warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, mentions of 'fresh/bare' face but no explicit mention of makeup, mentions of könig's social anxiety, sweet!könig
synopsis: könig always waits for you before eating his meals! this time though, when you walk-in (clean and fresh faced!) after a mission, he's left speechless!
a.n. literally could not get this gentle giant out of my mind so I decided to give him a shot and write for him! still working on writing for his character but tell me what you think! :3 and as always, my kofi! much love <3
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head very full about könig's reaction to seeing you after a mission, all freshened up and glowing, and how easily he’d be choking on his words.
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he’d be tucked in the farthest corner of the mess hall, shrouded by the dim fluorescent overhead lights. his fingers tapped a rhythmic, yet impatient, beat against his tray as his pale blue eyes scan the entirety of the building. you’re late. the observation is a bit unusual since you regularly insisted on sharing a meal together. after all, it was initially your idea that you brought up to the austrian and– unable to handle the sincerity of your smile– he agreed. had profusely apologized when he speedily whipped his arm out of your grasp when you were overjoyed with his answer and couldn't help but cling to him. but now, it was common to see the two of you huddled closely over meals. didn’t matter what type: breakfast, lunch, dinner. you were there and you always identified him from the crowd. greeted him with a wide, bright grin on your face like you anticipated his presence. liked his company. and oh boy, did that realization turn his brain and heart into mush.
könig who barely bats an eye when the other soldiers pass in his general vicinity. he’ll blurt out an acknowledgment to show respect but otherwise dismisses the beginnings of a lengthy conversation from especially chatty recruits. it gets difficult for him to shut them down once they start yapping away. makes his palms sweaty because he’s overthinking the best method to casually tell them that he’s expecting someone. understands that it’s a terrible practice for him to adopt since time in the mess hall is designed so personnel can socialize with each other. eases the burden of work. relieves some of the stress. yet, his gaze is fixed on the entrance and his thigh eagerly jumps whenever the door opens.
könig who refuses to eat his meals without you. he will always wait until you’ve started eating before he even begins to pick at his food. it’s common courtesy, or so he rehearses whenever you question him about it. you’d express your bewilderment for his habit, “it’s sweet of you but you don’t have to wait for me, ya know. I know you must be starving after training,” and hope that it convinces him. he waves a dismissive hand and murmurs a faint acknowledgement. mostly to quell your worries. but, without a doubt, is found perched with a tray of– untouched– food in front of him– that is, until you’ve settled beside him.
könig who is on the verge of giving up while awaiting your appearance. awkwardly raises a gloved hand to flag down a nearby recruit to ask, “do you know if (y/n) is here?” upon receiving an empty answer, he’ll lean back into his seat and mutter, “trotzdem danke.” rationalizes your absence. tells himself that it could be that you were simply busy– caught up in filling out paperwork, preparing for the next objective, or conversing with a superior. nothing he should take personally. supposes that perhaps it was his fault for being hopeful for your arrival. for expecting it. is afflicted with a bitter pang of disappointment– the kind that throws him into uneasiness and makes his brain all fuzzy. a feeling that he’s rather acquainted with amidst his younger years.
könig who’s halfway in the process of lifting a forkful of food under his sniper hood when you slam your meal tray before him. the loud rattle almost knocks him over, forcing his shoulders to immediately seize up before he hears your distressed voice, “I’m so sorry, koni! got caught up in the washroom. were you waiting long?” and his heart does this unusual flip in his chest. you’re here with him. he coughs, still avoiding your gaze and smooths a hand over his hood. pinches at the edge of the dark fabric as he absentmindedly responds, “nein, nein. not long, do not worry.” you exhale heavily, the noise akin to a sigh of relief, and rest a gentle hand on his forearm, “oh, good. I was worried I was taking too long! I came back caked in gunpowder and mud from the last mission. couldn’t even recognize me underneath all that grime so I had to scrub it all off–”
könig who unceremoniously drops his fork when his gaze finally flicks up to yours. carries out that comical ‘clink’ when the utensil connects with the side of his tray and his hands sprawl to lessen the clamor but it’s in vain because he’s not even looking at it– too engrossed in staring at you. you’re glowing. clearly you told him the truth because your face is devoid of any of the muck he remembers you were covered in. könig reasons it’s a true, vile crime that the dirt tarnished your soft features for him to appreciate. a skewed smile graces your lips, his prolonged gawking outwardly causes you to become a bit self-conscious. your fingers lift to cup one side of your face and your head slowly tilts in a silent inquiry.
