#nik cod x reader

[pricegouge]

Idk how you feel about A/B/O but Alpha!Nik and his Omega!daughter. Still on my Princess in a tower bullshit because how else would he keep her safe from all those other alphas except by keeping her locked away in rural Russia.

He comes to visit and is immediately hit with the smell of her heat, which she is supposed to be taken suppressors for. He finds her in her nest in her bedroom just naked and sweaty and writhing. She’s in a puddle of her own slick and a hand between her legs but it’s not working. He can’t stand to see his malyshka in pain.

Nik offers his hand and she about rips it off. So know he’s in the nest with her and she’s delirious, humping his leg, crying and begging for him to knot her because it’s all just too much. He’s trying to scent her to calm her down but it’s just riling her up more. Nik is trying to be strong but his pupils are blown, cock hard and he’s near drooling over the smell of her soaked cunt.

It’d be fine as long as he doesn’t mate her, right?

-🗡️, who woke up with this vision from the devil

i'm not big into omegaverse, but neglected omega does tend to grab my attention

[vaguely related]

poor thing, left to face your heat all alone :( rationally, you know it's no one's fault because you were taking suppressants, but you can't help blaming him when you can feel it creeping up on you. he should've known they wouldn't work forever. you should've known.

you smell him coming before you see him - crashing through the door, reeking of sweat and dirt and horse. it should disgust you, but it only drives you more wild, his natural scent the only alpha musk you've ever known. he lets you bury yourself in his neck, rooting out the source of his scent while breathing open mouth and humid against his skin. it only works for a minute before you're pawing at him again, trying to shove away the layers that separate you from the warm expanse of skin you want to feel flush against your own.

"it hurts, papa," you whine, pulling at his hands to get him impossibly closer because you don't realize how tightly intertwined you already are until you're looking up at him, big puppy dog eyes, and asking, "won't you make it better?"

~*~

nik's just a man. can't help himself when you're straddling his lap, soaked cunt rubbing against his belly until your juices mat the hair there, stain him with your scent.

he's never reacted this way to an omega's smell before. not even the professional ones he was sometimes given while rutting in the field. he thinks maybe it's the nest, the fact you've made it of just as much his stuff as you have your own. he tries telling himself it's because you didn't have much of a choice, but then you're tonguing at his sensitive scent gland and he knows. knows what he's done, too, keeping you all locked away.

it'll be fine. he'll help you just this once and then he'll set you up with a nice match. maybe a beta. someone who will keep you on a tight suppressant regiment so he never has to risk this again. never has to test his limit, trying to ignore your scent. the way you beg for his knot.

he won't give it to. will stop just short. at least, that's what he tells himself when he helps you sink down onto him, tight cunt spasming as you try to take him too fast. his hands are like manacles on your hips, bruising with the tight grip he tries to keep on both your controls. you whine and cry anyway, upset you can't take him to the root. upset much it hurts even just to take him as much as you already have. he soothes you anyway, tongue flat against your virgin scent gland as he huffs sweet words against your skin. telling you how well you're doing, what a good little omega you're being. you preen each time, cunt spasming. happy to please.

his resolve finally shakes apart when he's given you every inch; thumbing away your tears as you keep babbling, begging for more. he just can't stand to see you like this, not when he knows what you need. so hush now, printsessa, papa will make it better. just stop whining and take it.

[lyeofhell]

hey just so you know your protests and claims of being “too big” mean absolutely nothing and Nikolai would 100% flirt with you by pulling you into his lap while he sits in his pilot seat. he just will not hear it; the man needs an excuse to get his hands on you, now, and what better way to do that than to show you the ropes? maybe he’d light a cigarette and let you press all kinds of important buttons, whispering commands and nibbling on your earlobe to work a shy little giggle out of you — his way of working you open and warming you up. and something deep stirs in him at the sight of you playing, of following his orders; Nik’s exhaling clouds and smirking with his chin tucked over your shoulder, puffs curling into your face when he wraps his big bear paws around your hands and shows you how to steer. he’s got you squirming in his lap, soft thighs clenched together, anxiously fidgeting the closer his mouth gets to your skin. he coos graveled praise against your ear when you pull on the cyclic stick just right because you just listen so well…soft girls like you are good at listening, no? you think so? why don’t you show me how good you can listen, hm? part your legs, printsessa.

so yeah just so you’re like aware or whatever

[dutiful-wildcraft]

I re-emerge with a soft and vaguely angsty Nik/Price/F!Reader

Unedited, 1k, enjoy <3

It's not unusual for Nikolai to look after her while Price is away. As a matter of fact it grew common, the burly Russian staying with her more often than not, even when John was home.

And what had originally been a friendly extension of John, extra security at her call, had evolved into another soft body in their bed, both men's mingled cologne sinking into her sheets as she slept tucked between them.

However, these last few days had been devoid of soft embraces and stolen kisses, but rather wretched coughing and sniffly noses. 

Nikolai, has been sick as shit for days.

Thankfully, he'd been minding her with only a small amount of caterwauling. Huffing and puffing about her not sleeping beside him, whining as sickly boys are want to do.

His raspy voice somehow stupidly effective in getting him his way. 

Can I have more blankets lisichka? he rumbles pitifully.

What will we have for lunch?  he asks with big brown eyes. 

As if he could keep anything more than cheese and crackers down.

Unable to sleep due to Nikolai’s chainsaw level congestion snores, she slinks down stairs in the wee hours of the morning. Having already decided to make her favorite comfort food. Something simple, savory and carb heavy for the pair of them. 

On a whim she gives John a video call, setting it up on the counter while it rings and rings. 

She hardly expects him to answer, he rarely does.  And considering he'd already been gone 4 out of his supposed 6 week stint, she was sure her man was still up to his chest in work.

She's got a maw full of shredded cheese when John's voice rings through the receiver.

“Hello darling”

She sputters, recovering quickly to flash him a big goofy smile.

“Hey love” she whispers back, heart fit to burst as she takes him. There isn't much to see, just the pale light of his phone illuminating his features in the darkness. His beard is scruffy, bags under his eyes far too heavy for her liking. 

“Hello” he repeats again, an infinite fondness in his voice. His sweet cheeks pulled up into that little smile that still makes her blush. She sheepishly brushes the remnant shredded cheese off her tits, tries to quickly adjust her hair. 

She can see her own image reflected in the top corner of her screen, she looks like hammered hell honestly. Hair a mess, dark circles under her eyes, clad in ratty stained oversized shirt. She almost feels a little guilty for not looking more presentable for him when he chimes in again.

“Missed that sweet face.” he murmurs, and all those nagging thoughts plop right from her noggin. The goofy man would think she'd look hot in a trash bag. 

“Missed your face too baby, you okay?” She knows better than to ask about the op, instead lets him pick and choose what he likes to talk about. 

“Much better now, might even be home sooner than we thought.”

Her ears perk at that, spiritual tail wagging hopefully. She missed him dearly, occasionally shed tears in the lonely showers away from Nikolai, when the weight became to much for her to bare. She does her best not to say anything, doesn't want him to feel bad for being so far away. Instead she sends him updates, pictures of the animals, of her meals, this weeks favorite song.

He doesn't reply, she knows he can't, but he does read them, follows up with each one in a big text or call when he can. Somehow holding the details despite whatever hell he sees.

“What you makin’ over there?” he cuts in, trying to eye the counter with a raised brow through the screen. 

“I was hankerin’ for some potato soup, thought the patient would like it too.” she chuckles a bit.

“Mmm, sweet thing aren't you? How is he?”

“He's only a little whiny, spends his day trying to coax me close enough to cough on me, claims he just wants a cuddle” she laughs.

John chuckles too, shaking his head with a fond exasperation.“Well, you gonna show me how to do it?”

“Huh? Right now? I was just calling��you can get your rest babe, I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“I'm far from tired with a pretty thing cookin for me, now go on.”

She flashes him a knowing look. John Price was no chef, he did well enough, but she'd caught him on more than one occasion following along to the little cooking videos he'd dug up on the internet. Especially those made by other soft southern women.

With an expectant look she continues her work, cutting vegetables and getting the stock pot ready. 

“Talk to me love, need to hear your voice.” he reminds her. 

Not want. Need. And who was she to deny him? So with a little fumbling she starts narrating, mimicking the smooth diction she'd often heard in those same videos, biting back a smile as she watches John fight sleep. Tired baby blues drooping lower and lower, closing briefly before the sharp snick of cut carrots stirs him again. Eyes straining to keep watch.

Sweet man.

She knows he's exhausted, more so than she can probably imagine. What hell he's had to dodge up until this point, and possibly a few days more until he can see them again.

