#wolven-writer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus · 9 months

Text

Bloodhound. (A Ghost x AFAB!Reader fic)

Act One, Chapter Nine: In the Eye of the Storm

Hey guys! I'm back! Yay!

So, so sorry for the super long delay- med school has been extremely busy and on top of that, the Christmas hols have been busy as well. I had family functions, Christmas itself, and my birthday on New Year's Eve ( :3 ). I will also admit that I did briefly lose motivation for this fic, writer's block is a curse, and it was a little bit of slug to get started writing again, but I'm very happy with this chapter and I hope you are all too.

Nevertheless, here's Chapter 9- a.k.a the penultimate chapter of Act One! Yay! I'm so excited for Chapter 10! I don't want to spoil much, but let's just say we'll be getting our first glimpse of an Arcadian Son in his wolven form! 🐺

Feedback is welcome! Let's drum up some hype for Act One's finale!

Warnings: Strong language, threats of violence, emetophobia warning, violence, gore, mild body horror and animal death (I will say this happens under the final asterisk of the chapter almost at the very end and it is a bit nasty)

P.S: Fun fact- half of this came to me in a dream! Seriously, it did!

Her resolve was breaking, crumbling away like sand through her fingers. She was faltering, stumbling over a root as she dragged her body to continue on. Valeria looked behind to see she had lost sight of the base. Slowly, she returned her gaze to what was in front of her: the vague path back to their camp.

She had cast that awful mask aside, leaving it to be found at the edge of the base, where the back of that dilapidated building met the woods, hoping you’d find it and that it’d light a fire under your arse.

A life taken was, in her eyes, better than a life doomed. At least, with murder, there came some form of closure. Some form of a definitive… end.

How long until it would set in? Until he’d unravel and consume them all?

Consume you?

She prayed that the anger she had seen in your face, as she had grabbed a fistful of your hair, bringing your bloodied visage to look upon hers, meant you had it in you to fix this. There was a good chance you’d reject Ghost and flee the moment you discovered his newfound nature. And… you’d be right in doing that- you know, to kill him before he’d get into their hands. Valeria hoped you’d stab him with a silver stake in his sleep or do her the kindness of making him scream. Oooh. Something inside her giggled with sadistic joy at the thought of an Arcadian Son screaming in agony at the hands of a lamia. What a triumph that would be! An arrogant man with strength he didn’t deserve nor need, squirming about at the feet of a trafficked child. Valeria hungered for that, and she had found a substitute in reigning supreme over the Las Almas Cartel but, now that she thought about it, it wasn’t the same. It was play. It was her living in a fantasy, rehearsing all the things she wanted to say and do to her overseer. There were many people that sat at the back of her mind, giving voice to her innermost doubts and fears, whom she wanted to see burn by her hands, and he was one of them. That heartless fucker who managed to worm his way into her very being, one who she’d still want to see in awe of her, to feel a swell of pride as she’d slit his throat.

Every Arcadian Son was the same. Every single one. They all did nothing but hurt, exploit, and terrorise. Throwing around their gifts without a care in the world and making sure everyone was constantly feeling their anguish, their pain.

But what about mine?! What about my pain?!

She trudged on, doing her best to halt the tears pooling in her eyes. In an ill attempt to self-soothe, Valeria found her arms slowly snaking around her, her body pulling her into an embrace. It stung as the cartel queen felt a tear trickle from her eye, rolling down her nose, clinging to the end. Then another, and another, and another once more. Valeria wanted to beat someone half to death. She wanted to feel powerful again, toying with people. She had thought that all these years she had spent on herself, spoiling herself rotten with an underground empire and plenty of men to crush beneath her boot, she had grown. And yet, here she was, a sobbing, snivelling mess, nothing more than a weak, little girl.

Little girl.

“You wouldn’t have existed if it weren’t for me.”

Little girl.

“I will always be with you.”

Little girl.

“You will always be scared of men like me. You will always be scared of men.”

The way those words had been uttered to her, all those years ago, with no anger, no emotion behind them, uttered like cold, hard facts. As if she was made to be a certain way. As if she couldn’t escape her nature. As if she was destined to be a caricature, an idea of a person. It was as if everything Valeria had ever done had meant nothing, because all this she had created, had accumulated, had achieved, was merely boiled down to a response to him. Essentially, Valeria realised that she was and would always be nothing more than his lamia.

A quivering breath escaped her, and she became still. Glossy brown eyes stared into the middle distance.

