I’m a fanfiction author! I write for a lot, but mainly Call of Duty and Fallout!
My main fandoms are CoD, Fallout, TES, and SCP Foundation!
I’m 22!
I use she/her!
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Links!
Masterlist!
Join my discord server?
My Ao3!
My Tumblr! (you are here)
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I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORK BEING USED FOR AI PURPOSES.
psa: just because i write for cod or other military game franchises does not mean i support the propaganda these games push. do not fall for military propaganda, it can cost you your life, your freedom, and your sense of self.
does anyone else like to imagine Fem V and Male V as siblings? It’s so fun imagine them like yeah that guy? the one who’s flipping the corner off? that’s my brother.
"Friends outside of Minnesota please read. I'm sharing a post written by a personal friend and medical doctor:
Friends outside MN, you need to know what is happening here. Everyone knows that ICE shot and killed a woman here on Wednesday. But that’s not the only thing that’s going on:
ICE agents are cruising areas with immigrant-owned businesses, and kidnapping patrons and employees alike. Yesterday they abducted two US citizen employees at a suburban Target, one who was begging them to allow him to go get his passport to show them.
ICE is going door to door in immigrant-heavy neighborhoods, asking residents where their immigrant neighbors live. Read that again. If it sounds like something out of your high school history textbook, that’s because it is.
ICE is targeting schools and school buses. They pepper sprayed teenagers and abducted two school staff members at the high school up the street from me on Wednesday. Police are literally escorting school buses to ensure children can get to school and home safely. The Minneapolis Public Schools have moved to virtual learning for the next 4 weeks because it’s unsafe for children or teachers to physically come to school.
They are targeting hospitals and clinics. Patients are scared and are cancelling their appointments or just not showing up. Kids are missing their checkups and vaccines, folks aren’t getting their cancer care, etc.
They are smashing windows in cars and homes.
ICE is increasingly picking up Native Americans—again, targeting folks based on skin color alone.
They are arresting and beating legal observers. A friend of a friend had her arm broken yesterday. Folks are showing up at local hospitals, brought in in ICE custody, with severe injuries that are absolutely inconsistent with mechanism of injury reported by ICE. (Think: patient appears to have been beaten unconscious, while ICE agent says he slipped and fell.)
I can’t emphasize enough that these ICE agents do not have warrants. There are 2,000+ agents here and they are simply hunting for anyone that’s not white. It doesn’t matter if you’re a citizen or a green card holder, they will kidnap you first and ask questions later.
But the community is fighting back.
Protests are happening every day.
Community groups have been leading know-your-rights sessions for months, often to packed venues.
Whistles are being distributed by the thousands, carried on keychains and worn on coat zippers, always at the ready to be blown in warning if ICE is spotted.
Drivers are following ICE vehicles, blaring their horns in warning.
Businesses are locking their doors even while open to keep employees and customers safe. As I type this, I’m standing guard at the locked door of our neighborhood burrito joint while I wait for my takeout order, so the employees can focus on their jobs. The place is packed with neighbors supporting this small business.
Anti-ICE signs are posted everywhere. The community is making it crystal clear that ICE is not welcome here.
Parents and neighbors are standing guard outside schools, organizing carpools, and escorting kids to and from school on foot.
Parents of kids in Spanish-immersion daycare (there are a LOT of these daycares here!) are keeping their kids home so the teachers don’t have to take the risk of coming to work.
Churches and community groups are holding fundraisers to buy and deliver groceries to families who don’t feel safe leaving home.
Mutual aid money is going out to folks who can’t make rent because they can’t work or because a breadwinner was abducted, or who need a warm place to stay after their home’s windows were smashed.
THAT is what is happening here. This fight is ongoing and it’s horrifying to watch. But we are not backing down. To my friends in other cities and states, don’t think for a minute that this won’t happen in your town. It will. Be ready. Learn from us, as we have learned from Portland and Chicago and New York. Fight back. Don’t let us get to the last line of Martin Niemoller’s poem.”
-Grant Boulanger
Here's an AP news brief with a little more info. It's limited in the way major news outlets are right now but provides context that supports the personal account shared.
