duck-a-doodle

[duck-a-doodle]

All jokes aside, that was an amazing fanfic that made me cry.

you are so talented, and I love this, can't wait for more

Oh my goodness thank you, I love you for that, I tried my best ~~ !

Although frankly I have no idea which one you are referring to but I am still honoured, HAHAH-

With lots of love,

CH

[duck-a-doodle]

More tactical cuddlebug? Please I beg of you

A/N: My my, so sorry for the late response it has been a hectic semester. Here goes nothing and I hope you enjoy it! :-)

[No beta we die like McTavish.]

TACTICAL CUDDLEBUG HEADCANONS

Despite their many years in the military, which meant few surprises for the team, you were still something they marvelled at when they think about you as an addition

You were a refreshing breeze to the stale air of their grey compound, and you began to rub off on them

Across the list of military personnel which they have met, you were the most "small"

By no means were you miniscule, but to them you just felt different

Most soldiers have a hard shell and an even harder personality, but you had a tough shell with a "squishy heart", according to Johnny

This observation led to various responses, such as a heavy urge to pat you on the arm, back or head

Johnny was quick to lean into it, even going as far as to squish your cheeks, enjoying your presence and damn near treating you like his favourite teddy bear

Once you joined him in his bunk to help with his crossword puzzle and he pulled invited you onto his blankets for better comfort, and Simon, who came to remind him of a briefing, walked back out the door the moment he opened it

Gaz was second to come to terms with enjoying the physical contact, and he loves to nudge you in the side and give you a side hug like a brother would

On his best days he would sit on the couch with you and read together, each of you on one end of the couch with your legs stacked comfortably like pick-up sticks

Price's affections came few but not rare, and somehow his eyes seemed a little brighter after a few pats your head, tucking away the memory of watching you lean into his hand

His hugs are the best when you bid him goodbye when either of you have separate ops to take on, and the warmth you get from his soul-crushing hugs are another high

Simon would engage with you more than Johnny if not for the fact that he was conflicted

He already hangs around you more than Gaz or Price which speaks plenty for itself

He was quiet and mostly helpless against this odd feeling of needing to be in physical contact with you, thus he cannot help but do it albeit he does so stiffly or roughly

He will needlessly grab your vest and aggressively tighten it "for your safety", followed by a heavy tap on your helmet before everyone settles into the flight

Johnny tells you during the ride that Simon cannot handle the fact that he is facing cuteness aggression and that he has caught Simon several times clenching his fist when he sees your mess of a collar to keep from fixing it

He was not quiet enough and received a hefty smack on the back of his heavy duty headgear from the man he mentioned

You think that they are all either as cuddly as they say you are, or that they are simply extremely touch starved people, for whom you have opened the floodgates to affection

The truth is, every single member of the team are cuddlebugs, but it has become a silent agreement that the title goes to and remains upon you alone.

[duck-a-doodle]

COD IMAGINES

TACTICAL BUDDLE BUG 4/4

Chapters 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

TF141!reader x 141

WARNING: Angst, Death, Comfort

A/N: I could not think of any other way for Ghost to accept your hug. I apologise for the trauma in advance. :'-)

Masterlist

----------------------------------------------------------

The most serious member of the 141 is secretly a very affectionate person.

----------------------------------------------------------

The mission was rough, one that pulled you under and dragged your bloodied knees through dirt and gravel.

It was a ground search and rescue operation which lasted for weeks on end, and one which tested the limits of the human body, bending your sanity to the brink of a clean snap.

The streets were coloured in violence, and the grounds were a tangle of rubble, vehicle parts and severed bodies.

Wherever you stepped, there would lay a limb or a head, of which you could no longer tell if they belonged to an enemy or hostage. It no longer mattered, not when your boots must travel the roads of a thousand stripped souls.

You saved several hostages from the scene, but there was one that you know would haunt you til the end of your days.

It was a little girl. Small, young, with her favourite doll that was caked with remnants of dirt and coagulated blood, the latter of which should never have made its mark upon such a pure soul.

You had to coax her to climb down from the roof, to bring her to safety, and you had failed to realise that you were not the only one to notice the child.

A bullet tore through her chest, and another through her side, bringing her down from the roof, soft and limp into your arms.

Not every hostage can be saved. Not every enemy will be found. Ghost, who buried the young girl you in the aftermath, had watched you ruin every unfriendly sight with a fury unmatched.

He witnessed the angry flames that swallowed up every dead man as you pulled them straight down to hell with you.

Your body had moved blindly when you heard the roaring sound of your captain's orders to return to the plane.

Gaz was adjacent to you, resting quietly while Johnny sat on your other side, watching you carefully; you refused to look at him, knowing that his eyes would look right through you.

The captain said nothing, and Ghost, who propped himself opposite to where you were, was unreadable.

There was no banter, no questions, and only a silent prayer remained.

You cannot remember whose hands have rested on your arms or shoulders in an attempt to calm you; all you recall was the chill and bile that rised from within you. You could not remember the debriefing that felt like seconds but passed like hours.

You could not remember how you got back. Not how you got into your fresh clothes, not how your wounds — once bloody and inflamed — were now patched, and not how you found yourself standing at Ghost's door, waiting.

Why were you there? What were you waiting for? And as soon as the question arose, the answer made itself clear; because of all people, he would know.

As if sensing a presence, the room opened with a click, and Ghost appeared in the doorway, taking a moment to register your presence. He moved to one side. Stepping in silently, the door closed shut behind you, enclosing you in a box of white noise.

He stood before you, saying nothing. He did not need to say anything. In fact, he need not even ask. He simply knew.

"You did what you could."

The reality of his words were a dagger to your beating chest. You lived. You lived, and you were grateful. But you lived at a cost, with the price of blood on your hands.

You took one step. Then another. And Ghost, who did not anticipate what you were about to do, stilled as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight.

Fingers tangled tight into the fabric of his shirt, and you press your face deep into his body, seeking — begging — for a reprieve. The darkness was a comfort. He was a comfort.

For once, you want to feel a life that you can hold in your hands, that will not disappear under your touch, that is living and breathing. To hear the heartbeat of a soul, to get rid of the memory of cold, colourless skin that rest unmoving against your arms.

"Breathe, cub."

You could not move. You did not want to move. You cannot bear to move. Not an inch, not away from him who you knew understood better than anybody. His hands were placed on your back. Warm. Alive.

There were no use for words as both of you held each other in silence, resting in the comfort of a feeling near-forgotten.

That was your last memory of that night before you knocked out cold, and in your sleep you dreamt of a hand that wiped the warm corners of your eyes, rough yet gentle.

