I NEED MORE OF PUP READER WI TY GHOST OH MY GOD I LOVE THE BLURB SO MUCHHHHH
So i heard ya’ll want more of bombdog!reader? Well don’t i have just the thing for you, how about the first time reader and Ghost met?
[blurb one here!] [blurb three here!]
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Hybirds are still a relatively new concept to the world, especially ones working in the military, when a recruiter approaches you in your senior year. He's interested in getting you involved with the bomb investigations branch of the military, and well, you've always been interested in things that go boom. Being a hybrid mix of a german shepherd and a belgian malinois doesn't hurt either.
What you don't realize is you've just agreed to being one of the first trial runs of turning what is usually a team— one of a handler and a K-9 —into one person.
Boot camp isn't… the best, its brutal, and not just in the training, infact you breeze through that, even with double the work of other recruits, all due to your hybrid genes giving you a leg up, making you high energy, motivated, and a workaholic. You feel like you have to have something to do all the time.
No, the training isn't the problem. Its the stares, its the name calling, the degradation from other recruits thats the issue. You can handle the yelling from the drill sargents, the insults, because its not just directed at you, it isn't targeted.
From the recruits? Its mean, its personal, it's constant. They call you "Mutt," "flea ridden," and a "dumb dog," along side so many other names. They talk about how you need to be muzzled and on a leash, how your nothing more than trouble. Nothing more then a obedient dog following every order.
When their not degrading and making jabs at you directly there talking behind your back, spreading rumors about you.
You don't make any friends in boot camp, your ostracized and pointedly left out when the Drill instructors aren't forcing you to be included. You were told platoons were supposed to be family, this hardly feels like one.
It reminds you more of the bullying you'd been subjected to all throughout school, the nasty name calling, the backhanded comments when you do something right, its all familiar but that doesn't make it any easier. At least in school there were other hybrids, you weren't alone in this cruel treatment, you had friends, people to fall back on and talk too. Here you have no one and nothing.
Here your not even allowed to call home.
At all comes to a head a week before graduation, your being forced into a ring two at a time to spar, it feels like a glorified gladiator ring with the way everyone watches the matches, cheering for whoever's in the middle.
Everyone cheers for your opponent, recruit Johnson, when he and you enter the ring, your ears pin to your head at the volume of the combined voices of your so called platoon, you can imagine the jarring laughter that'll follow if you don't win this.
You stand in the lose sand, hands curled into fists like you've been taught, like you're familiar with. You stare down your opponent, someone who you've spent the last weeks being tormented by, and anger boils in you, setting your veins on fire.
Before you realize fists are flying, yours and his, your able to dodge or block the first few hits, but so does Johnson.
He throws a fist towards your face and you dodge, he tries to kick you off balance and you block with your arm, his steel toed boots meeting muscle, your sure you'll be sporting a few nasty bruises after this.
It continues like this for a few more moments before he lands a hit against the side of your face and you stagger, growling.
You get lower to the ground and rush him, tackling him to the ground, both of you go down, both struggling for control and rolling in the sand, you trade punches, blood drips into your vision from a cut on your brow, and for second he gains control, you under him.
Hands wrap around your throat and you thrash, gasping for breath, you don't understand why no one is stepping in, why no one is stopping him, there are Drill sergeants watching, you know there is, you know a visting first sergeant is watching.
Your nails dig into his wrists, puncturing and drawing blood, covering both of your hands in the thick red liquid. Johnson hisses through his teeth, leaning down to whisper in your ear.
"You think some clawing will hurt me, dog?"
Dog. Mongrel. Mutt. You hate those stupid names.
You smash your head into his, stunning him, you shove and roll, managing to get him under you and keep him there. Wrapping your own hands around his throat, sharp nails dig into the skin on his neck, new blood joining your already covered hands, he pushes at your face and you don't even think before sharp teeth meet hand.
