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elmhat · 6 months

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DSMP TUMBLR SIMULATOR

🟩 escapedwarcriminal Follow

On vacation! Check out the fancy hotel :)

🦆 stabbyduck69 Follow

gufys please mass report this he's trxying to fucking dox me and also kill me pls guys

7 notes

❌ god Follow

I just finished writing my latest book! To thank everyone who stuck with me through this process, I'm giving away one copy to a random follower! All you have to do is reblog 😊

#bookblr #writeblr

2,963,086,652,755 notes

🐝 what-if-bees-had-nukes Follow

Anyone know where the boomerville residents went?

🐝 what-if-bees-had-nukes Follow

No one replied so I guess I own their house now

3 notes

🥇 dreamsno1traitor Follow

#I'm actually so sick of these mfs #no joke if I have to spend another day around these people I might kms #one more comment about how "evil" he is and I'm gonna snap #I can't believe I used to be friends with them? #they're so bloodthirsty for no reason #sorry just needed to vent #can't say any more than this or I'll blow my cover #neg

2 notes

🧁 the-girl-who-burned-your-tree Follow

New strawberry cake recipe! (Safe for pigs)

Try out this delicious dessert that all the family can enjoy!

Keep reading

#baking #recipes #I just wanted to make something that my friend can eat too #he has some rather unique dietary requirements

130 notes

🐷 bloodforthebloodgod Follow

"average person destroys 1 government a year" factoid actually just statistical error. average person destroys 0 governments per year. technoblade is an outlier and should not have been counted

💿 fuckdream123 Follow

this is so fuckign disrespectful to doomsday survivors take this down you egotesticle fkng prick

45,687 notes

🟩 escapedwarcriminal Follow

@warden-of-the-vault How's idiotville idiot

🟩 escapedwarcriminal Follow

Wait you can't reply cause you're in IDIOTVILLE

5 notes

🪶 philzaminecraft Follow

My good friend has entrusted me with looking after his lovely dogs, haha! 😂 Do any of you fine young people have advice for me as to how to take care of this many hungry hounds? 🤔 I look forward to hearing from you.

From Philza Minecraft.

P.S. Please also instruct me as to how to increase the number of messages I receive in response to my questions. This internet website is a tad confusing. I had enough bother attaching the photograph. 😂

89 notes

🐷 bloodforthebloodgod Follow

woke up to the dash full of drama again. sigh

🦆 stabbyduck69 Follow

fucking Die

🐷 bloodforthebloodgod Follow

oh so you're the one sending all the anon hate

🦆 stabbyduck69 Follow

i don't send anon hate i'll hate to your fucking face bitch

🦆 stabbyduck69 Follow

please go out with me

11 notes

🔱 warden-of-the-vault Follow

🔥 murdered-yo-fave-pet Follow

But fr guys, as much as we're memeing around in the tags dream is actually out there and he's dangerous. If you see him call me or sam immediately. DON'T fight him. You'll /gen die.

6,210 notes

🐈 antthecatmaid Follow

won't be around for a while, going on vacation!

🐈 antthecatmaid Follow

fuck I'm back fuck fuck fuck

27 notes

💿 fuckdream123 Follow

i'm too sad to commit terrorism like what's the fucking point anymore

6 notes

🧨 zombiepresident1 Follow

World's First NFT Burgers

(Ignore the poor photo quality, my good camera got confiscated by authorities)

"An explosion of the senses, and I don't just mean that time the place exploded!" ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

"So much better than Quackity's horrible grimy SHIT FUCKING RESTAURANT" ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

#reviews are all from verified sources #don't look into it #someone blaze this I have no money

204 notes

✨ quirky-cake-duper-teleporter Follow

Genuinely fuck dream.

✨ quirky-cake-duper-teleporter Follow

Ignore this I wasn't in my right mind

16 notes

🐷 bloodforthebloodgod Follow

The Teletubby and the Pig

Fandom: Original Work Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Technoblade, Dream (me and my friend) Additional Tags: Pandora's Vault Prison, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort

Summary: idk man I'm bad at summaries, just something I wrote with my friend to pass the time (he was too embarrassed to post it)

284k words so far

-> Read here!

#I actually wrote this a while ago but I wasn't allowed to post it for legal reasons #don't worry though I'm planning to murder the legal reasons soon #writeblr #original fiction

35 notes

💍 im-from-the-future Follow

WARNING - PLEASE READ

My murderer showed up at my house today. Police refused to arrest him. I feel sick to my stomach, I don't know where he is or what he's doing, if he comes back I have no way to protect myself. Please stay vigilant and don't trust anyone you don't know.

🥕 catsncarrots Follow

i'm so sorry to hear that karl :( hey what's the new pfp?

💍 im-from-the-future Follow

No idea

43 notes

🥚 baddestboi-withahalo Follow

we all accepted the prison way too quickly. there's like no safety measures? are we forgetting someone DIED THERE? and i've literally seen the main cell myself and it's a mess. pretty sure there was some real blood on the walls too. idk just doesn't feel right

🔱 warden-of-the-vault Follow

I'm tired of people reblogging posts like this without checking their sources. There are some obvious red flags here. For starters, op claims they've witnessed the main cell personally, but if you actually check the prison's rules, visits have been banned for several months now [x]. The prison is armed with state of the art security measures, including lava, barriers, and numerous manual searches, to name just a few [x]. Speaking as an authority on the prison myself [x], I can safely confirm that these security measures, as well as the prisoner, are in perfect condition. Don't be so quick to buy into conspiracy theories.

🥚 baddestboi-withahalo Follow

I LITERALLY WORK THERE????

🔱 warden-of-the-vault Follow

Not anymore you don't.

972 notes

#long post #I wasted so much time on this and every second was worth it #dreblr #dream smp #dsmp #dashboard simulator #lore thoughts #dsmp dashboard simulators

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sagesolsticewrites · 3 months

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Yes, Major

Dom!Croz. “Yes, Major.” That is all <3

Warnings: mature content (dom/sub dynamics, fingering, oral (f receiving), PinV penetration, praise kink), swearing

Word count: 2k

Masterlist

(oof tumblr absolutely destroyed the quality of this moodboard I’m sorry y’all 😭)

You suppress a shiver at the feeling of your husband’s hand trailing up your thigh, his other hand on the steering wheel as you head home.

The two of you had been making eyes at each other and leaving lingering touches all night, so when you finally arrive home, it comes as no surprise that Harry wastes no time in leading you up to your bedroom.

He presses you up against the bedroom door, his lips just barely out of reach, a teasing, predatory glint in his eye.

“Harry…” you whine softly, aching to have his mouth on yours, your gaze locked on his pretty lips.

Two fingers lift your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his.

“Major.”

Oh, Christ. Just when you thought you couldn’t get any wetter…

“Not Harry or Bing tonight, sweet girl.” he murmurs, thumb dragging lightly over your bottom lip as his brown eyes darken, “Major.”

You feel like you’re on fire, every part of you melting as you gulp and whisper “Yes, Major.”

He hums approvingly.

“Good girl.”

Forget melting, you’re evaporating under the heat of his gaze as his fingertips trail teasingly up your side before he steps away, pulling you with him.

He toys with the side snaps of your dress as he perches on the edge of your bed, leaving you standing between his spread legs.

“Take this off, honey,” he murmurs, his voice soft but the words clearly an order.

“Yes, Major,” you breathe, suppressing a shiver as your hands fumble with the snaps, undoing each one until your dress falls to the floor, leaving you in your slip.

His eyes drink you in, fingers barely skimming over the white satin of your slip, and you think you might actually die if he doesn’t touch you properly soon.

Harry notes this — of course he does, with those navigator eyes.

“Tell me what you want.”

You do, even though you know he won’t do it right away. Bing isn’t quite a tease, per se, but he tends to draw things out. Make you wait for what you want.

Still, you manage to let out a soft whine.

“Want you to touch me, please.”

“I will, honey, I will.” He assures you softly, though the pressure of his fingertips remains infuriatingly light, mouth twitching up into the smallest of smiles as he adds, “In a minute.”

