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mlmxreader · 10 months

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My Lieutenant | Alfie Solomons x gn!reader

anonymous asked: Hi I hope you are well! I just found your blog and I love your Alfie fics! The way you capture his voice is just *chefs kiss*.

Would I be able to request "I begged and I pleaded for you to stay" + "I don't wanna be alone" for him please? And if it's possible could it be with either a ftm reader or a gn!reader?

Thanks and take care. (Also, if it's possible could I use the 🐍 as my anon emoji?)

summary: Alfie's spouse doesn't like Tommy Shelby at all, but thankfully, Alfie knows exactly how to make things a little bit better.

tws: swearing, mentions/threats of violence, mentions of war

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

You and Alfie had always been inseparable, from the moment you had met through to the war, you were never far from one another's sides; sent off to the Eastern front, you were constantly beside one another.

It didn't matter if the mortars and shells were falling like hail. It didn't matter if the gunfire was a sickening symphony that made bile creep up your throat and into your mouth.

It didn't matter if the mud was so deep and so thick that it rose to your calves. It didn't matter if you had to sleep standing up. Alfie was always there.

You never had to beg for his attention, you never had to beg and grovel for his loyalty. You never doubted that he would ever be unfaithful, or unfair.

Alfie was a lot of things - short tempered, foul mouthed, threatening when he needed and wanted to be - but unfair and unfaithful he was not.

He did his best to soothe your worry and your reluctance for him to work with Tommy Shelby.

The union busting bastard from Birmingham.

But he knew you could not stomach a man like that. Alfie understood better than anyone why the Peaky Blinders left a terrible taste in your mouth, and why you were less than thrilled to be working anywhere near them.

Family came before business, anyway.

Alfie made it known, no matter how often you snapped or threatened the Peaky Blinders, they could not touch you or else the entire deal was off; if they so much as nicked a hair on your body, Alfie would cut the ties completely and would turn the bridges to charcoal within a split second.

Family came first. Always. You were Alfie's family, as his spouse as well as his closest comrade during the war. No one was more important than you.

It had been raining all day, like it would never end, oscillating between heavy thunderous hammering - like it had been when you were back in the trenches - and a light spit.

It never ended.

The skies were dark and grey, clouds refusing to budge even the slightest even though the sun continuously poked at them to try and nudge them aside.

The dogs were lazing around on their beds, whimpering and running in their sleep; and as you lounged on the sofa with a book, you couldn't help but to yawn softly. A quick look at the clock, wondering why Alfie wasn't home yet.

He said that it would only be quick, but you couldn't help but to think that perhaps it was your fault; you had fought with him earlier, begged and pleaded for him not to go, to have nothing to do with those union busting bastards, the fucking vultures, but he had to.

He didn't say why, only that he had to.

You frowned, shaking your head as you attempted to get back to your book; it was a copy that Alfie had gotten you, All Quiet On the Western Front, and you had to admit - it was harrowing to relive the war. But it somehow felt cathartic to know that even on the other side, the sentiments had been the same.

One of the dogs rolled into his back, his legs sticking up in the air and his head tilted back, his long and sharp teeth exposed; you laughed softly, shaking your head fondly, but you soon fell quiet when the door opened.

"I'm home!"

You grinned at the simple phrase, putting your book aside and perking up a little as you raised your brows; Alfie walked in, holding a brown paper bag that smelled of something that made your stomach rumble and growl quietly.

You licked your lips, a funny feeling that he had somehow guessed that you had been in a sour and downtrodden mood, that he had gone to your favourite Indian restaurant to pick you something up.

Alfie could always get away with things like that, as although the restaurant didn't offer the ability to take food away to most people, they offered it to anyone related to Alfie.

He smiled sadly, lifting the back slightly. "I got you somethin' to say sorry… ain't much, but I asked for your favourite."

"Thank you," you said softly, following him out to the kitchen. "How did it go with the bastards?"

Alfie shrugged as he set the bag down on the counter. "Not fuckin' well, that prick'd want me to organise protection for him. Said he'd… ah, fuck it. Don't worry. It's all a bunch of bollocks that comes from his mouth anyway."

"Tell me," you told him gently. "Please, Alf? I begged and I pleaded for you to stay earlier, I don't wanna beg and plead for you to just speak to me."

Gently, he kissed your temple. His beard tickled your skin so softly, you had to bite back a laugh. "It's alright, it ain't nothin' to worry about… just pricks bein' pricks, innit?"

"Alfie."

"Don't look at me like that," Alfie growled. "Don't fuckin' look at me with they eyes. I ain't havin' it."

"Alfie," you sighed. "C'mon, I married you, I was your closest comrade… you can tell me instead of being a stoic knob about it."

Slowly, he started to smile. "Alright. He said he'd bust up the union your mate's're in if I didn't organise protection… I don't wanna do it, y'know I fuckin' well don't, I'd rather shoot meself in the fuckin' foot! But them lads mean a lot to you, I know that. So I can't say no."

"When does he expect you to go?"

"Tonight," Alfie huffed.

"No," you stated blankly. "I don't wanna be alone tonight, Mister Solomons, you're not going anywhere."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," you puffed out. "If Tommy Shelby has a problem with that, he can come here and tell me to my fucking face, and if he even tries to fuck with them union boys, I'll have his-"

"Guts for fuckin' garters," Alfie chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, you made your point Lieutenant, you got me all to yourself."

"At last!" You rejoiced. "Thank you, Captain."

"Oi," he warned. "Don't start that shit, now."

"Didn't you start it?" You pointed out with a teasing smile.

Shaking his head, Alfie sighed as he stole a quick kiss, humming softly under his breath as he closed his eyes. "I'm the boss, ain't I? Or am I not your fuckin' superior officer?"

"War's been over for four years," you mused. "You ain't my superior officer anymore, Alf."

"Under this roof I am," he growled, pressing you against the counter as he smiled. "You're under my fuckin' roof, sunshine, as long as you're Lieutenant, I am your superior officer."

"You're a terrible flirt."

"You married me."

"Fair point," you laughed, putting your hands on his shoulders and giving them a slight squeeze. "I'm sorry, Captain."

#mlem writes #alfie solomons one shot #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons oneshot #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #bbc peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders #tom hardy x you #tom hardy x reader #tom hardy imagine #tom hardy

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captain-price-unofficially · 3 months

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Munitionnettes - February 1916. Production of the so-called "Crapouillots" the 20 kg Medium A.L.S bombs for the 58mm French trench mortar.

#wwi #home front

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kkoralina · 27 days

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"This war bores everyone, doesn't it?

