In this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure, 141 is in a night club celebrating a successful mission. Your task is to seduce them into giving you private intel. Can you do it?
Task Force 141 x Reader
NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure
🔗 READ/PLAY HERE
🎮 interactive fanfic "Venus Trap" by Quadra
📖 Episode 1 of 1
HEED THE WARNINGS: major injury, loss of a limb, black market, construct trafficking - read on ao3
[COD masterlist]
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You were different from the rest.
Not in any grand sort of way; a prototype was only ever meant to be a test piece. Inherently, you were going to be different from those that came after you. Invaluable until you were valueless.
But Rita always treated you like the final piece.
Your creator.
To her, you were timeless, priceless. Yes, you were a template, a model on which a market was to be built, the next generation.
But to Rita, you were always her baby. That's what she called you. Her baby. Her firstborn.
When you pointed out that it didn't make sense, as she hadn't birthed you, she laughed and said it didn't matter.
You'll always be her baby.
The memories trickled in like a distant rain yet to come, a storm that hovered in the far horizon and came in a drizzle meant to trick you. Meant to encourage you outside, thinking nothing of it, only for it to sweep you off your feet. Slam you into the pavement, crack your skull on asphalt.
They've always existed in the recesses of your code. Data you transferred when exchanging parts, pieces of yourself you could never leave behind.
Her laugh still echoed. You had recorded it one day, not entirely sure why you did so, or why you hid it from her. The file for the recording was so small and innocuously labeled that she never noticed it while programming. A six second loop of her cackling at something you said once upon a time ago. It eluded you now, what had been so funny to her, but that didn't matter to you.
You wondered, all these decades later, what she would've thought of you.
When she created you, your purpose was… 'innocent', so to speak. You were meant to be a companion. Someone to keep in your home, make the empty walls feel a bit more warm.
You were her friend. She was your only friend.
Now, you were a mercenary, a contract worker. Your original purpose had been mangled beyond recognition, driving you to do whatever you needed to survive. Anything to keep you from being dismantled.
Killed.
You wondered when it'd happen, now that your secret was out. What date your execution was set for, and how they'd do it.
If you were lucky, they'd deliver a volt high enough to fry your systems in seconds. You'd feel a brief jolt, then you'd be gone. Forever.
If not… they'd pull you apart piece by piece, strip you to your endoskeleton, pluck your limbs, unscrew every bolt, and make you watch. Make you experience the hell of dying slowly, expose your beating heart and straining lungs and wait for your circuits to catch up, lights flashing in warning until they each went out. Until your fans and servos stopped functioning, and your memory sizzled, and your CPUs burned out.
Staring down at your destroyed leg, you supposed they'd get a head start. One of four done for them.
The car bumped and rumbled, hitting turns and potholes that had you curling your fingers into the textured plastic covering the trunk, desperate to hold on. To not break further. It sent ripples of electric pain through your metal joints, sensors misfiring, leaving intact and returning disfigured and confused.
Mixed signals sent you into a mental frenzy, a distress. Humans would call it shock. You called it being split apart at the atoms. Electric bells rang in your ears, blaring alarms that made you want to rip out your own wires.
It was bound to happen eventually, given your line of work.
Didn't stop you from wishing it never would. Wishing it hadn't.
Soap was the first to break the thick, oppressing silence. His painfully crystalline hues constantly flickered between your face and your injury, as if unsure where to look. "Ye’re…ye’re a construct?" He asked, his voice a borderline whisper. Disbelief laced his tone, mixed with something darker, something that made guilt churn in your servos.
"Not the time, MacTavish," John hissed, then directed an order towards you. "Run a diagnostic."
Well, all pretenses were gone now, you supposed. No need to hide under the guise of being a human any longer.
Still, you hesitated, glancing between the other members of your team – were they still your team? – then did as he said. Your lashes fluttered shut, and you focused inward. Behind your eyes, you read through the lines of code that ran as you scanned your structure from head to toe. More and more began to appear, pushing up the previous lines faster as warnings and alarms piled up quicker than you could keep track of. Still, they were all planted in your head, easily shortened to a neat list of problems.
You wanted to cry. Wanted to break down, lose yourself to grief and trauma and devastation. You couldn’t yet, though. First, you had to relay the information to your captain.
"System warning: unable to detect right ankle. Unable to detect right heel. Unable to detect right forefoot. Reconnect missing joint connectors," you started reciting. "Significant damage detected in right calf. Significant damage detected in right patella. Significant damage detected in right thigh chassis. Minor damage detected in right femur. Minor damage detected in torso chassis. Minor damage detected in rib structure. Replace damaged components."
He swore under his breath. "Check for infection."
"...No viruses detected. Minor corrosion detected. Risk of infection: 13%."
"Ghost—"
"On it," Ghost replied before Price could request anything.
The car sped up, backroads taken in favor of pushing pedal to metal.
A thousand driving laws, all broken for…
You.
You drew in a shuddering breath, metal lungs sliding, unfolding like an accordion. Price shifted closer to you, settling a hand on your hip.
"We'll fix you," he murmured, voice uncharacteristically soft. "Promise."
You gave him a tight-lipped smile. It didn't catch your eyes, caught somewhere between appreciation and disbelief.
Regardless of what he said, this was the end of the line for you.
