#call of duty mw19
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a bit more practice Soaps of different kinds
you know where to find full pics
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Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley coded
#going feral#i love big boys#big tiddies#simon ghost riley#cod#call of duty#call of duty ghost#cod ghost#call of duty simon riley#simon riley#cod mwiii#cod mw3#cod mwii#call of duty mw3#call of duty mwii#call of duty mw19#ghoap#johnny soap mactavish#john captain price#kyle gaz garrick
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ghoap my beloveds ✨
Maybe Gaz and Price next hmmmm???
Drawn 9/6/24 and 29/5/24
#cod#call of duty#cod mw19#call of duty mw19#cod mw2#call of duty mw2#cod mw3#call of duty mw3#cod soap#cod ghost#cod gaz#cod price#tf 141#task force 141#141#cod 141#sergeant johnny mactavish#lieutenant simon riley#ghoap#soap x ghost#cod art#art#procreate#artist#artists on tumblr#digital art#digital aritst
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Can everyone keep politics out of the FANDOMS. No one cared if you voted for kamala or trump. No one cares that you hate Trump or Kamala.
It's sad to see people telling each other to kill themselves over who they voted for. And everyone should be ashamed of themselves, we are supposed to be a united front.
Just keep politics out of fandoms please. I don't want to read about trump or kamala while I'm trying to read some good publishing.
#cod#cod mw2#cod mw3#cod mwii#john price#john soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick#simon ghost riley#soap cod#cod ghost#donald trump#kamala harris#call of duty mw19#call of duty#kyle garrick#cod gaz#ghost#simon ghost x reader#johnny soap mactavish
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So request kinda if not just sharing my thoughts in general.
Alex. My boy. What if reader is a civ or even another soldier in a different squad and the whole thing with him joining Farah’s forces indefinitely. I think this can really lend itself to some angst and that good old misunderstanding. Kinda leaning towards civ!reader just because the more miscommunication. I guess it’d have to be an angsty ending though 😳, but regardless-
Love your writing and, as always, feel free to change anything or do whatever gives you the most inspiration
World Caves In
PAIRING: Alex Keller x F!Reader
SYNOPSIS: Perhaps it would have been better if your husband had died - at the very least you could understand that.
WORD COUNT: 7.9k
WARNINGS: Angst, misunderstandings/miscommunication, hurt/comfort, vulgar language, abandonment?, Alex being an adorable husband, fluff, etc.
A/N: I was gonna make this an angsty ending but I got my period and thinking about that made me cry so here we are, lmao. Enjoy, Anon!
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
When you’d been escorted out of work by two uniformed men, you knew the news wasn’t going to be good. Sitting in the back of a large black car, you spare nervous glances as the vehicle jumps, its wheels going over the last speed bump. Your work building begins to become a fraction of a memory and disappears faster than your resolve.
The men sit on either side of you, silent, and the only comment is to the driver as you all enter the main road. Swallowing, you part your lips and mutter, plain dread in your tone, “Is he alive?”
All you get is a glance from the front mirror and nothing more. You hunch more in your seat and stew in agony, mind far off on the topic of your husband.
Alex wasn’t overly reckless, you’d managed to snuff most of that out over the course of the many years you’d expressed concern to him about it, but a large chuck of the blond was still too selfless for his own good. It was hard not to think the worst.
From training to advising, your husband was always off on one mission to another, far from your quaint and quiet home here—where you waited day after day for even a sliver of contact from him. Alex specialized in so many things that trying to wrap your head around it was impossible.
Even now, you only knew the bare minimum.
The soft-smiled man worked in the SAD division of the CIA. He’s an Operations Officer. Currently, he’s somewhere across the globe.
Away from you.
Thinning your lips, you take down a deep breath and settle back into the seat, pulse flying. The men were obviously Agents—you’d looked closely at their badges when they’d first shown their faces at the front desk and had kept within view of your work’s security cameras just in case this was a ruse. When you could find nothing out of the ordinary, you had tensely asked them what was happening.
They would be holding his dog tags if he was dead, you had reasoned, desperately, a flag.
It was frantic, the way you had thought that up; how could you not be like that? Alex was the light of your life! With him constantly putting his life on the line, it was inevitable for him to get hurt, sometimes seriously. It was ingrained into your mind the way you would help clean his wounds in the middle of the night when the pain woke him up with a grunt stuck in his throat. The way you would sit half-asleep in his lap and re-wrap bandages while he told you to go back to bed half-heartedly. His hands drifting over your warm skin like he was cascading his fingers up and down the spine of an old book.
You never listened.
“It’s late, Bug, I can’t keep you up like this.” His drawl echoes in your ear as you rub a heavy palm into your eye. Alex’s hands are both on your hips, squeezing the flesh just below your tiny sleep shorts. You have him sitting on the floor, back resting on the wall and shirt discarded to the side only wearing loose gray sweatpants. A long cut up his left pec is the center of your blurry attention—a wet rag held as you dab at it. Blue eyes narrow at you. “I’m just fine with doing it myself, y’know.”
“You’re being stubborn again,” you utter, the soft light of the bathroom placed at half-capacity to at least try and keep some of the veil of sleep over your heads. “I told you to wake me up when you needed it cleaned.” Your skin brushes his and Alex shivers under you, sighing breathily. “And you’re not keeping me here—I’m helping.”
A small flash of that full smile, mustache flinching up, “Well when you look so pretty sleepin’ I can’t just shake you awake and tell you to fix me up.”
You take your free hand and pinch his nose, yawning as he grunts out chuckles. A delicate glance is thrown his way as the rag lowers from reddened skin. Like a butterfly's whisper, you study his face gently; reaching and cupping his cheek with your palm.
Alex’s lids flutter, heavy weight falling into you as if waiting for this—lips pressing to your inner wrist in reverence. You hold back a tired giggle and feel the corner of his mouth pull up when he feels it.
“All that talk, and yet,” pressing a smooch to his forehead you take your hand back and hear the grumble he lets out after, “you still like it better when I’m the one that’s working on you.”
“Can’t complain too much,” he admits slowly as his head leans back to tap the wall, “my wife’s hands are way softer than mine.”
Alex’s grip on your flesh tightens when you sipe away the last line of crimson from the wound, tattooed arms flexing.
“Sorry,” you whisper, watching his eyes slightly awash with pain. “Got caught on a stitch.”
“Ah, well,” the blond sighs, shifting “I suppose I can forgive you.”
Laughing quietly as the house settles, you shake your head and rest your forehead on his.
“Such a saint,” your lips utter teasingly as Alex smiles wide, his hands moving higher to your waist. You lean into him, stealing his warmth as your tired eyes flutter; feeling his thumbs run circles over the flesh of your lower spine.
A content breath escapes you.
“Go back to bed, Sweetheart,” Alex whispers, lips brushing yours like silk, the bristles of his facial hair tickling you. “I can do the rest, promise.”
“Know you can,” your mutterings are barely heard, but the man seems to register them, sea-glass gaze incredibly soft. He chuckles at your sleepiness, one hand leaving your waist to capture the back of your head; weaving into your hair and gently massaging your scalp. You practically melt into him, limbs going slack, slurring out, “Quit it. Wanna help, Alex.”
His laughter shakes you, and with a huff escaping, you bury your burning face into his neck and lean into him, careful of his wound even in your fatigued state.
“No offense, Bug,” Alex shifts, grunting as he easily maneuvers you until you’re laying in his arms, inked forearms under your knees and behind your shoulders with vivid images of grim reapers, snakes, and angels guarding you close. A kiss is firmly pressed to your forehead as the blonde smirks downwards, “But you’re about as helpful to me right now as an empty mag.”
You grumble, trying to disappear into his skin and letting him dig his stubble into your cheek.
“If you bring me back to bed before you’re done,” you yawn and close your eyes, “I’m divorcing you.”
He laughs deeply into your ear, body shaking as he pulls back and sends you an incredulous look.
“Hell, we can’t have that, can we, Mrs. Keller? I’d lose my damn mind.”
It’s a long drive, and you worry through the entirety of it. A primal, whole-body-shaking type of fear. You’d built a life with Alex and loved him more than anything or anyone that had come before. Even if he was gone a lot, that had never dulled what the two of you had—your marriage was nothing short of something you would find in a fairy tale; flashing pictures on pages with vivid colors and tender glances. The very cover itself is made of the finest leather and inlaid with gold calligraphy.
Please, Alex, you plead in your head as you remember his loving gaze—his back as he makes supper in the kitchen and hums to himself. Please be okay.
The men hold open the car door when it comes to a stop outside a very obviously abandoned apartment complex near the outskirts of town. You get out quickly. Looking around, you take in the overgrown grass and the broken concrete with a knife in your lung; holding back the flood of anxious tears.
Though, confusion takes president.
“Where did you…?” You turn to look at the Agents, but they’re already clambering back into their car and snapping the doors shut. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed you watch them speed off as a cloud of dust drifts into the air.
Pulse echoing in your ears, you watch the vehicle speed down the road and disappear.
Swallowing, you whisper, “What the actual fuck?” Turning in circles, no one else is around. A part of you starts to worry less for Alex and more for yourself.
They were CIA, you reiterate, I checked their badges—Alex showed me the standard ones. Could I have missed something?
