aprilplage

[aprilplage]

The first time Mac met Nikolai was when his sergeant had disappeared to go have a smoke outside base to “clear his head”, and was found later by his captain getting his guts rearranged in the back of the criminal pilot’s helicopter.

Mac hated Nik’s guts ever since then. Fucking his sergeant like some wild animal and thinking he wouldn’t find out about it? Not to mention the age difference. While Johnathan was 23, Nik was a smooth 32.

Old bastard.

He quickly gets back into the captain’s good graces though after he’d saved his team from a botched mission, as well as left his favorite biscuits, mint crisps, and a bottle of expensive whiskey on his desk as an apology. Not to mention that a perk of having Nik around is that he keeps John busy so that he’s not a pain in his arse all the time.

Where he’d been drawing penises on Mac’s very important paperwork, he was now helping Nik fix up his helicopter or doing his own paperwork across from Mac’s desk with the pilot by his side watching on. Sometimes they’d even read together, and Mac found that sweet.

What the captain liked the most though was when he could call on Nik to handle John when he was being pissy.

All it took was a quick text or phone call when the brat’s back was turned, and then suddenly Nik is pulling John out of his office with a “happy” expression on his face, claiming that they were gonna go “fix” his helicopter.

Little did John know, it wasn’t the helicopter that was gonna get fixed.

[aprilplage]

Nikolai forgetting to code switch out of boyfriend mode and coming at Price as they're prepping to decamp to grab two handfuls of that dump truck arse with a little hip thrust thrown in, followed by some muttered Russian filth as he swaggers off.

The troopers are caught between wanting to snicker and being pant-shittingly terrified of Price, so they're all standing round looking like someone's twisting their balls as Price 404s, because John Price is boxed up for the duration of the mission and Captain Price isn't equipped to deal with the force of nature that is Boyfriend Nikolai.

[aprilplage]

In Need of a Healer (+18)

Pairing: Halsin x Female Tav

WC: 2200

Summary: You accidentally mix up your mushrooms when trying to make a potion and it goes horribly wrong. Or... not so horribly, in the grand scheme of things?

Content Warnings: SMUT! Huuuge breeding kink, aphrodisiac situation, no bear :( big dick Halsin, unprotected sex, a smidge of dirty talk, maybe a little pregnancy kink Halsin at the end but who knows hes 400 years old, creampies.

— — 

Halsin sat under the pallid moonlight, back against the outside of his tent, humming contentedly as he whittled yet another small duck. A little smile decorated his chiseled face as he marveled at the way his craft looked in the pale starlight. The only thing he could hear was his own humming, the soft scrape of his knife against the wooden duck, and the soft chirping of crickets in the tall grass surrounding the camp. 

The peaceful sounds of a night at camp were eventually broken by hurried footsteps heading quickly towards his tent. 

Tav rounded the large tree that Halsin had set up his tent next to and was breathing heavily. She quickly came to a stop and let out a long sigh. 

“Oh, thank the gods you’re still up!” 

“Ah, Tav. A pleasure to see you on this beautiful night. How are you?” He looked up at her panting form and smiled. She seemed distraught and uncomfortable. 

“Been better actually.. but, um, how are..  you?” She asks, trying desperately to be polite but Halsin could tell there was something wrong. “I like your duck. Is that a new one?” Tav says between heavy breaths, like she had just run several miles. 

“Yes, it’s a canvasback duck. Very interesting species as it lives in both fresh and salt waters.” Halsin explains as he holds up his whittled figuring. 

“Right yes. Very cool.” Tav hurriedly spits out. 

“I can tell you aren’t here to discuss my hobbies, Tav. You seem… a bit perturbed. Anything I can help with?” Halsin asks. 

“Gods, yes. Or at least I hope… Can we talk… inside your tent?” Tav says as she turns her head around briefly, looking at the last light of the fire and wondering if anyone else was still up and about. “It’s… kind of embarrassing…” 

“Of course.” Halsin rises to his feet to hold the curtain of his tent open for her to enter ahead of him. She quickly ducks inside. 

Halsin gestures for her to sit on his makeshift mattress as he sits down on the stool at his desk littered with herbs and potions. 

“What’s ailing you? Your face seems flushed. Do you feel feverish at all?” Halsin says as he gets a better look at Tav, seated on his bedroll with their legs crossed, illuminated by the candlelight. 

Tav sighs. She looks down at her hands in her lap and wrings them uncomfortably. 

“Yes! I’m so warm!” Tav exclaims. “Okay so… I wanted to convince these squirrels to put on these little hats and ride on Scratch like a pony because I thought it would be cute, but I realized I was out of animal speech potions and I was trying to whip one up but I realized I used the wrong herb…. But Astarion said it would be fine! He gave the mushrooms to me after all!” 

Halsin chuckled. 

“A noble endeavor indeed. I would like to have seen that.” 

“And so the elixir looked fine, but I drank it and now I… I don’t feel so good…” Tav says quietly, but Halsin could hear the fear and worry in her voice. 

“Hmm… I see. Other than the flush and fever, do you have any other symptoms?” The druid asks, looking her over. 

“Well my skin, it has chicken-skin all over that won’t go away… and I can’t stop sweating… and well… there’s this painful ache…” She trails off. “Can I just show you?”

“Please do.” Halsin nods. 

Without warning, Tav strips her clothes off leaving her just in her underthings. She settles back on the bedroll and spreads her legs shyly. Once her knees were parted, it was very obvious to Halsin what the ache she was describing was. The gusset of her cloth panties showed a drenched patch covering her sex, the wet fabric sticking desperately to her meaty outer lips. 

“Aahh…” Halsin mused as he looked over Tav’s trembling body. “My assumptions were correct, it seems.”

“Your assumptions? And what were those, exactly? Speak plainly, will I survive?” Tav sits up on her elbows and presses her knees together again. 

“You must have used black mushrooms instead of acorn truffles. Similar in appearance, but very different in alchemical composition.” Halsin states as he flips through one of the books littering his desk. “I smelled your pheromones before you even appeared in front of my tent. Instead of the potion of animal speaking, you drank a potion of animal breeding.” 

“I bed your finest pardon? Shit, I mean beg! I beg your finest pardon?!” Tav becomes increasingly irritated and frustrated by the druid’s casual manner of speaking. 

“Yes, commonly used by ranch hands in order to increase the offspring output of their flocks, it drastically increases the heat cycle in mammals. I’ve never seen or heard of the effects of it on humans, but it seems it works the same.” Halsin replies, standing from the stool at his desk and approaching his bedroll where Tav laid. 

“So? Is there a cure, an antidote of some kind?” Tav pants. 

“Not that I know of. I know the effects subside once the animal has been mated, but I can’t say for certain how to dissolve the effects in a humanoid creature.” 

Tav groans and reaches her hand between her clenched thighs, clearly too far gone from the effects of the potion to care about modesty. Halsin sees her wrist flick desperately, but there was no relief on her face… he can’t help but find himself growing erect at the sight of her barely covered, sweaty body writhing in his bed. 

“You’re in pain… there might be a way I can help…” Halsin says softly, his eyes searching Tav’s pleading ones. 

“Anything. Help me, please.” Tav huffs out through gritted teeth. 

“I can… try to alleviate the pain through the intended means… If you’ll allow it.” Halsin’s eyes dart from Tav’s gaze to her hard nipples peaking through her bra and back to her face again. 

“You mean.. you’d fuck me? You think it would work?” 

“I can’t guarantee it, but I’m happy to give it a try.” Halsin replies with a soft smile. 

Tav thinks for a moment before sitting up fully and ripping her bra over her head and tossing it to the floor of Halsin’s tent. 

“Gods yes, I’ll do anything.” Tav shimmies her panties down her legs and throws them to join her discarded bra. “Do you need me to, you know… touch you a bit? To get things going?” She says sheepishly. 

“Hah, no..” Halsin chuckles. “Seeing you in my bed like this has made me harder than I’m keen to admit. Let me just…” 

Halsin takes a few moments to remove all his clothing. Once he was stripped bare, thick cock standing at attention, he turned back towards Tav and was met with quite the sight. 

Tav had shifted to her knees, face pressed into Halsin’s pillow with her ass arched high in the air in Halsin’s direction. He was met with her puffy, glistening folds being presented so desperately just for him. Slick drooled out like sap from a mighty maple tree, slowly seeping from Tav’s hole and coating her lips and thighs. He could see her engorged, pink clit peaking out from the apex of her slit, just aching to be touched. 

“Oak Father preserve me…” He says quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “What an incredible sight…” 

“Halsiiiinnnn…. Will you hurry uuuup?” Tav whined and wiggled her backside in the druid’s direction, beckoning him to enter her. 

“Right, of course. You will tell me if there’s any discomfort, yes?” He asks. 

“Yes fine yes, just fuck me.” Tav glares at him from her position pressed into the pillow. 

