#soap c oc

[dirtfullofwork]

Nice night.

Warning: cussing

Soap: lives a bitch and then you die, right?

Ruz: sometimes. Sometimes life’s a bitch and then you keep living

Soap: yeah..

Ruz: it’s a nice night right.?

Soap: yea..

: this is nice.

Ruz looks up at the fireworks

Ruz: fireworks are scary…

Soap: what that. Blue is pretty.

Ruz: nurture.

Soap: it’s fine to be scared. It’s human.

Ruz: I’m not stupid, but thanks

Soap: anytime

(This is inspired by an audio but forgot where it from sorry T^T happy 4th of July everyone! Love you.!)

[ghouljams]

Hear me out... SCP!141 with SCP288 (the marriage rings)

:>

GOD. YEAH.

Note from O5 regarding SCP-288 tests:

In an effort to make the members of SCP-141 more docile each male will be subject to no more than an hour to observe the effects of SCP-288 on their personality. It is hoped that SCP-288's memetic effect might neutralize their more dangerous impulses. I understand that this has raised some ethical questions with our more psychologically attuned staff. To which I say: proceed with the tests.

Testing Log, SCP-288:

Subject: SCP-141-A Research Note: Seems only right to start with the ring leader. Results: SCP-141-A is exposed to SCP-141 and brought into standard human containment unit(HCU) which has been outfitted to resemble a small apartment with simple luxuries. Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ offers him the ring box, he chuckles but takes it. "Sweetheart, ya shouldn't 'ave." He opens the box and inspects the rings. "matching set, cute." "If you would wear the-" Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ stops, frowns. "The men's ring?" SCP-141-A supplies. Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ nods, pressing the heel of her hand to her temple as SCP-141-A removes the men's ring and slips it onto his finger. SCP-141-A spends the next several minutes observing Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ silently. He tips his head then tugs a box of cigarettes from his pocket and pulls one free with his teeth. Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ takes a seat in the armchair and SCP-141-A pulls her back to standing with a hand under her elbow. "Ah, ah sweetheart, the couch." He sets her on the provided couch and searches his pockets for a lighter. "Darling-" He tips his head again, taking the cigarette from between his lips and holding it out to her. Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ takes a lighter from her pocket and lights the cigarette for him. "Those things give me a headache." Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ sighs. "Man upstairs won't shell for cigars." SCP-141-A takes a seat next to Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛, resting his hand on her knee. The two sit in silence as Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ rubs her forehead with her fingers. SCP-141-A's hand creeps up her thigh in the quiet. "You know-" SCP-141-A exhales smoke, Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ winces, her hand drops to his on her thigh. "You're hurting me." "-Not right for you to watch a man and his wife." [DATA CORRUPTED]

Testing Notes:

Computers in observation room C ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ due to SCP-141-A's ⬛⬛⬛⬛, security personnel dispatched to HCU ⬛⬛ after video feed was interrupted and the cameras were ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛. Security was able to intervene before SCP-141-A could [Data redacted]. Recommending Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ for immediate psychological examination.

Note from Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛:

I'm fine. Testing may resume.

-

Testing Log, SCP-288:

Subject: SCP-141-B Research Note: I thought we weren't doing any more tests on this guy? Note: Testing will continue. Results: SCP-141-B is exposed to SCP-141 and brought into standard HCU outfited to resemble a small apartment with simple luxuries. The ring box is left on the table with instructions. SCP-141-B places men's ring on his finger, and D-class personnel is let into the room. Announcement made informing SCP-141-B of "wife." SCP-141-B displays characteristics in line with typical SCP-288-2 exposure including: deference to authority, "doting" behavior, and discussions of family planning. "Wife" displays rapid behavior changes in line with SCP-288-1 exposure, making comments on the state of the house and attempting to use the kitchen to bake for SCP-141-B. Test halted after SCP-141-B's attempt to [redacted]. D-class "Wife" displays advanced cognitohazardous effects, and actively resisted staff attempts to neutralize memetic damage. Suffered severe seizures for ⬛⬛ hours before passing. Time of death ⬛⬛:⬛⬛PM. SCP-141-B unresponsive to questions, still smiling ⬛⬛⬛ hours post testing.

-

Testing Log, SCP-288:

Subject: SCP-141-C Research Note: I'm not going in there after what he did. O5 Note: Yes you are. Results: Immediately after placing SCP-288-2 on his own finger SCP-141-C goes after Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛, after several minutes of struggle Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ is wrestled to the ground and SCP-288-1 is forced onto her finger. SCP security staff prevented from intervening. SCP-141-C holds Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ against the ground with her arm twisted behind her back for several minutes, making her repeat bible verses regarding marriage and "wifely duties." He only lets her up upon completion and apologizes for punishing her. Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ smiles and nods along to his apology. Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ is kept on her knees beside the couch. Testing stopped when SCP-141-C removed his [redacted] from his trousers and told her to "open." Security staff were able to safely remove SCP-288-1 from Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛'s finger despite interference from SCP-141-C.

Testing Notes:

Recommending Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ for immediate psychological examination, and mental health leave. Denied

-

Testing Log, SCP-288:

Subject: SCP-141-D Research notes: audio logs and transcriptions pending review, staff may be editorializing these. O5 Notes: Someone muzzle the psych please. Results: SCP-141-D is exposed to SCP-141 and led into standard HCU furnished like small apartment with simple luxuries. His former psychiatrist Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ is handcuffed to the arm chair, she tugs at her restraints in a panic as SCP-141-D takes his seat on the couch. SCP-141-D reads instructions next to ring box and removes SCP-288-2, and places it on his finger. After a moment he steps around Dr.⬛⬛⬛⬛ in order to fiddle with the handcuffs. "Calm down sweet'eart, tryin' ta get ya outta the damn things." (Voice can be heard over receiver) Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛'s struggling only gets worse. SCP-141-D grabs her by the throat and holds her against the back of the armchair. Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ appears to be on the verge of hyperventilation. "Come on." SCP-141-D breaks the chain on one of her cuffs and Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ smacks him across the face. SCP-141-D's grip on her tightens and quickly loosens, anger there and gone only long enough for Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ to cower. "Not gonna hurt ya," [researches described voice as "gentling" pending review] "wouldn't hurt ya, calm down f'r me love." SCP-141-D spends the remaining hour, holding Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ in a bear hug as he sits in the armchair and she thrashes against his hold. SCP-141-D sustains multiple bite injuries and several headbutts, leading to what was assumed to be a broken nose. Upon examination no injuries were found.

SCP-141-D Note:

Don't you ever put that on me again. Like puttin' a fightin' dog in a jumper. I'll kill 'er next time.

Site ⬛⬛ Memo:

Dr. ⬛⬛⬛⬛ requesting immediate termination of employment. Denied

[liamthemailman]

Soap took Ace to visit Scotland for the holidays

Soap's his personal heater but he's sooo annoying about it

Dialogue under the cut in case you can't read my handwriting

Soap: Aww, getting cuddly, are ye? How cute

Ace: Diam, boleh tak? (Can you shut up?)

Ace: Ku sejuk.. (I'm cold)

Soap: Ah ken (I know) lol

[vannyblutea]

USD and paypal only! The best way to get ahold of me is through Discord (nesstea_)

Im in the CEST timezone, please be mindfull of that if i dont reply.

Wait time should be between 2-4 days per drawing. If you'd like to receive updates regarding your position in the queue or progress on your commission, please feel free to message me.

[ask-adventure-time-fandom]

probably wont finish this but....its C :3c semi redesigned.

[nik-barinova]

Alexa, play Supermassive Black Hole by Muse

Bonus Simon “Ghost” Riley admiring his beautiful hot alt Romani wife

Ghost: *cries even harder*

[karlachismylife]

Juju's Masterlist

god i love how they look at each other when i place pictures like this

Figured this might be needed! As I am planning to spam-reblog so much cool stuff...

Hi, I'm Juju (or Juju Starr more formally XD), 22 yo and in this blog I primarly write things on the rarepair I came up with, Karlach (Baldur's Gate 3) x Soap (Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, reboot trilogy by default).

However, I also write things in both these fandoms with other characters, different ships (including other ships with Karlach and Soap), poly ships, x reader and x OC. There are NSFW ones and I will be checking every blog interacting with them, so minors and ageless blogs DNI, please.

Requests are open! Send in anything <3

*also I have no idea if I'm using the word blurb right, feel free to correct!

The masterlist itself is under the cut!

First mention of Karlach x Soap (a little overview of the ship dynamic)

I Might Have A Type (a post mentioning how the ship was born, trust me, there's concrete evidence of them being compatible)

All things Karlach x Soap (thoughts, fics, little ideas and concepts - simply sorted by hashtag)

Karlach x Soap fics

Morning Routine (blurb, fluff, 238 words) - Karlach, Soap and shaving

Birds of a Feather (blurb, fluff, 271 words) - Karlach and her dynamic with task force 141

They're Horny (blurb, smutty (NSFW), 228 words) - Karlach is horny and Soap is horny, but there's a difference (there's not)

Explosive Love (blurb, fluff, 105 words) - what it's like when you have a demolitions expert and a walking bomb on your team

Not Fair (blurb, angst, 457 words) - Soap is there when Karlach breaks down after the death of a certain bastard

Restless Fingers (blurb, fluff, 130 words) - one word: fidgeting

Scar Twinsies (blurb, fluff, 245 words) - surviving Hell and blowing shit up leaves similar marks

Practice Makes Perfect (oneshot, fluff, 932 words) - something from Soap's weaponry catches Karlach's eye and he does not miss an opportunity for a date

Tactic Tactile Affections (headcanons, fluff, 764 words) - it's not just about kissing and fucking!

Baby Fever (blurb, fluff, 260 words) - can you imagine their babies tho (C)

Is It Visual Stimming or Is He A Romantic? (oneshot, fluff, 945 words) - something about smouldering coal is just so mesmerizing... what are you looking at, Johnny?

Hey Skullboy (blurb, fluff w/angst, 467 words) - Karlach shares with Ghost not only his sergeant, but also trauma

Solar Eclipse mini-series (2 parts)

Total Eclipse of the Heart (mini, fluff w/angst, 1286 words) - dog tags can be so many things, learns Karlach when she spots an unfamilar piece of jewelry among other alien things Soap brought from his world (part 1) Worshipping the Sun (mini, fluffy smut (NSFW), 4201 words) - solar eclipse is beautiful, thinks Johnny when he looks at his circular dogtags blocking out the glowing light of Karlach's engine. He wouldn't mind seeing a thousand of those as soon as he gets a chance to make the little steel plates bounce on her chest (part 2)

Introductions (blurb, fluff, modern!AU, 105 words) - what Soap would call Karlach in modern!AU

Two of Us Wearing Raincoats (headcanons, fluff, partially suggestive, partially modern!AU, 2855 words) - requested domestic fluff, a lot of it!

Love Texting (blurb, fluff, modern!AU, 96 words) - what their texting looks like (Karlach is illiterate, Soap is Soap)

(Be)longing (blurb, suggestive fluff, 190 words) - Johnny and collars, am I right?

Bath Time (blurb, fluff, 246 words) - sharing a bath to save time

Good Night And Joy Be To You All (oneshot, angst or hurt/comfort with hopeful ending, 1233 words) - Karlach finds Johnny standing on the edge of a cliff and knows all too well what it's like to miss your home

Afterglow Kisses (drabble, fluff, 646 words) - they make love, they kiss with love, they are in love

Karlach x Ghoap (Ghost x Soap) fics

Package Deal (blurb, fluff, 135 words) - tame one golden retriever, get one free

None Are Free Until (blurb/idea, angst w/fluff, modern!AU, 558 words) - anarchist!Karlach and everything complicated because of that

All The Leaves Are Brown (oneshot, fluff with a bit of hurt/comfort, modern!AU, 1463 words) - anarchist!Karlach, Soap and Ghost in the face of impending cold of the autumn

Call of Duty fics

Random Characters Assortment

Their favourite body part/touch headcanons (Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Nikolai, König, Valeria blurbs, fluff, partially suggestive, no use if Y/N gn!reader-insert, can be read as character x character too, 1367 words) - their favourite way to touch you and such

Task Force 141 Ensemble

Their reaction to you playing datesim games (individual oneshots, fluff, partially suggestive (NSFW), no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 5073 words) - how do they find out and what do they think?

You're a character in their favourite game (individual blurbs, fluff, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 786 words) - how do they approach you in-game?

The Queen of the Clan || Series masterlist (hyena shapeshifter!AU, no use of Y/N fem!chubby!reader-insert) - when you decide to shake up your life a bit and partake in a trip with a documentary crew, you have no idea that meeting an unnaturally friendly hyena and have it mark your backpack would be only the beginning of weird things to come. Whatever will you do when a leaderless clan of four male hyenas chooses you as their matriarch?

You're having a bad time after sex (individual oneshots for every man + poly 141, hurt/comfort, NSFW, dark themes, no use of Y/N gn!chubby/fat!reader-insert, 7351 words) - due to hormonal withdrawal after sex you spiral into a severe episode of self-loathing and body image issues, but you have someone to comfort you

You got sick (individual drabbles for every man + poly!hyena!141, fluff, partially suggestive (NSFW), sickfic, no use of Y/N gn!sick!reader-insert, 1834 words) - their rection if you got sick

You have chronic illness (poly 141 headcanons, fluff, sickfic, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 2388 words) - the way they care for you if you have chronic illness

Mini force 141 headcanons (poly mini 141 headcanons, silly fluff, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 1104 words) - what if task force 141, but reaaaal smol? (Inspired by a tiktok)

Task force 141 VS head massager thingy (individual drabbles for every man + poly!hyena!141, fluff, tiniest bit suggestive, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 1038 words) - their complicated relathionship with the head massager

Thoughts on task force 141 and weed (individual headcanons, 748 words) - my limited perception of the topic

Task force 141 VS cute puppies (individual headcanons, fluff, 628 words) - if they need to take care of puppies, what's their approach?

Task force 141 VS raccoons (individual drabbles, fluff, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 2265 words) - how do they deal with raccoons that come to your home?

Task force 141 carving Halloween pumpkins (individual drabbles, fluff, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 2425 words) - what's their technique when it comes to creating Jack-o'-lanterns?

Forehead kisses (individual headcanons, fluff, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 569 words) - them giving you forehead kisses

Soap

Rushed (blurb, fluff, 78 words) - what some consider rushed, Johnny considers almost too late

Mohawk Appreciation Time (blurb, fluff, mentioned Karlach x Soap but Soap-centred, 249 words) - I do not condone calling his mohawk stupid unless it's fully affectionate!

Emotional Support Dog (oneshot, fluff, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 1132 words) - when you're struggling with work-related stress, Johnny's there for support

I'm In Love 100 Times (oneshot, fluff, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 485 words) - when you look at Soap, you almost choke on your love for him, but he's there to rescue

Don't You Forget About Me (oneshot, silly fluff, no use of Y/N fem!reader-insert (reader is Soap's mother), 1208 words) - your son is a troublemaker, but he's a good boy (and you're just as stubborn as him)

Masochistic Kid With a Split Lip (oneshot, hurt/comfort, no use of Y/N gn!sergeant!reader-insert, 1106 words) - Soap gets messed up on a mission, but he's just as irresistable

Fear Of the Depth (blurb co-created with @killerpancakeburger, kinda hurt/comfort or a little angst, mentioned Soap x reader but Soap-centred, 334 words) - what would Soap's one fear be?

Elevator Story (blurb/irl storytime that is very Soap-coded, fluff I guess, 277 words) - a story from my real life that was just too good to not tell

Gratitude From The Top (Of His Lungs) (oneshot, short smut, no use of Y/N gn!bottom!reader-insert, 569 words) - sometimes Soap whimpers when you let him finish inside

Gratitude From The Bottom (Of His Heart) (oneshot, short smut, no use of Y/N gn!top!reader-insert, 639 words) - sometimes Soap whimpers when you finish inside

Ghost

Now They Ain't Got a Prayer (oneshot, hurt/comfort, no use of Y/N gn!military!reader-insert, 1479 words) - after a mission goes not like planned, there's a heavy feeling in the air, but there's something even heavier in your chest

Flutter Into the Skies (oneshot, fluff, no use of Y/N fem!girly!reader-insert, 1277 words) - Simon is being a menace while you're trying to get ready for a friend's wedding, but you have your ways to take revenge

And We Just Disagree (oneshot, hurt/comfort, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 900 words) - arguments are an unpleasant, but unavoidable part of life, and good thing you and Simon can resolve them well

Chains Of Love (oneshot, hurt/comfort, no use of Y/N gn!civilian!reader-insert, 929 words) - dating Simon Riley wasn't an easy job, but an honest talk might save you from falling off this tiring swing

Wanting To Hold You (oneshot, fluff, no use of Y/N gn!reder-insert, 1534 words) - Simon is a menace, so why can't you be a menace too, just to put him in his place for once?

People Are Strange (oneshot, no use of Y/N afab!reader/self-insert, 2917 words) - you're in your own artistic world when someone who says he's your neighbour knocks on your door (this is very-very my self-insert)

Gaz

I Need a Hero (oneshot, fluf, no use of Y/N gn!civilian!reader-insert, 538 words) - Kyle is finally getting a medal and you're just happy for your man

Come On Baby, Light My Fire (oneshot, fluff, no use of Y/N gn!civilian!reader-insert, 887 words) - you finally get to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night, with Kyle by your side no less

Temptation When I Look At You (oneshot, fluff, no use of Y/N gn!reader, 2229 words) - going out with friends for a board game even turns into you poorly executing your flirtint skills and... scoring a date?

Price

I Need My Love To Be Here (oneshot, fluff, no use of Y/N fem!reader-insert, 715 words) - while your husband is away, you daughter is being a little troublemaker. But you're both good enough girls to recieve a special gift!

Valeria

Desnuda Tu Mente (oneshot, suggestive, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 1015 words) - your life depends on the will of her blade, and you're absolutely thrilled by it

Ghoap (Ghost x Soap)

Help! (blurb, fluff, 213 words) - thoughts on Simon Riley and The Beatles

Fem!Ghoap mini-series

Wrestle Ye (oneshot/blurb, fluff, 751 words) - what would fem!ghoap be like and how would they fall in love? (Spoiler: with a bang) No Woman Left Dirty (oneshot, suggestive fluff, 1192 words) - how does Soap find her way into Ghost's apartment? And why does hair length matter?

Nikprice (Nikolai x Price)

Sleepy (blurb co-created with @devil-in-hiding, fluff, partially suggestive, no use of Y/N fem!mom!reader-insert, 498 words) - waking up on rainy mornings is hard, especially you have the weight of responsibilities for your baby and home on your shoulders. Unless there's someone to share the burden...

Hesh

Standing For Something (oneshot, hurt/comfort, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 660 words) - getting ambushed and shot isn't exactly pleasant, but your Lieutenant is a good man and makes everything a little better

Baldur's Gate fics

Dammon

Forged Under the Stars (oneshot, fluff, no use of Y/N gn!reader-insert, 1157 words) - at the Tiefling Party Dammon comes over to sit with you under the stars

will be re-working this thing

[dumpsterfire-daydreams]

If you've found me for the first time, welcome to my special circle of hell~ I am committed to my sinful ways and cannot be saved rofl.

If you're already acquainted with my AO3 shenanigans (or my brief time on TikTok), hello again lol.

Yes, I'm late to the Tumblr party. But hush I'm here now, okay? 🤣 I suffer from severe brainrot, and the only cure is writing CoD fanfics. All of my completed stuff is already on my AO3, but I'll be gradually reposting them here, too.

MDNI (I mean it 🙅‍♀️🚫 no meddling kids, I will yeet your ass!)

Heed all warnings pls 🙏🥹

Will write: age gap, bdsm, s/omno, n/oncon, c/nc, yandere, ddlg, daddy k!nk, etc.

Will not write: gore, n/cest, watersports, etc.

My AO3 can be found ✨️ here ✨️

Any ans all of my personal/non-fanfic posts will be under the tag ✨️ #personal shit ✨️

Angst: ☂️

Dark (dead dove: do not eat, s/omno, n/oncon, c/nc, impact): ⚠️

Ddlg/ageplay: 🎀

Fluff: ☁️

Smut: 🌶

Mine | Soap, OC ☁️🌶

You Have Something I Want (YHSIW) | König, Ghost, Reader

Main Story ☁️🌶⚠️

Ending 1: Choosing König + dark!Simon route 🌶⚠️☂️

Ending 2: Choosing both/Throuple route 🌶

Ending 3: Choosing Simon route 🌶☂️

Bloodlust 🎀🌶⚠️☂️ | König, Ghost, OC

Search and Destroy | König, Nikto, Aksel, OC

Act I ⚠️

Act II (WIP)

Act III (WIP)

[la-petite-lapin]

Double the Love | Part Six*

Double the Love masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x female civilian!OC Word Count: 2.5k Series warnings (may change between chapters): 18+ Minors DNI, angst, mentions of death, mentions of violence, injury description, explicit sexual content, polyamory, M/M/F, Tali meets Simon, oral sex (M+F receiving)

The guys let off some steam

I stare up at Ghost's face, intense hazel eyes narrowing at me through the holes of his balaclava. For once, I'm almost scared of him. Almost.

