#fear and hunger fluff

[dadsbongos]

The Lovers

word count - 4.8 k

warnings - ENEMIES to lovers..., non-graphic deaths and violence, i humanize and objectify pav in the same breath, fem reader (referred to by "girl" bc he's the worst)

first time capitalizing a fic title in months

DAY 2. NOON.

Blood splotches decorate the cobblestone floor, already drying into maroon against the wood planks of the train cars. The droplets lighten in shade the deeper into the train you go, and eventually, you find crimson. Pure cherry ink on dark wood. Cherry rots into a blackened smudge once again on the wheel of Olivia’s wheelchair. One hand settled over the thin black rim on her right, and the other twisting a roll of bandages around her fingers. She blinks up at you, bottom lip tucked so tight between her teeth that the rosy flesh is blistering white.

“I’m really sorry,” she sighs, abandoning the spool of cloth in her lap to push up her wiry glasses, “Terribly, I am, but I don’t- “ she pauses, “I’m worried that the others would be… biased in their care…”

Your gaze flits up from Olivia’s pensive face to the blonde man spread across the train’s cushy two-seater. His midsection is wrapped with reddish blooms vining all down the white crossings, arm bound in a sling over his chest. His eyes are scrunched up, brows furrowed towards the middle of his forehead; a fitful, delirious limbo overtaking him. Occasionally, he jerks himself awake in a wide-eyed panic before the pain knocks his brain topside again.

The Bremen lieutenant would hardly be a challenge to put down in his current state. You are one of few from the contestants that Olivia feels can be trusted not to undo her hard work of keeping the soldier alive. Combine your level-headedness with your lackadaisical attitude in searching Prehevil, and you make the perfect candidate to watch over Olivia’s patient.

Unfortunately.

“If he annoys me, can I press on his wounds?”

A wild grimace overtakes Olivia’s face, “No! No, please, please do not do that.”

“Fine,” you waltz past Olivia and study the blonde’s pinched face, “Go, go. I’ll watch the traitor.”

“Thank you!” she sighs in relief before exiting the train car, calling back hurriedly, “I’ll try to come with more bandages before sundown!”

When the lieutenant is not trapped under the rolling, ruthless waves of agony, you could almost mistake him for any other man. Maybe even a handsome one: with a strong nose and symmetrical bone structure. His lips are faintly the color of roses, too. Pale and pink. Dry, though. Not nearly as luscious as pretty petals.

Golden tresses, which you are mature enough to admit are alluring. His hat was off and his hair ruffled and fanning out over the magenta seat. Skin frail and pale - you could crush his ribs if you tried. Charming in a way you’ve only known real men to be.

Certainly, though, as soon as the pig squeals - the illusion of perky flowers and honey will melt away. Scorched by the moon as the villagers outside.

Foolishly, you agree to sit around waiting for the swine to be well enough to squeal. A smarter woman would’ve put it down (especially when it's previously shown a taste for blood), but you like Olivia and her tender heart so you do no such thing.

DAY 2. NIGHT.

As thanks for not murdering Pavel as soon as she’d turned her back, Olivia brought you fresh water and dried meats from scavenged homes alongside the fresh bandages. She left again soon after swapping the bloodied cloth for fresh ones.

“Do tell me when he wakes up,” she grins up at you. As if apologetic for having you carry out a duty you’d already agreed to, “I’m sure this isn’t an easy ask. I’m sorry.”

“If I wanted to make you feel bad for asking, I wouldn’t have said yes,” you wave off the concern, “Don’t die out there, Olivia. I’d miss you too much to do my job,” you gesture vaguely towards the immobile lieutenant.

She chuckles quietly before nodding, “I’ll do my best.”

Pavel’s groans are increasing both in frequency and throatiness - he’ll wake soon, you’re sure of it. He even turns onto his side, exhaling thickly - so harsh and ragged he actually coughs up bubbles of spit. Jittering with alert, he gasps sharply and rockets upward. Snapping at his waist and swiping out wildly with his unbound arm, clawing at the musty air directly in front of him; even attempting to swing out the arm wrapped and tied around his neck.

As soon as the hair-splittingly thin burst of adrenaline fades, he hisses in pain. Cupping the covered gash in his chest before curling his uninjured arm around the other, he throws his head back and gasps again. Suffocating under the re-stretching of closing wounds and fragile muscle.

Despite his uniform, you find yourself at Pavel’s side. You brush a hand down the length of his spine before patting between his shoulder blades, your other hand soothing down his navel to press him down into the cushions. Swiping aside curls of gold, you shush his groaning and search the care bag Olivia left behind. In your palm comes a bind of tobacco and a pipe that is smooth and cold against your skin.

“Quiet, quiet,” you coo, stuffing the chamber of the pipe with the almost sickly sweet, nutty-scented tobacco before raising Pavel’s head and sitting the lip into his mouth.

His eyes are still wrinkled shut, chest beginning to sporadically pop and shrink in a struggle to suck wind through his throat.

Part of you wants to tug his hair and call him stupid, but a larger part of you is consumed with pity. Pity for a creature so entrapped with torment that he cannot remember the second most basic function of his body.

“Breathe through your nose,” you continue to run your fingers through his sweat-matted hair while striking a match against the train’s floorboards and lighting the tobacco, “Smoke slow. It will ease you.”

Pavel’s neck cranes upward and remains there, head pushing against your stroking hand as he (rather noisily) inhales through his nostrils. Then, he fills his lungs with the sting of tobacco, blowing it back out through the pursed corner of his mouth.

Once you’re confident Pavel can breathe and smoke without choking himself to death, you turn again to rattle through Olivia’s care bag for herbs. Anything to aid the physical pain before the distraction of tobacco wears off.

Eyes fluttering open, Pavel stares down at you as he lifts an arm to pull the pipe from his mouth - blowing smoke down into your face. You pinch the exposed skin of his side harshly, only letting go when he jerkily arches his back to escape your cruel fingers.

“Unbelievable,” you shake your head, “No. A Bremen pig would, of course, disrespect someone trying to heal them.”

“If you wanted me dead, I already would be.”

“I still have time.”

You unplug a glass vial the shade of elderberries and press it to Pavel’s closed lips. When he stubbornly fastens his lips tighter, you glare directly into his eyes.

“Open. Or it’s being poured over your neck.”

Pavel groans in protest, but finally opens his mouth and allows you to dump the blue liquid into his throat. He gags at the bitterness of raw, untempered pressed herbs, almost gagging until he realizes you have no intention of stopping your pour. So he chooses to swallow down the vial as quickly as it comes instead of drowning to a mere glass of blue.

When you’re tucking the emptied glass away, Pavel replaces the pipe and huffs down at you, “You’re not a very courteous nurse.”

Instead of dignifying the jab with a response, you sit up fully on your knees to scour over the lieutenant below. From his tousled hair to his bloodied and wretched uniform to his muddied boots.

You reach up and contemplate digging a thumb somewhere in the center of his bandages before thinking better of it and snatching the pipe from his lips, “You should put away your breasts.”

Inhaling the smoke, you blow it down in Pavel’s annoyed face and grin when he coughs.

He glares up at you somehow harsher than before, “I could shoot you for that. I should shoot you for that.”

“Then who would protect you from all the other people that want you dead?”

Silently, he mulls over the question. If he reaches some sort of logical conclusion, he refuses to share. Most likely, though, you’re assuming he has no such answer. Aside from you, there is Olivia, but even she could not be swayed into staying on this train longer than necessary. It could drive one mad, bound inside this narrow tube of car after car after car with the same seats and floorboards and rolling rug. So she very politely requested you to stay behind instead.

You sit down on the hard floor below you, pulling your knees to your chest and winding both arms around your legs. Pavel turns his head to the side, lips in a pout. Drinking the blue liquid earlier has revived them, at least somewhat, they are even pinker. More full. Smoother. When you’ve had enough staring there, you stare at his eyes: so gray they shine like gun metal in the flitting moonlight.

Maybe Pavel would notice you examining him if he could tear his own eyes away from where they’re lingering by the sliver of exposed skin by your ankle. Classic: boarish pig lives up to his name. His gaze crawls up your shin to your bent knees, then a little lower as if to catch a glimpse of where your thighs and rear are squished against your chest and the floor (respectively). At least you have the decency to not objectify him during your observation - not that you even could. The lieutenant is leagues more off-putting than handsome.

Once he’s gathered the guts to bore his steely gaze into your face, he grins with a half-hearted shrug, “I haven’t seen a beautiful woman not kissing the piss lord’s ass in ages.”

You ignore the pass completely, “So, the temple square?”

Pavel sighs and extends a hand, palm up and fingers splayed wide in front of your face, “A failure.”

“You don’t say,” you bypass his hand and feed the lip of the pipe directly into his mouth, pressing it against his tongue and watching him firmly tuck it between his lips before letting go, “Why try?”

Puffing from the pipe, Pavel only shakes his head while exhaling thick plumes of slate-hued smoke. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip and cradles the pipe in his hand, turning it delicately to inspect the body, “Why not?”

You make a show of looking from his face to his bandaged torso before snickering, “Serious question?”

Pavel takes one final draw of the pipe before balancing it atop the wooden frame of the seat. He lays his uninjured hand gently over his torso, blinking up at the ceiling with tired, wet eyes.

“You are cruel, you know this?”

“It’s a good defense,” you grin at the man innocently, “Especially against brutalist pigwhores.”

“Targeted,” again, he pouts, “Mean. You are a mean girl.”

“Maybe that’s what you need. I think Mama was too nice to you.”

Pavel withholds the wince at your words, merely pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth and inhaling through his nose sharply. He shrugs when he really wants to bite, “You think so?”

Hopefully, he muses, he can rip out your throat when he finally snaps back.

“I do.”

“You know what I think?” you merely fold your arms, so he continues, “Nobody put the spoiled girl in her place. Now she’s a confident woman full of hot air,” he smiles, “I don’t do well with confident women like that. Make me jumpy.”

You ‘hmph’, but respond with nothing new before rising from the floor and snatching the care bag to squeeze against your chest like a child would their stuffed bear. Laying across the unoccupied, opposite seat, you turn so that you're faced away from the lieutenant.

Pavel stares at your back. He hadn’t been entirely teasing earlier - he truly hadn’t found a woman beautiful in a long while. Not that it was a problem to admit a girl was pretty, but there was always some dull ache to accompany the thought. Women riveted by his status in the Bremen army disgusted him, and women disgusted by him and his status were usually unwilling to bend to his charms. Even then, if he met a woman who was nurturing and sweet, undeterred by his enlistment, he was consumed with revenge.