Expression nervous, you shift on your feet before your stuttering legs take you closer to the abandoned building, not really seeing much choice here. You could imagine the scene from The Wizard Of Oz—when the man pulls back the curtain and all is revealed.
That said, you could really only hope that was what was actually happening to you and you weren't getting kidnapped or shot. Taking a deep breath, you clench your fists and enter the building through the open front door.
It was in the wide lobby that you locked eyes with Kate Laswell. You blank, mouth parting as the scent of concrete and decaying furniture get stuck in your nose.
The woman seems highly agitated, brows tight and jaw clenched. Her white blouse had been flattened multiple times by rough hands, lanyard swaying on her neck like Alex’s dog tags would. She holds a file in her hands; the paper bulky as if holding something more than just paper inside its manila clutches.
“Kate?” You ask, confused, “What are you doing here? What’s all of this about?” Taking quick steps forward you splay your hands as your voice grows more serious. “Where’s my damn husband?”
You didn’t know Laswell personally, in fact, when you had first got a glimpse of her here, you’d forgotten the older woman’s name for a moment. The first meeting between the two of you had been at a CIA get-together that Alex had been forced to go to because of his position—some celebration because a group of ICBMs had been taken back into US hands after being stolen. Your husband had introduced you to the Station Chief over a drink with a hand on the small of your back.
But it didn’t stop you now from talking to her like you’d known her for years. Not when fear was flooding your veins.
“What the hell is going on?” You say harshly, glancing around the room for any sight of someone else here.
Kate sighs heavily but wastes no time in speaking, her professional tone and serious face leaving your already fast-paced heart racing.
“Alex isn’t coming back to the United States.” Your eyes blank, staring into icy blue. She holds out her manila folder, jaw tight. Blunt. “He’s a deserter.”
It’s like your entire being halts; your skin suit feels as if it’s sagging on your bones with the weight of a cinder block connected by hooks to the floor.
What did she just say?
Opening and closing your mouth you stutter, lids blinking rapidly.
“I…” Fingers flinching in the air, an exhalation from your nose sounds more like a wheeze. Kate watches stiffly, taking a look at the floor before returning her attention to you; emotion flashes in her eyes. “...W-what?”
“Keller deserted his post—I tried to speak with the Colonel but there’s only so much I can do.” Laswell takes a deep breath as you continue to go through shock. Alex wasn’t coming home? How, why? “He’s staying in Urzikstan to fight with the Liberation Force.”
“Urzikstan?!” You gape, but the woman continues.
“For all intents and purposes, I shouldn’t be here, but Alex asked me personally to hand these to you.” Again the manilla folder is shown to you, but when you only glare and fight the fear and confusion rampaging in your gut a sigh echoes out and it’s placed on a termite-eaten side table. “Even communicating with you could put you in danger now that he’s gotten on the bad side of the entire SAD and CIA branches. This is all I can do.”
“What the fuck,” you whisper to yourself, hand coming up to capture your mouth.
“If Alex re-enters the states—he’ll be arrested and tried in a court of law. If he’s not shot on sight for what he knows.” Kate watches you closely, shaking her head in pity. “I’m sorry,” there’s a strained pause, “but he’s made his decision.”
As she brushes past you, leaving the folder on the side table, you feel your wide eyes well with tears—confused and horrified. But he’s coming back to me, right? Alex…Alex wouldn’t leave me here alone.
It was common knowledge that over the last years the blond had gotten more agitated at his line of work; the orders that he didn’t want to follow but had no choice. No voice. But he can’t just abandon you...could he? You’d taken vows. Had a happy marriage and relationship. Loved each other.
He can’t just…he can’t…
Your hands shake and you’re unable to stop them, gaze locked on that unassuming manilla folder. Kate pauses in the doorway, peeking back and seeing your sickly-looking face, the agony written in the lines of your forehead. Like the picture of a loyal wife being told her husband was never coming home. And Alex wasn’t even dead. Resentment begins to burn.
But he made his bed.
“He told me to tell you that he wouldn’t be angry if you wanted to leave him,” was all she said, a final knife being stabbed into your heart and being ripped out like a live wire. Electricity makes your back go stiff in an instant. “It would be best to never tell anyone that we met.”
You were alone, full body shivers and bile stuck in the back of your throat. Cold sweat coats your palms, a sticky mess of your barebones disturbance.
“He…” your voice is hoarse, bouncing off the far walls. “Alex left me here? He left me.”
It was easier to say that the sun had exploded and you were waiting for the last beam of light to incinerate you. Inside of your skull your brain pounds as, in a mad dash of desperation, you rush to the manilla folder and rip it open with vibrating arms.
Having Laswell tell you that Alex wouldn’t be mad if you…if you…the hairs on the back of your neck rise and suddenly you’re angry beyond a sliver of a doubt. It was insulting.
“Alex fucking Keller,” the paper opens to the bulk of your husband's dog tags and a flip phone—reports like his own personal file and the patch that he had once worn so proudly on his combat vest. Red, white, and blue dig into your retinas; it was old, worn beyond measure, but that little patch was something that was never removed. Not even to be cleaned.
“The dirtier it is,” Alex had commented on the American flag patch when you’d offered to mend it for him, cringing at all the blood stains and dirt flecking off it as he slipped his vest off in the foyer of your home. “The luckier I am.”
“I think the stench of it alone will frighten off anyone who comes near,” you had raised a brow, smirking up at him as he walked over, laughing. A kiss is placed on your lips, Alex’s bright smile transferring over to you as if able to spread from his mouth to yours that simply. You sigh dreamily.
He pulls back with a tiny wink as you gaze up at him, cheekily stating, “That’s the plan, Sweet Thing. Gotta make sure I come home to you in one piece.”
You brush your hands over it and think that maybe it would have been better if he had died. Then you could understand why he’s doing this to you. Anger spreads into rage.
Looking next at the phone and dog tags, all you do is shake your head and slam the folder shut, bitter tears tracking your face. You can’t read anything—can’t see his name imprinted on that metal that used to press coldly into your skin as you both slept in bed. You don’t care about the phone or the files.
None of it mattered.
“He fucking left me here,” it’s like you’re a broken record replaying over and over again. “You absolute bastard, Keller!” Yelling, you press your fingers into your face, hands spreading over your eyes and mouth to muffle your enraged sobs.
“You’re still alive and you left me alone.”
Only the abandoned building echoes your pain; replaying it back over and over again as your wails echo around the lobby like a symphony of laughing jesters.
—
The phone that Laswell had given you had been going off at least three times every day—morning, noon, and at night. You had stared at it with fury, knowing exactly who was calling even if the thing was displaying an unknown number. By now you had steeped in your anger enough that you had found yourself snapping at friends and family alike when asked if you were alright.
You wished Alex was here so you could hit him upside the head for being so stupid. So you could hate him until you had the pleasure to love him again.
Urzikstan.
You’d looked up the country after you had spent two days straight in bed, afterward manically cleaning the house with a glare that could light fires. The far-off place was a land utterly divided by war. Russian occupation, a terrorist group; the force that your husband had joined. Mass against mass against mass.
Brick meets wall.
And Alex had chosen to stay—without a doubt because he’d seen the dire situation and had used that damnable good heart of his to empathize to the max. Forget donations, humanitarian work, or anything else, the man had fucking decided to join in a Liberation Force.
As much as you wanted to say you hated him; had wanted to slam your gold wedding band to the table with a good riddance for betraying you like that…you still had his dog tags around your neck, and the ring was still on your finger.
“Too good for his own sake,” you grumble, shoving dirty clothes into the washer like they had tried to attack you. “Deserted the fucking CIA, Jesus Alex. Do you even think when I’m not around?”
There were only so many times you could curse his name until you felt a deceiving needle of pride slither itself into your skull. You could describe Alex as many things but he would always be steadfast in causes that truly needed his help. He often told you that the best missions were the ones where he could do so much more than take out a target—he strived to help the individuals he met. Form bonds.
God forbid something came in between the blond and the ones he’d chosen to give his loyalty to.
You slam the washer shut and stomp into the living room after starting another cycle. Stress cleaning was really not a good look on you—the entire house was without a single spec of dust but you yourself felt like you’d run seven marathons. Clenching your teeth, you go and drop to the couch, a grunt falling from your lips as your head hits the pillow.
Staring at the ceiling, you finally take in the utter silence of the house—not a home, because it could only be that if Alex was here—with a pained crease forming on your brow. The pipes spit water, and the washer grunted its mechanical garble…but there was no humming man making food in the kitchen. No blond hair visible as a head rests on your chest; your fingers playing in the locks that act like silk as you part them, the man on top of you purring. Body a weighted blanket.
“Was it really that easy,” you whisper to nothing, lip quivering. “Was it really that easy to stay away, Alex? I thought…I…”
Eyes wrenching shut, you hear the phone right at noon again as it sits on the coffee table. And you let it.
There were voicemails, no doubt, but you hadn’t thought to listen to those either. This small act of rebellion was all you could act on but for the simple fact that it also harmed you. Barbed wire steadily digging deeper as it kept your hands wound to your sides—neck plastered to the pillow as bright silver spikes glinted. You stare at the unknown caller who really wasn’t all that unknown and watch the screen light, vibrating over the wood in steady intervals.
