catpatcha

[catpatcha]

wanted to upload. friend said i should do a beach episode!!

I doubt anyone would have a problem with a beach trip except for Ghost, given he tends to cover every inch of skin. I think the rest would have a lot of fun!!

Now GHOST. he's a bastard. it's obvious he's the most paranoid out of all of the four, given he's always wearing the mask, so it's reasonable to assume that he prefers to cover the rest of his identifiable features as well (scars, tattoos, etc.) If he's bothered about it, which he will be, his excuse is his skin-- he's as pale as paper! if Price insisted he put sunscreen on, it would be impossible to tell the difference between the paste and Simon.

The others convince him that his ridiculous getup is more identifiable than his actual face at this point, so he might indulge them by wearing a cap, shorts and a tank-- all black, naturally.

The boys were all used to extensive planning-- their lives often relied on it, after all-- so, of course, the day they picked out was perfectly warm and sunny. It was noon in the middle of the work week, so Littlehampton Beach wasn't too crowded, either.

Littlehampton was one of the closest to Hampshire, where the 141 along with every other British soldier called home. The drive was roughly an hour. Price drove, since Simon drove like a madman and Johnny preferred to sleep on "long" drives (even if it's a mere hour).

He parked them on the east beach and pulled the bag his wife had packed out of the trunk. Once they had claimed their spot on the relatively-empty shore, Price began to give orders.

"Right," he gruffly announced, "All of you need to lather up. None of you are getting skin cancer under my watch."

Price made sure to watch as each of his men rubbed in their sunblock. He knew none of them would bring their own, including Kyle, so he was sure to buy a bottle that left no white sheen; Gaz didn't need to be as pale as the rest of them.

"None for me," said Simon with a dismissive wave to Johnny, who tried to pass him the bottle, "I'm staying out of the sun."

Soap rolled his eyes. "Right, so you won't blind anyone with that pasty skin of yours? You need to tan!"

When Simon looked to the captain for approval, he only received a scowl.

"Just put the sunblock on, Simon."

Chicken fighting was no fun nor fair with three and so an excessive amount of begging from Johnny, Simon got into the water. Even if he didn't want to be there, he still wanted to win; with Soap on his shoulders, and Gaz on Price's, he made sure that his team won.

He got back on his towel, under his umbrella, after that. . . Until Johnny began to bug him again about actually tanning.

Kyle went missing for an hour, because he was helping a girl untangle her kite from a tree, and Price collected seashells for his wife.

"She's redecorating the bathroom, and likes those beach ones," he claimed, although he did seem to enjoy himself too much for it to just be for his wife.

When Johnny finally left everyone else alone, he swam laps to and from one of the docks.

Once the sun began to dip under the horizon, and the blue sky turned a vibrant red and orange, they dried off and loaded back into the car.

"Beach ain't so bad, eh, Simon?" Soap jested from the backseat.

Simon looked back and glared. But he didn't mean it.

[catpatcha]

Please please please please I beg of u to make more college student!Konig it's so good, never had I related more to a story with the way u wrote about his thighs spilling over the seats and making sure to sit in the back as a curtesy to other it's so good🙏🙏🙏🙏

Let me tell yall this was asked an eternity ago sorry guys

basing this off my college but I KNOW the gym hates to see him coming. He maxes out all the machines, has got to have snapped one of those metal wires once. If he's doing cardio you can hear him from the weight room HUFFING because this man is too big and too heavy for all that.

However, he is respectful; good spotter, wipes EVERYTHING down.

The dining hall. he's tearing it up there. Walk past his table and it's a day's three meals put into lunch. He usually packs his own, and it's in some cutesy, popping and locking plastic container, but sometimes he'll treat himself. He hits up every kiosk-- the salad bar, ALL the grills, snagging a piece of cake as well. He'll sit down after like thirty minutes of perusing with a tray looking like a multicultural cornucopia.

He doesn't attend on-campus events usually. He finds it awkward, being around so much kids, and he finds a lot of them kind of stupid.

Free stuff, though, he's in. He has like, 40 pens in his bag from all these organizations and stuff, most of them are cheap and already out of ink. He could make a whole mattress out of all the foam he has from stress balls.

No one talks to him much, though, anyways. Who would willingly approach the gluttonous giant, who has most certainly killed people, likely with the same hands he writes his notes with?

[catpatcha]

college with könig

imagining könig going to college so that he can become an officer (going off of American stuff here because I don't know how it works in Austria) since he's a colonel

fatass brute of a man sitting in the uncomfortable seats, frequently adjusting and making the whole classroom echo with creaky chairs; his massive thighs spill over the sides of the seat. no matter where he is attending, what classroom or lecture hall he's in, how nice the chair is, it's always too small.

he'd never be caught in the front of the classroom-- he's too big, and he's aware of that; he knows that he'll block the views of the students behind him. so, he sits in the back, maybe struggling to see, shifting around and breaking the silence during exams to try and soothe his discomfort, in vain.

the seats next to him are usually empty. who wants to sit next to that giant man with the piercing, blue-gray, icy-sky-in-norway stare and the very crooked nose and the bulging biceps and quads that look like they threaten to rip his clothes at the seams? maybe that's why all his outfits are lame-- all of his good clothes are torn!

really, though, he's actually quite nice. I like to imagine he's good at math, and if the brave peer next to him asks what the professor just said, he responds in his surprisingly high voice and using surprisingly kind vocabulary.

