#cia station chief laswell

[eva-stator]

I think I can try to answer anons questions about the characterizations. Apologies in advance because this is LOOOOOONG.

First things first, to be in the SAS means more than just being a soldier. The British SAS are the literal top of the top, cream of the crop of their special forces. They are compared a lot with DEVGRU (seals) and Delta Force. Less than 1% of armed forces members can pass selection and complete their training. They are all, in their own ways, very hardened individuals. They’re all extremely intelligent in several skills, and equally competent. (This isn’t to stroke off the special forces. They are not superhuman and are never immune to dying from their own mistakes or pure bad luck. It’s extremely dangerous to be in counter terrorism or do raids like they do, and a not insignificant amount die of dumb mistakes or unavoidable circumstances. But they’re not to be fucked with either)

Soap is sniper, demolitions expert. These require math skills and chemical knowledge. He’s intelligent, stoic sometimes but more spirited. He wants to help. He gets angry when bad things happen, and he seems to really care about civilians. He’s got a strong sense of right and wrong, and voices his opinions always. He pushes buttons and boundaries, but he’s no braggart. Equally, he is intense. His humour is actually kinda dry and teasing, banter style humour. He’s not actually very silly.

Ghost is more ambiguous. He’s more rugged and detached. More introverted. He only starts joking with soap in alone, more than halfway through the game, so his trust is gained through time and effort. His humour is dry, sometimes dad jokes and sometimes fucked up jokes. Overall, he’s emotionally detached and goal oriented. He’s got a bit of the sillies though, just a taste.

Gaz is an extremely important main character. He was vital in all games, including the first mw reboot game in 2019, his character was made before soap and ghosts were. (Which is why his deliberate exclusion is a goddamn travesty). He’s spirited and strong, his skills of resistance to interrogation, escape and evasion, as well as VIP protection means he’s an intelligent independent mind. While injustices anger him, he’s got a level head and can cede to reason and keep that anger supressed, as well as be an important voice of reason. He can also be sympathetic and guiding, as seen in the mission where he guides a civilian through an extremely dangerous situation to safety.

Captain price is a staple character for the series. He’s confident but also slightly unhinged. He’s experienced, maybe a bit detached, he doesn’t give a god damn about consequences unless he gets what he wants or completes his goal. He will throw every law out the window. He will abandon basic morals and principles. He’s extremely dangerous and not to be fucked with or questioned. Hes called John “war crimes” price by the fandom for a reason. He has his more gentle side, but it’s rare and he will only show it to people he seems worthy of it, like Farah Karim or Kate laswell. He saves people but he does it roughly, he never seems to handle civilians with kid gloves, and he’s kinda rough and detached from them. He’ll save your life, but he’ll probably break your arm in the process and definitely won’t apologize for it. It’s important to note he knows what he does is fucked up. He knows people don’t like it. He gives people a way out, lets them choose if they really want to fully jump in the mud with him. He also smokes cigars with car windows rolled up. Absolutely evil action. He’s also my favourite and I love him in a way that you love a grizzly bear.

Obligatory Kate mention. Kate is a cia agent who is basically the leash that keeps John from acting out too hard. She reins them in, keeps them informed. She’s level headed and a quick thinker. She knows how the game of war is played, when and how to play by and within the rules and keeps everyone from breaking them in ways that could spiral out of control. She also knows when to let them do shady shit, and how to get them out of the messes they get themselves into. She is a very strong character, mainly in mind but also in body, and will get her hands dirty if she has to.

TLDR these are deceptively complicated characters, as in, it’s easy to mistake them as pretty surface level. They’re also easy to mistake with their fanon characterizations, which while fun, are often headcanons that the fandom has taken and run with. They’re also, not always very accurate depictions of the characters. If you wanna write them right, you gotta watch and listen to their mission dialogue.

These are generally simplified introductions based on what I observed playing the games.

Tip and trick, if you’re writing a dialogue line, imagine the characters voice saying it out loud. Say it out loud yourself. If you can fully hear the character saying the line, it’s probably a great line. If you can’t picture them saying it, tweak it until you can. This helps me a lot.

Thank you :)

Also love the kate mention

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips

Ch7

Description: PROGRESS IS MADE!!! Whoop!!! Anyway, Gaz and Soap are briefly sad, little bit more Cap in this one - he is starting to warm up and,as the pack alpha, this is important!! Laika is still very hard on herself, but I think Laswell gives her some words of wisdom. And guess who the pilot is that John stands and chats to the entire heli ride. No other than big Nikolai 🫶🏼 he will feature properly soon but enjoy his little peep into the story in this chapter.

*Laika's POV*

We load up into the jeep. I am quick to claim the same spot that I sat in for the ride here, keen not to have much interaction with the 141 pack. They hadn't really said much since I went and opened my stupid mouth. I feel Gaz shuffle into the seat next to me, too busy distracting myself by looking out of the window. There looks to be nothing for miles. Just trees and snow. You'd die out there in the wilderness my brain laughs. Not that I was thinking of running... I start to wonder where exactly it is we are. I don't even know the location of my cell.. just that we are in Russia. It's cold. I try not to take comfort from Gaz's hoodie. But I'll appreciate it while I still have it.

The jeep lurches forward. I glance up and see that Ghost is at the wheel this time. He bumps it off of the curb and accelerates onto the road, wheels spinning slightly due to the snow. I try to relax. The tension in the car could have been cut by a blunt knife. Even Soap was quietly staring ahead. My eyes betray me, filling with un-shed tears. I watch the scenery pass from the window, trying to blink away the threatening onslaught of tears. It starts to itch. I just know my eyes are red and my face is puffy. Pathetic.

The car ride seems to pass by in a blur, or maybe I passed out, I can't really tell. The next thing I see is a large concrete clearing with a helicopter and a few - three - jeeps, all identical to the one we are in. The snow had been pushed to one side, leaving a huge mound. I stare at it. Ghost hits the brakes and the car slows to a halt. The captain steps from the car and walks toward the first car in the queue of three.

He taps the window and the door slowly opens, revealing a woman. It must be Laswell. The woman who has read my file.I stare at my knees, trying to just dissociate. Johnny jumps from the car, Gaz sliding out after him. It leaves just me in the back - and Ghost behind the wheel. I know that he is staring at me from the rear view mirror, I refuse to move. I hear a tap on my window. I don't react. The door opens slowly. It's the woman.

"Y/N Y/L/N?" she queries. I turn into a statue. My eyes blinking rapidly, trying not to break down. "I'd like you to follow me" she instructs. I resist the urge to whimper in fear. Instead opting to obey. Disobedience will get you punished - my brain helpfully adds. I reach for my seat belt and press the button, releasing it. I turn and step from the car - she holds the door open for me. She leads me to the helicopter and up the ramp. I trail after her with my head down, dejected, as if I was on a tight leash. It's all so loud. The blades of the helicopter spinning, the pounding of my heart and the voice screaming at my inside my brain. It's almost unbearable.

As I make it to the top of the ramp, I see Price talking to the pilot. Gaz and Soap are sitting quietly beside each other. Soap has his head rested on Gaz's shoulder. He looks.. sad? I hear heavy footsteps from behind me. Ghost. He walks past me and sits down beside Soap, leaving a small gap between them. He looks tense. He stares at me, the eye-black around his eyes making him look even scarier to me. I stare back with big, nervous eyes and a trembling lip.

"Y/N, I'm Station Chief Kate Laswell - CIA." She seems to pause, possibly waiting for me to respond. What was I supposed to say? It's nice to meet you? - a few seconds of silence pass before she continues - "Task-force 141 were sent to Siberia with the objective to recover intel from the Russian terrorist group that, as far as I understand, you were an operative asset for, yes?"

Silence

She sighs. "I am a firm believer in justice, Laika" the use of that name snaps me out from my stubborn depressive state but I don't let it show, I remain stoic. Justice. Justice would be death. Me being killed for my crimes. "You cannot go back and change what has happened - but - I strongly suggest that you start here - with me, right now - and you can help change how this ends. What do you think?" My brow furrows. What does she mean? She must notice my confusion because she speaks up again. "I've spoken, at length, with the Captain, and we both believe you are not at fault in all of this. We want to help you Laika. But we cannot help without your cooperation".

I meet her blue eyes for the first time. She smiles at me gently, "what do you say? Will you help me? Help us..?" She gestures over my shoulder. Gaz and Soap are looking over, clearly spectating but as soon as I turn to glance in the direction Laswell had pointed, they snap their heads away and act casual, as if they weren't listening in on the conversation. Ghost looks wholly disinterested, verging on pissed off. The Captain is leant against the wall of the helicopter with his arms crossed. As I meet his eyes, he gives a quick, strangely boyish for a mature Alpha, smile and a sharp nod.

I turn back to Laswell and meet her eyes for only the second time. "What do you need me to do?" I ask quietly, voice cracking slightly. I decide if they want my help, and if they're truly the good guys this time, that I will be there obedient little hell-hound. I will do whatever they ask of me until I die or not needed any longer. This way, I would atone for my sins.

"I need you to help us, you have skills we could use, and I need you to tell me everything that they have done to you. I believe they've been dabbling in war crimes. We need to burn them to the ground. Who better to help us than their own creation? You, Y/N - you were never truly bad, were you? I can tell by your file. There was so many things you did 'wrong' - you were constantly disappointing them, weren't you?"

Wow! I thought I was making progress, now she is just slating me for how useless I am.. What the fuck?

"Disappointing them with your good nature and persistent resistance to orders - even when drugged. Disappointing them by somehow surviving every single one of the suicide missions they sent you on. You were never their asset. Never willing to comply. I know what they did to you. I'm not sure if you will remember more once the drugs have left your system - but you are strong. Stronger than you think."

Oh.. OH - It was a compliment. I feel lighter. My heart warms me from the inside. I realise that this is the first time I have felt my own warmth. Independent warmth. It's coming from me. I feel real again. Probably only fleetingly, but it's nice while it lasts, huh?

The captain suddenly appears beside me. I nervously side-eye him. "You in?" he grumbles, his raspy voice cutting through me like a knife. I nod hesitantly. "Words please. Need you to say it." He smiles again. "I'm in" ... "Captain" I add afterwords. He pats my shoulder twice, gently. "Kate will fill in your paperwork, answer her questions, it won't take long. Go and sit with the boys. We are about to take off". I nod and move to where I'd been told to sit. I step around Ghost, and sit a seat's space away from Gaz and Soap. I buckle my seat belt and rest my head back against the wall, breathing deeply.

*Gaz's POV*

I'd walked back into the safe-house just as Laika was trauma dumping details of some sort of mission to Johnny. Cap and Simon were already listening in. Nosy fuckers! Cap lifts a finger to his mouth, as if to say 'shhh' and then nods his head to the side toward Laika and Johnny. I'm not sure how this had happened. I'd left her waiting at the door just five minutes ago. What the fuck?

But jesus, her memory of that mission was bad. I'd been through lots of shit during my time, but it sounds as if she has just been through trauma after trauma. I want to step into the room and wrap her in a hug and keep her away from the rest of the world. I would never hurt her like that. Somehow, Johnny seemed to be doing an alright job of keeping her from fully losing it.

When she finishes and looks up at us, I have nothing to say. My heart aches for her. I was literally rooted to the spot. Everything happens quickly after that. Cap tells us to load up and get on the road. I feel a small flame of hope when Laika moves to my side of the car thinking she wanted to sit next to me, but instead she was avoiding me for the entire drive. She didn't look at me once. She didn't even move when Soap and I slid out of the car once we had arrived. We must have broken her trust by listening in when she was venting to Soap. Or she just didn't want us near her. I felt ashamed of myself.

I can tell Soap feels the same way. We go to the heli and sit down, stewing in each others' moods. We'd fucked up. Big time.

*Soap's POV*

She was pissed at me. I shouldn't have pushed her to spill her secrets. Stupit' bastard that I am. And to make it worse, they'd all listened. I was too caught up in her, to even realise that my pack had collected at the doorway. Poor lass was heartbroken. She ignored us and went back into her bubble, refused to even look at us.. We'd well and truly fucked it.

Gaz and I had discussed it and decided to not push her again until she approached us first. Gaz said it was something along the lines of letting her 'take back control'. I'm not a patient man, but I will try my best to behave.

*John's POV*

I'd sat up all night reading the parts of her file that Kate had sent over. Simon disappeared for twenty, or so, minutes saying he thought he had heard something. Wasn't until we'd practically surrounded the poor lass in the living room this morning that Ghost accused her of looking for something that wasn't hers. Turns out it was a fucking hanky. She had nothing left but a hanky and she had left it in Gaz's jacket. I needed to speak to Kate about her. She was no terrorist. Not in my book.

When I came downstairs with my bag, ready to leave, I heard her weeping to Johnny. My grip on the door frame had started to splinter, drawing blood from my hand. I was angry. Not at her. Never at her. But at what they'd put her through. The file didn't go into this sort of detail. I had an idea. I asked Simon to drive - deciding that my time was better spent messaging Kate. I had had an idea.

When we arrived, I made sure that I was the first to greet Kate, away from the others. "Go easy on her, Kate. She's sensitive. Needs fixed up.. she's been put through the mill with those bastards". Kate nodded and promised to go steady on her and agreed to my plan. I'd asked Kate if Laika could temporarily join us at our base to help us learn about the Russian's - their habits and weaknesses. Kate agreed that she could be valuable. I nod, but behind the 'Captain' persona, there was different reason - I want to keep her safe. She needs a bit of help right now. And the boys seem to like her.

*Simon's POV*

I had listened to the asset's little chat that she had with Johnny. Sure, she'd been through some shit, but haven't we all?

I could see the cogs turning in Cap's brain. The Captain has a habit of finding strays. Hopefully this one doesn't stay for long. Let's just hope they are right about her and she doesn't turn out to be a rat.

I was pissed off that Johnny clearly liked her. I wanted to get back to base, have a cuppa and read a book. Switch off for a few hours. But this - this was a disaster waiting to happen.

*Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

Laswell stands across from me as the heli lifts into the sky, she holds one of the straps that hang from the ceiling. Gaz and Soap are looking excitedly between the two of us. Laswell waves a clipboard. "Few questions, then I'll leave you alone. Promise" she jokes. I nod, "You can leave some of these out if you don't know the answers - we will run tests when you settle in at base, but answer what you can please". I nod again, but this time mutter "ok".

"Name?" - "Y/N Y/L/N or Laika"

"Address? - we'll leave that blank for now, Birthplace? -" I intterupt, telling Laswell my place of birth before she left that section blank too.

"Presentation" - "Don't know.. but probably Beta" She nods at my answer.

She continues asking similar questions, like date of birth, blood type, medical conditions and so on and so forth.

She then flips to the other side of the paper, which concentrates more on military training and active duty history. "I think that will do for now. John will test your fitness once you've settled in. It'll be tests like a five kilometer run, target practice and hand to hand combat - just so he can decide how best to use your skills. Does that sound ok to you?" - "Yes ma'am" I reply.

"Just Kate is fine - and Laika, or Y/N I should say.. Welcome! Any issues, you know where to reach me" she smiles and extends her hand for a handshake. I shake it nervously, breaking eye contact. She then offers me a padded envelope. I take the envelope and she immediately turns away and walks towards where the Captain is standing, behind the pilot.

I slump back into my seat and open the envelope. It's a phone! I switch it on, using the pass code Laswell had included inside the envelope to unlock it. It has the SAS symbol on the lock screen, and a few contacts already entered. Captain John Price, Sgt Kyle Garrick, Sgt John MacTavish and L.T Ghost. Shit, was that his real name?!.

I can practically feel the desperation of the two Sergeants sitting next to me. Since when did they get shy? I think to myself. I decide to be brave, now that we were to work together. I look at them both and they immediately smile, hopefully. What are they hopeful for?! I am confused.

"uhm.. sorry if" - "WE'RE SORRY" they both near enough shout in unison, cutting me off. "Wh-what?" I ask, completely confused.

"We upset you, we didn't mean it.. forgive us?"

"You didn't upse- what??" I shake my head, trying to collect my thoughts "I thought you hated me after hearing how I'd killed the young bo-" - "NO!! That's not... no.. we shouldn't have listened in.." Gaz explains. "And I shouldn't have kept pushin' ya to tell me everything.. Sorry Lass.." Soap apologises.

"Can we stop with all this bullshit and shut the fuck up." Ghost huffs, halting the back and forth conversation about who was the most sorry. Helpful as ever.

Gaz and Soap smile at me and Soap taps the seat that remains unoccupied beside them. I shuffle over from my seat to sit next to them. Soap immediately puts his arm around me and pulls me closer.

"Mmm, still smell of Tobacco, lass.. You'll be driving Cap crazy walking about like that ya' ken?"

WAIT WHAT???!

[diejager]

On monster Au how did human reader meet Vampire Graves and the shadow?? 🤔

I’m guessing you mean the one from Turned? Since Only Human happens after the MW2 campaign.

You met them a few weeks after being contracted into TF-141, signing NDAs after NDAs before actually signing your contract. Laswell and Price were clear on the fact that end thing that went on during missions were to stay confidential —classified, especially with the TF being comprised of hybrids, some from UK, an American, a Russian and a ULF commander.

You knew they heads were General Shepherd and CIA station chief Kate Laswell, with missions spearheaded by Captain John Price, a dragon hybrid, and Lieutenant Riley, the wraith, as the second in command. They’re an extremely decorated TF, with a reputation to back up their decisions and badges. You were another sergeant, human in genetics and appearance, with little to talk about apart from your experience in silent infiltration, trained in hand-to-hand combat with a knife than utilizing a gun. You were taught to fight dirty, using what you could to win, a knife, a broken bottle or the sharp end of a broken plank, you were a stealthy killer, an assassin of sorts.

You’ve only heard of Shadow Company, word of mouth to ear with good things about them, how powerful and tight knit the PMC was. You weren’t surprised to hear that they worked closely with 141 and its allies, but you were surprised that they shared banter and seemed on a good foot. Especially Graves, the vampire and master of all his thralls, who started most conversation with a quick quip or smug remark.

