Tedd

22 | Multifandom | He/Him | Lazy artist and writer

[beam-me-up-daddy]

My revamped Mutant Simon for my au :) I need a name for it so I can stop saying “my human!rocky wormhole BloodyMary au” maybe “The Bridge”? Feel free to hit my asks with any questions you have, I’m considering writing a fic with these ideas but I fear no one will read it 😅

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Price looks a little worse for wear at mess one morning, and Soap can't help but get a little prod in. "Late one last night, cap?"

Before Price can swallow his gulp of tea to answer, Nik pipes up. "Da, I cracked him like a chemlight."

The tea comes out of Price's nose and Soap creases into a heap on the floor, gasping through breathless cackles.

Nik's quite certain he used the phrase right, which means he definitely deserves the thump on the shoulder he receives as John wipes the tea off his face.

[that-ace-up-your-sleeve]

I made a thing. Enjoy [on tiktok]

[tomorobo-illust]

See hi-res version here: patreon.com/posts/157154918

'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word And love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night And love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves This is our last dance This is our last dance This is ourselves Under pressure -'Under Pressure' by David Bowie & Queen

The moment it starts to really sink in that you are in a safe place and allowed to live.

[ A sort of Part 2 for this comic ]

[derpycatsu]

i depend on you

[merymeou]

It’s been so long since I got to see a thing and think: wow yeah this could only happen on tumblr. This is one such thing and I had to contribute. Let Simon have a weird fucked up religious sorta relationship with Grace! This man has issues!! He’s never been off a space station!! The Hail Mary is literally as close as he could imagine as heaven!!!!!!

No text under the cut

[anotherbellisringing]

[uhnutherdude]

Sorry about not posting in so long. College has been beating my ass but here's some Markiplier drawings for now

[bluebdger]

happy holidays @on-a-lucky-tide! i know it's not one of your more recent works, but i'll always have a soft spot for Prisoner 627

[uhnutherdude]

A little WIP of a Modern AU Bagginshield with bartender!Bilbo comforting a freshly divorced Thorin drinking his woes away. Why? Because yes!

It was an hour before midnight, and the last few regulars had gone home. Bilbo had flipped the “Open” sign on his pub’s door to “Closed” and finished wiping the tables clean and flipping the chairs over them. Bofur and Ori had already done their share of cleaning up and left for the night, leaving only Bilbo, who was now tidying up the bar area.

He whistled to a jazz rendition of “Enjoy the Silence” playing on his laptop as he rearranged the usual bottles on the speed rail and took out the empty ones, when the door chimed open.

“Sorry, the pub’s closed,” he said without looking up, hearing heavy and uneven footsteps coming closer still. He finally looked up with a sigh to tell whoever it was to leave and come back the next day when he saw it was just his fondest friend.

“Ah, Thorin, a little late, don’t you think?” He asked as the man took his usual seat at the bar and set the duffel bag he was carrying down with a loud thud by his feet.

“Just… just need a drink, is all. The usual.” Thorin Oakenshield sounded very… wrecked? Looked like it, too. Clearly already drunk and barely holding himself together, with dark shadows under puffy eyes, his clothes crumpled and stained in a few places, and his long hair unkempt. There was also the way he hunched over the bar rail and dragged his palms back and forth over his face a little too roughly.

Bilbo pulled a bottle of scotch he’d reserved for close friends from the underbar and poured the man a shot. Thorin, for his part, didn’t even stop to savour his whiskey like he always did. He only downed it with a grimace and slid his glass back to Bilbo for another.

“Tough case at work?” He asked as he handed Thorin his refilled glass, and the latter downed it as quickly as the first. That was when Bilbo noticed the bloodshot eyes that blinked quickly and alternated between staring up into the ceiling, at his hands, or into space, the not-so-subtle twitch of his lips as he muttered silent curses at the thing his fingers were restlessly fidgeting with…

…is that his wedding band?

Oh.

Oh dear.

“Ah. I see,” was all he said, nodding slowly as he poured the larger man another one. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

Thorin simply swirled his glass and stared at it as if it had offended him somehow. He shook his head before tossing it back with a groan and sniffle, fat tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Twelve years, Bilbo,” Thorin finally said. His voice was hoarse, and his blinking became faster as tears streamed down his face and disappeared into his beard. “Twelve years down the fuckin’ drain.” He harshly wiped his tears with his sleeve as he fought to keep his breathing steady, as if imploring himself not to cry anymore than he already had.

In that case, drinking was not the best idea, but Bilbo took his glass and refilled it again anyway, just this once to humour a friend who was going through what he knew to be the end of a long marriage.