Something in her chest stirs at how he stills for her, easily drawn into the soft bubble of comfort she can provide at such a distance. Lulled easily by a silly soup recipe, simply because it's her voice. She wonders now if he uses her voice messages similarly. She wonders if he would let her read him to sleep.

She files it away. Along with the thought of sending him softer voice messages for when he's away. 

She looks to him again, bristly face squished against his pillow. Eyes closed serenely. 

“Wanna know my secret?” she asks, soft and playful, watching one of his pretty blue eyes creak open at her tone.

“W'sat luv?” 

“I use instant mashed potatoes to thicken up my soup, makes it extra potatoe-y” she giggles.

“My clever girl” he mumbles dreamily, followed by a string of more barely intelligible praise. It rolls easy and proud from his chest, voice no more than a sleepy purr that makes a grin split her face. 

By the time she's finished up John is fully asleep, his measured breaths pouring through the receiver just shy of a real snore.

Her heart aches deep in her chest, a chunk of it long gone and far far away in the form of one John Price, and while she can see him now, know he's alive and relatively well, she longs more than anything to crawl in next to him. Hold him close tucked beneath her chin, where she can keep him warm and safe herself.

As if on cue, a pair of strong arms wrap around her middle, Nikolai’s hot cheek pressed to her temple where he briefly lays a kiss. This time she doesn't fight him. 

Getting sick be damned.

“Pretty thing isn't he?” Nikolai rumbles quietly, eyeing the phone screen with those fond brown eyes. 

She simply hums an affirmative in his arms, words caught in her throat by the emotion that's threatening to escape her. 

Nik seems to catch on, giving her a soft squeeze. “How is he?” he whispers instead, voice low to not wake the man on the other side of the world.

The question is able to at least shake a little out of her. “He seems okay, worn out, fell asleep watching me cook.” She watches John for another moment before sucking in a deep sigh, squirming around in Niks arms to face him, tuck herself into his arms. 

“I'm just ready for him to be home” she mumbles into the soft plush of his chest.

Nik pulls her in closer, warm hands petting along her back, squeezing the back of her neck soothingly. “Me too, malyshka” he returns, the weight of John's absence equally heavy in his own voice. 

The pair stay there for some time, swaying gently in each other's embrace, listening to John's soft snores until the sun paints their meager kitchen gold.

[ohworm-writes]

THIGH RIDING NIKOLAI THIGH RIDING NIKOLAI THIGH RIDING NIKOLAIIII😔😔😔 (please wxcuse me)

FUCK I CAN'T BELIEVE I NEVER ANSWERED THIS ASK BECAUSE GOOD GODS I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS ABOUT IT. When I first saw this ask I genuinely lost it so no you will not be excused - you are being getting a VIP seat as I stand on the stage and lose my mind about this concept.

PAIRING f!reader x Nikolai RATING R - Restricted [ Content warnings: 18+ mdni, hard dom!Nikolai, thigh riding, some praise and degradation ]

It's his favorite thing, right next to being inside of you, because of course nothing can top that.

But just... having you, such a perfect little thing, straddling one of his big, thick thighs, dressed in absolutely fucking nothing while he's fully clothed, leaning back in his seat as he watches you desperately rut against his jeans like a puppy in heat?

It's no wonder the man enjoys it so much when you make such pretty, sweet sounds for him! And the way you're all disheveled, jaw slacked and sweating slightly, your poor cunt absolutely drooling slick all over his jeans with your tits bouncing as you grind back and forth, too!

And while he's made you into the perfect mess, he's leaning back wherever he's sitting - maybe in a chair at a desk, on the couch, in the pilot's seat of his helicopter... wherever it may be - soaking in the sight with lidded eyes and a lazy, cruel grin.

"Look at you... fucking yourself on my thigh like a whore."

He mumbles the words under his breath, his tone filled with that deep, heavy gravel. It's almost like he's cooing at you, but his words have too much of a mean bite to them to be considered a sweet coo that you've heard come from him before.

I can't decide whether or not he'd have his hands on or off of you, because both make sense.

Like- picture him leaning back on a couch, arms stretched out behind him along the back of it as he watches you, completely composed with his hair pulled back all neat, freshly groomed, just watching you get off on his thigh.

Or... imagine a similar situation, with him still on that couch, but instead of being leant back, he's leant forwards, hands gripping your hips either lazily or in a vice, feeling you guide yourself along the length of his thigh, giving out heavy exhales through his nostrils as his eyes fixate on where your pussy stains his jeans.

Oh! And speaking of! He's so teasing you for that!

"You are dirtying my pants, лапушка (sweetheart). You're going to clean your mess when you are done, да (yes)?"

And, newsflash, you better say yes or, at the very least, give him some sort of indication that you're agreeing with him - an affirmative hum, a nod, something. As much as those words can be taken as an offhand comment, he means his words.

Know and trust that, one you get off, (both in the sense of cumming and physically getting off of his lap) he expects you to clean up the mess you've made like the obedient thing you are.

With your tongue on your knees in front of him, preferably, he would say. But that's a point for another time.

Now, back to the subject at hand.

He's ruined you - this is a known fact.

And it's even more well know to the two of you that, since waltzing into your life, he's become the only thing that can make you cum. So all of those sloppy, desperate ruts you make against his thigh, as stimulating as they are, can't get you to finish.

You're just not able to grind yourself fast enough or hard enough against his jeans, not getting enough stimulation to push you over the edge. So, the only solution? Whimpering and whining and begging him with tears in your eyes for him to help.

And fuck, he's so mean. :( Humming absentmindedly, completely ignoring your pleas, tutting at you and clicking his tongue in disapproval when you grab at his hands with the intention of encouraging him to do the work.

This was what you wanted, no? To ride his thigh like the desperate dog you are? Isn't that right? But oh, look at your poor face. He'd be cruel to deny you for longer than you can take, now wouldn't he be?

So, with his hands grabbing at the fat of your thighs, he drags you along the length of his thigh, pulling you up near his crotch and pushing you all the way back towards his knee.

Fuck, I bet you he spits down on his jeans too, just to make the surface a fraction more comfortable for your pussy to grind against. :( It's so nasty and messy but it's so hot at the same time, so who gives a fuck!

And if you can't get off still with just grinding against him, he'll bring his fingers down to your clit and just fucking abuse it as you leak and, eventually, cum all over his jeans, the fabric all slick and a mess and just... ugh.

Thigh riding Nikolai, thank you and good night. That's all folks. <3

[injestedsoap]

Nikolai Thoughts

nikolai smells like expensive cologne and cheap cigarettes

nikolai has an extensive art collection (it's not all stolen)

nikolai loves caviar and always gets the good stuff

nikolai likes when you paint his nails and he'll maintain them

nikolai loves when you suck him off while he flies

nikolai loves when he fingers you after a flight

nikolai loves when he has you on top, letting you do the work while he lays back and watches

nikolai loves to fuck you so hard the headboard leaves dents in the wall and the bed scrapes the floor

[s0apmactav1sh]

King!Price x Knight!Reader x Price's husband. Solution to all romantic problems. Polyamory.

Ooo could make it so Prices husband is actually Makarov and the whole reason your on edge is because makarov looks that exact same as a king you used to serve only you thought he was dead. So seeing him again has brought back memories of your 'previous' life and you dont want to accept that he could be incase your just mistaking yourself of it.

Or

What if Prices husband is attempting to get rid of you because your in the way of him having Price assassinated because even if your distanting yourself from the king your still on edge each time they are together.

Or or

Nik could be prices husband and your surprised because he was someone you grew up with, became a knight because and lost due to moving up in ranks quicker than he could. And when you figured out he left the guards and the kingdom you realised you lost your only friend. So seeing Nik again in Prices arms has you devestated cuz you didnt expect to lose your lover to your ex-bestfriend

[brainrotbrainrotbrainrot]

Self indulgence drabble: Captain Price x Y/N x Nikolai, where reader is a metalcore and deathcore fan.

Price has been trying to get your attention for months and slowly it has been working. You’ve both got so much in common, but the main thing that caught his attention was your taste in music. You both enjoyed rock and metal, he was thrilled, well more than thrilled. Purposely letting you ride shotgun so you two had control over the music choice on long journeys much to the protest of Soap and Gaz. Ghost never cared, he was too busy in his own head to care what music was playing.

Slowly but surely, you and Price were getting closer. There was little touches he started to introduce that you wouldn’t allow anyone else to get away with, more subtle places of his hands when he was round you. Touching the small of your back, always offering to give a shoulder massage when you complained that you ached there. And well, you too enjoyed his attention. If anything, you were confused why he was taking such a long time to say something. It was getting to a point where you were confused if he was simply being too friendly or if he did really like you like that.

