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sageyxbabey · 3 days ago

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Husband Nikto / Acts of Service

Part 7 | Mille-feuille

Sorry for putting you in a dress! I just wanted something utterly in contrast to him if that makes any sense?! MDNI ta x

His insides are twisting hideously, throat tight while his rough palms grow uncomfortably clammy. Again he straightens a fat cushion on his sofa, one of the new ones he bought to make the place seem more inviting, more lived in.

Otherwise an empty shell, Nikto’s home is literally somewhere to eat, drop his bags and wash the dust off himself. There’s never been a care spent on decorating it above and beyond perfunctory neatness, not a single thought has been given to making it appease anyone but himself. Why would he need to really, it isn’t like he has any friends, people avoid him outside of work, frankly most avoid him in work too. A consequence of his brutal exterior and often short temper, the fuse in his chest burning quickly to the touch point and scorching anyone within shouting distance.

It’s all brand new to him this business of hosting, allowing another into his personal space and making them feel welcome. Rather like a feral cat, Nikto has had several places to sleep throughout the course of his life, including the one he currently stands fussing in. Cold concrete floors layered with who knows what and lumpy mattresses on various bases alike. However he has never had a home, somewhere comfortable and comforting, with warmth there in the shape of people to keep him company.

Even as a child his family lived dismally from what he recalls, certainly no happy memories appear to him at the scent of steaming barley pottage or sharp, pickled vegetables eaten at the only Russian restaurant nearby. Perhaps his mother never cooked those things? He remembers being hungry often, blurred shapes moving as if through a thick lens of ice, raps across his knuckles in a grey school yard and biting, frigid weather.

Nikto is almost nauseous with nerves and that is so unfamiliar to him, he’s uncharacteristically flustered. Actually he thinks he’d take being pinned down under heavy fire in the field, or getting stabbed somewhere non life threatening, to this, but he doesn’t know why that is exactly.

Maybe it’s anxiety that you’ll realise he’s not really a catch by anyone’s standards, that had him violently swearing as he cleaned the floors for the second time this morning. No trinkets adorning the empty shelves in his bedroom or pictures of his loved ones to remark on.

He accepts there is little to offer you other than his brutish companionship and menacing aura, perfected over years of deliberate self isolation. But so deeply he wants you to see him on that otherworldly level, the one above friends and even suitors. A place where you belong to each other, finished sentences and curling up in bed together every evening.

Nikto has never considered having a relationship before. In his youth he thinks he was too headstrong and cocksure, then there were many years of difficult adjustments to make to his new face and sense of self. It didn’t occur to him life was kinder spent with another, especially one as patient as you are with his little idiosyncrasies.

One of his inner monologues snarks that he’s growing soft in the head and around the middle from too many caramelised, tasty things eaten at your side. But he ignores it.

You must know him by now as something other than a stranger, or you wouldn’t have let him eat your cunt all night. It was heaven to him, the memory preserved in glowing, dreamy amber like a perfect fossil he intends to hold close eternally. Nikto also thinks that you wouldn’t have taken care of him while he was sick, or slept next to his body for the night he managed to linger in your bed following that, if you didn’t have any care for his presence.

Feelings like this are treacherous to navigate, a mountain of emotions previously assigned to the shadowed recesses of his mind. He’s usually good at reading people, but you remain a definite uncertainty, wonderful chaos that causes his heart to beat fast in his throat. Still he hopes beyond measure no one else is licking your perfect, soft places while you dig your nails into their forearms. Nikto would have to kill them, and that would be a rather large inconvenience. One he’d prefer not to devote precious time to, when that could be spent with you instead.

Nikto sits on the edge of the sofa, staring at the neutral, magnolia wall opposite him, lost in thought. Then he curses and straightens the fabric of the seat out. You made no comment about the slips he made into plurality, ever changing personalities swimming lazily to the forefront of his mind as he lapped, drank you in, so dedicated to his purpose he no longer had the self control to keep the facets in order. It makes him very slightly self conscious, when he’s absolutely never cared before now. It’s important, what you think, it matters in a way he’s been indifferent to previously.