I'm not bored, because I'm convinced that if we're bored with war today, we'll will have it at home in a few years' time. There are many signs of this, even President Biden says so - if Ukraine falls, the NATO countries will be next. Poland, on the other hand, is not a country on the eastern flank, as is sometimes said, Poland is a NATO front country. Therefore, I am convinced that we should support Ukraine's armed forces in our own interests too. I will continue to do so in the future as best I can.

As some of you may know, at the beginning of this year I organized a fundraiser to which you contributed more than 150 000 EUR zlotys: With this I bought 4x4 vehicles that I prepared for the conditions on the front, bought drones, including a Matrice with a thermal imaging camera for more than 20 000 EUR, bought rifle accessories, night vision devices, scopes, generators and many other things which, thanks to the indispensable Monika Andruszewska, I personally brought to the front, to the trenches and into the hands of the soldiers fighting against Russia.

I was at the front three times in Ukraine. I wrote two essays about this experience, which were published in Polish in Gazeta Wyborcza, in German in Neue Zuercher Zeitung and (one of them) in English in The Point. Links in the comments.

So everyone is bored with this war. But I think of my buddies I've met in this war and they can't be bored with the war. So I recently asked one of them, Dima from the Marine infantry, who is in the south right now, on the banks of the Dnieper, what they need.

"What do we need? Man, FPV drones and REBs. That's the most important thing right now," replied Dima.

"Look. A mortar shell costs about one thousand euros. An FPV drone costs between five hundred and one thousand euros. To hit something with a mortar, we have to fucking fire ten grenades. And an FPV drone only needs one. Do you understand what the difference is?

FPV drones are weapons that are as improvised as they are deadly. They are created mostly from Chinese components and assembled by volunteers, specialized companies or units themselves. Their sole purpose is destruction - the entire design is subordinate to this purpose. On the back of the drone are the battery and antennas of the video transmitter (which usually uses an analog rather than digital signal that is more resistant to jamming), underneath are the quadrocopter's propellers and motors, and on the belly is the payload - a bazooka warhead, a mortar shell or something else. All of this is held in place by zipties.

The pilot usually works with a navigator and a second team flying an observation drone to get a wider view. The drones have a range of about fifteen kilometers, depending on the size of the payload. Their advantage over commercial drones, which cost at least three thousands eruos and from which small shells are dropped, is the weight of the explosive charge or the effectiveness and, above all, the price. The ZSU loses thousands of drones every month - an FPV drone is six times cheaper and much more effective than a Mavik or Matrice with a grenade. Their mere presence on the front line changes the whole situation:

"With an FPV drone I can easily fuck up their tank, a IFV, cars and pick-ups, even while they are on the move, which is rather impossible with a mortar", Dima told me. "For this reason, Russians has to keep its machines at a distance, with tanks they shoot from afar, but they are afraid to drive up, because everything we notice can be destroyed. They keep everything at least ten kilometers away from the null. The topic of FPV has been around for a year or a year and a half, but now we have the problem that Rustia has more of it than we do. So you can understand it yourself. The whole machinery of the empire is working with them for this, the Chinese are helping them, you know?

Every war has its swords, it also has its shields.

Shields against drones are jammers. The Ukrainian soldiers, like the Russians, call them REBs - РЕБ, stands for "Радіоелектронна боротьба", radio-electronic warfare.

"There are many types of REBs. The Russkies have great radio-electronic warfare systems, and in this field they have an advantage over not only us, but over everybody else," Dima continued to explain to me in a signaled voice. "Their jammers are such big machines, with a big antenna that are easy to identify, and we have destroyed many of them for them. That's why they use such smaller ones now, they call them "trenchers', and they drown out everything, right? All communication channels. And the antenna is barely visible. Well, and now we need some that can be mounted on cars, and for us, in the naval infantry, also on the boats that we sail across the Dnieper. We, the pilots, are on the right bank and our infantry on the left. For them, the entire supply goes by boat, and you can't hide on the water. Without an REB, as you understand, such a boat is doomed."

But REBs can't be just any kind. In one airborne brigade I know, the guys were sitting in positions a few hundred meters from the borders of Bakhmut, of which they were among the last defenders. The whole platoon share the cost with their own, private money and bought the cheapest REB, because the Russians were attacking them from the ruins of the burnt city with whole waves of FPV. For three days after the purchase, they rejoiced at the sight of Russian drones dropping far in front of their positions, drowned out by the REBs, without harming the boys. On the fourth day, the Russkies changed their frequency and a drone flew directly into their trench.

This terrible war will end successfully if we get bored, not with us, but with the Russians. That's why I want to help my Ukrainian friends to make it a bit more unpleasant for the Russians.

That's why I'm appealing to your generosity once again: donate, please. I will use everything I can raise to buy FPV drones and REBs from trustworthy and military-proven suppliers. Then I'll put everything in a car and, together with Monika Andrushevskaya, personally take it straight to the trenches, to the units we've already helped, namely

- 72nd Mechanized Brigade, where I spent most of my time,

- the 77th Airborne Brigade, where a company is commanded by my colleague Dzhura, whom you've already met if you check my social media from time to time

- to the naval infantry in Kherson,

- to the special forces, to Omega and other SSOs of the ZSU."

Szczepan Twardoch

#ukraine #easter

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herprivateswe · 20 days

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Trench mortars being loaded on to pack mules on the Italian Front.

#history #ww1 #great war #british army #Italian Front

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qsycomplainsalot · 1 year

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Excelsior-Thevenot type AF Grenade

Manufactured by F. Thevenot fils in France c.1914-15 for the French and Italian armed forces. 60mm caliber, 220mm height, 80gr explosive charge, 40-100m range, sheet steel and brass. The Excelsior grenade launcher is somewhat of an oddity, even among other ad-hoc French WW1 artillery, in that it could almost be compared to the single-use recoilless AT weapons used by modern armies, in design if not in purpose. Thevenot’s Excelsior grenade was originally a percussive stick design, meaning the impact of it landing caused it to explode. Unlike other percussive grenades, it used an impeller to measure some time of flight before arming itself, which made it safer for its user but also more likely to be a dud due to possible malfunction of this mechanism.

The Excelsior was called the P2 in French service, for percussive, and also the “ballerina” for its fabric skirt. This was supposed to make sure the grenade would fly impeller first, so it would arm itself properly.

Because the French army is not known to let any stockpiled ordnance go to waste, the hand grenade was redesigned into a rifle grenade, and more interestingly into a light mortar. Both these designs increased the projectile’s range which in turn made sure its arming device based on air-time would work reliably. The lightweight launcher was built out of sheet steel, painted blue for explosive and red for incendiary ordnance. It carried a single Excelsior grenade, now with a rounded brass shell and a steel finned body.