She could have said no, died in defiance.

And yet, she obeyed.

How far was she from camp?

“Valeria?”

Quick as a whip, she snapped back to reality and saw Graves, directly in front of her, standing amidst the shrubbery. His posture indicated he was concerned, slightly leaning forward, one unsure foot put in front of the other, hands hovering in place, shaking with slight trepidation. To him, she didn’t look well. Something about her indicated she wasn’t entirely here and as for her slightly unkempt armour and bloodstained face, Phillip feared she wouldn’t be able to give a decent report.

Still¸ he sighed, no harm in tryin’.

“Valeria?”

“You disgrace the army.”

Every single fucking man she had ever met had, in some form or the other, left a nasty mark on her. Every. Single. Fucking. One.

As she watched Phillip approach her, with a patronising dose of caution, her lip curled.

“I want the missiles. I want the target. And I want Hassan. And you’ve got ten seconds or I’m going to show you the difference between military and me.”

Phillip Graves was feeling sorry for himself now, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be back to his usual self, or perhaps even worse.

“Valeria?”

“What?!” she snapped.

“Have you delivered the package to the target and…”

She could tell he was looking her up and down.

“… Did the renegade do that to you?”

Valeria wasn’t fooled by his softened voice. She took a disgusted step back as he took one towards her.

“What do you think?” Valeria sighed, making to brush past him and collect her things at camp so she could leave this promptly.

He grabbed her, hard, by the wrists. She looked at him like he wasn’t even human, her eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, a face depicting someone who was taken aback by not a man, but an animal.

“I need a full report of what happened,” he spoke to her like she was a mere child.

She looked at him, trying to find his eyes behind that blank visor. Although there really wasn’t much of a height difference between them, she felt as though he was consuming her whole field of vision. Angry tears should have told him enough, but it was evident that he wanted to hear it from her lips.

“Let me go.”

“I need a report.”

“Let me go.”

“You can have your tantrum afterwards, Garza. I need a report. You do realise that this is technically a mission-”

She pulled away, trying to break free of his grip, but to no avail. Over his shoulder, she could see the tantalising shape of camp. Valeria wriggled, demanding to be released. Phillip’s grip only tightened.

Stop.

STOP!

Valeria kicked him, screamed at him and, in a moment of brief freedom, before he’d trap her in his embrace once more, she hit his armoured chest. Again, and again and again. All that came out of her were shrieks and curses that sounded as though they had been trapped in her gullet for centuries. She punched and punched his chest, fighting to break free from his grip as he reestablished control. Graves supposed he’d let her have her moment for a few seconds, however, he soon grew tired of her hysteria.

“Valeria… Valeria, will you just… Val-”

He sighed.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GIVE ME THE GODDAMN REPORT!” he roared.

Then, Phillip fell silent, as if surprised by his own voice. He sounded a lot worse than he did when she last spoke to him, merely hours ago.

Valeria glowered at him but did as he said, regaining composure. She was breathless, panting as her whole body rose and fell in time with her stifled gasps for air. Her hands were raised in front of her, held in place by his, almost framing her face.

“The renegade was there. They saw me. And as for the target… Riley’s received the package.”

He eyed the woman, seeing if he could smell any lies on her. However, it seemed she was telling the truth. Phillip let go of her hands and watched them drop to her sides.

“Clean yourself up and go log it on the lexicon-thingy. I received a call from them not too long after you left. They said they want to hear it from you.”

She pushed past him, wiping away the salty water on her lips with the back of her hand.

Dawn would be approaching and with it, heaps of planning for the final stage. They hadn’t been here for long, but to Phillip, he felt as though he had aged aeons. A sliver of him had just made its absence finally known, having spent the past few days teasing him with its liminal existence. Absentmindedly, he rested a hand on his chest, picking at the crevices of his armour as he stared off into the middle distance. He wasn’t the same. He’d hit rock bottom and now had to get on with things despite it all because he didn’t have anything else to do but that. Never had a man truly encapsulated the word ‘undead’. Phillip Graves in a sense had died in Las Almas, in that tank, at the hands of John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, but he hadn’t been reborn or redeemed in any way. The man was a soulless continuation of the previous iteration. Although he knew the inescapable reality of his situation, he couldn’t fathom it: particularly the fact that he was alive. This didn’t feel like being alive, though. He was simply… going through the motions. There was no agency here. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, he did have some agency which led him to the decision he had been procrastinating on making.