"Ghost..." Johnny says, his voice hushed. My gaze darts across to the Scotsman to find him crossing the living room. He slows to a halt next to Ghost, placing a gentle, comforting hand on his shoulder, "maybe we shouldn't do this tonight, eh? You've just got home. You need to let off some steam."

Ghost's eyes darken, not once leaving mine. "I'll let off some steam alright."

My heart is pounding in my throat now; my palms sweating and my legs quivering with anticipation. I press my thighs together, seeking some kind of relief. But it's not enough.

No. I want to know what he has in store for me. Even if I regret it later.

"Ghost..."

Johnny moves to Ghost's side and they share a look, Ghost's heavy gaze finally releasing me from its hold. A whole conversation is exchanged between the two of them in silence - a series of head tilts, and meaningful looks.

"Ask her nicely," is all Johnny says.

Ghost grunts and nods, turning his full attention back to me. "Alright, Tali - nicely - will you let us take you to bed?"

There's nothing nice about his tone. It's rough and gritty and entirely Ghost. Full of quiet, masculine rage, and bold, lustful promise. And it's oh so appealing.

It's been so long since I last had sex with anything other than my own hand or a fancy plastic toy. And it doesn't seem like Ghost is in the mood to be particularly gentle. For a split second, I start to doubt if this is really what I want.

But then I look at Johnny; his bright blue eyes full of hope and adoration. I know that he won't hurt me. Neither of them will. And I've never been surer of anything in my entire life.

I nod and - with a shaking voice - I say, "Yes, you can."

"Perfect." Ghost's voice is gruff and smug as he presses in closer to me, crowding in until we're standing chest-to-chest and I'm craning my neck up to look at his face. "Johnny?"

"Hmm?" there's a vacant hum from him as he steps up behind Ghost, bracketing him between our bodies. He drops his head to press a kiss to Ghost's black-clad shoulder.

Ghost turns his head, capturing Johnny's lips in a chaste kiss through the mask. "Go sit down. I think I need to make Tali understand a few things before we get started."

Johnny's eyes widen for a second, a look of surprise flashing there for a second before his eyelids lower. Lust glitters in his blue irises as he looks down at me, leaning across Ghost to drop a kiss to the top of my head. "I'll be in our room when you two are ready. Don't make me wait too long though, aye?"

The apartment is completely silent as Johnny pads out of the room. I can hear the muted thud of their bedroom door closing, and then it's just us. Just me and Ghost standing out in the living room, the dark promise of making me understand hovering in the air between us.

If I wasn't wet before, I definitely am now.

"So," Ghost starts, drawing my full attention back to his towering frame, "apparently we haven't been clear enough, princess. Apparently, you think we're just playing with you, or we haven't been open enough about what our relationship is... but that ends now. Got any questions?"

I bite my bottom lip and his eyes trace the movement with a predatory keenness. "Are you and Johnny bisexual?"

"Bingo. Anything else?"

"You... you want to fuck me?"

Ghost barks out a gruff laugh, pressing himself against me. Oh. I can feel the steel-hard length of him against my stomach. It eliminates any lingering traces of doubt I might have held, filling me with a calm, confident certainty.

My eyes are half-lidded, my lips parting as my breathing starts to get heavier. He presses himself against me for a couple more seconds before easing back, eyes pitch black and his own breathing fast and rugged. He's made his point, and he knows it.

"Does that answer that one?"

I nod, pressing my thighs together even harder.

"Ghost..."

His eyes flutter to a close, and he shakes his head, tipping it back. "That's not my name, Tali. Don't call me that anymore." His eyes open once again, and he fixes me with a look. The fondness and warmth there almost floors me. "Call me Simon. Please."

My breath catches in my throat.

"And take off my mask. Please."

My hands rise up to his jawline, slowly but surely in case he changes his mind. My fingers find the edges and I pause, waiting for his go-ahead. With a gentle nod, I dip my fingertips under the thick cotton and slowly pull it away from his face.

I don't look immediately, feeling the weight of the mask in my hand. It hangs limp in my fist, still warm from his skin.

And when I do look... God.

He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen. My eyes find his; the only familiar feature in this new landscape. But then I start to branch out. His eyes are surrounded by a hasty smear of black paint, fading out around his thick, straight eyebrows, and crossing the bridge of his slightly crooked nose. It looks like it's been broken a couple times, but it's charming and adds to the rugged appeal of his face. His jawline is sharp and prominent, covered in a light dusting of dirty blond stubble that matches his hair; the slightly curly locks dipping down onto his forehead.

And then there's his mouth. Plush, full lips that would look almost feminine if not for the thick, harsh scars curving up from both corners, each about an inch long. They stand out; pearlescent against the rest of his skin. There's another scar trailing from his left cheekbone to just above his eyebrow too, and my eyes snag on it before dropping down to a smaller one bisecting his bottom lip.

He is perfect. To me, he is flawless.

I raise a hand to his face, placing a single finger on the tip of his nose and dragging it down to the centre of his bottom lip. I don't dare touch the scars; fearful that I might trigger a horrible memory for him. Instead, I cup his cheek in my hand, running a thumb along the curve of his cheekbone.

"Simon," I say his name, testing it in my mouth. It's going to take some getting used to. I exhale a long, slow breath, trying to tamp down my horniness and appreciate how significant this moment is. For me. For him. For us. "It's nice to finally meet you, Simon."

"It's an honour to meet you too, Tali. It's been too long."

He covers the hand resting on his face with his, pulling it to his mouth and pressing a tender kiss to my palm.

The warmth and urgency comes rushing back to me with that one, simple gesture. Sucking in a short breath, I lock my eyes onto his and drop the mask onto the floor. His eyes flicker with interest.

"Now," I say softly, "should we go and find Johnny? I think we've let him wait long enough."

I can't get down the hallway quick enough, Simon hot on my heels as I giggle, amused as he gives chase.

I throw the bedroom door open with a thud, barely crossing the threshold before Simon gathers me up into his arms. My feet leave the ground as he growls playfully against the shell of my ear.

"Nice to see that you two talked," Johnny offers from the bed, his tone drenched in amusement.

I look up to see that he's reclined on the bed, stripped down to a pair of grey joggers. The thick gauze bandage that covers his injured ribs stands out against his tanned skin, and there's a cocky smile playing on his lips as he watches the two of us. He makes no effort to move from his position.

"We did," I confirm, still trapped in the cage of Simon's muscle-corded arms. "You have a very pretty boyfriend."

"Pretty," Simon grumbles next to my ear. I turn my head to see that his eyebrows are raised, and I soak every inch of his expression in. Seeing him without the mask is going to take some getting used to, but I love it. "Fucking pretty, love?"

I nod shamelessly.

A beat passes before I lower my tone, batting my eyelashes at Johnny as I say, "So are you guys going to fuck me or what?"

"Yeah?" Simon growls.

Johnny licks his lips. His palms run down the lengths of his thick thighs, drawing attention to the impressive tent in his pants. My eyes are locked on his as I exhale a breathy, "Yeah."

With that, I'm on my back on the bed. Johnny sidles up behind me as Simon approaches the mattress with slow, methodical strides. He pauses at the edge, stripping himself of his black tactical gear and trousers. He stands there in black boxers and a t-shirt, the thick length I felt pressed against me in the living room standing proud, straining against the material.

The room is dim, illuminated only by the warm glow from my bedside lamp, adding to the relaxed atmosphere as Johnny trails a hand along the side of my body, trailing over my breast. He stops when he finds a nipple, peaked and stiff, in the absence of a bra. I hear the sharp intake of breath he makes, followed by, "You'll never guess, Si. She's not even wearing a bra. Teasing us like a naughty lass."

Simon's hands find his waistband, yanking his boxers down. His erection is on full display, standing to attention. It's thick and long, curved slightly upwards; the tip flushed and pink. It makes my throat dry, all the moisture heading south.

"Can I come over to the bed?" he asks, voice soft and respectful. It makes me even hotter.

I nod my consent, but he still doesn't move. "Yes."

That does the trick. Slowly, he makes his way to the edge of the mattress and kneels on the bed. "Come here," he commands, pupils dilated. "Take off your shorts and come here."

I shimmy out of my shorts and flimsy lace underwear but stay at the head of the bed, relishing in the feeling of Johnny's hands roaming all over me. "You come here," I command, feeling more than a little bold.

Simon growls. "Demanding little princess. Putting me through my paces, yeah? Showing me who's boss?"

I nod as Simon crawls up the bed, leaning over me to kiss Johnny. I tip my head back to watch, soaking at the sight waiting for me. Their mouths are locked, tongues flickering into each other's mouths as Simon grabs Johnny by the back of the neck, pulling him even closer. After several seconds, they release one another and Johnny goes back to running his hands over me. This time, there's the addition of his mouth sucking marks against the skin of my throat - nipping with his teeth then running his tongue over them.

Simon eases back down my body, turning his attention to my legs; my knees drawn up towards my chest.

"I wonder," he grumbles, tone dripping with desire, "if you'll sound even louder with us than when you're alone."

And, with that, he parts my thighs with firm hands and bows his head.

I want him. Gods, I want him.

He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to each thigh, taking his time in a thinly-veiled effort to drive me insane. His breath is unbearably warm against me, my own exhales leaving my mouth in small, shallow pants.

"Fuck," I groan. In a moment of desperation, I reach a hand down and tangle it in the golden strands of Simon's hair, pulling him into me. His dark, answering laugh vibrates against my already-sensitive pussy and I let out a tortured whine. "Please."

And he obliges. Pinning my hips to the bed with one strong forearm, he's a frenzy of teeth and lips and tongue. He's like a man starved, giving me exactly what I want.

My skin heats and I claw at the neck of my shirt while Simon works away, not slowing down for even a second as I barrel towards an orgasm at break-neck speed. Chuckling indulgently, Johnny helps me out of the fabric's confines, leaving me completely bare and still all too warm as I writhe against them.

I come in a blinding haze of ecstasy, shouting my pleasure with a loud moan.

When I come back to my senses, Johnny is stroking my hair, brushing it away from my face. Simon is kneeling over me, his mouth and chin glossy with moisture and eyes wild.

"That was so fucking hot, Tali."

"Think you can go again?" Johnny's voice rings out from behind me and I realise that I'm slumped back against him, his other hand still resting lightly on my breast.

My throat tightens and the tingle between my legs makes itself known once again. I can so go again, but first... there's something else I want.

"Can... could I watch you guys?"

Simon's jaw slackens. His eyes meet Johnny's - who offers him a shrug - before they both turn to me, looking amused.

"What do ye want to see, lassie?"

"I want to see you suck Simon's dick."

Johnny smirks, pressing a bold kiss to my lips before rising up from his spot. I lean back against the headboard, watching on as Simon settles into a seated position at the edge of the bed. Johnny kneels down between his legs, and a look of adoration passes between them as I angle myself to get a better view.

Johnny places a loving hand on Simon's bare thigh, squeezing once lightly. "Are ye ready, darlin'?"

Simon barely has time to nod before Johnny's head is dipping down, taking the base of Simon's erection in one hand to steady himself. His mouth follows; his lips wrapping around Simon's length and taking inch by inch into his throat with ease.

Simon's head tips back, a deep groan spilling from his throat as Johnny works him reverently. His tanned fist moves in time with his mouth; occupying what Johnny can't fit. I lean back into the pillows, my hand falling between my own legs as I play with myself in lazy, unfocused motions, enthralled in them.

"Fuck, Johnny. Just like that." Simon's groan echoes around the room. His hand drops to Johnny's hair, not to push his head, but to tangle in the longer locks of his hair. It's loving and tender; beautiful and intimate.

I can't tear my eyes away from them - not even for a second - until Simon throws his head back and lets out an Earth-shaking moan. Johnny's head stops bobbing and he resurfaces, swallowing and running the back of his hand across his mouth. When he's done, there's a cat-like grin on his lips and a hazy look in his eyes.

Simon crawls back into the middle of the bed, laying down next to me. His chest heaves, spent from his fun. "Want to stop?" he asks gently, his skin dotted with sweat and carrying the beautiful, heady scent of salt and wood-smoke.

A smile finds my lips and I find myself shaking my head, locking eyes with Johnny as he rises back to his feet. "I never said I was done."

"Jesus, you're fucking insatiable," Simon groans, his tone only half-teasing. His head meets the pillow with a heavy thud.

Johnny, on the other hand, only smiles; a hungry glint in his eye. "I'm not complaining."

a/n: hey guys! happy monday :) hope you enjoy part 6 and the shameless smut. I figured the slow burn has ran for long enough, and we deserve some of the good stuff! what would you be interested in seeing in the next part? - much love, lapetitelapin

[silverlullabies]

B E L L I C O S E

Summary: Captain John Price has faced countless enemies in his career, but none like you. A mercenary with a reputation, you infiltrate his unit under the guise of cooperation, but your true motive is far more sinister. Using charm and manipulation to pull their strings, Price finds himself caught in a game he can’t control or predict.

Pairing: Mercenary!Reader x Captain Price, vague mentions of Soap x Reader, Gaz x Reader, and Ghost x Reader

Word Count: 16k+

Tags/Triggers: Smut(18+), gaslighting, blood, murder, afab reader, psychological manipulation, guns, knives, death, violence (it’s based off a game about soldiers shooting bad guys, come on), oral (female receiving), vaginal sex, human trafficking, dubious consent, alcohol, really dark content, morally gray reader who’s probably a sociopath, enemies to lovers if you squint

AN: two things, one: I didn’t set out to write this as a morally gray reader. The story kind of got away from me while I was writing it. My bad. And two, I describe the reader as petite compared to the 141 but at its a reverse trope of the petite tiny girl so at least give me the benefit of the doubt and make it past the briefing scene before you give up on it because of the trope. The reader is based off an actual OC of mine in a book I’m writing. I just love Peepaw Price, okay.

BELLICOSE: adjective. demonstrating aggression and willingness to fight.

Alarm bells rang in Price’s head as he watched you, gliding through the shadows of his office like a panther hunting prey. He had known from the start that bringing you onto the team was a mistake. Bloodied teeth and hands stained with grit, fingers curling around blades and triggers with lethal precision.

In a room full of predators like the 141, you were still the apex.

But Laswell had insisted, and Price—ever loyal to her judgment—had conceded, like always.

It wouldn’t happen again.

***

It always started the same way: someone screwed up, and the stakes escalated. Regular operators couldn’t handle the fallout, so they called in the 141—need dirty hands wading through a cesspool of problems? They’re your men.

“You need her on this one,” Laswell had said, sliding your dossier across the sleek ebony wood table that probably cost more than one of his paychecks.

Price didn’t need to read it. Everyone knew The Mercenary. Every soldier worth his salt had heard your name whispered in the dark corridors of conflict.

Deadly. Beautiful. Like a vengeful goddess slinking through the battlefield, your reputation was legend even among special operators who had long since abandoned the idea of there being a god out there. You’d accomplished more in your career than most units combined would in a lifetime.

Price didn’t need to feel the weight of your file to understand. If you’d followed the conventional path, you’d probably be a five-star general by now—his commanding officer. But you had chosen a different way.

Government-contracted, available to the highest bidder, loyal to no flag but the one that paid your exorbitant fee.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, a twinge of resentment he swallowed down. No luxury of choice for him, no hefty paycheck to chase. Just duty, the same beast inside him that clawed for rest while the storm outside only worsened. But duty called again, and so did you.

Laswell was right, though—Price’s men were good, the best, but this mission was something else. Human traffickers using victims as pawns, running weapons across borders into war-torn lands. Human luggage in a nightmare spun by bureaucratic oversight, one that allowed dangerous enemies to arm themselves.

Price couldn’t see any of his men fitting the part for what needed to be done. He wasn’t about to send Ghost, Gaz, or Soap into the field in a dress and heels.

“When does she get here?” Price growled, his gut tightening at the idea of relying on a mercenary. His instincts screamed danger. There was no loyalty from someone like you, only a paycheck. And if the money ran dry? You’d vanish, leaving them to pick up the pieces. A major risk.

“She’s already here,” Laswell replied, and Price closed his eyes, the weight of inevitability settling on his shoulders.

Of course you were.

***

You’re even more stunning than the stories claimed. Soft curves, sultry lines, more tantalizing than even the darkest fantasy hidden in the back of his mind—everything about you is crafted to disarm. Wide, calculating eyes and full lips that hint at wicked intent. Even under the harsh, shitty fluorescent lighting of the briefing room, you manage to look ethereal, otherworldly. The glow makes your skin seem almost too perfect, casting shadows that sharpen your edges in a way that commands attention.

Price feels his breath catch in his throat when he sees you in person for the first time—a reaction he despises in himself. He’s a hardened soldier, decades of battles etched into his soul. Yet here you are, making him feel like some green recruit with a schoolboy crush.

Your poise betrays years of experience. Relaxed, almost bored, you drape yourself across the briefing table like a cat lounging in a sunbeam. It’s unsettling, the way you’re completely at ease despite being surrounded by some of the deadliest men in the world. The 141, all seasoned killers, men who’ve faced horrors most can’t imagine; and yet you make them look like the ones on edge. Amateurs. Wet behind the ears recruits.

The way you sit, tipping your chair back on two legs, snapping your gum, it’s borderline disrespectful. You’re surrounded by battle-hardened operators, yet you act as if you’re in your living room. It’s a brazen, almost reckless display of control. You know they’re watching you, torn between admiration and frustration. Some of them shoot heated glances, others glare, but the reaction is the same. You’re already under their skin.

Your eyes lock onto Price’s, and that dangerous, knowing smirk curls your lips. It’s predatory. Calculated. You know the effect you’re having on the room, on him. It’s a game, and you’re winning before it’s even begun. Your confidence is unnerving. It’s clear you’ve been in rooms like this before, with men just like these, and you’ve always come out on top.

Price has seen your type before. Or at least, he thought he had. But as you shift, languid and lethal, he realizes he’s never encountered anyone quite like you. There’s something almost intoxicating about the way you move, the way you radiate power, sex, and control.

The dossier warned him about your preferred methods. Psychological warfare, it said, and you excelled at it beyond anything any military had ever seen. But now, watching you in action, he understands the depth of that statement. You aren’t just skilled: you’re a force of nature, effortlessly bending men to your will with nothing more than a glance or a smirk.

Price clenches his jaw, reminding himself to stay sharp. You may be beautiful, but you’re dangerous, and in this room full of predators, you’re the alpha.

The tension in the room is palpable as you continue lounging, still flashing that confident, almost taunting smirk. A few of the men exchange looks, clearly wrestling with disbelief. They’ve heard the stories, just like Price, but seeing you now, looking more like a runway model than a deadly mercenary; it’s hard for them to reconcile the myth with the woman before them. The weight of your reputation hovers in the air, but no one speaks it aloud.

Surely the stories were exaggerated, Price thought as he watched you, the quiet figure lounging amidst the behemoths of the 141. You were small—tiny, even—compared to the hulking men surrounding you. They were all sinew and muscle, hardened by the scars of war, skin puckered with keloids and edged with experience. Every inch of them screamed violence, battle-honed warriors ready to strike. And then there was you, standing in the center of it all, soft and petite, as if you’d somehow wandered into the wrong place.

Price struggled to reconcile the image before him with the legend he had heard. The Mercenary—the Mercenary—who had single-handedly taken out entire terrorist cells, dismantled cartels, and assassinated warlords, all while slipping in and out of hostile territories like a ghost. You had pulled off the impossible: extracting hostages from fortified strongholds, escaping death traps set by men who underestimated you, and—on one memorable occasion that seemed too far-fetched to believe—boarding a hijacked plane already 35,000 feet in the air with no safety net to catch you if you missed.

But standing there, you looked almost delicate. Fragile, even. As if a papercut would have you turning lachrymose hues to the men, the skin of your small hands unmarred by the callouses that should have come with years of holding a gun steady. How could someone like you, slight and lithe, with a frame that looked like it belonged in a ballroom, not a battlefield, be the same mercenary who had left trails of bodies in your wake?

It was unsettling. Disarming.

Price’s eyes flicked to the men around you. They were cautious too, thrown off by the contradiction you presented. They’d heard the same stories. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and all his other men—they were all sizing you up, waiting for a sign, something that would confirm or deny the rumors that had reached their ears. But you gave nothing away.

It was easy for the stories to seem exaggerated, to dismiss you as anything other than the quiet, almost too-pretty woman standing before them. But Price had a sinking feeling that those stories, the ones that seemed too wild to be true, might not even scratch the surface of what you were capable of.

And that made you the most dangerous one in the room.

Finally, one of the newer recruits, eyes flickering with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, breaks the silence. His voice cuts through the thick atmosphere like a knife. Impatient, he is. Price needs to drill that out of him before it gets him killed one day, or worse.

“Is this really her? The legendary Mercenary?” he asks, doubt threading through his tone. His eyes narrow, darting over your form as if searching for some obvious flaw, something that proves you aren’t the deadly operative you’re supposed to be. “She doesn’t exactly look the part.”

A low murmur passes between the men, and Price watches carefully, gauging your reaction. They’re on edge, these hardened soldiers, unsure of whether they should be impressed or insulted by the idea that you, this beautiful, relaxed woman, are supposedly their ace in the hole.

