awkward-fink

[awkward-fink]

NikPrice Week @nikpriceweek Prompt 1: First Time / New Experiences Pairing: John Price / Nikolai Rating: filthy. Tags: NSFW, explicit filthyness and smut, first time, M/M, Bottom!Price Top!Nik, Public Place, emotional repression, semi public smut

(No) One Time Thing

"You need tae fuckin’ loosen up, John."

The voice of his superior, Mac, still echoed through his skull, banging from ear to ear and right behind his eyes, over and over again like the scottish military bastard of a man actually imprinted in his brain. “Yer gonna break, lad.” Mac had said, leaning back in his chair with that look that meant he was not joking around this time, no glint of humor in his eyes and no hidden edge of a smirk on his lips. Just a stern expression and the soft light of something akin to growing worry hidden behind smoke in those fierce eyes. “Yer gonna bend or ye’re gonna break. Ain’t no in-between. Not in this fuckin’ job.”

And Price, like the prideful young stud he was, unbroken through all training and hardships, never giving an inch, had clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding as he narrowed his eyes. “I’m fine.” “Bullshite, you are. Yer wound up tighter than a fuckin’ claymore wire. Get oot, get outta my sight, breathe, get laid, I dinnae care. Just stop marchin’ like yer spine’s made o’ steelbands and yer bollocks are due tae explode.”

This had been an hour ago. An hour and a storm inside of his head that sounded suspiciously like Mac’s grumbles. And now here he stood, out of uniform for the first time since his last vacation time (which Mac had forced onto him) and he felt so ridiculously out of place.The civilian clothes, or the most civilian things he had in his trunk, hung awkwardly on his frame. The shirt was too tight, the jeans unfamiliar and hanging too low. He could not bring himself to take off his dog tags, so he hid them beneath the shirt, tucked away like a part of himself he was not allowed to be tonight. He had driven himself to a nearby hotel, cheap but still a good choice, and had taken a taxi from there. A taxi to a town a few kilometers away, in the different directions than any of the other soldiers he had listened absentmindedly talk about a good night. He did not want, nor did he need to be seen by the other soldiers.

The bar felt wrong as soon as he entered. Wrong in the sense that it was too loud, too warm. The rhythmic thumping of a low but aggressive bass vibrated through his bones as he stomped inside and along the edges of the bar towards the tables in the back. There were too many bodies pressing into one another like the whole world was just waiting for a reason to grind and touch. The lights were dim but not kind, the air thick with smoke and the smell of sweat and cheap perfume.

Price sat in a booth near the back, one leg bouncing under the table, jaw set so tight it felt fused. His drink—some overpriced clear thing with a citrus wedge and too much ice—sat mostly untouched.

This wasn’t him.

He didn’t do this. He was not one to enjoy this kind of setting, the throng of people, the harsh bass sounds thumping around in his ears and nearly droning out every single thought in his head. How did people enjoy this? How could they unwind in this kind of setting? All he wanted was to shoot the loudspeakers and be done with the whole thing. Fuck Mac and his barearsed wisdom.

He did barracks. Guns. Silence. Not clubs. Or bars like this. And how in the everloving fuck was he supposed to give up control to a woman of all things? He could not, would not. 

“You need tae fuckin’ loosen up, John.”

Mac’s voice again, curling around the inside of his skull like cigarette smoke. Still lingering. Still burning.

“Yer gonna bend or ye’re gonna break.”

So he was here. Out of uniform, out of control. Trying to figure out how the hell people let go without coming apart. This was not stress relief, this was not letting go. The opposite really, he found himself feeling wound tighter and tighter, like the claymore wire Mac had likened him to was about to rip and he would explode and take this whole farce of an evening with hi-

And that’s when he felt it. Something tangible, something so heavy and real that it felt like there was a finger running along his spine, teasingly, slowly, purposeful. But there was no hand, no sound, no heavy footsteps sounding underneath the music playing around him. Just a presence. 

A presence that settled over him like cold smoke. Not in a kind that was suffocating - just dense. Intentional. And with the clarity of a soldier that had been on the getting-hunted-side of missions one too many times, he knew that it was aimed directly at him. He abhorred to be prey, his hackles raised and the twitching at the corner of his mouth a dead give away to people who knew him. But there was none of that around now. Another tingle ran down his spine and he forced himself to stop drumming his fingers against the glass in his hand. His muscles twitched before his training kicked in. There were actual training sessions for situations in which you yourself stopped being the hunter and became the prey. Don’t react. Don’t look. Don’t give anything away. He remembered those lessons too late.

Every nerve had lit up in alert. His skin prickled under the too-tight shirt. His neck itched with the weight of his dog tags, the metal links seemingly getting more heavy with each slightly unsteady breath. He looked up slowly, first a tilt of his head, a subtle play with the glass in his hand as if he was contemplating a refill, a shoulder rising and one hand flat on the table ready to push himself up. First rule of the Prey, get out. He never put pressure on his hand or bunched the muscles in his legs. There was a man standing not far from his booth, coming out of the throng of dancing people like he was a tiger stalking through grass, presence heavy but stealthy.

Tall. Broad. He wasn’t posing, wasn’t trying to be noticed—he simply was. A part of the bar, and yet apart from it. Dark leather jacket. Sturdy and well worn boots. One hand in his pocket, the other loosely holding a glass. His posture was effortless, but perfectly balanced—like someone who knew how to move through chaos and never spill a drop. A gold chain was glinting in the lights dancing around him.