The matter of the girls.

***

“What?!” 72’s voice cracked; her indignation just barely being contained. “What do you mean we can’t go?!”

Phillip winced a little, trying to find the correct footwork needed to get around the girl and get on with his life. Much to his chagrin, though, the young lamia firmly put herself in front of him, blocking his path with her feet squarely placed hip-width apart and her arms crossed. She had an aggravating scowl on her face as she looked up at him.

“Kid…”

“Kid?” she scoffed.

“72,” he sighed, pausing for a brief moment to collect his thoughts, “you and 23 need to stay put. For your own safety. You know, I’m doing this for your own good.”

“We’re supposed to be working,” she growled, “We’re supposed to be on a job.”

Phillip noticed the way her brows lowered, eyes narrowing, it brought about a sense of familiarity to him, like he’d seen that expression elsewhere but couldn’t quite place it.

Him.

Suddenly, he was aware that he was pulling the same face under his helmet.

“You’re going to be doing me a lot of favours by staying back here. So, stay.”

“But-”

“That’s an order, 72!”

She was taken aback by his raised voice, her lip trembling a little as her mind couldn’t make up whether she should be scared or continue to be angry. Graves rose to his full height no longer bringing himself down to meet her eyes, thinking that had done the trick.

He gently moved her out the way and walked past, feeling an odd sense of pride that he’d managed to avoid a teenage girl’s wrath successfully.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Phillip stopped dead in his tracks.

“Are you scared you’re going to hurt us?” 72 taunted, “I know that you were the one responsible for 23’s injury after we extracted the drug lord.”

He couldn’t… He couldn’t even bring himself to look at whatever smug grin she was probably pulling, knowing full well that it would send him over the edge. The last thing he needed right now was an excuse to lose it, especially when she was in the line of fire.

“You…” He could hear his voice had become gravelly once more, like it had done so when he’d yelled at Valeria. “… You, young lady, are skating on some mighty thin ice.”

“I don’t even need to read your mind to know you’re full of guilt.”

“72-”

“We’re here for you! We’re your lamias! You can’t just leave us here, they’ll find out we weren’t working properly, and they’ll do something about it!” she cried, throwing her arms out and vaguely upward.

He turned to face her.

“I’m supposed to be dead. I was supposed to be in a shallow grave in the middle of nowhere, not atoning for my fucking sins but here I am yet on another mission… with two children that I now have to make sure don’t get fucking killed because...”

“Because?”

“I’ve killed so many people. I’ve been a damn good contractor. But I draw the line here. I draw the line at children.”

“We’re not just children.”

“No, 72, you are and you’re in my care. I tell you what to do and you do as I say. That’s the fuckin’ deal. Got it?”

Her lips were pulled into a thin line.

“Got it?!”

She hung her head low.

“Yes, sir,” 72 said, resignedly.

He nodded to himself.

“Go into your tent and stay there until I come get you for food or whatever. If you need anything, you call me, and I’ll let you out.”

Tail between her legs, she sulkily walked back to her flimsy shelter. He watched her unzip the flap and crawl in, hearing the shrill sound of the zipper being angrily pulled along the teeth. Phillip found himself lingering a little longer, watching her silhouette greet 23’s in the warm glow of the hanging torch he’d managed to fish out of their bags for them when they first set up shop here.

Though it stung, Graves knew it had been the right thing to do. They weren’t built for the battlefield, and he’d got a glimpse of that when Valeria had been taken.

23…

His mind was still foggy on what exactly happened with her. As much as he wanted to ask, he feared it would either confirm his suspicions or leave him with only more questions. And so, Phillip had opted to wallow in his apprehension, hoping that once he’d finished this mission and hopefully be rid of them, he could either forget about his guilt or drown it in a fuck ton of alcohol like he used to.

Taken a heavy hit? Simply rock up to the nearest bar in the area and drink and drink and drink.

Having awful flashbacks to Al-Mazrah? Sip some tequila, then sip some more tequila… then keep sipping until you’ve somehow arrived at the next day with only faint recollection of how exactly you got here.

Phillip wondered if he could even get drunk anymore thanks to his newfound condition. Perhaps that’s why the rest of the Arcadian Sons seemed so… excessive, the senseless violence and enforcing of power kept them from acknowledging the tragedies that were their own existences. Maybe he should get with the programme.

No…

It felt wrong.

