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jeszrosse · 5 days ago

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🧬 “Deviation”

MANIPULATIVE!Albert Wesker x Reader | One-shot AU | Reader Unaware | Deep Psychological Control | Obsession-Slowburn

⚠️ Possessive behavior • Surveillance • Delusional Justification • Isolation tactics • No reader realization • Smut • Stalking

🧬 1. [Observation]

It begins, as most things do with Wesker, in silence.

Your first day on the team, you barely warranted a glance in the surveillance feed.

Another lab technician. Another replaceable assistant. Another insignificant moving part.

But then you lingered.

Stayed late. Came early.

Read the case files beyond your clearance level and didn’t flinch at the corpses.

You passed the first test.

Not that you knew there was one.

You thought it was coincidence that no one sat beside you in meetings.

That your access card opened doors you never requested.

That the intern who made a joke about your smile was transferred within the hour.

It wasn’t coincidence.

It was calibration.

He was isolating the variables.

And you, you became an anomaly worth noting.

He began compiling minor reports on your behavior, tucked into encrypted files labeled with meaningless acronyms—justifications for your existence in his system. He logged your arrival times, the hesitation in your speech, the way you handled scalpel trays with a certain… reverence. Clinical on the outside, but with the sharpness of someone who wanted to understand.

You weren’t like the others—those limp, nodding bureaucrats or ambition-hollowed researchers. You read between lines. You saw things. You didn’t ask for approval.

It should’ve been threatening.

But instead, it was fascinating.

---

🧬 2. [Containment]

Wesker doesn’t trust easily.

He trusts data.

Outcomes.

Silence.

But you unsettled the metrics.

You moved differently. You saw things. You questioned protocols he didn’t authorize you to read.

And he watched.

The way your fingers hovered over a scalpel you didn’t need to touch.

The way your reflection lingered in the biohazard glass.

The way your laugh, rare as it was, made low-ranking guards look up.

So he changed the guards.

Restricted hallway access.

Reassigned co-workers.

Built your world to orbit only him.

And still—still you never noticed.

Not when your new desk faced his office.

Not when your login synced with his terminal.

Not when your lunch orders began arriving, already paid.

You thought it was protocol. Efficiency. Company structure.

It wasn’t.

It was obsession.

Even your chair was adjusted—replaced with one designed to support your back based on posture data from security footage. Your lighting changed imperceptibly across weeks, tailored to prevent eye strain and keep you awake longer, sharper.

He scheduled briefings when you were most alert.

Redirected minor crises to ensure you'd report directly to him.

He watched the way you blinked when you were confused.

Memorized the twitch of your mouth when you were about to ask something risky.

Your coworkers left one by one. Transferred. Fired. Reassigned.

Those who got too familiar? Disciplined. Quietly.

You didn’t wonder why your inbox felt so clean.

Why no one interrupted your concentration anymore.

Why the company started feeling like a corridor, narrowing around you.

---

🧬 3. [Degradation]

It got worse.

Or—closer to the truth.

He found himself pausing the security feed just to watch the curve of your spine as you bent over notes.

He rewound your voice recordings, cataloguing the inflections in your “Good morning, sir.”

He deleted the word sir from your tongue in his mind.

He didn’t want your respect.

He wanted your obedience.

Your trust.

Your presence, constant and unrelenting.

You belonged in his space, like air belonged in lungs.

He just hadn't told you yet.

Sometimes, you left behind small things—sticky notes, paperclips, coffee cups. Harmless. Forgettable. But he kept them all.

The mug with a faint mark of your lip balm.

The pen you once clicked while reading virology samples.

A typed memo, crumpled, with a single word scratched out and replaced. "Necessary."

He examined them not with sentiment but calculation.

These were not keepsakes.

These were proofs of proximity.

You were slipping under his skin molecule by molecule, and he needed evidence of your presence in his domain.

But there were moments—dangerous ones—when calculation gave way to something darker.

Moments when you reached for a dropped stylus beneath the lab table and the hem of your coat pulled taut across your thighs.

Moments when you tilted your head to read something over a microscope and exposed the soft column of your neck.

Moments when the feed from the surveillance cameras caught just enough.

He knew every angle of your body from security footage.

The way your blouse sometimes gaped slightly when you leaned forward.

The way you stretched without thinking, unaware of how it framed you.

Unaware of the man watching—memorizing.

It was a weakness.

A flaw in his design.

But sometimes he would watch the footage at half-speed, eyes burning, jaw clenched, and tell himself it was for behavioral monitoring.

That the brief tightening in his chest wasn’t arousal, but concern.

And yet—when you bent to pick up a file one night, alone, late, and the back of your skirt lifted just slightly—

—his fingers had twitched.

Not from irritation.

From restraint.

From the raw, silent thought that he could take you. Right there.

Not in fantasy. Not in dream. But in brutal, clinical, breathtaking reality.

He could fuck you against the sterile counter and no one would stop him.

No one would even know.

But he didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

He was control. Discipline.

He filed the footage.

Encrypted it.

And watched it again the next night.

Hands behind his back.

Jaw locked.

Throat tight with the sick, hungry coil of desire he refused to name.

You didn’t know.

Didn’t see.

Didn’t feel the weight of a man who no longer saw you as a subordinate or asset—

—but as something already his, simply awaiting the correct time to be claimed.

---

🧬 4. [Denial]

You never caught it, but he looked away first.

Every time.

Every instance your gaze met his, however briefly.

You assumed it was deference. Coldness. That clinical thing he wore like a second skin.

But it wasn’t.

It was containment.

Because the sound of your voice—the precise cadence in which you said “Understood, Doctor Wesker”—lit up some dormant, vile thing in him.

Something untested.

Something monstrous.

He was not above temptation.

He was simply better at dissecting it.

The way you smiled at your coworkers, never at him?

He noticed.

The way you stood just a fraction closer when anxious, fingers tightening at your sides?

He filed it away.

He let others believe you were isolated by accident.

But he'd engineered that loneliness. Curated it.

Suffocated anything that threatened to pull your attention elsewhere.

You never got that offer for project co-lead.

Never received the anonymous gifts left at your desk by interns.

Because Albert intercepted them.

Silently. Strategically.

You didn’t know it was his hand pulling you toward him, only that every direction seemed to fold inward until he was the only constant.

The only man who saw you.

Who understood you.

He watched you trace your notes, watched your lips form silent syllables, and all the while he denied himself.

Denied the heat pooling in his abdomen.

Denied the cruel ache behind every “Goodnight, sir” you uttered.

Denied the nightly compulsion to run simulations of what you would sound like begging.

And when he couldn't sleep, he listened to your voice on the lab’s intercom archive.

Just to hear it.

To pretend.

To substitute control for contact.

And still—he told himself he had not crossed the line.

Not yet.

Because you were still untouched.

Still pure, in the way only someone unaware of their ownership could be.

---

🧬 5. [Possession]

He began to see it in everything.

The way others looked at you—a threat.

The way you spoke about your family—a liability.

The way you said “thank you” when he passed you reports—intolerable.

You didn’t thank him.

You didn’t understand him.

You couldn’t.

But that was fine.

Understanding would come later.

He started curating your tasks more delicately.

Steered you away from field ops, too dangerous.

Assigned you exclusively to him, citing “performance optimization.”

You didn’t protest.

You thought you were being promoted.

But in truth, you were being drawn in.

Woven tighter.

Placed carefully, perfectly, exactly where he wanted you.

In his office.

In his world.

In his reach.

Your name was embedded in his daily reports. Your security log-in pinged his terminal every time you swiped a door.

The other researchers stopped referencing your work without Wesker’s express permission. He had erased your reputation as independent—you were his now.

And no one questioned it.

Not when his gaze burned through the glass walls of the lab.

Not when he stood beside you in meetings like a shadow wearing a tailored suit.

Not when his hand briefly brushed yours while reviewing samples, and he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t need to pull away.

He had already claimed what he wanted.

---

Now, his fingerprints existed on more than your reports.

He’d rewritten your schedule to end near his. Aligned your meals. Synced your lab hours. Even your breaks were subtly shifted, your elevator stops timed perfectly with his descent.

You didn’t see it.

But he did.

Every day you returned to your workspace slightly adjusted—your chair moved back in, your pens restocked, your personal mug rotated exactly one degree counter-clockwise.

“We’re optimizing,” he’d say.

“For your convenience.”

He'd begun accompanying you to biometric checks. At first, a coincidence. The second time, an excuse. By the third, he was inputting your medical logs himself.

His voice was always calm. Always formal. Always patient.

But his gaze lingered.

His presence loomed.

And his hands—always gloved—brushed against the small of your back far too often for protocol.

---

And he watched.

From behind glass. From dark monitors. From still frames and slow replays. When your blouse sat a little too low. When your eyes wandered where they shouldn’t.

You were careless with your innocence.

But he would be careful for you.

He adjusted the brightness of the surveillance feed. Zoomed in. Studied the way you leaned too close to your keyboard.

Imagined your breath fogging the screen.

Imagined how easily that breath could hitch. Could falter. Could beg.

You have no idea, he thought.

But you will.

Not yet.

But soon.

Understanding would come later.

---

🧬 6. [Infection]

The final stage was the most dangerous.

You said his name once.

Not “sir.”

Not “Wesker.”

Just:

“Albert…?”

His gaze snaps up from the report.

You’re standing in the doorway of his office, the heel of one shoe slightly kicked back, as if you weren’t sure whether to enter. The folder in your hand trembles slightly—an involuntary twitch you don’t even notice. But he does.

He notices everything.

The breath that stutters in your throat after the name escapes.

