#nbd fic

[nikolais-baby-daddy]

Bear!hybrid Nikolai who due to an injury is forced to retire early, and the recovery didn't allow him to store enough food for the winter. Not that Nik minded at first as his cabin needed some repairs, but now as the deep cold started to move in, Nikolai felt restless, so in order to try and make it through the winter he cut a circle into the nearby river and started to collect fish. And being so far from civilization, Nikolai at the end of the day, just left his catch of fish in a bucket on the porch. And he continued this for a few days, before he started to realize, one to two fish would go missing over night. Nikolai figured some critter had gotten to it, so he set up a simple trap, then went fishing for the day. As usual as he came back from the day, he set the bucket of fish in the usual spot. Then went inside, made a cup of tea before picking up the book he had started reading. It was nearly 3am when Nikolai heard the yelp from outside. His ears flicked as he set up from his bed, pulling on some pants and headed outside, to find a snow fox!hybrid reader caught in his trap, two mostly frozen fish tucked under their arm. Nikolai clicked his tongue as he looked them over, smaller than most snow fox hybrids he had seen, their fur looked matted, and one of their ears seemed to have a fresh tear, Nikolai assumes a fight with another wild hybrid. Something in his chest pulled him towards the fox, kneeling down he carefully got the rope off their ankle. "You cannot just take food, little thief, if you needed some, you should've asked." Nikolai scolded as he picked them up bridal style. "But you can stay with me until the freeze is over." The fox hybrid was light in his arms, lighter than expected. Nikolai frowned as he carried them inside, nudging the door shut with his foot. The warmth of the cabin quickly wrapped around them both, the fire still burning low in the hearth.

The fox stirred faintly, ears twitching. Their tail curled tighter around their legs as if instinctively trying to protect themself even while half asleep.

Nikolai laid them carefully on the couch near the fire, then went to fetch a blanket. He hesitated for a moment before draping it over their shoulders, large hands gentler than they looked.

"Foolish little thing," he murmured under his breath.

He moved back to the kitchen, poured a cup of warm tea, and set it on the table to cool. Then he grabbed a small bowl of leftover fish stew from earlier and reheated it slowly over the stove. The smell filled the cabin, rich and comforting.

Behind him, there was a soft shuffle.

Nikolai glanced over his shoulder to find the fox pushing themself upright, blinking against the firelight. Their eyes were wide, wary, pupils blown. Their ears flattened the moment they noticed him watching.

They looked ready to bolt.

"Easy," Nikolai said calmly, lifting both hands in a placating gesture. "You are safe."

The fox froze, tail puffing slightly. They studied him for a long moment, eyes darting to the door, the windows, anywhere that might offer escape.

"You were caught in my trap," Nikolai continued, voice low and steady. "But you are free now. I will not harm you."

The fox's nose twitched. Their gaze shifted toward the stove, then to the bowl in his hand.

Hunger was louder than fear.

Nikolai noticed, of course.

He turned off the stove and carried the bowl toward them, moving slowly. He set it on the small table in front of the couch and stepped back.

"For you," he said. "Eat."

The fox hesitated only a second longer before scooting closer and grabbing the bowl with both hands. They ate quickly, too quickly, as if afraid the food might disappear if they slowed down.

Nikolai watched quietly, concern settling heavier in his chest.

When the bowl was empty, the fox looked up at him, lips parted as if unsure what to say. Their voice, when it finally came, was soft and rough.

"…You let me stay?"

"Yes," Nikolai replied simply.

The fox's ears tilted in confusion. "Why?"

Nikolai considered the question for a moment. Then he shrugged slightly. "Winter is cruel. No one should face it alone if they do not have to."

The fox stared at him, something vulnerable flickering in their expression.

Nikolai stood, turning back toward the kitchen. "Rest. You need it."

Behind him, the cabin settled into quiet once more, but this time it felt different. Warmer, somehow. Less empty.

Outside, the wind howled through the trees, snow piling higher against the walls. But inside, near the fire, a small snow fox hybrid curled beneath a thick blanket, eyes slowly drifting shut.

And for the first time in weeks, Nikolai felt the restless ache in his chest ease just a little.

[lazrisings]

need to finish my fic just so i can receive some Validation

[nikolais-baby-daddy]

I bet nikolai looovees a sleepy reader...he goes crazy when reader falls asleep during sex, and gets some weird posessive enjoyment over using their sleeping body and caring for them afterwards...