Everything changed the day that you finally met Nik. Walking into the hanger to meet him for transport, your eyes lit up the sound of Slaughter to Prevail playing, excited to hear a band that you were a fan of too. You were the one who went straight for the open laptop and saw Spotify, checking out his playlist before you paused it so you could all talk. But Nik, suddenly he had your interest more than anything. Eagerly waiting for Price to introduce you properly to his comrade once the occasion wasn’t as professional, you went in for it.

Sure, you and Price had bonded over your love of metal music, but it wasn’t this genre of metal. A genre you had grown up adoring, being at the front of the true rise of the orignal scene and emo world, a dirty little secret you kept close knowing the guys would probably ridiculous you over it. Even if Ghost was the one who wore a skull mask. You two had walked off discussing groups, sharing your Spotify profiles, not realising behind you were the glaring eyes of Captain Price watching his close friend swoop in and steal the person he had been slowly pining after. All he got was a slow pat on his shoulder of understanding from Gaz and the stifled laughter from Soap when he realised what was going on.

[secretlysimpash]

Part 2 of this post

Alex "Terrified Of Spiders And Asks You To Take Care Of Them While He Stands As Far As He Can From The Tiny Arachnid" Keller

Farah "Always Wakes Up Way Too Early And Opens The Curtains, Inadvertently Waking You From A Sound Sleep" Karim

Kate "Secretly Likes Terrible Facebook Mom Memes And Will Send Them To You If She Trust You Enough (so price gets a lot of these as well)" Laswell

Nikolai "Blasting Deathcore At Max Volume For The Entirety Of A Flight, Your Ears Are Ringing For A While Afterwards" [REDACTED]

[southernbluebellereader]

ok Listen so I've seen a few things here and there about Nikolai as far as COD, but listen:

What if Nikolai meets you through John Price, and he's so smitten by you. After he met you for the first few times, he keeps asking John about you. John keeps brushing it off as a playful crush and Nikolai just goes, "I'm serious, we're not getting any younger here, John."

John agrees and brings Nikolai to meet you again. I know damn well Nikolai is a smooth talker. He will serenade you in Russian, English, and whatever other languages he speaks.

After that, he calls you at least every few days. Why? He wants to hear your voice and loves it when you say his name. To everyone else, he's Nik or Nikolai. To you, he's Nikki. Only you're allowed to call him that. John was a little offended when he heard you call Nikolai "Nikki."

"How long have I known you, Nik? You never let me call you Nikki."

"Because you're not Y/N, John."

You learn quickly how much he loves his country, but will always choose to do the right thing, which translate over to how deep his love for you is. He doesn't want you near any war or military, yet he wants you by his side at all time. And if there's anyone who can bring him back to reality after seeing all that he's seen, it's you.

[pricegouge]

assassin anon again! There's a sword 🗡️ emoji. If it's not taken I will have it!

Still obsessed with papochka. Poor daughter!reader who's been raised isolated from pretty much anyone else. Only a nanny/tutor who aren't even around since she's an adult now. She can count on one hand how many times she's seen Nik. She's so sheltered she's afraid to leave home.

She has an accident. Something like falling off her horse or falling down the stairs. Either way she breaks a leg and maybe a wrist or something else.

Nik comes to check on her and she's just instantly attached to him. Super clingy and weepy because she's in pain and her Papochka is finally around taking care of her. And oh man will Nik take care of her. Why not just sleep in his bed with him? That way he can be close by if she needs something. Don't mind if she wakes up to him grinding against her.

*emerges from the google doc like i'm rising from the fucking dead* it's the fact that you have no idea what you did to me when you hit send that keeps killing me lmao.

this screamed princess locked away in a tower vibes to me so i hope you don't mind i made it into an extremely poorly defined medieval/fantasy au and then proceeded to completely out myself as a complete slut for fantasy and spend seven thousand words just having fun with it 🙄

anyway, i imagine nik as some lesser lord. maybe just a landed knight even, granted some run down keep out in the middle of nowhere, plenty of land, as a thank you from his liege lord after an act of valor.

cw: f!reader. incest, skirting awful close with grooming. power imbalance/reader is very sheltered. period appropriate terms for pussy (sorry. i tried to make it as sexy as possible but sometimes it really makes or breaks the scene), virginity kink, multiple orgasms. touch starvation. minor character death, one of which is hinted at foul play but it's only mentioned in one line. please lmk if i missed anything. MDNI

it's easy to get himself a wife once he has a keep, harder to hold her. i can see her fading away after years spent in such isolation, growing more and more melancholy and distant until one day she just. well. the wounds on her wrists, it's hard to imagine such a gentile lady doing something like that, but it must have been what happened? surely?

she never gave him a son, but he's left with the daughter. you're a sweet little gurgling thing he doesn't know what to do with, especially not when duty calls and he's needed elsewhere again. so he gets a handmaid - of sorts. in truth he doesn't quite know what she is, her language one he's not overly familiar with, but she was hard at work in his lord's scullery when he found her and it was a simple matter to ask for another favor, really, even if she wails the whole time. 

war's war, a hard thing to pull away from when you've proven yourself as well as nikolai. harder still when your liege is a greedy man. he's rarely home, misses much of your growth. but his travels take him far and wide and he learns to speak the language of the handmaid, a good thing considering it's what you come to speak, his own daughter's tongue foreign to him. so far removed. like your mama, really, but where his wife had faded in isolation, you appear to thrive.

hard to miss something you never had, he supposes, but if that were true, he shouldn't miss you, not when he hardly even knows you, not when you don't even call him papa in the proper language. but he misses you like he misses his hearth - warm embrace and scent of home. he's ashamed to admit it, but it heats his blood some nights, when the loneliness of the road weighs on him. he's only a man and you've grown quick, as far as he can tell. one minute clutching the maid's skirts and the next helping her in the kitchen, grain enmeshed in the coarse weave of your sleeves. you're a lady, of some fashion - at least when compared to how he grew up - but you're content with this simple life, happy with the dirt under your fingernails. and what man could want for more? a simple woman at home to welcome him with soft arms and the scent of bread?

though he does want more for you, wants to spoil you like the proper little lady you are, his printsessa, so graceful, but ladies come with courts, whole teams of servants at your beck and call to feed you properly, brush your hair and bathe you. 

stable hands to teach you riding, shoe your horses for you.

more cocks in the roost.

you're the light of his life, his sweet dochka, so he can't be blamed for growing covetous. illiberal. it's unwise, will make you an undesirable match later in life when you can't do the things most ladies are supposed to, but there's nothing for it except to keep you squirreled away at home, no one to talk to besides your sweet maid who keeps you unlearned and simple, helpless even to speak with the rabble when you are permitted to walk to town on your maid's arm. 

helpless even to know you need help, until your maid grows too old to take you, too frail to feed herself. nikolai's away for that bit, returns some months later to find you beside yourself, hysterical. stir crazy. he's just grateful the old baba was clever enough to tell you how to dispose of her body - though you didn't do a very good job, the shallow grave you'd dug empty when he finds it under a tree in the east pasture. wolves, likely. he'll have to take care of them before he leaves again. 

it ends up being his longest stay at home in nearly twenty years. a good thing, too, because you need the time almost as much as he does, nerves unwinding under his care after so many months alone. you care for him too, when he lets you, singing to him by the fire until he nods off, thoughts too sluggish to keep up with the translation, your strange foreign tales washing over him until it's just sounds, just the lovely lilt of your voice. you're like a little bird. his little bird, so sweet.

he wants to keep you, clip your feathers, but he can't maintain them from half across the kingdom and there's no one at home to do it for him, so he has to trust you - for now.

the horse frightens you, and he tells you it well should, though it's no destrier, the gentle palfrey shirking from his own mount with flared nostrils and agitated huffs. she's a docile little thing usually, barely even knows how to canter. he teaches you how to take care of her and you pout about the added chores, but there's no denying the excitement he sees in your eyes when you realize the autonomy he's given you. he dampens it with a word of caution.

