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sprout-fics · 23 days

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Silver Fox

(Nikolai x F! Reader)

Call of Duty Masterlist

Rating: Explicit (MDNI) Wordcount: 5k Tags: Character study, Age gap, Light Dom/Sub, Fluff, Slowburn, Smut, Dominant Nikolai, Soft Nikolai, Aftercare, Orgasm delay/denial, Light BDSM dynamics, Cuddling, Corruption kink, Brat Taming, Overstimulation, Dirty talk in Russian, Power dynamics, A dose of manipulation but everything is consensual Warnings: Brief mention of capture and torture A/N: This is my first and most likely not my last attempt to write for Nikolai. I really like this dynamic and welcome requests for more

When Nik first meets you, you try to rob him.

You’d been younger then. Wilder, scared of a world you struggled to survive in. With hardly a roof over your head, always an empty belly, chased by ghosts of a past you struggled to leave behind. You were desperate, constantly looking for a way out, clawing and scrambling at the stone alleyways in hopes you could one day see the sky.

He finds you like that- as a dirty, fierce little stray. In a grimy jacket, eyes wild, dirt smeared across your face, you hold up a knife to him and demand his wallet. Stupid, you know, but shivering, scared of the world that was destined to eat you alive, choosing a target far bigger than yourself.

Cute, he’d admitted later.

It takes little effort from him to twist the knife from your hand, examining it as you froze in a shock that only seems to multiply when he asks you if you want a warm meal. The offer is too tempting to ignore to your growling stomach, but in reality it’s the barest hint of softness behind his eyes that has you follow him like a kicked stray out of the cold.

Little did you know, behind that softness lay his own hunger. A deep, prowling thing that circled you beyond your sight.

He takes you to a quiet little eatery, out of the way, only three tables in what amounted to a shed. One of his favorites, he tells you with a smirk. The cook gives you both a look, suspicious of the man who had escorted in a woman much younger than him, dirty and nervous as you are. Nik lets you order, smirking still as you nervously pick something small, cheap, and he instead orders something large and warm for you. He watches you scarf down the entirety of your meal, gazing at him suspiciously all the while. He’s quiet- appraising you later realized.

You know of men like him. Gangsters, thugs, men who work alongside the mafia or even worse. Men from the underbelly of Russian society who walk in plainclothes and hold dark secrets. You know the danger of accepting favors from men like him. Be it your body, your servitude, or a debt paid in blood, men like those you feared would come to collect in due course, would bleed you dry and leave you ruined given the chance. The only charity they offered served their own interests, the cause they flew their flag for.

It became clear as time grew that Nikolai was not much different, that he had taken one look at you and had seen the thing you never saw in yourself:

Potential.

In the end he tells you if you ever need work to come find him, and find him you do.

You’d been foolish, you think back, if only because you’d been so young, naive without the lessons he would soon teach you.

It’s simple things at first. Taking packages and dropping them off at seemingly random locations, picking up things from shady characters who’d let their eyes rake down your form. In exchange Nikolai offers you a warm place to sleep, a roof over your head, hot meals and shelter from the ghosts that chase you. Distant, professional, but there all the same. Steadfast, waiting for your skittishness to shed itself before he comes closer. Waiting. Expectant.

Curious, you’d watch as he tinkers on his helicopter, cleans his cache of weapons, fixes the aging appliances in his house outside Saratov where the remains of the Soviet legacy lay etched between the old manors of the дворянство.

You observe, quiet at a distance, and ask him about the life he led, to which he was vague.

“I fix things.” He tells you simply, snapping a cartridge back into place with practiced efficiency.

You wondered then, if he was trying to fix you too.

He welcomes your interests in his work, skittish though you are, ready to dart back to a safe distance at a moment’s notice. You peer over his shoulder as he works at his tool bench in the hangar, assist him as he tightens screws on his helicopter, pass him ingredients as he cooks dinner for you both on his stove. Rather than answer any questions you pose, Nik elects to show you himself, putting his hands over yours and allowing them to guide you with ease in his tasks.

His protege, he introduces you as to those that ask. The younger woman he had taken under his tutelage. You’d almost resented it at the time, still suspicious, ready to flee at the first instance of betrayal. Yet inside you knew it was too late. In the same way that wolves became dogs, you found yourself near the fire of him, resting your weary bones as he offered you a place to stay.

Even if he held a leash behind his back.

Nik is careful, stern as a teacher but tender as a friend. In moments of learning his voice is whip-sharp to correct any mistakes, but in the quiet evenings he is almost soft, blunted at the edges in a way that betrays his indulgence in you. Each time he gets close, you try to ignore the way his touch lingers, holding back, greedy but restrained as your heart flutters inside your chest. Purposeful, careful not to spook you lest it ruin the things he’s predestined for you.

You try not to miss him when he leaves you behind for work, reminding yourself this is only temporary, to not let your guard down lest he burn you. He will someday stop having a use for you, and you will once again walk into the wild seeking shelter under a different name.

When he returns, you try to ignore the relief that bubbles inside your chest, the desperate hunger of a lonely thing looking for warmth.

You don’t see the glittering silver collar he envisions in his mind.

The teaching moments are constant. It’s not long before Nikolai begins taking you on assignments rather than leaving you at the house alone. You become familiar with the inside of the chopper, and learn to doze in the co-pilot seat when you are allowed. You help him catalog his ammo and supplies, listen over your headset as he explains piloting to you. In meetings with suppliers and clients he tells you quietly to stay inside the chopper behind him, and you peek out to see the eyes of his ‘friends’ flicking towards you. Curious, even as Nik stood as a stalwart wall between you and them.

In the passenger seat of his truck you learn to carefully balance his chosen rifle on your lap, feeling the stiffness ease from your shoulders as he lays a heavy hand across your nape. On long drives he stops at sunset to admire the view, and you hover close to his side as he smokes long drags of cigars. When he encourages you to try you cough on the smoke, and he thumps you between your back gently, chuckling even when you shoot him a glare. The next morning finds you somewhere new, and the lessons resume.

All the while his careful guidance reminds you to keep your eyes up, to stay alert, focused, to heed his warnings and obey his orders when given.

Nik is an endless wealth of knowledge when it comes to his profession. He’s deliberate in the things he teaches you: how to calculate the distance of a target 100 meters away, what the warning lights on the helicopter console meant, how to handle the kickback of a machine gun, where the major organs of the body were located and how to slice them open in deadly fashion. You take to the lessons easily as predators take to the snap of bone between jaws, and can’t help but preen with every accomplishment, every feat you manage to show him.

“Good girl.” He offers when you finish the task assigned to you, noticing the way you stiffen, a shiver racing down your spine at the praise. Testing the waters, quietly moving goalposts in his mind as he maps your future before you.

When you fell ill during that first winter he nurses you, sits your sluggish form up in bed against his chest and watches as you finish what little food you could stomach. When you insist on drinking with him one evening, pass beyond your tolerance, he smooths a hand over your back as you bend over the toilet bowl and whispers soothing reassurances in your ear. When you cut your palm on the edge of a tool bench in his helicopter hangar he lets you squeeze his hand as he pours alcohol over the gash, reminding you the wound would make you stronger. When you take a swig of the vodka to settle your nerves after your first mission with him he hums happily, murmuring an ounce of praise that settles low in your veins like warm liquor.

You let him, suspicious though you are, so desperate for a place to belong, to be taken care of, to have somewhere in which to shelter the storm. Nikolai is your mentor, yes, but more than that Nik shapes himself into your ally, into someone you can turn to, to a man you look to and seek praise from like turning your face to the sun.

Teaching you to eat from the palm of his hand.

You trail behind him at a distance, eyes softening and heart weary, seeking a soft place in which to rest itself. Nikolai is not a soft man, you remind yourself. Tender as he can be, his true heart remains a shadowed thing like all the men and women he keeps close. Even so you cling fast to that same shadow, hovering at his side as he makes a place for you there.

He’d plucked you from the wilds, had taken you like a starved, injured, feral animal into his care. You’d growled and snapped at him, unsure, suspicious of the twinkle behind his eyes that betrayed intentions you couldn’t quite discern. It was as if he knew the things you were capable of before even you could see them, the way he shaped you slowly under his care.

You stay there when he introduces you to his allies, to Price who looks at your skittish, suspicious nature and to Nik with a disapproving but knowing stare. You hear the meaning to it later as you creep downstairs to listen to them smoke outside.

“I won’t say anything.” Price tells him gruffly. “God knows I have my own vices. Just don’t ruin her, Nik.”

Nikolai takes a long, purposeful pause as he considers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, captain.”

Price chuffs, but comments no further.

Slowly, Nik begins to move closer to you, getting you used to his touch. It seems incidental at first. Squeezing too close behind you in the kitchen and offering a chuckling apology as you feel his hips press against your spine; leaning over you to inspect your work, rubbing a hand between your shoulders after a hard day and relishing the tiniest little sigh you offer in return.

In his teachings he is deliberate, gauging your progress under a keen eye, offering life lessons just as he purrs little doses of praise at your progress. He knows you wouldn’t leave now, you’ve become too accustomed to a life under his care. So slowly, Nik begins to test the boundaries of your trust in him, pushing a little farther each time and leaving you dizzy in the wake of him.

In the hot days of summer he works with his shirt off, the broad span of his back glistening with sweat. You tell yourself it is just the warmth of the sun that lays upon your cheeks, but even then you find your eyes straying, catching his own knowing gaze at a distance. Teasing, waiting, expectant.

“Smells good.” He hums over your shoulder as you made breakfast one morning, bacon simmering in the pan. “You’d make a good wife.”

When you feel heat rise to your face, stammering and scandalized, Nik only laughs.

“Шучу.” He grins. “Just kidding.”

It doesn’t seem to be that much of a joke, not with the way Nik is so comfortable around you these days, easing into your personal space just enough to make your heart race, dangerous thoughts of the ‘what if?’ lingering even after he’s pulled away.

