thesoggyn00dle

[thesoggyn00dle]

double art repost because i put my whole ass into these two pieces 🙏🍑

and also i feel bad for not drawing/posting anything new in a while, sorry... lately i've been burned out on both creativity and life. :(

anyway first drawing was inspired by the mv for flavor foley's song "water the roses." second drawing was because i saw a cool nature photo and wanted to paint it. here's the ref photo:

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modern au!ramsay only wears filthy band shirts, smokes a pack a day and loves getting disgusting tattoos to scare the normies

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Sermon on the 'Mount

couple years back i did a drawing for each episode of south park season 26 so i said; "what the hell, i'll do it again." so here we are, 2 days after the premiere of season 27

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it's ...! angelocaris!

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Car trip to a music festival!! Inspired by my very own experience last week, haha. Cartman's been relentlessly changing the radio station for the past thirty minutes and it's getting really annoying 😂

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the farmer's fallen and they can't get up 😔

(inspo is this drawing by @/deadmaidclub)

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[ Artfight 2025 ] [15]

Blade-Beaked Beast

for CorruptedFox

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What really ticks me off when talking about ai is when people are like "it's unavoidable" or "you'll have to learn to use it someday" or "its going to be part of the future" like no it's plenty avoidable actually if you have a spine stronger than a dandelion. You simply say "no" and continue to use your own goddamn brain.

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yuri thramsay my beloved

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Another wip I had laying around. I cannot write a good accent for the life of me but uh. I tried. Sort of.

Pining Ghoap and recreational drug use under the cut 💕

They're at a club. Simon doesn't know whose idea it was to have a group of ptsd-riddled soldiers go out partying, but Soap and Gaz had been thrilled by the opportunity. Young and rowdy.

Price had declined, citing the mountains of paperwork he had to attend to as well as being “too fucking old for that shit, boys.” Simon thinks he should've done the same, but Johnny had been there grinning ear to ear and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

He'd asked him, “You'll come with us, won't you, Lt?”

Gaz had looked at his MacTavish as though he'd sprouted a second head. Ghost doesn't leave his room at the best of times, let alone to go clubbing with his sergeants, both at least 6 years his junior. Yet Simon had agreed before he'd even processed opening his mouth.

Humiliating.

So here he is, lingering stiffly by the bar and nursing his fourth bourbon of the night. He watches centennial as Johnny muscles his way through the dancefloor, moving as naturally to the beat as he does when ducking an oncoming attack in the field.

Women brush up against the sergeant not-so-subtly, along with a few brave men. His sergeant smiles at them, brilliant and kind, his too-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. It makes Ghost a little queasy, seeing all those people so close. It would be nothing for someone to sink a knife between Soap’s ribs and melt into the crowd. So Ghost watches. Always watches Johnny's six, even off duty.

The song changes and a new bass line thumps through the building, making it so even the bar stools vibrate. Ghost grimaces. He looks down at his empty whiskey glass on the counter before raising his hand in a lazy, two-fingered wave.

Another, bartender.

His fifth drink slides into place promptly, leaving a trail of condensation in its wake. He makes a mental note to leave a generous tip for the young lass working the bar, for both keeping his glass full and not questioning why a burly, masked military man is skulking around her bar.

When he turns back to the crowd, Gaz and Soap have found each other in the throng. They're both flushed and sweaty, haloed in neon light. MacTavish has to lean in close, lips nearly touching the other sergeants' ear as he shouts something lost to the music. Gaz blinks, then bursts into laughter, throwing his head back with the force of it. They conspire for another moment before Ghost sees them scanning the crowd, seeking him out. Soap catches his eyes first, waving enthusiastically, his lips moving in vain as the Scottish brogue is lost to the chaos.

Gaz spots Ghost as well, offering a cheeky smile and a nod before punching Soap in the shoulder and mouthing more silent words. Johnny flushes, snapping back irritably before pushing through the crowd towards Simon.

“Lt!” He calls once he's in earshot.

“Johnny,” Simon replies, fighting valiantly to repress an indulgent smile behind his gaiter.

“Yer like a bump on a log over here! Ye didn't have to come if ye didn’y want, ye ken?” The younger man rubs the back of his neck, striking an uncanny resemblance to a scolded dog. “I'm sorry if I cornered ye intae anythin’. Wasn't my intention, sir.”

“Johnny,” Simon’s tone is dry, “When have you ever seen me do anything I didn't want to do?"

Soap considers this, the tension in his shoulders melting away.

“Aye, sir, ye got me there.” He tilts his head, mirth dancing in his eyes. “So yer perfectly content brooding by the bar, are ye?”

