#sniper!reader

(this is my first post so please be nice 😞 i had an idea and just couldn’t contain it.)

It’s been 10.. no, 15 minutes? you can’t quite tell, your eyes are strained and tired from staring through a scope. the last thing you heard from your team was that they were moving in— “ETA, how copy?” your voice rings over the radio, choppy and almost unintelligible.

you get nothing but static cutting in and out, shit. fuck! now what? you can’t just leave them— and especially not without the intel.

you pack up your sniper, unhinging its stand and chamber and putting it into your bag— much easier to carry this way. Your scope tucked safely in one of the pockets, and your ammo in a cargo slot.

now, time to see what shit your team has stepped in now. you trudge ( unwillingly and undesirably may i add) down the stairs of the building you resided in, and rush out the door.

your eyes dart from one side of the street to the other— coast is clear. you make a break for it, running for the door that is creaked open slightly, you shove the door as much as you can and squeeze inside.

oh god, the blood— the smell.. it’s enough to make bile creep up your throat and a grimace appear on your face.

you’re team is clearly gone— whoever did this meant for you to find them.. almost like a warning. you grip the pistol at your side, you hear something— footsteps, maybe? you have no time to think on it when—

oh my. in any other circumstance, this man would have you on your knees with his looks but in this one— that’s not the case, with his closed fist flying right towards your face.

you duck, “Fucker!” you yell, your fist coming up and hitting him blow his jaw— ‘uppercut, motherfucker!’ you think, with a small— almost unnoticed smirk.

you feel hands grab your head— covering your eyes and mouth, while another set grabs your arms and holds them down.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, bonnie.” a scottish sounding voice starts, “you really know how’ta put up a figh’!” he says, and you can hear his smug smirk.

“what a shame that we can’t say the same for your team..” Another voice perks up, sounding more commanding.

“don’t speak on my team.” you grit out, you’re fists are clenched— although held back, the 141 can see just how much of a ‘threat’ you are. you wriggle and try to break free from their grasp, but that just earns you a scoff.

“Stop strugglin’. you couldn’t escape even if you tried.” a deep, british accent resounds. you hear shuffling before someone says something you honestly wish you had heard wrong.

“We should take ‘er back to base. could be useful— maybe we can get her to talk about why shes tryna get dirt on us.”

oh fuck, no. no, no— they must have you mistaken, right? you were here for info on the 141– and even though you’d never seen them— this couldn’t be them right?

Oh, that would make her even more bitchy. Maybe that’s why he does it, though? He lives for her loss of composure. It feels vindicating.