On longer jobs he puts a cot in the back of the chopper to sleep on. Normally he likes to sleep in the pilot seat- vigilant and ready to take off at the slightest hint of trouble. Yet sometimes he complains about his aging back and squeezes in behind you, tucking you against the wall and arranging you so you both share what little space there is. You can’t really find it in yourself to complain, taking in the warm, musky scent of his and letting it lull you into dreams.

Slowly, you come to him. You ease into his touch, to the way his hand rubs across your shoulders in greeting, the way he holds your hand as you stiffened during client negotiations. In the evenings he sometimes watches terrible knock-off action movies, rolls his eyes at the impossible stunts as you nod off on his shoulder. Comfortable, you curl into him- seeking the place you belonged, and Nik quietly smiles at the wild creature that has made a home in his heart.

On the odd stretches of time where there are few assignments to follow through from his strange clientele, Nik takes you on his version of a holiday. He brings you to places you’ve never been, restaurants in cities you didn’t know existed.

“Try this.” He tells you in that smirk of his, lifting an oyster from the Caspian Sea to your lips, loaded with butter and spices. You make a face as you swallow, lips closing around his fingers, and don’t notice the way Nik’s eyes flick to the bob of your throat, distracted. “Good girl.”

The praise sends a shiver up your spine, alighting inside you with the need to please him- this man who has taken you in, sheltered you, is teaching you everything he knows.

You don’t realize the danger you’re in when you realize you’ve gotten too comfortable.

It’s a sunny Wednesday morning when you’re taken.

Being the pretty, feral thing at Nik’s side comes with a fair bit of attention. People begin to notice the beautiful vixen at his side. Whispers of your skills echo in the halls of underground bunkers and private airliners. Nik is known to work alone, so to see you with him as his protege, his partner, his co-pilot that he trusts as much as he mentors, means that you’re a target.

You pop out for groceries on his old Soviet era moped, having pestered Nikolai for pirozhkis for dinner- to which he told you only if you fetched the ingredients yourself. You ignore the small gaggle of men smoking near the corner store, common as they were in your neighborhood. It’s only when you come out with your arms full that they spring on you.

Your head cracks against a stone wall. The world goes dark.

When you come to, you’re somewhere you don’t recognize. barely lucid, head pounding, they try and ask you questions about him you can’t answer. There’s things Nik keeps secret from you for your own safety, and the things they want to know are among them. The blows come, knock you from your chair, and you’re left alone in the cellar, trying to understand how the nightmare you dreaded before you met him could have come true after all.

The difference is- now they’ve made a mistake. They took you after he’d taught you how to survive.

The men who took you are stupid. They underestimate you, tying the ropes too loose for your frame. You manage to get your hands free first as Nik has taught you, then your feet. In the corner of the cellar a sliver of light peeks through broken slats, and despite your battered limbs and bruised hands, you peel the plank off quietly so it reveals the underbelly of the house. Like digging a den, you crawl your way into the earth, beyond the foundation, and stumble into the night before your captors even decide to check on you.

Escaping the snare, as wild things do.

It’s early in the morning when you manage to stumble to the back gate of the house. You trip over a loose rock in the soil, collapse in a heap of bruised limbs and fatigue just beyond the back step. The door swings open, and you close your eyes before you can see the sight of Nikolai with a rifle in his hands, ready to fend off intruders.

“лисёнок.” He murmurs hoarsely as he gathers you in his arms, cooing his name for you as you whimper into his chest. Injured, broken, limping back to him. Only him. “What did they do to you?”

You don’t tell him, too exhausted to form words, slumping against him and letting the crash of adrenaline pull you blissfully under.

When you wake up, you’re in his bed. Bandaged, tucked in tightly. He’s washing blood off his hands in the sink.

You don’t realize until later it isn’t yours.

You never ask him what he did to those men while you were asleep, maiming them, killing them for the offense of hurting you, only to come home and haul your figure close to him with whispered reassurances that they’d never touch you again.

Things...change after that.

It wasn’t as if Nik wasn’t affectionate before- he was. Nik’s fondness of you was intertwined with his mentorship. Yet there was always a sort of distance involved. Teasing, playful, interested but careful not to push too far lest he spook you away too soon.

Now, as you cling to him in the aftermath of your capture, shiver and feel your bandaged fingers grip at his shirt, Nik is indulgent.

He lets you sniffle into his chest, rubs his hand along the knot of your spine and rumbles low, soothing words in Russian. He hauls you to him, calls you quiet pet names, cuddles you close and reminds you you’re safe.

In your recovery Nik spoils you, allows you to take all the time you need. You sleep until noon, a rare luxury under his tutelage, and find him cooking your favorite meals when you wake. When you call for him, he’s there, helping you ascend the stairs with your mending knee. He sets you on the couch in warm blankets so you watch movies of your choice until you doze off, to which he carries you upstairs and tucks you quietly, sweetly, back into bed.

All this and more, as Nikolai silently declares to himself that he is never letting you go.

When you recover, the gentleness doesn’t seem to stop. Yet with it comes a sternness, a demand to yield to his promise to care for you, to keep you safe. The hole of want inside you yawns open for him, looking to his care, his guidance, seeking ways to please him. You’re softer now, no less deadly, but the softness in the aftermath has you brushing against him, yearning for his embrace, which Nik offers readily.

With his nose buried in your hair, your arms wrapped around his waist, Nik smiles at the silver snare he’s circled around your throat.

and, silently, he begins to pull.

“Behave.” He tells you when you snarl at a supplier who tries to upcharge him, and Nik lays a heavy hand on your nap that somehow feels like a warning. It settles low in your stomach, warm and liquid with a want you don’t understand yet but need all the same.

“That’s my girl.” He hisses as you stitch a gash on his arm after close contact when you were flying out of a hot zone. He takes another swig of his vodka and groans just as a drip of red oozes down your fingers. You shudder at the sound, feeling something pull taut below your belly, trying to echo the praise quietly in your thoughts.

“Pretty thing.” He smiles as he offers you one of his spare shirts on mission. You swore you had packed more, but the scent of him clings to your skin and it distracts you enough to not question it. You warm under his words, curl up beside him when he gestures. Obedient, wanting.

You think he’s gone from the chopper that night, tucked on the cot and sneaking a hand under your panties to rub idly at yourself- thinking of him. You’re surrounded by the scent of him, swaddled by a phantom of his warmth, and imagining what it would feel like to have his fingers inside you, stroking, coaxing wetness to trickle down the breadth of them. What would it be like, you wonder, for him to hold you like that, to whisper those filthy praises in your ear so you clench down on him?

Footsteps, boots on the metal grate, and a low chuckle.

You yank your hand free, but it’s too late.

“Don’t stop on my account, Дорогая.” He murmurs, and you back against the wall with a shuddering little gasp, skin on fire as Nikolai couches over you, ready to eat you whole. “I was only gone for a few minutes- did you miss me that much?”

The utter confidence in his voice, the knowledge that you were thinking of him, has wetness ooze between your thighs as you try to find your voice. It’s no use, because Nik swoops down against your lips, humming in satisfaction as you ease against him with a little whine, slowly reaching for him until you drag him down onto the cot with you. Surrendering at last.

Hours later, his seed dripping between your thighs, you doze on his chest while he smokes. Exhausted, entirely worn out from the number of orgasms he’s wrung from you, lulled to sleep by his calming heartbeat under your ear.

It’s the first night of many. Like a dam collapsed, Nik releases the full tidal wave of his desire onto you, never missing a chance to haul you to him, to bend you over, to sit you on his cock as you groan and leak around the stretch of him inside you. You realize far too late just how much Nik has been holding back, his hunger for you as boundless as your desire to please him, to stay.

He has you there in the chopper on the cot that can barely hold the weight of his thrusts, back in his bedroom where you collapse face first into the pillows. He eats you out slow and luxurious with you balanced on the kitchen counter, has you brace on his tool bench as he drapes himself against your spine and ruts into you from behind.

“Taking me so well, little fox.” He purrs in your ear, nimble fingers working at your clit as you hiccup and mewl for it. “So tight. Made for my cock, hm? Твоё тело сводит меня с ума. Fuck.”

Nik is an unstoppable force, with stamina you struggle to match. He keeps you in his bed as long as he is able, staving off his orgasm if only to prolong yours, trying to draw as many as he can from you even when your hand smacks at the headboard, trying to tap out.

“Just one more.” He growls as he tries to fuck you through the mattress, glued to your back so the heat of his frame, the swell of his cock inside you is the only thing you can feel. You’re teary eyed, gasping, the lewd squeal as he thrusts into you filling the quiet of the bedroom. Your eyes roll back just as he nails that perfect bundle of serves inside you, voice caught on a choked sort of whimper. “Just one more and then we can take a break, darling.”

You sprawl against the sheets, exhausted as he lounges bare by the window, a whisp of smoke curling from his cigarette before returning to you once more, spooning you and slipping back inside the sloppy mess of your well-used cunt.

“Good girl.” He tells you again when you moan breathlessly, hand cupping your jaw and turning you to him so he can kiss the gasp from your parted lips. You clench down on him at the words, and he hisses a sound of pleasure against the corner of your mouth. “All mine. My girl.”

“Yours.” You whisper hoarsely, as if there were any other answer.

In the come-down he gathers you to him, kisses the tears of overwhelm from your eyes and holds you as you shiver in the aftermath of your orgasm, feeling worn to the bone in only the best of ways. Cum splatters the inside of your thighs, and Nik idly scoops it onto his fingers and back inside, purring endearments between presses of his lips to your face.

Comforting, gentle when you need it, but demanding, forcing you to surpass beyond what you think yourself capable of if only to see the glimmer of pride in his eyes. When you fail, deliverance is swift as it’s always been, but now it’s different.

“I told you no touching.” He growls, forcing you to look at him as his thumb circles roughly over your clit. He’d caught you masturbating in your room, thinking the house was empty, that he wouldn’t catch you. “You want to touch yourself, you come to me, sweet thing. I’ll take care of you, I always do, don’t I?”