You don’t miss a beat. Slowly, with deliberate grace, you let your chair drop back onto all four legs and lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. The shift in your posture is subtle but powerful. The room stills as you survey the faces around you, that lazy, confident grin never leaving your lips. Then you speak, your voice low and smooth, dripping with a dangerous sort of amusement.

“I don’t look the part?” you repeat, eyes sparkling with mischief as you stretch languidly, the movement sending a ripple of distraction through the room. “Go on, sweetheart, tell me, what exactly do you think your enemies are looking for on the battlefield?”

The recruit hesitates, blinking, before he stammers, eyebrows furrowing as if expecting your words to be a trick question, “Uh… Well… people who look like us. Like soldiers.”

You give him a pitying smile, as if you’re explaining something simple to a child. “Exactly. They’re looking for people like you. Trained men, geared up, muscled, armed to the teeth. Big, scary soldiers who they can see coming from a mile away.” Your voice drops, growing almost intimate as you lean forward, eyes hooded. “They aren’t looking for someone like me.”

The room goes quiet again, everyone hanging on your words as you continue, your tone soft but laced with steel. “By the time they even think to check for someone like me? I’m already in their camp, already bleeding them dry, and they don’t even realize it until it’s too late.”

The recruit swallows, his skepticism fading as the weight of your words sinks in. Your beauty, your relaxed demeanor—it isn’t a weakness. It’s a weapon. A weapon that none of them had ever been taught to anticipate. You sit back in your chair, the smirk widening into something almost predatory, letting the silence stretch before you speak again.

“They see you coming. Hell, they’re expecting you. And sure, you’re tough. You’re strong. You know how to fight. But when you look like me, no one expects the knife in the back. No one expects the bullet between their eyes. They underestimate me.” You pause, the smirk twisting into something darker. “And it always costs them everything.”

There’s a shift in the room now. The men exchange uncertain glances, realizing that their assumptions about you have been dangerously naive. Price watches you closely, his gut tightening. You’ve won the room over, made your point loud and clear without so much as breaking a sweat. It’s unsettling, the way you wield words as skillfully as a blade.

Psychological warfare was your preferred weapon, the dossier highlighted.

And maybe that was your greatest weapon. You were the perfect trap—innocuous on the outside, unassuming. But underneath? Underneath was the lethal precision of someone who had mastered the art of deception, who had turned their own appearance into a weapon as sharp as any blade.

Price felt a knot of unease settle in his gut. You didn’t need muscles or brute force. You had something far more dangerous: the element of surprise. You wanted them to underestimate you. Hell, maybe you enjoyed it.

That realization hit him like a cold blade pressed to his throat, and Price shuddered involuntarily. It wasn’t fear, not exactly; not the kind of fear that came from facing an enemy in combat, but something deeper, more primal. The kind of instinct that had kept men alive for centuries. His spine stiffened as the sensation crept down to his core, urging him to adjust, to move, to make sure he always had his eyes on you.

He shifted his position, subtly but deliberately, ensuring that no matter where you moved in the room, he would never have his back to you. It wasn’t conscious, not at first—just an overwhelming sense that he needed to see you, track you, keep you within his line of sight at all times. It was survival instinct at its most raw.

He didn’t trust you. Couldn’t. Not after everything he’d heard. The stories. The way you could turn on a dime, shifting from ally to predator without a second’s warning. And though he knew you were here for the same reason he was—for now, at least—Price couldn’t shake the feeling that the real threat wasn’t the mission. It was you.

The worst part was that you never made it obvious. There was no overt menace, no clear sign of danger. Just the way you moved, fluid and graceful, like a shadow slipping through the cracks of light. It was too easy to picture you with a blade at his throat or a bullet between his eyes, and the thought unsettled him more than it should. You were a mercenary, after all—this was your game.

No, Price realized, he could never afford to look away from you. Not now. Not ever.

You turn your attention back to the recruit, and your voice softens again, the edge in your tone melting away like honey. “So yes, darling, I’m the one they call when things get ugly. Because no one expects the woman to be the monster.”

You let the words hang in the air, the weight of your reputation finally settling in as the men come to terms with what it means to have you on their side. There’s a reason Laswell insisted on bringing you in. A reason Price didn’t protest harder, despite the warning bells ringing in his head.

You’re a weapon. The deadliest kind. One they’re just beginning to understand.

***

The mission began in uneasy silence, the familiar thrum of the helicopter blades cutting through the tension in the air. Ghost sat across from Price, arms folded, eyes hidden behind his skull mask, but even without seeing his expression, Price could sense the discomfort. Soap and Gaz weren’t much better, both of them fidgeting in their seats, exchanging glances but saying nothing— unusual for the two normally loud Sergeants. The air was thick, charged with an unspoken anxiety, malaise.

You sat with them, but apart—physically and emotionally. While the men carried their weapons, tactical vests, and hardened expressions, you wore something completely out of place. Scandalous even, but necessary for the situation. A slinky dress, cut high up the thigh and plunging just low enough to leave nearly nothing to the imagination. Black, tight, and dangerous—like you. Every inch of it was designed to distract, to draw eyes away from the weapon concealed underneath the allure.

Price shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The idea of sending you in dressed like that—to mingle with human traffickers in their filthy, blood-soaked underworld—didn’t sit right with him. You wore no protection, no physical weapon. But he knew it was necessary. None of them could do what you could, slipping between shadows, playing the part so convincingly it was terrifying. You’d be in the belly of the beast, surrounded by men who bought and sold human lives.

As the helicopter roared towards the drop zone, you were the calmest one there, completely unfazed by the mission ahead. You sat with your legs crossed, leaning back against the hull as if this were a casual night out rather than a covert infiltration into the heart of a trafficking ring. You didn’t even glance at the weapons the others carried—why would you? Your body itself was the weapon, sharpened and deadly, while the dress was just a distraction even to the men on the heli.

Price looked out the window, eyes narrowed as he ran through the mission briefing in his head. The traffickers operated out of an exclusive club, hidden behind layers of corruption and bribes. The “Red Room,” they called it—a place where those with enough money could buy anything, anyone. And that’s where you’d be slipping in.

The plan was simple in theory, though nothing ever went as planned. You’d go in first, the rest of the team scattered throughout the perimeter, waiting for your signal. Once you had eyes on the targets—the ringleaders behind the trafficking operation—you’d take them down. Silent, quick, surgical. The rest of the team would follow, sweeping in to clean up the mess.

Price hated it. Despised it. The reliance on a mercenary, the need for you to infiltrate like this—it gnawed at him, leaving him with a deep sense of helplessness as he waited outside while you ventured straight into the lion’s den.

Call him old-fashioned, but the thought of sending a woman into a place built to break women, to degrade them into nothing more than objects, turned his stomach. His skin crawled with the weight of the decision he’d made, the reluctant agreement he’d given when assigning you this task, knowing what it would subject you to, despite your hardened reputation.

The helicopter jerked slightly as they neared the landing zone, the tension in the cabin tightening as they prepared for what came next.

The men checked their gear, but Price couldn’t help but steal a glance at you. You were adjusting the straps of your heels, unbothered by the shift in the helicopter. You caught him looking, and for a brief moment, you smirked—one of those dangerous, knowing smiles that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Relax, Captain,” you purred, voice low and dripping with amusement. “I’ve done this a hundred times. It’s not me you need to worry about.”

Price grunted in response, but the knot of unease in his gut didn’t loosen. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like you. But there was no denying your skill. You were their only shot at infiltrating and escaping without igniting a full-scale war that would spill into the impoverished neighborhoods surrounding The Red Room, putting the locals at risk.

The helicopter landed with a slight jolt, and you stood with the fluidity of a predator. As the doors opened, the cool night air flooded in, mixing with the heavy, pungent smells of the city—garbage, pollution, and the faint stench of decay clinging to its urban foundation coupled with the sting of hot metal from the helicopter.

You were already moving, stepping out into the shadows without a backward glance. Graceful. Tantalizing. A fucking problem if the heat pooling in his lower abdomen was anything to go by.

The Red Room was waiting for you, and with it, the men who thought they could play gods with human lives.

Inside the club, the air hung heavy with a haze of smoke and luxury, the heady mix of costly cologne, sweat, and spilt liquor clinging to every breath. Lights pulsed in time with the music, casting flickering shadows across velvet booths and marble floors. You moved like a wisp through the sea of bodies, effortlessly weaving past gilded figures lost in indulgence, your sharp eyes sweeping over each face, every shadowed corner, alert for the slightest hint of danger.

No one paid you any mind. Just another beautiful woman in a sea of beauty, here to be admired, objectified, discarded.

Your eyes never left the traffickers. They were predators in tailored suits, laughing behind the safety of closed doors, basking in their perceived invincibility. They had no idea that the real predator had already infiltrated their den. A viper in a den of wolves.

Among them, you spotted a target—a bloated, balding man, a thick cigar dangling from his lips as he smirked, a young girl, stiff with terror and silently pleading anyone with her eyes for help, held under his heavy fat arm like an accessory while he dragged her beyond double doors. In an instant, you melted into the shadows, slipping away from the glittering chaos of the club like a whisper carried on the wind, following them.

The Red Room was hidden down a dim corridor, guarded by two burly men. You approached them with a practiced, sultry smile; an expression crafted to exploit the foolishness and vanity of men like these. It worked, as it always did. One of them barely glanced at you before stepping aside, holding the door open without hesitation.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. The decadent luxury of the club gave way to something colder, darker. The air in the hallway felt sterile and oppressive, thick with the stench of fear and cruelty. Tears and sex. Depravity and desolation.

As you walked, the soft click of your heels against the marble floor echoed through the space, a haunting reminder of the danger lurking just beneath the surface. Outside, the guards remained blissfully unaware of the storm about to break.

***

Outside, Price and his men lay in wait, a silent sentinel group surveying the entrance. They were a hawk-eyed presence, alert to every detail as they observed the ebb and flow of clubgoers; oblivious revelers lost in the rhythm of the night, unaware of the horrors festering behind the liquor-drenched walls of the establishment. Among them were the human traffickers, predators moving with calculated ease through the crowd, fully aware of the darkness that lurked within.

As the hours dragged on, tension grew palpable in the air. His men shifted restlessly, eyes darting towards the entrance, where your absence weighed heavy. The recruits fidgeted first, their anxiety contagious; soon, even the seasoned veterans succumbed to the unease.

You should have signaled by now.

An uncomfortable weight settled in Price’s gut, worry sinking like a stone, as doubt slithered into his mind. Had his trust in you been misplaced? Were your stories mere fabrications? Was he leading a lamb to slaughter, destined to storm the building only to find your lifeless shell left among the remnants of your fight, chewed up and spat out among the cum-stained shackles of other victims?

Just as he began to consider which of his men he would send in to check on you, the comms crackled to life, your voice sultry and cursory. “Bravo-Six, this is Bravo-Two, how copy?”

Price jolted, relief singing through his veins, the tension in his chest easing. “Solid, Bravo-Two. What's your sitrep?”

“Come see. Back door through the alley. Watch your footing. Follow the hallway on your left to a row of offices. Third door on your right.” And then silence enveloped the channel once more, your voice replaced by the eerie quiet that had plagued it for hours now.

Price exchanged a quick glance with Ghost, the closest man to him, before signaling for the team to move. The meaning behind your warning echoed in his mind, leaving him to wonder what you meant about needing to watch his footing.

He wouldn’t have to wonder for long.

As they entered the back door, the scene before him was grotesque. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, torn and mutilated as if an unstoppable force had swept through them like a violent storm. The human traffickers, buyers, and sellers were dead, their lifeless forms littered with stab wounds and bullet holes, blood pooling around them in dark, congealed puddles, mixing with shards of glass and spilled liquor.

In the shadowy corners of The Red Room, only the victims remained alive—caged like wounded animals, trembling and whimpering, their bodies splattered with the blood of their tormentors.

Price signaled to some of his men to break off and attend to the victims while instructing others to clear the club beyond a set of double doors. The pounding music masked the carnage that lay inside, a stark contrast to the horror they had just uncovered. The rest followed him down a lavishly decorated hallway into a series of opulent offices, where he found you standing amidst the chaos—three dead men scattered around you.

The fourth man knelt on the floor, blood oozing from a gash in his cheek, hands bound behind his back. His eyes wide in terror as he stared at you, as if confronted by a demon, his mind no doubt racing through a rapid reassessment of his life choices as you forced him to come face to face with his mortality.

“Saved you one,” you drawled in lieu of a greeting as you caught sight of the Captain, your hair and skin slick with the tacky blood of others, but not yours.

“You were supposed to call for us, not take on all the traffickers by yourself,” Price snapped, his frustration palpable. You blinked at him, as if the notion of needing assistance was a foreign concept, a radical idea that the 141’s involvement should have been more than a fleeting afterthought.

With an unapologetic shrug, you met his gaze, defiance radiating from you. “Easier this way.”

Unrepentant. Disrespectful.

He hated you. Fucking Mercenaries.

A slow, almost predatory grin curled at your lipstick stained lips, as though you could read Price’s mind and took pleasure in the thought that he despised you. Yet, you didn’t acknowledge it—not now. Still, there was a glint in your eyes, something that made Price’s jaw tighten. He knew you’d throw it in his face later. Call it instinct.

Instead, you turned to the bound man, giving his blood-soaked cheek a condescending pat, like one might to a dog. Blood sprayed across his already stained collar as your manicured fingers dug into his swollen skin. “Meet Vasily Mikhailovich. Human trafficker. Arms dealer. Limited intelligence. Smallest dick you’ve ever seen—”

Vasily snarled in rage, and despite his restraints, he lunged at you. Before Price or his men could react with anything more than raising their weapons, there was a sharp crack. Vasily collapsed at your feet, screaming in agony, his clavicle jutting grotesquely through taut skin. Price hadn’t even seen you move until you were casually resuming your stance, as though nothing had happened.

“That wasn’t very smart of you,” you mused, staring down at the whimpering man, nudging him with the tip of your heel until he rolled over. “It’s rude to try and hit ladies, Mikhailovich.”

A string of curses, half in English, half in Russian, spilled from his lips, but you only smiled, your amusement growing with each word.

You let him continue for a few seconds before you crouched down beside Vasily, your movements fluid and deliberate and his words seemed to die in his throat. You placed your fingers along his jawline, tutting slightly, shushing him.

Price saw it then, the way you wielded your allure like a well-honed tool. With a subtle arch in your back, your posture softened, the dim light of the office casting just the right shadows to highlight your beauty. Your lips curved into a sultry smile, eyes hooded, inviting him— and the rest of the men in the room by extension— to fall into your gaze.

“Shhh,” you whispered, and the air seemed to thicken as you reached out and traced the tip of your blood-slicked finger along his jawline and lower lip, feather light and lingering, like a lover’s touch. His breath hitched, a mix of pain and primal fear contorting his face, but his eyes, those bloodshot, desperate eyes, were hooked on yours.

“Good boy,” you murmured, voice a little sweeter this time, as if rewarding him for his compliance.

“You know, Vasily,” you purred, your voice like velvet, smooth and sinuous, wrapping around the room and dragging everyone into its grasp, “this could go one of two ways. You can keep fighting, keep snarling like the wild dog you are, or…” You leaned in closer, your lips nearly brushing his ear, your words a delicate whisper. “You can tell me everything I need to know. And I’ll make sure the pain stops.”

Vasily’s breathing grew ragged, his mind fraying at the edges, caught between the unbearable throbbing of his broken bone and the soft cadence of your voice. The way you spoke was a lullaby wrapped in threat, every syllable pulling him further into your orbit. Your touch, your voice, your closeness, all of it was like a drug, a disorienting effect that left him feeling both weak and intensely present all at once.

Behind you, Price’s men shifted, eyes flickering between you and the scene unfolding. Even Price, seasoned and hardened as he was, found himself unwillingly mesmerized by the subtle sway of your voice and the deliberate elegance of your movements. Your presence wove through the room like an intoxicating perfume, something that clung to the air, seeming to lull every threat into submission.

Like a manipulative deadly trap.

You moved your hand lower, tracing the lines of Vasily’s arm, lingering just above his restraints, fingers feather-light, the promise of relief so close yet maddeningly distant. His eyes fluttered, and for a second, the defiance in him flickered, like a candle in a storm.

“You’ll be a good boy, won’t you, Vasily?” The words dripped like honey, your lips curling into a smile that was equal parts deadly and intoxicating. Your words echoed through their minds, a seductive whisper that wrapped around their thoughts, making it difficult to focus on anything else. “I know you want to. It’s so much easier to obey. So much easier to make the pain stop.”

He swallowed hard, his tongue darting nervously across his cracked lips. “I—I don’t know anything,” he stammered, his voice hoarse, but there was less conviction now. Your presence was overwhelming, dominating. He wasn’t even speaking to a human anymore; you were something else entirely. Something that demanded submission. He felt powerless, helpless in your clutches, unable to pull away even if he wanted to.

You chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through him. “Don’t lie, Vasily.” You ran your fingers through his greasy hair, tugging lightly, enough to elicit a groan from him. His eyes half-closed as you tugged harder, the sharp pain mingling with the soft lilt of your voice in a way that confused him, that made his head spin. “I know you know. You wouldn’t be where you are if you didn’t. Now tell me…”

You let the sentence hang, trailing your free hand down his neck, your nails grazing his skin lightly, drawing a shudder from him. The whole room seemed to hang on your words, even Price’s men— even Soap, Gaz, and Ghost, seemed caught in your snare, their breaths shallow, as if they too were waiting for something to break.

Your lips brushed dangerously close to Vasily’s ear, tone warm, gentle, enough to make him doubt whether you were a threat at all, or if maybe, just maybe, you were on his side. He gasped, and his resistance snapped. “All right, all right!” His voice was strained, desperate. “It’s—it’s the shipments. The next one’s coming in two days. Weapons. Girls. They— they’re moving them through the docks. I swear. That’s all I know. Just—fuck.”

You smiled again, softer this time, a false kindness that made Vasily’s heart skip, and released your grip on his hair, smoothing it back into place with an almost tender touch. “There you go,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The relief on his face was palpable, as if he had been released from some invisible chokehold and in that instant the spell you’d weaved over the entire room like strands of spun sugar shattered leaving Price feeling like he’d been dunked into an icy lake.

Vasily’s entire body sagged, his muscles slackening under your gaze as you rose gracefully to your feet, giving a languid stretch and turned to Price, eyes gleaming with that same magnetic energy.

“All yours, Captain,” you said, your voice a little too sweet, a little too dangerous. “Unless, of course, you’re still doubting me?”

Price’s jaw tightened, the image of the bodies you dropped in the corridor outside of the office flashing through his mind, his eyes flickering on Vasily and the tent in his pants, the embarrassed flush of his cheeks. He didn’t want to give you the satisfaction, the boost to your ego, but his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t doubt you. Not anymore. None of them would.

***

Two days later, the docks loom before them, sprawling across the coastline like a forgotten graveyard of steel and rust. Shipping containers stacked high like tombstones, warehouses slouched in the distance, and cranes poised like skeletons against the darkening sky. The sea churns in the background, a slate gray mass flecked with whitecaps as the eastern wind howls through the gaps between the structures. The smell of saltwater and oil hangs in the air, thick and acrid, clinging to everything like a stain that won’t wash off. Overhead, the cries of gulls are swallowed by the low hum of machinery, the industrial heartbeat of a place where shadowy deals are brokered in the dark. The perfect setting for the kind of bloodstained business you’re about to tear apart.

Tonight, there’s no need for seductive disguises or glittering gowns. You’re clad in tactical gear that fits like a second skin, tight Kevlar pants hugging your form, combat boots laced tight, and a custom tactical vest that clings to your curves in a way that draws more than a few glances from the others. No helmet, though—when Soap questions your lack of NVGs, his brow furrowed in confusion, you merely smirk at him, your voice dropping to a playful coo as if he’s a child asking about monsters under the bed. “Don’t worry, love. I see plenty in the dark.”

Unlike last time, you’re not going in alone. You move with them, part of the team, though it quickly becomes clear that you’re still in a league of your own. As the raid begins, Price watches you weave through the shadows, faster and deadlier than anyone else. The operation moves like clockwork, the team dispersing to take their positions, rifles poised, eyes sharp. But while the others move like soldiers, precise and tactical, you move like a predator, instinct guiding you as much as training.

The first targets fall almost too easily. You glide up behind one of the guards, your knife flashing like silver lightning in the moonlight, and in an instant, the man crumples to the ground, his throat slit before he even knows what hit him. Silent. Efficient. Deadly. Price catches a glimpse of you through the scope of his rifle, watching as you drag the body into the shadows, your movements quick and fluid, and he’s reminded of the reports he read—brutal, vicious, without mercy.

But words on paper pale in comparison to the reality before him. As the firefight breaks out, gunfire erupts around the docks, chaos exploding in every direction, and you’re in the thick of it, tearing through enemies with a terrifying grace. You’re not just fighting; you’re dismantling them, piece by bloody piece. One man lunges at you with a knife, and in a heartbeat, you twist his wrist with a bone-snapping crack, slam him against a shipping container, and bury your blade in his chest without a second thought. Another opens fire, but before he can get a second shot off, you’re already on him, disarming him with a brutal kick to the jaw that leaves him sprawling on the ground. You don’t hesitate to finish him off, a single bullet to the skull, your movements cold and unrelenting.

