#apex legends name generator

[leejenowrld]

heart to heart — spoiler

pairing — surgeon! na jaemin x intern! y/n

genre — smut, fluff, angst, age gap (10 years, jaemin is older)

word count — 2.9k

authors note — this is quite a generous and lengthy spoiler, fans of ‘love me back’ and ‘back to you’ will appreciate this one a lot. if you’re not familiar with the other two stories in the ‘love and games universe’ then my only advice would be… become familiar LOL, anyways enjoy my loves <3 don’t say i never gave you anything 🫶

Hayoung’s eyes glitter with mischievous delight as she leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She’s always been the resident sleuth, devouring every headline, every whisper in the intern’s lounge, cataloguing names and dates like precious specimens in a private menagerie. For her, uncovering the hidden ties that bind people is as satisfying as stitching new stories into a patchwork quilt. Tonight, she’s your guide through an exclusive gallery of Jaemin’s inner circle, each figure more beguiling than the last.

You draw in a shaky breath and edge nearer to the one‐way glass. Hayoung raises a slender finger toward the towering silhouette at the room’s center, a man whose presence feels as inevitable as gravity itself. His broad shoulders fill the crisp lines of his navy blazer, the fabric stretched ever so slightly across a sculpted chest, each inhale subtly flexing muscle beneath starched cotton. His trousers fall in a perfect, confidence-infused drape, hinting at powerful thighs honed by hours on hardwood courts. A tumble of dark curls grazes the nape of his neck, and when he turns, the faint arc of a smirk reveals a jaw so sharply carved it could slice through the hum of conversation. Even from here you catch the swirl of his cologne, something smoky, dark wood warmed by sunlight and feel the air shift around him. In that moment, Lee Jeno is less a man in a room and more a gravitational force: utterly magnetic, a living testament to strength and elegance entwined.

“That’s Lee Jeno, he doesn’t need an introduction. Everyone knows him, the most influential NBA player of his time.” She murmurs, voice hushed as if narrating a masterpiece. “See how he stands, shoulders squared like the corner of a backboard, every line of his tailored suit whispering discipline and power? He’s an NBA legend, record-breaker, triple-double maestro, the kind of athlete whose name is etched into every stat sheet and every fan’s heart. But more than that, he’s been Jaemin’s north star since they were toddlers dreaming of the same impossible things. He was the first to learn of Haeun’s little heartbeat, sneaking into the NICU at dawn to cradle the tiniest secret in his enormous hands. Off the court, he’s quietly philanthropic, rumor has it he quietly funds scholarships for underprivileged kids in his hometown, though he’d never brag. The media paints him as unflappable, the perfect poster boy for athletic excellence, but those who know him well call him fiercely loyal, the kind of man who shows up whether you’ve invited him or not.”

She lets that settle, then nods toward the woman at his side. “And that,” she continues, “is his fiancée, a vision of composure in couture. They met in college, drifted apart, then discovered that some bonds refuse to break. Their love story is whispered about in fashion circles and sports columns alike: soulful reunions, secret late-night text threads, wedding bells set to ring in just a few weeks. It’s the sort of romance you’d write a novel about—timeless, improbable, and entirely, irrepressibly theirs.”

Hayoung tells you that beyond the fairytale love story, she is every bit her own force of nature: the celebrated face of APEX, a powerhouse executive whose razor-sharp intellect and unflinching moral compass have steered global design initiatives and social impact campaigns for over a decade. In boardrooms she commands deference, in studio ateliers she inspires apprentices, and in every exhibition she curates she challenges viewers to see beauty as a catalyst for change. Each year, she and Jeno co-host the hospital’s signature gala, an evening of crystal chandeliers and whispered promises, where proceeds underwrite life-saving surgeries for families who simply can’t shoulder the cost. Hayoung recalls one gala night to you in particular. When little Haeun, clutching Bunny in one hand and a crayon-scrawled invitation in the other, was lifted onto the stage to present a check; the room hushed as the child’s earnest smile lit every heart, and tears of joy stained even the driest cheeks. It was a moment that crystallized their shared mission, to tether privilege to purpose, and to kindle hope in every young life they touch. Each December, they dispatch carefully curated gifts to every child in the ward—small treasures that, come Christmas morning, become lifelong keepsakes.

“Ryujin and Shotaro’s story is kind of a real-life fairy tale,” Hayoung begins, voice warm. “They met during college, he was mastering a contemporary routine, she was perfecting a lyrical piece and sparks flew over perfect pirouettes. Together they opened a tiny dance school in a repurposed loft, teaching six students and dreaming of bigger things. Now? Twelve studios later, they’ve trained hundreds of young dancers, from hopeful amateurs to budding professionals, and their outreach programs have given every child, no matter their background, a chance to feel the magic of movement. They’re always giggling when they talk about how their after-class water breaks turned into marathon brainstorming sessions. ‘What if we could heal with dance?’ and how every new studio opening felt like adding another heartbeat to the city’s rhythm.”

“And that dream brought them here,” she continues, tipping her voice conspiratorially. “Ryujin and Shotaro now co-design the hospital’s pediatric dance-therapy wing, turning sterile hallways into places where little feet learn strength and resilience. They’ve taught Haeun to pirouette past her fears, remember that time she insisted on ‘just one more spin’ even after her echo scan?—and they’ve choreographed holiday performances where she’s always the star. Their partnership isn’t just about fundraising or fancy recitals; it’s about showing every child that joy and healing can bloom side by side, and proving that sometimes the purest medicine comes in the form of music, movement, and a whole lot of love.”

“You see that hot guy by the window? That’s Lee Donghyuck, he’s a sports anchor whose name you can’t scroll past without wanting to know more. He’s the guy who turned a sideline gesture into a signature catchphrase, but off-camera he’s even more impressive: he spearheaded last year’s ‘Heart Run,’ a charity marathon that raised millions for the pediatric ward, and personally negotiated with sponsors so every dollar went straight to families in need. He’s brokered equipment donations, hosted fundraising luncheons in that very lounge, and somehow still remembers every child’s name who’s ever cross-checked him for an autograph. And don’t think he lets Haeun escape his radar. last month he rolled out a mini basketball hoop next to her play corner, just her size, and taught her how to drain a ‘baby three-pointer’ with a flourish. She squealed so loud you could hear it through the corridor, and he bent down afterward, ruffled her curls, and whispered, ‘You’re my MVP, princess.’ Even now she’s peeking at him, cheeks lighting up every time he offers a thumbs-up from across the room. With Donghyuck, it’s never just television bravado, it’s genuine joy in every high-five and every fundraiser he champions, a constant reminder that heroes come in many uniforms.”

She shifts her gaze to another figure: graceful, magnetic. “And finally, that’s Jang Karina. She doesn’t need any introduction, she’s a fashion powerhouse, her silhouette feels sculpted by intention. Karina began as a runway model whose charisma captivated editors and buyers alike; today she presides over a global design empire, her eponymous label celebrated for its architectural lines and daring palettes, while her beauty brand, praised for its clean formulas and bold pigments, has soared into the multimillion-dollar stratosphere. She pioneers mentorship programs for young designers, spearheads sustainable textile initiatives in collaboration with leading research labs, and curates charity auctions that funnel life-saving funds to children’s hospitals around the world. Every accolade she collects, Vogue cover shoots, Council of Fashion Designers awards, front-row appearances at the Met Gala, has been earned by a woman who learned to temper brilliance with empathy, who moved beyond the runway’s glare into the quiet confidence of a leader whose influence stretches from boardrooms to breaking bread with those she protects.”

