First Time Drawing Anything Really For COD— And I’m Super Happy With How This Came Out. :] (I Made

Got a drawing tablet, so I decided to draw Frisk to test it out.

Also I am not dead =]

I've just been stupid busy lmao

How many soldiers do y’all think it would take to take down Ghost (2022)???

Five? Six? Seven???

I’m talking, all working together, and they manage to get the drop on him. (After he’s had like, a few-ish days of not sleeping well, and not eating as much as he probably needs to while on active deployment.)

Just capturing him, not like, killing him or anything. (Possibly with the help of tranquilizers/sedatives/what-have-you too?)

Help.

Whoop whoop

Posted another kustard oneshot.

Sorry I haven't been super on top of posting them, my power was out for like five or six days, and my internet just got fixed. But its all good now! So here's some kustard!

Snip-it of a oneshot I’ve been working on.

Currently ~ 1600 words.

Impasse (WIP)

Summary: Draco goes back to the Manor, even though he knows he shouldn't.

It was a cool Thursday morning.

If you could call it morning yet, maybe a more apt description was cool Wednesday night, though as gravel crunched beneath Draco's boots, with the early spring wind nipping at his exposed skin, and only the moonlight, a weak Lumos, and foggy half remembered directions to guide him, the particulars seemed unimportant. Either way it had still been cold enough for Draco to be thankful of his spilt second decision to grab one of his nicer winter cloaks — A distinction which had been granted to it solely for the fact that it's only needed mending charms once or twice, compared to the three or four times that seemed to be growing more and more common amongst articles in his wardrobe these days — before he had headed out the door of his cramped little flat hidden away in his own personal slice of hell in Knockturn Alley.

This was undoubtedly a terrible idea, impulsive, and stupid. Though its not as if any of that has ever stopped him before.

It won't stop him now, either. Even as every instinct in his body screams at him to turn heel, do what he's best at and run. Run far, far away, from Wiltshire, from his gaudy little flat with the temperamental pipes and obnoxiously loud neighbours, from London, farther and farther until nobody can put a face to his name, or a name to his face. Until he's just an unrecognizable body in a sea of people who would forget he was ever there by sunrise. Maybe he'd never stop running, he could chase the moon as it chases the sun.

Pausing only momentarily in places like this, where its quiet and cool, frozen in a perpetual state of in between. Places where he could force certainty out of the simple fact that there is none.

The thoughts are nothing more but an idle indulgence, brushed away as quickly as they form by the breeze. A distraction that crumples under the weight of reality as the Manor comes into sight, hulking like its nothing more than man made stain on the otherwise picturesque horizon. It doesn't seem real, not anymore, as if it were something out of the shattered remnants of a nightmare, or a warped memory best left forgotten.

It seems so long ago now that the Manor was bright, filled to the brim with wonder and luxury. People dancing and twirling in lavish, ornate clothes through its chambers and halls, laughing, drinking, socializing, and gracing a young Draco with hundreds of stories and tales all teeming with whimsy, delight, riches, and power. His parents, murmuring promises of his future into his ear in between bouts of bigoted tripe.

As Draco approached the Manor now though — his head hung like a man heading for the gallows, a poor attempt to obscure it from his view — it was only an obelisk of misery. Each chunk of stone, every brick, and bit of wood, nothing more than a testament to every little mistake he, or his family, had ever made. A physical reminder of every decision, every choice, destined to rot, to transform and warp into a far more accurate depiction of the Malfoy line then the gold and the silk and the bright laughter ever was.

He shouldn't have come back. He doesn't have the right to come back, not anymore. But he had to, because beneath the omnipresent urge to run, beneath the guilt that barred down on his shoulders during the day, and whispered him into states of unrest at night, was the desperate, prowling, angry, need for closure.

So Draco keeps walking.

