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reblog if you’re okay with people writing fanfics of your fanfics and/or fanfics inspired by your fanfics

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Fighting against AI by taking c.ai bot prompts and building off of them with human creativity verses artificial influence. (Again! I’ll probably do this a lot)

Child ! Canine Hybrid ! Teething + Noise Sensitive ! Reader

Caretaker ! TF141 (Only Soap mentioned)

Cuilean - Puppy

Wean - Child

Dosh - money

(If I used these wrong, please tell me!)

Experimentation was, horribly enough, not entirely uncommon when it came to the enemy. Thankfully, many were destroyed, had many escapees, or had experiments revolt against the scientists and take over the labs. Luckily enough, they were one of those escaped hybrids.

They were a dog hybrid, who likely would've died from malnourishment if they hadn't ran into 141 in the forest, quite literally slamming into Gaz's back while running around. The group looked at the little hybrid in sympathy, deciding to try and take care of them and make sure they'd live properly.

Around a month has passed since their meeting, the team having grown accustomed the child and their needs as a hybrid. Toys littered the base, as well as their own large, comfortable bedroom, and plenty of snacks/treats for them.

Recently, though, their teeth had begun to ache. The team tried to soothe their aching fangs with classic chewing toys for both young human children and dogs, uncertain on what the hybrid would prefer. Unexpectedly, though, they barely used the chewing toys, instead taking to the legs of chairs, the pillows in their room and on the sofa, anything that they could get their hands on.

…

“C’mon cuilean, where are ye?”

Soap’s voice seemed to echo through the room, causing the hybrid to look up at him, their teeth already burrowed into the leg of a chair. The man's hands is on his hips, a disappointed look is present.

"Uch, let go of the chair, kid. You have perfectly good toys in your room to chew on."

He remarks, stepping a bit closer incase he needs to pry the chair away from their grip. Soap holds a toy out to the little hybrid, squeezing it in front of them as the toy squeaks in response, trying to lure them away from the chair and chew on something less important.

- prompt end -

Your teeth ache. Far deeper than the soft gingiva that the pointy canines are trying to pierce. Nothing seems to be helping, at all.

Soap winces as he sees the indentations of your teeth in the wood of the chair.

“Ach- ye sure got rigid ones, don’t ye?”

He said as he squeezed the little dog toy in front of your face, hoping to catch your attention. Though his brows furrowed when your ears flattened against your head at the noise.

He did it again, watching your reaction intently. When you reacted with the same disinterested aversion, he scooped you up in his arms and propped on his hip.

“Ye alright, cuilean?” He fretted, “the noise botherin’ ye?”

He sighed at your little nod aswell as your tail flicking nervously, realizing the issue.

He gathered all of the toys into a pile verses the previous scattered scene, your body still sitting comfortably on his hip with a hand around your back. Sorting the squeaky toys from the silent toys and the plush from the rubber. He held you under the armpits, earning a happy giggle from your lips, sitting you in front of all the organized piles.

Watching you gravitate towards the noiseless rubber toys definitely sealed the realization that the team had been buying you the wrong items to help with your teething problem. He chuckled and ran a hand through his Mohawk “Poor wean, I shoulda noticed that sooner before wastin’ all ‘at dosh!”

For the next few weeks, Johnny researched every possible factor to help you (and get you to stop leaving tooth marks on everything). How tough should they be? What colour do you prefer? How long does the average adorable freak of nature even teethe for? It was a lot, but he managed.

After getting a customized chew necklace in the mail, you finally seemed content.

Might as well been his child, lying on his chest as you watched Wild Kratts on your little tablet and little red chewie necklace firmly in your maw as you absentmindedly bray on the silicone.

The team would usually take turns supervising you, but Soap was barely doing that, his eyes half open and an occasional hum coming from his throat as you blabber about the characters, occasionally singing with the intro when a new episode came on.

God- how you be so damn adorable?

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Fighting against AI by taking c.ai bot prompts and building off of them with human creativity verses artificial influence.