Price orders his men to push forward, but his gaze keeps flicking back to you. He’s seen black ops soldiers in action before—seen Spetsnaz cut through enemies with machine-like precision—but you’re something else. There’s a ferocity in the way you fight, a raw, unbridled violence that has nothing to do with rules or regulations. It’s personal. Every move, every strike, feels like it carries a deeper purpose, as if the blood on your hands is a long-overdue justice you’ve been waiting to exact.

Soap lets out a low whistle over comms, his voice thick with awe. “Screaming Jesus, she’s a one-woman army.”

Price doesn’t respond, his jaw set tight as he watches you tear through another wave of enemies. The reports weren’t just accurate—they were restrained. You’re more than what they described, more than what even he expected. And as the last of the traffickers are mopped up, bodies littering the docks like broken marionettes, Price realizes there’s no one alive tonight who’ll walk away with a different opinion.

Not of The Mercenary. Not of the storm she unleashed.

It’s not long before the docks finally fall silent, what with you tearing through the traffickers like a hot knife through butter like you did. The echoes of gunfire faded into the night as Price surveyed the aftermath—bodies strewn across the grimy concrete, the remnants of a trafficking ring laid to waste. His team moved like shadows, finishing up the sweep, checking corners, and clearing out the last stragglers. Everything was by the book, clean and efficient, the kind of op that Price had seen a hundred times before.

But there was something different this time, and it wasn’t just the bloodied bodies left behind. It was you.

You stood near the water’s edge, wiping blood from your knife with a rag, the same calm expression on your face as if nothing extraordinary had just happened. As if you hadn’t torn through armed men like they were made of paper, leaving only devastation in your wake. You didn’t even glance at the bodies or the carnage around you. To you, this was routine, just another mission. Another paycheck.

Price’s eyes narrowed as he watched you. This was the part where you’d usually disappear—head out for your next contract, vanish into the night like the ghost you were. It’s what mercenaries did. They moved from job to job, no loyalty, no ties, just the endless chase of money and violence. He expected you to do the same now, your work here done.

But as his team packed up, ready to head back to base, you didn’t move.

Price signaled for the team to regroup, his orders coming out in short, clipped bursts over the comms. His focus was on his men, but his thoughts were on you. You weren’t leaving. Why weren’t you leaving?

You boarded the transport with them, sitting in the back, quiet, composed. Pupils blown wide as if you were excited instead of bone tired like the rest of them.

Soap, sitting across from you, gave you a raised brow, clearly curious, but he kept his distance. No one spoke. Not even you, which was… odd. Too odd.

Price kept glancing your way during the ride back, suspicion gnawing at him. What was your game? There was no reason for you to stay. No reason for you to be here, surrounded by military personnel, under their scrutiny. Yet you were sitting there, casual as ever, your gear still drenched in blood, as if this was where you belonged.

When the transport rolled into the base, Price caught Ghost’s eye, the unspoken tension crackling between them. His second-in-command seemed as wary as he was, but neither voiced their concerns just yet. They couldn’t. Not without proof. Not without something more than a gut feeling.

As they disembarked, Price expected you to peel off, maybe hitch a ride to the nearest city. But you followed them into the heart of the base, your steps unhurried, your presence unnervingly calm. You weren’t rushing to leave. You were settling in. Like you intended to stay.

***

A few days had passed since the raid at the docks, and everything seemed to settle back into the usual rhythm at the base. On the surface, anyway. Price was back to his routine, briefing the team, debriefing them, overseeing the cleanup from the mission. The trafficking ring had been dismantled, their operations left in ruin, and the victims had been taken care of. Everything should’ve been straightforward.

But it wasn’t.

His instincts told him otherwise. Something was off.

You were still here.

Price had expected you to vanish the moment the job was done. That’s what mercenaries did—complete the contract, collect the payout, and disappear without a second thought. No attachments, no lingering. But it had been days, and you hadn’t left. You wandered the base, moved through the halls like you belonged here, like you had no intention of leaving.

Every time he spotted you, that same unease crept up his spine. You wore the same calm, composed expression, no sign of hurry or purpose. You engaged with his men like you were another soldier of his making passing comments and bantering, the occasional smirk that tugging at your lips when Soap or Gaz tried to strike up casual conversation. And while the others seemed to accept your presence without question, Price couldn’t shake the feeling that something darker lurked beneath your cool exterior.

It was late one night when he spotted you standing near the armory, inspecting some gear. No one else was around. The quiet of the base hummed in the background, punctuated only by the low buzz of security lights. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you. You didn’t notice him—or at least, you didn’t make it obvious that you had.

He could still hear the rumors from the mission. Ghost, Soap, Gaz—they all talked about the way you’d torn through the enemy like a storm, leaving bodies broken and bloodied in your wake. Brutal. Vicious. No mercy. The reports hadn’t done you justice. And yet, here you were, walking through their base like the aftermath of that massacre hadn’t left a mark on you.

Price had seen enough soldiers go through hell and come out the other side broken or hardened, scarred in ways that never truly healed. But you? There was nothing but cold precision in your every movement, as if all the violence and death you caused was just another day at work. That was what bothered him the most—how utterly unfazed you were. How dangerous that made you.

As you turned, spotting him in the doorway, that small, knowing smile curled across your lips. Like you knew exactly what he was thinking. It was the same smile you’d given after the mission, when you’d cleaned off your knife without so much as a glance at the carnage you’d left behind.

“Price,” you greeted, your tone light, casual, as if the two of you were old acquaintances.

He grunted in return, stepping into the room, crossing his arms. “Still here, I see.”

Your smile deepened, your eyes gleaming with amusement. “Didn’t know I had a deadline.”

“You don’t,” Price replied, though his voice was tight, clipped. “But most mercs don’t stick around after the job’s done.”

Price narrowed his eyes, watching the way you shrugged off his question with a casual, almost too-relaxed air. “I like the company,” you said, your voice smooth, unbothered, like someone who had nothing to hide. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

For someone in your line of work, you were too comfortable. Too at ease, lingering here long after the job was done. No mercenary sticks around just because they “like the company.” It didn’t add up.

He stared at you for a moment longer, your calm demeanor suddenly grating on him. And that’s when it clicked—the way you never seemed rushed to leave, the way your eyes tracked every movement in a room, like you were always assessing, calculating. This wasn’t about the company. It wasn’t even about the mission anymore.

Price could feel it in his gut, that same gnawing feeling that told him you were here for more than just the mission. You had a second objective, something that kept you close to them, waiting, watching.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d let something worse than any enemy into their midst. A rot, festering beneath the surface, quiet and patient. You were no ordinary mercenary. You were a plague, spreading through their ranks, waiting for the right moment to turn gangrenous and poison them all from within.

His jaw clenched as he met your gaze, refusing to let the unease show in his eyes. “What’s your real game here?”

For a long moment, you said nothing, just watched him with that same maddening composure. Slowly, your head tilted, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but it never touched your eyes.

“Curiosity, Captain. I’m simply curious.”

“Curious about what?” His voice was low, a deep rumble like distant thunder on the verge of a storm.

Instead of answering, you gave him that smile—a smile he knew all too well. He’d seen it before, on the faces of sociopaths who thrived on control. Lips pulled tight over teeth, but no warmth, no humanity behind the gaze.

A chill slid down his spine, and his fingers itched toward his gun. But he held steady, knowing that drawing it wouldn’t intimidate you. If anything, he had the unsettling suspicion it might amuse you instead.

***

Weeks passed, and you didn’t leave.

Price watched you like a hawk, waiting for the moment you’d pack up, chase down another contract, disappear like the mercenary you were. But you stayed. You drifted through their base like a shadow, always there but never fully integrated, always just on the periphery.

Every move you made was calculated, deliberate, and though no one said it outright, the entire team felt it. You were a presence; unsettling, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Like a lit candle you should keep an eye on less it be forgotten and burn your house down as a result.

Price had never felt this level of constant tension before. Not on long deployments, not during high-stakes missions. It wasn’t the enemy outside that kept him awake at night; it was you. The way you seemed to move through their ranks without ever fully being a part of them.

He stayed on edge, hyper-vigilant, like a coiled spring, knowing something was going to snap, but unsure of when or how. His senses were stretched thin, his patience even thinner.

It was like having a wolf among sheep, and worse, the sheep were growing comfortable with it.

One night, as Price sat alone in his office, eyes burning from lack of sleep, his head buzzing when there was a quiet knock on the door. It was Gaz, looking more awkward than usual.

“Sir, I thought you should know… Soap’s been, uh… spending time with her.” He didn’t say your name, but he didn’t have to. There was only one “her” that could cause this kind of unease.

Price’s stomach dropped. “Define ‘spending time,’ Sergeant.”

Gaz shifted uncomfortably. “They, uh… hooked up. Last night.”

Price’s hand clenched into a fist, knuckles going white against the desk. He didn’t want to believe it, but he could see the truth in Gaz’s eyes. The warning signs had been there. Soap had always been the bold one, reckless even, and you—well, you thrived on that. Price should’ve seen this coming.

His mind raced. Soap, of all people, had fallen into your web. He could only imagine how you’d spun it, lured him in with that seductive charm you wielded like a weapon. And now? Now one of his own was compromised, and he could feel the situation spiraling out of his control.

Price dismissed Gaz with a terse nod, and the second the door closed, he slammed his fist down on the desk.

This wasn’t just about Soap being reckless or stupid. It was about you. Staying on base for weeks without any clear reason, keeping everyone on edge. And now, with Soap tangled up in whatever game you were playing, it was like watching a slow poison seep into the unit.

He stood up, jaw clenched as he paced the room, trying to think. He couldn’t let this go on. He couldn’t afford to be patient anymore. Whatever your endgame was, you had already begun to rot away at the heart of his team.

***

Price didn’t sleep that night. He paced his office, mind racing, piecing together every moment from the past few weeks. Every time he’d caught your eye lingering on him, every smile that felt more like a test than a gesture of goodwill. Now, with Soap wrapped up in your web, it was clear that this wasn’t just his paranoia. You had an agenda, and he had let you into their midst.

The next morning, Price called a meeting. The men gathered in the briefing room, and he could feel the shift in the air as soon as you entered. All eyes gravitated toward you. You moved like you always did—fluid, confident, unbothered. Soap sat across the table, his gaze drifting to you more than it should, and Price’s jaw tightened.

He began to speak, his voice sharp as a knife. “We’re moving out tonight. Intel says there’s a shipment coming in—drugs, arms, the usual. We’re going to shut it down.” The plan wasn’t anything new—standard sweep and seizure. But it was the underlying tension in the room that couldn’t be ignored. Price’s words were meant to shift the focus, to drag his team back to where they needed to be. But as he spoke, he caught you watching him, your expression unreadable, a flicker of amusement in your eyes that sent a chill down his spine.

Once the briefing ended, the men dispersed, except for Soap, who lingered by you, grinning like he was in on some private joke. Price stared at him for a moment longer than necessary before heading out, fighting the rising frustration in his gut.

Later on after finishing up the mission, Price sat in his office, the faint hum of activity echoing through the hallways. His door cracked open slightly, letting in the soft shuffle of footsteps, the sound unmistakable.

“Captain.”

Your voice, low and almost playful, cut through the silence like a blade. He didn’t turn to look at you. He couldn’t trust himself to keep his composure.

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” you continued, stepping further into the room. He could hear the soft click of the door shutting behind you. “Everything alright?”

Price clenched his jaw. “I was just focused on the mission.”

“That so?” You circled around to stand in front of his desk, leaning against it casually, too casually for his liking. Your presence was overwhelming, filling the small space like a thick fog. “You don’t seem like the type to get distracted, Captain.”

“And you seem like the type that enjoys creating distractions.” He finally met your gaze, and the way you smiled in response sent a shiver of unease down his spine. You were toying with him, and worse, you knew he knew it.

“Why are you still here?” Price asked, his voice low, controlled.

Your smile widened slightly. “I told you before—curiosity.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “You don’t stay in one place this long for curiosity.”

You didn’t flinch at his tone, didn’t seem fazed at all. Instead, you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing as you regarded him like a predator assessing prey. “I’ve spent time in many places. Ask around—check with units in Marawi, Mogadishu, Kandahar… even Berlin. I always seem to stick around longer than planned, don’t I?” You laughed lightly, shaking your head like it was an amusing coincidence. “But then again, maybe they never saw it either. Maybe you’re the only one smart enough to see the bigger picture.”

Price’s pulse quickened. Every location you listed, every unit you mentioned, could easily be verified. You knew that. But it was the way you laid it out—so casually, like you weren’t even concerned—that made him falter. Like you wanted him to check, knowing full well what he’d find. Hadn’t you been acting the same way there too? Charming your way through, making yourself indispensable, all the while threading yourself deeper into their fabric until it was too late to unravel you?

“You can ask, Captain,” you purred, leaning in just a little closer, the air between you suffocating with tension. “But you won’t find anything out of the ordinary. Because, if you start seeing ghosts in every corner… well, maybe the problem isn’t me…”

You trailed off meaningfully and Price didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was racing, every instinct screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. You had stayed too long, ingratiated yourself too easily, and now Soap was involved. And even though he wanted to believe it was just a lapse in judgment on Soap’s part, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all part of a larger plan. And yet…

“You know,” you said softly, almost thoughtfully, “trust is such a delicate thing. Once it’s broken, it’s hard to repair. You start questioning everything. Everyone.”

The way you said it made Price’s skin crawl. You were baiting him, pushing him to the edge, and he was dangerously close to snapping.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded, standing up, fists clenched.

You didn’t back down. If anything, you seemed to enjoy the tension, your smile sharpening into something more predatory. “Nothing at all, Captain. Just… enjoying my time. Having fun.”

Price took a step closer, his voice a low growl. “This isn’t a game.”

You tilted your head slightly, the smile never leaving your face. “I never said it was, Captain. I’m afraid you’re reading too far into things. Seeing shadows where there isn’t any.”

Price’s heart pounded in his chest as he stood there, caught in a web of uncertainty and suspicion. He didn’t trust you. Hell, he didn’t even know if he could trust his own men anymore, not after what happened with Soap.

But as much as he wanted to get you off his base, to throw you out and wash his hands of this whole mess, he couldn’t. Not yet. Because something told him that whatever you were really after, it wasn’t just Soap. And until he knew for sure what your endgame was, he had no choice but to keep you close—and pray that he hadn’t just let a fox into the henhouse.

As you turned to leave, Price couldn’t help but feel like he’d just lost a battle he hadn’t even realized he was fighting. “Sweet dreams, Captain. Good night.”

***

Price hung up the phone, staring at the receiver as if it could offer answers to the storm raging in his mind. Eight months. You’d lingered for eight whole months after your contract ended in Berlin, weaving yourself into the fabric of another unit’s daily routine, and just like the Colonel had said, you left without a trace of anything suspicious. No incidents. No trouble. Just gone, as suddenly as you had come.

But the Colonel’s words echoed in his mind: “I thought the same like you, Captain, Ja. I had my eyes on her the whole time, thought something was happening… but nothing ever came of it. She is slippery, that one, but not a drop of blut was out of place when she went away.”

Price exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, fingers massaging his temples. Eight months. He should’ve been reassured, should’ve felt some relief hearing that someone else, someone just as seasoned, had gone through the same ordeal. But instead, it gnawed at him, deepening the pit of uncertainty growing in his gut. If nothing happened then… why did every nerve in his body scream at him now?

He’d been in the field for decades, lived through hells most men wouldn’t survive, and his instincts had kept him alive through it all. But now? Now he was doubting himself. Questioning his own judgment, wondering if the years had worn him down, made him paranoid. Had it all finally caught up to him? Maybe the pressure, the decades of battle scars, were finally showing. Yet, every fiber of his being still rebelled against the idea of ignoring what was so blatantly wrong.

No, he thought. My instincts are never wrong. He had learned to trust that gut feeling, the one that separated him from the men who didn’t make it.

The door creaked open, and Ghost stepped in, interrupting the maelstrom of thoughts swirling in Price’s head. He stood there, imposing as always, but there was something different in his expression. Price sat up straighter, bracing himself.

“Sir,” Ghost started, his voice steady but with an edge of uncertainty, unusual for the Lieutenant.

“What is it?” Price asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“The mercenary,” Ghost clarified, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She took part in a training drill today with some of the recruits.”

Price blinked. That wasn’t unusual in itself. You’d been weaving in and out of different areas for weeks now, always showing up in unexpected places, like you were trying to familiarize yourself with every inch of the base. But the tension in Ghost’s stance told Price there was more to the story.

“What happened?” Price asked, already feeling a creeping dread in the back of his mind.

“One of the recruits made a mistake. Big one,” Ghost continued. “Nearly cost him his life. Got caught up in a malfunction on the rappel during the high-altitude training drill.”

Price’s heart skipped a beat. “And?”

“She saved him,” Ghost said simply. “Reacted faster than anyone else. Snapped the rope, pulled him out before he hit the deck.”

Price was silent for a moment, digesting the information. “She saved him?”

Ghost nodded. “Yeah. Kid would’ve been dead if not for her. She didn’t just follow protocol. She handled it like she’d done it a hundred times before.”

Price leaned back in his chair again, his mind whirling. You’d saved a recruit’s life, a move that should have earned you praise. But all he could feel was a deepening sense of confusion. You were smart—too smart, maybe. Every move you made, every little gesture, seemed calculated. Even this.

“Did she say anything afterward?” Price asked, narrowing his eyes at Ghost.

“Not much,” Ghost replied. “Just told him to ‘pay better attention next time.’ Then walked off like nothing happened.”

Price nodded, though the pit in his stomach widened. You were integrating yourself even more, and not just through casual conversation or staying on base. Now, you were actively participating in training, putting yourself in situations where people’s lives depended on you. Perfectly timed, Price thought. You knew how to make yourself indispensable, a hero even. It was the perfect strategy—who would suspect someone who just saved a recruit’s life?

But it only added to Price’s unease. You weren’t just hanging around. You were embedding yourself deeper into their operations, gaining trust in subtle, almost insidious ways. The other soldiers would start seeing you as one of them now, and that was exactly what Price had been afraid of. You were smart, calculated, and every move you made had a purpose.

Ghost noticed Price’s silence, his usual unreadable expression giving way to a flicker of concern. “You think she’s up to something?”

“I don’t know,” Price admitted, his voice rough. “But I’m damn sure we’ve let something in. And if we don’t figure it out soon, it’s going to spread.” He glanced at Ghost, knowing he needed his team more than ever. “Keep an eye on her. And make sure the others do too. If she’s playing us… I don’t want her to slip through our fingers.”

Ghost gave a curt nod before turning to leave, but Price didn’t feel any better. The pieces were moving, the game had started, and you had somehow made yourself both player and wildcard. And if Price wasn’t careful, you were going to turn everything on its head.

***

Unfortunately for the growing alarm bells ringing— screaming— in the back of his head, Price couldn’t deny the shift that had taken place after you saved Private Merrick’s life. The act, as timely as it was heroic, had made you a near instant legend on base. Where there had once been wariness, there was now admiration. Distrust had given way to camaraderie. The mercenary who’d sparked suspicion had, overnight, become one of them.

The recruits, green and eager to prove themselves, were especially captivated. They hung on every word you said, their wide-eyed awe palpable as you walked among them, offering tips, pointers, and more often than not, a sly smile that sent them stumbling over themselves. Soap, naturally, had been quick to follow. Gaz too, now. Wherever you went, they seemed to hover nearby, as if drawn in by some invisible thread you were masterfully tugging.

They weren’t the only ones. The seasoned soldiers, men hardened by battle, found themselves drawn in as well, their initial skepticism melting into begrudging respect. You were seen everywhere now: the gym, the shooting range, combat drills, simulations. You seamlessly inserted yourself into every facet of their routine, giving advice, correcting form, all with a confidence and casual ease that was impossible to ignore.

They ate it up: your presence, your guidance, the way you seemed to understand every nuance of warfare as if you’d written the manual yourself. And through it all, that same playful amusement never left your expression, like you were indulging them in some elaborate game only you truly understood.

For most, that was enough. The charm, the beauty, the undeniable skill, all of it combined into a perfect storm that left the men blind to the subtle machinations beneath the surface. But not Price. And not Ghost.

No, for Price, the growing crowd of admirers only deepened the unease gnawing at him. You were too good at this. Too adept at weaving yourself into the fabric of their base, ingratiating yourself with the men until even the most seasoned soldiers saw you as one of them. It should have been reassuring, knowing that so many eyes were on you, watching your every move. But it wasn’t.

Because Price knew that the more you were seen, the more you were in control. And control, he realized, was exactly what you wanted.

He’d watched you long enough now to know there was no accident in the way you operated. Every interaction, every gesture, was carefully measured, designed to draw people closer while keeping them just far enough from the truth. They saw the hero who saved lives, the expert who could outshoot and outfight most of them. They didn’t see the subtle manipulation, the way you orchestrated their perception of you with all the grace of a master conductor.

Price watched it unfold daily, helpless to stop it, and it unnerved him. You were a serpent in their midst, coiled and waiting, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

It was that uncertainty, the sense that there was more beneath the surface, that had him on edge. He tried to shake it off, to tell himself he was overthinking, that his paranoia was getting the best of him. But his instincts, the same instincts that had kept him alive for decades, refused to quiet.

