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halcyone-of-the-sea · 5 months

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ALL THE THINGS WE SAID WE WOULDN'T DO (VIII)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER IX

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 13.2k

WARNINGS: Angst, stalking, guns/weapons, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations/abuse of power, body image issues, food issues, alcohol, scar descriptions, gore, light torture insinuations, hurt/comfort, NSFW, not full-on smut, fingering, descriptions of masturbation, praise, multiple orgasms, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“Oh,” you breathe out a long sigh. “This is horrible.”

Pale eyes blink at you slowly from the side of his vision, Nikto watching your face fall as his brow lightly rises.

The hotel is large—one main area with sectioned-off rooms much like any upscale hotel would be. But the decorations were…well, there wasn’t much you could say in their favor. It was all white, at least, all pale enough that you assumed it was entirely white. The walls, the countertops, the chairs.

“What are people's fixations with white and gray?” Your body moves forward, slipping out of your heels before you cross your arms over your chest. “I swear, I can’t even see color and I know how to style better than them.”

Blinking at a painting on the wall, which seems to be no more than a black line down a pale canvas, you look at Nikto in exasperation. You motion with a shaky hand to it. “What is this even supposed to be?”

You grumble the sentence, tilting your head at the artwork.

Nikto’s low chuckle moves through you, and the void slips past as he moves farther into the hotel room, looking around.

“It is not your…style,” he mutters, shoulders rolling. All of your bags sit in the front hallway right by the door, stacked up and up like the basework of a home of fabric. The image of the man in this glaring place is stark, and you blink through a smile.

“You can say that again,” you huff, but you quickly devolve into soft chuckles.

Nikto pauses, looking over his shoulder at you. He stares with confusion as your quivering form covers your mouth with your palm.

“What?” The man asks, glancing around.

“You,” you laugh loudly, walking closer one uneven step at a time. Nikto watches, still. “You look silly standing here. Like a blackhole just opened up.”

Pale eyes narrow, a thin grunt wafting out from his chest.

Your hand carefully rests on his bicep, giggling heavily as an infectious amusement leaks from your lips. Nikto’s expression fights the sudden soft sweet that threatens it—mouth quirking as he sighs.

“That is not funny,” he grumbles, head tilting away from you.

“Oh,” you breathe, rolling your eyes and moving away. “The irony.”

Nikto watches you look around, coat hanging off one arm and your face lighter now that you've had a small rest. He hadn’t woken you up until the car had fully stopped in the street, only then shaking your shoulder until your eyes had fluttered open softly. The expression you had worn was still in the back of his brain, that open and airy thing—body shifting with tiny grunts that made his thighs twitch.

The sensation of your skin under his; the warmth of it.

Nikto’s eyes blink slowly, fingers at his sides twitching as his throat takes down saliva.

Rolling his neck, the Russian shifts his legs and follows after to find where you’d gone off to.

He won’t admit it to you, but he liked the simplicity of the hotel room. Yet, the exasperation you gained from it, he liked more.

Your hands open all of the doors, searching the bathroom and the room—the realization only hits you when you once more lay your vision on Nikto, who had been watching you glance around silently.

A heat pulls at your cheeks, and with a low clearing of your throat, your sheepish face implores, “Did you see a second bedroom?”

The Russian's large body seems to take a screenshot, stuttering before his head roves the visible rooms to them.

One bathroom. One bedroom.

Immediately, he says, “We will take the couch.”

“No,” you shake your head, waving a hand as if to convince him that it wasn’t the only option. “No, that’s alright. I don’t want you to feel pressured to—”

The front door gets a hard knock on it, and the both of you straighten.

Eyes locked, your body releases a sigh before you shift and make your way back to the entrance. Nikto passes by, a hand brushing your arm as his boots thump on the floor. A flash of pale eyes leaves you widely staring.

“I will sleep on the couch,” he grunts, and then he’s already at the door and checking through the peephole. His opposite hand shifts to hover over his beretta, long fingers skimming the metal.

Blinking, your hot face flares again, and in your stomach a swirl of heat levels.

Something about him had changed again—just like you’d seen throughout your time together. It was a slow thing; delicate. Like taming a wild animal that stopped by outside of your porch once and a while, the eyes on the thing slitted and teeth bared.

But it was undeniable at this point, no matter how much you wanted it to be false.

Yefim has been slipping from your mind lately. The mantra you’d sworn to follow.

Don’t get attached.

It was easier said than done, and just as everyone always thought you were a mindless fool, you agreed with them in this instance. You were a fool. A beautiful, stupid, fool. At first, it could be pushed off as hope, maybe. An attraction to a big, dangerous man in the time after a traumatic event—his body promised protection; his hands, violence. That could be brushed off, only a sentence said in the therapy session you very much needed, but, now…

Now you were afraid it was far more than a simple distraction.

Wringing your hands a good distance away, you take down a low inhale and try to force the memory of his gloved fingers running your flesh. Or, worse, his bare skin pressing firmly into the bastardus scar on the back of your head—something you would have never let anyone see if it had been up to you. His hard hold, his easy work of your weight when he picked you up.

The thump of his pulse right beside your ear.

Even that small car ride had been suffocating with something unnamed.

You run a hand over the back of your head, feet shifting over cold tile.

“Nikto,” your voice carries. “Who is it?”

“Man,” he scoffs, moving back and looking with that mask over his shoulder. “He has suit on. Blond hair. Короткий.”

Fuck, that mask. Those eyes.

You can’t even focus—what was going on with you?

“Okay,” you clear your throat, walking over as quickly as you’re able. A hand easily grabs your sleeve when you accidentally get too close to the side table, nearly bumping into it. You conform to a hard Kevlar chest, breath hitching.

Rotting wood infects your nostrils, and you nearly sag instinctually into Nikto, pupils widening. With shifting legs, your fast feet backtrack, and the scent dissipates.

“It’s probably Iakov—Iakov Mironovich Lisov,” Nikto narrows his eyes on you, looking up and down your body slowly in brief confusion. “He’s my media coordinator.”

Grasping the handle, you open the door easily and come face to face with a casual greeting.

“Seraph.” You smile, albeit, you very much feel the presence of Nikto behind you—his low breath on the back of your head. Your ears twitch to the movement of his gear.

“Good to see you again, Iakov Mironovich.”

“Ah,” the blond shakes his head. He was short; dressed nicely just as he should be. “We know each other, do we not? Iakov is just fine, my girl. No need for formalities.”

Your smile is a bit more genuine now, and you chuckle, nodding.

Iakov was kind to you—you wouldn’t say confident in all of his actions, but he knew how to present himself as such. New clothes, new watches, and jewelry. His job here was to update your portfolio as soon as possible, which meant he worked far closer to the photographers than you do. Iakov also plans out shoots, too; when to get that perfect shot for ads and media.

“Have that schedule for me?” You sigh, faking a frown.

The blond was all over AMA at any given time—you’re surprised the CEO had the resources to let him come along.

Iakov hums. “I gave you breaks, Seraph, don’t worry. You know how I know you like them.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you mutter, smiling widely.

A folder is passed your way, continuing outfits to wear and when to do so—locations and times. So much work.

The man chuckles, shrugging. “I’m always looking out for you.”

Nikto’s hand curls around your waist and takes the folder from you, asking for it under his breath in a way only you would hear. Shivering, you let him, and nearly feel his grunt of satisfaction at your spine.

Aly’s jokes were getting harder to want to deny at this point.

What would it feel like to have him on top of you?

Your voice is a bit breathless as you push out, “A-and I’m very glad of it, thank you. Do you want to come in? We can talk some more about tonight and where I’m needed?”

But Iakov’s eyes aren’t on you—they’re on Nikto.

And Nikto’s are staring right back from above your head.

Blinking, you glance backward at your guard, brows furrowing. Your heart skips a beat at the intensity of Nikto’s piercing gaze, chin tilted down and his face dead-set forward. He isn’t even blinking.

