#maybe got rid of it

[forsaire]

A MacTavish Christmas

When Soap can't make it home for Christmas, Ghost plans a surprise and brings Christmas to him. (~2k)

It's me @emmster! 🤭🤭

Here is your secret santa gift! I hope you enjoy how utterly, disgustingly sweet it is 💚💖

Ao3 link

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Soap had always made it home for Christmas, it was something he spoke about with warm pride. No matter where he was or how late a flight he had to take or when the last time he slept was, he was always there for Christmas morning. He was always there in his mum’s arms who would pepper him with kisses until he had to pry her arms off him, always handing out messily wrapped gifts with newspaper and anything he could find last minute to his siblings, always letting his nieces and nephews climb all over him in their excitement to have Uncle John’s attention.

He'd been especially excited the week leading up to it, his energy both infectious and exhausting. Ghost often found himself listening in content silence as Soap spoke about his fond memories of the traditions the MacTavish family had been doing for years.

On Christmas day, they hid the baby Jesus figurine somewhere in the house for the kiddos to find and whoever did got to return him to the manger, finishing the nativity scene. They always had these amazingly fresh croissant rolls to eat with dinner that everyone adored, and which one year almost caused World War III when they were accidentally forgotten. Soap’s mum had decided that decorating the Christmas tree would remain a family affair. After all the kids moved out, she waited until everyone came back together so they could put the ornaments on the tree together just like they always used to do as kids, reminiscing at the memories and laughing at the poorly decorated ones.

Ghost enjoyed listening to Soap ramble on, sharing his own family with Ghost even if just in colourful stories. Ghost didn’t have his own, not anymore, so he let Soap paint the picture for him. Soap smiled and Ghost savoured the way his eyes crinkled as they lit up.  

But that smile was stolen.

It was at the end of a debrief, Price giving the men a heads up about an urgent meeting coming up – illegal arms trading hands in preparation for an attack on one of the embassies halfway across the world. But the mission had landed in their lap and it was up to them to stake it out and prevent the meeting from happening.

“We leave at the crack of dawn,” Price finished saying. “0500 hours. Five days from now.”

Five days.

Ghost could see Soap’s face fall as the numbers aligned in his head.

Christmas day.

Soap had gotten lucky all these years, he knew he had. He had leave fall over the Christmas break, or he’d been able to make arrangements with other soldiers, or when he joined the 141 Price had given them the time off, or the world seemed to slow down for a couple days and they simply weren’t needed.

But not this time.

Soap’s disappointed eyes dropped, his lips downturned into a faint frown. He didn’t say anything, there wasn’t anything to say. Nothing would matter whether it came from Soap, or Ghost, or Gaz, or anyone else.

They had a job to do. Service above self.

And Ghost had to watch that heartbroken face all the way back to their room.  

For as much good as Soap put into the world, he deserved better. They saw the worst of the world 364 days a year, and still Soap was able to remain optimistic, warm-hearted, kind.

He deserved better.

So that night, Ghost found himself in Price’s office, a suggestion falling from his lips that he needed some help with organizing. And with a nod and a grunt – the greatest level of acceptance he was ever going to get out of Price – he received a promise that Price would help.

And the days went by, that subtle spark that was always inside Soap continuing to remain dim, his disappointment hurting Ghost because he knew he couldn’t do anything to fix it. As Christmas day slowly approached, Ghost began to worry a bit more that his plan wouldn’t come in on time.

But then, Christmas Eve, 11:30pm.

A knock on the door jolted both of their heads up from where they sat on their separate beds, Soap looking up from his drawing and Ghost looking up from his book.

“MacTavish,” a muffled voice called out from behind the door. “You have a package.”

Furrowed brows glanced over at Ghost in surprise before flicking back to the door. He put his notebook down and walked over to it, Ghost following a few steps behind. When he opened the door, his eyes were pulled downwards.

Sitting in front of them was a cardboard box, 2 feet long, 1 foot wide and tall. It was hastily wrapped with packing tape on both ends, looking as though it had just come from a warehouse. On top of that box was another smaller one, half the size, this one decorated in striped Christmas wrapping paper.