könig who blurts, “you look very refreshed.” the words leave his lips too awkwardly, beginning and stopping at odd syllables. a beat of silence passes. noticing your lack of a response, he’s aware that he ultimately just ruined the chances of a lighthearted dinner. he wrings his hands. decides to try again. “your,” he hesitates and gestures to his masked face, “nice.” this comment seems to elicit a stronger reaction because you’re thoughtfully reaching up to your own face with a breathy chuckle. yet, it’s not enough for könig.
könig who drags a large hand down his face and bites back a curse, “verdamnnt. I can’t think.” his gaze bounces off the walls in the room, clearly exasperated beyond measure, and you vaguely understand that he’s contemplating. in the midst of his frenzy, his eyes land on you and you’re precisely reminded how gorgeous they are– eagerly lit in reverence to his current situation. “you’re radiant, no,” he taps his fingers on the table and groans, “mein gott! what is the word.” and your hand naturally reaches for him, nearly quelling his irritation, when his fist slams against the table. “pretty! very pretty,” he says at last and his eyes burn in triumph at finding a word that is undoubtedly compatible to you, “so fucking pretty.”
könig who revels in the bashfulness that’s evident in your mannerisms. he spots the way your brows shoot up in shock when his accent seems to morph the compliment into a praise that’s headier– more provocative and therefore more potent to your racing heart. “pretty?” you decide to bait the conversation somewhere else, take the edge off of your burning face, and pry, “saying that I usually look bad, koni?” your quip causes him to short circuit and his brain has trouble keeping up with banter that he wasn’t expecting. “no,” he spits out the word, albeit a bit strongly, but doesn’t expand further– he can’t. his mouth opens and closes but no words come out. he’s sure that without his sniper hood he’d look like an utter fool. how does he manage to mess up a simple compliment?
könig who essentially has to shove his eyeballs back into their sockets because of how ridiculously wide they become when you lean against the table. his stillness knocks a laugh out of you and at the soft noise, you glance up at him. his dark eyebrows are knit together and the sight can be tracked by how his sniper hood sits rather haphazardly over his face. he’s the image of pliable– ready to heed any desire you may have. your position serves to crowd his field of view. he gets an ample whiff of your scent; the fresh, sweet concoction that would make his knees buckle if he was standing upright or entice him to yank the fabric off his face to smell the fragrance better. pushing your face closer to könig, he instinctively shifts back (to give you some room, be respectful of your space) but freezes when your hands are on him. your fingers grasp at the edges of his sniper hood, slipping underneath so your fingernails barely graze the skin there, and he’s stuttering, “I don’t– I, uh.” his explanation breaks off at the end and perhaps it’s for the best because everything that leaves his lips is incoherent. you hum, mindful and thoroughly receptive of his jittery behavior. tilting his chin to you, a sticky gasp catches in his throat. “oh,” his voice borders a whine when your nails lightly scrape at the nape of his neck, “maus.” he blows out a long exhale from parted lips, undoubtedly trying to maintain his composure with you– that is, if he had any to begin with. you’ve got him fully weak. “what happened?” your lips curl into a teasing smile upon watching his eyes flutter at the next words that leave your lips, “cat got your tongue, big boy?”
synopsis: getting caught up in the rain during a mission is pretty miserable. but ghost makes it his goal to keep you dry and warm– even if it includes shedding off a layer!
a.n. I've been pushing myself to write more and I had a small idea come to mind since it's been raining a lot recently! personally, I imagine him in his 'jawbone' outfit in this one! stay safe, cuties! and if you wish to show more support here's my kofi! <3
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thinking about ghost's inner dilemma when the weather gets colder and he realizes that he'd offer anything to you– including his clothes.
