#shepherd!Goose

[ghouljams]

Friend.

Viking!Ghost with a huge wolf-dog.

Or, even better : shepherd!reader with a huge wolf-dog, or two ; big, ferocious babies who absolutely love the guy, smothering him in kisses and floof every time he visits his darling. Huge balls of fluff who are absolutely delighted when he picks both of them up as if they were still puppies. Reader falling a little bit more in love with him every time she catches him interact with them, gently talking to them as their tails wag and wag and wag. And Ghost who has to suck in a breath when he finds her asleep in the barn after she spent the night helping one of her sheep give birth, the two dogs acting as really big and warm blankets, along with all the other sheep ; just a huge pile of snuggles that won’t let any kind of cold wind through. Just utter cuteness, and the huge, powerful viking is smitten.

My period has been acting up since yesterday, and last night was a nightmare. I’m a little bit better, but I can’t eat otherwise it’s gonna start all over again. I am not hurt, I AM the hurt. I really wish I had a big doggo or one of my cats to snuggle with, or a partner to help with the panic attacks this shoot always comes with (or all of those, I need warmth and cuddles and love).

I wanna write, by I can’t, because brain not braining properly. So I’m imagining fluffy scenarios while listening to the rain outside.

The birds are singing in harmony with the rain. It’s a cozy melody.

Lots of love, Friend.

Mii, out (like a light, soon, probably).

You're getting used to the visits. The giant of a viking that hovers just at the edge of your fence, watching like he's got something to say only to turn away when you ask him to say it. The dogs like him, galloping over to the man every time his shadow crosses your fence. They wiggle and jump like puppies, pushing their big paws against his chest and stretching long with their heads back, the only man that hasn't been bowled over by them yet. You can't blame them for their affections.

Your guest scoops up one of them and cradles the overgrown mutt against his chest. Your dog, for all its ferocity, licks at his mask like the tamest pup in a litter. You get your flock settled before making your way over. It's a fair assumption the viking won't walk away with your dog, so you're guessing he's worked up the nerve for a conversation. You manage to get all the way to the fence, though he takes a step back when you lean against it. You switch your attention to the dog still on the ground and scratch under her chin. Her big eyes stare sadly up at you, as if you could pick her up like the viking.

"Ghost," he says, and you're struck by how rich his voice is, deep and smokey as a dwarves cavern, "you can call me Ghost," he explains, apparently having realized his attempted start at a conversation wasn't going to go anywhere.

"There another viking hidin' his face like you?" You ask him, the introduction is lovely (if a little awkward) but everyone in the village knows Ghost. Or, they know of him. Nobody really knows him. You figure that's what the mask is for.

"Suppose not," he replies, and there's a touch of humor in his voice you hadn't expected. It makes you think he's smiling. Somehow that makes your cheeks feel hot. Strange.

"What do you need Ghost?" You ask, leaning against the fence. He leans to put your dog down, and the other one goes to nose his hand. He scratches her head lightly before straightening up.

"Just came to pet the dogs," he tells you. You smile. "No show this time?" He asks.

"No wolves," you nod towards the pasture, your flock safe and sound as they graze. Your eyes land on the wolf fang sewn to his leather. It's familiar enough to make your heart squeeze. You wish he'd come for you.

-

You're not out in the pasture, or answering the door when he knocks. It's early but Ghost didn't think you'd be that sound a sleeper. Fucking hell it's early, he shouldn't even be here but he wanted to see you before he left and- and he couldn't stop himself. He was delaying leave for his own selfish desired, but he couldn't stop himself from coming out to your little pasture. He had no excuse for it, nothing he could tell you, but he didn't want to talk to you he wanted to see you.

These are two different things.

He wanders around the fence you've put up, sturdy, well maintained. He wonders if you fix it up yourself or ask someone else to do it. You could ask him, he'd fix it for you. He'd fix anything for you. As long as it was you asking, he could do anything.

He stops outside a little covered barn, the hay leading into it is fresh, the doors slightly ajar. It's a good bet if he's ever seen one. The hinges don't stick when he inches the door open to look inside.

One of your dogs lifts its head from your lap, and stares at him, it's fluffy tail wagging softly against the hay. You're asleep, of course you're asleep. Sprawled over the hay, your dogs cuddled around you, the rest of the sheep settled to huddle close to their shepherd as well. You're surrounded by thick wool and wirey dogs, hardly bothered by the animals and straw as you sleep through the wee hours of the morning. You don't even look cold.

Ghost unhooks his cloak, the black leather and wolf's fur feeling ominous in such a pastoral scene, and drapes it over you like a blanket. Your dogs sniff it inquisitively, nosing it until he pushes their heads away with gentle pats. He tucks the fur against your neck and strokes his knuckles against your cheek. You're so beautiful, soft and vulnerable even under your fangs. He would have taken you to bed last night if you'd let him. Stayed up to watch the ewe and her new lamb while you curled up under the pelt blankets to sleep. How safe must you feel? How safe would he feel?

His thumb strokes against the fur and he stands. You'll still be here when he gets back, maybe not in the barn but here. In the village, in your pasture, right where he knows he can find you.

And hopefully, you'll be wearing his cloak when he does.

[compacflt]

slimav?

would never happen bc slider canonically smells bad

[schapendoess]

Briar my LGD had a TPLO about 10 weeks ago and is recovering better than I expected

[leavemethescars]

Played in a hockey tournament with my friends and scored some goals, fed a goose who laid her eggs in a parking lot (???) a taquito (low key thought I killed her bc she disappeared and left her eggs at one point when I went to my car but she came back!), a few of the garden beds are filling up, Chippy has outgrown Teddy, Jack Suwinski hit a grand slam. It’s been a good weekend.

[theborzoiarebackintown]

When did Georgia turn into a full grown mature dog??

[aspidities]

You ever take a picture of your dogs and wanna call up National Geographic or is that just me

[mikamoo]

Hoo hoo hee hee some arts of me babies

[gooddogbadboy]

Hung out with Goose at adoption hours yesterday.

Really good and smart boy, incredibly treat motivated. I taught him down and he picked it up immediately and was able to demonstrate for potential adopters!

He was also not reactive to other dogs even when they were barking at him, and a dream on leash.

I wish I could foster him, he is honestly what I personally am looking for in a dog, but I know my housemates would not be happy with me since they asked for nonshedding and on the smaller side.

The staff thinks he has been overlooked because not that many people want Germans (which is opposite of me, but true for my housemates :( ).

[cu7ie]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ (✪㉨✪)  beasts of burden.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀▚▚▚▚▚▚⠀⠀when the pet aims to become the master! ▚▚▚▚▚▚

⠀⠀⠀⠀cw; non-con / dub - con ! reader owns hybrids like how you might own pets. rough groping, clothes ripping, sexual aggression. no specific gender or genitals mentioned. hybrid! characters x human reader. REALLY LONG POST. (5k+)

Shepherd!Shinichiro is full-grown when you meet him. The dog you pictured taking home with you wasn’t anything like Shinichiro. He’s too tall. Sheds too much (you sat down with a black shirt and stood up with a coat) gets so excited squirreling around with his friends that he nearly stampedes you. 

But he’s the one you leave with. He’s the one who’s papers you’re signing your name all over. The one who’s collared and dutifully walking in step with you back to your apartment. The one you chose to love.

He’s not shy; not necessarily forth-coming either, but he respects you enough. Wipes his feet on the mat when he comes in, doesn’t chew up your furniture and sits on the first try every time. You’d never owned a hybrid before.  And with Shinichiro’s specific breed, you’re even less certain about his disposition; though his excitement and his happy licks and demand for head rubs is giving you a good feeling. You do your research sparingly in the upcoming weeks, scrolling down google with one hand,

The other threaded affectionately in Shinichiro’s hair.