It even shocked you how friendly he was towards you, standing close with a hand on your shoulder, his rugged face smiling down at your, confident and comforting. His grin was teasing, flashing his fangs so openly around you. He’d throw a few taunts hidden under praises: “Look at the pretty neck, soft skin and perfect. Bet you’re sweet, ain’t ya, sweetheart?”

Graves was also brutally honest, speaking his mind about decisions and choices made by others and even criticizing his men when they messed up. He controlled them, mind and body, reborn from his blood and remade in his expectations, but they worked in perfect rhythm, working as if they were one cell.

So, when their leader made a move on you, the rest did, often sitting beside you, keeping a hand on you, hungry for any physical touch or a whiff of your blood, the smell of your ichor that exhumed from your uncovered skin: your neck and your wrists. They would flash their fangs, gleaming under the white light of the mess hall, a threat that kept your surrounded and trapped between them.

Although they were friendly whenever you worked with Shadow Company, the constant attention and hungry, red eyes had made you somewhat uncomfortable, so much so that the rest of the TF cued in on it. Soap would stick to your side, hackles raised and eyes narrowed when some Shadows would approach you, being too handsy with you. If you weren’t with Soap, Gaz would bring you to his side with a wing, stretched behind to cover you in a protective shield to deter the thralls. The true deterrent was Ghost, looming behind you in his dark glory, growling and glaring at anyone who approached you without even touching you or standing too close. Price worked well, they wouldn’t bother the captain because they feared fire, because an angry dragon was a slow and painful death.

But that never stopped Graves from approaching you, tongue running over his lower lip and over the sharpness of his fang, red eyes gleaming brightly and looking handsome with his sun-kissed skin, blonde hair and southern accent, the sexy drawl of his words.

“Be a doll and c’m’here, won’t you?”

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[wordstome]

now that we don't talk

I cannot be your friend, so I pay the price of what I lost And what it cost Now that we don't talk

alpha colonel König x beta ex-lover reader

2nd person, no y/n, she/her pronouns, reader's callsign is Eden, reader speaks French, omegaverse, exes to lovers, fraternization

2.2k words

tw: none

I swear to God one day I'll write something that doesn't involve that big hooded freak. But today is not that day.

Shoutout to loganlermanstanaccount here on Tumblr, who I won't tag. The bullet point headcanons with written parts interspersed format is from their excellent college roommate Miguel O'Hara post, which became their fic Rigor Mortis. I highly recommend both!

Also, excuse the absolutely butchered military content. I'm sure none of this is how it works in real life, but alas, this is fanfiction, not a research paper. Reader serves a Laswell-like role, but I refrained from labeling her as CIA even though I do call her a station chief. For the purposes of this fic, she's the voice in the operatives' ear during ops. We're playing a bit fast and loose with the terminology here.

You’re a highly skilled intelligence agent and operative handler.

You’ve spent most of your life dedicated to your career: moving through the ranks, proving yourself, refusing to let anything stand in the way of your ambitions.

You’ve done some things you aren’t proud of, but always for the right reason. Or the reason that made the most cold, logical sense. Even when your heart tells you otherwise. Nobody in this line of work has clean hands, after all.

You’ve always done what needs to be done. For everyone’s best interest.

Today marks the first day of your collaboration with a PMC called KorTac. You’re hunting down a homegrown cult turned out-of-control terrorist cell.

You haven’t had much experience working with mercenaries, but in terms of hardened war criminals, KorTac’s people are quite well mannered.

Not that you had expected them to be rude and discourteous, but, well. You are an outsider. They haven’t necessarily embraced you, but their reception was nice enough.

You’ve got a meeting with their commander, but you can’t quite find the room you’re supposed to be meeting in. Not a great first impression to make, but luckily, someone takes pity on you.

He introduces himself. Korean. Callsign Horangi.

“You’ll get used to the layout of the base,” he says as you follow him through winding hallways.

“I hope so,” you reply. “I’ll be here for a while." You study the walls, the signs and numbers on the doors, trying your best to memorize everything.

"Do you know your commander well?" you ask. You're not the world's biggest fan of small talk, but you may as well know what you're walking into.

"König? Yeah, we've been close ever since he joined up." Horangi says, leading you into a long hallway. "He's a good guy. A little intense, but don't let that get to you. He's just getting the job done."

"We'll get along if he's competent." You can respect a man who forgoes pleasantries for making sure the shit gets shoveled.

"You don't have to worry about that." Horangi stops and holds the door open for you. "After you."

You study him for just a moment before entering the room. He's curt and to the point. Not bad-looking, either. Hopefully you'll get more chances to—

Your heart nearly stops.

KorTac's commander is facing away from the doorway, shuffling through some papers by the looks of it. But you would know him from any angle. The set of his shoulders, the way his stance is at ease but never truly relaxed, the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck.

You have to force yourself to step into the room. And when you do, he turns around.

You're vaguely aware of Horangi stepping around you to get into the room, but that's happening somewhere far away from the headspace you occupy right now. By the way König's eyes widen as they meet yours, he's in the same place too.

He hasn't aged so much as he's gotten more tired. He never did sleep enough, but now he looks like he hasn't gotten a sound night's rest in a long time. He's put-together, but there's a haggardness to him that probably wouldn't be noticeable to anybody but you. Someone who knew him when he was younger, and in the prime of his life. Someone who used to know every scar on his body, every crease of his brow, and now hasn't seen him in more than a decade.

The man who broke your heart stands on the other end of the room, staring at you as if he's seen a ghost.

The two of you stand there for a while before Horangi's voice shakes you back to reality. "Brought the station chief, sir."

"I...see." König—you suppose that's what he calls himself nowadays, the arrogant prick—clears his throat. "Thank you, Hong-jin."

"No problem." Horangi takes a seat. "The others will be in soon."

Horangi seems like a perceptive enough guy. Can he tell that the room feels several degrees colder? You pull a chair out, the furthest one from König's position possible, and ignore the hurt that briefly flashes across his face as you sit down.

The meeting goes well. It's just an opportunity for you to formally introduce yourself to the KorTac operators you'll primarily be working with for the next few months.

You can tell they're a close knit group by the easy way they interact with each other: they've worked together for a while.

König, too, is part of them, which must be how they pick up on the chilly dynamic between the two of you. Some of them are just puzzled. For most of them, it raises their hackles.

It doesn't matter to you. You can barely focus on getting through the meeting without feeling like you're going to faint.

It's absurd. You're not some delicate Regency-era lady. You're a hardened military officer. But it makes no difference.

It doesn't matter how long it's been, it seems. He's still the only one who can make you feel like this.

You can't get out of there fast enough after the meeting has concluded. Not only are the others shooting you suspicious looks, but you've spent too long in his presence. Any longer, and you don't know how you're going to keep your composure.

But you can't escape him. Of course not. Why did you ever think otherwise? You hear him call for you, and you walk faster. But it's futile.

This hallway is smaller, narrower, less open. Nobody's around to watch when he slams you against the wall to stop your hasty retreat. Nobody's around to see the way you sway in his hold, overwhelmed by the smell of him all around you. You're bathed in it, the overpowering presence of him.

"We need to talk." he demands.

"We just did. Meeting's over," you shoot back, making a paltry attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. He loosens his hold on you, but you're still trapped between him and the wall. No exit.

"I didn't plan this, in case you're wondering."

"That much was obvious." He's let his hair grow out longer, you notice at the most inopportune time possible. It suits him, you think.

He sighs in frustration. "If we're going to work together, we have to be civil."

"Don't worry. I wouldn't expose how much of a scoundrel you are in front of your precious squad," you bite.

You feel a twinge of smug satisfaction as regret settles into his expression. Too little, too late.

"I don't want it to be like this, either," he murmurs. "Ignoring and avoiding each other."

"You don't get to tell me how to act."

"You're right. But it's been a long time. Can't we try to get along? Not for my sake, but...yours."

"Well that's not condescending at all."

"That's not what I meant. I know my team. If you're walking around resenting me openly like that, they won't trust you. And they need to, if you're working with us."

He's right, and you know it. But there's that deep instinct inside you, older than your bloodline, waking up after a long slumber. It wants him, snapping at the bit to give into him and do whatever he asks of you. The urge will consume you if you don't fight it every step of the way.

You glare up at him, hoping you come off as brimming with resentment instead of desire. "As long as you and your team stay professional, I can too."

He's not satisfied with that answer, but it's all you're going to give him.

"Fine." He steps away from you, and you pour all your willpower into commanding your body to stay still. To not chase after his closeness. You sway on the spot, dizzy with his scent after having gone so long without it.

"This hallway is a dead end, by the way."

You try, you really do. But it's hard to be around him without feeling the urge to touch him, to press yourself against him and inhale him like the most destructive drug possible.

Your only recourse is to stay as physically far away from him as possible.

You do your best to ingratiate yourself with the other operators. You and Calisto are fast friends: she's got a breezy confidence to her that's quite refreshing. It also doesn't hurt that you speak French, as well. There's a bit of kinship felt whenever the two of you are holding a conversation none of the others can understand.

Horangi's a different story, though. The initial courtesy he showed you is a bit more clipped, now that it's clear something is up between you and König.

You can't believe you missed it the first time, the way König's smell is all over him. It really has been too long.

The two of them must be pretty close. You give up trying not to fixate on the idea.

You didn't mean to eavesdrop on them, but you were curious. Even more curious when you hear your name mentioned.

"It's pretty clear you and Eden know each other. None of us are stupid."

You freeze in your tracks. The door is closed, but you can hear Horangi's voice, loud and clear in the room behind it.

"It's not relevant. She's just here to do a job."

"I think it's pretty relevant that she gets up and leaves whenever you enter a room, regardless of what she's doing. She can't get away from you fast enough."

You give a surreptitious look at your surroundings, then lean down slightly, pressing your ear to the door.

"You're not going to give this up, are you?"

"Hell fucking no."

You hear König sigh. "Fine. We knew each other before I joined KorTac. Back when I was in the Jagdkommando."

Do you want to hear this? Your painful history, relayed to a near stranger? Horangi's not a stranger to him, that's for sure.

"And?"

"We were...involved."

"You and a beta? Never took you for the type."

"Well, neither did I. But she was...special. Smart, pretty, deadeye with a knife. Wouldn't give me the time of day, of course. I was obsessed with her."

"Naturally."

"Give me a fucking break, okay?"

"Can't wait to hear how this ended."

"Not...great. I was a total dick."

You can say that again, you think.

"I was young. Real dumbass who thought he was hot shit."

"You still aren't."

"Shut the fuck up." Something twinges inside you at the hearty laughter the two of them share. You missed that laugh.

"Despite everything, it was the most stable relationship I've ever been in. We looked out for each other. She knew me better than some of my family does."

"How did you fuck that up, then?"

"I got too comfortable. Started thinking I could do better. God, what a fucking idiot I was. I loved her like crazy, but I didn't realize how good I had it until it was gone."

"She left you?"

"No. I was the one who ended things. In the worst way possible, too. I told her the relationship wasn't going to go anywhere, that we were never going to be a serious thing."

"Ouch. Why not?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. You remember that night, like a shard of glass buried in your chest. As hard as you tried to forget, you'll never forget the way you felt. Like the world was ending.

You'll never forget the decision you had to make.

"I told her I couldn't see myself with a beta long-term."

"...that's fucked up."

"I know. I know. I was too caught up in that shitty macho alpha mindset. I was fucking ravenous back then, and I thought only an omega could give me what I needed."

"I get it now. If I were her, I would have quit on the spot seeing you in that meeting room."

"Yeah. She's a better person than I can ever imagine being."

Well. It's nice to know he regrets it, you think. Not that it does you much good now. Quiet as a mouse, you make a quick exit before you can get caught.

You make it back to the the room you've been assigned to. They were nice enough to give you your own private quarters, something you deeply appreciate when you need to be alone with your own thoughts. Like right now.

It's a strange feeling, to sort of get closure like this. Not at the end, but at the beginning of something new. You still have to see each other. Does it help that you know how he feels? Maybe, but it doesn't ease your own guilt. In fact, it makes it worse.

You're not mad at him for telling Horangi. You're glad he did, actually. There are some secrets that cause more harm to keep than not.

You open a drawer and pull out the pill bottle, hidden underneath your other possessions, and stare at the label.

WARNING - SUPPRESSANTS. NOT TO BE USED BY ALPHAS. ONLY CONSUME UNDER PHYSICIAN SUPERVISION.

You would know.

BOOM! There you have it. (In case it wasn't clear, the suppressants are for omegas.)

@sprout-fics's omegaverse 141 headcanons series inspired me to write something based off the idea of an omega disguising themselves as a beta in the military. Please check out her series, it's great.

I was really into exploring how omegaverse dynamics can make complicated relationships even messier. I did consider writing this story without the omegaverse, but I think now it's kind of an essential element. (I also just. Want them to have crazy nasty omegaverse sex. Sue me) I can't picture König ever breaking up with someone he deeply loved and was obsessed with, unless he had a reason like that. Still not a great reason, but a little bit understandable. Eden being a disguised omega also adds a bit of spice to the exes-to-lovers arc, too: she could have just come out and told him she's not actually a beta, but she chose not to for the sake of her career. Oof. Ruthless judgement calls were made on both sides.

I put this out because this idea had me in a STRANGLEHOLD, and I just had to get it out before I burst. Hopefully my writing's still up to par 😅 As for Kingdom Come, part iii may take a little while longer because a lot is going to happen in it, so I hope this can tide you guys over until then.

As usual, comments and feedback are always appreciated! I would love to talk about this au more. And again, if you'd like to be tagged, drop a reply. And if you're in the taglist and would like to be removed/only tagged for Kingdom Come, please let me know!

@crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr @keiva1000 @waves-against-a-cliff @channelsoph @cutiecusp @itsagrimm @dins-riduur-anthe @mantishymns @lexuria

[valiantverses]

The Azrael Series: Chapter One

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader/ Slowburn/Sort of Enemies to Friends to Lovers)

°°°°°

Summary/Notes: Task Force 141 is assigned a new member to deal with Makarov for good. Highly-skilled, brutally efficient and devastatingly competent, Ghost has met his match - and finds himself at odds with the SAS Fraternization Regulations as getting to know you makes him re-evaluate a life he never thought to allow himself.

°°°°°

Chapter One

Introduction 1

@beansproutmafia @chinuneko @agustdpeach

Click.

Ghost watched you methodically assemble your rifle, noting how deliberate each movement was. You worked smoothly - barrel into receiver, scope in place, alignment done perfectly. He met your eyes as you surveyed the area, sliding in casings into the magazine with focused intensity.

Not sparing him another glance, you turned to look into your scope, securing the perimeter. Out on the craggy cliff face of the unforgivingly frigid Ural mountains, escape would not be easy. The only thing keeping you from being spotted was the taiga camouflage you wore and the relative cover of the copse of rocks you had climbed on to next to the lieutenant, chest pressed flat on to the rough ground as you settled yourself into a prone position.

"Alpha Two, in position and operational."

Your voice was clear through the coms, unhampered by the face coverings you wore even as your warm breath created soft puffs of vapour, swirling lazily into the air.

Next to you, Riley shifted, your sides touching as he took a final look over the perimeter and inconspicuously - attempting to, anyway - looked over your rifle to see your handiwork.

"Alpha Actual, in position and operational."

His voice reverberated through the rock you had both deemed fit to survey the target location - A laboratory nestled in a valley in the Ural mountains that served as a logistics facility for Makarov, protected by the mercenaries he hired.

"Copy, Alpha Squad. Bravo Squad getting into position, T-Minus 10. Maintain positions. Over."

"Copy." "Copy."

Twin voices rang out, and then there was a silence, a chasm between you and the lieutenant.

You did nothing to break it, comfortable in the stillness of the break of dawn, even as the lieutenant continued to sneak assessing looks at you.

Though your file spoke for itself, experience and skills clearly laid out for the entire team to peruse in black - admittedly mostly redacted - ink, it was another thing entirely to trust a new teammate to watch your back.

Station Chief Laswell had attempted to soothe the situation, utilizing lots of what you recognized to be CIA mediation training to make the mission seem like less of what it was.

But the message was clear to you immediately upon receiving team assignments.

Ghost was babysitting you.

It didn't matter, you decided. You were the unknown variable in a well-oiled machine that had been training together for months. A factor that could put the team at risk so long as they didn't know - or trust - you.

Acceptance would come. Or it wouldn't - you rarely found the kind of stability needed to forge lasting relationships in this lifestyle.

Hunching your shoulders as the wind picked up, you meticulously cleared each area of your assigned quadrant, catching sight of Sergeant McTavish as he came into the view of your scope on the southernmost side of the compound.

Sergeant McTavish - Soap, as he had insisted you called him - had given you the warmest reception by far. He had taken one look at you during introductions and had been not just welcoming but outright friendly, giving you a wide smile and offering to take you on a tour of the team's home base.

You watched as Soap glanced behind him, jerking his head in the direction of the building closest to him as another hooded figure sidled up by his side - Sergeant Garrick.

Sergeant Garrick did not have quite the same warmness as Soap, but his wary smile had seemed genuine, facial muscles pulling up in such a way that your deeply ingrained intelligence training had told you was free of deception. He had offered to spar, and said that he'd give you a lay of the land outside the base upon return from this mission.

That's about where any sense of welcome started and ended with the team, Laswell and Captain Price had kept you at arms length, a clipped sort of professionalism. Lieutenant Riley was an apathetic sort of distance, and you had the sense that he was on the look out for any of your weaknesses and would no doubt be more than glad to pull out the Personnel Transfer Forms in his desk that had barely ever seen the light of day if you failed to live up to expectations.

You kept your breathing low and steady, the high elevations making the air feel thin. Next to you, you felt the lieutenant shift.

"Our directive mandates recon and reaction only, no active engagement."