Incredulous eyes glanced at Ghost again to try and find an answer. Ghost simply gestured towards the packages.

Soap pulled the boxes inside and closed the door.

He took out his pocketknife and expertly slid the blade across the tape to break the seal. He flipped open the top and reached into the dark box.

The branches flopped open as he pulled it from the box, expanding as if taking a breath. Faint shock rippled across Soap’s face as he glanced down at what he was holding.

A small Christmas tree only two feet tall, the synthetic pine needles dense, and a bright red base attached to the bottom.

“Uhh…” Soap breathed out as he put the tree on the table. He then turned his attention to the smaller wrapped box.

He carefully tore the wrapping paper off to reveal a standard sized postal box. Soap untucked the tab and opened up the lid. On the very top was a handwritten note, the bright green crinkle cut packing paper surrounding it in all directions.

Soap picked up the note.

“This…” he said quietly, “this is my Ma’s writing…”

He began to read the note out loud.

Hi love,

Ma here, hoping you have a Merry Christmas. We were all looking forward to seeing you, the kids especially. I know you can’t be with us this year and I know how disappointed you were, but we all understand that your job means you have more people that rely on you than just us. And that’s okay.

We’ll miss you dearly, but I hope wherever you are, you can still have a MacTavish Christmas. On Christmas morning, we will decorate the tree in your absence and I hope you get to do the same too.

Come visit when you can. I’ll be waiting to spoil you rotten with my cooking. I love you, mo chridhe.

“P.S., thank Simon for the idea-”

Soap whipped his head up to look at Ghost, his eyes quickly then glancing into the box which was stacked with ornaments. His mouth dropped open a sliver.

“These…” he said incredulously, picking one up, “these are mine. From back home. These are some of the one’s my Ma has. You…”

Soap’s eyes softened as he glanced at Ghost.

Ghost’s smile was warm but reserved. He picked up one of the ornaments, an old looking reindeer made from construction paper, googly eyes, and pipe cleaners.

“You said it was tradition that the MacTavish’s decorate their tree on Christmas day,” he replied tenderly, hanging the reindeer onto one of the branches. “I wanted you to still be a part of it this year. I know it’s technically Christmas Eve, but…”

Soap’s expression had melted into grateful disbelief, touched beyond belief at Ghost’s words. His eyes shimmered as he stared up at Ghost softly.

“Now c’mon,” Ghost said quietly. “Let me see what embarrassing family ornaments you have in here.”

Soap continued looking at Ghost for a few more moments, the weight of all his attention like a warm blanket wrapped around Ghost’s shoulders. Then, he smiled, Ghost’s life being ignited with that spark yet again.

Soap reached into the box and pulled another ornament out, smiling down at it sentimentally before slipping the ribbon around one of the branches to hang it on the tree. They slowly decorated the tree, Ghost barely paying attention to what the ornaments were. No, he was focused on the way Soap’s eyes lit up upon recognizing them, sometimes laughing, sometimes crinkling his eyes happily, something cringing.

“This one,” Soap said, holding up a small picture in a golden-rimmed frame with a young boy inside. He had a round face, crooked teeth, and the same familiar blue eyes. “This one was made in after school daycare. But as a kid I didn’t realize my Ma gave them the photo herself. But she still acted so shocked and thrilled to receive it from wee John.”

“Oh, and this one!” Soap held up a snowman wearing a t-shirt with the Greek flag on it.  “I got this one on a family trip to Greece.”

Soap’s eyes suddenly faltered in reminiscence. He picked up a ceramic dog, the golden retriever peeking its head out of a wreath, the name Baxter on top with the year 2015 on its collar. “This was my childhood dog. He was the best…”

Soap then widened his eyes as he reached into the box again. He pulled out a giraffe wearing a Santa hat made up of a bunch of thin, cylindrical beads that stood on top of a blue base.

“Ghost,” Soap said seriously, holding it out in between them. “I need you to shoot this giraffe.”

