#and then they kill Makarov and get to rest for once.

[spectrecowboy]

Okay so I realized how inconsistent I was with drawing Johnny so I made this ref for myself for my AU where the boys are all alive, figured I'd include Ghost and Roach too. I tried to take into account the lore of ghost comics, orignal mw saga and the reboot and what I could find of the CoD mobile comics (which was super minimal unfortunately). I couldn't be bothered to draw helmets though sue me.

I'm writing a fic right now to explains all this qne how they end up together; angst ensues but not for long. It's really just a lead up to how things got to my cuddle art.

You guys are welcome to use this for reference too if you want, but please do not use my original images without permission!

[snootlestheangel]

Post-MW3 but Laswell had only faked Soap's death, all under the guise of it being the better thing to do.

Let Makarov believe he had actually killed one of the 141. He'd walk away from that thinking he had a small victory and wouldn't feel pressured to make his next move soon. Laswell wanted him to go into hiding, wanted the team to take the time to figure some things out.

She obviously hadn't anticipated the loose cannon of Captain Price, and him killing Shepherd threw a wrench in everything.

A few months have gone by, and Laswell gets a hit on some activity from Konni group. She tells the team they'll meet her informant there.

Obviously, there's a bit of a big blowout when they realize John 'Soap' MacTavish is the informant. Ghost takes it the worst of all of them, but he doesn't outwardly react. Not in front of Soap. But when they're alone with Laswell to ask her "what the fuck?" Ghost lets it all out.

He's cussing up a storm, saying it was all bullshit, that they should have been in on it.

"Who in this room knows what it's like to be dead better than anyone else? Bloody hell where the fuck do you think "Ghost" comes from?"

And Ghost doesn't ever talk directly to Soap or Laswell the rest of the time they're working on their latest Intel. It's upsetting to everyone, especially Gaz cause he isn't quite sure what the fuck has happened to his team. But Soap seems to be handling Ghost's cold shoulder pretty well, so Gaz keeps his distress to himself.

Finally, Ghost gets a moment alone with Soap. And Soap starts to leave, starts to give Ghost privacy because that's what Soap thinks he needs: some time and space to figure it all out in his head.

But Ghost stops him.

And the mask comes off, and Ghost slips away to reveal Simon. Simon who looks so small despite still standing over Soap.

And Soap is sorry, he's so sorry, Simon.

And he's begging for forgiveness and Simon has yet to say a word. So Soap falls quiet, lets the silence eat away at him as Simon stands there, jaw working as he thinks of something to say.

"I had lost you, Johnny."

It's such a quiet whisper, and it's so broken and it just stabs Soap through the heart. But he doesn't say anything back.

Instead he reaches for his Simon, reaches up to try and hold his head in his hands once again.

And Simon leans into the touch, allows himself a moment of softness during all this war. Allows this tender moment as he lets Soap hold him gently.

And it doesn't last long, doesn't need to. They're back with each other, in each other's hands, safe and breathing. That's all Ghost, all Simon, had ever begged for.

"The next time you die, I'm fucking going with you, you understand?"

"Of course, LT. You and me, aye?"

"Always."

[gravesdept]

♡　＃　𓂃 Imagine you being vladimir makarovs right hand man — who he tolerates just a bit more than his other lapdogs, maybe he even lets you speak down to him, informs you on plans you have no business being in on, and lets you push his buttons.

everyone wonders whats just so special about the man whose always by makarovs side, he wonders so just as well as you both take hefty puffs off an old cigar that use to be stashed away in the back of his desk, its awfully hot in the room he thinks looking from the window back towards you who, well, is leaning just a couple inches astray from his face.

from this angle he cant see anything but the light at the end of the cigar, the room of his office fairly dark being only illuminated by light from the skyscrapers windows.

it takes a minute before you pass him back the almost dull blunt, it ends up sitting between his fingers for a bit as he trudges through his thoughts, “this situation is risky, boy, you know that righ’?” although he speaks clearly enough you cannot wrap your head around what he is implying

“not sure I understand.”

at that he puts the cig out on the desk resorting to just crossing his arms “this I mean, us, your not so subtle soldier.” he looks you dead in the eyes now, a look that youve seen men be killed for even witnessing.

its silent and almost peaceful in this small pocket of time “mm wasnt tryin’ to be subtle sir,, y’know pinning after you is no easy task.” you’d say jokingly if the man infront of you hadn’t killed many men whose ranks had rivaled yours in status, instead you stay quiet choosing to move all the bit closer to him in thought, hands resulting to rest in your jacket pockets.

“i could kill you, have you lit on fire for even thinkin such thoughts about me — yet you would just keep coming back, even offering to stand by my side like some kind of lacky in love.” he spits with just a hint of venomous tone “it repulses me even thinkin about it; hey, you fuckin’ in love with me solider?”

the scowl thats always reaching on his pretty face returns just once as he stands straight from leaning on the desk, hes still shorter than you and it only adds to his fuel.

“no m’not, hows that? was it satisfying enough for you?” a lie you half think about closing the distance between you two, but the metal that gets pressed up against your skull is enough assurance to halt the bare thought of movement.

his eyes search yours once more and before you know it your back is being pressed firmly against the desk.

maybe its the sensation from being high or just the adrenaline from this damn heat but you feel very obligated to wrap a hand around the hand thats holding up your ender, again its the post blunt high thats making you see things because his hand totally doesn’t falter when you touch it and it for sure doesn’t let you lower the gun either.

yeaaaa who laced the cigar because his facial expression isn’t in a scowl anymore its almost distraught watching you maneuver the gun to sit behind on the desk, his voice stoping you temporarily “not any further soldier, you’re messin w’ my fuckin head right now, and thats not what you want.”

the look you give him is deafening and its filled with something he cant source.

“what.. are you to decide what I want, are y’ afraid that i might break you?” you’re pushin it yet there it is again that same scowl just a bit deeper than before. its like your a fucking ticking bomb thats just wanting to explode “i'm jus’ waitin for your permission sir, to let me have you”

in another universe you might have been killed at the spot and brutally beaten until unrecognizable.

“do what you’ want, but you'd better make it damn good or i'll have to kill you.” he says backing up until his legs hit his office chair the sqeaking reminding the both of you where you just so happen to be at this hour.

but that is the last thing you’d have ever thought to hear from this oh so difficult man.

note ;; chat am I cookin even though this kind of out of charcter? ,, I keep blue balling cause I really cant write full fics but we getting there also requests will be opening soon, my messages are open right now if anyone wants to thirst tho.

[fortheb0ys]

A sudden dip in the bed startles you awake. Before you could reach for your gun, a small voice cuts through the darkness.

"Y/N, Y/N?"

Makarov, a feared man, whimpers your name. You reach and turn on the lamp. Blinking your eyes as to adjust to the light, you were greeted to a blood soaked Makarov. The sheets quickly turned red as blood dripped onto them. It wasn't the first time he came home in such a state and surely it wouldn't be the last.

Makarov is kneeling, ready and waiting for whatever you would give him. His pupils are blown, black consuming any colour in his eyes. He's trembling slightly, but patiently waited for you to make a move.

"Hello, pretty." You whisper as you bring your hand to rest on his cheek. Makarov leans into your soft touch.

Without a moments notice, Makarov grabs your shoulders and smashes your lips together. The kiss was violent, dirty and full of sinful lust. Quickly you both became breathless but were unwilling to separate. Your mind became dizzy and your eyes grew dim. You felt like you could pass out at any second but Makarov's tongue against yours felt like life itself.

When it all became too much you push Makarov off you and slam him into the mattress. A growl your throat as you rip off Makarov's bloody clothes.

You kiss at every inch on his exposed skin, licking the blood off clean. You bit him, just to bloody him once again. Teeth ripping off skin, tongue soothing the wounds.

Your cock painfully hard as you looked upon your artwork. The canvas, Makarov's beautiful body. Covered in blood, both old and new.

Makarov's lips twisted into a mad smile, feeling proud about how he's got you so feral. He pulls you into a heated kiss, tasting his own blood.

His cock is hard against your thigh as his tries to rut to get any friction. Giving into his desire you spit into your palm and grab your cocks together. Stroking at a tired sloppy pace. He hisses at the dryness, your saliva not quite enough for a smooth hand job.

He rambled on that someone was dead. A MacSomething. MacTavish you think he said. About how he killed him for you. How he'd kill all of them for you. Makarov wanted to destroy everything that stood in front of you. You were his muse for the destruction. Destroy the world for turning it's back to Makarov's beloved.

"They'll all die, beloved." Makarov whispers low.

The dead man didn't matter, all that matter was Makarov. The whole world could burn and it wouldn't matter.

All that matter was Makarov skin against. The world melt away at each biting kiss. At each stoke you both become undone. Pearls of white bead at your tips.

You once again bury your teeth into his neck, biting deep as you both cum. Red and milky white paints your bodies. A finished canvas in blood and cum.

[prices-beard]

I Can't Stay

Fiancé!Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x 141!reader

Reader witnesses Johnny's death and tries to shut herself back out.

Warnings: Main character death, swearing (?), blood

It was supposed to be a safe mission.

You were all supposed to go home, and you and Johnny would go back to planning your wedding. And then you didn't all make it home.

Previously, Johnny had a chance to take out Makarov once and for all, but Price stopped him. Now, you won't ever let that go.

You all stood in the warehouse as you were surrounded by Russian troops, everyone's hearts racing wildly. You glanced to Ghost, who you were partnered with, like every mission, and he nodded curtly. You backed up, leaving Johnny, Price, and Gaz out of your sights as you rounded the corner to another room to find the rest of the Russians.

Suddenly, an explosion sounded. You and Ghost both stopped in your tracks, a sinking feeling of dread weighing down your chest. You heard a body hit the floor and a desperate plea of Price's voice calling out to you over your comms. You and Ghost sprinted back to where you were previously, and you stopped dead in your tracks when Johnny's body was sprawled out on the floor, blood leaking from his temple.