The air gets thicker the closer he gets, so heavy with spent magic that it's almost smothering. Around him the bright forest he remembered from his childhood gradually shifts into something half dead, wild, and gnarled. Magical plants seem to have mostly reclaimed the grounds, winding up the bars of the rusting ornate fence that guards the curving drive leading up to the Manor, as if Draco's presence alone had frozen them in the middle of a mad scrabble over it, pushing uneasily against the reinforced wards surrounding the grounds like they were desperate to find a way out. The vines of a plant he once would've been able to recognize at a passing glance had grown so thick he could hardly see through it to the other side.

Keeping his hand as steady as he's able, which isn't as much as he would've liked, he draws his wand higher, preparing to have to brute force his way through the plants, when they slither away from his Lumos, as if sensing their impending fate. "Wonderful. Just— Lovely." Draco murmurs with disgust, watching with a suppressed grimace as the plants slither into the shadows and underbrush. In a bid to steel his nerves he inhales sharply as he turns his attention back to the gate. In the Manor's prime, it would easily open at the presence of any Malfoy, requiring nothing more than a glance and the want for it to do so, but with the wards the Ministry slammed on the place after— Well, everything. He wasn't entirely sure if any of his family's wards were stilled up, let-alone keyed to him.

Even so, still has to try.

Curling his fingers tighter around his wand, he reaches out with his magic, tentatively pressing against the wards. It was an odd sensation, like sticking his hand into a bowl of treacle only to be met with the texture of oil. The feeling of resistance crawled its way up his arm, but never fully stopped him. Time slowed to a drip, and all of a sudden it seemed as if the only accurate measure of it was the speed of which his heart thudded anxiously between the pit of his stomach, and the top of his throat. This really was a stupid idea, he should have never entertained it. Who did he think he was? Trying to bypass Ministry sanctioned wards with the grace of a child knocking over a vase. If he was lucky nothing would happen, and he could just return to his shitty, drafty, far too small flat, and fruitlessly try to forget this ever happened. Though what was far, far more likely to happen would be that the nearest Auror would Apparate over, see that Draco Malfoy was surely up to no good, and haphazardly toss him into the most over crowded cell in Azkaban. If they were feeling merciful. Slowing his breathing in an attempt to keep it steady, he pushed onwards, searching for the faintest hint of old magic.

All at once the forest seemed to snap back into place around him in time with the sharp yank to his core. A familiar cold, sinking sensation washes over him — like the Manor itself is scrutinizing his entire being like a bug trapped beneath a glass — and the gate slowly opens with a piercing creak that disrupts the stillness of the night. What little plants were still clinging to the gate's intricate ironwork snapped and tore as their stalks were forced in the wrong direction. The protests of the gate tapper off as it stops, open just enough for Draco to squeeze through, though just barely, as it snags on some of his fastens, and almost causes him to loose a button in the process.

For a undeterminable time afterwards, Draco just stands there. The reality of what he had just done joining the chaotic fray of his choices that weighed down his body and wore groves into the bones, with very much the same air as a smug Kneazel basking in the sun. Preemptively taunting him for his stupidity. Every muscle in his body was primed to flee— At first, he told himself, it was simply in case an Auror did show up. But as time dawdled onwards and that seemed less and less likely, he was once again forced to confront his own cowardice. 

Returning to the other side of the fence beckoned to him like a Siren's call. It would be so easy to just leave, sum this up to the lapse in his own judgement that it surely was. Go home, his mind coaxed, there's no need of this, it lied, you don't have to say goodbye yet, there's always tomorrow. 

Or the day after, or next week, or month, or year.

Or never.

No. 

No.

Draco inhaled sharply, the action making the top of his throat sting from the chill, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, which he had closed at some unpinpointable time. It was a rather childish action, one that surely would've gotten him snapped at when he was younger, though presently he couldn't find it in himself to care, he just pressed harder until he could see stars fizzle in and out of existence, and the darkness behind his eyelids was flooded with static. This isn't what he would have wanted — Foolish, stubborn, man that he was, with his incorrigible bleeding heart that Draco had treasured so dearly. The very same that lead him to always be the hero, even until the end — for Draco to cling so tightly to his memory, replay every stolen moment, every word, every kiss, every soft lazy morning, as few and far in between as they were, to Harry.

