#We'll See How It Goes

[alesshi]

Prints *

[lottieshauna]

COUNTDOWN TO YELLOWJACKETS S3 EPISODE 1 -> PILOT

We're going to motherfucking Nationals!

[sotanghonn]

rikas

[ghostlysoaps]

A Minor Annoyance

They’re back at base again and Ghost has been holed up in his office for the majority of the week in an attempt to get back on track with his ever-increasing backlog of paperwork. The knock on his door is therefore welcome, though surprising. He sits up straighter, wincing when several joints pop in protest, calling for them to come in.

Gaz leans himself against the doorframe. He, too, looks exhausted. Exhausted and irritated.

“I need your help wrangling Soap,” he says without preamble or an arduous attempt at small talk.

Ghost blinks at him.

“What?”

“He’s a stubborn bastard who won’t listen to reason,” Gaz shrugs. “And if it comes down to knocking him out in order to get him to rest, I’d rather have help carrying his leaden arse back to his room.”

Ghost blames sleep deprivation for the way he snorts.

“Alright,” he acquiesces, following behind the sergeant with amused wariness dogging his steps.

-

They find Soap outside surrounded by the scent of petrichor and bleary-eyed recruits. A gust of wind weaves around them, its chilling bite unmistakable where it tugs upon their hair and clothes, rustling through the pine-ridden area like an unexpected whisper. Ghost waits for Soap to send the group out on the track before he approaches, brow furrowed in response to the thickness layered over his voice. He'd sounded as if he spoke from deep in his throat, and with an air of a man pretending as if it didn’t pain him to do so. As he draws closer, Ghost allows the gravel beneath his feet to shift deliberately.

Soap jerks, swings his head around when Ghost comes to stand at his side, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes. The tip of his nose is red too, his cheeks a tad puffy, though he carries himself admirably regardless. Straight-backed and refusing to huddle into the oversized jacket he's wearing.

"Lt.? What're y'doing ‘ere?”

“I'm relieving you of your duties. Garrick can take it from here,” he replies, throwing Gaz a look that is met with surreptitious thumbs-up. He'll ask Price to look into leave for him. Soap's not the only one itching to work himself into an early grave by the looks of it.

It must be a cold day in hell, he muses, if I'm the one with the healthiest work-life balance at the moment.

“What?! Get tae and dinnae talk pish! I'm fine. I can work, Sir, I dinnae need–”

“That was an order, Sergeant. You can either leave on your own two feet or slung over my shoulder. Choice is yours.”

Soap's eyes narrow, his shoulders drawing up defensively, lips pulled back in a sneer. “You wouldn't dare.”

Which is about the worst thing he could've possibly said.

All at once Simon is twelve years old again with a defiant Tommy glaring daggers at him from across the stained rug, those fateful words a hiss through clenched teeth. Even the keen knowledge of their mother’s impending disappointment, how she'd give him a hushed dressing down in the aftermath of their scuffle, hadn't curbed his need to lunge for him. It's like the flip of a switch. Three simple words and suddenly Ghost is vibrating with the desire to prove Soap wrong. Some previously dormant code ingrained deep in his DNA flaring to life with all the speed of an oxygen fire.

Those memories carry him forward and the sudden shift in Johnny’s expression, the moment he realises he’s sealed his fate proper, sends a thrill skittering down his spine.

“Wait, Ghost, I–” is about as far as he comes before the words change into an unintelligible blend of Scottish nonsense, voice strained from having his diaphragm compressed. “Put me doon ye clarty bastard! Gaz!”

“Dream come true for you, huh?” Gaz says with a jaunty wave at their retreating backs, mirth etched into the crinkled lines around his eyes.

“I'll fuckin’ kill ye, ye clipe wopper! Lemme doon so ah can wring ‘is bleedin’ neck!” Soap barks, squirming in Ghost's grasp like a recalcitrant eel. It's a blessing that Soap's already running on fumes since, true to his callsign, it's damn near impossible to keep him securely slung over his shoulder.

