#modern warfare

[cod-dump]

Price: Ghost is upset

Soap: What makes you think that? He's acting exactly the same as any other day

Price: The vibes are off

Soap: ... what did you just say?

Price: His chi is off. Is that better?

Soap: I-

Price: His aura is fucked. Do you understand that?

Soap: Please stop-

[morthern]

Ghost is not a morning person, having his own personal sgt.sunshine doesn't help... Or maybe it does? :3

[autumnheartsprice]

MY DREAM

I've been thinking abt a poly!tf141 with a fem!reader who like is from the country side AND I'M CRACKING, OH LAWD!!!

Task Force 141 had seen you kill a man from 700 meters away. They had seen you tear through enemy lines with the precision of a seasoned warrior, your movements deadly and efficient. But what they hadn't seen—what they couldn’t wrap their heads around—was the life you returned to after every mission.

Because while Ghost, Soap, Price, and Gaz spent their leave in safe houses, military bases, or the occasional urban apartment, you?

You went home.

To the countryside.

To your massive, luxurious farmhouse nestled in the hills of a quiet village, where the air smelled of fresh hay, wildflowers, and the occasional whiff of cow.

And when TF141 finally visited, they were not prepared.

The First Time They Saw the Farm : "What the fuck—" Ghost had been the first to say it when you pulled up to your estate in an old pickup truck, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as you parked in front of a sprawling wooden house with a red-tiled roof.

There were animals everywhere.

A massive black and white cow lazily chewed its cud near the wooden fence. Chickens and roosters strutted about like they owned the place. A gray donkey stared at them with judgmental eyes. Two ducks waddled past as if they were on a mission. Dogs barked excitedly at the sight of you, tails wagging. A cat lounged on the porch, stretching in the warm sun.

And then—a fucking horse trotted up to you, nuzzling into your palm like a puppy.

"Price," Gaz whispered. "She has a fucking farm."

"A fancy one at that," Soap muttered, still stunned.

"You lot gonna stand there all day?" You grinned, tossing your duffel bag over your shoulder. "Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready."

They were bewildered. They had spent years with you, fighting side by side, seeing you covered in blood, sweat, and gunpowder—and now you were leading them up the front porch of your cozy countryside mansion like a perfect little housewife.

And the worst part? They liked it.

You, The Deadly Soldier and The Perfect Housewife

Soap had expected you to relax on your leave. Maybe sleep in, drink some tea, read a book.

But no.

You were up at the crack of dawn, slipping out of bed before any of them could pull you back in, dressed in overalls and a white tank top, heading out to feed the animals like it was just another mission.

"Morning, sweetheart," Price murmured, leaning against the doorway as he watched you toss hay to the horses.

"Morning, Captain," you teased, kissing his scruffy cheek before moving on to collect eggs from the hens.

Ghost watched in silence, arms crossed, as you scolded a particularly feisty rooster. "You peck me one more time, and I swear to God, I’m making soup outta you."

Gaz almost choked on his coffee when you turned around and gave them the sweetest, most innocent smile.

"You boys want breakfast?"

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting at a massive wooden table in your warm, sunlit kitchen, eating fresh farm eggs, homemade bread, and smoked bacon.

And Soap was ready to propose.

Domesticity With a Side of Chaos

Price: Loves sitting on the porch with a cigar, watching you work. He helps with repairs, fixes fences, and absolutely adores the peacefulness of your home.

Ghost: The animals are terrified of him at first (except the donkey—the donkey hates him). But the barn cats adopt him, curling up in his lap whenever he sits down.

Soap: Thinks farm life is the best thing ever. He learns how to milk a cow, names every single chicken, and gets way too attached to a piglet.

Gaz: "Babe, I love you, but this rooster is evil." (He got chased one too many times.)

And at night?

After a long day of farm work, you slip into something soft and lacy, curl up in their arms, and remind them that you’re not just a soldier, not just a farmer—you’re theirs.

They Never Want to Leave

By the end of their stay, not a single one of them wants to go back.

"You sure we have to leave?" Soap pouts, feeding the ducks.