“Karina and Dr. Na have a tenderness, a shared history written in soft confidences and midnight phone calls. They met during college before either dreamed of a spotlight, she, a striver fresh from design school; he, a busy surgical resident moonlighting to pay his rent. He didn’t like her in college, but they ran into each other in New York and started fucking intensely. Their first real date was over steaming bowls of bibimbap in a corner café, trading fears and ambitions until the staff nudged them out at closing time. Then life intervened—back-to-back seasons for her, grueling on-call marathons for him—and they drifted apart, each chasing dreams they’d once whispered to each other. They’re not really romantic but I’m sure they still fuck, I could bet on it, that’s how confident I am that I’m correct. They’re co-architects of Haeun’s world. She’s the first to arrive with balloons and homemade cookies on scan days, the one whose laugh draws Haeun from any shyness. Karina helps Dr. Na with Haeun a lot.”

Begrudgingly, you learn that they were lovers once, in that brief, incandescent season before parenthood reshaped his every horizon; the memory of their closeness still simmers behind Karina’s steady gaze. Now she arrives at the hospital not as a distant star but as a second mother to Haeun, smoothing stray curls with the gentlest touch and laughing through bedtime stories whispered in the playroom’s lamplight. When she bends to offer Haeun her lap, the little girl curls in as naturally as into her father’s arms, murmuring “Mama Rina” with the surety of a heart that instinctively knows where comfort lives. In every pivot of her poised stride and every warm look she casts at Dr. Na, you sense the unspoken vow: that this chosen family, wrought from loss and love, will hold its orbit against any darkness that dares encroach.

Her tone softens, eyes drifting back through the glass as if she can already see their silhouettes in the corridor. “They’re legends in their own right. Jeno, with championships and record-breaking buzzer-beaters that make arenas tremble; Karina, whose gowns have rewritten the language of fashion and whose makeup line is in every beauty editor’s kit; Ryujin and Shotaro, whose dance therapy programs have coaxed laughter and movement from children who’d forgotten how to feel joy; Donghyuck, whose voice carries stories of triumph on screens that millions tune in to each night. But none of that matters here. What binds them isn’t fame or fortune, it’s this hospital. This place saved Haeun when her own mother tried to end her life before she even drew a single breath, when she was left to die alone on the rooftop. Doctors patched her broken heart; nurses soothed her frightened sobs; researchers here keep rewriting the rules of what sick children can endure. Every gala Karina co-hosts, every scholarship Jeno underwrites, every dance-floor fund Shotaro and Ryujin open, all of it funnels back into this ward. They fund free surgeries for babies born blue-liped, they underwrite outreach clinics in forgotten towns, they sponsor scholarship nurses who stay to care for children no matter the cost. They do it all because of Haeun. Because she survived the darkness, they learned what true rescue means, and found a way to pay her back in light.”

Your heart twists in your chest as you watch Karina cradle Haeun at the edge of the room, tiny arms fluttering around Karina’s neck like fledgling wings seeking warmth. Karina’s hair tumbles over her shoulders in waves of midnight silk, each strand catching the light of the conference wing’s golden glow. Her posture is an unspoken manifesto of poise: spine straight as a ballet barre, shoulders soft but unyielding, gaze warm enough to melt the iciest boardroom. Haeun’s laughter resonates like a chime, and Karina responds with a low, musical hum, her fingers tracing idle patterns in Haeun’s curls. You step back, scrubs suddenly heavy on your skin, as though you’ve walked into a painting you were never meant to touch. The distance between you and this effortless grace stretches taut, and you wonder how you—ten years her junior, still mastering knotting sutures and bedside manner—could ever bridge the gap. You feel like a child intruding on a world you can’t touch: awkward in your youth, your intern’s scrubs swallowed by the hush of designer silks and tailored blazers. 

Your cheeks burn when you realize how small you feel here: stripped of your usual confidence, every inch of your skin prickles with self-consciousness. You recall the times you braided Haeun’s hair, the soft “thank you, my wuv” she pressed against your palm, and you ache to belong in that gentle space again. But here, in the orbit of Karina’s radiance, you are merely a shadow, an earnest trainee whose greatest accolade is a passing nod from Dr. Na. While Karina, in the privacy of their past, has lost herself on his cock a million times, a fiery intimacy you ache to claim as your own. You tighten your grip on the edge of your clipboard, fingernails biting into the paper, and force your gaze back to the room. Yet even as you try to anchor yourself, your eyes betray you, drifting back to Karina’s measured smile, the easy way she curls a lock of Haeun’s hair behind her ear, the quiet assurance that you can never duplicate.

It’s not merely Karina’s beauty that stings, it’s her history, her accomplishments writ large in the world Jaemin inhabits. You think of the single-family flats you shared with overwhelmed roommates, long shifts of charting before dawn, the perpetual undercurrent of imposter syndrome that thrums beneath your every success. Karina, by contrast, has carved an empire from thread and vision, her name sewn onto the seats of fashion capitals from Paris to Tokyo. She is the creative force behind runway shows that have shaped decades of style; the philanthropist whose gala soirées have raised millions for pediatric research; the mentor whose apprentices now stand on stage in their own right. And here she is, bending gentle and unguarded over Haeun—an innocent whose life Karina helped to celebrate, whose future she pledged to support long before you ever learned your first surgical knot.

You flush all the way to your fingertips as you recall Hayoung’s hushed confession about Karina and Dr. Na’s secret trysts—how Karina’s satin lips once pressed against his throat in the moonlight, how she gasped his name as his fingers tangled in her platinum-blonde waves. Your pulse hammers when you imagine those heated nights, Karina draped over him like silk, whispering his name between breathless moans. You bite your lip, thighs trembling, picturing yourself in her place—skin slick, lips parted, arching beneath his touch as he buries himself deep inside you. Every polished step in these hospital halls suddenly feels charged with forbidden promise: could those same strong hands guide your body, curl you into whispered ecstasy until you’re nothing but warm, quivering mush in his arms? The thought sends a delicious shiver down your spine, and you press a hand to your chest, breathing unevenly, desperate for even a flicker of that raw, unfiltered passion Karina once claimed as her birthright.

Karina’s presence is almost mythic: hair that falls in glossy waves around a face sculpted by years of confidence, eyes that have both softened at a child’s smile and hardened at the cruelties of fashion backstage. She embodies refinement and resolve—each step a whisper of silk, each laugh a note of genuine warmth. Haeun clings to her as though born knowing Karina’s arms are safe harbors: tiny fingers threading through Karina’s familiarity, curls brushing Karina’s velvet collar. You watch that bond and ache—you’re not certain you could learn the art of such effortless love, not sure you could anchor Haeun’s heart as deeply, as naturally, as one who has guided her through every high-profile gala and quiet bedtime story alike. In that moment, you feel the full weight of your inexperience, the impossibility of matching a grace so honed, so intrinsic. The envy blossoms bitterly in your chest, and you wonder if you will ever find your own place in Haeun’s world beyond the shadow of these legends.

