Noooooo - Tumblr Posts
Things I’ve been working on for the past two days…
I’m ashamed to say it, but… there is way more than this lol.
/ascends to the next level of trashdom
prompt: you keep seeing apparitions of a dead special forces operative who's been haunting the barracks. (light angst; nsfw) (actual ghost simon riley)
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War dogs chewed up and spat out by the machinery of war.
It is an incalculable blow to learn of his death. Worse still that you learn of it by happenstance, one officer talking to another, only listening in because it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him and their voices go hushed in that way that makes your ears prick up. You’re sitting at a nearby table in the canteen when someone says the single most devastating words that have ever been spoken near you.
“They weren’t able to recover the whole body, just some of it. Pretty gruesome. Don’t know if you ever met him, but he was an alright guy—pretty quiet. Scary, yeah, but—I don’t know. He was fair. Got the job done though. Soap’s taking it pretty hard.”
You barely breathe at the news. Something is squeezing your heart until it overfills on the other side.
You walk around base in a daze after that. It’s not anyone’s fault that you aren’t notified—no one was supposed to know. Your whole arrangement with Simon was predicated on the knowledge that it would never be revealed to your commanding officers or the rest of the infantry. Made sense at the time. Makes less sense now when your world is falling apart and you have no way of even requesting Ghost’s dog tags.
Pain holds you upright like a splint while it also tries to smother you. You crawl back to your barracks after training the recruits, voice a hoarse whisper in your throat. Showers are an optimal place to cry, when maybe you won’t be heard. Grief is not grief when there’s nowhere for it to go.
Maybe Soap was privy enough to Ghost’s life to know. He doesn’t spend time with you, but you see him once from across the tarmac on a flight out and his gaze lingers on you. There are deep troughs under his eyes, dark even with the distance between you. His posture is still, rigid; despite his uniform being pressed and his hair being cut and gelled into place, there is something singularly heavy weighing him down.
He nods from across the way to you. You grit your jaw and nod back.
It’s the only time you’ll ever acknowledge it. Soap never seeks you out after that—maybe it’s too painful. Maybe shared pain isn’t always enough.
The worst is only finding out weeks later that Ghost has been buried. That’s your closure. An offhand comment from an operations officer on a smoke break. Your numb hand flicking a lighter. Rain breaking in the early twilight hours and you stand in it so long that you shiver and shake on your way back to your room.
Lightning that crackles in the storm clouds, illuminating the place where you just stood outside while you stare from your window. Illuminating someone standing where you just were. You squint, but they round the bend to one of the other buildings before you can make them out.
Every soldier has a story. Conducting barracks checks on staff duty only to find a soldier with half their jaw missing asking for a cigarette. A marine approaching a soldier asking for his rifle, garbed in a ripped vest from early Iraq. Squad bays known for apparitions, known for hauntings. Figures seen from the trees, the half-shadowed remains of old tanks, burned and hollowed out, suddenly upright and mobile.
In certain barracks, soldiers won’t even leave their rooms at night to use the washroom. They’d rather piss in old bottles or hold off until morning light altogether. It’s common enough to be joked about, for soldiers to trade stories in the mess over supper, trying to spook each other with the things they’ve seen or claimed to see.
You can tell the ones who’ve actually seen things from those who haven’t though. The ones who have are often quieter, often only laugh a little. The truth is buried in their inability to fully commit to the bit. It’s the knowing that does that.
Knowing that there are things that death cannot hide.
The first time you see Simon again, it’s not a homecoming. You know there’s something very wrong.
It’s 3am and someone’s standing in front of your door. You feel it before you see them, feel something like every single hair on your body standing on end and the sudden lucid thought in the middle of a dream that you need to wake up. That you need to wake up right now.
Heart racing when your eyes snap open. Sweat already slicking the backs of your knees. You’re lying on your side, hands curled close to your face, and you feel its gaze on you like the heaviest dread you’ve ever felt in your life. You stare at the wall that your bed is pushed up against until you find the courage to roll over.
Just a shape in the dark. A dark shape. Distinct from the rest of the darkness in your room. Tall as it is wide. The slightest motion to it, like breathing or the gentle swaying of the human body when it’s allowed to be loose.
