Need one for Canet because I can keep turning around in front of my mirror to look at every beauty marks.
Caneton doesn't have much scars but I added body diformity because it's important in his lore. Like despite having a body with some problems he keeps doing. It isn't a major handicap for him, given that he maintains a regular sports routine, but these specific traits further widen the gap between him and others, requiring him to do (or endure) more than they do. About his pectus, I have it too, and I wonder how many people do. Itâs a deformity that is rarely represented, so Iâm glad to be able to show it even if I know not many would have noticed it when if I try to show there's a hollow between his chest in my art. I mean, I never met a lot of people who know what it was or saw what it was so.. yeah it exist and it's ok !
Again if you have any question/request about it try my ask
Roach's map
Here's the ref for the size diff (im sick) :
Commissions still open! I finally got a job and start Friday, but I only have $100 for rent. So anything helps ;; If you have any questions feel free to shoot a message!
FIRST OF ALL, I absolutely love Gen. Gen belongs to @sleepy-dino12. Second, I absolutely love drawing Soap. This guy is so damn handsome, and Iâm happy every time I get to draw him. Third, I feel so damn silly because I use Tumblr so rarely and Iâm a little scared to post here, but hey. I guess I should catch up, so get ready for some backlogged content.
And hereâs another of Dinoâs OCs, Eve! Both ladies are gorgeous, and you should head over to Dinoâs to give her lots of love.
LOOK AT MY GORGEOUS WOMEN MY GOD
Cadet is so talented and captures my girls so well ;;; also the Gen/Soap my heart. The colors and the poses the FEELING OF THE DRAWING
And Eve like I'm still so blown away at how perfectly she captured her with little rough sketches
Please go follow cadet she is amazing and I love her
Soap smudged the last bit of color over his sketchbook and stared at the resultant art. Almost impossible to remember, he'd only just managed to get the shapes of his old teammates to appear on the page. Big, bigger, biggest; that much he remembered. One of them cloaked all in black with deathly pale skin, one of them so hairy he had taken to calling him Captain Coo, and the third, a good study in contrast in a light blue shirt with dark skin and sparkling white teeth.
But their faces were wrong. He couldn't explain how he knew they were wrong, but they were. Their expressions were happy in a way he was certain they hadn't been when he'd known them, and something about the way that they stood - arms wrapped around one another in easy camaraderie - that felt as if it were more fiction than fact. More Heaven-o-Vision, no doubt, papering over the reality of how they had looked after missions. Beaming, surely, but tired and worn and arms wrapped around one another to keep themselves from collapsing as adrenaline faded into bone-deep assuredness that their souls were so blackened by the deeds they'd done that they'd never see the Pearly Gates.
The air always suited his mood, and his clothes always suited the air, and it was beginning to drive him a bit mad. At first, the fact that his shirts fit him perfectly and his jumpers had no snags had been a delight, but after a week of grey days when he wanted to sit inside and draw and sunny days when he wanted to walk by the water, Soap had to admit that perfection was... boring.
God had given him everything - a Glasgow he'd grown up in and yet idealized, with no men pissing on buildings outside the pub unless he was drunk and thought it a particularly funny sight. No homeless folks begging for change, which had always made something in his chest twist uncomfortably. The austerity measures that had plagued his country seemed lifted, giving Scotland a bright, cheerful wash that was utterly and completely wrong.
But he wasn't meant to live in Glasgow forever.
The train system had insisted he could go to Edinburgh, or Aberdeen, or fuck off to Cumbernauld of all places, but what was the good in that? It was still just... Scotland. The borders of which seemed to be solid and immutable - he'd checked. Taken the time (since hunger, thirst, and fatigue were all cared for by The Big Man Himself) to plod about in one direction and make it to the edge of the country (it had taken both longer and shorter than he'd imagined it would). The sea was grey and choppy and a deep, dense fog obscured all outside his sightline in whatever direction he chose. Each point of the compass had been checked and each time it came up the same: absolutely nothing existed in Soap's heaven except for Scotland.
Summary: Soap imagines battle is as close as he'll ever get to experiencing a rave.