“As you wish…” Halsin takes his position behind Tav and guides the leaking tip of his cock to her entrance. “Bit of a stretch now, love…” Halsin coos as he pushes his hips into hers. 

“Aaaggh! Ah! Fuck!” Tav cries out and turns her head to bite down on his pillow. 

Halsin feels a gush of warmth on his pelvis and notices the hard squeeze of Tav’s cunt as his tip presses against her cervix deep within her. She had climaxed just from him bottoming out inside her. 

“Already?” Halsin chuckles again. “Do you feel better? Should I stop?” He runs a soothing hand down her spine. 

“Aahh!” Tav moans and pushes back on her knees, forcing him impossibly deeper. “More! Need more!” 

“The potion is stronger than I thought… very well… Hold on to something, dear.” Halsin warns as he wraps his large hands around Tav’s milky hips. He begins thrusting into her hard and with great purpose. Normally he would have to take time to prep his smaller partners, but the effects of the elixir had caused Tav’s body to accept his intrusion hungrily. “So warm… like nothing I’ve ever felt…” Halsin groans as he feels the impossible heat from Tav’s walls pulse around him sensually. 

“Harder! More!” Tav grits out, brow furrowed, fists clenched in Halsin’s sheets. 

Halsin mounts her fully, hunching his back over her to press his chest against her spine. His grip on her hips tightens as he humps into her harder. 

“Yes! Fuck! I-I’m cu-!“ Tav yelps out. “Ah!” 

Halsin feels her cunt clench on him hard again, the familiar spray of liquid a welcome feeling trickling down his thick thighs. After two orgasms, Halsin assumed she would finally be free of the potion’s effects. He pulls out of her and picks her shaking body up and positions her back down on his bed on her back. 

“Better now?” He smiles down at her. 

He was met with an even deeper look of desperation. 

“No. Need more!” Tav gasps out as she locks her arms behind his back. Without warning, Halsin was tossed on his back on the bed and Tav was hovering above him. She grips his dripping cock and lines it up to her sex, sinking down on it quickly. 

“Shiiiit yes…” Tav moans out and throws her head back in pleasure. She begins rocking hard against him, grinding her clit against his pelvis to stimulate all her senses. “Fuuuuck…”

“My darling…” Halsin says hesitantly as he places his gentle hands on her breasts, softly toying with her nipples. “Don’t hurt yourself…” 

“Fill me, Halsin, please!” She cries out loudly. “Breed me, Halsin. I need it!” She slams her hips down onto his impossibly fast. 

An animalistic, bear-like growl leaves Halsin’s lips. 

“You can’t say things like that, little dove.” He grits his teeth, trying to hold back from absolutely ravishing her body. 

“But please! I want you to fill me, need you to fill me! Put your fucking babies into me, Halsin, please!” Tav looks down finally and makes eye contact with the large elf. There was a wild, fiery heat glowing in her eyes. Who was he to deny her?

Halsin plants his feet on his bedroll and growls louder, his large hands moving to her waist. 

"Halsin, Halsin, Halsin!" Tav spills his name like an invocation as she bounces violently on his cock. "Breed me, please, Halsin!"

He uses this newfound leverage to slam his hips up into hers at a brutal pace, lost in the fantasy of filling her up with his seed. How gorgeous she would look swollen and heavy with his young… breasts plump with sweet milk...

“Yes! Yes!” Tav chants towards the sky as a cock-drunk grin spreads across her face. 

“I’ll give you what you need, love… stay still now… shit…” Halsin’s grip on Tav was sure to leave bruises in the morning. Tav was moaning loudly, clearly too far gone in her state to care about anyone else in camp hearing her. “I’m going to fill you now, be good and take it…” He grits out the last bit. 

Tav shrieks as she feels the first wave of hot spend fill her insides. Rope after rope of Halsin’s seed stuffed her to the brim, the druid grunting and panting beneath her, pushing her hips down on his so his tip kissed her cervix directly. 

Halsin breathes heavily as his orgasm abates and leaves Tav finally satisfied. 

“Woah…” Tav dizzily leans forward and collapses against Halsin’s broad chest. 

The pair laid in silence for several minutes catching their breaths. 

“Here, I’m going to lay you down now. I’ll make you some tea.” Halsin says as he lifts Tav off his softening cock and tucks her into his comforter. “Make sure you drink it before tomorrow.” 

“Mhmmmmph.” Tav snuggles tiredly into his mussed sheets, the effects of the potion finally dissipating now that she was stuffed full like a broodmare. She looked too serene in his bed, he couldn’t care less about the large mess she was no doubt leaking onto his mattress. 

So what if she didn’t drink the tea tonight… maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea…

Halsin would have to thank Astarion tomorrow. 

[aprilplage]

Just a little guy who loves his job to the point of being a little creepy 😗👉👈

I finished this on the bus so the lines are a little shaky haha

[aprilplage]

Gaz and Soap use Nikolai as attitude adjustment.

cw: canon typical violence, mild sexual content towards the end.

If Gaz and Soap really want to humble a new trooper that's got a bit arrogant, they won't escalate them to Ghost or Price, because any fresh recruit would expect to be obliterated by fully trained operators at some point during their training; it would be viewed as a privilege to be crushed by the one and only Bravo Six, and Ghost is legendary.

Instead, they put them in a room with Nikolai.

It was Gaz's idea originally. Nik isn't SAS, he's precisely the type of unhinged, formidable opponent these little fucks are going to have to face in the field. In fact, he was one life decision away from being one of their actual enemies. Every time Soap and Gaz have to go toe to toe with the Russians they're sure to thank whatever higher power that they haven't got Nikolai running rings around them rather than waiting to bail them out.

They have one particular scrote who has been pissing them off all week. He thinks he's Billy Big Bollocks and, while he follows the letter of an order, he always likes to think he knows best and... interpret. The sergeants told him to focus on endurance and cardio in his workouts and he continued to build strength, he navigated a river crossing wrong and ended up stranding his crew. Lots of little things that mean if he doesn't shape up then he's gonna fail.

Gaz and Soap take him, and the friends that are beginning to get ideas, to Nik's hanger where he's working.

"Nik, fall in," Gaz calls at the Black Hawk.

Nik drops from the top of the heli where he was doing some maintenance on the main rotary engine, and Soap has to work hard to keep his face serious, because fuck does Nik play his part well.

He's shirtless, sweating from the exertion of turning the big wrench in his hand, and there's grease spattered on his stomach, up his arms. That gold chain really tops off the look, nestled in the fur on his chest, and he looks every bit the Russian mobster. Gaz can see why the captain thirsts so much.

(Not that there's anything wrong with that, sir. You hit that, uh... man, umm..)

"Sergeants," Nik greets them respectfully, and then those dark eyes turn to the trooper standing at their side. To his credit, the kid squares his shoulders and meets Nik's eyes, which is a pretty big ask given Nik's reputation on base. "Between one and ten?" Nik asks, still the very picture of affable civility.

"Four," Soap says, pulling a baton and a coil of rope from his belt. He throws them both to the floor in front of the trooper they've brought for a lesson in respect and listening skills. "Subdue and apprehend."

"What?" The trooper asks, stunned.

"Subdue and apprehend the target," Soap repeats, and then juts his chin after Nikolai. "'E's yer target."

Nik places his wrench down and uses the rag on his workbench to wipe his hands. He is completely unarmed, dressed only in his combat trousers, belted low on his hips, and boots. He glances at the baton and rope on the floor, and then to his intended adversary. "When you are ready, comrade."

The trooper picks up his weapon, glances at his sergeants, the rest of his troop and then flicks the baton out. Nik stands there placidly, hands down by his sides as he flicks his fingers in a little come on gesture. The trooper runs in.

The slap Nikolai lands across the lad's face echoes around the hanger. Even Gaz and Soap grimace, while the other two troopers flinch, their shoulders rising around their ears. The trooper recovers after being forced into the work bench with the force, and leans in for a swing to the gut, which Nik swerves, shoving the incoming shoulder down.

With each failed or blocked attack, Nik retaliates with precision, administering openhanded slaps to the jaw, shoving away or ducking poorly timed swings, before landing a gut punch and then swiping the trooper's boots out from under him. The lad recovers with a decent enough roll and dives in for another, but Nik grabs his shirt and slams him into the side of the Black Hawk. He makes it look easy.

The trooper groans and staggers. Nik growls, irritated. "Pochemi ty tebya ne perestat vyyobyvat’sya, eh?"

"I wouldnae take tha' rookie, he called yer ma a bitch," Soap calls over.

Gaz huffs. "No he didn't."

Soap shrugs then forms his mouth into a grimacing 'ooh' when Nik lands a knee to the bollocks, proceeding to dissect their trainee's defences with brutal efficiency now that he had run out of patience. He grabs the wrist holding the baton, twists and throws his opponent like he's nought but a cheap stuffed toy from the local carnival.

