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delopsia · 1 year

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Better | Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 6,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, Reader has the callsign 'Weave.' AFAB! Reader, post-jet crash scenario, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, face-sitting, hurt/comfort if you squint, friends to lovers trope, blood, and bodily injury, and a likely inaccurate description of naval aviator gear.

There is nothing quite like waking up and seeing a multi-million dollar aircraft burning right before your very eyes.

It doesn't look real. Vivid hues of red and orange dance along the busted shell of what used to be a Naval aircraft, a stark contrast against the pristine, white snow. The hellish heat that licks at your exposed, frozen cheeks is the only indication that it's not a figment of your imagination. Distantly, you think you must've crashed, but it's hard to believe when there's not a single ache in your—

"Fuck!"

You shouldn't have moved, you shouldn't have moved, you shouldn't have moved.

Eyes screwing shut. Mouth ajar. Yet not another sound escaping. Every bone, joint, and muscle on your left side is screaming. White-hot, piercing through every nerve. Your rib cage feels as if it's just burst open, burning hotter than the remains of your plane.

God, what happened?

You don't recognize this place. These trees don't look like the ones from back home, and you don't recall the weatherman saying California was expecting six inches of snow. What you do recognize is the stray boot that pokes out from behind the jet. U.S. Navy issued. But you're not missing any shoes...

"Bob?" The joints of your shoulders beg you not to move, but you've already pushed yourself up, vision blurring as your head swivels. Your feet scramble for purchase on the powdery snow, but something tugs at you from behind, throws you off balance.

It's your parachute, tangled within the branches of the tree above you, leashing you. Closing your frigid hands around the material is near impossible, fingers so frozen that they can hardly bend. You've barely enough strength to disconnect yourself.

"Bob?" You try again.

No answer.

There's a numbness in your legs as you stumble closer to the roaring flames. On its own, the world seesaws, leaving you to stumble as you struggle to keep upright. You only mean to take one step left, but that singular step becomes two, four, five.

The ground comes back up and smacks you in the hip.

From down here, you can see the boot better, but you can't the leg attached to the foot that occupies it. Or maybe...that's three boots. They're right in front of you, but when you reach out to touch them, your hand can't seem to reach. Scooting forward, you swipe out and try again. All you get is snow.

But they're right there.

Forward a little more. Nothing. Something within the jet pops, wicked flames bursting out in a mushroom-shaped plume. Ravenous heat claws at your skin, threatens to eat right through you. Just a little closer. Just a little...

your hand grabs hold of the boot, vision centering a little. Around you, the wind spins like a top, but even through the haze, you realize something.

There isn't a body attached at all.

Your head feels like someone's just filled it with lead. The colorful hues of red, mere feet away from your face, threatens to reach out and melt the skin from your cheeks. You need to move. You know you do, but even as you tell yourself to move, your body refuses.

The collar of your flight suit tightens as you're yanked backward.

In the blink of an eye, you've got control again, wriggling, fighting to turn around as you're drug away by the thin material of your collar. Words tumble out of your mouth, but your ringing ears hardly comprehend them. Your foot catches on a rock, body flipping around and—

that face is familiar.

Cheeks patched with soot, blood pouring from a gash that stretches from his temple down to his cheek, just barely avoiding his eye. Glasses long gone, but there's a red indent between his eyes from the frames.

"Bob?" You know it's him, and yet it tumbles off your tongue anyway.

"'m here," his voice breaks, shaky.

The arm you're using to brace your weight crumples out from under you; the snow that catches you is pillowy soft, but the numbing cold stings at your skin, nevertheless. Bob's next tug on your collar is half-hearted, urging but lacking the strength to put behind it.

Next to you rests a bootless foot, bathed in a deep crimson that makes your heart sink.

On its own, your hand wanders out to hold onto his thigh, "you're hurt."

Your observation doesn't receive a response, doesn't exactly warrant one, either. Silence is better than hushed insistence that he's alright when you both know that's a downright lie. Instead, he shifts to rest his weight on his forearm, curling his body around yours as a viciously strong wind ripples past. The fire behind you spikes with a roar, heat blasting.

His free hand strokes the side of your head, thumb swiping at what you only assume to be blood, "what's the last thing you remember?"

And where the hell is your helmet?

There's a fogginess to your memory. You remember waking up to Natasha snoring and Bradley clapping his hand over your shoulder a bit too hard on your way out of the cafeteria. But you don't remember taking off, and your memory lacks a single shred of where you flew.

But your ears vividly recall a flurry of voices coming through your radio. Your bones still rattle with the vibrations of a too-close-for-comfort explosion, a missile narrowly avoided. A tiny voice screams out from the commotion, barely audible over it all.

"I remember you telling me to brake left," you shouldn't be leaning up into Bob's touch the way that you are.

His response takes some time, but eventually, he hums, "I didn't account for the one comin' up from beneath us."

After all this, you'd better get a raise and a vacation.

It's hard to miss the faint hum that cuts through the air. Too far away for you to see, but even through the ringing in your ears, the sound is unmistakable. Bob's head lifts, tilted toward the direction that it's coming from.

Muscles aching, you push yourself up to your knees, ignoring the angered twinges of muscles that beg you to stay still. Shelter. You need shelter. Bob doesn't require any urging, already has one hand braced on the trunk of a tree as he heaves himself up.

A yelp ripples through the chilly air, echoing through the forest around you.

It's not until Bob falls back into the snow that you realize who it came from. Crimson drips from his trembling foot like a waterfall; beneath, dull white shines through.

"'m okay," his voice wavers, "I'm okay." With his good leg, he shields the wound from your view, but you know what you saw.

The whirring of that helicopter is growing louder. Closer.

"No, you're not," but there's no time for you to grill him on it. He's already trying to get up again, breathing through gritted teeth as he's forced to put weight on his injury. You know your backseater too well for your own good. Already know he's not going to ask for help.

And that's exactly why you lift his arm and shove yourself beneath it.

"You don't need to do that," he fusses, but all it takes is one step forward for him to gasp and lean against you. That foot can't bear weight, and you both know it.

Liar.

It's hard to tell where you're going, but with the whirring of those helicopter blades growing louder, you don't have much of a choice. The only thing you know is that you flew in from the South-West; your best bet is to head in that direction. Search and rescue has a better chance of finding you there.

But only if your enemy doesn't follow the patches of red that mark your trail.

Your swollen shoulder strains under Bob's weight, so sore that even the slightest of pressure has you gritting your teeth to bear it. Fuck, never mind your shoulder; everything hurts. As your weary feet tread through the snow, it's difficult to tell what's just sore and what's been injured. Though, you've got a sneaking feeling that your shoulders and ribs are decorated with some hellish bruising.

And yet, even as he limps along by your side, suffering through the same ejection pains you are, Bob still has it in him to smile at you. It's watery, faltering when that mangled foot is forced to touch the ground, and it doesn't quite meet his eyes, but it's there.

"Bobby—"

"'m alright," he turns his head off to the side, shielding his eyes from your sight. You hate that you know what he's trying to do. Those baby blues tell a story too heavy for his tongue to bear; if they meet with yours, they'll start talking.

It's the one reason why he can't play poker.

"What's that brown mass on our right?" It's hard to tell if he's trying to change the subject or if he's actually trying to figure out what he's looking at.

The muscles in your neck are tight, making it difficult for you to turn your head. "We need to get you Lasik after this," joking through the pain, you squint in the direction Bob's transfixed on. Trees, trees, more trees, a clearing, followed by, you guessed it, more trees. You don't see what he's—

wait.

Tucked up against a steep hill sits a tiny shack. The paint has long since withered away, leaving behind nothing but brown, rotting planks. The front of it bows forward, the neglected roof sinking inward, but it's shelter.

A shelter that might collapse on you. But that whirring is growing louder and louder. The ground hums with the motions of the unknown helicopter's blades. You're in no place to argue.

"It's some sort of shack," you observe aloud, fighting the urge not to hasten your step.