Then again, he’d most likely done just as bad before. Still, his previous transgressions never made him feel like this, even thinking about spilling blood made his stomach both churn and burn with hungry excitement. It would be giving into something, something that was steeped in sin.

He needed to get this job done and hope the Foundation would give him another one so he would have no time to be alone with his thoughts.

***

You took another pump of soap and rubbed it into your hands before bringing them under the tap once again. Warm water washed over you as you picked at your nails, trying to get the last bits of brown, dried blood which were stubbornly sitting in the crevices of your fingers. Eventually, you looked back up to see the red smeared across the lower half of your face, coming to almost a point, where the source was: your nose.

Damn it.

The blood was beginning to dry, becoming a nasty crust over your skin. You couldn’t help but stare at yourself- bloodied, bruising with tearstains to boot.

You thought about the lamia once more. She had been hanging about in your head for some time now, her face briefly gracing your mind’s eye with her presence. You wondered who exactly she was, not from an identity perspective but rather, you were curious about her intentions. It was just… why?! Why was she there? Why did she help you? Why help and still work for the Foundation? Why show such solidarity, tell you about the Arcadian Sons in the forest, undeniably a few kilometres away, and yet, still, presumably, enter to confirm your location?

Or was this all a ruse? No… it couldn’t be!

It wasn’t like you were going to wait around to find out, you were going to pack your shit and leave first thing in tomorrow morning. You swore to yourself that come dawn tomorrow, you were out of here.

You just hoped that the Arcadian Sons weren’t planning anything tonight.

They couldn’t be that fast, could they?

They could. They very much could.

Damn it.

You sighed, watching your reflection frown. All you really had going for you at the moment was the hope that some god above would take pity on your plight and have the Arcadian Sons miss their window of opportunity.

A long sigh escaped you as you rested some of your weight on the sink.

Ghost’s bout of nausea hadn’t been helping the overall atmosphere in the base either. He’d hogged the bathroom pretty much all morning, vomiting loudly. Soap had been lingering outside for pretty much all of it, occasionally knocking on the door to ask the man if he needed the medic… to which Ghost would reply with, “No. Gaz is keeping ‘em occupied anyway. Besides, I think I just ate-” and then he’d get cut off by puking back into the toilet bowl.

You were curious about what exactly was wrong with him but hadn’t had an opportunity to even catch a quick glimpse of his state, with Kate and Price immediately pulling you aside to ask about the events that had transpired last night the moment you were out of the medical room. Alejandro and Rudy had also interrogated you in the office with the others earlier but that resulted in them having more questions. Then, a massive argument had broken out between Alejandro and 141, with Rudy doing his best but being an unsuccessful mediator. Everything came to an end though when Ghost had sat back down after getting a word in, only to suddenly rise from his seat and make a break for the bathroom. Everyone heard his retches down the corridor, and you wouldn’t be lying if you admitted that the sounds had made you feel a little nauseous yourself.

Bewildered was the word you thought best described the base at the moment.

A pit was slowly growing in your stomach. You were dreading what nightfall would bring. They were coming for you and there are only so many times you can escape the Foundation’s clutches before luck runs out.

You were glad you had packed your silver-plated knives and stake, feeling the sweet relief of reassurance as you grabbed your toothbrush, eager to finally have a moment to yourself to freshen up.

***

The clues at the bottom of her crossword were slowly blurring into one inky blob on the page. A pen, slightly shaking with mild anger, hovered over the third row spanning across the answer area. Usually, 72 would make light work of this, but today, she seemed preoccupied.

23 looked at her with caution from across the tent as she fiddled with the new compression bandaged Phillip had quickly slipped onto her slowly healing knee. The swelling had gone down a little, but it still looked sore. She watched, with increasing anxiety, as 72 grew more and more tense. Eventually, she caved and lashed out with a loud growl, throwing her pen to the side.

“You okay?” 23 asked with trepidation.

“Can you believe he’s making us stay here? Instead of, you know, letting us do our jobs?”

23 shrugged, turning to pick up her camcorder and searching for the switch as 72 continued her rant.

“Like, the Red Room clearly thinks we’re ready or we wouldn’t have been deployed, you know? His report is what’s gonna get us out of the Red Room and actually into a definitive pack. That we’ll stay in…”

She drew her knees to her chest, hugging the newspaper.

“… Instead of being passed from one packmaster to another.”

23 shrugged.

“Maybe he’s right,” the girl suggested, flicking through her footage.

72 grumbled.

