This Truly Is The Last Thing I Want To Say On This Blog And Then I'm Done, But Given How The Fucking

Words to replace said, except this actually helps

I got pretty fed up with looking for words to replace said because they weren’t sorted in a way I could easily use/find them for the right time. So I did some myself.

IN RESPONSE TO Acknowledged Answered Protested

INPUT/JOIN CONVERSATION/ASK Added Implored Inquired Insisted Proposed Queried Questioned Recommended Testified

GUILTY/RELUCTANCE/SORRY Admitted Apologized Conceded Confessed Professed

FOR SOMEONE ELSE Advised Criticized Suggested

JUST CHECKING Affirmed Agreed Alleged Confirmed

LOUD Announced Chanted Crowed

LEWD/CUTE/SECRET SPY FEEL Appealed Disclosed Moaned

ANGRY FUCK OFF MATE WANNA FIGHT Argued Barked Challenged Cursed Fumed Growled Hissed Roared Swore

SMARTASS Articulated Asserted Assured Avowed Claimed Commanded Cross-examined Demanded Digressed Directed Foretold Instructed Interrupted Predicted Proclaimed Quoted Theorized

ASSHOLE Bellowed Boasted Bragged

NERVOUS TRAINWRECK Babbled Bawled Mumbled Sputtered Stammered Stuttered

SUAVE MOTHERFUCKER Bargained Divulged Disclosed Exhorted

FIRST OFF Began

LASTLY Concluded Concurred

WEAK PUSY Begged Blurted Complained Cried Faltered Fretted

HAPPY/LOL Cajoled Exclaimed Gushed Jested Joked Laughed

WEIRDLY HAPPY/EXCITED Extolled Jabbered Raved

BRUH, CHILL Cautioned Warned

ACTUALLY, YOU’RE WRONG Chided Contended Corrected Countered Debated Elaborated Objected Ranted Retorted

CHILL SAVAGE Commented Continued Observed Surmised

LISTEN BUDDY Enunciated Explained Elaborated Hinted Implied Lectured Reiterated Recited Reminded Stressed

BRUH I NEED U AND U NEED ME Confided Offered Urged

FINE Consented Decided

TOO EMO FULL OF EMOTIONS Croaked Lamented Pledged Sobbed Sympathized Wailed Whimpered

JUST SAYING Declared Decreed Mentioned Noted Pointed out Postulated Speculated Stated Told Vouched

WASN’T ME Denied Lied

EVIL SMARTASS Dictated Equivocated Ordered Reprimanded Threatened

BORED Droned Sighed

SHHHH IT’S QUIET TIME Echoed Mumbled Murmured Muttered Uttered Whispered

DRAMA QUEEN Exaggerated Panted Pleaded Prayed Preached

OH SHIT Gasped Marveled Screamed Screeched Shouted Shrieked Yelped Yelled

ANNOYED Grumbled Grunted Jeered Quipped Scolded Snapped Snarled Sneered

ANNOYING Nagged

I DON’T REALLY CARE BUT WHATEVER Guessed Ventured

I’M DRUNK OR JUST BEING WEIRDLY EXPRESSIVE FOR A POINT/SARCASM Hooted Howled Yowled

I WONDER Pondered Voiced Wondered

OH, YEAH, WHOOPS Recalled Recited Remembered

SURPRISE BITCH Revealed

IT SEEMS FAKE BUT OKAY/HA ACTUALLY FUNNY BUT I DON’T WANT TO LAUGH OUT LOUD Scoffed Snickered Snorted

BITCHY Tattled Taunted Teased

Edit: People, I’m an English and creative writing double major in college; I understand that there’s nothing wrong with simply using “said.” This was just for fun, and it comes in handy when I need to add pizzazz. 

FFXV Headcanons: First Meeting at High school with Noctis

It is another ordinary Tuesday for a high school student. (Y/n) had nothing much in mind except for a certain ravenette boy.

You saw him several times at the campus walking with his ‘fan girls’ treading behind him. He looks like he wants to vanish from the girls completely.

You pitted his situation. It is never that easy to have his time alone at school. The girls are squealing whenever he passes by.

Admit it he’s quite handsome because of his looks and charm so your not shocked that the girls want him and the boys want to be friends with him(which the students utterly failed at).

While you thought that as you looked at him, he suddenly shyly smiled at you. Your heart beats fast at the unusual pace and shyly smiled back with a wave.

The next time you see each is at the locker hallway.

You were just bored drawing while walking with your books and sketch pad at your arms.

Suddenly you felt impact on your body as you fell to the floor. your books are scattered around and tried to pick it up but you felt pain towards your body. You noticed him again, he passed by and ignored you.

Rage and anger filled your every fiber of your being. Why did he not help you, he knocked you to the ground and left you there?! You thought there is something more about him.

The actual meeting that you both meet is at the school canteen. You’re all alone the table.

You rolled your eyes as you felt him beside you. “Hey I’m Noctis. You’re (Y/n) right?”

He slowly speak to you as if like you were their prince and offer his apology to you.

You feel how sorry he is and what he did to you then your face turns red as you accepted his mistake.

Noctis feels relieved and wants to give you some treat but you denied his request and leave him there.

As the class where about to start, you found some fan girls gossiping about what happened earlier in the canteen. Where you and Noctis are presumably ‘dating.’ The girls suddenly glared at your way, they were protecting “Prince Noctis”

You found yourself speechless as you heard the word “Prince,” feeling vulnerable. You ignored them and entered the classroom.

The way some fic writers on Tumblr commit casual theft (unauthorized use; treating others' creations as free-use because they "found them online") by using fandom art/photos without the creators' permission makes me wonder how they would feel if someone plagiarized their writing.

Even if credited, are they okay with third parties feeding their work into a.i. or posting their fics on other platforms without their consent?

Guilt | John Soap MacTavish x gn!reader

Anonymous asked: Hi, I was hoping you could do some angsty “You deserve someone better” “I don’t want anyone better” Soap x Gn!reader? Thank you in advance!

summary: homecoming isn’t all what it’s cracked up to be when there’s far too much weighing on your shoulders.

tws: death, swearing 

Soap watched with great concern as the mountain troops finally returned, a little worse for wear and harshly run down, their movements sluggish and reluctant, yawns more frequent than anything else; some stopped for cigarettes, perching wherever they could just to try and ease the stinging ache at the bottom of their feet. Usually, those bastards were like schoolboys; baggy trousers, kicking about a ball as they chased one another towards base. Mud all over their shoes as they pulled one another’s hair and paraded themselves around with gleeful playfulness. They weren’t like that today. Soap could see it in their eyes and the way they walked that they weren’t their usual playful, jovial selves. The last of the bunch, his best friend, was the final troop to get out.

Keep reading

ghost character analysis

tw: spoilers from ghost mw2 comics, nsfw, dead dove do not eat, mature content.

this is pretty much a part 2 to ghost headcanons except with more lore and analysis (im still not sure if reboot ghost has the same backstory as the og ghost).

ghost is not a cold, calculated, ruthless man. maybe in a separate au or something, but theres a huge difference between ghost and simon riley. in fact, we need to understand that the reason he even chose ghost as a new name for himself is because of all that's happened to him. his family got killed, he got tortured by roba, and had to eliminate many men on his own. before that he was simon, not ghost. in the comic he literally calls the child hostages he was saving ‘sweetheart’ and ‘love’. hes not that mean and cold yall

we know that PTSD does shit to it's victims, ghost lost his entire family and had no one. think of it as a coping mechanism to have a new name to be known as.

ghost is a ruthless killer. simon is just some guy.

ghost sets himself to an incredibly high standard of discipline. i think it's intuitive that military boys will need to be punctual and organized to some degree, but ghost takes this to a whole other level. considering his father's abusive behavior (explained by his disturbing statements said to simon, is a drug addict, and beats simons mom) his home life was likely chaotic as a child.

in the mw2: ghost comic (issue #3) it specifically stated the following: "discipline, precision, control. these are what riley built his whole life on. break those down and the dark stuff begins to ooze out..." again, this is probably a form of trauma response to his childhood.

so what does this lead to? well firstly, this probably means his room is incredibly tidy and organized (monotone design i know :,c).

would never in his life touch drugs. this is a promise he made to himself.

also kinda proves that ghost aint a reckless guy. he thinks things through before doing it.

ghost isn’t that hypersexual. theres no way of knowing his history with women, but i like to think ghost is not that horny 24/7 and needs a fuckbuddy. in the mw2 comic, he was on a mission and was in an area full of prostitutes (wasn’t actively on duty, but on his way) when they tried to hit on him he politely rejects one of them, and later tells them to fuck off😀 so yea contrary to popular belief i dont think he really enjoys one night stands or the idea of being entertained by random women. in fact, i hc he might actually be a virgin or just a really low body count.

ghost is a feminist!😁 (misandrist too). ok let me reword that, ghost doesnt like men and respects women. one of the reasons why he doesn’t want to be around prostitutes and do one night stands (his father killed a hooker in front of him, very traumatic) is because he thinks the concept of quick, casual sex is not good for society and dilutes the value of meaningful relationships. but also, remember the discipline, precision, control thing? its apart of his principle. but also, in the comic, sparks (soldier he worked with) knocked out and attempted to rape a woman, ghosts literally looked disgusted and called the police (also why he’d never do that himself, i dont get the hcs that say he does). ghosts seen how his dad treated his mom and absolutely hates abusers. anyways onto misandry—i think ghost internally thinks men are violent and disgusting (ghosts would choose the bear over the man, even though hes a man) mainly because throughout his military career majority of the bad stuff hes seen was done by men, so hes much more relaxed in a room of women vs man. ghost thinks his dad is the epitome of pure evil (canon! he said this to his therapist). this doesn’t mean hes scared or hates all men tho!