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missions in the rain were, in many cases, the absolute worst. unbearably muddy terrain caused the task force to reroute several times, delaying the overall pick-up time, and he was essentially losing his patience over the whole ordeal. he still had inventory to check, weapons to reload, and strategies to draft. too much on the agenda; too little time. a huff leaves his lips as he hankers down in a rather secluded spot. there aren’t too many recruits flocking around him in this area since they’re preoccupied with shielding away from the incessant rainstorm. many of them crowd around large trees to find cover under the broad leaves. some were huddling to retain warmth because the onslaught of rain meant that a frigid breeze accompanied it. but he settles in the outskirts and it's tolerable. he’s adapted to shouldering the storm and chilliness. though, he does admit that the downpour was intense and his drenched balaclava was a consequence of that. it was so damp and sodden that it clung uncomfortably to the contours of his face. his hand claws at the front of his mask to ease the irritating feeling.
ghost who overhears your quiet sniffling despite your efforts of muffling the noise. it’s so hushed that he barely recognizes it over the harsh thundering of rain but his ears perk at the typical sound. and sure, he distinctly recalls that this is probably your first experience with such severe weather since you were belatedly tossed into this group but it’s a run-of-the-mill incident. technically, it’s not his problem. the icy wind is numbing enough to discern that a person is bound to experience some of the symptoms that coexist with this type of extreme weather. it’s only natural– nothing to fret over. yet, his head turns in your direction before logic can kick in.
ghost who stiffly asks, “you cold?” like his eyes don’t frantically scan your face for any signs of discomfort. he’d already deduced your current state; spotting the blueish tint creeping up on the edge of your lips and how your eyes appear hazy. he shoves himself into your proximity and at this angle his physique engulfs you. his gloved hand reaches to push the hood of his khaki poncho down so he can properly assess your condition and at this moment he’s unbothered by how sopping wet his mask is. or how intense the rain is. doesn’t care about it anyway– just intends on helping you. with rain droplets pouring down your face, you look like a hollow version of yourself. vaguely perceives the nauseating tug in his chest when you manage a bleak smile and joke, “was unprepared for this since I didn’t know it’d be raining cats and dogs.”
ghost who knowingly shakes his head at your banter but still indulges you by murmuring, “is that how the sayin’ goes?” because he fancies the way your lips curl into a lopsided grin. thunder rumbles in the distance and the cozy moment is partially interrupted. ghost notices that your shoulders tense at the occasional roar and you absentmindedly hum in response to his question. you have the best intentions but it’s too late because he’s uttering a curse as your teeth chatter from the blitz of a strong gust of wind that seeps through your layers of clothing.
ghost who silently begins to shed off his poncho; his only layer of rain-resistant clothing. doesn’t mull over the consequences of catching a cold or worse– never even considers it. he’s prepared to sacrifice for you. “oh,” he hears your surprised gasp and sees how quickly your hands outstretch to ward off his offering, “you need it more than I do, lieutenant. thank you though.” and there’s that sheepish smile on your face again. the flicker of your eyes informs him that you’re embarrassed for needing extra support. for being human. and he’ll never quite understand how genuinely selfless you are. the trait is synonymous to you and a source of strength that is entirely yours to keep. to thrive off of. “s’just take it, pup,” his voice rumbles as profound as a pass of thunder, “you’re cold.”
ghost who jabs, “don’t fancy carryin’ ya when you get fuckin’ hypothermia,” and then adds under his breath, “don’t want to risk it. ‘specially not with you.” the first half is a total lie and it’s obvious by how he shifts when he says it. he’d carry you to the ends of the earth. however, the second half of his comment is drowned out by the ample rainfall. and you never do hear those words that would’ve kept you warm for eternity but you’re given the next best circumstance when he crouches closer to you. the pouches of his tactical vest, housing grenades or ammunition, dig into your chest and it’s supposed to be uncomfortable if it wasn’t for the gentle way ghost drapes the large garment over your shoulders.
