#sorry for reblogging a readmore but

[tangledinink]

Hello sorry for tagging. I am very sick, my asthma is at its maximum level, my nose freezes, I have no medicine or food. I am in bad shape financially, I am a black disabled, who uses multiple medications, I pay for my food and lodging

Unfortunately I do not have all the resources to keep me safe, that is why I need your help, whatever you can contribute to me will be of great help.

Okay kids, are you ready for a lesson in SPOTTING ONLINE SCAMS????

*please don't message this person or harass them-- i do recommend that you report and block them, however.

right now it's incredibly important to give time, attention, and money to online fundraisers. but it's also incredibly important not to let scammers take advantage of that and steal money that could actually save lives right now.

firstly-- if we go to this person's blog, and navigate to "archive--"

this person's blog has only existed for a few days, only has a handful of generic posts (many reblogged multiple times,) and made their first reblog the same day that they posted their "fundraiser" post. this is a MASSIVE red flag.

please also note that neither their ask nor post actually mention palestine or gaza at all, but it's still tagged with "free palestine" and "gaza."

though this one should obviously be taken with a grain of salt, it is also worth noting the poor grammar here, because this can be (but isn't always!!!) another red flag. Note also that all the details are really vague and don't quite make sense... user describes "enduring cold" and their "nose freezing" though it's the middle of the summer. This user says that they're "sick," but doesn't really offer any further details about this. This user says that they need money for "resources," but don't elaborate on what exactly they need. They vaguely elude to a need for lodging, caretakers, and medicine, but don't actually give us any details-- despite this they have a "$1200" goal. What is this specific goal of $1200 for? Is that the cost of their medication? Overdue medical bills? Cost for rent this month?... They also apologize in their ask for "tagging" me... but they didn't tag me. They sent me an ask.

Another red flag is that their link labeled "Fundraiser link" leads directly to a Paypal donation page rather than a gofundme or anything else. If someone chooses to collect aid through paypal, venmo, etc. instead of through a gofundme, that's not a huge issue in and of itself... but it is fishy that it's mislabeled like this.

And if we GOOGLE this user's tumblr name or paypal name, we can find results like this:

This also led me to find them on @/kyra45's blog on their list of current scam accounts.

Despite all this, they have close to 100 reblogs from well-meaning people trying to signal boost and ask for donations on their behalf.

With the current situation in Palestine and the amount of actual, legitimate fundraisers and donations being circulated right now, for Palestine, Sudan, the Congo, or otherwise, it is more important than ever to be aware of people who are trying to take advantage of the situation for their own personal gain. Whenever possible, please take the time to do some due diligence when you receive messages like this and check to see if a fundraiser is legitimate! It always sucks for someone to be the victim of a scam and lose money to someone playing pretend on the internet... but it sucks even more when that money could have gone to people in actual, acute, dire need.

Here's some more information about spotting scams on tumblr! Shoutout to tumblr user kyra45 for compiling this, and for all the other hard work they do-- thanks.

Here's an actual, vetted, and legitimate campaign that could use your support. After receiving this ask, I went and donated. If you have the means to do so, it would be amazing if you did so, too.

[ see ALL gaza funds campaigns here ]

[tofixtheshadows]

@myszkaa It is completely bizarre to me, when I consider the story of Dungeon Meshi to be so clearly laid out, but I know it's because 1) fandom will always rally around the easiest, shallowest readings, the quickest and least challenging impressions, and, more importantly, 2) these attitudes will always affect characters of color in the most negative light possible. Seeing what's been happening to Kabru and Toshiro (and inevitably with Thistle I'm sure) feels like living through a time loop because they're the exact things I've seen happen in every fandom, like clockwork. The takes are all the same, just with different set dressing.

Because Kabru is positioned in the story in a way that is the slightest bit "oppositional" to golden boy Laios, and because he is not white, he is treated as inherently sinister and antagonistic, assumed to be full of himself and incorrect, because Laios is "right" so therefore Kabru must be "wrong." He is not given anywhere near the same amount of grace that his white counterparts are given. For example, I cannot imagine a fandom that would let Chilchuck be their darling if he were not white.

Even the most positive depictions of Kabru- normally from people invested in shipping him, so they don't register what they're doing as biased- often portray him as more aggressive than he is, whether that's making him short-tempered and violent or just mean and catty. Or he will be a prop for another character. Or they will go in the opposite direction and claim that there's absolutely no good reason anyone could possibly ship Kabru with anyone, and donwnplay his significance in the story to an absurd level.

Meanwhile his very obvious PTSD has only recently started to be talked about in fandom. I seriously did not see anyone actually use the term PTSD to describe Kabru until about a month ago, despite the fact that his PTSD is portrayed as clearly as Laios's autism, complete with triggers and flashbacks and panic episodes.

I like to write about Kabru because I find him and the story fascinating, but part of my motivation is that I want to make the fandom sympathize with him more. I'm trying to purify polluted waters one drop at a time.

[beepboopbupbip]

Just some hurt/comfort... no I'm not projecting shh (the challengers dialouge is in italics, P03s is in italics and bold. Is this a fic or an imagine? Yes, no, maybe. Just read it I know it's a mess.)

You know how P03 is always unkempt? He doesn't feel like he deserves to be taken care of, to take care of himself, I mean.

It's an average day, playing a round of inscryption. But something is off, P03 isn't even cocky or arrogant anymore, he just seems...

Tired.

You ask him a few times if he's okay, getting the same response each time. "I'm fine". He gets progressively more angry each time, but also just... more sad. Theres a few tears in his eyes, and hes shaking softly.

This continues and you almost give up on the matter, when you see a battery low notification on P03s screen and he flops down cold. Unconscious.

You walk up to him, and he's still running. You swear you can hear him wince and cry out of fear when you plug in his charging cord, afraid of being touched, afraid of being vulnerable. Before throwing a small blanket on him, shutting off the lights and leaving the room so he can rest.

He turns back on a short while later, and as you go to check on him, he explodes. You calmly explain he had passed out and he insists he doesn't need to charge. Yanking the cable out as he stands, causing him to show a battery 14% warning and his hovers to flicker, forcing him to sit back down before he falls over. You turn on the lights, so you can see him better.

You could say it's an argument, but it's mostly just P03s unintelligible insults as he tries and fails to stop crying and you attempting to calm him down and get him to rest again. Until he just breaks down in front of you

"What do you want from me!?".

You hear him yell, and it's nearly enough to shatter your heart into two. You walk up to him, seeing his eyes flash with fear. He's scared, he doesn't want you to hurt him. Instead, you simply take the blanket, and wrap it around him while trying to make as little contact with him as possible. You don't want anything from him, just for him to take care of himself.

You get through to him eventually, and he plugs back in the cable. Resting his head on the game table and crying into his arm. You grab a small pillow and a plush, handing him both and giving him a sympathetic look. Seeing him instead rest his head on the pillow, holding the plush close.

You can hear words through his mumbled sobs, albeit barely. You listen in closer, cocking your head in curiosity...

"I'm sorry."

You have to crouch down to his level, him already being much smaller then you and him also sitting down. Seeing his screen show tears in his eyes slowly forming before falling down, and the condensation rolling down his monitor.

"Don't apologize to me."

He's clearly confused by this, he snapped at you. You should be angry with him, but you don't even want an apology from him. You can see his face shift to one of confusion, turning his head and looking away from you.

"Apologize to yourself, P03. It'll take some time, but you need to forgive yourself before you can forgive anyone else."

You can see P03 nod, and you stand back up. Turning off the lights once more and shutting the door behind you to give him his space and to make him feel less vulnerable. You smile as you walk out, the sight of him resting is actually quite cute... you hope it's not the last time you'll see that.

It's going to take some time, he still doesn't think he deserves it, and even after he's going to struggle sometimes, but that's okay. You can be there every step of the way. And plus...

Maybe one day you'll be a bit more then this.

[supercasey]

Meet my Grumpus OC, Tedissifer! I’ve been obsessed with Bugsnax all month, so I finally caved and made an OC, though I couldn’t resist tying him to Wambus and Triffany, my favorites in the game (save for, well, everyone. They’re all fantastic)! Here’s some basic info about ‘im, though there’s way more under the readmore including his main quest, side quest, and interview with the Journalist!

Name: Tedissifer “Tes” Troubleshoot

Pronouns: He/Him

Loves: Wambus, Triffany

Likes: Gramble, Chandlo, Floofty, Filbo, Eggabell

Neutral: Lizbert, Snorpy, Shelda, Beffica

Dislikes: Wiggle, Cromdo

Favorite Snak (To Eat): Fryder

Favorite Sauce: Ketchup

Character Ideas

+Has a pet Bunger (named Lil’ Mac) that’s been following him around since he arrived on the island. Snorpy helped him put a bow-tie on him to keep him from accidentally getting captured by Lizbert (the bow-tie has a tracking device/trap neutralizer installed in it). Tes goes to the edge of Snaxburg every night to visit Mac, but after completing his side quest, Mac moves in with him and Gramble, and follows him around during his morning routine.

+Wants to be helpful, but oftentimes just comes off as annoying/tiresome, leading to most of the other grumps avoiding him, save for his friends and relatives.

