#the they/them pronouns were meant to be a temporary thing

[darth-sonny]

big news fellas

[skywalkerslvt]

Cramped—Logan Howlett

❥Pairing: Logan Howlett x AFAB!Reader (no pronouns other than 'you' mentioned)

❥Summary: While on the run from enemies, Logan and reader find a temporary hideout; a cramped supply closet. Things ensue...

❥CW: 18+, smut, forced proximity, minor dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it hoes), 2.2k words

❥a/n: god I'm such a fucking slut for this man. Hope u enjoy reading this highkey cliché fic as much as I enjoyed writing it (I had way too much fun writing this it's concerning) NOT PROOFREAD!!

The plan had seemed foolproof—until it wasn’t. What was meant to be a quiet infiltration erupted into gunfire and chaos, forcing you and Logan to improvise on the fly. You sprinted through the labyrinth of hallways, the sound of pounding footsteps and barked orders hot on your heels. Just when your lungs felt like they'd burst, Logan's hand shot out, gripping your arm and pulling you into a narrow doorway. Before you could react, he dragged you into a cramped, pitch-black closet, slamming the door behind you. His chest was flush against your back, one hand swiftly covering your mouth to stifle your gasps while the other was wrapped around your waist. The heat of his body pressed into you as his breath tickled your ear. "Quiet," he whispered, voice low and rough. "We can't outrun them. We're hiding here until they pass." The tight space, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears, and the intensity of his presence made it impossible to focus on anything else.

You could feel Logan's chest rising and falling against your back, the heat of his breath on your neck sending shivers down your spine despite the tension in the air. "Quiet, huh?" you muttered under your breath, shifting slightly against his hold. "This was your idea, remember? Charging headfirst into a whole squad of armed men?"

Logan’s grip tightened on your arm, his voice a low growl in your ear. “I didn’t hear you coming up with any better plans. Unless you count running in circles while getting shot at as a strategy.”

You rolled your eyes, even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Maybe if you’d actually listened to me for once, we wouldn’t be hiding in a damn closet right now.”

Logan huffed, his breath warm against your ear. “Yeah, well, maybe if you weren’t so damn stubborn, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.” 

You opened your mouth to retort, but the sudden closeness of his body, the feel of his rough hand that had moved from your mouth to your collarbone, and his hot breath fanning against your neck stopped you short. The tension between you had always been there, simmering under the surface, but now, in this cramped, dark space, it felt like it might just boil over.

Blinking, you regained your composure. “Well, I-” you began, but were quickly cut off by his hand covering your mouth again, your words muffled against his flesh. 

“Someone's coming,” he breathed, his grip on you tightening as you were pulled impossibly closer against his body. Sure enough, footsteps sounded outside the door a few moments later. 

As the footsteps halted right outside the door, the tension between you and Logan grew almost unbearable. Your heart pounded wildly, not just from fear, but from the electric charge that seemed to crackle in the air between your bodies. Logan's chest pressed firmly against your back, his hand still covering your mouth. The warmth of his breath fanned against your neck, sending shivers down your spine despite the danger lurking just beyond the door.

You were hyper-aware of every point of contact–his solid body behind you, the rough texture of his hand on your skin, the way his breath hitched slightly as the person outside hesitated, listening.

Your senses were on overdrive, each second stretching out as your body reacted to Logan's closeness in ways you couldn't control.

It was wrong, wildly inappropriate given the situation, but the feel of his hard chest against your back, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, was doing things to you that you'd never admit out loud. You shifted slightly, trying to ease the tension in your muscles, but the movement only made things worse–or better, depending on how you looked at it.

Your slight wiggle caused your hips to brush against his in the confined space, and Logan's grip on you tightened, a low, almost imperceptible groan escaping him. The sound sent a thrill straight to your core, your breath catching in your throat as you realized what you'd just done. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against you, his "predicament" unmistakable in the dark, cramped closet.

Logan's fingers flexed against your waist, his breath coming faster, rougher against your ear. He didn't pull away, didn't loosen his grip, and for a moment, you were both frozen, caught in the tension of the moment, the thin line between danger and desire.

Your pulse raced, and the temptation to grind back against him, to push things just a little further, was almost overwhelming. The footsteps outside were retreating, but neither of you moved, the charged silence between you heavy with unspoken need.

Logan sighed, his head thrown back against the wall in shame. He cleared his throat, his grip on your waist loosening slightly. “Listen…I-” he cut himself off with a groan as you pushed your ass back against crotch, your desire for him pushing your fear of getting caught to the side. 

“Shh. Just–just shut up,” you whispered, eyes squeezing closed as you leaned your head back against his shoulder. 

Logan's breath hitched at the unexpected pressure, his body reacting instinctively to the friction. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you even closer as he groaned low in your ear, his restraint slipping. You could feel the heat of him through his pants, hard and insistent against you, the tension between you igniting like a spark to dry tinder.

"Fuck, you're really playing with fire," Logan rasped, his voice strained, teetering between warning and desire.

But he didn't push you away. Instead, his fingers dug into your hip, his chest pressed so tightly against your back that you could feel the rapid beat of his heart matching your own.

The weight of your mutual attraction was heavy in the cramped space, the unspoken desire that had been simmering beneath the surface now threatening to consume you both. You could sense the hesitation in Logan's movements, the conflict between wanting to push you away and the undeniable need that had taken hold of him.

"Yeah, well," you breathed, your own voice shaky with both fear and excitement, "maybe I like the heat."

You felt Logan's lips brush against the shell of your ear, his fingers now trailing your waistband, his hot breath fanning across your skin as his resolve finally broke. “Tell me you don't want this. Tell me to stop,” he muttered, but the way his body pressed into yours, hard and unyielding, told you he wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon.

You shook your head, breathing out a soft “no,” and that was all Logan needed to hear. His hand made its way down the front of your pants, fingers rubbing slow circles on your clothed clit as he sloppily kissed and bit at your neck. 

A small, breathless moan escaped your lips, the sound muffled by the thick air in the cramped closet. Logan's reaction was immediate–his hand left your waistband and clamped over your mouth again, his lips now brushing against your ear as he whispered harshly, "You need to keep quiet, darlin. Or we'll both get caught, and this won't end the way either of us wants."

The combination of his roughened voice and the intoxicating closeness sent a shiver down your spine. The feel of his body so intimately pressed against yours, his hand possessively over your mouth, only fueled the fire building inside you. But the very real danger just outside the door added a sharp edge to your desire.

Logan's hand lingered on your mouth, as if he wasn't sure whether you'd manage to hold back the sounds threatening to spill from you, the tension in his grip telling you he was barely holding on himself. His hips pressed into yours, the heat between your bodies growing more intense by the second, and all you could think about was how badly you wanted him, consequences be damned.

Logan's fingers hovered at the waistband of your pants, his resolve hanging by a thread. You could feel his hesitation, the way his chest heaved against your back as if he were trying to convince himself to stop. But when your hips shifted back, pressing firmly against him, it shattered any remaining restraint.

His hand slipped beneath the fabric of your pants, his rough fingers sliding past your underwear and finding your slick heat. A choked sound rumbled in his chest as his fingers began to move, slow and deliberate, tracing soft circles that sent jolts of pleasure through your body. He pressed his lips against your neck, muffling his own groans as he worked you over, the rhythm of his fingers steadily increasing in pace.

You bit your lip hard, trying to keep quiet, but each twist of his fingers made it harder and harder to hold back the whimpers threatening to escape.

Logan's other hand remained firmly over your mouth, his breath ragged in your ear. He was losing control, his fingers moving faster, deeper, curling inside you with a hunger that matched your own.

"Fuck," he growled softly, the curse slipping past his lips as he felt you tightening around him, your body responding eagerly to his touch. He couldn't take it anymore. The sound of your muffled moans, the way you writhed against him–it was driving him insane.

Without warning, he withdrew his fingers, earning a frustrated whimper from you. But before you could protest, he spun you around, pressing your back against the rough wall of the closet. His eyes were dark, filled with a raw, unbridled need as he captured your lips in a bruising kiss, his hand already working at the buttons of your pants.

You broke the kiss just long enough to gasp for air, your hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt, desperate to feel him inside you. Logan groaned into your mouth, the sound low and primal, as he shoved your pants down just enough to give him access.

He pressed you harder against the wall, lifting one of your legs to wrap around his waist as he freed himself from the confines of his pants. The feel of him, hot and hard against your thigh, made your head spin, and when he finally thrust into you, the sensation was overwhelming–an exquisite mix of pleasure and pain.

Logan's grip on your waist tightened, his forehead resting against yours as he began to move, each thrust rough and urgent, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythm that was desperate, almost frantic. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he drove into you, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

"Fuck... you feel so good," he groaned, his voice barely a whisper, but the raw emotion behind it sent a thrill through your entire body. The tension between you, the weeks of pent-up frustration and unspoken desire, all came pouring out in the way he fucked you–hard, fast, and with a reckless abandon that left you breathless.

Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge, your moans growing louder despite your best efforts to stay quiet. Logan's hand quickly covered your mouth again, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist to keep you steady as he pounded into you. "Quiet," he rasped, though the quiver in his voice betrayed his own struggle to keep silent. "Can't let them hear how badly you want this. How badly you want me."

The filthy words pushed you over the edge. Your body tightened around him, pleasure crashing through you in waves, and Logan groaned loudly against your ear as he followed you over the edge, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

For a moment, the world outside the closet ceased to exist, leaving only the sound of your ragged breaths and the aftershocks of your release. Logan kept his forehead pressed against yours, his chest heaving as he tried to regain control.

Finally, he pulled back slightly, his hand still resting on your waist as he looked into your eyes, the intensity in his gaze softened by the shared experience. "You alright?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

You nodded, still catching your breath, the weight of what just happened slowly sinking in. But there was no time to dwell on it–footsteps sounded in the distance, reminding you both that the danger was far from over.

Logan adjusted your clothes quickly, his hands surprisingly gentle despite what had just transpired. "We gotta move," he whispered, his tone back to business, though the lingering heat in his eyes told you that what had just happened was far from forgotten.

With one last, lingering look, Logan cracked the door open, peering out to make sure the coast was clear. Then, with a silent nod, he took your hand, leading you out of the closet and back into the chaos that awaited.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Yandere Simon "Ghost" Riley Headcanons

Summary: You were just a civilian caught in the crossfire, kidnapped by a cartel and held prisoner. And now, after being rescued by Ghost, you may wonder if you are any safer with him than you were out there.

Warnings: Kidnapping, mentions of physical abuse, memory loss/amnesia, loss of ability to walk (temporary), yandere behaviour, toxic behaviour, possessive behaviour, kind of slow burn,  romantic tension, Ghost gets jealous, somewhat angsty in some parts, very fluffy in others (a good balance), mentions of interrogation, Reader showcases anxiety, no use of pronouns for Reader except ‘you’, mentions of games,

Wordcount: 7,581 words

You were a tourist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time - seen things you weren’t meant to see.

And that’s how you ended up here, chained up in a warehouse for what you could only have guessed to have been a couple of months.

You were barely kept alive by restricted rations of food and water the cartel members gave you, needing you alive but just weak enough to not be able to fight back.

They kept you around for their own amusement, hitting you, beating you, humiliating you.

You missed your family, your friends, your old life. You truly believed, with a heavy heart, that you’d die here without ever getting the chance to see them again.

Until…

It had all happened so fast that you couldn’t keep up with it all.

One minute there was a group of men playing poker at a table nearby, the next they’d all been blown away by some nigh-silent, unseen force.

As soon as it had began, it was all over, though gunfire resonated from deeper within the warehouse.

Your heart thudded, your mind hazy and heavy yet just about conscious enough to acknowledge a set of heavy, booted footsteps nearing you.

A walkie-talkie crackled, followed by a deep, gravelly voice.

“One potential hostage found. Commencing collection now.”

The chains keeping you tethered to the metal post were cut and your hands fell.

You barely had the strength to lift them, nevermind your head, which lolled forward, gaze fixed in your lap.

The person who you presumed to have released you knelt down before you. A gloved hand pushed against your forehead, forcing you to look at them.

He was ghastly.

His flesh face was covered by a second, the insignia of his endoskeleton splayed across a dark mask. His eyes were dark and seemed to swallow all light that tried to glimmer within them.

“Can you talk?” he said. His voice was calm yet lacked patience, as if he knew time was short.

You could barely move, barely think.

You said nothing.

The man took your non-answer and moved to lift you, keeping an arm under yours and the other firmly holding his gun.

Now, stood at full height, walking on legs you hadn’t used in months, your body couldn’t handle it.

Your blood pressure dropped and so did you.

The man grunted as your weight collapsed into him, almost taking him with you.

You fell unconscious, and the man rearranged you, slinging his gun over his shoulder and carrying you in his arms.

The next time you awoke, the setting was drastically different.

The dust-filled, sweltering warehouse you had grown accustomed to had given was to a blindingly white facility, the scent of streilisers and medicine filling your nostrils.

You couldn’t move much, body heavy yet soul willing, and your eyes shifted beneath hooded lids.

A machine beeped closeby, one you recognised to be mimicking your heartbeat. The rest of the room was quiet, save for the turning of paper somewhere.

The surface beneath you was plush, encompassing you, unlike the warehouse floor.

Putting the pieces together, your heart began to pound. The heart monitor copied.

A nearby nurse rushed to your side, turning your head this way and that and shining a  light in your eyes, talking at you rather than to you.

The rest became a blur.

Doctors visited, recorded your condition. You didn’t know where you were but you knew you were safe. For now, at least.

Some officers came and tried speaking to you, only to find you unable (or unwilling) to talk.