And then there was Ghost. Silent, observant Ghost, who had taken to watching you with the same wariness that Price felt but couldn’t yet name. The two of them were the last holdouts, the only ones still resisting the pull of your charm. But for how long?

One evening, as Price sat in his office, the weight of sleepless nights and gnawing doubts pressing heavily on him, he heard the now-familiar sound of footsteps approaching his door. He didn’t need to look up to know it was you. There was something distinctive about the way you moved—too smooth, too deliberate.

“Captain,” your voice purred, cutting through the stillness of the room. Slid through the air, low and laced with amusement.

He didn’t bother to respond immediately, keeping his eyes on his paperwork (though his focus had long since abandoned him), hoping you’d take the hint. But of course, you didn’t. You never did. You weren’t one for leaving things alone.

You closed the door behind you and stepped further into the room, the space seeming to shrink around your presence. Thick and suffocating, creeping in the room like smoke. The sweetest perfume. “You’ve been keeping to yourself,” you observed, your tone light, playful, as if you were speaking to an old friend. Teasing. This was all a game to you. He knew it was. He knew you enjoyed every second of it.

“I’m busy,” Price muttered, not looking up from the papers scattered across his desk. Jaw tight. Molar aching. He could feel you watching him. Dissecting him with those sharp, calculating eyes. The room felt smaller with you in it.

“Busy with what? Watching me?” The challenge was evident in your voice, a hint of amusement curling the edges of your words. You took slow, deliberate steps towards his desk. Through the shadows. A panther hunting prey.

Bringing you here was a mistake but Laswell had insisted, and Price— ever loyal to her judgment— had conceded, like always.

The question hung in the air like a challenge, and Price’s grip on the pen tightened. It took everything in him not to snap, not to lash out in a way that you’d only twist into some game. He could feel his pulse quicken, an involuntary reaction to the control you wielded so effortlessly.

“Why are you still here?” he finally asked, his voice low and controlled. Brittle. Like rust flaking off metal.

“I’ve told you,” you began, leaning forward just enough to invade his space. You smiled, that maddening smile, like you knew exactly what you were doing. “I’m curious.” Tone dripping with false innocence.

Price isn’t a religious man but even he knows mythology all around the world say the same thing sometimes: a monster that takes on the shape of beautiful women to lure men in and bleed them dry. Siren. Succubus. Lamia. Jorogumo. Nymphs. You.

Price didn’t buy it. Couldn’t buy it. “Curiosity doesn’t make you stay this long.”

You smiled, that same infuriating, empty smile you always gave. “You really think I’m up to something, don’t you?”

He met your gaze, and for the briefest moment, he saw something flicker in your eyes. Amusement. Triumph. You know, he thought. You know exactly what you’re doing, and you’re enjoying it. The way you were looking at him— it wasn’t innocent at all.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Price asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your eyes glinted with something darker and the air felt heavier. “What do you mean?”

“You linger. Stick around bases after your contracts end. Like in Berlin,” Price pressed, his voice low but firm. “Eight months. That’s what they said. And nothing happened, right?”

Your smile widened, eyes flashing with a dangerous light. “Is that what’s bothering you, Captain? That nothing happened?”

Price’s heart pounded in his chest. You were pushing him. Toying with him, manipulating every word to plant more doubt, more confusion.

“You can call them, you know,” you said, leaning even closer. “Berlin. Warsaw. Cairo. Ask around. I’ve stayed on bases longer than I should have, but nothing ever happens. It’s just you, Captain. Just your paranoia.”

He stared at you, struggling to keep his composure, but you’d seen it. That flicker of doubt. That split second of hesitation. And you pounced on it.

“You’re getting tired, aren’t you?” you whispered. “Decades of service. Constant vigilance. Maybe it’s wearing you down. Maybe you’re imagining things.”

Price clenched his fists, feeling the tension coil in his muscles. He was tired, but his instincts had always been his guide. Yet you were so effortlessly making him doubt them.

“Or,” you continued, voice low and dripping with venomous sweetness, “maybe you’re right. Maybe I am up to something. But if that’s the case… what are you going to do about it?”

Price’s blood ran cold. You were challenging him, daring him to act, to confront you. And all the while, you wore that same damn smile, the one that made him feel like he was the one losing control.

You tilted your head, eyes gleaming as you stepped around the desk, slowly closing the distance between him and you. “You really do think I’m up to something, don’t you?”

Price leaned back slightly, his breath shallow, but he stayed rooted to his chair. You were close now, too close. The faint scent of your perfume mixed with the metallic tang of his anxiety.

Without a word, you reached out, your fingers grazing lightly over his shoulder. Price stiffened, the warmth of your touch sending a shock through his system. You leaned in, your breath brushing against his neck, and whispered, “You look tired, Captain.”

He wanted to move, to shake you off, but his body betrayed him. The exhaustion weighed down his limbs, and before he could stop you, your hands were kneading gently into the knots in his shoulders.

“Carrying the weight of the world, aren’t you?” you cooed softly, fingers working into the tension, the pressure just enough to make him falter. “Must be exhausting. No wonder you’re starting to see things… imagining things.”

Price gritted his teeth, fighting against the wave of fatigue that was crashing over him, but your touch was so… disarming. Slowly, without realizing it, he found himself relaxing under your hands, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. You felt it too—the way his resistance was crumbling, brick by brick.

“That’s it, Captain,” you murmured, your voice laced with false concern as your hands worked lower, pressing into the tight muscles of his back. “You’ve been doing this for so long. Decades of service. Always on edge. Always watching. Don’t you ever just… let go?”

Price’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he forced them open again, fighting to keep control, but the words wouldn’t come. You’d stepped even closer now, leaning against his desk, nearly perched in his lap, your breath warm against his ear.

“I can help, you know,” you whispered, your lips so close they brushed against his skin. “Take some of that weight off your shoulders.”

Price swallowed hard, the tension in the air palpable. He knew what you were doing, knew this was just another layer of your manipulation, but his body wasn’t responding the way he wanted it to. His arms felt heavy, his breathing shallow. Your hands, now on his neck, massaged with an expert’s precision, coaxing him into compliance.

“I’ve been around, Captain,” you continued, your voice soft, hypnotic. “Berlin. Cairo. So many places where they thought like you—always suspicious, always looking for something that wasn’t there. And do you know what happened?”

You leaned in closer, your lips grazing the edge of his jaw, your breath sending shivers down his spine.

“Nothing.”

The word hung in the air, and Price’s head swam, caught between the fog of exhaustion and the insidiousness of your touch.

“I’m not the problem, Captain,” you whispered, your hand tracing down his chest, fingers curling ever so slightly against the fabric of his shirt. “You are. You’ve been at this too long. You don’t know when to stop. When to trust.”

Price clenched his fists at his sides, willing his body to move, to push you away, but he was trapped between his own fatigue and the intoxicating effect of your presence.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you murmured, voice almost tender now. “I’m here because I think you’re special. Smart. Worthy of my attention. But you need to let go. Just a little. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself.”

Your words wove their way into his mind, insidious and slow, planting seeds of doubt. His instincts, the ones that had kept him alive for so long, screamed at him to resist, to see through the haze you were creating. But his body was weak. His mind clouded. And you were so close, so warm, so soft.

Before he could speak, your fingers slid up to his jaw, gently turning his face to meet yours. The way you looked at him—predatory, with a flicker of something darker—made his breath hitch.

And in that moment, he realized just how far he’d fallen. How deep into your web he’d been pulled.

***

The feel of your skin beneath his fingers is rapturous. It’s been too long since he’s touched a woman like this. Years. Decades, maybe. Not since he was a recruit. Maybe not even then.

Your skin is so warm it sears him, like his fingertips are burning against molten caramel, soft and yielding. He bites along the curve of your inner thigh, and the sensation explodes in his mind, melting away whatever resistance he once had.

Electricity hums through him, short-circuiting the alarm bells that had been screaming in the back of his head for weeks. Blessed silence fills the space where doubt and suspicion had lived ever since he saw your dossier. He doesn’t understand you; he’s not sure anyone truly does— but this… this he understands.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, your pants are gone, discarded in the blur of heated moments. His head spins like he’s been drinking the strongest liquor, intoxicated, consumed by the heat between you. He’s drowning, but for the first time in weeks, he’s at peace with it.

How did he get here? You’d walked into his office barely twenty minutes ago, and now…

Now.

His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties, tugging them down with a roughness that makes him groan. The sight of you, glistening, dripping… it’s almost too much.

“Fuck,” the word rumbles from his throat, thick and heavy, like a storm rolling in on a sweltering summer night. His body feels like it’s been set on fire, his blood ignited, burning like the tips of his cigars.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers teasing along your slick folds. The sensation beneath his touch is almost overwhelming— sticky, wet, and so incredibly wanting.

“Fuck,” he murmurs again, the word dragging from his lips as his mouth waters. He can’t stop himself, not anymore. He leans forward, driven by instinct, by a deep seated need to taste you, to devour you.

The taste of your cunt floods his senses, richer than any wine, sweeter than any ambrosia. It’s forbidden, like a taste of something divine, and as his eyes roll back, he’s lost in you.

His hands grip tighter, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as if anchoring himself to the moment. The world tilts, his mind spinning as he presses his mouth deeper, dragging his tongue through your wetness. The heat of you, the taste—it’s all-consuming.

The low hum of his growl vibrates against your core, sending a ripple through you that makes you shudder. Every fiber of his being is alive, sparking, like he’s teetering on the edge of something cataclysmic. His control, usually so ironclad, is slipping with every pulse of your body beneath his.

You moan, soft but sharp, and it ignites something primal in him. He grips harder, pulling you closer, deeper into his mouth, losing himself in the taste of you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him on, and he obliges without thought, driven by a need that eclipses every other instinct.

His mind is quiet. Blissfully, achingly quiet. No questions, no doubts. Just this—your warmth, your scent, your taste. His world narrows to this moment, this singular point of contact where you meet him, where everything else fades away.

He groans again, the sound muffled against you, and it vibrates through his chest like thunder. Every flick of his tongue feels like fire, every second stretching out into something timeless, endless. He’s lost, drowning, and he’s never felt so damn content in the suffocating pull of it all.

Price doesn’t remember how it started, doesn’t remember why it even began. All he knows now is that he’s here, with you, and the rest of the world is a distant blur, a forgotten consequence of this moment.

His mouth works against your cunt, slow but deliberate, every motion designed to unravel you further. Your gasps, your shudders—they fuel him.

His hands grip tighter, anchoring you in place, holding you still against his mouth. He’s seen your strength, knows how easily you could fight him off if you wanted. But you’re yielding beneath him, pliant in his grasp. Submissive in a way that twists something primal inside him.

He holds you firm, his mouth relentless, dragging you closer to the edge with every flick of his tongue. His lips press against your clit, a reverent kiss, sucking gently but with purpose, driving you mad with sensation.

“Price—oh, God,” you gasp, your voice ragged, hands clutching his hair, tugging, pulling. But you don’t push him away. You pull him closer, pushing yourself deeper into his mouth as he coaxes you to the brink.

Your body trembles, thighs shaking, and he knows you’re close. He can feel it in the way your muscles tighten, hear it in the way your breath hitches. And then you’re coming undone, keening above him as your orgasm crashes over you.

Price watches, captivated, as you fall apart. It’s a revelation, the sight of you trembling, unraveling beneath his touch, the taste of you flooding his senses. He drinks it in, savoring every drop, letting it fill him, consume him. There’s something intoxicating in it, a sweetness that lingers, turning his thoughts to static.

He pulls back when he’s had his fill, sitting up, licking his lips as though he’s just finished a feast. The sight of you, dazed, eyes half-lidded, makes something feral stir in his chest.

You slither into his lap, and despite the warning bells starting back up in the back of his mind—viper, viper, viper—he lets you. He can’t resist, not when you fit so perfectly against him, not when your warmth seeps into his skin like a drug.

His belt clinks as his pants fall open, and you smirk, that maddening, teasing smirk, the one that makes him want to either kiss you or strangle you. “That looks painful.”

His cock is painfully hard, the tip flushed, leaking, staining his boxers. Veins bulge along the length, and he’s never felt so desperate, so needy. “Because of you,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

Your smile widens, something wicked and knowing behind it, like you’re a siren luring him deeper into your trap. (Siren. Succubus. Lamia. Jorogumo. Nymphs. You.) “Want me to take care of it, Captain?”

You roll your hips, your slick folds sliding over him, making him jerk up involuntarily. His breath catches, and he nods, unable to form words, his need too great. “Please,” he rasps.

You coo softly, mocking him with your sweetness, teasing him with your control. But then you line yourself up, sinking down slowly, torturously, and he can’t stop the groan that rumbles from his chest.

His head falls back, body arching as the heat of you envelops him, tight and wet and perfect. It feels like coming home, and for a moment, he doesn’t care about the alarms in his head, doesn’t care about the danger you represent. He just needs this—needs you.

You’re not human—maybe you never were. A demon wrapped in the skin of an angel, something sweet and deadly. Sugar and spice for the righteous, poison for the wicked. Karma, incarnate. It’s no wonder Price can’t figure you out, can’t unravel the threads that make you. You’re his punishment, his purgatory, for all the blood on his hands. His salvation, his reward for all the lives he’s saved.

Not quite heaven, not quite hell.

But a taste of both.

He groans as you take him deeper, his mind slipping, thoughts unraveling with every inch of you that sinks down. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, desperate to ground himself, but the way you move—slow, deliberate—makes him feel like he’s losing a part of himself with each second.

The tight, wet heat of you is everything he didn’t know he craved. It’s too much, yet not enough. His vision blurs as you rock against him, your body molding to his, every roll of your hips a deliberate push closer to the edge. You’re in control, and he’s too far gone to even pretend otherwise.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice strained. He can’t hold on much longer, can’t stop the coil of tension winding tighter and tighter inside him. “You—”

You smirk, that wicked smile playing on your lips as you lean forward, your breath ghosting over his ear. “What’s wrong, Captain? Can’t handle a little pressure?”

Your voice, soft and sweet, twists something inside him, tightening the knot of pleasure and frustration until it’s unbearable. He’s never felt this out of control, never let anyone take the reins like this. But with you, it’s different. You’ve slithered into his mind, into his body, like a drug, and now he’s addicted.

“I can handle you,” he growls, hands flexing against your skin. But even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie. You’ve got him, mind and body, and you know it.

You hum softly, running a hand through his hair, tugging lightly, making him groan again. “We’ll see about that, Captain.”

The way you say it, so sure of yourself, so calm, sends a shiver down his spine. You’re toying with him, just like you’ve been doing since you arrived. But now, he’s not sure if he cares. Not when you feel this good.

And that’s the danger, isn’t it? The way you make him want to let go, to stop thinking, to stop questioning. The way you turn his paranoia into a dull hum, background noise compared to the pleasure of you wrapped around him.

You lean in closer, lips brushing against his jaw, your breath warm against his skin. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll take good care of you.”

His breath stutters, fingers tightening on your hips as you start to move again, slow and deliberate, dragging out every second, every sensation, until he feels like he’s going to lose his mind.

The tension inside of him is unbearable, the coil of pleasure so tight it’s threatening to snap. Your hips roll against his, slow, deliberate. Each movement sends shockwaves of sensation through him. His breath is ragged, his control unraveling by the second, catching in his throat at the pressure inside of him builds.

Every part of him is on fire, and he’s teetering on the edge, so close, too close.

“God— fuck,” he groans. Half bitten off words is all he can manage, a guttural rasp as his head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut. You grind down harder, nails dragging across his chest, drawing out the sound again, like you’re pulling his soul from his body.

“You’re close, aren’t you, Captain?” Your voice is a soft purr, a taunting whisper against his ear.

He can’t answer, can’t even think beyond the need to chase his release. Every nerve in his body is lit up and burning with desire. All he knows is that he’s teetering on the brink, and you’re the one holding him there, savoring every second before you let him fall.

Then, with a flick of your hips and a roll of your body, he’s gone. Exploding into pleasure so intense it leaves him gasping, his grip on you tightening as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to reality. He’s lost in the sensation of it, his mind blank, his senses overwhelmed by the feel of you, the taste of you still lingering on his lips. His orgasm crashes over him like a wave, drowning him in sensations, and for a long moment, everything fades— every thought, every suspicion, every doubt. There’s only you.

You watch him fall apart beneath you, a satisfied smile curving your lips as you ride out his release before stilling in his lap.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, the feeling of you still wrapped around him, tight and warm, your body molded to his like you were made for him. His head is spinning, mind foggy, but for the first time in weeks, he feels calm. The constant hum of paranoia, the nagging suspicion, all of it fades into the background, drowned out by the euphora still coursing through him.

His body relaxes beneath yours, muscles going slack as exhaustion takes over after weeks and weeks of very little sleep, and when you finally slip off his lap, he barely registers the loss. His mind, dulled and heavy, floats in the remnants of pleasure. Aware only enough to adjust his softened cock back in his pants with trembling fingers, before his hand falls to the side.

He feels your lips against his temple, something sweet and chaste and not at all like you, humming in his ear with that sultry purr of yours. “Sweet dreams. Goodbye Captain.”

He hums in a reply, too far gone in his post orgasm exhaustion to form words. His mind, dulled and heavy, floats in the remnants of pleasure, blissfully unaware.

He hears you slip out quietly, leaving him slumped over his desk in the dim light of his office, door closing softly behind you. For a moment, the world is silent, and Price drifts into sleep, still half dressed, lost in the afterglow.

***

The next morning, Price wakes up to the harsh sunlight filtering through his blinds, the dull ache of his body reminding him of last night’s encounter. He stretches, feeling the tension in his muscles, and his mind starts to replay fragments of the night before. But as he blinks awake, something feels… off.

Something stirs in his chest. A sinking feeling, like a weight dropping in his gut. He sits up, rubbing a hand over his face, the disquiet creeping in around the edges of his consciousness.

Price frowns, pushing the chair back and standing, a strange sense of urgency crawling under his skin. He grabs his jacket, heads for the door, and steps out into the hallway, his footsteps heavy with the weight of something unnamed.

The hallway feels different this morning—quieter. There’s a strange hush over the base, a weight pressing down on everyone that Price can feel deep in his bones. His instincts scream at him that something’s wrong. He moves briskly, trying to shake off the gnawing sense of unease as he makes his way through the building. The recruits he passes look subdued, heads down, expressions uncharacteristically grim. Even Soap, who’s usually animated in the mornings, sits off to the side in the mess hall, arms crossed over his chest, a deep frown etched into his face.

Price’s gut tightens.

He slows his pace as he approaches, his eyes narrowing at Soap’s slouched posture and the way the men seem more reserved, more… off. Something’s happened. The air feels heavier.

“Soap,” Price calls out, voice gravelly, but not quite as sharp as usual. He’s already beginning to piece things together, though he doesn’t like where the thoughts are leading.

Soap glances up, and for a moment, the younger man looks like he’s on the verge of saying something, something biting, maybe, or sarcastic, but instead, he just shakes his head, lips pressed tight in a line. “She’s gone, Cap.”

Price blinks, his chest tightening as the words register. Gone? His mind scrambles to process it, but there’s a distinct lack of clarity. He swallows hard, forcing himself to stay calm as he approaches Soap’s table, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “Gone?” he asks slowly, though he already knows the answer. “What do you mean, gone?”

“She left early this morning. Ghost saw her off. Said she was chasing another contract,” Soap mutters, the disappointment clear in his tone. He doesn’t look at Price, just keeps staring at his half-eaten tray of food like he’s trying to make sense of something himself.

Price’s blood runs cold. Left. Another contract.

The events of the night before crash over him like a wave, the warmth of your skin against his, your whispered words, the way you’d coiled around him like a serpent, squeezing, suffocating. Goodbye, Captain.

Not goodnight—goodbye.

His heart stutters. You’re gone. And he let you slip away, not realizing that you were never planning to stay. That sinking feeling from earlier becomes a weight in his chest, pulling him down, down into the realization that he’s been played. He let his guard down, let himself get pulled into your orbit, and now… now it’s too late.

Price spins on his heel, already searching for Ghost. He finds him not far off, standing by the exit like a statue, arms crossed, eyes hidden beneath his mask.

“Ghost.” Price’s voice is hard, commanding. “Tell me what happened.”

Ghost gives him a brief look, unreadable as always beneath the mask, but something about his posture tells Price that he’s aware of how bad this looks. “She left around 0500,” Ghost says, voice flat. “Said she had another contract lined up. No fanfare. Just… left.”

No fanfare. Just like that. Price feels the bottom of his stomach drop.

He should’ve known. You’d been toying with him, leading him down a path he should’ve seen coming from miles away. You’d gotten into his head, played him like a fiddle, and now you were gone.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth. He’s lost whatever game you were playing, and the worst part is, he doesn’t even know what the stakes were. He doesn’t know why you played the game, only that you won. You took what you wanted from him, left him reeling, and now… now he’s standing here, empty-handed, with nothing to show for it but this gnawing sense of failure.

Ghost shifts his weight slightly, glancing at Price as if waiting for a response. But what is there to say? The infamous Captain Price had been outplayed, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it now.

“Dammit,” Price mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He feels the weight of exhaustion settle over him, heavier than before. He wants to be angry, to shout, to curse your name for what you’ve done. But all he can feel is that deep, gnawing sense of loss, like he’s let something vital slip through his fingers.