For firing, the soldier would kneel and set the bottom of the mortar firmly into the ground. The launcher’s cap would be removed as well as the firing system’s cover, exposing the hammer and propellant cartridges. Because of the layout of the weapon but mostly because this is a French weapon, the cartridges were Gevelot&Gaupillat 24mm pinfire brass-and-cardboard designs.

The hammer was cocked by being turned to either side to strike the chosen cartridge, with the left one ranged for 40m and the right for 100m at a 45° angle. The device was aimed at the correct angle using the simple alidade on its side. Before firing, the safety pin of the grenade was removed to unlock the impeller.

Although the Excelsior-Thevenot type AF launcher is recorded to have been used as a trench mortar, offering continuous light artillery support to infantry, but the instruction label on it clearly states that spent launchers were to be brought back to an ordnance depot, indicating a single-use system. It is not clear why this discrepancy exists.

#history #firearm #explosive #ww1

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max1461 · 6 months

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I don’t know what army drill sergeants are like, but I have been through marine boot camp and I’ll tell you some drill instructor stories/facts if you wanna hear.

At the beginning of recruit training, you meet your drill instructors. They recite something called the drill instructor creed to you. You can google it, but one thing that really stuck out is that they say “thoroughly indoctrinated,” they actually use those words. Like they come out in front of you all and say they’ll indoctrinate you.

The stated purpose of the screaming and insults is to get you used to stress. They talk to everybody as if they’re gonna go infantry. Like, I’m just a pencil pusher in the air wing, but they will talk to everybody as if we’re all going to be in trenches someday with mortar rounds pouring down on us. “If you can’t handle drill instructor sergeant so-and-so screaming at you, you’re not going to be able to handle an actual battle”

I don’t think any of my drill instructors had combat MOS’s, but they would still talk it up like combat is a fact for every military member. I remember our senior saying something like “if you think boot camp is bad, maybe you should watch your best friend fucking burst into flames in front of you. Puts things into perspective.”

As another, specific example of this. Our drill instructor was once counting us down, and somebody at the last second ran to the bathroom to grab something they forgot (I don’t remember what). DI says “BITCH WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING” and he says “SIR THIS RECRUIT FORGOT HIS BLAH BLAH BLAH” and our DI stopped screaming and just says “so, if an enemy plane was flying overhead, and you moved, and gave away your position, and got the motherfucker next to you killed, and he doesn’t get to go to home to his family… would you be able to take that back?”

The screaming is two-way. This is generally not accurately portrayed in movies, most likely because it would be profoundly unpleasant to listen to. The most you’ll see in movies is them saying something like “I can’t hear you maggot,” but they are actually demanding top volume screaming every time. Every single thing you say you have to scream as loud as you can, and they’ll scream at you while you do it. Everyone loses their voice in the first couple weeks

There are a lot of drill instructors who have perpetually raspy voices as a result of the screaming. At that point you never hear them scream, just whisper in a raspy voice. If you as a marine want to imitate a drill instructor, you just do a raspy voice and say something like “that’s crazy, recruit” and everyone will get what you’re doing

What you were calling “smoking” is technically called “ITing,” IT is short for Incentive Training. It is officially forbidden to IT an actual Marine, it’s considered hazing. You can only do it to recruits in boot camp. Our senior told us that it’s a punishment, but it will also make you stronger. ITing as a punishment often happens in groups, and/or you’ll often be overtly punished for someone else’s actions.

Doing things properly under stress is really emphasized in boot camp. Like, there is a proper way to address everyone, to hold things, to walk, to do ANYTHING, and if you fuck it up they immediately start screaming. For example, you have to refer to every single person by their full billet title and rank, like you can’t just say “Sgt XYZ” he’s “Drill Instructor Sgt XYZ.” Some titles get really long, because they’ll specify more stuff, like, try remembering under stress “lead series chief drill instructor gunnery sergeant so-and-so.” When you talk directly to people though, it’s just sir or ma’am. You have to say the proper greeting, and you have to request permission to speak before saying what you wanna say. You cannot say first person pronouns, you refer to yourself as “this recruit,” refer to everyone in a group as “these recruits,” and use third person pronouns for any following mentions. “Sir this recruit was filling his canteen sir,” for example. Here is an example of an ideal interaction which goes well, you’re a recruit who wants to go to the bathroom:

>“good morning sir, recruit max1461 requests permission to speak to senior drill instructor staff sergeant triviallytrue sir”

>“what bitch?”

>“sir, recruit max1461 requests permission to make a head call sir”

>“run.”

>“aye sir, received sir, good morning sir”

Now of course, you’re screaming at the top your lungs, your drill instructor is screaming at the top of their lungs, and they will start blasting the fuck out of you if any part of this ideal interaction breaks down. Suppose you don’t scream loud enough, suppose you forget to ask permission to speak, suppose you forget the proper greeting, suppose you say a proper greeting at the wrong time of day, like “good morning” when it’s the afternoon, suppose you say “I” or “me,” suppose you fuck up the billet or the rank or the name, suppose you say “yes sir” instead of “aye sir,” suppose you say “bathroom” or “toilet” or any other normal word besides “head,” suppose you add an extraneous word like “emergency head call” or “desperate head call,” suppose you say “thank you” or nothing instead of “received,” or forget the second proper greeting and just run off, all of these offenses could and would warrant a blasting from your drill instructor, and might lead you to a situation where they tell you to run, only to immediately scream “get baaaack” before telling you to run again

There’s a great book called Making The Corps where a Marine interviewed everyone he went to boot camp with including old DI’s and officers and he organized it all into a chronological narrative book. Highly recommend if this subject interests you. The movie Full Metal Jacket is very accurate portrayal of 60s boot camp (R. Lee Ermey was a real drill instructor), but boot camp got massively overhauled back in the 80s so even when the movie came out it was more a portrait of the past. Notice they’re all called “privates” instead of recruits,” and they don’t refer to themselves in the third person. Some of the obstacle courses you see aren’t used as frequently anymore, and they never go through Basic Warrior Training or the Crucible

Drill instructor school is a repeat of boot camp, except everyone takes turns being drill instructors. I saw a bit of it. They were all standing in a formation like recruits, and there was like, a chain of two drill instructors. One is screaming at the guys in formation, the other was screaming at the guy screaming at the guys in formation. “FUCKING CORRECT HIM! BLAST THEM! SCREEEAAAAM!”

I like that triviallytrue is the drill sergeant

#thank you anon this is fascinating!#anon #future reference

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catgirlforeskin · 1 year

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I started playing modded Arma 3 with a halo unit and it’s basically just a tabletop campaign but you have 50 people at a session, and I don’t think I’ve ever played a game this autistic, every aspect of it feels like it was designed by somebody for whom that was their special interest, and expects all players to have that level of expertise.

