#half are in the military

[azatas]

"we need more complex female characters" you couldn't even handle her

[jubmato]

guys. guys hear me. out. pelase hear me out im cooking i swear guys ple

[xobloodletter]

trying to not say 'mother' for a whole minute challenge or whatever the kids do these days

[royaltea000]

He’s like the worlds shittiest Madonna to me

[razables]

“Maes Hughes is dead. that’s a fact.”

[thejeangreysummers]

SUMMER IN NOVEMBER | simon x afab reader

warnings: making out, touching, shared shower time but no smut yet. traumatized simon with negative self worth post near death experience, reader is not in the military by choice, dubcon regarding tits if you squint, and possessive simon. (not proofread we die like men ig)

Simon loves the desperation in your first kiss, you kiss him through the mask clumsily with your arms around his neck. For the first time his reflexes loose their rigidity as he barely closes his eyes as you’re pulling away. Flushed, shamefaced, mumbling thank god you’re safe and turning away.

Simon tugs you by the wrist, it’s not a request by the way he’s studying you. You’re ready for the lecture about professionalism or a comment about how you’re old enough to know better than to pull a stunt like this. He’s never barked at you the way he does with the team. Never complains when you sit in his chair, doesn’t say anything when you drink out of his mug, and when you go out he’s paying your tab before you can touch it.

This will be the breaking point, the last time he tolerates you, now he’s going to tell you to go fuck yourself for sure. He tells you to close your eyes and you’re ready for him to scream at you bracing yourself not to cry.

Ghost kisses you roughly, sucking on your bottom lip, demanding you open yourself to him. In seconds he has you against the wall caging you in as he sucks on your neck, it’s better than the wet dreams you’ve been having with just this one kiss. All your nerve ending ache for him and you’re squirming, Simon pulls away eyes wide.

He’s still got blood tainted on his uniform, his hands have gunpowder residue — who is he to kiss you? You deserve more than a single night of him fucking you until you can’t stand. You don’t belong amongst all this carnage. You don’t belong with him.

Yet, you’re pulling him by his collar cradling his face in your small hands, kissing him again, softer like you’re sipping on his mouth, savoring it until he leaves again. Simon doesn’t want to share you with the wraith inside him, he wants all your sunlight to soak into him instead.

He lets you tug him to the infirmary, watches you re-reading the patient portal notes on your phone while walking to his room. When he complains, you silence his smart ass comments about his injuries when you slide into his lap. You curl into him like a cat searching for warmth, praise, and petting. He keens at your attention, your excessive worry, and your newfound display of affection. Wondering if after tonight you’ll come to your senses and never make him tea in the middle of the night again. He could make you beg for his mouth, but he can’t make you love him.

Simon leans into you as you set up a shower for him palming at your waist, digging his fingers into your hips, hovering over the button of your cargo pants. He lets you undress him just in his boxers and balaclava, you press a shaky kiss to the middle of his chest promising to wait for him in the bedroom. For the first time Simon doesn’t want to be alone, he catches himself asking you to join him in the shower. He doesn’t want to fuck you in the shower, he just wants you stay, but he doesn’t know how to justify the yearning he’s been holding for you. You don’t complicate things for him, just let him unzip your pants and unhook your bra. In the shower you stand away from the stream of hot water, gently scrubbing the sweat and exhaustion off his skin. You look away from his half hard cock as you run a washcloth over his calves, after doting on him you press a kiss to his cloth covered mouth. You gently trace the seam of his mask and tell him you’re leaving so he wash his intimates. Simon emerges out the steamy shower to a warm towel and neatly folded night clothes beside a clean balaclava with its signature skull.

That night your hands don’t linger down to his waist, you let him lay his head on your chest, you scratch down his upper back until you fall asleep. You never ask him for more than he’s willing to give, you’re so innocently interrupting the hardened exterior he presents, and you’re too naive to know he wanted you from the minute you looked up at him.