When the lad scrambles to his feet, now without defence, Nik is already waiting with a right hook that sends him down to his knee and three swift kicks to the ribs that takes him the rest of the way to the floor.

Nik rests a boot on the trooper's face, and reaches for the spanner on his workbench. Gaz clears his throat, flashing four fingers with a single shake of the head to remind Nik of the agreed scale, and Nik nods, lifting his hands apologetically before clasping them before his hips. He tuts down at his felled opponent. "Ah, it appears you have been killed, comrade. A shame."

Soap swaggers over, his hands tucked inside his carrier vest, and crouches down by his trainee's head. "An' that was him at a four. Can ye imagine wha' 'e woulda done to ye at ten, eh, hen?" Soaps answer is a groan and a gurgle.

"Nikolai!"

Soap stands abruptly, Gaz straightens and the two intact troopers smack their boots together, backs rigid. Nik looks up more leisurely, his placid, Labrador eyes, now empty of malice, settle on Captain Price, who stands in the shadows of the hanger door, his arms folded. "That's quite enough. I think Reynolds has learned his lesson. Let 'im up."

Nik steps back and tucks his hands behind his back. The way he stands at ease reminds Gaz and Soap that their favourite Russian arms dealer used to wear a uniform instead of a leather jacket, and they're again thankful he bats for their team. Ha, in more ways than one, as it goes.

Reynolds climbs to his feet slowly and rejoins his mates as Gaz dismisses them.

"Get them to mess. It's dinnertime," Price says to his two sergeants, and then looks at Nik. "My office."

Someone unfamiliar with the captain might have missed the way he looked Nik up and down before he turned his back, from scruffy boots to sweating, grease-slick chest, his blue eyes aflame like pilot lights in a bloody gas boiler, but Gaz didn't. He smirks as Nik swaggers past, his jacket slung over his bare shoulder. "You dog," Gaz mutters.

Nik winks at him before he disappears with the - his - captain.

"Really?" Price asks, with a kind of tired exasperation, as they step across the threshold into the pokey little cubby hole he occupies on base.

"I was teaching," Nik says, shoulders rolling in a shrug.

"Yer take far too much joy in slappin' 'round my soldiers, Nik." Price leans against his desk, arms folded, his eyes raking over Nik's body with a white hot desire roiling in his gut.

"You must enjoy your work to perform it to a high standard." Nik strolls up into Price's personal space like he belongs there, nudging the captain's boots apart to make room, gaze dropping to his crotch. "And, perhaps, you enjoy my work too?"

Price chuckles low in his throat. "Yer sick bastard," he growls, reaching to wind his hand through that golden chain and yank Nik down.

The kiss is fierce, tongue licking possessively into Nik's mouth as Nik slots between his legs. Nik's filthy hands find Price's waist and then slide down to his arse for a greedy squeeze, moving to Price's thighs when his knees hook up and over Nik's hips.

"Hng, bloody 'ell, get those fuckin' kecks down and fuck me," Price snarls, still keeping Nik in place by his chain even as he yanks open his belt and fly.

Nik had wanted to finish his repairs, but railing Price over his desk when he looks about ready to devour him feels like a far better use of his time.

[aprilplage]

Didn‘t know i needed this, now i need more. So much moooooooore *manic cackling*

just remembered i have free will as an artist pt.2 😈✨️

[aprilplage]

I love that version but i also think of me in that situation - which means fight or flight at its MAX.

And i mean flight: jumping back and running most of the time into things and hurting myself in the process and fight: i throw anything i can grab at what scared me. After that i get a laughing fit when is realize that i got scared from basically nothing.

Husband Simon Riley who has scared the shit out of you so many times and so badly that on certain occasions you’ve almost cried.

He doesn’t do it on purpose; he swears. He’s just so silent when he moves that you don’t even realise he’s right behind you until you turn around and let out a loud scream.

One night, you’d gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the toilet. You couldn’t be bothered to turn the light on in your on-suite but as you were washing your hands, your saw a massive figure in the doorway. You let out a blood-curdling scream, only realising it was Simon when he switched on the light and looked at you as if he were crazy.

However, when he saw you tip your head into your hands and saw your shoulders shake, heavy with emotion from fear and shock, he knew he had messed up. He gently pulled you into his arms, carrying you back to bed and apologising profusely.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you that bad.”

“Should’ve spoken so you knew I was there, yeah?”

He makes it up to you eventually and promises to start speaking whenever he walks behind you in the future.

[aprilplage]

Nikolai's appetite disappears over night and Price smells a rat.

cw: mention of body shaming, damaged relationship with food.

Nik loved food.

Not in the way that Johnny did, slamming an entire packet of Maryland cookies and then descending into a sugar coma, or the way that Gaz did, by seeing it as fuel to maintain a powerful and efficient body, so every macro counted. But in the way a wine taster did; there wasn't a city on earth where he couldn't steer John to the very best restaurant, be it tiny back alley taverna or sprawling five star hotel.

He loved sampling different cuisines, sourcing exotic dishes and sharing them with John (who had drawn the fucking line at sea urchin and puffer fish, because while he had never considered a rule about eating shit that could kill you in seconds, he made an ardent one in that moment). John reckoned it was a leftover from his army days when he would have had to survive on rat packs and mess food like the rest of them. He was enjoying it now he could.

So, when Nik suddenly stopped eating, it was bloody noticeable.

He'd still take John out, filling his plate and excitedly watching his face as he tried it, but he wouldn't eat himself. And if he did, it was some poxy salad or plain chicken that looked like it hadn't even glimpsed a spice rack. There were empty tupperware containers stacked in the co-pilot chair of the Black Hawk and Nik remained completely sober during a post-mission arse squeak celebration. (Where they had - in Ghost's words - bum squeaked their way through; Price wasn't sure it was technically an idiom, but he let it pass.)

"You watchin' yer figure, Nik?" Price asked finally, reclining in the wicker chair at the little café they'd stopped in. They were just outside Florence, and the tourists were just beginning to slither groggily into the sun.

"Da," Nik tapped his stomach, "I am, what do you call it, spreading?"

"You look fine t' me. More n' fine."

"I have lost some. But I still have more to do." Nik tugged at his sleeve, a self conscious gesture that John had never seen him do, and it set his teeth on edge.

"Did someone say somethin'?"

Nik swallowed and John wished he'd take those bloody aviators off so his eyes were visible. "Not recently."

"Well, this has been goin' on for months," John said, gesturing at the black coffee that comprised Nik's entire breakfast, while John had polished off the continental version of a Full English. "So out with it. Who said what?"

"I..." Nik cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. "I was not wearing a shirt on a beach in America, visiting Laswell, and a group of young women advised me to go to the gym."

"You can olympic press Ghost."

"Da."

"You can bench press over twice your own bodyweight."

"Mm, da."

"I think you go to the gym plenty."

Nik went silent. He wasn't looking at John, which meant he was embarrassed and not sure how to recover. Whatever this was, whatever had been said, he would have retaliated with his usual bolshy dismissal at the time, but up there in his Heli it would have buzzed around in his head in the quiet until it got its barbs in.

"Fer a smart bloke, you 'n' 'alf thick sometimes."

"That is what I am trying to fi--"

"Not what I meant, Nikolai." John sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard as he considered Nik's slumped shoulders. "You're good-lookin', fit, hotshot pilot with yer gold chain. This is the first time some horrid cow has said somethin' cruel, I bet."

"I might have let myself go."

"You're fifty. It's allowed," John said. "But you haven't. Yer just as built as when we first met."

"I was thirty, John. That is not possible."

"I don't think I stuttered there, but I might be wrong..."

Nik tsked at him and wrapped his arms over his chest. He tried to make it look nonchalant but it was absolutely a barrier. "I am feeling self-conscious. It will pass. I do not wish to talk about it."

"Tough shit, Nik. We're talkin' about it." John scraped his chair loudly around the table and crowded into Nik's space, leaning down with his elbows on his knees to look up into the forlorn expression on his lover's face. "If - and I mean if - I thought your health was at risk, or you were lettin' yourself go, you not think I'd get you runnin' laps with my new crop until you were fit to run missions with my team again?"

"Da, I would expect nothing less."

"Yer part of my task force, Nik. I don't accept anythin' but the best. No exceptions. Tell me I'm wrong."

"I cannot."

"And has my performance between the sheets been any less enthusiastic?"

"Nyet..."

"Right, so, engage that mensa level intelligence of yours and compute the obvious bloody conclusion."

John reached forward, continuing even when Nik tried to recoil, to run his hands beneath his shirt. Nik's belly was warm, the hair on it soft, and John wanted nothing more than to rub his damn face into it.

"I know it's gonna take time to rebuild yer confidence, Nik. Not sure yer tellin' me the whole story but whatever they said, they're wrong. Women like that, they're cruel for sport. You could look like, uh... whathisname, Chris Hemsworth, 'n' they'd still say somethin'. Gives 'em a way to cover up their own insecurity, right?"

