Ghost X Undercover!reader (HC) Part V

Ghost x undercover!reader (HC) Part IV

warnings: violence, blood, mistakes, badly written British speech, I got some inspiration from The Rookie for the undercover part

P.S. I loved Frenchie from The Boys and I just couldn’t help myself. Apologies 😊

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

- the fourth time you meet it’s no longer up to chance but up to your discretion

- the last mission scored you one of the most prized rewards in your field: a golden ticket; basically you get permission to retire from your field an choose another with less risk and a larger pay check, a “thank you gift card” from the director of the MI6, the King and England herself; it’s a type of mobility many dream of, having checked off the bucket list almost dying in al sorts of crazy situations and the young adventurous attitude toward danger having morphed into a veteran hesitant mentality; you are given plenty of time to decide where you want to go       

- a month later you hear rumours of a task force newly formed, one-four-one they’d call it; cheesy you think not really giving anymore attention; and then the briefing about some partnership between under cover specialised agents and this mystery task force for a top tier mission; you think about it, you haven’t had any action in three months now and anymore desk work will drive you up a wall if it continues; you skim over the file on the task force with disinterest, mostly because task forces like these were made up of brutes, eager to pick fights with the enemy and partially because most of the words had been redacted; a few are left out in the open among the sea of black ink: task force, covert mission, high-performance, low collateral casualties, you hum in thought

- what makes you not only volunteer with a manic grin, but actually consider having found the place for your relocation; under the captain’s name John Price, follow three more names; the last two are unknown to you and unimportant, two Sergeants, one John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, and another Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick; but the one is impossible to mistake: Lt. Ghost; no first name, no last name; the only person whose file you ever read to bear that name.

- your application for the mission gets accepted almost instantly your reputation proceeding you almost any briefing room now; you’re informed that you’ll depart within the hour and other things you need to know about it; nothing really matters as you know you’ll get the chance to confront that knobhead that has plagued all your waking hours and some dreams with his obscure choice of words as you departed;

- you’re ready in 30, not really owning much and usually being moved from HQ to HQ, or base, or house within small time frames, which doesn’t allow for many personal things anyway; you wait in the shade, dragging from a cigarette, to pass the time, until the heli lands on the heli-pad; you don’t get to wait much, the pilot is here a little early; good; you don’t like to wait

- the flight is short the base not, far from the MI6 HQ; you pass the time reading a book you took, some title that caught your attention at the library across the street of where you usually buy cigarettes; the story doesn’t raise to your expectations, the writing style is mediocre and the characters have as much depth as a glass of water; you contemplate throwing it out the window, but refrain when the pilot announces ETA: less than 5; you hum heart beating a little quicker at the excitement you feel for finally being able to decipher the meaning behind those blood words

- as soon as the heli touches down on tarmac you’re out the door, no words of goodbye to the pilot; he’s used to it’

- the welcoming committee consists of the two Sergeants, now finally connecting faces to the names you read on the files; they’re casual in your attitude towards you which is a little invigorating, but they wouldn’t drop the “ma’am”; they’ll get over it; you’re probably a little older than them

- John ‘Soap’ MacTavish is chatty Scott, who’s a little to nosy for your liking, but within reasonable limits; you’re not sure if is actually trying to charm the pants off of you or that’s just how he is usually, throwing compliments left and right, but those have no effect on you and slide right off without much care; he sports an unusual haircut for some of the strictest branches of army that’s ever existed, SAS you see the patch on his shoulder, and a wacky tattoo representing the Task Force 141 insignia on his huge forearm

- Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick is almost opposite to “Soap”, he’s more laid back, observing more than talking, making small comments when the Scott’s cascade off words gets interrupted, chuckling at his comrade poor attempts at complimenting you; he’s not as well built as Soap, but he stands a couple inches taller than you

- ‘He’s always like that?’ you direct your attention to “Gaz” as the two of them walk in front of you like two loyal guard dogs

- ‘Yes ma’am, though he get’s easier to ignore with time.’ You both chuckle, a huge disservice to the Scott that protests ‘Oi’ followed by a 'What's that suppose tae mean?' in the thickest Scottish accent you’ve had the chance to hear

- ‘You’re bothersome, bruv.’ Soap hits Gaz’s shoulder in brotherly fashion and the playful banter begins; you tune them up, and think about finally getting to change out of your civilian clothes and into something blacker, more unflattering and less eye catching than the light blue skinny jeans that have managed to flare out more than one whistle as you passed; arseholes and jar-heads come to the forefront of your mind

- you’re led first to your room and left there with the promise that one of them, most likely Soap, cause he already volunteered to do it, will come collect you for the briefing before supper

- you’re left alone to install, unpack, get changed and unwind from the irksome travel and the fact that you are being watched like deer in the headlights, fresh faces always attract the interest of the crowd in places like this

- the walk towards the briefing room is short but Soap manages to pour so many words in that interval that you’re almost sure he’s going to run out; once inside Soap’s chatter dies down and you make eye contact with the captain

- John Price gives off the energy of a strong father figure, his facial hair adding to his age; he not much older than you but the stress of leadership is visible on his face, eyes winged with crow’s feet; he gives a tight-lipped smile and a curt nod as you and the sergeant enter; he waits for Gaz to join you before he begins the briefing

-   as for the hulking beast of a man, clad in black, brown eyes surrounded by black army issued face paint and hidden behind that grotesque mask of his, oh no, you haven’t miss him, just ignored him; you felt his gaze burning your skin, searching for eye contact, which you vehemently denied; suffer just like I did, bloke

- Gaz comes in and is witness to the unthinkable; you the new face, pretty one might say without lying, so much different from these hardened man, more in common with the civvies than them, go and sit right next to Ghost, no space left in between the two of you; and what’s even crazier, you don’t acknowledge him; Soap and Gaz share a look; the captain seems amused by your actions and the sergeants confusion; no one, absolutely no-fucking-body ever sat next to Ghost, willingly and without starring dumbly and frightened at him; no one, never

- you take your seat, and place your notebook and pen neatly in front of you, facing the whiteboard as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened; the two chaps sit down slowly, eyes trained on you half expecting you to realize your mistake and jump out of the chair; but you surprise them once again when you finally decide to meet the glare directed at you head on and to crack a smirk at the lieutenant

- their minds are blown, mouth open in disbelief, they glance at one another; their minds are set, you get labelled as the agent who clearly lost their mind somewhere in some gone wrong mission; they’ll bombard you with questions later

- as for Ghost, he’s as still as puma waiting to spring to attack; if looks could kill, you’d be disintegrated to the last atom; you’re as unbothered as a new born foal, unaware of its impending doom

- Price clears his voice, catching your attention and diminishing the tension that clouds around the semicircle table

- he makes an introduction for you, stating the reason you’re here, and what you’re specialized in: undercover espionage; you give a nod to all the men

- on a laptop in the furthermost side of the table a connection is established and a blonde American woman greets you; she’s CIA, their handler and yours for the upcoming mission; you have no qualms to work with the other most prominent intelligence agency, the one from over the pond, as long as you get to do your job as you know best; you feel the respect the men have for her and the fondness in the captain’s eyes once they greet each other; they’re old friends, that much you can tell   

- you decide you’ll respect Kate Laswell and trust her, as much as one can trust when one builds their carrier on lying to others and distrusting everyone; she’s pleasant so far, familiar with the men, and cuts straight to the chase just how you like it

- the target is one drug overlord who decided to take things up a notch and deal in arms with terrorists; the goal: disrupt the block-chain and cut the heads off the snakes; simple enough nothing that you haven’t tackled before

- you’re given green light to propose how to approach and infiltrate this business; you explain that you have to get quite high in their hierarchy if you want a shot at real damage; you skim over the information available on his deals: fentanyl, the most recent drug that’s flooded the streets; you know how to “cook” it from a previous cartel you took down; you’ll enter as just that “a cooker”, but you’ll also need a bodyguard to make yourself seem more important, but more on that later; you point out the name of the current one, the first target

- if you manage to get that person out of the game, you’ll have a chance to fill that spot, maybe the most important chain link in the whole operation

- you already have in mind the persona you’ll assume, a chemistry drop-out that took to cooking drugs; you know that your skills far surpass the target’s and you know how to cook a purer form of fentanyl; as for your bodyguards’: a crook; fresh out of prison on the lookout for work that pays well; one with knowledge of guns and explosives, surely to pique the terrorist cell’s interest in their skill

- Soap offers for the role, impressed so far with your knowledge and method of operating; you’re through, and he’d like to learn more on infiltration; you agree hearing he’s got what it takes to be convincing enough

- Laswell, Price and Gaz all hum in agreement at your plan waiting to hear their part in it; simple: Laswell can help with credentials and all the raw materials you’ll need to pull this off; Gaz, the captain and Ghost will be your back up, providing fire power

