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All of Incense Holdy's iDEATH camp entries!!!
#incense holdy#object oc#object original character#incense holdy uses she/they#object camp#object camp entries#object camp entry#osc#object show#object show community#object show art#my art#they got eliminated kinda early OOPS
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STRIXEL 1-1: SAILING OVERHEAD
(Prompt: Decide what "RIV" stands for.)
(This is an entry for the object camp "RIV!" More info here.)
CREDITS:
Characters In Order of Appearance D0GMA: riviewmonster Cameras: bunnieswithknives Limbs: limbslimbslimbs Ghost: rivshaunted charloie block: princesable Assets Used Wario Land 4 Baseball Minigame Wario Land 4 Sound Test GUI (from Spriters Resource user Dirge)
#my art#riv camp#strixel#object camp#putting entries on here for now! if i make a camp account ill upload stuff over there. first one goes here though so ppl can see >:-]
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This is your fault
#Ive been inspried to just paint and have fun :)#didnt really have a plan here nothing particularly significant to the last entry other than the quote#just wanted to have fun with shapes and paterns#electric remains#object camp#object shows#object oc#objectshow#osc art#osc#dne er
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ONE But I Host It, S5 Challenge 1: "Find a Place for the Replacements"
[Audio jumpscare at 0:10]
this is the probably the most bizarre object camp entry ive done so far LOL
very fun!
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whee i'm thinking about object camps again... i've been in one before but it got cancelled after two challenges so i'm still pretty new to the whole thing!! and there are still some things i'm wondering about...
first of all, my entry in an object camp would likely not only involve my character -- how does one go about writing other folks' characters? would it be best to ask permission before doing so? normally character submissions have a little something about their personality, but i can't guarantee that i would stay true to the creator's intent either way...
to that end, how does canon work in object camps? different entries for the same challenge have different storylines involving groups of characters, meaning that the exact actions taken by a certain character will be inconsistent within a single challenge. is the canon fluid? i've seen story and character development within all of the entries created by a single individual, but i can't tell exactly how those would interact with the entries of other folks (which likely have their own ongoing stories and character development).
also i'd really love to participate in another object camp, so if anyone has any tips, suggestions, or recommendations, i'd be happy to hear them!! thanks!!! :)
#melonposting#currently reading harmie's daisy bell entries... they're so inspiring.....#i had a great experience with the object camp i participated in (qfafs -- quest for a fruit smoothie) and i'd like to do that again!!#it's also a great way to play with any random object ocs i have haha
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started watching di gi charat with friends and i cant believe ive been sleeping on kino. genuinely insane show it hits all the right parts of my brain Oml im a little envious i wish i had the ability to come up with the stuff that happens in these episodes
#Explain in object cmap terms#ok so imagine a show where every episode is an object camp entry#its cocomelon to me.
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I can feel the hyperfixation ending 💔
or maybe thats just today who knows
#I just hate how my art looks#I'll do more drawings after I finish an object show camp entry#I wish I had friends to hyperfixate with 😔#all I wanna draw is ship art and it makes me feel cringy 🥲#the other thing I like to draw is wholesome not biological family moments or angst and thats it#watching more old vids cuz the videos from the past 2 months has been really boring#SML
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"do you.. uhmm like it?-"
an entry for a camp !! :>
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I made this for a camp entry but I actually love it so much I can't get over it
You eat that rock! Go creature go!
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The Only Truth... | Part One
The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist
John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader
While your journeys are very different, fate brings both you and Major John Egan to Stalag VIIA in Moosburg, Germany.
Warnings: Language, Angst, Descriptions of Aerial Combat and Plane Crash, Reader Injury (2nd Degree Burns), Death, Blood, Gore, Angst, John Egan Injury, Forced March, Hospital Setting, POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.
Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.
Word Count: 7531
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January 8, 1945
A cacophony of thunderous explosions and shrieking metal shredded your restful state where you lay perched on the bottom stretcher in the back of a C-47, desperately trying to recover from the routine 0400 wake-up that came on mission days before your arrival at the advance airfield where some eighteen wounded men would come under your care. As the plane lurched and shuddered again, you bolted upright, cracking your head on the middle stretcher above you with a sharp expletive as the rows of jerry cans that you had helped load to fight off pre-flight jitters rattled against the floor where they were strapped down.
You had never experienced flak before. You had trained for the possibility of it at the School of Air Evacuation in Bowman Field, Kentucky, but the reality of it was something entirely different. Watching pinpricks of daylight appear through the alarmingly thin skin of the aircraft flooded your mouth with the bitter taste of adrenaline, your heart pounding violently as it prepared to fight or flee – but given that you were thousands of feet in the air, neither of those options were really available to you. Scrambling to your feet, you stumbled along the narrow path between the supplies that had been crammed onto the plane to be left at the front, to be traded for wounded patients on landing, and tried to get to the nose of the plane. Tried to get to cockpit where Major Roy and Captain Mercer were, pilot and co-pilot – the senior officers. They would surely know what to do.
Grateful for the decision to add your sheepskin flight jacket and gloves to your uniform of olive drab jacket and slacks with shirt and tie, a garrison cap pinned onto your sensibly styled hair, you still felt a shiver run through you despite the added warmth as you neared the radioman Warren and the brand new, baby-faced navigator Schmidt. With brown eyes wide as saucers and freckles splattered haphazardly across his face, you would not have believed the boy to be a day over fifteen. Given the fact that the plane had wandered into the range of enemy guns, your suspicions were growing all the more likely. Turning to see the back of your surgical technician, Fitzgibbons, blocking the entry into cockpit, you were about to tap his shoulder when a shower of wet, hot viscera splattered across you from the left – the only trace of Warren that remained, as a ragged hole in the fuselage now replaced his radio operator’s position.
You were vaguely aware of someone screaming, not realizing the haunting and horrified noise was emanating from your throat until Fitzgibbons grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you firmly.
“Lieutenant!” He shouted, seemingly exasperated with you. “Are you hurt?!”
Snapping your mouth shut, you smeared your hands across your face and down your body, shaking your head as the acrid smell of fuel flooded your nostrils, returning your senses to you. You quickly looked to Schmidt on your right, worried he might have been in the line of fire, and frowned to see him trying to yank a sizeable piece of metal from his shoulder.
“No, don’t!” You shouted firmly and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall above him, quickly padding the penetrating object with gauze and wrapping it, finding the purpose and procedure of it steadying. “It’ll keep the bleeding slow, ok? Keep it in, Schmitty.” You offered what you hoped was a reassuring smile, but with the remnants of Warren, mixed with the contents of the fuel tanks, splattered across you, who was to say what image you presented in that moment.
“It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault Ma’am, we shouldn’t even be here, got lost in the clouds an…” He began to blubber, and the plane shuddered and lurched again as Mercer tried banking out of the hail of flak, fairly dumping you into his lap.
“Easy now, easy…” You cleared your throat as it began to burn with irritation, lifting your head to see smoke billowing in from the hole in the fuselage.
“That’s it, we’re bailing out!” Roy yelled from the cockpit as he hit the bailout bell and Fitzgibbons quickly collected your parachutes, but you insisted on sending Schmidt down the aisle and out the door behind the wing first, given that he was injured.
“You know what to do Schmitty, try not to land on that shoulder.” You nodded firmly as you strapped your parachute on, fumbling slightly due to shaking hands and your thick gloves, but the repetition during your training paid off with your eventual success.
“Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded before seeming to vanish out the side of the plane.
“Sergeant.” You turned to Fitzgibbons, but he shook his head.
“You may outrank me Ma’am but you’re still a lady.” He muttered stubbornly, gesturing insistently toward the door.
“Get a move on!” Came Mercer’s impatient cry from the now-distant cockpit and you glared at Fitzgibbons.
The smoke that had been curling around you ignited then, a wall of flame licking through the air, fixing to separate Fitzgibbons from the door. A look of pure terror crossed his face – in a plane loaded with fuel, carrying dozens of jerry cans and tanks of oxygen, fire was certain death. Gripping the doorframe tightly with your right hand, you flung your left forward in advance of the encroaching, fierce heat, somewhat protected by the leather you wore, though the searing pain on your wrist assured you the flames had still found a way through. Grasping the surgical technician by the collar, you yanked him toward you just before the oppressive wall of fire sealed off the front half of the plane, checking that he nor his parachute were alight before shoving him out the door. You did not wait long to follow him.
Tears were streaming down your cheeks as the sleeve of your jacket was smoldering, the leather hardening and shrinking, the fleece on the inside trapping agonizing heat against your flesh. But your first priority was gravity. Yanking on the ripcord, you cried out at the sharp jolt from your midsection as the parachute caught the air and flung you upward before you began a gentle descent. Then you were able to begin frantically smacking at your coat, trying in vain to stop further injury. But it was not the leather itself that was burning, rather the fuel that coated the surface of it, and it refused to be put out. You had to get the damn thing off.
At last the disorienting cloud gave way to mercifully flat Italian farmland, the ground rushing up to meet your feet. You punched the harness free from your chest, yanking off your gloves, and wrestling free of your coat before stumbling forward toward the sound of a nearby stream, collapsing onto your chest to submerge the screaming flesh of your arm into the icy water. The relief of it drew a soft sob from your throat. The sliver of skin that had been exposed between your sleeve and glove was already starting to blister, would surely scar. You could not see the rest of your forearm trapped beneath your uniform sleeve, but it might have faired somewhat better.
You could have happily lay there for all of eternity, numbing the agonized nerve endings in your arm, but the sharp press of a rifle muzzle between your shoulder blades brought an abrupt end to your moment of bliss.
“Up.” A sharp command was issued in an angry, accented voice and you carefully, if awkwardly, raised up onto your knees with your hands in the air, turning to face the man.
The German soldier’s eyes widened, and his jaw hung slightly open for a moment, his shock more than evident as you revealed yourself to be a woman, before a hardened mask fell over his features once more. He gestured sharply with his rifle for you to rise to your feet and you were quick to obey. He stepped forward, reaching out as if to search you and then stopped, once again looking to your face.
You had read a pamphlet once, on what to do if you were captured. At the time, the situation had seemed utterly preposterous and unlikely, but standing face to face with a German solider in the middle of occupied Italy, you were suddenly grateful you remember something of what to do. You gave him your name followed by,
“Second lieutenant. N-741432.”
“Leutnant?” He muttered, nose crinkling, but his gaze moved to the gold butter bar on first your right shoulder and then your left, the second lieutenant’s insignia. His eyes narrowed further to see the silver wings on your left breast with the prominent N denoting your status as a Flight Nurse. “Schwester…”
The first bit of German was easy to extrapolate, sounded very much like the English version of your rank, but the second sounded like ‘sister’ more than anything else and you were not entirely certain what he was trying to communicate. He seemed finished with the conversation when he motioned to the left with his rifle.
“Go.”
And so you went, keeping your arms raised despite the arching protest of the left, past the still-smoldering remains of your flight jacket and your gloves, past your parachute tumbling across the field on the icy breeze, towards a group of two more German soldiers who seemed equally shocked as your face came into view. You supposed the slacks and loose fit of your jacket made it difficult from a distance to determine that you were a woman, but each of them was quick to smother their reactions as soon as they were revealed. One of the new fellows, so blond he barely had eyebrows, motioned for you to drop your hands and you were barely able to conceal your pain in doing so.
A flurry of Germany left his lips, making your eyebrows furrow in confusion before he gestured at the wet sleeve of your jacket. “Hurt?”
Nodding emphatically, you swallowed, pulling the fabric up slightly to reveal some of the blistered skin. The three men turned to one another, and a rather heated debate ensued, or at least that was the impression you gleaned from their tones of voice and body language, before the loudest among them seemed to prevail.
“You, come, medic.” He grasped your uninjured elbow and led you through the field on a slightly different vector toward a semi-ruined barn where several German soldiers were receiving treatment.
A soldier bearing a white armband with the Geneva cross came over when your guide beckoned and after their brief exchange, gestured for you to take a seat on an old barrel. Taking a pair of scissors, the medic carefully cut through your jacket and shirt, revealing angry, blistered skin all the way up to your elbow. Very gently, your arm was bandaged before he offered you a couple of pills that you did not recognize, and you refused them with a soft shake of the head. He shrugged and tucked them back into his pocket.
“Go, schwester.”
You frowned and pointed at yourself. “Schwester?”
The medic nodded and pointed to your golden nurse’s Caduceus insignias pinned to the lower lapels of your jacket and your eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, nurse.” You muttered quietly and stood. “Thank you.” Nodding to the medic, you followed the soldier out of the farmhouse as you rolled up the ruined ends of your sleeves to keep them from flapping obnoxiously.
What followed was a seemingly endless amount of walking, your entire body beginning to shake with cold and shock, as the soldier sought out his commanding officer. Everything felt surreal, the sound of battle so close at hand, German soldiers all around you, casting repetitive glances your way – it felt as though you had stumbled into the wrong side of a John Wayne film. When, at last, you plodded into the correct house on the outskirts of a small village, you were unspeakably grateful for the fire roaring in the hearth behind the desk of the imposing German officer who glared down his nose at you.
“Too bad you’re a woman…” He muttered in startlingly good English, making it your turn to look on in shock as your legs threatened to give out. “I suppose you also only know name, rank, serial number?”
Clenching your jaw, you nodded stubbornly, trying not to let your face betray the way your heart lurched hopefully at the word ‘also’ and he exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “You can put the contents of your pockets in here.” He held out a small burlap sack and you frowned, but obediently surrendered your favorite tube of lipstick, the four spare hairpins you always carried around, and your change purse – things all stored in your uniform jacket as you found the pockets of the flight jacket too unreliable for storage anyway. Satisfied you were carrying nothing more, he nodded to the man behind you and issued an order in German.
It was difficult to convince your legs into motion again as you were led down to a grimy root cellar with a dirt floor and only one window letting in little light. You had never seen a more welcome sight in your entire life as Schmidt and Mercer lifted their faces to meet you, their equally grimy and worn-out but elated expressions quickly blurring behind tears of relief that mortifyingly flooded your eyes. Dabbing them away, you quickly moved to Schmidt’s side and frowned to see he still had the remnants of your hasty bandage job and the piece of shrapnel in place, seemingly not afforded the same medical care you had been.
“Shit, Schmitty, they didn’t do a thing for you did they.” Kneeling beside him you began to unravel the bandages and gauze. “This needs to come out, then. Captain, would you mind holding him still, sir?”
“I’ve got him.” He nodded and grabbed the boy’s hands as you took a steadying breath.
