It's My 1 Year Anniversary On Tumblr

Gonna try my luck on tumblr again with cod fanart? I feel like nobody who follows me on my other platforms cares for my interest in cod so maybe I'll get new people here? Hello? Pls

This is all I've got so far cause I have no push to draw more fanart when nobody cares about it haha

Did you pray?

No no no Because I loved the Fae!141 so much! It was far less them just liking her for looking kind of fae and way more reader becoming sort of more confident. The fae get-up is just a tool for her to use. The boys are attracted to it becase 1) jewelry like that is sick as fuck and who doesn't love a dressed up girl? Like??? And 2) they respect how shes adapting and playing the court.

Its amazing no matter how you read it, much love ❤️💕♥️💗💖

The duality

Ghostie I may not have watched it but I am an ex-mormon sooooo

any secret lives of mormon wives watchers on here?

i’m on season 2 and shits actually crazy

I love the concept of Tooks. "Everybody in the Shire is very very businesslike and respectable and has no use for adventures except for this one entire family of mad lads who also run the municipal government"

Thinking about !Butcher Simon Riley with his sweet regular customer..

Simon Riley who doesn’t believe in starting over. Not really. Retired from the military, he’d traded one kind of blood for another. The butcher shop wasn’t much—small place tucked in the corner of Manchester, no fancy signage, no bright lights—but the regulars came. You came. Twice a week, Wednesdays and Fridays like clockwork.

Simon Riley—your butcher—moves with a kind of brutal grace behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms cut from marble and hard labor. You watch him work the cleaver like it’s an extension of his body. Focused. Calm. Every slice is deliberate, clean, respectful. There’s no waste in his motion, no hesitation in his hands.

You tell yourself it’s just the way he works—but your heart tells you otherwise. It stutters every time he glances up and catches you staring. You always look away too fast.

He’s seen things, you can tell. Something in the set of his shoulders, in the way he carries silence like a second skin. They say he was military once, but no one in the neighborhood asks. They just buy their lamb chops and brisket, nod respectfully, and leave him be.

But not you.

Sometimes you don’t even need anything. You come into his shop just to linger by the display case, pretend to think hard when he asks what you’re in the mood for, and always end up letting him choose. You like the way he speaks when he’s talking about cuts—like meat is an art form and he’s the only one who understands it. Like there’s a language in bone and fat and sinew, and he knows how to read it all.

He knows you’re into him.

You think he doesn’t notice—how your eyes linger on the flex of his forearms, how your breath catches when he tightens his grip on the knife. But he does. He knew from the first time you smiled at him over a pound of sirloin, all nervous and bright-eyed.

And he liked—more than he should’ve—how you smelled faintly of sugar and coffee when you leaned in to hand him cash.

It wasn’t anything serious. Not at first. Just a little dance. A tilt of your head, a brush of your fingers when he passed you the package. He told himself it was nothing.

But he starts saving the best cuts for you. Packs a little extra into your order. Keeps the shop open late on days when you run behind, just in case. It’s nothing. And it’s everything.

The day you tell him about your promotion, you’re practically vibrating. He can see it before you even speak. You ask—halting, hopeful—if he’d like to come over for dinner. Just dinner. Maybe.

He says yes.

Later, in your tiny kitchen, you cook with meat he cut for you himself. he watches you handle the meat. Sees the way your hands move, careful, precise, even if you’re nervous. You ask him how thin the slices should be. You ask him if he likes garlic. Ask if he likes bourbon. Fuck—darlin’, are you trying to get yourself a ring?

He’s still all knives and scars and quiet edges—but with you, he doesn’t have to be just that. So when you ask him if he wants to stay a little longer after dinner. With that soft, bright smile like you’re not afraid of what’s under his skin, something in him loosens. Maybe even heals, just a little. And he finds he doesn’t mind saying yes to that either.

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hiya! ❤️ for the WIP tag, I'd like to know more about the frodo one please 👀

Of course, Its cute one imo. Frodo is tired of Uncle Bilbo being sad, he gets even sadder when he gets letters from his dwarves far away. So whats a faunt to do but go there and let Mr King Dain let Uncle Bilbo visit. And if Frodo is there, Uncle Bilbo will visit, hopefully the dwarves will sotp him grounding Frodo forever, but if Uncle Bilbo smiles, it will be worth it. Snippet:

"Dain isn't the King laddie. He's Lord of the Iron Hills. Dain doesn't live in Erebor.” Balin explained gently.

The hobbit's little face screwed up in confusion. "Yes he does, he's King under the Mountain,  Uncle said so. He said he didn't deserve it, because he did nothing but kill a few orcs at the end. Uncle said he came in and stole Thorin's throne because Thorin was an idiot and went and upped and died." 

Every dwarf in the hall went quiet and Thorin choked on his saliva in surprise. Fili bashed him on the back, not taking his eyes off the tiny child in front of them.

"Lad, is your Uncle Bilbo Baggins?" Balin asked hopefully. The lad nodded his head enthusiastically.

Thorin stood once again and slowly moved forward. "But ... but Bilbo Baggins, Hero of Erebor is dead." He said sadly.

"No, he isn't, he's at Bag End, well, actually, he's probably on his way and really mad at me" the little hobbit answered with a sheepish smile. 

"And why is your Uncle mad at you lad? What's your name too if you don't mind my asking?" Balin asked, gaining the lad's attention again. 

The boy stood as tall as possible "Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo and Primula, ward of Bilbo Baggins at your service" he said, giving a very dwarven bow and then adding quietly to Balin "Uncle said that's how dwarves introduce themselves and we should always be polite because otherwise they might throw your plates and sing daft songs".

Yall talk about Johnny having adhd but what about Price?

rocky rocky rocky rocky rocky rocky rocky