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random-thot-generator · 1 year ago

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Hot damn. Pillage my village anytime, my king. 👑🍆🥵

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it.

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits.

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong.

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch.

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius.

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight.

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud.

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child.

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader.

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air.

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you.

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream.

And he turns.

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from.

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart.

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him.

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast.

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual.

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . .

You are brought to his tent, screaming.

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock.

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood.

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot.

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should.

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle.

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately.

It’s just that none of them were portents of war.

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless.

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you.

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself.

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself.

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?”

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up.

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know.

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen.

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good…

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

#hail to the king baby #könig x reader #könig cod #könig x you #könig smut #Roman soldier!König #historical au #könig x female reader

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danibee33 · 1 year ago

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Mmmm, chapter 4 of The Queen’s Guard is posted!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

#all hail the queen #ao3 fanfic #knight!ghost #and his queen #cod fandom #im down horrendous #call of duty #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #medieval au

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thedovesaredying · 9 months ago

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Monsters in the Dark | Nikto x Reader | Part 2

Second chapter of the Cowboy!Nikto AU. Written from the POV of Nikto this time. A reminder once again that there's a prologue and "part 1" is only the first full chapter. The original cowboy AU is owned and created by @ghouljams.

A/N: I'm a day late on my estimation for when it would be done, but life decided to get me sick, busy with uni work, and put one of my legs completely out of action. I also realized about 3 husbandry manuals deep into my research that the chapter would be a bit too long if I included that much information. Instead, the info will be sprinkled in among the next few chapters.

Warnings: Sputnik being a silly girl.

Masterlist: CoD Masterlist

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The weather is downright miserable. While one might assume the worst weather would be torrential rain or unforgiving hail, Nikto is firmly of the belief that there’s nothing worse than a hot, sunny day. It’s hard enough to be constantly covered from head to toe, but to then add on the Texan sun beating down at its full strength? He’s certain he’ll be nothing more than a puddle of sweat by the end of the day.

At least Sputnik seems to be enjoying the disgusting temperatures. She’s running around the front of the property, completely unfazed by the heat. She welcomes it, in fact, using it as the perfect excuse to paddle into the large dam for a cool swim at the day’s warmest.

Her paws are caked with mud and grass, so much to her sadness she’s been barred from entering the house, forced to wait until she’s dried off and all the muck has fallen off of her paws. If she’s still dirty by the end of the day then a quick hosing down will be in order, but she’ll likely consider that a fun game too.

For now, she’s content to lay stretched out on the porch, her side rapidly rising and falling as she pants.

The weather isn’t the only thing that’s miserable, however. Nikto’s mood has been foul ever since his forced trip into town for new supplies. A certain hyena had decided that she was bored while her owner was away and had decided to chew a rather large hole in the wall of the shed.

The hole was easily large enough for her to climb through and so, after having already spent most of the day hard at work, Nikto was forced to leave for the only hardware store in town. Some new planks of wood and a hammer not riddled with rust later, and he’s reminded of the invoice he received the vet clinic a few days prior and has also yet to pay for.

He’s not quite sure what possessed him to go to the clinic in person, but he was disappointed regardless with what greeted him. The receptionist was painfully cheery and seemed determined to dig into his business with her endless questions. He’d left feeling completely drained from only a single conversation with the woman. You hadn’t been there. He can’t fathom why that annoys him so much.

The hole in the shed was simple enough to fix, even under the intensity of the sweltering heat, but the issue of Sputnik remains.

Clearly, he can’t leave her unattended for several hours at a time just for work. She’s never had to entertain herself in such an environment and clearly, it’s stressing her out being without her only packmate. She requires both social interaction and physical activity, but above all of that, needs mental stimulation.

Like a toddler left without a guardian, Sputnik has decided that she can tear apart the house and garden while unattended. Plants have been torn out of the ground, wooden structures gnawed to bits, and most concerningly, large holes dug along the fence line.

The situation is far from ideal, but Nikto does not abandon his own. He isn’t like those bastards at the CIA who are willing to leave those loyal to them knowing full well they will perish without help. He made that decision a long time ago, and Sputnik’s very name is a tribute to that.

It was only three years ago, but it felt like eons. It started with a small enemy group hidden deep within the South African wilderness who were utilising spotted hyenas as guard animals. Nikto and his team had cut through the animals both outside and inside the building, even the ones hidden away in the basement below.

In the end, only a single cub remained; a tiny girl still nestled up against the steadily cooling body of her mother. She couldn’t have been more than a week or two of age, bright eyed as all hyena newborns are, and covered in scraggly fur.

The other men on the team planned on putting the animal out of her misery, but the sight gave Nikto pause. She was small and defenceless, and abandoned by her cowardly handlers to be killed by their enemy. It was a story he couldn’t help but find familiar. Picking up the infant, she snuggles into his vest, completely trusting of him despite not having known him for more than a few seconds.

She whines and licks at him as he tucks her into his shirt, safe and warm pressed up against scarred skin. No one says a word, when he leaves the compound with the cub and boards the waiting helicopter for the trip back to base.

His first thought was to name her Laika, but that name seemed a little too common for his taste, and so he chose Sputnik, the name of Laika’s space capsule and eventual tomb. A tribute to yet another stray who was left behind by those who should have protected her.

Sputnik would not suffer the same fate; she would never be disregarded like a broken toy thrown into the trash. She’s good, she’s loyal, she trusts Nikto unconditionally. Destroying a bit of property would never be a reason to break that trust.

Instead, he presses dial on your number and holds his phone to his ear. He’s been thinking it over for several minutes, finger hovering over the button with your contact listed, before forcing himself to press it. For a long while it rings and he’s about to give up when you finally answer with a bright greeting to whoever is on the other side.

He grunts out your name, listening as you happily chirp his own back at him in return. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” you ask. He can hear the soft rumbling of a car’s engine in the background and can only assume you’re driving somewhere.

“I require... assistance,” he says after a long pause, letting the conversation drift into silence. While it isn’t necessarily help he’s asking for, it still rankles deeply that he isn’t solving the issue alone. He despises being indebted to anyone for anything, but for some reason he doesn’t get the feeling you’re out to acquire favours from anyone. You’re a professional merely doing what you’re trained for and nothing more. He can admire that.

“What can I help you with? Is Sputnik alright?” You sound so genuinely concerned about her, so much so that it sounds like you almost drop your phone.

He glances down at the hyena laying happily at his feet, panting up at him with a broad grin. “She is fine,” he confirms, catching the relieved sigh you let out, “it is behavioural issues she is dealing with.”

You make a soft sound, clearly intrigued, “well, I’m on the road at the moment heading toward my next appointment, but I should have time to drop in to your place in a few hours. Will you be around then?”

“да,” he hums, “we will be here.”

“Perfect! I’ll be there in a few,” you confirm, and after offering an acknowledging grunt, he ends the call.

He goes to pocket the phone but pauses, glancing at your number. Mulling it over for a good long while, he selects the number and adds it to his contacts. There’s only two other people there, one of them his current workplace and the other one of his old acquaintances from before even his time in KorTac.

A rather dramatic huff from Sputnik draws his attention from staring at his phone, and he watches her with hidden amusement as she rolls over onto her stomach. She looks up at him with big, sad eyes and a pathetic whine. When he merely rolls his eyes at her she playfully snaps her teeth in his direction.

“Я не знал, что ты такая королева драмы,” he growls back, curling the undamaged part of his lip at her.

The hyena, fortunately, can tell he’s still joking despite his deadpan tone and leaps to her feet with a delighted cackle. She shakes out her coat, biting at the air. The moment he so much as twitches a finger in her direction she turns and leaps off the top of the deck, forgoing the stairs so she can sprint across the yard.

Nikto stands from his chair but doesn’t give chase, watching as the crazy animal spins around in circles before darting off toward the dam again. She dives into the water with a splash, sending muddy water in all directions. He cringes slightly at the sight of the hyena now dripping with muck. At least he was already planning on hosing her down. The rest of the afternoon passes slowly, with Nikto taking some time to rest while Sputnik causes minimal trouble.

When your car finally does pull up, the poor girl has exhausted herself again, laying in a pile of leaves while she happily naps away. The moment her flicking ears pick up the sound of your truck on the gravel she jumps up again, eyes wide as she takes in the familiar sight. She’s already giggling to herself with excitement, looking between Nikto and your vehicle.

“место!” Nikto calls, ignoring the sad whimper that earns. He approaches when you pull up, patiently waiting as you drop out of the front seat and close the door behind you.

When you spot him, you offer a wave and grin, “hey, Nikto!” You take a moment to glance over at Sputnik and he can see her near enough vibrating with how excited she is to come over and greet you out of the corner of her eye. “How’ve you been doing?” you stop just before him, looking him right in the eye, completely unfazed by the monster you’re facing down.

“We are fine,” he says, perhaps a little too firmly given the way you blink at him, “we require some assistance with behavioural issues.” He quickly amends his statement in the hopes of not immediately scaring you off.

Fortunately, you’re quick to bounce back, a smile returning to your face, “of course, what sorts of problems are you experiencing?”

“Спутник!” The hyena’s head shoots up upon hearing her name, “ко мне!” She sprints across the grass, very nearly crashing into his legs with her enthusiasm to heed her owner’s command. “She is getting bored when left alone,” he explains, watching as you reach your hand out for the hyena, “eating walls, digging holes, breaking everything she can reach.”

Sputnik snuffles at your hand, before whining and immediately shifting to lean up against you, demanding pets. You scratch behind her neck and Sputnik’s tongue lolls out of her mouth in delight. “I’m sure we can work something out to help prevent her from damaging anything else or accidentally eating something she shouldn’t be.”

“She struggles when left alone, especially during work hours,” he adds on, turning and starting to stalk toward the side of the house where the majority of the damage can be seen.

“Okay, well she sounds like she just needs some enrichment to keep her occupied while you’re away,” you nod to yourself as you follow Nikto around to the side of the house. Several of the small plants that had been happily growing in little spots around the yard have been either pulled from the soil or completely shredded if they couldn’t be moved.