You shook your head, immediately dropping to your knees next to him, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. You finally glanced down at his face, and his beautiful blue eyes, once mischievous and full of life, were now foggy and half-lidded. "Johnny, come on, baby, gotta- gotta open your eyes," You begged, frantically wiping the blood from his face. You glanced up with wide eyes as Gaz's voice rang out above you.

"C'mon, Reaper, we gotta go," He muttered, tugging on your arm.

"No." You sneered, ripping your arm from his grasp and gently brushing a hand over Johnny's blood soaked face.

You cried harshly as you held as much pressure to his head as you could, but it was no use. Ghost's gentle hand on your shoulder pulled you away from him, and you sobbed and thrashed violently as he grabbed you, dragging you away from him. "No!" You screamed. "Let go of me! Need to- need to help him," You cried.

"Shh... Reaper, enough. Gonna get us all killed," He whispered gently, placing you back on your own two feet once you were far enough away.

You turned to look at him, fear and anger coursing through your body like a current. "Where's Makarov." You demanded coolly.

"We don't know, Reaper," He shook his head, keeping a firm grip on your arm. "We've got to go but I swear to yoY we'll find him and bring Johnny justice once we get out of here, yeah?"

You shook your head, ripping your arm from his grasp and running off toward the sound of someone besides your group. It was stupid, and you could have died, hell, you should have died, but you didn't. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, you hadn't decided. You sprinted hard, your pistol raised as you tried to find whoever it was. You glanced around wildly at the empty room, when a sudden blast knocked you off your feet.

Ghost winced at the sound and sight of the explosion, immediately turning to find you. As he started to run toward the burning building, Price's hand gripped his arm firmly. "No." He ordered. "I'm not losing three of my men tonight,"

Ghost shook his head, bringing his fist down on to Price's wrist. Price grunted as he did, his hand instinctively loosening his grip. Ghost pulled it away, springing into a run toward the building that was engulfed in flames.

You laid still on the floor, ears ringing loudly as you closed your eyes, the flame licking your gear. Suddenly, someone grabbed you, lifting you from the floor and away from the fire. Your head was still buzzing from the explosion and the impact of it hitting the ground, your vision blurred significantly. You could feel the firm grip on your body, fingers digging uncomfortably in the fresh burns on your skin.

Ghost emerged from the building, Gaz flinching as part of the building collapsed behind them. He fell to his knees, placing you on the ground gently as his chest heaved, the smoke inhalation causing him to struggle. He coughed harshly, glancing down at you as Gaz and Price surrounded the two of you, Price doing everything he could to wake you up as your pulse slowed and your chest stopped rising.

He cursed and stripped off your burnt and partially destroyed vest, as well as your jacket, leaving you in a compression shirt as he started CPR. When it did nothing after thirty seconds, he cut off the compression shirt, hoping getting the tight material from your body would help. He continued his attempt, sighing in relief as you shot up, coughing wildly. He ran a soothing hand down the back of your head, helping you clear your chest.

You sat up, looking around wildly. You coughed hard, turning your head to spit up whatever phlegm and smoke was lingering in your throat. Your chest heaved as you sat there, staring at the burning building. "Where's Makraov."

Price shook his head, tucking a strand of burnt, mangled hair behind your ear. "Gone, Y/n. He's gone."

You stood next to Ghost and Gaz, Price next to Ghost. You all collectively stared out at the city below you, Price's hands gripping the urn that held what was left of Johnny tightly. You zoned out, the gentle fall breeze blowing your hair softly from your face. Your fingers itched to twist around and fiddle with his tags and your engagement ring that rested in your pocket as you stood there, motionless and silent. Gaz started to say something and his stuttering, slurred voice snapped you out of your trance. "I'm leaving." You muttered, backing up toward your car. Price glanced over, handing the urn to Ghost before walking toward you. You shook your head, backing away like a frightened animal. "Have to go, price," You whispered, watching as his weathered, calloused hands reached out toward you.

"Stay. Please," He pleaded, gentle hands reaching out to hold your biceps.

"Can't," You muttered, shaking your head. "This- this is why I don't stay." You choked. "Every time I stay I get hurt. I- I don't wanna get hurt anymore," You cried softly, letting him surround you. You laid your head on his shoulder, the tears flooding your eyes and wetting his sweater.

Your knees buckled out from under you and you were now solely held up by Price's strong arms. You sobbed harsh, ugly cries, desperately trying to get in a good breath. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning at the lack of oxygen. You could feel a headache setting in, but it couldn't compare to the headache Johnny must have felt when Makarov put a bullet through his skull. You started to babble nonsense, pleading with anyone who would listen to wake you from this nightmare. You could faintly hear Price's soothing, melodious voice trying to calm you down, but nothing was working.

Eventually, you sat down on the cold, firm ground, the grass tickling your fingers. You stared blankly at the horizon in front of you, watching as the sun set in silence. You knew you wouldn't be able to stay.

[gremlinmodetweeker]

okay okay, it's a lil silly but hear me out konig + phantom of the opera au

man's got it all; need to cover his face, obsessive tendencies, and the need to be a secretive lil (big) weirdo *chef's kiss*

NO NO NO HOLD ON YOU'RE COOKIN. NOT SILLY AT ALL.

Now look here, I dunno if you know this, but I am a sucker for classic literature. One of my top three favourite books of all time is Frankenstein by Mary Shelly. That woman ate when she wrote that book and I will listen to nothing else. I also really want to write an essay about how Frankenstein is Mary Shelly discussing the inherent horror of motherhood in those times and how the lack of a mother figure shapes an individual. I think it's an extremely layered book, but I like to see the parenthood lens of the book.

Now now now, this is about Phantom of the Opera. I do know a bit about the original phantom, and I don't like to think König or reader dies in the end (just personally, I can't write a tragic ending. I really need a happy ending, not for the reader, but because I need a happy ending). So, let me introduce the idea that this is a version where the phantom wins.

This is one where the phantom was fucking right and actually, freak of nature as he is, maybe he had a point!!! Maybe, reader shouldn't be dating someone twice their age. Maybe, though König is a bit older for sure, he's actually not that old and a more appropriate age. Albeit, though now recovered, König still suffered a case of leprosy after being exposed during a war. He considers himself hideous, but maybe reader would be able to look past his sickness?

Now, is König appropriate as a lover? Probably not. He's obsessive, jealous, and a borderline stalker. He's determined to kill off the man who's trying to seduce her ('How dare you try and take my little songbird away from me!!!') and will do anything to keep reader to himself. However, he's also saving reader from a far worse fate with someone worse than him.

Reader is enchanted by Makarov of course, but König knows better and is determined to show her the light. He desperately wants to just talk to her and explain everything to her, but at this point he's committed to what he's doing and social anxiety makes him unable to just knock on her door and talk to her like a regular person.

Once again, like every incredible story in the English language, if you guys just talked everything would be fine but nobody knows how to be an adult.

Anyways, König loves reader dearly. Watching her perform makes his heart ache. His one saving grace is a beautiful voice he uses to enchant her. If his face is nothing but sickness, let him sing to his little songbird and help her connection to music. He'll do what he can to cling to any connections he has to her. He's desperate to hold her, and he'll do whatever he needs to to get to her.

IMPORTANT EDIT:

König with the phantom mask but he has two long red ribbons coming out the bottom of the eyes and the rest of his face is hidden under a dark hood. Consider it.

[siilvan]

bloodsport – II

prologue | part one | next

characters: vladimir makarov

summary: you never realized how boring captivity could be. you hate to admit it, but makarov is the only interesting thing around, and perhaps the closest thing you have to an ally in this place.

genre: angst, slowburn, enemies to ?, fem!reader (callsign: petra, no desc.)

warnings: semi-proofread, cursing, canon-typical violence, descriptions of blood/injuries, inaccurate medical procedures, reader gets harassed :/, reader kills a dude, russian written by a non-russian speaker (please correct me if it's wrong!!)

word count: 3.7k

note: the temptation to write the filthiest makarov/reader/yuri fic is slowly taking over my brain. i'm begging activision to reveal my ex-war-criminal husband already bc i have two hands for a reason

true to his word, you don't see makarov for the rest of the day. after you're brought back to your cell and locked away, you take the time to rest and gather your thoughts. the lumpy bed provides little comfort as you try to sleep, but it's better than the cold floor. you manage to drift off eventually, even with every voice and sound in the corridor stirring you awake.

when you finally drag yourself out of bed the next morning, blinking away any lingering exhaustion and gently stretching your sore muscles, the sky is still dark. the storm that was raging all night had subsided for now, and through the single barred window on the back wall, you can see groups of soldiers outside. running drills, training in marksmanship, transporting supplies, patrolling the grounds - it reminds you of the bases you've visited with the team.

the team. you trudge over to the only other furniture in the room, the metal chair that you moved to sit near the window, and plop down onto the seat unceremoniously. with how muddled your mind has been since the conversation with makarov, you've hardly had time to think about them.

they're alive. you just need to keep telling yourself that. they'll come for you as soon as they can. all you can do until then is keep faith and survive.

as a pair of boots stomps down the hall towards your cell, you begin to ponder if taking matters into your own hands is the only way you'll escape. you're just as capable as the rest of your team, surely you can find a way out of this crumbling prison.

you turn your head at the sound of keys jingling. a guard is standing at your door, unlocking it, before looking at you. "let's go," he says, thick accent lacing every word. "you're on a schedule."

with a small wince, you rise from the chair and cross the room. the guard starts down the corridor, heading in the opposite direction that you went yesterday. you follow close behind, clammy palms wringing together. it almost feels like you're restrained again, with metal cuffs digging into your wrists and binding you, keeping you from struggling or defending yourself.

after descending a staircase and passing a few corners, you reach wherever the guard was taking you. he pushes a door open and ushers you inside, revealing a sizeable shower facility. you send him a cursory glance, confused as he motions for you to step further into the space.

"shower." he mutters, standing by the door. you wordlessly turn to the showers, then back to him.