- the first target is easy to take down: he’s a middle-aged creep, who likes pretty young women and heavy drinks, parties like he’s twenty not fifty something; they already have info on his preferred hotspots; you’ll go in lure him out for the men to bag him and make him disappear

- everyone agrees so far adding small details here and there; it’s only your first few hours or so and every single one understands why you’re held in so high regard; it’s all warranted

- Ghost is the only one who hasn’t said anything, allowing you to direct the briefing, already know you’re more than capable and have far more experience with such delicate planning

- once everything is settled you start planning out the preparations you’ll need to make beforehand; Soap will train under your supervision; you point out he already looks the part, a delinquent; the comment lacks any trace of ill intent, but everyone can’t help but chuckle at his huff of indignation followed by ‘ ’M not’; you sweeten the deal praising his charming nature and easy-going attitude; he smiles at that but it’s short lived by your next comment

- ‘You'll do fine as long as you let me do the talking. I doubt you calling anyone 'bonnie lass' will get you very far.’ That gets everyone to let out a chuckle, everyone knowing Soaps anticks; even Ghost lets out a grunt reminiscent of a laugh; the bruised ego Scott follows up with a ‘Pish off’ that’s met with laughter from you; you let the insult roll off in good humour

- the briefing ends, Laswell disconnects, and the rest of you stand up to make your way to the mess hall in time for dinner; Price holds you back, and you obey; you talk a little, mostly him, praises fly at you, for good planning, attention to details and overall how well you managed to fit in with them in such a short time; you thank him, having heard this all the time; you try, really hard, to be pliant and easy to work with; no need to be a hard-ass; you’re all on the same side

- he agrees with your well-spoken point of view; but he can’t help but ask what’s the deal with you and Ghost

- ‘Worked together before. We get along well.’ Your answer seems to put at ease some of his worries about the teams chemistry; with that out of the way he leads you to the mess hall where he gets you to sit with them at the table; you can feel everyone else’s eyes on you as the new face of the 141’s; but you ignore them chatting with “your” team; you kind of like the sound of that; you can quite imagine working along side them for the rest of your carrier, however short, as you know the death rates among undercover agents grow the further they go; very few get to retire in one piece, actually you can count them on one hand, at least the ones they tell you about at the academy

Previous part here.

Next part here.

Masterlist

Warnings: violence, gore, kidnappings, threats of murder, feelings, and others.

CoD MW2/3

Simon 'Ghost' Riley 💀

Echoes of Salvation. Simon 'Ghost' Riley x afab reader (zombie AU)

Ongoing series

Part I Part II Part III

Ghost x undercover!reader - Head Cannons

(little mention of female characteristics in parts IV and V; it can be read as neutral reader: parts I, II and III)

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Husband!Ghost x teacher!reader HC

Part I Part II

Works that I will write in the future

Ghost x afab reader (Old Guard AU)

spirit!Ghost x witch!reader (forest spirit monster AU)

"I like your voice" ok the let me read to you while your head rests on my chest and i scratch your head until you fall asleep

Ghost x undercover!reader (HC) Part VI

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Warnings: torture, violence, gore, mistakes.

- the sixth time you meet it’s after a lot of frenzied searches

- the missions have been slow a while now; you mostly act as a handler for TF141, alongside Laswell; the boys got used to your calm voice in their earpieces, guiding and directing them through buildings and underground bases; your “hacking” skills come in handy when Laswell gets caught up with something else

- they always come home in time for you to get supper together; it’s a nice way of living; so different from the loneliness you felt before; now you have a small family to call your own; the banter between you and the sergeants feels the air; you throw jokes to one another; Price quietly chuckles at his younger subalterns; Ghost on the other hand stays silent most of the time;

- you always sit next to him, in the mess hall, in briefing rooms, in helis, or cars; it’s something he’s not sure yet how to interpret; yes, the two of you got along just fine; you have the same dark humour that makes the other soldiers in the base shiver when they hear you laugh at your jokes; you can sit in comfortable silence for hours; you don’t pry into each other’s lives, which he’s thankful; you hadn’t even asked him his name, and you already know one another for more than two years; he won’t admit but he doesn’t like the way his heart feels when you laugh at one of Soap’s jokes, or discuss with Gaz one of the new books you’ve bought, or even when Price comes close to you, peaking over your shoulder and talking quietly with you about the files you’ve got in front of you;

- Ghost does not allow the thought, that he might be jealous on his comrades’ interactions with you, take roots inside his mind; he can’t; you’re just doing your job and you just happen to enjoy the 141’s company, in the most platonic way; he knows that your bond is far superior to that of the other’s; you saved his life, saw his face, and he in turned saved yours; that must add up to something;

- yet he feels that something’s wrong with him; Price pointed out that ever since you joined TF141 he seems quieter, and less present; he’s becoming more and more his namesake; he denies that, and argues that he’s just tired, now that he’s getting older; Price calls out his shite; the captain is older than him, and he’s far more active than him;

- but the captain can’t do more than that, a friendly conversation; yours and Ghost’s relationship is extremely professional; he rarely sees the two of you interact in the common room, or anywhere else for that matter, that’s not the battle field or the briefing room; you also work incredibly well; you two and Soap had made quite the trio when it comes to field work; he affectionately calls you the Unholy Trinity of Task Force 141; trails of body are left in your wake and almost all missions go well without the tinniest hitch; the men joke around that surely you are some kind of witch that made a deal with the devil to have success; you laugh and chalk it all up to skill, hard work, and a shite ton of sheer luck;

- though you keep reminding them that your luck will run out one day, they ignore you, joking that you’ll have to tolerate them until you retire; you’re not as optimistic; you’re the realist of the whole team; you know the risks are ten times bigger than theirs

- most of the times you go in alone, unarmed, no back up, no communication; you only have yourself to rely on; and you know that when the fatigue catches up with you, you’ll slip up, make a mistake, that’ll get you killed or worse

- and then the worst you feared happens; you go MIA during a simple infiltration; the boys find no trace to indicate where you’d been taken to or by whom; Laswell can’t find any sign of you, no matter how hard she tries, or how far she’s stretching her informant network; nothing; denial turns to angry searches, busting down doors and torturing anyone they come across; that turns to desperation, they start looking into the most unrelated events they find, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they get a glimpse of your name, or an alias, or something, no matter how small; and that turns to silence, they stop bringing you up, start avoiding your name or anything that might point out you’re not there; after Laswell mentions you in one of their briefings, that the time to change your status to KIA is due, Ghost smashes the chair you used to sit in

- it’s one of the most violent reactions he’s had outside the battlefield since you’d disappeared, and Price starts to worry that his lieutenant will do something stupid if they don’t find out what happened to you; he threatens Laswell to not touch that file of yours; ‘Not yet, Kate. Not yet.’ He says in a sadder and calmer voice    

- acceptance never came; the thought that maybe you’re not even alive, buried somewhere unmarked, or body burned beyond recognition is a thought they’d long banished; wherever they went they kept their eyes peeled for you; their hope of finding you never wavers

- and then their prayers are answered; they get something; it’s not much; a 3-second clip; it’s blurred, to few pixels to really make out any details; and the camera seems to be moved violently, barely catching the hunched posture of a person tied to a chair; Laswell got it form one of her contacts; it’s from a half destroyed hard drive they recovered from heli the dropped out of the sky

- it’s not much; actually, is far too little to go on with; the video doesn’t show a face, nor reveals any names; the background so dark they can’t make out anything; But they agree it’s you; from the size of your body, to your complexion to the colour of your hair, now longer and falling over your face; it’s been months since they last saw you but they know it’s you   

- ‘Proof of life’ Price concludes; ‘But fur who?’ Soap voices the question they all thought of that; ‘It don’t matter’ Ghost points out, voice gruffer than ever; ‘Where is more important.’ Gaz specifies

- they get to work; they comb the crash site, having received the location from Laswell; at first they don’t find anything; but Ghost’s keen eyes find it; it’s a small piece of silvery metal, wedged in the dirt; it’s only half, but he can make out the letters clearly; cyrillic letter; he grunts; ‘Price…’ he shouts to get everyone’s attention; when they come closer he shows it to them; ‘Russians’ they conclude

- the hunt begins; Nik is there to smuggle the Brits over the Russian borders and to provide them with an extraction vehicle, in his case an old rusty Russian helicopter, that can barely fly under the radar, it flinches and grunts at every gust of wind, but it’s as covert as can be; they don’t bear any insignia visible on their black camo uniforms; their faces tucked under black balaclavas; even their guns are Russian, some AK-47 Nik provided them with no striations on the barrels; they even agreed to keep their mouths shut, letting the captain converse with anyone that they might encounter; no one can no that a team of Brits put their feet on Russian soil

- they carefully went over all the details just like you got them used to when you did infiltrations; they are as prepared as ever; the plan is simple; take out the guards that make their rounds through the facility and take their place; that will give them sufficient time to look for you and find a way out to get you out; “if” they find you; the information came through Laswell and it was already a couple weeks old; chances are you’ve been moved;

