#cod OC

[tiredkatzz]

More CoD OC stuff because she's the only thing I've been doodling sorry :3 (will get back to tf141 boys soon)

This big guy is Bruce, @wheresreznov 's oc! They're buddies and I love them so so much <3

More info?

I actually don't have much-

Made her as a self insert to draw her with tf141 for my own comfort, but after chatting with a few cool people with cool cod ocs, now I wanna make her more interesting too...

Still brainstorming background stuff. What I've got on her is that she works with Price while he was still lieutenant, they get parted just cause of the nature of their jobs, meets him again as the captain of tf 141 and work together once again. He gave her the nickname and it stuck.

That's all I'm comfortable sharing rn ^^. If you guys got any questions my asks are open!

Oh, and here's a vague sketch of her tattoos

[imtherain]

Me giggling and kicking my feet knowing full well I'm 5 foot 9 and not small in anyway

cw: afab reader x konig, size kink, doggy style, missionary, full nelson, konig is feral here, tummy bulging

HEADCANON: Konig is obsessed with his wife’s and his size difference. And sometimes he goes overboard with it

PAIRING: Konig x reader

something something, husband Konig absolutely obsessed with his smaller than life little wife -- all 5'0 to be exact to his 6'9 frame

Sometimes he still can't believe she's real.

Scheiße sometimes he just can't help but stare at her like she was a daydream. Something conjured out of sheer desperation and too many lonely years. Scared that if he blinked too long, she'll inevitable vanish in a puff of soft sweaters and sweet perfume.

And so verdammt klein (fucking small) that it drives him half-mad.

Sometimes he just watches her do the most mundane things -- brushing her hair, standing on her toes to reach coffee mugs, waddling across the kitchen in his oversized hoodie that swallows her whole after a particularly rough night with him -- and it hits him all over again like a freight train: that's mine.

His wife.

His tiny, soft-spoken, fire-hearted wife who hums when she cooks and curls up like a kitten when she sleeps. The same woman who threw a slipper at his head the first time he tried to pick her up like a princess and carry her to bed. The same woman who now was pressed face down, ass up, drool and pleasured sobs running down her cheeks as he thrusted his girthy shaft deeper into her cushiony and tiny pussy.

Fists tangled in the sheets. Breath hitching in quiet whines and whimpers as Konig drove his hips into hers in renewed and desperate fervor. Not caring if their mattress practically sunk in the center at this point at his merciless thrusting.

Her petite little hole dripping with her previous orgasms and arousal from when Konig buried his face in between her thighs -- coarse and warm mouth sucking on her engorged and swollen clit until she begged for him to stop making her cum. Twitching and quivering. Letting out a soft wanton sigh of relief as Konig finally pulled away.

And from when Konig took her from the front. Hands stretching the backs of her thighs until her legs met her head. Lips brushing her jaw as he whispered praises in broken German.

Absolutely enamored at the sight of his tiny little sweet wife in paralyzing pleasure. Mouth half-open. Lips red and puffy. Perky tits bouncing along as he continued the punishing roll of his hips. Groaning lowly at the feel of his big dick's tip try to punch farther into her womb. Entranced at the sight of his precious mouthy girl's little tummy bulging every time he pushed his cock into her small pussy.

Moaning and growling lowly as he pistoned mercislessly at the feel of her velvety walls cradling his penis like it was reluctant to set him free. So tight and so so perfect.

Konig was Trying. Really trying. Trying so fucking hard to be gentle. But when he had her like this. Impaled on his enormous cock. Whining and whimpering helplessly every time her cunt stretched to accommodate more of him. Konig can't help it.

Konig was done for.

So now here. Where Konig had to take her from behind. He just had to. One hand holding her neck down and the other gripping the doughy meat of her smooth hips. Bare chest heaving, hair mussed, and brows furrowed as he tried to rein it all in for her.

Room dimming since they started this afternoon and now into the night. The homey space awash in the low gold of their bedside lamp. Casting shadows over the sweat-slicked lines of his back and the trembling outline of her spine.