You turn your gaze inward, the harsh white of hospital walls receding as memory and desire entwine into a single, bitter bloom. You recall the early mornings when you and Haeun would share cereal in the NICU hallway, your voice the only anchor to her frightened world. You remember the fear that distilled your every thought when her tiny chest stuttered for breath, and the primal desire to be the guardian of her heart. Yet here, in the glow of polished floors and the gentle murmur of celebrities-turned-family, you feel neither hero nor protector. only an outsider whose worth is measured in clinical competence, not in the kind of love that sees without pretense. The ache in your ribs intensifies, a reminder that motherhood, in its many forms, is not won by credentials or passion alone but by the quiet alchemy of trust, time, and intimacy. You realize that Karina has woven herself into Haeun’s life with every shared story, every whispered promise, every dance lesson sponsored and every stolen cuddle. And you, still learning the rhythms of both scalpels and lullabies, are left yearning for a place in the soft tapestry they have created. You close your eyes for a moment, drawing a shaky breath, and resolve to carve out your own kind of sanctuary, a space in Haeun’s world defined by your devotion, your sleepless nights, your relentless hope that even the most fragile hearts can find new wings.

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[fervent-adoration]

INTRO POST ✨️

Heyyy welcome to my blog! My name is Krueger, I'm 18, I use he/they pronouns, and I would be delighted to have you here! There's more about me beneath the cut, but I do hope to be your super neat selfshipping mutual ♡ Take a look at my comms! (And my art tag #krue's wretched art for examples)

If you want to be part of my taglist, here you can get added!

DNI: Pro/darkshippers. I don't want you here. At all. Anti-anti, generally harass-y people. Selfshippers who have the same f/o as me, but only in the case of non-sharing (which I have only a couple.) I do block liberally, it isn't anything against you!

Last edited: June 3rd, 2025

I am a selfshipper of large proportions... As in, I am incredibly gay about a large amount of characters. But, I appear to be swinging back around to my longest running fixation, DBZ/DBS, so that may be what you see me yammer about excessively... I draw, I write, I'm a disaster and I love my friends... working on tags for stuff and things.

F/O List

Media I am into: Dragon Ball, Borderlands, The Elder Scrolls, Pokemon, JJBA, One Piece, JJK, Apex Legends, annnnd more please ask me about specific things I'll totally be down to answer ✌️

[teojira]

[ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀᴛᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴀʀ]

ᴛᴇᴏᴊɪʀᴀ (ᴇꜱᴛ 2ᴋ24)

《Introduction》 +

《! Please read me !》

¤ Hi! My name is Teddy and this blog as it says on the tin, is a multifandom blog! I'm into a wide range of characters and interests, so I'm sure I have something that'll strike your fancy!

¤ This is an 18+ blog. This is to keep me and you safe should you be a minor. Please stay away! I can't police you, but use common sense.

¤ I will not deal with discourse here, don't like what I write or who I write for? Block me and move on, I don't care.

¤ I am a woman person of color, no hatred towards ANY group is tolerated here. It will end in an IP address block.

¤ My interests fluctuates alot, I have severe adhd and some characters will get special treatment depending on which mood I am in!

¤ I'm always down to chat and make conversation but please remember I'm human and I have a job outside of tumblr, this is just a hobby for me! Please be kind and understanding.

《RULES/GUIDELINES》

¤ Every character I will write romantic ideas for must be of age. Any minor will ONLY be platonic. (Exception being the tmnt brothers, they are aged up accordingly.)

¤I write comfort, fluff, angst, pretty much anything tbh.

¤ My own rule of thumb is that if a furry character is sentient, can consent and is of age, and speaks/thinks/acts like a human, it is akin to monster loving. (Harkness scale pretty much). I don't care for your take on it, block me if you disagree!

¤ I will not write nsfw if you are on anon, your age must be somewhere on your blog. I will delete it from my askbox.

¤ A please and a thank you go a long way!

¤ I usually write with she/her pronouns or gender neutral pronouns.

¤ I am not looking for critique, this is all for fun. This is a heavy boundary, I will block if you do this.

¤ NSFW will be tagged accordingly so you can black list, if I forget to tag something, kindly let me know. I am not responsible for your experience beyond that, act accordingly if I write something you don't like.

¤ Please include some details with your requests, such as character and a general idea on what you'd like me to write! Please don't write an essay in my ask box.

¤ Things I will not write: Pregnancy, Underage, harder kinks (Scat/Noncon/vore/piss), Character harming reader physically, Parenthood, character x character.

Not sure if I write something? Just shoot me a text!

¤ Do NOT share my writing anywhere else (Quotev, Ao3, wattpad, Tiktok). A Simple reblog is appreciated here and only on tumblr.

¤ Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! It's nice to know something I wrote was loved!

And finally what we've all been waiting for, put your hands together for the :

《 Fandoms I write for》

Genshin impact

Honkai Star rail

Transformers

Tmnt

Monsterverse (platonic only for the Kaijus)

Planet of the apes (remake) (NO nsfw)

My hero academia (Dabi and Tomura only)

Demon slayer

Overwatch

Twisted wonderland

Devil may cry

Apex legends (Revenant only)

Fire emblem three houses

Puss in boots: the last wish (Death only)

Stranger things (Eddie Munson only)

Red dead redemption 2

The Wolf among us (Bigby only)

Five nights at freddys: Security Breach

Sonic (platonic for everyone except Shadow)

DC comics/ DCEU

Horror icons/slashers

Countless other video game characters probably lmao.

Though I write for many fandoms, I'm more comfortable with specific characters so I'll let you know if I'm comfortable enough to write for them!

Don't see a character you're sweet on? No worries, shoot me a text and I'll see if I know anything about them to whip something up for ya!

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴏɴ!

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

[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?”

[elbiotipo]

Why did medieval europeans make a legend about men that turn into wolf monsters but not about men turning into any other kind of animal-monster? What's with the focus on wolves specifically

Therianthropism, the motif of people shape-shifting into animals and viceversa, is a phenomenon that is found all over the world and in all cultures. It would be reductive to say that people always associate themselves with the top predators of their environment, but for example, much like there are werewolves in Eurasia, there are Jaguar-men in the Americas (Yaguareté-Abá in the Guaraní cultural sphere). But it isn't always a top predator, one interesting example are the fox spirits in East Asia (kitsunes in Japan, huli-jing in China), "were-hyenas" in Somalia and Eastern Africa and the Leopard Society in Western Africa... I could start listing every single case of therianthropism here and I wouldn't even scratch the surface. Humans have been identifying with animals and had legends about transforming into animals everywhere in every time. Cave paintings (the Sorcerer of Trois-Freres, though that one is controversial) and sculptures (the Lion-man of Hohlenstein-Stadel) are proof this motif is deep, very deep into our "collective unconscious", to use a controversial term which I don't necessarily believe in. Anthropomorphism in general, giving non-human things (especially animals) human features, is probably innate to us.

In the case of the werewolf in particular, I always thought that the main "origin", or at least the prototype story of the lychanthrope, the werewolf, in Europe, the Greek story of the king Lycaon (that's where lychanthrope comes from, as any wolf character named Lycaon). And yes, that's where many of our modern ideas (in Western-influenced cultures) about werewolves come from. But it's actually based in much, much older folktales from all over the place. Which makes sense as Germanic, Slavic, Turkic cultures all had similar tales with regards to wolves. Some have said they come from a common Indo-European legend but to me, there's no need to go that far.

