#Recon Specialist | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bellaveux · 3 months ago

Note

Hello! I really loved your medic!Reader x Natasha writing! May I request some angst/comfort involving that trope where instead of Natasha usually getting injured/bruised, it’s reader? Love your writings! ❤️

easier said than done | n. romanoff

pairing: natasha romanoff x fem!reader

summary: she didn’t want you on this mission—her only thought was keeping you safe. but despite her efforts, even she couldn’t protect you from getting hurt.

content warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, medic!reader, protective!natasha, injured!reader, injuries, blood (idk what else i’m missing tbh)

word count: 7.4k

Natasha sat at her desk, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of a dossier Fury had handed her earlier that day. The mission briefing was all there in black and white—an overseas operation, something high-stakes and unpredictable. Fury had been clear about the potential dangers, but he had also given her an option: take one other agent, someone to fill in for the things Natasha didn’t specialize in… someone to feed her information in her ear, while also being there for support of any kind. A medic or a recon specialist, someone who could handle the things that might slip through the cracks.

She’d nodded at the time, but in her mind, she already knew she preferred to work alone.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t rely on others, but this mission was dangerous, even for someone with her experience. Too many variables, too much at stake. The idea of taking someone else into that kind of danger made her skin crawl. She’d seen too many good people go down because of decisions like that.

When you walked into the living room, stretching from your long day, your eyes immediately landed on the file in her hands. You didn’t ask, but the curiosity was there, written in the way you tilted your head, waiting for Natasha to explain.

She glanced up, her expression softening when she saw you, “Fury’s given me a new assignment. Overseas.”

You stepped closer, crossing your arms as you leaned against the doorframe, “Sounds serious.”

“It is,” Natasha admitted, her voice low. “He recommended I take someone with me.”

You straightened at that, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, “Oh yeah? Who’d he have in mind?”

“Recon specialist, maybe a medic,” Natasha said, almost offhandedly, her eyes flickering back to the folder in her hands. “Someone who can handle the things from afar. Support. Backup.”

You could feel the tension in her voice, the way her shoulders were stiff even as she tried to keep things casual. And before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“I’ll go.”

Natasha’s head shot up immediately, her green eyes locking with yours, a flicker of surprise crossing her features, “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” You pushed off the wall and took a few steps closer, your voice steady. “You said you need someone with a different skill set. I’m a medic, Nat. I can help.”

Natasha’s expression hardened, her jaw clenching slightly. “I don’t need your help with this.”

“That’s not what Fury thinks,” you said, your tone light, but the determination was unmistakable. “He wouldn’t have offered if he didn’t think you’d need backup.”

Natasha shook her head, standing up and tossing the file onto the desk with a sigh, “It’s too dangerous. You’re not coming.”

You could see the conflict in her eyes, the way she tried to keep her voice firm, but there was something deeper there—something protective, maybe even fearful. It wasn’t often that she let herself care about someone this deeply, but you’d been around long enough to know when she was trying to push you away to keep you safe.

“Natasha,” you said, your voice softening as you moved closer, closing the distance between you. “I’ve been through dangerous before. I know how to handle myself.”

“This is different,” she snapped, her frustration spilling over as she turned to face you fully. “I’m not putting you in that kind of danger.”

“I’m already in danger every day,” you reminded her gently. “This is my job too.”

Natasha’s eyes flashed with something raw and vulnerable for just a moment before she blinked it away. “You’re not going, and that’s final.”

She turned away from you, her fingers running through her hair, trying to shake off the image of you in harm’s way. The thought of you getting hurt—of losing you because she let you come on this mission—it was unbearable.

For a long moment, the room was quiet, the tension hanging thick in the air. You stood there, watching her, feeling the weight of her refusal. But you weren’t about to let it go.

“I want to go,” you said again, your voice firmer this time. “Not because I think you need me, but because I don’t want you to do this alone. And I know how stubborn you are about working alone.”

Natasha sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly as she leaned against the desk. She was silent for a moment, her eyes avoiding yours. Finally, she looked up, her expression softening, but her resolve still unshaken.

“I can’t,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t let you come with me.”

You could feel the frustration bubbling up inside you, but you knew where it was coming from. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust you. She just cared too much. You hated that she was pushing you away to protect you, but you also understood it.

It was only a couple nights later, a few days before Natasha leaves for the mission. She still hasn’t found anyone to bring yet, even though you’ve been insisting from time to time.

And you told yourself you wouldn’t do it.

The moment Natasha left the apartment today, her quiet warning still fresh in your mind, you promised you’d leave the files alone. But as soon as the door clicked shut behind her, the silence that followed only seemed to amplify the curiosity burning inside you. The mission folder sat on the desk like a weight, drawing your eyes back to it over and over. Natasha had left it out, maybe even on purpose, part of you thought. Surely she knew you couldn’t resist. You tried to ignore it, busying yourself with the mundane—cleaning up the kitchen, scrolling through your phone—but each time you passed by that desk, it was like the file was calling your name, daring you to take a look.

After what felt like hours but was only minutes, you finally gave in, your resolve crumbling as you stepped closer. Your fingers hesitated at the corner of the folder, heart pounding with the knowledge that this was something Natasha wouldn’t want you to see. But the temptation was too strong. You opened the file slowly, the pages revealing details you weren’t supposed to know—dangerous places, unfamiliar faces, and risks that Natasha had shielded you from. Yet the more you read, the more it felt like you needed to.

It was late, the dim light from the desk lamp casting a soft glow over the apartment as you sat there, quietly flipping through the pages of the mission file. You weren’t snooping, not really—you’d seen enough missions come and go that this one didn’t feel all that different. But as you read through the details, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe you could help, even if Natasha couldn’t see it yet.

The front door creaked open, and you heard her footsteps before you saw her—Natasha moving with that quiet, graceful presence she always had. You didn’t look up right away, not until she walked over, her boots light on the hardwood floor, stopping just behind you.

A soft sigh escaped her lips, and a moment later, her hand reached out, gently closing the file in front of you.

“You really shouldn’t be reading that,” Natasha murmured, her voice laced with both affection and exasperation.

You glanced up, meeting her eyes, unfazed by the gentle reprimand, “I know, but… I can do it, Natasha.”

She shook her head slightly, her eyes softening, but you could still see the resistance there. She hadn’t budged on her decision from the last time you asked.

“I don’t want you anywhere near this one,” she said quietly, pulling the file closer to herself as if to protect you from the mere sight of it. “It’s too dangerous.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the emotions rising in your chest, “It’s nothing I haven’t done before, Nat. I’ve handled things like this.”

Her lips pressed together, and she moved to sit beside you on the couch, the file now forgotten. You turned to face her, determination shining in your eyes.

“I’m not asking to be on the ground,” you said, your voice calm but firm. “I’ll be your mission control. You won’t even have to worry about me being anywhere near the danger. I’ll keep an eye on you from afar, talk to you through the earpiece—just like you’ve done a million times with other agents. I can do that for you. And in case you get hurt, I’ll be there to fix you up. I’m was a field medic, Nat, I’m not new to this.”

Natasha looked at you, her gaze intense as she processed your words. You could see the hesitation in her eyes, the way she wanted to say no again but couldn’t bring herself to dismiss you entirely. There was a weight in the air, the acknowledgment that you knew what you were doing, that you could handle this. But for Natasha, it was never about doubting your capabilities—it was about her unwillingness to risk losing you.

Her hand found yours, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I don’t want you in this mess,” she whispered, her voice low. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt,” you said, squeezing her hand gently. “I’ll be in the safest place possible. You won’t even see me.”

Natasha let out a long, tired breath, her eyes searching yours, torn between her instinct to protect you and the knowledge that you were just as stubborn as she was. You could see it in her face, the way her shoulders slumped slightly, how much she hated the thought of dragging you into something that could go so wrong. But you could also see her trust in you—the faith she had that you could do this, that you were strong enough.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she nodded, just slightly. “Okay,” she murmured. “But you stay back. And you listen to everything I say, no arguments.”

You smiled softly, relief washing over you as you nodded in agreement, “Deal.”

She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, her fingers still intertwined with yours, “I mean it. No heroics.”

“No heroics,” you echoed, leaning into her touch.

Natasha knew, without a shadow of doubt, that you were more than qualified for the job. You were smart—one of the sharpest minds she had ever encountered when it came to recon, able to analyze a situation and strategize with precision that even impressed top agents. And when it came to field medicine, you were nothing short of remarkable. She’d seen you in action, watched the way your hands worked with a steady calm under pressure, saving lives in the most chaotic of circumstances. You weren’t just capable—you were essential.

But even with all that knowledge, Natasha couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that gripped her whenever she thought about you in the field. It was irrational, she knew, to let her mind wander to worst-case scenarios. But the idea of you getting hurt—of you lying on the ground, injured, or worse—tore through her like nothing else could. She had seen too many good people taken out by the dangers she faced every day, and the thought of you being one of them made her chest tighten painfully. Natasha could handle her own pain, her own injuries, but the idea of you being in harm’s way, of her losing you to the unpredictability of a mission, was something she could barely stomach.

She thought about how she’d be relentless in making sure you were nowhere near the line of fire when the mission starts. She’d double-check everything—triple-check, even. Your position would be far from the danger zones. She’d make certain that your vantage point would offer a clear view of the mission, but also a clear escape. She knew the layouts, knew the tactics, and she’d make sure there was no chance you’d be in the crosshairs.

She could handle the risks that came with her line of work, but when it came to you, she couldn’t take any chances.

There’d be times she’d want to look back, to hear your voice in her earpiece just to know you were still safe, still there, far away from the chaos. The mission might require her focus, but nothing could pull her attention more than the thought of your safety, knowing she would do anything—absolutely anything—to protect you.

The mission had been going as smoothly as it started—almost too smoothly.

Natasha really double-checked everything. Every point of entry, every route in and out, every possible variable that could go wrong. She had gone over it again and again in her mind, ensuring that you were far enough away, safely tucked in the quinjet, monitoring everything from your secure position. You had been perfect, calm and focused as you talked in her ear, feeding her intel and updates, watching the scene unfold from the distant safety of the control panels. She had felt reassured hearing your steady voice, knowing you were safe.

But then, something shifted. It was subtle at first, a disturbance she hadn’t noticed right away. Until she heard your voice, clipped with tension in her ear. “Nat… something’s wrong.”

Natasha froze, her heart skipping a beat. She immediately checked her surroundings, her hand instinctively tightening around her weapon as she scanned the perimeter.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice tight, trying to stay calm, but she could hear the urgency in her own tone.

There was static for a second, and then your voice again, strained. “I think… I think there’s movement here. I don’t know how—”

Her blood ran cold. Someone had slipped past. Despite all her precautions, someone had found you.