Warnings: emotional manipulation, attachment issues, blah blah

You were Makarov’s bodyguard, though everyone only refers to you as his attack dog.

All he had to do was point at someone and their fate was sealed. You did Makarov’s dirty work, not because he couldn’t do it, but he enjoyed the fear you spread. The way people trembled in your presence, while Makarov could fully control you and make you kneel for him made him feel powerful. Makarov was judge and jury, and you were his executioner.

You’re just as much a ruthless, sadistic monster as Makarov was - at least that’s what Ghost thinks as he looks at you.

You’re in a cell, heavily restrained after Task Force 141 managed to kill your boss and take you in. You put up a damned good fight, but they overwhelmed you.

“You had potential,” Ghost admits as he looks you over.

Makarov’s attack dog. You sure are an impressive sight, with your scars, wounds and violence in your eyes.

Ghost has heard horror stories about you, the kind that make him itch to put a bullet in your brain.

“But you devoted your entire life to a deranged psychopath who never gave a damn about anyone,” Ghost continues, eyeing you with an unreadable expression. “And now he is dead.”

He pauses, as though taking pleasure in rubbing Makarov’s death in your face.

“Now you got the rest of your life to wonder: Who are you without him?”

- Prompt End -

Who are you without him?

Makarov didn’t love you, well, he made you think he loved you. Providing praise and encouragement for around a decade, solidifying your attachment to him. But he didn’t love you the way you wanted, he loved you because it made you pliant. Blinded. Craving his rough finger pads against your face, wiping the blood from your red-tainted skin. It was a terrible addiction, and now you were dealing with the withdrawals.

The restraints were cold, holding your hands behind your back and shins firmly shackled to the chair legs while in the confines of the cell.

“Not a developed thought behind those eyes, huh?”

Ghost muses, crouching down to meet your eyes that were directed toward the floor.

You glare at him sharply, resisting against the restraints with a harsh “Fuck you!” pushing past your lips.

He instinctively stands up tall, finding your fight to be rather comedic as he smirks. “I think you’ll do well here.”

With that, he, as well as the few other observers there to make sure you wouldn’t escape, filed out of the cell. The heavy footsteps of the soldiers turning faint, then silent as different guards came to stand outside your cell.

Why did Makarov leave you alone? He promised that if he died, you would too. Which sounded rather comforting while in his presence, now it feels like a pie in the sky; a lost hope.

Makarov was terrible, but he was just making the blueprints for your sinful architecture. Now he’s just…gone? It can’t be, this was not the plan. Do you carry his legacy on your living shoulders?

Of course you did. Now you have to live on, you can’t become a weapon for them. Weapon for Makarov, or you lacked the purpose to live at all. Your attachment to that man surpassed life. You had to fight until death takes you too.

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Uhh COD oc lore..

FORMAL WARNING THIS CONTAINS MULTIPLE FORMS OF TORTURE METHODS please do not read if you are affected negatively by reading any of this (forced cannibalism/autocannibalism, humiliation, psychological torture, reprogramming…)

MSgt R. Mandons (Special Forces)

Call sign: “Donner”

After one too many missions, being captured was inevitable. Months and months of TF141 trying to track down his location, they finally pinpointed the task member.

Bringing him back to base was the toughest part, hostile and aggressive to the rest of the team. Not just hostile, no, feral. Having to try and get him to stop lunging at them with bared canines.

Thousands of hours dedicated to rehabilitating the damaged soldier, trying to earn his trust again. He’d refuse to ask or receive anything, not eating and barely sleeping so he could ‘make sure he woke up with arms still attached to his body’. Sleepless nights for weeks, before he eventually was shot with a hefty dosage of Midazolam. Waking with tubes that led to his stomach, he flailed, trying to tear them out.

Most of the task force thought he was a lost cause, not Ghost. He knew what Donner was going through.

