summon the soup! 🔞

soap’s eyes lit up with a frightening amount of enthusiasm. “fuck yes.” he slapped both hands on the table. “free drinks?!”

“no.”

the light died instantly. soap slumped like a puppet with cut strings, pouting.

ghost said nothing. he had already claimed the corner seat with the best sightlines and worst lighting, existing in the booth the way he always existed in spaces, like the room had simply decided to include him. he flagged down a server and ordered whiskey without looking at the menu. then, with the bare minimum of social investment a person could achieve while still technically participating in a conversation, he asked:

“does she know you’re here?”

john set down his pint and pulled out his tablet. “yeah,” he said. “she’s here.”

on the screen, a grid of grainy, bluish ccctv footage, multiple angles, every corner of the building.

gaz leaned in first, his brows climbed. “wait—is that her?” he squinted leaning closer. “what is she doing here?”

“her best friend booked a vip room.” john’s jaw shifted. “second floor. bachelorette party.”

a beat of silence.

soap, very slowly, turned to look at john, hunched over a surveillance feed of a bar he’d hacked into so he could watch his fiancée’s hen night in real time. soap pressed his lips together very hard.

“so you’re not here for the ambiance,” gaz said diplomatically.

“just want to make sure she’s safe,” john said.

“safe,” ghost repeated, in a tone that indicated he had filed this information somewhere and would be returning to it later for his own personal entertainment.

“it’s a bar,” soap started carefully. “what exactly are you expecting to—”

“muscular men,” john said flatly.

silence.

“in masks,” he added.

ghost looked up from his drink.

“thrusting the air,” John finished.

soap’s entire face went through seven emotional stages in under two seconds before he dissolved into laughter so violent he nearly knocked over gaz’s drink. “YOU MEAN A STRIPPER? are you—you hacked the building’s cctv because you’re scared of a STRIPPER?!” he wheezed.

“no offense to the mask thing, LT,” he added, gesturing broadly at ghost’s face.

ghost’s response was to take a long, slow sip of his whiskey. “none taken.”

~

they drank.

the music was aggressively young, the kind of bass john felt in his molars. the strobe lights were a tactical disadvantage and a personal insult. he was three beers in and his neck hurt and the booth was slightly sticky and soap had already ordered some kind of cocktail that came in a glass shaped like a flamingo.

“i like it here,” soap announced cheerfully, sipping his flamingo with both hands. “i feel alive, boys. young. vital.”

“you look like a pensioner at a rave,” gaz said.

“i look like a man who knows how to have fun, garrick, which is something our captain has apparently forgotten how to—”

“shut up,” john said, eyes on the feed.

the footage from the vip room was steady. she was there, he could see the white body hugging dress, the little veil clipped into her hair, the bride-to-be sash that her friends had clearly forced onto her because she’d never have chosen it herself. she was laughing at something, head thrown back, cheeks flushed from whatever they’d been drinking, and john felt his chest do something embarrassingly soft before—

the door to the vip room opened and two men walked in.

john went very still.

“…oh,” said gaz.

the men were built… like professionally built. the kind of built that required dedication and, john suspected a considerable amount of self satisfaction. they were wearing dress shirts, for now—and they moved through the room with the confident choreography of men who had done this many, many times before.

the girls in the room lost their minds.

“bloody hell,” john muttered.

all four of them reached for the earpieces at the same time. the audio crackled in. a heavy, thudding song poured through and then there was screaming, and laughter, and her best friend’s voice yelling something that john was choosing not to process consciously.

she was sitting in a chair.

the chair at the center of the room. veil slightly askew. a look on her face that very clearly said i did not sign up for this. and she hadn’t, john knew she hadn’t, because she’d told him the plan was cocktails and charcuterie and a film, and he was going to have words with her best friend about the definition of—

one of the men approached her.

then to a chorus of deafening cheers, he grabbed the front of his shirt and tore it open.

abs, flexed.

gaz made a low sound of involuntary appreciation. “okay. good for him. that’s—that’s impressive dedication, actually—”

“it really is,” soap said earnestly, flamingo cocktail paused halfway to his mouth. “like, i say this with full heterosexual respect, that man’s core to shoulder ratio is exceptional. ghost, thoughts?”

“i’m here for the drinks,” ghost said.

on screen, she had buried her face in her hands.

john exhaled. good. she was embarrassed. she wasn’t—she wasn’t enjoying this, she was mortified, she was a sensible woman with excellent taste and—

the man gently took her wrists, winked and kissed the back of her hand before placing them on his abdomen.

john watched her eyes go wide. he watched her jaw drop. he watched her look.

“she’s looking,” john said. his voice came out completely flat, the way it did when he was three seconds from a decision he hadn’t fully made yet.

“she’s legally obligated to look, she’s in the chair—” gaz started.

“she is looking, garrick.”