This came as a discovery to you, too.

Soon after waking up, you found that your mind, your memories, were blank. Nothing of your prior self remained save for an overview of your torturous time in captivity, and…

That mask.

The man who’d saved you.

You found it hard to speak, not having done so properly in months save for begging for your life and crying whenever you were alone.

When one of the officers asked you if there was anything you needed, your body acted on instinct, by reflex, and came out with only one word.

“Skull.”

Ghost was stationed by you shortly after that, having been known to be the one who brought you back to Base and the only one to resemble the ‘skull’ you’d spoken of.

The task was…mind numbing, to say the least.

After your singular request for the man who saved you, you went silent again.

No words, no noises, just you sat in the hospital bed, dead to the world.

Nobody could coax a word from you, not even Ghost, as you heard him introduce himself.

The events of the last couple months had forced you into a state of “Dissociative amnesia,” as the doctor had put it. “Rare, but real.”

The doctor said it could take a while for you to regain your memories, and until then, you would have to be kept under supervision.

No permanent thoughts crossed your mind during your period of blankness. They flitted in and out of your consciousness as a phantom would.

Ghost had only tried interacting with you two or three times, the first being his introduction, the others being an attempt at getting any sort of response from you.

Nothing worked, and you were both resigned to sitting in silence with one another.

Days passed, you weren’t sure how many.

Ghost was getting impatient.

He knew you could be a key witness to the cartel’s deeper activities, but he knew he couldn’t force your cooperation. Not while you were practically vegetative, at least.

Ghost sat on a chair by your bedside, all but resembling a mannequin.

He stared into the distance.

“Oh,” came your small, croaking voice. “It’s you.”

Ghost almost didn’t turn to look at you, believing the voice to be a hallucination.

He hazarded a glance and almost considered jumping.

You looked at him, dead into his eyes, conscious, talking.

Another blur of activity surrounded you immediately after, Ghost alerting the doctors to you becoming vocal again and leaving them to do their job not long after.

Tests were run, your memory was tested (of which there was still little), and the better part of a day was spent observing you, trying to determine whether you were ready for interrogation or not.

Luckily, the higher-ups seemed to feel lenient, giving you longer to recover until you were expected to produce answers to their copious questions.

In the meantime, Ghost was assigned to you day and night, both as your protector and observer.

He was…quiet, to say the least.

Rarely spoke unless spoken to, meaning he was of little entertainment to you in your bed-bound state.

This led to you trying to make small talk, regardless of whether Ghost would respond or not.

Little did you know that, despite his lack of participation, Ghost was listening to every single word you said.

During a one-sided conversation, you mentioned colouring, an activity you liked when you were younger.

“Yeah!” you said, face lighting up as you slowly recalled a memory of your younger self, colouring book in tow. “I remember that my grandma had this old, really old colouring book that she gave me. It was vintage, smelled like antique book pages, sweet,”

Ghost watched you, listened. He saw your face light up. You looked at him, eyes smiling.

“It was nearly as old as her when she gave it to me; I was terrified of ruining it so I never coloured in it. Just kept it safely on my bookshelf, looked at the pictures before bed…”

The day after, Ghost came to you with a colouring book and a box of pencils.

“Not exactly vintage, but it’ll do,” he said, laying the book and the utensils on your bedside.

You smiled up at him as he settled into his seat.

“Thank you, Ghost,” you said, smiling. “I mean it.”

Ghost offered minimal input whenever you spoke to him, which you still did while you coloured the pictures.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

After that, over the course of a week, more memories came back to you.

They were small, inconsequential at best, but they were evidence that you were making a fast recovery.

And Ghost was there to hear every single one of them.

Whenever you came out with something new, he’d write it down in a Base-issued notebook, telling you to slow down whenever words failed you, your mind wrapped up in splinters of who you were - who you are.

And you would glance at his notes every now and then.

“Wow,” you said, suppressing a smile. “Your handwriting’s worse than mine.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” Ghost replied, barely casting you a glance.

You reached for the pen, which Ghost withheld from you until he realised what you were trying to do.

Now, equipped, you turned to a new page in the notebook and tried writing something.

It came out like a doctor’s signature, merely cursive scribbles that meant nothing to the untrained eye.

Ghost eyed your work.

“What you tryna write?” he said, accent rough.

You bit your lip, trying to focus all your efforts on making what was in your head come out onto the paper.

“My name,” you said.

Ghost seemed to straighten up at that.

The memory was weak, a fawn stumbling on its wiry legs, trying to find purchase.

But it was there, behind frosted glass. You could vaguely make out the letters which would be the key to your existence.

You kept scrawling, muscle memory having weakened significantly, until you hit upon a  familiar pattern.

The ‘letters’ were indecipherable, even to yourself. The memory of your name began to fade, and, though you grasped at it, you were left with nothing as it was consumed by darkness.

You stopped writing, defeat overtaking you.

“Why’d you stop?” Ghost asked, looking up from the notebook to you.

You felt tears fill your eyes, tried to keep them in.

“I forgot again,” you said, voice cracking.

The pen lay limp in your hand, and Ghost removed it, putting it down.

The fabric of his glove against your skin sent a jolt through you, unexpected but strangely comforting.

“Well,” Ghost said, a temporary solution coming to him. “How ‘bout we give you a new name, just ‘til you find your real one.”

You sniffed, tried smiling at the gesture, and nodded.

You went back and forth for a while, trying to think of a name that would suit you based on the limited information you had about yourself so far.

“It needs to be nice,” you said. Ghost gave a slight inclination of a nod. You kept thinking.

“Fawn,” Ghost said.

His eyes bore into you, though you suspected that was just his disposition rather than him intentionally trying to spook you.

“How’s that sound?”

You tried the name on your tongue, then, you beamed.

“I like it,” you said, giving Ghost a grateful smile.

From that day on, Ghost referred to you as Fawn, a name that the rest of the Base staff called you, too, having nothing else to call you.

Ghost never told you why he picked that name. Perhaps he saw something in you that resembled your namesake. Your newborn optimism, perhaps.

At your bedside night and day, Ghost became the first and only witness of your memories as they slowly revealed themselves to you.

Some were light-hearted, some were filled with the natural sorrow found in human life, and some were downright embarrassing; all of which gave Ghost gradual insights into who you are.

He eventually seemed comfortable enough to make fun of your more embarrassing ones, such as the time you went to a store your crush worked at, only to find that you had toilet paper stuck to the heel of your shoe the entire time.

This became somewhat of a joke between you and Ghost. One that the staff seemed to find confusing.

Whenever staff escorted you to and from the bathroom, Ghost would look down at your feet.

“No toilet paper to worry about this time,” he’d say.

Your face would burn at the memory, but you’d laugh regardless.

You also forced him to listen to music that came to you as visions from another time, tunes which you’d hum to Ghost, who recorded them, took them to whoever, and would come back with the song it originated from.

Soon, you had three or four CDs which contained music you’d enjoyed before your amnesia.

They all felt and sounded familiar. Comforting.

You’d implore (guilt trip) Ghost to listen to them, too.

His face - his eyes, really, the rest of it was covered - were blank as you passed him the headphones, preparing himself to listen to whatever you’d found that day.

He gave no indication of whether he enjoyed it or not.

“I can see why you like it,” is all he would say, passing the headphones back to you.

“Oh?” you said once, laying the headphones on the bed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Ghost leaned forward onto his knees, elbows propped upon them.

“It means,” he began, “that I’m not surprised this is the type of music you listen to.”

You feigned hurt, having slowly regained your ability to utilise humour after your diagnosis, the days getting easier.

“Well, I bet I can guess what type of music you like to listen to.” You held a smile on your face, just bordering on smug.

Ghost gave you a look. “Oh yeah?” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Go on, then.”

You pretended to think for a moment, already having thought this question through many times before. Ghost was elusive, that much was plain to see, yet you imagined him in ways that made him familiar - human - to you.

“I bet you like metal,” you said. “Heavy.”

Ghost gave a sound that may have been a laugh.

“Am I that easy to read?” he said, a smirk vague in his tone.

“No,” you replied, innocently. “I’m just not surprised that’s the type of music you listen to.”

Ghost gave a slow, sarcastic, demeaning clap, muffled by his gloves.

“All right, well done,” he said, the smirk in his voice growing.

The two of you played board games together, too.

Initially, he let you win, claiming that life in the military had left him “No time for leisure.”

Translation: “I haven’t played board games in an age.”

You picked up early on he was letting you win and insisted on having him play fairly.

There was something deeply enigmatic about watching a trained soldier try and mask his frustration when he lands on Mayfair for the third time in Monopoly.

Whenever you’d lose you’d challenge him to another game, thus continuing the cycle of celebration and condemnation, with you claiming he was “cheating��� when he won.

“You told me to play fair,” Ghost would say, a smugness in his voice.

Not all times with Ghost were light-hearted, however.

Even if his presence reassured you, there was the overwhelming feeling that you were missing out on something.

You knew you had family, if they were still alive, but you didn’t know them.

Friends, too. You wondered how many you had.

If you had a crush, that meant you interacted with people on some scale, right?

And it was in times like these, times when you just wanted to go home, wherever that was, that Ghost was there for you.

More often than not you’d end up in tears, trying to stifle them.

Ghost said nothing as you wept, chiming in only when he deemed the onslaught over.

“Why don’t blind guys skydive?” he said once.

You sniffed, wiping your nose, and looked at him.

“What?” you said.

“I said, why don’t blind guys skydive?”

You looked down, as if the answer lay in your hands. You shrugged.

“Scares the shit outta their dogs.”

Silence for a second. And then, a laugh.

You gave a laugh, airy at first but firmer the longer it went on.

You put a hand over your mouth, as if to hide your growing smile from Ghost.

Wiping the streaks of tears from your cheeks, you looked at him.

“Thank you,” you said. “I feel a little better.”

“S’what I’m here for.”

About two weeks into your rescue, your physical training began.

Having fully recovered from malnutrition, Base wanted you to start learning how to walk again, both for your convenience and theirs.

Ghost attended each meeting you had to go to, watching from the sidelines as a nurse guided you between two wooden poles.

The sessions were tough. Very tough.

You felt useless, responsible for your own suffering.

“If I’d done more, if I’d fought harder-”

“Then you’d be dead,” Ghost would insist whenever you questioned your choices.

“Types like the ones who kidnapped you don’t enjoy people who can easily fight them off. Trust me, you did the right thing.”

After sessions, you were usually tired, opting to try and push for an extra hour or so to get back your ability to walk quicker.

The nurse would insist you rest immediately afterwards.

One evening, you wanted to push yourself.

“I need to do this,” you told Ghost, pulling your legs over the side of the bed. He stood by your bedside, waiting to catch you if you fell.

“I need to-” you slid off the bed, lost your balance, and fell into Ghost’s arms.

His chest was rock solid, and he held you by your arms, close to him, helping you back up.

“You need to rest,” he said, trying to guide you back to bed.

“No!” You yelled, immediately regretting it.

Still in Ghost’s arms, you looked away, shame overtaking you.

“I’m sorry, Ghost, but I- I really, really need to…”

You didn’t finish your sentence. Ghost remained silent for a minute, then nodded.

“Alright,” he said, pulling you away from the bed.

“I’ll help you.”

In your room, Ghost walked a few laps with you, his hold emigrating from your underarms to your elbows, and then to your hands.

You took uneven, shaking steps, but they were steps in the right direction.

You smiled back at Ghost as he stood behind you, helping you.

Another couple of weeks passed. Ghost would give you secret after-session sessions, helping you walk wherever you pleased (within the confines of the room).

You were still shaky, very weak in certain areas, but you were getting stronger, more reliable.

You got to know Ghost more whenever you were resting in your room.

“My favourite colour,” you began one day, “is…[f/c].”

Ghost gave a brief noise of acknowledgement.

“What’s yours?” you asked, continuing to colour.

Ghost spoke plainly. “A secret,” he said.

You blinked, wondering if you’d misheard him.

“Huh?” you said, looking up at him.

There was no humour in his eyes. He was dead serious.

“Aww, come on!” you said, oddly hurt by his lack of willing. “You don’t trust me?”

Ghost’s eyes said everything and nothing at the same time.

“Depends,” he said, diplomatically. “D’you trust me?”

“Yes,” you said, without hesitation and with all the certainty of someone who felt nothing but trust and blind faith.

Ghost’s eyes widened for a second, as if he wasn’t expecting your answer, or maybe the light was playing tricks with your eyes. 

Sensing he wasn’t going to say anything, you tried to cover for his absence.

“I mean, it’d be hard not to.” You looked down at your colouring book. You became warm, as if confessing something personal.

“You saved my life, you protect me, you’re always there when I need you,”

“Because it’s my job.” Ghost’s declaration came out as if it were an attack, a deterrent for you to not pursue this line of thinking any further.

You swallowed and continued on.

“Yeah, you could say that,” you said. “But you took this job.”

“I was assigned-”

“No, no, not this one,” you said gesturing to the room, looking squarely at him. “I mean as a soldier.”

Ghost said nothing, only watching you.

“Why would you take a job protecting people if you didn’t see yourself as trustworthy enough for them to rely on you?”

Your question was simple yet revealed a lot. Too much for Ghost’s liking.

Ghost gave no response, his gaze travelling elsewhere.

You dropped the conversation.

The room returned to silence.

“Green.” Ghost’s voice came out of nowhere, low, making you jump.

You looked at him. He said nothing else.

You swallowed, looked down at your box of pencils, and withdrew a green pencil. You passed it to Ghost, who took it reluctantly, and turned the colouring book so he could reach it.

You coloured the rest of the page together.

Then, the interrogations began.