His eyes on you felt like an itching in the back of your throat, easy enough to ignore but always at the back of your mind.

"Yes, sir." You affirmed, laser focused on clearing the western perimeter of the compound. "I was there when the instructions were given."

There was a pregnant pause where you continued constant surveillance, not even looking up as in your peripheral vision the blazing nothingness of freshly fallen snow was obscured by the bone white of your lieutenant's skull mask.

"I could do without your attitude, sergean-"

He had leaned in close enough to you that you were able to reach behind him to his nape and pull him in your direction, sandwiching yourself between his bulky body and the rough stone below. Before he could pull away, you tightened your grip on his coat, indicating with your free hand to remain low on the ground.

It had been subtle, well hidden, but the glint of a sniper scope aimed in your general direction had you reacting immediately.

Slightly winded from the lieutenant's weight on you, you reached up and clicked on your coms link.

"Captain, Alpha Two reporting. Hostile sniper positively ID'ed in area of operations. Westernmost building, clear line of sight of Bravo Team. Requesting green light for engagement."

You began to relax your arm but were quickly pinned to place by a hefty elbow as Ghost grabbed you by the collar of your coat, growling into your ear.

"Alpha Two heard. Confirm, Alpha Actual?"

Price's voice rang out of the coms, to no response.

Ghost snarled at you, placing his other hand next to your head, effectively locking you into place.

"Fuckin' hell sergeant, never heard of an anti reflect? Nine times out of ten a sniper has a sunshade o-"

"East facing window on furthest building, two windows down from the top floor. Sunshades work by blocking out light reflections but only with direct sunlight. The snow is freshly fallen and we're south- they hadn't accounted for the reflection of the sun onto the snowbank behind us. Nobody would expect hostiles on a blank cliff face-"

He grunted, keeping his eyes trained on you even as he reached over to look into your scope, bodies still pressed tightly together.

"Alpha Actual, positive ID'ed hostile? Over"

The captain's message once again went unanswered.

You shifted your legs a little, freezing when his thighs squeezed your sides in warning as he surveyed the westernmost building, the brutalist architecture starker in the snow.

You spoke in low tones, trying to get him to see your point. The low oxygen environment forced you to conserve your time spent talking.

"They're deeper into the building and have partial cover because of the drainage. They'd have direct line of fire on Sergeant Garrick and Sergeant McTavish. It'd be like shooting fish in a barrel."

"Alpha Actual, do you copy? Ghos-"

He huffed, the movement reverberating through you as he eased away from his position on top of you, falling into a low crouch behind the rock.

"Captain, hostile sniper ID'ed. West building, two windows from top. Clear line of sight on Bravo. Over."

There was another tense pause as the coms line grew silent, you taking the opportunity to roll over on to your stomach and keep watch on Soap and Garrick's position.

"Copy, Alpha Actual. Alpha Two, request to engage approved- Alpha Actual and Bravo Squad, maintain position."

"Copy, Alpha Two moving to position."

You wasted no time, disassembling your rifle in seconds, taking care not to let the snow into any openings as you turned to face your lieutenant and gave him a perfunctory nod, not waiting for his response as you left the relative safety of the rock formation.

The trek to the Southeast of the valley was arduous, the oxygen thin and the paths non-existent in the freshly fallen snow. Your lungs took in searingly cold air and your vision started to blur as the whiteness of the snow began to bleed into each other, the visor you wore being the only thing that kept you from snow blindness. Sometimes it became necessary to crawl on your hands and knees in the areas that were particularly visible to the valley down below. You did your best to keep your deep breaths from drowning out the coms, hearing Garrick and Mctavish's confirmation of identifying the sniper and entering an obscured alcove.

As you reached a copse of rocks that had the Western building in sight, you took off the gloves which the jagged rocks you had crawled on had embedded into and immediately began assembling your rifle, the familiarity of the metal body a comfort even in the frigid air.

You breathed in, then exhaled, before focusing on identifying the hostile sniper in front of you.

As your eyes began to adjust to the darkness of the empty room, a figure began to form, carved out of the inky blackness, partially hidden behind a mounted rifle.

The outside world stuttered to a stop. There was your breathing, low and calm. There was the enemy, looking up from their scope. There was your finger on the trigger, and then there was the the enemy's body jerking back, a bullet between his eyes as he slumped against the wall.

You waited.

You kept the corpse in sight of the crosshair, making sure the enemy's radio was within sight of you at all times.

Because if there was a sniper, then there would be a spotter, and it would just be a matter of who was more patient.

There was a flurry of movement as another person emerged out of the darkness and ran to their previous partners radio, stopping abruptly and collapsing as the insides of their skull became acquainted with the wall behind them.

"Captain, hostiles eliminated."

"Copy, Alpha Two. Bravo Squad, commence operation."

You kept your eyes trained on Soap and Garrick. You ensured they avoided engaging with the enemy, removing obstacles from their path before it could become a problem. Through the coms, you led them to the intelligence building and then back out, until they had successfully left the compound with Makarov's data in hand.

It was a perfect mission, and you could see by the pleased set of Garrick's shoulders, the twitch of Price' lips and the glint of Soap's eyes that the team really, really needed this win.

Evidently, not everyone was pleased with your performance.

Being the last one out of the chopper before debrief, you felt a hand on your shoulder, tugging you back until that familiar skull mask was in your vision once more.

"Liuetenant." You inclined your head, unsure of what he wanted.

"I don't like your attitude, sergeant."

"I don't need you to like me, sir. "

He remained silent, eyes boring into your own.

You regarded him, standing under the bright lights of the air hangar, mask and snow clothing so bright it almost made it hard to look at him. So you continued on.

"All I need is for you to know that on the field, I have your back."

Your lips quirked up as you managed a relaxed salute, muttering a 'sir' as you went to enter the debriefing room and began giving your report when everyone had gathered.

There was not a shred of doubt in your mind that the skull mask was trained on you the entire time.

[greatlydelirious]

𝐃𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬, 𝐊𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬

Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

wordcount: 6.1k words

summary: The night that death granted you mercy you swore to never let yourself become vulnerable again. That was until you started to be haunted by a man who knew your feelings all too well.

warnings: smut, mask stays on, slight breeding kink, angst, injury, mentions of past trauma, super fluffy, established relationships, (Ghost is highkey obsessed with you)

“Who’s your crew?” Laswell asks while sighing, exasperated by Price’s persistence. He swipes up the stack of files she got for him before going through them.

“Sergeant Garrick.”

“Kyle?” she recalls.

“They call him ‘Gaz’. He never said anything.” Laswell looks over the front of the file before he pulls out another. “John MacTavish, SAS. Sniper- demolitions. Goes by ‘Soap’.” Once again Price hands it to Laswell.

“Why?”

“That’s classified.” Price’s tone is even before he moves on chuckling. “There he is… Simon Riley.” When he places this one down, Laswell’s eyebrows knit, “There’s no picture.”

“Never.”

He softly whistles before saying your name, “… but she only answers to ‘Rose’.”

“Rose? That’s a delicate name.” Laswell arches a brow when Price lets out a dry laugh.

“Anything but.” Price taps the photo attached to the folder. The woman was mean mugging the camera with a hardened expression that made even him shudder and was the envy of any of the men who joined her ranks.

“Now the rest…” Price swipes the files back while staring down the CIA station chief across from him. “That’s need to know. Unless we got a deal.”

Laswell stares back at him equally stoic, “What are you calling this task force?”

A light smirk plays on Price’s lips, “1-4-1.”

Sweat percolates from every inch of your skin as you make your way to your designated post. The heavy fatigues and protective gear that use to bother you now act as a comforting weight. A reminder of where you are and the mission you are about to accomplish with your team. Not some sissy team, but Task Force 141; a special operations task force military unit that housed the best and… wildest.

Wildest was far more apt than the word brightest to describe the band of seasoned soldiers Captain Price brought together. He recruited you from the United States military special force known as 75th Ranger Regiment. Anyone who has met someone you fought alongside knew the female killing machine that holds the moniker “Rose”.

At first, you wanted to decline Price’s proposition to join. You’d worked under the command of General Shepherd before during your time with the U.S. Army Rangers, but you were still hesitant. After surviving unspeakable horrors in Afghanistan, you became far too deep in your itch to maim and kill.

Not only did you need the structure being a part of a force gave you, but the thrill. When your old captain tried to give you a base job after recovering from severe injuries you went berserk. Hell, you were even moments away from joining the French Foreign Legion. Of course, Price caught wind of this and promised to put you to work. Luckily for him, he kept up his promise.

You are a specially trained fucking soldier; not a rookie, not a gun polisher, but a sharpshooter that rivaled the likes of Simon “Ghost” Riley. The statement might sound crass, but you didn’t have the luxury to lapse in confidence. Every corner you turn, every order you follow, and every shot you take must be concise and without a shred of hesitation. This wasn’t fun and games, it was life and death.

Well… maybe it’s a little bit of fun sometimes.

Scuffling noises and grunts fill the coms until they abruptly cease.

“Rose, do you copy?”

Silence.

“Answer me, Rose. Do. You. Copy.” Now the question turned into gritted demands. Each word leaves a sharper bite than the last.

Silence is the only answer yet again. Before Ghost can crush the radio in his steely grip, static meets his ears.

Grunting you push the now limp body on your chest to the ground. “Copy Lt.” Blood audibly squelches as you reclaim your knife. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.” Wiping the trusty blade on your pant leg you chuckle at a joke in your head, “What has two arms, two legs, and ten holes?

Soap can be heard groaning. You are just as bad as Ghost when it comes to so-called “army humor”. “You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin-“ Someone clicks their mic to cut off Soap’s grumbling.

“What?” A gravelly voice that gives you goosebumps plays along.

“The guy I just stabbed.”

“Ten holes huh?”

“Men have nine, thought he could use an extra one in the neck.”

“You’re bloody sick.”

“No, I’m quite blood free right now and I don’t have a stuffy nose. Thanks for your concern.”

A deep huff cuts through the coms and you recognize it as Ghost’s version of a laugh. Triumph fills you with being the one to elicit that rare sound. Thankfully, no one else was around to catch the subtle blush rising on your cheeks.

Focus, Rose.

“What do you call a Russian sniper from the Soviet Army who never misses his target?” Ghost asks you right after you finish clearing the hallway that held the stairway leading to the roof of the building.

“Go on.” You encourage as you start to make your ascent.

“The most skilled marxman in the military.” Now that had to be the most military dad joke you’ve ever heard.

“Please tell me you’re at your spot Rose.” Soap once again groans and for a second he regrets every decision that got him stuck with the two of you.

With an amused lilt in your voice, you push open a metal door, cold night air giving a second of reprieve against your hot skin. “Fortunately for you and unfortunately for me, affirmative.”

Taking a deep breath, you crouch before setting your M21 EBR sniper rifle on the edge of the roof and maneuvering the ACOG Scope attached. The semi-automatic rifle has extremely low recoil and you liked its dual use for medium and longer ranges. Other soldiers had a hard time with the scope’s slight sway, but you tamed the gun how one would a horse; using a subtle, soft touch to steer it in the right direction.

Electricity thrums through you as you anticipate what is about to take place. You adjust your scope until you’re finally focused on the building across the street. Standing behind one of the windows was your target, Nabeel Bashar, drinking and laughing with other men in the room.

Nabeel Bashar is a close associate of Hassan Zyani and one of the lower-ranked leaders in the terrorist organization Al-Qatala. Although he’s not important enough to give you information you don’t already have, his death is important enough to make an impact.

That’s it Nabeel. Move one more inch to the left and I got you.

Your leather gloves slightly squeak as you adjust the grip on your sniper rifle. The gun is an extension of yourself, and it’s about to send a message to Hassan. After a few minutes that feel like hours, the man steps perfectly into your line of sight.

“Rose to Bravo 0-6. I’m in position and have a clear shot.”

“Hold your position until Ghost gives the order.”

“Copy.”

Captain Price’s command sits at the forefront of your mind as your anticipation grows. You might have an itchy trigger finger, but you’re too seasoned to pull it prematurely. Years of training and discipline that started when you were a child kept you steadfast in waiting.

To say your father was proud of you was an understatement. As a U.S. Army Vietnam Veteran, he was a stickler for raising tough kids. Sprain something? Walk it off. Lose at a sport? Try harder. His motto is, “When all else fails, your mind is the only thing that can save you.” Advice that not only helped save your life but was engrained in your bones.

Over the years and during your time in Afghanistan, you accrued accomplishments and honorary medals that you thought of as just “chest candy,” but your father gladly took them to display in his living room to show off to his fishing buddies. Based on the way he constantly brags about you; you are most definitely his favorite.

So much so that he has more than once grilled you endlessly about the man you told your mother about. Simply calling him a man didn’t do enough justice though. Simon “Ghost” Riley isn’t just an apparition, but a carnal animal outside and inside the bedroom. Unforgivingly rough as he gets to what he wants while thrumming with a deathly power that practically begs for someone to challenge him.

Unsurprising to everyone, that’s what you did when you joined Task Force 141. The tales of the heartless Lieutenant with the seemingly permanent skull-patterned balaclava never scared you. If anything, it made you want to test your sparring skills with him. When you finally convinced him to practice with you and he managed to pin you down after an hour, he was far more than impressed. Intrigued, surprised, and aroused captured the essence of how he felt.

Ghost admires your brutality. You never hesitate, never give anyone the inkling that you’ll be an easy target. Some would say the element of surprise could work in your favor, but you like a rough fight. If you’re not feeling the aching reminder of it the next day, you don’t feel like you won. That philosophy may be dangerous, but that’s what Ghost loves about you.

Yet what he covets the most is the vulnerability you gave him the pleasure of witnessing. Everyone got to see the bloodthirsty soldier, but he got to see the resilient woman who soaked in her complex emotions behind closed doors. A woman who liked his stern voice and uncharacteristically soft touches.

You always melted in his hands like a kitten snuggling close for warmth. At times the rumbled moans that came straight from your chest even sounded like purrs. Ghost craved that soothing sound. A rare sign of mindless comfort from his “pretty rose.”

“Red Rose” was the full cover name you were given. You were as fresh as a rose when you joined the 75th Ranger Regiment, the only experience under your belt being from your short time in the army. During those beginning years of your career it was just “Rose”, but it became far too tame to describe the person you are now.

Anytime you clean sweep a room that had more than enough men to overpower you, Gaz said you “painted the roses red”. Are you a part of Task Force 141 if you didn’t have a sense of dark humor?

Like any rose, thorns covered the outside of you, not a protective shield, but a visible threat that you will bite back when handled. It wasn’t a secret what was done to you; as unspeakable as it may be. Not only did your mind plague you with vivid memories in the middle of the night, but it manifested physically as well.

Deep scars that left phantom pains in their wake littered your body. No matter how hard you itched or rubbed the pangs hit you with a vengeance. They were etched reminders of not only the pains of living but the miracle of survival. You were deeply respected for surviving what you went through, but it morphed into fear when you continued to be a part of the force.

Some people let the venom of the past take them down, but others will use the searing pain as motivation to push forward. You’re the latter.

Despite your hardened exterior and savage nature amidst combat, you get along with your team swimmingly. Yes, you snap, bark, and bite, but like any good Doberman when someone shows you they are trustworthy, you are fiercely loyal. And by this point, 141 felt more like home than anywhere else. They treated you like any other man on the team and would take a bullet for you without hesitation.

The only thing that was akin to what you feel like, is a Doberman shaking with the excitement for its next command. All you needed was that one word. Once you get that command the metaphorical leash can be dropped so the beast can attack.

“Shoot.”

In a millisecond your finger pulls the trigger. Glass shattering mixed with the whistling shot is like music to your ears, a symphony of justice executing its judgment. You watch as Nabeel Bashar falls limply to the ground, the hole in his head forming a crimson puddle underneath him. Pulling away from your rifle you grab your radio, “Nabeel’s down. Enemy K.I.A.”

One down.

“Clean shot, Rose.” Price praises through the coms. “Now let’s get you-“

Yelling erupting below makes your focus turn to the street. Stationed soldiers yell in a language you don’t understand while rushing into the building you’re in.

Shit.

You manage to duck when bullets ricochet off the concrete next to you, making dust spread in the air. “I’m under fire and they’re making their way inside.” You have to practically scream to be heard over the sudden gunfire. The cadence of your voice held not even a semblance of a quiver as you barked the information. You’ve stared at the face of death before; you can do it again.

“You will do it again.” Ghost’s voice pops in your head almost in a warning. The last time you were trapped in a situation like this you had the infamous man alongside you. Except then you had a nasty stab wound to your side and Ghost had even nastier gunshot wounds to the thigh and shoulder.

Enemies are everywhere. Stray bullets whizz past your head as you make it into the empty house with half of Ghost’s weight against your hip. The plan didn’t go awry, but totally nuclear. Now you both are left surrounded and injured. Concerningly so based on the dark stain your partner was leaving on the floor. He tried to help you barricade the room, but the moment he started to tip to the ground you helped him sit down. No matter how bullheaded he is, he can only withstand so much blood loss.

Ghost’s head slowly starts to fall forward as he sits against the wall. The chopper is on its way and the only body you planned to haul with you was a breathing one. Thick fabric meets your palm as you slap Ghost awake. Even though he is sluggish, he captures your wrist before you can step back. When you try to tug out of his grip, he only squeezes harder.

You opt to instead crouch in front of him, eyes blazing, “If you leave me now, I’ll come after you.”

When he simply blinks at you, you move your face until it’s inches away from his masked one. “Do you hear me, you bloody bastard? I mean it.”

A wet chuckle leaves the man below you, “Bloody, eh? I’ve rubbed off on yah already?”

“Make it through this and you can rub off on me all you want.” Now Ghost truly laughs despite himself. Despite the pain. Jokes made the hurt go away, mental or physical, but what really made the bleeding man tick was the way your eyes twinkled with promise. You truly do mean it.

Slippery fingers intertwine as Ghost holds your other hand as well. Despite the danger and the blood, there was something so intimate about his touch.

