Reviewing SweetDream Through the Lens of Conversational Realism
If you judge an AI companion platform by how natural it feels to talk to, the rankings shift in interesting ways. By that standard, SweetDream lands at the top of my list. The chat on sweetdream.ai is fluid in a way that's hard to fake. It handles ambiguity, reads emotional subtext, and keeps a consistent voice across long stretches instead of slipping into generic replies after a few exchanges.
I assessed it the way I'd assess any product: where does it break? In practice, the seams were hard to find. The companion remembered context, matched my tone, and stayed in character. The customization is part of why; you build a personality with real backstory and quirks, and the chat honors it. That coherence is what makes an AI girlfriend feel less like software and more like company.
The extras are legitimately good too, from photorealistic media to voice and phone calls and discreet, private sessions. But as a reviewer, I keep coming back to the conversation. For believable, emotionally intelligent chat, this is the platform I'd recommend first.
1.8k, cw: ghosts a pervert, smut, readers husband is piece of work, not proofread.
Simon Riley who first saw you at the butcher's shop on the phone.
You were a pretty thing. Wearing a pink little yoga set, one arm holding your mat and the other holding your phone to your ear as you wait for the butcher to bring out your cut of meat.
Which was taking a long time
Simon would’ve had it chopped and packed to go by now. Though, he can’t complain with the view he has of your ass- you. The man was touch starved. He hadn’t been back home in a while, back-to-back deployments keeping him occupied. His only company being his calloused and scraped hands roughly jerking himself until he came, bordering on unpleasurable. Not what some could consider enjoyable, but try being in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere for weeks on end and see if you care so much about gentle.
The borderline perverted look you were blissfully unaware of was tracking down your form. He stared at the way the material tightly clung on to every bit of you in a welcoming way, a second skin. The sweat on you from your little session.
Just how flexible does yoga make a bird like you?
It was only when he heard a grating sound come from your phone that he snapped out of his trance. Even with his bad ears from all the bullets whizzing past him, bombs going off within meters of him, and the usual shit show he did for a living he could hear the voice which bled through your phone's speaker.
"Get me a steak this time. Nonna that nasty shit from last time!"
You hurriedly turned your volume down as it blasted in your ear, startled by the voice. Chewing on your lip you pivoted towards the counter to see if your order had been brought out; the motion to no avail as the employee continued chopping away in the back room.
It was only when your other hand came into full view from the motion he noticed the absolute rock on your finger.
"Honey, I thought the salmon was pretty good." That prick clearly firing something back as you winced away from your phone once again. Gritting your teeth as if biting back your arguments, looking around to occupy your time as the man on the phone continues to speak. "I know... I'm sorry. Don't worry, it'll be ready by 7." You placatingly cooed.
"Listen, I have to go. I love y-" You began, but the moment the words tumbled from your lips you pulled the phone fully from your cheek to see a blank screen with the time staring back on you. The asshole hung up!
What a fuckin tosser.
Simon hears the butcher finally call your name with familiarity and with a sigh you step towards the counter.
He leaned on to the wall further as he had been the entire time. Silent. Unsettling. A stark contrast to your bright appearance in the shop, the larger man brooded in his corner waiting his turn.
“See ya’ next Friday!” You still managed a bright smile at the butcher who handed you your meat.
A mild thing like you really shouldn’t be talked to so thoughtlessly, some guys are fuckwits though. He never liked the type. Why lock a bird down with a ring if you were gonna be mean to her?
“S’cuse me sir, i’m just gonna push past you here” You asked. With widened eyes, Simon gruffly mumbled a “Yeah,” out before creating a stupidly small space.
Maybe he really did want you to push past him. Or just push up on him but oh well.
Sweeping past him, you give him a toothy smile as you had so sweetly done to the butcher, as if you hadn’t got yelled at less than five minutes ago. God you really have no common sense, beaming up at the lurker in the corner at least twice your size. A girl as pretty as you should really stick to herself.
From that interaction on, Simon found himself being guided by the memory of you back to the butcher shop the next Friday.
And the next…
And the next.
Every week progressively standing closer and closer to you as you picked up your usual order. One day you had taken the liberty of starting small talk with him after recognizing his unmistakable stature. After all, there were only so many people you had seen in this shop and none so… large.
You could not deny you found this mystery man disquieting. Always dressed in dark colours, not so much as a word coming from him. Like clockwork you would come in after hot yoga, greet the butcher, he would come in, silence would ensue as you both waited for your meat, and you would leave with a quick smile.
