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Not today Justin
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$LAYYYTER
EXPECTATIONS
taylor price
Phantogram Three
almost home
Product Placement
shark vs the universe
No title available
todays bird
oozey mess
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
NASA
seen from United States
seen from Colombia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Vietnam
seen from Mexico
seen from Thailand
seen from France
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Jordan
seen from Thailand
seen from Egypt
seen from T1
seen from Germany
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@rotten-faeeriie
Hello! I’m Fae! ⋆˙𓍊₊ ⊹˚
: a rotten forest creature with wifi
MASTERLIST & RULES
This blog is for all my hyperfixations that i may or might not write for. Don't by shy, let's talk about my favorite things:
- COD
- Arcane
- The Last of Us
tf141 now movie stars!
“Do dishes” and “take out trash” both require the use of a spell slot, vs “use phone” is a cantrip, and brother, I am a level one wizard
shawn hatosy arm appreciation post
Gaz trying to explain what the backrooms is to Price, and all Price can think about is the time he got lost in a underground bunker that was endless hallways and empty rooms. Gaz just retraumatized the man over the worst ten hours of his life.
you literally have to unironically listen to some shit like party rock anthem so you don’t kill yourself
"it's just stress" oh thank god, it's just the silent killer that slowly kills you, perfectly harmless, no need to worry
spider in my room disappeared
suicide is my backup plan if it doesn't reappear within ten minutes
immortal!john price who should’ve been dead ten times over by now. he didn’t realize it until he was twenty-seven, when he suckled at the barrel of his gun and swallowed its bullet after unintentionally leading his comrades to their death, only to wake up six hours later with what he still says was the most violent headache of his life, alive and intact.
he didn’t tell anyone. partially because that would mean admitting to the attempt, but more so because he knew what would happen if the world found out, if the government found out, and he refused to be a fucking experiment.
it took him years to accept the fact that nothing could kill him. bullets didn’t do it, nor did explosions, or falls that would’ve left anybody else smeared on the pavement. for a time, he hoped that age would get to him eventually, but, when even that seemed to stop, leaving him with a dusting of grays and eternal crows feet, he resigned himself to it. an eternity of suffering. sometimes he thinks it might be his punishment for all of the atrocities he’s committed. perhaps it’s what he deserves.
he watches his parents die, he buries friends, soldiers who he’d called brothers and sons, and mourns that he’ll never see them on the other side. he laughs whenever anyone dares to mention how lucky he is, to have survived all that he has. he feigns flattery whenever a young bird titters about how good he looks for his age. he tells laswell he’s happy for her when she settles down, and hopes she can’t see the green tint coloring his words.
john price will never get to be a father, or a husband, he’ll never watch any grandkids toddle about his home, he won’t grow old with the one he loves. he oftentimes wonders if he’ll still be around when the earth collapses. what will become of him when there is nothing left to fight for?
the 141 is john’s favorite mistake. he lets them, you, into his heart, but he knows, from the start, that it can only end one way. he lets himself be selfish, swears to enjoy it while it lasts, to make sure that his team gets all of the opportunities he never did. he vows that he’ll see ghost and soap married, he’ll be there to tell kyle how proud he is when he’s made a captain himself, he’ll encourage you to settle down and fall in love with someone worthy of you.
because that’s one luxury john cannot afford. he knows how you feel about him, he knows what you want from him, and it kills him to turn you away, to pretend that he doesn’t want you, doesn’t love you. but you deserve someone who can give you everything, and it is not him.
eventually, he’ll have to go underground. people are bound to notice sooner or later, to realize that he’s no older than he was ten years ago. he’ll have to run, to hide until everyone who’s ever known him is dead and gone, and he won’t subject you to that. he won’t do it to himself, either. the thought of watching you wither away, watching you die so slowly, as human beings are meant to, hurts worse than any bullet to the temple. he refuses to love you just to lose you.
he’ll spend the rest of his life, however long that might be, alone, and john’s made his peace with that. he thought he did, anyways.
that was before he watched you get shot in the throat on an op in the middle of nowhere, dead before you hit the ground, long before john makes it to you. he spent so much time worrying about nature, it was as though he forgot how swiftly a life can end in this world. all it takes is one minor miscalculation, a single misstep.
he should’ve loved you while he had the chance.
