If you want to submit requests for specific prompts/scenarios please do! I'm not sure how people usually do that on here but either comment, dm or use the little anonymous question thingy (I think I have it enabled). I'm happy writing about any of the CoD boyz :)
Love, Val x
Call of Duty
Series:
Camomile [Ghost x gn!Reader]
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt. 11, pt. 12, pt. 13, pt. 14, pt. 15, pt. 16, pt. 17, pt. 18
Oneshots:
Simon "Ghost" Riley:
- Feverish [Ghost x fem!Reader]
- Eyes On Me [Ghost x fem!Reader]
- Trouble [Ghost x fem!Reader]
- Matching [Ghost x fem!Reader]
John "Soap" Mactavish
- Together [Soap x fem!Reader]
- Good Girl [Soap x fem!Reader] nsfw
Alejandro Vargas:
- Jealous [Alejandro x chubby fem!Reader]
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:
- I Like You Too [Gaz x fem!Reader]
- Frozen [Gaz x fem!Reader]
- Accidents [Gaz x civillian!fem!Reader]
Captain John Price:
- Missed You [Price x fem!reader]
Rating: Mature
Wordcount: 6.1k
Tags: Slow Burn, Heavy Angst, Trauma, Found Family, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics, Major Character Injury, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Unreliable Narrator, Self Esteem Issues, Referenced Familial abuse, Hospitalization, Self Sabotage
Warnings: Explicit Injury mention, Forced sedation
A/N: The needed, heavy, heavy chapter for Fix. Please head the warnings and read carefully, and practice self care if you need to
The first time you need heli-evac, it's in Venezuela.
Tracking down a cartel supplier to AQ forces, Laswell tells you. International arms dealers. The mission is off the books, quiet. Clean house, harvest intel. Price and Gaz could have cleared it easily, but for some reason Laswell mandated the full task force. Something about the intel not adding up, too many loose ends. You know better than to question her, all of you do.
Unfortunately for you, Laswell's prophecy comes true.
You see the rug on the floor shift a moment too late. The trapdoor flies open out of the corner of your eyes as you spin, and there's yelling in Spanish just a split second before the bullet rips through your side. You fall backwards just in time to avoid the next hail of fire, and the motion throws off the aim of the attack long enough for you to squeeze off a round, the cartel member's figure jerking grotesquely as your aim rings true.
There's voices then, as your head falls back against the floor, cursing blindly at the pain. You'd been shot before, but this, the bullet inside you feeling for all the world like it was trying to twist inside you further, deeper, makes your voice crack hard and dry in your throat. There's iron in your lungs, breathed in with every staggered inhale, lancets of agony etched across your torso and spine. Something inside you feels wet and warm and abstractly wrong.
You press a hand to the center of the pain, and when it comes away red there's a cognizant dissonance to it, a small 'oh' that manages to filter through your thoughts as the stain blossoms scarlet against your side. It's the sight that manages to make the world begin to spin, hazy and unfocused even as there's shouts and it's Gaz's face that flickers into view, trembling like the hazy after effect of a poorly animated CGI movie.
He's talking, but with the blood rushing in your ears you barely hear him, blinking and trying to clear the strange filter that obscures the pure look of fear in his eyes.
"Stay with me, Fix. Gonna get you out of here."
You nod, and it's all you can really manage, heart pounding relentlessly, pain bubbling up your throat in a choked, pleading cry that has Gaz's face grow ashen with concern.
It's Price, then, who shoves the sergeant aside, and even in your dissociative, blank-minded state you see the tremble of his hands as he fumbles for the med pack strapped to your kit.
Oh. You think a bit groggily, blinking as you remember. I'm the medic.
That's probably bad.
There's no time to process it further, because suddenly Price is pressing down on your side and you yell, try and flail away from the pain. Gaz has to hold you down, face pinching with something that tears further at you, an emotion that feels far too concerned for what you're feeling. There's a distant part of your mind that runs through the possibilities, of the bullet lodged up against your diaphragm, through your spleen, or possibly even your lungs. You can breathe, you can kick your legs, but the dizzying rate of the spinning world around you does not bode well for your near and distant future.
"...x...h-ey...Fix! Keep your eyes on me, mate."
You try to, from behind the veil of tears that clouds your vision as the hurt coats the underside of your tongue in an open, confused whimper. Price is yelling something you can't quite make out, and there's a tone to his voice you've never heard before. It cracks and makes you blink, forces you to try and raise your head at him, only to have Kyle's gentle, gloved hand resting you back down against the floorboards.
When you try to breathe you choke, feeling your chest compress down painfully. The air in your lungs stales, and with a wheeze you grasp blindly at Kyle, feeling panic race potent and toxic through your veins. You catch his eyes then, and the worry there has now transformed into something all consuming. Terror.
He snaps at Price, and though you can't hear the words you hear the tremble in his voice, and you realize at that moment just how terrible things must be, because suddenly Price is cutting the straps of your tac vest and shoving it rudely aside, ripping your jacket and shirt and placing an ear to your chest.
He pales.
It's that bad. Something in your thoughts whispers, and then, in a sudden, macabre burst of clarity. Try to say goodbye.
When you fumble for Price, however, he only snaps at you, tells you to stay still and stay awake. You try, you do, but the world is too bright, oversaturated, spinning like the lights of the county fair rides you saw once as a child from the window of a car. Fluorescent, vibrant, dizzying and enchanting. Glittering in the distance from beneath the grey haze of incoming mid-season thunderstorms. Now it's tinted with a putrid, vile taste of metal and bile and a sudden wave of nausea washes over you, as the skies grow green in your memory. You close your eyes against it, trying to find ground on which to retreat where there is none. Price says something about a helicopter, and whether it's moments or minutes later you feel the dull whump whump whump in the distance, beating the air around you slower than your stuttering heart rate.
Who's arms hoist you up, you aren't sure, but you can smell the scent of them. Charcoal. Gun oil. Sweat. Musk. It's familiar somehow, but it isn't until you see your blood seeping red over white skeletal gloves that you understand.
It's the last thing you see before the world goes dark.
---
You wake about eighteen hours later, and the first word out of your mouth startles Soap so much beside you he barks a laugh.
"Your mother teach you to curse like that?" He asks, but mercifully dims the overhead light when you whine at him. You ignore the fact that your mother would turn you over to your father if you ever spoke like that, deciding that such a tiny detail isn't really worth the time it would take to convey it to the Scot.
When you turn to him, Soap's brow is furrowed in a way you don't recognize. He sits in a chair at your bedside, hands clasped, shoulders hunched forwards, leg bouncing and fidgety. Wound too tight. Anxious. His blue grey eyes are drawn with concern, brow furrowed. He doesn't look at you.
"Scared us stiff, hen." He murmurs low, enough that you have to strain to hear it. "Nearly kicked the bucket- Christ on a cross, Fix. There was so much blood."
You don't reply. There's not much to say, really. You messed up, forgot to check a corner like a goddamn rookie, nearly bled out a result but you're here. Alive, mostly whole...minus the hole.
You tell him as much, but when Soap laughs it's a little mirthless, his head shaking as if he's deciding between disbelief or a reprimand.
It isn't long before Price appears, leaning on the door with a weary smile that betrays his concern. You wonder if he's slept recently, or if he's subsisting only on cigars and a gluttonous dose of black coffee. Cognac, if he found it.
The captain gives you the rundown of your injury. Gunshot to the left side of your ribs, nothing short of a bloody miracle it missed your major arteries. However, it managed to puncture your lung, collapsing it and forcing you to briefly asphyxiate on the helicopter. You were unconscious by the time you were handed off to the med-evac crew, flagging by the time you got to the hospital. Had there been a chopper unavailable, and had it not been for Gaz's quick attention to your labored breathing, it very well could have been your death would have been in a sticky, spider infested cartel hideout, far, far away from home.
That fact makes you feel your heart drop down to your stomach, and Soap sends the captain a look. Yet Price's eyes remain locked on you, arms crossed, head slightly bowed, gauging your reaction. He's waiting for you to say you want out, for you to quit, to go home.
Home, wherever that may be, to the waspish gaze of your father and the sad, docile eyes of your mother. To linen sheets and pristine, white French doors, a garden where you aren't allowed to dig your hands into the soil.
You refuse. You don't speak to Price, returning his gaze with your own. Silent, unwavering, a bough not bending to the howling gale of your thoughts.
He nods to himself, then nods to the nurse hovering by the door, and promptly vanishes.
Gaz comes to visit you, and in the days that pass between him and Soap you are hardly ever lonely. They brings cards, games, sneak you snacks past the nurses. Slowly, their laughter and banter eases the unspokenness between you, the 'What if?' that hangs as a constant reminder in the shape of your bandages. Yet you see it in their eyes, the way they glance at you when wince after laughing too hard, when your eyes grow distant in the silence.
Price floats by, brings with him a thermos of hot tea. It's unlike him, and when you question him on it he merely shrugs, tells you to drink up. Yorkshire gold, you recognize. The same kind you mother liked, with her British sensibilities.
You try to ignore the bitter ache of disappointment that settles inside you when Ghost doesn't visit, acrid like over-steeped tea.
It's on Price's third visit that he tells you you're cleared to head back to base with them. After that, however, you have a mandatory six week leave to fully recover.
It sinks your stomach.
Six weeks. Six weeks they'll be deployed without you, six weeks you'll be trapped at base, not knowing the details of their missions, not knowing if it's at that very moment that they need you. All because you got caught off-guard, because you didn't check your corners and nearly bled out in from of your team.
You swallow hard at the news, but know any protest on your part is futile. Price's orders, as per the doctor's, are absolute.
The next day, you find yourself being assisted down to the tarmac, Soap present at your side and offering little jabs that mask his worry. Price deposits your pack beside his, between the three others. You blink then, see in one of them the thermos he brought you, and wonder why it isn't stored with his own things.
Ghost watches you from where he sits, locks eyes with you when you glance from the thermos to his silent, piercing stare.
Ah.
Yorkshire Gold.
You settle in one of the seats, wave off Gaz's fussing as he checks with your pain. You'd been dosed shortly before the flight, and by the time the plane is in the air you find yourself drifting off to sleep, slouching uncomfortably as drowsiness takes you.
Strangely, when you wake shortly before your landing about eight hours later, it's not your seat you find yourself in. Instead, you lay on the floor of the cargo hold, head braced by a folded jacket. You can smell the scent on it. Charcoal. Musk. Gun oil. You have just enough time to turn and bury your face into it before Soap is shaking you awake and helping you back to your seat.
No sooner have you landed are you rushed off to medical once more, checking your stitches, rebandaging the gash in your side. The doctor frowns when he examines you, pushing his glasses up his nose and commenting within ear range of your captain to not undertake any strenuous activity, that you may require eight weeks instead of the six you've been issued with.
Eight weeks. Fifty six days. Two months without your team.
Stuck alone on base, in the dim light of your room, praying that somehow they return whole, unharmed.
Price must sense your thoughts, for he lays a heavy hand on your shoulder, offers you a conciliatory smile that you feel only deepen the wound in your chest.
"It seems like a long time." He tells you genuinely, voice dipping low, rusty with cigar smoke. "It'll be over before you know it."
You don't have time to reply, because to your horror there's another soldier at the door, saluting before conveying that the captain is needed in the briefing office. When you trail behind Price, he only turns, settles both his hands on your shoulders and gruffly tells you to rest.
When you watch his back vanish down the corridor, you try not to hear the sound of creaking bones and rifle bullets, of cataclysmic destruction that leaves behind only the aching void of loneliness in its wake.
You don't even have time to say goodbye.
You watch from the windows of the barracks as the plane lifts off to an unknown destination, vanishes behind the veil of clouds, and then there's just you.
Alone. Again.
Alone with your thoughts, with the embrace of rumination that feels like the whisper of the witching hours, desolate, dark, restless. You feel it wrap around you even in sunlight, and the ghost of solicitude loops her lithe arms around your neck like a lost lover, kisses the inside of your thoughts with the taste of temptation.
They aren't coming back. They don't need you. They've seen how weak you are now, they'll never return.
"They'll be back." You whisper aloud to yourself in response, placing a trembling hand against the glass pane. "They haven't given up on me yet."
---
You wander the base aimlessly for the next few days, haunting the mess hall and rec room, trying to find yourself in the silhouettes of others. Your small collection of paperback novels is polished off quickly, tiny notes scribbled in the margins of 'Dante's Inferno' and 'Wuthering Heights'. Eventually they stack in a tiny tower at your bedside, spines creased gently and pages dog-eared.
You heal slowly. Far too slowly. The pain has become mostly manageable, but there are nights when you rise in your sleep with a wheeze, pace the dark confines of your room trying to escape the shadows there. It doesn't help that your dreams are plagued by them, your comrades, bloodied and broken, reaching out for hands that aren't there. Hands you cannot reach.
One night you wake in a cold sweat, gasping for air, the visage of a cracked, bone white skull mask haunting your innermost thoughts. The eyes blank, cold. Dead.
Laswell tells you little about the mission. You get bits and pieces, but every time you push all you receive on the other line is a disparaging sigh and "Fix, you need to rest. I'll keep you updated if anything goes wrong."
You hate it. You don't want to know when things go wrong. You want to be there when they do, to prove yourself to them, in hopes that maybe they'll keep you just a little longer.
Soon. You remind yourself by day five of the team's absence, constantly pacing the corridors, trying to find instances of them in your loneliness. Soon they'll be back. Soon they'll need me again. Soon, I'll know I can stay.
You wake on day six before dawn, gasping awake as you fall in your dream, endlessly into the chasm of failure, where the crippled bodies of your teammates reach out for you with emaciated, broken limbs.
The training grounds are still dark by the time you get to them. You run them, blasting music, circling the perimeter over and over again like you're trying to stay to the edge of a dark, endless whirlpool. Running so as to avoid the chasing, predatory self-doubt that nips at your heels with feral eyes and jagged teeth.
The sun rises, and soon it begins to bake the back of your neck, your shoulders. Eventually you stop, and the inertia of your motion threatens to drag you off your feet. Your chest aches, but you welcome the pain. It's a distraction, a reminder. An anchor against the fraught silence that plagues you more than any wound.
By the time dinner rolls around you're back again, circling the drain until well past sunset, after your playlist has looped for the third time that day. By the end of it you're bent over, breathless, shaking, and yet somehow there's triumph. Yet it tastes hollow, bitter like over-steeped tea, and you push down the part of you that offers a gentle respite, a reminder of self-preservation.
If you run, you can flee, can hide from the perilous self-doubt that threatens to haunt the shadows of your thoughts, spinning cobwebs of dismay that overtake the empty caverns you've long since carved out. Fight or flight fuels every waking moment, a spiral you mimic with your steps across the training field, running a rut in the grass so deep it resembles the abyss that haunts your dreams. Perilous failure, a chasm where the wind howls in your ears and bites across your skin. You feel like a doe in the twilight glade, heaving heavy breaths as the wolves of your ruminations bark and howl, nip at the hocks of your legs.
The entire time your mind flashes with visions of them. Of Gaz's grin, eyes hidden by his sunglasses that reflect the sibylline brightness of daytime. Of Soap's jovial laughter, the corners of his eyes scrunching and broad chest rising, a sound that feels like trumpets announcing victory. Of Price and the sulfurous mist exhaled like dragon's breath, floating up into the same sky where you silently offer wishes for his approval.
Of Ghost, of the stygian, merciless presence of him that feels less like the visitation of a reaper and more of shadows in which to shelter yourself from the dazzling brightness of all things blinding. You lean into him and wordlessly, he has you, watches you from afar and traces your steps that mimic the history of his, observes you ascend the precarious tower of expectations you've yet to dismantle inside your soul. He extends his arms, prepares to catch you if you fall.
You need them. More than they need you, and it's the realization of that which has you clawing your sheets in your dreams. You need them to keep you, here in the place where you've found a home, dangerous and fraught that it may be. There's nowhere else for you. Not with your parents, not with your former company. You need to not be alone. You need to prove to them you can stay. Even if you can just fool them, be selfish enough to trick them into keeping you, you need them to smile at you long enough for the smoke to clear in your hideous self-deprecation, to drink in the oxygen of them like it's your last breath.
If you can heal faster, can show them how resilient you are, then everything will be fine, everything will be-
Red. On your fingers.
Wet, warm, crimson as you delicately prop under your shirt, hissing at the feeling of something torn and damp against your skin. It shines rusty under the scant light of the dark training grounds, coats the pads of your fingers like scarlet ink with which to smear a forbidden oath.
You stare down at it mutely, realizing with a strange sort of distance that it's yours. Gingerly, your hand snakes under your shirt, reveals a torn gash in your side. When you press down your knees nearly buckle at the sudden wash of pain, dark and viscous and choking you. Your voice chokes in your throat and you hate the sound of it, hearing the useless whimper of agony that chases up your windpipe. How you didn't notice the tear before is beyond you, something about imbibing in the hurt, letting the ache fill the crevasses of your heart like liquid metal seeping into a fissure.