"do you mind?" you ask, nodding towards the door. "i'd like a little privacy. it's not like i can tunnel my way out."

he shakes his head at first, refusing your request, until you decide to do the same, silently staring at him. a beat passes between you until he spins around, grumbling something along the lines of "hurry up," and exits the room. once the door slams shut behind him, you let out a relieved breath and walk over to one of the many stalls.

you scan the area before carefully undressing, paying close attention so as to not mess up your bandages or strain any of your healing injuries. you quickly dive past the thin curtain and toss your clothes over the curtain rod.

a string of curses fall from your lips when you twist the knob and cold water pours out of the shower head, prickling like ice against your skin. cleaning yourself up whilst protecting your bandages is a difficult task, but you manage to keep them relatively dry. you were in need of a fresh set, anyway. grains of sand and dust leftover from al-mazrah is washed down the drain, and as you start to adjust to the freezing temperature, some of your muscle aches follow suit.

a few minutes of relief pass by as you try to relax, though the bliss is short-lived when you remember your conversation from yesterday. you hate the thought of listening to makarov of all people, but did he have a point? are you truly just as bad as him, even with good intentions being your motivation?

you're well aware of what your job entails. as captain price so bluntly puts it: we get dirty, and the world stays clean. you know that some missions leave a sour taste in your mouth and a doubt in your mind. are you truly doing the right thing? can you do better? is there a way to save everyone?

as you shut off the water and attempt to dry off with a clean towel left on a small bench nearby, you realize that you're giving makarov exactly what he wants. he brought up the topic with the intent of messing with your head. he's trying to break you - for whatever reason, you're not sure. all you know is that you can't give up. you have to stay strong for the team.

you pull your clothes back on, nose scrunching at the uncomfortable feeling of damp gauze sticking to your skin. the guards seemed to bounce between civility and cruelty depending on the moment; perhaps you can catch someone in a good mood and request a replacement.

the door swings open and you jolt, spinning around to face the intruder. the man from earlier is standing in the doorway, a look of disinterest evident even through his balaclava. "you are done, yes?"

clearly he isn't the person to ask, you think, following him into the corridor. he leads you back down the same path as earlier, through winding halls and up a set of stairs, stopping once you arrive at the cell you call home. you keep an eye out for anyone along the way who looks to be doing well, searching for a person to seek help from.

no one catches your attention, leaving you only one option: the guard currently locking the door behind you.

"uh– can i ask you a question?" you turn around to look at him, wrapping your hands around the iron bars. he sends a small glare in your direction, but pauses nonetheless.

"what?" he murmurs, standing up straight.

you lift your arms, showing off the damp and gradually loosening bandages. "any chance i can get these changed?"

his eyes flit down to your arms, then back to your face. he sighs, heavy and deep, and grumbles out a reply. "i will get the doctor."

with that, he leaves your sight, lifting a hand to his radio and saying something that you can't understand. "should've agreed to those fucking russian lessons from price," you mumble, staggering across the room and sitting on the bed while picking at your loose gauze.

it feels like an hour passes by before you hear someone coming down the hall again. by this point, you were assuming that the guard had forgotten about you.

you sit up from your slumped position against the metal frame and are immediately greeted by a new person on the other side of the door. an older man, nicely dressed and carrying a heavy bag that you fear will topple him over, regarding you with a grin that feels out of place in this shithole.

"you must be petra," he starts, pushing the door open and letting himself inside. he keeps his distance, both hands visible and wrapped around the handle of the bag in front of his body. "doctor tarkovsky." he continues, introducing himself. you nod, watching closely as he approaches you and places his bag on the bed next to you. the chair is dragged over, much like the other day, and he sits.

"the work you did... you saved my life, doctor." you mutter, allowing him to take one of your arms into his gentle hold. he hums in reply, taking great care in undoing the dressings.

"спасибо, but it was not me that saved you." he chuckles softly, eyes briefly lifting from your arm to meet your gaze. "the commander was responsible for that. by the time you arrived here and into my care, he had managed to stabilize you."

he mumbles something to himself about "his military days" while dropping his gaze back down to your newly exposed skin. your eyes follow his, and you wince at the sight of burn marks and stitched lacerations. a cold breeze enters into the room through the window and stings as it sweeps over you, making you clench your hand into a tight fist.

"the commander? you mean makarov?" you ask, forcing yourself to look away and stare at the wall behind the doctor. the same man that put you here is the one that kept you alive. go figure. you glare holes into a random brick, trying to make sense of it. based on the few interactions that you've had with him, as well as the many things that price had to say, that kindness seems out of character.

the fact that he hasn't tortured you to the brink of insanity is odd enough.

"yes, he demanded that i give you the best treatment. said he wanted you alive and in good condition." the doctor rummages through the bag next to you and begins to clean your wounds and apply new dressings, deft hands making quick work of the process. you remain silent as he wraps your arm in a new set of bandages, waiting for him to finish.

you finally speak once he's halfway through rewrapping your other arm. "is he always so... touchy?" you murmur, almost a whisper.

"touchy?" he repeats the word.

"i think i pissed him off yesterday," you say, tongue darting out to wet your chapped lips. "ended up slammed against a wall. is he always so quick to anger?"

after securing the bandages on your arm, the doctor leans back and shakes his head. "commander makarov is usually the calmest person in a conversation," he replies with a surprised huff. "whatever you said or did must have struck a nerve, made him lose his temper. even the soldiers working under him struggle to do such a thing."

you furrow your brow at him. he waves off your befuddlement and gets started on treating your other injuries - namely, the large gash on your side and the burns on your back. as he's loosely wrapping your back in gauze, he makes another comment.

"it could be that you angered him, rather than what you did."

"i angered him?" you parrot back to him, craning your neck to look at him over your shoulder. the doctor nudges you forward again and hums affirmatively.

yet another thing that doesn't make any sense, you think. besides your affiliation with the one-four-one, there's nothing about you that should stand out to a man like makarov. you don't possess any top secret intel or really hold any importance to anyone outside of your team; so, why is he treating you so strangely? is it a game he's playing, trying to mess with his real enemy, the captain?

are you merely a pawn, a bargaining chip between two forces much bigger than yourself? makarov is dangling your life like bait, hoping to catch a better prize. you squeeze your eyes shut and take in a deep breath, considering your options.

makarov would only hold onto you for one reason. drawing out captain price. that means price is alive, at least to makarov. if you stay here, you might be able to confirm this plan for yourself. however, if you can escape and deliver all the intel you've collected so far, you could prevent the plan from advancing any further. no matter which option you choose, rotting away in this prison cell won't help.

as kind as the doctor is, he's still one of makarov's men. you can't trust him. you're on your own.

"so, is it going to scar?" you inquire with a smile, fixing your shirt after he pulls away. he moves to gather his things, reaching into his bag and handing you a dose of painkillers.

he sighs and sends you another smile of his own. "the burns aren't deep enough, thankfully, and the lacerations shouldn't scar so long as they're properly cared for. you are very lucky."

"guess i am. thank you, again."

you swallow down the pills - dry, much to your chagrin - and give him a small wave as he exits the room, the iron door closing behind him with a soft clunk. the guard from earlier reappears to lock it moments later, leaving you trapped in the cell once more.

⋆⋆⋆

another five days pass by, and you mentally curse whatever higher power put you here. your routine remains largely unchanged: at roughly seven o' clock, one of the guards stops by to take you to the showers. by seven-thirty, the doctor arrives to change your bandages. you're given your only meal around noon and left to your own devices until eight in the evening, when the doctor arrives to change your bandages again.

you are slowly beginning to heal, at least. the lack of nutrition was stunting the process, but according to the doctor, you were still on the mend. it won't be long until you can get the stitches taken out.

you've spent several of these past one-hundred-and-twenty hours wondering if that's what makarov is waiting for. he wants you alive to torture, to indulge in breaking something fixed by his own hand. maybe the doctor is in on the plan. you wouldn't be surprised to discover that he's reporting your healing process to makarov, giving him a countdown of sorts.

as you rest on the cold, hard stone floor, with your back propped up against the side of the bed, tossing a rubber ball that you pocketed at the wall, you question if your paranoia is getting the better of you.

the rubber ball rolls across the ground after you throw it at the wall. it starts to come back to you, before bouncing off the edge of your boot and heading towards the door. you lazily follow it with your eyes, until you notice a person standing at the other side of the bars, their gaze transfixed on you.

it's a man wearing an outfit similar to the doctor's, though you can easily tell that he's substantially younger. in his late thirties to early forties, you estimate. he carefully kicks the ball out of his way after entering the room. you watch him like a hawk, an uneasy feeling washing over you.

"i'll be handling your care today." he announces, plopping his similarly-designed supply bag on the mattress. you pull yourself up to stand and dust yourself off, taking a healthy step back from him.

"something happen with doctor tarkovsky?" you ask as the younger man rummages through his bag and slips on a pair of latex gloves. he shakes his head, not even bothering to look at you, and continues searching through his supplies.

"tarkovsky is busy," he responds, motioning for you to sit. you hesitate for a second, but ultimately decide to shake off the nerves and follow his orders. "i'm going to start with your back today." he adds. you nod, moving to face away from him and lift your shirt up.

he's silent while replacing the gauze, and you're not sure whether you prefer that or talking. his touch is slightly less gentle, which you chalk it up to less experience. eventually, he moves on to the gash on your side, settling in the normal chair with an expression that you find hard to decipher.

your unease is suddenly validated as he cleans the stitches. his unoccupied hand comes to rest on your thigh, just above your knee, catching your attention. your eyes fall from the wall to his hand, then to the open bag at your side. laying near the top of it is a scalpel - small, but lethal in the right hands. you clear your throat and shift, bouncing your knee under his hold, testing the waters.

instead of removing his hand, he slips it just barely higher. you squint, gnawing at the inside of your cheek, debating on acting now or waiting a little longer. maybe he doesn't realize it.

as his hand slides higher, though, gloved fingertips digging into the plush of your thigh, that notion goes out the window. you slowly lower your hand closest to the bag and place it on the mattress next to it. the younger doctor pulls back, examining his work, his thumb rubbing languid circles into your skin. you act while he's distracted.

with trained proficiency, you grab the scalpel from the top of the pile and shove the man forward, slicing across his neck in one swift motion. he stumbles backwards, reaching up to desperately grasp at his throat as he chokes on the blood pouring from the open wound.

