Yearning!Nikto
CW: Intense Yearning, Male Masturbation, Edging
Nikto felt it the moment you looked at him that afternoon. Not the polite, uncertain curve of strangers' lips, no - this was something warmer, unguarded, like sunlight. It struck him with the precision of a bullet to the chest, and for a long moment his world narrowed to the memory of your smile.
He jerked open his belt buckle with shaking hands, metal clinking like distant gunfire. His cock was already hard, aching against the rough canvas of his trousers - betrayal in every throb. He shoved fabric aside and sighed.
Your face hovered behind his eyelids: your parted lips, that small freckle beneath your left eye he wanted to kiss until the skin bruised. He hated how perfectly his memory etched you even here, in this pit where nothing kind ever lasted.
"Nyet," he growled, but the word was dust, and his fist closed around his cock anyway. He pulled once - rough, punishing - and a groan scraped out of him. No gentleness here; he wanted it to hurt. Every stroke twisted pleasure into another needle to carve your face deeper under his skin. He should stop, should slam this desire behind iron and weld it shut - but instead he pumped faster, breath catching wet against the mask, whispering your name like a confession to the dark. He was a monster - wasn't he? Perhaps once he might have been something else. Sometimes, in dreams, he remembered the feel of a whole face. But no - the mirror never lied. A deformed, unlovable monster, scarred inside and out. Too cruel for kindness, too cold for your sunshine. ..Sunshine.. His solnyshka. Through the haze in his skull he watched you kneel before him, lips parted in that same unguarded smile from the corridor. The vision burned so clear he felt its heat on his thighs. Impossible. But still the image latched onto his mind. He pumped harder. The pleasure sharp, each stroke punctuated by your name - each crest a denial, drawing him close to the abyss and then slamming him back to earth. Fifteen minutes, half an hour - he hurt himself with restraint, biting down the urge to finish, mess, get it over with. He wanted to marinate in the ache, the proof that he still wanted, could want, hated wanting. Especially you. Always you.
Never actually you..
He pictured the line of your throat. The precise blue vein, the flutter beneath your jaw, the hollow at your collar. Your mouth, slack and generous, open for him. He gripped harder, abrasive, and frantic. But he didn't let himself finish. Not until his knuckles cramped and his vision blurred, not until he was dizzy with need. Then the release slammed through him - guttural, blinding. He spilled over his own fist, spattered warm across his thigh. Dirty. Ruined. Tainted.
He breathed. The silence pressed in. He did not linger on the mess, or the mess of himself. Tucked himself back in, forced his hands steady and his face blank. He'd dirtied you again. His Solnyshka. Perhaps he'll apologize one day.