What hurt the most was that if he’d asked you to come along—become an Expat just for him—you would have said yes. You could find a new job, a new place to call home. Humanitarian work would have been at the top of your list and Alex…well….he would still be fighting, just as he always had.
But at the very least you would have been there to clean his wounds. Together. You’d both promised on that altar to do nothing less. He could’ve asked. He should have asked.
Alex…
“Urzikstan,” you mutter for what seems like the fiftieth time. When the ringing stops a few moments later the new voicemail icon flashes. Placing your arm over your mouth, you clench your hand so tight it starts to shake, whispering into your skin, “Fine. I guess you did make your bed. And…and I won't be there to lie in it with you.” No matter how much I want to.
You slip the wedding band off of your finger and place it beside the phone before turning and burying your head into the cushions; feeling more numb than you ever had before.
—
It carried on like this for three months. The ring didn’t move from the coffee table and neither did the flip phone; the file had all but been tossed in the trash as it sat teetering on the living room desk. You carried on as well as you could, all things considered.
Work was a blur, going out with friends even harder to enjoy, and any enjoyment of hobbies or activities was dulled to an almost gray existence. Like a ghost, you wafted through experiences with dog tags and a withering appearance. Eventually, you just stopped going out unless it couldn’t be helped. You still bought meals for two at the grocery store out of habit. You placed blankets where Alex used to sleep beside you. You went to work.
And still, the calls never stopped except for a brief pause after the first month. You’d thought he’d finally given up, but no. Back at it.
It had gotten to a point now where the device was automatically deleting all recent voicemails—too little space in the inbox.
Angry curiosity was tempting you. It would be easy, you reason, to simply play the first message and listen. The worst part of it was that you’d begun to forget Alex’s voice and perhaps that was why, on that dead-aired Saturday, you snatched the phone and brought it into the kitchen.
Firmly planting it on the counter, you stand behind one of the island chairs and glare, hands tapping into the wood.
“I’m giving you three minutes, Alex,” you speak as if he’s still here, as if his form stands right behind you, head tilted like a damn dog with that infectious smile and those sea-glass eyes. “Three minutes,” your fingers snap the device open and you go to your voicemails; jaw tight, “and if you don’t hear you groveling, Keller, I’m deleting all of them and chucking this phone into the sink.”
You go down the line to the very first message, small buttons clicking, and before you can stop yourself you press play.
It begins with a small moment of silence. A cough.
“Hey,” he says your first name, not one of your epithets. Your brows deepen their annoyed furrow, but you can’t help the uptick in your heart rate. Inside your flesh, the sinews of your throat close in on itself like a balloon. “I…I’m guessin’ I have a good enough ass-kicking waiting for me since you didn’t answer.” A strained laugh before another pause. You feel acidic tears boil behind your lids. “I’m not surprised—not really. Done some stupid things but never something like this.” You can hear him shake his head, voice going lower in defiance. “But they were asking me to leave Urzikstan in a worse place than when I entered it. This Liberation Force, Bug, it…they’re good people and what they’re asking me to do…” Alex huffs, growling under his throat. “I can’t stand by that. The man you chose to marry, he can’t stand by that. They need me here. I’m not asking you to not be angry—to not hate me for this. I know I damn well deserve it.”
You let your tears hit the counter, head slightly bowing over. That was your Alex.
“You need a leash,” your strained voice hits the walls, bouncing off picture frames and your husband's cooking utensils. The small pieces that make up the whole picture frame of your life. “God,” you huff wetly, “you’re going to get yourself killed.”
“I know I should have talked to you first, figured out some plan. But, uh,” Alex’s throat gets choked up, and you snap a hand to your mouth when you realize he’s close to tears. He clears his throat. “Hell, I should have done a lot of things, Sweetheart.”
You can hear shouts in the background, calls in Arabic. The pounding of a door and a woman’s voice.
“Alex, we need to move! Everyone is ready—Barkov’s lab cannot be left standing a moment longer.” The hurried hand to the line muffles the words, but you hear him anyway.
“Affirmative!” He comes back. “I don’t have time to explain more, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for… everything. I’d understand if you don’t use the passport Laswell’ll give you, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to stop calling.” Alex laughs and your face freezes.
“Passport?”
“What kind of Husband would I be if I just let the most perfect woman in the world go without a fight, huh? I’ll be waiting until you call to tell me to shut the hell up and leave you alone or that you’re down in the airport waiting.” There’s a large sound of combat vests being clicked on—pistols being situated into holsters and a rifle strap slipped over a chest. Alex suddenly pauses and you stare at the phone blankly. “I know this is a big ask, Doll, and I know I’m horrible for even springin’ this on you when I’m half a world away from our bed. But I had to try, even if it was selfish. I just…I just really need to hear your voice telling me if I’m an idiot or not for thinking this up. Call me back soon…or when you run out of my clothes to burn in the firepit out back…I love you, okay? More…more than anything.”
There’s a minute or two of nothing, just Alex’s ragged breathing, and then there’s an older man’s voice ordering him to hurry up. The line clicks.
Your ears ring as it does, wide eyes dripping tears from your bottom lashes as your lungs chill over. Hand slowly flinching out, you ghost over the keys before clicking on the following voicemail. As it plays, your feet start to take you backward at a snail's pace, your spine flattering against the wall as blood drains to your feet.
“Hey, it’s me again. I still haven’t heard from you—that’s alright. Take your time.” Steadying yourself with a hand, you look out of the kitchen and get a glimpse of the manila folder on the desk, its tan hide sucking you in. Pulse in your throat, you rush out to grab it as Alex’s voice echoes. “I know Laswell gave you the file, I trust her that much at least.” A sigh. “But even if it’s just to yell at me, please pick up the phone soon. Let me save some of my dignity and give me a chance to beg on an open line, huh, Sweetheart…? But I guess that’s all—gotta go. I love you.”
You don’t play the next message because you’re ripping open the file with rabid hands, seeing exactly as you had when Laswell left it for you. Alex’s mission report; his patch. The dog tags around your neck clink together like a song, some brutal rhythm.
“Passport?” Grasping the mission report you pick it up, flipping through the multiple pages of blacked-out words and more confused than ever. “Airport?”
The words come out as whimpers, hands so shaky that the pages slip from your fingers. They slam to the floor in a flurry of bond paper and you curse loudly, snatching for the remnants futilely. Grasping on your hands and knees hitches build in your breath as your fingers dance rapidly before they slip across something distinctly not paper.
Small, tiny, and blue. Laminate.
Your very blood seems to stop in your veins. Pushing back one last piece of paper, you come face to face with a singular American passport. Gasping down mute breaths and licking your lips, you pick it up lightly, leaning back on your legs as if you’d just slammed your head into the concrete.
“Alex…” you whisper to no one.
Flipping the hard cover open, a small, palm-sized piece of paper slips out to your lap as your own face stares at you in image form. You blink for a moment before going to take the note and separate the ends. Formal script is inside, stiff lettering. Not your husband's handwriting, but you didn’t have to guess who’d written out these directions for you.
Laswell.
There was a destination in fountain pen ink—an airport near the Urzikstanian and Georgian border. Seeing as Urzikstan was on the travel-ban list due to the turbulence of the government and terrorist threats, you wouldn’t be able to get there directly.
But you supposed Kate had your back for that too.
Georgian safehouse - wait for Keller there. It’s secure. More directions and then a small gap. A pause. Good luck.
You don’t know how long you stare at that paper—that passport. The first thing you think about is how could Alex ask you to do this. Uproot yourself with the snap of a finger. You wouldn’t be able to bring anything beyond what could fit in a few suitcases. No furniture, no large amount of clothes, or even sentimental items. You’d have to quit your job; leave behind family and friends to travel to a war-torn country.
But he’d said it was your choice, and he wouldn’t push you to make it. He’d said you could leave him if you wanted—keep all of this that you’d built here.
…But you’d built it together, hadn’t you?
You think of Alex’s bright smile and his mustache. His tattoos. How he’d hold you so tight in the long hours of sleep that you half-believed he thought you’d disappear if he didn’t; nuzzling his nose into the back of your head and grumbling out nonsense. The way you could trace his scars and watch as he willingly submitted to your praise, delicate lips curving into sheepish grins as you place soft kisses on the raised skin. Red cheeks.
This place wasn’t a home without Alex in it.
You look over at the coffee table and lock onto the gold of your wedding band.
—
Getting into Georgia was a long affair of paperwork and screenings—not days but months of legal jargon that Alex had dodged entirely because of his desertion. By the time you’d landed in country, you were wholly exhausted down to the very marrow of your bones. You get through the checkpoints, pick up your bags, and look out at the entirely new world outside of the airport’s windows.
“Okay,” you swallow saliva and nod carefully before looking down at Laswell’s directions to the safehouse.
You slip the paper into your pocket after memorizing the address, tips of your fingers brushing the smooth surface of the flip phone. Clenching your eyes shut, you take your hand back out and go to try and hire a driver. You were here, but that doesn’t mean all of this was forgiven.
After you find someone able to drive you to where you need to go, you end up standing with a quaint hostel ahead of you, home far behind. Gazing slightly nervous at the strange place you’ve found yourself, you think of Alex’s hand on the small of your back and sigh; caressing the cool metal of the ring around your finger.