Simon needs one minute with his bare face against your tits. He knows from carrying you home after a drink turns to two, you’re affectionate until you’re fighting sleep you can’t be stirred. He knows you wouldn’t deny him this if you were awake. He’s slipping off the mask nuzzling his face against your tits into the curve of your neck until he’s on top of you leaning his forehead against yours and barely kissing your mouth.

He slips on his mask again, unwilling to let you see him vying for your love, waiting for your praise. He’s leaves the bed, wondering if he should pretend this night never happened, when you’re calling out his name in your sleep. Simon returns to the bed as you’re gasping for air, you heave with sobs as he pulls you into his chest. You’re begging him not to die, not to disappear, not to abandon you.

“I love you, you can’t leave.”

For the first time in the years he’s known you, something emerges that is unyielding— more than a watery sob this is a practically a prayer. Your wish may be more than you bargained for, but you belong to him now. If you’ll take him as he is sharp teeth, crooked, and scarred he must find a way to live with himself. One day you’ll know that you’re the first to have touched his broken nose, scarred cupid’s bow, and uneven shave. He wasn’t held like this even when he was a child, but you’re holding onto him for dear life and you love him.

The way you see through everyone extends past human understanding, you’re both paranormal in your own ways. You’re a collection of colorful persistent oddities, your curious consumptions forced you into this line of business. Your mistakes is his dumb luck, he’s claiming your love as his prize. You’re too pretty a bird to stay in these barracks, kept in this cage, consumed by all this corruption. After everything his atonement will be keeping you safe. Men may change, but the self serving nature of ghosts linger. The prospect of spoiling you rotten, earning your smile, and making you whimper his name will be his own pleasures one day.

[sentientcave]

Fuck-ass Mohawk

Contains: Alcohol, smoking (cigarettes and cannabis), Soap being Soap, Ghost being Ghost, uninvited touching, tall fem reader

Short little thing about Johnny liking it a bit when you're a bitch to him (And Ghost likes it too)

868 Words ~ MDNI

You’d rather stay home and play board games, but Laurie had convinced everyone that it was a good night for clubbing. You hated clubs— The noise, the crowds, the smell of sweat and alcohol and hormones— and spent the better part of club nights standing outside chain-smoking, or crammed into a dirty bathroom stall holding back a friend’s hair as she threw up blue curacao because she didn’t listen to you when you told her to eat dinner before going out. Tonight didn’t look like it was going to end up with anyone puking their guts up, at least. Laurie’s flirting with a gorgeous hunk with a devastating smile, and Alex and Hannah are dancing, so you go out the side door into the alley for some fresh air. Or air, anyway, since the alley’s where folks go to smoke. You light a joint, because at least that will dull the effect that the sound is having on your head. It’s getting close to midnight, which at least means the night is almost over, so long as someone doesn’t drag you along to some weirdo’s house. “Hey, wha’s a bonnie thing like ye doin’ out here all alone?” A voice purrs in your ear. You jump, surprised that he could get so close with out you noticing him, especially once you turn and really look at him. He’s huge, not that tall, probably your height when you’re not wearing boots (You have about an inch and a half on him in your shit-kickers), but broad and way more muscled than anyone has any reason to be, wrapped in a too-tight shirt, and smiling at you, bright blue eyes fixed on yours with unnerving intensity. He pats your shoulder. “Didnae mean to scare ye, lass, just wanted to say hello.” You take a big step to the side, establishing a new bubble of personal space without him in it. “Well, hello,” you say dismissively. “Goodbye.” There’s a snort from a few meters away, a big fellow with a kn95 mask dangling on one ear, his hand up in front of his face, a cigarette clamped between his fingers. “Och, dinnae be like tha’, hen.” “Don’t like it?” you ask, glaring at him. “Go away. Plenty of girls in there’ll go for whatever all this is.” A sweeping, unimpressed glance from his boots and ripped jeans up to his stupid mohawk would usually do the trick, but it only made this fellow smile wider. “No’ enough fer ya? I can sweeten tha deal some. The big fella doesnae mind sharin’ a sweet lass with me noo and again. There’s plenty of ye ta go around.” “Johnny,” the big fellow in question says sternly. His mask is back in place, covering the lower half of his face. “Dun’t look like she’s interested.”

