weirdodiary

hi everyone !! it’s weirdo diary i love analog horror and videogames i love tumblr and i hope u like my stuff !!

[weirdodiary]

fathers keychain

[laswells-ashtray]

John is a man who thrives on the feeling of control. Of a situation or himself, so long as he feels like he's in charge then he has a little comfort.

That's why it takes the air from his lungs when he's in bed with Nikolai, lying pliant on his back with his cock leaking against his belly as the pilot thrusts into him and Nikolai suddenly slows.

A wicked look of satisfaction on the man's face as he strokes a finger across John's cheek before tugging at his lip.

"You trust me."

A hysterical bark of laughter almost escapes John, of course he trusts the man, he trusts Nikolai with his life.

"You trust me enough to let me see you like this, to be the only thing inside of you that you can't control."

John doesn't respond.

He can't. Can't summon the words to explain the nauseating tsunami of thoughts rushing to the forefront of his mind that he is allowing someone this. Can't explain why the thought makes his cock twitch, achingly hard and suddenly desperate for the other man's touch.

Because he is giving Nikolai the lead, letting the other man set the pace and bend John to his will. And with great horror, John is distinctly aware that he likes it.

[weirdodiary]

fuck i cant breathe

[weirdodiary]

final part !!

captain price's heart was practically leaping out of his chest that day, a storm raging inside. nik was being discharged. he was alive and well. he was recovering. frantically packing a bag, price couldn't sit still. even though the worst was over, price worried—what if nik, because of the trauma and surgeries, could no longer do what he loved? what if he could never fly again? but these thoughts were cut off by a stern, clear dictum that brooked no argument: the important thing is that he's alive.

at one point, john even felt ashamed, and dark thoughts began to eat at him.

"what the fuck difference does it make—whether he can fly or not. your husband, the love of your life, your ray of light in the pitch-black darkness of war, pain, and fear, is alive. he fought for you. you don't deserve more than that after everything you let happen, you bastard."

john shook his head nervously, trying to shoo them away, then bolted from the spot and raced to his car. the whole way to the hospital, price tapped nervously on the steering wheel, unable to focus even on the damn radio. the upcoming meeting was going to turn his life upside down.

pulling up to the hospital and parking haphazardly, price jumped out and sprinted straight inside.

and again: the same corridors, the same sterile smell, the same equipment. but none of it mattered, because john needed him. he would take him from here and never leave him alone again. never. i won't allow it.

on his way, he ran into nik's attending physician and, apologizing for the rush, stopped.

– captain price? hello, nik is much better. we can even discharge him, if you take proper care of him.

john's eyes lit up; he couldn't believe his luck. nodding silently, he simply followed the doctor.

– you care so much for your subordinates… not every captain is like that…

he observed.

but john just remained silent.

the door opened, the doctor stepped away.

bandaged up, nik was sitting on his cot, reading a book john had brought him. he didn't even hear the door open, he was so engrossed. price froze for a moment. he decided not to ruin the moment and just watched him. nik was just as thin, but there was a healthy color in his cheeks and the circles under his eyes were almost gone. in all his career, he could never have imagined that this silhouette, these thick, curly black hair with glimpses of silver, these rough but so gentle and warm hands, those deep, radiant eyes, full of carefree naivety and joy, that most familiar voice and laugh, would become the most precious thing in the world to him. would become the thing he was willing to kill and be killed for. price still couldn't believe he was capable of loving someone this much.

john exhaled heavily, with relief.

that's what made nikolai look up from his book and turn his head. seeing his husband, he broke into a radiant smile again, as if he hadn't seen him for years. john, for his part, just smirked, and before he could say a word, was crushed in the embrace of his loved one.

the russian, in turn, drew his husband into a passionate kiss. even though price was worried about nik's excessive activity, having only just recovered from surgery, he simply couldn't resist. his mind would soar somewhere into space every time their tongues intertwined, caressed, and writhed, as if trying to merge into one. only nik could kiss this well.

but when he pulled away, price, exhaling heatedly, uttered:

— easy, love, you're not fully strong yet, – he murmured, and his powerful arms wrapped around nik's thin shoulders on their own, absorbing the warmth through the hospital gown.

nik pulled back just a centimeter, his breath, mingled with john's, was hot and uneven.

— it's over, john. i'm definitely fine. — he whispered, and in his eyes, so alive and radiant, there burned not just a joyful spark, but a steely glint forged in suffering. — right now i feel better than ever because you're here.

price closed his eyes, breathing in his familiar scent again—now mixed with antiseptic and medicine, but still his, the only one. his fingers gripped the fabric of nik's robe on his back, as if afraid he might dissolve.

— i'm taking you home today, — john said hoarsely, the words sounding like an oath carved in stone. — i won't let you go anywhere again.

