Call of Duty Oneshots

He thinks you talk to much. (Ghost x Reader)

TW: Violence, psychological torture.

You walk alongside Ghost, engaging in casual conversation about your day, unaware of the turmoil brewing within him. He's just returned from a mission that didnt go as plan, and the frustration and anger are still fresh.

"I met with Gaz for coffee this morning, and he told me the funniest story about his cat. You won't believe it..."

But before you can finish your sentence, Ghost suddenly snaps, his voice laced with frustration and anger. "You just never stop, do you? All you do is talk and talk and talk! It's so annoying Y/n. I wish you would just shut up for once!"

Your words trail off as you're left in stunned silence, taken aback by his outburst. The hurt in your eyes is evident.

"I...I'm sorry." Was all you managed to breathlessly whisper out.

He doesn't seem bothered by your reaction, continuing to walk in silence, showing no intention of apologizing for his harsh words.

The mission Price had sent you on was supposed to be a routine scouting mission, but intelligence had grossly underestimated the enemy's numbers.

You were captured, strapped to a cold, metal chair in a different building, unaware of how far they'd taken you while you were unconscious. Their methods were unlike anything you'd expected. No questions were asked; they reveled in your suffering. They refrained from physical harm but subjected you to a psychological hell beyond words.

Every day felt like an eternity. They deprived you of sleep for days, locked you in a small, dark room for hours on end, surrounded you in silence for hours, the shadows consuming your sanity. Sometimes they'd strip you bare and surround you, staring without words for hours, their eyes piercing through your soul.

Time blurred, and you lost track of it. Hope that your team would rescue you diminished day by day, and weeks passed with no sign of help. At some point you stopped crying. Stopped begging them for mercy. Somewhere along the line, you stopped talking altogether. Your voice stolen by the relentless psychological torment that had consumed you.

Two long, torment-filled months passed as you were locked away in that small, dark room. The unrelenting solitude played tricks on your mind, and you began to hear distant gunfire, the heavy footsteps outside your door.

You lay on the cold floor, facing away from the entrance, your senses dulled by the endless misery. When a faint light seeped into the room, your eyes stung, and you heard a voice that sounded familiar, though you suspected it was another cruel trick of your imagination.

As a hand touched your shoulder, you still doubted reality. Was it real or just another sick joke? But when the familiar skull mask appeared before your eyes, doubt clouded you even further. The voices around you were loud, your ears ringing. Ghost lifted you off the ground, holding you close as they rushed out of the room, and your eyes remained distant, lost in the belief that this had to be a dream, just like before.

It wasn't until they brought you back to the base and placed you in the infirmary that the harsh reality sunk in. You sat there with an IV hooked up to you, staring into the void, and the team watched you through the small window in the door as the doctor discussed your condition. Each of them felt a heavy burden of guilt as they listened to the doctor's words. They should have found you sooner.

Physically, you were unscathed, not a scratch on you. But mentally, you were shattered, the trauma you endured left you unable to speak. Ghost felt a knot tighten in his stomach as the doctor delivered the grim news.

He couldn't help but recall the last words he'd spoken to you, wishing you would just stop talking. He looked into your vacant eyes, so different from the ones he used to know. They held no spark, no emotion—just emptiness. The weight of regret pressed upon him as he blamed himself.