"Darlin’," Price murmurs against your neck one night, arms wrapped around you in bed, "Ever thought about retirin’ here? With us?"

Ghost doesn’t say it out loud, but when he watches you laugh, your hands covered in flour as you bake bread, he knows he never wants to be anywhere else.

And Gaz?

He just sighs, watching the sunset over the hills. "I never thought I’d say this, but…I think I’m in love with farm life."

They were all in love. With you. With this. With the life they could have, if only they stayed.

Maybe one day.

For now, they’d enjoy every stolen moment in their countsyde paradise. But what if we make thing spicy ? A little bit, at least.

Ghost Was The First To Break

Ghost had held strong. Longer than the others.

While Soap got weak-kneed watching you bend over to pick up hay, and while Gaz couldn’t stop staring at your thighs in those tiny denim shorts, Ghost had kept his cool.

Until that damn sundress.

White. Light. Flowy. Just enough fabric to tempt, but never satisfy—clinging to your curves, slipping off your shoulders as you carried a bucket of water to the horses.

He had been cleaning his rifle on the porch, but his grip tightened the moment he saw the fabric sway with your every step.

And then?

You had the audacity to look over your shoulder and wink at him.

He dropped the rifle.

Soap Lost It In The Barn

Soap had always been shameless about his attraction to you.

But you?

You were even worse.

It was an accident—(was it?)—when you walked into the barn one night, looking for something. The others were inside, drinking whiskey in the house, but Soap had been alone, brushing down one of your horses.

And then he saw you.

Wet.

Covered in rain.

Your thin white blouse clung to you, completely see-through, nipples pebbled against the fabric.

"Lass," he had rasped, watching as you closed the barn door behind you, stepping forward, voice all honeyed and sweet.

"Johnny," you had purred, voice dripping with something that wasn’t innocence, "I’m cold."

He snapped.

The horse had seen things that night.

Price Was The Most Dangerous

Price was a man of control.

A man of restraint.

A man who knew how to bide his time.

But you?

You tested him.

You liked to push. You liked to see how far you could go before he gave in.

And God help you—you found his limit.

It was late. The others were asleep. You were making tea in the kitchen, standing on your tiptoes to reach a mug from the top shelf.

Price had walked in just as your nightgown slipped up your thighs.

It wasn’t fair.

The soft, white cotton. The little lace trim. The way your bare legs looked so smooth, so inviting—and the sleepy way you turned, so unaware of what you were doing to him.

You looked up at him, mug in hand, and smiled. "You want some tea, Cap?"

And then—his hands were on your hips.

Voice rough.

"You know damn well what I want, sweetheart."

Gaz Had It The Worst

Gaz?

Gaz was a goner the first time he saw you in nothing but boots and his shirt.

You had come in from the field soaked in sweat, hair messy, thighs speckled with dirt. You had tossed your muddy clothes into the laundry room, grabbed his green tactical shirt, and walked around the house like it wasn’t driving him insane.

"Babe," he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, watching you stretch, the hem of his shirt riding up to dangerous levels.

You blinked. All innocent. "What’s wrong?"

Gaz was a patient man. A respectful man. A man who was about to lose his goddamn mind.

"Come here."

You smirked, walking over slowly, pressing your hands to his chest.

"You’re so easy to rile up," you giggled.

His hand wrapped around your throat.

"And you’re about to learn what happens when you push too far."

[temeyes]

never a dull day at work for Gaz (based on this [post!])

[shadow0-1]

[xiixii]

💀: "johnny, you with me?"

