sablefang

she/her | 18+

[sablefang]

sable ☼ she/her ☼ 30s requests: open find me by the great lakes. accounting → law (because numbers are boring) ask me about my cod headcanons. actually, ask me whatever you want. my inbox is open for requests, but i don’t take nsfw prompts! current series: trespassers will be shot | beta break | prince of hearts masterlist | about me | ask | ao3

[sablefang]

may we please get a pt.2 to your delicious portal pussy post? 🙏

💕 hello anon, I don’t have any ideas right now to continue simon x reader portal pussy…but I might have some thoughts about a small prequel of sorts

[celadoreceladore]

Having never publicly posted anything I’ve drawn anywhere before this is somewhat terrifying, and sharing something that is still a WIP maybe makes it even more terrifying because I can still see so much that I would like to tweak and tidy… but I don’t know when exactly I’ll actually finish him so I thought hey why not be brave and share him as he is!

So here is my interpretation of pagan!soap inspired by @gloomwitchwrites’ fantastic two stories. He has lived in my brain rent free since I read the first one and I just had to get him down on a page. Poppy, you write such wonderful stories and incredible characters. I hope I’ve done pagan!soap some semblance of justice and just a massive thank you for these incredible brainworms. Hopefully I can finish him at some point in the not too distant future, but I am a chronic non-finisher of projects 😂

Did I end up spending far too long reading about clothing from that era? Yes. Do I still plan to draw a version of him with less clothes and/or his wolf mask down the line? Also yes. And you know, give the poor guy some legs!

Here’s hoping I don’t panic and delete this later 😅

[ronnydeniro]

practice...

[staytrueblue]

[andallshallbewell]

[auberghyn]

2026 Art x Fic Collaboration (The Grand Library F.K.A. 141 RECON Server) | Junepiter — Celestia (AO3 | Tumblr) (Galactic Knight!Johnny x AFAB! Reader) by @the-californicationist | Drawn on Procreate, Animated on Photoshop (No Process Video Because I am still working on it!)

This is the black and white version of the collab as I got hella swamped with freelance and won't be able to colour it until I fly back from my vacation in August ;w;. For now, here's a b&w GIF of Galactic Johnny o vo)/

[sablefang]

Is a soft place to land discontinued?

hello, not at all! I’ve just been busy with life and I’m in a bit of a writing slump.

[unseaworthy]

Wholesome!König who metamorphoses into the ultimate European Dad whenever you go to the beach.

Insists on picking you up at 7:15am sharp so you can arrive before all the good spots are taken? Check.

Pulling up his weather app at 15 minute intervals the whole ride there, updating you on wind speed, pollen count, and UV index? Check.

A chunky, waterproof watch on his wrist with three alarms set to ensure the day stays on schedule? Check.

Sunscreen applied to every conceivable inch of skin, with an extra thick glob on his nose? Check.

Swim trunks with tiny pineapples that you bought him after the first time he tried to wear a Speedo to the beach? Check.

But for all his foibles, the day you spend together is truly the highlight of your summer. Arriving early to set up your towels, chairs, and umbrella in the right spot was the best move; the generous application of sunscreen prevents you and your dreadfully fair-skinned boyfriend from turning into lobsters; and to his credit, his regimented, Austrian work ethic does turn off once you're truly settled in your spot.

You alternate between sunbathing, walking up and down the shoreline, and cooling off in the ocean. You've never had a relationship this easy - anything you suggest, he's already halfway done making it happen. Plus, seeing his Baywatch body and muscular build on full display fills you with a mix of desire and smugness, like you know the other women on the beach wish they were you.

When lunch rolls around, König sweeps you out of the water and carries you to the towel "so your wet feet don't get sandy." You would be embarrassed if it didn't heal your inner sixth grader, who'd always dreamed of a man so chivalrous.

It is entirely unsurprising that he's packed an incredible picnic lunch, with kartoffelsalat and hearty roast beef sandwiches and those little packs of pretzel sticks kids used to trade in the cafeteria. He also withdraws a small pitcher from the lunch box and shyly explains that he tried to make mojitos, but he's certain they're terrible and, honestly, you don't actually need to drink it, he's got some water bottles under the icepacks...

