So glad you're here!! ^_^ I am Cali, a fanfic writer (35, she/her, pansexual) who creates stories in the COD fandom and most of them are full of smut.
This entire blog is MDNI! No exceptions.
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Cali's Ghost Fics
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Cali's Long Fics - multi chapter; 10k+ words
Cali's Dark Fics - graphic violence; non-con; or character death
Cali's Gangbang Fics - TF141 gangbangs/group sex dynamics
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pardon my absence, I spent the last few days holed up at my bf's because his family can actually afford air conditioning. I had to come home today because I work tomorrow and I started melting the moment I opened the door to my room. well wishes to everyone dealing with this heatwave <3
You yawned and stretched, leaning back against the couch cushions. Despite his claims that his kitchen skills were only mediocre, Nikolai made a wonderful meal. Chicken kiev, grilled asparagus, and focaccia, all done to perfection. It had been a while since you’d eaten until you were full, and your body was still adjusting to having proper nutrition after being deprived for so long. You were damn near in a food coma, meanwhile Nikolai was only mildly sluggish. You could audibly hear his back pop as he straightened in his recliner before rising from his seat and taking your dishes into the kitchen.
“Do you want anything to drink, milaya?” he called, rifling through the cupboards for a glass. You peered down at the table. You still had a fairly full glass of water, thanks to Nikolai constantly refilling it.
“No, I still have water,” you replied, picking the glass up and swirling the ice in it for emphasis. Nikolai laughed.
“No, no. I am asking if you want alcohol, глупый,” he said. Alcohol wasn’t a luxury you’d had the chance to try, it wasn’t like you had the money or time to spend on it. But something about even just the thought made your throat go dry.
“Um, I’ll pass. Thanks,” you faltered, tone wavering ever so slightly.
“Are you sure? I have some of those fruit flavored drinks you young people like,” he insisted. He settled back into his seat, a glass in one hand and a rather large bottle of clear liquid in the other. Slowly, he poured a small sip into the glass and slid it in your direction. It wasn’t much, less than half a shot poured over ice. Yet it was slightly intimidating, nonetheless. You tentatively reached a hand out before pulling it back.
“I think I’ll pass. Thank you,” you replied. Nikolai shrugged before tossing his head back and taking a swig straight from the bottle. The sight knocked the wind from you, the way he chugged it like it was water. Maybe it was, with how easily it went down for the man. After a second, he set the bottle down with a hearty laugh. He smiled at you, then furrowed his brow like he was thinking. After a second, he perked up.
“Ah, before I start forgetting. I got you something,” he strained as he reached around the chair before pulling out a gift bag with a single sheet of tissue paper across the top. “Forgive me. I am not the most gift-givey person.”
It was a fairly big bag. You picked it up. It wasn’t that heavy either. You could feel Nikolai watching you as you assessed the package. Finally, you removed the tissue paper and pulled out the item. It was a brand-new laptop. One of the newer ones on the market, you recognized it from the late nights you’d spent hunched over your old hunk of junk allowing yourself a small respite to dream of having something better. You swear you felt your heart stop for a second as your body went rigid.
“Is all set up for you! I even put some of those silly computer games women like on there,” he beamed, clearly patting himself on the back for such a well-thought gift. You, meanwhile, were still trying to grapple with the reality of holding a $2,000 piece of hardware and it actually being yours. With a featherlight touch, you opened it. Immediately, you were greeted with a desktop with every game neatly alphabetized down the side. Frog Detective 1-3, Hello Kitty Island Adventure, Minecraft, Paleo Pines, Potion Craft, Slime Rancher, Sticky Business, Turnip Boy Commits…Tax Evasion? Bit of an oddball choice for the last one but you weren’t gonna complain. You opened your mouth to speak when Nikolai cut you off.
“Don’t you ask how much you owe me.”
“…I thought you wanted me to clean and stuff?”
Nikolai huffed like it was the most obvious thing.
“You are not here to be maid, you are allowed entertainment. Work is not all there is to life. Not anymore, дорогая.”
The sun had gone down 5, maybe 8 hours ago? You had no clue, you’d had your face in the screen since you laid in bed. Your host was generous enough to give such a wonderful gift and you were going to put it to good use. You were feverishly shaking the mouse back and forth, trying to make a light potion on Potion Craft when a rumbling sounded out in the darkness. You peeled your eyes away from the screen, trying to hone in on the sound. Distant thunder, maybe some wild animal? It wasn’t that important. What was important was getting the damn recipe right without breaking the bottle for the fiftieth time. You grasped the mouse, ready to resume, but there it was again, a low tone that you almost couldn’t parse. It had to be something inside. Maybe the furnace was having a bit of trouble starting. Something compelled you to check it out. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, careful not to tangle yourself this time, and started down the hall, You had to use the wall as guidance, not wanting to risk turning on the light. Eventually, your eyes adjusted to the darkness, and as you reached the living room, you saw it.
Nikolai, passed out in his recliner, empty bottle discarded on the floor and a half-full one dangerously close to the edge of the table. The rumbling was his snoring, muffled mostly by his slouched posture. Despite the drinking clutter, he looked oddly peaceful. But you just couldn’t leave him like that. Gently, you gathered the bottles, throwing the empty one out and setting the other on the counter. Then, you grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and gingerly draped it over his front. Despite how silently you thought you were moving, Nikolai stirred. His eyelids fluttered and his head lolled to the side, the faintest smile on his features.
