Ooh, I Saw You’re Taking Requests, And Firstly Wanted To Say: Welcome! 💖🙌🏻 I Know Starting

Writing ideas

I want you.

Like carnally or as like a little figurine on your bookshelf?

Damn that shit was close, but the people have spoken another Nikto thought it is

Writing ideas

May I request Graves X Reader? I love reading Graves fics

oh lord me too, he doesn't get enough love

Graves Headcannons

One thing to say: Sassy man apocalypse

This man is so cocky and so sassy it isn’t even funny.

At when you first met and got together hes so cocky and kind of arrogant, he puts on a mask to hide how he truly feels because he is terrified of being vulnerable. He definitely feels like he’s not a man if he doesn’t act ‘masculine’. Although that mask does crack after a particularly hard mission

The click of the front door and near silent steps alerted you that your boyfriend was finally home. It had been a couple months since you last saw him and you were giddy to greet him at the door. You halted however, when he didn’t greet you with his usual ferver and snarkiness and instead just looked past you with sunken eyes. He lazily took off his boots and let you lead him to the dining room. After a hearty home-cooked meal and hot shower, you were sure he would snap out of it and go back to his usual snarky self. Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice him open the bathroom door. All clean, he trudged over to you and gently laid his head on your lap. You tried to offer to talk about what was on his mind but he always shut that down, so you opted to just sit in silence and play with his damp hair, scratching his scalp and softly holding him. Muffled cries broke the silence, he had finally let down a wall (one of many but we’ll talk about that later) around you. 

After that instance he still held a lot of walls but showing vulnerability was a lot more common, he confided in you about his feelings and thoughts, lied less to you about his worries and his job

Quite the joker, he strikes me as a guy to play pranks or tell you shitty jokes just to hear you groan or chuckle a little. It fills him with pride when he can get a reaction out of you and even more so when you tell one right back. This carries into to other things like arguments, flirting or even just interacting. He will purposefully get on your nerves just to get you to fight back, finds it like a fun game and will don a shit-eating grin during the whole ordeal, which only eggs you on further. (Although if he does seriously piss you off and you tell him that he will apologize and get you flowers)

Does invite his friends (ahem the shadows ahem) over to hang out, will tell you *most* of the time

You decided that it would be nice to get some grocery shopping done for both you and your boyfriend, and after a couple hours you arrived at the door, you knew Philip would be home as he said he was going to keep himself busy that day with projects or just lounging about, so imagine your surprise when you go to get your keys to unlock the door and a random man opens it for you and a couple others offer to help you put away your groceries while your boyfriend greets you from the couch.

He loves touching you, I think his personal favorites are: hugging you from the back (especially when you're busy doing something, and will just hold you there and bury his face in your neck for a good 5 minutes), holding hands, and CUDDLING big time. Adores every minute of it even if he acts like it annoys him(which he will) and that you asked for it (you didn’t) and you’re the only one who wants to cuddle (you’re not). It knocks him right out too, you'll be having a conversation and then one minute he's responding to you in soft snores.

Very handy around the house, knows how and will fix pretty much anything that needs to be fixed,  Disclaimer: do not call a repairman it will bruise his ego SO bad.

All in all I would rate him a 7/10, a bit annoying but a cutie patootie

His Personal Solace

The bed and empty, well his side is. His warmth long gone, he left in the wee hours of the morning you guess. The sun hasn’t risen yet, black still paints the sky. Trudging out of bed, on a mission to find him, you see a dark figure and small speck glowing embers on the balcony. This isn’t the first time he’s needed a solace, not from you–god no never from you, but from himself. Thoughts, voices in his head, torment and taunt him, they tear sleep from his hands and laugh from within. He takes long drawls from a cigarette in the quiet darkness outside, hoping that the silence outside will somehow, someway bring a similar muted peace to his mind. 

He knows you're there behind him, watching him. A small streak of anxiety runs through him, guilt of waking you, fear of your reaction to him like this. It's a cycle, never ending and ruthless: he forces himself to sleep, dreams of his past plague his mind, he jolts awake, leaves to the balcony for hours trying to turn his brain off, you look for him, and do what you always have done. 

You open the door, the wind and chill of the night sweeps through your figure and seeps into your bones. You stand next him, not saying a word, he needs the quiet, needs peace, and you give him exactly that. Patiently you wait for him, a sign of life, something that tells both you and him that he’s here with you. He turns to look at you bloodshot blue eyes stare into your skull, you reach a hand up to touch him, stopping only centimeters away looking to him to give you permission to touch him. Soft fingers reach the side of his neck, ghosting over his pulse and cradling his face with the utmost care. Leaning your forehead against his, he closes his eyes and you begin to speak.