Your hand clings to the fence beside you, fingers tangling with the chain link as the distress of your injury washed over you all at once.
Fuck, it hurts.
You've done something, whatever that may be, and now your mistakes seeps over your fingers.
This is bad.
Bad not just for you, but for your recovery. Shit, the looming eight weeks ahead of you seems to stretch into infinity, into an inexhaustible leave where they leave you behind, dismiss you and curse you to roam the earth endlessly, looking for a place in which to rest.
The infirmary.
You have a key, of course, being one of the medics. It's probably empty at this hour save for the sergeant on attendance. You can probably sneak past them, grab enough supplies to see to this yourself without one of the nurses telling on you to Price or Laswell.
You stumble in the direction of the barracks to retrieve your key, shrugging on your jacket to hide the blossoming stain across your side.
You don't hear the plane land.
The barracks are quiet by the time you reach them, most of the officers and squaddies already tucked into their quarters, the commanding officers lounging in the rec room or officer's lounge. It makes your journey easier as you traverse the corridors, trying to avoid any questions lest someone see you even now, realize what a complete and utter wreck you are, dipping falsehoods onto your fingers. Your feet nearly trip over the stairs, hand clutching at the rail ad dragging yourself upwards despite the effort it takes to not think about your leaking wound.
Carnations, scarlet and blotted with vibrance, blossom where stitches meet skin, a grotesque bouquet of regrets with the scent only of iron to color your senses.
When you reach the third floor, and turn the corner, you feel a wave of nausea suddenly wash over you, green and viscous and sour. You have to brace on the wall for a moment, waiting for your stomach to settle before making your way down the hall.
Then you see him.
Tall, imposing, clad in black. He soaks up what little light there is in the dim hallway. The unshed tactical gear makes him look bigger than he is, looming like a phantom outside your door. His scarf trails behind his back, and for a moment it feels almost like the cowl of a specter, his bone white mask a flash of white before it all ends and you're sucked down into an obsidian infinitum.
His hand is raised to knock, hovering over the metal surface. You can smell the grenade smoke wafting off of him from where you stand, acrid, burnt, molten metal like the glint of his stare. You blink as you realize he must have come straight from the plane, not bothering to untack or store his gear before coming to see you.
You startle at the sight of him, and it's in the corner of his stained vision that somehow he sees you, turns with an alert gaze that's soon masked by an expression of disinterest.
"Ghost." You hoarse, and his eyes narrow at your tone, closing the last few steps between you, stopping just short of you. Not touching, not moving, not reaching for you. Contained in his own orbit that you're drawn to anyways, looking up into his eyes, where the ink of his paint has faded from his blonde lashes.
"Fix." He greets, hands loose at his sides, chin tucked to fully regard you. The strap of his helmet creaks as he does, and briefly your eyes dart up to the night-vision goggles still strapped to his head.
"Price sent me to check on you." He offers in the silence that follows, and there's enough clarity within you to note that it somehow feels rehearsed, too practiced.
"Well-" You huff an anxious laugh, try to not let your eyes dart to your door handle, mind running to your desk drawer, where you keep your clinic key stashed. "Consider me checked on."
There's a pause between you, and within it lies the heaviness of the unspoken, the unsaid. All the confessions inside of you threaten to bubble up like the last gap of air before drowning in the deep, dark ocean.
I'm glad you're safe. Where are the others? Are they hurt? Did you need me? Will you forgive me when I wasn't there?
"How's your injury?" He asks suddenly, voice flat, but beneath the feigned disinterest you see his eyes, framed by blonde lashes, dip to your side. Your heartbeat flutters -too loud- as you pray the blood has yet to seep through the fabric of your jacket.
"Fine." You answer, a little too quickly, and that dark gaze sweeps up to your face, pins you to the spot without a single touch. You feel your chest tighten now not with the constricting compression of pain, but with something more phantasmic, a byproduct of his very presence. A prickle of awareness that breathes across your neck every time he ventures close, a reminder of him where he smears his ink stained fingers on the inside of your skull.
Door. Desk. Drawer. Stairs. Five minute walk. Clinic. Back room. Supply closet. Third shelf.
Your mind runs the steps ahead of you, but you can't sidle past, not with Ghost's immense, towering form blocking the width of the hallway. His dark gaze stares down at you, scrutinizing you, and it feels somehow like you're being flayed open by his knife, skin parting from bone as he dares a glance at the hidden, duplicitous interior of you. You try to not meet his eyes, knowing that if you do he'll see it, he'll see all of you, with his gaze that feels like black holes, threatens to tear you asunder with the gravity inside them.
He says something else when your eyes again dart to your door. When you don't immediately, he tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing.
"Fix?"
"Sorry-" You supply immediately, eyes darting back to Ghost. Yet the world around you wavers then, and you frown, blink, trying once more to tether yourself firmly to gravity. Even as you focus, however, the room seems to tilt and sway under you, and you can't help but rock on your feet a little in a subtle but desperate bid to find balance. "W-what did you just say?"
Ghost stills suddenly, and his eyes narrow from behind his mask, form going rigid as he appraises you.
Don't. You think desperately, both to yourself and to him. Don't look.
The wound must be worse than you thought, because the sudden wash of dizziness makes you threaten to sway on your feet, lost in inertia. You can feel the tug of it, your feet carrying you in endless circles as you spiral down a familiar whirlpool, lost in despair.
"...You alright?" Ghost asks tentatively, as if not expecting you to give him a straight answer.
"Solid." You reply almost instantly, and even as you tilt your head up to regard his massive form the shape of him seems to shift before your eyes. Despite being pinned under his stare you try not to sway, not to buckle.
Just breathe. You remind yourself, forcing manual inhales and exhales in an attempt to remain composed. The warm wetness of your wound is already bleeding through your bandages, soaking the gauze packed against your side and dyeing it a rancid scarlet that reeks of failure. You know the longer you stay here, the longer he questions you that you run the risk of being discovered, of your ruse being revealed in horrific, dazzling color.
God, you wonder if he can smell it on you- the bitter, iron taste of blood.
"Don't lie." He states, stepping closer, and when you instinctively take a step back you nearly stumble, one arm dropping to your side in an attempt to find something to balance with. "You don't look fine."
"W-what do you mean?" You try, but your voice wavers when you speak- as unsteady as your form. A sapling in a thunderstorm. Lighting bursts across the darkened skies of your anxiety.
"Fix." Ghost states, and that sends a flash of panic through you, the way his voice evens with seriousness, eyes suddenly steely and trained completely on you. A hunter's scope, and you're caught in the snare.
"Don't." You manage, and take another step back, retreating-
The world shifts under you.
You have just enough time to blink, for your lips to part in an 'oh' of realization before the weakness in your legs finally gives. As they buckle your eyes dart to Ghost's, and you catch a single glimpse of shock that flashes plainly across his gaze before he's moving, reaching for you-
When the world stills again it's to the sensation of an arm under your back, the hand snaking around your side and pressing close to your raw, seeping wound hidden under your gear.
You choke on the pain, the sound a strangled gasp that bubbles up your throat and forces the air from your lungs.
When Ghost moves his hand you feel it, feel the crimson ooze soaking through your shirt and jacket against your side, and painting his glove in dark, glistening wetness.
"FUCKING hell." Ghost snarls when he realizes what it is, his eyes darting down to your side where red colors across the fabric of your white tee.
"G-Ghost-" You manage, even as the world spins around you, an abrupt kaleidoscope of shape and color. It's the white of his mask that grounds you, mirroring his wide, surprised gaze as it turns from his glove to your ashen, stricken expression. "LT, wait-"
"You stupid girl." Ghost snarls, and you flinch.
Before you can stop him, Ghost reaches for his radio, and when he presses down it leaves a bloody stain on the casing.
"Price." He barks, voice grating deep in his chest- the one he uses to issue orders, bring men back into line. "Fix is injured. Tore her stitches."
In a desperate bid you try to reach for him, face alight with pain and shock as you try to stop him, try to grapple the radio away. Yet Ghost merely knocks your hand aside and fixes you with a stare so harsh and cold it freezes you in place.
"How bad?" Price's voice crackles from the other end of the comm, and you swallow, try to answer.
"I-I'm okay." You supply, but Ghost snarls at you.
"She's not okay." He echoes over you. "She's fucking bleeding out."
"I'm...not-"
"Shut up." Ghost bites at you, but there's a waver in his voice you don't recognize as it harshes inside his chest, grinding and impatient and...somehow scared.
You hear Price curse on the other end of the radio.
"Where are you? I'm on my way and sending Gaz to find a medic."
"Southeast hallway. Third floor. Outside her bunk." Ghost replies sharply, and at once he's readjusting you, laying you down on your uninjured side. You curl into yourself, feeling tears threaten as he does so.
It hurts.
The pain itself, but the knowledge that with every stained drop you're exposing yourself, letting him know you failed, that you aren't fit to stand by him, that your injury is-
When Ghost's hand presses down against your wound you yell, the agony of his touch unexpected and horrific as he tries to stem the gush from your side. It blinds you, sends white shooting across your vision in brilliant white specks, blotting out the brightness of the humming fluorescent lights above you both. The aftertaste of it lingers in your mouth, like burnt pennies, thick and vile as it clogs your chest, grips your heart-
"Stay. Still." Ghost tells you on no uncertain terms even as you writhe, tears now spilling from your eyes and tracing down your cheeks in hot, furious trails.
"I'm sorry-" You try, but your voice is cracked, caught in your throat as a sob. "Ghost, I'm sorry-"
"Why did you do this?!" He hisses, as he uses one hand to press against your shoulder and anchor you. "Why didn't you say anything?!"
You swallow, but it does nothing to stop the ache in your throat, the pain that laces up your side and cross your spine, your hips, your heart.
"I-I didn't-" You hiccup, and the world is in chaos now, with your cries and your secrets exposed, with his gaze raking over your trembling, injured form. "Didn't want you to see, Ghost. I'm sorry-"
He stills.
Then, Ghost's eyes take on a light you've never seen before. Frustration, anger, disappointment, these things you've been witness to in your lieutenant. However now the color of Ghost's eyes is dark not with these things, but with fury.
"Have you gone bloody mental?!" He bellows at you, and the world feels like it's trembling with the volume of his voice alone, shaking at the foundations of the earth itself. "Do you have any idea the danger you put yourself in?!"
There's a note of his words that ring true in you, that cleave apart the shell of doubt and allow radiance to seep through. You hide from it, curl further into yourself on the cold linoleum of the hallway, a sob cracking your throat as the weight of the world comes crashing down around you.
They're going to leave you for this. You're going to be alone again, all because your life seems to be a litany of failures, an impossible grave to claw out of as dirt pours in from the top.
You're heaving now, breaths too uneven, too ragged, and when it presses down on your lung the hurt is enough to make you cry out a strangled yell, kick out your feet in an automatic reflex.
Ghost's voice sounds distant now as blood rushes in your ears, your heartbeat wild and banging against the inside of your chest like a frantic, trapped bird. His hands are on you but you hardly feel them as panic engulfs you, and the whirlpool roars as it drags you down, down, down.
"Hey! Calm down, Fix! Fuck, just breathe!"
It hurts. Everything hurts. Your chest, your side, your lungs, the pain feels like it's seeping into your bloodstream, blocking your airways, poison running through your veins.
Another set of hands. Cigar smoke, ash.
"Soldier! Fix! Look at me!"
You can't. You refuse. If you see Price's gaze now in the moment of your ruin the stitches that bind you together will come loose at the seam and you'll unspill, empty cotton falling over their fingers. Fluff where there's supposed to be iron.
"Where the fuck is the medical team?!"
"They're on their way. Keep pressure on the wound."
Hands on your face. Gloves that smell like gun smoke.
"Fix, darling. You're having a panic attack. You need to breathe, you're going to hurt yourself if you don't."
You shake your head, dislodging the captain's touch.
No. You think with a ragged heave of air. Don't look. Don't look don't look please don't look.
The ground trembles as footsteps draw closer, and there's voice you don't recognize, hands pawing at you, light in your eyes-
You flail blindly, confused, scared, and when a heavy pair of hands lands on your shoulders to pin you it only makes your voice choke out with a frantic cry.
"We need to put her under."
No, no, please don't. Not sleep, not the nightmares-
A jab, a little pinch on the inside of your arm. You try to make a noise, a whimpering sound of protest. There's a sudden flash of clarity before the darkness, and you open your eyes (When did you start crying?) to Price above you, his face pinched, distraught. Ghost is holding down your legs, and as your eyes drift to him he becomes nothing more than a shimmering phantom, blurred dark at the edges, a void in contrast to the too bright world around you.
"Please-" You whisper, the word heavy on your lips, eyes blinking-
Then there's nothing.
Tag List: (Reblog this post to be added to future fics from this series! If you'd like to be removed please DM me!)
Synopsis: You’re a barista and drop a whole tray of mugs – Gaz is the only customer in line to help you out. (Prompt by @nahterpie I believe) Fluff, Hurt/comfort.
Word count: 1.7k
Warnings: Blood, fainting
Gaz x civillian!fem!Reader
ੈ✩‧₊˚
It’s the lunchtime rush. It happens every day yet still it manages to catch you off guard. The line stretches almost from the counter to the door and, as usual, you’re running behind on clearing the tables. The noisey clatter of dishes and the steady hum of conversation grates at you. Now is not the time for a headache.
Your arms are full of cups and saucers; your blinking rapidly to will the pounding in your head to leave when you trip. Everything falls to the floor with a loud crash and you stand still, stunned. The chatter stills for a moment and you can feel eyes prickle at the back of your neck.
“You alright, love?”
A voice snaps you out of your reverie and you focus on the man in front of you. He’s knelt on one knee and has started to push the broken pieces of cups and saucers to one side. His eyes glow like amber in the warm lighting and his brow is soft with compassion.
“Oh, shit,” you start, realising a customer is currently doing your job. “Sorry, yes. Please don’t bother – I’ll have it cleared in a jiffy.”
He chuckles, continuing to gather the the mess into a pile. “It’s no bother, I’m happy to help.”
You thump unceremoniously to your knees beside him and soon you’ve swept the pile into a dustpan and tipped it into a bin.
You turn to the man with a grateful smile. “Thank you so much. Coffee’s on us.”
He returns your smile but shakes his head, “You don’t need to do that.”
“I insist.” You reply before sticking your hand out, “I’m Y/N.”
“Kyle.” His hand is warm and firm around yours. When you pull back you notice something sticky one your fingers. Is that blood?
Your eyes widen looking first to your own palms and then his. He follows your gaze down to his hand and curls his fingers around his palm as if to hide it.
You reach out and unfurl his fist, shooting him a concerned glare when he tries to pull away.
“It’s fine –“ he tries only to be cut off by you.
“Fine? Kyle, you’re bleeding everywhere!” You say, the sight already making you squeamish. “Please, at least let me bandage it – we have a kit out back.”
He pulls his hand from yours, the thumb of his uninjured hand pressing against the cut. “Really, it’s nothing.”
You frown, brows furrowing. “Please? I already feel bad you had to clean up my mess.”
The man sighs with a smile, shaking his head. “If it’ll make you feel better.”
“It will.” You say, curling a hand around his wrist and pulling him behind the counter.
Your co-worker shoots you a confused look and you raise Kyle’s hand in her direction. “Just getting the first aid kit!” You call out and she nods, retuning to the till.
Kyle’s wrist is warm and soft, your thumb swipes back and forth completely subconsciously as you drag him into the small room where you take breaks. You swallow back your nausea as a rivulet of blood drips into your own hand, pulling out a chair for him and striding over to the sink. You’ve never been good with blood, call it pathetic but not everyone was built to be a surgeon or EMT.
The hot water makes you feel slightly less ill and you turn back to the man seated at the small table, first aid kit in hand. You settle into a seat across from him and unzip the kit.
“So…” you say, pulling out a few antiseptic wipes, taking his hand back in yours. “I’ve only seen you a couple of times in here, new to the area?”
“You could say that.” Kyle watches you, brown eyes smiling as you wipe away the blood from his hand. “I work at the base just out of town.”
You look up at him, surprised. “Army?”
He nods, “SAS.”
“Like the super special guys?” You still your movements and look down to where you are cleaning the cut in his palm. “You probably know how to do this way better than me.”
Kyle laughs and the sound makes your chest flutter. “You’re doing fine, love.”
“God, you’ve probably had much worse. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to baby you over such a minor injury.”
The man only shakes his head with a smile. “Course I’ve had worse – doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the help.”
You return the smile, albeit weakly, feeling stupid for dragging a literal SAS soldier to sit down while you tend to his superficial wound with your meagre first aid kit and even worse skills. Sighing softly, you pull his palm up and further into the light. The sight of the cut makes your stomach turn and it doesn’t help that you’re now thinking about all the other potential injuries this man has suffered or tended to.
“Is it worth bandaging?” You ask the man across from you, conceding that he’ll certainly know more than you about this kind of thing.
He leans in to have a look and shrugs. “If you’ve got one,” he shrugs, “I’m sure I can manage to keep it on for a couple of hours.”