You bite back a despairing moan as his hands leave you entirely.

“Lay down, sweetheart,” he nods to the bed as he stands, moving to undo his tie and unbutton his shirt.

Enraptured by the view before you, you simply nod as you climb onto the mattress, keeping your eyes on the increasing patch of chest hair being revealed to you, dog tags dangling in the middle of his chest.

“Words, honey,” Harry reminds you in a gentle-sharp tone that has delicious shivers racing up your spine— ones that definitely have nothing to do with the way his hands are currently moving to his belt.

“I— Yes, Major,” you whine, gripping the sheets none too delicately as you settle on your back onto the pillows.

“Good girl,” he says softly, his slacks joining the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

Finally he touches you again: a featherlight drag of his fingers along your calf, prompting you to lift it.

You let out a shaky exhale as Harry bends to brush light, barely-there kisses along your calf, up your knee, towards where the hem of your slip brushes your thigh.

Praying that he’ll have mercy on you and give you what you want, you sigh a soft “Please, Major.”

“I will, sweetheart. I promise I will.” He mumbles against your skin, his lips moving… not underneath your slip, as you had hoped, but pressing light kisses to your body through the thin satin covering it.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty, darling,” he murmurs, his lips dragging over your still-covered chest and up along your neck as he moves to hover over you.

You let out a soft whimper when his pretty brown eyes lock on yours, his hand trailing back down along the curves of your body to slide just underneath the hem of your slip, fingertips trailing up the inside of your thigh.

He inhales sharply as he brushes against the damp fabric covering your core.

“Oh, honey,” he breathes, “All that for me?”

“Yes, yes, I—” you ramble, “All for you, Major, please—”

“Shhh, I gotcha, sweetheart,” he murmurs, watching rapt as he slips a finger under your panties to drag through your damp folds.

You let out a high, keening whine, throwing your head back as he slowly pushes one finger into you, pumping in and out before adding a second.

Soft whines escape as he fingers you, mumbles of “feels good” and “more, want more, please” tumbling from your lips as he remains infuriatingly steady in his rhythm. His thumb darts out from where his other hand is resting on the pillows next to your head to stroke along your cheek, his way of getting your attention.

As your eyes meet his once more, he asks in a low tone, still maintaining that slow, steady rhythm in and out of you, “You want more?”

At your furious nodding, a gasp of “yes, please” escaping you, he hums.

“Please what?”

You can hardly think, your need for more speed, more something taking up a majority of your brain, but you manage to dredge up a plea of “Please, Major,” and suddenly more is happening.

Harry slips a third finger inside you, an act that has you moaning loudly at the stretch, and that combined with his thumb on your clit and the pace that suddenly feels faster than a B-17 has you tumbling over the edge with a cry.

You come back to yourself, legs shaking, in time to feel him gently remove his fingers. You let out a soft whine at the sudden emptiness, letting your eyes open to a sight that has heat rushing to your core all over again.

Your husband has his fingers in his mouth, cleaning them of your release, and when he meets your eyes you see something utterly molten in his gaze.

“Christ, honey…” he groans, moving to hover over you properly once more, “You stay right here, yeah? Something I wanna do…”

With that, he moves down your body, pressing kisses over your slip to your chest, your stomach, until he’s settled between your legs, pressing soft kisses to the inside of your thighs.

You crane your neck to watch as he slowly lifts the hem of your slip, revealing your underwear. You watch, holding your breath as he maintains eye contact and brushes a kiss to your core over the fabric covering you as his fingers toy with the waistband.

“‘M gonna take these off now, alright, sweetheart?”

You suppress a gasp at the words mumbled so close to your most sensitive parts.

“Yes, Major.” You nod, and can’t help adding a soft “please.”

You feel him grinning as he presses a kiss to your thigh.

“Good girl.”

He gently peels off your underwear, adding it to the pile of clothes on your bedroom floor.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he sighs, lips a hairsbreadth away from your core, “do you have any idea how pretty you look from down here?”

Before you can even think of replying, his mouth is on you and your hands are flying to grip his hair with a gasp.

You cry out his name before you can correct yourself, hips arcing off the bed, and as soon as it was there, his mouth is gone.

“What was that, sweetheart?” He asks lowly.

“I—”

It takes your mind a moment to catch up, but when you do…

“You said you were gonna be good for me, honey,” he warns, his mouth still far too close to your core for you to truly think clearly, “So let’s try again. What’s my name?”

He licks a fat stripe up through your folds, and you throw your head back onto the pillows with a cry of his rank.

“Major!”

“Much better,” he praises in mumbles against you, “good girl.”

The room fills with your whines and gasps and moans as you lose the ability to form words entirely when Harry’s thumb comes up to gently circle your clit, the combination of his tongue inside you and his thumb on the bundle of nerves enough to have you quickly approaching your second orgasm of the night.

“M-Major…” you stammer out between whines, your fingers raking roughly through his curls.

“Already, darling?” He murmurs against you, sounding almost amused, “Go on then, honey. Let go, it’s okay.”

You reach your second climax with your husband's rank on your tongue and his tongue on your core as he greedily laps up your release.

“Fuck, you taste absolutely perfect, sweetheart,” he sighs as he returns to hover over you, capturing your lips in a heated kiss before rolling off of you briefly to wriggle out of his boxers.

“Think you can give me one more, honey?” He asks softly, grinding his length slowly against you.

You can’t help it: you moan out loud at the feeling of him against you before confirming with a pleading “Yes, Major, yes please, I want to—”

“Christ, sweetheart, okay, okay,” he murmurs, breath hitching as the tip of his cock snags on your entrance. He rocks forward, letting out a groan as he sinks into you.

“Oh- shit, honey, you’re perfect,” he sighs against your lips, your breaths mingling as you gasp into his mouth.

His eyes remain locked on your own as he slowly pulls out and thrusts back into you, hips snapping determinedly against yours. You give in to the urge to squeeze your eyes shut, clamping down on your bottom lip to bite back a moan as he hits deep inside you.

Your eyes fly open once more as he gives a sharp nip to your neck, his nose dragging along your jaw as he murmurs, “Wanna hear you, darling, lemme hear you, come on…”

Your mouth falls open to let out a wanton moan, words tumbling out as tension builds within you with every thrust.

“Major— Major, don’t stop, please, feels so good—”

“Just like that, sweetheart,” he pants against you, feeling you clench around him, “Come on, give me one more, just one more, honey.”

You shatter as you reach your third climax of the night, your body nearly going limp as you cry out. He buries his face in your neck as, with two more erratic thrusts, he follows suit with a shuddering cry before slumping against you, utterly spent.

He presses sloppy kisses up your neck as the two of you attempt to catch your breath, murmuring gentle praise as he pulls out of you — “you’re perfect, angel, did so good for me, such a good girl” — huffing out a laugh as you whine at the sudden emptiness.

“You alright, sweetheart?” He asks softly as he settles in next to you, pulling you into his chest, “It wasn’t too much, was it?”

You hum contentedly, toying with the tags dangling in the middle of his chest.

“Not at all, Major,” you assure him, a teasing sparkle in your eyes on the last word. He laughs, and you continue, “It was perfect, Harry.”

His eyes go soft hearing his name, and he leans down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips, thumb stroking gently along your cheek.

“I love you too, Bing,” you say softly, raking your fingers through his mussed curls.

He pulls you closer, resting your head on his chest as you finally allow sleep to overtake you both.

#yes major 🫡🫠#harry crosby #harry crosby x reader #harry crosby fic #masters of the air #masters of the air x reader #mota #mota fic #mota smut #mota x reader #my writing

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cowboydisaster · 9 months

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could you write a fic about simon and a reader who is going through withdrawals? Sorry if that's not real specific, you can take it in what ever direction you please. Thank you

Hope

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem! reader word count: 2k summary: Simon helps you get through withdrawals, offering you hope in the darkest point of your life. a/n: heed the warnings please!!!! I cried a good bit while writing this. You're never alone my friends, and there is always hope. Always. (p.s. there is a mention of wanting children in this fic, so keep that in mind. p.p.s why does tumblr destroy my image quality, it makes me sad.) warnings: opioid addiction, withdrawals, addiction, emetophobia, illness masterlist

"Si-Simon, I can't do this. I'm n-not strong enough." You whimper, clammy hands gripping onto his shirt with every pathetic ounce of strength that you can muster. Your voice is hoarse, throat thick with mucus and body covered in a stale cold sweat that soaks through your oversized t-shirt. Simon has never seen you so weak, so frail in his arms.