Written while listening to Champions by Kato, Jon, Clemens on repeat. A poor attempt at writing in that frenetic style best suited for battle.
Word Count: 523
AO3 version here
~*~*~*~
Propellant was mercifully odorless. Blood, however, was not. Blood was metallic. Blood mixed well with the bitter tang of adrenaline that coated a bodyâs tongue during battle.
Battle always felt something like a warehouse rave to Soap. He had vague memories of his cousin telling him about those nights: soaked in strobe, neon, and drugs. What else was a firefight but the strobe of muzzles, the glow of flares, and his personal drug of choice?
A familiar punch rocked his body backwards instinctively - just a graze, judging by the sting. A feral grin stretched his lips.
âLetâs go boys, we got them on the defense!â He crowed into comms, his tongue clumsy with excitement.
âJohnny,â came the warning, but he was too far gone to hear it. He slid on worn knee protection into a nearby alley. It took him a moment to realize the manic cackle he was hearing wasnât coming over the radio. No, it was from his own throat.
The enemy peeked over the hoods of trucks, blown out concrete walls, and whatever other paltry cover they could find. But Soap was better than that. He dropped his SMG to hang from its single-point mount - swinging wildly at just under 3kg of weight behind it.
âCâmon,â He purred, tugging his rifle over his shoulder and sighting in. Over-preparation was better than being caught with his trousers down. In the dust-strewn air, he saw it. One squeeze. One bloom of red. Another squeeze, and the jerk of a shot right in the center of mass. A childish whoop.
A bloom of heat and red light. He could believe for a moment that the burn in his lungs was from squatting just so behind some slag in a tiny leather miniskirt as his legs carried him to his next vantage point.
âGhost,â he panted. âHow we looking, sir?â
âGood, Johnny. One âo clock. Two sighted.â
âRog.â He dove behind a car, his lungs stuttering as he took a deep breath. Long exhale. One long inhale. And a short, sharp sniff. âRight.â He popped up, scanning one. There they were, trained on him. He ducked, crab-walked to just before the boot. And popped back up with one, two, three.
âDamn,â he laughed. Just one down. He ducked again. Heard the returning volley ping off chrome and bitumen. The whistle of rounds through plastic should have made him nervous, but he was John fucking MacTavish. He didnât get nervous.
Next pop up pinged a graze right next to his temple. Heat and percussive force made his eyes widen. âNear fuckinâ miss, buddy!â He crowed, instinctively following the trajectory of the round. A satisfying cry let him know his hit landed. And the quiet on the field let him know heâd done it.
âThreats neutralized.â Ghost ground gravel into the mic, the way he growled. Soap couldnât have cared less. âTo rally, Johnny.â
âAye, sir.â He purred, thumbing the safety of his rifle absentmindedly.
The thrum of the fight still beat heavy in his chest. The bass let him know he was alive.
Hi! I am so excited! Please check out @callsign-meat this Saturday for a fic I wrote for @sleepy-dino12 (who you should commission IMMEDIATELY) using their OCs.
She got me out of a major writing slump and also you should check out the expressions on their characters and her lighting work on their pieces.
There's a reason I immediately framed and printed my comm.
Literally cried 3 times. Meat does such an amazing job with my characters, so much so I just toss them to her now. Amazing story telling without holding the readers hand, and having such emotions JUST RAH
Can't even express the level of talent with the writing, please go follow for amazing fics
I know you are resting but... Soap being obsessed with you wearing glasses.
Boy, I hope you meant smut. Anyway, I wrote this at 10:00 the day I got it (14 May) at work. My heart has never beat faster (least of all because I'm a glasses wearer).
Enjoy!
~*~*~*~
Soap had always said he loved you in glasses, and youâd always figured he was taking the piss - teasing you over the government issue frames youâd never bothered to replace after phase one. But youâd come home just hours earlier with new frames, more ecstatic about seeing the leaves on trees in detail than the plastic that allowed it to happen; and one look had Soap dragging you giggling and protesting into your bedroom.