ghost isn’t close with 141… including soap. now before you attack me let me explain. sure, he trusts them to some degree, but i dont think they naturally just hangout when they’re not deployed. in the end we need to understand they are SAS soldiers, they are working a real job that mainly consists of them shooting and dismantling others. considering ghosts betrayal in the past (in the comic, a few soldiers ghost previously worked with killed his entire family 😢) he isn’t gonna just trust his teammates because theyre his teammates. im also pretty sure they all live in different cities while not deployed, while also considering the fact that tf141 probably all want to separate their job from their personal lives, which includes co workers. but onto soap, i dont think him and ghost have a deep brotherly relationship. but i think they care about each other, but exchanging some dad jokes and bantering doesn’t mean they’re suddenly soulmates or brothers. think about it… you and you’re co worker joke around sometimes, never hangout outside of work, and now people are shipping you and calling the two of you besties. makes no sense.

ghost is extremely patriotic. in the comic (i reference this way too much but theres SOOO MUCH LORE i recommend reading it) ghost tells his teammates the reason for joining the military: queen and country, right after 9/11. he also said “the world has changed”. interestingly enough army enlistment did actually skyrocketed after 9/11 attacks, ghost was among them. he probably thought ww3 was about to happen, or that ‘theres no more peace’ or whatever. i hc being obsessed with soccer too lmao and getting mad if english teams dont win. also his playful banter with johnny “get us a tea?”. probably very proud of his british heritage.

ghost doesn’t have much friends. hes a really, reallyyyyy lonely guy. i hc him as an introvert in the first place, but trust issues make this worse. in the comic, he was literally in the newspaper for killing his family and then killing himself (he didnt, he was framed that way tho) so its likely most of his formers friends probably think hes dead. ghost likely got some sort of amnesty or exemption from the military after knowing he didn’t actually kill his family, but whats in the news stays true to the public. even if he does have friends he probably doesn’t share feelings with them or form a long term bond.

ghost is extremely cynical. this is obvious tbh, but i think ghost believes hes going to die in the middle of a battlefield, shot or stabbed, a painful death, body left to rot for weeks, and no one to remember him. just like that. and he accepts that fact too.

ghost isn’t a picky eater. growing up in an abusive household where his parents couldn’t hold a stable job, he had to eat what there was. some days he settles for cheap beans and toast and when people call him out for it, he tells em to fuck off😀

ghost is emotionally fucked up, probably kind of depressed. i mean this guys been through hell: got sa’d, buried alive, had to dig through underground dirt and worms with a jawbone, tortured in horrible ways, had his entire family killed, abusive dad, and the weight of his grey morales because he killed lots of people as a soldier. wow! would you look at that list, itd be more strange if he wasn’t emotionally fucked up after was has happened😅. even when tortured, seeing his family dead, ghost was never shown to have cried in the comic. i hc hes emotionally numb. however, i do think hes emotionally MATURE and able to communicate his emotions, but hes still emotionally fucked. for example a scene where he was talking about his experience with roba (guy who tortured ghost) and ghosts father to a therapist. i think ghosts may be traumatized, but this doesn’t stop him from attempting to get help and communicating how he feels and thinks about this world.

BUT WHAT ABOUT AN S/O???

i think ghost is the guy to not have one in the first place. obviously. but i lowkey think if he had one and really liked them, he would commit. in fact i find it hard to imagine hes a player or isn’t serious about relationships. when his brother tommy got addicted to drugs and fucked up his life, simon quit the military until tommy got 100% better and married. yup. he stayed to help him recover, for years. thats how loving and committed this man is🥹🥹.

more random headcanons:

simon prefers dogs over cats because dogs are loyal and stay with you until the end (stereotypically)

hates snakes and spiders

probably wouldn’t do 50/50 on dates, he pays!

avoids saying manchester slang when deployed

drinks and smokes. not always. he’s disciplined but he still does that stuff.. hes a british guy in his 30s whos kinda depressed, grew up with adults around him smoking 24/7, whatd you think😀😀 (its canon that most of tf141 smoke anyway)

listens to 80’s rock music. its canon that his mom enjoys the band siouxsie and the banshees :)), he probs does too

shaves his beard

is actually confident hes not bad looking. dude, hes 6’2, in shape with a jawline🙄

Everything Everywhere All At Once Blooper Reel

made me cry a effing river before I slept 😭

(Gif originally by @shadow0-1)

Today. Yesterday. Tomorrow. Again.

(Soap x GN! Reader)

Rating: Mature Wordcount: 5400 Tags: Doomed Narrative, Time Loop AU, Heavy Angst, Blood and Injury, Self-Sacrifice, Whump, Hurt Very Little Comfort, Happy Ending, (I PROMISE THERE'S A HAPPY ENDING!!) Warnings: Major character death. That's...literally the plot A/N: Hi here's the doomed timelines AU nobody asked for

Call of Duty Masterlist

Summary:

The 23rd time you meet Soap, you don’t bother to smile. You know how this ends.

“Nice to meet you, Soap.” You say for the 23rd time, words that have passed your lips in more lifetimes that you wish you didn’t remember. “I look forward to working with you.”

And I don’t look forward to watching you die.

The first time you meet Soap, it’s how you expect. 

It’s a warm spring day, the kind where you need to shed layers in the brightness of afternoon, only to don them again come sunset. He stands just beyond the shade of the barracks, awash in sunlight that seems to catch the blue of his eyes. You blink as you take him in, and it’s the only barest indication you give at the instant impression that he’s handsome.

“Sergeant John MacTavish, at your service.” He tells you with a grin, leaning forward to extend his hand to you. You reach for it automatically, remember yourself and offer a pleasant smile in return, along with your name. 

“Looking forward to working with you, John.” You reply, and John- Johnny, as you’d come to call him in the tender moments between you, chuckles. 

“Call me ‘Soap’.” He tells you easily, and you smile a bit wryly, tilting your head at him. 

“The hell kind of name is ‘Soap’?”

- - - - -

It’s easy to work with Soap. He has a cheery, bright demeanor to him that is immediately endearing. He’s friendly, outgoing. His smile is contagious, and the bark of his laughter becomes familiar to you. You listen and guffaw at his jokes over the comms, try vainly to hide your smile when he says them before you. 

It only makes his eyes twinkle to see you try and conceal your amusement, and that becomes familiar too- the sparkle of his irises with endless mirth. 

He catches you during your duties, sidles up beside you during weapons training, becomes the first to suggest himself as your partner during drills. The company he offers is warm, welcome, lifting the dusky heaviness of your heart into something more tender, fragile. You hold it for him, feel his grin bleed into yours, lay awake at night and sometimes think about the shake of his shoulders when you get him to laugh. 

You feel endlessly special when he devotes his time to you, feel as if Soap treats you like you’re the only person in the world. Even in the presence of others he finds ways to indulge himself in you. A nudge of his boot against yours under the table of the briefing room, tossing you an extra round of ammo as you gear up for a mission, finding an excuse to sit next to you on the chopper ride home. Soap feels like a breath of fresh air, the first taste of a cool breeze during summer, a respite from the weight of the world. 

Like two stars in orbit, you circle each other, drawing closer into the gravity of each other’s gazes. You try at first to resist, to hold yourself away from the feelings of the other sergeant, knowing at any moment that he could be taken from you. It’s written in the wheels of fate, your destinies as soldiers. If you’re lucky, if you stay alert, if you train hard enough, if chance smiles upon you, maybe you’ll both live to a day where the sound of rockets and bullet-fire doesn’t haunt your waking dreams.

Yet you can’t resist him. When you fall asleep against his shoulder after a days long mission with hardly any sleep, when he playfully grapples with you over the last slice of pizza during movie night, when he gives you that smile during a rare night off-base at the pub- how can you resist?

Gravity pulses between you when you at last fall into him, feel his breath against your lips as your fingers comb through his mohawk. He breathes the blessing of your name against the corner of your mouth in a panting gasp, flexes his fingers across the small of your back when he drags you even closer. The taste of him is honey and ale, a sweetness with a beloved bitter aftertaste, one you drink down greedily in the form of his moans against your flesh. 

When you lay in bed together after, sweaty limbs tangled together, you watch the tender, soulful smile form across the handsome planes of his face, and you know. 

He’s yours. 

There’s kisses stolen in the hangar before take off, moments hidden in the shadows of safehouses. He cups your face and lifts it to him in the aftermath of battle, smears ash against your cheek with his gloved thumb. You try to carve each moment into your heart, never fail to try and memorize the glint of his eyes, the soft slope of his smile. You know the shape of him in the darkness of his bedroom, know the sound of his voice even blinded by the brightness of his mere presence. 

Johnny is the sun- emanating a gentle, beckoning warmth from afar. Yet when you get closer you see the glory of his inferno, see the flashing burn of his eyes in the midst of battle. The solar flare of his battle cry seems to carry you like soar of Helios's chariot upwards into the heavens of his devotion. When you touch him, you’re seared, branded by his fingers as they trace sentimental sketches across the dip of your waist. You want to bask in him, feel the ember of his stare as he gazes at you silently across the table of the restaurant he takes you to for your official first date. 

“What?” You ask him, averting your eyes a little bashfully, catching his shrug in your periphery. 

“Just lookin’.” He replies with a grin, his cheek smushed as he balances on his hand. “Just seeing how pretty you are.”

You kiss him for that, and when he laughs you kiss him again. 

