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[storeecbrcod]

Edge of a Razor

Epilogue: Time Runs in Circles

Edge of Tomorrow AU - AO3 Dysfunctional Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish

TW: Canon-typical violence, torture, graphic descriptions of injury, mild gore

"They've promised that dreams can come true - but forgot that nightmares are dreams, too."

Johnny read some of Oscar Wilde's literature to him when he was in a coma, once. It was a memory he hadn't told him of before, something Soap didn't even remember.

But Ghost remembered.

Ghost seemed to remember everything, from the moment he fell asleep in that basement to the moment he woke up with a boot to his side.

Or from the moment he dove in front of Soap to save him, to the moment he woke up with a boot to his side.

Or from the moment he fought tooth and nail to keep them all alive, pull the team through and finish the mission, only to jump into the water and choke to start again, all the way to the moment he woke up with a boot to his side.

Or from the moment he'd taken Johnny away from it all, cradling his face while the world was overrun, until they couldn't hide anymore-

To the moment he woke up with a goddamn boot to his side.

And he'd remember it all, relive it all, over and over, until he had what he wanted.

OR

Ghost is left alive after being sprayed by an Alpha mimic's blood, only to have to relive the loss of his team years later when the loop starts again.

~

His teeth hurt.

They ached, and ached, and ached. It was dull, spasming as it travelled through his jaw, making him shift uncomfortably as if it would help. The strain his body was under only made it worse, not easier, though he didn’t understand why. Under the circumstances, he would have thought a fucking toothache would be the least of his worries.

Scars littered his skin. Torture drew a map over the expanse of the exposed organ, fileted and burst and cut and stabbed and burned, over and over. He’d experienced so much pain in his life, it was unimaginable. He’d pushed through so many failed plans, captures, so much chaos, that a toothache seemed a bit small to complain about. The pain was minimal compared to the story his body told.

Yet, his mouth hurt like a fucking bitch.

It was making it hard to focus. Making it hard to ignore the chill, keep his face neutral, stop the chattering of his jaw that only irritated the pain more. It made it hard to stay blissfully unaware to the staticky pain that buzzed in his numb limbs, lack of circulation in his toes and fingers blackening the paleness, skin no longer healthily flushed red with diverted blood but grey with the loss of it. It made it hard to ignore the way the jeers garbled in his ringing ears.

It was annoying, really, how much the pain burned hot in his mouth compared to the frigidness around him. He wasn’t sure it was the cuts from dull, rusted razorblades that had been laced in his food, or if it was from the cathode that dug graphite into his molars and left bursting blisters on his tongue and cheeks; all he knew is it hurt and it was all his mind could obsess over. Even as dried blood caked his now dilapidated body, as wounds layered upon scars seared with the draught in the room, as bone fragments acted as shrapnel in the fuselage of his own body, he could only focus on the way his gums threatened to fall away from his teeth as they hung from dull bone.

His hands had gone totally numb weeks ago. Rough iron that held him mostly upright, slumped forward the rest of the way, had dug so far into his wrists he could have sworn his body started to engulf them in a desperate attempt to heal it. He hadn’t eaten since they’d tried to feed him blades, drank the water from the waterboarding sessions. He was surviving, barely, holed up in another dank basement in another unknown city waiting for another round of defacing.

He didn’t survive to be rescued, though. Not even revenge motivated him now. He had no team, had lost it years ago to metal suits and animalistic terror. He had no family to protect and no one to crawl back to, just the callous arms of a military that valued him for his stubborn promise to succeed rather than his experience or expertise or leadership. Every breath was taken automatically despite the way one lung gurgled and crackled. Every twitch was his body’s attempt to remain vigilant and undeterred by whatever practice his captors chose to reuse today.

He lived out of spite, lived to see how far his body would go before his cells would take the initiative and start dying out of pity for themselves.

He often warred with himself in the days he was left alone to drift amongst daydreams and dissociation. It was almost annoying how much he thought about the possibilities, the reasons, the use of sticking out like this. Conversations with himself very rarely ventured into light topics; everything was tainted with blood spilled by the people who wronged him and by his own hand. A lot of his thoughts mused how similar and dissimilar this whole situation was to when he was with Roba, taunted with skulls and lies and pretty words twisted up in the mouths that sounded trustworthy after enough time listening to them. He’d always been pitied and prided on his survival of his time in the Mexican underground, biting back at snakes and stinging under the scales of scorpions striking at his mind.

But it was nothing like this now. Back then, he had a reason, could think about the possibilities, had a purpose to persevere. Now, more than ever in his life, he felt close enough to hear the whispers of familiar voices in the bleak overhead lighting. It was tempting his curiosity, how the shadows would close in on him, the laughter sounding a lot more pained and tormented than when he’d heard it last, bouncing around the corpse of a girl that could have been his sister. He swears some of the strikes with leather forks were weak enough to feel more like a friendly pat to the shoulder, or the cold water confusing his nerves into feeling warm was actually a body at his six.

He was familiar with all this, obviously. He’d followed this train of thought over and over among the years he’d served and been on the brink of death. Ghosts of memories would make his skin pucker, the hairs desperate to be the last millimetre between the comforting touch and himself. It was all a very convincing attempt for his body to lure the mind into giving up long after it itself had. His body was exhausted, bled from life, yet his mind remained. Somewhat.

That’s why he let himself indulge in the temptation for a moment. His mouth still hurt, and he used it as an anchor to the world, but he otherwise let his mind drift. As long as he stayed aware that this was all a fever dream, a temporary relief and distraction, he’d be fine. As long as those childish giggles didn’t lure him too far into the cushiony space of in-between, he’d be able to pull himself out.

After all, he’d forgotten these moments with Tommy. He’d forgotten the scrapes that used to adorn his brother near constantly, the way his gap-toothed smile sung of mischief and playfulness. It had become easy to focus on all the bad his brother had done, but it only made this memory softer. They were back in their hometown, just outside of Manchester, in the local park as they dug around for bugs. They were some of the only kids in the park around this time, pushing as close to their curfew as possible to stay dirty and careless just a little bit longer.

Hearing his brother’s laugh made his heart warm, a certain protectiveness that never left even with Tommy’s cruelty blooming in his hollow chest. He almost didn’t notice the scenery change, in the mind-bending way most dreams morph into another with no rhyme or reason, the face of his brother now blue-eyed and younger.

