Masterlist.
[Finally, the masterlist. it's gonna be ugly and straight to the point, and you're gonna fucking love it, understood?]
đȘŒ
will byers stan first human second
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Peter Solarz
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Mike Driver
Claire Keane
Aqua Utopiaïœæ”·ăźćșă§èšæ¶ă玥ă

blake kathryn

Janaina Medeiros
Misplaced Lens Cap
AnasAbdin
No title available
dirt enthusiast

tannertan36

No title available
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

Kaledo Art
wallacepolsom
hello vonnie
seen from Germany

seen from Japan
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from Dominican Republic

seen from Singapore

seen from South Africa
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
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seen from United States
@thephantomsdream
Masterlist.
[Finally, the masterlist. it's gonna be ugly and straight to the point, and you're gonna fucking love it, understood?]
Simon âI purposely antagonize the missus so she yells at meâ Riley is currently getting reamed a new one in the middle of base, and Gaz- poor unfortunate soul- walks right into the middle of it.
Youâve got Ghost pinned in place with nothing but your voice. No hands on him, no weapons, just fury and sharp words.
Kyle slows. Stares. Immediately regrets having eyes.
And yet he canât look away.
He drifts over to Soap, whoâs posted up nearby like this is a cinema and he paid for premium seating. âUh,â Gaz says quietly, because volume feels disrespectful in the presence of whatever that is. âWhatâs all that about?â
Soap doesnât even glance over. âThatâs his missus,â he says, like heâs explaining the weather. âAnd he must have done some thinâ truly bad this time, âcause sheâs been going at him for twenty minutes.â
Gazâs brows shoot up. âShould we⊠help? Get him out of it?â
Soap makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort. âHelp? Mate, look at him.â
Gaz looks.
Really looks.
Ghostâs shoulders are relaxed. Not braced. Not defensive. His weightâs pitched forward, like heâs drawn to you by gravity. Half lidded eyes, head tilted, body language screaming more, please while your words get sharper.
Gaz swallows. âHeâs⊠enjoying this?â
Soapâs grin turns positively feral. âTurns him on. Siâs exactly where he wants to be right now.â
Gaz stares at Ghost like the man just sprouted another head.
And Ghost, like he can feel the judgment, flicks his gaze over, catches Gaz watching, and doesnât even have the decency to look ashamed. If anything, his eyes crinkle like heâs smiling under the mask.
When the team started teasing John again about his perpetual single status, even Ghost, the traitor, it came to a point where John had to mute it out, focus on the chilly October night and his cigar, and pray the shit motel room he rented just for himself will have thick enough walls to have a proper sleep, after a sad shower wank. What he didn't expect was for Johnny, the fucking idiot, to start looking around at women to find one that he'd know John himself would like. He's allowed his men to hear one or two opinions about what sort of women he'd love to have in his arms if he were to have anyone waiting for him at home, so Johnny immediately set his eyes to find a round beauty with pretty eyes and maybe, hopefully, a sassy mouth too.
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish gave off erratic, simple-minded energy, but John never, in his years of knowing him, doubted there was a brilliant mind hiding behind that non-filtered mouth.
"Aye, lassie, wouldn't ya be interested in me Captain here? He's a miserable bastard but a good man." That fucking idiot. The Captain in question gritted his teeth, almost biting onto his good (and last) cigar before turning his gaze back at the Scott, yet in the middle of his field of view now stood a tired-looking softness, and he could not avoid looking her from head to toe. Curves everywhere, hidden by plain looking clothes that have seen better days, soft lips turned in a frown, eyes that gave away much, including annoyance. A raised brow was directed at his Sergeant, that somehow kept yapping.
"What d'ye sayâ"
"Do you usually harass women like that, specially at this time of the night?" Would it be best for her to approach a tipsy Soap? No. But hearing her ask him "Are you a creep?" so curtly to make Soap actually stutter an answer made John snort. He lived to see the day, incredible.
What he didn't expect was for his spine to tense a bit when her eyes started running through his team, immediately fixating on the big one with the mask, as always, then Gaz, who has always been told is the nicest of them, and then lastly at John. Pretty eyes scrutinized him for a single second, and he couldn't deny he forgot to breathe automatically for said neverending second. Disappointment ran through him, just a small pang, as she decided to take a step to walk away, giving Soap another nasty look.
