tactical-jellyfish

[tactical-jellyfish]

Your pfp is so cute ^^ 👍💕💕💕💕💕

Thank you pookie dearest <3 Hope you have a good day or night :)

[tactical-jellyfish]

The horrors (drabble) part 1/?

WARNINGS: Injury, monsters, grief, loss. Infection of dubious pathogen, mutation, trauma. Main character death. THIS IS PLANNED TO BE VERY HEAVY ANGST. First person who can guess what horror game inspired this gets a (platonic and very respectful) fat smooch.

There are various noises around you.

The quiet clanging of metal under five sets of boots, the hushed words exchanged between the four of you. Price is giving a final rundown of mission parameters, Ghost and Soap nodding along. Gaz walks next to you, quiet but reassuring.

He reaches a gloved hand out to yours as you approach your own branch of the rig, the metal panels of the hallways bent like some being of unimaginable proportions had made a habit of slamming itself into the walls.

"Just rescue, remember? You're gonna do fine."

Gaz speaks gently to you, voice little more than a whisper in the endless series of clangs and alarms that must have meant something before. You swallow, but nod. "What a first mission this is, huh?" You try to joke. He doesn't laugh, but you score a soft huff through the nose as a consolation prize for your efforts.

"Sure is."

Gaz is quick to find his own branch to look through, and you start moving, albeit slowly.

There is no such thing as pure silence on metal flooring, not unless one is willing to work at a snail's pace, and you're not that person. You settle for a quiet, strolling pace, glancing into the locked rooms where you can and scanning every room that's open.

The first room is upturned and messy. You see greeting cards written in crayon on the desk, and a mug still full of the nasty coffee-dust that remains from too-strong brews.

The next is neater, a typed letter by the bed. Looks like the guy was trying to unionize, good for him.

It's working out well for you, until you turn the corner.

What looks like living muscle grows on the walls, pulsating slowly under the force of a center you cannot see, blood vessels draped over the meat like fairy lights. It's all covered in mucus, and you feel the edges of your vision starting to become hazy, almost dreamlike, when you look at it.

"You!"

The voice makes you snap your head to look at it, and by the hells, you wish you didn't.

The face of what appears to be an old man holds the far end of the hallway captive, one side of a too-pink face drawn down with the weight of bloodied, mutated viscera that trail behind it. It's just a face. That takes up almost the entire hallway.

And then it starts to run at you. Or rather, drag itself forward at alarming speed, on two bent, bloodstained claws.

"GET OVER HERE, OR SO HELP ME-"

A metallic clang chases every footfall as you run for your life from the thing, finding a strange bulge in the wall.

The musculature is there again, and your head throbs in time with its movements, but there is no time to consider anything but going through the almost body-sized gap it offers.

Just big enough for you. Too small for the thing.

You turn your body at just the right time, and when you are on the other side, the creature's cussing devolves into a long, garbled scream.

Breaths come quickly, but you force them to slow. Biting your cheek to cool your heels before realizing that if that monster exists, the other 'anomalies of dubious biological nature' are all of a similar caliber.

Fuck. You have to tell the others about this.

You reach for your comms button, but find that it's not pinned to your chest like it always is.

A glance back at the hallway bulge reveals that it got snagged on a loose rivet, now quickly being absorbed into the phlegmy coating around the muscles, pulled up into a strange, translucent sac of some sort.

Alright, you've gone dark. Keep it together, rookie.

You think to yourself, puffing out a breath as you wipe your hand on your shirt, trying to think of some alternate route out without disturbing the face monster.

It might be good to find somewhere to hide, but you spot a map in the corner of the hallway.

Thank god you carry a sharpie on you, or this would be a lot worse.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

All it takes is a bit of deductive logic (and a couple whiffs of sharpie smell) to find where the boys are, but it's no comfort that you've been gone so long.

The face monster was fast. Too fast. No one could outrun it for long. If the other things on this rig were like that, the odds weren't good.

The route back to your starting point takes you past the laundry room.

Machines don't rattle with clothes, but a new creature stands in front of one of the larger dryers, fiddling with it to watch it spin.

When the door opens, it is fast to find its way over.

Thankfully, you find your way into a locker before one of those pointy, pointy legs finds a way into you.

It cusses in a thick accent you can't quite pin, but that doesn't really matter. You've set it off, now. It's clicking footsteps work across the floor, taunting you with a human voice that sounds out of practice.

