Your gateway to endless inspiration
Warnings!: Nope, not any today. I'm being possessed by the spirit of creativity right now and I NEED to yap. Shoutout to @h1ccu9 for just being incredibly nice and amazing, and to all of you for your support! It means a lot <3
Johnny has always been an artist, in his mind. It's a fact that permeates his whole being, though it didn't come about how most think it did.
There was no single moment when he decided that it would be what consumed every other free moment he has, no Christmas present that spurred creativity any more than the others.
Slowly, when he was younger. Stupid drawings of cartoons he'd liked, the typical stuff for a kid. Then, more quickly. In Chemistry, he was so bored of hexagons, of compounds bound by singe and double lines and rote memorization.
So, he started with circles. They were ugly, at first, but he picked up shading, and then it spilled outward.
Stupid drawings of his teachers, made to draw a chuckle from classmates, drawn with the 5-pack of pencils that would last the whole year, no matter what.
Even in his adult life, when what fills his sketchbook is chicken-scratch and sketches of buildings (only sometimes people) it's only pencil.
A quiet tribute to the young boy in a big house where money was tight. Colored pencils and good graphite would be wasted on him. He has what he needs in his palm, and he's used to that. Sometimes, black and white works well enough.
Price is somewhat similar, but his skill is technical. Sharp lines composed of quick flicks of a controlled wrist (never mind the slight ache when he repeats the motion too many times) come together to form rough ideas, a tool more for communication more than anything else.
It's not a skill borne from anything too creative, no, it just boils down to the things he needs to know. Maps, structures from top-down and isometric angles. Plans of attack represented by smooth, even arrows like men haven't died following paths he's drawn.
John doesn't like to draw outside of work, not when he remembers how many lives have been mistakenly cut short by how he controls the ballpoint pen.
He's tried, once or twice. It always ends in a deep, stabbing guilt that takes a practiced hand to shake from his shoulders.
Kyle didn't have an affinity for art until his teen years. He'd gone to museums, sure, he knew it took skill, but it had never really piqued his interest in the way it seemed to captivate some people he knows.
He'd been stressed when he picked it up from a friend. Squiggles encased in squiggles on the margins of the page. His English teacher did nothing but mark down his essays for it, but dammit did forcing himself to focus on something else work.
His mother had soon gifted him a set of ink-basked, black liner pens. Middle-of-the-road, in both quality and price, but it was more than enough.
A simple notebook had soon become a haven for him. Dots on dots on dots, lines, big, swooping curves, you name it, it's there.
He holds one rule: No "drawing".
Of course, this feels silly when he tells it to people, but it matters. If he goes into the project with a thought of a desired result, it will just frustrate him more, when it inevitably turns out as less-than-flawless.
So, it's all amorphous. Sometimes it's spiky, sometimes he's almost scarily methodical, adding more and more detail until a whole spread is swallowed up, and his head is mercifully clear.
It's enough to pull him in, but the art always lets him go again, and that's what he needs out of it.
Simon doesn't draw.
That's not to say he doesn't make art, but his is different.
Origami is his trade. It has been for a long time. He'd tear the corners out of pages in school binders, find ways to fold them to make them more interesting.
A book from the local library was what had taken it from a child's passing interest to the work of the rest of his life. More patterns. A way to understand how to make patterns, of his very own.
But, perhaps most importantly, origami was a simple, cheap hobby he could pay for with quarters found on the side of the road. And it was easy to hide
A shoebox beneath his bed was where it resided for about a decade, and then he enlisted.
His first tour, an acquaintance had given him a good set of proper origami paper. He can't remember their name for the life of him, but he remembers them every time he sits at his desk.
Actually, to be fair, he remembers them every time he enters his room at all.
The walls are adorned in paper sculptures, some truly origami, some not. Some composed of thousands of fold and over a hundred hours of work, and some just five-minute warm-up cranes.
It's a soothing reminder that his life is his, now. No matter how bitter the past may be, the tamed roughness of paper on his burned fingertips is there, and his mind gets to shut off as he takes on a project.
He knows how to make cranes by heart, now.
uhhhh who wants simon ghost riley normal/relationship headcanons? anyone???
●・○・●・○・●
✧ i think that: ghost has the softest hands known to man kind. he gets self conscious about it because he’s been a soldier for years and wishes his hands were more roughed up and reflected his gritty persona and job (i want his hands to be calloused too but c'mon and imagine soft handed simon…)
✧ i think that: ghost is sensitive to fragrant smells. ex: flowers or specific expensive perfumes, it just gives him a huge headache and makes his mood sour (he’s deathly allergic to pollen, not dust though).
