patron saint of cosmonauts

21, Cosmos 🌌 | Call of Duty blog | she/her

[saint-cosmos]

ghost who comes home from deployment and all he wants to do is eat until he's fat and sleep like the dead versus his little lady who is doing everything shy of making a powerpoint to convince him to drive her out into the woods and hunt her like a prized buck. send tweet.

[saint-cosmos]

alright you've convinced me. seelie fae in an unseelie court part one let's do this.

for what should be such a monumental occasion, a unity to bring peace between kingdoms entrenched in a cold war, his princess arrives without the typical pomp and circumstance. he expects a show, a caravan of several dozens carriages lining up neatly at the front of his castle, stuffed to the brim with family and nobility. he expects nothing more than the finest for a young lady who was, two weeks ago, the heir apparent to an entire kingdom.

it is strange to him, that the treaty was considered at all, given what was demanded - not just a princess, but the princess.

there is a stillness to his court that john has never felt during his reign. every lord and lady holds their breath, expecting chaos, expecting a crowd – and yet the tension seems to pull taut as the door opens, and the only two who step into the cathedral are his young bride and her father.

you wear no wedding dress. the silk of your dress, loose sleeves draping over your hands, is the shade of a winter orchid. a lemon yellow bonnet is tied over your hair, and the only white in your attire is the fleece-knit shawl draped over your shoulders. you look more like a flower than you do a bride.

despite your standing, there are no guards that flank your sides. john can't help but think just how vulnerable you are in this moment, not yet bound to him and his protection.

"i expected more than this," john remarks, looking from the princess, who has yet to bring her eyes up from the ground, back to her father, "where is her bridal party?"

the king, as noble as he might have thought himself to come all this way, does not have the decency to look ashamed or even guilty. "the queen thought it best for everyone that the celebrations be kept contained," he says, "i merely came to give my daughter away, and to be a witness to her union."

the wedding he believed would take hours, between seelie customs and the cultural divide, is over before the hour is up. he expected to wait a fortnight for your ladies to draw the appropriate glyphs onto your skin, to dress you in layers upon layers of silk, embroidered with charms of luck and protection. he expects the brocaded cloak of your house to sit over your wedding dress like armor, only for him to remove it and replace it with his own, bringing you into the fold of his house as his wedded wife. instead, what he removes is your fleece shawl, handing it off gently to be replaced with the heavily embroidered cloak. a few words from an anointed priestess, and john turns your head with two of his fingers to press a dry kiss to the corner of your lips. he hadn’t the foresight to take your bonnet off before the ceremony began.

your father stays long enough to see you married, but disappears before the cacophony of polite clapping from the court can subside. john sees you searching for him more than once, eyes drifting through the crowd like you expect him to show up at any moment. he does not. john turns away before he can witness the crescentfallen expression that crosses your sweet face. he doesn’t want to know if you cry.

to be seelie is to be weak – john knows this for a fact. he’s trained squires and met children less craven than some seelie knights. and yet he foolishly expected more from your father, a king of thousands of years who had threatened his kingdom with war mere moons ago. he expected your bridal party to be giant and glamorous and all proclivities expected of a seelie wedding. seelie children are rare and cherished; his bride was already a young woman, but he expected that the sentiment would stand, given the title she held.

when you disappear to your bedchambers before dinner has been served, he doesn’t stop you.

[saint-cosmos]

Some kind of fantasy au with unseelie fae!141 being gifted seelie fae princess!reader as a wife, not knowing that she's kind of macabre and freakish. Does this make sense.

[themurdochmemesteries]

created this with the help of my ac discord server. some of these were guesses because not everyone has played every game, but i hope y'all find this as amusing as we did.

[twilightarcade]

looper

[saint-cosmos]

Red Rising and Helldivers II have so many small things in common it's almost a little funny. The most obvious thing being the use of 'Helldivers' in both, but the thing that struck me the quickest was the comparison between Hellpods and starShells as a means to ferry troops quickly from orbit onto the surface of a planet. If you think about it, the Galactic War in Helldivers II really is just constant, continuous Iron Rains across front line planets.

What do starShells even look like? I always imagined they did look a lot like Hellpods - essentially just one-use vessels like a giant torpedo that could be abandoned for pulseArmor. But all the fanart I see of them make them look kind of like mechs, which is not at all what I was expecting.

[twitchingmeatcarpet]

A starshell is more like a mech suit with grav boots and a place for the wearer to put thier personal razor it's tough enough to survive being dropped from orbit which is why iron rains work the way they do but their primary function is as power armor once the wearer gets planetside

[saint-cosmos]

That actually makes so much sense. I'm sure there's like one paragraph in Golden Son that I skipped over on accident that explained that lol.