What memories and names Base didn’t gather from your notes, they tried extracting from you in ‘interviews’.

They were simple enough at first: what did you see during your time with the cartel; what were the names of the people you encountered (ones which you hadn’t already alerted them to); how long were you in the cartel’s captivity, etc.

The interviewers were firm yet didn’t push too hard in areas which were still hazy to you.

You gave every detail you could remember and passed on every memory, no matter how small, about your time in captivity.

It brought back unwelcome feelings, the fear, the hunger, the shame…

You were offered psychological aid, which you found to be of some help, though there was an itch the psychiatrist couldn’t quite scratch.

One that you spoke to Ghost about.

“It’s like…it’s like they’re going by a script,” you said, walking with Ghost around your room, leaning against him as you navigated the circuit.

“Like they’re trying to help, they want to help, but…”

“But?” Ghost’s voice was heavy behind you, like a wall. You stopped shambling and Ghost came to a stand-still behind you.

“But…they don’t know how. They don’t know how to help me because they’ve never-”

“Been in your situation.” Ghost finished your sentence.

You turned to look at him, mouth agape as you heaved laboured breaths, your exercise having taken it out of you.

You felt a shiver crawl up your spine. Recognition.

“Yeah,” you said, exasperated. Finally, someone understood!

Ghost nodded. “I know how it feels.”

You both sat down, you on the bed and Ghost in his seat. You shifted, watching him. He searched for something to say.

“I know how your situation’s affected you,” he said. His gaze flitted from your eyes to anywhere else. “And I wish I could say it gets better. But…”

His eyes looked hard, dark. His gaze finally settled on you, penetrating your soul.

“Look, the only way you can start to rebuild your life is to talk to someone.”

“You mean…” You dared not let your gaze slip.

Ghost gave a fractional nod.

“I know these shrinks ain’t much good when it comes to our kind of trauma, but talkin’ to someone who’s been through what you have might make you feel like you’ve not lost the plot.”

You felt like a breakthrough had been made. Something, maybe excitement, crawled up your throat.

“Our?” you said, quiet, as if sharing a secret. A small smile tweaked at the corners of your lips.

Ghost gave no confirmation. But the silence was enough.

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, alongside recovering more menial memories of your past, the interrogations became harsher.

You told and retold the interrogators everything you knew, any new developments which had occurred to you, forced to relive everything which had reduced you to your current condition.

But they weren’t satisfied.

They thought you had something to hide. That you were covering for the cartel by withholding names and knowledge.

The second you were back in your room, you broke down.

You ranted and raved to Ghost, who listened intently, his attention solely on you.

In one hand you squeezed your fist, looking for your stress ball; the one that, ironically, was given to you by the same people who had caused you to need it now.

You couldn’t find it. You turned to Ghost.

Hyperventilating, in your panicked, angered state, you reached out to him.

“Can I squeeze your hand?” you said, words spewing out faster than you could think about them.

Ghost seemed rigid.

You swallowed thickly.

“Please.”

Ghost took a step towards you and, slowly, he raised his hand to you.

You took it, squeezing it, trying to stamp out the anxiety pulsing through you.

With your eyes closed and breathing evening out, you held Ghost’s hand close to you, your grip lessening with every minute that passed.

After your attack, as you got ready for bed, outside of your field of vision, standing just outside your room, you didn’t see Ghost.

Didn’t see him look down at the hand you’d so intimately held, squeezed, close to your chest.

He could feel your remnant, phantom warmth encompassing it.

He clenched his fist, as if trying to hold your hand, the memory of it which swam around his like fish in a pond.

A couple days later, you were set for another interrogation.

While you were holed up in that room, Ghost remained in yours.

He searched for your stress ball, the image of your tear-stained face in the forefront of his mind.

Somewhere within his psyche, as he scoured the space for that little yellow sphere of temporary distraction, your voice echoed.

It thanked him for finding it, held him in its grip, drove him.

The warm gratitude you’d express plagued him, encompassing him in a similar, diluted warmth he’d felt when you held his hand.

He glanced under your bed. And there it was.

He plucked it and turned it over in his hand.

The gratification of seeing your face light up when he presented it to you fizzed in his mind.

And then another, heavier thought crossed his mind.

The feeling of you close to him, holding, gripping him in your time of need…did something to him.

He’d be the last to admit that he hadn’t felt warmth like that in a long time. And to forfeit it just for a moment’s gratification seemed a waste.

Ghost glanced at the ball. He deposited it deep into his pocket.

He told himself he’d return it to you later.

Later. Later.

Later came as you hobbled down the corridor with the help of a frame.

You seemed stressed. In need of release.

Ghost slid his hand into his pocket. Squeezed the ball.

“Did you find it?” you asked, hopeful. Your optimism was difficult to ignore.

Ghost shook his head. “Negative,” he said, a habit he’d picked up. Slow and intentional. He knew what he was doing. “But I’m here if you need me.” 

And need him, you did.

You ended up confiding in him how the interrogation went, how the interviewers had made you feel like you had something to hide.

All the while, you clutched Ghost’s hand.

No amount of pressure you could muster could possibly hurt him, yet Ghost could tell you were holding back what little strength you had - both physical and mental.

“Don’t be shy,” Ghost said, voice cutting through your anxious ramblings. He looked down at your conjoined hands. “Squeeze harder.”

Something in the way you looked at him, with a look that said ‘I don’t want to hurt you’, crossed your eyes.

A look Ghost had nearly forgotten in his line of work.

You eventually fell into a comfortable rhythm wherein you would squeeze Ghost as hard as you could, leading to him faking injury at one point.

You chided him, you both laughed (or, Ghost nearly laughed), and you rested against your pillow.

“You know,” you said, turning to Ghost, “one day, I hope we won’t need a military.”

You were exhausted. Ghost could tell. He humoured your sleep-deprived ramblings regardless.

“So that people like you don’t have to fight for us.”

“Oh?” Ghost said. He’d be lying if he said his curiosity wasn’t piqued.

You nodded, movements growing sluggish, lethargic.

Your hand still held Ghost’s, resting it upon your stomach.

“You’re people, just like us.” You said, yawning. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Ghost felt an unfamiliar warmth spark in his chest. He ignored it.

“Not gonna happen, I can assure you that.”

“Which part?” you asked, eyes shutting.

Ghost leaned to mutter in your ear: “I’ll always be here to protect you.”

He didn’t know if you’d heard him.

When he withdrew, you were asleep. Still holding him.

He pulled his seat closer to your bedside, unable to bring himself to dislodge his hand from yours.

And that’s how he found you the morning after, awaking from his rigid sleep, still conjoined.

And thus, a habit was born.

After each interrogation, or psychiatrist visit or physical rehabilitation session, you would return to your room with Ghost and squeeze his hand until your anxiety dissipated.

All the while, your memories had begun returning at a quickened pace.

Ghost was learning more about you day by day.

Your favourite food, your home country, the names of your family members.

Your real name.

When he’d heard you say it for the first time, he swore the room got brighter.

It was beautiful and personal in ways that ‘Fawn’ could not compare.

It gave him a place to start searching for traces of you elsewhere.

Social media accounts, certificates, places of work and education - he knew he could find it all.

To make sure you were better off at home than you were at the Base is how he’d justified this interest to himself.

He still called you Fawn when you were alone, the name an inside joke between the two of you.

Speaking of, Ghost exchanged many jokes with you.

Regardless of how illogical or downright plain they were, you laughed each time.

Genuinely laughed.

Ghost wondered if you’d have reacted the same had you not been in the situation you were in right now; practically tethered to him and needing him for everything.

Well, almost everything.

After a few months of physical rehabilitation, you could just about walk again.

Your balance was a little off and you still needed the frame, but it was a start!

Ghost was there with you to celebrate, which, despite their best efforts to make you feel like a caged bird, the Base celebrated, too.

You’d been incredibly useful to them, having turned up many new leads for them to investigate.

As a reward, Base let you do something which caused Ghost to wonder if this was really the best decision.

They let you go to a bar with the boys.

To clarify, they said you could leave your room, the news of which travelled around the Base until it reached the ears of Ghost’s team.

“When were you gonna tell us?” Soap said, Alejandro nearby.

Ghost’s face was blank.

“Didn’t deem it necessary,” he said. And left it at that.

Naturally, Ghost’s team came to visit you and asked if you wanted to go to a bar with them.

“All that alcohol might help you remember something,” said Gaz, looking between you and Ghost.

You looked to Ghost, who, under the silent scrutiny of the other Force members, knew he couldn’t deny you of this freedom.

“Sure,” he said on your behalf. His eyes found yours and, while yours were filled with hope, Ghost’s seemed to exhibit a darkness never before seen by you.

You squeezed his hand that night you were set to leave.

“What if they don’t like me?” you said. “What if I was a terrible person and I remember all the bad things I’ve don-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Ghost’s voice came as a welcome distraction. You looked at him, swallowing your nerves.

“So what if they don’t like you? S’not like you’ll ever see them again.”

Ghost realised what he’d said wasn’t what you wanted to hear when your eyes widened, at which point he cleared his throat and tried again.

“What I mean is that they’ll like you regardless. Hell, they’re excited to just meet you after you’ve been holed up in confinement for the last few months.”

“You think so?” you said. Ghost nodded. And squeezed your hand back.

“I promise.”

The bar was nothing spectacular, being dimly lit and made solely out of wood, it seemed. But it was a change.

Creaking into the room, Alejandro spotted you first, throwing a cheer your way, followed by the rest of the Task Force, turning to face you.

Ghost was your shadow, large and wall-like behind you.

You held onto his wrist, daring not to let go, your other hand on the frame.

“Welcome, (Y/N),” said Gaz, lifting his drink in your general direction before taking a  swig.

You gave him a slight wave, a shy smile crossing your features.

“Come, take a seat with us!” Alejandro hollered, waving you over.

You cast Ghost a glance over your shoulder. He nodded stiffly and you made your way to the group.

Ghost came to your side, with you gripping onto his arm.

His hulking mass beside you relieved you somewhat.

And, though he wouldn’t admit it, having you cling to him brought back the same feeling he experienced whenever you squeezed his hand.

Was this perhaps…liking?

The cheers of the team cut his thoughts short.

He knew you’d be safe with his team if he just left. And, with your warmth radiating through him, he felt that he needed to take a step outside to rid himself of this growing affliction.

He made a move to detach himself from you, and, quick as lightning, your hand was atop his.

“Don’t leave,” you whispered to him, eyes pleading as you snapped to look at him.

His heart jumped. Something in him stirred.

“Alright,” he said. “I won’t.”

“Hey,” came Alejandro’s jovial tone. “I can see why Ghost’s been hiding you away and keeping you to himself all this time.”

You felt your face heat up at the implication, then feigned oblivion. Just in case you were misreading the situation.

“Oh?” you said, tone inquisitive.

Alejandro nodded. “You’re very attractive.” He gave you an eye smile.

Your face felt as if it were on fire.

“Ah, look what you’ve done,” came Soap, emerging from the group. “You’ve gone and embarrassed (Y/N)!”

All the while, Ghost was beside you.

He seemed…rigid.

“That’ll do.” Ghost’s stern voice came, cutting through the chatter of the bar.

You nuzzled further into his side, as if trying to cover yourself.

You and Ghost settled into a quiet section of the bar after that, Soap, Alejandro and Gaz coming to pay you a visit whenever they brought you a drink, chatting for a minute or two before feeling ghost’s icy stare on their backs.

That night, laying in bed, you cast Ghost a tired smile.

“M’sorry I’ve been so clingy recently,” you said, Ghost tucking you in beneath the covers.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, trying not to make eye contact with you.

Leaning back into your pillows, you reached for Ghost.

“Nervous?” he said, placing his gloved hand in yours.

“No,” you said. “Just want you nearby.”

Ghost’s heart spiked. He ignored it.

You fell asleep with his hand on your chest, hands holding his.

Ghost couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep without taking you in.

Even in the darkness, your features struck him as ethereal, your temperament and trust enrapturing him in ways he’d never been before.

He sat beside you, your loyal guard, watching over you through the night.

At some point, perhaps lulled to sleep by your rhythmic breathing, he joined you in a world far from this one, in a house you’d never seen before yet had lived in for years. You were happy, with Ghost behind you, unmasked, holding you.

Whether you shared this dream or not was irrelevant to Ghost. The only thing that mattered was that this, for now, felt real.

And yet, dreams can only satisfy the human lust for that which they do not have for so long.

The next day, more confident in your physical ability, you asked Ghost something which held an implication you weren’t yet aware of.

“Play Twister with me,” you said. You had a small smile on your face, one which Ghost was finding more and more difficult to deny.

After much pleading and begging, he eventually relented, more fond of the idea than he’d let on.

However, there was a stoic hesitance about him.

“I might hurt you.” His voice was sincere, yet his tone felt blank, as if he were protecting himself from the thought of injuring you.

You just smiled. “Never,” you said. “I trust you.”

Ghost scarcely contained the warmth seeping through his chest, threatening to make him smile.

He suppressed it.

“Fine,” he said.

Half an hour later, you were tangled together, neither relenting as your competitive nature got the better of you.

You span the dial, then called to Ghost: “Right foot, yellow!”

You tried. You really, really tried. But being pinned under the weight of a 6’2 ½ man and only just getting your strength back didn’t exactly give you an advantage. And stretching yourself too far, spreading your strength too thin, caused you to crumble.

You yelped, falling onto your front, winding yourself.

Ghost remained stationery on top of you.

You turned over onto your back and looked up at him, laughing.

“You can let go now,” you said. “You’ve won.”

“I know,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

You gave a breathless laugh, hands either side of your head.