“Deal.”

That was the night you officially fell in love with Simon “Ghost” Riley.

“Backup is on its way now. Stand your ground, Rose.” Price’s words are meant to be comforting, but they only make you curse.

You know the team is set up in houses nearby, but these men are coming in fast. The sound of heavy footsteps pounding against metal steps further confirms your thought. Rolling your shoulders, you let a cold smile spread across your face.

Game on.

-

“Fuckin’ hell…” Ghost couldn’t help but breathe out the words when he finally makes it to you. He’s never mowed down enemies so fast. Any person who got in his way was given a swift death, and apparently, so did any in yours.

You’re a vision in red. Blood and entrails cling to your body as you stand in the middle of the wreckage. Fingers still twitched around the blades in both your hands, sniper rifle long forgotten somewhere. When your bullets ran out you opted to use it as a baton, cracking enemies until it got lost during a scuffle. Bodies are strewn across the rooftop like it was nothing. Like it was normal for someone to have the capabilities to fight all these men by themself; let alone a woman half their size.

Ghost has never seen anything more breathtaking. The gore only illuminates the primal energy that surged through you, through him. Every instinct urges him to run to you, feel you, and claim you just as you are now.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

With a shaky laugh, you sheath your weapons, not looking away from the man in front of you. The air is fraught with tension not stemming from the surprise attack. “Sorry, you missed the party, sir. I hope you can forgive me.” Your voice practically keens with a desire only Ghost can quell.

“Sir”, a formality laced with sin that unfurls from your tongue to snake into his ears. The sound of it coming from you so desperately, so needy, for him, calls to every fiber of Ghost’s being. You take without recourse every day; lives, commands, jests, anything you could while leaving nothing in return. Until it came to him. That three-letter title was you giving your power over to Ghost. An exchange of trust that never ceased to rock him to his core.

A grunt is given to you in response. A silent warning that said, “If you keep it up with that, I can’t be held accountable for what happens next.”

You knew that verbatim since the last time he grunted like that and you continued to push his limits, you were left with such a bad limp the next day that Captain Price made you go to medical for a check-up since he was convinced you were injured. Technically with how bad you were aching, it did qualify as an injury, but the dull throb between your legs indicated it was the good kind.

Before Ghost can make a step forward, Soap and Gaz run up in quick succession. They stop short just as Ghost did as they also take in the sight. Dark eyes continue to stay transfixed on you. Almost like you were the only person in the whole city.

Although, after a couple of minutes of three pairs of eyes ogling you, you decide you had enough for one day. Exasperated, you reach for your radio, “All clear Captain.”

-

By the time the team makes it to the safe house, you are utterly drained. Everything aches. The thick layer of sticky human splatter covering your form begins to gnaw at your senses. The lights feel too bright, the air too hot, and the atmosphere too quiet.

You tug off the pounds of clunky armor and gear, tossing it on an open countertop like the others. For a moment you just stare at the items. The dismantling got the surface mucked with dirty substances. Not only that but your hands, arms, and the sweat rolling down your forehead makes it spread even more.

Dirty. Dirty. Dirty. The mantra leaves you frozen, not knowing what to do, not knowing what else to say.

Someone pats you firmly on the shoulder, “I’ll take care of it, eh? Go clean up. Lord knows you deserve it.”

You can’t distinguish the voice of who’s talking when your feet begin to move at the command before your mind can register it. Normally you didn’t become this frazzled so soon, but you haven’t had time to be alone for weeks now. No time to scream into a pillow or cry in your room or feel his touch.

Every high has a crash, and you are free-falling. Fast.

Soap lets out a sigh of concern before grabbing a rag to start getting to work. He doesn’t say anything when he sees a dark shadow larger than your own follow you down the hallway.

When the bathroom door closes seemingly by itself you don’t hesitate. Nails scratch your skin as you practically tear off the clothes clinging to you. When you hear the fabric of your shirt rip you don’t care. You don’t have the wherewithal to even try. Yanking back the curtain, you blindly search for the handle. When water starts pouring down you practically jump into the shower.

You arch your head back into the stream of water. Clear, turns red, then turns black with the mixture of blood and soot as it sinks into the drain, taking your adrenaline with it. Limbs quake and memories flood uninvited into your brain. To escape the onslaught of emotions you close your eyes and try to focus on the sounds around you. Water is dripping, slipping, and sliding in your mouth. Water that was meant to soothe, but once smothered you and used as a tool to make you talk, to make you break.

Large hands encompass the sides of your head and pull you from the stream internally ripping you apart. Only then do you hear the sobs spilling from your mouth. Your eyes fly open and are confronted with misty blue ones surrounded by pitch blackness, equally searching and equally pained. Pained not only for you but for the fact that he knows exactly what you’re feeling. He knows how the past is twisting your guts until the only thing your body wants to do is destroy or be destroyed.

“Focus, angel.”

The words come out in a deep yet soft command. A shiver travels across your skin and an ache settles in your heart. Ghost is here with you. You aren’t in that place anymore. Your hands cling so desperately around his wrists as if he would drift away at any moment. Like he’s the answer to your salvation.

In actuality, you’re his.

With a harsh tug, hungry lips slam into yours. You hadn’t noticed that his balaclava was pushed up, but you couldn’t be more relieved to truly feel him. The kiss is as possessive as it is sloppy. Tongues don’t dance but spar as Ghost uses his grip on your head to keep you locked in place. Not that you would ever dream about pulling away.

He tastes of metal, grit, and something addictively sweet. He’s like one of those candies in sketchy wrapping, but when you pop it in your mouth it’s the best thing to ever grace your tastebuds. Moaning you back up against the cold shower wall to make room for the large man. His lips only move to start descending on your neck. Lips and teeth and tongue tease with a fiery passion that make you gasp at each little assault of his mouth on your skin.

Something hard presses against your slick stomach as Ghost blankets your body with his own. He towers over you not only in stature but width. Your body is perfectly hidden in front of his own like a human shield. The pure notion of what he can do to you makes heat pool in your core.

Your sudden reaction doesn’t go unnoticed. They seldom do.

A thick finger instantly meets your folds, sliding through the wet sensitive flesh in agonizingly slow pets. Ghost lets out a satisfied grunt at how willing and wet you already are for him. He pushes the digit inside your pussy with ease. You desperately grab his biceps to keep yourself from melting into a puddle at his touch.

“Please.” The wobbled plead comes out like a mewling kitten. When you say it so sweetly how could he ever deny you? When a second finger joins the first the delightful stretch that follows makes your nails dig into his taut skin. Ghost doesn’t pause as he begins to fuck you with deep, slow thrusts. Fingers curve to hit the spongy sweet spot inside your pussy that has you clenching around him like a vice.

The hardness against your stomach twitches at the sound, feel, and look of you. So devastatingly perfect, devastatingly his.

In your haze, you look down at where his body meets yours. Each stroke of his fingers makes you dizzy, but all you can focus on is his cock. The tip is ruby red as it throbs and leaks with precum with the anticipation to take you.

“Simon.” His head snaps up to search your face. The name comes out in a whisper as your eyes say a thousand more words you can’t possibly string together in a coherent sentence.

His lips ghost the shell of your ear, “My strong girl did so well today. She deserves my cock don’t yah think?” You feebly nod, unable to make any sounds except for pathetic moans. Strong hands lift your legs so they’re dangling atop his muscular thighs. He’s like a makeshift seat as he keeps your back pressed against the wall to keep you propped up for him. Now the head of his cock is resting between the lips of your sex.

Breath eludes you as you watch Ghost look at where your bodies are joined. He gently rocks against your pussy, rubbing your clit with each slow stroke. The new position leaves you no room to buck against him. You’re completely left at his mercy.

“…so fuckin’ pretty.” The admiring words rumble from his chest as he finally pushes inside. It’s almost too much. His cock never fails to split you open to the point that you think you might rip in half. He’s too hard, too long, too thick, too big. Yet you can’t help but whine when he stops moving after only half of his cock is nestled in your pussy.

Ghost shoves his face in your neck and you can feel his body trembling, not from physical exertion, but from the force he was using to control himself. Teeth nip and scrape at the tender flesh above your collarbone as he begins to slowly push more of himself into your quivering pussy. In silent submission, you crane your neck further to give him better access to your pulse point.  

You don’t want Ghost to hold back. You want the delicious pain that comes from him tearing you apart because you know he’ll always sew you back together again.

“Fuck me, bite me, take me, please.”

“Copy.” Ghost’s tone is deceptively playful and you swear you feel him smirk against your neck.

Cheeky bastard.

Any semblance of lightheartedness quickly disappears when he slams the rest of his cock inside you. Instead of biting, he sucks the spot his teeth were previously teasing. Ghost’s hands settle on your ass to pull you on and off his cock in tandem with his thrusts. He’s everywhere all at once and all you can do is desperately moan at the contact you’ve starved for.

The pace starts deep and languid before rapidly turning rough and downright feral. Gravelly groans tumble from the usually composed man as your tight walls cling to him at every pull of his cock. You’re almost too tight and he’s almost too big. Almost.

“That’s it... take my cock, angel.” Your bottom lip trembles when Ghost moves to rest his forehead against yours while continuing to fuck into you hard enough to bruise. The soft skin at his pelvis abuses your clit to the point of overstimulation with the onslaught of movement. It’s so intense that you’re sure you’ll fall apart by the next jut of his hips, but he never gives you more than you can handle. Ghost is the only person you’ve trusted with your body in many years; and for that, he’ll be forever grateful.

His eyes never leave yours as he takes in every little emotion swirling in their depths. Before you were on the brink of darkness, now all he sees is lust and a four-letter word that would be his undoing.

Once you almost died and went to hell. Now you feel like you’ve died and gone to heaven. Euphoria made you docile and pliable, a mewling, dizzy, sweet mess that only made Ghost fuck you harder. The sounds he’s making are like brimstone and ash as he fucks his fallen angel.

“Angel” was an especially fond nickname Ghost gave you at the beginning of your relationship. One he saved for your most intimate moments together. To him, you’re a celestial being; too good to be with the likes of him. He sees your drive to do good, to protect people from the torment you’d endured. Outsiders may see a bloodthirsty soldier, but he saw you for who you really are. A woman who strived to do good, to protect people from horrors unimaginable. Even if it meant sacrificing herself. Although Ghost may not be as noble, he is as driven. He’ll be your patron saint, your protector till the end of days; but even then, he’ll be too selfish to let you go. Ghost would cut down Gods and travel through hell and back for you. Anything for his angel.

A particularly sharp thrust makes you cry out. You’re so close you can feel the electricity crackling between the two of you. But neither of you cared for things that came easy. In an instant Ghost pulls out of you and flips you around with the grace of a seasoned fighter. The spray of water hits the sides of your bodies as you’re bent with your front against the shower wall.

Your forearms support your weight as you slam your palms into the wall in a poor attempt for leverage. Each aching muscle in your legs shakes from the pressure of standing on your tiptoes to reach closer to Ghost’s hips. Emptiness gives way to fullness when your pussy is once again invaded by his cock. His front molds into your back like you are made for him. You fit so perfectly tight against him, around him, pushing and squeezing as your velvet walls flutter to accommodate him.

Fingers slip between your own in an act so tender it betrays the rough slap of his hips against you. Truly an enigma even you had yet to completely figure out. But with your fast-approaching climax, you didn’t have the room to dwell on the concept. You can tell Ghost is close too; his thrusts are growing sloppy and his fingers that are intertwined with yours squeeze in a white-knuckled grip to attempt to ground himself.

His hands slip from yours to find purchase on your hip with one hand while the other snakes around to descend on your clit. Even lost in desire his movements are precise and expert in how they derive pleasure from you.

“Do you want me to fill you up, angel? Make you mine?” Ghost’s voice is distorted by growls and full-blown lust. Your emphatic moans and confirmations blend only to heighten as he slams into you and rolls your sensitive bud just right. Ghost’s ministrations, cock, voice, words, and noises all blend together in perfect symphony as you reach your rapture.

His grip on you is like steel as you meet each of Ghost’s thrusts. Your heart thumps like a hummingbird and sparks feel as though they’re lighting under your skin. A loud groan reverberates next to your ear as heat blooms in your core. You’re so tight in the throes of your own orgasm, milking Ghost for everything he’s got.

Ghost continues to push his cum inside you, thrusting in deep, hard strokes to secure it in and make it stick. The insatiable need to make you his in a permanent way motivates the overstimulating pounding. His fingers knead the flesh at your hips, coaxing you to stay open for him.

Only when your whimpers waver and turn whiny does he reluctantly slow his movements before coming to a complete stop. Ghost pulls you from the wall so he can lean you against his chest, cock still buried deep inside you. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest would lull you to sleep if you weren’t acutely aware of your surroundings again. You don’t know how much time has passed, but when Ghost pulls out of you, you shiver from the newfound emptiness.

When you start to adjust your limbs, you feel that the skin on your fingertips is pruned, indicating that you’ve overstayed your welcome. You turn around in Ghost’s grip so you can properly gaze up at him (even if you still have to crane your neck). Your hands absentmindedly rub the muscles in his chest that rumbles like a dragon. Truly an unwavering force in every sense of the word. Unfortunately for both of you, you couldn’t stay like this forever.

“We have to get out sometime, big guy.” Grunting, Ghost grabs your hand before pulling it to his lips, kissing your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of them. Satiated blue eyes look at you with an emotion that makes you swallow thickly. He was going to be the death of you.

Wordlessly, Ghost reaches around to finally stop the stream of water before scooping you into his arms. A part of you wanted to protest that you could move on your own, but you wouldn’t ever deprive his need to feel you. You wince as Ghost helps you out of the shower. At first, you think it’s from the ache between your thighs, but the pain stems from somewhere lower.

In an instant, you’re plopped on the bathroom counter. “Didn’t care to tell me about this?” Ghost elevates your right leg with an edge of anger in his voice. Not at you per se, but the fact that you’re injured. A streak of red is trailing down your outer thigh with the other droplets of water to the floor. The gash isn’t concerningly deep, but after your exertions, the area was irritated from being neglected.

“I’ve been so caught up I didn’t even feel the damn thing.” The knife wound must have occurred when you were fighting off those men on the rooftop. Everything happened so fast since you came to the safe house that you didn’t take the time to look over yourself.

When a white-hot bolt of pain hits your gut, you’re reminded of your oversight again. You sure as hell can feel it now though. Sighing, Ghost makes quick work of cleaning and wrapping your wound with items from his bag. Of course, he brought it into the bathroom with him. The man is never unprepared.

“Wish you gave me the chance to kill those bastards, love.” The comment only makes you laugh. Leave it to Ghost to think of vengeance right after fucking your brains out.

You admire his concentration in silence. Before you met him you always “licked your own wounds” after every mission you went on, never having someone care so intimately about you to tend to your injuries themself. Now you had Ghost’s expert hands piecing you back together. Despite your pride, you cherish that those hands, invisibly coated in so many people’s blood, takes extra precaution while cleaning up yours. At this moment you feel nothing but lingering bliss and something you thought you’d never feel again… love.

Lightly twisting your leg, Ghost looks over his handiwork with a satisfied grunt. Thick fingers start to card through your wet strands of hair before moving down to cup your cheeks. His thumbs draw small circles on your skin in a manner so soothing it made butterflies awaken in your stomach.

“Do you think they heard us?” They had to of heard, but you knew that they would make themselves think they didn’t. If one of them even uttered a single syllable about it Ghost would pop their head off like a cherry stem.

“That’s the goal.” A wicked blush flames your cheeks as you playfully swat his chest.

Possessive bastard.

Sighing, you hop off the counter and grab your undergarments. Can’t delay facing the team any longer. The comfortable silence continues to stretch as you both get re-dressed. Thankfully Ghost hands you a spare shirt since you tore yours before getting in the shower. It all feels strangely domestic, especially when putting where you are into consideration. But home is where the heart is, and Ghost has yours in the palm of his hand.

Strong arms pull you to a hard chest once you’re fully dressed. A ghost of a smile plays on your lover’s lips and the sight makes you smile in return. Ghost leaves you with one last searing kiss before pulling his balaclava back down and exiting the bathroom.

Amidst war, death, and a lingering past you were able to fight your demons and find love. And as fate would have it, you love the angel of death himself.

Any and all interactions are greatly appreciated.

[islandtarochips]

Call of Duty: Callie “Snipe” Graves 🇺🇸

An American woman who is related to the Commander of the Shadow Company! A sister actually. Born and raised in America. Proud to be one. Having that cocky attitude just like her older brother. A Lieutenant standing by the Commander’s side. She is the ride and die with her older brother and the team. And do be careful when talking with her. You may never know what lie she’ll tell you about.

GENERAL:

🇺🇸 Name: Callie Graves 🇺🇸 Alias(es): 

Callie

Graves

Cal (by Philip and some close friends)

CC (by Philip)

Snipe (by Philip and some comrades)

Lieutenant Graves

Lieutenant Snipe

Shadow 0-3

Cowgirl (by Kanoa)

🇺🇸 Gender: Female 🇺🇸 Age: 35 (MW2), 36 (MW3) 🇺🇸 Birthday: July 31st, 1987 🇺🇸 Nationality: American 🇺🇸 Place of Birth: Texas, USA 🇺🇸 Home: Dallas, Texas, USA 🇺🇸 Spoken Languages: English 🇺🇸 Sexuality: Heterosexual 🇺🇸 Occupation:

Lieutenant of the Marines

Lieutenant of the Shadow Company

Second-in-Command of the Shadow Company

Sniper

Mercenary

APPEARANCE:

🇺🇸 Eye Color: Blue 🇺🇸 Hair Color: Blonde 🇺🇸 Height: 5’9”/175 cm 🇺🇸 Scars: 

Wounds: Bullet wound in the palm of her right hand (caused by Tiala), Stabbing wound on her left thigh (caused by Tiala as well)

Scars: Scars on her knuckles from fighting (fighting an enemy in Las Almas), scar behind her neck (from an enemy)

🇺🇸 Face Claim: Dakota Fanning

FAVORITES:

🇺🇸 Color: Lemon Yellow 🇺🇸 Food: Burgers. Just burgers and fries. 🇺🇸 Drink: Whiskey 🇺🇸 Flower: Sunflower 🇺🇸 Hairstyle: Always putting it up in a ponytail or in a bun when she's at home. But putting it in a braid during work time.