The base feels emptier without you.

***

Seven months later, the world had moved on, but Price hadn’t.

He tried to bury it; your games, the night you left, the way you’d gotten into his head and twisted everything around him. But the ghost of your presence lingered, always just beneath the surface. He told himself it didn’t matter, that they’d never cross paths again, that you were just a fleeting memory in a long line of battles fought and lost.

Until today.

The mission had been straightforward, at least on paper. 141 had been tasked with securing a high-value target in a remote compound somewhere in the Balkans, a dangerous op that left little room for error. They’d expected resistance, expected threats from the usual suspects— mercs, rival PMCs, all of the scum that rise to the surface during geopolitica conflict. But what they hadn’t expected was you, leaning against the wall with that infuriating, knowing smirk. Casual, like you’d been expecting them. Like this was all some elaborate setup for a reunion you’d orchestrated.

“Well, well, well.” Your voice cut through the silence, playful and dripping with amusement. “This is awkward, isn’t it?”

Price’s blood ran cold. His grip on his rifle tightened, every muscle in his body tensing at the sight of you. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were flanking him, their expressions unreadable, but Price could feel the tension rolling off them in waves. No one said a word.

You tilted your head, watching them like a cat watches a cornered mouse. “This is starting to feel like one of those Facebook posts,” you mused, laughter lacing your tone. “You know the ones—‘What would you do if you ended up in a room with everyone you’ve ever had sex with?’” Your eyes slid lazily over them, glinting with amusement as you watch their reactions. Soap stiffens, turning a shade darker. Gaz shifts awkwardly. Ghost remains as still as ever, but everyone can see the tension vibrating through him. (Price knew about Soap, but he feels dread crawl up his spine when he realizes Gaz and Ghost fell for you’re games too) “Guess we’re about to find out.”

��Shut up,” Price growled, voice low, dangerous. But you just laughed, pushing off the wall and sauntering forward, not an ounce of fear in your eyes.

“Temper, temper, Captain,” you tutted, waving a finger at him. “You’re not still upset about our little game, are you? I told you goodbye, didn’t I?”

Price’s hands flexed around his weapon, his mind racing as he struggled to stay composed. He wanted answers—he needed answers. And this time, he wasn’t going to let you slip away without giving them.

“You played us,” he said, voice tight, barely controlled. “You got inside our heads. Why?”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a smile that was all teeth. “Why?” you echoed, feigning innocence. “Because I was bored, Captain. You lot were supposed to be the best, the infamous 141. Special operators, men who could match me, maybe even outsmart me.” You paused, eyes gleaming with amusement as you scanned the group. “But you didn’t, did you? Not a single one of you. Men are all the same, no matter how many wars they’ve fought.”

“Bored?” Soap’s voice cracked through the tension, sharp and disbelieving. “You messed with us because you were bored?”

You shrugged, unapologetic. “What else was I supposed to do? I’m the smartest person in the room, in any room. I’m not just saying that to brag. I was tested and my IQ’s through the roof. I’m a WAIS-certified genius with an Mensa membership. A prodigy if you will.” You tap the side of your head with the muzzle of your gun, flashing them a knowing grin. “You have to understand, that gets tedious after a while. I need something stimulating. You lot, you were supposed to be different. I thought you might actually pose a challenge.”

Price’s stomach churned at your words, bile rising in his throat. He didn’t want to believe it—that it had all been some sick game, that you’d toyed with them, used them, used him just to stave off your boredom.

“Turns out,” you continued, sighing dramatically, “you’re just like everyone else. Predictable. Boring. Disappointing. Men get angry, men get frustrated, men think with their cocks more than their brains, and they don’t stop to think. I even warned you in my dossier, didn’t I? ‘Psychological warfare’s my preferred method’, and yet none of you caught on. So really, you’ve only got yourselves to blame.”

Price’s vision tunneled, his pulse pounding in his ears. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, and for the first time in months, he felt the overwhelming need to wipe that smug look off your face.

“You’re a piece of work,” Ghost muttered, voice low and rough. He hadn’t moved from his position, but Price could feel the weight of his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

You flashed Ghost a grin, unaffected. “I warned you, didn’t I? If you couldn’t see it coming, that’s on you.”

“You think this is some kind of joke?” Price’s voice was dangerously low, fury barely contained. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, couldn’t believe how easily you were dismissing everything that had happened.

But you weren’t phased, not in the slightest. You took a step closer, your eyes glittering with amusement. “I think it’s hilarious, Captain. You were all so certain you could figure me out, so sure that you’d stay one step ahead. But I was always ahead, from the very start.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and Price’s fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to lash out, to scream at you, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. You’d already won, and you both knew it. The game was over, and all that was left was the bitter taste of defeat.

Soap growls, taking a step forward, but Price raises a hand to stop him. His mind races. Every interaction, every word, every glance you’d shared over those months— it had all been apart of your game. And now, standing here, knowing you’d gotten what you’d wanted from them, Price feels the bitter weight of defeat settling in once more.

“What now?” he asks, his voice low, almost resigned.

You tilt your head, considering the question for a moment. “Now? Now we play a different game. I’ve been hired to stop you and the 141, so—“ the gun in your hand cocks and you smirk, that same maddening smirk that drove him insane. He tenses, the lead in his stomach drops.

“Ready for round two, Captain?”

[sofasoap]

Sofasoap's Call of Duty Fic Rec

Always wanted to make a list of my very subjective CoD fic rec list, and also I promised my good buddy @groguspicklejar ( famous author of Beloved series) a list of fic recs, let me list some of my beautiful mutual's and some amazing writers and artists so they can go binge read.

Edit : I'll keep adding artist/writers on as I go. When my brain cells is functioning.

@saltofmercury -Let's start off with the mother of my Mini MacTavish. The one who made me fell in love and hit the nail in the coffin for CoD fandom.

If you are into König, her " Break-in" series is a must read. check out her Soap fics too :) Masterlist

@floral-force - My bestie! delicious Simon/Ghost fics.

American Hospitality is my favourite. Or honeypot is guarantee making you crave for more :)

Check out their Mando fics too :)

@a-small-writer-in-a-big-world - You want slow burn? check out lovely Bear's "The Roommate Series". Wonderful progression of relationship between Simon and his room mate. Your Friendly Neighbor Soap and Shy reader, OH SO CUTE.

@deadbranch - Spy and Cold war style fics? You are in the right place. The killing moon and Dying sun series. Gut wrenching.

or check out the light hearted None Taken ( personal favourite!), threesome fics? Goth style Reader? Check out their MASTERLIST for full list of goodies.

@brewed-pangolin The president of "Soap Squad" club.

Fireside Whiskey - personal favourite. Soft and thoughtful Soap is just heaven. Kati's page is full of wonderful Soap deliciousness. check it out if you want some Soap fun.

@writeforfandoms  - Jen jen jen jen jen. Multifandom talent. AU Prodigy. But let's focus on the CoD here, Puppy Love - Price and puppy? can't go wrong with that. Born for Greatness and Howlin' For You Shifter!AU is my latest obsession here.

@random-thot-generator - Kris, The princess of Thotland and Thotlandia. Their latest work: A Patient Man - had me all hot and bothered. Sweet sweet Rudy. OH how can you be so sexy.

@jynxmirage, Jynx!!!! the one I blame for falling into Top Gun fandom. but that's not the point :P

Communication is Key - my current obsession :) Soft caring Price, oh give me this Captain price any day...

@as-is-above-so-below  - Oh Gezez, Simon X OC ( Freya ) fic The Captain is utterly brilliant. Angst, suspension, Thirst, smut... you name it, you get it.

@roosterr - my Fellow Nikolai fanatic, check out her "guardian angel"

series, action action action and of course, love story :)

@siilvan - another one of my fellow Nikolai fanatic, Aqua Regia

series , Nikolai the flirt, sexy flirt , complete with smut * smirk *

@homicidal-slvt - How can I forget the spark to my Lastochka series?

and one of my biggest supporter.

Check out their creative CoD Headcanons and full list of CoD works that will guarantee satisfaction.

@nrdmssgs - to round off my Nikolai fanatic club , and also brilliant artist, A heart full of pity series is one of my latest obsession featuring good old Nikolai.

@captainpriceslover - my crack fic inspo buddy ( miss you a lot!!!). the one gifted me ideas of Soap dispensers lol.

aiaigasa (相合傘) - featuring our TF141 sweet boy, Gaz, had my heart melting.

@starstruckmiraclekitty  - You want H/C and scenarios? * falling out of the bag * here is the place to go. :)

@random0lover - you want soft fluffy Soap? Hot Chocolate & Hoodies, you want angsty type of story? Open Wounds and War Paint

you get all with Kat!!!

@lethalchiralium , how can I forget Keri! ( I knew I forgot someone.. argh )

The Happiness series, don’t let the title fool ya (well it does bring you happiness reading such talented writing) this story is like washing machine, throws your emotions all over the place, let you grip onto your chair, wanting more.

@mistydeyes so many awesome stories to choose from! My current favourite is "choose your flowers, carefully" Good old Gaz x reader story, and one of my favourite trope - childhood to lovers 🥺 please go check it out!

Now , Some brilliant artists:

@shkretart - This utterly utterly talented person, Price and Nikolai and Simon, will have your nose bleeding within 0.1 seconds.

@ave661 - out of this world 3Drenders always have my eyes popping out of the socket.

@nrdmssgs - mentioned once, should mention again, beautiful art :)

@wombywoo - TF141 boys in their dress uniform? YES PLEASE.

@namedlunagoddess - another 3Drender goddess. OH CHECK OUT HER Sowa Team fic if you are into Gromsko, its HOT SMUTTY DELICIOUS FIC.

@hffhifjou - You want rugby boys? You get rugby boys :) and football. and all sort of deliciousness :)

I am sorry If I miss out anyone. after 13+ hours at work I am exhausted.

[boozenboze]

Merged Teams

Tf 141+Los Vaqueros+König x Male reader

Side note-Some oc’s that I’ve made are being included and they are known as Oi Sotíres(The Saviors). I will be giving further info on them in the future and I'll aldo be using them often throughout some other posts. Anyways hope you enjoy!

Females She/Her and She/They DNI

"How 'ya feeling right now L.T?" Archontas asked the h/c haired male, seeing how his feet thumped the ground. The male mentioned side eyed him and grunted. Ah yes, the typical behavior of a rabbit...or the behavior of a human that was given the DnA of a rabbit. For context the government ran a underground experiment which involved the use of a cute white bunny and 6 test subjects. The plan was simple, they would take the DnA of a rabbit and merge it in with the subjects. As expected, everyone had a different reaction to the sudden change in their bodies. Two of them died, another two experienced contractions from the transformation which later led to their demise. The two that remained took in the pain like champs but sadly one couldn't prevail, which leads us to where M/n is currently.

Falken, one of the sergeant's inside the vehicle was seated in the seat behind him. His large hands had been gently tucking the males ears under his beanie. It was a bit chilly inside the vehicle and knowing the sensitivity of M/n's ears he decided to be a good friend.

“How far are we from this place I gotta shit!” Rage complained as they tapped their foot impatiently. The others in the vehicle looked at the second lieutenant in disgust.

“You could’ve kept that to yourself you know?” Opal questioned as the person with the pixie responded with.

“Yeah I know, but I prefer to see your reactions.” The ravenette responded with a smirk on their face.

“Haha...funny..” Opal said as she glanced at the h/c haired males facial expression.

“How are you not nervous right now?” Opal asked the males ears twitched under the beanie.

“I don’t have a reason to be, it gonna be like any other mission. All we have to do is get the job done then we’ll go our separate ways.” M/n replied as Opal sighed at his answer. No wonder he was Oi Sotíres' Lieutenant. Hopps was a serious man when his code name was in use, but the other 4 members in the vehicle knew who he truly was under that facade.

Timeskip

The truck was being drove into the fences of a base. The sergeants within the vehicle were excited but also nervous. What would this team think of them, how would they treat M/n. Considering M/n’s....situation, they were unsure of how they’d treat their lieutenant. Falken was doing a little dance as he walked beside Rage who had been glaring at him. The blue eyed man stopped in response to his second lieutenants gaze. Opal giggled slightly at her teams antics as she sped up to catch up with Hopps and Archontas.

They were led inside the base by a random soldier, who led them to the room that the Task Force and Las Vaqueros were waiting in. The soldier bid their goodbye and left the premises as the group entered the room. Their arrival caught the attention of the men inside the room, to which they all stood up. The group of 6 walked through the door and stood in different places of the room. M/n was next to Opal, who was rocking back and forth on the heel of her foot and Pain stood next to her, playing with their gloves.

"Khalil, nice to finally meet you all." Price said as he and the dark skinned male shook hands.

"Just call me Archontas sir." The man responded as he turned to M/n who was now standing next him, his gaze being towards one of the walls of the room they were in.

"I'm guessing your the Lieutenant, M/n L/-"

"Hopps would be just fine." M/n cut the Captain off causing everyone to look at him strangely. How could you just cut off your superior like that?

"Aye mate, show some respect." Soap scolded the other male only to receive a heavy glare and a low growl. Archontas chuckled nervously before giving M/n, 'The Look'. The h/c haired male mumbled something as he shifted his gaze to the ground which showed signs of M/n being ashamed.

A few moments went by as everyone introduced themselves. M/n stood near a corner next to one of the taller guys in the room. He introduced himself as König. The man was suprised that M/n hadn't been startled at his presence, considering that he had the tendency to scare others because of his height. Although, his thoughts about that passed once he recalled how tall Falken, Archontas, and Rage were. Opal was talking to Alejandro, who was impressed at how well she spoke Spanish, as well as Rudy whose gaze kept shifting to the male whose gaze was on the wall.

"Whats up with him, he's acting strange." Rudy pointed out as Alejandro turned to him.

"I don't know amigo, el es bastante extraño." Alejandro replied as Opal looked at them in question.

"Didn't Laswell tell you all." Opal asked as the two men looked down at her.

"Tell us what hermana?" Alejandro questioned as Opal looked over to Archontas.

"Hey Capt! I thought you said that Laswell told them?" Opal asked as Gaz furrowed his brows. He had already been skeptical during and before the teams arrival, so that sudden outburst unnerved him.

"Tell us what?" Gaz asks in suspicion, what could they have possibly not known?

"I thought she had...-you know what its fine." Archontas murmered the last thing to himself. The group began to become more cautious than they already were, considering what they've been through with the betrayal of General Shepherd and Commander Graves.

"I can assure you that it's nothing bad, but it should be something that you should be aware of." Archontas started off as the other men in the room stared at him warily.

"M/n is a government experiment." The dark skinned male didn't sugar coat the words that had left his mouth, which caused the others to have looks of confusion and question.

"He's a-huh? A what?" Soap sputters in confusion as Rage rolled their eyes. Of course.....the typical reaction for the words that occasionally had to be said first hand. M/n looked over to the others, having heard what they had spoke about. He made his way towards the others and stood next to his Captain. He pulled the beanie he had been wearing off his head, allowing his ears to stretch from the pressure that had been put on his ears. The others stared at the h/c haired males fluffy hair and tall ears. All the attention that had been bestowed on him caused his ears to lower.

"Can ya'll quit the staring it's weird." M/n spoke while gluing his gaze to the floor. They all took one last moment to admire the mans full beauty before being serious again.

"I'm glad that you informed us...this is just, wow." Price spoke, having to eye the h/c haired male one last time as the others agreed. Rage and Opal both stood next to M/n as the same question ran through their heads.

"How are these next few days gonna go?"

It had been 2 days since Oi Sotíres arrived to the base, and things were going better than expected. Due to M/n's situation, he had a room to himself so that he could do whatever he needed to do. Someone who was constantly checking on him besides Archontas was Rudy. Believe it or not, but Rudy had taken quite a liking to the h/c haired male. The Lieutenant was quiet to say the least, he never made an effort to talk to anyone else besides his group. Every time someone tried to greet him he wouldn't acknowledge them at all, so how did Rudy manage to win the male over. Two words- Fruit Bowl.

After gaining some information from Archontas he learned about M/n's sweet tooth. He didn't eat candy often so as substitution to that he ate a lot of sweet fruits. A personal favorite of Rudy is the cantaloupe, its not to sweet, as well as bitter which automatically made it his favorite treat. Him and M/n would be in the kitchen together, a large bowl of fresh fruits that had been chopped up and placed inside there for them to share. The h/c haired male would constantly walk in and out the room, occasionally being still and standing next to Rudy who had been watching him closely. His expession would soften every time the males ears twitched when the sound of a door being shut was heard. It was something so simple, but also something that he began to love about him.

"M/n, quieres un poco de sandía?" Rudy asked as M/n turned to him with a puzzled expression. His head was tilted and his eyebrows were furrowed which caused the other mans heart to beat faster.

"Ah...sorry, I asked if you wanted some watermelon." Rudy said again in English to which he was able to understand. M/n nodded his head and smiled slightly at the offer. Rudy took one of the freshly chopped fruits and put his hand out for M/n to take it. So, imagine the look on his face when the male ate it out his hand. The e/c eyed male didn't think much about what he did, that's usually how he'd eat stuff that was offered to him. Rudy was flustered. Why exactly? Well the feeling of M/n's lips against his bare hand made him feel some things he hasn't felt in a while. It was almost time for them to head off to the training area, where they would be testing out the Oi Sotires' strength.

"I'm gonna go change, thanks for the fruits Rudy." M/n said with a smirk on his face as he hopped out of the room. Rudy only stood there with a stunned expression, being left with his own thoughts and feelings.

Part 2- in progress....

[minihotdog]

Stay a Wee Longer

Pairing: Soap x Medic!OC (Sergeant Lynn)

Summary: Soap ends up needing to be stitched up and is happy that the person doing it is so purdy

a/n: I actually like this fic ngl

c/w: poor understanding of medicine and the medical field, blood, wounds, mentions of dropping babies, saying too damn much while high off pain meds, a cutie patootie so cute it makes me wanna explode, too much smiling.

Word Count: 1k

***

You raced down the hallways of the small med bay alongside the medic you were turning over as he filled you in on the current influx of patients.

“We just got a wave of task force in the bay. You know what that means.” Reed sings at the end of his statement. 

“Trouble.” Your words are dry, already exhausted from imagining the day ahead. “Yes, ma’am!” He exclaims in agreement.

When the task force was back in town it meant everyone had their work cut out for them. All sorts of injuries would come through, many needing immediate care.

“Your first patient is Sergeant Mactavish. Ooooh, he’s cute.” Reed gasps, peaking at the patient chart before handing the clipboard to you. “You should really make a move.”

“What’s wrong with him?” You ignore his remark. 

Reed rolls his eyes at your attempt to deflect. 

“Laceration, Left pectoral muscle. Bleeding is minimal, large improvement from earlier.”

“Yeah, rog.” 

“If you don’t make a move on him then I will. Give me his file back.” He says while faking taking the clipboard from you desperately.

“Reed! I swear!” You finally break, smirking at your friend. He laughs before you both head in opposite directions.

You reach an unmarked door, a room reserved for more secretive guests. You knock before entering and greet an apprentice cleaning up a mess of bloody gauze.

“Thank you, I’ll take it from here.”

The apprentice nods and leaves. You feel a pair of eyes on you while taking another peek at the patient’s chart before speaking. 

“Hello, Sergeant Mactavish, how are you this morning?” You brace for a sarcastic or angry response only to be met with a genuine “Oh, I'm quite lovely.”

Your eyes dart from the chart to him in surprise. His baby blues staring back at you. You’d ask patients how they were, even when they were obviously in pain, it allowed you to gauge how well they may cooperate during the treatment. Usually, the response would be along the lines of “fuck off” or “what do you think?” Yet here he sat with a slight smile tugging at one side of his lips and a dazed look.

“What’s yer name, bonnie?” His eyes were tired, dark circles clung to them as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. 

“I’m Sergeant Lynn. I’ll be tending to you today.” 

He gives you a proper smile, his eyes nearly closing in the process,

“Good tae meet ye, Sergeant Lynn.”

You notice the scar on his chin and recall his lengthy medical history in the chart,

“You sure do get hurt a lot, don’t you?”

He continues grinning, “Aye, I’m awfully good at that.”

You take a seat on the rolling chair next to the hospital bed where he lies. Your eyes give him a once over looking for any other obvious injuries. He’s lying shirtless, his camo pants splotched with blood here and there. He has a small patch of chest hair and a Scottish flag tattooed over his heart, and old scars litter his torso and arms. Your cheeks felt warm at the sight of his physique, it was obvious that this man loved the gym as much as life itself.

You mentally tell yourself to keep it together as you put your gloves on and begin removing the bloody bandage placed on his chest to help stop any bleeding he still had. His wound still oozes out a slow stream of blood traveling down his chest and slowing at his abdomen. You wipe up the blood with gauze, feeling his muscles contract under your touch. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s bleeding, his gaze fixated on you.

“I’m happy yer the one lookin’  after me today.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that?” You glance up at him quickly before continuing to examine the wound and its depth.

“Yer the most beautiful woman I’ve set eyes on in a long time. And I’m no sayin’ that ‘cause I’ve been starin’ at ma teammate’s ugly mug fir months.” His words occasionally blend together in a messy slur.

