#hail the cod

[benjhawkins]

As requested, I am asking you about Grand Banks cod fishing!

Cod was fished out of dories like this as illustrated by Winslow Homer. They’re flat-bottomed but have the benefit of being able to get the edge as close to the water as possible without capsizing.

Cod was fished using hand lines that had hooks placed every few feet or so and the cod was hauled in on the dories

before being taken to the mother boat which was often a schooner like the L.A. Dunton who fished the Grand Banks until the 1950s!

Cod was then taken aboard the schooner and processed for market by either salting or putting it on ice, depending on where they were in the journey. Salt cod continued drying on fish flakes when ashore.

Delicious!

All hail the mighty cod

[ghostwhippet]

Riley

Inspired by this wee lovely thing <3

You yell after your dog, Riley.

Simon is walking through the park in sweats when you do.

He might stop near a bench to check his laces and end up watching you for a while, living your normal life. Playing chase back and forth through the fallen leaves, feet and paws tossing up splashes of orange and yellow. Smiling. Laughing.

He might sink into it, sitting across the way pretending to scroll through his phone, black surgical mask on, black hood down.

For a minute outside of place and time, outside of his body and his fucked-up head, watching you might make him feel better about what he does. Some of it. Sometimes. If it helps someone be so light and alive somewhere.

He might start taking his jogs and walks through that park more often when he's in town. No reason, really. Nice trails. Big, quiet. Doesn't matter if it's a bit out of his way, he's got fuck all else to do.

Might pass by the field you were in more often than not, too. It makes for a good route, that's all. And really, if no one had been arsed to say anything to some fucking creep watching a woman for so long, the place could use more eyes on it.

...And maybe if he heard someone say his name like that again, like something warm belonged there in some other world, it wouldn't be the worst thing.

"Riley!" He hears over his shoulder. Almost jerks to a stop.

Your voice is bright. Exasperated, loving.

"Come here, baby," you add with a laugh.

He should check his laces again. Fucking joggers are always coming loose, he should really start double-knotting them.

Masterlist

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nik sent this to John with "this is you" after they had an argument essentially caused by John's emotional constipation and difficulty with asking for help/relying on someone.

[danibee33]

The Queen’s Guard

*COD medieval au - Simon Riley x reader

cw: arranged marriage, dark themes, attempted sa & non-graphic sa but pls *read at your own discretion*, gore/violence, sexual themes, etc.

word count: 1.1k

“Again.”

You can’t help but to flinch at the sound of swords being drawn; it rings in your ears, echos in the recesses of your brain. The piercing, metallic clangs resound throughout the room-

How long had you been here, anyway? Judging from the sunlight that peers through the high transom windows, its golden rays giving the great hall an ethereal sort of glow, it must be nearing time for dinner-

“I’ve seen enough, thank you.”

With a dismissive wave, you rise from the bronze throne and turn on your heel, eyes focused straight ahead, fixated on the intricate carvings in the doors, your escape just within reach-

“Your Grace..”

General Leon’s voice is laced with exasperation and warning, and your long history with him is the only reason you halt, your handmaid nearly bumping into you as you turn again- the young woman struggling to rearrange the ridiculous train on your gown as the man speaks,

“You cannot continue on without a Queen’s Guard- His Grace demands the position be filled.”

Oh, of course. How thoughtful of your kind husband. The husband who only sees you when the physicians deem you fertile enough to produce an heir. The husband who you’re not even sure could pick your face in a crowd because he only ever fucks you from behind, your face pushed down into the animal furs beneath you.

The husband who killed your last guard, gods rest his soul.

Yes, I’m sure he’s very concerned for my safety..

You give a heavy sigh, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you feel the placating smile tug at your lips; the one you’re so, so good at. The practiced smile that puts everyone in the room at ease, the one you’ve perfected in your relatively short existence of being groomed for this very life.

The life everyone dreams of, a life of royalty, of the highest privilege and power- how little they truly know.