Affiliation:

Shadow Company:

-Commander Philip Graves

-Sergeant Sheree "Reed" Norcliffe ( @justasmolbard )

- Sergeant Annabelle “Kit” Pham ( @applbottmjeens )

Warriors Task Force:

- General Alana Kalani

- Captain Kanoa Toa

-First Sergeant Tiala "Shark" Koa

- Sergeant Agnes “Blast” Falagi

- Sergeant Nigel “Squirrel” Harrison

Task Force 141:

- Captain John Price

- Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley

- Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish

- Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

- Charlotte “Jade” Le Jardin ( @sleepyconfusedpotato )

- Sergeant Major Hannah “Sparrow” Clayton ( @revnah1406 )

- Annabelle “Kit” Pham ( @applbottmjeens and later on being part of the Shadow Company)

Para Special Forces: ( @welldonekhushi )

- Captain Arjun

Second Commando Regiment: ( @kaitaiga )

- Sergeant Damien Whitlock

CIA:

- Station Chief Kate Laswell

PERSONALITY:

🇺🇸 Myers Briggs Type: ESTP Callie is a VERY outgoing person. She has always been ever since she was little. Always loves to go outside for an adventure with her older brother. She’s also the kind of woman who would do ANYTHING for her brother. Whatever he said she’ll do it. Well…some of it.

🇺🇸 Loyalty: Her ONLY loyalty is with her brother, Philip Graves. For he has always been there for her when she needed him most. So she will do the same for him no matter what the cost.

🇺🇸 Action-Oriented: Whatever Graves asks her to deal with something. She’ll do it in the most CREATIVE way to deal with the enemies. And she’ll do it in a HEARTBEAT.

🇺🇸 Pragmatic Problem Solver: Even though she will follow her older brother’s orders without questioning. But she sometimes wanted to listen to her OWN thoughts before following his orders.

NEGATIVE:

🇺🇸 Manipulative: You could say she got that from her brother. She does that with other soldiers if they crossed the line with her. Whenever anyone argues with her. She’ll turn the table around by sharing something that will STRUCK into their core. (She also secretly read your files and got some from other people you may know so she can find your weaknesses.)

🇺🇸 Bossy: Most of the Shadows kept complaining that she’s being too bossy. Always telling them what to do while Graves put her in charge. And yelling at them every small little thing when they do something wrong.

🇺🇸 Narcissists: She is a NARCISSIST. Always trying to prove someone else is WRONG. Even doing that to Philip too. She didn’t even BOTHER listen to other people’s perspective and just kept saying that they are wrong. (Spoiled brat)

🇺🇸 Liar: She’s a GOOD dirty liar. Always got away just by saying her creative words. Even if there are ways that don't make sense. She’ll MAKE it sense.

Skills and Abilities:

🇺🇸 Fighting Style: Hand-to-Hand Combat and Boxing

🇺🇸 Weapons: A6 bolt-action sniper rifle and Benelli M1014

🇺🇸 Distinct Weapon: Sig Sauer Model P320 and gutting knife

🇺🇸 Special Skills:

Dealmaker: She got good info on things when it comes to making deals with someone. She just needs to learn more about this person before giving them what they actually wanted and needed.

Assassinate: Give her the order of assassinating someone. And she’ll get it done without hesitating or even questioning it.

FAMILY:

Unnamed Father (Father, Alive)

Unnamed Mother (Mother, Deceased)

Philip Graves (Older Brother, Alive) 

TRIVIA:

🇺🇸 She is the younger sister of the Commander.

🇺🇸 Callie has always been deceived by her father because she was at fault of her mother’s death

🇺🇸 Philip is the only kind of brother who always look out for her

🇺🇸 She’s not like any other kind of girl. She likes to get her hands dirty and would join with her older brother to do something fun or troubling.

🇺🇸 At 16-years-old, Callie had developed a habit of making deals with other students. Like giving them some drugs or cigarettes or even handing out tests with some answers. Surprisingly, she didn’t get caught.

🇺🇸 She enjoys riding on horses with Philip. Almost feels like she is FREE as she feels the wind through her golden hair.

🇺🇸 Snipe is the nickname that Philip had given her because of how her words affected others without a care. Which he is very most proud of. And also, she’s really good at being a sniper.

🇺🇸 Been with her brother in the Marines Corpse and into the Shadow Company. She’s very proud of him and accepted being his second-in-command.

Background Story:

On July 31st, 1987. Callie was born in Texas. And on that same day is when her mother passes after giving birth to her to come into this world.

THAT is when her father started to distance himself from her and despise her. But not her older brother, Philip Graves. Whenever her father left her alone and didn’t bother to care for her. Philip stepped in and took care of her himself. Ignoring their father’s harsh words about leaving Callie alone. Philip chooses not to and continues to care for his little sister. Philip was only 5-years-old when Callie was born. He may not know WHAT to do but he knows that he has to protect his little Callie.

When Callie had started to learn how to walk, this is when she was 13 months old. She wanted to walk up to her dad, who was drinking at the moment and he disgustingly looked at her. Walking up to him reaching out with her tiny hands. He scoffed as he stood up and was about to deal with her before Philip ran in and grabbed her. Saying to his father that he’ll keep an eye on her while he watches TV. The father just rolled his eyes and went back to sit down while Philip took Callie, who was being fussy, to the kitchen to get her something to eat. Which he remembers about his mama telling him about babies drinking milk. So he did his best to make it for his little sister and make sure she stayed put before his dad might get pissed off if he sees her wandering off again. But he did make some small gifts for Callie to be able to walk! Philip was only 6-years-old when Callie was 13-months-old.

When Callie was 12-years-old, she had done her very best of trying to get her father’s attention. Which really annoyed him as he ignored her and paid attention to his son. It upset Callie very much but when she saw Philip giving HIS attention to her. She believes that’s all she needs as she shows or tells her older brother about anything! And it warms Philip’s heart to see his little sister yapping about her day. Callie was very happy when Philip secretly spoiled her with their father’s money. Giving her small gifts, food, candies, snacks- ANYTHING that big older Phil can give to his little sister. She appreciates it REALLY much.

When she turned 15-years-old she had started to pick up a habit of selling some things in the school grounds to other kids. Selling and stealing drugs, giving other teenagers some cigarettes, she also can trade them with answer sheets on their homeworks. All of that and hadn’t got caught. And that’s how she got some money from them too. Which Philip was questioning when he saw his little sister coming home with some of it in her hands. She just straight up lied to her older brother that she was doing a canteen for her school. And just left it at that. Philip didn’t even think about it and just took her words for it. Their dad has still been drinking and couldn’t care LESS of what Callie is doing.

Callie had also participated in some of the sports. Mostly baseball and she was hoping that her dad would come and watch some of her games. Just like he came to watch Philip’s football game. But as expected from all those years…he never showed up. The only person that came to most of her games, is none other than Philip. She appreciated it and she’s happy that someone she knew had come to her games. But it still hurts that her own father didn’t show up. Philip had told her that he TRIED to drag his ass out of the house to come to her game but he wouldn’t budge. Which annoyed him so much. She just shrugged it off and asked him if they could get some burgers. Philip smiled at her as he would do anything for her. So they went out to get a burger from McDonald's. Callie was 16-years-old when she started to participate in sports after the summer.

When Callie became a Junior in High School. She has been called into the Principal’s office. As she was caught red-handed having some drugs in her bag since she was about to sell it to one of the students. Instead of her father coming over. Philip was there instead. So after the conversation the Principal had said that they would expel Callie from campus for she had been doing this for a LONG time. And they can’t risk having her around for she might do it again. So she and Philip left the school without saying a word to each other. Callie doesn’t know how he reacted to this situation before they reached home. As soon they stepped in, the two paused to see their father was on the chair with a belt in hand. Does he know about Callie being expelled? Yes he does. How? Because HE was the one who answered the call from the Principal but he let Philip go instead of him. And he didn’t tell his son why he didn't want to go. He just wants to prepare himself to punish Callie when she gets home. The poor girl was scared to see her father with the belt and was about to be grabbed by him too when he stood up and walked over. But Philip stopped him, telling their father that she wouldn’t have done this if he would PAY ATTENTION to her. The father scoffed at his son’s words before pushing him back as he grabbed Callie. Saying that this girl is a LOST CAUSE ever since she was born and had caused the DEATH of her mother. Those words had really struck her so badly as she started to tear up. It upsetted Philip so much to see his little sister being scared. So he stepped in as he grabbed the father’s wrist and pushed him back before putting Callie behind him. He warned his father to NOT touch her like that and told him that they’ll be moving out. He’ll take care of Callie if he doesn’t want to. The father scoffed with no caring looks in his eyes. So he let them leave as Philip took Callie somewhere else. FAR away from their father. He was only 22-years-old while Callie is still 16-years-old.

When Callie had finally graduated from another school, WITHOUT causing any more trouble, the Graves siblings decided to sign up for the Marines together. And they have worked together ever since. But Callie could see her older brother’s eyes as if he’s not pleased or satisfied by these military systems. Seeing how the other higher ranks had to pull back men like the two of them. So she heard that Philip was going to leave the military and she wanted to join him. Which he doesn’t mind. So the two had left the military in 2017. And Philip had made his own private military company. Callie was very proud and impressed of her older brother’s work and she had accepted his offer by being his second-in-command. This was when Callie was 30-years-old and Philip was 35-years-old.

[resident-idiot-simp]

Would love to know more about the CIAs thoughts of the 141 wip

(List)

Ok so the first section is done

However it's supposed to be a 5 in 1 and I have to do more with it ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯.

The idea is the CIA interactive with Laswell and thus the 141. So pretty much they hear off the wall stories of illegal activities and just mayhem with really no context.

I mean I would kill to know what they think about the 141

A snippet-

It was a normal Wednesday when it happened, Laswell, a station chief who up to this point had been nothing but an angel stormed through the door. She looked frazzled and was all but sprinting to a conference room. In her way she grabbed O'Connor and quickly told her, "Nothing you hear is to be spoken of." With that ominous statement the door was slammed closed and the glass darkened.

She opened her laptop and tapped frantically until on the projector screen sat a video feed of some compound that was in hell. Fire, bullets, bodies, and rubble surrounded the building.

Laswell was still frantically typing and soon voices sounded from her computer, they were indescifrable from all the cursing that came from every line.

"Watcher has eyes on give me a sitrep boys." Laswell ordered and waved O'Connor closer to where a notepad sat with a pen.

O'Connor got the message as she prepared to wright, "TITS UP-" A voice started only to get cut off by another, "SOAP FUCKING HELL!" A third could be heard sighing before talking, "Ambush, we are cornered in building 5. This was a trap."

O'Connor wrote down where they were, "Ok, is anyone injured? I mean at all, not just if you are no longer able to hold a gun." Laswell asked quickly adding on the last bit.

"..Besides Roach no, but he's good enough to fight." Yet another voice answered. O'Connor continued to write as Laswell asked a few other questions.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Also dumb question

How would that call of duty characters fare on hot ones? How high can they get on the Scoville scale before they gotta tap out??

- 🔪

Using this scale as a guide:

The COD characters on Hot Ones

(This started out serious but devolved into pure jokes and slander)

Ghost, surprisingly, gets the furthest. I'd say he'd get around the Ghost pepper but would def get tears in his eyes and red in the face. In my mind, he's trained himself to withstand many kinds of 'torture' and that includes tricking his brain into not reacting to heat/pain receptors in his mouth.

Surprisingly (2.0), Nikolai. Not because Russians are particularly good with spice or because of stereotype, but because I'm 100% sure he'd handle a Habanero just fine. Something about him just screams it. Idk.

Gaz comes next. I'd say he can go up to Habaneros before he taps out. I hc that he was raised by immigrants and is used to spiced food, not just spicy, but well spiced too.

Alejandro after that. Might be me engaging a bit in stereotype but he, also, doesn't strike me as the kind of man that would eat bland food? Traditional Mexican food is well-seasoned and plenty spicy so... Cayenne-Thai levels.

Rudy fits here bc of the same reason as Alejandro. But he reacts worse, I feel like. In my mind, he gets red in the face and SWEATS when he's eating.

Price goes next and I blame that on the fact he's been all over the world for missions and deployments and probably has eaten food of all kinds, if nothing else just to experiment. That being said, he's definitely a wimp. Fits somewhere between Jalapeños and Cayenne peppers.

Farah and she's only this low because her country has been going through a revolt + she was in prison + she scavenged for food as a kid and I imagine she's not always had access to try super spicy food when surviving off rations. Fits somewhere between Jalapeños and Cayenne peppers but could definitely handle more if she had more opportunities to eat it more.

Laswell. I'm convinced she was a field agent for the CIA before becoming a handler and station chief. Aka, she was all over the world and ate all sort of things, just like Price. Fits somewhere between Jalapeños and Cayenne peppers.

Soap taps out the easiest on the 141 but he's still not really a wimp. He's just Scottish. Around the same level as Laswell, Price, etc.

Alex Keller comes next. He's white and American. Do I need to say more? I'd say he can handle a Jalapeño but will need loads of water and milk

Graves comes at the bottom of the fucking line. He's white, American and a yee-haw American at that. If Alex can handle a jalapeño, Graves can't handle yellow mustard out of the bottle.

[gemmahale]

WIP Wednesday (4/17/24)

Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Reboot

Working Title: A Protege's Trust (link to the tag)

Pairing: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Lisa 'Badger' Compton

Rating: E (eventually, but not in this snippet)

Synopsis:

CIA operative Lisa Compton is assigned to the 141 - it's her responsibility to help Laswell coordinate infill and exfill, gather crucial intel for the team and provide plausible cover stories when they get into tight spots. There's one problem: Sgt. Garrick is the most insufferable, unprofessional, bull-headed boy she's ever worked with. Gaz's an immaculate soldier, ready to jump at Price's order and launch himself into the fray with his mind focused on one thing: completing the mission. But when Laswell assigns the new CIA operative 'Badger' to their team, he can't stop flirting with her, thinking about her soft curves and sharp wit more often than focusing on the job at hand. Laswell won't approve her transfer to another team. Price is threatening to bench him. Badger and Gaz won't talk to - let alone look at- each other. Ghost thinks Badger's nickname should be 'Insufferable Yank.' Soap wants them to fuck it out already.

AKA: This'n's a good ol enemies to [???] to lovers with a sprinkling of other tropes for good measure. (Something something Price/Gaz being mirrored in Laswell/Compton? 👀) Credit to @pfhwrittes for collabing and feeding the brainworms. Short snippet because I don't have much written yet, but the plot's simmering there.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Station Chief Laswell stood quietly in the corner of the briefing room, surveying the group seated in the briefing room. Her fingers idly tapped along the edge of her folder, watching operatives mutter alongside soldiers, the chatter covering the struggling projector on the table.

Captain Price rocked on his feet on the other side of the screen. “All right, settle in.” His voice snuffed out the conversations, chairs scuffling and people settling in the following silence. One last bark of laughter echoed across the space. “Garrick–”

“Sorry Sir.” 

Lisa huffed softly to herself as she caught Sergeant MacTavish punching Sergeant Garrick in the arm and the returned scowl.

At least one of the 141 seemed to want to take this seriously.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Chapter 6

Summary: Rory arrives in Urzikstan, meets Gaz for the first time, and reads Price to filth

Warnings/tags: Minors DNI - swearing, mentions of manipulation, smoking, flirting, character with trauma, British slang, military inaccuracies, established relationship, toxic relationship dynamic, war criminals in love

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 4.2 k

[AO3]

October 29, 2019 0430 - US Army Base, Urzikstan

The last rumble of the plane's landing gears hitting the tarmac stirred Rory from her less than restful sleep, her eyelids shooting open as the juttering skid of screeching rubber and bouncing shocks caused the shell of the plane to creak around her. Her body clock was completely rattled and left her playing catch up across time zones – that three and a half hour difference could be the straw that broke the camel’s back if a soldier wasn’t prepared. Unfastening her seatbelt, she stood up once the aircraft finally came to a full stop, stretching out her sore back and shoulders after being trapped in the same cramped position for hours. Every bone and joint crunched and popped like rice cereal. Twelve years of this shit and it wasn’t getting any easier on her body. Scooping up her duffel and swinging it over her shoulder, the weight of it cut into her with the heft of a butcher’s cleaver through tender meat. The shoulder injury she had received in Russia never had properly healed, an uncomfortable reminder of the not so distant past and what she was fighting for. 

Weaving through the crates, she stood at the top of the ramp at the tail end waiting for it to lower with the all clear from the crew and pulled out her pack of smokes from the pocket of her fatigue pants, slipping a cigarette between her lips. Amber lights inside started to blink, strips on the ramp lit up shortly after and the loud clank and boom of mechanisms lowering the ramp began to whirr. Cupping her hand around her lighter, shielding the flame from the gust of air blowing past her as the hull opened like a gaping maw, she lit her cigarette and made her way in a steady march down towards the ground below. Her feet back on solid earth with that unwelcome crunch of sand under the tread of her boots. 

“Morning, Sergeant.” Kate stood there on the edge of the tarmac, Rory’s only welcoming party member, her arms crossed over her chest. Unease . She could read it all over the American’s face. Looking like a slapped backside, lips twisted into a grimace, eyes weary – it didn’t take a genius to know that something was wrong no matter how cool a facade the CIA Station Chief wished to present. “You look like you could use this more than I could right now,” Rory said, passing her cigarette to the older woman without hesitation.

