#cod characters

[avokadyshka]

war can wait a second

[spookytragedyshark]

Oppys Daisy, my hand slipped

The 141 is fuming. Their newest member was taken into custody for something they didn't do. They know this because they were with you during the time of the alleged actions. The idiots won't release you because you're in an active integration, so now the team is watching you through the one-way glass while Price is trying to keep himself from ripping someone's head off long enough to get you out and not end up with more people in custody.

It's the same old same old till your interrogator starts in "your team can't save you-"

A sickening laugh echoes through the room and you curl against the table. Before sitting straight put head tilted too far to the right eyes blown wide. "How ignorant do you have to be to think they're coming back for me?"

Everyone freezes, and for the first time, the people in charge of this monstrosity realize they might have royally messed up. The investigator is eyeing the exit as soon as he realizes your hands are shaking. Chills are running down people's spines, and your team is gripping their gear trying to maintain their composure.

"No one comes back. You aren't the first to try to frame me. They aren't the first for me to love and be abandoned by," the words come out too even, too practiced, yet you clearly believe them wholeheartedly.

"You can't kill what is already dead. But" your head tilts in the opposite direction, still too far, "you can hurt it." Another laugh that barely sounds human.

"See, from this point forward, you're no longer dealing with a member of the 141, and just remember, you asked for it. Let me tell you, whatever you hope to find is not here. But something far worse is."

Just the reader, so used to being abandoned that they think they are alone in this. The most dangerous animal is an injured cornered one.

[mondonguita]

[andieafterdark]

Whiskey and Ink - Captain John Price x Reader 🥃🚬🖋️

Pairing: Captain John Price x Reader Word Count: 3,751

Trigger Warnings:

alcohol consumption

smoking

mild language

suggestive themes / tension

mentions of corruption & politics

brief references to violence (non-graphic, implied military background)

A/N: HELLO MY LOVELIES 😌

Okay—so this is a little different from what I normally write over on Wattpad, but since Wattpad is currently refusing to let me update (rude), I decided to finally make a Tumblr.

And because my insomnia is absolutely kicking my ass tonight… you all get this.

My very first imagine for a new fandom—Call of Duty—and I fear Captain John Price may have already ruined me 🫠

This one is very much slow burn, tension, and vibes… but don’t worry—Part Two will be… something else 👀

I hope you enjoy, and welcome to Andie After Dark ✦

Captain John Price had been in London less than an hour.

And yet the second he stepped off base, he didn’t go home.

Didn’t even consider it, really.

His flat would be exactly how he left it—empty, still, a thin layer of dust settling into corners that hadn’t seen movement in months. No life. No noise. Just silence and the ghosts of things he didn’t have the luxury of unpacking yet.

Soap had been yammering on about some music festival—something loud, something crowded, something meant to feel like being alive again.

Price hadn’t even humored it.

Instead, he walked.

No destination. No plan. Just boots hitting pavement, one after the other, letting the city swallow him whole. Letting the noise of London try—and fail—to drown out the echo of everything still sitting heavy in his chest.

It didn’t work.

It never really did.

So eventually, when the thoughts got too loud—too sharp, too close—he made a decision.

A hard dampener.

The first pub he saw, he stepped into.

It was warm inside.

Dim lighting, amber-toned, the kind that softened edges and made everything feel a little less real. Conversations hummed low, laughter bubbled somewhere near the dartboards, glasses clinked in a steady rhythm behind the bar.

Normal.

God, it was normal.

Price took a seat at the far end of the bar without a word, automatically positioning himself with his back to the wall, eyes on the room.

Habit.

Instinct.

Survival.

After everything he’d seen—everything he’d done—awareness wasn’t something he could switch off. It was stitched into him now, woven deep into muscle memory and bone.

He ordered a whiskey. Neat.

Then another.

And another.

He was halfway through his third, nursing it more than drinking it, head slightly bowed—an image of someone keeping to himself.

Except he wasn’t.

Not really.

He was watching.

Always watching.

The couple in the corner booth practically devouring each other—Price wasn’t sure how they were still breathing.

Three booths down, another pair sat stiff across from each other, tension thick enough to cut through. Pretending not to argue, which somehow made it worse.

A group of older men tucked into the far corner, hunched over what looked like cards—poker, maybe. Quiet, deliberate. The kind of men who had stories they didn’t tell.

And the rest of the pub—half full, half loud, alive in that careless way civilians got to be.

Outside, rain had started to fall.

Not a drizzle—no, London was putting its back into it tonight. Heavy sheets against the windows, streaking down the glass in uneven lines.

Price’s gaze lingered there for a moment, tracking the movement of a single drop as it raced the others—

The bell above the door chimed.

His head snapped up.

Instinct.

Always instinct.

And then—

There you were.