Like an eldritch being piloting what used to be a person's voicebox.

You make clever use of tossing things to the other side of the room to draw its attention, but its voice gets louder with frustration over time.

"Come out! I know you're here, Deary."

You swallow in your spot beneath a table, just a few feet away from another door, and grab your final distraction. A smoke bomb.

You're not sure if it can see, but you hurl the thing anyway, slamming your shoulder into the metal to force it to give way faster.

The creature goes for the bomb.

The door slams, with you on the safe side.

"Hah. Suck it, Leggy." Panting once more, but less than before, you are victorious.

Now, you hear footsteps.

A remarkably regular cadence, but still, you draw your gun, staring down the corner but not yet moving.

Closer...

Closer still...

You hold your breath. Soap emerges, not half as disheveled as you but under much more duress.

"Bonnie! Wha' th' fawk is going on in here?!"

You shush him firmly, giving a stern look.

"Hell if I know. Assume any creature you see is violent, and avoid them. They get very attracted to noise."

You answer, only partly helpfully, slipping your gun back into its holster. Soap looks concerned, and grabs the hand that's holding a loaded firearm. So much for his safety training.

"Ye nicked yerself, hen."

"Hm?"

"Right there, back o' the hand. Dinnae look too bad, but I don't like the feel of this place."

Johnny scrounges around in his pockets, before producing a small bandage and removing your glove from your hand, pressing the fabric over the small injury.

"...Thanks, Soap."

"Call me Johnny." He smiles. You nod, and cover the way your lips turn up.

This was a mess, sure, but you had someone here for it. That was something to count as a blessing.

[tactical-jellyfish]

help I made a mistak

being a slimecicle fan is my biggest regret. Also, I wrote another drabble, so the question is.....

[tactical-jellyfish]

It's not juneteenth anymore, but fuck it. This blog stands for people of color, year round. Always and forever.

It's Juneteenth yall. And I'm not letting this day go unmarked.

Black people fight for everybody. We stand in solidarity with women, lgbt people, poor people all over the world of every skin color and background. Every religion and nationality.

Today, stand with us. Be with us. Tell a black person you love them. Hug a black person (with consent). Ask that hot black girl out today. Make a black person smile. Black lives matter to everybody and you matter to us.

Stand with us on Juneteenth like we stand with you all year round, and I hope a happy Pride month continues for all of us

💝

[tactical-jellyfish]

Im not side-eyeing people who's not simping for Gaz-

I'm side-eyeing people who casually toss him to the side as if he's not important, like he's just a side character.

Really? One of the main characters of the very first reboot? Price's firstborn and favorite child?

He has no story? A WHOLE CAMPAIGN IN MW1 IS HIS STORY— EVERYTHING STARTED WITH HIM MEETING PRICE-

When Price responded to Gaz's complaints, telling the latter that the older man could go on by himself, if Gaz doesn't wanna join then he can leave.

THE STORY WOULD JUST END THERE IF GAZ SAID "OK👍" AND WALK AWAY FROM PRICE— to go home, meet me on the way home, we'd go on a date couple of times, then got married- (delulu)

*Credit rolls*

Wait, thatd be funny af, imma make an edit later-

Excluding him out of 141 is giving.. "i'm not racist, but-"

Yeah well.. i'm not accusing people who tossed him aside to be racist, but-

it's also giving microaggression

[tactical-jellyfish]

This going straight into the drafts but my mildly unpopular opinion is that I think it’s fair when people complain about 90% of cod fics being the same cookie cutter content of subfem dom ghost content that’s mildly mysoginistic and is just a carbon copy of the smut that came before it.

And it’s not saying that those fics are (entirely) bad, they can be completely fine when the mood strikes but if you’re looking for any alternative kinks, or comfort fluff, or angst-comfort, or angst, or literally any other cod character that isn’t the top four (ghost, konig, price, soap) you’re pretty much left with scraps.

And whenever people complain about it, it’s met with a dismissive “well why don’t YOU write those fics? Writers don’t owe you anything, you selfish prick!” Which A, rude, and B, we ARE.

I consistently try and make the content I personally want to see more of. More sub characters, different characters that aren’t the same four, more angst and comfort, more fluff. And I get lucky if I break 100 notes because that content is pushed to the bottom of the bucket. But my poly 141 stuff? The smut with soap? My top posts of all time. You know, the ones that I didn’t put actual effort into and spat out on a phone.

