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anartisticdreamer0 · 15 days
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for more if you have twitter:
https://x.com/thehopeofit4ll/status/1776693728821846354?s=46
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ciearcab · 1 month
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higher branches, harder fall
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sylvich · 3 months
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Look, I don't know what's going on here, but I feel things
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day 90
happy tdov here's the faves who, incidentally, i do headcanon as all being various flavors of trans
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catwafers · 9 months
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post-98 knives rehabilitation tactics
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matchamabs · 4 months
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Okay, it's been a while since the last interest check, which I thought would be the last one, but life stopped doing what it was supposed to, and then I kept bumping into people who hadn't seen the check for this comic! So, here's a better, more official interest check now that I stopped getting the shit kicked out of me by colour print hurdles lmao. This comic is hell to edit
I gotta state, please only vote on this poll if you're absolutely, completely, totally, 100% very sure you will buy a physical copy! This shit is kinda niche, if I make too many, I doubt I'll be able to shift them lmao
Shipping prices are dependent on where you are in the world! I try and always used tracked shipping to make sure it doesn't get lost!
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Misthallery's yearly kids disco, like any other, is a pit where it's every man for himself. Between sweets and dancing, finding that first love and maintaining social reputation, the Black Ravens get some much needed downtime, which proves to be humbling for a bunch of kids secretly above the rest.
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lushcowboy · 1 year
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congrats on the gender!!!
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megaminerjenny · 30 days
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Happy trans day of visibility!
You will see me. It is inevitable.
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purpleturtle9000 · 1 year
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i see so many posts about leo/usagi that i am nearly tempted to find out where this rabbit is from. y'all convince me in the notes, yes or no?
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ciearcab · 4 months
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colours for an old sketch
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raideoarts · 1 year
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I challenged myself on twitter to draw this mf every day until the movie drops May 26th... (25th where I live)
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so HERE WE FUCKING GO, HERE'S DAY 1... PUTTING MY MONEY WHERE MY FUCKING MOUTH IS!!! DAY 1 OF 30!!
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psyche-in-the-window · 4 months
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@fuckyeahasexual one of the bigger sources of asexual info on this website, as just reblogged radfem ideologies that isn't even trying to hide itself as a radfem ideology. I hate to be making a call-out post (and if anyone else as made one, sorry!!) but they have disabled asks and DMs so this is the only thing I can do
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For now, I'll choose to believe that they just didn't read the whole post, but this is pretty damning and I hope people will help in calling them out as a single blogger won't be able to to much
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soapskneebrace · 1 year
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CARTEL PROTECTION
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader, John "Soap" MacTavish x f!Reader, Alejandro Vargas x f!Reader (unrequited but also kind of requited, it's complicated) Rating: All Ages Word Count: 1.3k Warnings: None Author's Notes: The first chapter in a series that I will likely not get to, but it's fun and I thought y'all might enjoy it. Who knows, if there's enough interest I might write a connected fic or two rather than a whole thing. I hope y'all can excuse how very rough this is, because it is literally the very first draft.
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The tarmac of Los Vaqueros Cuartel General is hard and hot beneath the soles of your boots, bouncing the heat of the Mexican sun back upwards toward its origin, and as you approach the truckside powwow you can feel a fine sheen of perspiration beginning to form on your bare arms. It’s hot, far too hot for late October, and you don’t imagine yourself not sweating for however long this operation is going to take.
“I need you in Las Almas,” Laswell had said over the phone, intruding on an appointment with your manicurist. “Something is going on, and I don’t have enough information.”
“Sure,” you’d replied, regarding the woman opposite you trying to hide the fact that she was listening in. The nail tech wasn’t a plant, you were reasonably certain, but only an amateur talked freely about your kind of work. “I’d love to see Alejo and his kids again.”
You put two fingers (nails painted with tiny sugar skulls) to your tongue and cab-whistle at the group of three men to catch their attention. None of them flinch, and as they all turn to look at you, you realize immediately that this job is going to be more bothersome than you’d assumed, because the skull-plated mask that turns your way is not, as it were, a new face.
You remember the iron smell of staunched blood and the full brunt of his weight driving the both of you to the ground as you’d tried to hold him up. You remember the drench of warm Kastovian rain and hydroplaning in a stolen truck across the border into Georgia. You remember watching three hours of surgery. You had not stayed to see the fourth.
It shows immediately in his eyes as you meet them. The man you only know as Ghost remembers too.
You are not in the business of dragging baggage around. “Colonel Vargas!” you call, waving.
“Alma!” Alejandro exclaims, a wide smile breaking the severe lines of his angular face. “Laswell said you were coming, but I didn’t expect you so soon!”
As you join the men, you let him hug you, unable to keep from grinning at his easy affection. Alejandro—Alejo to you—is another familiar face.
You remember reheated mole verde on rice in the General kitchen, tiny sips of mezcal as he waxed poetic about what he could do with the full stock he kept in the larders of his fabled ranch. He’d looked at you warmly then, as warmly as he looks at you now when you release your embrace.
You hold his warmth precious, but do not respond to it.
“Someone has to be the brains of this operation,” you say, and wave to Rudy in the truck.
“It’s Alma, then?” asks the soldier standing next to Ghost, in a brogue that stands out as much as Ghost does.