It's a longer walk than it looks. It would be easy to sprint through the clearing, but Bob can't run in this state. There's no guarantee someone won't spot you from overhead. By your side, Bob meekly hobbles along; blood no longer stains the snow, but his noises grow with every step. Little grunts of pain that burn you to the core.

That helicopter just keeps getting closer and closer and closer. And finally, you see it emerge over the horizon; looks nothing like the ones back on the aircraft carrier. That's not search and rescue.

"They don't see us yet," Bob's words are rushed, jumbled together as he tries to move a little quicker. Grunting with every step, eyes bolting shut.

You're almost there. Just a few more steps. Just a few more.

"Almost there," you grunt, stumbling in tune with his hobbled steps, "almost there."

You don't even get to touch the door handle.

It's hard to tell whose foot gets caught in who's. All you know is that you're falling forward. Shoulder slamming into a flimsy wooden door that gives at the slightest amount of pressure. The decrepit floor knocks the breath from your lungs. Leaves you struggling to garner another breath.

Rusty hinges wail as the door swings shut behind you. Oddly...human.

Light barely filters through the tiny, broken windows, illuminating a cracked fireplace and what looks to be a shelf that's fallen off the wall. The very definition of bare bones.

Movement on your left has you turning your head.

Bob's shoulders shake like leaves in the Autumn wind. Laying on his belly, pretty face buried in the crook of his arm, concealing the tears that you already know are there. The blades of the helicopter are loud, but his wobbly breaths are louder.

Careful, as if moving too quickly will hurt him, you reach out to smooth your hand along his shoulder blades. Only serves to make him shake a little harder, sniffles escaping even as he visibly tries to swallow them down.

"'m fine." Not daring to lift his head.

"No, you're not." Running your hand upward, you dare to run your fingers through his messy hair, the damp locks remarkably soft, even now.

You can't be doing this. Touching his hair only makes you want to gather him up in your arms and kiss those tears off his cheeks. Your tongue already bears the words you'd whisper into his ears, sweet nothings and reminders that his feelings matter to you.

"Bobby," you try again, this time allowing the pads of your fingers to skitter across his temple. His jaw moves, ready to speak. You beat him to it. "Don't you dare tell me you're fine."

That's enough to get his head raising, red eyes peeking out from the corner of his elbow. Those baby blues meet with yours, immediately flickering away as if your gaze has just burned him.

"Me whining about being hurt is going to do nothing but get on your nerves," he murmurs, his voice barely audible, and yet his words burn themselves right into your skin, "it doesn't fix any—"

"Moron," even being shot out of the sky cannot knock the attitude from you, "you never got upset when I dislocated my ankle and whined about it for a week straight. Why would I ever get upset with you?"

Bob's eyelashes flutter, voice raising by an octave as if it'll strengthen his argument, "I didn't want to upset you."

"I love you too much to get upset with you for being in pain."

Silence.

Your mouth feels like it's full of lead. Face growing even colder than it was out in the snow. Did that really just fly off your tongue? Now of all times?

On second thought, being gunned down by that helicopter doesn't sound so bad. "I'm sorry, I—"

"D'you really mean that?" Well, he doesn't sound upset, at least. Shallowly, you nod.

You don't expect him to lift his head from behind the barricade of his folded arms, opting to rest his head on top of them instead. The hand that was just in his hair slides down to the dusty floor, limp. Bob watches it as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. Even reaches out to run his fingers along a tear in your glove. They curl around it, loosely holding your hand as he looks back up at you.

And he just...stares. A quiet transfixion on your face, like it's the first time he's ever seen you. Taking in every detail, every wrinkle and crease that your skin has to offer. His head moves forward by just a fraction, but then an awkward smile overtakes him, and he has to look away.

Your synchronous inhale is so loud that it echoes through this tiny, one-room shack. Bob tilts his head back to you, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of you. Next to his head, his fingers twist together, like they always do when he's deep in thought. You wonder if he can hear the way your heart pounds against your chest like a drum. Any stronger, and it just might break free of its confines.

Bob's moving. Pushing his weight up onto a forearm, tilting his body towards you. Hesitates, just shy of bumping his nose into yours. Again, your eyes meet. Getting shot down was scarier than this.

Hesitant lips press against your own, slotting together like puzzle pieces. There's nothing else to it, each holding it in fear of the other having second thoughts. Only lasts a few seconds, but it feels as if you spent forever there.

"We shouldn't...be doing this," you find yourself saying as if you're not actively curling your hands around his bruised cheeks, "if Cyclone finds out..."

"Fuck Cyclone." And then Bob's lips are on yours again, no thought required.

It's cruel how easily you fit together. You have a sea of options out there, and yet only Bob Floyd's lips fit against yours so flawlessly. Only your backseater smells of suede and jasmine because he can't stay out of that Polo Blue cologne to save his life. The hand that curls around your cheek feels as if it belongs there. This is how things always should have been.

The angle is awkward; you want to wrap your arms around his neck, but one of your arms is stuck, bracing your body weight, while the other awkwardly flings around to rest between his shoulder blades.

A shy hand presses against your belly, urging you to sink back against the floor. You don't know what possesses you to comply, but the feeling of Bob settling on top of you is something else entirely. Gasping as he disturbs his injury, but unable to draw himself away. Your knees rise, caging either side of his lithe hips; Bob's not wide by any means, but with him between them, your legs feel like they're spread for miles.

"Bobby," panting against his lips.

"'ve got ya," one of his hands glides up your sides, working its way beneath your heavy gear, greedily taking in what lies beneath him. Your back arches, leaning into the touch; haven't felt someone touch you like this in so long that it's foreign.

The desperate need for air is the only thing that can drive a wedge between you, lungs stinging as you gasp for much-needed oxygen. Even that can't stop you from leaning back up, still panting as you press a wayward kiss to his exposed neck. Faintly, Bob's breath catches.

"'m probably sweaty," he warns, but his words fall on deaf ears. You're already dragging your tongue along a protruding vein, sealing it with a wet kiss. "Oh, that's..." the words die with nothing but a sigh.

You've waited your entire life to hear him make that noise. "You're lucky your gear is keeping me from your collarbone," it's more of a cautionary remark than it is anything else. You're itching to nibble on those pretty, exposed bones, can only imagine what sounds he would make.

It only takes him five motions. One to unclasp his life jacket. Two to undo the strap across the chest. One to pull the underlying zipper down and another to shrug the harness off his shoulders, letting it fall down to rest against his hips.

Hallelujah.

Bruises scatter his collarbones and shoulders, glaringly sore but so sensitive as you gingerly work your way down to plant kisses on them. Feather-light, teeth only grazing so as to not hurt him. The motion leaves your neck exposed, giving him the perfect opportunity to press his wet lips to the skin beneath your ear.

"Shit," you hiss, fingertips curling against his shoulder blades. He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his mouth curling against your skin.

His hips dip down, moving on their own accord, something hard brushing against your core. With a strained noise, Bob freezes, nose wrinkling with the grimace that laces his features.

"Were you trying to grind on me, pretty boy?" Teasing. A futile distraction from the pain.

Cheeks heating red, he nods, "'n I got my karma for it, too."

It was just a simple brush, not even full contact, but you've already gotten hooked on that feeling. This isn't the time, nor is it the place. You can already hear the downright fit Cyclone is going to have when he catches wind of this.

Bob's eyebrows raise just a fraction, "yeah?"

Motivated by spite alone, your fingers are already halfway through fumbling with the confines of your harness. Wouldn't have even realized you were doing it had Bob not said anything. It takes some squirming; getting that harness off your legs is harder than it looks, and Bob can only get it down to his knees before he needs assistance.

The millisecond you get that harness safely off his ankle, you plant two firm hands on his chest and push.

"Jesus," he chuckles, arms opening up to welcome you as you climb on top of him.

It's easier this way. You've got to do most of the work, but it keeps Bob from disturbing his ankle. And now, there is nothing that can stop you from tentatively straddling his hips, ass brushing against a hardness that you hope to become overly familiar with someday.

"Better?" You chirp, back aching as you lean down to meet his waiting lips.

As the gap closes, he hums, "better."