— i know, love, — nikolai simply replied, pulling him close again, but this time not for a kiss, but to press his cheek against john's chest, right where the storm was still raging under his ribs, but already retreating, replaced by another, warm and all-consuming tide.

they stood like that for a minute, then another, frozen at the very center of a universe that had finally found its fulcrum. all fears retreated into a misty distance. it didn't matter. only one thing mattered: his beloved husband in his arms, his breath, his life, snatched from death itself.

— let's go home, — price finally exhaled, carefully pulling back to look into his eyes. — i'll bake you your favorite sharlotka. we'll put on that stupid series until you fall asleep on my shoulder.

nik laughed, and his smile held not a shadow of pain or doubt. only unconditional trust and that very same, carefree joy for which john was ready to tear down any walls, any barriers.

he helped nik gather his meager belongings, firmly squeezed his hand, and led him to the exit.

***

the house filled with an unfamiliar but welcome silence, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. price darted between the kitchen and the living room, where nikolai sat on the wide sofa, wrapped in a blanket. the aroma of apple sharlotka, which john baked with almost religious fervor, mixed with the tart smell of sea-buckthorn tea—the cure for all ills that nik loved so much.

every time nik got up from the sofa and tried to help, john would appear in the doorway like a stern, worried ghost.

– don't get up, – it sounded like an order, but his voice held only fragile, icy panic. – ask for anything. whatever you want. but don't move. please.

and nik obediently returned. he saw that guilt—huge, unspoken—in every gesture of john's, in the way his hands clenched into fists when he thought no one was looking, in the way his gaze quickly scanned nik, searching for signs of pain or weakness. the russian stayed silent. now was not the time to argue. now was the time to give john this illusion of control, this chance to fill the crack of his guilt with care, like cement.

when the table was set, and the warm, golden sharlotka steamed on the plate, price froze for a moment, looking at this picture of peaceful life that seemed so fragile, as if painted on the thinnest glass.

– john, – nik called softly from the sofa. his voice was gentle, but it worked flawlessly.

price startled and was beside him in the same second, sinking to his knees before the sofa to be level with his face. his eyes, so tired and tense, asked: are you feeling bad? does something hurt?

nik placed a palm on his cheek, and his eyes, usually so bright, now looked with a quiet, understanding sadness.

– come here to me, – he said simply, not as a request, but as permission.

and john, surrendering, clung to him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, burying his face in his chest. nik's fingers combed through his short-cropped hair.

– it’s not your fault, – nik said clearly, piercing the silence. these words, like a knife, cut through the dense fabric of despair that price had so carefully wound around himself.

and john broke. first it was just a shudder of his shoulders, then his face contorted and harsh, wrenching sobs, which he had held back for so long, filled the space somewhere between the two of them. poor, wounded soul. john couldn't utter anything coherent, only, choking, repeating into the fabric of the robe: "i love you, i love you, i love you so much, i love you more than anyone… i'll never again in my life…". nikolai didn't interrupt. he just stroked his back, over the tense muscles, tracing endless, soothing circles, whispering something tender in russian, until the storm began to subside, leaving behind only a quiet, exhausted calm.

when john finally raised his swollen face, nik simply wiped his cheeks with his thumbs and kissed his forehead.

– the tea is getting cold, captain, – he said with a slight, trembling smile. – and the sharlotka. i checked.

they drank tea for a long time. the conversation flowed easily, like a stream after a long winter. they talked about everything and nothing: about books, about the smell of rain outside the window, about the stupid things their comrades had done. there wasn't a word about missions, wounds, or future flights. there was only this room, this sofa, this teapot that john had reheated twice already.

and when the plates were empty, and the clock struck a late hour, nik, obediently following the promise, lay down, placing his head on john's chest. the stupid series flickered on the screen, but price didn't watch it. he watched nik's face, the dark lashes casting shadows on pale cheeks, the serenely relaxed lips. he slowly moved his palm over his back, feeling the spine, the ribs under the thin fabric—all too sharply, too fragilely. nikolai fell asleep almost weightlessly, his breathing so quiet that john had to listen for it, catching his warm exhale on his neck.

he's here. my treasure.

finally, leaning down, john touched his warm forehead with his lips, lingering for a second.

– goodnight, love, – he whispered into the silence of the room, which now smelled only of apples, tea, and peace.

and only then, holding his most fragile and yet most solid victory, captain john price allowed himself to sink into a deep, serene sleep.

[weirdodiary]

part eight.

the day turned into the longest wait of his life. he couldn't sit still. he paced the base but didn't see it. he tried to work on reports - the letters blurred into mush. soap and gaz stood silent watch nearby, exchanging knowing looks, but not daring to intrude on his agonizing solitude.

the call came closer to evening.

the doctor's voice sounded different. it held fatigue, but also - restrained, professional satisfaction.

"captain? the operation is complete. it was successful. we were able to radically clean the sites, remove non-viable tissue, and apply secondary sutures. most importantly - the tissue response is good. the process of *normal* healing has begun."

price was silent. he waited for the catch. waited for the "but."

the "but" didn't come.