“As a pig in shit.” He drawls, pulling his mask down with one finger and sipping at his drink.

He can't help but notice the way his subordinate’s eyes track the movement, lingering on his scarred skin with rapt attention. It makes him want to curl up and hide. Shame, disgust, embarrassment. He pretends not to have clocked the attention.

“Ye dinnae wanna smoke a spliffy with me, do ye, Lt?” The younger man blurts, still staring at Ghost's chin despite the gaiter having been pulled back into place.

The lieutenant blinks. Watches his sergeant flush, first pink and then a splotchy, regretful red, that blooms like bruises under his dark stubble. It's much more distracting than it has any right to be, which is his first indication that his liquor is metabolizing faster than he thought.

He stands, sliding off his stool and squinting until the room comes back into focus, which is his second indication that he's rather drunk.

Soap looks like he's steeling himself for a stern reprimand, eyes downcast, posture straightening into a half-hazard parade rest out of habit.

“Aw’right,” Ghost agrees, clapping his friend on the shoulder. Johnny stumbles with the force of it, eyes wide.

“Really?” He gapes, but Simon is already pushing through the crowd and making his way to the exit.

The street light casts a wheat-gold glow on Johnny's hands as he lights the joint pressed between his lips. His fingers are thick, but still delicate and precise, battered with scars and calluses. A dark smattering of hair rests between each knuckle. The club music is still ringing sharply out into the night, though not enough to hammer at the base of Simon's skull, anymore. He likes it better out here. Much better.

“I can't believe ye agreed tae this,” Soap huffs giddily, passing the now lit joint to his commanding officer.

“No need to cream yer drawers, Mactavish,” Simon snorts. “It's been a while, but I was fun too, once.”

“Aye,” the Scot agrees, eyes bright and pleased. “Bet ye were a right menace, Lt.”

Ghost pulls the cloud in deep, savoring the distantly familiar burn in his lungs. The smoke feels thick and heady on his tongue, similar yet so different from the cigarettes he sneaks onto base. Recently, he'd made a habit of sharing those cigarettes with his sergeant. The two would sit together in silence on the rooftop whenever Soap couldn't sleep, passing the cherry back and forth in the dark.

So many rules Simon has already bent for this man. He hadn't realized it for a dog's age, and by the time he did, well... it was already too late.

To the point where, when Johnny had offered up the joint, Ghost thought, Fuck it, what's another rule broken?

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Figured I might start posting some old, abandoned writing on tumblr in case anyone enjoys it!

Wintersberg + gore below the cut 🖤

"Y'know Papa, you had spunk! Too bad it wasn't enough to save little Rosie, huh?" Karl drawls in that laissez-faire tone of his, dropping to a crouch by Ethan Winter's corpse. Or, almost-corpse.

The man raises his head with considerable effort, smacking his skull back against the concrete wall he lies prone against with a dull thud. Looks up at Heisenberg with miserable, stormy blue eyes.

"Fuck you," he hisses, "You keep my daughter's name out of your mouth."

The old lord cocks his head in cold assessment, then grins. "Bold words from a man on death's door, wouldn't you say?"

Winters sneers, "Was that your plan all along? To bait me into that Lycan pit with promises of answers and aide, hoping they'd take care of me for you?"

The blonde pauses to take a labored breath, thick dark blood soaking his side, partially congealed like black paint.

"You're a fucking coward, Heisenberg. I expected more from Miranda's prodigal son."

Karl shakes his head, tutting mildly.

"Ethan, Ethan, you've got me all wrong! I wanted to help you, really. For us to help each other!" 

Then he hums, put-out, "I suppose now, though, I'll be moving forward with the plan alone."

The mutant rolls his shoulders, straightening from where he'd leant curiously over Ethan's crumpled form. 

"Just need to get my hands on that kiddo of yours," he mutters absently. 

"You leave her alone! She's just a baby!" Ethan shouts, lunging at the older man, but succeeding only in stumbling a mere step before collapsing against Heisenberg.

The monstrous lord catches him easily, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other snug around his gored waist. Calloused, broad fingers dig into the wound, sinking through the hole in his side and into viscera. 

"Agh! FUCK!" Winters chokes on a garbled scream.

"Easy there," Heisenberg chortles, voice distinctly lacking in sympathy.

His glasses have slid down his nose, revealing eerie yellow eyes that sparkle with inhuman flecks of gold. The fingers in Ethan's guts flex absently, stroking hot, wet gore.

"Hhnngah," Ethan cries out.