Wrapping your fingers around the protruding end of the warped, jagged piece of metal, you began to carefully pull it from his shoulder, angling it forward as an uneven, wider piece was revealed on the end. Schmidt did an admirable job of relegating his protests to whimpers and murmurs of ‘oh god,’ only letting out one great yelp as you pulled the last of it free. You would have preferred to flush the wound with something, but there was no water available. Encouragingly, though, there was no great gush of blood.
“You did so good, Schmitty.” You smiled broadly and frowned a moment at the filthy bandages you had removed from him before beginning to unravel the relatively clean ones from your own arm.
“M…Ma’am!” He protested, voice cracking as he saw the state of your skin.
“You’re at much higher risk of infection than me, Sergeant, I won’t take any argument.”
“I don’t suppose I have any say in this?” Captain Mercer arched one of his rather elegant, black eyebrows and you swallowed.
“I’m sorry sir, but not when it comes to medical treatment. Besides, they went out of their way to bandage me once, maybe they’ll do it again.” You muttered and tied off the dressing on Schmidt. “Let me know if it gets hot or more painful, ok?”
He nodded quickly, settling back against the wall and you followed suit, feeling quite fatigued, sore, and to your surprise, hungry. Resting your throbbing arm atop your knee, you leaned your head back against the bricks of the foundation, closing your eyes to listen to the scuff of jackboots across the floorboards above you. Your mind wanted to whirl like a top, to turn questions over and over like ‘Where are we?’ ‘What will they do with us?’ ‘How long will they keep us down here?’ ‘Where are Fitz and Roy?’ but it would just be a waste of energy. Your fate was no longer in your hands and what would happen next would come no matter how hard you dwelt upon it.
The sound of the door at the top of the stairs scraping across the worn floor had all three of your heads snapping up as three sets of feet tromped down into the cellar. It was difficult to hold back your smile as Fitzgibbons peered out from between two German soldiers, the first gesturing for him to join you all on the floor while the other set down a tin plate of thick slices of dark bread covered with thin smears of margarine and four mugs of bitter smelling, black coffee. The first soldier crouched down and pointed at your arm, speaking in German.
“I needed bandages.” You pointed at Schmidt, and he frowned, either not understanding, or unimpressed. Perhaps both.
He straightened with a huff before digging around in his woolen jacket to produce a thick, rectangular bundle, tossing it at you. The two of them then retreated upstairs, shutting the door firmly behind them. Fitzgibbons was on you almost immediately, grasping the folded bandage to unravel it curiously.
“This does not look good, Lieutenant.” He looked at your arm pointedly and you huffed.
“Schmitty was worse off, Fitz, needs must.” You muttered but held out your arm without further protest as he quickly familiarized himself with the foreign bandage and carefully wrapped as much of your burn as he could.
“Thank you for what you did, Ma’am.” He murmured, voice barely audible, and you shook your head quickly.
“You’d have done the same.”
He lifted his eyes to meet yours, gaze filled with a vulnerable uncertainty, and you squeezed his shoulder with your free hand.
“Let’s eat something you two.” Mercer chimed in once he had finished bandaging you and the four of you descended on the plate of food, which tasted a lot better than it appeared. The coffee was just as bitter as it smelled, but was hot and that was entirely welcome.
After the plate was emptied, Fitzgibbons looked to Mercer slowly. “Roy?”
The Captain shook his head and you swallowed your gulp of coffee painfully – of the six of you that had left the airstrip outside Rome that morning only four had made it. Two of you were injured, and your journey had most certainly only just begun now that you were captives of the German army.
As the slim shaft of light that penetrated the cellar began to fade, your companions were fetched one by one for individual questioning by the German officer who had greeted you upon your arrival. When it at last came to your turn, the sun was well set, and though you tried to pay more attention to the detail of the rustic country house, it was hard to pick out much in the low light of the sporadically placed candles.
There was a chair waiting for you opposite the desk this time and you sank into it gratefully, every muscle in your body tight with pain as it felt distinctly like someone was rubbing sandpaper over your superheated flesh with every movement you made.
“I’m terribly sorry about your radioman and pilot, must have been horribly shocking to see such things. What a terrible day you’ve endured Lieutenant.”
Shifting quietly in your chair, you shook your head as he offered a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes – surely confiscated from one of your crew members as they were not so readily available in occupied Italy.
“Is there anything I can get you to ease your discomfort? Blankets? A coat? More bandages?”
Pressing your lips together in a thin line you dropped your gaze to your lap, focusing on filling your lungs to a count of three before slowly exhaling, then repeating the process. Each offer of comfort, each word of kindness was horridly tempting and yet the source also filled you with revulsion.
“It’s a far cry from Lido De Roma where you’re going, no beaches or sea air…” Your head jerked up in shock and a slow, devious smile curled onto the German officer’s thin lips as his mention of the 802nd Medical Air Evacuation Squadron’s posting finally garnered a reaction from you. “I hope you like the Alps, Lieutenant. You will see them on your way by.”
Tears of shame pricked the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them away furiously, looking to the side. Slamming his leather-clad palms flat onto the desk, you jumped and eyed him warily as he stood slowly. “If you have nothing of value to add, then?”
Inhaling slowly you repeated your name, rank, and serial number one last time – much to his ire – before he barked out an order to have you removed from the warmth of his office and returned to the cellar. This process was repeated several times at random intervals throughout the night, the four of you taking turns resting and watching for the unfriendly arrival of an errand boy soldier to haul you upstairs for another ‘chat’ with their English-speaking officer. Sometimes he was friendly, other times he was intimidating. Once he simply sat opposite you in the near-dark and glowered.
Eventually, time or patience ran out and just as the grey light of dawn began to permeate the misty winter morning, the four of you were marched as a group up the stairs and loaded into the back of a canvas-covered truck partially filled with crates. Wedging yourselves into what open spaces you could find, you had barely sat down before the vehicle lurched into motion and began its long and jolting ride to your next destination. The sun was much higher in the sky by the time you arrived at a small train station, emerging into midday, the mists long burned away. Herded across the tracks towards a cattle car, you were startled to see a group of other American soldiers – infantrymen, being loaded in.
“Up.” Came the command from the German soldier at your back and you reached up gratefully for the broad hand of corporal already in the car who helped hoist you inside.
“How the heck did you wind up here?! Ma’am…” He quickly tacked on, and you could not help but laugh a little at the bewildered expression on his face, shuffling further into the car as the last of your comrades were loaded in.
“Well the long and the short of it is, we ran into a bit of trouble during our flight…”
Captain Mercer scoffed as he came to stand behind you. “You could say that again, Lieutenant.”
The space was suddenly plunged into darkness as the door was slid shut and barred closed. You nearly toppled over as the train jostled forward, thanking Fitzgibbons as he steadied you. You embarked on a seemingly endless journey in darkness as the train ascended and descended, stopped and started, climbed and came down across unknown landscape. It was nigh impossible to see through the thin gaps between the slats of the car itself, but you knew from your ‘conversations’ with the officer that you were crossing the Alps. Could feel the air grow cold as you huddled closer to the men around you for what warmth you could glean as your breath hung from your lips in foggy exhales.
Your bladder ached until you could no longer deny needing to use the squalid bucket in the corner. Mercer, Fitzgibbons, and Schmidt formed a human wall with their backs to you, loudly clearing their throats as you took quite possibly the longest piss in the history of womankind. With that basic need met, the ravening hunger set in. Those slices of bread were long digested by the time the train came to a stop and disgorged the lot of you, blinking into the daylight like mole-people, squinting for signage.