When you finally wrap up your day, you're relaxed and sleepy and as happy as you've been in a long, long time. König insists that you remain lounging on your towel while he packs everything else into the car. You doze off on the ride home as your boyfriend smiles fondly and turns down the radio as not to wake you.

[Smut beneath the cut.]

He tries to drop you off at home, but you demand he come inside and at least shower off so he doesn't have to drive back to the barracks grimy with sweat, sunscreen, and sand. Of course he agrees - the man has never said no to you in his life, even before he finally had the courage to ask you out - and he turns eggplant-purple when you casually shuck your swimsuit to join him.

You're stupidly horny for him after seeing him half-naked all day, so you take your sweet time lathering your vanilla bodywash into his skin. He sighs beneath the steam of the shower and the ministrations of your hands, shoulders slumping like his joints and tendons finally realized he's no longer in a combat zone. Blissed out and half way to falling asleep on his feet.

But he wakes right the fuck up when your fingers creep lower and you begin to massage his cock.

König loves your handjobs. He says you're unbelievably good at them and he never needs to worry that his size is hurting you - a frequent insecurity of his when you first became intimate. While you languidly work his hardening member back and forth, you rest your head between his pecs as the water pours down on you both.

He makes the most pathetic little whimpers as your lazy tugs turn into proper pumping. One of his hands flies against the tiles to keep himself steady against the urge to turn into a puddle at your feet.

When you tell him its time to wash his hair, he seems perfectly willing to accept that the handjob is over without having come. But when you ask him to get on his knees so you can reach his head, he quickly picks up on what's actually happening: a perfect excuse to smush his face into your tits.

König may love your handjobs, but he worships breasts.

You squirt some shampoo onto his head and begin to spread it through his short hair while König attends to your chest. Sucking, rubbing his face, thumbing your nipples, and whispering breathless gratitude into your cleavage. It's not terribly long before he picks up where you left off, the wet noises of his hand sliding over his cock speaking to something primal in your cavewoman brain. "I'm so lucky," he says over and over again. "So fucking lucky."

It doesn't take long for him to empty his balls, splattering your legs as he leans so hard into your body you nearly topple. The shower quickly washes away the mess as he plants a final kiss beneath the swell of one breasts.

He quickly asks what you'd like in return - he's happy to lick your pussy for the rest of the night, or he could sit you on his lap and use his fingers - but all you really want right now is a nap. There's something so satisfying about pampering this man, who got dealt a shit hand in life but is somehow still the type to fumble his way through a homemade mojito recipe if he thinks it'll make you smile.

Neither of you bother to put clothes back on as you collapse into bed and wrap your bodies around each other. You think to yourself, not for the first time, what a wonderful father he would make. You can picture with ease König's big hands spreading sunscreen over a little boy who has his eyes and your hair.

A goal for next summer, maybe.

===

I dont usually do requests, but I would literally jump off a bridge for @the-californicationist ❤️💕🧡 Thanks for the prompt, Cali!!

[rinaaas-eepiest-stuff]

observing

[tiredkatzz]

The once a year break from OC content to make some Ghoap. Don't expect more any time soon, I'm gonna go back to Pebble now.

[loverifle]

Five of swords- Pyrrhic victory.

[unseaworthy]

The Death and Rebirth of John MacTavish

Pairing: Call of Duty, TBI!Johnny x f!Reader | Rating: T

Tags/Content Warnings: Medical inaccuracies, depression, angst, slow-burn, hurt/comfort

Summary: A soldier suffering from a traumatic brain injury will need to relearn everything from locomotion to language to emotional regulation. Fortunately, there's a cute volunteer at his rehab facility who visits every week to read him poems and help him remember why the struggle is worth it.

Read on AO3 here, or navigate to the chapters below:

Prologue

Week One

Week Two

Week Three

Week Four

Week Five

Week Six

Week Seven

Week Eight

Week Nine

Week Ten

Week Eleven

Week Twelve

Week Thirteen

Week Fourteen

Week Fifteen

Week Sixteen

Week Seventeen

Week Eighteen

Week Nineteen

Week Twenty

Week Twenty-One

Week Twenty-Two

Week Twenty-Three

Week Twenty-Four

Week Twenty-Five

Week Twenty-Six

Dedicated to @youarehereyouaresafe, lover of all things Johnny and most beloved of friends.