“this is bravo 0-6 to ground control, i’ve got one—” the words die on his tongue, his stubborn heart stilling for half of a second, as you rise with a choked gasp, your formerly gaping jugular miraculously intact.
Part one Part two
Soap discovers it on accident.
The morning he does starts off with Ghost passing him in the hallway, a steaming to-go cup in his hand. The smell of coffee meets him.
"Since when do you drink coffee?" he says, halting in his tracks.
"Since the time you learned to mind your own business," Ghost says without pause in either voice or step, continuing his march like a man on a mission.
Soap snorts and keeps walking, thinking nothing of it until a few days later he spots Ghost with another coffee, this time along with a little paper bag. He makes the mistake of setting it on the counter for a moment.
Johnny immediately hooks a finger in the opening and peeks inside, the smell of sweet and warm baked goodness meeting him.
Ghost nearly takes Soap's hand off from how hard he slaps it away.
"Hands off."
"Ach, Jesus, alright." He rubs his stinging hand. "A good morning to you too, Lt."
Ghost rolls the top of the bag closed again and leaves just as suddenly as he appeared, mind and attention focused elsewhere. He disappears around the corner as Soap tries to think of how and why Ghost is walking around with warm pastries. Did he go off base and bring it back? Did he bake it himself? Now there's an image, Johnny thinks.
He's given the opportunity to find out just the next day.
He's en route to the shooting range to meet with Kyle when he runs into Ghost marching off with yet another bag in his hand.
"Hey, Lt," he calls, jogging over to him. "I'm headin' to the range, you in?"
"Later." Ghost doesn't look at him, instead scanning around searching for something. Soap looks down at the bag in his hand, seeing light condensation on the inside from whatever hot food is in it.
"Jesus, you doin' food deliveries on the side now or somethin'?"
"Or something," Ghost says in the tone of voice that actually means: "Shut the fuck up."
"Well if that's the case," Soap starts, willfully ignoring him just to rib him a bit, "I think I'd like to make an order for lunch—"
Ghost tenses. He does so in a way that Johnny only sees when there's a loaded gun in his hand and a soon-to-be corpse standing in front of him. It activates something in Johnny's lizard brain and muscle memory takes over, immediately stepping into a defensive position, facing whatever it is that's coming at them.
But all he sees are a couple of medics on their break.
You're sitting at one of the tables outside, trying to get as much fresh air as you can on the woefully short break you managed to get. One of your coworkers, someone who's worked on the same ward as you ever since you arrived at this base, walks up to you. You smile up at him in greeting. He hands you a styrofoam cup filled with a steaming drink, made from the overworked coffee maker which you gratefully accept.
The both of you are too far for either Soap or Ghost to hear. They can only see you kick out the other chair for him to take, see him sit in front of you, and start getting into a conversation that you both lean into.
You laugh at whatever he said and the sound of it reaches to where the two soldiers stand.
Soap swears the air drops in temperature a few degrees. He stills. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. All he dares to move is his eyes to look over at Ghost.
Ghost stands there like the manifestation of cold wrath itself. His eyes, as dark as the thoughts running through his head with perfect clarity, stare down the medic sitting in front of you. As sharp as the knives that his fingers have the sudden urge to wrap around.
The sound of the bag in his hand collapsing under Ghost's deathgrip cuts through whatever spiraling void his mind began to fall down. Ghost heaves a quiet breath and resumes his march over to your table. Soap stays where he is, watching with a morbid fascination.
When he approaches, you look up at him and instead of the concerned (if not frightened) expression that Soap expects, you give him a beaming smile. He places the bag down in front of you.
