Nikolai's bd...could we maybe have fauxcest Price x Reader
I need dad Price so badly...
Of course i can nonnie!! Here you go!
John had been watching sergeant!reader for some time. Just as he did when anyone new joined the team. Everyone called him paranoid, he called it being prepared and after many years of being a Captain it had saved his ass a few times.
The first thing he noticed is how you ate, very little. Even with mess food being free, he'd see how you'd eat a third of your tray before finishing. Or how he'd find you stuffing your pockets with snacks you liked to hide in your room.
John started taking notes of you the snacks you had a preference for and which ones you tolerated. He started making sure they were always stocked, along with having your favorite drink stocked in the common room fridge.
During the day while you worked, he'd bring you a small saucer with a meal on it. He'd sit and 'chat' about your training progress while he'd watch you eat.
And when the weather started turning colder, he'd see you in this threadbare jacket. You didn't question to a new jacket and winter coat sitting at the foot of your bed when you woke up.
John just told himself he was making sure his team member was taken care of, but when you said 'Thanks, Dad' after he brought your snack plate of the day. He physically felt his brain short circuit as he tried to hide the half chub in his pants.
The first crack in John’s quiet vigilance appeared in the form of Corporal Davies. He was young, bright-eyed, and possessed an easy, disarming charm that had earned him a few smiles from you in the gym. It started innocently. A spot on the bench press, a complimentary "Nice push, Sarge," and a shared canteen of water after a grueling workout. To you, it was just camaraderie. To John, who watched from the observation deck like a gargoyle perched on a cathedral, it was an infection.
Davies wasn't the first to show you attention, but he was the most persistent. A week later, he found you in the common room, struggling with the notoriously temperamental coffee machine. "Let me get that for you, Sergeant," he'd said with a grin, tinkering with it until it sputtered to life, producing a perfect cup of black coffee. "Anything for the person who keeps us from running into walls."
That was the day John’s passive observation turned active.
The next morning, Davies found his name on the roster for latrine duty. For the entire month. A punishment so tedious and foul it was usually reserved for recruits who couldn’t hit a target from ten feet away. When he went to John to protest, the Captain simply looked up from his paperwork, his eyes like chips of flint. "Something wrong, Corporal? A soldier's work is never done. Consider it a lesson in humility."
The message was received, but not entirely. Davies, ever the optimist, tried again a few days later, this time offering you a protein bar after a long-range drill. You’d taken it with a tired but genuine "thanks." John saw the whole exchange from across the tarmac.
Two days later, during a live-fire exercise, Davies’s radio "malfunctioned." He missed the command to fall back, walking his team directly into the path of a simulated ambush. It was a fuck-up of epic proportions, one that earned him a formal reprimand and the silent, simmering resentment of his entire fireteam. He was humiliated, his reputation in tatters. He shot you a look of bewildered hurt during the debrief, as if you were somehow to blame.
That evening, you found John waiting for you outside your barracks, his face a mask of grim concern. The moment he saw you, his shoulders relaxed, and he closed the distance.
"He's a fool," John said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your tired bones. He wasn't looking at you, but past you, as if Davies’s ghost were standing right behind you. "Thinks with his jaw instead of his head. Saw you, saw a challenge, didn't give a damn about the consequences."
You opened your mouth to defend Davies, to say it was just a mistake, but John held up a hand, silencing you. His gaze finally dropped to yours, and it was so heavy, so intense, it felt like a physical weight.
"He doesn't see you, Kid," he continued, stepping closer until you could feel the heat radiating from his body. "He sees a rank. A pretty face. Something to conquer. He doesn't see the hunger. He doesn't know you skip breakfast because the mess eggs make your stomach turn. He doesn't know you hide granola bars in your sock drawer because you're afraid they'll run out. He doesn't know you."
Every word was a precisely aimed bullet, dismantling your defenses. He knew. He'd always known. The food, the jacket, the drinks, it wasn't just kindness. It was reconnaissance. He'd mapped your soul.
"Come on," he said, his voice softening into something that sounded like pity, but felt like ownership. He didn't grab you, didn't force you. He just turned and started walking toward his private quarters, assuming you would follow. You did. What other choice was there?
His room was spartan, clean, and smelled faintly of gun oil and his own unique, masculine scent. He sat on the edge of his bed, the frame groaning softly under his weight, and looked at you. You stood there, feeling like a recruit on their first day, completely out of your depth.
"They'll hurt you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Everyone out there. They'll take what they want and they'll leave you hollow. Not me." He patted the space on the bed next to him. It wasn't a question.
You moved mechanically, your body obeying the command your mind was too stunned to process. When you sat, the mattress dipped, pulling you closer to him. He turned, his large hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. The touch was possessive, a brand.
"I'm the only one who'll take care of you," he murmured, his face inching closer. "The only one who knows what you need. I'll give you everything. All you have to do is let me."
His lips crashed against yours, a kiss that was less a kiss and more a claiming. It was firm, demanding, and tasted of coffee and absolute certainty. His other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you against him until there was no space left between you. Your hands, which had been limp at your sides, rose to clutch at his shoulders, not to push him away, but to hold on.
He shifted, laying you back against his pillows without breaking the kiss. His weight settled over you, a heavy, grounding force that was both terrifying and profoundly comforting. He was everywhere, his scent flooding your senses, his body pinning you down, his will subsuming your own. All the anxiety, all the hunger, all the cold you’d been fighting for months evaporated under the crushing, certain pressure of him. This was safety. This was what he had been preparing you for.
His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then to the shell of your ear. He nibbled at the sensitive skin there, making you gasp.
"Tell me who takes care of you," he growled, his voice a raw command in your ear.
You couldn't think. You could only feel. The possessiveness, the obsessive care, the sheer, overwhelming presence of the man who had been watching you, feeding you, clothing you. It all coalesced into a single, devastating truth. You were his.
Your breath hitched, and a broken, desperate sound escaped your throat. It was a surrender.
"You do, Dad."