Note: This is a little slower-paced and angstier than my other fics, plus some people might not like the heavy poetry. Totally understand if some of my usual readers pass on this one - it's not my best work, but I've had it planned since November and I had to get it out of my head. I have the first third of the story done, so you'll see a bunch of chapters go up at once and then probably won't hear from me for a while. Thank you so much for reading <3

[thememedaddy]

[warmfrequency]

after price kills shepherd, he has a finite window of time to grab his things and say goodbye to his wife.

cw: angst

You hear the front door swing open and hit the wall behind it and your first thought is he’s early.

You’re at the stove, wooden spoon in your hand with the skillet throwing up steam, onions gone soft and golden at the edges, music murmuring from the speaker on the windowsill.

The word ‘early’ is halfway up out of your throat, light, a little teasing, but it dies there when the sound coming from down the hall isn’t the sound of a man home for the night. There’s no pause to toe his boots off, no keys dropping in the bowl. Just the stairs taken too fast, two at a time, the whole house shivering under the weight of him going up.

Your hand finds the gas dial and turns the flame down. You open up your ears, straining to listen. Then you’re moving, following the sound of him up into the dark of the second landing.

The bedroom door’s open, and inside, John’s just a blur of motion against the moonlight behind him. The wardrobe’s flung wide open, the duffle is out — the one that lives at the back of the closet behind the winter coats, the one you were trained long ago not to touch nor ask about — and now it’s unzipped, open on the bed. His hands are working through the canvas with a fervor that turns your blood cold before he’s said a single word.

He hasn’t looked up, he’s too focused. And there’s something practiced and deeply troubling about the speed of which his hands are movings — it tells you more than his face even would.

“John?” you try, his back is to you now.

“Hey,” he says, a drawer slides open, he rifles through it, turns around, and whatever he took from the drawer disappears into his bag. “Listen to me a minute.”

“What’s happening? Wh- what’re you doing?”

You take a tentative step toward the bed.

“I have to go,” he says flat, pared down, slotted neatly into the rhythm of his packing. “Right now. Tonight.”

“Go where? You’ve only just got back. Is it a—,”

“It’s not work,” he cuts in roughly, then shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.

His hands go still over the bag and he turns his head and finally, finally looks at you, blue eyes hooking under your ribs. He takes a steadying inhale through his parted lips, then out his flaring nostrils.

“It’s… it’s not a job, dove.”

You feel so behind him in this, like you’re still standing in the warm kitchen five minutes ago, still on the version of tonight where dinner’s almost ready. You can feel a tickle of dread crawling up the back of your neck.

You’ve never seen him like this.

He’s never like this — frantic.

“Then what is it, J—,”

“Shepherd’s dead,” he spills. He says it the way you’d pluck a splinter from a soft palm, all at once because slow is worse. “It was me, I did it. There’ll be people comin’ here to look for me, and I can’t be here when they come, and I can’t—” His throat bobs. “I can’t be anywhere near you. D’you understand me?”

You don’t.

His confession arrives in pieces and your hands rise to your temples as the words work their way into whatever corner of your mind is properly conscious.

He’s gone back to moving, the zip of the bag closing like something tearing in half. It’s the moving you can’t deal with right now because the moving means it’s already decided. It was decided before he came through the front door. You’re hearing the end of a conversation he’s been having with himself for god knows how long.

Sick turns over in your belly, hot and acidic as it ascends your esophagus, burning the back of your tongue before you swallow it back down.

“Stop.” Your hand closes firm around his forearm. “Stop, just— just look at me. Goddamnit, just— Stop moving!”

To his credit, he goes still for a moment, turning fully toward you now and lifts both hands to your face, cradling your jaw, and every scrap of that frantic velocity drains out of him. His forehead comes down to yours, warm, a little slicked. And suddenly you would give anything to have the frantic version of him back, because stillness means he’s made time for it. John doesn’t make room for things that don’t matter. He’s making room to say goodbye, and knowing that opens up beneath you like a trap-door.