Unbeknownst to you, a storm in Ghost had calmed when you chose him of all people to seek comfort in, and silently grateful he was for the team to have a most sensitive heart on board.

You were the most affectionate person of the 141, and you cared and loved unconditionally. Those qualities made you the most lethal one of them all, for despite any rankings or titles, you commandeered them all with a piece of your heart — and the day your heart dies is the day they raise hell in your name.

----------------------------------------------------------

FOOTNOTE(S):

Ghost likely has only hugged the captain once or twice and Johnny, several times but not of his own volition.

Your heart reminds him of his better days with his brother Tommy and it makes him want to punch you (cuteness aggression), but he will take that knowledge to his grave.

[duck-a-doodle]

I have been stuck on this one ever since I wrote it because I keep having this nagging feeling that it is choppy or is missing something.

The final part to this post was heavily edited to fit the plot pieces together, and I think I can finally start on the second half of this work. :-)

The Rumoured Casper’s Honeybee (1/2) [EDITED]

A/N: Hello there! This is a little unedited drabble that has been stuck in my head, so I hope you enjoy it!

P.S.: I have edited and changed some grammar and the plot point to fit the second half better.

WARNING: Potentially OOC Simon 'Ghost' Riley. The reader is 'married to work' and is slower on tphe uptake. Let there be ANGST then fluff.

SUMMARY: Simon "Ghost" Riley, who has shockingly grown accustomed to you, seeks your medical attention.

----------------------------------------------------------

The role of a medical professional under military services is nothing to choke at. Sounds of barked orders and the bright glint of hospital lights have become a familiar environment, and your eyes have grown accustomed to the olive drab greens and the standard heavy gears that came and went in a clinical setting, and that scene held true, even after your transfer to the 141.

Of the men in this base, the most outstanding ones you knew were Captain John Price, Sergeant Garrick, Sergeant McTavish and — Ghost. Tales of their stunts would float down the hallways thus naturally, you knew of them before you were properly acquainted. Loosely acquainted. Before you found your place in the 141, you were reserved, fastidious and competent, earning yourself the call sign 'Honeybee'. That had been your impression to many others of your field before you joined, and that was not to change now at your newly designated location.

It would not be uncommon for the clients to remember their practitioners and vice versa, but your case just seemed a little more special than the rest.

Ghost, who you prefered to refer to as ‘lieutenant’, seemed to have made himself familiar in your routine for the last two months. Prior to your arrival as the new medic of this organisation, you were told that he avoided the clinic like it was the plague, only showing up for the bare minimum of checkups. The turning point, some of your colleagues pointed out, appeared to be around the time you showed up, right as the team had returned from the Las Almas fiasco. No one person dared to deal with the lieutenant after witnessing his demeanour, and where he stepped, a repelling effect took place; anyone and everyone who had ever vaguely heard of him parted around him like the red sea, all except for you who refused to waver at any of the ‘Ghost rumours’.

The commanding officer was yours to manage ever since. For any wounds, illnesses, obligatory checkups or medical documents that he bore, it would be you who handled them. Not that you had any choice in that regard, given that whenever he set foot into the office, a clear path that led to you would reveal itself before him.

Never did you consider it a hassle when you understood it as part of your duty during government time, and soon a routine was formed after every operation he takes on.

He would come back more battered than a steak, and you would be at the ready with your gear, aid kit and all. On the rare, exacting moments of your career, you were even assigned to go out in the field where he had to be, for in the words of Captain Price, “our lieutenant recommended you for the role.”

Even with that, you thought nothing of it. Until you slipped.

The medical room was empty save for yourself and the medical equipment that needed sorting after an intensive few hours of patients filing in and out for appointments and health check-ups. After the last of the bunch left you wired and riddled with a terrible tension headache, you turned around to retrieve some aspirin, only to stop short at the sight of a tall, mass of black standing by the examination stable, waiting.

“Oh for god’s- hello, lieutenant,” You let out a breath after closing your eyes to gain your ground.

“Doc.”

“One moment, lieutenant.” Striding towards the cabinet which held your relief, you quickly popped yourself a pill before returning to address your surprise patient of the day.

Ghost simply lifted his mask slightly, to your surprise, and you looked away instinctively. Moments pass before you realised that the problem laid under the mask; a lip lasceration, there on the corner of his mouth. Wordlessly, you sprung into action despite your exhaustion and the throbbing sensation that weighed on the back of your mind. Carefully, you applied the L.E.T. Gel before going in with absorbable sutures, making sure to puncture the skin surfaces appropriately. Your eyes trained on the gash on his lips, away from the faint scars that litter his lower face, away from the details of his sharp nose and light five o’clock shadow that formed around his jaw.

Through, over, then through again went the needle, pulling the thread together in a quiet, steady rhythm. He never moved an inch; the only signs of life you felt from his were the warmth of his skin and the slow deep breaths that flowed through his chest. And when you were done, you cannot help but find that he is, of all the patients you have had, one of the most disciplined.

Perhaps it was the headache, perhaps it was your sleep-addled mind at play, or perhaps it was your lack of water that made you do it — but in a brief motion, you behaved contrary to your character. Before Ghost could fix his mask properly, you hand reached up to pull it down, lining it smoothly to his jaw before giving his head a soft, gentle pat.

A fleeting eye contact was all it took for your actions to dawn upon you. His eyes froze your hand in place and rendered you near speechless.

“I- My apologies, Capta- I mean, lieutenant. I forgot myself,” embarrassed, you removed your hand from his head immediately. He did not move. He did not blink. You watch cautiously, waiting with bated breath for him to reveal his displeasure. Instead, he chose to drop his head ever so slightly, closing his eyes.

Unsure of what to make of the situation, you followed his implications. Slowly, you rest your full palm against his skull, feeling the top of his head through the coarse fabric of his mask. You move your fingers lightly over his balaclava and feel something soft underneath — it was a bouncy, curling texture under the cloth. He has hair. A huff left your nose before you could stop it and his eyes snapped open to look at you.

Awkwardly, you offered him a small, tight-lipped smile, patting his head twice more before letting your hand drop to your side.

“For being a good patient,” you jested in an attempt to compose yourself.

Not long after he left, you shut your eyes and berated yourself for behaving like an utter fool, for losing your own decorum like a green-faced soldier despite your years of experience. You could not stop thinking about the glint in his eyes before he left that day. It felt almost playful, akin to that of a mischief about to stir awake, and by the devil did that memory return far too often for your liking.

*

Something certainly has shifted.