“We’re going to end up paying for this. We always do,” she mumbled into the paper, “He thinks he’s doing the right thing but as soon as he mentions on the final report that we did nothing-”

“How do you even know he’s gonna say that?” 23 looked up at her with an exasperated expression, only emphasised by the blue glow from the device’s screen highlighting her features.

“Because he has to?!” 72 sat upright. “They’ll ask.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Why are you sticking up for him?!”

“I’m not!”

“You are! You’re on his side!”

If 23 had pearls, she’d be clutching them in response to such a false and heinous accusation.

“72, I’m not taking anyone’s side. We both know that he’s nice so he’s not going to do anything to get us in trouble, okay?”

“He’s the reason your knee’s fucked up.”

72 pointed at the bandaging on the girl’s leg. 23 cast her gaze downwards and to the side, covering the dressing with her hands.

“Are you scared of him? Is that what it is?” 72 asked, before bringing her hand to her forehead. “Oh my God! You’re scared! You’re doing as your told for once because you’re scared of him!”

“I’m not scared of him! Besides, it was my fault my knee’s screwed up, I was the one that tripped… It’s just-”

“Just what? Scared the big bad wolf is gonna eat ya?”

23 glared daggers at her.

“No, I’m not scared. I’m just being reasonable. Maybe, he has a point. Maybe, we should stay here.”

72 leaned back, her eyes narrowing.

“If I left and followed them to the base, would you let me do it alone?”

Silence fell upon them briefly, only the sounds of awkward rustling filled the tent.

“Well?” 72 asked impatiently.

“I mean…” 23 trailed off, scratching her upper arm idly as she thought.

“Yes or no!”

“Fine!” the girl groaned, throwing her head back.

***

Kate’s fingers were interlocked, her hands tightly wrapped around one another, in a ball, resting on her head as she looked at the ground. Y/N was in their prime. They knew. She, on the other hand, clearly was losing touch and at an alarming rate.

Price sat across from her, a steaming cup of tea sitting atop a small table was the only barrier between the two. He let out a sigh, the air whistling a little as it left his nose. His hands were comfortably placed on his lower abdomen, a contrast to his right leg, which jigged up and down, giving away his brewing anxiety. The captain was growing to resent this silence, waiting and wanting Kate to fill it because he couldn’t, he had no words.

The tense quiet was what was left of Alejandro’s panicked anger and Rudy’s unsuccessful attempts to quell it. He had shouted, paced, accused and demanded that Y/N needed to leave. Kate had stated that she could only let Y/N go once the contact had confirmed it was safe, and as much as she hoped you’d agree, you took Alejandro’s side.

You would leave come tomorrow’s sunrise and just hope that by the time you’d reach the border, the people Kate had been talking to would be there to greet you… like the angels at the Pearly Gates.

Marks of Alejandro’s outburst were everywhere in this room: the door only now just ceasing its swinging from when he’d stormed off, the slam of his fist still ringing in Kate’s ears, the scattered papers and the empty dossier precariously hanging off the table’s edge.

Price’s brown eyes looked over to the old electric fan atop one of the filing cabinets, feeling himself become engrossed in its soothing blanket of white noise as it whirred away, fighting to do its job.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken on Y/N.”

Quickly, he turned back to Kate.

“What?”

“We already have enough shit going on. Y/N… I didn’t need to add them to the list of our problems,” she muttered, shaking her head, “Did you hear what Ghost said? And how Alejandro responded?! I could’ve sworn I saw it n his eyes for a second that he was ready to kick us out.”

“No… No!” he implored, scooting his chair, trying to close at least some of the distance, “You did the right thing.”

She looked at him, her blue eyes intense, darting, doing their best not to give away her bubbling emotions.

“It’s difficult to see that right now. We’re here because Alejandro is allowing us to be here, he’s already jumping a lot of hoops for us.”

“And you’re doing the same for Y/N. We don’t leave each other. Where would they be right now if you hadn’t found them?” Price asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Dead,” Kate stated, plain as day, “Or worse.”

Price’s eyes creased and his mutton chops rose as he gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“Exactly. And besides, neither of you have screwed us over. They said it themself, the soldiers after them won’t come for us if we keep out of their way.”

“Usually, John.”

He nodded, being a little too nonchalant for Kate’s liking, as he took his cup of tea to his lips.

Then, it clicked.

“Wait, John, I know that look-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I think you do.”

Price shook his head.

“John!”

“Kate!”

She sighed, leaning back.