Walking forward, you hitch your bags over your shoulders and grit your teeth against the hot sun. When you meet the owner at the front desk you state your name and ask for a bed.
The man’s eyes widen for a moment before he looks at something on his countertop, raising a brow in thought. Grabbing at a stack of papers he holds up a finger and begins digging. Too tired and overwhelmed to ask what was wrong, you just watch and rub at your face.
“Ah,” the man snaps his fingers and laughs to himself, “here it is! I knew I had placed the note somewhere, Mrs. Keller.” You blink, confused, but the man just takes a key from the wall and motions for you to follow. Sparing a glance around for a moment, you slowly slink after, not really having a choice.
“I remember your Husband coming to me—the blond with the tattoos.” The owner looks back, making sure you’re following. He motions to his right side with splayed fingers. “Scars on the side of his head, to reserve a room.”
Alex was here? How much had he done already pertaining to the chance that you would show up?
“Y-yeah,” you chuckle stiffly, “that was him. Sorry for being so long I was…preoccupied.”
“You’re lucky he kept up on payments,” the man grumbles, opening a door with the key and motioning you inside. “My pleasure to finally have you, regardless.”
Entering the small and sparse room, you take the key from him with a thankful smile and a quick thank you before he closes the door. As the barrier thuds, you sway on your feet. Blinking. Breathing hard. You drop all of your bags with a heavy thump that echoes off the walls in a single instant. Heart pounding at everything that was striking you in an instant, you walk slowly back to the bed. You don’t bother to take a shower or brush your teeth; even change.
You fall down on the mattress and pray you don’t have to dream about Alex sending money to this place every week simply on a suffocating hope that you’d come back to him. You pray you don’t dream at all.
The phone wakes you up only thirty minutes later.
Groaning, you shift your body so your hand can snake into your pocket, grasping it and tossing it to the pillow beside your head. You’d never made it through all of the voicemails without crying, so you just deleted all of them and let the inbox fill back up again.
Feeling the dog tags press against your chest as you form your chest into the bed, you shove your head downward and listen to it ring.
Bring-bring, bring-bring, bring-bring
It happens in a flurry of a sleep-addled mind and a horrible desperation to see your husband after nearly a full year of no contact. You flip it open and answer with your nose pressed deeply into the pillow below you. Ears straining and pulse running like a starving cat after a mouse.
Dead silence.
“...Sweetheart…?” It’s pitiful how fast the tears flood you at Alex’s shocked and tiny voice. Tight breathing sounds over the line from his end and your other hand digs into your scalp. A small, cut-off laugh. “Hey…I—”
You hang up with a vicious slam of the screen and let the silence settle again. People walk the hall; the sun dims as night sets in. This isn’t home. Dropping the phone back down to the pillow you curl into a tight ball and cry yourself back to sleep.
If you had to guess, you’d say the small curse was what woke you for the second time, though you didn’t register it until minutes later. That muffled ‘shit’ as a foot hits your dropped bags near the door. But then it’s silent again and your ears only twitch to the gentle sigh that brushes against your face; a thumb and forefinger caressing your cheek as hair is placed back over your ear.
Perhaps the only reason at all as to why you don’t wake up screaming bloody murder is because of his calluses. They burn your flesh as they slide over it—as ingrained into your very being as your own heart is. As if Alex’s touch was another organ that was needed to survive. More important than a liver or a spleen.
When your eyes slip open he’s leaning back in a chair he had turned to face you, built form shifting as the rickety wood creaks. No more than five feet away sits your husband, and all you do is suck in a tight breath and lock gazes with soft sea glass.
Alex freezes at the same time, strong brow line peeling back and mustache stiff as his lips immediately thin. You both stare for a good while, a thread of tension entering the air. The night deepens.
He speaks first, in the dense hours of confrontation. Your heart feels like it’s been stuck with a spear, vignette at the sides of your vision, and a blooming center of only Alex’s body and his messy hair. The scarf around his neck. The combat vest.
Had he driven all this way to see if you were here? Because you’d answered the phone? But you hadn’t even said anything. Your head stays on the pillow, wondering if you were hallucinating.
“Hey,” Alex forces a chuff before he glances away, nervous arms crossed. “Hey there, Doll. Sorry that I woke you. I…ah,” your eyes bore into him, hand on the sheets slowly clenching into a fist. “I figured there was an off chance you would be here.” He clears his voice, throat closing on a trying laugh. “Guess I’m glad I looked. You should remember to lock your door, by the way.”
At the sight of your rising glare, his tone drops, expression falling even more than it already was. Deep well of sadness grew in his eyes, lips pulling back in a strained agony.
Alex’s gaze drops to the floor.
“I know,” is what hits the air, “I know, Sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it,” you push your body up as his large shoulders tighten—such an accomplished and strong man brought to a squirming heap when his wife’s sharp words hit him in the chest. “What the hell were you thinking, Alex?!”
Heavy feet hit the floor as you stalk over, fatigue and tiredness pushed all the way to the back of your mind yet also enhancing your emotions. Bitter rage was sparking—held in far too long. Alex’s eyes don’t meet yours, so you grab him by the chin and angle his head up to you.
At the sight of your red sclera and the baggy gaze he stills. Under your grip his beard tickles you, the soft grip of flesh that makes you want to wrap your arms over him and weep; make him promise to never leave like that again.
“I…I wasn’t…”
“That’s the thing isn’t it—you didn’t think.” Sea glass floods over, going glossy; hurt etched into both of your faces as if carved from the same stone. But you don’t stop now, growling out as your skin burns. Alex isn’t sad that you’re angry, he’s sad he’s done this to you. “You disappeared, Alex. Laswell had to just drop all of this shit on me. I thought you had died.” You growl. “Do you know what that feels like?!”
“Sweetheart—”
“Shut up! You let me talk,” he falls silent, hand delicately coming up to grab your wrist. Not to pull you away, just to hold you. To feel your skin and the heat of it. You sniffle and his eyes break. “And the worst part of it was that if you had just asked I would have followed you right then and there.” Alex sharply looks back at you. “But the biggest insult was that you thought I would leave you—that you even considered that.”
Shock slowly gives way to a blank expression. He was confused, now.
Was that what you were angry about?
“You’re an idiot, Keller. Hot-headed. Cocky.” You shake your head, but a tiny smile begins to bleed onto Alex’s face. Watching you like you’d just sprung a million dollars on him. His grip slightly squeezes, calloused thumb running the span of your knuckles as you shake his head with your hand. “Damn nuisance to my health, is what you are.” Trying to remain angry is tough when he’s looking at you like that—starstruck—but you spit out, “It’s insulting that you thought I’d just give up on us that easily.”
“Most women don’t want a man who’s wanted for desertion, Doll,” Alex whispers, testing a smirk on his lips with his expression still strained.
“Arrogant!” your voice snaps. “Not a single brain cell in his stupid little head.” You let go of his chin and grip the sides of his skull, feeling the dirty but still soft strands of hair before you huff at him.
But he just looks at you and smiles, face smooshed.
“...You really came?” Alex asks quietly. You fall silent and after a moment you deflate.
After the silence of trying to keep the sneer on your face, you let it drop, lips quivering slightly. Anger glints with pain. “I should hit you upside the head, Keller, for all the worry you’ve put me through,” you grunt, eyes flashing over every new bruise on his face—every cut you’d have to re-learn. He looks tired.
Oh, Alex…
Before the blond can respond to you, you’ve captured the back of his head and shoved it into your chest; face burying itself into his scalp to bring forth that scent of dust and cologne. You whimper out as he grips you around the waist with just as much fervor, “Did you think that I would stay away?”
Alex says nothing, only the slight tremor in his bicep betraying him. You firmly kiss his skull and run your fingers through his hair, the both of you so tight together there’s barely enough room in your ribs to allow your lungs to inflate.
But holding him was more important than air, a sentiment that Alex seemed to share entirely.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Bug.” He mutters into your skin. “Feels good to be able to hold my girl again.”
You stay like that for a long time before you pull back and capture his cheeks, face pulling closer before you kiss him deeply. It’s not a fast-paced or desperate thing—no clashing teeth or tongue. That wasn’t what you needed right now.
All that you needed was Alex. Your home.
You both separate and the blond grabs the back of your neck, forcing you back so he can lay another on the side of your mouth; nose, cheek. Anywhere that he could reach as his mustache tickled you to a smile. Giggles worm out and you wiggle out of his grip to wipe at your cheeks, spreading away tiny tear tracks and saliva.
“Quit it,” you whisper, and Alex gazes up at you reverently from his chair.
“Negative, Ma’am,” he says, equally as soft, not even blinking. “Don’t wanna.” You roll your eyes, face hot.
The seconds draw long of only watching one another before you shake your head and move your hands to shimmy out of the dog tags around your neck. Alex’s gaze locks on the metal swiftly, smile shifting.
“You’re horrible.” You huff, quietly, before shoving his dog tags at his chest. “Now put them back on.”
“But I’m not in the—” Your glare shuts him up. Alex clears his throat sheepishly. “Yes, Ma’am.”
You nod and watch as they’re resituated around his neck. Right where they should be. When you take a step back to really take him in, there’s a moment where you skim over the state of his left leg. After all, the metal was barely noticeable in the dark. But when you do see it every little part of you shrivels up with confused pain.