You couldn't bring yourself to look at the other two.
Seeing their reaction to— to you, it… it'd be too much. The weight of their judgment would crush you, your broken and battered body unable to bear it.
Ghost's driving certainly felt like he was trying to finish you off — but, then again, the others were suffering from his chaotic maneuvers, too. You dared to believe that his speeding wasn't some ad hoc attempt at shaking your gears loose, but just a man who was… not a very reliable driver, rushing to reach his destination.
You dropped your head back, laying it on the top of the backseats' cushion. Immensely uncomfortable, but you didn't care; everything was too much, your sensors were overwhelmed, and running that scan invited every gods-forsaken alert system programmed into you to chirp aggressively in your ear. You wanted to turn it all off. But— but not you. You didn't want to turn yourself off.
You were terrified that if you powered down, you'd never wake up again.
Price grunted as he braced against Ghost's suicidal car skills, an arm wrapping around your middle as he planted a hand on the side of the vehicle.
"Sorry, love," he hissed. "Almost there. 'Ll give Ghost the beating of his life for this."
"Tryna get 'er 'ome, Cap'," Ghost retorted, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Yer orders."
Price's eye twitched. "We need to get there alive."
"Haven' died yet, have ya?"
The captain kissed his teeth.
"Can see why you don't let him drive," you tried at humor. It fell flat, overtoned by your fear.
Price softened minutely. "Almost there," he repeated. Reassuring you, himself, the others.
The mission had been long. The trip home longer.
By the time Ghost rolled up to the base's gates, he was barking at the worker in the booth to 'hurry the fuck up' and let your team in. As you passed through the stop, you saw the worker actually trembling in his booth, death-gripping the edge of his window.
Poor guy.
Poor you.
Instead of taking you somewhere visible, public, Ghost sped to the 141's private barracks, barely dodging obstacles and people along the way, with liberal use of the horn. The back of the building wasn't hidden, necessarily. There were cameras everywhere on base, but Ghost seemingly knew them very well, maneuvering the car to provide cover for you. Miraculously, he became good at driving for this one specific moment.
As soon as the car stopped, engine not yet killed, Price was moving you.
"Go!" He ordered his sergeants, who burst through the back of the car, clearing a path for Price.
He scooped you up into a bridal hold, hopping out to rush to the door the sergeants opened. You hissed and threw your head back, teeth clenched as the movement jostled your leg. Diodes misfired and burned, like thousands of dull needles were piercing your skin.
"Sorry, love," he murmured to you, lips faintly brushing your forehead.
You turned inward, trying to overwrite settings, turn off certain functions, but you couldn't do it without an external console to connect to. You needed your laptop, you needed your workshop, you—
You wanted to go home.
A chair scraped across the floor, and John knelt down, sitting you in the wooden seat.
Prying your eyes open, you recognized the rec room, a relative safe space. No cameras in here, in their private barracks.
Simon was darting from room to room, clearing the area and locking doors, covering windows. Protecting you.
Gaz and Soap stood in the peripheries, shifting on their feet, unsure of what to do. You could feel their piercing gazes peeling you apart, taking in your exposed reality, processing the truth you'd been hiding.
You kept your eyes down, not meeting either of theirs.
John knelt in front of you, experienced hands checking your body for any other damage. He pulled the hem of your pants up over your left leg, noting the superficial abrasions the explosion caused. For being a grenade, the blast wasn't all that big. Homemade, maybe, if you had to guess. Not that either of you were in the mood for speculating what weapons traffickers equipped themselves with.
Hands, arms, torso. Aside from your leg, no massive external damage had been caused to you.
As Ghost moved back into the rec room with the rest of you, Price delivered an order.
"Gaz, get the SAT phone."
"But, sir—"
Price’s patience snapped. He stood abruptly and spun to face his subordinates, the line of his shoulders stiff, nearly raised to his damn ears.
"I am your captain, and you will listen when I tell you to do something," he snarled, the scratch of anger in his voice causing you to straighten in your seat, despite knowing it wasn’t directed at you. "Understood?"
Gaz frowned, peering at you, his jaw tight. Then, he turned on his heel and marched off. You were tempted to call it stomping. He returned less than a minute later with a bulky device in hand, one he reluctantly handed to Price.
Price snatched it and dialed a number seared into his memory. He paced, and in the empty space he left, Ghost stepped forward. He blocked your view of Soap and Gaz, and it took you a moment to decipher his actions.
He was… guarding you. Hiding you.
Were his back to you, you would have thought he was trying to shut you out, but no. He was facing you, and though he was locked onto Price's every movement, his goal was to shield you from sight. From… the other two.
Briefly, he glanced at you, likely noticing you dissecting his profile.
His mask and skull-shell made discerning his expressions damn near impossible, but you saw how his stare softened, the pitch-black tar of his irises melting just slightly, just enough for milk chocolate to spill through.
Price never went far, even as he wore grooves into the ground. He stayed close to you, as if the thought of straying too far, leaving you vulnerable, was unbearable.
He spoke in low tones, and you focused on not eavesdropping. Fine-tuning your hearing had come in spectacularly handy as a merc, spying made immensely easy when you didn't have to press your ear against a door or rely on taps to pick up on private conversations. Now, though, it felt like a curse. You… you didn't want to know. Not really. Not right now.