“Of course, please, let us meet the next one then.”

Taking your place upon the throne once again, you sit properly, prim and demure, just like you were taught. The very picture of perfection in your emerald colored silks, not a single hair out of place-

Yet, inside, you were wasting away, your thoughts boiling and raging, your anger smoldering just under the surface, like a vein of coal in the earth that’s been lit aflame- the embers never dying, but never able to turn into the inferno they so wishe to be.

You don’t bother to spare your gaze when the doors open with a low groan, the quiet footfalls that enter the space only really given away by the shifting of chainmail and armor.

They’re confident strides, you notice- long and steady, and without even seeing him yet, you can feel the energy shift around you, his presence seeming to fill every available void,

“Ser Simon Riley, Your Grace.”

With one look, you’re utterly struck by the imposing man walking towards you- shoulders and hips swaying with each deliberate step, left hand resting lazily on the hilt of his long-sword.

His armor plates are dark, obsidian in hue, so different from the usual flashy silver you see everywhere you look. He is a looming shadow in front of you, somehow as wide as he is tall, if that were possible- and his eyes. The skin around them have been smudged with kohl, making the mottled amber of his irises look preternatural, his unmoving gaze entirely focused on you, even when he bows,

“Your Majesty.”

Your mind screams danger, much like it would if a fully grown wolf had just sauntered through the doors, looking for its next meal- and yet, for as much fear as he inspires, there’s something that draws you in- like a siren singing to sailors lost at sea.

Returning his gesture, you gently nod, holding his eyes until the General calls him back to assume a fighting stance; and even then, you swear you see his head tilt just so, just enough to flash you an arrogant look as the guard takes his place across from him. Ser Simon must easily stand a head and a half taller than the other man, you think, his figure even more impressive than it was before.

The men exchange nods before drawing swords, their dance beginning the same as all the others, assessing and calculating each other until the guard makes the first move-

The heavy whoosh of his blade is dodged with little effort, the giant wraith of a man moving far faster than any of you expected. He gracefully ducks under the other’s still outstretched arm, placing himself in the perfect position to swing his own sword towards his opponent's exposed neck- a maneuver surely meant to behead if this were anything other than a mock duel.

“Reset-”

“No.” You stand abruptly, stepping down from the throne much to your own surprise, “Ser Simon, what experience do you have as a Royal Guard?”

“Your Grace, this is-”

With a raised hand, you quiet the General, watching the mysterious knight sheath his sword once more, bowing again as he faces you,

“None, Your Majesty.”

Well, at least he’s honest.

“What experience do you have then?”

His head tilts to the side, and you watch the other guards tense when he takes a single step closer, those damned eyes gleaming down at you with a hunger you’ve never quite seen before,

“Battle, Your Grace. I’ve seen far more than most.”

This time, it’s you moving towards him, and when you step closer, the Kingsguard follows suit, though it seems nothing goes unnoticed by the towering specter.

“Well, Ser, I do not go into battle.. You might be better suited for my husband’s army, no?”

You watch the very corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, his gaze narrowing in amusement, and you’re positive you would see a devilish smile on his lips if he removed the helmet,

“I might.” He says flippantly, broad shoulders shrugging as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “But, I came here to serve you, My Queen.”

A deep and burning chill blooms in your core at his words and the resolute way he says them; it lights every nerve on fire, every cell and molecule, every atom in your being vibrating at a frequency you’ve never felt as the title rolls off his gilded tongue.

No, you’ve never met a man quite like this, and part of you questions if he truly is just a man at all- because no man has ever felt like this, no man has ever been able to pick you apart so quickly, make you feel bare with just his gaze alone.

He terrifies you as much as he excites you, and oh, how you’ve longed to feel something other than loathing, and boredom.

