Hi! Names Nishi or Nish (she/her). I make gifs and edits, dabble in writing and digital and traditional art. This is a side blog dedicated to my CoD brainrot and the occasional meme and thoughts. Which means...
THIS BLOG IS 18+. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
Edits & Art
Please don't don't claim them as your own. If you use any of my gifs or icons, credit is appreciated (also if you use any in your stories, I would love to read them!)
GIFs
- Simon 'Ghost' Riley
- Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish
- Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
- Captain John Price
Edits
Picspams
Icons
Art
Moodboards
Writing
AO3: RegressionTest
Writing Tag
Drabble
Story Ideas
(I know my writing is bad but please don't feed it to A.I)
Price who’s been married to you for twenty years and been cheating for twenty five of them, swaggering home from the pub like he’s Britain’s last surviving sex symbol. Bragging to the lads that he’s still got it every time he picks up another young college kid with big doe eyes and fat tits who could have any pick of guy and choose him. Refusing to divorce you when the others bring it up because where else is he going to find a loyal wife who cooks, cleans, and somehow never notices the lipstick on his collar?
Vs
You, who’s known the entire time. You, who’s done more than know. You, who’s been bribing, blackmailing, and occasionally outright paying women to sleep with him since the first girl. Not to boost his ego. God, no. You’re simply keeping the old bastard happy and unsuspecting until retirement.
Then the house, the pension, and the good silver are yours.
Tags: cumming in pants, meet-cute, lap dances, love at first sight
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Quite possibly the funniest memory of the taskforce happened on Ghost’s 32nd Birthday.
Ghost was adamant not to celebrate it, eager to spend the night in the base’s gym, beating the punching bag to a pulp. His friends, however, had a much different plan.
One thing led to another, they were three bottles deep at the strip club, and Soap had insisted on spending an absurd amount of money to buy Simon a private dance with the club’s most popular stripper.
Enter you, towering in 6 inch heels, bare skin painted with body glitter and spilt liquor, all but naked except for the tiny g-string hugging your covetable hips.
Simon had barely downed a single beer all night, too outraged at his friends to get into the birthday spirit.
He’d been nearly at his wits’ end with Soap’s antics, but the second you’d strutted in, bare tits exposed and covered in hot pink glitter, his words had died on his tongue.
The boys had hooted and hollered as you hauled a silent (and completely stiff) Simon Riley from his chair and yanked him across the club by his shirt collar.
Their laughing had drowned in the music. Unbeknownst to him, they’d huddled around the crack in the door, choking on their laughter as you cranked up the music.
You’d rubbed your ass against his hips. Pulled his hands off the arm rests to grope at your tits. Toyed with the edge of that tiny pair of panties until he could see the neat little patch of hair hidden just underneath the scant fabric.
All the while, Simon had been ramrod straight in his chair. Unspeaking. Unmoving. Unblinking. Completely and utterly expressionless.
To the 141, it was downright hilarious, watching a pretty thing like you vigorously shake your ass up and down the human equivalent of a brick wall.
To Simon…well, it’s a much different story.
His nails were dug into the chair so deep the leather threatened to break. His heart was beating 500 times a minute. Beneath the mask, he was soaked in sweat, trying valiantly not to huff down the scent of your sweet perfume.
He knew you could feel how hard he was. Knew you could feel the way he twitched at your every touch, too. And yet…you just didn’t care.
He could hear all three of them laughing too hard to breathe behind the scant cover of the door. But when you pulled his hands off of the chair and gave him a wicked smile, before slowly guiding his limp fist into the slick gusset of your panties…
He couldn’t stop himself from cumming in his jeans right then and there. Wide-eyed and breathless, he’d choked down a groan by clearing his throat. Agitated, he’d glanced at your face while the chemical bliss exploded behind his eyes.
He’d expected you to be enraged, to go storming out the door, yelling for security.
But when he looked up at you, he was blinded by the sheer hunger in your eye—by the way you couldn’t stop grinding yourself up against him even then, long after the music had stopped.
Needless to say, the 141 barely remember a single flicker of that night beyond the hilarious image of their stock-still, skull-faced beanstalk with a lap full of overeager stripper.
Simon, on the other hand…he remembers it all.
Especially, he remembers the lipstick-stained napkin you’d tucked into the pocket of his cum stained jeans.
That, and the ten digits you’d scrawled thereon before biting your goodbyes into the crook of his reddened neck.
genuinely cannot get the wording right on this but
john price on the run after killing shepherd ends up in some nowhere swamp town that's barely staying above the income line and falls in love in between the aisles of the smallest grocery store he's ever been in.
the man can't help it, the soft rounded vowels and lilt of consonants as you ask him, "darlin', you even know how to cook those?" he shouldn't, you picked him out too quickly as an outsider, it's a liability if anyone else came through asking about him, but you tip your head and your brows draw together and your teeth worry your lip and he can't reach for the gun. especially not when you lean down and give him a look down your shirt as you sort through his shopping basket.
harder still when you invite him back to your place for dinner, no questions asked about where he's from or how he got here, nothing about where he's going after this, just a hot meal that sticks to his bones and a cold drink that tastes closer to piss than beer, but makes his head swim as almost pleasantly as watching you press the can to the sweat on your neck.
sure, this may have started as a quick pit stop to refill his rations, but the longer he looks around your little house the more he thinks it looks like home.
Now imagine a soulmate au where your soulmates name is written on you, right?
You've known the name "john price" long before you knew how to write your own, child fingers tracing the letters on your arm, reverent.
You tried finding him, of course you did, but as it happens john price is far too common of a name. You give up on your dreams eventually. life demands you to actually live it instead of waiting for the signal to go.
As it happens, on one of your nights out you stumble upon him.
John price. You had noticed him in the bar earlier, drawn to him in a way you couldn't explain, and now it's him approaching you. He nods at your exposed arm, body between you and the rest of the crowd, almost possessive. "You are my soulmate, yes?"
Your name rolls off his tongue like honey, has your soul thumping at the thought of the one.
John price is big, strong, and dangerously handsome. He smells like whiskey and smoke and expensive cologne that tells you the gold around his neck is real. He keeps glancing at your mark with a smile, awestruck the same as you.
"Can i see my name? I want...I want to feel it." You tug at his leather jacket impatiently.
"Ah, bad idea. I was...hurt. left a scar right next to it, looks quite gruesome." He frowns, redirecting your hand to his lips for a kiss. You understand, soulmarks are personal, add in insecurity about scars and...you decide not to push.
Still, when his hand slides low on your back, eyes lidded in desire, you follow him home.
God are you thankful john is your soulmate, you're not sure how you could enjoy another man after the night he gave you. Entire body sore and pleased, face-down on his bed.
That's the exact image nikolai sends price, your soulmark clear in the frame. Followed by the message "warmed it up for you, john ;)"
Not terribly fond of how these renders turned out due to some issues with Simon's scars and his belly not quite being soft enough for my liking. Will probably redo these later, but for now, have shirtless Simon.