Ghost’s air pistol immediately became unsheathed and he levelled it at the giraffe, the muzzle hovering just a few inches away.

“Goodbye old friend…” Ghost lamented before pulling the trigger. His hand jolted up slightly at the recoil as the bullet was fired.

Soap pressed his thumbs into the base from underneath, causing the taut string that the beads sat on to suddenly go slack.

“Gah!” Soap let out, mimicking the sound of getting hit as the giraffe instantly flopped over. After a second, he let go of the button and the giraffe bounced back up, resurrected once again. He pressed the button several times, watching it flop over and over.

Soap giggled. It was so stupid, but Ghost succumbed to Soap’s joy and also found himself laughing at the floppy giraffe, the feeling light and freeing.

With his own smile plastered onto his face, he listened as Soap recounted some of the ornament’s stories. Or they simply laughed at the wonky one’s clearly made by a dumb child. Glittery pinecones, felt mittens, marker drawings on sheets of wood, one with Santa’s bare ass entirely on display, fancier snowflakes and bobbles.

And before he knew it, Ghost’s watched beeped twice, something it did at midnight every night. The tree was crowded with ornaments, some of the branches teetering under the weight. Soap looked down at Ghost’s watch, also familiar with what that beep meant.

Ghost leaned over to peer into the box, it now just a mess of crinkled paper. But peeking out from underneath the stuffing was something shining, yellow. Ghost reached in and pulled it out, shaking away the loose paper.

It was a star tree topper, its miniature size perfect to fit onto their miniature tree. Ghost stuck the curling base onto the top of the tree. It slanted slightly and he adjusted it with a finger nudge to sit up straight. Once he was sure it wouldn’t fall over, he turned back to Soap.

Soap was watching him with indescribable tenderness, an inkling of a smile lingering warmly on his face.

“There’s another MacTavish tradition I haven’t told you about…” he said softly, his voice low and quiet, his words just for the two of them.

“Yeah?” Ghost asked. “What’s that?”

Soap stepped closer, enough to send Ghost’s heart leaping into his throat. He was so close, all he had to do was reach out, he could pull Soap in by the waist, press them together.

Soap’s eyes flickered down to Ghost’s lips.

“The person who puts the star on gets a kiss…”

Then without hesitation, he leaned in, inching up slightly on his toes and pressing their lips together.

As soon as those lips were on him, Ghost’s mind blanked, whisking him away from reality until there was nothing else but the two of them. Ghost immediately melted into the kiss, his soul overwhelmed with relief after having suffered with yearning for so long.

Ghost wrapped his arm around Soap’s waist, easily pulling him as if they’d done it a million times before. Soap’s hand reached up and grabbed at Ghost’s shoulders, locking them in place.

It was beyond anything Ghost could have imagined, butterflies exploding in his stomach, and lights dancing behind his eyelids, and softness greater than anything he had felt. He was dizzy for a second as he felt himself reorient. Then, stillness. Every part of himself pointed at Soap.

Their kiss ended far too soon – though Ghost could have taken those lips forever and never gotten tired of them – and Soap gently rest their foreheads together. His hand cupped the side of Ghost’s face, such tenderness single handedly repairing the deep cavern that had torn Ghost’s heart open long ago.

His thumb gingerly rubbed back and forth.

“Merry Christmas, Simon…” he said softly.

Ghost couldn’t hold himself back and he searched desperately for Soap’s lips once again, finding salvation in their warmth. Soap chuckled and wrapped his arms around Ghost’s neck, happily sighing into the kiss as well.

[chloesimaginationthings]

Michael doesn’t like his father in any FNAF universe..

[fansids]

On their way to go annoy Miguel <3

(Ft. Meows Morales, Guin Stacy, Rabbitr Prabhakar, Margo Kestrel, and Yotie Brown)

[sunlit-mess]

[wandixx]

I've seen a lot of different takes on Fear Toxin/other fear causing stuff (Yellow Lanterns Ring or something)(later just called Fear Toxin cause I'm lazy) but here is another one.