✧ i think that: his ribs are sensitive (obviously iykyk) so he tends to guard them more whenever sparring or out in the field (like keeping his arms tucked close to his sides). but he lets you touch them lovingly after gaining his trust, just remember to be gentle, yeah?
✧ i think that: ghost runs extremely cold or hot, there’s no in between. if you're lounging with him, you'll either be practically one with him or on the opposite end of the furniture.
✧ i think that: he probably gets migraines a lot. with all the gunfire and flashing lights of his profession, he's prone to the horrible ache in his skulls we all know and hate. show up with some medicine and tea for him and he's smitten.
✧ i think that: he sleeps with the thinnest blanket ever and doesn’t have a duvet on his bed (he thinks it’s too soft of a luxury for him).
✧ i think that: this man can and will fall asleep anywhere and at any time to make up for the lack of it he gets. back from a rough op? nap for a couple minutes. on the heli to a new base? he says he's just resting his eyes, but everyone knows he fell asleep for real.
✧ i think that: ghost prefers sour and salty foods and doesn't have the biggest sweet tooth (as much as i want him to). though, he does like dark chocolate and gets mad when you say that doesn't really count. he can handle SOME spice but avoids it if optional.
✧ i think that: ghost's favorite animal has to be a wolf (stereotypical much?), snake, or another kind of lizard. maybe something like a kimodo dragon? if you take him to the zoo he beelines for the reptile and fish exhibits. aquarium date anyone?
✧ i think that: he hates when people mock his accent, he can't help it so whats the problem? maybe hate is a strong word but he definitely doesn't care for it. if you're close to him relationship wise he'll just scoff and pretend to be annoyed, but the accent on you does sound cute....
●・○・●・○・●
omg whats up guys... its been a sec im sorry college is a bitch and a half. uhh im slowly getting back into cod after a few other phases have died down. if you liked this check out my menu to request a short fic! thank you!!!! - emile :3
the masses wanted it and now you receive! part two to my little ghost and fucked up hybrid!reader is here!!!
here's part one!
a/n: reader is a german shepard hybrid! and will now be presented as fem! i hope thats okay!!!
cw: little bit of violence but idk if i'd even be considered that
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
"I'll take her."
Did you hear him right? You think that's what you heard the man say... How odd, he had only gotten not even a look at your battered form, not even seen how you fight, and yet he's going to take you. You slowly turn once more to peer over your shoulder at the man on the other side of the bars; Ghost- you heard the workers call him.
With narrowed eyes you know what's about to happen, it happens every time you're chosen for a job and must be transferred. Gas starts to come up from holes in your cell, making your vision grow hazy and slowly start to fall asleep.
Ghost watches from the other side of your cell, watching in discomfort as your gassed to sleep, your now lifeless body being manhandled by the workers that entered your cell the second you were down. Ghost shifts in his spot as he sees your wrists and ankles chained together in pair with a muzzle around your mouth that sits over your lower face and wraps around tightly to the back of your head.
"Is this necessary..?"
Ghost speaks up and glares at one of the workers bringing you to your feet and dragging you out the doors of the facility and towards the chopper. The worker that he got a hold of nods his head and makes a gesture for Ghost to follow him as they walk to the chopper.
"Yes sir- she's... Not always privy to being assigned to a new handler- this is just for insurance that she won't lash out."
Ghost just grunts in response, this was going to be a pain in his ass. You were going to be a pain in his ass. The Lieutenant watches as you're forcefully shoved into a cage in the back of the chopper, his dark eyes beneath his mask narrowing as you're locked in and your chains are secured to the hull of the chopper. With one last glance at the facility, Ghost climbs into the back of the chopper, choosing to take one of the seats near where you're caged.
When the chopper lifts off the tarmac, Ghost notices you flinch as you sit with your knees to your chest- the same position you were in back in your old cell. Trauma response? Maybe. Ghost thinks to himself as his eyes glaze over you, noticing every nick, bruise, and scar on your body that's obvious. After a few boring seconds of silence the Lieutenant finally speaks up, addressing you for the first time.
"My name's-"
"Simon."
Ghost all but flinches as the sound of your voice, the man steeling himself instantly. The hell did he jump for? You're just some mutt. Though, his eyes darken and narrow into sharp slits beneath his mask when he realizes you said his name; not his callsign or last name, his first name.
"Workers liked to chat about things on the down low away from us. Wrong thing to do around creatures with enhanced hearing."