And ultimately, I don’t want to be doing this forever. I write this so that one day someone else will get inspired to do it and I can step back and read something I enjoy. But no one’s doing that because the work isn’t valued as much as “big scary ghost dominates small fem reader” smut. And it’s tiring. Because that’s not the content I want to make, but anything else will be left out as scraps that no one will eat.

[tactical-jellyfish]

do u have a call of duty character u particularly favour?

OHHH absolutely. I keep them sort of divided by categories, and by game, because I like them for different reasons.

Ghosts: Keegan. For sure Keegan. Mostly because of his voice, and the dry humor. Second would be Hesh, because I too am an older sibling, and I like his dog.

I don't particularly love the later MW games (from what I've seen in cutscenes & writing, I can't speak much on gameplay), but I have a list of characters for those.

Farah: Hands-down most tragic. Absolutely amazingly strong, she's a role model. Very sad there isn't more for her, but I get why because holy hell she is a masterpiece and I wouldn't publish any of my stuff for her before it was perfect.

Alex: I like him because he is absolutely respectful of Farah and god they are cute together.

Gaz: I love dry humor (and thus, him), he's the only one on the 141 I could maybe consider my 'type', but he's also not written for incredibly often, sadly.

Price: He's morally grey in a kind of interesting way (and again, he's funny with Gaz & Ghost sometimes), but I like having him around mostly to bounce him off other people in a cast.

Most of my love for Ghost and Soap is how they interact with each other, but in truth, I don't adore either of them, probably because there's just so much stuff of them that it's really hard to find something that feels unique.

Thank you so much for the ask, anon! Much love, happy pride, and have a good day or night! -Jellyfish :)

[tactical-jellyfish]

Injuries (drabble)

Warnings!: Injury described, canon-typical violence (you know, like war). Nightmare. Comfort. Off-screen kiss on the cheek. Swearing. [~2.2 k words]

Beneath your haunches, the ground is trembling with the force of the cracking bullets in the air, vibrations blasted through tainted oxygen so hard that they infect cracked concrete and really test your hearing protection.

The firefight is one of the nastiest you've seen yet. A concerning amount of the fire you hear is decidedly not cover fire, cracking off the (former) concrete pillar and it's collapsed sibling that are turning out to be nearly-perfect cover, even if there's more rebar and mesh than you would like.

Your comms are trying, poor things, but there's little to be done, and you know it when Gaz's voice cuts as he tries to relay orders to you. Or, hell, maybe they were orders, you couldn't hear shit through the static either way

Boot soles grit against sandy concrete as you try to bite out a return message. Position compromised, you try, but the words don't leave when you see what looks like a medium-sized stone tossed over your barrier.

"Fuck!"

You try to run, but the comm's wire (and with it, your hearing protection) is snagged, pulled out by a burr of rebar breaking through the pillar's surface, tangled hopelessly in the mesh.

There's no time, and still, you try.

Always assume that a grenade tossed at you has two seconds or less till it does its best to turn you into red mist.

You had forgot.

And still, the blast is never quite as small as you think.

There is no pain in the immediate seconds after, and you silently thank deaf ears in the heavens for adrenaline, until you spot a movement a few meters away, peeking out from a corner.

It's automatic. Your rifle bends to your wills, a machine that is operated by an equally robotic entity. One of blood and one of metal. The way real warfare has been for thousands of years.

A body hits the floor, but you don't hear it, you see red painting the forehead, leaking through a too-weak helmet. You hide behind the more upright of the pillars, before watching another assailant burst from the corner, shoulders shaking as they grab their dispatched colleague by the shoulders, shaking them helplessly as though to will life back into their body.

Once more, you take a shot, and there is no miss.

It's a somber thing, but there is no time to offer condolences or sympathies, not when the broken box of your comms finally figures something out and flashes a yellow pinprick for you.

Evacuate ASAFP. You May Or May Not Be Important Enough To Wait For.

A twinge hits your arm as you lower it, and a wet warmth floods the area, but there's little time for that now. Having a chunk of grenade in your arm is preferable to being dead, by far.

Running has always been good for you.

You've never liked to sit still, not at work. The movement is what prompts the blood in your veins to pump, your heart to follow with hummingbird-fast beats. The burn in your lungs, it's what makes you real.

But, at the same time, the ache in your arm has taken time to grow as it stains your uniform with a deep red, forcing a sharp pain up your nerves and into your brainstem with every thump of your boots against the cracking ground.