For you, he doesn’t wish to be nobody. Nikto wants to be found, held glowing in your regard. At the top of the hierarchy, no other above him. That may be selfish, greedy even, though he’s so rarely asked for anything, there must be a favour for him somewhere in this harsh world. One with a carving of his name like you might etch on the side of a bullet. Instead of bringing death it would embed itself in flesh with the purest devotion only. Cupids arrow though Nikto is more familiar with ugly metal and the smell of smoke, acrid and potent, clinging to his fingers even through the gloves he wears.

The doorbell rings and there you stand on the threshold, smiling politely. He nearly staggers at the sight of you, a summertime breeze on a sweltering day. You’re clad in the sweetest dress he’s ever seen, full skirt reaching just to your knees, the expanse of your collarbone visible, tantalisingly ladylike in a way he’s utterly unaccustomed to, given that he’s usually surrounded by sweaty and bloodied men, spitting expletives and saliva onto the ground next to weathered boots.

Nikto has to fight the impulse to grab at you like a spoilt child, sink to his knees at your feet and get lost in the soft cotton underskirts around your waist. His fingers may be tainted with blood and sheer grit, but he’d lovingly brush any marks off, clean the inevitable stains left by his paws on something so fine. It’s to be cherished, this vision of you, doll like and all dressed up just for him.

“Hi!”

Nikto grunts, stood staring at you and filling up his entire doorway, broad shoulders today clad in deepest navy blue compression gear. It suits him, offsets his crystal clear orbs and dark lashes nicely, highlights the pink colouring visible between his shirt and the balaclava he still wears.

For a second you both remain still, his hand gripping the wooden frame with such ferocity a few paint chips are worked loose. Faintly you feel a little disconcerted. You’re sure you have the right day, he told you three times over tea a few mornings ago, clutching at his cup severely and writing down the address of his house in looping writing.

It took you by surprise, his neat penmanship. But maybe it shouldn’t have, after all, he puts such care into his pursuits, a purist who isn’t satisfied with anything less than perfection from himself. You had imagined a scrawl, though the way he went down on you showed sheer dedication to the fine arts of the flesh.

Recollecting that makes you feel a little unsteady, it’s rather too warm in the late afternoon heat, drunk off the haze of arousal bred from memories of his tongue painting circles on your clit. You try and grin to take the edge off, but you’re sure it’s pulled too tight across your face.

“Can I come in Andre?” You ask him slowly. Nikto blinks with the aura of someone surfacing after a deep dive to the ocean floor.

“Da, of course.” He grunts, making a strange sweeping gesture with his hand, the kind you see in old romance movies when the lady of a grand house is escorted through throne rooms.

He follows you, gazing fixedly at the way the fabric hugs the curves of your waist, while a cruel voice echoing behind his eyelids snorts at him.

Soft. In the head and around the middle. He’s getting doughy. He should run an extra mile tonight. It’s like pressure sickness, his blood bubbling sluggishly through his veins, ears popping. Nikto watches as you shyly make your way into his stark and minimal kitchen, clutching your arms around your middle in the coolness after blazing sunshine.

There’s a short pause, while you look around and he wonders whether you would let him between your legs again if he put you on the kitchen counter. The dress would stay on though.

“It’s nice. Very neat and tidy.”

That snaps him out of his fantasy, during which he’s unwrapping you like a present, layer after layer of fluffy fabric peeled back.

“A drink?”

You nod and gruffly he makes his way around the counter, busying his hands with the kettle. It’s almost clinically clean in here, modern and contemporary, each surface white and shining as if it’s never been used. There isn’t even a speck of moisture on the stainless steel sink, a lone banana resting on the corner of one worktop.

Stealthily, Nikto watches your form out of the corner of his feline, frost coloured eyes. Suddenly he feels altogether ravenous, so silence takes the place of normal conversation while he struggles to keep a lid on himself. Carrying you caveman style up to his bedroom isn’t in his grand master plan for convincing you of his worthiness to remain in your life.

