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I didn't expect that at all 😺🤣

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Reblog daily for health and prosperity

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OH MY GOD I FOUND IT I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR AGES

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Blessings Of The Wool Dragon

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sketch

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'this property says it has nine acres but those neighbours look pretty clo-'

oh.

ohhhhhhhhh no

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Soap’s boots barely made a sound as he walked down the hallway of the safehouse. The corridor was dimly lit, with only a soft glow spilling out from the slightly open bathroom door.

“Morning, LT. I’m heading to the others, you comin'?” he asked as he passed by the door.

“Morning. I’ll join you in 10. After the mess from last night, I need a fucking shower first...” Ghost replied.

“Alright” Soap said as his gaze shifted to the crack in the door that his Lieutenant had probably left open by accident.

A moment.

Ghost stood in the shower, his back to the door. Water ran in long streams down his body. The overhead light illuminated the scars on his skin, each one a testament to battles fought and survived, like pages from a war diary.

Soap had seen him naked countless times—changing, patching wounds, washing off the grime of missions.

Get a grip, Johnny. It’s just Ghost. It’s always been Ghost.

But this time, it felt... different.

(More exclusive art on patreon <3)

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been dabbling in omegaverse lately, so congrats, you get an excerpt of one of my WIPs

(tw for period-typical homophobic and ableist language)

Funny. Eddie could have sworn that the padlock on his locker door had been completely intact when he last checked before first period biology. 

Well, he’d hoped, since he changed the little bastard three times since the school year started–some barbarous, degenerate dickheads thought ransacking his locker and painting freak across the walls would really warm the cockles of their sad, commiserable little hearts. But those hopes, puny at most, seem to be dashed the moment he dragged his feet back from his final class of the day and found his locker, visibly padlock-less. Fuck.

Eddie stares vacantly at the door.

Well, it’s not actually funny. The joke never is, anyway, but what’s really funny is that Eddie has absolutely no clue if this whole thing is a joke or not. There’s evidence of funny business, of course, but the door isn’t tagged with fag or spazz or that ever-prevalent freak. He turns his head from left to right, surveying his surroundings, but nobody’s huddled together and snickering behind their hands like he’s the punchline of a school-wide inside joke. The hallway is relatively empty, save for plucky junior Gareth who’s hurrying towards him with his backpack slung around his shoulder and–funnily enough–Harrington, who quickly averts his gaze when Eddie’s eyes fly past him. 

Eddie huffs. So much for a damn Alpha, huh? Can’t even make eye contact with the freak of five years worth of weeks.

“Eddie!” Gareth greets enthusiastically, skidding to a stop next to Eddie, “What’s up, man?”

“Somebody fucked with my locker,” Eddie says blankly and points to the door. “The lock’s gone.”

“Shit, that’s not good.”

“I concur,” Eddie mutters bitterly. “Should I open it?”

Gareth straightens and takes a defensive step away from the locker. “No way,” he insists. “Knowing those guys, they’d put live frogs in your locker.”

‘Those guys’ is too broad of a statement–it could be anybody, considering their steadfast placement at the rock bottom of Hawkins High’s metaphorical feudal system. Now that he thinks about it, with Harrington leaning faux-casually against the lockers and occasionally scratching at his nose, it ought to be the work of the basketball team; no doubt Billy or Jason at the forefront of it all.

There’s a faint stench of anticipation whirling around the air. Dread, Eddie realizes. It smells like…like freshly ground pepper and the dewy forest behind his trailer. Like dead leaves and suburban rot.

“I don’t hear any croaking,” Eddie says, resolving to approach the situation with some natural caution. He swallows a great big breath and opens his locker.

The good news is that there’s no frogs.

The bad news? What he finds instead is fucking confusing.

All four walls are spotless, apart from the tally-marks he scratched into the left wall with a nickel for every detention he’d score, and there isn’t a single textbook, notebook, or balled up wad of graphing paper out of place. But, smack dab in the middle of his locker, nestled between the half-eaten tuna sandwich he’d forgot about last Thursday and a dog-eared copy of Brave New World, is a ziploc baggie of chocolate chip cookies, a black velvet pouch, and a piece of lined paper folded into a neat square.

“Any animal bits?” Gareth asks.

“Worse,” Eddie confirms.

To start, the gifts and the free food aren’t usually a thing. In fact, they’re never a thing because Eddie’s not a hot item in the high school market. He’s nowhere near lukewarm, practically Antarctic, at that. He’s no Ubermensch Alpha, weighed heavy with the stink of fresh blood and ash, nor is he a simpering and sweet-blooded Omega. He’s a Beta, like the other 80% of the high school population. There’s no reverence in the way he’s treated–he isn’t worshipped for his ‘powerful masculinity’ like they would an Alpha, and they definitely wouldn’t idolize or protect him for his honest to goodness high fertility rates.

