#inspired by cod-dump

[mayflora-18]

Ssssooooo. . . Here’s the dealio.

Anyone who has seen my posts, especially the incorrect quotes, would know I have created an OC for Call of Duty named Sherlock.

Sometimes I will watch a video on YouTube or read something and my brain will immediately say, “OMG, that’s so Sherlock!” and then I proceed to create random facts and scenarios for her in (yes, Sherlock is a woman) that I think are so great that I don’t want to lose them.

Going through @cod-dump’s asks for her OC Moose was the final straw.

For the last three weeks I’ve been looking at her posts for #shadow company moose and I’ve been answering some of them for my OC on sticky notes, if that makes sense.

I have decided to post them, and whatever other questions you guys might have for my character, you can just gently interrogate me in my ask box.

Cool? Cool!

Let the fact-dropping begin!

Hope you enjoy, too Mike!

(Edit) No pressure tags: @harveywritings92 @dawn-the-dazed @natelia-aldelliz @homicidal-slvt @tanukigobrrr @sluttylittlewaistenthusiast @hurrraaid @skylarsblue @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world @bluegiragi @lazybutsmexy @nrdmssgs @shadeops21 @sleepyconfusedpotato @tojisun @astraluminaaa @ghouljams @ghostslillady @loving-azerath @deadbranch @ghostaholics @kneelingshadowsalome @ageless-aislynn @anitalenia @konigsblog @imsilay @fartybraind @prodigy-from-pluto @rowarn @katz-chow @diejager @sofasoap @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot @azkza @redpool @hisa-plush @gremlinstuffsblog @sans-chara @glucosegaurdian3rd @ihrtgw @needle-and-voice-thread-and-lies @bug-is-snug @aye-liyah @dawnofazrael @alexisdefinitelylmao & @lea08

#fact dropping #call of duty #call of duty oc #cod modern warfare #i need attention #shadow company moose #cod sherlock #inspired by cod-dump

[ghostofvalorie]

16 year old Simon gets pulled from his miserable family home by John Price, who with one look would move heaven and earth to make sure the kid is never hurt again.

Chapter 2 is uploaded <3

#cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #john price #simon ghost riley #teen!ghost #adoptive parent!price #Dad!price #angst #fanfic #inspired by tumblr user Cod-dump #fanfiction

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

TF141 reactions to "can you get this thing off the top shelf for me?"

inspired by @cod-dump's height hcs :)

chronologically:

you ask PRICE first. seems like a harmless enough question to you but he just says, "what kind of captain would i be if i solved all your problems for you?"

what the fuck, you think.

"you can do it," he says. "problem-solve. think tall thoughts."

then SOAP walks by, so you ask him next. he sees price standing there looking highly amused (and you looking highly irritated). soap would never, never miss an opportunity to cause problems on purpose, and if price is already picking on you, well...

you're relieved for half a second when soap reaches up and grabs the box you wanted. he opens it, grabs a handful of the granola inside (THAT YOU WANTED) and tosses it into his own mouth. then he puts the box back. on a higher shelf.

by the time GAZ notices what's happening, you're halfway climbing up the shelves to get it your damn self. he sees the shelves leaning away from the wall dangerously and obviously he pushes them back into place with one hand and pulls you back to the ground with the other. does not understand your exasperation with him; he was keeping you from cracking your head open??

so finally GHOST comes up behind you both and grabs the box you want. he turns. offers it to you. finally.

when you go to grab it from him, he keeps ahold of it and leans in. he would like you to share.

...

more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag

#mine #snippet #poly 141 #cod #cod x reader #call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #poly!141 #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #gaz #simon ghost riley #john price #captain price #captain john price #price cod #ghost #ghost cod #soap cod #simon riley #ghost riley #soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap x you #johnny mactavish x reader

[peachesofteal]

The Pit

COD masterlist Part 1/2 - Part 2

Ghost/Soap/female reader 6.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dub con, kidnapping, manipulative hurt/comfort, whump, the guys shave you, humiliation, forced orgasm, predator/prey, medical inaccuracies. Clothed males/naked female. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Horror-ish. Misery inspired.

Winter in the mountains can be cruel. 

This is something you’ve always known, even as a child. You were raised with it. Chose to return to it after school, decided to make a go of it, of a life here, as an adult. You knew what you were getting yourself into, long cold winters that felt both bleak and promising, unblemished blankets of snow possessing the ability to be stunning, while also lethal. Winters were dangerous, silent killers that left corpses in their wake and no amount of lupine or paintbrushes, glacier fed lakes or springtime moose calves could make up for the hell that winter wrought. Winter brings most living things to the knife’s edge of survival, forcing most to bow beneath the weight of its fury, backs breaking with the burden of just existing in an environment that truly acts, and feels, inhospitable. 

Although, there are those who do more than survive the cold, violent stretch of winter.

There are predators who thrive. 

“You closin’?” Your coworker, the new one, asks from where she’s settled across the dark wood bar, two amber Budweiser bottles empty in front her idle hands, eyes wandering to guys posted up by the loneliest pool table in fifty square miles. 

“I am.” She casts the only window in the entire place a surreptitious glance, fingers peeling away at a label. It’s snowing, has been for hours, flakes fat and wet, fluffy enough that the density of the snow on the ground is light, but dangerous, as it hides the real risk underneath; packed snow sitting with a slick sheen of ice on top. 

“You still trying to make it over Fall River pass tonight?” You nod. 

“Yeah. Supposed to see my brother and his new place this weekend.” 

“Fall River? Is that even open right now?” Andy, a regular who lives a few streets over from you, chimes in, twisting an empty rocks glass in his fist. You pull the bottle of Jameson from the rail and tip it vertical, honey brown liquid sloshing like a wave until his glass is halfway full, and he gives you a flirty kind of smile, the same one he’s been giving you for a year now. Yeeesh.

“It is. I could go around, but it just takes too long. And it’s Friday. I’m not trying to be stuck on the highway with weekend traffic.” You complain, and they both commiserate your opinion. The traffic is brutal, especially in the winter. Driving in hazardous conditions is considered to be a talent more than an innate ability here, and people often overestimate their aptitude for it, causing crashes and delays that get the highway shut down for hours, or even days, at times. You shrug. “I’ve had my snow tires on for weeks. Might as well get some use out of them.” Andy snorts. 

“Like you haven’t been gettin’ good use out of them? First real snow was before Halloween this year.” You nod. He’s not wrong. You did get dumped on two weeks before the end of October, twenty-three inches piling up within two days, before half the area was even ready for it. You throw him a polite smile, one that you hope reads like ‘okay thanks for the concern, we’re done now’ and he sighs. “Well, drive safe.” 

Fall River pass, it turns out, is not open. It’s closed by the time you split off from the interstate and start the windy, switch-backed trek in your jeep, flashing orange and yellow lights dotting the top of a barricade just barely visible through the speckled snow flying by in your headlights. 

Fuck. You could have sworn the DOT website said it was open. You take a deep breath, quelling the anxiety that roils your stomach. Okay. Not the end of the world. There’s another road. A less maintained option, but… you’ll be fine. You’ve driven in worse. 