Now that he’s officially gone and tried and horrendously failed, he can at least swim in the delusion that there is a chance for romance. Besides, he is in his thirties, that’s about the time when people begin settling down, right?

He reaches up for the pipe but finds that it’s gone out. No more vermillion embers to offer comfort.

“Oi,” he calls into the night. Not even crickets sing back. He shifts as if to sit up, but his entire waist flares with pain and sends him crashing back into the velvet cushions. So, he settles on raising his voice, “Hey!”

“Sleep, pig.”

“Pav.”

“Hm?”

“My name. My name is Pav,” he considers throwing the pipe at you altogether, but if the gold-encrusted bowl actually hits your skull then you’d likely leave and never return, “Call me by it.”

“Why should I?” you twist, scowling over your shoulder, “You signed up for the Bremen army, now take what comes with that in Prehevil.”

“You don’t strike me as a dull girl,” he grumbles, “So don’t pretend to be one.”

Suddenly, you’re sitting up again, the bag still clenched between both of your arms, “Do you know what the Bremen army has done to people? Has done to me?” you spit on the floor, right below where Pav rests, “Pigs! Horrible, wretched, rotten pigs!”

Pavel allows you to scream, allows you to finish, before returning, “Do you know what the Bremen army has done to me?”

He’s so quiet, he’s downright whispering. Voice husky and layered with years of buried terror and bloodlust.

“How should I care? You enlisted! Whatever they made you- !”

Now he cuts you off.

“They razed my home during the First Great War,” that once blinding sheen in gunmetal eyes is dark like obsidian, “My family. My mama,” he mocks you, “Dead. I joined to kill the Kaiser, I never wanted to be a Bremen pig. I never asked for this.”

“You came to kill the Kaiser as a lieutenant?”

“I did.”

“You must’ve known…” you swallow your words. A lieutenant to kill the commander? Even without the Kaiser’s other soldiers, Pavel wouldn’t possibly have been able to do that and get away with it. Not unless he wanted to hide out in Prehevil for the rest of his days.

“At least I will never die knowing I didn’t try,” he cackles sickly, “Great leader Kaiser spat the bullet out like it was nothing… Maybe he is some God sent back to torture us.”

“Maybe you missed,” you slump forward, elbows digging into your knees, “Couldn’t that be more likely?”

“No,” he looks at you with widened eyes, “No, no,” he shakes his head, “I don’t miss my shots.”

“If you’re sure,” you smile suddenly, shaking loose the stiffness in Pavel’s shoulders, “When you’re healed, we can try again, hm?”

“Really?” he’s shocked by the madness of your suggestion, “Did you miss the part where I said he took a bullet to the head and walked it off?”

“Apparently, we’ll die here anyway,” you shrug, yawning and fluttering back down onto the seat, “So, why not try again, Pav?”

A girl that nurtures despite his bloody uniform, and now despite his terrible need for revenge. You are as cruel as you are doting. Fiery and unfair and oh, he thinks he wants you to card your fingers in his hair again. Gentle only to him.

“As long as you don’t abandon me once you see for yourself,” Pavel can feel less burning in his chest when he breathes now, “Spat the bullet right out, I tell you.”

You shrug, “I guess I’ll die one way or another here.”

Pavel shakes his head, not bothering to tilt his head away from you as he drifts off.

…

DAY 3. MORNING.

He awakes to a great pressure around his throat. Snapping into consciousness, he finds you standing over him with shaking arms, and when he’s brave enough to follow the branches to where they’re stemmed - your hands are around his neck. Your breathing is shaky, and there’s wetness reflecting off your cheeks. Pavel claws at your wrists with his hand, twisting his body so his bottom half is hanging off the seat. Ignoring the scorching rage that sears over the fresh gash in his stomach, Pavel kicks out at you. His heeled boots dig into your gut, squishing intestines and fat and blood as he pushes you away.

Loudly, his boots thunk back against the floorboard when you’ve fallen away, throwing yourself dramatically across the opposite seat. Like a sick Europian lady from the Gilded Age, you drape over the frame with sniveling wails.

Pavel skims his fingers over where your own were clamping his throat shut as he shudders for breath. Ignoring your sobs, he shouts, “Did you hit your head or what?! Heal me, talk to me, just to end my life?! Are you- ?!”

“Enough!” you scream, voice snapping raw in the middle, completely fizzled out at the end. Wiping at the ceaseless tears gushing over your face, you scream again, “She should’ve gotten out of here! She should’ve gotten out and ran instead of… Instead of…” you cough out phlegm and despair trapped in your throat, “Instead of…”

Marina’s downcast face, moles decorating her frown as she twisted a cracked pair of Windsor glasses between her hands. She could barely look at you when she said it before handing over the glasses. I’m sorry, Marina whispered, Olivia… I just thought, maybe, you should know…

Pavel remains as he is, lumped against the back of the seat with both legs dangling onto the floor. Dried blood scraped up under his heels. He heaves for breath, watching as you cradle yourself in your arms and rock. You wither before him, babbling and wheezing and shrouded in shadow.

“What are you going on about?”

“Be quiet,” you snap, louring through puffy, red eyes and wobbly lips, “Be mournful. The woman that saved your life has died,” before Pavel can squeeze anything out from his gaping mouth, you stand and point down at him to command again, “Be nice. The war is over, and you’re not even a real lieutenant, you can show kindness when a person has died.”

He shuts his mouth. Opens it again. Shuts it. Then, finally,

“I didn’t know her.”

From the way you cross your arms and turn away, he can gather that that was the wrong thing to say.

“And yet she saved you,” your arms tighten around yourself, “She saved you, Pav… Be nice.”

You’re a sweet thing, Pavel thinks. You clearly hate him for not displaying the tenderness that you are around the woman’s death. At least at this moment, you hate him.

“I’m taking a walk,” you announce, flinging open the cabin door and slamming it behind you.

Pavel contemplates calling after you, but figures the sound of his voice could only make you stay away longer.

You’re a cruel, sweet thing.

Not even leaving the care bag closer for him to reach in and take from.

DAY 3. NOON.

When you return, the train car is silent sans the gentle hum of Pavel’s breathing. Almost reminiscent of clockwork, a well-oiled machine, his broad chest rises and falls smoothly as he’s rearranged himself sideways on the seat. With his slung arm over his chest and spare one tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow.

Having Pavel stretched out before you gives ample time for you to more thoroughly judge his physique - if you’d be able to strangle him while he’s awake. If he could fight back. If he could lift you with his pure muscle and restrain you with a single hand while the other…

Maybe, you think.

His arms are large, but not obnoxiously terrifying like the boxer. His waist is slim despite the broadness of his shoulders and chest.

Suddenly, he groans, nose twitching in his slumber. It draws your gaze up to his face. That unsettlingly symmetrical face with the strong nose bridge and soft, rosy lips.

Not to mention his flaxen hair - curled and tousled and forcefully in your sights with that Bremen hat off. And with his Bremen uniform (seemingly always) unbuttoned to his stomach, you make out his pectorals past his bandages. You make out two indentations over his heart: silvery scars.

He could almost be handsome. If he were more emotionally attuned.

You kneel by his side, swinging the care bag across the aisle and into your lap. His bleeding has visibly lessened, as only the lightest shade of pink has spread over the pale cloth. Sneaking scissors up by his soft skin, you avoid slicing him as you snip the bandages and begin unwinding them. Pulling gently so as to avoid waking the man, you successfully clear him from the restrictive cloth and assess his healing wound.

More coral pink than crimson red, now. You assume the mass improvement is thanks to the blue vial Olivia had provided. Even as the gnarly cut expands under Pavel’s breathing, it fails to start bleeding again. Which you’re grateful for since, as a precarious glance into the bag confirms, you have freshly run out of bandages. And you fear that snagging any old cloth from any old barrel could give Pavel an infection.

“What was it Alll-mer said? Pluck out your eyes if you cannot respect modesty?”

“I’m checking your wound,” you pinch his side. The skin is warm and fleshy and so, so soft between your fingertips. He whimpers and tries to evade your hand by squirming higher on the seat, “When did you wake up?”

“Not long ago,” he watches you reach into the bag and pull free another glass vial of blue liquid, “Only to see you ogling my body.”

“It’s a hideous one. Hard to look away.”

“You love to lie, mean girl?” he ‘tsk’s, “Shame. Lies are so ugly from a pretty mouth.”

“As if you would know.”

“Confident woman,” he sings to himself, grinning, “Confident, confident woman.”

Shoving the blue vial towards Pavel’s face, you square your shoulders and settle your face sternly, “Drink.”

“I liked it when you did it for me,” he opens his mouth then, refusing to break eye contact.

You comply, shifting onto your knees and pressing the chilled glass against Pavel’s lower lip; tipping it to flow into his warm mouth. He gulps down what you graciously offer, bringing his uninjured arm out from under his head and settling it over your hand around the vial. His thumb presses against your knuckles. You tangle your other hand into his hair and let the golden curls thread over your fingers. Once the vial is finished, you can’t explain it but there’s a sudden thundering in your chest. So vivid and hard in your ribs that it makes you nauseous.

Pavel blinks, lashes fluttering at you as his hand remains over yours.

Sunshine slants across his face. You see him more clearly now than this morning or last night or when he was wrought and warped with pain.

He looks pretty like this. Foul-mouthed and promiscuous and even forthright rude, but undoubtedly pretty.

His hand moves to your cheek, tenderly cupping the flesh with glass still pressed to his lips.

The thunder comes with lightning that strikes blazing fire. Heat fans through your chest and up to your forehead.

“If you want to go after the Kaiser, you should rest,” you whisper, as if speaking any louder could shatter the both of you from this moment, “We both should. Best to gather our strength before searching for him.”

Pavel shakes his head, obsessively smoothing the pad of his thumb over the apple of your cheek, “He will gut us both, cruel girl. I don’t want to see that for you. If I find him it’s alone,” he swallows thickly, “And I’m tired.”

“So,” you realize with a startled tremble that your internal combustion is affection for the former lieutenant, “you’ll stay?”

And with greater terror, you realize that you actually want to stay with him.

“I will die knowing I failed,” he sucks in a sharp breath, pressing his lips firmly before granting you sight of the rosy flesh again, “but I will have you to die with, cruel girl.”

At least even in humiliating defeat, Pavel can be loved.

“Are you scared to die, Pav?”