Ghost lowered himself onto his knees, your legs caged between them.

He didn’t notice until he felt your thighs touch the inside of his legs, at which point he became aware of the position you were in.

His hands were on either side of your shoulders, trapping you beneath him.

You went quiet, the only noise being your laboured breathing as you regained your breath.

You were so close, you noticed, able to see Ghost’s dark eyes searching yours.

Neither of you spoke.

Slowly, cautiously, Ghost leaned down, drawing closer to your face.

You watched, frozen by your own indecision.

Sure, you liked Ghost, but did you like like him?

Your body decided the latter as you tried to meet him in the middle. Instinctual.

The material of his mask just grazed the tip of your nose when a hurried knock came at your door.

Your heart jumped and you gasped, both you and Ghost turning to look at the door.

You regained your breath, chest heaving. “We should…um…” you struggled to find the words to say, sliding out from beneath Ghost.

“Yeah,” he said, getting up. He offered a hand to you, which you took, and hoisted you up.

You landed on his chest, his hand still gripping yours.

You couldn’t bring yourself to let go, and neither could Ghost, by the looks of things.

But alas, the doctor was persistent, calling your name through the door.

You parted without another word, leaning onto your nearby frame. Ghost assumed his usual tall posture, shaking the situation off his shoulders as if it were snow.

A couple weeks later, the foundations upon which you and Ghost had built your friendship came tumbling down.

Base had announced that they were sending you home, having gotten in contact with your family.

More of your memory had resurfaced, as had your strength; enough to reduce the risk of you getting injured somehow during transit.

Upon hearing this, you and Ghost had very different reactions.

Your heart swelled and you cheered, the thought of reuniting with your family again making your body light up.

Ghost remained quiet, no different from usual. But something about his quietude felt…off.

Cold.

Base would discharge you within the next day or so.

You related your plans of what you would do when you returned home.

“I’m going to go to the beach, I’m gonna read more, I-”

Ghost tuned you out, watching you with a vacant stare.

He knew he should have respected that you were bound to leave eventually, as all good things do. But…something about you made this separation more difficult than it needed to be.

Perhaps it was his ego, so inflated with your reliance on him that he could scarcely see himself having any value outside of it.

That was his first and final line of defence against what the real issue was.

As he watched you get excitable to get away from here, from him (he told himself), his resolve began to crack.

It had been chipped and scathed by other occurrences, sure. But this pressure, this final obstacle, threatened to destroy it entirely.

“What do you think, Ghost?” your voice tuned in as if it were re-emerging from water.

“About what?” he said. He saw little purpose in feigning interest now.

“About me being able to go home.” You wore a smile, a genuine smile. Ghost had seen enough to be able to identify it.

“Good,” he said. “Finally be out of my hair.” There was a venom in his tone that made you double-take.

You tried to ignore it, tried to focus on what the future held for you, but something in Ghost’s demeanour had changed. You sighed, dropped your previous train of thought.

“Ghost…” you said as you slid off the edge of your bed. Your balance had improved, making the trip to Ghost easier than it used to be. He reached out to grab you on instinct.

Standing before him now, you gazed into his eyes, trying to find the root of the issue.

“I wish we got more time together. Under different circumstances, of course.”

Of course, Ghost wanted to say, but he remained mute.

You placed gentle, cautious hands upon his chest, smoothing them over the fabric.

“You’ve been so good to me, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.”

Your hands inched their way up to hold the sides of his mask. He made no move to remove you. His eyes bore into yours, soft in a way you’d never seen them before.

He placed his hands upon your waist, pulling you closer to him, slowly, methodically.

Your mind flashed back to your game of Twister. How close you’d been then and how close you were now.

Without thinking, urged by some sorrowful desire, you pulled Ghost into a tight hug, burying your face into his shoulder.

You sniffed, feeling tears sting your eyes and throat.

Ghost’s arms gingerly encompassed your frame, sliding around your waist, securing you.

The aversion he had to physical touch seemed to dissipate from him as you felt his weight pile on top of you, no longer holding back.

Neither of you spoke.

In your mind flashed a future without Ghost, a very real possibility. In Ghost’s, a future of only you and him. A silent promise he made to the both of you.

It took some time but the two of you eventually separated, with you wiping your nose on your sleeve.

Ghost watched you, hesitant to leave. Hesitant for you to leave.

You went to sleep that night as you never had before; Ghost laying in bed beneath you as you rested on his chest.

In his pocket, Ghost squeezed the stress ball, having found more use for it than you had.

In his haze, overwhelmed by the scent and presence of you, came an idea.

Later that morning, as you prepared to leave the Base, Ghost returned your stress ball to you.

“You found it!” you exclaimed, taking the ball and holding it close to your chest. You beamed up at Ghost, though there was an evident sorrow within you. “Thank you.”

Ghost offered his hand to you as he had many times before. And, for what you believed to be the final time, you took it, squeezing it.

You didn’t want to let go.

And neither did Ghost.

You were escorted onto the aircraft, Base fearing that you may be a target for any remaining cartel members while in the country, thus issuing you with a more discreet method of air travel home; a small helicopter.

You watched as Ghost grew further and further away, waving to you as you did to him, until he was gone.

In your hand you clutched your stress ball. Looking down at it, you turned it over in your hand.

There was something on it.

Looking closely, you saw the unmistakable outline of a phone number written in black ink, along with the word ‘Ghost’ below it.

You smiled, the crushing dejection you’d experienced for many hours before evaporating, replaced with a feeling you had grown all too familiar with.

Hope.

Meanwhile, Ghost got straight to work on tracking your location.

He wanted to know where that aircraft was going, when it would land, and approximately how long it would take for you to get home (and call him).

You may not have been able to see him anymore, but Ghost was watching over you.

This would be far from the last time you’d see him, he’d make absolutely sure of that.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

A/N: Due to tumblr's 4,096 character limit per text box (paragraph), I've had to separate the whole post out like this to be able topost it. I've tried putting the breaks where there would be a time skip so that reader immersion doesn't suffer too much.

Thank you for your patience :-)

Taglist: @yagipeach @deddoea @ghostsbrooklnbabe

[lanawinterscigarettes]

hiii i just found your blog, I LOVE HOW YOU WRITE, and if i can request like an angsty story about house and wilson with reader, and the reader has like some disease that'll kill her😭😭😭😭😭im just craving angst

YOU ARE SO SWEET THANK YOU 💞💞 it's been awhile since I've written a good angst fic so this is perfect for me

Your Last Breath (Greg House x gn reader x James Wilson)

Warnings: talk of hospitals/medical procedures, reader has a mystery illness that kills them, they/them pronouns used a few times to refer to the reader in a gender neutral way, hurt/no comfort, heavy angst, main character death (spoiler: it's you)

The doctors had been trying for months to figure out what was wrong with you. Months of invasive tests, months of going back and forth with possible explanations, months of being put on temporary treatments that seemed to work for a short while before you eventually succumbed to whatever was causing your problems again.

Everyone was stumped, and by everyone I truly do mean everyone. Not even House could figure out what was wrong, something that frustrated him to no end for multiple reasons. And by the time he was finally able to figure out what the cause was, it was already too late.

The disease had progressed too far along on its course for the doctors to be able to treat it properly. The best they could do was make you comfortable for the few weeks you had left to live.

Usually he liked having cases he couldn't crack, he liked figuring out the puzzle of what was bothering his patient, he liked being able to go to Cuddy and say "I told you so" when it ended up him being right and everyone else was wrong. But not this time.

This time all he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and die. If only. He'd gladly give up both of his legs if it meant you'd get better.

Meanwhile, the resident head of oncology wasn't taking the news very well, either. It was normal for House to shut himself away for extended periods of time, but not Wilson. He barely left his office anymore, not to check on his own patients, not to accept a request for a consult, nothing. In fact, the only time he ever did leave was to visit you.

Most nights were spent with either him or House at your side, checking your vitals and fetching whatever it was that you needed. You ended up having to beg the both of them to go home at some point, even if it was to just shower and change, but they still refused, choosing to stay at the hospital instead.

Occasionally one of the ducklings would stop by if either of them couldn't for some reason, whether that be due to another patient needing attention or because you finally convinced them to take a break for once.

Foreman was solemn, talking about arrangements that could possibly be made for your body after death if you hadn't decided already. Cameron was sympathetic, reassuring you that they'd make sure you wouldn't be in any pain during your last days on earth. Chase was playful, trying to take your mind off things by cracking a joke or two. And Cuddy was surprisingly very nurturing when she managed to make the time to check in on you.

The whole thing was very bittersweet. While you appreciated everyone caring so much about you, it hurt to know why they were doing it.

Your final day was surprisingly quiet, with no nurses stopping by to check on you every hour or so like they had been for the past couple of weeks where you'd been bedridden almost completely. You suspected someone had requested for that, so you could have a bit of peace in the last few hours you'd be alive for.

House stood at the foot of your bed, watching as you slept. He looked like he was about to say something when Wilson suddenly spoke up from the armchair beside your bed.

"Don't even think about it, House. You're not waking them up right now."

Despite Wilson's firm tone, House couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Oh, come on. It's not like it matters much, they're going to be dead soon anyway."

It took everything in the oncologist not to snap and strangle the man in front of him. The only thing that managed to stop him was the sound of you letting out a hacking cough as you woke up. Even with the oxygen machine, it had become increasingly more difficult for you to breathe.

"Guys, don't fight," you tried to make your tone stern as you lectured them, but your throat was dry and therefore made your voice weak and raspy when you spoke.

"Hey, hey, don't speak, it's alright," Wilson gently reassured you as he reached out to take one of your hands into his. Your skin felt clammy, but he didn't care.

House had a pained look in his eyes as he watched you, but he did his best to cover it up with his usual snark. "We were just talking about you. Trying to figure out who should get your stuff when you die."

Wilson gave him an evil look, but you simply laughed. At least, they thought you laughed. It was kind of hard to tell given how sick you were.

"You guys are funny."

If it were any other time, House would've beamed with pride and joy at being able to make you smile with one of his quips, but this time he just felt empty inside, knowing that it was possibly the last one you'd ever hear. He quietly observed as Wilson helped you drink some water out of a small paper cup, one hand helping you hold it up to your lips while the other rested on your shoulder.

"Thank you," was the only thing you managed to get out once you were done, your breathing stalling yet again when you tried to speak. The three of you knew it was getting close to when it was going to happen. The problem was that only one of you had accepted it, and it wasn't either one of the two doctors who were in the room.

"I love you guys," ended up being your final words, a bittersweet smile on your face and tears in your eyes as you took your last breath. You hoped they knew that you meant that. You hoped they knew that you didn't blame them.

And you hoped that your death helped to bring them closer together rather than tearing them apart. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but who really cared? It's not like you'd be around to witness it anyway.

End notes: I rarely ever finish a request this early so please don't expect this to become a normal thing 😭 I just got really into writing this for some reason and once I started I just couldn't stop

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for not outing myself at my internship?

(some quoted things are paraphrased because my native language isnt english and i had to translate the things im quoting first.)

I (20+, trans nb) recently got a four week internship at a local radio station. I dont take any HRT yet and dont own a binder, so while i do try to dress in a way that feels comfortable to me, i dont really consider myself to be passing. So I applied to the internship as my deadname (which is also still my legal name) and introduced myself as a girl and with that name too. I was going in with the mindset that its kinda my own personal thing to consider, and since its only temporary and involves 'official' stuff (documents, articles being credited etc) + i never know how people would react to it/treat me, i dont necessarily have to tell everyone i meet. the internship went over kinda fast and everyone there was really nice and i had a feeling they'd also be accepting and use my right pronouns and name if i told them, but at that part i didnt have much time left and didnt want them to suddenly treat me differently and make a big thing out of it.

During the last few days of the internship, i got sick and couldn't go to work, which in itself was fine. But what happened was that my grandpa, who sometimes does volunteering at the same radio station, had an appointment to record something on one of the days i was sick and thought it'd be nice to surprise visit me. I, being sick and at home, obviously wasn't there but when he tried to find me he called out my new name and not my deadname, and when they got confused and asked him who he meant he apparently kind of laughed at them for not knowing that that name is me.

The next day, when i called in again to tell them I'd have to stay home for the next two days (till weekend) too, i immediately got asked why he was calling me [new name] instead of [deadname]. I got kinda uncomfortable since its like, either forcing me to lie or to out myself. I ended up telling them the truth, that im actually trans and prefer that name and that my family & friends use it for me, but that i didnt feel like outing myself at their workplace since it was only a short term official thing. The woman on the phone then went along the lines of "ah, i figured it was that already. you wouldnt have been the first trans intern we had, we would have been happy to use your new name for you. I also didn't like/appreciate your grandfather laughing at me for not knowing about it". I didnt really comment on that more than saying 'thanks' because i didnt want to have to defend me not outing myself? And we had a few other official things to discuss regarding the internship ending anyway.

A few days later i got mail from them, which had the documents i needed to prove i was an intern there (and they were nice and sent two copies, one with my deadname and she/her and one with my new name and he/him). There was another smaller piece of paper in the envelope which read "kind regards from everyone in the team. and sorry we weren't sensitive/understanding/empathetic enough for you to tell us".

And it sounds nice, but to me the message + the conversation i had where i was kind of forced to out myself earlier reads kind of passive aggressive. or as indirectly telling me i should have just outed myself and they're hurt by me not trusting them enough to tell them and making them look dumb to my grandfather for not knowing.

AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[inkybloom-luv]

"But you're still pretty..!"