"remember, radnaja, town holds no friends for you. without your maid, no one will understand you, and an unchaperoned lady will draw many an unwanted glance. you must only travel in the event of an emergency."

there's more peeping, some half-hearted arguments. he doesn't know how the commoners have received you in the past, but you give in easily enough so it can't be a great loss. at least, not enough to outweigh your eagerness to please him, thinking it will make him stay.

you've only just settled when the next call to arms comes and he has to listen to you weep all night, keeping him awake when he really needs the rest. there's no soothing you, no matter how many times he reiterates that you'll be okay, that he's fixed everything, set you up with a year's worth of grains and root veggies in the cellar, and deliveries of cured meats. you know how to milk the goats, how to slit their kids' throats come winter. he doesn't understand why you're so upset, but then, he didn't understand your mother either.

he starts to, though, in the long months that follow; the loneliness that eats at him. at night he hears the trill of your voice in his ear, feels your plush hips in his palms, your weight familiar after too many times helping you onto your horse. he's not a good man, nor a proud one. after long days of trudging and battle, he doesn't fight it - succumbs to the quickest, easiest fantasy; more fleshed out now than ever before. the little woman he's got at home. it's like fuel within him, a flame that only gets hotter the longer it burns. he stokes it daily and it feeds him in turn, makes him bloodthirsty, efficient. there's talk of granting him a larger keep by the end of it.

lace, silks. he pictures you in dresses that tie in the back, maids swarming around you like gnats to keep you primped and pretty. he'd swat them away and lace you up himself if he had his way, grunting with how tightly he pulls your stays. in his thoughts you're already a proper lady, one of those simpering little helpless things who gather around to welcome the lords home. he dreams of seeing you waiting for him at the field gate as he rides home, hair all plated and pretty. like church bells, calling him home, hastening his trip. sometimes he even sleeps in the saddle, the leagues flying underfoot. he's never been this eager to be home, but the years add up; and he aches, just wants to hear you sing to him, too see if you'll be good to your papa and rub his sore knee.

perhaps that's why he doesn't notice the horse at first.

he'd crossed the border onto his own land some miles back, driving his heel hard into the flank of his mount. pines whip past in an endless sea, but he knows the path well, a game trail he himself has carved. his horse notices the other before he does, slowing to a trot and trumpeting. odd. a hardened beast, the destrier did not often feint, but nikolai spots the issue after a quick glance around.

poor creature, eager at the first sight of tail. must be as hard up as him.

dismounting, nikolai tuts to see your reins untethered and calls for you, voice stern as he begins his lecture about the importance of hobbling your mount.

but you never come. not so much as a twig snaps in answer, his own echo all that greets him.

he doesn't panic. not yet. he ties your horse to his own and sets off again, pace much slower for the benefit of your fat little palfrey, keeping his ears strained as he continues to call for you.

your horse's trail is easy to follow, the soft old girl having eaten her way across the fields. the worry sets in the more the path winds, long miles looping over his acreage. aimless. where were you while your sweet little beast was roaming?

he finds you as the sun sets, weather beaten and weary. you can't put weight on your leg and you yelp when he tries to pull you up with a steady grip on your upper arm, but your voice is too creaky to explain why, face twisting in pain with tears that don't fall - the streaks down your pretty face long dried. you shriek when he throws you over your horse's back, though, screams raw and jagged as he rides hard for home.

the first night is the hardest, long hours spent fighting his own exhaustion as he tries to ply you with much needed food and water. you can't move from the bed, can't help yourself even enough to hold the spoon of broth, and he can see why in the mottling on your chest when your smock falls loose enough to show where the delicate bone there should arch. you scream when he hitches your skirts up, his hands too heavy against the deep bruising which runs high on your thigh, perfect ring of a hoofmark dotting dangerously close to your hip.

he's seen men die of complications from such wounds, knows how close you came to the death sentence that is a broken hip.

you try to follow him in the morning, too delirious to understand that he needs to fetch a physician. he ends up having to tie you to the bed, a poor attempt to keep you from injuring yourself further. he leaves you with water and soup, one hand left untied so you could reach it, while the other was bound to your chest, keeping your arm in place. in theory, you could untie yourself, though the knots are so tightly bound he doesn't have to worry. still, when he returns he finds your nails frayed and bloody, the jute rope on its last thread.

they cannot tell if your leg is broken, keep prodding at it with bony old gnarled fingers which he thinks about snapping, if only to remind them what they're looking for. the process makes you sob and shake and cling, your one good arm reaching back to hold him close as the other remains bound to your chest. he sits flush behind you the whole while, cradling you between his thighs. holding the wood they place between your teeth in place, he rocks you whenever able. a pathetic attempt to soothe. and he blames the tears that stain his cheeks on you. transfer from how tightly he holds you, surely.

you sleep after they leave, the tincture they'd given leaving you pliant and soft. even still you cling to him when he settles beside you, careful of the sling that holds you together. he should give you space, let you sleep, but the thought leaves his limbs leaded, too heavy to abide when he tries to pull away. he squired as a boy. they said it was an honor for one so base-born, but he knows now it was only a testament to his size, his strength. even then there was no hiding it, plucked from the village by a passing lord who knew a weapon when he saw one, dressed it up as an honor. he'd play at knighthood when his master was otherwise occupied, stealing away with bits of armor and swords. the first time he'd donned mail, it had nearly made him buckle under the burden, his body unused to the weight. he feels like that now. untried.

you gurgle when he peppers kisses along your hairline. he'd left you completely alone, unwatched. unguarded. he's lucky to have found you alive at all. if he'd been longer in coming, if he'd died in the cause -.

you cuddle closer, snuffling after more kisses. it eases something in his chest, some tightly wound spring he's unaccustomed to feeling, here in the safety of his own home. his next kiss lands lower, the bridge of your nose, then another high on your cheek. your lips part, a soft sound calling to him and he melts into you as much as he can without causing further harm, lips soft against your own.

his sweet, little bird. clipped wing, still singing.

—

thoughts come wispy, barely connected. spiderweb threads which weave in and out of consciousness. there's pain still, but it's lesser somehow. dulled around the edges. you vaguely remember being fed some sticky solution, the bite of it as it slipped down your throat. it had reminded you of the grain alcohol your father sometimes brought home, the stuff you would sneak sips of after he'd started snoring in his chair. it left you loose the same way. easy, passive.

but this didn't help the ache in that same way, the hollow chasm in your chest you've lived with ever since nana passed. it yawns now, needy and desperate. you whimper as you roll, searching, expecting nothing -

and find the warm musculature of another body.

despite your wishes, it's hard to resist the urge to spring up, shrieking, but you manage. instead you turn slowly, fearfully, and nearly sob in relief at the sight of your father's sleeping moue. it's strange, how quickly the lingering effects of your medicine seem to clear. physically, you remain languid, but you've not felt more alert since his last visit, the first time you sat astride your pretty pony and felt for the first time, some modicum of control. this is different, but the effect is the same, leaves your very veins singing with excitement, the tallest tree in the forest, recently struck from the heavens and burning from the inside. you want to consume him with yourself, divine retribution for leaving you alone. more so, you want him to already be with you - an owl at home in the hollowed knot of your chest when you were engulfed.

but he sleeps too peacefully, strong brow obscured by the strands of hair which have escaped his severe style. thick arms encase you, heavy in rest. comforting. you enjoy it as long as he lets you, fingers growing bolder as the morning stretches on, tracing up over his furry forearm, smoothing the folds of his shirt where it rides up to his elbow. he doesn't stink like you'd expect, melt water crisp. he must have washed the filth of the road off while you'd slept, and you can't help but luxuriate in it, craning your neck up to nudge against his throat until he grumbles and snuggles deeper, returning the favor. you play with the thick, gold chain he wears and lay it flat as you can manage against his broad chest, intimate your knuckles with the coarse stubble of his jaw. he wakes when you push his hair back into place, catching your wrist in his big paw so quickly that it makes you jump, crying out when the sharp pain cuts through your hunger.

his grip turns soothing instantly, "shh, shh, malýshka, settle."

"you scared me," you pout, and then pout some more when he levels you with a warning look, rather unearned.

"and you scared me," he counters, kissing the inside of your wrist. his lips are hot against your skin, a relief from the chill of the early spring air. you tuck it back under the blanket when he releases you, the heat built under the cover more than enough to keep you warm; although you realize as your palm settles over the rough spun linen that you've been stripped to your chemise and briefly marvel at that possibility. he emits heat like the hearth, fresh fed. mornings are usually a frigid affair, the coals having guttered, leaving you shivering. but in your father's arms you are content. lazy. happy to sink your fingers into the fur of his belly where his shirt rides up and stave off the frost.

until he tries to squirm away.

"father, please," you whine, grasping for him.

slumping back beside you, he groans, hand over his eyes as if he can't even look at you. "i'll not go far, radnaja."

"just another moment, please? you're so warm."

he grunts when you try to wriggle closer, heavy hand falling on your belly. "and you're needy."

unfair, all things considered, but you don't think it's worth mentioning as much, so you settle for reminding him you're hurt.