To fill the awkward void in sound, you click your heels together Dorothy style. Quite why it’s so strained you have no idea, it certainly wasn’t like this when he left your place last. It’s as if he’s performing to an invisible audience, stoic actions and brooding, on his best behaviour in his own home.

There isn’t a shred of personality on the walls, but you’re well aware he has plenty of that in reality. It’s bland to an extreme degree.

“You look good enough to eat moya milaya.”

His rasping voice makes you jump from your position inspecting a cupboard, comprised of one pan and a lonely misplaced spoon.

“Huh?”

“The dress.” He's examining you closely again, something entirely wolfish flickering between his ebony lashes. Altogether too muscled, it does feel like you’re a small, toothless thing as he prowls towards you with a mug in hand, shoulders set ready to devour you entirely. It makes heat flare in your stomach, silly butterflies dancing on the rising embers spreading to your chest.

“Do you like it?”

“Very much.” Nikto gruffs. “You will tell me the store da? I will take you there for more dresses?”

He says that so casually it catches you entirely off guard, instead of responding immediately you sip your boiling tea and burn your tongue.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Nikto chuckles, dry and throaty, while his mask quirks.

“I know this, there is - how do you say? An ulterior motive I am afraid.”

Your eyebrow rises.

“Surely not an ulterior motive from the man of mystery?!”

“Da, I would like to watch you try many of these dresses on.” He leans back in his chair, no pretence remaining, eating up the vision of you sat opposite him in your flouncy skirts. “I am a man of few pleasures…of which you are my favourite one. Allow me to spoil you huh?”

That makes your brain just a little fuzzy, he knows it too, sees right through the caustic roll of your eyes and dramatic need to play that moment down. You love it when he’s playful, breaking through the sternness that he usually douses himself in. It’s broken the faintly awkward post oral sex stiffness, that stems from knowing he’s tasted two of your orgasms, but you’ve never even seen him without his mask in place.

“I’m your favourite pleasure?! Is that spot not occupied by tea? Or playing poker with your other friends?” Leaning into the flirtation, your elbows resting on the table, you watch him processing your words.

“You are not a friend.”

“Oh thanks very much. How charming.” Scoffing, you sip your drink again, mercifully it’s cooler.

“You are my lover.” It’s said perfectly casually, upturned eyes glittering like pools of sunlit ice in his face, while you choke on a poorly timed sip.

“Sorry what century is this?! That’s so old fashioned!”

“Old fashioned is good no? Romantic. Call me your boyfriend to others if you wish, but between us, we are always lovers before anything else.” Nikto moves to bring his face closer to you across the table, nicotine, peppermint and warming spiced cloves cloud your senses as he does so.

“You have to ask me out if you want the boyfriend label I’m afraid, among other things.”

“Is this so? I have already asked and taken you out little one. What other things are left, you tell me?” He brushes his knuckles against your own lightly, but it’s so sensual it almost prickles, forces electricity across the surface of your skin in a sudden pulse.

You very nearly reply ‘like fucking me’ and ask him to do so against one of his spotless cabinets, but you refrain. Nikto seems to read your barely restrained thoughts uncannily. He looks hungrier still, mask twitching as if a tongue has been run over his lower lip. Suddenly coy, you blink, watching the tidal swell of desire rippling quietly over him, tugging his lip up in a devious smile beneath his mask, as his stare narrows, hones in and lingers on the soft skin of your neck. Predator and prey, who knew wearing something girlish would excite him like this, leave him dominated by thinly disguised animal urges.

“Why don’t you give me the grand tour?!”

You keep your voice level, the words light, even though the intensity in him is deeply exciting. You bet he would snap like a tightly wound rubber band if you batted your lashes at him. It makes you feel more than a little smug, having been so overwhelmed by the recent events in your bedroom, it’s faintly satisfying to watch Nikto hot under the collar.