+He can usually be found either petting the Snax in Gramble’s pen, or visiting his aunt and uncle around town. Sits on the ground in front of the campfire every night beside Wambus.

+He has a lot of repressed issues due to a sense of hopelessness from watching Wambus and Triffany lose their farm; his personal quest helps him open up about this to the journalist.

+Through his personal quest, Tes attempts to please both Wambus- who he admires and loves- and Gramble- who's taught him to tame Bugsnax- leading to an altercation between the two older grumps that Tes has to resolve. In the aftermath, Wambus relents and allows Tes to keep his Bunger/help Gramble with the rest of his Bugsnax, opening the town to having more snax as Tes convinces Gramble to let at least a few be available to eat for emergencies.

Main Quest Tie-in (takes place after Small Celebration!)

(Note: I’m following the format of the IGN/Bugsnax Wiki page for character side quests, so that’s why things may be worded weird.)

Summary: During the fight between Gramble and Wambus during Small Celebration, Gramble mentions that the only person who isn’t a “hungry maniac” isn’t back in town, and that he wishes it was him who came back and not Wambus, prompting Wambus to warn him to stay away from his nephew. The next morning, Filbo suggests that the Journalist try to find Tes, as he can help Gramble keep the Snax well taken care of in his barn.

Find Tes: Filbo said something about Wambus’s nephew being able to help Gramble with his barn. I should be able to find him somewhere back in Flavor Falls. Objective: return to Flavor Falls and search for Tes.

Lil’ Mac: There’s a weird Bunger wearing a bowtie that’s running around Flavor Falls. I should catch it for Gramble’s barn! Objective: catch the mysterious Bunger.

Escape Arsonist: Despite having caught the Bunger in my Snaktrap, the trap rejected the Snak and let it loose. This is no ordinary Bunger! Objective: follow the Bunger and find out it’s secrets.

Where There’s A Will: I followed the Bunger to a  secret encampment, but it disappeared behind a makeshift wall that I can’t get through. If I can make it to the other side, I might be able to find Tes. Objective: find a way past the wall.

Tes Craves Flavor

Inferiority Complexion: Tes seems eager to return to Snaxburg, but he’s embarrassed to come back when he has nothing to show for his time away. I can relate. Objective: catch and feed 2 Baja Tacroach.

It’s The Inside That Counts: Apparently certain snax don’t taste very good to Tes, but he has an idea on how to “fix” them. Objective: collect 10 hot sauce and catch 1 Inchwrap.

Seasons Is The Reason: Tes has discovered how to change the flavors of Bugsnax, but he wants to experiment some more. Objective: collect 5 ketchup, 5 ranch, and 1 Fryder.

Get Tes Back to Snaxburg: Now that Tes has a handle on his new discovery, it might be a good time to convince him to go home. Objective: convince Tes to go back to Snaxburg.

Side Quest (takes place after Ghost Stories)

Summary: Tes wants Wambus and Gramble to get along so he can stop feeling like he’s choosing a side, leading him to enlist the Journalist’s help to make it seem like they’re doing nice things for each other. After feeding a Crystal Sweetiefly to Wambus (his favorite) and donating a Sweet Fryder and BBQ Bunger to Gramble (they seem like Wambus-like gifts), the two of them get into another scuffle, forcing Tes to come clean about the plot. Both Grumpuses end up being disappointed in him, leading Tes to consider leaving town again, since he thinks they hate him now. After some convincing from the Journalist (and creating some more Bugsnax variants as make-up gifts) Tes invites Wambus and Gramble to the campfire for a late night talk. Tes finally tells both men the truth; that he loves to eat Bugsnax, but still thinks they can be tamed and kept as pets. He goes on to admit that their fights have been making him feel like he needs to pick between them, but he just can’t bring himself to do so, as he loves them both. While they still aren’t anything close to friends, Wambus and Gramble agree to try tolerating each other better, both for the sake of Snaxburg and their relationships with Tes.

Tes Finds Compromise: Tes looks upset about something. I should probably see what’s bothering him. Objective: speak with Tes.

Family Knows Best: Tes is frustrated with how much Wambus and Gramble hate each other, and wants to find a way for them to get along. Obviously, this means I have to do most of the heavy lifting. Objective: Catch and feed 1 Crystal Sweetiefly to Wambus, then tell him it’s from Gramble.

Roommates Know Better: With Wambus’s gift having gone so well, Tes wants to give Gramble something, too. Hopefully he has something good in mind. Objective: Catch and donate 1 Sweet Fryder and 1 BBQ Bunger, then tell Gramble they’re from Wambus.

More Than He Can Chew: It looks like there’s a commotion at the front gate involving Gramble and Wambus. This can’t be good. Objective: Witness the confrontation between Wambus and Gramble.

Honesty Is The Best Policy: Thanks to Tes’s (stupid) idea, both Gramble and Wambus are giving him the cold shoulder. I should try to patch this out before there’s another fight. Objective: Talk to Gramble and Wambus, then meet them at the campfire anywhere from 10PM-12AM.

INTERVIEW DIALOGUE

Journalist: Who are you?

Tedissifer: I’m Wambus and Tiffany’s nephew! 

Journalist: Can I get a little bit more than that, namely a... name?

Tedissifer: Oh, sorry ‘bout that; I’m Teddisiffer Troubleshoot, though most everybody ‘round here calls me Tes :3

Journalist: Why come to Snaktooth Island?

Tedissifer: Truth be told, it didn’t interest me that much when I heard about it on the news- figured it was nothin’ but fairy tales ‘n gossip- but then I heard that my uncle was going, so I got in touch with him and, well, I suppose the rest speaks for itself.

Journalist: Are you and your uncle close?

Tedissifer: Grump yes we are; he’s been my idol ever since I was a pup! Every summer my folks would send me ‘n my siblings over to Uncle Wamb’s to help with the farm... also it was nice to get a break from us for a season. Can’t say I’m particularly bitter about it or nothin’; those summers were the best days of my life!

Journalist: Let’s circle back; what are your thoughts on Bugsnax?

Tedissifer: They’re pretty grumpin’ tasty, if I do say so myself! Tricky to catch ‘n swallow, ‘specially when they're so darn cute, but they’re worth the trouble.

Journalist: Any info on Lizbert?

Tedissifer: Sorry to say, but my well of knowledge is as dry as it gets with her. We got along perfectly fine when she was around- as fine as acquaintances can be- but truth be told, I’m not much for talkin’ to newcomers unless they're aimin’ to stay awhile, and she just wasn’t built for that like her partner was. To each their own, I reckon.

Journalist: What about her partner Eggabell?

Tedissifer: Aw, Eggsy’s the sweetest! She’ll chew you like a snak if you go 'n rough yerself up real bad, but she’s great company! I used to sit by the fire with her ‘n chat the night away with all kinds ‘a stories, mostly ‘bout our lives before we settled out ‘ere. She may not be an adventurer like her missus, but I honestly think she’s way tougher, at least in the brain. I reckon she’s only gotten tougher out there, wherever she’s off to.

Journalist: What happened to Snaxburg?

Tedissifer: What didn’t happen? As soon as Elizabert ‘n Eggsy vanished, everyone up ‘n lost their grumpin’ marbles, even Uncle Wamb! Sure, we had less food without ‘em around, ‘n no one’s all that good at huntin’, ‘specially compared to Elizabert, but we shoulda been just fine with sauce.

Journalist: How can a community only survive on condiments?

Tedissifer: Grumpit, I don’t know, but we weren’t as helpless as everybody made it out to be! ...Look, I know I’m young ‘n all, ‘n I haven't been through nearly as much as most of these Grumps, but you’d  think we coulda held it together for at least a week or so, right? Grump knows me ‘n my kin have survived through worse, and we’ll do it again if we gotta!

Journalist: What do you mean by that? What else have you survived?

Tedissifer: Um… nothin’, forget I said anything.

END INTERVIEW

Journalist: We’re just about finished here; any closing remarks?

Tedissifer: Actually, yeah... before I forget, Eggsy told me somethin’ important before she went missin’; said she was headin’ up to the mountain to “prove herself”, or somethin’ like that. I wanted to stop her, but she looked so happy ‘n excited... supposed that’s gonna haunt me ‘til I’m dead. I figure you're gonna look for ‘er, right? Lemme draw ya up a map, try ta give ya a good idea where to search. And, by the way... thanks. For everything. Some ‘a us ‘round here aren’t very good at sayin’ as much, but I’m not afraid to be appreciative. Good luck with your investigation!

Oh my g-d that was so much, why tf did I type all this out?? I doubt this’ll get any traction, but at least I can share my unhinged rants with my bro and his fiance. To anyone whose read this far, I love you <3

[ocpdzim]

Because the @original-character-championship competition is an excuse for me to be so annoying about Vreeza on tumblr, when I usually keep it to discord, you all get the SECRET FROG CONTEXT behind why Vreeza has a pet really big frog and why it is named Homare-chan! The basics are probably clear enough from the pictures but details below the cut.