ITS AN 09 IN GAME FEATURE! (dw im not getting mad at anyone under this post, ily all)
see below, an example of 09 Ghost without his glasses lens 🩵
vs comic ghost, who has brown eyes (these first two are supposedly the same Ghost)
with 22 reboot ghost for ref
22 Ghost is technically not the same ghost as 09 and comic Ghost, but since he lacks any lore, a lot of fans choose to merge them one and the same. I also think the blue eye thing is likely to be a result of MaskTok, where most of those cosplayers run the “piercing blue eyes” aesthetic.
ALSO
Another pet peeve of mine is his hair color, which is an 09/Comic vs. 22 reboot difference. You can’t really tell this hair color in game, but in the comics he has dark brown-black hair.
whereas, in the reboot during the Ghost Team missions in Las Almas, we see Ghost in full sun as well as many close ups during cutscenes that show he has light blond eyelashes. This is where the blond Ghost comes from.
So basically, there’s technically 3 versions of Ghost writers and artists can pick from:
- 09 Model Ghost: Blue eyes with dark brown-black hair.
-09 Comic Ghost: Brown eyes with dark brown-black hair
-22 Reboot Ghost: Brown eyes with light blond hair
In short, Ghost is a mfer who can’t choose between having any common features with his alternate selves. Le sigh, this bastard. Confusing the fandom since 2009.
how is there not more call of duty x fallout stuff
theres so much potential there do you guys realize how much potential we have for fallout x cod.
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ghost who grew up in the upper seats of the pitt operation, his dad a raider slaver and his mother a slave, him being whisked away to learn the cruelties of the pitt. his voice raw and rumbling, that of a ghoul, from years of breathing in the toxic, polluted air of the ruins of pittsburgh, its a miracle he hasnt become a trog. it causing him problems when he escapes, wearing his mask, because everyone thinks he's a ghoul.
soap whose family came from a decimated land shortly after the war concluded, setting in the midwest with land-rich american farmers who take advantage of his family, forcing them to work their lands if they want to live. generations going by. soap wanting more. hes not the first to think that. he is the first to escape. blood soaked brow, he forges his own path, the american way. the wastelanders way.
gaz whose family arrived in america at the same time as soaps, but his split early, making their way into the reaches of far harbor. faring the sea for food. farming the land when they could. fending the fog when it came and when it went. his family eventually being pushed out when it gets to its worst. they decide residing in the harbor isnt worth it, not with the hostility forming as the children of atom become a problem.
price whose family was original enclave. his family was bred, born, and raised enclave. loyalty to a feat, to the heart and soul of their bodies. he was raised with a sense of regality. then he's sent with his family to work on the east coast. he watches and sees as his father is sent out to capture deathclaws, watches as his father loses more and more of his nerve working with such beasts. then watches as president eden rolls out mind-controlled deathclaws. thats when he knew that while he loved his family, he knew he couldnt love the enclave. he knew he had to leave.
all of them meeting by sheer luck. diamond city market. ghost is trying to get stims from doc crocker. soap trying to haggle arturo down to a reasonable price for a decent handgun. price making his way to beths basement. gaz arguing with solomon about the effects jet is having on the man.
a shootout breaks. soaps past catching up to him. slavers. ghost recognizes some of them. gaz can smell the psycho soming through their sweat. price knows theres not one good thing about any of these guys.
they take cover where they can, pulling their guns, trying to protect whoever they can. they all knew they could do something. so why not defend the people?
all of them coming together in one accidentally coordinated effort to push back psycho-ridden slavers, only losing one citizen of diamond city in the process. the city wants to praise them a little, they decline. all of them long since learned to be humble.
they all go to the dugout, some get drinks, some sit in silence.
who knows what roads lie ahead.
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i went a lil crazy in the discord thinking of this but god i loved writing this im gonna write more
Your earliest clear memory is of a plastic shovel, a badly tilted sandcastle, and a little boy with wild hair, dirty knees and the brightest, most mischievous blue eyes you’ve ever seen, staring at you like you’d just stolen his entire empire.
“Hey!” he’d said, hands on his hips, Scottish accent already there, only smaller and squeakier. “That’s my wall.”
