#Sergent hound

[nahoney22]

Why were we never given any more Hound content

I bet he fine as hell

[cloneloverrrrr]

If anyone can send me some Hound smut / fluff / anything pleaseeee I am totally SIMPING for him rn😭😭😭

[krypticcafe]

Asked by @sleepyendymion

Of course!!

OP you have no idea what you've done by enabling me to ramble I'm stimming so much, literally such an honor I'm so flattered omg

To start off with the basics, Hound is currently a Sergent of Task Force 141, after being transferred numerous times through various forces and even KorTac and SpecGru ops. At a certain point, they were a combat medic and a captain as well. I'm not gonna get too deep into their whole journey because spoilers for a future work of mine, but I can say that their backstory is not a happy one, and falls into the sort of "dark past" trope.

In terms of looks, nobody's seen their full face thanks to how they constantly wear a visor, a balaclava, a trapper hat, and their iconic, painted, muzzle-like mask. Their scarf also doubles as a hood and mask sometimes. Most find them intimidating at first sight, especially after reading their (heavily censored) file, seeing how damn big they are, and hearing all the rumors that float around.

It doesn't help either when they can initially come off as blunt, distant, and on the verge of being a extremely well-trained or horribly rabid dog. Nor the fact that they have deep-rooted issues pertaining to their identity. Though, over time, they'll grow to be warmer, even humorous and friendly at times.

Extra:

Hound goes by they/he/any pronouns. They haven't labeled themselves, don't really care about what people perceive them as or the gender of their partner, and they are perfectly comfortable having multiple partners.

I have no idea what their sex is but they've had plenty :] (probably amab?)

He is a big boy at 6'8-9" (204-205cm) and built to look either jacked when he flexes or a wall of soft, relaxed muscle that borderlines chub.

They're multilingual, knowing a handful of languages and having a hint of an accent at times.

He's probably around the same age as Ghost or Soap (mid-late 20s to early 30s?).

Neurodivergent as hell, we're talkin' social anxiety, ADHD, maybe even autism, who knows because this dumbass refuses to see a proper therapist.

He's so emotionally dense, like he's the epitome of 'thembo/himbo'. Sometimes he'll seem wise only to later make you wonder how are they even coping with themselves.

Their first callsign was actually Mutt, Hound was only a more "recent" development for them, post joining the 141.

Small doodle for now since I'm saving the big stuff for later on<3

That's it for now! Again, I don't wanna dip into spoiler territory because I am considering making a series for them (feel free to ask about that teehee-). Also, if any of you are interested in x reader fics with him, send as many as you like!

[keldabekush]

A Friend Of Hound’s

Ao3

“This is definitely not allowed.”

Skimmer looks at the new guy from the corner of his eyes. In his full ARC kit he supposes he should look intimidating, but the leather of his kama is still new enough to creak with every step, and Skimmer is pretty confident that he is immune to the classic ARC Trooper loom.

He’d been surprised to see an ARC in red and white milling around the GAR  barracks - he hadn’t thought they had ARCs down here. He’d been more surprised when the guy had made a beeline for him and knew his name.

Hound had sent him, he explained. Hound was too busy to leave his squad today but his friend, their Sergent Trigger, had borrowed a datapad a couple of days ago and Hound needed it back. Trigger was out in the city and told him to ask his squadmates to get it for him.

Skimmer was the most recognizable, with the bright blue ink on his cheek - the poor guy had been waiting around to spot him for the best part of an hour, because Hound had forgotten to tell him their room number and couldn’t pick up his damn comm.

“Probably not, if you mind about that sort of thing.” he says, with the implication that he would prefer it if he did not mind about that sort of thing, and keys the door to lock behind them, sealing the whining buzz of the ink gun out of the hallway.

Rinse looks up from his work for a moment, and the whine stops as he nods at Skimmer and turns back to wipe ink from whoever’s shoulder he’s decorating. Then he does a double take, and whips his head back for a better look.

“Corrie’s got ARCs?”