His eyes were never looking away from John, focused on the prey sitting at the table, looking up at him.

Sharp. Quietly amused, like he’d been watching Price long enough to know what kind of night this would be.

And still, he didn’t say a word.

He tilted his head slightly, as if evaluating. Then, slowly—deliberately—he stepped closer. A tiger ready to investigate the morsel that had shown up in its hunting ground.

Not invasive. Not cocky. Just… inevitable.

The footsteps he could not hear over the bass but certainly felt all along his spine stopped right beside his booth, the dancing lights throwing moving shadows of the hunter over Price himself, his table, his drink, seemingly making the presence of the stranger endless.

He was Close enough for Price to feel the subtle shift in air pressure, smell the faintest ghost of cologne—smoke, leather, something clean but feral underneath it.

Price didn’t move. His jaw was locked, breath slow and tight.

Hunter and Prey, locked into the moment.

And then, finally, the man spoke.

"Soldier."

It wasn’t a question. It was a quiet accusation. A truth spoken aloud with the weight of someone who'd seen uniforms worn by men who thought they could hide behind them.

The voice was deep, smooth, and unmistakably Russian. Calm. Precise. Each syllable laid down like a claim. And it sounded like gravel dipped in the most expensive vodka, like an interested tiger ready to pounce - hunting, but not for food but for entertainment. Price didn't know what he preferred at this moment.

Price hadn’t responded. He couldn’t. He knew he was not fitting in, but this blatant observation of the Russian man was something else.

The word soldier still lingered in the thick air between them, like smoke curling around his throat.

The Russian just looked at him. No name, no introduction, no reason for his approach offered. And yet, his stare was not one that invited conversation—it demanded decisions. Price could feel the weight of it pressing behind his eyes, along his tongue, down his spine.

And then the man tilted his own glass back, finishing whatever dark thing had been inside, the last drop catching in the corner of his mouth and running down the line of his throat like a sinful invitation.

The glass clinked down on the edge of Price’s table. Not on the table—on the edge, like a line drawn in sand. A mark. A test.

Then the man turned.

No invitation spoken. No gesture made. Just movement.

Deliberate.

He walked away from the table without looking back, slipping between bodies like a shadow with purpose. Not toward the bar. Not toward the exit.

Toward the darker back corridor. The one marked by a flickering EXIT sign that didn't lead out, but inward. Restrooms. Service hallway. Shadows.

The kind of place no one cared to look at too long.

Price’s pulse jumped, throbbed behind his ears. His eyes remained on the glass, the condensation slowly sliding down its side. It still trembled faintly from the force with which it had been placed.

One move. One invitation made of silence. It could’ve meant anything.

But Price wasn’t stupid.

It meant come find out. Earlier, had it only been minutes, hours or days?, he had thought about how he would not be able to rescind control over himself to a woman. But this? This man? This tiger prowling around him?

He took the glass and downed the rest of his own drink in one motion, the liquid burning less than his thoughts. Then he stood. Shoulders tight, fists momentarily clenched. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. He just knew he was doing it. His own glass of nearly clear liquid clinked against the stranger's own dark stained one, both glasses dancing precariously on the table's edge. Fitting.

Because he was already following.

Into the dark.

Into the space where control didn’t follow.

—-------------------------------------------------------

The door clicked shut behind him with a weight that made it feel like more than just a door. The air in the service corridor was cooler. Quieter. Dim. Just like the sounds that were now barely audible. Maybe it was the walls, maybe it was the heavy thumping of his own blood in his ears, Price did not care at this moment. It smelled of tile cleaner and iron. Faint sweat. And something else—something wild that curled under his skin the moment he stepped into the shadows.

The stranger didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

He stood in the far corner, leaning against the sink counter with arms crossed, dark eyes tracking Price’s every breath like a laser sight. Not moving. Not demanding. Just watching.

And Price—Price fucking stood there like a statue, spine ramrod straight, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. His blood felt like thunder. Like that bass outside had followed him into his chest. Into his groin. 

His lips parted, a word caught behind them—he didn’t know what. A protest. A warning. A plea.Maybe he wanted to ask what would happen now, maybe make a snark comment, but before it ever left his mouth, the other was in front of him.

Not fast. Not rough. Just inevitable.

One gloved hand came up, traced the neckline of his too-tight shirt. A thumb grazed the edge where his dog tags pressed hidden against his chest. The metal felt colder as it should, it felt like the beginning of a brand.

"You wear the uniform in your bones," the Russian murmured, voice low, velvet over steel. "But you came here to take it off, didn't you?"

Price swallowed. Hard.

“Yer wound up tighter than a fuckin’ claymore wire—” Mac’s voice again. Smug. “Yer bollocks are due tae explode—” Fuck. Fucking hell.

And maybe they were.

The other’s fingers moved lower, pushing against his chest until Price backed into the wall without even realizing it. His head thumped softly against the tile. His breath hitched.

“You gonna bend or you gonna break?”

That had been Mac.

The tiger, hunter, stranger pressed closer, just enough that their hips met. Solid. Insistent. His breath brushed against Price’s cheek.

“How long have you starved yourself, soldier?” Not judgment. Just dark amusement. And curiosity. A smirk so dangerous you could have cut diamonds with it.