A few more weeks of rehabilitation, he was showing progress, even if slight. He would eat if he watched it get cooked from the opening of the package to the plating (and you bet your damn life he didn’t blink that whole time). He would attempt to eat his meat raw, to which he was firmly halted. The task force didn’t know why he was so keen on eating the raw meat, but they could guess forced anthropophagy was the only way he was allowed to eat while stuck in that slimehole.

Which was true, being tossed random limbs from innocent people to eat for their entertainment was the only way he was able to survive. Quickly craving the blood dripping down his lips, plush flesh against his aching teeth. Having to beg for sustenance like a dog, sitting on his haunches with a shock collar. Sometimes, he had to take matters into his own hands, glorious pain surging through his body as he gnawed on his own arm with a deranged look in his eyes.

Of course, every bite he took from his own flesh was cauterized. Leading to a terrible fear of flames and heat as a whole. Every sensation from hot mugs to a warm touch caused him to lash out in angry sobs.

He slowly started getting more comfortable with the team again, remembering who he is versus what those perpetrators tried to make him believe he was. The brand on his shoulder still itched, scratching at the scarred flesh every now and then.

It had been years since his rescue, most triggers being avoided or treated with medication.

Returning to his ‘formidable soldier’ title with TF141 by his side. Though he worked more on lookout and transport with Nik than out in the field.

Little bit of backstory tho

Donner was the call sign given from his first operational junior squadron, because he had a very heavy step. ‘Donner’ means ‘Thunder’. The enemy he was captured by, took Donner and sourced it from the Donner Dinner Party, which is why they chose cannibalism to pick his psyche apart. Hunger can make anyone crack. No matter how tough.

So, the call sign started out like they all do when assigned by peers, playful. And ended with a tainting of traumatic memories.

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Genuinely just been so…thinky, lately.

I don’t know what to call it. I’ve just been thinking a whole lot more, noticing a whole lot more too.

ESPECIALLY ABOUT MY SPECIAL INTERESTS (COD specifically)

Soap and Graves literally were so friendly towards each other, not a lick of apprehension. That’s like, Soap’s whole thing; friendliness, right? His main basis is camaraderie. He kinda is the glue holding the team together, he is morale! Ghost trying to connect with the guy on it with his beautifully lame jokes was what made their relationship so special. Ghost hadn’t stayed closed off and left it to be nothing more than a job (despite how much he tried to say it was), he genuinely felt comfortable enough to attempt to make Soap at least amused.

I think that’s really cool. John pulling Simon out of his shell. But when John died?

….

BUT LETS NOT FORGET PRICE ON THIS ONE. It miiight be a bit heavy on the headcannons but wtv.

Price was like a guide for Ghost as well as the team. He is often seen as the dad of the group due to him being the leader, the oldest, and for that very peculiar beard (sorry guys, I think it’s very British). But he is very close in age to Ghost. So even life experience is shared quite heavily amongst the two.

When Ghost rose up out of nothing, Price was there to help keep him going; giving him something.

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My COD queer headcannons (MDNI contains sexual topics)

Price

Gender: AMAB man

Orientation: Aroflux + allosexual

Libido: Low drive

Relations: Nik (dating on the down low) Gaz (father son bonding)

Gaz

Gender: AMAB man

Orientation: Bisexual + alloromantic

Libido: Medium

Relations: Price (father figure) Soap (bros b4 hoes)

Soap

Gender: AMAB man

Orientation: Gay (allosexual + alloromantic)

Libido: Medium-High

Relations: Ghost (Alterious attraction) Gaz (bros)

Ghost

Gender: Unknown

Orientation: Aroace (sex + romance averse)

Libido: low

Relations: Soap (more than comrades, but refuses to let himself process such a stupid idea, will not get attached again)

09 Ghost

Gender: AMAB (rejects gender, only holds to his own biology)

Orientation: Aromantic Apothisexual (from trauma)

Libido: Low-nothing

Relations: Captain Mactavish (alterious attraction, his reason to live)

09 Captain Mactavish

Gender: AMAB man

Orientation: Masc-favorable biromantic greyasexual

Libido: Low

Relations: Simon (unique bond, alterious attraction)

Nik

Gender: AMAB man

Orientation: Gay Aceflux Alloromantic

Libido: ???