To practically prove your point, one of your ears flick atop your head before flattening back down against your skull. Ghost honestly didn't know how to feel; he wanted to throttle the blabber mouths that even dared utter his name, while also basking in the sound of your voice. It was muffled from the muzzle around your mouth, but despite that Ghost notices the pitch is strained and scratchy as you speak in a quiet whisper that's barely audible above the whirring of the chopper's blades, while also holding some semblance of softness under all the grit and gore of your very being.
"Right. It should just be Ghost to you though, I don't really do familiarity."
Ghost hears your sigh and simply stares at you, giving you an expectant look conveyed through just his dark eyes. When you catch on to what he wants you give him your name, muttering it into the air quietly so that Ghost almost doesn't catch it. The Lieutenant registers your name, grumbling it out with his gravelly voice and accent before nodding stiffly and looking you up and down, staring at your tail wrapped around your thigh and ears atop your head.
"The hell are you anyways?"
The man before you questions. Probably not the best tone of voice in his approach, but Ghost didn't think you wanted to be babied, you don't look the type to him. Your eyes slowly trail up to Ghost's, simply keeping eye contact with the man before you murmur your species, German Shepard.
Ghost hums, breaking eye contact with you and looking down at his boots for a fleeting second before looking out one of the small circular windows in the chopper. Guess that was typical, it's the average breed of hybrid that enlisted into the forces.
Simon always did like German Shepards...
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
hi guys i'm alive!!! college got a little rough and i've started working out so.. my hands are full and all that. hope you guys are staying safe and i love you all :3
don't boo me but i like the hybrid au's for cod, maybe even a little a/b/o in the midst (though that's not what this one is about)
so now i'm just thinking about a hybrid! reader who's all sorts of fucked and gets picked up by ghost for the 141
cw: kinda angsty with descriptions of abuse, dog(hybrid?) fighting, and scars
heres part 2!!
‧˚₊•┈┈୨୧┈┈•‧₊˚⊹
It isn't like Ghost hates hybrids; he's worked with them on missions before and dismissed them as any other soldier, everyone was just doing their job after all. As long as the objective was complete, that's what mattered. Though when Price told him he was being sent to a location to 'pick out" a hybrid from a facility (Laswell thought it'd be good for their team, a new set of hands and efficiency to the group and all that), he couldn't help the disagreeing grumbles that escaped past his mouth as he begrudgingly went on his way to the helipad, cursing to himself the whole way and glaring at his boots.
After the nearly agonizing chopper ride, the wheels touch down on the tarmac of the facility, a worker immediately stumbling towards Ghost as he steps out of the chopper. He didn't catch the guy's name, didn't care either. He was here for some furball soldier that could help his team, that's all that matters. The worker guides the Lieutenant through the stone walls of the facility, the smell of mold and mildew making him wrinkle his nose beneath his mask.
In the distance of the long hallways, he can hear the yells and barks of hybrids, cringing internally as the worker turns a corner and leads him to a large room of kennels and cells. Each step Ghost takes causes a hybrid to look up, many starting to growl or hide within their cells while others lay against the cold cell floor, bodies barely moving with the only sign of life being a rising and falling chest.
He's seen a lot over his years as a soldier, and he's not so easily rattled, but this was a whole new experience of discomfort and pity for him. The conditions were bad, worse than any kind of kennel he remembers when he was young, and that was for full bred animals. Ghost eyes each hybrid slowly, taking in the diverse appearances of breeds and species of hybrid. Though each is a pathetic sort, the one true hybrid that caught Ghosts eye was one that was in the corner, the cell seemingly reinforced with different metal. In the middle of the cage there you sit, back facing the door and simply staring at the wall as multiple chains hand from your ankles and wrists, a prong collar tightly pressing against your throat. Ghost wonders why you were needed to be so heavily contained, your crooked tail wrapped around your leg as your torn and notched ears that press flat against your head making you seem like a harmless broken ittle thing.
"I wouldn't recommend that one, Lieutenant."
The worker speakers quickly, warily eyeing you behind the bars of your cell. Ghost's eyes stay on you, catching onto the small twitch of your ear. You know they're talking about you.
"Why, she broken?"
Ghost says roughly, keeping his dark unblinking stare on your battered form noticing the small twitch of your tail, probably annoyance, he clues, due to his words.
"Not exactly but.."
The worker pauses, causing Ghost to maneuver his unblinking gaze to him, making the worker freeze and fumble over his words.