What little of him Draco got to have, to the promise of more, had either of them been granted the chance.

That's what forces Draco to move, one unsteady step after the other. 

He owes it to Harry as much, if not more, than he owes it to himself, to finally get to say goodbye. 

CW: Kissing/mentions of it— I suppose?

This isn’t a fic or anything, I just have to get it out of my brain so I can move on with my day.

Okay so, currently being not normal™️ about Ghost’s mask.

Look, I don’t have a big thing for masks or anything — If anything it’s one of the reasons why Ghost was the last member of the 141 to click with me (that’s a story for another day, moving on) — that being said, I love love love when Ghost’s mask is used as a narrative tool.

Like, as much as it’s to keep his identity hidden, it’s obviously a way he keeps people at arm’s length, right? How can they actually know him if they couldn’t even pick his face out of a crowd?

To me, that intentionally or not puts so much weight into how it’s handled the first time he kisses someone in a fic. (Doesn’t matter if it’s Soap, a reader/self-insert, Gaz, Price, ect.) As much as I love when whoever’s kissing him flips up his mask, or gently pushes his smoke/drink/whatever out of the way— I find it so much more impactful when they kiss him through his mask.

Bonus points if he had it flipped up for whatever reason, and they gently pull it back down first.

I just—

(Not my drawing)

Because to me it’s saying, ‘I know you have walls, and I don’t know everything, maybe I never will but I love every little bit of you that you let me see anyway,’

And then, then, when the kiss breaks, if Ghost pulls his mask back up over his nose, and kisses them again? Especially if it’s slow and soft?

I’m fucking dead.

Gone.

Deceased.

Because maybe they don’t know everything about him, maybe they never will, but he’s willing to try and trust them a little bit more time and time again and they’re willing to respect that, love that he’s trying for them, and are grateful for what he does let them see. And I just—

Uuggghhh.

It’s so good. Love it so much. Eat that shit up every time, inject it right into my grey matter.

Will I go and use this in my own fics with Ghost in it? Perchance. (I will. Probably too much. It will become a thing in my stories like me kidnapping characters, or lighting things on fire, or writing characters hanging out in bars. Do I care? No. Because it’s awesome and amazing and more of y’all should join me in being not normal ™️ about it.)

MDNI 18+ / ~ 2.6k words / Oneshot

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games), Modern Warfare II (2022) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Reader Characters: John "Soap" MacTavish, Reader Additional Tags: No use of y/n, POV Second Person, Smut, light fluff, Oral Sex, gender neutral reader, Brat John "Soap" MacTavish, A little bit anyway, Gender neutral terms of endearment for reader, Light Dom/sub, Hand Job, briefly, Soap gets most of the attention in this one folks, Light Possessive Language, Oneshot, Author Has Played Call of Duty, not well, but I did, Reboot John "Soap" MacTavish, Reader is an Operator, Desperate John "Soap" MacTavish, Not Beta Read, we die like (redacted), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Summary:

Soap and you find yourselves in a safe house all on your own, in a rare moment free of danger, and manage to steal it for yourselves, indulging in some much needed RNR.

________________________________________________________________

"Tha's it, pet." Soap praises, his voice low and soft, a sound that's gradually been growing to be more and more of a comfort to you as of late, it mixes beautifully with the slick sound of his cock easing in and out of your mouth. He always takes his time with you when you let him have you like this, as if making sure to savour it, even his thick, scarred fingers which were tangled amongst the roots of your hair had a certain gentleness to them, amplified further by the way his other hand was caressing your cheek, the pad of his thumb tenderly brushing over the corner of your eyes, wiping away the involuntary tears that had gathered there and clung stubbornly to your lashes, before doing the same to the bit of drool that managed to escape from the corner of your mouth, and had been lazily dribbling down your chin.