You kiss him a thousand times, each as sweet and passionate as the last, know the curve of his smile on your lips. You kiss him before your next mission, when he holds you against the wall of the armory and tells you how he can’t wait until you both get back. 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t come back. 

He’s looking at you in the chopper when you hear the sound of the RPG. The explosion has him backlit for all of a moment before the world is spinning, the roar of the dying engine in your ears and Price’s holler to “BAIL BAIL BAIL-!!”

You reach for the rope, glance behind you to see Soap not out of his seat- a breed of panic in his eyes unlike that you’ve ever seen from him. The jammed clasp of his strap is caught in his hands as he tugs at it desperately, and you meet his gaze for all of a moment, seeing the imminent knowledge of what comes next in his beautiful blue eyes. 

You fall, without him, are caught by the canopy of trees where the snap of branches under you muffles the distant sound of the helicopter exploding as it lands. 

You ignore Price’s orders, run desperately for the wreckage, only to be greeted by an inferno that stretches towards the sky. 

Johnny is on fire, and this time when you reach for the burn of him the flames are real. They scorch your flesh and you shout his name even as you try to reach him, already knowing it’s too late. When Ghost and the others haul you back you fall to your knees, grip the scorched earth beneath your fingers and scream.

And then you wake up. 

Warm springtime. 

“Sergeant John MacTavish, at your service.” He tells you with a grin, leaning forward to extend his hand to you.

You blink, heart still hammering in your chest, feeling the warmth of flames chase you even as songbirds sing in the trees. Yet Johnny is alive before you, whole, smiling, looking so much like the man he was when you met him for the very first time. 

“Was it a nightmare?” You ask him breathlessly, and Johnny- Soap- merely arches a bewildered eyebrow at you. 

“What?”

Nightmares, you come to learn, are so much more kind. 

It happens all as it did before. The jokes over comms, the glancing gazes over drills, the bump of elbows in the mess hall. It’s familiar, sweet, amorous…

And you know something is terribly, terribly wrong. 

Back to the start, somehow. You don’t know how, you don’t know why- but there’s no denying what has happened. Johnny died. You went back, and now you have a chance to save him. 

It’s months before the helicopter crash. You replay the scene over and over again in your mind, and you keep arriving back to the look in Johnny’s eyes as realization washed across them. Everyone who dies a sudden death is confused, scared, not ready, and the knowledge and horror you saw in his stare haunts your waking dreams. 

Yet Johnny falls in love with you just as he did before, and you fall into him so readily, desperate to accept his warmth in the wake of his death. Orpheus embracing Eurydice, you try to trace him into your skin, imbue the memory of him into the marrow of your bones and pray that you can reverse his fate. The gears of destiny tick in the back of your mind even as he stares at you over the restaurant table on the evening before your departure. 

“Just lookin’.” He tells you when you return his stare, mistaking your concern for confusion. “Just seeing how pretty you are.”

When you kiss him, you try to swallow the sob in your throat.

When you get on the helicopter, you point out his jammed strap with shaking fingers, and he blinks in astonishment. 

“Hell’s bells.” He huffs, fiddling with it before it comes loose, and it stays that way for the remainder of your journey. “That coulda been terrible, ey bonnie?”

He makes it out this time, and when he rises from the forest floor he rushes to you, cups your face in his hands and stares down with eyes glinting in concern. 

“Sweetheart.” He breathes, chest heaving with exhilaration. “Are you hur-”

He jerks back at the sound of a gunshot, and you drop automatically, crawl to him just in time to catch his hand as he reaches for you. The bullet wound at his collarbone gushes red, red, red, and your hands are coated in it as you plead, tell him he’s going to be okay-

The light fades from his eyes, still staring up at you, the last thing he sees. 

You still feel his heartbeat on your hands when you wake up. 

“Sergeant John MacTavish, at your service.” He tells you with a grin, leaning forward to extend his hand to you. You tremble, take it and see him blink in surprise when he feels the uncontrollable shake of your palm against his. 

The second time, you think it’s a fluke, a horrible prank. 

He steps on a landmine, scattered to the four winds.

The third time, you’re petrified. 

A man hidden in the darkness, he lunges for you. Johnny pushes him aside. The blade wedges between his ribs.

The fourth time, you beg destiny for answers.

You make it to the compound, the fence lights him up like a firework.

The fifth time, you try to tell him, only to find your throat clogged, unable to speak. You try to tell him a hundred more times in the months that follow, and each time the words are stolen from your breath, as if fate forbids you to inform him of his doomed destiny.

“...Nothing.” You tell him when he asks after you’ve tried to speak over the restaurant table, your food barely touched. 

Johnny shrugs. “Doesna matter, too busy looking at how pretty you are.”

You cry silently that night in his bed, while he dozes gently next to you, unaware of what awaits him. 

You can’t tell him. You don’t know how to save him. You still love him. 

He’ll forget he knows you, forget he loves you by the time he wakes up

You’ve found eight ways for Soap to die, and have taken years to defy all of them. You have to write them down everytime you wake up unless you somehow forget. The notebook is filled with scribbled reminders, ever present in your pocket even as he steals the last slice of pizza out from under you.

He doesn’t have enough ammo. Remind him to take extra clips

He put his knife on the wrong strap that he usually does, fix it for him.

He steps on the landmine fourteen steps after the creek. Stop him.

You can’t stop trying. Not when it’s him.

Yet each time you find a way to outsmart the latest execution of him, fate finds one more thing to steal him out from under you. Unstoppable, imminent, condemned to wake up and see his smiling face mere moments after his heartbeat slows to nothingness.

“I love you.” You whisper as you cradle his head in your lap, knowing he already can’t hear you, glassy eyes staring up at the sky. “I’ll see you soon.”

You burst into tears by the 19th time, buckling in on yourself much to the shock of the men around you, relaying startled looks of confusion between them. You excuse yourself, find a dark corner to fold into and sob, knowing this time you’ll fail too.

It’s Soap who finds you, sits beside you, says barely a word when you cry into his shoulder even though he doesn’t know you. Not yet. 

Falling in love with him each time is painful. Your heart beats for him and him alone, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you lose him again. You’ll go right back to the start, to him having just met you, not yet falling into gravity with you, even as you hear the tick of gears turning ever closer to the moment you’ll watch him die.

“Don’t you know me?” You want to ask him, want to bunch his shirt between your fists and let tears stream down your face. “Don’t you know you loved me?”

His smile doesn’t waver. He jokes and laughs and playfully teases you and it hurts. It’s a balm that burns, heals your heart and yet doesn’t erase the scar. He’s your only comfort, the only thing you have as you feel your soul chipped a little further each time he leaves you. You can’t tell him why you cry into his arms, can’t confess to him that you’ve seen him die more ways than you care to remember, that you’ve tried to save him in dozens of lifetimes and he doesn’t even know.

He holds you even though he doesn’t understand, hushes sweet endearments into your hair and comforts you, not knowing how this will end. 

“I love you.” He tells you softly as you hiccup against his chest, not knowing what else to say. “Ever since the moment I first saw you, I’ve loved you.”

Your tears drip into the fancy china at the restaurant he takes you to and Johnny looks afraid.

The 23rd time you meet Soap, you don’t bother to smile. You know how this ends.

“Nice to meet you, Soap.” You say for the 23rd time, words that have passed your lips in more lifetimes that you wish you didn’t remember. “I look forward to working with you.”

And I don’t look forward to watching you die.

He looks at you, blinks. His brow furrows.

“How’d you know my name?”

This time, you forget to warn him about the rigged doorway, and he vanishes in a flash and puff of smoke. 

“Don’t cry.” He wheezes when you bend over him, words pouring from your lips in a ceaseless mantra. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. “I always hated watching ye cry.”

You wake up. Everything happens as it did before. You meet him, you listen to the sound of his laugh, you finish one of his jokes over the comms and he groans.

“Don’t tell me ye know that one too!” He grouses, and when you smile your chest aches with the force of thirty lifetimes. 

You place a palm against his back, unable to help yourself as you enter the compound, wanting to feel the frame of his body just one more time before destiny finds a new way to kill him. He looks at you over his shoulder, smiles even as uncertainty colors the blueness of his gaze. 

“Yer like my guardian angel.” He tells you, still smiling even after all this time. “Dannea what I’d do w’out ye.”

A grenade at the staircase. He pushes you out of the way. He doesn’t duck out of the way in time.

You close your eyes when you wake up. You can’t bear to look at him, knowing you’ll just lose him again.

You try to keep him from loving you, thinking perhaps that is the crime to warrant this eternal punishment. You can’t stop loving him, but maybe, maybe you can stop him from loving you. Maybe if you never have him to begin with, maybe you can save him. 

Yet Johnny is drawn to you anyways, sucked in by the way your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, like a moth to an infant flame. He hovers at the fringes of your soul, tries desperately to find his way inside, and you can’t help but let him. He comforts you when you cry against the futility of it all, and there’s nothing you can say to him to explain. You wet his shirt with your tears, knowing it’ll be the one he dies in.

The next time, you force yourself to not speak to him, to try and avoid him at all costs, try everything to drive him away. If he never loved you to start, then maybe he’ll live. He seems pre-ordained to find a way to confess to you, ask why you hate him so, look at you through glistening eyes and ask “What did I do?”

You wonder if maybe that’s destiny too, if it’s truly Soap falling in love with you, or his strings being pulled by the same machinations that inscribe his death. 

When he asks you again, tries to approach you with flowers and apologies, and offers to take you to dinner on the eve of his death, you wheel on him in desperate fury. 

“You don’t actually love me!” You cry, face hot with tears. “Can’t you see that?! All this time it’s just- it’s just the story we’re in. Just because you’re supposed to love me doesn’t mean you do. It’s all just a fucking lie.”