Because wolves in particular, are in my opinion especially interesting because they are the ancestors of dogs, and dogs are our oldest domesticated animal, our oldest domesticated ANYTHING, nothing comes close to our relationship with dogs, and so, with wolves. There is a fair bit of romanticization about wolves and dogs, but do imagine that when humans first entered Eurasia, wolves were and still are some of the closest things to us, deeply social apex predators. Is it any wonder that humans feel identified with them? They are our competitors, our best friends as dogs, the biggest threat to us and also magnificent beasts, and as urban civilizations grew, the contrast between the "civilized" and the "wild". And as I've said before, the eyes of wolves, like dogs, have a human-like glint to them, perhaps because they are social animals like us. To me it's no wonder the legend of a man that blurs the barrier between human and beast, and especially between man and wolf, was so appealing and widespread. Wolves are not the only animals that display these characteristics, hyenas, painted dogs, and many others do too. But I think there are some reasons why they catched the attention of humans in Eurasia especifically. And after all, dogs were domesticated from there, and there are no human populations(!!!) that don't have domesticated dogs.

But like I said, this isn't a phenomenon limited to wolves. Both shape-shifting and anthropomorphism of animals are deep in our psyche, so to speak. You will find this phenomenon in cultures all over the world with all sorts of animals.

If you want to learn more about dog domestication with more nuance, I recommend the youtube channel of David Ian Howe which also covers lots of other anthropology topics

[sailorsoons]

GET TO KNOW ME

Thank you for tagging me @shadowkoo muah muah

WHAT'S THE ORIGIN OF YOUR BLOG TITLE?

Sailorsoons was invented because sailorrhansol was shot point blank and murdered by tumblr and did not return for 22 days. I needed a blog to post the works that I had coming up for collabs so I said fuck it and birthed sailorsoons and then moved here permanently after sailorrhansol was brought back to life.

FAVORITE FANDOMS?

I really only participate in kpop fandoms. SVT is probably my favorite int terms of low stress and I'm really enjoying creating with everyone here. BTS after that but there is a lot of stress in that space in general and on twt.

MORE UNDER THE CUT

OTP(s)/SHIPNAME?

I am a Yoonmin and Verdi enthusiast. Not in the way that I think they're together, but in the way I adore their friendships and those pairings as little units mean the world to me.

FAVORITE COLOR?

Burgundy and midnight red! I also really enjoy brown in general for like... my belongings and a lot of clothes etc.

FAVORITE GAME?

I have a ton... BG3, Fallout 4, Hogwarts Legacy, Ghost of Tsushima, Spyro, Crash Bandicoot, Apex Legends and Valorant.

SONG STUCK IN YOUR HEAD?

Come Away to the Water by Maroon 5

WEIRDEST HABIT/TRAIT?

I am stuck on this because I don't know what habits or traits I have but I constantly spin my conch piercing around all day so I'm going to go with that.

HOBBIES?

I don't have a ton - mostly writing, listening to music, reading, gaming or sometimes I watch TV but I don't do that a ton. Honestly, I am almost always working or writing.

IF YOU WORK, WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION?

I am the Director of Advertising and Digital Marketing for an MLB team. I will let you wonder which club, my only hint is that it is typically a household name. I am about to start my fourth season in baseball :)

IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB YOU WISH, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

I want to be an author so bad. It's always been my dream to write and publish fantasy novels, but my job is so demanding I've never figured out how to dedicate time to trying to do that.

SOMETHING YOU'RE GOOD AT?

Impressions - I am weirdly good at them. Other random talents... archery. I can sing moderately well. And I can type really fast.

SOMETHING YOU'RE BAD AT?

I really struggle with math (even though I'm in advertising and marketing, yes), I'm not great at remembering things unless I write them down, and I'm bad at sleep!

SOMETHING YOU LOVE?

Writing, listening to music, being with my friends and gushing about the things we like, my dog.

SOMETHING YOU COULD TALK ABOUT FOR HOURS OFF THE CUFF?

Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, baseball, hockey, booktok/book discourse, anything mythology (various cultures) or ancient civ.

SOMETHING YOU HATE?

The president of the united states and the GOP. And cucumbers.

SOMETHING YOU COLLECT?

Notebooks... crystals... ummm Star Wars and anime things that I think are super cool.

SOMETHING YOU FORGET?

I forget immediate things really easily but I have a good memory in general

WHAT'S YOUR LOVE LANGUAGE?

Words of affirmation and acts of service.

FAVORITE MOVIE/SHOW?

Movie: Lord of the Rings Show: Alice in Borderland

FAVORITE FOOD?

So many different things but I fuck soooo hard with a palomilla steak and yuca frita w/ some tostones

FAVORITE ANIMAL?

Black moor goldfish, tigers and foxes.

ARE YOU MUSICAL?

Very, actually. I have a really strong ear and can replicate what I hear on most instruments.

WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A CHILD?

Very quiet. Only child. LOVED collecting frogs and lizards and putting them in a terrarium.

FAVORITE SUBJECT AT SCHOOL?

History and language arts by far.

LEAST FAVORITE SUBJECT?

Math and science - math because I've struggled with it, science because I had a science teacher who bullied me so much that I had to be removed from her class.

WHAT'S YOUR BEST CHARACTER TRAIT?

It's pretty difficult to REALLY upset me like it takes a lot for me to really crash out, even though I joke that I'm crashing out all the time. I'm also a really good problem solver.

WHAT'S YOUR WORST CHARACTER TRAIT?

I am insanely hard on myself. Like to a serious detriment, I never let myself breathe or fail at anything and talking me down from failure is super difficult because I never want to hear it.

IF YOU COULD CHANGE ANY DETAIL OF YOUR DAY RIGHT NOW, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

I just worked a split squad spring training game from a state that we are NOT playing in and it was very difficult to do remotely. I would have loved not to do that.

IF YOU COULD TRAVEL IN TIME, WHO WOULD YOU LIKE TO MEET?

The current president's parents so I could murder them before they conceived.

REC YOUR FAVE FANFICS (SPREAD THE LOVE):

Vice;grip by @daechwitatamic | Tripple Dog Dare by @eoieopda | Full Throttle by @diamonddaze01 | Never Shall We Die by @gyuswhore | Houdini by @highvern

TAG OTHERS TO COMPLETE (NO PRESSURE) I don't know who all has been tagged sorry if I hit you twice: @daechwitatamic @eoieopda @moni-logues @kkaetnipjeon @gyuswhore @starlightkyeom @100vern @highvern @tomodachiii and literally anyone under the sun who wants to :)

[holyrunawaychild]

King Leopold and the Pride of Leos Headcanons

There will be minor spoilers in the form of character names and general Bast history.

Leopold

Leopold is the eldest of his generation of the catlords. He was born not long after the formation of the Forum of Elders. The result of the formative marriage of that alliance.

Save for much of his general appearance, Leopold takes much after his mother, Lady Oxúm. Sister of High Lord Oba, aunt to Onyx and Opal. The deeply wronged pantherlady instilled much of her ideals of what a catlord of Bast should be into her son.

Leopold despises his father, High Lord Leon. The Lion King of Leos was generally apathetic towards his eldest — and most of his children for that matter. Sitting on his laurels after the Conquest of Bast, and expecting his progeny to do much the same. Even though Leopold himself fought in some of the worst battles the Conquest saw.

In fact, most of Leopold’s bastian relationships were shaped by his mother. He hated his father as she did. Any of his siblings that shared his mother’s blood he cared for deeply. As for his father’s numerous bastards? At best he was ambivalent. At worst, death would’ve been a mercy for them.

Despite his decorated military career, Leopold has been put to the side in favor of his contemporaries. Onyx and Opal were becoming Legends in their own right. And Tiaz was accredited for decisive victories during the final years of the Conquest and in keeping order in the following decades.