Alex stands with a noticeable preference to his right and as he towers over you, fingers coming to grab at your face and slowly drag it back up.
A slightly apologetic look washes over him.
“I’m guessing you didn’t listen to all of the voicemails.”
���Alex…” you slowly cut off. “You…” Staring at the metal limb instead of the real one, you gape. “...how?”
“Y’know,” he laughs, but you don’t find this funny. He notices and kisses your forehead, tapping his scalp to yours and saying after a contemplative pause, “I think it’s better if I don’t explain it. I’m alright, just...” Alex smiles cheekily, the spark that you love coming back easily as it shimmers in his eyes, “just a little more carbon fiber and aluminum than I was before.”
You hug him tightly.
“I’m sorry, I should have come sooner—I was just angry, and I wasn’t—”
“Don’t apologize to me,” Alex sighs, grabbing you and maneuvering the both of you to the bed. He sits and you end up laying in his lap like that moment in the bathroom ages ago. “None of this is your fault, okay? You deserve to be angry. I shouldn’t have put such a burden on you.”
You sigh in his arms, head under his chin and heart finally able to return to a steady pace. Licking your lips, you ask, “Does it hurt?”
Sending a glance down, Alex’s lips twitch with a grin before it disappears. He hums.
“Sometimes.” Your hand grips his opposite cheek and you lay a kiss on his chin, caressing his flesh.
It’s a tentative kind of love. An understanding and a plea all at once.
The blond leans back against the wall and pulls you closer, closing his eyes. Finally relaxing for the first time in what seems like forever. But his girl is in his arms, and he’s never been this calm.
“I have a home in Urzikstan,” he confesses lightly, fingers brushing your body and giving way to shivers. You listen, eyes fluttering at the vibrations of his words. “It’s safe—protected. I…want us to live there.” Alex nods against your head, swallowing. “If you’ll come back with me.”
“Yes,” your answer is immediate. “Anywhere, as long as you’re with me.”
You feel his breath hitch, soft chuckles brushing your hair far better than any comb. There’s a small tremor in his voice as he says, “I love you. God, do I love you.”
Your lips pull up, body growing heavy with a final sense of home.
“I love you, too.” Soft kisses and tight arms. Shifting tattoos. “But if you ever do something like that again without talking to me, I’m telling Laswell she has permission to put a bullet in your ass.”
His loud laughs shake your body, and you press your face into his neck to steady yourself; smiling.
NEW TAGLIST SIGN-UP: Here
TAGS:
@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm
#alex keller x reader#alex keller#cod#cod x reader#cod x you#call of duty#alex keller x you#alex keller cod#mw x reader#mw 2019#call of duty x you#call of duty fanfic#call of duty fic#call of duty x reader#call of duty mw19#cod mw#cod mw 2019#cod mw fanfiction#cod x female reader#x fem!reader#x female reader#modern warfare#modern warfare x you#modern warfare x reader
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PMC - SHADOW COMPANY
#call of duty#militant#military#mw#call of duty mw19#shadow company#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty mw#velikan#cod modern warfare#barrage#barrage cod#pmc#ghost cod#cod fanart#cod mw2#cod mwii#cod mw#cod mw3#cod mw ghost#cod#call of duty mw3#call of duty modern warfare 2#call of duty men
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random maceghost warm up doodles
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....and a commission😚😚it was my first time drawing nikolai and price не судите строго
#ibispaintx#fanart#call of duty modern warfare#cod modern warfare#call of duty mw19#call of duty mwii#call of duty mwiii#cod mw19#cod mwii#cod mwiii#call of duty nikolai#cod nikolai#call of duty price#cod price#john price#price x nikolai#nikprice
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Golden hour ☀️
#captain john price#captain price#cod#art#artwork#design#cod captain john price#captain johnathan price#cod captain price#cod john price#john price#johnathan price#cod mwii#cod mw3#cod mw2#cod modern warfare#call of duty mw19#call of duty#ghostsoap#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty mwii#oldermen#i love him
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im going 2 write for this maybe ?? but cat/lemon/reef shark! reader nd cthulu konig hhhh
shark! reader would honestly start off quite scared of konig tbh … they’re well aware of what cthulu hybrids and have seen their affects firsthand, the delirious, rabid glint in a victims eyes and the macabre foam that would bubble up past their lips. and not only was konig a hybrid of that species, but the operator of kortac, one who had seen hundred of battles and could snap a man’s neck as naturally as he blinked an eye.
however , being the only two marine hybrids in kortac means they’re both drawn to each other by nature, and furthermore shoved by missions that required time underwater that only you and konig could wrangle.
it’s a slow process. the flick of a tentacle or small swish of a fin that would signal direction or start ambushes had progressed into little inside jokes. konig sometimes acting in place of a remora, using his suckers to help clean off grime or stray corals off your tail. and maybe he isn’t as bad as the eldritch killer you’d made him out to be.
now there’s a heavy tentacle wrapped around your shoulder, and now your fin brushing against the plated guards on his shin feels even more like home than warm tides that held you as a child.
the relationship you eventually get into is a change for the both of you, so civilian compared to the violence and hardness that you were both raised in. learning to use tentacles to hold instead of strangle. sitting on the ocean floor and watching as fish dart around, your tail pulling him a little closer as he leans his head onto your shoulder. tentacles pulling you against konigs chest and strong arms around your waist when your nocturnal instincts go too far out of whack for his preference.
just two little guys finding whatever home they can in each other <33
(HOLY SHIT I POSTED THIS ON MY RB ACC MY MAIN IS @mitoad !!!)
#why cat/reef/lemon shark ?? personality matches and also they’re my favs ghhhhh#hybrids r so kewl to me… grabbing at the walls and screaming#finally managed 2 figure out how to mix marine creechures w cod writings nd im so hapoy#but also hear m out… fishkeepr reader and cthulu konig#ANYWAYS#call of duty#call of duty mw2#call of duty mwii#call of duty mw19#cod modern warfare#cod mwii#cod mw2#könig cod#könig call of duty#könig mw2#könig#könig x reader#konig cod#konig call of duty#konig mw2#konig x reader#könig x you#konig x you#cod konig#cod könig#hybrid! reader#hybrid reader#call of duty headcanons#hybrid konig#cod x reader
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micro sketches with Price & Gaz just warmin' up...
Links
#mellounir art tag#call of duty mw19#call of duty mw2#kyle gaz garrick#john price#if I may say#I'm going to explode abt task force 141#укртумбочка
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Can we talk about how Alex doesn't have burn scars? He was inside the furnace when the bomb went off. He should have scars, right?
He should have had to painfully watch as his skin looked less and less like his own, how the grafts took parts of his tattoos and now everything is misaligned and wrong.
He lost his leg, yeah, but he lost more of himself than he originally thought. Once the euphoria of being alive ended, he wasn't sure he wanted to be alive, in this state. Alex walked into that furnace knowing he would die, but didn't. He's not sure that he likes that he gets to tell the tale. Not when it's full of screaming and pain. His life would've had a reason if he had died in that building like he was supposed to. For Farah's mission.
And now he felt more useless than ever, doing everything in his power not to stare at the scars lining his skin in the morning as he dresses and puts on his prosthetic. He's alive, sure, but his face looks different, his smile doesn't seem as full as it used to.
He's not laughing and chatting as much, he's off to Farah's side, listening for orders. Because that's how he'll make himself useful again, after months of being too hurt to do so much as move by himself.
But sometimes, she'll look at him expectantly, for his opinion, his thoughts. Maybe just to see him, alive and breathing. Her eyes light up whenever he says his stupid little "yes, ma'am", and it doesn't feel so bad anymore.
#alex keller#cod alex#call of duty#cod#cod mw19#call of duty mw19#cod mwi#call of duty modern warfare#farah karim#farah x alex#(?)#hurt/comfort
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Nikto Gets A Cat
I saw this lovely artwork by @quimera-cami and it possessed me to drop all other WIP to write this.
Summary - Spetsnaz are tasked with guarding a remote location. Can’t ask for a simpler operation really. The only downside for Nikto is having to endure the stifling presence of his teammates. Maintaining what’s left of his sanity in such a tiny house is an exhausting challenge, but at least they all get their own sleeping quarters.
Until Rodion returns from a weekly grocery run with a companion.
Word count - 3.9k
Tags - Fluff, Alcohol, Nikto being nice.
It’s no secret to the closest people in Nikto’s life that he despises cats.
The incessant calls for attention. The hair that seems to overrun everything one owns. Their need to mark and ruin upholstery. His disdain for those common house pets are seen as irrational. Perhaps it's a childhood trauma long forgotten, the unsavoury memories regarding these animals locked away in the dark corners of his mind.
But he disagrees. The extreme hatred is warranted. How could it not? What do they provide other than misery and annoyance. He’s grateful to have been spared the torment of living around one since he joined the military over a decade ago.
So the man is rendered temporarily speechless and imobile when Rodion calls out from behind him on the armchair, “Look at what I found outside the supermarket!” and five kilograms of hissing fluff and fury is dumped on his thighs.
The feline snarls and bares its teeth at the person that dropped it. Long razor-sharp claws dig into Nikto’s flight suit, poking his skin.