You’re a sweet one, he fondly recalls. Assuming he had much to live for outside his schlocky revenge scheme.

“Projecting, hm?”

You pinch his side. He lets you.

DAY 3. NIGHT.

“Now, bend it.”

Pavel hisses but manages to fully extend and curl his newly unwound arm with nothing more than a click in his elbow. He lays both hands in his lap as you bunch the bandages and sling into a ball and lay it off to the side.

“Good,” you utter softly, “You’ve healed a lot faster than I would’ve thought.”

“Right?” Pavel turns his head to stare down at you, tilting his head back, “You should sit with me.”

“You’re feeling charitable,” he scoffs at your tease, not moving to accommodate his invite, “Where should I even sit, then? You’re taking the entire seat.”

When he merely smirks, you get the idea.

“You’re gross.”

“Indulge me, cruel girl,” you rise to your feet, gnawing your bottom lip in contemplation, Pavel leans against the armrest and cinches his legs together, “Would you make a man die alone?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

But would you make Pavel die alone?

You swing a leg over his torso, careful to avoid the healing slash and straddle Pavel’s waist with both hands landing over his exposed chest. He cups your cheek again, now taking pleasure (and slight pain) in cradling your face with both hands. He hasn’t gotten to see a beautiful woman in ages, and he thinks maybe it isn’t so bad to go out staring at one.

Moonlight cascades over the both of you, so bright in the train cabin it almost burns.

“If we could still run, where would you go?” you ask.

“Where would you want me?”

“Flirt,” you’re leaning in, though, trailing a finger over his scarred chest. Your nails bite at the flesh, he grunts in disapproval, “How can I believe anything you say? You betrayed your leader. Would you shoot me, too?”

Pavel is sure you’re anything but serious in asking, but it's dangerous the way he feels compelled to answer genuinely, “Never. I’d miss your… What was it? Brutalism?”

“Enough,” the moonlight sears over where Pavel’s hands are curved around your cheeks. You lean down more until your lips brush his, “You call me rude, but you’re- “

He slices your derision short, pressing his petal soft lips against yours with a quiet, contented sigh.

Moonlight bares witness. And you cannot pull away even as the fire in your heart rages from affection to molten lava. You’re not even entirely sure you would want to.

…

Karin cannot feel her fingers as she stands in the open train car door. She’s seen many things - many terrible, awful things. Especially so in the past seventy-two hours than her entire career as a war journalist, but this may be what truly drives her mad. She can feel it - the need to retreat inside her mind and shut down completely; the need to give up hope of salvation. Maybe she can suppress it long enough to sit by that seashore, get a good view to wash out the image before her.

Wriggling on the train loveseat is a fleshy creature, almost like mushed peaches. Occasionally, pleased sighs and hums will escape one of its two smiling faces as the lumps slide and shift along the cushion. One face nuzzles closer to the other and the measly bread and meat Karin swiped from deserted kitchens lurches in her stomach.

None of the other monsters she’d encountered had been so undeniable in its previous humanity. It reminds her of the holed, broken, pliant corpses of uniformed soldiers dead in trenches, and it reminds her of the first time she ever saw a real dead body. She puked on its boot, unable to run back and spew bile elsewhere before it was spurting past her lips.

Karin’s stomach is stronger now, though. She has the time to turn and trudge on wobbly knees towards the seaside before she pukes - squirming flesh and smoldered limbs tangling in her mind.

Moonlight burns at the back of her neck as The Lovers moan and coo happily behind her.

[iguessigotta]

awww, thank you @lolmiau0101 ! (is my inbox still being weird? why does that thing hate me...) i agree, the fanbase needs more writers!! come on, people! there's SO MUCH to work with - angst! smut! dark horrors beyond our comprehension, driving us all mad as some half-forgotten god slowly digests us!!!!!!! Cahara x GN reader, no warnings

i'm a firm believer in pansexual & panromantic Cahara, so I don't see gender really factoring into how he feels about a person

his love languages are definitely acts of service and physical touch - and he actually loves clingy people so please glue yourself to his side 24/7 he will revel in it

the dungeons are a difficult and dangerous place to be, so he by no means expects you to be at your best

i think Cahara would actually prefer a partner who's more often in need of some kind of help - probably someone easily frightened or more timid

someone onto whom he could focus his own fear and concern and desperate need to protect (which he also does w/ the girl - he'd die for her - and you - so fast)

every time you shy away from a sudden noise, discreetly tucking your body behind his shoulder, he feels like his heart might burst

you could just as easily hide yourself behind Ragnvaldr, in fact that might be the better of the two options, but you chose him to protect you

you trust him

that's what really does him in

he'd also love someone he could easily fluster - Cahara's a massive and shameless flirt; nothing delights him more than getting a reaction out of someone

if he can get your cheeks to go pink or cause you to bashfully hide your face...all with one well-timed smirk or wink...

it makes him wonder what would happen if he snuck up behind you, crept in close to whisper in your ear....

how would you react?

would you trip over your words, stuttering through your reply?

would you be speechless?

how much could he get away with?

a lighthearted flirtatious comment, sure

a hand at your hip or small of your back while avoiding an unfortunate encounter with one of the many creatures roaming the dungeons, obviously

but how long would his eyes or hands get to linger, how direct could he be about hist flirting before you noticed, eyes widening as your face heats up...

would you lose yourself for a moment, body unconsciously leaning into him, heavy and warm against his own...?

he's lost himself in thought over it quite a bit

often enough that you notice - and if you make a teasing comment about his glazed over eyes and flushed cheeks?

he's unable to respond as his throat dries suddenly. he's sure his heart skips a beat

you might be the death of him-

[togrowoldinv]

Castles Crumbling

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Trying to get through to Natasha can be a difficult task, but you’ll never give up on her.

Note: So this one is a lil sad, but I promise there’s hope laced in it as hope is always around if you just look for it. Yes, it’s a Taylor reference hehe. Enjoy this one!

Natasha Romanoff Masterlist 1, Natasha Romanoff Masterlist 2, Main Masterlist

Things with Natasha were great. Until they weren’t.

You met the woman when you joined the team. It was one of your favorite days of your life. You had finally reached your goal of becoming an Avenger and there you were there amongst the heroes that you had so admired.

Natasha took to you surprisingly quickly. She hadn’t realized she was doing it, not really. She just felt comfortable around you. But everyone else, including you, noticed that she was drawn to you.

You were drawn to her too, so you spent a lot of time with her. You always trained with her and spent nights watching movies with her. Most nights you made hot chocolate and giggled over how many marshmallows you could eat.

Beginning to feel like your relationship with her was something more than a friendship, you took the chance and asked her out one night.

It was bold, you knew that, but you didn’t want to miss the chance at something real. And Natasha was as real as it got. Your hopes were shattered when Natasha said no and all but ran away from you.

It’s been two weeks of silence from the woman. You haven’t seen her at training or any other event. Honestly, you’re not even sure she is at the compound. Still, you make a cup of hot chocolate for her and march to her room.

You knock on the door. No answer.

“Natasha,” you try. Nothing. “I don’t even know if you’re in there, but if you are, will you please open the door? I miss you so much.”

You still hear nothing on the other side of the door. Sighing, you place the mug on the ground next to the door.

“I made you a hot chocolate. I’ll just leave it here,” you say into the door.

Taking a few steps away, your attention is drawn back to the door. It creaks open slightly, and you see her hand reach for the mug. To your surprise, the door doesn’t close immediately. You stand completely still in the hallway even though you’re sure Natasha knows you’re there.

“Y/n?” She calls out. You could cry at hearing her voice for the first time in weeks.

You walk towards her, and she simply gestures for you to enter her room. You do so easily, noticing the way her usually perfectly clean room is a mess. Clothes are everywhere, and papers on her desk are haphazardly stacked.

“I made it with extra chocolate,” you say, referring to the mug in her hand.

“Thank you,” she says. She means it. Nat takes a sip of the hot chocolate and places it on her nightstand.

You nod. You’re racking your brain for what to say next when Natasha speaks instead.

“You don’t want to know me,” Natasha says. “Not like this.”

“Natasha,” you try to stop her, but she continues.

“I’ll just let you down,” Natasha says. “Everyone who tries to love me just gets pushed away. It’s my fault.”

“Hey, don’t do that,” you say. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“But it’s true.”

“It’s not. I love you and I’m still standing here, aren’t I?” You ask her. Her lips almost quirk up at your confession, but she is too focused on how she will hurt you to truly smile.

“I shut you out for two weeks,” Nat says. “That doesn’t really scream that I am capable of-”

She stops herself short, opting to shake her head. Life is full of incomplete sentences, but you want to know what she was going to say. So, you push.

“That you’re not capable of what?”

“Y/n.”

“Tell me, Natasha. Because if you say what I think you’re going to say then you’re completely wrong.”

Natasha’s cheeks turn a rosy pink, a sure sign that she is keeping herself from crying. Her green eyes are a sea of sadness.

“I don’t know how I got this way,” Natasha says, her voice low. “I used to be so strong, and I was great at keeping myself uninvolved.”

“Was that strength or was that fear?” You pose the question.

“I don’t know,” Natasha admits. “Both.”

You dare take a step closer to Natasha. When she doesn’t step back, you reach out your hand to her. She hesitates, but eventually she lets her nimble fingers slip between yours. It’s electric, as it is every time you two touch.

“You know we don’t have to be anything, but friends. But at least can we be that?” You ask. “I miss you. I miss us.”

Natasha finally lets her teardrops fall. No one ever sees her like this.

“I’ve hurt so many people,” Natasha says through her tears. “I can’t hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you assure her. “And even if you did, it would be hurt that was one hundred percent worth it. I’d let you hurt me a million times over if it meant I got to love you and be loved by you.”

“I don’t- why would you let yourself be hurt by me?”

“Natasha, people hurt people. That’s what makes us human. But there is no hurt that the two of us can’t get through. And there’s no way I’m ever giving up on you,” you explain.

She squeezes your hand harder. You give her your best smile.

“I’m not sure how human I am,” Natasha admits. “People see me as a monster.”

“Those people don’t know you. You are so beautifully, wonderfully, painfully human.”

You’re not sure she believes you, but her tears begin to subside. Natasha reaches her other hand out to your free one. She intertwines them just like the other two.

“You really want me?” She asks, a certain shyness you haven’t heard before to her voice.

“I really want you.”

“With all of this pain and hurt I cause?”

“It’s not your fault,” you remind her. “And, yes. I love you. Nothing will change that.”