“I’ll go to try and appease Alejandro by telling him we’ll all- well, I’ll who’s feeling up to it- take night watch tonight, save him and his men the trouble, you know. Then, if those lads show up to take your friend, we’ll be ready and stand firmly in their way. Then, Y/N will have a clear path of escape… theoretically.”

“John,” Kate chuckled weakly, “I appreciate the offer, as I’m sure Y/N would, but these are no ordinary soldiers.”

“Neither are we.”

“No, you don’t understand. What I mean is-”

“Kate, I suggest you think about heading to the barracks soon to rest up, we’ve got a long night ahead of us,” he said bluntly, rising from his seat.

With a shaking head and tight lips, she conceded. Laswell supposed it didn’t really change her plan, which was hoping that whatever pack of Arcadian Sons were out there would decide tomorrow night would be their time of attack. However, at the same time, she didn’t want to put her friends in harm’s way. And yet, having people available to raise the alarm would be beneficial, should they rock up tonight. They didn’t know what she knew though, and… well, Kate decided she’d take up Price’s advice to retire for the rest of the day to reflect on how she should prepare them, should the wolves turn up at their door.

Captain Price wandered towards the window, trying to peak through the fogged-up pane to see if there was anything interesting happening in the wilderness just outside the base. Suddenly, he yelped, staggering back, as a small bird landed just outside. Its wings hit the glass harshly as it steadied itself, before looking in to observe the strange giant beholding it.

“What kind of bird do you think that is, Kate? Looks like some sort of blue magpie to me,” Price mumbled.

Then, he straightened up and gave it a proper salute.

“Hello, Mr Magpie. How’s your wife?” he asked, giving a quiet but hearty laugh as he heard Kate snicker at one of his many British eccentricities.

“What?” Price pretended to take offence, turning around.

“I always forget you do that with birds!”

“Just magpies,” he corrected, “And they’re gorgeous little things so what does it matter!”

Kate shook her head, smiling.

Price gave a playful glare and turned back around, only to see that his small, winged friend had gone.

***

“How are you shaping up, Si?” Soap asked as he squatted down by Ghost’s bedside.

“Feel like I’ve been hit by a bus,” Riley replied, voice muffled by the pillow he was speaking into, “I’m dying.”

“I don’t think you’re dying, mate.”

“I am.”

Soap rolled his eyes. Ghostie may have had a reputation for being a stone-cold killer, and a very intimidating one at that, but MacTavish had found, as he’d gotten to know him, that the lieutenant also had a subtle flare for the dramatic.

“I don’t think you are,” Soap laughed quietly, removing the lid of a hot cup of tea he had retrieved from the mess hall.

“You can’t say anything, you’re not a medical professional.”

“Well,” Soap retorted, placing the lid gently on the ground, “the medic checked up on you a few mins ago and also said you’re not dying. I don’t think yer condition has changed much from then. I think you probably just ate something that didn’t agree with ya.”

“Fair enough,” Ghost said with a groan, his voice finally becoming clear as he turned his head to face Soap instead of the pillow.

He noticed the tea in Soap’s hand.

“That for me?”

MacTavish briefly looked down at what he was holding, and then back up at his friend.

“Oh aye,” the sergeant chuckled as he handed it over, “I made it black though, I’m worried the milk might set you off again.”

“Thanks, Johnny,” Ghost sighed, pulling his mask up to take a sip.

Soap sat himself down on the floor, fiddling with his hands as he watched Ghost drink up.

“You sound better,” MacTavish remarked.

“Really?” Riley asked between swigs of tea, “I feel worse.”

“Ah, that’s because it’s coming out,” Soap happily informed, “So, layering a fuck ton of blankets on top of you and making you sweat is working!”

“You’ve been pestering the medic all morning, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.” Soap shrugged.

“Ugh, Johnny. I told you not to bother her. She’s supposed to be helpin’ Gaz.”

Soap was about to say something, then paused, reevaluated, and tried again.

“I’m sorry,” The Scot folded his arms. “One minute you’re acting like you’re on your deathbed and the next, you’re telling me that I can’t be seeking out medical advice on your behalf?”

Ghost scoffed, giving him a playful punch in the arm. Only it wasn’t as light as it was playful. Soap took it well, not quite getting knocked over, but, once the shock had worn off, he couldn’t help but nurse his shoulder.

“Oh shit!” Ghost hurriedly pulled off the covers, practically leaping out of bed. “Sorry, Soap, I didn’t- Fuck!”