You let his hand rest on the table, swallowing thickly as the fluorescent lights hit the exposed wound. Ew, ew, ew.
Kyle frowns, tilting his head. “You ok? You look pale.”
You meet his gaze with a forced smile, “Just tired. Been here since six, you know?”
The man nods slowly, eyes still narrowed as he watches you.
“We’ve got a few bandages in the cupboard,” you say, sliding your chair out from the table, “gimme a sec.”
You push up with entirely too much force; the walls spin as your stomach rolls. The floor seems to rise up to meet you and everything goes dark and quiet for a second.
ੈ✩‧₊˚
Something cool brushes your forehead and you jolt awake. Concerned brown eyes look down at you and a hand holds a damp flannel to your brow. Kyle. Everything floods back and you groan, raising a hand to cover your face in shame. Did you honestly just faint in front of a soldier? Someone who has seen literal war and you keel over at the sight of blood. Great first impression.
A warm hand pulls your own away from your face, his shadow covering you.
“What is it?” Kyle asks softly as he leans over you, “lights too bright?”
Your cheeks burn in shame. He probably thinks you’ve fallen ill or something.
“Just embarrassed.” You mumble and the man tilts his head in confusion.
“Say again?”
You sigh, pushing your hands into the crusty carpet of the break room – that’s right. You’re still at work.
“I’m embarrassed.” You say more clearly, rubbing a hand across your face, one of Kyle’s resting gently on the small of your back as you sit up.
He frowns again and you feel bad for all you’ve put this poor man through today.
“Why’s that?”
You huff out a laugh, meeting his gaze through your lashes, head hanging over your knees. “I just fainted over a bit of blood.”
He laughs, rubbing a few quick circles between your shoulder blades. “You’re not the first to do so, love. I’ve served with a few men who do the same.”
You lift your head and send him a skeptical look. “Really?”
He nods, “Really. Now how about we move to the couch, hm?”
“What about your hand?” You ask as he helps lever you up from the floor, “Do you still want a bandage?”
He deposits you gently on the cracked leather couch along the back wall before raising his hand – a white bandage covering his palm.
“Found one while you were napping.” He says with a smile, turning around to fill up a glass of water.
You sigh as he hands it to you, “I was supposed to be helping you.”
Kyle squats in front of you and gives your knee a pat. “You are helping me, I’m missing out on drills right now.”
You look up, horrified. “God, I’m making you late as well?!”
The man only throws his head back and laughs; the warm flutter returns to your chest.
“I was running late anyway, now I have an excuse.” He grins cheekily, “besides, it isn’t often I get to help out a pretty lady.”
You blush completely red, unsure what to say and instead take a large gulp of water, accidentally breathing it in. You cough and splutter, Kyle immediately taking the glass from you and giving you a firm pat between your shoulder blades.
Your eyes water and he returns to rubbing your back as you gasp for breath. “S-sorry!”
He shushes you with a smile, leaving to refill your water before sinking onto the couch beside you. You go to take the glass from him with shaking hands, only for him to maintain his grip, guiding it to your lips. You take a few sips and he lowers the glass.
“Better?”
You nod, “Better.”
He rubs his thighs a little before standing, holding out something to you. Your phone. You take it from him, sending him a confused look.
“Feel out of your pocket when you fell,” he says with a grin.
“Right…”
He winks teasingly at you, turning to grab the jacket he’d slung over the chair before.
“I’ll see myself out,” he says, raising a hand when you try get up form the couch. “Rest, drink plenty of water, have a snack. I’ll let your manager know on my way out.”
You go to protest but you still feel awfully shaky. Instead you nod. “Thank you, Kyle.”
He grins back at you, “Of course.”
ੈ✩‧₊˚
It’s only once he’s gone when you open your phone. There’s a new ‘quick note’ open, something you can create even when someone’s phone is locked.
XX-XXX-XXX-XXX
Accidents happen! It was lovely to meet you regardless ;)
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt. 11, pt. 12, pt. 13, pt. 14, pt. 15, pt. 16, pt. 17, pt.18
AN: Sorry for the wait :,( I've had exams and a new job! Not much Rags/Ghost content in this one – I promise I have some more relationship development coming soon! Bare with me :) Thank you for sticking around x
Synopsis: Closely follows the “El Sin Nombre” mission from mw2 (reboot). Rights to the game developers <3
Word Count: 2.2k (sorry it’s kinda mission heavy.)
Warnings: canon divergence, canon typical violence, guns, wounds, swearing, brief mentions of sa etc
Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign: Rags)
✧˚ · .
You follow Alejandro down the hall, he walks with a confidence you attempt to mimic – still shaken up from the interrogation.
You cross to one side as the hall splits in two, throwing a glance round the corner. Alejandro shows you the ‘all clear’ sign and you hold up a finger. One guard.
You press yourself against the wall, listening as the guard paces at the bottom of the stairs. There’s a buzz of static and you watch as the guard raises a hand to his radio.
“Control, this is C-1. I'm going to the armoury. Two minutes.”
He speaks in Spanish but you know enough to surmise he is heading your way. You throw a glance at Alejandro and you both flatten against the wall as the guard strides past and down another wing of the villa.
Alejandro crosses the hall to join you, voice hushed. “You can look for a way up or follow that guard. Your call…”
“I’d rather find a way up,” you reply, “scaling the building seems far less risky than playing hide and seek in this maze.”
The Colonel nods and follows behind you as you creep towards the stairs and onto the balcony beyond. The breeze is warm but you feel your skin prickle as it picks up your hair poking out from your balaclava.
Your radio buzzes.
“Got a visual on you, Rags. There's a trellis outside you can take to the roof.” Ghost speaks clearly and you feel a little safer knowing his scope has you in it’s sight.
“What about Diego's keycard?” You ask your lieutenant, “Think I’ll make it without?”
There’s a pause and you throw a glance at Alejandro who shrugs.
“Your call.” Is Ghost’s reply and you let out a sigh, squinting up at the trellis.
“The AC units could get you on top of the garage.” He radios in again, “There's a ledge above you, Rags.”
You crane your neck, spotting the ledge.
“Could help you get around that guard.” Alejandro mutters, watching the entrance to the balcony.
You nod back, pressing a hand to your radio. “Moving to the roof.”
“Copy.”
“I’ll be right behind you.” Alejandro says, nodding at you in encouragement.
It doesn’t take long to scale the trellis and AC unit and soon your crouching just below the ledge of the roof. You peer over the edge cautiously, spotting an entire group of guards.
“Careful, Rags.” Ghost speaks in your earpiece, “Multiple cartel up there. We'll have to clear it.”
“I can’t just shoot them, LT,” you say, watching as they mill around, a couple smoking, “That’ll alert the whole villa.”
“Ever heard of a knife?”
You scoff quietly, “You’ve got a bloody silencer, want to help me out?”
“You’ll have to shank those closest to you first, if you can manage to do it without alerting the others I can make a few shots.”
You flex your hands against the ledge. “Alright, LT. On your mark.”
The words buzz in your ear and you’re over the ledge like a cat. The terrace is dimly lit and your mainly black attire helps you melt into the shadows. You sneak up behind a guard, forearm cutting off his windpipe and slit his throat. Messy but quiet. You try not to think about the warm rivers of blood soaking your gloves as you drag the body deeper into the shadows. You manage to take down three more before any from the denser group notice. One turns around and surveys the roof, you hold your breath, hoping the shadows are thick enough to disguise your shape.
The man says something to the rest of the group and they all turn around. They’ve noticed.
You press your comm. “Any minute now, LT.”
There’s a grunt. “Workin’ on it, love.”
You tense up, locked in a crouched position and gripping your knife till your knuckles pop as the guards begin to fan out towards you. Just as one nears where you are half hidden behind a large decorative clay pot, a body falls. There’s a shout and you leap out, stabbing the man in front of you as more bodies slump over.
After a few seconds you stand, panting amongst an array of fallen guards.
“Thanks LT.”
“Roofs clear.” Is the lieutenants reply, radioing to the shared channel before switching to yours. “Good job. Penthouse is in the north corner; check the penthouse. I'll cover you. El Sin Nombre is in the penthouse. North corner.”
He repeats it till the words ring in your head. North corner. El Sin Nombre. Penthouse.
“Copy, LT.”
You make your way towards a ladder which should lead to the elevator shaft where you’ll meet Alejandro. You take it slowly, cautious as you reach the top but sighing when you spot the Colonel.
He nods at you, offering you a hand up. “Elevator's this way. Can you operate the lift?”
You let him pull you up and dust yourself off with a huff. “We’re about to find out.”
Alejandro nods slowly, “All visitors got out. If the guards catch you now, they'll engage.”
“Then let’s not get caught.”
✧˚ · .
The lift is simple and you manage to hijack the brakes, using it to lower floor by floor.
“What level?” You throw a glance at Alejandro over your shoulder.
“Third floor. Hold here and release the emergence lock.”
You do as he says and the doors slide open. You raise a hand to your comms. “Doors open.”
Alejandro follows suit, using his radio. “All teams, we're moving on the penthouse. Stand by.”
You adjust your grip on your knife, hugging the walls as you use the stairs to reach the second floor. If the guards catch you they’ll shoot on sight.
A large oak door looms ahead of you and you tap your comms. “I think I found Diego's room.’
"Could have something useful.” Alejandro speaks, voice buzzing in your ear, the Colonel still a floor above you.
The room is lavishly decorated and as your eyes skim around the room you notice a painting, the corner an inch from the wall. A vault.
Careful not to make a noise you creep over to it and swing the painting away from the wall, revealing a vault. The combination lock is a simple one and you only need a minute with your ear pressed to the cool metal surface before it clicks open. There’s nothing too important, just a plate carrier and some weapons. You sift through it all carefully before locking the vault and swinging the painting back in place.
“Find anything useful?” Ghost asks through your earpiece.
“Negative, LT.” You leave the room and sneak through the atrium, a warmly lit room looms ahead. “Possible visual on the ofrenda.”
“Diego should be inside.” Alejandro replies and you send a ‘copy’ back.
Angry voices reach you, echoing through the sparse rooms and halls as you near them. You reach the doorway and spot the two men inside.
“Alejandro,” you whisper, hoping the radio picks it up, “found Diego.”
“Roger that.”
You wait with your back pressed to the door as Diego argues with the guard.
The man bursts out in English suddenly and you flinch “Motherfucking American PMCs in our fucking city?! This is a whole new world now... We can't let them take an inch from us!”
The guard replies in Spanish and the meaning escapes you.
“We are conducting some very... important operations right now. Growing, expanding... when you rise up, the devil comes to knock you down... If they want a war... We'll show them violence like they've never fucking seen! Call all the plaza bosses... I want these intruders hanging from every bridge in Las Almas.”
“Tell me you got that keycard.” Alejandro’s voice buzzes in your ear and you jump, swearing under your breath as you reply.
“Shit. Stand by…”
The voices have stopped and footsteps near the doorway. A man steps out of the room and you jump, knife tearing through his throat before he can so much as scream.
You drag the body out of the way and slip into the room where Diego now stands, his back to you as he faces the ofrenda along the wall. You school your breathing, tiptoeing towards the hulking figure.
You’ll have to be quick, this man couple overpower you in seconds. You raise your knife and just as you prepare to strike the man whirls around.
His eyes widen in surprise and you duck as he swings at you with a yell. He swings again and this time manages to clip your jaw. Your vision reels but with a growl, you lunge back at him with renewed fervour. You swing for his neck, leaving your torso open as the knife sinks through his throat. At the same time, Diego has reached for his knife and made a final strike of desperation. Pain surges through your left side, he misses impaling you but mere inches but manages to slash a deep stripe across the side of your stomach.
His dark eyes meet yours with a grin of malice as blood bubbles at his lips. You shove him back and he crumples in a heap on the floor as you stand their panting.
You pant tiredly, wrapping a hand around your wound and raise a shaking hand to your radio.
“Diego's dead.”
“A huevo, that's my carnal.” The Colonel replies with a quiet laugh, “Now get his keycard, quickly.”
You push the body over with your boot, reaching for the card.
“Got it.”
“Good work. RV at the elevator or meet on the first floor. Just stay quiet.”
✧˚ · .
You stay in the room with Diego longer than you’d’ve liked, having moved to the window to press a wad of the thick curtain hanging there to your wound to staunch the bleeding. It isn’t too deep but bleeds like a bitch.
It doesn’t take long to find Alejandro, most of the hallways empty from the Colonel’s handiwork and you meet him as the bottom of the stairs which lead to the penthouse. Together you climb the grand staircase and reach the double doors. Alejandro squats against the wall, pulling out a snake cam and threading it under the doors. You watch the monitor as he pushes the camera through.
“No fucking way.” You gasp as slightly pixelated but undoubtedly clear footage of Valeria appears.
Alejandro stills his movements. “What is it?”
“The Sicaria I met downstairs, in the interrogation.” You whisper, turning to him. “Valeria- She's El Sin Nombre.”
His eyes widen. “Valeria? Are you sure?”
You nod, jaw clenched. “I’m sure.”
Alejandro searches your eyes for a second before raining a hand to his radio. "We have to move. Graves, Sin Nombre is posing as a female sicaria. We're moving in. You set?”
You hear a murmur from Alejandro’s earpiece. “Check.”
“Ghost?”
“Ready.”
Alejandro looks at you again and you give him one nod.
“Alright. Take her alive.”
✧˚ · .
You follow suit as the Colonel kicks the door open. The guards and Valeria look up, surprised at the intrusion. Alejandro lobs a smoke grenade over the conference table in the centre and you both duck as the guards fire blindly. You both manage to take out most of the men before Valeria turns and flees out the back door.
“She ran out the back! Don't let her escape!” Alejandro calls out as he wrestles with a guard but you are already sprinting in her direction having taken a rifle from a dead guard.
“She’s headed for the roof!” You puff into your comms as you follow the woman, taking the stairs two at a time.
The rooftop terrace is flooded in a bright white light and you squint as the air whips around you.
“Down! Get down, now!”
A distinctly American voice calls over a loudspeaker from the helicopter which hovers over the woman’s form.
“I kneel for no one, motherfucker!” Valeria calls back in spanish and you can’t help but be impressed at her gaul.
Grave’s spots you nearing her and grins. “A bullet will make you kneel.”
Valeria turns and spots you, your rifle raised. She clenches her jaw, grinning as she concedes defeat; raising her hands as she kneels.
You sling the rifle across your back and take the woman’s wrists.
“El Sin Nombre.” You spit, cuffing her roughly.
“My name is Valeria.” She says, scowling at you over her shoulder, still speaking in spanish.
You scoff. “Hiding in plain sight.”
She laughs. Completely unfazed that she has been caught. Alejandro jogs up to the two of you, eyes wide as he watches Graves take her out of your hands and leads her towards the chopper.
You watch him carefully.
“You know her, don’t you?”
“I do – did.” He corrects himself, stare still locked on the woman’s figure as she boards the helo.
“How?” You ask, following his gaze.
He blinks before shaking his head. “That’s a story for another time.”
You raise an eyebrow, having had taken your mask off earlier. “That time might be soon, Colonel.”
The man clenches his jaw, giving you a tight nod. “Soon.”
I'm not naive enough to think I'll be able to write something every day, so send in prompts and who you want to see them for. From the following characters: John Price, John Mactavish, Simon Riley, Kyle Garrick.
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt. 11, pt. 12, pt. 13, pt. 14, pt. 15, pt. 16, pt. 17
AN: Hey girlies (gender neutral term), uni is being a bitch right now and I'm at a mental capacity hence the less frequent updates. BUT here’s a wee hurt/comfort interlude that will hopefully tide you over till the next Camomile chapter :)
Synopsis: Set sometime in the early few chapters of Camomile. Ghost catches you at war with a punching bag – the bag is winning. Hurt/comfort.
Word Count: 1.3k
Warnings: Canon typical violence. Mentions of self-harm, violence, sex, drugs, smoking etc.
Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign: Rags)
✧˚ · .
Everyone who enlisted had some sort of problem. A generalisation that could be easily backed up with evidence if someone bothered to carry out the research. And if one were the outlier who enlisted issue-free there was no doubt they’d be left with an arsenal of them if they survived long enough to retire.
Mental health was something not many talked about. Besides, If one were too open they risked an honourable discharge.
And so when the horrors of the mind became too much, people turned to alternatives. Alcohol, drugs (you’d be surprised what could be snuck onto a military base), sex, smoking, violence, self-harm – the works.
All were acceptable in certain contexts and most soldiers had the rules down-packed.
Violence was only tolerated on the battlefield; alcohol could be discretely added to coffee in the morning; pills before bed; sex in a maintenance closet; cigars instead of cigarettes; unnecessary risks led to injuries in the field – the works.
It was some sort of unwritten code – everyone had their vice.
Ghost was a curveball.
You’d caught him with a pack of Camels within a week of joining the 141. It was dark and you were far more interested in studying how his lighter illuminated his jawline and scarred lips than the burning cigarette between his pale fingers. It was your first time catching him without the mask obscuring all of him from view.
