Not Actually a Blog about Gadus morhua

Mainly Call of Duty: Modern Warfare and Cold War (haven't played mainline Black Ops)

Possible references and side projects involving my OCs based on UrbanShade's Pressure (Roblox), Halo (including RoosterTeeth's Red vs Blue), and Marvel's Captain America/Avengers movies.

REQUESTS: limited while I set everything up!

🔞🔞🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞🔞🔞

⚠️ MIND THE TAGS

⚠️ CONTENT WARNINGS

⚠️ DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

IF YOU NEED SOMETHING TAGGED or have suggestions for content warnings, FEEL FREE TO MESSAGE ME.

In the end, it's not my job to police your internet experience.

Be kind to yourself and others. Live well. Take care.

Updated: 21 Dec. 2025

THE #1 RULE:

PLEASE DO NOT FOLLOW IF YOU ARE A MINOR! I WILL BLOCK IF I HAVE TO!

I would prefer you be 20+ but not required. I would also prefer an age/year of birth available; either on your blog or via message. I am an anxious sort who may shy away from interaction otherwise.

PATIENCE

I work full time, am struggling to earn my A.A.S., and have been working through a several year fallout with my creativity. I may post suddenly and vanish without a word, be it due to work, studies, or my health. I only ask for understanding, and will try to post updates about hiatuses or abandonment.

That said, if you're worried about an ask being eaten, please feel free to ask about it! There's a good chance it's in my drafts!

INSPIRATION

Please consider my posts free use, with the obvious exception of straight plagiarism. I don't mind additions in reblogs, tags, replies, or if you want to write your own post (I'd love to be tagged or linked back to if you do!)

MEET THE WRITER AND THE OCS

NIGHT AUDITOR

The asks that started it all feat. @/konigs-lover

Your hotel's being swatted (Graves x Reader if you squint)

PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN

Task Force 141

Bonus König

Thoughts on Manipulative!Gaz

JAMES CAMERON'S AVATAR

Price gets an Avatar

König's Avatar is huge (König x Reader if you squint)

🖥️ ⌨️ __(⁠ ⁠◜﹏◝ ๑ゝ ∠)_

Johnathan Price.

It's a name most RDA faculty know.

Greenhorns fawn over his reputation, his dossier, both on Earth and on Pandora. They fear and anticipate the day John Price looks their way, even just to watch them do physical training, as if his stare is enough to shape them into echoes of the soldier he started off as.

The brass? Less enthused. His background was an ideal candidate for their work on Pandora, but also a source of tension. It's dread, it's irritation, it's a teacher hearing they have "that student" on their roster for the semester and buying a year's worth of booze in advance for their recovery. They grumble and groan under their breaths and pray he's in a good mood, that they can keep him in that good mood until it's not their problem anymore.

Because if there's one thing John Price is known for off the books, it's his questions. Jake Sully may have led the Na'vi rebellion, but John Price was one of the sparks to the tinder, speaking out when open ears are close about the rights and wrongs of desolating Pandora in the name of progress.

"Earth's brown as the shit we're mucking through. Won't be long till Pandora looks the same, yeah? Then what, we piggyback on another moon, another planet, until we can see a bit of green?"

Whenever someone mentions the Unobtainium, he visibly has to stop himself from laughing. The name is stupid. The reason is stupid. The resources being used to obtain the unobtainable, to fight the fauna, the indigenous... it's all stupid. "Now if Pandora was a moon full of oil, now that'd be something. Least we know oil, how to fight for it."

"Have you tried asking them nicely?" He snarks during a meeting, bouncing his leg while looking over the numbers. Resources, manpower, casualties-- both human and Na'vi, unnecessary and far too many for his liking, for natural resources the suits can only promise will be worth it.

It gets him a sharp inhale, a warning "John..." from Kate...

It gets him the attention of SciOps. An offer, a series of tests, an approval.

When John Price wakes up in his Avatar, it's... strange. They told him disorientation was common, but no one specified how weird it was to sit up for the first time in years without a twinge or a pull, to hear the world around him without the ringing ghosts of gunfire and grenades. He feels too tall, the world around him too wide and in focus, his team...