“...Boys?” You frown, shaking your head and moving to dispel tension as you usually knew how. Flirting. “I know I look ravishing, but please, don’t get into a catfight over my affection—it gets boring. At least do it outside.”

Nikto snaps out of his strange trance, wide eyes turning to look directly at you as you flutter a smirk to your lips.

“I’d cheer for you, Big Guy, don’t worry.” Growling through his rapid blinks, Nikto detached himself from behind so close to you and disappeared into the room as you laughed loudly.

“Enough!” Is the heavy bark, but it means nothing to you.

“You’re adorable, Nikto,” you call, but only the suddenly stuttering pound of his boots is the answer.

Grinning widely, your attention turns back to Iakov. Even you can see the pigment on his face, though it’s simply a deeper shade than the rest of him. The man’s legs shift—he looks…well, you can’t really place it. Something like annoyance slashes his expression, though it’s gone before you can comment and offer an apology.

“No,” he grumbles, already moving away. “No, I need to speak with that photographer about the equipment.”

And then the blond is walking away quickly.

Frowning, you stare after him before you back up and slowly close the door, pausing at the entrance and looking down at your hands.

Peeling your grip from the handle, you confusedly glance at the clamminess of your palm before you lick your lips and shake your head.

“Nikto?” You wonder, and a small smile comes back to your lips.

“What?” Is the numb call from the kitchen.

Your legs carry you there, and you see him with his bag on the counter, large arms rifling through it before taking out all sorts of things. The papers were pushed to the side and looked through.

“What is that?” Your shocked voice makes his attention flicker to you, eyes swirling with dull amusement.

“M13,” is the accented response. Casual, as if a regular walk in the part and not an Assault Rifle being set down to the hotel’s expensive stone countertops. Nikto’s smirk is heard as it moves like honey into your lungs, keeping them stuck together. “Big gun, yes?”

“What’s it doing in the kitchen?” Your confused face twitches. “I trust your cooking skills, but I don’t think you…” you pause. “Well, I, can’t eat metal even if you do attempt it.”

“Haha,” the Russian’s harsh speech only makes the mockery more funny. He huffs. “I am cleaning it, Птичка. For tonight. I will not have it jam if it comes my time to pull the trigger.”

Your mouth opens, and you begin to ask if he’s even allowed to do that before your breath gets caught.

“...What does that mean?” Pale eyes blink, hidden face tilting your way.

Nikto grunts in question, taking out the same cleaning rag from his belt that he’d used all those days ago in his Beretta and setting it down.

“I do not understand.”

Your tongue trips up, the word slipping together, but you get the chuck of it out that would need to be said, rough, though it sounded somewhat similar. You can only go off memory.

“Ptichka?”

Nikto’s fingers pause over the gun, and while it was impossible to tell, you feel the air go utterly still. He blinks, the Russian, at that moment, is highly confused and taken aback.

“We did not say that.” He slowly replies, rolling his shoulders before clearing his throat. “Must have slipped our tongue.” His hands visibly twitch from where you watch.

Face pulling in, your eyes narrow slowly, face tight. A deep curiosity brews like soup in a pot, and you instantly latch on to it.

Птичка. You stuff it away for later, but it sings in the back of your brain.

“Alright…” Trying to push past it, you smile teasingly. “Well, I hope you’ll enjoy the suit I reserved, anyway. The stylists should be bringing it up soon with my outfit.”

It isn’t easy to hide your glee when sharp eyes dart back up to meet yours.

—

“Stop moving,” one of the women hisses, the makeup brush moving over the lid of your eye.

“Sorry,” you mutter, hands held together in your lap as you get ready in the bedroom. A large vanity is in front of you.

You have three women working on you right now—you can’t recall their names, as you’d never met them before, but all are unyielding to your attempts at conversation. The one currently is working on your eyeshadow, the second on your clothes across the room, and the third on your jewelry.

All you wear are your lacy undergarments, harsh ring lights relentlessly assaulting your already sensitive eyes.

“Sit straight,” a hand is forced into your spine, and you breathe in sharply before you comply, eyes shut tight while she works. “Like child. Fidgeting.”

You clench your jaw and stay your words.

It was getting harder to fight the anxiety in your blood as the time grew nearer to leave.

In half an hour, you were needed at a large building near the center of the city—dressed to the nines and slathered in perfume; dripping luxury in the dress that your boss had given you.

You dreaded even looking at it, afraid about how far the slit up the side would go. How deep the neck. You didn’t have to hypothesize the color.

“Open.” At the command, you open your eyes and blink quickly at the light.

Instantly, your chin is grabbed and your face moved to the side as you make a noise in the back of your throat—lips getting pressed down by the tip of a lipstick tube.

Gray pigment is moved over the flesh and spread firmly.

Face burning, you avert your vision from looking into the woman’s eyes, awkwardly looking around. This was by far one of the worst parts of getting ready for events, but nothing compared to how your night would go if prior parties were anything to compare.

“Get dressed. I have done all I can do,” you’re released and a large sigh is echoing through the room.

She begins to clean up her items as you nod and stand up, muttering, “Thank you.”

A huff is all that’s offered, and you breathe out before padding over to the bed. Body tight, you play with your fingers in front of your abdomen with lingering unease. Your skin feels dirty already.

One stylist comes over and grabs at the side of your strapless bra, peeling it back and letting it slap the skin. You startle, flinching. Something in Russian is muttered, and the women all chuckle to one another, sending sly glances as you stare dumbly, lips going thin.

“Get dressed, Girl,” the one nearest smiles, but it isn’t comforting. “Long night for you, yes?”

Your body curls into itself, and in that instant, you want to exit the bedroom in nothing but sweatpants and an oversized shirt; you want to sit in the kitchen and let Nikto cook dinner. You would eat an entire platter if that was all you needed to do to get out of this situation.

But you can’t.

And you can’t go back to your penthouse either. You have no trinkets here—nothing to make your own. White walls, white floors. Gray bed.

Shame stuck into your face, your head snaps away to the dress you would be forced to wear as fingers pinch at your waist. More giggling. More words you can’t understand.

You clear your throat, blinking away the sting in the back of your eyes that swells up at the sight of it. It was beautiful, you can’t deny it. Just as beautiful as you’re sure you look right now with all this makeup on your face like a mask.

The top was essentially just a corset, the low-dropping neckline a wide oval ending at points only halfway up your breasts. The ‘v’ of the corset ends at your navel, and under, the pale silk of the train cascades down in a single cut, which would be your only cover beside a very sheer layer of lace underneath. Pearled adornments would sit on your arms, looped to the backing above the meat of your flesh. They weren’t sleeves—it was an accessory.

They wanted you to show skin tonight.

The slit left little to the imagination, it would end far into your upper thigh. One tumble, and you’d be showing off your underwear to everyone. Never mind a tumble, you think. A single misstep.

And this dress would make you more than beautiful—it would make you ethereal.

But you never said that was what you wanted to be.

This is all I’m good at, you take down a shaky breath, looking to the side until you can calm yourself and close your eyes.

Heart hammering and your intestines going to mush, you rub at the back of your scar. It’s only a moment before you steel yourself and reach with shaking fingers. But you’re not entirely sure if they’re quivering from the brain damage or just the fear.

You’re not sure which you’d prefer.

Slipping into the dress, you huff and force your hips through the opening, grunting as you feel the fabric pull tight to your flesh.

“Eat too much, Girl. You’re struggling to get into that?” The comment is said under breath, but it’s like an arrow aimed directly at your throat. Snickering makes your lungs quicken. “Getting fat.”

“I’m not…I’m not gaining weight,” you say, not looking back at them as you pull harder. “I never…”

But you had been eating more, hadn’t you? Nikto’s food was always on your mind nowadays—his hearty breakfasts, the warm lunches. Dinner was always a surprise; it always made you eat like it was your last day on earth, despite the alarm bells.

Blinking quickly, your lip wobbles.

“I can fit into it,” you whimper.

But it’s just laughter as you pull harder.