If you haven’t seen it yet, check out my initial propaganda post for the competition for more general information about Vreeza: https://ocpdzim.tumblr.com/post/714049779304366080/vreeza-is-competing-in-the

VOTE FOR VREEZA HERE: https://www.tumblr.com/original-character-championship/714142908732850176/bracket-f-round-1

Also, shout out to @ves-doodles for the pencil drawing of Vreeza holding Homare-chan, which is also the original drawing of it! They were also running Bill in the RP where these events happened.

Currently, I mostly run Vreeza in a couple different RPs where the core gimmick is that it’s interdimensional chat, so it’s a multifandom and OCs RP where everybody interacts over an online chatroom and in-person interactions are rare, although there are a few characters who can create portals to enable in person interactions (Vreeza is not one of them, not only because it wouldn’t make sense for them to be able to do this but also because they would be way too eager to go places and it would become unmanageable fast).

A while ago, Bill Cipher came in the online chatroom and complained about being trapped between dimensions and needing someone to summon him. Vreeza has baggage about being trapped places and considers leaving someone imprisoned for any reason intolerable, so despite not knowing who he was and having had moderately hostile initial interactions with him because he called them a nickname they didn’t like, and despite literally everyone else in the chat telling them not to, they immediately summoned him to their house as soon as he posted instructions without even being offered anything in return.

He promptly got trapped in their lab computer by accident and they couldn’t get him out or directly use the computer with him in there, so for several months they basically used him like an Alexa. During this time, he recommended engineering cop-eating plants and also provided blueprints for a weirdness detector which he made some pretty big claims about. Vreeza is not good at mechanics and so getting them to build this thing properly was a big pain in the ass, leading Bill to start considering other options for his eventual plans. However, they did eventually manage it, and when they brought it out in the swamp, they found a really big fucked up frog from another dimension which tried to eat their phone. Vreeza likes frogs, but was kind of unimpressed because as far as they’re concerned being large and having a lot of eyes are not that remarkable of features and so they figured this was probably just a normal Earth frog, but a different species than the ones the usually saw. Regardless, they brought this thing in their house as a pet.

Vreeza did not immediately name their new pet frog because they figured it probably already had a name but just couldn’t tell them because frogs don’t speak either English or Vreeza’s own native language. When it was brought to their attention that their original assumption was not accurate, they asked the chat to help them name their frog. At the time, a couple guys from the Yakuza franchise were online, and you can see what happened there in the pictures. This is also the context for the fake YouTube screenshot - Vreeza does not particularly understand what these guys do for a living but they DO have personal beef with the cops and were more than happy to help out new friends who also did.

Bill Cipher eventually ditched Vreeza when their house got raided and went to try to manipulate the agency that keeps bothering them (not actually the FBI or cops but a hostile NGO, Vreeza just doesn’t really distinguish between them) since Vreeza sucks way too bad at mechanics to build a feasible portal and was also annoying him. During the months he was living in their house, they never actually learned his first name because he never mentioned having one so they assumed Cipher was his full name. He hasn’t shown up again in the RP yet, but Vreeza did make a call out video about him on their YouTube channel which you can read the script for on their library page on Neocities (it’s the last one if you scroll to the bottom).

Homare-chan still lives in Vreeza’s house and is mostly pretty friendly unless provoked. Its favorite food is cabbage and it likes to climb on the furniture, although there isn’t that much furniture in Vreeza’s house to climb on. It does NOT have any of the supernatural capabilities mentioned in the chat logs, this was misinformation told to Vreeza by someone else in chat that they just took at face value. However, by simple virtue of being a really big frog, it is still capable of doing some damage if you piss it off. Being a frog, Homare-chan doesn’t really have a gender and so any pronouns are fine for it, but usually Vreeza refers to him with either it/its pronouns (because it is a frog) or he/him pronouns (because he is named after a man).

[energone]

EDIT 02-08-2023

closed for now bc i am in a rly intense art block <:-) will update once they’re open again.

I'm opening up robot commissions in these two styles!

additional info under the cut.

All prices are listed in USD. Payment is accepted through PayPal or Venmo. If interested, please send me a direct message at @energone or an email to curvedberry@gmail.com. Include in your message which character(s) you’d like drawn and in which style. Thanks!

All prices are listed in USD. Payment is accepted through PayPal or Venmo. If interested, please send me a direct message at @energone or an email to curvedberry@gmail.com. Include in your message which character(s) you’d like drawn and in which style. Thanks!

Will accept: ocs (with refs), nsfw Won't accept: gore (i don't have experience drawing it), noncon

I may refuse any comm at my discretion.

Previously completed commissions can be viewed in my #comms tag!

Style A [sample piece]

a simplified style with minimal coloring

$15 for a halfbody (approximately waist up)

$25 for a fullbody (head to toes)

+$10 per additional character.

Style B [sample piece]

a more detailed style with more complex coloring

$25 for a halfbody (approximately waist up)

$40 for a fullbody (head to toes)

+$20 per additional character.

Secret Style C [amongus]

i'll draw ur robot of choice as an among us crewmate

$7 for one guy

+$5 per additional guys

i may offer a fully painted style option in the future. keep an eye out

[lunar-fey]

[hofftrans]

There's this sort of weird paradox when you reach a certain level of weed addiction because like.

When I'm forced to be sober for awhile (99% of the time bc I've run out and dealer is nowhere to be found) I'm first hit by the immediate, deep need to smoke or else I feel like I can't function (which tbh I've felt that for a while) but now I've reached this new stage where even though I crave it another part of my brain is like "oh thank fuck I'm actually sober right now I don't have to process weed I could maybe get some stuff done" and that's not a feeling that I've felt before now

I'm hoping it means it'll be easier to quit soon bc mentally for a bit I've been sick of this addiction but it looks like my body is getting tired of it too

[land-of-birds-and-comics]

so about four years ago i wanted to spend twelve years torturing scrooge (in a funny way, probably) about that one time donald disappeared. since it's just a series of vignettes i will try and see how far i get :) hopefully not in real time.

part 1 is here

part 2:

Scrooge is under a lot of stress. This isn't anything new, but the added burden of providing for three little ducklings very much is.

He was the one to break the news of their uncle’s leave of absence. It won't take Gyro long to get him back, he told them, and until then, wouldn't it be a grand adventure to have the house all to themselves? But no, they insisted that they needed an adult around. He then reminded them of how much fun they always had at Grandma's farm, but they wanted to stay in Duckburg, to be present for any important developments. What if Gyro needed their help? Scrooge opened his mouth to object to the notion of a professional genius relying on the advice of three little boys, but thought of a dozen occasions where this had, in fact, been the case before he could say a word.

Fair enough, then.

The boys are, of course, Scrooge's pride and joy. They're resourceful, responsible, resolute, and guaranteed to make something of themselves. He’d known that they were a worthy investment from the moment they hatched, even when they were nothing but soft down feathers, thin, fragile bones, and nearly translucent little feet. 

That thought is really the only thing getting him through it.

They won't eat anything for breakfast that doesn't come in a colourful box with a price tag that makes his vision swim. Their standards for lunch quite exceed his trusty slice of week-old bread and lukewarm tap water, and we won't even speak of dinner, which they seem to require daily. Scrooge doesn't know where all that food goes in their tiny, tiny bodies, but he knows it leaves his wallet looking malnourished.

Between meal times, the boys are prone to pacing up and down his office despite having their own, perfectly comfortable pacing room. Almost worse than all of the above is this: They simply won't stop worrying, no matter how often Scrooge tells them to. In fact, it only seems to be getting worse over time. Their nervous energy is wreaking havoc on his own state of mind while he's trying to work, and that simply isn't acceptable.

"Louie!" Scrooge yells, eyes fixed on the stack of files he's been sorting into three piles with the speed of a card dealer at the strip’s most popular casino. "For heaven's sake, turn off the lights when you leave the room!"

"Sorry, unca Scrooge." The duckling waddles back and hits the light switch in the neighbouring office. The bookkeepers, back to working overtime in the dark, groan in a chorus of frustration.

Scrooge stuffs one of the stacks into the shredder, the second into a drawer on his desk, and spreads the third out on the table, signing documents with his left and right hand simultaneously. "Honestly, if you won't make even a token effort to save water and electricity for the sake of your poor old uncle," he says, taking a third pen into his mouth and leaning over, "th'n d' it f'r th' sake 'f th' 'nvir'nment, w'n't y'?"

Louie kicks at non-existent stones. "Putting the burden of preserving the environment on the individual consumer is a ploy by large-scale industry operators like yourself to distract from the fact that you're responsible for the vast majority of its destruction," he says. "It makes people worry more about taking ten-minute showers than demanding political action and organising protests."

Scrooge spits out his pen and looks at him.

Louie looks at the floor. "The Woodchucks are doing an awareness campaign." 

Scrooge leans forward, conspiratorially. "I can't bribe you to stop, can I?"

"No."

"Not even with some... ice cream?"

"No."

"You don't get ice cream out of me every day, you know."

"No, unca Scrooge."

He harrumphs. Double-edged sword, the backbone on those boys.

Louie returns to his brothers, who have miserably draped themselves across the emergency sacks of money stashed in the corner of the room. With a sigh, Huey takes it upon himself to take over and continue pacing. 

"I think I'd feel better if there was a giant spider," Dewey says.

Louie nods, solemnly. "I could really go for a fire-breathing dragon right now."