There’s a lamp on your end table. You flick it on without tearing your eyes away from the dark shape looming by the door, but when light unveils your room, it flickers away like a bad illusion. Just a jacket hung up on the back of the door. Your heart races still.
When the light goes off, the shadow doesn’t reappear.
It might not be him, but something’s haunting you. You spoon cereal into your mouth in the morning with a shaking hand. It’s the massive shape of a body behind the shower curtain in your private bathroom that has you certain—certain—that someone’s there until you whip it to the side and see only tile wall. You know what you saw though, and you know from the way the top of it peeked over the curtain that it was blond.
Weeks go by. You’re in a bivy sack and a voice you recognize wakes you up for watch. It’s the same voice that used to rumble low in your ear when you let him into your bed on leave (you always used to take them at the same time, no one the wiser). You’re back on base in your room and something leans its full weight onto your bed. You wake up to him sitting on the edge of your bed, blood dripping from an old wound. Him though, skull mask and all. Eyes shadowed always, black staring at you seeing and unseeing.
You don’t need to ask what he wants from you. He lumbers around the barracks like a wraith that only you can see. Never truer to his old moniker than he is in death. A civilian worker flirts with you one day and he winds up in the infirmary. Fell down the stairs, another sergeant tells you when you ask. You smile tight, brittle. If only.
He slips into your bed at night when the lights are shut and you’ve turned over onto your side. You can’t see him, but the bed compresses under his weight like it did when he was alive. He’s still for a minute, stare heavy on you while you lie there motionless, waiting him out. When he finally lays a hand on your hip, you flinch at how normal it feels. Like he didn’t go out and die one day. Like it’s really him at your back dragging a hand down the curve of your hip and over your thigh.
He divests you of your pyjamas the same way he used to in motel rooms, your apartment off-base, his cabin up north that you still have the key to but can’t bring yourself to visit. You let him. Shorts pulled down and kicked to the bottom of the bed, then your underwear. Shirt rucked up so he can fit a big, rough hand over your tit. His hands are solid where they touch you, nothing ghostly about them. He squeezes like the memory of your flesh is half-gone, like he needs to sink himself into you again.
“Missed…you…” His voice comes like a deep rumble, tectonic plates shifting over the asthenosphere.
The hand on your breast slides up, over the delicate skin of your throat, over where your pulse goes mad and you dry swallow because there’s nothing in your mouth. Over and up the curve of your cheek, thumb pressing against your lips, curling your top lip up until you’re almost kissing it. Then he lets go, hand coming back down to your hip.
“Simon, are you—” you start, cut off on a gasp when he lifts your leg over his hip and something presses against your opening. Notches there, sinks in hot inch after hot inch. Head spinning and breath wild when he spears you on his thick length, half-tumbling over you until you’re lying prone on your bed. Simon’s as heavy as you remember, the full weight of him keeping you trapped there. You can only take. You can only draw in a deep breath and let out the softest sounds while he presses in,
“Had to…come back,” the ghost of your old lover says, growling into your ear. “Couldn’t…leave you here…alone.”
You wonder what’s really behind the mask this time. His hands and dick feel flesh enough, but fear still quivers in your belly because you know that whatever it is pressing you down with a firm hand on your shoulder blade, it’s not fully him.
You’ve heard of ghosts haunting places but never people. There’s something achingly loyal about the way he fucks you though. It’s dark and hot under him, and he mouths where he can, mask pulled up finally. Not that you can see. Better that you can’t, maybe. Pulsing in and out of your cunt, silent but for his shallow intakes of breath. He feels enormous and terrifying at your back.
A big arm still clad in his old uniform jacket is braced beside your head. Simon whispers apologies into your hair; that he pulled himself out of a grave for a second time because he couldn’t untangle his soul from yours, but he got it wrong this time around. He didn’t make it in time.
“I won’t leave you though, love,” he says around kisses laid tender on the nape of your neck. He bites the meat of your shoulder hard enough to leave an imprint of his teeth. “Never gonna leave you.” His words make you slicker, hotter; tightening around him until he snarls and fucks more viciously. A promise you thought he couldn’t keep.
In the morning, you stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror. You take off your shirt and turn around. There’s a red bite mark on your upper left shoulder and it aches when you touch it.
SO REAL BRO
you take that back. You're awesome! And sure it takes time but with your skill it would be totally worth it!
