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sky-is-the-limit · 2 months

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Gurl, I've got you.

If you are comfortable with it, I can imagine Gaz getting jealous, tying his partner to the bed (with their consent, obviously 😒) and fucking them like there's no tomorrow. (Sending this as an ask in case you wanna use it)

'Wicked Games'

P: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

CW: Dom/Brat Tamer!Gaz, jealousy, possessiveness, handcuffs, face-fucking as punishment, rough oral sex

WC: 3.505 words (oops)

You were in the midst of getting ready, your reflection adorned in a sleek, tight black dress that hugged your curves in all the right places. With each movement, the fabric whispered against your skin, accentuating your figure with an air of confidence.

His eyes followed the graceful arc of your hand as you brushed a hint of blush onto your cheeks, the subtle flush of color only enhancing your natural beauty.

Despite his efforts to appear nonchalant, the tension simmered just beneath the surface. His gaze widened slightly at the sight of your attire,lingering on you with a hint of admiration and pride.

''He's just a colleague, Kyle.'' It was the third time you had to echo that sentence in a row, each word carefully enunciated with an exhausted sigh in between as the night drag on.

''Who's desperately trying to sleep with you, Y/N.'' Kyle's jaw tightened, his gaze hardening as he leaned himself against the doorframe to get a better look at you.

The veil of calm that blanked his form wasn't enough to disguise the tension around you that could be cut with a knife.

''Okay, now you're overreacting.'' A quick glance away from your reflection in the mirror was enough to catch him rolling his eyes to your remark as you applied the finishing touches to your makeup.

Your arrival to your corporate's event was bound to be late from the moment you were about to settle on the outfit.

The sound of the bathroom door creaked open, and your boyfriend that resembled a Greek God emerged, his hair damp and tousled from the shower. In nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist, droplets of water glistened on his bronzed skin, accentuating the defined lines of his muscular physique.

''Yeah, right- Wait, no bra?'' Kyle's voice was tinged with a hint of reproach, his brows furrowing as he fought to keep his jealousy in check.

''I can't wear one with this dress.'' With a mischievous glint in your eyes, you turned to face him.

"And you know what else?" You continued, your voice teasing as you pulled back to meet Kyle's gaze. "It's kinda cold tonight.''

''Fucking hell.'' Kyle let out a frustrated growl, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to contain his emotions.. That did not bode well for his self-control.

With a playful smirk, he pushed himself away from the door frame and took a step closer, the air thick with a sudden change of emotions.

''What do I have to do to get you to stay?'' The droll of his voice belied a casual tease, but his tone was dangerous.

''Tie me down, probably.''

The words hung in the air for a moment, accompanied by your light chuckle, as you anticipated Kyle's typical witty response. However, as the seconds ticked by, you noticed the atmosphere slowly changing.

The laughter faded from your lips instantly as you glimpsed the genuine consideration in Kyle's eyes, a flicker of something more primal stirring beneath the surface.

The suggestion lingered in the air like a provocative dare, igniting a spark of desire within him as he contemplated the possibilities.

''Are you seriously considering tying me down, Sergeant?'' The sudden shift from playful banter to something more charged, left you breathless, your pulse quickening with a rush of excitement.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Kyle reached out to gently brush a lock of hair from your face, his touch tender yet intense.

''What if I am?'' His tone was casual, but the way it vibrated in his chest sent a rush of heat down your spine.

''You'd have to catch me, first'' You exclaimed with a giggle and quickened your pace towards the living room, forgetting for a moment that with that man standing behind you, it was pointless.

Kyle, agile and determined, moved swiftly to intercept you. He closed the distance between you in a few quick strides. In a heartbeat, his strong hands firmly gripped on your hips, halting you in your tracks.

Before you could protest or react, Kyle pulled you even closer, his body pressing against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

He leaned in close, his breath warm against the shell of your ear as he whispered huskily, "That was a bad move, sweetheart."

''Kyle, you're gonna ruin my outfit-'' A look of bland innocence spread across your face, trying hard to convince yourself above all that you wanted to walk out that door and out of his embrace.

"Oh, sweetheart," He murmured, his breath warm against your skin, "You know I'm not just gonna ruin your outfit."

A shiver of excitement ran down your spine as his fingers trailed slowly along your sides, his touch igniting a fire within you that burned hot and bright.

As Kyle's hands moved with intent, your breath caught in your throat, skin tingling with anticipation at the tantalizing promise of what was to come.

It was when Kyle's hands reached your breasts that you realized that he was not going to let you walk out that door intact, your eyes widening in shock at the suddenness of his touch.

''I'm gonna do much more than that.'' In terms of words that made your knees give in, he’s definitely said more explicit things, but apparently, that was all you needed that night.

"Kyle," You murmured, your tone betraying the internal struggle, "I have to go."

''Mhm, do you now?'' Kyle buried his nose in your neck, feeling your pulse with his lips. His skin was so hot, his steaming breath stretching over your delicate skin.

You didn’t mean to whimper, but it slipped out and Kyle's hips bucked. Eager to cage you. Eager to pin you under him and devour you.