“Come home to me, Andre, come in out of the cold. We are safe here, we are home, come sit with me inside yea?” Your hand drops to his, taking it in your palm as you lead him inside and onto the couch. Tea waits for you both, sitting on the coffee table, but it does not get touched. Instead of the soothing burn of tea, he chooses the warmth and comfort of you. Leaning against you like a marble pillar, soft, stable and oh- so beautiful. Your heartbeat thrums against his ear, his limbs tangle within yours, you don't know where you end and where he starts, but neither of you care, content to stay entwined for eternity. Your eyes close, slipping into the depths of sleep again. Nikto decides to follow suit, he’s safe, he’s home. You are his home. You are his solace. He is ever thankful to the gods for blessing him with you. His mind races with you as he falls into a dreamless sleep.

idk if you’re into writing smutty stories, but if so, may I request a Soap x Reader fic where they use the safe word and ends up being fluffy in the end :3?

So sorry for the inactivity I’ve been away, I absolutely love your idea so much, I’ve gotta learn how to write smut better but once I do your idea will be the first I write!

I love everything about this, the writing, the dynamic, mwah

Sleep, my brother

Masterlist

Nikto befriends reader at their darkest hour. Angst, hurt/comfort TW: mentions of depressive episodes (no descriptions), swearing AN: I had this idea for a while now and a friend of mine, to whom I wanted to dedicate this one-shot, made an incredibly beautiful, striking and sad songfic with Nikto. So it was my sign to finally get on with it. I won't tag a person, to whom I owe this, because this is quite personal, I'm not sure, they will be happy to see their name here. I love you, I wish it didnt hurt so bad.

Cold wind reaches the old table and steam over two cups of tea shutters and leans to the side. You don't react and keep tracing cracks on the oilcloth covered with your finger, not caring about grease and dust.

One should have start worrying, when a big figure covered with a strange concoction of gear appeared at the stair hall next to their flat. Or when that figure froze right in front of their flat and reached out for a doorbell. Nobody in their right mind would let him in.

But you did. At this point, you didn't care about an obviously military animal lurking around you. The last bits of self-preservation instincts died long ago, when you made the plan and rented this flat for the New Year's holidays. A man standing at your threshold with a few guns and knives, sleeping in carbines scattered around his gear, wouldn't change anything. Or maybe he could lend you a bullet in a spirit of festive celebrations.

You chuckled to your own thoughts automatically. I got no more smiles left, no more laughs, but this lifeless shadow of a sarcastic reaction was still there with you.

He said, it will take him only fifteen minutes, asked you to wait in the kitchen, wear your headphones, watch anything on your smartphone. As if you were that naive and didn't understand, what a guy with a sniper rifle can seek on a top floor of a nine-story block of flats.

This was a strange evening: once you started bringing your plan to life - everything went weird. First, your rented flat turned out decorated for the New Year celebration. The landlord must have thought, you were planning to celebrate. There was a tiny Christmas tree in the bedroom, a plastic faded garland and even a "Happy 1995!" poster right from the past. Then there was this guy... You knew, your home is turning into a crazy place, but never thought, killers, the guys from 90-s TV will come out this fast.

Even your childhood memories of endless bandit-series couldn't prepare you to this encounter. What one should do, when a killer uses their room as a sniping position? Runs? Calls anyone? Writes a funny twitter thread?

You were out of ideas, but more importantly - you were out of fear or any emotions at all. So you found cups and teabags in a kitchen drawer and made some tea. There wasn't much thinking behind it - your plan was far too important to try to do the right thing with this guy.

Fifteen minutes turned into thirty, then into fourty-something. You sat with your back facing the kitchen door and watched distant windows turning blue each time one scene of the festive concert changed for another. Everybody was watching the bloody concert today. And in an hour or so your hometown will turn to you, light up a thousand suns of TVs, look at you with myriads of copies of the same face with the darkest holes instead of eyes. "This was a tough year..." will it chant deep in your brain. You won't even need to hear the damned voice to know, exactly, what he tells.

But that won't happen anymore, because this will be the last-

"We are out." A hoarse voice right behind you drags you back to reality. In this time he spent in the next room, you forgot, that the man speaks so strange. One accent mixes with another, the constant 'we, us' as if there was an army behind him.

"Ok." You don't turn back, just drag an ashtray closer to you and pat your pockets absentmindedly.

Your lighter clicks a few times in an absolute silence. He did just tell you, he's heading out of your place, didn't he? After taking the first smoke drag, you turn back and meet his blizzard gray eyes.

"Waiting for someone?" He points at the second mug. You wish he didn't wear that stupid mask, so that you had a chance to read his face and understand whether he's just confused or grows irritated.

"It's for you. Must have run cold already. Forget it."

The man ignores your last words and squeezes between your chair and the kitchen counter. He unfastens the belts holding his mask and moves it to the side, revealing a black balaclava under it. He takes a mug and looks around while you try to contemplate, what is actually happening.

"We didn't do anything there. Shitty intel. The target didn't come."

"You won't..." You don't know how to ask this, and just tap your hip at the same place where he has a handgun carabiner.