A few more weeks pass, and Shinichiro’s thin shell cracks under the weight of your relentless affections. You’re touchier than any owner he’s ever had.

He doesn’t know how to express to you, this coiling snake in his belly - roiling hellfire whenever you stroke under his chin, pat him playfully on his cheek and drag your hand up and down his tummy -

You don’t notice (or pretend not to) the tent he’s pitching in his shorts. He’s wheezing and you won’t stop rubbing. Your eyes are glued to his,  sip-sippin’ up his ambrosia; enthusiasm, utter joy, laughter so strained it sounds painful.

You’re a good boy. Such a good, good boy. You whisper to him. And he’s whining - whining so loud and he can’t help himself, he just can’t help it. 

And when he bites you, you are shocked. You choke on your praises. Surprise leaves you deafened and petrified, and you are being pulled by your hand up up into Shinichiro’s sharp and eager grasp before you can dissuade him with a firm ‘bad boy’. He feels you up. 

(He only seen you. In parts, never all at once or for very long. Steam fogs up your mirror when you shower and there was always something peculiar about that depressingly gelid draft, rising goose pimples in your skin despite the warm shower. He’s looking, then, and looking at night. He’s supposed to be sleeping beside your bed, but he worms his way beneath your covers. Breathes so close to your face that your eyelids twitch in your sleep. 

You’re warmer than any human he’s ever met. Your laughter crisp in the space behind his eyes. Everything’s so quiet now - but it’s like he can hear you so clearly, moaning quietly and,

So perfect. All his.)

He forgets how fragile humans are at the best of times. His nails - which you’ve been meaning to trim, he’s just too excited sometimes - scrape along your skin from your waist and down to your hips, etching in crescents whenever he grabs you firm. You squeal, mousy eyed and meek handed, pushing firmly against Shinichiro’s chest. He only leans into you more. Eyes softened with adoration and love, resolve sharpened to a blade’s edge as he licks his lips like you’re something that ought to be devoured. 

He can tell there’s something that’s making you uncomfortable. His cock is stiff in his boxers - he’s sure you can feel it, how much he loves you too - and he’s staring like he can’t believe you’re real; but he doesn’t wager either of those things are the reason why you’re quiet. You’re new to this. Never been bred before; he deduces from the apprehension in your gaze. He strokes your cheek, like you’d done once before to comfort him. Like he’s telling you not to worry, as your shorts tear and buttons pop off. As he flips you over and fixes your positioning, raises your hips so when he curls over your back they’re raised to his, you fidget. You spasm, you squirm, jerkily moving your hands to support your weight as you attempt dislodging his grip from your hips.

“No! Bad boy! Bad dog! Shinichiro!-” He grinds his dick against you with pent-up aggression, carnal fervor that slides along your back and drags something sticky along with it. 

There are hearts in his eyes. If he wasn’t holding your head down, you might’ve been able to see them.

  ⠀⠀⠀⠀₍⑅ᐢ›ﻌ‹ᐢ₎⚟  

Kitty!Izana doesn’t live in a shelter. If he did once, then he recalls it with no fondness, taken to lying with shadows like any other discarded piece of trash. He’s a bit fleabitten and mangy, to be expected from a backwater alley cat. Nobody pays him mind as long as he relegates himself to dark corners; sticks to swiping things from beneath unsuspecting strangers’ noses and desiring little more for himself. Not one familiar place to him anymore; and he had no business being in any place a human called home. So he lets himself fester. Allows resentment to pry open his chest and live there, congealing in his open wounds, choking a withered heart. And for a long while, he knows no comfort beyond that of his own thoughts.

You just finished signing your lease agreement, and should be finished moving in before the end of the week. An optimistic estimate. All your boxes remain packed, stacked into several towers and sorted by importance. Memorabilia, your tankobon collection, tapestries and vases and the rest of your life in sturdy cardboard containers.  The area is .. okay. Not the cleanest, or most well lit at night, or even the safest feeling, (you feel like something’s stabbing you with its eyes. Slithering up your neck, a snake-) but well within your budget - and the landlord is just the sweetest older man. He checks up on you often. Doesn’t have many restrictions or rules; no loud music playing, no smoking ( or more reasonably — no cigarette butts on the steps,) and absolutely no hybrids. So when you happen upon those yellow beady eyes in the alleyway, the vague rumble of hunger that squeezes your heart before the specter bounds behind the safety of the refuse,

You aren't sure about your angle of attack. On one hand, he's despondent. Doesn't believe in your kindness, hisses at your handouts and leaves your arm beat up and gouged out on more than one occasion. He's just nervous, you think, slicing tuna, flattening and molding rice into sheets that you roll up and slice into pieces. He'll come around, one day. 

He just has to. It's getting colder. Autumn is cut short by the blizzarding winds of winter, and Izana grows desperate. A human's persistence always feels like the cure to all problems. That's probably what you think - with your pretty eyes and your dumb little fucking human brain and - 

Yes, he does eat the food you give him, because it's fresh and he's starving, and he takes the coat you 'were going to throw away' (you shove it into his hands, for him to keep,) because it'd be a shame it'd go to waste. Not because he likes you. Not because he appreciates you. In fact, you might just be the bane of his existence.

(You make him hurt. Unlike any pain from being kicked or having bricks thrown at his ribs. Worse than the cigarettes that have burnt permanent ash into his fur. He doesn't need you. Doesn't want to want you. So this feeling, that butterflies his lungs and crackles his ribs and has him looking away whenever you fix him with those cloyingly pitying eyes, 

It must be hatred. Must be disgust. He is unwilling to rationalize it as anything else. Sometimes he'll climb the fire escape when he learns your specific apartment, sees your head sticking out the window one day to move your potted plants inside when it gets too too cold out; lingering in the dank fetid air of the alleyway, maps you out and keeps his notes for a rainy day. You see him, try to lure him in with food and promises of affection and play and toys. He's gotten less aggressive, willing to compromise at least. Doesn't hiss when you wave him good mornings, doesn't claw at the air and bite your wrist when you scratch him behind the ear. It's only been a few months. You don't seek your landlord's ire (you're not sure he could handle a surprise, let alone find out you're hosting for strays) but you trust that Izana could keep a secret if you can. He's mostly quiet in your interactions and that doesn't change much once he's inside. He isn't reciprocal with affections, doesn't pay you much mind in your own house, but is harmless and docile when pampering is involved. He's butter over warm toast, melting and purring as warm water washes over him in - oh, you don't even know how long. 

It's unlike him regardless.

(He's hurting again. It's dull and throbbing in his lungs, cold and piercing and fierce; you caressing his cheek, the water pooled around him. He's not drowning but he's full of something and he despises the sensation, but leans further and further into your hand-)

You rinse dirt from out of his hair, decay from behind his ears, scrub the loneliness from his skin. 

(You're so focused. His anxiety worms its way to his stomach and buried itself, the seed to which your affection tends; the unknown, the unusual inspires his fear. Is your betrayal imminent? There seems to be no ruse in your ministrations, but his heart pounds at the thought. You wring out the cloth you used to clean him and tell him he can stand before leaving the room. You can't see him. He will use that to his advantage.)

Your back is turned as you rummage through your closet for an extra towel. You remembered grabbing one, though it makes sense your mind could have been going - oh shoot. Did you tell Izana to wait for you in the bathroom? You spin around so fast you sway in your spot for a bit, stomping towards the bathroom, towel in hand. 

