I'l try to keep this updated and I basically do this so I don't have to go through all my posts all the time, so I am not in the mood for pretty.
Honestly I admire people who do header and colors and all of that. Maybe I'll add that later.
One Shots and Blurbs
When he does that Thing (Ghost knows what he's doing) - TF141 x fat!reader, smut
no title (in queue for rewriting) - Venom!Ghost x reader, monster smut
Venom!Ghost Thoughts (no smut), Thought 2
Venom!Ghost x reader Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 wip
Soulmates fix-it Price x Reader
Pretty Boy Gaz
Small Gods x TF141
Polyam!TF141 x reader - fluff, comfort, mental health
TF 141 x plus size!reader and how they show their love
Period - Period Blood, smutty, TF141 x reader
Heatwave - Bucky Barnes x fat!reader, smut
Ghost and his Orc Wife Thing 1, Thing 2
Venom x Reader dancing in the rain
Bucky Barnes x Reader Comfort, no smut
Bucky Barnes x cat hybrid!reader - fluff, reader is high on catnip
Coming Home - Loki x reader
Annoying - TF141 x reader, sfw, how they react to you venting about a customer
Kyle loves your waist beads - Gaz x reader, no smut
Simon Riley is just a normal guy
Potential Series
"They are not my Boys" (they are) First version, drabble - no smut (yet), slow burn?, Bucky Barnes x reader x TF141
"My good Boys" Part 1, Part 2 (WIP) - Bucky Barnes x reader x TF141, sub/dom elements, no smut yet
Bucky has a golden retriever gamer girlfriend - Part1, Part 2, Part 3?
Bear Shifter!price x reader - fluff, price agitates your bees, Three Dates, Fat bear week
Pilot fish!reader x shark!Ghost - angst, planning on a happy ending, Part 1, Part 2 WIP
Simon has a Sugar Mommy - independent reader x Ghost, Part 1, Part 2, part 3?
A little bird told me - reader x TF 141, no warnings so far, part 1, part 2?
Alpha!Ghost reacts to omega!readers twisted scent
Series
Haven: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 wip
Soap has ADHD and forgot to mention his wife. So the team decides to visit their home and maybe they'll stay? Polyam 141, slow burn, so far no smut
Wolf Among Us Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
werewolf!reader who started scenting the team in subtle ways but maybe gets bolder/more desperate over time the more they get attached to them.
Just a little Smoke: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 - Drug use (weed) and smut, TF141 x reader, polyam TF141, MDNI
When it rains, it pours Part 1, Part 2 - Bucky Barnes x fat!reader, smut
In the way my menstruation stories get likes around the same time I am bleeding, I can see who is on the same schedule and I find this lovely and hilarious.
It's like migration patterns in animals.
"Ah, look there is a new group wandering into the ovulation section, see how they practically devour every story with a hint of breeding kink?" And the scientists make assumptions about preferences relating to age, getting excited every time they find out a new thing, understanding more about this curious tribes called "fandom"
Simon blinked against the morning light that bled softly through the windows. Then filled his lungs with that first breath of morning. His eyes adjusted after a moment, settling on the face in front of him.
The Russian was smiling, just barely, more in his eyes than anything, but smiling none the less. He was propped up on his elbow on the pillow. Laying just close enough to hover over Simon.
"Wot." Simon's voice was sleep-thick and gravelly.
"Good morning to you." Nik chuckled, pressing a kiss to Simon's forehead. Then his cheek.
Simon groaned softly, closing his eyes. "Time is it?" He brought his hand up to scrub at his eye then paw Nik off of him
"Do not worry about time." Nik said. Kissing Simon's hand that had found its way to his mouth. "I have made breakfast. After, we will go down to the lake."
Simon hummed. "Wot for?"
"For fresh air and sunlight. Both of which you need."
Simon turned his head, meeting Nik's eyes. "I'm not some sick Victorian man, Nik."
Nik nodded, taking Simon's hand, pressing it more firmly to his lips. "No, you do not have a physical illness."
Simon let the comment slide for now. Rising at Nik's prompting. It was easy to let Nik guide him. Just as easy as it was to let Price, but different somehow. Following Price was mechanical, a path laid out and steps to follow. Following Nik was fluid, a stream flowing the path of least resistance.
They navigated breakfast quietly. Nik had him sit while food was plated and served. Warm and filling. And Simon caught Nik staring more than once. But he didn't say anything, didn't let himself react more than the blush on his cheeks.