Leopold’s conquest of Lyssia was partially due to a bet. When the High Lords set their sights on their northern neighbor, various ambitious young catlords started putting their names up for leading the invasion. Leopold however, wouldn’t be content with another overshadowing him again. So, he made a bet with the High Lords. That only catlord they needed to conquer and pascify Lyssia was him. The stakes? Being disowned from his birthplace and of his birthright.

Prior to taking Lyssia and forcibly marrying Amelie, Leopold was set to marry his cousin Opal. Given the known history of rampant incest the lionlords practiced for generations, it tracked.

High Lord Leon

Despite being a very capable warrior, Leon prefers to keep his claws clean. In his prime, he’d only involve himself in battles against ‘worthy foes’. Preferring to leave most of his battles for others to fight.

Leon was (and still is on occasion) a notorious adulterer. Aside from the five children he had with Oxúm (and I’ll get to that situation later), he’s had fifteen other children with various other women. Well, specifically, fifteen that he knows of and let live. Due to Leon’s own personal views of leothropic surperiority, he only keeps the ones that fall in line with that world view.

Despite often lording Leopold’s conquest of Lyssia over the other Lords of Bast, Leon had little praise for his eldest son prior. Often even mentioning the feats of others in the same breath. Just to ‘push his son to do better’. All it did was widen the rift between them.

Lady Oxúm

(This is an original character, but there is enough evidence that she exists in some form.)

Oxúm was the younger sister to Oba. She was just as much a prodigy as him in warfare and politics, even as she was 12 years his junior. Their tutors encouraged a sibling rivalry between them to encourage them to ever strive to be better. Though it would escalate to near spy v. spy levels of animosity.

This rivalry came to an apex when, as a part of making alliances with the other catlords of Bast, Oba had Oxúm married off to Leon. For reference, Leon was 25~27 at the time. Oxùm was 13.

On the night of their wedding, she tried to claw his eyes out. She was declawed the next morning as punishment. The removed parts of her fingers replaced with porcelain prosthetics. The week after she turned 14, she became a mother.

Her claws weren’t the only flesh she’s lost as punishment for fighting back against her new husband. When she nearly gutted him, her toes were declawed similarly to her fingers. When she tried to bite his jugular, her fangs were replaced with golden implants. And when she almost strangled him to death, ‘decorative’ silver plates were soldered to her flesh (think Mel from Arcane, but silver on a werelord).

For the past several decades, Leon finally learned to leave Oxúm be. After she finally permanently injured him, even in spite of her implants and prosthetics. She is confined to the Imperial Mansion in Leos, where she stays with her children. Both the remaining four she had with Leon, and three bastard children she had in more recent years.

Oxúm was the only person Leopold’s kept in touch with after taking Lyssia’s throne.

The Pride of Leos

The Pride refers to the collective kin of Leon. While a good few cousins and more distant relatives are amongst the Pride, the most referred to members are Leon’s children. Consisting of his and Oxúm’s offspring (Leopold, Liara, Leonia & Leonius, and Lavinia) and their children. As well as his own 15 bastard sons and daughters.

[batkorpses]

‼️ PINNED POST ‼️

ABOUT ME

- name: adam

- pronouns: he/him

- gender: male - trans masc (ftm)

- sexuality: gay (mlm), asexual

- age: 16, feb 13

- sign: aquarius sun, leo moon, rising sagittarius (aquarius)

INTERESTS

i have quite a few, but these are my biggest fixations rn

• slipknot

• system of a down

• just metal in general

• apex legends

• game of thrones

• saw

• dead by daylight

EXTRA

🦇: i like to draw, so you’ll probably see me post some of my art on here. ive been drawing a lot of apex and game of thrones stuff lately so you might catch me posting more of that, but i have a bunch of old saw drawings and stuff too.

🦇: i play a LOT of video games, like its bad

🦇: i am a satanist, but im not going to post anything relating to satanist practices or religion

🦇: i really love horror and gore, and i include it in some of my art. if i do, i will make a version of the drawing without it to post, and a version with it to post underneath the clean version :)

[serafimkrex]

🧸my introduction! ꩜

hello, hello, I'm a waifuist demi-fictosexual who goes many names: shinzo, toxic waste, steve and claire ( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) i'm gender questioning and generally identify as: homoflexible/heteroflexible ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა 👽 nonhuman: bear, alien, cat kin, and fitkin 👽i really like monsters, robots and anything inhuman tbfr. please ask me to be mutuals

writing requests: open doodle requests: open dms: open links ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ table of contents pronouns page strawpage personal carrd comms carrd

main s/o's 🛸 alphonse elric 🛸 flint the minotaur 🛸 rocket raccoon 🛸 gyutaro 🛸 faust/dr baldhead 🛸 hellboy i have MANY other s/o's!! interests 🦇 berserk 🦇 monotone blue 🦇 hellboy comics 🦇 bg3 🦇 apex legends 🦇 guardians of the galaxy/starlord/etc 🦇 any comic series krugarr is in 🦇 the elder scrolls series 🦇 ghost b.c. 🦇 nagabe 🦇 steven universe dni: general criteria <- press this link

my hates... don't kill me, i probably won't follow u back if this is what you EXCLUSIVELY post.... - roblox - cookie run kingdom - your bf/ybc - bnha/mha - hazbin hotel/helluva boss - genshin/honkai - tadc i just don't want it on my feed, sorry :( + if i'm nonsharing or selective with a character you yume/selfship/ocxcc with i might block, but it depends ! if you have minors dni, dont follow me, nsfw focus can't follow me. my sticker things, bc idk what else to do with these but they're cool.

i miss being an x reader blog guys :(( send me requests pls pls pls also turning this semi into my selfship/yume blog, so expect fewer reposts and less spam!!

i will post video game gore or reblog it so dont follow if that shit is uncomfy for u. i love dark aesthetic and horror. i hoped the elder scrolls, hellboy and berserk would be enough to show that, lmao. on top of it, maybe if you’re young don’t follow me? Berserk panel reposting can be disturbing. im in wayyyyyy more fandoms btw

[crewfu]

Hi ! I'm new around here, do you or anyone else have a crewfu primer to get to know the main people a bit more? Thank you! Xo

this is a big ask but i will do my best:

So we will start with “Crewfu” itself. I think the more used/accepted name for the group is the Morning Lobby. They are a group of streamers/content creators that met through playing Among Us. I'm not 100% on the start date but it was some time in Oct/Nov 2020 - April/May 2021. They had a reunion in June 2022 and continue to play Among Us every Wednesday since. I'll write a short synopsis for each current regular but the otv and friends wiki has a great list of the people who played in the morning lobbies. I also included some links to clips of some of the streamers that I really like.

Crewfu vods/videos I would recommend:

Crewfu panel at twitchcon 2022 edited / full vod

Crewfu plays pico park edited: hafu Dumbdog / full vod (steve)

Hafu’s birthday stream full vod

Hafu: She is the crew’s Mom. She set up the original morning lobbies daily for months. She’s a legend in the gaming community and has been streaming/playing games competitively for over 10 years. Choose any competitive game over this time period and Hafu has probably mastered it. She is married to another streamer called dogdog and they live in Las Vegas with their dog Jubbs.

dakotaz (dk): One of the og members of the morning lobby. He helped set up the lobbies with Hafu at the start due to the frustration of trying to find and play in lobbies at the height of Among Us popularity. Currently streams Fortnite almost daily. He has an alt stream where he sometimes streams Among Us and Valorant and any other games he feels like. He hits those, he's in his 30s, and he's petty all the time. He briefly lived in Vegas but he is a true Florida man and moved back after a short time.