Natasha’s heart nearly stopped at the sound of your voice cutting out. Panic clawed at her chest as she frantically shoved the data she’d been extracting into her pocket. Without wasting a second, she took off in a dead sprint, her breath coming hard and fast as she darted through the corridors. Her mind was overflowing, thoughts racing at an uncontrollable speed. All her meticulous planning, her assurances to herself that you’d be safe—none of it mattered now.

The only thing that mattered was getting to you.

She could still hear faint shuffling in her earpiece, the sound of you moving, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t close enough, and it wasn’t fast enough. Her gut twisted, every second feeling like a lifetime as she pushed herself harder, faster. Her boots hit the ground in a steady, desperate rhythm, but all she could focus on was the silence that followed. Suddenly, the shuffling stopped. Everything went quiet.

Too quiet.

Her heart pounded louder, panic rising to her throat, threatening to choke her. She felt the dread crawling up her spine as she ran faster than she thought possible. The quinjet was just ahead. She had to get to you—had to make sure you were okay.

Because she couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.

Natasha reached the quinjet only just a minute later, her muscles burning from the sprint, but she barely noticed the pain. One guard stood just outside the entrance, his stance stiff as he surveyed the area. She huffed, and without wasting a second, she grabbed him by the neck and slammed him against the side of the jet, knocking him out cold. His body hit the ground with a dull thud, and she barely spared him a glance, her focus entirely on you.

The door to the jet creaked open, and Natasha entered, her senses on high alert. The air was thick, and every step felt heavy as she cautiously made her way through the dim space. Her heart hammered in her chest, her grip tight around her gun. There were two guards already down on the floor, their bodies lifeless. Her instincts kicked in—something had gone wrong, but you’d clearly fought back. Her eyes scanned the interior, her breath catching in her throat. Where were you? She couldn’t shake the feeling of dread settling deep in her stomach, her gaze darting from shadow to shadow, searching, praying to find you.

“Y/N?” she called out, her voice low but urgent, her pulse a wild drumbeat in her ears. No response. She swallowed hard, her body tense as she moved further into the quinjet.

Then, in the far corner, she saw you—crumpled on the floor, unmoving and her world stopped.

Natasha rushed over, dropping to her knees beside you, hands shaking as they hovered over your body. Bruises lined your skin, and a cut on your temple trickled with blood. She cursed under her breath, her mind reeling. She gently lifted your head, cradling you in her arms, her fingers brushing your cheek.

“Hey, I’m here… I’m here.”But her voice wavered, barely above a whisper.

Your vision was hazy, the world coming back into focus in slow, fractured pieces. The first thing you saw was Natasha, her face hovering above yours, panic and relief etched into her face. Her demeanor cracked, and you could see the raw emotion she was holding back. Everything around you felt heavier than it should, the throbbing ache in your body making it hard to move, let alone breathe properly. Despite it all, you found yourself offering her a faint smile, though it hurt to even do that.

“You… should see the other guy,” you mumbled, your voice barely more than a whisper, but still carrying that familiar spark of humor.

Natasha’s reaction was immediate—her breath hitched, and her expression tightened, the tiniest hint of a smile flickering on her lips, though it didn’t last long. She let out a slow, controlled exhale as if grounding herself, before reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair away from your face. Her touch was gentle, but there was a kind of desperation in the way her fingers lingered against your skin, as if she needed the reassurance that you were still there, still breathing.

“Shut up,” she muttered, her voice low and trembling, though she tried to hide it. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Her eyes told the rest of the story—wide, frightened, filled with emotions you rarely saw on her face. She was always the composed one, the one who could handle anything. But seeing you like this, bruised and bloodied on the floor, had torn through that facade. Even in your hazy state, you could see how much it pained her.

You tried to reach for her hand, but your muscles protested, and the exhaustion weighed you down. The smile you gave her wasn’t much, but it was all you had, an attempt to reassure her even when your body was screaming. You didn’t need to say it, though—she could read you like a book. Her hand stayed on your cheek, thumb brushing lightly against your skin, and you could feel the way her tension eased, just a little, as she realized you were still here, still with her.

Natasha hooked her arms under yours, her movements careful but swift as she pulled you to your feet. You gritted your teeth, biting back the groan that wanted to escape as your muscles screamed in protest. Even though the pain clouded your mind, you couldn’t help but notice how gentle she was being—her touch sure, but far softer than it ever was in the field. She practically carried you over to the nearest seat, easing you down with a tenderness that didn’t quite match the sharp intensity still flickering in her eyes.

“I’ll be back,” she murmured, her voice low, calming. She took a moment to make sure you were comfortable before stepping away.

The sound of the bodies being dragged echoed faintly through the jet, but you could barely register it, your eyes growing heavier by the second. Through the haze of exhaustion, you heard the door open, then close with a sharp hiss as Natasha disposed of the enemies who had nearly cost you everything. The quiet hum of the jet followed, and the subtle shift of it lifting into the air was oddly soothing. When she returned, she already had the autopilot engaged, her every move precise and calculated, even in her rush.

But she was barely focused on the instrument panel when she heard it—a soft whisper, fragile as glass, cutting through the hum of the engines. “Natasha?”

Her heart skipped, and without a moment’s hesitation, she turned, making her way back to you quickly. You were trying to hold yourself together, but she could see the strain in your eyes. Your face was pale, and the resolve that usually radiated from you seemed to flicker like a candle about to go out.

“What is it, detka?” Natasha asked, kneeling beside you, her tone urgent but laced with a tenderness that broke through the tension.

You hesitated, biting your lip as you summoned the courage to reveal what you had hidden beneath your shirt. Slowly, you moved your arm from your abdomen, exposing the wound—a seemingly deep, angry cut that glistened with fresh blood, the fabric of your suit stained around it. The sight sent a cold wave of dread crashing over Natasha, and she cursed under her breath.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she demanded, her voice sharp, but it was laced frustration. “You should have told me!”

You offered a small, calm smile, even as your breath hitched slightly from the pain. “I didn’t want to worry you. I thought I could handle it. It’s not… it’s not deep.”

Your words were steady, yet Natasha could hear the tremor that betrayed your nerves, the way your eyes betrayed the battle you were fighting within.

But the adrenaline was fading, and she could see the weariness creeping in. Natasha instinctively leaned closer, her hand moving to assess the wound more closely. “You’ve got to tell me everything, alright? How bad is it?”

You nodded slowly, wincing a little as she touched around the edges of the wound. “It hurts, but I’ll be fine once we get home. Just… promise me you won’t freak out.”

“Too late for that, I think,” she replied, her voice strained. “You’re the one who’s supposed to take care of me, not the other way around.”

Natasha shook her head as she looked down at your wound. All she wanted was to keep you safe, and now, as she looked at you, vulnerability reflected back in your gaze, she was reminded of just how fragile life could be.

She moved silently, her frustration simmering beneath the surface as she carefully guided you toward the stretcher bed in the back of the quinjet. She didn’t say a word, but you could see it—the tense set of her shoulders, the firm grip of her hands as they steadied you, the subtle clench of her jaw as she helped you lie down. It wasn’t anger directed at you, it never could be; it was the helplessness that gnawed at her, the fact that she couldn’t prevent this. She’d done everything to keep you safe, double-checking every detail of the mission, ensuring you were far from the fray, yet somehow danger had still reached you. Her eyes flicked briefly to the blood-stained makeshift bandage on your abdomen. She exhaled quietly through her nose, pushing down the frustration, the fear that lingered just beneath it, and focused on making sure you were comfortable, making sure you were okay.

You needed to assess the damage. With a grimace, you shifted your position, which sent a jolt of pain coursing through you, but you forced yourself to look down at the wound. The fabric of your shirt was torn, and you could see the ugly gash seeping blood, crimson staining your skin.

“It hurts,” you admitted, your brow furrowing as you took stock of what you could see. “But it’s not as bad as it looks. I don’t think it hit anything vital.” You swallowed hard, fighting the dizziness creeping in.

Natasha looked over you, watching as you pressed on it to keep the pressure. “Are you sure?” she asked, her tone laced with concern, her green eyes darkening as they studied your face for any sign of distress.

“Yeah,” you continued, the rush of your training and instincts taking over. You looked into her eyes, your voice steady despite the pain radiating through you, “There’s a lot of blood, but I can handle it. Just get me the first aid kit from the storage compartment. I need a sterile dressing. And keep applying pressure on the wound.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice now focused and clear as she sprang into action.

She moved fast, opening the storage compartment with deft fingers, her movements sharp and precise, as if she was preparing for a mission rather than tending to you.

You pressed your palm against the wound, feeling the warmth of your blood seeping through your fingers, a steady reminder of how close you had come to something much worse. She moved quickly, her hands steady as she helped you apply the sterile dressing, her focus narrowing to the wound and the task at hand. Every motion was deliberate, practiced, as if she could will the injury to heal faster by sheer concentration alone. You could see the intensity in her eyes as she pressed the bandage into place, holding it with just the right amount of pressure.

“If the bleeding doesn’t stop, we might have to close it here,” you murmured, your voice softer than usual, but calm.

Natasha’s gaze flickered up at you for a brief second, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn’t like that idea, you could tell, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she nodded, her hands never leaving the dressing, fingers still firm but gentle.

“It’ll stop,” she said quietly, more to herself than to you.

There was no room for anything else in her mind right now. The idea of stitching you up herself with nothing but a first aid kit—it made her stomach turn. But if it came to that, she would do it. No hesitation. You mattered more than anything else.

But after what felt like an eternity, the bleeding still hadn’t slowed enough. Natasha could see the red seeping through the dressing, staining her hands as she pressed down, her jaw clenched. You shifted slightly, wincing, and she knew it was time.

“Nat,” you said softly, your voice strained but steady. “We have to stitch it… Headquarters is too far… and I haven’t stopped bleeding yet.”

Her heart dropped at your words, though she didn’t let it show. She looked at you, her eyes meeting yours for a long moment, searching for any sign that you were exaggerating, but of course, you weren’t. You were right. She knew you were right, and it frustrated her, the fact that you were in this situation in the first place. She hated seeing you like this—hurt, bleeding, vulnerable. And yet, you were the calm one, the one keeping it together, while she was unraveling inside.

“Okay,” she finally said, her voice rougher than usual. “I’ll do it. Just—just hold on.”

She didn’t wait for you to respond before reaching for the first aid kit again. Natasha had stitched up wounds countless times before, but as looked at you, needle and thread in hand, her fingers trembled. The thought of piercing your skin, of causing you more pain—even if it was necessary—made her stomach twist. She’d done this under fire, in the middle of chaos, but doing it to you? That was different. The stakes felt impossibly high.

You noticed, of course. You always did. Your hand moved to brush against hers, your voice soft but steady despite the pain you were clearly in.

“Nat… it’s okay,” you murmured, your eyes catching hers. “I trust you.”

