Note: I made this two parts since I really wanted to post this but couldn't find the energy to write for the others tonight. Tomorrow you'll get Price, Rudi and Soap tho (I used alphabetical order, that's why they're last). Trope: Fluff, angst, hurt comfort Word count: 1.303 Trigger warning: Mention of torture
Alejandro: Alejandro was no stranger to sleepless nights. It took an eternity for him to fall asleep, worries and sorrows keeping him awake. When he did finally fall asleep, the nightmares came. He'd stand in the town square of Las Almas, having to watch as his family, friends and comrades were put against a wall. He couldn't run or scream, just stand there. When he suddenly stared in the barrel of a gun he finally woke up, shirt wet with sweat, the rooms silence filled by his heavy breaths. "Joder (Fuck)", he mumbled, getting up and putting on a new shirt. It was 0200 (2 am). He decided to get a tea. As he stepped in the community room he was surprised to see the lights on, you standing in pyjamas in front of the boiling kettle, a mug in your hand. "(Name)? What are you doing in the kitchen an two in the morning, tesoro?" You turned around, grinning but tired. "I could ask you the same, Ale" He sighed and grabbed a mug and tea bag (Spanish orange) "Can't sleep. You?" "Same. Do you... Wanna talk about it?", he shook his head. "Not right now, I think.... Just need to think about something else" You shrugged. "Understandable" You two sat down on the couch, sitting in silence, drinking the tea, each lost in their own thoughts. "Would you rather fight one hundred duck sized horses or one horse sized duck?", you suddenly asked. He looked at you like you had grown two horns. "Ehhh, madre mia, the horses, I think?", he answered. "Me too. Even though it would depend on the horse" He chuckled. "Are you trying to distract me?" You grinned "Is it working?" He rolled his eyes "A bit". You leaned you head on his shoulder, and after a moment he put his head on yours. "Good" You continued to banter about random nonsense until, finally, fatigue overcame you and you finally fell asleep. It was the best sleep either of you had gotten in a while.
Gaz: Falling asleep wasn't the problem. But as soon as Gaz drifted off into dream land, he was haunted. Faces of fallen comrades screamed at him for not saving them, the screams of agony of their last moments, the pleas of enemies he tortured filled his mind. With a muffled yelp he shot up in his bed, chest heaving. "Fuck", he muttered, getting up and pacing up and down in his room. His heart was beating like a racehorse. He grabbed his gym bag and decided to head to the training rooms. He was surprised to see the lights on, the thudding of fists hitting the punching bag filling the room. "Not bad, (name)", he stepped closer, looking at you. You sighed. "Can't sleep either?", you asked. He nodded. "Yea. Damn nightmares", he punched the bag, making it swing violently. You stepped back, sitting down on the mat and leaning against the wall. "Wanna talk about it?". He thought for a moment before turning his attention back on the bag. You thought he'd just ignore you and stay quiet, but as he started punching the bag, he muttered under his breath. "I couldn't save them. I killed them" His punches got harder and more aggressive. "It's my fault. It's my fault". You weren't sure who he was talking about, but it didn't quite matter right now. "Hey, hey, Gaz", you tried to calm him down. "Cmere", you patted the mat next to you. He seemed to contemplate for a moment, but then finally sat down next to you. A shuddered breath escaped him as he slumped in on himself. You opened your mouth, but quite honestly you weren't sure what to say. So you just sat in silence, but it wasn't an awkward feeling. It felt... Safe. Suddenly, you felt his head on your shoulder, and smiled, leaning yours against his.