But he's not there. Wet footprints lead you to your living room, but he's not there either. He's a bit soft pawed, the slippery kind of feline you presume. So the hunt marches along. Not under the kitchen table, under the couch, near the window or the front door. He didn't go back to the bathroom. Your mounting confusion is the first thing he notices when you walk back in your room. Your face; it's pretty. Which becomes a revolting conclusion as soon as it's realized, but he can't take it back, can't unthink it. Humans are not beautiful. But maybe you are? He's under your bed, by the way. You see the pale yellow eyes as a surprisingly strong hand curls around your ankle firmly - and tugs. The world falls around you and you raise your head so your shoulders hit the floor before you get a concussion; aching and holding up the towel shield against a very wet, a little dusty Izana.

 "Buddy. What's up with all the rabble rousing? I was gonna towel you off and we were gonna be all cool-" Your voice lurches as he tosses the towel wayward, forcing you to bare witness to his lean physique, his tail curling around your leg as he leans up and,

His cock is throbbing. So hard, pre leaking from the ruddy tip, as it sticks up and out like an offensive gesture. It's ribbed with nub-like bumps, blunt and odd and menacing. You whine and try to gain leverage with your legs, attempting to kick and wriggle your way out from beneath him. Dead weight. He does not budge. He does look a little impatient now though; terse like you've been the one wasting his time.

"Human." He croaks, placing his hand on your shoulder and scooting further up your chest, his cock head kissing your lips. You whimper.

"Lick it."

⠀⠀⠀⠀ʚ₍⑅ᐢ.ﻌ.ᐢ₎ɞ  

Lab!Manjirou was the one nobody wanted. Hybrid kennels are rough, and most owners don't know how to dress up and play pretend. He's not doing much when you first start working there, determined to make a home out of this hell. He didn't trust your commitment. Wary of most humans in his day to day, he doesn't aim to keep an eye out for them. Mostly lounging around with the other hybrids, aimless and picking fights with the biggest guys and scaring all the little kids with the big eyes and burning glares, whooping and hollering and barking through metal fences. Your patience is effortless. You assign your 'pack mates' (employees, you later explain) tasks; maintain the kennels and the play spaces and the feeding and walking times, while you see to Manjirou's personal retraining program. He's a good fella at heart, you know that; just a little bit of a lack of focus is all. Preoccupied with his own thing to his own detriment. You begin with teaching him how to listen. He often doesn't bother with humans; preferring the ravings of his hybrid friends as opposed to human conversation and commands. You're not his boss and you don't try to be. What you are though, is his caretaker. He ought to listen to the people trying to help him - and you don't get it, because you've never been in his position before - so maybe your first lesson doesn't go over too well with him. Maybe he stops paying you attention for the next couple days, bleeding into the next week. 

Maybe he just doesn't want to listen to a word you say. And that's fine. You guess you could be okay with that.

(But he did listen. Listened to every word that fell from your lips like it'd be the last thing he'd ever hear, felt your heartbeat as you started to feel unsure of yourself; smiled dumbly at how easy you fluster. You are trying. He saw it. As real as stars in the night, as certain as sunrise. And maybe he commends you for that, but he mostly dreams of your pretty mouth and how bright a future could be with you in it.

He doesn't talk to you because it doesn't make him feel cool. The others keep pulling his leg, jaunting and ribbing and getting under his skin; and while he hates being serious, he hates being made to look a fool more. So he stands and lets you hit, pick up a card, play.

You try again. And again. And again. Burning away his resolve. He is abrasive. He drags his feet, turns his head the other way. Doesn't take you seriously.

But you are firm. Your voice never wavers. Manjirou, don't you want to be a good boy for me? 

He dips his nose into your palm, and you wonder if dogs know how to keep promises.)

You make progress with the pups and kittens and think you're making something out of yourself when the first month under your management comes to a close. The kennel has taken root and grown into something of a home. Massive fronds that keep the hybrids safe in and intruders out, a wealth of life inside like a fresh breath of air; colors pulled right from a painter's palette, vivid and buzzing and delightful all around.  He almost hates his quickly it feels like you forget about him. You're busier and work later but still chat with him when you can; just not as focused, not as forward. He misses your special attention. Now he mostly sees you dispensing food around dinner time, greeting the others as you come and go. 

Tonight, his hunger is legendary. You walk into the kennel the same time you do every night, pat the same heads, serve the same meal, clean up, and-

Mikey's been following you. It's not new for him. You get a second shadow and he gets much needed attention, although none of it is particularly good. He keeps stepping on your heels and trying to smell the air around you, trying to rub his scent off on you, and you're a saint; so patient and so caring and so fucking blind,

Because the rest of the hybrids have formed somewhat of a circle around you. Innocuous seeming, but as your hands empty; bending over to place an empty box on the ground, you hear a shrill, low whistle. It's Mikey. Surrounded by all his little friends with their innocent eyes and big smiles. "What..?" You trail off, not observing the danger as it bares it fangs at you, stepping forward with that probing gaze. "Mikey, are you alright?" Your concern wraps around his heart and almost makes him feel sorry about what he's going to do to you.

(The others have taken a liking to you too. Draken and Peh - Yan and Kazutora and -  all his friends really. They don't like you as much as he does, you're his favorite, but they like Mikey enough to fall in line with him - to turn cheek when he lands on top of you and scratches your forearm; starts popping the buttons on your dress shirt.)

Mikey is sooo hungry. His tongue curls around the plane of your neck and his hand impatiently gropes at your chest. Shallow breaths give way to panic; the realization you were the one meant to close up shop, there’s no one else here.

“Manjiro. Stop! Get off of-!” He forces his mouth onto yours, kisses you sloppily like he’s been waiting for you to fall into his arms just so could take you, just like this. His erection pressing against your thigh as he spreads your legs so wide the other hybrids just have to take a look and, 

You’re crying. 

(They seem drawn to it. Your tears. Your squirming. Mikey licks a long stripe up your cheek, tastes the salt in them. His saliva burns you.)  His hands have already forced your pants down your legs, and all the time and effort you poured into him; all your love; it’s become malformed. Grossly misrepresented as he aggravatedly humps your thigh, popping threads your underwear at the goading of his friends, sticking a finger in you so suddenly and harshly that you groan and squeal, pumping it in and out;

“I can be a good boy for ya.” He simpers, raising his hand; lapping your fluids off his fingers. “Let me show you.” 

⠀⠀⠀⠀c(⌒o(  -▽-)ノ

There was no contingency plan in place for if you lost your nerve and ended up taking home two hybrids instead of one. Sure, you have the space - s’not like you don’t have the money; but dad was going on and on about the importance of spending limits, keeping track of your schedule - making sure they have what they need. “These are live animals, you know. You can’t just throw money at it and make it happy. They’re alive. They think, they desire, they need. You need to take real responsibility n’ take care of them properly or-”

“It’ll be fine. And I’m not just saying that, dad. I swear on it.” Sure you do. You don’t let him finish before you’re making an excuse to get a foot out the door, (because you hate being late more than you hate being told what to do,) a short drive to the kennel your father suggested; which practically feels like a hop and skip away. It’s ritzy, for sure. Mint and cream lettering that deems this building ‘Tenjiku & Friends’. Something about this place is just too cute. You hop out the car and two other men (that your dad sent, because even though he loves you to bits and pieces, sometimes you act like you took a high dive in a low well) tail you, open the door for you, clear the way for you. You had called the kennel the previous day to see if they had anything exotic for sale, and before you make it all the way down the hall, someone -

Cream pants, cotton candy blue vest, polite smile -

stops you in your tracks. He knows your name because he remembers talking to you, but let yourself feel like a celebrity anyway as he walks you down the hall. Most hybrid kennels only vendor dogs and cats - but specialized ones have the more exotic options for high-ballers. You walk past a basilisk (kinda looks like a dragon), wild cats (some big, some small), and harpies; from peacocks to pigeons, it's like this place has it all. 