“That’s what i said,” Skimmer laughs. “this one’s a stray. Found him outside.”

If the Corrie has an opinion about being called a stray it doesn’t show, and he follows Skimmer to Trigger’s bunk.

“There’s a couple of us.” he says tonelessly, glancing around the bunkroom-turned-studio. then; “aren’t you concerned about doing this inside the barracks? It would be easy to be caught.”

Skimmer suddenly hopes very fervently that the friend Hound sent their way isn’t one of those guys. Across the room, Rinse flicks his eyes between them.

It’s definitely not technically allowed, what they’re doing. Skimmer and his squadmates have an understanding that when they’re on shore-leave, he and Rinse will be using their assigned bunkroom as a studio during the day, so they can hang out and not interrupt them, or they can hang out in someone else’s room and not interrupt them more successfully.

In exchange they get to reap the rewards of the trade system - meaning he and Rinse will share any drinks they get in payment for their work. Sometimes drinks, sometimes food, sometimes fun upgrades if they get their hands on one of the greysuit technicians. Sergeant Trigger pretends very enthusiastically that he knows nothing about it. Great guy, Trigger. “Nah,” Skimmer waves the question off and gives the ARC his most charming grin, “no one cares enough to report it to anyone who has to do anything about it. It’s just a bit of fun, no harm done.”

The ARC shrugs, pauldron creaking, and the tension in the room evaporates. Skimmer should have known that Hound wouldn’t send a jackass.

“Besides, I don’t think Command have caught on since we started. Too busy for this kind of nonsense.”

The ARC glances at Rinse and hums.

The trooper Rinse is working on hasn’t looked up, front-down on the bunk with his arms pillowing his cheek. Skimmer doesn’t recognise his ink, and he’s facing the wall.

“You got a new client, or is this a frequent flier?” he asks, flipping open Trig’s footlocker and rooting around.

“New.” Rinse gives the shoulderblade one more wipe, and hunches back over with the gun.

The ARC continues quietly looming, watching Rinse curiously.

“Not very talkative, is he?” Skimmer says, mostly to fill the quiet and tries not to disrupt the sergeant’s immaculately organised footlocker too much with his digging. Why does he have so many datapads? There’s no way the man reads this much.

“He’s dead asleep, would you believe.” “I can believe it, you bore me to death sometimes too.” “I can murder you to death instead, if you like.”

“This is why Hound won’t visit us anymore.” Skimmer pulls out a datapad, taps the screen to check the contents and holds it up. The ARC nods, and slips it under his arm. “Thanks.”

“Tell Hound that Rinse promises to be nice if he comes to visit.”

“No I don’t.” Rinse mumbles over the sound of the machine. “Lie to him, please, we miss him. And Grizzer.”

“...I’ll tell him.”

There’s a grunt from across the room, and the tattoo gun shuts off. They both turn to watch Rinse moving the machine away from the man on the bed, who’s stirring.

“woah, easy- hi there.”

“Ugh” the stranger says, eloquently, and gets his arms under him. “Nice nap, huh?” Rinse smiles and scoots his chair away from the edge of the bunk, it gives the guy some room to sit up, stretching gingerly and wincing. “we still have a little bit to finish - need a break?” Skimmer still doesn’t recognise him, so he lets Rinse do his thing and hauls himself to his feet, facing Hound’s ARC friend.

“Sorry, I never got your name did I?” he reaches over and knocks his pauldron, friendly. If he’s a friend of Hounds, he might as well have a go at making him a friend of theirs. It would be cool to have an in with an ARC Trooper.

It gets him a long, levelled, granite-faced look. A moment passes, and then another, and Skimmer feels his smile wanting to become a grimace as the silence begins to edge towards painful. But he’s stubborn, too, and he is immune to the ARC loom, fuck you.

“It’s Dogma.” he says, eventually, and Skimmer doesn’t let his relief show on his face - just nods and taps the pauldron with his knuckles again, pointedly.