"we will monitor him, but i believe the critical period is behind us. now it's a matter of time and recovery."

price slowly sank into the chair by his desk. a ringing filled his ears. he didn't feel sudden joy - its place was occupied by such all-consuming tension that only deafening, all-destroying emptiness replaced it. and then, slowly, like the first drops after a long drought - relief. bitter, hard-won, fragile.

"thank you, doctor," his voice was not his own. "when... when will he be able to have visitors?"

"the day after tomorrow. he needs complete rest."

price nodded into the void and put down the receiver. he sat like that for a long time, staring at a single point on the desk where their photo together lay.

"the wounds are healing," he said quietly aloud, as if testing the reality of the words. "healing."

for the first time that entire week, he managed to fall asleep. he plummeted into a void without light or sound. nik would be home soon.

[weirdodiary]

part seven

four days later.

the glass doors of the hospital's main entrance slid open with a quiet hiss before price, admitting him into a sterile, mercilessly bright world of antiseptic and muffled equipment signals. the smell - a barely perceptible cocktail of bleach, medicine, and cold coffee - was baked into these walls for good. he had carried it on himself for all these three days, like a brand.

three days. seventy-two hours of endless questions, short, evasive answers from surgeons, aimless circles through corridors and stairwells. "captain, he needs rest." "captain, he's still unconscious." "captain, we'll call you." price didn't give up.

and only today, or rather, last evening, the senior doctor, a man with tired eyes, nodded: "tomorrow, after midnight. for five minutes. he's stable, but unconscious. speak quietly."

"tomorrow" had arrived. price ran down the empty, gleamingly clean corridors. a plastic bag with treats dangled in his hand. inside was a pack of expensive milk chocolate that nikolai had once praised, his favorite apples, and nuts.

room 312. isolation. frosted glass, a sign. price's heart was hammering somewhere in his throat. he grabbed the handle, pushed the door without knocking.

silence hit him in the face. not absolute - it was filled with the steady, mechanical breathing of the ventilator, the monotonous beep of the heart monitor, the hiss of oxygen.

the room was bathed in semi-darkness, lit only by the dim light of a wall lamp above the bed and the colorful lights of the machines. price froze on the threshold.

his beloved.

he lay on a high functional bed, drowning in the whiteness of the sheets. and because of that, he seemed even smaller. his face, always so expressive, was now a wax mask, sharply defined cheekbones stretched with pale, almost transparent skin. the shadows under his closed eyes were purple, deep. he had lost weight catastrophically, the body under the sheet barely hinting at any shape. price felt a physical pain, something cold and heavy clenching in his chest.

but nearby, the monitor was ticking. a green line ran across the screen, tracing stubborn, though weakened, peaks. alive.

price slowly drew a breath. he placed the bag on the bedside table, next to the duty schedule and medical chart. he approached the bed. his hand rose and, almost weightlessly, settled on top of nikolai's thin arm, lying palm up. the skin was cool, dry. from under a plaster, a catheter protruded, connected to tubes with clear fluids.

he found a chair in the corner, pulled it right up to the bed. sitting down, he took that helpless hand in his again, carefully, as if afraid to cause pain even now. with his thumb, he began to slowly, rhythmically stroke the inside of the wrist, over the barely perceptible pulse.

"everything will be alright, love, you'll get better and we'll go home right away. we'll definitely visit your favorite lake -" his voice was low, hoarse from fatigue and disuse. he was speaking not so much to nik as to himself, an incantation against the encroaching darkness. "it's all behind you now. the surgeries are over. you were so brave. just a little bit left."

he kept stroking, speaking disjointed, fragmentary phrases. about the base. about how gaz and soap had repelled all the attacks. about how here, in this room, no one would hurt him. ever.

"you will get better, i promise," price insisted, squeezing the fingers a little tighter, but just as gently. "and we'll go home."

the only answer was the steady hum of the machine pushing air into his lungs. nikolai's eyes remained closed, his eyelids didn't flutter. but price didn't stop. he talked and stroked, hour after hour, until his own words began to lose meaning. he wiped the moisture that appeared on nikolai's forehead with a sterile wipe, straightened the edge of the sheet.

the fatigue that had been accumulating all these days-not the physical kind, but the one that eats at the soul-finally crashed down on him with its full weight. his head began to droop. his consciousness, always vigilant, began to surrender its positions. price fought it, blinking, trying to focus his gaze on the green line of the heart monitor, but his eyelids became leaden.

without noticing it himself, he leaned forward, resting his head on the edge of the mattress, next to nikolai's thigh. his hand still lay on his husband's hand, but his fingers relaxed their grip. his breathing evened out, became deeper. the tension, the steel spring inside, eased for a moment.

he saw no dreams. there were no nightmares with screams into a pillow, no explosions. there was only a warm, deep, and hopeless darkness, a complete, temporary shutdown.