There is nothing practiced or placating about the smirk on your lips now as you nod toward your General, your handmaid once again adjusting the cumbersome fabric of your gown as you move forward-

“Well, you’ve gotten your wish, Ser Simon.” You coo as you breeze past him without a parting glance, “General Leon, make sure my guard is taken to his new quarters, will you?”

They fall into a sweeping bow as you exit, a quiet acknowledgement being the last thing you hear before the deep pulsing of your own heartbeat fills your ears.

What in the seven hells have I done..

[chapter 2 >>>]

[anunhingedme]

Shadow 0-1

booteh

boobeh

sexy basterd

[lunasatanicwitch]

Ooo my sweet little smoking ghost👻😅 he is addicted 😅

[random-thot-generator]

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

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

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

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

The end of the world is here.

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he turns. 

Death turns.

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

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

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

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

No.

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . 

You are brought to his tent, screaming. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because there have been many omens in the air lately. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Müde?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful 

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

[thedovesaredying]

Monsters in the Dark | Nikto x Reader | Part 2

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

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

Warnings: Sputnik being a silly girl.

Masterlist: CoD Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“да,” he hums, “we will be here.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

Translations

“да,” - “Yes” 

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

“место!” - “Stay!” 

“Спутник!” - “Sputnik!” 

“ко мне!” - “Come!”  

[demothers-empty-blog]

Ferse, Hasso-!

CW: Day 1 of Flufftober 🎃🤝 today i am using @flufftober’s Day 1 prompt: Lost Pet Meet Cute. thank you for what you do love, we appreciate ya ���. divider by @machveil 🍓

inspired by this image from SweetPoison-cod. look at that adorable baby pooch, could probably maul a man to death.

Good boys deserve long walks, and good boys deserve to go out hunting with their best friend. Try as he might, König could never ignore the nastiest side eyes his dog gives him. Hasso does not beg, nor does he whine or try to bribe for your attention, Hasso will sell his owner for a scrap of sandwich meat. No, on the contrary, Hasso judges until he gets what he wants.

Col. König never wanted a dog in the first place, it was all Gromsko’s idea to begin with. The man was pushing 40 that Wednesday and the team wanted to gift him something special. To his surprise, the colonel found more than he intended to that morning. He briefly eyes the men who were sat at the table, brushing past them all zombie-like from a restless night of tossing and turning, only when the lights turned off suddenly whilst König’s coffee brewed did he snap out of his drowsy daze and whipped around, voice still hoarse with sleep.

“Who the fuck turned off the lights?” He calls out to the men who were previously at the table, “Answer me!” The harshness dies on his tongue the moment narrowed eyes land on Roze’s face, seeing the small smile playing on her lips in the dark thanks to the 39 candles illuminated beneath her, spread evenly across a layered Black Forest cake.

His eyes soften as they scan the team behind her, König blows out his candles and they all cheers. Gromsko approaches the birthday boy with a hefty looking puppy in one arm after swatting Horangi’s hand away, the pup looking bored as can be. He yawns, his maw stretching to impossible lengths. “Guys,” A meaty paw goes to pet the pup, König pinches the baby’s cheek. “What the fuck is this? Who is this?”

“Your present. Happy birthday, Boss.”

“Was?” One year ago that day, Hasso Leitner the Cane Corso was introduced to KorTac. He doesn’t listen for shit outside the field, didn’t play with his toys as a pup and always looked at his owner like he was the inferior being. König would die for his dog, he’s not so sure if Hasso would do the same.

Hasso only gives his owner the time of day on walks. König sometimes gets overwhelmed or a little claustrophobic sitting at home, he’d go for a quick walk and come back. But what constitutes a ‘short’ walk for the towering Austrian? Certainly too long for the dog’s taste, Hasso would rather go wherever his owner went to clear his mind than stay idle at home.

It was a warm but grey day, the skies hid the sun behind a storm of clouds, but it did not seem like any droplets would fall anytime soon. König took the opportunity to settle himself beneath a tree with the leash tightly wrapped around his hand.