He's seen you take down men twice your size, clear rooms with more than ten enemies. You've faced countless opponents, broken through endless physical and mental barriers, but in the end, the one thing you couldn't defeat was the pills.

If you'd known you were trading your life away when you were handed the bottle, you never would have taken it in the first place.

"For the pain." The doctor had said, "Just until this gunshot wound clears up."

Only it didn't. Before you even realized it, your body was already addicted. You craved the numbness that the damned capsules gave you, the release from the endless pain that singed your nerves day and night. You couldn't give them up. You tried– but the sickness that came when you stopped– you were sure it would kill you.

Simon didn't know what to do. You lied, you kept him at a distance, never fully explaining to him what was going on. He didn't realize how bad it was. He tried not to pry, or to push you, but Simon put his foot down when he found you on the bathroom floor unconscious, a bottle of pills on the counter, half empty. His words reverberated in your ears, a harsh warning that he wouldn't watch you kill yourself.

"You have to get clean, Y/N." He'd said from a place of love, but you couldn't help but crumble under his judgment, "I can't watch you do this to yourself anymore. You 'ave to sober up."

So here you are, a heap in Simon's lap, the both of you intertwined on the bathroom floor as you fight the overwhelming illness that accompanies withdrawals. Everything you've survived: loss, wounds, torture– it pales in comparison to the misery you're experiencing now. You refused to go to a detox center, not wanting to lose your position in the Task Force. You promised Simon that you'd let him drive you to the hospital if things got bad, but you want to do this at home.

Bile rises from your stomach, lingering in the back of your throat as you gag. Immediately, Simon pulls your hair back into his fist, and helps to position you over the toilet.

You dry heave, gagging on air as both of your cold hands grip the toilet bowl. Your wedding band glints in the dim bathroom light, bringing another layer of anguish to your already broken soul.

He shouldn't have to deal with this.

"Easy, love. Get it all out. I've got you." Simon coos as your stomach aches and flips, desperate to rid itself of any contents. Only you haven't been able to eat, so nothing comes up but painful bursts of air. You gasp and heave, collapsing back against Simon and erupting into loud sobs. Your bones ache as you fall onto his chest, and his hands hover over your form, unsure on how to hold you without shattering you even further.

"I can't– I can't! Simon, please! Please. I'm going to die. M' gonna die–" You panic, "I'm not strong enough. You know that I'm not." You plead, begging for the substance that he has already flushed down the drain, your mind refuses to believe that it's actually gone.

Simon's previously unbreakable heart manages to crack, and he wishes more than anything to carry the burden of your suffering. You're his wife, and it's his job to take the weight off your shoulders, but he can't do this for you. He can, however, be with you every step of the way. You showed him a new way of living, a way to do more than just survive. You've shown him love when he was undeserving of it. It's unbearable for him to see you, such a beam of light, in so much pain.

"Look at me, baby. Look at me." Simon holds your face until your eyes meet his. Those chestnut colored irises hold your attention– the same ones you looked into as you read your vows, as you suffered pain, and loss, felt love and lust. They've watched after you through everything.

"You can do this, yeah? You're the strongest person I know. Stronger than any other soldier in the Task Force, stronger than me. If anyone can beat this, it's you." Simon reassures.

Your face crumples when you realize he's firm in his decision. You shake your head, clammy palms coming to rest against your face.

"Please, Simon." You beg once again. Your body is trembling like a leaf held against the wind, cold wraps around your bones suffocatingly, squeezing every ounce of comfort from your being and leaving you high and dry. Pure, unadulterated suffering.

"Come 'ere." Simon whispers, standing up from the tile floor and scooping you into his arms. He hooks his arms under your head and knees before carrying you into the bedroom.

The soft bed dips under your shared weight as Simon lays down with you, his body wrapping around your own like a perfect puzzle piece. He pulls your back to his chest, letting you use his tattooed arm as a pillow. Your sobs quiet down to muffled whimpers as you shake lightly, wishing you could go back in time, solve this before it became a problem.

Father time has never been merciful though, has he?

"Blanket or no?" Simon asks. You nod your head quickly.

"Yes, it's so cold. I'm so cold." Your teeth chatter lightly as you reiterate. Simon pulls the thick comforter over your forms, tucking it in around the edges as he adjusts behind you.

An hour ago you were burning up, stripping off your clothes and sobbing at the heat clawing its way through your body like some sort of fiery plague. He'd put you in a cool bath, checking your temperature probably more often than what was necessary.

You shake and writhe, whimpers and groans of agony slipping past your lips every once in a while. It's killing Simon to see you like this. Every ounce of light has drained from your eyes, the life has seeped from your pores, replaced with the lingering disease of addiction. He misses your laughter, your smile. It could light up a room. You've gotten the boys through many dark days. You were the sunshine of the Task Force. Failed missions, loss, heartache, no matter how bad things got, your optimism never ceased. Not until recently, anyhow.

"We'll get there again." Simon tells himself like a mantra in his head,"She'll get better."

He's personally seeing that you do. He won't allow you the pills to take hold of you, he'll fight. He's seen more soldiers die from pills than bullets. He won't let you meet that fate, he won't.

He can't lose you.

The room is covered with a calm silence, only the sound of your quick breathing to let him know you're still alive. Simon is quiet as well, and you drown in the silence, hoping for any kind of distraction to pull you away from your unending misery. You can feel yourself giving up, wanting nothing more than to slip into old habits. You slip your eyes shut, opening them only once a voice rumbles in your ear.

"I was thinking… when you're better we'll get a bigger house." Simon quietly blurts out from behind you.

A wrinkle forms in between your brows, and you crane your neck to look at him. You're sure he's trying to distract you, coming up with random conversation to keep your mind off of the present. When you look back, his gaze is far away, fixed on something on the far wall. A small smile graces his uncovered lips– he's been keeping the mask off at home recently, you've noticed. There is a light in his eyes, a light that you used to think would never grace the eyes of Simon Riley.

"What? Why would we need a bigger house?" You ask with a small chuckle. He's succeeding in his distraction, you realize.

His eyes flicker down to yours, hand gripping onto your waist as you turn towards him in curiosity. Your eyelids are heavy, another wave of exhaustion coming over you.

"For the little ones." Simon responds.

He says it on a breath. He says it so plainly, so effortlessly, that tears immediately well in your eyes. He's never responded to your questions about children– usually shutting down or ignoring the topic wholly. Your lip wobbles, and he runs his thumb over the cracked skin.

"Ch-children?" You ask, a new sense of hope filling your being. A new reason to fight– to get clean. Children. A family.

"A girl, with your eyes…" Simon chuckles, "Probably with your attitude too."

You laugh at that, tears slipping down your cheeks in landing on his hand that cups your face.

"Maybe a boy. Hopefully he gets your features n' not my ugly mug." Simon huffs.

"What changed…?" You ask, wincing as a wave of nausea pulses through your body. Simon's eyes go wide for a second, and his grip tightens on you, ready in an instant to carry you back into the bathroom if you need. The pain passes and you shake your head, signaling that you're okay. Immediately, he relaxes. It's quiet for a moment as Simon traces his thumb over your paper thin skin.

"A dog, a new house, babies, anything you want. I'll give you anything you want, just get better for me, baby." Simon pleads, a hint of vulnerability tracing his words. It's one of only a few times he's begged you.

"I don't want a future without you in it. I want my wife. I want our kids terrorizing the place, I want to get old and retire the Force with you. Hell, I'd turn in my letter of resignation today if you asked, just please, fight for me, love."

The tears are falling freely now, you don't try to stop them. Guilt fills your being at the realization of everything you've put your husband through for the past few months. Through it all, he's never left your side. He's still here. Kissing closed your wounds, and promising to plant flowers in their place.