♪~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♪

Somehow I am still alive!! Uhm!! I tried my best for this one! @midnightmah07 requested this randomly on a post so I hope you like it!! Took a while but I think I did well! Enjoy! And for anyone else reading this, requests are still open please check my rules for more info! All my writing works can be found under the "Inky's works" tag if you would like to check them out! Please tell me if I missed a tag susbsjsnsb

Request: Leona, Ruggie and Kalim with a S/O who has pimples

Tw; none that I'm aware of! Mention of bullying (maybe?)

They/them pronouns used!

♪~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♪

Leona Kingscholar

When Leona made (Name) play his pillow for a nap he didn’t sign up for them not paying attention to him at all. Sure he didn’t outright tell them that was what he wanted but should that not be a given so he could relax with them in peace? He watched them through barely opened eyes as the used their phone camera to inspect their face, or more specifically their pimples, he guessed. He let his mind wander for possible reasons, it didn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that perhaps (Name) was insecure. So now he had to think of a way to start working on the issue, to get the insecurity to go away, even if it was only temporary. They were laying on soft earth at the moment and it was calm enough that (Name)‘s guard was down so.. flick!

With a barely there thump the phone landed on the floor, not the slightest bit of damage on it. In barely a moment Leona pulled them down with him, right to his chest, with no chance of escaping.

“Stop looking at yourself like that, you’ll turn into that skincare obsessed Blondie. Besides, there’s nothing to stress over in the first place herbivore. Those things will go away, I’ve seen them enough on those idiots (read; Savanaclaw students) during training. Don’t pick and you’ll be fine.”, he said and paused, taking a deep breath and getting comfortable before continuing “Anyway, you don’t need to think about that right now, considering you should have been busy being a pillow instead, so you have to make up for that now..!” And with that he fell asleep again, well, he pretended to, just to see if his diversion worked and yes, it seemed to work just fine. He stayed awake a little longer.. but once they were napping, he slept a bit too.

Kalim Al-Asim

“Ooooo! What are you looking at? Did you try something new with makeup?” Kalim asked as he came over to their desk in class, wondering why (Name) was inspecting their face, only for them to shake their head no. “You didn’t? Is something about your face bothering you then?” He asked, which was correct. They didn’t exactly want to admit to Kalim that they were feeling insecure about their pimples, especially since there were one or two Pomefiore students eyeing them that day. Still, Kalim was not someone you could just lie to that easily, especially since he already caught them inspecting their face for the nth time that day. So, (Name) decided, they had to be honest. They should be honest, Kalim did not deserve to be lied to anyway. So they told him that they were feeling bad about their pimples and that said pimples were bothering them. It took him a moment to realise what they meant because really he couldn’t think of a reason that they should be insecure. Sure the Pomefiore students really sucked but they didn’t know (Name)! Therefore they were not entitled to have an opinion about their looks!

He furrowed his brows and pouted at (Name).

“Why are they a problem? I don’t get it.. you look pretty anyway!” And after that, he stayed silent. That is until he got an idea.

“I know! How about we get a facial together?? I can ask Vil for recommendations on Salons and we can have a spa date! I heard facials can help with skin problems so if you really want to get rid of them, let’s at least make it a fun date!” Kalim suggested, kissing their forehead immediately after and giving them a hug. Yes, a date like that would surely be wonderful.

Ruggie Bucchi

Silence followed their statement. (Name) was upset that day and when their boyfriend Ruggie noticed and asked, albeit in his usual teasing tone and followed by his signature giggle. Of course once he realised that maybe it was a bit more serious than that he once again repeated his question but more serious this time.

“I mean.. I guess my pimples are really bothering me lately because they’re just so.. you see them yourself, you get it, right?” (Name) said, which Ruggie nodded at, raising a hand to his chin to think.

“Well.. don’t see why they bother ya, cause you’re still good looking with or without them.. but my Grandma’s got a face-mask recipe somewhere, my mom had bad skin growing up I’m told.. won’t be fancy but if you like, we could make that together

once I get the time to call for it.. buuut my service isn’t free, shishishi~” He teased as he ruffled (Name)’s hair, which made them roll their eyes but nod anyway. They knew just the way to repay him after all, so a small favour like this wasn’t a big deal in that way, but it meant a lot to them. And maybe they didn’t hate their pimples as much as they thought, after all, if Ruggie didn’t care, why should they? Soon Ruggie was off with a quick bye bye kiss, leaving (Name) feeling impatient as they waited and prepared for their little date, smiling to themselves as they formed an all too familiar batter into shapes as oil heated up in a big pot behind them.

[oceanlipgloss]

HALLMARK

ANDREALPHUS.

+ warnings: angst, mentions of blood.

+ female mc, feminine pronouns.

Spoils of war are of endless incarnations. So much violence, so many forms. Like white feathers soaked in crimson, for instance.

Some wounds always throbbed, bled and wept—raw forever, impossible to forget. Plasters or bandages aren't the only way to silence them for a minute. Sometimes, a kind hand makes for a proper disinfectant. Light and temporary, yet ever so tangible.

Old scars and white feathers, fresh blood and a soiled halo—those are his hallmark. They are the souvenirs of pain and death. They are the vengeance that holds his destiny and drips with the weight of tragedy, red and ugly. They are the invisible photographs of a black past.

It is said that change leaves no existence untouched; it caresses the sun, the moon, the stars; it strokes the brain, the soul, the heart. It aims for the universe and paints the sky.

A truth, or a lie?

Lie.

Lie.

Lie.

What a cruel lie. How could it ever be perfectly true when some things never change—never different, eternally the same?

Like his sorrow, like his pain.

Love is not a healer. Care is not an ointment. They may make things better, but never for forever.

Right, or wrong?

Right.

Right.

Right.

If change has such a generous touch that reaches all, however, could it not let delicate hands alter his hallmark, just for now, just this once?

Burgundy smeared the halo in her hand. Haloes are a craft of paradise, but where was the heaven in all this sorrow? The halo itself was dainty, but it was burdensome to hold, massive with the weight of the past as it was. Heavy.

His body was warm and his lap was soft, but there was something cold and hard in his heart.

Devils don't have white wings, but the symbol of angelic flight burdened his back.

Blood dyed the feathers between her fingers. One after one she removed them, one by one they fell off his hair and sunk to the floor. Marred wings dropped to the ground like lifeless souls.

New beginnings might be real, but they may as well also be a myth. They depend on one's heart. They take time to come true. Grand things begin very small—tiny step after the next.

New beginnings might not last, but that may very well be alright. Perfection isn't summoned by the first try.

Soft waves was his hair under her fingertips. The braid was broken now. She was weaving it anew.

A little change.

There was nothing to see either way, so he closed his eyes. Serenity ghosted its palm over his lids for the first time in a very long while.

A few seconds of peace, foreign and quaint.

Why did she touch him like he was made of glass? She was the fragile one.

But...perhaps he was, too, sometimes. On the inside. His wounds were still fresh with hot blood and oozing pain.

He felt an unfamiliar rubber band constrict his braid.

Maybe, just maybe, he could cherish the tranquility of this night—but it doesn't really matter if the trophies of revenge lay on the ground at the moment.

After all, the past never once only took the form of defiled hearts, crimson feathers and dripping haloes. A dead angel's glowing scythe can't rip apart the bodies of despair and bloodlust.

And so, tomorrow the past will seal his heart again. It will turn him into a vicious hunter again. Because...some wounds are never meant to heal; they are fated to forever throb, bleed and weep.

+ MASTERLIST

+ AO3 POST

©𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨

[megistusdiary]

I LOVE UR FICS OMFGGG

SO.... HESR ME OUT

jealous!cyno with a sub!fem reader

ayyy tysm ;w; ♡♡

also ohhh i love this concept cyno is a fine mfer 🙏🙏

warnings: dom!cyno and sub!fem anatomy/pronouns reader

jealous dom cyno, rough sex, penetration (sub receiving), biting, mentions of voyeurism, orgasm control, doggy-style (get it because it's the anubis mask, and he is a jackal 👍 professional cyno impersonator here)

you sighed as cyno gripped your wrist firmly, tugging you behind him as he stormed off back to your temporary housing arrangements for your trip.

the two of you were spending some time in sumeru city on what cyno called 'official general mahamatra business.'

which meant you got to visit the city and shop, eat, and sightsee to your heart's content as a much needed vacation from your usual work and studies.

of course, cyno couldn't be with you the entire time, jaw clenched as he watched you leave with a few members of the matra, promising no harm would come to you.

one of the younger men promised to take you to all of the best places to see the skyline, closing the door behind you and leaving cyno to stand alone with a slight frown etched on his face.

it stung more to see you occasionally walking by with him later out the windows in the meeting hall. cyno lost focus on whoever was speaking, eyes following your form as you gestured at another shop, urging the matra to follow behind. that should be me, cyno thought to himself.

he was not ignorant to his duties, and you both knew things would be like this. but oh, how unfair fate was.

perhaps it was the fact that he barely got to spend any time with you, or maybe that things hadn't been going well with negotiations, but something sparked cyno to practically drag you away the minute he dismissed his final meeting for the evening.

once you got into your room, cyno kicked the door shut, letting go of your wrist as he paced back and forth. his expression was still eerily neutral, showcasing his exceptional ability to appear both menacing yet level-headed.

"cyno-" you called out to him, reaching for his shoulder as he turned away. "cy," your voice softened more, seeing his shoulders tense, "what's going on? did something happen with work?"

cyno turned towards you, eyebrows furrowed and finally displaying some emotion. "did you have fun?" he asked.

"huh? i mean, yeah, it was nice to go-"

"with him." cyno added as your lips pursed.

"what are you talking about?" you watched cyno remove his garb as you sighed. "you're talking about the matra i was with. he was nice, sure, but-"

cyno suddenly gripped your chin, pushing your cheeks in and puffing your lips out. "oh? he was nice? i bet he was. it's not fair, though."

you tried to ask him what wasn't fair, though cyno immediately responded for you, seeing as you couldn't talk.

"it's not fair that he gets all of your time while i'm left to watch." cyno tuts, leaning down towards you. "but, now i finally get my turn, hm?" cyno released your cheeks as you inhaled sharply.

"cyno, i-"

"general." he corrected as your neck grew warm.

"general, it isn't like that, and-"

"maybe not for you, but i can recognize a challenge when i see one. he thought he could best me by stealing my partner. but he was wrong." cyno softly chuckled, gripping your chin and dragging his thumb across your bottom lip. "now, be a good girl for me and strip."

you opened your mouth to protest, but cyno slid his thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. "don't make me repeat myself, sweetheart. now." he ordered, prompting you to move away, releasing his thumb and leaving it coated in shiny spit as you pulled off your clothes, dropping them onto the floor.

"get on the bed. all fours."

it was a whirlwind how you went from that command to him pressing his sculpted chest into your back, fucking his hips into you with fervor as you sobbed out into the sheets.

cyno's hand roughly pressed in between your shoulder blades, shoving you further into the mattress as you panted, cheek resting on the blanket.

"how much do you wanna bet that matra dreams of seeing you like this every night? stealing the general's heart from him?" cyno grinned wildly, hair falling messily over his eyes. "maybe he's listening right now, pressing his ear to the door. fantasizing about this exact scenario because it's the closest he'll ever get." he chuckled as cries of his name spilled from your lips when he grinded into your g-spot.

"general, please please please-"

"'please' what?"

"wanna come, i need to-"

cyno let out a tsk, gripping your hip more firmly and pushing you down, leaning up to gain leverage and fucking you from a new angle.

"oh, archons- fuck-" you gasped, feeling him even deeper as you grasped at the sheets, almost tearing the fabric.

cyno moved his hand from your back to your head, threading his fingers in and pulling your head back. "tell me, sweetheart, how do you feel?"

"good, good, i wanna come, cyno- general, please, make me come!"

"are you sure you don't want to go ask that general? i bet he'd be more than happy to-"

"no!" you interjected. "only you, only you! please, please, i've been a good girl!" you bargained with him as cyno let out a ragged breath, moving a hand to play with your clit as you squirmed.

"go on then, come for me. be a good girl and come on my cock. let the entire city know what their general does behind closed doors."

[trashboatprince]

Hey, remember a while back when I was making art and stuff of Ten in a skirt because fashion has no gender and the Doctor would look cute in one? And I wrote a whole one-shot about Ten buying one with Donna being there as support? This one?

I decided to do a part-two with Fourteen and Rose Noble.

As always for me, I write Fourteen as enby going by they/them, but doesn't care what pronouns people use for them. However, Rose is not aware of this at first, so she uses he/him before she learns.

On with the fic!

--

"Do you ever sit still?" Rose snickered, watching as the Doctor shifted in his seat on the bus, looking at whatever was going on through the windows on either side of the vehicle.

"Impossible for me, clearly." The Doctor said. "Your mum and grandmother won't stop complaining about me fidgeting at the table. Just yesterday, Sylvia told me not to sit cross-legged at the table! Much more comfortable, if you ask me."

"Yeah, and when you put your feet on the floor, she told you to stop tapping your feet on it." Rose grinned and the Doctor grinned back.

The Doctor had been living with the Noble-Temple family in their temporary home provided by UNIT for two weeks now, and Rose was getting used to the alien being around. He was actually really cool, once you got past his odd quirks. But she had developed some of his quirks from previous incarnations throughout her life, so she couldn't say anything.

Today was Saturday, and Rose was looking forward to a shopping trip in town. She had gotten paid well from a few sales and wanted to celebrate with getting some supplies. And a few new items of clothing, her closet could do with it. The Doctor had tagged along because he wanted out of the house, and Mum had the key to the TARDIS so he couldn't go in there to do whatever it was he did in there.

Also, hence why they were on the bus.