You’d looked at the crooked line of sand between you.
Then at him.
Then calmly dumped another pile of sand on “his” wall.
“It’s our wall now,” you’d replied.
He’d blinked.
Then grinned - big and sudden and full of missing teeth.
And just like that, he was yours.
From the first day of kindergarten, everyone knew: If there was trouble, it probably had Johnny MacTavish attached to it.
And if there was you in the room, you were right there next to him, trying (and failing) to keep him out of it.
He was the loud one. The messy one. The kid who climbed everything he shouldn’t, turned sticks into swords, and thought mud was a perfectly acceptable accessory.
You were the one who remembered the snacks, patched his scraped knees with cartoon plasters, and tried to explain to the teacher why Johnny had drawn on the classroom wall. (“It’s a dragon. He says it’s important.”)
“Why d’you always cover for me?” he’d asked once, swinging his legs under the table while you helped him clean glue off his fingers.
“Because you’re hopeless,” you’d answered, very serious.
He’d beamed. “Best hopeless, though?”
You’d rolled your eyes. “Yeah, Johnny. Best hopeless.”
He started calling you his best friend somewhere between a shared bag of crisps and the day he pushed a bully away from you in the playground.
“Don’t touch her,” he’d said, small but stubborn, jaw set the exact same way it would be years later as a grown man in uniform. “She’s with me.”
You’d gone home that day with scuffed shoes, dirt on your trousers, and a warm feeling in your chest that didn’t have a name yet.
Growing up with Johnny meant ealking to primary school together, your bags bumping into each other with every step, him talking constantly, hands flying, telling you everything - dreams, monsters, stories he made up on the spot, you listening, laughing, rolling your eyes, but always, always there.
You shared secrets whispered under blankets at sleepovers, the first time you watched a scary movie you were both “definitely old enough for”, he moment you realized his laugh could fix a bad day in seconds.
He shared his last piece of chocolate, his favourite seat on the bus, his jacket when you forgot yours and pretended you weren’t cold.
“Here,” he’d muttered, shrugging out of it and tossing it at you. “You’re freezin’. Don’t argue.”
You’d opened your mouth to argue anyway. Then saw the look on his face - that same stubborn line of his jaw.
“Fine,” you’d said, pulling it on. “But only ‘cause it smells like you and not like a dead animal.”
He’d grinned, bumping his shoulder into yours. “Yer welcome.”
You didn’t tell him you secretly liked that it smelled like him.
By middle school, it was just… known.
Where there was you, there was Johnny. Where there was Johnny, there was probably a teacher sighing deeply and muttering his surname.
Group projects? You and him. Always.
Sports day? He ran. You cheered. (And yelled at him when he nearly broke his ankle jumping over something “for fun.”)
Whenever something went wrong in class: “Who did this?”
Silence.
Then:
“MacTavish?”
And a beat later:
“And you too, right?”
You’d glance at Johnny, ink on his fingers, guilt and pride mixed on his face.
You’d sigh. “…Yeah.”
You got in trouble for him more than once.
But he also, carried your bag when you’d twisted your ankle in PE, sat next to you on the bus when you were quiet and didn’t want to say why, stood behind you in line when some older kids were being idiots and made them back off just by being there. “Oi,” he’d say, stepping closer. “That’s my girl you’re annoyin’.”
Your heart had done something weird at that. You’d ignored it.
He didn’t mean it like that. He meant his girl like his person - his best friend.
Right?
In everything your childhood was full of video games sprawled on the floor, arguing over controllers, music shared through one set of tangled headphones, him sneaking extra snacks into his room so you wouldn’t be hungry, you rolling your eyes and secretly loving every ridiculous minute.
He told you about his dreams. “I’m gonna do somethin’ big, you know?” he’d say, lying on his back staring at the ceiling. “Can’t just… stay here forever.”
You told him your fears. “What if everything changes?” you’d whisper back. “What if we do?”
He’d turned his head towards you then, eyes soft in the dark. “Nah,” he’d said quietly. “Not us. Never us.”
You believed him.
High school didn’t change the two of you. It just magnified everything that was already there.