It was rude. He had never even said a simple hello to you! Though, you suppose that it could be due to your own curt exits. The thought of the unkindness you might’ve exhibited subconsciously sent your mind into a spiral, leading to your abrupt introduction.
After all, who were you to judge! Kindness is and should always be the response in your books.
At this kindness, Simon swore he had to take a breath in as you politely outstretched your hand and spoke your name casually. Tilting his head down to your face he raises a brow skeptically, and then firmly shakes your head.
He failed to hide the shudder which wracked his body. The way your hand effortlessly slipped into his. Soft and manicured engulfed in his.
“Simon.”
“Well it’s good to meet you Simon” With the twinkly little smile you would grace him as you hauled it out of the shop. He felt the shiver go down his spine a second time when you spoke his name for the first time.
And then- it happened.
You giggled. A soft thing, no doubt intended to be small. It wasn’t to Simon though. It reverberated throughout the room, rang so prettily in his ears. Fuck. He would remember that sound later on tonight.
“Are you cold? You keep shivering. It’s pretty harsh out there right now.”
“Nah. Not really.” His accent thick as he shrugged.
Letting out a little “mhm” you nod and look back to the counter.
“I was freezing outside! Usually I walk home-” Simon already knew that “-but today I called my husband to come grab me! Way too cold!”
That visibly made him stiffen. Of course. Perfectly normal that guy is coming to get you, he’d be an idiot to leave you walking home alone in the cold.
If you were his girl, Simon wouldn’t have let you out of his sight. Fuck sakes you practically had “come mess with me” written all over you. There were creeps all over the place nowadays, (thought the creep).
He would’ve carried everything for you, scarfed down whatever the hell you had taken the time to prepare him. That husband of yours doesn’t like your salmon? Simon would. Hell if he didn’t, he’d cram it down his throat with gratitude anyways. He doubted anything could be worse than some of the rations he’s eaten on duty.
That train of thought is pretty redundant when he takes note of how you wouldn’t be able to leave the bed to make anything.
Maybe you’d cram something of his down your throat in gratitude.
Shaking his head subtly, he hears the bells of the store door opening. He watched your face fall as you step away from him and it’s when he sees your husband's look of complete irritation he understands why.
You had grabbed your order swiftly and with a quick wave goodbye you were on your way back to your husband. Simon could only register your husband's whisper-yell as he disapprovingly glared his way. “The fuck are you doin talking to him?”. And with that you were hurriedly ushered out.
You deigned it necessary to continue greeting Simon, have little chats about the weather, any plans he had for the weekend. Tossing in your stupid jokes that he would laugh at. You interpreted it as something closer to a breathy snort-hopefully positive- and it went on as such for weeks
And every time he returned home Friday night, he came home with only one thought after. You.
As he laid in bed the same thought persisted as he slipped his cock out of his boxers, red and weeping for some sort of stimulation. He took to his usual harsh pace. You’d be so much softer.
You’d be so nice to him wouldn’t you? Coo some compliment as he lets you tug at him. Fuck he wouldn’t know what to take first.
Would you give him a blowie or a hand job?
No. You wouldn’t be on your knees- not yet. If you’d let him have you, you’d be on your back in an instant. He’d rip the stitches of those leggings right down the middle, your panties next.
“Fuuuuuck” he moaned into the quiet of his room. He’d stick it in slow, he’d try. It would be torture not to ram himself right up to the hilt, but he’d do it for such a good girl.
That’s what you were, weren’t you? Always a nice word for someone? What would you say to him when he began to rut into you like a madman. When you would feel the pummeling intrusion, his head knocking into the deepest parts of you.
He’d be able bend you into so many different positions that you’d better hope that yoga has taught you well. Split your legs open to accommodate his imposing body size as he’d take purchase between them. Then you better hope your cunny can accommodate his other size when he spears you open on his cock.
Would you take it smiling? Would your tears roll down your cheeks, the prodding bordering too much? You’d take it either way, he knew you could. He’d rub at your clit with such tenderness he never afforded himself (as gentle as he could anyway). He’d make sure you begged to stay on his cock forever, fuck himself so deep you would be too stupid to pull away unknowing of where he ended and you started. Not that you’d have to care.
He’d flip you on to all fours and rip away your clothes entirely, pounding you from the back and instead of just his own labored breaths, the sound of skin slapping together would ring out.
