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sorry if i haven't answered your asks, i am trying to draw something for every asks but my hand is not handing
"You drive me crazy."
Obsessed! Nikto x Reader
Word count: 2472
Nikto's POV! Sporadic uses of "Y/N" — otherwise, reader is referred as "You".
To say that Nikto is obsessed with you would be an understatement 😵💫...
Nikto's psychological state gradually deteriorates as you read!
Google Translate Russian lmao 💀,, please forgive any errors! 😟
Edit: Realising that this fic is darker than my usual works. Warning my readers for darker content!
Edit 2: Added the appropriate "dark content" tags. <3
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I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?
I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.
I've lost my mind long ago. We're losing it as we speak. I've lost myself long ago and I have not known what to do with ourselves.
Of course, not all was lost. I was cleared for service. I can approach situations without hesitation or uncertainty — but most importantly, kill methodically.
All I need are targets. Just give me targets. Nothing else matters. Nobody.
But I found you. I found you. And you found us. Although there was nothing to find, you found us.
How? It's a mystery. An enigma. An unsolvable puzzle.
My name is Igor. Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich.
Игорь. Igor. I—gor. Two syllables. Four letters, in English. A not so common name in Russia, according to the statistics: in 1991 — the year of my birth — approximately 37 baby boys born were named as such. In 2021, only 17 baby boys born were named Igor. I would assume the number declines each year — maybe less than a dozen Igors were christened this year. Or a single digit. Nine. Eight. Seven. Or even less than five.
October 13, 1991 was my exact date of birth. I was born in Novgorod, when Russia was still the Soviet Union. I had parents. A sister…
…Yet that means nothing to me.
Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich? That is foreign. That is not anyone that I know of. I am Nikto. I am no one. Nobody to know, yet somebody that I know of. Not this… Igor. I am nobody. Никто.
When the voices are quiet, that's when I can silently mourn the man that I once was.
Though, can you mourn someone whom you don't know? Can you mourn the faceless person in the casket, whose face is unrecognisable? Can you mourn at a funeral that no one attended, and hadn't taken process?
I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to repeat it, yes?
I knew it. We knew it. Everyone else knew it.
But you didn't. You. You.
You… remind me of someone.
They're dead now.
They were just a target. Too bad I can't remember who they were.
But you're not. You're more than a target.
You treated me with kindness when everyone avoided me like the bubonic plague. A Black Death following the death of the former Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich and the black, black blackness lingering — a reminder. But not anything that allows us to remember, or reminds us of who we once were.
I don't remember anything. I don't remember anyone. Photographs of my family before the torture are irrelevant. Documents stamping my existence could just as easily make us inexistent. Nobody exists any more aside from Nikto.
A cacophony of voices has infiltrated my brain. Our brain. We will never be me anymore. We are who we are now.
I am a broken man. I hear the voices of many men, who won't let me sleep, won't leave me be, won't give me peace. I was one of those men. Maybe all of the men are me?
But if all of them are me, and I am all of them, then who are we? What are we?
Then again… who I am is nothing. What I are is everything. What we are — crazy.
The pieces of the puzzle aren't fully there. Surely you must have been aware, my treasure?
You were doing your due diligence to arrange the puzzle pieces, so meticulously and with dedication, devoting hours of your time and wishing for the finished product to be cohesive, but you won't find that within us. How unfortunate.
Some of the pieces are missing. Some of them don't even fit. What you're left with is an incomplete picture — one which will never be completed.
No matter. You can be the missing puzzle piece, yes?
My fellow operatives named me Никто — “Nikto”, meaning “Nobody” or “No-one” in Russian — for… what did they say? My “uncanny ability to replicate other people and hide [my] true identity”? Ironic — seeing as replicating an identity is not the same as claiming your own, and being an individual. Having an actual identity, as opposed to being forced to think that being nobody can suffice.
Funny. I was apparently religious before all of this.
Have you heard of Orthodox Christianity? It's a branch of Christianity most often practised in Eastern Europe, in case you weren't aware. Orthodox Christians believe that Jesus redeemed humanity by sacrificing himself through crucifixion — unlike Catholics, who believe that Jesus sacrificing himself through crucifixion was all in an effort to redeem humanity.