If only it ended there.
"I'm no creep, I promise. This' the one, gorgeous." A pat on the back made the Captain look visibly annoyed at Soap, but he held it together when she did look back, even more annoyed.
"That's what a creep would say." Soft voice turned harsher, then gave John another look.
"Not my doing, ma'am, apologies." He'd try a disarming, gentle smile, the one he'd use when negotiating between two fronts. Well, before he got serious, of course.
"I see. You're the Captain, I understand." He nodded, guarded to see what she'd say next. "You pay bills?"
It was hard to make him pause. After years of having his mind go on overdrive, even in his sleep, John wasn't used to being disarmed and amused at the same time, so the chuckle leaving him was refreshing. Gaz could be heard coughing a laugh, moving a few steps away too.
"That's a given, angel." Rough voice answered, confident and a bit cheeky himself. The surprise on her face, even if it was just a glimpse before turning back into a now more faked annoyance, made him feel good, knowing he's won some terrain.
"Ah, normally men stop talking after that question. I don't know what to say now." Her unapologetic honesty made him chuckle lowly again and she smiled in return. Soap opened his mouth to talk and she gave him a look. "Stop creeping women out at night-time, man."
"Also, what happened to the stalking, the breaking and entering, the..." The woman started snapping her fingers, trying to remember the words, and John couldn't wait for her next words.
"Flowers?" Interrupted Gaz, mostly baffled by the fact that a cute little bird was just running over them in such an odd way.
"Sure, that too. Men don't do it like they used to, I swear. Now you need to rent a local creep to have a woman talk to you instead of being the proper maniac yourself." Aaaah, so she wanted to play while also taking jab after jab at his Sergeant. The weight of the last mission was forgotten, washing off his bones in such amusing, refreshing way and he couldn't help but actually smile. He could swear he heard Ghost snort too.
"Hm. Excuse me, then, I'll change my strategy."
"You better. You want a wife? Work for it. And do pay the bills. That's nice too. Bye, handsome."
And when he left the apartment complex the next day, lip burst, not because he couldn't avoid it, but because he allowed it, John decided his future wife was perfect for him. And needed some lessons in self defense because that initial punch when he did break and enter her house could've been better.
This was in my drabbles for way too long, and I thought it was cute. Hope it made you smile. Go and sass some men, I'm sure they deserve it đ©·
Price: back in the day-
Ghost: Ha, old
Price, continuing unfazed: -Ghost and I-
Ghost: *stares before he covers his face*
Ghost: I AM old
Me tired of looking for a fanfic about my fav old man that isn't smut, BIG age-gap, daddy kink:
(I just want a fanfic full of fluff, romantic, and where the reader is the same age as him)
YOU BROKEN? Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (2019)
141: Why doesn't anyone talk to us?
John comes home stressed most nights, running his fingers through his hair and mumbling under his breath about how heâs gettinâ too old for this. He says it most nights, but you know heâs not retiring until the cartilage between his knees and the discs in his spine are rubbed raw.
The irritation usually fades when he comes home to you with a tender kiss and a murmured missed my girl.
But sometimes the anger carries over and as much as you wish it did, your pretty face doesnât always immediately solve his problems. Heâs never mean to you, but the creases in his face donât go away, lips tight, and chest tense. Still in the mindset of Captain Price and not your John.
Thatâs when you kneel between his spread legs on the couch, nuzzling into his thigh, and fluttering your lashes up at him.
âRough day?â
He tucks your hair behind your ear, cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing under your eye, his eyes already gone a little softer.
âLet me help.â
Your fingers are already halfway to the button of his jeans when he pushes his thumb between your lips, pressing the pad on your tongue so your mouth parts wide. If your pretty face isnât enough, his cock in the back of your warm throat, soft lips spread thin around him with glassy eyes while your fingers grasp into the hair at his thighs is more than.
I couldn't help but think about Price after being on a beach, I had to draw him.
fluff fluff fluff ! :)
texting simon is a nightmare.
for him, mostly.
he doesn't remember the last time he used his phone for more than a call. he just doesn't understand the appeal of staring into a small box for hours on end. instead, he stares into a much larger box and watches grown men run around a grass patch, like a big boy.