“I- I’m not ready to say it,” Natasha says. You know what she means. “But I do feel it. I think. It’s not simple.”

“It never is. All I know is that we can do this,” you tell her. “Can I hug you?”

Natasha nods. You step forward and she releases her hands from yours. Wrapping your arms around her neck, you feel her bury her face into yours. Residual tears dry, and you hold her tight.

You don’t know how long the hug lasts. Maybe mere seconds, or maybe it was hours.

But you know that you will always love Natasha, even when her castles are crumbling to the ground. A million times over, you will choose her.

[suzistan420]

Nosramus giving the blood sodden wizard a bath after some hundred years sleeping in his NEET nest. Not without many threats.

[lemonkris1]

[komafficial]

huzzah more tickle stuff from the amazing(?) Koma🙌

he’s not doing okay and hasn’t been for a while and won’t be for a while, so why not tickle him and do literally anything to make him happy??🫶🫶

luckily Marina is bored or something idk im tired

that’s all I hate writing

don’t judge me that’s not cool

[kesharik]

meeting in present

alt versions under the cut

[s3a-s1ug]

Enkivaldr confession scenario

༺♰༻

Ragnvaldr is DEFINITELY the one to confess first. It doesn’t take him too much time to prepare himself- he’s a very blunt and honest man but Enki’s cold and harsh nature definitely gets to Ragnvaldr a bit

But he just decides ‘ok you know what I’m just gonna do it’ but the SECOND he goes to Enki in the library he’s already nervous-

Enki is already kinda suspicious of him because of the was Ragnvaldr was just- standing in the doorway- but he didn’t look up from his book attempting to play it off as one of his weird habits

Ragnvaldr walks up to him…slowly… with each step getting him more nervous and maybe even regretful- ‘what if he thinks I’m a fool- if he hates me!?-

And Enki is just watching him from his peripherals attempting to focus on his book. But he can’t. So he talks, still looking at his book to give the appearance of him reading

“Hmph- is there something you want, brute?” He asks coldly

“Oh- um…ja… there is… you see…uhm…”

“Tch!- spit it out will you!?” He said fiercely. His cold eyes met Ragnvaldr’s

Enkis gaze stabbed straight through Ragnvaldr and to his chest.

“Enki… our time together as allies has been most enjoyable and I genuinely enjoy spending time with you… but I’ve started feeling… different..?

Enki cocked an eyebrow unbreaking his eye contact with Ragnvaldr ‘what is this idiot trying to tell me..!?’

Ragnvaldr let out a breathe and contained his posture

“Enki I have developed… feelings for you- and it has stuck with me for a while and I felt that I must tell you… it has been making me feel complicated but I cannot deny that it hasn’t been making me feel… happy…?

Ragnvaldr felt even heavier than before anticipating what the dark preist was going to say

Enki’s expression finally changed- shock - absolute surprise- his eyebrows raised and dare I say he lost his composure- even if just barely

He looked at Ragnvaldr and then attempted to regain his composure. attempted. He broke his eye contact to look down and placed a hand on his mouth- thinking-?

“hmm…we’ll this-… I’d never… even—“

Now Enki was starting to freak out- but he wasn’t showing it- at least not that much

“M- my apologies- I most probably should have told you this wh—“

The sharp -SLAP- of Enki’s book closing silenced whatever sad apology Ragnvaldr was about to say. Enki looked back up at him with a …off… expression. Less fierce and more -flustered..? Still attempting to put up a fierce front

“Whatever pathetic apology you’re trying to spew out just stop…”

Ragnvaldr tensed up again- oh shit- did he mess up..?

Enki spoke again

“Tch, you northerners, s-so blunt…- I need to… ponder your… feelings for a while. I’ll give you my answer when I feel like it- please leave me be, brute-“

His cold composure returned. Ragnvaldr stood up straight

“Uhm ja- ja! I’ll leave you be…”

He then quickly turned around and walked out of the library, heart beating faster than ever leaving Enki by himself to ponder what the hell just happened

༺♰༻

To be continued…

Hope y’all enjoyed my first fic!! ^^

SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER JSKSJS-

But thankfully part two will release…

TOMORROW!!!

You hear me right! Tomorrow!!

Stay tuned and see you later!

✌︎('ω')✌︎

[ediblewriting]

find solace. (d'arce/cahara vers.)

remember when i mentioned that i was writing silly little cuddling drabbles? heres the first one!!

essentially cahara and d'arce are partied up, and cahara notices as they set up camp to rest that she seems a little tense! and he doesn't really know how to offer comfort, so he just offers some cuddles instead!

pls enjoy, i havent written for this fandom much and this is my first time sharing a fic on this site, so also pls be nice to me :'3

404 words, fluff, drabble, romantic or platonic, Fear and Hunger

Cahara’s been traversing the dungeons with this knight for a little while now, but this is their first time setting up camp together. Coincidentally, they’re both trying to find the same man, albeit for different reasons. She seems to be far more invested in his safety, and it’s clearly stressing her out more than the horrors they face.

She’s wrapped in some furs they found, holding them tight around her body and laid on her side, turned away from the fire they started for warmth. Her armor has been shed, placed carefully nearby when they were sure they were safe.

Fuck it, Cahara thinks, it’s worth a shot.

“Hey, uh,” he starts, trying to be gentle in his tone. D’arce looks back at him over her shoulder, her brows furrowed. “Do you wanna, like, lay with me?”

She looks offended instantly, shooting upwards and pulling the furs tighter over her chest, covering herself. “Excuse me? I am a knight of the Midnight Sun, and you will not–”

“Not like that.” He interrupts, frowning. “I just meant…” She glares at him, waiting for an answer. He sighs, continuing, “I just thought you seemed kinda tense. And maybe some physical contact would help with that.” At her disgusted look, he adds, “You can be the big spoon if that makes you more comfortable–”

“No! You think just because I’m a woman that I’d need your comfort?”

“No, that’s not what I said at all! It has nothing to do with you being a woman–”

“Oh, sure. I know your type, you miscreant. If you think that my traveling with you means that I’ll yield to your perversion–”

Cahara raises his hands in surrender, cutting her off, “Jeez, okay, fine, sorry I asked.” He turns away, sighing again as he lies down. He listens to the flames flicker, wrapping his arms around himself as the chill sets in.

He can’t fall asleep, not in these conditions, so he just waits and stares at the blockaded door to the room they’re staying in. At some point, he hears shuffling, before a warmth sidles up behind him. She throws the furs over him, too, and hesitantly brings an arm up to wrap around him. “Don’t say a word,” she murmurs, sounding almost ashamed. “You just… seemed cold is all.” 

Cahara nods, smiling for the first time since he stepped into these dungeons, as she cuddles up against his back.

[grievingpoets]

t, 892 words, a quick thing about that rag demanded enki's services in a completely different thing (nothing happened) (maybe this is the first stage to something 💕 who knows 💕)

[maw-and-pawp]

I've been having some hurt/comfort thoughts for awhile now. I might make some ocs around this. SFW, platonic (queerplatonic?), victim blaming, blood mention, background murder, found family, angst and fluff, vore-adjacent.

A pred and a prey duo, in an unlikely friendship. The pred is smaller than the prey, and is somehow vegetarian, but is definitely still intimidating to the prey due to their long claws and sharp teeth and stoic face. They're aware that they come off as threatening to others, and do their best to be kind with their actions, and hide their claws in thick gloves. Besides, if no one knows exactly what they're capable of with those claws, then the chances of being traced back to their "nightshift" are low.

The prey is a survivor of an almost fatal digestion, and they would've been just another victim if their pred hadn't saved them and brought them to a hospital in time. Since then, the prey has both developed trauma from the encounter, and a fragile bond with the pred. The pred insisted to give them their number, afterall. To call just in case they needed help again. For anything.

They started talking, and one thing led to another, and now it's a common occurrence to find the pred in the prey's apartment, taking care of stuff the prey can't always manage on their own now. Making sure the prey doesn't forget to care for themself, helping them run down to the laundromat, cooking for the both of them when the prey can't get out of bed. The pred has been helping them when their family is either too far away to, or blames the prey for what happened (you wouldn't have been taken if you hadn't been alone that night, we raised you better than to go to a mixed bar, let alone by yourself). Because of that, they keep the pred's night time habits to themself, and pointedly do not ask about the faint smell of blood whenever the pred shows up in the mornings. They don't want to know (and they'd like to keep plausible deniability, thank you).

The prey's been going to a support group for others like them. People who were lucky. Someone suggested something like exposure therapy once, mostly as a joke (which wasn't well received). Which...honestly at this point, the prey is tired of being a live wire after what happened, and they would do just about anything to just Go Back To Normal now. So the idea stuck. All they had to do is work up the courage. The prey doesn’t fully trust the pred afterall. They can't after what happened, and what they know the pred is doing to other preds. It's not illegal, technically, if sufficient evidence is found that it truly was in spontaneous aid to a caught prey. But it's not spontaneous. And the pred isn't going to court.

But the pred did say that it was ok to ask for help, even for the 'small' things. Not once have they made them feel like they were anything other than a person...a dear friend. Right. A dear friend. It would be fine.

So they ask to listen to the pred's stomach one weekend. The pred is flustered, confused, stoic face twisted up into a look something like they just got slapped in the face with a fish. Which would be funny, if the prey's heart wasn't trying to run out of their chest from nerves. They quietly explain what they mean to the pred, and the pred's eyes soften in understanding, face unscrunching into something once again unreadable.

The pred is...awkward. If the prey wasn't wholly consumed with their own worries, they would've picked up on the pred's rigid stance as fears of their own...They can't remember the last time someone had touched without the intention to hurt, or to take. And they need to be calm, or their big prey friend will be on edge and that would defeat the point. And their friend deserves to feel safe. Heaven help anyone who takes that away.

They set up in the living room. A cushiony chair is pulled up - a small couch really - and they somehow maneuver the pred to sit in it and the prey to kneel without saying a word. Lots of awkward shuffling, and a pillow for the prey's knees later, and the prey is nosing into the pred's stomach gently.