“Yes, yes-” You pant, bucking your hips, desperate, aching without the fullness of him, but Nik pulls away. “Wait. P-please-”

“Need to learn your lesson, little fox.” He soothes, pressing a kiss into your hair even as you whine, trying to buck up and grind against him in a vain search for friction. “Make sure it sticks, Да?”

Yet even as you obey, keep your hands to yourself just as you promised, Nik delights in working you up and pulling away at the last minute. He corners you, slips his hand beneath your waistband and soaks his fingers in your leaking cunt until you moan and mewl for him, then withdraws if only to smirk and suck the taste from them. For days he teases you, edges you until a hiccup threatens in your throat, makes sure you’ve learned your lesson that you are his, and then pulls away to let the reminder sink in. You can’t stand it, go mad with need, find yourself close to humping his knee if only to get some sort of relief.

When he finally does let you come days later, you howl into his flesh, biting down into his skin until he shudders, groans against you and spills inside your clenching cunt.

“My sweet girl.” He murmurs, stroking your face as he cuddles you afterwards. “Я не могу без тебя жить.”

You smile, nuzzle into the warmth of him, knowing he has you, he always will. You can’t forget, not with the things he growls against you as he makes love to you, reminding you that you belong to him. Soft in his room, you lay with him, fold into him as a beacon of safety and trust, know that he will never hurt you, will keep you safe, that this will always be your home.

In front of others you’re his partner, his accomplice, the apprentice he found like a diamond in the rough and had polished into a perfect blade. Deadly, clever, keen-eyed and watchful of all threats. Nik tells Price you don’t play well with others when Price tries to introduce his own protege, and when Gaz offers his hand in greeting you make no motion to return it until Nik grazes a thumb against the side of your throat as if tugging an invisible collar there.

“Careful.” He warns the sergeant. “She bites.”

In private he calls you all his endearments in purring Russian. Ангел, Прелесть, Огонёк. Angel, precious, little fire, the object of his desire. You're his girl, his sweet, fierce little sweetheart, the thing he taught to eat out of the palm of his hand while keeping your wild, dangerous nature.

You're his only family, his beloved little fox he managed to domesticate, the thing that still will bite him given the chance, but likes to curl up in his lap and yawn like a housecat. You're his obsession, his partner, his apprentice. If anything else, you're his weakness.

“Я тебя никому не отдам.” He swears to you, voice a low, deep rumble as he strokes your face, feeling your sleeping breaths fan across his palm.

“I will never give you to someone else.”

You dream of the first day you met him. Feral, scared, hungry and starved and inside- looking so desperately for somewhere safe to call home.

Now, years later, you know. Generous though Nik was, it was this that he had hoped for in the beginning- with you as his partner, his protege, but at the end of the day sleeping in his bed, worn and exhausted from the effects of his desire. Dangerous, feral, useful, but in the end tamed just as he’d envisioned.

And you, younger than him by years and foolish as you were, had gone blindly into the snare.

Nik had never given you any reason to regret it.

Russian Translations (Native Russian speakers feel free to leave a comment of correction)

Дворянство - Russian nobility

Шучу - I’m joking

Лисёнок. - Little fox

Дорогая - Darling

Твоё тело сводит меня с ума - Your body drives me crazy

Да - Yes

Я не могу без тебя жить - I can’t live without you

#nikolai x reader #cod x reader #cod nikolai x reader #nikolai x you #call of duty modern warfare 3 #my writing #my fic #x reader

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stitchlingbelle · 1 year

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So I’ve seen more than one post joking about our poor friend Jonathan getting stuck in a time loop, which is certainly a valid way to see rereading some novels. But the thing is... this isn’t a normal novel with a narrative that we watch like a movie from the outside.

This is literally the collection of documents that the gang made and preserved and eventually hid away after their ordeal.

The loop here isn’t one of reliving, it’s one of rereading. If we assume Jonathan and Mina and co to be a part of it, it’s the sort of obsessive re-reading of trauma, an annual reminder of all they lost and suffered, reassuring them that it really happened, that it’s over, that God yes, they lost someone so dear to them, but they survived. They’re safe now.

Or are we rereading alone, unmentioned but assumed future descendants, finding this cache of documents while cleaning out Gram’s old attic, reading them and rereading them and filling in the gaps left by all the questions that Jonathan and Mina aren’t here to answer? Wondering if it’s fiction, tying it to the pieces we know are real, and maybe feeling just the tiniest bit of chill when we find ourselves out late a night, hearing the howl of a wolf?

#dracula daily #dracula #they're not stuck in a time loop #we are

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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 2 months

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I have the most random and oddball question... What would be some expletive type language in Welsh?

I'm playing a dragon in my D&D group who is from this fantasy world's equivalent of Wales and I want to add some flavor when he is fighting that he starts using bits of his mother-tongue instead of Common.

It's easy enough to find a random list of words, but without cultural context I have no clue what would be a proper equivalent of, for example "fuck off you asshole"... I probably am putting "too much" thought into it, but I'm a cultural anthropologist, so it bugs me to not think too much about it.

A funny quirk of Welsh is that we actually tend to swear in English when we need to - because one of the social arenas it survived in was through the chapels, the closest you'd get are things that in English you'd probably associate with your granny saying, or those sad little Christian youth camps in America. One of my favourites is Nêfi blŵ, which is literally just the Welsh transliteration of the words 'navy blue' said in a Welsh accent. Why is this a swear? Unknown. I presume someone somewhere hated the colour.

However, there are a couple:

Sweary

Sguthan/ysguthan: this is probably equivalent to 'bitch', it's certainly gendered the same way and has similar weight. Except much as 'bitch' literally just means a dog, sguthan means 'woodpigeon'. Why is this a swear? Unknown

Cach i fant: fuck off. 'Shit off', literally. Tbh though I don't actually know anyone who would actually use this. Mileage can and will vary wildly (keep an eye on the notes for other Welsh speakers chiming in), but this one always felt a bit like a sheep's eyeball to me, to use a Pratchett-ism. Like something Golwg would use to Appeal To The Youth. But, it is real, and does work.

Dos i ffwcio dy hunan: go fuck yourself. Now THIS one I use

Twll tin bob ____: Every ____ is an asshole. Naturally, the phrase in Wales is 'Twll tin bob Sais', but substitute Sais for the group of your choice.

Cêr y diawl: go to hell. Literally, 'go to the devil', with devil there being a reasonable stand-in for any devil you wish, not just, like, Satan.

And of course, Wenglish can provide:

Be'r ffyc 'dy hwnna: what the fuck is that

Pwy'r ffyc 'dy hwnna: who the fuck is that

etc

Non-Sweary

Bois bach a mawr: okay listen this is going to sound like I'm joshing you but I swear this is real. It's used by an older generation, admittedly, but even younger generations will say 'Bois bach' sometimes. It, uh. It literally means "Big and little boys". Or just "little boys". Just a sort of general mild exclamation. Or what you say when you sit down and your knees complain. Um.

Ych a fi: gross. Can also be Wenglished to 'Ych a ffycin fi' which is, you know, fucking gross.

Be' ti 'di 'neud?: what have you done?

Be' sy'n bod 'da ti?: What is wrong with you?

Cô ni off, bois!: Off we go, lads (gender neutral)!

There's probably a million I'm forgetting and will think of as I try to sleep tonight, but hopefully these will tide you over. Keep an eye on the notes, I expect others will chime in with further suggestions!

#asks #wales!#closed for cleaning on mondays #linguistics

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prep4tomoro · 1 year

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Prepare an Evacuation Checklist and Plan:

Depending on the emergency, you may have only minutes to gather supplies and leave the comfort and security of home. Have an Evacuation Checklist ready to follow to quickly grab what is needed.

Always have a prepared Bug-Out Bag at the ready.

Determine backroad travel routes in a vehicle and on foot to avoid traffic and unrest

Pre-travel determined travel routes to get familiar with supplies and shelter along the way

Consider planting survival caches of supplies along the determined routes for re-supply during the trip

Take a compass and printed detailed map (Road Atlas) (even if it's out of date) in case GPS is unavailable

Keep vehicles bugout-ready

Get in Shape, Stay in Shape and Eat Healthy

Know where emergency supplies are stored for easy retrieval.

List supplies to take (food, water, clothing, meds, toiletries, documents) for on foot and vehicle evacuation.

Practice the Plan

Prepare an EMERGENCY CONTACTS LIST: At appropriate times along the way, contact friends/family to relay your details. Share contacts information only with TRUSTED friends/family.

Consider these Evacuation Checklists: [List 1] [List 2] [List 3] [List 4] Resources: Preparing an Effective Evacuation Plan Knowing When It's Time to BugOut Stay Put - Sheltering in Place Bugging Out on Foot Choosing and Preparing a Bug-Out Vehicle Using a [detailed] DeLorme Atlas to Plan Emergency Evacuations Pre-Evacuation/Vacation Checklist FEMA-Forced Evacuations and Restrictions [Reference Link]

[14-Point Emergency Preps Checklist] [11-Cs Basic Emergency Kit] [Learn to be More Self-Sufficient] [The Ultimate Preparation] [5six7 Menu]

This blog is partially funded by Affiliate Program Links and Private Donations. Thank you for your support.

#evacuationChecklist #bugoutChecklist #bugout #shelter-in-place #prepper #survival #shtf #redneckEvacuation #redneckResponse #bug-out #vehiclePrep #cache #prepare4tomorrow #prepping #camping #hiking

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grimesgirll · 1 month

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you like to match.

maybe it’s a remnant of the old world, back when your biggest problem was how well your outfit was received.

most of the time, you had to dress practically. whenever your group came across an untouched clothing store or cache of quality clothing, the priority was typically finding seasonally appropriate clothing and weather gear, fresh undergarments, new shoes, socks, etcetera. you rarely had the opportunity to put together a real outfit. it was all layering and just taking whatever you could carry. practicality had you collecting cargoes in every color.

rick enjoyed your style; you made an effort to look put together when you could and post-apocalypse, all it took was you finding a pair of jeans that actually fit to propel him from checking you out to tearing them off and bending you over the nearest surface.

daryl thought you were a mall rat. he takes the opportunity to make fun of you and your fashion sense while you’re out on a run.