She paused, swallowing hard as she glanced up at you. The calm in your voice did something to her—grounded her in a way nothing else could. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and gave a small nod, her gaze holding yours for a moment longer.

“Okay,” Natasha said, her voice quiet but firmer now. “I’ll make it quick.”

And with that, she focused, her hands moving with care, the weight of your trust making her steady. She might have been nervous, but you didn’t waver. You stayed calm, and in that calm, she found her own strength.

As she’s started the first stitch, she could see the way your body tensed, the way your breath hitched for just a second before you steadied it. You were doing everything in your power to hide the pain, to keep your face as calm as possible, but Natasha knew. She could see the flicker of discomfort in your eyes, the tight grip you had on the edge of the stretcher. Every wince, no matter how small, sent a pang of guilt through her.

“Sorry, detka,” she muttered softly, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes never leaving the wound as she worked. The thread pulled through your skin again, and you flinched, just a little.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t complain, but she felt it. She always did. Each time her hands moved, she muttered another quiet apology as though she could somehow will the pain away with her words. She hated this—hated that you were hurt, hated that she was the one causing you more pain, even if it was to help. But you didn’t falter, not once. Even through the pain, you stayed steady, biting back the grimaces that Natasha could still see in the tension of your jaw. But no matter how much you tried to hide it, she knew. She always knew.

Natasha finished the last stitch with steady hands, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. She was careful, every move precise, making sure not to hurt you more than necessary. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her focus unwavering even though you could feel the slight tremble in her touch. She didn’t speak much, only the occasional soft apology whenever she noticed you wince.

When she finally tied off the last stitch, she sighed, the tension in her body visibly easing as she put down the needle. Her fingers lingered briefly on your skin, as if to reassure herself that the worst was over. You had been watching her the entire time, admiring how focused she was, how even in a moment like this, she was careful, deliberate. When she sighed, you let your gaze fall down to the stitched wound, and after a moment, you gave a small nod of approval.

“It looks good,” you said softly, your voice a little hoarse but steady. You traced the line of stitches gently, feeling a sense of calm settle over you. “Very neat stitching.”

Natasha glanced up at you, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips, though the worry in her eyes hadn’t fully faded.

“Yeah?” she murmured, as if seeking your approval mattered more to her than anything else. You could see the relief start to ease its way into her expression, but there was still that underlying fear, the worry that she hadn’t done enough

She carefully bandaged the area, her hands gentle, wrapping the wound with methodical movements. She moved almost automatically, but her mind was racing, simmering with frustration. She checked everything, gone over the plan a hundred times in her head, ensuring you would be far from any danger, out of harm’s way. But still, somehow, here you were, injured under her watch.

As she finished securing the bandage, Natasha finally looked at you, her eyes searching your face, and that tight knot of anger coiled inside her chest. She hated that you had gotten hurt, hated herself even more for letting it happen, for not protecting you the way she promised she would. The frustration sat heavy on her shoulders, but she swallowed it down.

“Did you get it?” your voice breaks through the silence, soft but curious

Natasha, still focused on the bandage she’s securing, doesn’t quite register your words at first. Her eyes flick up, briefly distracted

“What?” she murmurs, blinking as if she’s coming back to the moment.

“The data. For the mission,” you repeat gently, watching her.

For a second, her expression falters, the steely resolve she’s worn for the past hour cracking just slightly. She realizes where her mind had gone—far away from the mission and its objective, and entirely on you. You, lying there, hurt and vulnerable, a sight she never wanted to see. Her throat tightens as the weight of everything presses down on her, but she pushes it aside, slipping back into the role she knows best.

“Yeah,” she finally says, her voice low and steady. “I got it.”

But there’s something else in her eyes, something she doesn’t say. But after a moment of silence, feeling the weight of her frustration, Natasha finally mutters under her breath—a sentence she didn’t mean to slip out so easily in front of you.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Her voice is low, tinged with an edge she can’t quite hide, and the moment it slips out, she almost regrets it. But the frustration is real, bubbling under her skin—anger at the situation, at herself for letting this happen, at the fact that no matter how much she tries to protect you, she can’t shield you from everything.

You shift slightly, eyes flicking away from her as if the words hit harder than you’d expected. There’s a beat of silence before you respond, quieter now, a trace of something resigned in your tone.

“I felt like you were going to say that.”

It stings, that simple acknowledgment, because you’re not wrong. Natasha knows you wanted to help, that you’re just as capable as anyone on the field, if not more. But seeing you here now, hurt, is enough to make her want to pull you away from all of it. The mission, the danger—all of it. She clenches her jaw, fighting the instinct to apologize, but the words sit heavy between you.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want you to go.”

Her voice is firm now, but there’s a tension behind it, like she’s holding back more than she’s letting on. She keeps her eyes on you, though you’re still looking away, refusing to meet her gaze.

The fear that this would happen had been gnawing at her the entire time. Every time she heard your voice crackle through the earpiece, every second she knew you were out there, not as far from danger as she’d hoped—it all led up to this. She warned you, she didn’t want you there, not because she doubted your abilities but because of this.

And now, with the bandages wrapped around your abdomen, the sting of her words feels as sharp as the wound itself. There’s a tremor in the silence that follows, the heaviness of what she’s not saying. The real reason—the fear that seeing you hurt like this brings something out in her that she’s not sure she can control.

“It was going fine, Natasha,” you told her firmly.

“Yeah, until it didn’t,” Natasha snaps, her voice taut with barely-contained frustration. She’s pacing now, her fists clenched at her sides, the image of you lying there, bleeding, still too fresh in her mind. “It could’ve been worse, (Y/n). You could’ve been…”

She stops herself, the words catching in her throat, her chest tightening painfully at the thought.

The rest of her sentence hangs in the air, unfinished but heavy with the meaning she can’t bring herself to say out loud. Dead. She can’t even imagine it. The very thought of you being taken from her like that is unbearable, and she feels it—this overwhelming surge of something she can’t control. Her hands tremble just slightly as she forces herself to stop pacing, to breathe.

She turns back to you, her eyes softening despite the anger and fear still swirling beneath her skin. But the image of you, bruised and bleeding, is burned into her mind now. It’s not something she can easily shake.

A sigh leaves her lips once more, quieter this time, the tension in her body slowly ebbing away as she moves closer to you. Her hand reaches out almost instinctively, wrapping gently around yours. For a moment, she just stares at your intertwined fingers, tracing the familiar curve of your palm, as if memorizing the way your hand fits so perfectly with hers.

“I can’t…” she begins, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with something raw, “I can’t see you like that… I don’t…”

Her breath catches, and she struggles to find the right words, the vulnerability pressing against her ribs, making her feel exposed in a way she’s not used to.

“I don’t know what I’d do with myself if something happened to you.”

She says it shyly, almost as if she’s embarrassed by how much she cares, how deeply this fear has lodged itself inside of her. Her eyes flicker up to meet yours, searching your face as if she’s trying to speak with her eyes the full weight of her feelings without having to say any more. Because Natasha isn’t used to feeling like this—this scared, this helpless—and it unnerves her. The thought of losing you, of not being able to protect you, is something she doesn’t know how to handle.

“Natasha, look at me,” you say softly, your voice gentle but firm.

She doesn’t, at first. Her gaze is still fixed on your hands, her thumb brushing over your skin in slow, distracted circles, as if she’s trying to memorize every detail of your skin.

“Baby,” you whisper again, a little more insistent, “look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, her eyes lift. There’s a hint of chaos behind them—worry, fear, and something so deeply rooted it makes your heart ache just to see it. She’s silent, but her eyes are pleading, as if asking you to make sense of the turmoil she’s been carrying since the moment things went wrong on the mission.

“I’m right here,” you tell her, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words land heavily between you. “I’m okay.”

You lift your free hand to her cheek, brushing your thumb along her jawline, trying to soothe away the tension that’s crept into every inch of her.

“I’m safe.”

She exhales shakily, leaning into your touch, her eyes still clouded with uncertainty. But she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her grip on your hand tightens, as if she’s afraid that letting go might somehow make you disappear.

“I can’t lose you,” Natasha whispers, her voice so quiet, it almost disappears into the air between you. Her eyes, usually so strong and composed, glisten, and for a moment, you think she might actually cry. It’s rare to see her like this—so vulnerable, so afraid.

Without hesitation, you squeeze her hand, pulling her closer. “You didn’t,” you say quickly, your voice gentle but firm, trying to anchor her back to reality. “You didn’t lose me.”

She doesn’t respond at first, her gaze flicking between your face and the wound she’s just tended to, as if she’s still grappling with the thought of how close it all came. Her breath is uneven, a quiet tremor of emotion she’s struggling to keep inside.

You reach up and cradle her face in both hands, forcing her to meet your eyes. “Look at me,” you say, your voice soft but commanding. “I’m right here.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything at first. She just stares at you, her eyes searching yours like she’s still trying to convince herself you’re really there, alive and breathing. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she nods. Her eyes flutter shut, as if closing them will somehow block out all the fear and frustration inside her. She takes your hand, gently lifting it to her lips, and presses a soft kiss against your knuckles. Her breath is warm, lingering over your skin, and she doesn’t stop with just one kiss. Another follows, and then another, her lips brushing tenderly across the back of your hand as if the contact itself is a way of reassuring herself that you’re still with her.

Each kiss was slow, filled with the kind of affection that makes your heart ache. You feel the tension in her shoulders start to ease, her breathing evening out. When she finally pulls back, her fingers trace over the spot she’s just kissed, her touch light but lingering. She looks at you again, her expression softer now, as if she’s starting to believe that you’re really okay.

“I’m guessing this means that I can’t go on any more missions with you,” you say with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood.

A small, breathy laugh escapes her mouth, though it’s more of a huff, and the corner of her lips quirk up just a little.

“You think?” she mutters, but there’s no real bite to it. The tension from earlier hasn’t fully faded, but the way you joke, the way you try to make light of the situation—she can’t help but let a bit of the weight lift off her chest.

She shakes her head slightly, her thumb absently brushing over the back of your hand, still holding onto you like she can’t quite bring herself to let go yet.

“I should ban you from every mission,” she says, her voice softer now, almost playful, but with that familiar protective edge. “But knowing you…”

She trails off, giving you a knowing look that makes it clear how stubborn she thinks you are. You grin, despite the soreness and the lingering ache in your body.

“You know I’d find a way to convince you,” you say, tilting your head a little.

Natasha’s smile softens into something more tender as she looks at you, her green eyes holding yours.

“Yeah,” she whispers, and there’s a quiet, tired fondness in her voice now. “Yeah, you probably would… But, no more of this.”

You close your eyes for a second, feeling the warmth of her skin, “I’ll try,” you say, voice soft. It’s not quite a promise, but it’s enough for now.

“I can’t take you away from your work. It’s your job… It’s both of ours.” Her voice cuts through the air, firm and unyielding, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m just not letting you out of my sight again.”