“Спасибо, моя любовь. Ты такой милый,” he slurred, accent thick and words marred by the tangling of sleep and alcohol. You had not a single clue what was said, but you smiled back. You gave a polite nod before returning to your room.
Been working on this masterlist for more than a year and would love to share these masterpieces with you all. NONE of the following fics are written by me, this is just my collection of some the most noteworthy fics I’ve read over the years that are forever on my mind and in my heart
Each author is credited and I recommend you check them out and give them a follow if you enjoy their work as well! Fics will continue to get added regularly, and link to this masterlist will be at the bottom of my own masterlist- M 🫶🏻
Tags/Warnings
☁️ Fluff
🌙 Mature / suggestive
🌕 Adults only / smut (18+ MDNI)
⭐️ Personal favourites
Up ahead: Call of Duty, The Last of Us, Star Wars, Narcos, The Pitt, Animal Kingdom, Superman
Call of Duty
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley
‘Indigo’ by @slater-baby ☁️ 🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “Ghost didn't like to dwell on the past. Whatever happened, happened. He left Manchester, covered his face, took a new name. To him, it was little more than moving on from the past, from all the blood and gore of his family life. But then on some bleary, Tuesday morning, you somehow stand before him: his ex from before he was Ghost.”
‘I Feel It In My Bones’ by De_caffeinated on ao3 ☁️ 🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “Bones is a quiet combat medic with a troubled past and enough knowledge to fill a library. As whispers of a new bioweapon begin to spread across Europe, she is assigned to Task Force 141. Still haunted from her previous deployment, she thinks she can only count on witnessing new horrors, spilled blood, and the sound of dogtags clinking against the ground. What she isn't expecting is finding a team to count on, or the way her heart quickens in the presence of a certain skull-faced man.”
‘Ghosts & Mirages’ by @stararch4ngelqueen ☁️ 🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “After a dangerous encounter leading towards your own capture and torture, you; Codename "Mirage", went from one of the best snipers on the task force with a bubbly sense of humor and strong wit, to a stone-cold demeanor woman who let her vendetta get the better of her, almost costing her the lives of her teammates. Ghost wasn't too happy about this, and based off experience, he refuses to let your mind head down that path any further.”
‘Mail Order Bride’ by @beebymoonlight ☁️🌙🌕
‘Squeeze Me, I Squeak’ by Charlie_M on ao3 ☁️ 🌙 🌕 “While your interactions with Lieutenant Riley started out cold and tense, he's been warming up to your secondary specialty. Apparently, you make for a great stress-toy.”
‘Heartless’ by @thevampiremarie ☁️ 🌙 🌕 “You need health insurance. Ghost is sick of sharing living quarters with the rest of the 141. Soap, your childhood friend, thinks the two of you can fix each other’s problems.”
‘Give you the gun (blow me away)’ by endymions on ao3 🌙 🌕 “In the back streets of Prague, you watch through the scope of your rifle as your target—one of Makarov’s inner circle men, the man you’ve been tailing for two and a half weeks—gets his throat viciously slit from behind.”
‘In The Walls’ by @theorist-fox ☁️ 🌙 🌕 “Simon fucks his Sergeant until he’s not sure whether it’s sex or love.”
‘In Limbo’ by @ilium-ilia 🌙🌕 “Joining the mafia is no different than selling a soul to the devil, and it’s something Simon Riley is all too willing to do if it means keeping his family safe. It isn’t until he meets you- the girl who runs from everything- that he realizes there are much worse things to get caught up in.”
‘You’re Drunk’ by @howyoulovelikeweaponskill 🌙🌕“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
‘Through Me (The Flood)’ by @peachesofteal ☁️🌙🌕
‘Splinter’ by @bitterrfruit 🌙🌕 “Your car breaks down in a snowstorm. A crude stranger takes you in from the cold.”
‘Houndtooth’ by @bitterrfruit 🌙🌕 “You're the pampered wife of a russian warlord. Ghost hunts you down and finds a use for you.”
Captain John Price
‘Squeak ‘Em If You Got ‘Em’ by Charlie_M on Ao3 ☁️ 🌙 “You belong to Task Force 141. Task Force 141 belongs to Captain Price. It's simple math - but math was never your strong suit.”
‘Landscape with honey’ by @ceilidho ☁️🌙🌕“You've been living in this town for almost six months; it's only now that John's picked up on your scent.”
‘Ursa Major’ by @the-californicationist ☁️ 🌙 🌕 “Lumberjack John Price, retired British Army captain, owns and operates 5,000 acres of selective harvesting land for his logging company. Unfortunately, you work for an environmental firm as a consultant, and it’s your job to tell him he has to stop logging at once since his harvest is encroaching on rare bear habitats. But, something’s not quite right about the bears, or about these lumberjacks, and you’re determined to get to the bottom of it.”
‘I Wonder How Many Days I’ll Bleed’ by thethingsthatimake on Ao3 “Captain John Price is forced to lay low, so Laswell sends him to a secluded home in Alaska - inhabited by you.”
TF141
‘Cherry Red, Crimson Blood’ by @soaps-mohawk ☁️ 🌙 🌕 “Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least that’s what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it. It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, you’re hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks. As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives. Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all.”