"don't fucking touch me again," you seethe, fixing your shirt and holding the scalpel in a white-knuckled grip. the sounds of him tripping over the chair and falling to the ground alerts the guards stationed in the corridor, who immediately rush through the door with their guns drawn and pointed at you.

they're shouting at you, but you can't make out what they're saying over the blood pounding in your ears. you turn away from the dying man and stare them down, unmoving from your spot in the middle of the room.

after a brief standoff, the guards suddenly look over their shoulders and shuffle away from each other, revealing a familiar face. one you haven't seen in almost a week, and assumed you wouldn't see for a while longer.

makarov steps to the front of the small group as the ringing in your ears begins to subside. his eyes dart from you to the man lying on the ground, having choked to death shortly before he arrived at the scene. he chuckles, low and controlled, and turns to the guards.

"убрать этот беспорядок," he mutters, waving towards the corpse. the men holster their guns and move past him, lifting the body up and carrying it out. as the group disappears down the hall, you find yourself alone with makarov. the scalpel slips from your fingers and clatters against the floor, pulling his focus back to you.

"well? are you going to punish me for that?" you ask plainly, the pool of red still visible in your peripheral vision.

"should i?" he counters, casually sauntering across the room. his gaze flits from yours to your cheek, which you soon realize is wet with the man's blood.

you shrug, shoulders drooping. "i killed one of your men. most people would punish a prisoner for less."

he wipes the blood off your cheek with his forefinger and huffs softly, seemingly pleased with the situation. it's only now that you notice his slightly disheveled appearance; his white dress shirt is untucked and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms that are covered in a light layer of dirt. minor cuts and bruises bloom on his skin, resembling self-defense wounds.

"i could never expect a member of the one-four-one to accept capture quietly," makarov remarks, picking the chair up off the floor. "i'm surprised it took you this long, if anything. i was expecting to receive reports by the second day."

he raps his knuckles against the seat twice, urging you to sit. you end up mirroring your first interaction after he sits on the bed across from you, elbows resting on top of his knees.

you grab a set of cleaning wipes from the bag forgotten at the foot of the bed and offer them to him. "so, i'm assuming you're not here to share the fun story behind those obvious self-defense wounds?" you tilt your head to the side, regarding him with a sarcastic smile.

"like i said in our prior conversation," he takes the pack from your outstretched hand and haphazardly wipes his arms clean, the lack of care enough to make you inwardly flinch at the potential pain. "once traitors are found, they are dealt with."

"seems like they got to you first," you snort.

besides a pointed glare, he doesn't dignify your comment with a response. instead, he takes your arm into his hold, removing the old bandages with almost the same level of indifference that he treated his own injuries with.

"ow." you grunt, a bit overdramatic. in truth, his touch isn’t any less gentle than the doctor you just killed.

"stop complaining." he responds bluntly.

"maybe be more careful, then." you snap, tugging your arm back. you're being intentionally difficult, pushing his buttons, but you deserve to be a little shitty to the man holding you hostage.

makarov grabs your elbow, one of the few relatively uninjured parts of your arm, and yanks you forward, until your free hand slams down onto the space next to him to catch yourself from falling. he leans in, your noses nearly touching, and sneers.

"this is the extent of my kindness, petra." he tightens his hold when you try to create some distance, locking you in place. "do not tempt me to withdraw it." he whispers, dark eyes boring into yours.

you swallow back a whimper as his grip tightens again, blunt nails digging into healing skin, nodding in reply. he releases you a moment later and resumes his previous actions, quickly yet effectively rewrapping your arm. you grudgingly decide to cooperate for the other set, making it go by much faster than the last.

"tarkovsky said you're usually pretty calm," you mumble as he secures the bandages in place. "is it the one-four-one that frustrates you so easily? or, am i just a special case, hm?"

makarov, clearly interested in continuing the running theme since your first meeting, does not respond. you really should get used to it. you say nothing more as he stands up and grabs the discarded supply bag, walking towards the door. he pauses, holding the door open, and you nearly miss the words said to you over his shoulder.

"anyone else would be dead already."

translations:

спасибо (spasibo) - thank you

убрать этот беспорядок (ubrat' etot besporyadok) - clean up this mess

taglist: @sofasoap, @roosterr, @rohansregret, @lonesome-doves, @thorrsexual, @miss-nob0dy, @woodeelf, @fbs-fc-ur-mommy, @soap-mactavish, @itsyellow

⋆ feel free to ask to be added to/removed from the taglist! (18+ only please <;3)

[ponyosmom35]

better off

simon ghost riley x reader

synopsis: simon and soap discuss their plan to keep reader safe from their enemies.

Link to master list:https://www.tumblr.com/ponyosmom35/733401347573088256/simon-ghost-riley?source=share

Soap set down the phone and looked at Simon, his expression a mix of exasperation and sadness. "Happy now?" he asked, his tone sharp but edged with concern.

Simon didn't respond immediately. He stood still, his face as unreadable as ever. His fingers flexed at his sides as if trying to find something to hold on to. After a moment, he let out a slow, deliberate breath and looked up.

"Yeah," Simon said, his voice flat. "I'm ecstatic."

Soap shook his head, pacing the room. "I don't understand why you can't just go home, get her out of there, and put her somewhere safe while we finish this."

Simon's jaw tightened, his eyes darting to the floor as if it held all the answers. "It's not that simple, Soap. If they catch even a whisper of me going near her, they'll know. And if they know, she's dead." His voice was strained, as though each word was a weight he could barely carry. "Right now, the safest thing for her is to think I'm gone."

Soap stopped pacing, turning to face him. "So what's your plan, then? Once she gets here, we just pick her up and take her to the safehouse? She's gonna freak out, Simon. And when she finds out you're alive, she's gonna bloody kill all of us. She'll never forgive you."

Simon's shoulders sagged slightly, the faintest crack in his stoic demeanor. "I know," he said, his voice quiet. "I know." He exhaled sharply, straightening his posture as if to shake off the weight of his admission. "But what choice do we have, Johnny? It's her life or mine. And I'll be damned if I let her die because of me."

Soap crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "So, you think sending her on a 'vacation' is safer? Mate, this is fifty shades of fucked up."

Simon's eyes narrowed, his tone cutting. "Watch it, mate. I know it's not a perfect plan. But it's the best I've got right now. As long as she's in the dark and keeps moving, she's safe."

"And if Makarov gets wind she's in the country?" Soap's voice dropped, the gravity of the situation pressing between them.

Simon's voice dropped even lower, cold and dangerous. "If Makarov spots her, I'll bring her in myself. And I'll rip apart every bastard in his crew before I let him touch her."

The finality in Simon's tone ended the conversation. Without another word, he walked to his room, the door closing behind him with a resounding thud. He leaned against the wall, his head hanging low. The weight of it all—her absence, her safety, the lie he was forcing her to live—crushed him.

He clenched his fists, the guilt and desperation bubbling to the surface. With a sharp exhale, he slammed his fist into the wall, the pain radiating through his knuckles barely a fraction of what he felt inside. He stood there, breathing heavily, trying to push it all back down.

He missed her more than he thought possible. Every second apart felt like a fresh wound, a new reminder of what he'd given up to keep her alive.

Later that night, sleep found him, but it offered no relief. His dreams turned into a nightmare—her, standing in front of him, her eyes wide with fear. Makarov's men surrounded her, guns raised. Simon tried to move, to grab her, but he was frozen, powerless as the worst unfolded before his eyes. The gunshot rang out, and her body crumpled to the ground.

He woke with a start, gasping for air, his chest heaving as sweat soaked through his shirt. He pressed his hands to his face, the image of her lifeless body burned into his mind.

The rest of the night passed in restless silence. By dawn, Simon was in the gym, punishing his body in a futile attempt to quiet his mind. When his muscles screamed for mercy, he retreated to his office, staring at the live feed from the security camera outside her house.

The sight of her home brought him no comfort. He told himself it was to ensure she was safe, but deep down, he knew it was because he couldn't go a day without feeling connected to her.

As he watched the screen, he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the hum of the equipment. "I'll fix this. I'll make it right. And then… I'll stay out of her life for good."

But even as he said the words, the thought of never seeing her again felt like the cruelest punishment of all.

[unreliablesnake]

Shock (Soap x reader)

note: mw3 spoiler under the cut. a short something i wrote, don't even ask why. takes place after that certain scene. / if you want to know when i post new stuff, follow @unreliablesnakefics and hit the get notifications button.

It was impossible to describe what went through your head at lightning speed. From shock, through horror, right to grief, there was a wide variety of emotions that you had no idea how to control. Your body froze and you couldn’t stop staring. You felt an arm grab you by the waist, pulling you away from Johnny’s lifeless body, but you fought like hell to be back on your knees next to him, his hand tightly wrapped by your fingers. 

Your brain hadn’t really caught up with what happened, there was a part of you that believed it was a sick joke or a plan to make it look like he was dead for some reason. It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t be dead. No. “We’ll go to Bali after we took care of Makarov,” he had said, and you wanted him to keep this promise. You would go there and have the time of your lives, sipping cocktails on the beach. 

“Hey, come on,” Price said as he forcefully pulled you up, making sure your back was to him. “Look at me. Don’t look at him,” he said when you turned your head to glance down at the body, his fingers grabbing your chin to make you look at him. “Focus on me. Focus on my voice. You need to breathe. In and out. Do it with me.”

With your whole body trembling, you took a deep breath then exhaled it slowly, following his lead. And again. And again. And again. Right until you were doing it without his guidance. You didn’t miss the way he glanced over at Ghost, the very man who was also staying by the fallen sergeant’s side apparently. Your mouth opened as you tried to speak, ask him stupid things like, “Does he still have a pulse? Is he breathing?” But by now your brain was up to speed and reality hit you like a train. 