ghost who takes it upon himself to secure the poncho’s hood over your head so it rests snugly under your chin. you’re still shivering, hot puffs of air escape your lips, but the function of the extra layer slowly warms you up. his gaze on you is burning, “you don’t ever have to pretend,” and then murmurs, “not with me. not ever.” the fabric does its job immediately and shields you from the onslaught of rain. that isn’t the issue he’s concerned about, however.
ghost who, when he pulls away, sucks in a shaky breath because the view that greets him will frequent his dreams. he’s certain of it. his touch accidentally dips down to the slope of your collarbones and he’s directly reminded that you’re wearing his poncho. his clothes. and it drapes over your body so alluringly. dips and presses into every curve of your body. possessiveness creeps up on him like a threatened animal, baring sharp canines and all. your prying eyes don’t aid in the situation either. raking up his exposed forearms, sifting and inquisitive about the tattoos that swirl in a manic pattern. a rare strip of his skin that graces your vision.
ghost who awkwardly indicates how the fabric loosely hangs off your upper torso since it’s made for his broader physique, “looks ridiculous,” but he’s tugging the hood of the poncho over your eyes. can’t physically operate when he watches how your dewy lashes flutter when he allows his fingers to graze over your shoulders and pat down the cloth for wrinkles. his actions are meant to be mindless, calculative, and intended to take his mind off of you. yet, he can’t– and doesn’t wish to. desires to douse himself in the ethereal glow you embody. the wide, grateful glint in your gaze that brands him vulnerable and when you smile up at him he feels the clouds break. lets the sun warm his skin.
HEYYYYY, I saw your requests open and I thought why not trying it. So, could you please please please write something with König and like, they're training or something and the reader or König (dc about who's going to do it) does that move that you take down the other person but you sit on their lap if you're not fast enough. And they're like panting from training.
I have more things in mind, so I'll be here for a while 😁
grim reaper
könig x female reader
content: slight suggestive themes, sfw, konig is down bad for reader but also a bit cheeky lol
hii nonnie! hehe i didnt know if u wanted sfw or otherwise, so i ended up somewhere right in the middle- or teasing at the latter, at least 😳 lol but i hope u enjoy!! i really love this idea so much! i wanna do this eventually with alejandro too ♡ good day! c:
all hearts, comments & reblogs are very appreciated!
König’s a tough guy.
Big, solid, more of a fucking mountain than a living breathing man, to be entirely honest- and it certainly don’t help when you put a gun in his hand- or worse, when his eyes are set on you.
Those shimmering blues are pretty, you can’t help but think even as he slowly rounds the mat with you. So pretty that they might succeed at distracting some poor bastard behind enemy lines, make them believe it’s an angel come to save ‘em from war rather than a ravenous, feral beast responding to the dinner bell.
There’s a reason he wears a hood.
All grim reapers do.
The air is somewhat thick between the two of you. Growingly tired. A healthy amount of sweat beading below your lighter fatigues.
You’re both a panting mess of missed punches and a few exchanged, light jabs. You managed to score a low kick at the back of his calf- perhaps your hardest hit yet- and it’s probably why he’s limping now. Just slightly.
It must still sting a bit, though. Because his delayed dodging time is enough for you to swoop in and pull the rug right out from beneath him, immediately pouncing on him as he falls.
Eager, you’re overwhelmingly eager to finish sparring, because while it’s fun being pitted up against Konig (he’s your favorite partner for these sessions), you’ve been at it for closer to an hour and supper will be served soon.
Straddling his waist, you pin his brawny arms back over his head, your smaller fingers struggling to wrap around his thick wrists.
He’s so much bigger, so much stronger, such a pain in the ass to immobilize.
And still, pinning him down on the mat, your hips anchored firmly over his- you know with one mindless buck, jerk, or thrash on his end, you’d go flying.
So it’s a mercy, really, hair hanging over your head and almost touching the tip of his nose, that instead of that- perpetuating the session and perhaps stinging your pride- Konig merely lies there beneath you.
Accepts it and you.
Lets out a little, breathy sort of giggle.
“Ah, you got me.” He surrenders, yet your hands must be completely deaf to his words because they don’t loosen at all.