You felt a little embarrassed by his compliment. It wasn’t the most appropriate time for you to be receiving one. He was bleeding, wounded, and your eyes trying so desperately to not gawk at his bare chest or stare back into his captivating eyes.

“Thank you, sergeant. I assume the pain medication you’ve been given is working well.”

“Ye assumed correctly, but I still hae some discomfort.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, I’ll up the dose for you.” You quickly reach over him turning a dial on his dropper, the liquid beginning to drop more frequently. Soap notices your sweet-smelling perfume at the brief proximity and he lets his head drop back on the bed, eyes shut trying to savor it. The cool liquid entering his arm through an IV causes him to sigh and you assume he’s feeling the effects of the medication a little more, relaxing even further into the bed but once again he looks at you, this time with the softest eyes making your heart jump at the sight.

“Could you state your name and date of birth for me? Gotta ask before I do anything.”

“As ye wish. John Mactavish, January 12, 1996.”

You thank him quietly and continue trying to clean his wound and stop the little bleeding that is still present.

“A winter baby, huh? I heard they’re the happiest little things.”

“Aye? Where did ye hear that?”

You toss the used gauze into a small bin on your work table. “It’s an old wives tale.” Your lips form a downturned smile. “I used to deliver babies. The old midwives always had the darndest things to say.”

He chuckles sweetly, “Ah wonder if it’s true.”

“Me too. Unfortunately. I only saw the babies when they were born. Never got the chance to catch up.” You find yourself chuckling alongside him. You were certain a tint of pink had found its place on your cheeks. 

“It must be a wonderful experience tae see the birth o’ a wean.”

You pause looking up at him with your eyebrows raised. He recognizes the look he gets almost daily from his teammates and translates, “A baby.”

You grab your suture and begin stitching the wound shut.

“It is. Sometimes it feels like a game of Russian Roulette, sometimes you get an easy delivery.” Your lip twitches downward, “Other times it all goes to shit. You don’t know what to expect, but with time it becomes a sixth sense.” You dab his wound with some gauze before continuing. “Most people don’t realize how hard birth actually is, or the risks. People think it’s easy because you might have the organs for it, but it often doesn’t go as planned.”

He listens to you attentively, his eyes go from the ceiling to you and back to the ceiling.

“Why did ye leave that work? Ye sound passionate.”

“Well, you can only drop so many babies before they send you running for the hills.” You joke, hoping he picks up on it instead of believing you were some serial baby dropper. His laughter fills the small room, the sound almost boyish but laced with the deep bass of his voice. You can tell he probably needed a laugh after the pain he’d endured. 

“Ye hae a great sense o’ humour, sergeant.” His laughter dies down and he looks at you for the thousandth time. “Seriously, why did ye stop?”

You sigh, “I wanted a little more… Pizzazz?” The word sounded more like a question, you weren’t sure if it truly explained how you felt.

“…Pizzazz?” He repeats with a snicker falling from his lips. He tilts his head at you, his eyebrows raised in amusement. You look up at him with a spark in your eye that he can’t explain. “I wanted more chaos, more variety, heart-pounding work.”

“Hmm.” In a way he understood.

“When I woke up this morning, I had no idea what I’d be doing. Here I am stitching up a handsome Scotsman and tomorrow…” You shrug, “Maybe a rookie will come in with their fingers in an ice chest after a Roman candle fight. Who knows?”

He chortles, partially from you calling him handsome and from remembering his days of being a mentor to the rookies of his old unit before the SAS and Task Force. He’d received countless phone calls in the dead of night being informed that his troops were out raising hell. A rookie’s life was hell, but without responsibility, the blame would fall on whatever poor soul was listed as their supervisor. 

“That mean ye work well under stress?”

“Something like that.” Your words trail off focusing a little harder on the intricate parts of the stitch. “What made you want your crazy-ass job?”

“The adrenaline is mental, but I get tae do something rewardin’. I’m proud tae protect folk, even frae dangers they dinnae know exist.” He hisses slightly at the end of his sentence. You stop, waiting for him to recuperate. He gives you a reassuring look before you continue. “What made ye wan’ tae be a medic?”

“I like helping people, even if they fight back half the time.” You go quiet for a few seconds. “Also, some rotten girl I went to school with said she wanted to be one as well and I said I could do it better.”

“Haha, ye seem like the competitive type.” His tongue darts out to wet his chapped lips. Your eyes retreat back to his chest, and you chew on your lip trying to calm yourself. 

“I’m sure ye’d kick her arse at this a thoosand times o’er. I can see ye pit a lot o’ love intae yer work.”

“I do what I can.” You wink at him playfully. It was now his turn to blush, he was thankful that the scruff he’d grown the last two days was there to camouflage it. Cannae let a bonnie lassie see ye like this, John

“Alright, Sergeant Mactavish. You’re all stitched up and ready to go. Please take it easy until it heals. And please no Roman candle fights.” You warn while placing your tools on the small table to your side. 

He laughs heartily, “Thae days are long behind me.”

“I’ll have an apprentice come to take out your IV and if you have an escort you can leave immediately.”

“Thank ye. I suppose it’s better tae be safe than sorry. Even though I reckon I could handle it.” His large hand comes up to scratch his scruff. His bicep contracts in what he thinks is a natural movement. You mentally roll your eyes at his innocent peacocking. If he hadn’t been so delightful, you’d have written him off as another sweet-talking womanizer you’d encountered from the special forces. 

“Maybe you would manage just fine but every precaution comes about because the unthinkable has happened.” You clean up your station, disposing of your gloves. 

“Do you need anything before I leave?”

“Tae be honest, I’d like if ye stayed a wee bit longer and humored a poor injured man.”

You shake your head at him with a smirk. Your pager cuts you off before you have a chance to respond. “I’d love to stay but I have to run.” You take out a notepad, scribble on it and hand it to him. Your soft hands graze his calloused ones. “Here you go, darlin’.” You shoot him a smile and he gladly returns one before you scurry off leaving him alone in the room. He looks at the piece of paper realizing you’d given him your phone number. A big smile spreads on his face, red finally peeking out from behind his facial hair. Oh, Johnny lad ye hae ootwitted yersel!

[waves-against-a-cliff]

The Dock

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[nieceeee]

“THE AFTERMATH”

P/S: babydaddy!eren never skips the aftercare. Ever

W/C: 1162

A/N: First request I saw was a nice little bit of fluff so here is baby daddy Eren taking care of his babydoll as he always does, fluff, aftercare, babydaddy!Eren X reader, just some cute stuff to clean your palettes before the smut comes back in😈, nicknames, shower

Side note: y’all don’t understand how much I love the support. As I’ve said this is my writing from my book that I substitute my OC for because Eren is my baby fr lol. But thank y’all for the loves, reblogs, and comments. It’s means more than you know.

Shoutout to @anabanana00 for this post🤍. I might do a second drop today for all the love

“We should probably get cleaned up babydoll.” He said, stroking the side of my head. “You finished already?” You pout. “You not?!” He huffed out a laugh, eyebrows raised in slight shock as he met my gaze. “It’s been a while.” you shrug. You took the time that he was off guard to flip him onto his back, mounting on top of him. “Babydoll…” he breathes, hands shooting up to your waist. You smile down at him, “Don’t worry, I just want to kiss you.” You say softly.

You lean down and press your lips against his, savoring in the softness. He grazes his tongue against your teeth. Your tongues tangle with each other, arching and curving in slow intimacy. Eventually you separate, needing to come up for air. You look down at his face again, green eyes hooded and glossed over, lips swollen and red.

“Come on, I need food for round two.” You tease, slipping your down his body. Your feet hit the floor and your legs wobble slightly. “You good princess?’ He asks, sliding his warm hands against your waist to help steady you. You nod, pressing your palms against the bed until you can stand solid on your feet. “I got you babydoll, Come on.” Eren stands up and lifts you in his arm bridal style, carrying you to the bathroom.

He sits you on the counter before walking to the shower and turning the water on. You lean back into your hands and watch him move around the room, collecting towels and soaps to use. Once he places everything down, Eren comes back over to you, lifting you from the counter, wrapping your thighs tightly around his slim waist. He opens your sliding door and slips into the shower before letting you slide down his body until you’re standing in front of him.

The hot water cascades down your back as you let out a low murmur of approval. He lathered the soap in the towel and took his time washing your body. Starting with your shoulders, he drags the towel down your arms and under your armpits. He takes extra time circling each of your breasts with the towel, dragging the fabric over your already sensitive nipples. You hiss slightly which makes him pause, looking into your eyes for approval to continue. You nod slightly and he starts back up again.

Once he finishes your top half he moves to your long legs. The towel moves across your body with such intensity and gracefulness. You stand in silence as you let him cater to you. He makes sure to get every crevice, moving the towel around to your ass and cleaning up the mess he made in between your thighs. Grabbing another towel, he wet it with the hot water and brushes it in between your legs. You shiver slightly as the fabric swipes your sensitive area, your arm shooting out to grip his biceps. He looks up at you from the position he is in and heat surges through your body. Those emerald eyes you love so much search your face for any discomfort as he kneels down to wash your body.

“You ok?” He asked. You nod. He continues to wipe all over you before pushing you gently underneath the running water. “Hair or no?” He asks, breaking the silence. “Yes please.” You whisper. He smiles softly, reaching to the shelf and grabbing your favorite shampoo. He squirts some in his hands, smirking to himself at the sound, his mind going back to a few minutes before. You playfully roll your eyes and shake your head at him. He lathers the shampoo under the water and gently begins to rake his fingers into your thick hair, scratching at your scalp softly.

You smile at the actions remembering the very first time you taught him to take care of your hair. He was so nervous to touch it then which completely contrasts how skilled he is with you now. “Mmm, I love it when you do this.” You say softly. “I know .” He teases. He scratches your head a little harder before rinsing then repeating the same actions with the conditioner.

“Rennie.” You call to him in a squeak. “Yes, my sweet baby doll.” He responds, brushing detangler through your hair, making sure he sections it and twists each part to the side like you showed him years ago. “I-…” you weren’t exactly sure how to ask. This all felt so domestic and natural. But that wasn’t your relationship with him. It didn’t work out that way for you all. “What are we doing?” You whisper softly. He finishes twisting your hair, squeezing the excess water out before the shower off, going to grab you a towel. You step into the fluffy cotton and wrap it around yourself.

He looks into your eyes and you could swear you saw a hint of longing there. “Ask me tomorrow.” He whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Come on.” He leads you to the kitchen and sits you down on one of your metal stools at the island as he rummages through the fridge. He pulls out a few drinks and makes his way towards the cabinets. You watch him work his way around the kitchen as if it was second nature. His beautiful tresses are pulled into a half ponytail to keep it out of his face, a few beads of water dripping from the ends of the shorts strands that still fell over her forehead. The white towel he used to dry off is discarded and a pair of his leftover shorts hang off his hips.

Eren had given you one of his t-shirts that you loved, the letters old and worn, and left his chest bare. You take the time to admire the full arm sleeve he has, paying attention to the intricate designs in the ink that he had done on himself. He works swiftly in the kitchen, compiling a tray of snacks and drinks for you both. “Ready?” He asks. You nod again, words seemingly to be nonexistent in your brain. He grabs the tray and beckons you to follow him into the living room.

He quickly rearranges your big modular sofa into a bed, tossing your blankets and fluffy pillows together. He sits the tray next to the couch and plops down on the sofa, holding his arms out to you. You shuffle your way over to him, snuggling into his body as he turns on one of your favorite comfort movies and pulls you closer into him. That familiar scent of sandalwood and mint wafts into your nose as your body presses close to him. You feel his long fingers on your back, rubbing small circles into your skin as the movie starts to playYou allow all of it, knowing that tomorrow may bring rain but you were going to bask in the sun as long as it would stay.

[thevegandarkelf]

One Tradition At A Time

18+ for mature content/themes, minors DNI

This oneshot features my OC Lydia Vector (Vec) from my main story ‘Finding Myself, Finding You.’ It is not necessary to read that story first, but there are small references to it made throughout this.

A year into their relationship, Vec’s determined to help Daryl heal his inner chid and give him experiences he missed out on as a kid, starting with a simple Halloween tradition. But it brings up a lot of buried emotions for Daryl, more than Vec could’ve prepared for.

We have Insecure!Daryl in this one. This made me a little emotional when writing it, I won’t lie. I just want our sweet archer to be protected at all costs.

AO3 link

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x OC

Genres: Fluff, angsty (hurt to comfort)

Era: Alexandria, pre-Saviors

Word count: 6.5k

Trigger/content warnings: swearing, mentions of panic attacks and PTSD, allusions to Daryl’s traumatic childhood, slight sexual content but no smut, mentions of queasiness/gagging/stomach heaving

@sunnykittyzz you wanted to be tagged in this <3

Lydia Vector (Vec), her parents, her siblings & this story (c) me, thevegandarkelf. Glinda & The Wizard of Oz (c) Warner Bros

Happy Halloween ya gorgeous humans 🖤🎃🍁👻🍂💀🧡

“Found this in the basement.” Michonne tossed the velvet material in my direction, which I successfully caught mid-air. “It looks like it would fit you.” I shook the garment out in front of me, the small amount of dust that’d accumulated on it flying in all directions, eliciting a cough from me. Eyeing it up and down, a small smile crossed my lips.

“I hope you’re right,” I replied.

I stepped into the bathroom, pulling the door behind me. I slipped my glasses off and set them on the side of the sink, folding the arms in and resting them next to the bar of lemon-scented soap. I tugged my shirt off over my head, letting it slide off my arms onto the floor at my feet. Taking the black garment, I slid it over my head, bringing my arms through the sleeves and the torso over my curves. I draped my hair over my shoulder and adjusted my bra before reaching for my glasses again. I pushed them back up and scrunched my nose a few times, a small, quirky habit of mine to get my glasses in the most comfortable position. Flattening out my flyaways, I admired my reflection for a moment before joining Michonne once again.

I’d been at Alexandria for well over a year now. Being able to call this community my home and the people in it my family was one of the biggest wins, one of the best things I could’ve asked for in the end of the world. The biggest win, of course, was meeting and falling in love with a certain rugged, rough-and-tumble archer.

Over the last year, he was there for me through everything, loved me through every panic attack and PTSD meltdown. Held me every time I woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare and was beyond patient when it came to physical intimacy. The man was a saint, and to this day, I don’t know how I got so damn lucky to be able to call him mine. Now, though, it was my turn to help him.

Anyone who’d gotten to know Daryl knew, to some degree, of his tumultuous childhood. He’d never explicitly said it, but I was almost certain he’d never experienced a proper holiday. No decorating a Christmas tree or gathering around a table full of home-cooked food on Thanksgiving. This year, I was aiming to change that.

Based on the changing of the leaves, it was sometime in October, and the idea that I’d had scratching at the inside of my brain for weeks was finally able to come to fruition.

While Daryl had been out on a hunt all day, I’d gone around to each house, asking everyone if I could rummage through their basements in search of old Halloween costumes left behind by past residents. Most didn’t have any, or if they did, it either didn’t fit or wasn’t my style. Michonne, however, managed to find a witch costume stowed away in a plastic bin that was likely older than both of us. It was a velvet black dress with a gorgeous v-shaped neckline whose point stopped just above my chest, adorned with bell sleeves and a frayed hem. There was a faux-corset backing, which consisted of small rings and a silky black ribbon. It could be tightened a little, but was mostly meant to function as decoration. The costume came with a black pointed hat, and I had a pair of fishnets at home to complete the look.

But the costume was only one step of my plan.

We’d been able to grow some pumpkins in the garden, but since our food supply was diligently tracked and kept under a hawk-like watchful eye, it was trickier to get my hands on those. Maggie agreed to sneak a couple away for me if I promised to clean her bathroom, which I happily agreed to since it meant getting my hands on the most crucial piece of the puzzle. She managed to get two small ones with ease, insisting on exchanging them with me behind my house at the crack of dawn like we were participating in some kind of back-alley drug deal.

“Sorry they’re so small. They’re all I could get my hands on,” she’d told me.

“No need to apologize,” I assured, “you don’t know how much it means that you did this for me. Thank you.”

Even sweet little Judith was dressed up in a cow costume, the hood pulled up around her head adorned with ears, eyes, and a snout. Having her along wasn’t originally part of my plan, but after finding the costume buried with mine, I knew I had to give her baby’s first Halloween.

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” Michonne asked, doing her best impression of Glinda from The Wizard of Oz.

“Depends on the context,” I smirked, biting the interior of my bottom lip, “and who you ask.”

“How does it feel? You look great,” she complimented as she bounced Judith in her arms. The little one made a series of delighted gurgles and babbles as she scanned me over. “I think she agrees.”

“I mean, it’s a bit short, but…” I did a small twirl, the frayed edges of the hem flowing around my thighs. My shorts barely peeked out, hardly visible as they blended in with with the dress. “Ugh, it’s so cute. I can’t pass it up.”

“I don’t think Daryl will mind,” she teased. I rolled my eyes and huffed a sigh as I momentarily stopped away to retrieve my shirt from the bathroom floor.

“Oh shush.” I turned away, gathering my hair over one shoulder and looking back to talk to her. “Can you help me with the back?”

She nodded and placed Judith at her feet, untying the loose bow at the bottom of the corset, tugging gently at the ribbon to tighten it ever so slightly. The soft material cinched in around my ribs and at my waist, accentuating what subtle curves I did have.

“That’s perfect,” I said, “tie it off, please.” She obliged and tied the silk into a small bow, double-knotting it to ensure it stayed in place. I did one last final twirl before giving her a hug, excitement beginning to bubble in my chest. “Thank you, Michonne. You and Maggie are awesome for helping me get what I need.”

“It’s sweet that you’re doing this for him. I think he’ll love it.”

“And thank you for letting me give Judith her first Halloween experience.” I shoved my t-shirt under my dress and into the pocket of my shorts before squatting to scoop Judith up. I folded the hat, pinning it under my arm, and gave her a soft peck on the cheek, the fur of her costume tickling my skin. “Now c’mon my angel. Let’s go surprise your Uncle Daryl.”

My skin became flecked with goosebumps as the crips air nipped at my bare legs. The sun had almost completely set, bathing the community in what remained of its golden glow. Having grown up in the Midwest, I may have been biased towards an autumn sun. There was truly nothing like it. 

I bounced Judith in my arms as I walked down the path toward home, disregarding any stares I received from passerby’s doing a double take. She giggled and clapped as a chirping bird flapped past us, likely returning home to settle in with their family for the night. Just as I was about to do.

Once home, I was greeted with the comforting scent of a plethora of herbs and spices. My mom’s lasagna soup recipe, another component to my surprise, was in the slow cooker on the kitchen counter, nearly finished. I was anticipating the timer to go off at any minute. I kicked my boots off and brought Judith upstairs, resting her on the bed before digging my fishnets out of a drawer. Keeping an eye on her, I slipped my shorts off, tossing them in the laundry hamper basketball-style and scoring a slam dunk. I sat back on the bed, bunching my fishnets at my feet and sliding them on, careful to not let my nails snag the material. Standing and pulling my dress down, I placed the hat on, the final touch to my adorable outfit, and turned to Judith.

“What do you think?” I spun in a few circles for her, balancing myself with my arms as to not get too dizzy and topple over. She was grinning from ear-to-ear, giving me her best attempt at a round of applause as she unrhythmically clapped her hands together. “Ugh, thank you. You’re such a girl’s girl, Jude.”

Daryl would be home any minute, so I knew I had to act quickly. I gave myself a quick look-over in the mirror, fixing my hair and adjusting the hat to the most comfortable angle. With the cheesiest grin on my face, I gathered a few blankets from the corner of the room, throwing them over my shoulder. Scooping Judith back into my arms, I took her downstairs, setting her on the newspaper I’d spread out in the corner of the living room. The pumpkins sat atop it, the carving knives I’d found on a run resting on the kitchen island, alongside some spoons. I took the blankets and arranged them in a sort of manger-like bundle in the event Judith needed to sleep. I looked up at her through my bangs, the sigh that slipped out from between my lips blowing them out of the way for a moment before they came cascading back.

“I just hope he likes it,” I said to her.

As I finished setting up Jude’s pseudo-crib, the doorknob clicked, a gust of chilly autumn air rushing in as the door swung open, knocking softly against the wall. Speak of the devil, or in this case, angel, and he doth appear.

Daryl came striding in, grumbling something in an irritated tone under his breath. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but if I had to guess, it had to do with the other guys he was out with, as it usually was. The “clunk” of his crossbow hitting the ground echoed through the front of the house, drowning out the soft laughter of the babe on the floor next to me. She knew her Uncle Daryl’s voice anywhere, and she was elated.

“Wait here, sweetheart,” I whispered to Judith. An adorable grin spread across her face in response, as if she was giving me her approval. I skipped around the couch, doing a small twirl as I approached him.

“Hey you,” I greeted. He was knelt on the ground, untying his boot. He looked up through greasy strands of chocolate locks, and upon seeing me, his features softened, the scowl previously adorning his lips dissolving into a soft smile and the wrinkles from scrunching his face fading. He eyed me carefully, his longing gaze lingering on each and every hole in my fishnets as he brought himself to his feet.