There’s a finality in her words that makes you pause, a quiet intensity that speaks to something deeper than her usual protectiveness. Her eyes, still lingering on yours, are resolute, as if she’s already made up her mind. You can see it in the set of her jaw, the tightness in her shoulders—she’s serious. This isn’t just about the mission, or even the injury. It’s about something bigger, something she’s been holding onto for too long.

You know Natasha. You know the layers of her. How she’s always the one in control, always calculated, prepared for anything. But right now, there’s a vulnerability in her that’s hard to ignore. She’s not just saying this to keep you safe; she’s saying it because the thought of losing you is something she can’t bear, something she can’t even let herself entertain for too long without feeling like the ground is slipping out from under her.

You open your mouth to respond, to maybe crack another joke or reassure her that you’re okay, but the words catch in your throat when you see the look on her face. She’s staring at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world, and it makes your heart ache a little, knowing how hard it is for her to let that kind of emotion show.

“I’m serious,” she adds, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. Her hand tightens around yours, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’m not losing you.”

There’s a moment of silence, heavy and filled with everything neither of you are saying. You want to protest, to tell her she doesn’t need to worry so much, but you can’t. Because you know—deep down, you know that she’s right. And maybe part of you doesn’t mind the idea of her always being there, watching over you, making sure you’re safe.

But for now, you just squeeze her hand in return, letting the weight of her words settle over you both. It’s not a conversation you need to finish right now. You’re alive, and for Natasha, that’s all that matters.

navigation | n.r masterlist

#bellaveux writes!#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff #marvel x reader #avengers x reader #mcu x reader #natasha x reader

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whirlybirbs · 10 days ago

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I'm asking nicely and politely but also banging my credit card on the table like a shopping addict on Black Friday. And you're the TJ Maxx Cashier.

I just need more freak loser Simon, in any capacity really. I just like thinking about him trying to decipher anyone being nice to him, like manually sorting interactions into mental boxes, just staring down at someone as he's trying to figure out if he's putting something in the 'friend' box or the dusty cobwebbed 'flirting' box

1. handler's manual — ghost / reader

desc: moth is the 141's intel specialist. ghost is the 141's resident freak. pairing: lt. simon "ghost" riley / f!reader ; callsign: moth playlist: weird by kaytranada a/n: leaning into my roots with good old drabbles that will eventually ruin all our lives because of the slow burn. / next ⇾

"Bugger off, Moth." For someone whose whole gig is intelligence, Lieutenant Riley makes you feel awfully fucking stupid. I mean — Christ, does he have, like, a handler's manual? He should. He needs one. At this point, you're convinced the 141's Ghost has some sort of moon-based mood indicator that is also entirely dependent on what the mess is serving for lunch and if Philip Graves has opened his mouth more than three times that day.

Layers. Complicated.

Stupid.

You feel stupid.

You tug your ball cap down and shake off the sigh that rattles out of your chest. You try to ignore the sting of rejection in your chest, pointedly deciding that fine, good ol' fashioned camaraderie apparently isn't the vibe today. Sucking your teeth, you knock two knuckles on the mess table and nod. "Sure, el-tee. You got it."

Apparently, the big man wants to eat alone today.

You stand, turn your back, and don't say another word to him.

Simon winces. You miss it, thank fuck. Credit where it's due: you do a good job hiding the obvious sting his words reap, like a fresh slap across the face. But, Simon knows you well enough — he's spent a long time trying to unravel you, trying to understand you, from afar. He sees the rejection and the instant burn of guilt makes his knee bounce under the table.

Simon cracks his knuckles before taking a long sip of his cold tea.

Lately? Being around you is like staring into the sun and he isn't sure why. He can hardly handle it, because fuckin' hell, you don't act like he's a dead man walking. You listen. You talk. You laugh.

You even chime in with those stupid fuckin' rippers him an' Johnny fire back at one another over the comms on long recon missions when you're their Overwatch.

It makes him uncomfortable. Unsettled.

He doesn't let people get close.

There's a tight roster of people who know him. He doesn't like that you're creeping in — that you're creating cracks in the walls he has toiled over for years... Or, maybe you're not creating them, but you're sure as fuck finding them. "Moth."

You stop mid-step, your fingers tight around your meal tray. He always uses your callsign — more so than the others. Like he's keeping you at arms length. You cast a look back over your shoulder, noting the way his blonde brows are pinched tight beneath his balaclava. "Jus' need some space, s'all."

You're not sure if he means now or forever, but you take what you get. You offer a reassuring nod, throw in a smile, and jut your jaw towards the others sitting a few tables over. He's saying something more than just needing space, and you'll figure out what as you mull it over for an unforeseeable amount of time. It's what you do. You figure people out. "Don't worry."

"I ain't worried."

"Good."

"Right."

You'll write the handler's manual if you have to.

#handler's manual #ghost x moth #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley imagine #ghost imagine #mw2 imagine #ghost cod x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader

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theangrycomet-art · 6 months ago

Text

TFA: Ariel/Elita 1's Squadron, Team Orthia

I fell down the wiki rabbit hole last night and now I have these.

Everyone's heights are off/going to change in the future because I wasn't sure on everyone's alts when I was first drawing out the line up.

I mostly just wanted to get ideas down on paper.

COMMISSIONS OPEN

Transcript of my Handwriting Plus Other Lore:

Nothing here’s set in stone I just wrote down ideas/compiled thoughts as they came to me.

edit: Changed Lancer’s Profile Info to match new ideas I have

TFA: Sheild of Solus

Operation: Failsafe

Purpose: To sabotage any and all Decipticon efforts of gaining any headway in this war. First, start off with the infiltrators, next, hit them where it hurts.

After discovering a spy had infiltrated their ranks, Alpha Trion took it upon himself to assemble a team to sabotage any Decipticon efforts to gain a foothold on Cybertron, hoping that they would be able to counter any threats on Cybertron.

Ariel/Elita-1

Commander and the Leader

High-ranking member of the Elite Guard

Alpha Trion’s inside eyes

Alt Mode: Cybertronian Heavy Duty Truck -> Monster Truck

Special Upgrade: Classified

Good-Morningstar Mace: Morning star with detachable head

Laser Kusarigama: This weighted chain serves Elita well when she needs to tie up the enemy (or retrieve your teammate as her gravity fluctuates again)

Tidbit: One of the few of the Elite Guard to not have gone to the Academy, Elita rose through the ranks through her skill and ingenuity, despite other’s misgivings. A bit rough around the edges, she is always there for her fellow bots. When her former mentor requested her aid in his mission, she had no hesitation joining. (It helped that it got her away from her more tiresome coworkers)

Chromia

Second in Command

Recon Specialist, Infiltrator

Former Intelligence Officer; she retired when she was not allowed to investigate Highbrows abrupt disappearance and opened a private investigator business.

Alt Mode: Cybertronian Trike -> Trike (like Harley-Davidson Tri Glide Ultra)

Special Upgrade: Lockpick: with enough time she can pick any lock and hack into any systems with the extensions in her servos. However, this can takes a lot of her processing power and leaves her vulnerable.

Laser Sabre: Good for clashing blades and slipping between the seams of an enemy’s armor

Tidbit: Despite her worrying over her teammates, Chromia has a habit of diving helm first into her work with little disregard for herself, whether that be forgetting to refuel and recharge or tempting fate with more self-sacrificial tendencies. She’s been working on it, but bad habits die hard…

Novastar

Search and Rescue, Transportation and Retrieval

Served in the tail-end of the Great War

Worked previously in Search and Rescue with her partners Inferno and Red Alert

Through this line of work, she developed extensive connections.

AltMode: Cybertronian Truck -> Narrowbed Truck

Special Upgrade: Furnace: Nova is able to generate massive bursts of flame, and she has refined the practice into an art. The flames on her head are no only an aesthetic choice, but an outlet for the excess heat she generates. These are easily extinguished; a fact Inferno took great joy in abusing the damn firetruck bot.

Blowtorch: During her time in field during the Great War, Nova lost her left servo to a Decpticon when retrieving soldiers from behind enemy lines. She had it replaced with a blowtorch prothesis that allows her to pinpoint flames to temperatures that can cut through even the toughest of materials- temperatures that otherwise would melt her frames

Tidbit: Novastar has been trying to locate Inferno, who has recently gone MIA after responding to an off-planet distress beacon with a new recruit with little to no luck. She is hoping the new job title will grant her greater resources to expand her search.

Greenlight

Engineer

“The Miracle Worker”

A student of WheelJack’s

Greenlight’s inventions can be brilliantly or devastating (or if she’s lucky) both. She tends to get attached to her devices, however, and gets rather despondent when they are broken or do not work as intended.

Aloof, she doesn’t see the need to waste much time with small talk. It requires a bot with a lot of patience (and ability to pester) to get her to come out of her shell

Alt Mode: Cybertronian Offroader

Special Upgrade: Tasers: Though not a combat bot, Greenlight saw fit to mod herself out with some decent defense. The tasers stored in her arms can generate enough volts of electricity that can through bots thrice her size flat on their backs.

Boom Cannon: A weapon still in its testing phases, she has been building it up from stolen Decepticon specs in her free time.

Tidbit: If asked, Greenlight will say that she agreed to sign up to get out of community service for accidentally demoing a perfectly good lab with one of her inventions. While partly true, a larger part of why she joined was because she didn’t want Lancer doing this alone.

Lancer [Edited]

Researcher

Unofficial Medic

Student of Perceptor

Alt Mode: n/a, missing T-Cog

Special Upgrade: FlipScreen: her “skirt” doubles as computers, monitor and keyboard included. This grants her access to ALL of her files and more importantly allows her to run any necessary scans, analysis, or algorithms she needs when or wherever she needs. It is also a bold fashion statement

BackPack Variety Hour: She has a variety of “backpacks” each serving different purposes, though if you ask anyone but Lancer they all look identical. Despite their incredible weight, she carries them with ease.

Backup Generator: Via the generator on her back, she could keep a city fully powered without straining her spark. Most of this energy goes into the powering the extra processors she has stored in her “skirt”

Star Splitter: a powerful laser spear, though she more often then not uses it for pole vaulting than actual combat

Tidbit: Lancer has been a researcher for the Autobots for longer than many bots have been alive, mostly regarding projects Ultra Magnus would rather not go public. Despite the JetTwins being by far the most successful of these endeavors, Lancer quit shortly after. When Alpha Trion offered her a more savory research position with Twam Orthia she was quick to accept and get out from Ultra Magnus’ thumb.

Moonracer

Sharpshooter/Sniper

“Best in the Whole Galaxy!”

Graduated top of her classes at the Autobot Academy but has struggled to keep a longterm position due to her impulsive behavior, with her last job being messenger-bot for Security.