[saint-cosmos]

Red Rising and Helldivers II have so many small things in common it's almost a little funny. The most obvious thing being the use of 'Helldivers' in both, but the thing that struck me the quickest was the comparison between Hellpods and starShells as a means to ferry troops quickly from orbit onto the surface of a planet. If you think about it, the Galactic War in Helldivers II really is just constant, continuous Iron Rains across front line planets.

What do starShells even look like? I always imagined they did look a lot like Hellpods - essentially just one-use vessels like a giant torpedo that could be abandoned for pulseArmor. But all the fanart I see of them make them look kind of like mechs, which is not at all what I was expecting.

[saint-cosmos]

hey look what's that over there *gothic fantasies your 141*

[katestewartt]

"Between you and me, in a hundred words, where do you think Van Gogh rates in the history of art?"

[drgnflyteabox]

Fisherman Ghost squeezing the eggs out of Mermaid reader. Send

[quarterlifekitty]

Uhm. Usually he sells the eggs (it’s like an extremely rare and expensive type of caviar) but you’re getting all sad because you keeps releasing your eggs but you don’t have a baby yet, so he sets up a bunch of nets to catch a milt donor and all he manages to snare is one stupid merman with a dumbass haircut

[saint-cosmos]

he's getting caught on purpose and ghost knows it

[succubusvalentine]

ᴄʟᴀɪʀᴠᴏʏᴀɴᴛ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ʀɪʟᴇʏ ɴꜱꜰᴡ | ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ

Simon Riley had known he was a clairvoyant since he was 10, and heard his father's thoughts about the woman he cheated on his mother with.

He quickly learned to never tell anyone about his ability, he was labeled a kook, insane, he even got thrown into a mental hospital when he was fifteen.

The only people who did believe in him, were his teammates. His Captain laughing in awe when Simon tells him exactly what thoughts were going through his mind.

But when you joined the team, he was skeptical whether or not to tell you of his ability. That didn't stop him however, from hearing you think about riding him on the desk during a meeting. That may have been the most awkward boner of Simons life.

It didn't stop there. You'd walk into the gym while Simon was working out?

"Jesus Christ I want to bite down on those sweaty fucking biceps while he fucks me dumb." Simon nearly dropped the dumbbell on his foot.

Simon licked the lid of a yoghurt container?

"Long tongue, thick too. Wonder how it would feel fucking me."

Simon was sparring with Johnny and was standing up after pinning him?

"Pin me like that, don't let me up from under you and overstimulate me until I'm in a damn wheelchair."

John laughed loudly when he realised Simon was sporting a boner, knowing exactly what was going on.

After a while it seemed you started to pick up on Simon. Not genuinely, but everyone has the 'can someone read minds?' thought when they're thinking of something dirty. Especially when Simon was staring at you from afar, having to listen to your thoughts about choking on his cock after a mission.

Simon knew women had dirty thoughts, hell he'd heard most of them. But you were a different breed. Fucking hell, you had a whole bag of dirty things.

You thought about tying him up, him tying you up, sucking his cock after a mission, you care if he was sweaty, in fact you'd like it.

But Simon didn't just use your thoughts to get a fill of his ego or to get off, he wasn't a total douchebag.

It seemed you were on your period one week, you didn't tell anyone, despite the cramps apparently feeling like hell in your guts. You merely snapped at anyone who pissed you off.

And you near cried when Simon placed a hot water bottle on your lap, with a bag of treats. And strangely, a take out box with some sliced steak and a delicious smelling sauce. He grumbled something about you needing something with high iron, before leaving.

Simon finally couldn't take it anymore when you were sat in mess hall, playing with your food as your mind went elsewhere. "Wonder how big his cock is...He's big with an even bigger fucking ego, probably a good seven inches. Maybe he's circumcised..."

"Eight and a half inches, and I'm not fucking cut. You'll see tonight in my barracks" Simon growled in your ear. Leaving you aroused and horrified as he walked away. Gaz and Johnny laughing at your reddened face.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ

[saint-cosmos]

y-yes 😳

[rawme-price]

Healer!ghost who is not nice.

His healing hurts. Broken skin, torn muscles, split fat, all sewn back together in an agonizing moment. The price to pay for the defiance against nature, pain.

Ghost doesn't care, what's a bit of pain when the alternative is death? He shoves soldiers down to stop their struggling, has others help restrain them if needed. The best people get out of him is a gruff don't shoot me before pain overtakes their being. It's not like he goes out of his way to hurt his men, but when there's organs spilling onto the floor he doesn't have much choice. He only heals the fatal wounds.

People glare at him in the hallways, some are bold enough to tell him he needs to be nicer, that the healing isn't worth it. Ghost just shrugs "They should be happy to be alive or kill themselves before I get there."

Then he meets you, a new recruit who hasn't learned to flinch away from him.