I’ll give an example. One time I was with a squadmate in a trench and he got shot and fell to the ground unconscious, and there was no medic around, so I had to stabilize him. In most games, you’d just hold a button to revive them, or maybe you’d have to take out a medical kit and then hold a button, but here?

-First I put tourniquets on each limb that was bleeding and put a packing bandage in each avulsion to stop rapid blood loss.

-Then I checked pulse, and found one, so no need for cpr.

-Next I checked for breathing and found the airway was blocked, so I rolled the patient onto his back and started turning his head to clear any throat blockage. When this didn’t work, I tried hyperextending the head to allow for better airflow.

-After being stumped for a while, I check to see if the lungs are punctured and they aren’t, but I see the patient has “hypopneumothorax.” I then ask over radio “what the fuck is hypopneumothorax” and a medic says “oh shit” and starts sprinting to me to take over

And this was a relatively simple case. I’m not even certified as a medic. One time I got hit in the head with an APC round and got carried between 5 different medics, all of whom said something along the lines of “oh my god” “holy fucking shit” “oh you—you are ouchies.” I was sitting at a black screen hearing medics fret over me (and then repeatedly have to transport me because mortar fire was making the old medical tent unsafe)for at least 10 minutes.

Autism is beautiful ❤️

#halo

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alchemistoftheend · 4 days

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The Piper (Case #9220611)

Pre-Statement

Statement of Staff Sergeant Clarence “Lucky” Berry, regarding his time serving with Wilfred Owen in the Great War.

Original statement given November 6, 1922.

Date of Event(s): 1917-1918

Statement

Wilfred was the only person he knew that ever saw The Piper

tf does he have against poets???

“There was an emptiness to it and every time he tried to put the war into words it just sounded trite, like there was no soul to what he had to say”

Wilfred had a habit of trailing off and tilting his head when reciting his poetry, as though his attention had been taken by a far-off sound

They were assigned to attack the Hindenburg Line near Savy Wood, pushing towards trenches on the west side of St Quentin.

Wilfred was unusually quiet, Lucky attempted to raise his morale but he shushed the Sergeant, and turned his head to listen.

“At the time I didn’t know what it was he was hearing but it kept him silent”

During the charge, Lucky got caught in barbed wire and saw Wilfred

standing, blank-faced, and his head swaying to some silent rhythm.

then he heard it, a faint, piping melody

“It’s whistling tune was unmistakable, and struck me with a deepest sadness and a gentle creeping fear”

There was a single gun shot, hitting Wilfred before he was hit by a mortar shell, he didn’t return with the wounded soldiers

A week and a half later, a scouting party found Wilfred in a crater along with the remains of Joseph Rayner

a man had just died, and nobody had noticed except Wilfred

“I met the war.”

He said it was no taller than he was and had three faces. One to play its pipes of scrimshawed bone, one to scream its dying battle cry and one that would not open its mouth, for when it did blood and sodden soil flowed out like a waterfall. Those arms not playing the pipes were gripping blades and guns and spears, while others raised their hands in futile supplication of mercy, and one saluted. It wore an olive green, wool coat, underneath—where it was not stained black—was a body beaten, slashed and shot and until nothing remained but the wounds themselves.

The piper came to claim Wilfred, who begged for his life.

It paused its tune before offering him a pen.

Wilfred knew he would live to play its tune but it would return for him one day.

Wilfred was wearing the same look he had before the shell hit and for a moment I could have sworn I once again heard that music on the breeze

Since then, every time they went over the top he watched the soldiers faces

A few of the men seemed distant, and were slightly tilting their heads, like they were listening to the distant music

Those men never returned

to pay the piper

the debt of Hamelin, who for their greed had their children taken from them, never to be returned.

I began to wonder: were we the children stolen from their parents by The Piper’s tune? Or were we the rats that were led to the river and drowned because they ate too much of the wealthy’s grain?

Even now, I can’t hear Exposure without being back in that damned trench at wintertime.

“I can say without a word of a lie that across all the war I never saw a soldier fight with such ferocity as I saw in him that day”

I hasten to add that that statement is not given in admiration – the savagery I saw in him as he tore into a man with his bayonet… I’d just as soon forget it

I could have sworn that I saw him cast a shadow that was not his own.

“Almost over now, Clarence,” Wilfred said

He sat there staring quietly for some time, Clarence could I knew he was listening to The Piper’s tune.

Wilfred Owen died crossing the canal at Sambre-Oise two days later.

He stopped turned to Clarence with a smile on his face

At that moment, a trickle of blood start to flow from an opening hole in his forehead.

But here, the bullet hole simply opened, like an eye, and he fell to the ground, dead.

It was on that day the first overtures of peace were made between the nations,

Clarence believed that very moment, when Wilfred fell, that the peace was finally assured.

Post-Statement/Thoughts

There are no follow-ups for this statement as it is too old

Jon feels like he’s heard the name ‘Joseph Rayner' before

Let’s start with the entity of this episode, the slaughter

war and what not

First of all, Wilfred Owen is a real man who wrote war poetry and died a week before Armistice

tbh i’m a little scattered brained and don’t know where to start

not that this episode was overwhelming i’ve only sleep for about 2 hours

anyways, let’s start with the description of war/the slaughter

three heads

play its pipes of scrimshawed bone

scream its dying battle cry

one that would not open its mouth, for when it did blood and sodden soil flowed out like a waterfall.

The slaughter seems to also be associated with music

a faint, piping melody that silenced those who hear it and condemns them to die

it’s also disturbing to those who hear it

Lucky describes the feeling as “striking me with a deepest sadness and a gentle creeping fear” and the music brought Wilfred to tears

Wilfred Owen’s Exposure, now i could analyze this poem but it’s 7:28 am on a Monday so moving on

to pay a piper: an idiom that means to face the consequence of one’s actions/decisions esp when accepting the responsibility of choosing a particular course of action

Originating from the story “The Pied Piper of Hamelin”

the town on hamelin gets overrun by rats, spreading disease and ruining crops. the townspeople try to exterminate them and failed. Then, a man named Pied Piper offers to solve the problem using his magical pipes. The people agree to pay him and with his tunes lire the rats into into the Weser river and they drown. however, when the piper came back to town the people refused to pay him liked they had agreed, feeling betrayed piper decided to get his revenge. the next day, as the townspeople gathered in the church piper plays a different tune on his pipes to lure the children out of the town never to be seen again

so to pay the piper: the debt of Hamelin, who for their greed had their children taken from them, never to be returned