Ghost: For Ghost, a good nights sleep was as common as a unicorn. Everytime he closed his eyes, he was there again. Buried alive, in a coffin, squished next to a decaying body. But this time, he didn't get out. He thrashed and screamed, unbeknownst to him not only in his sleep, but it was no use. He was trapped, he was trapped, he was trapped. Panic flooded his every fiber, but he just wouldn't fucking wake up. His eyes widened when he finally woke up. His breath came in short, shuddering gasps, tears staining his cheeks. He wanted to run, he needed to run or else he'd suffocate. He almost fell over putting on his pants and running shoes before he ripped open his door and ran. He didn't know where, he just needed to run. The sky was still dark, with the faintest shimmer of violet light creeping up the horizon. He aimed for the woods behind the barracks, mindlessly running along the paths. "Fuck, Riley, watch your step, big boy", a sudden voice squeaked. He opened his eyes which he didn't remember closing. He looked down, seeing you knocked over on the ground. "Sorry", he mumbled, giving you a hand and pulling you up. "What are you doing here at this time of night?", you raised an eyebrow. He shifted his weight. "Can't sleep". "Me too...", you looked at him. His gaze was weird... Dead, somehow. "Do you... Want to talk about it?", you asked carefully. "No", he said, voice firm. "Come with me", you grabbed his arm, leading him to a bench nearby, guiding him down and plopping next to him. "I'm here for you, you know that, right?" He gulped. "Yea..." A deep sigh escaped him. "...Thank you". You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "No problem", you mumbled, feeling him relaxing under you.
Horangi: They were here, they'd kill him, fuck, he needed to hide, he needed to hide. Horangi panted, clenching his fist in the sheets. His eyes opened wide and he rubbed the scars on his face. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and stepped outside, sliding down the wall. He lit it and took a deep breath, letting his head roll back and closing his eyes. "Whatcha doin there?", you voice suddenly sound beside him. "빌어먹을!" (Fucking hell, may be a bit wrong since I don't speak Korean) He had jumped up, sighing when he saw it was just you. "Stop sneaking up to me like that, (name)". You chuckled. "Heh, sorry". You sat down next to him. "Can't sleep?", you looked up at him. He nodded. "I don't wanna talk about it". "Then lets just... Sit" You leaned against him, feeling the tension melt slightly from his form.
König: As soon as he closed his eyes, the memories came. He was strapped to a chair, only dressed in boxer shorts, his hood gone. He felt exposed. They whipped, beat and cut him, the scars still evident on his skin. He stood up on shaky legs, the scars on his body aching. A small tin of ointment stood on the table, which he grabbed and carefully rubbed it in. He was not gonna fall asleep anytime soon again. With a heavy sigh he put on his clothes and shuffled towards the armoury. He plopped down on a bench and started cleaning his guns. "Hey there", he hadn't heard you, and immediately pointed the empty gun at you. "Scheiße! You scared me!", he mumbled. You giggled, sitting down next to him. "Sorry". He rolled his eyes and watched him clean his weapons for a minute. "Can't sleep?", you asked. "Nightmares", he answered shortly. You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his muscles move under it as he wiped down the barrel of his gun. "You can always talk to me, you know?", you mumbled. "Yea... Danke"
I'm ganna upload a few art pieces I made before finals kick my ass
Captain Mactavish writing “How many times can a man save your life until it's no longer your own” in his journal after getting saved again is KILLING ME why is he so depressing I love him so much oh my god give my man a BREAK he’s so underrated
Do you like Call of Duty because of cool character and cool guns, or do you like the idea of people seeing you at your worst/nastiest, yet they know you have value so they don't hold that against you and try to work things out
You always wondered how König was when he was back at base and being colonel. You wished you had some type of secret superpower and could teleport to see if what Hutch or Stiletto said was true. You had asked him one time, and he didn't even answer the question. Well, he sort of did. Blaming the recruits for causing him to be mean and making them run long miles.
"You don't get it, liebe. They're all morons, and they think they can fool around all the time. So I, as a colonel, do my job and make them suffer the consequences."
You learned your lesson to not ask ever again on a sunny friday morning when you got a little taste. You had decided to join him on a run and at first you were all giddy and confident. How bad could it be? The weather was perfect and working those 12 hour shifts had prepared you.
Yeah, you were wrong.
You were practically on your knees, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat. It felt like each breath you took was getting worse. Your giant husband just stood there. There was some sweat on his forehead, but he didn't look like he was struggling.
The man had the nerve to scoff.
"C'mon soldier. You wouldn't survive a day in the field with just." König checks his watch. "Only ten minutes of running."
You look up and glare at him. "I-I can't catch up to you! You're taller!"
"My height has nothing to do with your running capabilites." König says.
"You're running faster! You have experience." You shout, very annoyed.
He shakes his head. You can see a grin forming on his face even when he's wearing that damn hood. "Nein. Just excuses. Even a rookie could do better."
How dare he.
"You know what! I may not be able to beat you, Mr. Colonel, but I know dang well you couldn't clear a screen during a rush in minutes." You spat back, the bottle in your hand falling to the floor.