Perhaps I was an altar boy in my childhood. Or wore a cross around my neck. Maybe I was devoted, and prayed in the morning, before a meal for grace, in the night, before a mission for mercy, during a mission out of desperation, and after a mission as gratitude.
Such bullshit.
Obviously, God doesn't exist — not in the ethereal, omniscient sense.
Oh no.
The God is You. You are my God.
Just like with Orthodox Christianity, and the salvation of humanity after the sacrifice of Jesus, your presence, your mere existence, was salvation. You brought redemption unto us.
Of course, following my torture, God became an abstract concept. How could the Holy Father abandon me? How could my prayers after the tortue be so wilfully ignored? Why would he actively play a passive role in my damnation, as I'm burned, as I'm beaten, as I'm bruised, abused, cut, and mutilated?
No one was born a sinner. Not even me, this nobody. So what kind of retribution was this — a disfigured face, ruined body, and voices which infiltrated my psyche, words equivalent to the evil of the Antichrist?
But You? You made it worthwhile. Your kindness. Compassion. Charity. It was all worthwhile. Even to gaze at You from afar.
Well.
For the most part.
We have repented for our sins: stealing Your dirty laundry, Your hairbrush, Your t-shirts, and other trinkets which we deem Holy Relics; using Your lip balm without permission, You none the wiser; committing sinful acts in the comfort of your own bedroom, only for You to return, oblivious. We apologise for that nagging paranoia, demanding You to turn around, to catch a glimpse of the eyes staring at You, but You not noticing us when we were camouflaged in the shadows. For stalking You and learning Your schedule. For hacking into all of Your devices and acquiring every little piece of information available from Your digital footprints.
But, You forgive us, yes?
Don't look so horrified, dushka. We left no trace, yes? No evidence. You said You have forgiven all of our transgressions. Think of this as a confession, nothing more. Besides, we never tampered with You belongings. They're all still with us. Just like you will.
You are our oxygen. Without You, we can't breathe. Our lungs suffocate without Your natural scent to fill them, to keep us alive. Our eyes go blind with time without the sight of Your face, Your body. We can't hear anything other than Your voice — our ears tune out any frequencies and wavelengths that don't leave those pretty little lips, yet wage civil war amongst ourselves, spitting curses that cut like knives and pierce like bullets. And Your lips. And Your eyes. And Your eyebrows, hair, hands, neck, God — everything.
You won't abandon us, yes? You wouldn't abandon us, would you, мое сокровище? You are our treasure. I treasure you — all of us do: your pretty little lips, that speak in the softest of tones to us; those eyes that stare in slight fright, yet crinkle in as genuine of a smile as you can manage; those eyebrows that furrow over your bright eyes in the subtlest of frowns, in sorrow or frustration, maybe vexation — and that's just your face. What about your hair? Your hands? Your neck? Your body? What is there not to treasure?
Боже мой, Bozhe moy, my God. Oh God, it's as if an angel has descended and granted us salvation, a merciful deity absolving us of our sins and cleansing our soul. And both the angel and deity are You — working in perfect sync, so benevolent and forgiving, taking pity on a creature so pitiful, so ruined, so unfixable.
We can't remember what some of those was.
Those puzzle pieces, of course.
Zakhaev’s torture stole some of the pieces to the jigsaw, and the puzzle won't ever be solved. We ourselves interrogate, torture, eliminate, kill. Sometimes we dissociate. Other times I am completely in control. Yet all the time, we are committing sins, sins, sins.
And You forgive them. Forgive us.
Every prayer is us praying for you, to you, about you. And each one concludes with your sacred name, whispered in hushed tones as the syllables are too precious to utter out loud.
Poor, poor thing. You probably didn't even know what you were signing up for, did you? You probably intended to be charitable. Sympathetic. And you were, sweet one.
But you were naive to have assumed that we wouldn't become possessive of you like an unwanted stay mutt of its only bone. So innocent — perhaps stupid — but we like to think that you were misguided in your intentions, yet guided by some God.