***

consciousness returned to nikolai not sharply, but like a slow tide - first a vague feeling of heaviness in his limbs, then a distant, steady sound, and finally, a strip of light under his eyelids. he opened his eyes. the world was blurry, white, and quiet. and the first thing he saw, through the veil of weakness, was an exhausted face, bowed by his bed. graying hair, powerful shoulders slumped under an invisible weight.

nikolai couldn't have moved even if he wanted to. deep in his chest, under the pile of machines and pain, something warm and alive shuddered and spread. the love of his life had come to visit him. he felt a light, barely perceptible touch on his hand. his husband's hand.

the corners of his lips, dry and cracked, trembled and crept upward. a weak but genuine smile. he gathered all his remaining strength, and the fingers of his left hand, free from the thickest tubes, twitched. then slowly, with difficulty, lifted. he reached out. the tips of his fingers touched john's tangled, unwashed hair, and then, with incredible tenderness, began to slowly, absently run through it.

price shuddered with his whole body, as if from an electric shock. his head jerked sharply, his eyes flew open, a momentary, animal readiness for battle flashed in them, which immediately melted, replaced by mute, stunned disbelief.

"nik..." escaped him in a hoarse whisper.

and nikolai, without stopping to smile with that radiant, exhausted light, simply moved his lips. there was almost no sound, only a formant, a quiet exhale:

"hiii."

and that word was enough. that very steel spring that had been coiling in john price's chest all this time, snapped. his face twisted into a grimace of the purest, uncontrolled pain and relief. he clenched his eyelids, but hot, heavy tears gushed from under them. they streamed down his hard cheeks, washing away the dust, the fatigue, and the horror. he didn't try to stop them.

"i'm sorry," he choked, pressing his lips to nikolai's thin, pale palm, kissing every bone, every mark from the iv. "i'm sorry i didn't come sooner. i'm sorry i didn't... that i let this happen. i.. i let that bastard…"

nikolai weakly shook his head on the pillow. memories were fragmentary fog: the faces of the torturers, blinding light, freezing terror... and then -firm hands holding him in the helicopter, a voice calling him back from the darkness. the details were blurred, but the feeling was clear: he hadn't betrayed them. they had carried him out.

"ну ты чего…" his fingers traced circles on the captain's temple with difficulty. "everything's… alright. everything… will be…"

but the strength that had flared up like a bright spark of awakening was quickly fading. fatigue, heavy and sticky, rolled in a new wave, and behind it, creeping, the pain returned- dull, spread throughout his whole body. the smile on nikolai's face became tense, strained. he slowly, with effort, leaned his head back on the pillow, as if it had suddenly become too heavy.

price immediately wiped his face with the back of his hand, switching gears instantly. the tears weren't dry yet, but his gaze became sharp, commanding.

"nik? are you feel bad?" his voice cracked on a higher note, ringing with that same, barely retreated panic.

nikolai took a weak gulp of air, trying to control the trembling in his lips.

"it's all fine, золотко. just… a little tired."

but his eyes, which had dimmed in seconds, and the sudden deathly pallor breaking through the slight flush, screamed otherwise. price sharply pressed the back of his hand to nikolai's forehead. the skin, which had seemed cool a second ago, now burned with a dry, ominous heat.

"no. no, not again," price hissed, already pressing the call button. his movements were sharp, but the voice he used for nik, he tried to keep under control. "everything will be fine"

the nurse, followed by the duty doctor, burst into the room with that expression price had already learned to hate- professional, cold concern. nikolai, catching john's gaze, tried once more with his last strength to stretch his lips into a semblance of a smile. it came out crooked, exhausted, but incredibly touching in its persistence.

"thank you… for coming to see me," he whispered, and every word now came with enormous difficulty. "i'm so glad… to see you."

he said nothing more. the doctors, muttering about a sudden spike in temperature, carefully but persistently began to push price aside to transfer nikolai onto a gurney. he didn't resist. his gaze, clouded by the oncoming new wave of fever and pain, didn't leave price.

john was pushed against the wall. he stood, fists clenched, watching as the fragile body of his husband, entangled in wires, was wheeled out of the room. nikolai, already on the gurney, passing by, found the strength once more to turn his head. and again-that eerie, exhausted smile, directed only at him. a last signal. i'm fighting.

the door closed. the hollow sound of the receding gurney faded in the distance. price was left alone in the suddenly deafeningly quiet, empty room. the untouched treats lay on the bedside table. the air held the smell of medicine and a faint, barely perceptible trail of hot metal-the aftermath of the fever. he slowly walked over to the rumpled bed, placed his palm on the still-warm indentation from nikolai's head.

"i'm here, my love," he said quietly into the absolute silence. "i'm not going anywhere."

but the emptiness of the room didn't answer. it merely absorbed the echo of the last words: "i'm so glad to see you." and those words burned in his heart brighter and more painfully than any tear.

