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WIP update - getting there slowly but surely

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I’m so proud of this

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Study - 27/04/2024

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Value study and learning to use textured brushes.

Am happy with it so far :D

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The story behind the drawing: it’s a photograph on the wall at the jazz club ‘Limitless’.

(just need to finish the right hand 😭😭😭😭)

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Jazz singer Gojo

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A Hollow Soul (Chapter One WIP)

Summary:

Dying was easy. Living in a new world is hellish.

But Harry does what he does best - endure and survive.

Snippet:

They’re not what they should be. Haru has heard these words on two separate occasions. The meaning behind them, during each time, offers distinct implications that can either be a grave insult or a minor annoyance. The words are simple enough; in the singular moment of them being said, they slide off one’s tongue as easily as drinking water after a long day in the sun. There is no tinge of desperation attached to them, no instances of them choking on the cool liquid as they rush to save themselves from dehydration. This is despite the hours and hours of the words baking in the heat of their mouth. The reason: the ingredient of truth attached. It mixes with ‘they’re not what they should be’ until it's beaten and well combined, until it’s cooked to the perfect temperature. Only then it is released. The first instance of the words being spoken is from his mother. Haru does not recall what age he was at the time, but he remembers how small he was and the feeling that rose from within him. Each attempt to stand on his stubby legs to gain some height was met with failure and a throb in his backside with every fall. Looking up to examine his surroundings was his sole option. The vastness of the room, the objects within it and the people stomping about prevented him from getting a closer look. Even straining his neck to its full extent did not help.

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Writing Requests

Feel free to send me prompts related to:

Naruto

Witcher

Call of Duty

Harry Potter

JJK

and I’ll write them when I can.

If you would like to see my writing style, look into my AO3 or WIPs on Tumblr.

Status: Open

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Names Beneath Scars - Chapter Two

Summary: Soap thought the job would be easy; infiltrate and escape with valuable info. The attached price tag should've raised some alarm bells, but for a million dollars all he could hear was silence. 

But he never expected to meet his soulmate here.

Not in the group he is meant to betray.

Pairings: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: Mature

Tags (for now): Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks

Snippet:

If Soap was anyone else, the faint voice – easily overwhelmed by the orchestra of birds playing their afternoon tune – would have fallen on the deaf ears of someone lost in thought. The years of constant alertness, and lack of sleep, have made Soap more susceptible to various sounds – footsteps being one of them. Previous missions, especially those in extreme environments, seem to amplify all steps and make it easier to know when someone is trying to attack him. Take the snowy fields of Alaska – another infiltration mission – where the crisp, freshly laid silence was easily broken by the crunch of heavy-duty snow boots. In this case, it isn’t the thick military shoes that drive Soap away from his daydreaming. He has heard steps of all kinds moving past the door, from the light and airy strides of those with a smaller frame to the hefty thuds that bounce off the acoustic walls. So, as he reminisced on the loss of his lighter, pushing thoughts of Riley away, the crack of the door hinge being strained to its limit reached him. He paid it no mind; an intruder would have tried to cover all sounds, but this person wanted their presence to be known. Soap, still opening and closing the lid of cigarettes, is not naïve enough to believe that there is no danger here. He can feel the danger wrapping around his neck like a snake, tightening to leave bruises and waiting for him to take that final breath.

Continue to read on AO3

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Ghost Headcanon #1

Ghost’s comfort food is bread. Just plain white bread. No butter. No jam. No luxuries during his childhood. He eats it after a stressful day or nibbles on it when injured in the infirmary. But then, a new type of bread appears in his bag - rye bread. Then another, tiger bread, waits for him on his seat during a meeting. No one else says anything. Not even Laswell as he pulls up his mask to munch on the piece. A white roll. Ciabatta. Sourdough. All types. In places he is expected. Ghost eats them, knowing the culprits are the team he considers family.

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Lost Treasures - Short Story (GhostSoap)

There is no distinct end to the waves of sand; the countless dunes, formed by piling individual grains of sand through the strength of scorching winds, create an eternal limbo. At times, Ghost finds himself having to look upwards, the horizon line separating the burnt umber and the cloudless, blue sky. But, depending on the time of day, he finds his vision filled with ever-growing sandy slopes as the sun repels his gaze with the threat of blindness. The result is Ghost feeling as if someone dipped a brush into the multiple shades of the dune and stained his eyes with layers of their colours. The first layer is the offbeat orange which the sand takes as its primary colour; the second is the dark, brown shadows that offer no coolness when standing in its shelter; the final is the highlighted yellows that shift to avoid the silhouette of the dune’s natural gnomon.