There was a small smile of amusement and Nik's arms fell away, letting John run his hands a little higher. "I am impressed you remembered the name of an actor, captain."

"Yeah, I watched a whole film the other night..."

Nik smiled. "A whole film. Impressive."

"Cheers." John lifted his hand to cup Nik's jaw, one hand on his knee. "Still wet my knickers for you, Nik, but tell me what else I can do t' help."

"Nothing, I am... I will be fine."

"Not like you to let some bird get under your skin like that. Sure there's nothin' else?"

Nik cleared his throat, looked to the side and then finally at John's face. "You do not wish to trade me in for a newer model?"

"Jesus fuck... waiter, il conto, per favore."

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the hotel room."

"Why?"

"'M gonna shag your brains out, since they're not functionin' particularly well on the inside. Up. Double time."

Nik reached for his wallet to pay but John had already slapped his credit card on the scanner by the time he looked up. He grabbed Nik's hand and dragged him down the few blocks to their hotel, where he intended to spend the rest of the afternoon making Nik feel like the hottest piece of arse on the planet.

[aprilplage]

Wrote this up with some help from @fishsinsareacknowledged , please check out their cod content it's so yummy!!!

Nikto who acts like a territorial and hypervigilent guard dog whenever a repairman/electrician is in the home. He doesn't like it. He can do it just fine, take care of your home. Ask for him- no need for a guy to come over. Nikto you can't fix wires for shit dear

He's constantly hovering- stoic and watching. Monitoring, he likes to call it. You think he's trying to set the poor repairman on fire with his stare. Stood in the doorway with his arms crossed firmly across his broad chest, icy feline eyes staring at him like the man was a juicy mouse.

Nikto who makes useful commentary orders towards the repair guy.

"Hurry".

"Hm. You are using the wrong tool, here, this is better".

"Do this- not like that".

Nikto who won't leave you alone in a room with the man. He's peering over his shoulder to keep an eye on you- paranoid about a stranger being in your safe space. He's not distrustful of you- far from it. He'd let you hold a razor to his throat and not feel an ounce of fear. It's this stranger he doesn't trust.

Afterwards he's sombre. Solemn. Paws at the nape of your neck with a warm palm, grumbling a deep gravely sigh- a sigh of relief now that this unfamiliar man and his unfamiliar smell is out of your home now.

"we were...Hostile. Very sorry llubov". He struggles to swallow his own words, but his eyes are sincere. You scratch at his chin playfully. He melts against your nails.

"guard dog".

"yes ma'am".

[aprilplage]

It’s been a minute - the last two weeks have been mind bogglingly stupid. But hopefully things are settling now? Idk anyway - consider this something to tide yall over until I can put out the Price/Reader/Simon fic

I am thinking about that threshold of dating when you get past all the prettiness. Like, when being human just becomes part of the relationship. It stops being carefully picked outfits, styled hair, nice perfume/cologne, careful bites of food.

I’m talking about the intimacy of stupid, stupid shit. I’m talking about the first time Krueger calls your name and you reply in a little gremlin voice “wHaT”.

I’m talking about Simon bringing home a treat for you and you do a weird little run, arms swinging and knees coming up too high, to get it from him.

Kyle staring in a mix of horror and fond exasperation as you quote, word for word and perfect intonation, your favorite bit from a YouTube video or tv show or comedy special.

Baffling Nikto by having a stupid ongoing bit that he doesn’t understand and you refuse to explain. Something like, “and I’m gonna eat your captain, of course”. What does that mean? You’re going to eat him?? “Yeah, with salt and butter. Nom nom.”

You pull that bit where you do shitty cosplays of characters. Johnny nearly pissed himself when you wandered into the kitchen covered in green paint with construction paper ears, mumbling in a little old man voice “consume cheez-its, I must, or rip Kenobi a new one, I will.”

Dancing badly, like not even cute badly, just BADLY in the kitchen or while you’re cleaning. It looks almost like you’re having a seizure really. Price is about two seconds from banning that “shake it” song by neon trees

Konig fears “Squirrel Girl” - his pretty little girlfriend disappears to be replaced with this creature that mutters about nesting and acorns and hibernating for winter.

Keegan just about died of embarrassment the first time you pretended his dick was microphone and leaned in close, saying “is this thing on? What’s the deal with airplane food?”

On that note - Gromsko didn’t realize having a pretty little stay at home wife like a traditional marriage meant his dick becomes fair game. She’s grabbin’ him like a handful of candies. When he asks why she points and says “that’s mine by law” and puts a bottle cap on it. “He’s got a hat now”. You make fantastic pies but you also keep asking to hold it while he pees.

You fuss at Velikan to hold still so you can preen in the visor of his helmet. You also put stickers on it and purposefully guilt trip him if he tries to remove it.

Oh and stealing clothes? Oh sure a t-shirt is hot. But their workout shorts? Their underwear or ugly military socks? Sooooo much better than the cute silk set you bought when you first started dating - for you, anyway.

I’m just so here for the weird intimacy of people moving past the aesthetic honeymoon phase of their relationship. Especially when it’s one of the guys who def hasn’t been in a comfortable long term relationship before (like konig or simon).

Same vibes as that time Robert Pattinson invited his stalker out to dinner and she lost interest because he simultaneously so weird but so boring. Not cute weird shit, just weird shit that you would never do in front of anyone else. Stupid, ugly faces and funky voices/impressions and cursed walking/running around.

[aprilplage]

I wanna sink my teeth into the dislike between KorTac and the 141 I’ve created in my head.

I just know Captain Price is so dangerously polite whenever they encounter operators in a non hostile environment, it makes Colonel König grind his molars with irrational irritation.

Kyle gives all of them his signature sweeping look of disdain. Simon and Johnny are absolutely spoiling for a fight, as is Krueger. It’s like holding a match to dry kindling, a bonfire ready to spit flames.

Nikto is bored, glacial eyes rolling as he spits his cigarette butt into the dust.

Horangi literally couldn’t care less as long as he gets paid. Not a single fuck given.

[aprilplage]

Day 5 of 31 days of COD

Word count: 2.3k

Relationships: 141 as family

Tags: Character study (kind of), ghosts relationship with food, talk of past starvation

Price had seen men who ate with discipline. He’d seen soldiers who treated food as fuel and nothing more, men who ate quickly so they could get back to the fight. But Ghost—Ghost was different. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3 Please don't read if it will harm you!

Price had seen men who ate with discipline. He’d seen soldiers who treated food as fuel and nothing more, men who ate quickly so they could get back to the fight. But Ghost—Ghost was different.

Price noticed it during their first mission together after Mexico, the way Ghost barely touched the rations, how he always seemed indifferent to food altogether. While the rest of the team would wolf down their meals after a hard day, Ghost would sit apart, mask half-raised just enough to eat mechanically, the food barely disappearing from his plate.

Price couldn’t blame him—Ghost had seen more than his fair share of suffering, been through things Price could only guess at. But the way Ghost treated food was unsettling. He ate as if it were a chore, something he had to endure but took no pleasure in. Sometimes, Price wondered if Ghost would’ve skipped eating altogether if it wouldn’t draw attention.

It wasn’t long before Price started to realise something: Ghost didn’t seem to eat until everyone else was done. Always the last one to touch his food, always picking at it, eyes distant and unreadable behind the mask.

“He’s like a machine,” Price muttered to himself one night as he watched Ghost push food around his plate again.

But he wasn’t a machine. He was a man—a man who never seemed to enjoy the simple act of feeding himself.

---

Soap was the first to notice how quiet Ghost was during meals. He wasn’t just quiet—he was silent. Even on the good days, when the team bantered and laughed, Ghost rarely said a word. He’d sit at the edge of the table, always near an exit, eating with deliberate, methodical movements. It was like he was somewhere else, far from the mess hall or the campfire.

At first, Soap assumed it was just Ghost being, well, Ghost. The man was silent in almost everything he did. But it started to feel different around mealtimes, like Ghost wasn’t just quiet because he didn’t want to talk—he was quiet because he didn’t want to be noticed.

One day, after a particularly brutal mission, the team gathered to eat around a fire, exhausted but grateful to be alive. Soap joked around, tossing comments at Gaz and Price, but when he glanced at Ghost, he saw the man wasn’t even looking at his plate. He was staring off into the distance, hands still, as if he’d forgotten the food was even there.

Soap, always the one to poke and prod, decided to press. “Ghost, mate, you gonna eat or stare at it until it gets cold?”

Ghost’s eyes flickered over, but his response was as indifferent as ever. “I’m fine.”

But Soap wasn’t buying it. He’d seen Ghost in the field, seen him push his body to the limit without a word of complaint. The man was relentless. But this—this was different. It wasn’t about discipline. It was about something deeper.

Soap let it go for the night, but the image stuck with him—Ghost sitting there, food untouched, eyes hollow behind the mask.