The answer was in the way Price gasped when the bigger and hairier hand cupped his jaw. In the way he turned his head despite himself, exposing the line of his throat like instinct.

"That's it," the tiger breathed, voice a growl now, barely human. "Let go."

The kiss wasn't soft. It wasn’t even a kiss. It was a claim.Teeth scraped, lips crushed, breath stolen. Price groaned, finally, raw and broken, fingers clawing at leather as if gripping onto control through sheer force. But control was gone. He’d lost it the moment he stood up in that booth.

He didn’t remember how his shirt came off. Didn’t care. The wall was cold at his back, but the other was living  fire in front of him. Hands like iron, mouth trailing heat down his throat, over his collarbone. Price shuddered when teeth bit down—hard enough to mark. Maybe bruise.

He bit back a sound. Failed.

“So quiet now,” growled into his ear, a hand sliding down, slipping past his waistband and finding burning skin. “Where’s the soldier with the steel spine now, da?”

A breath against his neck, teasing touch of teeth along his skin, a tongue dancing upwards until it licked right beneath Price’s ear. And then a growl, deep, bone trembling. Price bucked. "Fuck—"

“That’s more like it.”

"Get laid, I dinnae care."

Mac, you bastard. You might’ve just saved his life.

The sensations were overwhelming, something he had not had happen to him for a very long time, and never in a moment like this. Was this how women felt when Price charmed them into his arms? Into his bed for the night? Or was this something unique only to the stranger?

He was not sure, when he got down onto his knees, if he had fallen or the other had pushed him down, but there was a meaty hand laid right under his chin, leading his face upwards, looking up at the hunter, the tiger, the hungry beast in front of him like a lamb put to slaughter. The tiles were cold underneath him and at his back, the only source of heat, the living embodiment of want right in front of him. And the stranger was everywhere. Teeth, tongue, hands- all over Price, shedding his clothes like they were not only getting him naked, but also opening him up in more ways than one. Part for part, layer for layer, peeling away not only the clothes but also his stance, his pride, his training.

“Say, lamb, did you ever let someone touch you here?” The words were soft, too soft for the voice rumbling at him or the heated gaze making his blood turn into something like liquid fire. Price could lie, had actually wanted to at this moment, had wanted to appear strong and in control as ever, but his mouth stayed clamped shut. The other chuckled lowly, not mocking but more - reverent.

“So stubborn. And now.. Look at you.” And Price was not on his knees anymore, his head lolling about as his naked chest met the washingtable, his hands coming to lay on the cold tiles, his eyes meeting his own in the dark and stained mirror, like this was some abstract version of himself instead of the real him. And right behind him, the other man, grinning as his large hands roamed hungrily over Price’s back, fingers pressing along strands of thick muscles and making the soldier groan in pleasure, his own cock chubbing helplessly against the underside of the washingtable. And then there were fingers on his arse, pawing at the cheeks and slowly opening him up for view. Before Price could tense again, there was the pressure of a slicked up finger. A thumb finding the rosy bud of his hole, knowing exactly where to put pressure or where to circle sensually. It was different from what he expected, than what he had imagined. It was new, tense, strange but also - exhilarating, hot, and made him want more, not only the teasing of the clever finger. Price shivered. Not because he was scared. Not because he feared the pain of what was to come. He shivered because he lost control. And the other instantly knew. “Breathe, lamb, I have you.” And then the pressure increased, slowly, inevitably, until the rim of his hole gave way and the slick pad of the thumb pressed inside of him. The stretch burned, a feeling so strange that Price wanted to buck away, his thighs twitching, his body tensing like a loaded weapon. But the Russian was close behind him, keeping his body pinned to the cold tiles of the washingtable, no chance to flee.

A finger more, then two, the stretch getting overwhelming fast, Price could feel his muscles tremble as the pain turned into slow pleasure as the fingers went deeper, rotating to spread him open. The velvety voice of his hunter only adds fuel to the fire burning in his loins and making his cock throb. He could feel his erection weeping thick drops of precum as another finger joined the others inside of him, a tingle running up and down his spine when the Russian moved his fingers, deeper and deeper only to pull them back. And then the cycle started anew. Price moaned through clenched teeth, his eyes fixated on the murky surface of the mirror right in front of him, his gaze locked onto that sinful smirk shown to him in the reflection. And then the movement halts, one hand trailing down his arse and upper thigh before vanishing, the sound of a zipper being pulled down and the ruffling of pants hitting the floor. The other does not speak, only letting his gaze meet Price’s own in the mirror, waiting, smirk deepening, gauging his reaction. And Price. Price surrenders with a low moaned “yes”, his hips bucking backwards, chasing pleasure from the fingers still inside of him. “Good lamb.”

The tiles were cold beneath his chest, sweat dripping down onto the dirty tiles.. Price barely noticed.

His jeans were somewhere on the cleanest seat, his legs open like a fucking invitation — and yet every muscle in his body trembled like a held breath. His chest heaved, unsteady, like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that this was happening.

The Russian stood between his legs, calm and collected, the way a soldier might settle before pulling a trigger.

One strong hand rested on Price’s thigh — not restraining. Just there. Heavy. Warm. 

“Let go.”

Two words. Simple. But also nearly impossible.

Price didn’t let go. He held the line. Always. Held the command. Held his ground. He’d never let anyone in. Not like this. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not since his parents and then Mac years later.