By his third attempt to claw Ghost's back to shreds, Ghost sighs and pats him firmly on the rump. Soap instantly stills. Flushed to high-heavens if Ghost were to hazard a guess – not that he can see him from this angle. “Settle down, Sergeant, and I might be convinced to let you walk on your own.”

“Hate you,” Johnny wheezes.

Ghost grunts and maneuvers the door open, settling Johnny back on his feet again when it swings shut with a resounding thud. He steadies him when he wobbles on his feet and Johnny lets him with little fuss. Resigned to his fate he shuffles along after Ghost, who detours briefly to score each of them a cuppa. He ladles honey into Johnny’s mug and presses it into his freezing hands. Gets a muttered, unenthusiastic and intentionally mocking “cheers,” for it.

“You're a right cunt when you're sick.”

“Yer a right cunt all o’ the time,” Soap fires back. He's glaring mutinously into his least preferred beverage, cradled close to his chest while he watches Ghost tidy up after them. “Jus��� hate bein’ sick ‘s all. Feel proper boggin’ no matter how many times ah shower an’ my nose is both runny and stuffed as if th’ physics of tha is s'pose to make sense. Could'a powered through it.”

“That's how you end up forcefully strapped to a bed in medical suffering from pneumonia and severe dehydration.”

Johnny pauses. A small smile graces his face and Ghost hastily turns back to wiping down the counters to keep himself from being blinded.

One shouldn't stare directly into the sun after all.

“Speakin’ from experience, sir?”

Ghost doesn't answer, as if that isn't a reply in-and-of-itself, merely nudges Johnny back into moving. He gets him all the way to his door before Soap's brow creases in confusion. His mouth opens, closes, opens again while Ghost trudges inside with little fanfare, door left gaping in silent invitation. Johnny seizes it with both hands after dithering at his threshold a second longer.

He examines the impersonal space with keen interest, slurping obnoxiously at his tea as if to detract from how his hands flutter over scuffed paint and barren walls, his gaze catching over the miniscule signs someone is living there at all.

“Why'ahm I ‘ere, Ghost?” Soap asks when he's done, pinning him in place with the intensity of his stare. It's the same focus he dedicates to a particularly difficult math equation or sketching up blueprints with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. It's a heady feeling to be on the receiving end of it. Heady and terrifying.

“Figured you'd appreciate the en-suite,” Ghost says, violently stamping down on the truth until it comes out in a statement easier to digest. “And someone needs to make sure you stay in place. Bloody flight risk that you are.”

You'd look good in my clothes, in my bed, as a permanent fixture here. This is as much for me as it is for you. A taste of what I can't have.

He hopes Soap doesn't read between the lines this time – always too perceptive for Ghost's questionable sanity.

“An’ where d'ye plan on sleeping?” Johnny smiles, a mote amused and as sweet as the honey lingering on his lips.

“Floor. Or Gaz's room if he doesn't delete those pictures he took.”

Johnny’s eyes go dark as sin.

“Oh, that'll be th’ least of his worries.”

“Sleep, MacTavish. You can come up with your convoluted revenge plot later.”

“Yes sir.” He gives a lazy salute and flops down on Ghost's bed with a grunt – boots and all, the absolute heathen. Ghost watches him rearrange himself into a position more befitting a person who's suffered a recent spinal fracture when Johnny peers up at him again from under thick lashes. “Dinnae think you're exempt from those, Lt. Ah know where ye live now.”

Ghost sighs and tosses the hoodie folded over his chair at Johnny’s face, taking great pleasure in closing the bathroom door in the face of Johnny's indignant name-calling.

-

Prompts via @whumperless-whump-event and @seth-whumps

[wormspoodle]

looking at my drawings and shaking my head and going "this would not happen. they would not do that." and then continuing to draw my delusions

[artingstarvist]

TGCF-Tober: Day 6: Narcissus (Accomplishment) (See All)

In Chinese symbolism, Narcissus symbolizes accomplishment and good fortune. In Victorian flower language it means egotism or vanity which also fit Mu Qing well. The more modern western meaning is new beginnings or renewal which also fit Mu Qing's relationships by the end of the story.