She was so small beneath him. So so small and so achingly soft and warm and his and and and--.

And she took him so well. So fucking well that Konig's hands can't help but change their position. Wanting her closer. Nearer. Deeper to the point that her womb would permanently be rearranged by his cock and his cock alone.

Moving her into careful precision -- never wanting to hurt his sweet little wife -- Konig pulled her arms back. Locking them securely against her body. Tender yet firm. Would rather brand his arm clean and cauterize it than ever hurt her.

Before she could even process what was happening, however, her wrists were pressed firmly against the back of her head, her arms trapped in a powerful grip. Konig's broad chest pressed into her back. Breath hot against her ear as he held her in the full nelson, the vulnerability of the position causing her breath to catch in her throat. Eyes rolling to the back of her head and unable to stifle the scream of absolute pleasure that coursed through her as his shaft was plunged deeper into her cervix.

The drowning and immobilizing feeling making them both gasp and groan lowly. Having to momentarily both pause to take it all in.

Konig's grip was unwavering, forcing her to remain pliable, utterly at his mercy. Legs spread wider and open near her head and astride his shoulders.

Her body now completely controlled by his strength -- every inch of her bound to his hold and speared by his girthy wieghty member. So overwhelmingly full.

But despite the pressure, the way he held her wasn’t entirely forceful. Nein nein. Konig always made sure there was a certain care to the way his hands rested, even if he made sure she couldn’t escape his grip.

"Mein Gott," he groaned, biting his lip to try and smother the soft hitch in his breath after starting a slow and tentative pace. Muttering a soft scheibe as he felt his manhood plunge deeper into her cushiony womb. “You were made for me, weren’t you, Liebling?”

"Oh m-my God! --nghhh--", She gasped -- choked on something between a sob and a whine -- and he stilled briefly. Murmuring soft apologies even as continued the fevered pace of his hips meeting hers. The room echoing nothing more than the soft plat-plat-plats and squelches of her gooey and wet hole meeting her hard and aching balls.

“You’re alright, mein schatz,” he whispered, mouth to her shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Just like always.”

His voice cracked with awe. With something dangerously close to worship. Because for all the filth he could whisper in the dark, at the end of it all, it came down to this -- her trembling in his arms, his name on her tongue, his cock propelling deeper into her like there was still so much space left for her to give him. Hole gaping and messy. Wet, crude, aching, and her heartbeat under his hand.

His wife.

His everything.

"Pretty like this. So -- scheibe -- p-pretty. So stuffed full of me"

masterlist

[yansmachinegun]

Ghost w trampstamp😓😓😓

HEGEGGE I LOVE THESE GUYS (nikto, krueger, gogo(oc))

[boodarko]

my sweet little cod oc, lapin. he’s got sad eyes but at least they’re good down a scope.

[simonz-angel]

idc this how i see it ☝️☝️

[baty2004]

Ghost!,,!

I’ve been enjoyingndrawing this guy soooo much

[aleyapay]

Getting ready for the trenches (artfight 👎👎👎👎)

Definitely think she'd be one of those overly upbeat and loud operatives compared the rest of KorTac. Def tries to convince Horangi to gamble with her because she's the worst influence.

[lycheeluvaa]

GHOSTS OC PREVIEW : Kheang 'Kano' Inthasone

expanding the COD:GHOSTS universe with my own additions/lore, i've made another faction to accompany our favorite spooky taskforce - known as the People's Army of California (aka PAC) more on that to come while i polish more of the details, but i wanted to share my boy now hehe

A blunt marksmen, Kheang is known around the PAC ranks for his dry humor that peeks through his quiet demeanor. He's an observant man, hiding in the sidelines until prompted. He possesses leadership qualities but is often overlooked by his older brothers, and is left to respect their rank and authority.

There's nothing that gets past Kheang, and he knows more secrets than he lets on - saving them in his back pocket for the most opportune moment. He simply needs to know everything, his curiosity leading him blindly at times.

The younger brother of my OC Tana, they shared different fathers but were the closest out of their siblings. Tana had no idea he was alive after ODIN until a future GHOSTS mission goes awry, and they land in PAC territory.