“Tha’s where you’re wrong, LT. She just doesna want to admit it. Hen’s got pride. Wants to make me work for it, right lass?” He winks at you. “No. Don’t like your fuck-ass mohawk.” You puff on your joint, keeping your face still while he splutters, indignant. “Fuck-ass mohawk?” he asks. “What do ye mean by tha’?” “I mean it looks like you have a contentious relationship with your father,” you say. Maybe you’re being a bit mean, but it’s always fun to take a cocky fucker down a peg or two. “I don’t fuck with men with daddy issues. Most of ‘em are cops or military lads.” The big guy— LT?— laughs aloud at that while Johnny’s still looking at you with his mouth hanging open. The side door opens, and your friends pile out, Laurie arm in arm with her hunk, and Hannah and Alex clinging to handsome fellows of their own. “There you are,” Laurie says. “We’re going back to Hannah’s. Are you coming?” “Uh. I guess.” Laurie beams at you, and looks up at her hunk. “Kyle, do you need to find your friends?” “Nah. These lads right here.” He gestures at Johnny and LT. with a grin. “Knew Ghost would be out here, and Soap’s always followin’ him around like the big puppy he is.” “Ah’m no’!” You fall into step at the rear of the group. You’ll probably head home rather than join them, but Hannah’s flat is on the way to your own. Johnny and his handler flank you, matching your stride when you slow down or speed up. Annoying. “So what, is the big guy your replacement daddy?” you ask. “Wha— No!” Johnny says hotly. “He’s just my lieutenant.” “Could be your daddy, if you like,” Ghost says, putting a heavy hand on the back of your neck. “Got a thing for caustic little cunts.” “Oh fuck off,” you say, trying to shove his hand off. His grip squeezes a little tighter, and you try to ignore the way that core clenches around nothing. You channel the heat into anger, and dig your nails into his wrist hard. “Don’t fucking touch me.” He grunts, but doesn’t seem all that affected by your claws. “Look at you, ‘issin’ and spittin’ like a puffed up alley cat. S’cute. But save it for later, eh? Don’t want you to tire yourself out too early.”

[gordon-freeman-phd]

"hey shephard, i managed to sneak some cubans for deployment, sure you dont wanna share?"

a quick 50 min drawing before bed ^-^

[shadefish]

March Of Robots Lancer Edition

Day 10

Half-Track Lancaster

ooo cool links you wanna click on to support me

[temeyes]

i miss my daughter, so i drew her :^)

[callmegaith]

I wanna thank @dennifreeman for taking me through the definition of insanity (dying over and over again to a poisonous cloud of cheese) at 3AM while we fail to deliver pizza after banananrey and gordon freakman quit their job at black mesa (regrettably please black mesa take us back the cheese nightmares won't end)

[bitchfitch]

Fewer women than men enlisted, then only a handful of those women made it through the gauntlet of machismo that stood between them and real valor. Of those that did, next to none of them got promoted up the ranks or into the jobs so specialized and classified that they didn't get official titles.

Zephyr had been aware of this aspect of his workplace, but had never really thought much of it because it simply did not concern him.

It meant he got the odd jobs that had him flying out to exotic places and talking pretty while draped in a moderate income's worth of jewelry and high end fashion, even though women were always the most effective in this sub-field of subtle swaying.

He liked the term "influencer" to describe their line of work, and that was what he told people his job was, but the official term was technically, less-sexily, "psyop."