The other road, a sharp, narrow, desolate path that cuts through a large swath of unmanaged forest just outside the national park, is easy at first. You’ve been driving the same jeep for years, a 2007 two door Wrangler, and you know how it handles like the back of your hand. With snow tires, it could pretty much cut through anything, even unplowed, fire watch roads like this one. 

Which is why, after the first few miles, your nerves fully settle, and you allow yourself to relax a little bit behind the wheel, easing the jeep across the dips and slicks in the road as you cautiously build speed, snow falling fast through night, growing thicker the higher you travel into wilderness territory, and the farther you left modern civilization behind. 

An hour creeps by, and then two. Long enough that you’ve now realized you’re the only one using this road, fresh snow blanketing the woods around you, topography and vegetation starting to change as you encroach on what you assume must be eleven thousand feet. You’ve seen this road on google maps once, or twice maybe, having noted it for future travel just in case of a situation like this. It runs perpendicular to Fall River, and eventually meets another, one that must be similar, on the other side of the range. The secondary road is one that takes you along the ridge, and then down, you’re pretty sure, although you can’t be one hundred percent certain, because you lost cell reception before you even turned off from Fall River.

Still, won’t hurt to check and see if you have this area downloaded. 

You pull your phone from the center console, thumbing at the screen, allowing your eyes to linger too long without looking back up through the windshield. No one else is out here. It’s not like you need to worry about oncoming traffic. The little SOS insignia blinks at the top corner, and you tap on the map icon, hoping it will bring up your geo location so you can glance at the satellite image of the area. 

You’re so fixated watching the little circle of death try to load, that by the time you look up and see the tree laying across the road, it’s far too late. You do the first thing you were always taught not to do in winter conditions, and slam on the brake, shoving the pedal to floor, heart rate sky rocketing as you panic and lose total control of the jeep. You spin, shoulders and chest jamming against the seatbelt, headlights flashing off into the woods, illuminating an endlessly dark web of trees, bark and branch scratching across the paint as you careen off the road, tipping too precariously onto two wheels and then rolling. 

Time, your life, stands completely still for a moment. You see every individual fiber of the pine needles, every uniquely designed snowflake, every single droplet of blood that floats away from your face and through midair as you crash through the forest, your grasp on consciousness slipping farther and farther away, the jeep finally coming to a stop on its side, your head cracked against the driver’s window, stars and streaks spawning out across your vision, headlights finally blinking out completely, leaving you alone in the dark. Your head spins like you’re still rolling, and the only sound in the dead silent snow is your harsh breathing, frantic terror bubbling up through your throat as pain surges through your body. 

It's freezing, but you feel surprisingly warm. 

You’re going to die out here. No one knows you took this road, you don’t have service, by the time they find you, it’ll be too late. You’ll be a bled out, frozen corpse, long gone and- 

You lose your train of thought quickly. Everything starts to fracture, fissures forming in your consciousness, part of you already losing the battle to the inevitable, darkness pulling over your eyes like a knit hat, lungs heaving just a little harder with each breath. 

You could just close your eyes. Just for a moment. 

Light sweeps across the ground, flashing across your face. You think, if you were truly with it, in your right mind, you’d think it was too bright. You’d say it was blinding. 

But you can’t formulate anything of the sort, mind too busy slipping away, falling into an inky black depth, just barely on the verge when you feel a gloved hand on your skin, the lilt of an accent on the wind. 

Sleep. 

You’re drifting. Falling through a stardusted, molasses filled haze, your mind ebbs and flows with consciousness; soft and warm feelings contrasted with sharp pain that bites through your body as if it’s slowly trying to eat you, chipping away piece by piece.

There are words, voices. There are hands too, fingers walking across your skin, limbs being moved, arranged, always with pain that’s followed by a hushed whisper of apology, a confusing sentiment in the dark. Your eyes won’t open. Your mouth won’t work. Your head is stuffed with cotton, wispy strands of connections that can’t quite get there, scrounging along the walls of your skull, trying to meet in the middle. You’re drowning, sinking to the bottom of a macabre pool, the one that’s infected your synapses and kept you just inside the shelter of delirium.

You try to call for help, but you can’t.

You try to swim to the surface, but the grisly black of your mind is never ending.

You’re dying, the tiny sliver of rational thought assures. Or you’re already dead.

Despair swells, and if you could feel your face, you’d think you were crying, lost to the sweeping desolation of your pain. It steals your breathe. Your sense. Everything becomes secondary to the obliterating agony that you feel. 

Something touches your cheek. Your eyes fight to open, straining against the heaviness that weighs on them, just barely blinking wide enough to let some light in, your vision fuzzily trying to focus.

Wood beams come into view. A ceiling? Where-

You try to turn your head but an electric shock rattles through your brain, forcing you to slam your eyes shut again, world spinning on an uneven axis as something on the edge of your sight shifts. A monster. A man?

Something is said, whispered, and then everything fades away, your mind and body slipping beneath the waves of darkness.

The next time you surface, you manage to cling to consciousness long enough to take stock of your surroundings, realizing you’re tucked into a soft, warm bed almost immediately, something hot near your feet, pillows fluffed beneath you. A hand stitched quilt is spread across the top of copious other blankets and sheets, and your fingertips scratch against the fabric. Flannel.

You’re also awake long enough to truly experience the pain you’re in.

One thousand tiny knives rattle around in your skull, slicing into the soft matter of your brain, tearing you apart piece by piece, everything in you unmoored and off balance. Searing pain radiates up your leg, through your arm and wrist to your head and neck, and when your instinct urges you to try to move, your body screams in protest, the pain so intense that you cry out.

That’s when you see him.

A man steps towards you from the edge of your peripheral, and you freeze in terror.

“Shhh. We’re not goin’ hurt ye. Ye had a terrible accident. Pure luck we found ye when we did, dove. Ye would’ve died out there.” He coos in an accent, inching closer, and you manage to get a better look at him, recognition failing immediately. An accident? An accident… memories come flooding back, broken clips of the jeep spinning, rolling, the woods, the fear. Who is he? Where are you? Brilliant blue eyes look down at you with concern, handsome face tweaked into worry, furrow in his brow partially covered by the long strands of an overgrown mohawk. He’s pretty. “Can ye follow my finger?” He presents one in front of your nose, but it splits into two, and then three, just the attempt to focus enough to make your head throb, and a whimper escapes from your throat. “I know, I know.” There’s a ceramic mug in his hand, and he carefully lifts it to your lips, encouraging you as he tips it back, warm, sweet liquid washing down your throat. You can’t even move your arms to push him away, and when he seems to be satisfied, his thumb wipes the corner of your mouth. “Good love. Well done.” You feel woozy all of the sudden, maybe even a little nauseous, and you think you could be hallucinating when another man appears at the foot of the bed, handsome, but in a rugged way, watching you with honeyed brown eyes, the broadest, biggest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Those bones need setting.” He says, and the pretty one grimaces, fingertips trailing along your cheek.

“Maybe tomorrow. I’m still worried about the concussion.” His thumb cards across your brow.

“It’s been three days, Johnny. Can’t put it off too much longer.” Three days? Your brain latches onto the time. Three days of what? Since when? You’re starting to fade, trying to focus on what they’re saying but losing the battle horrendously when the blankets shift, warmth tucking down around your waist and shoulders, unable to react or even speak when they both press a kiss to your forehead, affectionate and longing touch that startles you until you’re losing the battle to sleep.