[callmelitlesunshine]

Desperate Measures pt. 2 Pt. 1 here

It seemed that many difficulties were already behind them. They were almost spotted, but Belikov covered them, as he promised. After all, he was an extremely reliable agent, who had helped Adler's team out of various scrapes on Soviet territory more than once.

They had almost reached their goal — the coveted elevator was in front of them. Bell inserted the right key, Adler pressed the button, a little more — and the mission would be completed with success, because they had a clear plan.

A strong hand appeared in the elevator door, and then a man whose face inspired only mistrust and only his gaze was repulsive. Bell shuddered slightly when the man entered the elevator — now everything was under threat, but she couldn't show it.

— Fresh faces. When did you two arrive? — Unfortunately, Bell didn't have an exact answer to this question, because Belikov hadn't instructed Adler and her on this matter. Therefore, she gave out completely random information.

— We arrived last week, comrade. — An awkward silence followed the answer, but it was short-lived, because the man replied:

— Well, yes, of course. — He chuckled. — Who did you say you report to again? — He continued to press with questions, but this time the spies had an answer. Adler turned his head towards Jessica, as if expecting her to answer. She turned her head to the side, as if she wanted to direct the answer directly to the serious man standing in front of them.

— We report to Commander Sobol. — An awkward silence hung in the elevator again for a few seconds. And now the agents were preparing for the worst.

The man pressed the elevator button, the door opened and he hurried out. It seemed that their answers sounded quite convincing.

— Why I have an appoitment with him now! — He said, feigning surprise, and walked out of the elevator, looking at the "newbies". — I'll give him your regards. — Bell nodded approvingly at the man. He finally turned away and walked along the wide corridor, leaving the elevator doors. Jess exhaled. She and Adler looked at each other again, realizing what awaited them further, right behind this door, but several floors below.

Taglist [in/out]: @that1avian @gerdi-mitchell @mutant-okuri-inu @adlerdaduck @carlosoliveiraa

@tommyarashikage @alexxmason @nohimeren

@iamcautiouslyoptimistic @sergeiravenov @pricescigar @ladysouthpaw1213

@drug-overdose @guigz1-coldwar @kings-out-of-pocket-hell @lordskellington003

@fw-priyanshu @kylezkie4adler @ikenpachiizarakii @mygoldenmile

@vanessa3103 @septic-salad @whisperingexecutioner @altcvnningham

@elyseenmiel

[8-rae-rae-8]

Making CoD OCs is embarrassing because yeah I know way too much about the US military. No I don't like the military. It was for my stupid fucking blorbo

[thisnoah]

Guys and their scars

[druap]

comm for @d-noodlemon

im still having heart-eyes over them

[phantasm-ae]

okayyy so i was rewatchingg this old series called WifeSwap and well! I HAD AN IDEA. What if all the boys and their partners swap?? I hope u guyss like it hehehe. Might be a series hehehhe who knows??

cw: grumpy x sunshine, afab reader x simon ghost riley, tf141 is here, just pure fluff and a bit of… angst

HEADCANON: as part of a routine exercise punishment, Soap suggests wife swapping after one too many episodes of WifeSwap. The lot of them didn’t expect it to bloody backfire of course

PAIRING: Ghost x afab reader, Ghost x Mrs. Price

If you asked any of the boys how it started. Fingers would always find their way pointed to Soap.

Classic bloody Johnny it was -- loud, half-drunk, and far too entertained by the thought of chaos not involving stray and undocumented gunfire.

It was after an op gone haywire. Intel gone wry. Point person MIA. Comms scrambled to shit, and no one knew who was meant to breach what building until Ghost kicked in the wrong door and found three goats and a naked informant mid-yoga. The sullen old brawn just stared at the scene -- naked man in a headstand, goats chewing on what looked like classified documents -- and muttered, “Wrong fucking door,” before backing out like it was a haunted house.

They made it out alive though, somehow. Bruised egos for sure, one dislocated shoulder (Soap’s, naturally), and a four-hour debrief where Laswell looked like she aged a year slide after slide.

