The Animation Is Just So Fluid And They All Looks So Cute

The animation is just so fluid and they all looks so cute😭😭😭

First Post! Maybe I’ll be more active here since Twitter went to shit.

Ghost pokemon! I’ll be finishing this project as soon the new game is released! I hope you like it!

Music by the musical ghost!

I would like to start this pride by saying I have given up on labels. Just call me queer or whatever slur my sister makes up for me.

Anytime

Hello please reblog this if you’re okay with people sending you random asks to get to know you better

The most ✨amazing✨ fic I've ever read in my life

See No Evil

Pairing: John Price x F!reader

Synopsis: The flowers came every week – Tuesday, two O’clock, two minutes after your break. The only problem was that you knew they weren’t coming from John.

Word Count: 17.5k

Warnings: Stalking, violence, intense gore, blood, abduction, angst, fluff, protective!John, not quite smut, swearing, stereotypical ‘Bad Guy’ character who gets his ass beat, minor character death

A/N: Finished this at 3am so forgive the absolute deterioration of the plot near the end.

Keep reading

Funniest shit I've ever read 😂😂😂😂😂😂

Soap reclined against the back of the metal wall of the plane, eyes dragging from each member of the team until they landed on her. She, oddly enough wasn’t sitting like the others were, contemplating the mission and the risks. In her hands was a small book, about the size of a cigarette holder, perhaps a religious book, but he’d never known her to pray or be religious outright; then again, she wasn’t very open about many things of herself either.

Her eyes drew along the pages, quietly turning them, occasionally shifting with the movement of the plane and he heard lowly, “Keep staring at her like that and she’ll think you like her.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes and merely retorted, “Would that be such a bad thing, Lt.?”

Ghost chuckled. “She’ll eat your heart out, Soap.”

“If it’s her, that doesn’t sound like a bad way to go.” He shifted his foot and tapped along the ground, loud enough for her to cock an eyebrow to acknowledge the motion. “Whatcha reading?”

She flipped a page. “A book detailing the capture, trials, and deaths of women during the Salem Witch Trials.”

Soap blinked, eyebrows furrowing together. “…Why?”

“She’s tryna figure out why they didn’t catch her back then,” Ghost chirped and her eyes rose from the page to meet his, knowing he was smirking behind that stupid mask of his.

“Don’t take the bait,” Price muttered beside her, arms crossed over his chest, and she was almost prepared to let it go. But, she also remembered that Ghost ate the last of her chocolate chip poptarts before they left.

She went back to her book and rattled off, “Ghost can’t play golf. We went to a putt-putt one time and I’ve never seen a man so competent in the art of war be so terrible at hitting a ball.”

Ghost spluttered as Soap snickered.

“He snores like an old dog and drools in his sleep.” She flipped another page. “One time we were on a mission in Baghdad, and he wasn’t paying attention and ran into a wall. Broke his radio from the impact.”

“I did not,” Ghost hissed.

“He cried watching Where The Red Fern Grows.”

“WHO WOULDN’T?!” he snapped. “SHE DIES OF A BROKEN HEART AFTER HER BROTHER!”

“One time he ate a box of fiber bars to recover from a hangover and he shit himself in the middle of the store.”

“Alright! I get it! I’m sorry!” he griped and she smiled to herself as she quieted down and went back to her book.

For a few moments, silence enveloped the group in the plane, then Soap asked, “Did you really shit yourself?”

“Shut. Up.”

Yautja reacts to your tattoos

Yautja x reader

Word count: 208

Warnings: tattoos

-At first they assumed that your tattoos were war paint. The Yautja have a rich history of war and ritual face/body paint -But once you explained that your tattoos are permanent the Yautja start asking a lot of questions -How did this happen? What are they for? Why did you get them? You patiently answer all of their questions. -Its when you tell them how the tattoos were put on your skin that they get really exited. “You sat for hours at a time being stayed repeatedly?” They ask, and you nod. “You truly are a worrier” -They think you’re really bad ass for having tattoos, and they compare it to a similar ritual they have, where numerous dread lock like quills are weaved into their heads. This ritual is preformed as a right of passage transforming one into a worrier. -Though they still don’t understand why. If you have tattoos with specific sentimental meanings then they really don’t understand. But that doesn’t matter -What matters to them is that you are brave enough and capable of sitting for long periods of time, repeatedly getting stabbed by tiny needles, in order to have permanent marks on your body. -They also think it makes you look super sexy