ilikeyoualive

[ilikeyoualive]

and post-MW3 Soap coming back wrong for LeoandLancer... thank you always 💔💀

[ilikeyoualive]

To have

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(they haven't got the time)

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babe wake up new way to play chicken just dropped

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Thought it only fair Ghost too experiences some workplace hazards..

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As I was looking for things to redraw I found this, but don’t think I can capture the sheer horniness again

[ilikeyoualive]

Some biker Ghost for nat and pirate ghoap for Tree! Thanks so much 🏍️☠️

(+ period ghoap for me...)

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Close

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Silly Halloween comic 🎃 (pretend I posted this on time)

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More of this pirate AU for frankie... thank you always frankie 🤲🩵

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Just sniper things 🐦 (low stakes mission)

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Disarmed

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They didn’t see each other for 3 days so it’s understandable that they crush each other 🫤

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Misc. requests... Thank you weedgolem, mio and Cambetaut! 🌿🧢☠️

[ilikeyoualive]

(part 1) (cw blood/violence)

Shifters should be born, not made. That’s one of few things that science has been able to say for certain about the biology (and ethics) of the species.

John MacTavish was born, not made, and all his life he’s told that’s something he should be grateful for. And he is.

Because it’s his heightened senses that aid him in excelling in his career. It’s his inhuman abilities that give him an edge; it's his differently-wired brain that deepens his perception, his instinct, and lends him a better gut feeling to tell right from wrong.

And Simon "Ghost" Riley is nothing but wrong.

John could sense something was off about the lieutenant from the moment they met—the man smells human beneath the smoke and dirt and gun oil, but he carries himself too strangely to not be something else. His voice, though obviously naturally gravelly, rasps like his vocal cords don’t take too kindly to words, and his limbs are slightly, almost imperceptibly disproportionate, and it's unsettling, but John just pastes on a friendly smile and promises to save you a seat, sir.

Ghost's stare weighs heavy on John's shoulders as he retreats, something dark and piercing and haunted. It bores a hole through John’s gear, burns the nape of his neck, but he has to continue walking away. He can’t pause, can’t look back, because somehow he fears he won’t like what he sees if he does.

It’s animal instinct that has his hackles raised in Ghost’s presence from then on. John acts unafraid, is unafraid, but there’s something about the man he needs to know but cannot, and it’s eating him alive. Ghost may say he’s human and Price might back that claim, but John isn’t stupid. He isn’t so naive to think that something isn’t wrong.

Then John gets his answer. Stranded alone with Ghost, exhausted and irritated and sticky with sweat in the middle of the Amazon, he gets his answer.

Their makeshift camp would offer scant protection, but being in the middle of nowhere John anticipates their worst enemy would only be the fauna—regardless, though, they’d take turns keeping watch. Or they might take turns, given Ghost has a track record of taking the first shift and never waking John up until they had to move.

Sometimes John thinks that the man might not actually sleep.

This time, however, John is roused by the tearing of flesh and the squelch of blood, by gargled screams and snapped bones. It’s too dark to make anything out, but rather than investigate John wills his body still and breath quiet, preferring he not get caught by whatever monstrous thing he can hear growling low in its throat.

As wary as he still is about his lieutenant, they’ve grown close enough that John itches to reach out for his assurance, to make certain the man is still alive.

But then there’s one last nauseating rip of limb from torso, and a desperate, choking plea, and then there’s silence.

John has to bite back his own scream when a wet snout suddenly nudges his face.

A cold nose brushes his skin followed by a whiskered, bloodied maw, the creature sniffing at him while John keeps his eyes screwed shut. He begins to worry that this is how he dies—like the other men that must have found their position just in time to get torn apart—but then the creature moves away from his face, wandering elsewhere, but not far, before it slumps on the ground.

After its breathing has evened out, John dares take a peek, and while the rainforest’s canopy blocks out most moonlight, he can still faintly make out the form of what he thinks is a jaguar, a black panther—but it’s too big, too gangly, its fur patchy and matted with crimson. John is tempted to pick through his gear for a flashlight, the moonlight too dim to pick out the details, but he ultimately resists. Just squints into the night at the strange disjointedness of the maybe-jaguar, its composition wrong, almost like it’s an amalgamation of animals rather than just one.

Eventually John rolls onto his back, staring up at the silhouettes of branches and leaves high above, trying not to think too hard about the massacre he’s going to find in the morning, or about the beast, or about where the fuck Ghost had gone.

He doesn’t really fall back asleep, only drifts in and out of consciousness, his mind restless and battling with his fatigue. When dawn mercifully breaks, John wastes no time getting up, unable to stay still any longer—he’d been right, of course, about the grisly sight of their camp’s perimeter.

A dozen or so dismembered and disemboweled bodies are strewn about, remnants of gear and weapons telling John they had, in fact, been the enemy caught up to them—and the culprit of it all, John remembers, is still asleep on the soft earth as if it hadn’t so easily caused all that carnage.

And Ghost is still missing.

John turns, tentative, to observe the jaguar-thing, and as his gaze sets upon it in the growing light, a violent shiver rolls up his spine.

What he first decides is that’s it’s not quite a jaguar, but nor is it really anything else. John’s eyes had not deceived him in assessing its size and too-long limbs; it’s almost grotesque in form, malformed, uncanny. Corded muscle is uncomfortably prominent, as are the ridges of its ribs, its shoulder blades, its hips. Teeth and claws long and sharp and deadly, fangs so lengthy they poke past the jaguar-thing’s lips like a sabre-tooth tiger.

It goes beyond mutation, John thinks, but he also doesn’t know how else an animal like that could exist without some kind of unnatural intervention.

Unless—

No. No, that’s a stupid thought. No one becomes a shifter, and if they do they certainly don’t live to tell the tale. No, that can’t be possible.

But it would make so much sense.

The jaguar-thing stirs, then, blinking open eyes the same dark colour of the spongy soil beneath them.

Not the right colour for a cat of any kind.

John doesn’t move. Considers shifting himself not to fight but to give him speed in fleeing, but he needs his gear, and he needs to know if this thing is Ghost, so he remains glued in place as the creature stands and stretches, moving lithely in spite of the way its body so wrongly exists. He stands his ground even when it approaches, even when it stands much taller than a jaguar should, almost like the beast is half-bear.

Then its presence shifts, and he sucks a sharp breath through his teeth.

What stares back at John is not human.

[ilikeyoualive]

god i forgot about this dialogue i love when they are not normal

this also

[ilikeyoualive]

AHUGHhhhh -sound of my heart and soul and appendix bursting into trillion pieces from the softness- please valiants what happened when Soap reported back after debrief 🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️

🥹 Some more of this, for you and @mistertiberius...