Letters circled red and a lot of possible red tape and blacked out notes to keep it more hush-hush than most. Because having to explain to the fucking government why the John Price -- the Captain Price -- UN hero, medalled and corralled by the classic gentry. Regarded and deemed a supersoldier on human payroll, the unofficial face of “stiff upper lip and carry on” -- had been photographed mid-sprint while the said naked informant did downward dog behind him and his bloody goat pissed on a thermal detonator. Paired with the Ghost himself ending up three feet from a nudist spy and another goat chewing on NATO credentials. And well... that wasn’t exactly great for PR now, innit?

Nor was it good for Laswell’s migraines.

So they were grounded.

“Enforced downtime,” Laswell said, like that was a reward and not a slow descent into group madness.

Two weeks. No ops, no field work, no high-value targets. Just paperwork, team-building exercises, and mandatory counseling sessions where Gaz tried not to laugh while the in-base therapist asked Ghost if he’d like to "practice non-violent communication" and Ghost just stared at her until she wrote down “resistant to healing.”

By day three, Soap was rearranging all the furniture in the barracks “according to the principles of Scottish feng shui, ya ken?” and Ghost -- obviously bored himself -- had replaced the coffee with bourbon and called it a morale test -- forgetting to place the filter all back together and had to back out of the room and deny everything when a young recruit looked dozed and glassy-eyed halfway through a briefing and said, “Sir, the coffee tastes like confidence.”

Gaz found Simon two hours later, trying to faux-mediate and justify to no one in particular why the coffee incident wasn't technically his fault. Brooding hulk of a man in a mask crouched in front of the charred machine like it had testified against him in court.

“I didn’t tell him to drink six cups,” Ghost muttered. “He made choices. We all make choices.”

“War crime, it is,” Gaz whispered, sipping it anyway once offered.

No one dared rat him out. Mostly because Price at the end of it --drank it too.

By the end of the week, Soap had made a piñata of Laswell’s face out of shredded incident reports, Gaz had tried to set up a frog enclosure in the unused sink, and the barracks dog had learned how to growl on command whenever someone said the word “mindfulness.”

Laswell was spiraling.

And when the rec room microwave exploded -- not from a bomb, but from someone (allegedly Soap) trying to “reheat soup in a tin can for science” -- Laswell finally snapped.

She stormed into the barracks mess with an expression like a woman ready to kill something or redeploy someone to Siberia.

“You lot need a goddamn outlet.”

Soap, full of energy and zero shame, sat forward. “You want a real outlet?”

“No,” Ghost warned.

Soap ignored him, of course.

“We swap.”

Laswell blinked. “Swap what?”

“Partners. Domestic partners. One week. New routines, new homes. Emotional resilience. Empathy. Psychological terrain navigation.”

Gaz spit out his tea. “Jesus.”

“It’s genius,” Soap went on, all fire and glee now. Enthusiasm and meandering intelligence after re-watching three seasons of the WifeSwap series from the common room's old casettes. “You don’t just test the soldiers -- you test the home dynamics. We live in each other’s shoes. You get to evaluate adaptability, control, even stress response. Like The Apprentice, but with more firearms and worse communication.”

Ghost muttered something under his breath about war crimes.

Laswell opened her mouth -- to say no, they assumed.

But instead, she looked… intrigued.

Oh shit.

She stared at the room, the war-hardened mess of them all. Then rubbed at her temple like she could already feel the paperwork punching her in the soul.

“…Fine.”

“What?” Price asked sharply. Sitting straight-up because having any of these wankers within arm’s reach of his wife, her kitchen, or his thermostat was not something he’d emotionally budgeted for.

“We’ll call it a trial. Psychological adaptability and domestic immersion assessment. No external observers. Seven days. Voluntary.” Her eyes scanned them one by one. “Unless I make it mandatory.”

Soap actually clapped.

Price looked like he aged five years on the spot.

Ghost just said, “This is how people die.”

“You’re serious?” Gaz added after a breath, wide-eyed, already mentally scrubbing the image of any of his team living in with his girlfriend’s own chaos-cave slash makeshift radioactive laboratory.