With a teasing lilt to your voice, you uttered the name that always seemed to set him on edge, "What will James think if I don't go?"

You knew all too well the effect those words would have, how they would stir the green-eyed monster within him, yet you couldn't resist the thrill of fueling his jealousy and pushing him over the edge.

/ / /

And that was how you ended up lying on the bed, your wrists bound by soft leather handcuffs secured to the headboard.

It had started innocently enough, a playful suggestion that quickly escalated into something far more intense. With each gentle tug of the restraints, you felt a surge of excitement building within you.

And as you laid there, completely at his mercy, you couldn't help but feel a sense of vulnerability unlike anything you had ever experienced before.

The soft whisper of fabric against skin, the faint creak of the bed beneath you, every sensation seemed magnified, heightened by the knowledge that you were completely under his control.

In that moment, with the world reduced to nothing but the two of you, you knew that you were exactly where you wanted to be, no alcohol, no annoying colleagues, no meaningless conversations. Just you, bare naked, bound to the bed and utterly captivated by the man kneeling with you between his thighs

"Satisfied now, Sergeant Garrick?" A devious smile played on your lips as you attempted to feign innocence, but your efforts were feeble at best.

Your boyfriend's keen observation didn't miss a beat. The slight twitch on his brow betrayed his reaction to you using his military rank. It was clear that your words had struck a chord within him, awakening something hidden beneath the surface that was begging to come forward.

As his gaze met yours, you noticed them darkening to the shade closest to the nightsky. There was a spark of arousal mixed with something almost unexplainable, something almost frightening. Intoxicating.

"Cat got your tongue, pretty boy?" Your tone dripped with sass as you pushed the boundaries, testing his patience.

Short distorted laughs came from him, almost mocking your pathetic attempt to provoke him. He raised one hand, the warmth of his touch grazing against your cheek before trailing down to the back of your head, where his fingers began to weave through your hair with a gentle grip.

Despite the tender gesture, you couldn't ignore the underlying tension that radiated from him, it was clear that what was to follow was going to be far from sweet.

Abruptly, his fingers clenched tightly in your hair, a searing pain radiating through your scalp, eliciting a groan to escape your lips.

"Yeah? Is that how you wanna play, love?" His voice was low and husky as he leaned down, bringing his mouth close to your ear.

Kyle's lips brushed against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine, while his other hand, calloused and strong, gently cupped the flesh of your ass before giving it a firm squeeze.

You felt his touch trailing down, skimming over the nakedness of your upper body until they reached the edge of your panties. Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers danced along the elastic, teasingly tugging them down. The sensation was electrifying, anticipation coursing through your body.

His warm breath tickled your neck as he exhaled, "You're practically dripping, and I've barely even touched you." He remarked with a low chuckle, the sound rumbling in your ear and sending a thrill through your body.

"Shut up-" You quipped, knowing full well the bratty tone of your words.

As if to amplify your wicked plan, you aimed a playful kick at his thigh, intending to push him away though you knew that it was part of his job to take down men twice his size with ease.

Kyle reared back, and in an instant, his lips crashed onto yours with an intensity that bordered on punishing.

Initially, you resisted, a split-second defiance before surrendering to the fervor of his kiss. As you yielded, his kiss softened, his lips tenderly caressing yours, his tongue teasing the corner of your mouth with slow strokes.

As he began pressing his knee against your throbbing core, your back arched instinctively, seeking further contact and stimulation.

In response to your reaction, he let out a deep, guttural moan of his own into your mouth, his desire echoing yours as he intensified the pressure of his kiss. With one hand still cupping the back of your neck possessively, he leaned over you, his weight asserting dominance in the space between you.

His honeyed eyes fixated on your breasts, staring with a hunger that made your skin tingle. His plush lips were slightly parted as he placed his palms on your stomach, earning a desperate whisper from you.

''Kyle-'' Unintentionally, a soft mewl escaped your lips, a sound of desire that surprised even you. You couldn't help but crave his hands on your breasts, yearning for the sensation of his fingers squeezing, massaging, mirroring the fervent desire on his face.

And then, he withdrew, his lips parting from yours, leaving behind a warmth as he leaned back to take another look at your exposed skin.

''You wanna act like a brat?'' Kyle seethed as if he was welcoming a challenge, a sly smirk playing on his lips, his eyes gleaming with determination.

With deliberate intent, he wrapped his fingers around the base of your neck, his grip tightening gradually, compelling you to meet his eyes. ''Fine, I'll treat you like one.''

His hand disappeared from your sight, gliding down his torso until it reached the towel that hung low around his waist, teasingly revealing the contours of his body.

In one swift motion, he discarded the towel, allowing it to fall to the floor with a soft rustle, revealing his form in all its glory. You couldn't help but stare, mesmerized. It slapped against his stomach with a satisfying thud, beautiful and big, just like him.

Slowly, he caressed himself before you, his cock poised directly in front of your face, temptingly close.

"Spit." Kyle commanded, his hand extended in front of your face, positioned just beneath your waiting mouth.

Without hesitation, you complied with his request, gathering saliva in your mouth before lolling out your tongue, allowing it to messily fall into his hand.