The flicker of hesitation in your pupils when his expression doesn’t immediately soften.

The way you shift—defensive, unsure—before you correct yourself:

“I mean—sir. Sorry, I meant—sir.”

But it’s already too late.

The damage is done.

You spoke it aloud.

Not in passing.

Not as a slip of protocol.

Not with bitterness or irony.

But with concern.

Soft. Tentative. Almost gentle.

And that… that is what undoes him.

You don’t know he has a file buried six levels deep into a server no one else can access—labeled with your name, storing every image of you captured on internal footage.

You don’t know he’s wiped out four internal transfer requests that would have pulled you from his floor.

You don’t know he personally selects your meals for team events—ensuring your preferences are always met, even when no one else notices.

You don’t know he’s kept you here, orbiting him, perfectly placed, under the illusion of promotion.

And now you’ve said his name like it belongs to you.

Like he does.

“Sir,” you try again, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Apologies. I—I didn’t mean—”

He stands slowly, measured, the desk separating you like a fragile boundary he’s had to respect for far too long.

“No need to apologize,” he says coolly. “You simply… surprised me.”

But inside? His thoughts are nothing but static.

He replays the syllables.

Not just the sound, but the shape of your mouth when you said it.

He files it into memory. Deep. Permanent.

And he knows—sooner than even you do—that this is the beginning of the end for the illusion.

Because from this moment on, you’ve stopped being a project.

Stopped being a subject.

You’ve become a trigger.

A fixation.

An opening he hadn’t anticipated—but cannot ignore.

You said his name once.

You won’t realize until it’s far too late:

You’ll never say it the same way again.

Because you didn’t know what you’d done.

You didn’t hear it the way he did.

Like it was already yours to say.

Like he wasn’t a god.

Like he was a man.

A man who had already rewritten every security protocol to keep you near.

A man who eliminated colleagues who made you uncomfortable.

A man who—if you ever truly looked—might shatter the illusion of “normal” with one cold sentence:

“You’re not here by accident.”

“You’re here because I designed you to be.”

But you don’t know.

You smile politely.

You offer your reports.

You drink the coffee that arrives on your desk precisely how you like it.

You go home.

You live your life.

While he rewatches your day in full.

While he listens to your voicemails and deletes names from your inbox.

While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

While he reminds himself that love is irrelevant.

Control is what matters.

And he already has it.

---

He’d timed every entry and exit.

He knew how long you took in the restroom.

Which hallway you paused in to check your phone.

What time of day your voice grew tired.

He saw it as clearly as he saw cell degradation under a microscope.

That slow unraveling.

That quiet compliance.

You were adapting.

Your posture had shifted. Subtly. You walked faster when alone. Slower when near him. You dressed differently—more reserved, perhaps without realizing. You avoided eye contact with male superiors.

Wesker approved.

He didn’t speak of it.

Didn’t need to.

The conditioning was holding.

You had stopped asking questions.

Stopped challenging schedules.

Stopped requesting to work from other wings.

You had folded into the environment he designed—one where he was a constant hum beneath your daily routine. Where his name lingered at the back of your tongue. Where his voice set your pace and his silence set your nerves.

---

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he muttered to himself, watching the security footage replay. While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

There you were again. That exact moment. Your eyes soft, confused, lips parted: Albert…?

He paused the video.

Leaned back.

Let the sound echo in the sterile quiet of his office.

It was not an accident.

Not some sweet slip of tongue.

No.

It was the infection taking root.

Your body catching up to what your environment had long accepted.

Dependence.

Deference.

Attachment.

He could work with that.

Love was messy. Emotional.

But dependence—he could mold.

He could reinforce it, reward it, create just enough tension to keep you needing his approval.

To keep you needing him.

---

(A/N: should I make a part 2??? I mean- I already have it. I just wanna hear it from you dirty sluts;>)

#fanfiction #x reader #fanfic #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker #albert wesker smut #possesive love #stalker au #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil albert wesker #albert wesker x you #albert wesker x y/n #x you #x you smut #smut fanfiction #minors dni #minors do not interact

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leviitome · 15 days ago

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4 — HR Ruins Everything | Suguru Geto

AO3 / Masterlist / Moodboard

EDITED | ONGOING

Wordcount: 4k

cw: 18+, teasing, vocal Geto, oral (f receiving), boss-employee relationship, Geto don’t gaf about anonymity and secrecy he’d fuck you in front of everyone if it meant proving how badly he wants you.

Minors DNI.

Newly promoted and chronically late, you unknowingly take the last elevator available to only the highest-ranking executives and apparently, it's him. Suguru Geto. Who promises himself to give you, your exhausted, frustrated self, some type of relief every time you take his elevator.

Like all rumors, they start small. Like they always do. It’s been months, five actually, you can’t even believe you’ve been letting this on for this long. But you let it anyway.

Every passing moment, a comment in the break room about how you and Suguru arrived at the same time pops up. A knowing look when someone mentions seeing you both in front of the building. Sarah from HR asking casual questions about “settling into the executive floor” with a tone that suggests she knows more than she’s letting on.

By Wednesday, it’s impossible to ignore.

You’re reviewing quarterly reports in your office when your supervisor, Kiyotaka Ijichi, appears in your doorway. He’s holding a manila folder and wearing the expression of someone who wishes he were anywhere else.

“Got a minute?” he asks, already stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Your stomach drops. “Of course.”

Ijichi sits across from your desk, the folder unopened in his lap. He’s maybe in his late thirties, with graying temples and the kind of tired eyes that come from one long decade of corporate mediocrity. He’s never been unkind to you, but he’s never been particularly warm either.

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” he says. “There’s been some… talk.”

You keep your expression neutral. “What kind of talk?”

“The kind that makes HR nervous.” He opens the folder, revealing what looks like printed emails. “Someone filed a concern about inappropriate workplace relationships on the executive floor.”

The words hit you like ice water. “Inappropriate relationships?”

“Look, I’m not here to play gotcha,” Ijichi continues, his tone slightly softer. “But I need to ask - is there anything going on between you and Suguru Geto that I should know about?”

The question, like always, hangs in the air. You could lie. You probably should lie. Deny everything, act offended, make it their problem to prove. But looking at Ijichi’s tired face, you realize how exhausting the deception has become.

“What happens if I say yes?”

Ijichi sighs, and suddenly, he looks even older. “Honestly? I don’t know. This is above my pay grade. But there are policies, protocols. Someone’s going to want to document this officially.”

You think about Suguru, probably in a similar meeting right now. Wonder if he’s handling it better than you are.

“Who filed the complaint?”

“I can’t tell you that. But…” Ijichi hesitates. “Let’s just say it wasn’t someone from your floor.”

Someone from lower floors, then. Someone who noticed you both arriving together, or saw something in the lobby, or maybe just put two and two together from office gossip.

“I need to think about this,” you say finally.

Ijichi nods. “You’ve got until Friday. HR wants to meet with both of you then.” He stands, leaving the folder on your desk. “For what it’s worth, you’ve been doing good work up here. Don’t let this derail everything you’ve worked for.”

After he leaves, you stare at the folder for a long time without opening it. Your hands are shaking - not the adrenaline rush from stolen moments with Suguru, but something colder.

The afternoon crawls by in a haze of attempted productivity. You try to focus on spreadsheets and client emails, but your mind keeps drifting to worst-case scenarios. Transfer to another department. Demotion. Having to find a new job entirely. All the progress you’ve made, all the respect you’ve earned, potentially wiped away because you couldn’t keep your hands off your boss.

Your phone buzzes around three, a text from an unknown number that you immediately recognize as Suguru’s personal cell.

Can’t talk at the office. Meet me at the Meridian Hotel Bar after work. 7 PM.

You stare at the message for a full minute before typing back.

Okay.

The Meridian is downtown, expensive and discreet. The kind of place where executives have affairs and business deals happen over thirty-dollar cocktails. You’ve never been there, but you know about it, everyone in corporate circles does.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in a state of nervous energy, checking your watch every few minutes and jumping at every sound in the hallway. By the time five-thirty rolls around, you’re practically vibrating with anxiety.

The bar at the Meridian is all dark wood and soft lighting, jazz playing quietly in the background. It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Suguru to choose, sophisticated, understated, expensive. You spot him immediately, sitting alone at a corner table, still in his work clothes but with his tie loosened and his jacket draped over the back of his chair.

He looks up as you approach, and something in his expression makes your chest tighten. He looks tired more so than you’ve ever seen him.

“Rough day?” you ask, sliding into the seat across from him.

“You could say that.” He signals the waitress. “What are you drinking?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

He orders two whiskeys, neat, and you sit in silence until they arrive. The first sip burns, but it’s a good burn, warming you from the inside out.

“So,” you say finally. “I’m guessing you had a similar conversation to mine.”

“Similar.” He takes a sip of his drink, wincing slightly. “Though I get the feeling mine was a bit more… pointed.”

“How so?”

“Let’s just say that when you’re in my position, people expect you to know better.” His voice is flat, professional. “They expect you to understand the implications of your actions.”

“And do you? Understand the implications?”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and then you see something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. Not regret, exactly, but something close to it.

“I understand that this is complicated,” he says carefully. “More complicated than either of us anticipated.”

The words feel like a rejection, even though his tone is neutral. You take another sip of whiskey, using the burn to ground yourself.

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“Are you?”

The question is loaded in everything you haven’t said. Because yes, you are having second thoughts. How could you not be? This morning you were secure in your career, confident in your trajectory. Now you’re sitting in an expensive hotel bar, drinking and wondering if you’re about to lose everything.

“I asked you first,” you say, deflecting.