The dress pops over your hips, and you take a large breath, looking down at it as it sits around your waist, nearly panting from desperation. In a quick act, you peel it all the way up and hold the material there as hard as you can.

“See?” Your voice quivers, turning as your legs stumble. “I got it.”

One of the stylists rolls her eyes, and the one cleaning up her materials scoffs and waves a hand to the others. A smirk is on her lips, and you can’t help but compare them all to dark-eyed harpies.

“Lace her up. Tightly.” Fingers poke and prod, and as you bite your lip, flinching at every hard pull, trapping you into this modern contraption—this cage—until you feel your lungs push into your guts. Your sides burn and your head goes light by the time they’re done completely and the laces are tied.

Putting a hand to your stomach, your creased face only softens at all at the faint sounds from outside of your bedroom door. Hard boots. Moving travel bags being organized by scarred fingers. You have to focus on it to bring away the infection of black dots in the corners of your blinking eyes, not-yet-dry mascara making the lashes stick momentarily. You rip them back open and steady your bare feet, fingers vibrating over the material suffocating you.

Hands grab at your shoulders and turn you away from the bed, pearls clacking together. As if your shell-shocked being meant nothing, heavy jewelry is stacked over your throat and wrists. Pearls dangling from your ears, surrounded by precious metals—necklaces that are engraved with angels and feathered birds. Even the bracelets, dangling things, are weighted by luxury and meaning.

They still just felt like shackles.

When it’s all said and done, the heels you’ll be wearing are near the bedroom door. The women flock out and pass glances over their shoulders to you, left standing in the middle of the room as your eyes remain locked to the ground. Not speaking—barely breathing because the pinch in your chest aches if you do.

Just a doll left sitting on the top shelf, waiting to be grabbed by grubby fingers and pawned off at the nearest thrift store for nothing else but notoriety. You don’t know how long you stand there, trying to gather what little strength you have for tonight above the relentless brutality of your heart to your ribcage, but it’s long enough to where you hear a sharp knock on your door.

“Seraph,” Nikto calls to you, his glove-less fingers rasping over the wood. “The women left—are you…” His brows tighten. “Acceptable.”

The Russian’s low grunt exits his throat, boots re-situating themselves. His hidden ears twitch for your answer, looking to the side for a moment as your thin voice wafts out.

“Yes.”

Nikto’s scarred face pulls at that, confused. If that was the case, then why hadn’t you edited your room yet? Were you nervous?

Pale blue eyes blink at that, slowly tilting his head in thought. You had expressed anxiety over these parties, perhaps that was what this was about. Nerves. The man’s lips thinned, staring hard at the woodgrain ahead of him. He can practically hear your fluttering heartbeat in the air.

“We have ten minutes, yes?” He utters, a low dread filling his chest. A pause. “Where have you placed the suit?”

There’s a lapse in noise as Nikto’s words fully resign him to his fate, his eyes dulling with a slow acceptance. Only when the door clicks to open, does he decide that if it got you out of the room and gave you a distraction, being in a suit wouldn’t be the worst—

His throat tightens to hide a sharp inhalation of breath.

You stand in the doorway, and it’s like he’s looking into the sun.

Your dress trails behind you as your eyes stay stuck to Nikto’s chest, mumbling out. “I think the stylists left it over near the door,” and swiftly passed.

Trying to hide the pain that leaves your heart aching at the railroad-straight nature of your spine, you shuffle to the hanging suit left on the coat rack. Grasping it, you take as deep a breath as you’re able and turn around.

“I didn’t know sizes, so I tried my best to get as close of an estimate as possible just by…” Your words trail off.

Nikto stares at you so openly that the last bit of your breath is taken away in one swoop of a sparrow’s wings.

Pale eyes are unblinking as they gaze through wide attention, hand still outstretched from where it was knocking at the door. Stopping in your tracks, you blink slowly, a pulse going through your body that you feel all the more wearing this dress.

The Russian doesn’t speak—he doesn’t say anything. He watches. Vision moving along the dip of your throat where those pearls sit; conforming to the swell of your breasts and the view of your cleavage. Then to your waist, tight and formed, and, finally, to the open view of your leg, and that bit of tantalizing lace.

Nikto felt his pulse under his skin, that flipping in his abdomen that was becoming that much harder to ignore. Yet, the sudden stiffness of his pants is a new one.

“You are…” He begins, voice low.

“Please,” you interrupt, “don’t call me beautiful,” you whisper. A small, broken smile comes to your lips. “I feel like a pig.”

Nikto flinches lightly, though you don’t notice it. All carnal attraction dissipates at a single word, as if in complementary action to your own. Something seems to have taken the air from his lungs before he clears his throat and nods his head stiffly.

“You do not like it?” He grumbles, glancing up and down.

“Not at all,” you chuckle but stop when you get lightheaded. “I’m sure you’ll look handsome in your outfit, though.” Walking to him, you hand the suit over slowly.

“You change the subject,” Nikto huffs, eyes narrowing on you as the intent of his sockets is leveled with yours. “Why?”

All you give is a twitch of your lips. “I put a balaclava in the pocket,” you nod your head. “I didn’t want you to feel like you had to change out of your mask, but I wanted to give you the option if you wanted to take it. The bathroom’s free, I won’t be needing it, so go ahead and take all the time you want.”

Stepping back you don’t look at him again as your legs walk you to the window. Hands moving to wrap around your middle, you don’t clock the pale orbs that follow.

Nor the worried sheen at the sight of your far-off eyes.

Nikto stands for a moment, struck dumb, and only after you pass him one confused glance, does he quickly turn and walk away.

—

The Russian pointedly avoids looking in the mirror—in fact, he actively avoids the bathroom altogether.

Slipping off his Kevlar and setting it to the floor, Nikto’s nostrils are stuck with the scent of your perfume; it travels on the airways, getting stuck to his skin. Grunting, he gets halted in his thoughts about your averted face as his fingers fiddle with his belt, pulling it out of the loops as his covered face frowns.

Why did you look like that? Why were you…afraid?

Nikto didn’t like that look, and how could he? When he thinks of the face you wore when you slept in his lap, anything else seemed a sin to be marring your features. It was a slow realization that he’d never seen you more calm than when a killer’s hands were caressing the base of your head.

Growling under his breath, the man focused on the dress pants you’d given him; a bit tight around his thighs and backside, but nothing he couldn’t work with as he stepped into them.

“Absurd,” he huffs, grasping and stuffing himself inside so he can zip up the fly and button the top. “Why do we do this?”

Because he hated seeing anything other than a soft smile on your face, that was why, and he can’t stop denying it like a fool. With a horrid weight on his chest, he rolls his wide shoulders and welcomes the chilled air on his bare flesh.

What he doesn’t welcome is the sudden opening of the door behind him.

Freezing like a deer in headlights, his ears pick up a sharp gasp and a rapid apology. Nikto’s still eyes stare ahead to the wall silently.

“I-I’m sorry, I thought you would be in the bathroom!” Your panicked face darts away. “I forgot my heels over here—”

It was your turn to be struck silent at the sight of your companion, and struck silent you were as your rapid eyes locked onto his scars. Not only scars but a tattoo as well.

They were…rabid, those healed cuts. You can feel your shock and horror as clearly as day when you look at them in their gray glory. Long, violent—almost made as if by an animal who just learned how to use his claws. Burns, too. Patches of skin that melt together around the dark ink of a snarling bear.

Apt, your hushed brain thinks.

You should leave right now, you tell yourself. Leave immediately and forget what you’ve seen like you’ve tried to forget the pictures you’d been sent. But something is in the air that you can’t explain to anyone except your instincts.

Not making a noise, you take a single step forward as Nikto’s back muscles are wound tight; hands clenched. A bitter shaking that’s less noticeable than a dog in the bushes.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper, and the air is thick with unsaid words. “It’s…beautiful, Nikto.”