Being the guy who puts people through hell on the field, it's impossible for people to remain neutral about him. Some go so far as to avoid him in the hallways. He once placed a hand on a soldier's bicep to get them to move and they had a full-blown panic attack.

So. He only talks to the sergeants, his captain, and now you. It's...nice? It's different, having someone who actively chooses to sit and eat with him, who smiles and searches for approval after every training exercise. Slowly, tentatively, he accepts you. Shares snacks and quiet moments. One day he even agrees to watch a movie on your shitty laptop, snuggled under blankets, and eating popcorn.

Of course, nothing good ever stays that way for ghost.

Another mission, wet grass, gunfire, you. You, spilling blood over the morning dew with a foggy look in your eyes. When ghost kneels down next to you, you instinctively smile and slur "hey big guy! I'm...I'm uh not feeling too...too great.... can't we just wait a moment?"

Dread claws at the back of his throat, steals his voice. He just nods, peels off the velcro of his gloves. Two other soldiers come to press your arms and legs firmly to the dirt.

He doesn't give you a warning.

You scream and scream. Voice bloody and raw, tears streaming down your face. You beg for him to stop, and when that doesn't work you plead for the soldiers to let you go. They don't. He doesn't.

Ghost never stays long after, and today that won't change. Running forward to help push back fire. Someone else helps you put your mind back together, and as planned you both take different Humvees back.

Ghost gets caught up in meetings, doesn't see you in the debrief or the medbay when he finally drops by. But when he steps into his barracks, all of the personal effects you carelessly leave amongst his items are gone. Every trace of you removed. He knows what that means. He doesn't go looking for you. Goes to bed and wakes up, eats alone and smiles at no one.

He doesn't look for you.

[pieckyghost]

oh :c

[saint-cosmos]

i guess reader with cipa is just too easy 🥲🥲 i guess it has to hurt

[quarterlifekitty]

Taken from that one Reddit post but. Simon with a deaf!reader. He’s had his nose broken so many times, his nasal passageways are like a labyrinth. Of course he snores like an absolute chainsaw. And when the 141 is staying in a safe house together Soap thinks it’s a bit hilarious.

“Dinnae ken how ye sleep through the night without yer wife smotherin’ ye with a pillow after the first 10 minutes.”

“The missus says she happens to like my purring, thank you very much.”

And it’s true. You cuddle him and lay your head on his chest so you can feel all of the vibrations.

[saint-cosmos]

yum 😋

[hyperfixiation-station]

My favorite version of Ghost, if anyone cares

[saint-cosmos]

he looks like he does paintball or airsoft as a hobby

[saint-cosmos]

okay i don't usually like cheating tropes but i'm in a weird sensitive mood today so get this.

ghost who marries civilian!reader for the sake of convenience, but keeps soap on the side as the side piece he's actually in love with. soap and reader don't know that the other exists, but they attribute how closed-off and secretive ghost is to his desire for privacy.

it's almost too convenient - reader doesn't ask about his team or his work because she knows he'll get really defensive about it. soap doesn't ask to take the next step or get serious out of fear that ghost will ice him out again.

idk just. selfish, cheating ghost getting to have his cake and eat it while playing the two people who love him unconditionally for fools.

[saint-cosmos]

old hunter!price who stills remembers the golden days of the healing church. the days where the scourge of beasts had yet to eat the city alive. he's no church hunter - a student and mentor of a long-forgotten workshop, deep within the putrid bowels of yharnam. john price whose memories are steeped in the sanguine wine of beast blood grown bitter with age. he's no longer the same energetic, bright-eyed hunter he was in his youth. the years sap his strength, his energy. the excitement of the hunt hollows as he greys. perhaps he would be content, in a world where he no longer had to kill; a world where the next day did not rely on the spilt blood of so many yharnamites, tricked and poisoned by the vicar who swore to cure them. perhaps - and alas, it is a long-forgotten dream. the night calls for a hunt, and price is weak to its moon-sweet song.

hunter of hunters!ghost who has had too many of his comrades die by his hand. long-familiar with the grief that comes complementary to the screams of a hunter slipping from humanity. beasthood or death, the only escapes from the yharnam's stench and blood-slick streets. he knows how it will end, each time, and foolishly he allows himself the weakness of companionship. it's a momentary balm for the spirit, before they die or give into blood-drunkenness, and suddenly ghost is alone again. there is almost no time to grieve it. he carries it heavy in his heart, always present but pushed to the wayside. pandora's box. he'd never open himself to processing it - he doubts he'd ever be the same if he did. perhaps it would drive him to madness. he'd long for it. it's a long-time coming, that he be the one to give in to the lust for blood. the only thing holding him back is that, if he did, there would be no hunter alive who could stop him, as he has so many before.