His broad chest shakes with every heaving breath he takes, jostling you both, but it’s only when you feel him make an uncomfortable shift beneath you that you truly realize just how exhausted he is.
Blues eyes glinting tiredly through the holes of his hood, holding an odd little twinkle to them as he runs them over you— nervous, but curious, too.
So, so curious.
As if common sense hits you, you let a playful grin finally carve into your cheeks. “Did I?” You ask softly, and his head tilts some at you. “I’ve got the feeling you could switch our positions easily, if you really wanted to.”
He’s vaguely jittery, your sparring buddy, but when you make that mindless comment, for reasons beyond you, König visibly flusters, jerking his chin the other way.
His cheek rubs against the mat through his mask, mumbling a polite rebuttal.
“Y-You underestimate yourself, Y/n… You knocked me right off my feet! Isn’t that good?” His gaze does find yours again, then- quietly, “…I think you are good…”
It’s your turn to giggle.
The sound is pleasant, the sort of sound that he’d play on repeat if he could. But… those are feelings that the brute of a man is vaguely aware are offhanded, and certainly not the kind you divulge to your comrade.
So he nibbles on his lips, though you don’t see, and keeps quiet on it.
“Well, thank you, König,” your cheeks are a bit warm, either from tussling with him or just the fact that it’s him and not anyone else, you’re not so sure.
“I think you are good, too.”
Oh.
Oh.
That feels nice to hear… And your mouth looks so pretty when you say it, too.
You are beautiful, the man steadily comes to terms with- in one staggering, full gust of wind beneath you- you are so beautiful and you are straddling his hips and you said with your own tongue that he is good in your eyes.
You don’t know just what possesses him when he turns to you after, letting a nervous, yet deft hand rake the entirety of his hood over his head. But the truth is that he also doesn’t know why- or anything, to be fair, in that brilliant, awing moment- just that you are the prettiest girl he’s ever seen and he loves sparring with you and he can’t fully stop himself in time from saying—
“Yes,” he admits. “For you.”
And you are so startled by his sudden spur of confidence, and also the hint of a cheeky grin curling at his lips, that you are silent for a moment.
Stunned, perhaps.
An addicting, bubbly sort of feeling rises between you.
…S-Something else does, too, but lower— poking persistently at the start of your tummy.
You blink owlishly at the belated realization. So does he, all blue and hopeful yet also, apparently, growingly excited.
You clear your throat, slowly sliding off of his lap, praying to God your buddy doesn’t see the evident stirrings of something smitten on your face.
“H-How nice,” you murmur. And you mean it.
The both of you stand up, inconspicuously brushing off the fronts of your thighs, trading off see you in a bit’s and good spar’s, the male following shortly after you- sort of like a lost puppy- towards the shower block.
Washing off sounds nice- even better, settling down at the cafeteria and digging into his meaty portion of dinner- but to be entirely honest, he’s still basking in the sweet afterglow of his small (yet no less revolutionary) victory.
HEYYYYY, I saw your requests open and I thought why not trying it. So, could you please please please write something with König and like, they're training or something and the reader or König (dc about who's going to do it) does that move that you take down the other person but you sit on their lap if you're not fast enough. And they're like panting from training.
I have more things in mind, so I'll be here for a while 😁
grim reaper
könig x female reader
content: slight suggestive themes, sfw, konig is down bad for reader but also a bit cheeky lol
hii nonnie! hehe i didnt know if u wanted sfw or otherwise, so i ended up somewhere right in the middle- or teasing at the latter, at least 😳 lol but i hope u enjoy!! i really love this idea so much! i wanna do this eventually with alejandro too ♡ good day! c:
all hearts, comments & reblogs are very appreciated!
König’s a tough guy.
Big, solid, more of a fucking mountain than a living breathing man, to be entirely honest- and it certainly don’t help when you put a gun in his hand- or worse, when his eyes are set on you.
Those shimmering blues are pretty, you can’t help but think even as he slowly rounds the mat with you. So pretty that they might succeed at distracting some poor bastard behind enemy lines, make them believe it’s an angel come to save ‘em from war rather than a ravenous, feral beast responding to the dinner bell.