Danny seems like he isn't affected by Fear Toxin because his biggest fear is that his accident changed him so much he is no longer human, he can no longer truly experience human things.

So when he gets lungful of fear Toxin, he feels normal. He was antsy before, because c'mon, it's a rogue attack but it's not worse. Or so he thought. Because the anxiety lingers. Not enough to register as abnormal just this slight hypervigilance that makes you see things about yourself and your surroundings that you'd never realize otherwise. He'd realize he doesn't blink as often. He'd realize that if he doesn't consciously focus, he sometimes seems to not touch the ground. Forgets to breathe. He can't feel his own pulse at time. He'd realize people will miss him when he's walking down the street as if he was invisible (people just don't care about everyone they pass by). When he'd look straight into his reflection, he'd look slightly to the left. Not enough to actually name anything that was wrong but just stretched enough to fall on the wrong side of the uncanny valley. If he just caught his reflection in the peripheral vision, it'd be vaguely shadowy creature with glowing green eyes and white smoke instead of hair. Overall he'd be just wrong enough to be distinctly not human.

For everyone else, he'd be just a dude. Literally couldn't find more normal dude than this dude. Will pass as absolutely normal human unless someone is specifically looking for ecto-ghost stuff. Even most magic users wouldn't clock him at the glance

Tldr: Fear Toxin makes Danny perceive himself as some sort of eldritch horror but not enough to make him believe he'd actually be affected, while from outside perspective he's Just A Dude™

[suitsofarmour]

blurrrrrrrrrr

[quibbs126]

So my brain had another thought recently, and so I figured, how else to convey this idea than through another meme redraw?

I swear, I don’t know why I’m doing it so much now

But anyways, I essentially have this mental image of Starscream, Soundwave and Shockwave all being roommates in the TFOne-verse, whether that was always the case or if that only happened after Megatron took over an essentially kicked Starscream out of his room (and/or Starscream didn’t want to share with him). I just think it’s a funny mental image

But I also have a specific mindset with this dynamic, in that Soundwave and Shockwave are dating/married, while Starscream and Skyfire were a thing in the past, but with Sentinel’s betrayal Starscream hasn’t been able to see him in 50 years. So basically he’s stuck unwillingly third wheeling while not being able to be with his own partner, and he just kind of has to live with this

Anyways, I just thought it was funny and wanted to share it

[bluerosefox]

Recluse Owner, Bookshelf Gremlin, and the Cute Cafe Guy

A new bookstore/cafe opens, almost overnight, in Gotham.

They say it can find very rare books, heck maybe even books lost to time, unfinished manuscripts, rare writings from famous writers, etc etc.

As long as you respect the books within you won't have a problem with the recluse and introvert owner GW.

As for the cafe side, you can always count on friendly Danny to help you out, either it be an order from his cafe or to finding a book if GW isn't around. (Though beware of the younger, sometime around Dani (with an I) is working, she's a bit of a troll compared to her brother)

Jason totally is checking the place out... You know cause its totally giving weird vibes (good weird vibes, almost like its calming the raging Pits) and not just because it has a first edition Jane Austin (that the owner is totally maybe thinking of selling to Jason cause he can sense this man would treat it with respect)... Or that the tea is calming as heck.... Or watching Dani ("I like you. You can totally call me Ellie!") chaotically troll everyone around her.... Or that her older brother is fucking cute as hell... Who he may or may not had watched accidentally kill the Joker when the guy had been closing up the shop alone one night and had been caught in the alleyway on his way home...

No its totally cause this place is... off. Nothing else.

[jadewritesficshere]

Steddie x female!reader thought 18+ only

Eddie blinks his eyes a couple of times to make sure he is actually seeing what he is seeing. He must be living in a nightmare.

You're laying back on one of the pool loungers. One leg dangling over the edge keeping your foot on the warm cement ground, the other spread over Steve's lap as he absently rubs his hand up and down it while he bitches to you about something from work. Your hand rubs up and down Steve's back in comfort. But that isn't the nightmare.