The only thing Ghost can fixate on to spare himself the delirium of days in the Sahara is Soap. The shorter man stands further ahead, but the heat and their visible waves distort the true distance between them. Maybe here Ghost’s words can be said, escaping his mouth covered by a thin balaclava, before evaporating along with the beads of sweat dribbling through his hair. They will be as lost to Soap as the mighty statues of Ozymandias, now probably broken and minuscule pieces succeeding to blow themselves into every crevice of Ghost’s clothes. It won’t take long for ‘I love you’ to be buried alongside them. Another treasure lost in the sea of dunes.

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GhostSoap Prompt #1

Here me out – a GhostSoap modern fantasy AU where magical familiars exist. The only thing is Soap has failed to call anything, despite his lineage of powerful summoners. One day, his photography professor, John Price, persuades Soap to take a leather book and says he will return for it. Hours later, Price’s disappearance is announced on university forums and his familiar, a hellhound, is found cowering in fear – the fifth missing person’s case in three weeks.

Out of curiosity, Soap opens the book to find an odd variation of the summoner’s chant – the standard spell used by everyone to beckon their familiar. Soap says it aloud, and against all expectations, a humanoid figure arises from the shadows.

Ghost has returned, bringing with him a tale of vengeance, murder, and maybe even love.

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GhostSoap Headcanon #2

Ghost keeps a small, worn shoe box filled with precious items from his childhood. It was the safest place for them as a kid and continues to be as an adult. Soap stumbles upon it and finds trinkets of everything. From movie tickets from their first date to the single bullet that almost killed Soap, all alongside broken green soldier toys and a ripped teddy.

Soap places a gold ring inside, knowing that it is the perfect place to keep it protected before discovery.

What Soap does not know is that Ghost got the knife, the one Soap used to survive in the streets of Las Almas, melted and made into two silver engagement rings...

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GhostSoap Headcanon #1

When a bout of insomnia hits Ghost, he places his head on Soap’s chest – counting the steady beats to remind himself where he is/who he is with. Soap’s loud snoring is Ghost’s lullaby, and the rise and fall of his chest is Ghost’s rocking chair. It soothes his anxiousness. Ghost is safe. He is finally home.

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I just finished writing the chapter ;-;

Onto editing it, I go

Names Beneath Scars - Chapter 2 WIP

TW: None

Snippet:

Soap can’t find his lighter. The hindrance – despite being a very minor one – causes him to grit his teeth together and allow air to escape the gaps in a hissed breath. He recalls placing it in the left zipper pocket of his trousers, the tiny thing knocking against his keys and used tissues accumulated over the past few days of moving. But, the minute he dug his hand into his oversized pocket, brushing past the wrapper of his favourite Cadbury chocolate or the written note of directions to his room, the lighter’s existence vanished. It was cheap, is his first thought, attempting to soothe his need for a nicotine rush. He bought it at some random corner shop where the owner, dubbed ‘Boss Man’ by the younger crowd of customers, was placing up Union Jacks to appeal to the foreign tourists bustling down the streets outside. Some tourists, wearing sun hats despite the lack of such, strolled over to the main window display and eyed the miniature trinkets of bright red buses. Or poked their heads through the open door to view the ceramic plates with the Royal family emblem engraved. Soap ignored all, including the youngsters huddled together in a corner, trying out the latest flavour of vapes.

It was the vivid green colour of the lighter which caught Soap’s attention; a neon toxicity in all its hue. There is nothing special about the specific colour. No sentimental meaning which grips him. He just likes it. The brightness of it. And now it’s gone.

Shoulders sagging in frustration, Soap sits on one of the slanted beach chairs placed outside in what he assumes to be the smoking area. It isn’t a bad place; a little dingy perhaps as it’s found at one corner of the compound where Soap had to squeeze through a slightly broken door to step outside. It must have been a lovely garden in the past as remnants of plant pots – all in different sizes and shapes – litter the ground. Soap wonders what sort of flowers were brought here, were the colours as intense as the lighter he lost? He has no way of knowing, not when death has touched the withered stems and the pretty petals were consumed by growing weeds. In the midst of all the large vegetation, is a singular bucket with the words ‘DISPOSED BUTTS HERE’ written in a black marker. Members of the 141 must have taken that direction seriously, as no cigarette waste is found on the surrounding floor. Good on them for being environmentalists, he thinks, humouring himself while fiddling with the lid of the Marlboro Gold packet. Soap, repeatedly opening and closing the lid, gazes past the long grass and trees to see if he can spot parts of the town. The compound is situated on a hill which should allow Soap to see the shape of semi-detached houses or the large Tesco’s close by.

Chapter to be up by the end of the week.