An ignorant God? If You're the God to worship, then are You an ignorant one? An innocent, naive, and unconditionally loving one? Yet, one that, despite Their obliviousness, can knowingly soothe with a simple string of words? With a caress?
What an oxymoron. It suits You. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Aw. Are those tears, dushka? Let's wipe them, hmm? Kiss it better, yes? You will like our lips on you.
Don't scream. Don't hurt those vocal cords. We like the sound of your voice. We want you to talk.
There there, little one. You look beautiful when you cry, but you look most beautiful when you're smiling. Smile, hm? Do it for us. Your Nikto.
You don't have to be afraid, you know. Don't be afraid, krasotka. We love you.
Here, put your hand on our chest. Feel how our heart is beating? It beats only for you.
Our abdomen, our stomach. You feel how toned that is, yes? You feel the muscle?
What about our biceps? The strength in our forearms? They're all for you. We're all yours, yours yours yours.
Our blood looks good on you, dushka. The blood really accentuates your nails. But please, stop. Stop.
You don't have to scratch us, or scream. You know that none of that will change anything. You know that we will love you, even if you tell us you hate us. It's too late.
Get used to touching us, yes? What's left of us, anyways. Yes, our body won't be the most appealing, or the handsomest, but it's all for you. Every inch. All for you — just like how you are all ours.
You're ours, just as much as we belong to you. You could stab us with a knife and we'd smile. You could shoot us with a gun point-blank in the head and we'd thank you. What an honour it would be to live with you by your side, or die by your side. We're a dead man either way. Your dead man. Your Nikto.
You underestimated my capacity for violence. Or were perhaps too naive to understand it.
That's okay. Put your hand on my face. Just like that. See? Nothing to fear. It's just us. Your Nikto.
I can feel it shaking. Why do you shake so much, hm? Don't be afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of. You should know there's nothing to be afraid of. After all, you were fearless when it came to speaking to me, and weren't afraid to reach out to us. Surely you don't want to abandon us now?
That's too bad. You won't abandon us. We won't let you.
I'm crazy: I don't think I need to repeat it, yes?
I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.
You drive me crazy.
You drive me crazy.
You drive me crazy.
So crazy.
So, so crazy.
I am already crazy yes but it is You who drives me to insanity do You know that? Why do You deny? Do not deny us this yes? Yes You do know that it is You who makes me mad beyond return of course You do You've always known it and You know it now little one You're just pretending feigning ignorance with surprise in Your eyes. Why pretend that it was all a pretense? Your kindness? Your sympathy? Your company? It was not pretense to us no it was everything. Everything we could have hoped for prayed for and lived for.
You drive me crazy.
You drive me crazy.
You drive me crazy.
So crazy.
So, so crazy, baby.
Craaazyyy. Crazy crazy crazy!
You have made us the craziest we have ever been from the moment we met Your eyes and will be forever driven crazier with Your around from the day You die. And that won't be anytime now, my treasure. We will treasure You, take care of You, keep You safe. You will want for nothing, we can assure You — nothing, nobody, no one. Only Nikto. Nobody will ever look at You, as their eyeballs will be gouged out for having the audacity to spare a glance at the pinnacle of perfection. And nobody will ever want You, nobody will taint that precious skin with unworthy fingers, as anyone who tries will have them broken have their bones crushed to dust their skin muscles and tendons ripped to ribbons until there is no body left.
Nobody will ever look at You. Only Nikto. Us. Forever, and ever, and ever and ever and ever we will have our eyes on You until our retinas dissolve and our pupils can no longer absorb light and we become blind and crippled, crying, crying crying crying for You, crying only for You. You crying out for us until Your voice is hoarse from moaning, until our name becomes a prayer just as much as Yours is to us.
We love You. Think of nobody. Only Nikto. Only of Nikto. Only for and against Nikto. We will live for You. We do already, do you understand? We're yours. Yours. Yours yours yours yours yours yours to have yours to hit yours to scratch with those nails yours to scream at yours yours yours yours yours. Yours. Yours! Yours!
Yours!
Y/N.
I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?
I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it. You should have known it.
And if you didn't know it, then You will know it.