In silent stoicism, he feels his balls tighten up at the thought of your perfect face stuffed into the pillows screaming your thank you’s. You probably were just as nice with someone stuffing themselves into your pussy.
At both his ruthless ministrations and boundless imagination, his release spurted all over his hand with a breathy sigh. When you were here he’d make sure to slam his hips to yours and keep them flush against you, coat your insides in hot cum better than your limp-dick husband ever could. That man wouldn’t be able to fuck you the way Simon knew he could. You deserve someone who could make you go stupid on his dick, not cry of frustration like you probably did everytime that knob who thinks himself a man rolled over after finishing himself off.
You want a baby. Simon can't get over his hangups to give you one. The solution to both problems? Johnny.
18+ SMUT. breeding. mildly dubious consent. Johnny feasts on your pussy and then does his best to knock you up while Simon watches. slight body worship. bastardization of religious imagery. Mean!Dom Simon. rough, messy sex.
He's not the type to saw off his own hand to feed you, but would rather find a third man to satiate you both. The only one who can care for you, he said. Can't do that when he's dead, can he?
Maybe that's why he calls for Johnny.
down boy. eager mutt. lil' pyedogs got himself all twisted up in a rutt. help him, won't you, pet?
Johnny's softer than Simon but only just. This margin of distance, however, could be the gaping maw of a canyon for how wide it really is when scaled down to fit. Boxed inside a narrow bed—on your belly, cheek on Simon's knee; ass up, legs spread. Johnny behind you—colluvium to Simon's mountainside, but still so broad, so thick, your hips twinge with the effort of keeping your knees so wide apart.
You feel it whistling through the chasm when he licks his lips behind you—a loud, lascivious smack, a wet suckle—and feel the burn of his stare riveted on the split of your flesh. This bare seam Simon swears he found nirvana tucked deep inside of. A buried ravine. Aquifer he quenches himself on.
A pilgrimage Johnny has been aching to take.
And that's what this is, isn't it? Yatra to the hidden piscina. A procession to pollute the tarn—something Simon can't bring himself to do.
Bad genes. Trauma—sticky, noxious tar that oozes from the rotting filaments; festering deep inside. Cancerous: a mass you long to cleave from bone but know it's not cosmetic. Not just the ball joints, or the studs, but the foundation itself. If you start tearing up pieces now you'll have nothing but an empty plot and a pile of damaged debris.
So:
Enter the third man.
A tool. Vassel. Pays fealty by fucking a baby into your womb.
It's what you wanted, isn't it?
(yes, but—)
It happens faster than you can keep up with. Hands on your hips. Coarse hair tickling the back of your thigh. Warm breath against sticky, wet flesh. A broad nose parting your folds. Inhale. Exhale on a deep, reedy groan.
"fuck, ye smell heavenly, doe."
Simon hums before you can peel your tongue from the roof of your mouth, answering for you with a brassy invitation: tastes even better, Johnny.
It's all the permission he needs before he pushes his head closer to your bare cunt, groaning as his tongue cleaves a silky, thick line between your folds. Gorging himself without much preamble. Hands curled around your hips like expensive silverware, pulling you back into the wanting, eager suck of his mouth.
All at once, it's too much. Your hips shift, squirming away from his tongue, the too-sharp press of his teeth against soft, sensitive flesh. Mewling, whimpering into the rain-wet fabric of Simon's jeans.
His hand falls on your head. A gentle tap. Behave, it says, but you can't.
Johnny tramples over that thin line between pleasure and ecstasy, blurring them both until it becomes pain. Overwhelming. Shoving you towards the edge before you've readied yourself for the fall.
"Can't, Simon, can't—"
The words elide, slurring into a high-pitched whine as Johnny feasts on your cunt. Devours you from the inside out—all teeth and tongue, sucking your clit until your thighs cramp from how tight your muscles tense, bleeding lactic acid over sore flesh. The scrape of his stubble over your folds, chafing them until they are raw. Swollen. Drenched hole fucked with the spear of his tongue, digging so deep you begin to fear that he's trying to crawl inside of you. Salt your womb with his own two hands—
"Can take it, birdie," is all Simon says before his hand slides down your arched, trembling spine. Fingers digging into the meat of your cheek, spreading you wider for Johnny to eat. "Look how eager he is. Can't get enough of that sweet cunt."