"That's my obedient girl." He praised, whilst using the same hand that collected your saliva to stroke himself once again. With each firm stroke, his member glistened, now coated in the slickness that you provided.

''Open your mouth, sweetheart. Unless you'd like for me to force it open?'' He questioned as as he began to leisurely drag the tip of his throbbing cock along your wet lips before gently prodding them.

You savored the bittersweet tang of the precum that glistened on the head, the taste a delicious blend of saltiness and sweetness that made you want more. And so you complied without hesitation, parting your lips and extending your tongue, its wet, pink surface waiting for his touch.

''Suck.''

His voice took on a rough, commanding tone, without any hint of playfulness as his hips bucked towards your lips, seeking the warmth of your mouth.

Without hesitation, your mouth opened eagerly, welcoming his head as it entered, filling your senses with the taste and texture of him.

You hollowed your cheeks, creating suction as you enveloped him, relishing in the sensation of his hardness against your tongue. Taking your time, you swirled your tongue around the tip, exploring every ridge and contour, teasing him with the flickering motion.

You weren't going to give it to him easily. Or so you believed in that moment. Perhaps deep down, there lurked a streak of masochism within you.

And so, without warning, you executed a bold move, deftly slipping his length off your lips with a resounding pop, punctuating the act with a falsely innocent look.

"Oops." You smirked, meeting his half-shocked, half-annoyed expression with unwavering confidence despite your restricted position.

''Bold move, love.'' What he did next caught you off guard.

With a swift motion, he retrieved his hand from the back of your head and placed it under your jaw, the once gentle touch now transformed into a merciless grip as his fingers closed around your cheeks, applying pressure until you winced from the pain and forced your mouth to open.

Kyle wasted no time in reclaiming the wetness of your mouth, thrusting his length back inside with an assertiveness that seemed almost brutal. Not to you, though. That was how you liked it and he knew. Gentle and sweet as a partner, rough and dominant as a lover.

You hummed around him, the vibration serving as an affirmative response, granting him permission to take control. His other hand rose to join the first, folding over your head, firmly holding you in place as he lifted his hips and thrusted forward.

He closed his eyes, the long lashes brushing against his flushed cheeks as he breathed out a low, gravelly moan.

"Oh, fuck, yes- that's it. You're- you're taking me so fucking well." In contrast to his words growing increasingly visceral and obscene, Kyle looked strikingly beautiful and almost mad with his open jaw hung slightly agape as he struggled to catch his breath, each inhalation ragged and uneven.

Sensing his movement, you relaxed your jaw, allowing your tongue to flatten and just before he pushed deeper, you managed to draw in one last breath, bracing yourself for what was to come.

Then, his head bumped against the back of your throat, causing your eyes to sting with tears pooling at the corners as you coughed wetly around him. Foam and saliva spurted from the tight seal of your lips, a result of the sudden intrusion.

His relentless pace caused your throat to bulge, stretching to accommodate his girth, while your face contorted with the strain of his forceful thrusts.

The squelching of his cock drilling in and out of your mouth got louder and louder as your saliva wet his length, only making him fuck your mouth like it was nothing but a hole, with more intent as it got easier for him.

His fingers held onto both sides of your skull tightly, burying your nose into his pubic hair with every pulsation. Your jaw grew slack, your jowl hanging low as his girth forced your mouth open for his use.

''Now what would that asshole think, hm?'' His breathing was erratic, his words garbled and he dislodged himself from you entirely this time.

His hand gripped around the base of his cock, coated heavily with pre-cum and your saliva. The force-grip on your face relaxed and you pulled your lips back together in relief.

And then he stuffed back himself into you, taking in the feeling of your reflexive bobs on his cock, of you gagging and salivating around his member. He drug your head off after a short time, then back in, finding his rhythm.

The fingers in your hair roughly pulled you against him as he held you firmly back in place, leaving you no choice but to breathe through your nose and try to relax your muscles further. ''Seeing you tied up like that, choking on my cock, fuck-''

It only took a few more hard, erratic thrusts before he reached the breaking point, his body tensing above you as he neared climax.

With each hard movement, his cock plunged deeper into your throat, driving past the point of resistance until it reached the depths of your being. In a surge of desperate release, he unleashed his hot thick cum so deep inside you, you didn't even get taste it.

Though your jaw felt like it was burning in flames, you immediately welcomed the relief as you could finally draw in a deep, satisfying breath. With a sigh, you leaned your head back against the headboard, allowing the coolness of the surface to soothe your overheated skin.

''You did so well baby, so fucking good for me.'' He cooed, the sweetness returning to his tone before he swiftly slid his knees from your upper body down to your waist, his movements unhurried as he took in the way you looked in that moment. A beautiful mess.

Whilst he positioned himself, he leaned forward, his forehead gently meeting yours for a brief moment and then closed the gap completely, his lips meeting yours in a soft, tender kiss.

''Now..'' Kyle whispered against your parted lips, a soft breath of warmth that set your skin on fire.

As his tongue delicately brushed against your bottom lip, his hands trailed upwards to caress your restrained arms as though he was taking away the ache just by touching them.