Beneath your hands, you can feel his heart pitter-pattering away, soft little thumps that mirror the one that rattles through your weary bones. In the back of your head, a familiar little voice asks you if rolling your hips down into Bob's hard-on is a good idea. There may be no going back from this. The last thing you need is for Cyclone to split you two up and never let you fly together again.

But Bob's sharp inhale tells you that this is a very, very good idea. "Sweetheart," it's hard to tell if it's the pet name or the deep, guttural groan that sends your head spinning, "'m not sure you wanna do that to me."

Eyeroll. "But, Bob~" singsonging.

"But Weave," he whines back, twitching up to rub against the curve of your ass. His eyes scrunch shut, ankle disturbed, but it doesn't hinder him in the slightest. "If we do this," grunting, "I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to get my hands off of ya."

Should you be making major decisions fresh out of a crash? Probably not.

Will you make that decision anyway? Yes.

Leaning down, you allow your mouth to open, teeth grazing the shell of his pale ear, "maybe that's what I want." And that ear goes ruby red in the blink of an eye.

Hands running up your sides, Bob bats his pretty eyes up at you, "then lead the way, pilot."

In all of your whimsy daydreams, you've never come up with a scenario quite like this one. Your quiet, sweet-eyed backseater, laying beneath you in a decrepit shack in the middle of God-knows-where, fresh after an ejection. But somehow, as your hips begin to work themselves against Bob's clothed bulge, and as his hands timidly draw up to cup your breasts, you can't help but realize how fitting it is.

His hips unintentionally shift, and in that simple motion, everything changes. Even through the material of your flight suits, you can feel the outline of him pressing deliciously against your cunt. Not much friction, but it's just enough to have both of your heads rolling, surprised gasps falling from your lips.

You don't know when he's found the opportunity to unzip your g suit, the material that was once wrapped snuggle around your waist, now hanging low on your thighs. But now those deft fingers toy with the zipper of your flight suit, waiting on your command. Rolling your hips once more, you nod.

Bob can't get it down quick enough, barely gets the zipper halfway before he's reaching beyond, hands remarkably warm as they slide beneath your shirt. Those dull nails drag just right, tickling your skin.

"So damn soft," he muses, and with the way he's stroking up your spine, you almost think he's petting you.

They're on the move again, concealed by the distraction of his hips rising up to meet you halfway. Your bra shifts as those wandering hands dive beneath it, doing nothing but feel the shape of you in his palms. Thumbs flick across your nipples, sends your body jerking.

"Jesus, Bobby," squirming as he toys with them, you idly fumble with the side-zipper of his g suit.

"You're lucky there's snow on the ground," he's not even looking at your face, absolutely consumed by what's going on beneath your shirt, "else I'd be beggin' to get this blasted shirt off your pretty lil' frame."

"We can—" fuck, it's hard to talk with him handling your chest like that, "we can save that for when we're sneaking around on the carrier."

"We ain't never gonna hear the end of it," he rolls his hips with yours as he speaks, "Bob and Weave, validatin' everythin' them Admiral's keep sayin' 'bout us."

Just as quickly as he'd reached under your shirt, he retreats, instead taking hold of your devilishly spiraling hips. The pressure tells you to move forward, but when you do, he keeps asking you to move further.

"Bob...?" You're fully sitting on his chest now, and he's still wordlessly asking you to move up.

He reaches up, dragging that zipper down as far as it will go. Right down between your quivering thighs, exposing the flimsy shorts you're wearing beneath. Whether or not he recognizes that these are his own shorts is a different topic entirely.

"Up a little more, sweet thing," he urges once more, "want you sittin' on my face."

Oh.

You don't even know what to think. It's hard to believe that your innocent backseater even know this was a thing, to begin with, but here he is, hooking an index finger into the crook of your shorts and panties. His breath is hot against your sensitive skin, enough to have you trying to rise up and away from the feeling.

"What if you can't breathe?" Bracing your hands on the ground beneath his head.

Brilliant blue eyes flick up to take in your expression. "Good."

And with both of his hands gripping your hips, he leans up and drags his dripping tongue right between your folds. Broad, flat as he spreads you open with it, fuck, that's a hell of a feeling. With you distracted, he pulls you downward, forcing you to sit on his pretty face.

"Bobby," fuck, fuck, fuck, his tongue flicking against your swelling clit is something else.

The bastard hums, somehow already understanding what you mean when you whimper his name. Already knows that the fingers tangling in his hair are a good thing. If you'd thought his breath was hot, this is something else entirely. The wet muscle that laps at your cunt burns hotter than the flames that consumed your aircraft, threatens to burn right through you.

Only plays with your clit for long enough to have you whimpering his name under hushed breaths before lapping his way down, down, down to your neglected entrance. Tonguing it, tracing your sensitive rim before pushing inside. The soft tip of his nose presses into your clit, paying it attention while his tongue works in and out of you.

"Fuck, fuck, Bobby," you hope there aren't any foot soldiers looking for you; they'd be able to hear you a mile away, "how the hell did you—ah, even know about this?"

You shouldn't have asked that. No, no, you shouldn't have because now he's peering up at you as he works your sensitive cunt, "y'talked 'bout it one night at the Hard Deck." He doesn't even try to pull away as he speaks, words vibrating right up your spine. "Been dreamin' 'bout it ever since."

Then he's drawing back up, swirling around the swollen bud that he can't seem to leave alone, "Can y'imagine the heart attack this'd give Mav?" How long has he been hiding lewd words under a sheepish smile? "Find'n out I've got my pilots sweet lil' pussy on my tongue right after I promised I wouldn't?"

Mav. Poor bastard spent the past month convincing Cyclone you and Bob weren't seconds away from jumping each other's bones, only for it to actually happen the moment he turned his back. Not a soul on that carrier has a clue. They don't even know you're alive, never mind squirming on your backseater's face as he laps at your pussy like it's his nine-to-five.

That thought alone sends something tightening in your gut. Familiar.

"'m close," you gasp, tugging at his short locks, "don't wanna cum like this."

Bob pauses midstroke, seems to think a little before speaking, "how d'ya wan' it?"

"I'd rather cum around your cock," not even missing a beat.

And even with his face right between your legs, tongue fresh off your pussy, Robert Floyd has the audacity to turn beet fucking red.

"Well," suddenly unable to meet your eye, "then...be my guest?"

You hate him, you think, as you squirm back down, dragging his flight suit zipper along with you. You hate, hate, hate this motherfucker and his ability to sway so seamlessly between demanding and sheepish.

Beneath his flight suit, his shirt has risen up, revealing a milky-white tummy that absolutely demands a kiss or two. Even if the angle is awkward and puts a strain on your already sore neck.

"'r you really kissin' my belly right now?" Combing his fingers against your scalp, but that doesn't sound like a complaint to you.

"I've gotta do what I've gotta do," the cold tip of your nose nuzzles the smooth skin that resides just next to the waistband of his shorts. Your fingers itch to pull them down, but his flight suit creates a hell of a conundrum. You can't even catch glimpse of his pale thighs, and those are probably an eighth-world wonder on their own.

Next time.

For now, you'll have to be content with pushing the loose material of his shorts upward enough so that you can see his briefs lurking beneath. Even from here, you can see the strain he's putting on the material, makes it easy to find him when you reach past.

"Shit," he hisses, hips rising as you take hold of him at the base. Slowly, slowly, you guide him out, finding yourself amused as he chases your touch until he no longer can.

He's bigger than you thought he would be. A considerable weight in your palm, pale-pink tip silky soft as you toy with it. You hope there will come a day when you can sit down and see how long it takes him to get off from you playing with that mushroom tip. Because right now, as he bites his lip to stifle his noises, you don't think it would take too long.

Speaking of...

"Hah-!" That's a new sound. Peering up at him from beneath your lashes, you poke your tongue out and run it against his length once more. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he reaches down to bat you away from his poor cock, "'gonna get us caught if ya keep doin' that."

Maybe that's the point. Dying with his cock in your mouth. What a way to go.

Cautiously, you settle yourself up on his lap, one hand braced on his sturdy chest while the other guides him to where you want him the most. Blunt head spreading your folds with such ease that it's as if he was made to do it. Once you apply the slightest bit of pressure but allow him to slip forward, just a slight taste that has him grumbling beneath you.