He winces, gaze narrowing at the youngest Russian. “What the fuck is this?”
“Mm, it’s a cat,” Rodion mumbles over a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie as he searches for the TV remote and brushes stray crumbs onto the ground. It makes Nikto’s fingers twitch. “Siberian I think?”
Dmitry looks up from his task of chopping potatoes in the scantily sized kitchen, amusement ghosting the corner of his eyes. “Oh, it could be, but they are usually a little bigger, no?”
The cat, in a blur of unruly fur, launches itself off Nikto's lap, nails screeching and scraping the wooden floorboards as it skitters across like one of those rats caught out in the light in this shithole of a house. In a second, the creature vanishes behind a doorway to a bedroom. The one belonging to Maxim.
Rodion clucks his tongue. “Well, someone tell Maxim he has a new roommate when he’s back from patrol.”
An acidic scowl is hidden behind his balaclava when Nikto notices the strands of hair and filth left on his uniform. “Are you soft in the head? Why did you bring it here?”
“Saw her scavenging in the garbage as I was about to return. I couldn’t just leave her there.”
“Get rid of it, or I will shoot it.” His voice low and coarse. It is the only response Nikto gives before he stands up, readying to leave for a shift change with Maxim.
Nikto returns twelve hours later after a quiet night, slips out of his worn leather boots to find his single bed occupied.
The feline saw fit to curl up on it and rub dirt on his clean white blankets and pillows. Of course it would be in here, his room is the only empty one.
He’s able to get a better look at it as it sleeps. Dust clings to its matted and tangled cream-coloured fur. Its scrawny figure and ribs are barely concealed by its thick coat. Thin, elegant, almost silver whiskers a contrast to the extremely bushy unkempt tail.
Three small lines of scar run from its right cheek to its velvet-like ear. This is no pampered house pet, it may have been once, however those times were long gone.
He lightly shoos the cat away. It startles from peaceful sleep and hisses, tries to gouge his hand with the tiny daggers on its fingertips, but ultimately scampers off and hides under the bed.
Nikto sighs, long and drawn out. Questioning if he should bother using the back of his rifle like a stick to force it out of his room. He reaches for it, then decides it’s not worth potentially hurting himself from an accidental discharge.
He flips the switch off and collapses on the mattress.
~~~
He wakes up before everyone else again, the sun heating his face through the dusty window. Nikto blinks against the early morning rays and stretches his stiff muscles with a content groan. His toes collide with something furry and soft, and that brief moment of peaceful serenity is disrupted by a sharp scratch to his bare calf.
The half asleep man jerks away from the sting — accidently rolling off the bed. A shoulder and knee takes the full brunt of the fall and the greater pain jolts him fully awake, a “Blyat,” escaping his scarred lips.
The feral animal dashes around the small room, emerald eyes wide, fangs showing and claws unsheath. It howls and arches its back as it realises its trapped between the closed door and him.
Nikto scrambles to his feet, swearing a string of colourful curses that echo against the concrete walls. His jaw tightens. He wonders if he can turn the doorknob to kick it outside without being inflicted with any more injuries.
Goosebumps form on his arms when a deep rumble emits from it, as if it’s charging up an attack. He eyes the AK-47 propped against the wall on the other side of the room. Of course the one time he leaves a firearm out of reach is when he needs it most.
Tentatively, he takes a step forward and in a whirlwind, the infernal creature resumes its frantic scrambling.
It throws itself up onto the bed, rumpling the messy sheets further and jumps on his nightstand. In its rampage of destruction, it knocks the full bottle of vodka over.
It shatters loudly on the oak floor. Large and tiny shards of glass scatter in all directions as the liquid seeps through the planks.
Nikto, who is usually able to repress his anger and known for his stoic composure, lets his vision go red and a roar of unrestrained rage erupts.
He will gut this mangy stray then dump its entrails on Rodion for putting him through this. He has done far worse for less.
The bedroom door creaks open and Devil Incarnate finally dashes out.
A dishevelled Maxim peeks his head and a broad shoulder in, sleep clouding his eyes. “Can you not make so much fucking noise this early?” Then his gaze shifts to the spilled alcohol and groans. “You’re not wasting anymore of the vodka again,” he says and slams the door shut with a resounding thud before Nikto could redirect his fury at him.
He is left to simmer in the aftermath and he swears to drag Rodion’s face across the broken glass if that imbecile doesn’t clean this up.
~~~
It seems an illness has overtaken his comrades.
With its fur clean and brushed, they dote on the cat at every chance it decides to show itself. Regal grace that laid beneath the grime is now allowed to shine. It moves with the arrogance that all cats possess as it struts around the house.
“Oh, what a cute kitten.”
“Look at its shiny gemstone eyes! What a pretty girl.”
Running their fingers through the fur as they coo and play with it. All three of them mull over what to name it. As if it’s a newborn baby and they’re first time parents.
“How about Mishka?” Dmitry asks as he strokes its back. “Look at its silky coat! Nikto, you have to feel this.”
Maxim scratches his stubble. “I prefer Nina.”
“Satan,” Nikto offers, gaze not leaving his book.
“It’s a girl,” Rodion’s faraway voice interjects from the bedroom.
“Baba Yaga.”
“Doesn’t really suit her… Princess?” Maxim suggests.
Nikto flicks to the next page. “Gluttony.”
“I think Anastasia fits this beauty.”
“Garbage Eater.”
That night, he pulls the covers over him with the feline nowhere in sight.
But dawn finds that yet again the whiskered intruder found its way onto the bed near his feet.
Less scratching and hissing this time. He’s able to expel it with only an attempted swat at his arm and minimal destruction. No caterwauls of wildness, or pointed teeth and claws tearing at his blankets thankfully.
~~~
They take pictures and record videos of the nuisance doing the most inane drivel and send them to each other, including Nikto. As if he can’t see the damned cat himself. At this rate, they would probably snap an image of its excrements and praise it for defecating outside by the end of the week.
The cat takes the greatest liking to Dmitry. It’s no mystery why. Twirling about his legs for food at all hours of the day that it’s not sleeping.
And the meowing.
It doesn’t shut up. Always whining, always mewling. Like an alarm siren demanding more and more meals.
The short period where it is not doing that, usually when one of the Bale brothers has the little gremlin on their lap, massaging the soft fur around its ears — it purrs loudly. Impeccably imitating a broken lawnmower.
Nikto has no trouble tolerating most discomforts — the filthiness of a barracks, the lack of sleep during a long operation, numbness from the biting cold of Russian winters. He would endure all of it again over this.
Nobody else seems to be agitated by it. Madness has infected everyone but him. No longer can Nikto read a book or relax with a good bottle of vodka in peace. He enjoyed his lone shifts a little more than the rest of the team before. Solitude is always freeing.
Now, it’s his only solace for true rest.
His equipment, his bed, the whole house, is filled with stray strands of fur. Irritating his nostrils and ruining his clothes. He briefly considers murdering the cat and the idiot that brought it home when he finds a nonhuman hair in his half eaten soup.
The last straw that solidifies their insanity to him is when the living embodiment of chaos vomits a wet furball on the sofa.
They will throw the cat out now for sure. Nikto has no doubts about it.
Except, that does not happen.
They did not throw the cat out.
They mutter words of comfort and pat it on the back, cleans up the mess and offers it a treat.
Nikto occasionally catches the feline watching him from some dimly lit corner. A spark of intelligence in its big round eyes. As if it secretly taunts him, before prowling away.
The following night, he scours his room, getting on all fours to check under his creaking bed frame. His bloodshot eyes strains against the darkness and finds only dust bunnies. No furry form with a demonic glint in its jade irises. Satisfied, he switches off the light and crawls in, the chill of the night seeps through the small crack in the window.
Yet, come morning, the relentless animal inhabits his sheets, purring with satisfaction.
It amazes him that it is able to burrow up so close as he slept again — with him being none the wiser, considering how much of a light sleeper he is. Nikto makes a mental note to seal the window. Clearly the sliver of opening for fresh air is too much to ask for.
He lets out a bone weary sigh, running a hand over his scarred face and rubs his temple. It can stay for now.
It’s not being overtly infuriating. It barely takes up any space. The man observes its sleek fur shining almost golden in the sunlight. Is it as soft as they all say it is?
He reaches for it, his fingers lightly brushes its tail and it lets out a groan of discontent, hopping off the bed, onto the windowsill. It slinks away, landing on the bushes outside.
Nikto watches the raised fluffy tail disappear past the treeline and he pushes the pane fully shut with a resounding snap for tonight.
“She’s nearly done with her moult,” Dmitry comments as he sweeps the tumbleweeds of fur out the front door. There are clumps of it stuck on foliage, mixing with the twigs and leaves.
It’s visually revolting.
When asked why he doesn't simply throw it in the trash, Dmitry says it makes the birds happy to use it for their nests.
Birds don’t nest this close to winter, you moron. Nikto would have loved to retort, only, he realises he doesn’t have the energy for it anymore.
The one upside to the neverending mountain of inconveniences is there seems to be a decrease of rat sightings inside. Perhaps, it’s not as lazy as Nikto originally thought.
He scowls at the empty packet of potato chips left by Rodion on the coffee table. The cat is now far from being the most useless individual in the house.