“aye, to be fair,” soap said gravely, “if someone put my hands on abs like that i’d also be—cap..? your vein. your forehead vein. price, breathe—”

“outstanding whiskey selection here,” ghost said to no one.

on screen, the man was now doing something with his hips that john was filing under criminal offenses and reasons to acquire a secondary location. the girls were losing all sense of themselves. her best friend was filming on her phone, screaming. and she was laughing now, laughing and shaking her head, and her cheeks were red, and john was absolutely, completely, one hundred percent—

“he touched her face,” john said, dead quiet at the table.

“his hand,” john continued, voice dropping to something quiet and very, very controlled, “is on her face.”

“it’s part of the routine—” gaz tried.

“ghost,” john said.

“mhm.”

“you’re the fastest.”

“…i’m also on my third drink and we’re in a civilian establishment.”

“soap.”

“cap,” soap put both hands on the table. “she is fine. she is laughing. the lads are professionals. nobody is dying—”

“not yet,” john said pleasantly.

soap turned to gaz with the expression of a man reconsidering his life choices.

gaz turned to ghost.

ghost sipped his whiskey.

“i genuinely cannot stress enough,” ghost said, setting down his glass with the energy of a man who had achieved perfect peace, “how not my problem this is.”

~

the routine lasted four minutes.

john aged approximately seven years.

soap provided live color commentary that ranged from genuine fitness admiration to tactical critique of the choreography to, at one point, a heartfelt “she’s a SOLDIER’S woman, pal, you don’t KNOW what she’s used to—” directed at the cctv feed as though the man could hear him.

gaz spent two minutes trying to be the voice of reason and then gave up and ordered nachos.

ghost finished his drink, ordered another, and watched john with the quiet, unhurried interest of a man watching a very slow natural disaster.

and on the screen, when it was finally, mercifully over, she straightened her veil, took a very large sip of whatever was in her glass, looked directly at her best friend, and mouthed something that even across grainy cctv footage and a noisy bar, john could read perfectly.

i’m telling john.

he almost smiled. almost.

“she’s alright,” soap said, softer now, nudging john’s shoulder with his. “she’s fine.”

john grunted as he took a drink, then set the tablet face-down on the table for the first time all night.

“…she did look though,” he muttered.

“oh my god—” soap sighed.

“the abs, to be fair,” gaz said, very quietly, to his nachos.

before you could apply the shaving cream, his heavy palm came down in a sharp, playful smack against the curve of your ass. the sound echoed in the small room, leaving a burning pink print on your skin.

“yeah,” you softly giggled, swatting his shoulder as you slathered the warm, thick lather over his jawline, burying the thick, overgrown beard he’d been sporting since the both of you went into hiding. (cod:mw4)

at first, john behaved. he tilted his head back, exposing the thick line of his throat, letting you scrape the blade away in neat, practiced strokes. but he was never a passive man. hiss eyes, dark and predatory, locked into your lips. they track the column of your neck, watching the way your pulse fluttered in the hollow of your throat.

slowly, his calloused fingers found the back of your thighs. he didn't just touch, his hands wrapped around them, squeezing the soft flesh with a possessive heavy grip that anchored you right against him.

“john,” you warned, your tone clipped as you held the razor steady against his jaw. “don't move.”

he didn't listen. his hands traveled upward, tracing the curve of your hamstrings until his palms cupped your bare cheeks, groping you shamelessly. he squeezed hard, lifting you slightly so the apex of your thighs pressed firmly against his chest.

“i am trying to work here,” you breathed out, your fingers trembling slightly as you wiped the blade. the heat radiating off him is making it hard to concentrate.

“you’re doing a fine job, love,” he murmured against your skin, voice a rough purr.

he didn't stop. one hand stayed anchored on your hip, while his other hand slid lower, slipping past the edge of your white cotton panties. his thick, rough fingers found the slick, aching heat of your pussy from behind. he stroked you right through the damp fabric, his thumb finding your center with agonizing accuracy.

“john!” you gasped, your hips arching instinctively into his touch as the razor hovered precariously an inch from his face.

SQUUUU-AAAAAAAWK!

cassian had tried to take a stealthy step back, but his entire 200 and something pounds of pure muscle descended directly onto the yellow rubber chicken taped to his left sole. the toy shrieked like a dying pterodactyl.

“don’t play dirty, yn!!” cassian hissed, his face completely flushed as he bent double, trying to lift his foot without setting off the right chicken.

“what?!” yn snapped, instantly swinging the sparking taser toward the sound.

except she was entirely facing the velvet sofa.

behind her, huddled in a tight, sweating, silent wheezing knot near the fireplace, were the three most feared illyrian in prythian.

rhys was currently biting his own fist so hard his knuckles were white, his violet eyes watering from the sheer agony of suppressing a laugh. behind him, holding him by the shoulders like a human shield, were cas and az.

SQUICK.

rhys’s right foot shifted. yn’s head whipped around like a heat seeking missile.

“i heard that, high lord of no-children-if-i-aim-right!” yn lunged backward, blindly thrusting the taser between her own legs in a wild, reverse card maneuver.

“rhys, move!” cas panicked, throwing his entire weight forward and shoving rhysand directly into the danger zone.