Ein paar Minuten, he promised himself. Nur ein paar… Eyelids grow heavy and König falls asleep.

Of course it was like Hasso to get loose and escape, König felt absolute mortification when he lifted the leash to find no dog attached at the end of it, only one spiky and very empty red dog collar dangling in his grasp. Hasso! Du Scheißhund!

Over on your side, confusion weighed heavy on your features. One minute you were out picking raspberries, peacefully, mind you, the next you were knocked on your ass and raspberries hailed on you as you flung your basket in the air.

The mysterious cane corso with the black, sleek coat deems you as good enough furniture and plops right on your stomach, settling himself and crossing his paws together as the cherry on top.

“Oh, wow.” You look up, your chin touching your chest. “Okay, that’s how it’s gonna be? Big guy?” You try to get his attention but you don’t know if he’s vicious or not, so you decide not to move too much and argue with the damn thing, but you could’ve sworn your words went in his twitching ear and out the other. “I know you can hear me!”

König follows the sounds of your distressed calls, it was also like him to put a chip in his pet for times like these, which he prays never happens again. “Ferse! Hasso!” As soon as it happened, it went. Hasso sits up from over you and walks over to his owner’s side and you feel like you can breathe again. You can hear frantic rustling as you sit up on your elbows, eyeing the burly man kneeling beside his equally burly pet. You chuckle to yourself as you see him secure the spiky crimson collar around the dog’s neck, the name Hasso written in bold on a dog bone.

“He didn’t bite me,” you assure, the sound of muffled panicked panting from behind the mask covering half his face filling the awkward silence. “He’s a very good boy, just isn’t very good with personal space.”

“That’ll be a first,” the man finally rasps out, his accent thick from the stress Hasso caused him. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I swear to you, he doesn’t mean any harm.”

You sit up with a light smile, still dazed. “I’m okay, I promise. He just wanted someone to lay on...” You try to brush it off as much as possible, but a dog did attack you and a big one at that. Yet you couldn’t find it in you to stay scared, initially you were but mostly just very confused. “He’s a particular one.” You turn to face König, grasping the hand he offered to pull you to your feet.

“Does he do that often?” you ask.

König opens his mouth to say something but decided against it, “Yeah…” He spares a glance at the monster in question, who had nothing else better to do than to lick up the fallen raspberries. “He’s just being a fatass, ma’am. I’m really sorry-”

But you cut him off. You have no use for apologies, you’re not mad.

“Listen, you help me pick some more of these and we’ll call it even?” You suggest, grabbing the basket lying on nature’s floor, brushing off some dirt. König’s eyes gleam, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s taken his time picking berries, probably when he was a child.

“Did I ever tell you that I used to get stomach aches from eating too many of these before they reached the basket?” You tilt your head and laugh, hooking an arm around his while König held Hasso’s leash in the other.

“Meine Mutter, my mother, she used to send me to this place by the river. It was this small, secluded area full of wildlife and between the cedars and bramble there were these raspberry bushes. Man…” He held a red berry between thick fingers, tossing it towards Hasso’s expecting gaze. “Who would’ve thought he’d be the one to bring me back to that?” He glances over at the dog with mock disdain.

“Hey, don’t feed him more!” You swat König on the chest, “That’s my future pie filling.”

“Could we make a Linzer Torte?” You noticed in that moment that König and Hasso had the same expectant gaze about them, dogs do resemble their owners, but you kept that bit to yourself.

“Yes,” you say, slightly exasperated. “If you teach me, I’ll make you whatever the fuck you want.”

