whirlybirbs

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Tigers with a frozen milk brick on a hot day

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(LETS OUT A SIGH THAT TURNS INTO A MOAN)

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Don't worry

He don't bite

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do u think he likes cats

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There are three things you cannot outrun in this world, folks: death, taxes, and me.

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every building soap destroys without clearance, ghost gets 1+ paperwork and 3+ hours of migraines

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Saw you say you were ovulating for John mactav and thought nothing of it until I came back on and my dash is filled with your reblogs 💀

6. handler's manual — ghost / reader

desc: no graves + mess hall bolognese + laundry day ≠ good ghost mood? pairing: lt. simon "ghost" riley / f!reader ; callsign: moth a/n: JOKES ON YOU ANON, I AM ALSO HORMONALLY CRAVING GHOST. ⇽ prev / ao3

The sun is hot on Ghost’s back.

He tightens his arms across his chest, rolls his jaw, and ignores the drop of sweat creeping down his spine beneath his black cotton t-shirt.

Standing to the left of the Lieutenant is Soap, bouncin’ on his fuckin’ heels like bloody pup. The Scotsman always gets like this when it comes to joint-Taskforce training. Somethin’ about wantin’ to show ‘em all up. Somethin’ about wantin’ to wipe the floor with KorTac ass.

Moth is doin’ it for ‘im.

Givin’ ‘em all a right bloody show.

There’s clear camaraderie forming between the women — something Ghost can appreciate. Seems like you — the only woman aside from Laswell in their line of work — finds kinship in Rozlin Helms, an ex-Ranger.

Kinship looks a little strange in their line of work.

Right now, it looks like you, grinnin’ like a bloody maniac, drenched in sweat with hair sticking to your temples, and Rozlin is trying to break the headlock you’ve got her pinned in. Rozlin is grinning too, even as her boots try to snag leverage in the grass — but you’re going to win this one. That much is clear when Roze taps out with a gasping holler of laughter.

You’re slow to amble up, your t-shirt clinging to your spine. You bend, clap Roze’s hand in yours, and help her up.

Ghost knows better than to stare at your ass.

Apparently, Austria’s Biggest Boy doesn’t.

Dark eyes narrow dangerously across the gathered circle — and Ghost grits his jaw even harder. Fuckin’ bloomin’ bastard. The masked freak even congratulates you, all smiles an’ sunshine an’ Ghost can hardly believe ‘is eyes when th’ wanker touches y’. Fuckin’ touches y’. Hand on the arm and somethin’ soft, but Ghost is too steamin’ pissed t’ even hear it.

He just glares.

And of course, mild-mannered and soft-spoken Colonel Alexander Kilgore sees it. Of course he does.

The two masked men are locked in something only predators in the wild do: hackles up, gazes locked, and the world is falling away as they assess the level of threat and danger between them—

“She’s good, huh?”

You’re breathless and smiling when you strut up next to Ghost, nudging his elbow with yours. It is — according to your growing and very off-the-record notes-app handler’s manual — the appropriate level of touch for the big Brit. A little nudge. Nothing lingering. Nothing he can’t anticipate.

Ghost looks down at you with a flat look you can’t read. This is a new one, a new emotion tugging his blonde lashes low over his deep brown eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just grunts, and fuck me, I guess, because you thought he was in a good mood today.

Apparently not.

Your brows screw up as you watch him turn and fix his attention on the next sparring match, looking a little bit like you’re running equations in your head. Which, yeah, you are, because—

No Graves on base, despite KorTac + bolognese in the mess for lunch (Tier C on the 141’s running chart) + laundry day, so clean balaclava should equal good mood, but something is clearly off.

Until he beats Colonel Kilgore in a hand-to-hand match that felt a little bit too intense to be considered friendly.

You swear, as he struts off to the water cooler, the corners of his eyes are crinkled in a smile.

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how did i never see this

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this happens. every. fucking. time.

(checks calendar) oh. tomorrow is the great ovulation. that explains why i have been insatiably horny over johnny mactavish. huh.