But it wasn't like the Doctor couldn't just get into the TARDIS without the key. He had the sonic, and he said she'd open for him easily, but Mum was strict about the retirement thing. No running off for adventures or whatnot!

Still, the Doctor happily had agreed to come along with Rose into town, saying it wouldn't hurt to do a bit of shopping for himself. Yeah, he said he had a lot of clothing in the TARDIS, but Mum and Gran were getting on him about dressing like a human, not as... well... Mum said he looked like someone who 'worked in men's wear'. And this made the Doctor bristle, saying something about how she's never gonna let that one go.

Whatever that meant.

"Ooh, this is our stop." The Doctor said as the bus came to a slow stop and the two of them got off when the doors opened.

He was grinning, bouncing on his feet as he glanced about. "Ah! I know where we are!"

"You do?" Rose asked as she adjusted her backpack purse.

"Yeah! I came here years ago with Donna! This is where I bought-" He stopped and looked a bit flushed.

Rose raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"Uhh... I know, I know, dumb to get embarrassed about, considering I was a Time Lady before this face, and you're under a similar flag..."

She blinked and gasped. "Oh! Did you get some feminine clothing from a shop here?"

"Yep." He said, popping the P. "Bought my first skirt here, was nervous as hell about it, didn't know what your mum would say about it. But she encouraged it, said that it was my choice to dress how I wanted and all that. Especially cause I basically came out as, well, genderfluid? Non-binary? One of those to her."

"Oh shi- wait, you're non-binary? Crap, have I been getting your pronouns wrong?"

"What do you use?"

"He/him."

The Doctor shrugged. "I can understand why. I've never corrected any of you guys on it, everyone uses those for me, considering the face and all. Look rather boyish, honestly, even at my old age." There was a bright grin at this.

"Ah, but I personally don't actually see my gender as really a big deal nowadays. I honestly just use they/them when I think about myself now, but I'm not offended or opposed to the use of male or even female pronouns. Though being called 'miss' again with this face would be fun."

Rose nodded, listening. "So... you're fine with me using whatever? Do you have a preference? I remember you telling the Meep you used the definite article."

"That I do! I mean, the Doctor, that's as good of a gender as any! But you can use whatever, I don't care." The Doctor said, shoving hi- their hands into their pockets. Might be better to go with the ones they used for themself.

"Right, got it." She nodded and started to walk with them to the thrift shop down the street. "What are you looking to buy anyway?"

"I dunno, I'll see whatever catches my fancy. Might get some new shoes, I love these ones, but my future self ran off with the ones I got when I regenerated and these ones," The Doctor gestured to the very worn and slightly burnt converses they wore, "were damaged when I went from this face to Chinny. At least he was nice enough to bring them back to the TARDIS."

She laughed a bit at their grumbling as the two entered into the shop. "Thinkin' about maybe getting another skirt or two from here? Since this is where you found your first one, as you said?"

The Doctor paused and looked back at her. "Should I? Think I can still pull it off?"

"Oh yeah! I think you can! If you want, I can help you pick out things."

The Doctor smiled at her, in that soft way she sees them do when they're relaxing, loosening up and not having their hackles up. She grinned. "Come on, let's doll you up!"

--

They were in there for over an hour, and so far Rose had found more clothing for herself than the Doctor. It wasn't their fault that a lot of things in thrift stores weren't always to their tastes. And this one seemed a bit picky.

Pinstripes weren't for them this time around, they rather liked tartan better, but it wasn't easy to find anything that fit them right. Sizes were also a problem. They were a skinny thing, as Donna put it, so things often were a bit big, and the Doctor liked tighter clothing, there was a sensory comfort there.

But, they had found some silly shirts with ridiculous sayings on them, including one that had Rose and them laughing. It said 'I'm no rocket surgeon', and it went right into their little cart.

They had even found a new pair of converse to wear, not white this time, but they were a really nice dark blue. They even found a pair in hot pink, which reminded them of the two Rose's in their life. Ah, but those ones were too small, oh well.

A few comfy looking sweaters and some buttons up went into the cart as the Doctor browsed, and as they examined a really fuzzy ones in pink and green stripes, they heard Rose call out to them, waving her hand.

"Find something good?" They smiled as she came over and they stared at the item in her hands.

It was a surprise to find a skirt that match their old pinstripe suit perfectly all those years ago, but to find a second perfect skirt, in their tartan? Well... that was...

Probably best not to question the universe, honestly. Not when it came to being around the Nobles.

"It's perfect! It might even be your size!" Rose said, holding it out to them.

The Doctor took it, looking it over. "You think so?"

"Oh yeah, and I think I found a few more in other styles and colors you might like that could work with some of those tops you've picked out. But that one? That's perfect for you!"

They looked at the skirt, checked the size, and put it into the cart. "Thank you." They said, and she looked delighted. "Now, show me these other ones you found!"

--

"-gonna keep sticking the googly eyes to yourself, I'm removing you from eye duty."

"You sound like your mother."

"Okay, just for that, give me the jar of eyes."

"Nope!"

Donna paused in removing her shoes at the door, hearing her daughter and her adopted alien sibling from the living room. There was some noises followed by laughter and a comment of 'oh dang, we made a mess'.

She sighed and set her jacket on the hook, along with her purse. She walked into the living room a moment later, finding Rose with some of her sewing material on the coffee table and on the floor, where she sat with a half-made plush toy in her lap. The Doctor was seated next to her, trying to scoop up a mess of googly eyes that had fallen out of their designated jar.

Donna noticed that the Doctor did in fact have some googly eyes glued to their arms, clearly meant to mess with Rose or to be part of a telling of a fantastical story of some alien or whatnot. But she also noticed what their were wearing.

"You're in a skirt again." Donna said instead of a greeting.

The Doctor looked up at her, blinking behind their glasses. "Oh! Yes, I am! Rose and I went shopping today for craft stuff and clothing. She found it in a shop, it's that little shop you and I visited. Remember that? Where I got my first skirt?"

"I remember it, you had been so nervous, and once you tried it on, you didn't want to take it off. You even considered finding those ugly galaxy-printed leggings to go with it. Glad to see you didn't give into that desire again." She replied as she sat down on the couch.

The Doctor laughed. "I did get those eventually, remember? Ooh, I think Bill stole 'em from me though, sneaky granddaughter. Anyway," They stood up, knocking some eyes to the floor that had been in their lap, "whatcha think?"

They did a little spin, and Rose laughed at this as more eyes fell to the floor. Donna sniffed. "It's cute, very fitting of you. However, are you ever, EVER going to wear socks that actually match the pattern of your clothes!? Or even just match in general?"

The Doctor looked at their feet, as if for the first time noticing that they were wearing one blue, white and pink sock that was stripped and a red and green sock that was decorated it what looked like hot sauce bottles and chili peppers.

"Nah." The Doctor shrugged and sat back down, knowing that Donna would never win that battle. Still, at least the Doctor could coordinate the other parts of their clothes at least. And besides, the skirt was what mattered, Donna thought as she watched two of the most important people in their life try to pick up their little mess.

Two people sitting happily and comfortably in clothing that made them feel good about themselves.

She could forgive the horrendous sock combo for that.

--

I love the idea of Rose and Fourteen picking out outfits for each other after this trip.

[staticl0ve]

The Pig and the Fox - Chap 1 - Connor x AFAB!Reader

Pairings: Connor/AFAB!Reader (no pronouns used) Rating: Mature/Explicit/NSFW 18+ Link (AO3): Read it Here Chapters: [ Chap 1 ] [ Ch 2 ] [ Ch. 3 ] [ Ch. 4 ] [ Ch. 5 ] / 6 Words: 3.3k Warnings: implied drug use (supporting character), so much swearing, reader does wear feminine attire Summary: When a thief meets a cop, they’re on the opposite sides of the law, two flips of a coin. However, there’s more to life than things being black and white. In a post android revolution, not much has changed for the common citizen. The rich get richer and the poor, well, they work. They adapt. They sacrifice. You straddled that fine line, one toe in the light and one in the dark. So does Connor, but you don’t quite see that yet. Notes: Based on that ask for “Tear You Apart.” I see you anon and I made this way longer than a oneshot (oops). ✨💙

Chapter 1 - Law and Disorder

When you think of America, you’re probably thinking of a star spangled banner, waving in the air as a marching band proudly plays a tune inspiring pride and patriotism. Pay no mind to the country’s shores dimming away into a rising sea and rockets with their red glare gleaming over oil rich lands. Across an ocean, the same melody was once but a pub song, meant to be slurred out of drunken mouths like 99 Bottles on the Wall.

Since the young country’s founding, the nation quickly led the global markets in pop culture, science and technology. By 2018, a young CEO of a tech startup changed everything with one invention, a perfect creation, beautiful, unchanging and with a mind that was sharper than its creator. An android, straight out of science fiction. The invention handled everything from household chores, babysitting, surgery and even replacing the role of an intimate partner. One could only imagine the fallout that occurred across the job market.

By 2038, the country was too busy bickering across political aisles, gaslighting and finger pointing instead of helping a neglected populace. Like adding water to a grease fire, tempers flared as people began to take out their frustrations on the androids. Eventually, the machines had enough. An android killed a man out of self preservation and a little girl was held hostage.

The story had changed and the media was quick to paint an image of a temporary truce, an us versus them. But machines were more level headed than their organic counterparts, wanting only peace, equal rights—the expected fundamentals. One peaceful revolution, a series of lawyers and they got it all. Love em or hate em, their freedom meant things quickly returned back to the status quo—for the most part.

For those still lost and purposeless, they found their way out with the dawn of cybernetics. In an effort to compete with the machines, people began embracing synthetic alterations. Surgical procedures ranged from minor implants to full limb replacements. X-Ray vision? You’ve got it. A machine gun for an arm? Still pretty fucking illegal but you bet someone had one.

The cybernetic market was also a hit for those in it for the aesthetic of glowing eyes and hair that could grow at will (very popular with middle aged men). Others found more…nefarious uses for their upgrades. Murder was a little extreme for your tastes. Thievery was more your thing, or a little something you might call, wealth redistribution.

Bold colors, the same as the flag, flashed wildly at a mansion in Palmer Woods, one of Detroit’s wealthiest neighborhoods. A patrol car idled in the rain. Not only were the roads slick, the weather was all doom and gloom, discouraging outdoor activities. Police normally didn’t make appearances in the sleepy suburb, but tonight, a house party was disturbing the peace.

From high up, a curtain was slightly drawn in a nearby home. Unlike the one next to it, the guests were not expected.

“Fucking pigs,” your associate, Leo hissed under his breath. He was attached to the shadows in the room, dark hair hidden behind a beanie, arms crossed with a teal blazer wrinkled around clenched fists. For a rich kid, he always managed to be short on money and his father, Carl Manfred, was beginning to catch onto why and halved his allowance. It wasn’t uncommon for people like Leo to chase wild parties and find himself doing dubious work to pay for his new habits. He would blame his circumstances on his father’s neglect, or as Carl saw it, the best a divorced man could do while balancing a large art career.

As a buyer of Carl’s gallery work, you knew him first, then Markus and met Leo at a bad place and a bad time. Carl’s eldest son had gotten himself in some trouble during an exchange of goods, a fight over bags filled with red crystals. You leveraged your trade name, Fox, and saved him from one hell of a beating. Despite your best judgment, you dragged him under your wing and to your surprise, he was good at keeping your side gig a secret. While you weren’t the type to pry, you didn’t love what he did with his free time but you did tell him, “If you’re going to do dumb shit at least I can keep an eye on you.”

You watched after him like any good sibling would, even though he already had a younger brother, Markus. But Markus was an android that shared all of the same passions their father had, which did not rest well with Leo who lacked any artistic talent. A story…meant for another rainy day.

“It’s just the one patrol car, you don’t think they tracked us…?” he pondered.

“Relax,” you replied. Your fingers were holding a bedroom curtain open by a sliver, enough to spot the cop car parked across the street and the two passengers exiting the vehicle. “They’re not here for us. I bet a neighbor called in a noise complaint about the house party.”

“Damn, you think we can finish up soon? I was hoping to meet my buddy there.”

You tried to ignore how shifty his eyes got around the word ‘buddy’ and the subconscious twitch of his fingers rubbing the tip of his nose.

“Right,” you scoffed, returning to the center of the room where an empty desk sat.

The home you cased was nearly barren, the owner too busy or too preoccupied with his other homes to bother decorating with personal touches. Paintings of generic scenery hung in each room and the walls were all the same drab seashell white color. This boring, Crate and Barrel style home belonged to a former investor of Cyberlife, your target for the evening.

“This shit we’re doing…we’re the good guys right?” Leo asked. It was a peculiar question since he never had a problem with what you were doing before.

“There’s no good or bad, we’re just here to balance the scales. Our target has been happily benefiting from the services our taxes pay. It’s time we got our share.“

“Wait, taxes pay for stuff?”

Distracted, you had to turn around to give him a look like you were talking to a child.

“Yes, they do. What are you twelve?”

“I’m Twenty-Nine!” he shot back, standing up taller and puffing his chest out. You knew he never worked a day in his life and mostly survived off the money his father sent him.

“Oh, so you do have a seat the big kids table then,” you snickered.

“Just—forget what I said and worry about the safe, okay?”

You went back to checking out the oak desk. At a glance, it looked like the rest of the home, plain and unimportant. You ran your bare hand over the surface, enjoying how smooth it felt. The new upgrades to your limbs offered retractable fingerprints and you were pleased to know you weren’t one of the unlucky few to lose all feeling in your hands as a result of the implant.

Your skin warmed along your veins, the circuitry embedded in the skin revealing angular lines of light that traveled from the back of your neck, down your spine and to your fingertips. The artificial lenses in your eyes spun, adjusting to see something beyond human perception. As the room shifted from reality to a virtual grid, a blue line trailed from a panel on the desk and to the wall across from it.