Soon, he began to visit you more often. You had suspicions that he may have memorised your timetable, and you had even deeper suspicions that it was one of your colleagues who has let him privy to said information. During unforseeable times of the week, a certain lieutenant of the 141 would show up to the clinic, requiring salves for a bruise, requesting ibuprofen for pain relief or even seeking combat gauze for his raw knuckles, of which you were certain that he must already have a few, considering his occupation. Once, he stood waiting behind you silently as you worked on your computer, waiting to ask for a bandaid. Needless to say, you were beyond startled to find that a skull face was poised quietly behind you for goodness knows how long.

You fail to remember exactly when he began to refer to you by your call sign ‘Honeybee’ instead of just ‘Doc’, and all you could think of was the way it rolled off his tongue. Funny, you thought, that the very name should sound just like honey coming from his own scarred lips.

A most prominent change, however, came not in the form of his unprompted visits, but in how they would end. Upon attending to his laughably miniscule thumb injury and amusedly pressing the medical ointment to his palm, he sat stock still on that same medical bed when you thought he would up and go. Mild bewilderment rested upon your knit brows, and you decided to voice your bemusment.

“Is there anything else, lieutenant?”

“Was I not a good patient?” He asked with a solemn expression.

Clearly, he has you dumbfounded. “Well — you are quite well-behaved during treatments, if that’s what you’re asking. So, yes, you are a good patient.”

Watching him closely, your eyes followed his line of sight and it lands, unexpectedly, on your hand. You looked between your raised hand and his unwavering, sharp pupils.

Oh.

Oh.

Once again, you dared to cross the boundary of his space, (or was it a boundary anymore?) and rest your hand on the side of his head this time, rubbing delicately, hesitantly. Fondness flutters warmly in your heart when his eyes shut serenely, enjoying your caring ministrations.

“Did it not bother you, lieutenant?” You whisper through the quietude.

“No,” came his gravelly reply.

He would clarify a little later, another detail that would occupy you for days on end.

“It’s comfortable. Like medicine to the head.”

All the air had tightened in your lungs at his admittance. There was something picturesque about a towering, muscle-bound killing-machine, bending to chase the sympathy of another’s warm fingers. It was almost endearing, the way this light gesture soothed him.

He had felt so — human.

*

Each time he came and went, it seemed to go further, like wading into the deep end of the pool in search of something, with only the vague impression of what you were about to find. Ghost would lean further in with every visit, and with every visit you would hold his head softer still, basking in the warmth of his face in one palm, then in two. He would breathe slower, as if savouring the air, the space, and eventually, his head would come to lean on your shoulder without any questions asked, and you would give him the medical attention he needed.

Cute.

It was, as he said, medicine to the head.

The method was unorthodox, yes, but if it can ease his temperament, then no doubt that a working solution should keep on. Through the two months which this had ensued, he was noticably less irritable and his team, who figured you were the source of his better nature, made sure you knew of the change whenever they came by the clinic. Only a few visits in, and sergeant McTavish, (who insisted that you call him ‘Soap’,) already has the nickname ‘Ghostbuster’ made for you, all in your honour. Even the staff now looked forward to Ghost’s visits too, despite still keeping a clear distance from him. They would observe the man covered in black from head to toe make a beeline for your office like clockwork, and the chatter between colleagues would be unending.

The amount of time with you spent treating on his physical wounds have been abbreviated as much as your call sign whenever he uses it, and it always warmed your ears considerably.

“G’d evenin’, Honey.” His guttural voice would greet.

“Lieutenant Riley,” you replied good-naturedly.

In exchange for shortening your name to something more familiar, he offered you his.

Simon Riley.

Something too intimate lay behind the use of his name, and so you both of you had come to a compromise; the lieutenant may go by Ghost to many, LT to some and Simon to rare few, but to you, he was lieutenant Riley.

He must be.

You were his doctor, and he was your patient, receiving an unusual prescription of several pats on the head every other day. It was a routine, just like any other meeting or appointment.

You then caught wind of the lieutenant’s new nickname.

Speculations of a medic by the callsign ‘Honeybee’ began to spread around base alongside Ghost’s exaggerated talk, and when it reached your own ears through a closer colleague, you all but responded with a cocked brow, and went on with your day. People do little else, you had always known so. With the rising frequency of contact between the both of you, you felt that such hearsay was natural. And as long as nothing brewed inbetween, it was of non-consequence. On the occassion that you do hear the whispers firsthand down the hall, an amusing saying stuck with you; "the Honeybee’s caught a ‘emselves Ghost". Nicknames have been floating about, calling you a "Ghostbuster" or a "Ghost Hunter", and the most ridiculous one being "Lazarus", which was based on an old movie you have heard of but have never seen in your life.

Casper. Such a silly name.

And then yet another nickname, "Kat" has surfaced for you, only this one had made zero sense to you at all.

Regardless of the silly teasings and harmless jibes from your colleagues about Ghost’s very frequent doctor appointments, you went on, working around the clock and going by the books.

Nothing has to change, especially if it meant nothing.

And yet, that silly little "nothing" began to occupy you through the quiet hours, and through the night.

An odd weight began to settle in your throat and chest whenever you saw your special patient, and the nicknames had begun to bother you more and more. You were too busy to think, too overwhelmed by people for an appetite, and too tired to make head nor tail of the week.

"... Doc?"

Your spine snaps straight at the sound of your name. How long have you been floating down your reverie?

"Ah, I'm sorry — yes?"

You colleague, who stood poised in blue scrubs whilst holding a clipboard, grins at you. "Casper was just looking for you. He left though, think his captain called for him or something."

"Ah, I see."

He shook his head lightly and turns to leave, but you stopped him with a question that you could not bear to have unanswered any longer.

"Why do you call him Casper?"

The man hummed, leaving you to sit with a disconcerting moment of silence as the answer sat on the precipice of his tongue.

"You know the plot of Casper, don't you?"

*

You swiveled on your office chair across the tables to your computer, a new task set to mind. Frantic fingers tapped away to solve that nagging mystery, and you felt the fine ends of a thread beginning to pull at the seams of your logic.

From the 1995 movie, he said.

The tab screen loaded your search, and your eyes scan the brief descriptions under each link. A small drop-down bar caught your attention, and in your gut you felt a twist of discomfort at the words that displayed before you.

Casper (1995) Plot What is the relationship between Kat and Casper?

Your breathing stopped at the insinuation, and a weight pulls on your lips as you read on.

----------------------------------------------------------

… Casper, the ghost protagonist of the movie, falls madly in love with James' loner teenage daughter, Kathleen “Kat” Harvey, who is also looking for a friend. 

FOOTNOTES:

"Lazarus" is the machine that was meant to bring Casper back to life, so the rumours are suggesting that the reader gives Ghost life.