As he had tried to remedy the situation, the poor man had spilt his tea all over the floor.

“It’s fine, Si.” Soap brushed him off, rising to his feet. “I see you’ve not quite lost your strength. That’s good, I guess. I’ll go get some tissues.”

“No, I’ll go. I made the mess.”

As much as Soap wanted to protest, it’d be no use. He could see Simon’s mind was already made up.

“Sure.”

Soap conceded, giving way for Ghost as he grabbed his balaclava and rushed out.

***

As he was making his way there, he couldn’t help but feel this sense of unease. He was pretty certain it was what remained of Alejandro’s outburst. Though it was shocking, Ghost could understand where he was coming from; Riley himself had initial reservations about Y/N’s presence here. However, those reservations quickly died once Ghost had seen them and their desperation. He understood that kind of fear. Y/N was vulnerable right now, and needed time to rebuild their strength, hence why Ghost had vehemently protested against Alejandro’s demands to do away with Y/N.

That had led to a stern reprimand from Price and a very surprised look from Soap… and then of course, Ghost had to worsen everything by being this stupidly ill.

Simon actually had no clue what was wrong with him. It was like it had happened overnight; just suddenly, the poor bastard had come down with a pounding headache, high fever, nausea and these weird cramps in his lower abdomen and legs.

Just as he was thinking about them, another wave of pain hit him. Ghost took a moment for himself, resting a hand and his forehead on the wall, trying to find some relief in long, steady breaths.

“Are you alright?” a timid voice asked from behind him.

He turned around ad saw you, toiletries in hand, looking up at him with a worried expression.

“Yeah,” Ghost replied, “What, uh, what about you? Are you okay? You recoverin’?”

You nodded.

“That lamia got a few good hits on me, but I’m in one piece and alive, so that’s good.”

You both chuckled as you casted your gaze off to the side.

“I just… feel bad, though,” you confessed, drawing your belonging close to your chest, “Alejandro seemed so scared, like I was bringing some curse to this place.”

Ghost sighed.

“He’s been through a lot recently. That-”

“Lamia.”

“-lamia,” Ghost continued, “and her break-in probably was the last straw for him.”

“I see…”

Ghost watched as your eyes shifted, a ponderous look emerging on your face as you seemed to process this new take on prior events. He felt a small smile creep onto his face, under his mask, as you fell into deep thought, clearly having really taken in what he had said. The man would’ve let you fully enter a meditative state if it weren’t for the small splodge of dried toothpaste he noticed on the corner of your mouth.

“Oh, Y/N.” His rumbling voice snapped you right out of your trance. “You’ve got a little something on your mouth.”

“Where?” you asked, brows furrowing.

Your hand began to hover at various places around your face as a non-verbal game of ‘hot-n-cold’ ensued, with you trying to gauge whether you were near the right spot or not from Ghost’s expressions… which of course was incredibly difficult, because most of Ghost’s face was concealed.

Eventually, Ghost couldn’t take it anymore.

“Here, let me.”

Before you could even give or deny permission, he reached forward, swiping the blob away with his thumb. His touched weighed heavy on you, the sensation lingering as he drew his hand away. A shudder, confusingly hot, spread through you.

It… it was nice to feel the hand of another just touch you. It felt affectionate, and the way it felt menial, simple… you wanted him to do it again.

You couldn’t help but smile giddily.

“Thank you,” you said as you tried to locate exactly where his hand had been, “I’ll be around in the barracks, so if you need me to get you anything, just let me know.”

“Sure, Y/N.”

With that, he watched you hurry off. Then, he turned around and continued on his quest to find some tissues.

As Ghost continued down the corridor, he finally found himself at the fire exit. He stopped in his tracks, looking around for clues as to how he’d gotten here. The mess hall was back where he came…

He was quick to realise his error: you. When he saw you off, he went down the wrong way, taking him to the fire exit, and beyond that, the woods the base sat at the edge of. Ghost was about to take his leave and retrace his steps when he heard something. A rustle, then a call.

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt himself being drawn to the incessant cawing coming from around the corner, just outside. Slowly, making sure his steps were as quite as possible, Ghost crept across the threshold and onto the soil.

There, on the ledge of a window, was a small bird.

Ghost cocked his head to one side, uncertain as to why such an innocuous thing had grabbed his attention.

Then, for the first time, all day, Simon Riley felt hungry.