[piercetheriv]

INTROO ! ! (⁠；⁠^⁠ω⁠^)

names i go by : River (name most everyone calls me - especially irl) , Cal (shut up) , Logan (all i can say is that i rlly like cod ghosts) . U CAN CALL ME ANY OF THESE :DD

i js go by he/him prns !! ^_^

although what my friends might say . . . IM BI I LIKE WOMEN JS AS MUCH AS I LIKE MEN 😿😿 - river coming out as bi in the big 2025 is crazy.... LOLOLOL

my interests :

music

Pierce The Veil (especially selfish machines and a flair for the dramatic , tony and vic are my favs - especially tony 👅) , Brokencyde , Ohemgee , 4Dbling , Dot Dot Curve , Scene Kidz - I RLLY like crunkcore music - , Alesana , Linkin Park , Never Shout Never , Sleeping With Sirens , Silverstein , A Bullet For A Pretty Boy , Suicide Silence , Alex G , Circa Survive , Fall Out Boy , Saosin , Underoath , Hail The Sun , Get Scared , MCR , Amputated , Ghost Town . . . ect more emo stuffs lolz all i can think of rn

movies and tv/anime

Zero Day , Silent Hill (1) , Saw 2 , Girl Interrupted , Insidious 1 , Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrick Rules/Dog Days , Dude Where's my Car? , SLC Punk , Brokeback Mountain , Spirited Away . . . Invader Zim , Death Note , Worlds Strictest Parents , D.Gray-Man , Amazing World of Gumball , King of the Hill , Bluey , Soul Eater , Madoka Magica , Heathers . .

other stuffs

creepypasta , slenderverse , omori , cry of fear , bendy and the ink machine , silent hill , cod : ghosts / black ops 2 , halo , fnaf , sonic , 3fs (yter) , Gir (invader zim) , collecting vinyls (even tho my record player is broken lol) , mario kart , monster energy , dvd movies (dvds better than any streaming service🙏) , collecting cds , watching homoemo for hours on end 😞🙏 . .

im not apart of the tcc i js like zero day lol , idrc if u r tcc .. ANYWAYS I GOT MY BESTEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD KADENCE TO WATCH ZD AND SHE LOVES IT !! ^^ for this upcoming school year im gonna put Cal's id in my school id and she's gonna do the same but with Andre >:33 dis literally me n her ⬇️

this is me on the first day of school looking at the people i wished had moved schools

i jerk to him every night b4 bed (pls help i cant stop 😿)

anyways i really love monsters and sleeping all day that's about it , i know im finally making an intro page after being on here for almost a year lols

anyways my bestest friends rrrr: Astrid/Jae/Nico/Tabi/ whatever names they go by @th4n0s-wrld (/silly love you vro ❤️❤️) , percussionist professional chloe @chloeluvsgreekmythology (congratulations on ur band award im so happi 4 u :33 !!) , Kadence / KD (she doesn't have tumblr sad face) , Soap :3 (doesn't have tumblr 😞) .. js realized u don't need to know all my friends lolz but they are the most important to me

okie that's it 4 now baii ! ! ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ

[noxturnaldeath]

Fav series ever hands down.

State of My Head 1

Find the series masterlist

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

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

Word count: 4.8k

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

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

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

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

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

Keep reading

[meet-the-net]