[duck-a-doodle]

Your tactical cuddlebug series is just sending me. It's literally the cutest thing and I love it. It makes me giggle uncontrollably every single time! ❤️

Aww, hello there Hedgehog Lady! I'm so glad you love it! I am thinking of ways to branch out on the reader's "affectionisms", so hopefully the subsequent posts will turn out nicely as well! And never hold in the giggles, they must be let out into the wilderness. Lots of giggles, C.

[duck-a-doodle]

[Slaps beak.] This duck can write some serious fluff.

MY MASTERLIST

A/N: I tend to not include gender or race in my writings for a more immersive experience. Anything that is unhighlighted or is without a link suggests that the fanfiction is still in the works. Stay tuned for more! :-)

CALL OF DUTY

General Headcanons

Soft Intimacy — TF141 / König / Los Vaqueros

| What intimacy looks like with the COD boys.

Tactical Cuddle Bug — TF141 [ 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 ]

| The most serious member of the 141 is secretly a very affectionate person.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

The Rumoured Casper's Honey Bee [ 1 / 2 ]

| Simon "Ghost" Riley, who has grown accustomed to you, wants your medical attention and his regular checkup.

X-MEN

Wolverine / James 'Logan' Howlett

Cohiba de la Mente

| You disliked Logan for a good number of reasons. He was brash, abrasive and quick to bite the lure — and for the first time as a counsellor of the school, you took the bait.

Heart on the Sleeve, Love for the Beast

| Your generally affectionate nature, which has earned yourself the nickname 'Teddy', lures the attention of a certain hard-headed man.

Kitty Cats Don't Grow Mutton Chops

| A tale in which Howlett dishes what he cannot handle.

Мой Котëнок

| Logan Howlett spoke more languages than you realised, and horror dawns upon you as you realise it meant he understood everything.

Grouchy with a Side of Sweetness

| Logan has the funniest ways of showing that he cares.

SPIDER-VERSE

Miguel O'hara

Professions Unto the Masquerade [PUTM]

| You were recruited for your ability to capture a Chameleon variant that was immune to all spiders' abilities. Except yours. Miguel inducts you into the team, but you know that the induction was but a formality for his other intentions with you.

[duck-a-doodle]

COD IMAGINES

TACTICAL CUDDLE BUG 3/4 Chapters 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

TF141!reader x 141

Masterlist

---------------------------------------------------------

The most serious member of the 141 is secretly a very affectionate person.

---------------------------------------------------------

You had half the mind to dig yourself a grave and jump in with all the other skeletons in your closet. Over the last two weeks, you have been christened 'cuddle bug', 'koala', and now 'cub'.

After the first two times you had let yourself be that vulnerable before your team, Johnny would consistently open up his arms and wiggle his brows at you, offering himself up as a body pillow for you to cuddle. You turned him down to his mild disappointment, but the teasing does not stop.

Whenever the Captain was silent with fury, Gaz would come up behind you and go, "how 'bout you give him a hug? I bet he'd be in less of a mood after that."

And when you sparred with Ghost, he'd tell you, "don't go falling asleep on me now, cub."

The jibing died down after a while until all of you went to a pub to watch a game after a mission, and all of you sat on the bar stools.

You were following the game just fine from the telly, and being able to enjoy yourself for the first time in a while, you decided that a having little more to drink would be safe.

Deeper into the game, Ghost, Gaz and Price had sat themselves in a rounded booth seat while you remained with Johnny at the stools by the bartender, ordering more cocktails and beer.

Now, the 141 were glad that you trusted them enough to drink with them, but they had not anticipated for you to reveal that night that you were an affectionate drunk.

They were initially under the impression that you were a sleepy drunk, until you slid off the bar seat and shuffled yourself onto Gaz's side of the couch, proceeding to wrap your arms around his stomach with your legs splaying out under the table. And there you rest, with your forehead resting on the edge of his shoulder

"Ah shite, sorry Cap, I thought the bugger looked o'lrighte."

"I thought our sergeant was sleeping at the bar?"

"Well, yes, ah mean no. Ah was messin' with the bugger when ah said ter give Gaz some love, how's ah supposed ter know it'd work?"

"I'm fine Captain", you mumbled into Gaz's shoulder.

"Think the cub's tellin' the truth," Ghost teased from behind his glass of beer. "I think Gaz could use a tighter hug, eh?" He added, and Gaz shot him an exasperated look.

"Ghost, please- Bug? Oh no, wait, hey-"

Too late. You have clumsily but somehow very quickly rearranged your limbs, and in a tangle of arms and feet, you end up with your legs on either side of his lap and your hands reaching around his wide shoulders as best as you could.

"Ghost." He grumbles, resigned, letting you sleep comfortably into his red, cotton Henley. Johnny pulled out his phone and began collecting evidence. "Johnny." Gaz berated with a pointed look, but that was not about to stop him. In fact, the Captain joined in on the blackmail.

"Price," he sighed, now victim to the onslaught of three blackmailers and one very comfortable cuddle bug.

--------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Gaz has to carry your body out of the bar because you looked way too comfortable and he is simply too soft of a man to wake you up.

[duck-a-doodle]

COD IMAGINES

TACTICAL CUDDLE BUG 2/4 Chapters 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

TF141!reader x 141

Masterlist

---------------------------------------------------------

The most serious member of the 141 is secretly a very affectionate person.

---------------------------------------------------------

You were a consummate professional through and through.

That is, until you slipped up.

Ghost, Gaz and Johnny would tease you for curling up against your Captain during the flight home, and they would press further when you refused to make eye contact out of embarrassment.

You would look on in horror as Gaz described the way you clung onto his vest. Ghost, who decides to mess with you a little, said that 'you even rubbed your face into his chest'.

With all the open teasing, they felt a mild sense of satisfaction when you bit back indignantly, telling them that it was cold, and that you did not do what Ghost says you did (not that you were aware of).

The captain, who was rather amused, did not seem to mind one bit and listened as the four of you went back and forth on what exactly happened during that flight.

The second time you did it was after having gone to the gym.

You, Johnny and Gaz were done with all your sets and took turns to use the shower. The boys had let you go first, followed by Johnny. And by the time Gaz came out of the shower, he stopped short in his tracks.

There you were, pidgeon-toed and pressed cheek-first into Johnny's bicep, almost ready to slide off the bench you were waiting on.

They couldn't decide if they wanted to wake you, prank you or tease you with blackmail afterwards.

They whipped out their phones without hesitation.

By the time they were done, they took enough pictures to fill a photo album.

After backing up their 'data', Johnny moved to keep his towel in his duffel bag and accidentally let your head hit the wall behind you.

"Ah, shite! M'sorry, bub-"

You propped yourself up groggily with your eyes closed and your nose scrunched. Gaz snorted at your expression while Johnny belted out heaps of laughter before grabbing your arm to sit you up properly.