---

Gaz wasn’t one to interfere with anyone’s habits, but over time, he started to see patterns in Ghost’s behaviour that unsettled him. It wasn’t just that Ghost ate little and said even less—it was the way he seemed to treat food as a necessity he didn’t want to admit to. Like he was trying to deny something his body clearly needed.

Gaz thought back to a mission in the desert. They’d been on the move for days with minimal supplies, and by the time they’d reached an extraction point, everyone was running on fumes. The second they got back to base, the team devoured their rations with the ravenous hunger of men who’d been pushed to their limits.

But Ghost had waited. He sat there, watching the others eat, hands still, his face hidden beneath the mask. When he finally did start eating, it was slow—almost too slow, as if each bite had to be earned.

That was when Gaz started to wonder: Had Ghost been starved before?

He knew Ghost’s past was filled with trauma—stories whispered about what Simon Riley had survived. Torture, abuse, betrayal.

Gaz wasn’t naïve enough to ask, but something about the way Ghost treated food as a burden made it clear: hunger wasn’t a stranger to him. It was something he’d lived through, something that had left its mark.

One night, after another long mission, Gaz made a quiet observation. “You know, Ghost…you don’t have to earn your meals here.”

Ghost didn’t look up from his plate. He didn’t answer. But the silence felt different this time. He didn’t shrug off the comment, didn’t deflect it with his usual indifference. He just kept eating, slowly, methodically, as if Gaz’s words had struck something deeper than he’d ever admit.

---

Soap was the first to offer something off his own plate, casually sliding over a piece of steak one night when they were at base. It wasn’t much—a tiny, almost insignificant gesture—but the way Ghost looked at it made Soap pause. There was a flicker of hesitation, something between disbelief and discomfort.

“Not a fan of this part,” Soap explained, gesturing at his plate. “You can have it if you want. Need more protein anyway, right?”

Ghost’s eyes flicked from Soap to the offered food, and for a brief moment, he seemed to weigh his options. Finally, without a word, he accepted it, his gloved hand moving silently as he took the piece of steak.

Soap didn’t make a big deal out of it. He didn’t want to. But when Ghost finished his meal that night, Soap felt like something had shifted—something small, but important.

The next day, Gaz left his tomatoes untouched. “Never liked these,” he said casually, pushing them toward Ghost. Ghost’s gaze lingered on them for a moment before he reached out and claimed the offering, silently nodding his thanks. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a step toward something deeper—toward a shared understanding.

---

Price understood that Ghost had a complicated relationship with food. He saw the way the man held back, eating in calculated bites, as if every morsel had to be earned. Price didn’t want to push, but he also knew that sometimes, Ghost needed to be reminded that here, in this squad, things were different.

So, one evening after a particularly rough mission, Price suggested something different. “Let’s cook something proper tonight. We earned it.”

They had fresh supplies from a nearby base, and the team set up a makeshift grill near the campfire. It was a rare chance for something better than rations, and while the others jumped in, joking about who was the worst cook, Ghost stayed on the edge of the group, watching.

Price caught his eye. “C’mon, Simon. You’ve done more than enough to earn a real meal.”

Ghost hesitated, but something in Price’s tone—firm but not demanding—got through. He stepped closer, taking a spot near the grill. Price handed him a spatula without a word. It wasn’t about forcing him to cook; it was about making him a part of the process, showing him that this was something they could do together. Something they all earned.

When they finally sat down to eat, Ghost ate with them. He didn’t rush, but there was a difference—a quiet acceptance that for tonight, at least, he didn’t have to justify each bite.

---

After a few weeks of watching Ghost pick at his food or trade bites with the team, Soap came up with an idea. During one meal, he nudged Ghost with his elbow, keeping his tone light. “We should make a deal, yeah? You eat the stuff I don’t like, and I’ll eat the stuff you leave behind. Fair trade.”

Ghost’s brow furrowed behind the mask, clearly uncertain. Soap chuckled. “C’mon, it’ll be like the old days. You used to swap food in school, right?”

Ghost didn’t answer, but after a long pause, he nodded slightly. From then on, it became a kind of unspoken agreement. When Soap pushed something across the table—be it a slice of overripe fruit or some overly spiced vegetables—Ghost would accept it. And in return, Soap would take the smallest things Ghost left behind, almost imperceptibly lightening Ghost’s burden.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to show Ghost that here, among his team, he didn’t have to carry everything alone.

---

Over time, the team began to notice a shift in Ghost’s behaviour. It was subtle, almost imperceptible at first. But once they started paying attention, it was clear: Ghost wasn’t avoiding food like he used to.

Price noticed that Ghost no longer waited until everyone was done before eating. He’d start his meal with the others, still quiet, still measured, but not as distant. Soap began to see him engaging a little more during mealtimes, even if it was just a word or two. Gaz observed that Ghost didn’t push his food around as much—he ate with purpose, not as if it were a necessary evil.

There were still days when Ghost seemed to withdraw, when the past resurfaced and eating became a task to endure. But there were more days now when Ghost joined them fully—silent but present, eating like the rest of the team.

One evening, when they were all sitting around the fire after a successful mission, Soap spoke up.

“You know, Ghost,” he said carefully, “you’ve been doing better with the grub lately.”

Ghost looked up, his mask casting shadows over his face. “What do you mean?”

Soap shrugged, keeping it casual. “You don’t seem to hate it as much anymore. Thought you might be warming up to the idea of eating with us.”

For a moment, there was only the crackle of the fire between them. Then Ghost, in his quiet way, responded. “Maybe I’m just learning there’s more to it than just staying alive.”

Price exchanged a look with Gaz. They understood. It wasn’t just about food—it was about control, survival, and trust. Ghost had spent years deprived of all three, and only now, after years with the team, was he learning to reclaim those things in small ways.

---

As the years passed, the team saw Ghost’s relationship with food continue to change. He still ate with discipline, still viewed food as fuel first and foremost. But there were moments now—rare, but growing more frequent—when Ghost seemed to take something else from it. Maybe it was the comfort of routine, the warmth of sharing a meal with his team, or the small joy of a hot meal after a cold mission.

Price noticed it first—Ghost reaching for seconds after a particularly gruelling op, something he never would’ve done in the early days. Soap spotted him lingering at the table after breakfast, nursing a cup of coffee instead of rushing off. And Gaz saw the subtle relaxation in Ghost’s posture when they ate together, as if he finally trusted that the food would always be there, and that he didn’t have to fight for every bite.

One evening, after a mission that left them all exhausted and bruised, the team gathered around a campfire to eat. The food was simple—rations, barely more than sustenance—but for the first time, Ghost didn’t sit apart. He sat with them, mask raised just enough to eat, his presence a quiet acceptance of something he had denied himself for so long.

“You alright there, Ghost?” Soap asked, breaking the silence as they all dug in.

Ghost didn’t look up, but there was something softer in his voice when he replied. “Yeah. I’m good.”

And in that moment, the team knew—they’d helped Ghost find something he never knew he needed. Not just food, but the warmth of a shared meal, the comfort of trust, and the peace of knowing that, here with them, he was safe.

---

As Ghost grew more comfortable, something subtle began to change in the way he approached meals. It wasn’t immediate, but there were moments now—small but significant—where Ghost seemed to relax, to take a breath and be present with the team.

One night, after a long mission, Soap handed him a plate and added a wink. “Figured you earned an extra helping tonight, mate.”

Ghost didn’t push it away. He didn’t say anything, but he sat down with the others, mask lifted just enough to eat. He still ate slowly, methodically, but there was a shift. When Soap handed him a piece of bread, Ghost accepted it without hesitation. When Price offered to share some of his coffee, Ghost took it, a silent nod of thanks exchanged.

The team noticed, but they didn’t say a word. They didn’t need to.

---

As Ghost began to accept more from his team, he also found small ways to show the others he understood. He’d never admit it out loud, but when someone left a piece of bread uneaten or picked at their food, Ghost would quietly take it without comment, ensuring nothing went to waste. Ghost knew better than anyone how crucial that was.

One night, when Price left a few scraps on his plate, Ghost picked them up without a word and finished them. Price raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Still hungry?” Gaz asked with a teasing grin.

Ghost didn’t respond, but Price gave a small smile. He knew what Ghost was doing—it was his way of contributing, of making sure they all understood. And even if Ghost would never admit it, Price appreciated it. It was Ghost’s way of reciprocating, meeting them in the middle. Even though he would never admit to it, they knew, and that was enough.

[aprilplage]

Price, smashing people to smithereens on the practice mat:

Nikolai, with a shrug: It is the elder millennial rage. We promised them the world if they worked hard enough and then blew it up in their faces as soon as it was their turn to run things.

A random recruit goes airborne with a squeal, the others look terrified.

Nik, waving dismissively: Let him get it out of his system, he will be back to obedient servitude with only minor acts of rebellion tomorrow.