"But it'd be a robot version or something futuristic like that. A big artificial spider filled with poison and razor sharp fangs and laser eyes."

"Yeah. Or a huge metal dragon with a jet engine and a flamethrower and talons that can crush you like a real life excavator."

"Yeah."

Scrooge doesn't follow, but the attempt distracts him enough for his elbow to knock over a bottle of ink. He curses to himself, tries to wipe it up with his sleeve to save the documents, then curses louder.

"But it turns out that a regular TV remote can control it. Or maybe it short-circuits when it comes into contact with spoiled milk or something dumb like that. But no matter what…"

"We'd think of something," Huey finishes. “And he’d just pop out of the thing.”

“Quackmore! Where the hell are you? What do you think I pay you for?!”

“Not a simultaneous double shift, sir,” Quackmore exclaims, emerging from the main money bin, dabbing at his forehead with the same towel he was supposed to use to shine his coins. Gross.

“You’re too late, anyway! Now I’ll have to have this coat cleaned- Order some duplicates of these documents- Ms. Quackfaster! Has everyone abandoned me?!”

“Sir! No, sir!” Down the hall, his secretary rolls backwards in her office chair, wrapped up in phone cords from three separate receivers. “I’m still trying to reschedule the errands your nephew was supposed to run- All due respect, you really should hire someone-”

“Someone should apply!” Scrooge brings his fist down on the table, splattering himself further. “My conditions are set! If I budge on them now, he’ll insist that they apply to him, too- And then I’ll have to take his raise out of your salary!”

Displeased rumblings rise in response. From the dark, Scrooge can feel several pairs of eyes bore into his skull, practically beaming images involving him and several comically giant mallets into his head. He whips around to hiss at his employees to settle down, but by then, it's even worse: They're looking at each other, instead. Scrooge's heart rate slowly rises from that of the usual duck with a panic attack to that of a mouse in the claws of a falcon.

"I've been thinking," Huey says. "If he's really far in the future, they should at least have working time machines there, right?"

"Maybe." Dewey rubs two coins between his fingers. "If we're lucky, they'll just send him back and it'll be like he never left at all."

"But then…" Louie furrows his brows. "Wouldn’t it be- You know, wouldn’t he be here already? Wouldn’t this be the part that never happened?"

Scrooge's bookkeepers are approaching his desk. He’s gripping the edge of it with enough force to make his joints creak. "What now," he growls. "Leaving early? I'll allow it, just as long as-"

"No, sir," the tallest of them says. Bet that's why they picked him. To hide behind him. Should tell you everything you need to know about this bunch. "It's already past our contracted hours. And speaking of contracts…"

There it is. He drops a folder on the desk. "We're not open to negotiations," he says. "Either you update our conditions or we're leaving, sir."

Scrooge trembles with what looks like anger, but is a level of blood pressure beyond even that. Mostly, it’s a health hazard. "You think you can dictate your terms to me?” The volume of his voice rises beyond what his body should be able to produce. “You can dictate them to the unemployment office!”

The others shrink behind their leader. “Sir, we don’t ask for much…”

“You’re asking me to shake the foundations of my empire! You’re asking for my life’s work to crumble to dust between my fingers, and most of you can’t even look me in the eyes while you do it!” 

When a woman in the back, however briefly, rises to the challenge, there’s a flicker of something like concern in her eyes, and then the richest duck in the world has vaulted onto his desk, feathers sticky with ink, stepping all over his paperwork, just to stare her down.

“It am carrying on every achievement that defined the past century! I am the one putting the world on its path, over and over again! And you’d sabotage that work? For what? A faster car? A bigger TV? I never had any of those things!”

“We have families, sir,” the man croaks.

Scrooge makes a sweeping motion towards the ducklings. “I have three boys to provide for!”

“It’s been a week,” Dewey sighs.

“You don’t ask for much,” Scrooge repeats, mockingly. He lets his arms fall at his sides, looking at the group like he wants nothing more than to spit on them, and kicks their contract away. “Get out of my sight.”

They do. There are hands on trembling shoulders. There’s an open, undisguised sneer. The door clicks shut, and Scrooge is certain that they aren’t coming back.

He looks down at the mess he’s made of his work desk. For a while, there’s nothing but the ticking of the clock and his rapid breathing. Then, the sound of a car starting in the parking lot.

Scrooge instantly bursts into tears, falling to his knees and sliding to the ground like a ragdoll.

“Ingrates,” he sobs. “On top of everything else!”

Huey, Dewey and Louie look at each other. Then they walk over and assume the configuration they’ve worked out for picking him up, one under each of his arms and one behind his back.

"You're lying on the floor sobbing," Dewey says. "That's usually about the time of day where you call unca Donald and he comes and picks you up and makes you dinner."

Scrooge stares at the ceiling.

"It is, isn't it?"

He stares for a few seconds more.

"Fine, then. Let's go."

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

part 3

[softgrungeprophet]

long incoherent post ahead cause sometimes twitter isn't enough to contain my word-and-thought deluge and typing this shit out is my equivalent of having a diary (and also my brain is constantly on and i need to get everything out of it all the time)

i'm just thinking about things, cause i've been thinking all morning about things—well. technically all afternoon cause i slept til 1 but still. I've just been thinking about it for a few days, really, after seeing a picture of andrew garfield from a few years ago and thinking like... oh you know, i have thick hair like that, i have brown eyes like that, i have eyebrows like that with hair on the bridge of my nose like that

i've just been thinking about it a lot and additionally about how andrew garfield is or has been so vocal, so unwilling to back down from his like, reality, of being attracted to men, being jewish, being neurotic, and finding himself in spider-man ever since he was a boy etc etc etc

it's not like looking in a mirror, but it's like when i went on the adhd subreddit and saw people talking about their struggles and joys the other day, and... there's a difference between knowing logically that you aren't the only one vs actually seeing people talking about the things they do and seeing the exact same shit you do and knowing emotionally and in actuality—not just logically—that there are other people like you (and also maybe fingers crossed that your new adhd meds help you function slightly better the way they help those other people XD)

andrew garfield's spider-man and his being so outspoken about, outside of and within spider-man, and his thoughts on peter, and peter's role and responsibility, and doing good, and all this other stuff, and what he brought to peter's like... body language and interpersonal physicality etc. it's both this feeling that he definitely understands the character he's playing and connects to a lot of the largely unspoken truths about the character (as well as of course the spoken ones), but also that he's bringing this other stuff to it so that it all combines to make it feel both, you know, Super, but also grounded and human. which is of course what spider-man should be, even if you're modernizing it. those aspects are not limited by time period, you know?!

peter is flawed, and he is twitchy, and he is awkward, and he is angry and possessive and he is kind and loving and has a strong sense of justice, and all these other things. he's superhuman, but he's also very human at the core. messy. (talking also about comics now)

and of course part of this is also the script and the writing, not just AG's acting, and it's also the supporting cast and what THEY bring to the roles—flash would not be the same if it was not specifically zylka playing him, because zylka brings something specific to the role by being the kind of actor he is (also he's very pretty xD) and so that lends more to their interactions even though he has like. 5 minutes of screentime at most. the same goes for the others, for stone's gwen, and for aunt may, and all of this stuff.

when it comes to peter though, like i said it's a feeling, i guess. not like looking in a mirror, but like looking thru a window or a door or whatever and knowing there is someone else like you, who looks like you and is neurotic like you and queer like you (or similarly at least) and that is not you but is someone to remind you that you aren't the only person in the world that feels the way you do, and that there are always other people who are like you, who are fidgety and awkward and dark-eyed and dark-browed and intensely feeling, and that also you can maybe be a tiny bit of a superhero or whatever else (and obvs that was also part of the messaging in ITSV later on)... that not everyone in the world is ACTUALLY a cookie cutter dirty blonde or light-brown-haired blue-eyed dude named chris

(though obviously AG is himself very attractive, even conventionally attractive in a lot of ways, but he nonetheless isn't... that. he has a slightly gangly build, and, not to be horny on main but, this beautiful long neck with a very prominent adam's apple; he has a nose that is not small or perfectly sloped or perfectly straight and proportioned, he has bushy eyebrows and really thick hair, and brown eyes instead of the idealized blue... he's super attractive but he's not Hollywood Male Model Blonde Superhero Attractive, you know? and the body language really affects a lot of how peter feels as a character, confident in some ways, but... again... neurotic... without being childlike or infantilized)

i guess?

it's hard to put into words the way I've been feeling the past week, tbh, and idk if that has anything to do with my new adhd medication (considering it has affected nothing else at such a low dose) or if i'm just in a weird state because of the past few years happening, but I've been thinking a lot about this kind of stuff over the past few weeks (arguably couple of months) not just in this context of feeling seen and having the hand reach out (more recently) but also just because I've been writing so much in this spidey AU, 50k in two months, that I've been thinking a lot about Peter's behavior and how I want to capture that and make him both faithful to the comics, in bearing, much like tasm feels to me, while also making him of course something that is personal in many ways, that i am connecting to on a deeper level as a bisexual, ADHD-having, sensory overload-prone neurotic person, in reclaiming the traits that fandom and comics themselves like to infantilize and fetishize in strange ways and in refusing that and making it my own because, like, no one else is gonna do it 😅 so i'll do it myself and i'll draw from the comics heavily because i do already connect with the character in many ways, being poor, neurotic, angry, etc.