Rain-soaked despite your best efforts. Your hair clung to your face, damp strands sticking to your cheeks and jaw as you stepped inside, muttering something under your breath as you wrestled your umbrella closed.

You shook it out near the door, shrugging off your coat with a small huff, clearly unimpressed with the weather.

Price’s eyes tracked you before he could stop himself.

A single drop of water slid from your hair, down the curve of your neck, disappearing beneath your collar.

His grip tightened slightly around his glass.

He looked away.

He should have looked away.

You didn’t head toward the dartboard crowd—the loud, easy laughter kind of people. The kind of people who looked like they didn’t carry anything heavier than a bad day.

You waved toward the bar instead.

“Bobby! I need something strong!”

Your voice cut clean through the noise, familiar, easy—like you belonged here.

Price’s gaze flicked back despite himself.

You were already moving, eyes scanning the room quickly, assessing—quick, sharp, observant.

He made an assumption.

You’d take the open seat closer to the two men a few stools down. They’d already noticed you, turning slightly, interest written plainly across their faces.

But something in their gaze—something you didn’t like—

You pivoted.

And just like that, you were heading his way.

You slid into the seat one over from him, leaving a single stool between you.

Deliberate.

A buffer.

You shrugged out of your outer layer, draping it over the back of the stool, rolling your shoulders slightly like you were shaking off more than just the rain.

Bobby—the Bobby, apparently—appeared in front of you without needing to be called again, already pouring your drink.

Whiskey sour.

Price clocked it instantly.

“What’s the occasion tonight, Y/N?” Bobby asked, sliding the glass toward you.

You leaned forward onto your elbows, fingers wrapping around the drink like you’d been waiting for it.

“I’m drowning my sorrows, Bobby.”

There was a dry edge to your smile. Practiced. Familiar.

Price found himself watching you again.

This time, he didn’t look away as quickly.

“What for?” Bobby prompted.

“Terrible date?”

You shot him a look—sharp, unimpressed.

“Please. I’d take a terrible date over this.”

You took a sip, then exhaled slowly, like you were bracing yourself.

“My editor squashed another story.”

Bobby winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, swirling your drink slightly. “Five months of research. Five. Months. Chasing leads, digging through records, maybe—maybe—bending a few minor laws—”

Price’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

“—and for what?” you continued, your voice tightening just a fraction. “Because Bruce thinks it’ll ‘rock the cradle too much.’”

You scoffed, sharp and humorless.

“What a bastard.”

Bobby let out a low breath through his nose, already shaking his head like this was a familiar tune.

“A bastard indeed.” He leaned one forearm against the bar for a second, eyeing you in that way that said he’d seen this exact version of you before—frustrated, wired, running on fumes. “You eat today—” he paused, squinting slightly, “—what am I saying, of course you didn’t.”

You didn’t even argue.

Just took another sip.

“I’ll put something in for you,” he decided, already turning away toward the kitchen before you could protest.

Price looked away then.

Not because he wasn’t interested.

But because he was.

And that was already more than he’d intended when he walked in.

His gaze returned to the room, slipping back into habit—tracking movement, noting exits, cataloguing faces without thinking about it.

But you—

You didn’t disappear into the background like everything else.

Not quite.

You leaned forward again, digging into your bag with a quiet huff of irritation.

Out came a worn notepad, the edges softened from use. Then a pack of cigarettes, flicked onto the bar beside you without much thought. Then… more digging.

Your movements got sharper.

Faster.

“Shit…” you muttered under your breath, frustration bleeding into the word.

Price’s attention shifted back before he could stop it.

“Bobby, you got a pen?” you called, glancing up—only to find him already tied up with someone at the other end of the bar.

You let out a heavy sigh, dropping your head for a second before dragging a hand down your face.

“Jesus, Y/N…” you murmured to yourself, voice lower now, edged with annoyance. “What kind of journalist doesn’t carry a pen?”

You kept digging.

“And BBC would have a field day with that—strip your credentials, take your badge, public humiliation—”

Your bag gave a soft thud against the bar as you shifted it, clearly coming up empty.

“—brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Price watched for a second longer than he should have.

Not obvious.

Not enough to draw attention.

But enough.

You were… sharp.

Not just in what you said—but how you moved. Quick. Intentional. Your eyes had that same edge he recognized in operatives, in soldiers—people who noticed things.

People who didn’t miss much.

People who didn’t belong entirely to places like this.

His fingers moved before he fully thought it through.

A quiet decision.

He slipped a hand into the inside of his coat, retrieving a pen—simple, unremarkable, the kind he always kept on him.

Prepared.

Always prepared.

He extended it toward you without a word.

You stilled mid-search.

Your head snapped up, eyes landing first on the pen—then following it up to him.

There was a flicker of surprise there.

Quick.

Gone just as fast.

You blinked once, like you were recalibrating, then reached out to take it.

Your fingers brushed his.

Brief.

