welcome home
Sergei Kravinoff x f!reader
Summary: “You should take a shower.” Your voice comes out almost a whisper, and you feel when he smiles, a crooked grin that brings something dangerous and indulgent at the same time. “Trying to wash me out of the world, love?” He murmurs against your fingers before releasing them, his warm, calloused palm sliding down your waist in a drawn-out touch, full of intention. “I’m trying to take care of you.” His breath is warm when he lowers his face to yours, so close that you can smell the earth, the forest, something that’s his. “What if I want you to stay with me?”
Warnings: no use of y/n, est relationship, suggestive ending
A/N: this is more of an exercise, no expectations, just trying to familiarize myself with sergei
The wind outside makes the highest branches creak, a low, prolonged sound that mixes with the crackling of the fireplace. The house is warm, cozy, but your attention isn’t on any of that. Your entire body is alert to something that hasn’t happened yet, something you feel is about to unfold.
He’s coming back.
You know this like a latent, instinctive certainty, but time seems to drag in mockery. The clock on the wall ticks off minutes that mean nothing. You wait. You wait and wait, hands restless in your lap, your breath more contained than it should be.
And then, the door opens.
Sergei fills the space like a storm about to break. Tall, imposing, the heavy dark coat thrown over his shoulders, his blue eyes piercing the dimness of the house until they find yours. Always yours. He doesn’t speak right away, but the tension in the air lifts slightly as he closes the door behind him.
Your eyes slide over him, absorbing every detail: his brown hair disheveled from the journey, the beard that’s grown a bit over the past few days, the firm muscles covered by layers of worn fabric and leather, the smell of earth, blood, and the forest clinging to his skin. Your Sergei.
“You took your time.” Your voice comes out softer than expected, but the truth is there. You’ve missed him.
He lets out a low sound, almost a predatory purr, as he walks toward you. His eyes darken a little in the soft light of the fire, studying you with an intensity that makes every part of you burn under that gaze. “And you’ve been waiting for me here, so patiently…”
The weight of his body is an overwhelming presence as he gets close enough for his heat to envelop you. One of his hands rises to your face, the touch rough yet gentle, his thumb sliding along your jawline, down to your lower lip.
“I always wait for you.”
The response makes him smile—a crooked, dangerous smile, the kind that carries a veiled promise. He lowers his head slightly, his nose brushing gently against your temple, taking a deep breath. He always does this, as if he needs to mark you in his sensory memory over and over, as if confirming that you are whole, that you are his.
“You’re worried.” The statement comes in a low, husky tone, a deep note that slides across your skin.
You don’t deny it. “I always am.”
He lets out a muffled laugh, the sound reverberating through you as his other hand rests firmly on your waist, pulling you a little closer. “My little one... always so loyal.”
You feel his fingers press into your waist, a calculated pressure, like a reminder that he’s in control, that he dictates the pace. Your body responds before your mind can process it, a sigh escaping your lips.
His blue eyes shine under the soft light, examining every reaction of yours. He feels everything—the rhythm of your breath, the way your heart speeds up, the slight tremor in your fingers when you slide your hands over his chest.
“Are you hurt?” Your voice comes out soft, but the concern is genuine. Your fingers find a tear in the leather sleeve, though there’s no blood there. “Sergei…”
He captures your hand before you can go further, his fingers closing around yours with firm, controlled strength. There’s something possessive about the gesture, something that says more than any word could. “It’s nothing.” His voice has that rough, deep tone, as if he’s pulling you into the storm that he carries with him. Then, he takes your hand to his lips, the roughness of his beard grazing your skin as his warm lips touch your fingers with raw devotion. “I’m here.”
You let out a soft, hesitant sigh, your eyes sliding over his face. He looks tired—not in the way ordinary men do, but in a deeper sense, as if the weight of the world is on him. And yet, those blue eyes remain relentless, watching you, absorbing you.
“You should take a shower.” Your voice comes out almost a whisper, and you feel when he smiles, a crooked grin that brings something dangerous and indulgent at the same time.
“Trying to wash me out of the world, love?” He murmurs against your fingers before releasing them, his warm, calloused palm sliding down your waist in a drawn-out touch, full of intention.
“I’m trying to take care of you.”
The response makes him emit a low sound, almost primal, that reverberates between you two. His gaze glows with a silent fire before he moves his hand to your neck, holding it firmly. His breath is warm when he lowers his face to yours, so close that you can smell the earth, the forest, something that’s his. “What if I want you to stay with me?”
Your heart stumbles in erratic rhythm.
“Sergei…”
His name comes out like a warning, but the effect is the opposite of what you intend. He smiles against your skin, a crooked grin, a satisfied growl vibrating in the back of his throat. His fingers tighten around your neck, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that he’s in control. That you belong to him.
And you know he feels it when your body responds to that.
For a moment, all you can do is breathe deeply, trying to anchor yourself in the overwhelming heat of his presence. But Sergei is merciless when it comes to testing your limits. He always notices. He always feels.
So, when he finally pulls back a little, he does it in a calculated way, as if granting you a second to catch your breath before he takes it from you again.
“Come.” The command is simple, but it carries the weight of something undeniable.
And you follow.
He grabs your wrist as he walks toward the bathroom, no hurry, no hesitation. The wooden floor creaks slightly, his steps measured, sure. You feel the tension in him even before you reach your destination—the way his muscles stay rigid, as if the instinct for battle hasn’t left his body. As if he’s still out there, ready to tear apart anything that crosses his path.
But then, he’s here. With you.
And he still hasn’t relaxed.
You turn on the bathroom light, the yellowish brightness softening some of the shadows that cling to him. The space is large, rustic, dominated by the foggy glass of the shower and the wide bathtub that’s been used so many times by the two of you.
But now, he needs the shower.
Sergei slowly releases your wrist, his fingers sliding across your skin before pulling away completely. Then, without breaking eye contact, he begins to remove the rest of his clothes.
You knew this was going to happen.
You knew it from the moment he walked through that door and looked at you that way. But still, when his hands reach the button of his pants, a knot forms in your throat.
Because he is...
Absolute.
Every piece of Sergei Kravinoff seems sculpted for war, for survival, for subjugation and domination. The broad chest, the strong shoulders, the arms covered in scars that tell stories he never needed to narrate. Stories his fingers have traced countless times.
And you should be focused on the fact that he might be hurt.
But all you can do is watch him.
Sergei notices, of course. He always notices.
And he likes it.
“Look at you…” His voice comes low, drawn out, almost playful. He’s already undone his pants, the fabric hanging loosely at his hips, and he doesn’t do anything to rush the process. “So worried. But you can’t stop looking, can you?”
Your face burns, and you try to compose yourself, but Sergei doesn’t give you the chance.
He steps forward, his hand rising to touch your chin, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. “You wanted me to take a shower, darling?” The tone is soft, but the provocation is there, sharp as a blade.
You swallow, your fingers gripping your own clothes to keep focus. “Yes.”
His lips curve slightly.
“Then stay.”
It’s an order. A veiled demand.
And you obey.