[weirdodiary]

part 6 cw: blood, wounds, rotting, pain, etc

the pulsating thrum of the helicopter seemed the only thread tethering them to reality. in the cargo bay, on a spread-out tarp, nikolai lay wrapped in a thermal blanket. john sat beside him, one hand securing the iv drip with saline that gaz had hastily assembled, the other constantly checking the pulse at his wrist.

suddenly, beneath price's fingers, the weak pulse quickened. nikolai's eyelids fluttered and slowly lifted, revealing a glassy, feverish gaze that took a long time to focus.

"john..." his lips moved soundlessly.

"shh… i'm here," price responded immediately, leaning in to enter his field of vision. "you're safe. it's alright. it's over."

nikolai's gaze slowly cleared.

"i... didn't... say..." he exhaled, each word costing incredible effort. "anything... not a word..."

this was the main thing. he had to convey it before consciousness slipped away again. he saw a fierce, bitter pride ignite in price's eyes, but the captain only gave a sharp nod.

"the bag..." nikolai's eyes began to roll back again, but he gathered his last strength, trying to convey the thought. "my... black one... at the bottom, under the lining... all originals... there..."

"quiet, quiet, quiet... we'll find everything. just rest now."

but nikolai's body no longer obeyed orders. his body, exhausted by torture, dehydration, and infection, began to give out.

fine, frequent convulsions ran through his entire frame.

"cold..." he moaned through clenched teeth.

price pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. it was burning.

"soap!" price didn't raise his voice, but steel rang in it. "temperature. convulsions."

mactavish jumped up with the medkit. antipyretics, anticonvulsants - injections administered in field conditions were a crude solution. nikolai gritted his teeth and moaned almost inaudibly, clenching his fists as waves of convulsive shudders racked his body. he was conscious - his eyes, clouded with fever, were open and stared past price, into a void full of inner nightmare.

john didn't take his eyes off the man. a storm raged in his eyes: fury at makarov, fury at himself for every lost hour, and a helpless, all-consuming pain that the only thing he could do now was hold him and talk. talk so he wouldn't drift into the darkness.

he wiped the cold sweat and hot tears from nikolai's forehead, tears that flowed involuntarily from the animalistic pain and weakness. the temperature didn't subside. his cheeks burned with a flush, contrasting with the deathly pallor of the rest of his skin. price could feel this heat even through the blanket.

***

soap exchanged a grim look with john, his eyes holding the same heaviness as price's. he laid out fresh bandages, scissors, a bottle of disinfectant solution, and a pack of gauze pads on a clean, but worn cloth.

it's time, captain - soap said quietly, not looking at nikolai.

he, pale as a sheet, with sweat-damp hair stuck to his forehead, just weakly shook his head. "no... wait... maybe later..."

"can't," price's voice sounded harsher than he intended. –"hold on."

the next few minutes became waking hell for price. when soap began cutting away the old bandages, soaked with pus and congealed blood, the air thickened with the heavy, sweetish-rotten smell of infection. the wounds, black and inflamed at the edges, oozed yellowish fluid.

hold him - soap gritted through his teeth, already pouring solution onto the exposed wound on his side.

nikolai howled into the pillow. his body tensed in an arching spasm, he tried to break free, blind rage of pain overpowering weakness. price bore down on him with all his weight, feeling the fire of fever beneath him.

mactavish got to work - cleaning, irrigating. each of his movements, necessary and professional, was answered by a new convulsive shudder and a muffled groan from nikolai. price didn't look away. he watched as the pus left the body, as soap applied fresh ointment, as the white, clean bandages slowly began to absorb the nightmare. he watched because he considered it his duty - to share this torture, at least visually.

and gradually, as the hellish procedure drew to a close, the resistance faded. cries gave way to ragged, hoarse sobs, then to quiet, incoherent muttering. nikolai's gaze, previously full of panic and pleading, began to grow dim. he stopped focusing on price, staring somewhere into the space over his shoulder, through him, through the walls, into oblivion.

soap, tying the last knot, exhaled heavily.

"nik, how are you?" price called softly, loosening his grip.

there was no answer. only an empty, glassy stare.

"nik, can you hear me?"

nikolai's mind, unable to bear the overload, shut down. his body went limp, his breathing became slightly more even, but raspy. he was here, but he wasn't.

"nik!" – price shook him, slapped his cheek. no response. panic hit his temples.

"captain!" – soap said sharply, setting aside the bandage. he pressed his fingers to nik's neck, then leaned close to his face. "he's alive. just blacked out. pain shock. it's better for him this way."

price mechanically felt for the pulse himself. but it brought no relief.

at that moment, the helicopter began a sharp descent. the lights of the runway flashed in the portholes. the base.

time compressed. the doors swung open, letting in the damp night chill. the duty medical team was already rushing towards them.