- they search everywhere; you’re not there; time for plan B: infiltrate their data base; Price gets his hand on a computer and plugs the USB containing the backdoor virus; it takes some time to install, then to reboot the whole system; Laswell gives the green light that they’re in; they get out of there leaving no trace that they ever were inside

- the next two weeks are gruesome; Ghost spends most of his time destroying the punching bags in the gym; he barely eats and barely sleeps; he starts hearing your voice in the night when he climbs the ladder to the roof, perched up like an owl, having a smoke away from everyone; he hears a soft whisper, or a small chuckle; he’s going crazy, he thinks; crazy with worry for you;

- it’s been years since Simon felt worry for someone; when his family was killed, he vowed to never get close to another soul again; but then you had to save him; you didn’t even know him; risked your life for a stranger that cannot repay you for that act of kindness

- but he can; he can make sure you’re safe on missions; that’s why he’d always stalk your figure through the scope; that’s why he’d have you with him and Soap every time you’d split up; so he can keep his eyes on that pretty face of yours; that’s why he’d threaten the other marines on base with the court martial when he’d hear lewd comments about you being their whore and so much worse; he’d be wringing their necks if Price didn’t keep such a close eyes on his actions  

- he misses you, and your presence, and your sweet perfume, and your voice, and your eyes that would look straight into his when he told you a joke, smirk matching his own; he missed the way you’d drink your tea together in the morning, in silence broken only by soft sighs and the sound of the sofa under your weights; if he got up before you he’d make sure to boil enough water for two mugs and he’d put the tea in the moment he could hear your footsteps heading to the common room; he was so accustomed to you that he could make out your footsteps even in the busiest corridors; lighter than most, almost quiet but quick, lively; he misses that too

- the way you’d make your away towards him and with a nod take the seat next to his, softly brushing his shoulder with yours in an unspoken acknowledgement… I’m here, next to you… your simple touch made his skin boil underneath his clothes and yearn for more; he’d take advantage of situations out in the field; he’d grab you and help you climb over obstacles, he’d give you a head anytime he felt you needed it; and you’d never refuse his help;

- he’ll be dammed if he doesn’t find you; just like you found him when you first met

- two weeks pass by slower when you’re almost always awake, Simon knew that already; but he’s the first to get on the tarmac when Price gives the order for heading out; Laswell managed to pinpoint your location; one of the Russian commanders moved you to an off the record, but not really cause ‘Russians are shit at keeping a low profile.’ Laswell adds, compound where they’d keep foreign prisoners for interrogations; the American woman sends them out to get you out and wipe any witness that has seen your face

- exactly what Simon wanted; the green light to do what he’s best at: mauling his enemies;

- the compound they keep you in is underground, ventilation system outdated, like pretty much any piece of technology they keep; they record the interrogation on an old Sony camera; you doubt it can register your mumbled responses, not that you’d say anything useful; you’d match every question with a curse in a clear American accent; you don’t want to give them anything that might be traced back to your British boys;

- they can’t get anything out of you; not your name, not whom do you work for, or where you’re from, what you were looking for when you infiltrated their operation, etc.; they were met with an unsurmountable resistance; no matter how many times they’d beat you, drown you, burn you, cut you, electrocute you, or humiliate you; they took away most of your clothes, leaving you in your underwear and what little remained from your tank top, enough to cover only your upper torso; you were cold, hungry and in pain; you had been in this condition for months; but you wouldn’t give up

- in the academy they taught you that the longer you lasted the more chances of being found; that thought has crossed your mind more than once; but you don’t allow yourself to hope; that would only weigh you down the more time passes; no, you look for ways to free yourself and learn the personnel’s schedule; and you wait for the best opportunity

- that window of opportunity is near; for a week now you worked on pulling out the nail in the chair that holds the chair’s handle together; you managed to pull out the nail and twist your wrist to try and scratch at the rope; the motion is uncomfortable and painful, the skin of your wrist is cut open by the rope that soaks up your blood; you’ve been at it for hours, trying to cut yourself loose; and you finally manage; surprise overtakes you as the rope unravels and your hand is free; the limb aches with exertion as you shake it to get the flow of circulation to get back to normal

- then you lean forward and grab at the knife left there from the previous session, still wet with your blood; freeing yourself is more strenuous than you would have imagined; as you bend down to free your ankles you almost pass out from the sudden rush of blood to your head; you lost of it, enough to hinder you in your escape; but you push through

- when you stand up you grab the chair for support and move in slow motion afraid you’ll pass out; you have a plan in mind already; get dresses in the coat left on the hanger by the door, and lay in wait for the interrogator to come back for another round; now that your body is filled with adrenaline times moves slower, but it doesn’t take long for the door handle to start to move; you wait for the tall and skinny man to enter; if he were a little leaner you wouldn’t have had a chance; but this failed physician that took to torture won’t even know what hit him; you stab him in the neck with a somewhat quick strike;

- he dies drowning in his own blood; you manage to drag his corpse under the table, leaving the pool of blood untouched; maybe they’ll think that you finally bled out and someone took your corpse to the morgue to be burned; you don’t care as you grab the handgun off his waist; the same one he’d threaten you with when you wouldn’t answer;

- judging by the thick clothes your assailant wears you know outside is cold; so you do what they told you at the academy; you undress the corpse an take his pants an shoes; they’re huge on you but you can’t complain; you shiver at the warmth still trapped in the wool fibres;

- you make your way outside checking for any guards; you found none, as expected; you heard the Russian complain that is too cold and stuffy down here that nobody but him frequents the lower levels; some people don’t know to shut up and you are glad to exploit that; with his gun, knife and car keys in hand you make your way through the dark corridors; you follow the boot prints left on the filthy floors;

- the only guards you encounter are the ones stationed by the door that leads to the stairs; you make quick work of them; one shot for each of their heads; you almost fall down on your ass as the gun kicks back in recoil; you take a moment to lean on the wall taking a few calming breaths

- your ascend is slow, laboured breaths escaping your gaping mouth; you strain your eyes and try to decipher the word on the walls marking the level and the facility; you’re looking for the parking lot; you find it after climbing to the second to last level; Russians really don’t know how to keep a facility secure; as you climb the emergency stairs there is no one to stop you; they underestimated your ability to escape this hell hole; their mistake

- as you reach the parking lot you look for the physician’s car; it’s a rusty red Lada; it’ll do just fine; as you get in the passenger side you start hearing gunshots; it’s faint; maybe you imagined it; but no, it’s there; you don’t wait to find out what’s happening, as you turn the key in the ignition you pull out of the spot and quickly drive towards the exit; whatever firefight broke out in there, pulled away every guard from their stationary position; for a moment you think about TF 141, but you quickly dismiss it

- you make your way out, a little dizzy from the spiral ascension; once out of there you notice that there’s forest around, and some snow; you hit gravel and as you look back you notice the exit; the only indication that there is something men made here; you doubt that tunnel can be spotted from a drone; the trees block the line of sight; that confirms your suspicions

- the gun fire must be coming from another escapee, not as lucky as you; you drive down the dirt road following every twist and turn hoping you won’t see any other cars; you check the glove compartment; now that the adrenaline rush is over your body aches like never before; you search for some pain meds but you only find a wallet with some cash in it; Russian rubbles, enough to keep the car going for a while; maybe you’ll find a gas station; it’s risky but you are I dire need of food and water; that might give you enough strength to push forward

- the 141 moves quickly taking care of the two sentinels at the mouth of the tunnel; two well placed shots and they’re down; Gaz and Soap move the bodies in a bush and hide their car in the tree line; hopefully nobody will come looking for this two in the next crucial minutes; they comb through the facility dropping anyone they encounter; their pistols bear silencers masking the loud sounds; they move deeper and deeper, but soon the alarm is sounded and a full fight ensues; the guards are no match for the 141; they drop like flies; but the fight costs them precious minutes;

- Ghost breaks away from the rest of his teammates; he knows they got it; he needs to hurry to find you; he needs to make sure you are still breathing, and that your pretty eyes still hold fire in them; he gets to lowest level where the holding cells are; he checks behind every grate and every door until a he gets to what seems to be the place they torture the prisoners

- he notices how filthy and cold it is; but what makes his blood freeze is the chair and the large pool of fresh blood; no…, he’s too late; he came to late; a wave of blinding fury surges and like a tsunami Ghost thrashes the room; he stops only when he discovers the body of a tall Russian man behind the desk; his throat slit; pants and boots missing; atta girl he can’t help the smirk taking over his face under the balaclava; you were capable, he knew that, but you still manage to surprise him; he gets out trying to radio in the discovery to the rest of his teammates

