No going back, Part four.
⋆·˚ ༘*🔭 In which a call is way more concerning than it seemed.⋆·˚ *🔭
Call of duty taskforce 141 x reader. Warnings *ੈ✩‧₊˚ - Blood, fighting, arguments, framing, crying, torture(mentions of), taskforce 141 being mean, angst, regret, new special forces????
Uhhhhh, Hi, I'm back again..IM SORRY OKAY I LEFT. but daddy's home.
Back on a serious note, it wasn't going that well, i had to put some things down for me to focus on some more serious shit, but i'm fine now so that's what matters now!
Can y'all tell me what way you want this to go? I don't know....
You didn’t answer right away.
You couldn’t.
Your throat felt tight, your chest aching, not just from your injuries, but from the memory.
The betrayal still bled inside you like an open wound.
Laswell saw it in your eyes: the shift from confusion, to fear, to something colder. Sharper.
You weren’t just hurt.
You were angry.
“I don’t want to see them,” you rasped. “I don’t want them anywhere near me.”
Laswell’s expression hardened like stone. “They won’t come near you. Not again.”
You swallowed, jaw clenched.
"I'm leaving, I'm not staying here any second longer."
Laswell nodded,
"You need to heal first, under my watch,"
She paused, pleading you with her eyes.
"Please."
You looked up at her, eyes watering.
You just can't say no to her, she saved your life after all.
You nodded, laying back down.
＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚
The healing was tolerable.
What wasn’t, was the waiting.
Sitting in silence, doing nothing but replaying what they did to you, that was its own kind of torture.
Almost worse.
Almost.
A therapist can't do much.
You didn’t just hate them.
Hate was too soft, too human.
What you felt was colder. Sharper.
A kind of fury that didn’t burn, it froze.
When you pushed the door open, you forced the thoughts down.
Not away. Just deeper.
You’d need them later.
This place reeked of memory.
Every hallway a trigger.
Every sound a reminder.
Coming back to base felt wrong. Alien. But this wasn’t about comfort.
You had unfinished business.
And you intended to finish it.
Fishing your phone from your back pocket, you double-checked the room number: 115.
Right door.
Right place.
Unfortunately.
You looked up, then pushed the door open with a little more force than necessary.
The bang echoed through the room.
Was it rude? Sure.
Did you care? Not in the slightest.
They were all there.
Every single one of them.
Laswell included.
You gave her a brief nod, tight, respectful. The only one in the room who deserved it.
Then you walked in and took your seat, your movements calm, deliberate.
You didn’t rush.
You didn’t flinch.
You just looked.
One by one.
Not a single pair of eyes met yours. Cowards.
At least they had the decency to look ashamed. Or maybe just afraid.
Good.
Your stare landed on Gaz last.
Your brow throbbed, dull, rhythmic, right where his fist had landed.
Guess you'd be wearing that memory a little longer.
A souvenir. One of many.
“So,” you said, voice like ice,
“is anyone going to talk, or are you just here to waste my time?”
The room went still.
Finally, Price lifted his head, eyes meeting yours.
“We want to apo—”
“Apology denied.”
Your tone cut through him like a blade. “Are you done?”
Soap tried to speak next, words tripping over each other.
“Please, we didn’t know—we just—we—”
“We-we- we…” you echoed mockingly.
“I don’t give a single goddamn fuck. You did what you did. And now, I’ll do what I need to do.”
You turned to Laswell without hesitation, voice steady.
“I’m leaving. Turn in my resignation, I’m done here.”
Finally, they all looked at you.
Gaz stood up abruptly, his face streaked with tears. Real ones.
“Please,” he choked out, “come on… I’ll do anything. Everything. Just let me make this right.”
You clenched your jaw so hard it hurt. You’d expected desperation, maybe even begging.
But the tears?
You hadn’t expected that.
And God, how you used to hate it when Gaz cried. Keyword: used to.
Your voice came low, sharp, and bitter. “What, you want me to comfort you now? Wrap my arms around you, tell you it’s okay?”
You stood slowly, stare locked on him like crosshairs.
“Do you remember when I cried?” you asked, tone flattening to something deadly calm.
“When I begged you to stop? When I pleaded for you to listen, that if fucking hurts and you didn’t even flinch?”
Heat rose through your spine like a fire lit from the base of your skull.
This was about to go sideways, fast.
And for once, you were ready to let it.
Then you turned to a certain man.
“Funny,” you said, voice venom-laced,
“you’re awfully quiet for someone who almost killed me.”
Ghost didn’t flinch.
The only thing you could see were his eyes behind that damn mask, and they pissed you off more than anything.
You almost laughed at the sheer frustration rising in your chest.
But then he spoke, rough, low, and unflinching.
“No matter what I do… I don’t deserve your forgiveness. Or your time,” he said, voice hollow. “I did what I did. There’s no excuse for it.”
You stared at him, silent for a beat. The rest of the room held its breath.
“Finally,” you muttered, dry and sharp. “At least one of you bitches is man enough to own it.”
Your gaze swept across the others like a scalpel.
“Too bad it doesn’t mean a fucking thing.”
“Laswell,” you said evenly, “I’m done here. Thank you, for everything.”
You stood, slow and deliberate, then tossed your badge onto the table without a second glance.
It landed with a dull clack, final and absolute.
Without another word, you turned and walked out.
Your dignity weighed more than anything left in that room.
Footsteps echoed behind you, but you didn’t stop.
Not for them.
You heard your name once, twice. Desperate. Weak. But you kept walking.
Let them sit in their guilt. Let it rot them from the inside.
You’d given them pieces of yourself—time, trust, loyalty—and they shattered every last one without hesitation.
You pushed through the base’s main doors and stepped into the sunlight. It was harsh, too bright, but it felt like the only honest thing you’d experienced in weeks.
There were no more chains on you. No more pretending. No more silence.
You exhaled, slow and sharp.
This wasn’t closure. It wasn’t healing. Not yet.
But it was power. Yours.
＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚
Arriving home, you sighed.
It was already night, quiet, still, the kind of silence that should’ve brought peace.
But the second your boots hit the porch, something felt off.
You stepped closer, narrowing your eyes at the door.
The handle was down.
You always left it up.
Always.
A flicker of adrenaline crawled up your spine.
Someone was inside.
Grabbing the Glock from your hidden holster, your grip tightened as you pushed the door open with practiced force.
The air inside was still, but heavy.
You cleared the kitchen first. Nothing.
The living room, quiet. Too quiet.
Your hallway creaked under your steps as you made your way upstairs, each movement calculated and quiet, heart pounding in steady rhythm.
Your body remembered what your mind tried to bury: what it felt like to be hunted.
Sweat beaded along your brow as you neared the bedroom door.
You didn't hesitate.
One solid kick.
The door flew open, slamming against the wall.
And there, on your bed, like he belonged there, sat a large figure.
Relaxed. Patient. Watching.
Your blood ran ice cold.
“What the—” you started, voice sharp, finger already tightening on the trigger—
“Сюрприз.”
The voice was thick with a Russian accent.
Calm. Controlled. Amused.
＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚
god this shit was ass.
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