But not nothing.

“Oh—” you let out a small breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “Well… thank you.”

Your lips curved—not quite a full smile, but close enough to feel real.

“I appreciate it. I’m apparently grossly ill-prepared today.”

There was a beat.

And then—

You didn’t immediately look away.

Price held your gaze.

Steady. Quiet. Assessing in that way that wasn’t unkind—but wasn’t soft either.

Up close, you could see it clearer.

The weight in him.

The kind that didn’t come from bad days or long weeks, but something heavier. Something that settled deep and stayed there.

His voice, when it came, was low.

Roughened slightly from disuse—and the whiskey.

“Happens.”

One word.

Simple.

Grounded.

It sat between you for a second longer than it should have.

You shook your head, huffing out a quiet breath as you shoved your cigarettes back into your pocket.

“Not to me, normally,” you muttered, more to yourself than him at first, your pen already moving across the page in quick, sharp strokes. “But I am incredibly annoyed today, which apparently leaves me frazzled—”

You paused, your mouth twisting as you searched for the right word.

“—which wouldn’t even be the case if my boss wasn’t a…”

You trailed off.

Not because you didn’t have the word.

Because you had too many.

Price didn’t miss the opening.

Didn’t hesitate, either.

“A coward,” he said, voice even, eyes still on you, “and a bastard.”

Your head snapped toward him again.

Fast.

Too fast to be anything but instinct.

And there it was—that spark.

Your eyes lit, something sharp and delighted cutting straight through the frustration.

“Precisely!”

The word came out almost triumphant.

Like he’d passed something.

You shifted in your seat without thinking, angling your body toward him now, the barrier of that empty stool suddenly feeling more like a suggestion than a boundary.

Your journal flipped open again, pages already crowded with notes and scribbles, ink layered over ink in a way that made it clear this wasn’t just a hobby.

This was how your brain worked.

Fast. Relentless. Always moving.

Price watched your hand for a moment—the way you wrote like you were chasing your own thoughts, trying to catch them before they got away.

“—he didn’t used to be like that, you know,” you continued, already talking again like the conversation had been yours all along. Like he hadn’t been a stranger thirty seconds ago. “He used to have some damn integrity. A hunger for the truth—”

You scoffed softly, shaking your head as your pen scratched harder against the page.

“—but now? Now he’s indulged in the absolute soul-selling, demonic practice of politics and has lost every last semblance of a spine.”

There was heat in your voice.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just… real.

The kind that came from caring too much about something you couldn’t quite fix.

Price took a slow sip of his whiskey.

Let the burn settle.

Let the quiet stretch—just long enough that it didn’t feel empty… but deliberate.

Then—

“That tends to happen,” he said, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Truth doesn’t make many friends.”

You scoffed, but this time it wasn’t sharp.

More… amused.

“Yeah—no kidding,” you muttered, your pen moving again as you crossed something out, then circled another line two, three times over like you were trying to trap the thought in place.

Your brow furrowed.

Then—

You stilled.

Something clicked.

Your head snapped up toward him again, expression shifting—just a fraction.

Awareness.

“Oh—” you straightened slightly, a hint of a sheepish smile tugging at your mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude.”

You turned more fully toward him now, like you were finally acknowledging what had been building between you for the last several minutes.

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N.”

You stuck your hand out toward him—confident, easy, like introductions were something you owned.

Price’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand.

Then back up to your face.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

He set his glass down, then reached out, his hand closing around yours—firm, steady.

Warm.

“John Price.”

Your grip matched his.

Not delicate.

Not hesitant.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, John,” you said, releasing his hand, your tone lighter now—but still threaded with that same restless energy. “And thank you again for the pen.”

You glanced down at your notes, then back at him, one brow lifting slightly.

“And if you’d like me to shut up, please feel free to say so. I know I tend to talk a lot.”

A small shrug.

“I’ve been told multiple times. Something I never quite outgrew, apparently.”

Price’s mouth twitched again.

This time, it lingered a fraction longer.

Before he could answer, Bobby reappeared, sliding a basket down in front of you—fish and chips, hot, the smell of it cutting clean through the air.

“That’s an understatement, Y/N,” Bobby said dryly. “You could outtalk a damn auctioneer.”

You didn’t even miss a beat.

Just grinned, already reaching for the vinegar and salt.

“Damn right I could, Bobby.”

You shook the vinegar over the chips with enthusiasm, like you hadn’t eaten in hours—which, judging by Bobby’s earlier comment… you probably hadn’t.

Bobby’s eyes flicked between you and Price.

Quick.

Assessing.

There was a look there—subtle, knowing.

He knocked his knuckles once against the bar.

Then turned away.

“Thanks, Bobby!” you called after him, entirely unbothered.

You grabbed a chip, blew on it quickly, then popped it into your mouth—sighing softly like it might’ve been the best thing you’d tasted all day.