– rommy

You are absolutely right! Also because i have zero shame, i freaked out getting this request, because you're one of my favorite tumblr's to read. So i hope this drabble meets your expectations!

Nikolai had been talking to John for a few weeks, talking about needing an extra set of hands in the hanger. John said he'd send one of his men over.

Nikolai didn't expect someone who looked so soft. Sergeant!reader was quiet, efficient, and moved with a certain weariness that Nikolai found interesting. He gave them a list of simple tasks, counting spare parts, organizing tool chests, restocking the first-aid kits, while he tackled a major hydraulic repair. By the end of the day, everything on his list was done, and so was theirs. The sergeant had just… vanished.

He found you the next day in a rare patch of sun slanting through the hangar doors, slumped against a stack of tires, head tipped back, breathing soft and even. Their work was already finished. He felt a strange pull in his chest, a mix of amusement and something warmer. He grabbed a spare canvas tarp, shook it out, and draped it gently over them.

It became a pattern. The sergeant was a damn good worker, but they were perpetually on the verge of sleep. They'd complete their duties and then find a corner to doze off in. Nikolai started leaving a bottle of water nearby. Then a protein bar. He found himself checking on them, his gaze lingering on their peaceful face. He liked having them there, a quiet, sleeping presence in his noisy, chaotic world.

Weeks later, he had them in his bed. His quarters were private, a luxury he enjoyed. He was moving inside them, a slow, deep rhythm that had them sighing and arching beneath him. He watched their face, the way their eyelids fluttered, heavy and dark. They were fighting it, trying to stay with him, but the day's work and the gentle rocking of his hips were a powerful lullaby.

"Shhh, kotyonok," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Rest. I have you." He switched to Russian, the words flowing like honey. "Spokoyno, moy malen'kiy. Otdokhni." Calm down, my little one. Get some rest.

Their eyes slid shut, a final, soft sigh escaping their lips as they drifted off. A possessive, triumphant thrill shot through him. They were his, completely trusting, even in sleep. He kept his pace for a few more moments, enjoying the feeling of their pliant body under his, just accepting him.

Then, his focus shifted. His own pleasure coiled tight in his gut. He braced his hands on either side of their head, the slow, rocking rhythm turning into something sharper, more demanding. The bed creaked softly with each thrust. He watched their face, a flush on their cheeks, their lips parted. Even unconscious, their body responded. He felt them clench around him, a sleepy, shuddering orgasm that made him groan. He chased his own release, driving into their welcoming heat, spilling himself deep inside with a guttural moan of their name.

He stayed there for a moment, panting, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt a fierce, overwhelming affection. Carefully, he pulled out, watching a trickle of his release follow. He went to the small ensuite, returning with a warm, wet cloth. He gently cleaned between their legs, his touch reverent. He wiped them down, then took care of himself.

On the nightstand, he had already laid out a bottle of water and a variety of snacks. He pulled the blanket over them, tucking it around their shoulders before sliding into bed behind them. He wrapped an arm around their waist, pulling their back flush against his chest. They were warm, soft, and smelled of sex and sleep. He buried his face in their hair, closing his eyes. This was his. His sleepy sergeant, all his to care for.

[nikolais-baby-daddy]

hi hi! I don’t normally make asks, but I was recently put onto your stuff and you write SO YUMMY?!? LIKE WHAT?

anyways uh…am I allowed to be greedy and ask for even more werewolf simon who thinks reader loves his musk??? Ik you’ve already written two posts but…it’s so good! no pressure ofc! also get well soon! Being sick sucks 😔

Hi nonnie :) of course you can!! I am a people pleasing slut, so be greedily all you want. And thank you! I get sick so easily do to CFS, and I agree this shit sucks. And i did only start posting in October for this side blog, so I'm still new to these parts, so don't feel to bad about only noticing. And thank you for the kind words <3

Pt.1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

Please note this specific line of fiction contains elements of musk, piss, and conditioning. Refer to the tags for all kinks included.

Somehow, in Simon's self-proclaimed quest to make sure you get the scent he had been denying you, of his scent. You've come to miss it when he's not around.