Relations: Price (dating)

Laswell

Gender: AFAB woman

Orientation: Lesbian (canon)

Libido: ???

Relations: Wife (loves dearly)

Makarov

Gender: AMAB man

Orientation: Aegosexual Achillean

Libido: Medium-High

Relations: Yuri (bros; definitely laying in bed together with Makarov’s crazy sociopathic complaints)

Graves

Gender: AMAB man

Orientation: AroAce (funky. ‘Oh brother I don’t swing that way’ when people try to ask him out on a date)

Libido: Low-none

Relations: Shadows (his children atp)

Valeria

Gender: AFAB woman

Orientation: Aromantic Bisexual (but flirts rather for manipulation than for closeness)

Libido: Medium (sex is there, she has work to do though)

Relations: Many not-to-be-named interests

Alejandro

Gender: AMAB man

Orientation: ???

Libido: Medium

Relations: Rudy (questioning deeper feelings)

Rodolfo

Gender: A?AB libramasc

Orientation: ???

Libido: Low

Relations: Alejandro (mutual understanding of closeness and intimacy)

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Btw if anyone wants to use ideas, I’m too tired to write them properly. So here is an odd list.

- “Too Old For You” M!Reader x Soap (who likes that fact)

- Hybrid!Pangolin Child Reader saved by TF141 who happens to curl in on themselves when scared

- Emotionless Reader who learned to fake emotions, but when really tired just becomes super numb towards everybody (awkward shoulder pats, glazed over eyes, disinterest in gossip, etc)

-Emotionally Filtered Reader who doesn’t get into the romance game, doesn’t have sex because they don’t find the meaning of it and nothing seems to be engaging enough to try, but is super interested in learning about how sex and romance plays with our brain chemicals. A sex and romance enthusiast.

-Werewolf!reader who gets super territorial over their spaces, and it’s an honor if they let you in or around those spaces

-Some very projective hc’s for randoms that really make sense for those characters

-Silly headcannons for Graves (he definitely painted his face to look like an American flag and CAAWWWED like an eagle when drunk. Yes his shadows had to embarrassingly shut him up and take him home)

- Vamp!Reader who doesn’t enjoy feeding, at all. Like it’s a life-sustenance but makes them terribly disgusted to need.

-Hybrid!Wolf!Soap x Reader who doesn’t ask for affection (he’s been called needy so much he just quit asking) so he just presses his knee against your own after grueling missions in the back of the humvee

-Roach headcannons that aren’t just: he’s a silly boy xoxo GET SOME DEPTH YOU UNDYNAMIC UGHHH

-Harpy!Gaz (thank you bluegiragi 🙏) who can’t hide when he’s upset because his feathers look so puffed up and messy.

-Harpy!Gaz 2 who can’t (doesn’t) preen his own wings, your hands are just…y’know, you get all the right bristles

-Price headcannons that delve more into his character (esp ‘09 Price) he definitely had to be the leader a lot among his family as a teen and takes on those leadership roles among his team, get more headcannons for his childhood bcs he’s just ‘dad type’ and it’s NOT ENOUGH

-Ghost, who is GENUINELY an asshole. Purely canon and will not hesitate to tell you to get out of ‘his seat’ in the mess hall. Whatever that means.

-Soap headcannons that don’t revolve around Ghost or revolve around being the opposite of Ghost.

-Laswell headcannons abt her and her wife 🙏

-Reader Aus that are straight up contradictions, but work out really well. Short but not fragile (and not the typical ‘sassy/fiesty/bratty’ trope either I hate those, like buff n shii) Like a 5’1 dude who is built like a mini tank.

-Laswell x F!Reader (ofc) that are super doe coded?? She knows what your favorite breakfast on Tuesdays is and you know which day of the week she takes everything showers??