"sepsis, multiple infected wounds, pain shock! to the icu, faster!" – the clipped commands of the medics dissolved in the roar of the engines. price stood and watched as the flashing lights of the ambulance quickly receded, taking a part of his world with them. only ghostly stains of blood remained on his hands.

his life could never be the same again. that night, in his quarters, he didn't sleep a wink.

before his eyes were the rolled-back whites of nikolai's eyes, his silent scream into the pillow, the feeling of utter helplessness. he couldn't protect him.

he slowly slid down the wall, dropping his head onto his knees. in his ears still rang the silence that had followed the scream. a silence louder than any explosion. price closed his eyes and made a vow. not a loud one, not for others' ears. a quiet, ironclad one, seared into the very depths of his soul.

never again. never again would he allow a person under his command to endure such pain. not at the cost of any victory. never.

[weirdodiary]

part 5 cw: blood & wounds

the air hit his face with the smell of blood, urine, and death. and then he saw him.

he wasn't lying on the cot. he had been tossed like a rag into the corner on the bare concrete. his body… his body was mutilated. it was a horrific mess of grotesquely swollen, festering lacerations, left not by a whip, but by a tool designed to inflict the most terrible, bone-deep pain.

price's breath caught. he froze on the threshold, unable to move. he couldn't accept that this emaciated, ravaged, nearly naked body belonged to his husband, his beloved. he couldn't believe what he was seeing, because not so long ago, nik was beaming with a radiant smile, talking about vacation plans. tenderly hugging him from behind and kissing his cheek. and his nik looked nothing like what lay a few meters away. john's heart was shattering. but it was his kolya. his poor kolyen'ka.

"no…" tore from him, hoarse, powerless. it wasn't a shout, but a moan ripped from the depths of his soul.

behind him, gaz, pale, was already speaking into the comms, calling for an urgent evac, but price didn't hear him. he jerked into motion, and running to nik, collapsed to his knees beside him. trembling fingers in tactical gloves found the neck under matted, filthy hair with incredible, painful caution. the skin was cold, almost icy.

he froze, listening into the silence of his own body, trying to catch the slightest sign…

and he felt it. that faint, distant, barely perceptible thud.

alive.

action returned to price with the force of a grenade blast. all his horror, all his pain instantly transformed into furious, focused determination.

"gaz, the medkit! now!" his voice cracked like a whip, making kyle flinch.

then john turned back to nikolai. he removed his gloves and threw them aside. with warm fingers, he carefully touched the cheek, trying to see in this tortured face the features of the one he loved.

he worked quickly, with surgical precision, but his fingers, applying sterile dressings to the worst wounds, trembled. he took off his light tactical vest, then his camouflaged sweater, remaining in just a t-shirt, and wrapped the icy, fragile body in the warm fabric. he did it with incredible, almost painful tenderness, trying not to cause more pain.

"i'm taking him," he said, leaving no room for argument. nikolai's body was frighteningly light, and john's strong arms lifted him firmly but with utmost care, pulling him close. nik was muttering something incoherent into price's shoulder.

"cover us, gaz, we're moving out!!"

he carried him towards the stairs, towards the light, towards the sound of helicopters, not feeling the weight, feeling only that faint, barely alive pulse against his own heart—the most important trophy and the most terrible accusation. they had found him. but at what cost. and the battle for his life was only the beginning.

[weirdodiary]

the next part will be insane

[weirdodiary]

part 4

the silence of the abandoned shipyard was deceptive. task force 141 moved as a single mechanism, soundlessly taking up positions. price watched through the thermal sight the entrance to the mouth of the old dry dock, turned into a fortified bunker. in his chest beat not the rhythm of the impending fight, but a heavy, cold stone of fear for the life of his loved one. he didn't know what had happened to him, and every minute in ignorance was torture.

"all in position. i see two sentries at the west entrance. three more inside, at the first gate," ghost's quiet voice sounded over the comms.

"take em out. we take the rest alive," price gave the order.

the perimeter clearance operation went by the book. the sentries were neutralized without extra noise. but when gaz hacked the electronic lock on the first armored gate, a siren tore through the silence. they'd been made.

"contact!" kyle yelled, and the dock turned into hell.

bullets rang against rusted metal, illumination flares momentarily snatched running figures from the darkness. task force 141 fell back to cover, returning fire. soap and ghost coordinated covering fire while price and gaz pushed forward, toward the heart of the complex, following the closing network of passages their tech was feeding to their tablet.

they burst into the command center. data flickered on the monitors. but the room was empty, save for three militants who had taken up defensive positions. a short, brutal firefight – and they lay on the floor. price rushed to the main terminal. on the screen – an active camera feed. it showed a concrete tunnel where two figures were moving away quickly.

makarov. and with him – nolan, his right hand. vladimir, before disappearing around a bend, turned and looked directly into the camera. he wasn't smiling. he simply nodded, as if acknowledging the fact of their encounter. a contemptuous, cold nod. then the feed cut.