"Och, look at ye, ah dinnae ken ye'd snuggle up ta a'body when yer pure done in-"

Johnny halted when you fell forward as his grip loosened, snuggling right into his chest and falling back into slumber.

That night, Simon and Price received an inordinate amount of images of Johnny, posing with your dozing self hanging off his torso.

Their responses were 'nice backpack' and 'bring our koala back safe' respectively.

---------------------------------------------------------

A/N: I headcanon that Johnny can and will bite out of cuteness aggression. And he blames you for it.

[duck-a-doodle]

COD IMAGINES

TACTICAL CUDDLE BUG 1/4 Chapters 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

TF141!reader x 141 Masterlist

----------------------------------------------------------

The most serious member of the 141 is secretly a very affectionate person.

----------------------------------------------------------

Of all the members in your task force, you were the least experienced. Knowing that you have a long way to go, you appear extremely serious even in less tense situations. Hence, jokes tend to fly over your head during some of your bonding moments.

Perhaps you smiled and joked a little less, but you did handle everything with great tenacity. Yes, you were a good soldier. However, you have also made the rest of your team slightly concerned for your psyche.

If even Johnny's jokes fail to reach you, then you needed a serious intervention.

The team decided to switch up their tactics with you. Done after a meeting? We're getting ice-cream. You're free in the evening? Let's watch football. You're going to the gym? You need a spotter, let's all go to the gym.

Regardless of all their efforts, there was still a sense of divide from you. At this point, they think you just needed a bit more time to get used to them because they can clearly see you struggling to bring your walls down.

The surprise came when they were on a returning flight to their home base after a strenuous operation in the Alps. Said task had left you frozen, hungry and tuckered out. The whole team remained silent for the first 30 minutes of the ride, and suddenly, Captain Price felt a pressure leaning into his lateral.

All of the 141 members ogled at your sleeping form as you tucked yourself deeper into the captain's side, clearly drawn into his warmth after staying too long out in the cold. They watched as your stiff, pale fingers latch onto the crevices of his vest.

Johnny and Gaz saved multiple photos of you and the captain, and Ghost secretly took a few himself.

They now refer to you as cuddle bug.

----------------------------------------------------------

A/N: I need everyone to get in a dog pile right about now.

[duck-a-doodle]

The Rumoured Casper’s Honeybee (1/2) [EDITED]

A/N: Hello there! This is a little unedited drabble that has been stuck in my head, so I hope you enjoy it!

P.S.: I have edited and changed some grammar and the plot point to fit the second half better.

WARNING: Potentially OOC Simon 'Ghost' Riley. The reader is 'married to work' and is slower on tphe uptake. Let there be ANGST then fluff.

SUMMARY: Simon "Ghost" Riley, who has shockingly grown accustomed to you, seeks your medical attention. Masterlist

----------------------------------------------------------

The role of a medical professional under military services is nothing to choke at. Sounds of barked orders and the bright glint of hospital lights have become a familiar environment, and your eyes have grown accustomed to the olive drab greens and the standard heavy gears that came and went in a clinical setting, and that scene held true, even after your transfer to the 141.

Of the men in this base, the most outstanding ones you knew were Captain John Price, Sergeant Garrick, Sergeant McTavish and — Ghost. Tales of their stunts would float down the hallways thus naturally, you knew of them before you were properly acquainted. Loosely acquainted. Before you found your place in the 141, you were reserved, fastidious and competent, earning yourself the call sign 'Honeybee'. That had been your impression to many others of your field before you joined, and that was not to change now at your newly designated location.

It would not be uncommon for the clients to remember their practitioners and vice versa, but your case just seemed a little more special than the rest.

Ghost, who you prefered to refer to as ‘lieutenant’, seemed to have made himself familiar in your routine for the last two months. Prior to your arrival as the new medic of this organisation, you were told that he avoided the clinic like it was the plague, only showing up for the bare minimum of checkups. The turning point, some of your colleagues pointed out, appeared to be around the time you showed up, right as the team had returned from the Las Almas fiasco. No one person dared to deal with the lieutenant after witnessing his demeanour, and where he stepped, a repelling effect took place; anyone and everyone who had ever vaguely heard of him parted around him like the red sea, all except for you who refused to waver at any of the ‘Ghost rumours’.

The commanding officer was yours to manage ever since. For any wounds, illnesses, obligatory checkups or medical documents that he bore, it would be you who handled them. Not that you had any choice in that regard, given that whenever he set foot into the office, a clear path that led to you would reveal itself before him.

Never did you consider it a hassle when you understood it as part of your duty during government time, and soon a routine was formed after every operation he takes on.

He would come back more battered than a steak, and you would be at the ready with your gear, aid kit and all. On the rare, exacting moments of your career, you were even assigned to go out in the field where he had to be, for in the words of Captain Price, “our lieutenant recommended you for the role.”

Even with that, you thought nothing of it. Until you slipped.

The medical room was empty save for yourself and the medical equipment that needed sorting after an intensive few hours of patients filing in and out for appointments and health check-ups. After the last of the bunch left you wired and riddled with a terrible tension headache, you turned around to retrieve some aspirin, only to stop short at the sight of a tall, mass of black standing by the examination stable, waiting.

“Oh for god’s- hello, lieutenant,” You let out a breath after closing your eyes to gain your ground.

“Doc.”

“One moment, lieutenant.” Striding towards the cabinet which held your relief, you quickly popped yourself a pill before returning to address your surprise patient of the day.

Ghost simply lifted his mask slightly, to your surprise, and you looked away instinctively. Moments pass before you realised that the problem laid under the mask; a lip lasceration, there on the corner of his mouth. Wordlessly, you sprung into action despite your exhaustion and the throbbing sensation that weighed on the back of your mind. Carefully, you applied the L.E.T. Gel before going in with absorbable sutures, making sure to puncture the skin surfaces appropriately. Your eyes trained on the gash on his lips, away from the faint scars that litter his lower face, away from the details of his sharp nose and light five o’clock shadow that formed around his jaw.

Through, over, then through again went the needle, pulling the thread together in a quiet, steady rhythm. He never moved an inch; the only signs of life you felt from his were the warmth of his skin and the slow deep breaths that flowed through his chest. And when you were done, you cannot help but find that he is, of all the patients you have had, one of the most disciplined.

Perhaps it was the headache, perhaps it was your sleep-addled mind at play, or perhaps it was your lack of water that made you do it — but in a brief motion, you behaved contrary to your character. Before Ghost could fix his mask properly, you hand reached up to pull it down, lining it smoothly to his jaw before giving his head a soft, gentle pat.

A fleeting eye contact was all it took for your actions to dawn upon you. His eyes froze your hand in place and rendered you near speechless.