âGod, look at you,â Soap breathed, one hand fisted in your hair, âlooking up at me with those pretty eyes.âÂ
Your only response was a soft choking noise as he rocked into your mouth, the tip of him sliding up and back. His other hand stroked your cheek, his thumb grazing the stem of your glasses. His eyes were locked on to yours - or, more accurately, on your glasses.Â
Heâd insisted you keep them on, his forehead creasing as his face collapsed into abject adoration when you sank to your knees by the edge of the bed.Â
âFuck,â he gasped, heavy lids betraying how badly he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, âthey look perfect on you. Make me feel like Iâm fuckinâ my English professor.âÂ
You pulled back with a wet slurp, quirking an eyebrow at the comparison. Soapâs other hand dropped from the crown of your head to frame the other side of your face. He guided you to once more swallow him, pressing you far enough down that your glasses pressed crookedly against his belly. All the while, you never took your eyes off of him. His hips thrust, careful and rhythmic. His breathing became more labored. You could feel him twitching and pulsing against your tongue.Â
âGod,â he breathed, âIâm gonna cum too fuckinâ quick with you looking at me like that.âÂ
You swallowed around his cock, urging him on. As you drew back to resume your rhythm, he abruptly pulled out, fisting himself viciously.Â
âDonât move,â he gasped, âdonât fuckinâ move.â You sat, tongue lolling obscenely over your lower lip as you waited patiently. Youâd expected him to cum in your mouth as he usually did.Â
But when he tensed and groaned, the first streak of jizz landed squarely over your left lens. And then another. His cock drooled out a few more fat dollops over the bridge of your frames as he languidly stroked himself, chest heaving.Â
âStay just like that,â he whispered one last time, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. With a grin, he rested his cock just so, snapping a picture. âGood girl,â he purred.Â
Summary: A pristine white box, tied up in a black satin bow, set carefully on their bed. Soap didn't dare get his hopes up. Could it be...?
Soap stared down at the white box tied in a satiny black bow.
It stared back.
He looked over his shoulder, certain Thea was punking him. But no. The flat was silent.
Going to get the messages. She had texted just thirty minutes prior. He had smiled at her use of Scottish Slang. His little American was certainly learning the lingo. Be back in a bit.
Cryptically, she had sent another message not long after. Don't worry about enjoying yourself while I'm gone.
He hadn't understood what she'd meant, then, but the box sat there, the ribbon begging him to slowly unwind its knot and let it fall open.
His heart pattered behind his ribs, his world narrowing to the fact that the crazy bitch had actually done it. She'd actually taken him seriously and bought him-
"You're takin' the piss." He murmured to himself, reaching with a trembling hand toward the box. "You've gotta be." He was hardly able to tug the ribbon. And indeed the bow fell apart with hardly a touch, opening itself to him with just the whisper of fabric on fabric. He carefully gripped the box and swept the ribbon on to the duvet.
He swallowed heavily as the plain, white, unassuming box stared back at him. He could have sworn there was sweat gathering above his eyebrows and upper lip as he wondered what sheâd bought him.
Satin? Lace? He felt his stomach tighten.
âWell, but-â He stepped back, turning on heel. âMaybe she wants me to wait.â He pulled out his phone. Her last message stared back at him. âCâmon, hen, gimme an out, here.â He croaked. âI donât know if Iâm ready.â
But a part of him was absolutely ready. He tugged at his jeans, shifting his rapidly hardening cock to a more comfortable position. âOkay.â He took a deep breath. âOkay, câmon Johnny boy.â
He turned back to the box, gripping the top and wrenching it upwards. He paused, blinking rapidly as his brain caught up with his vision. Crisp white tissue paper, with a careful gold sticker holding it together.
âGoddammit.â He carefully laid the lid beside the box. Swallowed again as he tried to delicately peel the sticker off before giving in and hooking his finger underneath, tearing the tissue paper with a satisfying rip.
Each half unfolded beautifully, revealing a charcoal black, lace pair of panties laid out in a nest of more tissue paper.
Soapâs mouth went dry.