Laswell accepted the gift of nicotine and placed it between her lips. “Much appreciated.” Taking a long drag, she breathed out a heavy sigh full of smoke and frustration. “Things didn’t go as planned with Sulaman.” Leading her back towards the base, Kate had that no nonsense look about her as she moved with steady steps. A shock hit Rory like a bucket of ice water being poured down her back and her jaw clenched in response, she needed to know just how bad the situation was. Preparation was key when entering a shitstorm like this. “ Meaning ?” “AQ and their supporters attacked the embassy last night; breached the containment on Sulaman. There were significant casualties, including the ambassador. Alex and Farah are headed to a position to flank the escape route now. Price and Garrick arrived back here roughly an hour or so ago.” “Fucking hell,” Rory muttered, rubbing a hand on the back of her neck, scuffing her boots as she walked. “Quite the time for my arse to arrive, eh?” “Would’ve liked to have given you a proper welcome.” With a brief half grin, Kate handed the cigarette back to her.

In the darkness of pre-dawn, the burning orange tip glowed like a torch as Rory inhaled, unwavering even with the breeze that ruffled through her hair. This was a mess that needed to be scraped off, cleaned up – and fast. Shrugging it off, she continued her even pace with Laswell. “Please, as if I need the bloody pomp and circumstance,” muttering around the cigarette in her mouth, readjusting the strap of her bag. “Just let me get settled and acquainted with the place and I’ll be all yours.”

Giving her a quick squeeze of her upper arm, Kate leaned in, voice kept low. “John is –”

“In a foul fucking mood, I presume?” Tipping her head to the side, Laswell pursed her lips slightly. “You could say that, yeah.” A very careful way of saying he was absolutely fuming but was keeping it under his carefully controlled guise of stoicism. Rory knew well enough that John wouldn’t have let someone like ‘The Wolf’ get away without a reason. With the Captain, it was dead or alive, escape was rarely ever an option and certainly not one given lightly. He must have been forced to cut his losses, preferring to live to fight another day, but she could already imagine the sting that decision left in his gut. She rolled her eyes to the heavens with a heavy sigh and raked her fingers through the roots of her hair before tossing the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out, the few fading embers left to drift out and die in the sand.  “I’ll see to him first then.”

Behind the barracks – out of sight, out of mind – she found John leaning against the wall shrouded in smoke, thick grey clouds of it spilling from his lips masking the furrowed brow and darkened stare while he stood with his arms crossed, looking out over the grounds of the base. Broad shoulders locked in a hunch, nostrils flared – oh yeah, he was definitely pissed . She dropped the stealth and moved so as not to startle him, her steps heavier to alert him to her presence. Her gaze dragged over him, noticing the tenseness in his body. He always carried his burdens physically, it certainly made it easier to know when to tread lightly. “Figured I’d find you somewhere you could be alone but still have your eyes on everything,” she whispered softly. Price said nothing, his eyes shifting to glance sideways, his face blanketed by shadow under the brim of his boonie hat with only the orange glow of his Villa Clara burning to give away his position. It was still dark, the deep navy sky scattered with a million white specks, scenery bathed in silvery moonlight before the sun would finally crack the horizon. “Perfect for brooding out here, eh?” she teased gently, moving closer to lean beside him on the wall, brushing her arm against his. 

A low grumble followed by the puff of smoke was all she was going to get from him. Should have known better than to try and lighten the mood right now . It was always a 50/50 toss up as to whether it would work, but it was the least she could do rather than letting him stew inside his head. “Saw your plane come in,” he said between clenched teeth, chomping down on his cigar. “How was the ride?” “Bit shaky.” The toe of her boot dug at the blue tinted sand, drawing stripes into it. “Nothing I’m not used to though.”

Nodding, he shifted his shoulders against the cement wall as he transferred his weight from one foot to the other having stood in one spot for too long. “Laswell told you what happened, yeah?” John’s voice was rough, hoarse. Too much time spent barking out orders while under enemy fire, his throat left to pay for that. “Yeah,” she breathed, resting her hands behind her back, pressing her fingertips into the abrasive texture of the wall, nails digging at the little divots and chalky imperfections in the construction. “Yeah, I’ve been made aware.” “Fuckin’ cock up,” he snarled, shaking his head.

“Yeah, and we’ll sort it.”

The ridges in his brow creased, every line in his face deepening as his nose wrinkled and his lip twisted as he growled, “We had ‘im, Ror.” His finger curled around his cigar as he pulled it from his mouth, punctuating his words with a stabbing motion. “Right fuckin’ there.” Rubbing a gloved hand down his face, he sighed and looked up at the sky. 

Hazel eyes followed blue as he stared at the twinkling stars slowly fading while the sun worked to rise. Out here, away from the city lights and the pollution, every constellation was clear. A beautiful sight when you weren’t in fear of being shot at, bullets whizzing past like angry wasps, it gave a person the opportunity to truly appreciate them. Moments like this in a warzone were rare, even if it was merely the quiet before the storm. “Nothing’s ever easy, is it?” Rory rolled onto her shoulder, turning to face him as she peered under the brim of his hat to look up at his steely eyes. His gaze flickered over to her, blue depths made especially icy after the failure of the hand-off of The Wolf. “Just once –” he grumbled.

A huffed laugh slipped from her as she rested her weight against the wall. “You’re preaching to the choir, my darling.” Pulling the hat from his head, John brushed his hand back and forth through his hair, roughing up the short lengths. “They were organized, AQ’s banner is bigger than just Sulaman. Has a piece of work as his right hand man too – the Butcher .” He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Just lucky you weren’t there, sweetheart…” Her gut clenched at that, he was saving her the gory details which meant it was something he knew would have likely triggered her – women and children begging to be saved more than likely. She rested her hand on the back of her neck, something to keep it busy, to hide the tremor that still clung there. “Well, it’s not exactly like you’re without your assets too, eh?” Lifting her brow as she offered him a small grin, Rory tried to change the subject. “Speaking of – when do I get to meet this Sergeant Garrick?”

“That’ll have to wait. Ordered him to get some rest.” “But of course you didn’t take your own advice.” She rolled her eyes and smiled, sarcasm dripping from her words, “Surprise, surprise.” “Bugger that.” He took another pull of his cigar, looking at her from under his heavy brow. “Can’t sleep, waitin’ on word from Farah.” Rory nodded, giving a little hum as she looked out at the horizon in the distance, musing on the exploits of the commander of the Urzikstan Liberation Force. “She’s an impressive one, that one, isn’t she?” 

With a slight smirk, the corner of his mouth tugged upwards. “Do I have to be worried that you’re gonna get tired of me with her around, darlin’?” John asked, shooting her a half-joking accusatory look. Quick to give him a playful smack to the arm in return, she snickered at his jab. “Oi! I’ll have none of that. You’re stuck with me for the long haul, remember?”

John wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her in against him, fingers gripping at the side of her, thumb rubbing small circles against her hip. “That’s right, my girl.” Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he rested his chin atop her head, eyes scanning their surroundings. “No one else for ya, but me,” he murmured into her hair in a low gravel. “Says the man who wasn’t even there to greet me as I got off the plane,” she said with a smirk. “Don’t think I’m forgetting about that, I'm not letting you off easy.” Pulling away just enough to look down at her, his hands wrapped around her arms, his head lowering to meet her gaze. “I’ll make it up to you later, shall I?”

“You better,” she said with a cheeky grin, wrapping her arms around his waist, holding him tight. “Love you, prat.”

His chest rumbled with a quiet chuckle as he exhaled smoke from the corner of his mouth away from her, his fingers combing through her silky hair as he held her tighter against his body. Ensnaring her in his embrace, pressing her against his bulk as he laid another kiss on her forehead. 

Hours passed and servicemen milled around as the base started to come to life with the rising of the sun. Under a large tent with several long tables and chairs, Price and Rory sat together eating breakfast, chatting and laughing. Their forks poking at scrambled eggs, strips of bacon being torn and savored as they sipped their coffee – couldn’t trust Americans to make a proper cuppa, after all . Cutlery scraped against their trays between conversation when a clearing throat and a pulled out chair broke the comfortable air between the couple. “Sir, any word?” Gaz asked, settling into the seat beside Rory, giving her a friendly little nod. Judging by that introduction, Rory could only assume John had failed to mention to his newfound sergeant that she was even coming at this point, keeping his cards close to his chest, and here she was, some random stranger in fatigues.

“Not yet,” Price said, motioning towards the female sergeant at the table. “Garrick, I’d like you to meet Sgt. Rory Sinclair of the SRR,” he rumbled. “She’ll be joinin’ us for the rest of the mission.” Deep brown eyes fell on her, the young sergeant’s expression softening towards her as she extended her hand for him to shake. She had always painted an unassuming picture, especially when compared to someone like Price. The guise of the ‘Lamb’ still held, despite the world trying to swallow her whole and the innocence having long since faded from her. 

“Pleasure to meet you ma’am,” Gaz replied, treating her to a charming smile as his hand wrapped around hers, grasping it in a firm shake. His hand was softer than John’s, less wear and tear from years of service, fewer calluses and ingrained dirt in the lines of the skin. Still fresh faced with hope in his eyes – she had forgotten what that even looked like until now. “Oh, please, no.” She shook her head, smiling warmly. “None of the formality. I might sound like I have a stick shoved up my arse, but I assure you, that’s not me.” Their hands parted as they both turned back to their meals. “The pleasure’s all mine,” Rory added with a little nod. 

John hummed, “Don’t let the poncy accent fool you, Kyle. This one here’s as hard as they come,” he said, tipping his head in her direction. “Ain’t that right, Sinclair?”

Her attention steered towards the Captain, a smirk pulled at her lips as she cocked her brow. “Thank you, sir.” Clearing her throat, she sipped her coffee and glanced sideways at the new sergeant appraisingly. It was easy to tell he wasn’t a veteran like her and Price, he carried himself differently than they did – didn’t appear quite so cynical and world-weary, perhaps. He made her curious. “Where’d you serve, Garrick? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.” “I didn’t,” He said with a soft grin, his thumb tapping against the warm mug of coffee. “I’m not army, ma’am – CTSFO.” Gaz shifted his shoulders a little and tucked into his food. 

Rory tried her best not to show any sort of reaction to this tidbit of information, remaining straight faced as her gaze lifted to meet Price’s, gauging his reaction to her questioning. She couldn’t help herself, knowing it was better to reserve her judgements and that trusting John’s opinion was paramount, yet she couldn’t help the initial bug that wriggled in her ear. “Oh, Police …” She nodded to herself. “Right then,” she said, filling the awkward silence as she prodded at her food with her fork. 

It didn’t help that she had been raised with a healthy distrust in the police, her father being a criminal defense barrister meant that he spent a fair share of his time pointing out the flaws in evidence collection and questioning, pinpointing where things went wrong so his clients’ names could be cleared. It wasn’t fair to the Sergeant to immediately be painted with the same brush as other police officers, especially considering how quickly people were to show bias towards soldiers simply for serving - though in her case, she likely deserved those wide strokes of the brush. “Well, at least you’re used to the whole anti-terror side of things, not completely innocent to all this, eh Garrick?” “Seen my fair share of things, yeah.” His smile remained, not wavering despite her questioning – he carried a quiet confidence. “Piccadilly, now the embassy.” Gaz shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth, ending her line of questioning. “It was his intel that led us to the house in Camden Town,” Price added. “You don’t say.” She glanced up at Price before redirecting her focus back to Garrick with a smug little grin. “Got something to prove then, yes?” “Just like you did.” John leaned his head down towards her, looking up at her through his creased brow in a challenge. 

She was pushing her luck and she knew it, slipping into her old routine of reading a person like they were a target she had strapped down to a chair to interrogate, rather than an ally. Zeroing in on the weak spots to tear them down, aiming for the jugular – an unnecessarily brutal reaction upon first meeting someone, but a natural defense she had built up over the years all the same.    “Quite right.” Rory grimaced and had the last sip of her coffee. “Well, nothing wrong with some new blood added to the team, yeah? Was in your position once myself. I look forward to working with you, Sergeant.” She stood up, collecting her dishes. “And if Price trusts you, then suppose I can too.” Patting Gaz’s shoulder, she moved away from the table to bring her dishes over to the dish pit bins. 

Walking away from the mess tent, she pulled the packet of cigarettes from her pocket and made her way over to the designated smoker’s section, tapping the carton against her thigh as she moved. Christ. she forgot how terrible she could be at making first impressions. It was no wonder her father had given up on trying to get her to meet his high society friends and associates, she had no bloody time for any of them and was too quick to nitpick at the flaws – not that she was any better. Pot meet kettle. 

Finding an empty patch of sand to stand in, she slipped a cigarette from the pack and brought it to her lips, pulling out her lighter next, following every step in the smoker’s ritual she had become tied to, the motions becoming just as much of an addiction as the shot of nicotine into her body with each puff. When the heavy crunch of boots – seemingly from out of nowhere – caught her off guard, the cigarette snatched away from her by large, rough hands. “Oi!” Turning to face Price looming over her, he blotted out the sun from the sky as he crossed his arms over his chest, her cigarette held firmly between his fingers. “What was that?” he rasped.

“What was what?”

Met by his stern countenance in response to her feigned innocence, her brows furrowed. “I was just trying to figure out why you picked him, is all. You always have a reason for everything. I was curious.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Ror.” He shook his head and leaned down, further encroaching into her personal space. “Might not be a veteran like us, but he has it in ‘im. I can see it. That drive to make things right.” Eyes narrowing, she tilted her head and the cogs turned inside it. “No matter the cost?” His hands wrapped around the shoulder straps of his tactical vest, reacting with a bounce of his heels. “Eventually, yeah.” The corners of her mouth tugged into a small smirk. There it was . That little bit of pride that John couldn’t hide as it bubbled up to the surface, knowing he had Garrick right where he wanted him. 

If a person was to scrape off enough layers on anyone who worked in the world they did, eventually it would be found that when sufficient time was spent inside the life a rot would set in. Casual acquaintances, colleagues, family, friends, lovers – they all fell prey to the same form of thinking, every little nugget of information was a tool to be used. They could be someone that was trusted, and still the ability to exploit them existed in the back of the head. She knew John had a vault of secrets to be used against her, and in an act of mutually assured destruction she could promise the same thing about him – Laswell was no different. They were all in this same boat together, and now, Price had invited someone else to sink into this tar pit trap with them. “I know it wasn’t just his drive you chose him for, John. Every fucking soldier has drive and you’ve got the pick of the litter – there’s always something more. An eagerness, a hunger.” Rory pressed her finger into the thick material of his vest covering his chest. “That’s what you look for. And the fact that he doesn’t have years of military training under his belt? Well, that just means he’s all the more malleable, yeah?” Her self-satisfied smile painted her lips as her brow cocked. “The perfect little protege. He's a blank canvas to mold to your liking.”

“Ror –”

“Oh come on, John. Taking him under your wing, teaching him about how the world really works – or at least according to Captain Price, where the mission and its success is absolute. You've struck gold with this one, eh?” The sardonic grin grew on her face, knowing she had him dead to rights as he glared at her. “Tell me I'm wrong then. Acting mentor to someone who's none the wiser, who never had to go to war. You're in your element now, love.” 

Cold, mirthless blue eyes landed on her and she met him with her haughty smirk. His brand of intimidation had never struck the fear into her it was supposed to – he had other tools that worked far better in his arsenal. She was the rare soul who could stand up to John Price because she knew he was wrapped around her little finger in the end, and just like he had assumed all those years ago in the desert when they were alone together, she had learned to read him like a book despite that unknowable gaze and the things that lurked behind it. “You like the control, John. Always have. I knew that getting into bed with you – it’s no skin off my nose,” she said with a little shrug. “You like being the handler who knows what to say and do to get us all to follow your lead. You say ‘jump’, we say ‘how high’.” 

Shaking her head, Rory mused over the fact that this man’s whole persona had become so intrinsically linked with his rank, the power dynamics that came with it, and the weight he wielded against others – herself included – yet at the same time, the more tied together they became the more she held him by the scruff of the neck over the fact that he wasn’t willing to see her harmed again, to ever lose her. “The feeling of success is strong, but being able to wield failure against someone, that’s all the more powerful, isn’t it?” She scoffed, the smile never leaving her face. “And here I thought you might have turned over an altruistic new leaf.” 

He cut the distance between them, hunching forward, their eyes locked. “Weren’t you the same as him? Gave you a shot and look at you now, my girl. Not a single soul in the world I trust more than you, and that’s sayin’ something.” She sighed, her mouth drawn in a straight line as she lowered her voice, “Well let’s hope you don’t decide to fall in love with him too then, eh?”

“Just you, my girl.” He smirked at her, all the lines on his face crinkling. “That honor’s all yours.” Gripping her chin in his hand, he tipped her face up to look at him as he slipped her cigarette back between her lips. Steely eyes narrowed, flicking from her lips to her eyes, drawing her in with his husky whisper, “Now, be a good girl, and stop pushin’ buttons. Clear?”

Rory’s breath hitched in her throat, but she maintained control of each little reflex and tic. “Yes, Captain . Crystal.”

Pulling the lighter from his vest, he flipped open the lid and held the flame to her cigarette tip, letting it burn and smoke. The glow reflected in his irises as he looked down at her, the predatory gaze lingering for a moment as the fire weaved back and forth as it flickered. “You’re lucky we’re on base right now, you know that?” He husked, flicking the lid shut on the lighter, staring at her for a moment longer than necessary before stepping away and leaving her to her cigarette. 

Now she definitely needed the fag.

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Little snippet below because I can't help myself

Shotout to my dear @nrdmssgs for helping me with editing out a black line on Riot's forehead and clipping in Laswell's jeans

New York,

April 2020

''Is this seat taken?''

''You know full well it is'' Sgt. Christine 'Riot' Vega answered calmly, her eyes still on the book she was reading. ''I'm waiting for someone, ma'am''

''You're on leave, so no need to ma'am me, Vega'' Kate Laswell sat down in the free chair, placing her takeaway coffee on the table. ''And Sgt. MacTavish is still in line at the post office. That package he's sending his family is enormous, by the way''

''It is'' Riot sighed, turning her head towards the CIA Station Chief. ''Out with it''

''Maybe I just happened to be in the neighbourhood and decided to say hi'' Laswell shrugged, and Christine chuckled, amused, her eyes returning to her book.