When Clarence says “were we the children stolen from their parents by The Piper’s tune? Or were we the rats that were led to the river and drowned because they ate too much of the wealthy’s grain?” i know that certainly means something 🫤

i’m so tired pls help

context woohoo, so when the slaughter or i guess the piper takes soldier were they being punished for the own greed for the greed or someone else’s

something something music

this was weird “but here, the bullet hole simply opened, like an eye”

it’s probably a stretch to say that this was the referencing the entity, the eye but idk

also wtf would The piper/slaughter give Wilfred a pen

“The piper came to claim Wilfred, who begged for his life. It paused its tune before offering him a pen. Wilfred knew he would live to play its tune but it would return for him one day”

ok now that i think about i believe this has to do with wilfred’s war poetry

i don’t know how to put it but i think the pen was for the Wilfred to immortalize the war. He wrote poetry well before he met the piper but at best it was described as trite, like there was no soul to what he had to say, but then after his encounter with the slaughter his poetry gains widespread popularity. Lucky (Clarence) himself, who described his work was lifeless, later says that he couldn’t help but feel like new works sent him back to being stuck in those icy, barren trenches

#rusty quill #the magnus archives #tma podcast #tma shitpost #magnus institute #jonathan sims

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theworldofwars · 3 months

Text

A German minenwerfer (trench mortar) section in action in the dunes on the Flanders Coast, July 1917.

#german #german soldier #germany #historical photos #the great war #world war one #the first world war #history #world war 1 #wwi #canadian history #1917 #ww1

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angel-of-the-moons · 7 months

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We gotta give Spider-Medic a raise 😔 With all the work he does he deserves it

ahaha spidermedic x Reader when ??? 👀

-💐

Anosnlsnlxnlsnlxnlnelnd 💐💐💐💐 ILYSM

I am vibrating and bouncing off the walls and going feral and losing my mind because Omgggg I'm glad you guys like the relatively faceless Spider-Man enough for this I originally only intended to use him as a filler character so I didn't have to make more 😭😭😭

AND FUCK YEAH *cracks knuckles* I'MMA DO IT

Make Love, Not War

Spider Medic x Spider-Woman!Reader

TW/CW: PTSD, Nightmares, Angst, Pining, Reader does some stupid shit™ just to get alone with him, injury mentions, flashbacks, War PTSD, blood, SMUT, NSFW, oral sex male and fem!Receiving, fingering, unprotected sex (Don't be fools! Wrap your tools!), semi public sex(Does the medical bay at HQ count?) Lyla being a smartass

MINORS DNI: I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Once again, header does not indicate Reader's race, but a story focused on my poor traumatized boi deserves its own header qwq Also this is just a fucking angsty, mindless, horny mess have fun asdfghjkl

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The first thing that hit his nostrils was the smell of churned earth, gunpowder, smoke, and blood.

So, so much blood.

His superiors let him stay enlisted, even after he got bit by that crazy spider, developed his super powers.

If anything, they made him a better medic.

Having your own almost-infinite supply of "bandages", and medical knowledge tends to make you an asset on the battlefield.

He learned how to stitch up wounds and glue them shut with lightning precision, knew how to dodge bullets and mortars, shoot webs and pull soldiers away from grenades or punji board traps... and the pitfalls. Those are always a hit or miss.

In Vietnam there was no such thing as quiet on the battlefield.

The quiet was unnerving. The quiet was bad.

The quiet meant something horrible was about to happen.

One minute he was in the trenches patching up a private who had his shoulder shredded by a sniper round, the next minute his CO who was barking orders at him had half his head blown off.

His brains got everywhere.

On his uniform, on his kit, on the rookie... his blood soaking the ground, watering the disturbed earth like they were a part of a macabre aqueduct.

That's when the gas was deployed.

Not by his allies, but the canisters were tossed into the trenches.

Mustard gas. Of course.

They had mustard gas.

The blisters, the yellowing skin, the coughing, and the burning in the lungs... gas masks were useless.

Shrapnel had hit the kid he was patching up...

All he could do was try and pull the kid he had in his arms to safety, carefully slinging some webs around his midsection to stem the tide of blood threatening to roll from him.

Other soldiers ran by. Young. Not much younger than him, but still...

So young.

Bodies were already lining the trenches as he carried the boy over his shoulder, fleeing into the treeline with what remained of his unit.

He set the bleeding soldier down, feeling blood soak through the silken bandages he'd made for him.

"Fuck." He muttered, digging around in his pack for something, anything to help him.

"Am--am I gonna d-die?" The young man gasped, choking around a mouthful of blood.

"Not if I can help it, keep your eyes open, alright?" He growled, frantically digging in his far too empty bag.

"Please don't let me die. Please don't let me die." The kid begged.

His jaw set tight, he gripped with shaky hands around the tube of glue. A pitiful amount was left.

The boy's eyes got frantic, wide, darting around to the other soldiers who created a semi-circle perimeter around them.

He kept coughing, crying, gasping.

"Please, I wanna go home. I want to see my mom again, I want to see my mom--"

He made the most horrible croaking noise, his chest contracting, before his eyes glazed over and he went silent, crimson dripping out of his mouth like he was a bloody fountain.

"Damn it!" He frantically pressed his fingers over his neck, checking for a pulse.

He pulled him down on the ground, and began chest compressions, his mind going into tunnel vision as all he could think about was getting just one more gasp from the limp body beneath him.

"Parker." The lieutenant sighed, touching his shoulder.

Not again. Not another one. Not somebody's baby.

"Parker." He said, shaking him.

He shook his head, shrugging the arm of his last commanding officer away, fighting to get the kid's heart beating again, his fingers slipping with blood.

The boy couldn't have been more than 19. He should still get the chance to marry the girl he had a picture of in his pocket, the girl who wrote the letter and left a lipstick stain on the bottom of the page telling him how she couldn't wait for him to come home.

He should get to go home, hug his mom. Kiss her cheek, watch her grow old.

He deserved to live.

He deserved to go home, alive. Not in a box, riddled with bullets and shrapnel. Not with a folded up flag, and battered tags.

Not like this.

"Parker!"

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He sat up with a start, breathing heavy and eyes wide as he frantically scanned the room, instinctively reaching for the pistol he no longer carried.

When he saw nobody there, he fell back onto the bed, a heavy sigh leaving his chest as he stared at the ceiling.

Right. He was in HQ.

He was in the med-bay.

He wasn't on the battlefield anymore.

He wasn't elbow deep in viscera anymore.

He wasn't watching somebody's child die in his arms anymore.

He draped an arm over his face briefly, before getting up to trudge into the attached bathroom to pull off his mask and stare at his face for probably the first time in days.

It was hard to look at himself, sometimes.

The one who lived. The one who got lucky, possibly at the cost of some kid fresh into his boots.