but that's where you come in.
it started off simple enough. a text confirming the time of your date. okay, simon said to himself as he typed up a response. no matter how annoying it was trying to fit his thumbs on the tiny keyboard, it was overshadowed by how giddy he was to see you again.
Y/N: Do you pay bills?
John: I beg your finest pardon?
John: No, because I don't think I heard that correctly.
John: Mind repeating that, love?
John: Actually, explain to me how is that even a question.
John: What sort of man do you take me for?
John: (actually hurting inside) Did I give the impression I don't?
âiâm goinâ home to fuck my wife.â
and those were the last words john uttered before slamming the palm of his hand down against his desk and leaving. spoken the way most things he says are - gruff and final, with no room for argument - stunning the room into silence until the door shut hard behind him.
everyone just looked at each other, dumbstruck.
âshould we wait for him to come back?â
âwhat the hell does that meanââ
âis that code for something?â
âwait, heâs married?â
price didnât hear a word of it - by that point he was already halfway down the hall, boots pounding concrete with purpose, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything else dissolving into white-hot static behind his eyes.
he can take a lot of bullshit. does it daily. but fuckinâ hell - they wouldnât stop. wouldnât stop talking, hovering, circling him like crows. clipping questions at him in endless fucking rotations.
what now, captain? whatâs next? what do we do about makarov? do we move now or wait for shepherdâs greenlight? have you seen the updated file? should we pull soap and gaz back? do we burn the safe house? double-tap the asset? whatâs the protocolâ
jesus fuckinâ christ.
itâd been too long. johnâs mentally checked out and he knows it. doesnât care. he didnât want to be in that room. didnât want to sit at that table. didnât want to give another goddamn order with five pairs of bloodshot eyes looking at him like heâs meant to have all the answers and none of the doubt.
he needs a break. not a debrief. not another satellite feed. not another fucking decision.
he needs to go home and fuck his wife.
needs to put his hands on something solid, something that he doesnât have to second guess. something thatâd let him burn off all the static and pressure and noise building between his temples without asking anything much in return. his sanctuary where he can fall apart and come back clearer. reset his head before it spun off his shoulders.
so he peeled out of the parking lot before heâd even properly put the car in drive, and sent you one text:
âtake off anything you value and put away everything breakable. iâll be home in 15.â
ghost is such a funny character to me because there are like three different types of ghost fans. the booktok girls who write him as this big hunky freak, the angst writers beating him up every second of the day because he can never get a break, and the people who literally just treat that man like heâs just. some random nicotine addict you dragged out from krogers.
simon who never had sisters growing up- not like johnny and kyle. simon who grew up with cruelty and hardness. simon who never truly had a stable female figure or influence in his life.
so when he starts dating you, he observes your every move like he's watching a documentary on an endangered species. he's in awe of everything you do. the simple routines that are ingrained into your life. things that most, if not all, women are accustomed to. he's especially mesmerised when he's watching you braid your hair. you must be some kind of sorceress, he thinks. it's some sacred art to him. begs you to teach him so that when- when, not if- you have a daughter he can take care of her hair the same way you can.
simon who just loves women and their little rituals and their softness.
This is beautiful, even more when you realize his mother wasn't allowed to be soft in their house, not when his father terrorized them. She didn't have the time for it, the time to take care of herself when she had to work two, sometimes three jobs to take care of her boys, or the time to give him a glimpse of the womanhood she also deserved and needed to have, but got only pain and abuse. So for him it's healing in a way, seeing you, your sweet little rituals, your sing-songs and hums, your gentle talking to animals, your tears, the only tears you shed around him, because something sad happened in a movie, you painting your toes while both of you wear face masks, only because you forced him, your happy sighs when you melt pressed against his chest, vulnerable. Simon wants to preserve that natural softness in you, and he'll do anything and everything to make sure you remain soft.
hold