thorougly-melted-brains

[thorougly-melted-brains]

Pikmin TF 141

[thorougly-melted-brains]

(I have a lot of feelings about trans ghost y'all)

Simon’s gender was the least of his problems at home growing up. As a girl, his dad ignored him, taunted him, sure, but in ways that didn’t matter. It was always because he’d play protector, get between his dad and Tommy, pick up after his mom when she was too tired (or hurt) to keep up the house. His dad was unbothered by Simon being his daughter, it never stopped him.

Simon didn’t come out to his dad, barely did to his brother. Tommy only ever acknowledged it the first time Simon buzzed his head, some unspoken code between them that let it lie. “We fight, I love you, I’m never gonna push this.” His mom never said anything either, might’ve never noticed, but he never resented her for it.

Joining up felt like his first step to self-actualization, in ways he couldn’t quite wrangle. He got shit, of course. Got it in school too, but the only difference between secondary schoolers and privates are the clothes on their back. He was always tall, always muscly, he only got shoved around as much as the other quiet boys.

He used to wonder about it, if his transition wasn’t just the hormones, the surgery, the grueling training. If it was tapping into the violence his dad never needed an excuse to dish out. If it was relishing that power over someone. It haunted him as he climbed the ranks. If Ghost was more than a mask, if it was him turning into his father for lack of any other model.

What reassured him was going home. Picking up after his mom, paying her debts. Grabbing Tommy by the scruff and getting him back on track. Taking care of them in ways his dad never would, all because he worked for it.

It was the first time she saw him as him, but he was still her eldest. He worried it would be prodding the wound, that he’d come to look so much like his father. She never said anything about it, focusing instead on his neat manners, his sharp wit, on his honesty. Everything that made him different. From his brother he got some familiar jabs about acting like their mom, but nothing more. Tommy had that wisdom again, something that shone through the haze in his eyes: “I see what you are, I’ve always known.”

Years later, Joseph soothed some soreness he didn’t realize he still had. It’s easier to hold a squirming toddler if you have hips, of course, and it only gave him more common ground with Beth.

[thorougly-melted-brains]

Soap with the tramp stamp: "100% Pure Scottish Beefcake"

[thorougly-melted-brains]

small critters 🥹💌💞💭. . .

[thorougly-melted-brains]

They match each others freak i know it

[thorougly-melted-brains]

Happy anniversary to my fic, Seasons 🧡

Can't believe it's been a year already. Still very fond of this fic and grateful to all who took the time to read it. Really glad I got to share it with the world, here's to many more years of GhostSoap <3

[thorougly-melted-brains]

also hi! sorry for the silent hiatus, life hit me like a trainwreck in june and then I worked all summer. Still getting everything back on track, but I have a few blurbs from before the shitshow to post in the meantime. very happy to be back :)

Soap always liked weeding as a kid. They didn’t own a huge property, just enough for a few garden beds in the back. His parents would use it as punishment. Bad grades, absences, dirty rooms, they’d make them weed.

His little brother would yowl and complain like a cat, his older sister would hum to pass the time. He’d be silent, think about everything and nothing. It was soothing, soft cool dirt under his knees, gloves on his hands, nothing to focus on but roots and stray leaves.

Of course, it’s been cooler then and there. Misty in the mornings. It’s hotter here, and deceptively dry. Soap’s not sure how long he’s been at it when Ghost looms over him.

“Sweating, Mactavish?” He drawls.

He actually pauses to think about it, wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist.

“No?” Soap says, and looks up at Ghost, who frowns. He puts his hand where Soap’s just was. He makes a half hearted attempt to grab Ghost’s hand out of instinct but stops. His hand feels frankly fucking fantastic. It’s blessedly cool on his skin, which doesn’t seem right. Ghost runs hot in a blizzard. He’s frowning at Soap, the sun on his face makes him looks like a sculpture.

“Up,” Ghost says, and pulls him bodily by the arm, “Time for a break.” That’s an order, and Soap tries to follow it out of instinct. He stumbles a bit, but Ghost supports him. They end up in the kitchen, barn doors open, and the shade feels heavenly on Soap’s skin. He didn’t even notice how warm it was. Ghost lets him slump into a chair and fusses with something in the cabinet.

Soap pulls off his gloves and presses his palms to the cool table.

“Here,” Ghost hands him a full glass of something fizzy, “drink all of it.” He watches Soap sharply, who wonders if this is what their targets feel like.

Ghost takes the glass from his hand before he can set it down, and helps him up again.

“Go cool off in the shower, leave the door unlocked,” He says, and herds Soap towards the bathroom. Soap is starting to feel the nauseating hot pulse of his blood, but he still feels enough like himself to huff a laugh,

“Could give someone the wrong idea, saying things like that LT.” Maybe it’s another symptom of his sickness.

They do this, the flirting and looking, but not up close. Over comms, or over a few too many beers, sure. Never this immediately close without a buffer, never alone.

Luckily Ghost just snorts, crosses his arms and looks him in the eye,

“S’in case you faint.”

There’s no bite in it but Soap still rises to the insult,

“Think I would let a little heat get to me?” He raises his eyebrows. Ghost rolls his eyes and looks away.

“I have, few times even.”

He shuts the door on Soap, leaving him to shuck off his clothes (wincing at the dirt that falls out of his cuffed pants on to the clean floor). He turns on the shower, sits down, and tries very hard not imagine a sun-kissed Ghost in nothing but shorts.