You switch your rifle to your non-dominant hand, but it does little once the high of adrenaline starts to fade, and your foot also starts screeching its protest, weakening with each forced stride, no matter how much you push forward.

The helicopter is already raring to take off, and you try to shout out to your team, but you can't hear yourself.

Your foot hits the floor one last time, and flash of agony is so intense that it forces what should be another cry from you, but once more, no noise hits your ears.

Knees buckle, fabric is scraped off with skin in tow, and your damaged body lays heavy on the ground.

Another boot appears in your peripheral, and you try to look up.

Just before the face comes into focus, a particularly nasty gush of blood leaves the wound in your arm, and takes your vision with it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The floor beneath you is inky black, and cold.

A boot thuds down right before your face, and Price's face comes into focus, bristly bearded and bristling with rage.

His voice booms from seemingly everywhere around you, like you've been plugged into a surround-sound system made in hell.

"Rookie, whot the hell were you thinking, going in like that? You knew your coffin'd be empty if you died, right?"

It's so loud your ears are already starting to ache, the noise piercing every fiber of your being and rocking your cells with the vibrations, tearing your muscles apart from the inside.

A sharp sting spreads through your foot, but your neck refuses to allow you to look as muscles lock up, and another face steals away your attention, even as the pressure mounts.

"Ah, Cap, they're green. Might well bury'em alive. Sae's the time, aye?"

Soap's face is different. Low-sitting eyebrows pinched down, but a wicked smile present on thin lips, practically reveling as the floor seems to swallow you whole.

You know the laughter you hear, but it brings no comfort when you see Gaz cackling next to the Scot.

God, he looks so pretty when he laughs, and it does nothing but twist the knife when you watch him lean against Soap, before looking down at you.

"It's alright, luv. Some people just... don't make the cut. Way of the world, innit?"

The comfort is false, you know it is, but your damaged heart takes it anyway, to somehow make believe that it's not your fault, that you had just aimed too high.

When Ghost appears, there's no more defense you can give yourself.

As usual, the only thing you can see is his eyes. Light brown like mud that's just about to crack, honeyed when the light hits just right.

He says nothing, but he turns away, and some part of you can't allow that, even as the room starts to pivot on some axis you can't see.

You try to reach forward, to plead, but your voice doesn't work, and your legs are stuck, sinking into the black with no foreseeable way out, rotating faster and faster, a bug spiraling down into the drain.

A grating, long BEEEEEEEEEP floods the space around you first, painfully high-pitched and absolutely unbearable because it seems to match exactly with the ringing flooding into your ears.

You're certain that there are a few specific parts of your body that ache, but in the haze of painkillers, it's a simple dullness.

That being, until hands are on your shoulders.

Price stands above you, brows pulled down in worry, lips tuned in a stiff frown, and he speaks.

"------! - ------- --- ---- ----! --- ---- –"

He pauses when he watches you fail to acknowledge what he's saying, staring up at him with a pinch in your brow, eyes calculating as always, but now trying to put together what he's saying.

"-- --. ---, ---- -------! ----'-- --- -----."

Price's head follows a movement you only catch the tail end of. A body leaves the door, walking quickly, but there's no squeak of boots on linoleum.

His hand is under your chin, then, gently guiding you to look back up at him, baby blue eyes full of sympathy, a fatherly sort of concern that looks oddly welcome on his weathered face.

Price is slow to move, making sure you watch as he gently takes the plastic cup from the crappy nightstand beside the stiff bed your body lays on, taking a mock sip himself before holding it out to you.

Something is wrong, but you reach out a lead-heavy arm anyway.

It doesn't work very well, but thankfully Price catches it before it can spill.

It's humiliating, sure, but you still sip when the plastic rim kisses your parched lips.

You don't look, but if you had, you would see John smiling, reassured, ever so slightly, that you'd be alright. Not quite the v-shape you had come to know, but close enough.

You smile back, in turn. Weakly, but you do.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Soap spends a good deal of time in your room, in the first few days.

It's like he refuses to let hospital food actually be eaten by you, with how he keeps on bringing over his leftovers and heating them up in the microwave down the hall for you.

The first time, it's soup. Then, a stew, a little thicker, with some bread, which is followed by a simple sandwich.

But that's not all. He's joking with you the whole time, smiling as you come back into being a person again.

Yet another day, and the door opens.