“Moosburg.” Mercer muttered under his breath, and you hugged your arms tightly around yourself as you stumbled through the snow to form two lines as instructed by new soldiers whose uniforms sported the double lightning symbol of the SS.
You would had never thought it possible to envy a dead man, but standing there shivering in the snow as cruel-faced men in well-cut uniforms marched up and down the lines with their snarling dogs, you wondered if perhaps it would not have been better if that piece of flak had taken you out at the same time it had struck Warren. You were not entirely certain if you were strong enough for what was to come.
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April 11, 1945
Every step was an agony. It was remarkable, really, how many injuries two goons had managed to inflict on Bucky’s body in the brief moments between Buck’s escape and Lieutenant Colonel Clark’s intervention. At least two of his ribs were cracked by the butt of that rifle, severely hampering his ability to breathe properly. Then there had been the sharp kick to the back of his calf, wrenching his knee. The coupe-de-grace had been the left hook to his jaw, shredding the inside of his lower lip across his teeth and flooding his mouth with blood. If Clark had not called them off with the threat of riot, Bucky was not entirely sure he would have made it out of that village.
As it was, he had barely made it off the floor of the church the next night, requiring a great deal of prodding from DeMarco. Teeth gritted against the raw ache in every limb, every joint, he had risen to his feet through sheer force of will, knowing the alternative was a bullet to the brain. Somehow even though Buck was well on his way back to the American lines – by god he truly hoped so – Bucky could not face the thought of disappointing him by dying like that and so he had persisted. Had kept putting one foot in front of the other as they had trudged through the mud, crossing the Danube, putting another twenty kilometres between them and Nuremberg.
It had not made it any easier to keep up, however. Bucky had felt himself slowing, felt his body refusing to keep pace with the rest of the men. Every time he had lifted his eyes from the boots of those in front of him plodding through the endless muck, he had been surrounded by different faces. As he had neared the back of the group, lightheaded from pain and lack of oxygen, he had taken a second glance as he realized the faces around him were those of Brady, Cruikshank, DeMarco, Murphy, and Hamilton – all men from the Hundredth. All had been keeping pace with him.
“We’re almost at 20, Bucky.” Brady had murmured quietly under his breath, glancing back at the pair of goons bringing up the rear.
“Keep it up.” Cruikshank had nodded encouragingly.
By some miracle he had made it into the half-collapsed warehouse, crawling into a corner that was still partially covered by its patchy roof and had promptly fallen asleep. There had been a gentle prodding against his shoulder sometime later, daylight filtering in through the dust motes drifting thickly in the air and an offering of bread had been waved in front of his face. He had pushed it away clumsily before falling back asleep. Bucky’s next return to consciousness had been with his arms slung across the shoulders of DeMarco and Brady, a great amount of protest falling from their lips about the size of him.
It had been dark again. Darkness meant more walking and so he had awkwardly planted his feet. Relieved sighs had filled his ears from both his companions as the three of them worked together to propel him out of there and down the muddy road. Night had yielded to the hazy light of dawn and at last a sea of barbed wire fences, clapboard buildings and canvas tents came into view. Bucky had quite honestly never been so pleased to see a Stalag in his entire existence.
“Almost there.” Groaned Hamilton, who had since switched off with DeMarco, though the stalwart Brady had yet to budge from beneath his right arm.
As they stepped through the gates into the main courtyard, Bucky lifted his head to eye Clark blearily. “Guess they’re not gonna process us.” His words were slightly slurred as he tried to present his usual level of joviality, but the man’s brows only furrowed deeply in response.
“Get him to the hospital immediately.”
There was a chorus of ‘yes sirs’ and some hesitation before Hamilton and Brady got their bearings, but then they were on the move again. Bucky’s legs were barely responding by this point, toes mostly dragging through the incessant muddy landscape that seemed a consistent feature of every Stalag he’d had the misfortune of visiting thus far. As his vision began to go fuzzy, black dots eating away at it while it simultaneously began to dim at the edges, Bucky began to worry this might be his last camp.
“Put him right there please.”
Bucky tried to swing his head towards the most musical sound he had heard in over a year, but Hamilton and Brady were turning him to lay on his stomach, rambling about the broken ribs on his back and all he could see were worn wooden floorboards. Until suddenly your gorgeous face flooded his vision as you knelt beside his cot, your shockingly feminine fingers cradling his face to gently turn it and ensure he was not smothered in the pillow.
The style of your hair, the lashes framing your eyes, the cupid’s bow of your upper lip – the unmistakable womanliness of you; it made his heart ache.
“Must be in heaven…” He slurred as there was certainly no way he could be alive anymore. Women did not exist in this reality of underfed men and murderous goons.
“They got you good, Major, but you’re still very much with us.” You smiled warmly up at him, and he groaned out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You’re killing me, angel face.” He wheezed, lips clumsy and barely responsive, before promptly blacking out.
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Your heart plummeted as you watched his eyelids fall, shuttering those stunning, if exhausted, blue eyes, terrified you had lost another one before you even had the chance to try and save him. Fingers delving beneath the collar of his shirt, you were greatly relieved to find his strong pulse. Holding your cheek in front of his notably plush lips, the bottom one all the more pronounced by his recent injury, you were even more encouraged to feel the caress of his steady breathing. Sitting back on your heels, you nodded up to his mismatched pair of friends reassuringly.
“Did he just call her ‘angelfish?’” The blond one with angular features and a mouthful of gold muttered as they watched over their friend protectively but also seeming shocked, as everyone before them had been, to find an American woman in a POW camp.
“Maybe he was going for ‘angel face?’” The brunette with sturdy eyebrows replied in a hushed voice.
“Are you gentlemen in need of anything?” You asked, fighting hard against the amused smile that wanted to break through. They were truly a distraction when you had a patient in need of attention before you.
“No, Ma’am.”
“Thank you, Ma’am” They shuffled off to leave you to your work.
Taking a moment to assess the length and breadth of your patient, you carefully worked off his leather flight jacket before untucking his uniform shirt and undershirt to reveal the deep purple bruises on his back. His friends had been very right to be worried about broken ribs – at least three by the span of the contusion. Kneeling back down you looked over his face once more, gently lifting his head to inspect both cheeks and confirm the bones were all intact. There did not appear to be anything in need of bandaging. It was most likely that undernourishment, the march, and the broken ribs all compounded to extreme exhaustion.
“What do we have here, Nurse?”
You looked up as Major Chalmers, a British surgeon, and head of the hospital emerged from one of the exam rooms. He had been a resident POW of Stalag VIIA for nearly eight months when you arrived in January, happily surrendering one of his exam rooms to become your separate quarters in return for your work in the camp hospital. It was an arrangement that benefited both of you, kept you safe and out of the male population and occupied the long and lonely hours that seemed to pass at their own pace in this place.
Chalmers had done what he could to care for your burned arm, re-bandaging it daily. However, by the time he had been able to start giving it proper care, the damage had already been done. The skin was now permanently mottled by scars, unnaturally smooth, with a texture akin to crumpled cellophane. You were always very mindful to keep your mended sleeve down to your wrist. It was not all that difficult to cover your shame when the rest of your wardrobe consisted of standard men’s POW wear from the Red Cross – the sweaters draping over half your hands and the winter coat blissfully warm but nearly swallowing you whole.