5up: His twitter bio says “rank 1 among us player” He was a rival to Hafu in the og lobbies and was known for his big brain Among Us plays. He also acted as the substitute teacher during the original lobby run and held things together after hafu stopped playing among us in 2021. He commissioned a team to create a custom Among Us map called the submarine map. He plays a lot of competitive games currently like League of Legends, Valorant, TFT as well as MCC. He also travels a lot and he has a lot of friends in many different streaming circles like OTV&F, the minecraft community, etc.

stevesuptic: He was “poached” from a ChilledChaos lobby where he met Hafu and Dumbdog for the first time. He impressed Hafu with not only how funny he was but also with how bad he was at the game. He makes and produces his own music under the artist name "SUGR?" He's been a part of too many youtube channels to list but is probably most well known for Sugar Pine 7. He currently streams valorant and variety content pretty much daily. In May of 2023 he announced that he is roommates with Janet/xChocoBars, another member of the Morning Lobby. In July 2023 he got his own kitten named Olympus or Oly for short.

DumbDog: Despite his name he is generally known for being good at most games. He met Hafu through NorthernLion on the NLSS. He was a semi-regular participant in the original morning lobbies but I think he’s the only person who has been in every single lobby since the reunion. He recently bought a house and adopted a cute husky puppy named Artemis or Artie for short. He is a frequent member of the variety lobbies and plays with Steve and their group almost daily. He is a furry and as part of a sub goal he commissioned a fursuit and it was finished this year. 

xChocoBars or Janet- She is a Canadian variety streamer and a regular in both current and original lobbies.  She plays lots of group games with friends and is often addicted to certain games like APEX and TFT and streams them a lot. She has 2 cats named Hazel and Baton and recently became roommates with Steve.

Angelskimi or Kimi (formerly known as plushys): She is an ASMR artist who was a regular in the og lobbies and plays almost weekly now. She is a pretty irregular streamer but does upload on her ASMR youtube channel weekly. Despite her claims of being “so angel” she is an innuendo queen. She lives in LA with her dog Pix and her cat Snowball.

Ellum: He is one half of daft and dafter with Koji being the other half. He is one of the regulars from the UK. He calls himself the smoothest brain on twitch which may or may not be true. He streams variety games on most weekdays. He lives in London with his girlfriend (CaptainPuffy) and they have a corgi named Pudding together.

koji: He is the other half of daft and dafter. He is known for being a very wholesome streamer. His content oscillates from really cozy games to horror with occasional group gaming streams with friends. He is vegan and lives with his longtime girlfriend Abby and their 2 dogs Miso and Bugs.

Smajor / Smajor1995 / dangthatsalongname / Scott: He currently plays quite frequently in the morning lobby but his specialty outside of that is minecraft content. He is on the Empires server, organizes MCC, the life series, etc. I personally watch more of his youtube content than his streams. He lives in England but he is from Scotland.

Junkyard129: He is a new regular to the morning lobbies and has been playing every week for the last several months. He is the oldest person in the lobby and is often the butt of a lot of jokes because of it. He has probably been creating content longer than anyone else in the lobby as youtube says his first video was uploaded 16 years ago!! Currently streams variety gaming solo and with the Chilled group quite often. He also has regular streams from his woodworking shop where he makes cutting boards, coasters, etc to sell. He has a special dance that he performs when he gets raided.

vGumiho: She is a variety v-tuber who currently plays both in the morning lobby and with the Steve variety game group. She started becoming a more frequent regular when the crew started playing Valorant but plays most weeks for the Among Us lobbies currently. She has a dog named Kazu. She organizes ppsat lobbies which used to be weekly but are less frequent now.

Ovilee: She is an esports commentator who currently plays with the morning lobby most weeks. She also streams and she presented the morning lobby panel at twitch con.

[colesabi]

Its Rant Time

Alright so I have got to talk about this:

I’m pretty sure at this point it’s been confirmed to be an AI fake but I feel the need to rant.

Apparently this monstrosity has been making the rounds on social media ever since Thursday. I had sent it in to @highball66, mainly to make fun of it but apparently it’s still available for pre-order on playasia. (It is still up, I confirmed)

Now, I don’t now much about that platform but first and foremost, we do not have a date for release for RE9 or even really an actual confirmation (we know it’s coming but just, like when is the question). Also: if something were going to be put on pre-order I would think they would at least have some sort of professional or official graphic attached. Not this AI generated monstrosity and that isn’t even taking into account the little banner for the item description.

What? You guys couldn’t find another obscure graphic of Leon and Jill? Had to use 2R Leon and RE1 Jill? (I’m not even going to discuss the potential plot for the game either because that’s just a whole different issue and might get a separate post)

Now let’s move onto the actual game title and graphic because this thing is a mess. I’m 99% sure someone just took DI Leon’s model and just plastered a bunch of shadows over his face. It seems like the generative AI was probably given the prompts to take the last known appearance of Leon (DI) and age him up, and then for shits and giggles, give him a cybernetic arm??? (Like what the fuck is going on with that left arm - a bad blend job? intentional? Or just trying to fill in a blank since I’m pretty sure the main inspo was taken from this image below. Notice how his arms are real skinny in the RE9 graphic because the below image has them cropped? The AI probably was trying to fill in the blanks there)

I honestly feel like they took this and adjusted his posture and gave him (from what I can tell) a very weirdly rendered face that looks nothing like the graphics in the RE engine. It’s just bad all the way around.

And don’t even get me started on “Jill” (supposedly in the background). Doesn’t even look like her, though granted, her face is completely blocked out but the body shape just looks like some generic video game/anime girl. Whoever did this didn’t even give us like any identifiable clothing to figure out its Jill. I honestly thought it was Ada at first.

Then you have the name. As @highball66 says, it’s just a switcharoo of Shadow Revenant from Apex Legends. Now unless Capcom has just decided to enter the ‘fuck it’ stage of development, I would be shocked if that’s the name.

I really hope no one has fallen for this and paid money because this just looks to be a scam trying to take advantage of a clearly popular franchise that is just itching for updates. Hopefully we’ll get more official confirmation soon or something but these rumors are starting to get a little out of hand.

[falseidol-falseprophet]

𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝙻𝙻! ||Apex Legends DISCORD RP||

𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚆𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚁𝚂! _______________________________________

Tired of your boring run of the mill day in day out affairs? Looking for fun, flair, excitement, and to hone your skills? Look no further! The Syndicate is now recruiting for the Apex Games! Come and train, fight, and live amongst our renowned champions! Come one, come all, to the Apex Games!

_______________________________________

RECRUITING FOR APEX LEGENDS DISCORD SERVER! We are an inclusive and fun server currently in our infancy so it’s a great time to come in, get settled, and hang out if that’s your prerogative. We welcome 3 OCs and have a number of canon characters currently up for grabs. 2 Canon characters per writer! This is an 18+ server so if you’re uncomfortable with that or a minor, I’m so sorry! We’re happy to do what we need to make our writers comfy. We also will be following loose canon lore, but will be building off of that and tracking server lore on its own. This means canon characters with HCs and personality changes ARE ALSO welcome! Below is the application which you can copy and paste, or screen shot and DM or submit to me, filled out, if you’re approved, I’ll send you an invite to our server but it will only be valid for some time, so please make sure to be vigilant of that. 

