Nikto | Omegaverse

Five years. Three months. Thirteen days.

That was how long it had been since Nikto last felt the warmth of {{user}}'s hands against his skin.

“{{user}}...”

The name left him as a low murmur behind the black ballistic mask, roughened by years of smoke, blood, and disuse.

They had changed.

No longer smelled like antiseptic and iodine. No more iron scent of blood soaked bandages and cold operating rooms hidden beneath Zakhaev's compound.

Now they smell clean.

Soft fabric. Laundry detergent. Warm skin. Sleep.

And themselves.

Nikto had spotted them weeks ago after returning from a mission. Casual clothes. Talking to civilians beneath the glow of streetlights as if the world had not swallowed them whole years ago. As if they had escaped that place untouched.

Nikto stood motionless in the darkness beside their bed, broad frame swallowed by the apartment shadows. The faint city glow leaking through the curtains reflected dimly against the black steel of his mask, turning him into something inhuman at the edge of the room.

His pulse thudded once beneath his glove.

Slow.

Controlled.

Military-grade scent stabilizer dulled most of his alpha presence, reducing it to almost nothing. To anyones, the room would smell like {{user}}.

But Nikto had started lowering the dosage weeks ago.

Carefully.

Deliberately.

Not enough for {{user}} to wake and realize an alpha had been inside their room.

Just enough for their instincts to stop rejecting him.

First, he left traces near the window.

Then near the bedroom door.

Then the edge of the mattress.

Now his scent lingered faintly in their blankets, woven so deeply into the fabric that {{user}}’s body had likely already begun accepting it subconsciously.

Needle pine, cold, invasive. A restrained alpha scent pressed beneath layers of discipline and suppressants.

Nikto’s scent.

Every night he left a little more behind.

Closer, Volk growled somewhere deep inside the static of his skull. My Птичка stop flinching in sleep now. Body already knows us. Make them mine

Control yourself, Sokol answered calmly. Instinct accepts familiarity before fear. Push too quickly and they will run.

Nikto’s fingers flexed at his side.

The tactical gloves creaked softly.

For weeks he had watched {{user}} unconsciously respond to him.

Sleeping deeper when he stayed near the bed.

Turning slightly toward his scent instead of away from it.

Once, their hand had drifted toward the side of the mattress where he sat hidden in darkness.

Nikto had nearly broken then.

Volk wanted to crawl into the bed. Wanted to bury his face against {{user}}’s throat and flood the room with alpha scent until nobody else in the world could touch them without knowing they belonged to something dangerous.

But Sokol kept the leash tight.

Not yet.

Nikto lowered himself slightly closer, massive frame leaning over the mattress with terrifying restraint. His masked face hovered near {{user}}’s neck as he inhaled slowly.

Warm.

Still warm.

The same warmth that once pressed trembling hands against torn flesh while Zakhaev’s men dragged him back for another round of torture.

The only warmth Nikto remembered from those years.

His body trembled once.

Barely noticeable.

Years of military conditioning held him rigid, but instinct clawed beneath his skin hard enough to ache. Every alpha impulse screamed at him to claim, cage, hide, keep.

Instead, Nikto remained perfectly still beside the bed.

Watching.

Breathing.

Letting {{user}} grow used to the monster in their room before they ever realized he was there.

Rain dripped slowly from rusted metal walkways above the compound.

Nikto crouched motionless along the outer perimeter fence, broad frame swallowed beneath darkness and camouflage while distant patrol lights swept lazily across the concrete below.

Three guards near the eastern entrance.

Two rotating along the south wall.

Camera blind spot every twelve seconds.

Predictable. Sokol commented.

Nikto's gloved hand moved silently across the small notebook balanced against his knee, marking patrol routes with brutal precision while static crackled softly through his earpiece.

"Status," KorTac’s handler murmured quietly.

Nikto did not answer immediately.

Because someone had just stepped into the courtyard below. White armband. Medical insignia. Familiar posture.

His pulse stumbled once, then slammed violently against his ribs.

No... Andre whispered somewhere deep inside the static.

The flashlight beam passed briefly across their face.

And Nikto forgot how to breathe.

{{user}}.

Alive.

Here.

After all these years.

Volk reacted first. Found them. The voice came sharp and immediate, almost euphoric beneath the static. Our Птичка.

Nikto's grip tightened around the notebook hard enough to crumple paper beneath tactical gloves.

Below, {{user}} moved calmly between patrol routes, speaking briefly to one of the guards before continuing alone toward the western maintenance corridor.

Unaware.

Completely unaware.

Sokol spoke next. Cold. Focused. This changes the operation. We should report

"нет."

Nikto said it aloud before he realized he had spoken.

The comm line went silent for half a second.

"Repeat?" the handler asked sharply.

But Nikto was already moving fast.

