#death metal from UK
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Bolt thrower (death metal)
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Memoriam (UK) - For the Fallen (Full Album 2017) [4K / Vinyl Rip]
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Napalm Death - Dead
#Napalm Death#From Enslavement to Obliteration#Dead#Release date: September 16th 1988#Full-length#Genre: Hardcore Punk (early); Grindcore/Death Metal#Lyrical themes: Political unrest Hate Anti-fascism Social issues#UK
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#napalm death#from enslavement to obliteration#lee dorrian#bill steer#shane embury#mick harris#grindcore#death metal#metal#UK metal#80s metal
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An innovation that propelled Britain to become the world’s leading iron exporter during the Industrial Revolution was appropriated from an 18th-century Jamaican foundry, historical records suggest.
The Cort process, which allowed wrought iron to be mass-produced from scrap iron for the first time, has long been attributed to the British financier turned ironmaster Henry Cort. It helped launch Britain as an economic superpower and transformed the face of the country with “iron palaces”, including Crystal Palace, Kew Gardens’ Temperate House and the arches at St Pancras train station.
Now, an analysis of correspondence, shipping records and contemporary newspaper reports reveals the innovation was first developed by 76 black Jamaican metallurgists at an ironworks near Morant Bay, Jamaica. Many of these metalworkers were enslaved people trafficked from west and central Africa, which had thriving iron-working industries at the time.
Dr Jenny Bulstrode, a lecturer in history of science and technology at University College London (UCL) and author of the paper, said: “This innovation kicks off Britain as a major iron producer and … was one of the most important innovations in the making of the modern world.”
The technique was patented by Cort in the 1780s and he is widely credited as the inventor, with the Times lauding him as “father of the iron trade” after his death. The latest research presents a different narrative, suggesting Cort shipped his machinery – and the fully fledged innovation – to Portsmouth from a Jamaican foundry that was forcibly shut down.
[...]
The paper, published in the journal History and Technology, traces how Cort learned of the Jamaican ironworks from a visiting cousin, a West Indies ship’s master who regularly transported “prizes” – vessels, cargo and equipment seized through military action – from Jamaica to England. Just months later, the British government placed Jamaica under military law and ordered the ironworks to be destroyed, claiming it could be used by rebels to convert scrap metal into weapons to overthrow colonial rule.
“The story here is Britain closing down, through military force, competition,” said Bulstrode.
The machinery was acquired by Cort and shipped to Portsmouth, where he patented the innovation. Five years later, Cort was discovered to have embezzled vast sums from navy wages and the patents were confiscated and made public, allowing widespread adoption in British ironworks.
Bulstrode hopes to challenge existing narratives of innovation. “If you ask people about the model of an innovator, they think of Elon Musk or some old white guy in a lab coat,” she said. “They don’t think of black people, enslaved, in Jamaica in the 18th century.”
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𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭
𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠 𝐱 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫-𝐧𝐞𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
*𝐒𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧!
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7700+
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲
𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐁&𝐁. 𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠, 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧. 𝐀 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦.
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*𝐀 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨. ☁️😇
*𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐊, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐡.
*𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐲, 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝❤️🔥 + 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐨).
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“𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭„ ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @rustic-guitar-notes ♡ @best-soup ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @nightlyvoids ♡ @skeletalgoats ♡ @aethelwyneleigh27 ☆ @arrozyfrijoles23 ♡ @dobaddo ☆ @the-second-sage ☆ @wil-xyz ☆ @revnatheshadow ☆ @feelya
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König was tired.
Very tired.
So tired was he of being tired, that it was tiring to be tired. And he was exhausted.
How long he had been on deployment, he had no clue; initially, it was meant to be a month-long mission, but time seemed to be simultaneously zooming in double-speed and moving in slow-motion. A day, then a week, then another week, then three days. Day, night, night, and day — shifting from one to the other in the flick of a switch.
And, before he knew it, it had been over three months: in the barracks afterwards, those three months had felt like three years.
Still, the hours that he could recall were gruelling: hours upon hours — from morning, throughout the day, up until the night, unending — of syncopated staccato gunfire, of cacophonous voices roaring themselves hoarse, of humming helicopter blades as the bass accompaniment to the crashing cymbals of explosions, and of deaths, anticlimactic finales for those that had perished.
Of course, it was no coordinated orchestra: just chaos.
And König was tired.
What he needed was to collapse onto a mattress, face-first, and fall asleep instantly — to be possessed by a near comatose-condition, catharsis, and wake up, not knowing what day it was.
A hand reached weakly to his temple, where an intense migraine had been plaguing him for days, and held it there in vain to numb the pain.
What König needed was sleep. And actual sleep, not the kind of sleep he became accustomed to; laying idly, wide-awake, on the thin, firm barracks mattress on the metal frame, a bed too uncomfortably small and uncomfortable to accommodate for both his disproportionately gigantic size and battered, aching back. While being a Colonel had its perks, clearly the perks did not extend to an agreeable bed.
So, obviously, he was not going to lay on a bedding which, to him, felt like a plank of wood.
Instead of arriving back at the barracks — which was more than 5000 km away — in two days for a briefing he was intended to deliver, he figured that the pilot could make a detour and land somewhere in the UK as it was on his way anyway.
Besides, he could always insist that they had experienced heavy turbulence and had to land as a safety precaution. A day later than scheduled would not be a disaster — charm offensive tended to work, yet if few were charmed, he could just as easily go on the offensive and assert his authority as Colonel.
By now, it was far closer to the next day than it was today. Or was it early morning, and the day had already passed? 0500 read his watch, but whether it was dark due to the winter still lingering and prematurely enveloping the sky like a black, starless blanket, or dawn in a few hours, wouldn't have made any difference.
The pilot had landed fuck knew where, König thought, but all he knew was that the town was quite quiet: aside from the occasional drunkards at a pub or a single customer at a convenience store buying cigarettes, the town was asleep. König ought to have been too, but the thought that he would be soon was comforting.
König was too tired to research either hotels or motels nearest him as he usually would, as he was struggling to keep his eyes open as was. He just needed a bed, to rest, and that was it… perhaps some breakfast, too. But that wasn't the main objective.
König continued to trudge at a begrudging pace, back slumped over under the mass of his rucksack, his legs difficult to lift as if they each weighed a tonne.
At this point, a sofa would do, as long as he could stretch his sore legs on it.
As he turned the corner, he rubbed his puffy pink eyes, eyelids sagging. That's when the fancy, elegant letters of the “ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋғᴀsᴛ”, caught by his closing eyes.
At last — salvation had come!
“No vacancies — sorry!” said the sign in front, but König, choosing to ignore it, opened the door.
Given the hour, it was pitch-black. Aside from the weak fluorescent glow of a crescent moon casting a silver luminescence across the walls, a faint sliver of pale light was visible through the crack beneath the door. A shadow.
Running of water and the soft clinking of plates — the washing of dishes, as quiet as one can be. König wasn't going to consider why anyone sane would choose to wash the dishes at whatever hour this was. Frankly, he couldn't care less. What he cared about most was rest.
A dulcet humming slid smoothly under the door; faint, yet audible, and soothing. Whether it was the melody of a song or an improvised tune, it sounded pleasant.
Drawn towards it like a moth to a flame, König chucked the rucksack into the darkness, alleviating the pain of his shoulders after carrying such baggage.
Realising that it would give the person behind the door a fright to see an uninvited guest — to them, an intruder — on their doorstep so late in the night, it would be wise to pose as little of a threat as possible. Starting with louder footsteps to alert them beforehand, and a gentle greeting as he opened the door:
“Hallo.”
Almost dropping the plate that you were washing onto the floor, you shrieked in surprise nonetheless. Turned off the tap, having heart palpitations.
At the sight of the intruder in front of you, you stifled another shriek, a hand shooting up to grasp the fabric of your tee tightly, almost collapsing onto the floor had not your left hand held onto the countertop for support.
The plate, dropped in your secondary shock, shattered, loudly clattering as porcelain pieces still foaming with the dish-soap bubbles scattered across the floor.
“Fuck!” you cursed, but before you could lean in to tidy the mess, the stranger was crouching down and scooping it all in his gloved hands — quite agile for someone his build.
Then König's back was protesting in pain, joints cracking embarrassingly loud.
“Nicht,” he hushed, accented voice hoarse from barking orders and yelling at the top of his dust-lined lungs. Not like you knew — to you, he sounded like he was a chainsmoker, croaking his final breath before his lungs collapsed. “Bitte. Allow me.”
This was… unusual. Unusual was an understatement, however — just what the fuck has happened in the last ten seconds?
The moment you saw him, head almost reaching the ceiling, hovering ominously in the darkness, your first thought was that this man had come to murder you.
Big, bulky, and brawny, as tall as he was wide — fuck, taller — heavy military gear, combat boots and all…
And if his appearance at a first glance hadn't made you faint, his veil was the cherry on the cake: even with the cutouts for eyes, his eyes were camouflaged by the cover of darkness, so that the holes were eerily resembling two empty caves; or even ravines, emptier, deeper, as an abyss.
Oh God, you thought. Maybe that's how and where he would dispose of your body; just dump it in a cave to be forgotten and fossilised, or into a pit, plummeting to the ground; unrecoverable.
Either way, the veil made the entity appear uncannily similar to an executioner…
Should you have called for help? Fuck, get it together, you fucking idiot, of course you should have! The man had murderous intentions! He had come here to murder you, he had! Why else would he be here at this ungodly hour? And— oh God— was that a pistol in the holster?!
In your head, you were calculating the seconds needed to stall for time after loudly shouting for help before your experienced guests would come running from the corridor and tumbling down the stairs from the second floor. Not only were there four of them, but they were soldiers, too — good men, and good soldiers.
So, your boys would definitely overpower this guy, outnumbering him and tackling each one of his limbs to the ground long enough for the Police to arrive, and…
…no. That's ridiculous. What were you thinking? This man has not given you any reason to think this way. Sure, his appearance left a lot to be desired, but aside from that, he was... docile. Polite.
Awkwardly hovering over him, quite literally twiddling with your thumbs and unsure of what to do — ...call for help regardless? — you hesitated when asking: “So, uh— what, um, brought you here then, sir?”