there are honestly a lot of reasons i don't like the popular portrayal of peter as a fun-loving teenager with light brown hair and zero flaws, and then conversely as a lithe hairless childlike boy who is frail and delicate and who sobs and is helpless almost constantly, as if even those of us who are ~sensitive~ are incapable of existing at all, who is presented as this kind of inhuman creature in some ways, to be defiled and possessed and rescued (often by older men)—because so much of it is tied into things that are just so... a weird bundle of fetishization and objectification and infantilization that makes me uncomfortable in its treatment of mental illness and neurodivergence, of poverty, of beauty ideals and ethnicity (intrinsically tied in some ways), and of sexual/gender roles, etc... and i feel that also goes hand in hand with the smooth cardboard cutout homogenization of like the M C U, mascotification, and smoothing out, to be entirely sexless in many ways, ironically, while also being objectified externally in others...

there is more than one reason i draw and describe peter the way i do, with dark brown eyes and black-brown hair and long limbs and sometimes with a busted nose, and long eyelashes and dark, heavy brows, and a serious face... a mix of spite and pushback against that homogeneity, and self-projection (just like everyone else uses as justification), and a desire to be faithful to the comics i like as well as the comics that were iconic and formative to the character, my favorite artists like Romita Sr. and Andru and Buscema, etc.... a mix of all these things!

(and honestly normally my projection on characters is not like the way i do it with peter, normally it's spread out, and rarely is it a full visual similarity, but small traits; almost every OC i've ever made has small pieces of me in them and so does most of my fanfic stuff but almost none of them actually look like Me because i actually dislike strong self-insertion for the most part; i can't play games with my own name because it makes me uncomfortable to be addressed so directly and to be directly an aspect of the plot even if it's not technically me, even though 2nd person doesn't bother me) (love DE for example and that's entirely 1st and 2nd person narration)

but like

ALL THAT ASIDE

all that aside... just considering the way AG felt both proud of what he did as peter parker and also dissatisfied in seeing a stranger, dissatisfied in trying so hard to hold tightly to the depth that capitalism and the industry wants to strip away for marketability, and trying so hard and so vocally to remain true to himself via peter, through peter, trying very hard to reach out with that hand to say "you are seen" etc. and trying to spread that "medicine" in his own words like—

despite all the ways that was kind of pushed back against... it worked at least a little bit. right? at least, for me, i feel like it reached me in some way lol and part of that is because of how vocal he was through it all, though i also love the movie in general and love how interpersonal it is while still being super. as it should be. but i think he's right to be proud of the work he did, despite everything.

it's like. maybe i am being seen by this movie or by the actor(s) or script or whatever, but you know what, it goes both ways, right? like i am seeing, too (at least, in what limited way i can). a hand reaching out still has to be reached out to in turn, you need two hands to handshake or to hold. so i'm grateful, i guess, which sounds SAPPY AS HELL lmfao but it's true! and i really like that movie! despite my criticisms, i really do! it's not for everyone, but it's for me

cue *THIS HOLE WAS MADE FOR ME*😂😂😂

it really is my favorite spidey movie though!! love that shit. i should rewatch it sometime soon so i can bawl my eyes out when uncle ben dies even though i already know what happens kdfjgsdkjg

[nexus-nebulae]

does anyone else get like. ghost notifications. where it says you have one but then nothing new is there when you check. does anyone know what those are

[rogue-bard]

That said, I really would love to upload my songs to tumblr again but I feel like I've just been getting worse at writing them as I've been getting better at playing my instruments.

But I loved to write songs. I loved it so much.

I think the last one I uploaded was the OFMD season 1 sea shanty? And before that it was probably some supernatural or critical role campaign 1 stuff lol

It's been a hot minute.

[ectoberhaunt]

Ectoberhaunt 2023: Science VS Magic

Dear Phandom new and old, sorry for the delay but this here is our 2023 theme and prompt list! Once again we've changed it up a little to make it a little easier on all of us, and to invite fun and mayhem Phandom wide! Prompts are once again Monday-Friday, with Friday being singular prompts, and weekends being (mostly) free as catch up days. The only real change is our new 'isekai weekend' on the 21st and 22nd, with two different sub prompts for the days. Isekai is a subgenre of anime in which a character ends up in a different place or world all together. It literally translates to 'otherworld'! The two prompts for this weekend are 'past prompt', where we want to see the Phandom use a prompt from either of our previous calendars. The other is 'portal shenanigans'. We highly encourage you to create crossover content and AUs you've wanted to play with. As always, our last prompt day is October 24th to make way for the Ectober Week event. This means our free days are the 1st, 7th, 8th, 14th, 15th, with the 25th-31st being @ectoberweekofficial's time to shine. Please tag all prompt fills as "Ectoberhaunt23", and follow the additional posting guidelines below!

Posting for this event begins October 2nd!

Down below are our written out calendar prompts (for accessibility) AND our posting guidelines. Check 'em out!

The Prompts

Below are the listed prompts in date order, if it's blank it's a catch up day. First prompt is Science, second is Magic!

-

Tecnomancy vs Botonamancy

Black Cat vs White Crow

Aliens vs Zombies

Hunt vs Haunt

Tabletop

-

-

Robots vs Dragons

Pseudoscience vs Occultism

Dread vs Calm

Obsession vs Repression

Horror Flick

-

-

Revenant vs Death Echo

Blood vs Flesh

Unravel vs Intertwine

Claws vs Horns

Danse Macabre

Isekai: Past Prompts (2021 | 2022)

Isekai: Portal Shenanigans

Technus vs Magic

Science vs Dora Ectober Week!

coming soon

coming soon

coming soon

coming soon

coming soon

coming soon

coming soon

Post Guidelines

The following are the posting guidelines. Please follow them so we can reblog and share your posts without issue. We will also have this as a post available on our blog separately.

Tag all posts with “Ectoberhaunt23” so we can find it. If you do not use this tag, we may not find you.

Tag which calendar you're pulling from (“EH Science” or “EH Magic”), which day the prompt is for ("Day X"), and which prompt(s) you completed ("Eyes" "Teeth"). Example: #ectoberhaunt23 #EH science #day 5 #hunt Single day prompts, such as the ones on Friday, do not need a tag for which calendar it's for.

Put your fics under a readmore. Add a summary before the cut with a short preview, content warnings, and which prompts were used. Then, add a readmore no more than 150 words or 10 lines/groups of text under your summary. If you're using mobile, type :readmore: and hit enter to make a readmore. If you do not do this, we will NOT reblog your post.

Make sure to tag all common content warnings (blood, gore, death, drugs, body horror, existentialism, & vermin)

We will try to reblog every prompt we can. Feel free to @ us in the post too or send us a DM with the post!!

Feel free to shoot us an ask about rules/clarifications and any queries on prompts. Our discord is open as are our messages.

Here is a spreadsheet you can use to track your progress made by the talented @ajitated

Title graphic by @kawaiijohn | Calendar graphics by @ajitated

[haveyouheardthisband]

『 FAQ 』

USEFUL LINKS: Submissions spreadsheet (gigantic list of every band submission we've received. Song submissions are on the second tab. If this does not load on your device, you can view a plaintext archive here.) Data spreadsheet (List of every band that we've posted or are still in the queue, in order, plus occasionally-updated data for finished polls.) Song submissions form (Suggest a noteworthy song for a band that's already been submitted but not yet posted. First-come first-serve. These are linked in a readmore under the band's poll.)

⏭ Y'all made a mistake! / How do I get in touch? Please scroll to read the whole FAQ first. If your question has not already been answered, then send an ask. We don't respond to most asks publicly, but we do read them all. We do not often check replies or mentions. Do NOT send band suggestions via the askbox, it is for correspondence only. (If the question/comment concerns a specific post, you can also ping me @estradasphere in a reply, but asks are preferred)

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why was this poll tagged with [x]? Genres are usually from the artist's RateYourMusic page, if they have one. Country tags are also from RYM - we tag both formed/birth location and disbanded/death location. As for decades, we do not usually tag all decades a band was active for, just a few that contain their most popular output. If we get any of these wrong, please send an ask!

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why was this album art used? If the artist has an RYM page, the album art we use is of their most-rated album on there. If they don't, we use Spotify or Bandcamp or other sources. We tend to avoid album art that depicts potentially triggering subjects.

───♫───────────── ⏭ This artist is morally reprehensible! We do not endorse or support any artists posted here. We're asking if you've heard them, not if you like them - and doing a background check on every submission is infeasible. You are free to warn others via reply, reblog, etc. That being said, we may reject submissions at our own discretion.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Can you add a "yes, unfortunately" option? No, and we don't think this is the best perspective to have. Every band is someone's favorite! We are not intent on changing the three options we have now.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Can you post more/less of [x] genre? We run entirely off of submissions, and go through those mostly in chronological order. We do not control which bands get submitted. That being said, we do try to space out polls in the queue if there's a lot of submissions of the same genre/vibe in a row.

───♫───────────── ⏭ When will band submissions reopen? If/when we get through the bulk of the current submissions. Our backlog is so massive that this may not happen until 2026 (at the latest) though. Sorry!