The narrow sense of power you have doesn’t last long however.

Nikto is at your back, but never close enough to make contact other than the barest brush. Holding open doors, offering you a hand as you descend the stairs, letting his fingers linger on the fine skin of your wrist. His glacial eyes are heavier than you’ve ever seen them, brows knitting every time he rubs a rough thumb against your pulse point.

You stroll into the garden, Nikto shadowing every step, moving almost directly behind your feet so you feel like you’re being stalked. It leaves you very slightly breathless, vulnerable and entirely on tenterhooks for his next move.

The outdoor space beyond the house, is where the Nikto you know flourishes. Landscaped beautifully, tapering flowerbeds leading down to neat and rustic vegetable patches, little rectangles set out clearly and free of weeds. Several gnarled plum trees frame the fence line, heavy with an assortment of different shaped fruits. You examine a pale burgundy one on a lower branch, hard and unripe, the skin smooth as glass beneath your touch.

“Can you eat these?”

“Da.” He tilts his head, shading his eyes from the rays of light cast from overhead. “I have ripe ones in the house.”

You could easily spend hours out here, watching him potter around and pluck tender food grown from his own toil. It’s odd that a man like him is so devoted to hobbies usually associated with utter domesticity, yet still entirely endearing.

He takes your hand, trudging determinately back into the kitchen while you’re tugged along in his wake. The tiles cast a coolness over the room, goosebumps rising up your flesh as you leave the garden. Nikto draws you closer, scooping you up entirely and placing you down on the large island in the centre of the room, your head now the same level as his own, while he proudly shows you a ripe, dark purple plum.

“They are good, very juicy.”

You go to take a bite right from his hand, but he tuts instead, drawing it backwards.

“You will spoil your dress. I will cut for you.”

Removing a small yet deadly looking knife from his belt, his big hands divide the fruit deftly, the amber nectar from it trailing all over his skin. The mask is rolled upwards, a glint of his tongue stopping a droplet running down his sleeves.

“Hey! I want some!”

Taking his wide wrist, you throw caution to the wind and pull him between your legs, letting your own mouth wrap around his fingers, sucking the sweet and sharp juice from each. His lids shut, while he presses closer, forces your tongue down until you gag softly around one digit. Flicking the soft muscle against the pressure, you hear him rumble, deep and dark inside his chest.

He withdraws them with a pop, a shiny trail of spit caught there. A small piece of fruit replaces his fingers, while he cleans the traces of your saliva off by inserting them between his own ravaged lips.

A tiny run of plum juice tips over the edge of your lip, making towards your dress. Without hesitation Nikto presses a kiss there, stops the mess before it can occur, starting to litter the line of your jaw with more as your legs close around his thick waist, softer tummy nudging you deliciously.

“They taste yummy.” You whisper.

“I know of something better. Lie back for me little one.”

Head against the cool marble, you feel him unveil your dampened core, running his touch across each cotton layer until you’re humming with anticipation.

“Spread your legs, show us our cunt moya milaya.” He rasps, throat craving the feeling of your arousal.

You do as you’re told, shamelessly sticky, prettier than the most delectable plum. He swears in Russian, speech slurring, running a rough thumb along the outside of your pussy.

“Where are your panties hmm? You forget these?”

“I didn’t think they suited the dress.” Your voice teasing, Nikto grins at the words, the slight sigh that leaves your lips as he toys slowly with the bud of your clit.

“Is this true? Or were you hoping we would discover you bare and wet for us?”

“That too!” A gasp of a breath exhaled, while a thumb pushes shallowly inside your cunt, curls upwards, not nearly enough to stroke you properly, but utterly intoxicating. “Stop teasing Nikto!”

“No.” He growls, removing his thumb and letting it trail tantalisingly around your slick folds. “The teasing is half of the fun.”

As always and very infuriatingly, he’s right.

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#MY LONGEST YEAH BOI EVER.MP4 #WOOOOOOOOOO #nikto smut

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