The mask.
That was strike two.
There were plenty of unique characters in the military; though you’d never met one like him.
It almost seemed like satire – the skull.
You were quick to learn it wasn’t. He was as silent as his namesake and as deadly as the reaper he portrayed.
But he was a complete contradiction.
Teabags he kept in a delicate tin which had been labeled in his distinct handwriting – somehow scrawly but swirly at the same time – and he drank camomile from a chipped novelty mug which depicted the London skyline. The Eye had been half rubbed away – probably from the dishwasher – and the top of Big Ben had begun fading but he dutifully used it each time without fail.
✧˚ · .
“Tea time”, as you’d coined it inside your head, began spontaneously and became a regular, though informal, occurrence.
The Lieutenant wasn’t one for conversation and it took a couple of months of tentative small talk before you could comfortably hold a two-sided conversation with him.
Though slowly but surely he unfurled.
His gaze softened, sentences lengthened and touches lingered.
Water would be plonked in front of you before you even knew you needed it, doors opened when your arms were full and jackets draped across your shoulders before your shivers even began.
He was an observer, you realised. There wasn’t a single detail he overlooked.
So it shouldn’t’ve been a surprise when he noticed.
✧˚ · .
You’d never describe yourself as violent before you enlisted. Strong, maybe, or passionate. But put a C8 assault rifle in the hands of a young soldier with unresolved trauma and violence was the only outcome.
Hand-to-hand was addictive, knives too.
It wasn’t something you enjoyed, taking lives, but it was a necessary evil – at least that was what everyone tried to convince themselves when they closed their eyes at night.
Violence came hand in hand with pain, however.
Perhaps that was the real vice.
✧˚ · .
It was regulation to wear wraps when using the bags at the back of the gym.
But after a particularly rough mission wrapping your hands was the last thing on your mind.
Your fists met the bag in rapid succession, knuckles crunching against the sand-filled column.
The bag on the end was firmed than the rest and whenever your mind became too loud, this was where you could be found.
You thought you’d been discrete; believable with your smile and cheery goodnight but the figure in the doorway said otherwise.
You were too focused on the way the pain flared as your split knuckles met the bag to notice.
It wasn’t til he’d rounded the bag and pulled it away from when you recognised you’d had an audience.
You pant, chest screaming as you met him through lashes you hadn’t realised were damp.
“That’s enough.” Though spoken softly you know it’s an order.
You feel disconnected from your body when you met his gaze with a smile that looks more like a grimace and brush away a strand of hair with a shaking hand.
“L.T.” You say, straightening up in an attempt to snap out of what ever dissociative state you’ve fallen into. “How can I help you?”
The man in front of you frowns, stepping forwards. You can barely focus enough to track his movements and jolt as he takes your wrist in his hand.
“Oh!” You force out a laugh when you finally register his interest in your bruised and bloody hand. “Must’ve forgotten to wrap ‘em.”
He doesn’t reply and instead reaches for your other hand, angling both towards the light so he can see better.
You swallow tightly when the mess is illuminated and the distant throb in your knuckles suddenly becomes sharp. You can’t help the gasp that leaves your lips as the Lieutenant wipes some of the blood away with his sleeve.
Finally he looks up, blond brows creased and eyes inquisitive.
“You’ve damn near broken your knuckles.”
You open your mouth to reply but nothing comes out; your bottom lip finds it’s way between your teeth and you settle on chewing it instead. You blink rapidly and break free of his oppressive gaze.
Ghost sighs, sensing he won’t get much out of you now. Ever the observer.
✧˚ · .
He doesn’t release his grip on your wrist, tugging you out of the gym and down the dim halls towards the infirmary.
The section that keeps patients in need of 24/7 care is down a wing to the left, fluorescent lights buzzing. Ghost doesn’t lead you there, however.
Instead he pulls you towards the bases’ clinic and pulls out a key.
Too tired and confused to ask why he has access to the wing, you let him manoeuvre you into sitting on a bed – flicking the light switch along the way.
You watch dazedly as he riffles through a couple of drawers before coming to sit in front of you on a rolling stool.
With a glance up at you, Ghost reaches for a sterile cotton swab, dipping it in antiseptic. He takes your injured hand in his gloved one and with the utmost care, starts to clean the bloody mess, movements delicate and precise.
You wince at the sting but his touch is soothing and his focus on the task unwavering.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper as he pulls out a roll of gauze to wrap the now clean wounds.
Ghost stills his movements, looking up as his brows curl in confusion.
“What for?”
Everything. You want to say.
“Lots of things.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, instead blinking and resuming his ministrations. You follow his movements as he expertly winds the bandage around your hands. You know he’s thinking – he doesn’t like to speak without crafting each word carefully in his head.
“I used to use a lighter.” He starts, voice low and soft. He doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t need to. You’ve seen the burns on his arms, some covered by tattoos – you’ve got a few smileys on your thighs to match. “But I realised – I realised I was just letting them win.”
He swallows and takes in a deep breath before looking up at you, eyes raw and more expressive than you’ve ever seen them.
“There are people out there who want to hurt us – who have hurt us. When we take it into our own hands we do their job for them.”
He watches you for a moment through his pale lashes before standing, softly patting your now bandaged hands and pulling you to your feet.
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt. 11, pt. 12, pt. 13, pt. 14, pt. 15, pt. 16, pt. 17
AN: Another oneeeeee.
Synopsis: Closely follows the “El Sin Nombre” mission from mw2 (reboot). Rights to the game developers <3
Word Count: 1.8k
Warnings: canon divergence, canon typical violence, guns, wounds, swearing, brief mentions of sa etc
Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign: Rags): Note about pronouns at the bottom :)
✧˚ · .
You hood is yanked from your head and you squint at the harsh fluorescent lighting.
“Hermana.”
Your eyes widen as they meet the brown ones in front of you.
“Alejandro?”
He’s in a suit and wears a matching balaclava to the men at the gate. He rests a hand on your shoulder, holding your gaze.
“How did you–“
–“No time.” He cuts you off, “Listen, give them good intel in there. Don’t lie, tell them everything they want to know or you’ll die here.”
“Everything?” You know it’s part of the plan and partially your idea but you’ve been trained not to give up intel. This goes against everything you’ve learnt as a soldier.
“Everything.” Alejandro confirms, “Mexican special forces, American PMCs, Shadow Company, Philip Graves – all truth.”
“Even your name?” You ask, unsure of how much is too much. But there’s a screech and elevator doors open, cutting you off.
A man stands, a double leather holster overlaps his brightly patterned shirt. He’s bald with a dark beard and a chain rests on his chest. Your gaze flicks up to his and he grins at you like a hungry shark and it takes everything in you not to gulp like a cartoon character. You settle for a shaky breath.
“¿Es ella?”
“Sí, señor.” Alejandro replies, pushing you forward with a firm shove.
The man tilts his head, still smiling.
“You got a name, chica?”
You swallow. No lies.
“They call me Rags.”
“¿Qué tipo de nombre es Rags?” He laughs, reaching forward to grip your upper arm. “Let’s go.”
You tug back slightly, eyes hard. “I want to see El Sin Nombre.”
He turns back to you and grips your jaw tightly, wrenching your neck forwards and into the light.
“You’re only alive because you may have some information.” He squeezes harder and you bite your tongue. “It better be good perra or I’ll let my men have their way with you.”
He shoves you away with a laugh.
“Get the fuck out of my elevator.”
✧˚ · .
You’re shoved down the narrow hallways, trailing Diego as he gives you a scuffed version of a tour. Finally you’re pushed into a dimly lit room a the end of a corridor. The floor steps down and there’s a single light casting a hard glow on a cluster of chairs where two men in army uniforms are slumped; bound and gagged. Another sits with his back to you in more civilian attire.
“Valeria.” Diego says as you enter, “There’s one more. A gringo.”
The woman, Valeria, stands behind the two uniformed men. She’s in a tank top and jeans, a scarf around her neck and holster on her hips. She looks at you with an interest smile, almost like a cat.
“Sit down.”
The man to her left shoves one of the soldiers off a chair. He slumps over and rolls to the side, unmoving. You eye her warily as you cross the room, someone’s laid a tarp down in a poor attempt to keep the blood spatter from the polished wood floors. You swallow thickly as it squeaks underfoot, careful not to lose your balance with your hands still zip tied in front of you.
“¿Quién es?” Valeria asks, stepping in front of you to talk to Diego. There’s an authoritative air about her and Diego’s body language suggests she holds the power here – though it’s his house.
“El nombre es trapos.” He replies as she questions him. “They came to us.”
“¿Trapos?”
You watch as she circles the man like an animal hunting its prey.
“And you let them in?”
Diego stands stock still. “They say they have information.”
You flinch as Valeria kicks out his legs from beneath him and holds a knife to his throat.
“¡No la conocemos y nos ha visto la cara!”’
“Valeria.” Diego gasps against her hold, palms raised in surrender. “We need intel, they could help us.”
She spits a threat to him in spanish before removing her hold and shoving him forwards. He lands on his hands and knees before scuttling to the side.
Valeria’s gaze turns to you and she pulls out a gun from her holster. She holds it in a casual way which almost feels more threatening than the guards before. She’d use the gun to maim – a bullet to the head would be too easy.
“Children!” She says, swishing her hips as she comes to stand in the centre of the circle of chairs. “This is simple: I ask questions. You answer truthfully.”
She swings her gun around. “Do not lie to me.”
She turns to you, eyes dark and calculating.
“Recently we were protecting a friend in the mountains. Someone attacked us there. Who?”
The man across from you sends you an anxious glance. You realise he isn’t in civvies – he’s in the army but wears a jacket unlike the other two.
“Fue un caos. No lo vi.” He stutters and Valeria tuts.
“English. For the gringo.”
He gulps. “I-I think it was the Rivals Cartel.”
Valeria stares him down for a moment before turning to you.
“Your turn, blanquita. Who attacked us?”
“It wasn’t cartel.” You say, mouth dry. It feels as though your betraying your own. “It was Mexican Special Forces.”
“We found the bodies." Valeria narrows her eyes and turns back to the man in front of you. “Now, how would an outsider know they were Mexican Special forces and not you?”
You watch as the man swallows, Diego pushing himself up from where he was sitting in the background – rolling his sleeves as he approaches.
“M-maybe she was there!”
Diego hisses something at the man in spanish and Valeria leans over the man menacingly.
“There were outsiders helping the Mexican Special Forces. Who were they?”
“We – we heard them yelling – some in English. They were with the gringos – like her!”
Valeria turns to face you and you meet her gaze.
“American PMCs. A group called Shadow Company.”
Diego curses from where he stands behind the man and Valeria spits at the ground.
“What proof do you have?”
You jut your chin out, “check my pocket.”
The woman leans forward cautiously and pulls the patch from your pocket. The overhead light casts harsh shadows and highlights her muscular shoulders; arms covered in tattoos.
You lick your lips nervously as she studies it. “Shadow company insignia. Proof.”
Valeria drops the hand holding the patch to her side and leans over you, warm breath fanning over your face.
“Who leads Shadow Company? Give me a name.”
You feel less guilty saying the Americans name. He hasn’t earned your trust like Alejandro has.
“Phillip Graves.”
Satisfied, Valeria pushes off the chair and away from you, studying the insignia again as Diego chuckles.
“Fill graves. I like that.”
Valeria passes the patch to him before turning back to you.
“This man …Graves. What does he want?”
Your jaw ticks slightly. “He wants the missiles you’re moving.”
The man across from you scoffs and says something under his breath. It seems to anger Valeria and he speaks in rapid streams of spanish. Diego approaches him, gun in hand and his voice raises. He’s begging for his life.
You watch, eyes wide as Diego pressed the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger. Blood and brain matter splats wetly across the floor and you hold back a gag. It’s easier to pull the trigger than be forced to watch someone else do it like some sick play.
You’re grateful when Valeria rounds on you, filling your vision and blocking the now-dead man.
She leans down, her knife in hand.
“How nice.” Her dark eyes bore in to yours as she cuts through the zip ties around your wrists. “You did good. Well done.”
She turns and walks to the door, the other men in the room stepping out of her way.
“We’re going upstairs.” Diego beckons you forward. “Come on, chica.”
✧˚ · .
Diego shoves you roughly into the elevator and converses in spanish too complicated for you to understand. Valeria still watches you with her calculating gaze, only looking up when the elevator dings and the doors open.
A man in a suit and balaclava waits at the top – a guard.
“This is where you wait, Rags.” Diego shoves you into the arms of the waiting guard and barks an order at him. The guard presses you roughly up against the wall as Diego disappears down the hall with Valeria.
The guard holding you says something to other guard nearby. He says something back before chucking a pale mask at the one restraining you and exiting through a door nearby.
“Your alive.”
The voice catches you off guard. You almost forgot he was inside with you.
“Alejandro!” You sag in relief, arms still against the wall as your friend pretends to search you for weapons. “I’m glad you’re alive too.”
“What did you find?” He asks, squatting to pat down your pants.
“El Sin Nombre is in the penthouse – third floor.”
“We’ll need a keycard.”
“Diego has one.” You reply, remembering the man fidgeting with it and using it in the elevator.
Alejandro finishes his fake search and hands you a mask and a knife.
“Take this.”
You slide the knife into your belt, feeling considerably safer with a weapon. “Why a mask?”
“Some people here can’t be seen with the cartel.” He says, already striding away from you and down the hallway.
“Comms are hooked in.”
You slip it on, rolling your neck as it itches against the skin there. His voice buzzes in your air.
“Radio check?”
You give him a thumbs up. “Copy.”
“You’re good.” Alejandro confirms back, “Let’s head out.”
✧˚ · .
AN: ok here’s the situation re pronouns. This dialogue was so damn hard to write gender neutral esp since I don’t know a lick of spanish. The spanish is the only part that is gendered and the logic here is that Rags is most likely fem presenting and so that’s the language used. I’m a she/they girly and I get it’s probably insanely disappointing for my other enbies out there to find gn content. I’m sorry to disappoint but at the end of the day I’m trying to get these out as fast as I can on top of uni and don’t quite have the capacity to be as thorough as I’d like when it comes to this. I plan on turning this into an OC fic eventually and Rags will be afab and use she/her pronouns in that. The rest of this fic will stay generally gn though :)
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt. 11, pt. 12, pt. 13, pt. 14, pt. 15, pt. 16
AN: Sorry updates have slowed! Uni has be so busy and I'm starting a new job tomorrow! Missed you all though x
Synopsis: Closely follows the “El Sin Nombre” mission from mw2 (reboot). Rights to the game developers <;3
Word Count: 1.4k
Warnings: canon divergence, canon typical violence, guns, wounds, swearing, brief sa etc
Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign: Rags)
✧˚ · .
You’re still in the kitchen with Ghost when he gets the call. It’s Price. Laswell’s been taken hostage and Shepherd is refusing to help. Price reassures him that both he and Gaz have it under control; they’re meeting up with allies in Urzikstan to intercept Laswell’s captors before they can move her across the border.
It takes days before you hear back from the Captain and you, Soap and Ghost all take a collective sigh of relief when Laswell appears on the video call next to Price. She’s a little roughed up but safe and sound nonetheless. The woman gives you all a smile and accepts the short stream of well wishes from you and Soap before launching into the intel.
“The missiles were never in Spain.” She says, voice firm and eyes like steel. “The guidance systems were.”
You turn to Soap and Ghost. The lieutenant has a blank expression but Soap’s frown matches yours.
“Guidance systems?” The scot inquires, leaning more into the view of the webcam.
“Where did they get those?” You add. That was not cheap hardware nor was it easy to acquire.
“Russians.”
“Where are they now?” Ghost finally speaks, voice like gravel – low and severe.
“They’re on the missiles.” Laswell replies, “And besides Hassan, there’s only one person who knows how to find them.”
✧˚ · .
Of course someone dubbed “The Nameless” was their only lead on the missiles. El Sin Nombre was a plague on Las Almas; Alejandro and his men had been hunting them for years to no avail. Though they had a significant amount of intel, they’d never had the authority to utilise the kind of resources the taskforce and Shadows brought to the table.
Till now.
“La casa de Sin Nombre?” Soap asked in spanish as he viewed the sprawling villa below you through a scope.
He was adamant on learning the language and you sent him an encouraging grin as he passed you the scope. The nights in Las Almas were warm and clear but the breeze brought a chill as it whipped around the group.
“No.” Alejandro replied, “One of his Lugartenientes.”
“A cartel Lieutenant?” Soap guesses and Alejandro claps his shoulder with a nod.
“You’re learning.”
“I coulda guessed that.” You mumble as you adjust the scope and Soap digs you in the ribs with a scoff.
You pass the scope to Graves as Alejandro steps forwards.
“My sources tell me all the VIPs in Las Almas will be there tonight.” He grips his vest, turning from the villa to look at you all. “Some are invited, others are, umm…”
“Volun-told?” Graves offers snidely, stowing away the scope.
“Yes.”
“What’s the meet about?”
“Us.” Alejandro replies, rocking on his feet. “Las Almas is burning and they want to know who lit the fire.”
