Reblogged
lil sketch of IV
Reblogged
Ghost insists adamantly, passionately, and with the conviction of a man who’s sustained multiple traumatic brain injuries that he fell in love with you at first sight.
Soap insists that’s physically impossible. Metaphysically improbable. Scientifically unhinged.
Because Ghost had eyes on you for approximately ten seconds before you broke his nose and he fell in love.
It happens outside a cafe on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day where nothing interesting is supposed to occur, where the universe is contractually obligated to be boring. You’ve got your headphones in, keys jangling in one hand, iced coffee in the other, walking home in that autopilot mode where your body knows the route but your brain is thinking about literally anything else.
That’s when your wallet slips from your pocket. Honestly, you don’t even notice, because you’re deep into a true crime’s podcast and fully dissociated from reality.
Ghost spots it, picks it up, and jogs after you.
He says something. You don’t hear it. He says it again, louder. Still nothing.
So he taps your shoulder.
Big. Mistake.
You spin around like a woman possessed, adrenaline spiking, fight or flight activating, and throw the most righteous, unholy, devastatingly perfect punch of your entire life. It’s the kind of punch that would make your self defense instructor weep with pride. The kind of punch that deserves a plaque. A statue. A national holiday.
The sound is wet. The crunch is immediate. The impact is biblical.
Ghost drops like a felled oak tree and a bag of bricks. He goes down hard wallet still clutched in one hand, skull mask knocked crooked, eyes blinking slowly up at the sky like he’s trying to remember what dimension he’s in.
You stand there frozen. Horrified. Keys still dangling. Headphones half out. Coffee somehow still intact.
The rest of Task Force 141 who have been standing several feet away, look like they just watched God Himself get smacked into next week.
For a moment, there’s only silence.
Then Soap breaks.
He howls. He’s doubled over, hands on his knees, tears streaming down his face, making noises that aren’t even human anymore. He’s gone. Transcended. Ascended to a plane of pure, chaotic joy.
“SHE DECKED HIM!” he wheezes, gasping for air. “She- she knocked the GHOST out! FULL CONTACT! FULL KO! I’M- I CAN’T- “
Gaz follows immediately, wheezing, clutching his ribs. “Mate- mate- she dropped him like a sack of potatoes! One punch! ONE!”
Price just sighs. Long. Deep. The sigh of a man who’s too old for this, too tired for this, but also, somewhere deep down, a little bit impressed.
“Bloody beautiful form,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Textbook right hook. Could’ve been in the ring.”
You’re panicking. You’re hovering over Ghost, babbling apologies, hands fluttering uselessly. “Oh my god- oh my god- I’m so sorry! I didn’t know- I thought you were- are you okay? Do you know what year it is? How many fingers am I holding up? Should I call someone? Do you need a hospital? A lawyer?! Please don’t sue me.”
Ghost doesn’t answer. He just groans. Long. Low. Like a haunted house sound effect.
Then, through the blood and the daze and the clearly scrambled neural pathways, he mutters “…angels.”
“What?” you squeak.
“I see angels,” he slurs, eyes glassy and vaguely pointing in your direction. “Pretty ones.”
Soap loses it again. He’s on the ground now. Literally collapsed. Gaz has to step over him.
By the time the ambulance arrives (called by Price) Ghost is propped up against the curb like a discarded mannequin. His nose is absolutely destroyed. His mask is half off. There’s blood on his jacket. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.
But he’s smiling.
And he’s staring at you like you personally hung the moon, invented oxygen, and solved world peace in one punch.
“You hit like a tank,” he says faintly, dreamily, voice slow and thick with what is definitely a concussion. “Bloody beautiful. Strong. Could probably crush a man’s skull. Lovely hands. Great form. You single?”
“You are concussed,” you reply, voice shrill, face burning. “You need a hospital.”
“Maybe,” he agrees, nodding slowly, then wincing because nodding hurts. “But I’m also in love.”
Soap is dead. Flatlined. Gaz is leaning against a lamppost for support, tears streaming. Price is- oh god- Price is taking a video.