“this is an abandoned kohl’s, not mooningdale’a or wherever the bitch from ‘friends’ worked.”

you giggle at him. “you mean bloomingdale’s?”

“whatever.”

the two of you are scavenging the former shopping center in search of any edible food, water, tools, anything for judith, just anything that could come in handy. winter coats and appropriate weather gear were pretty large priorities as well.

you thumb through racks of clothing, estimating if it suit fit the person from the group who you were mentally fitting. from flannels for carl, onesies for judith, and boxers for rick, you’re tossing your finds over your arm like an associate was about to come up and offer you a basket.

the pile you’ve accumulated is ditched on an ottoman in the shoe department when a pair of boots catches your eye.

“fuck,” you whisper low enough for daryl not to hear. the brown leather boots have you salivating at the mouth. god, you have nowhere to wear those but if you did…

you’re forced to pick your jaw up off the floor when daryl comes around.

“find anything worth bringin’ back?” his arms are full with everything from tool kits to batteries.

you shake your head. “nope, not much. i’m gonna grab a cart though,” you mention, gesturing to the haul in his arms.

“just don’t get a squeaky one in case there are any walkers lyin’ round.”

“of course!” you chirp, hand wrapping around the metal handlebar as you pry it from a line of other shopping carts.

daryl dumps his finds in and while his back is turned, you toss in the pair of boots. a layer of two of tissue paper on top seems like a good enough disguise.

then the two of you are back to walking the sales floor. you can’t help but watch daryl as he walks in front of you. your breath hitches when you notice how tightly that shirt clings to him - to his rather large arms specifically. you’re so engrossed in how he pushes the cart that you almost miss the gadget out of the corner of your eye.

suddenly you’re doing a double take and walking yourself back to the electronics section.

“you makin’ a documentary or somethin’?”

you turn over the camcorder in your hands. “maybe.” you smile at your traveling companion. “you can take me on one of your hunts and i can get some footage.”

“spook all the deer while you’re at it.”

laughing at him, you flip the screen fully open and put the recording device up to your eye. “maybe i’ll make a survival documentary. video diary or something.”

daryl is walking up to you and flipping the camera shut as soon as he notices the viewfinder trained on his groin.

“what?” you cry, immediately putting on a fake pout. “you don’t wanna make a porn with me?”

“baby, this is a kohl’s.”

you shrug. “what’s it matter? i’m sure people made porn in kohl’s before. wanna go to the dressing room?”

“i don’t think we have time for all that-,”

“ah, i think we do.”

despite his protests, you tug him away from the electronics section - camcorder in your back pocket - and make a beeline for the dressing room.

rick and daryl didn’t like you leaving alexandria without them.

most of the time they made you write them a list as opposed to letting you window shop in the wasteland yourself. so something so mundane as using a dressing room is kind of exciting to you.

the man with a hand in yours rolls the cart up to the dressing room attendant’s desk.

daryl frowns when he notices the boots under the tissue paper. “baby, the fuck’ are these?” he holds up the most gorgeous pair of boots you’ve ever seen.

your lip quivers. “the best pair of shoes i’ve seen since atlanta.”

“how the fuck are you gonna run from walkers in these?”

“uh, i won’t.” you spit.

“you mouthin’ off?”

“never.” you promise with a chuckle.

daryl just shakes his head. “put ‘em back.”

“i think i’ll keep them.”

“really?” he pushes the cart aside to stand in front of you, close enough so that you can feel his body heat radiating towards you.

you offer a playful smile. “i think you just need to see me in them first. then you’ll be convinced.”

with that, the two of you are darting into a dim dressing room - boots in hand.

it doesn’t take long for you to hear the fitting room door swinging open, announcing that rick has found you two.

“we were just discussin’ the merit of her wearing underwear.”

you’re glad the three of you are confined to the handicap dressing room. you wouldn’t want anyone to see your blush when rick gets a cocky grin on his face.

he takes in the sight of you with your jeans pushed down and his best friend next to you, another finger toying at your underwear.

“well, you know my answer.”

you don’t need to ask the constable; he’d make it law for you to go commando at all times if he could.

“yeah, i don’t think you need ‘em.” the younger man agrees.

“why is me wearing underwear such a debate?” you question with a wistful smile. “you two spend awfully more time talking about it than it off.”

“why don’t you show him your boots first?”

you lift an eyebrow, and a leg and do a little kick, still mindful of the intimate dressing room. the light falls on the posh leather boots in such a fashion that you’re forgetting you snatched them off of a shelf at kohl’s.

rick whistles. “you look great in them, darlin’. i’m curious where you think you’ll be wearin’ then though.”

shrugging, you settle back down onto the seat and begin freeing yourself from the leather brown boots. “not sure. they’re pretty to look at though.

“that they are.” rick agrees.

“why don’t you keep ‘em on?”

you raise an eyebrow. “i thought they were,” you make air quotations with your fingers, “shit boots.”

rick sniggers. “so mean to her, dare.’”

you nod, zipping a boot back up. “really.”

“i think you should apologize to the pretty lady. tell her you like her boots.”

you teeter a boot a foot above the ground invitingly. daryl falls to his feet in front of you with a frown that you know is a front. as soon as he’s faced with your inner thighs, his hands are laid out on top of them, and he’s iterating beneath you,”

“i’m sorry ‘bout your boots, baby.” he states, eager fingers inching closer to your waistband again. “i think you look fuckin’ fantastic in ‘em. but where are you gonna wear em’?”

you have an answer but as he peels back your panties and leans in to face a mere few inches from your dripping core, your response is stuck in your throat. it takes a sharp inhale to regain your thoughts when his finger and tongue begin tempting you at the same time. rick leans against the wooden paneled wall, crossing his arms at you.

“you know they’re gonna be hard to match with all your other clothes. not that you don’t have enough.” rick sighs, running a hand through his hair like he’s thinking about storage and reveling in spectating daryl touch and tease you. “you already filled up the closet last time you came out with us. you’re gonna have to call rosita over to take some of it off your hands.”

you roll your eyes. they’re telling you that you need to get rid of clothing like every other month. when it comes time for them to make you bag up anything you’re willing to part with, you typically found some way to end up on your knees or with them bending you over something. that usually gives you another month.

“i thought daryl was saying sorry.” you grumble, smooth legs kicking playfully in protest until daryl has them pinned against the seat, his tongue licking furious stripes from the top of your clit down to your aching little hole.

“baby, you’re so wet.” daryl comments, lips smacking with your slick.

“as always.” rick jeers, walking over to sit next to you. “hey, doll,” he greets into your mouth.

needy and bucking into daryl’s soft mouth, you return the kiss with a fervor that rick’s not expecting. he groans at the bruising brush of your pillowy smooth lips against his.

you’re reaching your hand to the side to grasp at him when you instead find your camcorder. remembering your original plan, you pull it forward onto rick’s lap.

he only chuckles into your mouth when you open the video camera and aim the lens on the man going to town between your legs.

“you forgive me, baby?” daryl inquires with the addition of a finger.

you nod up and down. “fuck, i forgive you, dare’. you’re so good with your mouth.”

rick’s smile turns upside down when he notices how shaky your hand is getting as daryl brings you closer to your first p.m. orgasm. he brings a steady hand up to relieve you of your cameraman duties.

the opportunity presents itself to fall back into rick so you take it. his chest is pressed snugly against your backside now as he angles the camcorder to catch the downright debaucherous scene occurring in this kohl’s dressing room.

your legs are quivering and you’re chanting daryl’s name when he removes his fingers and goes all in on your pussy.

rick clasps a hand on your mouth. “shh, honey. don’t want the others to think somethin’s wrong.”

“mhmmm,” you shudder against his hand.

the pleasure daryl’s been doling out to you comes in the form of a mind numbing orgasm that washes over your tensed form from head to toe. daryl doesn’t slow down either as you cost his face in your sweet slick. he’s licking patterns into you and you swear he’s trying to paint the alphabet across your cunt as you ride out the delicious pressure your boyfriend is treating you to.

“how are you gonna walk back to the car?” rick asks you, pulling your face gently towards his to cup your chin and engross you in another kiss. he only separates from you to pass the camcorder off to daryl and lift your thighs.

“might have to carry you.” daryl muses and begins undoing his belt.

“rick, you’re gonna fuck me, right?” you crane your neck to lock eyes with the man entering you right then and there.

“fuck, give me a moment, darlin’.” rick shakes his head as you grind against him, unable to think straight.

you’re catching your breath when you look up and notice the blue eyed man behind the somehow closed camcorder. bless him.

“i think you have the cover on,” you giggle and stretch using your tippy toes to flip it back for him.

once the red light is on your face, rick yanking your tank top off and attacking your bare chest with open mouthed kisses. the nipple he pops into his mouth pebbles even more at his touch. his mouth coupled with the all encompassing stretch you’re enduring is drawing every moan you can muster.

he cements a grip on your hips to raise you up and down on his cock in his lap. the plushnsss of your ass is making him feral as he’s met with that same pillowy softness upon every meeting with his pelvis.

daryl keeps the camera on you, rick, and the mess you’re creating in your laps. he shuffles to stand next to the seat and offers you his now nude cock which you happily take into your mouth, earning him a better angle in the process.

the camcorder captures you oohing and aahing around daryl as rick fucks the past few hours of tension out of you. nothing like justifying fucking your brains out in a dressing room on stress and performance.

the girthy man in your mouth is thinking the same thing. daryl hisses when he hits the back of your throat and you gag. he’s fucking your throat even faster once he catches sight of his dick disappearing in and out of your pretty pink lips on the screen.

like a seesaw, you rock up and down on rick. the way rick is thrusting upwards into you has you moaning pornographicly around his best friend’s length. it’s only so long before you have to give in. you’re rolling your hips frantically and making the most debauched noises around daryl.

that’s all it takes for the archer to twitch in your throat. you’re prepared to swallow but before you know it, he’s backing his cock out of your mouth and holding it directly in your face, pumping with one hand and recording in the other.