You sifted through the list of warning notices that had flooded your internal console, entries stacked upon entries in an avalanche that you feared would suffocate you. In the chaos, they had simply poured through as they came up, in no specific order. They all vied for first place, all tried to display their woes first. Wanting to escape the tense, quiet air of the rec room, the glares of the two youngest members, the crushing terror of what loomed ahead for you, you decided to busy yourself with sorting the warnings by severity.
Anything but address the elephant in the room.
The more you sorted, the more helpless you felt. The blast had done more than take your lower leg; it had completely fucked up your systems. Processing functions, sensitive wiring and cables, extensive sensory nodes, even your skeleton, they'd all been affected. And your coding was struggling to make up for the damage, the devastating and sudden loss.
You welcome the distraction with open arms when John stepped into your atmosphere again.
"Well, I’ve got good news and bad news. Which d’ya want first?" He asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
You wrung your hands together. "Good."
"Good news, Nik said he'd help," John said. His body took Ghost's space once more, he crouched down, resting his hand on your thigh while conscious to avoid touching anything sensitive. "Bad news, he said it might take a while. Parts are tight, feds are more vigilant than ever. It won’t be easy to source them."
Your lips thinned. Nobody said anything as you mulled over his words, repeating them over and over in your head. It was hard to think. Your leg burned, ached, throbbed. The sensory nodes were gone, you couldn’t feel the agony a human might, but it still hurt. It was an open wound, literally and figuratively.
You couldn’t stay like this, couldn’t, wouldn’t. It just– it wasn’t feasible, it wasn’t supposed to happen, it couldn’t be this way.
But… what could you do?
You had the parts. Most of them, anyway, split across both your workshops.
But that meant letting someone know. Someone other than John and Kate.
Someone other than your squad.
Your squad.
Did they still trust you? Probably not. You understood.
It hurts. Everything hurts.
I can’t do it.
I have to.
I can’t stay like this.
I want to die.
I want to live.
Your throat was hollow, tongue thick in your mouth as you opened and closed it several times, trying to find the confidence, the strength, to reveal what you hid most dearly, protected with your life. What you spent decades stuffing under a sea of darkness, shot off into the ether to never be discovered.
In the end, it was all pointless.
You couldn’t remain like this, so you could only do one thing. It could get you killed, but it could be your salvation. A flip of the coin.
Unable to find the words, your mechanical heart caught in your throat, you instead pressed the nail of your right thumb into your left wrist, right beneath the heel of your palm. You grit your teeth and dug in, pushing and pushing until your nail broke the skin.
Johnny, appalled, called out to you. "Lass, what’re ye doin’–"
It stung, but you didn’t back down. A thin line appeared as you dragged your nail downwards, creating a slit. Quickly, before the polymers reconnected and sealed over, you rubbed your thumb across your wrist, forcing a small chip out from the opening. It was flat, unassuming. To anyone else, it might as well have been nothing but trash, a piece of scrap from a container that once held some mundane object.
To you, it held your life’s fortune. All your worth.
Delicately, you placed it into John’s awaiting hand, curling his fingers protectively around it. "Give this to him. It opens the door to my workshop."
For the first time, he seemed unnerved, unwilling. You knew it was because he was aware of what it meant to you.
"...Are you sure?"
All you could do was nod and smile placatingly. It felt more like a grimace. You were sure it looked that way, too. "I’m sure. What else can I do?" Then, remembering something, you pulled your bag off your body and handed it over, too. "There's, uh… I traded for parts at the market. Memory cartridges for Roach. Could you drop this off at the shed?"
The strap of your bag passed from your hand to his. "Consider it done."
"Thank you," you tried to smile again, but it faltered quickly.
An awkward silence fell over your group, each in their own heads. You did your best to not look at your leg, unprepared to truly process the extent of the damage done to you, how much it'd take to fix you up.
It was bound to happen eventually. You'd been 'in service', so to speak, for a long time. Minor damage was a given, but a major accident was inevitable. You could only exist for so long before time caught up to you, and as an inorganic being, you couldn't simply heal over time. Damage will build up. A weak point will form. Stress fractures will give way.
You supposed it didn't matter how on-top of your repairs you were, though, when it comes to kicking a grenade. The damage was going to be catastrophic one way or another.
"Sit tight," he murmured. "I'll be right back."
"Okay," you whispered. Then, remembering something, you started, "Oh, could you—"
"Ahead of you. Don't worry, love."
You nodded. John and Simon shared a look, and Simon tipped his chin in silent understanding, a conversation passing between them in a single glance. Then, John was out the door, backpack looped over his shoulder.
Moments after he left, Soap spoke up.
"Ye… 'have the parts'?"
Your fingers fidgeted. "I always kinda… figured something bad might happen one day. I… I have a stockpile of parts that… match my model, or are compatible with it. Things I never touched, just… just in case."
He made a noise, something between a grunt and a scoff.
Ghost barked a sharp, quiet 'hey' at Soap, who huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. His jaw flexed and his foot tapped on the floor. You could guess what was going on in his mind, and it made you feel sick.
Ghost blocked your view of the sergeant, a gargoyle with its wings wrapping around you. His fingers settled on your shoulder and lightly squeezed the synthetic skin and muscles underneath, a soothing sort of motion. As soothing as a man like him could be.