- the radio crackles with static, concrete walls too thick for the signal to penetrate; he’s made his decision; he’s going after you even though he knows Price will kick his ass later; you need him; probably not as much as he needs you; he chases the droplets of blood you left on the ground as you walked towards the emergency staircase; at the door, two more casualties; no, you didn’t need him; you had it handled

- in the parking lot he finds a military truck with the key in the ignition; he follows you as quickly as the car gets on the dirt road

- you drive for what feels like hours; your mind is struggling, eyes out of focus and body feeling heavier with every minute; you don’t know why or when the car starts to shake and tilt, you feel yourself flying out of the seat; everything goes black

- Ghost’s eyes scan the road in front of him through the thick snowfall; he almost misses the red car that swerved of the road and now rests on the side in a ditch, snow piles on top almost making it disappear; he gets out of the truck and approaches the car pistol pointed at it; he wipes away the snow that covers the window on the driver’s side; inside he can make out a body that’s laying on its side face obscured by the thick collar of the jacket; he pulls the door open carefully and nudges the body to see if they’re conscious or not; when there’s no movement he peels the collar from their face

- Simon thinks he is no longer able to panic; he survived through his father’s and brother’s abuse; then he joined the military where they taught him to surpass any fears and to control himself; then the Mexican cartel who buried him alive; that experience showed him what terror looks like; only to return home and find all the people that he held dear massacred; Ghost is the result of so many horrifying events; he is the cautionary tale of what prolonged survival in a malignant environment looks like

- the level of fear matches that of when he found the body of Beth hugging Josep’s smaller one; he acts without thinking, grabbing your limp and cold body and pulling you out of the wreckage; your head is bleeding from where you hit it on the window; lips are blue and your skin cold to the touch; he checks for a pulse; he can’t tell if he feels yours or his own; his hands are trembling with rage and powerlessness; he grabs for the radio’ telling Price he’d found you but you need medical assistance immediately; there’s no answer on the other side; just static

- he hoists you up and takes you to the stolen truck placing you in the front seat; he climbs in the driver’s seat letting you down slowly over the seat head resting on his lap; he puts the heat on high trying to make you warm again; he checks for your breathing and he’s thrilled to find that small puffs of air come from your open mouth

- he starts driving, he doesn’t know where; he neds a safe house to treat your wounds and to keep you safe; the snow is falling heavy, making impossible to see where he’s driving; then he sees it; to the side he can make out a building in the tree line

- the abandoned cottage is nothing more than a ruin; but it has four walls and a roof and he’s glad to see a small fireplace, dry wood abandoned next to it; he puts you down on what he can only assume is what remained of a thick rug long forgotten by its previous owners; he works quickly and efficiently, in mere minutes a fire burns casting a warm glow in the barren room

- he moves to work on you; he peels the jacket off only to find that you are nearly naked under the stolen clothes; he gets angrier at the Russians wishing he could bring them back only to subject them to the same kind of torture they did you and some more; he quickly checks for deeper cuts or signs of infection; but he can’t find none; they must’ve given you antibiotics to keep you alive as much as possible;

- he cleans the cuts with the antiseptic wet wipes his med kit contains; then he dresses the wounds with gauze; your thin body looks like a mummy from the amount gauze; he addresses your head next wiping the blood of and bandaging your forehead; he sighs in relief when your lips and skin slowly turn pink from the warmth; you lay in between his legs as he sits on the floor, your head laying on his thigh

- he tries contacting 141 again, but to no avail; looks like he’ll have to hold out here tonight; he’ll stay awake to protect you until you wake up

- it’s morning when you stir, he watches your face intently from above you; your eyelids groggily open eyes trying to focus; as you lay eyes on brown ones, hidden behind a black balaclava you start to panic; you weakly push at his hands and chest, mumbling and trying to get away from him; he doesn’t relent though; his grip is firm on you and in a commanding voice he orders you to sit still; hearing your name does the trick; you didn’t tell those fuckers your name; and his embrace is not restraining more like protecting; you think hard and try to remember eyes flickering over the balaclava; ‘Ghost…’ you croak when your vocal chords decide to vibrate; ‘Gho…’ you repeat even more brokenly; he shushes you and reassures you that yes, he’s here and no, he won’t go anywhere; not without you; that puts your mind at ease and you close your eyes again

-when you wake up again is noon; he feeds you some water through cracked and dry lips and he gives you a dose of morphine to help with the pain; that sends you back to sleep

- the third time you wake, you are being carried by strong arms; the sound of blades cutting air becomes louder and louder; Ghost walks backwards shielding you from the snow that’s being picked up by the gusts of wind;

- he climbs the heli; Nik greets Ghost, as Soap and Gaz pull him and you inside; the ride is silent, no one says anything; the Russian pilot takes you to a better equipped safehouse

- you wake up to someone entering the room; you’re in a warm comfortable bed, IV connected to your wrist fluid being pumped in your veins; you open your eyes to a dark-haired man bringing in a tray of food; you panic again when you hear him greet you, voice laced with a deep Russian accent; he sees the look on your face and he slowly puts the tray on the table; ‘Don’t vorry, I’m Nick. A friend ov 141. I von’t hurt yu, agent’; he tells you it’s nice to finally put a face to the name, and that you are prettier than Gaz told him; you watch him in silence, regarding him with apprehension; when he stops talking, you look to the door and ask for Ghost

- he chuckles knowingly and then informs you that “your boy” is being ripped a new one by the captain just outside, and he leaves you to tell Price that your awake; you don’t have time to correct him cause he already out the door; Price walks in soon after, you’re glad to see him; ‘Ah, there you are’ he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes; he asks you how you’re feeling; numb thanks to the morphine; he wants to know what happened

- it was a trap; they were waiting for you, Russians; they wanted to know who you were and who did you work for; you told them nothing; he knows; he asks you about your time in the facility; you don’t quite remember much, just the torture and the questions; he tells you that you did good, and that you need to rest now;

- Gaz and Soap stop by to talk to you a bit; you tell them you’ll be fine; and then you ask for Ghost; they rub their necks a little ashamed; you asked them what happened; Ghost got scolded for going AWOL in search for you; Price even threatened him with the court martial; you huff; and swing the blanket off; you sit at the ledge of the bed; you’re glad to find you’ve been clothed in a pair of slacks and a long sleeve shirt; you grab the IV needle and pull hard on it; then you stand grabbing the table for support

- the two sergeants move forward to catch you if you fall; you wave them away and move towards the door; you search the living room for any signs of Ghost; instead, Price and Nik talk about something at the dinner table; when Price sees you up and about, despite him telling you to rest, he mutters a ‘Bloody stubborn they are’ and points toward the kitchen; you thank him; you can hear Nik commenting something about you and Ghost deserving each other; but you keep walking, slowly, one hand on the wall for balance

- Ghost stands by the window, his back turned to you; he ignores your poor attempt at greeting him; without thinking you cross the distance and hug his waist burying your nose in his hoodie; he tenses

- ‘I’m probably high right now,’ you nuzzle your face in his back inhaling his scent: soap, cigarettes and something you can’t quite tell; ‘thank you, for coming after me’; you let go of him turning to go back to rest; he grabs your upper arm and gently turns you; he watches you closely, you can feel his breath on your face, and smell the cigarette on his lips; his balaclava is pushed up his nose; he stares into your eyes as he speaks ‘Tell me to stop’ his eyes shift to your lips

- ‘Please don’t’; he kisses you, deeply and for a long time; you pull away for air ‘Ghost, I…’ ‘No,’ he cuts you off; ‘Simon, my name is Simon’ you smile lost in his pretty brown eyes; ‘Simon Riley’ and he surprises you taking his balaclava off; you stare at him, trying to memorize every scar and blemish; he’s handsome, in a rugged way; blonde hair, pale skin, and brown eye; you kiss him again.                                                

Previous part here.

I NEED HELP FINDING A GHOST X READER FIC

I just came across a really nice fic, while I was reading my phone died due to low battery, and because Tumblr refreshed the page it is now gone. I spent the last hour trying to find it.

I don´t know the author and I don´t remember if it even had a title. This is what I can remember:

it´s a 3 part fic, not very long

it didn't have images or gifs, I think...

the reader is a sergeant in the TF 141 and is suspected to have leaked information, aka be a mole

one part is about Ghost training reader about resisting interrogation via torture; she is bound to a chair, he does waterboarding, she manages to cut herself free of the zip ties; she tells him a koi fish joke, and asks him how many mistakes did he make, he tells her the joke with mustard gas and pepper spray

one part is about the whole 141 taking down a target, and when Soap and Gaz look through the PC they find evidence that reader is the mole; Price threatens reader with his gun

there was a masterlist and it had the parts listed like this:

part II

part I

interlude

If you know what I´m talking about please leave the link in the comments, reposting and liking this probably helps too. Thank you!

Ahhhhh.... My favourite number, 13. Well, my darlings, your wish is my command; tomorrow I will post part two to that HC, maybe I'll write some more for the zombie AU, and then I'll tease you with a little something new. Kisses

P.S. I will confess that I mistakenly selected 'poll' instead of something else for the masterlist, but now that I've seen how it works I will edit that too.

