Chapter Text
“Khristos.”
For the fourth consecutive day, Nikto has woken up hard. Not just inconsequentially erect, the morning wood he still gets occasionally when he sleeps well, but uncomfortably rigid. It’s almost painful, requiring immediate attention from his fist, lest he lose his sanity entirely.
It’s hanging on tenuously by a string as it is.
Nikto grunts harshly, wrapping one meaty hand around his length, tugging at himself with little care or finesse. He just needs a release, something to distract him from the perfect vision playing over in his mind on an endless loop.
You, spread so sweetly across his wide lap, the warmth of your skin bleeding into his fatigues, like sun light streaming through a dingy window and into a chilled room. Nikto has dreamt of you, fantasised about your voice speaking his name on the threshold. Breathy and kind, a melody he would willingly hear for the rest of his life. He can almost taste how you’d sound when you came, trembling in his arms as you whimpered uncontrollably. Saccharine, much too sickly for him, but addictive none the less.
Nikto dwells in the dark. But if that’s true, why is he so drawn to your radiance? There is nothing on earth he wants more right now, than to watch your body grow supple and boneless underneath him. Wrung out and exhausted because he’s pleasured you so thoroughly, leaving your head full only of thoughts of him. Let Nikto take root in your deepest consciousness, in the same way you have drifted into his.
“Pathetic.”
Unbidden and unwanted, the words leave his mouth and echo around his bedroom, cast out into the early morning starkness which streams through the slatted blinds. Nikto huffs, jerking his thick cock in a tight grip, eyes shut tight to try and suppress the self loathing monologue of one of the characters that lives in his mind.
It isn’t a nice part of him. Coarse and degrading, spreading it’s poison like deadly nightshade, seeping hatred creeps through his veins in it’s wake. Your lovely face, wide eyed and unblemished swims in front of his closed lids. Just the vision drowns out all other sound temporarily. Nikto imagines the way your perfume smells, like the scent of a summer garden carried through a half open window.
His closed hand grows more urgent, the tension at the root of his length hardening into a wicked knot.
“Fu-uck!”
This time the utterance rings true, as he spills all over his stomach, prick pulsing furiously with the strength of his release. Panting as his thighs burn with the intense energy expended, Nikto glances down at the mess and sighs. It’s entirely forgotten to him, this longing for another person, the soul crushing lust he feels deep inside his chest. Not since he was a younger man, whole and untarnished, has Nikto been this desperate to see a girl again.
You left your phone number on the calendar stuck to his fridge, even your scrawled handwriting was pretty. He spent hours analysing the loops and rolling lines, wondering where you went to school, who taught you to form your sevens like that.
Nikto genuinely had no intention of contacting you again, accepting that you’re a business woman and any follow up, would be an acknowledgment of the act of self promotion you indulged in by leaving your digits.
But equally it’s like a fever, his desire fanned into a blaze. Perhaps the only way to break it, is by spending the night with you.
Maybe.
His youthful internal counterpart yips exuberantly at just the thought of it. More often than not, it’s a side of Nikto that mainly remains silenced, horror struck by what he’s become. But occasionally it stirs into life, more energetic than the others by far. Languid internal disgust looks uneasily across at it in the spaces between his thoughts, not sure where this revived energy should be channeled.
Grimly, covered in the sticky residue of his spend, Nikto moves to get ready for the day. He’s barely satisfied, still so hungry, you’ve awoken something in him that’s ravenous and it’s about all he can do to keep it in check. Nothing in his life held meaning to him previously and now that feeling is gone, replaced by a savage calling to collect you, just like he does bullet casings in the field.
He takes a sharp inhale, turning the water in the shower to an icy chill until it makes him shudder involuntarily, pressing his damaged face into the damp tiles so it hurts. Pain, that familiar companion is his only outlet these days.
Recklessness is also something Nikto suppressed a very long time ago, when his body was torn nearly to pieces. Impulsiveness gets others into trouble, but it’s an intoxicating feeling, teetering on a knife edge like it’s a tightrope.
On one side of the abyss loneliness stretches, whereas on the other infatuation calls his name seductively and beckons for him to take a seat. Desire for Nikto now wears a cloak of your visage, one hand laced in his, drawing him deeper into your world.
“Well?”
Krueger is sat, hands peeling a small satsuma, looking expectantly at him across the dull table in the mess room. Nikto glances up at him with a steely reserve. The chatter of their comrades is loud enough to keep the conversation relatively private, but all the same Nikto is reluctant to answer. He never eats in the mess, that would entail showing the lower half of his twisted face. He’d rather go hungry, than put someone else off their food.
“Well what?”
The snap in Nikto’s voice is indicative enough to inspire an eyebrow raise from his counterpart.
“Do not tell me I wasted my money?”
“It was not wasted.” Nikto growls, fist clenching against the rough material of his tac pants. “I just do not kiss and tell.”
Krueger snorts, but for once drops the topic, guessing in his uncanny way that pursuing it would lead to an argument.
“Have you fucked her? The girl?” The coarseness of Nikto’s words makes his partner grin.
“You are always so poetic my friend. Such a wonderful turn of phrase.”
Nikto tries to ignore the rising tide of anger boiling in his gut. Krueger just considers him for a moment, chewing on the orange segment slipped into his mouth with a weathered hand.
“Ja, I have.” He answers eventually, watching Nikto’s iron gaze narrow through the slits in his mask.
“How did she taste?” Nikto asks, quiet fascination lacing every syllable. It’s something that’s haunted him since you left that night, all soft and drowsy, the glittery residue from your lip gloss imprinted on his shirt.
Krueger leans back in his chair, still holding the fruit peel between his thumb and forefinger.
“Like manna from heaven.”