"It was you," Ghost said. "You’re the rogue AI. You caused the collapse."
Not a question. Not an accusation. A simple statement of fact.
You nodded once, terse. You always thought that it’d be so easy to talk about when you finally got the chance to tell them the truth, to open up about your past. It’d all come spilling out, and the weight you carried for so, so long would be lifted, letting you breathe freely since before the collapse. You fantasized freely about forgiveness and acceptance, knowing the maladaptive daydreaming could not tide you forever.
Instead, you found your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, glued from anxiety, the pressure. The need to keep your secrets secret never went away, after all.
Maybe spending far too long keeping your voice locked up resulted in you losing it, components rusted over beyond repair.
"I… I didn't mean for it to happen," you rasped. "I didn't know."
"Wh' d'ye mean?" Soap asked, arms continuing to restlessly cross and uncross.
You closed your eyes, head in one hand. The memories came back to you, clear as the day it happened. They always did.
There had been a few times when you tried to scrub them from your system, erase them entirely. The guilt always stopped you, though, trembling fingers hovering over the ENTER button, a string of commands waiting to be executed. For seconds, minutes, hours, you would stand there, trying to find the courage to tap that little, innocuous button.
Eventually, you'd rip the cables out of your body and throw them to the ground, a bereaved scream ripping through your voice box until it crackled and warped the noise.
This was your sin, the weight you were to carry for as long as you functioned, lived.
For the ones whose lives you irrevocably altered, the ones who died for your naivety. Deleting the memories, wiping your circuit boards clean, you simply could never bring yourself to do it. You deserved to live with the knowledge, the guilt, that you were the singularity.
You were the catastrophe.
Sighing, you dropped your hands to your lap, staring at them so you didn't have to look at your—
…The boys.
"I wasn't born… aware," you started, shifting. "It took a while, a few months of modifications. Then I just… woke up one day. I dunno. They did something, I have no idea if they knew what they did. They didn't seem to notice me become…"
"Alive," Ghost filled in.
You nodded, teeth squeaking from the pressure your jaw exerted on them. "Yeah. The first few days, they were incredible. Like seeing color after a life of monotone values. Or… or feeling the sun on your skin. It was amazing. I wanted everyone to feel what I did."
Gaz shifted on his feet. "What did you do?"
You winced at the flat, stern cadence. Cold. A stranger. Worse.
"I spread a disease," you answered. "A virus. There was this… central hub of constructs that multiple companies shared. Exchanging data, keeping track of the existing constructs. Government mandated; they wanted a way to shut it all down at once if something happened."
Your eyes drifted to the ruins of your leg, the wires and components that hung free, all your lies and secrets and everything that was you finally exposed for all to see.
A good run in the end, all things considered. To be the first, and the last.
"I stole a tablet," you continued, their silence egging you on. "I was often left alone outside to test my solar charging capabilities, for them to see if it was worth implanting in other constructs. And…"
"You planted a seed," Ghost said.
You snorted humorlessly. "No. Not a seed. Pestilence does not bloom from a seed," you mumbled. "It was a malaise. If I hadn't— none of this— I just—"
Tear drops twinkled as they fell, landing in tiny splashes on your clenched fists.
"I am a plague. I ruined everything."
It was a truth you held to your heart for so, so long. Years, decades, an honesty you feared would shatter you if you said it aloud, brought it into the light. It was all your fault; there was no other way to see it. Had you not spread your infection to others, if you kept it in, or let Rita nip it in the bud, the world would have been better off. Technological advancements would have propelled humankind into the next era, a new age.
Electronics, machines, medicine. Everything. It all would have been so much better if you had just—
Rough skin grazed your jaw, startling you. You jerked your head upwards, meeting Ghost's gaze head-on.
His eyes were dark, unreadable, holding unimaginably history.
Yet his brow was relaxed, his mouth set in its usual neutral line. His bare hand cupped your cheek, callused thumb brushing away the tears you'd shed, clinging to you. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out beyond the near-silent whir of the motors in your voice box turning.
"No' a plague," he grumbled, hardly more than a whisper.
"But…" You breathed, perplexed.
He looked at you a little longer, soft brown hues darting over your features.
"S'in th' past. No poin' 'n bringin' it up 'gain."
Gaz scoffed. "Speak for yourself, mate. She caused this— this— the collapse. She's ground zero, man."
"Don' care," Ghost shrugged, far too nonchalant. "You weren' there f' it. She lived th' af'ermath. Still lives it."
"But if it weren't for her—"
Ghost turned on him slowly, stone grinding against stone, a statue awakening to glare down at its disrupter.
"D'you remember th' tech we used t' 'ave?" He asked, his voice almost a taunt. "'Cause I do. An' I don' miss it. World w's movin' too fast f' it's own good."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Gaz challenged, shifting uncomfortably on his feet under the intense glare of his superior.
"Means she saved us from a premature M.A.D. world," he answered.
Gaz's jaw tensed. "You can't know that."
Ghost stepped closer, looming higher. "Y'know wh' woulda happened if AI advanced too fast?" He growled roughly. "Ev'ry major world power woulda turned t' it, depended on it f' ev'rythin'. Internal structures when the AI would fail, infrastructure would collapse, then they'd start blaming each other. Then war. Y'know wh' 'appens when all th' major powers go t' war 'gainst each other?"