"he's getting away! north tunnel!" price growled, slamming his fist on the table. "ghost, soap, pursue! we're looking for prisoners!"

his heart was pounding wildly, but now he was driven not only by fear but by a furious, blind desperation. he and gaz rushed in the opposite direction, deeper into the labyrinth, kicking down doors, checking every dark storage room, every niche.

it was gaz who found it. a locked door with a small, barred window at eye level. a breach. gaz was the first to squeeze through the opening, his flashlight pulling a small, stinking cell from the gloom.

"oh, god…" kyle's voice, usually so steady, broke into a whisper.

price shoved past him with his shoulder and stormed inside.

[weirdodiary]

part 3 : cw torture

nikolai still sat on the edge of the iron cot, shackled to the wall by a short chain. in the center of the room stood vladimir makarov, and in his hands was a familiar leather briefcase. but from it, he drew not papers, but a tablet. he turned the screen toward nikolai. on it — satellite images, tunnel schematics, markings in cyrillic: "object 'storm', deposition coordinates."

"where are the originals?" makarov asked without preamble. his voice was quiet.

nikolai slowly raised his head.

"volodya," his voice was hoarse, but a mocking note rang in it. "lost your toys again? as i recall, in chechnya, some papers of yours also... vanished. half a platoon went down into that ravine because of your stupidity back then. and they never came back."

the henchman by the door took a step forward, but makarov barely raised his hand. his eyes narrowed.

"enough jokes, коля. this explosive isn't for the theater of war. it's for cities. for panic. you didn't just steal documents. you stole the keys to a new reality. give them back."

"for cities," nikolai nodded, pretending to understand. "so you've finally got insane. you used to at least hide behind the ghost of patriotism. now you're just a terrorist. and you want me to be your accomplice? over my dead body, you piece of shit."

the second henchman, a silent brute, couldn't take it. he moved toward nikolai, but makarov stopped him again. this time with a look. he stepped closer, looming over the seated man.

"you think your fucker will save you?" vladimir sneered with contemptuous derision.

the mention of john hit a nerve, but nikolai just smirked, looking makarov straight in the eyes.

"the captain is the last thing you'll see before your little world of shit and betrayal comes crashing down. and i'll enjoy watching it."

that was the last straw. the sarcasm, the absolute defiance, and that insane, arrogant hint that he had already lost — it all ripped the mask of cold control from makarov's face. his features contorted into a grimace of pure, uncontrollable rage.

"enough!" his shout echoed in the stone box. "strip him! to the post!"

they unhooked him from the cot, tore off the remnants of his shirt, and shackled his wrists to the iron rings driven into the concrete pillar. his back, covered in old scars, was now exposed. the henchman handed makarov not a rope whip, but something resembling several thin, flexible steel rods fused at the handle. their ends weren't wrapped; they were sharpened and slightly curved, like claws.

"you want to be a hero, like your western motherfuckers?" makarov spoke through clenched teeth, going mad with fury. "heroes endure. come on, show me how it's done."

the first blow landed with such force that nikolai didn't scream — the air was torn from his lungs with the sound of rending fabric. the pain was unlike anything. it wasn't burning; it was tearing, as if red-hot claws were digging deep into the muscles, hooking onto the very nerves. his whole body convulsed, and he hung from the chains.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?!" makarov roared, losing the last vestiges of self-control.

nikolai, choking on saliva and blood, exhaled:

"go fuck yourself."

the second blow. the third. they rained down without count, without rhythm, to the wild, hoarse cries of makarov himself. the metal whistled in the air and sank into the flesh with a wet, smacking sound. nick's back became a bloody pulp, but the pain had already crossed some threshold. it became universal, white, a roaring void in which only one thing existed: john. not as a prayer, but as an order. survive. because the captain always finds his own.

he didn't know when the blows stopped. he came to, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood and urine on the cold concrete. above him stood makarov, breathing heavily. the frenzy in his eyes had been replaced by icy, calculated cruelty.

"you're a tough one, kolya. but no one will ever know, because very soon you'll die here of hunger."

the door slammed shut. the light went out.

the darkness was absolute. at first, it was the pain that tormented him. every movement, every breath echoed in his torn back like a wave of fire. then thirst took over. it eclipsed everything. it became the thought, the sensation, the very existence. his tongue swelled, turning into a foreign, rough lump in his mouth. his throat burned.

hunger came later, a dull, heavy wave of weakness. his body began to consume itself. his consciousness would drift away into strange, vivid hallucinations, then return, crashing down with the full weight of reality: the cell, the stench, the agony.

on the second day, the fever began. the wound became inflamed. heat danced under his skin, cold seeped into his bones. he lay curled up, trying to preserve warmth, and whispered through cracked lips:

"john..."

it wasn't a plea. it was a reminder to himself. a statement of fact. price didn't abandon his own. price tracked his target to the end. if he knew nikolai was captured, he was already on his way. it was an axiom.

by the third day, his strength had almost left him. his consciousness flickered like a dying lightbulb. his thoughts were tangled. but in the very core of this fading, one simple, inextinguishable spark burned: he is coming. he is already close. just have to hold on. a little longer.