“I- My apologies, Capta- I mean, lieutenant. I forgot myself,” embarrassed, you removed your hand from his head immediately. He did not move. He did not blink. You watch cautiously, waiting with bated breath for him to reveal his displeasure. Instead, he chose to drop his head ever so slightly, closing his eyes.

Unsure of what to make of the situation, you followed his implications. Slowly, you rest your full palm against his skull, feeling the top of his head through the coarse fabric of his mask. You move your fingers lightly over his balaclava and feel something soft underneath — it was a bouncy, curling texture under the cloth. He has hair. A huff left your nose before you could stop it and his eyes snapped open to look at you.

Awkwardly, you offered him a small, tight-lipped smile, patting his head twice more before letting your hand drop to your side.

“For being a good patient,” you jested in an attempt to compose yourself.

Not long after he left, you shut your eyes and berated yourself for behaving like an utter fool, for losing your own decorum like a green-faced soldier despite your years of experience. You could not stop thinking about the glint in his eyes before he left that day. It felt almost playful, akin to that of a mischief about to stir awake, and by the devil did that memory return far too often for your liking.

*

Something certainly has shifted.

Soon, he began to visit you more often. You had suspicions that he may have memorised your timetable, and you had even deeper suspicions that it was one of your colleagues who has let him privy to said information. During unforseeable times of the week, a certain lieutenant of the 141 would show up to the clinic, requiring salves for a bruise, requesting ibuprofen for pain relief or even seeking combat gauze for his raw knuckles, of which you were certain that he must already have a few, considering his occupation. Once, he stood waiting behind you silently as you worked on your computer, waiting to ask for a bandaid. Needless to say, you were beyond startled to find that a skull face was poised quietly behind you for goodness knows how long.

You fail to remember exactly when he began to refer to you by your call sign ‘Honeybee’ instead of just ‘Doc’, and all you could think of was the way it rolled off his tongue. Funny, you thought, that the very name should sound just like honey coming from his own scarred lips.

A most prominent change, however, came not in the form of his unprompted visits, but in how they would end. Upon attending to his laughably miniscule thumb injury and amusedly pressing the medical ointment to his palm, he sat stock still on that same medical bed when you thought he would up and go. Mild bewilderment rested upon your knit brows, and you decided to voice your bemusment.

“Is there anything else, lieutenant?”

“Was I not a good patient?” He asked with a solemn expression.

Clearly, he has you dumbfounded. “Well — you are quite well-behaved during treatments, if that’s what you’re asking. So, yes, you are a good patient.”

Watching him closely, your eyes followed his line of sight and it lands, unexpectedly, on your hand. You looked between your raised hand and his unwavering, sharp pupils.

Oh.

Oh.

Once again, you dared to cross the boundary of his space, (or was it a boundary anymore?) and rest your hand on the side of his head this time, rubbing delicately, hesitantly. Fondness flutters warmly in your heart when his eyes shut serenely, enjoying your caring ministrations.

“Did it not bother you, lieutenant?” You whisper through the quietude.

“No,” came his gravelly reply.

He would clarify a little later, another detail that would occupy you for days on end.

“It’s comfortable. Like medicine to the head.”

All the air had tightened in your lungs at his admittance. There was something picturesque about a towering, muscle-bound killing-machine, bending to chase the sympathy of another’s warm fingers. It was almost endearing, the way this light gesture soothed him.

He had felt so — human.

*

Each time he came and went, it seemed to go further, like wading into the deep end of the pool in search of something, with only the vague impression of what you were about to find. Ghost would lean further in with every visit, and with every visit you would hold his head softer still, basking in the warmth of his face in one palm, then in two. He would breathe slower, as if savouring the air, the space, and eventually, his head would come to lean on your shoulder without any questions asked, and you would give him the medical attention he needed.

Cute.

It was, as he said, medicine to the head.

The method was unorthodox, yes, but if it can ease his temperament, then no doubt that a working solution should keep on. Through the two months which this had ensued, he was noticably less irritable and his team, who figured you were the source of his better nature, made sure you knew of the change whenever they came by the clinic. Only a few visits in, and sergeant McTavish, (who insisted that you call him ‘Soap’,) already has the nickname ‘Ghostbuster’ made for you, all in your honour. Even the staff now looked forward to Ghost’s visits too, despite still keeping a clear distance from him. They would observe the man covered in black from head to toe make a beeline for your office like clockwork, and the chatter between colleagues would be unending.

The amount of time with you spent treating on his physical wounds have been abbreviated as much as your call sign whenever he uses it, and it always warmed your ears considerably.

“G’d evenin’, Honey.” His guttural voice would greet.

“Lieutenant Riley,” you replied good-naturedly.

In exchange for shortening your name to something more familiar, he offered you his.

Simon Riley.

Something too intimate lay behind the use of his name, and so you both of you had come to a compromise; the lieutenant may go by Ghost to many, LT to some and Simon to rare few, but to you, he was lieutenant Riley.

He must be.

You were his doctor, and he was your patient, receiving an unusual prescription of several pats on the head every other day. It was a routine, just like any other meeting or appointment.

Speculations of a medic by the callsign ‘Honeybee’ began to spread around base alongside Ghost’s exaggerated talk, and when it reached your own ears through a closer colleague, you all but responded with a cocked brow, and went on with your day. People do little else, you had always known so. With the rising frequency of contact between the both of you, you felt that such hearsay was natural. And as long as nothing brewed inbetween, it was of non-consequence. On the occassion that you do hear the whispers firsthand down the hall, an amusing saying stuck with you; "the Honeybee’s caught a ‘emselves Ghost". Nicknames have been floating about, calling you a "Ghostbuster" or a "Ghost Hunter", and the most ridiculous one being "Lazarus", which was based on an old movie you have heard of but have never seen in your life.

You then caught wind of the lieutenant’s new nickname.

Casper. Such a silly name.

And then yet another nickname, "Kat" has surfaced for you, only this one had made zero sense to you at all.

Regardless of the silly teasings and harmless jibes from your colleagues about Ghost’s very frequent doctor appointments, you went on, working around the clock and going by the books.

Nothing has to change, especially if it meant nothing.

And yet, that silly little "nothing" began to occupy you through the quiet hours, and through the night.

An odd weight began to settle in your throat and chest whenever you saw your special patient, and the nicknames had begun to bother you more and more. You were too busy to think, too overwhelmed by people for an appetite, and too tired to make head nor tail of the week.

"... Doc?"

Your spine snaps straight at the sound of your name. How long have you been floating down your reverie?

"Ah, I'm sorry — yes?"

You colleague, who stood poised in blue scrubs whilst holding a clipboard, grins at you. "Casper was just looking for you. He left though, think his captain called for him or something."