The giggles were nearly identical, a high-pitched sound matching a now deeper echo. Joseph was big, probably about five, arms spread as he was lifted by his uncle. It was dizzying, seeing the health seeping into Tommy’s face, the way he clutched Beth’s delicate hand gently. It was all easy here, all calm and bright and unworried. He felt himself pull Joseph down into a hug, the little boy wriggling in his grasp gleefully. He felt Joseph wrap his arms around him, too, bathing in the visceral warmth of his childhood.

“Oh, you’re ok, Simon.”

His heart stuttered, a simple blink replacing his nephew with his mum. She was taller than him, bigger than him. He mustn’t have been much older than Joseph, here.

“I know, I know,” his mum cooed to him, her breath warm as he sat in her lap, clambered onto her and holding tight. She rubbed his back as he buried his face in her shoulder, breath hiccupping and cheeks wet. “You’re ok, hm? Doesn’t hurt anymore, does it? Mum fixed it. You’re ok, baby, all ok.”

He was dizzy, yet steady all at once. This felt right. He was right where he belonged, in his mother’s arms, consoled and held in a way he had craved so much for so long. And yeah, it didn’t hurt anymore. Nothing could hurt, curled up like this. She was a perfect mum, always had been, always will be, to his young self. He’d always carry that part of him, the love for his mum and the desire to be around her constantly.

It was easy to let go with her. His body went limp, tearful sobs that had sounded awkwardly mixed between a man’s voice and a boy’s was silenced. He was warm once again, quiet, drifting further and further to sleep, as his mum chuckled softly above him.

The dark didn’t scare him anymore. The dark tempted him, and he took its hand with his mother at his back.

~

He was ripped from the darkness with a jolt to his ribs, a harsh hiss leaving him angrily. He’d been so close, just moments away from walking with death, so close to being released–

“Oi, LT, c’mon. Always on my fuckin’ back ‘bout sleepin’ in, and here you are havin’ a wee snooze.”

His eyes were assaulted with light as he opened them, squinting. He hadn’t seen light this bright in… months , yet its warmth bled through him thoroughly as if he’d been bathing in it. And, well, when he looked around to see the expanse of concrete and bitumen with soldiers jogging around through lines of khaki tents, it was easy to believe he had been here a while. Buckles and seams dug into his body at weird angles, holster and knife handles pressing against him.

He felt another kick to his leg suddenly, making him look up and glare at the figure silhouetted by the sun. If he wasn’t so confused as to why he had his weapons, he would have stood up and attempted his escape with a swift slash to the throat.

But all he heard in response to his glare was a sweet, light snicker.

“Wha’s got you so up ‘n arms? Never knew the Ghost’d sleep so deep, being a restless soul ‘n all.”

The Scottish brogue threw Ghost totally off guard for a few moments, the sound so familiar yet so lost to his mind. The last time he’d heard it…

“Ghost, at your six–”

A loud squeal, rumbling and robotic and alien, then a much more human curse and grunt. He whipped around only to be met with the scene of black and orange sending red splattering into the air, electrical sparks crackling in the air and burning snap shots in his mind.

Metal, crumpled easily under inhuman strength, sending silver piercing through flesh–

Pulsing orange and painted red around a maw of sharp teeth, jerking the body beneath–

Screams pulled from white teeth, terror in blue eyes–

Shots fired, bursting through the piercing chaos, from Ghost’s own suit and the one malfunctioning–

Gurgling, screaming, from the body and the team respectively–

Terror turning to emptiness, lips parted but not uttering a sound–

Silence, where silence never was before–

Silence–

“Johnny?”

[storeecbrcod]

That was me with my (semi) realistic Soap headshot recovery oneshot and my Through the Rubble fic. I had to stop multiple times to de-freak-out myself because it’s like… yo why am I thinking so hard about someone nearly or actually dying hello am I sane?

But the loss of sanity is always worth it when other people lose their sanity with you ✋😔

Continuation to this post, that came down to me like a message from a god.

“Lieutenant, you have to let go”, the voice is muffled, all sounds are, like you are underwater. The blood pumping in your ears is so loud you aren’t sure if you can still hear properly.

You aren’t sure if the rapid ascend of extraction shuttle didn’t burst your eardrums.

“Lieutenant, look at me.”, the voice is closer and you can’t help but curl away, your whole body tensing, grip tightening.

Why are they speaking to you? Why- shouldn’t there be medic by now? Shouldn’t someone come out? What’s going on?

There is a stubborn nagging feeling in your chest — poking and prodding, fraying your nerves, sending twitch to your nervous hands.

Your wrists ache, tension coming through them to your fingers, every knuckle burning but the pain is dull.

You are just so cold. Why are you so cold?

It’s not supposed to be so cold on the ship, you just paid for an upgrade, just fixed the ventilation and heating, just —

Another Helldiver crouches in front of you, their eyes unusually soft — glimmering through the visor of their helmet. You don’t know them, they probably came through on the SOS beacon you deployed, just a little too late. The mission is done.

You are out.

But you are wet and cold, lighter armour that let’s you run faster, that lets you get to the exfil as soon as possible is now clinging to your body — wet and sticky in a way that makes your skin crawl.

God, do you hate sweating that comes with running like a mad fucking chick through the terrain that’s never on your side.

“Lieutenant”, the voice of commander — their rank shining like a fucking supernova — is practically gentle. Almost soft.

Unusually so. It grates down on your nerves. Helldivers aren’t soft. You aren’t made to be soft, it gets trained out of you. You can’t be if you want to survive.

“Lieutenant”, but they are soft and you want to scream at them, rage and despair coiling in your belly, your wrists ache, your fingers burn. “You need to unclench your fingers”.

Your mind is so blank, so painfully empty but you just grip harder, your knees joining in, boxing in your valuable cargo against your body, your vision blurring for some reason.

“…Why?”, is a broken quiet whisper, your voice hoarse in a way that makes commander carefully cover your hands with theirs.

Prying your fingers open.

“They are gone, lieutenant”, their voice is just as quiet as yours when they get your right hand uncurled.

Off the vest of your teammate.

The notion hits you like a dumbbell, your eyes sliding to them, your whole body instinctively tries to curl harder around the diver you managed to shove into Pelikan-1 before it got off the ground.

It’s impossible.

You got them inside, you got them out, you two got back, what do they mean?

You saved them, you brought them back, medic will just need to patch them up, why isn’t medic there, why is no one here?

You don’t realise you are shaking until commander physically pulls you off the ground, their gauntlets cold against the torn fabric of your armour.

You don’t notice. You aren’t sure you remember how to breathe.

There is a small persistent sound, that reverberates through your chest, that rises to your head and your mind is so blank and you are shaking.