You like the look of the basilisk the most, you guys walk back towards the reptile section as the young man hurriedly explains more shit you don’t give a fuck about-

And then you see it. A brilliant beam of light as pretty scales refract a heat lamps’ brightness right into your eyeballs. You stomp over with all intent to be irritated with whatever stupid ass animal did-

That… 

Your rage is cut with shock - all encompassing and rapidly onset. Your shock gives way to astonishment, flapping your hands as you point and go “Look, look!” towards the ice cold cobra resting behind the glass. He doesn’t move at the emergence of new faces, too busy being effortlessly gorgeous and minding his own damn business - but you have the wealth to be nosy.

It’s almost like .. he’s calling out to you.

From behind the observing glass, his chittering tail slips out of view; Rindou - the silver inlay on the name plate reads. There’s another name beneath it - Ran - though the cool-mint scales (on what you presume to be his brother) that slink out of view appeals to you profoundly on an aesthetic level. His brother doesn’t look lots like him as far as coloration goes. He’s a shiny beetle black. Under this heat lamp you can see shifting emeralds and colors of envy shift within the pot of black ink; his skin, beautiful, and (look, your mind’s changing again,) pressing your forehead to the glass, you weigh your options and are unable to think beyond ‘Gosh, they are just so gorgeous.’  

They continue ignoring you. They’ve seen ambitious types like you before; the ones that come in and crowd around the main attraction - the twin kings, magnificent and dangerous and feral. That which humans consider beautiful. Their captivity. You gape and awe and marvel so much; pay no heed to the handlers’ that say ‘back away from the glass’, just flash a cute enough smile (show them the billfold of your wallet) and they let people like you carry on. Because they know you’re good for it. 

(Rin and Ran talk amongst themselves often; refrain from speaking when humans are around but they definitely talk - about the handlers, about home, about freedom. No more poking with this needle, sedating with that pill, living ‘natural’ lives behind plexiglass. Preferably without pesky fucks like you trying to rip them apart - take them from everything they know-)

“These two are kinda like a package deal. One won’t move without the other - most people just want one and, y’know, s’not like we’re gonna corral em’, or force em to go but-” The guy you’re listening to but not quite blathers on and on, til’ you raise your hand and look over; with the stars and the sun and moon in your eyes; a little less than half a grand in your hand. He looks startled by your fervor, the way you bark orders at the people you came with to get the trucks to have these guys moved out within the hour - having the blue blooded audacity to stand in the way of the snake handlers as they coax the cobras out into the open, watching with wonderstruck glee and tapping your feet and jumping for joy. (You are so annoying. Most well-to-dos are, but when they lay your eyes on you for the first time, when they care enough to bear witness to their new owner; you’re not what they are expecting, and they don’t know if they like that. No crotchety, old, suit wearing executive, no crude perverse old hag. You’re young. A socialite maybe, but naive; surely.) They whisper and hiss and slither across linoleum tile to sniff at you with cautious forked tongues, chittering with their rattling tails. You shouldn’t be this close to them; not yet at least, but money makes men dance and the kennel company is more than happy to oblige your specialty requests. 

You look so excited to own them. That’s what they think at first, your mouth gaping at their utterly massive size. Their tails have to be at least twenty feet long, undulating slowly as they are walked down the hall with no issue. The striking specimens are enough to make your eyes water. How would they look in the sun? Sparkling like infinitely precious gemstones and gold. Their scales must be waterproof - maybe if they enjoy a good swim they could break in the new pool you just had renovated. You sigh in utter delight, enchanted by your future and running back to your sleek black car; practically throwing yourself down the flight of steps and demanding your chauffeur break every single traffic code in order to get home before your new pets do.

Hybrids; the best companionship money can buy.

You prepared your house for a hybrid to move in - note, singular, - and largely anticipated bringing home something so much more … normal. What do nagas even enjoy? Do they even like sleeping in beds? Probably not - real snakes don’t even sleep in beds, that’s stupid. You’re stupid and make impulsive decisions. But it's okay. When in doubt, cash out. You start doing research - a little late, but same day delivery is a terrific thing - and are interrupted soon after by violent buzzing and knocking at your door. 

Rin and Ran look shocked when they slither inside but that doesn’t matter in the least bit to you. You’re too excited by the towering nagas, clasping your hands together as the handlers ascertain and assess your premises. Good enough, they say, and leave you be.

“So. You guys talk right?” You ask almost stupidly. They share a glance and Rin speaks before Ran does - and you don’t know if it’s a lisp or if that’s just his tongue, but -

“Yes.” His s’s are so sharp they sting. “We do talk, human.” They are far, but close the gap in an instant and, once raised to their full sitting height, tower over you effortlessly. You’re not smart enough to feel intimidated. Ran seems to take to you more than Rin. Isn’t as aloof; rubs his body along your sides as he slithers by, flicking his tongue out at you. “Awesome! Well, this,” You make a sweeping gesture with your hand at the grand expanse of your house. “is your home now! Get comfortable. There’s plenty of room to lounge about and do whatever snakes like to do.”  Rindou sneers at you, and you feel like you might’ve said something wrong; but don’t care enough to correct it. They’re your pets, anyway. You provide, they don’t complain.

Rindou continues being cold to you, but Ran warms your heart and soul and almost never wants to leave your side. (They’re playing you. Good cop, bad cop - trying to figure out what makes you tick. How that can be leveraged - work to their benefit. Ran does take a liking to you; you’re dumb and fun and adorable. So small and fragile compared. He learns a lot about you, too; the human shows you like to watch and the fickle games you like to play. You’re not very strong, not very bright - but you’re affluent; wealthy, and to humans that is power.

Him and Rin talk less and less about leaving as the weeks pass. Even Rindou is starting to like you more. Your embarrassed smiles and the fear he can smell in your nervousness. Makes him.. tingle.)

You give them whatever they ask for whenever they want it. More treats, shiny things, installments in your house that can hold their weight, so they can climb and perch and slither and rest. But eventually, they get bored of your money. 

They start looking to you for more substance, but that’s when they begin to realize their individuality matters little to you. They are humanoid. Human-ish. But they are not people. To you, they are mindless. You ruffle their hair and call them “Good boys”. You bombard them with hugs and kisses and pats when they don’t want them; though when they are seeking out your attention you’re suddenly too busy, suddenly so annoyed. And of course, they have other needs too. 

(You don’t care about being naked in front of them. You strip carelessly and leave articles around the house for them to find, walking into rooms in towels or sometimes nothing at all. It means nothing; your nudity and you purport it should be the same for them. You don’t stare at them like they stare at you. Analyzing your every move. Every inch of bare skin is scandalizing, racy and jarring - they don’t know what to do but stare. Ran, a lapdog if anything, tries to get close to the source - Rin prefers taking mementos and memories. Your bathroom’s so big and shower so relaxing that you don’t care if Ran keeps slithering in and out. He keeps an eye on you, so Rindou can be the one to rummage through your drawers & your laundry. Finds the clothes that smell the most like you, steals them away to fashion into a nest in any random corner of your big ass house. You don’t notice. Maybe you just don’t care.)

You buy clothes obsessively. You have two separate dressers, two closets - probably an entire room for the nice, vintage stuff that takes up space, collecting dust because you have more than you know what to do with - too selfish to give away. You don’t go in there often because most of the time you don’t need to - but all your cute shit is missing all of the sudden. No more flowery blouses or cute boleros or miniskirts - most interestingly, your matching underwear sets. They’ve all gone ghost and of course, you don’t necessarily blame your pets. They’re not messy. Never once had an instance of them chewing anything up, leaving refuse about the place - no, never them. But you don’t find those clothes even when you do your laundry, shake every fucking thing out of that hamper til the lint makes you sneeze, dig through your drawers (cause maybe you just shoved them back inside??? maybe??). 

No cigar. You put everything back where it needs to be and step out of your room.