“I’m tired,” Laswell muttered, as if that were a legal defense. “And you lot are turning into a feral commune. I will try anything that gets me through this deployment without someone eating soap. Again.”

“Tha’ was one time,” Soap said, unconvincingly.

Laswell sighed, then pointed at Soap like a general drafting a madman. “Since you’re so enthusiastic, MacTavish, you’ll be responsible for drawing names and pairing assignments. I want folders and house profiles by tomorrow.”

“Aye, I’ll laminate ’em,” he said proudly, already pulling out a Sharpie and a deck of Uno cards like that was going to help.

“No fucking way,” Ghost finally spoke up, deep and flat.

“You’ll participate,” Laswell said without looking at him.

“I’m not letting one of these muppets touch my kettle,” Ghost grunted.

“That’s not your biggest concern,” Gaz muttered. “Mate, your entire side of the flat is just weapons, gym equipment, and one fork.”

“And it works,” Ghost replied.

“You live like a serial killer with a protein obsession,” Soap added, cheerfully.

Laswell clapped her hands once. “Great. Briefing at 0800. Draws will happen then. Everyone be ready to emotionally evacuate your homes.”

And with that, she turned and left -- muttering something about moving to a mountain and living with goats. Better trained ones, presumably.

The silence that followed was heavy. Charged. Stupid.

Soap, beaming now, stood slowly like a conductor at the edge of a masterpiece. “Right, lads. Time to play Domestic Roulette.”

Price scrubbed his hands down his face. “God help us all.”

Ghost just stood up and walked out.

No one stopped him.

They all knew he’d be back.

----

Truth be told, he made it about thirty paces down the hall before the heavy clomp of Laswell’s boots echoed behind him like a death knell. Hunting all 6'4 of him down with her “I am ten seconds from quitting” face, cornered him in the back hallway of the armory, and said, very calmly, “If you don’t go back in there and participate, I will personally assign you to the next UN ‘hearts and minds’ mission in a jungle so remote even your nightmares can’t reach you. With a therapy dog. And a journalist.”

So of course, bloody 2 days later, after having drawn your name from the makeshift sack from a decaying old Santa hat that Soap dug out from some hellish base closet. The shucking and moldy thing -- Gaz was pretty sure it carried its own form of disease -- still glittery with stray tinsel and regret.

Drawing your name from it and reading the card with lettered like a death sentence it was -- was like stepping on a landmine in slow motion.

Ghost blinked once. Deadpan. Held the card up like it was incriminating evidence in a war crime tribunal. Sighing a bit in both irritation, disavowed, and quiet... anticipation

Across the room, Price’s eye twitched.

Not a blink. Not a wince.

A twitch.

Tiny. Violent. The kind that meant blood pressure was rising in real-time and a man was silently calculating whether homicide was worth the paperwork.

Soap howled.

“Oh, that’s rich!” Johnny cackled, slapping his knee. “Och, Laswell, did you see that? That’s karma, that is!”

Gaz choked on his water.

Even Laswell looked vaguely amused, which, for her, meant one corner of her mouth might’ve moved half a centimeter.

“Switch,” Price said flatly, already reaching out. “Draw again. That one doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts,” Laswell said, pulling a pen from behind her ear like this was the greatest show on Earth. Half a smirk shadowing her features as Soap tried to outrun Price's fuming figure around the room. Two hands clutching the jiggly santa hat with fervor, trying to evade Price's grubby hands and wrath like it was a live grenade.

“I don’t make the rules!” Soap shouted gleefully, dodging behind a training dummy as Price lunged after him.

“Domestic immersion is meant to challenge your current dynamic, Captain”, Laswell only replied in return

“You’re pairing my wife with him,” Price snapped after a pause, jerking a thumb toward Ghost. “He barely talks.”

“Exactly,” she said, writing down the pairings. “Could be refreshing.”

Ghost remained perfectly still. Only his eyes moved -- locking on Price's daunting figure, dark and unreadable behind the mask. His voice, when it came, was low and flat.