Soap is stunned, too shocked to speak. In all the dozens of lives you’d lived, you’ve never ever yelled at him before. 

Hurt flashes across his eyes. His eyes drop along with his hands, the bouquet limp in his grip. The bitterness of his smile as he refuses to look at you threatens to shatter your heart like glass. 

“You hate me.” He murmurs, as if to himself. “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean tae…”

He falls silent, and eventually he walks away. 

You don’t get on the chopper this time. You can’t stand to watch him die again. 

You try to tell him again, ask him why. Why does he have to torture you like this? Why love you, why allow you to love him so deeply, only for him to leave at the end of this doomed story bound to repeat? Why would he love you?

He looks torn. He’s hurt. He wants to comfort you. He doesn’t know what to say

“Why wouldn’t I love you?” He asks in a whisper, devastated by your outburst. 

You can’t speak. You’re forbidden to tell him. You want to. You can’t.

“Bonnie-” He tries, stepping forward, trying to embrace you as if that will somehow solve everything. 

“No.” You manage, pressing backwards as he reaches for you, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively. Pain dances across his eyes. “Go away, Johnny.”

He leaves. 

He dies anyway. 

When you wake up, your body feels weighed down with the passage of a hundred lifetimes, and your legs fall out from under you without warning. Johnny hauls you into his arms, his blue stare flickering with concern. 

You forgot how much you love being held by him. 

This time, you don’t push him away. In fact, you never do again.

Yet things are different now. It’s subtle at first, things you take for granted. Something in this story has changed, and in turn it’s changed him. Johnny walks into rooms and seems to forget why he’s there. He asks what day it is and frowns in confusion when Ghost replies blandly for the second time that day. 

“Didn’t you already tell us this?” He asks of Price during a meeting, and Gaz’s head snaps to him, to the smartness of his tone towards your captain. 

“No.” Price responds gruffly, succinctly, and continues on. You watch Soap, see the way he doesn’t seem to understand. His fingers tap on the table, and it’s a small gesture meant to conceal the worry in his eyes- the knowledge that maybe, maybe he’s been here before.

“I saw you in a dream, once.” He tells you one night as you both clamber onto the roof of the barracks to stare at the stars. “Before I even met you.”

You stare at him, and he laughs a little nervously, rubbing at his nape. “A bit crazy, eh? Sounds like am’ off ma heid.”

You shake your head, slide your hand over his, feel your heart thump when he looks at you in surprise. “Tell me.” You whisper, and when he smiles you shudder, feel the weight of destiny press heavy on your shoulders. 

“I saw you crying.” He murmurs, and his eyes are a little distant, like he’s looking back at a life that no longer exists. “I told you not to cry.”

“Don’t cry.” He wheezes when you bend over him, words pouring from your lips in a ceaseless mantra. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. “I always hated watching ye cry.”

This time, you nearly die beside him, and almost wish fate would take you too.

He has nightmares now. He thrashes in his bed, a cold sweat dampening his skin when he wakes. You ask him what it was, what vision plagues him, and he only shakes his head, eyes distant and terrified. He clings to you like he’s a little boy frightened by shadows, gazes at something you can’t see but know all the same. He doesn’t have the words, but he doesn’t need them.

You roll over one night, startled to find him wide awake, eyes unblinking as he stares at you. His voice sounds like an echo of himself, a dark magic winding through his words that sound like an all too familiar prophecy.

“I saw myself die.” He tells you, in a voice you’ve never heard- one you’ll never forget. “You were there- and then you weren’t.”

He finds bruises on himself the next morning, in the same places you watched him become riddled with bullet holes. 

You’re running out of time. You don’t know when you’ll wake up and he won’t be there. You don’t know if this will be the last time you ever see him. 

“Please.” You beg him, tugging on the straps of his vest as he steps towards the chopper. “Johnny please, don’t. Stay here. Don’t go.”

His eyes shine with worry at the sudden, fervent desperation in your words, and he opens his mouth to respond-

Only for his eyes to take on that foreign, distant stare once more.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He asks, and once more you’re forbidden to tell him. 

Because you’ll die. Because I’ll be forced to watch. Because I have no way to stop it. Because I’ve seen it happen a hundred times and I can’t do it anymore.

Inevitably, you arrive here, and this singular moment in time, at the place where you’ve yet to find the part in which he survives. 

It always ends like this.

You survive the crash, fend off the ensuing ambush, weave past the landmines and the soldiers patrolling the perimeter, disable the electric fence and disarm the rigged door. You make it inside, stop him before he triggers the tripwire, disarm the pressure plate, lob the grenade back up the stairs, open fire on the door to his left before he passes it. You anticipate the reinforcements at your back, fix the radio when you signal for ex-fil, remember to give him your extra ammo. You know when the roof collapses and drag him to safety, point out the missed charge in his demolitions package, take out the turret before he even spots it-

Then you arrive here. 

“The detonator doesn’t work.” He tells you for the thirty sixth time, out of a hundred and forty eight lifetimes. You know what comes next. The chopper will get here, you will be overrun, and Johnny will kiss you one last time with an apology, push you into Gaz’s arms even as you scream. Then he’ll make his way to the control room without you all, will stay behind and make it his final, valiant act. 

Then you’ll watch the facility explode with him still inside, hear the gears of fate click and send you hurtling back to the beginning.

If you stop him, you’ll all be shot down. You’ll be the only survivor of the crash, and will see the broken bodies of your teammates join him. Or someone else will take his place, and your rescue chopper will be shot down anyways. 

There’s no escape. This is always the moment that you can’t save him from. Thirty six lifetimes and you know in just a few minutes you’ll wake up, will hear his voice begin it all again, over and over until one day you wake up and he isn’t there. 

“Sergeant John MacTavish, at your service.” He tells you with a grin, leaning forward to extend his hand to you.

You had a dream last time. You were both sitting at the restaurant table, and you spoke before he could. 

“Are you going to tell me how pretty I am?” You asked him, swallowing down grief, feeling it bloom like a macabre bouquet when the sound of his joyous laughter tickled your soul.

“Stole the words right from mah mouth.” He chuckled.

You blinked, and the seat across from you was suddenly empty. 

You close your eyes, in this moment, try once more to find the part where you all make it out alive. You try to find the part where you don’t lose him. Where you’ll go back to that restaurant and it’ll be the last time. 

You’ve had enough.

“I’m going to stay.” Soap declares, eyes grim with resolve. 

He turns to you.

You close the distance, reach up and kiss him. You tangle your fingers in his mohawk like you did the very first time, listen to his shocked gasp as you try and drink in the taste of him just one more time. Just one more time.

Honey and ale. A bittersweet goodbye. 

You snatch the detonator from his hands, raise your hands to his shoulders and push.

He topples backwards, nearly colliding with Price, and it gives you just enough time to bolt for the door leading towards the control room, locking it behind you. 

Soap screams your name, hurls himself at the door, frantic desperation coloring his beautiful blue eyes. The color of a sky in summer time, of a fresh breeze that reminds you so much of him.

There’s a nervous smile on his lips, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. He thinks it’s a prank, another joke between you two, and he says just as much, voice wavering when he asks you to unlock the door. 

“I’m sorry, Johnny.” You whisper, tears warming your eyes. “I can’t lose you again.”

Confusion makes him pause, but it’s only for a moment. 

“Open the door.” He demands then, jiggling the lock uselessly as his voice rises. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!!”

“I love you.” You whisper, raising your hand to the glass pane, your splayed palm against his closed fist and the world between them. “In this lifetime, and the one before. Ever since the day I met you, I’ve loved you, Johnny.”

He calls your name, voice cracking in desperation and he begs you to come back. You take a few more moments, and think to yourself how unkind it is that the last time you see him will be like this. Afraid, broken, desperate.

Terrified.

Just like how he was all that time ago, the first time you failed to save him.

Not this time. 

“Don’t cry.” You tell him quietly. “I always hated watching you cry.”

You leave him even as he screams after you, running in the direction of the control room. 

You don’t know this part. You’ve only ever watched Johnny or one of them vanish in this direction. You aren’t prepared for this the way you are with the rest of this story. You’re not ready for the hail of gunfire that greets you, the bullets ripping through flesh. Your blood drips red onto the floor, you run low on ammo, and yet somehow you press on.

Not this time. You think. Not ever again. You can’t take him from me any longer. I won’t allow it.

You’re limping, heavily wounded, riddled with bullet holes, chest seizing and smearing an abstract of crimson behind you as you finally make it to the control room. By the time you dispatch the remaining soldiers you’re on the floor, feeling the corners of your vision pulse red and black as the gears turn, as the clock ticks down. 

The timer has just enough time to make it out once you start it. You know you won’t be able to. 

So you watch the numbers click on the countdown, flop onto your back and cry.

You didn’t want this. 

You wanted just a little more time. Maybe you should have let him go, let him finish this if only he can wake up and not know you. Maybe you should have let him die one more time, if only to get the chance to fall asleep in his arms months into the future and past, knowing he was going to die. 

It’s too late now, and as the numbers click down, as your heartbeat thrums in your ears and your vision pulses red, you can only try to remember the feeling of his smile against your lips, the sound of his laughter, your name breathed into your skin as he wraps his arms around you, safe from destiny in his embrace.

“Ever since the moment I first saw you, I’ve loved you.”

You love him. You’ve always loved him. In this lifetime, in the hundred lifetimes before. In a thousand lifetimes to come you will still love him. Even if you go back, wake up again to that warm spring day, you know you will only love him once more.