Suguru’s mouth quirks up in what might be a smile. “Fair enough.” He leans back in his chair, studying you. “You want the honest answer?”

“I think I deserve an honest answer.”

“The honest answer is that I’ve been thinking about nothing else all day. About what this means, what it could cost us. What it could cost you specifically.”

“And?”

“And I keep coming back to the same conclusion.” He leans forward, his voice dropping. “I don’t care.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. “You don’t care?”

“About the job, the politics, the gossip - no, I don’t care. Not when it comes to you.”

You want to argue, to point out all the reasons why he should care, why you both should care. But the way he’s looking at you makes the words die in your throat.

“That’s easy for you to say,” you manage finally. “You’re not the one who’s going to get pushed out if this goes sideways.”

“You think I’d let that happen?”

“I don’t think you’d have a choice.”

Suguru’s jaw tightens. “Maybe I won’t. But I’d try like hell.”

The conviction in his voice surprises you. You’ve gotten used to his confidence, his certainty, but this feels different. It felt more personal.

“Why?” you ask. “All of this? Risking all of this? For me?”

He’s quiet for a moment, turning his glass in his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Because I've been going through the motions for years. Doing what I’m supposed to do, saying what I’m supposed to say, being who I’m supposed to be. And then you walked into my elevator, and for the first time in longer than I can even remember, I felt something different.”

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. “Suguru…”

“I’m not saying this, I don’t want to put you on the spot.” He continues. “I’m saying it because you deserve to know. You deserve to understand this—what you mean to me.”

The bar music swells around you, and you’re acutely aware of other conversations happening in the bar, but the clink of glasses, the low murmur of voices. Normal people having normal conversations, not sitting here trying to decide whether to risk their careers for something that might not even last.

“What I mean to you,” you repeat slowly.

“Everything,” he says simply. “You mean everything. It’s not even about what we do in the elevator or in my office, it’s about what this is.” He finally manages to explain.

The words are heavy with implication. You want to say something equally meaningful, equally honest, but the words won’t come. Instead, you reach across the table and take his hand.

His fingers intertwine with yours immediately, and you’re struck by how natural it feels. How right.

“I’m scared,” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“I worked so hard to get where I am. The thought of losing it–”

“I know,” he says again. “But what if we don’t lose it? What if we figure out a way to make this work?”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll try anyway. We can talk to HR, see what options we have. Maybe one of us transfers to a different department. Maybe we can find a way to make it work within the current structure.”

“And if we can’t?”

His thumb traces across your knuckles, the gesture achingly routine and familiar. “Then we figure it out.”

The word hits you like a revelation. We. not just stolen moments in elevators and late nights in his office, but actually together. Building something real that could actually, realistically last.

“You’re asking me to choose,” you say. “The job or you.”

“I’m asking you to choose yourself. Whatever that looks like.”

You drain the rest of your drink, feeling the burn all the way down. “This is insane.”

“Probably.”

“We could both end up unemployed.”

“We could.”

“We could ruin everything we’ve worked for.”

“We could,” he agrees. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both quirk up a smile and manage to stifle out a laugh that could potentially leave both of you jobless.

The optimism in his voice should be irritating, but instead it’s oddly comforting. He’s sure. Like maybe, for once, you don’t have to have all the answers figured out in advance.

“I need to think about this,” you say finally.

“Of course.” He signals for the check. “But while you’re thinking, remember something.”

“What?”

"You're not the same person who walked into my elevator that first morning.”

The observation catches you off guard.

“Because you’re here. Because you’re considering this at all. The woman I met that first day would have already made her decision - the safe one, the logical one. But you’re still here, still thinking about it.”

Outside the bar, the city is alive with evening energy. People coming home from work, couples meeting for dinner, tourists taking photos of the skyline. Normal people living their day to day lives, and for a moment, you envy them for their simplicity.

“I can call you a cab to take you home?” Suguru asks.

You almost say yes, but something stops you. “I need to walk. Clear my head.”

He nods, understanding.

The kiss he gives you is soft, almost tentative. Like he’s trying to memorize the feel of your lips just in case it’s the last time he’ll ever get to it.

The walk home takes you forty fucking minutes. For a second there you wished you could have said yes to the cab. You both left your cars in the building, being intoxicated and all. By the time you reach your apartment building, you’ve made your decision.

You text him as soon as you’re inside. Come over. We need to talk.

He responds immediately, On my way.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find Suguru standing in your hallway, still in his work clothes but somehow more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him.

“Hi,” he says simply.

“Hi.”

You step aside to let him in, and suddenly your apartment feels too small.

He’s looking around, taking in the details. Your art on the walls, the throw blanket draped over your couch, the stack of novels on the coffee table.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say.

“And?”

“You’re right. About how I’m not the same person that walked into your elevator.”

Something shifts in his expression. “Yeah?

“Yeah.” You reach up to touch his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “And that this better last longer than any and I mean any of your relationships.”

The smile spreads across his face is radiant. “Are you sure?” The implication to his question is gleaming.

“No,” you admit. “But I'm sure about this. And maybe that’s enough.”

He kisses you then, and it’s different from all the others. Softer, more deliberate, less about hunger and more about choice. About commitment to what you both have.

Suguru kicked the front door shut behind him, sweeping you up into his arms and carrying you towards the couch. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your skirt riding up to reveal your tights and the smooth expanse of your legs. Suguru groaned at the feel and sight of you, so soft and pliant in his embrace.

He tumbled you down onto the plush cushions, settling between your spread legs. You could feel the thick ridge of his erection pressing against your core, separated only by the fabric of his slacks. You rolled your hips, relishing the desperate friction.

“Fuck, I want you,” Suguru growled, hands roaming greedily over your curves. He pushed your skirt down and slid them past your legs, exposing your skin and your underwear.

Unable to resist, he leaned down to press open-mouthed kisses to the newly revealed flesh, tongue dipping into your navel.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him against you as you arched your back.

“All yours.” You breathed, desire burning hot and bright under your skin.

With a low grunt, Suguru reached to unbutton your shirt. The fabric fell away, revealing the peaks of your chest to his gaze. He palmed your tits before reaching behind you to unhook your bra.

“God,” he rasped, ducking his head to capture one nipple into his mouth. He suckled greedily, teeth grazing the sensitive bud as his hand continued to worship your breast. You mewled and writhed beneath him, pleasure sparking through your body.

Suguru’s fingers crept up higher, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties to brush against your slick pussy. You were already so wet, arousal coating his fingers as he slid them through your slick folds. He circled your clit with slow strokes, teasing you until you were breathing heavily.

“Please,” you whimpered, hips rolling against his hand.

Suguru didn’t hesitate. He tugged your panties down your legs, tossing them carelessly onto the floor.

You feel Suguru’s strong hands grip your thighs, pushing them further apart as he settles between your legs. The cool air of your apartment kisses your most intimate places, making you shiver in anticipation. You look down at him, heart racing as you watch him gaze appreciatively at your exposed sex, glistening and ready.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Suguru chuckles, voice heavy with lust.

Unable to resist you any longer, he leans in and presses a hot kiss to your clit. You gasp, back arching off the couch cushions as pleasure sparks through you at the first touch of his lips. He groans against your flesh, the vibrations making your toes curl.

He starts to explore your slick folds with his tongue, licking long and slow from your entrance up to your clit.

Your fingers dangle in his hair, gripping the strand and holding him against you as he feasts on your sex. Suguru’s tongue circles your clit, flicking and teasing until you don’t know what to do with yourself.

“Oh god, yes—“ you pant, hips rolling against his face. “Don’t stop. Suguru please don’t stop—“

Until he does.

You could feel a mix of frustration and confusion as he stops what he’s doing. He pulls back to look up at you with a smirk. Your body is aching, desperate for a release. The sudden halt leaves you annoyed. Unsatisfied.

“What are you doing?” You pant. Furrowing your brows as you grab a pillow and make attempts to throw it at his face. He stands back up, catching the pillow as he chuckles.

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a teasing kiss to your temple.

You watch him with bated breath as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, revealing the expanse of his chest inch by inch. He struts it off, letting it fall on the floor and leaving him in just his tailored slacks that hug his hips perfectly.

“Suguru, please...” you groan, sprawling your legs wider in clear invitation. Your pussy is throbbing, aching, you wanted it more than you ever have.

He smirks at your plea, fingers toying with his belt buckle. “Please what?” He teases, voice a low rasp. “Tell me what you need.”

You know he’s enjoying this, drawing out your frustration for his own amusement. But you’re too far gone to care. “I need you.” You admit, breathlessly.

Suguru’s eyes darken with lust at your confidence. He swiftly unbuckles his belt and shoves his slacks and boxers down his hips. His cock springs free, you lick your lips at the sight, remembering how it felt stretching you open for the first time.

He settles back between your thighs, the head of his cock judging against your dripping core. You both groan at the contact, your body already aching. Suguru grips your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he teases you with shallow thrusts, barely breaching you before pulling back out.

“Stop teasing,” you hiss, trying to rock your hips down to take him deeper. But he holds you in place, controlling your every movement. He chuckles again, taking in your sight before finally thrusting forward, claiming you to the hilt in one smooth glide.

He starts to move, hips rolling in a sensual rhythm as he fucks you deeply.

Your hands roam over his back, nails raking down the defined muscles as you hold on for dear life. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with your increasingly loud moans and grunts of pleasure.

Suguru leans down to capture one of your bouncing breasts in his mouth, suckling the nipple greedily as he drives into you faster and harder.

“Yes, just like that,” you pant, head thrown back. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Suguru complies with a low growl, the force of his thrust making the couch shake beneath you. Your orgasm builds fast, pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core as he takes you. You know you won’t last much longer, not with the way he’s fucking you.