Meet the Net (partially) 🦀

Character sheet/Masterpost. Continuous. Fun and not so fun facts about Frode. ⤵

Facts ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏

General 𖦹 Frode Havn, born 25th of August 1934 (34 yrs at time of employment with TFI) in Selbyen, Norway. 𖦹 Refused to take on the name "Ned" after signing with Team Fortress Industries. 𖦹 Support class, despite his defensiveness. 𖦹 Only child of Frida and Emil Team Fortress Industries. 𖦹 Brown eyes, black hair, 5'6. 𖦹 Ambidextrous. 𖦹 Trans man; voice went from this to this vocal range. 𖦹 Pansexual. 𖦹 Heavy smoker. 𖦹 No tattoos, only scars. Language 𖦹 Heavy Norwegian accent. Will occasionally outright refuse to speak English. Doesn't care about being understood or proper grammar. 𖦹 Raises his voice frequently, to intimidate or to make a point. A shrill, intense laugh, though rare. 𖦹 Swears like a sailor, despite his inability to sail a boat. Hobbies & Interests 𖦹 Brewing heimabrygg, a delectable ale made with local juniper branches and kveik, a brewer's yeast. What remains of it is sold to those who ask. May taste slightly soapy at times... 𖦹 With the ingredients right on his doorstep, Frode repurposes his brewing station to create soap bars of different fragrances. The slightly stinging smell of alcohol lies within each piece. 𖦹 Listening to classical music. The more dramatic, the better. 𖦹 Attempting to befriend the local fauna to no avail. He fears they can smell the guilt on him. Traits 𖦹 Enjoys catastrophic weather and will purposefully leave the house during storms and hail, the electric air inexplicably irresistible to him. 𖦹 Thinks fishing is boring, but finds the spoils of a good catch thrilling. Consequently, he mostly uses a harpoon to complete the task as quickly as possible. However, he will never gut or debone a fish. Never again. 𖦹 Stand-offish, and not in an awkward or charming way. Will eerily observe from the sidelines and either shut down or crumble at any bit of kindness thrown his way.

History ﹏ ོ☼﹏𓆞

𖦹 In 1940, when Frode was 6 years old, Nazis invaded the country and occupied the village for their resources, such as fish and metal. Many villagers stayed behind and were forced to work for and host the scum. But because dark hair and eyes were traits that could, at that time, get someone killed, and the Havn family happened to possess those, they fled into a hidden nearby mountainside bunker for self-preservation. 𖦹 Having learned about the ongoings in the village, his young mind began being plagued by the terror of his friends' peril at the hands of the Germans. In an act of disquietude, he exited the bunker in the stillness of the night to convince himself of their safety. 𖦹 Alerted soldiers caught wind of the small intruder. With all the velocity his short legs could muster, Frode hurtled for the only shelter he knew – the bunker – oblivious to the dire repercussions. Scratched up from charging through the bushes concealing the bunker, and barely having opened the heavy steel door, a young Frode was apprehended, wailing warnings into the dimly lit concrete block. In horror, he had to watch his parents and grandparents get dragged out of hiding and into the village and onto a truck. A last look at petrified faces screaming hurried "I love you"'s, the thump of metal doors shutting, and the vehicle disappeared into the dusk. 𖦹 As the only serviceable family member – due to his youth, health and nimble hands – Frode was quickly put to work in the production of cod filets to nourish those who'd taken everything from him. Countless of spines plucked out of descaled, hollowed fish – five years of labor. Meanwhile, he resided – but never truly lived – with his aunt Lena. 𖦹 The end of the war and retreat of the Germans brought barely any relief, the shambles of the village and the knowledge of having doomed his family too heavy on Frode's conscious. 𖦹 All remnants of the feverishly joyous child he once was had dissipated, leaving merely a furious husk. A front of anger had risen to disguise a deeply damaged, frightened boy. All he's had to hold onto was the self-made illusion of superiority, of usefulness. 𖦹 Guilt tainting his mind and regret staining his soul had brought him to actively seek out solitude – verbally and physically disunifying himself from his peers – disbelieving in the capabilities of human relations soothing his apprehension. He'd lost family to friendship. He would not let that happen again.