You wish he was here, at the end, and wish that even if he was he’d find a way to live without you.

When you exhale, it’s the sound of his name, the memory of his eyes as they stare across you from the restaurant table, full of endless devotion.

The world goes dark. 

And then you wake up.

It’s bright. 

You don’t expect what comes next. 

There’s no birdsong. No springtime warmth. Only the beep of a heart monitor, the feeling of cottony sheets tucked into a hospital bed, the fluorescent glow of overhead lights. 

And the sound of a voice. 

Johnny is holding your hand, head bowed, tears falling freely down his face. 

“I did it.” He sobs, words choking his throat, shoulders trembling. 

Whole. Alive. Just like you. 

“I did it.” He cries again, looking up and finding your eyes with his that swim with emotion. When he speaks, it sounds like the weight of a hundred lifetimes presses down on him. 

“This time. This time, I saved you.”

Taglist: @soapskneebrace @guyfieriii @writeforfandoms @alicesfracturedmirror

CW- military type stuff, some blood, alluded sexual content

Tears have always been expensive.

For all the time you had known him as a fellow captain, he possessed so many wonderful qualities that made him a wise leader, a valued companion, and an even sweeter lover. He held so much of your heart in his broken body. But what you admired the most was his innate strength that you trusted as you would your own heart.

“Please, please, don’t leave me here,” you begged into his hand. “Don’t leave me all alone.”

His grip tightened on you, as if to steady himself in the steady waves of pain that flowed from his side. “Hold on. Keep holding on.”

You could hear Captain Price barking out commands for a medic to rush to the table, but you didn’t care.

Your hand was pressed to the pulse point against his wrist while Yuri watched from afar. It stuttered, but held true. Between groans, you heard Soap speak once more to you.

“Sing to me, lass.”

You lifted your head from where his hand held it. “What?”

“Sing for me. I’m going to die anyway. Before I go, I want to hear you sing to me.”

You paused to look at him. His eyes shone with the welled truth of his unspoken love.

You nodded softly before asking him, “What song would you want for me to sing for you?”

His soft eyes crinkled like he was smiling. “You know the one.”

Your heart hurts then. You knew exactly what he wanted you to sing but, you knew if you sang it, it would mean that this would be truly over.

“Not that one. Please, anything but that one.”

He squeezed your hand in his clammy grip before replying, “It is my wish. Please grant it.”

“Okay.”

You straightened your spine and readied yourself for the pain that was to come. Despite the bustle of the room, there was never a more tender silence in your life than this.

One last time, you looked for him to tell you he was ready. He blinked and quietly, you began to hum the tune.

“How unfair, how unfair they’ll sing as they dance across the darling rooftop wreck

He’ll trip and she’ll pretend not to have seen,

Burying her head into his chest and clinging to the moment, ‘where have you been?’

She’ll whisper ‘I’ve waited oh so long for you to come’

And as the stars above them hum and hear them he’ll turn to her and say ‘that’s what she said..”

You paused to move his hand from your cheek to rest at the side of your neck. In death, you prayed he would not remember the words of the song itself, but the way the vibrations of your love rose and fell for him.

“It’s not fair, it's not fair how much I love you

It’s not fair cos you make me ache you bastard

And she’ll say

'Oh how, oh how unreasonable

How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do

I’ll spend my days so close to you cos if I’m stood here

Then I’m stood here

And I’ll stand here

I’ll stand here with you.”

Your eyes dropped to where a tiny diamond softly shone atop John’s glove. It rolled down the fabric, losing liquid as it fell, til it slipped onto his skin.

The little droplet spread through the invisible crevices of his scarred forearms, laying on him like a tiny hug.

Every part of me wants him to stay.

John’s hand drew you out of your thoughts as he moved to brush away the droplets on your cheek. Silently, he looked at the space on the side of your face.

A bittersweet smile spread across his face. “I’ve never had someone cry for me like this, A ghràidh,” he said. A cough rattled through his broken body and when the captain held John’s head up, underneath was a rapidly spreading puddle of blood.

Yuri stood back for a few seconds, watching the table like a silent sentry.

Price quickly laid his friend back down and screamed for a medic again.

The glass of the windows was blown to pieces and bullets whistled around you.

You could care less.

What mattered right now laid on a diplomat’s repurposed hickory table, bleeding from a wound that would never heal.

“Oh God, please…I can’t lose you too,” you softly cried to him.

John’s normally glass blue eyes glittered a soft cornflower through the tears.

He spoke in a whisper, hoping you could hear him over the roar of the firefight.

“I had a dream once that you wore the white dress that we saw in Paris… and it was me waiting for you. We would live together… and I hoped that one day, we would have a family to care for.”

He paused for a moment to cough.

“I want…to live that life. But, even more so…I want you to live.”

An ugly sob that encapsulated your misery escaped your throat and the burning in your eyes mixed into the blood on the table.

John turned to the captain that was still actively begging for his friend to stay alive.

He spoke, “Price…Makarov knows…Yuri.”

You don’t know what was the first mark that John had finally passed. It was either the wail that the captain let out or the limp grip of a hand that was still tucked in yours.

The memory of what happened next doesn’t come easy, but Price would tell you later on that he had never heard a scream that scared him quite like yours.

A soldier approached you about leaving right away. Their grip guided you towards the stairs and to the evac point, but your heart was a hundred miles away right then. With every step, you cried for them to let you go back to him, to be by his side, to let you die of a bullet wound. So you would not be alone.

Underneath your sternum, a searing pain started to spread like wildfire through a dry forest. It burned through your organs, submerging your core into the terrible inferno and you groaned at the torturous pain growing within. The soldier guiding you down the stairs glanced over, concerned at the hunch in your spine growing more prominent.

He sped up, but held you closer.

The captain stood over a collapsed Yuri who was explaining what Makarov had said, and quite frankly, you did not care.

The man you loved was dead by the hands of a slimy bastard and you would make sure that he felt the chasm that he opened in your heart.

Not even a week later, you were sent back out with what remained of the 141.

The plan was simple, but clearing the building was hard.

With every bullet you shot, bloodlust and a thirst for revenge coursed in your veins, rushing with power. You rushed the hotel with a furious vengeance, men loyal to Makarov collapsing under the weight of your intent. They were thrown against walls and beaten with the fire that swallowed your grieving heart whole.

But the anger you felt was no match for a helicopter.

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was a chance, but you were thrown against the wall, knocked unconscious.

Yuri did his best to wake you with what little time was left and the two of you stumbled to the roof, a four legged beast made of determination for revenge.

And when you made it to the top, Yuri raised his gun with the intention to kill.

In the end, it was Yuri that died from two gunshots. Makarov had almost hit you before Price pulled him down and slammed him into the cracking glass. The noose that was wrapped around his neck caused Makarov to thrash.

Before the dark curtain that was starting to layer your eyesight could settle again, you picked up the handgun that lay nearby and did your best to aim at the glass.

For John.

The glass spider webbed under your bullets.

A fuzzy darkness enveloped your vision.

A slow thudding pulsed within your head, audible if you concentrated hard enough. For a second, you thought you were dead. But, the sensation of thin cotton trapping you and the cool temperature of the room made you realize you were still very much alive. Comfortable, even, but that was really a stretch. You didn’t really want to open your eyes to see where you were, and you made no move to do so until situational awareness demanded that you try. When you did, bolts of pain scratched at the insides of your skull and you closed your eyes to stop it.

Warm tears helped to wash away the grittiness that persisted under your eyelids and you decided to try again. Slower this time, you patiently waited for your eyes to adjust to being used again before looking about the scene before you.

You laid in a hospital room, connected to many beeping machines that cluttered your bedsides. A curtain was pulled between you and your new roommate. They made no move, but the steady white noise of the heart monitor assured you that you were both alive. Clearly they were asleep, and you had no intention of waking them.

Everything around you smelled of a sterile cleanliness, even your own body. A quick look over to take inventory of what had been done to yourself came back with no results.

You wiggled your toes and stretched out your legs. The hands that had carried you through battle were opened and closed, and through it all, no new marks were born upon your skin.

A miracle.

Finishing observing yourself, you scanned your memory for where you were and how you got there. You don’t remember anything after the time you took your shot. No matter. If you were here, that meant Makarov had perished. Swearing to the heavens, you hoped that whoever killed him made it hurt. The little burst of hatred was gratifying, but taxing.

All of the energy you had after first waking up had sapped nearly instantly, giving way to a massive headache and a terrible dizziness. Settling back down, you accepted that this would be your first bit of rest in a long time. Ever since the war started, you rarely got a full night of sleep.

Gazing out the window, the light of the moon shone through to the right edge of your bed, luminous and full.

It was so beautiful, so lonely up there with no one but the stars as companions. The light that it shed toyed with your tired eyes.

Dim shadows danced in the corner of your room like a ghost of holy night. They came to your bedside and laid themselves beside you.

Their eyes shuttered closed and you followed them.

The second time you woke up, someone was holding your hand. The Captain. He sat reading a newspaper with a publication date from before the war started. Most of Price was fully intact, a badly bruised face and what looked to be a broken nose, but he was alive.

You squeezed his hand.

He looked at you and you swore that the man that sat next to you carried a burden so heavy that his soul could not hold it. He looked nothing like the teacher that had been a trusted companion to you.

His smile was still his though. Quietly he told you, “Don’t move too much just yet. You’ve been out of it for about a day now. You somehow only got a concussion out of that whole ordeal.”

You sighed before speaking. Your voice cracked and broke when you spoke. “Hurts like hell right now. My whole body aches for more rest.”

Price put the newspaper on the bedside table then brought his hand to cover his eyes.