''Be a good girl and..'' As his lips made their way towards the upper half of your face, his voice was sinful against the delicate curve of your ear shell. With each caress, the tension in your muscles began to ease.

Finally, his hands came to rest against each of your wrists, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handcuffs.

With a gentle yet purposeful movement, his fingers traced the outline of the restraints, teasing you by applying pressure for a second before stopping and repeating the same movement.

You watched in anticipation, biting hard on your bottom lip not to wince out loud as the tension in the air became heavy once more and then you finally heard the faint click of the restraints releasing.

The pain in your wrists began to fade away, relief washing over you as Kyle deftly removed the handcuffs. With each click of the lock releasing, a weight seemed to lift from your shoulders. You eagerly anticipated the opportunity to finally touch him, to feel his warmth against your skin and bring him close to you.

But before you could even extend your hands, Kyle's touch found its way to your waist and with a suddenness that pushed all air out your lungs, he maneuvered you around, positioning you so that your face was now directed towards the headboard. The abrupt shift in position left you disoriented, your gaze now fixated on the wooden surface before you.

''Kyle, what are you-''

Without warning, he once again secured the handcuffs around your wrists, immobilizing you completely. The metallic clink echoed in the room and his striking face disappeared from your sight, replaced by the blank expanse of the wall.

Though you couldn't see him, the subtle shifts in the mattress beneath you betrayed his movements as he lowered himself onto the bed. He positioned himself underneath you, his shoulders pressed firmly between your thighs, urging them to open wider.

Finally, you looked down, his face came into view, illuminated by the soft glow of the dimly lit room.

''Sit on my fucking face.''

(to be continued..:)

#part 2 coming soon #if you want it ofc #cod #call of duty #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick smut #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz smut #gaz x reader #kyle garrick smut #cod smut #cod x reader #tf 141 #task force 141 #141 x reader #captain price smut

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sprout-fics · 2 months

Text

Mayday Mayday Chapter Two: Effective Fire

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Six of Snowblind

Rating: Mature Themes Wordcount: 4.8k Tags: Slow Burn, Whump, Blood and Injury, Active Combat Scenarios, Teammates to ??? to Lovers, Angst, Banter Warnings: Crashes, Descriptions of blood and injury A/N: Special thank you to @okaycoldplay @gazs-blue-hat , @laeilaps , and @vampirekilmerfic for the research and development of this installment! and thank you to everyone still reading despite the large gap in updates.

In the darkness of the desert, you engrave in your soul the names of the dying and the damned.

You set to work quickly, assessing the men injured in the crash laid down beside each other against the gritty earth. It’s slow, slogging work, working in near total darkness. Ghost had punched out the lone red blinking beacon from the helicopter lest it betray your position, and as a result you work only through the scant illumination of the flashlight held by the pale-faced private next to you. You try to refrain from snapping at him when his hand wavers and you pause your hands over the limp forms of his brothers.

There’s no way around it. It’s bad. It’s...really bad.

Aside from Ghost and his concussion, there’s four more soldiers wounded, not including the pilots. Fractures, contusions, and shrapnel laced wounds litter the debris-strewn space around you. Groans and scarcely stifled cries seem to be the only sound aside from the lonely, cold wind that travels through the valley.

You try your best to push aside any thoughts of impending attack, narrowing your focus down to the flesh and bone under your hands. The flashlight illuminates seeping pools of red under some of the bodies, and as fast as you work it doesn’t seem to stem the tide of crimson that you know will haunt you for days to come.

Both pilots are concussed, out cold, and you think it’s for the best. If they awoke to the state of themselves, it would be far more agonizing. The pilot has a broken right leg, the thing bent at a horribly awkward angle that had one of the other marines swear a sacrament at just the sight. Shrapnel litters down his waist to his calf, and somewhere between it all you think you feel a fractured rib that belays a tender, weakening heartbeat that flutters with every red ooze from his wounds.

You try your best to make him comfortable, and quietly attach a black tag to his jacket to signal his chances of survival. There’s only so much you can do, and silently you pray that if he does pass, that at least it’s without pain.

His co-pilot isn’t much better.

When you go to attach a black tag to him, the marine behind you shoots out to catch your wrist. In the sloping glow of the flashlight, his eyes are pleading.

“Please.” Is all he offers, quiet and forlorn. “He’s…my friend. Please.”

You regard him with sad eyes, but quietly nod and begin to work on the unconscious man who had saved your lives.

The shattered windshield sliced through his upper arm, where a tourniquet now cinches the vein tightly as you work to apply bloodstop to the worst of the gashes. There’s a piece of debris lodged in his stomach that you work desperately to treat, thanking whatever higher power that be that the object itself stops most of the blood flow. You use a good amount of your supplies on him, ensuring your assistant holds aloft your one and only fluid bag to try and ease the strain on his body despite the blood loss. He’s covered in your own jacket to try and keep him warm as he shivers, a tell-tale sign of shock. The cold that bites your skin is nothing compared to the silent dread that pools low and dark in your stomach. He's deathly pale, and you assign the marine to watch over him and the other pilot, to guard them if and when you should be found.