It's snowing.

You don’t have to see to know. There’s something about how it hangs in the air, how the world sounds during a snowfall that blankets everything: houses, trees, mountains… your mind.

You love the snow. Even as a child, winter was your favorite. Winter brought you a sense of calm, of peace. It’s what brought you back here, kept you here, even amidst the perils. The feeling of a forest, lying still beneath the soft spun expanse of white, the crisp smell of the air the morning of a big snow, the eternal quiet that exists in the night when everything is dampened by the weight of a million, billion, uniquely crystalized webs of frozen water.

This snow feels different. It doesn’t feel like a velvety white, candy-coated dream world; but a nightmare… one filled with pain, anxiety. Where are you? What’s happened? 

And why do you hurt so fucking bad? 

“You’re awake.” A deep voice says from your side, and you flinch on instinct, immediately wishing you hadn’t as lightning sharp pain zings through you, your voice breaking with a cry. “Easy.” He cautions, and your head stops swimming long enough for you to realize it’s the brown eyed man, the bigger one. He’s sitting in a chair that looks far too small for his width, watching you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Where… am I?” You manage to choke out through stiff lips, your head spinning and the world tilting at the same time. It sours your stomach, more than you thought possible, and you try to swallow the burn of bile that’s racing up your throat.

“Are you going to be sick?” He strokes your face, the touch nearly sweet, but confusing, and you hold your tongue, unsure. He sighs, expression shifting into disapproval, and then a frown. “Tell me.”

“N-no, I don’t-“ You can’t even finish your denial before your stomach is heaving and he’s springing into action, shifting you onto your side where a clean bucket sits right next to the bed. You wail in misery, pain shooting through your leg and arm, your ribs, bile and spit leaking from your mouth.

“It’s alright, that’s it.” A hand soothes up and down your back as you dry heave, sputtering on nothing, tears dripping to the wooden floorboards with a splash.

“Nnrgh-“

“I know, I know. Poor thing.” He coos, and it sounds… endearing, so sweet yet… frightening, like the poison of a predatory, a pretty display meant to draw you in before it snaps a set of jaws shut around your face.

Somewhere, nestled inside the last shards of your sanity, an alarm bell whistles, but the intensity of your pain quickly drowns it out, and you cry aloud.

“Hurts.” He rolls you back to your original position, arranging you like a doll. “It hurts.”

“I know it does, sweet girl, I know. We’re going to fix it.” A cloth dabs at your forehead and then down to clean your mouth, just as the man with the mohawk appears on the bed, one knee down, leaning over you, worry rife in his features.

“Poor baby. Were ye sick again?” Again? You blink up at him. What is going on? He presses a glass to your lips, urging you to drink, and then pulling it away after you’ve had a few sips with a gentle “not too much.”

“Who are you?” The water is cold, refreshing, but a ting acidic, and you wonder if it’s well water, maybe?

“I’m Johnny.” He’s setting up something beside you, organizing it, but you can’t turn your head to look, and can’t quite catch it from your peripheral. “An’ this is Simon. Or Si, but ye probably willnae be callin’ him that quite yet.” Quite yet? What? Did they find you? Did they rescue you? Why can’t you remember? 

“What happened.” You try again, gritting your teeth.

“Ye had an accident, remember? We talked about it yesterday. Ye rolled off the road, ended up nearly down the mountain, in the thick of the trees. Ye’re lucky the one didnae impale ye.” Impale?

“And you found me?” You're starting to feel tired again, all the sudden, woozy and weird, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Shouldn't you be in a hospital? Why haven't they taken you to a doctor?

“Aye, we did. Pulled ye out, brought ye home.” Home?

“You don’t have to worry.” Simon, the bigger one, tells you. “We’re going to take care of you.” Take care of who? Everything is foggy, clouded, and you try to shake your head in confusion.

“I don’t… why-“

“Storm is pretty bad. One of those, once in a lifetime types. Pass is closed.” You close your eyes. Of course. The pass is closed. You guess you’re lucky. They could have left you to die, and you could have never been found. You could have frozen to death. Bled out.

“Thank… thank you.” Johnny hums, and then you ripple in shock as he leans forward and brushes his lips against your mouth in a kiss. This… this is not normal? Are Scottish people just… more affectionate? 

“Want ye to know, if we didnae have to do this, we woudnae.” What?

“Do what?” Simon casts you a mournful glance, rising from the chair. He’s got piece of leather in his hand, like a cut from a belt, and your eyes dart between them, fear freezing solid inside your pores. Do what?

“Bite down on this, precious.” Simon instructs, placing the swatch against your bottom lip, and you jerk away in protest, pain burning through your body.

“Do what?” You try to sound strong, demanding, but it comes out a little less than timid, and he gives you a sad smile.

“Your femur is broken.” A warm hand rests on your leg, over the covers, and you try to click the pieces together. “And I suspect your radius is, too. We need to set them.”

Oh. Oh no. 

“N-no, no, you… you ca-can’t.” You stutter. They can’t. A doctor should be doing that, shouldn’t they? Johnny hovers over you, placing his palm on your belly, stroking upwards to the middle of your chest, the other holding firm across your collarbone. His touch is gentle, but strong, and his thumb rubs in a cautious motion against your skin, lightly grazing the underside of your breast. It feels weird, and wrong… intimate in a way that makes you shiver. “Please. Please, please… don’t-“

“It’s alright.” He shushes you, and the pressure increases against your body as Simon wedges a thick finger between your teeth, slipping the worn leather in your mouth, bracing around your wrist, his other hand holding your elbow. You gasp for air, adrenaline fueled by pain and fear coursing through you, and Johnny coos, telling you ye’ll be alright, that ye’re with them now, and they’ll take such good care of ye. 

“Take a deep breath.” Simon urges, and you stare at him, wide eyed, pulse thundering in your ears.

“Ye’ll probably pass out, bonnie. We’ll get the second one done while ye’re down, and I already gave ye somethin’ for the pain.” He assures, like it’s supposed to relieve you, and your nostrils flare as something tightens against your arm. Simon’s grip. 

This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare. How can this happen? No, nononono-

There’s a crack. A crunch. Burning, obliterating torture rockets up your arm, exploding inside you like a shot. You scream and bite down at the same time, raw misery trying to claw it’s way out of your throat. You think you’re crying, hallucinating from the pain, having a heart attack, fucking dying, all at once. It hurts, it hurts so bad, stop, please-

“We’re sorry, we’re sorry.” Simon soothes, thumb wiping your cheek, but you can hardly hear him, your brain starting to sever itself from reality, floating away as you slip inside the dark tomb of your mind, losing yourself to the fog as they both stare down at you, sickeningly saccharine concern layered overtop the faces of wolves, predators licking their maws in preparation for a meal.

You sleep and wake in a haze.

You sleep. Your dreams are torments, visions of being chased through the mountains by monsters, being pinned to the ground, teeth tearing into your throat with no preamble, or nightmares of drowning, being swallowed by the ocean, lungs sputtering with concrete laden sea water.