Drawing him back, he catches on your entrance, and slowly, as if moving too quickly will break him, you allow yourself to sink down. It's been a long while since the last time you felt the growing pressure that comes with such an intrusion, gradually stretching to accommodate his girth.

You want to make a remark over the way he downright whimpers into the back of his hand, but you can't so much as make a noise. A little too distracted by how your walls mold to fit the shape of your backseater, filling spaces you forgot you even had. Then your hips are flush together, and it's as if your voice has been punched back into you.

"Fuck, Robby," panting like a dog, you're forced to brace yourself against his chest with both hands or else you'll collapse into a messy heap on top of him, "you could've at least warned me that you were packing."

He rolls his eyes. You hope they get stuck back there. "'m not that big," but he is, and it's so dizzyingly delicious to feel inside of you. Not necessarily long, but thick enough to warrant a wide-load sign.

Experimentally, you lift your hips, testing the waters as you rise up, then slowly sink back down onto him. He hasn't even hit anything special, and yet it's enough to have your lips parting with a silent sound. You haven't the slightest clue where he's finding the strength to swivel his hips beneath you, blindly searching on each timid upward stroke.

And then your breath is hitching, stars sparkling beneath your eyelids as his plush head finds the neglected bundle of nerves hidden within those gooey walls. There it is.

"Better?" He chirps, smiling. Evidently, he's not just good with buttons and switches in fighter jets.

Nodding. "Better"

Drawing yourself up quicker now, barely clinging to his chest as you find your pace. Something shallow enough to avoid the aching in your thighs but quick enough to give you what you want. His head downright nails that poor little spot, has your cunt fluttering around him like a damn butterfly.

"Look so beautiful on top of me," he whines, absolutely awe-struck by the way your body moves, working up and down like you've trained for this moment all your life. His hips twitch upward, weakly meeting you halfway, and rips a surprised cry right out of your throat. "Fuck, 's that what you need, darlin'?"

"Just like that, Bobby," you don't even know what you're saying, only capable of moving a little quicker, desperate to feel him strike that sensitive bundle again and again and again. "Bobby, just like that."

You want more. Need to hear his soft grunts that follow every lewd smack of skin on skin, need more of everything he has to offer you, but your thighs are growing sore. Muscles burning, begging you to stop.

"Can't," you're trying, but your legs just aren't having it, unable to chase the familiar tightening of your core as you ride him. "I can't keep—"

"I got ya," there's an unfamiliar strength to his hands as they tighten around your hips. His upward thrusts are weak, but he pulls you down into them so hard that you can hardly notice a difference.

Two motions of his hips, and you're crumbling like a house of cards, collapsing into his chest. All of a sudden, his name is the only thing you're capable of uttering, face hiding in the crook of his sweaty neck. You don't know where this is coming from, but you pray it never goes away.

"So good for me," he mindlessly babbles against your temple, "cum on my cock for me, sweetie."

His words have you clamping down around him like a vice, writhing as he fucks you. Rhythm faltering but downright merciless as he works that sensitive spot over and over, sends a fire rippling up your belly. Skin prickling as it builds, your mouth starts to move on its own. "Bobby, Bobby."

"Cum, darlin'," and he's saying more, some whispered encouragement to give it to him, but you don't need it.

One, two, three more pumps of his cock, and you're biting down into his collarbone, unable to stop the strangled squeal that he just about jackhammers out of you. Distantly, you can feel his hips stalling, an unfamiliar heat filling you, but your head is back up in the clouds. Foggy, the air so thin that you can't catch your breath as you weakly pulse around his dick.

But this time, when you open your eyes after a long while, you don't find yourself surrounded by snow and an unfamiliar forest. No, you're wrapped in the strong arms of your Weapons Systems Officer, cock still wedged in you as he presses kisses to your sweaty forehead.

"Y'still with me?" He coos into your temple.

Nodding, "barely."

It's twelve hours before search and rescue are finally deployed to come and find you. It takes another twelve for them to release you and Bob from debriefing hell. It's an hour after that when the honorary "they're not dead!" celebration takes off. The cafeteria that houses the impromptu event reeks of alcohol, which may be the reason why nobody catches you and your backseater sneaking out of your own party.

"I still can't believe you didn't break it," you muse, too focused on rewrapping Bob's ankle to pay attention to the fingers that stroke your cheek. The countless stitches look worse than the original gash itself did, sends a chill down your spine every time you see it.

"See? I told you I was fine," his eye-roll is audible in his tone, never has been good at hiding it.

Not missing a beat, you nip at his thumb, chasing his hand away from your face. You need to focus. The last thing you want to do is wrap his ankle too loosely or too tightly. But as you place the metal clasp back into his gauze, your work doesn't look too far off from the medics.

"Better?"

"Not yet," tapping his lips, "'m still missing a little something."

Huffing, you lean up, meeting his lips halfway. You fear that you're slowly creating a kiss fiend. "Now, is it better?"

All of it is worth it when you get to see his face light up, features laced with a grin so big that his eyes wrinkle with it. "Better."

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pfctipper · 6 days

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Kind of fascinated by this little section in one of Dick’s books:

Our OCS class graduated on July 2, 1942 […] Following lunch at the officers club, we were free to go our own way, though few of us had actual assignments. Nixon was assigned duty at Fort Ord, California, and attached to the military police unit on post. With no immediate openings in the paratroopers, I returned to Camp Croft to train another contingent that had recently arrived. As an officer I didn’t last long at Croft: about five weeks to be exact, before receiving orders to report to the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, at Camp Toombs, Georgia […] Following a brief leave, I arrived in Toccoa in mid-August. Disembarking from the Southern Railway train adjacent to the Toccoa Coffin Factory, Lewis Nixon and I were directed to board an army truck for “Camp Toombs” - Richard Winters and Cole C. Kingseed, Beyond Band of Brothers: The War Memoirs of Major Dick Winters (2006)

Camp Croft is in South Carolina and Fort Ord is in California. I don’t know much about the USA rail system, or how involved the army would have been in coordinating their travel, but regardless of whether Dick was travelling from South Carolina or wherever he was on leave - how likely is it that they’d end up on the exact same train into Toccoa? Maybe something they’d either planned themselves, or they’d departed from the same place (maybe Nix had leave too?)- or a coincidental train/station reunion after five weeks apart? Who knows, but very sweet that he makes a point of highlighting that the two of them (and only the two of them?) arrived together anyway.

#band of brothers #dick winters #finding new and creative ways to ignore my actual job every day #lewis nixon

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chaoticace2005 · 30 days

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About Angel and spiders

Did you know that some jumping spiders eat other spiders? Not during mating ( though that one raises a question whether or not Angel's preference of bottoming can be analogous to female spiders, aka "dance and give me gifts or I'll eat you"). Portia spiders hunt other spiders, often by pretending to be caught and trashing in the webs to lure the web owner out. Oh, they also follow laser dots like cats do, and have really fast-acting venom because they don't restrain their prey with webs

I HAD A WHOLE THING TYPED OUT AND NOW ITS GONE 😭

Okay, retyping: I knew about the venom being used to paralyze prey since they don’t rely on webs to capture them, instead using more of their jumping. I did NOT know about them eating other spiders! And the way you described the portia reminds me of a damsel in distress rouse, which is something I can definitely see Angel doing 😂

Also the laser dot this is so interesting! And now I need to think of a situation with him and Husk where that could come out.