Down the line, your next man is unconscious, bleeding from his head and arm broken, but otherwise whole and in one piece. He’s a boyish sort, you think as you wipe the blood free and use butterfly stitches for the gash on his forehead. He still hasn’t shed a soft roundness of baby fat on his cheeks, and you can’t help but think how young he is to be out here, prone in the dark desert sand.

He rouses just as you finish working on him, startling and grasping at your sleeve in a sudden panic.

“Easy.” You soothe, laying a hand flat on his chest as he tries to raise his head. “Try not to move. You’re okay.”

You catch his eyes by the light of the flashlight. They look lost, but then they find you, blink, before he slips away again. His heart pulses steadily under your hand. You squeeze his hand just one, hoping he feels it before he goes still again.

Beside him is a corporal who seems to babble in delirium as you carefully inspect his pupils and wrap gauze around his head. His left arm has debris engraved into it, not nearly as bad as the pilots, but no doubt requiring a careful operation the second you land back at base.

If you land back at base.

You try not to think about that either.

The corporal talks in circles, no doubt severely concussed but at least halfway lucid. You catch him drifting more than once, shaking him awake and telling him to keep talking unless he falls asleep. He chokes back a sob when you wrap a tourniquet around his upper arms, biting his lip so hard it bleeds but offering no other complaint. When you tell him, breathless but firm nonetheless, that he’s going to be okay, you find him smiling at you through heavy eyes.

Your designated assistant, a flint-eyed man with dark hair who goes by ‘Smit’ bends to assist you with each man, each of you easily slashing the straps of the plate vests and discarding them to the side so you can inspect the unevenly rising chest of each man. A second holds the flashlight as you work, illuminating the scarlet slashed over their forms that you rapidly try to stem.

“Hang on for me, soldier. Keep breathing.” You murmur to the marine under your hands, and then to your new assistant: “Hold down on the gauze. Keep a steady pressure. Let me know the second his breathing changes. Understood?”

“Yes sir- er, ma’am.”

With each new wound, each new injury, you do inventory on your existing supplies- not nearly enough to deal with a situation of this caliber. Gunshot wounds, flash-bang concussions, these were routine for you. This, where the crash constitutes a disaster zone, you feel the weight of your quick decisions sink heavily into your shoulders.

The pilot is the first to go.

Martinez, the man designated to watch over him, quietly signals you over. You feel the pilot’s pulse flutter under your fingers, your other hand quietly holding him as he lets out several long, slow breaths and then goes forever still.

“He saved our lives.” The marine tells you solemnly as you cover his face. “I’ve never seen a pilot come back like that from a tailspin. We...”

He trails off. You know he doesn’t need to finish the thought.

We should all be dead.

A hollowness burrows deep and aching into your chest. You wish you had time to indulge it.

“Take his jacket.” You quietly offer. “See if you can warm up the co-pilot.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You rise to your feet and pace away for a moment, lingering between the soft perimeter of the crash and the injured men contained within it. It takes a few breaths to settle your heartbeat, and you wonder if you should feel more grief than you do- if it is a reflection on yourself that you learned to blunt your inward pain so long ago.

You look up to the sky. There’s still no stars.

In the darkness, you watch the massive, prowling shape of Ghost pace the perimeter like a wolf protecting the corpse of felled prey. Beneath him, lain flat against the sand, the marines keep a silent, steady watch for the smallest indication of enemy movement. You can barely make out the outline of your lieutenant, his figure blurring into shadow like a wraith. When he senses your eyes on him and turns, you can make out the shock of white from his mask.

“We lost one.” You tell him quietly as you approach, careful to keep your voice quiet from the nearby soldiers. Ghost seems to have expected this, for he nods, silent as he considers.

“Dust-off is on standby.” He relays back to you, voice dipping so low it feels like it vibrates the earth beneath your feet. “They’re waiting for the area to clear before they send another chopper.”

You grimace, mouth pressing into a line. Right. Of course the base is waiting to make sure there’s no more RPGs in the zone before they can send a team to your position. Knowing procedure, it could be up to a day before you see help.

Ghosts eyes watch you as you process this information, trying to run the numbers on the supplies in your field kit, trying to prioritize who’s wounded and who may not return home.

“Sorry.” You offer suddenly, and you sense Ghost still, tilt his head at you.

“I jinxed it, I think.” You offer, more to yourself than to him, and you wonder how much of the stress is getting to your head. “With it being a good night for a hunt and all.”

It takes Ghost a moment to digest this, but eventually he huffs and shifts away from you.

“Hunt’s not over yet, Fix.” He tells you simply, and you think in the darkness he somehow sounds bemused. You blink at that, always surprised by how Ghost can take a situation such as this and simply compartmentalize, offer a scant bit of humor with the confidence that he, at least, will survive.

You wonder, quietly in his shadow, if you’ll make it home despite all this.

You shake the thought as soon as it appears. There’s no time to entertain it, and as you snap your gloves off and slide on a fresh pair, returning to your makeshift triage.

A sound.

There’s a current that runs through the remaining members of the team around you as you all seem to catch it at the same time. Distant, a low thrum that sounds for just a moment before the desert goes silent once more.

Then again, louder.