"and last time i was home, hm? were you hurt then as well?"

teasing, but you don't find it so funny. "can a heart not hurt?"

he doesn't seem to know what to say to that, instead huffs once more, breath warm against your face, and rolls away, slipping your grasp easily. his tunic is loose, untied at the collar. you've never noticed how hairy he is, pelt a deep contrast to the chain. it's good work, you think - not that you're overly familiar with the intricacies of fine metalcraft, but you've never seen anything like it, thick links so packed and tight it more closely resembled his mail than a proper piece of jewelry. you wondered where he'd acquired it, knew full well the smithy in town could never manage such finery. it was hard not to be a bit jealous, though the nature of it surprised you.

in all your nana's stories, such gifts were only given by loved ones.

~~~

he cooks potatoes and rashers of ham for breakfast. fresh ham, must've brought it with him when he returned. you lay on the bed and salivate, fingers itching. restless and impatient by turns. your nana would have taken a switch to your knuckles if she found you abed while your father cooked, but he seems unbothered by the work, if unpracticed. he lingers when he brings your plate, torn. you try to scoot up the cot to give him space, imply invitation, but he turns away when he sees you wince with the movement, settling at the table where the cold spring light is transmuted, glowing golden as it filters through the horn slats which pane the windows.

your nana's stories have never mentioned beautiful men, at least none like him - burly, old; more bear than man. you've no way with words, but you think you could write new stories, better, paint his hard, weathered body in a kinder light. if only he'd sit still.

"if you leave again, i'll die."

chewing, he eyes you over, the bulky shape of your awkward arm visible through the woolen blanket. that is not what to what you refer. "da. appears you are stuck with me for a while."

there's no hiding the excitement in your voice, not that you're socialized enough to know you should try. "you'll stay?"

another bite, fatty slice. he tears at it like a stray dog, tendons of his neck flexing as he works the piece between sharp teeth. "no choice."

it's not quite what you want to hear, but it soothes you nonetheless, a soft counterpoint to the ache that's slowly rebuilding in your leg. "what will you do if you're summoned again?"

he just shrugs, imparts some saying in his language, no doubt wise. "tell them to 'piss off,' i suppose."

"and after? when i'm healed?" if you heal.

blunt fingers drum on the table. he eyes you like a problem to be solved. "after, i leave."

he's unexpectedly sympathetic when you cry, cooing as he crawls onto the bed beside you. he speaks words that sound reassuring, but they aren't all in your shared tongue and you can only sniffle, holding onto him for all you're worth. you tell him you don't want him to leave, but he just nods, curling around you as best he can. you don't tell him that he jostles you too much, keep your grimace under tight control, the ache of the movement worth the comfort of his care.

despite the pain, you gather you can't have broken your leg when he lifts them gingerly, folds his own up under yours until the tops of his thighs rest under your rump. he's still gentle when he lowers you legs overtop his own, palm heavy and warm he slides it up your tender leg to palm at your hip, drag you closer into the wall of his chest. he's on your good side, knows it; pulls you so close your shoulder gets wedged into your side, pushing your breasts together. you brace his chest instinctively with the fingers of your uselessly bound arm when he leans over you, lips chapped and hot against your hairline as he keeps murmuring, language a tangled knot you can't unwind.

it's not what you're focused on, regardless.

your father is a large man, large enough that he'd single handedly skewed your perception of how a man should look. it wasn't until you were grown, standing next to the blacksmith while he fashioned some lock for nana that you'd realized it. the largest man in town, and you still came up to his chin - though he was admittedly slightly broader than your father. you'd come to appreciate your father's stature on his last visit, the ease with which he'd help lift you into your saddle, the way his height loomed over you making you feel safe, secure. here, now, his broad chest blocking out the room as he leans over you, heavy weight braced on an arm which flexes deliciously as he ducks to peck kisses across your face, you feel a little faint, the ghost of his hands on your hips making you ache to your core - that hollow pit, low in your belly, an emptiness that surpassed hunger, rivaled even that loneliness that's made a home in your chest.

it would eat you soon, if not fed.

"father, please. it hurts," you warble like a baby bird, maw agape. expectant.

he doesn't feed you, eats from you, instead. takes more, mouth hot and open against your own. you wonder if he's just as hollow. "i know, devochka, but you'll be better soon, hm? just need to let your papa take care of you, yes? need -."

"no." you whine when he pulls away, chase his lips as he sits back above you, out of reach. you forget to elaborate until he arches a brow at you, waiting. "not that… not there. here."

desideration has weight, caves your tummy when his eyes follow the path of your good hand low into the cradle of where he's got your legs hitched. he leans back further, bears his weight full on his side so his big paw can climb over the hills of your body, slip south like so many raids. when he presses, applies force, the sharpness of your hunger shocks you, breath going ragged. it draws his attention, dark eyes snapping up to your face so he can track how your lips part when he does it again, the way your eyes go slightly unfocused. it's strange, how he can stoke the fire within you while somehow also making you feel as close to quenched as you ever have.

it scares you. "should you get the doctor again?" something perilously close to anger curls his lip, sets you floundering beneath him, afraid to have disappointed. "sorry, it's only -."

"i have you, malýshka. papa will make it better."

this time when he lowers himself over you, he lets you take his weight, hand staying put on your belly. his other arm curls under your neck, props you up so he can return to his biting kisses, the ones that let him drink soft noises from your lips and feed you with his heavy huffs. you've never kissed like this before, his quick pecks normally placed on the corner of your mouth, or the divot above your lips. nana only ever kissed your cheeks, sweet things which had unfortunately grown sloppy with her age, often left you amused, if mildly disgusted. these are sloppy kisses too, his tongue hot and wet as it slips over your teeth. you imagine biting into it, an undercooked slice of meat, the hot flow of his lifesblood over your jowls. when your stomach flips, it is not with disgust.

you don't realize he's worked your skirt up over your hips with slow, clutching fingers until you feel them on your skin, calloused and warm above the thatch of hair that covers your woman's place. "father?" you whine and he tsks at you, tongue very nearly clicking on your own teeth with how close he stays.

"call me papa, radnaja. about time you learned to speak proper."

it feels good on your tongue, the soft pops as your lips brush against his. must sound good to him as well, for he doesn't wait to hear your question once you've spoken it, mouth returning to yours with a renewed hunger.

"papa, please, what are you -?"

his fingers are too rough when he hikes your good leg further over his hip, baring your flower. you yelp but he just eats that, too, breath turning ragged as it fans across your lips when his palm returns to cup your woman's place. even grabbing his wrist does no good, your fingers like brittle little branches which he shakes off with ease.

"told you, malýshka. papa's gonna make it better, hm? know what you need."

"but nana said not to touch there, not when i'm hungry."

you worry you've misspoken when he leans away from you, brow knitted. "hungry?"

"when i'm empty -," you start, try again more confidently when you wrangle his hand back up to that achy spot, low in your tummy. "when it hurts."

embarrassment blooms as he releases a shaky laugh, palm splayed wide over your belly. you try to wriggle from under him, but the arm tucked beneath your neck pulls you back, bicep bulging as he keeps you in place with a quiet shh. "your nana was right, dochka, and what a good girl you've been to have listened. but do you know why she said not to touch?" he shakes his head when you do, vaguely patronizing. "of course not, milaya, tak khorosho. she was protecting your maidenhead. do you know what that is?" this time when you shake your head, you're rewarded with a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth, his hand pressing against your belly until you squirm again. "that's your gift, sweet girl. for your husband. but until you give it to him, do you know who it belongs to?"

you've never noticed how dark his eyes are, almost black. his grin is vicious when you shake your head again.

"to your papa, glupaya devchonka, so i'll touch you there if i please."

this time it's your head that follows after his, bobbing along absently as he nods encouragingly. your hand covers his as best it can, pushes it down toward the apex of your thighs - your gift. he said he knew what to do and you're eager, the ache worse than ever.

"that's right, little one. i've got you. papa will make it better, hm? fill you up." that last is a growl against your lips. a threat. he hikes your leg impossibly higher and tells you to hold it there, hip aching slightly. it's like he knows, thumb digging cruelly into the taut tendon that stems from your core as he palms one of your cheeks and spreads you for his inspection, fingers slotting embarrassingly along your seam. but he seems unbothered, and you suppress the whine that builds in your chest, heat flushing up your neck.

"ty by posmotrel na eto…" feather light, calloused pads trail up and over your flower. "such a pretty little thing."

your stomach leaps, his compliments far too rare. "th- thank you, papa."

dipping further, he sighs when he finds your dew hidden amongst your petals. "ought to thank you," he mutters, then steals your breath with another kiss, swallowing your gasp as his fingers pull up, brush over something which makes you jolt so hard your chest aches.