“Sin Nombre will be there, yeah?” Ghost asks, his blunt Manchester accent a stark contrast from Alejandro’s melodic pronunciation and Graves’ drawl.
“No guarantees,” Alejandro says, looking to Ghost who stands at the very back, “but this is our best shot.”
“Then we take it.” Graves says, stepping closer, “I’ve got enough Shadows here to take over the whole damn country.”
You frown and flash your eyes in Ghosts direction. He meets your gaze briefly, acknowledging your caution towards the PMC leader before flicking back up to Alejandro.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
Graves laughs, “I’m just sayin’ – one house shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Don’t we need Sin Nombre alive?” You say, raising a brow at Graves. “We can’t just raze the place to the ground – though I know that’s your preferred style.”
The American eyes you for a moment, lip curling like he’s got you all figured out. You glare back.
“Well.” He replies, gaze shifting from you to the others. “Then we need to meet him.”
Soap tilts his head. “How?”
“One of us …” You say, and Graves nods.
“Give ‘em what they want. Intel.”
You cross your arms, plan clicking into place. “They want to know who is here, right?” You look at Alejandro beside you for confirmation and he nods.
“Ok.” You continue. “So let’s tell them.”
“In person?”
You nod. “Exactly.”
“Get one of us inside, find the boss –” Graves flexes his fist and pushes it into his palm – “roll him up.”
“I’ll do it.” Soap volunteers immediately, a determined look on his face, and you go to open your mouth but Alejandro beats you to it.
“You go in there, and they’ll kill you, hermano.”
“It’s true,” you say turning to Soap, “it’s to suspicious. We need someone less …conspicuous.”
“Like who?” Soap asks.
“Like you.” Graves states from behind you and you look up in surprise.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea –“ Alejandro starts but Graves cuts him off.
“They’ll never suspect a woman to two time ‘em.” He says clicking his tongue. “Think about it – women are the weaker sex –“
Four eyes fix a glare at him and he raises his palms in defence.
–“I’m not saying’ that, but she’ll be underestimated. Their guard’ll be down.”
“No.” Ghost finally says but you’re too busy studying the American to notice. Though you don’t trust Graves, the man has a point.
“He’s right.” You say, tearing your gaze from the PMC leader to meet the rest of the men. “It has to be me.”
“No it doesn’t.” Ghost growl from where he stands opposite you, arms folded tightly across his broad chest.
“It makes the most sense, LT.” You argue and turn to the man to your right, “Back me up here, Alejandro.”
The man you’re referring to bites his lip and shakes his head with a sigh. “She’s right, hermano.”
“We came here to stop a missile,” you say, bolstered by his support. “This may be our only way. I’ll trade intel for a meet with Sin Nombre.”
Soap nods from beside you, “And if he’s there, we pounce.”
“You make it in, you’ll need eyes and ears.” Alejandro says and Soap nods, agreeing.
“I’ll go.” Ghost says immediately and you frown.
“You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”
“I’ll go.” Alejandro says instead, “I’m sorry, hermano, she’s right. Your pronunciation will get you nowhere.”
You watch as Ghost clenches his jaw but you can tell he agrees. “Then I’ll take overwatch while Shadow circles the target in a helo.”
“Roger that.” Graves says with a nod before ripping off his patch and passing it to you. “They are going to want proof – show ‘em this.”
✧˚ · .
You’re dropped off a klick away from the villa and make your way through the shadows, avoiding the headlights of cars as they pass. It’s imperative you make it to the gate before being detected – any further out and it’s likely you’ll be shot on sight.
You’ve got no comms or vest and feel naked without them but trust your lieutenant has your back as you duck behind a blue Volvo P1800 and into the light. Two men stand, masked and armed at the gate and yell out in spanish as you approach, shooting a warning shot at the cobbled drive in front of you. You flinch and take a step back, arms raised as the other man rushes forward and digs the butt of his rifle into the back of your knee. The stones bite through your cargos and into your knees as they meet the ground with a harsh thud.
“¿Quién eres? ¿Cual es tu propósito?”
“No hablo español.” You reply, as the cool barrel of a rifle is pressed to your forehead. “I’m here to see El Sin Nombre.”
The men look at each other, guns still raises and laugh.
“Mujer estúpida.” The one holding the gun to your head scoffs. “Even we do not see Sin Nombre.”
You glare up at them through your lashes, heart racing. “I’m military. I have intel.’
They look at each other and speak rapid spanish before the one behind you raises a hand to his ear, radioing in. A voice crackles through and he nods.
“It’s your lucky day, chica.” He spits, wrenching your arm behind you and hauling you to your feet. “We’ll have to play another time.”
They roughy palm you down and one of them gives your butt a playful squeeze. You snarl and flinch away but hands grip your shoulders and a sack is thrust over your head. You’re shoved forward and almost trip, the men laugh and press you onwards, conversing between themselves in spanish.
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt. 11, pt. 12, pt. 13, pt. 14, pt. 15
AN: plot at the start and fluffy hurt/comfort at the end.
Synopsis: Closely follows the “Cartel Protection” and "Close Air" missions from the mw2 (reboot). Rights to the game developers <;3
Word count: 2.1k
Warnings: canon divergence, canon typical violence, guns, wounds, swearing, death etc
Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign: Rags)
✧˚ · .
Ghost makes it across the ledge behind you and hauls you to your feet. You’re in a daze as you follow Soap and Alejandro over the rocks. Bullets ping and whir but your sole focus is the back of Soap and Alejandro. There’s no cover to pause and return fire, your only choice is to run and hope they miss.
Suddenly Alejandro stops.
“You’ve led us to a dead end mate!” Ghost yells from behind you and you flinch, looking up. Beyond the ledge is a sheer drop which leads down to a narrow gorge.
“We jump from here!” The colonel calls back and you freeze, “Don’t loose your weapons!”
Your feet have become one with the stone beneath them as Alejandro and Soap jump from the edge. Ghost tugs at your arm and you turn to meet his gave with wide eyes.
“It’s jump or die, Sergeant.” He says sternly but not unkindly, pushing you forwards as the bullet spray nears.
You gulp, grasping his hand tightly on instinct as your chest constricts painfully.
“Together?” You ask, knowing you’ll have to jump sooner rather than later regardless of his answer.
“Together.” He confirms, tugging your forwards and stepping from the cliff.
✧˚ · .
The water is a shock. It isn’t too cold but the impact is jarring. It streams up your nose and you resist the urge to gasp, struggling against the weight of your gear to paddle to the top. A hand wraps around your tactical vest and yanks you to the surface.
“Move down river to the bridge!” Alejandro calls, muffled by the water as you emerge. “Use the rocks for cover!”
Pushing back the memories that cling to you alongside the water, you focus on the burn in your shoulders as you pull yourself through the water.
“All stations, this is Victor-0-1. How copy?” Alejandro calls over the comms, buzzing in your ear.
“–dow-1! Do you–? –ay again. –o you’re–?”
A distinctly American drawl answers, static crackling and cutting him off.
“Radio’s picking up something.” Soap confirms from in front of you.
Ghost is beside you now, pulling through the water with more strength than you. “Sounds American.”
“Could be Graves?” You ask, arms burning as you push to keep up. “The PMCs Shepherd hired?”
“Sounds like it,” Soap nods back at you, finding a rock and pulling himself up against it as the water splashes and sprays; the gunfire picking back up.
The army hides in the trees along the bank and you rest your gun on a flat rock in front of you, scoping them out amongst the treeline. There’s too many to take out at once but together you manage to clear enough hostiles to give you time to make way upstream. It becomes almost a game. Take cover behind a group of rocks, return fire, dive below and swim upstream to the next set of rocks before pausing again and firing.
You round the bend and eventually the bridge comes into view. Armoured vehicles are parked in a convoy, on the offensive.
“Armoured vehicles on the bridge!” Ghost calls over the radio, an unspoken question in his voice. Are they friendly?
“They’re not ours!” Alejandro swears, clambering up to settle behind another rock. “Fuck! It’s the army.”
Bullets fly from the bridge, they have a clear vantage point and armour to cover.
“We can’t do shite against their armour!” Soap calls out to Alejandro who has his back to the rocks, reloading.
“We have to hold here to get extraction!” He replies, popping out and sending a barrage of bullets in their direction.
Suddenly the radio crackles to life, the American accent clearer than ever.
“This is Shadow-1! Engaging the bridge north of your position. Danger close!”
“Thank fuck.” You breath, holding your fire.
“Who the hell is that?.” Alejandro asks, turning to you and Ghost, mistrust in his gaze.
“Commander Graves,” Ghost replies, “Shadow Company. They’re with us.”
The rocks beneath you shake and bridge explodes. Flaming bits of debris splashing into the water below.
“Shadow-1,” Ghost grips his radio, when the screeching of metal lessens, “Bravo 0-7, Good shots! Fire for effect!”
Soap lets out a boyish “whoop!” As the last bit of the bridge crumbles into the river. He’s arguably smartest out of all of you to be a demo-expert but at the end of the day still just a guy who enjoys blowing shit up.
“All stations, no enemy movement detected. You’re clear.”
✧˚ · .
You make it to extraction, sopping wet but pumping full of adrenaline. Grave’s sends coordinates – a hit on Hassan nearby – and you slip into the back seat with Ghost as Alejandro slides behind the wheel, Soap in the passenger seat. The radio buzzes as you pull up to another compound, not unlike the last.
“Ghost this is Shadow-1, orbiting the compound now. Standing by for visual.”
Ghost grips his radio, the vehicle pulling to a rolling stop next to a shed and some barrels. “Shadow-1, Bravo 0-7. We’ll make our location with IR laser, over.”
With a “roger” from Graves, you pile out of the car, guns raised.
“How do we find Hassan?” Soap asks the question that’s been balancing on the tip of your tongue.
“He’ll have an armed guard, cartel protection.” Alejandro replies, heading off towards the scattered buildings.
Ghost radios off the information to Graves and the party begins.
✧˚ · .
It’s not often you’re able to work with the kind of firepower Graves and his men employ. National incidents are always a risk and a shit-ton of redcap to prevent them.
PMCs don’t have those kinds of parameters.
Within ten minutes the compound is set ablaze. It’s a mess but a well orchestrated one. Ghost holds comms with Graves and soon you’re leading Hassan in cuffs towards an armoured car.
“I am a Quds force Major! You have no right–!”
–“Shut the fuck up!” Soap interrupts, ramming him into the side of the vehicle as you open the door.
“You will pay dearly for this!” The Major growls and spits in your face and you flinch away with a scowl.
“Ok fuckass.” You call back, giving the door a hefty slam once Soap slides in beside him. Ghost rounds the car and sits on the other side as Alejandro greets Rodolfo with a grin.
You’re left with the back to yourself and sit with your gun between your legs, eyes sharp and alert as they follow the landscape that flies through the back window.
It’s dark by the time the convoy rolls to a stop beside Graves and his crew. The trucks converge on a centre point, headlights creating a bastardised spotlight where Alejandro forces Hassan to his knees.
You stand beside to your Lieutenant, just out of view of the scuffed laptop Graves has set up to stream a visual to Laswell and Shepherd.
“You know we can’t hold him.” You murmur to Ghost who leans down, ear tilted towards you.
He nods with a sigh, readjusting his grip on his rifle, “Shepherd and Laswell know that.”
“I know they know that –“ You gesture at the man who is currently taunting Hassan, a grin on his lips, –“but does Graves?”
The discussion becomes heated and Graves picks up the laptop before slamming is back down on the bonnet of the truck.
“Actual, let me finish this.” He sounds like a schoolboy, eager to please his father.
“There’s nothing I would like more,” Shepherd drawls through the grainy screen, “But Laswell’s right. Without proof we need to turn him loose. See where he leads us.”
Soap lets out a frustrated growl, joining Graves by the laptop. “He’s right here, you can’t be serious!”
“I’m afraid I am, son.”
Ghost moves besides you and your eyes catch something reflecting in hands. You grab the phone from your Lieutenant and step forwards with a frown.
“Did we get anything from his phone?”
“Affirmative. We got a hit.” She says, eyes narrowed as smoke swirls around her, Illuminated in the blue glow of her laptop.
“Good.” Shepherd responds, “Now take him back and let him go.”
✧˚ · .
It’s past midnight when you roll into base. It feels like a failure, having to let the Major loose and the men stumble from the trucks into the barracks without the usual banter of a successful mission.
As one of the few countries with women in the Special Forces, the base at Las Almas has a seperate wing – albeit small and unkept. The shower teeters between boiling hot and freezing cold but by the end you manage to pull the tangles from your hair. If you were allowed sweatpants while on missions you’d have pulled them on but instead you settle for a pair of grey cargos and a long-sleeve black shirt.
Stuffing a couple of teabags into your pocket, you let your door click shut behind you and step cautiously into the hallway.
“Rags?”
You freeze at the voice of your Lieutenant. You turn to face him and he tilts his head, surveying you.
“Where’re you headin’?”
You fumble with your pocket, pulling out the crumpled tea to show him.
“A kitchen? And maybe a kettle.”
Ghost huffs out a laugh, eyes crinkling. He unfurls his palm towards you and you step closer to have a look at what he holds. Two camomile teabags sit perfectly in his hand; it’s as though he’s ironed them.
The kitchen isn’t far and he leads you inside, holding the door open as you pass. It’s warmly lit and smells of tobacco. A couple of glasses sir on the table alongside a deck of cards.
“Soap and Alejandro.” Ghost comments as he notices you inspecting the remnants of the game. “You just missed ‘em.”
You nod and come to stand beside him, arms crossed as you watch the kettle boil. A pale hand brushes your cheek and you meet Ghosts eyes in surprise.
“What’s this?’
You raise a hand and trace the cut lightly with your finger. His hand remains. “A rock or something, I think – not sure.”
He watches you carefully, as usual saying more with his eyes than he does with his mouth. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
“Hm?”
He drops his hand from your cheek to the base of your neck where it meets your shoulder. You hesitantly meet his gaze.
“Rodriguez. It wasn’t your fault.” His eyes are soft and warm and full of understanding.
It makes the beast of guilt inside you squirm and rear its head. You pull a lip between your teeth and hope it disguises the wobble that’s started. But you eyes sting all the same and you will the moisture gathering there to dissolve before he sees.
A thumb swipes across your cheekbone, however, and catches a tear you hadn’t realised escaped. He’s standing close to you now and you feel exhaustion surge like a wave. Without thinking, your forehead drops forwards and thumps softly against his clavicle. You sniff, too tired to register the professional boundary that you may have just crossed but wasn’t that bridge burned long ago?
A hand settles gently in your hair and you suck in a shaky breath, tears staining his navy shirt. He smells like deodorant and a hint of camomile lingers on the hand which cups the back of your head.
“I know it isn’t.” You say finally, sniffing again. “But it feels like it is.”
You pull away from him and his hand falls to rest on your shoulder.
“I had to push him off.” You swallow thickly, searching his eyes for something, anything, that will alleviate your pain. “I had to shove his body off the fucking cliff.”
Ghosts eyes mirror your own. “I know.”
You step away, shaking your head, and reach for the kettle, needing something to occupy yourself with under his piercing gaze.
“I know I didn’t pull the trigger. I know it could’ve been any of us but why him. Why there?” You’ve started crying again and tears run down your cheeks in streams. Your voice cracks. “Where he used to play as a child.”
Strong arms wrap around you as the world blurs; a large hand rubbing firm circles on your back as you gasp. “I know.” He whispers, chin settling on the crown of your head.
“It isn’t fair.”
“It isn’t.” He agrees. “It never is.”
“Why.” You demand, knowing how illogical and stupid the question sounds. But instead of laughing, the lieutenant presses his lips into your hair.
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt. 11, pt. 12, pt. 13, pt. 14
AN: Hello! Sorry for the late update – the pharmacy messed up my meds and I’ve been having withdrawals for the past like 5 days (it’s hell). Anyway! Never back down, never what? NEVER GIVE UP.
Synopsis: Closely follows the “Cartel Protection” mission from mw2 (reboot). Rights to the game developers <3
Word count: 1.8k
Warnings: canon divergence, canon typical violence, guns, wounds, swearing, death etc
Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign: Rags)
✧˚ · .
“Where are the civilians?” You pant, following Alejandro through the gate and into the property.
“Gone.” He replies, gun raised as people shout in the distance, “Cartel took over. It’s a hideout now.”
“Good place to keep Hassan.” Soap notes as Alejandro and Ghost come yo a second gate.
They swing it open with a screech and you follow the Colonel, ducking behind a small outcrop of rocks as bullets fly. The houses and makeshift shelters are built closely together, the place is like a maze. With no knowledge of the layout, you, Ghost and Soap follow Alejandro blindly.
The cartel might have the tactical advantage but they are out-skilled by your team, bodies of cartel members now lay strewn through the compound. The lighting is poor and the ceiling’s low, men call out in Spanish but your little knowledge of the language evades you. The structures are poorly made and splinters fly as you watch as Soap shoots several rounds through a door, the man inside the room slumps – dead.
