My Digital Footprint Is Craaaazy - Tumblr Posts

Omg he is so fucking blunt 💀💀💀 your depiction of Nikto gives me LIFE 🙏😭💓

ACKDKSJDJSJSKAKSJDJSSDD

^^^^PLEASE BECAUSE VECAUSE I COULD VISUALISE THIS VIVIDLY IN MYNMIND?????? 😭😭😭

the immediate contradiction of his "chivalrous gesture" ☠️☠️,, like damn what the fuck were we expecting, 😭😭😭 for him to pay for our groceries too? (maybe 💔)

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HE IS SO SOCIALLY AWKWARD LIKE I CAN LITERALLY FEEL THE SECOND-HAND EMBARRASSMENT FIRST-HAND 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 ITS AS IF ITS HIS FIRST TIME INTERACTINT WITH ANOTHER LIVING BREATHING HUMAN BEING AND HE DOESNT KNOW WHAT TO DO LMFOAOAKAHDUHRJEHF,,, I FEEL SO BAD) but also, like,, 🗿 "Your garden is shit" seems so in character for him???! 🤨

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It's actually horrific how much this made me blush like, 🤯

Oh to have Nikto tell me im fuckable 😢😢😢😢😿😿😿😢😢😿💔💔💔💔💔🙏🙏🙏🤲🙏🙏🙏🤲🤲🤲🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐

"soft slow fuckin with Nikto sounds real good." i'm panting like a dog in heat LOL It really does sound good. Honestly I could drown your inbox with asks about him, howeeevvverrr my brain is fixated on him awkwardly attempting to woo/ get to know us. like how is he going to integrate himself into our life especially as non verbal as he tends to be. would we no think his presence is creepy? or maybe he protected us when we first met so now whenever we see him we kind of just feel safe ?

-🥷

My lil bestie 🥷 drown me in Nikto I’m happy with that what a way to go!!!

So I’ve written the origins of husband Nikto 🥲 I got so carried away apologies and I could literally go on about this forever. Shall I make a part two?! Maybe I’ll make a part two…

At first you thought absolutely nothing of it.

You had promised your best friend a meal of delicacies from her home country as a birthday gift, knowing how much she missed her mothers cooking. After tears on your shoulder, you offered to make her a feast if she gave you some ideas.

Dutifully then, you trudged down to the special supermarket on the edge of town, the one that stocked a wide range of eastern treats. It wasn’t familiar territory for you, the fluorescent lighting and shelves towering with jars covered in Cyrillic writing. But a promise is a promise after all.

You spent way too long trying to decipher the meaning of things, staring down at the little scribbled names your pal had written for you on the back of a receipt. Just about every tin looked the same. Frustration started to itch at the seams of your mind, as you leant upwards to examine a canister of black cherries.

Actually you might buy these, they look so tasty.

“Lost?”

The voice behind you is harsh, making you jump nearly out of your skin, a thick accent drenched in gravel. Turning, you give yourself a second fright. There’s a man stood behind you in the narrow aisle, a solid wall of muscle and sinew, black balaclava revealing nothing but a pair of suspicious, bright blue eyes shrouded under dark brows.

“I’m okay thank you.” Your voice comes out in a squeak and those unreadable orbs narrow slightly. He’s carrying a plastic basket that seems comically small in his large hand, dressed entirely in dark colours, compression gear layered under looser fitting garments. It looks like he’s about to bring the city to its knees in a hail of bullets. That or he’s in the witness protection program.

He glances down at the receipt held fast in your fist.

“Those.” He points at the cherries. “Are not on your list.”

Jesus fuck he’s so blunt, like painfully so.

“I know that.” Your reply is a little snappy and it causes his eyebrow to quirk upwards. “I just thought they looked nice.”

He lets out a huff of something that sounds like mirth, then snatches the list out of your palm before you can stop him. You think better of trying to grab it back.

“Black cherries are good.” The man is skimming the list. “Good for tea.”

You supress an urge to roll your eyes at him, you haven’t come here for a chat, not that he seems the type to want to talk.

“Come.” He crooks his fingers at you like a dog, then makes to stride up the aisle. When you don’t immediately follow, he eyes you imperviously. Just the look he gives you, has you scurrying along in his wake, nervously holding your jar of fruit like it’s a talisman.

The man doesn’t talk to you again, except to mutter stuff to himself in what you suspect is Russian. Gradually he places items into your basket, while you inspect them. Credit to him, he does actually seem to be collecting the things you need.

You watch him, the way his gaze remains steadily engrossed in whatever he’s doing, reading tiny labels and crouching to tug things from the dusty back of shelves. You notice he’s wearing gloves inside, the worn palms suggesting they’re constantly in use. His own basket is full of sweet jams, peppermints and candies in brightly coloured packaging with unrecognisable cartoon characters on them.

“Sweet tooth?” You ask him. The man just looks at you blankly in response and you wonder whether he’s being rude on purpose.

After another five minutes of murmuring that’s incomprehensible to your ears, he passes you the list back, your full basket weighed down. In a strangely chivalrous gesture he takes it from you, seemingly unfazed by how heavy it is.