You can’t discern where it is at first, ears straining to track whatever it was- another chopper, a truck, or...something else.

Then, to the east.

“3 o’clock.” Ghost states just loud enough for the circle of marines scattered around the site to hear, and there’s a flurry of movement as the team situates itself to face the oncoming threat. You can hear it now- the distant churning of an engine choked by sand as it draws closer. “NVGs on. Now.”

You follow the order automatically, hearing the whine of your goggles as they come to life and throw the world into a sickly green light.

“Fix.” Ghost snaps as you try and squint in the darkness to make out distant, blurry shapes of the oncoming forces. “On your weapon. Now.”

You don’t hesitate, quickly snatching your weapon from near the row of fallen men and murmuring a few quiet orders to your assistants there. It takes all of five seconds for you to reappear at Ghost’s side, lowering yourself to the ground alongside him as he flattens himself, opening his scope to peer into the horizon.

You see them now, in the distance. Two trucks together, and as they draw closer you see the forms of men with weapons held aloft as they rapidly close in on your position.

“What’s the call, Ghost?” One of the sergeants besides you asks, fingers tapping nervously on his weapon. You feel it, the frenetic, taut energy that courses like an electric current between you all. Holding its breath, starved of air, waiting until the moment the first bullet signals destruction.

“Not yet.” Ghost replies, eerily calm. “Wait until they’re in range. Conserve your ammo, there may be more.”

You shudder to think of that, already finding your stomach wind tighter every moment the trucks grow closer. You can already tell you’re outnumbered. There has to be twenty men at least, and as they near you hear them begin to raise their voices in the darkness in battle cries that pull taut at the low, cold coil of your gut.

You don’t allow yourself to think what may become of this- gazing into the scope of an enemy for a single heartbeat before everything goes dark.

Forever.

“Hold steady, lads.” Ghost murmurs, voice a deathly low roll in his chest.

The group draws closer, unloading from the truck, weapons out. They must not see you in the dark. Maybe they think you all died in the crash, bodies lying prone and scattered in the sand amidst the wreckage of the helicopter.

“Not yet.” Ghost intones quietly as the men from the truck grow closer, cautiously approaching the edge of your perimeter. “Set your targets.”

You choose a man in the middle of the group, both hands on a soviet-era rifle as dust billows at his feet. He’s less than thirty paces away from you, and with each heartbeat he takes another step towards the crosshairs of your trigger.

He’ll kill you, given the chance.

Ghost is silent beside you, body taut, entirely still. He doesn’t even seem to breathe. if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a corpse.

Twenty paces.

Fifteen.

You see it happen in just a moment. A man pauses at the edge of the group as he looks directly at you on the small rise towards the crash. He raises a shout.

He drops dead before he can finish.

Your eardrums ring as the men around you wordlessly unleash a hailstorm of bullets on the group. You watch five men go down in the first few seconds, unable to lift their weapons before they drop. The remaining open fire on your position blindly, bullets burying themselves into the dirt with puffs of dust. Gunfire explodes across your vision like fireworks as you open fire, tracking shapes in the shadows and deftly squeezing the trigger after them.

They’re trying to find you in the dark, and it’s difficult with your group spread apart as it is, perched on a low rise that offers a semblance of cover to shield you. There’s shouts that echo in the darkness, panicked, angry, offering orders that are cut short by the sound of a gunshot.

You watch as a man retreats to the cover of one of the trucks, and moments later the engine starts, and the vehicle begins to roll towards you with increasing speed.

“TAKE OUT THE TRUCK.” Ghost orders over the chaos at you, head not turning for even a moment as he focuses his sights.

You have a momentary pause as to why it isn’t Ghost trying to take the shot. He’s always been a better sniper than you, so how-

You watch him take aim at a man fleeing in the direction of the truck.

and miss.

“FIX!!” Ghost bellows, thunderous, and you lock on to the front wheel swerving in the dirt. You take a breath, and a split second later your shoulder jolts with the impact of your rifle, and you watch the rubber of the tire spin into shreds. Yet the truck continues, swerving erratically in your direction. It raises a burst of panic in the men around you, who open fire on the truck as it closes in, all while its passengers take aim at you all.

You watch a body down the line jolt, then go still.

“Anderson!!” One of the corporals hollers, and before you can scream at him to stay where he is, he foregos his weapon in favor of reaching for his teammate.

He screams as his body jerks, cries as he collapses onto his side.

You have no time to look, unleashing your ammo at the truck’s other front wheel in a desperate bid to slow it down before resorting to firing upon the driver. He jerks before slumping forwards, twisting the heel so the truck goes careening off course and away from your sight range.

“They’re flanking us!”

You don’t move unless it would give away your position, instead trying to track the targets in front of you before turning your attention to your side. That is, until you realize-

“Ghost-” You bark, voice cracking. “The injured-”

The truck disappeared towards the broken tail that shelters your comrades.

“Stay put.” Ghost snarls as a bullet pings off the dirt between you, making you flinch. “If you get up, you’re as good as dead.”