“Room clear.”
“Good job, Hermano.”
“Still no sign of Hassan,” you add, following them round the corner of the narrow hallway.
“Not yet.” Is the Colonels reply. This man is determined.
You step back as glass crunches under your foot – a photo frame. You pick it up, a smiling family portrait stares back up at you.
“What happened to the families here?” You ask, placing the frame down on a cabinet nearby.
Alejandro moves to squat next to the window. “The cartel brings violence, so they leave.”
He grips his radio, sending orders to his men in Spanish.
“Where’s your family?” You ask coming to kneel next to him, grip on your gun tight as Soap gets ready to open the door to the outside. Ghost stands in a shadow in the corner of the room, giving him a good view out the window and keeping him out of sight.
“I keep that a secret, to protect them.”
You nod in understanding as Ghost steps forward. “We have concealment.”
“Let’s move,” Alejandro gives Soap the signal and the door is flung open. “On me Soap.”
You follow the two men outside into the bright sun, Ghost close behind you. Smoke clouds in the street between the two houses and you let it conceal you as you cross. The white villa emerges from the haze and one of Alejandro’s men shoots through the lock on the door. Shots ring out as Alejandro and Soap clear the first floor before moving up to the second. You and Ghost linger down below, providing cover.
“Clear, no Hassan.” Soap’s voice calls out from above and comes through on the radio with a slight delay.
You follow Ghost up the stairs and join Soap and Alejandro in the room above. Soap pokes around in a small room to the left and you make a beeline for the desk.
“They must’ve moved him.” Alejandro says, jaw clenched.
“When?” Soap growls, almost whining.
“Recently.”
You run your finger tips over the desk, the scattered documents in either Spanish or Arabic. You feel a presence and Ghost comes to stand art your shoulder, his vest touches your back.
“Find anythin’?”
“Negative,” you shake your head, leaning over to flick on a lamp. The wall in front of you is illuminated and what you thought was a decorative tapestry comes into the light. “Quds force.”
“That’s his flag.” Ghost says in agreement, reaching to pull it from the wall. It seems like it’s taunting you.
“He was here.” Alejandro spits in disgust.
“Your intel was good,” Soap says, giving the man a pat on the shoulder. “We were just too late.”
There’s a distant hum and rumble of heavy duty vehicles and you inch closer to the window with a frown. Dust has been kicked up by whatever is approaching, concealing them. Alejandro curses and you look at him over your shoulder.
“What is it?”
“The army.”
Ghost straightens up from where he stands by the desk, taking a step forward. “Reinforcements?“
“Negative.”
You turn to Soap who stands with you at the window, eyes widening as you recall what Alejandro had said on the ride here. The army wasn’t to be trusted and there was no way in hell these men were on your side. Alejandro crouches below the window and Ghost leans against the wall, gun raised and ready.
“What are we doing, LT?” You ask, looking between your Lieutenant and the Colonel.
Alejandro answers for you. “Providing cover for my men. Once they’re clear, we fall back.”
You nod, readjusting your grip on your rifle. This will be one hell of a fight.
✧˚ · .
The windows shatter and glass rains around you, you squint through your scope, firing at any movement you see.
“Okay! My men are clear!”
“Then we need to move!” Soap yells back as a grenade flies pas his head and bounces off the back wall, a yellow gas spreading from it as it cracks.
Eyes and lungs burning you follow Alejandro and Soap, vaguely registering a grip on your upper arm as you race towards the shutters on the opposite wall. The two men ahead of you leap through and down onto a small roof below, you hesitate, hacking up another cough.
Hands push you forwards and you can hear Ghost coughing beside you. You trip through the window and roll down onto the roof below.
“Fucking hell.” You wheeze as Ghost lands beside you with a thud, yanking you up and towards the gap in the fence where Alejandro and Soap have just disappeared.
“Move it, Sergeant.” He barks and you wipe your eyes, making for the treeline.
“Army is right behind us!” Soap calls and if it weren’t for Ghosts firm hand in the centre of your back you’d have thrown a look behind you.
“Down the hill!” The Colonel replies, “We’ll lose them in the mountains.”
You follow him through the rocks and trees, ducking as the army spray bullets blindly down upon you. You return fire, relishing in the way your gun kicks back into your shoulder.
“We clear?”
“For now!”
You whip out from your cover behind a rock, following as Alejandro leads you through the trees.
“You know these trails?” You pant, jumping over roots and branches.
Alejandro throws you a glance over his shoulder. “Very well, but so does the army.”
“Brilliant.” Ghost growls from behind you and you cough out a laugh. “We can’t hold off an army, we need extraction.”
Alejandro nods, signalling to Rodriuez who radios something in spanish. A bullet hits a rock behind you with a dull ping and you duck on instinct.
“Get behind those rocks!” Someone calls out.
Ghost crouches beside you, reloading. He inches up over the rocks and lets loose a round before ducking as they return fire. You crawl round to the side, lying on your belly, pausing as a hand squeezes your ankle.
“Don’t miss.” Ghost says, back pressed to the rock, panting. You nod, flashing him a grin.
You spot the men immediately and take a deep breath before pulling the trigger. In a matter of seconds all four are dead, slumped amongst the rocks and trees.
“We clear?” You call to Soap and Alejandro who’d been pinned down by a seperate group of men.
“For now!” Soap calls back.
“Affirmative,” Alejandro says, coming to his feet as he reloads. “They’ll be more, vamos!”
✧˚ · .
The landscape becomes more and more rugged, your hip bruises from sliding down more rock faces than you can count. Eventually Alejandro leads you to a trail along the edge of the mountain. It’s precarious to say the least and you throw a nervous look over your shoulder at Ghost. He meets your gaze with a firm and unwavering expression, but it’s comforting all the same.
“You know your way.” He remarks, directed at Alejandro who laughs.
“We used to cut school and play here.”
“Until the cartels moved in?” Soap asks, jumping down onto a lower ledge before offering you a hand. You take it without thinking.
“Exactly. The narcos changed everything.”
“That’s sad.” You say, picturing the hills filled with laughing school children and daring young boys scaling the cliffs.
Rodriguez gives you a sad smile from where he stands next to you, “Si. Las Almas is not what it once was.”
The man presses himself to the cliff face and edges along, gesturing you to follow. Soap and Alejandro already at the other side. Willing yourself not to look down you follow him, trusting the man completely.
Suddenly, with no warning, a shot rings out. Rocks and shale crack above and scatter around you. You flinch forwards. A firm hand to your left yanks you back against the rock. Rodriguez. He shuffles along faster, an arm around yours, keeping you stable.
“Sniper! Move!” Ghost calls.
“No shit!” You call back, panicked.
A shot rings out again, just as you’re almost at the other side. Blood sprays with a sickening squelch and you cry out as Rodriguez lurches forward, his grip on you loosening.
Alejandro screams his name and you scramble for a grip on his vest as he slumps towards the edge.
“No!”
His eyes flicker, blood already trickling from his mouth. He whispers something in Spanish and you feel your heart sink.
“He’s gone!” Your Lieutenant barks from behind you, “Let him go!”
Another bullet ricochets from the rock, a shard digging itself into your cheek, just under your eye. Ghost is right, the man beside you is dead, eyes unseeing – you’re the only thing keeping him standing; propped against the cliff.
To clear him from the way you have to shove his body forwards and a sob catches in your throat. You feel like you’ve killed him.
Alejandro screams again as his body flops over the ledge and onto the rocks far below. Ghost wraps a gloved hand around your upper arm, to tight it’ll bruise.
“Move!” He barks again and you snap to attention, scrambling the final metre or so to safety.
Soap catches you as you stumble onto the wide ledge and pulls you behind a rock for cover. His hands find your cheeks and he searches your eyes.
“You ok?” His accent is soft and you struggle to meet his gaze. He shakes you slightly and your eyes snap to his. “Rags. Are you okay?”
You’re gasping for breath but the crack of another round of bullets snaps you out of it. You nod, wiping roughly at your tear stained cheeks. Your glove catches the shard under your eye and drags it across your face. The pain is sharp but it brings clarity.
AN: First Price fic!!! He is literally the loml and I've been too scared to write him so hope I did him justice. Lmk what you think!
Synopsis: You're undercover in Amsterdam when your cover is blown. Injured and alone you try to locate Price and Gaz before it's too late. Hurt/comfort.
Word count: 1.6k
Warnings: Wounds, blood, medical inaccuracies, canon typical violence and canon divergence.
Price x fem!Reader (Callsign: Ferris)
✧˚ · .
You‘d been undercover for months. Months and the intel you’d provided had saved countless lives but undercover work always had an expiry date.
And that date was today apparently.
You knew you were pushing at the boundaries when inquiring after Hassan Zyani. But Laswell seemed desperate and time was tight. But here you were now, soaked to the bone and bleeding out in the middle of Amsterdam. Word was Gaz, Price and Laswell were in the city – you just had to find them before they reached EXFIL.
The sun was getting low in the sky and your short swim in the canal hadn’t exactly warmed you. The cobbled streets were slick underfoot and you hugged the buildings bordering the footpath. Gun shots and screams echoed from the street up ahead and you quickly made your way in the direction of the chaos.
A woman ran into you, blonde hair flapping in the wind. She apologised hastily in both Dutch and English, too distracted to notice as you ease the long coat from her arms. You wait for her to disappear behind a corner before shrugging it on.
There’s a bullet still in your torso somewhere and every movement sends a flash of pain which radiates up through your spine. The coat covers most of the blood which has steadily bloomed across your navy shirt – not quite dark enough to disguise the stain.
You duck behind a tree as more shots ring out. You’re wounded and unarmed – if this isn’t Price, Gaz or Laswell you’re toast.
A man dives past you, tackling a man in a black leather jacket to the ground. He’d wearing a beanie and brown jacket with a woollen collar and a beard – a beard you’d know anywhere. Price.
A man with a darker complexion but similarly dressed, squats next to the two on the ground and injects something into the neck of the man Price is holding down.
Together, the two of them lift him up and you’re able to identify Gaz as well.
“Watcher, time to move.” Price speaks into an earpiece and you step forwards, legs wobbling beneath you. Both men look up as you come out from behind the tree, their target hanging unconscious between them. The captains eyes widen as he sees you. “Ferris?”
He reaches a hand out to steady you, hand landing on your shoulder as his eyes sweep across your form. You breath deeply, pushing away the urge to collapse.
“Yeah,” you manage, “yeah – Laswell said you were in town,” you turn to Gaz and give him a smile, “you too.”
Gaz reaches out and gives you a pat on the arm, “good to see you.”
People are still fleeing the scene and time is limited. Price flicks you a concerned look. “EXFIL isn’t far, think you’ll make it?”
You swallow, mustering up every drop of remaining energy you have before nodding. “Anything for a free ride.”
Price eyes you for a moment before looking at Gaz. “Let’s go.”
You trail him and Gaz down a few streets before you reach a corner where a silver sedan has pulled up. Through slightly fuzzy vision you make out Laswell behind the wheel. Gaz shoves the target into the back seat while Price eases you into the front before joining the two men in the back.
“Kate.” You say to the woman beside you. “Hope this isn’t s rental.”
Her eyes snap down to where your arm is curled carefully around your waist. “Fucking hell, Ferris.”
Gaz leans forward and thumps the back of Laswell’s seat, throwing a worries glance out the back window.
“We gotta go.”
The last door in the back slams and Laswell floors it.
✧˚ · .
It’s dark when the car pulls up to the safehouse ad your head is lolling between the back of the seat and the window. Laswell goes between glancing at you and the road, her spare hand reaching over to grip your knee.
“We’re almost there,” she says, voice calm but you know the coat is no longer hiding the blood. She moves her hand down to cover your own which is definitely not putting enough pressure on the gaping hole in your side.
“John?” She asks, throwing a glance over her shoulder at the man sitting behind you, “Can you reach Ferris? She needs to put pressure on that wound.”
The captain swears under his breath and you groan as the lever to the side is pulled and your seat slides back. A callused hand grips your wrist, pulling your hand aside before replacing it – firmly.
“Ah fuck,” you hiss as the heel of his palm digs in to the wound, you weakly grab at his forearm but it remains solid against you.
“Sorry, love.” Price responds, sounding gruff, “it’s this or bleed out.”
You suck in a sharp breath, “not sure there’s much left anyway.”
Price growls, “how long ago were you hit?”
You glance at Laswell, “When did I call you?”
“Ten-hundred hours,” she replies, glancing at you again, “christ, it’s been that long?”
You don’t respond, you’ve slumped forward, head to the dashboard – out cold.
✧˚ · .
You don’t fully resurface till you’re inside the safehouse. Voices murmur around you and things clatter as someone clears the table – laying you down.
A hand cups the back of your neck.
“Gaz, get us a pillow or something, will ya?”
There’s shuffling sounds and suddenly your head is being lifted and then lowered onto a softer surface.
You blink, shapes and colours hazy in the warm lighting; coming into focus slower than they should. Someone hovers over you, Price.
“Gave us quite the scare.” He says, easing the coat aside to asses the damage. “Surprised you’re not dead.”
“Real helpful,” you cough with a wince, glaring up at him, “just fix me up, won’t you?”
“Working on it.”
Gaz hands him a pair of scissors from the med-kit and he carefully snips away at your shirt.
“Hope this wasn’t a favourite.”
You huff out a laugh, ignoring the ache it ignites. “Hole in it now anyway, and a bit of a stain – if you squint.”
Price chuckles, peeling the fabric away from your bloody skin. “Any exit wound?”
You shake your head, raising an arm to drape over your eyes in order to resist smacking the Captain’s hands away as he douses the wound in an anti-septic solution. You let out a slew of curses under your breath and he raises his eyebrows.
“Quite the vocabulary.”
“You learn a word or too working with smugglers,” you quip back, gritting your teeth.
He thoroughly cleans and sanitises the wound before calling Gaz over. Laswell’s somewhere, probably on a call with the higher ups or interrogating the HVT.
“You’re better than me at this stuff, kid.” Price says, handing the sergeant a pair of gloves and some tweezers, “I’ll hold her down.”
“Fucking hell.” You roll your eyes, lip wedges between your teeth. “I am not looking forward to this.”
Price comes to stand by your head, he swipes a thumb over your lips. “Bite this instead.” He slips something soft between your teeth – his glove.
He moves down the table to stand on the otherside, opposite Gaz. The young sergeant looks up, brow furrowed. “We might need Laswell for this.”
Price shakes his head, “She’s busy, doubting my strength, Gaz?”
“More like overestimating mine,” you scoff, before flashing Gaz an encouraging look. “I’ve lost too much blood to put up much of a fight – have at it Gaz.”
The Captain reaches over and pushes the glove back between your lips. “Bite.” He says sternly, “you’ll need it.”
You glare back at him but comply as he settles an arm across your legs and grasps both your wrists in the other.
Gaz looks to you, “Ready?”
You nod.
✧˚ · .
The pain is white and hot but lasts for only a minute. By the time Gaz has dug out the bullet, you’re panting and sweaty. Tears sting at your eyes as the firm grip on your wrists loosens and a hand comes up to cup your cheek.
“Good job.” Price murmurs, thumb stroking your cheekbone, “That’s my girl.”
Gaz, ever the professional, ignores how your face crumples and you curl into Price’s touch. He instead busies himself with threading a needle before nudging the Captain and offering it to him.
Price takes it, giving him a pat on the back.
“Thanks Gaz.” You mumble hoarsely to the younger man who smiles and tousles your hair as he passes.
“Good to have you back, Ferris.”
With Gaz gone, you turn back to Price, sniffing. He pushes your hair away from your sweaty forehead and kisses your cheek.
“Almost over, love. Just some stitches and you’ll be right as rain.”
You relax against the table. Stitches are a walk in the park compared to earlier.
“Make them neat,” you stress and Price laughs.
“Luckily I had a good teacher.”
He ties off the sutures and dresses the wound before discarding of his latex gloves. He wraps an arm around your waist and eases you up of the table, half-supporting, half-carrying your to a room nearby. He lowers you down onto a single bed in the corner, tucking the covers around you and taking a seat on the bed beside you.
“I missed you.” You confess, eyelids heavy. “So much.”
“Me too.” He admits, eyes creasing with a small smile as a hand cards through your hair. You sigh softly, allowing the rhythmic brush of his hand lull you to sleep. Your eyes have already fluttered shut when he whispers again.
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt. 11, pt. 12, pt. 13, pt. 14
AN: Here's an extra chapter because I have a busy few days ahead – it's a bit of a filler before more action but at least you have something to look forward to!
Synopsis: Closely follows the “Cartel Protection” mission from mw2 (reboot). Rights to the game developers <;3
Word count: 1.2k
Warnings: canon divergence, canon typical violence, guns, wounds, swearing etc
Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign: Rags)
✧˚ · .
The so called “break” lasted 48hrs. Though, all things considered, it could’ve been worse. Laswell kept you, Ghost and Soap stationed in the foreign base a few klicks north of Al Mazrah while awaiting the intel Price and Gaz had been sent after.