You look at the scattered remains of the poor shed’s wall, but don’t look entirely surprised by the backyard warzone you’ve stepped into. You frown down at Sputnik, scratching her between the ears, “what a silly girl,” you coo, rubbing at her ears as the hyena grins up at you with half-lidded eyes, “you shouldn’t be eating all this stuff, it’ll make your tummy sore!”

Somehow, your baby-talk voice just serves to make Sputnik even giddier, and she eagerly licks at the tips of your fingers. Nikto almost rolls his eyes at the little heart eyes the animal is subjecting you to. It’s impressive, really, how she can remember someone is a friend from only a single interaction.

When you snap back from your babying of the animal, you quickly refocus. “Hyenas have very powerful jaws, and they love to chew things, so if she doesn’t have enough to keep her entertained then she’ll find something to destroy.”

“She was given an old tyre a few weeks ago, but it only lasted a few days.” To say he was deeply unimpressed with how quickly she’d torn it to pieces would be an understatement. He knew that Sputnik had quite the bite on her, but to chomp through nine millimetres of rubber like it’s cardboard? Impressive, if a little annoying.

“How big is your freezer?” you abruptly ask him, and Nikto suddenly worries where this line of questioning is going. Does he need to check the trunk of your car? Regardless, he offers you a nod.

“Perfect!” You clap your hands together, making Sputnik jump excitedly at the sudden sound, “it’s supposed to be quite hot tomorrow, so I can think of at least one idea for her.” You start listing out what the two of you are going to do rapid-fire with the same confidence and efficiency of any commanding officer.

You’re in your element, your passion for your work clear as day and you have him following your every instruction. You’re like a fount of knowledge when it comes to anything and everything husbandry related, suggesting changes to Sputnik’s diet, new toys to keep her entertained, and ways to prevent her from destroying anything she really shouldn’t be messing with.

When you finally end up leaving, it’s long past sundown. Sputnik has grown bored of watching the two of you working in the shed and has retired to her massive dog bed for a nap, so the two of you have been working in comfortable silence. He’s glad you don’t feel the need to fill the air with irritating chatter, only offering corrections here and there.

He escorts you to back to your truck, closing your door behind you once you’re settled comfortably into the driver’s seat. You roll down the window and offer him a grin, but he can see just how tired you are given how your eyes are slightly drooped. “How much do we owe?” he asks, quickly tearing his gaze from your sweet smile.

Little wrinkles appear across your forehead as your lips turn downward, an innocent, confused look on your face, “owe you?”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes and instead just huffs in mild amusement, “payment, for your work.”

Your eyes light up in understanding and you laugh, “oh, no, don’t worry about that,” you wave him off, “I’m just happy to help out.” You just smile up at him, as if you can’t see anything wrong with what you just said.

Nikto is forced to remind himself that you’re a civilian, not another untrustworthy operator. Not everyone does things purely for the pay they’ll be rewarded with, even if the very thought of not giving you something in return makes him uncomfortable. He holds his hand out to you, “phone.”

You blink at him for a second, but quickly do as you’re told, just like the good girl you are. He goes into your contacts and adds his number and details, hitting save the moment he’s done. He doesn’t bother adding a picture, passing your phone back to you, “call us when you require assistance.” He waits until you offer him a nod before he steps back from the side of the car.

You have an odd, flustered look on your face for some reason, but you’re quick to snap out of whatever daze you're in and give him a quick wave as you put your truck into reverse. He watches silently as you disappear back down the driveway and into the steadily darkening evening, waiting until you’re out of sight.

Sputnik is absolutely delighted the following morning when Nikto presents her with her blood and peanut butter ice block.

Translations

“да,” - “Yes”

“Я не знал, что ты такая королева драмы,” - “I didn't know you were such a drama queen,”

“место!” - “Stay!”

“Спутник!” - “Sputnik!”

“ко мне!” - “Come!”

#writing #call of duty modern warfare #reader insert #call of duty nikto #cowboy au #nikto x reader #fanfic

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sunshine-and-moonshine · 2 years ago

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☀️Cod - Preferences☀️

141 NSFW Headcanons - Price, Gaz Ghost, Soap

Accidental Panty Flash - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

ADHD Accent Imitation - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Aftercare (Pt. 1) - Ghost, Soap, Alejandro

Aftercare (Pt. 2) - Ghost, Soap, Alejandro

Band Au - Gaz, Ghost, Soap

Biting Them - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Breeding Kink - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Breeding Them - Roach, Soap, König, Rudy

Bringing them lunch - Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, König

Choking - Ghost, Krueger, Keegan

Cod Men With Stuffed Animals - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Cod Men in Wedding Dresses - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Cod Men in Bikinis - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Constantly Sleepy!Reader - Nikto, Gaz, Horangi, Krueger

Cucking - Ghost and Mace, Soap and Ghost, König and Horangi, Alejandro and Valeria

Dating Sim Au - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro, Rudy

Drool - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro, Rudy

Drunk!Reader - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro, Krueger, Keegan

First Date - Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, König

Giving Head - Laswell, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro

Giving them a friendship bracelet - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Glasses - Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, König

Hail Storms - Gaz, Ghost, Alejandro

How they handle harassment - Ghost, König, Alejandro

Insecurities - Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, König

Mentally Ill S/O - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Misc Au - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Nomming on their Tits - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Nomming on their Tits (part 2) - Price, Gaz, Keegan

NSFW Snippets - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

On their Lap - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro

Pervy!Reader - Ghost, König, Krueger, Keegan

Pervy!Reader (Part 2) - Soap, Alejandro, Rudy

Possum - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, König

Powers - Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, König

Robot!Reader Angst - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap

Safeword - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, Rudy, König

Shiny Rock Gift - Ghost, Mace, Keegan, König

Sitting on the 141’s laps - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap

Slumber Party Headcanons - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro, Rudy

Slug? No, it’s a Slut - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, König

Somno/Sleepy Sex - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Soulmate Aus - Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Alejandro

SpiderMan Kiss - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Spit - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Tall girl Lovin - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, König

Teaching you their language - König, Krueger, Alejandro, Roach, Gromsko

The first kiss - Ghost, Soap, Keegan, Krueger, König, Alejandro

They’re mean during sex - Ghost, Soap, Alejandro

They’re mean during sex (Pt 2) - Gaz, Price, Rudy, Horangi

Threesomes - Gaz and Price, Ghost and Soap, König and Horangi, Alejandro and Rudy

Titty Flash - Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro

Traumatized!Reader - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro

Voice Kink - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, König

Wedding Day Blues - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro

When they see you wearing their shirt - Keegan, Krueger, König

You push them against the wall - Ghost, Keegan, Krueger, König, Alejandro

————————————————————

🌙 Child/Pregnancy Preferences 🌙

Baby Matching Outfit - Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, Keegan, König

Pregnant Cod Men - Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, König

#masterlist

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cryptidclaw · 2 years ago

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Cryptidclaw's WC Prefixes List!

Yall said you were interested in seeing it so here it is!

This is a collection of mostly Flora, Fauna, Rocks, and other such things that can be found in Britain since that’s where the books take place!

I also have other Prefixes that have to do with pelt colors and patterns as well!

Here’s a link to the doc if you dont want to expand a 650 word list on your Tumblr feed lol! the doc is also in my drive linked in my pined post!

below is the actual list! If there are any names you think I should add plz tell me!

EDIT: I will update the doc with new names as I come up with them or have them suggested to me, but I wont update the list on this post! Plz visit my doc for a more updated version!

Animals

Mammal

Badger

Bat

Bear

Beaver

Bison

Boar

Buck

Calf

Cow

Deer

Elk

Fawn

Ferret

Fox

Goat

Hare

Horse

Lamb

Lynx

Marten

Mole

Mouse

Otter

Rabbit

Rat

Seal

Sheep

Shrew

Squirrel

Stoat

Vole

Weasel

Wolf

Wolverine

Amphibians

Frog

Newt

Toad

Reptiles

Scale

Adder

Lizard

Snake

Turtle

Shell

Birds

Bird

Down

Feather

Albatross

Bittern

Buzzard

Chaffinch

Chick

Chicken

Coot

Cormorant

Corvid

Crane

Crow

Curlew

Dove

Duck

Dunlin

Eagle

Egret

Falcon

Finch

Gannet

Goose

Grouse

Gull

Hawk

Hen

Heron

Ibis

Jackdaw

Jay

Kestrel

Kite

Lark

Magpie

Mallard

Merlin

Mockingbird

Murrelet

Nightingale

Osprey

Owl

Partridge

Pelican

Peregrine

Petrel

Pheasant

Pigeon

Plover

Puffin

Quail

Raven

Robin

Rook

Rooster

Ruff

Shrike

Snipe

Sparrow

Starling

Stork

Swallow

Swan

Swift

Tern

Thrasher

Thrush

Vulture

Warbler

Whimbrel

Wren

Freshwater Fish

Fish

Bass

Bream

Carp

Dace

Eel

Lamprey

Loach

Minnow

Perch

Pike

Rudd

Salmon

Sterlet

Tench

Trout

Roach

Saltwater fish and other Sea creatures (would cats be able to find some of these? Probably not, I don't care tho)

Alge

Barnacle

Bass (Saltwater version)

Bream (Saltwater version)

Brill

Clam

Cod

Crab

Dolphin

Eel (Saltwater version)