König
‘Trapper, Keeper’ by @tinypandacakes ☁️🌙 🌕 “A dark, hooded figure emerged from the dense snowstorm, growing far too tall as it approached. You shuffled back weakly in the bloodstained snow and winced as you jostled the trap clamped on your boot “What is this?” the man’s voice rumbled, muffled behind his mask. “You are…not what I expected to catch today.”
‘Obession’ by c4rp3_n0ctem on Ao3 “From the first second he saw you, König was completely and utterly obsessed with you. So when you ran into him late at night, tears streaming down your face, the universe served you to him on a silver platter. "Come in, we can sit down in my room and get you cleaned up, and then you can tell me what happened, ja?" he said quietly, a smirk hidden beneath his mask as he guided you into his room.”
‘Sworn Sword’ by @vivwritescrappythings “You go to a tourney, a knight you’ve never seen before wants your favor”
The Last Of Us
Joel Miller
‘A Stranger’s Heart Without A Home’ by @morning-star-joy ☁️🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “After leaving the Fireflies, you ended up in the settlement of Jackson with Tommy, unwilling to part with the only friend you had left. You were even able to carve somewhat of a life out for yourself after a few years. Until Tommy's older brother shows up. You think Joel Miller is gruff and rude, and you're pretty sure he doesn't have a fond opinion of you either. That doesn't stop the attraction you feel for each other, but he's gone in a day. You settle back into a routine, thinking you'll never see him again. Then Joel returns a few months later, and screws up everything about the comfortable life you had established in Jackson.”
‘Short Days, Long Nights’ by @frannyzooey ☁️🌙 🌕 “Part of a band of travelers, your party is slowly picked off one by one, until there are only two of you left. Finding an abandoned cabin in the woods, you decide to make camp there until you figure out your next move. As the seasons change, the nights get longer and longer…”
‘Fear of God’ by @netherfieldren ☁️🌙 🌕 “Big bad Joel Miller falls in love and doesn't know how to deal with it.”
‘So Much To Lose’ ☁️🌙 🌕 by @auteurdelabre “Newly settled into Jackson City, you’re assigned to patrol duty with Joel Miller; a man of rough edges and cool appraisals. His story is buried deep beneath scars of loss while you hide your own grief behind flour-dusted hands and the desperate hope of belonging. What begins as forced proximity slowly shifts into something fragile and all-consuming. But as the past creeps forward through old wounds and the ever-present threat of raiders, your feelings for one another become both a sanctuary and a liability. In a world already broken, where there is already so much to lose, can you let yourself love Joel Miller?”
‘One Thing I’m Missing’ by @pedropeach ☁️ 🌕 “You don't, under absolutely any circumstances, talk about it. Or… You and Joel accidentally end up falling asleep together, and what follows is the beginning of a quiet and tender relationship neither of you saw coming.”
‘Texas Sun’ ☁️🌙 🌕 by fromtheclouds on Ao3 “Joel doesn’t know how to describe what you were to him. You’d never made any promises to each other, but you loved his daughter like she was your own. Had he known what would happen, he wouldn't have let you go.”
‘Lavender’ ☁️🌙 🌕 by @justagalwhowrites “You're a college student in Austin, Texas, who gets a summer job nannying Sarah Miller. It's not long before her dad sees you as more than a babysitter - or more than a friend. But life - and an apocalypse - have other plans.”
‘Yearling’ ☁️🌙 🌕 by @justagalwhowrites “After years of surviving in the wilds of Wyoming after the cordyceps outbreak, you find yourself in Jackson. It's a town filled with friendly faces and the kind of world you hardly remember, let alone can connect with or understand. But one man - Joel Miller, another loner, like you - makes you think that trying to find your place in society again might be worth it.”
Narcos
Javier Peña
‘Siempre’ by @kiwisbell ☁️🌙🌕 “She’s a waitress in a little café. He’s a DEA agent who likes the coffee. Just the coffee. That’s all.”
‘It’s Never Too Late’ by @javierpena-inatacvest ☁️🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “You are an elementary school teacher who just moved to Texas for a fresh start when you meet a very handsome man from the Laredo Sheriff's Department coming to give your class a presentation. After your co-workers pull some strings for you to meet again, you and Javier Peña find yourselves falling head over heels for each other.”
‘The Third Wheel’ by songsformonkeys on ao3 ☁️🌙🌕"You had often wondered how you ended up here, the third wheel in the well-oiled, grumpy and semi-alcoholic DEA duo consisting of Steve Murphy and Javier Peña... Actually, that was a lie. You hadn't wondered at all. You knew exactly how you'd ended up here. The two male agents had never been particularly good with following orders, which had been a thorn in ambassador Noonan's side since day one. And as everyone who knew the old saying “if you can't beat 'em, join 'em” could tell you, you were the intended solution to that particular problem. And boy had you let everyone down.
‘Hermosa’ by keala on ao3 🌙🌕 “You shouldn't have gotten so drunk at that Christmas party. You shouldn't have worn that tight, little dress. You shouldn't have offered to take a certain drunk DEA agent home. You also shouldn't have answered that phone.”
Star Wars
Din Djarin
‘Rough Day’ by guardianangelcas on ao3 ☁️🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “Who knew that agreeing to babysit a bounty hunter’s weird, green little child would be so full of surprises.”