He grunted in acknowledgement, and, having scooped up the remnants of the plate, it all dwarfed in the palm of his hand. You gulped audibly as he stood up to his full height, and you didn't do a good job at concealing the way that you flinched when he leaned close to dispose of the ceramic pieces into the bin beside you.
As he took two steps back, he drew out a weary sigh, head sinking a little.
“I'm tired,” he said. “I need a room.”
Oh.
In your panic, your anxiety… you had totally forgotten that you ran a B&B. That this man was perhaps here because, you know, your business, your current career, was in hospitality and catering.
Yeah… You totally had overlooked that…
…But it's fine. It's totally not like you forgot that you were in the building that housed your guests or anything. Rather than realise that the people you were housing were your guests, your first instinct was to bring their profession into this.
Self-preservation had never been so selfish until this point. Yikes.
God. Had you been less afraid at the start, you could have spared a laugh at the absurdity of the situation and your irrational thought process, but as things stood, you were still pissing yourself from terror, intimidated by this unit of a man.
Now you were just standing there, expression stony and as still as a statue. The veil hovered over you, scrutinising you with squinted eyes in curiosity.
Your expression softened slightly at the sight of him; so pitiable and pitiful, evident exhaustion weighing him down.
Frowning, you were sympathetic. “I'm… sorry, sir, but there are no vacancies available. You must have missed the sign outside? I'm so sorry—”
“I didn't miss it,” he stated, rasping in the same assertiveness of a German (that's what you gathered his nationality was, anyways — what, with his accent). “I still need a room.”
Sighing in exasperation, you were less sympathetic: still, you were going to continue being polite. Just in case he took anything the wrong way. You prayed that he'd prefer his pistol over his hands.
“Sir, you— you must understand that I cannot possibly accommodate you. You— you do understand, right?”
The man's shoulders drooped, and light finally reflected off his eyeballs as his head dropped, too heavy to keep straight: his eyes were sagging, both in sadness and tiredness. Scleras were nearing crimson, and heavy bags under his eyes were burdened by dark half-circles. Some warpaint that hadn't been washed off well enough outlined his eyes, giving the impression that his eyes were sunken into his skull.
You looked away, overwhelmed by guilt and pity.
“Um…”
Biting your lip in consideration, your eyebrows furrowed.
Yet there was little to consider — this was a man desperate for some rest, and given his assumed soldier status, he was evidently deserving of some sleep. Besides, what sort of a person would you be if you refused to house a guest? The decision would remain in your conscience, reminding you of how heartless and inhumane you were.
Or it wouldn't, when you'd be murdered in your sleep and all of your meagre belongings and material possessions would be stolen, while your four other guests had their throats slit.
Because despite their similar profession, it seemed that this man was not in their faction. Your gut churned at the thought that you could be unknowingly housing two rival contracts.
As you swallowed thickly, you looked back at him, your unease easing by degrees the longer you listened to his slow breathing, yet persisting nonetheless.
“Well—” you hesitated. “—I do have a room—”
The light in his eyes became brighter, as his eyelids could barely remain open. “Ah, you do, do you?” he said, eyes crinkling in a small smile.
“Yes, sir,” you sighed, then offered a small smile of your own. “It's upstairs, though. Is that okay with you?”
“Ja,” he affirmed. “Lead the way.”
Wordlessly, he followed you up the stairs, the thump—thump—thump of his heavy boots following close behind, that would have otherwise thud—thud—thud’ded had they not been muffled by the fluffy carpet. You mourned the way that it would never be as fluffy again. The dirty dirt marks left behind with each footstep made you grimace, so unlike the ones left by the others. Did this guy even shower before coming here?
Finally at the door, a little awkwardly, you unlocked it, and ushered him inside, flicking on the light switch.
“Uhm, it's a little small… “ you murmured apologetically, voice trailing off. “I mean, it's a double, but it might not be big enough…”
König surveyed the size of the bed, taking long, thoughtful strides… then flung himself face-first on top of it, sinking into it.
Your eyebrows disappeared into your hairline, jaw dropping to the floor in amazement. His feet stuck out, but he didn't seem about to complain.
“Are— are you okay?”
“Perfekt. I have needed this.”
You crossed your arms, dumbstruck and rendered dumb by this… display.
“O—kaaayyy... I’ll—I'll leave you be then, sir.”
“Ja,” he yawned, not bothering to take off his shoes. You sighed, shaking your head sternly, but decided to hold your tongue.
As you were heading out, you glanced into the room, hovering in the doorframe. “Sleep well, soldier,” you whispered, flipping the light switch. The darkness enveloped the man like a blanket.
…
For four straight days he slept like a log. Literally, because he was like one in length and diameter, but mostly in the figurative sense. Of course, König didn't know that. Yet.
When he awoke, König felt reinvigorated, rejuvenated, revived… all synonyms of said words (he couldn't think of any more — funnily enough, he would use none of these when speaking to you).
The first thing that he noticed when he awoke was that the duvet was tucked in neatly into the covers around him, and that his boots were off.
He noticed that his rucksack was next to his boots second. Even if you were someone strong for your size, he doubted that your strength really could make up for your height — the footage of you struggling to lug his bag up the stairs brought humour to him. Or, maybe he was underestimating your strength, and you were stronger than you looked. Still, he found humour in the idea regardless.
Thirdly, the curtains were drawn tightly closed, but daylight penetrated unrelentingly through the material regardless, giving the impression that the room was feebly glowing with white. Heavenly.
Was this heaven? It sure felt like it. Surely, a few more moments of blissful shuteye would—
Wait. What day was it?
Springing out of bed, sprinting downstairs, he was about to rush outside…
…when he halted in his tracks halfway.
What the fuck was he doing? He was a fucking Colonel. Who fucking cares what fucking day it is. The idiots on base should be glad that he's even there, regardless of how belated his entrance is. Honestly, at this point, he's considering this his own vacation in the semi-countryside. He deserves it, after three months of doing his utmost not to let himself or his comrades die.
Walking down the steps, he overhead a familiar sound: the running of water, and humming. Humming a different tune this time.
Having woken up alert, not groggy like he had been that late night/early morning, he could appreciate the sound now.
In all actuality, that hummed tune was nothing extraordinary — quite frankly, it was one of the most ordinary songs he could have heard.
Clearly, you must not be a good singer; otherwise, your breath would not have hitched in your throat with every high note you'd have to reach. Your song was syncopated, despite you likely not having meant it to be.
Occasionally, you'd sing the words that you'd know — voice off-key and clumsy — then revert to humming once more, stealing quick breaths every once so often.
Then he saw you, and he could put a face to that clumsy voice. It was his breath that hitched in his throat.
There was nothing particularly pretty or handsome about you, either. From the profile, you were decently average — or annoyingly average — neither exceptionally beautiful nor exceedingly ugly. You were just… you.
And, yet, the sight of you washing the pyramid of dishes precariously balancing on top of each other, singing softly a song so out of tune, so out of sync, was… concerningly domestic.
Just for a split-second, König visualised you as his partner, waiting patiently for him as he was on deployment, and this being the morning after his return, this being one of those precious mornings you two could share. It would be nice to have something to cherish so much.
And as soon as that vision materialised, it disappeared just as soon. Too soon.
A little flustered by what he had imagined, he shook his head, shaking off the remaining pixels of that screenshot until they completely dissipated, disappeared. Now was not the time.
This time, he wasn't going to frighten you, Gott forbid all of those plates would come crashing down like an avalanche of porcelain; it would save breaking his back, secondarily, but primarily, he didn't want you to snap out of your trance, so innocently focused at the task at hand, only to react so strongly like you did the last time.
So he contented himself with waiting, despite hovering a little too awkwardly in the doorframe, unsure of what to do with himself.
After turning off the tap, you sighed — an anticlimactic conclusion to your encore — before drying your hands with a teatowel. Now was the time to introduce his presence.
Coughing quietly to draw your attention, König announced: “Guten tag.”
Whipping your head so quickly towards the source of the voice your neck nearly had whiplash, your eyes widened.
Sighing a sigh of relief after recovering from your surprise, you smiled politely.
“You're awake! Thank God. I was beginning to think that you had died or something. How are you? Do you feel better?”
It's been a while since anyone had asked him that.
“Oh— ah, Gut. Thanks.”
There was something so appealing about your face that König couldn't place; so easy on the eye.
Awkwardly adding: “I slept… well. Very well. The bed was the most comfortable I've ever slept on in ages.”
“I mean, I figured — what, with you there for so long!”
You laughed, and he swore he was floating. “I swear, you must have been hibernating or something. I was hoping that there wouldn't be a corpse I'd have to dispose of. But, you are okay, right?”
His hoarse voice had a hint of a morning rasp in it, as he whispered a quiet: “What… what day is it?”
“Day?” You looked to the side, thinking. “Uhhh, let me think— Tuesday, right? I think it is, anyways? Well, you arrived on Friday, so nearly four days a—”
“Scheisse.” König's voice was monotone. “I was supposed to brief subordinates. They were meant to commence training on Monday.”
You gasped. “Then why are you still here?! Go! Look, it's only two days—”
“Nein. If I am going to be late, I might as well be fashionably late. I hate it there. I am treated like I am elderly and coaxed to do paperwork when I am in my prime age for fighting. I hate it.”
“You sure do hate your job, it seems,” you mused. “How come?”
“I do not. I hate the people. I am a soldier for that precise reason, and I always get reprimanded for my brutality, when it is a thrill to me. Did I say I hate it?”
“...Oh. O-okay...”
You shifted from leg to leg, twirling your foot into the floor awkwardly, not knowing what to do with this information.
“...Well, how about some breakfast?”
He blinked. “Breakfast?”
You laughed. “Don't you know how a B&B works? Breakfast is included, you know.”
“Oh.” He blinked again, enlightened. “OK. I won't be long.”
“Please, take as long as possible.”
“How thoughtful of you,” he said, pleased.
“I mean— it gives me more time to prepare the food — which, by the way, what would you like? Any preferences? Allergies? I tend to hand out a menu, and offer a full English, but this situation is a bit—”
“Everything,” he interrupted, assertive. “And anything.”
“Mmmkay,” you mumbled. “I'll do what I can.”
“Thank you. Will be seeing you.”
The “will be seeing you” sounded a little too ominous for your liking, despite seeming to have no ill intentions. Goosebumps formed on your arms, but you skillfully hid your trepidation with a warm smile.