Sound just gets louder — raw and wet, broken wail no human should be able to make, no human should be made to make.

You realise that it’s yours only when commander forces your head in their shoulder, muffling it effectively.

“You did your due, lieutenant. Democracy’s dignity is protected”, they murmur the script you both know too well.

Words echo through your skull as another wail rocks your body with a force enough to make your knees buckle.

Whats good is your due right now? What’s use of this protection if you couldn’t save the young diver that answered your SOS beacon and bought you time?

“You did good. We’ll be able to bury them. You did good, lieutenant, you didn’t leave them behind”, the voice above your head is thick with something you can’t place and hands around you just get tighter.

Uniform clings to your skin, your body still shaking, awful sticky feeling making your skin crawl.

You don’t realise why until you get back to your quarters, mirror making you lightheaded with panic, suddenly clicking that it’s not sweat.

It’s blood

Gaz looks over your ship with the same excitement young cadets usually have, his eyes shining when he turns to you.

“This sure is something. You keep your bird in prime condition, captain”

You hum, helmet in your head shining with metal detailing in fluorescent lights of your ship.

Prime is an understatement. You poured all resources and money you earned into this ship. You still do.

“I was just wondering…”, sergeant starts carefully with the wariness of someone who knows that it’s not up to him to wonder. Not when it comes to things so much higher his pay grade. But you nod, encouraging him to speak his mind and he continues. “You don’t have med bay around here. Seems like you could use one in your line of work.”

Gaz smiles, lips curling wider and god, he’s so young.

Young and brilliant, eyes so bright you can feel the phantom feel of the blood seeping through your uniform again.

“Had one. But command pulled the funding and pulled the stuff while we were deployed. Said that it’s not profitable use of resources”, your tone is carefully level, your helmet covering your whole head. Nothing to give you out. Nothing to report.

You are a picture of devour Helldiver.

But Kyle’s eyes still sharpen.

Like he can sense years-old rage and despair under your breast plate.

Like he can see the blood seeping though your uniform.

(It’s impossible, you washed it so much skin on your palms started to peel. You washed it so much you no longer smelled anything other than bleach when you wore it)

“Must’ve costed you a lot of good soldiers”, he muses carefully and something in your chest snaps painfully.

Something important. Something soft.

“Well, you know how it is, sergeant”, you say and there is rage in your chest and years-old blood in the threads of your armour (you will need to wash the bloody thing again until you can’t remember how sticky it was).

Kyle’s eyes are sharp and he’s brilliant and you never wanted to get someone off your fucking ship this quickly.

Your voice strings higher but you push through it, turning away, your words coming out more of a script than human speech.

“We do our due, sergeant. We protect democracy’s dignity”

You don’t add that the same can’t be said about your own.

[storeecbrcod]

The description is so visceral, this is incredible

Continuation to this post, that came down to me like a message from a god.

“Lieutenant, you have to let go”, the voice is muffled, all sounds are, like you are underwater. The blood pumping in your ears is so loud you aren’t sure if you can still hear properly.

You aren’t sure if the rapid ascend of extraction shuttle didn’t burst your eardrums.

“Lieutenant, look at me.”, the voice is closer and you can’t help but curl away, your whole body tensing, grip tightening.

Why are they speaking to you? Why- shouldn’t there be medic by now? Shouldn’t someone come out? What’s going on?

There is a stubborn nagging feeling in your chest — poking and prodding, fraying your nerves, sending twitch to your nervous hands.

Your wrists ache, tension coming through them to your fingers, every knuckle burning but the pain is dull.

You are just so cold. Why are you so cold?

It’s not supposed to be so cold on the ship, you just paid for an upgrade, just fixed the ventilation and heating, just —

Another Helldiver crouches in front of you, their eyes unusually soft — glimmering through the visor of their helmet. You don’t know them, they probably came through on the SOS beacon you deployed, just a little too late. The mission is done.

You are out.

But you are wet and cold, lighter armour that let’s you run faster, that lets you get to the exfil as soon as possible is now clinging to your body — wet and sticky in a way that makes your skin crawl.

God, do you hate sweating that comes with running like a mad fucking chick through the terrain that’s never on your side.

“Lieutenant”, the voice of commander — their rank shining like a fucking supernova — is practically gentle. Almost soft.

Unusually so. It grates down on your nerves. Helldivers aren’t soft. You aren’t made to be soft, it gets trained out of you. You can’t be if you want to survive.

“Lieutenant”, but they are soft and you want to scream at them, rage and despair coiling in your belly, your wrists ache, your fingers burn. “You need to unclench your fingers”.

Your mind is so blank, so painfully empty but you just grip harder, your knees joining in, boxing in your valuable cargo against your body, your vision blurring for some reason.

“…Why?”, is a broken quiet whisper, your voice hoarse in a way that makes commander carefully cover your hands with theirs.

Prying your fingers open.

“They are gone, lieutenant”, their voice is just as quiet as yours when they get your right hand uncurled.

Off the vest of your teammate.

The notion hits you like a dumbbell, your eyes sliding to them, your whole body instinctively tries to curl harder around the diver you managed to shove into Pelikan-1 before it got off the ground.

It’s impossible.

You got them inside, you got them out, you two got back, what do they mean?

You saved them, you brought them back, medic will just need to patch them up, why isn’t medic there, why is no one here?

You don’t realise you are shaking until commander physically pulls you off the ground, their gauntlets cold against the torn fabric of your armour.

You don’t notice. You aren’t sure you remember how to breathe.

There is a small persistent sound, that reverberates through your chest, that rises to your head and your mind is so blank and you are shaking.

Sound just gets louder — raw and wet, broken wail no human should be able to make, no human should be made to make.

You realise that it’s yours only when commander forces your head in their shoulder, muffling it effectively.

“You did your due, lieutenant. Democracy’s dignity is protected”, they murmur the script you both know too well.

Words echo through your skull as another wail rocks your body with a force enough to make your knees buckle.

Whats good is your due right now? What’s use of this protection if you couldn’t save the young diver that answered your SOS beacon and bought you time?

“You did good. We’ll be able to bury them. You did good, lieutenant, you didn’t leave them behind”, the voice above your head is thick with something you can’t place and hands around you just get tighter.

Uniform clings to your skin, your body still shaking, awful sticky feeling making your skin crawl.

You don’t realise why until you get back to your quarters, mirror making you lightheaded with panic, suddenly clicking that it’s not sweat.

It’s blood

Gaz looks over your ship with the same excitement young cadets usually have, his eyes shining when he turns to you.