‘Beskar Doll’ by @justagalwhowrites ☁️🌙 🌕 “You have a knack for finding trouble, be it in the midst of Galactic Civil War or when trying to live the quiet life after getting out of the game. So when you're stuck fleeing your new home planet after pissing off the wrong people - again - there's only one person willing to take you: the Mandalorian. But after years of fighting faceless men, you're not the trusting type toward someone always wearing a helmet and the Mandalorian quickly suspects there's more to you than he knows.”
‘What Kind of Man’ by so_much_for_stardust on ao3 ☁️🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “The first time she caught sight of that silver armor, she just knew that the man would be trouble. She's just a girl who works in a bar, and he's just a guy who needs a job. They weren't looking for anything. It's funny how the galaxy sometimes gives you something you didn't know you needed at the time when you most needed it. They both just needed to scratch an itch. They weren't going to get into a relationship... they weren't...”
‘Something More’ by @amiedala ☁️🌙 🌕 “Meeting the Mandalorian was like colliding into the rest of your life at a moment’s notice.”
‘Elusive Quarry’ by @ninaloveshiddles ☁️🌙 🌕 “‘And what makes her so elusive?’ his tone bored, pushing Karga to get to the point. ‘I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself, won’t you?’ Mando takes a job hunting down the reader, but bringing her in may be more of a challenge than he realized.”
‘The Space Between (your heart & mine)’☁️🌙 🌕 by dirty_holy_things on ao3 “The galaxy had dealt you a rough hand of sabacc in this life. A family who couldn’t comprehend or understand your connection to the Force; a wolf in sheep’s clothing, who used and abused you for your talents; and you had come to understand that the galaxy cared very little for its inhabitants. But an unexpected visit from a Mandalorian offered you the chance to leave it all behind, to reclaim your place as the author of your story.”
‘The Stowaway’ by ThroneoftheThorn on ao3 ☁️🌙 🌕 “You hadn't planned on fleeing for your life, jumping planet, and stowing away on a random vessel. Nor had you planned on being employed by a Mandalorian wanted by the empire for kidnapping a random baby, having an imperial bounty on your head, and tagging along on dangerous bounty hunter missions. Least of all, you REALLY hadn't planned on somehow integrating yourself into the tiny clan of two you found yourself in. The force moves in mysterious ways, you suppose.”
Poe Dameron
‘The Bet’ by guardianangelcas on ao3 ☁️🌙 🌕 “1. No sex. 2. No touching yourself. 3. No orgasms.”
Kylo Ren/Ben Solo
‘Velvet Nights’ by orphan_account on ao3 🌙🌕 “In which you and the Commander Kylo Ren navigate through shared unspoken tensions while recovering information from the wreckage of a First Order TIE fighter.”
’Reconditioned’ by Lionhearted_DragonEmpress on ao3 (deleted fic but it was 500k of the best writing that is forever ingrained in my mind and always deserves to be mentioned)
Superman
Clark Kent
’The Gravity Between Us’ by th3honored1 on ao3 ☁️🌙🌕⭐️ “You grew up beside Clark Kent, the quiet boy with kind, blue eyes and a secret heartbeat. From scraped knees to stolen glances, Smallville held your shared history— but time has a way of turning best friends into strangers. Now you’re a nurse in Metropolis, and he’s the city’s beacon of hope. Maybe you were meant to fall apart. Maybe you'll find your way back.”
‘Take Me Back to Smallville’ by fitbby14 on ao3 ☁️🌙🌕 “You've returned to your hometown of Smallville, here to finally get your life on track and figure out where it is you belong. But your childhood friend, Clark Kent is back too and that...complicates things.”
The Pitt
Dr. Jack Abbot
‘Diagnosis : Married?’ by @s-writing-s ☁️🌙⭐️ “One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career- but can your heart survive the side effects?”
‘Transatlantacism’ by @se7entyrell ☁️🌙 “Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.”
Dr. Michael Robinavitch
‘All For Something’ by @theetherealbloom ☁️🌙 “It’s your birthday, but the Pitt doesn’t slow down for that. Between subway accidents, drownings, shootings, and the quiet heartbreak of patients who come back again and again, you do your best to keep your hands steady and your head clear. Somewhere in the blur of alarms and blood, you realize you’re holding onto something you shouldn’t- feelings for your quietly grieving chief attending. At the Pitt, you don’t just learn how to save lives. You learn how hard it is to ignore your own heart.”
‘My Heart Is On The Floor For You’ by @domesticblisss ☁️🌙 “She never thought she would beat Robby’s seven week itch, but almost a year later, she finds herself in a label-less relationship with him. They are happy, but several little things pile up, and when the arrival of her ex, John Carter, gets added to the mix, the recipe for chaos is served.”
Dr. Brendon Park
‘Vegas Baby’ by @lpmurphy ☁️🌙“A week-long medical conference in Vegas was exactly what you needed- a break from the Pennsylvania winter, a chance to network ass your fellowship wound down, maybe even an excuse to have a little fun. What you absolutely didn’t need was to spend that entire week with Brendon fucking Park; your arrogant, insufferable, asshole of a boss- much less in the same hotel room.”
Animal Kingdom
Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody
‘Redamancy’ by @softundermoonlight ☁️🌙🌕⭐️ “Andrew has survived his whole life by wanting nothing. Until Craig introduces one of his friends, and suddenly, Andrew wants everything and more.”
‘Three Years’ by @fru1t4fr0gs ☁️🌙🌕 “You and Pope have loved each other since you were teenagers. And then he went to prison, and cut you off. No apology, no explanation, nothing. Just a sledgehammer to your heart and utter radio silence.”