The tension in your heat snaps as your orgasm crashes over you. You scream his name, voice breaking on a ragged moan as your pussy clamps down and clenches around him. You could feel him grip your waist tighter from the feeling, “Fuck, don’t do that.” He lets out a breathy chuckle, your body convulses beneath him, back arching off the couch as pleasure blurs your vision.

Suguru snarls, hips jerking from the feeling. He grinds against you, prolonging your high as he chases his own. “My god,” he whispers, “—feel so good, baby.” fingers digging from your waist to your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

You can feel his cock throbbing and pulsing inside of you, growing even harder as he teeters on the edge. Your hands resting beside your head as you watch him reach his climax.

With one final, brutal thrust, Suguru fills himself inside you and comes with a guttural groan. His cum releasing deep inside of you. You moan in acknowledgement, aftershocks wracking your body as you milk him for every last drop.

Finally, he collapses against you, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both chase yourselves back to reality.

Afterward, you lie tangled together in your couch, the city lights filtering through your curtains. Suguru’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder, and for the first time in weeks, your mind feels strangely and comfortingly quiet.

“So what happens now?” you ask, your voice soft in the darkness.

“I guess we'll wait till Friday,” he says. “Whatever HR thinks, whatever consequences there are, it’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”

You nod, but you can see the worry in his eyes. It’s the same worry that’s been eating at you all day, the fear that choosing this means sacrificing everything else.

“When did you become such a romantic?”

“About five months ago, when you stumbled into my elevator.”

You laugh, remembering that first morning. How nervous you’d been, how uptight you were, and how intimidating he’d seemed. “I didn’t stumble.”

“You absolutely stumbled. It was adorable.”

“I was late and I panicked.” You lifted your head up to glance at him before lightly hitting his chest.

“You were perfect.”

The sincerity in his voice makes you duck your head, suddenly bashful. Even after everything that’s happened between you, moments like this still catch you off guard.

As you drift off to sleep in his arms, you think about Friday’s meeting. About HR policies and workplace relationships and all the ways this could go terribly wrong. But for the first time in days, the fear doesn’t overwhelm you.

Because you’re not facing it alone anymore. Whatever happens, happens.

When you wake up the next morning, Suguru’s still there, arm around you, his breathing soft and even. Sunlight streams through your windows, painting everything in a warm light. You watch him sleep for a moment, memorizing the peaceful expression on his face.

In a few hours, you’ll both have to return to the office, to the whispers and knowing looks and the weight of Friday’s impending meeting. But right now, none of that matters.

Right now, you're exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You think about calling in sick, spending the day in bed with him, pretending the outside world doesn’t exist. But you know you can’t.

Suguru stirs as you’re getting ready for work, his eyes opening slowly.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning.” You lean down to kiss him, and he pulls you back into the bed for a moment, making you laugh.

“We should probably talk about logistics,” you say when you finally extract yourself from his arms. “How we handle today, tomorrow, the meeting on Friday.”

“Right. Logistics.” he sits up, running a hand through his hair. “We should probably get there separately today. No need to give the gossip mill more shit to talk about.”

You nod, agreeing. “And during the meeting?”

“We tell the truth. That we’re obviously two consenting adults who’ve developed feelings for each other. We’re committed to maintaining professionalism at work, but we’re not willing to end our personal relationship.”

“And if they say that’s not acceptable?”

“Then we ask what our options are. Transfer, different reporting structure, whatever they need to make it work.”

You hum, watching him get up as he puts on his clothes from yesterday. Suguru gives you a quick peck on the lips before kissing your temple again. You smile, patting his chest as he steps out of your door.

“See you at work,” you say.

“See you at work.”

As you close the door, you realize that everything really has changed. You don’t just fuck your boss on the regular, you want him, not just his scent being displayed and obvious on your thighs, or at least once broken office chair one every two weeks. It’s Suguru. His whole being that leaves you desperate and wanting.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #suguru geto smut #suguru geto #Suguru geto x reader #anime #ijichj #boss #smut #eventual smut #minors DNI #anime smut #modern jjk #boss suguru #geto suguru teasing

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maiamore · 5 months ago

Text

THE LINES WE CROSS: PART ONE - NO SAFE HAVEN

Pairing: Javier Peña x Forensic Scientist!Reader

Rating: 18+ | W/C: 2.1k

Summary: in the heart of Colombia’s war on narcos, you, a forensic scientist transfer in from the states. you find yourself working closely with Javier Peña and quickly find that he isn’t the man who stays—letting him in will only lead to heartbreak.

Tags: set during seasons 2 & 3 of narcos, mentions of drugs & violence, reader smokes briefly, no use of y/n, p in v, tinge or yearning, enemies/colleagues to lovers, talks of guns, javi comes with his own warnings

A/N: excuse me while i bury myself, this series is going to hurt me

MINI-SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

It had been a year and a half since you’d traded the sunny shores of California for Medellín. Forensic sciences had seemed like the perfect fit with your qualities considered–analytical, precise, and rooted in facts. You told yourself the move was for the greater good, that your expertise could actually help bring down Pablo Escobar’s goddamn empire. And you did help. Too well, in fact. Well enough to piss off the cartel, drawing their gaze in ways that had you flagged as a threat if you stepped too out of line.

Medellín wasn’t just dangerous, it had an endless pool of corruption. Moles lurked in the agency, evidence mysteriously disappeared, and the chain of command couldn’t always be trusted. You learned that lesson after getting fucked over a couple times, but Javier had learned it long before you.

So what did Peña do when things got messy? He cut through the red tape, ignored protocol, and went straight to the source.

You.

“The answer is no.” You pushed past the figure blocking your entry into the onsite lab at the CNP headquarters. “Crosby will have my head and you know that.”

Negotiating with Javier Peña was like trying to argue with the tide–relentless, it always found a way to pull you under. He wasn’t loud or pushy. He didn’t have to be.

But that wasn’t the problem here. He was asking for favors against protocol. “I don’t have the authority to hand you shit without–”

“Filtering through command,” he cuts in, his voice low and impatient. “Yeah, I know how the game works.” He shuts the door behind him, eyes darting to check for anyone lingering nearby.

“You and I both know,” he continues, taking a slow step closer. Your brows furrow as he steps closer, though it doesn’t stop your heart from pounding into your ears. “Whatever you find here?” He gestures vaguely at the lab equipment and files neatly stacked on your desk.

“It’s not reaching us with the whole picture, is it? It gets watered down, picked apart, buried. And then what? We’re chasing ghosts while Escobar sits pretty.”

He was close now–too close. His hand casually brushes the security badge clipped to your waistband. Your hips jump. Though Javier isn’t fazed, he merely twists it with his fingers, the motion deliberate, drawing your attention to his hands before his voice brings your focus back to him.

“We’re the good guys here, carita. You can either help me, or stand by while this whole fucking mess gets worse. Your call.”

You were silent. Biting the insides of your cheeks at his tone. Deep, calculated & with intent to pry into your conscience.

“I can’t do that.” You manage to squeeze your way out the small space he backs you into, stepping around him and sinking into your chair, trying to put some distance between you two.

Javier sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. You were a hard worker—a little too on the books, but had a good heart.

His gaze drops to your purse on the desk. No movement, no reaction, just that sharp look of his, cutting through everything.

If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to needle his way into people’s weaknesses and exploit it.

So he approaches you.

“Peña, nothing you say will change my min—“

“Cute piece you’ve got there,” he interrupts. “P32, right? Semi-automatic.”

Your fists tensed on your desk. He wasn’t mocking you, there was no smirk nor condescension. Just a calm observation that hit like a punch to the gut.

He leans down, palms pressing flat against the desk as he lowers himself to your eye level. “Let me guess,” he continues, his tone steady, almost grim. “They told you this was just a job. Something to make a difference, maybe even save a few lives. Didn’t mention you’d need that to protect your own.” He nodded toward the gun in your purse, the weight of his words sinking in.

Your throat tightens, and you quickly zipped your purse shut, shielding the weapon from view. “We’re in Medellín,” you retort, albeit defensively. “It’s…not a crazy thought.”

Javier straightens, his hand brushing over a loose strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear with ease. His voice softened, but the edge remained. “No,” he agrees, gaze unwavering. “It isn't. That’s the problem.”

“I can keep you safe,” he mutters with a gentle lilt. “Have my men escort you home. Make sure you don’t need to use that thing. You do your job. Let me handle the rest.”

The touch burned, your skin prickling where his fingers had grazed you. You jerked your head away, teeth gritted as you stared at the desk, refusing to meet his gaze.

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

Instead, he reaches for your pen holder, scribbling his number on a loose scrap of paper. He tapped the desk twice, loud enough to draw your eyes.

“If you change your mind,” he said, sliding the paper toward you.

You hadn’t planned to use it, not so soon, at least.

Your mind was still on Javier and everything he embodied. He was hard to read, motives wrapped in layers of charm and deflection. He wasn’t a bad person, as far as you could tell. Morally grey, probably. No one sane smoked that much.

But most importantly, his reputation preceded him. That was one thing you did know for sure.

Whispers followed you whenever you handed over findings to the DEA. Offhand warnings came when you casually asked about him. Avoidant. Shady. Persistent. Words spoken by people who worked with him longer than you had.

And his partner, Murphy, had warned you the same when he caught your lingering gaze.

Peña ain’t the guy you go to for a shoulder to cry on.

That stung.

He’s good at his job, don’t get me wrong. Hell, he’s the best we got, but don’t get caught up thinking he’s somethin’ he’s not. That’ll bite you in the ass faster than these fuckers can.