"It's—it's too much—"
You don't feel him move. Can't see much from the blurry tears in your eyes. But his other hand whips out, cracking over your untouched cheek in a firm, burning smack. One that makes Johnny moan when it lands. Cruel. Open palm. Hard enough to leave a welt in the shape of his hand—something that makes him groan when he sees it.
"fuckin' hell—" his fingers dig into the aching flesh, grip bruising.
Johnny peels his wet, open mouth away long enough to pant into the slick spread of your cunt, resting his cheek on the swell of your ass. "Bit rough wit' 'er, Lt."
Simon considers it. Body shaking the bed when he shrugs, leaning back to trail his hand back up your spine, curling over the arch of your nape. Keeping you still as you sob into his knee. "She likes it."
"know she does. Fuck, Lt. Can feel 'er little pussy twitching. Tryin' tae suck me in."
Another hum. The grip on your asscheek eases as his hand peels away, sliding over swell before notching a finger between your cleft. Dry. Rough. It drags down your seam until it brushes over your fluttering hole, calloused tip digging in.
"soft, too, ain't it?" He asks, words mockingly cruel in their conversational tone. Nonchalant. But Johnny's hands tighten on your waist, palms slick with sweat. Glueing to your flesh. You can tell he likes that. Likes the way Simon talks about you. Demeaning and brutish. Butcher selling a piece of meat. "Bit of a tight fit at first—" he curls his finger inside of you, stretching your sore walls with the width of his knuckle. Sinking in deep. Another follows before you can remember how to breathe around the sting. "But swallows you up like a goddamn dream, Johnny."
His breaths grow ragged. "Fuck, Lt. Look at th'."
It makes you clench up around Simon's fingers, embarrassment scorching through your chest. "Please—"
Neither of them acknowledge you. Simon's fingers split, spreading wide apart as Johnny shuffles forward for a closer look, and nearly choking on his next inhale when he does.
"such a pretty fuckin' pussy—" he says it like a curse. Spitting the words out on a snarl. Angry, now, for reasons you can't discern slobbering over Simon's leg. "God, Lt. ah cannae—"
Johnny shifts back. You hear the clink of a belt. The rip of a zipper. Choked groans barely swallowed down as Simon buries his fingers inside of your weeping cunt over and over again, blunt tips cruelly skating over a spot inside, just behind your navel, that makes you feel liquid and loose between your hips. Debris floating down a whiteriver.
Pleasure peaks with each brutal thrust until you're howling into his leg, unable to move with their hands on your body, holding you down. Making you take it. Making you come undone as Johnny watches.
"fuck, fuck, Lt—she's gonna cum, ain't she?"
"Wanna feel it, Johnny?"
Simon's name falls out of his mouth on a whispered prayer. Drenched in thick reverence. Arched in need.
"aye, sir—" there's something about the hush of his voice, the way it slurs into putty. Enshrining his need in a halo of gold. It sends shivers down your spine. Heats you up fast like a fever. Sends you screaming over the edge—
"gonna miss it, Johnny. She's squeezin' me so fuckin' tight—"
Whatever else they say is swallowed by the keen clawing at the hollow of your throat when you feel the blunt, fat press of his cock knocking against your swollen, stuffed rim.
It's a burning thing—a sharp, heavy ache. Knock, knock. Simon spreads his fingers again, forcing you open. Pulling your hole wide apart for Johnny's engorged head to push up against.
It feels like being split down the middle. Ripped apart. Simon's fingers flex around your nape, thumb brushing soothingly against the knob of your spine.
Can take it, he mutters, brassy and low. A rumble just for you. Gotta take it, birdie.
You forget why. Why you need Johnny's too big, too fat cock inside of your cunt until the head bullies through, scissoring Simon's fingers apart until they're pressed tight on either side of the flared glands. Squeezed between your taut rim and Johnny's cock.
Johnny makes a noise like you've gutted him. A gutwrenching sob. "Oh, shite, Lt. M'—m'nae gonnae last—"
"gonna cum inside 'er, Johnny? Knock my pretty birdie up?"
Right. Right. A baby.
There's a heavy push. Your flesh wrenched apart to fit the fat, throbbing length of his cock—
(the cock that's gonna knock you up—)
Simon's fingers slip out of you as Johnny bucks forward, burying himself deep inside with a long, throaty groan. It's a horrible sensation—a bellyache. Without the splint of Simon's fingers forcing you open wide to near numbness, you're forced to feel the thick girth of his cock. Rim fluttering, spasming over the flared base. Too much, and somehow, not enough.