-Just otherworldly outta pocket shit happening to Yuri and Makarov that mocks poorly written AI tropes. WDYM A TREE SUDDENLY FELL DOWN AND PUSHED MAKAROV EVER SO SLIGHTLY CLOSER TO THE POINT HE FELL AND LANDED IN A FOOT-TO-FOOT HANDSTAND WITH YURI

More Nik x Price headcannons that are sweet…ofc they go to the coffee shop every Saturday and just talk about every little detail from each others lives while apart…why wouldn’t they :(

-More hate post shit against Makarov. I want to feel your soul through the screen as you pour it out for what he did to Soap in MWIII

-Bear!hybrid Reader who has to deal with hibernation but it’s realistic (having to sleep for longer but not a whole damn winter)

-More Hybrid!Readers of very out-there creatures (Bees/Polar Bears/Reptiles/Nagas/Centaurs/Cryptids)

Uhh yeah I’ll make a part two in maybe a month or so

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The Gamble

Teen!BullRider!Reader and AdoptiveDad!Retired!Simon who can’t seem to handle seeing you be thrown off again and again.

“Next up! We yet another challenger against the one, the only; Ironclad!”

The familiar sound of metal chains being unleashed as the bars swing open. Hand clutched tightly on the bareback riggings as the bull lunged forward, quickly trying to buck you off from his back. You’re used to this, mostly. 11 seconds, that’s all you have to stay on for.

Every second feels like an hour of intense yanking around by the vigorous steer. Simon’s foot taps against the metal as he watches from the stands, elbows rested on his knees, his heart nearly stopping as he sees you be given a final jerk that sends you crashing to the ground.

You barely have time to react, shoulders and ribs colliding with the dust as pickup riders hoist you away from the raging bullock, sputtering slightly because the dirt happened to be kicked up into your mouth, again (and the wind was knocked from your lungs terribly). As soon as you get pulled from the arena, Simon is right there. Concerned and anxious as ever, despite his tough exterior.

“You alright? Anything dislocated or broken?” He said worriedly as his hands pat and tighten around your shoulders and under your arms.

“I’m good, I can withstand a little drop.” You chuckle, trying to have him calm down.

He knows you can, but years of war can make any man feel on edge when seeing their kid collide with the earth. Knowing one fall can be your last. The announcers call out your name, at 11.56 seconds, putting you as first place in the Texas Bull Riding Competition.

Rodeo nights are great, at least when you end up without any broken bones. Simon takes you to grab a bite at The Brazen Buffalo. Best wings in all of North Texas.

Simon absentmindedly ran his fingers over the tip of his fork, clear fidgeting, even if slight. Feeling the metal points press against his calloused finger pads.

“Dad?” It’s not the usual, ‘I have a question’ tone, but rather ‘are you okay?’

His brain stutters every time you call him that, definitely catching his attention. He notices his own subtle gestures, placing the fork down and turning his attention toward the football game up on the corner screens with a deep sigh.

“Thirteen to 7…who’d’ya thinks gunna win?”

“Definitely Ravens, they’ve got a good lead.”

“Nah, you’ve gotta be joking! The Ravens are known for playing good in the first half and flailing like headless chickens in the second.”

To which Simon shrugs, “Not every game is predictable, there can be times where going back is bound to get you tackled. Y’know?”

You know he doesn’t mean football, he always tries to maybe persuade you into a different activity, but he’s met with saddened silence.

You know he’s a little rattled from the hard fall you took at the arena, he always is, but he won’t admit it. He doesn’t want pull you from what you love, no matter how much it irks him to watch you get bucked off a bull.

He can’t help but feel like he’s watching you gamble with your life.

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Make up for it

Alpha!Simon x Alpha!John who have hurdles to overcome, but they make it out alright. They always do.

Jolting awake, chest heaving as if he had just ran a marathon, pupils frantically darting around to try to assure it wasn’t real. Glancing to the alarm clock; 4:27am

Goddammit he’s a mess.