ââŚI love her.â He croaked. âI do, I love her.â He carefully scooped the panties into his grasp, marveling at the delicate lacework as it pooled over his palms. He swept his thumbs over the waistband - not elastic, but yet more stretchy lace. ââŚfuck.â He murmured.
Pinching the waistband between his forefingers and thumbs, he held the panties up in front of him. He bit back a groan, taking another deep, unsteady breath.
âFuck it.â He dropped them back to the duvet, reaching for his belt and fumbling to shuck down both trousers and pants, hardly able to kick off his shoes before struggling to get them off. His shirt was next, thrown haphazardly behind him.
His breathing was unusually shallow as he once more picked up the panties. His abs clenched and he had to stop himself from simply fisting the delicate thing over his cock.
He took two steps to their floor length mirror, studying himself for half a moment. âAm I really going to do this?â He whispered. But the insistent twitch and drip of his already painfully hard cock told him he didnât have a choice any longer.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. And he was stepping into those panties, nearly tripping over himself in his eagerness. As the lace settled with a soft caress against the lines of his hipbones, the swell of his ass, the rigid length of his cock he let out a groan, one hand caressing his abs as he threw his head back.
âOh shit, thatâs good.â He let out an overwhelmed chuckle, gathering himself just enough to look at himself in the mirror. The hand whispering over his abs sent a jolt through him, and he realized with embarrassing clarity that he was very, very close.
He once more dragged a hand over his abs, muscles leaping as he turned. Heâd always been proud of his arse, but held like this it lookedâŚ
âFuck-â His other hand came up to grip the base of his cock through his panties, trying to stave off the inevitable. But his eyes were snagged on the contrast of black against skin in the mirror. That was all it took.
He let out a shuddering gasp and one last moan as he came, practically untouched. He lowered himself gently to the ground, knees spread, and leaned back on his haunches, his hand moving of its own accord. He could feel the pearlescent liquid seeping through the fabric and on to his hands, ruining his brand new gift just minutes after donning it.
âFucking⌠JesusâŚâ He gasped, leaning heavily against one hand as he sat, the last aftershocks of what had to be the fastest, hardest orgasm of his life wracking him.
He once more dared to look at the mirror, squeezing his too-sensitive cock just to watch another dribble of white bubble through and over the lace. âJesusâŚâ he repeated, blue eyes all the brighter. âI canât take these off.â
âYou shouldnât.â Thea piped up. Soap whipped his head around, eyes wide. âDidnât even make it to the bra, eh?â She chuckled, admiring the view from where she stood curled around the doorframe.
âThe what?â Soap croaked.
âThe bra.â She unwrapped herself from the wooden jamb and sauntered toward the bed, sitting primly on the edge and rifling through the box. She hooked her fingers around the bra straps, holding it out for him to admire. âOh, lookie there.â Thea giggled, staring pointedly at his messy crotch. âLooks like youâre already hard again.â
She stood, cool hands guiding him to once more face the mirror. His skin was on fire, every careful caress sending sparks down his spine.
âArms forward.â Her voice had dropped to a smoky purr as she guided the bra over his well-muscled arms and over his broad shoulders. The thin straps cut into his skin ever so slightly before she adjusted them. Her hands brushed his pecs as she settled the matching bra over them, nails running over his suddenly sensitive nipples as they passed.
âNow,â Thea fastened the hooks behind him. âarms down, handsome.â
Soap did so mechanically, throat working as he tried to find something to say. But all he managed was, âIâm so fucking hard right now.â
âYeah?â Theaâs hands glided down his sides. He shuddered, licking his lips as he watched her pale skin play over the lace waistband of his panties. Her lips brushed over the skin between his shoulder blades, nails dragging downward over his thighs.
His hand shot out, bracing him against the mirror as he desperately fought the urge to once more sink to his knees.
âThat good, huh?â Thea teased, her nails dragging up toward his once more desperately hard cock. Soft finger pads grazed his balls before she pulled away completely. He watched her reflection retreat toward the bed.
âOn your back, darling.â She swept the box to the floor, patting the plush duvet. She stood at the foot of the bed expectantly as he processed what she was saying. He scrambled on to the bed, shuffling upward toward the headboard. Thea chuckled, eyes sparkling as she took him in, thighs already spread.