Now, whenever Simon comes home from a run, you're always by the door, waiting. At first, he thought it was a coincidence, but then you started pressing your face against his neck or collarbone, inhaling like you needed his scent more than air. You didn't even realize you were doing it; your body just moved on its own.

Simon, bless his dumb wolf instincts, thought you were just being affectionate. He'd wrap his arms around you, still warm and damp from his run, and you'd melt every time. Sometimes you caught yourself licking the sweat off his skin, tasting him. It should've been gross, but it wasn't. It was like scratching an itch you didn't know you had.

To Simon, this was proof that you needed him, that he'd been neglecting you. So he doubled down, making sure you got your fill of his scent and his knot.

You didn't notice how restless you got when his scent faded, how you'd drift toward his side of the bed at night, burying your face in his pillow. You kept telling yourself you were just sorting his laundry, but your fingers lingered on the fabric, and your breathing always went shallow.

Sometimes you woke up halfway through the night grinding into Simon's sleeping form. Sometimes you woke up wet, confused, with the smell of him still in your nose. The worst part? You weren't even embarrassed anymore. Your body had stopped treating it like something shameful. It was comfort. Reward. Relief, even.

Meanwhile, Simon started noticing strange things. Pillowcases that smelled stronger than he remembered, shirts that were damp or stiff in places he couldn't explain, and a duffel bag of his laundry that always had one or two items missing.

He started hoarding anything that smelled like you, tucking it into his bag like trophies. He carried one of his hoodies on deployment just because it had a bit of your scent left in the lining, something that made his wolf settle when he was too far from home.

He never admitted it out loud, but every time he found something of his marked by you, his ego swelled. His instincts purred. His tail would wag. It never crossed his mind that he caused it, that he'd conditioned you into associating his scent with comfort and pleasure and closeness, that he'd rewired your body to react to him on a level deeper than thought.

To him, this was just how mates behaved.

And it reached a point where you didn't even notice how dependent you'd become, not until the day you caught the faintest whiff of him on the couch blanket and your entire body shivered, your knees nearly giving out. Simon noticed. Simon misunderstood. Simon was thrilled.

[nikolais-baby-daddy]

It didn’t take long to learn the rhythms of the woods.

Days moved quietly in Nikolai’s cabin, his heavy footfalls, the scent of pine and smoke, his lazy rumbling snorts whenever you did something that amused him. You’d grown used to the rasp of his claws against wood, the way he watched you like you were something precious he was afraid to break.

He never touched you with anything but gentle hands. Never took more than you offered.

But he lingered. Oh, he lingered.

Golden eyes following you when you stretched. Breath hitching when you brushed past him. That low, hungry sound deep in his chest when you smiled at him. He was waiting. Patient. Coiled.

And then came the night of the full moon.

You woke to a pressure in the air, thick, humming, heavy. The woods outside felt alive, trembling with something old. The moonlight spilling across the floorboards was almost too bright, silvery and sharp like a blade.

Nikolai wasn’t in the bed.

Then the doorframe shook.

You sat up just as Nikolai stumbled inside… only he was bigger than you’d ever seen him. Fur blooming across his chest, shoulders monstrous and wide, claws lengthened, fangs catching the moonlight as he panted through them. His eyes were molten gold, blown wide with instinct.

He was halfway between man and beast, and barely holding onto the man.

When he saw you, a sound ripped from him, hungry, desperate, feral.

“Milaya…” His voice was distorted, deep enough to rattle your bones. “Tonight… instincts too strong.”

You swallowed hard. “Nikolai…?”

He took a step forward, trembling.

He was giving you the last chance to turn him away.

But your body was already reacting, heat curling low, breath quickening, that irresistible pull you’d felt since the moment he carried you into this cabin now sharp as hunger.

His restraint snapped like a trap when you didn't move.

In two strides he was on you, towering and immense, scooping you up like you weighed nothing and laying you back onto the furs. His claws bracketed your head, careful even in his frenzy, but everything else was overwhelming, his size, his heat, the way he loomed over you like a living mountain of muscle and fur.

He inhaled sharply, nose dragging along your throat.

“Sweet,” he snarled. “All mine.”

His mouth was on you before you could answer, hot, claiming kisses; fangs grazing but never breaking skin. His hands roamed everywhere, claws tracing your stomach, your thighs, your hips as if mapping what belonged to him.

The growl he let out when he touched between your legs was animal.