Not even you can predict your next move, not here—not like this. Why were you still here? The view was jarring and violent, and the longer you looked, the more your throat filled with bile at the thought of what had happened. These wounds had been made with intent, and the very recognition of that made your lip quiver, eyes wide with a bare horror.

A pain.

Nikto’s chest jerks, his heart hammering inside of his breast. But for the life of him, he can’t speak. Can’t move.

Why can’t he move?

Your feet take another step forward, and a long shiver runs down your spine when you can begin to make out the individual dips and digs of long-gone blades. The fizzling skin—where cigarettes had been put out as if Nikto was someone's ashtray.

You have to tell yourself to take a deep breath before you pass out.

“I…” But nothing comes out.

You don’t want to touch him, but at the same time, your fingers are shaking for it. You quiver, and you don’t know why.

If you were able to see color, you think you might have sobbed then and there—you might have been left a heap by the shades of abuse, written so plainly in a way you would never know.

And blackened, inkish, eyes only stare you down as you stand there, dressed all in white. And such a strange thing it is, that ink, and how sad it looks.

If it could speak, what would it say? To you, the answer seemed simple.

I don’t know why I bite.

Clearing your throat, you hurriedly begin to turn back around. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone. That was rude of me, I should have knocked first—”

“Do you mean it?” Nikto’s voice is so low you think for a moment you never heard it, only pausing when the rumble moves through your eardrums.

“Mean what?” Your voice is even lower. Layered with regret. “That I’m sorry? Of course, I do—”

“Нет.” It is swift and gruff. You swallow and shuffle your feet. “...Красивый?”

“I don’t understand what that means,” you lick your lips, hands clammy again. It was time to leave soon—you need to get out and let him dress.

Nikto’s muscles writhe, shifting, pulling. Small, beady eyes move from over his shoulders, and you’re caught by them; a bird in a bear’s jaws. The pupils are so small they almost make you flinch.

“Beautiful?”

Your mouth goes dry.

It’s a long moment before you answer, and when you do, your thighs have already pushed themselves together from below you, the skin trapping in the betraying way your insides pulse.

“I meant it,” you whisper, unblinking. Without any thought, your hand raises slightly. Pale eyes slash to it, and you stop, not beginning again until nothing in refusal is said as seconds tick longer. Your middle finger brushes over burn scars before the others conform to healed flesh, laying delicate, heavenly, pressure. The bear tattoo shifts just as blotchy skin does, calling to you along the back of a broken man.

“...I like the eyes best,” your lips utter, and you feel the Russian shiver under your touch, breath hitching. Heaving lungs. Locked eyes bleed color you cannot see.

And so you stay there, fingertips gaining hellish heat as skin melts into skin—pulse into pulse. A fire of a different kind moving under flesh.

And then Nikto turns, and a hard hand is under your chin.

“You do not like the word,” he grunts, and in his eyes, you see nothing but feral, desperate, pain. A wounded dog. A speared boar. He’s talking about how you’d reacted to his words from before—was he still hung up on them? But when he holds you like that, you can’t even begin to warn him about your makeup. Let him ruin it. Let him taint it. Spread his violence into your skin like fangs. His grip tightens. “Why?” A growl, nothing more. “Do you not believe you are, Girl?”

“It’s because I know I am,” you breathe, and watch his eyelids narrow. “And I know it’s all I’ll ever be.”

A scoff. “I do not understand it.”

You don't want to comprehend this word game. Your body aches. “I don’t either.”

And for the first time, you want him to kiss you. Just to see how it hurts when he does.

Your lips flicker, and his thumb moves the length of your jawbone; bodies so close your heart patters opposite his, chests brushing with every stuttered pull of intoxicating air.

Rotting Wood. Gunpowder.

Alluring ambrosia. Mind-silencing touch.

Gold-chained necks, both.

“If I call you beautiful, will you promise to call me hideous?” It is a small gift the universe gives Nikto when your phone rings from the nightstand after you speak.

If you hadn’t startled back and hobbled over to grab it, he would have done something horrible. Irreversible. Just as a rabid dog would as it snarls at a hand so willing to touch it.

He would have grabbed on and never let go, even if it ended up drawing blood. Even if his whimpers filled the room. Even if his mind told him not to—not to take the food that you offer him, not to put that collar around his neck that he already knew was there.

Oh, it is a horrible thing to know the color of someone's soul, and even worse to know one’s own.

Your body hurries out of the room as Nikto’s voided eyes stare at nothing, snatching your heels and speaking to that friend of yours.

Even after the door clicks shut, the imprinting of your hand burns far hotter than the fire ever did, and Nikto knows it’s never going to leave.

—

You pull the designer coat harder across your body, and the fake smile on your lips seems anything but to the finely dressed men and women who pass by.

No one returns the grin, but you supposed the thought counted on your part.

The flashing cameras jar you as you hang off of Nikto’s arm, having just gotten out of the car moments prior, and already you were the center of attention. Heels meeting the long trailing carpet, your eyes threaten to close at the fast blinding light.

“Nikto,” you whisper under your breath.

He hums, glancing down from over the tight clutches of his skin-tight balaclava. The Russian guard’s suit was pure black, and despite the size up you noticed he needed…he looked good.

Insanely good.

The outfit showed off the bulk of his biceps—as big as your head—and the strength of his thighs; the push of his abdomen, which was very clearly the result of hard work and raw power. His tie was only partially crooked…the hardness of a bullet-proof vent underneath all of it.

“What is it?” Nikto grunts in question, accent rough. Your stint in the bedroom is pushed to the back of your mind, and it seemed it was the same for him. It was time to go to work.

Around his chest, his rifle is slung, and at his thigh, the beretta. Unknown to you, a combat knife was sitting comfortably under the tail of his suit jacket. Sharpened and only a fast jerk of an arm away.

“The camera flashes are making it hard to see—the stairs. How many are there?”

“Seven.” A pause. “Lean into us.”

You do so, shoulder finding his arm as you turn your head and grin at the photographers; the shouting comments and pleas to come their way.

“Thank you,” you utter, and as his body rises, slowly, so you compel your own to do the same—clearing your throat.

He doesn’t answer.

“Seraph! Seraph!” It’s your moniker that rises above the rest. “The stalker, tell us about the stalker! How do you feel about three men being dead?!”

Your fingers tighten over your guard’s bicep, and the only thing that keeps you from tripping on the last step—the tip of your heel clipping the edge, is Nikto. He leans close and grumbles in your ear, lifting you discreetly with only the strength of a single arm. Hot breath puffs against the side of your ear as your breath gets caught.

“That one looks like horse,” he grumbles. “Long face, all legs, yes?”

“Nikto,” you hiss, but the growing smile can only be quickly covered by your fingers before a belly-deep laugh slips out. From behind your barrier, you whisper, “You can’t say that.”

Pale eyes narrow on you, amusement in the far backs as your giggles continue. Cameras increase their barrage tenfold. “Why can I not?”

You only shake your head, side-eyeing him as your face becomes hotter than the sun.

“You’re horrible, you Brute.”

Nikto barks that hyena laugh, chest jerking. There is an undeniable rumble in his body that you feel roll through you, grip tightening on his suit’s sleeve.

You blink away for a moment as you both walk forward and glance at one of the doormen, who blinks widely at you. Your words tumble out in a quick under-the-breath jest.

This game was letting the anxiety leak away one grumbled sentence after another. A sliver of joy seeps in to take its place.

“The doorman looks like an owl. Can you see it?” Nikto’s head secretly shifts, and he looks above your head from the corner of his piercing eyes.

Tall, lanky, big eyes; dark hair with pale spots.

“We see it…Very good.” Your heart palpitates at that, blinking a few times before an almost giddy expression comes to your face.

Lord, you were in too deep.

Walking through the front doors, you thank the ones who come closer and ask for your coat, letting go of Nikto’s flesh and moving. People barely retrain their gasps as your skin is laid to light, and the extravagance of luxury is plain to see by the way the pearls lay over your body—the jewelry, the lace.