It effectively made you immune to his mild flirtations, knowing it wouldn’t go anywhere. Still, you liked to draw your own conclusions. Which was why you couldn’t shake what happened in the lab. The way he’d asked, the way he’d looked at you.

Like he already knew you’d cave.

It made you wonder if turning it down could’ve been the wrong choice. You wanted a win for once.

You stepped out of the embassy one evening with a clouded mind, fatigue weighing on you as you clicked your key fob with a weary sigh.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for this.

The deafening sound of the explosion knocks you backwards, the heat simmering into your skin even from a distance. You looked up and watched your car blown to fucking smithereens, reduced to a blazing wreck with the harsh smell of burning metal filling the night skies.

It wasn’t just the fact that this was a deliberate attempt on your life–the bomb remotely detonated, waiting for you to approach. It was the brutal realization that you were no longer safe. Not even a few meters from the embassy.

Someone was watching you.

A chill runs down your spine. Within blinks, officers swarmed the scene, shouting orders and securing the area, but their voices were distant, muffled by the high pitched ringing in your ears.

With shaky hands, you grab the crumpled paper Javier had scribbled his number onto from the bottom of your bag. The line picks up after a couple of rings.

“Peña.”

“They blew up my car,” you whispered, the words barely making it past your lips.

There was a pause, a sharp inhale on the other end, he didn’t need to know who was calling.

“Where are you?”

“The embassy.”

“Be there in ten.”

He was there in five. Javier takes a look at your car–or what was left of it–with a cringe before he falls into step beside you. He stayed quiet as Pinzón’s men canvassed the scene, the cigarette he lit casting a faint glow in the dark.

You lean against a patrol car next to him–thumb digging hard enough to bleed into your palms.

“Ballistics CTI found a few days ago traces back to Pablo’s sicarios,” you said quietly, breaking the stillness. You gave him information that wasn’t on the books, not for the DEA yet at least. Something you weren’t supposed to share.

It was an unspoken agreement, a concession to the protection he could offer.

Javier looks at you, pulling the stick away from his lips as he exhales the tobacco. Taking in your words.

Though he recognises the anxiety painted on you. A cloud of smoke wafts within your peripherals. Weirdly enough, it was reminiscent of warmth. A reminder that he was there. By your side.

“Didn’t come here for that.” There was a slight insinuation in his words. Flicker of vulnerability in him perhaps. Admitting that he wasn’t here so you could hold up your end of the bargain. That he might’ve cared more than he was letting show.

You held out your hand, palm up. It took him a beat too long to realize what you wanted. “You smoke?”

You nearly wanted to roll your eyes at the utter disbelief in his tone. As though you weren't capable of meeting his imaginary expectations.

But he was right. You didn’t smoke, never had. This war had a way of chipping away at the person you thought you were.

As you place the cigarette he hands you between your lips, Javier shifts closer, his lighter flaring as he cupped his hand around the flame to shield it.

His gaze lingered, just for a moment, on the way your lips curved around the white stick. Briefly, his thumb slips from the spark wheel. Studying your features in the faint glimmers of flame.

He shakes away a thought as though it burned him just to think. He tries again, with a crackle from the mechanism, the tip of your cigarette ignites.

“Slowly.”

You look at him through your lashes as you take a slow drag, letting the burn fill your lungs. Immediately, you begin coughing at the first puff.

He lets out an amused scoff at your struggle. Though you feel a warm palm drag down your lower back in rhythmic taps.

“Bienvenida a la guerra, carita,” (Welcome to the war.)

“Javi—…can’t anymore.”

You feel your legs falter. Slumping onto Javier’s body, forearms flat against his chest. You didn’t know how long you were going for. He just didn’t fucking let up. The sweat from your thighs sticking to his has you lazily grinding onto his still throbbing cock, your legs aching from bouncing on his lap.

“Pobrecita. Getting tired?” (Poor thing.) He cooed as he thumbs the dip of your waist as a soothing gesture, taking in the sweet noises you’re making for him. You shoot him a disgruntled look, which only seems to spur him on further.

He couldn’t come. Not yet. He willed himself not to spill into you, focused on the dull sticky squelches from where you both connected.

You let out a sharp whine when you feel his hand tangle around your hair. He hikes you up to jolt you from leaning your weight against him. “Hold on–fffuck, neña, almost there,” words spilling out with a growl.

Two palms shoot out to grab your wrists as he steadily fucks you. “God—Javi, Javi!” Your throat was hoarse, feeling overstimulation consume you while he snapped his hips upwards. Thrusts growing meaner and clumsier.

He feels the buildup. With his head thrown back, he groans out in reverence, the feeling of your perfect fucking pussy swallowing him greedily. “Fuck–”

“I-Inside–…”

He frowns at your words, as though he were battling his own thoughts. But he decides quickly and you feel him hike your hips deeper into him. You feel him grip around your arm, other grabbing your waist to get you as close as possible.

He tenses. Grunting in short bursts as he reaches his high. Spilling into the rubber.

What he doesn’t account for, is seeing the wide tear of the condom as he pulls out. Watching as milky residue pools around the base of his cock, bubbling back into you. “Shit!”

And he physically jolts. A strained gasp leaves his lips as he blinks quickly awake. Sleepy gaze darting around the empty room. He slowly sits upright. Surveying the room. Void of you.

Gabby lays next to him. Sound asleep with her face buried in the pillows. Javier drags a palm down his face with a prolonged groan.

The sticky evidence of him cumming in his sleep like a fucking teenager–evident with the damp spot blooming on his blanket. “…Fuck me.” –

SERIES TAG LIST (Feel free to DM for removal):

@gothcsz @nicolebarnes @hangmanscoming

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfic #javier pena x y/n #javier peña smut #javier pena x reader #javier peña #javier pena fic #narcos fanfiction #javier peña x you #javier peña x reader #javier pena fanfiction

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jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

CODE : EPITAPH

-˚ a story about blood debts, survival instincts & the cost of hatred when the world's already dead ˚-

"The only thing worse than sharing your blood with the enemy is knowing that for you to live, he has to die. And the only thing worse than that? Not being sure which outcome you actually want."

˚ ✧ quick links ✧ ˚

read on ao3

read on wattpad

read author intro and TWs (MUST)

˚ ✧ synopsis ✧ ˚

In a world ravaged by the Veris virus, the Consortium created the Epitaph System—a brutal solution to save what remains of humanity through genetic matching and blood transfusion. One match lives. One dies.

You’ve spent your life hacking systems and surviving in the shadows of Veyrah's broken sectors. Namjoon has spent his perfecting the algorithm that keeps the last fragments of civilization alive. When you're identified as a 100% match—unprecedented, dangerous, perfect—the clock starts ticking.

60 days until one of you dies.

60 days forced together across war-torn sectors, completing missions, dodging assassins, and fighting rebel factions—including your own.

60 days to despise the person whose blood might save you.

You hate him for creating the system that executed your parents. He loathes you for threatening the fragile order he's sacrificed everything to maintain.

But as the broken world around you continues to crumble, you might both discover something far more destructive than hatred.

Understanding.

✧ details ✧

main ship: namjoon x f!reader side ships: taehyung x f!reader (past), yoongi x f!reader, 2seok, taegi, bts x ocs genre: ANGST in capital letters, dystopian sci-fi, enemies to lovers, slow burn with teeth, pure raw hatred (and i mean i wanna kill you), bleak world building, gritty, oppression rating: explicit (18+ only) words: - chapters: - status: upcoming

˚ ✧ chapter guide ✧ ˚

early access + snippets

➳ #01 | snippet #1

volume one: genetic matches & mutual threats

➳ #01 | perfect match, death protocol ➳ #02 | ➳ #03 | ➳ #04 | ➳ #05 | ➳ #06 | ➳ #07 | ➳ #08 | ➳ #09 | ➳ #10 | ➳ #11 | ➳ #12 | ➳ #13 | ➳ #14 | ➳ #15 | ➳ #16 | ➳ #17 | ➳ #18 | ➳ #19 | ➳ #20 |

fragments & memories

BEFORE THE MATCH

➳ cipher's first raid ➳ warden's algorithm [WIP] ➳ shroud initiation ➳ consortium academy (young namjoon) ➳ black market exchange (seokjin's debut)

THE BROKEN SECTORS

➳ valis core protocol breach ➳ the first veris outbreak ➳ mournwell uprising ➳ virex shard sabotage ➳ collapsed pulse rail

TRANSFERENCE RECORDS

➳ subject file: taehyung & ahri ➳ subject file: jimin & classified ➳ subject file: yoongi & redacted ➳ subject file: jungkook & pending ➳ consortium calculations

HIDDEN HISTORIES

➳ cipher's parents: execution logs ➳ warden's lost sibling ➳ red verge manifesto ➳ the chain ceremony ➳ pulse transmission: final hour

Key:

Regular titles: upcoming chapters

[WIP]: fragments currently being written

Strikethrough: future content & concept ideas

Read order: chronological by volume, fragments can be read anytime

✧ content includes ✧

♡ explicit sexual content ♡ graphic violence and medical procedures ♡ power dynamics & psychological warfare ♡ dystopian brutality & survival horror ♡ alien world physics & non-earth environments ♡ body horror related to virus and transference ♡ dubious ethical choices in apocalyptic scenarios ♡ enemies-to-lovers with emphasis on the enemies ♡ blood bond dynamics

˚ ✧ extras ✧ ˚

✧ playlists:

code : epitaph - the soundtrack

songs that play in the citadel and drive yn crazy

✧ code : epitaph art: drawings ✧ pinterest: aesthetic & vibes ✧ moodboards: characters | relationships ✧ location maps: veyrah sectors

• consortium territories

• the verge wastes ✧ tidbits/headcanons: #c:etidbits ✧ quotes/favorite lines: [coming soon]

˚ ✧ disclaimer ✧ ˚

please be reminded that members are purely used with visual purposes. this is a work of fiction merely written for entertainment purposes.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

#namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon fanfic #namjoon fic #namjoon smut #namjoon fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts fic #bts x you #bts x reader #bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut #slow burn #dystopian AU #jungkoode #code : epitaph #c:e

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that-sudsy · 24 days ago

Text

Caught Between Lines | Positive | PART 2

see part one here

Pairing: John Soap MacTavish x Reader

Summary: you have been in a secret relationship with Johnny now things took a toll.