In a last ditch effort, you opt to check that storage room. You don’t anticipate finding anything but dashed dreams and wasted efforts - maybe a Savage X Fenty shopping spree to tide you over - potentially an exorcism to vanquish the ghost who’s taken such a liking to you fucking underwear.

You hear rattling. Like can filled with mung beans shake - shaking down the hall. You really don’t want to be mad or jump to a conclusion - so you wait until your right in front of the door to say for certain that yes, it’s one of those hybrids. You don’t know which name to get ready to scream because you haven’t seen either all morning, rattling the door knob with sweaty palms as you fill your lungs to-

Wheeze.

What you see is … You’re not entirely sure but it knocks the air of your lungs - makes you draw breath that you cannot exhale. 

Scratch that - you are certain, you just really, really don’t want to believe it.

The room itself is in no state of disarray. But a crude hill of clothes that was certainly not there before has formed, and holding a pair of your panties in one hand is Rindou - who jerks his cock.. Ahm… cocks, with heated fervor; not interested in your presence immediately, which gives you the grace of time. You swallow your shock, open your mouth - 

Before you are shoved into the room entirely from behind. Ran was always a bit big for a Naga, but he didn’t sacrifice stealth for size. You would have fallen on your knees if he hadn’t caught you, the strength he has in one arm perhaps more than you had in your whole body. Rindou acknowledges you then, tauntingly as he rubs your precious velvet panties across the length of his shaft, a wanton moan that breaks into a cruel giggle as Ran proceeds to move you forward.

“What the fuck. Rindou! Ran! What on earth-” You’re jostled. They smile and laugh like there’s a joke you’re not in on. As he forces you closer to Rindou’s cocks, you can smell his musk - the overpowering scent of cum and sex as Ran carries you forward, ignoring your belligerent hollering as your attempts to slip from his grasp prove futile. Ran’s smell dominates your olfactory sense and there’s something about his vulgar display you can’t pry your eyes away from. His dicks are massive; thick at the base where it comes out of the slit, with ribbed edges that you can’t parse. You can hardly imagine something like that fitting inside a human.

“Stop it you fucking snakes! Let! Me! Go!” You flail and fidget but they only chuckle and hiss; playful in their expressions but not in their actions. They aren’t talking in words you can understand either - fucking assholes. You’re angry until Rindou’s cock is bobbing right in front of your face. Then your mouth goes dry and you’re stammering and you don’t know what to do other than -

“Suck it, human.” He commands. You whine.

“No - I’m not putting that thing in m-my, “ He pushes the head of one against your lip until it pops into your mouth, muffling any protest that follows. Ran has already busied himself with your bottom half. He’s gotten your shorts and underwear down to your ankles, using his tail to support your body as Rin focuses on shoving his cock down your throat. The other rubs across your throat and feels strange but not unpleasant. 

Ran uses his tongue. It’s too long and slimy and makes you whimper, Rin shudders and groans; thrusts the rest of his cock into your throat, and Ran preps you brusquely  -  spurned by his brother’s fun, raises your hips and all but impales you on his dick; you jerk and moan around Rindou’s girth, your jaw cramping and your hole stretching-

Kinda like a fucked up see-saw. When you slide off one cock, the other’s rushing to greet ya. 

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀don't be shy !⠀send this user a message!⠀૮ • ﻌ -  ა

[shotmrmiller]

a tiny blurb for multiverse because why not? :> by tiny, i mean tiny.

The moment you tried to speak, an unseen entity swiftly tightened its grip around your throat, silencing your voice completely. Your tongue felt heavy, thick— tar coating the inside of your mouth.

Dread prickles at your goose-bumped flesh and your heart slams into your rib cage like a captive desperate to escape its prison. Your shaky hands curled into fists, nails digging into your clammy palms.

Your spine curls inward as you crumple to the hard floor, a sharp jolt of pain radiating from your knees up to your hips at the impact.

The words sit behind your teeth, so close to being spoken but the more you struggle to say them, the harder it is to breathe.

So you yield— swallow what you wish to say, and the crushing pressure surrounding your lungs eases.

Beads of sweat trickle down your temple as you pant harshly, struggling to catch your breath.

When Simon had left the room hours before for a debrief, you pondered on the similarities and differences between your timeline and this one.

Even though there were slight variations in the finer details, the end goal remained unchanged.

Kill Makarov.

And Shepherd was still around. The betrayer of the original 141. Enemy. Traitor.

However, it appears that a higher force is preventing you from sharing this knowledge.

Will you be forced to mourn Simon's death twice? The thought alone is enough to make your mind go into a tailspin.

The ticking of the clock is deafening— the frustrating sound pressing against your eardrums...and the metaphorical bulb above your head lights up.

the clock.

ticking. tapping.

staccato.

As your hand hovers above the tile floor, you give it a firm tap three times that resonate in the air.

It works.

It fucking works.

You've found your loophole.

[writeforfandoms]

Waking Lions 6

Find the series masterlist

Not much Price in this chapter, sorry. But! This is an important set up chapter that will get us to more John. Also it’s plot relevant. I swear this story is going somewhere, and I even know where it’s going! 

Warnings: Swearing, spy shit, canon-typical villains

Word count: 1.2k

Jacob Keyes had a nice house in Montana on some property with a wife and two kids. Disgustingly American, really. 

Jacob Keyes also had information on the whereabouts of General Shepherd. Financial records showed deposits and transfers that didn’t link up with his normal pay. 

So you just had to decide how to get to him. Which was not your strong suit. You liked other people doing the legwork and you just… compiled it all. 

But sometimes, needs must.

So you flew out to Montana. You weren’t planning anything nefarious, or even really illegal. You just pretended to be someone’s cousin visiting from out of state, and sat in the local diner long enough to hear all the gossip. Most of it you filtered out, uncaring about who had been caught in someone else’s bed, and who hadn’t made it to church last Sunday, and did you hear about that child? Shameful, really. All of that, you filtered out, ignored, shoved down.

The gold was in the tidbits of information about the Keyes family. How they’d suddenly had more money, were able to make repairs to the house that had gone ignored for years. How the husband had a fancier car, but spent stretches of time away from home. And did you hear about that houseguest? He’d only stayed a few days, but really, the manners on him! Proper gentleman, he was. (This had been accompanied by no small amount of tittering, which you found irritating and useless.) 

But further digging into his finances (after you greased some wheels) was… confusing. 

There were two sets of deposits. 

This was beginning to feel above your paygrade. 

One of the two sets of deposits was traceable back to an associate of Shepherd, rather than the general himself. Which didn’t surprise you. But it was good evidence for Laswell, and you dutifully compiled it with the rest. 

But the other. The other was confusing. 

That trail led you on a bit of a goose chase. The initial transfer was from a dummy corporation, but that was a front for an off-shore account that was linked back to another dummy company that linked back to a Russian company. 

Because you were capable of running two investigations at once, you continued to track Keyes and investigate the Russian company. 

Keyes was boring. That was your ultimate decision on him. Boring, but also potentially valuable for Laswell. You dropped by her house to leave her the USB with the information you’d gathered (and a bouquet of flowers) before you continued on over to France. 

Why France? Why not France? The countryside was beautiful, the food was good, and as long as you avoided Paris it didn’t smell bad. 

Plus you got to buy some pretty things for Sergio’s girls. You had a feeling you’d be calling him up for information. 

The Russian company bled into another Russian operation, although this one was military-oriented. And scary. You backed off from them quickly, but kept track of what information you already had.

Including a name. Normally you wouldn’t do this, but… You had a feeling that this was going to be important. 

A call to Sergio got you a dinner appointment in a few days, as he promised to look into some things on his side. You were prepared for him to try to hold the information over your head, try to use it to get you to stay with him again.