Despite the way it makes your jaw twinge, getting to see the way his breathing gradually gets shallower, louder, adding to the symphony that always accompanied your intimate moments together alongside his staccato groans and grunts, made it all worth it. "Jus' like tha'." Every sound he made was nothing short of addictive, and you were determined to make it your life's mission to pull all of them from Soap's lips until you memorized them all.

Which is why you fight against his grasp to push him deeper into your mouth, until you can feel the weeping tip of his cock kiss the back of your throat, before you swallow around him. A low strangled groan forces its way out of Soap's body, seemingly startling the man himself as much as it delights you. He huffs and pulls you back up some, his hips twitch off the bunk, chasing the warmth of your mouth reflexively, as he shoots you a reprimanding look, one that didn't really come across as anything other than fond, which had his striking blue eyes — that are as vibrant as ever, even in the low lighting of the safe house, as if taking personal offence to anything that'd dare to try to hide them, and shining anyway from a mix of spite and Soap's special brand of unbridled defiance — narrowing minutely, doing nothing to hide the way they practically glinted with amusement and want. "Easy wi' tha', dinnae need ye hurtin' yerself."

You roll your eyes at him, and huff through your nose. With the tip of your tongue you follow one of the veins along the underside of Soap's cock up the length of his shaft, only to smooth your tongue right back out on the underside of his tip and running it right back down, over and over again. "Cheeky." Soap barely manages the word, his voice trailing off into another unsteady vocalization of his pleasure as his lashes flutter, fanning out when his eyes were mostly closed. That doesn't spur you to relent though. You both know that he likes it— he likes when you mouth off to him, when you walk by him brushing your hand along the small of his back, when you squeeze his arse when you know you can get away with it, when you eye him up, especially if you do it at a time where he's not allowed to immediately get his hands on you and retaliate, like during briefings.

Even with how much Soap seemed to live for you riling him up till he snapped, he never got rough about it, not unless you went out of your way to ask for him to. No, your big bad Sargent liked to keep a soft touch— even after you teased and prodded him to his limits with fleeting touches and words of filth whispered against the shell of his ear whenever they'd pop into mind, leaving him redfaced and caught off guard, often resulting in him staring at you like a puppy that just had a steak pulled out from under it as you'd go back to whatever it was you had been doing, teeth pressing against your bottom lip as you fruitlessly tried to force down your smirk.

When he'd finally break — and he always did no matter what it was that you had been doing to him — and take you over a desk, or against a wall, in the armoury, in your rooms in the barracks, or like now, on an old lumpy bunk that creaked at any and every movement, tucked away in a remote location in a safe house that was held together with little more than rusty nails and a fraying hope, with a crackling fire and the soft moonlight easing through the windows acting as your sole sources of light, he was still so fucking gentle. Touching you as if you were something delicate, or fleeting, like he thought if he moved too fast or pressed too hard you'd flit out of his touch like a startled finch, or as if you were a vase at risk of shattering into countless shards.

Keeping your hands flat, you gently smooth your palms over the tops of his thighs, savouring the way you could feel the slightest of tremours in them. His belt buckle jingles softly, hitting against itself from your fingers catching the hem of his pants. In your rush to get at him earlier you had merely pushed down as much as they had to be, leaving them quickly forgotten after the fact.

It was about time you corrected that.

Shifting on your knees, you draw back until only the head of Soap's cock remained in your mouth so that your tongue could still lap at him while giving you just enough space to fuss with Soap's clothes, an action that has Soap letting out a broken off whimper. A sound which is quickly chased by a slew of what was presumably curses, but was so enwrapped in Soap's accent — now much thicker from how worked up he was and worsened further by his budding frustration from being pent up — that you couldn't make out anything intelligible. Your hands trail lower to fumble with Soap's combat boots, pulling at the knot of the laces until it loosens, and you can ease his feet out of both of them, dropping them behind yourself to be found later. Eventually he seems to pull himself together enough for you to catch a few things, at least. "Yer nae playin' fair, pet. Cannae jus' dae this ta me." He whines rather petulantly.