König walked up the stairs, leaving you behind to mournfully look into the fridge, praying that there was food enough to feed this guy.
(...This giant. Mutant, perhaps. It was hard to believe that this unit was even human.)
You were thankful for the fact there seemed to be enough food. What you were not thankful for was that it'd only be enough for one meal, or two if you scavenged for some more ingredients out of the cupboards.
A carton of 16 eggs, a jug of milk, two hams, a loaf of bread, some fruit, some vegetables, some leftover pastries… all fine and dandy; alas, this guy was probably going to chug the milk straight out of the jug and likely had some weird fixation with eating the raw egg yolk, as if it's the ultimate forbidden protein source, or something. Maybe you were prejudiced, based on your current experience with three out of four of the other soldiers not knowing how to make pancakes. The clean-up afterwards made you seriously consider abandoning your B&B and hiking to the next country by foot.
König on the other hand? He had already decided that he would never abandon this B&B. Your B&B.
He was making himself quite at home. Everything in this bedroom was so homely, and, come to think of it, it was exactly what König needed; a change of scenery. To be home. It was just a shame that he had not a place to call that — for now, at least.
Feeling refreshed and looking fresh out of the shower, he half-heartedly dried the mop of hair on his head. Slipping on some shirt he dug out of his bag, he cursed when he wore it back-to-front, and slipped it on again.
Finally dressed with no further discrepancies, he stole a glance of his profile in the reflection; grimaced; then quickly slipped his signature veil over his head. The thing was falling apart at the seams. He would fix the stitching when the night came.
As soon as he opened the door, an intense aroma — aromas — overwhelmed his olfactories. His stomach growled, and König remembered that it must have been almost 6 days since he had eaten.
Approaching footsteps drew your attention to the masked man advancing, so you turned off the running water, and dried off your wet hands, to pull out a chair for him. At least the largest load of the dishes was tackled; the rest could be put on pause. You didn't exactly find the prospect of more washing up promising.
“Hey, welcome back. I hope your shower was good!” you chimed, a cordial smile gracing your face.
The smile became lopsided as you followed the man's unspeaking gaze towards the food you prepared for him.
“O-oh, yeah— well, uhm, I didn't know what you'd like, so I put together all the scraps and then some to make you breakfast,” you said, rubbing your nape. “Come to think of it, is this even breakfast at this point? Is it lunch? Brunch sounds better, but it's past noon to call it that…”
König had tuned out your ramblings — not because the sound was like white noise; because he was mesmerised by the platter of food:
An omelette, colourful with diced peppers, tomatoes, and sautéed mushrooms, cheese melted on top of it, and presumably mashed together with mashed potatoes; a poached egg (which, by the looks of it, went wrong — but was still appetising nonetheless) on top of an avocado, tomato, onion corn, cucumber, and rocket salad; a fried egg in a bacon barm, with a toothpick through it and, also melting with cheese; two sausages, sprinkled with crispy onions, more mushrooms, with a ramekins of beam on the side. If that wasn't enough to whet his appetite already, the sight of two croissants and two muffins — warm, and fresh out of the oven — buttered and smeared with jam, and the fresh bowl of fruit, then he was surely salivating.
He was salivating. Coughing into his hand, he discreetly rubbed the drool off his chin with the hem of his mask.
“Mein Gott— this is—”
Amazed, he sat down in the chair that you pulled for him, in a daze.
“Scheisse.” His throat was dry. “Are you an angel, by any chance? Is there something that you've not told me?”
Laughing bashfully, you waved a dismissive hand, swatting the blush away from your cheeks.
“Aw, you're so sweet! I'm flattered.”
“No, really,” he insisted, the eye contact he was making with you intense. “If that's the case, maybe I should make you my own personal maid turned housewife. You'd fit in my suitcase, nicht?”
Your laughter became awkward and strained, yet you forced yourself to keep your eyes trained on his. “Ahhh, nah, ha ha… I'm not flexible like that. Such a shame, ha ha ha…”
His eyes crinkled in a smirk, and with the way that they did you instantly knew that he was taking the piss. “I'm joking. You can relax. I am sincere when I say I have no such ill intentions.”
“Wait— your… mask.” You gestured to the veil. “Would you, uh… rather I look away as you eat?”
Surprisingly — surprising himself more than he did you — König shook his head instinctively, decisively.
“No. I do not mind. I will only mind if you try to look under it.”
Holding up two placating hands, you reassured him that you wouldn't, and that seemed to please him.
After that, aside from the clinking of cutlery on plates chewing on crispy, crunchy food, it was silent.
The man appeared comfortable in your presence, and was too focused on his food. Still, out of consideration for keeping his identity private, you stared at the chipped paint on the wall that you hoped he hadn't noticed. You would paint over it at some point.
Antsy as you anticipated his answer, you were nervously strumming your fingers against your knee. “...How is your breakfast?”
He was chewing the food slowly, eyes closed, enjoying the tastes. Swallowing even slower, he finally whispered a shaky: “Fantastich.”
Your face lit up, and you couldn't contain your excitement.
“I'm so glad! I hope it's enough. I-I mean– you know what I mean! For a big guy like you, this must be a snack. If this hadn't been so short notice, I would have prepared something more.”
He hummed appreciatively, appreciating every bite of food and devoting more time than he usually did to eating: usually, he was the type to shovel food by the mouthfuls and set his plate aside with his mouth still full; but, to König, it would be disrespectful to do that. He was holding your culinary skills in far too high of a regard to do that.
After he had finished, he pushed the plates aside, satisfied. “Gott. That was delicious. Maybe I will smuggle you inside my suitcase after all.”
He laughed, and dismissed your concern with a shake of the head. You furrowed your brows sternly, unamused, and collected the dishes, eyes widening; the plates were totally clean, not a crumb of food left.
You were beyond pleased. To describe your joy would have been impossible…
Yet, you had to wash all of those dishes. Again. Maybe you should seriously consider getting a dishwasher, but it was… oddly satisfying, to say the least. It was quite calming: the running water; the rubbing of the porcelain; the bubbles. And it was most satisfying seeing the plates in the rack stacked nicely.
“Every time I see you, you are washing dishes,” König pointed out, observing you from the few feet he was away.
You laughed at that. “Well, that's just how it is when you've got four adult men eating at your place, plus other guests. Trust me, this load isn't even half of what I wash most of the time.”
“Where are they now? The men, I mean.” he inquired, inquisitive.
“Gone,” you shrugged, elusive. “They always make a short stay anyways; they have places to be.”
“I see. Who are they?”
You bit your lip, wavering in your hesitation. “I'm… not in the position to divulge.”
“I don't see.”
Scoffing, you rolled your eyes. “They're soldiers. Just like you. They returned from deployment not too long ago, and are regular guests at my B&B, I guess. Not much to it.”
König let out a snort. “Regulars?”
“I don't know how else to put it!” You groaned, holding up your hands in exasperation. “Anyways, long story short, they returned from deployment, landed here, and seem to keep landing here, even though their barracks are miles away and this place is nowhere near any of their stops. Sure do wonder why.”
“I do not wonder; it's because your bed and breakfast are excellent, and you are an excellent host.”
Not knowing how to respond in your bashfulness, you contented yourself with washing the dishes, prolonging the process for as long as possible.
Time decided to defy you, and you were done in a matter of minutes.
“Well then. I better give you the payment, yes?”
The man pushed his chair aside, and sluggishly rose to his feet. “How much do I owe you?”
Cheeks still rosy, you considered for a moment. “Well… for four nights, it'd be £355.96, but given that you took my bedroom — by far the premium room — I gotta slap onto that an additional £50.”
“Still, since you were basically hibernating for three of those days, why not make it a nice and round £400?” You winked, smirking mischievously.
It took you a few seconds of him staring at you in order for it to register that he seemed to catch on to this revelation, and was appalled.
“Wh— what are you looking at me like that for?”
“I am… sleeping in your bedroom?”
“...Yeah? Look, it's not even a big deal. I don't mind, really! I'm happy to accommodate to your stay—”
“Scheisse! You should have said something, verdammt!”
“Like what? Tell you to shoo in the middle of the night and have you wandering around, only to end up sleeping on some bench? No! Besides, I've made the basement quite cosy, so no one is losing.”
Grumbling angrily in German, out from his wallet, he pulled out a crisp, crumpled — yet fat — stack of a wide array of notes, foreign currency from more than one country. “And I am in debt to you by how much again? Four hundred of those pounds?”
You nodded, smiling sweetly. “Y-yeah!”
“I have not the correct currency for this country, unfortunately.” He was apologetic, rifling through the stack and skimming through it. “Will this suffice?”
Your smirk flickered, yet remained flashing. It seemed a lot, but maybe other currencies didn't equate to as much as the Pound Sterling. God, what a chore it will be counting all this…
“Hold on… I can just Google the conversions, and add them. Good thing I've got a calculator on hand for these exchanges!”
After calculating the sums of all the equations, your jaw dropped.
It was over quadruple what you charged him, so you thought you had hallucinated and calculated the sums incorrectly. Maybe your maths wasn't as good as it used to be…
Inputting the numbers into the conversion rates in a different order gave you the same result, however. You were puzzled…
Unless…
“You— you've given me too much? Fuck, hold on another moment, please— I'm struggling to calculate, and I think I'm doing something wrong—”
“How much did it come out as?
“...£1417.”
“That little, it did? I thought it was over 1500. I guess I overestimated. Shame.”
If your jaw hadn't dropped, it was on the floor by now.
“I— what?” You contained your bulging eyes before they popped out. “Okay, u-uhm, you're not making it easy for me to give you back change, are you? I need a few more minutes to—”
“No. That is my payment.”
You couldn't believe in what you were hearing.
“What?! N-no, wait— it's too much! I can't accept this! Look, I—”
“Then I'll be staying for the rest of the week.” He stated, direct. “Consider that the payment upfront.”
Nearing hysterics, you insisted: “But it's still too much! P-please, let me give back the change—”
“Nein. Then I want you to consider the overpayment the tip, yes? For good service. Please.”
Tears brimming in your eyes, your lip quivered a little.