Then—

You turned back to Price.

Like the conversation had never paused.

“So,” you said, swallowing, tilting your head just slightly. “Do you?”

Price arched a brow.

“Want me to shut up?” you clarified, gesturing vaguely with your chip before pointing it at him like it was part of your argument.

There was a beat.

Price leaned back just slightly on his stool, one arm resting loosely against the bar, his gaze settling on you in that same steady, unreadable way.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Didn’t rush to fill the space.

He just… looked at you.

Taking you in.

The way you spoke without hesitation.

The way your mind moved faster than most people could keep up with.

The way you didn’t seem particularly concerned with how you were perceived.

“No.”

Simple.

Certain.

Your brows lifted slightly.

“Don’t mind it,” he added after a moment, his voice low, even. “Gives me something to listen to.”

You hummed, pleased with that answer—far more than you probably should’ve been.

There was a flicker of something in your expression. Satisfaction. Amusement. Maybe even a little curiosity.

Then you shifted the basket of fish and chips toward the empty space between you.

An offering.

Casual.

But not meaningless.

“Chip?” you asked, nudging it slightly closer to him. “I don’t know what Gregory does back there in the kitchen, but his chips are top notch.”

Price glanced down at the basket.

Then back at you.

A beat.

He reached in and took one.

You smiled like you’d just won something.

“So, John…” you continued, propping your elbow against the bar, your chin resting lightly against your knuckles as you looked at him—really looked at him this time. “I think you’ve gathered I’m a journalist.”

A small tilt of your head.

“What do you do?”

There it was.

Direct.

Curious.

Unapologetic.

Price didn’t answer immediately.

He chewed slowly, buying himself a second—two.

Weighing.

Measuring.

Then, calm as anything—

“I’m in security.”

Your brows arched almost instantly.

A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth, and Price tracked it without meaning to.

The shift.

The interest.

“Security…” you repeated, dragging the word out slightly, like you were testing it. “That seems kind of vague.”

His gaze held yours.

Steady.

Unmoved.

“What was the story your editor killed?” he asked instead.

Deflection.

Clean.

Effortless.

Your smirk deepened.

Oh—you clocked that.

Absolutely.

You could’ve pushed.

You should’ve pushed.

That was your job, wasn’t it?

Pull threads. Ask questions. Don’t let people redirect you.

And yet—

For some reason—

You let it slide.

Instead, you shifted.

You stood just slightly, sliding off your stool—only to settle onto the one directly beside him.

Closer.

Close enough that the space between you disappeared entirely, replaced by the shared warmth of proximity and the faint brush of your sleeve against his coat.

You dragged the basket with you, placing it between you both like it had always belonged there.

Price didn’t move.

Didn’t lean away.

Didn’t comment.

But something in him sharpened.

You launched back in without hesitation.

“Corruption piece,” you said, already flipping your journal toward you again, pen moving as you spoke. “Local government contracts—misallocated funds, shell companies, a few very creative accounting practices.”

Your voice picked up speed, energy threading back through it like you’d found your rhythm again.

“I had sources—good ones. Documents too, not just hearsay. Enough to make it stick if it had gone to print.”

You huffed, shaking your head.

“But apparently we’re not in the business of making powerful people uncomfortable anymore.”

Price listened.

Really listened.

Not just nodding along—tracking what you were saying, how you were saying it.

The details you emphasized.

The ones you skipped.

“Risky,” he said after a moment.

You snorted softly.

“Yeah, well. So is crossing the street in London.”

You reached for another chip, dipping it absentmindedly before pointing it at him slightly.

“Difference is, one of those things actually matters.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the chip.

Then back to your face.

“You don’t strike me as someone who backs down easily,” he said.

You paused mid-motion.

Just for a second.

Then you smiled.

Slower this time.

Less sharp.

More… honest.

"I don't," you admitted. "Which is probably why I'm currently drinking my dinner instead of celebrating a front-page story. My plan was to come here, regroup, find another way in to MAKE my boss print the story. But it seems I've found something else to interest me."

John took another fry. "Oh yeah? What's that, love?"

"You." You said it without missing a beat.

John froze for just a moment, then his eyes met yours again. You were smirking… you were really smirking.

"You smoke, John?" you asked.

His eyebrow arched. "Yeah."

"Great. Come have a smoke with me."

You downed your drink in one go, called over your shoulder to Bobby that you'd be back, and sauntered out—not even looking back to see if John was following you.

He was.

He downed his own drink and followed you.

You were leaning against the wall near the garden of the pub, sheltered from the rain by an awning. You held a cigarette between your lips, and your lighter wasn't cooperating. John watched for a moment as the lighter refused to catch, and then he stepped forward, pulling his own from his pocket. He moved up beside you—far too close—and struck his lighter. The flame flickered to life, and he cupped his hand around it against the wind, holding it steady to light your cigarette.