[weirdodiary]

part two

price was beside himself. he paced from corner to corner, gripping strands of his hair with helpless fury. the ticking of the wall clock echoed in his temples as a dull, obsessive thud, merging with the frantic rhythm of his own heart. every second of waiting plunged into his mind like a honed dagger, white-hot with the unknown.

where was he? was he alive? was he bleeding out in some abandoned hangar or cold basement? these questions swirled in his head, scorching away everything else, leaving only the ash of chilling fear. the worst one of them, the one that whispered at the very edge of thought, paralyzing his will: was he already too late? had the silent void, which you cannot fight or bargain with, already taken him?

the office door slammed open, shattering this vicious cycle of agony.

"all ready. we're moving out," kyle's voice sounded sharp, like the click of a rifle bolt, snapping price out of his stupor.

an instant—and the captain was already lunging into motion. snatching the tactical tablet and his body armor from the desk, he raced down the corridor, not feeling his feet beneath him. a deafening roar filled his ears, within which beat only one obsessive, desperate rhythm, a plea and an order in one: "please, wait for me." these words hammered in time with his sprint, the only prayer of a captain who had lost faith in everything except the need to make it in time.

[weirdodiary]

part one

the room in which nick woke up instantly brought him back to his senses. a hard smell of damp and mold tickled his nostrils unpleasantly, penetrating his lungs like a vile reptile. nick winced and struggled to open his tired eyes. a seated figure appeared a meter away, bathed in the cold light of a long-unchanged lamp. finally opening his eyes, nikolai glared at it with hatred. he knew who sat before him: his worst enemy and once-loved one – vladimir makarov. the figure grinned, lit a cigarette, and began his monologue:

“long time no see, коленька.”

makarov took a drag and stared straight at him.

”what do you want? after everything you've done against our people, you dare talk to me like that, you fucking bastard...

you're a dirty tumor on russia, and you're nothing...”

before nikolai could finish, vladimir slapped him hard. then, clearly trying to hide his indignation, he walked over and, with a nasty grin, slowly stubbed out his cigarette on nik's exposed collarbone. nik bit his lower lip until it bled and moaned tightly, while makarov, looking up again, whispered:

"you're acting too brazenly for a piece of meat that will rot here and no one will remember you again."

with these words, vladimir pulled away. nik, still wincing in pain, ignored this phrase. he continued:

"i thought life had taught you politeness. in that case, i'll have to resolve matters less ceremoniously."

and left, leaving nick alone with the dimly burning lamp.

[weirdodiary]

hii !!

a good lil man left a comment, and im so happy that someone responded !!

i'll start working on it in the next few days, especially since the end of the semester and holidays are comin'up soon, so i'll have more time for my stuff !!

so, on these pictures are comfy nikprice nest !!

[weirdodiary]

hi everyone, i'm really glad that someone liked what i write!!

ahead of new work on nikprice, i would like to hear your opinion about one of the drabble ideas that i like the most.

the idea is that during the climax of one of nikolai's missions, he is kidnapped by enemy mercenaries, and due to an emergency, the others fail to extract him. john, of course, is worried, doesn't sleep at night, and searches for his husband. after some time, task force 141 finds makarov's hideout, and john together with kyle find the wounded nik in a torture room. naturally, they take him and get him back to base. well, the rest is a secret.

if anyone liked the idea, write a comment and then i will definitely start working on it !!

i will be happy with any interaction !!

[weirdodiary]

nothing compares to the scent of home. as the front door opened, a may wind rushed in from the slightly open windows, wrapping around every inch of their bodies like a welcome for its returning owners. once inside, nick was the first to act, dropping the grocery bag onto the console. he then stretched, took a deep, full breath, and backed toward the sofa, collapsing onto it back-first. john was unhurriedly changing into his home clothes, humming something softly under his breath.

"darling, are you hungry?" nick asked, breaking the unusual quiet.

without a word, john closed the distance, settled onto nikolai's lap, and pulled him into a kiss. nick yielded willingly and took control. grabbing the hem of john's stretched-out t-shirt, he slowly pulled it off his beloved and tossed it aside. then, slipping his hands under his shoulder blades and neck, he gently lowered him onto his back and buried his face in his neck, drawing a faint, choked moan from price.

"god, i've missed you so much," john whispered, his breathing heavy with rising arousal.

"no less than i have," nick replied, finding his lips once more.

john shifted with restless tension and, wrapping both arms around nick's back, returned the kiss with growing intensity. nick, feeling the tight strain in his lover's pants against him, carefully broke the kiss and whispered,

"i think we should take this to the bedroom."

john, flushed down to his chest, nodded, and they both hurried away.

yaaay dad’s finally getting home after six months of hard work.

[weirdodiary]

my first nikolai moodboard

in the future, i want to do some stuff on nikprice cause i can’t live without them !!