The trial hearing aid planted in your ear does little to muffle the ringing that has become characteristic since your injury, but when the hinges squeak, your tired head snaps over to the Scot in your doorway.

"Fuck. Simmer down some, hen o' mine. Don't stare at me like that. I got ye sumthin'."

Your curiosity is met with a chuckle, and a small, wrapped package being set into your lap. After a few seconds of stillness, he gently prods you to open it.

A book of sudoku, crossword, and other puzzles. "To pass the time," Johnny says fondly. "Gotta keep the brain sharp, I'm sure."

He's sat beside your bed, and for once, you dare to do something new. You reach for his shoulder with an arm, and pull him into yourself.

That's the first time you have the balls to hug someone you work with.

He hugs you back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The diagnosis is only half shocking.

To you, that is still much too shocking to be comfortable, but Gaz, by your side, is much more active than you, in the discussion.

"Nerve damage? To what, specifically?"

"They can recover, right?"

"Would you recommend surgery or physical therapy? Both?"

"What's the timeline before they can have a re-evaluation for service?"

John had insisted that someone went along with you, and the Lieutenant was out training with Soap. So, that left Gaz.

He's a very good patient advocate, really, and at some point, you start looking at him in his seat beside you instead of paying all your attention to the doctor.

The white light is the pure opposite of flattering, but he manages to look good because of course he does, he's Gaz.

Brown eyes suddenly snap over to you, and his lips turn down slightly in concern before a warm hand gently settles on your shoulder, jostling you just enough to call you back to reality.

"What? What's- is something wrong, Garrick?"

Your voice is a little rougher than usual, not properly pitched as per usual, but enough.

He sighs lightly, but starts to smile softly when he does.

"Your hearing aids are in, right luv?"

"Y- I- I think so?"

"Ringing or no ringing?"

"It's- mate, it's not supposed to go away for a few weeks, I don't think."

Your voice is a bit more practiced, that time. Better.

The doctor, across the desk, pauses in her scribbling on the notepad (you're sure they think they're writing something, but there is no way that those are words), and looks up at you.

"Dead right. I'm glad you're well-read on your condition."

Her voice rings out once, and in the quiet, an alarm rings.

"Shit. I am so sorry, we're running over and I need to get to my next appointment. I'll see the pair of you again in a week, alright?"

You nod, but Gaz, on your side, seems just a bit ticked by the ordeal, but he takes you with him, already whisking you off into the café to get you some actual food.

And hell, if you kiss him on the cheek when he drops you back off at your room for the night, that's alright. Your little secret.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I swear to God, I'm gonna fucking kill you, Lieutenant."

Your punches hit the bag repeatedly as your words bite from your lips, sweat-coated and annoyed.

"Not until you hit your previous times, sergeant."

Ghost, bastard he is, is training you again.

Sure, you're out of physical therapy now, and sure, you do want to train, but he's just such a bastard about it.

A particularly hard swing is where you focus that annoyance, and the bag very nearly comes back for your face.

He stops rocking on his heels, and the relative silence is soon broken.

"Good for the day."

He declares, and you look back up from the red, padded synthetic leather, brows furrowed.

"What?"

"You wanted to be done for the day, right? You're done."

You stand, confused and maybe a bit upset, hands still wrapped up tight.

"No, I want to earn being done for the day. I was annoyed with you. Those are different."

There is a shift of the fabric of the mask you see, indicative of some sort of real facial expression.

"You're going to do just fine, rook."

His voice is warmer, this time.

[tactical-jellyfish]

Tf-141 and cat-like reader

Warnings!: minor injury (not at all serious). I sincerely apologize for starving you guys. Ended up getting sick for a good while like right after the poll and that kind of halted progress on everything temporarily. Inuries!drabble is in progress :)

It's been a few months since you found yourself transferred onto the 141.

Really, you have no issues with it. Your teammates are good enough, willing to let you do your own thing as long as it doesn't interfere with anyone else's process. Your own tics and habits are of relatively little concern, when your performance is taken into account.

Of course, there is a quiet curiosity, on everyone's part (it's only natural, honestly), though all but one person brush past it.

Price is grateful for your contributions to his team. Ghost is quiet, respectful. Gaz is friendly, though you're not quite close as a pair.

Johnny? He is where you start to encounter something new.

He's a curious man, despite how much he tries to hide that, and he trails after you like a puppydog, watching and trying to pick you apart, even during missions.