Despite denying him out of principle, the truth was that these sorts of gestures were too generous, and you couldn't handle such kindness. Even with the other four regulars that would slip in extra bills into your purse, this? It was all just—
And the fact that this man was so adamant made you tear up.
“I— o-okay… Thank you…”
“It is my pleasure.”
The fabric of his veil crumpled as his eyes crinkled and cheeks were made visible in a smile.
“I will go to your room and sleep some more, if that is okay with you?”
“Sleep? Haven't you hibernated enough for two consecutive winters?” You joked weakly, still overwhelmed by his generosity.
“True. But I need this,” he said, back hunched over and shoulders slumping. “I will be as fit as a young boy tomorrow, and will resume my workouts! I will be going jogging for most of the noon.”
“You— don't look so old,” you stammered, a bit bashful. “But I won't disagree with you. You deserve the rest, Colonel.”
The nickname amused him. “Don't call me that. At the barracks, yes, but I would prefer it if you would refer to me as König.”
“Okay then, Colonel König,” you repeated, a mischievous smirk on your face.
“You are a devious little thing, aren't you? How cute.”
Your breath hitched in your throat, and you groaned exaggeratedly, playfully pouting.
“Seriously though,” you began, eyes earnest. “I hope you enjoy your stay. And if you wanna sleep in all day today? Go ahead!”
“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “And you are sure that this is no trouble?”
“None! This is my business, after all. I'm happy to be here, and I'm happy that you're happy too.”
“Well, I will be seeing you. Bis morgen, Süße.”
Offering him another warm smile, König walked upstairs.
The rest of the day went without a hitch. Two guests filled the empty rooms of the previous four, and you booked them in. It was quite quiet, and when night came, the two guests tucked in their beds with a cordial “Goodnight”.
A sigh left you, satisfied that everything was in order, everywhere was tidy, and all countertops were spotless. Checkup done, you were pleased with yourself and your effort for the day.
The bed in the basement was still big; a small single — plenty of space to sprawl all your limbs and sink face-first into a pillow.
That night, however, the bed was strangely bigger than usual.
…
Rubbing your eyes with your yawn as you walked up the stairs to prepare breakfast for your guests the next day, you halted in your tracks.
“Guten morgen.”
The sight of him wearing an apron — your apron — so comically small, was hilarious. If it wasn't so hilarious, you would have been furious at the fact that your favourite apron was splitting at the seams, but as things stood, you were splitting your sides with laughter.
“I… what?”
“Good morning.”
“N-no, I mean— what are you doing?”
“Well.” He pondered for a moment, then turned to you, expression blank in its confusion. “Breakfast. What does it look like, little one?”
“That's…” You were at a loss for words. “...my job?”
“Ja, I learned. But I wanted to return the various favours you made to me.”
You were perplexed. “I didn't make you any favours?”
He chuckled. “Forfeiting a bed is one of the strongest favours, no? It's the easiest way to bring someone closer — letting them into your bed.”
“Oh my God, will you shut UP about that, PLEASE,” you groaned, embarrassed by his teasing. “And stop wording it like that. You're making it seem as if I brought you into my bed to have sex. So gross.”
“What is gross? Sex, or sex with me?”
“I— oh my God…”
“...Sooo, ha ha… h-how did you sleep?” you innocently asked, desperate to divert conversation onto another topic.
“Well.” König said, thoughtful. “I would have slept better if I had you to cuddle, of course.”
“You'll sleep even better when I suffocate you with a pillow. Then you'll never wake up.”
“Just admit it: you like me,” König asserted smugly. “Don't be shy, schatz.”
“I'm not shy,” you lied. “You're just wrong. I barely know you.”
At this, König cackled loudly, yet not mockingly — just obnoxiously.
“I know you well enough to say that I like you; why not say the same, hm?”
Laughter dying down, König was about to pull out a chair for you when you pulled it out for yourself and sat down without a second thought. A scowl was under his veil, but he didn't point it out.
“I still don't get why you're making me breakfast.”
Balancing two plates on his forearm as he placed a third in front of you, he said: “Hush. Genieße dein Essen, schatzen.”
Pretending you knew what any of that meant, you nodded eagerly, as you had a kid-like grin on your face at the sight of such food, especially being prepared by a hunk as handsome as he.
“König!”
So, why not impress him with your language skills?
“Gracias— fuck! Wait, no… uh—”
“Ah, it is me who was mistaken,” he teased. "Bon appétit.”
Why not? For that reason, you learned…
Rather than there being an awkward silence, König chuckled, and lovingly stroked your hair, careful in his way not to tangle it. Meanwhile, you were redder than the chopped tomatoes on your plate, and to you, this wasn't remotely funny. You just got nervous!
“You are so sweet, schatz. Such a treasure. Never change, ja? Now eat your food before it is cold.”
You huffed, then stabbed a fried egg with a fork, uneasy, and feeling queasy, your mind drifting back to that morning where those other four soldiers absolutely desecrated the pancakes they made and cooked an unholy concoction of raw egg and half-cooked batter. With chocolate chips on top.
Gulping, you opened your mouth, and took a tentative bite.
Eating it… it tasted quite good. Great, actually.
“See? I am a good cook. You would like an extra pair of hands to make your workload more… enjoyable?”
You choked on the egg. “An— extra what?”
“Help, of course.”
“You— you knew what you were doing when you said that.”
“Knew what, little one?”
“Nevermind,” you scoffed. Scarfing down the food was enjoyable indeed. Having had breakfast prepared for you was pleasant, for a change.
His breakfast gave you a run for your money, and you were silently seething.
Admittedly, his breakfast was a “man's” breakfast — hearty, full of food, and abominable presentation, cobbled together. The taste was phenomenal, though — nothing to fault there.
“Finished? Wunderbar. I can cook for the remainder of my stay—”
“Wooaah, there, big guy. Hold your horses. Are you replacing me at my own job?”
You smirked, touched. “I think it's sweet, really, but let this be a one-off, okay?”
König frowned, and even with you not being able to see it, you could sense his disappointment.
“It's not like I didn't appreciate this… but, König, c’mon. This is my job, you know.”
“OK…”
You sucked in a breath. “Another time, okay? When I have no guests. I'll reserve the establishment for you.”
He perked up at this. “OK!”
…
“Why is your Breakfast in Bed named “Royal”?”
You let out a snort. “Bed and Breakfast, König. And why? Well… to be honest… the only reason I did was to appeal to the Brits.”
“...Oh. That is the only reason?”
Contemplating it for a moment, you realised: “Yeah… don't get me wrong, I don't worship the Royal family — between you and me, I don't give two flying fucks about the King — but if I'm here, oughtn’t I cater to my target demographic?”
The mug of coffee — with a Union Jack flag and the text “ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴄᴀʟᴍ, ᴄᴀʀʀʏ ᴏɴ ᴅʀɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴇᴀ” printed on it — that he was about to take a sip out of, froze mid-air.
“...King? Not the Queen?”
“She's dead, König. I know that much.”
“...Oh.”
“I… figure you didn't know that much?”
“...No.”
You couldn't hold back a laugh, and burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Doubled over and splitting your side as you wiped a tear, you exclaimed: “Ain't it— funny!? How— how nice of a coincidence it is that— that you, a King, landed at the ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙ&ʙ?!”
Yeah, you had Googled what his name meant. Simply out of curiosity, nothing more.
“It must be fate,” König said dreamily, which went unnoticed as you giggled a little longer.
“Ye—ah! Oh my God, HELP— I-I can't breathe... fuck. Who knows? Maybe. Fuck.”
…
Before you knew it, the week had passed.
You took the liberty of doing König’s laundry and dry-cleaning folding the day before, his clothes folded neatly. Rather than wasting time going to the laundrette, you said, you would be more than happy to do it for him.
While awake, you wanted to bake him some pastries and prepare a few plastic containers of food — “...So you won't be hungry. Or go hungry, for at least 2 days or so.”
“At most. Your food is so irresistible that I will not be able to resist eating everything in one sitting.”
“Hey, be my guest! Not telling you how to live your life. 2 hours it is, then.”
König was no longer tired; and, although you were, you woke up earlier than usual nonetheless in order to ensure that he wasn't missing anything. What, with his meagre possessions, most likely wasn't, but the both of you refused to acknowledge anything.
“God — you're, like, almost a week past schedule. What are your superiors going to say about going AWOL?”
“They are not going say anything,” he proclaimed, confident “No one is superior to me, anyways. They will not say anything.”
“You're as full as yourself as the first day we officially became acquainted.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” he said drily. “Did I say I like you?”
“You sure did. Like, a hundred times by now.”
…A hundred times, and he hasn't said “I love you” once. How humiliating it was for König. It didn't seem as if you caught on to his feelings, but that was for the better, he gathered.
“It will be two hundred when I return.”
“Sooo…” A little awkwardly: “Are you going to be a regular guest at my B&B? Asking for future reference, so I know when to reserve a bed for you.”
“Of course. There's no other bed I would like to sleep in than yours, meine liebe.”
Blush erupted on your cheeks like a volcano.
“It would be nice for you to sleep in it and join me, nicht? It is your bed, after all. Maybe you would like the company, and a helping hand—”
“Are you leaving already? Begone with you!” you hissed.
Hopeful:. “...But will you write to me? Send me letters, or a pigeon, or something!”
“I… cannot guarantee it,” he said sternly. “But rest assured, this will not be the last you will be seeing of me.”
“I hope so…” You sniffed. “When will you be back?"
“Soon.”
You gazed in each other's eyes for a few agonisingly short moments — the time was agonising short, this moment was too short. There was more that you wanted to say, more than you wanted to hear from him.
“Well, König… goodbye.”
König snorted, laughing his signature cackle, and you were confused.
“What is the reason for this “goodbye” or these “farewells”? Say “see you”. Or, in German: Ich werde auf dich warten, mein König. That will make me happy.”
“I… am not even going to attempt that. Thanks, but no thanks..”
König patted your shoulder, but he had to lean down in order to do it, and you pouted whenever he patronised you so.
“See you,” you said, eyes earnest. “And I will see you, you fucking bastard; you're so big that I wouldn't exactly be able to miss the mountain on the horizon.”
“Ja, ja, liebe. I will be seeing you. Wait for me.”
…
König was full of energy — dreading the barracks, yes, but rejuvenated by an intense vigour and excitement. Excited for the next mission.