There’s a reason he wears a hood.
All grim reapers do.
The air is somewhat thick between the two of you. Growingly tired. A healthy amount of sweat beading below your lighter fatigues.
You’re both a panting mess of missed punches and a few exchanged, light jabs. You managed to score a low kick at the back of his calf- perhaps your hardest hit yet- and it’s probably why he’s limping now. Just slightly.
It must still sting a bit, though. Because his delayed dodging time is enough for you to swoop in and pull the rug right out from beneath him, immediately pouncing on him as he falls.
Eager, you’re overwhelmingly eager to finish sparring, because while it’s fun being pitted up against Konig (he’s your favorite partner for these sessions), you’ve been at it for closer to an hour and supper will be served soon.
Straddling his waist, you pin his brawny arms back over his head, your smaller fingers struggling to wrap around his thick wrists.
He’s so much bigger, so much stronger, such a pain in the ass to immobilize.
And still, pinning him down on the mat, your hips anchored firmly over his- you know with one mindless buck, jerk, or thrash on his end, you’d go flying.
So it’s a mercy, really, hair hanging over your head and almost touching the tip of his nose, that instead of that- perpetuating the session and perhaps stinging your pride- Konig merely lies there beneath you.
Accepts it and you.
Lets out a little, breathy sort of giggle.
“Ah, you got me.” He surrenders, yet your hands must be completely deaf to his words because they don’t loosen at all.
His broad chest shakes with every heaving breath he takes, jostling you both, but it’s only when you feel him make an uncomfortable shift beneath you that you truly realize just how exhausted he is.
Blues eyes glinting tiredly through the holes of his hood, holding an odd little twinkle to them as he runs them over you— nervous, but curious, too.
So, so curious.
As if common sense hits you, you let a playful grin finally carve into your cheeks. “Did I?” You ask softly, and his head tilts some at you. “I’ve got the feeling you could switch our positions easily, if you really wanted to.”
He’s vaguely jittery, your sparring buddy, but when you make that mindless comment, for reasons beyond you, König visibly flusters, jerking his chin the other way.
His cheek rubs against the mat through his mask, mumbling a polite rebuttal.
“Y-You underestimate yourself, Y/n… You knocked me right off my feet! Isn’t that good?” His gaze does find yours again, then- quietly, “…I think you are good…”
It’s your turn to giggle.
The sound is pleasant, the sort of sound that he’d play on repeat if he could. But… those are feelings that the brute of a man is vaguely aware are offhanded, and certainly not the kind you divulge to your comrade.
So he nibbles on his lips, though you don’t see, and keeps quiet on it.
“Well, thank you, König,” your cheeks are a bit warm, either from tussling with him or just the fact that it’s him and not anyone else, you’re not so sure.
“I think you are good, too.”
Oh.
Oh.
That feels nice to hear… And your mouth looks so pretty when you say it, too.
You are beautiful, the man steadily comes to terms with- in one staggering, full gust of wind beneath you- you are so beautiful and you are straddling his hips and you said with your own tongue that he is good in your eyes.
You don’t know just what possesses him when he turns to you after, letting a nervous, yet deft hand rake the entirety of his hood over his head. But the truth is that he also doesn’t know why- or anything, to be fair, in that brilliant, awing moment- just that you are the prettiest girl he’s ever seen and he loves sparring with you and he can’t fully stop himself in time from saying—
“Yes,” he admits. “For you.”
And you are so startled by his sudden spur of confidence, and also the hint of a cheeky grin curling at his lips, that you are silent for a moment.
Stunned, perhaps.
An addicting, bubbly sort of feeling rises between you.
…S-Something else does, too, but lower— poking persistently at the start of your tummy.
You blink owlishly at the belated realization. So does he, all blue and hopeful yet also, apparently, growingly excited.
You clear your throat, slowly sliding off of his lap, praying to God your buddy doesn’t see the evident stirrings of something smitten on your face.
“H-How nice,” you murmur. And you mean it.
The both of you stand up, inconspicuously brushing off the fronts of your thighs, trading off see you in a bit’s and good spar’s, the male following shortly after you- sort of like a lost puppy- towards the shower block.