Flounder

Garfish

Halibut

Kelp

Lobster

Mackerel

Mollusk

Orca

Prawn

Ray

Seal

Shark

Shrimp

Starfish

Sting

Urchin

Whale

Insects and Arachnids

Honey

Insect

Web

Ant

Bee

Beetle

Bug

Butterfly

Caterpillar

Cricket

Damselfly

Dragonfly

Fly

Grasshopper

Grub

Hornet

Maggot

Moth

Spider

Wasp

Worm

Trees

Acorn

Bark

Branch

Forest

Hollow

Log

Root

Stump

Timber

Tree

Twig

Wood

Alder

Apple

Ash

Aspen

Beech

Birch

Cedar

Cherry

Chestnut

Cypress

Elm

Fir

Hawthorn

Hazel

Hemlock

Linden

Maple

Oak

Pear

Poplar

Rowan

Redwood

Spruce

Willow

Yew

Flowers, Shrubs and Other plants

Berry

Blossom

Briar

Field

Flower

Leaf

Meadow

Needle

Petal

Shrub

Stem

Thicket

Thorn

Vine

Anemone

Apricot

Barley

Bellflower

Bluebell

Borage

Bracken

Bramble

Briar

Burnet

Buttercup

Campion

Chamomile

Chanterelle

Chicory

Clover

Cornflower

Daffodil

Daisy

Dandelion

Dogwood

Fallow

Fennel

Fern

Flax

Foxglove

Furze

Garlic

Ginger

Gorse

Grass

Hay

Heather

Holly

Honeysuckle

Hop

Hyacinth

Iris

Ivy

Juniper

Lavender

Lichen

Lilac

Lilly

Mallow

Marigold

Mint

Mistletoe

Moss

Mushroom

Nettle

Nightshade

Oat

Olive

Orchid

Parsley

Periwinkle

Pine

Poppy

Primrose

Privet

Raspberry

Reed

Reedmace

Rose

Rush

Rye

Saffron

Sage

Sedge

Seed

Snowdrop

Spindle

Strawberry

Tangerine

Tansy

Teasel

Thistle

Thrift

Thyme

Violet

Weed

Wheat

Woodruff

Yarrow

Rocks and earth

Agate

Amber

Amethyst

Arch

Basalt

Bounder

Cave

Chalk

Coal

Copper

Dirt

Dust

Flint

Garnet

Gold

Granite

Hill

Iron

Jagged

Jet

Mountain

Mud

Peak

Pebble

Pinnacle

Pit

Quartz

Ridge

Rock

Rubble

Ruby

Rust(y)

Sand

Sapphire

Sediment

Silt

Silver

Slate

Soil

Spire

Stone

Trench

Zircon

Water Formations

Bay

Cove

Creek

Delta

Lake

Marsh

Ocean

Pool

Puddle

River

Sea

Water

Weather and such

Autumn

Avalanche

Balmy

Blaze

Blizzard

Breeze

Burnt

Chill

Cinder

Cloud

Cold

Dew

Drift

Drizzle

Drought

Dry

Ember

Fall

Fire

Flame

Flood

Fog

Freeze

Frost

Frozen

Gale

Gust

Hail

Ice

Icicle

Lightening

Mist

Muggy

Rain

Scorch

Singe

Sky

Sleet

Sloe

Smoke

Snow

Snowflake

Soot

Sorrel

Spark

Spring

Steam

Storm

Summer

Sun

Thunder

Water

Wave

Wet

Wind

Winter

Celestial??

Comet

Dawn

Dusk

Evening

Midnight

Moon

Morning

Night

Noon

Twilight

Cat Features, Traits, and Misc.

Azure

Beige

Big

Black

Blonde

Blotch(ed)

Blue

Bounce

Bright

Brindle

Broken

Bronze

Brown

Bumble

Burgundy

Call

Carmine

Claw

Cobalt

Cream

Crimson

Cry

Curl(y)

Dapple

Dark

Dot(ted)

Dusky

Ebony

Echo

Fallen

Fleck(ed)

Fluffy

Freckle

Ginger

Golden

Gray

Green

Heavy

Kink

Knot(ted)

Light

Little

Lost

Loud

Marbled

Mew

Milk

Mottle

Mumble

Ochre

Odd

One

Orange

Pale

Patch(ed)

Pounce

Prickle

Ragged

Red

Ripple

Rough

Rugged

Russet

Scarlet

Shade

Shaggy

Sharp

Shimmer

Shining

Small

Smudge

Soft

Song

Speckle

Spike

Splash

Spot(ted)

Streak

Stripe(d)

Strong

Stump(y)

Sweet

Tall

Talon

Tangle

Tatter(ed)

Tawny

Tiny

Tough

Tumble

Twist

Violet

Whisker

Whisper

White

Wild

Wooly

Yellow

#cryptidclaw's warriors au #?#Im tempted to use these in the au #some characters deserve some more fun names hehe #rise of change #warrior cats #warrior cats design #warriors #warriors names #warriors naming #warriors prefixes

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hookedonvillains · 1 year ago

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Here some screencaps and GIFs of Julian (Vladimir Makarov) and Nikolai (Andrei Nolan) on CoD: MWIII The Lobby trailer

When I rewatched this trailer and be like, 'oh who the handsome boys who turned into the REAL evil Russian men pose the great menace to everyone? It's the actors who brought the same Russians into a real-life.' Like I said before both men are incredibly played despite their different descents are hail from,I mean,Kostov is a actor of Bulgarian descent from Varna,Bulgaria,and Nikolaeff is also a actor of Russian-Ukrainian descent from Melbourne,Australia... they are both amazing face models,they did nothing wrong,JUST LEAVE THEM ALONE,YOU FUCKING FUCK!! I dare to say something to haters in Russian: "Пошёл ты нахуй,пошли вы все нахуй,блять."

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 3 #cod mw3 #cod mwiii #modern warfare 3 #cod makarov #cod nolan #vladimir makarov #andrei nolan #julian kostov #nikolai nikolaeff #konni group #remember no russian #i would rather die because of villains than to stay alive #i adore them so much #mw3 #mwiii

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noxturnaldeath · 8 months ago

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Fav series ever hands down.

State of My Head 1

Find the series masterlist

Your life is pretty good. Run around as a cat, get into places you shouldn’t, and get back out. Occasionally shift back to human to flirt. And on your way again you go. Until you make the mistake of trotting right into a military base and getting caught.

Warnings: Lying, mentions of hunting and eating small critters, reader is a literal cat (cat shifter), swearing, minor violence, world building, shifter etiquette, some self-deprecating humor, mention of death, threats of violence.

Word count: 4.8k

Eventual Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x f!shifter!reader (I swear this has a happy ending)

Nighttime jaunts were your favorite. Fewer people to avoid, less noise, fun hunting. Plus, as a cat you could see pretty well in the dark. It was great.

Tonight, though, you had a new goal in mind. There was a military base you’d never seen the inside of. And the middle of the night would be a perfect time to explore.

It didn’t take long to find a gap at the bottom of the fence big enough for you to squeeze through. You were small as a cat, no bigger than the average house cat. You trotted past a dirt path, ignored an obstacle course altogether, and finally started sniffing around some buildings. The base was big, larger than you’d anticipated. Interesting.

Also lacking in rodents to chase, at least at this time of night. Damn.

Keep reading

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #i love this #i love him #f!reader #cod fanfic #all hail Kyle

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icyblogs · 8 months ago

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flesh and bone

Winter represents many things. The start of a new season. The beginnings to an end. Or the beginnings of a new start. Years finally caught up to you, finally knowing enough to summon a creature able to fulfill things beyond your wildest imagination. So why is it that you're now finding out that everything was orchestrated from the very start? Or: A DND au where a human falls into the clutches of a fiend and his guard dog. Patron!Ghost x Fem!Reader x Warlock!Soap WC: 6.8K Based off of this thought ! [AO3] -> Next Chapter Warnings: Start of a dark fic!! Mentions of death, depression, dubcon touching, semi-graphic description of violence, paranoia, manipulation, reader has a backstory to make sense for plot! A/N: i've never written for cod before so i'm sorry if characterizations are wonky okay ty

Winter represents many things. The start of a new season. The beginnings to an end. Or the beginnings of a new start. Most often in literature they can be associated with the circle of life- many animals lay dormant in this time of year. But even still, it goes to show the fragility of life; some creatures thriving in the atmosphere while others retreat back to their homes and really remember just what they’re living for- waiting it out until the leaves sprout anew. Just as the waters of puddles and lakes crystalize into ice or the roads start to slowly become less traveled– many things come into association with this time of year.

Death, mourning, skiing- sledding. The dichotomy of moseying along something in nature that could so easily kill you. Just for a bit of adrenaline. For some thrill or interesting experiences to tell at the next person you see at a tavern, drinking and chortling over a tankard of ale. Albeit most races aren’t built to survive freezing temperatures, they sure act like they are. But some actually are of course. Goliaths with their adeptness of surviving in the mountains- up to twenty thousand feet in altitude. Some dragonborn depending on their ancestry, hailing from ancient beings that simply thrive in some of the most subzero of places in the lands. But of course.. most are not. Putting on layer upon layer to just merely survive in these conditions- unable to even thrive unless the circumstances deem worthy enough.

It is seldom worth the consequences.

The winters were frigid as always, sharp pin pricks of frost seeping into through your stagecoach’s insulation even though the artificer claimed they infused the interior with a heating cantrip. Damn swindler- “100 gold for a safe and warm journey!” It unfortunately was the price of discreteness.. but maybe if you wished hard enough the air coming through would be enough to keep you from turning into an icicle- but it provided almost an almost numbing sensation to temporarily soothe the anxiety pricking at the recesses of your mind.

Just a few more hours, just a bit more time, and everything will be perfect.

Regardless, it was a fitting evening, all things considered. The mountainous path was characteristically barren- as to be expected being so close to Midwinter. Dense fog drifts further obscuring your vision as you stare out the semi-opaque glass into the no man’s land. Trembling fingers smooth out your cloak as you straighten in your seat, the temperatures seeping through and nipping at your skin despite the warm wool gloves that cover the appendages. Your breath was a foggy mist as you breathe, leaning back as the air swirls around and encapsulates the interior of the.. Let’s call it a cozy vehicle.

It was easy to notice the slow pace that the coach was going: after all you can only be lost in your thoughts for so long. Going out of the city during this time of year was always a toss up on how navigable things would be.. But given the surge in technology with these infused machines and .. these wizards and such- theoretically it should be a breeze.