It's tense underneath their face, and the prey can hear the pred's breath hitch when they first make contact. Slowly, the pred relaxes into the touch, when pain doesn't come. The pred still grips the seat like a lifeline. (It's dizzying, to be so vulnerable, and to do it on purpose)

Then, the prey takes a breath, and presses their ear to the rumbling gut beneath them (it was just before lunch, like they planned). It whined and begged and burbled, warm and hungry. It sends a cold jolt of fear through them, making them freeze. It sounds so loud, so needy, just like it was when it was all around them that night when the acids started flowing in -

Tears are wiped away before they even know it exists. The pred strokes a finger gently through the fur between their eyes, hesitant but firm. They hush the prey, remind them that it's safe. They can stop if they need to. They don't even have to do this at all. They sound close to tears themself. The prey looks up into their face.

The gaze is piercing as it always is. But not unkind. They really would stop if the prey gave the word. They'd get up and get on with their days, and the prey wouldn't be just a meal stewing away inside their pred friend. The pred is more hungry for the tofu in the fridge than them, and their pred is a full head shorter anyways. Even if they wanted to, their pred couldn't take them past the point of no return.

(They wonder what it's like to be so short. Preds were usually a head taller than the prey or more. Perhaps their pred isn't a vegetarian by choice at all - they can't catch anyone being so small. They might also not be quick and strong and lethal by choice either...it must be easy to confuse the pred for a prey, or it might not functionally matter to some)

Armed with this knowledge, the prey nuzzles back in without a word. Their pred's breath hitches again, and comes out shaky when the prey snakes a hand upwards to run their thumb gently over their clothed lower belly. The same comforting little circles that their pred had been rubbing between their eyes a moment ago. They tense along with the motion, and the prey goes rigid again as the wet glorps roar again under their sensitive ears, announcing to the world just how much their pred's tummy was enjoying the attention (even if it would prefer attention from the inside at the moment). The prey counts the pred's climbing heartbeat, and stubbornly holds on even as they (both) shake in restrained fear. As the hour passes, they've never felt so safe and yet so afraid.

They decide that it's been a productive day, schedule another encounter next weekend, and break for lunch. No, the prey did not eat the last of the tofu, thank you very much. They much prefer the beansprouts anyways.

[dadsbongos]

@ghostlykeyes !!!! oomfie n i were sharing daydreams abt living in a swamp cabin and being rag’s witchy partner and this popped out heheh

377 words - not proofread oops

Savory burns of meat are overtaken soon after the front door hinges squeak, Ragnvalder’s hefty boots thud across the floorboards before he’s flush behind you. His own scent of the vague outdoors floods the kitchenette. You can make out raw dirt and iron, sharp twinge of the stench of sweat.

“You reek,” you point out unhelpfully.

Ragnvaldr barks a laugh into your ear before pressing his nose into the back of your head, lips soft against your skull soon after. He lingers there stubbornly, squeezing around you like a viper crushing its prey, but he kisses you so tenderly. Warmth licks over your back from his broad, bare chest; you’ve tried warning him that thick furs are not as useful in a swamp as they are in the north, but your outlander persists. Wrapping around you tighter and tighter until you’re blue and bursting at the joints - simply petrified at the mere thought of releasing you.

“I can’t cook like this, you know,” the air is pushed out from your chest as Ragnvaldr squishes you into his chest, making a deeply huffed ‘oof!’. You giggle at his clingy display and pat one of his thick forearms, stretching out to flip the sliver of feral swine underbelly, “I’ll burn the food! This is dinner -- do you want to eat char?!”

“Only if it’s made by you,” Ragnvaldr nuzzles into your hair, “I hung more pig outside. And rabbits,” you feel the impression of his proud grin against the back of your head, “I know you wanted rabbits’ feet.”

“Thank you, darling,” you coo, gently raking your nails over his skin and watching goosebumps rise in the wake, “Did you find any yellow russulas?”

“I was waiting for you to ask,” perching his chin over your shoulder, Ragnvaldr watches with seemingly unending interest as you shift peeled carrots and chopped potatoes and shredded greens in the pan’s bowl. He kisses your shoulder before replacing his chin there, “I pinned half on the clothesline to dry out and left the rest by the line.”

“My brave warrior,” you lean your head back enough to press your own kiss to his cheek before stripping the meat and vegetables from the open flame.

“The best for you, elskling.”

[iguessigotta]

*shakes bag of kibble* COME GET Y'ALL'S FOOD Cahara x gn!reader warnings: injury mention other than that it's just some bittersweet fluff 💜

“S-sorry, I’m just…” you said softly, voice shaking as you let the sentence hang unfinished in the air.

Scared, Cahara knew. He understood why – these dungeons would be terrifying enough empty – too many sleepless nights (days? It was hard to tell now) spent running from hulking guards and things that looked human but refused to die even after their heads were cut off. It would wear anyone out.

You’d held out this entire time, moving ever forward using nothing but pure willpower to continue. It reminded him of the flowers he’d seen back home, growing through stone paths and buildings. A slow but unstoppable force from each flower, each leaf, adding to the pressure that would eventually crack those stones in half. You were strong – powerful – in your own quiet way, Cahara knew that. Admired it. Unfortunately….even as tough as you were, you weren’t built to endure this place. No one was.

“I know,” he said with a sad smile, extending his arm to you, “C’mere.”

Cahara barely had time to blink before you’d launched yourself into his lap, trembling arms wrapped around him as tight as they could go. He froze for a moment; startled by how quickly you’d moved (he sometimes forgot you could be so fast) his arms finally coming up to pull you in closer.

He hummed softly to you a while, a song from when he was young, lightly rocking the both of you as you tried to relax in what he hoped was a safe room. The two of you had gotten separated from Ragnvaldr and Enki one, no, two a few days ago and had been running since. You were visibly exhausted and Cahara worried you wouldn’t be able to run much longer.

With any luck, one of them would spot one of the markings Cahara had left around the dungeons, coded messages meant to guide them to one hiding place or another. Hopefully they’d find the right one. He huffed a quiet laugh into your hair as he pictured Enki angrily decoding each message they find, spurring Ragnvaldr onward so he could scold the two of you for getting so lost. That was one angry rant he’d be happy to listen to, he decided, as long as it meant you were all back together.

Cahara hugged you a little tighter, relieved that you seemed to be getting some rest. He tried - and failed - to stop his wince as he adjusted the bandages covering the mangled, bloody stump of his right wrist, one simple phrase repeating in his head.

“I’m scared too”

[ervotica]

“C'mere, sweetheart-“ & “Breathe, just breathe-" with finnick please 🤍

a life of our own

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick helps you find yourself again when you’re rescued from the capitol. you’re desperate to trust him again.

warnings: hurt/comfort, a lil fluff, a lil angst, r was tortured and brainwashed in the capitol after catching fire (i got sooo carried away with this but i luv it! hope you enjoy, please remember to like/comment + reblog!)

hunger games masterlist

Your chest is red-hot with anguish; it’s all you feel lately. Confined to this white room, locked in, spending all your time waiting for something that won’t come.

Nothing is real anymore. Your life is a thick fog that you can’t decipher, can’t tell which bits of it are real and which were planted by the Capitol. They made you a weapon against the revolution, against Katniss and Coin and Finnick.

You know him, that much is evident in your unconscious reactions. The way your chest tightens and squeezes when he walks into a room, how your breath catches and you hunger after his touch despite not knowing exactly why. But you know that he’s familiar and that - at one point or another - you loved him.

He visits routinely like clockwork, every day at around the same time. And each time you don’t push him away, don’t flinch at his touch like you do the others, his confidence grows.

Your doctor has been practicing memory games with you, which parts do your life are real and which are fabricated. You repeat them in your head over and over and sometimes they slip out when you’re talking, too. You’ve been incorporating opinions on top of the basic facts you know, and you’ve been including what you know about him.

You rock on the bed with your knees to your chest, feet tucked underneath you as you recite everything you can remember about him. You mutter it under your breath, tongue clicking as you whisper.

The door creaks and you stop dead mid-sentence. Finnick slips in without a word, pulling a chair up to sit by you. He doesn’t miss the way you eye him warily, watching every movement, every tick of his jaw and twitch of his muscles. You’ve always been perceptive- it’s one of his earliest memories of you. How you watch people.

He sits and watches you in return; you trace every inch of his body with your eyes, the bruises on his arms, the points of his shoulders, the slope of his nose and chin, the curve of his jaw.

“Finnick,” you say. He smiles; his fingers rest on the edge of the bed.

“That’s right.”

You reach out to touch him; he stays dead still as instructed by your doctors, but lets you lift his hand to place it in your own much smaller one. You turn so you’re sitting cross legged facing him, holding his hand in your lap. His heart could burst with the way you’re looking at him, a cocktail of fear and longing in your eyes. Something else lies deeper than that, like you’re being pulled through the rubble of your own mind and to the surface. Something a lot like love.

“Can I ask you something?” Your voice is small, more timid than he’s ever heard from you.

“Anything.”

“You love me. Real or not real?”

“Real,” he murmurs.

“I think I love you, too. I know I did before. I just don’t know which parts of my brain are real.” You fiddle with his fingers, the pad of your thumb rubbing over his knuckles methodically. If this is the only way you’ll ever touch him again, he’ll take it. He’ll take every scrap, every morsel of affection he can eke out of you. Whatever you’re comfortable with.

“We can figure that out together.” He’s soft as he speaks to you and it’s a voice that you remember. A very distinct one in your memory.

“Finnick,” you say again. He nods and shifts closer.

“Sometimes you call me Finn,” he starts, pressing lips to your knuckles. “Or honey. Or idiot if you’re mad at me.”

You smile and he catches a glimpse of you in there, engulfed by everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve been told. But he knows he can pull you out.

“I don’t think I’d ever be mad at you,” you mumble. He purses his lips thoughtfully.

“Well, sometimes I am an idiot. And I know you tell me that because you want to keep me safe.”

You’re in agreement there, not knowing everything but knowing undeniably that you would do anything to protect Finnick.

You shuffle over in the bed and tug at his arm. He tilts his head curiously, knowing what you’re asking but not wanting to be presumptuous.

“You want me to come sit up there with you, sweetheart?”

“Yes please.”

“Okay.” He settles himself next to you, legs outstretched where yours are tucked up tightly to your body. “If it gets too much, you tell me and I’ll go, okay?”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Then I won’t.”

You shuffle round and swing your legs over his own so you’re almost completely in his lap; his arm comes up and over your shoulders automatically, like muscle memory. This is how you are in your clearest memories- together, a tightly knit partnership. He’s holding his breath, waiting for you to realise what you’re doing and lose composure, but that moment doesn’t come. You just sit and close your eyes, ear to his chest, listening to his heart beat.

“I’m tired,” you croak.

“You want me to leave you to sleep?”