Just for that, you pull off of him properly, his poor cock twitches where it lays against his abdomen, making an absolute mess of his shirt. To stop him fussing further you wrap your hand around him and lazily pump him, the quiet slick sounds filling the space between you both, as your other hand works on pulling his pants and boxers down the rest of the way, letting them fall in a heap at your knees. Soap's hips twitch up into your movements, as if trying to goad you into moving faster, but you simply use your elbow to press into his hip, keeping him down while you continue to stroke him. "You're so spoiled, you know that? Should just leave your sorry ass like this."

A proper grin pulls at Soap's lips, and he looks down at you through his lashes, with a glint in his eyes that was the pinnacle of pleased— like a puppy that had managed to charm its way into stealing an entire bag of treats. "Aye, ah ken, but ye wouldnae dare. Ye like spoilin' me, luvvy." There's just something about the way he looks above you, his chest heaving and a healthy flush darkening his skin along his cheekbones, while he's blatantly biting his bottom lip and looking at you like you're the only thing in the world worth looking at, that causes something in your chest to ache and twist in a way that shouldn't be as heady as it is.

Instead of dignifying Soap with an actual reply right away, you just grunt softly, vaguely providing him with a, "Maybe." as you hook your arm under one of Soap's knees, guiding it up so that his thigh presses against his stomach; you can feel the muscle jump under your touch. "God knows why I do, you're always such a fucking brat about it." Your protests are contrary, you know they are, especially with the way you're fisting his cock and lazily rolling your hips against the leg Soap still has firmly planted on the ground in a rather fruitless bid to take a bit of your own edge off. You spoil him because it's him, and as much as he can be a prick or a brat sometimes, at the end of the day Soap had still batted his eyes at you, and managed to sidle up to you enough that he found a nice warm place to curl up in your chest like a stray dog in a sunspot. He was a brat, a loud mouth, a bit of a know-it-all even when he wouldn't let on that he was, and he seemed to find a new way to get himself in and out of trouble every day, but god damn it, he was still your stray dog, and like hell were you going to give him anything less than every breath you took, every bit of blood rushing in your veins through your pounding heart, and every bone in your body.

You'd give him everything, because he was yours, and there was no way you'd ever let this ridiculous man forget it.

"Shite..." Soap hisses through his teeth, both his hands move to tangle in the thin sheets laid over the bunk, as the way his hips meet your hand begins to grow sloppier and more uneven. "M' nae a brat." The protest passes Soap's lips weakly, any bite it possibly could have had was dulled even further by the way his cock was practically drooling all over your hand, and the persistent groans and whimpers leaving him.

While you let it drop for now, you most certainly plan on getting him back for back-talking you later. Right now though, you have much more pressing things to pay attention to, like the way he's so visibly close to falling apart under you, his leg was trembling under your hand as his vocalizations got even more unabashed. The way the corner of your mouth lifts as you watch him is entirely involuntary; not that you do much in the way of trying to stop it from happening in the first place, mind. Hearing how Soap keeps murmuring your name doesn't exactly do much but encourage your expression and touches, especially when he practically keens as you take him back into your mouth, even if it's just the head of his cock. You're already pressing your elbow harder against his hip to keep him from lifting them too much and fucking into your mouth mindlessly; you both know that if he wanted to he could knock your arm out of the way, but even with how little blood was left in his brain he behaved and let you keep him down.

That doesn't stop him from wrapping his thick fingers around your wrist, trying to encourage you to pump his shaft faster. "Fuck, c'mon pet. M' so close ta comin', ye gotta let me. Please, please." There's a steadily growing note of desperation to his voice, the hand he still has tangled in the sheets curls tighter, pulling them hard enough that they now lay heavily askew on the bunk. As much as there's a part of you that delights in the idea of pulling back again, leaving him there heavy and aching, you can only be so cruel to him in one night, so you let him guide your hand, squeezing him just a bit tighter, if only to hear the way his voice gets rougher, a stream of words passing his lips mindlessly as he chases his finish, mostly your name intermixed with a healthy dose of 'fuck, please, yes,' and of course a slew of babbled, 'thank ye,'s over and over again.