Nikto’s presence sets them on edge, however.

You don’t exactly know what clearance he has for him to carry around an actual rifle, the very one that his hands now find and rest on carefully, watching you. A handgun? Yes, you can understand that, but the thing around his chest now was anything but a handgun. Your mother had said that in order to keep good relations, your survival was very important.

Maybe you’d underestimated how important.

Passing off your coat and nodding to the person who takes it, you shift back into Nikto’s side and let him walk ahead.

“Do I make you nervous?” the question takes you back, but as your heels begin clicking in uneven steps to the marble floor, your reply is simple.

“No.” His eyes scan the entrance as the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses meet your ears, making them twitch.

Nikto moves his shoulders, nodding his head to the M13. “This?”

You pause, brows furrowing slowly. “Not…not when you’re the one holding it.”

Pale eyes shift to lock with yours, and the flare of your flesh along his back makes him bite back his tongue from uttering anything else. A grunt moves across the area.

“Good.” Then, firmer, as if to reassure you, “We will not use it tonight.”

“Then why bring it,” your face is curious, form getting closer to the opening at the end of the hallway.

Gray eyes shimmer. “Threat.”

You can’t dwell on the revelation before the main room of the building unfolds in front of you.

You’d grown so used to these things and the events that took place during them, that you no longer cared about the expensive decor. This was no different, though you did admit they went all out. From the gargantuan chandelier on the ceiling, greenery and elegant gems were strung like hanging vines. At any given point, servers would walk around with sweets and champagne on, what you assumed, to be silver platters. Everyone was dressed to the very best of their abilities—dresses, suits, jewelry; makeup.

Whispers are rampant, that murmur of secretive conversation in Russian and fast eyes to others all around.

This was a party of equal opportunity, and your boss had sent you to be the most alluring of all. It was already working.

People look over and blink in shock, whether at your dress or seeing you here at all, you don’t truly care. Men jeer, gazing openly as their eyes slip down to your chest and legs. Clearing your throat, you stutter for a moment and carefully lean your head closer to Nikto’s muttering casually even as your heart pounds. The words feel like poison as they slip out of you.

“I may have to slip away for a little bit to meet with potential investors for AMA.” Immediately, there are firm and heavy eyes digging into you.

“Нет.”

“Nikto,” you stop yourself from biting into your lip as a server comes over—you smile stiffly and quickly grab a flute, fingers tapping it only once before you curl your digits around it. “I have to, this is my job. I was sent here for a reason.”

“And this is mine,” he says. “You will go nowhere that I can not see, Seraph. That is not up for question, yes?”

You begin to open your mouth again, a kind of stiff refusal that is entirely foreign to you. Nikto has already picked up on that—his hidden face tight and confused; fingers twitching to try and understand.

And then someone walks up to you.

“Seraph,” you get called into conversations that you care not to be in, and brushed by hands that shouldn’t be touching you. Hands that hold rings and bracelets, pulling intention that your body writhes at. You don’t know anyone here, but all of them know you.

They know your body.

You smile when you know it’s acceptable, and you see Iakov in the crowd as well, always glancing over before he’s once more lost. Flashing cameras, though now it’s more subdued, but they still always follow you. The woman who had made news because of that steadily growing problem.

Nikto stays a respectable distance away, but you never lose sight of him. An ever-present dog at your heels, who walks with a high-held tail and sharp ears. More than once you’d seen him throw vile glances at the people who talked to you—specifically the ones who only spoke in Russian.

You’re leveled with swift and jumbled sentences, making your head burn with how you try to take the throaty language in an attempt to decipher it. More than once you have to wave up a hand and shrug helplessly, embarrassed at the disgusted looks you get, and Nikto moves forward with a bark of something.

People move away faster at that, of course.

Until Oriel Grigorovich Tarkovsky.

His hand is resting on the back of your shoulder blade, thumb moving up and down on your flesh. Older—he had to be in his late fifties, wrinkles were on his face surrounding sly eyes, and a beard. He looks down at you like a piece of meat, and only because that was exactly what you were. He organized this party. He was why you were here.

Rich, influential, and looking for investments wherever he could stick his fingers. He also had a daughter your age, whom he was considering sending to AMA. Like all rich men, he needed a reason to feel he was winning something out of it.

Sometimes, you don't have to wonder why they always put you into white.

“Fedorov told me you were back to doing parties,” Tarkovsky chuckles, the watch on his wrist glinting in the light. “I did not believe him.” He licks his lips, looking down at you as your fingers quiver, reaching for your fourth flute of champagne this evening. You want to be drunk for this.

The gray liquid sloshes in your grip and you fake a laugh, body tingling.

“Here I am,” you don’t offer more than a glance his way before staring ahead again.

“I expected the other girl—tall blonde.” A small grumble, slight annoyance emanating from under his breath.

“Aly couldn’t make it, unfortunately.” You clear your throat. “Mr. Fedorov only sent me. I hope that’s acceptable?”

Fingers tighten over your flesh. “I suppose. You look well enough in that dress.” Lips near your ears, making you restrain a heavy flinch. “I hope you look just as good without it. Fedorov knows I can be a generous man, let’s make sure he gets what he thinks he will, hm?”

Dark eyes dig down into you, and Nikto, who stands far behind near the wall, taps his fingers against the barrel of his gun. He can’t hear what’s being said, but he doesn't like it regardless. You don’t look comfortable, yet you haven't once looked back at him to show you needed him to intervene. Nose scrunching from behind his balaclava, the Russian’s gloved fingers flex above his weapon.

He needed to get his head screwed back on, and the lingering scent of your perfume was addling him. Your actions in the bedroom.

“Сосредоточиться,” he orders under his breath, glancing away from the back of your head, and what he knows that lies there.

No one has approached him while he’s been here, but all flock to you. Nikto takes a head count, memorizing faces and the names that seep into his ears. Everyone here glances at him and then quickly averts their eyes, but that second is enough.

If your stalker was here, Nikto could point him out if he had to. But then again, the man’s eyes slip to stare in reverence at his M13, he might be able to put a stop to this once and for all—his way. Those investigators of yours were worth less than the dirt under his boots.

Pale blue eyes move through dresses and suites of every color, unphased until they lock back onto your white pureness. Your goodness.

Except for the fact that you’re gone.

Startling, the guard’s body is rendered iron-rod stiff before action is taken like a bullet to a brain. Pale eyes snap back and forth; rabid.

Feet slamming forward, a low growl echoes in Nikto’s chest, shoulders wound up just as much as they’d been when you’d entered in on him changing.

“Seraph!” He has no reservations about barking over the noise, and his large body shoves people over without a second thought.

He won’t admit it to himself, no, never, but the feeling he forces down is far more than duty or pride. It makes Nikto’s blood pump as his black-ink form shoulders your media coordinator and his gaggle of lessers, all calling after him to try and get him to come back. Cameras flash, rich people curse at him.

The Russian’s skin itches—his breath is low and heavy. The only thing that mattered was finding you again. Quickly. Efficiently. Without a single scratch hurting you. You can’t have gotten far. With his head constantly at a swivel, it was like a dove to a hellhound as the hard set of Nikto’s eyebrows peeled back.

Pale blue locks onto a whisper of your gown as you turn a corner far off into the party, and then he shouts. You were too far.

Too far from him.

“Птичка!”

—

Your face is devoid of blood, and more than once you clip your thigh on the side of some table or decorative statue going down the hallway.

You’re led with a hand so hard on your bicep, that you fear it’ll bruise. A part of you had wanted to tell Nikto about the real reason you both were sent out of Yekaterinburg, but a larger part knew that if you wanted things to smooth over, then it was imperative that you didn’t. You’d be back to the rest of the party soon. Maybe you can say that you had to rush off to find the restroom.

You knew that Nikto had already picked up on something making you nervous to come here, but you were always nervous now.

Just get it over with, you think to yourself, pearls clacking as they connect to one another. It’s no different than all the others—just block it out.