He lies awake in his bed, watching the shadows of the tree branch right outside his window dance on the wall as the wind jostles it. Sleep has trouble taking him like most days.
As he is about to drift into unconsciousness, an ear grating yowl echoes in the living room through the walls, loud enough to wake the dead.
Nikto huffs and rolls onto his stomach.
It continues. The sounds of the kitchen’s trash can being rummaged and the occasional meow of discontent prevents him from dozing off.
He’s determined to ignore it, maybe yell at someone else to feed it but realises it’s probably useless. Dmitry can sleep through a bombing. Maxim is likely comatose from drinking and nothing less than a gunshot will wake him.
He sits up, fingers reaching for his balaclava, fully intending to throw some biscuits in its food bowl so it can leave him alone.
The moment he pries open the door, the feline sprints in and beelines underneath his mattress.
Nikto narrows his eyes, tired brain is slow to process what exactly occurred. A defeated exhale leaves his lips and pushes his door shut, returning to bed.
He has grown to expect the cat to claim the territory beside his left foot and is careful not to nudge it come morning.
~~~
Frantic scratching on worn oak is like fingernails on a chalkboard, agitating Nikto's taut nerves. It wasn't just the sound, but the urgency behind it.
He’s not the only person home, someone else can let it out.
He tries to ignore it and focus on his task. Cleaning firearms is a silent and soothing experience. It helps to clear his mind when he needs it most.
The scraping intensifies.
Nikto unclenches his jaw — gently places down the bolt carrier and oil stained cloth, and stands up.
Boots thudding on the floor as he marches to the source of the noise.
The cat paws at the front door and wails. Wanting to be let out. It looks at Nikto as he turns the corner. Its face saying, please I need to leave.
I need to leave right now.
He unlatches the steel lock and pulls the door open. The feline hesitates, its miniature nose twitching, testing the cool air and the scents wafting in.
Frosty blue irises flash in anger. “You wanted to leave? Then go!” His free hand gestures to the open space outside.
Seconds stretch into a minute.
It stands there. Peering outside. Then, with a flick of its tail, turns and walks away, returning to its favourite spot on the kitchen counter by the window.
Nikto watches it, a mixture of confusion and realisation settling in his chest. It gives him a side eye that speaks volumes before it lays down and gazes out the glass.
He had served this creature. Catered to her whims. Ungratefulness aside, he feels used.
~~~
Nikto leaves for his shift just like any other night. Familiar weight of his rifle in one hand. Vodka in the other. Stars glittering in the sky.
He settles down at his usual spot in the outpost overlooking the area he’s meant to guard. As he’s about to peel back the fabric of his mask to take a sip, a crunch of dry leaves alerts him to a presence not too far from his left.
Drink forgotten, muscle memory and instincts take over, he raises his gun in the direction of the intruder. Two glowing orbs look back at him, and then an inquisitive meow.
Low and behold, it’s Garbage Eater.
Exasperation washes over him. He lowers his firearm and stares at it.
The cat saunters up to his feet, rubbing its face on his boots.
Nikto silently grieves his allotted hours of privacy robbed away and sits back down. How did it even follow him? He was not as alert as he usually is compared during a mission, but for it to have not been detected since he left the house is a feat.
Surprisingly, it keeps a respectable distance. Choosing to lick its hand an arms length away.
He finally gives in. The Russian reaches out to run a hand over its back. A throaty groan of protest erupts.
Nikto stops. Fair enough. He doesn’t like being touched either.
As the night deepens, he offers little bits of chicken from his food container while they sit in tranquil company together. He will never admit to it if asked, but the presence of decent companionship is something he craves. Dmitry is pleasant and respectful, however he can be a little too worried more often than not. That man is not subtle. Nikto catches every glance of concern, every time his lips pull into a hard line.
Animals don’t do that. They don’t have any questions of his mental state barely held back on the tips of their tongues.
Sometimes when it gets too quiet, his thoughts can be overwhelming. Fragmented memories from his past come slithering back. Lately, he has been unable to keep them at bay.
Every now and then, a new door opens, and he often doesn’t like what comes out of it.
Maybe it senses his mood, or maybe it’s just cold, it inches closer to sit beside him for the remainder of the shift. Its green eyes full of concern.
When they return to the house together, the cat doesn’t have to sneak into his bedroom.
~~~
Tiny gifts in the form of dead rats are deposited in his quarters every so often. He could dispose of it normally, but he throws them into Rodion’s room. It grants Nikto a small bit of satisfaction whenever a screech of disgust sounds throughout the house, usually after that man returns from his shift.
A week passes and Nikto wakes up with a feather duster-like object in his face.
It seems that the cat, perhaps emboldened in the darkness, gained some courage and moved upwards long past midnight. She sneaked up close beside his chest as he was sleeping. Her padded foot, soft and warm, rests against his bicep with an easy pressure, tail tickling his cheeks.
She had stuck to the end of his mattress every day before this.
Her forehead nudges his hand, seeking contact, and she rubs her long whiskers against his open palm.
Sundown arrives sooner, the days grow colder and Nikto quickly discovers she likes to be squashed by his arm.
The cat blinks and carefully leaps over him to situate herself in the small space between him and the wall. She sniffs Nikto’s hand curiously and rubs her cheeks against it before rolling into a ball. He buries his fingers into her soft fur and closes his eyelids.
He knows she only pursues his company for his warmth. He doesn’t mind it. His nail traces patterns in her coat and she stretches languidly. Maybe it's not just her seeking him. Maybe he craves the physical touch too.
It has been too long, he realises, since he has hugged another living thing. To feel the pulsing of a heartbeat against his fingertips. It is not so bad afterall.
The even vibration of her purrs lulls him to a dreamless slumber.
He hears the rhythmic clacking of claws on the hardwood floor before the cat jumps onto the armrest. She puts a gentle paw on Nikto’s forearm and meows.
Nikto hums, the words of his fantasy novel momentarily blurring. “What do you need this time?” he grumbles.
Everyone else left ten minutes ago, a rarity. He has plans to finish this book today.
Unfazed by his hollow annoyance, she steps onto his lap and does a few circles before settling down.
He shifts in his chair, trying to find a position that’s more comfortable for them both. “I’m reading a story, do you want to hear it?”
She looks at him knowingly and yawns. Nikto clears his throat, he begins reading with a soft voice that feels unfamiliar, it has been a long time since he last used this tone.
At some point, her eyes drift close and her breathing deepens, yet he continues.
Nikto couldn't help but see the similarities they share. They both exude an independence born out of necessity. He runs a calloused thumb over her old scars. They’re both survivors. No other person he met has understood it truly. Though with the way she regards him, the reserved man thinks she might.
~~~
Nikto takes the last bottle of Five Lakes on a hunt with him before Maxim could — he can have whatever slop is left.
It’s been years since he had hunted, nevertheless, he still remembers how to track deer and rabbits.
Gloved hand securely clutching the cool glass, he ventures further east.
People argue that vodka isn't for taste. Nikto disagrees.
He values the smooth, barely detectable flavour, a welcomed change to the generic liquor he usually endured on duty. To him, the subtle burn is appreciated. He doesn’t think his alcoholic comrade can tell the difference.
It’s not that he can’t handle the harsh taste, he would simply rather get drunk with a minimal amount of hangover.
He’s not surprised when he hears the rustle of grass and the well-accustomed to call of his four legged companion behind him after he crouches down to inspect the gnawed on vegetation.
She trots up, her sleek form brushing against his thighs and investigates the leaves, sniffing it with a delicate nose.
“Can you hunt rabbits as well as rats?”
She flicks a ear and chirps in response.
Nikto takes that as a yes.
Undeterred by the distant rumble of thunder above, they proceed further, the sparse canopy offers little protection as tiny droplets soon begin to rain down upon them.
Eventually, the soil grows too damp for her liking and she tries scaling up his leg, tips of her claws latching on to his thigh muscle through the thick fabric.
She advances quickly, her pointed nails has no trouble finding purchase on the straps and gear tied to him. Nikto hisses and grips her to his chest with his forearm before she can make it any higher.
She calms instantly, feeling secured in his solid hold.
The mild drizzle subsides quickly, leaving the forest dripping and smelling of fresh earth. However the once stray Siberian forest cat has no desire to return to the damp ground.
He purses his lips and takes a deep breath. “Fine.”
He can’t use his hunting rifle with one hand and he refuses to let her on his shoulders. Daylight is about to leave anyway. Won’t be a terrible decision to return.
As the sun dips below the horizon, dousing the hills with the warm colour of fire, Nikto observes the sky and settles on the grass, Garbage Eater curling up on his lap in content silence — he thinks that having a pet cat isn’t the worst thing in the world.
#nikto#cod nikto#call of duty#cod mw#call of duty mw#call of duty fanfic#call of duty fic#call of duty MW19#call of duty MWII#call of duty mw2#Dmitry Bale#Maxim Minotaur Bale#Nikodim Rodion Egorov#MW19 Spetsnaz
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Alex Keller x reader
1.7k | fluff, suggestive
Your movie date involved a cherry lollipop (part 2)
For @glitterypirateduck ’s Alex Keller challenge! (Is this what you wanted, don’t make me answer that)
“You’re not on a date, are you?” Laswell asked.
