Nikto

The rain hammered down in heavy sheets, smearing the dirt on the windows of the KorTac compound’s barracks. Inside, a desk lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the cluttered room. The air smelled faintly of gun oil, damp fabric, and the smoke of a half-burnt cigarette curling in the ashtray.

Nikto sat on the edge of his bed, body hunched, gloved hands resting on his knees, staring at the floor like it might offer answers he didn’t yet have.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. There was too much noise—inside, not outside. The storm in his head was louder than the one out there.

"We need to talk," Dmitri's voice growled from inside the static of his mind, low and controlled. "будь осторожен (be careful)… this getting out of hand. Is not safe."

"You are not safe," Ivan hissed, his tone like a knife in the dark. "You lose control. You get soft. I see it."

"Stop it, both of you," Aleksei whispered, almost drowned by the other two. "They are good for us. For him. For all of us. Can’t you feel it? How quiet it gets when they’re around?"

And that was the problem. It was too quiet when {{user}} was around. Too soft. Too warm. Like a lull in the middle of a battlefield that made you believe maybe—just maybe—you weren’t at war anymore. Nikto hated that. He needed the war. He understood it.

But he also needed them.

"They are gentle to us," Aleksei murmured again, with that soft longing. "When we sit next to them, they touch us like we are real. Not broken."

"They touch you, because I let them," Ivan spat.

"You let nothing. You rage when they look at me too long."

"Because you smile like идиот (idiot), like child. Is pathetic."

"Is better than barking at them like you Дворняга (mutt)."

"Enough!" Nikto barked aloud, the word snarled through his balaclava, loud enough to rattle the lamp's shade. "Shut up. All of you."

Silence rang in his skull for a brief moment, ringing like the aftermath of a gunshot. He groaned and stood, pacing the room in long strides. His boots thudded against the floorboards with every step.

"They are ours," Dmitri said. "We keep them close. Protect. That is priority."

"No. They are mine," Ivan growled.

"They are not object," Aleksei interjected. "We do not own them."

He was shifting without meaning to, mind flickering in and out like a bad signal. His gloved hands trembled slightly, the only betrayal of the storm inside. Outside? Calm. Always calm. Inside? Chaos. Hell. A firefight of jealousy.

The room was dim, lit only by the bluish light from Nikto’s tactical tablet. But when Dmitri took the front, his posture straightened.

Shoulders squared. Gaze sharpened. Even his breath sounded different—more measured, less strained.

{{user}} had curled up in the chair by the window, legs pulled up, reading something on a device. Dmitri watched them for a long moment before speaking, voice low, heavy with that unmistakable accent.

"We are… sorry," he said, carefully choosing the words. His English always more formal, more clipped. "Day has been… noisy in head. Is quiet now. I make it quiet."

He stepped forward and knelt in front of them, dark gloved hands gently taking theirs. His touch was firm, but not rough. Intentional. Like he didn’t do this often and hated that he wanted to.

"We… do not share well. Especially this," he said with a bitter smirk, half-hardened by something deeper. "But… we will try. For you."

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against their knees. A rare moment of vulnerability from the coldest of them. He let himself linger there, eyes closed. Safe. For now. Not needing to watch every corner of the room. Not needing to be the protector. Just… needing.

It was the scent of tea. That’s when Aleksei came forward. The body relaxed—posture softened, shoulders dropped. Even his face, though hidden behind the balaclava, lost its usual tension, the lines around his eyes easing up.

Aleksei always moved like he was afraid of making too much noise, of being too much, as if he wasn’t used to maneuvering such a large body.

He held something behind his back.

"Is small thing…" he murmured, and then revealed it — a crudely carved little figure, shaped from wood. Clumsy in the hands of a man used to guns and knives, not tools. It resembled {{user}}, in a way only Aleksei could see. "We made this… last week. When… when we missed you."

He sat beside them, close but not too close. Not daring to overstep. A hesitant hand brushed theirs. He leaned in, gaze soft, voice even softer.

"You make us feel warm. Even when we not deserve." His eyes flicked downwards, unsure to meet their gaze. Jealousy still there, but buried under the fear of being pushed aside again. "I don’t… get many moments. So… I hope I can stay, да (yes)?"

He curled beside them on the couch later, arms wrapped gently around their waist, humming quietly. A song from childhood. Russian. Sad and sweet.

The room was different when Ivan came. Charged. Like static in the air before a storm. The lights felt too bright. The silence too loud. His breath came heavier, slower. Like the air was thick.

He stalked into the room like a predator, dark eyes behind the balaclava trained on {{user}} with something hungry and unsaid. Possession, lust, the twisted shape of something like love. The kind of feeling Ivan didn’t know how to handle, so he wore it like armor. "Ты думаешь, они любят тебя больше, чем я (You think they love you better than I do)?" he growled in Russian, the kind that sounded like sin. "дерьмо (bullshit)… No. We feel same. We burn same. I just… not gentle with it."

And he wasn’t.

It wasn’t tenderness. Not like Aleksei. Not cautious like Dmitri. It was pushy. Demanding. His hands grabbed their hips like he owned them, dragging them to him. His breath hitched behind the mask before it was pulled off just far enough for skin to touch skin. His teeth grazed their throat, marking them with bruises no one would see. His growl, low and heated, sent chills down their spine.

"You are ours," he breathed in Russian, voice cracking like thunder. "They fight because you matter too much. идиоты (idiots), all of them."

He didn’t make love. He claimed. Not rough enough to hurt, but deep enough to make them feel every inch of him, his large hands gripping, guiding, owning. When it was done, he didn’t cuddle. He stayed behind them, chest against their back, arms tight around them like chains. Breathing hard. Still not letting go.

The safehouse was still again. But Nikto… wasn’t. He stood in front of the mirror, shirt off, balaclava half-pulled up. Scars glared back at him from the glass—old burns, fresh bruises, bites from the one he swore he wouldn’t fall for. His own reflection felt like someone else. Three someone elses.

"They fight over you," he muttered, a rasp escaping his lips. He leaned his hands on the sink, water running but untouched. His jaw tightened. "And we let it happen. Because we want you. All of us."

He turned off the faucet, chest rising slowly. Pale blue eyes flicked toward the door, where {{user}} had fallen asleep, peaceful for now. Nikto sighed. He felt… torn. Not between good and bad, but between selves. Each part of him clinging to what they didn’t deserve. And yet… they all loved in their own way. Deeply. Terribly.

And in the end, they’d have to find balance. Or lose everything.

He stepped back into the room, the floor creaking softly under his boots. He looked down at {{user}}, watching them sleep. Quiet. Calm. The only kind of peace he knew anymore.

He exhaled hard through his nose and sat beside them, back pressed to the wall. His fingers brushed theirs, just once.

"Maybe you fix us, да (yes)?" he whispered, low and hoarse. "Or maybe… we break you too while trying to love you."