And yet here he was — naked in a bar restroom, tasting sweat and vodka and his own fucking pride, dog tags sticking to his chest, and this Russian’s presence bearing down on him like a goddamn verdict.

“I’ll go slow,” the man said, voice steady but low. “But I am going.”

Price froze. Not with fear, but with the sheer fucking weight of what this meant. There was no going back, this was it.

“Look at me.”

He forced himself to bring his gaze towards the mirrored eyes again, when had he even averted it? Cold, sharp, and yet — somehow — not cruel. The gaze of a tiger, a predator, met his own and the feeling of being prey, of being vulnerable and small grew inside his chest again.

“Say ‘stop’, and I stop. But if you don’t... you take this.”

Not a question. Not a warning. A command disguised as permission to deny.

His voice caught in his throat.

“I—” Nothing more left his lips, no more sound. And then he nodded, a barely recognizable nod, but it was enough.

And then the other man moved.

Slow.

So fucking slow.

The pressure hit first — unfamiliar, stretching, lighting every nerve along his spine like barbed wire. Price hissed, fingers digging against the slick tiles of the washingtable, knees twitching as his body fought instinct.

“Fuck—!”

He wanted to clench. Wanted to fight it. Take back his control and buck the other man off. But those meaty hands were there — one firm on his back, the other anchoring his hip. Grounding him. Not forcing. Holding.

“Breathe,” the Russian said, low. “Take it.”

Price breathed. Ragged. Staggered. Shaky. He felt every inch pushing deeper — the burn, the breach, the fullness. It felt like too much, too fast, but at the same time it was not enough.

“You’re doing so well. So fucking tight, soldier. Let me in.”

The words — the fucking crooned praise — hit harder than the stretch. Something inside him softened. Something let go. He let go.

And then the Russian man was all the way in, heavy balls pressing against his skin, coarse hairs rubbing along his arse..

One final push, slow but certain. A deep, grinding fullness that dragged a sound out of Price’s throat he didn’t recognize from himself. Something between a groan and a whimper, raw and unfiltered and honest.

His hands clutched at the tiles, at the sink, anything in reach, not to push — but to hold on. He didn’t know if he wanted to stay grounded or be pulled under.

“Good?” the growling voice asked, his voice a rumble just beside his ear.

“Y-yeah. Just— fuck—”

And there it was again. Mac’s voice in his skull like a goddamn ghost.

“You’re not breakin’, John. You’re lettin’ go.”

And the hunter moved. Not fast. Not hard. Just deep. Slow and Intentional. It was not about breaking John, it was not to dominate him utterly. It was to open him up for the pleasure the other could bring if he surrendered himself to the experience.

Every thrust felt like it knocked something loose inside him — not just his body, but his sense of self. He was being filled. Used. But not discarded.

Every motion said: You can take this. You can want this. And I won’t hurt you for it.

It was too much. And still — not enough.

His head fell back against the tile, breath catching with every thrust that fed that heavy girthy cock inside his hole, dragging over bundles of nerves he had never felt activated before.

“That’s it,” the voice muttered, hips rolling steady, dragging out moans Price hadn’t even meant to make. “Fucking perfect like this. You take cock like you were made for it.”

And maybe he had been. He’d just never known. Never allowed himself to know.

His own cock was weeping steadily now, dripping thick liquid down onto the tiles of the floor, his erection an angry red. But he was not touching himself, the other was not touching him as well. And when he came — gasping, clenching, falling apart with the tiger, his tiger for this moment, buried deep inside — it didn’t feel like pleasure.

It felt like relief.

His body shuddered around it. Hands still gripping and breath still stuttering.

And the Russian held him. Big hands grabbing onto Price’s hips and arse like they were made to fit there. He did not pull out, he did not move. 

Just held him. Those muscled arms solid and steady.

No teasing. No cruel smirk.

The kind that let him fall apart and still feel whole.

—------------------------------------ He felt it the moment the soldier let go.

Not just the way his body tightened around him — though that was enough to nearly undo him — but the way the tension broke. The line of his jaw slackened. His throat exposed itself. 

It wasn’t just a release. It was a surrender. And fuck, it was beautiful.

Nikolai didn’t stop moving. He slowed — kept the pace steady — deep and careful. Riding through the aftershocks that shook the soldier’s frame. He did not want to break the poor man after giving him his first taste of letting go of his control.

“Good,” he murmured, voice low, one hand sweeping sweat-slick curls from the younger man’s brow. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

The way the other man shivered, blinking up at him, lips parted and chest heaving — it was more than just a sight. It was a gift. It was more than enough to get his own ego to purr in delight. He had done this. 

And now Nikolai let himself give in.

He shifted his angle — just enough to let his hips move more freely, a little faster, a little harder, pulling delicious friction from where their bodies met, chasing that burning knot of pleasure in his gut.

The soldier was still tight, still warm around him, every small shift wringing him like a vice. He was trying to recover, but Nikolai wasn’t letting him go. Not yet. Not until he followed.

“Still so fucking good,” he breathed, eyes half-lidded as he watched the soldier below him. “You’re gonna make me lose my goddamn mind.”

The younger man whimpered — fucking whimpered — at the words. His legs flexed instinctively, drawing Nikolai in deeper. A silent permission. Maybe even a demand.

That was all it took.

He groaned — the sound guttural and raw — and slammed forward, burying himself deep as his climax hit like a fucking sledgehammer. His head dropped to the sweaty shoulder of the man underneath him, a muffled grunt escaping his throat as his body seized and he spilled, pulse pounding in his ears like a wardrum.