A gilded bag sits beside you on the worn leather seats, the contents packed with purpose- containing the bare essentials, among other things. It was silent besides your ragged breath, gripping the fabric of your cloak in a white-knuckled grip, lips pursed as you glanced through the fogged glass once more as if something would change in the scenery. The engrained tick made it a habit hard to shake off; eyes flickering back and forth repetitively either side of dark path on the left of you to the dark path to the right of you, almost compulsively like it was an itch needed to be scratched despite there being no one there the last ten times you checked. It was a simple inkling that needed to be constantly taken care of- as if the moment your head was turned, you could almost swear that something was looking back at you.

A face? Ah, it was just some branches-

The stagecoach swerves and it makes you jolt out of your thoughts, eyes glancing behind you towards the front of the carriage, absentmindedly chewing on your tongue and a grimace immediately crosses your features, not even registering the pinprick of pain in your mouth.

Seeing the horses rearing their hooves, stopping in their tracks, the horse’s squeals were loud even over the sound of the biting wind. All of it felt too familiar; it’s been years and yet.. It’s almost too easy to fall into the abyss of your mind, your breathing slowing. The slow and steady stream coming to a halt as if the crimson in your veins were mere molasses- stopping the flow to what allowed you to properly breathe, feeling as though your chest was being crushed. Pressing down, ripping the air out of my lungs– peine forte et dure.

It was almost mocking in a sense, the stagecoach seems to disappear and you’re planted firmly back in the painful memories that dance around your skull like a rattle, the taunts and phantom pains drifting over the side of your face. Remembering the curve of a dagger sinking into your skin and through tissue, choking on blood- a sense of blind panic seeping its way into the air that your lungs struggle to remember how to be of use. You recall smoke- thick and permeating down your trachea, choking- gagging for some sort of reprieve, your hands outreached to grab their hand if only you could stretch just a little further-

A bang startles you out of your stupor as you gasp, head whipping to the side- cold sweat dripping down your temples. Your left hand feels unnaturally heavy as you take a deep breath to steady your haggard breathing, trembling as you stare at the coachman- a harengon- you hadn’t recalled his name. He hops into the interior, shooting you a look of concern. You gulp a few times to soothe your dry throat, the taste of iron bittersweet, coating your tongue as if a rich cabernet- thick and heavy. Familiar.

“Ma’am- I’m so sorry. The path is too treacherous I can only take you this far-”

It takes you longer than you would have liked to collect yourself-, licking your dry lips, the cracks from the dry weather causing the simple motion to sting. “And- And I do believe I paid you for a full express ride through the Surykyk Range and to the top of Mt. Akka. Did I not?” Your voice is firm, albeit a little shaky as you cock your head looking at the rabbit with pursed lips.

He looks apologetic, wringing his hat between his two paws, his ears drooping. “Ma’am, really, you have to understand-”

“Understand?”

“Yes, I know you prepaid but the road after this gets too perilous and..” His voice becomes a sort of background noise, an ugly feeling festering as you blink slowly. There was that sensation again you’ve felt a few times over the past few years; a little tingle on the hairs of your neck as they raised, along with the incessant buzz that completely sounds out the haregon’s voice. His lips move- words that seem to go in one ear and out the other, as if making fun of you. His droopy ears, his expression of sympathy- no pity. Looking at you like you’re some sort of wounded animal– no- he was mocking you. Of course he was.

Your hands tremble as they tighten into fists, mouth opening and then closing and you let out a heavy sigh. It was irritating- how could a simple job such as this could not be? Pay some gold to get to the top of a mountain- why was everyone around you acting so completely incompetent? Why are they acting as if you were asking them to do the impossible? In this day and age a small trip of this magnitude should be nothing. A walk in a park. If they weren’t going to be of any use then.. Why are they even in front of you at all? Do they seriously not know how long you’ve waited for this and they’re just denying you access? Over a petty blizzard? No.

Beneath your gloves the skin was taut as you tighten your hands into fists as if it would help ground yourself but to no avail. The low buzzing grows louder; like bees humming around your brain like the ridges and valleys were honey- drowning out the pounding of your heartbeat. Louder and louder, reaching deep into the grooves and making their place known, feeding on your festering distress. On your negative emotions. The sense of trepidation melds back into being wound up like a tight spring as you continue to stare hard at the rabbit; your body acting as if on auto-pilot. His whiskers twitch. And you? Well you just go through the movements and zone out once more, falling into a welcoming void of darkness, surrounding you- comforting you.

The blood rushes to your head as your heart pounds, the buzzing ceasing to a low hum. When you come back to, you are still in the stagecoach, however, you are the only living being in it. It wasn’t necessarily a surprise really, these recent bursts of blackouts are more common as of late, happening more often than not. They happen at the most random of times and always seem to exemplify death- oddly enough it only started happening after the incident. Only after you found out you could summon a greater being to give you power.

Your eyes flicker down to the white boots you were wearing and click your tongue, seeing the sprinkle of red bleed into them as if the blood were a brush and the leather it’s canvas. You try to rub out the stain but to no avail, only smearing it into a sort of pinkish hue. Your eyes then move upwards towards the wooden ceiling and then fall unceremoniously towards the corpse, wiping your forehead with the back of your glove, face losing color. Your hands felt almost achy, the muscles strained and well.. Seeing the way his neck was bent ninety degrees, it was understandable. The aftermath of these blackouts were never easy. Fighting down the growing nausea, you stumble out of the stagecoach, clutching your bag firmly to your chest as you pass the horses- trudging through the rough terrain.

—

The hours feel longer now, the evening turning into twilight, as you take the trek by foot. Sheer cliffs drop sharply into the abyss below as you continue to climb further and further from mass-population; rising steadily in elevation as you take in the sights all around as far as the eye can see. The thick blanket of fog really did make it hard to see everything clearly but what of the forest around you that you could see was big. It was vast, the barren trees with a light coat of fresh snow brushing along their branches. Grand normally in nature, but even more so as they seem to tower over the road: the branches sticking out like gnarled fingers, hanging over the cliffside as if trying to beckon you off the beaten path. The snow covered ground is uneven, the shadows cast by the moon creating disfigured shadows and shapes that play tricks on your eyes.

It honestly didn’t help the anxiety whatsoever; the fog, the falling snow— the overall just sensation of being watched. You blame the paranoia and lack of sleep at the time, but it was impossible to resist the urge to look behind you to see if something appeared in the last two seconds you weren’t looking.

Maybe the Haregon was.. right. It was, for lack of a better term, hell. Auril’s reach was deep- as to be expected being so deep into her territory, but it was terrible. The snow piled up to be knee deep, having to pay close attention and really watch where there was the slightest indentation in the snow- if only to figure out where the fissures were so you don’t fall to an unseemly death. It was nearly impossible to do this with just the moonlight to light your way: wishing that you didn’t care so much in case something went wrong. You should’ve just gone through with all this in the comforts of your home.

After all.. It would surely be a shame if you got so close to your goal and yet never reached it. Would truly be such a pity.

The area was honestly reminiscent of what you might conjure up Stygia being like; how you might imagine that part of the hells being in terms of barely being traversable- snow as far as the eye could see. It wouldn’t be a surprise if you saw a gaggle of frost giants or the start of the Styx the next time you turned a corner as you continued to steadily rise in elevation.

The snow crunches beneath your feet, creating a rhythmic cadence. Every step is a genuine, calculated effort to not slip and fall on the surface- gripping the mountain side tightly as to not fall. And well, in addition to yet everything else the frigid and occasional gusts of wind that sends plumes of snow swirling around you, only adding to the overwhelming sense of sheer isolation in this desolate landscape. The further in elevation you get the more that feeling grows on you. It doesn’t help that you can barely see ten feet in front of you either. However.. At some point you realize you may or may not be lost. It was.. Well, it was hard not to get lost.

Yeah, you were definitely lost.

It was easy to look up at the sky and huff, taking a few deep breaths to calm your nerves, but it was certainly a difficult task. Back in the city when you initially planned out this whole grand scheme, it was theoretically supposed to be an easy trip. Go out to Mt. Akka- far away from civilization in case you mess up the ritual, and then summon the all knowing being and make a pact. It was supposed to be easy. Three easy steps. After all that’s what he said all those years ago. The man that started all this.

—

Days after the incident had time crawling to a standstill- the hours feeling like weeks. Funeral arrangements made and gone through with. Sympathies and gifts sent to your temporary place of residence as if they were truly sorry for you. ‘Sorry for your loss.’ ‘She was a wonderful mother, a great friend.’ If they truly felt that way, then why was it just you looking down at the casket as it got covered with soil? Why were you the only person who seemed to be grieving for this loss? Why did nobody else come to pay their respects as you stayed for days, finding solace in the overturned soil? As if you could claw your way through the ground and climb inside with her, hugging the charred corpse and burrowing between her ribs. Aching for the sensation of a hug, of an embrace.

It really was no surprise when you’re found spending your nights in a shady tavern. Tucked away deep in the city- in alleyways, far away from the upper levels. It really was the best place to drink away your sorrows. It was the perfect place to become a nobody.

Huddled into a corner of a grimey back alley place, the wood sticky and stained with what, you weren’t sure. It was loud that night; and yet there you were: alone with nothing but a tankard of ale to drown out anything else. Just wanting to get numb. Just wanting to .. stop everything. Patrons come in and out, and yet there you stay even as dawn begins to rise. Sticking out like a sore thumb despite the best efforts to blend in. Too rigid to count as a regular, too downtrodden to appear lighthearted enough to familiarize yourself with the other joyous people. Just a meager human in a hodgepodge of species.

That’s where he found you. Sitting on a stool on the end of the bar; staring down at the amber liquid, gently nursing the liquid- too many drinks in to necessarily turn your nose up at the far too bitter and pungent cheap ale. It was now a more comforting taste, dulling the senses, muffling the loud noise, turning it into a vice.

A hand brushes along the curve of your ass- quickly making its way up and settles over the nape of your neck- squeezing absentmindedly, and you’re brought back to the present. Head lolling to the side slightly as your gaze travels upwards. Bright blue eyes stare back at you, resembling a kaleidoscope of precious gems- sapphire, larimar, kyanite- swirling and sparkling with mischief, his gaze adorned with an impish grin. His dark hair was ruffled up in a sort of weird style, long on the top, short on the sides. He was a peasant, it was easy to assume but if you were more coherent, it was easy to tell that he was anything but, despite how he presented himself to you. Back a little too straight, nails clipped and short, no signs of dirt underneath them. The stranger’s fingers dig into your flesh and you frown, squinting up at his sheer audacity.