𖦹 Frequent outbursts and the tension that loomed over the house afterwards put Frode at near constant risk of expulsion from Lena's residence – empty threats attempting to straighten out his attitude, unbeknownst to him. Exasperated by the tornado subsisting in the spare bedroom, she had to establish a reverse curfew, forcing him out of the house through most of the day. 𖦹 To busy his hands elsewise, to numb his mind somehow, Frode frantically delved into various hobbies, picking up quite a variety of different skills. Neighbors' toolsheds secretly served as facilities for his experiments, combining what he'd observed the village brewer concoct with the material available in the sheds to create truly atrocious beverages. When inevitably found out, the neighbor couldn't refuse to help a curious mind get further in life, and referred the 15 year old boy to the brewer, who initially reluctantly took him under his wing. 𖦹 Through being salaried and using his free time to help out various other shops for small allowances, saving up enough to eventually move into his own small apartment at 20 years of age. He took on many side jobs, never leaving himself enough time to think and therefore burst into wrath. 𖦹 A company, run by outsiders of the village community, called Dyr Her & Der Animal Relocation emerged out of nowhere to monitor and manage the rapidly increasing seal population. When they started offering guided tours of the seals nesting grounds as a marketing strategy, the number of international tourists in Selbyen rose exponentially. But a lack of infrastructure, as the village ironically lacked a proper fish shop, resulted in the quick dwindling of tourists. Frode made a pretty penny in those months as a plushie producer, although he had trouble selling his wares at the souvenir shop, partially due to his loose grasp on the English language, another part due to his brashness. 𖦹 ... 𖦹 ...

𖦹 Empty 𖦹 ... 𖦹 Frode stirs. Fluorescents shrink his pupils. The memory of a hauntingly vacant village pierces his mind like a rusty screw. He cannot place it, it must've been an odd dream. Purple blurs leaning over him analyze his predicament. Something about 'The cloning process…' and '…memories deviate from the blueprint's.'. Screaming bloody murder in the tongue of the north, clawing himself free of the tubes in his arms, taking dazed swings at the people in their shining lab coats and violet dress shirts – all that proves sufficient for administration to deem him a fitting member of team Reliable Excavation Demolition. The declawed animal has fangs yet. 𖦹 After re-awakening from sedation handcuffed to a chair, the woman with the black hairdo and crooked glasses is able to explain to a snarling, fuming Frode both his options: Work for them or perish. 𖦹 Despite his life's mediocrity and self-inflicted solitude, it's dear enough to him to decide for the labor. After all, not much in life would ever be as taxing as digging his fingers around the freezing corpses of cods, near continually for half a decade. He never could've suspected how much worse it'd be; having him work with weapons so similar to those they had pressed against his temples when his vision blurred and his knees buckled beneath him from exhaustion. 𖦹 Incapable of showing a hint of his immeasurable terror – be it due to pride or shame – he has no choice but to oblige, albeit unnecessarily nonchalantly. 𖦹 While gritting his teeth through the signing of his contract, he's filled in about his very existence being nothing but the misshapen copy of an existing man. That all memories of half a life lived are nothing but artificially firing neurons, fabrications, unreality. A premise so ridiculous it boils his blood, dizzies him, throws him for a loop. Yet when his lungs and eyes start burning from the volume of his defensiveness, and being met with a little red pointing light on his chest, he manages to chalk it up as some excuse for much worse events having transpired in his amnesic state. The last information he receives before being evicted from the administration building is the village's vacantness, that for this paid slaughter they needed to move out the residents. Including Lena. Despite their differences, she sustained him until he was ready to live on his own, and beyond. He couldn't possibly let another family member come to harm at his hands. 𖦹 One of those very hands grasps the suitcase holding spare uniforms, the contract and the components of a handheld harpoon gun. When he reenters Selbyen, when he makes his way to where he thinks he resided, he finds an emptiness. But not a silence. Sorrowful tunes waft through the air from the opposite side of the village. There is someone else. Someone with an uncannily similar visage that he'd face soon enough... Their meeting here. To be continued.

[danibee33]

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

[hookedonvillains]

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

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

[misanthropologymajor]

to boldly go...

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

Science Officer!f! Reader x Bridge Crew! 141

Star Trek: TNG AU (pt. 1?)

Human! Price- Captain of the Enterprise 

Human!Gaz- helmsman/operations officer (liutenant)

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

Betazoid!Soap- new security officer (lieutenant)

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

wc: 4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What a total dick."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ghost, what he said about your parents-"

"Doesn't matter."

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

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

"Half Vulcan. Born and raised on Earth."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have friends everywhere, Ghost."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[kit-williams]

Masterlist

Hi decided to actually make a masterlist because it's probably for the best.