He rode his orgasm out with ragged breaths, buried to the hilt in a body that had finally — finally — allowed him in.

Time stretched. The sweat cooling between them made it feel almost unreal.

They stayed like that.  Not moving. Not speaking.

Until finally, the other exhaled — not like a soldier. Like a man.

—------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning Price was five minutes early. Of course he was. He always was.

His dog tags felt heavier than they should’ve — though that might’ve had less to do with the metal and more with the weight of the night before. The night he wasn't thinking about. Couldn’t afford to think about it. Shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just enough to function. Just enough to pull the mask back on.

Now he was here. Boots polished, collar stiff, jaw tight. Focused. Back in control, back in his own home turf.

“Morning, gents,” he greeted with a curt nod to the squad gathering around the table, ignoring the flicker of a headache blooming just behind his eyes.

The operation was nothing new: high-value target, urban density, close-quarter risks. They were waiting on confirmation of support units — air support, more specifically — before finalizing routes and extraction.

Price flipped through the files, diagrams, reports — work. Work was solid. Work didn’t whisper against your spine like a shadow. Didn’t look at you like it could tear you apart for fun and you’d thank it.

He gritted his teeth.

It meant nothing. It was one night. No names. No attachments. Just noise and heat and pressure bleeding off the edge.

Price’s fingers tapped against the table with too much force. He needed a smoke. Or five. Mac would’ve laughed his arse off right now.

“You need tae fuckin’ loosen up, John,” the memory snorted in his head, and he nearly rolled his eyes.

He didn’t have time for that now. The others were gathering. The CO had stepped in.

“All right, listen up,” the Captain barked. “We’ve just had confirmation from Command. We’re getting airborne support on this one. Not our usual lads — special assignment, multilingual.” A pause. “Apparently, he comes highly recommended. Eyes in the sky, extraction if needed. Callsign: Kingmaker.”

The tent flap opened as Price was still working his way through the added files on the table, sharing with the soldier right beside him.

Boots. Not the sound, but more the feeling of those booted steps made him look up. A jacket that fit like a second skin. Those same quiet, confident steps — not stalking, but just as assured. And then the voice.

“Apologies for the delay.” Calm. Precise. That same honeyed gravel that had whispered “Soldier” against his throat like a sin.

“Nikolai. I’ll be your eyes today.”

Every bone and muscle in Price’s body locked into place.

Nikolai met his eyes across the table. No smirk. No twitch of amusement. Just that look — the one that said I remember. That said I knew what I was doing then, and I know what I’m doing now.

And worse?

Price felt the heat rise to the back of his neck.

Nikolai gave him a nod. It was professional and controlled. No outward sign that they had met each other last night.

“I’ll be in the air. Call me when you need me.”

And then he turned, checking the map, going over the angles of attack with the ease of a man who didn’t need to gloat — because he already knew what part of you was his.

Price didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare.

Because. Fuck.

He’d absolutely be seeing him again.

[awkward-fink]

when you had three entries for the NikPrice week done and planned and its all gone down the drain because your cousin smashed your laptop. I am crying. Sobbing. and i was never so close to want to strangle someone of my family like I am now. Its not only the written work, the other things I had on it, the over 1200 pictures of holidays and in general in the micro-usb-slot... i had it put away and my aunt just... gave my cousin my laptop from a room she was not supposed to go in. this sucks...

[awkward-fink]

Its the day after a mission, quiet, finally. The sun was beating down on the small safehouse at the edge of a tourist town. Iskandar sits outside, firmly planted in the last dredges of shadow the house provides along its walls, long legs crossed leisurely. He lifts the small red ice pop to his lips, licking it with deliberate ease, relishing in the coldness spreading over his tongue, a soft noise escaping his lips as he does.

Micah leans against the open doorway, arms crossed and eyes fixed on Iskndar, a slow smirk slowly starting to play on his lips.

Iskandar is totally unaware, taking another slow lick, one finger lightly tracing along the wooden part of the ice pop, gathering the melting drop of liquid, bringing his dirtied finger to his mouth to gently suckle off the sticky fluid.

Its quiet, until Micah's voice breaks through: "Do yu even realize how many people are watching you right now?"

The information gatherer blinks, confused, then he shrugs, still suckling on the ice pop with complete innocence. "I was just trying to cool down."

Micah chuckles softly and steps closer, holding out one of his hands. "Can I have some?" Iskandar looks up, eyes meeting Micah's with a flash of something unreadable- a flicker of connection. He gestures Micah closer, a small smirk dancing over his lips. Quick as a snake, his hand lays on the back of Micah's neck, tugging him closer, lips meeting lips, urging them open. Micah opens his mouth, a wet and ice cold tongue pushing into his own wet cavern as a small part of the red ice pop gets pushed into his mouth, melting on his tongue.

"I think," Iskandar speaks up lowly, licking his stained lips, "sharing made it taste even better."

[awkward-fink]

You all think Simon "Ghost" Riley actually tans? Heck no, that man is so covered up all the time, if he goes into the sun for more than 15 minutes h burns. No slight tanning, no slowly changing skintones to something more bronze. No. White, one moment, maybe even pale rosy. Tomato red, strawberry red and even some lobster palettes of color the next time you turn around. Even sunprotection factor 300 would not help there. The first time he stripped down on a holiday, with you at the beach of England, you had the urge to ride for war in Lord of the Rings because you thought the signalfires of Gondor had been lit! You held yourself back, barely. Fact after Gjost burned to a lobster chip? His tan holds easily for the whole rest of the year, even in winter. Asshole.