"I am many things, but not a butcher." It's the first time, your guest refers to himself as "I", but you mark this fact just with a tired sigh.

"You're... Disappointed?" The man takes a sip from his mug and catches your palm before you take another drag of your cig.

At first his gaze is cold, irritated, disgusted even. He pulls your cigarette from your fingers, brings it closer to his face, inhales your smoke and returns you the stub.

At first his gaze is cold, irritated, disgusted even. He pulls your cigarette from your fingers, brings it closer to his face, inhales your smoke and returns you the stub. And then his eyes soften and grow worried. As if he realizes something.

"Nobody's coming to celebrate with you?"

"I'm fine with that. Nobody is a way better option than..." You motion towards the window, uncertain if he can even understand, what you meant to say.

For a few minutes, silence wraps your kitchen. Only distant echoes of fireworks and the monotonous humming of the elevator engine muffled by the flat walls accompanies you two. Then he speaks again.

"We are staying with you."

He's not even asking. And that was not a part of your plan.

"No need, I am not celebrating really-"

"What are you doing then?" He cuts you off, completely ignoring your attempts to be polite.

In a desperate attempt to get rid of him, you mumble something about being tired and just planning to go to bed, but it's as if he doesn't hear you. In a few gulps, he finishes his tea, takes his guns and knives off his belt and puts it all on the refrigerator.

"So that you don't worry. We won't do anything stupid," he comments, and you don't bother noting, that the guy is so massive - he can snap your neck with his bare hands, so 'anything stupid' can happen without guns even.

Lastly, he takes the rifle off his shoulder and sets it down in the far corner without looking. A plaintive twang of strings rings in the kitchen, and you instinctively turn towards the sound.

A cheap guitar with a crooked neck - he must have hit it with the butt of his gun, hides in the dark corner. You two don't ask each other, don't share a single word. He just takes it, you light another cigarette and wet your throat with a cold tea. He tries to tune it and start playing. Nothing special, random melodies.

Little by little, you realize, his weird mix of accents must have an origin somewhere around here. Even though, he doesn't sing - you recognize the melodies, he plays. These are the melodies from your childhood. You listen and forget about time. For a short moment, the world narrows to this little kitchen, and feels somehow cozy.

Somehow bearable.

But then he starts playing one particular song, that you vaguely remember, and when you recognize it - the sound cuts your found peace like a razor blade. The man must have noticed your darkened face, because he stops abruptly and looks at you.

"Bad memories?"

"No, I liked this one back when it came out. It's just the guy, who sings it - he went mad." You look past your guest's shoulder, outside, at blue lit windows. "They all are going mad lately."

The man looks in the same direction for a few seconds and then turns back to you.

"Talking to furniture? Listening to the voices in their heads?"

"Talking to butchers," you say that in the most plain voice you can muster, but the lump rolling up your throat is still apparent, "Listening to butchers. Becoming butchers."

You realize that this probably sounds pompous and expect your guest to laugh. But he remains serious. And then something unusual happens: for the first time this evening, he switches to another language: your language.

"Obizhayut tebya tut?"*

Yes. A lot. So fucking much, you don't have any strength left. It hurts so bad, you just wish this all to end. Any way possible. Just make it quick.

But that you can't tell anyone. Not even to some strange man, that a decent person should be afraid of. So you just wave your hand uncertainly and mumble.

"Da kto menya tut obidit..."*

Nobody in his place would hear how much pain hides behind this little lie. But this man hears.

He puts the guitar aside, stands up and touches your shoulder after leveling with your chair.

"You need to sleep. Let's go."

"I need to..." He squeezes your shoulder softly and you grow silent. The turbid, dark-red air outside the window gets colored by bright sheaves of sparks and the cannonade of New Year's fireworks reaches you. Its midnight. And despite everything, you're still here.

Maybe because this whole evening is so surreal, maybe because the last few years felt like a drenching nightmare, but it feels so easy to go sleep on a sofa in a rented flat on a New Years night with this strange man guarding you. He sits in the corner, making sure, you have enough room. His hand runs softly over your shoulder, pets your head, fingers draw little circles between your shoulder blades. You almost fall asleep when he speaks again.

"We liked that song."

"Me too. Liked many things until lately."

"You know what?" He looks down at you, and you notice, there is no coldness left in his eyes. His gaze is still intense, but the blizzard is not roaring there anymore. "Fuck that shithead. It's our song now. We own it. You and... me."

You feel sorry once again that you can't see his whole face, so his expression remains unreadable. But his voice sounds dead serious. So you nod in response.

That night you drift to sleep to the stranger humming a melody from your childhood. He was a threat, a guest, a strange encounter. He was many things, but wasn't a butcher. Because he made sure, the next morning came.

"Obizhayut tebya tut?" - Anyone brings you trouble here?

"Da kto menya tut obidit..." *Nobody would dare/be interested in that.

Unstable(Nikto) about(Nikto) my(Nikto) husband(Nikto) Nikto