“This sure is something. You keep your bird in prime condition, captain”

You hum, helmet in your head shining with metal detailing in fluorescent lights of your ship.

Prime is an understatement. You poured all resources and money you earned into this ship. You still do.

“I was just wondering…”, sergeant starts carefully with the wariness of someone who knows that it’s not up to him to wonder. Not when it comes to things so much higher his pay grade. But you nod, encouraging him to speak his mind and he continues. “You don’t have med bay around here. Seems like you could use one in your line of work.”

Gaz smiles, lips curling wider and god, he’s so young.

Young and brilliant, eyes so bright you can feel the phantom feel of the blood seeping through your uniform again.

“Had one. But command pulled the funding and pulled the stuff while we were deployed. Said that it’s not profitable use of resources”, your tone is carefully level, your helmet covering your whole head. Nothing to give you out. Nothing to report.

You are a picture of devour Helldiver.

But Kyle’s eyes still sharpen.

Like he can sense years-old rage and despair under your breast plate.

Like he can see the blood seeping though your uniform.

(It’s impossible, you washed it so much skin on your palms started to peel. You washed it so much you no longer smelled anything other than bleach when you wore it)

“Must’ve costed you a lot of good soldiers”, he muses carefully and something in your chest snaps painfully.

Something important. Something soft.

“Well, you know how it is, sergeant”, you say and there is rage in your chest and years-old blood in the threads of your armour (you will need to wash the bloody thing again until you can’t remember how sticky it was).

Kyle’s eyes are sharp and he’s brilliant and you never wanted to get someone off your fucking ship this quickly.

Your voice strings higher but you push through it, turning away, your words coming out more of a script than human speech.

“We do our due, sergeant. We protect democracy’s dignity”

You don’t add that the same can’t be said about your own.

[storeecbrcod]

Love love love characters that present themselves as emotionally open social butterflies but the more you see of them the more obvious it is that they’re the most closed off fuckers in the story. Sure, they want to help you with your personal problems and messy emotions, but if you turn that shit back on them, they’ll shut down or deflect every time. Why are you sticking your nose in their business anyway? It’s not like it matters. They’re not a person, they’re just a role being played. They’re the guy who fixes things and saves people. Please ignore the man behind the mask, he’s fine. Everything’s fine.

[storeecbrcod]

Thinking about Soap coming back from the last MWIII campaign and waking up with FAS (Foreign Accent Syndrome, not fetal alcohol syndrome LMAO)

Simon finally being able to visit Johnny after being kept away from him for being too ‘obsessive’ according to Price, and sent to desk duty on a nearby base to the hospital to wait out Johnny’s coma. When he got the call that Johnny was awake, he was ready to run there on foot except for Gaz snatching up some keys and beckoning Ghost over to a truck.

When Simon all but bursts in, scaring the ever loving, god fearing souls from the nurses, he stands there staring at the other man for a moment. Then, he quickly walks over, willing to ignore the nurses’ warnings to be gentle.

Then…

“Nice to see you too, Ghost!”

Simon just. Stops.

“What the fuck?”

Insensitive boyfriend award goes to Ghost, though can you blame him?

Why the fuck was his very Scottish boyfriend, with the most grating yet beautiful Scottish accent he’s ever had the misfortune to fall for, speaking like…

like a fucking yank?

Cue the nurses explaining FAS and, after many reassurances, Ghost sitting in the corner pouting over his boyfriend’s temporary loss of his very sexy accent while Gaz gives Soap shit for it.

~

Soap: “You know, you’re making fun of your best mate that nearly died for you right now. This is despicable of you, Gaz.”

Gaz: “And you sound like you’re about to call me a slur, mate, I think you can cope. This is work place harassment, you having that accent.”

Soap: “I’m harassing you? You ableist twot-”

Gaz: “did you just call me a twot?” *laughs*

Ghost: “I’m about to rip out your vocal cords, the both of you, for totally different reasons. Please for the love of God-”

[storeecbrcod]

Welp. That happened quicker than I thought it would.

I would have thought he’d make everyone sweat a little bit. Y’know, at least try to cover up that it’s all a plan. But I guess the ego boost of coming in at the last minute and saving us all was too tempting. Very Homelander of him.

Just remember, it was purposeful. Your government is trying to incite panic that Donald Trump can ‘save’ you from. He is not your friend. He’s actively exploiting you.

Keep using Rednote. Keep reaching out like this, it’s the only defence you have. He’s trying to divide you by people who hate him for his obvious plot to be a fucking cartoon villain, and people who praise him for ‘saving’ the app. Do. Not. Fall. For. It. Your biggest tool is your access to the outside world. Use it.

On an unserious note, I am lowkey giggling at all the influencers who treated the ban as their dying day, told us all the ways they exploited us, and are having to come back to it and be like “😬 sorry guys ignore that” like please 😭

You bastards said Sunday

[storeecbrcod]

Luckily (?), it’s a ploy to paint Trump as a saviour. It’ll be back in a few days/weeks, all “thanks” to Trump.

For reference, I’m not American and all the American accounts are still up. They’re not erased, everyone will have their accounts to come back to once everyone’s been paid properly under the table. As long as we remember that the Tik Tok ban is an orchestrated tactic to create unrest and distrust in ‘outside’ powers, we’ll all be ok.

Can’t wait to have the US back on the app, you lot lowkey carried us lmao 🫶

You bastards said Sunday

[storeecbrcod]

Only one of my favourite fics 😔🫶 thank you so much Wasp for writing this magnificent piece of fiction!!

Happy anniversary to my fic, Seasons 🧡

Can't believe it's been a year already. Still very fond of this fic and grateful to all who took the time to read it. Really glad I got to share it with the world, here's to many more years of GhostSoap <3

[storeecbrcod]

Imagining Ghost pointing out a more risky infiltration plan, explaining how it’d all come together and Johnny just looking over to him with a serious expression just to mutter,

“Fuck, that’s hot.”

Ghost looking back slowly, brown eyes unblinking and unimpressed, but internally preening at the simple praise, his ego stroked.

All while everyone’s none the wiser, just watching them leaning over a table of maps and paperwork in their gear. Assuming they’re being completely serious and professional when they’re actually just flirting like the fucked up little gay men they are.

Huge fan of a ship (ghoap) being secretive and cute with each other.

Like before a mission and ghost leans down to murmur at soap or soap keeping an eye on everyone while crossing his arms and speaking quietly to ghost.

Just them in general being good at their jobs and being all secretive and deadly, working together GREAT as a team. Like there’s a reason why they keep getting paired up together because they get the job done. It’s almost scary how well they seem to work together and when they set their mind on something there’s nothing getting in the way of ghost’s loyalty and soap’s stubbornness.

I can imagine the rest just whispering among themselves while soap and ghost pour themselves over a map, going hours at a time planning and strategising by themselves like it’s amazing. I love them. I love weird strange deadly couples.

[storeecbrcod]

Something something calling soft!Soap “Jay Bird” when lying in bed with the morning sun painting your shared bedroom in soft yellows and oranges while his big arms encircle your waist, trying to encourage him to let you go so you can make breakfast, only for his quiet and sleep-laden murmurs to lull you back into laying down as he tucks you against him, kissing your shoulder something something-

[storeecbrcod]

This is 100% self indulgent and not like what I usually write but 🤷 deal mfs

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish x F!reader

I feel like, despite how hot headed he is, John ‘Soap’ MacTavish would be the best at holding space for you and encouraging you to do things outside your comfort zone most would deem ‘normal’.

Ever since you started drinking at the very proper age of 18, you have hated drinking past a buzz. Obviously, as a kid, you make mistakes; you drink an alcohol that doesn’t agree with you, or you lose track, it happens. But even when you are much more intoxicated than you want to be, you can’t shake the anxiety of coming across as drunk. It’s been drilled into you that you’re more mature, that you’re more capable at taking care of yourself. Always the proper one, always the guardian amongst friends.

So when you come across as reluctant to drink with John, always offering to be the designated driver during outings or only having a single drink and denying any more, he’s confused. He’s always seen you act as the mature one, but also you could be so silly and fun. Drinking was all about fun, why did you hate it so much?

The conversation starts as his arms wrapped around your waist from behind as you were getting ready for a date. He pressed soft kisses across your shoulder blades, it makes you chuckle softly, looking at him through the mirror as you shut your lipstick.

“Bon,” he started, tone light and soft as his chin rested on your shoulder, stubble scratching at your bare skin there. “Why’s it you dinnae drink?”

Your brow furrows, looking down to your makeup bag and fishing out an eyebrow pencil, uncapping it and leaning towards the mirror of the bathroom slightly, starting to apply it. “What do you mean? I do drink,” you reply, continuing to stare yourself in the mirror as you map out precise lines. “We have a drink together nearly every weekend, love.”

He huffed, squeezing his arms into your midsection briefly. “I ken, but I’ve never seen ye let loose,” he pushed. “You drink enough to seem relaxed, but I feel as ye boyfriend, I deserve to see you piss drunk at least once.”

He punctuated his words with a lopsided grin, meeting your eyes through the mirror. “Level the playin’ field for the times ye’ve picked me up ten sheets to the bleedin’ wind.”

You chuckle, but it sounds forced to his ears and your own. Shame sat in a lump in your throat, twisted with anxiety. He can sense it, the way you instinctively lick your lips even as you try to not disturb your makeup, the way your eyes avoid his. He let you finish your other eyebrow before placing a hand over your own, gently making you put down your makeup. He spun you around with his hands on your waist, letting you lean against the counter behind you, looking up to him.

“You never let go,” he said again, softer this time. He laced his fingers with yours, eyes tracing where you two met for a moment before looking up to your eyes. His own were molten with the desire to understand, the need to comfort and care. “Why is that?”

You stayed silent for a few moments, still avoiding his eyes. You traced patterns in his plain shirt, watching his fingers scrape gently over your skin, feeling his warmth at his proximity. It didn’t feel suffocating as it may have with anyone else; he was gentle, not demanding. Most people you confide in about your anxiety around drinking tell you to grow up, completely ignoring the double standard of people desiring you to get blind but not be out of hand. They want the entertainment, at the expense of your embarrassment.

“Bonnie,” John cooed to you, calling your eyes back to his. He hooked a finger under your chin, trying not to disturb your setting makeup. “I’m not goin’ tae tease ya, right?”

You huff a laugh, brushing him off and looking away, making him drop his hand to your waist once more. You hesitate again, but look back to him with your lips pursed. “I hate the next day,” you say simply.

“Everyone does,” he replied with a chuckle, but it was soft. “Hangovers aren’t fun for anyone, baby.”

You chuckle with him, hitting his shoulder weakly in retaliation. “Not what I meant, Tav, and you know it,” you admonish, affection clear in your voice. You sigh, easing up again, hesitating.

“I don’t like being out of control,” you admit, shrugging and looking up to him. Instinctively, your arms cross, almost hugging yourself. His hands rub your arms up and down, comforting. “It’s not nice for a young girl to be incoherent and stumbling, yeah? Not safe, either.”

John scoffed, brow furrowing in genuine yet gentle confusion. “Ye’ve got me, bonnie,” he replied, shaking his head in mild disbelief. “And what’s it matter what other people think? You’re having fun, no?”

You pout at him dramatically, making him chuckle again. “Naw, don’t you start poutin’,” he added, poking your side and making you flinch with a yelp of protest. “I mean it. Chances are, everyone else isn’t gonna remember their own names let alone you, hun. And lord knows all I’m gonna remember is how fuckin’ sexy you are. I’ll be just as drunk as you, my love.”

You huff, pursing your lips, leaning back against the counter more. Just the thought of being anywhere near drunk around others, having seen your own fair share of other drunk people and, worse, trying to take care of them, makes you want to gag.

“It’s not… classy,” you grumble.

“Neither is being the only sober one in a club,” he replied with an eyebrow raised, making you groan. “Clubbing is about getting a bit messy, love, I dinnae ken why getting messy with everyone else is so bad. Tell me.”

“Because I’m not… messy.”

“Do they know that?”

You pause, knowing he’s got you pushed into a bit of a corner. You know rationally that nobody cares, that at the worst people pity the messier of the rest, but something about it makes your skin crawl. John can sense it, pulling you towards him for a brief hug, your chin on his shoulder.

“You’re so proper,” he muttered, the grin clear in his voice. “Wha’ the hell do you see in me? I’m no’ exactly proper, bon.”

“I like that you’re easy going,” you reply, letting him just hold you for a moment. You felt a bit… childish, for being like this. Like this fear wasn’t really founded, a phobia like the nightmares kids get scared of. Monsters under the bed and figures chasing them down the hall. A little silly, something that dissipates with age, but still scares you.

“Then let me show you how to be easy goin’,” he said quietly, letting the offer hang. He snickered after a few moments. “It gets easier the more drinks ye have, I promise.”

You laugh with him, sniffling a bit. He was always so warm, so gentle when he needed to be. He never approached your problems with the idea that it was childish, even if you thought they were. Problems were problems, no matter how big or small, insignificant or important.

“What about we start here?” He offered quietly, pulling back to look you in the eye. “We ‘ave tha’ bottle of whiskey we could put a dent in, then we can grab a taxi or somethin’. Get you properly loosened up, til it’s easier to push through.”

You roll your eyes, snickering a bit. “This feels coercive,” you say sarcastically, making him grin.

“I never claimed to be a saint, swee’heart”

You give a moment of pause, looking up at him through your lashes. You couldn’t help the small smile pulling at your lips, for once the idea of being messy seeming like a good one if it meant you and John could spill onto each other. It felt a bit romantic and intimate, if you wanted to get poetic about it.

“Ok,” you say quietly. His face lit up, making you melt as he beamed at you, eyes twinkling with pleasure simply at you giving in to his gentle coaxing. “But, I won’t promise to going out. Don’t know if I’ll even want to.”

“Fine by me, bonnie,” he replied, his hands trailing down to your ass and grabbing a fistful of it cheekily, a glint in his eye. “Either way, I’ll be barkin’ up your tree all night.”

You huff in mock irritation, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. He smiles against your lips, sending a thrill of warmth down your spine, letting it break down the anxiety.

“Careful, MacTavish. I’m getting all pretty for you.”

“Then finish your face,” he all but purred, gently turning you back around as you giggled, yelping again as he pinned you against the counter with his hips, making you laugh more. He leaned into your ear, looking to your eyes through the mirror heatedly and forcing you to bite your lip to suppress another noise. “And I’ll get the drinks pourin’ for your pretty little arse.”

A/N: once again, self indulgent in light of getting pretty fucked up and 100% regretting it even though no one got hurt or upset on the night ✌️ RIP my pride and ego ig

[storeecbrcod]

MWIII Spoilers!

Thinking about Ghost struggling with Soap’s death, feeling like he has no home to go back to when his home has been the creaky military bed he’s slept in for the past however many years of his life. He is home, he’s where he’s been since he was lost to the world. It all hits him in a sudden rush of realisation, finally coming to terms with the fact that he misses Johnny in a way that he can’t escape, in a way that’s so simple yet so essential to his being that it’s nearly debilitating.

It stops him from taking opportunities that may make his life better, too set in his life with Johnny even as he limps along without him. He was used to grief, obviously, but he’d always been an opportunist, too; but now, he ignores the opportunities in favour of waiting for someone that’ll never come home, waiting for footsteps that he recognises but never hearing them.

He possesses a body war torn and tired, driven by routine and blindness.

He’s just a ghost with no home to haunt, not anymore.

[storeecbrcod]

Piggybacking, it’s almost never about what it is, more about what the details reveal about a person. Like, no, I don’t really understand how one chemical and another that are harmless alone can become dangerous when mixed, but the way you explain electrons bonding atoms together and pushing each other apart feels a lot like the way I want to be closer to you while letting whatever the fuck is happening between us right now react and grow into whatever it could be.

gaz: is tav okay?

ghost: he’s calmed down

gaz: really? usually takes longer

ghost: put on his favorite youtube series

soap: [watching metal mailboxes being stripped and cleaned with muriatic acid]

[storeecbrcod]

Idk what it is about Soap being so passionate about chemistry and physics that just tickles my brain right, but it does. It’s my favourite thing. Seeing someone gazing at an explosion with such childlike glee because they know the reactions inside out only because they love it THAT MUCH is just so wholesome to me. Like you cannot tell me seeing Soap awed by the oil plant explosion didn’t make you grin with him. That was pure, unadulterated and passionate love for something and I want Soap to look at me like that

gaz: is tav okay?

ghost: he’s calmed down

gaz: really? usually takes longer

ghost: put on his favorite youtube series

soap: [watching metal mailboxes being stripped and cleaned with muriatic acid]

[storeecbrcod]

Sigh…

At no point in The Boys season 4 on Prime was I expecting to yell “IS THAT KYLE GAZ GARRICK?” (It was)

I had come to accept Claudia ages ago obviously, but now the cast has two collections going on; New Zealand/Aussie actors, and COD VAs. Just waiting for my man Warren Cole to pop up out of nowhere lol

At no point in the Yellowjackets series on Prime was I expecting to yell “IS THAT PHILLIP GRAVES?” (It was)

Shit’s wild

[storeecbrcod]

MWIII: Soap’s Nautilus Skin

Hear me out!

I’ve been told that Warzone is technically connected to the canon campaign, loosely, hence why everyone was really confused when Soap got his new Nautilus skin. He’s supposed to be dead, he shouldn’t be getting new legit-looking skins, at least not so soon after the campaign.

But, for the sake of my brainworm (that I know I share with others, shh), let’s assume Soap’s nautilus skin means he’s alive somehow. Let’s do some study (courtesy @ave661, doing god’s work for us ty):

Look at my pretty boy! Mask, gas tanks, and cool ass details, yeah? Just an awesome skin.

Let me put way too much detail and thought into this in the form of a ‘quick’ ficlet.

TW: canon-typical violence, medical settings, mentions of terrorism, mentions of torture/brainwashing. TLDR at the end :)

The 141 had been distracted as of late, chasing around a group of slippery but deadly terrorists that had made it their fucking mission to make the task force trip over them. Nobody was sure if they were intentional red herrings from Makarov, or just another rising force amongst disgruntled people that turned to violence to be heard. Either way, it was starting to really grate on everyone’s nerves, having to put the hunt for Makarov aside to deal with a new threat every other week, one too big and too elaborate for local defence departments to handle alone without the 141’s experience.

Because it was always the same elusive cunts fucking something up. Killing someone they shouldn’t have, intercepting deals and creating unrest amongst major crime rings around the world and sparking unrest through their deep, wide-spread roots. The team knew well how a small conflict could snowball into a wide-scale war, and it felt like they were preventing one every time there was a report of soldiers in black, glowing green tech with a hazy green tint to their eyes.

Price could see the way his team (3’s still a crowd, right?) was starting to grow restless with the near constant pull from their goal of finding Makarov, especially Ghost. He grew more distant by the day, getting more and more ruthless out field, reminding Price of his early days on the Task Force. Whether they liked it or not, Makarov had diminished forces right now, and he was not as much threat as—

“Fuck, Gaz, watch out!”