“Not exactly thrilled myself, mate.”

“Oh, don’t flatter me,” Price grunted.

Soap was already wheezing on the floor after being deliberately tripped by Gaz, who had sacrificed him to the wolves in exchange for a front-row seat to this slow-motion disaster. “This is better than telly.”

Ghost looked at the card again, as if it might’ve changed names out of pity.

It hadn’t.

Just your name in small, tidy letters. Neat. Proper. Like everything else about you.

He slid it into his vest pocket with the solemnity of a man receiving his final orders.

Price folded his arms. “She’s not gonna like this.”

“She’s very adaptable,” Laswell offered, not looking up from the forms.

“She has standards.”

“She bakes,” Soap reminded them helpfully. Smiling in memory at all your lemon-drizzle cakes and blueberry muffins. “You’ll be fine, Ghost. Just try not to knife the tea towels, aye?”

Ghost muttered something unintelligible and sat down hard in his chair, clearly contemplating a fake injury or possibly desertion.

And so, it was done.

Ghost had drawn you.

And judging by the way Price’s jaw flexed every few seconds, one of them might not survive the week.

Probably not Ghost.

Probably.

48 hours later and Ghost still couldn't fucking believe it. Mrs. John bloody Price was in his home. In his wife's own kitchen. Her previously labeled sundries and preserved jams -- once in disarray and cluttered into her system of cowgirl chaos -- now lined up in rows. Actual rows. Sorted by type and date and, for some reason, emotional purpose.

There was a little handwritten note stuck to one jar that read: For rainy days -- peach and ginger.

Ghost stared at it like it might explode.

Mrs. John Bloody Price had done this in less than two days. Quietly. Like a ghost of her own.

She’d arrived with three tins of tea, a modest suitcase, and the calm certainty of a woman who could run a battlefield and a bake sale with the same tone of voice. And she had taken over -- not forcefully, not loudly, but like the tide.

The kettle had a new trivet. The towels matched. His one fork had multiplied into a cutlery set that actually jingled.

And it wasn’t his wife’s kitchen now. Truth be told too.

His chaotic messy cowgirl of a wife had swapped sides -- gone off to live with Captain Beard and Discipline himself for a week -- and in her place stood this gentle, soft-voiced, cardigan-wrapped domestic saint who made tea with lemon and asked if he’d like his towel “folded the long way or the proper way.”

She was humming.

Ghost, who had gone through three tours of duty without blinking, was standing stiffly in the archway like the world's most haunted IKEA display.

“You alright, Simon?” you asked over your shoulder, stirring something in a pot that smelled like autumn and kindness and maybe guilt. You had this little dance to it -- kettle, two cups, sugar pot, that weird fucking ceramic cow you used for cream. Ghost watched you like you were some strange alien species. Polite. Efficient. No sudden movements.

He realized he hadn’t said a word in five minutes. Maybe more.

He blinked once behind the mask. Twice. “Fine.”

You placed a mug in front of him, then sat across the table. Calm. Unbothered. Like you did this every day. Like you chose to do this every day. Like you weren’t in the home of a man who had once sharpened a knife on a live op briefing just to make someone nervous.

Ghost cleared his throat. Following suit like a sugarfly to melted honey at the scent of tea across from him. Massive weight of a man creaking the chair as he took the seat across from you. “You don’t have to do all this, you know.”

You tilted your head. A bit of your hair running loose from its updo at the movement. The gentle rivulet of you falling gracefully by your shoulder, “All what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely at the tea. The soup. The you-ness of it all. “I’m not your… you know.”

You smiled, and it was quieter this time. Smaller. But no less real.

“No, Simon. But you are someone’s.”

The words hit like a slug to the sternum.

But you are someone’s. Someone's.

You belong, Simon.

I'm here, Simon.

Come home, Simon.

He didn’t flinch -- but only because he’d been trained not to flinch. Trained to take things that hurt and fold them small, bury them deep, line them up in rows like kill marks on his ribs. But your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t prying or smug. Just... true. Gentle as a field breeze, and twice as disarming.