He didn't wear the mask when he was out here with Nik. It would have been a fruitless effort, as Nik could read his eyes alone at this point, but he always found he didn't need it anyway. There was only Nik. And Nik never gave him reason to fear the exposure, to hide himself away from what was. Nik kept him moving, firm but gentle, Nik kept him covered and held. In some strange, unnameable way, Nik was his mask. Something that gave him shelter and made him feel safe despite how easily the man saw every inch of him.
Eventually, and with no urgency, Nik cleared the table and scooped up his bag. Shoes were slid on and they stepped out into the sun. The trail to the pond was shaded by tree cover, the wind creating a gentle harmony with the leaves. The cicadas and crickets chittered the rhythm from the bushes. And the birds sang the melody above them.
Simon thought it was noisy, but not in the unpleasant way of men talking on a crowded cargo plane or the busy streets of a city. This kind of noise he could get lost in just following behind Nikolai without a misguided step. It was easy. He tilted his face up through a blank patch, letting the rays warm his cheeks.
Nikolai didn't look back to see it happen. He never looked back when they walked like this. Nik trusted him to come along on his own at whatever pace he needed.
The path opened up to the water, blue and shining under the late morning sun. A flock of ducks made their way in and out of the water, going about whatever it is ducks do at this hour.
The pair stepped down into their usual patch of green just above the rocky shore. Nik laid out the blanket and took a seat.
Simon stood a moment longer, letting the breeze kiss his face and the new current of lapping water and distant conversations of the ducks fill his ears.
He took his seat next to Nik, leaning in until his head rested against his shoulder.
"You will put sun cream on, I do not want to worry about you later tonight." Nik was already reaching into his bag for the bottle.
"I'm not a child, either, Nik." Simon said, not doing anything to avoid the inevitable.
Nikolai hummed in agreement, squirting some of the cream onto his hand. "You are not. But I do not want to be fucking a whiney lobster in bed tonight."
"Chirst, you've been around Price too much."
"There is no such thing," he wiped a bit of the cream on Simon's nose. "Sit up."
Simon went reluctantly, moving up just enough. Their faces stayed close, Nik's hand that'd come up to the back of Simon's neck made sure of that. The other hand spread the cream across his cheeks. He was completely focused on the task at hand and very careful as he went. Like Simon was worth every second, every ounce of it meant entirely for him. The pads of his fingers passed over each of his cheeks, up the scar that led to his temple. Thumbs spreading across his brow.
Nik's hands were always surprisingly soft when they touched Simon's skin. Calloused and large, sure, but well maintained, like if they were going to touch Simon, they should not feel like tools, but like medicine. That's what Simon might have called them, if he were more poetic. Nik's hands could find any point in his body and make it feel human. Hell, Nik didn't have to touch him at all, just guide him towards a bed, or a lake, and tell him to sit and be and Simon would sit. And Simon would be.
They left for only a moment, then returned to finish the nose, then to his jaw. Simon leaned into the touch, closing his eyes as Nik moved.
Then Nik's hand cupped his cheek. Holding him steady as Nik's lips met his. Firm and steady. No doubt in the action. There was never any doubt, not with Nik.
Simon let his lips fall open against Nikolai's, like putty in his hands, water down the path of least resistance.
Then Nik pulled away, not ripping or pulling off, just gently, letting Simon come up from it slowly.
Nik was smiling again, that same soft smile from the morning. "We should have put some on before we left. You are very red already."
Simon didn't try to hide his defeated laugh, "shut up, Nik."
Nik laughed, warm and whole and pulled Simon back in against his shoulder and let lake sing its song around them.
The second Captain John Price receives credible intelligence regarding his missing lieutenant, accompanied by photographic evidence of said lieutenantâs current condition, he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds it there for a long moment.
Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.
There are moments in a manâs life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.
This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.
Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life wouldâve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.
Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.
Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.
Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.
Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenantâs wrists.
He blinks.
He studies them again.
The rope is looped around Simonâs arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.
âAre we certain this is current?â Price asks.
The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. âTimestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.â
âAnd weâre certain itâs Riley?â
âYes, sir.â
Price looks back at the photograph.
Simonâs boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair wonât be uncomfortable.
There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.
âRight,â Price says.
The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the worldâs most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.
You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.
Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.
Not discreetly, no. Youâve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. Youâve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.
Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.
Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.
The next report arrives shortly before lunch.
âA syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Rileyâs residence,â an officer tells him.
Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.
âForensics?â
âLorazepam, sir.â
âWhat dosage?â
The officer consults the report. âZero point five milligrams.â
Price stares at him.
The officer clears his throat. âAtivan.â
âI know what lorazepam is.â
âYes, sir.â
Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.
It doesnât.
âZero point five.â
âYes, sir.â
âThat dose wouldnât knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.â
âNo, sir.â
âRiley weighs nearly two forty.â
âYes, sir.â
They stand in silence and Priceâs eye begins to twitch.
The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simonâs flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.
Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.
In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.
Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.
âUnbelievable,â Price mutters.
You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.
You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.
After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.
Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.
Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. âCaptain?â
Price says nothing.
âDo you want us to assemble a team?â
âNo.â
There is a pause.
âNo, sir?â
âNo.â
âBut Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.â
âHas he?â
The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simonâs enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.
âHeâs tied to a chair, sir.â
âHe could break those ropes by sneezing.â He says while he picks up Simonâs personnel file.
He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.
The operator watches him. âSir?â
Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.
âCaptain, what are you doing?â
âAdministrative work.â
âShouldnât we at least contact him?â
Price checks the box beside personal leave.
âHeâs been missing for two days.â
Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.
âSir.â
Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.
The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.
âNo deployment,â Price says. âNo rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless thereâs an actual emergency.â
âBut- â
âSimonâs exactly where he wants to be right now.â
something something simon riley shirtless and working on his bike in the sun.
you, in a folding chair with a canned cocktail in one hand and a ciggie in the other, watching the muscles in his back work as he moves. pale scars catching the sunlight. sweatpants dangerously low on his hips. a slow smile spreading over your face when you notice the crescent moon shaped indents on his shoulders; evidence of how well he fucked you last night.
edna, the 83 year old next door neighbour, sipping tea in her lounge, slightly disappointed her view is obscured by an overgrown shrub.
something she just happens to mention the next time you and her share a cuppa and a gossip.
she's entirely thrilled to see the next time simon's working on his bike, you've trimmed the leaves back.
you catch her eye through the window and wink.
simon sees the exchange in his peripheral vision. the tips of his ears go red.
"No Eddie, I don't need my DM binder or any other D&D books, okay? I need underwear and socks and maybe some extra pants..."
You had been trying to pack for your trip the whole day and gladly accepted your boyfriend's offer to help... You should have thought that this was no help at all.
"But what if you are bored? Or you need to relax because your family is driving you crazy?"
You could kiss his cute pouting face, but you really needed to get things sorted, you were already stressed because of the trip. And you would leave to take Eddie with you but it was supposed to be family only and introducing Eddie as the love of your life and then facing all the judgement and questions was more than you could handle right now.
"Hmm... You know how you can help? Let me pack my bag while you go and get us food and then you can help me get soooo relaxed that I stop thinking for a while. How about that?"
"I think I can do that. Especially if you pack all your decent pantys and have to wear the cute lace thing..."
The wriggling of his eyebrows makes you laugh so hard your face hurts.
"Maybe ... Now go, get the good one with extra cheese and a milkshake please. And what kind of panty I am wearing... You will have to find out. But ONLY if you let me pack now."
That's all the encouragement he needs. And while you watch Eddie Munson, leader of Hellfire, certified bad boy of the town, scramble for his keys and money, you decide that this will be the last family gathering you want to face without him.
Reading comments and tags on Tumblr is like watching extras on a DVD. You are never quite sure what to find, but you enjoy it almost as much as the main thing.
I love reading the comments and tags on reblogs, there are so many interesting thoughts and the general praise is so wholesome.
Omega lieutenant Price, who gets knocked up from a one night stand and Alpha Nikolai, who, to help John avoid the shame and judgement that comes with being a single parent omega, claims the pup is his.
That's his baby, yep, he and John got drunk then fooled around. Oops. Anyway, he's gonna be a dad.
John smacks him upside the head for it behind closed doors, the pup isn't Nikolai's responsibility and he shouldn't feel obligated to care for it.
Nikolai just smiles at him, that stupid, dopey smile, and asks if he can get the baby a little onesie with a helicopter on it.
Ironically, the pup looks like Nikolai when she's born. John chooses to ignore that the men he's attracted to all look similar to the pilot.