───♫───────────── ⏭ When will my submission be posted? You can check our progress by looking at the submissions spreadsheet. Finished submissions are the ones highlighted turquoise. Keep in mind that we post once per hour, and you can probably estimate the date from there.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why didn't my submissions post in the order I submitted them? We rearrange the queue if there's a lot of bands of the same genre/vibe submitted in a row. Or for no reason.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why didn't my submission get posted at all? A few reasons this could happen:

Your band is still in the queue, just not in order (see the question above this one)

Your band has been submitted before (search the blog or the data sheet for them)

Your band is so obscure we couldn't find album art or genre info for them

You submitted a ton of bands in a row that are either all similar to each other or in alphabetical order (we don't want one person monopolizing the blog for a long period of time)

If you think we've made a mistake, you can send an off-anon ask or DM a mod, and we'll post a poll for them ASAP if valid. Accidents happen.

───♫───────────── ⏭ How do I suggest songs for multiple-artist submissions? See here and here.

───♫───────────── ⏭ What's the policy on vulgar/offensive band names or album art? Generally OK, but it'll be decided at our own discretion. In the case of album art, we try to find one of the artist's other works at around the same popularity, and if we can't, we'll trigger tag it.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why don't you tag polls with the band names? Tagging it would put the post in the lap of every fan who follows or searches for the tag. For popular bands, we feel this would skew the results too much.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Can you trigger tag [x]? We currently tag common triggers like gore, nudity, body horror, and suicide (typically as "#___ tw" or "#cw ___"); if we missed a post with one of those, please let us know! As for implementing new trigger tags, sorry, we have enough on our plate at the moment and probably wouldn't remember it. We recommend using Xkit Rewritten's post block feature and/or Tumblr's built-in tag/content filtering.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Have y'all considered increasing the post speed to more than 1 per hour? We don't really want to, sorry! Making 24 posts per day to keep pace is enough work for us already, haha.

───♫───────────── ⏭ How many posts are in the queue? It's maintained at around 150-250.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Do y'all want/need another mod? Not right now. If we ever do, we'll make a post for it.

───♫───────────── ⏭ How is the profile picture album picked? It's just an album that one of the mods likes, that's all. It changes approximately every 2 weeks.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why is Spotify used for song links and playlists? It simply loads faster on my computer than YouTube. We have no intention of changing this, sorry.

[doodleimprovement]

Hahaha I'm unemployed QwQ

I've been holding off on saying anything because I was hoping my unemployment claim with the state would be handled by now, but alas, my inconsistent luck strikes again and I am in need of some funds.

TLDR I was fired from my "new" job and while I'm currently looking for work, I could use a few extra dollars to help tide me over while I get my unemployment debacle worked out.

So - Commissions are now available! If you aren't looking for commissions currently, please consider reblogging to spread the word!

My Ko-Fi is here

Terms and Conditions for Commissions under the readmore

WILL NOT DRAW

NSFW of any kind

Incest, underage, gore and heavy violence of any kind

Animals (Sorry!) and mechs (Sorry again!)

**Be advised that I am permitted to decline requests for commissions if desired**

If you’re interested in commissioning me,  please DM me stating that you’re interested in a commission, or email  hyperchica94@yahoo.com with the subject line “Commission Interest”!

FOR KO-FI: Be advised that you must give me the request, as well as your username if you do not wish to remain anonymous in the notes there, or you will not get the sketch

I  currently only accept payment via paypal

[soapels]

flash

john “soap” mactavish x female reader

your good friend soap’s been actin’ a lil weird lately… but as long as you keep pretending otherwise, it’ll be okay. right…?

tw: nsfw/smut, reader has this thing where she playfully calls him soapy, friends to lovers sort of, comrades to lovers, alcohol use, emotional?? mentions of and allusions to mental illness

notes: yall this one took a while to cook up, ngl. but soap doesnt get as much love as he should!! so please accept this tender lil fic and enjoy 😖 and tell me if u enjoyed lol i’d be over the moon ♡ once again, readmore is bugging so…. Sorry 🥲

all hearts, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated!

There’s not much in this world that can ease the trauma that war leaves behind.

You’ve been a part of the team for a while, long enough to walk in on things you shouldn’t have- conversations meant for the higher-ups, things your ears weren’t supposed to hear. And you’ve shut your mouth, zipped it up tight and threw the key to the bottom of the sea by silently walking away from it all.

Sometimes you stumble upon things that aren’t inherently wrong, either- like Ghost winding down one night to a bottle of whiskey, a glimpse of his brown, doleful eyes- but it somehow feels out of place, too.

Nothing ever feels right, around here.

But you don’t want to leave, exactly, truthfully you think a big part of you will always be stuck here with the military and blood and gunpowder, like some dirty stain you can never quite scrub away completely.

And even stranger- you don’t think you’d have it any other way.

You dropped the hypothetical shit a while ago, no more dreams of living at the edge of a city in New York or owning a cozy little cafe like that one Simon particularly liked. Stopped wishing over shooting stars and leaning on pipe dreams of your life after the war’s done.

Because the war’s never really done, and that’s why you can’t go. To suddenly walk away from it all, emerge from a cloud of orange smoke to the suburbs- that’d feel worse than suicide, because you never finished shit, you let it finish you.

You’re not gonna leave first, you decided on your fourth mission, at least not on your own volition. Either you go down with the chaos, or you’re lucky enough and don’t.

And… You walk in on things you’re not always supposed to.

Like Soap hunched over by his bunk one quiet evening, the horizon a burning mess of red and deep tangerine outside the small window, curtains billowing ever so softly in the breeze.

…Doin’ something you still can’t find it in you to say.

And you wanted to do something, upon the door creaking open- pull a lighthearted scare on him like he does you sometimes, but more importantly, tell him that your Lieutenant told you to tell him that he’s on cleaning duty tonight. (He never likes cleaning much, Johnny, but he’s damn good at it- fast, too, probably under the incentive of a good night’s sleep.)

But there’s something in the air- must be- because your knees lock up and you gape at the back of his head, one large hand bracing against the bar of the bed, the other… wrapped around his front, jerking jerking jerking.

Confusion kicks in, for a solid moment as you piece it all together- the lack of a lamp light in the sunset-bathed room, the odd quietness and the precaution stitched in the stiff muscles of his back, shirtless and slightly sweating- and then comes the slow realization.

Common sense strikes you next.

You shut your mouth, turn on your heel, eyes bulging and all, nearly trip over your laces-

“Ah-“

And as the door quietly closes, your petrified gaze meeting Soap’s hazy blue one through the diminishing slit, you know you’ve fucked up.

You hear him call your name just before you go, his voice thick and heady, his Scottish accent just a rasping breath as you blink away the mad blush and counter it back with a frail call over your shoulder.

“Uhm- sorry! Ghost- um- h-he said you’re on cleaning duty!!”

Fuck.

♡♡♡

“All water under the bridge, Soapy.”

You tell him confidently after a whole week of awkwardly skirting around him, pretending he was nonexistent sitting across of you in the truck or plane. Truthfully, you were too embarrassed of your mishap to do much otherwise.

But none of that has to be known, so if he spots the nerves in your eyes, he doesn’t comment on it, and you’d like to think your little grin is convincing enough.

“Y’sure, lass?” He says uncertainly, rubbing the back of his neck as his oceanic hues flit between you and the wall behind you. You nod, sparing a cautionary glance over his shoulder to your comrades swaying around with every bump of the gravel road, bodies knocking together, shoulders brushing and—

“Lass…?”

“Oh,” you blink owlishly, mentally returning back to the male before you, “sorry, guess my mind wasn’t all there.”

“All on good things, I hope?” He offers a half-embarrassed little chuckle there, and when the sentiment clicks, you huff fondly and look away.

“Good things,” you confirm, ever bashful.

And there’s a stretch of peaceful silence; the muted crunch of gravel beneath the big tires, some mild chatter and exchanged banter between your Captain and Gaz (albeit, it comes mostly from Price), and the light rustle of bodies brushing together.

Your mind wanders away in that wordless reprieve, and though you vaguely register Soap’s presence still there- those blue, inquisitive eyes hovering over you- he’s no more than an afterthought as you slowly zone out.

Far. Away.

The glint of the steely rafters overhead. The ripped fabric of the seats. Camo and black and bleakness, everywhere, all the time, no color. You can’t feel your body.

Gunfire. Chaos. Your ears ring, a perpetual bell of terror in your head as adrenaline courses through your veins, fear making its daily rounds within you.

No escape, no red exits or arrows to an end- just you and the field of sand, endless and dry, swarmed with enemies that you can’t find it in you to leave behind for another.

It’s over, something weak and brittle-boned screams inside you, wailing, in the high-pitched voice of a child hiding under the bed. It’s over It’s over It’s over.

It’s over again.

…But he’s there, in all your trembling, concerned sapphire and a boyish sort of gentleness, a gloved hand reaching for you.

(Gunfire, gunfire, gunfire. Something’s nicked your leg, maybe.)

“…You good?”

You gasp inaudibly. Wide, deer-in-headlights gaze meeting a vaguely worried one.