“I know, I know. But we’ll be alright, love. It’s just you and me now.” He hunkered down in his chair again, taking a brief hiatus from his reading to relish in doing nothing.

Neither of you had had a chance to do that in a long time.

Left alone with your thoughts, you wondered when they would inevitably send you back out to gather the dead. They needed volunteers and nobody enjoyed handling corpses, so the government would hastily acknowledge the accomplishments of the 141 and would reassign the remaining two. They’d have to wait until you and the captain were released from the hospital. Till then, you would lay in your bed and take time to rest.

The lull of the captain’s quiet presence combined with the warmth of the sun shining onto your bed dropped you into a state of near limbo.

Before you could slip away though, you heard Price murmur to you one final thing.

“I think he saved you, girl. That boy must have done something to protect you one last time.”

Price’s calloused hand came to rest on your head. He stroked it in an uncharacteristic display of gentleness, but you were so tired that you did not mind.

“I’m glad he did.”

Sleep came easy then. You knew you were safe with Price and whoever else watching over.

About a week later, you were released from the hospital under the understanding that you would report to Price should any extra pain or injuries emerge.

When returning to the base, central command alerted you that your next job would be without Price.

They were sending you out to aid in the search and rescue teams, but unknowingly, they sent you straight back into the heart of Prague.

Price would be sent to retrieve the bodies of Ghost and Roach and when he had completed that task, would rendezvous with you in Paris.

It did bother you that you wouldn’t be with him, but he assured you that you would see each other again very soon.

Before you boarded the helicopter, Price grabbed your arm.

“Let me know if anything comes up. My comm lines are always open for you,” he said. The last few days had been anything but kind, and you gently patted his shoulder before replying, “Don’t worry about me, captain. Take care of yourself too.”

The ride over was nothing special, but it put you back into hopeful headspace that the ground wouldn’t be covered with the nameless bodies of dead civilians and soldiers.

You were wrong. The pavement was littered with bullet shells, military grade weapons, and dead bodies, all of them cold. Vehicles of all kinds lay about, some of them were covered in the rubble of collapsed buildings.

It became evidently clear that drifters had been wandering through the silent streets with the amount of ransacked stores you found. How sad it was to find some civilians stagger out of concrete buildings, asking for water and food because all of it was gone.

At one point you found a whole group of women and their children hiding in an abandoned mall. Each shop had a family packed inside, cramped. They watched you with fear in their eyes, trying to gauge whether or not you were a threat to their safety.

A translator medic explained that the war was over and that they could come out to the field hospital for food and water. Most of them sprang into action, gathering what they had left onto their backs, babies wrapped in cloth scarves around their chests. Others that were more cautious stayed back, but followed when they could judge that there was no threat.

Some of the women made eye contact with you, but they didn’t hold it for long. They were more concerned with making it to a safe place than with whatever you were doing.

Once the building was cleared out, you searched it for any stragglers. There was one.

A bundle of dirty blankets wriggled beside a curled up body in a sleeping bag. A lady and a tiny child.

You rushed over to check the vitals of the woman. Her pulse was close to nothing and her eyes barely showed any recognition of your presence. The baby was still very much alive and looked to be healthier than its half dead mother.

Another woman must have been taking care of the babe for her, but left the child in the mass Exodus.

The lady grabbed your hand. “My husband is a soldier. Is he alive?” she asked, teeth chattering. You held her hand tighter. “I don’t know him, miss. Let’s just try to get you out of here, okay?”

You called for backup and two other medics ran around the corner. With your help, they pulled her onto a stretcher and you picked up the baby.

When you arrived outside, nobody came to put the infant with its mother. You, an agent of war, stood unsure of what to do with the little one.

That was until a tiny hand tapped your chin. The baby did not cry at your tired face or wail when you shifted your arms. It didn’t even care that you jerked your head away when it tried to grab your tied back hair.

You swore that you had never met a more quiet, curious child than this one. Then the baby’s probing hands pulled on the loosened glove on your right hand.

The glove slid off and you struggled to hold the baby and pick up the fallen glove. The child babbled and you felt two little hands reach for your middle finger.

A silver anxiety ring with woven hearts jingled. The baby was fascinated by the sound it made when the rings rotated and for a moment you paused.

That ring had been a gift from your team as a group Christmas gift. They were gone now, but the moment was bittersweet when the child in your arms shrieked in joy at finding the big heart again.

Tears dropped onto the child’s head and it looked up at you, confusion in its eyes. You smiled sadly and for a moment, the little one stared like it was really seeing you.

Then, another medic walked to you and explained that she would take it from here. You handed the child over to her, and wiped away the wetness on your cheeks. The glove remained in your left hand and the ring stayed wrapped in the baby’s hands.

Countless more hours were spent clearing buildings and ushering in volunteers willing to help with moving the rubble.

Before you knew it, two days had passed. Your body withered under the exhaustion of the tough work, but the base you were staying at was well equipped for that.

Every night, you powered through your fatigue and washed away the dust that settled on your face. When you looked in the mirror though, the woman staring back was almost foreign.

The shape of your face was a bit more shallow. And the thin scratches from being thrown at the side of your neck had seen better days. But what scared you the most was the look in your eyes.

A grief so disconsolate reflected back to you. There had been no time to let yourself mourn, and frankly, you did not want to.

To accept that he was gone was to give into the heartbreak that every lost lover knew.

You couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t have wanted you to cry.

But you wanted to do it anyway.

There was so much pain welling up in your body, coming close to drowning you in it. Some days, misery clogged your throat and made it hard to focus on anything at all.

Those days made for the worst nights of all.

But you lived through it. You prayed for good dreams.

Other squads of medics had worked their way through the city with the intention of meeting you in the center. The capitol building was waiting there, and strangely enough, it was deemed as safe enough to not need as many guards as what was necessary.

You dreaded going back there.

So, you begged the head medic to let you sit this one sweep out. He explained that he couldn’t allow it. There just weren't enough people that could clear out buildings and he needed you on the ground.

That night, you lay on your cot inside the gym of the base, listening to the soft hum of other women and their children sleeping. By no means did you think it would change anything but, you hoped that wherever Soap was now, he would remember the song you gave to him.

That sentiment stayed with you till sleep found you.

When you awoke, the sky was still dark. Quietly, you slipped out of your makeshift bed and gathered your clothes to rush down to the empty locker rooms.

Once you had fully prepared for the day, you walked into the empty halls. Nobody was quite awake yet, so you wandered.

Each floor of the base was filled to the brim with civilians, soldiers, volunteers, and medics. Not one room was underutilized.

With no destination in mind, you went to the roof of the building. There wasn’t much up there, except an old office chair and what looked to be a pot for cigarette stubs.

The sky was starting to lighten, though, and with it a heavenly array of colors painted themselves.

Black faded into blue, which soon became pink, then red and orange, and finally, a shade of yellow before the sun emerged.

A warmth bloomed inside you despite the cold of the morning air and before you knew it, you heard doors and voices down below.

Down the stairs you went into the halls. Quiet murmurs echoed in the building and throughout the courtyard. You wouldn’t load into a vehicle for about another half hour, but you couldn’t help the way that beauty brought some hope.

Though the head medic could not allow you to stay on the base for this mission, he did advise you on breathing techniques to calm the mind and body.

You practiced those on the way to the drop off.

The drivers hurried on the road and they reached their destination all too soon.

You hopped out and hefted your weapon.

You would be sent to look through the buildings and streets of the quiet city. This would be your last day on this job before moving on to meet with Price.

Before they sent you off to look around the buildings, you looked up into the blue sky and watched a little bird fly overhead. If that bird could make it through the war, surely you could live through the day.

Perhaps this was a silent reassurance from the cosmos that the world would recover. That you would recover.

You went with your group and followed their directions to split without hesitation. As if the squad leader wanted to punish you, she ordered you to take your nurse to the area closest to the capitol building.

Your nurse was a newbie, a volunteer who hadn’t seen the full extent of the damage done to the city. Their eyes widened at the grotesque smattering of bodies, but it seemed they were more curious than cautious.

Without much proper training, they tried to wander away instead of staying with you. Under constant reminder, they reluctantly glued themselves to your side as you worked your way through the hotels and business buildings.

Inevitably, you found some civilians that the nurse promptly took care of. There were never any attackers, but there were the remains of Makarov’s forces.

A few of them seemed to recognize you and tried to avoid your dead stare as much as possible. They seemed to recognize that if you could kill them, you would and used the nurse to put some distance between you and them.

They cautiously watched the brand new gun in your hands swing back and forth, but they never tried anything.

Your merry travel buddy finished their job then motioned for you to lead the way. You kept going, but quickly recognized the way both of you were walking.

The resistance had set up headquarters in a lonely square, and it sent fear pulsing through your veins from the last time you were there.

Resistance fighters were strewn on the stairs and their bodies stunk. No doubt it would stink even more on the inside.

The nurse peeled off on the excuse to go check the rubble for somebody and you couldn’t care less.

Stepping over the bodies, you push on the door gently. Nothing exposed itself, so you stepped in. Bullet casings for one 1911 were scattered about the floor, like golden petals before a bride.

Not yet.

The rooms upstairs were mostly empty, except for four soldiers preparing to shoot you. Once you told them not to shoot as best you could, the men recognized you and allowed you to explain.

All of them were happy to hear that you and the captain had survived, but when you inquired about the rest of their teammates, their faces fell. They lost most of their squad, and wanted to know about Yuri and Nikolai.

Your hesitance told them much. “Nikolai is alive. He’s with Price right now. Yuri…did not make it,” you said. “I’m sorry.”