Between drunken sobs and muffled, fist-slamming rants, Thorin told him about how he went home a week ago to celebrate getting a promotion, only to find his wife sleeping with not one, but two men at the same time. He had since left their apartment with most of his clothes and belongings in a duffel bag and filed for divorce, and spent the next few days working overtime and crashing at Dwalin’s place. The missus in question had admitted to having the affair for over three years in a call before he blocked her number.

Through it all, Bilbo went over to Thorin and pulled his friend into an embrace as the other wept.

“I jus’ don’t understand where I went wrong, Bilbo,” Thorin wailed into his shoulder while he held him there and rubbed circles on his back. “I never held her back or hurt her or—she said herself I made her happy I’ve always kept things fair between us an-and—” grief and intoxication reduced his remaining words to incoherent sobs, so he gripped Bilbo’s shirt as though to cling to any last dreg of control he had on himself.

“Some people just cheat, Thorin,” Bilbo soothed as he ran his fingers through Thorin’s hair and the latter let his pain out and soaked his shirt with tears. “It’s not your fault.”

He could only shake his head and sigh.

He himself had never married, but he’d seen enough of his friends going head and heart-first into marriages only to have them broken by the men or women they thought shared their love to know what it’s like. Hell, he’d been the one to hold and comfort a lot of them when it happened. It hurt to see it every time, and hurt even more now that the same had happened to someone as dear to him as Thorin.

It was around a quarter to two in the morning when Bilbo, with the help of a pyjama-clad and very disgruntled Frodo, ended up dragging over 210 pounds of miserable, barely conscious, and soon to be single Scotsman and his duffel bag up to their apartment on the second floor, making it to the bathroom just in time for Thorin to heave and throw up the seven, almost eight shots of whiskey and whatever else he'd been drinking into the toilet and pass out hunched over it before helping him into the guest bedroom.

[uhnutherdude]

Haven't posted in a bit but here's a snippet from the AU I'm working on where Price is a partially blind ex-knight and Nikolai is a dragon/dragonshifter taking care of him. This isn't final tho, might change some stuff later.

“Jonathan, open your eyes!” A deep, booming voice cut through the inferno, and he bolted up as if lightning shot through his spine.

He was in his chamber at Nikolai’s castle. That much he could tell despite the dim light from the fireplace and his own cloudy vision. The window creaked slightly as it barely held firm against the unrelenting blizzard outside. His ribs ached with every shuddering breath he took, as did his fingers gripping the sheets beneath him. But he welcomed the pain, grounding him as reality slowly but surely set in and chipped away at the nightmare that still gripped the back of his mind.

He could see the now-familiar shape of Nikolai in front of him, hands outstretched but keeping his distance to give Jonathan his space.

“Uspokoit’sya, luchik—just a bad dream, you are safe,” the dragon soothed, his voice tinged with worry. “Can you hear me, Jonathan?”

Without thinking, and despite his own body’s protests, Jonathan launched himself at him. He slammed face-first into the wall of solid warmth that was Nikolai and found himself wrapped in the other’s embrace. Every gasping breath he took filled his lungs with scents of fresh snow and mountain winds. Lips pressed onto his forehead, muttering words he could not understand. He just… knew that he was safe, far away from Shepherd’s dungeon and those vile, suffocating, grasping hands.

Goosebumps erupted all over his skin, his heart raced, and thunderous fear sparked and crackled down his spine and every nerve in his body, but he clung to that warmth with all his might.

He curled himself tightly around Nikolai’s body, burying his face into the dragon’s chest while a clawed hand rubbed soothing circles on his back and the other carded through his hair. The dragon’s tail also wrapped around his back if only to hold him closer.

Tears streamed down his face and soaked into Nikolai’s tunic. His body shook with sobs and other feelings he knew not the name of, but he surrendered to them, anyway. For the first time in gods know how long, he just… let himself cry.

Oh, gods, so this is what it’s like? Being held?

“Shhhh, that’s it, solnyshko, let it out,” the dragon cooed into his hair, gently adjusting Jonathan’s head so he could listen to his heartbeat. “I have you. No one will ever hurt you again.”

[svicklidoodle]

Bum bum bum bum bum bum🫱🏼🫱🏼🫲🏼🫲🏼a biba non non♨️

[qpiiee]

calm down, ladies😼SHAKE YOUR DREADS😍😍🥰🥰😜😜LADIES😨😨🦶

draw him like this because I can

[cale3k00-deactivated20251224]

price and joseph and/or simon and soap at a formal event being all affectionate and flirty with each other while looking snazzy

Dancing at Joseph’s niece’s quinceañera.

John drank a little too much.

