Moth-feeet - K

I LOVING COLORING!!!

i cant keep living like this

yes, it is what i want need

Reblogs appreciated:>

y'all know davy jones who can only step on land once every decade?

right, make that Simon, but he's something else.

He shows up hours before someone's passing. An inky nondescript shadow that blends into the background, unnoticed by most. But to those whose final specks of sand trickle through their hourglass?

They see him.

An entity condemned to a lifetime of servitude. A wretched, pitiful existence. Something that saps the life out of everything it touches. Something that can't feel the warm rays of the sun seep into his skin, can't smell petrichor in the dewy morning, when the world begins to wake.

He lives yet he doesn't. An eternity of suffering, of wishing he never begged for a way out of the braided strands of hemp that had tightened around his neck for his crimes so long ago.

His freedom forfeit the moment he pleaded for it.

With a lantern that glows an eerie green, he leads deceased souls to their final destination, even the ones who resist, who cling futilely to life, to what is no longer theirs.

Some might call him death, others Hermes. The only name he's ever cared for is his own, the one that his mother had given him back when men still sailed the seas in search of treasure, when men and women alike were hung at the gallows.

But now he is a nameless servant of the natural order that guides them all.

However, he was also given a boon. One single day, out of every ten years, the tight collar around his neck comes off, and he turns human.

A man of flesh and blood.

His lungs fill with the crisp, biting air that he never feels. Cheeks sting from the cold. Fingertips numb without gloves.

For one blessed night, the heart in his chest beats. For one blessed night, his body is warm, flush with life.

And it's been this way for as long as he can remember. He would roam the docks of back then, the briny air stinging his nose, the dulled thumping of hooves resounding in his ears. The chants of drunken men coming from inside lit taverns.

He roamed when cars began to be a form of transportation, when children, boys, began marching to war.

He had been so busy, then.

And he roams now, in the modern age, where medicine forestalls the inescapable.

But then, you. Blood rushes to his face the moment he lays eyes on you. His throat dries, turns to the paper that's used to strip paint.

He's never seen something so beautiful. So plump with vitality, life coursing through your veins. A sweet little thing, whose dulcet voice makes his knees weak.

And when you shake hands with him, palm engulfed in his much larger one, as you ask him for his name, his tongue feels as if it's coated with tar, swollen and heavy. But he garbles out his response anyway.

"Simon."

The way you breathe it back, like a sigh from a lover, could still his heart.

Everything else is a blur, his eyes only ever focused on you when he ends up in your arms, in between your spread thighs, inviting him where no creature such as he belongs.

But he's always yearned for what was never his, and so with fervor, he takes. Grabs at soft skin, and whimpers at the fact that you're not dead with his touch. Surrenders himself to you, completely; makes the little dove under him sing until the short arm on the clock gets close to 12.

This is where he departs, with a promise he swears to never break, and wrenches his heart out of his own chest, placing it in your gentle hands.

He swears to come back for it, once every ten years.

Whenever Simon turns back to whatever he's cursed with being, he keeps a keen eye on you. And then the one time he passes by, feeling like nothing but an artic breeze to you, he sees your life is close to an end.

Simon, for once in his pathetic existence, saves a human life. The car that crashes into you at a lethal speed, does nothing but total your vehicle. It is considered an absolute miracle to everyone, except you.

That should've been your demise. That should've been it.

His little dove, too smart for her own good.

The time will soon come again, and when his head rests on your chest, listening to the lulling sounds of your heart beating, will he tell you what he is.

(maybe, or not idk)

"It's a heady tonic. Holding life and death in the palm of your own hand."

literally just the beginning, middle, and end of my period

do u thimk my mobility aids r sexy babe .

something something everyone helping each other through their scars something something you dont have to face your traumas alone your friends love you and want to help something something wally clocking mr manfredo rhonda repeating to wally that none of it was real charley picking up the deathplay football when wally couldn't keep a grip on it all of them staring down the table full of charleys and not letting him near the vending machine alone

something something I can't carry it for you but I can carry you.

life lately

ᴀʟʟ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴀɪʀᴍᴀɪʟ

…𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘵!𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳

fluff, mutual pining, summer romance, pilot!matt, seaside town, slight angst i guess, unresolved

requested by the lovely @vanteguccir !

word count - 400ish

Matt shows up every morning like clockwork. Just after sunrise, boots dusted with sand, hair ruffled from the wind and eyes still dreaming. His goggles hang around his neck, and he smells like sun-warmed leather and ocean salt, like the kind of guy who lives too close to the sky. He's been flying since he was young. Too young, probably.

He’s come to your town every season for the past couple of years, flying tourists in slow, looping circles over the sea. 

“Just for the summer”, he tells you every time you ask him how long he’s staying for. 

But Matt walks like he’s not in any rush to leave. Like the sky’s been waiting a long time to let him rest.

The old red biplane sits in the lot like it’s waiting for something magical to happen, patched up with love, stickers from places he’s flown to, and a little yellow flag that flutters even when there’s no breeze. 

You work the morning shift at the sleepy seaside diner down the road from the airfield, all creaky stools and checkered floors. Pouring coffee and pretending not to watch the door. Matt always takes the third seat from the end, facing the window like he’s waiting for something. Or someone. 

“Same as usual?” you ask, smiling as you already scribble it down. Scrambled eggs, burnt toast, a glass of apple juice.  He nods, a little shy, but his mouth quirks at the corners when you bring him the glass. He only ever stays long enough for a bite of the food, but some mornings, he leaves behind little things.

Stickers form fuel stations in towns you’ve never been to. Napkins with doodles. A postcard with nothing but a timestamp and a messy scrawl “thought of you today. The clouds looked like cotton candy.” 

There are paper planes folded from old flight charts, matchbox cars that roll perfectly straight, doodles of balloons carrying houses into the sky. Once, he left a candy bracelet with a note that read “emergency fuel for daydreamers.”

You keep them all in an old mint tin beneath the register when no one’s looking, like souvenirs from a trip you haven’t taken yet. 

You’ve never told him how you’ve always wanted to fly, not just in the air, but somewhere. Somewhere big. Somewhere small. Somewhere with him.

Every afternoon, his biplane hums above the diner roof, sunlight catching on the red wings like a wink. He always dips to one side before disappearing over the cliffs. Always. You wave even though he can’t see you. Or maybe he can.

And you wonder, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next time he walks through the door smelling like wind and sand and sky, maybe you’ll ask him to take you with him.

Just once.

Or maybe you’ll ask him to stay.

@bernardsbendystraws for the dividers!!

a/n: never seen top gun and i'm scared of heights, but matt talking about the movie up, and him in that balloon and now the plane,,, this felt right and how i interpret pilot!matt sdjbhffsdjb :>

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till next time!!!

Simon. Ghost. Riley.

"i need to get outta here"