The mission was lingering in the back of your mind. The face of the young marine, Red, slumped dead in the wreckage of the heli; the taunting voice of Makarov and anxiety surrounding the missiles all mixed together in horrible ways – swirling inside your dreams.
A hand brushes your forehead and you wake up, sweaty and shaky on a threadbare couch. Your lashes stick together as you blink awake and Ghost comes into view. He’s sitting on the couch, causing quite a dip in the middle, and rests a hand on your forehead. You brush it away, suddenly realising just how sweaty you are.
“Don’t, I’m all sweaty and gross.” You grumble, muscles aching as you push yourself up.
“Fever?” He asks, narrowing his eyes at you as though he can scan you with them like a thermometer. “Your shoulder could be infected.”
“Nah, just need a shower.” You stretch your arms above you before bring them down and cracking your neck. He watches you carefully, looking for any sign of pain.
Finally he sighs, “No time for that, Laswell just called.”
He lifts himself from the couch and suddenly you realise he’s in full uniform, vest strapped and ready. You feel like you’re slacking in your standard issue tee and cargo pants.
“When do we leave?”
“As soon as you’re ready.”
✧˚ · .
“Hassan was taken back into cartel protection in Las Alamos. Mexican special forces confirmed. Hassan is moving something sizeable towards the US.”
“Fuckin’ missiles,” Soap murmurs angrily to your left.
Laswell nods, continuing. “We don’t know how many and we don’t know the targets.”
“To find out, we need to capture Hassan and bring him in for interrogation,” Shepherd’s gravelly voice cuts in, “We’re sending you three with the Mexican Special Forces in country along with all the man power they need.”
“We can’t start a war in Mexico,” you blurt out and Soap elbow you. “With all due respect, General.” You hastily correct yourself.
“Certainly not.“ He drawls back, unimpressed and Ghost casts you a warning look. “I’ve tasked Philip Graves and his Shadow Company PMCs to assist. Their rules of engagement can help us cut some red tape and get this done.”
The call ends and you turn to your lieutenant.
“PMCs?” You’ve got a funny feeling about this. “Are we sure that’s a good idea?”
Soap nods in agreement. “They must be desperate.”
“We’ve got our orders.” Ghost responds immediately, thumbs hooked at the top of his vest. “You heard the General, let’s get this done.”
✧˚ · .
It’s early morning when you touch down in Las Alamas, the whine of the plane still loud as you follow Soap down the lowered ramp.
“Alejandro!” Soap calls out, arm outstretched towards the man who comes to greet you. He’s tall with dark hair and golden skin.
“Sergeant MacTavish.” He greets, shaking the offered hand.
“Call me Soap.”
He nods, gaze shifting to Ghost. “Lieutenant, Laswell says they call you Ghost.”
“Actually, I believe he prefers to be called –“
–“That’ll do.” Ghost barks, cutting off the Sergeant who shuts his mouth immediately, a cheeky glint in his eye.
“And I’m Rags.” You say, stepping forwards to shake the mans hand with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
Alejandro looks between the three of you for a moment before stepping back with a nod. “Welcome to the ‘City of Souls.’”
“I’ve never been to Mexico,” Soap says, stepping in line with the Colonel.
“Me either.” You pipe up, matching pace with Ghost as you cross the tarmac towards a convoy of trucks.
Alejandro flicks you a glance, “This isn’t México, this is Las Almas.”
“Shepherd’s contractors are inbound to reinforce.” Ghost cuts in, never one for small talk. “They’re bringing hardware, they’ll need room.”
According to intel the cartel safehouse Hassan is being kept is not ten klicks from the Mexican Special Forces base. You load into the trucks, squished between Soap and Ghost in the back, where Alejandro introduces his second in command, a man called Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra. He greets you in Spanish before the vehicle rumbles to life and your driving through the streets.
Though it’s early, the streets are busy and cluttered. Children run about and men walk the streets armed with assault rifles. You grip your own weapon tighter as a white truck speeds past; four men, armed and masked, sit in the back.
“Hey –” Alejandro turns in his seat, palm raised, noticing the way all three of you have tensed up in the back, –“tranquilo. Easy – that’s normal here.”
You raise an eyebrow, not feeling any safer.
“Guns on the street is jurisdiction of the Police.”
“And where are the police?” Ghost implores with a tilt of his head.
Alejandro turns back to the front, clicking his teeth. “Well, Las Almas has a very serious problem.” He glances at you through the rearview mirror, “there are few here to uphold the law. And many of those who resist corruption …”
He trails off.
“Disappear.” You finish for him, under your breath.
He nods.
“What about the military?”
Alejandro flicks his gaze to Soap in the mirror. “Well, because we are well trained, soldiers are recruited by the narcos.”
“Why not you?” Ghost questions roughly, eyes hard and suspicious. You watch him carefully but his eyes are locked on the Colonel in the front seat.
Alejandro narrows his eyes with a smile and a tilt of his head. He’d expected that question.
“We grew up here,” he answers, nodding at Rodolfo who nods back, hands firm on the steering wheel. “They call us Los Vaqueros – cowboys.” He turns to watch the street through the window, wistful. “We love this place and we will die fighting for it.”
✧˚ · .
The rest of the ride is mostly silent though Alejandro explains the deep roots the cartel has within the city, pointing out the murals of ‘El Sin Nombre’ and an alleyway where bodies have been covered in cartel cloths to mark territory.
Intel has placed Hassan at a small village across the river which runs parallel to the city and the sun is higher in the sky when the convoy arrives, picking up dust as the vehicles come to a rolling stop. The area is rocky and buildings lie within a scarce spattering of trees.
You pile out of the truck, following Soap and Alejandro as they rally the men.
“Where are they holding Hassan?” You ask, gun locked and loaded.
Alejandro turns to the three of you, “White two-story building, back of town.”
That’s all you need to know.
“All Victors standby,” Alejandro says, gripping the radio on his tactical vest, “3, 2, 1 – execute, execute!”
✧˚ · .
AN 2.0: I know these recent chapters may have been a bit soulless and I'm sorry! Uni is really busy atm and I'm studying law so I should probably be putting more effort into that than writing fanfiction but yolo. I thought I'd let you in on my big plan!
Basically I'm gonna turn this fic into a story with an OC fic because I really struggle to add personality to y/n or reader characters. BUT that'll be on AO3 – this tumblr fic will still be ongoing. Consider this a first draft! Anyway, if that interests you please let me know – it's always good to gauge interest before embarking on something like that.
Love you loads and cheers for all your support so far – it's been years since i've written fanfics or been apart of the fanfic community as a writer and I feel the love.
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt. 11, pt. 12
AN: Here you go!!! It’s hard to write alongside the gameplay and not make it just a boring copy and paste but I did my best! Let me know what you think <3
Synopsis: Closely follows the “Kill or Capture” mission from mw2 (reboot). Rights to the game developers <3
Word count: 1.4k
Warnings: canon divergence, canon typical violence, guns, wounds, swearing etc
Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign: Rags)
✧˚ · .
Ghost kicks open the door and you cover him. Pressing yourself to the walls, you work your way through the building. It’s been torn apart by air-support but still crawls with enemies. Ghost leads half the squad up the stairs and you stay behind with Soap.
A red light glows ahead of you and as you raise your gun to shoot, Soap grabs your arm; shaking his head.
He mimes an explosion with his free hand and your eyes widen. A fucking suicide bomber. You follow Soap as he takes out a handgun and attaches a silencer. He hugs the wall slightly, squinting to aim. You both hold your breath as he pulls the trigger. The man wearing the explosive slumps over – single bullet in the centre of his forehead.
“Good shot,” you whisper shakily, still tense.
Soap shoves his handgun back in its holster. “Not just a pretty face, am I?”
You huff a weak laugh, covering him as he approaches cautiously towards the live explosives. “Thank fuck you’re a demo expert.”
He bites his lip as he focuses on the mess of wires. “Yeah, comes in handy don’t it?”
He makes quick work of dismantling the explosive and when he stands to his feet, the device in separate pieces you sigh.
“Anyone have eyes on Hassan?”
The rooms buzz with a variety of “negatives” and you hear Ghost growl in frustration.
“Heading to the second deck.”
You raise a hand to your comms, “Copy.”
You and Soap meet Ghost on the stairs, following him as you clear the hall. There the distant sound of voices, some kind of recording. You swing open a door at Ghost’s signal and a hostile storms out – knocking you over. You slump against the wall, ears ringing as Ghost whips out his handgun, shooting him once in the torso and straight in the head.
“You alright?” Soap offers you a hand and you take it.
“I will be when we get this fucker.” You grumble, following him into the room. Shoots ring out and two body slump as you round the corner.
A laptop in the corner plays a recording. Hassan.
“Hassan’s everywhere.” Ghost says, inspecting the laptop before unplugging it and handing it to a marine.
Soap scoffs. “Everywhere but here.”
You riffle through the drawers. “There’s fuck all here,” you say, kicking a crooked desk drawer. “He must’ve known we were coming.”
Soap flashes you a sharp look, frowning. “And how would he ken that?”
You grit your teeth. You’ve effectively just accused someone of betrayal. It’s a stretch and you know it but something isn’t adding up.
“I’m not sure, something’s off.”
Ghost who stands by, watching you carefully takes in a deep breath before nodding. “Agreed. He was here, this is a blood ops-centre.”
“Let’s regroup outside, they need us to clear the warehouse.” Soap says, before radioing to the rest of the squad. Ghost and the marine follow him out.
You sigh, hanging back to roll your shoulder with a small groan. The adrenaline is wearing off and it starting to feel like a failure of a mission. You blink rapidly, feeling dizzy. Gritting your teeth, you take out a shot of adrenaline and shove it into your thigh, giving the room one last sweep before heading for the door.
✧˚ · .
The warehouse doesn’t take long to clear, it’s an open space and well lit by the time you get there. You push your visor back, squinting. Soap covers you as you edge round a crate, throwing a flash-bang towards the hostiles as you grip the sniper in your hands. You use the remaining ammo to cover your squad as they move in, ducking behind when they concentrate their fire on you.
“LT!” You press your fingers to change the comm channel, “Little help!”
Ghost turns from where he stands behind a shelving unit a little way ahead of you, noticing you’ve both been pinned down.
“Stay down,” his voice rasps in your ear, “Stay low, we’ve got you.”
You tense against the crate, pressing into Soap as bullets spray around you. Slowly the gunfire ceases and Ghost rounds the corner of the crate.
He heaves Soap to his feet before offering you a hand. You take it, a groan slipping from your lips as it strains your shoulder. Ghost pauses, instead pulling you up by your other hand.
“Fuckin’ ell, nothing my arse.”
You bat his hand away as it inches towards your wounded shoulder. “I’ve taken adrenaline, it’s nothing for now.”
He glares at you, the blood spattered mask making it much more intimidating. “You –“
–“Steamin’ Jesus!” A voice cuts him off. Ghost looks up, distracted. You take advantage of it, pushing past him to join Soap who has flung open the doors of a blue container.
“Ballistic missiles.” You state, jaw hanging open.
“A mobile launcher.” Soap adds.
“These’ll go 1,000 miles.” Someone exclaims.
“At least.”
Soap turns, heading round the side of the container. “How the hell did Iran get their hands on these?”
You follow him, standing by as he climbs up a crate to get a better look. You can hear Ghost ask a marine to get them in contact with Laswell and she echoes in your comms.
“This is Watcher-1, send traffic.”
“Laswell, this is Ghost, we got something.” The Lieutenant grips the radio on the front of his vest.
“Tell me you found Hassan …”
Soap turns around. “Ghost, take a look at this.” As he moves he reveals a symbol – no a flag. An American flag.
“Fuck.” You swear under your breath.
Ghost’s eyes widen.
“Ghost, do you have Hassan?” Laswell asks again.
“Negative. We found a weapons cache. Hassan’s got missiles …they’re American.”
Another voice, deeper this time comes over the comms. “0-7 — This is Gold Eagle Actual, repeat your last …”
“I say again – Hassan has American missiles.”
There’s a long pause before a reply comes through the comms. You can almost hear the argument between Shepherd and Laswell.
“Gold Eagle Actual to Ghost – move your team and call for fire, I want those weapons destroyed.”
✧˚ · .
It doesn’t take long to EXFIL but by the time you make it to the evac, Soap is the sole thing keeping you awake.
“Let me fucking sleep, Soap, please.” You moan, batting his hands away from your face where they keep patting you cheeks and gently prying your eyes open.
“No can do, Rags. You know the drill,” he says, easily pushing your hands aside, “medic now, sleep later.”
“Listen to the man,” a voice drawls from your right and you roll over on the uncomfortable bench against the wall of the extraction chopper. “It’s either him pissing ya off or me.”
“Neither thanks.” You mumble at your Lieutenant who gazes down at you, arms crossed.
“Maybe ya need to stop gettin’ fuckin’ shot, how about that?” He retorts, pulling your hands away from your face and patting your cheek, hard.
“Soap got shot too–“
–“It’s a graze, not a whole damn bullet.”
You huff, entirely too tired to continue the argument. “Whatever.”
The medic on the evac chopper finally triages you as a priority; Soap and Ghost stepping off to the side while he treats you. You watch them through heavily lidded eyes as the medic wraps a temporary dressing around your shoulder.
“What is it?” You ask as the medic moves on to another person; Ghost sits beside you and Soap opposite.
“Price and Gaz ‘ave been sent to Amsterdam.” Soap says, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Oh?” You sit up straighter, brows furrowed. “What for?”
Ghost clears his throat, “It’s a smuggling hub; Laswell reckons Iran has friends there.”
“Are we heading there next?”
“Nah, we get a break,” Ghost says, leaning back against the wall, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles.
“Lucky us.” Soap huffs, mirroring the Lieutenant.
You sigh, exhaustion hitting you like a truck but your mind racing. You slouch, entirely uncomfortable against the metal hull of the chopper.
“Come on,” an arm wraps around your shoulder and pulls you against your Lieutenants shoulder, “Nap time.”
“I don’t think I can.” You mumble, cheek pressed against his tactical vest. Ghost’s arm remains draped over you, the cabin of the heli is dark – you doubt anyone is looking.
“Yes you can,” Ghost tells you, gloved hand brushing your shoulder. “We’ll be here for a few hours yet – at least try.”
Your eyelids are fluttering but you strain to keep them open. A gloved hand brushes over your forehead, running down your face and gently over your eyes. Your lids shut on impulse and the hand returns to cup your head.
“Sleep.” He urges, hand settling in your hair.
You blink one last time before your eyes close for good.
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt.11
AN: Another one <3 She is very game orientated and action heavy. Bare with me babes! For the plot!
Synopsis: Closely follows the “Kill or Capture” mission from mw2 (reboot). Rights to the game developers <3
Word count: 2.5k
Warnings: Canon divergence, canon-typical violence, military shit, guns, explosions etc.
Ghost x gn!Reader (callsign: Rags)
Not proof-read (sorry!)
✧˚ · .
Missions came and went and you slowly but surely found yourself shaking the nerves you had returning to active duty. Trainings and drills were back full force and each night you returned to your room with aching limbs. Ghost and you had returned to the unspoken routine of drinking tea in the small hours of the morning. The Lieutenant had come to relax considerably around you and was less stoic; his replies during conversation longer and more detailed than they had ever been.
“There’s a briefing tomorrow.” He’d begun starting conversation more too, rather than waiting for you to break the silence.
“Oh?” You reply, not looking up; eyes skimming the pages of the book in your lap. “What about?”
When he doesn’t respond you frown, closing the book and meeting his gaze. His look is undecipherable, cobalt eyes stern. “Him.”
You narrow your eyes, confused. “Him?”
“Makarov.” The name is spat from his mouth like he’d swallowed something bitter.
“A new lead?” The team hadn’t had one in months.
Ghost nods, playing with the string of his teabag. “Price think’s it’s solid – Laswell too.”
“Why are you telling me this?” You ask, shutting the book and sitting up from where you’d been laying on the couch. You eye the Lieutenant cautiously, “I’ll know tomorrow won’t I?”
The man sighs, dropping his gaze to the table where he runs his finger over a dent. “Jus’ wanted to give you a warnin’.”
You can’t help but smile. This man. Simultaneously one of the most intimidating and softest you’d ever met. “Oh well,” you clear your throat, standing and moving to drop your now-empty mug into the sink, “thank you for letting me know.”
✧˚ · .
The briefing room has been rearranged so Laswell can video call in, you slide into an empty chair next to Soap who slings his arm across the back of it, allowing you to see past his broad chest.
“Do ya ken what this is about?” He whispers to you as Price closes the door, you nudge him with your elbow; shushing him as the Captain starts to speak.
“Mornin’, Kate,” the man speaks to the woman on the screen.
“Morning John,” she nods back, acknowledging those behind him, “team.”
A few people murmur a hello, Ghost, who stands against the wall with his arms crossed, nods with a grunt.
“Alright, assuming no one has breached our confidence, you all don’t know what this is about.”