[uhnutherdude]

NikPrice Week Days 6 & 7: I Missed You & Retirement (kind of)

A little late, yes, but better late than never as they say :D

Also, I initially meant for this fic to be a mix of sappy and spicy but then I was listening to a few sad songs and decided to try my hand at writing angst, hehe. Sorry.

Title: Finally Home

Rating: Mature

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Blood & Injury, Angst with Happy Ending

Summary: John Price disappears after killing General Shepherd. Nikolai is in pieces (emotionally).

Word Count: 3,152

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68365791

__________

“How is Soap?”

“He’s stable.” Laswell looked much more tired than she had been the last time Nikolai saw her. The shadows under her eyes were more pronounced, and her posture and tense shoulders told him she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a while. “Doctors said he’s becoming more responsive, so there’s a good chance he’ll wake up any day now.”

They both looked at the sergeant’s unconscious form through the ICU’s observation window, hooked up to a bunch of machines with bandages wrapped around his head. The dark spots on both temples showed the entry and exit points of Makarov’s bullet. It was a miracle he even survived.

“And…” Nikolai hesitated a little, knowing the likely answer he would get. “John?”

Laswell took a long, shaky sigh at that, one that told him everything he needed to know.

They still haven’t found John.

“I should not have let him go after Shepherd on his own.” He looked away from his friend, closing his eyes when he felt the all-too familiar sting of tears. He gripped his crutch, which he had to use since breaking his leg in last month’s op, the dull ache in his knuckles keeping him grounded. Not yet. Not until he sees John himself.

Nikolai should’ve known it’d come to this. It was supposed to be a quick job. In and out, no one else dead except for Shepherd. But when the time came for exfil… John never came. They’d been searching for the past three months after that.

“It's not your fault, Nik.” Laswell put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s a hard man to find if he wants to, but I doubt he’s the type to get himself killed on purpose. Not when he’s got you to worry about.”

He just sighed, nodding a few times because Laswell made a good point. John might make stupid decisions, but he wasn’t stupid enough to let them get him killed.

He twisted the wedding band on his finger like he always did when he got worried.

“I hope you are right.”

Nikolai spent the next week doing anything to keep himself busy. Anything to keep himself from rotting in their bed and deluding himself that his husband would somehow just appear in the space beside him. He cleaned the house, took care of their garden, picked up an instrument, exercised as much as his injury would allow, all so he could have even a sliver of normalcy while he waited…

…and waited.

When he heard a knock on his door.

Nikolai’s breath caught in his throat, dread and hope clashing in his thumping heart as he limped over to answer it.

Maybe it was Laswell or one of the 141 coming over to give him the bad news along with whatever they found of John folded inside a flag, or… maybe they just came over to keep him company.

Or… could it be?

He took a breath as he twisted the doorknob to find one of their elderly neighbours holding a freshly baked pie.

“Miss Merryweather,” seeing a familiar face eased some of the dread weighing on Nikolai’s chest. “Thank you, but what’s the occasion?”

He took the pie from the old lady’s hands, the fruity tart aroma of mulberries tickling his nose. It was the same pie she had greeted them with when they first moved into the little town. Nikolai could vividly recall her barely contained glee when she first saw their wedding bands and asked all about how they met and everything.

“Oh, none in particular, dear,” Miss Merryweather said, her bejewelled hand glinting as she flourished it. “I just noticed you haven’t left your house in a while, and what do you know? I baked one too many pies and thought of you and Jonathan.” She shrugs with a chuckle. “Speaking of, where is your husband? He’s usually the one to answer the door.”

A stab of guilt went through Nikolai, but there was also a little joy in seeing how thoughtful this old woman was, going out of her way to check on him and pulling him out of his misery if only for a moment.

“Ah, well,” Nikolai’s hand flew to the back of his neck, his mind racing as he came up with an excuse. “He just has some work overseas for a few weeks. You know how it is.”

“WHAT?” Miss Merryweather clutched her pearls, aghast like he just spilled the most scandalous gossip to her. “You mean to tell me he’s out working when he should be here and taking care of you? You’ve got a broken leg, for goodness’ sake.”

“It’s alright, really—”

“Oh no, Nikolai, I know that look on your face.” The old lady huffed in indignation on his behalf. “The moment he returns, let me know; I’ll give him a stern talking to. Lord knows you’re both getting too old to work in the military. I’ll be going back now, dear. Let me know if you need company.”

Miss Merryweather turned around with a wave and hobbled back toward her house, muttering something about men never learning and overworking themselves instead of spending precious time with their spouses. Nikolai, for his part, stood there in stunned silence, warm pie in hand, before he stepped inside.