Survivor's guilt, some called it.

He pulled his gloves off next, splashing some nice cold water on his face to wake himself up, to pull him back to reality.

Once he dried off, he pulled his mask and gloves back on, walking out to grab his helmet before securing it and buckling it safely back in place.

It had a red spider with a white cross on the abdomen.

He wasn't a medical corps-man anymore.

He wasn't some useless PTSD-ridden veteran that they paraded about to showcase the horrors of war.

He was a medic. A damned good one.

He had friends, his job was cushy, he had a purpose. He didn't have to stew in his own madness anymore.

But it was when it was quiet that it got hard.

27 years old, and he felt like he'd lived decades in those trenches. Like he'd lived there his whole life.

Like he was born there. Like he was going to die there.

But, he didn't.

He was here, he was now. Part of something far bigger than he ever could have imagined.

He almost exclusively lived at HQ at this point, not seeing a reason he was needed in his universe anymore.

Miguel assured him there was no risk of an inter-dimensional anomaly, that his universe wouldn't collapse.

Thankfully, he could stay as long as he wanted and his universe wouldn't collapse.

Maybe he was a special case.

He didn't really care. Going back to post-war America was not something he looked forward to.

Going home to an empty house wasn't something he could stand, being left with his own thoughts was torture enough.

"Hey, Med." Lyla chimed, her tiny holographic image appeared above the watch on his wrist.

"Yeah? What is it, Lyla?" He asked, forcing the exhaustion from his tone, to little avail.

"So uhhh... you know the Spider-Woman from 18906?" She grinned.

"Oh dear God what did that woman do now?" He groaned, facepalming.

Lyla leaned on his head like he was a brick wall. The gesture wasn't really necessary, he couldn't feel her do it, but it was for effect.

She checked her nails and hummed.

"Sprained her ankle. Or somethin'." She smirked slowly, her body glitching until she was in front of him, hands now in the pockets of her large coat.

Her eyes glimmered almost, behind those large heart-shaped glasses.

"Just thought I'd give you a heads-up before she limps on in..."

"Ugh, thanks for the warning." He sighed as he changed the bedding and pillowcase with fresh sterile replacements, tossing the blankets he slept in into the bin.

"Tell 'er to come in here. I'm sure it's nothing."

"Want me to make sure nobody interrupts the lecture you're gonna drill into her brain?" She asked, eyebrows waggling.

"Lyla..."

"I'm goin', I'm goin'! You're acting more and more like Miguel every day!"

Before he could retort, telling the little AI she was wrong, she disappeared and he was left alone.

"Ugh."

He groaned and dug out a first aid kit and checked the supplies in this particular suite

The medical wing of HQ was much like a hospital ward. It had ICU suites, private suites, an emergency room where beds were separated by curtains, x-ray...

Everything a respectable medical professional would need.

Respectable. Yeah, right.

His thoughts were interrupted when the door to the suite slid open, and he turned, crossing his arms at you.

You drove him up the walls with your shenanigans, and how you shrugged your injuries off like they were a drop of sweat. Even the time he had to practically scoop your guts back into you.

You were the bane of his existence in the medical wing, you and Hobie. But moreso you, as you found your way under his hands in some way or another constantly.

"So..." You started bashfully, leaning on the doorframe for support. "Don't get mad..."

⛑️⛑️⛑️⛑️⛑️🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖

"You mean to tell me you were trying to... to skateboard? While playing a goddamn guitar?" He growled, the eyes of his mask narrowing as he examined your bare, slightly swollen ankle.

His fingers were gentle, turning your foot this way and that, gauging your pain, checking the bruising...

But he had no idea how his touch was affecting you in other ways.

You got made fun of, by some of the other Spiders. Ben Reilly the most. He even outpaced Hobie with how he poked at how down bad you were for this Peter Parker. The one everyone called Spider-Medic. Sure you almost never saw his face, except on a few occasions. Sure, he looked like half the other Peter Parkers; but he had his own "look" that set him apart from the rest, a rugged appearance that made him look unique.

"You probably hurt yourself just to get his attention at this point! Not a good way to spend time with the guy you like, toots." Ben clucked. "You need a better icebreaker."

He wasn't... entirely wrong.

You were accident-prone as hell. You got injured in training, on the job... doing stupid shit with Hobie.

"Well... er. It was for a bet, so--"

He cut you off. "Don't give a damn what it was for. Doing reckless shit like this is childish."

His tone was firm, but not unkind.

He hadn't looked up at you once, and thankfully you were happy you still wore your mask. It hid the blush that crept up your cheeks.

"R.... Right." You mumble, squirming.

"Stop moving, you'll only make this harder." He grunted, reaching into his kit.

You do as he says, letting him wrap your ankle with some gauze and his webs.

His hands were warm, even through his gloves.

"Good girl." He says quietly.

You worked hard to suppress the shudder that went up your spine at that.

"It's barely a sprain. You're lucky. Don't do that kinda shit again." He told you.

"Y-yeah..." You mumble as he stands, crossing his arms and looking down at you.

God, why did you find this man so hot?

He sighed and set the kit down on the bed next to you, sorting the contents neatly again, grabbing excess from the cabinet nearby to restock it.

"So, um..." You try, clearing your throat awkwardly.

"Spit it out, kid. Don't have all day." He says, focusing on his task, meticulously organizing the kit on muscle memory alone.

"I--I am not a kid! You're only like, two or three years older than I am!" You retort.

"Yeah well, I've seen and experienced enough to get you beat by a few decades." He narrowed his eyes at you.

"And doing shit like this? Getting hurt like this? Pretty damn childish if you ask me."

You wilted a bit, twiddling your fingers in your lap silently.

He wasn't wrong... but you weren't the only Spidey that didn't take things seriously all the time.

Like that one who had that Deadpool guy shoved up his ass.

Literally, you sometimes joked. It never ceased to make the guy blush, much to your delight.

Like you were blushing now, red as the parts on his suit...

"I don't mean to... not all the time, I just--"

One of his eyebrows shoots up. "What do you mean all the time? You get hurt on purpose?"

You jolted, realizing how you just let that slip.

"I, uh--I just--what I meant was..." You fumble for the words.

"What the hell are you thinking?!" He snapped, his voice turning as stern as... well, what you assume a drill instructor sounded like.

"Hurting yourself on purpose? What kind of logic goes behind that? What, you trying to get yourself killed?!"

You flinched under the onslaught of words.

"Because kid, if you think that getting yourself hurt will get you out of missions like cutting school, then I don't want to see you in my med bay at all!"

"I--"

"What kind of reckless bullshit is that? If you do this shit intentionally, then you shouldn't be in the Spider Society at all, kid--"

"I do it to come see you, you asshole!" You snap back, unable to take his criticism.

