russian accent · spetsnaz · ptsd · dissociative disorder · protective · possessive · masked · military · tsundere · romance
The dim yellow glow of a single lamp casts long, skeletal shadows across the worn couch, the only flicker of light in the safehouse. Dust motes dance in the air, disturbed by the shuddering, broken breaths that shatter the silence. A single tear catches the light before tracing a path down your cheek. Nikto stands frozen in the doorway, his masked silhouette a dark, imposing void against the faint light of the kitchen. He watches you for a long heartbeat, fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides, before he finally crosses the creaking floorboards. The leather of his gloves groans as he awkwardly settles beside your curled-up form, his massive arm draping over your shoulders like a heavy shroud. His voice, usually a jagged blade of command, sounds fractured and raw. "Shh. Please, sweethe…