Some other jumping spider (and general spider) things I’ve found too

-Jumping spiders sleep by hanging on a single thread

-Jumping spiders can jump up to 40x their body length, and attach silk before jumping or a surface to act as a precaution and/or break

-Spiders don’t have vocal cords, but instead produce sounds by interacting/vibrating other objects

-Spiders can regenerate legs (often lost in molting), pedipalps (pincher looking things), mouthpieces, and silk spinners

-Fur holds air, allowing them to have an additional temporary air supply when underwater

-Can essentially use silk as a parachute, “ballooning”

-Grip walls using hair on feet, which have grip strength up to over a 100x body weight

-Sensitive to infrared radiation and low frequency (80-400 hz) sounds

-Mentioned in previous post but they lack noses, tongues, and ears , instead perceiving that stuff though chemoreceptors (smell/taste) and hair cells (hearing) on legs

#yay I retyped it all!#please note I am not a spider expert so take what I say with a grain of salt #this is all from midnight researching I’ve done #hazbin hotel #angel dust #angel dust hazbin hotel #spiders #jumping spiders #hazbin hotel headcanon

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lonestarflight · 3 months

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"Recovery swimmer attaching the flotation collar around the Apollo 14 capsule (CM-110), with the still-attached parachute lines still visible."

Date: February 9, 1971

NASA ID: 71HC-245

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pinkiedev · 3 days

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How a Tiny Travels (Ideas)

Climbing:

Ofc every tiny needs a good way to climb, and my primary thought goes to grappling hooks fo sho. Probably made out of actual fishing hooks and attached with corded string XD

Maybe customized shoes with sticky/grippy bottoms like those people who use suction cups to climb skyscrapers XDDD

awhh would a tiny have a little case of gripping chalk so they could hold onto handholds better when climbing?

Somehow an equivalent of a parachute in their backpack in case of a big fall XD. Like basically just a handkerchief that billows out and is attached to the sack with a few strings

Via giant. Period.

But to elaborate, one option is on the shoulder ;3. Tiny can lean against giant's neck or hold onto their ear/earing for stability

The hand. Obvi. Shenanigans have a high chance of ensuing.

Chest pocket. Mmmghhh. AKA the nap spot.

Lawful Chaotic of hoodie pockets, Chaotic Neutral of backpack side-pockets, and Chaotic Evil of pants pockets XDDD

On top of giant's head. Very comfy, much floof. Giant probably will not appreciate the amount of hair pulling that will most definitely be happening up there

Fast Travel:

Roomba. (juuuust make sure tiny can't get sucked in underneath *thumbs up*)

Toy cars except the remote is set up on the car's dash so tiny can control it themselves ;3

Stairway bannisters - AKA the forbidden slide for going from an upper floor to a lower! (And a guaranteed way to give a giant a heart attack! <3)

Pets. Kitties or doggos. Risky beezneez this can be, but the rewards are pretty stellar if tiny makes a good fren outta them~

In the air:

BIRBS - highkey could be scary cuz some birds definitely look like they'd monch on a tiny, but the image of a tiny riding on an owl's back is just - so cute to me

Balloons. Unghhghhhgh. Supervised by their giant ofc. It'd be like a whole hot air balloon except it's just a helium one cuz tinies weigh literally nothing. And a whole paper basket to tie at the bottom for them to ride innnnn yesssss

A drone??? Somehow??? hA like a mini plane/helicopter for tiny

One of those gliding suits like a flying squirrel XD

Mannnn this. Why can't I be in a world with tinies, huh????

... I WANNA BE ONE OF THEM OKAY TRANSMIGRATE ME ALREADY

ehehe ignore that. Uh. Ye so here've been a buncha travel methods that I've thought of for a tiny! ;D

#g/t #gt community #borrower #giant tiny #sfw g #story #story ideas #g/t st #g/t stuff

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tgmsunmontue · 3 months

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You need to learn how to fall 4/10

Hangster (and IceMav) - Bradley is too tall to be a naval aviator and instead becomes a sky diver, specialising in spin recovery. He is a civilian contractor to the Air Force and Navy to teach pilots how to survive parachute spins from ejections. A more in-depth version of this post.

PROLOGUE 2003-2006 2007-2010

2011-2015 – The later years

He’s approached about doing his doctorate and he does a double-take, reading through the email again. They’ll pay him a stipend, as well as his study costs, and his travel to a variety of free fall simulators around the world in order to carry out research. It seems too good to be true, so he reads through it carefully. And then again. It’s specifically for military freefall (MFF), which includes both high altitude low opening (HALO) and high altitude high opening (HAHO) operations. They’re versatile techniques used by Special Forces and Bradley is already familiar with the Free Fall Analysis and Simulation Tool (FAST). He’d be building on the work already undertaken, further developing understanding of dynamics of MFF and spin recovery.

Holy shit.

Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

He prints it off the email and contract that came as an attachment and takes it to show Ice and Mav, wants them to look it over incase he’s missed something. Is quiet while they read through it, Ice reading over Mav’s shoulder.

“Do you want to go back and study?”

“I hadn’t thought about it to be honest. But this would be so cool…”

“It’s not here, but sounds like they’re flexible around location. And would pay for your travel and accommodation. This is a very generous offer…” Ice says, and his eyes are narrowed and he looks suspicious; Bradley knows then that he’s going to find a catch. He knew it was going to be too good to be true.

“Your name needs to stay on the research. Any papers they publish in the future, they need to reference you by your name, not the funder of the study. Add a clause that states until you have, say, twenty publications, you remain a key contributor.”

�� Bradley hadn’t thought that was a big deal, but he shrugs, guesses Ice knows better than him.

“That’s assuming you want to go into research and doing this for something other than just… for the fun of it?” Ice says, his tone shifting and Bradley realizes that he was maybe reading it as if he himself was going to do it and why would Ice want to be involved… It’s then that he realizes that he could potentially save lives with research. Knowing how to fall out of plane, work a chute, get out of a spin fast, land. Those are all skills that you can learn, that’s he’s learnt, is busy perfecting and practicing as much as he can.

“Yeah. This would be great to do too.”

… … …

Tom stares at the press release, the word CONFIDENTIAL stamped through as a watermark. His hands shake a little before he catches it and stills them. He can marry Maverick. Don’t Ask Don’t Tell is being repealed. After tomorrow his proposal of a year and a half ago could actually mean a wedding. He doesn’t want a wedding, not really. What he wants is to be married to Pete, and not have his career suffer for it. Although he’s definitely decided to fuck off and leave the Navy if they have a problem with him and his life with Pete. There are some things more important than the Navy, and while it may have taken him a few years to realize it, his cancer had been a good reminder. He pushes back from his desk and goes to find the man in question, of course in the garage tinkering on the one bike Tom lets him keep at the house. If he didn’t place limits their place would resemble a junkyard.

“I love you…” he says, and it’s quiet words and Pete immediately looks to him, grinning and abandoning whatever it is he’s working on, wiping his hands on a rag and stepping in close.

“I love you too… what brought this on? Empty house?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, like Bradley being away somehow offers more freedom when he has a completely separate

“Hmm,” he hums, noncommittal. “If we could get married tomorrow what would you want?”

“Uh… what do you mean?”

“Lots of people? Us in our dress whites? Flowers? Big sit-down meal?” Tom asks, thinking about the weddings he’s been to.

“Uh… what? What’s wrong? Why are you asking me this? Ice? Tom…?”

He realizes then that Pete thinks that maybe the cancer is back and he shakes his head.

“I’m perfectly healthy, and I’ll prove it to you later. Just let me dream…”

“What would you want?”

“Just us and Bradley, maybe Slider and his family. Quiet and not a big fuss.”

“Yeah, that sounds perfect.”

… … …

His first time in a free fall simulator is fun for the novelty aspect. It’s nothing like actual skydiving but the amount of data they can collect is immense, and he gets to try out some risky moves he wouldn’t actually ever attempt in the air. It’s exhilarating when some of them pay off and sobering when they don’t. Working with people who find skydiving as exhilarating and as interesting as he does is a separate thrill and results in his first long-term serious relationship. She’s whip-crack smart, challenges his ideas and best of all she gets on with both Mav and Ice. When they end things after nearly three years they remain friends.

… … …

Pete watches Bradley walk across the stage to accept his doctorate and claps until his hands are red and painful. Grins at Ice, brushes his fingers over the platinum band on Ice’s ring finger in his silent way of saying I love you.

“Our son is a doctor of skydiving…”

“No. He has a doctorate in physics. There is a difference.”