It was only due to Chalmers’ temerity that anyone walked away from the camp hospital at all. With supplies chronically low, men were dying of the most preventable and treatable things. All you could do most of the time was put on a brave face and hold their hand, give them a little comfort at the end. Even Schimdt, despite your best efforts, had found his shoulder wound quickly beset with infection in the less than sanitary environment. Penicillin was non-existent here and he had faded fast, lost in a feverish delirium as you held tight to his hand, watching the light fade from his burning eyes. Your brave façade was second nature to you by this point, showing itself more often than your real, bedraggled self who only showed her face in the cold isolation of your locked exam-room-turned-solo-combine at night.
“Newly arrived American Major, force marched over eight days, beaten two nights ago. At least three broken ribs, damage to lower lip, abrasions to the face and contusions to the back but nothing else I can see. Pulse is strong, breathing is steady, but lost consciousness almost as soon as we laid him down, sir.”
“Hmmm.” Chalmers made a noise of displeasure at the last and conducted his own exam, digging out one of the makeshift charts to add some notes before glancing at his watch. “Do we know when he last ate?”
“No, sir.” You shook your head.
“Alright, I want you to sit with him and keep an eye on his vitals. Hopefully, he’s simply sleeping this off, but I want you to get some water and broth in him as soon as he wakes up alright?”
“Yes, sir.”
Collecting the requisite liquids, you settled onto the sliver of floor space between the Major’s cot and his neighbor’s, working at folding some boiled and dried bandages, now ready for re-use. The actual hospital itself was unspeakably crowded, men nearly stacked atop one another around a small cast iron stove. Originally built for 10,000, the camp’s population had been well over that when you had arrived in January and seemed to multiply every week now. Things had become so dire, a tent hospital had been erected adjacent to the building you lived and worked in to allow for the treatment of more men. It was crowded and ripe, and even surrounded by all these humans you still felt alone as the sole representative of your sex.
As you pulled each strand of once-white fabric from the basket, carefully rolling and tucking the ends to form neat bundles, you studied the unconscious man’s face. Errant dark curls were dangling across his tall forehead and the most absurd and yet endearing dusting of hair graced his upper lip. Clearly, he was going for a Clark Gable, but it was not quite there. Even with one ear poking a mile out to the side, however, you swallowed tightly as you realized you would not change a thing about him. Taken individually his attributes seemed odd, yet combined to make an incredibly handsome whole. Not to mention his feet were dangling off the end of his cot, his shoulders barely contained by the sides of it. If he woke up, no when he woke up, he was going to be a devastating sight to behold.
Reaching the midway point of your task, you slid forward onto your knees to check his vitals, pleased they were holding steady and noting so on the chart, before settling back onto the floor. You had nearly reached the bottom of the basket when a pair of boots entered the hospital. Not German, you had long since become familiar with the way jackboots reverberated across wooden floorboards. Most likely American or British. Peering around the end of the bed your eyes widened as you caught a glimpse of a silver oak leaf – a Lieutenant Colonel! That was the highest rank you had yet to encounter in camp.
Struggling to disentangle yourself from your laundry and not kick over your patient’s waiting fluids in the process of trying to rise to your feet and accord the man the proper greeting that his rank entitled him, you looked up startled as he addressed you first.
“At ease, Nurse.”
He was the first man to seem utterly unfazed by your presence and you somehow found that unspeakably reassuring.
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“How is Major Egan?” He peered down at the still very much asleep man.
“Major Chalmers, our Surgeon, is certain it is no more than a case of exhaustion and he will recover with rest and fluids upon waking. He’s just down the hallway behind you there if you’d like to speak to him yourself, sir.”
He nodded thoughtfully as he glanced over his shoulder before looking back to you. “The Red Cross knows you’re here?”
“I filled out the card when I arrived in January, sir.” You nodded.
“Where have they put you?”
“Converted one of the exam rooms, sir. I eat, sleep, bathe separately.”
“Good.” He nodded in return, seeming quite satisfied with your answer. “Name’s Clark, please find me if you need anything.”
“Thank you very much, Colonel.” You smiled warmly, feeling strangely fragile as the warmth of it actually emanated from deep inside you rather than a mask plastered on for the comfort of the recipient.
Dismissing himself from your presence with one sharp nod, he turned to follow your directions down the hall, most likely in search of Chalmers. Turning back to eye your patient, Major Egan, you sighed a little as he remained blissfully unconscious, lips parted against the thin pillow to allow heavy exhales to fall rhythmically. There was little change to his condition as the sun made its way across the sky before hovering at the horizon, preparing to set. Your dinner was delivered to the bedside and there was a rather heated exchange between Chalmers, Clark, and a few of the guards before they conceded you could remain unlocked for the night to keep an eye on your fragile patient. This Lieutenant Colonel was obviously not someone to be trifled with.
You waved off Chalmers when he asked if you were up to the task, taking advantage of his presence to make a quick bathroom run and fetch a blanket before returning to your post. It was your first night spent amongst others in months, their soft snores and nightly noises combining with the sound of rain pattering onto the ramshackle roof to do their very best to pull you under into sleep. The downward slide of your eyelids was halted abruptly by the first vocalization from Major Egan since his contested term of endearment – angel face? Angelfish? Whatever it had been, silence had since reigned over his mouth until he began to mutter and emit soft sounds of protest, his features tense and furrowed. Shifting up onto your knees, you lay one hand over his clenched fist, trying to smooth the crease in his brow with the thumb of your other.
“It’s alright Major Egan, you’re safe.” You soothed in a hushed whisper, hoping to dispel whatever unseen terror was plaguing his thus far peaceful sleep.
He shifted slightly in response, lips smacking a little as his hand moved with alarming speed to engulf yours in a tight grip and hold it close to the side of his chest. Barely smothering your gasp of surprise, you held your breath a moment until he stilled completely, features relaxing and breath evening out as he slipped deeper into sleep once more. Exhaling slowly you gnawed on your lip a moment before shifting to sit on the floor with your back against the cot, hand still very much held captive by his. Allowing yourself to drift a little more, quite certain any movement on his part would now alert you to his wakening, you barely noticed the hourly checks the goons were making on you – clearly uneasy about having you roam free amongst the hospital patients, but for whatever reason Clark’s demands had been honored and it was a refreshing change around here.
It was just before dawn of the following day when Major Egan began to shuffle and groan behind you, your hand slipping free from his. You straightened stiffly, turn to watch him roll onto his uninjured side and take stock of his surroundings.
“Good morning, Major, have a good rest?” You asked quietly, hoping not to wake the others sleeping around him.
His head immediately snapped down towards you and he eyed you in bewilderment once again. “I thought you were a hallucination.” He rumbled, voice roughened by disuse.
You smirked slightly and nodded. “I got that impression. Thirsty?”
He bobbed his head in a small nod, and you slid to your feet, grasping his elbows to help him sit up. Grabbing the mug from the ground, you offered it to him, only allowing him to take a small sip before pulling it back. He blinked at you sluggishly for a moment before you offered him the mug again. After three limited sips, which he clearly found frustrating, you allowed him to keep hold of the mug as you wrapped your fingers around his thick wrist to track his pulse.
“How long was I out?” He asked once you were finished noting your findings on his chart.
“Almost a day. Seems as though you really needed the rest. Ready to try a little broth?” You smiled as he nodded once more and picked up the other mug from the ground. “I saved you some, I’ll get it warmed up.”
He slowly lay back down as you took the mug of broth over to the stove in the centre of the room and set it on top, swirling the liquid until it was steaming and then decanting it into his now empty water mug so it would not burn his hands. As you returned to his bedside, he leveraged himself up with barely concealed, painful effort and you frowned as you set the mug in his hands.