"wha - what -?"

he just coos. "shshsh. have to be still, malýshka. don't want you getting hurt again."

it seems inevitable. the whole process - too big, too much.

he's going to leave again.

"papa, please…"

"i know, i'll help." and maybe he does, in a way, but he's only ever made things worse, too; so when he works you over, panting heavily against your cheek as his fingers stroke that hard pearl he's found until you're a writhing mess he has to lean on to keep still, you aren't surprised when the tears fall, overwhelmed and scared. he kisses them away, touch still wringing slow, lazy shudders from you until your breath comes ragged, stomach heaving with toomuchsomuchnotenoughstillnotfull.

he waits until you're hiccupping to fold your knee up to your chest, hips hitching impossibly closer under yours. his breeches are roughspun, the suede placket soaked and sticky when it slots up under your cunt. embarrassment cuts through the haze of your pleasure when you realize it's your own juices, tips you over that edge of panic you'd been riding.

must be, he doesn't care. he calls you 'milaya,' asks if you can take more. you shake your head and he just huffs in amusement, hand already reaching past your cunt to unfasten his stays.

"father, no!" you shriek, pushing at his chest as much as you're able. he ignores you until you slip your bad leg off his own, trying to pull away despite the pain.

"ostorozhnyy!" he barks, settling you back into place. "where do you think you're going?"

nonsensically, you sob, "nowhere!"

"certainly seemed like -."

"i don't want you to go!"

you know little of battle, experience limited to the tales your nana would tell, and those more focused on the outcome than the practice. still, you're reminded of a bow when he stalls, tension in his poise, drawn tight. he looms over you, impossibly big. blocks out everything else, no getting past him. "radnaja," he hedges and your neck creaks with how quickly you turn away from him, try to hide your face in your broken shoulder. of course, he follows, elbow cracking when it catches his weight so he can lean over you, press his nose hard into your cheek. "milaya, look at me. look." his fingers are soft against your jaw, turning you back towards him with the utmost care. "i'll not leave you again. where i go, you follow, hm?"

unable to meet his eyes, your voice aches as it rips through your raw throat. "you promise?"

he doesn't, not until you look at him properly and he's rewarded you with a kiss between the eyes. but he repeats it when his manhood strokes your petals, uses it to settle you like one would a horse, voice low and soft, a constant murmur used to ground you as he carves a place for himself, kissing away the tears that come when the tight pinch finally gives.

it's a litany, his own hymn to counter the prayer he pulls from you. he's gentle, despite the way his chest heaves. you're reminded of how he trains sometimes, alone and shirtless in the yard. he laughs when you yank at his tunic, and nods, sitting up enough to pull it over his head in one fluid motion. when he settles, he's lower, face level with your chest. it allows him to sit deeper within you, fill you properly, as he said. his promises finally peter out when he draws your first breathy gasp, different now from the pained noises you'd been letting slip. his hand follows yours when it flutters from his hip, falls to that achy spot.

"still hurt, malýshka?" he looks just as hungry as you, just as consumed. when words fail you, he drags his hand up your chest and splits the panels of your chemise, exposing your chest as best he can despite your sling and groans when he finds your nipples pebbled.

first one, then the other, he inspects each breast with roughened hands, wide palms molding over them, fingers pinching until you whine. he soothes the ache with his rough tongue, lowering his head until he can pull the closest breast into his mouth, jaw hinged wide as if he wished to swallow you whole. his mouth is hot, wet. he suckles, drawing tenderness to the surface which he extorts with teeth and tongue, an alternating attack with no rhythm and no way to prepare yourself. you'd never known your chest could feel like this. you'd never known you could feel like this, hot all over yet shivering as if spring had receded, ebbed until the frozen tundra of winter battered the keep walls. chasing the feeling, you try to mimic his movement, rocking your hips down against his own and snaking your good hand up your chest, managing to worm your fingers under your sling before he snags your wrist and scolds you.

"can't have you hurting yourself more, radnaja. have to be careful."

"but i -?"

"i know. feels good, hm? but it will feel better here," he assures, dragging your hand back down, low - lower, until your fingers frame that pearl of flesh he'd found before. "remember how papa did it? show me what you've learned."

not much, it seems. you're uncoordinated, sloppy, too overwhelmed to find a proper rhythm. it's more intense with him inside you, causes you to flinch away from your own touch. you get distracted, too, reach past your pearl to spread your petals and frame where he's speared you. your fingers come away sticky and slick and you seize around him when you find blood.

you're not sure where it comes from. some long dead instinct, unearthed by fear and the novelty of his comforting presence. you call him papochka in a quavering voice and he makes a sound like he's wounded, reaching blindly for your hand to lick off the blood between broken fragments of sentences, odd threads of your combined languages twining into some semblance of a blanket he uses to soothe you. you think you hear something about your gift, that it just means you've been good for him. you don't catch much beyond that, thoughts whiting out as his own fingers return to your core. there's no flinching away from him.

he's not as cruel this time, lets you wind down without any interruption beyond the way he hikes back up your frame, cock slipping free so he can press open mouth kisses to your cheek. he's still talking, grasp of english steadier now. just needed papa to do it. can't even do it yourself, can you? papochka's got you, don't worry.

but he moves despite his words, letting your leg slip from the cradle of his elbow as he gets his knees under himself and straddles your sore leg. he's careful not to put any weight on it, instead leaning on the back of your other thigh until it folds back up toward your side, same as before.

"is this good, milaya? does it hurt?"

you shake your head adamantly. "no, papa. i'm fine."

he calls you a good girl, but you whine anyway when he tells you you're going to give him one more. he hushes you even as he pushes back in, his head falling back with a groan as this new position finally allows him to sink all the way to the root, and you know instantly why this last turn was necessary, that tight knot in your belly winding impossibly tighter.

as if he knows too, his palm splays over your belly again, fingers digging into your soft flesh. "gonna fill you up, printsessa. just like you wanted. ready?"

the term leaves you breathless, not having heard it since you were little, perched on his knee. technically, you don't know what it means, but it's similar enough to your own language that you don't need his translation, and it leaves you feeling just as spoiled and loved as it always has. you nod, and nearly get shuttled up the bed with how hard he thrusts into you. he murmurs something you don't catch, hand wrapping around your leg to keep you in place. when he begins to move again, it's much slower, a deep grind that has your jaw working uselessly.

papa groans. "not even going to fucking need it, am i? feels that good?"

you don't really know what he's asking, just bob your head along as his thrusts rock you minutely.

"use your words, malýshka."

and you would, if you were capable of them, but he's not fighting fair, making you desperate with shallow little grinds, keeping that word locked back up behind his sharp teeth. hair has fallen into his face, loose strands which cling to his temples and hang over his eyes. it does not obscure the hunger there.

"yes, papochka."

it's not clear how he manages to keep himself restrained. not when he growls like an animal, grips your thigh with bruising force. but his thrusts are languid, deep, and his other hand is gentle when it cradles the base of your skull, thumb keeping your jaw tilted high so he can see how your throat works hard for each breath. he complicates the process further by leaning over you, slotting his lips with yours so he can swallow each noise he pulls, licking along your teeth with enough force you're worried you taste blood.

or maybe it's just the remnants of your gift.

no man would want you now, not even if your father managed to pull together a decent dowry. you'd be stuck with him forever, stuck in this dilapidated keep while he -.

he must feel the panic in your pulse. "promise, printsessa."

this time it works, the knot wrapping so tight it snaps, a taut chain that lets you fall when it gives, leaves you to clatter to the ground, stiff and fragile, until your father scoops up the pieces, collects you in strong arms as he finishes, fills you up just like he promised, buried so deep inside that you know you'll always feel it.

it's then you find he burns, too, his seed so hot within you that you imagine it would sear if not for how tempered you are to your own fire. you gutter out together, the bellows of his breaths too strong to keep you kindling. it's sweltering beneath him, the sweat of his back steaming in the crisp morning air. he kisses you when he's caught his breath, heedless of the fact you hadn't yet. your protests get swallowed up, same as the unadlylike grunt you emit when he slips out. he pulls away at that, seemingly just to laugh at the displeased look on your face when, for one mortifying moment, you think you've started your moonblood and you scramble to see.

a wide palm on your good shoulder stops you, keeps you in place. "you're okay, printsessa. i've got it. stay put."

his joints creak when he climbs from the bed and you're distracted from the shock of cold air by the vision he makes, all heavy muscles and dark, wiry hair. he'd brought home a bear skin once, many years ago. it still warmed your bed upstairs, though you liked this bear better. this bed.

when he returns, papa wipes a cold, wet cloth over your woman's place, coos when you jolt in discomfort. he places a kiss there when he's done and scolds you for trying to squirm away. as if you're the improper one.