Johnny grew taller. Broader. More handsome in that chaotic, boyish, trouble-is-my-middle-name way.
And you… You grew into yourself.
He noticed. He really, really noticed. But he tried not to. Tried.
Every morning, the same old routine. You waiting at the bus stop with your headphones in. Johnny jogging toward you, always late, backpack unzipped, hair a mess.
“Ye look tired,” he’d breathe, leaning over to see what you were listening to.
“And you look like you just escaped a tornado,” you’d answer, tugging on the open zipper at his chest.
His grin would split wide. “Aye. Your tornado." He said it like a joke.
But there was something else underneath it.
Something warm. Protective. Possessive in a way he didn’t understand yet.
Your first real party together was someone’s birthday - red cups everywhere, cheap music, lights too bright, and that smell of teenage recklessness.
Johnny stuck by your side the whole night, shoulder bumping yours every time someone got too close.
“You drinkin’ that?” he asked when you held a cup that was mostly mystery and sugar.
“Probably not.”
“Good,” he muttered, taking it from you. “It’s shite.”
You laughed and pulled him into the crowd when your favorite song came on.
And God, did he look at you. Not like a friend. Not like the chaotic boy from the sandbox. But like someone trying to memorize how you laughed, how you moved, how you glowed under shitty party lights. He tried to hide it - Failed miserably.
At another party you were tipsy - warm, loose, giggly - perched on the back porch to get some fresh air.
Johnny found you immediately. He always did. “Thought I lost ye,” he murmured, sitting beside you, knee brushing yours.
“You never lose me,” you whispered, head resting on his shoulder.
He froze at that. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the truth flicker across his eyes.
He turned his head toward you.
You turned yours toward him.
It happened fast - a rushed, clumsy kiss that tasted like cheap beer and unspoken feelings and the heat of everything you’d both been pretending not to feel.
His hand cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek in a way he’d never touched you before.
Then - You kissed again. Slower. Deeper. This time, it was real.
Your lips parted for him, and he hesitated - just a moment, just enough to see if you wanted it - and when you leaned in, he exhaled a quiet, shaky sound that you still remember to this day.
His fingers slid into your hair. Your hand gripped his hoodie. You both leaned in too far, too fast, too much.
When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched, breaths mixing.
“Johnny…” you whispered.
His eyes searched yours.
And there it was - all of it - all the things he never said.
But you panicked.
You laughed softly, barely holding it together. “If we… if we do this,” you whispered, “I might lose you.”
The words hit him like a punch. He swallowed hard. “You’ll never lose me,” he said quietly.
But you could hear the hurt underneath. And you could hear your own fear louder.
So you didn’t kiss again that night. Or the nights after. Instead, you slid right back into friendship.
But the air between you changed - warmer, heavier, charged with something neither of you spoke about.
But if your kiss complicated things… Music fixed it.
Johnny was your partner in noise - Papa Roach, Bullet for My Valentine, Bring Me the Horizon, all blasted through terrible speakers or headphones you shared.
Concert nights with him were perfect. Him pushing through crowds so you didn’t get crushed, you on his shoulders for your favorite song, both screaming the lyrics, his hands on your thighs, steady and sure, him glancing up at you like he’d never seen anything brighter.
One night, a slow song drifted through the speakers and Johnny turned to you, flushed and a little breathless.
“Dance with me?” he asked.
You did.
His arms wrapped around your waist. Yours slid up around his neck. Your heads rested together. You both pretended it meant nothing.
It meant everything.
The older you got, the more people asked if you were dating.
Johnny always snorted. “She’s way outta my league.” But his eyes would flick to you afterward, soft and full.
Your friends teased you endlessly about him. But you always said the same thing: “I can’t lose him.”
And Johnny? He kept every feeling tucked away behind his bright laugh, his wild energy, and his habit of looking at you like you hung the moon.
He never pushed. Never asked again. He just stayed. He always stayed.
If you haven't heard, the em dash has been getting a lot of attention lately…
Because it was trained on pirated work—including freely accessible online writing (like fanfic, academic texts)—ChatGPT picked up patterns and quirks native to human writing.
Including (sigh) the em dash.