Warning: Mentions of Pregnancy and Subordinate and Superior case.

What if the test turned out to be Negative click here to read Alternate Ending.

The next morning,

you and Soap approached Price's office. Price was standing at his desk, reviewing papers.

"Sir, we need to talk. About our situation and..." Soap pulled out your wedding certificate, placing it on Price's desk. "We're married, sir. Prior to the promotion, so I wasn't a superior. That's why we didn't file any forms. We were scared of being separated."

You crossed your arms in front of your chest, waiting for Price's reaction.

Price stared at the certificate in silence for what felt like an eternity. His expression remained stoic, though his eyes flicked between the two of you. "I see. That... complicates things even further," he finally spoke, his voice measured. "You both should've come forward immediately. Why keep this secret?"

His gaze fixed on you specifically.

You cleared your throat. "It was because we were afraid you'd transfer one of us to another team... or the enemy getting a hold of our file."

Price leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "I understand your fears. But as your captain, it's my duty to protect my team. Not drive them apart."

He picked up the certificate, studying it carefully. "You've been married... what, almost three years now? And not a single sign of unprofessional behavior until this incident?"

Johnny nodded. "We got married in the middle of the mission back in Alaska. When we made a pit stop in England, we stopped by my hometown in Scotland and got married."

Price's stern expression softened slightly, remembering that mission. "Right... that's when I gave you both permission to take that day off. Didn't think you'd choose that particular use of it."

He set the certificate down, interlacing his fingers. "This changes things. But I still need to follow procedure."

Price continued, his voice becoming more serious as he looked directly at you. "Which means you'll have to step away from active duty immediately, starting today. Eventually, you will be sent home to MacTavish's hometown."

You frowned and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Price noticed your expression. "I know this isn't easy for you. But we have protocols for a reason." He stood up, moving around his desk. "You'll still be assigned to base work for now, and yer medical examinations will be a priority."

Soap reached for your hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

You looked at Price. "What happens to Johnny?"

Price sighed heavily. "He'll remain with the team for now. We need him on the next operation, and I can't risk benching both of you." He looked at Soap. "But don't think I won't be watchin' you both carefully. Any hint of favoritism and your both out until She's sent home."

You nodded. "My base work will be until when, sir?"

Price checked his watch. "Until we've concluded the investigation. Could be a few weeks."

He gave you a knowing look. "I suggest you both get ready for separation. Long-distance marriages aren't easy, especially in our line of work."

Price pulled out a form from his desk drawer. "I'll need you to sign this non-disclosure agreement. Standard procedure—no discussin' this with anyone else on base."

He handed you the paper. "And ye should probably start packin' yer things. Yer new quarters will be in the medical wing."

"The medical is for the baby until I get discharged... So I can't see Johnny for the next...?" You asked as you signed the contract.

Price noticed your confusion and shook his head. "No, the medical wing is temporary housing. We have special quarters for pregnant staff members, with more privacy."

He looked at you carefully. "And I expect you to inform our medic team about your... situation. They'll handle your medical needs personally."

Price's tone became slightly gentler. "I know this is hard. But trust me when I say the team needs to focus on the mission right now."

He glanced at Soap. "And Sergeant, your time off request is denied. Get your gear ready for deployment tomorrow."

Soap started to protest, but Price cut him off. "That's an order, Soap. your wife will be fine here under our protection."

You looked at Soap, and he met your gaze with pained eyes. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Sir... I can't just leave her like this. Not now," he muttered.

Price stepped between you and Soap. "You'll both need to learn to manage this. Your personal lives don't come before the team's needs."

The tension in the room was thick as Price watched them struggle with the separation.

You nodded. "Yes, sir."

Price's voice softened just a fraction. "Good. You, I'll have someone escort ye to yer new quarters. Soap— with me. Now."

Soap moved closer to you one last time. "I'll write to ye every day. Promise." He gave you a quick, desperate kiss before Price firmly guided him out of the office.

You wrapped your arms around Soap in a hug. "Promise, I'll give you an update on the wee baby and when I get back home."

Soap held you tightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll hold ye to that. Our wee one better be growin' big and strong." He pulled back slightly, placing his hand on your belly. "And take care of yerself. Both of ye," he said in his thick Scottish accent.

"You too... I love you," you said.

Soap kissed your forehead tenderly. "I love ye too. Always."

He finally forced himself to let go, with Price waiting impatiently by the door. You were escorted to the other wing.

In your new quarters, you noticed the separate rooms—one for living, one for medical checkups, and another for a private nursery.

The next morning, Soap was gone on his mission, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the quiet buzz of medical equipment in the distance.

You knew this was temporary, knowing you would be discharged in a few weeks.

You began arranging your belongings in the smaller space, your pregnancy becoming more obvious with each passing day. Despite the sterile environment, you found small comforts—a picture of Soap on your nightstand and a small corner dedicated to baby supplies that Price discreetly delivered.

Months passed. The medical team became familiar faces as they monitored your pregnancy. You kept detailed records for Soap, documenting every milestone.

Through their letters, Soap shared his missions while you shared the nursery's progress, drawing baby designs and baby name ideas.

You were discharged to Scotland to live back home in Johnny's house, which was quite unfinished. But the house was close; fortunately, all it needed were a few touches like painting and attachments. Luckily, there was an allowance to keep you afloat. You still wrote to Johnny, letting him know your situation.

In the half-finished house, you made do with what was available, living modestly while making sure your pregnancy was comfortable.

Your letters to Soap became increasingly worried about his safety and whether they'd be able to finish the house together before the baby arrived. Soap's mother decided to help you out with the house; the good thing was you knew a little about carpentry.

Mrs. MacTavish's arrival brought warmth and familiar Scottish hospitality into the half-finished home.

She found you painting one room while holding your growing belly.

"Look at ye, love! Workin' hard despite everything. My Johnny always knew how to pick a strong one."

You smiled when you heard her voice. "Mrs. MacTavish! It's a pleasant surprise!" You greeted as you got off the ladder.

Mrs. MacTavish waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, pish posh, dear. Just call me Ma or Mum, like my son does. No need for formalities here." She set down her suitcase and examined the paint job. "Let's finish this room today, shall we? The crib can't just sit in boxes forever!"

You smiled. "Oh, I appreciate the help. How did ye know I was here?"

Mrs. MacTavish chuckled warmly. "My boy Johnny writes to me every week. Told me ye were needin' some extra hands around here." She pulled out some sandwiches from her bag. "And I figured the wee one needs proper food too, not just yer limited pregnancy cravings."

You were surprised that someone in the world still cared, and you smiled.

Mrs. MacTavish patted your shoulder. "Of course I care, dear. Ye're carryin' my grandchild after all. And family looks after family."

She started unpacking tools. "Now, show me where ye need help first—baby's room or kitchen? Those floors need proper Scottish polish."

"Which room do ye think is easier? We can start with that," you said as you ate the sandwich.

Mrs. MacTavish took a big bite of her own sandwich, considering. "Well, the baby's room is more urgent, but the kitchen will be essential once we're finished."

She pointed to the unfinished floors. "Let's start here—good floors are crucial for growin' families. We'll make it cozy enough for ye both."

You nodded. "I'm tryin' to make it as homey for Johnny when he gets home."

Mrs. MacTavish's eyes softened with understanding. "That's sweet of ye, dear. My Johnny might not show it much, but he'll love what ye've done here."

She started measuring the floorboards. "Just needs some finishin' touches—like those family photos we should hang up. Have ye started that album yet?"

You shook your head. "I... no."

Mrs. MacTavish paused her measuring and looked at you. "Oh love, let's make that our first project then. Every baby needs memories to grow up with."

She took out an old camera from her bag. "I brought this just in case. We can capture the progress of the house and yer pregnancy. Start that album together."

You beamed. "Aww, that's so sweet of ye!" You hugged her.

Mrs. MacTavish hugged you back tightly, gently patting your swollen belly. "That's what grandmothers are for, dear. Now let's get to work on that floor, and then we'll start on yer scrapbook memories."

She pulled out her toolbox with renewed energy. "Just like the old days when I used to help Johnny's father build our house," Mrs. MacTavish said with nostalgia.

"Really? Johnny had mentioned his father before, but he doesn't really talk about his father's death..." you said.

Mrs. MacTavish's expression turned somber for a moment, her hands pausing over her tools. "Aye, he doesn't like to remember those times. Losing his father hit him hard." She continued working but spoke softly. "We built this house together—my late husband and I. Johnny inherited his father's love for fixin' things before he became a soldier. His father always told him bravery and loyalty run in the family; that's why he became a soldier too. His father was a firefighter who wanted to save people who needed help. But Johnny wanted to prove to his father that he could do better than his father. And he did."

She glanced at you. Your heart swelled in adoration, hearing Johnny's story from his mother; it was a different view. You married a man who was loyal and selfless; it had its perks and cons too.