Husband!Ghost x teacher!reader HC - Part 2

Part I

Author's block and tummy aches don't make a great team. Apologies that it took some time to post this. Enjoy!

Warnings: none other than mistakes, it's fluff.

-

Being a primary school teacher is far from easy. From the endless hours spent correcting homework or grading tests to preparing visual materials, your work never ends. Maybe you should listen to your colleagues and double down on the work you put into this. But you can’t deny the satisfaction you get from seeing your students get excited in class even when you assign extra work for them over weekends and holidays. But now that you came down with the flu, another downside of working with kids, you couldn’t care less about the little punks.

You lay down in bed covered in the thickest of blankets, shivering and barely able to breath. The house is empty and you’ve never felt so alone. You wish Simon would walk through the door and snuggle you until everything is better again. He was deployed again, and in the past few months you managed to talk to him for a total of 10 minutes. He’d call you to check on you and let you know he was fine, but he’d be quick to tell you he can’t say more about his whereabouts.

Being married to him brought a hell of a lot more stress than you could have imagined. Not knowing where he was or what he did was eating you on the inside. You worried about your husband’s well being but you always reminded yourself not to pester him too much. His job is stressful as it is, no need for you to put anymore pressure on him when he was home. You painted an image of his coworkers through his brief comments on what they did on base. The most you heard about was the Scot, Johnny, the young lad had made an impression on Simon. Even though he’d complain that Johnny was a ‘pain in the arse’, you couldn’t miss the small chuckle he let out whenever he spoke of him. You concluded that this young Scottish man was the closest thing to a friend your husband had.

The clock on the nightstand reads 2AM. The fever and headache are back. Your body hurts everywhere. you stand up readying yourself to leave the warm cocoon of the blanket and go to the kitchen to make some tea and take some more medicine. The otherwise short trip to the other side of the house seems now like an endless maze, it’s dark and you can barely see; you keep one hand on the wall just to be safe if nausea takes the better of you. You take a seat at the dinner table as the kettle starts warming up.

There is a faint click at the front door, so soft that at first you believe you imagined it. But it turns out that it was real, that the sound was a key turning the lock and the knob twisted, and the door opened. You watch everything as in slow motion, your brain too fuzzy with the flu. The massive body dressed in all black walks in illuminated from behind by the street lights, leaving their shoes on the rack. It’s Simon…. He’s home but you don’t have the energy to move. In the still and quiet atmosphere of the house the bloody kettle lets out a blood curling whistle signalling the water is boiling. Simon’s eyes dart towards the kitchen space, not having noticed you until now.

  ‘What’re you doin’ in the dark, love?’ he chuckles coming over to you. He’s becoming suspicious when you don’t make a single move to get up and greet him as you would. He first reaches for the knob to turn off the stove, then he pulls off the balaclava, reaching down to your sited position to kiss your forehead. ‘You a bit warm…’ he hums and you nod sniffling your runny nose. The rest is a blur, you can faintly remember him pouring the tea for you and handing the medicine. Next thing you know strong arms carry you to the bedroom, the same arms you fall asleep until morning.

Simon is trained in the art of staying still no matter what waiting to get a clear shot of the enemy. But since he met you, that skill has been put to a better use. He had no qualms with becoming your body pillow over night. He just loves the feeling of you pressed so closely to him, head rested on his peck near his beating heart. He would gladly stay there for an eternity is you asked him.

Anything for you. Always, no matter how costly or how small, he’d do anything to see you happy. That’s his love language, while he struggles to word it he makes up with his actions. And you’d never trade him for anyone else in the world. The following days are spent with him not leaving your side, pampering and loving you the way you’ve never been loved before.

Once you feel better, he asks you to go on a date just like first time he asked you accepted with a school girl giggle. It’s safe to say you’re in love. The date goes well and you find yourself walking through the park like two hopeless romantics, talking and laughing. He tells you that Soap caught a whiff of him being married to you and now he won’t stop pestering him with questions about you two. ‘Maybe you should invite him to dinner… if you want to.’ You smile at him. ‘Maybe’ he grunts not looking at you. Bringing Johnny to your house, to meet you, it involves risks. But he knows that he can trust the sergeant with his life, so what if his only friend meets his wife. Nothing can go wrong, right?

Bonus:

On base, Ghost approaches Soap in the armoury, making sure no one is in ear shot. He gives the Scot a date, time and the name of a bus station somewhere in suburban Manchester. At Soap’s questioning look Ghost lets out a grunt ‘Wife wants you to come to dinner.’ At that Soap grins and accepts politely which prompts the lieutenant to threaten to kill him if he tells anyone about this.

The day when Johnny arrives at your doorstep comes faster than expected. You open the door and greet him, rather warmly which is a stark contrast to your husband’s harsh demeanour. Opposites do attract, he supposes. At dinner you listen to him talk, about their time on base, stories from missions, nothing too detailed though, and about his own family. He shows you pictures of his sisters and his nieces and nephews. They’re cute. You talk about your pupils, sharing stories of your own. Johnny perks up at the knowledge that you are a primary school teacher. He asks if he can have your number in case he needs help with their homework. You gladly give it to him, asking in return to keep an eye on Simon for you. He accepts your deal.

Johnny leaves after a couple of hours, going back to the hotel, even though you insist he can take the couch. But you know that Simon is glaring at him over your shoulder daring him to accept. Once he left you turn towards your husband hugging him and kissing him. You thank him for letting you meet his colleague, and he reminds you that he’d do anything for his lovely wife.

A couple of weeks go by. You’re in bed with Simon having a heated kissing session when your phone rings. Groaning you pull off from him and grab it. Johnny’s name lights up the screen and you answer. The conversation is short, something about math and how to use the graphic method to solve a problem. Simon listens intently seeing you smile conspiratorially. When you end the call, he grabs you and pushes you underneath him, trapping you between his body and the bed. ‘Why does Johnny have your number?’ the low rumble pulls a laugh from you. You know you have no chance to lie to him, he’ll see right through. You explain to him that he wanted it so he can ask you whenever he doesn’t know how to solve his nephews’ homework. He watches you not really convinced by your answer. ‘You hate talking to parents on the phone. What did you get him do? Spy on me on base and report back to you?’ Busted. You laugh and let out an even more unconvincing ‘no’ for an answer. He knows you too well.

Ghost x undercover!reader (HC) Part III

warnings: violence, blood, mistakes, badly written British speech, smooth Ghost

P.S. I loved Frenchie from The Boys and I just couldn’t help myself. Apologies 😊

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

- the third time you meet is in the small briefing room, you sit next to one another, in silence, eyes forward waiting for your MI6 handler begin his presentation

- the plan is similar but this time you’ll have a gun on you, that thought brings a little more than a smidge of comfort; when you make contact with the supplier and confirm that the merchandise is legit you give the sign: three nods, as natural as possible; at that alpha team and bravo team will breach

- you stand up for everyone to see what you’re wearing, cream coloured jacket and light blue jeans, you picked it yourself and you explain that you’ll be more visible to them among the black clothed guards

- when contact is made your job is to get out of dodge, because everyone expects a fight and you aren’t dressed in protective gear to survive being caught in the middle; you’ll make yourself scarce thus not even giving the impression of association with the black ops teams; just a coward that runs away at the first signs of a fight desperately trying to save their skin; this will save the work you’ve done in creating this fake persona for later use

- the hours before the mission gives you a déja-vu feeling: you read, he listens to rock music; you raise your head from the notebook and motion for him to take of the headphones; he obliges

- ‘Why rock?’ you seek the useless information, not from curiosity but a weird need of talking to him

- ‘Pumps me up…’ that’s what you expected of him, you know heavy metal is used in boot camp training to simulate the chaos of battle, when hearing is no longer a dependable sense and one must rely on his vision, gut feelings and training; it’s something he’s familiar with you conclude

- you ask permission to listen for a bit and he allows it, handing you the headphones; you place them on your head and listen to the disharmonic sounds emanated straight into your eardrums; you close your eyes and bob your head to the rhythm getting lost in the screams of the vocalist

- a hand firm on your bicep startles you; Ghost is tilting his head towards the door; you turn and see a general; in a swift move you are up, headphones thrown on the couch where you just sat; you don’t salute as you are not part of the army but you are straight as a plank in utmost respect to the new comer

- the general to you about your achievements so far and that keeping up with the work we’ll get you very far very quickly in the hierarchical structure; you reply that you like your work and wouldn’t give it up for a boring desk job; he chuckles and with a ‘Have it your way, agent’ he turns and leaves you two to your pre-mission coping mechanisms         

- Ghost smirks even more ‘A woman of action this one’ he comments, you turn eyes glinting in mischief, smirk unknowingly mirroring his ‘Bloody right’ your answer is met with a small chuckle