You try not to let your hands shake as you focus through your scope again, tracing the remaining five or six targets that flee back towards the other truck. In the chaos of trying to take down the vehicle headed towards you, they’ve gotten a head start, and rapidly begin to reach the edge of your firing range. You try to lock onto them, catching one by the shoulder as he stumbles, then goes down with your next shot. Yes his comrades manage to reach the truck ahead of him, piling in and backing up away from the range of your weapons.

“They’re retreating!” A voice rises beside you.

“They’re getting away.” Ghost growls back, ceaselessly firing upon the truck in an effort to slow it as it withdraws.

There’s gunfire to your right now, and at last you twist towards it, army-crawling in the direction of your wounded patients.

“They’re hidden behind the truck.” A voice tells you, shielded by the mangled helicopter tail. He ducks, crouching, as a bullet pings off the metal.

The wounded are on the other side.

Yet when you try and jolt forward, around, trying to reach for them, you’re hauled back by the straps of your tac vest.

“I said-” Ghost growls in your ear as you all but fall back into the heavy plane of his broad chest. “Stay. put.”

You didn’t realize you were shaking until you were in his arms. The adrenaline bites hard and sour on the underside of your tongue, chest heaving and brain working into overdrive as you force yourself to freeze, process his words.

“Think.” Ghost tells you, breathless enough that you think you might have imagined it.

You blink, trying to reroute the synapses of your thoughts to listen to him, to obey this order he’s given you. You remind yourself it’s Ghost’s voice that has guided you through darkness, through blood and sin, through your own undoings and towards the light of survival. Now, with souls of others cupped preciously in the palms of your hands, you will yourself once more to listen to his guiding clarion.

With you still sprawled back against him, Ghost reaches one massive arm around you to your front. You think he’s about to secure you, roll you out of the way, only for him to deftly pluck your one grenade from the front of your vest. With hardly any effort, Ghost uncaps it right before your eyes...

and hurls it in the direction of the truck.

There’s a pause as it clatters somewhere into the front seat, followed by a shout-

BOOM-!!

Debris erupts upwards, rains down on you. The world spins, rings around you for a moment, and you scrunch your eyes to try and grimace through it. Eventually it fades, and you feel a body pressed to yours shift, one arm looped around your front slowly retreating as you’re released.

He’s still holding you.

For a moment you feel your brain short-circuit, torn hopelessly between utter bafflement at Ghost’s proximity to you, and the reminder of your task at hand. Awkwardly, you cough and scramble to detangle yourself from Ghost, who eases slowly away from you, giving you space.

“All clear!” One of the marines nearby yells in the silence that follows. You glance back at Ghost, crouched as you are by the wrecked helicopter tail. The white of his skull mask flashes luminescent green under your night vision, shadows dancing from the fire of the truck. He nods at you in a silent affirmation- ensuring he’s covering you as you dart for the wounded.

You keep low as you crawl towards the forms of your fallen comrades, grabbing the first man you can and dragging him backwards until one of the other marines assists you. There’s smoking forms hidden behind the truck not far off, one of them moving and moaning wordlessly in pain.

You manage to get everyone behind cover from the truck, not yet looking to see if they’ve been further injured, focused instead on the perimeter, looking for future threats.

“Sergeant.” A marine quietly offers next to you, and you turn, look into his eyes.

The man you’re still holding- clutching onto his tac vest straps by a death grip. He’s dead.

“It’s Martinez.” He whispers solemnly. The one you’d left to defend his brothers. He’s still holding the IV bag.

It takes a few moments for the thing inside your chest to awaken- that dark beast that howls in anger and sorrow. It draws upwards, clawing viscous and sinister at your inside, and as you stare into the blank eyes of Martinez it growls in low tones words of grief and fury at you’d been unable to save him.

That you’d failed.

You release the body like you’ve been electrocuted- muscles a live wire as you try to control your shallow breathing. Blood rushes in your ears. The world dizzies you with shades of green.

“Fix.”

You turn, eyes wild, almost careening into Ghost behind you. He catches you by your elbow, steadies you silently. The warmth from his gloved hands bleeds through, and somehow you find your balance.

You almost want to shield the fallen soldier behind you, trying to hide the act of failure you’ve committed. Yet when you try, Ghost’s grip on your arm remains tight, as if somehow anticipating your movement.

“Think.” His voice echoes again in your mind.

Your throat is a hard, bitter scrape of air as you swallow, steady yourself.

“Who’s injured?” You ask the survivors gathered around you.

“Anderson is dead.” A voice intones, quiet and grieving. “Smit is gone too.”

Three men including the pilot. Three men you failed to save. Three souls to haunt you.

You stare up at Ghost, trying to make out his expression despite the night vision. You wonder if he still feels grief despite everything. You wonder if you respect him for that.

Over his shoulder, light in the distance.

He blinks, follows your gaze.

More trucks. Distant, but closing in. Hyenas come to pick off the wounded survivors.

“Dig in.” Ghost tells the team, releasing you so abruptly the world spins. “We’ve got enemy reinforcements inbound.”

Yet as you focus in on the convoy headed in your direction, you see just how many reinforcements Ghost speaks of.

Three cars. You’ll be overrun.

“Ghost, we need to retreat.” The marine sergeant tells him roughly. “We can’t hold this position.”