“There,” you announced and injected the lock panel with a combination breaker. Numbers clicked away, cycling and flickering hundreds of formations. Off in the background, you could still feel the bass of the party next door, shaking up the dead stillness of the place you were in. It was interrupted by a constant buzzing. Out of the corner of your eye, Leo stuffed his hand into his pocket, bringing out a phone.

“Fuck,” he whispered, gloved thumb fumbling with the red end call button. “Shit.”

You caught a small glimpse of a face on the screen, an older man who if not for his age, would be just as problematic as his son.

“Sorry, Fox,” Leo sighed out. “Won’t happen again.”

“S’fine.” You shrugged but kept an eye on him. “I hope it wasn’t important?”

Alright, so you pried sometimes.

Leo wasn’t looking his best tonight. Sweat was beading down his brow, his feet fidgeting and creaking the hardwood. He shook his hand dismissively at the desk, half to tell you to let it go and half to redirect your focus. You did, returning to blocks of text streaming down your sight. Numbers cycled until it finally halted on one set. Your lips curled, finger drawing a pattern on the panel.

A disguised safe door clicked open on the wall, revealing a small square box filled with thin, rounded glass tablets. On the surface, they looked like trading cards with cute monkey graphics but you knew this set was worth millions. These cards weren’t all that different from rare paintings and a few controversial auctions were all it took to make them seem exclusive. It was a little funny, the obscure measures the super rich took to funnel their wealth.

“That’s all of them,” you declared, grabbing a handful of holocards. Placing them in Leo’s care, you didn’t have time to celebrate when an alarm broke. Dramatically, your shoulders slumped, head thrown back as you groaned.

“Leo!”

Wide-eyed, he jumped, panic racing across his features. “Shit, I swear I got all of em.”

“Could have been a silent one. Fuck, and the cops are right next door.”

You dashed to the blinds, cursing once when you saw the officers on the neighbor’s lawn turn their heads from the alarm. Pulling away from the window, you worked out your backup plan.

“Cover your face,” you said while lifting up a handkerchief tied around your neck. He mirrored you, bringing a holographic mask up. It shimmered, forming around his face until he looked like a pixelated blur. “The door to the back yard, take it. I’m going out the front door—”

He looked more concerned as the words sunk in, “What? You’re going to run into them!”

“That’s the idea. Come on!” You raced forward, shoving him through the doorway. “We meet up after, a different spot than last week. You know the place right?”

Leo stammered out an affirmation of sorts as he stumbled down the stairs.

“And change your clothes!” you shouted after him.

Through the windows, you could spot the cops, one older and one younger, making their way to the front door. If you were to be honest—you stretched out a little, fingers intertwined and reaching for the ceiling—this was your favorite part when a heist went wrong.

Explosive energy surged through your veins, blue light rippling across skin, glowing brighter. You shot off your feet, racing quickly through the home, making a loud banging noise as the door swung open. Rain hit your exposed skin, cool pinpricks chilling your hands and face.

“Halt! DPD!” That must have been the younger guy, his voice energetic and closing in much closer than the other officer. Behind him, his partner sighed, arm bracing his back as he jogged to catch up.

“Connor! Wait!” the older man shouted. He gave up after a few paces as the rain slowed him further.

Pigs needed to run every now and then. You stuck out your middle finger and hopped over a fence. Connor’s faint cry of “stop” got lost between backyard sheds and fancy trimmed bushes.

First things first, the rules to a neat getaway: befriend the neighborhood dogs.

A large canine, out on its pee break ran up, bared it’s teeth with a vicious snarl. It calmed instantly when you threw a milk-bone and you were back on the run. The man chasing you felt close behind, the dog reacting to his presence only moments after you left.

The other rules were tedious things of the past like cardio. But who needs cardio when they’ve got implants? Wind bit your face as you raced through neatly curated suburbia. Some might say you relied too much on your cybernetics but you saw it differently. You designed them for a living, suffered the pain of your body rejecting the technology and when it all finally came together, you used your new advantages to your benefit. 

Well, you weren’t soulless. A lot of the money you stole got laundered, turned legit and anonymously donated to nonprofit organizations you trusted. What was leftover went to your daytime front: a condo with a view, a sweet android dog waiting for you at home, and your side hobby of collecting art.

As homes drifted off into the distance and the streets felt more open, you glanced over your shoulder.

“Oh, fuck.”

The cop from earlier was still on your tail and it was then that you realized a small…blue…ring on his temple. You’d never seen an android that could keep up with your off market cybernetics. Double fuck.

For those taking notes, every successful getaway requires a back up plan to go with the back up plan. There were a handful of locations where you had emergency transit parked in hiding. Your fingers twitched, skin pulsing in a pattern. Blocks away, a motorbike’s engine came to life.

“Not another step,” Connor ordered. His shadow stretched to your shoes, his posture tall and shoulders squared to intimidate. “Move and I will have to use force.”

“Fuckers like you always do,” you casually responded, not at all deterred by his threat. The bike was going to take a few minutes to arrive so you had to buy some time. Your gaze dipped to his utility belt. Taser, gun, baton…oh, handcuffs, fun. “So, how do you wanna do this?”

His head tilted slightly, curiosity chipping away at his authority. “What can I call you?”

“You can…fuck…right off.” You didn’t miss the flash of gold from his temple.

“Would you prefer…” His LED pulsed until it eased back to a calm blue. “Fox?”

Your fists clenched. He couldn’t possibly make out who you were with what little you were revealing. Communications used for this assignment were heavily encrypted, although…it wouldn’t take a super computer like him long to compile data from the dark web and find a trail some associate of yours failed to cover.

You weren’t confident you could take on a machine that hunted other machines since your implants were optimized for dexterity and speed. However, Connor didn’t look terribly intimidating with his large doe eyes and delicate angular features. Compared to your sleek black, waterproof clothing, your adversary was a sad, wet dog. His hair was soaked, flat and his police labeled windbreaker was two times too large for his lean build. That all changed when he lowered his chin and the whites of his eyes caught the glow from a streetlight. As he stalked forward, you recoiled marginally, muscles pulled taut.

“Do you like to tango?” you asked, redistributing your weight until your feet were squared with your shoulders. You grinned, canines baring back at him, a sly fox sizing up a hog. “I’m a really good dancer.”

You didn’t wait for him to reply, dropping low with a fast sweep of your leg to his ankles. Any other person would have collapsed to the ground but Connor was quick to right himself mid fall, using the momentum to wrap his hand around your arm. Everything moved as if frame by frame, droplets of rain falling at an angle, your eyes widening and him dragging you into his hold.

What you failed to realize earlier was that this android wasn’t your average run of the mill PC200 or PM700, law enforcement androids meant for guarding, observing and patrolling. Connor was an RK800 and now, as you were about to land face first into his chest, you remembered you had seen him before. There was a man lingering at the edge of the stage during Markus’ big speech but your personal investment in the deviant leader’s wellbeing had you fixated on Markus. Great, how unlucky for you to be arrested by the one and only deviant hunter who’s specs were still unknown.

Alright, one last back up plan, because of course you were prepared.

You were prepared, weren’t you?

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court,” Connor said as he caged you into his chest. Your head smacked his jaw and he continued with little effort despite your thrashing.

“Let me go!”

“You have the right to talk to a—”

“Fuck off!” Your elbow connected with the center of his chassis, making him loosen his grip. It wasn’t enough but you were able to free your arms. Your hand glowed as you gripped his neck, forcing an interface. Connor’s body seized up, turning him into a still mannequin. His eyes were frozen open, the brown dimmed to a dull gray as his LED glowed an angry red. Waving your fingers over his face, you breathed out a sigh of relief.

Normally the program you ran acted as a temporary sedative to use on androids and you weren’t sure how effective it would be on an RK800. Your escape plan was here, headlights approaching and washing your tangled figures in yellow. Pushing free of Connor’s grip, a shock worked its way up your arm, the same one that touched his neck.

“Ow! What the f—fuck…?”

You glanced back up at him, watched the red of his indicator spin to gold and knew you had no time to think about anything that wasn’t getting away. The sting had mellowed out into a small fizz but the cybernetics in your arm never calmed on your way to the meet up spot.

Beneath the cover of a park tree, Leo’s leg was nervously shaking as he tried his best to appear casual. He had changed from his original get up, as did you. Anyone walking by would figure he was out on an oddly late date. He had bagged the cards in a bright pink bag full of white hearts with a single rose sticking out.

“Fox! Thank fuck, I thought for sure they got you.”

You cheerily held up a bag of oily goods, filled with fries and nuggets.

“What kinda friend would I be if I left you standing out in the cold?” Your smile grew wider when you caught sight of his disguised bag. “What the hell is that?”

He roughly snatched the junk food and handed—tossed more like it—the bag of cards to you.

“It was all I could find at the drug store!”

You caught it with ease, bringing the rose to your nose. With your other hand, you brought out your phone. An app for exchanging currency flashed before him. Leo fumbled around, wiping his salty fingers on his pants and you had to hold back a laugh.

“I knew you’d be hungry.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied and placed his phone next to yours. The screens flickered, numbers counting up on one side. He watched the change with rapt focus, brown eyes wide as if hypnotized. His ashen face was washed in the white glow of his screen, drawing deeper lines on the purple, almost bruised skin beneath his eyes. You’d seen that look on other faces before and the ending was not so happy.

“Hey…you should call your dad sometime,” you said.

Leo broke from his trance, pulling away and stuffing his phone back into his pockets.

“I know.”

The silence was accompanied by glimpses of polished stone on fresh dug soil, the smell of cut grass. Your hand on a cool surface, flowers in hand.

You pressed the rose back up to your nose, nodding back at him.

“See you around, Leo.”

“Don’t get caught, Fox.”

Your fingers throbbed again, the blue glowing beneath your jacket.

[enbysiriusblack]

robin (@lesbianmckinnonn ) recently made a post about james potter, sooo I'm doing one inspired by it, for sirius.

firstly; I'm using they/he for sirius because that's what I hc his pronouns as. this whole post is about my own interpretations and views of sirius as a character, but people can hc what they like!

So the the common interpretation/ view of Sirius is very much dramatic, flamboyant, confident, and very loyal. a lot of this does come from the canon material (boo!), for instance his loyalty is shown in poa, where they say they'd rather die than betray his friends. the way he speaks is very dramatic, and we're shown in the flashbacks they're confident and 'popular' (i put that in inverted commas because although it's a common interpretation of sirius, i don't think of them as popular).

to me, sirius is very much all those things. but there's sort of a double side to some of it? although they're confident and extroverted- they aren't really well liked and popular (in a good way). people know of sirius, but don't really know him. they know their family, they know him in relation to 'the marauders', they know them as the gryffindor beater, they know them as the troublemaker, they know them as the 'good looking one', they know them as the gay cross dresser. people know sirius' family, his gossip, his 'label'. and the other students opinion of them from those labels? wildly unlikeable. sirius is seen as obnoxious, dangerous, scary, conceited, queer. sirius is liked for their looks and his best friend, but is hated for who they are.

as a child, sirius would take blame for things regulus had done as a way to protect the younger boy. at first he wasn't as rebellious, but it more came from wanting to protect regulus from harm. as a kid, sirius was completely disconnected to the rest of the world, only ever seeing family members or friends of the family, only ever reading books his parents allowed. they never went in a muggle area, barely allowed out to shops. they would go from grimmauld place, to their holiday home in france, to his cousin's house, to the ministry, and to ministry or family balls and events. they were seen as a 'problem child' only through being fairly lazy, through not wanting regulus to be harmed by punishments so taking his place, and through being an energetic child. as he started hogwarts, he was full of prejudice. only really coming to the truth through friendship with james, peter, and remus; the three of them (and lily, mary, marlene, mcgonagall, and andromeda a little) taught sirius what was right and wrong, because he didn't know yet.

sirius is very protective of himself and their friends, stemming from having to protect regulus since a young age. the slightest hint of danger or a threat gave sirius such a strong reaction to protect. a hand coming close, a single threat, even a bad grade meant something drastic to sirius whereas the others couldn't see it as a big deal. everything always felt so temporary for him- as if it was up to him to keep them all safe and make sure they stay with him and never leave. but when he got disowned, he felt fully free for the first time in their entire life. but he was still haunted by memories and guilt that it clung to him like shadows that wouldn't leave. so, they got drunk. all the time. constantly. because it was an escape from the thoughts, from the guilt, from the memories. alcohol was freedom. and he clung to it. their friends were previously that symbol of freedom, of escape and understanding. but once he was free and his friends couldn't do anything to stop the after-pain, he found alcohol and practically swapped friendship and companionship for getting drunk (linking into the prank.)

sirius gets a lot of attention for his looks, constantly being asked out and flirted with. and although he accepted quite a few, they find it hard to find an attraction to people without the emotional connection already in place. and as they get older, he goes on fewer and fewer dates, having fewer and fewer relationships (and then dating remus); people made up rumours of them, like making out with him at parties and in classrooms. sirius does absolutely love having a sort of 'bad boy' reputation (in some instances. they hate the fact younger years are often terrified of him at first), they can't stand his made-up reputation of being a player (mary gets given the same reputation, just because they're both attractive people).

last point, sirius' intelligence. they are extremely smart, academically. sirius gets top marks, or close to it, in practically every subject and yet hardly ever studies. tbh like,, never revises. never does his work. they're able to remember everything just by flicking through books and notes and half listening in class. they have a very natural intelligence and doesn't feel the need to work hard- instead devoting time to hobbies, and different skills (like mechanics). however, his emotional intelligence is extremely low. sirius hardly ever knows how they're feeling- and even when they do, he doesn't process that in a healthy manner. they also don't quite understand how society functions, having grown up extremely sheltered and wealthy.