“watch out, rick,” he warns.

and just like that his cock is in front of you, spurting and coating your face.

“does that go with your outfit?”

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thatlittleegyptologist · 1 year

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Got to love it when I get tags that start with “I’m not an archaeologist, but…” because I know I’m about to get a very online misunderstanding of archaeology from a very western perspective.

Today’s (paraphrased) offering is: “Tutankhamun should be left to rest in his tomb, looking at you British Museum. In fact we shouldn’t move the dead from their tombs because it's SACRILEGIOUS”

Tutankhamun is very much in his tomb. It has nothing to do with, nor ever has, the British Museum. If you guys are going to get involved in certain topics it’d really help you to know what's what before deciding on a course of 'action' or even yelling about it on the internet. Otherwise, you're tilting at the wrong windmills. Trust me, there are numerous other windmills than just the BM to tilt at *cough*themetthelouvretheneuesmuseumandthousandsmore*cough*.

The Egyptians don't need their tombs to have an afterlife either. There's a lot of romanticising and overstating that goes on when talking about Egyptian tombs and burial practices, so I understand where the confusion comes from. The most important thing was to receive offerings from, and have their name spoken by, people who passed by their burial. Without either of those their afterlife ceases to exist. Therefore, as per the rules of the Egyptian afterlife, most mummies lost 'access' to the afterlife millennia ago without anyone removing them from their tombs. If anything, having their names spoken by visitors to a museum, and images or actual offerings being displayed, fulfils this requirement more than leaving them where they were. Western sensibilities towards death, and death displays, have got very...hand wringing-y...over the last few years? The way people talk about museum displays and museum workers, you'd think we were doing puppet shows with the dead where there was a big neon sign saying 'come laugh at the gross dead people' instead of thoughtful and respectful displays. Museum workers care a great deal about the dead on display. We know they're people, and we treat them as such, but we also recognise that they're dead and have been so for thousands of years.

But going back to the original point, Tutankhamun *is* in his tomb. He's one of the very few where it's actually safe to have him still in his tomb, though it is constantly monitored and may not stay this way. You see, mummies not being in their tombs is a mixture of a variety of things:

It can be unsafe for mummies to be in their tomb due to environment. After the Aswan Dam was built, it caused the water table to rise, and with it a lot of salt came with it. This is actively damaging many tombs and temples, though they are trying ways to mitigate it. If you put, and I'm going to do this in museum terms, organic material in a hot and damp environment you're going to get mould very quickly. It'd be really bad to have the mummy survive 3000 years only to be destroyed by damp. So a museum where the environment can be kept stable and monitored is ideal.

The tomb may not be suitable to have the mummy in anymore. Many Egyptian tombs are subterranean, so over the centuries they have been subject to collapse. The tomb of Ramesses II is caving in on itself. There's literally bolts and netting holding the ceiling up. Absolutely not safe to put Ramesses II back in his tomb. You leave him in there with a ceiling like that, and then it collapses? Congrats, now you've lost two priceless treasures instead of one.

The mummy may not have been found in their original tomb, nor might we know where the original tombs are. The Ancient Egyptians had this wonderful habit of moving the dead if they were in inconvenient spots, or they were robbing the tomb. Almost all royal mummies weren't even found in their tombs. They were found in a cache (TT320/DB320) at Deir el Bahri, which literally consisted of a cave where they unceremoniously dumped various kings to save them from robbers. Most of these kings were not in their correct coffins, and even the coffins they were in were mismatched from 2 or more different kings. In all, funerary equipment for 50 different kings and queens, and 11 mummies, were found in the cache. This includes the mummies of Ramesses II and Seti I. In the museum in Cairo, they've been returned to their coffins if they had them, and put on display. It is not safe for them in the cache nor in their original tombs, so the best place for them is in a museum.

Space is another concern. Not all these tombs are particularly large, so having a coffin display and visitors in the same space risks both the tomb and the mummy. It is often not safe to do so and thus it isn't done.

Security. Seriously, if every mummy is in their own tomb you would have to have such intense security to stop people from going in there and robbing the place. It's one of the reasons you often hear about 'discoveries' made, but academics knew about it 6 months to a year ago. Not telling the public immediately allows artefacts to be moved and studied without the threat of looting (which does still happen). If you've got all the mummies in their tombs and publicly advertise that, then oh boy are people going to attempt to take them. The area of burials is too large to be covered securely for something such as that.

So, yeah. This got away from me a bit, but the 'put everything back and don't look at it because it's rude and disrespectful' narrative is beginning to drive me a little bit up the wall.

#tbh I'm sick of museum workers getting maligned because people don't understand what they're talking about #or being used as a punching bag for an adjacent topic because people will blame them and not the systemic issue at the core

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puppetmaster13u · 8 months

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DP X DC X Subnautica

Where the Justice League (mostly focusing on the Superfam or Batfam or Flashfam) are large leviathan-esque creatures living on Planet 4546B. Maybe they can change forms due to Precursor experimentation, maybe not. Those with young hang out around the shallows more than the others, what with most of them being large super or specialized predators.

Enter Danny Fenton, interning on the Aurora when the ship is shot down by the Quarantine Enforcement Platform. Oh sure he probably would have tried to stop the destruction and help, but his ghost powers are a bit on the fritz and a well-meaning worker pushes him into one of the last life pods seeing as he's a child.

Now the leviathans may not know what a ship is exactly, but they can definitely understand that in most cases things technology = precursors. As far as they understand, a metal deathtrap not unlike the old labs or caches fell alongside several metallic eggs, with the emerging hatchlings misshapen and not living long.

But then there's the egg that landed in the shallows, which at first they thought was empty. But a hatchling- much smaller than the previous ones- emerges, a day later than the rest, but they're alive even if their swimming is all wobbly! It's so tiny, and obviously hatched too early with the strange split tail and how it keeps swimming to the surface for air, and they have to protect it! Now if only the little hatchling would answer their calls and not dart into hiding spots whenever they approach...

Honestly this is up to the writer lol, but I like to think that Danny's ghost form, when he finally manages to achieve it again, goes a little naga-esque. Almost like a sea snake instead of just a whispy ghost tail, which while better for swimming doesn't help his freak out over most ghost powers still not working.

Danny is just trying to survive man, maybe find other survivors, turn off this big alien gun, stop creating frost crystals when he sneezes, the usual. He doesn't need giant humanoid-esque leviathan-sized sea creatures poking around!

#DcxDP #Prompts #Subnautica #Prompts that came from a dream lol #featuring Danny's ghost form being like a naga lol #danny phantom au #Space core Danny #Khaara is like an ecto-disease like a super deadly ecto-achne that the precursors fucked around and found out with #Why are Danny's ghost powers on the fritz? Idk maybe it's his first ghost puberty or maybe it's something the Precursors did #Batfam #Supergam #Flashfam #Hell maybe all three families are there in the crater trying to pspspsps the new son/brother #Batfam are deep-water leviathans with reflective undersides & patterns who start brightly colored and get darker with age #Superfam deserve long flowing fins that mimic the red capes & also glowy bits #Flashfam are long and eel-like for speed with electrical abilities for fun #Wonderwoman is probably plated around the limbs & bits of gold-vein patterns (babies hatched in nests of clay perhaps)#Aquaman is even more fish-esque #Cyborg is a young-adult leviathan that was experimented on by the Precursors and is similar to the Warpers #Green Lanterns have transparent green fins that mimic their constructs & green bioluminescence #Danny: I am not a *baby*#Justice Leviathans: Oh my stars it's a *baby*#Billy: Just accept it there's no escape #No shipping between Danny plz to them he is literally a baby

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arcsimper5 · 6 months

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Hehe, the first kiss prompts are irresistible! 😂💙 I’ve got a request, if you find it inspiring, and if not, feel free to ignore!

How about hands on the cheeks… with whomever you are most feelin? 🥹 Just that deliciously satisfying yearning finally coming to fruition? 🙈

Fun to read if you choose to write it! 💙

AHHHH I'm so sorry it took me so long to answer this, I've been so caught up in work and writing other stuff but AHHH I FINALLY DID IT!

I went with Hunter, because it just seemed right to me, I hope you like it!

Word count: 2626 Pairing: Hunter x Reader (no name) Rating: M (blood, minor injury, peril, darkness, lots of angst, pining, premature mourning) Please let me know if I missed anything! And thank you so much for the prompt!

“Look out!”

Hunter’s warning came too late for you to respond, the ground beneath you trembling with the force of the cave-in rapidly gaining on your position.

Damn Cid, you thought to yourself, panting for breath as you sprinted forward, Omega by your side, damn her and her stupid missions. The cache she’d bought the location for had been empty, and you’d already known this mission was going to be a disaster when the rain started pouring the moment you touched down.

Now, the rocks that made up the old cave system had finally buckled with the movement of the ground thanks to the water above, beginning with small creaks and groans, quickly turning into certain death, the rocks crashing behind you creating splintering crevasses in the ground.

You first felt your foot slip as the ground opened up beneath you, Omega’s shrill shriek ringing in your ears as the sensation of falling overtook you.

It wasn’t even a conscious thought as you reached for Omega, using all of your strength to grab ahold of her jacket and throw her away from the rapidly growing hole in the ground, her eyes wide as Wrecker caught her midair and turned to run, your footing failing you.

As Omega screamed your name helplessly, Hunter turned, watching in horror as your eyes met seconds before you slipped out of view, consumed by complete and utter darkness.

Rocks and dirt crashed around you, one last deep breath taken as you landed with a sickening crunch onto hard ground, eyes closing as you waited for the end.

The groaning of rock on rock above you made you flinch, like nails on chalkboard, screaming in your ears while tiny streams of dirt and pebbles pelted your face.