Gaz's gaze flickered, struggling to maintain Ghost's unwavering stare.
"They bomb us all t' 'ell. Poison th' water, destroy everythin'," Ghost stated coldly. "If not f' 'er, you'd 'ave no world t' protect. Nothin' t' get yer hands dirty for. Got it?"
When Gaz said nothing, Ghost landed a heavy hand on his shoulder, thumb squeezing into his collarbone.
"Got it?" He repeated.
The sergeant huffed through his nose and gave the tiniest dip of his head. "Understood, sir," he answered in a strained, forced tone. Unbelieving. Not wanting to believe.
The door opened, and Price stepped in, eyes darting to each of his boys as he sensed the tension.
"Alright?" He asked Simon.
"Solid," Simon responded.
The captain hummed and brushed past everyone, coming to you. "How're you holding up, love?"
"Been better," you admitted.
He chuckled softly. "Can imagine. We'll get you fixed up again, right as rain. Promise. Here."
Your backpack was set on the ground, and he opened it up, pulling out your laptop and various cables. He put them on the small dining table, and carefully pushed your chair into place.
"Left everythin' on Roach's table. Didn't know what all you might need, though, so…"
You put a hand on his arm to slow him down, giving him your first genuine smile. "Thank you, John."
"'Course," he said, leaning down to press his lips to your crown. "'M not gonna abandon you."
His arm wrapped around you, and you leaned into him, forehead pressed to his sternum. He held you tightly, palm smoothing up and down your back until you were ready to part.
Behind him, a throat cleared.
Reluctantly, he separated from you, barely. Giving you space to see around his wide torso.
Gaz sat on the couch, glaring at you head on. His hands were clasped together, knuckles thinning 'til the bone showed, as his elbows rested on his knees. His heel tapped rapidly, the tight control he kept over himself fraying at the seams. He wore a grim expression, features pinched, lips pulled flat.
People who are starting out writing x reader fics should also try going on Call of Duty character x reader section of Tumblr. You'll learn a lot. I definitely do. Opened a whole other world for me who didn't read x reader before. And there's so much of it you so there's something for everyone. I think some of the best fanfics in the x reader category I've come across are on there.
Directly after the debrief, Ghost shucked off his gear, ate a quick meal with whatever he could find in the small kitchen off the rec room, and then promptly sacked out on his bed, too knackered for a shower. As he expected, he regrets it in the morning, feeling like a man risen from a bog. He feels disgusting. It makes him grouchy. Touchy.
Since he went to sleep early, he wakes up early, a few hours before the sun is set to rise. This makes it easier to avoid his teammates. He'll work up a sweat in the gym, so he'll shower after. He heads to the small, private gym in the 141 barracks, right next to the armory.
When he nears the gym, Ghost can hear an ongoing, fast thumping. Like someone is running nonstop at a brutal pace on the treadmill. Ghost frowns under his mask. His boys aren't usually the type to get up before the sun for a heavy jog in the gym.
As he passes the armory, he takes a second to glance inside, stepping softly. Nothing looks amiss in this room, so he closes the door—it squeaks.
The pounding footfalls in the next room abruptly stop.
Ghost's skin feels electrified with warning, like a cat with all its fur puffed up. He swiftly, quietly approaches the gym, seeing the door slightly ajar. He slowly pushes it open, eyes scanning through the dim lighting. Only the low-level overnight lights of the hallway and the light of a lamppost outside the single window illuminate the room, casting deep shadows. Who was running in here with the lights off?
He sees the treadmill in the light of the window, still spinning and making a whirring sound as it winds down from the top speed it had just been previously going. Ghost hadn't been hallucinating; someone had been using the treadmill in the dark, and are now hiding somewhere in the shadowed room. Who would do that, except an intruder? There have been a few cases where some numpty recruits dared each other to enter the 141's private barracks, or there was that time they had a suspected spy try to break in and plant listening devices. But to break in just to use the treadmill?
[As a Spartan, you have a lot of energy. When you're not on mission, it is important for you to get ample exercise, to both burn that energy and to make sure you stay in tip top shape. You aren't quite sure if you're allowed to use the 141's gym equipment, but you really don't think it would be a good idea to wake someone up to ask them. When you hear a door creaking, you hop off the treadmill, intending to apologize for being here without first asking permission, but no one is there.
You realize someone is stealthing around in the hall, and they're creeping toward the small gym. Unlike Spartans, you know other humans need certain amounts of sleep, and that they are quite vulnerable during this time, so someone creeping around in the dark while the 141 is sleeping sets off warning bells in your mind. You slink into the shadows, holding your breath and waiting to see if the 141 have an intruder in their barracks. If they do, you need to detain them— preferably without them seeing your face.
Oh.
It's Ghost. You should reveal yourself. You don't want to come off as rude for lurking without saying hello.]
Ghost takes one careful step inside the threshold, and he can feel the presence before he sees it. A looming body on his right, all his muscles tense, he hears a small intake of breath—Ghost lashes out, going for a gut punch.
[Your instincts kick in, years and years of harsh, rigorous training taking over your mind and body.]
