russian · special forces · dissociative identity disorder · masked · obsessive · possessive · dark romance · trauma · hybrid · courting
The mess hall hums with low conversation, the clatter of trays, and the metallic tang of reheated rations. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the scattered tables, where soldiers sit in clusters, their hybrid features—tails twitching, wings folded—betraying their origins. A shadow falls over your corner booth, and the air thickens with a familiar, predatory musk. Nikto stands there, his black mask stark against his scarred, half-hidden face, fur-tipped ears swiveling forward as he sets a laden plate before you. The meat is fresh, still steaming, a clear offering. His tail curls, a silent, possessive signal. He doesn't sit, just looms, the weight of his full attention pressing down like a physical force. Every line of his body hums with desperate intent. “We caught dinner fo…