[awkward-fink]

Oh I love reading about peoples OC's here in the CoD community. I devour all of them, adore them and love on them on anon mostly. Listen Beans, you have all such great and lovable OC's and I am cherishing them all! <3 But, please tell me, how do you get all your cool Callsigns? These are so good! And all I can come up with are... Cable Salad and Milquetoast... what am I doing wrong?

[awkward-fink]

✧       ›       𝐫𝐩  𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬  .   .   .   (   a  study  of  stars   )    rp  prompts  inspired  by  unique  stars  in  our  galaxy.   ✧   ˚₊   Themes:   tension,  romance,  action. 

Betelgeuse  —  Sender  rests  their  forehead  against  Receiver's.

Sirius  —  Sender  traces  lazy  circles  on  Receiver’s  wrist.

Rigel  —  Sender  steps  between  Receiver  and  the  danger.

Altair  —  Sender  lifts  Receiver’s  chin,  locking  eyes.

Deneb  —  Sender  wraps  their  coat  around  Receiver’s  shoulders,  fingers  lingering  longer  than  necessary.

Procyon  —  Sender  grabs  Receiver’s  hand  before  they  can  leave.

Spica  —  Sender  brushes  a  leaf  from  Receiver’s  shoulder.

Pollux  —  Sender  pulls  Receiver  into  a  half-laughing,  half-panicked  hug.

Castor  —  Sender  offers  the  Receiver  a  cigarette

Fomalhaut  —  Sender  leans  against  Receiver’s  back.

Bellatrix  —  Sender  wipes  blood  from  Receiver’s  lip  with  their  sleeve.

Alnitak  —  Sender  lifts  the  hem  of  Receiver’s  shirt,  tending  to  the  wound  in  silence.

Alnilam  —  Sender  places  Receiver’s  hand  over  their  heart.

Mintaka  —  Sender  bumps  shoulders  with  Receiver,  grinning.

Dubhe  —  Sender  wraps  a  scarf  around  Receiver’s  neck,  adjusting  it  carefully.

Merak  —  Sender  places  a  blade  into  Receiver’s  palm.

Phecda  —  Sender  reaches  for  Receiver’s  hand  under  the  table,  hidden  from  everyone.

Alphard  —  Sender  kisses  the  inside  of  Receiver’s  wrist.

Nunki  —  Sender  holds  Receiver’s  gaze  across  the  battlefield.

Scheat  —  Sender  grabs  Receiver’s  collar,  pulling  them  close.

Markab  —  Sender  holds  out  a  map,  finger  tapping  on  a  place  only  they  understand.

Kaus  Australis  —  Sender  rests  their  hand  on  Receiver’s  shoulder.

Almach  —  Sender  runs  a  thumb  across  Receiver’s  knuckles.

Alpheratz  —  Sender  tucks  a  folded  letter  into  Receiver’s  coat  pocket.

[awkward-fink]

REBLOG if you have amazing, talented WRITER friends.

Because I certainly do, and I love every single one of them and their work.

[awkward-fink]

*Adds another OC to my imaginary book of OC's* why... I love them all dearly, but when will I ever use them? XD

[awkward-fink]

I have Gremlin energy today... what should I do before it gets too hot outside??? ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

[awkward-fink]

It is one of those days. A day where Fin has woken up, a feeling of stones in his stomach, of pressure on his chest and his neck tingling with imagined… imagined something. His eyes are heavy although he slept for hours in his bunk.

It is one of those days. He grimaces, reaching up slowly to rub over his face, scratching his blunt nails over the stubble on his cheeks and up his nose to finally press into the spot in between his brows.

It is one of those days. Fin finally, after minutes that could have been hours or seconds, sits up, the thin blanket pooling around his hips. He wiggles his toes, his fingers, his head but the feeling of pressure and something empty growing in his chest never leaves.

He looks around, his eyes falling on all 5 of the other bunks, all filled. Not one of them, not one of the Betas had been claimed. In 4 years of military training, in 4 years of watching Alphas and Omegas forming packs, they had been used as buffers but never courted into a pack.

It is one of those days where Fin desperately feels his status as one of the unwanted Betas, as one of the forgotten. Its a heavy feeling, always watching from the sidelines, always waiting, helping, hopeful to be acknowledged.

How long would they-…

His thoughts stop when a rough hand grabs his ankle where he sits on his top bunk. A dishevveled looking haired head peaks out from the bunk beneath him, warm eyes the only thing visible under the rest of a blanket. First it was an unfocused gaze on him, but those eyes clear scarily fast. And then there is a tug again, this time not asking for attention but for something more. And Fin follows the tug, slipping out of his bed and sliding underneath the held open blanket, slotting right alongside the warm body of Sanderson, curling around each other, wordlessly.

It is one of those days. It is not the first and it wont be the last.

Maybe some day…. … they all would either find a pack or maybe it was time to make their own.

[awkward-fink]

NikPriceWeek 2025 Announcement

Greetings comrades! We are happy to kick things off by sharing the prompts, instructions and FAQ for the upcoming #NikPriceWeek2025. Whether you are here to write, draw or simply to enjoy the content, we are all here for it to spread the love for our favourite duo. 