“I’m here to help with that, Major.”
“Please,” he took a sip of the steaming liquid, “call me Bucky.”
You smiled and introduced yourself properly as well before your lips tugged into a mischievous grin. “But do feel free to keep calling me angelfish, I certainly haven’t gotten that one before.”
He choked a little on his next sip, giving you a rueful albeit lazy smirk. “Kick a man when he’s down why don’t ya, angelfish.”
You were unsuccessful in smothering your answering giggle, several of the men around you muttering and tossing restlessly as you had accidentally woken them. Bucky pressed a long finger to his lips teasingly before turning back to his broth, slowly finishing it before setting the empty mug on the floor beside the low cot.
“I uh, am sure the facilities are lacking but…” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully and you swallowed, gesturing for him to follow you, and assessing his movements with your medically trained eye.
It was of course a test, of his balance, pain level, and energy to see how he moved across the floor and into the rustic patients’ washroom. You, of course, left him to his own devices in there, but walked him back to the bed, noting how he grew stiffer with each step.
“I’m sorry we don’t have anything for the pain.” You whispered when he lay down once more on his stomach, small grunts of discomfort escaping him.
He shook his head. “S’fine, angelfish.” He mumbled softly, sleep tugging at him again already as you tucked him in with the worn blanket.
“Rest then, Bucky.” You soothed, relieved that he was quite cognizant, able to keep his food down, and resting well.
This one might make it.
-------------------------
Read Part Two
The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist
Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747
#john egan x reader#major john egan x reader#bucky egan x reader#john egan fic#john egan imagine#john egan#mota fanfic#masters of the air fanfiction
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FNAF but you are a Rhodes Island canteen staff on a night shift trying to prevent Ceobe from raiding the kitchen .
It's a late night at the Rhodes Island canteen, the Elite Operators have an early deployment, and supplies are looking adequate... That is, as long as no incident occurs. Unfortunately for whoever is on shift, Rhodes Island is well known for its late night incidents, incarnated in nefarious individuals whose gluttony eclipses even the most furious of Catastrophes... And the Elite OPs are not going to be happy campers if they can't get their calories for their arduous missions...
--Five Nights At Rhodes!--
Your objective is to protect the delicious ingredients in the pantry from morally bankrupt evildoers that would greedily consume all they can get their hungry little pizza fingers on! Play as one of four culinary heroes to keep those fiends away from the Elite's caloric intake, or face the crushing guilt of seeing Rosmontis go hungry with a rumbling tummy!
The Centurions of Flavor:
Gummy
"The sign clearly says 'Ceobe not allowed', why are you still coming in!"
Known for world-class fried eggs and a healing enthusiasm, this Ursine Defender isn't just a soothing smile to have around, and can use her very own Reinforced Door to fully restore and strengthen one of the doors to the pantry! No means no!
Matterhorn
"Ethan, seriously, you can just ask for a sandwich... You're messing our inventory of available ingredients if you take them on the down low!"
Bodyguard, enforcer, butler, and renowned chef, Matterhorn works with the finest Kjerag ingredients, and knows a thing or two about keeping unwanted company out with his Sublime Sandwich, which can temporarily distract would-be interlopers with its peerless taste and aroma!
Kal'tsit
"If you want something done right, sometimes you have to do it yourself... Especially when the would-be crisis jeopardizes the stock of instant noodles in such dire and relentless a fashion."
The boss always has your back in Rhodes Island, and this emergency deployment is no exception! Any logistic is an important logistic! With her Spinal Assistant, Kal'tsit can order Mon3tr to hold one door while she holds the other one! There's no getting a fast one in on this Feline!
Just A Canteen Staffer
"I literally just work here."
With no special abilities to speak of, well... It's going to be a long, long night.
Crooked Adversaries:
Ravenous Hellhound
The nefarious nibler, infamous for her indignant disregard for signaling, reviled for her Indomitable March: What she lacks in tricks, she makes up for in pure perseverance, relentlessly trying to force her way in no matter how many times she's repelled. The countless signals that say "Ceobe Not Allowed" are said to be a ward against the Hellhound. A useless ward, that is.
Renegade Interloper
He moves like the shadow of a ghost, a feared culinary assassin that will make your ingredients and food vanish into the misty night, leaving behind no trace. This Persistence Predator will oftentimes camp outside a door almost completely invisible, waiting for your guard to grow lax. If one pays close attention, however, one might discern small ripples in space where there should be none, or hear a faint music from the Interloper's treasured earbuds...
Prowling Miscreant
The hunter's creed is that a mighty beast is only as strong as its weakest point, and her eye is already trained on the canteen... And the habits of its handlers. You'll be Drawing Dead the moment you think you have a leg up on the Miscreant, as she'll first observe your habits, and then continuously attempt entry from the routes you neglect the most, usually by syncing up with the advance of other Adversaries.
The Ghost of Babel
Feared for their truly wild consumption habits and seemingly unmatched ability to find their way into the pantry, this hooded enigma's wiry, fragile frame betrays their supernatural wiles. This unique Adversary doesn't move in the same way as the others, instead wandering the Area seemingly randomly, concocting their Magnum Opus by collecting all sorts of information and intel that we can't even begin to comprehend. If this is completed, then the Ravenous Hellhound will turn into a creature only known as "Golden Ceobe" and become completely unstoppable. Due to their timid nature, however, they can only work towards the Opus by being in a calm state of mind, achieved by not being observed for a period of time.
The full game COMING SOON to all stores in Columbia, Victoria, Great Yan, not Gaul, and Leithanien! Don't miss out on all these Centurions and Adversaries! Preorder now and get a code to an early download of the DLC Centurions [Fiammetta Who Aggressively Doesn't Want To Be Here] and [Just A Canteen Staffer the Holungday], as well as early access to the challenging DLC Adversaries [Scary Guy] and [D.I.D.I.]!
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So, the Haunting Heroes server did a Who Wrote That game with the theme of "wingfic" a while back. I did an entry and I liked it enough that I decided to expand on it. Gonna start posting scenes here whenever I get them done, and eventually piece it together for ao3. This first part is the intro, but the rest probably won't actually be in order.
Update Mar 11, 2024: Here is the Subscription Post
Ectoplasm Gives You Wings
(Working title)
DPxDC, T-rated genfic.
Everyone knew ghosts had wings. It was in every ghost story throughout history, regardless of culture. It was one of their defining traits, like going through walls or fading into invisibility. The unquiet dead soared through the night on birdlike wings, occasionally leaving unnaturally large feathers as an omen of impending death.
As soon as the newly-working portal spat Danny out, he knew there would be no hiding what had happened. His ghostly form came with a pair of large wings that didn't go away when he turned back human. In his ghost form, they were mostly black with bars of white near the bottom edge. The reverse was true when he was human. It was an indication of what had happened to him that he couldn't escape.
Tucker and Sam tried to play it off to his parents as a meta mutation that had suddenly appeared. They'd heard of it happening before on TV and through the internet. Besides, there were winged people in the Justice League. Danny's parents had never talked about them being secret ghosts.
Danny would never forget his parents' horrified faces as they came downstairs and found him. The way their eyes skipped over his face entirely and focused on the wings behind him. His dad frozen in place, expression slack with shock. His mom's face going from horror to determination as she set her jaw and reached for a bazooka.