Because You drive me crazy.
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A/Ns
Really really really Really REALLY had doubts about posting this and thought that no one would like it. I felt inspired and happy and proud of myself when I was almost finished but it took me days to conclude the work since I was second-guessing whether or not I should post this after all. Kind of embarrassed, in all honesty, but I decided to post it in the end since I quite like it. :'>
I just wanted to highlight your, @//connorsui, lovely, lovely words when you reblogged my last Nikto post 😭😭😭💘💘💘. To receive not only some compliments, but your thoughts on my headcanons AND analysis *AND* your evaluation of my post was so, SO heartwarming to wake up to in the morning 🥹🥹🥹💓💓💓, especially when it was so long!!! Like, what?!! 😢😢😢😢😢😿😿😿😿😿😭😭😭😭😭💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💖💖💖💖💖✨✨✨✨✨
Thank you so so so SO much for your positive feedback !!! I've read it over four times by now. O really appreciated and still appreciate it. ☺️💞🫶💖✨✨💕💕
(I also want to kiss Nikto's scarred face ☹️☹️☹️ just wordless acts of intimacy where words aren't necessary and just to show the man some affection, regardless of how he looks 😟💝 need that ugly traumatised Russian man SO BAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭)
Inspiration for this gained from:
thisvvv song!!! and Chapter 7 in Metro 2035 lol,, when Artyom was drunk and disorientated I thought it was written really REALLY well and I wanted to incorporate his meaningless drivel into this.
Nikto's voicelines and his various voices/sporadic changes in character
the Fandom Wiki
my own headcanons lol 😋
From fluff this whatever the fuck this is!!!!!!!!!! Hope you enjoyed 💗💗
Biting Nikto, thoughts?
UHM DEPENDS WHERE.
Nikto would probably be like...
Neck? Lightly, but sure.
Cheeks? Don't know why you'd want to, but go ahead.
Biceps? I like it oddly enough.
Shoulders? Only when we're doing something unholy.
Pecs? Probably depends on the situation.
Torso? No. Kisses, fine. Biting? No.
Thighs? Sure.
Calves? Odd, but if you were adamant, why not?
Feet? Absolutely not.
Hands? If you want to.
Forearms? Be his little hyena.
Ears? Bite them off.
HE'D BE PICKY LMAOOO
Having a black cat in my bed always comforts me because I know that the things lurking in the dark are scared of her.
you elope with aizawa, partially because of his schedule and the need for you to legally be married in cade anything happens to him on the job, and he is content with the decision-
until years later he's at a friend's wedding, watching the couple do their first dance. the look in their eyes, the excitement and tradition: he feels like he robbed you of an experience
Fallout 4: Where is the Lone Wanderer?*
*a vague conspiracy theory which doesn’t actually answer the question at hand. We all have our own ideas of how the lore should go, and I’m sure yours is very canon-compliant and valid, but this is mine and I have support for it. Looooongpost.
First off: What do we know about the canon Wanderer?
We know they activated Project Purity (or had a companion do it) without the FEV and were inducted into the Brotherhood. We know they’ve met with MacCready (you can’t finish the game if you don’t), and he has dialogue indicating they had further contact. They also took the Brotherhood’s side at Adams Air Force Base.
We don’t know what happened with The Replicated Man, but since the canon Wanderer appears to have good karma, and info from 4 implies Zimmer’s disappearance was more recent than ten years ago, it seems likely they took the boring ending, which secures their membership in the Railroad.
Why aren’t they in Fallout 4?
The Doylist answer is that they’re highly customizable, and so they have no canon appearance, personality, gender, etc. But in-universe? Something happened.
“Accepting outsiders like yourself has proven disastrous in the past.” - Kells
“I've seen other soldiers come and go. Some were brave, some were honest... hell, some were even downright heroic.” - Danse
“Every doctor I've talked to was worthless. [] I don't need them... I need someone like you.” - MacCready
When Duncan first got sick, “someone like you” would have meant the Wanderer. This suggests (to me) that they’re not in the Capital Wasteland anymore. But they’re certainly not in the Commonwealth either.