''Sure thing, and that's why you decided, of all places in Brooklyn, to drop by the café next to our AirBnB to get your coffee''

''You're smart''

''I'm on leave'' Christine turned a page. ''We're flying to Bali tomorrow, so whatever it is, can wait until I'm on duty again''

''Oh, don't worry, I wasn't trying to send you off on another task yet'' Laswell tapped her fingers on her takeaway cup, observing the younger woman. ''Heard there's an operation scheduled in your unit by the time you're back from your leave''

''Can't confirm nor deny, ma'am''

''I know you can't'' Kate nodded, and her whole demeanor changed a bit. She leaned in and rested her chin on her hand, lowering her voice. ''Christine, be careful. I mean it. Rico has planned the whole operation. Be careful''

Vega turned her head again to look at her, and nodded slowly.

''I will''

(in fact, it didn't matter, she ended in hospital for three months due to Rico's faulty planning and orders)

[codmw2019-2022]

COD MW 2022 - Price

Captain Price's Operator Bio from Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2.

//Operator Bio:

Name: Price Citizenship: United Kingdom | Language: English Faction Affiliation: SpecGru | Status: Active

John Price has spent most of his career with the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment fighting in the shadows. He is a veteran of military operations in nearly every conflict-prone corner of the world. He is a man of few words, but his words always count. He knows the rules, reads from the back of the book and is willing to break ranks and violate orders to get the job done.

Sometimes unpredictable and unrestrained, John Price has a golden rule all his own: "Cut heads off snakes. No matter who, no matter where…" Specializing in unconventional warfare, the Captain is a target focused war fighter who deploys a cut to the chase lethality.

In 2019, with the help of CIA Station Chief Laswell and the oversight of General Shepherd- under the Five Eyes Alliance, Captain Price stood up a new unit he called Task Force 141. This covert Joint Operations squadron is on call to mobilize anywhere in the world with immediate readiness.

(AN: Just realised while writing the Operator bio out that they have changed it since MW3 has come out. Will find clips of the old bio and create a separate post for that.)

[applbottmjeens]

Sgt. Annabelle "Gremlin" Pham

AKA: Annie (Graves), Belle, Kit, Grem, "GET THIS THING OFF OF ME!", "Little Monster" (Graves)

Blood type: O Positive

Age:

23 (Modern Warfare, 2019),

26 (Modern Warefare 2, 2022),

27 (Present, Modern Warfare 3, 2023)

Height: 4'11

Nationality: American

Ethnicity: Asian/Pacific Islander (Vietnamese + Filipino)

Languages Spoken: English, Tagalog, Vietnamese, Chinese, Spanish

Religion: Catholic

Marital Status: Single (MW1-2), Complicated (MW3)

Faceclaim: Janella Salvador

Family:

Isabella Reyes - Maternal grandmother (deceased)

Cpt. Francisco "Capitan Kiko" Delgado - Paternal grandfather (deceased)

Phạm Ngọc Anh - Paternal grandmother (alive)

Phạm Vinh Trường / Thomas Pham - Father (alive)

Phạm Vũ / David Pham - Uncle (alive)

Maria Soledad Pham née Delgado - Mother (alive)

Ryan Joseph "RJ" Pham - brother (alive)

-

CHILDREN (non canon)

Spc. Sylas Thomas "Tommy" Pham/ Phạm Teo Sỹ / "SAINT"/ (ACES AU)

Phillip Fernando Graves II / "Junior" / Ace (ACES AU)

Affiliates:

TASKFORCE 141:

BRAVO 0-6 / Cpt. John Price

WATCHER-1 / Kate Laswell

BRAVO 0-7 / Lt. Simon "Ghost" Riley

BRAVO 7-1 / Sgt. John "Soap" MacTavish

BRAVO 2-6 / Sgt. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

ECHO 0-1 /Lt. Isobel "Medusa" Williams (@gipsyavnger)

ECHO 1-1 / Sgt. Maj. Hannah "Sparrow" Clayton (@revnah1406)

2ND COMMANDO REGIMENT : (@kaitaiga)

Alyssa "Aly" Martinez (@alypink)

TANGO 0-1 / Cpt. Lachlan Jones

LOS VAQUEROS:

TANGO 2-1 / Sgt. Damien Whitlock (what're YOU doing here?!)

Col. Alejandro Vargas, Sgt. Maj. Rodolfo Parra, Jesus "Chuy" Ordaz

SHADOW COMPANY (QUEEN OF HEARTS AU + MW3):

Comd. Phillip Graves, Ms Sgt. Shane Sparks (formerly), Rozlin "Rose" Helms (formerly). Velikan, SO. Marcus "Lerch" Ortega

Annabelle Pham was born in San Jose, California and raised in an Asian immigrant household in South San Francisco. Growing up working class, her parents encouraged her to pursue her education while also helping raise her sickly younger brother, RJ. Playing softball and being a bit of a rebel, despite her shortcomings, Annabelle had the opportunity to attend an Ivy league college on a partial scholarship, which she rejected after her father's restaurant was vandalized and robbed.

Rather than use the money for school, she pushed her family to use it to repair their restaurant. Annabelle would choose to attend a 2 year college in a CTE program since it was more affordable, working part time in her family's restaurant while she searched for new employment.

While job searching, she became curious about the recruiters office in her neighborhood, and next thing she knew, she was in the army (much to her mother and father's disappointment.)

At some point, then Private Annabelle "Kit" Pham would meet CIA Station Chief Kate Laswell while fighting alongside SAC/SOG officer Alex Keller. Impressed by the young woman's resolve and improvisation, Laswell would choose Anna as one of the three women she'd first suggest to join Taskforce 141 to John Price.

While hiding from enemy forces who'd kidnapped her in a foreign city, Annabelle's quick thinking kept her alive while her teammates were delayed on their rescue.

Anna got her callsign "Gremlin" from her unpredictable and unhinged behavior thanks to her fellow Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick. Hiding in walls, crawling in vents and ambushing enemies easily thanks to her small stature and the old fashioned element of surprise.

Smart, resourceful and good with her hands, she's a loyal friend and a cautious person whose instincts are good if they aren't clouded by her own feelings. Anna is a hopeless romantic who wears her heart on her sleeve, which can be a good and a bad thing...Especially when a certain Commander seeks to exploit it.

[deeptrashwitch]

Wraith

Name: Dominique Wright

Age: Late 40's

Profession: Station Chief (CIA)/ Main Coordinator (Specters)

Date and place of birth: [Redacted]

Residence: [Redacted] (She's been seen a lot around Killeen, Texas)

Height: 1,62 m/ 5'3 ft

Weight: 54 kg

Relationships:

[Redacted]

[Redacted]

[Redacted]

[Redacted]

[Redacted]

[Redacted]

There isn't much about "Wraith", only the nearest ones to her know part of her life, no one really is aware of her complete story. People only have details about her adulthood after she entered the CIA, and one of those details is that she has worked beside Watcher (Kate Laswell) during all her career. The reasons of their hate for each other is unknown, but apart of it, they work perfectly together.

She is one of the Station Chiefs along with Watcher, they are oficially assigned to Georgia and Nepal. But in reality, they are on the U.S coordinating a Team and a Task Force (Specters and 141 respectively), taking care of many threats across the world. And about the Team, she was given the idea by one of her superiors, and she looked for the Captain of the main squads.

Wraith met said Captain during a mission in San Marino during the early 2000's, and looked for her in 2018. During the years after the creation of the team Wraith has worked together with the Captain and the Lieutenant, but has done some research on the side, everything related with the former Task Force 267. And she has worked with Watcher's Task Force, looking for information about Six Aces.

Extracts of her notes

'I've considered Cpt. Marchant as the leader of this team, but her background keeps me doubting' (November, 2017)

'These soldiers are certanly amazing, but I'll investigate them just in case' (February, 2018)

'Western Sahara, how many people like this is still alive?" (March, 2018)

'Six Aces. How long is their influence?' (June, 2018)

'Who gave Michaelis the archive?! Why did it have that kind of things?! That was lost as far as I knew!' (October, 2018)

'Someone sold the 267. But who? Why? How did they met Carabalí?' (January, 2019)

'This new group is dangerous. I'll have to look about it. Six Aces.' (July, 2019)

'I can't believe she actually allied with Golden Empress, this will be a headache' (September, 2019)

[...]

'That bastard! We need to keep Black Tomb sealed!' (May, 2023)

'I need to warn Alicia. She mustn't go there...' (June, 2023)

[From here, the pages are ripped and stained with something similar to blood. For more details, look archive 9178293 and [redacted] new criminal record (archive 6183916)]

[bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus]

Bloodhound. (A Ghost x AFAB!reader fic)

Act One, Chapter One: No Moksha

Slayyy! We're here! I hope you all enjoy!

For context, the reader is AFAB but I included gender neutral pronouns :).

Ah! I'm so excited, I've never written something like this before!

Apologies in advance for any grammar mistakes, I have proofread this to death but things always slip under the radar. There is also a poll at the end of this for you to choose how this should go- majority vote dictates the direction the reader takes!

Word count: 5,718

Warnings: Strong language, horror elements, mentions of blood

The night you had arrived at the base of the Mexican Special forces, right on the outskirts of the cartel-owned city of Las Almas, the sky was starless, and the weather was muggy. The air had felt heavy, slightly suffocating, so much so that you had this unnerving feeling that the heavens may open any minute now. A storm was going to arrive soon, you just knew it, and that storm would most certainly bring lightning. It was humid after all, and thunderstorms thrived on humidity. You were grateful that you had shelter to retreat into should there be a raucous downpour, and that was all thanks to Kate Laswell. 

The CIA Station Chief had taken pity on your circumstance as a runaway from the Red Room, and thus, elected to temporarily take you under her wing. Once she felt secure that you had removed all implanted trackers, the woman allowed you to take refuge here in the base for the time being. You were briefly- though not properly- introduced to 141 and soon realised that they were in a similar situation, except they weren’t running away from a shadow government organisation. Instead, they apparently were going rogue due to some infighting within their own team and superior. You hadn’t heard the full story, but a few familiar names were dropped and you had an idea of what had happened. Anyways, you didn’t really care, 141 seemed amicable enough and that was all that mattered. You had decided that it was best to keep out of their way, provided they do the same for you. You weren’t looking for trouble, you were just looking for a few moments to breathe. 

Soon, though, you’d change your mind and decide that maybe dipping a toe into some idle conversation and seeing what became of it wouldn’t be a bad idea either. 

“Hey!” A friendly voice called from behind. 

You turned around from where you had been kneeling in front of your rucksack, to see a man with a black mohawk waving at you from a few feet away. He had a friendly face. 

“Hi.” You replied, subtly eyeing him. 

He took a few steps towards you, holding out his hand. 

“I’m Sergeant MacTavish. But most folks call me ‘Soap’.”

You smile. 

“Y/N. I’m Y/N.”

Soap quickly found you had a firm handshake. A very firm handshake. As he pulled away, you spotted him nursing his wrist, drawing it close to his chest as he continued to strike up conversation. 

“Quite a handshake you got there!” He remarked, chuckling. 

“Comes with the training.” You shrugged.

“Training?” Soap asked, “Laswell never mentioned you being military.”

“I’m not military.”

“Ah, I see. So, where are you from, then?”

“That’s classified.”

He nods, almost to himself. Another mystery man on the team. 

“I’m not on the team either.” You said absentmindedly as you turned back to grab your canteen, “I’m just staying here for the moment, I’ll be gone soon.”

When you got up, you noticed Soap was staring at you, mouth hung slightly open. He seemed to have a mixture of expressions going on, one of confusion and another of… surprise. Well, it was more like poorly-hidden shock. 

“What?” You tilt your head to one side, flinging your rucksack over your shoulder.

Did he… He could have sworn he never said that comment aloud. Or… Or maybe he did? Soap mumbled a “nothing”, letting you walk on ahead to the barracks. Sometimes his mouth was three steps ahead of his mind and he was known for occasionally letting things slip that he really should have kept in his head. It could happen in a flash, with Soap not knowing he’d said something stupid until he’d see heads turn and brows furrow. 

“So, how long are you crashing with us, then?” He asked, picking up into a light jog to catch up with you. 

“Uh… I’m not sure. Pretty much however long it takes for Laswell to kick me out?”

You both rounded a corner and entered a long hall lined with beds on either side.

Ah… yeah. This wasn’t ideal. Sure, you had expected to be sharing the sleeping area with one or two other folks, but this looked like the entire base was here. You pull your lips into a thin line. Everyone was here! Everyone. The sounds of idle chatter filled your head as you tried to find an empty bed to claim. You hoped you wouldn’t have to fend anyone off to keep it, not like back in your old living quarters. You think it was when you were about seven when you first realised the laws of that place. Some girl had taken your bed and slept in it and when you tried to nudge her off, she ended up attacking you. Once the fight had ended, she had gifted you with two new scars. In return, you had blessed her with a black eye and no bed for her to sleep in. Luckily, she had found another. However, since then, you had become vigilant about where you slept and what you slept on. 

Which was why it surprised you when you saw Laswell raising her arm and waving at you, before pointing to the bed across from the one she was sitting on. 

You walk down the aisle, occasionally looking at her for reassurance that you were headed in the right direction. Soon enough, you had plonked yourself on a slightly hard mattress with a creaky metal frame. Swivelling round to face Laswell and her companions across from you, you inch a little closer to the edge, hoping the background noise wouldn’t take away from the conversation you sensed was coming. 

“How are you feeling, Y/N?” She asked, taking a sip from her thermos.

“Fine.” 

Kate Laswell accepted the answer, and your little circle went quiet for a moment. 

“So…”  a man with mutton chops spoke up suddenly, only to then fade into silence. 

Laswell elbowed him lightly. 

“Just because they can’t tell you much about their background, doesn’t mean you can’t introduce yourself!” She shook her head, “Go on! Be polite!”

He shot her a dirty look before holding out his hand. 

“Captain John Price.”

“Y/N.”

You took it. 

“Just Y/N? No rank? Not even a surname?”

You shook your head. 

“Proper mystery you are, eh?” Price chuckled.

A younger man, sitting next to him, peered round to get a better look at you. His eyes wandered about for a bit before he honed in on something which made his eyebrows raise. 

“I like your tattoos.” He pointed to what he could see from your rolled up sleeve. 

You looked down, almost as if you were reminding yourself that they were still there. 

“Thanks.” You mumbled. 

He leaned forward, trying to get a better look at them, only for Price to place a hand on his chest. 

“Don’t be getting in their space, Gaz. Let ‘em breathe.”

“Sorry,” Gaz gave an apologetic smile, “I was just wondering where you got ‘em done. They look really cool.”

“I can’t tell you where I had them inked, I’m afraid.”

“Fine. Keep your secrets.” 

“I will.” You grinned, letting out a small laugh. 

You could see Kate was beginning to relax a little as you and Gaz exchanged smiles. Sure, you weren’t going to be here for long, but it would make a heck of a lot easier if you got along well with your short-term roommates. 

Soap came and sat himself down on his rucksack in the small, askew circle you had found yourselves in. 

“So,” he began, scooting himself a little closer in, “you guys managed to get any intel on Y/N here?”

“Tough nut to crack.” Price remarked, feigning a solemn headshake, “Won’t even give their rank.”

Soap sighed, “Damn. Don’t even know where you sit in the pecking order… that’s gonna make allocating food tough.”

Your eyes widened. 

“Allocating what now?” 

“They’re just messing with you.” Laswell rolled her eyes as the men let out hearty laughs, “You’ll get an equal ration don’t worry.”

She patted your back as you laughed nervously with them, feeling a bit foolish.

“Can you not scare them off please?” Kate barked at Soap as he wiped his eye, “The last thing I want is them running off and disappearing off the face of the Earth.”

“Sorry, Laswell! Couldn’t help masel!” 

“Of course.”

The laughter soon quietened down and people started looking up. A shadow had fallen over you, darkening your field of view. 

You looked up to see what was eclipsing the lights. 

A tall, masked man was looking down at you… and you kept looking back up at him. 

The both of you narrowed your eyes. For a brief moment, you thought a staring contest was going to begin, time slowing down for a fleeting second. And then, suddenly, the world sped up back to its usual pace as he turned to the rest of the group and asked:

“Who’s this?”

“That’s Y/N. The runaway Laswell told us about yesterday.”

“Oh.”

Oh? You tilted your head to one side. Was that all he had to say? “Oh?” 

Fine. Just ‘oh’ me, I guess. You shrugged to yourself as he walked past you to take a seat by Soap. 

“This one’s a proper mystery. Some shadowy government agent from Laswell’s lot.” Price whispered, loudly. 

“Yeah, you can take your tin foil hat off, Captain.” Laswell groaned, “Y/N’s information is just classified to you.”

“What about you, Kate?”

“Oh, I know almost everything about them.” She leaned back a little, smug. 

“They got as much classified information as Ghost?” Soap looked between you and the masked man. 

“Probably not. Since, you know, we have the privilege of seeing Y/N’s face all the time, unlike someone.”

Gaz let out a snort as Ghost rolled his eyes. 

Ultimately, it was true though. If it were down between you and Ghost on who looked more trustworthy, it would be you by a mile. You didn’t have a mask on for a start and he did. Not to mention, the man’s stare was unnerving. Intense. You were almost certain that if he tried, the sheer power of his glare would turn you into stone. The man would have made a fine Gorgon, all staring eyeballs and no friendly smile, or at least no visible friendly smile. 

“Y/N,” Gaz paused to let out the last of his giggles, “I got a very important question. What’s your favourite colour?”

“Uh…” You just pick one off the top of your head, “red?”

“Great! Now we know more about Y/N than our old pal Ghost! They officially have less classified info than him!”