He went to the kitchen and took a knife and a plate, then went back to the dining table to help himself to a slice. It was delicious, as always, just the right balance of sweet and tart, maybe a hint of lemon, and the crisp, buttery crust brought it all together. Before he could help it, his imagination gave him an image of John taking a bite of the pie and moaning in delight as he chewed slowly and savoured it.

And, somehow, that was what got the tears he’d long held back, pouring out.

It took more effort than usual to swallow that last bite before he pushed his plate away and buried his head in his arms, no longer making any attempt to stop the sobs wracking his chest since the floodgates of his heart had become too worn to hold it all back.

He missed him.

He missed his John.

He didn’t even know if his beloved was still alive or not. And maybe he didn’t want to know. Maybe he was better off accepting the worst and moving on.

Except he couldn’t do it.

He wanted—no, needed —to hold on to the possibility that John was still out there, and that they’d find him. Because he knew that if it were his husband in his stead, John would’ve fought to find him, broken leg be damned. So he allowed himself this moment of pain. Just this once.

“Nikolai, I’ve got news.” Laswell called one rainy evening when Nikolai was cooking some zharkoye for dinner.

“What is it?” He put the call on speaker and went back to slicing his potatoes and carrots.

“Makarov.”

He froze at the mention of that name. His grip on his knife tightened at the mere utterance of the man who’d caused so many of their lives’ problems to begin with.

“What about him?”

A pause, and then a simple “He’s dead.”

Nikolai set his knife down. Hearing that the ultranationalist leader had kicked the bucket should’ve surprised him. Should have been cause for celebration. But it wasn't the news he wanted. But maybe it would give him an idea, a clue, about his husband’s whereabouts. So he said, “Give me details.”

Laswell gave him the rundown. Someone got to Makarov before Task Force 141 and killed him and his inner circle within three months, with the first kill being dated back to a week after John’s disappearance, and Makarov, based on autopsy reports, was the last and most recent, having died just last week.

All the information left Nikolai reeling. It was almost too good to be true. But just as he was about to ask something else, he heard someone knocking on the door.

“I’ll call you back.” He hung up on Laswell and limped over to the door.

Another series of knocks, a little more insistent this time. He wondered if it was just one of the neighbours checking in on him as they had in the past few weeks. But when he opened the door, what he saw punched all the air out of his lungs.

There he stood, soaked from the rain. Nikolai could see bruises and cuts all over his skin, bandages under his ruined and bloodied clothes and over his knuckles and his forehead. His bloodied right hand still gripped a gun while his left arm hung in a sling. His wet, unkempt hair stuck to his marred face, along with a few cuts in his cheeks, and his eyes…

His eyes showed all the anguish his face was too tired, too wounded, to express. He looked like he’d been dragged into hell, forced to see its darkest depths, and fought his way out. Others might have mistaken him for a complete stranger. But Nikolai knew better. He’d recognize those ocean eyes anywhere.

“John? Are you—JOHN!”

His husband tried to take a step closer, only for his knees to give out and Nikolai to lunge forward and catch him, careful not to hold him too tightly lest he aggravate any of his injuries. John, in contrast, clung to him like a man caught in a flood, like his Nikolai was the only one keeping him from being dragged away by the current.

“I—is this… are you real?” John croaked out as he nuzzled his face into Nikolai’s chest, his body trembling. Whether from the cold or from his injuries didn’t matter. “Please tell me you’re real.”

“Shhh, I’m right here, lyubimyy. I have you.” He pressed his lips onto his husband’s forehead and held him closer, letting John put his ear over his chest so he could hear Nikolai’s heartbeat, his hand rubbing circles on his back as tears ran down his face. “You are safe now.”

John nodded. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. I thought—I thought I’d never see you again.” He was trying not to break down, because his John needed help. But he was just so relieved that his beloved was finally home that he could do nothing about his tears.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, his voice cracking as he buried his face in Nikolai’s chest, sobs wracking his body. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Shhh, no need for that, solnyshko.” He soothed his husband as he sobbed and wailed in his embrace. “Just let it all out, alright? Take all the time you need. No one can hurt you anymore.”

John had lost weight. He could tell because carrying a man while he had a broken leg in a cast should not have been as easy. He carries his husband over to their bathroom, helping him out of his ragged clothes then lowering him into the bathtub. Nikolai grimaced as removed the bandages, seeing hastily sutured wounds of different sizes and dark bruises around his torso. His left arm did not seem to be broken, but there was a lot of swelling around his elbow.

He unlatched the showerhead and switched it on, spraying some on his hands to make sure it was not too hot, and hung it back and stripped himself down to his boxers, putting a cast protector on his leg before joining his husband in the tub.

Nikolai took care not to press too hard as he cleaned his husband's skin. As he did so, he asked John if he could tell him about his injuries and how he got them while looking at his body to assess whether he should take his husband to the hospital or if he could just treat them himself.