Eddie is just Eddie. No one would even think to look at him twice if he didn’t decide to scrap his normalcy for the ‘devil-worshipping freak’ shtick. Jocks with inferiority complexes loved him for that. They loved the big red target he painted on his back, how it made them feel powerful, like big tall Alphas that howled into the moon and shifted the tides. But he’s not weak–he knows he’s not weak. He yells and claws and makes a scene; lets them know he has just as much power as them.

But that’s beside the point. No one is kind enough to sneak nice shit into Swirlie-boy Munson’s locker without ransacking it.

Eddie fishes out the pouch from between the cookies and note and examines it carefully, as one does with a bomb or vial of rat poison. As he loosens its tie, the sickly smell of apprehension spikes with his heart rate. 

What he finds only compounds his confusion. 

“It’s a D20,” Eddie tells Gareth, feeling light-headed. Gareth squints at him, his face scrunched like his brain hasn’t caught up with the information yet, which Eddie thinks is fair enough.

The dice is a yellow like sunshine, like a dandelion pinched between his fingers when he was small. It’s beautifully shiny, polished enough for Eddie to nearly see his reflection on its surface. There’s not even a single stain of a fingerprint on it. God, it must be brand new. It’s beautiful.

“Holy shit,” Gareth says, dazed.

“There’s no way,” Eddie breathes out, because the universe couldn’t possibly be this kind to him. There’s gotta be a catch–what if it exploded? What if it’s blackmail? Oh, God, the note.

Eddie fumbles with the pouch and tosses it into Gareth’s hands, who holds it gently in both palms as if he’s nursing an injured mourning dove. Like a bat soaring out of hell with its ass ablaze, Eddie snatches the note out of his locker and almost rips it to shreds in his haste to unfold it.

Dear Eddie,

I know I’m not the best with words, but I need you to know how much I feel towards you. I feel like we’re both on different sides of the track, a real Romeo and Juliet type situation, if you ask me–you’re King of the underdogs. You fight for your friends and the little ones you keep under your wing, and you have no idea how much I admire you for that. I guess you’d call me King of the school, but I hate that title. It’s got a lot of baggage I don’t handle too well, and, well, I’ve never been brave about it. I watch you and I see braveness personified, and I know I never fought for you like you fought for the guys in your corner.

Not just that, you’re beautiful too. Every time you look at me I feel like I shot a three-pointer at the championship game. It feels like a winning move. Those eyes you have, they’re like stars. And, God, your scent is so good. Like ginger and cinnamon behind all that tobacco, I wish I could smell it forever.

I know I’m not the type of guy you’d go for, or the type of guy you even tolerate, but I hope you’ll give me a chance.

Yours, 

S.H.

(Ps. Sorry about the lock, I accidentally broke it trying to jimmy it open like an idiot. I’ll pay for it if you want me to.)

(Pps. Look behind you.)

The first thing Eddie registers is the overwhelming scent of peppercorn swirled together with rain-soaked oakwood. “Time and place?”

Eddie’s eyes widen before he whirls around and almost brains Steve fucking Harrington with the white-knuckled fist clenching his letter. Harrington dodges his swing swiftly, catching Eddie’s hand in his, and smiles expectantly.

Holy shit, holy shit.

Gareth is braced against the locker beside Eddie’s, eyebrows high into his hairline and mouth aghast like a suffocating walleye. His eyes dart back and forth between Eddie and Harrington like the latter is going to swing back and stuff both of them into a locker.

Eddie swallows, feeling ill and cotton-mouthed. He wrestles his hand out of Harrington’s grip, hard enough to almost slam his knuckles back into Harrington’s pretty face again, and shoves the note into his front pocket with a huff. He shoots a glance over at Gareth and gestures at him to find Jeff or Phil with a flick of his head.

Gareth, typical of his dutiful nature, flips Harrington off with both hands and scampers off, sneakers squeaking distantly against the linoleum flooring.

Once Gareth rears the corner, Eddie sets his jaw and squares his shoulders. “My bench behind the school,” he says rigidly. He’s going to set this right. “Now.”

Harrington’s eyebrows scrunch curiously. “What?”

Eddie grabs the lapels of Harrington’s Members Only jacket and yanks him forward with all the force he can. “I said now.”

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Exposing her tits on her wedding day...

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Mississippi’s first interracial marriage, August 1970.

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*Stuck in their civilian identities trying to stop a villain*

Clark: *whispering* Bruce what do we do?!

Bruce: *whispering back, stuck in Brucie mode* I dunno man, usually I just flash my tits and all my problems go away

*Clark’s eyes dart down to Bruce’s unbuttoned shirt and a blush takes over his cheeks*

Clark: Oh, erm, *cough* y-yeah I could see that…

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Everyone reblog with your most unemployable traits

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@stvksn on ig

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Merry 2000 Trained Rats, everybody

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