- ‘Would murder for a cuppa…’ you utter with a sigh

- ‘Understood’ he disappears out the door without missing a bit and you are left smiling to yourself like little schoolgirl

- in the car, you go over the plan one more time, you check the gun and the two magazine Ghost gives you; the Glock feels comfortable in your hand but its weight does little to ease your mind; you’ll be alone, surrounded by tangos, and now there is a new variable: the supplier and his men; they might open fire at the slightest misinterpretation of words, or worse, they might try to cross you over an try to kill your party and get away with the money

- everything is accounted for as much as not knowing the rendezvous location allows

- he makes sure to reassure you insisting on his position in relation to yours, in your made-up chess board scenario ‘I’ll look for yer’ you nod

- everything you’ve been through repeats like clockwork, this time the drive is longer; your gun is taken from you, and you feel your legs numbing from disuse where you sit on the hard van floor

- at your destination you get shoved around and put in the back seat of a limo; in front of you the buyer; you ask for your gun, motivating you won’t go win ‘without proppa protection this time ‘round’; he promises to give it to you when you get there

- he asks about you and your motivations behind switching sides; you tell him the fabricated story, how you got fucked twice, once by your commander and once by the government, when they threw you out without any means of survival while your commander got a pat on the shoulder and a laugh at another ‘young score’

- he understands a tells you a little bit by his motivations; you’ve heard this kind of talk and your sick of it, but you empathize with his hate for the British Government; he discloses to you that soon he’ll hit them hard, and all thanks to you, like being in league with him is something to be proud of; human filth

- after a short ride you get there, wherever that is, you don’t care; it’s just another job; your handgun is returned to you ‘a sign of good faith’ and you check that not even a single bullet is missing not as inclined to trust

- you are led to another warehouse this one filled with crates and random things strewn around; you are met with a gang of thugs, definitely not trained to properly hold a gun, or fight for that matter; you regard them with the superiority of an expert in guns and explosives, which is not an idle affirmation; you do in fact know what you’re doing not just faking it; the only thing that’s fake is the story behind it, the skill is there

- the supplier introduces himself as ‘Frenchie’ his French accent quite obvious; you request to se the merchandise; he comments to his thugs about the lack of manners in the British Isle; you stare him down unphased; he laughs;

- the buyer backs you up, voice demanding, reasoning along the lines of ‘pressing matter’ and ‘time sensitive issues’; Frenchie takes you to the back where crates full of C4 and more professional equipment, far superior than what you had to work with; everyone awaits your verdict in silence; you approach the crates to take a better look, and scrutinizing everything, though there is no need

- this is the real deal, military grade equipment, syphoned from somewhere where command is lax or corrupt; everything is brand new, though there is no flag, no insignia to indicate their origin

- you prepare yourself for the incoming breach; the signal this time a loud whistle of appreciation followed by a ‘got some hell of a gear ‘ere, huh?!’; Frenchie does not get the chance to brag about it as windows shutter, tear gas canisters fizzle, doors burst, shouts are heard, bullets start flying

- you duck and move to the side away from the crowd of thugs that try to return fire in vain as they fall like flies in a cacophony of screams and shouts of pain and terror

- you find the nearest door and burst out coughing having inhaled the bloody tear gas yourself; devilish contraptions you hated with a passion from your days in the academy when you first had tasted it; but as you struggle to regain your breath and get as far away without seeing where you are going a shadow follows close to you

- as your breath settles to a more manageable pace you hear a gun click and you slowly raise your hands in surrender; you turn around slowly as per the buyer’s demands; he clicks his tongue and wonders what a coincidence that black ops bust the deal right after you confirm the merchandise to be legitimate; you don’t deny it and he takes a step closer putting the gun to your head; but he takes to long to shoot you feeling more preoccupied with the villain discourse

- a gun shot is heard and he drops dead; wide eyed you watch as Ghost struts to you rifle shouldered in a professional manner and his figure the epitome of a perfect stance; he gives you a look over checking for any stray bullets you might have caught in your hasty exit

- and with a nonchalance at corpse that paints red the asphalt at your feet he calls in the kill over the radio

- the rest is a flash, you get checked by a combat medic for any signs of wounds, he dismisses you when he finds none, and your escorted away from the scene and to a black SUV to take you away to HQ now that your job on the field is done

- Ghost finds you again right as you climb in the back; he holds the door with one hand and the other is casually placed on the hood right above your head as he leans his tall frame to talk to you; but you beat him to it and a quick and sincere ‘Thank you’ escapes your lips

- ‘We even then, love’ he says quickly slamming the door shut; the first thing that catches your attention is the pet-name he used that makes the tip of your ears feel hot; and then his words hit you; you’re confused and a ‘What did ‘e mean by that’ escapes your mouth without volition

- ‘Huh’ the driver turns to you ‘You ok ma’am?’ he asks in mild concern; you didn’t even notice him, a young pale blond blue-eyed private regards you in confusion; your meagre answer comes in the form of ‘Yeah…, peachy. Just drive.’ A far away look takes over your face ‘Yes. Ma’am’

- you smile in thought; you’ll have to seek him out to ask for clarification; smooth bastard.

Previous part here.

Next part here.

Echoes of Salvation: The Deal (Part I). Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x afab reader  (Zombie AU)

Part II

The story starts after the dash.

Warnings: some gore, some mistakes, some bad writing (eh… we all have to start somewhere), not proof read, some independent woman surviving on her own without the need of help from men (cause I like self reliant women and people in general, they are a great inspiration to us all, really).

Disclaimer:

Dear readers,

Please be kind. This is my first fanfiction ever that I wrote and posted, so please be kind and overlook any potential inaccuracies, mistakes, grammatical errors as I’m not a professional writer and also English isn’t my native tongue. Though I have studied British English I am sure I haven’t really managed to accurately portray the British way of speaking, so please, feel free to point out anything that might poke you in the eye while reading this.

Also, I would like to tell you that this fan-fic is the love child of my obsession with our favourite masked man Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, and my love for anything zombie apocalypse or world-ending alternate universe or actual universe. Tbh If I wasn’t a poor student I would probably be a prepper, just like Frank from HBO’s TLoU. Most likely will be. I’m a little weird like that, you’ll see more in the future.

To close this little rant, I hope you’ll enjoy it, even if it’s short, I would really like to continue this if you deem it worth it enough. This will probably be a slow-burn kind of romance: 1. because I’m a sucker for the kind of slow-burn strangers/enemies to lovers fanfics, and 2. because it’s more realistic, let’s calm the whore-y instincts and be reasonable people that don’t climb masked 6-feet-tall strangers like trees.

With everything said I do not own the Call of Duty character Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley (*whispers*Though I wish I did*) BUT I do own this piece of fanfic. Please don’t steal it. Repost it but please do give credit to other people’s work. You may notice some similarities to other fanfics, cause duh, I also read a lot of that, (isn’t that one of the incipient stages to becoming a fanfic writer?), but I would really like to give a shout out to the fanfic author that really inspired me to put fingers to keyboard and a fanfic into Tumblr, please, *drum rolls* a round of applause for @nsharks with her lovely fanfic ‘Bleeding Blue’. She’s really wonderful and you should really check her out.

Have fun reading and don’t forget to leave a comment or a heart. I wouldn’t mind suggestions of what to name Simons’ daughter. That would really make my day 😊

P.S. Sorry to all the fishing loving people out there, what I said was based on my impression of the fishing experience and should be taken with a grain of salt.

            Yours truly <3

Synopsis:

It’s been five years since the outbreak happened. Five years ago, in London, a terrorist group released a virus in the city center. 24 hours later, people start developing flu-like symptoms. 48 hours later the infected turn into mindless ghouls biting healthy people and spreading the infection. Everything happened so fast. The army came in and tried to contain the outbreak but soon chaos engulfed the whole country. You learn that similar attacks happened all over the world: New York, Beijing, Moscow, Athens, and Tokyo. City by city, the whole world is ending.

You survived thanks to your mid-twenties life crisis that made you move into a cottage house by the lake in Lake District. The land you own is surrounded by thick lush forest that offers perfect cover for the tiny brick house that is your safe haven. With a water source close, off-the-grid energy, and a garden full of plants, fruit trees chickens, and whatnot, you live a comfortable life tucked away, far from the dangers of the cities. You are so far out of reach that in the past years you only saw a handful of infected, survivors that traveled far to escape and distant neighbours that got infected in the towns nearby. You can’t remember the last time you saw another person. But you are used to your loneliness. The end of the world brought only a mild inconvenience, now that you can no longer order things online and watch movies on Netflix or HBO. But with a library full of books, a homestead to keep you active and your Border Collie companion, Bellamy, life is good. Life is peaceful.

One day, while you are out fishing, a masked man, armed to the teeth and carrying a young girl in his arms threatens to kill you if you don’t provide him with medicine for his sick daughter.                     