Your bright red bikini bottoms covering enough, but with your legs spread a bit more skin is shown then intended. Spread in such a way that makes Eddie want to just dive in. Get on his knees and worship you, rub his face over your mound as he licks and nips and sucks. Moan as the curly thatch of hair brushes against his face.

Except the curls of hair he is expecting to see peeking around your bikini are gone. Just smooth bare skin. And that isn't the only nightmare. Steve's chest is smooth like when he was in school on the swim team. Not a speck of that beautiful chest hair Eddie would curl into after getting hot and heavy. Not a single curl of the "love rug" he jokingly called it.

Eddie wants to weep. To throw himself down like a little kid and thrash his arms and legs around. Yeah, it's your body and you can do what you want, but he still is sad its gone. Eddie doesn't like change, and suddenly walking in to see both of his partners change something without any warning? Uncomfortable. It makes Eddie feel itchy.

Eddie can barely speak as he walks over and sits next to Steve. He doesn't respond to Steve's warm greeting. Doesn't respond to you asking how the day is. Just stares with big wet eyes at the sight in front of him. A pout on his lips.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, gently squeezing. Steve's brow furrowed in concern, your wide eyes blinking at him.

"Shaved?" Eddie asks in a quiet voice, eyes darting to Steve's chest and then your clothed pussy. Steve lets out a huff of laughter, "Fuck, thought something was wrong man." Eddie glares," It is."

[art-from-within]

There’s a reddit post on r/eldenringdiscussions called “post-DLC opinion of Mohg” or smthing it talks about how Mohg would have probably been worshipped in the shadow lands and it made me hella sad

The hornsent would have had their horny heads blown off at the mere presence of Mohg because of how unfathomably based he was by their own metrics. fucking LOOK AT HIM BRO. Like, actually let us look at him. Even without the hornsent/golden order "ooh omen divine/evil" propaganda, he alone stands majestic. You could have had no context before entering mohgwyn palace and still come out of that fight thinking "Okay he was definitely a big deal".

A hornsent stands beneath him; He is tall, aloft, his wings like a roof over their world. He delivers, from every angle, the ambience of a divine lord. His drip is immaculate, his horn alignment is omen goals, his bloodboon generous with strength. He is THAT o-MAN. Mf emerges out of a pool of his own blood, blinged out, and slays tarnished trespasser with pitchfork. +100000000 aura. He walks, struts, fights like a born king/lord/god. He is proud too, reveling in the fire of his noble blood. The formless mother of truth herself plays as his godly patron; He is EVERYTHING that would have had that hornsent noble npc frothing from his mouth

I am convinced that, in the shadow lands, he would have been worshipped as a figure of divinity. An irrefutable proof of their own blessed nature. People would have kissed the very grounds he walked on, maybe even make headdresses mimicking the heart shape of his horns. He would have had it ALL, and his mother took that from him. And his father. And the world they brought after. It is tragic man.

[marronje]

I promised and I did it

I call this ✨strawberry Ochako✨

Not perfect, but I tried to make it practical (I just wanted to give Ocha some cool pants)

(my rambling about the og design which started it all)

Special thanks to @lily-claw, your input was major here haha (maybe that's why I've stolen the "KILL WITH MY KNEES" idea y'know XD)

And these are with the massage points if any of you are curious

[rari0516]

too many feelings ☔️

[randomminty]

This post goes out to the ilima and mina switched types theory believers

[odysseys-blood]

ive been wondering forever about when exactly levi was kidnapped and taken to the heaven lab and this bit from his new unit's board here doesnt help much but i wonder if those are just the first words he remembers learning and not the first words hes learned overall.

mainly this is all just speculation based on 2 things:

1) he ofc had some sort of childhood before the heaven lab from how old he looked at the time, plus his selfie comic art looking younger than his sprite art from ch5 (look at his little horns plus his hair's grown out)

2) he does also just say straight up that he doesn't remember his life from before the lab

i wonder if that means he had to get reacquainted with the kings all over again too. like he wouldnt recognize them at all even with how it looks like they often played together. (tho i do suspect a little that some comics might have been done before there was a more coherent story put together but thats whatever)

[ssecond-hand-faith]

Drip, drip, drop little April shower

Cringetober Day Eighteen: Fandom AU

AU where Freelancer either has the worst luck, or the worst taste, in history and ends up with Kody

[legobiwan]

Post-Weirdmageddon Stan & Ford

Trying to sort out their characters to get a better grasp of what I'm doing for some writing projects and, yes, I'm subjecting you all to it.