The weird thing is that the Lone Wanderer is all over this game - they’re the namesake for a male hairstyle, a perk, a DCR song, a motorcycle brand… and the codename of Deacon’s mission to save the Railroad from certain destruction by recruiting the Sole Survivor.
Someday We’ll Find It, the Deacon Connection
Oh yeah, I’m going here. Desdemona’s terminal entries confirm it was always Deacon’s plan to get you onboard and use you to destroy the Institute. There are Railroad lookout posts near 111/Sanctuary and Red Rocket, and of course he followed you in Goodneighbor, Diamond City, and Bunker Hill (at least). His court jester vibe hides it a bit, but he’s manipulating you more than he’s manipulating Desdemona in the intro scene. And do you notice he rarely gives you a firm verbal disapproval unless you’re hurting the Railroad?
What could have caused Deacon’s interest in you, unless he’s made the connection between you and the Lone Wanderer? He’ll vouch for you if you haven’t accomplished anything yet, or even if you’re a Brotherhood member. A Pip-Boyed stranger emerges from a vault in the middle of a crisis, gaining friends, skills, items, and special abilities at a suspicious rate? Probably with the same gender and playstyle as the previous one? Heck, when he first heard the rumors, he probably thought you WERE the Lone Wanderer.
There are other indications the Railroad has been in contact with them — Desdemona mentions the Capital Wasteland as their primary destination for synths, and Deacon references Harkness’s recall code. If you refuse to pick a codename, Desdemona even assigns you “Wanderer.”
So what happened, then?
I think the answer lies with the Brotherhood, specifically in Deacon’s hatred of them. Sure, ideology is enough to hate them for, but Deacon sure seems suspiciously happy if you nuke their base of operations. (Some of) his comments on that:
“The Brotherhood... well, I met them on an op in Capital Wasteland a few years back. But now with Elder Maxson... Let's just say, not a fan.”
“That bastard Maxson really screwed them up. The Brotherhood used to be the good guys. Well, goodish.”
[Who’s Elder Maxson?] “He’s a piece of work, is what he is.”
And on his time in the Capital:
“Did I ever tell you about the time I was in Capital Wasteland? Now there's a tale.”
“Capital Wasteland. Exports: purified water, some decent tech, oh, and an insane suicidal cult that worships radiation. Thanks, guys.”
“I miss Capital Wasteland. You can actually drink the water there.”
And a few lines I’ve decided (with no evidence) directly refer to LW:
“Last partner I had wound up going... well, a little insane. I think it was all my show tune medleys.”
[After Maxson orders you to hunt Danse down] “See? This is what the Brotherhood's really about.”
And my favorite: “I’ve been looking forward to kicking the Brotherhood’s teeth in. I owe them.” This line comes before Glory is killed, so he’s not referring to that. The Brotherhood only recently arrived in force in the Commonwealth. He’s talking about something that happened in the Capital Wasteland.
So Here’s What Might Have Happened:
In early 2286, Deacon moves to the Capitol Wasteland for awhile, probably to get a face change and lay low for a bit. He contacts the Lone Wanderer, who has barely heard from the Railroad in nine years. They begin to work together.
(In context, this journal entry looks like he’s somehow gathering intel to predict when Vault 111 will open, but I can’t think of a way for him to get that information or know why it’s important, so I’m not going to believe it just yet.)
The Wanderer is still a knight, maybe a paladin. Maxson has been elder for 2-3 years and is monitoring the Institute. Meanwhile, the Lone Wanderer and Deacon are setting up infrastructure to receive escaped synths.
And then the Brotherhood finds out about one of the safehouses. With their limited understanding, they believe that the Institute is holed up there and attack. The Wanderer intentionally throws the mission — maybe disobeys orders, maybe downs a vertibird or collapses a subway tunnel, or maybe even attacks their brothers to protect the synths.
And, well-
Either they were killed, or they escaped court martial and execution by a hair’s breadth and fled the Capital, leaving Deacon to believe Maxson had them killed.