“Have you met your soulmate yet, Girl,” Oriel asks. “I can’t imagine letting my own get played with like this. I keep her tight to me, even if most days I hate her guts.” Dark eyes narrow, and a kiss is pressed to the corner of your mouth. “But she fucks good, so I suppose that makes up for it.”

Eyes not looking into his, you wipe at the left-over saliva and state, numbly, “I don’t know.”

Confusion litters the old man’s face, and he drags you closer to his chest. You let out a surprised yelp at the pain in your arm from his grip. A sheen of fear mildly makes you want to call for Nikto to come barreling down the hallway.

I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t. I’ll take being fired—I’ll take the social suicide, please, I can’t do this again.

You want a bear tattoo and burn scars—you want burning flesh. Rotting wood. Dark metal.

Pale eyes.

“What—?” A hand wraps Oriel’s wrist and completely snaps it back.

A crunch of bone leaves itself ingrained into your mind far faster than the scream, and only your stick-open eyes can process it.

Stumbling back as a strong grip shoves you behind his shadow, you snap a hand to your mouth and gasp loudly. Heart pounding, you place your palm on Nikto’s back to steady yourself; your raw shock is more intense by the second.

“N-Nikto!” You yell, but he’s not looking at you—he’s not listening to you.

It’s a low and steady command that meets the air, left in an accent so thick you struggle to understand it as your head swirls.

“Do not touch.”

Oriel still shouts and grasps at his wrist, which bares bone to the light in the form of a brutal and bleeding compound fracture. You gaze from over Nikto’s side, hand not leaving the firmness of his spine as fingers press deeply and dig into the expensive fabric; creasing it.

Your head goes a bit light, truthfully.

The old man divulges into his native tongue, curing loudly, screaming in that fearful desperation that you know well—a hiccup of horror was the best way to describe it, really.

But you were only looking for a mere second before you were suddenly being dragged off down the hallway.

Mouth opening and closing, your heels skid across the hard floor, and with your other hand quickly sliding up to claw into Nikto’s sleeve, you’re rendered speechless. It isn’t long before the Russian turns a corner, and then, nearly instantaneously, rips open the door labeled ‘складское помещение’ and moves you inside.

It’s only then does sense return.

“Nikto,” you shout, eyes blinking wildly as your hand connects with a wall. It was dark in here—and there were metal racks on one side; mops and buckets. A storage room. “What the fuck did you just do?!”

The Russian doesn’t answer, but when you’re fully able to look at him without squinting—eyes adjusting—it’s a very angry and silent man who greets you.

Nikto’s hands are clenched, and across the front of his hidden face, there’s a spray of dark liquid across his visible eyebrows and nose bridge.

“What did we say to you, hm?” He utters, not looking away. Your lips fall into a flat line, heart already going far faster than it should be. A guilty tingle of hesitation makes your shaky hands increase until you’re like a woman out on ice. “Tell me.”

Your brain is deathly still.

Nikto takes three firm steps forward, and then his fingers are under your chin, and he moves it up as you pant, eyes tiny.

I can’t tell him, you think. I can’t tell him that. He’ll never look at me the same if I do—no one ever does. I can’t tell him.

“Tell me,” Nikto growls, and your throat bobs, lips wobbling.

“You said not to get out of your line of sight,” you breathe, locked into pale orbs that spear you like a snake.

“And what happened?”

“I left,” you whisper.

Damn this corset—damn this dress. Black dots shimmer in the sides of your vision. You’re breathing too fast; the women laced it up too tight. Lungs tight against your ribs, you clear your throat and attempt to calm down. You’re not sure if Nikto is helping, or making it worse.

“Why?” He asks as you move back from him, trying to focus. “I did not take you as a woman who leaves to get…” rough words trail in a low growl. Nikto scoffs, looking you up and down. Something sparks in his eyes, a roving monster stuck behind pupils. “No one touches, until we clear them.”

“It isn’t like that,” you’re desperate to say something similar, and you don’t know why. You quickly shift, knees hitting together until you right yourself. Nikto watches after you, head-turning and emotions unreadable.

“It’s not like that, really. I wasn’t going to…” But you were, weren’t you? You clear your throat again, fingers pulling at the front of your corset—too tight.

Suddenly air was hard to come by, and it was worse than what it had been in the bedroom. When you speak, it’s a painfully fast spillage of words—a flood of fear.

“It’s not like that,” you repeat for the third time. “I…I it’s not like I have a say in it, you need to understand. It’s what I get sent here for—I’m not,” your eyes snap everywhere but at him, and you keep trying to back up farther. Nikto stares. “I never want to, it’s not my choice. I was going to try and explain it earlier—”

“Seraph.”

“—But none of it would have made any sense, and then I’d have to go back to AMA and…and then I’d get let off because of the deals Fedorov made going unfulfilled. I’d be out of a job, out of a home, I can’t go into anything else because I’m not good enough to—

“Seraph!”

“I wouldn’t be able to get another job with everything that’s wrong with me, and then I’d have to tell my mom that everything fell through. I can’t do that—I can’t lose this, it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore,” a hitched sob slips out, and then there are hands stuck at your cheeks.

Nikto’s heart is heard through his suit, fast and hard. You suck down wheezing breaths, tears dripping off of your lashes and a certain far-away look to your eyes as the Russian moves out quick words you can’t hear.

Too tight. Suffocating.

There’s a moment of nothing, and then gloved fingers are grasping at our shoulder and moving you around, a snap of laces as quick as a cat’s claws, and then a ripping of fabric. A gleam of a cruel knife as a rifle bounces off a chest.

You gasp sharply. Air once more gets moving down your closing airways as the two edges of the corset are opened in one fast push and a hand sticks itself at your pulse.

“Breathe, Seraph. Дышать, Птичка. Slowly, now.”

Your back is to the wall, and you don’t even realize it before fingers weave to cup the base of your skull, Nikto’s knuckles scraping against the material so your skull won't. Blinking through the vile tears that slip past your cheeks, your wide eyes flutter and snap about, mouth open like a stressed animal. The air is hot—sweltering, but you can’t stop the way your body is shivering.

“Stop,” Nikto utters, and the heavy set of concern in his visible skin is bare even to you. “Do not speak. Успокойся. У меня есть ты.”

You don’t know what he’s saying, but the way the harsh words bleed into comfort is just about the most addicting sound you’ve ever heard.

“I…”

“Hush,” Nikto tilts his head in a shake. His grip and gaze are not for one moment straying. “Listen to us, yes?”

So you do, and when he hesitates, when his body tenses, and when his forehead lightly bends down to bump into yours, you continue to listen even as the delayed shock sets in.

“You are leaving and you are coming with me. I am taking care of you. That is it.” Every word is hard. It’s like a stamp at the end of a letter—nothing bleeds as the mold forms to wax. Dog-ish eyes and a heavy creasing to the flesh around his sockets. There was no room for debate. You shouldn't have expected anything else, really.

Violent dogs rarely give a reason for why they take to softened flesh.

You can’t nod, but the heat of his body melts into you one temperature rise at a time. You’re guessing your face gave something away because Nikto grunts softly from above you.

“That is it. Good.”

“I wanted to tell you,” you whisper, tears dripping off of your jaw.

“You just did.” Nikto mumbles. “There will be no more of it. None. We will take this one problem at a time.” He pauses, the fabric of his balaclava shifting over your flesh. “But we will not allow this to continue. Нет. No.”

You don’t have the strength to argue right now, certainly not when he’s here—so willingly close to you and letting you bend into him like a stem to the wind.

“Sorry,” you whisper and only hear a large sigh in response. But Nikto doesn’t comment on the apology, only lightly squeezes the base of your skull and blinks at you.

Your breath mixes with his, and his dark lashes move as his eyes shift over your face. A large thumb comes up to swipe at your tears, pushing them back as a wobbly smile goes over your face. The tension in the air was still there. An underlying anger.

Because, and make no debate, Nikto was angry.