you get tucked up next to him again once he's decided you're clean enough and you luxuriate in his embrace for as long as he allows, too afraid to ask any of the questions running through your head lest he get annoyed, change his mind, decide he needs to leave right then, actually, or -.

he kisses the crown of your head. heavy, lingering. you feel his lips move against your scalp when he speaks. "i'm expecting to be rewarded with a better keep soon. further south."

worry sinks like a stone to the pit of your stomach, tears a hole through the bottom, creates an endless chasm in your bowels you will never fill, not even if you lived to the end of time. papa does his best to soothe the worry by tilting your chin up, kissing you softly on the lips. he retreats to peer at you when he finds you lifeless and stiff in his arms and sighs heavily, almost fondly.

"you'll be coming with me, radnaja."

"really!?" you're not sure you've ever heard your voice so elated, a childishness to your tone that leaves you embarrassed, cheeks heated.

papa only laughs. "promised, didn't i?"

"well, yes, but -."

"you'll be my little printsessa, my proper lady. moya zhena, my wife. would you like that?"

there's no helping the way your eyes widen in wonder. "your wife? how?"

"it's not unusual for a man to take a wife while off fighting. a matter of honor, if she's got a little malýshka of her own." his hand finds your belly again, rubs proprietarily heavy circles there. "no one need know where i found you, only that it did. and it would be an easy ruse, what with your broken russian."

ordinarily, the thought of having disappointed him with your foreign language would make you flinch, but you're too caught up in the picture he paints, the pair of you dressed in modest finery as he leads you around some pretty new home, you dangling from his arm. "but what of me? your daughter? surly people will wonder?"

he just tuts, faux serious. "well you can imagine my heartache, returning to an empty home. that shallow grave out in the east pasture. no wonder the baba fled, probably thought i'd blame her for my daughter's death. a widower, no children. who could blame me for finding a pretty little thing to take south with me?"

divider by @/adornedwithlight

[gothghostiie]

eepy cozy thinking about conking out on niks or prices fat hairy chest hmm

[lyeofhell]

mdni

yknow how nik’s hair is all longggg and slicked back?

strands of it fall into his face when he’s railing you into oblivion :)

[ohworm-writes]

Hi!! Im back (Same anon who requested the soft!dom Nikolai), hope your day/night is going well ^^. Okay, for the life of me I cannot stop thinking about Nikolai with a virgin reader, and every time I do it makes me go crazy 😩😩 like, he already knew about the fact she’d never been with anybody intimately and he couldn’t care one bit, simply content with just kissing and cuddling, even being around her. However, one night the reader comes to him and says she’s ready to lose it, and Nikolai couldn’t be more excited. Honestly feel like he’d be nervous, not wanting to hurt her, even as he’s slowly opening her up with his fingers and she’s moaning, or when she’s begging for him to put it in already as he shush’s her and tells her to be patient.

Ultimately I think I’d be the softest experience ever, and he’d be nothing but gentle and attentive to her, do you think you could write something like this?? (Sorry for it being long again omg but I had sm to say 😭) and obv take ur time <33 🫶🏽

I'm so obsessed with your soft dom Nik thoughts anon like you have absolutely no idea. They wrack around in my brain like a pinball machine. I can't explain it to you any better than that, and I absolutely adore it.

PAIRING f!virgin!reader x Nikolai RATING R - Restricted [ Content warnings: 18+ mdni, soft dom!Nikolai, fingering, soft sex ]

He definately wouldn't care whether or not you're a virgin. To him, it isn't something that really matters much to him. If anything, when considering the act itself, it almost brings up, like you said, a sense of nervousness or anxiety to him in the fear that could possibly come with hurting you.

He isn't a small man, after all. In all aspects.

But when you come to him one night when he's lying down on the couch, spread out comfortably and ready to watch a movie with you, hearing you whine and keen out to him about how you need him... who is he to deny you? You - his sweet, precious, beautiful girl, needing to be taken care of.

That's his job as your boyfriend, after all. Is it not?

He brings you onto his lap, hands on your hips gently kneading the flesh of your thighs, keeping it simple at first as he kisses along your skin, slow and calculated, ensuring he lavishes all the attention he can possibly give to you. To worship and adore you in all of the ways that you deserve.

Hot, heavy, messy kisses, nothing short of tongue and teeth. Sloppy. Wandering hands that grab and grope, your flesh spilling out between the gaps of his fingers. Uneven, shaky, gasping breaths from the both of you, so desperate for more, yet equally trying to keep the situation controlled.

But you need more. And he gives it to you.

He switches your positions a bit, making you lay with your back to his chest, one of his big, warm hands shimmying itself beneath the waistband of those pretty, loose shorts that you had been wearing, two fingers gently teasing around your sex.

You're so fuckin' wet and it drives him absolutely crazy.

He'd use two of his fingers to spread your folds apart, his chin resting on your shoulder as he listens to all of the pretty sounds you make as he teases your cunt. Even with two separate layers of fabric separating your pussy from the open air, both of you can still hear just how wet you are.

One of his fingers is about as thick as two of your own, after all, so after long minutes of waiting, even one of his fingers makes you cry and whimper. And fuck, the way he just explores your insides, all slow and calculating, and then, when you're ready, sinking another finger into your drooling pussy.

Nik's singing you praises all the while, too. Pressing soft kisses to your shoulder as your head falls back onto him, whispering about how warm you are, how you're making such a good mess of his hands, how nice you sound, how you look fucking gorgeous falling apart because of him when he's barely even do anything.

You can feel him getting hard under you, too. Especially with the way his free hand presses down on your lower tummy, molding you into him as he slowly finger fucks you until you practically have tears in your eyes. As loving and caring as he's being, he's going so fucking slow, never giving you enough to be able to cum.

Whimper and whine all you want, but he's exploring your pussy! He wants to make sure he knows how every inch of your insides feel, the way your slick drips down his wrist, the little squeezes you make around his fingers. Let a man have his fun. :(

"Patience, апушка (sweetheart)."

He stresses, tutting you softly as you beg for him to go faster, for him to make you cum, and for him to just fuck you already. It's like he's patronizing you, almost - but the honey coating his voice is too similar to a siren's call, and it simply encourages you to listen.

And oh, is it worth it.

Nikolai is a man of many talents, but making you cum in record time and with such accuracy and precision is, in your humble opinion, his most impressive one.

He moves his arm that holds that hand that was inside of you under your leg, his other moving down to your clit as he presses you into him - even if you thrash, it won't stop him - as he just abuses that poor little pussy of yours, fucking his fingers in and out of you with one hand, curling them against and targeting that spot that makes it hurt to breathe while his other slaps and rubs your clit until you're seizing.

He makes you cum so hard you swear on you forget how to breath properly, cries so high pitched you can't even hear them, drool slipping out of the corner of your mouth, foot cramping, sweat coating every inch of your body.

Every sensation is just too overwhelming but gods, does it feel good.

That's why it almost pisses you off when he asks if he went too far and if you're okay, helping bring you back down to Earth with gentle kisses and a concerned voice. He brings his hands away from your sensitive pussy (not before licking his hands clean and almost cumming from the taste), tracing gentle figures across your skin as he waits for you.

He's so worried that, even from fingering you, he might have hurt you in some way. Even when you reassure him that you're okay and that's the hardest you ever came and that you still want more, he's so worried and hesitant even if he doesn't outwardly show it. You're his girl, and he'd never want to hurt you. :(

Beg him a little more and a little harder, though, and he'll cave. After all, he still hasn't taken care of his own arousal, his cock so hard he swears to himself that it hurts, and you're pussy is all stretched out and wet and waiting for him, right? And you still want his cock to fill you up, right?

And he does just that. He pulls his cock out from his own joggers that he had been wearing, shimmying them down just enough as he pushes the fabric of your shorts to the side. And fuck, the way you're drooling from your little hole has him weak - even seeing your pussy has him on the brink.

He's so cocky and smug all of the time, so he can't help himself than to be a bit of a tease, tracing his tip along the outside of your pussy, tapping it against your clit and tracing it down towards your hole, never pushing in, just having his fun. But even he can't take it for long, having to bite his lip and just go for it.

He's so careful, distracting you with a hot and heavy make-out session, hands at your hips, gently massaging them as he sinks you down onto his cock inch by inch. Not only is his cock thick, but it's so big that even a few inches in has you whining and needing a rest before he tries to keep going.

"So good for me... doing such a good job, yeah? Look at you. Look at how well you take me."

He's talking to himself and he knows it, but he doesn't care. Not when you're so warm and wet and willing to take him.

When it comes to him actually fucking you, he takes his time - similar and different to earlier. His fingers are different from his dick, obviously, so now he's especially careful and considerate about your comfort - always checking in, always making sure you're okay and that you're feeling good as he bounces you up and down on himself.