Now, even on deployment, no matter how many of those months would be gruelling and no matter what that he will be eating the worst canned gruel imaginable, he would have some place to look forward to returning — “ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋғᴀsᴛ” — and food, homemade. That was a bonus.
Yet, most of all, to look forward to a familiar face; yours.
If what people say about long distances making the heart grow fonder, then by the time his return rolled around, his heart would be yours to keep.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
A/n — Been resurrected like Jesus Christ to bring this fanfiction to you after 3 months days. How fitting. 😊
This idea only came to fruition because I was Four In A Bed, which is a British TV show showcasing Bed and Breakfasts. 💀,, It could have been literally ANYTHING else, but it's fitting?? 🤨, so, i made i work 😩
I'll be honest, I was kind of unmotivated and have been REALLY struggling to write these past months, but this person somehow singlehandedly gave me all the motivation I've been needing to think of and finish a fic 🥹💓.
Because, like,,, THIS?????? 😭😭😭😭😭
It was such a surprise to wake up to in the morning — especially knowing that I would have to sit an WACK maths exam that day 😩 — and it honestly made my entire week! 🥲💘
I've never had anyone dive SO deep into all the little ins and outs of my fanfiction that I thought no one would consider memorable to bother commenting on. 😭🫶💞💞✨✨💖💓💞✨💕💕
(Sorry to call you out publicly like this LOL 🤖. Wass too shy to msg you, qnd I thought it would be better if i kept this quiet in case u didn't wanna be tagged haha)
Also thank you to this anon for this sweet message. After you sent this in, i was motivated to work HARDER !!!!!! (writing three sentences a day instead of two 😍😍). Seriously though, thank you 🥹🥹💓
////Also, totally irrelevant, but i got the platinum trophy for Ghostrunner 2 !!!!!! 😸😸🎉🎊.. (. 🥲🔫)
////Last trophy to get was the "Godrunner" and i wanted to kms 👍😁
////Beating the Dismantler without dying was the BANE of my existence 🧍🏼♀️, and it didnt help that I KEPT DYING UNFAIRLY IN "I Won't Be Back Today" level like BRUHHH 😭😭😭😭, I WOULD KILL ALL OF THE CREEPS I NTHE SECOND PHASE AND YET ID STILL EXPLODE????? AND THEN DONT GET ME STARTED ON THE SEQUENCE AT THE VERY END ,,, THE AMOUNT OF TIMES I DIED TO THOSE FUCKING LASERS AND TJOSE CREEPS ON THE CEILING IS TOO EMBARRASSING TO NUMBER) 😡😡🤬😡😓😟😭😭😭😭,
////, Its ok tho bc i have the bragging rights now — i have the platinum trophies for Ghostrunner 1/2, and hopefully 3 (if it ever is announced 😼) 🤧
//// NOO BC I LOVE THESE GAMES SO MUCH AND ESPECIALLY THE OST BUT THE STORY????? THE GAME PLAY??!!!!! THEFUCKING MECHANICS???!???!?!?!?!?!!!!!!! THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR INTERACTIONS ON THE COMMS??????????!???!!!!!??? JACK HIMSELF????! !!?????!!?!?!??????????... ... And THERES LITERALLY NO ONE THAT PLAYS IT SO IM LEFT DUMPING THIS INFORMATION ONTO MT FRIENDS WHEN THEY LITERWLLY DIDNT ASK LMAO 🤡 — So. I'm dumping it onto you guys instead. 🤯 Srry💔😭 not srry❤️🥵 but i adore Ghostrunner 👾
...
Anyways, I'll go back into hibernation after dropping one (1) fanfiction. I SO deserve it guys... 🥵🥵
#aking10592_ ≛彡#König x reader#könig x reader#Konig x reader#konig x reader#König x fem reader#könig x fem reader#Konig x female reader#konig x female reader#König x male reader#könig x male reader#Konig x male reader#konig x male reader#könig x gender neutral reader#könig x gn reader#konig x gn!reader#König cod#könig cod#Konig cod#konig cod#König Call of Duty#könig call of duty#Konig Call of Duty#konig call of duty#König fanfiction#könig fanfiction#Konig fanfiction#konig fanfiction#cod fanfiction#Updatedthe tags bc they were bothering me 😠// like wtf i wrote my personal tag incorrectly 😭😭
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hey I'm moving to a state with lax knife laws, and I use a cane. it's clear I need a sword cane, any recs?
I don’t have any because a sword cane is a special, even more different kind of illegal in the UK. This is because in 1988 the Thatcher government was psychologically obsessed with scary VHS movies and therefore banned every possible cool kung-fu movie weapon. Here’s the complete list of cool illegal weapons:
a knuckleduster, that is, a band of metal or other hard material worn on one or more fingers, and designed to cause injury, and any weapon incorporating a knuckleduster;
a swordstick, that is, a hollow walking-stick or cane containing a blade which may be used as a sword;
the weapon sometimes known as a “handclaw”, being a band of metal or other hard material from which a number of sharp spikes protrude, and worn around the hand;
the weapon sometimes known as a “belt buckle knife”, being a buckle which incorporates or conceals a knife;
the weapon sometimes known as a “push dagger”, being a knife the handle of which fits within a clenched fist and the blade of which protrudes from between two fingers;
the weapon sometimes known as a “hollow kubotan”, being a cylindrical container containing a number of sharp spikes;
the weapon sometimes known as a “footclaw”, being a bar of metal or other hard material from which a number of sharp spikes protrude, and worn strapped to the foot;
the weapon sometimes known as a “shuriken”, “shaken” or “death star”, being a hard non-flexible plate having three or more sharp radiating points and designed to be thrown;
the weapon sometimes known as a “balisong” or “butterfly knife”, being a blade enclosed by its handle, which is designed to split down the middle, without the operation of a spring or other mechanical means, to reveal the blade;
the weapon sometimes known as a “telescopic truncheon”, being a truncheon which extends automatically by hand pressure applied to a button, spring or other device in or attached to its handle;
the weapon sometimes known as a “blowpipe” or “blow gun”, being a hollow tube out of which hard pellets or darts are shot by the use of breath;
the weapon sometimes known as a “kusari gama”, being a length of rope, cord, wire or chain fastened at one end to a sickle;
the weapon sometimes known as a “kyoketsu shoge”, being a length of rope, cord, wire or chain fastened at one end to a hooked knife;
the weapon sometimes known as a “manrikigusari” or “kusari”, being a length of rope, cord, wire or chain fastened at each end to a hard weight or hand grip;
a disguised knife, that is any knife which has a concealed blade or concealed sharp point and is designed to appear to be an everyday object of a kind commonly carried on the person or in a handbag, briefcase, or other hand luggage (such as a comb, brush, writing instrument, cigarette lighter, key, lipstick or telephone);
a stealth knife, that is a knife or spike, which has a blade, or sharp point, made from a material that is not readily detectable by apparatus used for detecting metal and which is not designed for domestic use or for use in the processing, preparation or consumption of food or as a toy;
a straight, side-handled or friction-lock truncheon (sometimes known as a baton);
a sword with a curved blade of 50 centimetres or over in length; and for the purposes of this sub-paragraph, the length of the blade shall be the straight line distance from the top of the handle to the tip of the blade;
the weapon sometimes known as a “zombie knife”, “zombie killer knife” or “zombie slayer knife”, being a blade with—a cutting edge; a serrated edge; and images or words (whether on the blade or handle) that suggest that it is to be used for the purpose of violence.
the weapon sometimes known as a “cyclone knife” or “spiral knife” being a weapon with—a handle, a blade with two or more cutting edges, each of which forms a helix, and a sharp point at the end of the blade.
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what's lost / simon "ghost" riley
part one
zombie-apocalypse!au / pairing simon "ghost" riley x female reader / wc 1103 / warnings brief mentions of gore and violence, minor swearing, attempted suicide.
summery during the escort to edinburgh, things don't go as ghost had planned, causing him to lose y/n
note when i saw this is just an angst filled shitshow, i mean it. like, bawled my eyes out a bit, had to write this over multiple days i was struggling.
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The air in his lungs was bitter, stale. His body was a shell of what it was, skin turning purple and yellow like a large bruising sore. It had been too long since Ghost had cried, what felt like a lifetime ago as tears blurred his vision, jagged sobs escaping his throat.
Ghost’s breathing harbors, slowing as the infection pulsed through his veins. In his final few moments of sanity, he thought of Y/N who he’d forced to run when a horde had overcome them on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The sound of her voice, the feeling of her lips against his mask warmed his heart as Ghost brought the gun up against his head. His jaw was slacked, broken in the fight, blood drooling from his lips. The words spewed out his mouth, a muddled mess as he closed his eyes and gripped the metal harshly. “I– I’m sorry.”
The gun clattered to the ground, he should’ve done it, but her face burned too painfully in his to pull the trigger. All consuming him along with the infected venom that had transformed him.
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Y/N’s laugh was like a sweet song as they continued, through the wild brush of an overgrown wheat field. Ghost couldn’t even remember what he’d said to make her laugh, but a smile tugged at his lips to hear it.
“If the outbreak hadn’t happened, what did you plan on doing with your life?” She asked him, obvious to the lump that clogs his throat.
“Didn’t exactly plan for a future.” Ghost admitted, watching her stop and frown at his response. His feet slowed to a stop, and he turned to look at her. “I’m not exactly the type who plans to settle down, have kids, and retire—nothing for me outside of the military. The outbreak didn’t really change that. Probably spend the rest of my days being worked to death by them if I’m not bitten first.”
“Oh.” It sounded so painfully bleak for him to tell her the truth, but she’d asked, and Y/N had heard worse.
“Don’t break your heart over it. You’ve still got a promising life ahead of you.” He walks back over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Gotta make a cure, have your name known across what’s left of the UK, maybe the world.”
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Y/N can still hear her heart beating like a drum through her entire body as they check it, ensuring it’s clean from infection bites. Her cheeks were tight and dry, the crying had stopped when she’d reached the QZ, not out of relief or happiness, but because of a numb dread that’d washed over her. It had been two, maybe three hours since she’d left Ghost, the infection had either spread and he’d turned into a walking corpse. Or— Y/N shuddered, hating the ugly images that bubbled in her mind. Either result was a knife to the chest and tears threatened to spill over again.