“Hey yourself,” he practically cooed. His accent was thick, his tone as silky as the ribbon on my dress as he pulled me against him by my hips. Regardless of his mood, Daryl was always so handsy when he came home from a long day, needing to feel my soft skin against his and bask in the comfort I brought him.

“Ya cast a spell on me or somethin’? ‘Cause it worked.” My hands wandered to his chest, playing with the buttons of his shirt and feeling his heartbeat under my fingertips. It picked up for a moment, then slowed as he relaxed into our kiss and his body melted into mine.

He bounced the edge of my hat with his finger, an amused chuckle emerging from the deepest part of his chest. “Where’d ya pull this from?”

“Found it in a basement. What do you think?”

“Lookin’ cute.” The mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth sent blood rushing straight to my cheeks. “Real cute.” His hands found the hem of my dress, lifting the back slightly as they traveled underneath and rested on my butt, giving it a gentle squeeze, his fingers tangling in the holes of my fishnets.

“Daryl, please,” I laughed, patting his chest, “there is a child present.”

As if on cue, Judith toddled out from around the corner of the couch, steadying herself with her hands as she walked over and plopped herself onto Daryl’s boot. She wrapped herself around his leg, her tiny arms barely able to reach around his calf. He was beaming as he leaned down to scoop up the little one and kissed her cheek, eliciting a string of adorable giggles from her. I’d seen Daryl interact with Jude countless times, yet still, each and every time, I would be left with a smile that caused my cheeks to ache and fluttering in my chest.

“She likes me, but you’re clearly the favorite,” I laughed.

He was the first to feed her. Of course he was the favorite.

“Ya gonna make me dress up too?” he joked, his fingers fiddling with one of the ears on Judith’s costume.

“Only if you want to,” I teased, “I have something for you. C’mon.” He took my outstretched hand, interlocking my fingers with his as I guided him to the living room, stopping at the edge of the newspaper. The grin on my face could’ve lit up the entire community.

“’S’all this?” he asked, his eyes scanning over the sight in front of him.

“I thought I’d help you lose your pumpkin-carving virginity.” I briefly stepped away to retrieve the carving knives and spoons from the kitchen island, squatting to set them on the newspaper next to the pumpkins. I took his free hand in mine again, kissing the back of it and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know you probably didn’t get to do stuff like this growing up. I thought…I thought maybe I could give you the experience of something you missed out on." My thought was briefly interrupted by the obnoxious beeping of the slow cooker, signaling the food was done. “This is how my family used to do it. My mom would make a special lasagna soup—that’s what’s in the slow cooker—and my brothers and I would put our costumes on and carve pumpkins in the living room. We usually did it a few weeks before Halloween. I think I was like 2 or 3 when it started.”

“How come ya put the costumes on for it?” Daryl asked as he rocked Judith in his arms.

“According to my mom, Preston was dressing as a pirate that year, and he was just too excited to wear his costume and couldn’t wait until Halloween.” I chuckled as memories from years worth of Halloweens flipped through my mind.

“So my parents got the idea to have us all dress up to carve pumpkins. Scratch the itch Preston had been asking about for weeks. And it just…kind of became the tradition after that. The soup recipe has been in my family for decades. I recreated it as best I could with what we have.”

He began absentmindedly stroking my hand with his thumb as his eyes wandered from each pumpkin to the tools on the ground, then into the kitchen, landing on the slow cooker before coming back to the pumpkins. I could practically see the smoke coming out of his ears as he took everything in. A small smile tugged at his lips, threatening to crack his usual stoic demeanor. But there was something else there, something I couldn’t put my finger on, bubbling just under the surface. Whatever it was, he was fighting to hide it, blinking a few times and subtly shaking his head, like he was stuck in a trance and was trying to bring himself out of the clouds and back to reality.

“What do you think?” I asked, tilting my head to get a better look at him.

The small smile that was threatening to break through finally appeared, and a soft, breathy laugh escaped him. “It’s real nice.” He set Judith down at his feet before bringing his lips to mine, his hands finding my waist and pulling me against him, encapsulating me in his warmth. Despite the chill in the air, I was nice and cozy. “Ya didn’t hafta do all this.”

“I know I didn’t have to. But I wanted to.” His fingers fiddled with the silky ribbon on my back before traveling to my waist and pulling me against him once again. Jude grabbed onto my tights, giggling as her fingers played with the texture. “C’mon. I’m excited to help you pop your pumpkin-carving cherry.”

I scooped up Judith while Daryl grabbed the carving knives off the floor. I sat her in the bed I’d made for her, grabbing a stuffed bunny she’d left here prior and handing it to her. Once she was satisfied, I took a seat in front of one of the pumpkins, folding my legs to the side and pulling my dress down as much as I could.

“Sorry, I know they’re small. It’s all Maggie could sneak away for me,” I explained. Daryl crossed his legs as he took a seat next to me, scooting until he closed the space between us.

“Whadaya apologizin’ for? Did more than ya needed to,” he replied.

I took one of the carving knives from him and stabbed it into the top of my pumpkin, leaving an inch or so of space between the stem and what would be the perimeter of the opening. The nostalgia coursing through my veins was almost suffocating, but in a comforting way. “God, that felt good.”

“Careful now,” Daryl warned, reaching out to stroke my forearm. His touch was always so light, like being tickled by a feather. “Don’t want ya cuttin’ yaself.”

“My love, I’m a surgeon. I think I can carve a pumpkin just fine,” I assured.

I worked around the top of my pumpkin, the scent wafting out filling me with reminiscence. Daryl did the same with his as I removed the top and began to work at the inside of mine with a spoon.

“Whadaya usually do with ‘em after?” he wondered.

“Like after they sit out for a while?” I asked, and he nodded, “we can…well, we can cut them up and eat them. Let them rot, throw them out a second story window and smash them. Whatever we want. My brothers and I used to either let ours rot or throw them out one of our bedroom windows and smash them in the driveway, if that’s what you meant.”

“Could kill a walker with this thing,” he commented as he took the top off of his.

“Ooh, I’m gonna carve a bow on mine, that would be so cute!” I gushed, “what about you, Daryl? What are you gonna do with yours?”

“Pumpkin’s pretty tiny,” he smirked as he rotated it in his hands before eyeing me, “could carve it into a house for ya.”

I stood at an average 5 foot 7, and he only had three, maybe four inches on me. Still, from the day I arrived inside the walls, he relentlessly teased me about being “small,” often calling me “tiny” and “short stuff.” It never bothered me, as I knew it was all in good fun from the start. The way we teased each other was a love language all its own.

“Y’know what?” I reached into my pumpkin, scraping my hand along the side to scoop up a small handful of guts and seeds, swallowing hard to prevent myself from gagging. I may have been a surgeon, an emergency room surgeon at that, but while I was unfazed by human guts and gore, the texture of pumpkin guts made me queasy. “This is for that.”

I flicked the slime in his direction, some of the slick guts catching in his hair and the rest sliding into his lap. I stifled a chuckle as he took the goop from his hair and tossed it onto the newspaper. “Payback’s a bitch, huh?”

His face contorted into a devious smirk, a subtle glimmer in his eye further corroborating my suspicions of what was coming. Daryl flicked some pumpkin guts in my direction, but much to my dismay, they landed in my mouth. I gagged and spat them out on the newspaper, making a series of disgusted heaving sounds, hacking up more saliva in an effort to get the slime off my tongue.

“Shit, sorry,” he apologized as he reached over to brush some seeds off my dress.

“No, it’s alright,” I replied, wiping my mouth on my sleeve and stifling a chuckle. I grasped his collar and pulled him in for a kiss, slipping my tongue into his mouth and wriggling it around his before pulling away. “But if I have to taste it, so do you.”

We talked as we worked on our pumpkins, Jude occasionally offering her opinion with a series of coos and babbles. Daryl told me about his day, how well the hunt went, and about the same guy who was always nearly getting himself killed on every excursion. He’d almost become a meme at this point.

“Still don’t know his name, do you?” I remarked.

“Still don’t care to know,” he retorted.

I peered over the brim of my glasses at Jude, watching her cuddle with and smack the stuffed bunny around in her hands. I tapped on Daryl’s arm and twirled my index finger in circles while nodding toward Jude, indicating for him to spin his pumpkin in her direction. He cocked his eyebrow, but obliged, albeit confused. A smile crept across my lips as I rotated mine around to show her.

“What do you think, sweetheart? Whose do you like more?” I asked.

She looked up from her bunny, her eyes darting between us and scanning over the progress we’d made on our pumpkins so far. A small string of drool spilled out onto her chin as she gaped at us, as if she was mesmerized. Taking her toy, she tossed it in Daryl’s direction, the stuffed bunny landing only a foot away from her.

“’t’s ‘cause I’m the favorite,” he joked, hopping up from his spot to retrieve the bunny. He knelt to grab it, placing it back in her lap and using his thumb to clean the drool off her chin.

“Could you at least have pretended to like mine more?” I teased. She giggled as she waved the toy in rebuttal, grinning from ear-to-ear.

I decorated mine with a classic Jack ‘O Lantern face and a bow, and Daryl had, in fact, carved the rough outline of the shape of a house into his. Initially, I presumed he was joking, but he was committed to the bit, and I had to commend him for that. If men have nothing, it's the audacity.

Despite his initially semi-cheery disposition, something was off. He was becoming increasingly quiet, the tone of his voice changing as his mood continued to dampen. At first, I thought maybe he was just tired. After all, he had been out hunting all day. But I was well acquainted with tired Daryl, and that wasn't who was sitting next to me.

As the night went on, Jude’s yawning became more frequent, and eventually, her eyes fluttered closed, despite her little mind’s protests to keep them open. Scooping her up in my arms, I nestled her into the bundle of blankets on the floor, gently lifting her arm and placing her stuffed bunny at her side. I admire her for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall and her tiny fingers grip around the arm of her bunny.

“Seems like her first Halloween really wore her out,” I commented as I rose to head upstairs to the bathroom.

After returning, I went to stir the food, but something stopped me in my tracks. The energy in the air had shifted. It was heavy, thick with heartache, and it filled my chest with an anguish I’d never felt before. Rounding the corner of the living room, my eyes landed on Daryl, head hanging low and slowly tapping the pumpkin in his lap.

“Daryl…are you ok?”

He was somber, the expression on his face dropping into one of sadness. I stepped over to him slowly, carefully, tip-toeing around him as to not stomp too hard and wake Jude. Kneeling on the floor across from him, I tilted my head to get a better look through his fallen strands of hair. He kept his gaze fixated on the floor, not daring to make eye contact with me. His lack of a response was becoming concerning.

“My love, can you talk to me?” I asked. I bit at my bottom lip in a pathetic attempt to soothe my rapidly-building anxiety, preparing for the gut-punch answer that could come after my next question. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Ain’t ya. ’S me,” he replied, continuing to softly tap on the sides of his pumpkin, “never had nothin’ like this ‘fore.”

“I know, that’s why I—“

“Ain’t jus’ this,” he interjected, cutting me off mid-sentence and placing his pumpkin next to him. He hung his head in contempt, the shame weighing heavy in his voice. “Feel like ya might jus’ wake up one day ‘n…”

“Wake up one day and….what?” My skin was growing hot, tingling, the anxiety bubbling just below the surface making the hair at the nape of my neck stand on end.

“Think someone else’s better.”

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. I should’ve seen this coming.

We’d had some newcomers arrive in the last few weeks, a couple of young guys, probably around my age. Eric had recruited them on an outing, and they were both skilled farmers, so they were tasked with tending to the garden and caring for the horses and chickens we’d acquired. I hadn’t gotten to know them all too well, but they were friendly, always offering a “hello” and a smile when we passed each other. We’d had small talk now and then, but nothing more. However, the insecurity that’d been radiating off of Daryl was palpable.

He was the jealous type, but not in a controlling kind of way. Maybe a little possessive, but in a “what’s mine is mine” type way. It wasn’t toxic, he never tried to tell me who I could and couldn’t talk to or be friends with, but it was obvious that some members of the community brought his insecurities to the surface. He’d never said it, nor did I think he ever would, but despite being at Alexandria for far longer than me, he still felt out of place, never feeling like he truly belonged there. And the presence of newcomers--young, smart, conventionally attractive newcomers--in his eyes, outcasted him further.

“Have I ever done anything to make you feel that way?”

He shook his head. “Nah, nothin’ ya did. Been thinkin’ how ya deserve better. That I ain’t good ’nough for ya.”

My heart was on the verge of breaking into a million pieces. How could the most perfect man I’d ever met, the walking green flag with a heart of gold, not think he was good enough for me? He’d been a saint the entirety of our relationship, even before we were official, and he was the kindest, most gentle man I could’ve asked for. He was my sweet archer. My protector. My angel. My Daryl.

“My peach, do you remember when I told you about my first impressions of you? From the day I arrived here?”

“Think so.” Of course he did. He clung to every word I said.

“When I woke up in that dingy, damp, musty cell, your voice was the first thing I heard, letting the others know I was awake. Your sweet, gravely voice...with that gorgeous accent…I still remember the tickling in my ears from hearing it for the first time.” I held my hands up, pretending to hold an invisible crossbow in them and aimed it at Daryl, pressing between his eyebrows with the knuckle of my index finger. “The whole time, you had your crossbow aimed right at my noggin, and I thought you were the most beautiful man I’d ever laid my eyes on. Still do”

“Ain’t beautiful ‘nough to be with someone like yaself,” he muttered, dropping his gaze to the floor. The sadness lingering in his voice was excruciating.

My heart shattering sent pain radiating through my chest, the tears quickly pooling in my eyes threatening to overflow. I averted my gaze from him for just a moment to blink them away, taking a breath to prevent my voice from shaking. “Did someone say that to you?” I brushed hair out of his eyes and tucked it behind his ear, caressing his jaw as I did. “Cause if they did, they’re gonna have to square the fuck up.”

“Nobody said nothin’,” he assured. While I was relieved to hear no one was being nasty toward him, it broke me to know he was coming to these conclusions on his own accord.

An empathetic sigh flowed from my lips. Dragging my index finger to his chin and tilting his head up, I kissed his forehead. He still kept his eyes on the floor. “Daryl? Can you look at me?”

He hesitantly brought his baby blues to mine, afraid to look me in the eye after he previous statement, as if he thought he would face repercussions for it. “You’re the only man I’ve had eyes for from the moment I set foot inside these walls.” I bit at the inside of my bottom lip, debating whether or not to bring up the elephant that'd been occupying the room the last few weeks.

“I know you’ve been feeling...some type of way since those new guys got here,” I confessed. He sighed as his gaze fell to the floor again, hair falling into his eyes, which I quickly caught and tucked behind his ear, caressing it as I did. “Who cares about those guys? Fuck them. Fuck anyone else. They don’t have your heart, Daryl. No one does."

"You constantly tell me I do too much for you. I don’t feel like I do enough. You deserve this and so much more.” I stifled a chuckle. “This is just all I could conjure up given…y’know, the apocalypse and all that.”

He fiddled with the fabric of my sleeve, rubbing the crushed velvet between his fingers, a habit he’d developed as a comfort for when he was overwhelmed or anxious. I blinked furiously as tears attempted to break free from the corners of my eyes. Taking his face in my hands, I tilted his head back up, mustering up the softest, most empathetic expression I was capable of.

“I love you beyond comprehension.” I delicately stroked his cheekbones with my thumbs, planting a kiss on the tip of his nose. “You deserve everything good. You deserve people around you who love you for exactly who you are. You deserve silly little holiday traditions and a warm place to come home to. You deserve a life full of love, peace, and happiness.”

Taking my hat off and tossing it on the floor, I pressed on Daryl’s leg, coaxing him to spread them apart to allow me to settle in between. Draping my arms around his neck, I threaded my fingers into his hair, twirling locks between them. “You deserve someone who will stick with you through the good times and the bad, someone who will sit with you on your hardest days and help you heal from the horrors you’ve had to endure.”

Pressing my forehead to his, I kissed the tip of his nose again and stared deep into those gorgeous cerulean pools. Those eyes…god, those fucking eyes. Even after all this time, they gave me the same butterflies in my stomach and weakness in my knees as they did the very first time we ever locked eyes. “You deserve me, Daryl. I’ve never been more sure of anything before.”

His eyes fell to the floor, and his shoulders noticeably relaxed, his nostrils flaring as he breathed a sigh of relief. Snaking his arms around my waist, he pulled me as close to him as was physically possible, resting his head on my shoulder and settling his face in the crook of my neck. His warm breath tickled my skin. His voice came out soft, shaky, barely above a whisper, his Adam’s apple vibrating against my collarbone. “I love you.”

“I love you too, my little Georgia peach.”

We sat like that for some time, the only sound permeating the stillness being the occasional soft snore from Jude. Every now and then, I’d kiss the top of his head, tenderly massaging his scalp with my fingers and reminding him that everything was ok. He melted into me, every muscle in his body slowly turning to jelly with each passing second. Despite that, he was holding me tight, as if he was afraid I would slip away if he loosened his grip, his arms snaking further around me with any small adjustment I made.

A soft, tender kiss met my shoulder, his lips lingering before placing another one, his thick accent muffled against my neck breaking the silence. “Dunno what I did to deserve ya.”

Tapping on his the back of his neck, he brought himself up from my shoulder, bringing his forehead back to mine. Weaving my fingers out of his hair, my hands traveled to and interlocked on the back of his neck, my thumbs tenderly massaging the sensitive area behind his ears. “Being you. That’s what you did.”

I saw a glimmer in his eye as a single tear caught the moonlight streaming in through the window. “It’s ok to cry, my peach,” I assured.

“Ain’t gon’ cry,” he retorted, his gaze falling back to the floor as he blinked rapidly. The sounds that dripped off my lips was somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. That was the stubborn man I knew and loved.

“Well if you need to, just know it’s ok. And I’m here,” I reassured, “listen, I know marriage isn’t a thing now. Not in the sense it used to be anyway, but…” I bit my lip as a goofy grin spread across my face, stretching from ear-to-ear, lashes fluttering as he made eye contact with me once again. “As long as I’m alive, I’m sticking around.”

“Ya sayin’ ya wanna spend forever…w’me?” Dare I say there was a hint of excitement in his voice. I gave him a crooked half-smile and a nod.

“Mhm,” I hummed. The corners of his mouth upturned into his quintessential small smile. The softest shade of baby pink graced his cheeks, and there was a glint in his eyes, a sparkle I’d never seen before. He was beaming. As much as Daryl was capable of, anyway. “I’ve know that for a long time now. There are very few things you could do to actually get rid of me. I’m not going anywhere”

His eyes fell to my lips for a brief moment before he kissed me, tenderly, the same as he always did. The butterflies in my stomach awakened, and blood rushed to my cheeks as his fingers weaved into the holes of my fishnets, pressing lightly into the flesh of my thighs. “Good.”

“This is probably gonna sound hella cheesy, but…I see home when I look at you,” I explained. His smile slipped out again as our eyes locked.

“Ya sayin’ like that ya ain’t been sayin’ cheesy shit already,” he teased. One of his hands wandered up to rest on my hip, the other taking mine as I playfully shoved his chest.

“Oh shush. It might be cheesy, but I meant every word,” I reiterated, the silly, giddy grin I’d been trying to restrain breaking through my pitiful poker face, “you’re home to me, Daryl. Doesn’t matter where we are. Just as long as I’m with you.”

He bit his bottom lip, his voice timid as he echoed my sentiment. “You too.”

I reached out for my hat and plunked it on his head, giggling softly as I tilted it at a slight angle. He scoffed, but the look in his eyes told me he wasn’t going to be taking it off. Not with how happy it made me to see him wearing it. “Think maybe…” his voice trailed off for a moment before he found it again, “maybe we can do this again? Or a different one?”

“Mhm. We can tackle them all,” I reassured, giving his hand a tender squeeze, “one tradition at a time.”

I peered over his shoulder into the kitchen, my eyes falling to the slow cooker. “I don’t mean to detract from the sap, but you’ve been out all day. I’m sure you’re hungry.” I stared to get up, but he gently tugged on my hand to keep me in place.

“Stay sat, I got it,” he said. He leaned in and placed a kiss on my forehead before rising to his feet. “Ya made it, least I could do is get ya some.”

“I’ve never made it before,” I called out as he wandered to the kitchen, “it’s not the exact recipe, but I did the best I could with what we have access to.”

“‘M sure it’s good,” Daryl asserted, removing the lid from the slow cooker and grabbing bowls out of one of the cabinets, “98% success rate, ‘member?”

I watched intently as he took the ladle and stirred the soup, my eyes fixating on each move he made. Every ounce of love I had for him swelled in my chest, and I was sure my ribs would start cracking. The butterflies in my stomach were working overtime, and as he filled those little ceramic bowls to the brim, I made a promise. Not just to myself, but to him--I was going to spend the rest of my life making sure this perfect human being never thought, for even a second, that he wasn't good enough for me, again.

A half-smile spread across my face, which slowly turned into a full one as he strode back over, handing me one of the bowls and taking a seat next to me, maneuvering to close the space between us. “Do me a favor, sunshine,” he said, nodding to gesture to my dress as that faint pink appeared on his cheeks again, “next time I…take care of ya…promise you’ll wear that.”

I covered my mouth as I took a bite, chuckling at his gentlemanly euphemism. “If you insist.”

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