Alt Mode: Cybertron Compact Car -> Vector W8

Special Upgrade: Internal Gravity Manipulator: As labelled on the tin, she has the ability to shift her gravity, decreasing AND increasing. Typically, she uses this to “float” or “moon walk”. The change in gravity can be extended to objects she comes into direct contact, but maintaining it drains her very quickly.

Velicotron Build: Speedster Though not as fast as the infamous Blurr, Moonracer is incredibly quick both as a bot and her alt form. Combine this with her gravity-defying abilities leads to some devastating results.

Custom Ion Pistols: Dual pistols that can combine into her sniper rifle.

Tidbit: Moonracer is a good bot with a good head on her shoulders. She will always do what she thinks is right- but she tends to jump the gun on things which gets her into trouble. With inexperience comes naivety, but how is she supposed to learn anything if nobody gives her a chance to do anything?

Individual Shots

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simonriley09 · 2 months ago

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Not a request but a rant bc i feel like you're the only person who'd agree w me but I've seen a couple of stories and character ai bots that convey Simon taking his mask off as a HUGE deal and he's so insecure and scared of what you'll think of him... but he literally took his mask off in the game in front of his team and even some ppl i don't think he knew (I haven't played in awhile) without any hesitation.

ALSO- can we talk about the fact that so many people think that König having social anxiety means he's shy? I've seen some fics where he's this loser virgin who's soooo shy and sooo scared and so submissive. Excuse me? He's 100% a rough dom. 😭

HELPPP BECAUSE THIS IS SO TRUE!?!?

PEOPLE PUPPY CODE SIMON SO MUCH THAT THEY THINK HE'LL GET ALL SHY AND BLUSHY WHEN HIS MASK IS OFF LIKE BITCH- LOOK AT HIS LORE:

Pre-Military

Simon Riley had a very traumatic childhood while growing up in Manchester, England because of his heartless father. His father often brought dangerous animals back to their home and taunted him with them, even going so far as to force Simon to kiss a snake. When he and his younger brother Tommy grew older, Tommy would always wear a skull-mask at night to scare Simon. Simon's father would sometimes take him to the Bone Lickers concerts. At one concert, his father made him laugh at the death of a prostitute who had overdosed on drugs. NOW LETS GET ON TO KÖNIG. Yes he does have social anxiety but that doesn't make him stutter and blush like a schoolboy.

KÖNIG'S LORE: König suffered from severe social anxiety throughout his life, often being bullied during his childhood. At the age of 17, he volunteered for the military.

While he hoped to join as a recon sniper, his physical size and his inability to stay still made him an unsuitable candidate. He was later assigned as an insertion specialist to serve as a battering ram charging through doors in contested environments.

During a mission, König took down an Al-Qatala cell in Berlin which was involved in human-trafficking. He breached the townhouse and eliminated all twelve AQ fighters inside. However, his sniper hood terrified the Urzik hostages who had to be convinced by the rest of his team to follow König to safety. Also Konig as a virgin i feel like he wouldn't be a loser, he'd straight up rail his partners into the mattress until his partners are gushing and squealing in pleasure or pain. Maybe both? RAHHHH I WANT BOTH OF THEM NOWWWW.

#call of duty #cod smut #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #konig x reader #konig call of duty #könig x reader #cod #konig smut #konig cod #cod simon ghost riley #ghost cod #cod mw2 #simon riley #ghost call of duty #simon riley ghost #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader

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blingblong55 · 1 year ago

Text

The Great War -141, Vladimir Makarov

Based on a request:

with the new mw3, lets do angst, something along the lines of "Somewhere in the haze, got a sense i've been betrayed" coming from us because 141 betrayed us horribly, which ended up in us getting tortured and then we pretennd its fine when it isnt. forget and forgive we lie and when we meet with Makarov, we tell them, 'oops sorry, forgot i was also a enemy at some point, guess its time to betray like real enemies do' and as we set Makarov free, we show that we have been working as his spy ever since they betrayed us. also can this be with a female reader and we also marry makarov behind their backs so thats why we betray so hard? i love u!

A/N: anon knew what they were doing with that ask…anyway, here you go my love…betrayal as a meal <3

--- F!Reader, soldier!reader, enemy!reader, betrayal, mentions of torture and violence

A/N: also, not much of an angst since I don't want to kill Soap in this one...but I hope you like it

[Present day]

File #21712

Name: [Readers Last, First name]

Alias: Grim

Callsign: Bravo 0-5

Gender: F

DOB: [Redacted]

Rank: 2nd Lt.

Affiliations:

-TF 141 (Former)

-Kasper Team (dissolved)

-Konni Group (Current)

Status: Alive. Threat.

Summary:

Deadly, fast and a killing machine. Soldier was trained as a recon sniper and has been trained by allied forces as an insertion specialist. SAS has recognised this soldier as a necessity for most of its joint operations. Decorated with high awards and recognition by all military forces. TF 141 acquired soldier after a mission in Al Mazrah. Capable of killing all those that come between her and the goal, will not hesitate to harm enemies.

----------------------

The file was there, Laswell and all of the men in the team stared at it. What have they done, was all that played in their minds. To betray a soldier that has been wanted by all allied forces, by all teams and now losing you so quickly to a Russian group. To think your hands will be responsible for their demise. One torture room, where you begged as they did vile acts against you. Truth yelled by your gravelly throat, only to have Price ask for more of your blood. "How did he get to her so quickly?" Gaz asked, baffled to have lost you to the man you hated when this all began. "He had her all along," Kate spoke. Nikolai shook his head. "But how? We were her family," a betrayed Ghost said. "We betrayed her first," Price recalls.

[Eight years ago]

There had been suspicion someone within the base was working with KorTac, a double agent. All fake puzzles led to an unsuspecting, then officer cadet, you. Ghost and Soap made sure to tie you nicely to a chair. The same one that watched you bleed the truth as they cut looking for lies. You were always the hunter, never the prey. "Tell us, R/N, why the fuck were you talking to KorTac!" Price made sure to have the young Lieutenant punch you each time you stayed silent. Your blood on the walls of the torture-...interrogation room. "I told you Price, it isn't me!" Your eyes poured the truth they never saw.

"Fucking answer us!" Soap, more than ever hurt, slapped you. You play tough, but this hurts, the people you trusted with your life are now wanting to end it. An oath you hold close to you, now far away, or so they believed. The patch you wore with pride, is now ripped from your uniform. No longer friendly but an enemy. You knew what this meant. Ghost took his knife out, began to approach your neck with the sharp blade and before he took your life, Gaz walked in. A small-figured soldier is being pushed into the room. "Tell them what you told me!" Garrick barked. "I-it's me! I'm the one who is talking to KorTac," voice filled with fear, rightfully so. Ghost let go of the fisted uniform in his hand, and watched as your body fell forward. Soap, look of regret, held you in his arms.

On the way to the medic centre, Ghost was by your side as you kept whispering it wasn't you. The scar he made, is forever to be kept. Days of healing, hours of apologies. Nights when you didn't hear it, but the cold lieutenant apologised with a stream of tears on his face. A blade he cared for, neared your death.

A/N: Makarov's information has been updated for the reboot, so I'm basing myself on that

[Seven years ago]

[Saint Petersburg, Russia]

You visited the country as a civilian and bumped into a man on your way to your hotel. "Sorry, mate," you kept walking and then days later, the same man appeared in the hotel's lobby. Bumped into you and then as an apology for spilling your wine, he offers dinner. 36-year-old Vladimir was still not illustrated, not to any of his future enemies or hunters at least. You learned many things with him that evening, from his young years in the military and how his night had gotten better since meeting you. "It's wonderful, to have such a beauty like you visit such a dull country." He had you blushing and knew how to mess with your young heart.

"You're just saying that, Vlad," a smile on your lips. It was bizarre how he went from Vladimir to Vlad, a short name that meant too much to a man like him. "Well, it's true, my dear," his smile winning you over. He didn't know your real job and you didn't know his. That night, you made a friend, someone you hold dear. That night, he made a lover, a puppet to his future.

[Six years ago]

[middle of nowhere]

"Where are you taking me?" a blindfold on you as your boyfriend, Vlad, took you to yet another date. "You'll see my dearest," he whispers against your soft skin. Warm breeze hit your skin. The ocean, as free as you and him yearned to be. "Suprise my love," his thick accent melting your heart. The blindfold off you, you smile and hug him. This day, all truth was told, no arguments, just two lovers understanding each other's lives. "No no, my love, I would never hurt you," a promise he knows to keep. "And you wouldn't betray me, right love?" His hands cupped your delicate face as you nod. "I would never," you whisper as you feel his lips fall on yours.

From then on, no one knew who he was to you. But to his comrades, friends and family you were the girl who held his heart. The task force all thought you were just like them, stuck to the mission and not to civilian love. Dancing with the devil, making love to him and promising your all. An engagement ring that hangs with your dog tags. Secret love to never be told.

[Five years ago]

"Who is this?" Soap and Gaz looked at the photograph. "Vladimir Makarov, a Russian nationalist, born during the USSR," Laswell responded. "He's the target," her lips said. A knot at your throat, this can't be, you have to warn him. "Y'alright love?" Ghost's hand on your back. You nod. "Yeah, I'm just thinking," you turn to him. He nods, "Right, well, what do you think we should do?" He encouraged you, the new lieutenant of the team, no longer a cadet officer. It was something he pushed you to, to be the best. Proud smile on him when you ran up to him with the news. "I say we start with intel," you look at the photograph once more. It was your Vlad, no doubt. "Right, sergeants with me, Ghost and Grim stay behind for Laswell's next intel ask," Price nodded and left.

Days passed and Operation Golf was established. Ghost taught you how to perfect your ghillie suit. He just liked how you tried to make yours better than his, which always turned into, 'which Lt. wore it better'.

By midnight, as Ghost went to sleep, you left base to meet with Vladimir. Price and the two other men in a different country, looking for him. "What is it, my love?" His gloved hands held your face. "They are now gathering intel on you. They believe you are still in Russia," you spoke in Russian. He chuckles, "Shame that I'm here, isn't it," his lips meet yours. Your nose is cold and now warmed by his kiss. "Don't trust no one, not even Ivan," you warn him. "I only trust my beautiful love," he kisses you again. "Now, let me hold my precious darling before she plays pretend." And that night, was the first of many rendezvous's he took for you whilst you play ally to the task force.

[Four years ago]

You were on an operation with some old teammates from a past squad when Price got a hold of you. "Grim, it's that Captain Price guy!" A teammate calls out. You answer the call. "Prisoner 627 is now in Russia," Price proudly spoke. 627, a number unique to the case the military had opened for Makarov alone. Your wedding ring is hung with the dog tags. "Copy, out." You say over the call. That night, your bedroom was not filled with the call of your dearest lover. It's strange, to play pretend with the family you made as a soldier and to play feign with the man you call home as a wife. All in the name of love and war.