Have you ever heard that thing that guys will avoid looking at you and do things like a times table in their head to stop themself from cumming so quick? No? Yes? Whatever the case, lucky for you, that isn't Nik.

He's so obsessed with the facial expressions you're making, the sounds that are coming out past (both of) your lips that his own climax climbs up with such suddenness and force, slamming into him as he does you.

A broken curse in Russian falls from his tongue as he can't help himself, his balls emptying out into you without warning, the faintest whimper coming from him as he fucks himself into overstimulation just to make you cum. :( He doesn't care how sensitive he is, he just wants to see you fall apart.

And just... ugh. Aftercare king >>>

He makes sure you're comfortable and gets you all cleaned up (even though he himself has trouble walking from how hard he came), bring you some water and some pain killers and something to eat if you ask, and makes sure you get all the praise and love you could ever ask for. <3

[injestedsoap]

nikolai's big thick fingers in your pussy. dripping all over his dirty fingers while he works you open, rubbing his calloused thumb over your clit. biting your neck and growling in russian while he rubs your g spot and clit in harmony, blowing in your ear and making you shiver. uses his free hand to tug up your shirt and down your bra, pinching and tugging on your nipple. wicked girl getting off on his mechanic hands, look at you getting so wet from the dirty fingers in your tight cunt.

[erindrinkstea]

Please Please Please

Poly! Dark! 141 x Reader

TW: Dark Themes, Spicy Themes, Possessive Behaviour, Obsessive Behaviour, Violence, Blood, Death

Description, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Main Masterlist | CoD Masterlist

Note: Hey, I'm back to my usual postings!

For a moment, you swore that you could hear frantic voices from the back of your subconscious. You swore that those voices sounded a lot like your teammates in the 141.

But they couldn't be them. Not with the way they sounded so distraught, begging and crying for your life. You almost felt flattered.

"Lieutenant. Bullet. Birdie. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I haven't been a good sargeant to you, a good friend and fuck- I've been a horrible person overall. Please. Let me correct my wrongs and stay alive."

"You're going to be alright, Bullet. I swear on it. You're not leaving us anytime soon, that's a promise."

"Don't die on us, Bullet."

"Fuck- lovie, I'm so fucking sorry. I shouldn't have lost focus on the field. Please. Look, you can shoot me again in the throat if it'll make you feel better, just- make sure you'll make it out alive to do it, yeah?"

You laughed in the back of your mind. The last voice reminded you of your scottish sargeant, what a johnny thing to say.

"What a Bullet thing to do. Laughing even on the brink of desth."

You blinked at the new but familiar voice. "Cori?" Your old sargeant.

"I must be in hell if I'm seeing you." You joked and the sargeant, kicked at your head as you were lying on the ground.

Sitting up, you noticed that you were in a blank void. A white space with nothing but you and your sargeant, your old friend.

"Believe it or not, Cap and I made it heaven actually. Don't know how we were able to sneak in but surprise." Cori joked and you smiled softly at how easily you two eased into banter despite the long years.

"What are you doing joining us so soon by the way?" Cori crouched down, reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face. "Cap's gonna be angry if she hears about this."

You winced almost, "Can't you keep this a secret?" you pleaded. Soulmate or not- she'll find a way to kill you a second time if she finds out that you die so early. She always rained down hell whenever you were too reckless on certain missions.

"I don't know how you could keep your death a secret to another dead person, bullet. You're bound to meet sooner or later." Cori snickered.

"Ah fuck." You crossed your arms, preparing to face the wrath of your Captain. Only to find that your body was currently blinking, phasing in and out oddly. "What?"

"Oh." Cori looked surprised but pleased nonetheless. "Looks like you won't have to worry about facing Cap's wrath." He chuckles.

"They're really fighting to bring you back yknow." You didn't know who Cori was referring to. Who they are?

"Think your duty as Lieutenant is still far from over, Bullet." Cori pats your shoulder before you completely phased away from him.

The panic was quick to run through their veins once they saw you go limp. They were assured you were not yet dead when they picked up a faint heartbeat.

The warmth on your shoulder was comforting even for a moment.

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

A million thoughts ran through their heads as they rushed you to evac. Ghost yelling at Nik once they took their positions inside the helicopter. Price immediately contacting Laswell to prepare all the medics for your arrival. Soap holding onto one hand while Gaz held onto the other, both men pleading and talking to your unconscious form.

They usually wouldn't bother with your existence. They tolerated you as a teammate but refused to acknowledge you properly as their Lieutenant.

The 141 was a close pack, with loyalties that ran as deep as the ocean. So when they first met you, your bullet making a shot through Soap's throat. They were quick to build a resentment against you, quick to hold onto a grudge.

There were times where they felt warmth or awe at your small acts for them. With your little cooked meals, your aromatic teas, and your short notes. There were also scenarios where'd you'd stitch Ghost's balaclava when it rips or you'd patch Gaz up so gently when you're out in the field.

It was flattering to them but they always brushed off the butterflies, they'd shrug of the colorful fireworks. Refusing to acknowledge that they actually liked you because of a stupid grudge that you tried hard to make up for.

Now that stupid grudge might actually make them lose you. That drove them into a spiral- knowing that they might lose you and they haven't even done shit to make up for their mistakes.

"They're going to be fine. Bullet's strong. One of the damn best Lieutenants that I know." Gaz mumbled. He didn't know who he was trying to convince- Soap, him or maybe both of them.

"Please, Please. Make it out alive, birdie. Please."

[southernbluebellereader]

ok hear me out, I can't remember if I talked about this but like please I need Nikolai or somebody to just hold my hands. They are the hurting, they are the aching. (also I do not speak Russian, I'm so sorry)

Just him holding your hands and wrists close to him make all the difference. He gets special gloves for you to wear when he's not there to hold your hands - yes, they have the Russian flag on them. Doesn't matter what he's doing, if you are in pain, he will drop whatever he's doing and attend to your needs - John Price can wait.

During a meeting with John, Nikolai gets a phone call from you. John knows that look, "Nik, please we have to finish this."

Nikolai just looks at him and flips open his phone (yes, this man has a flip phone that's only reserved for calling you and receiving phone calls from you), then answers the phone, "Привет, мой любимый." ("Privet, moy lyubimyy" - "Hello, my beloved.")

Now you know damn well not to call him while he's working unless it's an emergency - even then you don't call half the time because you can usually handle it. But you are in pain. Your body is fighting against you. Your hands. Your wrists. Your forearms. Your legs even are inflamed, sore, and achy, and you're exhausted. And you need your Nikki.

As soon as he heard your voice, the color in his face drained and the lump in his throat are bigger and he felt his heart drop to his stomach. He looks to John, who already knows it's you calling. You can barely get a full sentence out before Nikolai curses under his breath, low enough so you won't hear, then speaks to you softly and gently but with urgency.

"I'll come home as soon as I can, don't strain yourself, Y/N." His cool and humorous personality has switched to a more concerned one. As soon as he hangs up, he doesn't even have to say anything to John, "Get in the car, I'll drive."

A few hours later, John has dropped Nikolai off at your home and he practically jumps out of the car before John could even stop the car. John follows close after, making sure they're not being followed. Nikolai made him swear not to mention you to anyone and made him promise to keep you safe if anything happened to you.

You could hear your Nikki come inside, the second pair of footsteps could only be John's. You'd barely managed to get out of bed that morning, and the pain seemed to get worse, spreading up your arms. Your body felt warm, you felt nauseous. Nikolai's breath were heavy with worry, but he took a moment to collect himself before entering your shared room.

The man was near tears and his chest was tight at the sight of you, you could barely hold yourself up, your face stained with tears as you could barely say his name. You nearly sobbed at the sight of him, apologizing over and over for bothering him and making him come home.

"Shh, I'm here now. Я сейчас здесь, мой любимый. Я здесь. Я позабочусь о тебе." ("YA seychas zdes', moy lyubimyy. YA zdes'. YA pozabochus' o tebe." - "I'm here now, my beloved. I'm here. I'll take care of you.")

Nikolai sat on the side of the bed and gently pulled you close to him, holding your hands and arms close to his chest and held your head on his shoulder as he rocked you gently. John was honestly in awe. He knew very little of your pain, Nik only mentioned it once that you get pain sometimes. And in all the years he'd known Nik, he'd never seen him like this. Nik looked over at his friend as he slowly managed to calm you down, "Can you make tea?"

This wasn't the time to make jokes and did as he was asked. When he brought the cup back to your room, you'd managed to sit up a little, still leaning on your Nikki for support. The both of you looked over at John has he brought you the cup of tea. You thanked John for the tea as Nikolai took it from his hands and helped you drink some of it before placing it on the night stand beside you.

"Please forgive me, John..." Your voice was strained and exhaustion lay heavy on it. Before Nikolai could say anything, John shook his head, "No need. I'll make sure Nik always gets back to you."