You were not expecting him to show up twenty minutes late to dinner, grim-faced. 

“You should not be looking into this,” he said as he sat down, so unlike his normal self that you just blinked dumbly at him. 

“I’m sorry?”

“This company. You should ignore it.” Sergio set his jaw stubbornly. “Forget you ever saw it.”

You blinked rapidly, and then attempted a smile. “Surely it can’t be that bad…?” 

His lip curled in a little sneer. “It is worse,” he answered, flat and short. “I will not help you with this.”

“Well.” You leaned back in your chair slowly, mind racing. “If it’s that bad, I won’t look into it any further.” 

His shoulders relaxed a little. “Good. I like you alive.” A hint of his normal humor showed through.

But you were a little distracted the rest of dinner, playing your part but begging off going home with him, simply passing your gifts along for the girls. 

Because if Sergio wasn’t going to give you the information, you needed someone else to do it. And for him to be that scared, that harsh about refusing you? It was bad, whatever it was. 

Which meant you needed to know. Immediately. 

After you got back to your hotel room, you called up a couple of your darker contacts. The ones you tended not to use unless you were looking to burn a bridge and pay for it. 

One of them got back to you twelve hours later, giving you a name and a warning and nothing else. 

Ultranationalist. Stay the fuck away. 

You paid them well for their information, and removed them from your list. Bridge burned, but… you had your information. 

You did not stay the fuck away.

Instead you started very carefully sniffing around, because this? This was the kind of thing that could potentially blow the world to hell in a handbasket.  

Honestly, you were debating just shoving whatever information you had at Laswell and letting her handle it. 

But nobody had started shooting at you yet. So. 

Further down the rabbit hole you went. 

It took you a long time to track down people to help. Some of your normal contacts would help, but not many of them. A few in munitions and weapons, two in shipping and warehousing. That was it. The rest stayed well away from terrorist groups. (Which you probably should have done too, but, well. You were a bit stubborn.) 

But you were making progress, the little spiral notebook you were keeping notes in slowly filling up. No names, still, at least not if it could be helped. But locations. Movements. Purchases. 

You finally found out why Sergio had advised you to run when you discovered the link between the Russians and Al-Qatala.

This was absolutely now above your level of expertise. You should just dump this all on Laswell and walk away. You should. You needed to.

…After you got one last piece of information for her. You’d found someone who knew someone who knew someone in the group, and you wanted to pick his brain. He was willing, and had already named a price. The both of you had agreed on a meeting spot via independent intermediary. 

You had a flight to Ireland in a few hours, but you couldn’t settle. There was an itching under your skin that you couldn’t shake, some long-instilled paranoia reminding you how unprotected you were. 

So you got to the airport early, taking your time finding your gate and getting a coffee to soothe your nerves. 

If Laswell knew you were doing this, she’d probably tell you to stop, to back off. She had people to handle this stuff, the more dangerous stuff. 

Fortunately she wasn’t the boss of you, and you hadn’t been dependent on her in a long time. 

Your boarding group was called over the intercom, and you picked up your carry on. Time to go.

[ghouljams]

I saw Shepard goose in the tags and I got so fucking scared that you were gonna introduce Shepard into the Viking Au 💀💀

But small thoughts about Goose:

Ghost consistently has a thing for partners that could hand him his ass on a silver platter, (not that they would when they first meet; they only let him have the good plating if he’s earned it) so that would mean that shepherd Goose is the herding dog protecting the flock? Forget wolves, they are the wolf, and they bite. Much to a blushing Ghost’s dismay..?

Ghost has a wolf tooth he carries with him on a leather cord. His thick fingers toy with it as he watches the fire, thinking about the half-mad shepherd he got it from. You must be half-mad, he thinks. He watched you chase down the wolf that had been going after your flock, a short sword in your hand and a fire in your eyes. No sane shepherd would cut so quickly through a predator, or do it with such finesse. The same way no sane shepherd would wipe their mouth with a bloody hand before smiling at him like the first glimpse of sunshine after a long winter.

He'd left immediately, unable to remember what he'd come for in the face of such... the next time he'd come back you'd been setting out feed for the sheep, scooping a lamb into your arms to set it with its mother. Again you smiled at him and he felt his heart beat a little quicker. Ghost asked you about the wolf, and you laughed. It was like music. You tugged a cord from around your neck and tossed it to him, a wolf's tooth warmed from your skin. His fingers curled around it, gripping it tight as if you might try to take it from him.

Ghost pocketed it, bending down to pet the fuzzy head of your sheep. They're surprisingly docile, even your dog hardly seemed bothered enough to lift its big head. All of them must have known how safe they were in your hands. He wonders what that sort of safety must feel like as he watches the fire, wonders what it must be like to sleep in your bed and know nothing will hurt him.

He'd bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood when you'd asked what he needed. Anything to stop himself from saying, "you, only you, Gods if I had you I'd never need anything else." Anything to stop himself from hauling you down to the temple and setting you in front of the Völva to be married. It was good he'd had to leave for another expedition, good he'd been given a reason to leave you. Absence was what he needed, time away to forget your smile, the touch of your laughter, the sparkle in your eyes. Maybe when he gets home you won't be quite so... lovely...

[brainrotcharacters]

Legacy

I have to do everything myself. /nm

ship: Captain Price x filo!141!reader

summary: running away from your birth family and then using a new name to enlist in the military came back to haunt you... of course it does.

a/n: I awakened my daddy issues and create a little something for the platonic dad Price lovers of the fandom.

tags: sfw. angst comfort. platonic dad Price. reader is a member of 141. post-mw2 (2022). Price calls reader “kid” but they are an adult (Price is just a dad). John Price being a good dad because look at him he’s literally dad shaped, Filipino words, Price speaking Filipino

You knew this would happen, but you still hated that you had been correct.

The paper that your family used to write you their last letter rustled in your trembling hand. They discovered that you enlisted in the military, after you ran away from them. You were a skilled enough schemer to get on top of your government documents to change your name, but in the middle of Shepherds' and Graves' betrayal, they made sure your family found you. Now they were both dead, and they were still fucking up your life in particular.

Wag ka nang bumalik. it said at the bottom, in your father's heavy penmanship. You wouldn't be surprised if he broke the pen he used.

Cheering and laughter resounded from outside the hangar. Oh, what good would come out of telling the boys? They were tired from that goose chase with Shepherd, and Soap was with Rudy when they made sure Graves was KIA. What they deserved was a full 8 hours of sleep, a full meal, and maybe a good lay unless you flirted your way through and stole their girl for yourself.

"Hey." Captain Price jogged up to you. "Where's all that victory yellin' a while ago, huh? The noise doesn't feel complete without you."

You drew your lips into a line, angling the paper away from his line of sight. "Mhm."

Price narrowed his eyes. The softness in his voice was only exhaustion, you were sure. "Everything all right back home?"

That word made you laugh. Home. Spending each day of each week under a roof with children who don't have sympathy (or empathy for that matter) because their parents never do. There were adults who should've acted more like Laswell when Gaz asked her get-to-know questions over the stupid comms. You suffered so many 'family gatherings' where your cousins and yourself were told to be more brotherly or sisterly, but when Soap was bleeding out because of Graves, you kept him lucid while you maintained his wound. You went back-and-forth with Ghost and his jokes. You jumped over 4x4s with Gaz and made it a competition just because. Rudy bantering with you in Spanish felt sweeter because the others were learning the language at the sidelines. Alejandro was happy to see you too, when you all came to save him from custody. The fact is, you gained two new brothers living in Mexico, and the rest are lumbering from the plane to the barracks to get some damn rest.

And Price. To answer his question, you offered the paper to him.

He gave it a simple glance, then shifted his attention back up at your face. "You sure, kid?"