Once you collapsed onto the ground, your knees pulled up to your chest, forehead resting on your knees as you cried, Gaz knelt down next to you and put a hand on your shoulder. You thought he would give you a speech about the need to pull yourself together, but he didn’t say a word, he was just sitting there with a tired look in his brown eyes that you could see in everyone else’s. You were all tired, this was getting out of hand, and now that…

Now that Johnny was gone, it would probably shake up the team. It would give you the motivation to end this once and for all, and there would be absolutely no hesitation when you had that cockroach in your hands to kill him. In fact, right now you felt like it was your duty to get your revenge on him for what happened to your lover. He had to pay for this. An eye for an eye. That simple. 

“Don’t let this break you,” you suddenly heard Ghost’s voice when he stepped over to you. You looked up at him, and when you saw his teary eyes, you understood that this was just as hard for him as it was to you. They were friends. He had just lost a good friend. “We’ll get Makarov, but we will do this together, all right? You’re not alone in this.”

After some consideration, you nodded. Your eyes travelled from the lieutenant to the captain, waiting for an order. You couldn’t think straight now, that much you knew. If it was up to you to decide, you would be weeping next to Johnny, your eyes fixed on the hole in his head and the pool of blood around him. That sight wouldn’t do you any good. Price had been right, you shouldn’t look. 

“Stay here while we get some help here and don’t turn around, okay?” the captain asked, earning an obedient nod from you. “Good. I don’t want you to lose it now. We need you on the team.”

[sandyseagullsip]

Kidnapped

Summary: You were kidnapped by Makarov (a short little fic I wrote in the middle of the night)

CW: Kidnapping, restraints, all that jazz

“Ptichka, you’re awake!” You hear in the darkness. You open your eyes to see a man standing fairly close to you. But you’re not home; That’s the first thing you notice. You open your mouth in an attempt to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Don’t try to speak, little bird. The chemicals we used to knock you out… those will make talking hurt.” He flashes a fake smile at you. “My name is Vladimir Makarov, and you are my bait.”

Bait? For what? The thought crosses your mind, then realizing how freezing the room you are in was, and the metal cuffs attaching you to the chair weren’t helping. 

“I will explain this to you only once, no? I need you here to make your task force  come to save you. Why? I need them gone, because with them alive, I struggle to bring glory to Russia. All because you and those men keep helping the terrorists in Urzikstan.” He snarled at you.

There are no terrorists in Urzikst–

“The ‘bottom line’ is, I need to restore my country to the greatness we once had and, whether you like it or not, you are helping. You don’t need to do anything outrageous, just sit and wait. You are helping much already.” Makarov leans down to be at eye level with you before chuckling. 

“I won’t–” Your voice breaks, feeling like you swallowed hundreds of needles. “Help you.” The pain was, in fact, excruciating.

“You don’t understand. They’re already coming to be the heroes. Don’t try to save them. You will only hurt yourself.” He leans against the wall. “In fact, they might already be here.”

Shit shit shit–

“Eyes on th’ target.” You hear the familiar voice of a raspy brit call out, and the door flings open.

“Ah,” Makarov chuckles. “Simon Riley. Wonderful to see you once again.”

“Hand ‘em over.” He grumbles.

“It would be rude to skip introductions, no? You brought a friend.” Makarov looks behind Ghost, a sickening smile on his face. “They call you Gaz; Kyle Garrick, hm? Not a question, I already know I am right.”

“I wan’ t’ get this over with. Hand ‘em over.” Ghost says, now aiming his gun at him. Gaz does the same, before Makarov continues.

“You’re here for the ptichka, I know. But where’s your captain, hm? I doubt he’s afraid to face me. I just need to keep them a little longer until your captain gets here, khorosho?”

“We’re no’ here for pleasantries Makarov.” Gaz calls out. 

Fuck. All you can think is that the blood is on your hands if either of them are killed. Gaz now walks towards Makarov, Ghost makes his way toward you. Before you can comprehend it, Makarov fires the first shot.

“This bird,” He yells. “Will not be leaving my cage anytime soon!”

Both Gaz and Ghost turn to fire at him, Makarov managing to dodge many of their shots. Not all of them. In the midst of the chaos, Makarov was hit in the shoulder once and his left bicep twice; Then he made a break for it. Ghost began cursing before Gaz reminded him that the rest of the force was outside waiting for Makarov.

“R/N, are you okay?” Gaz asked quickly moving to you and releasing you from your restraints.

You couldn’t respond, though. You nodded, hoping it would suffice.

“Say somethin’ sergeant.” Ghost said, a look of concern in his eyes

You stared blankly, before trying to say something. This time, the attempt was fruitless, resulting in you clutching your throat in pain, leaving the men very worried. Ghost picked you up to carry you out to a medic.

“R/N is secure.” Gaz said into his comms.

“Do no’ kill Makarov.” Ghost added. “We need t’ know wha’ he did to ‘em.”

You point at Ghost’s arm, causing him to look down and see the wound he received.

“Don’ worry abou’ me. We need t’ know wha’ they drugged you with.” He hissed.

[halfmoth-halfman]

do you have any headcannons about designer dress you can disclose? every now and then i create some of my own, but it's great finding out about the "official" ones, like why did you choose canary as mc's moniker? are we going to find out more about laswell and price? maybe gaz's mom? she seems important... what about farah's relationship with john? and some tidbits as well, like why blue? why valeria's "day job" is fashion designer? sorry the questionnaire, any piece would be great! i'm just in awe with the whole ambience you've created. much love! xx

oh i’ve got plenty of headcanons. some i won’t go into too much detail about because it would dipping into spoiler territory, but here ya go:

gaz was a big momma's boy as a kid, and when she died so soon after his father it left him with a lot of big, confusing feelings for an 8-9 year old

he was angry at price for a long time after his parents' deaths and it wasn't until well into his teenage years that he started warming up to price

farah was adopted after gaz, when her parents were killed during price's and the 141's first go around with makarov when they were both building their "empires" (we'll go more into that in the next few chapters)

gaz and farah took to each other easily, often finding comfort in their similar struggles and complicated feelings for price

price does everything he can to help gaz and farah remember their parents, mostly out of respect and love for them and their parents, but also due to that quiet guilt that he's the reason their parents are gone

gaz goes back on forth on calling price dad, but always refers to farah as his sister

farah does not call price dad, it’s always either old man or price

farah does think of gaz as a brother, but can’t bring herself to actually call him that because it makes her think of hadir

farah and gaz are best friends through and through tho

price cannot visit their parents' graves with them, he doesn't feel he has a right to, and if he goes with one of them he’ll wait in the car until they’re done to go to the grave himself

price has talked about canary to gaz’s dad’s grave

i hc price's favorite color as blue in general, hence all the blue he puts his women in

there is a difference between the blues when he gets canary a dress vs when valeria makes her one

valeria's come in various shades of blue while price's are always the same shade of blue as his eyes

he is absolutely doing it as a way to mark his territory

graves loves his women in gold and jewels and designer, it's a way to show off his wealth and status and how much he spoils them

it's all part of a carefully put together show to make himself look good

makarov does not give a fuck about any of that

his women are on display as a way to taunt and tempt his enemies because they know better than to touch what's his and he drapes them in blood-colored fabric as warning

price had a playboy phase after his (amicable) divorce from kate and it only got worse when gaz’s parents died

he never loved or really cared for any of his significant others, knowing most were just after his money, status, or bragging rights - they used him and he used them as a stress relief

when gaz moved in to the manor, he tried a few short-lived relationships that never lasted more than a few months

he stopped completely when farah moved in

price tried dating once or twice when gaz and farah were older and things were more stable but it was never anything serious until canary

price has never been in love until canary

price, nik, and gaz's dad were bffs with farah's dad joining later, and nik loves gaz and farah like his own

at one point, shepherd was included in that little group

alex and farah had a romcom-esque meet-cute at a 141 gala where alex was a guest of kate's

alex fell first, farah fell harder

price, and the rest of the 141, are good friends with kate's wife, but they don't see her often since she's not involved in their business

kate tries to keep her wife separate from that side of her life for her own safety

roach, könig, and horangi live in a three-bedroom apartment because the third bedroom was originally ghost's

outside of soap, ghost is probably closest to roach and sees him as a younger brother

no one except ghost knows how old roach is, he changes the answer every time someone asks him

roach was not born mute, it happened during a bar fight where he shielded ghost from someone with a broken bottle

ale/val/rudy have known each other since they were kids

rudy always had feelings for alejandro but never said anything, content to be friends

alejandro and valeria dated first, they broke up when valeria and alejandro disagreed with how to run the vaqueros

alejandro and rudy started dating in that time, but rudy broke up with him when valeria came back and rudy felt like alejandro wasn't over her

it was a lot of drama and feelings being shoved down that culminated in one night of drinking, arguing about emotions, and eventually a threesome

the three have been together ever since

alejandro and rudy do not necessarily approve of what valeria does with her own business - she takes a very jason todd approach to it all (aka "you can't stop crime, but you can control it") - but she does get positive results so the arguments are few and far between

rudy is a doctor first and foremost, but he's always enjoyed cooking (something something cutting into meat the same way he'd cut into a body something something) and it was his own suggestion for him to be the club chef

valeria never intended to do fashion design, but she enjoys the finer things and has specific tastes for how she wants to look

since every tailor/designer she had hired eventually ended up disappointing her, she took up the job herself

running a club was nik's idea, and it took him a few months and a lot of badgering to convince price to go along with it

price agreed only because 13-year-old gaz mumbled that "it'd be kinda cool" one night at dinner

the singer position at the club was made specifically for farah because she found comfort singing songs her mother used to sing to her and hadir when they were little

on special occasions, soap will take over at the bar and alex will get on stage and play guitar alongside farah as she sings

soap was gaz’s friend that he introduced to the club and he became fast friends with everyone

eventually price hired him after recognizing how smart and perceptive soap was

soap is in his position for a reason, the guests are more than happy to ogle the handsome server with too many buttons undone and not notice that he's watching them back with a far sharper eye

soap and ghost were supposed to be a one-time thing meant for stress relief but ghost caught feelings and kept coming back

it took ghost ages to admit he cared for soap and when the realization hit, it scared the hell out of him but roach convinced him to talk it out with soap