“Doctor of skydiving sounds cooler…”

PROLOGUE TAKE 2 - 2016 onwards (NEXT PART)

#IceMav #Top Gun fanfic #Hangster #you need to learn how to fall

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my-head-is-an-animal · 7 months

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The Climb

Summary: You're a scientist, an engineer to be exact. Called to a meeting you had no real right to be at, Optimus Prime takes an exclusive interest in you, but you can't help but ask yourself at every turn, Why?

Rating: 18+ 🌹🩸🍆

Story Masterlist

Chapter 11

Theo had been working on the suit I would wear on the climb, it was brilliant, lightweight, but would carry everything I needed to take with me. Thermal on the inside for when I got too high up, along with a mask attached to the inside with access to oxygen, a parachute compact enough that I shouldn’t have struggled with the extra weight, and several secure compartments to keep any supplies I needed. The most important thing about it, was it was free from anything electronic.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that night with Optimus though. Everything about it was beautiful. Learning about Spark-sharing, the endless possibilities for it to save lives and connect two Autobots for eternity; it was amazing. I wanted to know more, I wanted to learn everything I could about Optimus, I wanted to know what made him the way he was and what he wanted to do in the future.

We had gone out every evening that week to watch the sun go down and get to know each other. I told him about my childhood, he told me about his, we discussed menial things, things that made me feel normal and without masses of pressure being put on my shoulders.

It was the one thing putting a dampener on everything. I was behaving as if this was my last few days on earth. There was every possibility that it was, but I was trying to see past the ship arriving on Earth. I was trying to see the days afterwards, trying so hard to believe I might have been able to get back to my old life.

‘And I’ve made sure you’ve got some adrenaline shots in reserve.’ Theo suddenly said, placing the small silver case in front of me on the desk and breaking my thoughts. ‘I wouldn’t recommend taking any more than three and even that I think is pushing it, but you’ve got five to get you through the last leg.’

‘Thanks.’ I said, clearing my throat and pushing my glasses up my nose while I took some notes.

Theo sighed and sat in front of me. ‘Look, you can pull out of this, you know.’ My head snapped up to look at him. ‘If you think you won’t make it, you can always walk away, there’s no shame in it.’

‘How can you say that?’ I almost hissed, surprising Theo. ‘Theo, you and I have gone over the specs for that ship a thousand times, even the Autobots won’t get through that shielding, by the time they’ve found a way, it’ll be too late. I have to make the climb, if I don’t, if I don’t even try… that’s the end.’

Theo frowned a little. ‘And what about you? What happens to you afterwards?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No? Because it feels like my friend is going up there with no intention of coming back.’ Theo snapped and left the lab.

I hadn’t realised how tense we’d both gotten in such a short space of time, but in a way, we were both right. No one else was going to make it up there, but I wasn’t the only one who thought it was a one way trip.

I could feel the eyes of not just the base, but everyone who knew about the mission, on me, constantly. Lennox tried to keep me focused on the wall and training. We kept it a little lighter in the remaining week, but my worry was that I had still yet to complete thirty thousand feet. I knew he was worried as well, and Epps struggled to hide his concern.

I left my lab early the night before the ship was due to arrive in Earth’s atmosphere. I didn’t dare turn on any news or listen to any outside noise, I needed all the focus I could get before the morning.

I could see almost all of the Autobots talking outside their hanger, Ironhide glanced over when Hound indicated I was standing across the base. He began making his way over and fear began to flood my limbs.

He kneeled down in front of me, and I could see kindness in his features the same way I saw it in all the Autobots. He really was on our side.

‘Lennox has told us that you have not made the thirty thousand foot climb in training yet.’ He said. I looked down disappointed in myself more than anything. ‘I’m sure Optimus will tell you the same thing tomorrow, but while I’ve got the chance to say it myself: we’re all counting on you, and we all believe the Earth is in no safer hands than yours. We’ll do our part and we’ll buy you all the time you need, you just make that climb. Good luck. We’ll be waiting for you at the bottom.’

I looked up at the weapons expert’s face. ‘Thank you.’ It was the best I could muster in the state I was in.

Ironhide nodded and stood to head back to the hanger where almost every Autobot was watching me. My heart began racing nervously, I needed some space to breathe.

The familiar sound of Optimus revved behind me, and it ignited something in the core of my being. I turned to see him opening the door for me to hop in. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. We had spent almost every night together on the hill side since our second date, we talked, he motivated me when I felt my fear getting the better of me, and he would make me come.

Optimus had found all my weaknesses and exploited them gloriously at every turn. The strangeness of the situation hadn’t even seeped into my mind until that night. I was, in the simplest terms, in love with a truck. He was so much more than that, I could feel the life surging through him, he wasn’t scrap metal, he wasn’t a robot, he was a beautiful creature that had more human qualities than one would have expected.

I had tried so hard not to fall for him, but he was rather charming when he wanted to be, he listened, he learned about me with a genuine curiosity, and he thought I was beautiful as well. What more could I have asked for?

‘I sense you are in need of something different on the eve of battle.’ Optimus said as we arrived at the same spot at the top of the hill.

I sighed, getting out and listened to him transform into his full form, kneeling as he always did to speak to me.

‘What can I do for you?’ He asked and I felt like breaking there and then. Was he really asking me that? Was he really that kind?

‘Can you turn back time so that I never came here?’ I joked, but Optimus’s face dropped.

‘I would not want to.’ He said, sincerely. ‘If you never came here, we would never have met.’

I let my gaze drop to the floor for a moment. ‘I know.’ I whispered. ‘I’m terrified.’

‘You would be foolish not to be. But the fact that you are willing to give everything to save your planet anyway, that is the mark of a true warrior.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not a warrior.’ I told him. His head tilted confused. ‘I’m an engineer. A scientist. My greatest strength will always be my mind, but even that has it’s limits. What if I can’t do this?’

Optimus thought for a moment, looking out at the beautiful orange sun as it began to descend in the sky.

‘What is it to be human?’ He asked, making me frown.

‘Erm…’ I half laughed. ‘I don’t think I could sum it up in a few words. It’s about making mistakes, getting up when you get knocked down, it’s about connection with others, it’s about trying. I suppose those are the main points. Trying.’

‘I have learned much from you, Jane.’ He leaned closer. ‘But the most important thing I have come to understand about the human race: there is no limit to your potential. That is what I saw in you the day we met. I know you see the same thing in others around you and you believe it is worth fighting for. I will fight for your beliefs until my dying second, but only if you will fight along side me.’ Optimus placed his hand next to me, his blue eyes staring into my soul. ‘Will you fight with me tomorrow? Will you fight for the potential of the human race?’

My body felt like it was about to take off. ‘Yes.’ I breathed. Yes, I would fight for humanity. Yes, I would fight for what I believed. Yes, I would fight for tomorrow.

Optimus sat with me for the rest of the night until the sun disappeared behind the horizon. It would be a long trip the next day, but if I had Optimus Prime on my side, then I knew I could do it.

If you liked this, please consider supporting me ☕ thanks for reading!

#optimus prime fanfic #optimus prime transformers #optimus prime x ofc #optimus prime #optimus prime x reader

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bellewintersroe · 1 year

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Band of brothers masterlist 🤍🩷🤍

Finally! Here’s some direct links to my work so far :)

All boys: general hc’s:

Platonic BoB x reader - angst. Easy boys reacting to seeing their lady lieutenant for the first time. Easy boys x reader how they react to accidentally upsetting you.

Easy boys x reader the morning after their first time. Easy boys x reader the morning after their first time, part 2.

Easy boys x reader in Bastogne.

Easy boys x nurse headcannons p1. Easy boys x nurse headcanons p2.

Easy boys x nurse headcannons p3. Easy’s reaction to nurse reader getting hurt.

Easy boys x nurse how they react to you finding them hurt. Easy boys x reader enemies to lovers.

Easy boys x reader they see you dressed up for the first time. Easy boys x reader they see your scars for the first time. Easy boys x nurse how they react to you having fun in the water.

Easy boys x reader they take care of your baby alone for the first time.

Easy boys x reader how they react to you going MIA.

Part 2.

Easy boys x reader how they comfort you when you’re overworked

Ron Speirs:

Protective Ron Speirs x reader. Snowy Days, Ron x reader.