"ah," he'll hum, pointing to his own notebook, "this is the formula here. he does speak to quietly, I believe," König says in an attempt to relate. really, his hearing is just poor from all the years of gunfire. he'll give a small smile and nodded when he's given thanks.

[catpatcha]

Simon Riley's backstory in the reboot: is probably not the exact same as it is in the original if you reference the comics, but I do think his mask is something that could be connected

yes it does look fucking stupid if you think too much on it. yes he looks even worse in the cartel protection mission when he wears those sunglasses (how do they not fall off his face when they jump 50 ft into the lake???.) but soap's just as bad with his hawk and price with his bucket hat he really likes for some reason

i think the skull is most likely rubber. why would he cut someone's face off, then the front of their skull, and hollow their eyes out? how would he sew into the bone? not to mention, it would be extremely fucking heavy

141 obviously does not have uniforms so he can do whatever he wants.

tommy's/their dad's skull mask does not have a jaw. his "mother's skull" (presented to him in roba's compound) does not have one either. the symbols match with his reboot mask rather than the classic balaclava

in sum: yes it looks a bit ridiculous. no it is not particularly reasonable. but at the end of the day he is still a baddie

"be careful who you trust, johnny. people you know can hurt you the most."

simon likely trusted sparks and washington. they still massacred his family in the end.

long ass ramble that no one asked for over :3

https://readcomiconline.li/Comic/Modern-Warfare-2-Ghost/Issue-1?id=69808 this is the link to referenced comic. please use an adblocker or an adblock browser.... don't get a virus for this comic.

[catpatcha]

tears welling up in my eyeballs

some days i still taste the dirt

[catpatcha]

about to post the most deplorable shit

felt like writing chat. call of duty original ghost angst. **warning for graphic violence**

It was not uncommon for Simon to have nightmares about Mexico, even after over a decade had passed since then. Had it not been for the concealing of his face, thick eye black, and the scratchy stubble he neglected, his brothers-in-arms would have likely recognized his sleep deprivation: Gaunt cheeks, sunken eyes, the look of death. Simon basked in the opportunity to miss sleep on overnight missions, where he did not have to face the pressure from his teammates about rest.

They say that sleep is the closest thing to death, and in Mexico, he came awfully close that that. Maybe that's why won't stop having those fucking dreams. Tossing around in his sleep, wrecking the sheets he pulls off the floor every morning and tucks into the sides of his mattress. He wakes up from those dreams sweating. So bad he's resorted to sleeping in nothing but his boxers, even though he despises the vulnerable feeling of the brisk air on his skin. He hates jumping from sleep, screaming, sometimes crying the hot tears of a deplorable infant, waking up the men who sleep in the dorms beside him.

Tonight was back on Roba's land, but not inside the compound. Somewhere in the Chihuahuan desert, that's all he knew. He was brought towards a tree, and immediately then did he realize what exactly was going to happen. His head flipped around, back and forth, looking for an escape. But he was held by the shackles of his fate that this dream planned for him; this was going to happen, no matter what. Black noses and eyes and cheeks and the rest being white stared at him. Roba's chubby mug adorned the same paint. Simon squeezed his eyes shut tight as memories churned in his stomach and burned in his ribs.

He woke up screaming as the hook latched onto his ribcage, having pierced through the skin and out between two of the bones. Still, he could feel the intense pain, the heat of the blood that had spurted and trickled down his waist, the tugging on his ribcage.

Simon looked down, still howling in pain, drenched in sweat. No, below him wasn't the sand and his thrashing feet, it was his bedsheets. He brought his shaking hands to his ribs and pressed them down, one on each side, left and right. They were of equal protrusion. He was startled by how his chest popped out at him when he let out a breath, and his hands jumped away. He was safe. And Roba was dead. He had been, for more than ten years. So why did he live on in his dreams?

For a while - longer than he could keep track of - he simply stared at his lap. At his hands that sat in it. He wished they could grasp onto reality again like they could with the grip of a gun. Again, his eyelids squeezed shut. Another deep breath, in and out. Then, he reached over the side of his bed and pulled the blanket back on. He usually kicked it off in his sleep, no matter how deeply it'd been shoved between the bed frame and the mattress. His legs shook restlessly beneath the blanket as he stared at the wall in front of him, his gaze blank and unmoving. That only changed when his eyes darted to the door, when Price came in. God, did he fucking hate these talks. After every single nightmare.

But he probably deserved it after waking everyone up again.

[catpatcha]