His hand, idly sliding over the length of his gun, almost jitters as he quietly searches you for a sign of response, for a familiar smile or a pleasant little laugh that serves as a salve to his soul.

And for a fleeting, terrifying moment, Soap looks earnestly for life in those e/c hues, and finds grains of sand in his boots.

Your lips curl, ever so slightly, and that curse is broken.

“Yes,” you breathe, lashes fluttering down to the gun in your own arms— much too big for you, heavy, full of bullets named home (because you can’t feel safe without them)— and then your eyes fall to your legs, the camo hiding the healing mass of bandages there.

Soap wrapped most of them.

“Thanks, Johnny.”

When his cheeks dust over an unsuspecting red, you realize you’ve fucked up for the second time this week.

Because nobody calls him Johnny. Nobody but your headstrong Lieutenant.

…Jerking your chin away, wordless and tense in the direction of the vehicle’s driver, Soap can tell you’re sorry.

And he sighs then, exasperated- just as you- yet soft, too. His eyes follow yours, equipment jostling quietly in the droning lull of the long trip ahead.

“…No harm done there, lass.”

There’s a trace of a smile on his lips. Exhausted. True.

♡♡♡

Bruises, cuts, heavy fists and evil intent— literal bullets to the skin- you’ve taken it all, yet none of that seems to matter now, every bad memory bleeding into the swirl of your glass, ice tinkling together as you slowly relax into Soap’s sofa.

It smells of him, you think. Something woodsy and unexplainably Johnny- perhaps a trace of minty aftershave…

You feel nice, slumped back into the cushions in a haze- happy, even. Or perhaps not happy, exactly, but dazed and dumb and good. The sweet-tanged concoction too dizzying to think.

You can’t think; good, it must be.

Soap’s sat next to you, clad in faded denim jeans and a white top that clings loosely to his built muscles. His legs are spread somewhat, long made himself comfortable, thighs thick and strong through the rugged-blue material.

His condition’s not far off from yours, sporting a glass of his own, approaching his fifth of the night, though you suspect he holds his alcohol much better, because you hardly ever drink, and you’re already feeling tipsy after the second shot. Meanwhile, he’s still managing to articulate a sentence, a dopey grin occasionally showing on his face.

Sat at the armchair across the coffee table, Ghost is a stoic wreck of fatigue and relief, steadily nursing a bourbon as Soap babbles on about some old highschool story of his.

It’s probably something funny, something the sober you wouldn’t want to miss, something you’d tuck away in your brain for later to poke harmless fun at your pal with. But you’re so tired and lost and intoxicatedly stupid right now, and for the life of you, you can’t convince yourself to turn over and hear him out.

Later, the hopeful part of you whispers, when you’re less fucked up and leaden. (Later never comes.)

Ghost’s brown eyes are glossy beneath his balaclava, a sort of look kin to post-nut clarity glinting in them as he witnesses the two of you slowly. Processing, processing, processing. As if he’s looking through a pane of glass, not really there, but he feels every crippling sensation all the same and his mouth feels awkward, he’s drunk and his tongue is heavy.

He shouldn’t take another sip. He does anyway.

Maybe he’s not listening to Johnny half-coherently list off fables from his youth, maybe he’s simply existing and basking in the otherwise quiet moment-the temporary peace. And maybe Soap knows his Lieutenant zoned off a while ago, that now no ears in the whole entire world are listening to him spill the humorous side of his heart.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. None of it.

…There comes a point, though, where Soap looks over to you.

Those eyes, a murky, inscrutable sapphire, drag over you. Slowly. There’s something on his mind, something heavy and wild and that he can’t control, yet he doesn’t tell a word of it, and for the life of you, you can’t figure out why.

(You’re drunk anyway, you’re done and over with for the night. So what’s it matter anyway?)

(But it’s Soap, so you want to know.)

Finally, those hazy blues settle on your empty glass, clasped loosely in your fingers.

“…Pour y’another?”

You snort halfheartedly, mustering up a joke. (‘Cept, it’s not really funny, and your words are slurring. You sound stupid, you can’t feel your body. Pop pop pop, gunfire in the distance, playing like a broken vinyl cd in the crook of your head…)

“Soap… I don’t think I can take another…”

His chest rumbles low at that.

“S’pose yer right.”

He’s reaching forward, leaning into the coffee table, snatching a bottle and gesturing to your mug anyway.

You’re smiling like a plastered, exhausted bimbo when you obediently proffer it out to him and watch him fill it up. Slowly, but his strong arm’s a little uncoordinated as he pours it, and he almost spills some.

It’s more than you can ever hope to drink right now, you realize as he sets the whiskey back down, pressing the glass back to you. You think with enough ambition and torturous silence, though, you’ll be able to find way to swallow it all.

(The lot of you are good at that.)

It’s when you take your second sip that Ghost rises from the couch.

“I’m done-in for the night.”

He’s fucked up too, bad, you can tell. But he hides it well, always has, hardly a stumble to his step as he spares you a tired, mutual nod and turns in the direction of the hall.

“Sure, Lt,” Soap calls after him, the two of you watching Simon disappear into the dim glow of the hallway. “There’s blankets in the hall closet if y’get too cold.”

And it’s when you hear the soft click of a door, a bed promptly groaning under a foreign weight, that an unprecedented sense of drunken boldness takes over and you rise.

“Lass-?”

(He’s already poised to reach for you, prepared to follow right behind you should you say the word, if something’s wrong.)

Pop pop pop.

You tip your head back, gulping down the liquid- an evident bit of spice that sears your throat, a complimentary vanilla, too- ‘til you’re staring at an empty bottom.

Turnin’ back to Soap.

Jaw slack, eyes a glossy mess of intoxication and confusion- maybe even worry- Soap looks up at you with knitted brows. Ready to sit you back down, perhaps noticing the quiet war behind your dopey blinks- eager to convince you there’s nothing to be afraid of- he shouldn’t have poured you another, it’s time to hit the hay, maybe—

“Johnny,” you say, and it knocks the very breath out of him, “More.”

…More it is.

He belatedly takes your emptied mug in his hands, almost trembling as he snuffs out all of his internal turmoil and brims your glass with more of that addictive substance.

Pours himself another, too. (Figures he’ll need it to sleep tonight. Though, it’ll hurt like hell in the morning- that’s when he’ll truly pay for it.)

Settling back into the sofa (admittedly not in best shape, leather worn-in, a few scratches), he watches you tap in and out of your beverage, and when your hips start to sway- thin fabric of your nightgown shifting along your thighs- a good piece of him (the last of his rationality) burns with the whiskey at the back of his throat.

Oh, you want to butcher him tonight, don’t you?

There’s no sound, just the pleasant backdrop of rain dripping off the apartment’s roof and the occasional car whistling down the city streets, yet you move like it’s your favorite song.

Lazy, loosely-controlled, like every sentiment flows through you like a conduit.

Brokenness there, Johnny finds snapped twigs and bullet shells and the screams that catch deep in your lungs after another close call. But he discovers hope there too, a courageous peace and a beam of your forgiving moon…

Wants to swim in your waters.

(But you don’t bleed the same chaos he’s realized he can. You reek of immovable innocence; he’s beheaded men and liked it- he’s imagined you outside of your hellish job and shimmied out of those thick fatigues- pictured you naked and happy on his cock. And that lovely gown you’re in now makes you so fuckin’ precious in his eyes…)

(It frames you like an angel. You are, Soap knows. You are. And he deserves no part of it.)

Your body ebbs like a tide.

A gentle, hypnotic lullaby that Soap thinks is awfully inviting, jaw stiff at the way your perky ass tempts him beneath the pale silk, jeans growing a touch tighter as the seconds tick by. (Has he been watching you for forever? Have you been swaying for only a moment? He doesn’t know, but—)

It’s enough.

He rises too, then, large hands meeting the curve of your hips, settling there like he’s belonged for some time, eyes hooded as they sweep over the expanse of your neck and collarbones, point of his nose scraping against the column of your throat.

“Want t’kill me tonight, d’you, lass?”

You almost pause for a moment at his touch, he can feel it in the way you stiffen, the faint shiver of your spine. But you don’t let his presence stop you, and for that he’s ever thankful.

“No,” you breathe, and it’s just as soft as it is drunk.

Slurred, and falling apart, still you’re a sight for sore eyes, the callous pads of his fingers slowly riding down the plush of your thigh… “Never, Soapy.”

Soapy. What a fucking nickname. Probably one of the stranger things he’s gotten hard at- not that he’s complaining, because though for anyone else it wouldn’t slide, it sounds so sweet leaving your lips.. makes warmth furl out in his chest…

Hands roaming, roaming, and roaming some more.

Stopping midway, where the frilly hem of that tantalizing gown lies…

Testing your waters, though he wants nothing more than to pull the fabric off you and dive right in.

“Gorgeous thing,” he murmurs back, this time into the side of your jaw, his lips smushing into your cheek as he insinuates himself behind you. Wonderin’ if you fully realize the persistent bulge at your rear-side and if you do, whether or not you like it.