"Ah, I see."

He shook his head lightly and turns to leave, but you stopped him with a question that you could not bear to have unanswered any longer.

"Why do you call him Casper?"

The man hummed, leaving you to sit with a disconcerting moment of silence as the answer sat on the precipice of his tongue.

"You know the plot of Casper, don't you?"

*

You swiveled on your office chair across the tables to your computer, a new task set to mind. Frantic fingers tapped away to solve that nagging mystery, and you felt the fine ends of a thread beginning to pull at the seams of your logic.

From the 1995 movie, he said.

The tab screen loaded your search, and your eyes scan the brief descriptions under each link. A small drop-down bar caught your attention, and in your gut you felt a twist of discomfort at the words that displayed before you.

Casper (1995) Plot What is the relationship between Kat and Casper?

Your breathing stopped at the insinuation, and a weight pulls on your lips as you read on.

… Casper, the ghost protagonist of the movie, falls madly in love with James' loner teenage daughter, Kathleen “Kat” Harvey, who is also looking for a friend. 

----------------------------------------------------------

FOOTNOTES:

"Lazarus" is the machine that was meant to bring Casper back to life, so the rumours are suggesting that the reader gives Ghost life.

[duck-a-doodle]

COD Headcanons: Soft Intimacy

SFW thoughts on what would unravel the COD boys. This is my first post for this fandom, and my entry point to it was the MWII campaign and a few comics, so it might be slightly OOC. In the meantime, I will keep doing research and I hope this brings you joy! :-) -CH

Masterlist 7/14/2024

Simon "Ghost" Riley silently relishes light scratches. The kind that runs slowly, gently down the scalp or round the ears, feathering across his scapula over the thin fabric of his shirt and the underside of his arms. He shudders at getting his spine or ribs traced, head spinning at the idea of fingers so tender taking long, tantalising hours to outline all of himself, the electrifying comfort flickering his heavy eyelids. Heavy as he is, the man is quick to persuade that you rest your weight upon him during such domestic ministrations; he curses, however, at your much more compelling affections, falling prey to the charms of your worship. Slowly, but surely, he leans forth — first dropping his head to your shoulder while languid nails crawl down his cheek, then falling to his hands and soon, his elbows — gliding his head down your collarbone and onto your beating chest, where he recognises that you are most ardently obsessed of him as he is of you. “Obsessed” is much too simple a word  and “reverent”, too large an understatement. His skin is yours, his mind is yours, his breath, his tongue, and every crevice of himself he can count; a gift and homage to your hands, his temple. As he finally sinks all of himself into you with a groan and a sigh, he gingerly lifts his heavy hands, resting them warmly by your sides and over your ribs, in hopes to return all your love with the altogether humble gesture. On days which he stubbornly wishes to do the same for you, he mimics the way you touch him, in every precise manner and every exact order, seeking nooks and crannies that warm your skin or hitch your breath. He will weakly protest, however, moments which your hands reach too close to him outside of these intimate instances, causing light, inadvertent whimpers from the back of his throat.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Captain John Price likes using his hands for carrying. “Brutish” is an adjective familiar and frequent to his bear paws, trained to caress cold, carbons steel and paint itself in red, smelling only of matches and rust.  The warmest things his hands have known are the arms and backs of his fallen men and the barrel of his heartless iron, the touch of it comparable to a Londoner’s December. You, in place of the metal, you, strong yet brittle and you, lighter to him than a C4, grenade or flashbang, are his respite, reprising over the smoke of his numerous deployments, where his hands took more than they gave. He cannot help the pliant hips and waist that fit his palms seamlessly, more harmless than the many miry grounds he trekked before — a kind, relenting texture which spoil his weathered, calloused digits with the knowledge that they are utterly malleable to you, benign to you, void of all menace. Coarse fingers drag and curl your silhouette as your mass rests weightlessly on his arms and shoulders, yielding to his calculated strength. That he can evoke a laugh or an exclamation of surprise is a source of endless pride; a gentle nudge that the Captain John Price can tickle fancy by exercising a fraction of his brawn on something worldly. He could lift your groceries, the couch, your books — but  he likes to sweep off your feet the most. Trailing your thighs, calves, the small of your back are the hands that seek reminder of his humanity, tendons and phalanges flexing with every curve it meets, venerating eyes never leaving yours which watch his display of muscle with great wonder. For you, he would carry the world. Thus, in his words, “my back is strong enough to carry both our weights for a lifetime, if you’d let me.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John "Soap" McTavish has developed a habit of pawing. The abundance (if not exclusive presence) of tough military equipment, smoking alloys and dogged combat routines necessitated his use of hard, impenetrable gloves. Its rugged, protective textile has unwittingly sensitised his hands to various surfaces, including bare skin. He hesitated to touch you, timorous from his own want, curiosity and the unknown. Gone are his inhibitions when graced with your guiding hands, easing the earth-riddled cowhide off his palms. Aimless hands follow your lead, pressing into you over his Henley you borrowed. Finding purchase upon your stomach, he gradually grows accustomed to the fondness of your abdomen, shortly braving his way to your chest with sturdy yet clumsy paws. A current crackles down his body as he toys with the ripples of fabric adorned by your skin, indulgence rapidly surging from his fingers to his giddy head — he is soon to be all over you, his newfound contentment switching into overdrive. Respiration turning laboured, those once shy hands grow ravenous and wayward, roaming under the influence of his enthusiasm; every sharp inhale and strained noise he extorts from you only serves to encourage him further, inciting cheeky gropes at your sides, inner thighs and behind. What would eventually drive his mind over the edge, when you finally decide he is too much, is your folding a very surprised McTavish down onto the couch over you, keeping his head to your tummy and his hands tucked to your sides, imploring him to behave himself. Chiding him to act proper was an error on your behalf; his demeanour shifts, mischief clear in his eyes as he unabashedly explores all of you, pawing at you with every naughty intent fathomable.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is crazy about being sat on. By no means a foolhardy nor gormless soldier, he holds himself to high decorum with immense discipline, ever an air of diplomacy about his person. None would have imagined that a simple act as sitting on his lap would send him reeling, rendered silent for fear of speaking with neither form nor cohesion. He turns light-headed watching your thighs pool like molten lava, quads sweltering from mere contact, let alone the pleasurable tension of your weight balancing precariously off his trembling knees. Worried that his legs would tire, you made to rise, wanting to relieve him of your own gravity but you were firmly held in place; two large, veined hands anchor you resolutely onto unmoving thighs, and any attempts of persuasion, made in the interest of his own comfort, faced flat rebuffal. Gratitude towards Lady Luck nearly spills from his lips, numb with inadvertence, as you nestle your heft upon him, for want of better comfort. You mistaking his lap for an empty stool was akin to setting his legs on fire, but to make yourself comfortable against him? For a man who prided himself for his class and propriety, he quickly found himself immensely burdened with sin, and subtlety became a language long forgotten. Had he any sense left in him that was not knocked out of the ballpark by your charming self, he would not be finding himself gently playing with the hem of your shirt, folding funny shapes with the fabric between his clammy fingers. Savoury dreams of you enticed him, swimming behind his glossy eyes that are unresponsive to the lights that danced across his features. Oh, you were so much trouble to him, colouring him brazen and so very warm. He loves it, however, and you will soon find what a fiend and a devil you can be when you later use this against the soldier's poor heart.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alejandro Vargas will die for your scent. Tantamount to a hound, no vaquero could catch the winds of change for miles around the way he could. The smell of burning tyres against the asphalt of the streets, the oils and perfumes of the same shop houses, the settling dust of his own base, and the routine spritz of air freshener that now smelled of lemon instead of mint ever since the new hire came on duty. Where Alejandro worked, the bittersweetness of gunpowder that sweeps his olfactory is his peace, and the constant heatwave that boils a Proust phenomenon out of the hanger persists in the back of his senses, subtle yet certain. No delicate change challenged his sharpness. He has a full bible to list it all, memorised from the front to back — and though he may not be religious, he is a madly devoted man. A hypervigilance that cannot be removed must find a reprieve, and only a single odour, long seared into his mind, pulls at him not first from the mind but from the heart. You, who smelled of his blankets, you, whose shampoo and T-shirt he recognised not from the brand but from its lingering aroma, and you, who could never surprise him with your presence because the scent of you would enter the room before his name falls from your lips, and before his eyes could reach yours. You remain the only person who turned his head with such impassioned and obsessed vigour, and he knew he was done for ever since. He would press his nose deep into your cheek, your neck, or the back of your nape and find himself at home as he stood in a room full of coldhearted artillery. No proper explanation was ever given when you find a shirt or two missing over the months of his deployment, but secretly, you had always known. And like the cheek you are to his mischief, you bask in the darker colour of his cheeks when you find that mysterious missing shirt hidden in the pile of laundry from his deployment.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra likes soft whispers. Such light, airy and vertiginous words that kiss the shell of his ears — they would rob the man of his joints. Everyday exchanges of each other’s day ground him and ruin him, discernible only by both your ears. While he lends his body to the field, bloody and savage, in his heart there stands a single white flag signed in your name, by his hand; in a head overrun with sounds of distorted infrared voices, caterpillar tracks crushing against gravel and of heartless iron shells dropping at two hundred rounds per minute, your quiet words remain. A man of few words must have so much thought that weighs on his tongue, until it becomes too heavy to express. Surely, you must be a godsend. The way you effortlessly loosen the words from his hardened teeth, clenched too tightly still lest a bullet comes to bite, pulls shivers from his lips and down his watery lashes. Something about your bottom lip renders him helpless, and he finds that he must rest his thumb on your lower lip to lessen the giddiness that threatens to beat his heart out of his flaming chest. Permanently latched onto the rich timber of your voice was a man desperate to preserve you, so much that he keeps all your voicemails to him and labels them by the topic, just so he can find exactly when he needs to hear, when he needs to hear it. Moments of quietude in his bunk led one thought to the next, and he often ended the day with your voice embracing the deepest parts of his soul through an old, wired earpiece, wondering if you knew what gravity you had upon him. Perhaps you do know, he believed decidedly — because when he played a new recording you sent him during his deployment, his fingers violently mashed the volume-down button of his device at your rather unique choice of words, spoken at a careless whisper. You knew he had listened to it, as the first thing he did when he returned was to hold you in your place, and return all the salacious whispers he received right back to the bane of his heart. Ten-fold.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