Alex opened his mouth to answer.
“Sorry, Keller, I need the report now.”
The clerk he’d tasked apparently hadn’t delivered the report to Laswell that Friday. He’d better be prepared for the earful Alex was giving him on Monday for ruining what would have been his 5th date with you.
“Come back to base and hand it over yourself or rewrite it. Your call.”
He groaned after the line went dead. Parked outside your building, he was about to exit his SUV and knock on your door, but you were already heading his way.
You smiled, giving him a little wave. He reached over to open your door and you slid into the passenger seat.
“Hi, beautiful,” he mumbled, kissing you on the cheek.
Your smile brightened. “Thanks for picking me up. I’m looking forward to the movie.”
He winced. “About that… I just got a call from work.”
Your hand froze midway to the seatbelt bracket, your smile faltered.
“I need to redo a report at home, will take 30 minutes, an hour tops. Would you mind if dinner is pushed back?”
You let the belt retract, averting your gaze. “Is it better to cancel tonight?”
“No, no. I really want to take you out.” He grabbed your hand. “You want to watch that movie, and you got dressed already. We can catch a later showing? If that’s fine with you, of course.”
“Yeah, alright. I don’t mind waiting a bit.” A small smile tugged on your lips. “I know sometimes work is unpredictable.”
He pulled you hand to his lips before he drove away. His apartment was neat with a large living room and a view of the bustling main street. It was your first time at his even that you didn’t live very far from each other. He enjoyed coming over, making dates you as convenient as possible for you, which was all the more guilty he felt for having to push back dinner.
“Make yourself at home. If you need anything, go ahead and help yourself, okay?” he called out from his room before hurrying back out with his laptop. He sat at the dining table, flipping it open. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
You turned away from the large windows and sank yourself onto his plush couch.
At first, Alex had a hard time concentrating with your presence, stealing glances at you ever so often like a knee-jerk reaction. Not because you were a disturbance, but because he itched to be close to you. He had been excited to see you all week, unable to get you off his mind since the last time he saw you the previous Saturday.
When he eventually sank into the report, the room was silent except for the gentle keyboard clacking and few grunts and curses he muttered under his breath.
Sometime later, he looked up to you unwrapping a lollipop, the wrapper crinkling. You must have been getting hungry. You popped the red candy into your mouth as you continued scrolling on your phone, smiling to yourself at times.
His typing stopped. He wondered what flavour it was. Probably cherry – his favourite. Not like it mattered. It wasn’t like he was going to taste it on you, but as your tongue swirled around the sphere, he couldn’t help imagining it swirling around something else instead. Something that had stirred alive moments ago, now painfully strained in the confines of his jeans. It wasn’t like you were being obscene or anything, but maybe his mind was too dirty for his own good.
He shifted in his seat as he discretely reached under the table to readjust. He couldn’t believe what his overactive mind did with the innocent sight. He took a deep breath and will himself to get back to work, but it caught your attention instead. From the corner of his eyes, he could see how you had a small smirk as you faced him. He tried not to look, but he couldn't resist anymore.
As your eyes locked, your lips parted, twirling the candy around with your tongue. Your lips redder, sticky and sweet, and much more kissable than usual. His breath caught in his throat as you sucked on the sphere, cheeks hollow. Your eyes slid down his figure before blinking. He’d never seen you like that before, pretty eyes so dark and alluring. Could you hear how fast his heart was racing from across the room?
You held his gaze for a few more seconds and released the candy with a pop before casually looking away, back to your phone. Like the classic bar brush-off, as if you weren’t just fucking him right there with your eyes.
Oh, you minx. He pursed his lips, taking a deep breath. You were going to be the death of him.
After a few more minutes, he pushed his chair back. “I’m done,” he announced, closing his laptop. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem. You didn’t take too long.” You smiled, walking over to wrap your arms around him.
In a swift move, Alex stood, caging you against the table with his body. You let out a small yelp and leaned back onto the edge of the table. His lidded eyes bored down into yours.
“Why were you looking at me like that?” he asked, a little breathless.
Your brow cocked. “Am I not allowed to?”
“You are. Just that you made it very hard... to concentrate.” He leaned in, dragging the tip of his nose up the column of your neck. “Is this what you wanted?”
Your tilted your face, eyes shut. If you muttered an answer, it was intangible, coming off like a breathless moan, voice warbled from his warm breath against your soft skin.
Enjoying having the effect on you, he pulled away with a smirk. Your chest rose and fell as your lips parted, still tinted from the candy earlier. He ached to taste them. He swallowed before his eyes flicked back to yours.
“I just want to say I’ve been enjoying every minute with you a lot and I want to keep seeing you.”
You smiled, the kind that always made his heart skip a beat. “I’d like that.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” You cupped his cheek, pulling him to you. He could taste a hint of the sticky sweetness on you. He couldn’t tell what flavour it was, but he didn’t care anymore. Your lips were soft, so full that he couldn’t help the groan that slipped.
You wrapped your arms around his neck before he grabbed the back of your thighs, lifting you onto the table. He didn’t relent, beard scratching your skin in the most addicting way. You hiked a leg up, brushing against his hip.
Your arching back was the invitation he gladly accepted. He took a step, closing the gap between you. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing your body flush against his, propping himself up with his other hand. He gave small licks across your lower lip as he suckled and nipped.
Your skin burnt up, the throbbing between your legs unmistakeable. Your lips parted, letting his wandering tongue dance with yours. You moaned into his mouth, arm tightening around his neck. Your hand trailed down, over every rise and fall of his powerful arm, all the way to his prominent veins as he continued to hold himself up. Your fingers crept back up to grip his bicep.
Alex was lost in the kiss, breathing heavier now, as he mindlessly thrusted his growing bulge against your warmth for much-needed friction. It earned him a delicious gasp, fuelling his desire further.
You rolled your hips against him and he groaned into your mouth. His palm ran down your side, slipping under your top to grasp your soft hip, brushing the skin with his thumb, guiding you to grind against him, matching his rhythm.
It took him a second to realise you were pulling away. When his eyes fluttered open, yours were hooded, wet lips parted, begging to be bit some more.
He leaned in again and stopped when you spoke.
“I hope no one saw that,” you said breathlessly, gesturing to the windows, the curtains open.
He gave your hip another squeeze, forehead against yours. “Oh, I hope someone did, so I know I’m not hallucinating about finally kissing you.”
You laughed, pulling him in again.
Alex was mildly disappointed when you finally suggested dinner. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to take you out, but kissing you instantly became his favourite leisure activity.
He had always been terribly attracted to you ever since he laid eyes on you, but after finally tasting you, it was like a switch was flipped. Suddenly linking arms and holding hands weren’t enough. He couldn’t take his hands off you - not when he drove, not when you had dinner. Either a hand on your lower back, or splayed on your thigh.
As you stood in line for the movie tickets, he had his arms around your waist. You smiled up at him, leaning your head back onto his shoulder. He didn’t need to make up excuses to touch you anymore.
The urge took him by surprise, to want to parade you around, to make it known that you were with him. He realised it was borderline childish, but he couldn’t help it. You were intoxicating and he wanted nothing more than to have you close. He had a hunch you felt the same as you squeezed and patted his arm ever so often.
During the showing, Alex had his arm around you as you leaned against him. He kept stealing glances and the only reason you didn’t notice was because of how engrossed you were in the movie. Truth be told, the title wasn’t his first pick, but he knew how big of a fan you were and the smile on your face made it all worth it.
This was beyond a terrible crush. He couldn’t stop his mind drifting back again and again to the kiss, about how good you felt pressed up against him, about being between the thighs he’d thought about for hours and hours. How soft and sweet and absolutely beautiful you were as you pulled him close. As much as he loved spending time with you, he, too, looked forward to getting home at the end of the night and exploring his vulgar fantasies in private.
“Thank you again for tonight. I had such a good time, and I loved the movie,” you said when he pulled up outside your apartment.
“It was my pleasure.” He pressed a kiss onto your hand.
“Do you… Want to come in?”
“What if I don’t want to leave later?”
His favourite smile was back again. “Don’t think I want you to either.”
Taglist: @sofasoap @b1rds3ye @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot @caramlizedtomatoes
#alexkellerchallenge#call of duty#cod#alex keller#cod mw#cod mw19#alex keller x reader#cod x reader#call of duty x reader#cod fanfic#cod fluff#call of duty fluff#alex keller fluff#call of duty mw19#yo ate if you're reading this you don't know me
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Let me add another masked figure into the mix 💀
Photo dump of some “cosplay” with a Ghost in the works…maybe.
BLUE EYES GO CRAZY 👀
#we don’t talk about mw3 remake#justice for soap#phillip graves#cod mw2#ghostsoap#cod modern warfare#cod mwii#cod#ghost cod#soap cod#gaz cod#price cod#cod mw3#cod oc#call of duty#call of duty mw2#call of duty mw19#call of duty mw3#141#task force 141#tf 141#cod 141#mw2 141#cod keegan#keegan p russ#cod cosplay#call of duty cosplay#cosplay#masked men#tactical
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MIL-SIM - BARRAGE
SHADOW COMPANY
#barrage#barrage cod#call of duty#military#militant#mw#shadow company#call of duty mw19#call of duty mw#call of duty modern warfare
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