“Ready already?” His breath was fire against your skin. “I’ve waited weeks… but the beast has waited longer.”

He flipped you onto your stomach with shocking ease, hauling your hips up, his huge hand flattening between your shoulders to keep you steady. His chest pressed to your back, fur brushing your skin as he lined himself up, thick, heavy, monstrous.

Your breath hitched. “Nikolai—”

“I have you,” he rasped, voice breaking around the edges. “I will claim you.”

The first push stole your breath.

He stretched you open slowly, agonizingly slowly for him, you could tell by the guttural snarls tearing from his throat, until your body yielded around him, heat and pressure overwhelming.

When he bottomed out, his entire body shuddered.

“Good,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder. “Perfect. You take me perfectly…” His hips drew back and slammed forward, and the world fractured.

You moaned into the furs as he set a rhythm, powerful, primal, his hand gripping your waist to keep you from being pushed forward with each thrust. His breath was hot on your neck, his growls vibrating down your spine.

“Mine,” he kept whispering, chanting, worshipping. “Mine… milaya… mine…”

His claws dug into the furs beside you, refusing to risk your skin as his pace grew rougher, deeper, overwhelming. Every thrust pushed you higher, tighter, your nerves sparking like wildfire.

When you cried out, his hips stuttered, instinct answering instinct.

“Let go,” he growled, voice shredded. “Let me feel you.”

And when you did, when your body clenched around him, heat bursting through you. Nikolai roared as he buried himself to the hilt, his whole body going rigid as the beast claimed you fully, possessively, completely. His teeth sank into your shoulder, not breaking skin, just marking, while he pumped through the peak, growling your name like a prayer and a promise both.

When he finally collapsed over you, chest heaving, arms caging you in, he lowered his mouth to your ear.

“Next full moon,” he panted, kissing your cheek with surprising tenderness, “I take you again… but slower. As your mate.”

Your heart hammered. “Mate?”

His smile brushed your skin, warm despite the fangs.

“Too late to run now, little one.”

Part One

[nikolais-baby-daddy]

https://x.com/MrT_Renard/status/1966814637887815722?s=20

icky dad nik messily fingerfucking and spitting all over his sweet girls cunt as a reward for literally anything ever🙂‍↕️ him tasting her and sucking on her clit as an extra treat bc he can't resist her juices😩😩😩

100% Nikolai is an eater/muncher. No matter if his partner is male or female. Man is pleasure dom coded fr fr.

"You like that, malyshka?" Nikolai's voice was a low, gravelly purr, thick with a possessive hunger that made your stomach clench. His fingers, thick and calloused, plunged back into the slick heat of your cunt, curling just right against that spongy spot that made your vision blur. He held them there, a deep, invasive pressure, before slowly dragging them out. They came out gleaming, strings of your arousal clinging to his skin and connecting him to you. He grunted in satisfaction, bringing them close to his face to inhale your scent before spitting a thick, warm glob right onto your quivering inner thigh. You watched, breathless, as the milky saliva traced a slow, sticky path down, merging with the mess already leaking from you. "Such a messy little pussy. All for Papa."

"Yes..Ah-yes Papa.." The words were a desperate, broken mewl, torn from your throat as his fingers shoved back in, the obscene wet sound echoing in the quiet room. The coolness of his spit mixing with your own heat was a shocking, delicious jolt that made you arch your back. Your fingers twisted desperately in the sheets, trying to find purchase against the tidal wave of pleasure. He just smirked, a predatory flash of white teeth, and leaned down to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of your hip. It wasn't a gentle bite; it was a claiming, a sharp sting that melted into a throbbing ache, perfectly timed with the way he started pistoning his fingers faster, harder.

"Look at that," he grunted, his gaze fixed on where his hand disappeared into you. "So fucking greedy. Sucking my fingers right in." His thumb found your clit, not rubbing, but pressing down hard and grinding in tight, filthy circles. The pressure was immense, a direct line to your core. "You've been such a good girl for Papa this week. So obedient. You deserve a reward, don't you? A nasty, sticky reward just for my sweet girl."

"Pa..Pa..papa..." It was all you could manage, a chant, a prayer as the coil in your belly snapped. Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. Your walls clamped down on his fingers, fluttering and milking him as waves of bliss crashed over you. Nikolai didn't stop; he just eased the pressure, his fingers still massaging that sensitive spot, drawing out every single spasm until you were a boneless, whimpering mess beneath him. Only then did he pull his fingers out, soaked and dripping.