“what the fuck, cas—” rhys’s elegant voice cracked as he threw his hips backward in a horrific dodge. the taser missed his trousers by a literal millimeter, the aggressive SNAP-CRACK of the electricity singing the air.

in a desperate bid for survival, rhys planted his feet to push back against his brothers.

SQUAWK! SQUUUU-AWK! SQUICK!

it sounded like a poultry farm had been hit by a tornado. the rhythmic, agonizingly loud shrieking of three sets of rubber chickens echoed off the walls.

“i’m coming!!!” Y/N cheered, completely feral now, spinning around and swinging the taser in wide, sweeping arcs perfectly leveled at groin height.

azriel, a man who could literally melt into the darkness, was currently trapped in a corner. his shadows had entirely abandoned him. they were currently hovering near the ceiling, vibrating with what looked like tiny, shadowy laughter.

“cas, move left,” az muttered, his voice deadpan but laced with genuine survival instinct as he grabbed cassian’s leather jacket, trying to pull the warlord in front of him.

“no! she’s aiming low, az! my future children are at stake!” cas planted his feet.

SQUU-AAAAAWK!

“found you!” yn charged the sound.

“sacrifice the spymaster!” cassian yelled, grabbed azriel by his leather straps, and physically hoisted him forward.

azriel’s eyes went wide. denied his wings, denied his shadows, and burdened by two squeaking farm animals on his feet, he did the only thing he could do. he leaped onto the solid mahogany desk, his boots hitting the wood with a deafening, dual-toned:

SQUAAA-WUUUUK!

“she’s on the loose! She’s breached the perimeter!” rhys yelled, completely abandoning all high lord decorum as he scrambled over the back of an armchair to get away from the blinding blue sparks.

“if i go down, you’re all coming with me!” yn shouted, blindfolded, laughing hysterically, and aggressively waving the taser like a glowstick at a rave, entirely running by the sound of frantic, high pitched rubber squawks bouncing off the walls of the most powerful court in the world.

🍃 evie stands at barely 21 centimeters (just under a foot) tall. she has golden hair pulled into a tight high bun decorated with delicate gypsophila flowers. she wears a tight, strapless green corset that hugs her busty, curvy figure like a second skin, her breasts practically spilling out of the top. a pair of shiny stockings cling to her lush, creamy thighs, and a dark green choker adorned with green opals and tiny crystals sits at her throat. her cheeks, lips, and even the soles of her feet are naturally flushed pink. translucent, sometimes iridescent wings shimmer behind her.

🍃 she’s an insatiable flirt and loves teasing kingfisher mercilessly. he usually responds with a gentle warning or scolding. in return, she pouts dramatically and crosses her arms under her breasts, deliberately pushing her cleavage up for his view.

🍃 she adores perching on his shoulder, her plump little ass settled on his leathers, one leg elegantly crossed over the other.

🍃 at night she sleeps on his bare chest or curled against his back, using his warm skin as her personal bed.

🍃 renfis constantly teases kingfisher, claiming he “isn’t into tiny sprites.” evie always snaps back that she’s not into “boring generals,” sticks her tongue out, and proudly declares she only wants kingfisher and that she’s going to have his babies one day. this earns a loud mocking laugh from renfis and an exhausted sigh from kingfisher.

🍃 kingfisher has been very clear: nothing sexual will happen between them. it frustrates evie to no end, but she mostly respects his boundary… mostly.

🍃 when kingfisher has had too much to drink, evie becomes extra bold and tries her hardest to seduce him.

bonus scene: morning wood (nsfw)

she woke before dawn, stretching lazily on kingfisher’s broad chest like it was the most luxurious mattress in the realm. her eyes were still half-lidded when she noticed the sheets tenting—something even taller than her.

when kingfisher shifted a bit, the sheets unveiled it.

and she froze.

kingfisher’s morning erection stood proud and heavy, easily taller than she was. the thick shaft rose like a damn tower, veins pulsing, the flushed head glistening and wider than her entire torso. it twitched once, as if greeting her. her wings fluttered rapidly. her mouth fell open in pure, shameless awe.

“fisher…” she whispered, voice husky with sudden need. she crawled closer, tiny hands reaching out to touch the warm, velvety skin. “let me… suck it? please? i need it in my mouth.”

kingfisher stirred, cracking one eye open. when he realized what was happening, he groaned and gently but firmly caught her around the waist with two fingers before she could climb his cock.

“no, evie.”

“b-but it’s so big,” she whined, eyes sparkling with lust as she stared at the cock that dwarfed her completely. “i can be good. i’ll promise i’ll be good! i’ll worship it—”

“no,” he repeated, voice rough with sleep and restrained arousal. “this is way too big for you. it’s even bigger than you. you’re tiny.”

she glared up at him, cheeks puffed out in the most dramatic pout she could manage. she crossed her arms tightly under her breasts again, squeezing them together on purpose.

“hmfff. one day, fisher,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear. “one day. i’m climbing that thing like a tree and you’re going to let me.”

he exhaled a long, suffering sigh and dropped his head back onto the pillow, muttering under his breath, “gods alive, save me from this insatiable little sprite…”