You flick a glance at Ghost, he doesn’t even blink; watching Laswell with a blank expression.
“We received intel just over 24 hours ago regarding the whereabouts of Vladimir Makarov – commander of the Russian PMC Konni Group and associate of the ultranationalist political party.” She types something into her laptop and a grainy image appears onscreen. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way Gaz and Soap look your way.
“Though we belief the intel to be solid, it is too risky to make a move till we can figure out his intentions.”
You swallow, almost relieved you won’t have to face the man behind your still-healing scars just yet.
Price steps forward, “We thought you all had the right to an update considering recent events.” His eyes dart to yours before turning to the laptop in front of him.
“Instead we have orders from the General – a new HVT.” He hits a key and Laswell is moved to the side, images which can only be of the aftermath of a missile strike take over the screen. “Following our strikes against the Russian-backed Iranian forces and the recent assassination of Iranian General Ghorbrani a new player has emerged – Hassan Zyani.”
This portrait is less pixelated than the last, strong brows and a salt-and-pepper beard soften his sharp features. He doesn’t look like a murderer – though you suppose the dangerous ones never do.
“We believe he has begun funding terrorist activity in an attempt to seek revenge on the United States for the strike which killed Ghorbrani, Shepherd wants as us to put a stop to it before it starts.”
✧˚ · .
You aren’t surprised Laswell doesn’t have much intel on Makarov. He’d only been known to Price and 141 for a short while before your capture. His motives were unclear – a grudge against Price was not a strong enough factor to kidnap and torture an SAS operative on an multinational special operations unit. It was as though he had used your capture to test something – though you weren’t sure what.
“Wheels up in ten.” A voice interrupts your train of thought and you look up to see Ghost, decked out in his tactical gear. It’s odd seeing him in the kitchen, a place you’d only really ever seen him enter in more casual clothing.
“Thanks LT.” You reply, stuffing a handful of camomile teabags into your empty pocket. Though you drink them when you can on mission, it’d become more of a good luck charm for you to always have tea with you.
Though he’s wearing his hard-shell mask, you can tell the Lieutenant is raising an eyebrow at you. You brush past him, fiddling with the zipper on your pocket. “You coming?”
You swear you hear him breathe out a laugh as he follows you out of the kitchen and down the hall towards the tarmac.
“I’m starting to think I need to carry out uniform inspections.” Ghost says, reaching over you to hold the door back. Wind tousles your hair as you step outside – the blades of the helicopter already spinning.
You cast a look at him over your shoulder in disbelief only to find his eyes creased teasingly. You scoff, hitting him softly with your glove – not yet on your hand. “Cigarettes aren’t standard issue either, LT. Cigars too – Captain wouldn’t be too happy.”
If he replies you don’t hear him, the roar of the chopper drowning everything out. Soap’s waiting by the door and you give him a pat on the shoulder as you clamber into the heli.
You’re being sent to Al Mazrah – the last known location of Hassan. It’s a short chopper ride to an airfield nearby and then a bumpy few hours in the metal belly of a military plane.
✧˚ · .
“All shooters have execute authority, but we want Hassan alive for interrogation.” Laswell’s voice echoes in your head, “And be advised, Major Hassan is A.Q.’s lifeline – if he is there, they will die for him.”
You, Ghost and Soap are running point on the mission with a group of MARSOC Marines ordered by Laswell to assist. A rough landing and a rushed briefing later and you’re in a chopper heading for the field.
“Bravo team offloads here.” Ghost calls over the roar of the helicopter as it lowers to the ground, the red light casting an ominous glow as he marches through the hull of the chopper. “Alpha team stays onboard to land downrange. Both teams meet in the middle. Remember, we want Hassan alive, but this is capture or kill.”
You’re on Alpha team, Ghost gives you a single nod and Soap bumps your fist as they exit the heli.
“Keep up, Soap.” The Lieutenant growls and Soap gives you a grin before following suit.
The ramp closes behind and your friends are out of sight. The helicopter shakes and flares light up the sky. You make your way to the cockpit, the pilot is yelling into the comms.
“Incoming – Flares! Flares!”
The whole chopper jolts to the side and you just manage to hear someone over the radio scream “second missle!” when the world explodes around you. Fire and metal and smoke consumes you as the heli careens towards the ground. You dive forwards into the cockpit further, heart racing.
“Razor 1 going down! We’re going down!” The pilot calls and the vehicle meets the ground with a sickening screech.
Not a single limb escapes the impact and flames sear into your vision. Something is buzzing in your ear and you hack out a cough, raising a hand to the comms.
“Alpha what’s your status?!” Ghost growls in your ear and through the haze you can hear the panic. “Alpha, how copy?”
You crane your neck, taking a quick inventory of the bodies strewn around – some still, some moving.
“Bravo,” you manage to rasp, lungs burning. You lean over the pilot, fingers pressed under his jaw and against his neck. “Alpha is immobile. Multiple critical!”
Glass sprays as bullets spew in your direction, you lunge to the ground, swearing.
“Shit!” You swear, comms still on. “We’re taking effective fire here, LT!”
You can hear Ghost swear back, “Alpha, we’re moving to building 1. Hold tight!”
You grit your teeth, you know he can’t just rush over to your aid. The priority is Hassan. You can hear Soap argue in the background but Ghost shuts him down.
“Roger that, LT.” You reply, ducking as another round is sent your way. You fling a flash-bang back before popping up and returning fire.
You turn around, a young marine called “Red” has managed to pull the wounded inside and flagged the dead. You continue providing cover as he works. It’s dark out but the flames fuck with your night vision. The enemy has the advantage. You take aim at a small group in the treeline, gasping when a single bullet burrows into your shoulder. Pain flares and the impact sends you into the control panel.
“Fuckin’ sniper,” you warn the other soldiers as you push yourself up, “watch it, we’re sitting ducks here.”
“Affirmative.” One replies, from where he crouches near the now-lowered ramp.
“Alpha 0-2, Bravo 0-7.” Ghost crackles through your earpiece and you almost sigh with relief.
“Tell me you’ve got some good news for me, LT.”
“Building two secure,” he says by way of assurance, “We’re coming for you.”
“Roger,” you respond, signalling to the marine by the ramp to hold his fire. “Ramp’s down – we’re waiting for you.”
You stumble over to the man kneeling amongst the bodies, holding your shoulder as the figures of Ghost and Soap enter the heli. “What’s the total, Red?”
“We got five KIA and one wounded, not including you,” the soldier says, stumbling to his feet.
“Including you?” Ghost asks, as he and Soap come to stand in front of you.
You shake your head. “It’s nothing, we need to move him though.” You say, pointing at the wounded soldier.
Ghost shakes his head, eyeing the window, gun raised. “No time. They’re here. Get your gun on that treeline.”
You catch some ammo Soap throws your way. “I’ve had my fucking gun on that treeline the whole time, there’s too many.”
Bullets ping off the hull of the heli and you return fire, struggling to see through the haze of the flames, your shoulder burning.
“Got movement.” Soap calls from your right, squinting through his scope.
“Engage!” Ghost responds, firing rounds at the figures moving through the trees.
You spot movement and move your scope to get a closer look. “Shooters at the wall!” You warn.
“You fuckin’ called it, LT.” Soap says, swearing as he ducks to reload.
The smokey haze is impossible to penetrate and you pull your night vision visor back just as a projectile soars in your direction.
“RPG!” Red yells, the warning useless as your very bones vibrate as it explodes agains the side of the heli. An arm wraps under yours, pulling you to your feet.
“Gun up, Rags.” He says roughly, already raising his gun. “They’re getting close!”
Your wound throbs as the butt of your rifle returns to your shoulder but you make quick work of a group of hostiles running towards the chopper.
“We clear?” Soap asks after what seems like hours but is only mere minutes.
Ghost squints through his scope, the gunfire has ceased but flares roar. “For now,” he raises an hand to his ear, “7-6, call for fire. I want air on that treeline.“
He turns to you, “Air-support’s three minutes out. Stay sharp.”
The wreckage shakes with a loud thrum and you stumble into Ghost. He rights you, raising his gun.
“They’re launching fucking grenades!” You cry, mirroring your Lieutenant, reloading and picking off the hostiles before they can launch more.
Out of the corner of your eye you see a man fall to the ground. “Red’s hit! Man down!”
Ghost steps in front of you are you make for the marine. “He’s dead. Keep your gun up, Sergeant.”
Tears burn in your eyes. He was so young.
You force yourself to ignore Red’s body as you take up his position by the ramp.
“Ghost, we should fall back to the house,” you hear Soap call over the bullets and explosions.
“Negative.” is the Lieutenants gruff response, “We clear this position and push hard. If Hassan’s still here, he’s out ahead.”
✧˚ · .
“LT, I spot armoured vehicles! There’s four of them!” A marine from Bravo team calls out.
“Conserve your ammo,” the Lieutenant calls back, “Let ‘em get close.”
The comms crackle, notifying you of incoming air-support. You send back an affirmative, tensing against Ghost who crouches next to you as the vehicles are cleared – the heat of the explosion flaring as the heli rocks,
He pats you once on the shoulder and you wince. He doesn’t notice, gesturing you to follow and you quickly reload before moving after him. The rugged roads and graveyard of exploded vehicles soon morphs into fields and you flick your night vision visor back down, the light of the flames behind you.
“There’s a sniper up ahead, Rags you take point.” Ghost calls as you run towards the second building.
He grips your wrist for a second and you turn, gun poised away from him as you give him a questioning look. He gestures to a body on the right, a marine. Your heart sinks. You follow Ghosts hand and where he points to the rifle in the dead marine’s grip.
He covers you as you sling your G3 across your back, prising the weapon from the mans grip. You quickly asses it for any damage and nod to Ghost – it’s in good shape. The Lieutenant follows, guarding your six as you squint through the scope. You can see a flash from the roof, something reflective is catching the flames from the distance. The sniper. Now knowing his position you find him immediately through your scope and take a deep breath before firing. The bullet zips through the air, the silencer giving a sharp huff of air.
“Good shot there, Rags,” Soap clasps your shoulder and you flash him a grin.
“Not just here to look pretty, mate.” You respond, moving towards the building, covering the squad from your vantage point. Air-support opens fire on the other side of the building and you take it was your chance to enter. Now is the hard part – find Hassan dead or alive.
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10
AN: Comment and like ya rascals <3 your comments are low-key the reason I do this, they keep me going.
Synopsis: Your first mission back, Ghost is a mother hen.
Word count: 1.3k
Warnings: Canon typical violence, minor injuries, military talk etc
Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign Rags).
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The sun was low on the horizon when the team was called to gather in the briefing room. You sit with a mixture of anticipation and nerves. Gear clinks and you pull your eyes form the table and towards the Lieutenant who stands at the front of the room, eyes stern.
“All right, this is it. We've got a critical mission ahead. Our objective is to neutralise a high-value target responsible for arms trafficking in the region.” Ghost starts, zooming in to the map on the screen behind him.
Price steps forward, cigar hanging from his lips. He takes a puff and pulls away, tapping ash onto the floor. “Your entry points are here and here,” the Captain gestures to the red points flashing, on the zoomed in blueprints of a compound. “Soap, Ghost you’re Alpha; Gaz ’n Rag’s you’re Bravo. Note your corresponding points.”
You jolt a little when Gaz pats you on the shoulder, you meet his amber gaze with a weak smile. Ghost eyes you from where he stands beside Price.
“Our intel’s good on this one.” He says, crossing his arms, “You’re a team – trust each other; trust your training, let’s not fuck up.”
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
You were nervous but the weight of your gear was familiar and Gaz’s calm presence was welcome. He adjusts his weapon beside you, eyes firm and focused.
“Alpha team, be advised, target location is hot. Proceed with caution.” Price’s voice crackles over the comms.
“Copy that, Price. We’re moving in.” Ghost replies, his voice low in your ear.
As Alpha team pushed forward you and Gaz moved to your next entry point – an alley where enemy insurgents were known to frequent. You swallow hard, gripping your G3 with white knuckles.
“You got this Rags,” Gaz whispers beside you with a smile, “I’ve got your six.”
You bump your gloved fist to his, warmth surging through your chest. You both creep forward, silent and sticking to the shadows. The tension was palpable as you rounded a corner, spotting a group of insurgents, armed with their backs turned.
On my signal. Gaz gestures with his hand.
You nod, holding your breath. Just as you get into position and look to Gaz for the signal an insurgent turns, spotting you. Gunfires sprays – ricocheting off the concrete in front of you. Diving instinctively for cover, you return fire with practised precision; your adrenaline pumping. Bullets exchange and echo through the alley, the scent of gunpowder thick in the air.
True to his word, Gaz guarded your six with his own fire and slowly but surely the group of hostiles dropped like flies. They never stood a chance.
The Lieutenant’s voice rasped through the comms as the last man slumped over, a bullet through the neck. “Bravo team, we've neutralised the target. Need immediate extraction."
“Copy that, Alpha.” Price responded immediately, “Bravo, clear the area and provide cover for extraction.”
Gaz raises a hand to his ear to reply as you roll over a body with your boot, checking they’re dead.
“All good?” Gaz asks, reloading his riffle. You nod, hands pushing against your thighs as you return to stand.
“Let’s go.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Most insurgents had already been taken out by Alpha team and you and Gaz made quick work of the rest, providing cover. Soap and Ghost make it to the extraction helicopter first and with the go from Price you and Gaz follow. You’re behind him this time, guarding his back when an object lands between your feet with a thump and rolls. You swear in surprise, shoving Gaz forward and kicking it back. It explodes in the air as its sailing away from your kick but shrapnel bursts around you. You cover your face with your forearm, turning away while your other hand remains on Gaz’s back. Something sharp imbeds itself near your elbow and you trip forwards in surprise.
Gunfire comes from the heli, neutralising the hostile who threw the grenade as Gaz reaches round and tugs you in front of him, his hand now on your back.
“You ok?” He puffs, not letting go as you race towards the chopper. Ghost has leapt out, riffle aimed at the area behind you as you reach the heli.
“Just a scratch,” you pant back, accepting Soap’s hand who pulls you inside.
“You’re bleeding.” A voice growls behind you. Ghost. You hadn’t even noticed the man shutting the door of the chopper.
You spin round to face him with a scoff, “Yeah, never said it didn’t hurt, LT.”
“Alright lass,” Soap steps forward, shaking his head with a smile. “Jus’ sit down, won’t you?”
You let him push you into a seat, the metal wall of heli rattling as it ascends. Ghost materialises beside you, med-kit in hand, his cobalt eyes sharp and alert – still filled with adrenaline.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, taking your elbow and angling it towards the light, “can’t take you anywhere.”
You hiss as he removes the shrapnel and it clinks when he drops it into a small metal dish. “Getting hurt is part of the job LT.'
“Doesn’t have to be if you’re careful.” He retorts, swiping your wound with an antiseptic wipe. You glare at him.
“That’s not very fair.”
He sighs, “I know.”
You move to grip his knee with your free hand. “I’m fine, Ghost,” you glance at the now-clean wound, “It doesn’t even look like I’ll need stitches.”
“You won’t.”
“See? It’s okay.”
He huffs, knowing you’re right but unable to escape the worry that tore through his gut seeing that grenade explode in front of you. You slump, leaning into him as he packs away the kit. A comfortable silence comes between you and he sits a little straighter, letting you lean into him a little more. It’s not as intimate as a head on his shoulder, you’re just angled slightly against him. He lets you, the buzz of the chopper lulling you into a doze.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
You’re descending when your shaken gently awake. Cobalt eyes meet yours.
“You sure you’re ok?” He asks as the team shuffle around, grabbing their gear.
You nod, whispering back. “Promise. You saw it – just a scratch – it’ll just annoy me for a couple of days.”
He holds your gaze for a few beats before nodding, standing to his feet and offering you a hand. You take it and join the others in sorting through your gear. Soap bumps you with his shoulder, grinning.
“LT hovering again?” The scot inquires cheekily. “Mother hen, that one.”
You bump him back, “Don’t let him hear you saying that.”
Soap laughs, grabbing onto the rail above your heads as the heli rocks. “Nothing he hasn’t already heard.”
“Bet that went down well,” you grin, mirroring him and latching onto the rail as well. Soap just shakes his head.
“He sulked for a few days – took Price agreeing with me to knock some sense into ‘im.”
“Telling stories, Johnny?” A voice rumbles from behind you, Soap only grins.
“Would’t dream of it, LT.”
Ghost grips the rail next to you, his tall figure almost curving over you as he bends his head away from scraping the roof. You swallow as the heli rocks again and you find your back pressing into his tactical vest. An arm wraps around your waist, steadying you.
“Alright there, love?” He murmurs just so you can hear. The chopper jerks one final time, landing on the tarmac – someone wrenches open the door.
You move forward, jumping out and onto solid ground; your hair whipping around you as the blades whir and roar from above.
“Mother hen!” You call out with a grin looking back over your shoulder at the Lieutenant who jumps out to follow you. Soap and Gaz cackle behind you as you make your way across the tarmac, leaving the stunned lieutenant with the teasing sergeants.