“You’re welcome too, when Hound drags his arse over here.” Dogma opens his mouth, but the man on the bed behind them speaks up first.

“Dogma - wasn’t expecting you here.”

Rinse looks at Skimmer, who looks at Dogma, who looks at the stranger and lifts the datapad to wiggle it in his eyeline. “Errand for Hound, Sir. Wasn’t expecting you either.”

Sir? who exactly has Rinse brought in here? By the look on his face, Rinse has no idea either.

“Why’s he got you doing his errands? Lose at sabbac again?”

Dogma scowls.

“Yes, sir.”

Rinse scoffs. “He’s a filthy cheater”

“You’re just sour he cheats better than you-”

Rinse throws a wad of plastic wrap at Skimmer’s head, which flutters pathetically to the floor between them, and turns back to his client with a raised eyebrow.

“anyway, sir, i reckon we just need another fifteen minutes and you’re all done.” it’s a probing look, which the man ignores.

“Sure, thanks.” he says, and makes himself comfortable on his front again. “I’ll leave you to it then.” Dogma moves towards the door, and there’s a hint of a smile on his face as Skimmer moves to let him out.

“Bye, Dogma.” the officer mutters into his arms, eyes already closed again. Dogma steps out into the hallways, and the hint of a smile becomes a flash of teeth in an instant. “Goodbye, Marshall Commander Fox.” and with a crisp salute and the click of heels on tile, he’s gone, creaking Kama and all.

Skimmer, frozen gripping the empty doorway, turns his head ever so slowly to meet Rinse’s horrified stare.

“Bastard.” mutters Marshall Commander Fox, and relaxes into the bunk.

[shadowmaat]

Cmdr. Fox Week Day 3: Time Travel

For day 3 I decided to go with Time Travel. Give Fox a little payback. (Warnings for temp character death (Fox) and permadeath (Palps and his Apprentice)) @loving-fox-hours

The Hands of Time

Terror flooded his system as Lord Vader bore down on him. It had been such a stupid mistake. CC-1010 was a Commander, he should have been better than this!

"I... I didn't expect anything like this to happen, sir."

The wash of cold bit through his armor. Something told him this mistake would be his last.

"I just didn't think-"

SNAP

Fox jolted in place, his heart stuttering in his chest. He was still alive! And... at his desk. Horror and rage coursed through him as he realized what he'd done; what all his vode had done. Had it just been a nightmare? He'd like to believe that, but it had been far too detailed, too nuanced, and too real to be a product of his imagination. Though if it was real then he should be dead, not sitting at his desk with a cup of cooling caf.

He checked the chrono on his HUD and had to stifle an hysterical giggle. He was used to losing time, but now apparently he'd gained it. What was it Cody was always bitching about? Force osik. Though why the hells the Force would start screwing with him now...

Wait. Taungsday. It was Taungsday. The day everything went to hell. He lurched out of his chair, pulling off his helmet and vambraces as he slammed through his door into the squadroom, startling everyone.

"Lockdown starts now!" He said, stalking across the room. "Code Crimson-Crimson. Helmets off, comms off, anything that can transmit a signal goes off now!"

"Sir, but we just got notified that the High Generals are on their way to Pally's office. " Sergeant Hound was trying to mop caf off his armor.

"I issued an order, Sergent," Fox said. "Are you going to obey?"

Hound looked up, startled. "Yessir, but don't you think we should send someone-"

Fox locked eyes with him. "Unless you want to wind up shooting a Jedi cadet in the face, you'll do as I say. Now!"

Hound blanched. The room went deathly silent, followed by a chorus of clicks as those wearing helmets unsealed them and put them aside.

"I'd never..." Hound whimpered, but Fox could still see the image clearly. Swallowing bile, he continued on his way.

"We've been compromised. I want a total communications blackout. I don't care who the signal is from, don't acknowledge it, don't listen to it. Even if it's from me," he added, feeling queasy. "I'll handle the Jedi. When the threat's over I'll- I'll send one of them down to let you know."