If you have any questions, feel free to reach out to us here with asks or our twitter page.

Prompts

Instructions

FAQ

★ Can I include other characters and relationships in my work? Absolutely. But the focus should be on Nikprice as they are the heart of the event.

★ Does it have to be "reboot" NikPrice? OG/Vintage Nikprice is very welcome. How about vintage Price and reboot Nik, or vice versa? All the Niks and all the Prices, please and thank you.

★ Can I mix sfw and nsfw prompts? Yes. NSFW prompts are only limited to 18+ accounts and just make sure your work is tagged appropriately. I mean, who doesn't take their vibrator on their fishing trips?

AO3 collection link: [will be shared during posting period]

Happy creating!

Below the cut are text versions of the attached images

Prompt List

SFW

Day 1 - Operation Day 2 - Close Call Day 3 - Injury/Medical leave Day 4 - Fishing Trip Day 5 - Night at the Bar Day 6 - I Missed You Day 7 - Retirement

NSFW

Day 1 - First TIme/New Experiences Day 2 - Forced Proximity Day 3 - Public Day 4 - Toys and Sensory Play Day 5 - Shibari/Restraints Day 6 - Sex Pollens / Chems Day 7 - Formal/Uniforms

Instructions

Each day has two prompts, SFW and NSFW prompts, you are free to choose either prompts or both, you can also combine prompts, go nuts!

Both sets of prompts follow a relationship progression theme, from the first meeting between Price and Nikolai to long-term relationship.

Tag your post with #NikPriceWeek2025 or tag the @nikpriceweek twitter account to be added into the Ao3 collections

You’re free to post your entries wherever you’d like. We’ll mainly be on Twitter and Tumblr to interact and reblog/retweet posts! 

All content should be tagged accordingly (e.g., NSFW, sensitive topics like MCD/dubcon etc)

No plagiarism, No AI

Be respectful to all creators, no harassment or hate allowed

Posting period starts from 21/7/2025 to 27/7/2025

Late submission extended to 31/8/2025

[awkward-fink]

All the art on this site is precious and aweinspiring and I love everything from little silly doodles, to the most heartwrenching works of art, landscapes to humans to moodboars. I adore all of them. ... and then there is me, drawing an egg with a hat... artistic talent clearly missed me when my parents rolled my stat scores...

[awkward-fink]

CoD x DnD 1

Bright and warm rays of the sun bathed the green and lush grass, high enough to go up to a normal man’s knee, the very tips of the plants swaying gently in the wind, bowing left and right but never breaking. In the midst of the field of grass sat upon a stone, a man clad in skins of animals, leather and fabric, decadent but still with a simple elegance that most men and women of money desired but never had achieved. Much of his upper body was exposed, the skin soaking up the sun eagerly, a few silvery lines spread across the darker, silken skin.

He was idly watching the lake at the bottom of the hill he sat on, his eyes lazily roving over the figure of 5 humanoids as they dragged the carcass of a red salamander out of the shallows and onto the land, the blood spilled turning the luscious grass and herbs into brown and darkened things, burned.

The wind eagerly brushed around his ears, whispering sweet words caught from in between the adventurers into his ears. He tilts his head, a soft smile growing on his lips even as the glint in his warm eyes darkens to something sharp.

He reaches down towards his satchel, slender finger grabbing onto a small booklet of soft cloth and paper, holding it up towards his face.The booklet looks like it was made by an amateur, pages of different make and sizes and quality sticking inside the thick leather bounds. The book falls open easily, nearly eagerly, as soft glowing magic runs through the man's hands and fingers, leaving traces of illumination on the booklet.

The page shown is made from thick cloth like paper, more than 10 gold worth per single, simple page. The details depicted around the sides and edges are sinfully colored in blue and red, crowns and animals dancing along the borders. And in the middle of the page is a very detailed portrait of a regal looking man in tailored clothes, the emblem of a gryphon proudly sitting on his shoulder. Mutton chops, a furrowed brow, a stern tilt to his lips, the portrait looked eerily similar to the real person.

A magic laced finger strokes along the border of the page and then pokes against where the heart would be in a real person. Magic and Aether leaching into the page, the colors intensifying. Until finally the eyes blink, coming alight with an otherworldly glow as they focus and move, finally finding the man's own eyes. The stern tilt to the lips changes, the picture seemingly coming to life but not.

“My liege.” the man speaks, tilting his head slightly towards the portrait. “Gaz’al. You took your time to report.” The voice falling from the portrait is thin but still filled with strength and emotions. “Excuse my tardiness, but I waited until the beast was slain. My help was not needed though.” “So the reports were wrong? It was a beast and not what we expected?”

Gaz’al nods, eyes wandering back towards the lake, where the salamander carcass is now being opened, spilling even more of its liquid fire blood onto the green earth below. The ground will be stained for years to come. He shakes his head, collecting himself. "Yes, my liege." There was a disturbance in the flow of the Aether, but the spring itself was not tainted. It was only a wounded salamander, probably hurt by other beasts, that had fallen onto the Island and had sought shelter at the magic spring. The island is not in danger, the flow of the aether and magic is still smooth and calm. The harvest may be a bit smaller this year but after a year at the latest everything will be back to normal.”