Raising your hand in defense, an utterly useless motion against tonnes of rock, you chastised yourself internally, you waited. And waited.

The noise of the collapse faded, the steady flow of dirt and rocks dying out as the world around you settled, no longer tickling your face.

Daring to open your eyes, you found the exercise useless; pure, pitch black surrounded you, blinding you to your surroundings.

Swallowing hard, you dared to move a little, breath hitching as a few rocks fell from the gaps in your armour onto the floor below.

Feeling around, your hands came to rest on a large slab of rock above you, tracing the jagged edges to the sides of the crevasse; it had been caught mere feet above you by sheer luck, your lungs burning as you inhaled a shuddering breath, barely holding back manic laughter.

You’d survived the fall, and narrowly avoided being crushed by the falling rocks, but now you were faced with another problem; escaping your new prison.

Slowing your breathing, your thoughts drifted to Hunter, Omega and the others, tears burning in your eyes.

They were safe. They’d made it out. But Hunter’s scream of your name when he’d seen you fall, the expression in his eyes as he’d watched helplessly… it only added to the regret building inside you.

You should have told him. You should have been honest. You should have admitted you loved him months ago, when you figured it out yourself, a night you’d spent watching stars with him on top of the Marauder, your head laid on his chest as meteors scorched through the inky blackness overhead.

His warmth had radiated through every inch of your body, sending pleasant shivers through you as his hands ran up and down your arms, trying to warm you even more.

You’d come so close to kissing him then, your eyes locked with each others, flickering down to his lips and his to yours, a question in his gaze you wanted so badly to answer.

But as you were about to meet, eyes fluttering closed, preparing to brush your lips together, you jolted apart at Wrecker’s shout as he came out to relieve Hunter of watch, clambering up onto the roof with you and joining in your star watching.

And now… Now you might never get the chance.

The thought awoke something in you, some deep determination you didn’t even realise you possessed.

You were not going to die like this. You were going to find a way out, back to your friends, you family. And you were going to tell Hunter how you felt.

As you nodded to yourself, a soft sound floated through the darkness, the loss of your vision enhancing your other senses to an almost painful degree. Holding your breath, you tilted your head slightly, hope flaring in your heart; it was water… Running water!

If you could find your way to it, there may be an exit to the outside.

With one last firm nod, you steeled yourself, drawing a deep, shuddering breath as you scrambled to your feet and began feeling your way along the walls of the cave, following the sound.

*-*-*

“You must calm down, Hunter,” Tech ordered sternly as he watched Wrecker lift their brother away from the bloodied rocks that blocked what was once the entrance to the cave they had just escaped from, the sergeant’s limbs flailing wildly as he fought against the grip holding him, tears streaming down his face.

“No, no! I need… we need to get her, to get her out!”

Wrecker’s expression was one of pure anguish as he sat Hunter down on a rock next to Omega the young girl’s legs pulled up to her chest, her body rocking as she cried silent tears of her own.

“Your current emotional state is of no use to anyone,” Tech informed him flatly, bending down as Wrecker stepped away, his hands held out as if trying to placate Hunter, like he might bolt back to the rocks at any moment, “we need to think about this clearly and rationally.”

Hunter shook his head, hands trembling as Tech tutted, grabbing his medkit from one of the pouches on his belt and examining his brother’s tattered fingers, the nails broken and ragged from clawing desperately at the rocks, small red rivulets dropping onto the floor below.

“I should, should have been there,” Hunter gasped, wincing as Tech sprayed his wounds with disinfectant, quickly adding bacta and beginning to wrap his fingers one by one, “I should… should have stayed close. She… she’s…”

Wrecker’s breath hitched as he collapsed on the rock Omega was sat on, shaking his head.

“Don’t say it, Hunter,” he pleaded, opening his arm to his sister as she let out a sob, crawling into his lap seeking comfort, “please… don’t…”

“It’s my fault,” Omega sniffed wetly from his arms, every breath hitching as she cried into his chest, “if I hadn’t fallen, if she hadn’t come back for me…”

Behind them, Echo crested the small hill, coming back into view from his trip to the Marauder, a seismic scanner hung around his neck by a frayed canvas strap. He paused as he heard Omega’s sobbing, taking in the sight of his brothers, his jaw clenching.

“Hey, what’s with the tears?” he called sternly, moving to stand in front of them as Tech finished with Hunter’s bandages, the sergeant staring at the ground in despair. “I thought we were getting ready for a rescue?”

“She’s gone,” Hunter croaked, his tone utterly broken, “I… I can’t hear her. Can’t… can’t feel her heartbeat…”

He’d been straining himself since the moment he’d lost sight of her, the fear in her eyes scorched forever into his memory. The settling earth murmured beneath them, the clouds above swelled and flowed across the sky, the sound of a small river a few kilometres away drifted through the air, but that was it.

Every one of the Batch’s heartbeats rang in his ears, but not hers.

Echo frowned at him, waving the seismic scanner in annoyance.

“Why do you think I’ve got this?” he questioned, frustrated as he moved towards Omega, crouching down in front of her. “The rock is too thick for Hunter to hear through. She might have fallen in deep, but she’s tough, like us. We’ll find her using this, and we’ll get her out, yeah?”

Tech frowned, rolling his eyes at his brother.

“The likelihood of her having survived a fall and the subsequent rockslide, along with the risks presented by exposure and dehydration make her chances of survival…”

“Enough,” Echo snapped back at the engineer, snarling as tears conftinued to drip onto the dusty ground at Hunter’s feet, the cyborg letting out a sigh. “We’ve survived worse odds than this. We’ve been through the ringer, and we’re all still here. We’re not giving up, you hear? We’ll get her back.”

Omega nodded, sniffing away her tears and wiping furiously at her face, steeling her expression as met Echo’s gaze, nodding to the seismic scanner.

“I want to help,” she croaked, “tell me how.”

Echo smiled weakly at her, his own emotions welling in his chest. He knew the chances were slim, but so were his chances of survival the Citadel. And yet here he was.

“Atta girl,” he smiled, jerking his head back as he looked at Wrecker. “Tech will come with me. Wreck, stay with Hunter. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Gotcha,” Wrecker managed, forcing a smile as he let Omega down from his lap, clapping a large hand on her shoulder in comfort. “Echo’s right, kid. We’ll find her, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay,” Omega replied with a weak smile, fighting back more tears as she latched herself to Echo’s side, the cyborg ignoring the pointed look from Tech as they moved towards the cave entrance, firing up the scanner.

Hunter remained silent as Wrecker came to sat next to him, unsure of what to do. He’d never seen Hunter in a state like this, almost catatonic.

“Ya… ya doin’ okay, Hunter?” he prompted carefully, frowning when his brother huffed in annoyance. “Look, I know it looks bad, but Echo’s right! We’ve been through a lot. She’s tough. If anyone could survive…”

“I should have told her,” Hunter interrupted him, Wrecker drawing back a little to look over Hunter, confused by the statement.

“Uh… Told her what?”

“How I felt,” Hunter breathed, closing his eyes tightly, more fat tears falling into the dirt, staining the earth with his grief. “I… I had so many chances… and I… I couldn’t. She deserves better than a clone. Better than me. I let her down. I’ve done it again, let her fall…”

When he finally looked up, meeting Wrecker’s gaze, there was an utterly broken look in his eyes, one that caused Wrecker’s throat to tighten uncomfortably.

“I love her, Wreck… I love her, and I… I didn’t… I’ll never get to tell her. I… I’m so stupid…”

Falling back into silence, Hunter looked up to the sky, drawing in deep shuddering breaths.

“Ya can’t blame yourself, Hunter,” Wrecker tried desperate, laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “she knew what she was doing. She saved ‘Mega.”

“And I should have been there,” Hunter hissed through gritted teeth, anger growing from his sadness, “I should have…”

A sudden splashing sound caught his attention, distant, but clear.

Wrecker began to speak again, but quickly fell silent as Hunter shushed him, standing up and closing his eyes, listening intently.

Tech, Echo and Omega were still at the cave entrance, conversing lowly, the soft hum of the seismic sensor fading into the background as he focused on the faint sound in the distance, the sound echoing over the sand covered hills.

The splashing sounded again, this time accompanied by a gasp and a cough, spluttering and more deep breaths, a faint heartbeat vibrating through the air.

Hunter didn’t even speak, he simply opened his eyes and ran, ignoring Wrecker’s shout after him. He heard Echo, Tech and Omega call as well, their footsteps quickly joining to pursue him, but it didn’t matter.

Not when he could feel that familiar thumping, not when he could hear the clacking of plastoid.

He didn’t know how far he ran, nor did he care about the way his lungs burned with the effort, his legs trembling by the time he crested the hill just above where the sound was coming from, soft words beginning to float through the air, unmistakable.

“Havoc 1, come in? Havoc 2? Echo? Anyone?”

With one last push, he made it to the ridge, his knees giving out as he caught sight of her, the familiar outline, scent and voice overwhelming him.

*-*-*

A gasp of your name behind you made you jump as you pocketed your drenched comm, tutting in annoyance as water ran out of it, the electronics completely fried.

Wondering if you’d imagined it, you turned quickly, you breath hitching in your throat as you saw Hunter kneeled in the sand, his eyes wide, tears rolling down his cheeks as he panted for breath. He had obviously been sprinting, beads of sweat trailing down his forehead, his hair mussed, bandana askew.

“Hunter,” you breathed, the relief in your voice palpable. Scrambling towards him through the ankle deep water, you ignored the sting of the cuts and bruises that littered your body.

The escape from the cave system had been terrifying, being swept down an unground rapid system after wading through the river for some time, clutching at the walls in total darkness. And yet, you’d made it out, battered and beaten, but alive.

As Hunter called your name again, his voice broken with emotion, you scrambled up the bank, tears beginning to spill down your own cheeks as you got closer, his hands reaching out to you, as if he wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real.