Send one of them because whatever happened, he doubted he'd survive. Either the Jedi would live and check on the Guard, or they'd die and... Well, maybe he could delay things just a little bit. Just long enough to spare his troops from joining the march on the Temple.

He could feel a body-wide tremble threatening to start and stiffened himself. Not now. He couldn't afford to fall apart now. There was too much left to do.

Swerving to swipe a pair of earpops off a desk he continued out the door and into the hall, silence following in his wake. He jammed the earpops in his ears, activated them, and maxed the volume before taking off for the lifts at a dead run.

The screeching thumping beats of some Storms-cursed glimmik threatened to rupture his eardrums, but at least he couldn't hear anything; wouldn't be able to hear anything if that venomous slime-mold of a Sith Lord tried to order him to do something.

Fox punched in the priority override code to the lift and braced himself as it rocketed up to the Chancellor's Suite. His blasters were primed and ready and as the doors finally slid open he bolted through them, shoulder clipping the edge of one door.

He could feel a warm breeze on his face, which was wrong wrong wrong. The windows in the Senate couldn't open, not without compromising security. The draft smelled of aircar exhaust, but cutting through it were the sharper scents of ozone and charred flesh.

Finding an extra reserve of speed, Fox ran faster, and the scene before him coalesced. Palpatine on his back in the crook of the window- the missing window- as Windu held him at saber-point. And facing them, his back to Fox, was- was-

The frigid cold. The snap of his own neck. He fired both blasters at the dark figure, sure he could hear the rasp of Lord Vader's mechanized breath.

The figure dropped. Windu and Palpatine were staring at him. He could see they were both shouting at him, but the sound of tortured instruments and a thumping bass were all he could hear.

He didn't pause. His next shots were aimed at Palpatine, but they went wide and then suddenly he was struck by lightning. The earpops died with a burning screech and all his limbs locked. In the eternity of the moment, as the world flashed white, he knew he'd failed. The Force had chosen the wrong person. At least he wouldn't have to live through it again. And maybe the Guard could be spared...

As suddenly as it had begun, the electricity coursing through his body stopped, and he was able to see Windu complete his move as Palpatine's head went flying out into the sunset.

He dropped to his knees, whole body shaking uncontrollably. Windu was coming toward him and he tried to drop his blasters, tried to show he wasn't a threat, but his hands wouldn't obey. He kept them lowered, at least, and could feel something wet on his face.

"Commander, are you alright?"

The voice sounded tinny; distant.

"I'm n-not a g-good s-s-soldier," he said, and everything went black.

(Continued here)

[bacarasbabe]

Hey Tesss 💖💖💖

For the hot clone ask-Clone Sergent Hound

Love you besstttiiiieee

-Tea

How hot is that Character

Not My Type | Alright | Cute | Adorable | Pretty | Gorgeous | LORD MERCY

First off, badass armor. Probably my favorite put of the Corries (don't tell Fox I said that lol). Secondly, he has a pet massif named Grizzer 🥰😍😭 What's not to love about this man!

Ask me if I think a character is hot

[shaso-cinnjin]

The distress call from the evacuation convoy rang loudly in his ears as he shot through the sky, the fire billowing its orange and red glow from its location becoming more and more visible the closer he came to its last know location, he feared the worst yet hoped for the best, a hope that would soon take life as he spotted the untainted popping of frantic bolter fire and the crackle of power swords.

As he crested the cliff of the canyon where the ill-fated convoy rested he saw them, weathered armor glinting with orange and yellow as their frames became silhouetted from the muzzle flash, their tall shadows flickering against the trees surrounding the area, fighting valiantly against the bloodied hounds that surrounded them.

Arvack looked upwards, “Incoming projectile! Take Cover!” he screamed as he and his battle brothers dove into what cover they had left.

A thunderous crash was shook the ground as the projectile made impact over their heads, a ring of dust now hanging over them, the cries to the blood god falling silent.