[aprilplage]

Roach is the type of guy to create a website and rate his team based on personality, craftsmanship, communication skills, etc.

Soap is the type of guy to yell-type in Scottish every time he receives a low rating, or a negative comment.

Ghost is the type of guy who tries to hack and find out who posted his pictures on the website with the caption "Ghost caught on camera in an active military facility"

Gaz is the type of guy preventing the attacks and supplying more photos (being paid by Roach for this, ofc, with very high ratings)

Price is the type of guy who interrogates the team and removes team privileges one by one, because someone keeps posting pictures of his backside on a special page on the website dedicated to his "cake"

[aprilplage]

colonel könig is canon to me

[aprilplage]

In the shower after Nikolai dominates Price in the ring. Here is Part 1.

cw: dom Nik and sub Price, choking (properly this time), frotting, handjob, brief oral, captain’s first subspace; there are no safe words here nor clear cut negotiation. It’s as messy as the two men involved. @jgvfhl has been waiting patiently, so cheers, bud! (Also @aprilplage and @27potatochips were interested? Apologies if not.)

Price stood under the hot shower with his hands on the cool tiles and his head bowed. He tried to focus on the sensation of the water running over his skin, the faint smell of bleach that lingered in the air, the thrum of the old boiler working over time, anything to ground him. His prick ached, standing erect and untouched, and he stared at it with lidded eyes, the flushed skin blurred through the steam and droplets of water on his lashes.

He's never felt like this before. It was like he was floating just outside his body, and yet, somehow, every part of him was sensitive, primed. The world had soft edges, muted almost, but he could tune into a single droplet of water tracking down his spine. He knew it was connected to what had happened in the ring - had felt it descending while he knelt at Nik’s feet - but it was… alien. He felt vulnerable, like he was balancing on a precipice and he could tumble over if he lost focus for even a second, and it… it fucking frightened him, and Price wasn’t accustomed to fear.

This was a bloody nightmare. How could he want such things? Why did the thought of such a violent loss of control not make him balk? He was an officer, decorated, meant to be the best, this was a fuckin’ disgrace, this–

A large shadow loomed behind him. He felt its presence before he heard the footfalls of the man it belonged to splash into the pools of water around the drain, scent gathering in the whirls of steam around his face. He didn't turn - couldn't turn - to reveal his predicament, but that didn't matter. The shadow came to him, a big hand settling cautiously on his hip, Nik's musky cologne distinct to Price’s sensitive nose.

Price didn't pull away. Nik's fingertips sent sparks skittering over his skin, and Price dropped his chin to inspect those weatherbeaten fingers as they gently traced a small scar that curled over his hip bone. In that moment, they were the center of his entire universe.

“Tell me no,” Nik said in a low timber that shot straight to Price's groin. The word should have fallen out of his mouth easily, and he knew Nik would respect it. But Price said nothing, his head bowing further between his shoulders as Nik stepped closer. That hand drifted to Price’s stomach, nails raking through the soft trail of hair around his belly button just as warm lips pressed to slant of muscle sweeping down from Price’s neck. “Tell me no, John.”

There was still a tiny distance between Nik’s body and his. Price could feel the brush of damp hair against his back, knowing Nikolai’s impressive chest pinned him made his mouth water, the whisper of something big against the curves of his arse, and every muscle fiber, every inch of skin, tingled with the need to feel it all. At first, he resisted, holding fast, his fingers curling into his palms. Nik didn't push, only stroked that small area just below where his belt should sit; intimate, never easily accessed, and Price thought he might crack in half if he didn't feel the whole of Nik against him in the next thirty seconds.

Price pressed his knuckles into the tiles and arched his body back a little further, moaning softly when he met the resistance of Nik’s body; the immovable bulwark that had forced Price to the ground and ripped his control away, arm at his throat, strong legs pinning his hips. Nik flattened the hand on Price’s belly and held him there, the thick heft of his cock against the cleft of Price's backside, unashamed of his arousal. He opened his mouth to suck a deeper kiss into Price's neck, and stroked up Price’s torso to cup his chest. “I know what you need,” Nik whispered against Price's skin, “but you need to be good for me. You need to relax.”

Price was pulled taut, his back rigid, his arms firm. A gulf yawned out before him and Nik was asking him to fall into it, trusting that his arms would be there to catch him. Price let out a shaky breath, his chest burning from where he'd been holding it, and slowly tilted his head back to Nik's shoulder. The water hit his face and his eyes blinked furiously into the spray, resisting the urge to close because that was the next step, wasn't it? Closing his eyes surrendered his link to the world to Nik’s care.

Nik turned his face into the bristles of Price's beard and nuzzled with a contented hum. He stroked a nipple between finger and thumb, a soft touch that still made it harden with pleasure, sending sparks through Price’s chest, his knees shaking. “Ty kraséevyi…” Nik murmured breathlessly, relishing the responsiveness of Price's body to his touch. “So eager.”

“Nik, please.” Price didn't mean for it to sound like a sob, but it did and he clenched his teeth with the shame of it, his quivering cock no less desperate as it curved upwards, drooling.

Nik followed the contour of Price’s chest and collarbone to his throat, teasing his bobbing Adam's apple before his palm flattened. His thumb and fingers pressed into the soft skin beneath the hinge of Price’s jaw and squeezed. Price let out a soft, choked moan, his eyes rolling back as his body throbbed with relief and euphoria.

It wasn’t the same chokehold as on the mat, a ruthless crushing of the windpipe to cause as much damage as possible, but he still felt the soreness there and it only added to the descent. If his mind had been clear Price might have identified the reason for the lightheadedness, the rush, as a restriction of his carotid artery, but all he could think about was how easily Nik could snap his neck. How little effort it would take for that huge palm to clamp down and Price's consciousness - his life - to slip away if Nik willed it. He had worked with Nik for so many years, knew what he was capable of, and the sick thrill of it made Price feel weak.

“Beautiful,” Nik repeated in English this time, his voice deep and husky at Price's ear, “the way you want to give yourself to me like this.”

Price growled. Or tried to. It started deep in his chest and ended in a choked gasp as Nik tightened his grip on his throat enough to make stars glitter behind his eyelids. Putting him squarely back in his place. The noise that punched out his chest was more snarl than moan, but Nik sounded delighted. “Or do you wish to fight me again? You want me to take ownership of you, tame you like an animal, captain?”

The hand that had steadied Price at his belly now slid lower, over his thigh and then up the inside to cup his sac in the seat of his palm. Price felt more vulnerable like this, Nik’s big hands cradling the most vulnerable parts of him, than if he had a gun pressed to his temple. His limbs were glued in place, rigid with obedience and desperation, paralysed by Nik’s touch and the silky rumble of his voice.

“But I think you would prefer me to take, no?” Nik licked and bit at Price’s ear, then trailed down the edge of his jaw through his beard. Price's fingers gripped at the tiles, nails digging into the grout, meek little noises escaping his throat as his prick drooled precum over the back of Nik’s wrist. Nik played with his balls, squeezing, tugging, and then let them slide along the top of his thick shaft as he slid it between Price's thighs. “Legs together, captain.”

Price did as he was told. Limbs that had been leaden suddenly inspired into action by Nik's command. He clamped around the hard length of Nik’s cock, the velvet soft skin of it bloody beautiful against his inner thighs. Nik groaned, nuzzling his face into Price's wet hair as he rocked back and forth, shifting his prick only a few inches at a time. “Mm, ya vsyu zhizn' zhdala tebya…”

“Nik, fuck… N-Ni–ah…” Price felt the pressure against his taint, nudging beneath his balls, and then Nik’s big palm wrapped his cock, stroking in time with the slow roll of his hips. The friction walked the fine line of too much, but this wasn't entirely about pleasure. It was about ownership, just like Nik had promised. Nik was using Price's body as he wanted, choking it, restraining it, pleasuring it and taking pleasure from it. Price had no choice but to obey.

“I know you want more,” Nik said, his voice thick and low with lust. “But I will use your hole in private, where I can… mm, where I can take my time with you, where.. ahh, good boy… where no one can interrupt.”

Price panted, whimpered, subdued by the large hand at his throat, intoxicated by the power of Nik’s body rutting against him, his mind unable to focus on anything but the blind obedience demanded of him.

If he lifted his hands from the tiles he lost his one anchor to the world, he threw himself purely to Nik’s mercy, to keep him standing, to hold his body as he used it. Nik’s fist moved faster, thumb sweeping the precum from Price’s slit, squeezing on the upstroke with every slap of his hips against Price’s backside. Nik bit marks into his shoulder through low moans, and listening to Nik grow increasingly erratic, losing himself in dominating Price’s body, threatened to throw Price over the brink. “John, you’re so… good, ya mechtayu o tvoyem tele… mm, ah… hochyu tebya… yebanyi, ah!”