After one mission, while you're sat in your own self-designated corner of the heli, a few drips of blood are leaving a small gash in your exposed forearm. A simple injury, not all that painful, it could wait until you got a bit of strength back.

And still, the Scot leans forward in his seat before he stands, quietly approaching your seated figure before speaking.

"Ye want help wie tha', mate?" Johnny inquires, sitting himself close to your side, letting the soft tendrils of body heat sink into your side, and you lean, ever so slightly, away from it. Not because it's bad, it was rather nice actually, but you weren't used to this closeness with him yet.

"I can handle it fine, MacTavish." Your response doesn't make him deflate like it usually does with people. Instead, Johnny, in his infinite wisdom, tries to reach for your arm anyway.

You jerk backward, and John finally notes that you don't appreciate the touching.

"Och, ahm sorry, I-"

"Ask first."

The interruption makes him pause in place, and he takes a second to think that over before realizing that, fuck, you were right. He didn't ask about how much touch you were alright with.

"I'm sorry. Can I patch ye up?"

You relax more in your seat, and nod after a moment or two of consideration.

"...Sure."

His hands are big, but gentle as he grabs the disinfectant, delicately sponging it over the small injury, catching the slight grit of your teeth at the sting but not paying it any mind, because you were opening up, at least a little.

Not quite like Ghost, but you were doing something.

When the adhesive bandage is smoothed over your skin, pressed down over ointment and cleaned skin, soaking up the smallest amount of blood as it leaves your body.

And when, just before he pulls back, your hand loosely wraps around his wrist, he looks back up at you in confusion.

"Thanks." You cut in before he can start.

"Ah thought ye didn't-"

"It's alright. You asked when I told you to."

He snorts. "You really like yer crosstalk, huh?" Bright blue eyes filled with boyish warmth. It makes you warm slightly more, lean just a bit closer like he won't notice.

"I do."

"You know ye're leaning into me, right?"

"Yeah." You say, not embarrassed despite the new boldness Johnny is acquiring with you so close to him.

"Can I get closer?"

"Sure."

His hands retain that gentleness while he leans back, one tenderly resting on your shoulder, rubbing at the recently-exerted muscle through the strap of your tac-vest.

You nudge up into that touch, shut your eyes, and let yourself enjoy it. Johnny just stares while you do, silent and starting to smile as you soak up this new affection.

Right then, Ghost is in the heli's hatch, and he sighs slightly beneath the mask as he lowers himself into a seat.

Your eyes snap open, and you lean forward with a start. Johnny's hand twitches back with the sudden movement.

"Don't stop on my account, sergeants." He jokes. Johnny rolls his eyes.

You take the Scot's hand, put it back on your shoulder, and savor a little more of that subtle pampering before Price comes back.

(To be continued :D)

Other works from me <3 | Next Part

[tactical-jellyfish]

If you write the wound care fic i can send you horse pictures!! (And cat and dog ofc)

It's gonna come up tonight! I look forward to the funky little animals, and thank you :D

EDIT: I literally got sick the day I typed this, I am so sorry gang. Sometime this weekend, hopefully.

[tactical-jellyfish]

TRADE OFFER:

if you write cat adoption I will send you one (1) picture of the ittiest bittiest baby kitty ever and one (1) picture of a war criminal drugged outta his lil' kitty mind for crimes against veterinarians.

See this? This is the sort of offer I can get behind. Kitty adoption shall be written (I have plans to write all three, just wanted to know what to write first, really) and I WILL pester you about that little cat. Deal made. Also, your soul. Fork it over <3

[tactical-jellyfish]

TRADE OFFER:

if you write cat adoption I will send you one (1) picture of the ittiest bittiest baby kitty ever and one (1) picture of a war criminal drugged outta his lil' kitty mind for crimes against veterinarians.

See this? This is the sort of offer I can get behind. Kitty adoption shall be written (I have plans to write all three, just wanted to know what to write first, really) and I WILL pester you about that little cat. Deal made. Also, your soul. Fork it over <3

[tactical-jellyfish]

What do the internet people yearn for

Have I been gone for a while? Yeah. But we ball, and I wanna get in the groove a little because if I have no time to draw, I shalt write.