Well, his team stands off to the side, out of the way of the SciOps running preliminary tests and vitals, but Johnny looks like a shaken up soda can ready to pop. His lips are pressed tight together, sealing what Price can only assume is laughter, or a joke. Just when he seems to have schooled himself, Price will look over and it starts all over again. He gets maybe three or four looks and a hard elbow to the ribs from Kyle before an attendant asks him to step away for being a distraction.

But there's no missing the starry eyed wonder when Johnny looks over the shoulder of his escort, of seeing an Avatar take his first steps, to see one rock heel to toe once, twice, like Price has to make sure it's still him beneath the alien skin.

It's when he finally notices Simon's eyeblack cracked and wrinkled at the corners that he realizes his Lieutenant's grinning like a fool under that balaclava, and Price frowns.

"Don't mind him," Simon rumbles, and Price can hear the smile now, too. "We're just admiring the science at work."

Price's heartbeat ticks up on a monitor, his leg bounces, despite the SciOps grunts trying to keep him still. But when Nikolai peels around the corner looking like the devil himself is after him, the pilot's eyes wide and round as he exclaims something in Russian, that Price finally asks for a mirror.

He'd seen his Avatar in incubation. He'd seen the face-- so much like his own, but not, at peace in slumber, the edges smoothed and stretched over a more Na'vi skull. He'd been haunted by the sight at first, shoved it back into a corner of his mind with the overflow to think about another time, a time that never came.

And so John Price realizes for a second time that, while his perfectly sculpted and maintained beard is more effort and patience than genetics, the round, cherubic face he hid underneath it was all him.

"Yes, Commander."

"Your nose broken?"

"Wh-- y-yes, sir. Is it that obvious?"

"You sound like an asthmatic tea kettle. What happened?"

The silence that fills the room is heavy. Like Graves walked into a funeral parlor and asked "why the long faces?", instead of doing his due diligence and checking in on why his Shadow had been whistling like a windstorm for the past ten minutes and driving him up the goddamn wall.

His brow twitches, patience on a razor thin line as it was... Then he sees a smile. One, then three, a gaggle of Shadows all leaning in at once around Lucas.

"Yeah, Lucas? Why don't you tell the Commander what happened?"

"Gotta make sure you report all injuries, buddy."

"Graves needs to make sure you're seaworthy."

Is Lucas sweating? Had to be that Mexican heat, right?

"...the...tary, sir..."

"Your voice broken, too, Shadow?"

"The..." A chuckle from the left. "Took a good hit while rounding up Vaqueros, sir."

"Now that doesn't sound like what you said the first time." Graves crosses his arms, puts a little bit of Graves Sr. in his tone, watches as Lucas starts to flush beet red. "Wanna try again?"

It's not even that hot out.

Lucas caves, either beneath Graves' stare or the shit eating grins of his fellows, the words bursting out of his lips like he'd been under days of interrogation.

"The damn secretary got the drop on me, okay?!" The room erupts into laughter long held back, and it's only then that Lucas catches himself. "Shit-- no disrespect, sir, I--"

Graves lets our a breath he didn't realize he was holding, shoulders slumping, head falling into his hand as the weight shifted back to something lighter. Damn youngins making Graves think a broken nose was a death sentence--

"Wait. Secretary?"

The laughter stops on a dime, all eyes on Graves' face as it lifts from his palm. "The Vaqueros' secretary. Tumbleweed hair? Pretty Woman smile? Five foot nothing pitcher of sweet tea?" It was Graves' turn to lean towards Lucas. "That secretary... got the drop on you. And broke your nose."

"...she has a really good back swing, sir."

A pause, a whistling sniffle.

because the hound? let me lick him. ruined face, massive body (a bear! a bear! all black and brown and covered in hair!), all sharp teeth and snarling lips because the rule is cruel and hard and "there are no true knights" but also he's a scarred and traumatized child underneath it all, who sees rose tinted glasses sansa, who believes in knights and fairy tales, and it's too much like himself that he tries to break her world of view for her own safety under the guise of a mad dog laughing in her face

but also "The Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently."