Nik pulled away and spun Price, pushing his back to the wall with a hand returning to his throat, their lips crushing together in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and a burning passion that stung. The fingers that had teased Price’s cock now took one of his wrists, pinning it to the cool tiles and then sliding up until they intertwined with Price’s. “Is this what you want—what you need, solnyshko?” Nik whispered into the bristles of Price’s beard, biting gently at the line of his jaw.

Price couldn’t speak. Words seemed impossible. Instead, he squeezed the hand in his and rolled his hips into Nik’s, tilting his head to capture Nik’s lips, his mouth yielding to the tongue that licked into it immediately. The hard line of Nik’s body trapping him to the wall, the feel of his thighs, the pelt of hair down his torso that Price was going to bury his face in later rubbing into his skin, slick with water and precum, the bite of Nik’s teeth in his throat, in the meat of his shoulder, it built to a dizzying, overwhelming crescendo. Price finally cried out, his knees giving way as his cock spilled between them. Nik held him up, one arm looping around Price’s waist as his cock twitched and spent in the curve of Nik’s hip.

”So good, John… look at you, kraséevyi…”

Nik lowered Price carefully to the floor, leaving him on his knees as he rose back to his full height, taking the back of Price’s head to feed his cock into the slack mouth awaiting it. Price felt like he was floating on air, his open hands turned up on his thighs, his shoulders and back slumped, and the velvet steel of Nik’s cock on his tongue felt like a divine fucking rite.

Nik was close; his balls drawn tight, teetering on the edge, and it took only a handful of thrusts into Price’s eager mouth before he was spending down his throat. Price’s eyes rolled back at the rich, musky taste of him, choking on it even as he lapped at the underside of Nik’s glans, his eyes watering, cum spilling over his lips and down his chin.

Two strong hands slipped around his head and held it, Nik’s forehead pressed to his, and they knelt in breathless silence under the torrent of hot water together, their tryst washed away and leaving only their quivering bodies as evidence of what had happened. Price had thought he was listless before, but now he was floating outside himself, the warm buzz burrowing deep into his bones, a dreamy calm blanketing his mind where before there had been anxious unease. He was so aware of every inch of his body, and every part of Nik touching him, every kiss that Nik pressed to his face; beneath his eyes, on his cheeks, his lips, his chin. Price had never felt anything like it, had never felt as close to another person as he did now, mentally, physically... fuck, emotionally. It was difficult to clutch onto a thought. All he wanted to do was sleep.

Price didn’t remember how they got back to his room, only the warm towel wrapped around his body and the soft fleece of his joggers, followed by the familiar comfort of his bunk and Nik’s heavy body pressed close in the quiet. He lashed out a hand and Nik caught it, guiding it down to his face where he kissed it gently. “Rest, I have you.”

I have you.

And Price trusted that he did.

It was so easy to give into the heavy weight pulling him under.

Price slept heavier than he had in years, his body a deadweight against Nik’s chest, and when he surfaced the world returned in a thick fog. He saw the flickering red numbers of his alarm clock first—2200–fuck, when—had he? He had slept away the entire afternoon and evening. “Fu—ck.”

”Ahh, welcome back to the land of the living,” Nik said softly, and Price rolled over. It was difficult. The bunk was built for one man and Nik wasn’t exactly a small second. By the time Price had settled, he was so close their noses touched and his entire vision was consumed by sleepy brown eyes. “We need to talk, Jonathan.”

Price swallowed hard, his toes curling, his cheeks warming. “Yeah," he croaked, his voice raw. "Reckon we do.”

[aprilplage]

Nik and Price get in the ring after the sergeants tire of them heckling from the ropes. Bravo Six learns something new about himself.

CW: blatant sexual tension; mention of choking out in an MMA context; desire for forced submission (and being very into it but also bloody terrified by that desire).

"MacTavish, stop droppin' your hands! KorTac'd walk an entire detachment through that guard," Price called from Soap's left just as Gaz locked his arm, twisted and threw him over his shoulder, "fuck, Christ."

Price rubbed his eyes and glanced over at Nik through the eventual gaps in his fingers. Nik had been clapping and whooping enthusiastically every time Gaz had landed a blow, drowning out the thump-thump of the sergeants' preferred playlist, and now he was beaming from ear to ear. "Kharoshaya rabota, well done!" Nik called, thick forearms slanting across the rope as Gaz bound Soap's chest and arm up into an arm bar.

Nik was looking frustratingly good that evening, the drop tank he'd thrown on to lift weights with Ghost hanging low under his arms, giving Price far too good a view of the heavy set physique beneath. He'd been worried about getting caught staring at the dumbbell rack while Nik had counted through the reps of a single arm row, every line and tendon in his shoulder and tricep pressing through sweat-sheened skin, so he had spent a bit longer on squats, hoping the burn in his thighs overcame the burn somewhere else.

Price figured it was the easy confidence with which Nik carried himself that had always drawn his eye. Open chested, spread arms, hips first. Not afraid to be looked at and proud of what he had to display. And what's worse? Price was pretty fucking sure Nik knew he was looking. Played up to it, in fact. Funny for him, miserable for Price. Bastard.

Gaz rolled away as Soap tapped out, panting from the exertion of keeping Soap subdued, hands on his knees, but grinning right back at Nik. "Ochin mela, spasiba bolshoya.*

"Ahh, and your Russian is coming on well, my brother. Soon you will be wooing all the ladies, eh? Heh heh."

"Learned from the best, mate," Gaz said as he bounded over to take Nik's hand and bump their shoulders together.

Price eyeballed Soap as he clambered to his feet with a groan. "What the fuck was that? I've seen better footwork on crows fresh out of selection."

"Aye, well," Soap flexed backwards, his hands at the base of his spine, "nae my fault Gaz's b'in trainin' with daddy KGB over there."

Price grabbed Soap by the jaw. "Should send you on a yomp at 0400 tomorrow for that kinda talk. Stop makin' excuses." Soap grimaced and Price saw the sting of his words pass through his eyes before they drifted across to Gaz. Price squinted. "You broken?"

"Naw, sir."

"Then get the fuck back over there and wipe the floor with him. Stop taking the bait he's layin' out for you." Price shoved Soap's jaw away from him and slumped back against the ropes.

The sergeant bashed his fists together in front of his chest and turned back into the ring with a look of determination, bumping gloves with Gaz before pulling back to start the next round. He didn't allow himself to be led by the nose this time, circling with nifty footwork, swaying away from a mean right hook that narrowly missed his jaw.

"That's it, don't let him dictate the fight," Price said.

"Eh, sir, you playin' favourites?" Gaz called, his smile never fading as he teased Soap into another right hook, dancing deftly out of range.

"Neither of you qualify. Simon's my favourite."

Said Lieutenant was currently sitting by the speaker with a battered Terry Pratchett novel, his tupperware of steak and garlic potatoes balanced on his knee so that he could eat and read simultaneously. He might have smirked, but the overloaded fork of protein and carbs he shovelled into his mouth hid it from view.

"Och, didn't even hesitate. Cold," Soap said.

"Fuckin' baltic, mate - oop! Nearly, Tav." Gaz dodged out of Soaps attempted clinch, light on his feet, and bounced back round.

The playlist flicked over to yet another generic anthem dredged from the seedy club scene and Price glanced over his shoulder. "Turn that shit down, Simon."

The lieutenant obliged without looking up, if only by a few notches, before his hand returned to his fork.

"Easy, Gaz, you must watch his right leg," Nik said.

"Cheat," Price grunted.

"Poshel tuy, what's good for Soap is good for Gaz." Nik damn near pouted, arms folding across his broad chest as he quirked an eyebrow in challenge.

"Come over here and tell me to fuck myself in my own gym," Price growled back, bristling. Nik only smiled at him toothily, a glint in his eye and a tilt of the head that said 'I'd love to' in a way that made heat lick down Price's spine. It drove him crazy, how Nik could have that effect without even touching him. It was a distraction though; Price looked back to the fight only to spot Soap's demise a second later. "Soap, d--"

An overstep. A throw. An attempted grapple on the floor, followed by a deep sprawl that allowed Gaz to force Soap into the mat. Soap tried to flip onto his back, but within moments Gaz was sitting on his chest and raining punches down on the backs of his gloves as he shielded his head.

Price let Soap take a reasonable beating as punishment for his poor focus before barking from the ropes. "Callin' it, Garrick, get off his sorry arse."

Gaz rolled onto his feet and Soap grunted as he sat up. "Ah need tae get a few sessions in with Nik..."

"Nah, ya need t' get your head in the fight," Price replied. "Maybe turn your drum and bass shite down so you can focus."

"It's not drum and bass, s--"

"Can it, Garrick."

"Sir."

Soap jutted his lower lip, grabbing the lower rope for support as he stood. "Ah think ye should come show me how it's done," Soap murmured, pulling out his gum shield to flex his jaw. "Get in here n' kick th' shit outta him, rather n' gripin' from the sidelines."

"Oh ho ho, no way, he's not sandbaggin' me," Gaz lifted his gloves in immediate surrender. "He can pick on someone his own size. You're up, Nik."