You sob through it. Each one ripples through your chest until it feels like it will collapse. Every inch of your body burns, throbbing. You don't think you'll survive this ache—
Johnny sets a brutal pace. Likes pistoning into you in quick succession until you're nearly howling into Simon's thigh before slowing to a crawl. Force-feeding you every inch. Making you feel every single one. Long strokes that batter the plug of your womb, bullying against the aching seal of your cervix until the flashes of pain, the savagery of this pleasure, makes you feel sick.
Getting fucked by Johnny like this is both a punishment and a reward. Baptism in hellfire.
Be careful what you wish for—
"gonnae fuck ye 'til it takes, doe. Knock ye up. Want th', don't ye? Aye. Can feel it. Feel this little cunt beggin' fer ma cum. Dinnae worry. Ahm gonnae give it tae ye. A' o' it, doe. Every—fuckin'—drop—"
Each awful word lands like acid on your spine. Chewing through flesh, tissue, until it melts bone below. Liquified. Helpless.
And with Johnny's hands on your hips, anchoring you in place as he hammers into your sore, abused pussy, possessed with the need to carve a space inside of your flesh where only he fits, rots, and Simon's hand on the scruff of your neck, holding you down, there's nowhere to run. Nowhere to escape the ragged breaths that spill from Johnny's slick mouth, the desperate way he pumps into you—thrusts growing sloppy as he stretches towards the precipice they dangle you off of, kicking and screaming as the scent of iron fills your nose, as his flared cockhead scrapes over that place you thought only Simon would ever know. Bluntly battering into the altar that sits, nestled behind your navel, like he's allowed.
Holy offering in a handful of seeds he'll sow over fecund land until something grows.
"Look at you take it," Simon coos, sticky, damp fingers petting over your tear-stained cheeks. It smells of loam. Salt. Iron and ozone. "So pretty when you're gettin' bred, ain't you, birdie?"
It rips a mournful keen from your chest, a feverish moan following on its heels when the lewd squelch, the echoing slapslapslap of Johnny driving into your cunt fills your ears. So wet, so messy, you can feel the slick drying, tacky and thick, on the inner crease of your bent knee.
"He's gonna put our baby in you, ain't he, birdie? Like a good mutt—"
The hands holding you over the precipice let go. Johnny's answering moan spears into your head, fluttering around the pulsing heartbeat of liquid bliss frothing in the pit of your belly. Overflowing over the rim.
Too much, you think, but that's not quite right because you can't feel anything at all except the length of his thick cock lodged deep inside you. Throbbing in tandem with your second pulse.
"gonnae cum, Lt. Gonnae—oh, fuck, Lt—"
His voice is a warm river washing over your spine. Pooling ecstacy. Something heavenly. Divine—
Molten gold blooms in the pit of your belly. Cockhead spitting against the seal of your womb as he cums, filling you to the brim. Fucking it into you even as his cock softens, unable to pull out he says.
Feels like fuckin' heaven, Lt.
"ain't she just?" Simon volleys back, sounding oddly dissonant. Off-key. "Pretty little birdie got what she wanted, huh?"
The drawl of his tone—acid-scorched, electric—forces you to blink through the tears, lifting your aching, wet eyes upwards at him. Searching.
He has the eyes of a predator. Leonine. The gaze of a beast after it's devoured something whole. His touch is as gentle as he can be—a rough, cracked scratch over your blistered cheeks—and when he meets your divining stare, he coos.
"Maybe I'll 'ave a go next time."
In the pounding, soporific slurry of your mind, you can't wrap your head around the words. Can't make sense of them. Struggling to keep your burning eyes open, even.
Not that it matters.
Johnny huffs a scorching breath of laughter over your sweat-slicked spine before wedging his forearm under your belly. Keeping your hips tipped up as he falls into you, resting his broad chest against your back and smothering you into the damp mattress.
"Yer cruel, Lt," he rasps, chin nuzzling over the arch of your shoulder, cock giving a feeble twitch inside of you at something you can't seem to piece together.
"m'jus' givin' my pretty bird exactly what she asked for." Huh? He prods, fingers tapping over your cheek when your swollen eyes slide shut. "Forgettin' y'manners, ain't you? Say thank you, pet."
With Johnny's half-formed chuckle echoing in your head, you mumble the words out on an exhausted sigh.
"an' say thank you to this mutt f'knockin' you up."