In the moment that you're busy opening and looking through it, Ghost shoots the man across the table from you a look that Soap can't see from here, but the way that all of the blood drains from the medic's face gives him a pretty good idea.
You place the containers of food on the table and say something to Ghost. He rumbles something back to you and turns away without anymore fanfare. By the time he makes it back to Soap's side, the puzzle pieces have started to click together.
"Aye, so it's your lass who you've been sneakin' all those goodies to."
"Wot?"
"Ye know, your girlfriend?" He gestures to you.
"Fuck are you on about, Johnny?"
Soap is struck with the full understanding that A) Ghost is head over arse in love with you and B) Has no intention of doing anything about it. Which does and doesn't surprise him. The man's a workaholic, dedicated to the job just as much as any other of the 141; they wouldn't be alive if they weren't. But he's also not one to be passive about things. Ghost is about as blunt as a sledgehammer to the back of the head, doesn't waste time with tedious little social dances.
Which leads Soap to come to the other, most crucial realization of C) Ghost has absolutely no idea.
"Nothing. Never mind."
Ghost rolls his eyes and slinks off, leaving Soap standing there with a million thoughts racing through his head.
Soap disagrees with the notion that he's impulsive. Impulsivity carries the notion of thoughtlessness, of a lack of regard for the future. Instead, Soap sees no point in running in circles, hemming and hawing. He encounters a problem, sees what needs to be done, and executes. Hesitation gets you blown up.
Which is why, after encountering this predicament, Soap knows what needs to be done to solve it. All that is required now is the right time to act and the perfect opportunity strikes on an afternoon he's walking with Ghost to Price's office.
"Lieutenant!" your voice calls out from the other end of the hallway. The man in question immediately halts and turns back around. You come jogging up to the both of them, a small plastic container in your hands. "I was going to give this back to you earlier but, you know, busy." You hand the container to him which he takes. "Thanks again, it was really good."
"You liked it?" he asks, soft, timid, like your approval is what keeps the world spinning.
Soap wishes he had a camera right now. Or a pencil and paper. Just to immortalize the look on Ghost's face.
He stands with his chin tucked, like a bashful wee puppy dog if Soap had to describe it. He stares at you with his big, unblinking eyes, glittering like you just handed him the key to paradise instead of a piece of empty plastic.
"It was delicious," you say fervently, "you have to show me what recipe you used."
Sweet, steaming, bloody Jesus.
Ghost has been cooking meals for you.
Soap stares gobsmacked, open mouthed at the side of Ghost's head, mind reeling. Ghost doesn't realize because he's too busy looking at you. Nothing short of a bomb threat could pull his attention away.
Ghost shrugs, fiddles with the container like he all of the sudden doesn't know what to do with his hands.
"It was nothing. Just something I threw together." The way his eyes soften, sweet as melted chocolate at your praise screams otherwise.
"Well, either way. It was amazing." You look down to quickly check your watch.
"No rest for the wicked, eh?" Ghost drawls.
You sigh. "Tell me about it."
Soap watches the moment with certainty that nothing will come of this, can see in perfect vision that you'll leave and Ghost will do nothing but watch with the yearning they write about in poems. The both of you will live in complete ignorance about the near apocalyptic levels of longing that he just knows bothers Ghost more than he realizes.
He glances at Ghost. Glances at you. Formulates a plan. Sees every way it could go horribly and every consequence that could come of it. Commits anyway.
"Have to say, I really admire you medic folk," Soap says before you scurry off, leaning a shoulder against the wall, casual as can be.
"Oh," you say, taken aback by the sudden flattery. "Thank you, Sergeant."
Soap feels Ghost's presence behind him like a world-ending missile in its pre-launch phase. He swears he can hear a countdown start.
"Aye, some of the hardest workers I've seen. Nothing short of brilliant, too."
The missile's coordinates lock in right on Soap's head. He refuses to acknowledge the cold sweat that starts up along his spine.