Washing off sounds nice- even better, settling down at the cafeteria and digging into his meaty portion of dinner- but to be entirely honest, he’s still basking in the sweet afterglow of his small (yet no less revolutionary) victory.
thank u for the tag @halfmoth-halfman! hoping this gets me moving on a little something this evening :)
💕 self-love time! talk about which ones of YOUR creations (edits, artworks, fanfics) you like the most then send to other creators to do the same 💕
I've essentially got two major works going right now which would be the mothiverse and the exit row-verse: within the mothiverse I think my favorite chapter would be the first mission Moth does with Soap. The action and dialogue came so easily to me and I didn't have to fight with it at all to make it work - and the tension of Price's protectiveness and possessiveness really gave it an overall romantic quality imo. As for the future, I've got some ideas, namely that date Price promised :)
Exit Row wise, I'm almost overwhelmed by the potential of it. I can't decide whether they should meet again in a domestic or work setting and how he should react to meeting her again. it's really all about how long of a haul I need to settle in for. But one thing I do love about Exit Row is that it takes this really relatable "i have to be the hottest person sitting at my gate in the airport" meme and turns it into a fantasy that somehow DOESN'T lead to inappropriate airplane sex (bc we all know that shit is NOT sexy to bystanders and also...illegal). To me it feels like a bridge between real-life "what if" fantasies and also the COD fandom.
no pressure tags: @roosterr @clairdelunelove @antigonusyuki
the amount of joy these bring me ( ๑>ᴗ<๑ ) thank you so much for the tag @lunarvicar ! hoping your day was lovely
as for responding to the prompt, I will say that my series with ghost are pieces that I’m especially proud of! ‘things ghost finds attractive about you’ is (specifically) heart-warming and meant to serve as a way to highlight quirks/habits that could be deemed relatable to the reader! humans do some cute stuff and I wanted to write about it :)
additionally, writing about dead by daylight content is always fun! I know it’s a small niche but I’ve been obsessed with the game for a while and luv all the characters. I want to write more about them! but for now, I just have quentin smith works since he holds a special place in my heart haha
ramble about your amazing works: @circe69 @dollcod @soapisahimbo
CLAIREEE ( ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ·̫ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀ ) ur ‘things ghost finds attractive about you’ deserves ALL the love from both u and the cod fandom fr. 💗 hehe BUT if i had to choose a fav from my own blog, it would probably be ‘but my hair smells of war’ and perhaps the newer ‘flash’ fic too!!
i like to fly off the rails sometimes and write unnecessarily-deep content about our big beefy boys 😭 in particular i liked all the layers to the ghost fic and the trope really did float my boat. just this rather unhinged, stoic lieutenant that’s secretly got it bad for his sweet underling… on the other hand i really enjoyed writing for johnny too. just the whole friends to more theme. soap’s potential for erotica is insane in my humble opinion lolol… he’s a gem to the community fr.
anyways im tagging anyone who sees this or wants to join in on the fun C:
Thinking ab Gaz who’s in love with the cute barista that works at the cafe near his apartment
Gaz who definitely likes sweet coffee but saw that you drank straight black and wanted to impress you by drinking what you drink and hiding it horribly because he puckers up a little after each sip
You who knows and realizes and gives him a coffee you think he’d like and he lights up in realization before deflating in embarrassment
“You didn’t have to pretend you know, nothing wrong with a little bit of sugar.”
Gaz who continues to stop by everyday just to see you and talk to you and offers to walk you to your car
Gaz who stops by so much and tips you more than the drink he paid for and will sit and read a book just to be able to look at you
Gaz who constantly compliments you every single day just to see your cute reactions, a small giggle, a shocked look, soft smiles. Whether it’s your hair, your perfume, your makeup, your outfit, or your coffee
Gaz who is just in puppy love
Gaz who can’t help but feel giddy when he sees the napkin with your number on it and immediately texts you while in the cafe
Gaz, who constantly compares the coffee from other places to yours “no one can make it like she does, brewed to literal perfection.”
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
titsay
germansingergirl
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
stormborns