APPLICATION 

NAME:

AGE: PRONOUNS: MY CHARACTER IS: (who you will be claiming or the name of your OC)

What will you be bringing to the community? (say some nice things about yourself!)

General Availability: (will you be active?)

Do you promise to follow our rules and be nice to your fellow writers? Y/N?

ARE YOU COMFORTABLE RP-ING IN A GROUP SETTING?

THIS IS FIRST COME FIRST SERVE!!!

Current Canon Characters Claimed:// Revenant - Mirage - Seer - Alter - Wattson - Crypto - Octane - Fuse - Caustic - Vantage - Horizon - Bangalore - Valkyrie - Loba

Canon Characters Available:// Lifeline - Wraith - Rampart - Newcastle - Gibraltar - Catalyst - Ballistic - Mad Maggie - Pathfinder - Conduit - Bloodhound - Ash

[kieranwritess]

Ballistic Headcanons (some x reader?)

Fandom: Apex Legends

Character: Ballistic

Notes: kinks mentioned, you are responsible for all media you consume etc etc, religion mentioned, pet names

a/n: I went mental for the old man and here we are. another midnight HC list!! I do not control when the writing gods strike okay 😭

General HCs

him and Horizon are lowkey besties (pov you bond over the shared trauma of losing a son)

prolly tolerates her and Fuse the most out of the other legends (Fuse comes across as a pretty amiable guy despite it all tbh)

if sad wet cat was a person, he is it

speaking of cats, HE IS A CAT PERSON!! has like 50 and the MRVNs take care of them while he's away

if he gets called Monty, there is a 99% chance he will break your legs

fences, prolly owns a real sword (rich people tingz)

and speaking of rich people, hoards art like a fucking DRAGON (think Tilda from Horizon FW but less evil)

basically canon but mans is a Hellenistic pagan

given the bust of Zeus, he probably has a shrine for him somewhere on the estate

I'd imagine another patron of his is Athena (i.e. strategic warcraft and wisdom. I mean cmon he quotes literature everywhere, a very learned fella)

protects his tea stash at the Apex HQ with his LIFE (if there's no canon HQ just pretend there's one in Solace City by the firing range)

dramatic little bitch ("by the gods, I'm down ☹️")

fashion-conscious at the very least (thinking of the kill quip about burying his opponent "in a more respectable outfit than that")

Romantic HCs

is SO quiet about his private life (I mean after his wife and child leaving him why wouldn't he be?)

and with that #baggage, he's very nervous to admit to himself that he's romantically/sexually interested in someone again

if he does find himself interested in someone, he finds it difficult to put aside his public persona (a subconscious and self-protective habit)

but when he falls, he falls so damn hard !!! he's afraid of coming on too strong as well. will probably suss out the vibes of said person

ANYWAYS, if his s/o is in the Games, he feels so damn bad about hurting them it's basically a flight risk lol (and THIS is why there are anti-fraternization rules)

if legend!s/o does get hurt, this man is so good at makeup sex godDAMN

is definitely one to worship and spoil his partner

pet names like dear, darling, pet, luv, angel, god(dess), my love, beloved, my *insert pet name here*

considers himself a pretty vanilla dude with a crippling breeding kink (no matter the sex of his s/o)

cooking for those he cares about is lowkey a love language of his

[ur-friendly-nbhd-cardassian]

Hello there!

a little "about me" post

my art

♡ My AO3 ♡ My Ko-fi ♡ My Cara ♡ My Pillowfort ♡ My Wattpad ♡

I'm a very long-winded person and when I like doing something, I like doing A LOT of it. I have a lot of fandoms, I like pretty art and cats, I write and muse about stuff - it's all a huge mess if I put it in one place. So that's why I decided to split my obsessions into several neat piles, so people could have an easier time deciding whether to follow, ignore or block my stuff according to their preferences.

Order an OC commission on my Ko-fi ♡

Here are my blogs which you're free to explore and follow as you like:

» ur-friendly-nbhd-cardassian

The main blog where I shout into nothingness. But where I also post lots of Star Trek, mainly about Cardassians (bc I love them). I do not do Garashir, tho, look for that particular bit elsewhere (not bc I don't ship them, but bc I'm severely overfed to the point of having an allergic rection). My focus Cardassian is Damar, followed by Dukat. I'm super open to reblogging your OCs, though. My other favorite fandoms you might come across on this blog (which I don't post enough about to make a separate blog): Mass Effect, Discworld, Tolkien, Detroit: Become Human, Apex Legends, Marvel/DC, Hunger Games. I also ramble, post about writing in general, reblog some fitting memes and pets/animals, share my own photography, reblog art etc.

» pixie-in-a-moonlantern

The initiated already know: Baldur's Gate 3 brainrot blog. I post my OC screenshots, my own and reblogged fanfiction, reblog A LOT of blorbos (Halsin, Gortash, Raphael,..), whether it's art or headcanons. I do not have any VP tools, so my screens are only lightly edited to be prettier, and that's it. I prefer to avoid posting negative stuff, so it's just batshit obsession and thoughts.

» shaved-wampa

Diehard fans surely got the joke: Star Wars brainrot, and that goes for every conceivable piece of the fandom, even the bits you might not agree with - I don't discriminate. My all-time favorites are: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Bode Akuna. Yes, just the two, because I also have a huge pile of characters I love, but don't really focus on: Padmé, Ahsoka, Ventress, Plo Koon, Kit Fisto, Din Djarin, lil Grogu, Cody, infinite number of other Clones, ... soooo many. My top two are just the guys I actually write about. Bode's and Obi-Wan's fics are unfortunately on hold right now (sigh).

» cyber-vianne-77

As the name suggests, this is my Cyberpunk 2077 blog. I used to do a lot of virtual photography in that one - and yes, this time I mean real VP, though still no paid tools, just vanilla and free mods. I love Goro Takemura and ship my fem V with him heavily - wrote a dope fanfiction about them called 'Broken' (and following parts 'Gimme Danger' and 'Last Caress'). I reblog other cp77 vp (especially of Goro) and fanart. I don't currently play the game or shoot photos, but I have a large collection I plan to drizzle over the next few months, until I maybe decide to go back to cp77 for a while again and finally play Phantom Liberty that's been waiting for me for a long time now xD.

» sergeant-sassy

A mix of obsessions with one man in common: John Hopkins, a British actor :). Seen in Midsomer Murders and lately heard in various games as a voice actor. I've fallen for him for the first time 20 years ago - and he returned to me as Erend in Horizon games (Zero Dawn & Forbidden West). I love the games and its characters and take a lot of screenshots, too :). So it's a weird dump of Ereloy, Kotaloy (because Noshir) and Midsomer Murders :3

» goodness-all-around

My "assorted dopeness" reblogs. It's getting 0 attention so I just usually post shit to cardassian or to my private collection to avoid overflowing my main.