Danny and his friends managed to escape them and run all the way to Tucker's house. Running was harder with a new pair of limbs hanging off his back like so much dead (hah) weight. It was clear that Danny couldn't stay here. His parents might be cranks, but once they realized the portal worked they would have evidence to prove Danny was a ghost. At least, sort of. Would they try to experiment on him, or just try to help him pass on? Danny assumed it would be the latter, but he had also assumed his mom wouldn't ever draw a weapon on him.
Tucker and Sam helped him to pack a camping backpack full of spare clothes he'd left at Tucker's, a handful of important essentials like a first aid kit, and a sleeping bag. They left for a while and came back with a cheap cellphone, a handful of prepaid phone cards, and a surprising amount of cash. Who would have thought Sam was secretly loaded?
They argued all night about where he should go. Danny barely knew his Dad's side of the family, let alone whether they'd take him in. His mom's sister Alicia was somewhere in Arkansas, but Danny couldn't remember the name of the town. Besides, he hadn't seen her since he was about nine. What if she believed Maddie over him? Tucker and Sam suggested their own family members. Danny turned them down. He didn't want to be a burden to his friends' families.
In the end, they decided that he would blend in best in a big city far away from Amity. The next day, Danny climbed on a Greyhound bus headed to the East Coast. He couldn't hide the wings, no matter what he did. The best he could do was wrap the sleeping bag around himself like a blanket. Thankfully, no one on the bus seemed to care. They all had their own issues to worry about. Most seemed content to watch their phones or the scenery instead of looking too closely at the weird kid wrapped in a big, lumpy sleeping bag.
As the hours dragged on, Danny was increasingly greatful that everyone was minding their own business. There was something else wrong with him. His hands kept slipping through the sleeping bag. Going through solid objects, like a ghost.
The plan was to find a place in Metropolis that provided resources to meta kids. But by the time the bus reached Gotham Danny was exhausted and anxious. His hands had started to go through things. What if he went straight through the bus while it was driving? He had to get a handle on this. He could always go to Metropolis the next day.
Danny got off the bus. The city around him was gray and dreary, from the concrete sidewalks up to the cloud-covered sky. It felt like the sky was too close, more of a ceiling than an open expanse. Something about it gave Danny a strangely claustrophobic feeling. He tried to shrug it off as the lack of sleep catching up to him. The last time Danny slept was the night before the portal accident. That had been well over twenty-four hours ago. He needed to find a safe place to sleep.
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DNE Entry 6!
#electric remains#object shows#object camp#object oc#osc art#osc#Will they ever get better?#DNE er#DNE electric remains#this entry was originally supposed to be quite nice and break for him but was unexpectedly changed :)
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i forgot to share this i think 😭 obihi entry
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MBO Robert’s Rebellion: Season 2 Episode 3
what the fuck is this: it's me drafting a fake robert's rebellion tv show through a series of bullet points. there will be two seasons of ten episodes each when done
notes on this one: I’ve changed a couple (minor imo…) details just for my own purposes. first is that I’ve only sent two KG after Rhaegar, second is that I’ve had Aerys use wildfire on the Starks whereas I think in canon it’s just regular ole fire. whatever. humour me
also these are getting much longer lol
prev: 2.02
next: 2.04
title for this one: aerys’ bbq
Brandon and Rickard Stark march down the Kingsroad, arrive at the gates of KL with their men, and demand entry. The gates are opened readily for them, rousing some suspicion in the Stark men - but they continue on nonetheless
Aerys receiving word of this in the throne room that the Starks have arrived - Varys whispers the news in his ear. A slow zoom on. Aerys chewing on his fingernails, his eyes racing back and forth - fear battling it out with fury
~ Opening creds ~
Meanwhile!! Rhaegar and Lyanna have made camp in the woods. Rhaegar compliments Lyanna, saying she makes a fierce fire. Lyanna says she often used to hunt with her brothers - they were all hopeless at it. Lyanna asks where they are headed, anyway - feels like they’ve been wandering aimlessly. Rhaegar says there’s a place not far from here that his great uncle used to visit sometimes, with his wife Jenny. Lyanna like: Jenny of Oldstones? She likes that song. But why are they going there??? Rhaegar asks why Lyanna is following. Lyanna frowns, initially annoyed by the question, then tells him she didn’t want what waited for her at home. Rhaegar asks what does she want? Lyanna doesn’t know. Rhaegar asks what she sees in her dreams. Lyanna wants to know why he keeps asking about her damn dreams. But after a moment, she confesses that she saw him. Rhaegar at her, resolute
Back in KL. Brandon & Rickard are shown to the Red Keep, where they are greeted by the Hand of the King, Owen Merryweather. Rickard demands Rhaegar; Merryweather offers his apologies, however, Rhaegar is not here. The King will see them, however, and listen to their complaints. The Starks look suspicious, but follow Merryweather inside the Keep
Rickard murmurs to Brandon that he has heard the King has no great love for his son. Whatever the Prince may have done, they must make their case before the King, for Lyanna lies at the heart of it. Rickard’s voice breaks. She is his girl, his only girl. Brandon assures his father that they will find Lyanna, and she and Rickard will make amends for their quarrels together. And for whatever he has done to her, Brandon declares quietly that though Robert may never forgive him, he will kill Rhaegar himself
The Starks reach the throne room, where Aerys awaits them. Brandon and Rickard sense the tone shift as they approach the throne, the size of the thing becoming more apparent. Aerys speaks from atop it, he hears the Starks of Winterfell have been demanding words with him. Rickard states that they have received word that his son has taken Lyanna. Aerys asks if Lyanna is the horsey girl he saw in the stands? He’s sure he never knew what it was that Rhaegar saw in such a child, but it may well be that he has taken her. Princes do what they will. Rickard begins to object. Aerys interjects - but you northmen, mere servants, demanding words…… ‘you demand anything of your king?’ (Some dialogue for u) Just as B&R realise how far south this has sailed, all their men are killed around them. Brandon and Rickard are seized, and dragged in different directions
Catelyn stands at her father’s side in his solar, as he harshly dismisses Petyr Baelish from his service. Petyr is still harshly bruised, his arm in a sling. With poison in his eyes, he turns and leaves wordlessly. Hoster tells Cat that Lysa is childish to be so heartbroken over a feeble thing such as Petyr, and more foolish still to - he cuts himself off. Cat tells Hoster that Lysa is still only a girl, and she will grow and mature. Hoster tells Cat she has always been mature far beyond her years. Even now, when by all rights she should be the sister weeping in her room for fear, she stands here strong at his side. Cat tells Hoster she knows that Brandon will return, for doubtless he’d fear her lord father’s wrath if he did not. Hoster manages a small smile, but remains deeply uncertain. Whatever comes to pass, he says, ‘I will see to it that you are well matched’. Cat begins to realise the gravity of the situation. ‘And your sister, too, gods help her.’