Caught between struggling away from the pain and passing out, the belligerent father slumps his forehead onto Karl's shoulder, forcing his abdomen out of reach as his knees give way.

Heisenberg's bloodsoaked hands loop under Ethan's armpits in the nick of time, halting him from slumping into a boneless heap on the ground. 

"Alright, liebling," Heisenberg sweeps him into a humiliating bridal carry, and Ethan is trying to open his mouth to yell at him, to fight back, but his spotty vision is rapidly fading.

"Put… put me… dow-n.." he hisses, before darkness overcomes him.

---

It's not uncommon for Heisenberg to find himself lugging around corpses, but this one is particularly fresh. Ethan's body is cool in his arms, but not cold, and his limbs are limp and pliable like a doll. Looking down at his face, closed eyes with strawberry blonde lashes fanning over sickly pale cheeks, the lord can almost imagine that the man is merely asleep.

The bodies that Karl typically encounters have died with their eyes open, faces frozen in eternal shock and terror. They're ghoulish. Easy to handle as objects because there's nothing left inside. They bore him, up until the point that he modifies them to his liking.

Even the townspeople bored him when they were alive. A bunch of sheep in Miranda's flock, going willingly to the slaughter. Pious, fearful, and weak. Small.

Winters might’ve been physically small, but beneath his unassuming appearance was a strong-willed and determined creature. Vicious in pursuing its single-minded goal -- to save little Rose. He'd impressed Heisenberg more than the lord would like to admit. He wouldn't offer to team up with just anybody, after all.

His death was disappointing. Very disappointing.

Oh well! To shrug off the strange feeling building in his gut as he looks down at dear, deceased Papa, Heisenberg pulls him up and over his shoulder into a fireman's carry. Can't see his pretty face this way.

When they get back to the factory, Karl lays Ethan down on a cold metal table. There was something strange about Winters, something that gave him a superior healing factor (and phenomenally good luck). Heisenberg is going to find out what it was, and more importantly, if it could still be of use to him.

He starts by cutting Ethan out of his shirt. The fabric is disgusting, crusted with blood and viscera, mold, and all manners of shit. It splits easily under his knife, exposing swaths of moon-pale skin, nearly translucent from blood loss. The dead man doesn't have much body hair, and what he does have is downy and blonde, only really visible when it catches the light.

Winters looks delicate, exposed on Heisenberg's operating table. It's hard to believe he's the same man who took down all of Karl's siblings. That was the beauty of Ethan Winters, Karl thinks, There was always more to him than meets the eye. With that in mind, the lord begins to examine the wound on the man's side.

Karl notes almost immediately that it's not nearly as deep as it felt when he'd been digging his dirty fingers inside of the man, earlier. He could've sworn he'd felt organs, but this wound is only deep enough to penetrate muscle and fatty tissue. It's still a gnarly gash. About four inches wide, it spans from the bottom of his ribs and across his abdomen to end just shy of his navel. There's the white flash of bone showing on his flank.

The next notable detail is that Ethan's blood isn't red. It's black. Heisenberg had thought it was the lighting before, but now, rubbing the fluid between his fingers leaves a wash of sickly grey like the grease he uses for his machines.

"Huh." the lord mumbles to himself.

He sniffs the filthy digits once, then twice. The liquid reeks, making him wrinkle his sensitive nose in disgust. It smells like dirt and decay, like Miranda's goddamn megamycete, only sharper. The association makes the hairs on the back of neck stand up.

He glances at Winters again, examining the wound skeptically. Ethan's exposed rib has disappeared. Where the bone was showing is now enveloped by dark muscle tissue, and the longer he stares, the more Karl believes he can see it growing. Healing. There's a twitch, and the dead man's fingers move.

Karl steps back, crossing his arms over his chest just as the man on his operating table bursts back to life.

Coughing and gasping, Ethan shoots upwards into a sitting position, fingers scrabbling for purchase against cold metal. His pale blue eyes flicker around desperately. Winters' pulse is racing like a prey animal and Karl can feel the hum of life on the air, can taste it on the back of his tongue.

Ethan's hands flutter about his own naked chest. Whether it's for his shirt or his weapons, Karl doesn't know, but he no longer has either. Finally, the man looks up at his gracious host with a furrow between his brows. Heisenberg smiles.

"Looks like you just don't know when to quit, hm?"

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housewives were not banging out spirk fanfiction in the 60s for you to be AI generating your fic

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im joining the war on gross disgusting pornographic content on the side of gross disgusting pornographic content

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women inside of men

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Old Shane I made for a friend that I never got around to posting..

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