“No.” Your voice is thick and uneven where you’re full of all these new emotions that you can’t quite place. “Will you stay?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He pulls the thin blanket over your body and smiles as you needle in close to him, face in the juncture of his neck. Hiding with him instead of from him.

“C’mere, sweetheart.” You relax at the pet name, your body going lax against his own as you start to fall asleep.

You can’t be asleep for more than 30 minutes before you start to stir. You’re muttering in your sleep as you start to twitch and reach out for something.

Your brow knits and it forms a crease in the middle of your forehead as you start to cry.

“Honey, c’mon,” Finnick murmurs, his hand pressed to your neck in an effort to rouse you. “It’s just a dream.”

His chest aches; he can’t bear seeing you in this state, knowing there’s not much he can do to make it better. Thinking it’s his fault for not getting to you in time.

You scream and wake with a start, wide-eyed and frantic. Your eyes flit around the clinical looking room as you try to gauge your surroundings and reorient yourself.

“Honey, it’s okay. It was just a dream, you’re safe.”

You scramble back and push him away, curling yourself up into a ball at the foot of the bed. Tears paint your cheeks and they shine in the harsh white lights, hiccuping sobs. He crouches a metre or so away, palms up, arms outstretched in hopes you’ll make contact again.

“Breathe, just breathe,” he says. “You’re okay. I’m here, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

You’re like a wild animal the way you look at him- panic-stricken and agitated, frenetic in the way you move.

“Honey, it’s me. It’s Finn.”

You swallow thickly and nod, your body slowly starting to unfurl.

“Finn,” you sniffle, holding out your arms. “Finnick.”

He creeps closer still and you practically throw yourself into his arms, face against the hollow of his throat, arms locked around his middle like a vice.

“I have you. I’m right here,” he says, over and over like a mantra. A promise.

“I don’t wanna live like this anymore.”

“You’re not going to,” he whispers. “I’ll be here until you feel well enough and then we can start planning our life. Together.”

“Okay.”

Your fingers card through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, wet eyes meeting his.

“I love you. I know it now, I can remember that.”

“I love you too,” he says, craning his neck to meet your eyes. “You’re my girl.”

You’re hesitant as you tilt your head up to press a kiss to his lips but he welcomes it, his thumb and forefinger holding your chin in place as he pecks you a few more times.

“We’re gonna have a life of our own, I promise.”

“A life of our own.”

[coryosbaby]

will you make a masterlist for all of your fics?

ITS FINALLY HERE !! Get ur vibrator & a bucket of popcorn for this wild ride 😁 It’s probably not everything but it’s most, srry :( some r drabbles, some r not

There will be more to come!

Bunny’s Masterlist ♡

Warning: contains 18+ themes

(read content warnings pls!!)

Scream (Ethan Landry, Chad Meeks Martin, Amber Freeman):

Perv! Sub! Neighbor Ethan with bimbo! Reader (smut)

Camp Counselor! Ethan Landry bending you over a picnic table and fucking you raw (smut)

Sub! Ethan and bimbo! Reader going down on each other <3 (smut)

Fucking stepbrother! Ethan Landry on a camping trip (smut)

Subby himbo Ethan (smut)

Ultraviolence- Stepbrother! Ethan Landry feat. Chad Meeks Martin (not completed yet) (mostly smut w/plot)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Sub! Chad meeks Martin only wanting to please you (smut)

Mutual masturbation with stepbrother! Ethan (smut)

Somnophilia with stepbrother! Ethan (smut)

Getting caught being with Stepbrother! Ethan Landry (angst)

Lactation kink with Ethan (smut)

Ethan marking you with his cum (smut)

Getting punished by Ethan and Chad (smut)

Service top Chad with sub! Ethan and reader (smut)

Ethan tied up and overstimulated (smut)

Knifeplay with sub! Ethan (smut)

Pegging Ethan (smut)

Chad and bimbo! Reader teaching sub! Ethan how to give head (smut)

Bimbo! Reader using a fleshlight on sub! Ethan (smut)

Sub! Ethan Headcannons (smut)

Dom! Reader with sub! Ethan and brat! Chad (smut)

Helping sub! Ethan relieve stress (smut)

Overstimulating sub! Ethan while riding him (smut)

Blowing Ethan in his knight costume (smut)

Perv! Ethan x bimbo! Reader (smut)

Somnophilia with Stalker! Ethan (smut)

Soft dom! Ethan and soft sex (smut)

Ethan with bimbo! Reader Headcannons (smut)

Chad and Ethan taking turns with sub! Reader (smut)

Sub! Ethan getting rimmed & pegged (smut)

Knifeplay with Amber Freeman (smut)

“stepbrother I’m stuck” trope with Ethan (smut)

Ethan wearing your underwear <3 (smut)

Dark! Ethan Landry Headcannons (smut)

Vampire! Ethan Landry x Werewolf! Chad Meeks Martin x reader (smut)

Outer Banks (Rafe Cameron, Pope Heyward, Barry)

Obx Porn Links

Dark! Rafe Cameron Headcannons (sfw & nsfw)

Best friend! Rafe taking your virginity (smut)

Sub! Rafe (smut)

Rafe with a crazy reader (mentions of sex)

Rafe brainrot (smut)

Stepbrother! Rafe comforting reader (hinted smut, fluff)

Barry with bimbo! Reader Headcannons (smut involved)

Gunplay with dom! Barry (smut)

Spiderman! Pope hcs (sfw & nsfw)

Barry kidnapping cameron! Reader (smut)

Dark! Rafe Headcanons (smut + sfw)

Florida Kilos— Rafe Cameron x fem! Best friend! Reader (smut w/ plot)

Part 1

Predator/pray kink with rafe (smut)

stepbro! Rafe fluff :)

Fear Street (Tommy Slater and Nick Goode)

older! Nick Goode + fucking you in his office (smut)

Kissing Tommy for the first time (no smut)

Sweet Serial Killer - Younger! Gf! Nick Goode x reader

Part 1

The Hunger Games (Finnick Odair, Coriolanus Snow, Sejanus Plinth, Reaper Ash)

fucking switch! Finnick in the arena while everyone watches (smut)

Coriolanus with a breeding kink and an escort! reader (smut)

Virgin! Coryo fucking Sejanus’ girl (smut) pt 2.

angsty reaper ash blurb (smut)

Sejanus + size kink blurb (smut)

coryo + jealous reader blurb (smut)

Cowboy! Coriolanus au (smut)

Angst + dark coryo & plinth! Reader (smut)

munch coryo x maid! Reader (smut)

virgin! Coryo blurb (smut)

Sub! Coryo fucking his way up to the top (literally) (smut) pt 2

The Last of Us (Joel Miller)

Somnophilia with dark! dbf! Joel + grinding (smut)

Avatar (Jake Sully)

size kink with Jake (smut)

House of the Dragon (Aegon Targaryen)

sub! Aegon with Aemond’s wife (smut)

Halloween Series (Corey Cunningham)

blurb of giving Corey head <3 (smut)

The Lost Boys (Star)

a cozy night with star <3 (smut)

Spider-Man (Miguel O’Hara)

Miguel taming you (smut)

American Psycho (Patrick Bateman)

Patrick x trad goth! Bimbo! Reader (smut with some complicated feelings)

Saw (Adam Stanheight, Mark Hoffman, Peter Strahm, Amanda Young)

night terrors and handjobs (smut with angst)

mark coming home to his lover (smut)

Cockwarming with Mark + a threeway with Strahm (smut)

a little psycho! Fem! Reader x Adam blurb (smut)

dom! Adam (smut)

yandere! Mark blurb (smut)

eating out dom! Amanda (smut)

Hayden Christensen (Anakin Skywalker)

spanking with modern! Punk! Anakin (smut)

Insatiable (aka, dbf! Neighbor! Anakin and his many affairs with you) — masterlist (smut with plot)

Dbf Anakin! + flashing + milkshakes = fucking (smut)

Anakin x overwhelmed reader blurb (smut)

Anakin + reader with bad memory (fluff)

Dbf! Anakin + religious reader (smut)

Queen of the Damned (Lestat De Lioncourt)

bath scene with sub! Lestat & reader (smut)

Fnaf (Mike Schmidt)

Mike nsfw headcanons (smut)

small lil Mike x succubus blurb (smut)

[sprout-fics]

Silver Fox

(Nikolai x F! Reader)

Call of Duty Masterlist

Rating: Explicit (MDNI) Wordcount: 5k Tags: Character study, Age gap, Light Dom/Sub, Fluff, Slowburn, Smut, Dominant Nikolai, Soft Nikolai, Aftercare, Orgasm delay/denial, Light BDSM dynamics, Cuddling, Corruption kink, Brat Taming, Overstimulation, Dirty talk in Russian, Power dynamics, A dose of manipulation but everything is consensual Warnings: Brief mention of capture and torture A/N: This is my first and most likely not my last attempt to write for Nikolai. I really like this dynamic and welcome requests for more

When Nik first meets you, you try to rob him.

You’d been younger then. Wilder, scared of a world you struggled to survive in. With hardly a roof over your head, always an empty belly, chased by ghosts of a past you struggled to leave behind. You were desperate, constantly looking for a way out, clawing and scrambling at the stone alleyways in hopes you could one day see the sky.

He finds you like that- as a dirty, fierce little stray. In a grimy jacket, eyes wild, dirt smeared across your face, you hold up a knife to him and demand his wallet. Stupid, you know, but shivering, scared of the world that was destined to eat you alive, choosing a target far bigger than yourself.

Cute, he’d admitted later.

It takes little effort from him to twist the knife from your hand, examining it as you froze in a shock that only seems to multiply when he asks you if you want a warm meal. The offer is too tempting to ignore to your growling stomach, but in reality it’s the barest hint of softness behind his eyes that has you follow him like a kicked stray out of the cold.

Little did you know, behind that softness lay his own hunger. A deep, prowling thing that circled you beyond your sight.

He takes you to a quiet little eatery, out of the way, only three tables in what amounted to a shed. One of his favorites, he tells you with a smirk. The cook gives you both a look, suspicious of the man who had escorted in a woman much younger than him, dirty and nervous as you are. Nik lets you order, smirking still as you nervously pick something small, cheap, and he instead orders something large and warm for you. He watches you scarf down the entirety of your meal, gazing at him suspiciously all the while. He’s quiet- appraising you later realized.