The oldest of the men spoke. “Don’t be. The good in this world is worth dying for.”

With nothing left to say, the fighters gathered their things and clunked down the stairs. The youngest patted your shoulder. He looked to be about eighteen, but spoke like a man. “Yuri was my brother. He would be happy to know that you are okay.” He proceeded for the door, but paused to look back with an expression that you had seen too many times.

Defeated. Unfocused. Sad.

It didn’t belong on one as young as he. “Your husband is cleaned up. I did it.” Your heart leaps in your chest at the boy’s admission. This young man had done something for you not knowing if you would come back. All you had done was taking his family member from him. In that moment, you wished that it was Yuri reuniting with his brother, not you. Softly, you approached the young man.

He did not flinch or back away when the glove on your hand came off, nor did he do so when your hand came to rest on the side of his face.

His eyes welled with tears and his throat bobbed at the tender touch. A moment passed before he burrowed himself into your palm.

You nearly wept at how young he looked and was. This child had gone through so much pain and loss in a war that was not his to fight. Most likely, he had not been touched like this since he was with his mother, wherever she was.

Silently, you thanked her for raising such a gentle, good natured boy. When his skinny arms trembled, you held them still.

“We each have lost someone we loved. Just…don’t let it consume you, okay? I promise that your brother loves you so much. He will always be there when you need him.”

The young man’s crystalline tears fell between you before he wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. You rubbed the boy’s shoulder.

Down the hall, a shadow in the shape of a man stood. “I think you should go, kid. Be happy,” you said, ushering the boy towards his older friend.

The larger man slung his arm over the boy’s shoulder and tucked his head low as they walked down the stairs.

With a deep breath in and one out, you followed their pathway down. There was a hypocritical desire to run from what was coming, but avoiding him would never bring closure. You had seen so much suffering both mentally and physically and experienced it as much as anybody else, but this was possibly the most terrifying feeling of trepidation ever. What would happen? Will something change? Were you afraid of that change?

As you stood at the bottom of the stairwell, the doorway gaped open, the shining sun blazing in. Unconsciously, you shivered under the warmth.

You prayed for a modicum of strength before setting your sights on the room ahead.

You were ready to meet your groom.

Slow and steady steps lead you through the walkway and there he was.

John’s body wore most of his military gear except for the vest. The 1911 rested in his hand on his chest and there was no blood on the table. There was none anywhere, not even on his boots.

The young man had cleaned him up very well. But it was clear that this man was dead.

His face had sunken in and his pallor was an unhealthy gray. The stiffness in the joints also were giveaways that he had been here for a while now. You sat on the floor at his side as he lay on the table. It hurt to see him like this.

The soldier you had met when you were both young is nowhere to be seen.

When you first arrived to meet your squad, Soap had been the first man that you truly noticed at the base. He was smiley, had beautiful eyes, and a wonderful physique. You were only human, a woman no less (even if you were desensitized). How could you refuse to look?

Price introduced you to each other as sergeants and the grin he gave you practically made you swoon(if you told her, your mother would have been over the moon that you found one you liked).

Then you actually met him.

He had been headstrong and cocky beyond belief, but he had the skills to back up all the silly claims that he made. That cockiness had been what originally drove you away from him, but it also drew your interest.

You didn’t want to be killed by his recklessness, nor did you want to be involved in whatever silly mistake he chose to do this time. However, you found him to be considerate and kind to anyone he met. Then, you both were given a higher rank and sent out on different missions with new people.

What little you did know of him faded to oblivion in the three years of assignments that you did as a lieutenant. However, you were both thrown for a moment when work brought you back together.

Like mixing together red and blue, somehow you both managed to clash perfectly. The reckless boy you remembered had grown into a responsible man (even more attractive now). But he still had the spark that had drawn you to him in the first place.

It had all started on the field. As teammates, you had to learn to get along with one another. As leaders, you tussled for power. As friends? You had a barely there budding relationship.

But all good things start small and as time went on, your bond grew deeper.

You learned more about one another through talking, joking or working together, and observing the other’s mannerisms. You fought together and fought each other. Whatever you chose to share with him he would share with you in turn.

In the end, both of you emerged with a better understanding of one another.

Conversations became longer and longer, texting each other when you had breaks between missions, meetups were far more frequent, and down times were spent around each other.

You remembered the first time he had invited you into his home. He lived about an hour away, so you went to the store before taking the train towards the nearby station. John had always mentioned wanting to try his hand at cooking, so you suggested that you cook dinner together. That was the first time you had placed your boots next to his.

You brought the groceries and John would provide his home and tools. Together you worked, one unit on the field and one in the kitchen too.

In the end, you successfully made some pasta and a mess of his kitchen, but it was absolutely worth it. After cleaning the dishes and kitchen together, you made him promise that the next time would be at your house.

Those happy meetings kept happening for years to come. It was during one of those when you finally decided to stop beating around the bush and address what had grown inside of you unknowingly.

What was a friendship was no longer strictly platonic, new feelings being poured into a fathomless bond. Your own emotions grew in strength whenever he was involved.

You would be sent to different places and would miss his quips about your L115A3 in the first fifteen minutes on the flight. Other times, he would be deployed and suddenly the whole idea of him being hurt would hinder your work ethic. And when you returned or he came back, he was the first one that you wanted to see.

It became common to see you two around each other, so much so that it allowed rumors to grow exponentially. Most of them were ridiculous and some were just not plausible. At one point, you even found a note balled up on the floor of the briefing room that two soldiers had been passing back and forth about whether or not the tension between their two captains was real.

There were whispers whenever you walked past the other female soldiers in the locker rooms. None of their intentions were ever malicious, just incredibly curious. It didn’t bother you that the others talked, in fact it was quite amusing. What bothered you was that neither of you were allowed any privacy at all.

The murkiness had made it hard to determine where the line between attraction and friendship began. You did know that you wanted more of him though. In whatever way that was.

Sadly, you also knew that there was a possibility that whatever you felt was not reciprocated and he wanted to keep you as a friend. You had never felt something like this for anyone before, and if you managed to screw this up, you would never forgive yourself.

But fortune favors the bold, so you decided to make a risky move and tell him what you felt. Good communication is key, after all.

It was after a meal with him that you jokingly touched on how lonely your home felt when it was just you there. John caught onto the poorly disguised emotion in a matter of seconds.

“Are… do you enjoy having me around?” he asked. You smiled a bit.

“You know I do. I have something to look forward to whenever you’re here.” He inhaled shallowly as you both strolled down the driveway to his car.

You waited a moment to hear what he had to say. “I can’t say that I don’t feel the same, lassie. I’d be lying to you.”

“Then don’t lie. Tell me your truth and I’ll tell you mine.”

He kissed you then, and you swore that the deities in the heavens above must have crafted this man from the most hallowed materials found on earth.

Moments of touch followed. There was no lust in the connection you shared, only a steady, sweet desire to pick up on all the lost time that had taken so long. His forehead rested against yours, cheek flushed a soft rosy shade, loving arms wrapped around you, and you finally understood why love was the muse of artists.

For the past four and a half years, the two of you spent even more time together, attentively nurturing the blooming tree that was your relationship. There were many firsts together and many hopes for the future. The largest one was marriage.

In your line of work, marriage wasn’t rare, but it most certainly was dangerous. If the enemies you fought found that their adversary had a partner, it could potentially put both of you in the crosshairs.

The discussion happened on a variety of occasions. Sometimes, it occurred in the middle of the night in the mess hall when neither of you could sleep, sometimes it was in the warm sleepiness of a winter afternoon.

John wanted to get married as much as you did, but both of you knew that it would change the carefully planned dynamic in the warzones. Work would always get in the way, but the future was never promised.

So, when he unwrapped himself from your bed to wake you up one night on break, you didn’t hesitate to follow him. He wove through the quiet rooms of the house, leading you to the kitchen. John had pulled a chair out for you to laze in as you waited for him to speak. He sat down as well.

His leg hopped up and down and he tapped his finger against the table in an erratic pattern. John looked everywhere but you. Instinctually, his activity signaled an anxious man that needed to be calmed, but about what, you weren’t sure. You lightly nudged the side of his leg with your foot to get his attention.

John paused to glance at you and his blue eyes caught a small ray of moonlight through the blinds. They burned and frothed with unknown intent threatening to spill out this night.

You did not break his stare. You feared that if you did, something inside of you would scream for doing so. He looked so inhuman in this lighting, like he was old in spirit but still retained all the wondrous strengths of youth. Then you registered a movement at his right shoulder.

He reached out to hold your left hand. You watched as he lifted it, running a calloused fingertip over the delicate bones under the tougher skin. John did not rush his exploration of your hand, rubbing the joints down to the nails in a non methodical manner. He reverently stroked your ring finger, only pausing when the skin filled with blood as he pressed down.

Both of you had been working together for a long time, so you could read the other’s body language like a book. Being around somebody for that long will do that to a person. But this time, he did something that you couldn’t predict.

Flipping your hand up, he compressed it against his own, as if comparing the lengths of your hand to his. Glancing at him, you find he is already watching for your reaction.

Unsure of what his desired outcome is, you press back against his hand to test the waters. He pushes back till your fingers spread and lock together.

You decide to break the silence at your kitchen table. “Is something wrong?”

John does not release your hand, but pulls it down to let it dangle between your chairs.

“No.”

That isn’t the truth, though. You can tell when you start to lose him again because there’s a furrow coming between his brows.

So you do the only thing you can and sit in a palpable silence til you can’t handle it anymore.

“Tell me.”

He stops staring into the shadows of your kitchen to reply to you. “Alright.” He paused like he was unsure of how to start next.