It was then you noticed his ears- ah. That’s why he looked so .. ethereal. His skin was perfect. But he had facial hair.. A half elf? Regardless, you stick your nose up at him as you scowl, perfectly content to wallow in grief in peace. Trying to twist your head out of his gentle, but firm grip. Mouth opening to tell him off- to leave you the hell alone–

“Ah’ll buy ye a drink bonnie.” His low purr cuts off your starting protests, hovering over you, blocking your view from the rest of the tavern- hand squeezing you once more before falling and taking their place across your lower back as if it belonged there. The warmth of his skin follows your movements as you press against the bar in a sluggish attempt to get some space. The man tilts his head down at you, giving a toothy smile when your frown deepens, looking at him with clear apprehension- “Dinnae ken, i’ll buy ye something strong. You look like ye need it, hm?”

It was easy to squirm under his insistent gaze, nodding. Eyes half-lidded as you blink slowly, the pads of his fingers absentmindedly tapping into your back when you didn’t answer verbally. “Yeah.. I guess so.”

Never realizing that you never had a choice; it truly was never an offer.

Regardless, this stranger- Johnny you later found out his name was- listened to your tales and woes as you blubber over the ‘top’ shelf liquor. Slurring your words incomprehensibly as he sat on the stool next to you, large hand now finding its home in holding the flesh of your thigh far too high up to be considered respectable. It was easy to take the information given to you at heart as he even gave such great life advice. Describing wonderful tales of protection- of something to work for- a goal to try and get to. It was hard to remember at the time why his words seemed to cut through the fog of the alcohol, and why it stuck with you.

“And he’d make sure ye’d never have te worry about nothin’ again. Set up for life, able to get easy protection for yerself. Sounds like a dream, and it’d only be a few small things tae do.” Poisonous words seeping into your ears paired a saccharine sweet smile hiding the maws of a dog ready to bite down at a moment’s notice. Holding himself back, playing nice for you. For him. “I mean yer a wee bonnie thing, drinkin’ your life away. Shh.. shh I ken, I ken- I know it’s hard.” Wiping your tears away as they start to overflow again, hiccuping as you take another large swig of your drink.

John was just one of those people that it was easy to talk to- maybe it was how long you’ve been in this place, or maybe it was the fact that he was buying your drinks, who knows. Just a charming gentleman, knowing all the right things to say, and so what if he was a little touchy? Maybe he just needed a little bit of comfort too, surely you could understand that, right? He was so nice in fact that he walked you back to your temporary residence- silly, you must’ve forgotten you told him where you were staying- and when you woke up the next morning there was a concisely written note with everything you needed to do. The smell of sulfur stuck to the parchment as if burned into the grooves of it.

What a nice guy.

—

Yeah, looking back though it certainly wasn’t the brightest idea to go this far away from civilization. But you heard it was a scary ritual! That there might be a lot of consequences to it! But as you looked around the snowy scene with a huff it was clear that you were more than likely not going to make it any further than this without just flat out dying. So.. you pause in your steps. The situation was just so absurd, that you were risking your life for something that might not even happen. But what else is there for you to do at this point? It sparks a bubble of bittersweet laughter in your chest as you wipe away some flurries on your nose- maybe you can just wish to make it out of here alive and well instead.

You crouch down, awkwardly trying to clear away the snow to reveal the hard ground- your hands freezing wet by this point- the wool gloves feeling as though it was becoming brittle and stiff. It takes a few minutes but you were able to eventually clear a decently sized space around you. The ritual should’ve been performed at a higher elevation, for your sake of mind over anything else- but at this point it was quite literally probably either do or die. So might as well try to give it a last ditch effort, right? And with how the snow continued to descend thick and fast, like a relentless onslaught with no regards towards your personal quest, it was only a matter of time. So you continue to awkwardly carve out a space around you, grimacing at how your hard work was by the minute getting covered up by the steadily growing blizzard around you. The line of sight diminished drastically as the snowstorm swept through the landscape like a ghostly specter, cloaking the world in a shroud of swirling white and obscuring all signs of life or landscape.

Clutching the bag so the contents don’t get blown away, you procure a small glass jar of a fiend’s blood- trembling hands starting to pour it on the ground in an attempt to recreate the shape you recall tracing so many times before. It certainly felt different using blood as paint rather than graphite; practically speeding through the process as by the second, snow was landing on your now coagulating hard work. The symbol was lopsided, the intricate circles and lines definitely asymmetrical and not fully correct- A gust of wind shoots through the gorge, the force nearly strong enough to make you crash into the ground. You stumble as the sound of glass shattering resonates, the sound echoing even above the roaring sound of the wind rushing past you. You gulp hard, shaking like a leaf in a raging storm- when another gust, almost like a predator sinking its claws into your skin; forcing you down into the ground, as if you didn’t have permission to stand. Your body hoists itself up for but a brief moment and then unceremoniously falls, and you scowl as your body is forced into a makeshift kneeling position, the cold tendrils blowing past you as if in the imitation of a bone chilling hug.

Well.. a pact summoning could be done standing or sitting down, you suppose.

Somewhere along the way your demands and wishes for this pact- for this all giving wish might have gotten a little.. skewed. It had been a whole process to get to this point after the accident- years dedicated to sneaking about the forbidden areas of libraries- going from nation to nation, paying hefty amounts of gold for mere names that might aid you on your quest for the power to protect yourself. The power to protect what once had long been past, like a memory fleeting in the wind. Faceless people crying out for you to run, for you to stay- for you to save them– for you to save yourself. The power to reach your hands further out and save your loved ones.

So .. when did that start to twist into the wish to live. To simply survive the circumstances you’ve thrust yourself into?

The blizzard seems to rain even worse as you sort of tussle down a gem in the ground of one of the circles- some emerald pendant your family has had in their lineage for centuries. It was an attachment that felt sort of poignant, one of the only few things that’s survived that is of their memory– blinking away the forming tears as you watch the snow slowly fall over the item. You then proceed to pull out a singed book of spells- one you’ve tried to use a countless number of times, but the weave never seemed to allow you to tap into the energy; and you’ve had to hold onto it for the ritual as it was a magical item, no matter how much it was just a blatant form of mockery. As if saying ‘wizards and sorcerers can use me and yield results, so why can’t you?’ You set the heavy leather book on the other circle.

You crawl against the force of the wind awkwardly to the middle of the practically ruined ritual circle, trying not to ruin your already stained clothing- but at this point did it even matter anymore? A small vial is procured- this blood visibly lighter than the fiend’s- this being one of a fellow human; the blood of a friend. You haul yourself to your feet, digging into the hard dirt to keep yourself stabilized, despite how badly the world was trying to send you crashing down to the floor. Clearly unable to keep yourself steady, you hastily drip the liquid beneath you, already starting the incantations that you know oh so well, spreading the liquid in a smear with your heel, praying and hoping this would work. Watching as each drop sinks into the sleet, the macabre tapestry that spirals out– as if the very land itself was painting a picture; weeping for the fallen, mourning their passing in silent reverence. It was for a good cause- you told yourself.

Years of letting your feelings fester, dedicating years of studying and researching towards this moment, your palms becoming doused in red and the darkening of your soul- all towards changing your fate- though you had hoped this moment would end up being done in a well.. more covered environment, however it was no matter. This was the better alternative- getting power for free. Not having to train and be proficient in magic and study all those years. Your mind sort of just latched onto the idea of working smarter- not harder. To get a shortcut in the way of life.

Infernal spills from your tongue- accented and choppy despite your best recreation of it- clearly not of your mother tongue despite the fact you could practically recite it in your sleep by this point. The incantation was slowly spoken, like a low rumble- reaching the far back of your throat, the cadence deliberate and guttural as that small hum of a buzz begins to slowly begin in the deep recess of your mind. A small pocket knife is procured from your bag, flipping it open as you urge your voice to be louder than the howling wind as the snow swirls around you like a vortex. The blade presses against the palm of your hand.

The pain lasted for but a brief moment, small bubbles of blood starting to dribble out of the wound, falling at a faster rate as it dripped onto the circle beneath you, combining with the scarlet already split. The cold wind continues to swish around you, your clothing providing little to no protection as the incantation becomes louder, the words becoming choppy– more frantic. The shadows grow longer, the trees groan as if bearing the weight of something heavy. And then your voice comes to a stop, panting as you wait for something to happen, smiling as you look around with wide eyes, a numbness starting to make its way through your limbs.

Silence.

And more silence.

It was painstakingly easy to panic, hastily repeating the incantation as loud as you can- something setting in. A realization of what you were doing? Yeah that wasn't working.

“No- Nono.” Tears make it harder to see, blinking them away as another cut was made, adding more blood to the middle of the circle as if that would solve all the problems in the world- “Why- Why isn’t it working? I did everything right-” The pitch rises in your growing hysteria, looking around at the partially covered symbol to see if something went wrong. An exasperated sigh leaves your lips and it turns into a chuckle and then into a full on fit of laughter, your cracked lips forming a larger grin. There’s no way right? That this was actually happening. Years of your time- nearly five god forsaken years. If you ever saw that blue eyed elf you’d kill him. Fucking hell-

“Please-” Your head tilts back as you glance up at the stormy sky, pinpricks of fear running down your spine as the expression simmers into a more somber one. It all comes crashing down as a jarring realization that all this time- you didn’t even know exactly who it was you were trying to summon. That elf and all those people telling the stories of tales across the land, talking of a being to grant power. To grant wealth. To provide enough strength to save the people around you. To take a nobody and turn them into a somebody. To give reason to actually keep living instead of joining your mother six feet under. Buried back under the burnt down remains of your estate.