It had been her fault that he’d been bitten, at least that’s what she’d convinced herself. Had she been more aware, more capable, Ghost wouldn’t have had to become a flesh barrier between Y/N and the undead. She’d scowled and cursed at him, anger turning into blinding grief when the realization hit, a blood indent in his wrist from teeth. He’d been served a fate worse than death saving her. And the guilt of it sliced like a knife through her heart.
Ghost should’ve been there, with her safely in the QZ. Kissing her and reminding her that they were safe, safer than they’d been since they’d left London over a month before. But she was there, a hollow shell all alone as they escorted her through the secured area to the lab that would become a prison for her.
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The song of crickets filled Ghost’’s ears as they settled for the night, making a small camp in the deep black of a forest. He sat so that Y/N’s head rested on his lap, his hand absent-mindedly running through her hair. “You’re quiet tonight.”
Almost wondering if she’d fallen asleep there, he looked down at her face and she quickly averted her gaze away from his. “Y/N? What’s wrong love?”
“What are you going to do when we get to Edinburgh?” She finally speaks, keeping her gaze focused on the small camping lantern they had, watching the few insects that flew to it, hoping for the warmer sun. “Or were you not planning on getting that far either?”
“Oh.” Ghost lets out a groan, running a hand over his face. So she was still thinking about their conversation from earlier, considering his words on a personal level, as if they’d been directed to her. He’d been backed into a wall with her question, the truth was pathetic and Ghost worried how she’d respond to it.
“So you didn’t think that far.” Y/N didn’t ask but stated firmly before sitting up and pushing away from Ghost. Taking her warmth away from him.
“Y/N, love–” He reached a hand out, placing it lightly on her arm and removing it after Ghost watched her flinch from his touch. “No, I didn’t think about what I’d do after. Was too focused on the mission of just getting you there safely. But I’ve thought about it, and if you’ll have me, I’d like to stay there for you.”
Whipping her head around, she stared at him surprised by his request, almost wondering if she’d heard him correctly. He was being vulnerable with her, it caused a lump to form in her throat.
“Stay… with me?”
“Yes.” Ghost nodded his head, taking her hand in his and bringing it close to his clothed mouth. “Please, Y/N? I’ll be your damn guard dog if that’s what it takes.” He finishes his plea, kissing the palm of her hand despite the fabric barrier between his lips and her skin. Stray tears in his eyes he blinked away, focusing on her, nothing else mattered but her.
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The afterlife was not what Ghost expected, his body and mind were infected, driving him with an everpresent thirst for flesh and blood. Like a street dog, wandering the expanse of Edinburgh fighting the wild hunger that’d taken over him and so many others. But there was a hollow feeling, some part of his past life still tethered to the shell of his body. Some haunting voice that still rang in his ears like a beautiful song that drew him away from corpses and rotting flesh. Someone whose side he should’ve never left.
tag-list @amazingori
#call of duty#simon ghost riley#call of duty mw2#ghost#simon ghost riley x reader#cod mw22#ghost mw2#fanfic#y/n#call of duty zombies#zombie ghost#zombies!au#zombie apocalypse#so much angst
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artists featured on bad omens' concrete jungle [the ost] + genres
poppy (v.a.n): post-genre, with elements of art pop, nu metal, industrial, experimental, electronic, metalcore, electro-pop synth-pop, grunge...
health (the drain): industrial, sludge, noise rock, experimental rock
swarm (the drain): edm, industrial edm, edm-metal
bob vylan (terms & conditions): grime, punk rock, hip-hop, rap-rock
wargasm [uk] (hedonist [recharged]): electro-punk, nu metal, post-hardcore
erra (anything > human): technical progressive metal(core), melodic metalcore, jesse cash co-wrote/co-produced artificial suicide, what do you want from me? and more from this upcoming album
iRis.EXE (nervous system): industrial goth rock, electro-pop
thousand below (artificial suicide [unzipped], the grey [unzipped]: post-hardcore, metalcore
we are fury (the death of peace of mind [we are fury patch]): edm, trap, melodic dubstep
so wylie (the death of peace of mind [so wylie patch]: electronic, alt-pop
dahlia (bad decisions [lofi]): machine learning powered femminoid trained on sevdaliza's voice (an iranian-dutch singer), unknown
let's eat grandma (just pretend [credits]): experimental pop, art pop
chief (just pretend [credits]): indie pop, michael taylor co-wrote/co-produced who are you? v.a.n, the drain and more from this upcoming album
#bad omens#poppy#health#swarm#bob vylan#wargasm#erra#iris.exe#thousand below#we are fury#so wylie#sevdaliza#dahlia#dahlia ai#let's eat grandma#chief band#this is a mammoth of a 'deluxe' honestly#couldn't find much about iris.exe tbh but i know she collabed with sysc recently#I'm not much sold on the ai stuff too but idk#i do wonder what 'unzipped' mean exactly like is that a stripped version how are they stripping down artifical suicide
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Okay I’m going to say this and I’m going to say this once.
I do not like how the relationship with Jamie’s father was handled in season 3.
If they wanted to go the route of forgiveness they absolutely could have. If they wanted to go the route of his dad going to rehab they absolutely could have. Those are not inherently wrong or bad. It’s a show about forgiveness and I get that. It’s a comedy and Jamie is not the main character - I get that too.
My issue is this: the show went out of its way on multiple occasions to show just how violent and abusive James is. Just to give a few examples:
Repeated physical abuse
Repeated verbal abuse
Planning, funding, and likely pressuring the sexual abuse of his 14 year old son (a minor and below the age of consent in both The Netherlands and the UK regardless of the age of the girl in the red light district)
The willingness to beat Coach Beard (basically a stranger to him) with a metal pipe in a 3 to 1 fight in a back alley which could have realistically resulted in his death (and calling Beard “son” right before the final blow)
Jamie literally gave up his dream - a job as a professional footballer on a top hometown team - to leave the country on a trashy reality show just to get away from his father. The show traced a large portion of Jamie’s issues back to his relationship with his father. Not all of course - but that was a big theme of his growth and development.
So even if we entertain the notion that this stint in rehab was successful and James is sober - that’s great. That’s a storyline I wouldn’t mind hearing - IF we had the appropriate time to show it. But the thing is, we didn’t. This season was disjointed and rushed in many ways - and I’m not complaining - I still loved it. But if they’re going to tackle a topic this serious, they need to do it right. They need to be clear that alcohol was not the only problem James had and that sobriety does not absolve you of accountability. As important as it is to portray the message that all human beings can change, including addicts, it is equally as important to show the serious work that addicts in recovery put in to address the hurt that they caused through their addiction. It is not easy work to battle addiction and to mend relationships - sometimes part of recovery is accepting that you can’t mend things with everyone you’ve hurt and that is the right of the victim to decide how they feel.
We were shown none of this. What we got instead was:
A speech from Jamie’s mom about how he is still amazing despite his dad while still somehow crediting Jamie’s talent to his dad’s abuse
Ted telling Jamie to forgive his dad as he’s mid-panic about his safety and his dad’s location
Ted making a point to say the forgiveness was for Jamie’s sake, not for James - which was ALMOST good until they ruined it
Denbo and Bug suddenly supportive despite being just as violent as James in 2x09
James suddenly in rehab for 0.2 seconds
Jamie reaching out to his dad via text despite having no idea his dad is in rehab - something that is realistically compromising his physical and emotional safety
A quick clip of Jamie bonding with his father before the season/series ends for good
The reason I connected with Jamie so intensely from season 1 was the shared experience of abuse from my father. I want to be clear that I know I’m projecting - that’s what fandom is - and I in no way expected the show to end exactly as I wanted. However, this is what I would have liked to see as 1) an abuse survivor 2) a licensed therapist and 3) a person:
The message that you can heal without forgiving those who hurt you OR that you can forgive them and still not allow them back into your life (ESPECIALLY if it compromises your safety)
The message that sometimes people don’t change for the better and you can grieve that relationship while still fostering healthier ones elsewhere.
An emphasis on support systems and chosen family when someone doesn’t have the reality of a parent or partner getting better (we saw this with Bex seeking out Rebecca and Rupert’s assistant)
Instead of Man City suddenly cheering for Jamie, which felt insanely unrealistic, having the cheers of Richmond fans drown out the boos and verbal assaults of the Man City crowd - further emphasizing that despite the pain he has attached to Man City and his father, he has a home with Richmond.
So to wrap up this very long rant, I feel very disheartened by this part of the season. I still love Ted Lasso and always will - there were so many parts of this season I absolutely adored and wouldn’t trade for anything - but I feel that they dropped the ball on this one. Most people don’t get to repair relationships with abusive parents. Is it possible? Of course. Is it important to depict that it can happen? Absolutely. It’s a show about forgiveness. But they didn’t need to do it like this for Jamie’s storyline. They could have kept the speech about forgiving James for Jamie’s sake and deleted all of the rehab/texting afterwards. I still wouldn’t have been thrilled but it would have made more sense to me in context of the show. And it would have meant a lot more to me as someone who’s father is unlikely to ever stop being a risk to my safety.
This just felt bad. Jamie Tartt had one of the best arcs I’ve ever seen in media and he deserved better than that.
#ted lasso spoilers#jamie tartt#James Tartt#anyway#you don’t have to agree with me on this#this is just my take#clearly I’m personally triggered a bit by it lol#I’m not looking to argue or anything just needed to vent#a lot of things felt off this season and I know there’s a lot of behind the scenes reasons for that#some we’re aware of and some we aren’t#but this is one of the ones that hurt#I have a few others too but since this is a Jamie blog I’m just posting about the Jamie ones#don’t even get me started on Sam being told to forgive the people who committed a hate crime at his restaurant#and no further acknowledgement of that trauma and safety issue#and no explanation of how he got onto the Nigerian team with Edwin Akufo actively sabotaging him#okay I promise I’m actually done now#long post
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Foundation Task Force 141 x Afab! Reader
TW: Mention of death
The building is a reck. Thick metal doors were crumbling like paper. The lights flicker on and off others broken. Deep slashes carve through the thick concrete walls. The metal support rods bent out of the concrete. Pools of water sock blood pooled on the ground.