It doesn't take long for even that to shift into 'God ah'm so close,' and 'oh ah'm gonna come in yer bonnie mouth, pet. Gonna make sure ye taste m'fer days.'

You just squeeze the underside of his knee, not like you can talk around him, besides, you didn't want to waste any extra brainpower trying to formulate intelligible words; not when you could be using it instead to memorize every little way Soap was starting to crumble under you, the muscles in his thighs jumped as his back arched off the mattress, both of his blue eyes glazing over, wide but staring up at the ceiling unseeingly, at least until they flutter closed, your name bullies it's way out of his mouth, followed by a few more curses, and some pure unfiltered praise, as his come fills your mouth in thick spurts that you're quick to swallow down before he makes a mess, or at least, so he doesn't make any more of one than he already has.

Using his hold on your wrist, he guides you unsteadily off your knees, and on top of himself, causing your legs to tangle with his own. While he lets out a soft hiss of oversensitivity when you accidentally brush against him, Soap just winds his arms around your shoulders and pulls you in even closer for a kiss, tasting himself on your tongue with a soft groan. The way he's touching you quickly lost the notable edge of desperation that had been there before, the usual gentleness taking its place. "Yer tae good 'fer me, luvvy." He murmurs, as he brushes your lips together again.

One of your hands finds its way into his mohawk, absently tugging your fingers through the strands in a bid to try to bring some order to the mussed strands, before tangling near his nape and forcing his head back, he grunts, but doesn't fight you. There's something addicting about the way he always just lets you move him about, especially with the way it makes his eyes spark, and had his breath — which had yet to return to normal — quickening once more. You were more than willing to take advantage of him tolerating this while you could. "You're not getting off that easily, MacTavish." You say in as equally as low of a tone. "I'm not done with you yet." After all, you were still worked up and aching yourself, and you well and planned on making that Soap's problem, much like he had with you.

That familiar cheeky grin returns at full force as if you had just offered Soap everything under the tree on Christmas morning. "Aye, didnae think ah'd ferget aboot ye, pet." A shocked gasp passes your lips as he abruptly flips you both over, which causes the bunk to creak in protest under your combined weight on its old springs. Your gasp is quick to turn into a soft huff of amusement as he pins you beneath him and presses close, like he's doing his best to meld you together. "Gonna take such good care o' ye, luvvy." He murmurs as he peppers your face and neck in little fleeting kisses, as if eager to please you and trying his best to love on you everywhere at once.

You can't help the way you laugh at his antics, which somehow only seems to encourage him further as his hands find your hips, dragging you closer. Rolling your eyes fondly, you use your hold on his hair to pull him back in for another kiss.

He might be a brat, and a bit of a stray, but for better or for worse, he's definitely yours.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

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Thank you for reading!

If you have any ideas/prompts of what I should write next, feel free to comment or send me an ask. I’m open to writing more stuff with Soap, or any of the other members of the 141 (either with each other, reader, or a combination of everyone).

cheese burger >:(

Beese Churger >=\

But ngl that burger looks good

Just thought I’d share Pap and both of Gaster’s designs too.

Trying my hand at pixel art.

And showcasing an Undertale AU I’ve been working on inspired by Alice In Wonderland, and Alice Through The Looking Glass.

I plan on making variants for most if not all the monsters in the underground. I already have designs for Chara, Toriel, Gaster, Flowey, Sans, Mettaton, Grillby, Temmie, and Asgore.

So please let me know if there’s any interest to see anyone before I do everyone. Or if there’s anyone you’d like to see in particular.

I’ve been working on this for a bit and am going absolutely apeshit to show what I’ve gotten done so far.

So bam! Underwonder!Frisk

It’s dangerous to go alone, take this,

*sets down two skele-bros, before backing away.*

Hi, I’m new to tumblr, and I’m not like, entirely sure how anything does anything yet. But I like to write fanfiction, and I like making ✨fanart✨, so that’s mostly what I’ll be posting. (It might be a lot of Undertale content at the moment, lmao)