"But now he has ye and the wee one to build something new with. That's what family is for—starting fresh despite the past," Mrs. MacTavish said. "I'm glad he settled down before it was too late. I'm glad he met a woman like ye."

You nodded. "And I thank him for that too, and I promise I will always support him no matter what since he has my back as I got his," you said as you patted your hands together, removing the crumbs from the sandwich and resuming painting. "I fell in love with his selflessness; the whole Johnny and I would fall all over again every time I see him."

Mrs. MacTavish smiled proudly, watching your gentle demeanor. "That's right, love. And I can tell ye're just as caring as my Johnny describes."

She started sanding the floorboards. "He writes about how thoughtful ye are, how ye bring him meals during long missions." Her voice got slightly teasing. "Though he also mentions how yer cookin' could use some work... But he still eats everything ye make, bless him."

You never knew about that, and it made you blush, knowing you weren't really good at cooking but there was still room for improvement. "Yeah, I'm still tryin' to make my cookin' better."

Mrs. MacTavish chuckled warmly. "Practice makes perfect, dear. I can give ye some of my family recipes. The one for bangers and mash is Johnny's favorite." She started measuring again. "Though he'd probably still eat whatever ye make, even if it's burned to a crisp. That's what love does—makes us tolerant of each other's flaws."

You raised your brows as you painted the wall. "Awww, really? I didn't know he liked those. I'll definitely make some for him once he's home."

Mrs. MacTavish's eyes sparkled with joy. "That's the spirit! And make sure to save some for me when ye do—I'll be here helpin' ye through this pregnancy." She started applying stain to the freshly sanded floor. "Ye know, Johnny's always been a good boy, but he's never had someone who truly wants to learn about his Scottish roots like ye do."

You were happy that you were Johnny's and to know you were his one and only; it was pride. You were glad that he let you into his life. He was a private man, and you never thought you could love him this much and start a family with him.

As months passed, your belly got noticeable, and the house was almost finished. The nursery was done, and the garden was the only thing that needed to be finished, including the back door.

Mrs. MacTavish wiped sweat from her brow, admiring the nursery. "This room turned out beautifully, dear. The rocking chair and crib are perfect for when the wee one arrives."

She patted your belly affectionately. "Ye're getting quite big now! Only a few more weeks till Johnny gets his leave. I can't wait to see him meet his little one."

You nodded. "Yeah, it's a lot harder to move and catch my breath," you said.

Mrs. MacTavish helped you sit down gently on the makeshift bench. "That's completely normal, love. Here, let me get ye some water and take a break from gardening." She fetched a cool drink from the kitchen. "Ye've done so much already. Focus on restin' when ye need to. We can finish the back door together tomorrow."

You obeyed and nodded as you sipped on the water. Mrs. MacTavish stayed by your side, humming softly.

"Remember what the doctor said—lots of rest and fluids. And speakin' of fluids, I've got some lovely chamomile tea brewin'."

She pulled out a baby blanket from her bag. "Look what I found in one of the boxes I had back home—Johnny's first blanket. I thought ye might want it for the nursery."

"That's Johnny?" you smiled. "Aww."

Mrs. MacTavish gently handed you the blanket, a sentimental look on her face. "Yes. So small and peaceful then. Now look at him—leading a team and becoming a father." She dabs her eyes slightly. "This house will always have pieces of our family in it. That's what makes it home."

You held it; it was a soft, knitted navy blue blanket. Mrs. MacTavish watched you with tears of joy. "It was my grandmother's pattern. She made it for every MacTavish baby born."

You traced the tiny blue stitches with your finger. "Maybe we could have ye start a blanket for this one too? Tradition, ye know."

You smiled. "Yeah, we should. I'd love to continue the tradition." You said, "I can't wait for Johnny to come home."

Mrs. MacTavish patted your hand reassuringly. "Neither can he, love. He talks about ye and the baby every time he writes. Even Captain Price noticed how much happier he's been lately."

She glanced at the calendar on the wall. "Just two more days until his leave starts. He'll be here before ye know it, excited to see ye both."

That night, you were getting ready for bed. You had the new knitted blanket beside the old one on the bed when you halted, feeling your water break.

Mrs. MacTavish, who had stayed for dinner, immediately noticed the sudden tension in your expression. "Oh dear, is everything alright? Ye look like ye've seen a ghost..." She started moving closer to you with concern.

You were trying to level your breathing, knowing your water broke. "My water broke."

Mrs. MacTavish sprang into action, quickly grabbing the hospital bag she had helped prepare. "Right, let's get ye to the car then! Breathe slowly and deeply—this is perfectly normal."

She helped you up, one hand on your back for support. "Stay calm, love. We'll get ye to the hospital in no time." You breathed, "I don't feel pain yet."

Mrs. MacTavish helped you to the car, keeping a steady pace. "That's good, dear. We'll keep monitorin' ye at the hospital." She started the car and glanced at you worriedly. "Should I call Johnny? Maybe his team can get him an earlier flight home."

"Please?" you whispered.

Mrs. MacTavish pulled out her phone while driving carefully. "Of course, dear. Just stay calm and breathe. I'll make sure he knows what's happening." She dialed a number and put the phone on speaker.

"Johnny? It's your mother. Your wife is in labor, and we're on our way to the hospital now."

Johnny: "Wait, what?"

Mrs. MacTavish maintained her focus on driving while speaking. "Yes, son. Her water broke about fifteen minutes ago. She's bein' very brave about it."

She glanced at you, who was breathing deeply. "We're nearly at the hospital now. Are ye able to come home sooner?" Mrs. MacTavish asked.

Johnny: "I'm on my way! The others will cover for me. Price is helpin' me make arrangements now."

At the hospital, mid-labor, Mrs. MacTavish held your hand as another contraction hit. "Ye're doing beautifully, love. Remember to breathe like we practiced. The doctor says ye're almost fully dilated."

You kept glancing at the door anxiously, knowing Johnny should arrive any moment. You sent your head back, breathing.

Hours later, during labor, Johnny was running in the halls, asking the nurses for the room number. He was still in his mission outfit—dusty and rugged.

Nurses directed him to the room,

Johnny burst through the door, out of breath and disheveled, but with eyes filled with panic and concern. "I'm here, bonnie! I made it." He said breathless until his eyes Landed on the baby in your arms

just in time; the doctor had given you the baby. Johnny's breath caught in his throat as he saw his daughter for the first time. He gently touched the baby's tiny fingers, tears streaming down his face. He never thought he gets to live and see this

"Oh God... she's perfect. Absolutely perfect. Just like her mother." He breathed in awe his head was spinning in shock

Mrs. MacTavish quietly stepped back to give them this special moment.

"Johnny, you made it just in time," you whispered.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his hand still holding the baby's. "I promised I'd be here for ye both, didn't I? I'd move mountains to be with ye and our wee one." His voice trembled with emotion. "She's everything... everything I ever wanted. Our little miracle," Johnny said in his thick Scottish accent.

The baby was still reddish-pink, her eyes still closed. Johnny felt weak and small. He gently stroked the baby's cheek with his thumb, completely captivated. "Hello, little angel... Daddy's here now. She got my eyes! She got yer nose," he cooed.

He glanced at you, who were exhausted but radiant. "Ye were so strong, love. I'm so proud of ye. Ye did amazing." He said, kissing your cheek. You smiled, nuzzling him. "I'm glad your home."

Johnny kissed your forehead tenderly while supporting the baby with his other arm. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be. My two girls—safe and sound in my arms." His voice cracked with emotion. "I love ye both more than anything," Soap said.

When you were ready to come home, Johnny and you had gotten back home. Johnny was surprised by the handiwork of the house. He had the baby in its carrier basket. Johnny looked around the house, admiring the work done while he was away.

"Mum really went all out... this place looks like a proper home now." He carefully set the carrier basket down in the nursery. "She'll be safe here, our little princess. The garden's lookin' good too—maybe we can have some picnics in it."

Johnny took your hand, pulling you close. "We've built a good life here, haven't we? A family, a home... all because of ye." He glanced at the baby sleeping peacefully. "I never thought I could be this happy, but ye two have shown me otherwise," Soap said.

"Yeah, yer mother and I made all we could, based on the existing foundations of the house. I guess I can say we finally do have our own home," you said softly, the yellow light of the lamp brightening the nursery.

Johnny smiled warmly, looking around the home filled with your hard work. "Ye're right—we did. And it's more than just walls and floors... it's love and memories." He pulled you into a gentle embrace. "This is exactly what I wanted—a place to come home to, where we can raise our family."

You nodded, looking at him with such adoration and love. Johnny cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. "I love ye so much. Thank ye for givin' me everything I never knew I needed." He leaned down to kiss you softly. "And thank ye for our beautiful baby girl. Ye've made me the happiest man alive."

You kissed him passionately. "No, thank ye for makin' me a mother and givin' me a chance." Johnny responded to your passionate kiss, pulling you closer while being careful not to wake the baby.

"By the way, how did ye get here so fast?" you asked curiously after all the events of the day.

Johnny grinned sheepishly, remembering his chaotic arrival. "I may have... borrowed one of Price's parachutes without tellin' him. Jumped out of a plane mid-flight to make it here sooner."

He scratched his neck awkwardly. "He's probably gonna be pissed when he finds out... but seein' ye two was worth any consequences."

"Johnny!" you said in a scolding manner.

Johnny raised his hands defensively, trying to hide his grin. "What? I panicked! My wife and daughter needed me, and no bloody airline would let me catch a flight in time."

He pulled you close again, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Don't worry, I'll take the blame when Price finds out. Besides, it was totally worth it."