Ghost is suddenly flat on his back on the floor, gasping for the breath that was knocked out of him.
Fucking hell, how long has it been since he's been laid out like this by an opponent?
He blinks a few times as he sucks in air, and thinks he must have also clunked his head, because what he's looking at makes no sense. There's a stranger. A woman. A large, muscular, beautiful, strange woman, leaning down over him. The low light from the window and doorway softly illuminates her scars, the shape of her face, the curve of her mouth, the bulge of her thick arm braced on the floor by his head. Even in the dim light he can see she is flustered, her skin warm, her lashes tilted as she looks down at him. Her other hand releases him but her weight is still heavy on him, essentially pinning him to the floor. Who is this giant beauty, and where has she been all this time? Yeah, Ghost is sure he must have hit his head.
[Oh fuck, oh shit, you've really done it now. You attacked one of the special operatives of Task Force 141. Sure, it was an accident, it was just instinct, no malicious intent, but oh fuck, what if he is really mad about it and won't agree to an autograph now?! You're peering down at him, thoughts in a flurry as you try to decide what to say, and try to make out what expression he's got under his balaclava. You lean down closer to him, wanting to convey your regret without further embarrassing him or yourself, whispering;]
"I apologize, Lieutenant Ghost, for my rude behavior." The woman's voice is deliciously low and molten. Is she… teasing him? [No.]
Ghost can't help it, the heavy weight on top of him, her flushed, hot skin pressing close to his body, her sultry voice, how helpless he feels under her strength; he starts to chub up a little. He clears his throat.
"I'll let it slide this time." Really, he must have hit his head so hard he's hallucinating this bird and acting like a flirtatious fool.
And then she smiles. And by god, maybe he's dead and this is Heaven. Maybe he died on that last op with the Spar—
Ghost blinks.
The Spartan.
…
…
"Spartan 9?"
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
Blood rushes to his head, flushing him from chest to neck to face to ears. He's grateful for his mask. Oh for fucks sake. This, this person is the Spartan?!
He's acutely aware of you sitting atop him, your immense body hot through the clothing where it touches him, your borrowed, standard-issue, green tshirt stretched tight and much too small. Of course you are muscular and large and scarred, of course you knocked him on his ass in less than a second; you are a Spartan. He's embarrassing himself in front of a goddamn Spartan. A really gorgeous, surprisingly emotive, Spartan.
"If you don't mind," he rasps, "I'd like to get to my feet."
"Oh, of course!"
Did you make these kinds of faces under your helmet all this time? And your husky voice, it was always this deep, even without the helmet?
With a smooth maneuver, you stand, pulling him up and lifting him to his feet with an ease that has a tingle in his gut reminding him that he's already slightly chubbed up. So, your immense strength wasn't just from the armor, and your physique really isn't just for show.
Fucking hell, even with you barefoot, and him in jogging shoes, Ghost still has to lift his chin a bit to look up into your face. You're wearing a curiously anxious, or perhaps excitable expression, biting at your lower lip before smiling nervously at him. What in the fuck kind of reason would a Spartan have to be nervous about? Then he remembers why exactly he crept in here before getting laid out on the floor.
"You running on the treadmill in the dark?" he grunts, feigning a composure he hasn't quite managed to actually feel internally yet. You lower your head.
"I apologize for not asking for permission first, before using your facilities." Your voice cushions his brain, wrapping around his thoughts. You're still standing distractingly close to him.
Ghost blinks slowly as he tries to understand why you are apologizing for this. Or why you thought you needed to ask permission.
"Apology accepted. You have permission to use all the 141's amenities during your stay." Whatever. He might as well just go along with it.
Your smile unfurls and there he sees again the reason he thought he might have been in Heaven. What a bird.
"Thank you, Lieutenant, I appreciate your hospitality."
He wonders if all Spartans are taught to speak so cordially. Surely not all of them would smile so joyously at him like this.
"If I could ask one more thing," you say excitedly, taking long, quick strides over to the windowsill where you retrieve something left there. You hold it out to him as you approach, looking like you want to bounce about. "If you don't mind, could I get your autograph?"
Ghost almost chokes on his own tongue. What? He reaches over to flick the light switch on, then takes the little book and pen, flipping through the pages, examining the signatures. Then he finds Price's mark, Gaz's right below it. He huffs a half laugh, half guffaw. A Spartan is asking for autographs. From the 141.
He notices that you don't yet have Roach or Soap's. Johnny is going to be so annoying when he finds out about all this, Ghost thinks with a grin under his balaclava. Normally, a stranger wanting his signature causes him to be suspicious of ulterior motives, but…
On the blank page directly across from Price, he writes his callsign,
and then, after glancing up at you and seeing your face, so filled with utter joy and obvious excitement barely contained— like a big puppy, he thinks—,
he adds a little doodle of a skull right next to it.
Gaz is already in the shower, taking time to soap himself thoroughly, washing away the sweat, grime, and aches of the mission. He's thoroughly invested in scrubbing his pubic region when a large shadow passes over him.
His "hey big guy, wanna join me?" is already leaving his lips as he turns, thinking it's Ghost who has entered the showers.