Read first chapter here

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Names Beneath Scars - Chapter 2 WIP

TW: None

Snippet:

Soap can’t find his lighter. The hindrance – despite being a very minor one – causes him to grit his teeth together and allow air to escape the gaps in a hissed breath. He recalls placing it in the left zipper pocket of his trousers, the tiny thing knocking against his keys and used tissues accumulated over the past few days of moving. But, the minute he dug his hand into his oversized pocket, brushing past the wrapper of his favourite Cadbury chocolate or the written note of directions to his room, the lighter’s existence vanished. It was cheap, is his first thought, attempting to soothe his need for a nicotine rush. He bought it at some random corner shop where the owner, dubbed ‘Boss Man’ by the younger crowd of customers, was placing up Union Jacks to appeal to the foreign tourists bustling down the streets outside. Some tourists, wearing sun hats despite the lack of such, strolled over to the main window display and eyed the miniature trinkets of bright red buses. Or poked their heads through the open door to view the ceramic plates with the Royal family emblem engraved. Soap ignored all, including the youngsters huddled together in a corner, trying out the latest flavour of vapes.

It was the vivid green colour of the lighter which caught Soap’s attention; a neon toxicity in all its hue. There is nothing special about the specific colour. No sentimental meaning which grips him. He just likes it. The brightness of it. And now it’s gone.

Shoulders sagging in frustration, Soap sits on one of the slanted beach chairs placed outside in what he assumes to be the smoking area. It isn’t a bad place; a little dingy perhaps as it’s found at one corner of the compound where Soap had to squeeze through a slightly broken door to step outside. It must have been a lovely garden in the past as remnants of plant pots – all in different sizes and shapes – litter the ground. Soap wonders what sort of flowers were brought here, were the colours as intense as the lighter he lost? He has no way of knowing, not when death has touched the withered stems and the pretty petals were consumed by growing weeds. In the midst of all the large vegetation, is a singular bucket with the words ‘DISPOSED BUTTS HERE’ written in a black marker. Members of the 141 must have taken that direction seriously, as no cigarette waste is found on the surrounding floor. Good on them for being environmentalists, he thinks, humouring himself while fiddling with the lid of the Marlboro Gold packet. Soap, repeatedly opening and closing the lid, gazes past the long grass and trees to see if he can spot parts of the town. The compound is situated on a hill which should allow Soap to see the shape of semi-detached houses or the large Tesco’s close by.

Chapter to be up by the end of the week.

Read first chapter here

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Names Beneath Scars - Chapter One

Summary: Soap thought the job would be easy; infiltrate and escape with valuable info. The attached price tag should've raised some alarm bells, but for a million dollars all he could hear was silence. 

But he never expected to meet his soulmate here.

Not in the group he is meant to betray.

Pairings: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: Mature

Tags (for now): Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks

Snippet:

It looks empty . Although Soap masks his surprise at the obscure sight of his new – shared – room. He was told that the other resident had been living in this place for approximately two years, but there are little to no signs of another life even stepping past the door. It seems as if Soap’s packed boxes – the brown cardboard sealed with multiple layers of shitty tape – are the first proof of a person moving in here. This is ignoring the very few indicators of another presence, like the creases on the second, made bed from the duvet not being spread out properly. Or the pillow having a distinctive dent from a head resting on it after many fruitful nights. Soap’s own presence and personal items appear to overwhelm the space, even his footsteps through the door stamp out the strange stillness, unable to hear the chatter of his neighbours or the crude laughs from those making their way into the lunch hall down the corridor. Despite this, Soap glances over the room given to him and the oddities attached to it; he makes a note of how the dull grey shade is spread with at least one coat of paint, appearing to reveal the ageing brick walls when light hits it at a certain angle. Pieces of modern tech, the only visible possession belonging to his roommate, with its neon blue light, attempts to brighten two corners of the room and causes a stinging sensation in Soap’s eyes. The precise placement of some tech, such as the half-opened laptop, exposes a sense of detachment as if the owner does not care about its safety. That it can always be replaced, like the brandless water bottle which sits close enough to be spilt on the light-up keyboard. The harshness of the colours, combined with the blackout curtains draped over the only window, are like needles tattooing their image into his eyes. The sensation only gets more and more cruel as he continues to step into the room. His first aim should be to turn on the light bulb, it’s resting somewhere on the wall to his side, where he would have to pat several times to feel the distinctive bump of the switch. Soap finds himself craving natural rays from the sun, as it is one of the rare, sunny days in London. He wants to make the most of it. Thankfully, navigating a room half concealed in darkness is the easiest part of this task. Soap would have usually considered this very odd of him to do so. Doing something as simple as this, he means. No enemy is hiding in the dark, with a knife ready to use against him.

Continue to read on AO3

(posted this a while ago, but did not post it here)