British girl x Ron headcanons - Ron being in a relationship with a girl from Britain.

Ron Speirs x nurse! OC multiple part smut - when celebrations reach a high in the eagles nest, who knew their hook up would be more than a one time thing?

Part 1.

Part 2.

Part 3.

Part 4.

Part 5.

Part 6.

Part 7.

Ron Speirs x ArmyNurse! OC mini series - Margaret ‘Maggie’ Emerson, an army nurse attached to the 506th parachute infantry regiment, finds herself growing closer to her company’s captain, Ronald Speirs. With war drawing to an end, a side to the mystery that is Captain Speirs is revealed. Both Maggie and Ron have a difficult time resisting their attraction to one another.

Part 1.

Part 2.

Joe Liebgott:

Joe Liebgott x reader x Talbert smut. - you, joe and Floyd have some fun on New Year’s Eve in a foxhole. Joe x reader x Talbert smut p2- Joe and Floyd finally give you what you’ve been waiting for…

Untitled Joe Liebgott x reader Drabble. Joe Liebgott x reader angst- the two times Joe doesn’t want to see you and the one time he does.

Joe x reader x Shifty - a request for how Joe would react when he’s in love with you but you’re with Shifty.

Gene and Liebgott Headcannons - when they think they’ve lost you for good but then you reunite with them days later, worse for wear.

Babe Heffron:

Babe Heffron x oc smut- Babe and OC spend some well deserved time together.

Eugene Roe:

Quiet Confessions, Eugene x reader smut - as the title described, quiet confessions between Gene and reader. Sympathy for the Enemy, Gene x oc - oc struggles with hating the enemy, especially when some of them are just boys. Gene comforts her when the inevitable happens. Vocal Gene x reader smut- Requested by a reader! Gene is obsessed with you and expresses this through being vocal in the bedroom… Friends to Lovers, Eugene x reader smut - you and Gene are friends for the longest time until one night that changes with a steamy exchange whilst walking home…

Gene x reader headcanons - just some headcanons on how your friendship turns into a relationship throughout the time during the war you spend together.

Gene and Liebgott Headcannons - when they think they’ve lost you for good but then you reunite with them days later, worse for wear.

Floyd Talbert:

Floyd x reader smut - Floyd and your tension reaches a boiling point after two years together. Liebgott x reader x Talbert smut - threesome.

Liebgott x reader x Talbert smut p2. - threesome continued!

Talbert + Christenson headcanons.

James ‘Moe’ Alley:

Alley x oc was nurse! Jenny. Headcanons of their developing relationship throughout the war.

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5.

Skip Muck:

Skip x reader - mutual pinining - friends to lovers arc. Lewis Nixon:

One night stand, Nixon X Reader - after a long night of boozing you and Captain Nixon wake up besides each other, shocked by your actions of the night before.

Chuck Grant:

Chuck x nurse reader headcanons.

Chuck Grant x reader smut.

Alton More:

More x nurse reader headcanons. Shifty Powers:

Joe x reader x Shifty - a request for how Joe would react to being in love with you but you’re with Shifty. Pat Christenson:

Christenson x reader fluff - pat comforts you after Grant is wounded. Christenson + Talbert headcanons.

Dick Winters:

Dick x reader headcanons - on how Dick steals Sobel’s gf.

#Band of brothers masterlist #Band of brothers imagines #Band of brothers x reader #band of brothers headcannons #ron speirs #Joe liebgott #floyd Talbert #skip muck #Eugene Roe #Babe Heffron #james moe alley #Shifty powers #pat christenson

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monstersdownthepath · 16 days

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A pair of new deities

Well, sort of new. One of them is entirely original, but the first one is actually based on a comedic aside found in Agents of Edgewatch: Assault on Hunting Lodge Seven, where he's listed among a few of the notable names to try and miserably fail to take on the Test of the Starstone. In both cases, however, these deities are involved with the Starstone, a bit of lore I've not really touched before due to my preference for cosmic horror.

In reality, both of these could be full articles on their own, but I feel like they're not 'big' enough to get two individual pages. Maybe one day I'll change my mind. For now, though, here's a look at Veelich, the God of Failure, and Wittiby, the God of Familiars.

VEELICH, THE UNWANTED Chaotic Neutral God of Failure, Outcasts, and Falling Forever In Bottomless Pits

Domains: Chaos, Darkness, Luck, Protection, Void Subdomains: Caves*, Shadow, Curse, Imagination, Solitude, Isolation* Favored Weapon: Club Symbol: A hole or trench with a goblin hand reaching out of it. Sacred Animal: None Sacred Color: Green and yellow *Followers of Veelich can modify either the Darkness or Void Domains with the Caves Subdomain, and the Darkness Domain with the Isolation Subdomain.

Veelich the Unwanted was once known as the unluckiest goblin in all of Absalom, if not the Inner Sea, or perhaps even the world. Not a day went by that he didn't stub his toe, slam his fingers against something, spill his drinks and food, bump into the wrong person, or open his mouth and accidentally insult the very wrong person. To many, it felt as though he couldn't have possibly been doing it on accident; no one alive could be so cursed! Certainly, he was doing this for attention! But Veelich repeatedly insisted, sometimes tearfully, sometimes full of fury, that he wasn't doing anything on purpose, and near as anyone could tell, he was being genuine. Things just happened to him, constantly, and perhaps his only solace (or perhaps his true curse) is that he hadn't been killed for it yet.

That all changed when he tried to take the Test of the Starstone, so people thought. Like every aspirant, Veelich had to first make it inside the cathedral, and to do that, he had to first bypass the bottomless pit which surrounded it. Like so very, very many aspirants before him, the first challenge proved to be insurmountable, and to his credit, he did go all out on his attempt. He had purchased a powerful potion of Jump to heroically leap into the air, a sturdy parachute to glide the rest of the way, and a sturdy security line attached to a powerful, magic stake in the ground in case his luck went sour (as it always did), and even a Ring of Sustenance to both avoid the risk of food poisoning AND assure that his goblin appetite didn't force him to do anything stupid once he finally got into the cathedral.

What he did not know was that his Jump potion was on a discount due to being largely expired, its effects not nearly as dramatic as they should have been, his parachute wasn't secured properly, and a citizen passing by as he set up had accidentally dripped some savory sauce on his safety line, attracting the attention of a voracious rat. Even if none of those incidents had occurred, the sheer number of good luck charms he had brought with him in the hopes of stabilizing his cursed luck would have weighed him down anyway, but fate did not have to work especially hard to send him screaming into the darkness, Ring of Sustenance assuring he wouldn't even die quickly, never to be seen or heard again... For about five or so years.

It was, perhaps, more surprising for Veelich than it was for the first of his unintentional Clerics, Oracles, Antipaladins, and the like to find out that he had achieved a measure of divine apotheosis as he fell endlessly in that pit; he had gotten so used to talking to figments of his imagination as he fell that it took his devoted several months to convince him that they were real, and that he had actually succeeded in his goal of becoming a god... But not in the way he had wanted. In a cruel cosmic jest, the cruelest yet, his attempts at becoming the God of Overcoming Adversity had cemented him as the God of Failure, a figure of mockery and a target of endless jokes, all of which he gets to hear every time someone mentioned him by name. He doesn't even get a proper divine realm, instead having been transported, at some point, to a dark pocket of the Maelstrom that perfectly imitates the pit he spent his final few years as a mortal falling through. His divine portfolio doesn't lend itself to any particularly major miraculous acts; he's mostly a sponge and scapegoat for misfortune and curses, which he then passes onto his followers so that they may then pass them onto their foes (provided they don't perish miserably from the influx of cursed power).

It's not all bad, though. In a way, his bad luck never actually killed him, and though his power isn't especially impressive when compared to that of a proper Ascended, it DOES give him hope that one day, he will be able to find out who or what worked to make him so miserable in his mortal life.