You wave him off, a pretty heat making its home on the apples of your cheeks. Soap wouldn't have guessed Ghost had an eye for sweet little things like you. "Takes all sorts to keep the wheels moving," you say, a humble deflection.
"But you all are the ones that keep us in one piece. That's no' a small task," he leans his head in just a touch, as close as he dares with the Shadow of Death standing right behind him glaring holes with those demon eyes of his into the back of his skull. "Ah, careful though," he further dares to employ the little side-smile-eyebrow-quirk that's yet to fail him, lowering his voice into a gravely lilt that always gets him the attention he wants, "you keep on like that and you'll make the rest of us look bad, bonn—"
"You have training duty to report to," Ghost interjects in his full Lieutenant Voice that has Soap unconsciously shooting up from his slouch on the wall. By the time his muscle memory has passed, Ghost has already shifted his attention back to you. "I'll see you later, yeah?" he addresses to you, sounding like a completely different person from literally just a second ago.
You smile at him and nod. "Yeah." He returns the nod and watches in soft silence as you march off to whatever else the rest of your day has in store for you. The two of them stand in silence. He measures the air like he would the stability of a live explosive in his hand.
"So," Soap says once you're out of sight, hearing the countdown reach zero. "When's the weddin'?"
The sound of Ghost's palm smacking the back of Soap's head echoes down the corridor.
I got new brushes :))
WAKE UP, BAD BATCH NATION!!
TF141 x reader (winter soldier au) pt 5
CW: Winter soldier au, torture, canon violence, angst, pervy Graves? not proofread
Graves watched you from across the cabin.
One boot hooked lazily beneath the bench seat, arms spread comfortably like he owned the entire aircraft.. which in some ways, he did.
But his eyes stayed on you.
The aircraft vibrated softly beneath your boots as it cut through the night. The dim red overhead glow painted your masked form in muted blood tones.
honestly given my parents whole [gestures vaguely] i am actually incredibly well adjusted
"this too shall pass" sure but have you considered the fact that i don't like the way it's passing
simon can’t find it within himself to react when the front door creaks open, though there once was a time where it’d have him reaching for the gun under his pillow, the one that was hurled to the opposite side of the room hours ago — or was it days? weeks? for all he knows, it’s been years. time’s lost all meaning. what little it had in the first place.
he hopes, selfishly, futilely, that whoever it is that’s come to interrupt his wallowing comes bearing a bullet. he longs for the relief, like a dog gone rabid, for the sweet release of a swift, violent end.
but — no, he’s not that lucky. of course not. it’s only you. he should’ve known it would be you.
the captain would insist he needed time. kyle would be too afraid, too kind, to impose on him in his most vulnerable moment. but you know him too well, love him too much. he hates you for it. he hates you, you and your bleeding fucking heart. and, for a split second, it consumes him, that hatred. he longs to see your brain matter painted across the baby blue walls of his bedroom.
but the gun’s so far, and his limbs have gone numb, and the guilt hits him long before he can muster the strength to do something about it.
it isn’t you he wants dead, he remembers. it isn’t your fault. you don’t deserve his animosity — yet, he knows you would take it gladly if you thought it might ease his suffering. because you’re good like that. far better than he is.
you linger in the doorway, your eyes narrowed as they adjust to what little light he’s allowed in. the curtains aren’t thick enough, he’d once complained. now, not even a concrete wall would please him. only six feet of earth and a wooden lid.
your lips tighten when you, finally, spot him amongst the wreckage. a ghost, surrounded by empty bottles and his own filth. but there is no pity, no judgment, and certainly no surprise. only understanding. or is it resignation?
you say nothing as you approach him, sitting on the edge of his soiled mattress to press your palm to his cheek. you’re so warm — he hadn’t realized how cold it’d gotten.