Head: Concussion from a punch along with light cuts around his cheeks and chin. Bruising around the right eye.

Torso: Multiple gunshot and stab wounds. Bullets extracted and wounds disinfected and sutured by John upon getting to safety.

Arms: Shallow cuts and mild bruising on the right arm. The left arm was dislocated at the elbow but reset and treated by an off-duty nurse.

Legs: Light bruising, one gunshot wound through his right calf sutured.

Main Cause/Culprit?

“Makarov.” John answered with a sigh. He looked close to falling asleep.

Nikolai paused. “What? When?”

“When I came to kill him.” John put an arm over his eyes as he explained. “The others in his circle were easy kills. Picked ‘em off one by one. Makarov did most of these,” he gestures at his injuries.

Nikolai did not reply to that. Instead, a fresh wave of tears ran down his face and mixed with the water as he reached over and pressed kisses on his husband’s forehead and then his lips. He held him there for a long time.

“Don’t do that again,” he pleaded as he pulled his face away and held his husband’s face, locking their eyes. “We almost lost Soap. I can’t lose you too.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” John’s voice cracked as he put a hand over Nikolai’s. “I-I’m not going anywhere, Nik. I’m done.”

A moment of silence as they held each other’s gazes, an unspoken understanding passed between them. Nikolai nodded, “That’s good.” 

He switched the shower off and took a pair of towels off the shelf by the sink, wrapping one around his waist before he helped his husband up, wrapped him in the towel and carried him over to their couch, grabbing their first aid kit off the top shelf while he was at it.

Changing John’s stitches and bandages and re-securing his left arm in a splint was a quiet affair broken only by the latter’s occasional wincing and whimpering when Nikolai touched a sore bruise or stuck his suturing needle into more recent wounds. He had fallen asleep by the time they were done, which brought memories of when they got stuck in that safe house. It felt like a lifetime ago. When John confessed to liking Nikolai, who then offered to take him out on a trip to France in return. It was also the first time they had slept in each other’s arms.

He carried John over to their bed and carefully tucked him in, when the man stirred and whined, reaching out for Nikolai. He switched his damp boxers out with a dry pair as quickly and quietly as he could before slipping under the blanket and pulling the man into his arms again, whispering comforting words and sweet reassurances until John’s whines turned into soft snores. He then took his phone and called Laswell.

“Nik?” Laswell answered after a few seconds. "Did something happen?”

“I have him.”

A pause. And then, “Who?”

“John,” he heard Laswell let out a big sigh of relief that bordered on crying. “He is home.”

Miss Merryweather came to visit a few days later with an apple pie she almost dropped when she saw the state John was in, immediately setting the pie down on the coffee table and fussing over him like he was a rowdy child who got into his first brawl at school.

“My goodness, John, you got me so worried sick!” The older lady nattered as she hovered over John, frantically inspecting his injuries while he and Nikolai tried to explain themselves to no avail. “First, Nikolai breaks his leg, and apparently you’re on the other side of the planet for work and can’t take care of your poor husband. Now here you are, all beaten and bruised. WHAT IF YOU DIED?”

“Is alright, Miss Merryweather,” Nikolai chuckled as he pulled her away to spare John from any more of her poking and prodding, letting her sit down in her usual armchair while he went to fetch the tea kettle. “I took care of his injuries when he got back. Besides, John and I…” he looked to John, who nodded for him to continue, “we turned in our resignations yesterday.”

“Really?” the old woman gasped, ringed fingers over her mouth. John nodded in response.

“Just figured we’re getting too old for this, is all.” He added while Nikolai handed him a cup of tea. “Thank you, love. I’ve already let the task force know who’ll be taking my place as captain.”

“Oh, about time, too. Thank heavens,” Miss Merryweather tossed her hands up as if to say hallelujah as she slumped back into her chair. “Goodness knows the last thing I needed was dying of worry for you two.”

They spent the early morning enjoying the pie and tea while talking about the latest gossip in the neighbourhood and travelling again once John and Nikolai had recovered from their injuries. She eventually left, bidding them both a speedy recovery and telling them to let her know if they needed anything.

John lowered his head onto Nikolai’s shoulder, then wrapped himself around his husband as much as his injuries allowed, breathing him in and listening to his heartbeat through his back. It felt surreal. Just a few weeks ago he was going from place to place, chasing leads and hunting down anyone connected to Makarov. He made the mistake of stopping Soap from killing the ultranationalist when they first had the chance. That mistake left Soap in a coma and he knew that mistake would have cost him more of those dear to him, especially Nikolai, had he not gone and shoved a shotgun barrel down Makarov’s throat.