He looked away. Jaw tight. The steam from the tea fogging his mask slightly.

He stirred the tea. Once. Twice. Didn’t take the mask off. But didn’t leave either.

You didn’t press. You just took a sip from your own mug and sighed like the world could be kind for five minutes.

“Is it alright?” you asked, nodding at the mug he hadn’t touched yet. “Too much sugar?”

He gave a grunt that might’ve been a no. Might’ve been a yes. You nodded anyway, as if it had been clear as crystal.

There was a pause. Still, not tense. Just... slow. Like a moment stretching out without expectation.

Like sitting in a chapel after the bells had stopped ringing. Old beggar staunched with the promise of alms and salvation at the steps of saints and pilgrims.

Something sacred about the silence, it was. Not empty -- but held. The kind that let thoughts settle in your chest instead of your head. Like maybe not everything needed to be fought to be real.

Ghost stared at the cup again.

Still steaming, still warm.

He remembered something then. Not fully, not clearly -- just a memory flickering at the edge of him like a candle left in a hallway. His hands were smaller. The table was too tall. And the voice -- her voice -- came from the kitchen as snow fell sideways outside the window. Ten year old boy, knees scraped raw, socks uneven, a tiny cut on his knuckle from climbing over someone else’s garden fence. Too proud to cry, too stubborn to apologize, but sitting obediently as he watched her cradle his baby brother Tommy in one hip and a kettle in the other.

“Not too much sugar, love. Just enough, aye? Just right.”

Kitchen light golden soft, dust from last weeks mess still floating like tiny spirits. Jam on toast. That worn old jumper she always wore when it got below freezing. And her voice, clear as breath --

"Come here, love. Sit down. It's alright. You're alright."

It echoed. Old and far and full of weight. A morose and bronzed cathedral bell rung just once -- long enough to vibrate in your bones but never again. Marrows shaking and spine drawn taut like the strings of a too-old violin being shucked and tuned timely for another symphony. Long enough to remember what it was like to be safe before the world cracked open and asked you to bleed for it.

Ghost blinked. The mug in front of him didn’t change, didn’t move. Still steaming. Still warm.

But in the silence, he swore he could hear it -- the soft clink of a teaspoon on porcelain, a lullaby not meant for the battlefield, the sigh of his mother’s breath as she smoothed his hair down and told him that boys could cry too. That softness wasn’t weakness. That love didn’t need armour.

He flexed his fingers around the handle of the mug. Gloved, calloused. The kind of hands that knew how to break bone and build shelter in the same motion.

“Is it alright then? Too much sugar?", you only repeated.

He didn’t flinch.

Just breathed once -- deep and deliberate -- like steadying before a breach.

His hands, still gloved -- armored is what is was -- curled a little tighter around the mug. He raised it slow, like the heat might burn him if he wasn’t careful. Brought it under the mask.

Sipped.

And for a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, quiet. Barely above a breath. The kind of answer you didn’t say unless you meant it with every cell of your body.

“…Just right", he only grunted in return.

drabbles

masterlist

[callsign-ghosthand]

"If a handsome officer pu' some cuffs on me, i would consider i' kinda funny. And getting arrested here and there can be thrilled can' it?"

Kieran scoffed a bit, when he saw Graves rolling his eyes, clearly amused by the officer. If he even got just a bit under the other man's skin, he was already winning.

With a few more puffs he finished his cigarette and threw it into his little pocket ashtray, after he made sure the cigarette was completely taken out. Then he put a few gums into his mouth and pushed his sunglasses back up onto his nose, while he waited for the other man to return with his documents.

"Mus' have overlooked the sign.", Kieran said, after he had turned around and looked out his rear window, trying to remember if he even saw a sign.

He then put the cigarette back in between his lips, before he grabbed his license and registration out of his wallet and gave both of it to the officer.

"If I had any, would I really tell you? Takes away all the fun. Go and check for yourself, handsome.", Kieran then said, puffed out the smoke, before winking at Graves with a cocky smile; knowing that there's no warrant out for him... for now.

[shadow0-1]