It was described as simple. Summoning the being in a circle of a fiend’s blood- establishing a connection to the outer realms. That part was simple enough, though it took trading with some shady people but eventually you got what you needed; some mercenary you had to pay off to look the other way as you essentially go through the process of bloodletting an imp. Then draw out the symbol- provide the items of a precious gem and a magical artifact. Easy enough. Provide the blood of a friend- showing how willing you are to cut ties your former life to just to establish the connection, and finish it with a drop of your own blood to finish the connection, all while chanting some very specific incantations.

You did all that. So.. why wasn’t it working?

You performed it perfectly.

The hard ground felt like nothing to your numb body as you sank into the snow once more. Glass glitters in the snow as it presses into the side of your face, but you barely register the pain. It was supposed to work. All those scrolls- all those people, all that time. And for what? A useless invocation. Something that didn’t even work. Taking the time and energy, going out of the way of civilization in case something went wrong and.. Yet. And yet- It was silly. It was so freezing out here, the air thin and hard to breathe, but for some reason it felt warm.

You weren’t anything special, a mere human in the world of dragons. In a world of krakens and beholders and all these amazing things. And yet at the end of the day.. you were just a regular old nobody. Sure, you were of a sort of nobility status- though not anymore– but you were trying to change your past; trying to make yourself better. To change what has already been predetermined- to reach up and touch the stars, not realizing that you were tethered to the realm. Trying to rewrite predetermined fate, as if you actually had a chance at being anything more than being completely useless-

It was easy to lose your train of thought, head swimming as an unsettling terror seizes your chest- everything begins to fracture and break. The sounds around you start to become distant echoes, muffled and indistinct, as if you’re listening from the bottom of a deep well. There's a strange detachment, as if you’re floating on the edge of reality, holding on only by the thinnest of threads. The cliffs around you seem like they’re combining overtop, as if you’re looking through a fishbowl lens: the shadows seem darker, twisting and turning under the moonlight’s glow. Your thoughts slow to a crawl, each one a struggle to grasp onto before slipping away like sand through an hourglass, fighting a losing bottle to have any idea be coherent enough to pass through the filter. Accompanied by a tingling sensation that spreads from the tips of your fingers to the crown of your head, as if your body is disconnecting from itself, each limb growing heavier and more distant with every passing moment.

Why did this happen? Why.. did it not work?

Why did you even try? You just wanted to be more. You just wanted to survive. To live.

Black dots fly in your field of view; dancing around like fairies in the wind, mocking as they flutter across your vision with no rhyme or reason. Your vision blurs- the unsaturated colors of the snowscape soften into monochromatic tones of gray; the moonlight seems to go further and further away as your head sinks into the snow; the dots growing larger as if obscuring your vision.

You’d do anything.

You blink slowly as the buzzing creeps up louder, wrapping around your brain and clinging to the nerves. And then all at once dissipates, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The feeling of being watched seeps into your conscious state of mind but at this point it was a mere afterthought, feeling hollow as your eyes fall half lidded.

“Anything?” A low timbre resonates around you, emanating from no discernable source. The disembodied voice seems to drift around your fallen form, as if hovering- waiting.

The realization has a little chuckle ripping its way out of your throat. Oh, you were hearing things now. Lovely. You were discombobulated clearly, eyes closing as you breathe slowly, your heart seeming to calm down. The voice- you weren’t exactly sure if there was someone around you or if you were genuinely going crazy, like it was some angel above speaking to you on death’s door.

Right. Keep your eyes open- it’s not time to sleep yet. Right? But honestly it wasn’t even that cold anymore. Rather warm actually- like you were being coddled in an embrace- why would you want to move? Your eyes squint open against the snowstorm, looking around blearily at your limited scope of sight. Your limbs feel not only heavy but numb, and you knew moving them would be a chore and so you simply stay put laying down. There was a brief moment of nothing and then- Ah, right. There was someone speaking to you.

“Uh huh.” That sufficed right? There was an unnecessarily long pause, prompting you to continue talking- after all, what harm would it do? “Wanna live.” Your tongue felt heavy, as if speaking required some sort of insurmountable effort. You shift- pressing your face further against the dirt, lacking the energy to try and do anything else, little pricks of blood starting to stain the fresh snow.

“You’d do anything?” The gruff voice rings out once more and you almost groan, eyes fluttering around uselessly, vision blurring and becoming unfocused. Why was it–he?- asking you that? Aren’t your last moments supposed to be in peace, not filled with conversation?

“Anythin’.” You slur, gasping for breath as soon as the last sound finishes your chest suddenly tightens, constricting your breath, as if the air around you stills. You don’t notice the change in atmosphere, the magic sprinkling around your body- floating and pulling at unseen chains tethered deep in your heart- too hyper focused on the sudden searing pain on the back of your neck; akin to a branding iron.

“Silly girl.”

You writhe at the sensation, whining, feeling the individual lines of runes being carved deep into your skin. The pain was unlike you’d felt before, even from the pain all those years ago. No- this– this was agony. This was being trapped in a whirlpool, dragged under the depths by the relentless force of pain, unable to find solid ground. This was thousands of needles piercing your skin, pulsing through you like a constant drumbeat- each throb, each line being carved only sending waves of agony. Like a black hole, taking you deep into the Shadowfell, into the Nine Hells- being torn apart- each limb being torn. No- not torn. This was more precise, being carved like a butcher- no like a surgeon, meticulously taking their time to dissect you. To pull back your skin and peer at everything that makes you, you. Each individual nerve and muscle laid bare as they are probed and examined, delving into the very essence of your being. Seeing what makes you tick, what makes you smile- your worst thoughts- your deepest desires.

This feeling wasn’t.. unfamiliar oddly enough- in fact the opposite, as if you’ve felt it before, except this time it was a more obvious invasion, a violation of your innermost sanction as it digs deep into your body and pushing past your ribs and settling into its new home, wrapping an icy claw around your heart and constricting–

Then all at once the torment ceases, the pain being replaced with almost a sense of reprieve. You feel the phantom of a hand brushing over the now raised skin, causing your sweat-ridden body to jerk away frivolously, before settling, letting out a soft sigh. The sudden relief was like stepping into a new realm of freedom and tranquility; as if all the burdens you previously had were released. Like gentle relief that calmed the raging of your mind- calming the storm of anguish and bringing a moment of clarity and peace. The fear that once consumed you, the sense of hopelessness that weighed heavy on your heart, the loneliness that haunted you for years—all of it now seemed fleeting, like passing thoughts. As transient as the wind sweeping through the sky, soon forgotten. Those years of all that struggle; all those years of searching and praying for some sort of help. Like a weight lifted off your chest. You could reach above; no longer being bound to the realm: you could do anything. Be anything- Your eyes had closed, when did they close? You open them- seeing nothing but the darkness of the mountains, but it was so weird, as you could feel it- him- hovering around your form like a lingering shadow. A man? A monster- you weren’t sure. It was hard to tell.

And so, when your eyelids inevitably fell closed once more, it only made sense you were too far gone to even notice the skull-faced monstrosity standing over you, his head tilted as he looked down at his newly anointed warlock with an inscrutable expression. Rich amber eyes looking down at you and then- a pleased hum resonates through the air.

Mere minutes later the spot where you once laid was coated with a fresh coat of snow, looking like a pristine blank page, as if nothing had even transpired there in the first place. As though you never existed in that space to begin with.

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misanthropologymajor · 6 months ago

Text

to boldly go...

this is so based on my current tng watch and crippling addiction to cod fanfic of all things

Science Officer!f! Reader x Bridge Crew! 141

Star Trek: TNG AU (pt. 1?)

Human! Price- Captain of the Enterprise

Human!Gaz- helmsman/operations officer (liutenant)

Klingon!Ghost- security-officer-turned-first-officer (lieutenant commander)

Betazoid!Soap- new security officer (lieutenant)

Half Vulcan!Reader- sciences officer (lieutenant junior-grade), [giving them various nicknames because (y/n) feels clunky]

wc: 4k

warnings: rearrangement of rank (Starfleet doesn't have enlisted officers & the equivalent ranks would not be bridge officers), reader is the youngest but the other ages aren't mentioned, abduction, Ghost was raised by humans in a Worf-analogue-situation, (Ghost's parents were killed in a Romulan attack), slowburn, no smut, written before i started playing mwii

Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its continuing mission: to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations; to boldly go where no one has gone before!

As the turbo-lift doors opened, the familiar sounds of the Bridge Crew's squabbles filled the ears of the newest Chief Science Officer.

"Cap', 're you sure that MacTavish can actually read the Ferengi from this distance? I wouldn't put it past 'im to just wanna stir sumthin' up."

"Ghost, ye know damn well I wouldn' lie abou' somethin' like that."

Quietly walking to her station behind the caption's chair, the half-Vulcan began scanning the readings of the Ferengi ship. The Ferengi ship was peculiarly small and old-fashioned- at least a century old.

"Gaz, can you take us closer? One third Impulse, please." At Gaz's affirmation, Captain Price stood from his chair and walked towards the monitor at the front of the bridge. "Junior-grade, how many life signs can you read."

She startled, looking up from the inlaid monitor. "Only two, sir. It's a small ship, though there should be room for around thirty crew." Her gaze followed Price's to the front monitor, where she saw the short loop of Ferengi video broadcast. Both Ferengi men's large ears and prominent brow ridges glistened with sweat.

Gaz looked up from his controls. "Captain, the broadcast isn't coming from this ship."

"The distress beacon is, though. And the ship is definitely Ferengi." Ghost looked over Soap's shoulder to the security console.

"Price, be careful. We're getting close to the neutral zone." Gaz indicated to his monitor.

Price returned to the captain's seat, centered in the bridge. "Soap, keep scanning for other vessels. Ghost, hail the Ferengi ship."

"Price, they aren't receiving our hailing frequencies."

"Is anyone else thinking of Earthen anglerfish right about now?" the half-Vulcan mumbled. Then, louder- "They're down to just one life sign, Captain Price."

"They don' have shields up, Cap'n," Soap called from the security station. "I don't feel anything from the ship, either."