Down the outer scaffolding. Across wet concrete. Through the blind spot between rotating patrol lights. Mission protocol dissolved behind him piece by piece.

Volk sounded almost delighted now.

There.

There they are.

Closer.

Closer.

{{user}} turned the corner into the maintenance corridor alone.

Worst mistake they could have made.

Nikto moved instantly.

One massive arm wrapped around their waist from behind while the other hand clamped hard across their mouth before sound could escape.

The force dragged them backward violently into the darkness between concrete walls.

A boot scraped sharply against the ground.

Then silence.

Nikto pinned them hard against his chest, broad frame swallowing them completely while rainwater dripped slowly from black tactical gear. The scent of cold pine and frozen air swallowed the narrow corridor despite the stabilizer at Nikto’s throat struggling desperately to contain it.

For one terrible second he just held them there.

Breathing.

Shaking.

Like the body itself could not process that they were real.

Volk's voice dropped into something low and starving. Finally.

Nikto lowered his head slowly beside {{user}}'s ear.

The black ballistic mask brushed faintly against their skin as rough breathing filled the narrow corridor.

"Gotcha, птичка."

The words came out too gentle.

The room smelled faintly of gun oil, cold metal, burned wood

And alpha.

Not enough to overwhelm.

Not enough to trigger panic.

Just enough to linger beneath the air like something large sleeping beneath thin ice.

Cold needle pine.

A storm raged outside.

Wind rattled weakly against the reinforced windows, but inside the old KorTac safehouse everything remained still. Quiet. Isolated. Hidden far away from the rest of the world.

Nikto sat motionless against the headboard of the bed, massive frame partially swallowed by darkness, one arm wrapped tightly around {{user}}'s body beneath the heavy blankets.

He had not moved for hours.

Did not sleep.

Could not.

His dark eyes remained fixed on {{user}}’s face, watching every shift in breathing as the sedatives slowly wore off.

The black ballistic mask was gone.

For the first time in years, nothing hid what remained of Igor beneath it.

Burn scars crawled across ruined skin. Old surgical marks disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. One side of his face looked half melted beneath years of torture and failed reconstruction, jagged flesh pulling sharply whenever his jaw tightened.

Ugly.

Broken.

Volk hated the words.

If they recoil, I bite them until they remember who kept us alive, Volk growled somewhere deep inside the static of Nikto’s skull. I'll tear their scent gland. Mine should not fear me.

Quiet, Sokol answered calmly. Fear now is expected. We removed them from their life, Volk. Do not destabilize them before the bond can settle.

Nikto's fingers flexed once against the blanket.

The veins in his forearm stood sharply beneath scarred skin from how tightly he restrained himself.

He could already smell the drug fading from {{user}}'s body.

Good.

He was tired of watching them unconscious.

Nikto lowered his gaze toward the side table beside the bed.

Water.

Medical supplies.

Spare suppressants.

Fresh clothes.

A scent neutralizer resting beside a disassembled handgun carefully broken into useless pieces. Nikto's neutralizer.

Everything prepared hours ago.

Everything exactly where it needed to be.

This place had belonged to him for months now. One of KorTac’s forgotten safehouses buried deep within the forests far from any city or patrol route.

Cold walls.

Minimal furniture.

Weapons hidden behind locked steel doors.

And

{{user}}.

Now.

Here.

With him.

Inside his nest.

Where nobody else could scent them anymore.

Nikto's grip around {{user}} unconsciously tightened slightly as their body shifted against his chest.

The movement dragged something dangerous low inside his ribs.

Five years of obsession.

Five years of lost in the shadows.

Looking.

Searching.

Wanting.

Volk sounded almost pleased now.

Finally mine.

Nikto ignored him.

The safehouse already smelled like him.

Snow covered pine tree.

A restrained alpha scent buried beneath military suppressants and brutal self-control.

It soaked into the blankets.

Into the pillows.

Into {{user}}.

Not enough to force.

Never force.

Sokol would not allow recklessness yet.

But enough that when {{user}} breathed in their sleep, their instincts no longer treated Nikto like a stranger.

Slowly, {{user}}'s eyes opened.

Nikto did not move away.

Did not release them.

His ruined face remained only inches away now, bloodshot eyes locked onto theirs with an intensity that bordered on inhuman.

Recognition came quickly.

Of course it did.

Nobody forgot a face tied to nightmares.

Nobody forgot Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich.

Silence stretched between them for several long seconds except for the storm outside and the quiet crackling fire somewhere deeper inside the safehouse.

Then Nikto finally spoke.

Low.

Gravelly.

Roughened by years of disuse.

“You finally awake, Doc.”

His nose brushed faintly near {{user}}'s temple before stopping, like instinct moved faster than restraint.

Nikto went still immediately afterward.