His thumbs sweep the tears you didn’t even feel on your cheeks. “Look at me,” his hands stiffen and close tighter when they rest on your face, forcing your gaze onto his. “I need you to hear me.”

“No.” You’ve got two fistfuls of his shirt now, the cotton crushed in your hands, your head moving side to side against the cage of his palms. “No. No! You don’t get to do this, we’ll— we’ll fix it,” you try to sniffle but sob instead. “You’ll go to someone— Kate! There’ll be a way—,”

“There isn’t,” he murmurs, almost pleading.

“There’s always a way.”

“Not for this.” He says it so softly it takes the legs out from under you. His breath is warm against your mouth. “Not this one, dove. Not this time. I’m sorry.”

Part of you doesn’t quite believe the apology. It was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. You know John. Or, maybe you thought you did. The blood in your heart feels like it’s curdling, heavy, turning to tar as you continue to process exactly what’s happening here.

What he’s done.

You wrench your neck and free your face from the heat of his hands.

“How long?” you ask, voice breaking.

He doesn’t answer.

You strike his chest with the flat of both hands, again and again, then again. You can’t even shift him an inch and the both of you know it, it’s just somewhere for the fear to go as it bubbles. His chin tucks, watching with a curling devastation as you keep connecting with his body. In a flash, he’s got both of his hands on your wrists, yanking you forward against him. “How long, John?!”

You’re starting to learn how long.

He says nothing.

This isn’t a tour. It isn’t a season away with a date at the end of it. He’s running. There is no number because there is no horizon he can point to, no morning he can promise you he’ll be standing in this room again.

The realization comes out of you barely above a breath as you tip your head back to see him. “You’re not coming back.”

His eyes fall shut. He presses his mouth to your forehead hard and holds there, and when the words come they come muffled into your hair just above your ear, into the warmth of you he’s trying to memorize.

“I love you.” It’s not an answer to your question by any stretch of the imagination. He pulls back again to meet your eyes. “Whatever they say about me, whatever you hear — that’s the only truth, yeah?” His knuckles lift to your chin, the pad of his thumb pushing against the front of it, holding your gaze. “When they come, you tell them I was here, I threatened you, and I left in a hurry.”

Your lip wobbles as you look at him, your throat is so tight it hurts.

“Say it back to me.”

“Y- you were here, you left in a hurry.”

“I was here, I threatened you, I left in a hurry,” he repeats.

“You were here, y-you thre- threatened me, you left in a hurry.”

“Good.”

He kisses you and you can almost taste both halves of him in it at once: the half that’s yours, and the half that's already gone. You give it back to him like you can hold him in the room by your mouth alone. But you can’t. And you feel the precise instant he decides to stop, the breath he takes to force himself away.

“Lock the door behind me,” he says.

And the velocity is back. He swings the duffle bag up onto his shoulder, and he’s past you before you’ve turned, out the bedroom door, and you spin and rush after him with his name tearing out of you, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood.

“John! Please! John!”

But he’s already at the foot of the stairs, already crossing the hall, always faster than you, and you’re only halfway down when the front door swings open and the cold of the night pours in over the threshold to meet you. You reach the bottom step, lurch for the door.

The street is empty.

You look left, you look right. It’s as if you dreamt the whole thing. As if you made him up, boots to beard.

Behind you, the speaker’s still playing music from the kitchen. The onions have started to catch, the sweet smell tipping over into something bitter and charred.

[sablefang]

Loveddd seeing you mention Hereford in one of your fics, its my favourite thing with COD writers when they actually learn about the SAS 😛

🫶 I have a lot of fun looking at the Hereford area and just thinking about where the characters might live, eat, or drink. It’s a bit like my own hometown - on the smaller side, quite rural, not without its problems but I’m fond of it all the same. I think I’d like to visit someday!

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

"You broke a lot of rules, Price."

"No more rules."

---

CALL OF DUTY: MODERN WARFARE IV (2026)