‘Before We Knew Better’ by @longlostx11 ☁️🌙🌕 “When Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody was taken into care Smurf pulled some strings and got him put in a place close to Oceanside. That place was with you and your parents. Something Smurf would later regret when she realized that the bond you and Andrew forged in the month he was there was never going away. The years went by and the older boy became your best friend. Your protector. Your person. Fast forward and when Andrew gets out of prison he finds out Smurf’s hatred for you has gone to a whole other level.”
‘Pope’s Girl’ by @evancelinewrites ☁️🌙🌕 “What starts as a mutually beneficial arrangement between you and Pope Cody slowly becomes something far more complicated once the lines between lust, comfort and attachment begin to blur. But the deeper you get pulled into the Cody family, the more you realize people like Pope were never really meant to belong to themselves.”
‘Love You Anyway’ by @rynwrites4fun ☁️🌙 “You’re best friends with Deran Cody, a surfer with big dreams. When he brings you to a party, you meet his brothers but don’t know about their criminal lifestyle. Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody soon realizes you don’t belong in their dangerous world.”
Art by Auberghyn
Foreword
Chapter 1: The Princess
Chapter 2: The Seeding
Chapter 3: The Assassin
Chapter 4: The Keeper
Chapter 5: The Prophecy
Chapter 6: The Trial
Chapter 7: The Suitor
Chapter 8: The Ritual
By the way, if you were wondering, Celestia is now fully posted. Plus-sized reader x Johnny sci-fi fic by one of the best CoD writers in the biz! Come taste some of this delicious mutual pining with a bossbitch reader who does NOT eff around when it comes to her Johnny.
TMI but while I truly, really, wholeheartedly hope you have a wank to my smutty fics, what I hope for even more is that people who struggle with low libido because of meds manage to get horny from them
I’m off duloxetine now, but I distinctly remember the fics that managed to get me going when I hadn’t felt anything even remotely close in ages.
God bless smut writers for making me feel some sort of control over my body again
I predict that Johnny didn’t wanna leave the hospital cause 1)he was scared 2)he was worried that would mean he couldn’t see reader anymore and once he realizes that he ended her last visit early he’s gonna have the 141 help look for her so he can apologize and get her number.
This is all a prediction and imma laugh/cry if I’m right
Just posted! You are 66% right, lol :) Thanks for reading, babe!
Notes: Another old bit. Been sitting in the drafts forever and I'm releasing it into the wild. Heavily inspired by @sentientcave's exploration of Price and his ex-wife and brought to the fore again because @anneofgreengabagool keeps reminding me of how much i love hating these men.
---
You've been up for almost 36 hours now, between living your own life, the call, and traveling back to England to sit at Kyle's bedside. The doctors say he's going to make a full recovery. All of the pieces of metal are accounted for, his lung is patched up. They hadn't told you over the phone quite what had happened, but now you've pieced together that a combination of bullets, an explosion, and a partially collapsed building chewed Kyle up and spit him out.
He wakes up slowly. His eyes are a bloodshot but clear as they flutter open. He groans, and you know his throat hurts; he was intubated until just a couple of hours ago. When you open the straw for his little glass of water, he turns to see you with a wince that turns into a tired grin.
"Hey," he rasps.
You press the straw between his lips. "Don't talk. Slow sips. When you're done with this, I'll get your captain."
He obediently, painstakingly, drinks. A third of the way done, he says, "Thank you for coming."
You clench your jaw and resist the urge to dump the rest of the water over his head. "Update your emergency contact." When he opens his mouth so say something else, you jab the straw into the top of his mouth, gentler than you would like. He winces, but starts drinking again. "Don't, Kyle."
The door opens, and in walks Captain John fucking Price, right on time. His beard fluffs up around his smile when he sees Kyle awake.
"Broken, Gaz?"
"You tell me, Cap," Kyle wheezes.
"Well, the building fell, and apparently you tried to catch it." He comes to a stop on the other side of the bed from you. He crosses his arms, you assume to keep from touching and also to be a little intimidating to you.
Now that Kyle is smiling up at him, you put the cup of water down and take a step back. "I'll let the nurses know he's awake."
"You don't have to go." Kyle's puppy dog eyes are both hindered and strengthened by the bruising around his right eye.
You turn your back to pick up your purse and book from the recliner in the corner. "I'm also going to grab something to eat."
"Grab me a sandwich, love."
If looks could kill, Price would be dead three times over. "Eat shit and die."
---
When you make your way back to the room, you find Lieutenant Riley and a man you vaguely recognize as another sergeant waiting for the elevator. You almost don’t clock him. The hood of Simon’s jacket is down, leaving his hair looking ruffled. His plain black surgical mask doesn’t stand out. And then he turns to you enough that you can see the scars on the other side of his face, his eyebrows popping up.
“You look exhausted,” he says as a greeting. His companion - the slightly overgrown mohawk is so familiar but you cannot remember his name - looks between the two of you curiously.
“I’m creeping up on forty hours without sleep,” you answer, taking a sip of your coffee and staring at the elevator door instead of looking at him.
“Look good, then,” is all he says.
“John MacTavish,” the other one introduces himself, extending a hand.
“Uh huh.” You give him a quick glance up and down as the elevator arrives. John “Soap” MacTavish. You’re not surprised he doesn’t remember meeting you once, a couple of years ago. He looks a bit startled when you step into the elevator instead of taking his hand, but follows Simon’s lead and doesn’t comment further.