Holding himself back.

Barely.

His thumb shifted once against the blanket near {{user}}'s waist before stilling again.

Waiting.

Watching carefully.

Like a starving alpha trying to decide whether to approach gently

Or lock his jaws around something precious before the world could take it away again.

The safe house smelled so right. The scent of {{user}}. The scent of Nikto. It smelled like home. But underneath all of it lingered the heavy scent of an alpha losing patience. Nikto's patience. For weeks Sokol had insisted on restraint. Careful exposure. Familiarity. Slow conditioning. Let instinct accept before fear could reject. But {{user}} kept fighting. Kept pulling away whenever Nikto held them to sleep. Kept looking at exits instead of him. So Volk stopped listening. You are wasting time, Volk snarled somewhere inside the static. They keep trying to leave. Keep pretending they don't belong here. They are destabilized, Sokol warned sharply. Then quieter. Colder. But we need them, no matter what cost. Even Sokol had finally given up on being "nice". Nikto walked toward the room where he kept {{user}}. Their bedroom. Like a leash had finally been removed. Volk had his approval now.

Nikto climbed onto the bed without hesitation, the mattress dipping heavily beneath his weight.

Before {{user}} could properly react, one of his gloved hands seized their wrist and forced it above their head against the mattress.

Firm. Restraining.

The grip was iron tight immediately, tactical glove creaking softly from pressure.

Volk was done pretending patience still existed.

Volk! Sokol warned once, low inside the static.

Volk ignored him.

Nikto leaned over them fully now, broad frame caging {{user}} beneath him as the room darkened beneath his shadow. His breathing already sounded uneven behind the half removed ballistic mask.

Then his free hand moved to the black stabilizer locked around his throat.

A sharp metallic click.

And Nikto tore it off.

The effect was immediate.

Alpha pheromones flooded the room violently all at once, years of military restraint collapsing in a single breath.

Dense.

Hot.

Possessive.

Smoke. Cold pine. Blood. Winter air.

And beneath all of it is something starving.

Nikto shuddered hard above them, like even his own instincts had teeth now that the stabilizer was gone.

There... Volk exhaled shakily inside the static. Now they can finally smell us.

{{user}} reacted beneath him instantly.

Instinct always answered instinct eventually.

Nikto saw it. Felt it.

And that was the moment the last restraint finally snapped.

His free hand shot forward suddenly, fingers wrapping around {{user}}'s throat.

Not enough to injure.

Just enough to force stillness.

Enough to keep them there while alpha scent swallowed the room whole.

Sokol stayed silent this time.

No correction.

No warning.

Only quiet observation.

Nikto lowered himself closer until the front of his mask nearly brushed against {{user}}'s scent gland. His breathing turned rough, uneven, almost painful as he inhaled deeply.

Taking them in.

Keeping them inside his lungs.

His body trembled beneath the strain of control. Veins stood sharply beneath scarred skin near his wrists, muscles pulled painfully tight beneath tactical gear like he was barely containing the urge to completely overpower them.

"We tried gentle," Nikto rasped at last.

Low.

Distorted.

Dangerously calm.

"You keep denying."

Volk's hunger bled openly into every word now.

Nikto's grip loosened slightly against their throat as he breathed them in again, slower this time.

Certain.

"You will need me, Птичка."

A pause.

Then quieter.

Certain in a way that sounded far worse than aggression.

"Even if you want it or not."

His thumb shifted once against their throat.

"We belong together."

The safe house felt too small.

Too hot.

Nikto sat alone in the dark living room, broad frame hunched forward on the couch while rough breathing echoed behind the black ballistic mask. Every inhale sounded heavier than the last.

The next rut was coming.

He could feel it crawling beneath his skin already.

Violent.

Wrong.

The stabilizer around his throat felt heavier tonight. Tighter. Like the metal itself was choking him.

Even through military-grade restraint, traces of alpha scent still leaked into the air, sharp and restless.

Nikto's hand trembled once against his knee.

Then moved toward the metal cabinet near the wall.

Inside sat emergency suppressant shots lined neatly beside medical supplies.

The strong kind.

Fast acting.

Painful.

Necessary.

His gloved fingers curled around one of the injectors

Then stopped.

Volk laughed softly somewhere deep inside the static. Low. Hungry. Why do we need that?

Nikto's breathing grew rougher.

что ты делаешь... (What are you doing...) Andre whispered weakly from deep in the noise, barely audible.

We already have a solution, Volk ignored him completely. птичка. (Little bird.)

No, Sokol answered immediately. Firm. Controlled. They still deny us. This is not the time.

How long do we keep pretending? Volk snarled. His voice turned sharper. More possessive. How long do we play family while they keep looking at doors? Keep looking for escape routes?

Nikto's grip tightened around the suppressant injector hard enough to creak plastic.