It was all he could think about after that—getting back home. To make it back to his Nikolai so they could finally rest and travel around the world as they grew old together. Part of him didn’t expect to survive, but he was just glad he did.

Those pesky tears were back.

“John?”

“Thank you, Nik. I…” He held his husband tighter, feeling the man’s hands sliding over his. There was so much he wanted to say, so much to thank his husband for, but bloody hell was he terrible at speaking how he felt. “I’m so sorry. For makin’ you wait for me when I should’ve stayed an-and–”

He lost whatever else he tried to say when Nikolai turned around and held his face, his lovely warm eyes regarding him with only the purest affection and love while his thumbs brushed his tears away. 

Their lips met, and John let him in, savouring the intimacy and warmth he had missed for the past four months.

“And thank you for coming back home to me, lyubov moya.” Nikolai whispered as he held his beloved, and they both swayed to the rhythm of their heartbeats in lieu of the cheesy vintage love songs that would play at the end of old movies. John wouldn’t have it any other way, for he was home.

Finally home.

[dawnmultiverse]

fuck ai I've made this with sweat and a lot of colour palets or whatever is called in english

[uhnutherdude]

NikPrice Week Days 4 & 5: Fishing Trip & Night at the Bar (or pub idk the difference)

Got delayed because of a power outage but here goes.

Title: In Comparison to Paris

Rating: Mature

Tags: Lots of Kissing, Cuddling, Making Out in a Photo Booth, Fluff, Romance, others I'm forgetting rn

Summary: Two weeks after their op in Russia, Nikolai takes John to France for a week-long trip and their first date, as promised.

Word Count: 2,572

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68226306

_______________________________________________

John loved his job. He really did. The paperwork was a different story, however.

He hated how quickly it piled up. Hated how he’s met with stacks upon stacks of mission reports and forms after every mission. It was the one reason he’d refused to take the promotion to Major. He’d never seen more gray hairs and wrinkles on his CO’s head than after he got promoted, so, really, John would much rather retire.

Today’s round of paperwork, however, was tolerable. Was it because there weren’t as many reports for him to deal with? Partially. He has Ghost to thank for keeping the sergeants in line in his absence. Was it mainly because of the sheer excitement at the fact that Nikolai was flying him over to France tonight for a week-long trip and what might be his first proper date since becoming a lieutenant?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

It had been two weeks since that op in Russia where they got stranded because of a blizzard. Two weeks since waking up in Nikolai’s arms and revelling in knowing that his best friend reciprocated his feelings.

With that in mind, he breezed through the reports and went straight to his quarters, packing his duffel bag with his best clothes, cologne, other essentials, and maybe a gun or three in case things went sideways like they often did.

He’d just finished showering and trimming his beard when he heard a knock on his door.

“It’s me, Captain.” Of course, it was. He’d recognize Nik’s voice anywhere. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course.” He responded as he strode over to answer the door, still in nothing but his towel, and promptly dodged a spray of soda when the Russian crushed the Dr. Pepper in his hand.

“Der’mo—uh, apologies, Captain,” Nikolai said as he tossed the can into a nearby trash bin, trying and failing to peel his eyes off of John and hide the bright red blush on his cheeks. “I’ll get a mop.”

“N-no, it’s fine, Nik,” he stammered as heat crept up his neck. He reached over for a pack of tissues on his nightstand and helped the other clean the mess. “Er, I’m all set. Just need to get dressed.”

“Of course, of course,” Nikolai tossed the sopping wet mass into the bin and leaned onto the doorframe with a hand on his hip, cheeky grin and swagger back in force and his eyes unashamedly glued to John’s bare chest. “You just take your time, John.”

“Pervert.” He huffs, unable to stop the grin cracking his face. He threw on a black button-up and jeans with his usual watch and leather boots. “And that’s latrine duty for you muppets over there.” He barks out to the sergeants lurking around the corner of the hallway, their giggles turned into cackling and heavy footsteps as they run off like cockroaches.

Nikolai, ever the gentleman, stepped into the room and slung John’s duffel bag over his shoulder. “Shall we?”

John and Nikolai had been to France plenty of times, but only on missions and never as tourists, or as a couple for that matter.

Their first stop in France was at Corbie for their fishing trip at the River Somme. John had been the one to pick the place since it was one of the few fishing spots in the country that had a variety of fish other than carp to catch, that, and there were not as many tourists flocking the place around this time of the year so they practically had the river to themselves.

And oh, John missed it. Being surrounded by trees and birdsong, waist-deep in the tranquil water with the cool spring breeze dancing on his face, and the occasional quiet splash made by fish flitting away from the surface. Only this time, he gets to enjoy it with his favourite person on the planet.