Months pass and you play calmly. No husband, just an enemy in some Russian prison. "Y'okay bonnie?" Soap sat beside you during mess hall. "Yeah, just a bit tired from that training," you lie. The sleepless nights you have thought about your husband. You look around the table, no one knowing you knew what would come next from Konni. In the end, it wouldn't be you who got betrayed again. Not tortured, especially not by the men in your husband's team that guarded your life with theirs.

Mission after mission, you would go to a country near Russia. Have meetings with people on your husband's side, and hear how he would escape prison. Asked you to stay away from his people when the day arrived. Play good, he would remind you. You know the date, time, how and when it would happen. The plan is all memorised in your head. You knew the people that would break him free, you knew it all and yet no one in 141 was aware.

[Three years ago]

On yet another mission, you got news of Vladimir. He isolated himself, prepared for when he would see you again. Sent letters to you occasionally. Details of love no one would see from a man like him. A love for all movie lovers to never witness. You roamed the home he set out to be his and yours, no one, not even his best soldier knew that home existed. It was days like these that you wished to have stayed in bed and kissed his body, all details to be taken in for when you waited to once more kiss him.

The picture of the secret wedding was held between your fingers. A smile he dreams to see as he awaits the prison break. The man who was set to believe evil held your hand and promised an entire lifetime of love. "I'm sorry," you whisper as your gaze focuses on the 141 emblem.

"Never be sorry, never, what they did to you is cruel, you never do that to a woman who was oathed in," fury escaped his lips. It was the night he finally told you all about him. He kissed the scars that the torture room left. In that moment, all else who dared question you, especially the rats of 141 would pay for what they did to his darling. Maybe he did corrupt you, but those scars, the lies they believed and the truths they never heard from you, were way before he met you. He believed in loyalty, good or evil, opposing or not. And the way you told him how you held the oath of being a soldier dear to you, he admired it. He believes that loyalty is essential, and if you are loyal to who you are, he applauds it.

[Two years ago]

A mission gone wrong, a phone call from within the prison. All he sacrificed to just hear you say, "I'm fine, honey." With that oh-so-soft voice of yours. A sigh of relief came from his lips. This was a reminder he would always be around even from within a guarder tower of hell. His men would always guard you, even if they fought 141, you were never the target. KorTac had a target on their backs when Vladimir found out they were the ones responsible for the bullet on your shoulder. "What is it?" He asked the guard. "The girl has been injured, gunfight at some mission." He had people that worked for him within the guards, and when the news arrived to him, that's when for the first time in his life, he feared life and a gun. Vladimir Makarov is a villain in everyone's eyes. In your eyes that hold paradise, he is peace. He is Vlad, your husband.

Whilst waiting for Soap to get cleared from the medics, you played with the ring on your necklace. "Oh, R/N, has some lover?" Gaz was the first to notice. Ghost's stare went to you, eyes wide as he heard the words he never needed to hear. Your blush told the words his heart never wanted to hear.

[One year ago]

[Las Almas, Mexico]

"Are you threatening us?" Ghost asked and in that moment, he made you back away. Guarding you with his body. Betrayal, the first of many he would see with you. That became the night you escaped the shadows of Commander Graves. Soap was somewhere in the city, Ghost and you escaped every chance the shadows had at catching you. Imprisonment is something you got Colonel Vargas out of. Ironic. By the end, you killed him, the man who used his shadows, in some explosion. "You alright, love?" Ghost asked as you went to the aircraft quietly. "Yeah, Mexico just tired me," your head hung as you played with the dog tags. "Who's the lover?" He finally acknowledged the ring. "No one, it's just a silly joke," you lie, something he knew well. "Hmm, yeah...a silly joke," he turned away from you.

[Present day, 21 November 2023 ]

[London, England]

The last time you saw them all as a team, well, now that you were sure you'd be a newfound enemy. With Makarov now out of prison, prisoner 627, your love called for him. As Ghost looked through the CCTV cameras, one of the men in Konni gave you the signal. And as you approached, you caught a glimpse of him. Your heart flutters and then you look at Ghost. He nodded and you pretended to try and fight against Makarov. Czar-9-0 Actual. The callsign of your husband and the name of the man you betrayed them for. Guns blazing, bullets directed at them, not you. Gaz and Ghost, a team, Soap and Price, a team, 141, one unit. You, the wife of the enemy. Two bullets and then, the head hit the ground. Young soldier down. "What are you doing?!" Soap asked as you turned on them. A 20-year-old soldier died within seconds, you knew him from when he joined at 18. James, the man whose blood ran on your gun.

Makarov fired, one of his men held your hand and brought you to your husband. The 141 patch off your uniform as now, you were given the Konni patch. "Welcome back, comrade," a man spoke with an evil grin. Ghost, the eyes that saw the betrayal again. 23 soldiers died, from both sides. 141 on the ground, trying to recover.

"C'mon, Grim, you have to trust me on this, yeah?" the young lieutenant that made Ghost told you. "What if we fall?" you asked. "If you trust me, we won't and if I trust you, we will go home and get a pint or two," He smiles at you. From this day on, you and he became close, a bond no gun could break.

Ghost swore you were taken hostage. And as Makarov was about to kill Captain Price, one of his men tapped him out. "No time, we will get him later!" Ghost's glare never left yours. He shook his head. This can't be, not his R/N. You looked at him, no remorse behind your eyes. It wasn't R/N, it was Grim that stared at him. The soldier he respected the most. You pointed your gun at one of the other soldiers with them.

It turned into something bigger

Somewhere in the haze, got a sense I'd been betrayed

He jumped at you, to not kill you but to bring you back and let Makarov run with Grim. You pushed him, what turned into a fight for his teammate to be back, became a fight against the enemy. You pushed him to the ground. "Ghost!" Gaz yelled as he saw your gun pointed at him. It was never Makarov that would be his demise. It wasn't an enemy. It was you. It was the one he held dear to his civilian self. The woman he would drink poison for. The one he jumped a bullet for when they were young cadets. Stupid, stupid, stupid. His eyes never left yours and for a second, he saw past Grim and noticed the scared R/N that obeyed her husband.

Soldier down on that icy ground

Looked up at me with honor and truth

Broken and blue, so I called off the troops

That was the night I nearly lost you

You put your gun down and turn away, running to Vladimir. His open arms, ready to embrace his darling. Now, all of 141's secrets are with Makarov. It clicked in that instant. How four years ago Makarov knew who Ghost was. How well he knew all their names. It wasn't some file he saw when his hacker got in, no, it was you, the best of all pawns. The train cleaned your tracks. Price and the others stood in fear, all this time, you were part of Konni. Ghost stood in silence.

In every war he was in, you were there. His favourite of all soldiers. From his early days as just Simon to his latest days as Ghost, all witnessed by you. He was the one who asked for you anywhere he went. His life came in a flash, all the Christmas events, the dinners and drinks he had with his friend...no...enemy. The one person who knew Simon liked the palm of her hand, now holding the man Ghost called an enemy.

"How did he get to her so quickly?" Gaz asked, baffled to have lost you to the man you hated when this all began. "He had her all along," Kate spoke. Nikolai shook his head. "But how? We were her family," a betrayed Ghost said. "We betrayed her first," Price recalls. "But that was years ago," Soap comments. "It started years ago," Gaz mentions. "We weren't meant to win this one gentlemen," Kate informs.

"Fuck!" Ghost's blood boiled. He scared them, he knew that well. So when he slammed his fist on the table, he even made the best of soldiers flinch. "Lt," Soap tried to calm him down. "No, Johnny! You don't get it, you don't know her as I do," he approached the sergeant. "She didn't kill you, why?" Kate walks to the betrayed soldier. "What?" His voice is hoarse. "She had the chance to kill you, headshot even, yet she didn't, she ran to him and then when she did, all fire ceased." Kate is after all a mastermind. "She didn't betray Simon, she betrayed Ghost, she betrayed Soap, not Johnny, Gaz, not Kyle and Bravo six, not John." She states.

"She betrayed soldiers, not family," Price came to realisation. Grim did that, Grim killed all that came between the goal. 'Capable of killing all those that come between her and the goal, will not hesitate to harm enemies.' The goal wasn't to kill Task Force 141, it was to get revenge for the betrayal, for torturing you in a room, letting your blood drip. You married a man, something all fools do. But even though Makarov wanted you to pull the trigger on Ghost, you didn't. You ran away and the fire ceased.

There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair

A/N: see what I did there?...mastermind me y'know

Tags:

@tf141glory @liyanahelena @quaritchscupquake @dilfgestivo @thefragmented @scarletdfox @arialikestea @unicorngirly1 @alhaizen @willowaftxn83-87 @koniglovesme @bbyfimmie @mothcelestial @kit-kats06 @palomesa @dheet @dontfearthereaperazura

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skele-ghost · 9 months ago

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Baby, it’s Hot Outside: Part 1

I wrote this like 8 months ago as a smut fic…and never got to the smut part. Rest assured, there will be smut eventually.

MDNI, 18+, Warnings: Omegaverse AU, being sick, mentions of illicit drug use, people yelling?

See prologue for summary and masterlist

You’ve been with the 141 for about six months. A decent amount of time, plenty of missions—but you still feel like you’re the outsider, somehow.

It’s because they’re a pack, the five of them, and you’re the tag-along coworker, the specialist. You’re all good friends, sure, but they’re all mates. You don’t stand half a chance against a bond like that.

You keep your sorrows to yourself, though—your envy. They’re all happy together, and you’re happy for them, even if part of your heart aches for that kind of love and affection you’ve never known.

You’re a beta, we’re raised by betas, in a beta-dominant community. Your health class in school didn’t even cover the other dynamics, and even in college all of your irl friends had been betas.

You’re a loner, anyways. You’re most comfortable behind a computer screen, getting into files you shouldn’t, pulling the strings from the shadows.

That’s how you’d been recruited, anyways (don’t hack into the Pentagon drunk), Laswell taking an interest in your effortless talent and skill for computers and machinery.

After working on a few missions with the 141, you were given a formal invite with a nice pay upgrade that you didn’t want to turn down.

They guys are a little intimidating at times. Ghost is…Ghost. He, Price, and König all being alphas. König worried you at first—he’s something called an Apex Alpha, and while you’re not completely sure what that means, you know that the term comes from ‘apex predator’ and connected the dots from there.

But it turns out he’s just a big sweetheart. Yeah, he’s the team’s human battering ram, and yeah, he gets a little scary on the field; but none of them, not even König, had made you feel threatened or unsafe.

Maybe that’s why you stay even if you sometimes feel a little left out. You keep yourself occupied with your tasks: hacking, repairing, making little electronics. You’ve all fallen into a comfortable routine with each other, falling into your roles like good little soldiers.

Which is why you’re confused to all hell as to why they seem pissed at you. You keep going over and over it in your mind, each interaction picked over and analyzed, but you come up on a blank.