Blood fills your mouth and a second later you feel strong hands pulling you off of him, you fight, you thrash and kick and throw your body around best you can, but thick arms have wrapped around your torso, pinning your arms to your sides and lifting you off your feet. You growl and your ears are flat against your skull in distress, you can hear voices yelling, but your head is filled with static making the words impossible to understand.
Your opponent sits up on one of his elbows looking at you with rage and disgust, and maybe a little fear, as his other hand holds his neck, the blood from his bitten hand and his neck mix.
The blood in your mouth drips from it as you continue to growl, you watch as the Drill sergeants surround Johnson and help him to his feet. Red stained sand is left in his place as he's escorted away.
Whoever is holding you loosens their grip slightly, lowering you so your feet are on the ground again and leaning over you, but they don't let you go.
A voice in your ear breaks through the static in your head and your thrashing stills, ears twitching.
"I'm going to let ya go and yer gonna calm down. Do ya understand me?"
A growl still rumbles in your throat but you push it down, swallowing it and any left over blood in your mouth, it leaves a coppery aftertaste that you think you'll be tasting for days.
You nod and he slowly lets you go, straighting up, you do as well, fingers curled into your palms at your sides.
"Recruit, ya wanna explain what the bloody hell was happening out there?"
"Sir, no sir." You answer through clenched teeth, and turn to face the voice.
Its the visting first sergeant. Ghost. His arms are crossed over his wide chest, arms corded with thick muscle. He cuts an intimidating figure towering over you.
"Wasn't a request." He stares you down, you can see his cold eyes through the holes in his skull patterned balaclava.
Again, a growl starts in your throat but you force it down, your still heated from the fight and you can hear the whispering voices of your so called platoon.
"Sir, the other recruits of my platoon believe it is humorous to degrade this recruit, during the fight my opponent continued to do so, I reacted, sir." You answer begrudgingly, you hate the idea of being a snitch, it’s why you've never taken the other recruits behavior to the Drill sergeants. And its not like you can’t handle it. You always have.
he nods, eyeing you up and down, your covered in blood—your own and the other recruits, and bruises.
"Head to the medical examiner. Yer done here," He tells you, "And for yer own sake, ignore them other muppets, it won't do ya any good to go around biting off heads."
You nod, and turn on your heel. You have to walk past the crowd of people staring at you to get there. You wipe your sleeve over your mouth, trying to ignore their jarring as you pass, but you can pick out talk about muzzles and bite risks.
the next few hours of your day are spent sitting in the uncomfortable chairs in the medical examiners office, covered in dried blood and sand in your socks. You sit with your arms crossed, a almost blank expression.
A soldier stands in a corner across from you as a watchful eye, for your sake or to watch you is what your unsure of. It's uncomfortable, but by hour three he's gone, called away for more important matters.
On hour five your let go after someone checks your cuts and deems you're fine, telling you to clean and bandage your own wounds as they hand you a small first aid kit, they had worse problems to deal with then a hurt mutt.
suppressing a growl you stand from your seat and nod, thanking them with gritted teeth. That damn name follows you every where.
You bump back into Ghost on your way out, he tells you he was just coming to check on you, you try to brush him off, respectfully of course, but he just follows you.
He follows you into the Recruit barracks and into the large bathroom, he's like an oversized shadow, you set the small kit on the edge of the sink.
Staring in the mirror you try to ignore his looming over your shoulder, but his staring is making the hair on the back of your neck stand up, setting off your territorial instincts.
You round on him, voice strained as you talk, "Sir, dont you have something better to do then follow a 'dumb dog' around, Sir?"
Ghost tilts his head silently, studying you.
"I don't see a dog, just a recruit licking their wounds." He says, taking in the damage in full now.
"Would ya like some help with that?" He points at the small kit of first aid, his voice is gruff, and theres not much tone behind it, but it almost sounds soft, you wonder why he's doing this.
Your eyes jump between him and the kit and your ears pin back in suspicion, you've never been one to Readily trust.
The movement of him raising a brow is barely visible under his mask, "Well?" He questions.