soap is the only person ghost would ever disobey price for, but he would never admit that

alex gushes to gaz about farah nonstop and talks about how he knew he was going to marry her the moment they met

gaz was happy for them, but he never really got it...until he met tabby

nik sometimes gets too drunk and reminisces about his wife back home

no one knows if he actually has a wife, or where “back home” is, his stories are all the same, but the little details change every time

könig and horangi were together before they joined the 141, and könig moved in with roach and ghost completely unaware that they worked for price

the 141 refers to kortac as "könig's people" because it's a far more complicated system of contacts and connections that would take a week to describe

ghost’s entire spine pops when he gets out of bed in the morning, and it freaks soap out

roach was a track star in highschool

price has the highest kill count in the 141, soap and valeria have a not-so-friendly competition going for second place

canary got her nickname from her father

graves did have romantic feelings for canary at one point, but that quickly got overshadowed by his want for adler to recognize and approve of him

adler only approved canary and graves’s marriage because canary asked him to - the contract was his one condition for that approval

russell adler died two days after canary and graves got married

graves only has two preferences when it comes to his women: rich & powerful

price cares about his people, but it borders on a possessiveness that he keeps very well hidden

price has built a very strict set of rules about who his people kill and how far they can and cannot go

he will end business relationships if someone steps out of line

valeria has come close on several occasions

makarov does not care - he will kill men, women, children, old, young, pregnant, etc. blood is blood, it doesn't matter who it comes from

that’s not say price wouldn’t do what needs to be done to protect his people

price cares about family above all else, and he will go scorched earth on anyone who would dare to threaten or hurt them

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

OOO I'm very excited to share this chapter! We're getting close to the finish line!

Its name is "The Song of Us"

Page 54 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 15:

The Blind man asks his companion, before dawn break, What do you believe, is a beast’s fate, Once death seizes its life, in his inevitable grasp? The beast, his heart knowing of the fallen knight’s pleas, Of men they lost, who were left to be but a worm’s dark feast, Answers, death reaches for monsters all the same as men, For the unjust, for the cruel, For the kind, for the forgiving, All bones become one, until they become none, As death is the only being, to see all as one and the same.

This city is quiet, in the way a drowning is. Something wicked is happening under the surface, hidden from plain sight. If only its victim had air to scream.

The Hunter has intel beyond the SAS’s scope, beyond Laswell’s. Informants, comms. A man pronounced to all as dead. How is it possible, they were written off as a non-threat before?

Soap grits his teeth, tapping the lit end of his cigarette on a wall. Simon started moving a few minutes ago, the poison once again retreating. By the haunted look in his brown eyes, John could tell they both know he’s running out of time.

Price has been arguing with Laswell while helping Simon. Something about the fact the Hunter seemingly didn’t exist a year prior, on paper. Appeared out of nowhere one day with an army behind them, ready to burrow into intelligence networks in a way even Makarov couldn’t.

Makarov’s name came up a lot in that conversation. Enough that Soap had to take a smoke.

Anger thrums through his veins. Begging for blood. The same incessant screaming that drove him to choke the life out of Makarov, the same fire that kept him going through this personal slice of hell.

Maybe he’s an idiot, for wanting to kill the Hunter, for believing it will change anything.

The cigarette’s flame licks his fingers.

Soap crushes it against the wall. He turns around, watching Simon and the Captain. Far enough to not hear them, but they seem to need a bit of privacy anyway. Soap can’t say he’s ever seen Price that emotional, in their short meetings.

He asks himself where Gaz is when the Lieutenant approaches him.

“Price is bloody livid, isn’t he?” Gaz huffs.

Soap hums. His eyes move from the Captain to Simon, his mask still on the ground besides him.

Kyle follows his stare, “did you know Ghost’s identity, when I found you two?”

“No”, the white skull almost glows in the moonlight, “I only found out when… the communicator tried to use it against him.”

He can feel Gaz scan his features, “and you still decided to work with him.”

Soap doesn’t answer. Simon and Price are hugging now, the movement uncoordinated to Ghost. He doesn’t know how he can tell.

He turns to face Gaz, “I swore we will finish this together. I don’t go back on my word.”

“We both know this goes beyond that, Soap.” Gaz gives him a half smile, “the way you look at him… Haven’t seen you like that with anyone else.”

Soap frowns, scoffing, “don’t know what yer-”

“You have feelings for him, don’t you?” Gaz asks, almost gently.

…Feelings?

…..Could he?

“I…”

“Don’t lie to yourself.” Gaz murmurs, “in all the years I’ve known you, you didn’t act like this. Going against everyone you know, jumping in front of him when Price starts threatening him, letting him rest his bloody head on your legs- c’mon Soap, you’re fucking smitten with the man-”

“Kyle.” Soap stops him, head hanging down to hide the embarrassment painting his cheeks red. He scrubs a weary hand over his features, looking up at his friend between his fingers.

Gaz’s eyes soften. Soap sighs, “I- this is not the time for that kind of shite. We need to fuckin’ dust the Hunter, and then-”

And then what?

Soap lowers his hand, stare unconsciously drifting towards Simon. Since when have his eyes started doing that?

It hasn’t been more than a month since he arrived to this godforsaken city. How is it that John can’t imagine being alone again?

Or… how can’t he imagine an ‘after’ without Simon?

“I won’t lie to you.” Kyle starts, his tone gentler, “I still don’t fully trust Ghost. Even if he is… Simon Riley.” the Lieutenant places a hand on his shoulder, “but I can tell what you truly want, even if you think it’s not feasible.”

“That’s because it isn’t-”

“Bullshit.” Gaz turns John around to face him, “look, we are not good men. We’ve been operating outside the law for… for as long as I can remember. What we do, the way we dirty our hands...”

Kyle lets out a shaky exhale, squeezing his shoulder, “what I’m saying is, we can make people disappear. And if you… if you want that, I can help. I’m sure Price will too-”

“Yer out of yer mind-”

“Are you going to go back to Scotland, mate?” Gaz’s voice sharpens on desperation, “are you gonna go back to feeling like you have nothing to live for? Can you really leave this life, leave Ghost, behind?” He almost whispers the end, “be honest.”

How could he go back? No apartment, endless job search, a buzz under his skin that cannot be scrubbed off, disappointment to his family, emptiness, emptiness, emptiness-

“What else can Ah do?!” Soap tenses under Gaz’s hand.

That hand keeps him steady all the same, “whatever you want, John.” Kyle smiles sadly, “me and Price don’t have that freedom, but you two? You don’t have stuffy generals breathing down your neck.”

“I don’t-” Soap cuts himself off, thoughts whirling faster in his mind. He gets reminded of what his therapist used to say about him, back when he was just discharged.

“You fixate on danger, John. To the point of obsession. You don’t know when to let go, if you believe you can make things right.”

“Even if the cost is more than you should be willing to pay.”

“Just… think about it. Besides…” Gaz looks away, expression darkening, “I have a feeling the 141 might need people like you in the future.”

Soap brows furrow, “dishonorably discharged adrenaline addicts?”

Kyle chuckles, “no”, his hands tighten on Soap’s shirt, “people we can trust. People who are willing to do what’s right, even if they know they shouldn’t. Even if they don’t act the way the higher ups would want them.”

His brown eyes turn to look at John, determination he first saw on bootcamp only growing stronger, “people like you.”

Soap goes through another cigarette with Gaz by the time Price and Simon return to them. Both of their eyes shine with tears.

“Laswell did some digging.” Price grunts, “wasn’t easy, finding intel on the Hunter. They know their way around our networks, clearly.” his stare flickers towards Simon, “this operation-”

“Mass murder” Soap corrects. Calling this an operation would spit on the dozens of innocent people left to rot here.

“Mass murder”, the Captain continues, “is very unusual for the Hunter’s soldiers. Almost… flashy.”

“The communicator admitted it was an attempt to frame me.” Simon rolls up the mask in his hands, slipping it on, “they needed to show the British Army I’m too dangerous to keep.”

“And they knew the SAS would send the 141 because of the informant.” Gaz huffs.

Price nods, “which they did succeed in, but it also exposed them to us.”

“The SAS wouldn’t have investigated it further if ye actually killed Ghost the first time around.” Soap grumbles, wincing a moment later when he remembered who he’s talking to.

The Captain takes it surprisingly seriously. “Correct. This is not the first time they hide behind a smaller, supposedly unconnected criminal.” he hangs his arms on his tacvest, commending voice booming in the empty streets, “the Hunter is now top priority for the 141, our orders are to eliminate them, along with any high ranking officers remaining within their army. This mission is classified to all but us and Laswell - anyone else will be treated as a potential collaborator of the Hunter.”

“What about Soap and Ghost, Captain?” Gaz asks.

Price sighs, “Ghost has escaped after releasing the civilian he captured as leverage. And John MacTavish?” a sly smile pushes his mustache up, ”he has never set foot in this city.”

Kate Laswell isn’t someone Soap knew well, back in his service. Has heard her name being dropped in a couple of debriefs, a few calls here and there regarding missions.

He becomes increasingly grateful she’s on their side, as she brings up more and more intel on the Hunter. Their main source of information is the informant Ghost killed - the man recognized several undercover soldiers moving supplies in and out of the city in the past few weeks. He knew something big was going to happen, but the SAS waved it off as a local gang.

On the day of his death, he managed to send in one last report. The informant knew his time was limited, that his cover was blown, so the message was painfully short.

‘Skull in warehouse, Konservy, game over’

It was not clear if who he referred to when he transmitted the name “Skull”, and at the time the comms officer asked the informant to repeat, thinking it was a mistyped “Ghost”. With what they know now, it’s highly likely he was actually talking about the Hunter, and their red skull insignia. Konservy is a name of a warehouse, two clicks out of the city, as Laswell quickly found out.

‘Game over’ is the agreed upon sign for caught spies.

Price and Gaz have brought out their maps, attempting to lock down the warehouse’s location. Soap and Ghost were gently shooed away after it became obvious they don’t have any more useful intel to provide.