Ghost had outright shoulder-checked you this morning. You told him to watch it and he glared at you. He hadn’t glared at you since the early days when you were new.

It was worse with Soap. You were closest with him. He always comes in and checks on you since you have a pension for locking yourself away while working which causes you to forget to eat or sleep. Now he’s glaring at you, too.

It didn’t help that you’re all on a mission. Recon, roughing it in sleeping bags, camped out at an old abandoned cluster of cabins. You’re all monitoring a base down below the ridge of the mountain, intent to find intel on El Sin Nombre.

You decide to brush it all off. Maybe they’re just in sour moods? Maybe you really did do something wrong, but until either of them confronted you about it, there was no point in worrying about it.

So you kept busy monitoring the local radio frequencies in your cabin. It’s damn boring, though, and the summer heat of Mexico isn’t helping.

You’d die for an air conditioner right now. Well, you’d die to not be on this mission anymore, to be back on base and have more space away from your colleagues. And you’d die to not have this guilty, worried pit in your stomach. You always get it when something bad is going to happen, the dread getting worse and worse over time. It’s stressing you out, making you sweat even more. You probably stink.

It’s almost a relief when Gaz shows up, creaking the old screen door open, but he looks pissed at you, too, and you want to cry from sheer frustration.

“God, not you, too,” you groan, smoothing your sweaty hair away from your face.

“Captain wants to see you,” Gaz says, sounding angry, confusing her just as much.

“Seriously? This about Ghost and Soap? What did I do?”

Gaz scowls, “don’t play coy, Seraph, he’s not going to like that.”

“What are you—“ you sigh, “you know what? Fine. Maybe he’ll explain why you’re all so pissed at me.”

Being outside in the sunshine, even briefly, makes you feel worse and hotter. You wonder if maybe you’re getting heat exhaustion or something—you aren’t used to being in the field and you’re sure as hell not used to being in the summer heat for so long.

Shit, maybe you’re coming down with something. As you and Gaz march over to the Captain’s cabin, you notice that everything smells different. Off. It’s making you nauseous.

When you step into the cabin, you know you’re in for it. Captain Price is standing at his desk, glowering down at you. Soap is standing a little ways behind him, his arms crossed, and Ghost is sitting in the back corner like the spook he’s named after, arms crossed.

It takes a hell of a lot of restraint not to curse under your breath, but you manage.

“Take a seat, Private,” the captain gestures at the chair in front of the desk and you have no room to argue.

You hate when they call you that—Private. It’s not even your rank. Technically you have none, you’re a specialist, and you never enlisted. You were a CIA Special Agent before all of this. Why they picked ‘private’ out for you, you have no idea, but you do feel like it undermines your hard work. You’re not some E-1, after all.

Everyone’s eyes on you makes you want to squirm, but you hold fast. It smells overwhelmingly like several different things: cigars, whiskey, cinnamon, wood smoke, the wild flowers that are outside.

Your guts keep screaming that something is wrong, wrong, wrong.

“You’ve put this mission in jeopardy, Seraph. I have half a mind to relieve you of duty and send you home,” Price says, his voice terse.

“Sir?” You ask, wanting him to elaborate, to tell you what you did wrong so that you can fix it.

“You set König off, he’s up at the deer blind refusing to come down,” he adds, voice rising in volume.

You frown, now noticing his missing figure. “König? What’s wrong with him,” you ask, concerned.

Your Captain lets out a disingenuous chuckle, which probably would’ve made your blood run cold if you weren’t so hot.

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” he says, practically growling. “We can tell. There’s no hiding it.”

“Wh—“

“Why did you do it?” Soap interrupts, fuming. “You’ve been part of the team for nearly two years, you don’t think you can trust us?”

The CIA training kicks in and you keep your mouth shut for the moment. This is starting to sound like a set up—like you’re being pinned for something you didn’t do. Or like they think you’re lying about something and are waiting for you to spill first.

But the other part of you, the part that knows your team, doesn’t think so. Maybe that part of you just doesn’t want to imagine them betraying you.

Price sighs, stepping away from the table, running his hands down his face. A sour smell begins to stack in the room and you crinkle your nose.

You hate confrontation. It was your biggest downfall, considering that you now work in special forces. You’d just barely passed your interrogation training after four attempts—yelling people upset you, which is why you never thought you’d be working alongside the military.

“I don’t…know what this is about,” you say, your voice small and meek.

“Yes, you do,” Price insists, crossing his arms, and before you can open your mouth the screen door opens again.

Gaz comes in holding your medicine, the ziplock bag stuffed with your prescribed medications and supplements.

“What the fuck,” you whisper as he puts it on the table, and then raise your voice, “that’s a HIPAA violation, you can’t just take those!”

Gaz’s hand on your shoulder is the only thing stopping you from taking your bag back. Price points at the bag, “which ones are the heat suppressants? I’m giving you a chance to come clean, (L/N).”

“Come cle—“ you stop yourself, frowning as you try to pull the new piece of evidence into the mix. “You…think I’m abusing prescription drugs?”

Soap huffs, “let me see, I know what they look like.”

Price hands him the bag, and everyone’s still just glaring at you while you try and think.

“What are you looking for, opiates? I’ve never been prescribed—“

“The heat suppressants, (L/N), where are they?!” Soap shouts, tossing the bag back onto the table. “Do you ‘ave any idea what that shite does to your body? They can kill you!”

You take in a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Your head is starting to pound with all this shouting. “What the fuck are you guys talking about? What are heat suppressants?”

“Oh, come on,” Ghost growls, rising from his chair in the corner and stalking over. “Quit acting daft and tell us the truth!”

Soap’s hand on his chest holds him back from coming any closer. You’re about ready to cry, now, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You have to stay calm, that’s what your training taught you.

“You can be discharged for this,” Price continues, still angry. “Hiding any medical history can get you booted, especially your designation!”

“My designation?” You furrow your brow, “I never lied about my designation, I’m a beta.”

“You fucking—“ But Soap holds Ghost back, walking him to sit back down in the chair in the corner. He’s livid. You’ve never seen any of them so mad.

“No, you’re not,” Price says, and you can tell how hard it is to keep himself calm and at an even tone of voice. “Heat suppressants might’ve tricked your body into thinking that, but that’s not the truth, is it, (Y/N)?”

This is beyond frustrating. Fuck being calm, you’re on your last nerve, “what the hell are heat suppressants, and why the fuck do you think I’m taking them? And for the love of god, will one of you motherfuckers tell me what I’m being accused of here?!”

Your voice echos in the old cabin for a minute. Somehow, that managed to shut them up and get them thinking. Less angry now, they look at you with confusion, apprehension.

“You really don’t know what’s going on?” Gaz asks next to you, and you glance up at him briefly.

“No! How many times do I have to tell you fuckers?” You wince at the ache in your skull that’s becoming worse, “and will someone pass me a Tylenol? Y’all are making my head hurt.”

You rest your face in your hands, trying to get your erratic breathing to calm down along with your skipping heart.

“(Y/N), when was your last heat?” Soap asks, his voice much, much more gentle.

You look up at him, squinting, “huh? I never had heat exhaustion before. My mama did, when I was little…”

“I think she’s serious,” Gaz says, as if you’re not right next to him.

“Shit,” someone says, and you can’t really tell who. You look up when you hear the sound of your medicine bag again, Soap fishing out two Tylenols and handing them to you along with a nearby water bottle.

“Thanks,” you mutter, quickly downing the pills and the rest of the water. Looking around the room at everyone again, you almost wish they were angry again. The anxious looks of worry on their faces is much worse, because they’re worried about you, and you don’t know what for.

Price sighs, sitting down at his desk chair. “You’ve never had a heat before?”

“That’s what I just said,” you quip, snippier than usual.

Price glances up at Soap, who nods, and then he looks back at you. “That’s not what this is, Seraph. You’re going into heat. You’re an omega.”

—

You scrunch your face up, frowning. “No, I’m a beta,” you insist, voice soft.

“No, (Y/N), you’re not.” Your captain pinches the bridge of his nose, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him at a total loss for words.

“You’re going inta heat, bonnie,” Soap says. “Even Gaz can smell you.”

You freeze, picking up the collar of your shirt and taking an experimental whiff of yourself. No, it just smells like sweat and laundry detergent.

“Am I the one that smells weird?” You ask, “because it does smell weird.”

“No, that’s us,” Soap explains. “Your nose is sharper now that you’re going into heat.”

“Mm-hmm,” you say, not believing a word of it. “But there’s no way I’m an omega. Both sides of my parents lineage goes back six generations—all betas. It’s literally impossible.”

“You never had the genetic testing done?” Soap asks. Testing can be done when you’re born to best guess what you’ll present as by looking at your dominant genes.

“There was no reason to, seeing as there’s a 0% chance of me being anything other than a beta,” you argue, wiping the sweat from your chin. “I mean, if I’m an omega, then Soap’s King of Scotland.”

“And it’s damn good to be king,” Soap says, crossing his arms.

Price shakes his head, “it’s not a debate, sweetheart, you are an omega. Is it possible you’re adopted?”

“What?! No!” Your head snaps up to glare at him, “my mom would’ve told me.”

“Have you seen your birth certificate?”

You roll your eyes, “have you seen yours?”

“I have mine,” he raises his eyebrows at you and you sigh.

“My ma lost the original copy—house fire,” you explain, but you know you’re not wrong. “Even if I was, that wouldn’t change anything, right? You present your designation in puberty, and I never presented, therefore…beta.”

You cross your arms.

“Then explain the smell,” Ghost says, speaking up from his quiet corner. You had almost forgotten about him.

“Obviously I’m sick,” you say, “maybe I ate something bad.”

“We all ate the same thing,” Ghost sighs, unsatisfied with your answer.

“Allergic reaction. I’ve never been to Mexico; we touch plants all the time.” That one’s more feasible, you think.

“That’s not—“

“Alright, enough,” Price says, stopping yours and Ghost’s banter. “Arguing about this isn’t going to change anything.”

“Right,” Soap agrees, walking over to you. “Whether you’re sick, or in heat, or having an allergic reaction, you need rest.”

“But who’s gonna monitor the radio?” You’re a little wobbly as Soap hauls you to your feet, but you shake it off.

“Gaz knows how to use the equipment,” Soap says and you begin walking out of the cabin and back to yours.

“Who’s gonna do Gaz’s job?”

“Me, probably.”

“Then who’s gonna do your job?”

“Quit it, (L/N).”

—

A/N: If you made it this far, thanks! I’ve recently been inspired by the fic authors I follow to post my own content. I write a lot, mostly for my own enjoyment, but I’ve never really shared anything except this and the Graves fic I posted forever ago. I think I’m gonna post fic like this that I’m comfortable with and see where it goes. I’m not taking requests and I can’t guarantee I’ll reply to messages or asks, but I will look at them lol

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strawberrypatty · 5 months ago

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Continuing my campaign to make all of the Lisa Frankenstein merchandise they won’t come out with. This is my Funko Pop of Lisa from the “Wave of Mutilation” scene.