The bodies of occultist and their rich followers all littered the ground. Like discarded broken wooden dolls left to be forgotten. Many of the dead had large slashes and missing limbs.
You look down at your fellow researchers and guards you once laughed with. You pull out a cigarette and light it. You take out a long drag of the cigarette letting the toxic smoke dance across your tongue and down your throat. It fills your body and a wash of calm sets in for you.
You swing your lanyard around her pointer finger the bright pink lanyard swings healing with all the keys you have on it. Attach to your pristine bright blouse was her ID card pinned to your chest. Your high-heeled boots click loudly in the silence of the hall.
What a mess.
You stop at the main office and open it with your ID. There slumped over in his desk the head occultist— the fool decided death was more lenient than reprimanded by the council. You walk in and pick up all the files, put them into the metal trash can, and take one last puff of the cigarette. You drop the cigarette on the paper, light a match, and drop it into the trash can.
You turn around and whistle a tone as you leave, your footsteps your metronome. You take off your sunglasses and look at the growing crowd of reporters, military men, and random curious civilians. You look over to the SCP task force leader. You give him a curt nod and he begins to calm the crowd.
“We want an answer,” you look over to see a group of military men being held back by the SCP special forces. Your eyes rake them over, special forces… from the UK… working with the CIA— outsiders.
“You,” you look over at them hands in your white lab coat pocket. You waltz over. “What’s going on?” He asked his strong… Scottish accent sounded harsh and angry.
“Sir please back down our men are—”
“What right does your company have to take our missions,” another man steps force. His mustache transfers into his beard, bucket hat is low on his head. He glared holes into you. You sigh pull out another cigarette and light it. You calmly look up at them.
You could tell from the way he was standing he was trying to intimidate you. You touch a guard on his shoulder and he steps aside for you. You get into his face and blow out the smoke.
“What write do you have?” You ask cigarette held in your head. His face reddens and rage seems to boil under his skin.
“We are part of the task force for this mission— what jurisdictions do you have?” The man asks back. You push your hair out of your face a vein pops in your neck.
“The CIA— the FBI— this fucking government. You’re not from here— you have no jurisdiction here, foreigner.” You spat out. This is America, not the UK they have no rights— then again even if they were Americans they still wouldn't have any rights.
This is the foundation concern.
“Ma’am,” you turn around to see the task force leader walking up to you.
“You have a call.”
“From who?” You take the phone.
“This is Kate Laswell from the CIA—”
“What does the feds want?” You ask annoyance seeping into your tone.
“My men, need to be a part of this.”
“Why?”
“This is the third foundation breach we want our men in this investigation,” you purse your lips.
“Have they been debriefed?” You sigh and take another drag of your cigarette.
“Not yet—”
“Debrief them, have them sign the papers, and then I’ll let them in, until then they stay out.” You hang up the phone, hand it over back to the Captain, and turn to the four military men.
“Your handler called,” you tell the bucket hat man, “you have a debriefing to go to.”
You turn away and begin walking away. In the corner of your eyes, a black car pulled in, the CIA is one fast organization. You watch as all four men enter the car. You wonder which ones will join you— their fate is entirely in your hands.
“Alright,” you look at the extraction and tracker teams, “let’s find these runaway anomalies.” They all solute you and begin to March into the forest.
This place was a former military holding cell turned into a private hospital by a group of rich fools. They thought they knew what they were doing— fools.
You walk to the crowd they whisper, “Everybody,” you call out, “Please back out this place is still an active dangerous zone.”
“What happened?” A reporter yells.
“One mentally ill patient got ahold of a gun and created a massacre, then damaged the pipes. Theirs a gas leak, go home.” You lie to them. You lie as easily as you breathe lying is expected for this line of work.
“What are the military forces?”
“The patient is still loose this place is for the criminally insane their dangerous psychotic people out there, I advise you all to go home, lock your doors, and stay inside.” You instruct.
The few civilians quickly begin to walk off getting into cars and going one. The situation is dire. The media on the other hand— they think their invincible.
“Can we get more answers?”
“Relax, you’ll know as soon as we know.” You tell them fighting the urge to roll your eyes. They mumbled but slowly despised but a few did stay.
You turn to the police and give them a curt nod. They were no ordinary Police officers but a SCP informant. The police push towards and tell the media to go home there’s nothing to see.
***
Task Force 141 walked into the empty conference room. Soon Laswell walks in, her face stiff and serious. She set four different files down and silently slid the files to each of them.
“What you will learn here means you entering a world of utter confidentiality, do you understand?”
“Kate, what is going on?” Price gruffly asks.
“John, what— what you are about to know means you can not back out without your memory wiped.”
“Kate—”
“I need you all to promise me.” They turn to each other. Ghost stayed silent and watched intently, Gaz sent a glance at the Soap before looking at Price. Laswell’s strange behavior was off-putting.
“We— we promise.” Laswell sighs and gestures to them to open the files.
“That woman— isn’t a woman. She's an SCP and she’s a part of the SCP foundation.”
----
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#cod x reader#141#call of duty#simon ghost riley#captain price#john soap mactavish#cod#kyle gaz garrick#modern warfare 2#cod mw2
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Old carcass
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1990s Drum n Bass Playlist
Back to the Sunday night electronic playlist-posting mines for the next good while. This week I've got a little update to my 90s drum n bass playlist, with something that's very dark and something that's much, much lighter.
The dark one comes courtesy of a guy from the UK called Ambush, whose career only consisted of a couple 12-inches and an album between '96 and '98, and is not to be confused with *The Ambush,* which is an alias of German electronic music legend Oliver Lieb. Ambush made his debut with a 12-inch called Gain on Possible Records, a dark dnb label that was founded by Mick Harris, who was the former drummer in famed death metal band Napalm Death.
Taking up the A-side on Gain is a tune called "Tracking," which would later find its way onto a Possible double-disc comp called Sonics Everywhere in 1997. "Tracking" is this steadily burrowing piece of filthy subterranean grime, with this constant no-give snare hitting on every other beat while a simply demonic, distorted sub-bassline rumbles mercilessly beneath it 😈; potential theme music for the single-most evil entity in the universe. Only has ~1,100 plays on Spotify.
And for the yang to "Tracking"'s Yin, we have something pretty dang unique. UK future jazz-funk band RSL are not known for making drum n bass, but it appears that, three years prior to their debut release, they first appeared on a South African compilation in 1998 called ReRooted: Beatz From Da Ground Up, with "Elungelo." This is a song that appears to be sampling soulful traditional African folk vocals and then pairs them with beats—first, a nice and chill-grooved, bare-bones trip hop one, and then a sudden shift to dnb. And to be honest, I kinda dig the trip-hoppy portions more on this one, but if something has a considerable amount of drum n bass on it, then it automatically gets categorized as a dnb tune; those are just the rules. Around 9,100 plays.
Ambush - "Tracking"
RSL - "Elungelo"
And for the YouTube version of this update, I was able to add those two songs to it too, but I also added another one that can't be found on Spotify as well. And this is another dark one, from a master of those dark dnb arts himself, Technical Itch. In '98, this Birmingham, UK native applied his craft with a remix of Manchester, UK act Perfect Combination's "Remember." Scratchy and blown-out snares, wormy bass squelching, and an occasional eerie synth to remind you where you are, which is a place that you really need to escape from, pronto 😰. This remix has appeared on a double-12-inch called Partisan Volume One, one of the first releases in the catalog of Partisan, an ultimately short-lived label that was launched after a group of staffers acrimoniously split from dnb juggernaut Moving Shadow. Song has a little over 4,800 plays on YouTube across a few different uploads.
Perfect Combination - "Remember (Technical Itch Remix)"
And this playlist is on YouTube Music too.
So this update now brings us to 13 songs that total 84 minutes on Spotify, but over on YouTube, we're now at 30 songs that total 191 minutes! There's just so much more great, obscure 90s dnb in that YouTube one, including a handful of cuts from a compilation that's not even listed on Discogs called Now What Kind of Music Do You Call That?
And if you want something shorter, I've also got a couple dnb playlists that are specific to a certain year from the 1990s:
1997 Drum n Bass: YouTube / YouTube Music
1998 Drum n Bass: YouTube / YouTube Music
Next week, some breakbeat!
Enjoy!
More to come, eventually. Stay tuned!
Like what you hear? Follow me on Spotify and YouTube for more cool playlists and uploads!
#drum n bass#drum & bass#drum and bass#dnb#d n b#d and b#d&b#d & b#dance#dance music#electronic#electronic music#music#90s#90s music#90's#90's music#playlist#playlists#spotify playlist#spotify playlists#youtube playlist#youtube playlists#youtube music playlist#youtube music playlists#Spotify
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Napalm Death - Display To Me…
#Napalm Death#From Enslavement to Obliteration#Display To Me...#Release date: September 16th 1988#Full-length#Genre: Hardcore Punk (early); Grindcore/Death Metal#Lyrical themes: Political unrest Hate Anti-fascism Social issues#UK
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hey you seem to really know your stuff with titanic and im curious if you can tell me more about that night? a lot seem to think everyone either just drowned or froze too death, but i have a feeling it was a lot more awful than people realize, considering all the jokes people make about the sinking they seem clueless to the fact this was a very bad and awful way to die, for everyone on that ship, especially the third class :/
you know, ive always thought i didnt know that much about titanic but as ive sat here parsing through what i do know, turns i know a lot more than i thought.
and unfortunately, anon, youre very right, it was a horrible way to die, especially so for the third class.
quite a lot of people did drown or freeze to death which are horrifying ways to go by themselves.
at the time, evacuation plans for big oceanliners were shit so a lot of people wouldnt have gotten their lifesavers on, and off the top of my head, i wouldnt be able to tell you how many people could swim back then, but it was certainly less than today. it was only in the 90s that swimming became a compulsory part of the curriculum in schools in the uk, so unless you had reason to know to swim, you probably didnt know if you were british.
and i dont think i need to go into the biology of drowning to tell you its not a fun way to go. its fucking painful, for one, and two, you would have been terrified if you drowned during a fucking shipwreck.