You nod. "I trust you."

He slowly took the letter from your hands, and muttered some words that caught his eye. You wandered several steps away, hands on your hips and thoughts zooming through your mind. The exhaustion hasn't quite settled into your bones yet... or maybe it already has.

"What does 'wag ka nang bumalik' mean?" Price's eyebrows were furrowed. He was confused but open-minded in the way that the father who wrote that letter could never be. Even for you.

You clench your jaw. "Don't come back."

Price blinked, and the weariness that he otherwise already showed a while ago disappeared from his eyes. His shoulders squared, he was alert again. He was back on mission mode because of you.

"Shepherd's and Graves's last hurrah, or whatever." You take the paper back, breathing in. "I always wondered what being rejected actually feels like. Normally, I'm already gone before it happens."

"Oi..."

You shake your head, lifting a finger at your captain. He shouldn't sound so fatherly at this moment. Not right now. "I don't care. Really! I don't care. If they don't want to take me back, I'm not going back. It's so much effort to pack my things, and book a flight, and drive there if I'm going to get kicked out before I even see the welcome mat behind the door."

Price was looking at you with that warm, understanding, patient look on his face. You don't fucking deserve that! "Listen, if you're mad, then be mad. You're allowed."

You threw your hands up, defeated. "You can tell, can't you, Captain? Because it's natural for you to pay attention to everyone under your authority. I believe that you'd protect me because you follow through all the damn time. You're very cool when you do that, by the way."

"Thanks." he smiled fondly.

"And you know what? When they put me in charge of a unit, the best thing I can hear from those people is how much I act like you. They like how organized my operations are, how I praise their skills in the field, how I check up on them. I never learned any of that from him!" you lifted the paper, physically unable to say the name of your biological father. "Captain, it is so easy not to give a shit about any of these people. But I know I'm your legacy, and I know how to do things right. It feels good to be in a team."

Price stepped closer. Within reach, if you were all right with that sort of thing now. While he does want to hold you, his judgment call inclines more to prioritizing what you need. "Yeah, I'm really proud of you."

The first tears escaped your eyes, and you turned your head away smiling. Your voice broke. "That's not fair. You know I turn into a baby when you say that."

"Aren't you our baby?" Price frowned. Playful. "Ghost would never say it, but we all know you have scary older brother privileges. You're absolutely infuriating when you're with Soap, and Gaz always talks about how you dethroned him. See? You're our bunso." (youngest)

You studied his face for signs of lies and deceit that you knew you'd never see. He continued, approaching with his hands open and pacifistic. "You let me read the letter, so I have some idea about what's going on here. It's not your fault."

"Shut the fuck up." you laugh through your tears.

"It’s not your fault. I'm proud of you for having the strength to leave, and the wits to make sure they don't follow you here... well, until Shepherd and Graves." he sighed, cradling your face between his palms. Never mind the dust and dirt on his gloves. It was all over the both of you. "But we're 141. On this little slice of the world, we have room for kids like you."

He pecked your forehead and then gently wrapped his arms around you. You gladly melted into his embrace, hugging him back as tightly and lovingly as you could. "Understood, anak?" (kid, child)

"Opo, papa." (Yes, dad.)

[kil-g]

breathing room

a/n: finals season am i right, ladies, men and nbs?

summary: "let’s go home for a week or two.” he says, his eyes meeting yours once again. you look for a sign of a joke somewhere in them, or in the tone of his voice. you don’t find any.

gn!reader ; 141!reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: blood m

--

The last few weeks had been long and particularly hard.

If it weren’t for the proverbial rug being ripped out from under your feet courtesy of Shepherd and Graves, or the wild goose chase for a weapon of mass destruction, or even Hassan’s game of hide and seek, you would’ve been fine.

For things to go wrong was a given in this kind of work. It may very well be within the job description. You knew this well, you made your peace with it.

This, however, was different. This had been well outside the boundaries of what was considered normal. It was ridiculous, approaching the air of unbelievable. It was several consecutive days of touch and go, of dodging and praying, running and hiding with very few and far between moments to catch your breath.

Blessings were counted, scrutinized and counted again. Once after Soap disarmed the second missile, then again when you managed to scrape your way out of Las Almas, then once again after the team had secured Alejandro during the prison break.

Moments, all few and far between, to simply catch your breath. You supposed rest was a little hard to ask for at the moment. And, it’d be harder to find any rest to be had now that everyone had their skull-painted balaclavas on and ready to go.

It’s after the team has dispersed that you’re in the armory. You’re not sure why you’re lingering. Perhaps, you liked the temporary solitude because from here, all the conversations happening outside of the room are diffused into muffled hums by the distance between you and the source of the voices. You’ve double, even triple-checked your gear. Alone, you sit on a bench turning a two-inch blade between your fingers when, suddenly, the quiet is interrupted by a voice cutting over the hum of noise just outside.

“You alright?”

Your head snaps to the source, revealing Ghost standing at the threshold.

“Of course.” You answer, but it’s clear by his lack of response that he doesn’t believe you. You watch him move to stand in front of you. Then, he takes one glance around–ensuring that no one is looking  in this direction–and adjusts the straps and buckles of your tactical gear. 

“You look tired.” Ghost says.

You snort, “Thanks, you really know how to make a person feel real special.” He hums, then flattens down one of the pockets with his thumb. “How are you holding up?”

Ghost hesitates before he answers. Then, he blinks rapidly before shutting his eyes slowly and it brings you to the realization that, even if you’d seldom caught him in the act, Ghost did, in fact, require sleep every once in a while. That these last few weeks were long and particularly hard, and he must feel it too.

You wonder if he’s purposely not meeting your eyes and, tentatively, you slide a hand up his arm and squeeze.

“I’m alright.” He says. You could almost laugh at yourself; you’re not quite sure what you expected. 

“Have you got any plans for after this?” You say, all while attempting to curb the tone of hopefulness that must be leaking out into the words.

Ghost simply let you get away with too much, and it was as strange as it was new. It was affection without a name or place to put it. 

“No.” 

You hold back a smile, “None?”

Then, Simon swallows down on his nerves. You have one palm against the bench and you lean your weight against it to get a better angle looking up at him. Silently, his eyes move back and forth between yours and he hesitates on the words before they’ve even formed. 

The precipice is large, he thinks, and the jump was treacherous. If he thought too hard about it, he wouldn't actually make the leap, so instead of letting his nerves get the best of him, he says, “How about we take a break after this?”

He looks down from your gaze, his hands lingering slightly too long on the straps of your vest. He can feel you staring up at him. 

There’s a playful glimmer behind your eyes when you open your mouth and say, “Are you breaking up with me?”

“You know what I mean.” He says, plainly.

“Tell me.” You reply, teasingly.

No matter how much he didn’t want to humor you, he did anyway.

Simon wasn’t joking when he said that you looked tired. You were tired. Everyone was tired. And, despite that, you still smiled at him and joked with him. Then, tentatively, he moves his eyes towards your mouth and studies the curve it makes. He’s fighting the urge to take your chin by his thumb and forefinger, and even lean down and plant his mouth against yours. If it weren’t for the company just outside the door, he would have lost this fight with the utmost pleasure but the chances of being seen outweighed the urge to wipe the smile off your face.

“Let’s go home for a week or two.” He says, his eyes meeting yours once again. You look for a sign of a joke somewhere in them, or in the tone of his voice. You don’t find any, and then, for a second, you wonder if you’d imagined him saying it. “Jesus, if you hate the idea that much then just say–”

“No.” You blurt, shaking your head. If anyone heard you, they haven’t given any indication that they had. “I don’t hate that idea. Not at all. I just didn’t expect you to actually say it.”

He sighs and rolls his eyes, stepping back to get a space between the two of you. 