(D’you want him, too? Oh, fuck, he hopes you want him, too. Don’t know what he’ll do otherwise…)

When his thumb grazes against the smooth skin of your belly and you offer no rebuttal, he relaxes some behind you, blood roaring through his ears (down south, too). Hoping you’ll be impossibly generous with him, even if just for tonight, even if you’ll both forget it all by the morning and this little daydream of his will be swept under the rug ‘til he stumbles again and needs to revisit it.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass…” he sort of groans. “Sway those hips s’more for me, yeah…?”

You’re too good, he thinks as you lean back into him and give him just what he asked for, you’re too good and now he’s hot and needy for you. Only you. (Why’s it only ever you?)

The alcohol’s getting to his head, his mouth feels fuzzy and his throat is cotton but he likes it- the embers licking at the pit of his belly doing no favors for his intoxication.

M’ drunk off you, lass. He wants to say, or at least something of the sort. But his lips are sealed, and the patters of rain stay steady outside. And not a word comes out.

Not until his hips start grinding against yours, hands hungrily groping up to the mounds of your tits, and you mewl. You fucking mewl. A soft whine, hardly a breath, really- but it’s somehow satisfied and greedy all at once and Soap knows right then that you need him just as he needs you.

(You need him.)

“Fuck, Y/n,” he grunts, voice thick with arousal, low with remnants of exhaustion. “Let me take ya to m’ room… Please?”

And you do, obedient as he flips you around, carefully hoisting you up, palms cupping the unders of your thighs as he heads off in the direction of the hallway.

He wants to kiss you, to twirl his tongue with yours and taste the sweeter option of liquor you let him pour you tonight, he wants to do everything he’s ever wanted to with you- but he doesn’t.

Sex is one thing- to fuck you is already worse enough but at least he could chalk it up to just blowing off some steam. But kissing... That crossed a whole different line and leapt over into something far more personal.

You two will be in big trouble should Ghost suddenly emerge from the guest room and find you- you’re certain this isn’t allowed, but Soap’s arms are setting you down on his bed and his mouth is suckling at your neck and you like it.

But—

“Johnny,” you whine breathlessly. He somehow, amidst the inebriation and the heady poke of your breasts against his chest- the sin of his name on your tongue- recognizes the hesitance there and finds it in him to pause.

“What?” Voice all raspy and fucked-up. Impatient, slightly harsh.

(But his heart is running so fast it echoes in his brain.)

“This is-…” you swallow. “This is wrong.”

Johnny sighs. “Lass,” the backs of his knuckles brush over your cheek, up along your jaw ‘til his fingers are stroking back your hair, and his eyes are a tsunami, roaring waves folding over a gentle tide as he peers at you.

(Fuck, he sees you. He totally, fully sees you.)

Pupils a blown-out mess of adoration and tenderness and something deeper you can’t quite place.

“M’fraid it all is.”

His lips ghost over yours- for a moment he almost sinks his teeth into the softness there, but at the last second they shift gears and descend upon you, placing a flurry of pecks on your tummy. Down down down, ‘til he’s rucking up your gown and the tip of his nose is burrowing into the dip of your panties- the wetness there exacerbating his raging hard-on.

You shiver violently at his touch, lazily propped up on your elbows as you gape down at him. Your fingers find his head, tangling into his mohawk, grazing against the shaved hair. His eyes glow like a beast, large palms dragging your hips in, bracing into your thighs.

His eyes roll back some at your touch. The gentleness you regard him with in those shimmery eyes of yours- you’ve had him on a tight leash for a while now. He hopes you know, and wonders if you’d loosen his chains a little, just to free him some. (Does he even want to be free?)

“Johnny, I…” (The intensity in his gaze so heady and endless you can’t muster up a proper sentence.)

“…Can make y’happy,” he huffs out, then, his hot breath melding against your clothed pussy- needy and aching for your usually-cheery comrade. “Can make ya cum on my tongue, if that’s what y’want.”

The moon slivers in through the still curtains. His words are slurred. Johnny is so drunk. You are, too. You’ll regret this tomorrow morning if you remember. And you will, of course you will, because you remember everything. (Least, all the things you shouldn’t…)

Johnny, though- cheeks a ruddy mess of infatuation and tender, overwhelming arousal- is worth all of it.

“I jus’ want you,” you breathe incoherently after a belated beat of silence.

There’s a split second of nothingness- where Soap has to piece together your sloppy (yet no less sincere) whisper-

And then there’s a broken little whimper on his end. His fingers hooking into the hem of your panties and tugging ‘em down- vicious, almost. No more waiting. You asked too nicely for him to turn you down anyway.

“You’ll get me.” He whispers coarsely. He hikes your legs up over his shoulders, fumbling flat onto his tummy- still, somehow careful of the bandages around your knee- and doesn’t waste any time.

Diving in, placing a preparatory kiss to to your clit before nuzzling into your folds—

Your head immediately thrashes into his pillows, jaw gaping as you stifle a desperate moan, eyes pinned to the ceiling.

“Oh, Johnny,” you whine, and your voice is so thin- skin so glassy in the flicker of the moon- that he’s sure one wrong touch will break you entirely.

(And he wants to break you, maybe. If only to put your pieces back together, bring you to beautiful ruin on his cock and tongue and fingers and soul, just so he can recombine you after all is said and done. Be the one to kiss away your tears, pocket them like souvenirs- whenever he feels particularly awful he can pull them out and remember how they made your eyes shine like magic 8balls. And for a moment, all the wrong will fade.)

“That’s it, pretty gal,” his palms hold your quivering thighs apart, keeping you mostly steady beneath him. But when he shifts, teases his index finger at the core of you and sinks it in- so deep- so much longer than yours- you let out a shivering moan that the back of your hand can’t hold.

He hushes you, briefly pulling away from your pussy, and you think you hear something close to love there. “Hush, lass,” he whispers. “Much as I want t’hear ya, word gets out to Shepherd and we’re done for.”

Soap gets a shaky, long exhale in return, and from where he lies between your legs, he watches your tummy stutter with every breath, breasts torturing him with every jostle.

“I don’t think I can take it.” You confess.

(Fuck, he has to ruin you.)

He sighs deeply. “You will…”

You beg him a lot; small fingers fisted in his stripe of hair, unwittingly tugging and whining as quiet as you could, that he’d save you the hell and give his cock to you already. But it’s only after you’ve come undone on his tongue that he finally indulges you- though he’s more than willing, fumbling for his slacks as he settles you back down, nose brushing against yours as he lines himself up.

“Tell me you still want it…”

“I want you,” you breathe.

He’s kissing you, cock pushing in with a feral little growl that rocks the both of you, muffled in the swirl of your tongue as his hips meet the underside of your thighs. He pushes ‘em to your chest.

“Fuck, lass, wanted to do this for a while,” he confesses in a breathy sort of whine, and when you whimper confusedly back he pulls away some, gives you a shaky nod. His balls are tight already, belly flipping with arousal and lust and the pure need to fill you up.

“Mhm,” he hums, all reassurance, gentle, uncoordinated fingers smoothing back your hair as he drinks in the sight of you. Perfect beneath him, eyes hardly meeting his, lashes dewy with pleasure- all given by him- breasts jostling like a treat as he drives himself into your warmth.

As tender as he can make it, as good as he can hold back.

“Thought about this for too long. Was so afraid that evening you walked in on me— ah— but… suppose you wanted it too, yeah?”

He’s kissing you again. Why’s he kissing you again-?

“I want ye,” he murmurs against you, and you’re trying so hard not to make a peep, gnawing on your love-swollen lips when Soap finally pulls away for oxygen- but perhaps something inside him snaps, looking down at you, ruined by his hand, because the next thing he says—

“Fuckin’ hell- don’t hold back, lass, don’t care who hears anymore,” he near begs, low voice rubbed raw with alcohol and, well, the sight of you, raising a pitch.

“Y’sound so pretty, so fuckin’ good, just let me hear you…”

And the pathetic part is- he’s already getting close, already feels that niggling, simmering sensation clutching in the pit of his belly as he rams his length in and out of you, watching your pretty face contort with pleasure— all given by him— and—

And when you finally unhook your bottom lip from your teeth and loose a whimpering, wanton moan for him, he comes on the spot.

Witnessing the twisted, cloying expression he makes as he lets out a long, feral groan, you think you come, too.

(Sure felt like it anyway- on Soap’s end, too. Fuck.)

But he just collapses over you, letting your sweaty skin fold against his as he burrows into the crook of your neck, suckles little red and pink marks that’ll linger tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…

“Yr’gorgeous,” he murmurs, leaning away some to look you in the eyes.

His glitter with warmth- you suspect he might’ve hidden a tear in the juncture of your neck- and they harbor this unmistakeable, eddying flash of love.

“You know that, yeah? …How gorgeous y’are?”

His pupils are blown wide, swallowing up a ring of baby blue. His calloused palms hold you close. So close. You can’t leave, you think, can’t squirm away even if you wanted to— not in Johnny’s grasp.

You muster up the sweetest, most fatigued little smile, and send it his way. “I-I know, Johnny.”

He shifts one final time, grinning tiredly (still, he’s won a medal, tonight, the best he could’ve ever aspired for) as he makes himself comfortable behind you- still tucked inside you- and wraps his strong arms ‘round your torso.

The bed creaks once more- loud, may you add, because Johnny stopped—

“Bloody hell! Go to sleep, will ya?!”