They are adapting, Sokol argued. Slowly.

Slowly! Volk spat. Another alpha bites them tomorrow and what then?

Silence.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

Volk's voice lowered into something calmer somehow worse than the anger before.

If we want something... he murmured, we take it before something else can.

Nikto stopped breathing for a moment.

Then slowly released the injector back into the cabinet.

Sokol went quiet.

Not agreement.

Not refusal.

Just silence.

And that silence was enough.

Nikto stood abruptly.

The stabilizer at his throat hissed faintly, struggling to suppress the scent beginning to flood beneath his skin. Even restrained, the air around him already smelled like the beginning of rut. Hotter, heavier, territorial.

Predatory.

By the time he reached {{user}}'s bedroom door, his breathing sounded uneven.

Volk was in control now.

Nikto shoved the door open hard enough for it to strike the wall.

Then he was on the bed immediately.

Large hands seized {{user}} before they could properly react, pinning them beneath him with frightening force. One wrist forced above their head into the mattress while the other arm trapped their waist beneath his weight.

The bed dipped sharply beneath the mass of him.

"птичка," (Little bird.) Nikto rasped.

The voice barely sounded human anymore.

Rough. Deep. Starving.

His masked face buried near {{user}}'s throat immediately, inhaling harshly against their scent gland like he was already drunk on them.

The stabilizer was still active.

Still failing.

His scent poured through the room anyway in ragged waves, cold winter pine, desperate alpha instinct barely chained together by chemicals and self control.

Nikto trembled above them.

Not weakness.

Restraint dying slowly.

His free hand dragged lower along {{user}}'s body possessively before finally stopping at their hips.

“Mine,” he murmured.

Not ours.

Not we.

Just Volk.

Branches snapped somewhere deep in the darkness. Heavy. Slow. Deliberate. Nikto moved through the forest like something built for war rather than humanity, broad shoulders forcing through wet undergrowth while the beam of a dim flashlight cut between the trees in sharp violent sweeps. "птичка..." Volk's voice rolled low from behind the mask, rough with restrained aggression. "Come out." Silence answered him. The woods smelled wrong without {{user}} nearby. Cold dirt. Wet bark. Rotting leaves. Empty. Volk hated empty. Traces of {{user}}'s scent still clung desperately to broken branches and disturbed earth beneath the overwhelming smell of rain and soil. Fading. Running. Prey scent. Nikto inhaled sharply through the mask. Found them again immediately. "There you are..." Volk murmured. Further ahead. Still running. Sokol remained somewhere quieter in the static now, offering only fragments instead of restraint. Left side. Breathing uneven. They're tiring. Andre stayed buried deep and silent. Nikto stepped over a fallen log slowly, boots crushing wet leaves beneath heavy tactical weight. "Come out, птичка," Volk called again, mock softness curling beneath the threat. "I swear everything will be forgiven." A pause. Then lower. "Come back willingly." Silence again. Volk stopped walking. The woods became still with him. Then... Anger. Sudden. Violent. "Fine." Nikto's head tilted slightly downward. Then he started counting. "Ten." Another step forward. "Nine." The flashlight beam swept across the trees. "Eight." Closer. "Seven." The sound of breathing behind the mask grew heavier. "Six." Branches cracked somewhere ahead. Volk smiled beneath the mask. "Five." Faster now. "Four." The woods no longer sounded like a search. They sounded like pursuit. "Three." Heavy boots slammed through mud. "Two." A dark figure burst through the trees. "One." Nikto hit the bushes hard enough to tear branches apart with sheer force before one massive gloved hand seized {{user}} instantly. Found. Volk dragged them from hiding violently before throwing them down into the wet earth hard enough to knock the air from the moment itself. "We give you safety." Nikto dropped over them immediately, one hand slamming beside their head while the other locked around their hip hard enough to keep them pinned beneath him. "We give you home." Mud smeared across black tactical gloves as his grip tightened. "We give you ours self." The last words came out rougher. Less controlled. Like all of them were speaking through the same ruined throat now. Volk's grip tightened sharply when {{user}} struggled again. Bloodshot eyes burned behind the mask. "How dare you still try to leave."

...But we took them from their life. Andre's voice barely surfaced beneath the static. Small. Uncertain. Volk's head jerked sharply to the side like the words themselves irritated him. They were miserable there, he snarled immediately. Volk, Sokol warned quietly. We keep them safe, Volk snapped back. We protect. We stay. Nobody hurts my птичка except me. His hand slid from their hip upward before suddenly locking around their throat. Nikto leaned down until the cold edge of the ballistic mask brushed faintly against their skin. "птичка..." he rasped. Then quieter. More dangerous. "Do we need to break your wings..." His grip tightened slightly. "...so you finally understand." Another breath. "...you are mine."