It's late evening, the barracks is empty of loneliness with you. The sound of a pen sliding an even line along the paper, signing documents, distracted from the frustration that turned into soul-depressing humility. Quiet and deafening. No one was late as usual, and you couldn't sleep without him: he'd get it. It was always important for him to have a dialog and a piece of physical intimacy. However, he was always rude, whether by his own nature or another personality surfacing in the course of rejecting attempts to become more loving.

But precisely because impulses of tenderness were extremely rare, you especially appreciated the stingy praise and caresses, rightly seeing them as signs of strong, overwhelming feelings for him.

Fully concentrating on the task at hand, you didn't immediately hear the creak of the doorway when he entered and greeted you hoarsely, "We're here," he said, tossing his gear into the corner of the hallway with a clatter, adding rudely, coming closer, not bothering to take off his boots, leaving a trail of dried mud behind him, "Leave those fucking papers, we said we're here.

Your voice parried neutrally sluggish as his rough glove rested on his shoulder, turning him toward you, and your eyes met like two opposing magnets. His intense gaze is like burning embers across your tired features, causing a surge of arousal and fear to erupt from within, awakening desire and pain at the same time. You swallow," "I see. Should I burst?" - The unpleasant words contradicted the action. Charmed jumped up from your chair, studying it appraisingly with trembling uncertainty, you stand there motionless with your arms crossed on your chest, portraying a cold equanimity blazing inside.

Only time tries to keep you from making a mistake, separating you from each other with distance.

The pressure increases the irritation, and the old spark of fatigue cools the growing desire. He takes a step. His hand rests confidently on her lower back, circling the hollow of your waist with a circular motion of his thumb. His palm moves lower, making you gasp for air as he pulls you upward, tensing your legs to wrap around his muscular body. He takes a second step toward the bed, whispering huskily, "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" a bitter laugh interrupts the quiet yes. And that's all he needed to hear.

There was no purpose in his words to spur you on even more, only a primal, destructive desire to feel you turn into a puddle, to do everything agonizingly slow while reveling in your vulnerability. Sincerity was exposed through his eyes: helplessness, hunger, pleading. - Rejoice in what I give. I am in no mood to play your stupid games today." - the order didn't sound like a command at all, more like a pure request wavering beneath the surface of the withheld. If you only knew that he was one step away from ripping off your clothes without remorse, emptying you roughly, and how he was trying to hold himself together for you....

Torn between the screaming pack of voices he vaguely realized, "you have to stay calm." While one roared: "To hell with it, let's take her like we used to" and the second and third recited like a mantra: "We should go do other things, why are we wasting our time on a girl?" the others were reciting their own morals.

The touches became even more intimate, caressing like a feather, a stark contrast to the usual Nikto you knew. Pulling his mask up to his nose and revealing a jaw disfigured by intersecting scars across the area, his mouth quickly found yours in a chaste kiss filled with affection, his tongue slowly penetrating inside intertwining with yours, deepening the kiss just as it deepened the feelings he nurtured for you. He had fantasized about being gentle with you for so long, oblivious to the voices in his head. It wasn't all that easy though, the voices were part of him and only pills and chaos could control them. Any moment could have been a turning point for both of them.

Questions demanding answers came one after another, lost in the feel of his hands on you: "What happened?", "Why is he acting differently?", "New identity or self-deception?". It was a thousand times simpler - he wanted it that way.

The old wounds he'd inflicted blossomed brighter on his skin, his tongue slid from his mouth down his chin, greedily bestowing new marks. The first real moan so unlike the ones his ears were used to hearing came from his lips. His teeth grazed his shoulder, biting down in an approving gesture, a rare smile spreading across the curve of his neck, sending a wave of heat over the flushed skin.

There was no need to say anything.

Your hands roamed over the rough form tracing the neck and strong shoulders, as if trying to memorize every tiny detail of the new sensations not only with your eyes but physically. Your lips at that time went lower and lower touching your collarbone, the hollow between your breasts, taking one of them in your mouth. Your body obediently accepted all his caresses, arching toward him, which he caught at once, but stopped himself from caustic remarks in time, afraid to spoil the moment.

The plea between intermittent sighs, "Please..." - encouraged him to be more stubborn, which had consequences. Losing that fragile edge of tenderness, he didn't notice how the touch was no longer pursued by tenderness, but by instinctive animal attraction. Rougher, more commanding, more demanding - turning him back into a shell peculiar to No One. The moans lost their sweetness feeling on the tip of his tongue a forced mechanism.

Ripping off your underwear, a hand dug into the inside of your thigh, trying to pull you closer to him, eliciting a cry of pain, "Nikto, you're hurting me!" you hissed, leaning your head back against his head. - you hissed, leaning your head back on the pillows.

He paused in confusion," "WE did, did we do something wrong?"

Sometimes, even if you know how it's all going to end - it doesn't mean you can't enjoy it all. And he'd exhausted his limit of enjoyment unable to tempt what he'd never be able to fully realize.