“How’s your neck?” Ghost asks him, the two of them leaning against a crumbling wall.

Soap opens his mouth to answer, when gloved fingers brush over the bruised skin on his throat. “I uh…” he swallows, the hand following the movement, “I feel fine.”

Ghost hums, caressing the wound for a moment longer before pulling away. Soap wants to chase the touch.

He really is in over his head, isn’t he?

“Simon.” Soap looks up at the bright skull mask, “have you thought about… what are ye gonna do after?”

“...no.”

“...Would ye go back? To what you did before?”

Simon stares at him deeply, eyes closing, “I don’t think I can.” he looks back at Soap, “you? What did you do before?”

Soap chuckles bitterly, “ah, I was spendin’ my newly civvi life indulging in only the greatest of pleasures. Like sittin’ in an office for nine hours a day, or knittin’ a scarf on my therapist’s orders.”

Simon’s shoulders shake with a badly hidden laugh, “I’d like to see you knit.”

Soap grins, “oh I was a natural. It definitely didn’t have several holes by the time I was done.” 

“How did you get here, then?” Simon asks, mirth still creasing his eyes.

His smile drops, words dying on his tongue, “I uh…” that weeks-old shame starts creeping back in, “was about to be evicted. Got fired, bastards never liked me anyway. I jus’ took all of my money and… ran as far as I could.”

Simon hums, shoulder leaning in to nudge his. Soap thinks the conversation is over after a few moments of silence, the both of them mauling over the words, when Simon surprises him.

“Think I’d like that… running away.” he murmurs.

“Aye? Where would ye go?”

“Don’t know. Don’t think it matters.” Simon leans in closer, their foreheads almost touching, “as long as the company is good.”

Soap feels a shiver go down his spine, eyes wide as he tries to find the joke that must be in Simon’s.

But he looks so painfully sincere, even when he finally leans away, “too bad there’s none ‘ere. Might ask Laswell if she got any tips on finding partners in crime.”

Soap lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, “think they make dating apps for fuckers like ye?”

“Doubt I’ll find anyone as mental as you on Tinder, Johnny.” Simon deadpans.

“That’s because yer looking in the wrong place - Christian Mingle is where the real crazy bastards are.”

Simon can’t hold in his laugh this time, and for the first time Soap hears the way he snorts a little when his giggles become uncontrollable. It’s a horribly endearing sound, one that he wants to hear for every day for the rest of his life.

It makes his heart hurt, heavy, sinking in his chest like a death sentence.

Gaz was right.

He’s in love with Simon Riley.

Gaz went back to get the vehicle he and Price infiled with. It had a laptop, a few maps, and the most wonderful MREs Soap ever had. He never thought he’d miss that shite, but after running on a handful of oranges and a possibly moldy sandwich, they tasted like heaven on earth.

As he and Ghost had their meal (Simon’s eyes sparkled in a way that told Soap he was clearly as delighted with the food as he was), the 141 finalized their plan with Laswell. Soap could see them arguing about something, but he was far too preoccupied with eating to care at the moment.

Ghost, however, did care, “need anything, Price?”

The Captain snaps his head up, taking off his hat and scratching at his hair, “we have an angle to breach, but…”

Gaz joins in, “We don’t have intel on how many guards are posted, their location… mission will be doomed from the start if we just go in guns blazing.”

“Why not do some recon, then?” Soap wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “we’re all trained for that.”

“Too risky, the warehouse is exposed, and the Hunter won’t leave any obvious gaps in security if they’re worth their salt.” Price grunts.

Ghost gets up, walking over to the maps spread on the truck’s hood, “then we break in.”

Soap smirks at the assurance in his voice, “and that’s why I love the Ghost.”

He instantly catches the knowing expression on Gaz’s face, as well as Simon stiffening beside him. Soap curses himself mentally, feeling his face heat up in shame. He prays for any god that might listen, that Ghost didn’t take it as seriously as the truth is.

Thankfully, Price saves him from blurting out some more recently-discovered-emotions, “no other way but through, eh Simon? What do you have in mind?”

Ghost scans the maps of the warehouse Laswell has sent over, “The Hunter doesn’t know we’re working together, if they’re expecting an attack they would only expect two people - me and Johnny.” his eyes flicker to Soap’s for a brief moment, “if we split up, the 141 could take them by surprise.”

“You said they’re after you and John, Simon. If they catch you, we might not be able to help.” Price says grimly.

Ghost sighs, looking away frustrated. His head turns to face Soap, eyes calculating, “...what if they don’t know it’s us?”

“What?” Price asks.

Ghost continues, eyes still staring deeply into his, “Johnny can easily disguise himself, he’s done so before. All he needs is to cover up his face and hair.”

The Captain nods to Ghost, “and what about you, son? Everyone knows your mask.”

“But no one knows his face.” Soap answers, understanding washing over him, “but Simon-”

“I can’t be Ghost if we want to finish this.” Simon brushes fingers over the bone-white teeth of the skull mask, hand tightening into a fist.

Gaz nods slowly, “and we can’t be the 141.” he sends a meaningful look to the Captain, “this operation has to be kept secret. If the SAS learns we collaborated with the Ghost…”

“Then we won’t be.” Price walks to the back of the truck, pulling out 3 black balaclavas and throwing them to Soap and Gaz.

Price begins explaining their plan, “Laswell has gathered up a few blueprints of the Konservy warehouse. There are several key points that appear to be far too open for us to breach, all except one - the offloading garage. We’ll split into two teams, me and Gaz will take the offices and CCTV rooms, clearing the way for Soap and Ghost to infiltrate the main machinery room.”

“Our plan depends on each team watching the other’s six, we’ll have to keep comms up.” Gaz adds.

“Once the first team takes over the CCTV room, we will be able to locate the Hunter. The faster we do this, the less likely reinforcements will arrive.” Price hands Soap and Ghost a radio.

“Do we know where they keep their vehicles?” Soap asks while fitting the comms over his clothes.

“Yeah, should be around where we first enter. Why?” Gaz raises a brow towards him.

A wicked smile spreads on Soap’s lips, “might be able to set up a little surprise for any newcomers.”

Ghost chuckles darkly, “always ready to craft a trap, aren’t you, Johnny?”

“Never failed me before, Simon.”

“You can take a look at our supplies, take whatever you need.” Price looks over each of them, “any questions?”

Soap flexes his hands, adrenaline thrumming a familiar song through his veins, anger painting his vision red, “what are we waiting for?”

[mariamakeslemons]

Canon CoD Characters as 70s Slasher Characters

Just like with the TF141, I'm going to be putting these characters into the stereotypes that I think they'd be in a 70s slasher. Once again, none of them can be the killer.

I've also done this post with Non-Canon CoD characters as well!

Alex would be a background character. Perhaps he has a few interactions with the final girl, perhaps he's just a background character. Either way, he's not super fleshed out in the slasher, which makes him either fodder or someone who gets away. He'd definitely be one of the characters that fans of the movie would beg to know more about, probably has a great fight before dying, or he helps others escape from the killer. If he's used to pad the body count, he's going down kicking ass.

Farah is either the smart girl stereotype or the legend person. She'd realize pretty damn quickly that she's in a horror movie and then it would depend on her role. As the smart girl, she'd be working with the final girl to make traps for defense against the killer. However, if she's just there to tell the legend of the killer, she's dipping so fast. Listen, if it was a human, she'd be in your corner. But the killer you're facing with her as Ms. Exposition is supernatural. She would, rightfully, not fuck with that. Probably helps Alex evacuate people still and tells the final girl how to kill the killer if such information is available. If she does face the killer, she's going down swinging dammit!

Kate is Ms. Exposition. If the killer has any information on them, she'll get it to the final girl. One of the characters that immediately realizes that she's in a horror movie. Is probably not with the rest of the cast physically, so she's the most likely to survive (outside of one person, but we'll get to them). Not quite team mom, but gets protective of the final girl should she help out. If she does end up facing the killer, you can bet that she's going down fighting.

Alejandro is the lovable jock. He forms the classic pair of nerdy-and-jock-friends with Rudy (who we will get to next). He's smarter than the usual archetype, but he's self deprecating, insisting he's only good for his muscles. However, due to being this archetype, he also suffers from the Worf effect, usually being one of the first killed to show how strong the killer is. He does go down swinging, though, sometimes leaving a wound that the final girl can use to defeat the killer.

Rudy is the cute nerd, as the other half of the nerd-and-jock-friends with Alejandro. He helps the survivors realize they're in a horror movie, usually upon finding Alejandro's corpse. He'll come up with traps and ways to corner the killer, but he's more likely to go straight after the killer for revenge. He's definitely going down with a fight, if he doesn't stay with the final girl. Usually dedicates the kill in honor of their fallen friends.

Valeria is the drug dealer. Because it 's a 70s slasher, with the Hays Code still being a heavy guideline for movies, she's going to die because of moral reasons. There might be implications that she crosses the border as well, because we all know those old slasher movies are just a look at cis, white, conservative men's fear. Because of both of these reasons, despite how badass she is in CoD, she'd be killed without a fight, in a painfully drawn out way. (If it was a newer slasher, she'd probably escape, honestly.)

Graves is the Asshole© of the group. He drinks and smokes, similar to Soap, but he also refuses to take no for an answer unless someone else forces him to accept it. When the kills start piling up, he tries to leave, not in the terror way but like 'fuck y'all, I ain't dying for dick'. This does not save him as he's guaranteed to die now, once again because 70s slashers tend to be morality tales. Abandoning people is a no-go, and Graves dies for his crime of betrayal, usually by surprise, meaning no fighting back.

Makarov is the "human" antagonist. He's not the killer, but he may have helped make the killer into, well, the killer. Or he's the asshole who wants to get something from the group. Because of this, however, he'll usually disappear in the 2nd half of the movie. Is he dead, did he escape scot-free? Who knows, not the audience. He can be interchangeable with Graves' character, as to not make too many unlikable characters on screen. Once again, the morality of 70s slashers makes him die, if he dies, anticlimactically.