A soft kiss is pressed to your forehead before amber eyes peek down at you through blonde eyelashes. You chew on your lip, a bad habit.

Your resolve is set, and even though your body shrieks for the opposite, you'll get through this. You have to.

You have Sunday mornings to look forward to, lazily pouring Simon a cup of tea in his favorite mug. You have a house to buy, with two bedrooms instead of one. Dragging Simon through the shops and picking out all the different onesies he'll let you bring home. You have walks through the park to go on. You have to pick up takeout on Simon's late nights at work. You have to sit on his desk while you share an entree and talk to him until he forgets about the paperwork he's supposed to be doing. So many little actions to go through, little memories to make. You can't give it up. You won't.

There is so much to fight for, so much to hope for, all given to you by the man before you. Tears sting your eyes again as you finally speak up.

"I promise you, Simon. I'll fight. For us, I will."

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon riley #cod x reader #cod x y/n #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #ghost call of duty #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #cod mw22 #cod mw x reader

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feydrawings · 1 month

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May King Mordred for the prompt Morbid Month of May of @queer-ragnelle 's May Day Parade 2024 !

Mordred as the May King: not a symbol of rebirth and of life, but of death and destruction. The rise of the new king comes at the expense of the old king, the old year has to die to allow to the new year to come, the corn grows only to fall under the scythe of the reaper, the flowers blossom only to die. And like corn spikes, countless men fell in the war between Arthur and Mordred.

[please click on the picture for a better resolution. unfortunately tumblr likes to destroy the quality of uploaded drawings]

#may day parade #may day parade 2024 #may day 2024 #arthuriana #arthurian legend #arthurian legends #arthurian mythology #arthurian literature #medieval literature #sir mordred #mordred #the may king #watercolor #*mine: art

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snootlestheangel · 9 months

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Just A Dude!Ghost Monster AU

Side note before this post gets rolling, I love that my post with the highest notes starts with "I don't know who else" and I think that's very reflective of what Tumblr is like XD

Anyways

We're doing it! We are writing a Monster AU featuring Ghost as the only human despite what everyone else thinks! As far as I am concerned, mostly gonna post it here on Tumblr, since I don't really have much right now for it, mostly just little blurbs but if needed for readability, I'll put it on AO3 (under my profile FeelzMaster)

I'm gonna go ahead and give y'all the rundown of what species are featured, kinda what this world's like, the stuffs, ya know? TW: talks of death (just how they can die, relax)

Soap

To be 100% honest, I really wanted to do the whole werewolf!Soap thing cause it's just so perfect for him, but I thought back to a post I made about him being lightning and thought HUH WHAT IF?

So, partially inspired by @tactax-art and their depiction of Soap dealing with fire 'n shit, I have made Soap a unique type of "nymph". Technically, nymph isn't the right word, but neither is elemental, and the true name of these things is so old it's real translation has kinda lost meaning so they stick to describing themselves as "nymphs" or "elementals".

He is a Lightning Nymph, which is rare but that's apparently what happens when you cross an "atmospheric" air nymph (his mum) and a less traditional water nymph (his dad). He's often seeing consuming/messing with things that have electrical charge in order to keep up his own energy (Gaz once had to watch him literally lick an exposed outlet and maintain a straight face). Every time it storms, he's outside somewhere as high as he can get so he can soak up the natural static energy that comes with storms. He can and will shock people for the fun of it.

As for abilities, he's obviously highly conductive, can manipulate electrical energy but it's pretty exhausting so it's more of a life or death thing, he can glow in the dark if he wants to, and he's hyper aware of changes (due to ~energy~). His diet is batteries... Jk, but seriously he does not eat like a human would, he straight up eats things that will help with energy. Like I said earlier, he's licked an exposed outlet like it was an espresso shot. Downside is he can't see for shit in the dark so he's reliant on sensing energies, nightvision, or having one of his buddies that can see in the dark guide him. Can be killed if his brain stem is destroyed, but is also very weakened by the typical stuff (gunshots, stab wounds, severe bodily trauama, etc). but can be severely weakened by being trapped in insulated rooms/wrapped in insulators. If exposed to these things and not able to find a sustainable source of electrical energy, he will die. (rubber, steel, copper are some good insulators)

Gaz

I don't know why but I'm gonna make him a Siren. For some reason Siren!Gaz just melts my heart and I wanna hold him. I don't care if he can lure me to my death with his voice, I wanna hear him sing :'(

He's typically pretty human appearing, it's a natural instinct for Sirens, but when he's tired or distracted (like working out/doing paperwork), you can start to see some very fish-like qualities. Mostly very gorgeous iridescent scales around his ears, eyes, neck, shoulders, knees, top of his feet, and back of his hands.

Can breathe underwater, has the best vision in the dark, eats like a typical person but with more sea food cravings or cravings for fatty foods (like human), when in full Siren form he doesn't have a "mermaid's" tail, it's much more shark-like so he can accelerate really fast. Generally just more shark-like, except his scales are fish-like. His nose, like sharks, is super sensitive to certain changes, so booping his nose always throws him off if it's surprise, but he will also bump his nose into people/things without realizing it to get a better sense of it. Can be killed by things humans can, susceptible to parasites.

Price

Honestly, his has been the hardest but I'm gonna do changeling. I honestly don't know a lot about them, and quite frankly I've already got one homebrewed monster here, so why not another?

He's definitely the one everyone mistakes for being human cause he's so good at keeping up appearances. But there are always times where Price manipulates his appearance/body just enough that it's a little startling for those that believed him to be human to suddenly realize he's very much not.

He's got better eyesight in the dark than a human, but nowhere near close to what Gaz has. He's good at picking up on scents though, as his nose is a bit more attune to sniffing out humans than anything. He's not a bloodsucker, but changelings typically feed on weakened/ill/very old/very young humans, so he's able to tell when something is wrong with someone. Stifles the more violent urges of his species by eating a primarily meat heavy diet with a lot of raw veggies for the crunch. Most susceptible to things with iron or salt (obvi) but can still be fatally wounded by stab wounds/gunshots. Most other stuff won't kill him but it'll certainly hurt and he'll complain the entire time.

Alejandro and Rudy

These two are werewolves and Los Vaqueros is their pack :'). Most Vaqueros are also werewolves, but they do have a variety of other creatures commonly found in North America.

And finally, the whole point of this: we got our boy Ghost as a literal human being. Nothing more, just a dude. A dude with so much fucked up shit happening to him constantly it's just assumed he must be inhuman. NOPE! He's just a dude, a very very unlucky, and probably cursed, dude.

So yeah, that's what I have so far! Working title is "Cheers to the Unknown"

Taglist (if you want added let me know in the replies/reblogs): @tacticaltaxonomist @cthulhusstepmom

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forasecondtherewedwon · 2 months

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seven degrees east - chapter four

Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairings: multiple Rating: T (may change) Chapter: 4 / ? Word Count: 4645

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For most who were permitted entry, the Thorpe Abbotts grad pub was a useful spot to continue any promising discussions begun in class, bitch about grading undergraduate essays, and—thanks to the student discount offered by this campus establishment—get pre-trivia night tipsy on a higher quality of beer than they normally drank. The pub was called the Barracks because of the airfield that had stood on the spot decades before. Though the chairs were hard and the laminated page ambitiously headed “signature cocktails” likely hadn’t changed since the ’80s, the university’s graduate students considered it a nice place to hang out. The Barracks’ quirks made it all the homier. And nobody ordered the cocktails anyway.

It was larger than most of the pubs the boys would have packed themselves into on a Friday night, and continued to feel spacious even when a popular local band played the low stage situated at one end or the once-a-month karaoke event packed the place with unusual customers. (These were mostly fearless female students from departments that scared the boys shitless, like medical biophysics and actuarial science. Curt had once gleefully disappeared into the thick hedge ringing the pub’s patio with one such woman after discovering his shot-in-the-dark conversation topic of the possibility of animal cloning had legs.)