A far too tempting smile appeared on your lips as you inhaled, then exhaled a puff of smoke and met his eyes. You extended your pack of cigarettes to him, lid popped.

John's gaze dropped to the offered pack, then back to your face. He plucked a cigarette from it with thick fingers, and you noticed the calluses, the scars across his knuckles. Working hands. Dangerous hands.

"Ta," he murmured, voice low and rough as gravel.

You held up your lighter—finally cooperating now, of course—but John was already leaning in. He dipped his head toward your cigarette, the tip of his nearly touching yours as he drew the flame from your ember. The orange glow illuminated the sharp planes of his face, the scruff along his jaw, the intensity in those blue eyes as they held yours through the thin veil of smoke between you.

He pulled back slowly. Too slowly. Close enough that you could smell him—whiskey and something woodsy, clean but unmistakably masculine.

"Efficient," you said, your voice coming out lower than you'd intended.

"Waste not." The corner of his mouth twitched. He took a drag, exhaled to the side—a gentleman's gesture that somehow felt more intimate than if he'd blown the smoke right in your face.

"Smart." You grinned. "So, John…" Your tone lighter now, conversational. "Got plans tonight? Or were you planning to drink your night away in that pub same as me?"

"That was the plan," he admitted, his voice steady as he took another drag.

His eyes moved too, now. Tracking you in the same way. Measured. Deliberate.

"Well," you said, like it was nothing, like you weren't absolutely aware of the shift in the air between you, "this place gets busy in about half an hour."

Casual. Too casual.

"Oh?"

His brow lifted slightly.

You leaned back against the wall again, taking another slow drag before exhaling, your eyes still locked on his.

"There's a late crowd," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the pub behind you. "Gets louder. More people. Less… space."

A small pause.

Your gaze dipped—just briefly—to his mouth.

Then back up.

"If you're not in the mood for the crowd… I know a quieter place. If you're interested."

John took his time with that. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled slowly, let the silence stretch between you like a test.

"Quieter," he repeated. Not quite a question.

"Mmm." You tapped ash from your cigarette, watching it scatter in the wind. "Better acoustics."

"For what?"

"Conversation." You met his eyes. "What else?"

The corner of his mouth pulled—barely. "What else," he echoed.

He was still watching you with that unreadable expression, the kind that made you wonder if he was three steps ahead or just patient enough to let you keep talking.

"So?" you prompted.

"Depends." He took another drag. "How far?"

"Ten-minute walk. Maybe less."

"In the rain."

"It's just water, John."

"That a yes or no?"

You smiled. "That's a 'settle your tab and find out.'"

Something shifted in his expression—decision made, maybe, or at least the beginning of one. He dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and gestured toward the door.

"After you."

[little-flower-bunny]

Title: “Be Still, My Giant Heart” part 1

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Konig x Reader

Theme: Comedy, Romance, Fluff

Trope: Arranged Marriage

______________________________________________________________

König wasn’t sure how he’d gotten himself into this situation.

It started with his mother calling him during a rare moment of peace. “Schatz,” she’d said with all the sweetness of a baker dusting sugar on fresh strudel, “it’s time you settled down.”

Fast forward a few weeks, and here he was, standing in his sparse quarters at the base, waiting for his soon-to-be-wife to arrive. A stranger. An arranged marriage. He had a knot in his stomach the size of a grenade.

When the door opened, König had to crouch, his towering figure casting a shadow over the entrance.

And there you were. Tiny, warm-eyed, and smiling up at him like he wasn’t a giant of a man capable of taking down an enemy in three moves. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink. Instead, you stepped closer, craning your neck to meet his gaze.

“Hallo!” you chirped, your accent like music to his ears. “You must be König. I’m so happy to finally meet you!”

He blinked. Twice. Words jammed in his throat like a traffic pile-up. “Ja, h-hallo,” he managed, his voice a low rumble.

Your smile only grew brighter, which, he realized with a pang of terror, made his heart stutter.

______________________________________________________________

Living with you, he quickly learned, was like trying to balance on a knife’s edge. Not because you were difficult, but because he was terrified. Terrified of saying the wrong thing, of breaking something (you), of waking up to find you’d realized how mismatched the two of you were and decided to leave.

But you? You settled into his space like you belonged there. Your wavy hair swayed as you walked around the shared quarters, your hums filling the silence like the promise of spring. You left sticky notes on his fridge—“Have a good day!” and “Drink water, you giant mountain!”

And the affection. Oh, the affection. He’d never known anyone to touch him so casually. A pat on his arm as you passed. A playful poke to his side (he almost jumped out of his skin). The way your hand lingered on his forearm when you’d laugh at his dry humor.

“Do you like it?” you asked one evening, holding up a plate of schnitzel you’d made for dinner.