He brought them to your lips, not asking, but demanding. "Open up. Taste what a good girl you are." As your lips parted to accept his slick-coated fingers, he ducked his head down, latching onto one of your nipples with a hot, wet mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling around the pebbled flesh before his teeth grazed it, sending sharp sparks of pain-pleasure straight to your still-throbbing clit. He pulled away with a wet pop, leaving the nipple glistening and reddened.

Before you could fully recover, his fingers were back at your entrance, sliding into your swollen, oversensitive pussy with zero resistance. He'd given you just enough of a reprieve for the sensitivity to sharpen, to make every drag of his knuckles against your walls feel both like heaven and a sweet torment. This time he wasn't slow. He was fucking you with his hand, a brutal, steady rhythm that had the bedframe creaking in protest. His mouth descended, not with a kiss, but with a purpose. He sealed his lips over your clit and sucked.

A choked gasp escaped you as your hands flew to his hair, tangling in the thick strands and holding on for dear life. The encouragement was all he needed. His fingers worked faster, curling and scissoring inside you, hitting that spot over and over while his tongue waged war on your clit. He licked it with broad, flat strokes, then pointed his tongue to stab at it, before wrapping his lips around it again to suck it into his mouth, flicking the tip relentlessly. Every so often, he'd nip at the sensitive bundle of nerves with his teeth, just enough to make you cry out and buck your hips up, grinding your cunt against his face.

He was feasting. You could hear the wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth and fingers working in concert, the lewd music of your pleasure. He was moaning against you, deep vibrations that traveled through your entire body. "That's it, malyshka," he growled, his voice muffled by your flesh. "Fuck my face. Give Papa another one. I can feel you getting tighter. So close. Come on. Flood my mouth."

Your body obeyed without question. The second orgasm was a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming rush that stole the air from your lungs. Your thighs clamped around his head, a vice grip of pure ecstasy as you came, and came hard. Nikolai groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated victory, as his mouth was flooded with your release. He didn't miss a drop, his tongue lapping and sucking greedily, determined to swallow every last bit of your reward. He kept licking even after the tremors subsided, his tongue cleaning you with possessive, almost reverent strokes, until you were twitching from the overstimulation.

Only when your thighs fell limply away from his head did he release you. He pushed himself up, his face a glistening, debauched mess of your juices and his own spit. A proud, feral grin was on his lips as he loomed over you. He crashed his mouth down on yours, a wet, filthy kiss. His tongue, still tasting of you, shoved past your lips, claiming your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss that was all about sharing your flavor. He was making you taste yourself on him, marking you from the inside out.

When he finally pulled back, a string of spit connecting your mouths, he rested his forehead against yours. "My perfect, sweet girl," he whispered, his voice rough and hoarse. "Always so good for Papa. Always so fucking delicious."

[nikolais-baby-daddy]

This work of fiction contains elements of SA and likewise triggering content. Please read the tags before continuing.

Simon Riley had learned to live inside his own silence.

It was a strange sort of home, a place he’d built out of muscle memory and habit, stitched together from closed doors and swallowed words. Silence never judged him. Silence didn’t reach for him in the dark. Silence never asked for anything he couldn’t give.

But even a decade after Roba, after the cellar, the restraints, the hands, silence still couldn’t drown out the nightmares.

They always came the same way: a sudden drop into a memory he didn’t want, a sensation he couldn’t forget. Rough palms forcing him down, breath hot against his ear. A voice he hated burrowing into his skull. The smell. The helplessness. His own body betraying him by remembering too much.

And every time he woke, he woke hard, shaking, half choking, palms pressed so tightly over the scars he knew weren’t visible. Convincing himself he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t trapped again. That he wasn’t being touched by someone who wanted to break him.

But the worst part wasn’t the dreams.

The worst part was what came after, the guilt. The crushing, burning guilt of not being enough for the people who claimed they cared about him.

He’d tried relationships. God, he’d tried.

He liked the idea of them. The closeness. The companionship. Someone to sit with at the end of a long day. Someone to text stupid shit to. Someone to love.

But love seemed to come with expectations, hands tugging at his shirt, someone pushing him down on the bed, the look of disappointment when he froze again. Every time, he told himself he could handle it. That he should. That he owed them something for putting up with him.