(I'm honestly trying to hype you up tho, you don't have to if you don't wanna)
I. Really don’t know if I want to take up art as a job. Once something is labeled “work” I suddenly don’t want to do it anymore… I don’t really want to make art something I view as work.. so 😬
A flower, clutched and crushing in her hands, the blue-white staining and eating her fingertips— a cyanotype. She gazes across the battlefield. She sneaks into the bedchambers of a beloved she kept too close, kept too far.
Karna stands in replaced positions. A Colin sized position. An Ariana sized position.
Her heart skips a beat as she skims over Deli’s haphazardly hidden notes. She finds motes of anger, of resentment, of despair and heartbreak at the corners of rapid heartbeats. She pulls and tugs at them, rearranging herself. Presentable. Useful. Disposable.
She slides her note underneath the pillows of Dellisandro Katzon’s bed. A quiet confession. A hopeful confession. She must survive.
She is dying, she is a child, she is in love. She hopes and she fears as tears crawl down her face and the rot eats her body. She knows the ways of war and the smell of murder better than the scent of a well prepared meal in the comforts of home. She knows the quick breath of death and the slow of a pulse better than the warmth of a family and the embrace of a lover. “She died nine years ago”.
At the bottom of the earth, in the embrace of Heart of the World, her story ends in a realm unknown to the rest. All the fighting to survive, the lies and the murder, the whispering of secret secrets and the blood dripping from the end of a blade. It all comes to a rest. Karna gives in to her exhaustion with an exhale (exhale, exhale). Eyes closed and a prayer to no god. A Hunger greets this tired warrior.
Cold steel rips apart her torn body. She dies and no one will mourn her. She dies and no mother, no sister, no lover will leave flowers by her gravestone, no eulogies sung, an insignificant name.
She dies and she looks at the face of her lover. A letter remains underneath his pillows. Will he mourn for her?
“The only secret I have left, is that I love you” and in a title that was never made for her— “Signed, Sklad Karna Solara of Scoville”.
The Pawn resigns.
Goretober 13 - Headache
yall can L-react him now
things that have haunted my waking hours: someone mentioning to me that there’s been talk of blighted gods and we have a grey warden in the party and hey you know what’s usually required to defeat a blighted god
GUYS GUYS AFTER I WAS SCOURING BILIBILI FOR THAT TRAILER GUESS WHAT I FOUND /j /j /j
keith: we had a bonding moment! i cradled you in my arms!
lance: don’t remember, didn’t happen
shiro: this is so sad alexa send me to the astral plane
Mawang Kingscholar
I just found out about the smile for me vinyls and they're all sold out I'm sobbing and crying rn
i cant stop thinking about Grover and the way satyrs age differently and how he will slowly fall behind. About him seeing Annabeth and Percy grow, mature, come into adulthood and eventually die while he could never catch up to them.
Its not only that, but also the fact that they already know this. In the last olympian Percy remarks how alarmed he is at the fact that he is gaining a significant height over Grover. He knows this is only the begging. He knows that at some point he will be an adult, possibly with children, and Grover will still be a teenager.
And imagine Grover at Yancy academy, slowly becoming ACTUAL FRIENDS with Percy instead of being some homework to do to get his license as searcher. Because this kid is his age, they share interests. And maybe he didn't think about it back then, with the naive look of a 12 yr old that cant see what will come. But what if the other satyrs warned him of the dangers of it. What if, even though he tried to dismiss them, it slowly grew on him and became one of his biggest insecurities. What if he started to put Percabeth at arms lengths, trying to make the inevitable more manageable since at least it was his choice.
And while Percy would try to guess what he messed up with, Annabeth would. She would recognize what was scaring him and reasure him that it wouldnt happen.
And maybe they stayed friends through out most of their lives, but the gap would become increasingly bigger and bigger and even if they managed to stay friends for Annabeth and Percy's entire life times, he would still have to see his friends slowly get away as they died. And he still has like 200 more years to go. But even then he isnt mortal. He doesnt have a soul. He wont have some heartfelt reunion with them in the underworld. His time spent with them will actually be less than half the life he will live. And still he will miss them through out it all.
brb gonna go cry about Grover Underwood for a while.
Tango Train Trample Tuesday!!! 🚂 🚂 🚂
GET RAILED IDIOT
Yo bro, you good?
AAAAAAAAAEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaagh
