#cod headcanons

[codnasties]

nippe sucking w/young soap 🧼 (🌽 link)

soap's obsession with sucking and licking any of the sensitive parts of your body to stimulate you isn't something new or that he developed overtime. no, baby face soap and barely been in the military for two or three years, he already had a full on oral fixation.

if he hadn't seen you in some time the first thing he was doing after a hug, a kiss and a few pleasantries was pulling you into a secluded place like a bathroom or a janitors closed and pulling your top and shit down - because at the time you still hadn't learned that wearing a bra around johnny was just a pain in the ass - and strat playing with your boobs.

groping them, pushing them together, and pinching and pulling your nipples. but the cherry on top for him has always been latching onto the first nipple, sucking tpuntil it was completely wet and then start licking it in short strokes, while twisting the other one - couldn't allow your other tit to feel unappreciated :(-.

nipple sucking is his favourite pastime, stimulating you just through your perky buds, so don't you ever think about getting nipple piercings, because he wouldn't be able to wait until they healed.

[ink-n-shadow]

dadforce!johnny calling his little bebe "little bear".... Buys those bear onesie for his child and expects the kid to wear it 24/7. His spouse had to secretly buy new ones when the baby outgrows them 😭

PLEASE😭

you’re the one who nicknamed your child bear, mainly because you often called johnny a big bear (1. because he’s got thick hair everywhere, and 2. because he was the biggest fucking cuddler ever, like a giant teddy bear). and even after your baby was born, the nickname just kinda stuck.

literally saw one video of a baby in a bear onesie and was immediately putting in his credit card information so he could buy one online. he doesn’t realize until after he’s stuffed bear into the outfit that it definitely was only meant for six month olds, the fabric practically almost swallowing the newborn whole.

but once bear’s big enough to fit into the costume, johnny literally always puts it on them. going for a walk around the park? it’s chilly, bonnie—why not put’em in the bear onesie? it’s plenty warm! taking bear over to price’s for team dinner? it’d be cute to show them the onesie! price’s wife’s been asking to see it—no, we cannae just show her a photo. dressing his bear up as a disney character for halloween? why not just use the bear onesie? so what if they were a bear for halloween last year.

doesn’t even question why the bear onesie never seems to get dirty or get too small for his little bear, but he also has no idea you’ve been buying the next size up every few weeks or months so that it always fits just right.

you even have a photo wall of pictures of bear from each month, chubby cheeks stretched out into a smile for all of them as they get bigger and bigger. each photo of them is, of course, wearing the bear onesie.

©️ ink-n-shadow 2024

do not copy, plagiarize, steal, borrow, or repost any of my work without my expressed permission

[machveil]

Simon: What are you doing?

S/O, face deep in his tits, grasping them firmly: Checking for contrabands

Simon Riley loves you, he does, and he lets you get away with a handful of shenanigans. he’ll let you color in his tattoos, closes his eyes while you paint his nails, but one of his favorites - he’d never say it out loud - is when you smother yourself against his chest

Simon Riley can’t help but find it funny, biting back a smile when your hands move up to cup his pecs. he can feel you smiling against his chest, a deep, rumbly chuckle leaving him when you grope at him, “Love, you need t’come up for air.”, he mumbles

Simon Riley who cups the back of your head, cracking a small smile when you peak up at him. sure, he works out and keeps in shape for his job - to be strong and tough so he can come home to you, but he’d be lying if he said you doing this wasn’t motivation too

Simon Riley who accidentally tugs at your hair when you pinch his nipple through his shirt. he’s apologizing while grumbling about you being a brat, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing, “Think you’re cute? S’that it? Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?”. he’ll flip you on to your back, smiling when you shriek, his hands moving to your sides, “Is this cute? What’s with the laughter, lovie? Ticklish?”

me too anon, me too

[ghouljams]

Thots and opinions on band/Rockstar AUs? Because I have. Many Thots about a Rockstar Johnny with an ego as big as his dick. Absolute menace. I love him.

Ok thank you for asking because I have actually been noodling on a band au with the boys for MONTHS. I have put major thought into this.

Here's your 141 starting lineup:

Ghost: bass. Bass players are the silent backup that often goes unappreciated, but when you hear it... oh boy it's so fucking good. Also bassists are the most bully-able band member.

Gaz: lead singer, front man of the band, second guitar. Self explanatory, this man is so fucking pretty and I know he's a good singer. I'm sure the rest of the 141 would agree he's the best choice to be the face of the band. Who's going to say no to that face?

Soap: lead guitar. Another front man, and definitely a heart throb, but we can't make him the singer or he'll be too powerful. Hits the crowd with a wink and makes some poor girl faint. Provides harmonies but his voice is a little rough.

Price: drummer. The glue holding the band together, the rhythm that keeps them all in time. He formed the band, named the band, and writes most of their songs. Content to sit in the back and make sure everyone is doing what they're supposed to. Somehow has the most groupies.

[simp4konig]

I'm so normal about Nikto rn

Mildly nsfw?? Idk just a heads up

But just

Nikto, gripping her hips, thinking to himself: She's just being friendly- she's just being friendly- think pure thoughts

Y/N, sitting on his lap and holding his face hostage between her titties, thinking to herself: I wonder when he's gonna make the first move... do I have to make it if he doesn't? Oh my god what if I've been reading him wrong all along and he doesn't even like me??

Nikto: Well, maybe I am obsessed with you

Y/N: Well, maybe I like that :lipbite:

Flirtatious Reader x ...Dense? Nikto

Fem! Reader coded, BUT it can be viewed as gender-neutral if you squint. 🩷💟💜

Word Count: 2237

🪼

Reader is addressed as "You". No Y/N used.

May be self-indulgent. May be a projection of my own feelings. Oops. 🙊

Please read the * at the end of the post for my clarification 💙🩵🤍.

Edit: Minor typos. I fucking hate EVERYTHING!!!

❗SUGGESTIVE CONTENT AND SOME DISTURBING IMAGERY BELOW THE CUT ❗ (No sex nor anything overly grotesque, but includes some descriptions of both). Readers are warned for suggestive content.

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Well.

The title is perhaps a teeny, weeny little tiny bit misleading 🤏…

…

…Who am I kidding 💀,, it's as misleading as it gets LMAO

Because let's not kid ourselves here: Nikto is NOT "dense", NOT an "oblivious" man, NOR is he the type to be misinformed about someone's objective[s].

Nikto is a perceptive man — he's interrogated enough people to know what makes them tick, to distinguish lie from truth.

If somebody's intentions aren't innocent and they have ulterior motives, Nikto is always the first to know; it's his job to be informed, after all.

Hence, he notices the intonations of someone's voice growing or lowering, the imperceptible change in pitch, their nervous stutter as they unconvincingly concoct a lie, how their testimony does not align with the facts, and how they've suddenly become fidgety and shift from his scrutiny...

Hence, he recognises the subtle shifts in someone's facial expressions, can read between the lines of their non-verbal gestures, their change in behaviour, their overall unease expressed without them realising it, how they're giving themselves away no matter what they say…

Hence, he takes notices the way that someone fiddles agitatedly with something in their hands, how they pick at their nails in an almost panicked way or dig their fingernails into the skin of their palms, how they're biting their bottom lip or chewing on their cheek, how their smile is lopsided and doesn't quite reach their eyes, how they avert their gaze…

Nikto is anything but perceptive. He isn't oblivious — not "ignorant", not "unaware", and certainly not "stupid", or any other words synonymous with the previous — especially when it regards what people think of him.

How people think that he's disgusting.

How everyone avoids him like the Black Death, as if he's diseased and close proximity could kill you. As if his disfigurements were contagious, and the best bet would be to stay far, far away from the diseased.

Therefore, he's not oblivious that the words which you would whisper into the brocoli ears obscured by his mask are innuendo for something for more; he's not oblivious of the sexual nature of your hands absentmindedly caressing his lower abdomen, simply inches from his clothed crotch; he's not oblivious that your touches are quite risqué, that you would provoke him on purpose, that you would sit directly on his lap and feign innocence as you would flutter your eyelashes and smile ever so sweetly.

Nikto is perceptive. Very perceptive. And he's certainly not stupid...

...they just don't perceive your flirtatious actions as anything other than some joke.

So, he has rationalised your flirtatious behaviour as friendliness. As how you express your personal affection. Or, affectations.

Whatever it is that you're expressing, it must be a joke. Surely.

Since you're the Beauty, he's the Beast. But, unlike the Beast, he is a monster which cannot be redeemed. He's been cursed to suffer mortal purgatory, while immortal, demonic voices haunt him every hour, every minute, every second of every day. It's torture.

And you want to torture him some more by tormenting him with your unashamedly forward displays, your devilish seduction, tempting him into finally taking what he's been desiring ever since you arrived in his life.

How could you want him? Do you even want him?

No. You don't. There is no way that you do.

Because he's not talkative like some of the other operators, not hilarious like the colleagues who make you laugh, not affectionate like a lover could, not good company, not a good person as a whole.

He's introverted to a concerning amount, so silent that sometimes he appears deceased as he lies next to you on the nights you come over.

Maybe it all used to come naturally to him, but it's a struggle to feign his role as a functioning human being, so to actually be one? Sometimes he questions if he's more monster than man, as that role seems to be effortless.

Perhaps this is all some heartless idea of a practical joke, some sort of sick sense of satisfaction arising in you to toy with Nikto's emotions. And, like a child bored of that toy, discard it in favour of a newer, better, prettier one.

Why would you want to be around him? What is there to like? Is there even anything to like?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Because what's there to like? Frankly, if he doesn't like himself — or selves — then how could he expect you to like him? All of him? Them?

This isn't affection, he would tell himself; either it's disingenuous and forced, or you're faking it for your own amusement.

Or... maybe it is genuine, and it isn't fake... but it's all an act of pity, since you feel sympathy for the lonely outcast and have some sort of strange moral obligation to a lunatic as fucked-up, ugly, and disfigured as him, whose been unable to have a meaningful relationship — platonic or otherwise — in years.

Especially right now, with you straddling his lap and cradling his masked face in between your breasts, he still can't wrap his head around it, and it's all incomprehensible.

At times, Nikto has considered that he's overthinking it, and that you have no ill intentions, and you're just innocent and clueless with how much you affect him.

And it would have been endearing if it wasn't so fucking frustrating.

With that in mind, for him to make the first move and jeopardise what he thought you thought was a strictly platonic friendship? He couldn't be more sorry, and would leave you alone forever and never speak to you again, even if it was physically painful and equivalent to ripping his own heart out and squeezing it until its contents popped — just for the pain and the heartache to go away forever.

...

Seriously. It's so fucking frustrating, and it's as if he's being wilfully ignorant or something, and doing it on fucking purpose.

He's delusional, yes, and you've always acknowledged the fact that more than a few screws were loose, but the entire mechanism, but it pisses you off that he continues to delude himself, rather than accept that your affection is genuine, and not some cruel joke.

You don't get bored of him, and won't. Ever.

Yes, he's not talkative, but you find solace in presence and relish the peace and quiet; yes, his sense of humour is nonexistent, but you don't need to be laughing when he still brings a loving smile to your lips; yes, he's introverted, but does that really matter? To you, you being the exception to his isolation is worth everything.

Do you care that he's not a good person? No. To some extent, neither are you — you're no saint yourself. Nikto's morals may not be grey, but smudged entirely, and his methods questionable…

…and? You don't have it in you to care. Because it has reached a point where Nikto genuinely cares for you, and you likewise for him, and his actions demonstrated what he could never convey through words; that he would never, ever hurt you. And that's enough.

As for him not being naturally affectionate?

Well. You've tried everything: guiding his hands onto your hips; sitting in his lap and straddling his lower half, arms around his neck; hell, even flashed your tits under the guise of the clasp of your unintentionally becoming undone, and, oh, could you please do it for me, Nikto? You aren't bothered by the nudity? Sorry. That was just a wardrobe mishap. You don't mind, right? You can touch all you like, because I don't mind.

But he doesn't respond. Doesn't fucking do anything. Just has his shoulders tense and arms loose by his sides, not reciprocating any touch, not touching you unless you give him permission, as if he's been lobotomised and can only take explicit orders.

You're exasperated. It's exhausting.

But how much more goddamn obvious can you be? What will it take for him to open his eyes and see that this isn't a game to you? That you're willingly giving yourself to him, because you want to? Because you want him?

And, yes, his hands twitch with the gnawing itch to touch you; his body shakes with anticipation, antsy; his shoulders are tense, back straight as a plank, muscles flexing with restraint; and, of course, he's so fucking hard that he's almost nauseous.

But will he dare misinterpret your suggestive behaviour as anything more than flirtation, teasing, and risk jeopardising his whole friendship with his one and only friend? No. Not a fucking chance.

One of these days, you swore, you were going to tear off his mask clean off his face and grab his jaw to roughly kiss him on his scarred, mishapen, and malnourished lips, only pulling away when neither of you can breathe, then look him dead in those steel blue eyes and confess that you don't give a shit what, who, or why he is, only that you want him, uncaring of the whats, the whos, and the whys — especially the "whos".

No amount of initiating physical contact could entice him to touch you. You were at wits' end.

One of those days came; and that day was today, as you two were lounging on the bed, with your arms wrapped around his neck and legs straddling his lap.

Sheepishly, you untangle your limbs from around his, and crawl to sit beside him, legs tucked up to your chest and arms wrapping themselves around your knees pitifully if it wasn't for the fire in your eyes.

"...Nikto."

Nikto's back straightens at the speed of light at your tone of voice.

...Oh. Oh God.

This is it, he thinks. This is the day where everything ends. Eventhough you're his everything and that without you he'll be nothing, you're going to tell him to go, to get off you, because you've realised that he isn't worthy of your time or your company. Or maybe you've discovered his obsession — you — and the shrine he keeps of your stolen "lost" possessions and prays to it as if by an altar, how he would worship the ground you work on if it wasn't so conspicuous, how you're the only reason he hasn't given up and put a bullet straight through his own skull so the voices shut up once and for all and—

"Do... you even like me?"

...What.

What.

What?!

Like you? Are you serious?!

He doesn't like you! He couldn't ever like you!

He adores you! Loves you! Worships you! But even then, no synonyms of these words would sufficiently convey his adoration, his unconditional love, his devotion. Would kneeling by your knees and ripping his beating heart out be enough? It still wouldn't. So he won't... mostly for your sake.

Struck dumb, dumbfounded, and utterly confused, he stares at you, his bloodshot steel blue eyes unblinking. Since he can see how your eyes are glistening, he's willing tears on your behalf, just so tears don't stain that pretty face.

Eventually, he says with complete certainty: "...Like would be putting it lightly."

"Then..."

You sniff, and Nikto flinches, but he otherwise remains stiff, not wanting to touch you and make your state worse.

"...then why won't you touch me? Don't you... find me attractive?"

Instantly, he states: "Because the touch of our hands would insult your body."

"You've... you've got to be fucking joking."

"No."

"Is... i-is this some— some kind of fucking joke?"

"...No."

Sadness dissipating, it transforms into incredulity, until you almost laugh. This is unbelievable. It would be endearing if it wasn't so fucking frustrating. You don't know if you want to punch him or kiss him.

"Nikto. Nikto Nikto Nikto. For crying out loud — I WANT you to touch me."

"We're… I'm fucked up. You should have... better."

"Haven't you ever considered that I like my man fucked up?"

Oh God.

Man. Not men. Man.

“You... still should have better.”

You snort in amusement. "What, someone more fucked up than you?"

You roll your eyes, almost out of boredom, but you don't miss how his fists clench, blood boiling as he's silently seething at the mere idea of someone else stealing you. Having you.

“Better is not an option. From my eyes, you're the best man for me out there.”

A wheeze leaves his broken vocal cords — a poor imitation of a human laugh.

But it wasn't a laugh. He isn't laughing. Miraculously, tears collect at the corners of his dehydrated eyes, and he thinks that he might cry.

His voice cracks as he asks uncertainly: “...Best?”

“The very best," you affirm with a smile.

He must be dreaming. This is all a dream. It's everything that he's been dreaming about. Maybe he's dreaming right now, and he'll wake up in a cold bed. Alone.

“Well… maybe I am obsessed with you."

"Maybe?"

"...I am obsessed with you."

"Okay."

"Maybe... we're so possessive that we'll never let you go. Never."

"Never?"

"Never."

“Well,” you begin, clucking your tongue, as if chastising him with the "tsk". “Maybe I like that. Maybe I like being wanted like that.”

"...You won't."

"I do. Otherwise, I wouldn't have even entertained the idea of being around you. If I was a rational person, I'd have ran for the hills. But? I'm not."

"..."

"Now touch me already," you say, unceremoniously snatching his idle hands and guiding them onto your body. "I'm yours. Don't wait for permission like some fucking dog."

You don't have to tell him twice.

"Yes."

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*imma b real w u guys, i had no fucking idea what to name this: ...Oblivious Nikto? ...Ignorant Nikto? ...Delusional Nikto? ...Unaware Nikto?... eventually I settled with "dense", tho i STILL don't know if that's suitable?????

Anyways... sorry for the sort of misleading title??? It was not intentional 🥲. The only reason that it's addressed at the beginning is because I didn't want any misconceptions about what I think of Nikto. No, he is not oblivious, as I gone above and beyond to clarify at the start. 😭

A/N:

To 🪼 anon sending me the asks: I love you. And I love you. Did I mention that I love you? Because I love you. 💫💖✨💖✨🧡🧡💫💖✨💖✨🧡🧡🧡💖✨💖✨💖🧡🧡✨✨✨ (im the monster under your bed, but instead of scaring you, i hold your hand at night 😈... I LOVE UUU/!!!!!!!! 🧡🧡🧡💖✨✨✨💫💖🧡🧡💫✨💫 DONT THINK THAT I DONT SEE YOU 👿👿👿!!!! ggRRGRHGKG FROM NOW ON ALL OF MY NIKTO WORKS ARE A PERSONAL TRIBUTE TO U IDONT EVEN CARE ANYMORE)

Random notes:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO NIKTO, THE UGLY UGLY UGLY MOTHERFUCKER!!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎊🎉🎊🎊🎊🎊🎁🎁🎁🎂🎁🎁🎉🎊🎊🎉🎊🎊🎊🎊🎉 (yes his bd is tomorrow but i dont CARE!!!!!!)

Nikto and I are both Libras... 😳 OMgogmgomg we are DESTINED to be together!!! 🫣🫣😫💦💦💦💦💧🌊1!1!1!1!!!!! GUys IT WAS FATE! 1!1!1!!!!1!!!!!!!! /j

Ok but /srs, got the Ghostrunner 2 Endless Moto DLC for my birthday and ive never been happier omg 🥹 (going to replay the whole game all over again lmao 💀)

Lastly? Um. I love you all!!! Thanks for 750+ followers???+@?! When did THAT happen? @?!@??????!?? 😭😭😭💫💫💫💫 THANK YOUUU 🫶🫶🫶🫶💖💖💖💖

[roachs-pet-roach]

Nikolai having an obsession with taking things apart/putting them back together and Price has watched him spend three hours dissecting a radio and putting it back together and Nikolai literally didn’t react to ANYTHING other than the radio he was working on for the whole three hours.

[skauni]

If Ghost and Soap met when they were younger, Soap would have a catholic beliefs and gay needs crisis. Being raised catholic, he was taught certain things were acceptable and certain things weren’t—even though he never really understood it he went with it.

Ghost is the same way except his crisis would be because of religious trauma. Not because he’s willingly religious like Soap.

I think the first time Soap and Ghost would have met if they met when they were younger would be middle school. Ghost would be eating alone as the new kid in school and Soap would decide to leave his friends and go sit with the new kid. Make him feel welcomed, you know?

Ghost would start following Soap around like a lost puppy then eventually start sneaking off to Soap’s house to escape his abusive father. Soap loved when Ghost came over but hated the reason behind it, often staying up the whole night with Ghost so he felt safe. Soap’s mom was the same, she did everything she could to help Ghost feel comfortable in the MacTavish household, even if she didn’t completely know Ghost’s situation.

The two would stay friends for the rest of their lives, one of them realizing he likes the other and said other following soon after. Too scared to admit it till the end of senior year, both of them blurt it out on accident at the same time. Following that is silence and surprised looks, then finally Ghost says “Will you go to the movies with me, Johnny? …. Please?” To which Soap nods and snakes his hand into Ghost’s as they walk to the movie theater.

@valscodblog @thealtofvalleyxdoodles

[sacrednova]

Through Statics | Simon "Ghost" Riley | Part 1.

Ghost!Simon, Fem!Reader. Summary: you moved into his house, but he wants to be alone, get the fuck off. (You won't) Warnings: Paranormal stuff, mentions of death, angst (not much).

This house is breathing.

Simon "Ghost" Riley had died. Yes, he did. At 36 years old, he was killed in his own home, surrounded by familiar walls that had witnessed countless memories and secrets. To the world, it seemed like a break-in gone wrong—"intruders" had silenced him in cold blood. But the truth was much darker. Ghost wasn’t just a soldier; he was a vault of dangerous knowledge. The higher-ups knew he had learned too much, and so they made sure he’d never share those secrets. He never stood a chance.

It was two years later when you moved into his old house, drawn to the strange vacancy that lingered around it. You needed a fresh start, something different, and this place, with its eerie quiet, called to you in a way you couldn’t explain. It was just an ordinary house, or so it seemed. But soon after settling in, little things began to feel off.

At first, it was just whispers on the wind, the kind that made you pause, thinking it might be your imagination. But the longer you stayed, the harder it was to ignore the creaks in the floorboards late at night, like someone pacing through the hallways. You found marks on the mirrors that you were sure weren’t there before, strange streaks as though a hand had touched them. Your breath would fog them up, but no matter how hard you scrubbed, the smudges stayed.

Some nights, as you lay in bed, you swore you heard footsteps just outside your door. Heavy ones. You’d grab the nearest object, heart pounding, rush to check, and find nothing. But the dread never left, clinging to the air like a warning.

You began to wonder—was this house haunted? Had someone died here? The real estate agent had been vague when you asked about the previous owner. A soldier, they said, nothing more. But now, standing in the dimly lit hallway, the sense of presence grew stronger.

A sudden thud echoed from upstairs, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Your heart raced as the reality dawned on you. Someone—or something—was still here.

But who?

And why hadn’t they left?

Static.

You had always known there was something different about you, a subtle ability you couldn’t quite name. Since you were a little girl, you saw things other people didn’t—shadows moving where they shouldn’t, whispers on the edge of your hearing. It wasn’t every day, but it happened often enough to feel like an unspoken truth you lived with. You never spoke about it to anyone, dismissing it as an overactive imagination. But here, in this house, everything was amplified. It was so much more.

The strange occurrences in the house kept escalating, each moment steeped in a feeling you couldn’t shake. The air seemed thicker, as if the walls themselves were holding secrets, waiting to be revealed. You'd wake up in the middle of the night, the silence almost too loud, filled with a heavy, suffocating energy.

The old radio on the kitchen counter had become particularly unsettling. It was an antique you’d brought from your previous home, something comforting about its nostalgic crackle and the feel of its worn buttons. But ever since you moved here, it had begun to act strangely, turning on by itself at odd hours, filling the room with a low hum of static.

At first, it was just white noise, faint and distant, but lately, the static seemed alive. There were nights when you would catch brief snippets, something resembling words hidden in the hiss. You would freeze, straining to hear, but the moment passed, leaving you wondering if you had imagined it.

Until one evening, it wasn’t your imagination anymore.

The house was still as you sat in the living room, flipping through a book but not really reading. The static from the radio hummed softly in the background. You’d grown used to it, a kind of eerie white noise that had almost become a companion. But this time, something changed. The static grew louder, sharper, as if the frequency was being tampered with. The low hum twisted into something darker, more intense.

And then, in the midst of the crackling, you heard it.

“G-get… out…”

The words were faint, broken, but unmistakable. Your blood ran cold. The radio, which had been nothing but an old, harmless relic, suddenly felt like a gateway to something far more sinister.

You walked to the kitchen and stared at it, your heart pounding in your chest, waiting to see if the voice would return.

But the radio only hissed softly, as if mocking your fear.

You leaned closer, hands trembling slightly, and switched it off. The silence that followed was unbearable, thick with an unspeakable tension. You weren’t alone in this house—something was here with you. And it wanted you out.

But you weren’t going anywhere.

You had always known you were different, and now, more than ever, you were beginning to understand why. This house had awoken something inside you, something that had been dormant for years. You could feel it, a deep connection to whatever lingered here, as if the house itself was calling to you.

But why? And what would happen if you didn’t leave?

Name?

Curiosity killed the cat. But there you were, fingers gliding across your laptop keyboard, eyes glued to the screen as you dug deeper into the history of the house. You had to know who had lived here before you, who had left this lingering presence behind. The nights were becoming unbearable—the footsteps, the whispers, the strange static that always seemed to carry a warning. There was a name tied to this place, a name no one had been willing to share with you.

Until tonight.

Finally, after hours of sifting through obscure articles and forgotten news reports, you found it. Simon "Ghost" Riley. A decorated soldier, a man with a past shrouded in mystery and violence. The more you read, the darker the story became. His death had been officially ruled a home invasion, but there were whispers of conspiracy, something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface. They said he had died here, in this very house. And now, so much about the strange occurrences began to make sense.

You swallowed, the weight of the name hanging in the air. Almost unconsciously, you said it out loud for the first time, as if testing its power.

“Simon Riley.”

The moment the words left your lips, the house reacted violently.

The radio in the corner—off, you were certain—suddenly roared to life, filling the room with deafening static. It was louder than ever before, like a thousand angry voices hissing at you all at once. You jumped, your heart slamming against your chest as the static grew aggressive, the air buzzing with an overwhelming pressure.

And then, the night itself seemed to close in on you. The room felt darker, heavier, as though an unseen force was pushing down on you from all sides. The shadows stretched longer, crawling up the walls like living things. The atmosphere was suffocating, thick with something you couldn't name.

You stumbled back toward your bed, seeking the safety of its familiar comfort. But as you sat down, trying to steady your shaking hands, the mattress shifted beneath you. Not just a subtle movement—pulled, as though something beneath the bed was trying to drag it away from the wall. The fabric creaked, and you froze, gripping the edge of the bed as your mind raced.

This was too much.

“Stop!” you shouted, your voice cracking. But the room didn’t listen. The radio’s static pulsed, growing louder, angrier. The mattress pulled again, more forcefully this time, as though some invisible hand was determined to make you feel its presence.

You were no stranger to strange things, but this—this was unlike anything you’d ever felt. The air itself seemed to press against your skin, cold and oppressive, as if the very house was closing in on you, threatening to swallow you whole.

Desperate, you scrambled to turn off the radio, your fingers fumbling with the knob. But no matter how much you twisted it, the static only grew louder, the relentless sound clawing at your nerves.

“Get out…”

The words were buried deep in the static, but they were there. Clearer now. More urgent.

Your breath came in shallow gasps as you backed away from the radio, your mind screaming for you to leave. But even as terror gripped you, something held you in place. A force stronger than fear. A need to know.

Simon Riley’s name hung in the air like a curse, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had awakened something when you said it. Something that had been waiting for you.

But whatever it was… it wasn’t finished with you yet.

His house.

Leaving wasn’t an option. Not after everything. This house—it was yours now. You had spent your savings, invested so much into making it your new beginning. You couldn’t just walk away because of a few unsettling events, even if they were enough to make your skin crawl. The fear gnawed at you, sure, but so did the defiance. The thought of running away felt too much like giving in to something unknown. And you hated the unknown.

So, you stayed.

And with every passing day, the strange occurrences continued. The static, the footsteps, the feeling of being watched—they persisted like a weight pressing down on you, but you weren’t going to let it win. You couldn’t keep ignoring it, though. Not anymore. The air in the house felt alive, heavy with something unsaid, and you had a hunch that if you wanted answers, you were going to have to start speaking to it.

Speaking to him.

At first, you felt ridiculous. You would walk through the house, muttering to the empty air like a madwoman. Little things, just to see if anything would respond. “Hello?” you’d ask as you brewed your morning coffee. “What do you want?” you’d say while folding laundry. And always, there was silence.

But the more you talked, the less foolish you felt. You sensed something listening, even if it didn’t answer right away. The static on the radio would flicker occasionally, faint noises that almost felt like a reply, though never enough to be sure.

The strange weight on your chest every night didn’t go away. The house was filled with tension, an unspoken presence, but you kept at it. Maybe it was the madness of it all, or maybe you were just too stubborn to give up. Either way, you couldn’t stop.

Then one night, everything changed.

You were lying in bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. The radio, which you’d learned to avoid turning on, sat on the nightstand like a silent sentinel, you didn't know why you kept it close to you, but you did. The room was dark, the air thick with that familiar, uneasy heaviness. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to ignore the sounds, the pressure.

But then, a loud burst of static filled the room.

You shot up, heart racing. The radio had turned on by itself again, its glow casting eerie shadows across the walls. The static wasn’t just random noise this time—it was deliberate, alive with a force you couldn’t explain. And then, through the crackling, you heard a voice.

“Just… want… be alo-… ne.”

The words were fragmented, broken by the static, but they were unmistakable. Your breath caught in your throat. This wasn’t the usual hiss or whisper. This was different. This was him.

“Simon?” you whispered, feeling a mix of terror and curiosity flood through you. The radio hissed again, the words struggling to break through.

“…Want… be… alone…”

You swallowed, your skin prickling with the weight of his presence. It was him—Ghost. Simon Riley. After all the silence, after all the waiting, he was finally speaking to you. No more "Get out". But what was he saying? Did he want you to leave? Was that what he meant?

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m not leaving. I won’t.” The fear was still there, gnawing at you, but your resolve was stronger. This house was yours now. And he was a part of it, whether either of you liked it or not.

The radio crackled again, but no more words came. The heavy, oppressive air in the room seemed to tighten around you, as though his presence was everywhere, watching, listening. You could feel it—his loneliness, his pain. It was buried deep in the walls, in the very bones of the house.

He didn’t want company. He didn’t want anyone here.

But you weren’t leaving.

You settled back against the pillows, your heartbeat slowly returning to normal, though your mind was far from calm. The radio fell silent once more, but now you knew the truth.

Simon Riley didn’t want to be disturbed. But somehow, you had become part of his world, and leaving wasn’t an option. Not for you. Not for him.

This house wasn’t just haunted. It was his.

And you weren’t sure what would happen next, but you had no intention of running away.

Our house.

"This can be our house," you said one day, speaking to the empty room as if he were just another person. Another living person. It felt strange at first, surreal even, but the more you talked to him, the more it seemed to work. The oppressive atmosphere in the house shifted, just slightly. As if Simon—Ghost—was beginning to listen.

There was no denying it now. He was here, still tethered to this place, his presence as real as the walls that enclosed you. And for some reason, your words were getting through to him.

It wasn’t immediate. At first, it felt like nothing had changed, but then, at night, when the house was at its stillest and the air the heaviest, he began to speak again. It wasn’t much—just a few words here and there, but enough. Enough for you to start knowing his voice.

His voice was deep, rough, as though every syllable was dragged through gravel before it reached you. He didn’t speak often, and when he did, it was clear that he wasn’t thrilled by your presence. His attitude was hard to miss—he wasn’t a friendly ghost, not by a long shot. But he wasn’t entirely hostile either.

Mostly, he just wanted you to stop poking around.

“Quiet…” he would mutter, his voice carrying through the static of the radio, sending shivers down your spine. “Too… loud…”

Or, “Less light… turn it off…”

It was clear: Ghost had rules. And you, it seemed, had broken most of them without realizing it. He liked the darkness, the quiet. The less you moved, the less you explored, the better. He didn’t want your questions or your curiosity. He wanted silence, shadows, and solitude.

But you were anything but quiet.

"Sorry, but I'm not that kind of girl," you whispered back with a faint smile, knowing full well he could hear you. You could almost feel him sigh in exasperation, a hint of tension rising in the air, but nothing violent. Nothing dangerous.

Still, it fascinated you, learning these little details about him. You were starting to get a sense of his personality, his boundaries. He wasn’t angry, not really—he was just… annoyed. Irritated, perhaps, by the fact that you were disrupting the world he had created here, the isolation he craved. He didn’t like the way you insisted on keeping the lights on, the way you asked so many questions, always wanting to know more.

But what struck you most was how human he still felt. Beneath the brooding presence and clipped words, there was a man with preferences, with a personality. He had been something more than just a soldier, more than just a ghost haunting his past.

And oh, what a man.

“Less nosy…” he growled one night, his voice crackling through the radio after you’d spent the day researching more about him. You laughed, half amused, half unnerved.

“Can’t help it,” you said aloud, settling into bed. “I’m curious about you.”

The radio hummed, but there was no reply this time. You had the feeling he wasn’t one for compliments, for conversation, or even acknowledgment. He just wanted things his way, wanted you to stop being so intrusive.

But you weren’t going to stop. Not yet, at least. His irritation felt almost like a game now, and though he pushed back, he never pushed hard enough to scare you off.

“Fine, I’ll dim the lights,” you finally conceded one night, turning the lamp beside your bed to its lowest setting. The room bathed in soft shadows, the way he seemed to prefer it. “But I’m not going anywhere, Ghost. This house is ours now.”

The air shifted, a low, almost imperceptible hum vibrating through the walls. He didn’t speak, but you could feel him there, watching, listening.

For the first time, you felt a strange comfort in his presence. He didn’t want you here. But maybe, just maybe, he was starting to accept that you weren’t going anywhere.

And neither was he.

Safe.

The first time you felt him, it was like nothing you had ever experienced. You had gotten used to the whispers, the static, the odd shifts in the air—but actual contact? That was something you never expected. Yet, it happened.

It was late, the house settled into its familiar, unsettling quiet. The soft hum of the radio filled the room, faint enough to become background noise, but ever-present, like a heartbeat. You were drifting, teetering between wakefulness and sleep, your mind hazy when you felt it—a touch.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. A cool pressure, right on top of your head, like the faintest brush of fingers or a soft breeze pushing down. It wasn’t warm like a human touch, not alive, but it was there. Cold and delicate, it felt more like air than flesh, but the sensation was unmistakable.

Your eyes snapped open, heart racing, and for a moment, you didn’t move. Frozen. You lay still, trying to make sense of what just happened. Every muscle in your body tensed, waiting for something more, some confirmation that you hadn’t dreamed it.

But there it was again. That gentle, almost imperceptible pressure, lingering just a little longer this time, pressing against your scalp. The coldness of it seeped into your skin, sending shivers down your spine. And despite the fear curling inside you, there was something… fascinating about it.

Simon could touch you.

It wasn’t warm, wasn’t comforting in the way a human hand would be, but it was real. He was real. That simple touch, fleeting as it was, felt like a revelation. A connection—one you hadn’t expected to feel. He wasn’t just a voice on the radio, or a shadow in the corner. He was more than that, more than just a presence haunting these walls.

But the realization also scared you, a sudden wave of cold dread filling the room. If he could touch you, even in that small way, what else could he do? The thought made your stomach knot with fear. You weren’t sure you wanted to find out.

And then, in the quiet that followed, the static grew louder again. His voice, raspy and fragmented, pushed through the crackle of the radio.

“Forgot… lock the doors…”

His words, slow and deliberate, cut through the air like a warning. You felt a chill crawl down your arms, goosebumps rising on your skin. Instinctively, you glanced toward the door, your heart hammering in your chest. The lock. Had you forgotten? You couldn’t remember. Your thoughts blurred together in the fog of half-sleep.

Before you could move, his voice spoke again, softer this time, almost… amused.

“Careless…”

The word hung in the air, cold and sharp, like a scolding whisper.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You felt vulnerable, exposed, like the walls were watching you, like he was watching you. But it wasn’t anger or malice you sensed from him. No, it was something else—something almost… familiar. The same way someone might reprimand a child for leaving the lights on or forgetting to close the fridge. That cold touch on your head lingered like an afterthought, and the meaning behind his words began to settle in your mind.

Simon wasn’t threatening you. He was watching over you. In his own strange, spectral way, he was protecting you.

And that realization was more unnerving than anything else.

Your fingers trembled as you slid out of bed, your bare feet touching the cool floor. You padded toward the door, the sense of his presence heavy behind you. As you reached the handle, you hesitated for a second before turning it—locked. You had remembered after all.

Still, the point was clear. He was testing you. Or maybe he was just reminding you that, in this house, nothing went unnoticed. Not by him.

You crawled back into bed, heart still racing, thoughts spinning. The room was still thick with the weight of his presence, but now you couldn’t shake the feeling that this house, this connection with Simon—it was evolving. What started as fear was slowly becoming something else.

You pulled the blankets up around your shoulders, sinking back into the pillows, your mind buzzing with the strangeness of it all. You were still scared, yes. But you were also intrigued, curious about this man who haunted your life in more ways than one.

And as you closed your eyes, his voice echoed faintly in the static once more.

“… safe.”

Apparition.

One night, everything felt different.

The air was heavier than usual, the familiar static of the radio silent. No footsteps, no whispers, no cold touch on your skin. Simon—the presence you had grown oddly used to—was quiet. Unnervingly quiet. You couldn’t place it, but something felt off. The house felt emptier, darker, as though he had withdrawn into the shadows, leaving you to fend for yourself in his absence.

That night, you had the most terrifying nightmare.

In your dream, a group of men barged into your home. Faces hidden by shadows, their movements quick and violent. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t speak. The fear hit you like a tidal wave, paralyzing your body as they advanced. In the dream, you fought—screaming, kicking, anything to protect yourself—but it wasn’t enough. Cold hands grabbed you, yanked you from the bed, and the flash of a blade was the last thing you saw before the world went dark.

You awoke with a gasp, your heart pounding, your skin clammy with sweat. For a moment, you weren’t sure if you were still dreaming. The fear was too real, too sharp. But then you saw him.

Standing in the doorway, a figure so tall, so broad, you couldn’t mistake it for anything else. A shadow, dark and hulking, its outline barely distinguishable in the dim light of the room. But you knew. You knew it was him.

“Simon…?” you whispered, your voice trembling. The shadow didn’t move, didn’t shift. You couldn’t see his face, just the dark mass of his form, but somehow, you could feel his gaze locked on you. Watching.

He didn’t respond. You blinked, trying to shake the fog of fear clouding your mind. And in that single moment of hesitation, he was gone.

The doorway was empty.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you sat there, staring at the spot where he had been, your pulse still racing from the nightmare. The silence was deafening, the room thick with an unspoken tension. You knew it had been him, but why had he appeared like that? Why now, after so many nights of just whispers and static?

Hours passed, and you couldn’t sleep. Your mind raced with questions, your heart unsettled by his sudden, eerie appearance. You kept replaying the nightmare in your head—the men, the violence, the cold finality of it all. And yet, somehow, you didn’t feel that kind of fear when you saw him.

The radio hummed softly, breaking the silence, and his voice—low, rough—finally came through.

“Scared you… apologize…”

His voice was softer than usual, almost hesitant. Sorry. The word lingered in the air, and for the first time, you realized something. He wasn’t a threat to you. Not in death, and probably not even in life. Whatever danger he carried with him, it wasn’t meant for you.

You took a deep breath, your fear settling into something more like curiosity. Slowly, you sat up, pulling the blanket around you. The shadows in the room no longer felt suffocating. You understood now—Simon had never meant to hurt you. He had just… forgotten, maybe. Forgotten what it was like to be with someone, to be close to anyone.

“He’s not here to harm me,” you whispered to yourself, the words feeling right.

But the question that had been burning in your mind for weeks finally broke free. You had to know.

“How did you die?”

The silence in the house deepened, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then you heard them—slow, deliberate footsteps echoing from the hallway outside your room. They sent a shiver down your spine, not out of fear, but out of anticipation.

The steps stopped just outside the door, and then you heard it. His voice, low and hollow, filled with a pain so deep you could feel it in your chest.

“…Betrayal.”

That single word cut through the air like a blade, sharp and cold, leaving a chill in its wake. You closed your eyes, letting it sink in. Betrayal. That’s how he had died. Not in some random home invasion, not in some anonymous act of violence. Someone—someone—had betrayed him. And it cost him everything.

The weight of that word hung over you, making your heart ache for this man who had suffered so much, even after death. He wasn’t just a ghost haunting your home. He was a man with a story, with a past full of wounds that had never healed.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper. “Who betrayed you, Simon?”

The radio crackled, but no words followed. Only the soft hum of static, and the slow, steady sound of his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

He wasn’t ready to tell you everything. Not yet.

But now, you knew enough to understand—this house, this haunting, was about more than just restless spirits. It was about Simon Riley, and the scars that still bound him to this world. Scars of betrayal, of loss, of a life cut short in the most painful way.

And you weren’t going to leave. Not until you knew the full story.

You need to leave me.

You had to do it. You couldn’t just keep going on like this, with half-answers and fleeting glimpses of shadows in the night. No more whispers through the static or cold touches in the dark. If Simon was truly here, then you needed to really talk to him. And not just with casual questions thrown into the air. You needed something more direct.

So you set the stage.

Candles. It seemed cliché, maybe even ridiculous, but in your gut, you felt like it might help. You placed them carefully around the room, their soft flickering light casting long shadows on the walls. The whole room felt different, like the air was humming with anticipation. You were nervous—terrified, even—but you were determined to push past the fear.

The night fell, the house cloaked in its usual quiet, but you could sense it. The weight of his presence pressed down on the room, like he was watching, waiting. This time, though, you weren’t going to be passive. This time, you were going to make him appear.

You sat on the edge of the couch, your heart hammering in your chest as you stared at the soft glow of the candles. You focused on the flame, on its steady flicker, trying to ground yourself in the moment.

"Simon," you whispered into the stillness, your voice steady, despite the anxiety gnawing at you. "I want to talk to you. Really talk."

The seconds dragged by, thick and heavy, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d made a mistake. If he wouldn’t come. Or worse—if he would, and this time, he wouldn’t be so forgiving.

But then, you felt it. The cold shift in the air, the subtle pressure that always preceded his presence. And there he was.

His tall figure emerged from the shadows, slow and deliberate, until he stood just at the edge of the room. He didn’t move like a living person, didn’t sway or shift with his steps. His movements were smooth, too smooth, like a ghost carried on the wind. He was tall, bigger than you remembered, and as he approached, your pulse quickened. He stopped right at the couch, standing above you, his presence overwhelming.

Then he sat.

Your breath hitched. The couch creaked under his weight, and he loomed there, his figure dark and imposing in the low light. You had to fight the urge to run, to hide under the covers like a scared child. Every instinct in your body screamed for you to flee, but you stayed. You had to.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He just sat there, like some silent sentinel, watching you with that unseen gaze. The air was thick with tension, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.

Finally, his voice came—low and rough, crackling through the static of the radio.

"You put some candles…" he said, his tone almost… amused. Like he was observing a quaint ritual, one that intrigued him more than it should have.

But it wasn’t his figure that spoke. The shadow on the couch didn’t move, didn’t react. It was still, perfectly still. Yet you could feel him there, could feel the weight of his attention, even though his voice came from the radio, distorted and distant as always.

And then you saw it—the mask.

In the dim light of the candles, the shadows shifted just enough for you to make it out. The mask that had haunted so many of your dreams, the one you’d seen glimpses of in military photos and war documentaries. It was iconic, a skull painted over the face, hollow eyes that stared out into nothingness.

You couldn’t see his face, not really. The darkness concealed him well. But that mask—its outline, its meaning—was unmistakable. He wasn’t just some nameless, faceless ghost. He was Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, and the man behind that mask was more than a simple spirit lost in the ether. He was something else. Something dangerous. Something broken.

But not to you. You knew that now.

"You’re really here," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. It wasn’t a question anymore. He had been there all along, lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting for you to get close enough to see him.

"Why do you stay?" you asked, your voice trembling despite yourself. "Why are you still here, Simon?"

The radio crackled, his voice rough and slow. "No… where else… to go."

Your heart ached at those words. He was trapped. Bound to this place, to this existence, because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. The weight of his loneliness pressed down on you, and for the first time, you realized just how deeply it affected him. The isolation, the silence. It was his prison.

"You have... somewhere to go, live... life, get out of here."

And through the noise of the static and your own heart, you knew that the reason he wanted you gone was because he believed, or knew, that you deserved a better place.

A better company, a real one.

|| Any suggestions for part two, or even new stories, are welcome! ||

[stoutguts]

Graves is really just that type of guy that you want to entirely hate so fucking bad, like you HAVE REASON to hate him WHOLLY. For him being Shepherd’s lapdog, and the fact he QUITE LITERALLY slaughtered countless civilians in Las Almas along with the Shadow Company.

Yet bro is just so fucking funny, so chaotic, like you just can’t. He’s SO likable (the goofy southern accent, and with the way he talks and some of the shit he says), yet SO unlikable (with his smart ass attitude and all), at the same time. Though personally I (MOSTLY) hate him,—I can really see either side. I see you Graves defenders, you fucking weirdos.

SHEPHERD on the other hand though…is so clapped I’m not sorry. I wish nothing but the worst for that fucking geezer. His lazy ass within the cushiest part of the military. Both of his deaths, in the remakes and the OG games, are so SO fucking satisfying. Especially in 09’ though, (revenge for Ghost and Roach, god I hate him so much in 09’ especially (but that may be because I ignore a shit ton of MW3 (2023) as canon). (I think most agree the MW3 remake campaign is SO ASS for SO many reasons, lmao, Foap deid).

I hope both sides of his pillow are always warm, that his shoelaces constantly come undone and that he trips over them, I hope he steps in dog shit and doesn’t notice it until it’s too late, I hope that when he’s crossing a crosswalk that the cars don’t stop for him, etc. if there are some Shepherd defenders out there, no hate, but I really, REALLY do not understand you.

Stout out.

[sacrificial-lamb444]

I saw you post cod stuff? Would you do head canons?

If so I had a funny one: what sanrio character would each of the 141 guys like

I will so do head canons!!!! ^_^

Here's what I think but feel free to give your own input! :3

Price: I think he'd be a classic hello kitty guy. It's an oldie but a goodie after all! He's probably aware of the franchise but sees it as a thing for kids.

Gaz: See I feel like Gaz would know what tf is up with sanrio girls/guys. He's a Pompompurin kinda guy (bonus points for iconic hats)

Soap: Cinnamoroll 100%. It just feels right.

Ghost: Ghost has no idea what Sanrio is tbh, he's like aware of hello kitty but only vaguely in a curtural osmosis way. You'd have to explain it to him. But I think he'd end up liking Gudetama the most if he had to choose.

[codnasties]

loser!konig 🗡 (🌽 link)

k-k-konig?!?! loser!konig fucking his fleshlight because he can't get real pussy, and some plastic is the only way of getting of getting something close to the feeling of the real thing :( he's such a failure that all it takes him is a dozen thrusts into the silicone body before his dick starts twitching strongly, making him unable to stop himself before he starts filling his pocket pussy with his potent seed, wishing it was a true wet cunt

and the nipple piercings?!?!? the hairy chest!?!?! the chains!?!? the way he pours the cum out onto his dick after?!?!

i need to stop getting this kind of videos on my fyp on x because girl it makes me feral

[ink-n-shadow]

John "Soap" Mactavish

(blue indicates works that include content that is not suitable for minors. minors should not interact with these works—these works are inteded for individuals 18+)

[ ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSES ]

incubus!johnny ⤷ pretty please? dadforce!johnny ⤷ bear onesie

[ DRABBLES ]

canon ⤷ what'dya just call me? ⤷ pent up ⤷ friends with benefits...and then some ⤷ get there someday ⤷ chalk and trainers non-canon

[franabz]

★Girldad!Price x Fem!reader headcanons

Girldad!Price that was absolutely ecstatic when he found out the missus was having a baby girl, and even almost cried a few times during the ultrasound appointments he begged to go to with you. Even more so when he found out it was a girl.

Girldad!Price that was obsessed with your baby bump, always finding excuses to feel his baby girl kicking beneath his large hand splayed over your belly or to lay his head on your bump, quietly cooing about how happy he was to be the father of your baby. "She's gonna be just as amazing s'you, luvie."

Girldad!Price that insisted on going baby shopping with you, holding onto your arm as his eyes roamed across the racks of baby girl clothes. He isn't very big on fashion, but he does his best. He definitely plucked a "Daddy's girl" shirt from a rack and tossed it into the basket without saying a word, knowing damn well he was proud of himself for it, though he would never say it out loud.

Girldad!Price that never lets you overwork yourself. How could you be working around the house while carrying his baby? Outrageous. You're hungry? He's already in the kitchen whipping up your pregnancy cravings. The house needs some tidying? He's two steps ahead of you, wiping down the kitchen counters and sweeping the floor. He's always been good at cleaning, anyways.

Girldad!Price that despite his years of military experience, was freaking out when you went into labor. Suddenly all of his training was out then window when he got that call from work, hearing the urgency in your voice when you said your water broke. Now he's completely dropped everything to absolutely book it home while on the phone with you at the same time, trying his best to comfort you while he was panicking himself.

Girldad!Price that by some stroke of luck, managed to snatch up both you and the hospital bag, practically slamming on the gas while your pained groans and string of swears practically passed in one ear and out the other. He was about to be a dad... Oh boy, someone get him an Asprin.

Girldad!Price that was stone cold frozen when he saw his daughter for the first time, scared that he would break her tiny fragile body if he held her, but also too scared to look away. The second the nurses offered him to hold her, the man absolutely broke down in tears, full on ugly sobbing and blubbering incoherent words as he held his baby for the first time, her tiny hand wrapped around his large finger. You knew from this point on that he would do anything for that girl.

Girldad!Price, as if he wasn't at your hip enough, was practically strapped to your side whenever you had the baby with you. The second you were discharged from the hospital he insisted on being the one to hold her while you got the rest you deserved, "You go rest up, luvie. Daddy's got'er." He'd say often as he scooped the little bundle of joy from your arms, cradling her against his chest and walking away. You knew better than to argue with him, especially with his little girl.

Girldad!Price that heard knocking on the front door, only to be greeted by the rest of 141, all eager to see the baby. Gaz was the most concerned, asking if you have been eating and taking care of yourself since you had her. Soap was playing with her, stirring up a playful game of peek-a-boo or doing anything to get a giggle out of the sweet baby girl. Ghost, ever the distant man, decided to observe from a distance, though after much persuasion from everyone else finally held the baby against his strong chest. You could practically see the tension relieving in his shoulders as he stared at her, expressing wordless adoration. "Y'did good, dove." Ghost muttered almost inaudibly, earning a small fond chuckle out of you.

Girldad!Price that made it everybody's business about his sweet baby girl. You're in the barracks playing darts with other soldiers? He's showing you baby pictures and doting on about how cute and sweet she is. You're in the mess hall just trying to get through the day while tearing open an MRE? He sits down beside you and talks all about how much his life has changed after the missus gave birth to his baby girl. Even the new recruits noticed a change in the usually cold and straight-forward Captain.

Girldad!Price that practically saw stars when his baby girl said her first words, not to mention her first steps. You can only imagine the look on the man's face while he was watching a good ol' game of football on the TV and you were in the kitchen whipping up dinner when he heard a small babbled "M-Mummaa!-" out of the bunny. Sure, he was a little disappointed it wasn't a "Papa", but nonetheless he was smitten even more, if that was even possible.

Girldad!Price that gave the little lady a whole fighting lesson before she started her first day of kindergarten. "Aim for the back o' tha knees, bunny.", "Anyone bothers you n' you come t'me, got it?" It earned a few cheeky comments and scoffs from you, though he insisted it was necessary. Nobody would be messing with his baby girl under his watch.

Girldad!Price that will hang up any drawing his little girl makes as if it was the best work of art he'd ever seen. He's watch and nod in awe as she totted up to him with a piece of paper and three drawings of egg-shaped people, claiming it was him, you, and her. She made sure to make daddy's beard very prominent (by that she drew scribbles across his potato face with a brown crayon)

Girldad!Price that got the annual "Daddy Daughter Dance" flyer from the little one after he picked her up from school, already silently planning the whole night together with her. Already planning the suit he's going to wear and taking her shopping to pick out whatever dress she want, also having the missus do her hair all nice and pretty to make her feel like the princess she is.

Girldad!Price that is rolling up to the Daddy Daughter Dance with the little bunny, opening the door for her as she hopped out of the back seat and glaring at anybody that does as much as glance at his princess the wrong way. He's holding her hand the whole way there, standing tall and causing others to look away as soon as his glares meets their field of view. To outsiders, an intimidating and hardened military veteran that could snap them in half without breaking a sweat; But to his baby girl? A giant teddy bear that gives the best hugs and treats her like the princess she is.

[empresskylo]

ghost knows he’s too rough and impatient with sex. knows he won’t know how to please you properly. knows he can’t possibly do things right with you, knowing you’ve never done this before. but god, he wants to. he wants to treat you how you deserve. never thought he’d be so desperate to fuck someone good and slow like he does with you.

so he goes to price. the one man who will know all the right ways to please a lady properly. asks him to show him how to take care of you. tells him he doesn't know how to care for someone else's needs, at least with someone inexperienced like you. tells him he needs to be instructed. to see just how he should work you.

you’re nervous at first, thinking it’s an absolutely insane idea, but you can’t hide the wetness along your panties as you sit on ghost’s lap, back pressed against his chest, legs spread, his knuckle dragging down your warmth. price sits back in his chair, telling ghost exactly how to move his fingers, paying close attention to your body's minuscule movements, the way your brows furrow when ghost moves a certain way, or your eyelashes fluttering.

and this was supposed to be a strictly hands-off approach… but god, watching ghost fumble, unable to maintain the slow speed you need, keeping you from reaching your orgasm, has price on edge. he leans forward, rolling his chair with him, and tells ghost to stop. tells him to watch and to pay close attention. price tears your panties off and your eyes go wide at the contact. you swallow, expecting ghost to be furious, but his hands only settle around you and he takes notes as he watches his captain work.

price runs his thumb up your slit, circling your nub, and tells ghost to hold your thighs apart when you unconsciously try to clench them. then his finger is sinking into you and your head falls back against ghost's chest, eyes shut. you moan and you feel ghost harden beneath you. “how’s that feel, sweetheart?” price asks you. you babble out incoherently, price adding a second finger, and chuckling darkly at your response.

it becomes too much, his fingers thrusting in and out of you, his other hand rubbing your clit, ghost's fingers digging into the softness of your thighs as he forces them apart. “ohmygod,” you slur, “m’gonna—“ price smirks, his eyes darkening as he watches you orgasm, your body clenching around his fingers shoved deep in your heat. "talk her through it," price tells ghost. so ghost does. you're shaking still and ghost rubs his hands over your exposed skin. "that's it, baby. you're doin' s'good," he praises.

"whata fuckin' sight," price mumbles to himself, his fingers leaving you empty. you steady your breathing, coming down from your high, completely limp in ghost's arms. price can see the way ghost's eyes have gone dark, his pupils swallowing his irises whole. knows ghost doesn't know how to be soft. sees the feral need to ram himself into you overtaking his features. "gonna take it slow with her, yeah?" price asks.

ghost breathes rapidly out, his hips begging to buck up against you. he knows he wouldn't be able to control himself if you let him fuck you. so he answers honestly. "not sure I'd be able to."

price tsks, sitting back in thought, his eyes roving over your spent body. you suddenly feel shy, wanting to close your legs, but ghost's arms tighten on you. "need me t'break her in?" price finally asks after several long beats of silence.

ghost grinds up against you, his hand sliding into your hair and pulling your head to the side so he can kiss your neck. your eyes flutter at his attempts to be so delicate with you. "want the captain here to be your first time, love?" ghost asks against your skin. you stutter when you answer. "don't you want to be?" "course I do. but I won't go easy on ya. I'd hate to ruin you, sweet girl. price will take it nice n' slow. just like you need." and after, you'll be ready to take ghost. ready to adjust to his size.

you swallow hard, ghost's hands escaping and clawing at your clothed chest. you nod. "o-okay."

price stands from his chair and begins to undo his belt. "come sit on my desk, sweetheart."

cod masterlist

[writersdrug]

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish is the kind of dad who throws your kids around for fun, tossing them into the air and catching them just to hear their infectious laughter, ignoring the worrisome protests that you call out from the kitchen when they get a little too high.

Captain John Price is the kind of dad who convinces your children to ask you for pizza for dinner, acting all surprised when you tell him to call the local pizza place, eyebrows rising with "What's the occasion?" despite the obvious grin that his plan worked. You aren't fooled.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is the kind of dad who chases your kids around with a nerf gun, relentlessly pelting them with styrofoam bullets and ganging up on your oldest son with your youngest daughter. Waits behind the front door for your son to get home from school and immediately fires on him.

Simon "Ghost" Riley is the kind of dad who holds your toddlers like footballs, your daughter tucked sideways under his arm and dangling your son by his ankle. "Found these mice sniffin' 'round the cookie tin." He says with a deadpan expression, but you don't miss the way his mouth twitches when they giggle and shriek.

[roachs-pet-roach]

okay so i js had a thought while fighting w/ my hair to look presentable:

Roach has weird hair. It’s too straight to be considered curly but too curly to be considered straight.

He treats it as curly hair (putting the curly hair shit in it and such) b/c if he doesn’t it gets frizzy (it gets frizzy anyways but its worse)

but he HATES it. he can never get it to look good and it’s impossible to figure out what the hell to do with it most days. Bedhead is the worst for him

Ghost and Soap love it. It’s fluffy. Ghost loves to gently run his fingers through it while Soap likes to mess it up more.

Roach can’t stand when they call it cute but at the same time he likes it. He’s very conflicted on his hair.