you’re silent, still, as you haul him out of bed and onto his feet for the first time in god knows how long. he takes a swing at you, because it feels like the only thing he’s capable of, because he’s not ready to get up yet, because it’s too much, too soon, too fast; his fist hits the wall rather than your face, but you don’t so much as flinch. you sigh, wrap an arm around his middle, and help him hobble to the bathroom. he’s undeserving of your patience, he knows. but, he doubts that you care about what he thinks he deserves. you never have before, why should you now?
you help him undress without complaint, even though he contributes nothing to your valiant effort. it takes herculean strength to merely lift his leg over the lip of the tub when the time comes.
he can’t find it within himself to feel ashamed — not of his nakedness or his decrepitude. not that you’d ever begrudge him for it. he knows better.
he lets you scrub him down like a child, all the while he contemplates how hard it would be to drown himself in a foot of water. not very, if it came down to it. except you’re here, which complicates things. you’d never let him get away with it. still, a man can dream.
you wash his hair with soap that isn’t his, its familiar scent making his eyes water. you pry his jaw open and brush his teeth, twice, cool mint overtaking the leftover taste of liquor and vomit, before washing all of the grime and misery from his skin with such gentleness he could cry about it. he doesn’t. he has no tears left to spare you, regrettably. he’s spent them all on another.
you drain the water once it goes cold, only to fill the tub up again, but shallower this time, as if you know what he’s thinking. it doesn’t seem worth it anymore, anyways. he’s clean, and warm, and just conscious enough that he knows how unjust it would be to put you through that — and so soon, too.
you manage to coax his head from your lap (when had he laid it there, he wonders), your jeans soaked and discolored from his hair. “behave yourself,” you tell him sternly, the first words you’ve spoken since you broke into his flat.
he hasn’t the strength to respond, or even to nod, so he simply stares at you, blinking slowly, and you, apparently, consider it as good as it’s going to get. you disappear into the dimly lit hallway, leaving the door open behind you. just in case.
he doesn’t know how long you’re gone, or why, but he can hear you in the distance, rummaging around. you haven’t abandoned him yet. it’s both a blessing and punishment.
he must fall asleep at some point, or perhaps he just wanders off into some calm, quiet corner of his mind, because when you finally return, he’s cold again, but the air smells like onion and garlic, and your jeans have dried.
“time to get up, si, c’mon,” he doesn’t want to. it’s safe here, even if it is chilly, there’s nothing much to remind him of —
“i know, my love. i know.”
empathetic, perhaps, but relentless. you all but force him out of the bath, helping him climb into the cleanest, softest pair of sweatpants and a shirt you could find in the recesses of his closet. if he could, he would tell you how much he appreciates it, you, everything you have done and are doing for him. but he can’t. instead, he lowers his head and lets you kiss his temple before you herd him into the living room.
it’s clean. the lights are on, the mess is gone, there’s food waiting on the stove, the trash has been taken out — how long was he in there? who decided someone like him deserved someone like you in his life?
he isn’t hungry. he hasn’t been hungry in a long while, but he tries to force himself to eat anyways, even as his guts churn, because you’d worked so hard, and he can’t let it go to waste, but you don’t let him. you wrestle the spoon from his grasp when you hear him gagging on a carrot, and replace it with a glass of water.
this, he can stomach.
soon enough, you have him swaddled on the couch in a blanket that reeks of the same shampoo you used on him, head in your lap again, your fingers gentle in his overgrown hair. it feels nice, almost. simon can barely recall the last time he felt anything but grief.
there’s some old, shitty western on the TV, but he pays it no mind. it’s the picture frame on the mantel that has his attention, freshly dusted and taunting him. johnny grins at him from behind the thin plexiglass, his blue eyes twinkling in that way they always did, and simon has no choice but to let himself feel it.
“i miss him,” he rasps, his voice thick with tears, scratchy with disuse.
your fingers still, for half of a second, and he feels your centre tighten as you reign yourself in. “me too.”
“m’sorry.”
“me too.”
Hello please reblog this if you’re okay with people sending you random asks to get to know you better