“Ghost, prepare an away team and get some protective gear. We’ll keep track and be ready to beam you back, but we need to know what’s happenin’ with that ship.”

“Gaz an’ the kid with me. Go get a compact medikit in case there’re any survivors, an' Gaz can tell us why it may 'ave stopped.”

As Gaz stood from his chair, the science officer rushed towards the turbo-lift, heading briskly down to the medbay. Swiftly getting the required supplies, she headed towards the transporter room, meeting with Gaz and Ghost.

"Three to beam to the co-ords Soap sent down." Ghost led the trio to the transporter bay, phaser in hand.

As they faded into shimmering white light, all three prepared themselves for the unknown of a seemingly empty Ferengi shuttle on the border of the Neutral Zone.

Following the briefest moment, they came back into awareness. Ghost was the first to reach full cognizance, the other two shortly following. The most immediately apparent thing was that the ship had not been abandoned by normal means. The cockpit was in disarray, and a trail of a mixture of unknown substances ended abruptly in the doorway.

At Ghost's indication of safety, the Vulcan activated the scientific tricorder to scan the trail. As the analysis loaded, she noted from the corner of their eye that both Gaz and Ghost tensed. Ghost's mask made the sudden lack of motion vividly unsettling. The tricorder loaded with a small chirp, indicating the presence of Ferengi and Romulan DNA. Abruptly, the shuttle lit up.

The ship began moving closer to the Neutral Zone. Soap's voice echoed from their communicators, "Wha' the hell are ye doin'? The Neutral Zone is right fuckin' there!"

"We're not trying to, Soap. I'm looking at the controls now." Gaz rushed to the lit-up console.

"Ghost, there's evidence Romulans here. We should get out of here, sir."

As the First Officer acknowledged the Science Officer, more words echoed from their communicator badges.

"Transport to away team, we've lost your location. There's some sort of interference." Tensions became palpable as the situation quickly devolved. Gaz frantically tried to turn the ship back towards the Enterprise. Ghost and the scientist worked on figuring out what left a Ferengi shuttle lost at the edge of the Neutral Zone.

Price's voice echoed through the ship, "Hold on, Away Team, reeling you in with our tractor beam." The ship jolted with the connection of the tractor beam, easing back towards Federation Territory.

Gaz began hitting the console, clearly frustrated by the lack of response from the equipment. "Ghost an' Cap, this shuttle isn't bein' controlled by this panel. This has gotta be a trap."

As two Humans, a Betazoid, a Klingon, and a half-Vulcan attempted to return the away team to the Enterprise, they were faced with a Romulan Warbird removing its cloaking device directly next to the Ferengi shuttle.

The Ferengi Shuttle was swiftly drawn in by the Warbird's tractor beam, half the distance from and twice the size of the Enterprise.

The science officer tapped the communicator on: "Sirs, this is not standard Romulan battle practices. Deception, yes, but blatant disregard for the Algeron Treaty? In just about two hundred years of conflict, they've never done anything like this."

"When did you become an expert on Romulan politics, Junior-grade?"

"Not the time, Garrick," Ghost aimed his phaser at the door between the away team and the interior of the Romulan ship. The other two quickly followed suit.

As the interior of the Ferengi ship dimmed, the shuttle bay door of the Romulan Warbird opened up. The ship slowed into the bay, and the environmental system hissed. Gaz was the first to feel it, and Ghost was the last.

As Ghost fought to keep his eyes open, he heard the half-Vulcan mutter about "anesthizine."

Gaz woke in a cell, his phaser and communicator on the manned desk beyond the forcefields. A few cells across the circular brig, he could see the Ferengi from the broadcast in a shared cell, and to their right was Ghost. "Ghost, can you hear me? Are you able to see any way out?"

"Damn Romulans cuffed me an' took my fuckin' mask. The door out of the cells is to your left, the kid's to your right."

"I can hear you, Ghost," she frowned. "They have our comms and phasers, and there's no way they've kept us in Federation Territory. Cap's gonna need to get approval from Admiral Laswell to follow us."

"Soap won't like that," Gaz said, standing from the cot to get a better view of the space. "Junior-grade, you said this wasn't normal for Romulans. Do you think we're working with an extremist group?"

"Definitely. I was awake when they were cuffing Ghost. They weren't in standard issue Romulan Star Empire Uniforms, and there's some wacky mods to this Warbird."

Ghost cut in, "At least they wan' us alive. We'd be long gone if they didn't think we could do sumthin' for 'em."

"'Specially with their views on Klingons and Vulcans. Nasty blokes."

"Thanks for reminding us, Gaz." She pressed her hand to the force field, searching for the weak point she knew wasn't there. As they searched, the brig doors opened with a hiss.

Three Romulans walked in, bearing phaser rifles. The centered one spoke: "I had hoped the Federation would be stupid enough to send a ship into our territory. Imagine my delight when that little ship sends me some a Klivan, a Hevam, and a Yyiyao wrapped in a nice little bow." (Romulan derogatory terms for Klingon, Human, Vulcan)

"Oh, what a shock: the Rihansu is racist. Where the hell are we?" (Vulcan [and Romulan] for Romulan)

"Hold your tongue, Yyiyao. I haven't killed you yet, but my mercy has limits. You don't even know why you're here yet!"

"Who the hell are you?" Ghost stood up abruptly, startling the non-speaking Romulans.

"Now, the Klivan is asking the right question! Who am I? And why would I capture two Feh'rengsu, a Kilvan, a Hevam, and a Yyiyao?

They call me Commander Makarov, and I will free my people from the barriers of the Neutral Zone and the Federation altogether."

"And you think that will happen by kidnapping a First Officer, Flight Control Officer, and a Science Officer?" Gaz sat on the cot in the corner.

"I'm not that foolish. You're nothing more than bait, tempting your precious Federation into breaking its own rules."

"You can't seriously think our Captain is stupid enough to follow us withou' givin' proper notice?" Ghost questioned.

"Oh, Klivan. He's already following us," Makarov grinned.

"I still don't get why you're tellin' us this." Gaz laid further into the cot.

"Either he's gloating or he's trying to get something out of us, be that intel or our charming personalities." The half-Vulcan wrung her hands, silently pleading for the Enterprise to be careful and give the correct notice.

The Ferengi began tittering with each other, briefly pulling the attention from the Starfleet officers.

"You three were victims of circumstance. But these two-" Makarov sneered. "These two will not try to swindle the sword of the Romulan Empire again."

Makarov's men turned off the barrier to the Ferengi cell. Each grabbed one Ferengi man and dragged them out of the brig. Makarov left the brig, questions hanging in the air.

"What a total dick."

"Thought you were supposed to be too logical for needless profanity."

"My Vulcan father lost the debate that determined what planet I was raised on. Before the Acadamy, I went to an Earthen public school, Gaz."

"Fuckin' hell you two, not the time," Ghost chastised. "Gotta work out what that bastard wants from us."

"Could be they want to kickstart a war against the Federation, relations have been easing in the past few-" Gaz cut himself off as the doors opened.

Makarov stepped through into the brig. "How lucky was I to have Captain Jonathan Price's crew, led by the Ghost, stumble on the ship I hadn't gotten around to destroying yet."

"What've the Captain or I got to do with you?"

"Don't tell me you don't remember us, Klivan! Not after our grand impact on your childhood."

Ghost closed his eyes and took a deep breath, setting his jaw.

"Now you remember me. I'll fill your underlings in. I was just an Uhlan, aboard the Perseus. A Klingon traitor sent us the codes to Khitomer's security system. Your Ghost was the only survivor."

Ghost's history was not frequently discussed on the ship, but his presence as a Klingon in Starfleet command made it clear that his life was full of unusual circumstances.

"And on top of that, your Captain is the one who convinced my previous Commander, that ryakna, to abandon the honor of our great Empire."

"The Cap's peace negotiations under Laswell? Not letting another Federation ship blow you all up for your secret base in the Neutral Zone? That's what this is about?" Gaz looked incredulous.

"He should have defended the great Romulan Empire! Why should we listen to rules set by your Federation." Makarov sneered. "The might of our great fleet could have destroyed all the Federation sent after us."

As Makarov continued on about the power of the Romulan Empire, the science officer tuned out. She focused instead on attempting to work out a method for contacting Captain Price from what was likely at least an astronomical unit away. She'd already ruled out the possibility of accessing their communicator unit, cobbling a communicator out of their tricorder, and breaching access on the communicator of the Warbird.

"But what sweet revenge, taking the sole Klivan survivor and two other crew from that peacenik, your Captain Price. How poetic that you will start the empirical expansion my people have been deprived of. I will return for you when your Federation breaks their own rules."

As Makarov left the brig, a quiet tension fell over the officers.

Gaz was the first to break the silence. "Do you think the Cap would be mad enough to follow after without getting Laswell up to speed?"

"Will the Romulan contacts deem this an acceptable reaction from Price in the case that he is this mad?" They buried their face in their hands.

"It doesn't matter what Price does, so long as we get the fuck off this damn ship."

"Ghost, what he said about your parents-"

"Doesn't matter."

"I know it doesn't, but I just want you to know you're allowed to be angry about this even if you don't remember it."

"Interesting take, coming from the Vulcan," Gaz interrupted.

"Half Vulcan. Born and raised on Earth."

"Neither of you are helpin'. Migh' as well just wait for Price 'f you're gonna keep gettin' distracted." Ghost pressed his hands against the force field of his cell. As each officer sought out their cells' unlikely flaws, they listened for any sounds around them.

After what could have been anywhere between ten minutes and an hour of searching, a set of footsteps approached them.

"Your Captain has demanded proof of life from us. Your scientist is coming with me." A Romulan with a jagged scar running down his face entered the brig. He approached the center cell and bound their hands, escorting them out of the brig.

The half-Vulcan yanked her arm from the Romulan's hold. "I can walk myself." She then ignored Gaz's protests, hoping that they were unnecessary.

Following a long walk, she was escorted onto a dark bridge. The Enterprise Bridge was displayed on the large monitor in front of the room. Price was in his Captain's chair, Soap above and behind him at the security panel. Both sets of eyes gently lightened at their Junior-grade, visibly unharmed and still slightly fighting their escort.