Angry at himself for losing sight of you, angry at that man for touching you in that way, and…and he was angry at you. Angry that you’d not told him about your body being sold like goods—that you’d come here while dealing with a million other problems, and still, you’d held this one close to you. But nothing could beat the burning rage at that fly-eyed CEO.

Suddenly, a broken wrist on a man seemed pointless. Bloodlust shimmered; broken bone was too easy a thing to get away with.

And he was angry, too, at the worry that you make him feel.

He’d never felt that to this extent before—save for men in his old unit, of which none he holds to that same loyalty anymore.

And you. A woman dressed in a beautiful white dress, contrasting the rabid unholiness branded into Nikto’s soul with every step and swell of lungs—the lungs that had stuttered when you stayed near to him. Leaning into him. Breathing him down.

Such things as this were against everything he’d told himself to forget; to cast into the fire with his stabbed and burned flesh. To throw away like a slim hope of ever finding a soulmate that would complement his flaws without even speaking.

A soulmate? Nikto had discarded that reality to the blood of the corpses he left in his wake.

Ever since he’d come back from the bleak nothingness of a momentary death in that concrete room, blood on his flesh and rope around his limbs, and found himself seeing in all color.

And then you’d walked through that door in the Consulate building, and he’d seen your face—open, curious. You were different to him, and he couldn’t understand why. It scared him, there was no use denying it.

This violent, desperate need.

Your touch was like a drug. A deadly pair of fingers around his neck; sliding down his scars until he was left panting and begging for it like a mutt.

Mutt, mutt, mutt, that was what he was. A dog, a large, brutish, beast of a thing that shadows you and lets you use him. Collar to neck, leash in hand.

“Nikto?” You ask him, and he knows that even being a pet was what he would revel in, if only he could be called yours.

“Что это такое?” Your eyes blink slowly, tears in the lashes, and the Russian repeats. “What is it?”

“I really do think you’re beautiful, for what it counts.” Your hands are on his chest as you whisper to him. “I just thought you should know.” A small, weak, chuckle. The light in your eyes was slowly coming back, and your heart was gradually returning to an even pace.

It’s only then do you both realize how close you are to one another. But no one moves.

“I think your scars are pretty. I wanted to tell you, but,” you smile, another tear slipping out. “I got nervous.”

It’s a ploy to change the conversation into something more comforting, and Nikto is astounded by how fast it works on him.

Clever, he thinks. If he were a dog, you would be the fox.

His own pulse now skips a beat, and he’s back to that deer-in-headlights mindset that he had in the bedroom. He doesn’t know how to respond to this.

Nikto grunts, eyes shifting away as he leans more heavily into you, acutely aware of your grip on him. His suit is suffocating like a noose.

“You do not have to lie,” he huffs, eyelids narrowing. “You should not have seen them.”

After a moment of hesitation, your fingers move to brush against his jaw, capturing it and drawing his attention back. Pale eyes flinch wider, locking quickly with your own.

“I’d never lie to you,” you utter, and the man’s hidden lips part. “Not about that.” Your breath pauses. “I like them. Believe me?”

“...Да. Я верю тебе.”

His grip slides to your waist, sitting above your hips. He can say he believes that you believe that, of course. He didn’t doubt you.

Nikto doesn’t know the words that spill from his lips, and he also doesn’t know how long you’ve both been there as people rush past outside, calls of alarm on the air. He knows you don’t look away from him—he knows you look beautiful, yourself, even if he knows you don’t want to hear it.

So he blinks slowly and softly utters as the pads of his gloved thumbs run circles into your flesh, playing along the slit of your dress.

“Hideous.”

It’s after a tiny moment that your giggles meet his ears that he can truly sigh into you and grunt out a rare chuckle. Hands roaming his chest, you hum, eyes soft.

“That was funny…are you making jokes now?”

“Perhaps,” he huffs. “Do you like them?”

Your head shifts, and before Nikto can realize it, a kiss is placed above his balaclava directly where his lips would be—those cut and brutalized things. That half of a Glasgow smile. Frozen, your hands spread over his abdomen melted into him as the press of the rifle in between you is of little concern, digging against your lace-cut corset.

Pale eyes are wide open, staring into the wall as you breathe against him.

“Yes.”

“Seraph,” Nikto lowly warns, but it wasn’t like he wasn’t reacting the same. The Russian’s fingers tighten on your flesh.

You move back and re-attach your forehead to his, and both of you stare. Not another word is uttered, but in the air that same fire from before flickers. Nikto swallows down saliva and watches your throat bob with the same nervous and, yet eager, self-soothe.

A second. Two. Three.

A beast can’t move from the promise of a warm invitation.

“Tell us,” Nikto grunts, his fingers flinching. “...Tell us what you need.”

You take a long, low breath. Adrenaline coursing your veins, mixing with some semblance of warmth.

“You.”

Nikto stares, studying, and a stuttering dip of your hand slips to his belt, staying there. A minute passes before one hand goes to wrap your wrist firmly; shifting it back to your side.

“No,” he whispers, emotions unreadable. Nikto’s shoulders widen, feet moving close to yours. A slight sinking feeling emanates from your stomach embarrassment infecting your veins, until he speaks again. It didn’t feel right.

“Not like that, hm?”

Your face creases in confusion, pupils wide, before Nikto’s hand dips into the slit of your dress. You gasp lightly, and the man watches without blinking, humming under his breath as he grips at the lace layer and pulls harshly.

A rabid rip of fabric emanates around the storage room, and your heart pounds against your chest. Pulse flaring, your attention doesn’t stray even as your legs twitch open, electricity over the air. Nikto’s hand slips in, but as gloved fingers trail over the top of your panties, he licks at the corner of his lips.

He waits, stiff—stuck like a pillar of stone.

Neither of you thinks that this is an entirely smart idea, but even now your insides have turned to mush, a slickness seeping out of your core as your thighs tingle. You were never against sex, but you were cautious with it; especially with everything going on, most of the time it was a quick affair that never even got you off.

You’d never…had someone work at you like this—care enough to not seek their own pleasure. It excited you and, at the same time, made you hesitant.

You hadn’t expected this.

“Let us take care of you,” Nikto murmurs, head tilting as you shiver and shake. “Make you feel good, yes?” He grunts, looking down and you feel his fingers twitch, palm moving to cup your cunt. You breathe heavily, a small whine slipping out as the heel of his hand brushes your clit. “Give us an order, Seraph. Leave, or no?”

“No, stay,” you instantly push out, hand slipping down and sliding between the M13 and latching onto his forearm. The Russian stares. “Stay,” you say again, firmer.

Nikto hums in approval, lightly grinding his hand in a bit harder. Your mouth opens, eyes fluttering. Your insides bunch and tighten, teeth biting your lip as a shiver moves your spine; an itch that needs to be scratched deep in your abdomen.

Nikto’s palm rubs slowly, and your hips move with it, trailing farther open the longer his actions continue. You sigh, small noises in your throat that exit into the air as the material of your panties gets stained with slick. It felt good—very good. It was the push of hard pressure and the subsequent vanishing of his hand that made you desperate for it; white dress flowing around your feet.

The Russian’s large feet step closer, and he leans into you with his face going to your ear.

“That expression,” he breathes, smirking. “It looks good on you.” His palm grinds harder, and you gasp, nails digging into his flesh as your brows tighten, M13 almost like a tree branch as it rubs against your chest with every movement. “Little face, skin screwed up.”

“Nikto,” you huff.

“Hm?” he asks, boots going to shove open your legs farther. “Don’t worry—we won’t let you fall, Seraph. I want you to feel it, yes?”

You want to think about how this messy situation just got a whole lot messier, but then thick fingers are pulling at the elastic of your lace and letting it snap back to your skin. Your hips jump, eyes jerking over to stare at the man who chuckles under his breath at your frazzled attention and fast-blinking eyes.