âGo on,â she sat primly on the edge of the mattress. Her next words sent an unreasonable amount of blood rushing southward as her eyes raked over his body, âtouch yourself.â
His teeth grazed his lower lip as he reached up to roll his nipple between his fingers. His eyes were trained on her. His chest heaved as each touch dragged lace featherlight against him. He tugged at the bra, leaving his nipple rock hard underneath. The fabric snapped back against his skin when he didnât release it right away.
âGood?â Thea breathed, lips parted as she watched him repeat the action on the other side. He couldnât speak, only let out a muffled moan in the affirmative. Brown skin darkened and puckered as he continued. He fought the urge to cant his hips upwards, instead dragging his thighs together, pressing them tight. He sighed, finally allowing his eyes to flutter shut as they rolled back.
His hand once more tickled its way over his abs, fingers leaping over taut skin as his head lolled to the side.
âGo on.â Thea urged, and he felt the mattress shift as she moved closer. He groaned deep in his chest as he reached under his waistband. The caress of lace over his knuckles made his hand spasm over his overheated length.
âNot gonna last long?â She teased as his hand moved too quickly over himself.
âNngh-â He replied intelligently, face heating as his eyes screwed shut, his balls tightening. He wrenched his eyes open, once more sucking in a surprised gasp as he found Thea watching, cheeks flushed and eyes trained on his hand. âFuck, donât look at me like that.â He whimpered.
âLike what?â
âLike youâre gonna lick if off of me after.â His hand tightened, unfair as it avoided his sensitive head.
âIâm going to.â She replied.
That did it. He only lasted a few more pumps, vicious and tight. His stomached caved as he came, just three milky stripes escaping to paint upward toward his bellybutton.
Thea didnât wait for him to relax, or withdraw his hand. Her tongue was on him, eyes wide and watching him as she cleaned his sweat-beaded skin.
No sound escaped him, though he was certain his mouth once more formed the necessary components for one last blasphemous oath.
With a Cheshire grin, Thea crawled over him. Her lips descended on his, soft and plush, and she murmured against his mouth, âGood boy.â
FIN
Initially I wasn't going to post this to Tumblr but I just... thought you all would enjoy it. I'm horrifically embarrassed.
It's finally finished â¤ď¸ I had so much fun working on it. It started as a birthday gift/kind of a joke, but one thing led to another and..... There we go đ Tac gear, red lights and hidden faces make me go a little feral, so I guess it's a win win
If you're interested, you can find the nsfw and alt (bloody) versions here â¤ď¸
Summary: Which MacTavish was even going to get this letter? Did it matter what Ghost wrote? Did it matter how he really felt about one soldier?
Word Count: 260
~*~*~*~
The Scotland that Soap described was green. Always green. Verdant, and dotted with pinks and blues; overrun with the national flower as if it were his own special slice of heaven.
John MacTavish was a man indelibly from Scotland. Delete.
It was the Scotland they saw from the cliffs when they laid him to rest - scattered on the wind of a country he'd proudly represented.
Johnny was as Scottish as they come. Delete.
But they knew better than to believe it was HIS Scotland.
John MacTavish has fought bravely for Queen and Country since he was seventeen. Delete.
When Ghost sat, drafting the letter of condolences to a MacTavish he'd never met - to a MacTavish about whom Johnny rarely spoke - he tried to think less of thistle and more of sky-blue eyes. Of shaved, gelled hair. Of righteous fury and the flaming sword held in one saint's hand. Though this sword was that of the SAS.
He was my friend. Delete.
What adjectives could a family possibly want read in a letter that ended with the fact that their son, their brother, or whatever he happened to be to them, was dead? Shot in the brain that calculated so quickly and yet not quickly enough to avoid the inevitable?
âŚstupid, bull-headed, stubborn mule of a man who couldn't be damned to stay safe if others were in danger- Delete delete delete.
Five aborted attempts left Ghost hollowed out. Finally, at 02:42, he put to page the only words he felt were the truth:
I would have died for him. I'm sorry he beat me to it.