“Incident documentation,” he says flatly when you stare at him in betrayal like he isn’t planning on immediately sending it to Laswell.
“DELETE THAT!”
“Can’t. Evidence.”
When the paramedics finally load Ghost onto the gurney- still loopy, still bleeding, still smiling like a man who’s discovered enlightenment- he reaches out and grabs Soap by the shirt with surprising strength for someone who’s been recently KO’d.
“Johnny,” he slurs, deadly serious. “Johnny. Listen t’me.”
“Aye, LT?”
“Get her number.”
“…Ghost, you need medical-”
“Swear it.” His grip tightens. His eyes are wild. Desperate. “Swear it on your life, Johnny. On your mum. On your beloved hair gel. Get. Her. Number.”
Soap, choking back laughter, wipes his eyes and salutes. “Aye, big man. I’ll get it. Scout’s honor. Right after I get the CCTV footage and frame it for the barracks.”
“You’re a good man, Johnny.”
“I’m really not.”
Ghost gives you a dazed, lopsided thumbs up from the gurney as they wheel him away, and you’re left standing on the sidewalk- wallet finally back in hand, face the color of a tomato, dignity in shambles- wondering how in the hell you managed to accidentally concuss a six-foot-four man into romance.
Soap sidles up next to you, grinning like the devil himself.
“So,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Can I get that number? For medical purposes. And also because he’ll actually haunt me if I don’t.”
You stare at him.
He waggles his eyebrows.
“…Fine.”
Somewhere in the ambulance, Ghost smiles.
He'll give you a vial of his blood for the anniversary
Reblogged deadbranch
A reminder to the "the American government wouldn't..." crowd. They have. They have made their own internment camps before. They have rounded up innocent citizens and immigrants before. The victims of which are still alive to this day and trying to share their stories with the world, they have been trying to warn us for a long time. George Takei (as seen above) is a famous example of this. He has written about his experiences time and time again, even publishing a book talking about his time in these camps. He may be famous now, but at the time he was just another kid forced from his home. To this day he still firmly dedicates himself to trying to educate and inform people, trying to spread awareness with his platform. The American Government can and will do terrible things. Do not let anyone convince you otherwise.
Reblogged blkgirlacid
Reblogged spiltspit
Reblogged lewistoferrari
little steps toward better taking care of yourself are not insignificant. getting into a fairly consistent sleep schedule, remembering to take your medications on time, drinking enough water throughout the day, eating things that will make your body feel better during the day, and keeping your space clean before it becomes a depression room again are all amazing accomplishments.
Reblogged
look what i cooked (literally)
sweet as a 1/4th cup of sugar Some extras below the cut!
Holy shit those cookies came out exactly how you wanted em! Did it take a few tries to get em right?
Hii nope, i kinda just tried to keep them as on model as possible because i knew i wouldnt be retrying them, cutting them out just took long xd And in my head i was like okay they will also get a bit distored in the oven, possibly bake unevely and i think thats okay and has its own charm to it Im gonna answer it here as well since a few people asked if i made cookie cutters and no not exactly? I redrew the frames from digital reference on paper and cut it out like so
(also shoutout to fish shaped dish)
then i would put the paper on the dough and put some flour around it to have a guideline that wont move and cut it out
and the back legs have a mix of cocoa : >
Reblogged
"at least venezuela lost a dictator" "the good thing about trump's invasion" "maduro deserved it" oh my god some of you are dangerously susceptible to fascist propaganda.
unfriendly and honestly hostile reminder that trump isn't invading venezuela because maduro is a dictator, or because of drug cartels. he's doing it only and exclusively because they have desirable oil reserves and no other reason. reminder that venezuela is a comparatively poor country that will never financially recover from this. reminder that venezuelans are suffering with the bombing and the air strikes. reminder that trump did it to steal from them and no one did anything. reminder that this sets a dangerous precedent and now all trump has to do to invade another country is claim they're in a dictatorship. reminder that trump is a fascist dictator.
this will only be bad, for venezuelans and for all of latin america (and possibly the whole world) in the long run. trump did this not to help the venezuelans or their country, but to steal their petrol and get away with it. and he will. because that's what dictators do.