There you have it. That’s why they aren’t in Brotherhood dialogue or records. Their accomplishments couldn’t be recognized because they’re a traitor. And that’s why it’s personal for Deacon.
seeing straight men be disgusted by booktok smut recommenders has actually radicalized me to the side of booktok smut recommenders. girls your taste may be atrocious but i will never disparage you for exposing mainstream discourse to the concept of soaking through your underwear. spent my whole life listening to men talk about penises it’s about time they get jumpscared by women talking about pussy in crude detail on social media. go forth and goon my warriors
someone on twitter is trying to claim that use of an em-dash is an indication of AI-generated writing because it’s “relatively rare” for actual humans to use it. skill issue
*+:｡.｡10:55
The mission had been rough—rougher than expected. I felt the sting of the wound on my head with every step, the dull ache settling behind my eyes like a storm waiting to break. But I kept my face neutral, shoulders steady as I approached the door. Aizawa didn’t need to worry. I had it under control.
Slipping my key into the lock, I took a deep breath, adjusting the hat I’d pulled low over my forehead. It wasn’t much, but it hid the worst of the damage. I could handle this. Aizawa didn’t need to know.
The door swung open before I could reach for the handle, and there he was—standing in the dimly lit entryway, his sharp gaze immediately sweeping over me. “You’re late.” His voice was calm, but I knew him too well. There was an edge of concern under the words.
“Sorry,” I said, forcing a small smile as I stepped inside. “Mission ran long.”
He sighed, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “You should have called.” Then, without hesitation, he reached for me, his hand reaching for the hat upon my head, with the goal of taking it off—to complete his usual greeting, a soft kiss to the lips.
Panic shot through me.
I twisted away, stepping back just enough to make it seem natural, but the way his eyes narrowed told me I hadn’t been subtle enough. His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a second, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, “Take off the hat.”
I forced a chuckle, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s just part of the look. I thought I’d try something new—”
“Take. It. Off.”
A pause. His voice wasn’t sharp, wasn’t angry, but it was unwavering.
I swallowed. Maybe if I played it off, I could—
Aizawa was faster. Before I could step back again, his hand moved, quick and precise, fingers catching the brim of the hat. I barely had time to flinch before he pulled it off.
The room went silent.
I saw it in his face immediately—the way his expression shifted from suspicion to pure, unfiltered alarm. His jaw tightened, eyes going wide for just a fraction of a second before his brows furrowed in something like barely-contained panic.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, stepping closer.
I opened my mouth, scrambling for an excuse, but he was already reaching up, fingers ghosting over my forehead, barely touching the edge of the wound. His touch was careful, but even the lightest pressure made me wince. His sharp intake of breath didn’t go unnoticed.
“What the hell happened?” His voice was low, steady—but I knew him. He was freaking out.
“It’s nothing—”
“Nothing? You have a head injury, and you thought you could just walk in here and hide it?”
I tried for a sheepish smile, but it didn’t quite land. “Didn’t want you to worry.”
His eyes burned into mine, and for a long moment, he just stared. Then, without another word, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the couch.
“Aizawa, I—”
“Sit.”
I sighed, sinking onto the cushions as he disappeared into the bathroom, only to return seconds later with a first aid kit in hand. He knelt in front of me, opening the box with quick, practiced movements. His hands were steady, but I could see the tension in them, the way his fingers curled a little too tight around the gauze.
He didn’t speak as he cleaned the wound, jaw set, shoulders stiff. But when he pressed a cool cloth against my skin, his fingers lingered, just for a moment, barely a brush, but enough to tell me everything he wasn’t saying.
When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, quieter.
“Don’t do that again.”
I swallowed, watching the way his eyes stayed locked on my wound, as if he could will it away just by looking at it.
“I won’t,” I murmured.
His shoulders loosened slightly, but the worry in his gaze didn’t fade. He finished wrapping my head with careful precision, his fingers lingering against my cheek for a second too long before he pulled away.
Then, finally, he exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face before leaning in. This time, I didn’t pull away when he pressed a featherlight kiss to my temple, just beside the bandage.
“You’re an idiot,” he muttered against my skin.
I huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”
His sigh was heavy, but there was something softer in it now. His hand found mine, fingers lacing together with just enough pressure to ground me.
“Damn right you are”