You know of men like him. Gangsters, thugs, men who work alongside the mafia or even worse. Men from the underbelly of Russian society who walk in plainclothes and hold dark secrets. You know the danger of accepting favors from men like him. Be it your body, your servitude, or a debt paid in blood, men like those you feared would come to collect in due course, would bleed you dry and leave you ruined given the chance. The only charity they offered served their own interests, the cause they flew their flag for.

It became clear as time grew that Nikolai was not much different, that he had taken one look at you and had seen the thing you never saw in yourself:

Potential.

In the end he tells you if you ever need work to come find him, and find him you do.

You’d been foolish, you think back, if only because you’d been so young, naive without the lessons he would soon teach you.

It’s simple things at first. Taking packages and dropping them off at seemingly random locations, picking up things from shady characters who’d let their eyes rake down your form. In exchange Nikolai offers you a warm place to sleep, a roof over your head, hot meals and shelter from the ghosts that chase you. Distant, professional, but there all the same. Steadfast, waiting for your skittishness to shed itself before he comes closer. Waiting. Expectant.

Curious, you’d watch as he tinkers on his helicopter, cleans his cache of weapons, fixes the aging appliances in his house outside Saratov where the remains of the Soviet legacy lay etched between the old manors of the дворянство.

You observe, quiet at a distance, and ask him about the life he led, to which he was vague.

“I fix things.” He tells you simply, snapping a cartridge back into place with practiced efficiency.

You wondered then, if he was trying to fix you too.

He welcomes your interests in his work, skittish though you are, ready to dart back to a safe distance at a moment’s notice. You peer over his shoulder as he works at his tool bench in the hangar, assist him as he tightens screws on his helicopter, pass him ingredients as he cooks dinner for you both on his stove. Rather than answer any questions you pose, Nik elects to show you himself, putting his hands over yours and allowing them to guide you with ease in his tasks.

His protege, he introduces you as to those that ask. The younger woman he had taken under his tutelage. You’d almost resented it at the time, still suspicious, ready to flee at the first instance of betrayal. Yet inside you knew it was too late. In the same way that wolves became dogs, you found yourself near the fire of him, resting your weary bones as he offered you a place to stay.

Even if he held a leash behind his back.

Nik is careful, stern as a teacher but tender as a friend. In moments of learning his voice is whip-sharp to correct any mistakes, but in the quiet evenings he is almost soft, blunted at the edges in a way that betrays his indulgence in you. Each time he gets close, you try to ignore the way his touch lingers, holding back, greedy but restrained as your heart flutters inside your chest. Purposeful, careful not to spook you lest it ruin the things he’s predestined for you.

You try not to miss him when he leaves you behind for work, reminding yourself this is only temporary, to not let your guard down lest he burn you. He will someday stop having a use for you, and you will once again walk into the wild seeking shelter under a different name.

When he returns, you try to ignore the relief that bubbles inside your chest, the desperate hunger of a lonely thing looking for warmth.

You don’t see the glittering silver collar he envisions in his mind.

The teaching moments are constant. It’s not long before Nikolai begins taking you on assignments rather than leaving you at the house alone. You become familiar with the inside of the chopper, and learn to doze in the co-pilot seat when you are allowed. You help him catalog his ammo and supplies, listen over your headset as he explains piloting to you. In meetings with suppliers and clients he tells you quietly to stay inside the chopper behind him, and you peek out to see the eyes of his ‘friends’ flicking towards you. Curious, even as Nik stood as a stalwart wall between you and them.

In the passenger seat of his truck you learn to carefully balance his chosen rifle on your lap, feeling the stiffness ease from your shoulders as he lays a heavy hand across your nape. On long drives he stops at sunset to admire the view, and you hover close to his side as he smokes long drags of cigars. When he encourages you to try you cough on the smoke, and he thumps you between your back gently, chuckling even when you shoot him a glare. The next morning finds you somewhere new, and the lessons resume.

All the while his careful guidance reminds you to keep your eyes up, to stay alert, focused, to heed his warnings and obey his orders when given.

Nik is an endless wealth of knowledge when it comes to his profession. He’s deliberate in the things he teaches you: how to calculate the distance of a target 100 meters away, what the warning lights on the helicopter console meant, how to handle the kickback of a machine gun, where the major organs of the body were located and how to slice them open in deadly fashion. You take to the lessons easily as predators take to the snap of bone between jaws, and can’t help but preen with every accomplishment, every feat you manage to show him.

“Good girl.” He offers when you finish the task assigned to you, noticing the way you stiffen, a shiver racing down your spine at the praise. Testing the waters, quietly moving goalposts in his mind as he maps your future before you.

When you fell ill during that first winter he nurses you, sits your sluggish form up in bed against his chest and watches as you finish what little food you could stomach. When you insist on drinking with him one evening, pass beyond your tolerance, he smooths a hand over your back as you bend over the toilet bowl and whispers soothing reassurances in your ear. When you cut your palm on the edge of a tool bench in his helicopter hangar he lets you squeeze his hand as he pours alcohol over the gash, reminding you the wound would make you stronger. When you take a swig of the vodka to settle your nerves after your first mission with him he hums happily, murmuring an ounce of praise that settles low in your veins like warm liquor.

You let him, suspicious though you are, so desperate for a place to belong, to be taken care of, to have somewhere in which to shelter the storm. Nikolai is your mentor, yes, but more than that Nik shapes himself into your ally, into someone you can turn to, to a man you look to and seek praise from like turning your face to the sun.

Teaching you to eat from the palm of his hand.

You trail behind him at a distance, eyes softening and heart weary, seeking a soft place in which to rest itself. Nikolai is not a soft man, you remind yourself. Tender as he can be, his true heart remains a shadowed thing like all the men and women he keeps close. Even so you cling fast to that same shadow, hovering at his side as he makes a place for you there.

He’d plucked you from the wilds, had taken you like a starved, injured, feral animal into his care. You’d growled and snapped at him, unsure, suspicious of the twinkle behind his eyes that betrayed intentions you couldn’t quite discern. It was as if he knew the things you were capable of before even you could see them, the way he shaped you slowly under his care.

You stay there when he introduces you to his allies, to Price who looks at your skittish, suspicious nature and to Nik with a disapproving but knowing stare. You hear the meaning to it later as you creep downstairs to listen to them smoke outside.

“I won’t say anything.” Price tells him gruffly. “God knows I have my own vices. Just don’t ruin her, Nik.”

Nikolai takes a long, purposeful pause as he considers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, captain.”

Price chuffs, but comments no further.

Slowly, Nik begins to move closer to you, getting you used to his touch. It seems incidental at first. Squeezing too close behind you in the kitchen and offering a chuckling apology as you feel his hips press against your spine; leaning over you to inspect your work, rubbing a hand between your shoulders after a hard day and relishing the tiniest little sigh you offer in return.

In his teachings he is deliberate, gauging your progress under a keen eye, offering life lessons just as he purrs little doses of praise at your progress. He knows you wouldn’t leave now, you’ve become too accustomed to a life under his care. So slowly, Nik begins to test the boundaries of your trust in him, pushing a little farther each time and leaving you dizzy in the wake of him.

In the hot days of summer he works with his shirt off, the broad span of his back glistening with sweat. You tell yourself it is just the warmth of the sun that lays upon your cheeks, but even then you find your eyes straying, catching his own knowing gaze at a distance. Teasing, waiting, expectant.

“Smells good.” He hums over your shoulder as you made breakfast one morning, bacon simmering in the pan. “You’d make a good wife.”

When you feel heat rise to your face, stammering and scandalized, Nik only laughs.

“Шучу.” He grins. “Just kidding.”

It doesn’t seem to be that much of a joke, not with the way Nik is so comfortable around you these days, easing into your personal space just enough to make your heart race, dangerous thoughts of the ‘what if?’ lingering even after he’s pulled away.

On longer jobs he puts a cot in the back of the chopper to sleep on. Normally he likes to sleep in the pilot seat- vigilant and ready to take off at the slightest hint of trouble. Yet sometimes he complains about his aging back and squeezes in behind you, tucking you against the wall and arranging you so you both share what little space there is. You can’t really find it in yourself to complain, taking in the warm, musky scent of his and letting it lull you into dreams.

Slowly, you come to him. You ease into his touch, to the way his hand rubs across your shoulders in greeting, the way he holds your hand as you stiffened during client negotiations. In the evenings he sometimes watches terrible knock-off action movies, rolls his eyes at the impossible stunts as you nod off on his shoulder. Comfortable, you curl into him- seeking the place you belonged, and Nik quietly smiles at the wild creature that has made a home in his heart.

On the odd stretches of time where there are few assignments to follow through from his strange clientele, Nik takes you on his version of a holiday. He brings you to places you’ve never been, restaurants in cities you didn’t know existed.

“Try this.” He tells you in that smirk of his, lifting an oyster from the Caspian Sea to your lips, loaded with butter and spices. You make a face as you swallow, lips closing around his fingers, and don’t notice the way Nik’s eyes flick to the bob of your throat, distracted. “Good girl.”

The praise sends a shiver up your spine, alighting inside you with the need to please him- this man who has taken you in, sheltered you, is teaching you everything he knows.

You don’t realize the danger you’re in when you realize you’ve gotten too comfortable.

It’s a sunny Wednesday morning when you’re taken.

Being the pretty, feral thing at Nik’s side comes with a fair bit of attention. People begin to notice the beautiful vixen at his side. Whispers of your skills echo in the halls of underground bunkers and private airliners. Nik is known to work alone, so to see you with him as his protege, his partner, his co-pilot that he trusts as much as he mentors, means that you’re a target.

You pop out for groceries on his old Soviet era moped, having pestered Nikolai for pirozhkis for dinner- to which he told you only if you fetched the ingredients yourself. You ignore the small gaggle of men smoking near the corner store, common as they were in your neighborhood. It’s only when you come out with your arms full that they spring on you.

Your head cracks against a stone wall. The world goes dark.

When you come to, you’re somewhere you don’t recognize. barely lucid, head pounding, they try and ask you questions about him you can’t answer. There’s things Nik keeps secret from you for your own safety, and the things they want to know are among them. The blows come, knock you from your chair, and you’re left alone in the cellar, trying to understand how the nightmare you dreaded before you met him could have come true after all.

The difference is- now they’ve made a mistake. They took you after he’d taught you how to survive.

The men who took you are stupid. They underestimate you, tying the ropes too loose for your frame. You manage to get your hands free first as Nik has taught you, then your feet. In the corner of the cellar a sliver of light peeks through broken slats, and despite your battered limbs and bruised hands, you peel the plank off quietly so it reveals the underbelly of the house. Like digging a den, you crawl your way into the earth, beyond the foundation, and stumble into the night before your captors even decide to check on you.