"See, Captain, unharmed. The other two are in the same condition, but I couldn't just release all of them, you see." Makarov brushed his hand across her face, earning three sets of glares.

"Lieutenant, are you, Gaz, and Ghost okay?" Price ignored Makarov's assurance.

Before she could begin her sentence, Makarov grasped her by her chin. As she wrenched herself from his hands, he spoke. "You've seen she's alive. My patience wears thin."

Even with the distance, she could see Soap's knuckles grip his console. "We're not followin' ye into the fuckin' Neutral Zone without word from her. S'bad enough ye didn' let our First Officer up."

"When I got grabbed to come up, Gaz and Ghost were okay. I wouldn't trust-" Makarov's hand clamped over her mouth, cutting her off. She had to fight the urge to bite the bastard.

"I didn't bring her up here to give away all of my surprises. Return her to the brig." Makarov looked over his shoulder to the scarred Romulan, who had brought her up.

She fought damn near the entire way back down, leading to another Romulan joining her escort. While she knew it would be fruitless, doing nothing felt more wrong. She felt like she'd wasted any opportunity to formulate a plan with the Captain, and hadn't fought against their captor enough to be respectable. Would Soap judge her, or, worse, would Price?

She shook the thought from her mind just as she returned to the brig. They moved her to the cell previously occupied by the Ferengi, where she was now unable to see Ghost and considerably farther from Gaz. They left her hands bound, and one sat at the guard station.

Unwilling to risk giving intel to the guard, all three sat in relative silence once she confirmed that Price had been in contact.

Gaz was humming an old Earthen song she couldn't quite place. Every so often, she would sigh dramatically. Ghost was the only one to remain entirely silent.

After about an hour, the guard received three trays at the door and delivered one to each occupied cell. Each tray contained an unappetizing green biscuit and a small cup of a grey drink. She and Gaz each took a half-hearted bite; Ghost refused to even look at the tray.

The half-Vulcan stood from the tray without taking a second bite. Instead, she chose to lay in the cot and nap—what was the worst that could happen?

It seemed that the worst that could happen was the ship going into a red alert, their guard leaving them trapped as he went to a battle station. The emergency lights flashed, and she could understand almost every other word of a Romulan emergency alert.

The alert seemed to indicate that they were under attack not by the Federation but by another Romulan vessel. She rubbed her bleary eyes and stood up.

"Just our luck— someone's attacking, and it's not Price." She smacked at the force field holding her in the cell. She could hear Ghost attacking his barrier as well and could see Gaz beginning to do the same.

"How do you know it's not Cap?" Gaz paused his attack.

"The emergency alert specified something about a T'liss, a bird-of-prey. They'd have said ih'calear if they'd translated the Enterprise's class."

"Since when do you know Romulan?" Ghost's voice echoed from the cell to her right.

"It's really not too far of a leap from Vuhlkansu, Commander. I took a couple classes in it at the Academy."

The alarm continued to go off, and the half-Vulcan did her best not to fret. From the size difference alone, a bird-of-prey against a warbird shouldn't have even been a blip in the radar. She strained to hear about a d'deridex, another warbird, but the alert kept repeating that the combat was against a T'liss class vessel.

What would a separate Romulan general do if one found them in this brig? Would they seek to continue the relative peace with the Federation by releasing them back to the Enterprise, or would they decide that the three weren't worth their lives and kill them, or worse, send them to a Romulan prison?

"Junior-grade, I can feel you worrying through the damn wall. Price or Laswell'll come, stop your fuckin' panickin'." She snapped out of her anxious spiral, mumbling a bit of gratitude to her commanding officer.

It took nearly an hour before the alert stopped its loop. It took a further forty minutes for anyone to check the brig. None of them expected the familiar Romulan to be the one to walk through the door, followed by their previous guard.

"Nikolai, you were the bird-of-prey?" Gaz beamed. The negotiations between Nikolai, Price, and Laswell predated the half-Vulcan's time as a bridge officer, but she had seen him on the screen, briefly, as she'd taken some data from the bridge.

"Best ship I could get with little notice from Laswell. Heard my old sublieutenant was causing issues."

"Thought you'd finally gotten out of military work, Nik. How'd you get even a lil' thing like that?"

"I have friends everywhere, Ghost."

The scarred guard reluctantly opened each cell door and unbound the wrists of the Klingon and the half-Vulcan. Ghost didn't respond, but she rubbed her wrists before introducing herself to Nikolai. Ghost grabbed all of the confiscated equipment, taking it for his crew.

"Good to meet you. Let's get you all back to the Enterprise, where you belong." He escorted the trio to the vehicle bay, where a bird-of-prey waited. Nikolai took control of the ship and navigated it towards the Federation edge of the Neutral Zone.

"Why would Makarov release us to you?" The half-Vulcan couldn't keep from questioning.

"The daeus would never have approved of Makarov's methods. The only way his plan worked was if it flew under the radar that he had blatantly disregarded the treaty in a way that was so obvious to the Federation." Ghost cut in for Nikolai.

"Basically. Definitely helped that after I retired from military, I started working for a Senator who wants peace with your Federation."

The return to the border of the Neutral Zone felt much shorter despite taking nearly twice the time. They flew with easy conversations with Nikolai, who admonished any crew who even thought about engaging in distasteful behavior towards their guests.

As they neared the Enterprise, Gaz couldn't convince Nikolai to come aboard and visit with Price. While Ghost stayed out of the enticement, the science officer leaned on and encouraged Gaz.

"We've done enough stretching of Algeron Treaty. Your Enterprise nearly got a light-year in to the Neutral Zone before getting the sense to contact me."

The trio gave Nikolai their fond farewells, and Soap came over their communicators to organize their transport onto the Enterprise. After they shimmered onto the transporter pad, Soap and Price ushered all three to the medical bay.

After being medically cleared and cleaning up, the bridge crew sat down for dinner in the Captain's quarters. Price had yet to emerge with his contribution to the otherwise replicated meal.

"How did you know to get Nikolai involved?" Gaz sat across from Soap.

"Mate, d'you ken that Vulcans are telepathically inclined? Our scientist thought so loudly abou' Makarov's plan that I could hear it from the Enterprise. Turned our ass around and Laswell got in contact with Nik." Soap leaned to his left and ruffled her hair.

Pointed ears warming, she pushed Soap's hand away. "MacTavish, maybe you've just got massive range on your crazy Betazoid telepathy."

Soap persisted, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Hen, I'd have heard the Lt. or Gaz if it was just that. You were loud an' clear from a light year away."

Price's door opened to the Captain, holding three bottles of wine. "I thought we all deserved somethin' a little stronger than synthehol after the shit we dealt with."

Ghost nodded from his position across from the half-Vulcan as Price took his seat between them at the head of the table. Price opened the wines, handing them out to each officer to fill their cup with their selected beverage.

The bridge crew ate with light chatter, deliberately avoiding the topic of the overly-Empirical Commander. There would be plenty of time to discuss the ambitious Romulan in the coming days.

The half-Vulcan struggled to ignore the touchy nature of the Betazoid to her left and the Captain's comforting touches on her hand. She focused on her meal and the First Officer across from her, not wanting the Betazoid to sense her flushed discomfort.

Ghost had never fully removed his mask in front of her before. She tried not to think about how ruggedly attractive he was, letting loose with his friends and her. Was she a friend now? Her line of thinking left her confused and slightly flustered, though she hoped it indicated that he at least thought of her as a friend. "Junior-grade, you've picked your drink up and sat it back down without taking a sip three times now. You can relax, luvvie."

Never in a million years would she have anticipated the First Officer using a pet name for her. She could have sworn her pointed ears were so warm that they were steaming, a flush spreading across her entire head. She choked on the sip she took to hide her embarrassment.

Soap patted her back to help her cough as Gaz gently admonished Ghost. "Our girl doesn't need that shit from you, Ghost." Ghost just laughed, seemingly in on the joke.

A stern "Boys!" from Price seemed to end the joke that the half-Vulcan was trapped outside of. The other three sat up straighter for the briefest of moments, playing into a joke.

After a more collective evening of conversation, the bridge crew each returned to their quarters. The half-Vulcan donned her sleep clothes and lay in bed, questioning the day's events. Her thoughts drifted between her Romulan abduction, the unaccounted-for Ferengi, and the dinner—what had Price meant when he called her "their girl?"

As the day drifted out, she imagined what strange new worlds they may encounter the next day.

Star Trek Guide (probably a little inaccurate, there's so much star trek in the world):

Klingons: humanoid warrior species with pronounced forehead ridges that go to about the coronal suture of the human skull. they often have long dark hair and distinctive facial hair- in essentially perpetual conflict with Romulans for the majority of the 23rd and 24th centuries

Betazoids: humanoid species with no physical differences from humans except for pure black irises. they have telepathy in both concrete thoughts and emotions

Vulcans: humanoid species that pride themselves on logic above all else. Many are capable of a form of telepathy known as a mind meld, which is part of the intimate life of Vulcans. They are closely related to Romulans. Both Vulcans and Romulans have upturned eyebrows and pointed ears. prior to 370 AD, Vulcans were very warlike. A philosopher at the time led the transformation of society from violence to logic (Spock is a notable half-human-half-Vulcan)

Romulans: humanoid species that prioritizes conquest, in conflict with the Federation and Klingons. as Vulcan evolved from violence to peace, some dissented and left the planet to settle on the other two planets in that star system. Romulans were born from the dissenting Vulcans and indigenous populations of the settled planets. Some Romulans also have brow ridges in a "V" on their foreheads, although others are indistinguishable from Vulcans.

Ferengi: humanoid species that prioritizes profit above all else, and are notorious for their misogyny.. typically hairless, with large skulls, disproportionately large ears and brow ridges, orange skin, blue fingernails, and sharp teeth. (yk what no matter how accurately you describe the Ferengi, it's difficult to picture them without a picture)

#cod au #cod fanfic #141 x reader #ghost x reader #cod mwii #cod mwiii #cod x reader #star trek au

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