⭐️ VALKRY ⭐️

Warnings: None

Characters: Price, Soap, Gaz, Ghost, Graves, Konïg

A/N: None

John Price

Price shows his love by doing things for you. He’s not the type to wax poetic or indulge in PDA, but if you ever mention your favorite tea, he’ll quietly stock it in the cupboard without a word. He takes the car to get serviced without being asked. He checks in when you’re sick but does so by dropping off a bowl of soup and a blanket, mumbling something like, “Figured you could use this.” It’s these everyday gestures, small but intentional, that prove how much he cares. If you ever try to thank him, he’ll just wave it off, but his gaze will linger a little longer on you than usual.

He feels most valued when you return the favor. Letting him decompress in peace after a rough op, slipping a flask into his coat pocket before a mission, or cooking something warm when he’s been out in the cold; those moments settle into his bones and keep him grounded. He’s all about effort, consistency, and showing up, even in silence.

Soap

Soap is all energy and touch. It’s all about the playful shoulder bumps, grabbing your hand mid-story, leaning into you on the couch. His affection comes in waves, and he often can’t resist pulling you into a crushing hug when he sees you. If you’re upset, he’ll brush your cheek with his knuckles or hold your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. He has zero shame in nuzzling into your neck or wrapping an arm around your waist, even in front of the lads.

He reads a lot through physical cues too! He knows when your muscles are tense, when your hand fidgets in his, and how to ground you again with a firm squeeze or forehead-to-forehead contact. For him, touch is both comfort and clarity. You don’t even need to speak for him to understand you. He just needs to feel you close.

Gaz

Gaz is expressive and articulate, especially when it comes to you. He doesn’t shy away from compliments, dropping them casually and often: “You smashed that today,” or “No one’s sharper than you out there.” He’s especially good at recognizing the little things, like your discipline, the way you keep people calm under pressure, the quiet strength in your voice. He reminds you of your worth when you forget it, and never lets you walk into danger without a, “I believe in you.”

When you return the affirmations, even if clumsily, his whole demeanor shifts. Your single sincere, “I’m proud of you,” or “I feel safe with you,” lingers with him for days. For Gaz, language is armor and intimacy—he’s never short on encouragement or praise, and he thrives on the same in return.

Ghost

Ghost values presence, it’s all he needs. No flashy outings or fancy dinners, just the quiet, undisturbed hours where you’re truly with him. Sitting beside him while he sharpens his knife, walking together, or reading in silence while the fire crackles. those are the moments that count. He’s withdrawn by default, but when he finds someone he trusts, he wants their stillness. He notices when you’re distracted or not really there, and it stings in a way he doesn’t always articulate.

He’s incredibly attentive when you’re together, even if it’s just working out side by side. You’ll catch his gaze lingering when you laugh or stretch, like he’s memorizing the scene. Quality time is sacred to him, his rare smiles, softened voice, and candid thoughts only surface when he knows he has your full attention.

Philip Graves

Graves shows love through generosity, and giving. He’s the kind of guy who drops a new pair of boots in your locker because “yours were lookin’ busted.” He’s got an eye for what you like: gear, snacks, little upgrades. He’ll surprise you with them like it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal to him. Gifts are how he says he sees you. That you’re on his mind even when you’re not in the room.

And when you return the favor, maybe by giving him a personalized patch, or just bringing his favorite drink after a long mission, he lights up, though he’ll try to play it cool. “Damn, sugar, didn’t know you noticed that.” His love is flashy but sincere. He wants you to feel spoiled, safe, and never overlooked.

Konïg

In the beginning, König shies away from touch. He’s massive, and conscious of it. He’s terrified he’ll hurt you or make you uncomfortable. But once that barrier breaks? He’s endlessly affectionate in private. He leans into every hug like he’s starved for it, rests his head against yours, and traces your fingertips like he’s learning Braille. Physical closeness becomes his lifeline. He holds your hand like it anchors him, hugs like they’re shields, and nestles into your lap or chest like a quiet child.

Chapter 01,

Snow Capped

A/N: heyhey! Welcome to my first fic! This is placed in the COD MW3 setting, following my character Haven Hargrove. Romantic interest is Graves, and in the story, I had to tweak a bit to make him fit into the team a tad bit more since we know 141 and the Shadows don’t really play nice. But trust me, I tried to make this character accurate, and not make a sensitive female character who can’t defend herself. It will follow the plot of MW3, excluding the first mission introduced here. Lore on “Baton Rouge” will be revealed next chapter! He is also an oc.

The cold had never bothered her. It became apart of her overtime, it flowed in her blood, frosting her veins.

Snow crunched beneath Haven Hargrove’s boots as the helicopter blades finally stilled behind her, leaving the Russian wilderness deathly silent. Somewhere nearby, Butch’s heavy paws thudded beside her, the sable-coated German Shepherd alert and stalking like a shadow glued to her side. Her breath misted in the air as she scanned the horizon: White on white on white, like home.

Sitka had taught her how to breathe in the cold and bleed in silence. Russia didn’t scare her.

But the men waiting just ahead? They were something else.