He nodded, taking a bite, his voice coming out quieter than he meant. “Sehr gut.”

“Gott sei Dank,” you teased, winking. “I was worried I’d have to bribe you with dessert.”

The flush started at his neck and climbed like a wildfire.

______________________________________________________________

The breaking point came two weeks in.

You’d decided to surprise him by baking something “just like your Mutter probably makes.” He walked in on you standing on your tiptoes, trying in vain to reach the top cabinet.

“Ach, here,” he said, his voice gentler than he thought possible, easily grabbing the jar you’d been reaching for.

You turned to him, wide-eyed and soft. “Thank you, König.”

And then you did something dangerous.

You stretched up and kissed his cheek.

He froze. His face felt like it had been doused in lava. The kiss was innocent, sweet, but it packed a punch that nearly knocked him over.

“Y-You don’t mind?” he stammered. “Me being here. This arrangement…”

“Mind?” you repeated, tilting your head like he’d asked if the sky was blue. “König, you’re amazing.”

He blinked down at you. “You… think so?”

Your laughter filled the room. “You’re a gentle giant. You’re sweet, thoughtful, and…” You paused, letting your eyes rake over him in a way that made him swallow hard. “...very, very attractive.”

If he wasn’t beet red before, he was now.

“Besides,” you added, reaching for his hand—tiny in his massive one—“I like being near you. You make me feel safe.”

Safe. The word echoed in his mind. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve you, but for the first time in weeks, his anxiety melted into something softer, warmer.

Maybe, just maybe, this arrangement wasn’t a mistake after all.

______________________________________________________________

Later that Night

König, lying stiff as a board in bed, replaying the moment you called him “attractive.”

You, snuggled into your pillow, dreaming sweetly of your gentle giant.

Neither of you realized how quickly the trial before marriage was turning into something real.

Title: Be Still, My Giant Heart – Part 2 ______________________________________________________________ Pairing: Konig x Reader Theme: Com

[fruitmilkshake]

"Learning to 'See'"

AFOP x COD MWII headcanons

Request by; @defodisturbed

Pairing; just random headcanons of how the Task Force 141 f.t Laswell, Rudy, Ale, Val and Graves would act in pandora (with a na'vi! Reader to orient them 😌👍)

Characters; Task force 141 f.t Rudy, Ale, Val, Graves (I feel weird if i don't add him to the equation), A Mention of Farah visiting HQ, a Mention of Nikolai being the pilot of the group.

Warnings: swearing (did i actually swore in this post?), the reader being called "blue" as a nickname and them acting like a quiet emo sometimes, Price being the father of the group, Ghost being a bitter mf, a small headcanon of Valeria being the reader's crush (platonic wuh luh wuh since Y/N is 19 and Val is like 40 🛐🏳️‍🌈), some Mentions of the reader's past and traumas, Ale and Rudy speaking in spanish, Soap swearing in scottish, Gaz being too curious sometimes, Graves just being a egocentric mf, Farah becoming friends with Y/N, Mentions of dangerous situations Incluring pandoran predators, slighty injures and new flavors of food ^ ^ (I'm saying this because they're probably going to have stomach ache after tasting Pandora's fruits and food).

Inspired in; this thought that I had a long time ago.

My native lenguage isn't English, so i'm sorry if i make a mistake at writing this, and i'm sorry if this has Spelling mistakes or if the pronunciation is wrong

Note;

The Task Force and the other characters are Part of the resistance (HQ), and the whole situation happends in frontiers of pandora (AFOP)

Also, this is how the reader looks like;

The reader is called; Y/n in this fic and it's referred to them as "She/her".

Origins;

(How everything started and Y/N's backstory)

ꕤ So... Pandora... A beautiful but also dangerous place... You know what they say; "The most dangerous thing about pandora, is that you may grow to love her too much"..... Well, that's kind of true, but before loving it, you need to get used to its dangerousness... And that's what these "sky people" need after spending too much time with the enemy...

ꕤ After betreying and Getting away from the RDA facility They used to work on, a small team of four soldiers called "The Task Force 141", a female CEO, A soldier from a team called "The shadows" and two soldiers, one of them being an ex colonel that came from an Elite Unit called "Los vaqueros" and the other one being his mayor sargeant in the same Unit, found comfort on helping the na'vis and saving the environment of this beautiful planet with the rebel resistance of HQ.

ꕤ even if they barely knew the language (exept for the CEO female, better known as "Laswell") and the uncomfortable feeling of the exopack everytime they had to go outside, the feeling of doing something right after all those years of causing suffering was everything they were willing to fight for..

ꕤ And then... There was this native... A "Child from two world", Kidnapped at the age of 9 with some other na'vi children by the RDA (she was the oldest of the children) and trained to be the a good soldier, never stopped protecting and teaching their old traditions (or at least the ones she remembered) to the youngest children in the facility trapped with her, never following orders from the TAP teachers and getting in trouble all the time...

