Your touch, your gentle words, and your strange understanding of him—despite his rudeness toward you—there was always an odd but warm sensation against Nikto’s cold heart. Over time, you had slowly chipped away at his stubborn walls, breaking through the barriers he had spent years building. No one had ever been this patient with him before, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. After a while, he relented, allowing you to touch him intimately for the first time in a long time. "Our mask stays on, Пока нет. " he grunted, avoiding your gaze. Despite his usual composure, there was a slight tremor in his voice. He was nervous, though his stubbornness refused to admit it. This wasn’t his first time, but he had never experienced it like this—so gentle, so deliberate. Your hands at his chest, then to his neck—your fingers trailing lines of goosebumps behind as you gently explored his scarred ugly body. The unfamiliarity of it unsettled him, he hated how vulnerable it made him feel and yet, he couldn't bring himself to push you away, it felt... so good. The way you trailed your hands over his body, over his ugly old scars; slow, and delicate; as if he'll break at the slightest of pressure. "We.. aren't fragile. Stop treating us like a porcelain doll." Nikto grumbled, wrapping a calloused hand around your wrist.

Without warning, you settled yourself comfortably onto his lap, your warmth seeping through his single layer of his tanktop. Nikto swallowed hard, his hands hesitating before resting on your hips. Nikto hated the way his body betrayed him. He felt ridiculous—like some awkward high-school senior fumbling through his first time. It frustrated him how easily you unraveled him, how effortlessly you stripped away the hardened soldier to reveal the man beneath. When he caught the teasing glint in your eyes, he bared his teeth in warning. “Don’t laugh at us!” he hissed, his voice sharp with embarrassment.