It is common knowledge that small gods live among humans. Most of them too small to be noticed or with powers you wouldn't think as powerful..yet they are deities, created from human wishes and feelings, immortal until that particular feeling is not felt by any human being. So most of them have day jobs, live more or less normal lives. Lucky are the ones who have followers and shrines. But as diverse the human experience is, as diverse they are. Some even thrive from hiding, like that little god of shame for ghosting a friend. Apparently that was a very strong human feeling, so they weren't even small, but nobody really noticed them.
There were the loud party gads and goddesses, glittery beings to bring and take the joy. Everybody knows the dreadful hod of hangovers, a miserable fellow who was always searching for a healer.
But these were the gods of everyday life. There were also gods of violence, sharp and brutal. You learned about them in dangerous jobs, learned about their signs, how to pray to them, hoping they won't take sides or at least not the side of the enemy.
TF 141 was familiar with several of them, they played the macabre game of "who spots them first" and each had their own favourite. So when Ghost was waiting for the right moment to take a shot, he didn't flinch anymore when a presence manifested next to him. He noticed the warm touch of darkness, the calm they brought, the focus.
Now
He pulled the trigger, trusting in the guidance.
"mark is down, way to entrance is clear" he communicated before turning his head to look into the terrifyingly beautiful face of his god.
You did good, my beautiful deathbringer.
Ghost felt the touch, didn't fight the darkness that washed over him. Not anymore. When he was younger, he was jealous when someone caught the attention of a friendly god, it was taught in school that you should live to please the "good ones" and try to stay away from the "bad ones", but the military knew that they had to face the darkness so there were often teams or whole regiments who took a god or goddess of violence as a patron. You could see their symbols sometimes as addition the uniforms.
TF 141 did not have one god, they had a general approach as in "may our actions please you enough to help us if we need it." And that worked. Worked so good that instead of a particular being helping them, they had a group of Godlings around them.
It wasn't unusual that Ghost would be embraced by darkness during a mission, feeding on the death he brought.
Kyle often had a small being with too many eyes by his side, feeding him crucial information they had no way of gathering otherwise.
Price found a reassuring hand on his shoulder when he gave orders, or a warning when he had to make a decision.
And Soap, Soap heard a giggle every now and then, when shit was about to explode. First he thought he was going mad, but it happened again and again. Also there were some close calls, only avoided because his curiosity made him look for that damn giggle.
They didn't ask questions, they just accepted the way it was. Made little shrines wherever they went, prayers more like conversations. It worked. And they knew enough about gods not to tempt fate by asking for more.
Makes me wonder how they would react if they ever caught the attention of one of the "good" ones.
Like, Kyle is trying to calm down a bunch of children they just rescued and all of a sudden there's a nice old lady sitting next to him, handing him band-aids "for their boubous".
Johnny who's just doodling in the margin of his notes during a briefing only for his pen to keep changing color depending on what he his drawing.
John completing paperwork and the next thing he knows it's going way too well because the "new" secretary appeared out of nowhere to help him.
Or, God forbid, Simon gets visited by Mercy out of all things during a mission...
Ooohh, this is good. Because with Mercy it could be different things. When Ghost takes a clean shot, not causing more pain than necessary. Or when he decides not to act, because there are children in the house and he knows he will get another chance.
Or the way he makes sure civilians have a way out,. minimizing collateral.
Or Mercy shows him that he has good things in his life, friends, love, that he doesn't have to punish himself for things he couldn't control.
And then there is Mercy who stays with Ghost until his last breath, so he won't have to face his end alone. Taking his pain away and holding him like his mother never did.
It is common knowledge that small gods live among humans. Most of them too small to be noticed or with powers you wouldn't think as powerful..yet they are deities, created from human wishes and feelings, immortal until that particular feeling is not felt by any human being. So most of them have day jobs, live more or less normal lives. Lucky are the ones who have followers and shrines. But as diverse the human experience is, as diverse they are. Some even thrive from hiding, like that little god of shame for ghosting a friend. Apparently that was a very strong human feeling, so they weren't even small, but nobody really noticed them.
There were the loud party gads and goddesses, glittery beings to bring and take the joy. Everybody knows the dreadful hod of hangovers, a miserable fellow who was always searching for a healer.
But these were the gods of everyday life. There were also gods of violence, sharp and brutal. You learned about them in dangerous jobs, learned about their signs, how to pray to them, hoping they won't take sides or at least not the side of the enemy.
TF 141 was familiar with several of them, they played the macabre game of "who spots them first" and each had their own favourite. So when Ghost was waiting for the right moment to take a shot, he didn't flinch anymore when a presence manifested next to him. He noticed the warm touch of darkness, the calm they brought, the focus.