She could spot Captain John Price from a mile off. Weathered, scruffy, hat low over intense eyes. Ghost stood to his right, arms crossed, skull mask impassive, unreadable. And then Soap, leaning casually, arms slung, smirk already tugging at his lips. Like he was trying to read her before she could blink. The fourth stood a little off, taller, broader-shouldered, wearing something too smug to be military discipline. Graves, she’d been told. Private military; Shadow Company.

This was the infamous 141, plus whatever role Graves had earned himself in the chaos.

She tightened her glove around the stock of her rifle and walked forward.

“That her?” Soap asked, head cocking toward her like a dog with a scent.

Price answered with a low grunt. “That’s Hargrove.”

“Callsign’s Sable,” she added as she came to a stop before them. Her voice was calm, firm. “Per the files, I’m assigned to assist on tracking Makarov’s trail. General Shepherd cleared my transfer.”

“Didn’t think KORTAC liked to share,” Ghost muttered.

“Not unless they’re given a good reason,” Haven replied. “Which I am.”

Beside her, Butch let out a low growl, deep and faint, his dark amber eyes trained on Ghost. The masked man quirked his head.

“Friendly, is he?”

Haven gave a half-smile. “He’s got opinions.”

Price stepped forward and offered a handshake. “You come highly recommended. Baton Rouge taught you well.”

The mention of Rouge hit her like a soft blow to the ribs, but she didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “He did.”

Graves finally spoke. “So you’re the wild tracker they said grew up in the Alaskan frost?” His voice was low and lazy, southern drawl still sharp beneath a layer of charm. “Thought you’d be taller.”

“And I thought mercs like you didn’t wear cologne to a recon briefing,” she fired back without hesitation, giving him a once-over.

Soap let out a barking laugh. Even Ghost tilted his head, possibly amused.

Graves gave a slow grin, lifting his hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”

“Alright,” Price cut in. “We’ve got a mission brief in five. Sable, you and your mutt are with us from here out. Let’s move.”

—

They set up camp in an abandoned railway depot that night, thick with snowdrift and silence. Butch sniffed around the perimeter while the team poured over maps and intercepts. Makarov’s trail had gone cold, just until Haven pulled up digital terrain overlays and dropped three red markers over the page.

“There,” she said, tapping the frostline edge of the forest. “Makarov’s people move like shadows in the snow. But they’re not ghosting. They’re pushing east. There’s tracks they think we can’t follow.”

Ghost leaned in. “You sure?”

She met his gaze head-on. “I know snow better than anyone on this team.”

“And Butch?” Soap asked, watching the dog curl up near Haven’s boots, still alert.

“He’s picked up scent. Not much, but it’s something.”

Price nodded. “We move before sunrise.”

—

Graves found her outside the campfire’s reach that night, sharpening her combat knife beside Butch.

“You really did grow up out here, huh?” he asked, crouching a few feet away.

“Near enough. Alaska. This isn’t so different.”

“Still can’t believe Rouge trained you.”

She stiffened slightly. “He saved my life. I tracked him down two years later and made him train me.”

Graves tilted his head. “Made him?”

She gave a dry smile. “I don’t take no very well.”

“Guess not.” A pause. “Sorry about what happened to him.”

Haven didn’t respond right away. Butch’s head lifted slightly, watchful.

“He died doing what he promised. Keeping me safe.”

Graves nodded once. “That’s more than most get.”

There was silence for a beat. Then Graves gestured toward the tent. “You know, if you need someone to cover your six tomorrow… I’ve been told I shoot better when I’m tryin’ to impress someone.”

She snorted. “That supposed to work on me?”

He grinned. “Not yet.”

—

The mission the next day was clean, swift, brutal. Haven and Butch flanked the team through snow-crusted hills, catching footprints others would have missed, directing them through blind paths no drone could scan.

By the time they breached the cabin on the edge of the ridge, Haven had already counted the exits and dispatched two guards from a distance with her sniper. Butch took down a third with a silent snarl, dragging him to the snow before anyone else noticed.

Price barked orders. Soap cleared rooms. Ghost moved like smoke.

But Haven was the one who found the laptop with comms data on Makarov’s next shipment. She cracked the encryption in under five minutes. “Looks like he’s mobilizing east,” she said. “We’ve got a lead.”

Graves leaned over her shoulder, close enough she could smell that same cologne again.

“Damn. You’re sharp.”

She smirked. “And you’re nosy.”

He chuckled. “Guilty.”

—

That night, back at the depot, Ghost said what no one else had yet.

“You’re not just good,” he muttered to her while the others cleaned gear nearby. “You’re better than most of us expected.”

Haven shrugged. “I don’t like being underestimated.”

“Good.” He eyed her for a beat. “Neither does Graves. You’ve got him distracted.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“He watches you. All the time.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she lied.

Ghost gave a small grunt that might have been a laugh. “Just keep your head on straight.”

She did. Or tried to.

But when Graves leaned beside her later, elbows brushing and voice low as he said, “You’re somethin’ else, Sable,” And she didn’t exactly pull away.

And Butch? He still growled at Graves occasionally. But that night, for the first time, he didn’t snap when Graves reached down and gave him a cautious pat.

Progress.