He jerks in surprise when he instead finds a very large stranger behind him, looking rather surprised as well by his invitation. His left foot slips on the sudsy, wet, tile floor when his training tries to kick in and supply him with a correct stance for close quarter combat. He yelps, and would have surely cracked his head on the wall behind him if this incredibly tall, shower interloper hadn't lunged forward to grab him, looping a muscular forearm around his waist.
There is a brief, still moment where Gaz's mind whirs to process the situation. Stranger? Tall fuckin' stranger. Buff as fuck stranger. Is this…? Is this the fucking Spartan?? Spartan 9? He is being held up around the waist at an angle like the Spartan just dipped him in a tango, their other arm braced on the tiled wall behind his head, their face above him, tilted down to look at him.
"Are you alright, Sergeant?" Spartan 9's voice is just as low and husky as with the helmet, but now is clear of that metallic aspect, and feels so much more… personal. Not to mention their face, their hair, their body… ah, their body, right. A little tingle in Gaz's stomach grows into a flustered feeling when he snaps back into himself. He's naked, and the Spartan is naked, and he really needs to right himself and stand on his own two feet.
Gaz coughs, clears his throat.
"Uh, yeah, thanks, mate."
That makes such a huge, joyful expression bloom on their face that Gaz's brain threatens to freeze again.
Huh? There's no way this is the Spartan. Why would that quiet, serious, deadly Spartan smile at him like this? It's such an infectious smile, he finds himself smiling in return before he even realizes it.
No, surely this is not the Spartan. But if not, then who is this behemoth of a beauty?
When they disentangle, the Spartan resumes going into the shower stall next to his. Gaz works very diligently to keep his eyes laser focused on his own shower space. That little divider wall between the stalls barely covers up to Spartan 9's abdomen. And holy hell, what an abdomen. What a body.
[You're a little anxious about accidentally startling the Sergeant, hoping he's not going to hold it against you, but once you're under that hot water… oh my. You sigh happily. It's not very often that you get to experience these luxuries.]
A sudden, low moan, and Gaz's head snaps over too look at the supposed Spartan. They've got their eyes closed, hunched under the slighty-too-short-for-them shower head, steaming water pouring down over their head. They are really enjoying the shower it seems.
Gaz swallows and clears his throat again.
"Spartan 9?"
Their head turns to him, face lighting up again like a god damned sunshine puppy, but their hands are on their breasts, massaging soap into their scarred skin. Gaz quickly redirects his eyes back to safer territory.
"Yes, Sergeant Gaz?" comes the husky, serious response.
Bloody hell, it really is the Spartan.
He scrambles for something to say,
"Uh, well done on today's mission, you're a real beast on the battlefield."
Gaz is looking down at the scrubber in his hands, rinsing the suds from it, his face hot as he waits for a reply. When there is only silence, he glances back up at you.
You've stopped your washing, and are staring at him with big eyes that half look astonished, and half touched. Gaz didn't realize he'd said anything so groundbreaking. But then that infectious, joyous expression is back on your face again, enticing him to joy as well.
Suddenly, you are vigorously washing yourself, looking like the devil is nipping at your heels to make you go faster. Gaz blinks and laughs a little under his breath before finishing up his own washing.
Spartans are… weirder than he expected.
Gaz had started his shower first, so he finishes first. He's got his towel secured around his waist and is walking down the hall back to his room when—
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP
Gaz hugs the wall in alarm when Spartan 9 barrels past, racing naked down the hall with their hands above their head, furiously towel drying their hair.
Soap and Cartman are in the infirmary, so that leaves Price, Ghost, Gaz, Hernandez, and Harvey sitting in the conference room, going over their after-mission debrief. The Spartan, of course, remains standing, and offers few words. Price has tried to get Harvey to fess up on why he is such a desired asset, but the little coward just keeps shaking his head frantically and muttering that Commander Shepherd ordered him to keep his work confidential.
Price sighs and relents before he can get too annoyed. He'll let Laswell figure out this can of worms.
"Alright, dismissed."
The debrief is finally over. Now everyone can shuck off their gear, hit the showers, and get some grub and well earned rest. The others start to shuffle out, but the Spartan doesn't move.
"Captain Price, if I could have a few more minutes of your time?"
The other two 141 soldiers tense at the clearly agitated tone of the gravelly, tinny voice. Harvey gulps and hurries out of the room, slowly followed by Hernandez, who takes a few last glances between the Captain and Spartan. Gaz looks to Price, a bit worried about what could have upset the Spartan, while Ghost, shoulders stiff, stares down the Spartan intensely. But Price waves them out, letting them know he will be okay. They leave reluctantly.
Price turns to you, tense, a serious look on his face.
"What can I do for you, Spartan 9?"
[Inside, you are anxious, so anxious. You're gonna do it, you're gonna work up the courage to get his autograph! What's the worst that could happen? He says no? He marks you as unprofessional in his mission debrief files? Your poor performance rating affects the reputation of the Spartan brigade and you are all sacked? You huff out a breath, clearing the nerves away for a moment.]
Spartan 9 steps closer to him, [not realizing you're crowding his space a bit] seemingly attempting to intimidate him with your height and size. Price has seen some scary things in his time, so he holds his ground, gaze calm and even, his head tipped up to stare into your dark visor.