Arvack leaned around his cover bringing his bolter to bare, in front of him was no crater left by stray ordinance but the rising form of a Tau battlesuit gripping the decapitated head of a bloodletter tron from its body by the suits gauntlet. A single red eye turned to look at Arvack, scanning what Arvacks assumed was his left pauldron,

“Storm Templar... Its been so long.” the suit spoke in flawless gothic, “What happened here?” it asked.

“We were ordered by the Grand Master to hold this position to provide cover for your “people��� from this convoy while they retreated.”

“I owe both you and your commander a debt, Arvack.” it spoke turning its attention to the recovering horde as it began to reinitialize its assault.

“How’d you know my name?” Arvack inquired, fireing his bolter at a charging berserker, blowing its head into gory chunks across the canyon floor.

“I know many things, we’ve met before on the flaming spires Jukaa, you were but a scout.” it said fondly as the T’au began to mow down cultists with its burst cannon, each popping spectacularly in dazzling blue explosions.

“That cannot be true, you lie! It’s been 200 years! That commander's long past, he is but ash now.” Arvack spoke briefly, his attention becoming more drawn into the defense of his squad.

“Doing pretty well for a pile of ash don’t you think!” the T’au chuckled. “Shas’O Cinnjin, it’s a pleasure to work with your chapter again, Sergent.”

Arvack looked back at the tall suit, its snow white limbs the same as those he saw blackened by soot back on Jukaa, the same T’au that fought beside him back on that infernal planet.

“Lets go, I’ve cleared a path!” the T’au shouted pointing towards an opening in the trees, “We’ll meet up with more reinforcements that way.”

[immaculate-benediction-batch]

Is there nothing that an episode of Sherlock can’t fix?