"With a delicacy surprising in such a big man he dabbed at the blood welling from her broken lip."

"Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. “Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone."

"I could keep you safe," he rasped. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."

König was big. This wasn't opinion: only thing on two legs bigger than him were the exos and Avatars. The first time he'd seen a Na'vi, he'd stared. He'd stared a lot.

People thought he'd been spooked. A giant meeting another, much bigger one? Who wouldn't be scared shitless.

But you knew better. He wasn't scared: he was in awe, all bright eyes and slack jaw beneath his hood.

When the SciOps told him his own Avatar was ready for testing, he'd just about ran into the link bed.

König was big, but his Avatar was fucking massive.

It honestly felt like someone had stretched him out like a piece of taffy. All long, feline-like limbs, but the subtle muscles of the Na'vi had faltered when faced with König's genetics. He's plump, if ever a word could be used to describe nearly 4 meters of pure muscle, carved out of the blue starlight of the Na'vi like marble in Greece.

You could practically feel the envy of countless humans, both on base and back home, when he first sat up, because the first thing you noticed was that sweet curve of his waist now mixed with the sleek lines of a Na'vi silhouette.

It was so much better. Worse. God you weren't sure which, all you knew was that the Na'vi already had slim midsections and König's was damn near an hourglass compared to the other Avatars.

You already wanted your hands on him yesterday. You were damn near there already, hand fluttering over the thick lines of alien abdominal muscles flexing, when your name left his lips. Practically a purr, sweet and soft as waking from a daydream, and it made you look up (and up, and up some more) instinctively.

You weren't ready. One of his hands dwarfed half your body, holding his head as he no doubt swayed with vertigo. But you could barely focus on how south your thoughts went when it fell, revealing his face and leaving you trapped in the gaze of familiar, dewey eyes, now a rich deep gold instead of his usual icy blue.

His jaw had softened, less hard lines and chiseled sharpness, more grace and curves of a predator being, but still all strength and power. Hair you were so used to seeing poking out from the top of his hood now black and hanging in his face. Lips pretty and dark blue, parted in surprise over how close you were, how small...

Cheeks flooded with violet hues that made the star-like freckles of his Avatar stand out, and the vitals monitors went crazy. You couldn't even fathom why until you felt something jump against your whole arm...

Your arm, that was outstretched towards him, your palm splayed over his belly button, rubbing idle patterns against the waistband of his sweatpants...

Oh.

...

Needless to say, you're no longer allowed in the SciOps wing during wake ups.

Former SpecOps!reader who works close with the 141. Phoned in on important missions in their country, called in for "all hands on deck" situations. They've bled and fought and killed with these men, bantered and laughed and lived in the seconds in between the battles. They're not quite a family, but definitely not just "friends from work".

Reader who steps away from the bloodshed. An injury, a discharge, a choice. They're there one moment, gone the next, wondering if they're missed in the nights that are too quiet, when the noise of civilian life feels too simple, too impossible.

They try to keep up with old habits: shitty food with workouts to keep the weight off, running laps in their neighborhood at the crack of dawn, lights out by late evening, checking corners and windows as if the threats they've known for year are still out in the shadows. They go to the shooting range first, then try paintball, laser tag, air soft, when the stationary targets don't cut it.

Routine, muscle memory, compulsion.

It's maddening. It's familiar. It makes their skin itch and soothes their nerves, and when the first tangle of hair comes loose in the shower, they switch shampoos and try not to think it might be from stress.

They avoid a therapist like the plague. They never needed a shrink during their enlistment, and they certainly don't need one now.

The 141 still tries to keep contact... or at least Johnny does, sometimes Gaz when the mood strikes him. Lots of texts of them at a bar, "wishing you were here", snippets of the quiet Reader left behind. But it feels so distant without the firefights in between. Like the calls and messages aren't genuine without the blood under their nails, adrenaline in their veins, the 141's voices in their ear and bodies by their side.