John Soap MacTavish Masterlist | SUPPORT MY WORK HERE

#cod

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echoreconcrew · 2 months ago

Text

Stolen Imperial Files - Captain Howzer

SUBJECT FILE: #7569-HWZ-RYL STATUS: DESERTER – ACTIVE THREAT LEVEL: high DESIGNATION: CT-7569 “HOWZER”

AGE: 26 (BIOLOGICAL) SPECIES: HUMAN EYES: BROWN HEIGHT: 6'1" ALIAS: HOWZER HOMEWORLD: KAMINO

TRAITS: EXHIBITS A CALM, STEADYING PRESENCE—COLLECTED, PRINCIPLED, AND PROTECTIVE BY NATURE. TENDS TO FORM DEEP EMOTIONAL BONDS, PARTICULARLY WITH CIVILIANS AND SUBORDINATES, WHICH OFTEN OVERRIDE PROGRAMMED LOYALTY TO COMMAND. SHOWS STRONG INTERNAL CONFLICT BETWEEN DUTY AND CONSCIENCE, LEADING TO ACTS OF DEFIANCE WHEN IMPERIAL ORDERS CONTRADICT PERSONAL ETHICS. INSPIRES TRUST AND LOYALTY AMONG HIS PEERS THROUGH QUIET STRENGTH, EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE, AND UNWAVERING RESOLVE. AFFILIATIONS: GAR

BIOGRAPHY

CT-7569, codenamed “Howzer,” is a clone officer formerly assigned to Imperial garrison command on Ryloth during the initial post-war occupation. Publicly considered a model officer, Howzer’s service record within the Republic Army was unblemished, with commendations for loyalty and command efficacy. Following the rise of the Empire, Howzer remained stationed under the directive of Vice Admiral Rampart to enforce martial stability across Twi’lek territories. Subject’s defection occurred during the Ryloth Uprising (see Rebellion Suppression Dossier #RLS-INC-33). During an attempted extraction of known insurgent Cham Syndulla, Howzer openly disobeyed Imperial orders, directly intervening to prevent execution of civilian and rebel targets. Eyewitness reports confirm subject incited clone troopers under his command to stand down and join the resistance, resulting in a failed detention of key insurgents and a compromised garrison post. CT-7569 was detained under Imperial security protocols and listed for tribunal transport to Imperial Justice Station ODR-3. During transit, subject escaped custody under unknown circumstances (see Prisoner Transfer Breach Report #ODR-EVAC-19A). It is suspected that Howzer’s extraction was coordinated by rogue clone elements or sympathetic internal agents. Subsequent sightings across the galaxy have placed CT-7569 in proximity to known clone deserter networks, including cells operating beyond the Mid Rim. A verified field report submitted by CC-3636 confirms visual identification of Howzer on Teth, in the company of CT-7567

PROFILE NOTES Command Proficiency: Trained under Republic High Command; known for adaptive strategy, effective squad cohesion, and exceptional morale leadership. Psychological Deviation: Subject’s behavior during the Ryloth Uprising indicates possible inhibitor chip degradation or suppression. Moral Alignment Shift: Extensive exposure to civilian populations, particularly on Ryloth, may have influenced a psychological realignment. ISB analysts suggest subject exhibits strong empathic bias toward native resistance movements and fellow clones.

THE HUB Ask to join the Tag List!

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holyblonded · 2 months ago

Note

I love chickie, she is neutral chaos.

Sam and steph and australia coach is very happy that she was born in Australia and has only Australian citizenship or else if she would have had any other citizenship, they would have to fight to keep her in Australia with how half the European team are fighting for chickie.

— neutral chaos is the perfect way to describe chickie I love it. like she’s not trying to cause problems, she’s just so sweet and chaotic that problems form around her naturally. and the worst part is? everyone loves her for it.

— sam and steph are so relieved she’s 100% aussie. like sam has straight-up said, “if chickie had dual citizenship i’d be filing paperwork every week to block transfers.”

— australia’s coach, probably adds “no international poaching” clauses into chickie’s contract just in case. especially cause her parentage is up in the air.

— because listen. half the matildas barely got her into camp. they remember the day she arrived, tiny, shy, and not being able to speak more the two words a day.

— leah or alexia whispering at friendlies like “do you think she’d switch?” and sam immediately dragging chickie away like “no thoughts. only green and gold.”

— the USWNT once posted a soft photo of chickie and kristie hugging and sam reported the tweet for “emotional manipulation”

— chelsea players offering to braid her hair or let her win at mario cart if she comes to chelsea.

— meanwhile aussie staff are in the background adding “chickie protection protocol” to the official handbook.

— steph is usually calm, collected, responsible… until someone hints at chickie switching allegiances. then she goes full-on soccer mum with receipts, statistics, and emotional threats.

— chickie, oblivious, just happy to be invited places. she thinks everyone’s just being nice.

— she says “i love playing for australia” and everyone else breathes a sigh of relief like they just narrowly avoided a geopolitical scandal.

— because chickie isn’t just a good footballer. she’s the emotional support chaos gremlin every national team wants in their locker room.

#answered asks 💌#woso community #·˚ ༘ always sunny in australia: asks

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wolfylady · 2 months ago

Text

Salvation

Summary: It started with a look and then a smile. She was just another name on a continuous list of rotating faces. But then she smiled and it wrecked his world. He would lie, cheat, and kill, just to keep her in his orbit.

Trigger Warning ⚠️: Obsession and Manipulation

Word Count: 621

Chapter 1: The First Smile

Enjoy!

Story Poll!

Series Poll!

The first time John Price saw her, the world didn’t tilt. It didn’t shift. It snapped.

Clean. Silent. Immediate.

It started with a smile.

One he hadn’t earned.

One he didn’t expect.

One that detonated something buried deep in his chest like a forgotten landmine.

She stepped onto base with a duffle slung over her shoulder, boots caked in dust, stride purposeful—measured. A transfer from MI6, if the morning report had anything useful in it. Her name barely registered then. Just another addition to the Task Force. Another operative shaped by war and secrecy.

Until she smiled at him.

Not out of protocol. Not forced.

It was real. Warm. Uncalculated.

He was standing near the edge of the training field, arms folded, half-listening to Soap and Ghost bicker over a faulty sim round. The sun was high. Heat clung to the concrete. Standard chaos on base.

And then she walked into view—sharp-eyed, tightly wound, her stance reading like someone who knew how to follow orders but hated doing it. Her file would say discipline, structure, performance metrics. But her mouth said otherwise.

That mouth—God, it curved too easily.

She caught his eye.

Held it.

Smiled.

And just like that, he forgot whatever Ghost had just said.

It wasn’t like the others.

It wasn’t the stiff respect of a subordinate.

It wasn’t the flirtation he usually shut down cold.

It was recognition. Familiarity without history. Like she saw him—not just the rank, not the legend, not the weight of all his years—but him.

And then she was gone.

Turning to speak to Gaz, laughing at something stupid. Probably a joke. Something light and forgettable.

But her laugh chased him for the rest of the day.

He told himself it was nothing.

A flicker of interest in a sea of rotating faces.

But he felt it.

All damn day.

During debrief, during comm checks, during sparring evaluations—her voice echoed. Her name stayed on his tongue like a habit he hadn’t formed yet.

That smile sank in like a blade beneath his ribs.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again. That smile. That impossible warmth. And it made something in his chest feel unstable.

Like he’d swallowed something live.

At 01:13 hours, the glow from his desk lamp cut through the dark.

Her file lay open across the table.

Name: Crowley, Veronica Elise

Callsign: CROW

Rank: Sergeant First Class (E-7)

Branch: SAS, Tier One Operator

Former Affiliation: Secret Intelligence Service (MI6)

Clearance Level: COSMIC TS/SCI

Languages: English, Russian, French, Spanish

DOB: 14 January 1994

Age: 30

Height: 5'6"

Place of Birth: York, England

Blood Type: O+

Religious Preference: Non-disclosed

Next of Kin: Crowley, Daniel (Brother)

He read everything.

Deployment history. Former handlers. Every operation with her name in the margin. He studied commendations, psychological profiles, redacted summaries with words like precision and unstable potential and asset recovery.

He traced her path from intelligence to black ops to special recon and finally, here.

To him.

It should have been enough.

Knowing her record. Understanding her skill set.

Filing her under “high-performance operator” and moving on.

But it wasn’t.

Because he didn’t want her service history.

He wanted her tells.

What made her pause in a fight.

What songs she played when she thought no one could hear.

What she dreamed about when the war faded from her eyes for a moment.

He told himself he just needed to know.

So he could get her out of his head.

If only it were that simple.

Because when he finally shut the file and turned off the lamp, his hands were still shaking.

And in the quiet, the memory of her smile haunted him like a ghost.

wolfYLady: Just got into Call of Duty—and wow, I’ve got brainrot bad. So naturally, I decided to write this. I'm planning a whole series centered around obsession with Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Keegan, and König. The main character is basically a self-insert (y/n) placeholder—so have fun projecting. I just love the idea, in fiction, when something so simple as a passing smile, or kind word, can just bring them to their knees. Shout out to Bluegiragi and Kathy Ifnt, whos amazing artwork have singlehandedly doomed me to a life of crippling COD brainrot, I am now feral for all their COD work. If you can, go support them, and we can all join a "COD but make them slutty" support group.

Chapter 2 🔜

Link to: Ao3

Master List of Twisted Sin Series🔜

#john price #captain price #cod price #fanfic #read on a03 #dark romance #price x oc #obsessive love #cod #call of duty #call of duty john price #brainrot #Just got into Call of Duty—and wow #we can all join a “COD but make them slutty” support group #oc is a placeholder for reader #captain john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader

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