ꕤ After a few years of trying to protect the children who she called her "tsmukan and tsmuke" (Brothers and sisters"), the worst and unstoppable end waited for them...

ꕤ After finding out of Jake Sully's betreyal against the humanity race, the RDA decided that best they could do was to get rid of the na'vi students on their territory. Of course, if that avatar driver was now with the na'vis, then would the RDA would trust these "creatures" now?...

ꕤ After the massacre who only ended with the oldest being the only survivor, the RDA decided to take her hostage, they didn't knew if They could trust her, better to keep an eye on her, specially if she was the most rebel one, who knows what she could too them...

How everything started;

(How Y/N meeted the "trusting humans")

ꕤ two soldiers of the before mentioned team "Task force 141", a tall, pale and blonde soldier who wore a skull mask under a balaclava, better known as Simon "Ghost" Riley, and a slightly tan and more short soldier with Dark brown mohawk, better known as John "Soap" Mactavish, were sended to explore an old and abandoned RDA facility on a quiet and foggy place in the plains of the "Clouded forest".

ꕤ After exploring the base for a few hours and thinking there not much left to use in this facility, they heard a noise coming from one of the hostage room inside, that's where they found the native (She was taken hostage when she was 19 and she was thrown into a cryo capsule, remaining the same appearane until then, even though she older now), who tried to attack them and kill them with everything she got on hand, after both soldiers calming her down, they explained that they didn't wanted to hurt her, they wanted to help her and her kind, that they were there to look for supplies to help some clans in need of them, she didn't trusted them, not at all actually, but she didn't had another option, she didn't wanted to encounter any other humans from the RDA and this people seemed to be telling the truth.... Maybe she can try to trust them, worst they could do is be lying, and even then, she would probably kill them there....

ꕤ After thinking and realizing there wasn't really many much other options left, she was finally taken to the HQ base, where she was received warmly for the other members, not really knowing her deeply but guessing that she has been through a lot for her to think of humans like that, which; was true.

(yey, new character added to the team :D)

Coexistence;

(How Y/N gets to know human things and she teachs the humans what she knows)

ꕤ Getting used to a new ambience and wearing something that wasn't the TAP uniform after all those years wearing it was difficult for now known as "Y/N" (who has now gotten the courage to tell the humans her name), but that's why she had "The Task Force 141", the ex soldier of "The shadows", the female ex RDA CEO and the two "Los vaqueros" soldiers to help her adapt to her new form of life in the HQ resistance, and maybe she could help these people to adapt to the life in pandora..

(This is now where i can start with the short but kinda interesting headcanons ;))

ꕤ Since Y/N doesn't trust humans very much, Laswell dedided to give her a tablet where she could record Audio logs of what she's feeling in the moment (she's an Ipad kid 😔).

ꕤ The Task Force 141 and the others have a crafting time where they make small accessories for their weapons, like trinkets, feathers, small pieces of woods and even they had made a songcord for themselfs (A headcanon from @defodisturbed)

ꕤ Y/N has tried to teach the members of the squad (The Cod characters in one word ;_;) to speak the na'vi lenguage, but their pronunciation is really bad (at least they understand a little bit of the lenguage tho)... Exept for Laswell, since she had to interact with other natives, she has learned the lenguage pretty well(am i the only one who wants to see Laswell as an avatar 🛐?).

ꕤ One time, Y/N visited a Zeswa camp to help some clan members and she bringed a dish back to the base, since Gaz is so curious, he asked for a bite of the food just to taste it, after a few hours, he got intoxicated (Poor guy, he didn't knew that Pandora's food was toxic for humans), Thankfully, he got cured 👍.

ꕤ The squad has showed Y/N movies, shows, music, books, basically every human possesion they have traveled with from Earth to pandora and have stolen from the RDA facilities they have shut down (i can't stop imagining Rudy and Ale showing Y/N corridos and she's just sitting there, not knowing what's she listening to ;_;)....... (or Nikolai listening to Ramnstein and Y/N just thinking that it's just screams and yells in another lenguage with an electric guitar as background).

ꕤ After Y/N bonded with her ikran, the base always has ikrans growls and squeals on top of the roof, since Y/N always leaves her ikran there.

ꕤ Sometimes; Y/N helps Soap with some face paint everytime they have to fight with the RDA Troops.

ꕤ Graves likes to call Y/N "Blue" as a nickname, since they're 'friends' (no, They're not, actually, Y/N doesn't really like him since he's an egocentric mf.... She doesn't really understand his texan accent 👍)

ꕤ Since Y/n cannot take the team to places in ikran all by herself, Nikolai helps by being the pilot of the group

ꕤ The others think that Y/N, Soap, Nikolai, Farah, Ale, Rudy and Valeria have their own dialect, since they all speak in a total different lenguage.