She’s made out of a Jessie Spano head and a Tower Recon Specialist from Fortnight body. I sculpted the bangs, the bow, the top of her hair and her skirt. I replaced the pickax with a fire axe from a Buffy the Vampire Slayer 6 inch figure.

The accompanying Creature is coming soon. I’ve just got to wait for some of his parts to arrive (which sounds on brand for Creach)

#Lisa Frankenstein #Funko Pop #Lisa Swallows #Custom Funko Pop #Kathryn Newton

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strawberrybeans21 · 1 month ago

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Chapter 2: Hunger

“Half a dog.”

“I told you not to tell me.”

“Can it, you muppets.”

Kyle let out a chuckle, listening to the tiredness in Price’s voice. The banter between Ghost and Soap was actively giving his poor captain a migraine.

He could definitely understand why. They had been on this helicopter ride since dusk and they had still a bit to go before they arrived. Which meant that Ghost and Soap had a million more jokes to tell each other.

Kyle flipped through the mission file on his lap, re-reading what they were heading into.

Mission Brief: Operation Silent Dawn

Objective:

Rescue a young girl, held captivity in a clandestine experimental facility. She has been subjected to inhumane testing, resulting in unknown abilities. Mission is to extract her safely and secure evidence of the facility’s illegal activities.

Mission Overview:

•Target: [REDACTED] (Subject 42)

•Location: High-security experimental facility, coordinates encrypted.

•Intel: The facility is run by an untraceable private organization conducting human experimentation. Security is heavily armed, and surveillance is omnipresent. [REDACTED] has shown signs of destabilizing powers—potential allies, or dangers, during the extraction.

Mission Priorities:

1.Secure [REDACTED]:

•Locate [REDACTED] cell and ensure her safety.

•Assess her mental and physical state upon retrieval.

•Be prepared for potential resistance, as she may not trust rescuers initially.

2.Neutralize Threats:

•Disable the facility’s security systems, including cameras, automated turrets, and containment measures.

•Avoid unnecessary casualties, but neutralize hostile personnel as needed.

3.Collect Evidence:

•Retrieve documentation, digital files, and physical proof of the organization’s illegal experiments.

•Ensure no incriminating data is left behind.

4.Exfiltrate:

•Extract [REDACTED] and the team via the designated evacuation route.

•Deploy countermeasures to prevent pursuit.

Team Composition:

Leader: Captain John Price, L.T Simon “Ghost” Riley

Long range specialist: L.T Simon “Ghost” Riley, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Recon Specialist: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Exfil: SGT. Nikolai Belinski

Potential Challenges:

•Enhanced Security: Recent intel suggests additional reinforcements have been deployed following a containment breach.

•Unpredictable Powers: [REDACTED] abilities are unknown, unstable, and may pose a threat to both her and the team.

•Limited Intel: The facility’s layout is only partially mapped, requiring on-the-ground adaptation.

Rules of Engagement:

•Maintain stealth for as long as possible to avoid full-scale alerts.

•Use non-lethal methods when feasible, but prioritize team safety.

•Do not engage [REDACTED] directly if she becomes volatile; attempt to de-escalate.

Timeline:

•Phase 1: Initial reconnaissance and infiltration.

•Phase 2: Disable facility security and locate [REDACTED].

•Phase 3: Secure [REDACTED], gather evidence, and initiate extraction.

•Phase 4: Evacuate to safehouse and debrief.

Success Criteria:

•[REDACTED] is safely extracted and stabilized.

•All team members are accounted for with no/minimal casualties.

•Evidence is retrieved to expose the facility’s operations.

Mission Codename: Silent Dawn

Prepare for deployment. The girl’s life—and the truth—depend on us.

“Captain, We are about the land.”

Kyle’s head snapped up at Nik’s words as his captain and team members all made eye contact with each other. Price nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the growing tension of the situation.

“Okay lads. Let’s go get us a win, yeah?”

————————————————————

The cell was silent, save for the steady hum of fluorescent lights overhead. You sat on the cot, knees drawn to your chest, staring at the walls. Your breathing was shallow, trembling—an attempt to suppress the cold that radiated from your core. The aftereffects of the experiment still clung to you like a second skin: the weight of the chemicals they had pumped into your veins, the electric prongs they’d pressed to your temples, and the dissonant voices that now whispered incessantly in your mind.

You didn’t know how long you had been back in your cell. Time was again, a haze in this place, measured only by the shifts in your tormentors’ schedules and the monotony of three disgusting pig blood bags slipped under the door each day.

Your name was stripped from you, though you tried your hardest to keep it in your head. You clung to that shred of identity like a lifeline, but even now it was slipping. During the experiment, the scientists kept calling you “Subject 42.” It sounded clinical, inhuman. Like you were. A monster.

You heard the door open as you were quickly grabbed and sedated, your limbs going weak as they strapped you to a gurney, the smell of alcohol and garlic burning your nose and throat like never before. You felt the feeling of needles pricking your skin, electrodes pressing to your scalp. “Hold still,” they had said, as if you had a choice. When the machines roared to life, your body convulsed involuntarily, your mind fracturing into a kaleidoscope of pain and colors you couldn’t name. Then there were the voices—soft at first, then loud, screaming, chanting incomprehensible words.

Now, in the quiet of your cell, they were still with you.

One whispered your name, almost tenderly. You whipped your head toward the sound, but there was nothing there. There never was.

Your hands clenched into fists. The new experiments were doing something to you—changing you. You weren’t sure how much longer you could fight. Last week, when you had screamed during one of their “tests,” the glass monitor in the observation room had shattered. You hadn’t even realized what you had done until you saw the evilness in the scientists’ eyes.

They’d called you ready, but dangerous.

The locks on your cell door were reinforced now, the walls lined with something you didn’t recognize but could feel—an oppressive hum that dulled your senses and dampened your abilities. You hadn’t even tried to fight it

A meal tray slid under the door, and you startled. You hadn’t heard the footsteps this time. You crawled toward it, the concrete floor cold against your bare skin. The blood was the same as always: disgustingly red and cold.

You picked at the bag, your appetite nonexistent.

But you were so hungry. Hungry for human blood.

“You can’t stay here forever,” a voice whispered again, louder this time.

You froze. “Shut up,” you hissed under your breath.

But the voice didn’t stop.

“They’ll come for you again, you know. They’re not done. They’ll never be done. You’ll die at this rate.”

You slammed your fist against the floor, your vision blurring with sudden tears. “Stop it!”

The lights flickered, and for a moment, the hum in the walls seemed to falter. Your breath hitched. The voice in your head subsided. You had thought it was your imagination until a loud boom shot through your ears, making you cover your ears in pain.

You didn’t know what had caused the sound and apparently nor did your kidnappers. You listened to the alarm that began to blare and the sounds of soldiers rushing down the hall.

Seconds were feeling like minutes, hours. You shifted into the corner, covering your ears as the gunshots rang out. Your breath was stuttering in your chest, the warm tears falling down your face. If whomever didn’t kill you, your fear definitely would. You heard someone yell, multiple feet rushing down to the hall and directly in front of your cell.

You heard the locks on your cell door disengage. The metallic clinks sent shivers down your spine. You quickly rose from the cot, your body tense, muscles coiled.

The door opened, and two guards began to rush inside, their faces hidden behind black helmets. A third figure followed—a scientist in a pristine white coat.

“Grab her now!,” the scientist yelled. “There’s no time!.”

Your jaw tightened. The fire within you flared, and for the first time, you didn’t try to suppress it. The guards moved toward you, but the air in the room shifted. A low rumble echoed through the cell, and the fluorescent lights flickered again.

The whispers in your mind grew louder, coalescing into a single, commanding voice: “Fight.”

You didn’t hesitate.

The guards lunged, but you grabbed them both by the necks. The air seemed to ripple as you threw them backward, slamming them into the walls, the sickening cracks of their skulls vibrating through your ears. The scientist screamed, scrambling for the door and slamming down a button.

The oppressive hum in the walls grew deafening, but you pushed against it with everything you had. The fire inside you roared to life, consuming your fear, your pain, your doubt.

The walls cracked, and the reinforced locks shattered.

You stepped out of the cell, your heart pounding. The scientist fell back, fear numbing his body as he began to quietly plead.

“Feed. Drink every drop.” The voice in your head commanded.

You pounced on him, his scream cut silent as you began to drink, the taste making your body shiver with ecstasy. You couldn’t stop, drinking well past the last time. The voices in your mind were now silent. You pulled your teeth out of his neck, just as you heard people round the corner.

2 men. In gear you had never seen before. You felt the fire in you diminishing as fear crawled back up your spine. You stood, your feet readying under you.

They wouldn’t trap you again. You’d be damned.

“Hey now…We aren’t—“

His sentence was cut short as you bolted down the hall, feet burning in pain as they slammed onto the broken glass around you. You could hear them chasing you, and it only made you move faster.

Almost. Almost there.

“Woah there! We cannae have you running away, now can we?”

You felt him scoop you up and toss you over his shoulder, making you thrash around like a cat in water. You watched as the rest began to get closer and for the first time in a while, you let yourself bawl.

“Soap, what did you do?!”

“Nothin! The lass just started to cry!”

“She’s traumatized you idiot!”

You were taken into a warm embrace, your face pressed against someone’s chest as they held you there like a small baby. He looked at you and softly smiled.

“Hey there. I’m Gaz.”

His hazelnut brown eyes were boring into your now puffy and red rimmed ones, making your heart start to calm down. You didn’t trust them, not for one bit. But it was nice to see someone smiling at you without malice for the first time in god knows how long. You said nothing in response, just softly nodded to show you understood.

“Gaz. Her feet.”

You looked at the blood that had dripped into a pool under you and you immediately grimaced at the sight. Your head immediately turned as you heard movement. You gasped softly as a behemoth of a man and a burly man with a bucket hat stepped out of the facility's office and began to approach you.

You felt your breathing speed up, fear paralyzing you still as he got closer. He stopped, a comfortable amount of space between you two. He looked at your feet and sighed.

“Doesn’t look like there’s any glass stuck inside. Let’s wrap it and get the medic to check on it when we get back.”

The two guys, Soap and Gaz, nodded in conformation. Soap pulled out some gauze and antiseptic, opening the packages.

“This will hurt lass, sorry in advance.”

Gaz held you carefully as Soap cleaned your feet, making you yelp in pain, grease warm tears feeling your eyes at the sting. You listened to Gaz’s soft words as he tried to calm you down, just as Soap wrapped your feet.

“Exfil is here. Everyone ready?”

“Always captain.”

You gripped Gaz as he carried you out of the facility, looking up only when he softly set you down in a helicopter chair.

You were finally free.

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