Within moments, you were out of the water, your clothes and hair still sopping wet, body trembling with adrenaline and cold, mere steps from him when he grabbed out for you, pulling you to your knees in front of him. A sob left his chest as he pressed his forehead to yours, uncaring of the water that still dripped from every inch of you, his hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs resting on your cheekbones.

“C-Cyare,” he choked, closing his eyes, breathing you in, “I’m so, I’m so kriffing sorry. I should have been there, I should have been with you…”

“Hunter, don’t,” you pleaded thickly, leaning into his embrace, pure relief rushing through every fibre of your being. “I did what I had to, I needed to get Omega out, I…”

Your words were cut off as he tilted his head back, his lips finding yours, crashing your mouths together with a passion that caught you off guard. You whimpered into his mouth as he clutched at you, fingertips digging into your jaw, holding you so tightly it might bruise, like if he let go you might float away.

Moaning as he slid his tongue over your bottom lip, he took full advantage, tilting his head to the side to deepen the kiss, your own hands moving to cord through his hair, remaining tangled in the thick, sweat soaked curls even as you parted, both panting for breath.

“Should have done that months ago,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours with every word, his eyes focusing on yours, warm swirling pools of molten chocolate causing a swirling deep in your gut, “I should never have waited. I… I love you, cyare… Forgive me?”

As the roar of the Marauder’s engines drifted through the air, the ship growing closer with every passing moment, you simply sighed as you pecked his lips again, tears of joy painting your cheeks.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Hunter,” you reassured him, pressing your foreheads together once more, a shiver running through you both. “And I love you too.”

#star wars #the bad batch #tbb #star wars the clone wars #tbb hunter x reader #hunter x reader #tcw #clone wars #sergeant hunter x reader #tbb fanfic #first kiss prompt #for freesia-writes #DaniWrites

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girlactionfigure · 4 months

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THURSDAY HERO: Benjamin Levin

Killing Nazis at age 14

Benjamin Levin was a young resistance fighter who, as one of the notorious “Avengers,” spent World War II hiding in a Lithuanian forest, emerging only to kill Nazis or bomb their supply chains.

Benjamin was born in Vilna in 1927. His father Chaim was a successful businessman and the family lived a comfortable life. In 1941, however, Chaim was tipped off that Nazi Germany was about to invade Lithuania. As Jews, that meant the Levins’ days were numbered. Chaim quickly sold his business at a loss, used the proceeds to buy weapons, and went into hiding with his family.

At the time, Benjamin was a 14 year old juvenile delinquent who’d started smoking at age 8 and was member of a street gang. After the German invasion, he chose not to stay with his parents in their hiding place, instead joining the fierce resistance group known as the “Avengers” led by Abba Kovner. Benjamin was an immediate asset to the group due to his unique combination of exceptional bravery and diminutive size. His baby face and unassuming appearance enabled him to avoid attracting attention, even in enemy territory.

Hidden in a Lithuanian forest, the teenager and his fellow Avengers killed Nazis, bombed their transportation lines, and smuggled life-saving food and medicine into the Jewish ghettoes. It was later estimated that the brave band of guerrilla fighters had killed 212 Nazis. Their policy was “take no prisoners.” In 1944, the Jewish fighters helped the Russian army liberate Vilna, after which they marched through town looking for Nazi collaborators to execute.

Benjamin’s parents survived the war in hiding, but when they returned to Vilna to reclaim their home, their former neighbors murdered them on the spot. With nothing to keep them in Europe, Benjamin and his sister moved to pre-state Israel, where he joined the Jewish militant group Irgun, fighting the British occupation of Palestine. Benjamin was in charge of helping Jewish survivors in Europe relocate to Israel. Benjamin’s street smarts and people skills served him well as he traveled through Turkey and Syria with European Holocaust survivors.

The Soviet army did not appreciate Benjamin’s work rescuing Jews from behind the Iron Curtain, and in 1947 he was arrested and sent to a Siberian gulag. After a year, Benjamin was released from the gulag and hitchhiked his way to Southern Europe, where he reconnected with the Irgun in Italy. The organization arranged for him to enroll in college and earn a degree in mechanical engineering. He was assigned to the engine room of a ship that sailed around the world, collecting money, weapons and volunteers to fight for the Jewish state.

The ship was called Altalena, and headed to Israel with hundreds of Holocaust survivors on board, as well as Jewish volunteers from around the world, and a cache of heavy ammunition secretly donated by France. When the Altalena reached Tel Aviv and tried to dock, the ship came under fire by the Haganah, a rival military group. Under machine-gun fire, young Benjamin leapt off the ship and swam to shore, then snuck into the country unnoticed. He had been through so much in the previous several years, had lived so many lives and assumed so many identities, that he actually forgot his own birthday. Later, he decided to make Passover – the festival of freedom – his official birthday.

Benjamin met his wife Sara, a Hungarian immigrant, in Israel, and ironically she was serving with the Haganah when they fired on the Altalena. Together they had two children, and moved to New York in 1967, where Benjamin worked as a mechanic and owned a gas station. In the 1990’s, Benjamin was interviewed extensively by Steven Spielberg as part of the Shoah Foundation oral history project.

For decades, Benjamin was an in-demand public speaker at New York high schools, where he spoke about the Holocaust and his remarkable life. Toward the end of his life, Benjamin was unable to speak, but he insisted on continuing his school appearances, with his son Chaim – named for Benjamin’s father – doing the speaking for him. Chaim remembered how much Benjamin loved interacting with students, and described his father as having “an enormous amount of energy and joy and love.”

Benjamin Levin died on April 13, 2020 at age 93. The last survivor of the Avengers, Benjamin died during Passover – his adopted birthday.

For heroically fighting Nazis and saving European Jews, and for educating generations of New York schoolchildren about the Holocaust, we honor Benjamin Levin as this week’s Thursday Hero.

#Thursday Hero

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dailyadventureprompts · 8 months

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Villain: The Cult of the Wyrm Eternal

Any adventurer, alchemist, or awestruck child can tell you that there is power in the body of a dragon, and like all sources of power it's only a mater of time before someone comes along to try to capitalize on it.

Enter the Cult of the Wyrm Eternal, which emerges from long buried vaults to dissect the bodies of dragonkind like flesh eating beetles. The cult originated from a time beyond remembering following the teachings of a profane text known as the Har'Khon Libram, which survives into the modern day as a sort of how-to manual for those seeking forbidden knowledge allowing them to revive the cult's practices and discover its caches of lost power.

It's in this manner that the cult has survived millennia and numerous purges at the hands of heroes, holy orders, and oligarchs: With each iteration caching away knowledge and resources for acolytes they will never meet.

Hooks:

A prominent dragonborn hero and ally of the party disappears, leaving behind few clues and a mystery to solve. Lacking a true dragon to carve up for ingredients the cult abducted the dragonborn and plans on sacrificing them after a gauntlet of strange rituals intended to suffuse their flesh with power. Its a race against the clock for the party to find their friend before there’s nothing left of them but a grisly scattering of magical items bound for the cult’s armoury.

The local warlord has a new pet, a young dragon provided to him by the cult in exchange for his protection and material support. Tales of him riding out to wreak destruction from its back send shivers of terror through the populace. What a surprise then when the party encounter it in the wild, rampaging aimlessly after slipping her bonds. Brainwashed by cult doctrine the parry find themselves negotiating with a creature with the drives of a caged tiger, the volatility of an abused teenager, and the destructive potential of an artillery battery. Talking her down will be as difficult as diffusing a bomb, but they might just come away with important information or even a new ally should they help her evade recapture.

Using knowledge purloined from the mysteries of the mother hydra herself a cell of the Wyrm Eternal has been working on a ritual to create a true dragon, experimenting with drakes, basilisks and other reptilian monsters, filling the wilderness with bounty worthy monsters that will inevitably bring the party crashing into their lair.

Background: The knowledge contained within the Har'Khon Libram is cursed, part of a scheme by the book's original author in an attempt to evade both death and those who hunt unlawful immortality. Reading the book not only imparts the authors knowledge upon the prospective cultist, but also a vestige of their cosiouness, which steers them towards the same course of action that has kept the cult alive for so long: constructing more vaults, hoarding draconic power, and propogating the Libram's knowledge so that the infection can spread through time.

Hidden in the depths of each vault are tablets of further tainted lore, which causes the seed of malign presence within the Wyrm cultist's mind to blossom, opening their mind to the space between life and death and allowing their patron's thoughts to swirl into their own. In this way the party can end up fighting the same villain through many proxies, the unseen master of the Wyrm eternal studying them as they cut down vessel after vessel before formulating a counteroffence.

Dungeon Dressing:

Wyrm Eternal vaults vary by the culture that originally constructed them, but are always in remote, sheltered areas that could endure largescale devastation. Their entrances are hidden and warded against intrusion, protected by magical cyphers that can usually only be broken with aid from the Har'Khon Libram. Vaults can also contain these doors within, locking away the greatest treasures until the acolytes have further tainted their thoughts with the Libram's curse.

Undead are ubiquitous within dungeons claimed by the Wyrm Eternal, ranging from simple servitors to looming guardians to dragonbone infused war machines just waiting to be unleashed on the cult's enemies all with green corpsefire flickering in their heads. Access to these undead armouries and the arsenal of magical items that come with them are one of the primary drivers for individuals to become cultists in the first place.

Each vault will likewise contain preserved pieces of dragongore, ranging from single skulls placed on altars to whole cellars filled with blood magically preserved in clay or glass vessels. If a cult cell reached full operation, it's likely to have atleast one mummified corpse preserved in an onsite tomb, it's vital organs ( and perhaps a few spares) preserved in canopic jars waiting nearby.

Art 1 Art 2

#cultists #villain #villain cult #mid level #rescue mission #undead #dragon #occult #cursed item #curse #dungeon tomb #Necromancer #warfare

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siriusleee · 5 months

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i. hidden caches

Zombie Apocalypse AU | SIMON RILEY x f!READER

↳ SUMMARY: The world is trying to knit itself back together after fracturing apart. You're trying to put yourself back together with it; Simon Riley is just trying to stay alive. ↳ WORD COUNT: 2.2K ↳ TAGS: mentions of cannibalism, mentions of shooting things, mentions of dying. smut to come. canon typical violence to come. additional tags to come as the story progresses. female reader. no mentions of "your name". reader is given a nickname later on. nc-17. ↳ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to the lovely anon who asked for a scene from an apocalypse au, and this idea was born. If you'd like to donate to my Ko-Fi (my bed frame broke this week and a new one was $200 I didn't have), I would appreciate it. ↳ TAG LIST: There will not be a tag list for this story, as Tumblr has issues with letting me tag people. To get notifications of updates, please subscribe on AO3 or turn on notifications for my blog.

additional chapters | ao3

The ending had come quicker than anyone expected. The epidemics and endemics and pandemics of the years past had given false confidence to everyone. We survived the last thing, the news reporters had said, gray building beneath their eyes, and we can survive this. Behind them images of towns being devoured played.

Bodies can decompose in as little as nine days. The first to go is the soft tissue: the eyes, the tongue, the soft flesh of the cheeks. When bacteria and insects are introduced, the flesh breaks down faster. Bones take longer - sometimes years to fully wear away into the dust that collects underfoot. But these things - whatever turned them kept them covered in a thin layer of adipocere to protect them from the elements. They kept shuffling along long past the time when they should have reverted back to a primordial soup where they lay.

But they still decomposed. The trick was to stay ahead of them, away from the gnashing teeth that transmitted the virus, away from the hands and feet that never seemed to tire. So few people could. Whole towns and cities were decimated, felled beneath the hordes of horror that ambled slowly past, swallowed up by the feet that didn’t stop moving until they wore themselves down to stubs, which were them pulled forward by hands and knees that never tired.

But yours did. The familiar path towards the north was more overgrown this year than in the past. For a few years, there had been wary companions, eyes that lingered until the snow and frost rolled in to freeze the Biters where they stood. But as the years wanned on the crowd grew smaller and smaller until you only caught hints of others moving north: horse prints, trash left behind, the occasional Biter left decomposing in the bushes.

This year there was nothing. Either you had moved too early or there was no one left. The latter is too terrifying, so you push it away and think about whatever groups may wander through here after you.

The woods loom tall above you, the snow that fell earlier in the morning just barely dusting the branches above your head. None of it had reached the leaves that are too waterlogged from recent rains to crunch beneath your feet. A blister is rubbing itself raw at your ankle; you know that if you don’t stop to treat it, it will be unbearable tomorrow, but you brush the thought off. You need to reach the marker before nightfall.

The markers had appeared between one trip north and your trip back down.

West Village - 20km

The first year it had appeared left the group you were with in a tizzy. The group had fractured down the middle. If all of you found each other, how hard was it to think that a larger group had finally banned together? Civilization needed to rebuild eventually.

You didn’t trust the shaky scrawl that printed the words, so you had been with the group that refused to go. The next year there was another marker tacked to the first.

Body snatchers. Beware.

It was amazing to you: how well rumors could start and spread without phones or the internet. For months, every person you and your group came across would give the same warning, and ask you all the same questions. Have you seen the body snatchers? Are you the body snatchers?

Humans turned cannabolids. Farms where people were forced to reproduce. Spits with babies roasting above the fire. You wanted to think that it was the stuff of fiction.

In the third year, there was another argument. The group cleaved in half again when the promise of civilization reared its head. Your group had divided again at the markers, disappearing into the thick woods.

Almost no one survived the winter that year. You’d held the hands of all the dying and covered them under a thick blanket of snow before dividing their possessions up between the remainder of the group. In the end, there were just three of you. And when the winter rolled away you all broke apart, whatever ties that held you all together broken by the cold.

The next year you were the only one in your camp.

The markers had become a sort of prayer to you, that one day you’d meet someone else on the road - some scream and shout that there were others out there even if you were too wary to speak to them.

But it’s been two years - the crude paint of the West Village sign fading, the body snatchers warning falling to the earth unceremoniously. The wood started to rot.

And you were utterly alone. Around you, the sound of nature getting ready for the winter fills in the ever-present silence that usually surrounds you. It’s been weeks since you’d last seen a person: a lone traveler moving in the opposite direction as you. And you’d hid from them, worried that they were the sort of feral people turned into when they were alone for too long - a body snatcher. Worried that you were that kind of feral.

You know the markers when you approach them like your body’s memorized the number of steps it takes to reach them. Your chest thumps as you approach the spot where they should be nailed to a tree, growing taller into the air each year. Your boots falter against the wet leaves as you approach the place.

The markers have been repainted. Or at least the West Village one has. This time it’s nailed to a post in the ground; you bend down to inspect the dirt around the post. It’s packed underneath a thick layer of loam - whoever put it up must have put it up much earlier in the year. The thought sends a shiver down your spine. You wonder if any members of your former group are still there.

For half a second, you think about following the arrow, but before the thought can fully form in your head, you let your feet carry you forward on the path. Just ahead is the rest area you’ve always used. Your tree, one with branches high enough that the only things who can see you are the birds whose nests you disturb, erupts from the ground ahead of you.

You climb up like you were taught; throwing your rope onto the first branch you can physically reach and lash it to yourself. It’s more difficult to climb the tree with your pack and bow, but you don’t want to risk leaving it behind for anyone who may come through after you. When you reach the point where the rope reaches the tree, you pull yourself onto the branch. The blister on your ankle is screaming, but you don’t pause until your hammock is secure and your harness is wrapped around you. The cool wind cuts through the thin fabric of the hammock, but it’s not too cold as you peel back your socks to reveal an angry raw spot crawling across your ankle.

Too tired to do much more, you slide your other boot off, tying them together and then to your pack. The gentle sway of the trees makes your eyelids heavy, and you let yourself drift off into the first good night's sleep you’ve had in a while.

The bitter cold wakes you up, the wind moving your hammock back and forth gently. The darkness spins above you, clouds backlit by the moon. Not for the first time you think about how easy it used to be, curled up with another warm body beneath the thick blankets - how easy it was to switch on the percolator in the morning and wrap your hands around a warm cup of coffee, how easy -

You press the heel of your hands into your eyes and try to press away the thoughts that are racing through your brain. Remembering the before drives people crazy; you’ve seen how it can eat people up and you refuse to let it eat at you. So you pull your thermal blanket closer around yourself and try to get some sleep.

But the sun rises earlier than you expected and extra sleep never comes.

It doesn’t take long for you to pack what little you have back in your pack and descend back down. At the bottom you dig out the little bit of jerky you still have saved from the summer months; it’s disgusting, but it’s enough to push you forward to the next place.

You walk the entire time with your bow in your hand, waiting for some animal to run out in front of you and meet its mark, but the forest is silent today as you push towards the next stop in your journey north, a small nameless village secluded away from the rest of civilization - just good enough to sleep in for the night.

The sun has just started to sink below the treeline when the village finally springs into view. The blister on your ankle has popped, and you think you can feel blood rushing into your sock, but you don’t dare stop and check; you don’t want the scent of fresh blood to attract any Biters that may be hidden away for now. Your fingers cramp around the bow and your stomach growls. You’d picked a smooth rock up from the ground hours earlier and popped it into your mouth to try and trick yourself into thinking you were eating something, but it hadn’t worked. If anything it made your hunger worse.

There was salvation coming - on your second year coming through here you’d snuck off from the group and buried a cache. Each year you did your best not to touch it unless it was to refill something inside of it, but this year you knew you’d have to empty it.

You crunch over tire tracks that crisscross over each other on the main road into the village; they’re dry enough that you know whoever managed to scrape up enough gas to drive in and out was gone, but the thought of someone driving up on you made you nervous, and make your steps quicken. If people were driving through here then you needed to be gone before sunlight tomorrow.

Weary, you push yourself towards the back half of the village to a little two-story you know well. It had been the same house your group, and then yourself, slept in each year on your way to the north camp; in the back, beneath an overturned chair that was slowly rotting with time, your little cache was stored.

You shoulder your way through the half-rotted back gate and freeze. The chair is tossed to the side, rusted parts puzzle pieced across the ground. And directly where your cache had been buried is a hole, smoothed over from time and rain.

You could cry if you had any water left in you to cry. So instead you walk numbly into the house - habit making you click the lock on the door even though it’s long since stopped working. The same thick dust that was here last year is still across the floor, so thick your steps don’t even disturb it. You pass through the living area and up the steps. On the landing, you don’t pause - to the left of you is the nursery that’s always been empty. The first few times you’d stopped here the sight of the broken-down white crib and sage walls made something ache inside of you, and you’d learned not to look. It’s better to just let things alone and try to stifle your imagination.

The attic ladder swings down with ease and you test your weight on the rungs before climbing up - any broken bones and you may as well just shoot yourself where you lay. It creaks ominously beneath you but keeps as you clamber through the hole. You let yourself collapse on the floor beside the ladder after pulling it up, and wrapping a rope around the ladder to keep anyone from pulling it down in the night. All at once, hunger and exhaustion pull you down towards the floor.

You’ll have to shoot something tomorrow and check the well for fresh water. There are still to many miles before you make it north enough to be safe for the winter, and you won’t make it without water and food.

You try to distract yourself from the cramping of hunger and how little water is left in your jug by peeling your boots off. As you’d thought, the blister had split and bled, but thankfully your sock had caught most of it.

You clean up the best you can in the dusty light filtering in from the little window that looks out the back garden and wonder who could have known the cache was there. An old group member who spotted you checking it in the past? Or was it a lucky guess, someone who came through after you and spotted the freshly disturbed dirt and came to the right inference?

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter as you pull your thermal blanket from your pack and lay down, but you can’t quite convince yourself of that lie.

#my fics #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost cod x reader #ghost #simon riley x you #cod x reader #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod mwii #mw2 #ghost mw2 #cod ghost #zombie au #simon riley zombie au

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