On an average, unspecial day, the Barracks had its particular draw for each of the boys. Gale liked it as a place to sit and nod, resting while others spoke. Rosie liked to do the speaking. For Bubbles, its pub fare was an oasis on Crosby’s nights to cook—for Crosby, it was the simple pleasure of an actual place where an actual bartender knew his name (after he summoned the nerve to inform the man that his name was Harry, not Henry). At the Barracks, Nash did what Nash did anywhere: trawled for a date to the movies. John—kinetic creature that he was—would throw darts with his eyes closed and dig out ancient board games whose missing pieces (“Yes, you can use that rook as a Battleship peg, Buck! Go! Your turn!”) were no impediment to his will to play anything and everything.

Curt loved the Barracks for another reason. Below the dusty TV usually tuned to show music videos, the news, or a match of whatever sport the academics got overly invested in that week as an excuse to put off writing an essay or studying for an exam, there was a PlayStation. Due to its locale, it had suffered some abuse, but it was reliable enough to get Curt through several levels of Air Combat. This left him feeling triumphant and allowed him to pat himself on the back for tearing his eyes away from the smaller screen of the Game Boy he had in his dorm.

“C’mon, Lieutenant,” he coached himself, leaning his whole body as he steered his fighter jet away from enemy fire. “Fly like an angel, don’t die like one.”

The pep talk didn’t work, and when his plane was destroyed, Curt sighed and set the controller on his knee in defeat. It slid off and clattered to the floor. He stared at it for several seconds before scooping it up and putting it back on the battered cabinet upon which the TV rested.

“Rough day to be a pilot,” he said, sagging into a different seat as he joined Jack Kidd at the bar.

“Yeah,” Kidd commiserated. Then, “Huh?”

“Aw, never mind. How’s the dissertation goin’?”

Predictably, Kidd groaned. Curt winced sympathetically.

“Next one’s on me, bud,” he promised, giving Kidd’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

“It’s actually going…” Kidd tried again as his face attempted a more hopeful expression. “…fine.”

“That good, huh?”

“I’m not behind. Well, I am, but not catastrophically. Well… You know what? You’ll see. Enjoy your innocence, Curt.”

Curt didn’t know exactly what to do with this troubling speech—or with being called innocent, which he wasn’t sure he’d ever been called. He decided he would give Kidd the gift of silent companionship. In between sips of his beer, he held the edge of the bar and twisted back and forth on his stool. This didn’t appear to bother Kidd, who seemed to be lost in his own mind for a while.

Eventually, he said, “I think I need a hobby.”

“A hobby,” Curt repeated. “Ok, that sounds like a good idea. Whaddya like?”

Very seriously, Kidd replied, “Reading.”

Curt kneaded his forehead and tried not to make the noise Kidd made when anyone brought up his dissertation.

“No. You gotta do something that’s nothing like the thing you’re working on,” he counselled with an emphatic slashing gesture. “Like, me? For instance? Last summer, I drove out to Rhode Island, right?”

“I don’t know, did you?”

Curt sighed.

“Guy, wait. I’m tellin’ you a story. I drove out to Rhode Island because I heard about this big skateboarding competition—the X Games. So, I’m watchin’ Tony Hawk, in person, doin’ all these flips and shit—”

“Yeah?”

“—and I’m like…” Curt spread his hands, a grin splitting his face. “…I could fuckin’ do that.”

Kidd’s expression went flat.

“Right. And now you’ve given up academia to pursue your dream of being a professional skateboarder,” he said sarcastically. “Mega inspirational. Thanks, Biddick.”

Curt leaned his elbows on the bar and shrugged.

“Well, no. But I bought a board, and I’m tryin’ to learn. Gets me outta my head, you know?”

“Hey, you know another way you can get what’s in your head out? Skateboarding accident. I hope you wear a helmet.”

“Hot tip. Thanks, Dad. I’m just tryin’ to help you overcome that fuckin’ fight-or-flight response you get whenever somebody says the D-word.”

“Dad?”

“Dissertation.”

Kidd’s nose scrunched in aversion. Curt was surprised he didn’t shrink back more dramatically, a vampire confronted with a cross, but maybe the fact that he’d already said the word once had desensitized Kidd a little.

“I guess I feel a bit better,” Kidd said. “Being annoyed at you is kinda cleansing.”

Curt raised his glass to toast that sentiment.

“You’re welcome.” He had a swallow. “You comin’ to trivia later? New hobby?”

“My being smarter than you isn’t a hobby, just a fact. But, yeah; I’ll come.”

“Awesome. We’ve been lookin’ for a new teammate who’s an expert on havin’ a stick up their ass.”

Kidd glared at Curt, but the remark provided him with the impetus he needed to hop off his stool and storm out of the Barracks, curtailing his afternoon of procrastination. Curt chuckled into his glass until he realized he’d been left to pay the bill.

—

Trivia night at the Barracks was a joyful confusion of noise that only clarified on the chorus of “Sweet Caroline,” the handful of patrons close enough to a speaker conducting the room with air-punches timed to each “BUP BUP BUH!” Though less busy than it was in fall and winter, the bar was still close to bursting. Windows and doors had been propped open to allow the sound to spill out into the warm summer evening. Free chairs were scarce, so all around the bar, friends crammed into booths and sat on each other’s laps.

The atmosphere was both competitive and full of low expectations; there were never enough questions in the category someone knew a lot about to enable them to perform well overall. This meant any feelings of despondency were, at least, short-lived. By nature of their discipline, the literature boys had a small chip on their collective scholastic shoulder. They were mainly let down by always going into trivia night expecting to do better than they inevitably did, trusting the novels they’d read to provide a sufficient foundation on topics like religion and politics and geology. Sometimes they lucked out, and sometimes they absorbed a stray grad student from another discipline into their team. Often, they cursed the very authors they had venerated only hours before. And they cursed Bubbles, who would give away literature answers to anyone who asked. (“That’s the one thing we know!” Crosby lamented, head in hands.)

Mostly, the night was about pooling information the way they would pool change for a cab, picking through the pocket lint and the gum wrappers to find the coins. Gale knew all the parts of a radio. Rosie could confidently name five Janet Jackson hits. Nash surprised the entire table with his knowledge of African rivers, inspiring John to take spontaneous hold of his head with both hands and plant a benedictory kiss on his forehead, not seeing the shockwave of hurt that momentarily dislodged Gale’s careful public mask. When Curt slung an arm around the back of Gale’s neck the next time they were all bent over their answer paper, Gale found it was easy to settle into the contact. He laughed when Curt told him he smelled good.

When they had lost, and they were trashed, and it was not yet 10pm, they considered how they might extend their evening. They had handed in their short essays for Professor Harding’s class that morning, which increased their sense that they should be celebrating; another paper down, only the final essay to go, and then the summer class was over and they would have some time to dick around before fall semester began. Everything seemed good and big and possible as they tumbled from the Barracks’ interior onto the patio.

It began as a whisper, and then they were all looking at and teasing Rosie as he blushed about the girl he’d met at the video store.

“You should call her,” Nash suggested, grinning. “You got her number, right?”

Rosie nodded.

“Well, go back to your room and get it!” Bubbles urged. “We’ll wait right here!”

There was a short bank of payphones against the brick wall, just beyond the bounds of the patio, and Rosie glanced at them before looking again to Bubbles.

“Call from here? You wanna hear me crash and burn?”

“Not at all, Rosie,” Gale assured him, eyes sparkling with playfulness and intoxication. “We wanna learn how it’s done.”

As they cheered him on, Crosby shoved Rosie gently in the direction of their dorms, but Rosie rolled out of the push. He held up his hands, smirking.

“I don’t need to go get her number.” He tapped his temple. “Right here, boys.”

“You memorized it?” Curt interpreted with a laugh.

“That is adorable,” John pronounced. He trailed Rosie to a payphone—they all did—and massaged his shoulders like a prize fighter’s while Rosie dug change from his pocket. When Rosie shook him off, smiling, John stepped back and crossed his arms as he joined the semi-circle the boys had made around the payphones.

Rosie dropped the coins through the slot, then took a deep breath and lifted the plastic receiver to his ear. He turned to the boys.