As a proper god, Veelich can grant Boons to any creature taking the Deific Obedience feat, but he does not possess a dedicated Prestige Class such as Feysworn or Diabolist. Boons are typically gained slowly, achieved at levels 12, 16, and 20, but by entering the Evangelist, Exalted, or Sentinel Prestige Classes as early as possible, they can be obtained at levels 8, 11, and 14 instead. While normally a full god would grant three sets of Boons, Veelich isn't powerful or especially creative enough to come up with more than one. Perhaps, in time, he will.

Obedience: Either find or create a hole deep enough to hide your entire head inside, then do so. Spend at least half an hour making casual (though one-sided) conversation about what's been going on in your life so Veelich gets some respite from the deluge of frantic prayers, then you may devote the remaining time to redirecting any misfortune or accidents you have suffered or believe you will suffer to him. Benefit: Gain a +4 sacred or profane bonus to saving throws against curses, and to Climb and Athletics checks.

Boon 1: Cruel Irony (Sp): Gain Jump 3/day, Create Pit 2/day, or Curse of Befouled Luck 1/day.

Boon 2: Curse Sponge (Sp): Common faithful believe Veelich will soak up all their bad luck and misfortune, but you know that prayer isn't enough. Sometimes you have to roll up your sleeves and do it yourself. Up to three times per day, you may cast Accept Affliction as a spell-like ability, except you may use it on any creature within 20ft rather than as a touch spell. If you've absorbed at least three separate afflictions from another being with this ability (whether it be all in a single casting, or one affliction per casting) within the same 24 hour period, Veelich redirects a portion of your suffering; once within the next 24 hours, you can cast Bestow Curse as a spell-like ability.

Boon 3: Screaming Into the Darkness (Sp): Once per day, you may give a foe a taste of what the God of Failure had to deal with. This acts as using the Maze spell as a spell-like ability, except instead of sending a victim into an extradimensional labyrinth, it sends them falling into a bottomless pit inside of which flight--magical or mundane--is impossible. As such, the victim does not make Intelligence checks to escape, but must instead succeed Climb checks (DC 15 + 1/2 your Hit Dice + your Charisma modifier): the first to catch themselves and stop from falling, then 2 additional successful Climb checks for each round they failed to stop themselves from falling (thus a creature that fell for 3 rounds would need to make 6 successful Climb checks to fully emerge from the pit). A creature that fails to escape the pit reappears at the location they disappeared from falling at terminal velocity, taking 20d6 bludgeoning damage the moment they hit a solid surface.

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WITTIBY, THE SAGE OF SMALL MAGIC True Neutral God of Familiars, Cantrips, and Arcane Study

Domains: Animal, Community, Knowledge, Magic, Strength Subdomains: Animal*, Cooperation, Education, Arcane, Resolve Favored Weapon: Quarterstaff Symbol: An animal-patterned spellbook with a pearl clasp Sacred Animal: Any familiar Sacred Color: Lime green *Followers of Wittiby may select any of the Subdomains under the Animal Domain.

Disparagingly called the Undeserving God by many, the tale of Wittiby is a strange one, a story tinged with hubris, tragedy, and lost friends. They were once the proud assistance of an archmage, a familiar created from a beloved pet and instilled with a grasp of the mystic and the arcane. Who their archmage was, and what shape they had before their ascension, are both memories that were lost to them during the trauma experienced within the Starstone Cathedral.

No one is ever prepared for the Test of the Starstone, no matter how great their power. The archmage was no different, confidently striding across the bottomless pit with a powerful Wind Walk spell and deftly avoiding the pockets of dead magic sent up to stop them before throwing open the cathedral's doors as though they were the doors of the mage's own tower. All the while, Wittiby was on their shoulder, cheering them on as the doors closed behind them, sealing their fates.

What, exactly, happened within the cathedral is something they will not say, though they obviously remember it with perfect clarity. All they reveal is that their beloved archmage, whose name was taken from them, survived every trial the Starstone Cathedral placed in their path... every trial but the last one, in the Starstone's own chamber, which took their life. Though, by all accounts, the archmage appears to have been a haughty, self-aggrandizing blowhard, their final act was one of pure kindness, sealing their beloved familiar--pet, associate, friend--in a bubble of force to protect them from the terrible backlash of arcane severance to try and teleport them out of the Cathedral, wishing only for Wittiby to escape the cathedral and the rest of their life free, but fate had other plans in store.

Someone touched the Starstone that day, after all. It just wasn't the one who opened the door.

When asked what possessed them to do such a thing, Wittiby claims that they planned to use their divine powers to turn their archmage into their Herald, restoring them to life. It was not to be, though, and for such a selfless wish, the familiar's cataclysmic ascension event tore all records of who the archmage was from reality so thoroughly that no one who was there the very day they strolled into town could even recall the mage's face or name. Going even further, Wittiby's form became protean and chaotic, shifting between dozens of animals in the span of minutes, to rob them of the shape their master gave them. All they have left is their master's spellbook, bereft of details of their life but cover-to-cover full of immense arcane knowledge.

Whether this apparent cosmic cruelty is some form of punishment from the Starstone itself for trying to bypass its rules, a price paid by all Ascended that they simply do not speak of or cannot remember (Wittiby's arcane bond to their master may be the sole reason they recall anything about them), the fate of any being to make it to the center of the cathedral but who failed the final test or, as many sneer, the price paid for Wittiby all but literally riding their way to the Starstone without doing any real work, is the subject of conjecture... even by Wittiby theirself, who isn't yet sure if they even deserve their position.

Still getting used to their place as a new god, Wittiby's dour mood has yet to fully lift, but they find joy where they can in their new duties as God of Small Magics. Every time an aspirant caster learns a new cantrip, casts their first spell, and forges (or deepens) a bond with their familiar, the world gets a little bit brighter for the Shapeless Sage. Their time as a god is a mere handful of years, their faithful a scant handful in number, knowledge of their very existence all but unheard of beyond Absalom, so time will yet tell what sort of god they will grow to be as the passing years heal their wounds and scars over their memories. For the moment they are content performing small blessings to protect mages and their bonded allies from danger when they can, and putting hopeful casters on the path to discovering and mastering their first spells.

As a proper god, Wittiby can grant Boons to any creature taking the Deific Obedience feat, but they do not possess a dedicated Prestige Class such as Feysworn or Diabolist. Boons are typically gained slowly, achieved at levels 12, 16, and 20, but by entering the Evangelist, Exalted, or Sentinel Prestige Classes as early as possible, they can be obtained at levels 8, 11, and 14 instead. While normally a full god would grant three sets of Boons, Wittiby is too new to divinity to offer more than one.

Obedience: Practice magic with your familiar or animal companion for at least one hour. If you are not a caster or do not have a familiar/animal companion, spend at least one hour either researching magical theory or caring for an animal which trusts you. Benefit: Whenever you, your familiar, or your animal companion performs the Aid Another action, your target gains an additional +2 sacred or profane bonus to their check.

Boon 1: The Essentials (Sp): Gain Magic Missile 3/day, Levitate 2/day, or Tiny Hut 1/day

Boon 2: Hedge Wizardry (Su/Sp): The blessing of the God of Small Magic gives you mastery over the smallest magic there is: cantrips. Each time you complete your Obedience, select three cantrips from an Arcane caster class (Magus, Sorcerer, Summoner, Witch, or Wizard). You may cast these cantrips at will as spell-like abilities for the next 24 hours. In addition, once per round as a swift action, you may cast any level 0 spell you know (be it a cantrip, knack, orison, etc) with a casting time of 1 standard action or less, including the ones gained from this Boon.

Boon 3: Constant Companion (Sp): The pain of losing one's treasured companion can be crippling, and Wittiby seeks to alleviate that pain as quickly as they possibly can. You may cast True Resurrection once per day as a spell-like ability, but only to return a creature's bonded companion to life. This includes familiars, bonded mounts (like that of a Paladin or Cavalier), animal companions and, if need be, eidolons. This does NOT include hirelings or cohorts gained via Leadership. You may use this ability to resurrect bonded companions other than your own. Using this ability as an excuse to repeatedly send bonded companions into danger against their will is seen as an abuse of Wittiby's gift and may provoke their wrath.

#original concepts #Pathfinder

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