Your dripping cunt is left to pulse around nothing as the scent of sweat and carnal action perforates the storage room. Getting touched back here wasn’t on your plans for the night, but, damn, if Nikto’s eyes were going to be watching you like a hawk, giving attention solely to you and not the hard-on that ruts against your abdomen, then you’d willingly become his mouse.

His claws could enter your skin without a fight.

You stare at him, breathing hard and your thighs desperate to close as the chill of your ruined panties makes itself known. Your tongue licks at your lips, and pale eyes follow before leather gloves move.

“Wet,” he grunts next to your ear, groaning as his fingers move to play, shifting your clothing until the fatness of his digits are sliding up and down the length of your slit, gathering what he can with every intentional brush of your clit. The sounds can be heard through the layers of fabric—the squeak of leather. “Hear it, Girl, hm? Hear that?”

You nod, panting harder as your feet shift unconsciously to his teasing.

“Inside, Nikto, please,” your mouth breathes, voice tight. “Feels good.”

“Patience, Птичка. You’re not ready for that.” Pressure moves over your weeping cunt, feeling it, circling. “Let me play, first.”

You moan softly as his wet thumb moves up to your clit, circling until your desperation makes you whine at him to move faster than this slow, tortuous, pace.

Nikto clicks his tongue, his hand still behind your head and cupping the base of your skull, he angles your chin up and stares down at you, puffing a breath with every grind of his limb.

“I’ll give you my fingers, Seraph, I promise. Я обещаю.” You can hear the brush and sound of shifting wet skin, leather gloves moving slightly quicker as your noises start to increase. All the while, those pale eyes stare, wide and blown to the max.

If you had to take a guess, above the fog of your brain and the building pressure in your core, he was getting off on this just as much as you were.

Strange, you’d never seen someone so eager to have you cum on their hand before.

Your breath hitches, legs shaking.

“Look at that,” Nikto breathes. “Nikto’s good girl.”

You clench over nothing at that, locking eyes and face pulling in, pearls clicking together in a steady rock.

“Harder,” you order, lips swollen from being bitten over and over again. “Fuck, Nikto harder, I need it.”

“You like getting off like this?” He tilts his head, keeping you pressed against the wall, gun stuck between the two of you—hard metal and heavy pressure making your mind almost lose itself to the hypnosis of the groves and bulges. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you say it louder than you intend, moaning when his pace increases.

Your legs move and tighten, eyes going glossy as your whines get tighter and faster. Slick drips from your cunt and its stretched panties, dripping near booted feet and the flinching heels.

The word is whispered in your ear as your first orgasm rips you open, your breath getting caught and your eyes shuddering closed; walls tightening and flexing, needy for anything to fill it.

“Beautiful.”

There’s little waste in between, and even as your lungs heave and your mind fights to focus, there’s a prodding at your pulsing hole. Gloved fingers push inside, and your brain short circuits.

“Leaking,” Nikto breathes, feeling your cum dribble off of his hidden knuckles. He looks hungry for it—and the erection that tents his dress pants aches something painful. But he isn’t hungry for that. His heavy hand can do all the work he needs, if he must. He’s hungry for that pleasure on your face; that mindless arousal and the thin line between sense and animalistic instinct. He didn’t need to stuff you full of his cock to watch your face blow out with release, and with that, he felt nearly smug.

He wanted to show you how good it could be to be attended. He can’t make it all better, but he can certainly redefine what it means for you one orgasm at a time. You had said you wanted him, and he was selfish in the way he wanted you—until he felt you were ready to get stretched open under him, naked to his eyes as his pelvis fucked into yours, he’d give you this, instead.

Two fingers enter your drooling pussy, and the squelch of the flesh is vulgar as they start to fuck you open until the entire length is engulfed in heated flesh and textured walls.

You whimper airly, body numb and still reeling from before, the same sparks itching at your skin as another coil forms as your mindless hips snap. It’s a stretch, a small burn around the ring of your entrance as it yields willingly.

“Nikto,” you cry, head shifting to press into his shoulder. You didn’t know what else to say. Your own fingers had never stretched you like this. The slap of skin makes you clench, and the Russian groans lowly in his chest, chuckling.

“Tight for me,” his digits curl, and your back arches, hands snapping to his waist as you stare pleasure-blown from over his shoulder before more feral sounds bounce off the walls. “Give me a second one. Let me feel you break.”

Nikto whispers into your ear, fingers carefully on your scalp and caressing the hair—a calm de-escalation that doesn’t match with the abuse of his bullying fingers minute after minute.

The fact that he had snapped a man’s entire wrist with the very hand that was playing with your cunt was lost to you. But it was a shameful admission that, if you had been thinking about it, you would have shattered far sooner than later.

“God,” you moan, shoving your burning face into his neck, keening into it, and gasping. “Want you to feel it. Never felt this good with something inside of me—working me so well.”

His fingers crook inside of you again, digging; searching. He finds that point again, incredibly easy, and continues to stroke it with every fast flex of his arm. You clench your eyes shut, arms tensing.

“Yes?” Nikto smirks, arrogant. “We are glad. You are my charge, Seraph. Remember that.” He leans in close to your ear, humming as the sweat under his suit makes him chuckle. “Want to make sure you are always satisfied.”

Your stomach rolls, and the pace of his digits increases as his palm brushes your sensitive clit, making you shake and whine at the overstimulation. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but it ached in such a way that made the pleasure sharp like a knife.

“Break for us,” the Russian mumbles, grinding his palm between every thrust of ruined gloves.

The second orgasm is stronger than the first, and it makes you bite down on the man’s neck in a play to try and silence the loud, long, mewl that escapes your lips. Nikto grunts and feels your walls spasm, trying to push him and force him in all at once.

It was instinctual the way his mind went to how it would feel around his dick, but the thought was put on hold until tonight when he could do all of the imagining he wanted.

He’d wait until you went to bed, and then he’d shift out of his belt and shove his hand into his pants like some desperate boy. Fisting his cock to the remembrance of your cunt and your hips—the clench of your thighs as cum dribbles down his wrist and soaks his suit sleeve.

A mutt he was.

He’d keep jerking himself off until he was whining from the pain his red tip would cause him, spending so much seed onto his clothes that they weren't even worth keeping. Legs shaking and hips rutting into the air, eyes blown wide open and staring at your bedroom door. It was shameful, he admitted, but he’d never claimed to be anything but.

And then he’d keep going.

You snap him out of his thoughts, sagging against Nikto’s chest and panting, hands clenching and unclenching into his sides. The Russian feels the large stain of pre-cum on his pants and finds it pointless to try and hide.

Licking his lips, he hisses at the brush of fabric at his erection, but only grinds once into your body before he pulls his fingers from your heated core and breathes into your ear. He’s patient. He can wait.

His heart is rabid, and yours is too, but the tired smile into his black and blue neck is welcome, he thinks. Sweat dribbles from his brow.

“I am taking you back.” A teasing pause as you sigh, fluttering an eye open. You’d expected him to take something from you, maybe. But leaving? Without any expectation of you getting on your knees for him? Without sitting in his lap and letting him rail you open? A tiny smile moves your face up—something far more pure than the actions that had just taken place moving softly to your flesh. Nikto was just…strange.

But you suppose that made two of you.

“Sore? Do we need to carry you?” The man huffs, eyes glimmering.

For now, there was only a calmness—the explanations would start tomorrow, a long and hard one, but now…now it was just a still middle point of the aftermath and the events yet to come. A peaceful present.

A joint pair of tired chuckles wafts out of the storage room, where a man stands alone, hands clenched.

This dark shadow looms as the party is cut short by the result of the host getting his wrist snapped, worried looks moved out and high calls of alarm. Yet, he stands, listening. Unmoving to what he just heard.

What he’d cracked the door to witness with burning eyes.

There’s something about him that isn’t quite right—a bit ragged in appearance, blinking quickly as if in an animalistic shock. Blond hair a mess as if it’s been run through multiple times.

He breathes heavily, eyes stuck to the door.

And then he’s gone before the two individuals can walk out moments later.

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