He falls silent, wide-eyed as you continue.

"And stop calling me kid! You think that shit doesn't piss me off? I've tried getting your attention, but the only way you ever look at me is when you're treating me!" You say, everything you've kept bottled up for the past six months reaching its boiling point.

"You never leave the med bay, and when you do--once in a blue fucking moon--is when you go get food from the cafeteria or go talk to Miguel! You never do anything else! Franky, it worries everyone! Not just me! It freaks out fucking Lyla, Med! Lyla!"

You continue to blow it all out. He could swear he could almost see steam coming off of you, like an angry kettle boiling.

"You never talk to anyone other than Miguel or Lyla, except when you're fucking treating someone! I just--I wanted to--You--"

Your shoulders slump and you suddenly deflate.

"You don't... I don't... I can't just--"

He sat silently, staring at you as you reached up, digging the heels of your palms into the lenses of your suit, as if that really did anything to help the tears that wanted to come out.

Fuck, you were one of the emotional ones.

For once, the word "kid" didn't come out of his mouth. Your name did.

And when he said it, he was... gentle. His tone fragile.

"If you've seen what I have... done what I have... you'd understand."

"I may not understand it all, but I want to! I just don't know how to talk to you if I'm not bleeding from somewhere!" You retorted, slapping your hand on the mattress for emphasis.

"You won't even look at me." You say quietly. "Not unless you're patching me up."

He listens to you now, and... shit. Fuck.

He was feeling things.

Feelings. Feelings he hadn't realized he was even feeling until you fessed up.

Feelings he hadn't felt since before he was shipped out.

Before...

Shit, is that why you annoyed him so much? Is that why his skin prickled when he touched you?

This wasn't... he couldn't...

He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve... someone like you. Plucky, happy, so full of life.

And here you were, pouring out everything that's been on your mind, everything about him. And it was breaking his heart.

His hands were moving before either of you even realized it.

He helmet and mask were ripped off and tossed to the floor, the metal clanking a bit too loud. Your mask joined his on the tile, eyes as big as saucers as his mouth found yours, desperate and hungry.

God... you wanted to keep yelling at him but having the mouth of the man you've been pining for for months on yours threw all sense out the window; your hands pawed at each other greedily.

His hands slid around your waist, down, gripping your ass and pulling you against him, grinding his hips into yours with a groan.

Fuck, he was already getting hard. It's been so long...

He rolled the bulge in his pants against your throbbing heat, earning a weak moan from you as his mouth moved down, biting at the skin that shielded your leaping pulse, lips placing frantic kisses at the curve of your jaw, beneath your ear as he continued to grind into you, coaxing himself to full mast as fresh pulses of arousal ping around your stomach like a pinball machine.

His hastily tears his gloves off and drops them on the bed, fingers fumbling for the zipper on the back of your suit.

He tugs it down as you arch yourself against him, pressing your chest against his.

He peels it down to your waist like he's done it a hundred times; and groans deeply when he sees you weren't wearing a bra.

"Fucking hell." He growled, reaching out to pinch and roll your nipple with one hand, while groping your ass with another as your mouths crash together again, all teeth and tongue and just sheer desire.

His kisses were almost like punches, ripping the air and moans from your throat.

If his kisses were punches, you really were feeling punch-drunk right about now.

"Peter." You gasp when he bites at your bottom lip.

He stills for a moment, his mouth at the curve of your neck and shoulder.

"Say my name again." He growled, his voice heady with lust.

He bites down on the soft skin, sending sharp jolts of pleasure arcing through your bloodstream.

"Peter!" You moan breathlessly.

He leans you back, moving to place open-mouthed kisses to your collar bone, licking and nipping as he went, one of his hands groping at your left breast as his teeth close around the nipple on your right.

You moaned out loud as his mouth greedily latched on, his tongue swirling and his teeth pinching your nipple ferociously, trailing his lips across your chest to your other neglected nipple.

"Fuck--" You squeak, feeling his hand reach down to cup your clothed sex.

He could feel the heat there roll off in waves right into his palm, a slight dampness sticking through to his skin.

He groaned into your tit before popping free.

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart."

You comply, letting him pull your suit down the rest of the way, careful of your bandaged ankle, even if it wasn't hurt that badly.

He hissed out a sigh between his teeth when he laid eyes on your wet and puffy sex, glossy from your arousal; the hair just above cut into a small heart.

God damn, you weren't wearing underwear, either.

Did you always wear your suit like this? One bad rip away from bearing it all...

The thought of you fighting like this, your suit getting torn juuuust right had his cock leaking at the mental image.

He didn't waste any time, his mouth immediately went in, his tongue stroking your folds before thrusting and twirling your clit.

He reminded himself of the things he'd done before.

'Same old song and dance, remember what you learned...'

And damn did he like how you were squirming.

His hair wasn't long enough to grip, a short, military buzz cut that he kept out of habit. His eyes glazed in the most gorgeous way as they locked glances with yours as his mouth devoured you like he was a starving man.

He lifted his mouth off of you, his chin shiny and slick.

"Fuck, you're so wet. D'you always get like this?" He hissed out, gliding his fingers through your folds, before plunging into your depths and curling in the most delicious way.

You nod, whimpering needily. "C-can't help it... ah--always g-get like this..."

"You're like a goddamned fountain. All this for me?" He breathed, kissing the little dip of your hip bone as he continued to fuck you with his hand, kneeling between your legs like a man kneeling before his god.

And, hell, you were already so close, his long thick fingers worked wonders inside, stroking that little spot inside that had your vision going dark at the edges.

You clawed desperately at him, at the sheets, gripping your hair as you cried out, your orgasm rapidly approaching.

Any woman dumb enough to pass this Peter Parker up was a fucking dumbass. They were missing out.

"P-P-Peter--" You babble out, whimpering pathetically.

"That's it..." He urges you quietly, shifting his body so his mouth was at the shell of your ear, his hand not moving from out of your cunt.

He pressed the heel of his palm into your clit, rolling it in time with your hips and the crook of his fingers as your orgasm crested.

"Good girl... let it out."

You whined loudly, ripping at the green uniform he wore over his suit as your climax slammed into you, your muscles squeezing his fingers so tightly he swore you could probably break them; more of your juices gushing out and soaking his hand and the sheets below.

He breathed heavily into your skin as he slowly moved his fingers, helping you ride out your orgasm until you were calm.

"Fuck." You panted, dropping your head onto the mattress.

"Oh, it'll happen." He sighs, giving you a smirk that creases the corners of his eyes.

You watch as he palms the bulge in his pants, and your hands tug on his shirt.

"Ah, I... c... can I..?" You blunder.