You wake. Your vision blurs, mind scrambled by pain, vaguely aware of being moved, carried to the bathroom, held upright over a toilet, gentle touch soothing up and down your back, heavy palm cupping curve of your skull when your head is tipped back and something is dribbled past your lips. You blink blearily with stone weighted lids, taking in the room bit by bit, the wrought iron bed frame, crackling flames sparking in a fireplace, mountain of pillows sagging with the imprint of your body. Your limbs are wrapped and unwrapped, immobilized, and shifted, and the pain is enough to make you gasp for air, tipping you over into the decaying depths of unconsciousness again and again.

You sleep. Restless, chilled. Ice spreads from the nerves in the tip of your nose to your brain, your fingers, and you try to burrow it deeper, seeking the comfort of the pillows, but finding warm skin and muscle instead. In your sleep, it’s lovely. It’s comforting. Even when you’re rolled to your side, something sticking under your tongue, you chase the heady thick heat that seems to roll off the limbs around you.

You wake. There are voices, deep and rumbling, bouncing through the room. Warm water dabbing down your neck, your belly, your legs. You’re too hot, uncomfortable and smothered until you hear a sharp pitched snarl accompanied by a yank, and then there’s a void of emptiness around you.

You sleep.

You wake. The pain starts to change, melting into something that’s consistent, throbbing, but a little less sharp, unless you move, and then it shrieks through your nerves like an electrical shock, vibrating your jaw shut.

You sleep.

You wake. They’re there. Simon is dabbing a cool washcloth across your forehead. You try to flex away on instinct, but firm hands stop you, holding you in place.

“Hey there, dove.” Johnny whispers, smiling. It’s a shy kind of smile, sweet, and the world spins. You grapple with reality, trying to remind yourself where you are, what happened. The fire snaps and pops behind Simon, who stands at his side, massive hand on his shoulder. “Made ye some breakfast. Think ye can eat somethin’?” Breakfast? A steaming bowl of oats sits cradled in his hand, spoon at the ready. Nausea roars, enflamed by the pain in your bones, and you shake your head. “Ye need to eat. Been givin’ ye soup for the past few days, but ye need more carbs.”

“I- I don’t understand.” You try to explain your confusion, hundreds of questions brewing on your tongue, trying to spill out.

“You’ve been in and out consciousness for the last week.” Simon explains, and your eyes widen.

“What?” Panic knots, twisting you up tight, heart fluttering in your chest.

“We had to sedate you. Needed to keep you still through the first part of the healing process.”

“You… you drugged me?” You stammer, and Simon smiles, but it’s not sweet like Johnny’s. It’s severe. It’s dangerous.

“Soft calluses form around fractures, after they’ve been set.” He sits down on the other side of the bed, across your hips from Johnny. “Your breaks aren’t in casts, so we needed to minimize your movement until the calluses could strengthen.”

“Ye willnae be able to walk on the leg, or lift anything with that arm, but we’ll help ye.” Johnny assures. “We’ll be here for ye, as ye get better.” The words don’t compute, and you look at both of their faces, sweeping back and forth, blue eyes to brown, brown to blue, until the only thing that you can think of blurts out of your mouth:

“Where’s my phone?” There’s a flash of discontent in Johnny’s features, but it’s quickly smoothed away, and you wonder if it even there in the first place.

“I imagine it’s somewhere near where your jeep rolled. We weren’t exactly concerned with finding it, considering we were trying to save your life.” Simon’s hands flex in the sheets, and then relax, serious look on his face, and guilt swamps you. Right. They saved your life. You could have died. And the pass is closed. Maybe this is all… as normal as it can be, given the situation. Calm down. 

Still… 

Didn’t Johnny kiss you? 

The spoon clinks against the bowl, jolting you back to the moment, eyeing the scoop of oats as it drifts closer to your mouth, lips parting on instinct.

The first bite is difficult, an insipid, unsavory lump sliding down into your stomach, toothy grin stretching across Johnny’s face as you swallow. The second bite is easier. So is the third, and you manage a few more after that until you start to feel wooly, head fuzzy and stomach sick. “I can’t.” You bleat, and he nods sympathetically.

“Alright, ye did good.” Sleep tugs, insistent again, strong surge of fog pulling at your eyes, and you yawn.

“Tired?” Simon’s already moving, hovering, patiently adjusting your pillows and lazily urging you into them. “You should rest.” You’re too weak, too miserable to argue, so you let yourself fade to black, easily falling back into the webbed slush of sleep.

You drift in and out for days after that. A bright spot of consciousness here and there before it dissipates and you fall into oblivion, and you find yourself embracing it as often as possible, trying to escape into yourself, away from wooden beams and potential predators that flank you.

You’re content to let it stay that way, hiding away behind closed lids for as long as possible, until the morning you feel the washcloth.

“Sh-sh-shhh.” Johnny hums when you garble out a distressed question, tipping a glass to your mouth. Cold liquid rushes across your tongue, and you have no choice but to swallow, confusion webbing across your thoughts. Simon has the blankets pulled away, chilled air nipping and your skin, and you moan. It’s strange, like you’re exposed, half floating like you’re high, and half spiraling through your pain.

“It’s okay, we’ve got you.” They’re repositioning you, arms and legs like a little doll, and you frown. “Jus’ need to get you clean.” Clean? The washcloth coasts across your neck and down to your chest, warm water soaking a trail down your breasts. You’re naked, fully, a hot palm against your hip, skin on skin contact registering as you blink fuzzily, watching the way Johnny focuses on you, concentration shining in his stunning blue eyes.

Water sloshes. Squeezing and dripping, and then the warm, nearly hot cloth is being pressed against you, stroking over your nipples, washing the underside of your breasts. It feels nice, and you whine a little when it pulls away. Simon chuckles.

“Do ye like that?” Johnny coos, reapplying the cloth to your belly. “Does that feel good?” Does it? Is it supposed to? Your vision doubles then realigns, and you stare at the underside of Simon’s jaw, mesmerized by the scar on his chin, the width of his neck. He readjusts you, again, slowly moving your knees apart, spreading your legs, and heat climbs through your bones to your cheeks.

You’re naked. They’re fully clothed. 

“We’re goin’ clean this up a bit.” Simon murmurs, a thick finger tracing along your slit, through the soft curls between your legs, and you balk. Clean what? How?

“My… my-“ you can’t even get the words out, too embarrassed, and he nods, sliver flash of a razor twinkling in his hand. The air in your chest sputters.

“Your hair.” Johnny works the washcloth back and forth, water dripping down your skin to the towel that’s been placed under your hips, you can only lay there in mortification when you feel yourself getting wet, tepid arousal roaring to life between your legs. “If you’re a good girl for us,” Simon continues, spraying a big glob of shaving cream into Johnny’s palm, “we’ll give you a treat afterwards. How’s that sound?”

“A treat?”  You squeak, and then whimper, Johnny’s fingers creeping down your slit, rubbing the cream across your pubis and labia, heel brushing against your clit. You make a noise of a protest, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Ye’re alright.” He coos, bumping against the swollen bud again, and you try to stop the moan that builds in your chest with no success, slamming your eyes shut and trying to disappear into the pillows. “It’s natural, dove. Ye dinnae need to feel embarrassed.” He leans forward, slotting his mouth against yours, lips soft and fragrant in a pillowy sweet kiss that lasts too long, his eyes blissfully closed in front of your almost crossed ones. 