ꕤ Since Laswell is like the mom of the group, Y/N gets usually comforted by her everytime she has nightmares of her past.

ꕤ The same happens with Price, since he's like the dad of the group, Y/N usually follows his lead and feels safe/protected by him everytime they're in combat (also, Price always tells his dad-jokes to her and she never understand them)

ꕤ everytime they have to go out to explore RDA facilities or just to explore their surroundings, Y/N is the first one on bringing her bow and her poison arrows since she knows that every predator could be waiting for them in the next corner of every place (specially the RDA experimented ones).

ꕤ Both Y/N And Ghost are the cold and quiet ones of the group.

ꕤ Everytime Ale, Vale and Rudy speak in spanish, Nikolai says some words in russian, or Soap speaks/swears in his Scottish accent, she tries to listen to see if she can understand at least a little bit (she can't XD).

ꕤ Since Soap, Gaz, Price and Graves are the only ones who use folded sleeves, they always get bug bites and plants/flowers allergies.

ꕤ Sometimes it's funny to see Y/N towering the rest of the squad, specially since the others are full grown men and Y/N is only a teenage.

ꕤ Y/N likes when Laswell style and brushes her hair with accessories and feathers she has acquired during her visits to the other clans around pandora.

ꕤ Soap, Gaz and Ale likes to make competences with Y/N of who has a better aiming with a shutgun or a knife (she wins, obviously 👍)

ꕤ Y/N carries a lot trinkets in her clothes and weapons that the others have made at crafting time ^^.

ꕤ I think that Farah and Y/N would be good friends :D, like... Imagine them speaking of their cultures and their long lost families, Farah teaching Y/N to have a better aim with the shutgun, Y/N styling Farah's hair with different types of feathers and accesories and-AND ALODOEIRKNDNDMD.

ꕤ After Ale and Rudy ambushed a few RDA soldiers, They captured a female human soldier, called Valeria "El sin nombre" Garza, she was captured by the HQ soldiers and taken to their base to interrogate her about the RDA tracking activities. During her lounge in the HQ base, Y/N couldn't help but be amazed by this human female's beauty, who was this woman? Why was she beautiful?, even if she knew she couldn't be together, specially since this human was older than her, but it was just a small crush after (no, seriously, just a small crush 👍)

ꕤ Valeria teached Y/N a little bit of spanish and teached her to have self confidence, after all, she has lost it all after spending almost all of her life in that RDA base as a hostage..... Eventually; Valeria joined the resistance, ready to fight for pandora after seeing what the RDA has done to this planet.

Extra;

A moodboard for @defodisturbed based on this post ^ ^ I hope you like it!

I'm sorry i couldn't have this ready for yesterday as i promised 😓

Well, that's all! This was so fun to make, but also difficult, my mind has so much ideas that are so difficult to describe them, but whatever!

I hope you guys liked reading this and that this helps you with any story you want! Byee!

[garyroachsandersonsbf]

COD Characters as Different Military Aircrafts

———

Soap -> A-10 Thunderbolt: Known for its loud and heavy gatling gun, outstanding close air support and its durability against damage. Its fierce and accurate air defense marks it as one of the best support aircrafts to exist.

Ghost -> B-2 Spirit: Advanced stealth tactics and its ability to easily evade enemy detection to reign down its deadly force makes this bomber, a ghost in the sky.

Roach -> F-14 Tomcat: Despite its air superiority and esteemed long range capabilities, the uncommon design of its “variable-sweep wings” marks it as the most distinctive and intriguing aspect of the aircraft.

Gaz -> AH-64 Apache: Designed for high survivability and equipped with advanced technological targeting components makes it one of the best air support aircrafts in active service.

Price -> P-51 Mustang: An oldie but a goodie; was the star of the show in its prime with its outstanding range of speed, maneuverability, durability, and it’s skill to adapt quickly to different conditions.

Laswell -> E-3 Sentry: Designated for surveillance, communications, and command; it’s your eyes in the sky.

Rudy -> KC-135 Stratotanker: You can always count on this aerial refueling tanker. When in need of support when you’re down, it’s got your back, always loyal to its allies.

Alejandro -> F-15 Eagle: Was built for extreme power, resilience, agility, and to display its aggressive dog-fighting capabilities proving it better than the feared oppositions. Never lost a fight protecting what it stood for.

Valeria -> F-22 Raptor: This jet’s extreme capability to fly nearly completely invisible through radars makes it dangerous in its attacks. The state of the art technological advances allows it to fool anyone who comes across, creating a perfect chance to strike and claim victory.

Graves -> V-22 Osprey: Although its dodgy components can wear the reliability of this aircraft thin, it’s service is still exceptional.

———

If you want a part 2, recommend some characters below for me to do next @_@

[diggy-graves]

Captain John Price 🥵🥵🥵🥵