The lack of women in his immediate circle of coworkers never really stuck out as a failure of the system, it benefited him just fine, until he was stood outside a modest suburban home in the exurbs of Iowa.

The first wave of super soldiers were begining to be retired, and someone miles further up the command chain than Zephyr seemed to have finally had to face the consequences of making a weapon no one could destroy. That, or, this had always been the plan.

Once the things were obsolete, put them behind a white picket fence in ass-nowhere and stick an operative with the job of teaching the murder machines how to live that apple pie life.

It was a stupid enough idea for it to have always been the plan.

The only evidence that it wasn't always the plan was that when the day finally came for the first Andromeda Class Soldier to go home, there was not a Single woman with the right clearances, temperament, availability, lack of a family or friends that would notice her disappearance, and who had a willingness to be spayed, to take up the mantle of Faux-Bride of Frankenstein

Instead there was just Zephyr, who, in the words of his handler, "Was close enough."

He was supposed to be in Bali, but instead He's In Fucking Iowa, because the actual U.S. government didn't think to neuter their science experiment before making it bomb proof.

"Seething" was the only word to describe his mood as he walked down the stepping stone path to a porch that looked like something out of a stock photo.

Perfectly painted with two rocking chairs and a potted ivy, it would be cute were Zephyr's handler were not staining it with his presence.

Elton stood from one of the rockers and demonstrated his one impressive talent as he greeted Zephyr: His ability to look down his nose at someone nearly a full head taller than him.

"Zephyr."

"Elton," he responded coolly. They had ranks, technically, but neither of them typically cared to cast that kind of respect on the other. Especially not when they weren't even using their real names. "I'm looking for someone. Big guy, fugly. Seen it?"

"Your beautiful bride is just inside," Elton held out a cartoonish looking journal to him. "Here's everything you need to know for its care and keeping."

Zephyr took the book in hand, he didn't bother to ask who decided it should be pink and furry with ugly sequins and glitter that was already making Zephyr itch. He knew Elton had probably taken great pride in designing this "diary" himself.

"Hm hm, Give me the TLDR," he dropped it into the small backpack of personal belongings he was being allowed to bring into this mess.

"It's got super soldier dementia. Sad really. It's still in prime physical condition but something went wrong with a reprogramming and now it's bunk. According to the file, it gets confused. Old programs come back online or it's current one breaks so badly it has to revert to those shreds to stop itself going catatonic.

"There's no helping it and no putting it down, so it's your problem. The lab guys stripped out every memory and scrap of programming they could, so it should be a sponge of a blank slate for you to do your manipulations on."

"Everything?" Zephyr quirked a brow. He didn't know if he should be made eager by the limitless potential in making a man from nothing, or intimidated by the vast number of ways he could fuck this up.

"Everything. The higher powers want to see if you can make it into anything useful, and if you can't, then if it's able to adapt to being it's own person."

"Understood," he slung his backpack over his shoulder, "Last question - What are my off hours?"

"It's a temporary and highly sensitive post. You don't get any."

"Elton."

"Don't whine. You'll survive at least a year."

"No I won't. If I'm still 24/7 in three months time I'm killing us both," Zephyr shoulders pass him, not because Elton was in the way, but because Zephyr was hoping it'd knock him down the steps.

"It's a fucking super soldier- You're not killing it," he watches down his nose as Zephyr grabs the keys that are in the lock and opens the door to his new prison.

"Oh," he sneers as he backs through the door "I was Not talking about We as in it and I."

Closing the door in Elton's face was almost satisfying enough to make this situation worth it.

[fauvester]

THE PRINCES OF THE NORTH!

i thought my little moshang kid could benefit from a baby brother

[nechestiv]

HL fanart from 2021

[rcmclachlan]

Trademark: Top-tier Bucktommy writer + generally Cool + getting Buck pregnant

Thank you + thank you + thank you!

[deltoidlover]

my first drawing since turning 20 B) their asses are so heavy