“Please…” you whisper, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, and Johnny coos at you, bending at the waist to get a better vantage point between your legs. You shake your head, eyes wide with disbelief, with fear, your mind trying to catch up, trying to rationalize what’s happening at the same time as your body is betraying you, slicking the cream that’s lathered between your thighs, clit pulsing with desperate need.

“I- I don’t want you to… shave me.” You whisper. You don’t want them to touch you… there, and the panic that’s pulsing between your ears continues to rise as your protests go unnoticed. Just saying it out loud makes you want to die of embarrassment, and Simon clucks.

“We have to take care of you, sweet girl.” Simon grips your thigh, fingers pressing into flesh, and the cool blade of the razor moves against the grain with a flick of his wrist, drawing back to a bucket for a rinse before a repeat, breath frozen in your chest as he slowly eliminates the curls of your pubic hair. “It will be easier to do that, to see what you need without all this.” He hums, the smile of a wolf coy on his face. “Stay nice and still for us.” They work in tandem, perfectly synchronized, and your unwanted arousal starts to overpower the pain that’s radiating from your broken bones. It’s been so, so long since you’ve been touched by anyone, and your body does not care that you didn’t want this, or agree to it, too eager to be satisfied, to be touched in anyway it can get, and it gets worse, more intense the longer it goes on, the precise movements of their hands, the slow and methodical approach to your cunt. “Almost done.” Simon tells you, and the side of his finger passes over your clit unintentionally, and you whine. “I know, I know. You’re bein’ so good. Such a good girl.” Your good hand is shaking, gripping the sheets, and when he finishes, Johnny wipes you down with a clean cloth, passing over your clit again and again, electric shocks sparking in your belly. You’re paralyzed, helpless, and yet… soaked. Desperate. The warring emotions tear at you, shame and fear and desire rendering you speechless.

“I think ye need some relief, dove.” Johnny hums, looking from your pussy to Simon, both of them tilting their heads to stare between your legs. “Poor thing is so swollen, Si.”

“Do you want to touch her, Johnny? Give her a reward?” Simon asks him, so sweetly, and Johnny shimmies down to be eye level with your pussy, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Half of you screams no. Half of you shouts yes.

All you can do is watch, helplessly, as they settle themselves between your legs, Simon over Johnny’s shoulder, tempering his frenzied excitement with assured patience. 

“Will ye show me how?” He’s eager, and you frown, confused.

“Johnny’s never made a girl come before,” Simon tells you gently. “You’ll be his first.” Oh my god. “Will you help him? Tell him what feels good?” Your brain melts. You don’t know what to say, mouth half open, staring at the both of them, and after a few seconds, Simon sighs like he’s exasperated with you, before ducking back down next to Johnny and murmuring softly to him, probing along your cunt, finger dipping into your hole, swirling in the wetness gathered there and then moving up to your slit. You gasp, eyes nearly rolling back in your head.

“She likes that.” Johnny groans, breath blowing over your exposed flesh, and Simon takes his hand, thumb over thumb, guiding him in small circles around your clit.

 “Nice an’ slow at first, when you’re rubbin’ her clit. Feel how hard it is?” He instructs, pressing a kiss to the side of Johnny’s head, and he nods enthusiastically, looking up at Simon with wide, puppy dog eyes, sappy and saturated with love. It’s sweet, and affectionate, like they’re the only ones in the room, in the world… and you’re intruding on a private moment between these two men and your body. Like you’re a bystander. Or a doll. It’s confusing, your brain trying to sort everything that’s happening into neat little boxes that keep overflowing or falling apart, fracturing under the weight of your helplessness, the shock and fear that’s nearly made you dizzy. “See how her little hole is clenchin’ like that? It’s ‘cause she’s empty, needs to be filled up. When she comes, she’ll get real tight.” He explains, your body enflaming in mortified heat. They’re pushing you closer and closer to an orgasm, and Simon increases the speed as your hips jolt.

“Fuck.” You hiss.

“That’s it.” Simon coaches. “Are you close, sweet girl? Gonna come for us?” You shake your head, but even if you wanted to close your legs, you couldn’t. You’re trapped, lost in a sea of wild waves that break directly over your head, one after another until you’re drowning, gasping, muscles so tight they burn, pain in your arm and leg a secondary concern behind the pressure in your belly, the zap of your clit as they drag you too easily to the bottom, before sending you breaking through the surface.

You come with a distressed moan, hips jerking, and then a raspy plea for them to stop, telling them it’s too much, you’re too sensitive, to which Simon wraps his hand around Johnny’s wrist and pulls his hand away.

“We can’t overwhelm her just yet. Gotta wait until she’s healed up, hm?” He murmurs, reaching for the cloth. You blink at the ceiling, drifting, floating away, little boxes in your mind broken up into gnarled pieces that don’t make sense.

What just happened?

You stay silent, blank, as they settle you, cloth cleaning between your legs, blankets being fussed with around your body, pillows plumped. Simon curls some of your unruly hair behind your ear, swooping down until the breadth of his body blocks out all the light in the room, lips brushing over your ear. “What a good girl you are, dove. Did so well, letting Johnny give you an orgasm. So sweet for him.” He tucks you in a little tighter, and Johnny ducks around him, kissing you gently, like you’re made of glass, thrilled smile tugging at his cheeks, unfettered joy the last thing you see before your eyes slip shut.

The next time you wake, Johnny is in bed with you. It’s dark, a flickering orange glow casting shadow across the room, and you startle at the weight of his arm stretched across your chest, cradling you close, half curled around you like a cat. You turn, face to face, his mouth slightly agape, breath blowing over your cheek. You can’t get enough leverage on one leg to slide out from under him, and when you squirm, he only tightens his grip, pinning you to the bed. You’re overheated, and when you peek over his shoulder to get a look at the fire, you see Simon instead, sitting upright in a chair, fully awake, watching you. White hot fear shocks your system, forcing your eyes down in disbelief, surprise, his chair creaking in the night. Your breath stops in your chest, and then there’s a hand smoothing over your forehead, as he leans past you to brush his lips against Johnny’s, and then rough stubble presses against your cheek with a jagged whisper.

“Sweet dreams, little dove.”

#peaches writes #dub con #ghost x soap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #ghoap x reader #john soap mactavish #ghost x reader x soap #simon riley #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #Ghoap #soap x reader

[wombywoo]

Ok! I've finally decided to put together a (somewhat) comprehensive tutorial on my latest art~

Please enjoy this little step-by-step 💁‍♀️

First things first--references!

Now I'm not saying you have to go overboard, but I always find that this is a crucial starting point in any art piece I intend on making. Especially if you're a detail freak like me and want to make it as realistic as possible 🙃

As such, your web browser should look like this at any given point:

Since this is a historical piece, it means hours upon hours of meaningless research just to see what color the socks are, but...again. that isn't, strictly, necessary 😅

Once I've compiled all my lovely ref pics, I usually dump them into a big-ass collage ⬇️

(I will end up not using half of these, alas :'D)

Another reference search for background material, and getting to showcase our models of choice for this occasion~

When picking a reference for an actor or model, the main thing I keep in mind (besides prettiness 🤭) is lighting and orientation. Because I already kinda know what pose I'm gonna go with for this piece, I can look for specific angles that might fit the criteria. I should mention that I am a reference hound, and my current COD actor ref folder looks like this:

Also keep in mind, if you're using a ref that you need to flip, make sure you adjust accordingly. This especially applies to clothing, as certain things like pants zippers and belt buckles can be quite specific ☝️

Now that we've spent countless hours googling, it's time to start with a rough sketch:

It doesn't have to be pretty, folks, just a basic guideline of where you want the figures to be.