You let them enter Kyle’s room while you linger in the hall, scrolling through your phone. There’s a seating area just a little further down the hall, that you’re seriously considering, but then the door opens and Soap pokes his head out.
“Kyle’s askin’ fer ye,” he says.
You step inside, and put your back to the wall on next to the door. They’ve obviously left the recliner open for you, but they’ve also rolled it closer to Kyle’s bedside, so you stay where you are. Price is right where you left him, standing over Kyle like a sentry. Ghost is across from the foot of Kyle’s bed, while Soap takes a seat on the window sill.
They’re all looking at you. You want to ask if they’re waiting for you to do a trick, but you’re trying not to start fights you’re too tired to finish. “You need me to call the nurse?”
“Just wondered where you were,” Kyle says. He sounds better, but that’s not saying much. “Simon said you rode up the elevator with them.”
Traitor. “I was just in the hall. Don’t need to overcrowd you.”
“You could never, lovie.”
“Don’t.” You were willing to be gentle earlier, but lovie is several steps too far. You look at Price. “Are we divvying up shifts, then?”
One of his eyebrows arches. “You need a break?”
From anyone else, that wouldn’t be an accusation. But Price is a master of pointed questions. Too bad for him, you stopped caring about his opinion of you about a year and a half ago. “Considering I’m the one listed for overnights and emergency decisions, I should probably sleep more than a couple of hours every three days.”
“We can get you a hotel,” Kyle rasps.
“I’m set,” you answer, without looking at him. You arch an eyebrow at Price. “Visiting hours end at six. I can be back at five.”
“We’re approved until eight.”
“Then I’ll be back at seven.”
“’Ll walk you out,” Simon says. “Left somethin’ in the car.”
“No you didn’t,” you correct. “Don’t lie for my benefit, Simon, I don’t appreciate it. If you’re walking with me, I can’t stop you.”
“Sorry,” he says, standing and putting his hands in his pockets. “Force of ‘abit.”
You don’t tell him he’s full of shit, because you’re not going to be drawn into a fight that Price can take advantage of. You step forward to pick up the larger bag off of the recliner and push the rolling table close enough that Kyle can reach the water on his own. “Stay hydrated. I’m telling the nursing staff to make sure you stay on top of your pain meds.”
He looks a bit cowed and a lot sad. But he only says, “Okay.”
It tugs at your heart, just a bit. You’d feel worse if you didn’t know those sad eyes were step one of his emotional warfare campaign. You exit the room with Simon on your heels.
He doesn’t say anything until you’re in the lobby, calling a car. “C’n drive you.”
“No.”
“A’righ’,” he says. “Don’t be too harsh on ‘im, eh? ‘E almost died.”
“You know the last time he talked to me? Six months ago.” You counter. “He called me, drunk. Asked for another chance. No apologies. No therapy. Just ‘please take me back, I know you still love me.’”
“You do,” Simon points out. “Or you wouldn’t be ‘ere.”
“And that’s what’s so fucking tragic,” you tell him, finally looking up into his eyes. Simon’s always been your favorite of Kyle’s coworkers, because he’s always been honest and respected your honesty back. “He keeps reeling me back in because I love him. But the whole time he’s insisting he wants us to work, he doesn’t say he loves me, once.”
“’E does.”
“It’s never going to be enough,” you sigh. Your phone buzzes to tell you the car is arriving soon. “Loving me is never going to be his priority. He demands that I make even more concessions, goes silent for months, and then calls me in to make medical decisions. After I've told him repeatedly to pick someone else, anyone else, for this.”
Chapter 5 of 'Feral Yield'
Part of The 'Eyes of Lilith' collaboration
Nikto x Afab!Reader || 2.2k
CW: This chapter contains depictions of coercive power dynamics, developing obsessive attachment between characters, sexual tension, intense observation, groping, voyeurism, male masturbation, smoking, forced proximity, hand-job, ejaculation, instructions, dom/sub vibes, mutual attraction, teasing.
At first, it's easy: noting the size, his breathing, the arrhythmic jerk of his cock in his own hand, as if this were a mere specimen display in the greenhouse or a time-lapse of root growth. But the protocol demands detail, and you give it, jabbing your observations into the margins with a mechanical thoroughness: length at rest, incremental hardness, the exact rhythm of his bones beneath tendons and skin.
But then something in you edges sideways and you find yourself watching not just the mechanics of this animal act, but the mood.
Nikto is not slick or desperate or theatrical about it, no. There is a laziness to how he strokes himself, one-handed while the other routinely pulls the cigarette to those chapped lips of his. He moves like a scribe or a craftsman, like the work is deliberate, the tempo regulated by need alone. And he watches you just as steadily as you watch him, and the eye contact is a challenge, or a dare, or maybe just a record of mutual complicity. You are allowed to look, and he is allowed to show, and the permission is a currency that neither of you can afford to waste.
But then you realize with a kind of horror - yes, horror - that it is not sterile at all. He turns the act into something protracted, patient, even respectful. At first, you jot a note about his focus, then realize he is not the only one hyper-attuned to the experiment. Your own pulse skips and you feel the flush up your neck, visible, you're sure. He tracks every minute change in your posture, the way your legs cross and uncross, the way your hands drift to your collar or up the line of your jaw and you catch yourself blinking too slowly, holding your breath too obviously, and you hate that you are letting the mask slip. You write down: 'Subject maintains deep eye contact throughout process. No visible signs of shame or discomfort. Possible exhibitionistic streak, or perhaps only transactional.' But then in the next line, your handwriting falters and you strike the pen so hard that the tip tugs the paper and rips it.
This does nothing to deter him.
He works himself in lazy, tireless pulls, not fast enough to finish, not slow enough to stall, and the head deepens in color then wanes, the shaft twitches under his thumb when he tells you to look closer, and you do, you do. "You wanted to see?" You feel the wild, humiliating urge to adjust your own posture, knees pressing together, blood everywhere at the surface as if you have been summoned for the humiliation rather than the observation. And for a full minute, neither of you say anything, and the air in the sanctum grows heavy, the plant trays sweating their oxygen into the heat, two animals locked in their tableau. The science of it is gone, the wet sound of his fist, the small grunts, the flat stare - these things are no longer data, but offerings.
You reach for the clipboard again and he shakes his head. "No more notes. Watch only." His voice is so certain, so at odds with the rough spectacle of his exposed body that you almost laugh in pure shock of it all. You are humiliated, yes, but more than that: you are split open, waiting, every cell alive with the thrilling terror of being observed in your own right. It is a study - no, an autopsy - of your composure. Yet you're not even sure who is performing it now.
He tips his chin, and the invitation is clear and unmistakable. You should break the tableau, regain the upper hand, reduce this to data again, but your body has already declared mutiny.
You don't reach for the pen. You don't look away.
Nikto's cigarette burns down between his fingers, ash collecting, unbroken, and all the while his hand keeps its rhythm, never ceasing the glide of fist along the thick length of him now slick (with what you can only assume to be pre or spit) and purposeful. He leans back so that his hips thrust forward on the edge of the chair, opening himself with something akin pride, and you realize you are standing as if summoned, not even sure when you'd pushed off from the table. And he likes that you're staring. He likes that you have abandoned the paper shield of your clipboard and the knowledge strikes you as violently as you'd expected it to.
"Idi syuda," he says, "Come here." It's the first overt order you have heard from him. His voice is fractured, sharp-edged and fragile, but it lands in you like a spike. You don't move, but you do not deny him either, and so he says it again, this time softer as if to a child or a pet: "Come here, Warden." The sound of your own title in his mouth makes something pool between your legs, thick and honey-dark.
You swallow back and walk to him, slow and defiant as if hoping to savor and kill the moment at once. But he captures your wrist in one swift movement, his still-slick hand curling around your forearm with a heat that nearly scorches the delicacy of your skin. He doesn't drag you, but he doesn't let go either. He pulls you forward, just enough so that you are standing between his knees, so close the heat of his skin radiates up your thighs and chest.
You expect a show, a push for dominance, or maybe a calculated retreat, but instead, Nikto fixes you in place with the weight of his stare and with an ease that makes your own breath feel borrowed, he yanks you forward by the wrist - hard enough to nearly pull you to your knees, hard enough to erase the buffer of air between his hunger and your uncertainty.
"Observe," he says, in that same deadpan way as before, mocking your use of the word, but with the tiniest fracture, an edge of need you recognize from the world outside these walls, the Wildes, the memory of hunger stretched so thin it became its own source of power. He forces your fingers closed, not roughly but with the unyielding pressure of a man who has spent his entire life in deficit and now will settle for surplus only, nothing less. And you let him - goddess, you do - because at this point it is the only honest thing left. There are seconds where you just hold, the body heat of him burning into your palm, the texture all wrong and all right, velvet and skin and slick, the insistent throb of circulation making him seem less a specimen and more a living, bleeding animal, which is to say: exactly as you.
Your mind fractures into the two observers: the one who wants to claw her hand back, to reassert the rules and slap him for his audacity, to have him chained again like the beast he is.. And the other one who is shuddering down to the arches of her feet, savoring the forbidden, wet-hot throb of the skin in your palm, the little flexes of flesh like small questions you'll never have the language to answer.
He offers nothing more for a moment, just holds you there in the bright, annihilating focus of his gaze. He's watching you, no longer a predator, but a creature sizing up a new terrain. You hear the ragged intake of his breath as you tighten your grip around him and a low, involuntary growl escapes him and you wonder if he's ever been handled this way, if any of the other Seedwardens had ever breached the membrane of their own professional armor. Or if you were the first to allow, to want.
"Observation is…for both," Nikto mutters, his voice clotted with smoke and you nod, or at least try, but the world narrows to the pulse you feel under your fingers and the sweat beading at the base of his throat. Everywhere else feels too heavy to observe. He then shifts, widening his legs and drawing you closer, so the heat between you collapses into something singular. His cock is flushed and veined and leaking at the tip, and you work it in your fist as if coaxing a specimen from a seed pod.
"Like this?" you ask, the words softer and less clinical than you had meant them to be, and he nods once, a wild animal’s nod, and his grip softens on your forearm, allowing you the illusion of control. "Faster," he says, the order clipped and absolute.
You obey.
He goes rigid under your touch, every muscle in his thighs and stomach rendered in high relief, so much so that you want to reach with your other hand and map the terrain of him, trace the conflict and violence knitted beneath the skin and claim it was simply part of observation. But instead you work him, and with each stroke you feel your own composure eroding in molecular increments, undermined by the slick velocity of his cock and the way his eyes, always, always on you, begin to squint with need.
You wait for him to lose composure, to snarl, to goad you into a contest of will - but instead, he turns the tables with a cocked half-smile and irreverence. "You want results?" he pants, his voice torn from the place violence is born. "You are close now." He laughs, smoke-laced and beautiful. "Fucking good at your job, Warden." The word is spat with the kind of admiration that cuts, that wounds. He's so smug about it, too Not greedy. Just certain, a bruised wolf with a kill in his jaw. "You could do this all day, da?" His lips curl at the edge, the scar there making the smile doubly obscene. "Guess you pass your test, too."
You should hate him for it, the way he weaponizes your title, how it sounds like a pet name and a curse at once. But what you feel is not anger but the raw, collapsing gravity of need - need to crush him, to tame him, to invent a method of domination that the High Mother herself could not have anticipated. So instead of speeding your hand, you change tactics. You measure out the distance between pleasure and discipline and claim it as your own: slowing the pace to a crawl, squeezing at the base until he hisses, denying him every wave of pleasure until you can see the muscles in his neck go rigid with the effort to not beg.
"This is the test," you say, your voice so dispassionate it almost hums. "Stamina, endurance. You want to impress the council, you can start by showing control." Your hand is a vise, remorseless, keeping him just shy of the edge. The thick shaft is impossible in your grip, pulsing with every heartbeat, slicked with a kind of purity that makes your mouth water and your legs tremble. You hold him in the liminal space, not letting him seize or soften, just letting him hang like a trapped animal, all threat and no release.
He shudders and you want to see what happens if you let him break, so you squeeze tighter, twist your wrist, and watch as he bares his teeth and looks away, refusing your gaze for the first time as if the intimacy were a knife at his throat. When you finally relent and stroke him with purpose, he groans, and so you stop again, pull your hand away, and stand back, your arms folded as if this were a puzzle you expect him to solve alone.
"Show me again," you say, "from the beginning." Your voice is slicked with the honey of command, and it's only when you see him obey - see him take himself in hand with perfect, mercenary discipline - you realize that at this moment you are not a scientist at all. You are merely a witness to some wild, ancient trial.
He mutters a string of curses - "Cyka blyad…" hard consonants and Slavic vowels sliding off his tongue with the weight of real injury - and then does exactly as told, the heel of his hand slamming with a new, brutal velocity up the length of him. His eyes are murder, locked on yours, but the flush that breaks across his throat and cheeks is submission. The labored, rhythmic slap of skin on skin is indecent, almost violent, and you have to press your own thighs together to keep from swaying forward, forehead blooming with sweat. You move to the table as if to mark something on the clipboard, but your legs wobble and the word you write, 'compliance,' is barely more than a scribble, your pen splitting the page once again.
He keeps going, his knuckles whitening, and you are overtaken by the urge to direct, to catalog with audible commands. "Slower." And he slows. "Stop." He stops, his breathing ragged. "Again." He obeys, faster this time, his fist sliding so wet and wicked you're certain he must have spat in his hand, except you want so badly for it to be just him, leaking and eager and extraordinarily alive. He groans low in his chest, the animal part finally showing, and you realize with a kind of awe that you've never made anyone this way, never orchestrated the tempo, never been the reason for such naked, abject need.
You hover at the table, taking notes you cannot ever submit: how his nostrils flare when you tell him to pause, how his thighs jump at the command to resume, how 'keep going' makes his eyes close as if in benediction. "Just like that," you mumble, but he hears, and his mouth splits into a bent, mad little smile that makes you ache somewhere old and extravagant inside. He doesn't ask if you want to touch again, doesn't even offer. The power is the show, the proof of life he lets you see, and that is enough for now.
Your knees go soft and you grab the edge of the table to center yourself, pretending you need to record the length and color and reaction time and not the inhuman throb between your own legs.
"Goddess," you whisper, and he laughs a short, delighted bark that turns into a grunt as he arches off the chair and spills over his own belly, the pulse of it as violent and beautiful as anything you've ever grown. And for a moment you are both just breathing, listening to the hum of the AC unit to the slow collapse of tension. Nikto slumps back, his legs wide, cock softening but still flushed, and wipes his hand on the waistband of the shorts, looking at you with the flat challenge of a man who has just won and lost in the same instant.
"Is finished?" he asks, his voice harsh and accompanied by panting. You nod, stunned and slack-jawed, "For now."
You write something useless on the sheet and realize your hands are trembling and the heat between your legs unmistakable. You let your pen fall to the desk and for a moment, you can't remember whether you're a warden or just a witness. You reach for the tin, flick the lid closed, and say, "Not bad for an opener, but I'm afraid they prefer a multi-trial average." Protocol, again, yes - but there is no air of protocol in the way you watch drops of spend cling along the ridge of his navel, or the way your own pulse shudders when Nikto leans back, arms splayed, taking up space meant for you both.
You touch a napkin to the mess as if it were a swab, but he moves fast and closes a hand around your wrist, holding you there, his grip no longer bruising but poised - delicate, even. The briefest squeeze says, thank you for the cigarette, but the longer, quieter pressure is somewhere between gratitude and demand. He's testing you, and you know the game, and your body is already answering for you.
You just hope the way your pulse hammers against his grip, the way your breath catches in your throat, the way heat pools low in your belly - that all of it is worth the dangerous, exquisite results you're hoping for…