"But-But she has a history of recklessness, a lack of respect for authority and horrible at responding to orders. Not something you need on a team like yours."
At the workers words you slowly turn your head to look over your shoulder, revealing the dullness in your eyes and prominent scars across your face. Scratches, bites, lacerations; Ghost can identify easily each one. The worker grimaces beneath your steely gaze and takes a step back from the cell, practically shaking in his boots. To say that Ghost was intrigued would be an understatement. He knows that look in your eyes; the coldness of someone who's killed and has started to become numb, with emotions raging within just waiting to be unleashed and ruin your very being. He's seen it before, he's seen it in him.
Goddamnit, he want to know more about you.
"How long's she been here?"
The lieutenant questions, maintaining eye contact with you and frowning beneath his mask when you look away, the tiny spark in your eye at his question not being lost to him before you turn your head away.
"Couple of months maybe? She was handed over to us after being used for cage fighting and served for a couple of PMC's- so I suppose she does have some experience in the field if you were really inclined.."
The Lieutenant couldn't help the small frown that is invisible beneath his mask, the words 'handed over' causing a foul taste to coat his tongue. He knew many hybrids were considered lesser than humans, and it never bothered him before, but when in relation to you it ground his gears just that little bit. Ghost clicks his tongue and sends the worker a small glare before returning his flat gaze back to you, narrowing his eyes and watching as you scratch at the stone floor, the movement revealing the numerous scars and burns along your arms. Sure, Ghost had known you (not even really known yet) for a couple of minutes, but he was sold. And when he speaks, he stares straight into the workers eyes and speaks in the flattest most straight forward tone possible, there was no mistaking it-
"I'll take her."
‧˚₊•┈┈୨୧┈┈•‧₊˚⊹
hey guys!!
uhh tell me if you see this becoming a little story or just want a few parts to it, i love the feedback and it makes me happy seeing everyone like my little works of fleeting words
thank you so much!
-emile :3
screw my college work, all i can think about is ghost being clingy after a tough mission..
cw: tiny bits of angst, fluff
ּ ⫘ּׅ͟⫘͞⫘ּׅ͟⫘͞⫘ּׅ͟⫘͞⫘ּׅ͟⫘࣪͞⫘͞⫘ּׅ͟⫘࣪͞⫘
Ghost swore his ears were still ringing, the high-pitched noise still ever present in the back of his head amidst the large chopping of the helicopter blades. The mission had gone to shit, most of them have recently after losing Soap. The dynamic of the team was fucked without the boisterous Scotsman, and everyone knew it. Simon appeared to be clingier as of late, definitely a method of subconsciously drowning out his emotions by staying closer to you.
"Five more minutes, yeah?"
Simon grumbles into the skin of your neck when you mention getting up get something to eat as you lay on top of him in his barracks, both of you fresh out of the shower and free from the blood and grit of the outside world. His grip is almost suffocating around you, completely negating his strength and just holding you close, almost as if he's afraid you'll disappear. He took off his gloves a while ago, simply moving his cold fingers underneath the hem of your shirt and brushing them over your skin, memorizing every scar and indent of your very being.
He couldn't lose you. Not you too... You notice his breathing become shallow as he gets lost in his own thoughts. You noticed everything about him at this point. What the small flick of his eyes or hands meant, what mood he was in by just the way he stood, etcetera and all that. You lift your head up to make eye contact with him and come face to face with his hooded eyelids, his eyeblack already starting to rub off and reveal the pale skin of his eyelids and blonde eyelashes as dark brown eyes peer almost lovingly up at you. The look makes you falter, the pure emotion exuding from your usually stoic Lieutenant's eyes throwing you for a loop. As you try to climb off him while muttering excuses to get up, he locks his arms tighter around your back, pulling you back down onto him and practically crushing you against his chest.
"Just stay."
You grumble in turn, starting to protest his clinginess but stop when he pushes his masked face into the crook of your neck and lowering his voice to the gentlest octave you've ever heard it go to.
"Please."
You suppose the mess hall could wait a little longer.
ּ ⫘ּׅ͟⫘͞⫘ּׅ͟⫘͞⫘ּׅ͟⫘͞⫘ּׅ͟⫘࣪͞⫘͞⫘ּׅ͟⫘࣪͞⫘
hi guys omg the feedback has been great and i appreciate every note and reblog, college is starting to get a little rough but i'll tough it out! thank you all so much and don't forget you can go to my menu and order a small fic of your choosing :3
your honor i MUST see captain john price in a “kiss the cook” apron