“It’s ringing,” he hissed.

And they all saw the moment she answered: Rosie’s hand clutched tighter around the receiver, his eyebrows shot up, and his gaze darted up towards the lately-appeared stars in relief, then down to the patio stones between his shoes as he focused in on her voice.

“Hi, Liss. It’s Robert Rosenthal calling.” He swatted his hand at Curt, who was pretending to look impressed as he mouthed “Robert” at Gale. They couldn’t remember him ever going by his first name; he was always Rosie to them. “From— You do? Ok, good.”

They took the side of the conversation they were hearing to mean that this was the girl from the store, that she hadn’t given Rosie a fake number, and that she’d known who he was right away. A very good sign. The boys monkey-barred between Rosie’s “uh huh” and “mhmm”s, his noises of agreement as he listened to Liss, and they watched him smile and smile into the receiver’s mouthpiece. Eventually, Rosie and Liss had talked so long that he had to feed more change into the payphone. They peeled off to sit at a nearby table. Gale watched Rosie, and he watched John—shoulder-to-shoulder with Nash. When Curt rose to go back inside and find a bathroom, Gale went too.

“Well, yeah,” Rosie was saying to Liss, running a fingernail down the metal ridges of the payphone cord. “I was hoping you’d call too. I mean, that I’d call you. You gave me your number.”

On the other end of the line, Liss laughed.

“I did,” she said. “Are you a little bit drunk right now, Robert?”

Rosie felt the flush in his cheeks deepen.

“A little. You don’t have to call me ‘Robert.’”

“That’s what you told me your name was,” Liss reminded him, amused. “What do you go by? Rob? Robbie? Please don’t say Bert. I probably could learn to separate that name from Sesame Street, but I don’t want to.”

“Most people call me ‘Rosie.’ I introduced myself as Robert because I… you…” he stammered, then laughed at himself. Because the second we locked eyes, I didn’t know if I was coming or going, he was trying to say.

“I get it.”

“Yeah?” he breathed, relieved.

“Yeah.”

Her straightforwardness terrified and reassured him—and not much could do either. It didn’t make his heart beat any slower though. That Poesque organ was pounding in his chest, making itself known. He felt like he’d been seen when he hadn’t even realized he’d made himself visible. In this way, it seemed to Rosie that love was a terrifying game of laser tag. He hadn’t used the word “love” out loud—not to the boys, certainly not over the phone to Liss—but Rosie was possessed of a quiet certainty that love was happening to him, completely unexpected.

“It was trivia night here,” he told Liss, when someone used the rear exit of the Barracks and a swell of sound escaped as the door was pushed wider. “You should come sometime.”

“That sounds like fun,” she said.

He wished she were there already. Had he not been drunk, he knew he would’ve been driving to meet up with her. He recalled Curt’s early attempts on his skateboard, how Curt had said that what you had to do before anything else was find your center of gravity so you could keep your balance. Rosie believed that was what he was experiencing: he’d found his center of gravity. It felt to him as though he was suddenly aligned with a force of considerable magnitude. A powerful feeling—and yet he grinned into the phone like a kid.

Meanwhile, the boys had decided it was worth getting another round, since Rosie was taking an unexpectedly long time on the phone. Bubbles offered to go back into the bar. John accompanied him. They wove between tables and joined the end of the line. Bubbles didn’t seem to mind waiting, but after John had stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and tapped his foot for about thirty seconds, scanning the busy bar, he felt too antsy to keep standing there.

“I’m gonna go look for Curt and Buck,” he informed Bubbles, raising his voice to be heard though they were beside each other. “That alright?”

“Ok! You know where I’ll be!”

John nodded and twitched his mouth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. He slipped away through the Barracks’ front doors. This didn’t put him outside. The Barracks, though a pub, was a university establishment, connected to campus via more than its patrons; it was located in the back of the Philosophy building. The front door exit dumped John into a distinctly institutional corridor, from the sickly pastel paint on the walls to the rectangular lights littered with the shadows of trapped flies overhead. He strolled down the hall, letting the sound of the bar lessen and blur. The bathrooms were way at the end, past the water fountains.

He didn’t see Curt and Gale standing by the bathrooms, and he hadn’t really expected to. There was nothing to do in this hallway. John’s plan was to walk to the end then turn and continue on to the entrance hall. He figured the boys were probably outside, smoking on the front steps. Maybe getting a little high. That would have explained why they’d taken so long to come back to the group. They’d probably lost track of time.

John was smiling as he pictured this, coming upon the two of them with their brows furrowed, spliffs pinched between the fingers they pointed emphatically at one another as they said the dumbest shit they’d ever said in their lives. Yeah, he’d take a hit too, then wrangle them, shoo ’em back to the patio. Casting his eyes into classrooms each time he passed a door with a window, John idly decided he would walk the boys around the outside of the building instead of backtracking. This hallway, he thought, killed the lively atmosphere of the Barracks. It was just too—

He stopped like someone had stopped him. Physically. He forgot how to walk or blink or breathe. It wasn’t until his jaw clenched that John remembered he had a body at all—it had all gone numb.

The ache of his teeth startled him back into himself. Reanimating, he hurried down the hall. He didn’t know if the bathroom was empty, only that the closest stall was. He slammed the door wide. It hit the wall with a bang, and, like a pair of dice, John threw himself to his knees on the cold tile floor. He hadn’t had that much to drink, but he braced his forearms on the toilet seat and retched into the bowl until he shook, until snot ran from his nose and tears from his eyes. When it was over—taking the immeasurable as-long-as-it-takes that time was unfairly doled out in when one was in the throes of being painfully ill in the liminal space of a (probably) empty men’s room at the end of a quiet hallway in a darkened Philosophy building on an interminable June night—John felt as hollow and contorted as a bendy straw. He wiped roughly at his mouth with the back of his hand before collapsing against the wall.

Finally, he reached up to shut the stall door, fumbling limply with the lock. It was too late and not the kind of protection he needed, but he wanted the illusion.

—

As in many places, the thing to do for fun in Casper, Wyoming as Gale had grown up had been to ride bikes all day long. The summers had been wide, Casper Mountain crumpled like a bedsheet on the southern horizon. Gale’s routine had involved picking up his bike from where he’d dumped it at the side door on his way in to dinner the previous evening and roaming in lazy loops—not the kind of reliable routes the mailman did, but Gale would’ve inevitably run into a friend who’d been doing the same thing. When there had been a few of them, they’d ridden towards the train station. His friends had always liked crisscrossing the tracks on the way, ducking under the lowering gate and laughing at the flashing red warning lights. Gale had done this too, his face marked with a cold determination the other kids didn’t really understand, the rest of them whooping and bumping their wheels across the tracks.

In the parking lot, they had chattered and loitered, leaning their bikes against the train station. Gale had stayed astride his, paying little attention to the others. With his shoes planted on the asphalt and his chin atop the arms he’d folded over his handlebars, he’d watched people arrive from Laramie and Denver and Salt Lake City. But before that, before the cars had disgorged their passengers, there had been the sound of the train pulling into the station. The screech. The low huffs, so alluring to Gale that that had been the sound to call him towards the tracks, rather than the jangling alarm at a crossing. He hadn’t given in—he’d known better—but he’d closed his eyes to better hear it breathe.

The huffs of Curt’s breathing took Gale back, but this time, the warm push of air was right there on his cheek. Their mouths moved together. Except for the breathing, Gale didn’t think Curt had ever been so quiet for so long.

It had been a lot of little things that week. Or not so little, only seeming small because it was as if Gale had viewed them through a telescope. Breaking up with Marge was one. Because she was so far away, that hadn’t made a big change to his life, but it felt like a long-attached tether was suddenly gone and he’d discovered a fuller range of motion. He hoped she would too. On top of that had been the in-class discussion of the woodchopper, and Curt’s mystery hickey last weekend, and Curt’s unembarrassed insistence that Gale read Giovanni’s Room, and Curt still by Gale’s side when John’s lips met Nash’s forehead. Gale didn’t want to date Curt, but he wanted to take a page from his metaphorical book and make out with somebody outside a bar without thinking too hard about it. In some half-examined corner of his self, he’d needed it, and Curt had been amenable, and then there they’d been.