[whisperingexecutioner]

Someone help the poor man, I think he's having a caffeine high X'D

#midlife crisis

[nrdmssgs]

Masterlist

for @karlachismylife

[beepophobia]

I love these boys and I'm so glad they're both alive and well

[bunnubun]

AS PROMISED, FEM GHOST AND MALE SOAP

Out of all the gentlemen, she allowed only him to get close. He calls her his lemon <3

[whisperingexecutioner]

I love the way you draw him, he's so cute <3

happy (late) valentines day <3

[cod-dump]

Graves: Nik is so much more energetic than Price. I don't know how he keeps up

Laswell: If you think Price isn't high energy then you haven't gotten to know him well enough

Graves: That sounds concerning Laswell: trust me, Sergeant Price and some of Lieutenant Price ran circles around Nik. Those bastards are still in there somewhere Graves: ... I need to meet them

[saintamaa]

my hear me out in drawing

[saint-cosmos]

more on gaz with poodle!reader because my brain is fried and i need this out of my system before i can concnetrate.

gaz who doesn't trust anybody else to wash and style poodle!reader's hair. he knows curly hair, and he knows how fussy it can be. spends weeks finding the perfect routine, hates sending you to the groomers because he doesn't trust them to do it right.

don't tell him this, but the petsitter that watches you when he's deployed takes you to the groomers every week for a bath and styling. not everyone is as diligent as gaz is when it comes to your grooming - and the fact that it's nearly impossible to keep you from retrieving every ball you can from the pond at your favourite park doesn't help.

they haven't messed your curls up yet, and so long as your sitter keeps bringing them the products he buys you so that you don't smell any different, he might never know.

something something gaz getting you a giant, plush bed with all sorts of pillows and cushions to rest your pretty head on, only to wake up every morning with you sleeping soundly at the end of his bed, your head heavy on his calves. he should scold you, but he can't find the heart.

gaz who makes the mistake of signing you up for one of the local hybrid pageants in the city, acting all surprised and thankful when his gorgeous pup wins first prize. it's not fun and games, however, when other owners start approaching him, complimenting him on how lovely you are (he knows), asking him if he would consider coupling his pup with another hybrid. what a stupid question :( you're his pup, god damnit!

[whisperingexecutioner]

I l o v e this! <3<3<3<3<3

ok i take it back heres happy blurb yayy

Being married to Vladimir Makarov is like living in the heart of a storm—chaotic, consuming, and impossible to escape. And yet, in the middle of all the madness, there is you. Soft, bright, bubbly—a stark contrast to the bloodstained world he inhabits. You don’t belong in it, not really. But you do belong to him.

And Makarov is not the kind of man who lets go of what’s his.

You’re the only one who touches him freely, running your fingers through his hair without fear, leaning into his space without hesitation. He allows it—welcomes it, even—because you are the only thing in his life that isn’t laced with violence. You don’t flinch when he comes home reeking of gunpowder and death, don’t shrink away from the sharp edges of him like everyone else does. You love him, all of him, without question.

And maybe that’s why he lets you see the parts of him no one else does.

Because even someone like him knows what it means to hold something precious.

It’s in the way he pulls you into his lap when you’re upset, arms tightening around you with an ironclad grip, as if sheer force alone will keep the rest of the world from touching you. He doesn’t whisper soft reassurances—Makarov doesn’t do pretty words. But his actions speak louder. His thumb strokes slow circles over your back as he listens, his voice low and steady as he reminds you that whatever troubles you will be dealt with. And if it’s a someone rather than a something—well, they don’t remain a problem for long.

He may not understand emotions the way you do, but he knows how to protect. And that is exactly what he does.

On the rare nights you cry, shaken by something beyond his control, he holds you close, one large hand cradling the back of your head as you bury yourself in his chest. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t tell you to stop—he lets you fall apart in the safety of his arms, his body a shield between you and the rest of the world. He hates seeing you like that. Hates how small you look, how quiet your voice becomes when you’re hurting. But he takes it, bears it, because it is you, and if there is one thing Makarov is willing to be patient for, it’s you.

Then, when the weight of your sadness finally lifts, he tilts your chin up, brushes his knuckles across your damp cheek, and mutters something sharp and possessive in Russian—something about how you are his, and as long as you belong to him, nothing will ever harm you.

And he means it.

Because love, to Makarov, is not gentle. It is not whispered affections and flowers and soft touches. It is brutal, unforgiving. It is a shield, a weapon, a war waged against anything that dares to hurt you.

And in the end, you don’t need sweet words when you have the unwavering truth—you are the only thing in the world that Vladimir Makarov loves.

And for that reason alone, you are untouchable.