Escaping the snare, as wild things do.

It’s early in the morning when you manage to stumble to the back gate of the house. You trip over a loose rock in the soil, collapse in a heap of bruised limbs and fatigue just beyond the back step. The door swings open, and you close your eyes before you can see the sight of Nikolai with a rifle in his hands, ready to fend off intruders.

“лисёнок.” He murmurs hoarsely as he gathers you in his arms, cooing his name for you as you whimper into his chest. Injured, broken, limping back to him. Only him. “What did they do to you?”

You don’t tell him, too exhausted to form words, slumping against him and letting the crash of adrenaline pull you blissfully under.

When you wake up, you’re in his bed. Bandaged, tucked in tightly. He’s washing blood off his hands in the sink.

You don’t realize until later it isn’t yours.

You never ask him what he did to those men while you were asleep, maiming them, killing them for the offense of hurting you, only to come home and haul your figure close to him with whispered reassurances that they’d never touch you again.

Things...change after that.

It wasn’t as if Nik wasn’t affectionate before- he was. Nik’s fondness of you was intertwined with his mentorship. Yet there was always a sort of distance involved. Teasing, playful, interested but careful not to push too far lest he spook you away too soon.

Now, as you cling to him in the aftermath of your capture, shiver and feel your bandaged fingers grip at his shirt, Nik is indulgent.

He lets you sniffle into his chest, rubs his hand along the knot of your spine and rumbles low, soothing words in Russian. He hauls you to him, calls you quiet pet names, cuddles you close and reminds you you’re safe.

In your recovery Nik spoils you, allows you to take all the time you need. You sleep until noon, a rare luxury under his tutelage, and find him cooking your favorite meals when you wake. When you call for him, he’s there, helping you ascend the stairs with your mending knee. He sets you on the couch in warm blankets so you watch movies of your choice until you doze off, to which he carries you upstairs and tucks you quietly, sweetly, back into bed.

All this and more, as Nikolai silently declares to himself that he is never letting you go.

When you recover, the gentleness doesn’t seem to stop. Yet with it comes a sternness, a demand to yield to his promise to care for you, to keep you safe. The hole of want inside you yawns open for him, looking to his care, his guidance, seeking ways to please him. You’re softer now, no less deadly, but the softness in the aftermath has you brushing against him, yearning for his embrace, which Nik offers readily.

With his nose buried in your hair, your arms wrapped around his waist, Nik smiles at the silver snare he’s circled around your throat.

and, silently, he begins to pull.

“Behave.” He tells you when you snarl at a supplier who tries to upcharge him, and Nik lays a heavy hand on your nap that somehow feels like a warning. It settles low in your stomach, warm and liquid with a want you don’t understand yet but need all the same.

“That’s my girl.” He hisses as you stitch a gash on his arm after close contact when you were flying out of a hot zone. He takes another swig of his vodka and groans just as a drip of red oozes down your fingers. You shudder at the sound, feeling something pull taut below your belly, trying to echo the praise quietly in your thoughts.

“Pretty thing.” He smiles as he offers you one of his spare shirts on mission. You swore you had packed more, but the scent of him clings to your skin and it distracts you enough to not question it. You warm under his words, curl up beside him when he gestures. Obedient, wanting.

You think he’s gone from the chopper that night, tucked on the cot and sneaking a hand under your panties to rub idly at yourself- thinking of him. You’re surrounded by the scent of him, swaddled by a phantom of his warmth, and imagining what it would feel like to have his fingers inside you, stroking, coaxing wetness to trickle down the breadth of them. What would it be like, you wonder, for him to hold you like that, to whisper those filthy praises in your ear so you clench down on him?

Footsteps, boots on the metal grate, and a low chuckle.

You yank your hand free, but it’s too late.

“Don’t stop on my account, Дорогая.” He murmurs, and you back against the wall with a shuddering little gasp, skin on fire as Nikolai couches over you, ready to eat you whole. “I was only gone for a few minutes- did you miss me that much?”

The utter confidence in his voice, the knowledge that you were thinking of him, has wetness ooze between your thighs as you try to find your voice. It’s no use, because Nik swoops down against your lips, humming in satisfaction as you ease against him with a little whine, slowly reaching for him until you drag him down onto the cot with you. Surrendering at last.

Hours later, his seed dripping between your thighs, you doze on his chest while he smokes. Exhausted, entirely worn out from the number of orgasms he’s wrung from you, lulled to sleep by his calming heartbeat under your ear.

It’s the first night of many. Like a dam collapsed, Nik releases the full tidal wave of his desire onto you, never missing a chance to haul you to him, to bend you over, to sit you on his cock as you groan and leak around the stretch of him inside you. You realize far too late just how much Nik has been holding back, his hunger for you as boundless as your desire to please him, to stay.

He has you there in the chopper on the cot that can barely hold the weight of his thrusts, back in his bedroom where you collapse face first into the pillows. He eats you out slow and luxurious with you balanced on the kitchen counter, has you brace on his tool bench as he drapes himself against your spine and ruts into you from behind.

“Taking me so well, little fox.” He purrs in your ear, nimble fingers working at your clit as you hiccup and mewl for it. “So tight. Made for my cock, hm? Твоё тело сводит меня с ума. Fuck.”

Nik is an unstoppable force, with stamina you struggle to match. He keeps you in his bed as long as he is able, staving off his orgasm if only to prolong yours, trying to draw as many as he can from you even when your hand smacks at the headboard, trying to tap out. 

“Just one more.” He growls as he tries to fuck you through the mattress, glued to your back so the heat of his frame, the swell of his cock inside you is the only thing you can feel. You’re teary eyed, gasping, the lewd squeal as he thrusts into you filling the quiet of the bedroom. Your eyes roll back just as he nails that perfect bundle of serves inside you, voice caught on a choked sort of whimper. “Just one more and then we can take a break, darling.”

You sprawl against the sheets, exhausted as he lounges bare by the window, a whisp of smoke curling from his cigarette before returning to you once more, spooning you and slipping back inside the sloppy mess of your well-used cunt.

“Good girl.” He tells you again when you moan breathlessly, hand cupping your jaw and turning you to him so he can kiss the gasp from your parted lips. You clench down on him at the words, and he hisses a sound of pleasure against the corner of your mouth. “All mine. My girl.”

“Yours.” You whisper hoarsely, as if there were any other answer.

In the come-down he gathers you to him, kisses the tears of overwhelm from your eyes and holds you as you shiver in the aftermath of your orgasm, feeling worn to the bone in only the best of ways. Cum splatters the inside of your thighs, and Nik idly scoops it onto his fingers and back inside, purring endearments between presses of his lips to your face.

Comforting, gentle when you need it, but demanding, forcing you to surpass beyond what you think yourself capable of if only to see the glimmer of pride in his eyes. When you fail, deliverance is swift as it’s always been, but now it’s different.

“I told you no touching.” He growls, forcing you to look at him as his thumb circles roughly over your clit. He’d caught you masturbating in your room, thinking the house was empty, that he wouldn’t catch you. “You want to touch yourself, you come to me, sweet thing. I’ll take care of you, I always do, don’t I?”

“Yes, yes-” You pant, bucking your hips, desperate, aching without the fullness of him, but Nik pulls away. “Wait. P-please-”

“Need to learn your lesson, little fox.” He soothes, pressing a kiss into your hair even as you whine, trying to buck up and grind against him in a vain search for friction. “Make sure it sticks, Да?”

Yet even as you obey, keep your hands to yourself just as you promised, Nik delights in working you up and pulling away at the last minute. He corners you, slips his hand beneath your waistband and soaks his fingers in your leaking cunt until you moan and mewl for him, then withdraws if only to smirk and suck the taste from them. For days he teases you, edges you until a hiccup threatens in your throat, makes sure you’ve learned your lesson that you are his, and then pulls away to let the reminder sink in. You can’t stand it, go mad with need, find yourself close to humping his knee if only to get some sort of relief.

When he finally does let you come days later, you howl into his flesh, biting down into his skin until he shudders, groans against you and spills inside your clenching cunt.

“My sweet girl.” He murmurs, stroking your face as he cuddles you afterwards. “Я не могу без тебя жить.”

You smile, nuzzle into the warmth of him, knowing he has you, he always will. You can’t forget, not with the things he growls against you as he makes love to you, reminding you that you belong to him. Soft in his room, you lay with him, fold into him as a beacon of safety and trust, know that he will never hurt you, will keep you safe, that this will always be your home.

In front of others you’re his partner, his accomplice, the apprentice he found like a diamond in the rough and had polished into a perfect blade. Deadly, clever, keen-eyed and watchful of all threats. Nik tells Price you don’t play well with others when Price tries to introduce his own protege, and when Gaz offers his hand in greeting you make no motion to return it until Nik grazes a thumb against the side of your throat as if tugging an invisible collar there.

“Careful.” He warns the sergeant. “She bites.”

In private he calls you all his endearments in purring Russian. Ангел, Прелесть, Огонёк. Angel, precious, little fire, the object of his desire. You're his girl, his sweet, fierce little sweetheart, the thing he taught to eat out of the palm of his hand while keeping your wild, dangerous nature.

You're his only family, his beloved little fox he managed to domesticate, the thing that still will bite him given the chance, but likes to curl up in his lap and yawn like a housecat. You're his obsession, his partner, his apprentice. If anything else, you're his weakness.

“Я тебя никому не отдам.” He swears to you, voice a low, deep rumble as he strokes your face, feeling your sleeping breaths fan across his palm.

“I will never give you to someone else.”

You dream of the first day you met him. Feral, scared, hungry and starved and inside- looking so desperately for somewhere safe to call home.

Now, years later, you know. Generous though Nik was, it was this that he had hoped for in the beginning- with you as his partner, his protege, but at the end of the day sleeping in his bed, worn and exhausted from the effects of his desire. Dangerous, feral, useful, but in the end tamed just as he’d envisioned.

And you, younger than him by years and foolish as you were, had gone blindly into the snare.

Nik had never given you any reason to regret it.

Russian Translations (Native Russian speakers feel free to leave a comment of correction)

Дворянство -  Russian nobility

Шучу - I’m joking

Лисёнок. - Little fox

Дорогая - Darling

Твоё тело сводит меня с ума - Your body drives me crazy

Да - Yes

Я не могу без тебя жить - I can’t live without you