[thorougly-melted-brains]

Soap always liked weeding as a kid. They didn’t own a huge property, just enough for a few garden beds in the back. His parents would use it as punishment. Bad grades, absences, dirty rooms, they’d make them weed.

His little brother would yowl and complain like a cat, his older sister would hum to pass the time. He’d be silent, think about everything and nothing. It was soothing, soft cool dirt under his knees, gloves on his hands, nothing to focus on but roots and stray leaves.

Of course, it’s been cooler then and there. Misty in the mornings. It’s hotter here, and deceptively dry. Soap’s not sure how long he’s been at it when Ghost looms over him.

“Sweating, Mactavish?” He drawls.

He actually pauses to think about it, wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist.

“No?” Soap says, and looks up at Ghost, who frowns. He puts his hand where Soap’s just was. He makes a half hearted attempt to grab Ghost’s hand out of instinct but stops. His hand feels frankly fucking fantastic. It’s blessedly cool on his skin, which doesn’t seem right. Ghost runs hot in a blizzard. He’s frowning at Soap, the sun on his face makes him looks like a sculpture.

“Up,” Ghost says, and pulls him bodily by the arm, “Time for a break.” That’s an order, and Soap tries to follow it out of instinct. He stumbles a bit, but Ghost supports him. They end up in the kitchen, barn doors open, and the shade feels heavenly on Soap’s skin. He didn’t even notice how warm it was. Ghost lets him slump into a chair and fusses with something in the cabinet.

Soap pulls off his gloves and presses his palms to the cool table.

“Here,” Ghost hands him a full glass of something fizzy, “drink all of it.” He watches Soap sharply, who wonders if this is what their targets feel like.

Ghost takes the glass from his hand before he can set it down, and helps him up again.

“Go cool off in the shower, leave the door unlocked,” He says, and herds Soap towards the bathroom. Soap is starting to feel the nauseating hot pulse of his blood, but he still feels enough like himself to huff a laugh,

“Could give someone the wrong idea, saying things like that LT.” Maybe it’s another symptom of his sickness.

They do this, the flirting and looking, but not up close. Over comms, or over a few too many beers, sure. Never this immediately close without a buffer, never alone.

Luckily Ghost just snorts, crosses his arms and looks him in the eye,

“S’in case you faint.”

There’s no bite in it but Soap still rises to the insult,

“Think I would let a little heat get to me?” He raises his eyebrows. Ghost rolls his eyes and looks away.

“I have, few times even.”

He shuts the door on Soap, leaving him to shuck off his clothes (wincing at the dirt that falls out of his cuffed pants on to the clean floor). He turns on the shower, sits down under the chilling spray, and tries very hard not imagine a sun-kissed Ghost in nothing but shorts.

[thorougly-melted-brains]

MACE v SOAP short

i've always fancied the idea that the mask was a symbol of trust ghost gave out - and that mace broke his in the midst of warzone gas in mw2019 also the idea of Mace hating Soap out of jealousy spawned this

(he calls soap leprechaun just to annoy him -- its not even scottish; but leprechaun = tiny, green, yappy = close enough = f*ck you)

[thorougly-melted-brains]

Feb 2024

A phantom memory huh

[thorougly-melted-brains]

It really is a shame that Ghost so rarely takes his mask off outside, because he’s made to be seen in the sun, Soap thinks. Privately, quietly.

It’s not his fault Simon has cheekbones like he was sculpted by a loving god. A nose with a broken bump that catches the light just so. Eyelashes that fan over his cheeks as he squints a little from the brightness.

That one’s a particular shame, because his eyes can look red midday, and amber right at dusk; but when he squints he gets this little furrow in his brow. That’s compensation enough for hiding those eyes, since Soap isn’t normally deprived of them.

Sun makes him look healthier, puts some color in his pale cheeks. Soap would bet money that he’d freckle given the time. He’s comforted some by the soft moles speckled on his face, but that’s another kind of torment.

Anytime he sees a hint of them—or really, one particular mark right at the corner of Ghost’s jaw—he wants to reach out and graze them. Feel the blood in his skin, under his own two palms.

Soap resigns himself to looking, and occasionally sketching. It makes him itch for color. He wants to capture it Ghost, in his golden, healthy, human glory.

Maybe it’s better though, to stay in grayscale. ‘Makes the real sight that much more precious.

[thorougly-melted-brains]

you know the art you made of Soap "accidentally" giving Ghost a kiss before going on a mission? (before they started dating) what do you think happened when Soap came back from the mission? :3c

follow up to this post

They start dating of course! <3

[thorougly-melted-brains]

soap keychain

(my old art)

[thorougly-melted-brains]

[thorougly-melted-brains]

I would actually give my left fricking kidney for more of your soapghostroach

Plz... no need.. I'd love to

[thorougly-melted-brains]

a soapghost comic i never finished (i wanted angry bloodied soap)

update: i am continuing it 1/1/2024 16/1/2024: i'm remembering why this took so bloody long (pun intended)

update: here's the whole thing - its basically 2009!Soap haunting Soap!

[thorougly-melted-brains]

your art makes me want to scratch my heart out of my chest. in the best way. you make me feel every spectrum of human emotion at once (declaration of undying love and fealty)

🥹🥹🥹😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️ fuck, thank you, I declare it back...