Ford makes a big, showy deal about burning his Bill paraphernalia, to the point he comes across as a bit manic the day of the bonfire, engaging in loud, rapid-fire conversation with Mabel and Dipper. Stan has a sneaking suspicion his brother may have palmed one or two items before he and the kids carted the frankly disturbing number of triangle artifacts up from the basement. Later on, Ford makes a production out of both throwing his journals in the Bottomless Pit and shooting Bill’s psycho diary into an interdimensional rift. His brother is every bit as dramatic as Stan is, which is why Stan can’t help but think Ford is using these events to “prove” he’s past the thirty-year obsession he had with a malevolent piece of geometry homework. This instinct is only strengthened by the times Stan caught Ford creeping out from his lab the nights following these events, trailed by the odor of cheap gin. (Stan very much tries not to think about the fact their father drank gin, too).

Stan and Ford approach genuine emotional conversation like two skittish alley cats. Half the time Ford’s emotional response is caught up in cerebral traffic and what he does feel he can’t put a proper label on until days, sometimes weeks (sometimes years) later. Stan has difficulty shedding the Mr. Mystery mask, thirty years of shoving every hurt feeling behind the flick of a cane and a colorful tall tale now so instinctual Stan sometimes feels he can’t separate the two, like he’s lost track of the narrative of his own life. They’ve been able to power through one excruciating session (with the help of an ample amount of bourbon) in regards to the night Stan was kicked out, their watery apologies heartfelt, if a bit slurred. But Stan’s afraid to push his brother too far, still feeling as if he has the Sword of Damocles swaying above him, and that at any point Ford’s going to snap out of his self-imposed sentence of contrition and bring down the blade on Stan’s neck himself.

Because of this, Stan gives himself little landmarks, little goals and dates to hang on to, to convince himself this is all real and that the rug won’t be pulled out from under him. Two weeks without the kids and Ford not kicking him out of the Shack. One month before they’re supposed to leave for the Arctic with them surviving their first real argument. He figures if they can get through three months at sea without Ford kicking him off the boat and leaving for good, there’s a chance Ford’s change of heart might be permanent. He has the date circled in a calendar they have hanging in their shared quarters. Ford’s asked about the importance of it, if there was a birthday or anniversary he was ignorant of, or if perhaps it was one of those new superfluous holidays Mabel has told him about, like National Waffle Day. Stan pretends he can’t remember why he circled the date at all, which, of course, prompts all kinds of intensive questioning from his brother regarding his mental acuity and the memory gun. Stan laughs it off - probably something to do with the taxes I’ve never paid, he says with a long, Cheshire grin. 

Ford refuses to talk about Bill. He doesn’t even attempt plausible deniability when he grabs the steering wheel of the conversation and makes a squealing U-turn worthy of a bank heist escape if they stray too near Bill’s name. The times Stan has tried to initiate conversation, has waded near that radioactive topic, his brother has either outright ignored him or given Stan a look so cold it would probably register as a climate anomaly. It’s easier…and safer for both of them to avoid it. (This won't end well).

This isn’t to say they’re having a bad time prepping for their journey or on the boat. Overall, it’s the most relaxed Stan has felt in years (and best of all, the likelihood of the IRS having a maritime patrol is vanishingly small. Stan can’t help but think - with no small amount of smug satisfaction - that if Capone had taken to the sea, he might not have ended up in the federal clink). And despite the fact his brother can be a pretentious, argumentative, know-it-all pain in the ass, they’re getting along. Having fun. Even if Ford is an absolute cheater when it comes to card games.