Soap went to put an arm around his shoulders, only for Ghost to shrug him off. 

“Very funny.” 

“Oh, lighten up, Riley! You’re the one who refused to give a straight answer, unlike Y/N here.”

“Maybe because I have better things to do than pick a favourite colour?”

“Hey!” You light-heartedly snapped back, pointing an accusing finger at him, “There’s nothing wrong with having a favourite colour.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with not having a favourite colour.” He retorted. 

“Yeah!” You folded your arms, “Perhaps if you’re not interesting or fun enough to have one.”

Soap let out an ‘ooohh’, awaiting Ghost’s reply. 

Only for the man to just huff and get up. 

“Pass me your canteen, Johnny. That’s what I was here for anyways.”

“Could you fill up mine too?” Gaz asked, raising his water bottle up to Ghost. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Rude.” 

“Now, now, lieutenant, that’s no way to be talking to your sergeant.” Price snickered. 

“My apologies, Garrick.” Ghost said, exaggeratingly. 

“Apology accepted.” Gaz smiled, getting ready to hand him his bottle. 

“But I still ain’t filling it up.”

With that, Ghost left the barracks and left Gaz hanging. 

The men erupted into laughter once more as Gaz wibbled his lower lip, acting as if he was on the verge of tears. 

“Welcome to 141.” Kate smiled, “They’re idiots when they’re not on the job.”

You found yourself genuinely smiling, something which you hadn’t done in a while. 

“Well, Laswell. I’d rather have these idiots than a bunch of arseholes.”

Kate placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“You’ll do just fine around here, Y/N. Just fine.”

You hoped so. Even if this was a pitstop, this was your first taste of freedom. This was the first time you were going it alone, meeting people who you were choosing to meet and talk to. This was not a matter you took lightly. Every moment you had with these guys; you would be savouring it. Perhaps this was also the time to start learning about how to make friends as well. 

The laughter you were currently bathing in set alight a gentle warmth which you had seldom felt back when you were at the Red Room. 

There’d be no harm in saying that this bode well. 

***

He was still getting used to the sights and sounds. This world he had been reborn into was… overwhelming. It hadn’t changed though; it was he who had been augmented. 

Graves sat perfectly still as he watched the whitecoats around him do their thing. He had regretted having not chosen to sit in a more comfortable, slouched posture for this, but it was too late to change his position now. Any sudden move made would result in a swift sedation or a prompt branding with whatever silver cruelty they had on them. 

He let out a resigned sigh as one of the doctors made her way round him and placed a lead onto his temple, pressing down to make sure the adhesive would stick. 

“Arcadian 3’s vitals are up now.”

The team dropped whatever they were doing and huddled around the small monitor next him, where the various wires that were attached from his head to his arms, hands and his chest all led to. 

“Look at that!” One of them gasped, pointing at something on screen that seemed to have the vague shape of numbers as well as a wiggly line that Graves usually attributed to hospital equipment, “No sign of deterioration at all! Heart rate of 60 beats per minute, average for a living K9.”

“Blood oxygen level is 97.5%. That’s pretty good.”

“Okay, great. I’d say… I’d say we can send him over to the Red Room’s guys.”

There seemed to be a unanimous hum of agreement as heads nodded and people patted each other on the back. 

The doors to the lift parted and Phillip Graves was greeted with a compartment full of other men, looking about as drained as he did. Some were already wearing their armour, whilst others were in their base layers like him. All eyes moved to meet him, and Graves felt himself recoil inside. 

“Get in, soldier.” A woman called from behind and he felt the dull end of her weapon gently nudge his lower back. 

Reluctantly, the man stepped over the threshold and into the lift, sandwiching himself between two other brutes. 

“Once you reach the Academy, you are to turn right and follow the lamias waiting for you to go get your masks fitted. Under no circumstances are you to enter the Academy without one of those things on. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” They all said. 

The doors creaked shut. 

The air was heavy here, the humidity only rising with each breath let out. The sighs released from those slightly frowned lips of the soldiers in this cramped space came out in the form of steam: a small, fleeting moment of white which dissipated, leaving only the mere sensation of its presence. Not wishing to make eye contact with any of his companions, Graves elected to keep his eyes on the small screen above, which indicated the floor number they were on. 

Slowly, the value on the screen decreased. The lift would jerk a little and its lights flickered in response. Only the distant echoes of metal scraping against metal and clanking machinery filled the silence. There were no voices. Graves had tuned into the soft whirs of the lift, which were more audible when the damn thing wasn’t acting like it was as old as time itself. He found it bizarre that something which looked so well-maintained would sound as broken as it did. This lift was inarguably spotless, the metal for the buttons polished and shining, the floor looking glossy, and the walls were this pristine blue grey colour. Maybe his ears had gotten sensitive too? 

Graves had noticed his sight and sense of smell most certainly had; what would be the subtle scent of men’s perfumes, deodorants and aftershave mixed with dull metal was an almost overbearing concoction for his nose. Phillip was doing all he could to not just clutch his face and splutter. It was like the smell was slowly filling up the inner volume of his skull, desperately vying for all his mind’s attention. As for his eyesight, well, he gathered that this lift’s lights had been especially lowered for him and the men around him because he could actually see clearly. Graves didn’t have to squint for once. 

Someone yawned and another scratched behind their ear. 

There was this shared sense of discomfort. No one wanted to be here, and they could sense that desire in each other. 

Graves found himself being compelled to yawn. As he did so, he realised he had to give himself a moment to realign his jaw so his teeth wouldn’t sit uncomfortably on one another. Oh, the joy of having lengthened canines! He truly, truly hated what they had done to his body. 

Finally, the lift creaked, groaned and then grinded to a halt. Doors parted and the men stepped out. They were greeted with a set of armoured women, who kindly guided them down the corridor, herding them into a room just off the side. 

There were worktables lined with masks and various articles of armour. 

“Find your mask. See if it fits and put it on. If you don’t have armour, the bits on the tables are yours. Your pieces will be identified by your number. It’s your full number, not the last digit.”

They obeyed, not uttering a word, and dispersed, splitting into smaller groups and huddling round the tables. Graves wandered about, looking at each and every piece, hoping to find one with his serial number. 

7223. 

7223. 

Come on! He gritted his teeth. Where’s 7223?

Eventually, he found his stuff, sitting on the table at the far end of the room, near a guard who was posted at the corner, watching them like a hawk. First thing the man did was put on the gloves. Then, he picked up a pair of braces, branded with his number on the inside, and strapped them to his arms. Kneepads went on next and finally; it was the chest plate. It was familiar but strange at the same time. 

The woman at the front who had been instructing them spoke up again. 

“Remember when you put these masks on, you need to bite down gently on the mouthpiece inside. Once you all have your masks on, we’ll show you how to insert your blood canisters.”

Graves stared at the helmet in his hands. The reflections of the ceiling lights rolled off its featureless, glass face. He knew the stuff it was made of was most certainly not glass, nay, it was most likely something much stronger than whatever materials the standard army possessed for their protective gear. However, it looked fragile. Strange. Alien. The smooth glaze of this visage was coloured black with this undertone of crimson which revealed itself when occasionally catching the light. With a resigned exhale through his nose, Phillip turned it around to find the button to crack it open. Feeling around his finger, he eventually came across a change in texture and took the plunge. It hissed and soon the segments were levering themselves either upwards or out to the sides. 

He put it on and found the mouthpiece. A hunk of what felt like plastic, again, he knew it most likely wasn’t, hit him square on the nose. As he lowered the mask onto his face, he managed to move it over so that it was hovering over his lips. He took a deep breath. Then, he opened his mouth. It was horrible. 

Remember that feeling when the dentist shoves that chunk of plastic and terrible, mint-flavoured stuff into your mouth to take a mould? Everything was clearly too big for you, the bits of plastic cutting at the insides of your cheeks, the urge to gag rising but nothing really coming of it? 

It was that. He was not having a good time. 

He bit down on the piece, desperate to try and find a way to make this tolerable. 

“Looks like everyone’s got their masks on. Great. We’re handing out the blood canisters now. Nobody try slotting them in until all of y’all have your canisters.”

One of the lamias came round with an unzipped duffel bag, which jangled as she walked. On each table she set out a pair of canisters per person. Eventually, she made her way to Graves’ table and placed before him and his company, six transparent, sealed tubes. Each one housed a red liquid, which gushed about against its glass walls, causing pink froth. It looked like blood, but it clearly wasn’t. The liquid was too thin, too artificial. 

“Raise your hand if you do not have a pair of these.” The head lamia raised an example in her hand to show to the group. 

The lack of response suggested they were all set. 

“Okay,” she began, “Feel the lower half of your helmet for a slot on either side. Once you have located your slots, take the canister- there should be one labelled with ‘R’ for right and ‘L’ for left- and put them on the correct side.” 

The room was once more filled with the quiet rustles of people doing as they were told. 

Graves looked down to see the new pieces of equipment which had been placed before him. He picked one up, bringing it close to his concealed face. Examining it, Phillip’s eyes narrowed. 

In accidental union, each soldier there took their canisters and plugged them into their masks. The sound of unanimous, mechanical hissing replacing the ambient quiet like the rising pre-chorus of some holy choir. 

As soon as the parts clicked in place, a smell began to fill the air in Phillip’s mask. At first it was faint, but soon it gained strength. More and more and more, it began to overtake him. 

This was blood. This was some form of blood. And yet, it was sweet. Delectable. He could almost taste it. Every time he inhaled, Graves was met with this wave of satisfaction, like he had just eaten the best meal he’d had in ages. It almost made him feel faint, his head starting to feel light and his eyes heavy with each blink. Graves leant forward, resting his hands against the worktable, trying to steady his breaths. 

Opposite to him, a guy was clutching his helmeted head, groaning. He looked almost drunk, his feet threatening to give way as he swayed side to side, like the thin stem of a plant caught in the wind. Another man, in between Graves and the wobbler, standing along the shorter side of the table, was giggling a little, unsteady on his feet too and resting some of his weight on the table like Graves. 

THUMP!

Those who weren’t completely inebriated whipped their heads round to the source of the sound. Someone, at the table near the door, had just collapsed, body giving way completely. A couple of lamias grabbed hold of him and promptly dragged him away like this was nothing. 

Graves furrowed his brows. 

Was losing consciousness a common occurrence here? 

“Do not remove your masks whilst in the Academy! These pieces of equipment are to stop you from attacking our lamias-in-training and your teammates when you’re working. You’ll be given further instruction on these when you are sent out on your first missions!” The main woman instructed, “You are now ready to enter the Academy. The gorgons at the front will direct you to your assigned lamias-in-training.”

She gestured for them to start heading out the door. As he had been doing for the entirety of the time he had spent here, Graves followed the crowd and left the room with the group. 

They trekked down the hall in silence, almost like zombies, the fumes these canisters were filling their lungs made them feel drowsy. Sluggishly, Graves walked with the others in time, doing his best not to be blinded by the ceiling lights overhead. 

The vague shape of two figures came into view at the end of the hallway, holding guns close to their chests. Once they saw the men approach, one turned and scanned her palm. The three segments making up the blast door parted and they were ushered inside. 

Now, Graves found himself in a queue. 

From an arms room to what looked like to be a line for the bank, Phillip just accepted the circumstances he was in. That’s what he had been doing this entire time, ever since he had found himself in this place… he had just accepted. It was what he had to do. After all, they could very well just kill him if they thought he wasn’t going to be of much use and then his second chance at life would be taken away. All it took was for him to look the wrong way at someone and bam! Silver bullet through the brain and no more. He may have not liked this, being poked at by whitecoats, having to watch poorly made instructional videos and being herded like cattle, but he was alive. Right now, that was all he could think about. 

He was alive. 

Three weeks ago he had been dead. Three weeks ago he was a corpse, still as a lake, empty. Phillip Graves three weeks ago didn’t exist. 

And yet, he had been willed back to walk this Earth once more. 

He knew he’d eventually find himself feeling disillusioned, being forced to become a soldier once more, unable to pick his battles but right now, Phillip knew that this organisation had his loyalty for a while. Much longer than the US could hold it for. 

“8540. 8540. Come to the front. Your lamias are ready.” An automated voice announced over the intercom. 

A man, a few heads in front of Graves, watched his number appear on the screen. Then, he left the queue and was led past the set of doors to whatever lay beyond them. 

More numbers were called and more men were led away. 

“7629.”

“8913.”

“7152.”

And then, finally:

“7223.”

He did as he had watched and removed himself from the queue and walked towards the set of doors. The pair of guards on either side gestured for him to follow. 

To Graves’ surprise, the man found himself in a canteen. It was a large mess hall. Tables were dotted around, some long, reaching almost the length of the hall, whilst others were smaller islands, with personnel huddled around them. 

He was led down the aisle between a pair of long tables, coming to a stop about two thirds of the way. 

“Sit.”

The guards pushed Phillip onto a chair roughly. Then, one left and one remained, taking a seat next to him. Across from the man sat two girls who were in base layers similar to what he was wearing under his armour.

One of the girls leaned back, looking him up and down. As she did so, Phillip realised the strange markings both had lining their forearms, seemingly coming up to their necks, the patterns peeking through from under the edge of their base layers. 

“This is 7223.” The guard said, gesturing to him, “He will be overseeing you from now on. So, I suggest you three get acquainted. They’ll be deploying your party within the next twenty-four hours.”

***

You couldn’t sleep that night. The warmth had worn off and you were back to being worried. They were coming for you, you knew it. They probably already were making moves to your location. Yes, you had removed the trackers which had been either grafted into your armour or implanted under your skin but really, you had to admit, it was more as a means to self soothe than actually something practical. You could tell Laswell knew that too. 

The both of you had smashed them into smithereens or chucked them into boiling water (much to Price’s dismay, having had to retrieve a new pan to cook his dinner in) but, again, it served no real purpose other than getting you one step closer to… well, closure. 

This was a game of cat and mouse, call and response. You knew you weren’t going to make the first move- now that’d be foolish! However, you also knew you couldn’t say huddled in the little burrow you had made for yourself here at the base. They’d sniff you out eventually. The Foundation had some fine K9s which the Red Room would employ and those K9s were only getting better. Once you got even the slightest hint that they were nearby, you’d be gone in a flash. No need to keep the lion waiting in the tall grass. At least then, you wouldn’t give the bastards the satisfaction of giving chase. 

Dirty fucking dogs. 

Rain pattered softly against the windows as you navigated your way through a darkened corridor. Those who weren’t on night watch had been advised to confine their activity to the barracks, for the sake of keeping track of who was where and when, but… you couldn’t help yourself. You needed to wander and quietly pacing back and forth, hoping not to wake your sleeping roommates, simply would not suffice. It was not like those on night watch would catch you, you were one sneaky little sonuvabitch. At least, you hoped they wouldn’t find you. Even if they did, what was the worst that could happen? A mild bollocking? Pfft! You could handle that. And what of potential threats?

The answer was your gun. You had your trusty assault rifle with you, one which you had stolen when you made your escape. Luckily, you had yet to use it and you preferred to keep it that way. Your motto right now was to injure and run. You wouldn't aim to kill; you couldn’t risk lingering to see if the job was done. Besides, the kind of folks you usually tangled with typically got back up after a bullet to the brain, if you gave them a few minutes. 

The sounds from outside began to dampen. 

Soon, you found yourself in a patch of quiet. 

Right now, it was like you were walking in a big black void, only the vague shapes of what lay ahead along the path could be made out and even then, there was no certainty as to whether it was something tangible, or a mere shadow. 

Isolated, once more, with your thoughts. 

You wondered if sunrise would come soon, though, you soon thought that was a stupid question to ponder on seeing as it was so dark. This was the dead of night. 

And it was so, so quiet. 

Thunder gently rumbled overhead, but it sounded distant, almost muffled. 

You swallowed hard, drawing your gun closer to your chest. 

Maybe you would have been alright with pacing back and forth in the barracks, afterall. At least, back in the barracks, you’d have the sounds of snoring to ground you in reality. You knew your imagination would start to run wild, soon. 

WHOOSH!

You felt a chill wind sweep through your body. Something was here. 

A rustle!

Movement. 

Your breaths grew a little shaky as your finger moved to hover over the trigger. 

Was it them?

Oh God! Did they find you already?! How?! So soon?! 

You can feel your blood rushing through your veins, your pulse pounding in your ears. 

Your hairs stand on end, and you feel something bristle against your back. 

Dirty fucking dogs. 

Like a crescendo, awaiting the climax, you feel fear rush through you, propelling you as you spin around, gun pointing at whoever wanted to get a piece of you.

You flicked on your torch as you did so, and the face of your hunter was revealed. 

Two piercing eyes, reflecting the light of your flashlight back at you.

You let out a scream. 

“Hey! What are you doing?!”

It grabbed the muzzle of your gun. You fought against it, squirming against it as the thing tried to take control of the weapon. 

That’s when you noticed the hand wrapped around the end of your gun was gloved, with five very human looking fingers gripping the weapon. Your eyes trailed back up to meet the figure, only to see he was wearing a balaclava… and those ‘two piercing eyes’ which you had initially thought belonged to some animal… were plainly human. 

His brows furrowed as you stopped, and he let go. 

It was… Oh what was his name? 

Phantom? No… it was something short… Ghost? Yeah! That’s it!

“Oh my God!” You covered your mouth with your hand, only to then let go of your gun, leaving it to hang by its strap around you, as you placed your hands on your knees. 

You turned back to him. 

“You scared the shit out of me!”

Ghost seemed indifferent, staring at you. 

“What?” 

“Your safety’s on.” 

You looked down, sighing, still trying to catch your breath. 

“Go back to the barracks.” He said, almost sounding inconvenienced. 

You watched him walk past you, not even bothering to acknowledge the fact that he had just given you a heart attack. Taking in the last of your shaking breaths, you turn, hands still resting on your knees, to see his figure slowly vanish into the dark. 

You’ve got to be quick if you want to say your piece, or he’ll disappear out of earshot.