Sheepishly, you agree, giving in, your body is sore all around and it hurts, this'll be over quicker with his help.
He sends you off to the showers to wash off dried blood and the sand thats still sticking to you, clinging to your skin, hair, fur and clothes.
Your hair is still damp when you join him by the sink again, only in your skivvies, your towel rests around your shoulders.
Ghost nods his head in approval before he leans down and grabs your face, turning your head left and right, examining the scrapes and bruises. Your ears pin to your head as your cheeks are pushes in by his hand.
He moves faster then you can react, your brain lagging behind as the adrenaline is finally leaving your body, hands wrap under your armpits and you make small sound of surprise, almost a squeak, suddenly you feet are off the floor for the second time today.
The next thing you know your sat on the edge of the sink in front of Ghost, his hands now rest on the sink on either side of you, he bends at the waist and leans into you, towards your neck.
You lean back away as much as you can in the small space but your back hits the mirror, your ears lay flatter against your skull some how and a quiet rumbling of a warning starts in the back of your throat.
"Quiet down, I'm just lookin'." He murmurs, one hand grabbing your jaw again, he turns your head to the side and up, better exposing your neck. Your eyes dart to a corner in the room where the walls and ceiling meet, avoiding looking at him. Your do your best to swallow the instinctive growl, as well as stop your blushing face.
He hums, letting go after what feels like minutes of observing, but was really seconds. He straightens up and opens the first aid kit, digging through it for what he needs.
Ghost pulls out disinfectant wipes and bandages, it stings when you he wipes over the small cuts on your face and you hiss, grabbing his wrist to stop him.
"Stop yer fussin, I thought ya wanted help." He huffs and you look away from him, hesitantly letting go of his wrist.
You hiss again through clenched teeth when the disinfectant touchs your cuts again, but you force you self to be still.
He cleans your wounds in silence, sticking bandaids over the opens that need them, its a quiet few moments shared between you, but it ends all to soon when he finishes up. He tells you to be careful when he leaves. You don't think you'll ever see him again.
When you get back to the main hall of the barracks your opponents bunk has been cleared and so has the one above yours, moved to a different empty bunk. You feel the other recruits eyes on your back, they keep their distance, but they talk, they name call, they threaten. Your to tired to care.
At lights out you settle into your bunk, wounds licked and bandaged, a the few cuts still sting but its mostly bruises, the most prominent around your neck.
The last week of boot camp is worse then it was before, daily you hear about muzzles and pulling teeth, daily you hear about being a bite risk and being put on a leash. One day someone says you should be put down like the dog you are for biting Johnson.
Somehow, you make it through, you finish the last test, you graduate, you become a private.
Your moved from team to team as your skills as needed over the next three years, and rumors follow you during that time, and they grow. You hear in passing whispers how apparently you've more then a few people, how before you've been put in a muzzle for it. You keep your head down, you ignore it, you ignore the names and sharp words, as you always have, but they're always there, nagging in the back of your head,
Eventually your known as the sergeant who bites, people avoid you, scared, or they look at you with disgust. Murmurs of "Dirty mongrel." and "Mutt." Become more the common place, there expected. There your reality. You resent it.
You've been with your current team for less than a week when you get another reassignment letter, but this time it'll be the last time it seems like, the word "permanent" emboldened and underlined on the paper. Your next assignment is a special opps team, one called the 141.
You pack back up what you had barely unpacked and the next day your put on a heli.
You arrive on the current base the 141 is stationed at after a multi hour ride, your pack light, you'd learned to downsize after being moved around so much.
Walking out of the heli your met with stares from others around, and your greeted by the lieutenant of the 141, Ghost.
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A/n: cranked this out in like, a day, so i apologize if some its dooky, specifically the fight scene, i tried to get it over with as fast as i could since i haven’t really written one before, so again i apologize if its ass. This is also longer than i really meant it to be, but it happens. and i definitely do not have the start of a third blurb in my drafts, no siree. Definitely not.