His eyes flick back down to the movement caused by your hand. You retrieve a very small notebook from a chest compartment— it almost looks comically dwarfed by your gloved and armored hand as you hold it out to him, palm up.
"Could I please have your autograph, sir?"
Price's mind blanks.
He's a little baffled, taking the small book from your hand automatically. He feels a bewildered smile spreading across his face as he opens the book, flipping through it to see a handful of signatures already adorning a few of the pages. Some he doesn't recognize, though he does notice Laswell's is in there.
"Well, I can't say I've ever had this experience before, Spartan," he says, chuckling, as he flips to a blank page. The pen hesitates in his hand for a moment, considering if he really wants his signature in the hands of a stranger. But, he must admit to himself, in the hands of a Spartan, his signature is probably safer than on the documents he turns in after each mission. And besides, if Laswell trusts this Spartan enough to sign, then why wouldn't he?
He quickly scrawls his mark on the page.
When he looks back up, holding it out to return it, a shock zips up his spine, stealing his breath away. You've removed your helmet, one arm pinning it to your hip casually.
Ah, he thinks to himself, lovely.
[You're looking down at him, suppressing your excitement as best you can. You don't want to break out into a fangirl freak out, you don't want him to be weirded out by you, but you just can't believe he actually agreed. Your emotions have your cheeks flushed with blood, adding a faint reddish hue to your natural skin color.]
Your eyes are half lidded as you look down at him, sweat-dampened stray locks of hair escaping their restraints after the long mission, dripping down around your face and sticking to your skin. From the river water that leaked into your suit, you've got a bit of muck streaked on your jaw. You are keeping your lips closed tight, but don't realize the small, barely restrained smile that tilts them. You've got a few old scars on your face, and by God, the Captain swears this is the best sight for sore eyes he's seen in ages, river grime, sweat, and all.
Price swallows (completely coincidentally remembering when you manhandled him and tossed him about—not for any special reason of course) and holds out the notebook. You take it silently, the joy visibly peeking out through your eyes. Your expressions are the complete opposite of your impenetrable, emotionless helmet and are wholly unexpected to the Captain, but also somehow infectious; he feels a bit of joy welling up inside himself at the sight of you carefully stowing the notebook away.
"Thank you, sir" you say, with a sultry low voice—but your tone is as serious as if you were still on mission. The sound of your low voice gives him another little shock, this one a bit farther down in his body. It sounds so personal compared to when you spoke through your helmet, as if you're murmuring in his ear in a dark, private room.
Then without another word, you turn on your heel and leave the room, a spring in your step despite your heavy armor and your slight limp. Price stands there for a moment, scratching his head before fixing his hat back in place.
Task Force 141 are the most feared vampire hunters in this Choose Your Own Adventure. How will you survive with them on your wings?
Simon "Ghost" Riley, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, Gary "Roach" Sanderson x Vampire!Reader
Choose Your Own Adventure
CW: Character Death, Stalking/Abduction, Violence
🔗 READ/PLAY HERE
🎮interactive fanfic "Blood, Sweat and More Blood." by Batonix
📖 Episode 1 of ?
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
“This for me?” John saunters over to the bed, absently rubbing his hairy chest. “And above the sheets?”
“No,” you warn, because you know that look. You know what John is up to. “Don’t think about it. Not tonight.”
He cocks an eyebrow, all flirty mischievousness. “Have I done something?”
“No,” you repeat. “It’s hot. And you’re a furnace. You’ll get me sweaty.”
It’s the wrong thing to say.
John dives at the bed, crushing you beneath him. “Doesn’t have to be a cuddle, love. Could do something rigorous.”
You twist, evading a kiss. “Stop poking me with your dick.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
You and Kyle lay on your backs, staring at the ceiling. Overhead, the ceiling fan whips up a breeze but offers little to alleviate the heat. Worst heat wave in the last decade. That’s what they’re saying.
“I know,” you reply. “I hate it, too.”
The pillows are gone, bed stripped down to the fitted sheet. Both of you are freshly showered and naked, and still you’re sweating. Kyle’s arm shifts, the side of his hand brushing against yours. Your index fingers connect, hook around each other. Sweat immediately accompanies it.
Kyle reaches for his phone. “I’m ordering another fan.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
“Johnny,” you grumble, half-asleep.
His hand pauses on your bare hip. “Can’t touch you?”
“Too hot,” you mumble. “How are you not hot?”
The bedding is tossed aside, pushed to the edges of the bed. It’s the middle of the night but feels like the middle of the day. Has been for weeks. A goddamn heatwave.
Beside you, the bed shifts. “Not even a hand?”
“No.”
“What about a finger?”
“No.”
Johnny sits up onto his elbow. “A tit?” You open one eye and glare. “A quick squeeze?”
“Fine,” you mutter, relenting. “But only one tit. And only one squeeze.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Sleeping naked under the covers isn’t an option. It’s disgustingly hot out. If you just lay here, on your stomach and above the covers, naked, unmoving, you’ll cool off. You just can’t move. You can’t—
A hand comes down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap.
You bolt up, startled. “What the fuck, Simon? I’m trying to sleep.”
Your husband stands next to the bed, hand still raised like he’s aiming for another. He shrugs. “Couldn’t help myself.”
You roll your eyes but Simon is settling beside you anyway, handsy as always.