“Caught one!” He said as he reeled in a trout about the size of his forearm and waded back to toss it into the bucket they brought. He looked over at Nikolai, who looked awkward just standing by the shore in his waders.

“Never tried fishing?” he asked his partner as he attached a new bait to the hook.

“I have…” Nik looked away, his right hand fidgeting with his gold chain. “Just never got the hang of it, I suppose.”

“Well,” John took his partner’s hand and began pulling him into the water with a smile. “No better time to learn than now, yeah?”

“You’ll show me?” the other seemed pleasantly surprised at his suggestion, his earlier hesitance replaced by a small smile.

“Of course, love. C’mon,” John waded a few paces away from the other man and demonstrated in slow movements. “You’ll want a secure grip on the rod, like this. Now you just gotta swing it overhead to the side like so and throw the line a fair distance. Not too far, though. And be careful not to swing too close to yourself.”

“Or it will be me on the other end of the hook?”

“Yep.”

“Good to know.”

"C’mere, I’ll guide you.” John positioned himself behind Nikolai, hands on the latter’s arms as he guided his movements.

Nikolai was a fast-learner; he’d known the man long enough to know that. So really, this was also just an excuse for John to hold his lover from behind and feel him, the warmth radiating from his body, and to breathe him in.

“Your beard is tickling me, John.” His partner giggled. A playful smirk played on his lips.

“Can’t blame me when you always smell good.” John replied as he nuzzled into the crook of Nikolai’s neck. It was something he’d always been guilty of since they met—taking whiffs of the Russian’s scent whenever they got close. The man always smelled of gunpowder, sweat, and expensive cologne, which he pulled off so well that John couldn’t help but be drawn in despite being weirded out by it at first. “Lemme just hold you like this for a bit.” He wrapped his arms around Nik’s waist while his chin rested on his shoulder and he watched as he swung his rod.

“Beautiful form, love.” He planted a kiss on his partner’s neck, relishing the shudder that ran through Nikolai’s body for a few seconds before letting go so he could grab a second fishing rod.

They caught five decently sized fish about an hour before the sunset, but ended up releasing the three smallest ones since it was just the two of them. The other two had been prepped, seasoned, stuffed with herbs and lemon slices, courtesy of Nikolai, and grilled in their campfire.

“Here you are,” Nik handed John a plate of grilled fish and sat down next to him in front of the fire with his own plate, the flames and the dwindling sunlight cast a soft glow on his face that made him look just a little younger.

“Thanks.” John picked up his fork, ready to dig in, when his partner also handed him a glass of a pale liquid. “Sauvignon Blanc?”

“Da, goes well with trout.” Nik poured himself some as well, and they raised their glasses in a toast before digging into their hard-earned and delicious dinner while watching the sunset like in those cheesy old romance movies.

It was around early afternoon, a day after they went fishing in the River Somme, when they checked in at a hotel on Rue Faidherbe, Paris. The fancy kind that came with a gym, swimming pool, bar and breakfast, you name it.

“Bonjour!” the receptionist greeted them with a bright smile. “Que puis-je faire pour vous?”

“Bonjour,” Nikolai answered before John could even stammer a reply. “J’ai réservé la Suite Signature pour quatre nuits pour moi et mon partenaire.”

John stood back as Nikolai spoke to the receptionist in rapid French, relieved that he did not have to embarrass himself with his subpar handle on the language. It did not take long before the receptionist handed a set of keys to Nik, who then took his hand with a grin and led him to their suite.

“Holy fuckin’ fuck.” He muttered to himself.

One look into their suite had John wondering just where Nikolai gets his money from. Not only was there a private terrace overlooking the patio and a king-sized bed that made military-issue bunks look like concrete slabs, they also had a minibar, Nespresso machine, and a 55-inch flat screen all to themselves.

For four days.

And this was just their first trip together.

John woke up the next day with his face buried in Nik’s bare chest and their limbs tangled together in the blankets. Just the way he liked it.

He felt Nik stir in his arms, his chuckle vibrating through his chest while a hand slid up his back and into his scalp. “Dobroye utro, moy mishka,” his partner greets, his voice rough from sleep. “Sleep well?”

“Nice and sound.” John replies as he nuzzles into Nik’s chest some more.

They spent the next half hour like that, so lost in the bliss of the other’s warmth and company that it took both of their stomachs grumbling to get them out of bed to call for room service to bring breakfast up to them instead of going down to the buffet.