it was also very cold, unsurprisingly. its the north atlantic. it was about 28°F or -2°C which is a lethal temperature. for some reason, a lot of people think that freezing is a relatively peaceful way to die; its not. i cant speak myself for how awful being so cold youre shivering is (i cant really feel the cold because of nerve damage but thats beside the point), but everyone ive spoken to about it resoundingly says its fucking awful. you also experience disorientation, muscle stiffness, excruciating pain in your extremities as your body pulls circulating blood from them to keep your vital organs going, and if youre very unlucky, you might also get frostbite (which can kick in under 30mins) which will add some burning pain.
an added kicker to the cold is that even if you can swim, the shock of cold water might make it harder. im pretty sure shock also likely killed people outright.
another way of dying if you made it out of the boat and into the water (spoiler: several people didnt) is if you were too close to the funnels when they collapsed, you would have been crushed by 62ft tall metal funnels. dozens died that way and if the crushing didnt kill you, you would have either drowned or frozen to death soon after.
you could have also been killed by any number of things that fell from the ship, especially as the stern (the end bit) began to lift up before the ship finally broke in two.
mind you, all of this happened in almost darkness. the engineers kept the lights on as long as they could but eventually they cut out and part of what made the iceberg so hard to see was the fact that it was a new moon.
one of the other things that made it hard to spot is one of the few not good things, but better: the ocean was relatively calm. it made it hard to spot icebergs because you can normally watch out for the foam of the water as it splashes on them. although it led to the sinking itself, it did make launching lifeboats possible (its hard as hell to launch lifeboats in violent ocean today let alone the dinky little wooden ones back then) and those in the water werent being thrown around as much as they could have been. though thats not saying much.
and of course, there are those who didnt make it out of the boat. movies did not lie to you about that although they did lie to you about the specifics.
historical record suggests that they did not purposefully lock third class passengers below deck like many movies show. testimony from the few third class passengers who survived indicates this which is why im likely to believe it. they were able to get up on deck, but it also wasnt easy to do that.
now, crew have said in the haste of the evacuation, they didnt remember to tell the third class passengers the plan. now is that true or is it just a more favourable story to tell during the inquiry? i cant say, for sure. either could be true and both highlight how we treated the poor in society back then (and as a poor, its reflective of today). as such, many third class passengers simply left the cabins and waited outside to be told what to do and that didnt happen. eventually, they made their way up themselves, some due to the fact that they could see the rising water.
and not all of them made it to deck. some chose not to, and again, going off third class survivor testimony here which is why im willing to believe it. theres a specific story about a woman who put her baby on her lap and simply played the piano until the atlantic rose to meet her. another of a man who told his brethren that he was too old to fight the atlantic, and simply lit a cigarette and waited.
others got lost because titanic was a large ship and it was very easy to get lost. especially in the panic of a sinking ship and under lights that are getting dimmer. luckily, some crew remembered oh shit the poor people exist and went down to help any that needed it, so some were led out but that doesnt mean they all did.
also, sadly, it probably wouldnt have helped. similarly to the engineering crew that kept the engines going as long as they could before evacuating themselves, there simply werent enough lifeboats and they were all or almost all gone.
additionally, there were no lifeboats on the third class deck space so they had to make their way to either second or first in order to get into a lifeboat. dont quote me on this because i might have the wrong place, but this is where there was a locked gate for third class. luckily, they snapped the lock off of it and got the fuck out.
anyway, back to those inside. now some of the people trapped inside likely drowned, especially those trapped in the bow as it slowly filled with water and began to sink into the water. the risk of drowning also got worse, once things like walls and doors gave out and in comes a rush of freezing cold sea water.
but that isnt the only likely fate. a rush of water can push quite a lot of things and terrifying speeds which meant people would have been killed via blunt force trauma or being impaled on something. especially for those in the stern (again, the back bit) as it lifted because gravity is not helping here. those still trapped inside would have held on for dear light as the light slowly dimmed and became redder before finally cutting out as the ship broke in two.
now if you were in the stern and escaped death via drowning, blunt force trauma or impaling, you would have definitely been killed by water pressure. see, the bow was able to fill with water relatively slowly and equally which is why its still decently intact on the seabed because it sank relatively slowly. the stern did not and thats why the stern looks like an underwater crash site. as the stern sank, it sank quickly which meant there were still air pockets inside as it sank. and as it came down, the pressure built and soon the people above water could hear what sounded like explosions. it would have been a quick death, but thats the most i can say.
i cant speak for if any kind of sealife killed anyone. i havent heard of any testimony of that and i dont know whats there in the north atlantic to kill people. i assume theres something there, but i couldnt tell you what.
im also sure i missed some forms of death, but off the top of my head, thats what i got.
and yeah, it wasnt pretty and most of the people who died were third class or crew members.
#anon#titanic#tw death#im not sure what trigger warnings exactly to put here so please let me know if theres any extra#tw drowning#tw hypothermia#shipposting
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Taylor & Travis Timeline
December 2023 - part 2
December 10 - Chiefs v Buffalo Bills, Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City.
Travis Kelce arriving ahead of game
Taylor flies into Kansas City to attend the Chiefs game with her cousins, Travis' cousins & friends at Arrowhead Stadium
Travis made a brilliant play contributing to a touch down but was denied due to a team mates penalty.
During the game, NFL announcer and former Dallas Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo referred to her as "Travis' wife" while on the air with announcing partner Jim Nantz.
"As you see, Kelce's wife, Taylor Swift, in the audience," Romo pointed out, quickly correcting himself and saying, "I'm sorry -- girlfriend."
"Not yet," Nantz said in response.
Chiefs were defeated 17 - 20.
Taylor and Travis leave the stadium together
Taylor and Travis together with team mates, coaches friends and family gather at Miracle Pop Up Bar
Travis' barber shares a photo of Taylor and Travis (x)
Lots of photos emerge from the party with Taylor and travis taking photos with friends - these have been cropped...
December 11 - Taylor is nominated for a Golden Globe for The Eras tour movie.
USA Today reports that Taylor has donated $1 million to a Tennessee tornado relief Fund (x) after a Tornado ravaged the state on Saturday 9 Dec.
ET article (x)
According to Cheterah Jackson, a Columbus, Ohio-based real estate agent and friend of Travis', the couple rented a luxury bus to transport their group and reserved the Christmas bar in downtown Kansas City for friends and family.
Jackson tells ET, "My boyfriend Calvin Locke... is Travis' friend and has known him since the 7th grade. We were in the suite at the game, which was filled with family and friends."
"Taylor is an absolute sweetheart. She is very down-to-earth and kind."
"Taylor and Travis are so in love. It was so cute seeing them together and I can see them getting married"
December 12 - Taylor returns to NYC. Pictured with Miles & Keleigh Teller
December 13 - New Heights Ep. 68 airs (x 5:05)
Jason and Travis limit talking about Taylor although when the brothers chat about the No.1 & No.2 sales of NFL jerseys in the UK, they give credit to Swifties for helping with the success of topping the sales and Travis gives a "shout out to Kylie and Taylor." Travis suggests that perhaps they could "find our way over there this off season and say hello to everyone in person" and record a live show in the UK. Jason replies "we also got an opportunity to do one in Australia - we could make it a world tour"
Any one know of an international pop star who may be touring in the UK and Australia in 2024 that coincides with the NFL off season? Are the Kelce brothers hinting that Travis and perhaps Jason will join Taylor on tour next year? It should be noted that Patrick Mahomes has also raised the idea of possibly catching the Era's Tour in Europe in the off season too...
The boys answer "No Dumb Questions" from handle "metal-as-hell", a reference to Taylor's TIME article calling Travis "metal as hell" when he publicly declared his interest in dating Taylor.
Taylor Swift's 34th Birthday - Taylor heads to Banzarbar, NYC with friends to celebrate her birthday into the early hours of the morning - Happy Birthday Taylor! The paps even broke out into song to sing Taylor "Happy Birthday". Note Travis remained in KC with commitments to the Chiefs. This was expected.
December 14 - Taylor and friends share photos from the birthday celebration the evening before (x)
instagram
December 15 - Taylor is named Billboard's No.1 Greatest Pop Star (x)
It didn’t seem possible that anyone could have a year this dominant: not this deep into the streaming era, not this long after the oft-proclaimed death of the monoculture, not when the entire industry seems to be in crisis over how to capture and hold onto listener attention. It was a year not to be judged against Swift’s 2023 peers, but against the entirety of modern pop history.
There is no wasted potential with Taylor Swift, no what ifs – the chance was there for her to have one of the greatest years any pop star has ever had, and you know that she grabbed it. Taylor was here. No one who was around for her 2023 will ever forget it.
With reference to Taylor's relationship with Travis, Billboard's Andrew Unterberger says:
... rumors were beginning to swirl about her and Kelce. The Chiefs star had become increasingly coy in his comments about the pop icon, saying he’d invited her to come see him play a home game (after he’d seen her Eras show in Kansas City that July). She did indeed do just that on the September 24th, with her presence at Arrowhead sending both the worlds of sports and pop culture into a frenzy, and leading to numerous posts and videos of non-football-conversant Swifties sharing the sport’s rules with one another, so they could better understand what was happening in between the shots of their hero in a private box with Kelce’s mom Donna.
From then on, every Sunday (and a couple Mondays and Thursdays) of 2023 was overtaken with Taylor talk: Would she be showing up at the Chiefs’ next game? What other celebrities would she be attending with? What kind of Kelce swag would she be wearing, and what would that mean about their relationship? What do you mean Kansas City is on a bye week?While Swift’s short relationship with Healy was extremely controversial to Swifties and her long relationship with Alwyn was largely uninteresting to everyone else, her love story with Kelce – a well-liked, unproblematic figure, a Super Bowl-winning superstar as an athlete with enough of a Q rating as a celebrity to host SNL – was universally accessible, and found near-100% public approval. You didn’t need deep grounding in Swift Lore to understand the relationship, because it just felt right: the All-American athlete dating the All-American pop star.
Go to part 1 of December 2023
Go to part 3 of December 2023
Return to the timeline
#taylor swift#travis kelce#traylor#taylor and travis#taylor swift and travis kelce#87 and 89#killatrav#seemingly ranch#Taylor & travis timeline#tayvis#T&T#87 + 13 = 100#timeline#Instagram#taylor's 34th birthday#Taylor swift's brithday#Taylor's birthday#December 13#chiefs#Kansas City chiefs#Taylor & Travis kiss#billboard greatest pop star
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