A warmth began build in his stomach, churnings threatening to surmount into a loud grumble. He didn’t want to give himself away to the poor thing, not when it was perfectly faced away from him, chittering away at whatever was on the other side of the glass.

Ghost’s eyes were focused, as his surroundings began to blur.

Hackles raised, he lowered himself a little, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. Under his mask, his mouth was filling with saliva, his tongue running over his teeth as he grew nearer and nearer. His jaw was tense, mouth almost trembling with anticipation.

Blood.

He could smell it on the bird, almost see it pumping throughout its body. The creature was filled with sweet, sweet red nectar.

Riley could barely contain himself, his hand ready to wrap around its neck and-

SNATCH!

SNAP!

CRUNCH!

It had been given a quick death, Ghost’s hands making short work of breaking its neck. Frenziedly, he pulled his mask up and stuffed as much as he could into his mouth, moaning in relief as he lapped up as much blood as he could take. Then, he stopped, examined the opening he had made for himself, and pulled apart its broken chest. The heart was easily squished into smithereens by his teeth, releasing more and more of what Ghost had desperately craved. Inebriated by the pleasure, he found himself losing balance, saving himself by planting a firm hand on the wall in front of him, just under the window, as he continued to tear and chew and lap up.

As he did so, he felt an ache emerge in his arms and legs, culminating in his extremities.

“Oh… fuck…” he mumbled between mouthfuls, digging his nails into the brickwork.

It grew, becoming more intense in his fingertips.

His muscles began to tighten, his hands locking in place, either around the bird or raking against the wall.

A distorted, inhuman groan escaped him, as claws pushed apart his nails, black and shining wet. It was in a staggered motion, in time with his fingers lengthening a little as his palm grew and thickened.

One would’ve thought this was it, that now the rest of his body would follow suit and twist and change, but instead, the painful adjustments made soon receded. In a mere minute, maybe even seconds, Simon Riley’s hands were back to looking human.

He dropped the poor bird’s corpse, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He paused, looking at the bloodstain now on his half-clenched fist. His stomach lurched, demanding to not let it go to waste. And so, Ghost licked up the red from his hand, before turning to the other one and cleaning up the mess.

“Oh God…” Mid-lick, Simon realised what he was doing. “Oh God… What the-”

He brought a hand to his mouth, wanting to gag, but nothing came of it.

What did he just do?

Did he just…

“Si! There you are! I thought you were taking too long to come back from the mess hall and Y/N said they saw you head this way.”

Quickly, he pulled the skull-print balaclava over his bloodied mouth, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants and whipped around to face Soap.

“What’re you doing out here?” MacTavish chuckled as he jogged his way over.

“I… uh…”

Before Simon could formulate a satisfactory response, Soap caught sight of the eviscerated bird on the ground.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” the Scot lamented, “A coyote probably got to it. Poor thing.”

He looked up to see Ghost was staring at it, his eyes unnervingly devoid of pity or any emotion for the matter.

“Simon?”

Soap smiled uneasily as he saw him snap back to the here and now.

“Sorry.” Ghost spoke with a slightly quivering voice. “Spaced out for a moment.”

The sergeant eyed him, and Ghost felt himself tense a little.

“Shall we head back inside?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, then. That cold’s clearly going to your brain.” Soap gestured for him to follow.

“Right!” Ghost chuckled.

Soap couldn’t shake the feeling something was off with the lieutenant, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was, nor did he want to ask about it for fear that Riley might push back, and harshly. Ghost had never liked to feel interrogated; he had a tendency to lash out like a cornered animal would.

Besides, it was probably just that he was feeling poorly. Colds can make people a little delirious from time to time.

As they entered the base, Soap noticed there was a distinctive smell in the air. A vaguely metallic musk, which seemed to be hovering around Ghost.

“No offence, LT,” Soap nudged him. “But I think all that sweatin’ I made you do with blankets and everythin’ is starting to… make itself known.”

“Hmm?”

“With all due respect, Simon, you smell like a wet dog,” he said bluntly.

Ghost stopped and looked at Soap sceptically. Then, he raised his arm and took a whiff to see for himself.

“Shit, you’re right. I need a fuckin’ shower.”

It would give him a good excuse to get the last of the blood out anyway.

#bloodhound fic #cod mwii fic #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost cod x reader #simon ghost riley #phillip graves cod #cod mw2 werewolf au #cod mw2 #valeria garza #task force 141 #kate laswell #captain price cod #john soap mactavish

15 notes · View notes