By Jean Sergent | Guest writer|Johnlocker July 7, 2017 Sherlock fan Jean Sergeant reflects on the place of Holmes and Watson in her own life, through grieving and pad thai nights.  I remember when the Christmas special ofSherlock, ‘The Abominable Bride’, came out at the beginning of 2016. I nagged my best dead friend Michael to watch it. I’m not sure if he did, because he’s dead now. We were all there, we all said it a million times – 2016 was the worst year in the history of the world, of all time, in all universes, the end. After Alan Rickman died, I said to someone “well, I guess if you DON’T die in 2016, it means you’re not as cool as you think you are”. I was flippant but kinda furious as well, because although we lost some really important and wonderful famous people in 2016, I lost my best friend on Valentine’s Day, and then my baby brother exactly nine months later. In November, my brother died. At his funeral I called him “my Sherlock Holmes”. Look, everyone loves Sherlock Holmes. I’m not pretending I’m like the OG Sherlock Holmes fan, but in my family he’s kind of a big deal. From where I am sitting at my writing desk, if I look to my left I can see two copies of The Return of Sherlock Holmes, wedged in with Agatha Christie and John Dickson Carr. My dead brother was a peculiar, precocious, hyper-intelligent child. I always wanted him to become an FBI agent. He won’t now, because he is dead, but he is still hands down the most remarkable person I’ve ever met. After his wake, having not been alone for for several days, I went home and had a nap. At about 8pm one of my best bitches, Rachel, turned up with pad thai and a bottle of Coke. We wrangled the living room into cosy order, and plonked down to eat and squeal our way into oblivion with the best tool at our disposal – an episode of Sherlock. I mean, I don’t need to tell you how goodSherlock is, right? You’ve seen it. It’s the biggest television show in the entire world, and catapulted the creepy ginger paedophile from Atonement and Tim fromThe Office to outrageous levels of international stardom. But just in case you missed the memo, Sherlock is really good. I have one friend who only watches it for Benedict Cumberbatch, and she hates all of the rest of the acting on the show with a capital H. Which is fine, but you’re wrong Heather. Rachel has the world’s biggest crush on Rupert Graves. Every time his character, Lestrade, is on screen, she makes loud groans. I make them too. So does everyone who has ever seenMaurice. You see, Rach and I have developed a kind of telepathy about what episode we will watch in any given Sherlock and Coke and Pad Thai session. It has nothing to do with mood or theme, and everything to do with some kind of shared algorithm. We never watch ‘The Blind Banker’ because it’s racist as hell. We rarely watch anything from season three because our opinions are too difficult to navigate – we both think ‘The Empty Hearse’ is a disappointment and ‘His Last Vow’ is too stressful. If we’re going to watch ‘The Great Game’ (absolutely 100% one of the top 3 episodes of Sherlock) then we HAVE to watch ‘A Scandal in Belgravia’, because you can’t leave the cliffhanger unresolved. Therefore, ‘The Great Game’ and ‘A Scandal in Belgravia’ are best for a Sunday when you have a hangover. ‘A Study in Pink’ is so good and an easy reliable choice if you want to blob around and have a really really fun time. ‘The Reichenbach Fall’ has a devastating ending – good if you’re in the mood for a cry. So like I said, I’d just buried my brother, and Rachel was there with the food and the drink, and we looked at each other and said ‘The Hound of Baskerville?’ ‘The Hound of Baskerville’ isn’t the best episode of the bunch, but it does grow on you if – like me – you have watched it roughly seven times. It doesn’t have enough Mycroft, but it does have an abundance of Lestrade, some really great gay innkeepers, and Rudge from History Boys. Rach and I watched it, and we laughed, and we groaned, and we had a bloody good time. We ate pad thai and drank coca cola and shared a duvet on the couch, and it was really soothing.Sherlock is always there for me when I need it. So let’s flashback to January 2017: Trump’s presidency hasn’t officially begun, the summer sun is high in South Pacific sky, and we loyal viewers have been gifted three brand new episodes of Sherlock. For three Monday mornings in January, I took a media fast while waiting to watch the new episodes once they had come out in the UK. It’s the “no spoilers” ritual you have to undertake when you’re part of one of the biggest fandoms in the world. Rituals are important. Rituals set the scene for a different way of doing things. In my day-to-day television watching I’m more likely to binge something while playing games on my phone, but a new episode ofSherlock is special. It’s no rerun of a formulaic procedural. It’s a precious gift to be savoured slowly. I don’t even care if one of the episodes is a bit disappointing. This is movie-length television, I get to spend my Monday lunchtime watching 90 minutes of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman playing Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. I ship Johnlock so hard. (I once danced to ‘Single Ladies’ with Martin Freeman. He wouldn’t remember that because why should he, but I do because it was awesome and he did the punching moves.) After the episode, I wait for people to slide into my DMs so we can talk about it (hello Tamsyn), or for Heather or Hannah or Rachel to FB message me with “WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THAT RIGHT NOW” or “I HAVE SOME FEELINGS”. I open Tumblr and read all of the new fan theories, then in the evening I’ll Skype Rachel and we can talk about the theories, and assess whether or not there was enough Lestrade in the episode. Now me and the rest of the enormous mob of Sherlockians have 13 full-length episodes (the Christmas special counts), an hour-long pilot, and a depressing teaser at our disposal whenever the need strikes. And the need certainly does strike: Sick day? Watch Sherlock. Sad? WatchSherlock. Feel like watching Sherlock? Watch Sherlock. Crawl under a duvet, order some pad thai, clasp tight the hand of a still-living friend, and rush up the 17 stairs to 221b Baker Street – Holmes and Watson are always there. https://thespinoff.co.nz/tv/07-07-2017/is-there-nothing-that-an-episode-of-sherlock-cant-fix/

[cloneloverrrrr]

Does anyone know or think they know what Sargent Hound looks like?🤔🤔 kinda simping over him rn 🥵

[cloneloverrrrr]

[nahoney22]

Oh I did get a Hound Request so here you go 😚

Why were we never given any more Hound content

I bet he fine as hell

[kaminocasey]

Shamelessly plugging my cheesy romcom “Must Love Massiffs” fic 😅💗💗 (it’s funny that I saw this today bc I’m literally working on part 2 rn!)

Why were we never given any more Hound content

I bet he fine as hell