Gale had been private with Marge too, so it hadn’t felt so different—after Gale had found himself looking at Curt with half-lidded eyes, Curt with his heated stare on Gale’s mouth—to step into a vacant classroom and close the door. That much was the same. And it was a surprise to Gale that kissing a man didn’t feel like Kissing a Man; it just felt like he was kissing Curt, as he had once kissed Marge. There was a zing of giddy lust without any deeper sense of romantic devotion, but Gale didn’t think that had anything to do with Curt not being a woman. They were friends—a little drunk, a little horny—who happened to be comfortable with each other. Which made it so easy for Gale to fist Curt’s t-shirt at the base of his neck as his pulse thundered through him like a departing train, and for Curt to go along with it.

Curt smiled at the parts of Gale now being revealed. This knowledge wouldn’t go anywhere, wouldn’t mean anything, and so it was fine to enjoy Gale’s uncompromising aggression. He had taken control so quickly and so thoroughly that it could almost have been his idea. Except Curt knew better. He knew every small opening he’d given Gale, a million ways to come close if he wanted that, never really believing that he did until their eyes had met in the bathroom mirror and Curt had watched Gale’s cheeks bloom a dark, velvety pink.

I thought there was Bucky, Curt thought, but Gale wasn’t hesitating, kissing him roughly over and over, so Curt didn’t ask.

In a while, they went outside and found the boys where they had left them. Only John was absent. Curt slid into one of the benches and Gale sat on the edge of the table. It didn’t seem like anybody’d missed them; there were drinks on the table and some idiot had brought up the essays they’d submitted to Professor Harding, so everyone was talking about what they’d written, liberally badmouthing Thoreau as the font of all their grief. Gale didn’t want to think about schoolwork, but he didn’t want to attract everyone’s notice by demanding a new topic, so he sat quietly.

When John appeared, Gale straightened as though called to attention. John didn’t look well, somehow.

“What the hell, man?” Bubbles said to him, more confused than angry. “You never came back! I had to wave my arms until Croz saw me through the window and came to help me carry drinks!”

John just muttered, “Sorry,” and stood apart from their table.

“Everything ok?” Rosie asked.

John could tell he didn’t want to, that he was still enjoying the high of his phone call to Liss, and that John was bringing down the mood. But he couldn’t help it. He let his mouth stretch into an insincere, close-lipped smile and let out a quick, “Yep.”

Rosie watched him uneasily. The entire tableau had frozen: the perfect picture of a group of friends on a night at the bar. John stared at Rosie until he nodded slightly, understanding that something was definitely not ok, but that they weren’t going to talk about it. Talking about it was not a strong suit for either of them.

“We’re invited to a party,” Rosie said, now that everyone was there.

The news thawed the boys just enough; Rosie answered their questions. Next weekend. Yes, Nash, Helen would be there. Yes, she and Liss were roommates. Yes, all the boys were invited, but nobody had better make Rosie look bad or he would give them shit like they had never been given shit before. He was already looking forward to it, seeing the inside of a place that wasn’t just one of their regular haunts, though he intended no offence to the familiar. Rosie liked having something to come back to, but he liked having someplace to go.

They left the Barracks that night still talking about it, the dark sky twinkling far above Nash and Rosie’s excitement, and Crosby’s guilty yearning, and Curt’s contented libido. In the dorms, he tapped Gale’s elbow with his own before bounding down the hall towards his room. It wasn’t an invitation, just a farewell; he didn’t expect Gale to go from never having kissed a guy (he hadn’t said, but Curt assumed) to the whole enchilada in one night. There was no pressure. Curt didn’t think either of them wanted to turn a few minutes of messing around into anything more than that.

And Gale was aware that he should’ve felt relieved by how Curt left it, but he didn’t. He trailed John into their suite, full of unspoken dread.

“John,” he finally said, when the door was shut.

“What?”

But John was moving towards his bedroom, not even looking in Gale’s direction. Gale knew, he knew already, but it wasn’t enough. For some reason, he had to feel this too: what he knew he would feel when he looked John in the eye.

But John was a baby, and he wouldn’t allow it.

Gale sat tensely on the couch, waiting in case John emerged from his bedroom. He turned on the TV, tried to read. He chewed his lip until he couldn’t stand it and whipped The Portrait of a Lady across the room, angry at himself, angry at the soft crush of pages hitting the opposite wall. God fucking dammit, John! he wanted to yell. Gale was furious because it wasn’t right that he had done this thing—this rare, uninhibited thing, the huff, huff of Curt’s panted breath—that he told himself wasn’t about John at all and now John was punishing him by refusing eye contact. He wanted to make John look at him.

Gale had never intended for him, for anyone, to see. Part of what frustrated him was his own discomfort. He was trying not to let that sour what he and Curt had done. John wouldn’t care, Gale was certain, that he’d spied Gale kissing a man; he’d never known John to exhibit that kind of prejudice. But something was eating John, and if John had seen—and Gale harboured no doubts—then Gale wanted to read it in his eyes.

They read books, mostly. They found meaning. Gale wasn’t sure he could decide what this had meant for him until he learned from John’s eyes what it meant for them.

He waited another fifteen minutes, then he went to bed.

#seven degrees east #my writing #MotA #Masters of the Air #Curtis Biddick #Jack Kidd #Joseph 'Bubbles' Payne #Harry Crosby #Gale 'Buck' Cleven #Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal #Herbert Nash #John 'Bucky' Egan #Bucky x Buck #MotA fic

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thornybubbles · 1 year

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Can't Fight This Feeling: Yandere Speedwagon

Note: This is another short story I came up with using the picker wheel method. Just like with Santana, I had the wheel pick a random prompt from a list of yandere prompts from Tumblr and then had it pick a character from a list of JoJo characters I haven’t written for yet. The character was our favorite Best Waifu Speedwagon and the winning prompt was: “Yandere watches darling sleep and imagines their future together.” I wrote most of this while I was sick so if it sounds weird in some parts, I’m sorry. This is lighter fare as I don’t really see Speedwagon as the hardcore yandere type. I’m honestly not happy with this at all. The ending isn’t very satisfying in my opinion, because I just wanted to finish it and get it posted. Again, sorry for the poor quality in this one.

Robert listened to the slow ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway as he gazed down at your sleeping face. Something as lovely as you simply shouldn’t exist in this world, and yet, here you were. Robert had seen his fair share of ugliness. Ogre Street was where ugliness in all of its forms thrived. It’s where he learned all of life's cruelest lessons. That’s where he learned that someone could stab him to death and leave him to bleed out in the streets and not a soul would care. It made him bitter.

When he met Jonathan Joestar, most of that bitterness went away, but it left a hole in his heart where it used to be. Jonathan’s rare show of true nobility and kindness was not something that he was used to. He was so used to being looked down on by those in the higher class and always having to watch his back around his peers. He had his allies, but he had made it a point not to get too attached to any of them. He never knew when a street fight would go wrong and he’d end up losing them.

Robert couldn’t handle losing people. He’d only known Zeppeli for a little while, and he spent most of that time arguing with him, but watching the man die such a gruesome, painful death nearly destroyed him. Then getting word of Jonathan’s death only a short time after, when they all believed that the nightmare was finally over… It was almost enough to make him return to thuggery.

He’d gotten drunk the night after Jonathan’s memorial service. He just wanted to drink himself into such a stupor that he couldn’t even remember his own name. If he drank himself to death that night, then all the better. Life had taught him another of its cruel lessons… the cruelest lesson of all: Genuinely good people were rare and it was even rarer for them to live very long. It seemed the world couldn’t handle even an inkling of kindness, bravery, or love before it snatched it all away. Zeppeli and Jonathan didn’t deserve their miserable deaths. If he’d had a chance to take the place of either one of them, he’d die in their stead in a heartbeat. Death like that should be reserved for people who hurt people, like Dio… like himself.

