Lambie

Hi there! I am the person behind this blog. You can call me Miixen ^^ I'm somewhat of a hobbyist writer (English isn't my first language, so pardon me) and an 18 years old female who's really fond of creating OCs. Of course, that also means even if I'm only creating them in my head and not really on paper.

But recently (as in December 2024), the COD RP blogs popping up in my FYP dash caught my interest. And, while I may not know the whole story in the game, I do play the mobile version (WZM) and read a few of their comics here and there.

Anyways—Ah, I lost track of what I was saying—Oh right! The Rp blogs caught my interest and brought forth admiration within me from the creativity of said blogs. Seeing so many incredible fans and/or writers bring characters to life inspired me to join in :D

Although, it did take quite a while for me to gather the courage to do this... Even now, it's still nerve-wracking. But, please do flood my asks! Whether you're simply asking questions, creating some conversation or roleplaying in my asks, I welcome all. Heck, drop a paragrapgh or more—I absolutely love reading long texts. Is that weird? Maybe. But anywho—just adhere to the rules please, and all will be well and swell ♡

Also, a big thank you to those who paved the way for RP blogs like this. I know there's a heck ton of you out there, so I'm sorry but I sadly don't remember all the usernames... ;-; Credits to @ghost-askblog for starting this whole thing and for adding a wonderful addition (aka roleplay) to the COD community. I hope you have been doing well >< Same goes for everybody else! <3

I still hear the screaming sometimes.

Not mine, though there were times when I might have. No, it’s theirs. The ones I left behind. The ones I failed. The ones who never should’ve trusted me.

Their voices are carved into my bones, deep as the scars on my hands, deeper than the wounds I don’t speak of.

Sometimes, I wake up and swear I can still smell the blood, the filth, the coppery rot of death clinging to my skin. It’s been years. But it doesn’t matter. The past isn’t a thing that fades. It festers.

I whispered in ears, learned secrets men swore they’d never tell. And when it was over, when my job was done, I left them bleeding on the floor, wondering if they had ever really known me at all.

I learned early that trust is a weapon, and I was taught how to wield it with precision. To infiltrate, to deceive, to become the thing someone needed me to be.

I was good at it. Too good.

I don’t think they did.

But some of them tried.

There was a man once. No, not a man. A ghost. Someone I never should have let too close. He looked at me like I wasn’t a tool, wasn’t just another mask, wasn’t a weapon designed to be wielded and discarded. Like there was something real underneath all the lies.

I don’t know if I loved him. I don’t know if I was even capable of it back then. But I needed him, and maybe that was worse.

I told myself I’d keep him safe. I swore it.

But, I was wrong. So wrong.

The mission went to hell. Not in the usual way, not in the way where you crawl out of the wreckage with another scar and another bottle to drown the guilt. No, this was something else. This was fire and ruin and the sound of his voice over the radio, begging me to tell him it wasn’t over, that I was coming for him.

"Lamb. Tell m—Bzzt—you're close."

I lied.

"Maeve, please—"

I told him I was close.

"I'm almost there. Just, just hold on!"

I wasn’t. And he couldn't.

I was miles away when they got to him. I was still running when I heard them break him. His ribs, his fingers, his voice. When I heard the wet, ragged sobs and screams clawing their way out of this throat, turning to gasping, gurgling silence.

I heard them take their time, dismantling him piece by piece, and I was too far away to stop it. I was too late. Too fucking late.

When I got there, there wasn’t much left. They’d made sure of that. And still, he looked at me. His eyes, glassy, unfocused, barely clinging to the light, found mine. Blood and betrayal slicked his lips, dripped from his teeth in broken, shuddering breaths.

It wasn’t.

And the worst part, the part that still haunts me, was that he smiled. Like he forgave me. Like he knew I’d come, even if it was too late. And somehow... somehow, that was enough.

I watched the light fade from his eyes. Listened to the last, rattling breath leave his lips. And something inside me went with it.

I should’ve been the one lying there.

But I wasn't.

I was still standing. Still wearing the proof of my failure.

I curled my fingers around the silver pendant at my throat, a gift from him, and it felt like a noose. Like cold hands closing around my neck, squeezing tight, reminding me that I was still there, still breathing, when he wasn’t.

It should’ve been me.

It should've been me.

I buried him with my bare hands in an unmarked grave, muttering apologies that didn't matter anymore through gritted teeth and tears. Pressed my forehead to the dirt and wished, prayed, that I could trade places with him.

But I swore. Just one more time.

Swore that if there was any justice in this world, I’d make them pay.

And I did. I made good on that promise.

But revenge doesn’t bring the dead back. It doesn’t unmake the choices that led me here. It doesn’t stop the nights when I wake up gasping, choking on guilt, fingers pressed to my throat like I could claw it out of me if I just tried hard enough.

And when I'm left to drown in the silence—my mind replaying the moment I found him, over and over and over, like a song I can’t turn off—my hand would always find the necklace around my neck.

And memories fade.

I should take it off. I should let it go. But the moment my fingers brush the clasp, I feel the weight of his gaze, the ghost of his breath against my skin, and I can’t do it. I won’t do it.

Because if I let it go, if I let him go, then there’s nothing left of him but blood and memories.

Maybe that’s why I keep pressing my fingers to the scars, to the places that still ache when it rains. Proof that it happened. Proof that he was real. Proof that I wasn’t just a shadow passing through, leaving nothing but ruin behind.

And it doesn’t stop the quiet, creeping thought that maybe, just maybe, all the blood on my hands isn’t just from the people I killed.

Maybe some of it is his.

And maybe, in the end, I’ll never wash it off.

No, she doesn't pray.

No, she doesn't whisper reassurances to herself.

Or run through last-minute mental checklists.

None of that.

Instead, once Varron's done triple-checking her gear, she tugs at the silver chain beneath her shirt, pulling out a pendant.

Her fingers would close around the pendant, rolling it between her fingertips before she lets her thumb glide over its surface, feeling and tracing the worn ridges and shallow grooves.

Lamb's face, usually sharp and hard, turns unreadable. Her gaze distant, as if lost somewhere only she can see. Then, slowly, something shifts.

Her features soften, just a little.

Something quieter and tender settling there.

She would lift the pendant to her lips, pressing a kiss to the cool metal. Soft, deliberate, reverent... Like it means something. Like it always has.

In that fleeting moment, a familiar face (his) would flash behind her closed eyes. There, then gone in an instant.

When she opens them again, there's something in her usually dull gray eyes. Something reminiscent. Something raw. Something just shy of vulnerability. She lingers for a beat longer as she stares at the pendant, holding it just a moment longer, letting the familiar weight of it rest on her palm.

Then, just like that, she tucks it back beneath her shirt, inhales slowly, once, twice, three times, and lets her expression settle. By the time she exhales that final breath, she's Varron again.