Nikolai is the driver of the vehicle that drops off the final girl. You remember me mentioning someone surviving with Kate? Yeah, this is him. He drops off his passenger and fucks right off. He might not even know that a killer is loose, but he's not staying. He's got other shit to do. If he does get caught by the killer, he's fighting, with a high chance at taking the killer down with him.

[applbottmjeens]

EVERYBODY BREAKS

Tags: Remember that Makarov drabble? this is it now, MENTIONS of TORTURE and IMPLIED sexual abuse(?), It's not a great time she clearly went through some shit, Tommy mention, Makarov threatens her baby and she folds :( Phillip mention but he's not showing up in this one. (Maybe I should write a sequel where he saves her?)

Summary: Makarov quickly finishes a dragged on interrogation with a captured Shadow.

They'd been pushing her for almost a day now. Nothing. If they got too close to her head, she'd bite or spit on them.

It took two people to gag her. One to hold her fucking head and try not to let her teeth latch onto you and another to quickly pull it between her teeth.

The fearsome Sergeant Pham of the 141, or should they say…

Regina 2-1. Graves' Queen of Hearts. How her loyalties shifted as soon as her heart was stolen, this once talent in her field, sitting in a chair and glaring at them after finally taking her.

Makarov gazes at the seething woman in his chair, the captured Shadow who'd almost sabotaged his plans. He wears a suit underneath Kevlar, like this is all some fancy business for him as he moves a strand of hair away from glaring brown eyes.

"It's so nice to finally meet you in person, Annabelle." Makarov coos, gazing at the bound soldier. Her dark hair is a mess, her limbs tied to the chair, fists gripping and struggling as she sees Makarov approach her close, a tired, biding anger in her eyes. Bruises and dried blood cover her nose and cheeks, teeth forced to bite into white cloth.

"The gag. What's it for?" Makarov asks his second in command as he looks down at the prisoner before him, putting out his cigarette to inspect the bound woman before him.

"She bites, Commander." Nolan remarks, glancing down at his arm, having made the mistake of exposing it. Her teeth marks are deep, sunk into his skin disgustingly.

The Commander approaches the woman with an amused grin, as if he's witnessing a stray animal caged.

"Look at that. She has spirit," He muses, pulling her by the hair to look into her wild, seething gaze.

"I'm glad you still have that fight in you." He says in English.

No amount of drugs forced down her throat, beatings and men handling her or teeth pulled could do shit. Stubborn, stubborn woman. He seems impressed, given what they'd done.

His voice is poison in her ears, condescending. Filled with superiority. She tries to squirm against him, but he only tugs her hair back to make her stiffen like some dog.

He speaks to Andrei again, and she picks up the words "Fingers" and "Eyeball" and "Mail". Her fault for falling asleep during Russian lessons.

Maybe it's best she doesn't figure out what the rest of his words mean, for her sanity's sake.

“It’s a shame we have to ruin such a beautiful face." He chuckles, her eyes gazing at the boiling kettle in the corner.

"Remove the gag. Get her talking." He commands, and the cloth is removed and spat out of bloodstained teeth and lips.

"Kill yourself." She spat before Makarov laughs, leather gloved hands pulling her hair, forcing Anna to look him in the eye.

“Give us an answer, Sergeant Pham…"

Nothing. Another knife hovers over her hand, bare as the tip nicks the top.

“We'll send all your little fingers to your teammates- old and new..." Makarov whispers, looking Anna square in the eyes as he speaks slowly.

"Maybe even a little souvenir for your son, to have a piece of his mother with him…"

Her breath hitches. He found the weak point. “A young mother like you risking everything she has… It’s brave. It’s mothers like you that make strong sons.” He muses, mock praise leaving his lips as the knife presses slowly onto her hand.

“You shut your mouth-"

“Little Sylas Thomas is such a strong boy…”

“You shut your goddamn mouth, I swear-”

“Please, Sergeant Pham. Little Tommy wouldn’t want to lose his mother before he could even run from gunfire.”

“STAY AWAY FROM MY SON YOU FUCK!"

“Talk, Annabelle.”

He speaks like she's a petulant child, his tone patronizing. Like she's just having a little tantrum.

“..Fine…” She sobs, trembling as she’d collapsed. She hopes they kill her. She’d rather they were bluffing about Tommy than risk him ever being put into danger. She sings like a bird.

All that physical torture was mostly an experiment. For fun. The knowledge of her son was the card up their sleeve.

Fucking cheap move, Konni. She stares at the lamp upon the ceiling, cold air coming in when they leave, making her hyper aware of how exhausted she is.

Her mind thinks of Tommy, her boy, his squished face and almond eyes that light up when she sings to him.

Would she get to see her son again? Would Phillip really waste resources to rescue her?

No. She could rescue herself. She'd done this before. She's crawled out of trash and bodies dumped out in the sun. She'll leave this place a bloodbath. Dying is the least they could do for even speaking her son's name.

Đụ má...These men and their goddamn audacity.

She was gonna make Nolan regret keeping her teeth. She still had some bite in her after all…

-

Đụ má - "motherfucker"

[chaos-vulpix]

"1121" by Halsey is so Ghostsoap-coded in all its angsty glory. Like, "Bells in Santa Fe" & "Ya'aburnee" also give the vibe for these two as well, but "1121" really hits that desperation, that devotion, that despair.

The lyrics just scream of Ghost's love for Soap; how the Brit has never felt such feelings so strongly for anyone before until he fell for the Scot; how the Lieutenant is unwilling to accept the idea of ever losing his Sergeant; how Simon is willing to give Johnny his heart, the most fragile part of his very being, and how he'd break it himself to show how much he loves him.

The fact that song title is the numerical date for November 21st, and the final mission of MWIII, "Trojan Horse", takes place on November 21st is just sheer coincidence...

MWIII SPOILERS UNDER BREAK IF YOU STILL DON'T KNOW YET. NO SHAME IN THAT, BUT I DO ENVY YOU GUYS FOR NOT KNOWING

...and don't get me started on the lyric "Took one in the temple", because guess what happened to Soap!

"1121" may be about Halsey's love for her child, her surprise of being pregnant, and her fear of another miscarriage following many others. But for Ghost, it's his love for Soap ensnaring his very soul, fearing the inevitable day he'd lose him... and the despair of experiencing it on November 21st, his broken pieces barely held together by the rest of 141, a burning hatred growing within, compeling him to hunt down Makarov, even if it kills him & potentially sends Ghost to wherever Soap went next if he's lucky, or if Simon wonders if he even deserves to after everything he's done in his life...

...or, if you're more inclined to tell Activision to go fuck themselves, it could be Ghost holding a silent vigil in a dark hospital room, accompanied by the beeping sounds of medical machinery keeping his Scottish spitfire of a soulmate alive, his body battered & bruised, his sunshine dimmed, but still alive if barely by a sheer miracle, praying for the day his Sergeant wakes up sooner than theorized before he loses his mind...

...or maybe it's Simon, in the early morning hours, tracing his fingers across the scar on Johnny's head as they lay in the Lieutenant's bed. Simon, how needs the light breathes against his chest to remind him that Johnny still lives, that what happened in that tunnel was a nightmare they both woke up from. Simon, who reevaluates just how deeply in love he is, that he's even deeper than he thought, that he may have deeper to go still. Simon, who watches Johnny open his eyes slowly once more, another reminder of life still clinging to the Scot's flesh & bones, greeting him with his Scottish accent that he wants to hear forevermore until a more dignified end claims them both. Simon, who will soon get up after Johnny convinces him to stay in bed for longer, who gets dressed in his iconic dark garb & skull mask, who helps the rest of the 141 hunt down Makarov so he can put a bullet in the man's head for even thinking about killing his boyfriend. Simon, who returns to the same bed once the moon is high, finding bliss within two warm arms & a sun-tinged voice that reminds him of everything he's worth & more.

[siilvan]

https://www.tiktok.com/@lexxiiiii__0/video/7287296853022919982?_r=1&_t=8gQAWU49HZh

Some of Vladimir's voice lines and him saying "quiet" and "perfection" have me all like 🤤🥵

oh great heavens… the thoughts i am having would get me sent to a convent… 🤤🤭

his "perfection" just scratched an itch i never knew i had… disregard, i know i love praise from him 😩 anon, you’re responsible for this drabble that i had no choice but to write while gnawing on the bars of my enclosure…

(we’re skipping ahead in the Bloodsport timeline for this babey)

makarov feels a twinge of something akin to pride at the sight of you, crouched low next to the open window, rifle carefully trained at the objective— one of the general’s top men, a prime target that would surely disrupt not only his plans, but those of shadow company and the one-four-one.

you don't seem to consider the latter consequences, your mind solely on ways to cripple the soon-to-be disgraced war hero. he's seen this laser sharp focus from you only once before; when you stood less than five paces from a corpse, blade in-hand, regarding his soldiers like they were mere children threatening you with prop weapons.

he likes it, this side of you.

"convoy's moving west," your voice, low and controlled, distracts him from his musings. "we'll lose sight of them soon. it's now or never." you continue, finger twitching against the trigger.

makarov hums, dragging his gaze to his own scope and examining the scene on the street below. "you have clearance. take the shot." he murmurs.

with a silent inhale that makes your chest puff out against your vest, a sight that tempts him from his peripherals, you squeeze the trigger. a single shot rings out before the target collapses to the ground. as the rest of the convoy falls into a panic, you withdraw and lower your weapon, eyes flitting from the scene to your companion.

"perfection." he mutters, turning to you with a satisfied grin tugging at his lips. the praise glimmers in your eyes despite your neutral expression, freely giving away your true reaction.

"me, or the kill?" you ask, attempting to flirt your way around the observation.

he pauses, letting your question sit in the air just long enough to make you squirm. slowly, he lowers his rifle to rest against the floor as he lifts a hand and brings it to you, his thumb and forefinger capturing your jaw in a gentle grip. he pulls you in, forcing you to place a hand on his outstretched arm to steady yourself while his lips hover dangerously close to yours. you let your eyes flutter shut and swallow at the feeling of his soft breaths mingling with yours, before his whispered reply is sighed against your lips.

"always you, my dear."