-

The sky is cloudy above but some sunbeams break through to warm the crisp air this fine early spring morning. It’s a good time for fishing now that the water is warmer, they come closer to the bank in search of food. It’s a boring task after you arrange all your tools and launch the line in the water. It’s a game of waiting and watching for any small tugs or movement of the neon-coloured fishing line. You picked up fishing after a couple of months into moving here, when everything was a mess and so many repairs and renovations had to be made around the house. The guy from the tutorials you used to watch on YouTube talked about the calmness and relaxation fishing brought to him. Maybe you weren’t cut out to stand all day on shore and gawk like an idiot for hours at the thin plastic line submerged in the lake water. But you cannot deny the proud feeling catching a fish brought to you when the line finally went taught.

You try and ward off the boredom and instead try to focus on the warmth that spring brings after months of endless cold. The birds are singing in trees, preparing nests for future offspring, and the lake is calm, with bubbles on the surface indicating the abundance of fish. Life is good. Bellamy enjoys sunbathing next to you rolling in a patch of grass. Everything is peaceful. Nothing really happens here anyway. You close your eyes basking in the good feeling that overtakes you.

A branch snapping behind you wakes you from the meditation you have fallen into. You raise and turn from where you are crouched over your equipment. You come face to face with a strange figure.         

‘Show me yer hands’ he tells you in a thick British accent, eyes focused on you and handgun aimed at your chest. He wears all black and a haunting white skull mask. He is tall, at least 6 feet tall, body poised to kill. In his other arm, you can see a little girl hugging his neck.

You slowly raise your hands. At your foot, Bellamy growls baring her teeth at the stranger sensing danger. You shush her grabbing her by the caller to keep her from attacking the armed man. You stand still watching in apprehension as the man studies you. You look at the ground where you left your backpack and your hatchet.

‘Don’t even think about it’ comes the gruff order. You nod trying to convey that you understand the situation. ‘There’s nothing in that bag worth a bullet’ you tell him in an even tone despite fear creeping down your spine. He hums in agreement. ‘And if you wanted to kill me you would’ve done it by now.’ He watches you like a hawk its prey. ‘So…’ you pause carefully measuring your words, ‘what it is that you want from me?’ he gestures you to take a few steps back and you drag Bellamy by her collar.

He kicks at the backpack spilling the contents. A bottle of water and a half-eaten sandwich, a hunting knife, and a rectangular box in which you keep the hooks, lures, fishing lines, and other small fishing equipment. He turns his gaze back at you and nods toward your dog. ‘Put a muzzle on it or I’ll shoot it’. your blood runs cold at the thought of losing your sole companion. You scramble to untie the scarf you keep tied around your wrist that you use to wipe away sweat from your forehead. You wrap the piece of cloth around the dog’s snout tight enough to not slip away. Next, the dark-clad man tells you to pack your fishing gear and collect your backpack, with one hand keeping it outstretched to the side and the other one grabbing at Bellamy’s collar guiding her forward. ‘Move. Eyes forward. Any sudden moves and I drop you.’

He walks a couple paces behind you. For how big he is you can barely hear him walk on the path. You can feel his gaze burning in the back of your head and the gun pointed at your back. As you start down the path you can make out the roof of your small house. Once you get at the gate you stop. ‘open it’ he instructs. ‘The key is in my right pocket’ you say slowly gesturing to said pocket. ‘Mhm,’ you hear him grunt. You slowly release Bellamy and fish for the key in your jacket’s pocket. You slowly take it out and put it in the keyhole turning it and opening the gate.

The familiar sight of your front garden does nothing to appease you in this situation. Bushes full of colourful flowers hug the narrow path toward the house. The wind catcher hung above your porch clinks melodically as a gust of warm wind catches on it. you take a few more steps on the stone path before you and you hear the gate closing behind you. What once was your safe space now traps you in with a stranger ready to shoot you or worse.

‘Tie the dog to that pole’ he orders you again. On your right, there is a small pole stuck in the ground. He throws a roll of paracord next to you. You don’t move at first. You had never tied Bellamy down before. You can’t even remember when you last put a leash on her. She likes to roam free and run around. The click of the gun behind you tells you that you have no choice. You drop the backpack and start to drag her to the pole. She tries to resist but you shush her and urge her to move. Once you finish tying her you turn towards the stranger. He nods towards the house and you start walking hands raised on either side of your head. Once you open the door he urges you inside.

‘Where do you keep the medicine?’ he grumbles urgently. ’Bathroom.’ you nod to the right of your living room. ‘Go get it!’ you don’t wait around you spring toward the white door. After a couple of minutes grabbing most of what you keep in the over-sink cabinet you emerge hands filled with gauze of all sizes and different bottled pills. You return to find the man placing the girl on the couch. She appears to be asleep. You almost forgot about her. She looks about 8-years-old. Brown hair is chopped short in a pixie cut. She’s wearing blue-washed jeans and a dark green hoodie that’s too big on her.

You watch as he peels the hoodie from her limp body. Underneath she wears a striped t-shirt, but what catches your attention is her left upper arm. Red stained gauze is wrapped around. You are still in your approach keeping a safe distance. ‘Was she bit?’ the words rush out in apprehension. From where he kneels next to her his eyes snap at you. ‘No’ he denies the implication of your words. ‘Put that on the table and go sit by the door’ You do as you're told eyes darting between the girl and the man. You drop everything on the coffee table and go sit by the entrance door hugging your knees. You watch as he works on bandaging the kid. Your eyes are glued to the girl’s arm.

Even though you lived so far out into the wilderness you saw pictures on the internet of bites from the infected. You read the posts of the survivors and heard the news broadcast on all channels. Then everything went quiet. The cable didn’t work and your phone had no signal. You knew shit hit the fan and that it was serious. Then, a few weeks later you saw your closest neighbour, Neil, an elderly farmer who lived about half a mile further up the river’s bank, growling and stumbling trying to catch Bellamy who was running scared towards you. You tried to talk him out of the trance-like state but to no avail. He kept stalking towards you, ready to take a bite out of you. You tried to tell him to keep his distance and warned him that you would protect yourself. The rest was a blur. You faintly remember grabbing the hatchet that you used to cut down logs for your stove. And then the struggle with the man, Bellamy barking, you crying out pleas for him to stop. In the cacophony of noises, you hit him with the blade right in the neck. The next thing you knew, your neighbour lay in a pool of dark blood hatchet still. It took you a while to register what you have done. You just killed a man. You couldn’t forget the way he lay there, on the gravel, hands stretched outwards bloodshot eyes staring emptily at the sky. That was the first time you encountered an infected. You distinctly remember the fear and adrenaline that took hold of you. The feelings that gripped your heart so tight and that made you take a life take over you as you watch the little girl, possibly infected, unconscious but on her way to the same madness that turned Neil into a savage monster all those years ago.                                                 

'She's feverish. You got meds or something to bring the fever down?' his question brings down from your rising panic at the thought of being stuck inside with a possible infected. ‘There should be some anti-inflammatory pills and some antibiotics. They are out of date but they could still work.' He grabs hold of the med kit you brought. He sorts through the drugs checking the expiration dates. When he comes across the antibiotics, he studies the pack carefully, his eyes darting back and forth from the label to the girl. 'How much can I give her?' he asks with a hint of concern his stern facade crumbling slightly.

You look at him unsure what to say. Those pills have been bought before the start of the outbreak. You doubt expired drugs have any effect anymore. You refrain from saying that though. He is stressed, he might take his anger on you. ‘She’s a kid, you mumble, so, about half of each.’ He carefully considers his next action. ‘She’ll need water to take them, you add from down the floor. And some food…’ He nods in understanding. ‘May I?’ you don’t know why you offer this stranger help. First, he disturbs you from catching dinner, next, he threatens to kill you and your dog, now he takes over your house and medicine. But you can recognize the desperation in his look, the way he fumbles with the packaging. He is a parent trying to save his kid. Even though you don’t have any of your own you recognize the parental instincts, the same ones you exert on Bellamy.

He looks at you unsure of what to do. He surrenders in defeat and nods at you to go on. You rise to your full height, which doesn’t add up to much compared to him. You walk past them all the way to the back of the living room where you disappear behind a white door. After a couple minutes, you reemerge from the kitchen with a glass of water in one hand and a bowl of steaming vegetable soup you made this morning. You slowly approach the couch watching him for any sign that you might cross a line. Instead of any aggression he takes a step back and allows you to go closer to the girl. You place the bowl and the glass on the coffee table and kneel next to the couch.