In Jon Arryn’s solar with Ned and Bob. It’s obvious they’re spending most of their time here, awaiting news. Robert is unusually silent, whilst Ned tells Jon he needs to find his sister. Jon says Ned should wait here, and see what word comes from King’s Landing. Ned says Lyanna won’t be there: they’ve gone to the wrong place. Robert asks if Ned knows where she is then, because if he does then why doesn’t he damn well say? Ned says he doesn’t know. Robert says then they should leave it to his brother and his father. Ned is taken aback, but Robert doesn’t care just now. Lyanna is his
Arthur on the road with Oswell Whent. Oswell asks if Arthur does truly know where on earth they’re going. Arthur doesn’t answer. Whent asks Arthur if he thinks Rhaegar has done something to the Stark girl. Arthur says nothing. Whent says he wouldn’t have thought the man capable if he hadn’t two kids to show for it, and Elia’s beautiful enough so what’s he chasing after this northerner for, anyway. Arthur says they must be found. Whent like sure ok but it’s a needle in a haystack..… Arthur looks to the stars, then leads them in a new direction. Whent asks what the hell he thinks he’s seen, why are they heading this way. Arthur doesn’t reply
Elia in Maegor’s with Rhaella, the children around them; they’re being kept here during the Stark fracas. She tells the Queen she should like to return to Dorne, to keep the children safe during this time of tension. She would be happy to take Viserys, and Rhaella too if she’d like. They’ve not gotten to know each other much, yet she knows her mother loved Rhaella well, and her son would never let any harm come to she or her young son. Rhaella tells Elia they cannot leave - Aerys won’t allow it. Elia says that if she speaks with the King, he might change his mind. Rhaella implores her, you shouldn’t ask him. Do not ask him
Brandon in a black cell alone: he’s obviously been there many days. Suddenly, light; a gaoler has arrived with a pyromancer, but Brandon doesn’t recognise him as such. Brandon is told that his father has done the King great insult, but Aerys is merciful. He will allow a trial. Brandon says a trial for what - it’s their bloody Prince who ought to be on trial. They want to know where Lyanna is. The pyromancer continues regardless that Rickard has demanded trial by combat, and Aerys, in his magnanimity, has granted him this. He invites Brandon to watch
Jaime Lannister watches as wood is piled before him in the throne room. Utterly confused, he looks to Gerold Hightower, who won’t look back at him. Aerys watches the wood pile up with something stirring behind his eyes
Rickard is led in first, wearing fine armour. He demands to know who he is to fight. Next he is seized, and suspended above the wood, and Aerys informs him that fire is the champion of House Targaryen. Jaime whips round to look at Aerys, then Gerold, but no-one looks back, and no-one intervenes. Suddenly the doors open again, and Jaime watches as a strange contraption is wheeled in and placed before the fire
Brandon is led through the halls, all deadly silent. He senses something is terribly wrong, and has it confirmed when the doors open on the throne room. Rickard is suspended above a pyre, and Aerys looks on from on high. Rickard tells his son to leave him, to go find Lyanna and save her. Aerys says he could save his father instead - all he has to do is reach him. Brandon sees the contraption for the first time only as he is manhandled into it. Brandon, frantic, demands to know if this is all House Targaryen has left - a pile of logs in place of dragons? For a second Aerys looks perturbed by this comment, till he answers ‘a dragon sits before you, and his fire burns as hot’
A fire is lit beneath Rickard, and Brandon immediately strains forward to reach him. Feeling the noose tightening around his neck as he does so, he looks to Aerys, aghast. Aerys looks back, a small smile on his lips
The rest is a slow zoom on Jaime as he strains to mask his horror, the sounds of the Starks’ suffering fading into silence as he blocks it out. The room is bathed in an ever-growing green
Maegor’s holdfast: Princess Rhaenys wanders to the window, and is awed to see the windows of the throne room glowing green in the distance. Elia goes to see what her daughter is looking at, and is filled with disquiet - she leads Rhaenys away
Cut twenty mins later to the bodies of the Starks upon the floor of the throne room. The king strides past them to leave, Jonothor Darry and Gerold Hightower follow in his wake. Jaime stops beside the bodies and stares. Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder. It seems a gesture of comfort at first, until we see the look on Gerold Hightower’s face. It is stern and accusatory: “You swore a vow to guard the king, not to judge him.”
In the Riverlands with Rhaegar and Lyanna. It’s the middle of the night as they reach High Heart. Lyanna is alarmed to see a figure amongst the weirwood stumps, but Rhaegar awaits the Ghost as she slowly makes for them. The Ghost becomes more perturbed the closer she gets, looking at Lyanna with a kind of horror in her eyes. She tells Lyanna she brings death: countless deaths, Rhaegar’s and her own. what a fucking greeting. The Ghost says they cannot stay here; she will not have them. Lyanna looks to Rhaegar to see if he has any take on this. Rhaegar does not. They ride onwards
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Most LGBT cishet movie?
Movie Submissions!
Sometimes a cishet movie is a hit in this community even without any stories or characters reflecting us (or at least not explicitly or intentionally or... tastefully). Either because of its campiness and witty banter, its drama, its weirdness, amazing soundtrack and costumes or its diva-like personality taking center stage. Please don't take this poll seriously.
Examples of movies that follow the rules below:
The Wizard of Oz (1939), Clue (1985), The Exorcist (1973), The Servant (1963), The Sound of Music (1965), Heathers (1988), Little Shop of Horrors (1986), All About Eve (1950), Jawbreaker (1999), What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), 9 to 5 (1980).
Rules for Submissions:
Please don't fight we're literally just ranking the straightest gay movies and transest cis people. The most conforming and queer paradox.
Because of the tendency of this site to call something "gay" just because 2 conventionally attractive men stand next to each other for 5 seconds, I'm not counting shipping possibilities that much. The level of drama, camp and the number drag parodies it has is way more important than possible romantic relationships or sexual tension in submitted films. Also there's ace and aro people voting. Keep them in mind!
It has to be cishet but somehow still queer. Can be the camp, general weirdness, gnc clothes, sassiness, the inclusion of a diva, accidental coding, or some other secret option. Honestly if you find a way to reason so hard it works, you could even try to submit The Godfather (... it is very quotable...)
Submit movies that aren't just American!
Submit movies that are cult classic masterpieces or movies that objectively suck!
I love Mamma Mia but it does have gay characters. This poll came about because I found that a lot of older movies had queer fans that were able to connect to others through these movies while creating their own spaces. This was despite the movie being "straight and gender conforming". I love that there's more rep now, but I'm aiming for this to poll contain more vintage movies for a reason. and I want to expand my watchlist. I'm aware that there are movies from the 70s, 1920s, and other older eras with explicitly gay themes and characters like Victim 1961 or Salome 1920 (and I encourage you to widen your scope of historically significant films) but this isn't that poll.
Old movies with very stealth trans or gay coding with its side characters and unintentional lgbt+ coding is allowed, but you know these things can be hit or miss. Besides, I put Heathers on here even though it's homophobic. Fun but homophobic. You can submit movies with homophobia or conformist themes to a degree.
You can submit propaganda videos, text, and images! If you know any drag parodies of the movies, send them my way!
If you don't want to submit directly, you can @ me
Posts with polls will be tagged as #mlcm poll. Movies posts with #user submitted or #user submission means it was submitted through the google forms and will enter the tournament
Given that not a lot of people watch older movies, the battling polls will be paired by decade until it gets whittled down to the finals where old and young will both compete.
Competition will start May 1 in honor of The Wicker Man 1973, which i wish counted as a poll entry, but I limited myself to one movie I'd slip into the tournament despite the fact that there's not a lot of lgbt fans of the movie. And this was my runner up because I really liked The Exorcist's Regan and Karras. Unless someone else submits him, Wicker Man's not gonna be there. Rest in Peace Christopher Lee and his ugly blonde wig.
#mlcm tournament#xanadu#the wicker man 1973#horror#lsoh#dolly parton#lgbt#movies#polls#tournament poll#all about eve#whatever happened to baby jane?#q slur
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