Now
He pulled the trigger, trusting in the guidance.
"mark is down, way to entrance is clear" he communicated before turning his head to look into the terrifyingly beautiful face of his god.
You did good, my beautiful deathbringer.
Ghost felt the touch, didn't fight the darkness that washed over him. Not anymore. When he was younger, he was jealous when someone caught the attention of a friendly god, it was taught in school that you should live to please the "good ones" and try to stay away from the "bad ones", but the military knew that they had to face the darkness so there were often teams or whole regiments who took a god or goddess of violence as a patron. You could see their symbols sometimes as addition the uniforms.
TF 141 did not have one god, they had a general approach as in "may our actions please you enough to help us if we need it." And that worked. Worked so good that instead of a particular being helping them, they had a group of Godlings around them.
It wasn't unusual that Ghost would be embraced by darkness during a mission, feeding on the death he brought.
Kyle often had a small being with too many eyes by his side, feeding him crucial information they had no way of gathering otherwise.
Price found a reassuring hand on his shoulder when he gave orders, or a warning when he had to make a decision.
And Soap, Soap heard a giggle every now and then, when shit was about to explode. First he thought he was going mad, but it happened again and again. Also there were some close calls, only avoided because his curiosity made him look for that damn giggle.
They didn't ask questions, they just accepted the way it was. Made little shrines wherever they went, prayers more like conversations. It worked. And they knew enough about gods not to tempt fate by asking for more.
It's the middle of the night and you have been on your phone for the last hour. Nothing unusual, you like to scroll a bit before bed. Bucky had already been dozing off, head resting on your soft belly, his favourite place. But something on your voice was different, alarming.
"What happened, doll?" The last bit of sleepiness vanished, when he looked at your face. To someone who didn't know you, it might have looked calm, but he could see the devastation in your eyes.
"It's... Today was the Christopher Street Day parade. Someone drove a car into the celebration. I don't have much reliable information, but I need to go, I need to help, if I can." Determination, anger, shock. You had been worried about the current political climate for a while, felt guilty sometimes that you had left the country to stay with Bucky and the team. And still... Something like this had always been just a theoretical possibility until now. Germany was safe. At least more safe for individual queers than the US. So you thought
"Understood. Let me grab my arm from the dishwasher and get Yelena. You will not go alone."
You just nodded, already slipping into emergency mode. You would cry later. Now you needed to gather intel, check on your community, organise help.
"Wheels up in 10."
----------------
I started writing this on Sunday morning, after I heard back from most of my friends. I am still processing what happened. For those living in the US it might seem exaggerated, but you need to understand that we are not used to this kind of violence in Germany. CSD has never been attacked like this. We are struggling against a more and more radicalised right and witness more violence against individuals and smaller queer organisations. Fundings are cut and support disappears. The attack on Saturday night still left us in shock, the way it is used now by politicians to point fingers at our Muslim community is sickening but sadly not surprising.
It is a lot and I am tired and angry. I hate how our pain is now used, how there are no consequences for our governments anti queer stance.
Sorry for the political post here, I had to get it out and I might delete it later. What I am trying to say: Don't let the rich and powerful use this to drive us further apart.
John sat listening to the dating woes of his younger colleagues, ankle on his knee, cigar balanced between two fingers as he held onto his calf, those intense blue eyes darting from Gaz to Soap to Rudy and finally the fourth and fifth operator that Nik hadn't bothered to learn the names of.
Nik knew he'd never been "on the dating scene". His first love was the service, and it was only usurped by Nik when John realised the yawning chasm in his soul couldn't be filled with violence. Nik had gladly taken up his place in that abyss and he had filled it, like he had always been destined to be there. Hopeless romantic, you say? Well, of course.
"An' then, she text me three weeks later and asked why I'd given up the chase. Girl, you told me you weren't feelin' it and spent our entire final date on your phone," Gaz said, exasperated. "I ain't bein' your next viral TikTok. I'm not a bloody mind reader."
"Aye, that's rough," Soap murmured, pausing to take a swig of his beer. "'Hae I ever telt ye aboot the man I met on Grindr for a quickie?"
Gaz snorted. "Narrow it down for us a bit, Tav..."
"Shut yer pus. Naw, this yin brak intae ma flat when I deployed and slept in ma bed for the hale week. Wore ma clothes and everythin'."