The next step is to define it more, and I know this looks like that 'how to draw an owl' meme, but I promise--getting from the loose sketch above to below is not that difficult.

Things to keep in mind are--don't go too in-depth with the details, because things are still subject to change at this point. In terms of making a suitable anatomically-correct sketch, I would suggest lots of studying. This doesn't even have to be things like figure drawing, I genuinely look at people around me for inspiration all the time. Familiarize yourself with the human form, and things like weight, proportions, posing will seem a little more feasible.

It's also important at this stage to consider your composition. Remember to flip the canvas frequently to make sure you're not leaning to one side too often. I'm sure something can be said for the spiral fibonacci stuff, which I don't really try to do on purpose, but I think keeping things like symmetry and balance in mind is a good start ✌️

Next step is just blocking in the figures. Standard. No fuss 👍

Now onto the background!

It's frankly hilarious how many people thought I was *hand-drawing* these maps and stuff 😂😂 I cannot even begin to comprehend how insanely difficult that would be. So yeah, we're just taking the lazy copy and paste way out 🤙

I almost always prepare my backgrounds first, and this is mostly to get a general color scheme off the bat. For collage work, it's really just a matter of trial and error, sticking this here, slapping this there, etc. I like to futz around with different overlay options until I've found a nice arrangement. Advice for this is just--go nuts 🤷‍♀️

Next, I add a few color adjustments. I tend to make at least 2 colors pop in an art piece, and low and behold, they usually tend to be red and blue ❤️💙There's something about warm/cool vibes, idk man..

Now we move on to coloring the figures. This is just a basic block and fill, not really defining any of the details yet.

Next, we add some cursory values. Sloppy airbrush works fine, it'll look better soon I promise 🙏

And now--rendering!

I know a lot of beginner artists are intimidated by rendering, and I can totally understand why. It's just one of those things you have to commit to 💪

I've decided to show a brief process of rendering our dear Johnny's face here:

Starting off, I usually rely on the trusty airbrush just to get some color values going. Note--I've kept my sketch layer on top, but feel free to turn it on and off as you work, so as to not be too bound to the sketch. For now, it's just a guideline.

This next stage may look like a huge jump, but it's really just adding more to the foundation. I try to think of it like putting on make-up in a way~ Adding contours, accentuating highlights. This is also where I start adding in more saturation, especially around areas such as ears, nose and lips. Still a bit fuzzy at this point, but that's why we keep adding to it 💪

A boy has appeared! See--now I've removed most of the line layer, and it holds up on its own. I'll admit that in order to achieve this realistic style, you'll need lots and lots of practice and skill, which shouldn't be discouraging! Just motivate yourself with the prospect of getting to look at pretty men for countless hours 🙆‍♀️

I'll probably do a more in-depth explanation about rendering at some point, but let's keep this rolling~

Moving forward is just a process of adding to the figures bit by bit. I do lean towards filling in each section from top to bottom, but you can feel free to pop around to certain parts that appeal to you more. I almost always do the faces first though, because if they end up sucking, I feel less guilty about scrapping it 😂 But no--I think he's pretty enough to proceed 😚

They're coming together now 🙆‍♀️ Another helpful tip--make sure you reuse color. By that, I mean--try to incorporate various colors throughout your piece, using the eyedropper tool to keep a consistent palette. I try to put in bits of red and blue where I can

Here they are fully rendered! Notice I've made a few subtle changes from the sketch, like adjusting the belt buckles because I made a mistake 😬 Hence why you shouldn't put too much stock in your initial sketch~

The next step is more of a stylistic choice, but I usually go over everything with an outline, typically in a bright color like green. Occasionally, I can just use my initial line layer, but for this, I've made a brand new, cleaner line 👍

And the final step is adjusting the color and adding some text:

Tada!! It's done!

All in all, this took me the better part of a week, but I have a lot of free time, so yeah ✌️

I hope you appreciated that little walkthrough~ I know people have been asking me how I do my art, but the truth is--I usually have no clue how to explain myself 😅 So have this half-assed tutorial~

As a bonus, here is a cute (cursed) image of Johnny without his mustache:

A baby, a literal infant child !!! who put this wee bairn on the front lines ??! 😭

Anyway! peace out ✌️

#tutorial #my art #art tutorial #since people have been asking #I remembered to save my process from this latest work~ #enjoy 🙆‍♀️

[theywhowriteandknowthings]

TF 141 Cuddle Puddle/Poly Drabble No. 2

CoD Masterlist

A/N: Wrote this because it was raining and I was inspired, not beta’d or shit. Food mention but no real warnings in place. (Note: Brits sometimes call each other wankers affectionately, it’s not as harsh as it sounds - see Aussies and cunt)

It’s raining, like pissing it down to Biblical proportions. When you left to get the take-away it was drizzling at best. Gaz had offered to come with you, keep you company, but you could see it in his eyes that he was exhausted. The rest of the boys too. You practically ordered Price to “Sit your arse down, I’ll be fine.” (Much to Ghost’s and Soap’s amusement as they tried not to laugh at the blush that crept up the Captain’s neck and across his cheeks)

Now, crossing the threshold of your shared home, you’re soaked through, like a damned drowned cat.

Gaz stares in horror for a few seconds before running upstairs to get the shower running, coming back down with Soap and Ghost in tow.

Price sees you from the living room and immediately takes the multiple bags of food from your clenched fists. Muttering something about you being a stubborn wanker as he disappears into the kitchen.

Ghost hauls you up over his shoulder, much to yours - and Soap’s - protest. Soap wanted to be the gallant hero, instead he’s being sent to grab you fresh clothes and a barrack’s worth of pillows and blankets.

“Stubborn dickhead,” Ghost growls at you as he strips you bare, all business, before practically throwing you in the shower. He dumps your wet clothes in the wash basket before getting you some fresh towels. He doesn’t take no for an answer as he dries you off.

You remain silent as you pull on your clothes, having shot Ghost a withering look when he tried to dress you. He left you alone to dress after that. You can hear bickering downstairs as you slip your feet into a pair of sliders before heading downstairs.

Price is waiting for you at the foot of the stairs, deep blue eyes trained on you as his brow furrows.

“Come on, we’ve got everything set for you,” he says, extending his hand out to you. You take it without hesitation and fall into Price’s arms.

“Call me a stubborn wanker again, Captain, and I’ll have your balls,” you grumble as he turns you around, steering you into the living room as he cages you in from behind.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he retorts, pressing a kiss just behind your ear.

You can’t help but feel the warmth blossom in your chest as you take in the pillow-fort the guys have constructed for you. Blankets and pillows strewn across the room, surrounding the coffee table where the take away boxes are laid out neatly.

“Sit with me,” Gaz encourages softly as he pats the space next to him. You nod with a yawn as you flop down, snuggling into Gaz as you feel Price take his place next to you.