“ I…I feel that we’ve become something more than what I expected,” he said.

Your eyes narrowed, preparing for the sucker punch to the gut that he was about to deliver.

“We’ve been together for so long that this is just normal. You being in my house, in my office, in my kitchen, I mean. Everytime I look at you, I realize that you’ve just integrated yourself into this place naturally.” You recoil inside, feeling like a younger self being critiqued by a nasty partner that had nothing good to say.

“And now I can’t imagine a time when it didn’t have you in it. I’ve seen so much pain and suffering in the world and I understand the impermanence of life. So…what I’m trying to say is that this is the life that I want. Permanently.”

Oh. Oh.

He wanted something you could give. You chewed on his words a bit as John watched with bated breath.

“I think that can be arranged,” you started. “You’re certain you’re ready? I don’t want you to make an impulsive decision for my sake. I would stay with you even if you didn’t want that.”

He gripped your hand tighter as if that could prove what he was saying was true.

“More than anything.”

Soap watched as the wheels in your head turned, and then a smile he wanted to see forever spread across your lips.

“When? Because the kids will be pissed if we don’t tell them we’re getting hitched,” you say.

John’s eyes crinkle in a smirk.

“I was thinking right now. And don’t worry about them. They’ll forgive us eventually.”

Your eyebrows draw upwards. “Right now? Honey, it’s the middle of the night. And if you want to get married in a church, that would take, lets see… at least two to three months to arrange.”

He laughs. “Not right at this moment. But in the morning, we can go to the legal offices.”

You reply, “Well, I know one thing for certain.”

John curiously beamed at you. “And, what is that exactly?”

Calmly setting your expression in a facade that hides your intentions, you only tell him what you feel deep down.

“That I’m beyond excited to be Mrs. MacTavish.”

He can tell that there’s more. “That all?”

Your lips curve up into a clever smirk.

“And that you ought to take me to bed, Johnny.”

His eyes close and a soft groan stems in his throat before he stands and grabs your arm to lead you up the stairs.

“Bloody hell, woman. You’re a real piece of work.”

Your laughter drifted down the hall and that next morning, both of you were married.

But the sweetness of marriage soured quickly.

Tensions in all corners of the world began to increase. World War Ⅲ started and everything that wasn’t necessary was sidelined. Both of you were thrown into your work and deployed to aid in the fight. You were sent to defend the United Kingdom while Soap was assigned to gather intelligence in Russia.

The battle was long and bloody and every hour felt like another day in hell, but the promise that you would be free when it was over brought you the strength to survive. Every night, you hoped that a life with Soap waited for you after all was done.

Inevitably, you met again when the order to rescue Prisoner 627, an invaluable enemy of Makarov in the gulag, was to be carried out. When Soap stepped out of the helo, he gave a polite nod to all of your other men. Ghost and Roach stood behind him, quietly saying hello to you as well.

Soap showed no major response to you, only saying, “Good to see you, lass. Let’s get to work.” It didn’t irk you, mainly because he caught you later when you were alone.

After getting done with the briefing for the retrieval, you had walked down the hall to the filing room to finish some extra work. While looking over the papers, you forgot to check the intersecting walkways. A huge weight suddenly slammed into your side, dragging your body back into the shadows.

Your mouth was covered to stop you from calling for help and you considered beating this man to a pulp for underestimating your strength until an raspy accented voice tickled the side of your neck.

“Did you really not see me? My god, you look so tired,” he says, relaxing his hands. Leaning back into him, you reply, “I was busy, Captain MacTavish. And for the record, you have the same eyebags that I do.”

Twisting your head to look over your shoulder, you feel a scruffy sensation scratch the side of your face. “And what is this? Something I missed?” you say to him.

Soap’s soft chuckle rumbled in his chest and through your body, so normal to anyone else but heavenly to your joyful ears. He mutters, “I didn’t have time to clean up.”

You flip your body around to embrace him then. It was wonderful to feel so safe and warm after not being able to be with him for his last mission.

Gently rocking, you murmured into him, “Did you get any new injuries?” He smiled into your hair. “You worry about me too much, woman. I’m fine.”

“I’m your wife. I think I should be a bit concerned about your health,” you said. Soap leaned back against the wall before saying, “That you are. Are you alright as well?”

His eyes dragged around your body and you spoke. “I’m okay, just tired. Been running back and forth, trying to keep Shephard happy.”

His visage visibly darkened at the general’s name. “Is he overworking you?” You slid your hand up and down his arm. “I think he’s doing that to all of us. There’s just too much to do and not enough people.”

He stays peering into your eyes before burying his head into your neck. “I’m tired of this. Do you have any more work to finish?” You gently tuck your hands into the thick mess of his mohawk and rub through it.

“Just a little bit more, but you’re always free to sit with me while I finish up.”

Soap smiles. “Okay.”

Less than ten minutes later, John’s head lays in your lap, completely relaxed. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a man that could fall asleep as quickly as he could. That or he was really tired. His position on the floor was hardly comfortable, but clearly he didn’t seem to care.

Having finished working five minutes earlier, you lightly play with the skin around the back of his neck and watch as little goosebumps pop up in their wake. The heart trapped in your ribcage flutters.

For some wonderful reason, John trusted you with his life and that made these moments all the more precious. Gently, you ran your finger over the scar on his eye.

When he got this, he didn’t want to have you see it. What he did not expect was for the nurses to tell him that a certain female lieutenant was asking about him. That was the beginning of a much larger realization that came little over a year later.

He startles upwards when your finger stills for just a second too long, years of learned instinct triggering his fight response. The top half of his body flies up and off of the floor into a scanning position.

You draw your hand back and wait for him to thoroughly search the area for danger before turning back to you. When he realizes that everything is alright, he sighs back into your legs.

“I thought you were going to wake me,” he says gruffly. You rub the tight muscle in his shoulder before saying, “I just did. Let’s go to bed.”

Later that night, he came to you. Though most men were not allowed near the section of the base dedicated to female soldiers, you had your own room and not one person cared what you did during a time like this. In the silence of the sterile barrack, you heard the soft knock at the door.

Opening it gently to not wake anybody else in the hall, John stood backlit by an emergency light. There was no need for any kind of request; you let him in and shut the door behind you. The war waged on outside, but you had tonight and that was good enough.

The bed was small but to two touch-starved individuals, this was plenty. John all but buried his face into your chest, half asleep already and you rubbed the side of his head that was exposed to you.

He had groaned in delight at being cuddled and you laughed softly. This huge, commanding man was more than happy to curl up next to you and soak in the warmth of your embrace.

You would happily do this everyday of your lives if you could, just the two of you in a home you made together. In your mind’s eye, you could see it. One bed would sit in a room you shared, a kitchen large enough to survive any of John’s wild ideas, pictures on every wall, and two pairs of boots would sit by the doorway.

His snoring pulled you out of your mind. He looked so serene laying there, so lovely in the moonlight peeking through the blinds on the window. A pulse of true want caused you to curl up around him even more, cradling his head even more than you already were. You always did sleep better when he was there.

When you woke, one heavy arm was thrown over the small of your waist, a familiar face tucked under your chin. You dozed, only watching as the first light stretched across the grounds. There was smoke creeping over various places in the city, a reminder that the war had not ended and would most likely not be ending until the Russian president had been restored and Makarov had been extinguished.

Shepherd wasn’t making it any easier either. With every passing day, he pressured you to find the remaining survivors of other squadrons and lead them back into the fight with you. The unfortunate thing was that most of these survivors were either badly injured or suffered from extreme cases of PTSD. The few that were healthy enough to fight did rally beneath you, but often didn’t make it back alive. Those that did were your most trusted.

You were so lost in thought that you didn’t notice the hand behind you slipping down your side to rest just under your rib cage. When you did, it was too late. A loud yelp of laughter erupted from you when the fingers started tickling your stomach. “Stop, stop, stop. Oh god, stop.” Another chuckle filled the room and you covered your mouth to prevent from waking everyone else in the hall up.

You pushed yourself up and shoved the invading grip away from your sides. John sat up on his elbows and you lightly slapped his shoulder. “Oh love, you wound me,” he laughed. You straddle his waist and smile down at him. “I can’t believe you just did that,” you exclaimed. He grins. “Believe it lass, cause I might do it again.”

He tugged you forward as you tried to escape, his calloused fingertips digging into the tender flesh of your middle. You writhed around to escape but ended up rolling off the bed. The cold ground was hard and when you look up, a sheepish Soap is peeking over the side. “Sorry about that. Here.”

You playfully slap his extended hand away and clamber back onto the bed. He allows you to curl into his side for a reprieve from the bitter frost of the early morning.

here's another veiled racist thing i've noticed amongst the CoD fandom. it's when writers deliberately title something like "call of duty headcannons" or "(situation x) with call of duty men" rather than titling it "141 headcannons" or "(situation x) with 141" to give the excuse of not adding gaz.

because if it's "(situation x) with call of duty" it's less likely that people are going to call out the exclusion of gaz because the horizon has been expanded. which is still unsettling to me because when i see this title, followed by Price/Soap/Ghost/König, it gives off the feeling that if i were to ask "why'd you leave out Gaz?" i'd get a "it's Call of Duty men, not 141 men"— if that makes sense? idk if that makes sense.

which then makes me wonder if it's "Call of duty men" then why include these three specific men of this specific faction and then remove their teammate and add another character from a different faction, rather than writing about four characters from four different factions?

if it's call of duty men, why not go Price/König/Nikolai/Alejandro? instead of trying to hide behind a fucking technicality to hide your racism??

i’m scared of ending up alone.