choir!gaz that yearns for forbidden knowledge, who does not fear the ways to seek it out and carve it behind his eyes. the cold dark of the beaked mask hides his eyes from the filth of this plane, and his mind expands only inwards and inwards, folding ever-farther into the abyss. what joy it would be, to achieve the feat master willem sought after until the very end of his life! the greatest gift of life is the knowledge of truth, that the idea of higher being is only the first step to knowledge. no, it is the pursuit of insight that will grant him success. freedom from the mortal coil, into godhood. the masterful, steady hand of something more than a scholar carves each caryll rune behind his eyes, exhilaration sticky and sweet on his tongue.

powder keg!soap who carries with him the remnants of the heretic workshop. with gunpowder and fire, he is the defender of the lost and weary that litter old yharnam's desolate streets. he is their silent protector, a man who sees only the truth in this hunt. it is the rot of the healing church that needs to be cut out, root and stem. all too well he knows of the suffering they've inflicted - on their own people, no less - and the fury it imbibes him with sits hot and heavy in his gut, smoldering like coals. even the most innocent of trespassers catch his ire - though, innocents are so rarely found in yharnam anymore. not since the beasts and blood-drunken fiends began to flood the streets, until the city was crumbling down into itself. protecting the charred, decrepit remains of old yharnam is an exercise in futility, and yet as the city decays, there is little else to find purpose in.

[saint-cosmos]

i completely stand by powder keg!soap but man i really passed up the opportunity for vileblood!ghost and vileblood hunter!soap like that was RIGHT in front of me

[ghouljams]

a brain hairball a la early @553580

childhood sweetheart!Ghost :)

(you can check the tags for your cw spoiler)

I've been thinking all day about Ghost who was your childhood sweetheart that broke up with you right when you thought he was going to propose. it came out of absolutely nowhere and youve never gotten over him. he was so kind to you, so sweet. you still think of him when you go out on first dates. you remember the scrawny kid who's second hand clothes were too big, who would stop by flower bushes and snip stems for you to take home and leave to wilt in a mason jar.

you also think of the way he'd grown distant, how he'd gotten colder the closer you got to adulthood. how he'd started mumbling his "i love you too" and never seemed to text you first. you remember the anxiety, asking him if you'd done something wrong and getting a pained look but no answer. it had felt like an inevitability and yet you couldn't believe it when he broke up with you. things had been so good for so long, where had your lovely Simon gone?

your first dates never pan out, you compare them too readily to a memory of a perfect man who may not have ever really existed. you tell your adult friends about the only man you ever loved and how he was barely 18 when he ditched you for the army, and in all these years he's never once contacted you.

and then he does. bumps into you at the Tesco near your flat and you dont recognize him except he sounds just like your memory of his father —a man you know for a fact is long dead. he's so much bigger than he was a decade ago. so much more of a man when he tugs down his n95 to let you get a good look at what 10 years of military service tears off a baby-face.

he's the same as you remember him. the lines at the corners of his eyes are new but the crooked tilt of his lips is the same when he smiles.he has the same jokes, the ones you can finish for him. the tattoos are new but his fingers trace over the back of your hand in the same patterns. every part of your favorite memories plays out, and this time you swear you won't make the same mistakes.

except you do.

he starts getting cold again.

stops answering your calls.

rain checks too many dates.

he looks at you with something in his eyes that you dont have a name for, but it sends a shiver down your spine.

you're staring down the barrel of the same relationship you've mourned for too many years, but you're an adult now. you don't have to sit down and take it.

so you don't, you go to Simon's flat and force your way inside, and ask him point blank what the fuck you did wrong.

"Nothin'," he tells you, "didn' do anythin' wrong, yer perfect."

"then what's the fucking problem?" you demand.

and he goes silent.

and, well, what is he supposed to say?

that he loves you too much? that you're too good for him? that it's not you, it's him? that it's always been him?

that he looks at you and he cant conceptualize a world that doesn't have you in it, that he can't exist without you? that he never should have followed his friend to church that random Sunday on a whim? that he never should have learned that God is best housed in the stomach?

should he tell you that his affection had started to grow teeth all those years ago, that he'd been too scared of turning into his father to know how to properly curb the urge to possess you down to the marrow? or perhaps tell you that he'd kept away in the hopes that those urges would disappear, that he could find a way to love you, to minimize his affections so that they didnt consume you?

he should tell you that he couldn't beat it, that it's coming back to him with a knife already in hand, that his fingers don't trace your flank with aesthetic appreciation, that he doesn't squeeze your round to make you squeak.

"I want to eat you," he says, his voice flat, "and I know how I would do it."

and really what more does he have to say? there's no warm teasing in his eyes, no playful tilt to his head. his fists clench, knuckles white, and the knife he keeps in his pocket seems to bulge promisingly against the denim. there's not a shadow of doubt in your mind what he means, what urge the military has failed to drown in blood.

so you offer him one of your kidneys.