You spend the evening drinking, eating, and laughing with the four most important people in the world to you. Eventually you fall asleep amongst the pillows, bracketed by Ghost and Price’s’ warm bodies as Soap and Gaz snuggle on the sofa.

CoD Masterlist

#t141 #tf 141 #task force 141 #141 x reader #cod 141 #mw2 141 #poly 141 #141 headcanons #cod #cod headcanons #cod mw2 #cod mwii #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john price #konig cod #fluffy 141 #fluff #task force 141 fluff #cod x reader #t141 x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #price x reader #gaz x reader

[x-cybrrpunqq-x]

i’ve had artblock for like 4 months now so i dont like this all that much but here we are anyways‼️

og / inspiration by @cod-dump and this post:

#ghouly doodles #art #digital art #reject drawing people embrace 2015 me and draw characters as ANIMALS #cod #cod soap #cod ghost #cod gaz #cod price #cod mwii #au but kind of not really #fanart #?? yeah i think

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Derek [Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader]

Fandom: Call of Duty (I haven't been into COD since I was 14 but we're back thanks to COD cosplayers on tiktok...) Collection/Series: N/A Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @little-autumn-serenade​ Rating: G Warnings: This is kinda silly and not my best work but the idea has been hanging around in my head so... Summary: A surprise finds you at work while Simon is away on deployment. Notes: Inspired by my dad, a veteran, who did something very similar for my mum. We still have Derek like 30 years later although he's in the loft being eaten alive by moths probably.

You're at work when you're called down to the front office, a confusing event in and of itself seeing as you weren't expecting anyone or anything to interrupt your working day. You're very rarely called away from your work in general. Your family and friends would never interrupt your working day, being too busy themselves and the only other person would be Simon, but he's away on deployment and isn't one for surprises. You liked the predictability of him and the fact he didn't scare you by randomly turning up places without a warning. You liked a lot about your boyfriend even if he couldn't always understand it. You missed him. A lot. He'd been gone for two months already and you'd only had three or four phone calls in that time, due to schedules not lining up.

Janice, the nice older receptionist, is waiting for you when you finally have five minutes to step away from your desk. She looks over the top of glasses at you from where they're perched on the tip of her nose.

"Did you order something, Lovely?"

"No, I...I never order anything to work, why?"

"You've got a parcel, a rather large parcel." She stands with a groan and a hand to the small of her back as she ushers you into the office and to follow her further back into the office.

You feel bad for her when you see the gigantic cardboard box that she clearly had dragged into the office. It's at least half-your height, reaching about your waist and as wide as you. You run a hand over the top, reading the various labels that suggest it has had quite a journey across the globe and the only thing you can think is that someone ordered some stationary or furniture for work and put it in your name on the requisition form by accident.

"What on earth?" You reach for a pair of scissors, cutting the packaging tape and opening the flaps.

You're greeted by a lot of packing peanuts and the mystery has you almost ferally tearing through the box the moment you have a bin to start dumping packing materials into. The one bin proves not to be enough to hold all of the packing peanuts and you end up having to reach for a second one.

It's not long before you see the top of a fuzzy brown head and struggle to heft the rather heavy stuffed toy out of the box. Poor Janice has to grab the box to slide it off at the other end until the thing is sat in front of you.

It's a...a gorilla. A giant, stuffed gorilla toy with a scrappy bit of lined paper torn out of a notebook pinned to its chest. He's wearing a tactical helmet that's a little too small for the giant thing's head. He's clearly been swashed into it, and his face looks a little off as a result, the sides crushed inwards.

"I take it you didn't order a gorilla, sweetie?"

"I definitely did not order a gorilla..." You're baffled, so utterly baffled that you're almost scared to take the note unless it turns out you've got a stalker or something equally as terrifyingly absurd. Simon's many warnings about strange packages and parcels ringing in your ears in that familiar gruff and protective tone of his.

Still you take the piece of paper and unfold it. The note is short, brief and when you read the sign off you understand why. Because this bizarre package, this ridiculous gift, is from Simon. Simon, the gruff, intimidating, scary dog privileges Lieutenant who could probably kill someone in 100 different ways. That Simon had sent you a gigantic, stuffed gorilla in a tac helmet. Simon Riley. Simon Riley had sent you a stuffed gorilla toy of all things.

Hey, Love.

Meet Derek, found him in Barcelona when we had some free time. Figured he could keep you company since i'm going to be gone for a bit longer than expected.

Looks a bit like Soap to me, so sorry if he gives you nightmares.

Simon

The end of the note has a silly drawing in black biro; Johnny, Simon and Derek at the beach. Simon's drawn himself in full uniform, mask included and Derek has a umbrella cocktail in hand. John looks decidedly annoyed giving the gorilla side eye that is meme worthy.

You kind of hate it. The gorilla. that is...it's stitching is bulging at the seams and it's eyes are looking in two different directions and it really does have something about it that screams John Mactavish, might be the slight mohawk at the top of it's head...but you also love it. You love that Simon of all people, hater of surprises, the most unspontaneous and rigid person you know, decided to surprise you with it. That he took the time to package it and probably spent more money than necessary to get the heavy thing shipped to you. You love how absurd it is and mostly, you love that it's from him because you miss him so freaking much that you're starting to pretend he's holding you at night and you're getting sadder each day because his shirts aren't smelling like him anymore.

You don't realise you're crying over it until Janice, tutts and hushes you and rushes for the tissues.

God, you miss Simon. You miss him a lot, but maybe Derek will help you feel a little bit closer to him...or Derek will give you nightmares. Either way, he's staying because Simon got him for you and no way in hell are you throwing out any gift from him even if it's a really dodgy looking gorilla.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #call of duty #cod #cod reader insert #call of duty reader insert

[foap-enjoyer]

Fic idea COD

This isn't something I can see myself writing but it's an idea that's been stuck in my head for a few days. If you wanna use it, feel free!

~

OG Team Force 141, 2009.

Soap and Price are the only ones still alive. They're still working, still doing their thing in the military, but they're tired, and sad (Of course they're sad, their friends are dead).

Which all comes crashing down when they find out Ghost- yeah, their Ghost, who died an unspecified amount of time prior, has a kid. A kid that even Ghost didn't know about. Be it from one-night-stand or past lover, nobody knows the answer.

Not even said kid, whose been dumped at the gates of their barracks. Dirty, barely clothed, and waddling around cluelessly with a thumb in their mouth without a care in the world.

Cue Soap and Price learning to heal while becoming unexpected dads (In a non-ship way, platonic/family bond) (In my tiny brain Soap loved Ghost, even if he never said anything, and having this moment in his life to honour his friend is something he won't take for granted).

~

This is hurting my brain. Someone help me.

Like I said, if you wanna use this as inspiration, please do, don't have to credit me, I sure as hell am not writing this train-wreck of a depressingly cute fic. My heart already hurts just thinking about it, I'd be sobbing five words in.