“You don’t have to pout, Simon.” You stand, fighting back the urge to laugh. “Of course we can head home after this, especially since you asked so nicely.” Still, he refuses to look at you and you snort. You glance out the door to make sure no one’s looking, then grasp at his arm once again. Squeezing it a little too hard, you crane upwards to place a kiss on his jaw through the mask. 

“Keep it up, I might change my mind.” He says, even though you both know he doesn’t mean it. “Who knows, maybe, we’ll even head back to base and there’ll be twice as much paperwork on your desk than usual.”

“There’s always twice as much paperwork than usual, no thanks to you.” You reply.

He knows you’re not really complaining, but he can’t help but feel guilty. His eyes are looking down into yours and he presses his lips together. Part of him couldn’t help but feel like he’d been responsible for all the hell the two of you had just been through. The proverbial rug was beneath his feet after all, he should’ve known that someone was grasping to pull it even though foresight was probably impossible. 

There are several things he feels like he should say. Perhaps, an ‘I’m sorry.’

But, no that wouldn’t suffice. You would ask him why he would have to apologize to you for anything and he wouldn’t know how to explain himself.

He wonders, then, if he should say, ‘I’m glad you’re okay.”

But, you were in a certain mood, which was made plain by the look on your face and the sickly sweet tone of your voice. If he said anything like that now, he’d never hear the end of it.

Then, he thinks, ‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’

But, that’s too much. It’s far too much. It’s not for here and now. It’s for another place and another time.

So instead of saying any of those things, he says, “Let’s go join the others before they start looking for us.” 

He’s out the door before you have the chance to say anything else.

–

Leaning your head against the helicopter wall, you did your best not to look at Soap.

Hassan’s blood was still stained across his shirt and he was exhausted. It felt like the least you could do for him.

Once the helicopter landed, you and Ghost promptly slipped away from the rest of the group who were speaking quite animatedly about the nearest bar and how to get there. How they still had the energy was beyond viable comprehension.

You completed all the necessary steps to your usual routine for each time you returned back from a mission. The hot water from the shower relaxed the soreness of your muscles. You took slightly longer just to ensure that all the dirt had been scrubbed out of your fingernails. 

When you return to your quarters, there’s no paperwork to be found at all. The desk is as empty as you’d left it weeks ago save for the pens, notebooks and various folders strewn across. Instead, there’s a note the size of your palm sitting on the desk by your cot. Upon closer inspection it reads:

Told Price about our situation. Flight is in the morning. Get some rest, I will come wake you.

P.S. You owe me for these reports.

You trace the lettering with the tip of your finger and smile to yourself, doubting that he’d actually hold you to it. 

[blingblong55]

Grim is the goose of the 141.

Way too protective/territorial, probably hisses at people, generally chaotic as hell, a nightmare to walk past if you don’t know/aren’t trusted by her bc she will bite you.

I really like geese and I got bit by a goose today and I was like huh 🙏 geese 🫧

hahaha...also hope y'alright there babes<3

OKAY but imagine Grim waddling around and chasing soldiers on base??? ICON!

Gen. Shepherd is here? There goes Grim, waddling and ready to bite his bum and make him yell like those old cartoons.

I even picture drunk Soap and Horangi feeding bread to Grim because they have become the pet they wished they could have on base

[historia-vitae-magistras]

butt?

I had to substitute it for arse, sorry. Exploratory fic I began to explore some character dynamics and what the lifestyle of 4 growing nations and their mother in their last real time together would be like in a slightly Post-Roman Iron Age estate as the Migration period picks up and Germanic peoples cross the North Sea to make a home. I believe of these earlier themes have their origin with @balladofthewhitehorse.

5th Century AD, Cumbria

"Rhys," Alasdair appeared at the fence line, his face gloomy. Rhys had stopped here for his mid-day meal halfway between where the shepherds had herded the sheep in the northernmost glen and their home behind on the hill. It'd been a long two days in the hills. He offered the cider flask to his brother as Alasdair approached, his frown deepening. It wasn't raining, and the day's work wouldn't have been hard. Bad news, then. It was always bad news.

"What is it this time?"

"Rot in the south store."

"Oats, rye or wheat?" Rhys asked. The rye they might go without, but the rain hadn't come so early that anything else should rot.

"Oats,"

"Fuck." Rhys sat on the low wall of flagstones and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck,"

He glanced up. His brother looked even more dour. "Gods, what else?"

"Seven horses," Alasdair said, sitting beside Rhys, boneless and upset.

Rhys gaped at him. "Seven? That's three more than were sick yesterday!"

"It's spreading." Alasdair shrugged helplessly. "I took the healthy ones into the third stables, and it didn't help."

"Is it distemper?"

"I didn't think so," Alasdair said. "They weren't so feverish, and there wasn't pus, but now I don't know.

"So, no horses to sell this year. At least half the oats are gone."

"Rhys." Alasdair's ingot grey gaze fell heavily, and Rhys glanced at his brother.

"I know," He said, and Alasdair didn't look convinced. He looked at his elder brother with a firm look. "I know."

"If we can't pay the tributes…"

He thought of the mustached helmets of the German kings and exhaled. "We don't know that we can't pay. There's plenty to sell."

"It's not just a lack of goods I'm worried about. It's been a bad year for everyone. There might not be anyone to sell to."

"There must be," Rhys said, pulling his cloak tighter over his shoulders. "There will be. We'll figure it out."

"I suppose all we can do is pray," Alasdair said.

Rhys frowned. Alasdair was the one with a mind for numbers, but he always worried, and they always managed before. So what if the horses would not fetch the total price if they were ill come market day? There was still the wool, the fine worked saddles he and Alasdair had made the year before, and plenty of cattle, sheep, honey and mead to sell. There were options. They had options.

"I'll see to the horses; if none of them die, we'll be fine," Alasdair said. "We have ore too. I might get a good price for my boar spears."

"Maybe," Rhys said. His hope was teetering precariously on the assumption that his brother was overly worried.

There was an unspoken sense of doom between them, both praying their worries were unfounded. Rhys grimaced after they parted ways at the outer gate, Alasdair marching off to the stables and Rhys to the poultry yard and the hives. One of the women in his mother's service alerted him to the fact that another of the hives had gone dark with rot. Honey was expensive, and now there wouldn't be enough to sell and use themselves over the long winter. Rhys waved her off with a pinched-off smile.

He stood in the poultry yard for a long moment, leaning against the half gate that kept the hens, quail, and ducks safe in their enclosure and away from the hounds. He watched Arthur tumble after a goose, laughing as it squawked and ducked him. Their dinner pail of scraps and grain was sitting neglected as he played, but Rhys looked on, letting him play. They'd have to keep more honey than what he'd wanted to sell, if only for Arthur's sake. Honey cakes with stored apples and cheese or on bread were one of those precious things that would cheer him when the worst of the winter gloom gripped him worse than any of them. Arthur rolled to a halt, cackling as the goose bobbed angrily and finally noticed him.

"Rhys!" He grinned, leaping to his feet and making a beeline for him. He exhaled a loud "oomph" as Arthur knocked into him, throwing his arms around him. "You're back!"

"I was only gone a night," He laughed. "How is Mother? And where is your cloak? Have you lost it again?"

"The same," Arthur said. "Maybe a little better. She laughed this morning when I fell right on my arse out of bed. Bridgie pushed me."

"Good! And you probably deserved it. You kick in your sleep." He replied, and his smile was genuine. Mother had at least made an effort to shake her recent gloom then. She'd been thinner, paler, and sadder than he'd ever seen her in the last few years, and it hadn't gotten any better as the days became shorter. "And your cloak?"

"I forgot it!"

"You'll catch your death." Rhys ruffled his hair. "Hurry and feed the birds and come in for dinner."