[tactical-jellyfish]

Task Force 141 headcannons- art/paper

Warnings!: Nope, not any today. I'm being possessed by the spirit of creativity right now and I NEED to yap. Shoutout to @h1ccu9 for just being incredibly nice and amazing, and to all of you for your support! It means a lot <3

Johnny has always been an artist, in his mind. It's a fact that permeates his whole being, though it didn't come about how most think it did.

There was no single moment when he decided that it would be what consumed every other free moment he has, no Christmas present that spurred creativity any more than the others.

Slowly, when he was younger. Stupid drawings of cartoons he'd liked, the typical stuff for a kid. Then, more quickly. In Chemistry, he was so bored of hexagons, of compounds bound by singe and double lines and rote memorization.

So, he started with circles. They were ugly, at first, but he picked up shading, and then it spilled outward.

Stupid drawings of his teachers, made to draw a chuckle from classmates, drawn with the 5-pack of pencils that would last the whole year, no matter what.

Even in his adult life, when what fills his sketchbook is chicken-scratch and sketches of buildings (only sometimes people) it's only pencil.

A quiet tribute to the young boy in a big house where money was tight. Colored pencils and good graphite would be wasted on him. He has what he needs in his palm, and he's used to that. Sometimes, black and white works well enough.

Price is somewhat similar, but his skill is technical. Sharp lines composed of quick flicks of a controlled wrist (never mind the slight ache when he repeats the motion too many times) come together to form rough ideas, a tool more for communication more than anything else.

It's not a skill borne from anything too creative, no, it just boils down to the things he needs to know. Maps, structures from top-down and isometric angles. Plans of attack represented by smooth, even arrows like men haven't died following paths he's drawn.

John doesn't like to draw outside of work, not when he remembers how many lives have been mistakenly cut short by how he controls the ballpoint pen.

He's tried, once or twice. It always ends in a deep, stabbing guilt that takes a practiced hand to shake from his shoulders.

Kyle didn't have an affinity for art until his teen years. He'd gone to museums, sure, he knew it took skill, but it had never really piqued his interest in the way it seemed to captivate some people he knows.

He'd been stressed when he picked it up from a friend. Squiggles encased in squiggles on the margins of the page. His English teacher did nothing but mark down his essays for it, but dammit did forcing himself to focus on something else work.

His mother had soon gifted him a set of ink-basked, black liner pens. Middle-of-the-road, in both quality and price, but it was more than enough.

A simple notebook had soon become a haven for him. Dots on dots on dots, lines, big, swooping curves, you name it, it's there.

He holds one rule: No "drawing".

Of course, this feels silly when he tells it to people, but it matters. If he goes into the project with a thought of a desired result, it will just frustrate him more, when it inevitably turns out as less-than-flawless.

So, it's all amorphous. Sometimes it's spiky, sometimes he's almost scarily methodical, adding more and more detail until a whole spread is swallowed up, and his head is mercifully clear.

It's enough to pull him in, but the art always lets him go again, and that's what he needs out of it.

Simon doesn't draw.

That's not to say he doesn't make art, but his is different.

Origami is his trade. It has been for a long time. He'd tear the corners out of pages in school binders, find ways to fold them to make them more interesting.

A book from the local library was what had taken it from a child's passing interest to the work of the rest of his life. More patterns. A way to understand how to make patterns, of his very own.

But, perhaps most importantly, origami was a simple, cheap hobby he could pay for with quarters found on the side of the road. And it was easy to hide

A shoebox beneath his bed was where it resided for about a decade, and then he enlisted.

His first tour, an acquaintance had given him a good set of proper origami paper. He can't remember their name for the life of him, but he remembers them every time he sits at his desk.

Actually, to be fair, he remembers them every time he enters his room at all.

The walls are adorned in paper sculptures, some truly origami, some not. Some composed of thousands of fold and over a hundred hours of work, and some just five-minute warm-up cranes.

It's a soothing reminder that his life is his, now. No matter how bitter the past may be, the tamed roughness of paper on his burned fingertips is there, and his mind gets to shut off as he takes on a project.

He knows how to make cranes by heart, now.

[tactical-jellyfish]

BOOM, BUTT STUFF!

This is a direct quote from Scout TF2. Go ahead, find it. I bet you won't.

[tactical-jellyfish]

remembered that I accidently created a whole folder of these so here's part two of ???

give it up for the 141 and friends! (they're all unhinged your honour)

[tactical-jellyfish]

always wanted to make one of these myself, so here's the propaganda blorbos!

+ one(1) ✨vintage✨ ghoap

part two of ???