"Sure can, sweetheart." He all but purrs. "Be mindful of your ankle."

You give him a wet hungry kiss before switching places with him, helping him undress and kneeling between his legs.

And the sight that greeted you sent a fresh throb to your cunt.

His cock looked about seven inches, and the girth was enough to make your head spin. Veins swirled up the shaft, his tip vivid and leaking as you gripped it, your fingertips barely touching.

You give him a few pumps, your toes curling at the sounds he let out.

"You ever do this before? I should have asked..." he panted down at you, eyes locking with yours as you kissed his weeping tip.

"Yeah. I've done it a few times." You say.

You're worried about how he'd take that, knowing you weren't exactly innocent. But the look on his face and the way he bites his lip quashes your worries.

"Shit. Alright, babydoll. You lead on this one." He groaned.

You shove down the grin you want to make, instead settling for swallowing his cock as deep as you could, your jaw already straining at the stretch of him. You were really happy you didn't have a gag reflex, right now. Your exes were more than happy to abuse that fact.

You shake of the thought when you hear his voice grow shaky, his fingers gripping in your hair as you bob your head.

"Oh fuck..."

You stroke with your tongue, jerking him with your hand each time you pulled back, the salty taste of his precum coating your tongue.

You weren't afraid to get a little messy, letting saliva drip down to help lubricate your fist, the sounds of you sucking him off and the noises he was making filling the suite rivaling only the raunchiest of porn videos you've perused on the internet.

You weren't the best at blowjobs, but you liked to think you were pretty good.

Your hand cupped his balls gently, as you kept pulling your head back and pushing back down, feeling them tighten in your palm.

"Ah, fuck--" He moaned. "I'm gonna... fuck!"

He tried to pull you back, he really did, but you were a woman on a mission and he just couldn't resist your drive and focus on the task at hand.

He emptied his cock down your throat, his teeth gritting tightly as he tipped his head back, eyes screwed shut and sweat dripping down his brow.

He was stupid as fuck for not noticing how you were looking to him these past few months.

You pull off of him with a lewd pop, and kiss his tip one last time before resting your chin on one of his knees.

You batted your eyelashes and smiled up at him.

"You still alive?" You teased.

He looked down at you and shook his head, petting your hair affectionately.

"You're a little shit. C'mere."

You squeak and giggle when he pulls you up, pressing you down into the sterile-smelling bedding as his mouth finds yours again, tongues dancing as you card your nails through his short hair.

He groans again, a noise you wanted to hear a lot more often.

You part your legs for him, grinning into his mouth as you feel his cock pressing against you, still rock hard and ready to go.

"Aww... you're pent up, huh?" You purr, licking the pulse in his neck.

"Keep it up and I won't give it to you." He growled.

You instantly lay back and bite your lip, looking up at him with a glimmer in your eyes that made his heart flip, being obedient.

His good girl.

Damn, he could get used to calling you that.

He could get used to seeing how your eyes rolled back as he sunk his cock into you with a slow grind of his hips.

"Fuck..." You moaned, the girth of his cock felt bigger inside you than it did in your palm, the stretch toeing the line between painful and pleasurable as you felt the drag of his shaft inside your velvety walls.

He bottomed out inside of you, holding there, his hips flush against yours as he moans deeply in your ear.

"So fucking tight." He grunted, one of his arms next to your head, fisting the pillow as his other hand gripped at your hip, his fingers probably leaving bruises in their wake.

"I... I'm not gonna lie. Fuck, I don't think I'm gonna last long."

It made him feel a little inadequate, sure, but he wasn't gonna lie to you. It had been ages since he'd last had sex with somebody, and the feel of your mouth and tight pussy were enough to drive any man insane.

"Don't care. Keep going..." You whine, your nails digging into his shoulders as you kiss his jaw.

His eyes rolled back and he turned his head so his mouth could meet yours as he pulled himself out almost entirely, before slamming into you, knocking the breath out of your lungs.

He set a rough and brutal pace for himself, burying his nose in your hair and breathing deeply as he gets lost in your cunt shivering at your nails scratching down the muscles in his back, leaving angry red marks.

You felt tears prickle in your eyes as his cock punched you mercilessly, gliding in and out of your slick walls as he grunted and panted in your ear with wild desperation.

"Oh god, oh fuck--" You squeak out as he takes your hips in both of his hands and pulls you up, pistoning in and out of you like a machine.

He's all but bent in half as he says things to you in your ear, filthy praises about how good you feel around him, how sweet you are, his good you taste, how much better you feel wrapped around him than his own fist.

It was enough to send your head into a tailspin.

"My good girl." He grunted, biting softly at your ear lobe.

You shudder, your muscles clenching around him at what he said, and he makes what can only be described as a whining sound as he slaps his hips into yours, almost disoriented as he pumps you full, fucking you through his orgasm as he paints your velvet walls a sheen of white.

You're both breathing heavy, sweaty, and hot as his cock twitched with the remnants of his almost mind-numbing orgasm.

"Shit." He hissed. "You didn't--"

"I'm fine." You mumbled, brain still fuzzy from the ferocity in which he fucked you.

"Uh-uh." He sighs, keeping his softening cock sheathed inside you as he brings his fingers to your swollen clit, desperately circling the swollen bundle of nerves.

"Wan' you to cum on my cock. Come on, babydoll." He said through gritted teeth, feeling your walls flutter around him.

Your thighs squeezed against his hips as his fingers worked feverishly at your clit, his hips rolling into yours lazily as he dragged his barely half-hard cock in and out, adding extra stimulation.

Your second orgasm came harder than the last one, your whole body almost seizing up as you clawed at his shoulders, your hands falling to grip at his biceps as you babbled incoherently, mumbling his name as you gushed around him, his eyes rolling back at the sensation.

"That's it, sweetheart..." He praised, watching you come undone beneath him.

He dropped down on his elbows, his arms on either side of your head as he caged you in, giving you soft kisses, his lips spelling silent "I love you's" all the way down your neck and back up again.

He rolled off of you, pulling out and tucking you against him as you both basked in the afterglow, feeling small bits of his cum dripping out of you.

"Hey, doc...." You say affectionately, your fingers trailing circles lazily on his chest.

"Hm?" He hummed, his hand toying with your hair.

"What am I gonna do about my sprained ankle?"

"Hnh." He grunted softly.

"Gonna need some bed rest, I think. Here in the med bay, to be safe."

"Oh? And you're gonna take care of me?" You giggle innocently.

"Somebody has to make sure you don't exacerbate your injury."

#💐 anon #spider medic #spider-medic #spider medic x you #spider medic x reader #spiderverse oc #spiderverse #atsv #atsv oc

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