He could’ve said no. He knew that. Rationally, he knew that. But guilt was a powerful thing.

It drowned him. Drowned him until he convinced himself that saying no made him cruel. That flinching made him broken. That enduring the pain, the bile rising in his throat, the white-hot static rushing under his skin, was better than admitting how messed up he really was.

It was a cycle. A toxic, exhausting cycle of self-destruction and compliance. And he had resigned himself to it.

Until you. You were… different.

He didn’t notice it at first. Not consciously. It was something gentle, something quiet, a softness he wasn’t sure he’d ever been offered before. You didn’t push. Didn’t hover. Didn’t reach for him with greedy hands or press your body against his in a way that made his lungs lock.

You asked for so little. A kiss. A brush of fingers. A cuddle if he wanted it. Just enough affection to make him feel human, but never enough to make him feel trapped.

Sometimes, after long missions, you’d sit beside him on the couch, your head leaning lightly on his shoulder. Not all your weight, never all of it, just the barest touch. Something he could move away from if he needed, though he never did.

And when he kissed you, slow and soft, you kissed him back like you meant it. Like the moment was enough.

It confused him. Terrified him. Made him want to keep you at arm’s length and pull you closer in the same breath. But then came the night he realized how much you saw.

It was during a make out session, one he initiated, for once. He’d been feeling brave, maybe reckless. Your hands were in his hair, your lips warm against his, your breath soft and steady. Something in him wanted more, wanted to prove he could handle more. Wanted to prove he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

His fingers drifted downward, testing. Searching. And you pulled his hand away. Gently. Softly. With no shame, no judgment, no urgency.

He froze immediately. Heart in his throat. Certain he’d ruined it. But you just guided his hand back to your waist, where it had been. As if nothing was wrong. As if he hadn’t just tripped over one of his deepest fears.

He didn’t understand it.

Didn’t understand why you weren’t upset that he wasn’t touching you. Didn’t understand why you weren’t pushing for something more. Didn’t understand why you weren’t taking advantage of the moment, of him, like others had, even unintentionally.

He didn’t even dare ask. Because part of him was certain that if he asked, you’d give him permission. And if you gave him permission, he’d force himself to go further than he wanted. And he’d spiral again.

So he stayed quiet. And you stayed patient.

But you… you saw him.

You saw the way his eyes drifted somewhere distant when someone brushed too close. You saw the way he tensed when lips moved down his neck. You saw the way he pulled back from anything that felt like being held down, even if it was soft hands or a simple embrace.

You saw the man behind the mask, not Ghost, not the unbreakable soldier, not the sarcastic bastard who could intimidate an entire platoon with one glance.

You saw Simon.

You saw the boy who’d survived hell and was still learning how to live afterward. You saw the man who wanted intimacy but was terrified of it. You saw the person who had been hurt in ways he didn't know how to explain.

And more than anything, you saw the truth he never said out loud. He didn’t want sex. Not with you. Not with anyone. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he still wanted you. And so you gave him the one thing no one else had ever offered:

Time.

Time to breathe. Time to trust. Time to understand that he didn’t owe you his body. Time to learn that intimacy wasn’t a damn transaction. Time to see what love looked like without fear attached.

And slowly, so slowly he barely noticed it at first, his nightmares changed.

They didn’t stop. He doubted they ever would.

But instead of waking alone in the dark, gasping for air, he woke with your arms loose around him. Not pinning him, not trapping him, just there. A quiet presence. A grounding warmth.

Sometimes he woke trembling and you murmured, “I’m here,” with your forehead resting against the back of his shoulder. Sometimes he pulled away, needing space, and you gave it without question. Sometimes he clung to you so tightly it startled even him, and you held him through every shaky breath.

And for the first time in years, Simon didn’t feel like a burden.

He felt… seen.

He felt wanted, not for what someone could take from him, but for who he was in all his broken, jagged edges.

He still didn’t understand why your patience didn’t run out. Why you never asked for more. Why you never took advantage of his guilt. But he didn’t question it anymore.

Because when you looked at him, he didn’t see hunger or expectation or disappointment. He saw something softer. Something he’d lost, then buried, then forgotten: He saw safety.

And for Simon Riley… that was enough to start healing.

[nikolais-baby-daddy]

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."