Things to know: I will write from a mainly female pov/perspective and it will for the most part be monogamous hetro relationships (in the terms of genitals) I won't do fxf or mxm or trans because that's not how I grew up and I'm god awful at writing homosexual sex (genderbend I can do) Another no: Adultry/cheating/spouse(or partner) thievery

Asks are open

Come buy me a coffee

Number of asks waiting to be answered: 15

My Ao3 (I havent updated a story on there since like 2016 I'm scared to even let ya'll see it but I might post the AU on there)

So I mainly write Halo, Runescape, and Warhammer 40k but here I've only been posting my Warhammer 40k and D&D au

So expect a lot of polls because it helps focus my ADHD ass

Also Fanart is ALWAYS allowed! Just Tag me!

PLACE WHERE YOU CAN ASK TO BE PUT ON TAG LIST

Poll Storage Pheromone Spray part 2 First Kiss part 3 WIP poll Help momrad focus on what to write Ones ready to be typed Adhd helper poll

WIPs

Stuff that's not on the masterlist will usually be listed with #momrad's drabbles or #momrad's blurbs

Warhammer 40k

The D&D AU

The Yandere Black Templar and Flesh Tearer

The Yandere Space Marine Masterlist

Story Vault until I know where to put these stories/how to categorize them

This is not Canon mini masterlist

Primarchs masterlist

Leandros

Eyes of the Emperor

Alone Together

No Prayer at Midnight

Warhammer Fantasy

Dangerous Druchii pending

Warhammer 40k & COD

The COD Integration mini-masterlist

Demon Prince/Bloodthirster Graves

The 40k au

How does Horangi spend the thrones? Horangi focused

Lieblings König focused

Spirit Halloween Ghost focused

Hey Kiddo Price focused

Where do babies come from reply

Hail to the King Black Templar König

Everyone is space elves

COD

The mud pit cope fic

Hot Chocolate cope fic König focused

Missing the Bairn cope fic Soap focused

Zombie cope fic Ghost focused

He scares me Nikto focused happens before the Soap one

It's a wonderful life CODHoliday2023 fic angst-comfort Ghost

Age hcs/boys ages

Random romantic thing I wrote

Tanz mit mir Regency Au songfic

Halo

Most of it is on my Ao3

Random

The eventual bringing over that one non con I wrote pending

I have to edit it

The #I wrote something for my tumblr can help too

Sentience base off of lancer but I really just like the Balor

Baby fluff

barn anon/Tales from the Barn/Space Marine Husbandry Sentience

I will rename this when I can sit and think of better titles for them

Space Marine Husbandry Sentience Plot Beats

Space Marine Husbandry Sentience Mini Master List

51 more Space Marine Husbandry Sentience & Tales from the Barn

Hey Look another Space Marine Husbandry Mini Masterlist

A Salamander's hoard 2

Lorgar in Husbandry

Palion Dancing

Of the same coin

Reverse Husbandry AU

Reverse Husbandry Gabriel

Reverse Husbandry Headcanon

Reverse Husbandry Emperor

Sanguinius and Glitter

Gabriel and his sick human

Human Husbandry?

Primarchs in the reverse world

Gaius flees

Judgement from the Lord of Iron

Seeing things

Konrad Returns

Aurora and Guilliman

Funny stuff/Fan art

Ovaries Stolen meme

Fan art by bispecsual

Blood Angel Gabriel meme

ZUL by moodymisty

Angron Post Surgery expression

Fan art by c-u-c-koo anon of Plague Witch

Apollo and Dodgeball

Plague Witch part 2 by c-u-c-koo anon

Apollo by greenarsonist

Aurora by greenarsonist

Marine Meat Monday Zul by moodymisty

Penelope and Peterbunbun by Egrets-not-regrets

Fluffuary

Fluffuary master list

Fluffuary rules

MerMay

Story list

Living Waters au fic