“Retreat to where?” Ghost snaps back, never taking his eyes off the convoy. “We hold here.”

“There’s buildings north of us, they look abandoned-”

“We won’t make it. Not with the trucks.”

He’s right. Even if you didn’t carry the wounded, in which Ghost would have to haul you to withdraw himself, there’s just no way you can make it to a cover without the trucks catching up and encircling you all, cutting off any escape- or chance at survival.

“Reload.” Ghost declares when the sergeant goes quiet of protests. “Inside the chopper, wounded first.”

The men echo a chorus of acknowledgments, moving around you. Yet you remain rooted to where you stand, gazing at Ghost, at the convoy, at the starless sky.

You’ve lost three men. Now more enemies come to reap the souls of those who have lived. You need to retreat, to fight, to protect the men you’ve been tasked with, to ensure your own survival.

Think, he said.

Think, Fix.

Think.

The answer comes before you can second guess yourself.

“We need to blow up the chopper.”

The men around you freeze, turn to look at you. The air feels stale in your lungs, heartbeat stuttering, but under their eyes you force yourself to repeat your words.

“We need to rig the chopper to explode- and retreat.”

Ghost stares at you wordlessly. You expect him to snarl at you, to reprimand you, but instead he simply watches, waits for you to speak.

Listening. Perhaps even trusting.

You swallow hard, settling yourself where you stand before speaking again.

“We have demolition charges for the bunker. We can set them on the chopper, wait until the trucks get close, withdraw and then set them to go off. It’ll give us time to take the wounded and hike to a better position.”

It’s quiet in the moments after you speak.

Then:

“That’s crazy.” The marine sergeant offers in utter disbelief. Then, quieter: “It could work.”

Ghost’s eyes haven’t strayed from you. You lock onto them, quiet. Pleading. Trusting.

“It would take a crack shot to explode the package at that distance in the dark.” Is the only thing he offers. Yet the silent message is clear.

Can you do it?

For a single, suffocating moment doubt threatens to choke the hope from your chest, obfuscating it in a noxious cloud of self loathing and hatred. Instead, you square your shoulders, look at Ghost’s eyes, pupils blown wide and dark under the starless sky.

“I can do it.”

Ghost holds your stare. The trucks in the distance grow closer.

“Pack up.” He barks, turning. “Wounded take priority. Take what you can, leave the rest. I want the charges on the nose of the chopper, and whatever ammunition is left after reloading. Wounded at the front, the rest of you watching our six. MOVE!!”

You fall in line, a flurry of activity as you rapidly check the wounded men, hauling those who can stand to their feet, taking the weapons of the men who carry those who can’t. You watch as the marine sergeant and two more secure charges to the front of the chopper near the fuel tank, working quickly as the rest of you pass them, headed up the rise.

You can hear the engines of the trucks now, roaring with sand choked valves as they close in.

“Move. Move!” You urge the men ahead of you, hanging towards the rear as Ghost takes up the tail of your group. You watch the lights of the trucks near the forms of their fallen comrades as you reach the top of the hill. They swiftly pass them, firing several shots into the sky as they near the crash site.

You plant yourself at the top of the rise, rock and dirt digging into your stomach as you focus through your scope, swinging your sights from the rapidly encroaching convoy towards the exposed charges. Ghost hovers at your back as the men hike past him, encouraged by their sergeant. You know if this doesn’t work, if you shoot too soon or too late, it will be an early grave for you all.

“Not yet.” Ghost tells you, observing as the trucks begin to eclipse the former perimeter where you’d been laying only minutes ago. You steady your breathing, forcing your heartbeat to slow, loosening your hands on your rifle and then slowly tightening it once more. You keep your finger off the trigger.

The trucks pass the perimeter.

Not yet.

The trucks creep up on the helicopter tail.

Not yet.

The trucks pass by the burning wreckage of the other truck.

Your finger lays on the trigger. You focus on the demolition charges.

Deep breath in.

Quietly, from behind you:

“Now.”

You squeeze the trigger just once, and at the exact moment that the trucks come up parallel to the nose of the bird, you watch as the charges explode. It takes a moment for the heat to burn a hole through the fuel tank, but then a second, larger explosion alights and deafens you with the sound of its ignition. The force of it momentarily rocks you backwards, and it's only Ghost that manages to keep you steady as the shockwave briefly rolls over you both.

When you open your eyes, you see the three trucks gone. Engulfed in the inferno.

Clear.

“Bloody fuckin hell.” Ghost breathes beside you, observing the carnage with an expression far from unimpressed. “Bloody good shot, sergeant.”

You’re so stunned by the blast you almost miss the praise, blinking even as Ghost grabs you by your arm and hauls you to your feet beside him.

“Thank you. Sir.” You manage at last, still gazing down at the flames. The rifle in your grip feels too heavy. Then: “Holy shit.”

“Keen observation.” Ghost remarks dryly, but there’s an undercurrent of something else to his voice. Something that sounds almost relieved. Pleased. “Let’s get moving.”

He turns, and you follow in his shadow. Behind you, the blaze of your destruction alights you in fiery warmth.

He hikes higher into the hills.

You follow him.

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