The girl opens her eyes and looks at you with distrust. Like father like daughter… you think to yourself. But you try to smile at her try to reassure her. ‘I brought you some soup, love’ you say in your most sincere and kind voice. ‘You must eat a little and then take some pills that will make you feel better’. You try to persuade her. She stares at you for a minute then at the man. They are suspicious of you and they have all the reason to be. You are a stranger to them as much as they are to you. Funny you are in the position to try and win their trust in your own home. You take the spoon you brought for her and dip it in the bowl. You take a spoonful and hover it close to your face blowing a little over it and then you swallow it. You can’t help the little moan of appreciation for your own cooking skills. ‘See? It’s good.’ You look at her with a small smile.

You don’t know where this came from; you blame it on the 6-foot-tall armored stranger whose stare drives daggers at the back of your head and your desire to keep your head on your shoulders and all your blood in your body. You don’t outright hate kids but you were never good around them. With a sigh, she sits upright and takes the spoon from you. She eats slowly. You keep watching her. She is a pretty kid. She has blue eyes and freckles on her small button nose. You wonder if she looks anything like the man behind you. She is pale and sweat collects on her little forehead most likely from her fever. She eats half of the soup you brought her and then turns her gaze towards the man. He hands her the two halves of the pills. She takes them in her small hand and grabs the glass. She hesitates. ‘It’s okay’ you reassure her and with a nod, she puts the half tablets on her tongue following up with large gulps from the glass. She scrunches her little nose in disgust at the chalky taste. ‘Atta girl’ you hear him utter from behind you. ‘Now lay down and rest.' he says to the girl in a stern yet gentle voice. He watches her nod and lie back on the couch her eyes half-lidded. He sighs, 'Good for now. ' he mutters under his breath. His eyes are fixed on her as he gestures to you. 'Come with me.' You rise from the floor and follow him outside the front door.

He leads you outside. When you cross the threshold, he takes a deep breath and a look of relief washes over his stern features. He gestures for you to sit on the front porch with him. 'We need to talk...' 'Yeah' you say crossing your arms defensively over your chest and standing as far away as the length of your porch allows. you take a moment to study him as he fixes you with a cold stare. You notice the many pockets on his vest and belt. A patch on his chest reads S.A.S. He's ex-military, you muse. His uniform makes much more sense now. But the mask still unnerves you.

He leans against one of the wooden porch support beams right hand hovering on the pistol holster. You think it's an act to intimidate you, to remind you that he is still armed and ready to strike you down in your own home.  You stare at him a little defiantly. You’ll be damned before you let this weirdo intimidate you on your turf. He studies you from head to boots and back up. You sigh and square your shoulders showing him you are not afraid of him. ‘I’ve been watching you.’ He tells you in a matter-of-fact tone. You try to suppress the surprise on your face. You look down at his boots avoiding his icy gaze.

He’s been stalking you, and the realization dawns on you. You didn’t even notice his presence around the house. Stupid, you think to yourself, I’m growing complacent. But not even Bellamy caught his smell and she usually barks when someone or something comes close to the house. But earlier at the lake, he took you both by surprise. He’s good at keeping his presence concealed, you have to give it to him. You nod to yourself in understanding. He probably knows the layout of your house by now, he knows you are alone, and he waited for you to be outside and ambush you. You start imagining all the horrible things he could have done to you. But no, he instead approached you, gun pointed at you, nevertheless, when he could have already killed you and taken over your house by now. You hum and make eye contact with him.

‘Why keep me alive then?’ you ask him without beating around the bush. You study his mannerisms trying to catch something, anything to prove you he’s human. But he’s as unreadable as a statue. His gaze remains fixed on you, unblinking and stoic. You feel him studying you, taking in every detail of your person. He seems intent on reading into your every move.

In an even tone, he answers, 'Because you’re not a threat.’ His response catches you off guard, ego a little bruised at that, but you can’t argue with his logic. If he wanted to, he could have killed you by now, that’s for sure. You remain silent for a moment, processing his response. ‘But that doesn’t mean I trust you.’ He adds kicking off the beam and taking a step closer to you. He looks down at you tilting his head a little like a bird of prey watching a mouse, waiting for it to give chase and make the hunt more fun. You don’t give in to the urge to run inside and hide in your bedroom. Instead, you take a step towards him and look up at him ‘Because you need me’ you speak quietly. You can imagine a raised brow under that mask. You smile in triumph; even though he acts tough he needs help and all the intimidating façade was in a desperate attempt to get it.

‘I get it’ you continue having him figured out. ‘Your kid is sick and out there dangers are lurking at every turn. You need a place to stay until she gets better.’ You finish voicing your theory on why he’s really here having this conversation with you. His eyes closed in defeat. Gotcha, you smile even more widely at your deduction. ‘You can stay, you say as you turn and walk down the three steps of your porch heading towards the gate. ‘On one condition, you add stopping in your track. You turn fully towards him and he watches you curiously as if you’d have any power to demand him anything. ‘No harm comes to me or my dog’ you say remembering his earlier threats of him offing you both. ‘Do we have a deal?’ it’s not unreasonable, though it irks you that you have to bargain for your safety with a stranger. ‘Deal.’ He says in his usual gruff voice nodding to you in sign of respect for your demand.

‘Good’ you say as you stalk off towards where Bellamy lays muzzled and tied like a prisoner of war. You free her and she jumps at you happy to be in your proximity. She must have been worried sick here all alone. Poor thing. You then go to the gate and slide the too-large bolts meant to keep any unwanted guests outside. Or inside in your case. ‘And to think nothing interesting ever happens around her, right, Bell?’ your rhetorical question is met with a bark of agreement.

Simon Riley x biker!reader HC (neutral reader)

Warnings: short drabble written during the commute to uni, mistakes (as per usual), riding without a helmet (please wear appropriate protection when engaging in dangerous activities), bikers being hot as f..., you can't change my mind

Enjoy

- you cut him in traffic one day, he has to press hard on the brakes to avoid you, a stream of curses leaving his covered mouth

- he gives chace after you, in a moment of unexepected road rage, so rare to see such raw display of emotion from the mountain of a man

- he catches up to you at a gas station

- he comes toward you with full intent on ripping you a new one

- you take your helmet off and tilt your pretty head in amusement

- he loses it on you

- you just laugh in his face 'bloody right I did. You drive like an old lady'

- he's stunned, never had he get this kind of reaction from anyone, except his colleagues in 141, who are like brothers to him

- he knows he's intimidating

- he knows he could twist your pretty neck right there and there

- but your stance is countering all his desire for violence

- your hands rest on your hips, head tilted, weight rested on one foot, as if to say 'you done?'

- he gets silent, panting with annoyance and adrenaline from earlier

- you huff a laugh and leave him there as you walk inside to pay and buy a snack

- when you return you find a small white piece of rectangular paper

- he left you his number followed by a small drawing of a skull

- you huff a small laugh the audacity

- but you take it and put it in your breast pocket and ride off

- you send him a message

- it's the emoji of a red motorcycle 🏍️

- you don't get a reply until weeks later

- it's the skull emoji 💀

- you smile at that, but don't indulge him anymore

- he has your number now, he can make a move if he wants, you're done chasing after men

- and a move he makes

- another message follows a month later

- no greeting, no sweet talk, just some coordinates and a date and time, little skull at the end

- you grin, it's on, old man

- you meet him there

- there being the most beautiful place in the British isles

- a parking lot at the curve of the road, high up on the hillside

- the city sparkles in the distance

- you seat with him at the wooden bench and table

- you talk, it's a forth an back, light banter fills the night air

- he's not putting pressure on you, he just enjoys your presence

- it's refreshing

- you depart on the promise that you'll see each other again, when he's in town

- a while passes until you meet again

- it's as unexpected as the firs time

- he's just leaving base quietly listening to his colleagues plans for the off time they got

- you're riding your bike stopping at the red light in the intersection

- your bent over position and tight leather suit catch the attention of the men

- one of them, a tall bulky Scott sporting a close-cropped mawhawk whistles in apreciation

- the engine rumble and the music in your earphones prevent you from hearing the lewd sound

- simon spots imediately, eyes shrouded in recognition, an infenetly small change that other wise anyone would overlook

- Johnny has a keen eye and a fascination with his Lt. Making him much more interested in noticing such traitorous change in the stoic man's posture

- Johnny starts commenting on the hooked stare to your form, Kyle's attention piques at that

- but the comment dies on his lips as you turn, visor pointed at the group

- and then you wave at them, at Simon, but the two sergeants don't know that

- not until the massive shadow moves toward you ignoring his companions protests, brown eyes glued to you

- the moment he gets near your bike you pat the seat behind you

- Simon barely has time to get his feet on the stands, grabbing your waist by instinct, which, due to his far taller stature makes him fold his body flush against yours, one hand on the gas rezervoir and one hand snaked around your stomach

- the light turns green and you turn the acceleration lurching you forward

- both Johnny and Kyle remain dumbfounded at the events witnessed, not quite believing the reality at this point

- they turn to look at eachother, shock plastered on their handsome faces

- 'steaming jesus' the utterance hangs in the air

- they will make their personal mission to find out more about the mysterious rider that just whisked their superior from under their noses