#call of duty #mw2 #cod #modern warfare 2 #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #soap mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #call of duty ghost #captain soap mactavish #captain john price #captain mactavish #captain price #price mw2 #john price #soap cod #fic ideas #cod fic idea

[4fbgatgomt]

Soap be like "Bitch im a cow, i dont say meow"

What will happen next🤔🤔🤔

Credit to @cod-dump one of her posts inspired me to draw this pls go check her out🫶✨️

#art #simon ghost riley #fanart #cod #cod fanart #simon riley #john soap mactavish #mwii #call of duty #ghost simon riley #simon riley fanart #mw2 soap #cod soap #soap x ghost #ghost x soap #johnny soap mactavish #soap fanart #soapghost #soap mctavish #call of duty modern warfare ii #call of duty fanart #call of duty modern warfare #modern warfare fanart #modern warfare 2 #digital drawing #digital illustration #digital fanart #digital doodle #cow #i post more on Instagram

[jgvfhl]

@mikeluciraphgabe come get your birthday present!!!! @cod-dump come get something inspired by your post!!! And anyone else who wants to read some touch-starved Phillip Graves dealing with very touchy Nik and Price. And by "dealing with" I mean "having several internal crises about it."

Seven to Nine Business Days

Chapters 1/1

Rating: Teen and Up (for swearing mostly)

Word count: 5106

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2022

Relationship: NikPriceGraves

Summary: "This was the main difference: Taskforce 141 and its affiliates (Alex and Karim qualified, from what Phillip could gather) were remarkably touchy.

Granted, Phillip wasn’t one to talk, so he didn’t. One of his lieutenants, Jackson, had once described his leadership style as 'like if a Batman villain was a Little League coach on the weekends.' He’d taken it as a compliment, seeing as it had made the others in the room laugh themselves to tears. When it had become clear he hadn’t understood the comparison, he’d promptly received more punches to the shoulders, slaps on the back, and loving mockeries of his (mild!) accent than he could ever need in a lifetime. The memory alone still made him smile."

#i write things sometimes #cod fanfic #cod mwii #cod mw22 #modern warfare 2022 #nikpricegraves #phillip graves #john price #captain john price #cod nikolai

[mayflora-18]

Fact Drop #3

(Sorry I posted so late, work is stupid!!)

Stoneface at gunpoint just “This might as well happen” or “So dull”

Always has at least a dozen snacks on her person

Has a bra for every type of currency; has $1,000 USD worth of currency in each bra

As a result, she rarely washes them

Due to high sugar and red meat intake, Sherlock rarely gets drunk and never has a hangover; everyone hates it

If someone looks like they need a hug she will offer

Or she will ask “Where do you need me?” and she’ll go to where they indicate

Won’t say no to cuddles

If she wants to give Nik a familial smooch she will tell she has something very important to tell him, wait for him to lean down and turn his head to the side, then she’ll give him a cheek peck and whisper, “I love you. Bye”

It makes him gush every time

When working they are like Lt. Col. Blake and Corporal Radar from M.A.S.H.

Nik almost cried when she gave him a handmade scarf

Getting one of her tranquilizing blankets earned her a crushing bear hug

Sherlock would 100% ship NikPrice

Nik likes to hang out with Sherlock

Could be rides in the helicopter or taking her shopping

Incorrect quotes #6:

Sherlock and Nik: *bickering in Russian*

Soap: Price, pick me up I’m scared

Nik watched her do parkour once and almost died of a heart attack

Incorrect quotes #7:

Nikolai: If something were to happen to Sherlock, I wouldn’t know what to do.

Price: Of course not, her mother would kill you.

(Edit 04/16/24: Sorry again for posting so late! I also have to apologize for I will not posting until the next day because this upcoming fact drop will require some actual editing. Hope you guys enjoy!)

#call of duty #call of duty oc #cod nikolai #cod sherlock #chimera sherlock #captain john price #fact dropping #inspired by cod dump #john soap mactavish

[blacktacmopsi]

Massive old as dirt Half Life fan art dump coming in 3...2...1...

There's a WIP of some Black Mesa scientists too (Kleiner & Magnusson).

I thought it would be cool to show you all some of my old shit. This is circa 2012-2013

*Now to let this inspire me to get good again and draw some COD stuff... ahh, what used to be.*

#half life #gordon freeman #barney calhoun #half life 2 #BlackTacMopsi Relearns to Draw

[ethereal-maniac]

♥️<<MASTERLIST>>♥️

Requests are ✨ closed ✨ but please read my rules before sending the request.

My rules can be found; here

This is also a multi fandom blog because I’m like a player but with fandoms instead of people lol 😭

Formerly known as: the-fem1n1ne-urge

☑️ = requests open for that fandom!

✔️ = blurbs open for that fandom!

THIS IS NOT A PLACE FOR EXTREME TRAUMA DUMPS. I’m happy to supply comfort through reqs, that is all.

I try to keep the reader non-descriptive so everyone can enjoy. <3

Do not copy, translate, transfer (plagiarise) or take ‘inspiration’ from any of my fics.

You also choose what you consume, don’t blame me if you get traumatised for something as all my fics should have warnings accordingly. (Or if they don’t, please contact me).

| The Band Ghost |

- Era 3 -

- Era 4 -

| The Hobbit |

| CoD |

| Polls |

- Ongoing -

#masterlist #the fem1n1ne urge #the fem1n1ne urge writes #the ghost band #the band ghost #drabble #papa copia #cardinal copia #poly ghouls #swiss ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #sodo ghoul #rain ghoul #aether ghoul #mountain ghoul #phantom ghoul #the company of thorin oakenshield #the hobbit #fluff #x reader #i write

[ghouljams]

i don’t know if this is too personal but i’ve really been struggling with just writing without feeling so nervous and obsessive.

i feel like if i’m not recognized by the writers i’m inspired by im not doing it right. i really wanna write stuff and be apart of a community but i truly don’t know what im doing. it feels like i need to be noticed to be okay with my writing.

i’m sorry for the dump it’s just this has been fucking with me for a week now and i wondered if you’ve had an experience with this.

The first time a writer I followed liked one of my posts I texted my sister and we screamed about it. I was shocked and awed, I wondered what they liked about it and how I could write more fic that this person I looked up to would like.

We all want to be recognized by people we admire, but that shouldn't be the goal. We can hope for it of course, but ultimately you should be writing for yourself. Don't write to impress people because ultimately you'll be disappointed with your writing if you don't get the response you want, and being disappointed in your art is a terrible feeling.

As far as being part of the community goes, I don't think there's any sort of secret club or inner circle, there's no "famous cod writers" discord(at least not one I know about), it's all just people writing what they love. You're part of the community just by engaging with their content. More importantly writing means carving out space for yourself within the community. Fandom is an ever expanding market, each new creator sets up a stall and starts doing business alone, they don't usually join another creator's stall, and you'd never say the people walking around aren't participating in the market.

If you feel like your writing needs to be noticed to be worth anything then find a friend to notice you. Their opinion will feel like gold compared to anyone else’s. At the end of the day you're the only person who has a say over your writing, so write for yourself. You'll never know what other people like and you can't please everyone, just do you and people will find you.

#ghoul speaks #advice #i guess #when did i become the advice guy #is this helpful at all

[floatingaimlessly333]

Ghoster_Toaster

Howdy, folks!!! This is my first post and I’m fucking terrified!!! :)))))) I decided to finally post because I want to promote my first fanfic. So, here y’all go!!! Shoutout to @cod-dump for the inspiration!

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #CoD Teen AU #cod mw2 #call of duty #simon is my son and he will be happy dammit