"Quit your babbling rookie and get to running."
Oh and you indeed showed him. Even when your lungs were burning and you almost twisted your ankle, you made it before him. Soon as you got to the top of the goal, you did your little dance and mocked him the way he was first.
"Guess what? This little rookie just beat your ass colonel." You say, your finger poking his chest. Almost getting distracted by the way the black shirt was sticking to his skin.
"Is that how you talk to your superior?"
You nod. "You best believe it."
And with that you own yourself a piggyback ride home by your mean husband( he literally let you win but won't admit it because he loves your competive side).
König just loves you ❣️
I'm gonna try writing some things for the other boys, but honestly I've never played Cod, so I apologize in advance for making their characters not sooo accurate. Currently listening and watching their cut scenes to get a feeling of their personality, wish me luck
Do I have your permission to write a small fic about this picture? It looks so good
retired 🩶
Note: Soooo, quick disclaimer. I hc that Soap was grazed by the bullet on the left side of his head, and also shot in the left shoulder. I'm not a doctor, so there will be medical inaccuracies. Word count: 332
One and a half weeks later, Soap was finally discharged from the military hospital (He begged the nurses to let him go). Price had placed him on sick leave. "Where're you gonna go now, Johnny?", Ghost leaned on the doorframe of Soaps room, watching as the other man struggled to pack his stuff with his arm in a sling. "Fucking shite. Home, Ghosty. See my family again", he, unsuccessfully, tried folding his shirt with only one arm. Ghost rolled his eyes and stepped towards him. "Can't watch that", he mumbled before sitting down next to Soap and starting to fold his shirts. "D'you only have compression shirts?", he eyed his shirts. Soap shrugged, immediately wincing. "Brings out the muscles, you know?", he winked. "I s'pose...", Ghost couldn't keep himself from staring at said muscles a second too long. "Like what you see?", Soap eyed the lieutenant, grinning. "Shut up before I make you." "Tempting." They continued folding and packing in silence for a few minutes, Ghost occasionally on Soaps rather interesting shirt prints. "Aren't you on leave now too?", Soap asked. "Yea", Ghost put the last shirt in the bag. "Why?". He shot Soap a suspicious glance. "Y' could come with me. Doubt you got better plans". Ghost stilled. "I- I don't think that's a good idea." "Why?" He sighed. "I don't- I don't want to scare your family. Or put them in any danger." Soap chuckled lowly. "My family is Scottish, a little skull mask ain't gonna scare them. And as for the danger, again, we're Scots. We've dealt with worse. Besides, we got a farm, in the highlands. You can run around all ye want, don't have to talk, just be there." Ghost sighed. "I don't know, Johnny". "Why not? Or are ye so keen on staying here in the dirty barracks for two weeks?", Soap gave him puppy eyes. "Please, Simon" Ghost rolled his eyes. "Don't Simon me." He got up and flicked Soaps ear. "I'll think about it."
This is the shirt Ghost likes the most
Simple portraits
spring 🌼🌧️
Word count: 244 Simon firmly believed that regret was one of the most painful things someone could experience. It set his body ablaze, burned through his skin and into his bones.
The few seconds it took to run over Soaps limp, unconscious body, all of the things he wanted to say flung through his head like shrapnel from a bomb, boring their sharp edges into his mind.
He knelt down next to him, shaking hands desperately trying to find a pulse. There was none.
„I‘m sorry, Johnny. I‘m so sorry.“, his voice strained with shock and despair. „I love you. I need you. Please don‘t die, please.“ The black fabric of his mask was wet with tears.
Through the painful ringing in his ears, he could hear Price order a medevac over comms.
He held him in his arms until evac arrived. Softly cradling his head, silently praying for those storm blue eyes to open again.
His fingers rested on his pulse the entire time, trying to conjure up a faint rhythm, even though he knew that it would not come.
His forehead rested against Soap‘s, nobody daring to pull him away. Suddenly, there was something. A weak, light throb under his gloved fingertip. His head jerked up, eyes wide with a mixture between hope and despair.
Hastily, he pulled the glove off his hand, pressing his finger into Soap‘s neck. There it was again. A pulse. Weak and unsteady, but it was there.
Johnny was alive.