The Louvre was first on Nik’s itinerary. John had seen the glass pyramid at the museum’s entrance plenty of times on their missions, but not inside the museum itself, and while he wasn’t much of an artsy person himself, he still spent most of the trip with his mouth half open, especially as they wandered through the Galerie d’Apollon. They had lunch at one restaurant inside, with house-made pasta and coffee so strong he just had to order two more cups.

Their next stop that afternoon was Les Caves du Louvre for a wine tasting tour which John didn’t expect to enjoy so much that Nik more or less had to carry him back to their suite all red in the face and giggling like a teenager who’d just seen his crush walk by, whispering sweet nothings and I-love-you’s into his partner’s ear while the latter helped him onto their bed for the night.

Their dinner reservation the next day wasn’t until the evening, so they went around the area, trying pastries and snacks from different cafes and taking pictures of monuments or of each other.

“Smile, Nik!” John raised his phone to take a photo of them both in front of the Arc de Triomphe, when Nik planted a kiss on his cheek right as he pressed the button. He flinched in surprise, heat surging up his face while Nik grinned from ear to ear. So, of course, John retaliated with a peck on his lips. “Cheeky bastard.” He says before pulling the man in for a longer kiss.

John once again questioned Nikolai’s source of income besides working as a pilot when they went out for their dinner date at a vintage-looking restaurant on Rue Saint-Honoré. The interior reminded him a lot of restaurants from old movies, with portraits and paintings lining the intricately carved wooden walls, warm lighting from low-hanging chandeliers, and the chatter of diners and servers flitting about.

It was a relief that Nik decided on a restaurant like this instead of those swanky fine-dining places that served way too little food on way too many plates for ungodly prices.

Nik wanted them to try a bit of everything and so ordered quite a few dishes of decent proportions and variety. They all smelled appetizing and tasted better than John expected. The grilled bone marrow was like butter on his tongue, and the Filet aux Poivres was juicy and melted in his mouth. The escargots tasted good, surprisingly, though he was no fan of the texture. He looked with horror as Nik took a hearty bite of steak tartare, but found it quite delicious when his partner finally got him to try it.

They spent the evening enjoying their food, chatting about anything and everything, their hands on top of each other, maybe a few kisses here and there before paying for the meal and leaving to find somewhere to drink for old time’s sake. Most of the bars were too fancy for his taste and served complicated drinks, so it was quite a relief that they found a bar & pub called Little Big Bear that served the good stuff minus the frills.

The pub was a merry spot of navy blue and yellow in an otherwise beige building, complete with a mural of a bear in what looked like a wheat field.

“Nik, look,” John pointed at the mural, grinning at his partner. “It’s you.”

“Nyet, it looks more like you, solnyshko.”

“Naw, it’s definitely you.” He gave Nikolai’s belly an affectionate pat as if to prove his point before he stepped inside.

Inside was cozy and reminded him a lot of the pubs in the UK, with warm lights, a sports channel playing on the flat screens, bottles of alcohol, glasses, and pictures of customers lining the wall behind the bar…

Yeah, it was perfect.

They took their seats at the counter and ordered their first few rounds, savouring the familiar burn of whiskey while listening to the surrounding chatter and cheering from the other patrons watching a rugby match or chatting in a near-incoherent mix of English and French. About four drinks in, John noticed the photo booth close to the bathroom and knew exactly what he was going to do with it.

“C’mon, I wanna try something.” He took Nik’s hand and pulled him into the booth.

The first round of pictures was as you’d expect, with the two of them grinning stupidly in each other’s arms, but immediately turning into a full drunken make-out session after a kiss or two and Nik pushing him into the booth’s wall.

“Getting bold now, eh?” Nik pulled away to whisper into his ear before moving to suck a few hickeys onto John’s neck, one hand firmly covering his mouth to muffle his moans as he ground their hips together.

“Always wanted to do something like this—fuck,” John panted in response, pulling his mouth free of his partner’s grip before slamming their mouths together, savouring the lingering taste of whiskey while his fingers tangled in the other man’s smooth locks. He bit back another moan when Nik rolled his hips into his again.

“So,” Nik pressed their foreheads together, eyes half-closed and his hand leaving goosebumps wherever it slid on John’s hot skin. “How is our trip so far?”

“The fuckin’ best.” He answers before kissing Nik again, his pants feeling tighter than usual. “But it wouldn’t have been perfect without you. Fuckin’ love you, Nik.”

“I love you too, John.” Nik said as he pulled away out of breath and sweating as he pocketed their photos and offered his hand to John with a naughty grin. “We should go. Wouldn’t want to have your first time with me in this photo booth.”

The bartender and a few patrons gave them knowing smirks and approving nods when they stumbled out of the booth to pay for their drinks. Too drunk and impatient to walk back to the hotel, they took a taxi and hurried back up to their suite to see just how private the terrace was.