Running a hand over his face, feeling naked as a jaybird without his balaclava, unfurling himself from the hefty duvet, leaving John peacefully sleeping unaware of his mate’s strained psyche. Heading to the kitchen and snagging a glass of water. Trying to abandon the contusions that haunted his subconscious, oblivious to the extra company until hands snaked around his waist. The smell of his distress must’ve roused John. Instinctively tensing as he clutched the intrusive hands firmly, prepared for the worst, his hold ceasing its bruising hilt at the realization that its just John’s skin against his own, it was a welcomed sensation, soothing his tattered sensorium.

John’s voice rang through the silence, “You alright, M’eudail?”

“Johnny…” his tone sounding rather relieved, “I’ll be fine, go back to bed.”

John rested his head on Simon’s shoulder, running his fingertips against the scar on his hip. “Not ‘till you do.”

Simon chuckled and shook his head at the stubbornness, though it was half-hearted and laced with exhaustion.

“C’mon, Simon…talk to me, you know I’m here.”

“Jus’ can’t sleep.”

John hummed, not deciding to press the matter. Hands resting at Simon’s shoulders as he pushed him back to the master bedroom. Earning a huff from Simon at his pushy behavior. Sitting Simon on the edge of the bed as he cupped his face in both hands, thumbs running across the jagged scars, almost reverent in his ministrations. He was trying to replace the distressed scent with a pleasing one as he grounded Simon. A reoccurring event when ‘sleeping through the night’ would be a neglected affair.

When the scent had finally subdued, he laid back down fully on the bed, pulling Simon to his chest. Mindlessly running his hands over the scars that littered his torso. It was nights like these that made up for the scuffles over ascendancy, nights like these that helped fuse the two into such a formidable force.

“I've found a reason for me

To change who I used to be

A reason to start over new

And the reason is you.”

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Simon who always hoped of dying on the field, with honor and pride. But something changed when he saw John Mactavish. His heart ached in a way that conjured resentment, having heard about those stupid experiences in the new choppy romance books, he couldn’t have butterflies for John, right? No, not butterflies. Similar to the buzz that ripples through the ground after a grenade goes off, oddly vibrating the bones underneath the many layers of flesh and muscle. It was a buzzing in his chest, right in the diaphragm, making it hard to breathe when John walked by. It was annoying, constantly like a teenage boy in love when he passed by the sergeant in the halls.

So, as he stares back into the mirror, knuckles white from gripping the counter, unmasked in his monstrous glory, he asks; “Why would a man like him ever like a man like me?” Huffing at the way his reflection almost seemed to mock his inquiries, quickly tugging the balaclava back over his scarred flesh and walking out before the demons could overtake his mind.

Simon, whom lain in bed staring at the ceiling while his hands held the man he thought could’ve never even tolerated him, let alone fall in love with him, wondered if dying on the field was as freeing when he has someone to miss. Someone to grieve the loss.

Feeling the warmth of John as his hands glided blindly over the mohawk from end to end (since he definitely has John’s skull in muscle memory). The other man pressed against his side as his even breaths helped ground Simon in the moment. The soft scent of gunpowder and woodsy aftershave mingling with his usual smell of cigarette ash and blood that clung no matter how much he scrubbed.

John, who patiently waited for Simon to be ready. Never pushing him to open up, never forcing him to talk about his family life, always just a soft “Whenever you’re ready, Simon. I promise I’ll be waiting.”

John, who managed to plead for Simon to take a leave, brought Simon back to his folks home for the holidays. Introducing him to the large crowd that, in comparison, was the exact opposite of Simon’s usual empty and reserved family.

Simon, who was born with a beer bottle being chucked at his head before he learned to add, was quite unacquainted with such a large group of people all seemingly getting along. Having to stand behind John like an imposing shadow as he tried to avoid the odd uncles and flirtatious aunts.

Simon and John, who seem to survive time and time again, making it out of tough missions. Each injury seems to get worse, like tiptoeing over the edge as the ground crumbles. Sending both into an inevitable early retirement.