Another explosion went off, knocking Price and Gaz to the ground, their breath stolen as they tried to clamber back up to move out of range of fire. It felt like it was coming from everywhere, relentless, chaotic. The thudding of Price’s heart was the only thing that gave him rhythm, guidance on how to react and when and why. He pulled his sergeant to cover behind some stacked crates and dropping, continuing to heave through his strict chest.

This was the closest they’d gotten to the fuckers, never managing to see more than a glimpse of these skilled soldiers before. They gave them a run for their money, Price had admitted sourly many a time. They were legends on each base they travelled to now, infamous for how hard they were to catch, even for the equally infamous 141.

But now, they were close. It was eerie watching these people, almost robotic in their execution, unwavering, unafraid. They’d run into active fire if it meant they had a decent chance to advance and catch someone off guard. And somehow, they managed to get away, every damn time. They seemed to not register pain, either, if the way the one woman soldier continued to walk around despite her obviously broken leg was anything to go by.

They were like zombies, and it was deeply unsettling.

As far as Price could tell, there were two hostiles running around above them through the catwalks of the hangar they were currently pinned in. They were trying to pick shots, but they’d shoot their direction randomly as well, making it that much harder to predict when it was safe to poke their heads out to see if they even had a chance of running out.

“Ghost, where the fuck are you?” Price growled into his comms. The other man had been radio silent for almost half an hour now, ever since this stupid cat and mouse game started. They’d come in here to chase the bastards down, yet somehow his team were the ones being chased. It was beyond irritating, and it was also putting them in unreasonable danger.

“Cap!”

Gaz’s sudden yell had Price’s head on a swivel, following the man’s gaze to above them. Somehow, the third soldier of the little trio had managed to flank them, looking down at them from another isolated catwalk.

How Price neglected to watch their six, he didn’t know.

All he knew was there was a barrel of a rifle pointed straight at them from 10 metres up.

Within milliseconds, he knew three things; one, he wouldn’t be able to move Gaz and himself out of the firing line without making themselves vulnerable to the other hostiles. Two, any move they made now had them killed. And three…

Makarov was behind these soldiers.

Because who else would make their most deadly soldier, the most aggressive of the trio, the one that risked his life even more than his teammates, the one who seemed to hold easy leadership over the others—

Who else would shave their best soldier’s head into a mohawk, if not to taunt them?

Before he could even think to shield Gaz, pull him to his chest in a last-ditch effort to protect him in the hope that someone would get back home to tell their story, a dark blur slammed into the back of the soldier above, sending his rifle clattering to the floor. It was almost surreal, watching the mohawk’d soldier struggle against darkness, the occasional flash of stark white dancing around him.

Fists were exchanged. Bullets were sprayed towards them sporadically, but too out of range to hit accurately. The short barrier of the catwalk bit into the soldier’s lower back, starting to dangerously teeter further and further over it.

The rifle’s impact to the concrete hadn’t even finished echoing around the hangar when Price watched two figures tumble from the catwalk, grappling in the air. A sickening thud followed, the two bodies rolling with each other, parting and leaving one still on the ground while the other heaved on his hands and knees.

The moment of stunned silence seemed to hang forever, though it was only a second in reality. The gunfire had stopped, two sets of footsteps echoing down the corridors away from them. It left Price’s team, Gaz frozen and Ghost shaking with adrenaline, with an unconscious soldier.

Ghost crawled over to the body first, followed by Price standing over him. His veins were molten in rage, scorned again by the sight of his closest soldier posed over an unmoving soldier with a mohawk.

Fuck, they even got his eyebrow scar. I wonder what they did to create that?

Unlike last time, though, a muffled groan left the man on the ground, the body shifting slightly uncomfortably. His eyes (blue… what the fuck?) fluttered open, blinking away the confusion that likely fogged his mind. He breathed in, deep and full—

Even Price flinched at how fast the soldier’s hands came up to grasp at his mask, gasping, choking behind it, clawing desperately at a crack that spanned the left side of it. Blue eyes lit up with desperation, legs coming up to kick uselessly at the ground, back contracting as if in pain.

Reacting as a unit, Gaz moved forward to hold the soldier’s legs down, Price grabbing the man’s vest and forcing him down with all his might, Ghost grabbing his arms, forcing one to his side for Price to pin under his knees and holding the other one down. Even with three people on him, the soldier put up a good fight, even though it seemed like it was out of panic more than resistance.

Ghost grabbed the mask, struggling with the release catches that seemed to be stitched into the side of the man’s head, unable to get them loose. With a growl, he shuffled to force the soldier’s other arm down with his own leg, grabbing his throwing knife and carefully shucking it into the stuck lip of the release. He hit the butt of his knife, hearing the catch pop open before forcing the soldier’s head to the side and repeating the action.

The soldier only seemed to fight harder, turning his head away frantically as Ghost tried to yank the mask off. Despite having three people on him, he still managed to jostle them, pulling his hand out from under Ghost and earning himself a painful twist of the wrist.

“Ghost…”

“Stay still, fucker—”

With a final tug, the cracked mask is thrown from the soldier’s face, and it only makes the man thrash harder. His gasps for air are no longer muffled, the painful choking and heaves bouncing off the tall walls around them, surrounding them as they tried to hold him down.

It isn’t until his body tenses up completely, lips going blue that Price is finally able to get a proper look at the soldier’s face, and once again time stands still.

Those damn blue eyes stared up at Ghost, not breaking eye contact, and Price could swear he feels each of Ghost’s muscles tense up individually, his breathing stop alongside the body beneath them. The crude scar that dissected through the man’s chin was on full display, and he thinks he hears Gaz gasp beside him, his eyes glancing between the man’s face and Price’s own.

The soldier’s head was turned towards Ghost just enough to reveal the edge of the left side of his hairline, where a fading but ugly scar puckered right along his temple.

Price doesn’t stop Ghost from getting up and walking away once the man on the ground falls unconscious, his heart rate slow and his breaths returning even slower, but returning nonetheless.

Price doesn’t stop Gaz moving to take Ghost’s place, grabbing the body’s face so firmly yet so delicately, moving it back and forth as if to check he was real.

Price doesn’t react with anger when Laswell is silent on the other side of the radio, nor does he answer any questions except to insist on an emergency evac for their ‘prisoner’.

Price doesn’t do anything, except recite the paperwork they’d filed just two years ago, fixing it in his head over and over to come to terms.

John “Soap” MacTavish: KIA ALIVE

——————————————————————————

“This is fucking insane, even for Makarov.”

Nobody discounted Gaz’s observation, all just staring through the glass into the guarded hospital room holding John fucking MacTavish, lying still while tubes breathed for his sedated body. Well, all except Ghost.