[ennieasys]

im doing the notes thing

I doubt it'll work but I have also witnessed the power of Tumblr so...

100 notes: I'll paint my nails the trans flag colors

200: I'll buy a nonbinary pride moth bracelet (skyebluez.com)

250: I'll also buy a classic pride bracelet (I know it's not a lot but it's kinda all I can afford)

500: I'll find a way to go out in public wearing all three

900: I'll talk to a friend that I suspect is a system about our DID

1000: I've been wanting to stream on twitch but am insanely anxious about it so if we hit this I'll do it at least once

1500: I'll have y'all recommend stuff and I'll make a poll

[kedreeva]

Built myself a little stables today in Minecraft, as a treat.

The server is still open for folks who want to come play with me!

[dtdrawz]

BADSANSUARY prompt 8: yearning

I drew the MTT last year so I'm giving the other bad sanses some love :^D starting with error !

error - loverofpiggies badsansuary hosted by owl-bones

[amogus-real-not-clickbait]

oopsie forgor to post this!!

part 4 of my little debut to carrot soup :] !!

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | ..? |

this is all i've got for now! ive been low on motivation recently so im just kinda. trying to find something that sparks anything in me,, but i may draw more panels for this, who knows! my carrot soup appreciation days certainly aren't done soooooooo

(pssst. in case u forgor or didn't know. carrot soup is this really nice really sweet good nice fic series on ao3. by @crowned-ladybug. here it is pls check it out if u liked my little visual interpretation !! )

oh yea btw i hid an amogus in this one heheee ඞ

[narsh-poptarts]

Crudely put together somethin or other I'm gonna attempt to do silkscreening with

(OC: Calamity, it/its)

[kittyclowns]

I get to borrow an old laminator. I can't wait to laminate things!

[dailytomlinson]

psa: today twitter is officially down in my country so I can only access twitter content using a third website (like downloaders of pics and videos). if you'd like to help out to get quicker updates, you can share the links on our inbox so i can download whatever content is new

[hadesoftheladies]

went on the twitter radfem space and it was full of the most obscene racism and violent language. tiktok is absurd, too. and now radblr is just near constant in-fighting and bullying. there's just no room for black radical feminists on the internet. i think i've gotten all i was ever going to get from this place. i think it's time i just move out of here and focus on reading theory and building irl community and maybe focus on the youtube channel. any mutuals that want to keep in touch, y'all can message me and we can figure out how to stay in touch elsewhere! (like discord maybe!) those who want to follow the channel can subscribe and stay subscribed until i upload. i may just create a website specifically for blogging and my thoughts after compiling the posts i've kept on this account. not deactivating immediately, since i still have loads to figure out and arrange, but i don't think i'm helping anyone on here and i'm tired of the hostility. i don't need anymore in my life. i'd rather just curate in my own space and accumulate a volume of work that i can use for other things and not have my blog polluted by racism, homophobia and anti intellectualism. i'm tired of trying to convince the unwilling. i'd rather just be a proper essayist and have people fight about me rather than with me XD.

[embodiment-of-stress]

I think I found my new favorite subject

[professorfcknmoriarty]

this must be the place

For the first time in over a decade, Evan Kelmp finds himself standing on someone’s front step with everything he owns in the world on his back, his nicest shoes on his feet, and the hope that this time, just for once, it won’t end badly. Except, he’s no longer a boy of barely ten, relying on the generosity and kindness that the state of Iowa reluctantly bestows upon him in the form of an endless cast of frustrated and sometimes frightened social workers. He is a man of twenty-one, who’s just quit his job at the petrol station, broken the lease on his apartment with little warning, and travelled to the next country to be with one of his best friends in the entire world, all because she offered him a couch and time and company while he figures some things out. --- A post-canon slow burn.

for @heckblade