There are other victims here (RIP tapestry and delve 🫠), but the appropriation of the em dash—a punctuation mark beloved by writers everywhere—feels especially personal.
A kind of low-grade panic is ensuing. Writers who once memed their own em dash overuse—the greatest punctuation mark ever to grace the control-freak’s lexicon, frankly—are suddenly backing away to avoid accusations.
No. More. We have centuries of dash-abusing writers behind us. We will not sit quietly while AI repurposes our beloved stilted aside—or the just-one-more clarification the sentence demands—or the dramatic pause your comma could never—etc.
You don’t write like AI—AI writes like you.
Defend the em dash.
(Feel free to download/share/stick it where it matters!)
pacific rim fucks severely for a lot of reasons but my favorite is that it opens with "the lizard aliens are unionizing so we built robots running on the power of love to fight them you got all that right" and before you have time to really process that concept bam gunshot body on the floor and the movie goes "now consider the vast power of grief in this setup" it never really stops considering
this so real because who’s white baby is that?? not mine, that’s for sure.
im a cleft lip + cheek hole ghost truther fr because “to hide my face” can mean anything and to me its an ugly mug with fucked up skin and a wildly crooked nose ✌️😚
really one of the things i hate most about the ai fuckening we're currently in is that it positions me as the person wearing a tinfoil hat when i try to suggest that maybe handing over biometric and personal data to tech companies is bad, actually.
like maybe perhaps perchance we don't want it scanning our children's faces to do age verification because we don't know what it's going to do with those scans down the line. maybe we shouldn't be using it like a therapy machine and telling it our deepest, most painful things. maybe we shouldn't be giving it a dossier of our detailed medical information, especially in a world (in the us) where things like not being able to hold pre-existing conditions against someone for insurance is increasingly threatened. perhaps we shouldn't be scanning our faces for funny little short videos into something that can also generate porn on demand with all of the data it's collected.
maybe, stay with me and please stop building the tinfoil hat i can see you putting on my head coworker/friend/casual acquaintance, ai ISN'T a miracle to solve humanity's problems and is instead just more tech churned out by tech bros who have not historically been super great when it comes to morals.
My take on ghost x food insecurity reader. Plus anxiety. The whole can't do it for myself, but someone else needs the thing. Suddenly, I'm superhuman.
Retired ghost whose therapist told him to talk to at least one person a day, only the phone tower is down, so he can't call any of the boys like normal, and he doesn't know anyone who lives nearby.
Ghost who views self-care as missions. He is not about to fail a mission. So he does what he has seen in movies and "makes too much food" to have a reason to talk to the neighbor that he saw when he first moved in.
Only when the neighbor opens the door, they look like they have lost 40 pounds since the last time he saw them. Only when they open the door, their eyes never meet his. A flicker of an emotion he can't name but recognizes from his own youth passes over his neighbor's face.
He leaves after having his daily conversation and giving them the container of food with a whole new mission. He knows from experience that even if someone is starving, they'll deny help, seeing it as pity. So the next day, he goes to IKEA and buys a bedframe. Atrocious and too complicated for his taste, but whatever serves its purpose. He may or may not have hidden some pieces to make it harder to put together.
He knocks on the neighbor's door, doing his best to act embarrassed, explaining that he needs someone with a gentler touch to try to put it together because military instructions are much different, and that he'll treat them to dinner as thanks. He manages to stretch the bed thing for three days. Feeding his neighbor and sending them home with his suspiciously new-looking Tupperware.
Then he needed help with furniture in the living room. Before long, his once bare apartment is fully furnished, and he's having the neighbor pick out decorations lest his friends tease him when they visit. Then he simply can't figure out this recipe. Could you help him? Oh, it's meant for a family meal. Here, take a few containers home? Oh, you want to thank me. How about you make this (high-end food) for me? Of course, I'll supply the ingredients, just come over after you get off work tomorrow.
Now, Neighbor and Ghost have dinner at his house together every day. Ghost makes sure the neighbor gets plenty of nutrients and nice foods. Ghost realizes one day that he's living in a home instead of a crash pad with a beautiful person in his kitchen, and he just blue screens because what? The? Hell? Did? He? Do?