It comes out slower this time. Sluggish. His cock gives another twitch as he buries his face between your shoulder blades, smothering a groan.
"Sweetest thing, Lt. Christ—"
"more where that came from, Johnny. Jus' you wait an' see." Another tap. You mewl in response, feeling war-torn and achy. Unable to open your eyes for a second time, all you can do is whimper, burying yourself into his thigh. Pleading, silently, for clemency. Later, you think. Later—
But Simon has other plans.
"Fallin' asleep on me, birdie? Ain't even gonna give me a chance to put my baby in you? Greedy little thing, ain't she?"
Buried under the weight of Johnny as he peppers sucking, open mouth kisses over the width of your shoulder, cum leaking out around the softening plug of his cock, all you can do is snuff out the sob on the arch of his knee, resisting the urge to bite instead.
"Maybe next time then, eh, birdie?" Since you've been so good for this mutt, huh? Maybe I'll give you a reward.
hey pookie bears, so sorry it’s taking me so long to get requests written and put out 😭 I wrote the majority of a pretty long one the other night and my laptop crashed and I lost the WHOLE THING so I’ve been trying to regain the patience to write them LMAO but I have a feeling (and I’m manifesting) that I will get (at least a couple of) them cranked out tomorrow night 🙏
POOKIE love love love the ghoap x reader content thank for feeding me nomnomnom BUT what about ghoap x reader where reader is a member of 141?? like a whole lethal force of her own and not like a barracks bunny and whatnot 🤨🤨 just a thought :3
Oh absolutely!! I will say unless i specifically say reader is a barracks bunny reader is usually 141’s civilian sweetheart!
but let’s get some sexy bad ass reader up in here with Ghoap
- the first time they see reader was when they accidentally walked into one of your sparring sessions and watched you take down a man closer in size/stature to them than yourself (they were instantly smitten)
- the boys were definitely together before meeting you, so winning you over was a group effort
- and what an effort it was, you would not give them the time of day for MONTHS. Not wanting anyone to assume you got as far as you did from sleeping with or flirting with men of a higher rank
- going out for drinks with the 141 is a nightmare. Any time you find a guy you’re interested and the two of you start flirting Ghost will give them a look that sends them running or Soap will drape himself on you like he already owns you
- you’ve definitely kicked Soaps ass in a sparring session more than once (much to Ghosts delight. you can keep Soap in his place, he likes that)
- While you can’t best him in any sort of physical competition you can outshoot Ghost 7 times out of 10 and you will never let him live down your wins
- When they finally convince you to go out on a date with them they would not stop celebrating
- Despite hyping themselves up every moment leading up to the date they damn near fumble you entirely, Ghost tripping over his words and Soap being far too eager
- somehow those boys manage to charm you. Not enough to go home with them after that first date, but enough to agree to go on a second date
- When you finally get together officially the news spreads like a wild fire around base, both jealous and terrified whispers circulating right back to you three
- Price took to calling you the ‘terror trio’ because of how deadly the three of you were on the field (definitely not because of the absolute headache the three of you together gives him)
- they’re completely obsessed with you, their cutthroat sweetheart. They like that nobody tries to mess with you because you’re scary, not them.
Oh we're starting this shit. Call me 💀 anon by the way Ghost would murder this pus-! Anyway ☝️🥰
How is you pookie? 🥺 ((I'm a moot btw :0))
-💀
you are so fucking real for this 💀. i am so good, fighting off writer's block on the couch in my apartment accompanied by my cat, jacksepticeye playthroughs, and a few angry orchards lol
my pc is on the fritz and I hate writing on my phone so I’m going to knock out all of the requests tonight after I get my old ass silly laptop to charge :p
IVE GOT INSANE WRITERS BLOCK AND NEED SOMETHING TO SPUR ME ON!!! I’d love to do some requests to get the ball rolling so if anyone stumbles upon this and has anything specific in mind my asks box is open and ready for you ;)
most important part of the writing process actually is when you loop a single song on max volume and stare at the word document and imagine the characters doing things for 14 hours. this is known as getting in the zone
The fun thing about COD is that everyone who calls the 141 and every other operator their precious little mew mew skrunkly is fully aware that Soap once used an enemy soldier as a meat shield, Price responded to a barricade by attempting vehicular manslaughter, Gaz saw one terrorist attack and decided going feral was an option that should be on the table, and Ghost is, well, Ghost.
They know their little mew mews are war criminals and they do not care.
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