Nik's face lit up with the most feral fucking grin Price had ever seen on a man. "I am ready if you are, captain."

Price could feel the fire under his skin; a burning desire to knock that silly grin off Nik's face and put him back in his place. Or, that's what he told himself. Because his eyes weren't exactly on Nik's face; they were tracing the broad shelf of his shoulders and the thick curves of his biceps, imagining them subdued in a grapple, and the sounds Nik would make as he tried to fight his way out. That same heat curled in his gut and he figured the only way he was going to extinguish it was with fists. "Fine, fuck it, sergeants, out."

"Ooh, shit," Gaz cackled, ducking under the ropes to stand on the edge of the mat, followed closely by Soap.

Price ditched his shirt and snagged his grappling gloves before stepping into the ring. As he wrapped his wrists, Price's gaze wandered to the slope of Nik's back, the curves of his arse and thighs testing the generous cut of his shorts, and had to breathe deeply through his nose to get his bloody pulse rate under control. It was adrenalin before a fight against a worthy opponent, he told himself.

The damn front wasn't any easier to look at once that drop tank had been removed, especially when Nik bounced from foot to foot and his chest moved with the momentum. He threw his arms in a few test punches at the air and rolled his head from side to side, relaxed and limber. Price chewed on the inside of his cheek and finished securing his gloves. The music was doing his nut in. "Turn that shit off," Price growled in Soap's general direction.

Soap removed his mouth guard and rolled his jaw before calling across to Simon. "Ay, L.T., put on somethin' more their vibe."

This time, Simon deigned to look up from his novel to pick a song. As Benny Andersson's fingers slid down the keys of his clavinet and Abba's 1976 Hit single 'Dancing Queen' droned from the raspy gym speaker, Price decided Simon was no longer his favourite.

Nik seemed content with the choice, however; extending his arm with the other held in front of him like he was dancing with an invisible partner, crooning along to "you can dance, you can ji-i-ive" like he was at a seventies disco. Soap and Gaz guffawed and whooped loudly on the sidelines.

"Bloody muppets," Price grumbled. "Oi, today, Nikolai. London rules." He lifted his fists and moved forward.

Nik knocked his knuckles to Price's and then stepped out of range in time to dodge a cheeky swipe. "Nu vot, Price. Not Queensbury? I thought you were a gentleman." The grin on Nik's face said he'd thought no such thing.

"What gave you that idea?"

"Salt of the earth country boy, no?"

"Hmm."

Nik was bigger, slower, which meant Price could stay out of his way and wear him down with well targeted hits. He knew there was an injury in Nik's back to take advantage of too. If it came to it, Price wasn't above fighting dirty to win. Hit and run was the way to go with big fighters like Nik.

Nimble and quick, Price landed a few punches to Nik's chest and a leg kick or two within the first few minutes, but Nik absorbed them, batting away another aimed for his head and retaliating with a hard right book that Price barely dodged in time.

"Watch it, cap!"

"He's landin' easy ones, Nik. C'mon!"

Price watched Nik carefully over his gloves, darting in only when he saw an opening and then dodging back again before those huge arms could engage a clinch.

Nik's first real hit came from nowhere; Price left a gap as he switched stances and the resulting body shot left him momentarily winded. Enough to lose ground. Price looked for a gap to evade but Nik pursued relentlessly, lashing out only to make Price dodge into the space he wanted him in, controlling him like a marionette on fucking strings.

Out of the corner of his eye, Price could see Simon step up to the rope next to the two sergeants, his meal finished and his novel forgotten, the fight too interesting to ignore. That didn't stop him dabbling in his second favourite sport. "Hey Johnny, Want to know how you make any salad into a caesar salad?"

"L.T. no--"

"Stab it twenty-three times."

Gaz snorted into his fist and Soap pinched the bridge of his nose and then winced when Price took another hard body blow that staggered him against the ropes.

Nik kept coming, wearing Price down with a slow, deliberate pursuit around the ring that made him dance and skip to land shots where he could. It was like hitting padded concrete, the red marks on Nik's skin nothing but surface damage. His body was fucking magnificent, bloody superhuman, and each time Price laid a hit he felt excitement surge through him like lightning. They bound up a few times, but Price always managed to escape the attempted grapple, his heart in his mouth, or Nik broke the clinch.

It couldn't last.

Price felt his energy waning, his footwork slowing, the sweat stinging the corner of his eyes. Nik hadn't pushed his advantage yet and he didn't need to. Not until the opportune moment, which he seized when Price was cornered again against the ropes after another prowl around the ring. Strong arms bound his torso in a clinch and Nik performed a flawless uchi mata that earned a surprised hum from Simon. They grappled on the ground, Price sprawling his legs wide to prevent Nik from levering him over.

"C'mon, sir! Break out!" Soap leaned over the ropes, gripping them intently.

Nik slipped around Price's back and wrapped his legs around his hips, drawing his neck into a rear-naked choke that felt like being crushed in a steel vice. Price thrashed, trying to drive his elbow back but only scoring glancing blows. He refused to tap out in his own fucking gym on his own fucking mat--

"Captain," Nik grunted, struggling to keep Price constrained, "please... do not think... our friendship will prevent me from... putting you to sleep. Submit."

Submit.

Something tight and hot twisted in Price's gut as Nik growled the command so close to his ear, voice rumbling from deep inside the barrelled chest pressed to Price's back. Price's toes curled against the mat and he became intimately aware of every inch of Nik's skin against his, slick with sweat and a mirrored heat, every muscle as hard and as unyielding as steel. He had been completely overpowered, taunted and teased into a trap, and now Nik had absolute control. There was... there was nothing Price could do.

Price's vision edged in grey, his nails biting into Nik's forearm, and his palm finally pounded the mat.

Nik released him immediately, rolling to his knees and moving to take Price's face carefully in his hands. "Breathe, John."

Price didn't know why he was gasping like that, his heart hammering a neat little samba against the cage of his chest. He could smell the sweat and leather of Nik's gloves, but all he wanted to do was tear them off and feel Nik's fingers in his hair. No, no too fucking much, too fu--

"'M... Fine. Gerroff." He pushed Nik's hands away and the big Russian at least had the good grace to stand and give him some space. Price closed his eyes and took a moment to steady himself, breathing in through his nose and out through lips that definitely weren't shaking. It was just a bloody fight. He'd had his arse handed to him a fair amount in his time. This was no different.

But as he opened his eyes again, Price knew something had clicked in his head that had been teetering on the brink all this time. He looked up at Nik, gaze dragging up his muscular thighs and the dark hair of his belly and chest, and felt the tightness of arousal in his gut. The realisation that he liked kneeling here at Nik's feet, subdued, conquered, settled into his chest like a shard of ice. He wanted Nik's hands on him; his wrists, his neck, his throat, holding him down. He wanted Nik to push his knees and thighs apart to claim every inch of him as a prize. He wanted the control torn from him, to hear the word submit snarled in his ear as he had no choice. It was terrifying.

Nik offered a hand down and Price took it mechanically, letting Nik drag him up until their bodies were pressed together again. Dark brown eyes studied him closely, a gloved hand resting at his hip. "Molodech, captain. You fought well."

"And you fought better," Price croaked, stiffening his back so that his body didn't shake in Nik's hands.

"This time." Nik's voice lowered significantly in volume, his hand squeezing meaningfully at Price's hip. Fuck, fuck, he'd seen. He'd bloody seen those wide, desperate eyes after feeling Price's body against his, and worked it out, hadn't he? Price swallowed hard.

"Fuckin' hell, mate. I'm glad you're on our side," Gaz called, and Soap agreed with a quiet murmur. Price was thankful they were none the wiser.

Well, the sergeants weren't. Simon was studying him closely as he ducked under the ropes. "Somethin' on your mind, Simon?"

"No, sir." He glanced at Nik and then back at Price. "He fought well. But not that well."

"Thanks for the feedback."

Simon hummed. "Perhaps you should do some one on one with Daddy KGB. Iron out the uh... kinks."

"Fuck you, lieutenant," Price growled quietly. "And don't." He cut the observant bastard off before he could start that innuendo, and headed towards the locker rooms.

"Ahh, don't worry," Gaz said, slapping Nik on the shoulder. "He'll lick his wounds and be back out here tomorrow."

Nik rubbed his chin thoughtfully, watching Price's retreating back. "Perhaps..."

Simon cleared his throat. "You should go help," he paused, "with the wounds."

"Da," Nik responded, leaving the ring to follow in Price's wake. He had opened an untouched vault of riches and he was keen to explore them, and so was Price, if those big blue eyes were anything to go by.

--

(Kinda want them to fuck in the shower, with Nik's hand around Price's throat, fingers so big they nestle in the hinge of his jaw, pinning him but Price relaxed and in heaven; yeah, a friend got that image in my head and I'm feral for it.)