More Digital Practice, This Time With Red.

Duke(King)dom Fae AU

Beginnings

Continuation

Pets || oneshot + very beautiful art by @just-a-little-nut 💕🫶🏼 || Glowy the Moth + cutest glowy art by @grombs-blog

Jealousy

Bathtime

Adored Humanity

Softness (not canon compliant)

The Pets vs Queen Mother

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

"Y'know let me just-."

Falls over onto my growing piles of WIPs, before going absolutely feral.

Super proud about how these came out.

I haven’t technically watched South Park, (I’ve seen some of the movies a and few episodes, might watch the full thing at some point) but I super like Tweek and Craig’s dynamic and their relationship.

So I had to make some fanart of them =D

Below is just some close ups.

-

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.

Been super into Harry Potter again lately, and I couldn’t resist making some fanart.

(Also apparently the pattern on the Slytherin stands is really hard to find a reference for [at least for me] so sorry if the pattern isn’t right, lmao)

I'm so normal about him your honour, I swear

Soap Being Soap

Okay, so I have made a decision, it is probably an extremely dumb decision, but I'm gonna do it anyways.

I've never done one of those month, long prompts before. So I wanted to try my hand at one. So I'm gonna try to do a bunch of Flufftober prompts.

So, um. Yeah.

*Loudly plays the triangle*

C'mon and get y'alls kustard.

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.)

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.