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"have a drink with me" w/ johnny soapy mactavish <3

                        ( ! beautiful gif from this set by @sgt-gaz )

;     —   liars den   |   johnny "soap" mactavish

summary: drinks and pining shared. pairing: johnny mactavish / gender neutral!reader, birdie tags: casual beers, yearning pining, and breaking the rulebook on fraternization, casual johnny family mention a/n: did you know this man is my little meow meow.

Your eyes settle momentarily on the scars across his knuckles as the good Sergeant tosses back his beer. 

You drag your gaze away as if scorched — and Johnny catches the flicker of your lashes as you lean forward, brace your elbows against the bartop, and cast your eyes to the tele above the bartender's shoulder playing the Liverpool-Manchester match. 

John swallows his swig roughly. 

You inhale, then exhale.

...You shouldn't be here.

A bead of condensation runs down your bottle's neck and rolls over your fingertips. 

This — this little off-the-clock wind-down? This is a bad idea. Because here, in this shitty Ranger bar, you're sat down beside him. Johnny motherfucking MacTavish. 

...Fuck.

He's a good man. Loves his mum. Calls home often. Has three sisters, all older. He's got a heart a' gold and a smile charming enough t' widdle down even the Lieutenant. 

Handsome t' boot. 

Kind.

Funny.

Everyone loves the bastard. 

And you have been trying your damndest to keep your distance. Miles worth. Thirty-thousand leagues worth. He's head-level, and you're choking up in the thinning atmosphere — and that's how it should be. 

But, fer fuck's sake — cut him some slack, would ye? He's tryin' here. Pullin' every damn string he can to get you on their comms. Yer th' best watcher they got, after all, with Laswell back state-side. He doesn't trust anyone else t' be his eyes. Only you. El-tee says he's got it bad.

Maybe he does.

Have a drink with me, he asked after the debrief. 

You realized a long time ago you couldn't say no to him — tonight is no exception.  

So, here you are. Hip to hip at the bar, shoulder to shoulder sipping beer that's just cold enough. 

"Y' look miffed."

You snort into your drink and slide your eyes away from the late-game goal replay. 

"That's just my face."

"Nah," he crosses his arms with the bottle still in his left hand, "Yer face's pretty. This face ain't."

You straighten slightly and inhale tightly. 

John's smirk twists a bit. "Relax, birdie."

You swig your beer and drop your head. "Heard from Alejandro lately?"

"Yer deflectin'."

You roll your look his way and flatten your stare. You're met with a satisfied smile that's tugging, tugging, tugging at his lips. The shadow of stubble there hides dimples. 

"I am not."

"Yes," he emphasizes as he uncrosses his arms and leans closer, "Y'are."

"I'm just askin'—"

"Are y' mad at me?"

You blink hard. 

John's face is expectant.

You realize your mouth is open. 

"...What?"

"You," he prods your shoulder gently with his pointer finger, then takes a sip, "'ave been avoidin' me like th' plague, birdie."

You fall quiet. 

You frown.

"...No, I haven't."

Johnny tuts. 

You wish you could just tell him. That you feel your entire chest tighten when he steps into debriefs. That he makes your job harder because you're always watching him and only him. That you have had dreams about touching his face, dreams where you kiss him and it's all starlight and peace and quiet—

"Mum always said lyin' is unbecomin'."

And despite it all, you muscle down the yearning and offer up your best smile.

"We're good. Promise."

His eyes settle on the dig of your smile in your cheeks. He drags his gaze away as if scorched. 

"Alright."

...Fuck.

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(places head in hands) johnny mactavish..... and his big.... blue... eyes..........

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RIP arthur morgan you would have loved wandering down bourbon street, six hurricanes deep at 1:29am, lost and searching for the uber

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……… i do not remember posting this.

one new orleans drink is equivalent to three boston drinks also vampires are real you cannot convince me otherwise they’re real and this city is haunted i cannot stress this enough i cannot even begin to explain

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one new orleans drink is equivalent to three boston drinks also vampires are real you cannot convince me otherwise they’re real and this city is haunted i cannot stress this enough i cannot even begin to explain

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new arthur morgan playlist in 2025? more likely than you think.

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i … keep seeing this… pichur.. of arthur morgan………… need. need him. need him carnally. need him raw. need him messy. . z zz………

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oh my god…. MY SHAYLA