He wandered far away from Ogre Street and the miserable hovel he called home until he found himself in a neighborhood he didn’t recognize. Or at least he didn’t think he recognized it. His vision was so blurry that he could only follow the streetlights at this point. The lights were the only things that he could see properly. His wobbling steps caused him to step wrong and he staggered off of the sidewalk and tripped over someone’s front steps. He bumped his head on the railing and yelped in pain. He ended up sprawled across the steps, his bottle of liquor smashing on the cobblestone walkway. His head was spinning and he wasn’t sure if it was due to the bump on the head or the alcohol. Just before he lost consciousness, he saw a light go on in one of the second story windows of the home whose steps he was laying on. He supposed he’d wake up in a prison cell in the morning, probably pinched for trespassing, vagrancy, public drunkenness, or all three.

He was more than a little surprised when he woke up in the most comfortable bed in the world with the worst hangover in the world. Once his blurry eyes managed to focus on his surroundings, panic started to settle in. Instead of cold stone walls, he saw polished wood. Instead of iron bars on the windows, he saw lacy, poofy pink curtains. The more he examined his surroundings, the more he thought that this looked a lot like a woman’s room…

Oh.

OH!

OH NO!!

He needed to get out of there! He could hear someone coming up the stairs. His heart nearly burst out of his chest. HE NEEDED TO GET OUT OF THERE RIGHT NOW!!! This was the worst possible outcome. Worse than waking up in a jail cell! He had no idea how he came to be in some woman’s room, but it was an enormous taboo for him to remain there. He glanced around the room, his panic-filled eyes desperately trying to find a means of escape. He could hear the footsteps on the top stair. All he could see was the open window. Out the window it was, then. He quickly sat up… and regretted every decision he’d made that led up to that moment. His head felt like it was going to split in half. He clasped his hands to his temples, hoping to soothe his hangover somehow. That’s when he noticed the bandages wrapping around his head.

Huh?

Someone bandaged him? Who would do that? Who would waste good bandages on a lowly goon like him?

That’s when you came through the door. Robert froze holding his head and looking at you with a horrified expression. You set the tray you were carrying down on the nightstand, placed your hands on your hips, and glared at him.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” you demanded.

“Ah! I-I’m s-sorry! I--!!” Robert stammered but then he realized that he recognized you. You had spoken those same words to him the first time you met.

“You lie back down right now.” you said firmly, gently pushing him back down onto the overstuffed pillow. The pillow billowed up around him, causing his shaggy blonde hair to floof up around his face. You chuckled at him as he looked at you with those same worried, confused eyes he’d given you when you first met him.

“Y-you’re… you’re the nurse…” he mumbled as the pain in his head was starting to make him dizzy.

“We just keep running into each other, don’t we, Mr. Speedwagon?” you said as you uncovered the bowl of soup on the tray.

“Do you think that you feel up to eating something?” you asked him.

Robert didn’t answer, he just stared at you as he was caught up in the memory of the first time the two of you met. It was the night he came to visit Jonathan, after he’d been injured after the first fight with Dio. You caught him trying to sneak in after visiting hours, scaling the side of the building like some kind of cat burglar.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?!” You yelled up at him. He looked down at you, realizing he’d been caught, and slowly descended the ropes back down to the ground. He blurted out some excuses, saying he realized how bad it looked, but he assured you that he wasn’t trying to rob the place. (Who’d rob a hospital, anyway? He wasn’t that much of a lowlife!) He just wanted to see his friend. You asked him why he hadn’t come during visiting hours and he explained that he tried, but they wouldn’t let him in. You looked at him in his desperate, watery eyes, then glanced down at his shoddy sling. You scolded him, not for trying to break in, but for trying to do so with an obviously injured arm.

“Come with me.” you commanded.

Stunned, he followed you into the hospital where you led him to a room. To his delight, the room was right across from Jonathan’s. You explained to him you couldn’t let him into Jonathan’s room due to his delicate condition, but he was being treated by one of your best nurses, and that while he hadn’t revived yet, he soon would. If anyone could break him out of his unconsciousness it would be her. You promised to let him take a peek at Jonathan before he left. You then proceeded to treat his arm. Robert winced and hissed as you did so. He realized that you had essentially snuck him in as a patient so that he could check on his friend. None of the other staff had been willing to do that for him and he didn’t know how to feel about it. He protested when you began to prepare his arm for a more professional sling, saying that he couldn’t pay for it. You sent him a silent glare, he yelped and shrank in on himself, but didn’t bring up the cost of treatment again.

“Mr. Speedwagon? Did you hear me?” you asked, dragging him off of memory lane.

“Oh… yes. Thank you…” he mumbled.

You reached over and propped up his pillow so that he was sitting up slightly. When you put a spoonful of soup to his lips he realized that you planned to feed him.

“Y-you don’t have to d-do that!” he sputtered, moving his head away from the spoon like a fussy toddler.

You huffed and fixed him with that same glare you gave him when he mentioned being unable to pay for you treating his arm. His face flushed, not only from the idea of you feeding him but from the fact that he rather liked that glare. He couldn’t say what it was exactly, but the expression brought something out in your eyes that made him feel warm all over. Noticing the sudden color in his face, you set the spoon back down into the soup and placed your hand on his cheek. His eyes closed out of reflex and his face heated up even more.

“You seem to have a bit of a fever. I’ll give you something for that in a moment. First let’s feed you. Having something in your stomach will help to ease that hangover of yours.” you told him.

Robert allowed you to feed him, pointedly avoiding looking you in the face as you did so. You scolded him for wandering the streets in a drunken state at night, not because of any societal rules, but due to how dangerous it was to be inebriated in the middle of the night with no one around to keep him out of trouble. It seemed you simply couldn’t stop thinking like a nurse no matter what. He normally hated it when people told him what to do, but he found that he rather liked it when you scolded him. You didn’t do it to boss him around or give yourself reasons to feel superior to him. You did it because you actually cared about what happened to him, though you had no reason to. He could feel that empty space inside of him that used to be filled with bitterness begin to fill up with something that he never felt before.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that he was in love with you. How could he not fall for someone who treated him with such tenderness? Even when you chided him for one thing or another, you only did so because you wanted him to stay healthy and out of trouble. Robert realized that he’d been lucky enough to find another rare gem of a human in you. Jonathan and Zeppeli were gone, cruelly taken from a world that didn’t deserve them. But you were still here. You could still spread your kindness freely… but Robert knew that as soon as the Universe caught a glimmer of the light in your sweet soul, it would do everything in its power to snuff it out. He wanted to protect you. In the same way that he vowed to protect Erina and her child from the cruelties of the world, he wanted to do the same for you.

But it wasn’t the same with you. When Robert realized that he was in love with you, he also realized that the feelings he had for you seemed to keep growing. That empty place inside of him was not only filled up… it was overflowing. There wasn’t a moment that went by that he didn’t think of you. Even when he was helping Erina out, he was thinking of you.

Now here he was, standing next to your bed, watching over you as you slept, unaware of his presence. He knew what he was doing was wrong, and oh so inappropriate, but he couldn’t help himself. He just wanted to make sure you were safe. He found out that you had no family to speak of. You had no one around to watch over you. It wasn’t fair. Not that he didn’t admire your independence, something unheard of for women of the time, but… what if something happened? What if you got hurt? What if you got sick? No one would be there to help you. Would anyone besides himself even know or care? He hated the idea of no one being there for you if you needed them.

Robert wanted to be there for you. He figured that if he married you, then he would always be able to watch out for you, but…. He was still just a lowly street thug with a criminal background. You deserved someone far better than him. So he decided that he would have to make something of himself first, before he could attempt to court you. It was only right. He would find a way to earn lots of money, legitimately, and become someone you would be proud to have by your side. He would use that money to help people as well as make a better life for you. If you wanted to continue to be a nurse, he would let you. You could work together to make this horrible world a better place. You could help him watch out for Erina and the future Joestar descendants.

The Grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. It was 1 am. You sighed softly and turned over in your sleep. Robert felt that it was time for him to leave. He would be back the next night to watch over you again, knowing that one day, he could watch over you without having to break in.

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