I will update the list if I happen to change things or add/remove blogs. Thanks for your attention and see you in the activity notifs! 💛

Bits of trivia: I'm Czech, cis woman (bi & poly and, frankly, hyper), 32, in a relationship, mom to a 5yo boy, a writer struggling to finish and publish her first original novel, drowning her sorrows in fanfic instead :). I got to most of my fandoms quite late in life, because where I live this info only started to properly flow in with the coming of the internet. I'm usually a casual fan, though when I hit a gold vein I can get a bit obsessed. I love writing fanfiction, which is mostly why I'm here on this site. I self-insert a lot (therapy writing) and usually ship us, with the rare occasion of finding a couple where I can identify with one of them (or mold them to my image because I like or even fancy them). I've spent my life believing I was hetero and discovered I'm not only once I (finally) was in a hetero relationship and had a kid, so... my ships are also hetero. It's a habit, not hating, I don't discredit any gay ships (maybe quietly to myself when they don't make any sense to me character-wise, lol). My AO3 account: XindiChick I usually try to write even the most niche of my ships in a way that doesn't require much knowledge of the original, so you're welcome to browse and read to your heart's content if you happen to like my style. I welcome any interactions, especially comments, because I don't get many.

I think it's something everyone should always be aware of, but I've also seen many people ignoring this unsaid rule:

HATERS NEED NOT INTERACT

- lest they get blocked. I'm not here to argue with you about why I like certain characters and why you think I shouldn't. Go simp for your own top picks on your own blogs and leave me alone. Same goes for any of my personal trivia I shared.

Also:

DISCLAIMER: My blogs are a safe space for everyone who doesn't go around hating on everyone else. I will block indiscriminantly assholes of every shape, color, faith, gender, orientation etc., just as I will happily interact with good people of any kind. Idc what your deal is, I just wanna enjoy being on this platform, so if you plan to rain on it, don't expect me to indulge you.

Icons by: @rpschtuff

By the way, a fun fact known only to people aware of my main fanfic novel, The Casualty, the Cardassian in my username was actually born Bajoran, but raised Cardassian, which is why she's a Cardassian in heart and spirit. She's your friendly reminder that not all Cardies are the same and as a nation have the capacity to be much better than how they were presented in the DS9, which is what she's trying to achieve.

[the-fandom-crossroads]

Hoyofair Spring 2024 Creator Links!

Like last Hoyofair I'm making a post linking to the youtube channels of each project shared at hoyofair! Be sure to follow the creators and support their main channels so they can keep making amazing projects like these!

Galactic Abyss Chronicles - 神·潜行瞬杀 and others

I actually found the director, head animator, and head modeler on Bilibili! Here Real proud of myself because he has no accounts on the western internet. He hasn't posted the full short on his account yet but he does have a fananimation for the Apex Legends X FFVII Rebirth collab.

From what I can tell this is also the first Genshin related animation he's done which is cool. The rest of the creators seem to be from the CN fandom as well although I could not find their Bilibili's from a quick search

Ranked DayCare - by No_Tables

Their first Hoyo short was at Hoyofair 2023. So it's great to see them back with a new bit. Now with Klee!

Moonlit Bamboo Forest - Passion Paris

So this is apparently an Academy Award winning Animation studio!? Passion Pictures is the studios name and the Paris branch animated this short. We have legit 2D animation studios submitting Shorts to Hoyofair now. Wow!

Needless to say this was the short with the most unique animation style. And one of my top favorites this year.

Trial by Combat - ???

So this one seems to be just a collab of a bunch of animators. Like I can't find the project manager online (too generic a name for google). The head animator has a twitter but Twitter changed at somepoint where it won't let me view a direct link to someones profile without being logged in. I ain't creating a twitter for this rabbit hole. his username is rabbitoldman if you want to look him up. But he hasn't made any tweets with the word genshin as far as google's concerned.

I just can't find one sorry.

Progenitor: The Surface - dillongoo

Ex- RWBY animator returns with episode 3 of his "if genshin was a cyberpunk anime" series. The first two episodes hit so hard and the 3rd episode does not disappoint!

Realm of Faith: Live Actually - Type Zero Inc

Another legit animation studio for the animation. They don't have a youtube so i don't know if they'll ever upload the full version anywhere other than hoyofair.

But! The two songs have been posted on the singers youtubes with longer versions!

majiko(Furina), 4s4ki(Lumine), Wolpis Carter(Venti)

Chogakusei (Wriothesley), Amatsuki (Childe), 96Neko (Arlecchino)

Domain 404 - LucHD

Their first and only other Hoyofair short was shown over a year ago at hoyofair 2022. But Luc has returned with a full 4 minute short filled with Spiral Abyss and other meta in jokes. Diluc out here maining a C6 Bennett lol.

TitanSlayers: Edge of Oblivion - Kieru

Kieru once again turns in an amazing action packed animation. The last one was the Persona spoof with Lyney and Lynette. But my favorite of theirs is Cyno vs Anubis and the Gods

Shenhe Awaken - Rhinocore

They made a previous short for Hoyofair but that one was never posted to a youtube channel other than hoyofair. So I'm going to assume they don't have a youtube and this one is just going to say on Hoyofair as well.

---

And that's all the Creators from this Hoyofair! It was less creators than the winter one but I feel like that might be because multiple shorts are nearly 10 minutes.

But which one was your favorite? Do you like the change to less but longer shorts? Or do you wish they went back to more shorts 2-5 minutes long? Let me know in the tags! And be sure to follow all these guys on their youtube's so you can see the teaser trailers they post a few days before each Hoyofair.

[your-local-crypt1d]

Hey there, demons, it's me, ya boy •°~

my name is Vexx or Cryptid!

🦇 they/he/void 🦇

🦇 multifandom artist 🦇

🦇 trans enby / aroace 🦇

🦇 Aboriginal Australian 🦇

🦇 disabled / ND 🦇

🦇 eng + some german 🦇

🦇 tags ; #my art #my writing #my headcanons #incoherent mumbling #queued post #long post 🦇

🦇 aesthetics ; voidpunk, crippunk, goth, goblincore, cryptidcore, feralcore, chaoscore, weirdcore 🦇

🦇 alt ; @just-anaverage-person 🦇

🦇 ao3 handle ; UrLocalCrypt1dblr 🦇

🦇 My Tiktok 🦇

○ Interests ○

🕸 Resident Evil 🕸

🕸 SCP Foundation 🕸

🕸 mcyt / Minecraft in general 🕸

🕸 Arcane 🕸

🕸 Apex Legends / Valorant / Overwatch

🕸 The Forest 🕸

🕸 DC Comics / Marvel Comics / invincible🕸

🕸 The Sandman / Good Omens / Dead Boy Detectives 🕸

🕸 Baldurs Gate 3 / DnD 🕸

🕸 BuzzFeed Unsolved / Watcher Entertainment 🕸

🕸 analog horror 🕸

🕸 stranger things 🕸

🕸 Sally face 🕸

🕸 Detroit: Become Human 🕸

🕸 The Lovecraft mythos 🕸

🕸 Godzilla 🕸

🕸 A Quiet Place 🕸

🕸 musicals 🕸

🕸 Cryptozoology (shocker) 🕸

🕸 biology / zoology / archeology 🕸

○ boundaries ○

🍄 Will not draw anything proship/fetishy/RPF and NSFW or heavily suggestive 🍄

🍄 Character Ship-friendly blog! If you don’t like that, please feel free to block me 🍄

🍄 feel free to make requests just don't expect them to be done in a timely manner, please 🍄

🍄 Art Usage: I don’t permit any usage such as reposts or AI at all, banners/icons are acceptable with credit 🍄

🍄 if you like something I've written and want to make fanart, please do! Just tag me so I can see 🍄

DNI if w*lbur or dteam supporter, proshipper, TERF, SWERF, general bigotry, discourse-blog, etc

🖤 Commissions open 🖤