John blew out a puff of grey smoke and cleared his throat before leaning across to Nik. "Fanks for savin' me. I fink I woulda been eaten alive."
Nik hummed in agreement.
John continued. "If you go before me, I'm stayin' on my own. Maybe invest in a dog. You've set the bar too fuckin' high, mate."
Nik slid a discreet hand over John's lower back, smile broad. The stories continued into the night, and Nik nursed the quiet satisfaction that John had decided no one else could ever compare to him, while hoping there would never be a point in life one would have to live without the other. A foolish dream, but a comforting one none the less.
Good news, he was not next! In fact, she accepted him as her mate, he learned the crane mating dance and now every year, he artificially inseminates her with crane semen to expand the very endangered crane population. True story.
Sorry, he WHAT? Imagine being this man's boss and having to sit him down like. Listen. Brian. We need you to fuck the bird. You have to act like you're excited about it.
(WalWaPo makes you jump through like three separate hoops before you can read the article, so I will share some of the highlights:
Walnut was born in a species-recovery breeding program in the 1980âČs. The program had crane chicks hand-raised by human volunteers, and at that time they did not fully understand the measures necessary make sure that the chicks do not imprint on humans and retain their identity as cranes. Â
As a result, her keepers believe, Walnut does not recognize other cranes as members of her own species. Â
It has not been proven that Walnut killed her previous suitors; however, there is a persistent rumor in the white-naped-crane-conservation community that she did. Â
Because this species is highly endangered, and the gene pool of the captive population is small, itâs pretty important for the survival of her species that Walnut A) mate, and B) not kill a bunch of other cranes. Â
The actual name of the keeper is Chris Crowe.
They both arrived at the Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute in 2004. Â
Walnut immediately began paying special attention to Chris--and ignoring the eligible male crane in a nearby enclosure. Â
Walnut initiated their courtship, performing the opening moves of a mating dance. Â
Chris realized that if he reciprocated the mating dance, it might be possible to artificially inseminate Walnut with her participation and consent. (The process normally involves restraining the bird.) Â
It worked! Â
Chris and Walnut have had five children, who were raised by other crane couples at the facility--sometimes the biological dad and his mate--both because itâs unclear whether Walnut would accept the chicks as her own, and because Chris is not equipped to be a Crane Dad. Â
However, the Institute provides her with artificial eggs to sit on, and Chris takes his turn looking after them. (This would not work with real eggs because he canât sit on them properly, but Walnut seems to feel that he is on the job if he just stands over them.)
Chris accepts that he is pretty much married to this bird. White-naped cranes live to be about 60, and they mate for life, so he knows he canât retire while Walnut is alive. (At the time of the article, Walnut was 36, and Chris 42.) Â
she has not been PROVEN to have killed her exes, but there is a PERSISTENT RUMOR (really officers she's simply DEVASTATED, she sobs, wearing a new feather boa unfortunately resembling her most recent deceased husband)
His name is Chris CROWE. (Mrs. Walnut Crane-Crowe?)
the mental images of a whole human man learning and performing the crane mating dance, and "sitting" on artificial eggs so she thinks he's performing his duties as a husband and father (and apparently OBJECTS if he does not?)
"chris, buddy, you gotta marry the possibly-murderous crane lady for the GOOD OF THE SPECIES." (alternately: "chris, my man! good news! we found you a very interested lady! She's 36, she's very spirited and independent, she holds a very important and rare status in her society! ...Is there a downside? WELL...")
chris sits any potential human partners down, like "my love, you must understand before we wed,,, i am already... Attached" (camera drifts wistfully to the above photo) "Lady Walnut and I have an,, Understanding... the relationship is open, but very committed"
Not only is he 'married' to walnut, this has apparently happened SEVERAL times, so he has MULTIPLE crane wives, none of which know about any of his other crane wives. This man is, for some unknown reason, irresistible to cranes
the âthis content has been removed for violating Tumblrâs Community Guidelinesâ notice really adds a lot of flavor to this post and somehow makes it MORE obscene than whatever that actually was
I regret being the bearer of bad news, but I thought it should be shared that Walnut passed away in January of this year (2024). There's a lot of mixed info about the lifespan of cranes (due to people misunderstanding what a median is...) but the average for most species I know of is 20-30 years (in the wild if nothing eats them/they don't die young), and 30-45 in captivity, with the oldest known white-naped crane having loved to be 46. Given that she was 42, this old gal did good, and I'm certain she will be missed by folks here.
