#cod mw 2

[drmonstersdungeon]

I know an argument with Phillip Graves on a smalltown fb group would go hard as fuck.

Y/N: Whoever keeps drag racing their shitty dodge on Main st, your prick is small.

Phillip: It is my God given right to roll coal per the constitution. Amen.

[drmonstersdungeon]

Got a Gaz fic in the queue and he's a munch in it.

Here she is! 💜

[jericos-art-corner]

Call Of Duty Keychains designs Im selling so far. Alex Keller TBA :3c

You can use Rudy/Alejandro and Price/Gaz as matching if you want. And you can blow up Graves,too/j

[jericos-art-corner]

Keychains images + Some other designs of the stuff im selling

@acggoods

Reblogs over likes!!!

[callsign-meat]

Sketch - Soap and Panic Attacks

Having a shit day, my meds are taking forever to arrive and I'm on the verge of a mental breakdown so here you go! Soap and panic attacks.

AO3 version here

Word Count: 733

~*~*~*~

One would think that a panic attack would either sneak up on a body or clash around their skull all at once - but the reality was closer to the wonderful uncertainty that it could be either.

There were times that Soap would find himself near-jogging to the bathroom before his rabbiting heart gave up the ghost, his breath already coming in short, sharp bursts.

He’d slam into the handicapped stall - feeling very handicapped indeed - and curl up on the toilet, clutching his head in his hands. His vision would blur with tears he couldn’t hold back, dripping down his cheeks and then, as he hunched over in an attempt to keep from scrubbing his eyes red, they’d drip, fat and accusatory, between his knees. He’d feel as much as hear how ragged his breathing had become, and that certainty, that bone-deep dread, would suffuse every tense muscle in his body. I am going to die. They are going to die. We are not going to live to see old age. We are not good enough to win this fight. We were never good enough. We’ve deserved this. This is God’s punishment for my childhood.

It would last for what felt like hours - rocking back and forth, murmuring prayers he didn’t believe in, anything to make the pins and needles running through his veins just stop.

And all at once, with a grimace so intense it made his teeth hurt, it would vanish. His heart would pound, but the fear was gone. His muscles would carefully unwind, blood-warm and aching, and he would take a few shaky breaths. And there, shortly after it all came to a relieved halt, would be the shame. The embarrassment.

He’d try and run back what it was he had whispered to himself. What it was that had set it off. Was it something preventable? Or would he have to endure this again and again until the end of his days?

Eventually, he would square his shoulders, loudly make a show of flushing the toilet and pretending he’d taken a fist-clenching shit to explain it all away, and returned to duty - all smiles and blue eyes and undiluted verve.

Those were the times that were easier to handle.

The slow, stalking attacks were worse.

See, they would sit in the back of his head, perhaps starting around breakfast, and nest up, warm and cozy. They would whisper from their place in his hindbrain that people were looking at him. That he was acting unnaturally, that people could tell he was a broken, alien mess. He would find himself uncertain if his limbs belonged to him - everything looked like it was coming at him through a plane of plexiglass.

He would stare idly, picking at his fingernails, fiddle with his dog tags, anything to keep his mind off of the creeping realization that at some point today, he would need to excuse himself to his quarters so that he could force himself to have a good cry.

But until then, he would feel that odd twist in his chest, right in the center, that would crawl, fast and icy, down his throat and into his stomach and back again. Hour after hour it would grow, until it clenched viciously around his heart and stomach in a near-constant pressure until-

Hurry off to another location - doesn’t matter where - and there he was, pacing, heart building to that terrified thmp-thmp-thmp as blood rushed his ears and-

Tears. Big and hot. Drool joining it as he clenched his teeth in an attempt not to let that choked whimper leave him. But this time he could scrub, let his eyes swell and redden, let his nose drip as he groaned and sunk to his bed.

He’d rock back and forth, a salve to the nervous energy that had defined his day up until that point.

And just like those that hit him heavy, he would eventually realize it was over. That the only thing left was the exhaustion accompanying an adrenaline rush. And a gnawing emptiness in his gut.

So he’d go shower, hide the evidence of his breakdown, and head to the DFAC to scoff some food. Nobody’d be the wiser. So long as he managed to get it out of his system. All my writing can be found in this pinned post.

[sp00keh0urs]

Ripley “Lapdog” Barnes

Art in the bottom left is a commissioned piece done by 10bcy of Ripley; it is his canon appearance. It is not free for anyone to use in any way.

[koritea]

I was twelve before I realized raisins were just dried grapes.

[givem3thegun]

rip simon riley u would have loved hitting a bong