underneath for him, this face was a strange mix of sickly pale skin and angry red scar tissue. Some deeper gashes had been stitched and everything now came together in a gruesome work of art, like a flow of lava running down the side of his face, over his shoulder all the way to his chest. The other injuries like three broken ribs, several pulled nails, a broken jaw with some chipped teeth that caused his tongue to cut on the sharp edges and a badly swollen twisted ankle had been fixed already. But the face had taken longer to heal. Or not to heal, but to become bearable.

They offered consultation with a psychiatrist, but when he refused no one really cared either. After a few months more of recovery he was deemed to be fit for duty again and that was all that mattered. Not in deep cover anymore, an appearance like this obviously too recognisable, but he was still good enough to return to Spetsnaz. Maybe even better suited than ever.

That was years ago. The disgusting thing that covers his skull is still attached to him. There was a time in the beginning where he was obsessing over it, spending hours looking at the twisted flesh closely in the mirror, studying how oddly it pulled the expression on the damaged side into a grimace, how living and dead skin met like two rivers whose waters won’t mix.

He barely looks at it nowadays, the fascination wore off long ago now. Like a horror movie you saw too many times, he doesn't flinch at the jump scares anymore. A mask has become his face instead most of the time. Rather a blank and inhumane expression than whatever is under it now. It also prevents nosy questions and stares and lets others keep their distance.

It was going well like this. He kept to himself, KorTac didn’t ask questions when he joined and just let him do what he does best, ruthlessness and grim professionalism gaining him respect among the other creeps working here along with the call sign ‘Nikto’ – Nobody. No face, no name, no mercy.

So why did he suddenly feel the need to connect when he heard your friendly voice that day he called for the first time?

He understands of course that people inherently want to socialise, but he thought he was above such things. He had plenty of company in his head after all and the odd shallow conversation with a fellow contractor over a smoke break was always enough. But then you chirped at him like a sweet little sparrow and the beast smelled blood.

Who the fuck did he think he was? Sweet talking a nice girl like you like he’s some suitable candidate for you, selfishly and greedily reaching out with his dirty hands to sully your innocent existence. Pretending to be some kind of charming man who could make pleasant conversation, sprinkle light jokes in there and shine with some interesting bits of knowledge. Maybe he was that in the past and some of it seeped through the grime that’s coating him now. But now he’s just a fucking idiot.

Of course you would’ve asked to see him at some point after he called you every week. Because you are a nice and normal person. Because you have no monstrous visage and a dark and shrouded past to hide. Because you have never killed a man and inflicted unbearable pain on others to retrieve it back tenfold.

And even without the carnage on his face – what would he have to offer you?

A grizzled old dog of a soldier like him should not speak to pure things like yourself. He has developed this disgusting will to please you, like he's some flea-ridden hungry stray you threw him a bone in the shape of your laughter and attention. He salivates at the thought of more treats and so he wags his tail and shows you his soft belly in the hopes you might look past the dusty fur and keep feeding him.

How could he be so selfish? How could he trick you into thinking he is anything more than a dirty sinner? He cannot pull you down into the abyss with him, this is not where you belong.

Hasn’t he sworn to protect the innocent once? To sacrifice his own life for the safety of others if he must? If there is one good deed left in him, then it is this one. To save the one soul that was kind and caring towards him and beg for just a crumb of mercy for his own.

“You don’t want to see me.” He rasps into the phone, his hand now gripping it so tightly that the frame cracks a little.

“What? Why? I know you guys are a rough bunch, but I’m sure it’s not so bad that–”

“No.”

“Andre, please I–”

“Don’t call me that, blyat!”

With full force Nikto throws the device in his hand against the concrete wall in front of him, bits of glass and plastic splattering everywhere, the connection to you dying with it. 

—

When the pouch of Russian caravan tea gets delivered to you, you don't dare to open the package. When you find the courage to do so a few days later, the warm and grounding scent of smoky black tea greets you and you inhale deeply. He had told you on the phone that it is said that the smokey flavour originally came from the camel caravans that brought the precious tea leaves from China through the vast mongolian steppe all the way to Russia. During the nights fires would’ve been lit and the tea that was stored closely by the camp to not have it get stolen took on the distinct smoky flavour.

You imagine he smells like this too – warm herbs and smoke, hearty and sweet at once, foreign but calming.

You prepare yourself a cup with a heavy heart, adding a bit of honey like he suggested, and it tastes wonderful.

You haven’t heard from him again after the connection broke and it has been over a month now. Can you miss someone you barely knew and never met in person? The heavy feeling of dread that took up residence in your chest ever since tells you that you can.

You had to admit to yourself that you developed a little crush on him. How silly of you, surely you were nothing more than a way to pass boredom during deployments that dragged on in remote places that offer not much diversion for the men stationed there.

And clearly he is a troubled man. What were you thinking to suggest a meet? You know nothing about him and by now you witnessed him explode with rage seemingly out of nowhere twice already. You’re a clueless little lamb that stumbled into the wolf's den.

You should be glad that it’s over and get back to work and live your life like you have before. Then find a decent man who isn’t some sort of troubled ghost and be happy.

You can’t help but recall your conversations every night before sleep though or sometimes smile absentmindedly when you remember some dry and witty remark of his. The pouch of tea sits on your kitchen counter like someone might display an icon on an altar.

Everyday you check his file at work, feeling like you’re doing something forbidden, as if your colleagues can smell your weird infatuation with this stranger. When another entry in his deployment history appeared a few days after you last heard of him instead of the leave request you were hoping for, you had to hide for a while to silently cry in one of the stalls in the ladies restroom.

You’ve ruined everything. Why couldn’t you just enjoy it for what it was?

The days drag on now where you were looking forward to them before, awaiting a Russian surprise every day to cheer you up.

Rain patters on the window of your office and you gaze at the grey sky lost in thought. Then an e-mail notification draws your attention.

An obscure address sent you a message the subject simply says ‘forgive me’. When you open it you find nothing but a date, a time and what looks like GPS coordinates. And below it, this someone says a prayer.

–

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Your lovingkindness; according to the multitude of Your tender mercies, blot out my transgressions.

Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.

For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.

(...)

Make me to hear joy and gladness, that the bones which You have broken may rejoice.

Hide Your face from my sins, and blot out all my iniquities.

Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.

Do not cast me away from Your presence, and do not take Your Holy Spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of Your salvation, and uphold me with Your generous Spirit.

(...)

O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth shall show forth Your praise.

For You do not desire sacrifice, or else I would give it; You do not delight in burnt offering.

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit, a broken and a contrite heart – these, O God, You will not despise.