The man in the portrait nods, his body shifting as if the man himself was rocking back and forth on his feet. “Perfect. Consider this the end of this mission. I will send you off to support our artificer friend though, Soap seemed to have found something if his latest reports were true.” Gaz’al chuckles, nodding slightly. “Yes, my liege Price. I will be gone before the sun sets.” He sighs before chuckling again. “Seems my days of simple quiet are gone now, where Soap is, explosions are not far off.”

The man in the portrait, Price, nods solemnly, though an amused smile dances over his lips. "True. That man never learned the definition of stealth. Be careful, Gaz’al. The rats are moving.” The magic ebbs and dims in the painting, the connection broken now, some of the colors flaking away with the wind.

Gaz’al slowly packs away the book, coming to his feet silently and without disturbing the grass around him. He checks himself and grins, his form starting to flow like liquid. And then, with a loud cry, a desert falcon lifts off from the stone, wings beating lazily as the wind seems to carry the bird on its own and off the island into the air and aether.

Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. Even if it is just a little peak into this world and work.

[awkward-fink]

Tumblr does not want me to post my work... What the heck? You no want CoD x DnD?

[awkward-fink]

Red Emoji OC Asks ❤️‍🩹

❤️ (heart) - Who is the most important person to your character? To what lengths would they go to protect this person?

💔 (broken heart) - Who has your character hurt most? Physically or emotionally? How did it feel? Do they regret it?

🌹 (rose) - What does your oc find attractive in other people? Are these traits found in their friends and/or romantic partners? Are they found in themselves?

🎈 (balloon) - What does your character do at parties? Are they a wallflower or a party animal? Do they go with friends or alone?

🍷 (wine) - Does your oc drink? What kind of alcohol do they enjoy? What are their drinking habits? What kind of drunk are they?

❗️(exclamation point) - What was the scariest moment of your character’s life? Does it still affect them?

🥩 (steak) - Does your oc have any coping mechanisms? Healthy or unhealthy?

🥀 (wilted flower) - How does your character deal with stressful situations? Is their fear response fight, flight, freeze or fawn?

🍓 (strawberry) - Does your oc believe in anything? Are they superstitious? Religious? Atheistic? Has anything in their past made them this way?

💋 (kiss) - Is your oc a good kisser? Have they kissed anyone before? Do they even enjoy kissing? What was their first kiss like in comparison to their most recent?

🍒 (cherries) - Does your character have a best friend? How long have they known each other? What do they like most about each other? How did they meet?

🚨 (siren) - What’s your character’s relationship with the law? Have they ever been arrested? What for? What are their opinions on law enforcement?

💄 (lipstick) - What does your oc think of their face? Do they have a positive or negative opinion? Do they wear makeup? Do they have a skincare routine? What traits do they like most about their face?

🍎 (apple) - Does your oc go to school or take classes? Did they go to college? What was/is their favorite subject? Did/do they get good grades? Did/do they enjoy school?

🐞 (ladybug) - What does a perfect day look like for your oc? What do they do? Who do they see?

☎️ (telephone) - Does your character know anyone’s phone number by heart? Do they prefer calling or texting? Who’s their favorite person to call/text? Do they have any typing quirks?

🥊 (boxing glove) - Has your character ever been in a fight? Did they win? Do they fight often? Are they professionally trained or self taught? Do they enjoy fighting or only do so when necessary?

🧣(scarf) - What comforts your oc? Is it an item? An action? A person? Whatever it is, how any why does it comfort them?

👠 (heels) - How does your oc dress? Are they stylish or casual? Do they keep up with trends or do their own thing? Do they prefer designer clothes or going to the thrift store? Do they have a signature item of clothing?

🍄 (mushroom) - Does your character like being in nature or do they prefer the indoors? Do they have any outdoor hobbies like camping or fishing? If they prefer the indoors, why?

🩸 (blood) - Is your oc squeamish? Are they disturbed by the sight of blood? Have they ever been in a situation where they had to overcome being squeamish?

✂️ (scissors) - Has your character ever cut their own hair? What about someone else’s? How did it turn out?

🎸 (electric guitar) - What’s your character’s music taste like? Do they have one or two artists they play on repeat or do they have a varied and eclectic collection of music? Do they like mainstream artists or prefer underground musicians? What genres do they enjoy?

🎒 (backpack) - What items does your oc usually carry? Do they have a bag or just keep everything in their pockets? Do they carry a lot or a little?

🪓 (axe) - Does your oc have survival skills? Have they ever had to use them? What would they do in an apocalypse? Could they survive?

[awkward-fink]

Not me building a whole effing world of shattered Isles and floating continents, of magic and aether and time and more for my next DnD Campaign - - only to add the 141 and some more characters into the Lore as well (would that be something funny to read about? I dont know, but its stuck in my head now.)

[awkward-fink]

Why does everyone think of the Taskforce as big and bad dogs? German Sheperds, Rottweiler, Malinois? What about a chaotic cute Corgi mix breed taskforce? What about a Corgi and Saint Bernhard Price, who, with his fluffy fur will put you in submission? What about Soap, a mix of Corgi and Red Heeler? A dog so chaotic and fast and with that kind of one-track-mind he will just dart off to dig up everything? What about the Corgi and Retriever mixed breed Gaz, who has the most soulful eyes but will chew up every single shoe you own and you can't even be mad at him? And what about Corgi mixed with Pitbull Ghost, who might look scary and mean and has the most low growl, but is actually only a little lovebug hunting your socks down to annihilate those?