König has an obsession with trapping. Hugs come rare to a man of his nature; imposing, wild and unacclimated to the civilised world. When arms do find their way around him, his own snakes around them, encircling the sensation, holding it close and praying that it seeps into his skin, permeating his senses to remain seared in his remembrance. Yet, more than once, he finds the same arms, over and over, routine the way the birds must sing and the poets must write. Always your arms, by his initiative. Greed will be his downfall and he knows, and he gladly embraces his defeat, relenting to your winsome self without remorse. Never would he deem himself a small man, albeit despite the notion, he shrinks; younger and younger he becomes with you, compressed to his front as much as your skins would let, as much as his strength allows without colouring your flesh a bluish-purple, until he is but a boy cradling his most dear Bärchen, unwilling to let go. He watches with blooming gratification, the exhale that falls from your lips as you press together, eyes drooping from the pleasant pressure that grounds you to earth, all because it is he who holds you. He drinks the sight and lets the view inebriate his already intoxicated mind. On the occasion when he becomes the bear-trapped, he will amuse himself with your too-small arms that fail to close around him, and will quickly turn the tables, subjecting you to his drunken coos with an onslaught of “mein Schatz”es, “Schnuckiputzi”s and “liebling”s. Greed will be his downfall, but you must be his renaissance.

P.S.: Can you tell that I read Pride & Prejudice before writing the TF141's and König's parts? I can. :'-)

[duck-a-doodle]

Art belongs to: @lamuliz

I saw this post, looked at the clothes I was wearing and thought:

"Perfect."

I apologise for any transgressions in advance.

[duck-a-doodle]

Finally, after ages my digital piece of Piccolo and Gohan is complete! I know I didn't quite do the linework justice with my haphazard colour blocking, but I am proud of the composition nonetheless! I hope you all love my interpretation of Big Green and his best boy. :-)

[duck-a-doodle]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Chew Hong (@it_is_chew_hong)

My tablet died. The front screen popped off, but that wasn't why it died; it was because I kicked it off my bed when I fell asleep and the thing died hours after upon my deadly kick.

I fear for all my works' life. :'-)

[duck-a-doodle]

A new chapter of Seven-foot Solitudinarian is finally here! I am so overwhelmed with the kind comments that everyone has given me thus far and goodness was I so motivated to write more! Thank you for the support, and I hope you enjoy reading this one just as much as I enjoyed writing it. :-)

[duck-a-doodle]

Hello! I may be a little late in introductions, but upon finding a serious lack of Piccolo fanfictions, I have begun writing one on AO3! I started this work of passion a little over two months ago, and I hope that whoever crosses this post will give it a read and enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  :-)

[duck-a-doodle]

I want to finish it so bad but holy crap my body is a temple and this temple has holes in it. :'-) https://www.instagram.com/p/CZGoe6RvE3f/?utm_medium=tumblr