John “Soap” MacTavish is the only personage you do not know. Laswell had given you a very sparse brief before you’d headed toward Mexico, so you already know that he’s both effective in the field and resolutely Scottish, but it only takes you one glance to get a notion of his character. The mohawk says more about him than he probably could ever say about himself, and the stunning blue eyes tell you the rest.
You glance at Ghost. Laswell had told you about Soap, and said you knew everyone else. Damn her. She isn’t getting a Christmas card this year.
“Sometimes,” you answer the Scot, looking back at him. Alma, of course, is not your real name.
Ghost snorts. He doesn’t say anything, but you know what he’s thinking.
So you say it out loud, smiling at the sergeant congenially. “Sometimes it’s Katya. Sometimes it’s something else. Maybe I’d be Mary, if we were in Glasgow.”
He smiles back immediately. Oh yes, Soap MacTavish is a dangerously open book. “Queen of Scots, aye? I see how it is.”
“CIA shit,” grumbles Ghost. Then, to business, “Where’s Hassan?”
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Las Almas is as beautiful as you remember it, colorful and lively as the Fuerzas Especiales convoy passes from the countryside into the city’s sprawling outskirts.
“So how do you know Alejandro?” Soap asks, looking at you over his shoulder. He’d volunteered to take the furthermost seat in the back, which was really more of a padded bench facing out the window, in order to give you the more comfortable chair.
You meet his gaze. The SAS needed to hang a warning sign on him—DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT—because close up, the jewel-bright azure is even more arresting than it had been at a distance.
“I met him on vacation,” you reply, lifting one brow and hopefully hiding the little jolt in your breath that the proximity inspired.
Rudy and Alejandro both laugh at that. You chance a peek at Ghost, who’s sitting beside you in the back row of the SUV, and find him looking resolutely forward. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad.
“Anyone who comes to Las Almas for vacation is either too stupid to live past the first day,” says Rudy, eyes crinkling as they meet yours in the rear view mirror, “or just crazy enough to have a good time.”
You smile back—it wasn’t the first time he’d said that about you.
“In truth, we’ve ended up helping each other a few times, haven’t we?” says Alejo. “The US is always worried about narcos crossing the border, and Fuerzas Especiales is always in need of good intelligence.”
It had been your impeccable Spanish that had convinced Kate to stick you across the border. Her superiors had been doing their augury, reading the bird formations in the sky and sifting through the proverbial entrails, and had decided via these machinations that rather than let you monitor Verdansk post-Armistice as you’d originally been tasked (your Russian is also impeccable), you should instead worry about cartels on the Texas border.
You sneak a glance at Ghost again. He’s looking at you this time, eyes narrowed.
The reassignment had come to you at the third hour.
“Hopefully ‘Alma’ can help again, then,” he says, and it is very strange to hear that name on his tongue, to hear the syllables bend around the brassy, rumbling Manc that had comfortably used another name for you entirely.
Verdansk. A hollow shell of a building, its veins somehow still pumping water and electricity. His mask, pulled up over his nose, revealing a hard line of a mouth as he sipped bitter black coffee, the corners twisting as he was unable to hide how much he hated it.
“You should be burned for this by itself, Katya,” he’d grumbled.
“You do groceries next time,” you’d replied pleasantly. “See if the shelves magically fill with boxes of Tetley when you’re there.”
“Fuck Tetley. Even this swill is better than that.”
He still drank the whole cup.
“Think I prefer Mary,” says Soap, settling against your seat back.
The brogue brings you out of the memory and back into the present. Verdansk is half a world away. So is the Ghost you’d playacted domesticity with. You needed to make room in your head for missiles, rogue Quds Force majors, and enterprising narcos. The job had no care for anything else.
“And that’s why I’d choose it,” you say, mimicking his posture and sitting back. The Scot has no place in any of your memories, not in Kastovia and not in Las Almas—and you’re thankful, in that moment, that he’s there. “People are willing to do things for someone that sounds like one of their own.”
You hear the smile in his voice as he responds, “Can’t think of a man who wouldn’t do anything for you, bonnie—”
“Alright, sergeant!” Ghost snaps.
The reprimand surprises you both, and you lapse into awkward, contrite silence. Alejo meets your eyes in the rear view, concerned, and you give them an exaggerated roll.
The need to ground yourself notwithstanding, it was a bad idea—and, you think, massively trashy—to flirt right in front of him.
You slouch in your chair. Laswell is getting coal for Christmas. The grossest, sootiest stuff you can find.
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bahadurislam011444 · 1 month
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toon-kirby · 8 months
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A friend and I were talking about how much it would suck to live in Jugdral and they argued Fodlan was worse because ICBMs so I'm wondering
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anghraine · 2 years
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This is a very petty issue (though I’m nothing if not petty), but I think it’s kind of funny when people bring up Círdan as a refutation of Tolkien saying Aragorn, Faramir, and Boromir are beardless bc they’re descendants of Elros (Faramir and Boromir through Denethor) and he had Elvish blood.
Tolkien fandom is perfectly happy to assume all Elves are naturally beardless unless explicitly stated otherwise Because That’s How Elves Are, but Tolkien allows some humans to inherit the trait and suddenly it’s “but Círdan!!”
(But while “all Elves are beardless” has to be an overstatement given the whole cycles of life blahblah stuff, and “all descendants of Elves are beardless” must also be an overstatement given Théoden, dismissing it wholesale would allow for Elvish men in general to be bearded and let’s be real, 90% of y’all would riot over that.)
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