They hadn’t seen Ghost in days.

Funnily enough, Nikolai had gone radio silent around the same time, too.

Hm.

Even Laswell had made her way over from her most recent post, vowing to lead the investigative efforts into Soap’s condition. The good thing was, he was relatively unscathed. Littered with new scars, sure. Aggressive and unforthcoming with even attempting to remember any of them, that too. Oh, yeah, and his body tries to shut down every time they take him off of the highest dose of anaesthetics, and nobody knows why, and he can’t tell them why.

Price has a headache.

“John.”

Price, Gaz, and the few medics with them all turned as Laswell approached, and their reaction was immediate. They all seemed to see the gravity in her features, sense the density of what she had to say on her tongue. Her frustration and worry was palpable, in her own stone-cold way.

Price hasn’t seen her like this since… well, ever. It didn’t invoke him with much confidence.

“We finally got the toxicology results back for the gas in the tanks,” she stated, though she didn’t offer the paperwork in her hands. Actually, she gripped the package with white knuckles. Another action that made Price even less confident this news was going to be anywhere near pleasant.

“And?”

“He’s developed a non-lethal strain of Nova gas.”

Silence. Pure silence. Disbelief? Bewilderment? Surprise? Who fucking knows. But they were silent.

“Nobody’s sure how it works just yet,” Laswell continues curtly, looking to Soap’s body through the window. “But it’s a pretty strong theory as to why Sergeant MacTavish was acting so…”

“Zombie-like?” Gaz offers, an interruption met with Laswell pursing her lips for a moment.

“I’d prefer another word, but if it fits.”

Quiet befalls them all again, Price scratching at his beard in an attempt to dispel the twisting mess of anger, worry and confusion. It’s been hard, trying to continue applying pressure to Makarov while they’re a Lieutenant down and distracted by an old teammate basically raised from the dead.

“We managed to extract some files from a hard drive found in one of Makarov’s bogus operation suites,” Laswell continued, looking back to John with more concern than before, really not helping on the confidence front. “I have people combing through them, though a lot of them are encrypted so thoroughly they’ll take days to decode. However, there are a few bits and pieces of jumbled reports, seemingly test experiments involving the new strain. The only new information we have at this point is how they acclimatise their patients to the gas.”

“Acclimatise?” John repeated, gruff with restrained emotion. Leadership and professionalism was always important, but right now, he couldn’t care less about seeming totally calm.

“Yes, acclimatise,” it sounded barbaric with the way she said it, like it was glimpse into what it meant. “They’d place the test subjects into gas chambers, restrained, and flood the chamber with the gas. Somehow the body adapts to rely on the gas as air after rigorous training.”

“Torture through suffocation more like,” Gaz grumbled, glancing between Price and Laswell, whose jaw ticked.

“Apparently, the gas is most effective when the patient is fully reliant,” she added, then shrugged. “Effective in what way, the team has no clue. Though they’re pretty confident it’s the efficacy to reduce cognition enough to lose the ability to do anything without outside influence.”

“Like a damn personal attack dog,” Price growled.

A beat of silence lingered, everyone in the room trying to comprehend how this would affect Soap’s recovery. If he could recover at all.

“So that’s why he acts like he’s suffocating when he’s conscious?” Gaz inquired. “Because he is?”

“We can only assume so.”

“This is so fucked up,” Gaz whispered, linking his hands behind his head and looking to Soap again. It was like some movie bullshit, the impossible becoming possible but without the safety of being in your living room. Watching a tornado head your way when you’re in the middle of a damn field. Absolutely impossible to comprehend, yet happening anyway, beyond your control.

“We’re going to see if keeping him sedated and letting his body recover from what could be years of exposure will reverse the effects of the chemical,” Laswell said slowly, but interrupted herself with a sigh, looking to Price earnestly.

Price thinks he sees his last sliver of confidence drift off in the breeze of the ventilation.

“We also have to consider his supposedly lethal GSW,” she slowly continues, shuffling where she stood. “We can only assume the parts of his brain responsible for memory, speech, thought processing was impaired with the injury.”

“There’s a chance nothing will change because his injury could have destroyed his ability to reason and remember before the gas,” a medic speaks up, putting the dots together quickly in her head and turning to Price, brow etched with concern. “There’s a very small possibility he will recover completely, or even to the point of independence.”

Price shared a look with Gaz, then the medics, and finally Laswell again. The words stuck in his chest, resistant to the idea of speaking something into being.

“We might not get Johnny back at all.”

——————————————————————————

…soooo :3

TLDR: Makarov has developed a new strain of gas, which he uses to suppress the cognitive reasoning in those that breathe it in, and allows him to train them into his cute lil super soldiers. The reason for the gas masks and everything? The soldier becomes reliant on it, their body adapting to rely on it fully like oxygen, otherwise they feel like they’re suffocating, hence needing to have it everywhere they go.

I know it’s very winter soldier, but to be honest it would make the most sense to me if Soap’s survival becomes canon. It rolls a few pre-MWIII theories into one; Soap ‘dies’ (canon), Soap is the traitor, and Soap is brainwashed by Makarov. It would be so interesting imo, and if they don’t take it I WILL RIOT—

Anywayyyy… I have vague explanations for things, i.e spreading his ashes that could totally work (with a little bit of narrative bending ✨) but I ain’t gonna go into it here and now. I could though…

Also, I know Nova gas isn’t what the gas is called, that it’s a similar thing from a grenade in the game. But fucking sue me, I’m not gonna make Laswell say “he’s developed a new strain of Unspecified Chemical Gas” like it’s some 13 year old’s Garage Band song they forgot about. Chill. It even says on the (totally very reliable) wiki that the closest thing is Nova gas, seeing as it’s the EXACT SAME except players who inhale it don’t cough. Stay back, Call Of Duty purists!! 🤺💨

[storeecbrcod]

Me, someone who’s mildly obsessed with writing gruesome injuries based in semi-realism:

TW: gore, explicit descriptions of deadly injuries below cut

“Yes, yes, being impaled through the back by a Mimic and watching mangled parts of the mechsuit stab through a hole in his chest, blood trying and failing to mix with hydraulic fluid as he stares down in horror, only to wake up and be unable to shake the feeling of burning and the pressure of metal in his chest despite being very alive and very untouched now, thanks to the Groundhog Day bullshit. Delectable, perfect.”

Edge of Tomorrow was a great movie, btw. The only movie I’ve seen where they didn’t put Tom Cruise’s spiteful lil ass on a literal soapbox because he’s too short LMAO