They seem content with the situation, even happy. They never questioned his mask or anything. He had been viewing this as a mission, and suddenly, he was too close to the sun.
Then the neighbor falls asleep on his couch. Since when did he have a fancy couch? He leans down to wake them up, but he feels the heat through their clothes as he touches their shoulder. They are delirious when he wakes them, but he manages to get them to drink some water and take some cold meds. He ends up taking them to his bedroom and putting them in the bed.
He hovers all night, checking on their fever and staring around his house, his home. He's never had a home. Not like this. Not something his own that's not at risk 24/7. He needed his neighbor. This was because of his neighbor.
The next morning, when you are crying, missing work and bills, while actively throwing up. He curses, then offers to pay, then fumbles when he realizes how that sounds. Before blurting out that it was just because he didn't want you to feel pressured to move in with him. Fumbles again, realizing he didn't get the chance to offer, and promptly facepalms.
But his neighbor smiles for the first time since getting sick and goes, "I'd like that too." You spend the next week too sick to take care of yourself and just never leave.
Simon sends a picture of a ring in his hand, you cooking with your back to him in the background, to the 141 group chat, followed by "Is it too soon?" Not a single one of them knows who you are. This results in them preparing an intervention because What? The? Hell? Did? He? Do? Is this person using him? He has an impressive retirement.
Soap managed to get a plane ticket first and heads to where he knows Ghost lives. He's alarmed when you open the door. Even more so when you recognize him. "Oh, you must be Johnny! Simon will be so happy to see you! He's on a grocery run, but come in." Then you lead him to the couch. Since when does Ghost believe in couches? Soap can't help but look around. He sees pictures on the wall of him and the team. You sit down in what's clearly your spot on the end of the couch, like you've always been there, and start telling him about how well Simon is doing. How He's been going to every therapy session and took up cooking as a hobby, and started different little self-improvement goals each week. You seem so proud. Soap is just flabbergasted because you seem nice enough, but how did you even meet Ghost? He grills Simon about it while you're cooking dinner.
He can't say if that's a particularly healthy relationship, so dependent on each other, but you're both taking better care of yourselves and each other together than if you were apart. He reports his findings to the others who are getting on their respective flights.
I genuinely do not understand this new, stupid accusation floating around the internet that using em dashes somehow makes your writing ‘unnatural’ or ‘not human.’
Like… are you kidding me? Em dashes have existed longer than half the people making that complaint have been alive. They’ve been in literature, essays, newspapers, journals, letters, and basically every written medium since punctuation became a thing humans fought about.
And I actually tried to ignore this whole topic for the longest time. I told myself, “Just let people be wrong on the internet. It’s not worth the energy.” But there comes a point where enough is enough, where the ignorance just gets so loud and so confidently stupid that you cannot stay silent anymore.
I’m truly, deeply sorry that I want to articulate my thoughts in a way that actually reflects how a human brain jumps, pivots, interrupts itself, and wanders. There is nothing ‘unnatural’ about that. That is literally how people think and speak.
And if you genuinely believe that em dashes are some proof of ‘inhuman writing,’ then my dear, you have never actually read a single book. Because ninety-nine percent of traditionally published authors use them. Classics. Fantasy authors. Romance authors. Literary authors. Modern authors. Old authors.
And sure, yes, obviously no one should use sixty em dashes in a 200-word paragraph. That looks like a punctuation stampede. But refusing to use them at all? Acting like they are some kind of forbidden, suspicious punctuation mark? Absolutely not.
I love em dashes. And I’m going to keep using them forever.
So stop accusing writers of “fakeness” because of punctuation.
Stop pretending your personal punctuation preferences are some moral high ground. Stop acting like you’re the gatekeeper of real writing when you clearly haven’t read widely enough to know how real writing actually looks.
And honestly, EVEN if someone does misuse punctuation, even if they sprinkle em dashes everywhere or barely know how a comma works, it is still NOT your business. Take care of your own stuff instead of policing someone else’s creativity.
Mind your own work. Because other people’s punctuation choices are not (AND NEVER WILL BE) your job to fix.
icarusdescending @icarusdescending7 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