“Anything else?” You shake your head and he nods towards the counter.

“You pay then.”

Frowning, you follow this strange guy over to the cash desk. He observes you handing over cash for your goods and then struggling off with two heavy bags.

You don’t know it, but Nikto is just as perplexed as you are. From the minute he saw you holding his favourite brand of cherries, he was utterly engrossed in you. At first he wondered if you were Russian, considered trying to talk to you in his mother tongue, then decided against it. You looked too confused by everything to be able to read Cyrillic.

He hesitates for a minute, paying for his treats with little care or attention. It’s not in his nature to be helpful, or to care about strangers. But something about you calls out to him, you’re sweeter by far than any of the food he’s just bought. Something is shouting at him, gnawing in the pit of his chest. A heady need to be in your presence for a few moments longer.

You’re halfway up the street, still limping along with your bags when he catches up to you. Without saying anything, he takes one off you and then another, making himself look like a packhorse in the process.

“I don’t need more help thank you!” You try and hoist the bags back, but he clings on with grim determination, gazing down at you sternly.

“Don’t be stubborn.” He replies flatly. Then he gestures up the road. “I will walk you home. Get!”

He speaks that last word as an order, plain and simple, like you’re an unruly mare that needs taming. Only because he won’t accept any of your protests, you end up letting him walk you to the corner of your street. You don’t talk and he doesn’t either, just plodding along in your wake silently and frightening people passing by.

“This is fine thanks.”

You’re not about to show the oddball where your home is. The man lets out a snort.

“I can find out where you live little one, it is not a great mystery.”

His porcelain eyes glitter a little wickedly in his mask, as you mouth soundlessly at him, caught between annoyance and no shortage of concern. Then he makes to stride up the road, looking into peoples windows, a fierce figure who’s bound to frighten all of your older neighbours.

“Stop that!” You snarl, jogging to keep up with his pace.

He lets out a low chuckle, a rasping file of amusement against a steel trap of reluctance.

“Then show me which is your place da?”

You lead him up your garden path, while he takes in the overgrown borders and ragged lawn.

“This garden is shit.”

“Yes, thank you I’m aware.”

That encourages another harsh bark of mirth as he follows you into your little house. He looks around from the corners to the ceiling, like he’s scoping out the exits. He hasn’t seemed skittish until now. Placing your bags down smartly, he starts to rock nervously on the balls of his large feet.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Russian caravan?” He asks hopefully.

“No English breakfast.”

You can see his nose wrinkle under the fabric covering his face, but he just sighs.

“Da, black with cherries.”

The man observes you carefully, hawk eyed and watchful as you make his drink. With another huff of impatience he takes over when it comes to adding the fruit, placing several viscous, rich cherries into the steaming mug.

He doesn’t sit when you do, leaning uncomfortably against the counter like he’s afraid of settling down. It’s as if he’s never been in a home before, a feral animal coaxed inside by the promise of a juicy bone to gnaw on.

“Your house is less shit than it’s garden.”

“Thanks very much.”

He just nods, then turns away from you. It takes you a minute to realise he’s drinking, and that he obviously doesn’t want to show you his face. That strikes more sympathy than you’ve felt for this strange creature thus far.

“I appreciate your help.”

He just grunts and then the silence is lingering, spiralling out of control until you’re cringing with it.

“You cook?” The man peers into the bags again, then directs his line of vision questioningly back at you.

“It’s for a friend.”

“Which friend?” He snaps, suddenly irritated. As if he’s asking you that when he knows precisely none of your mates. You blink at him and gradually he seems to collect himself.

“A boyfriend?” His tone is careful, with a delicate undercurrent of a threat laced within it, hands balling into fists over his cup. Your scowl in response encourages another low huff from him.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Why did you admit that? You should have said something to the tune of your fella being due home in an hour. Now he’s never going to leave.

“How? You are fuckable.”

Your cheeks grow hot, like someone’s lit a fire in your face.

“None of your business.”

He barks again, not so much a dog, more like a tattered grey wolf, mouth savage and eyes wild.

“Do you have a name?”

The man totally ignores you.

“Tomorrow I will come back and work in the garden.”

The way he tells you that, leaves no room for debate and when the next day dawns, he’s already working away. You watch him anxiously from the front door, hastily pulled on clothes over your pyjamas.

“It’s six am! You can’t be serious!”

The guy raises an eyebrow at your hushed shout, what little you can see of his face looks unconcerned.

“For fucks sake come inside.”

You make him another cup of tea and this time he sits down gingerly at the table, still uneasily gazing around like someone might jump out at him.

“You don’t need to do my gardening for me! I’m perfectly capable of doing it, I just need time.”

He shrugs off your argument, toying with his untouched cup. Another bolt of sympathy strikes you at that.

“I’m just gonna brush my teeth, don’t go anywhere.”

The man looks at you and for one glimmering moment you catch a softness in his eyes.

“I am not going anywhere little one.” He pauses, after he points back to your threadbare front lawn. “It will be nice for you, once I am done.”

Utterly confused, you start to climb the stairs.

HNNNGGG someone hold me back from continuing this I can foresee another Virgin!König situation arising omgggggg