I'm shit at conclusions, so I'll just finish by saying: Sirius is extremely impacted by their upbringing and the people around him. he is given such a specfic reputation (by their classmates), and to some degree wants to fit that and be that- but at the same time wants to escape what they're assumed to be and just... be himself. but he doesn't quite know how. sirius is the brightest star, filled with pressure and struggling not to explode.

[violentdesires]

say it once again with feeling , how the death rattle breathing silenced as the soul was leaving . the deflation of our dreaming , leaving me bereft and reeling . my beloved ghost and me , sitting in a tree . d-y-i-n-g . it's happening again . how did it end ? the empathetic hunger descends .

𝐈 , application .

( regé-jean page / unknown / he , they ) — it’s been a while since we’ve seen zion gehena in the shadow world. the ancient ( death ) resides in the underworld and reminds us of cruel summers, goblets of red wine and confidence that could kill. rumor has it that they might have a connection to the underworld as its ruler , but only time will tell where their loyalties really lie. until then, only one thing is certain : the descent into hell will be easy for the usurper.

𝐈𝐈 , basic information .

name . . . zion gehena , death .

nicknames . . . none .

species . . . ancient .

age . . . unknown .

date of birth . . . unknown .

place of birth . . . the universe itself .

pronouns . . . he , him . they , them .

sexuality . . . pansexual .

residence . . . the underworld .

languages . . . fluent in any and all languages .

𝐈𝐈𝐈 , personality .

zodiac sign . . . unknown .

negative traits . . . stoic , stubborn , dismissive .

positive traits . . . protective , loyal , bold .

hobbies . . . walks after nightfall .

𝐈𝐕 , appearances .

faceclaim . . . regé-jean page .

height . . . 1,80 cm .

hair color . . . black .

eye color . . . brown .

notable facts . . . while they rarely put them on display , they do own both a cloak and a scythe . death has a pair of wings too , but there are not a lot of people who have seen those either .

𝐕 , relatives .

parents . . . the universe itself , perhaps .

siblings . . . kaladhar thakur ( devil ) , ayana tesfaye ( mother of monters ) , god .

familiar connections . . . the furies .

pets . . . thanatos , a hellhorse .

𝐕𝐈 , biography .

The creation of death has always been surrounded by mystery and Zion - which Death goes by these days - has never been interested in disclosing much of his past. It is pointless to dwell on it, to attempt to recreate what is long forgotten, even by those that are referred to as the ‘ancients’. It does not matter how they came into existence : They exist and the very thought of that has been enough to frighten creatures ever since they revealed their powers. Ending lives has never been difficult for Zion. In the end, death merely finishes the last chapter of a book before another one is opened and there is beauty in new beginnings, isn’t there ? They taught their reapers to assist with this task, guiding souls that ran out of time to their next destination and there were very rare moments Death desired to spare someone, offering them more time on earth. Doing so would always bring consequences that were out of their control and so they learned to become neutral. If somebody’s time is up, their time is up - no questions asked. The sentiment eased the creature’s mind, but said ease came at a price. Death did not allow themself to grow close to people. Their lives turned into something to be observed, something that could teach them a lesson about feelings, but they always reminded themself that their experiences were not ones that were meant for him. Being so closed off can be lonely, but how could you possibly miss something you rarely ever had? They carried out their job for thousands of years now, reaping young and old, healthy and sick, rich and poor whenever their time was up. It is a job that they could have carried out for the rest of eternity, but even an ancient being like them is not spared from boredom and frustration. Death decided that they would enjoy a change of scenery and so they allowed one of his most trusted reapers to lead the rest of them and paid attention to the fall of one of the greatest empires: The underworld. It was obvious that the leader of the malvagi was not fit to rule and Zion decided to do something useful with their ( temporary ) retirement. They took their scythe and paid them a visit, one that ended with a head rolling down the steps of Death’s newly claimed throne. A bold move, one that some of the demons admired, while others were displeased by this change in management. At the end of the day, Zion does not care how much they appreciate their methods - they have a goal and, under their rule, they will ensure that the underworld becomes the place that it is supposed to be. While the drama surrounding the shadow world has not gone unnoticed, Zion has no interest in involving themself in their dispute. As a matter of fact, most people are not aware of their identity and they plan on keeping it that way for as long as it pleases them, focusing at the task at hand: To restore the seven circles of hell and with it, the deadly sins.

𝐕𝐈𝐈 , wanted connections .

familiar . . . n/a .

romantic . . . ex partners .

platonic . . . someone curious about death and / or necromancy , people who have called upon them or seen them before , loyal reapers , their inner circle .

credits : psd , template .

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Simon "Ghost" Riley Headcanons

Summary: You were just a civilian caught in the crossfire, kidnapped by a cartel and held prisoner. And now, after being rescued by Ghost, you're rebuilding your life, one fragment at a time, with him at your side every step, tear and hurdle of the way.

Warnings: Kidnapping, mentions of physical abuse, memory loss/amnesia, loss of ability to walk (temporary), possessive behaviour, kind of slow burn,  romantic tension, Ghost gets jealous, somewhat angsty in some parts, very fluffy in others (a good balance), mentions of interrogation, Reader showcases anxiety, no use of pronouns for Reader except ‘you’, mentions of games,

Wordcount: 7,581 words

You were a tourist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time - seen things you weren’t meant to see.

And that’s how you ended up here, chained up in a warehouse for what you could only have guessed to have been a couple of months.

You were barely kept alive by restricted rations of food and water the cartel members gave you, needing you alive but just weak enough to not be able to fight back.

They kept you around for their own amusement, hitting you, beating you, humiliating you.

You missed your family, your friends, your old life. You truly believed, with a heavy heart, that you’d die here without ever getting the chance to see them again.

Until…

It had all happened so fast that you couldn’t keep up with it all.

One minute there was a group of men playing poker at a table nearby, the next they’d all been blown away by some nigh-silent, unseen force.

As soon as it had began, it was all over, though gunfire resonated from deeper within the warehouse.

Your heart thudded, your mind hazy and heavy yet just about conscious enough to acknowledge a set of heavy, booted footsteps nearing you.

A walkie-talkie crackled, followed by a deep, gravelly voice.

“One potential hostage found. Commencing collection now.”

The chains keeping you tethered to the metal post were cut and your hands fell.

You barely had the strength to lift them, nevermind your head, which lolled forward, gaze fixed in your lap.

The person who you presumed to have released you knelt down before you. A gloved hand pushed against your forehead, forcing you to look at them.

He was ghastly.

His flesh face was covered by a second, the insignia of his endoskeleton splayed across a dark mask. His eyes were dark and seemed to swallow all light that tried to glimmer within them.

“Can you talk?” he said. His voice was calm yet lacked patience, as if he knew time was short.

You could barely move, barely think.

You said nothing.

The man took your non-answer and moved to lift you, keeping an arm under yours and the other firmly holding his gun.

Now, stood at full height, walking on legs you hadn’t used in months, your body couldn’t handle it.

Your blood pressure dropped and so did you.

The man grunted as your weight collapsed into him, almost taking him with you.

You fell unconscious, and the man rearranged you, slinging his gun over his shoulder and carrying you in his arms.

The next time you awoke, the setting was drastically different.

The dust-filled, sweltering warehouse you had grown accustomed to had given was to a blindingly white facility, the scent of streilisers and medicine filling your nostrils.

You couldn’t move much, body heavy yet soul willing, and your eyes shifted beneath hooded lids.

A machine beeped closeby, one you recognised to be mimicking your heartbeat. The rest of the room was quiet, save for the turning of paper somewhere.

The surface beneath you was plush, encompassing you, unlike the warehouse floor.

Putting the pieces together, your heart began to pound. The heart monitor copied.

A nearby nurse rushed to your side, turning your head this way and that and shining a  light in your eyes, talking at you rather than to you.

The rest became a blur.

Doctors visited, recorded your condition. You didn’t know where you were but you knew you were safe. For now, at least.

Some officers came and tried speaking to you, only to find you unable (or unwilling) to talk.

This came as a discovery to you, too.

Soon after waking up, you found that your mind, your memories, were blank. Nothing of your prior self remained save for an overview of your torturous time in captivity, and…

That mask.

The man who’d saved you.

You found it hard to speak, not having done so properly in months save for begging for your life and crying whenever you were alone.

When one of the officers asked you if there was anything you needed, your body acted on instinct, by reflex, and came out with only one word.

“Skull.”

Ghost was stationed by you shortly after that, having been known to be the one who brought you back to Base and the only one to resemble the ‘skull’ you’d spoken of.

The task was…mind numbing, to say the least.

After your singular request for the man who saved you, you went silent again.

No words, no noises, just you sat in the hospital bed, dead to the world.

Nobody could coax a word from you, not even Ghost, as you heard him introduce himself.

The events of the last couple months had forced you into a state of “Dissociative amnesia,” as the doctor had put it. “Rare, but real.”

The doctor said it could take a while for you to regain your memories, and until then, you would have to be kept under supervision.

No permanent thoughts crossed your mind during your period of blankness. They flitted in and out of your consciousness as a phantom would.

Ghost had only tried interacting with you two or three times, the first being his introduction, the others being an attempt at getting any sort of response from you.

Nothing worked, and you were both resigned to sitting in silence with one another.

Days passed, you weren’t sure how many.

Ghost was getting impatient.

He knew you could be a key witness to the cartel’s deeper activities, but he knew he couldn’t force your cooperation. Not while you were practically vegetative, at least.

Ghost sat on a chair by your bedside, all but resembling a mannequin.

He stared into the distance.

“Oh,” came your small, croaking voice. “It’s you.”

Ghost almost didn’t turn to look at you, believing the voice to be a hallucination.

He hazarded a glance and almost considered jumping.

You looked at him, dead into his eyes, conscious, talking.

Another blur of activity surrounded you immediately after, Ghost alerting the doctors to you becoming vocal again and leaving them to do their job not long after.

Tests were run, your memory was tested (of which there was still little), and the better part of a day was spent observing you, trying to determine whether you were ready for interrogation or not.

Luckily, the higher-ups seemed to feel lenient, giving you longer to recover until you were expected to produce answers to their copious questions.

In the meantime, Ghost was assigned to you day and night, both as your protector and observer.

He was…quiet, to say the least.

Rarely spoke unless spoken to, meaning he was of little entertainment to you in your bed-bound state.

This led to you trying to make small talk, regardless of whether Ghost would respond or not.

Little did you know that, despite his lack of participation, Ghost was listening to every single word you said.

During a one-sided conversation, you mentioned colouring, an activity you liked when you were younger.

“Yeah!” you said, face lighting up as you slowly recalled a memory of your younger self, colouring book in tow. “I remember that my grandma had this old, really old colouring book that she gave me. It was vintage, smelled like antique book pages, sweet,”

Ghost watched you, listened. He saw your face light up. You looked at him, eyes smiling.

“It was nearly as old as her when she gave it to me; I was terrified of ruining it so I never coloured in it. Just kept it safely on my bookshelf, looked at the pictures before bed…”

The day after, Ghost came to you with a colouring book and a box of pencils.

“Not exactly vintage, but it’ll do,” he said, laying the book and the utensils on your bedside.

You smiled up at him as he settled into his seat.

“Thank you, Ghost,” you said, smiling. “I mean it.”

Ghost offered minimal input whenever you spoke to him, which you still did while you coloured the pictures.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

After that, over the course of a week, more memories came back to you.

They were small, inconsequential at best, but they were evidence that you were making a fast recovery.

And Ghost was there to hear every single one of them.

Whenever you came out with something new, he’d write it down in a Base-issued notebook, telling you to slow down whenever words failed you, your mind wrapped up in splinters of who you were - who you are.

And you would glance at his notes every now and then.

“Wow,” you said, suppressing a smile. “Your handwriting’s worse than mine.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” Ghost replied, barely casting you a glance.

You reached for the pen, which Ghost withheld from you until he realised what you were trying to do.

Now, equipped, you turned to a new page in the notebook and tried writing something.

It came out like a doctor’s signature, merely cursive scribbles that meant nothing to the untrained eye.

Ghost eyed your work.

“What you tryna write?” he said, accent rough.

You bit your lip, trying to focus all your efforts on making what was in your head come out onto the paper.

“My name,” you said.

Ghost seemed to straighten up at that.

The memory was weak, a fawn stumbling on its wiry legs, trying to find purchase.

But it was there, behind frosted glass. You could vaguely make out the letters which would be the key to your existence.

You kept scrawling, muscle memory having weakened significantly, until you hit upon a  familiar pattern.

The ‘letters’ were indecipherable, even to yourself. The memory of your name began to fade, and, though you grasped at it, you were left with nothing as it was consumed by darkness.

You stopped writing, defeat overtaking you.

“Why’d you stop?” Ghost asked, looking up from the notebook to you.

You felt tears fill your eyes, tried to keep them in.

“I forgot again,” you said, voice cracking.

The pen lay limp in your hand, and Ghost removed it, putting it down.

The fabric of his glove against your skin sent a jolt through you, unexpected but strangely comforting.

“Well,” Ghost said, a temporary solution coming to him. “How ‘bout we give you a new name, just ‘til you find your real one.”

You sniffed, tried smiling at the gesture, and nodded.

You went back and forth for a while, trying to think of a name that would suit you based on the limited information you had about yourself so far.

“It needs to be nice,” you said. Ghost gave a slight inclination of a nod. You kept thinking.

“Fawn,” Ghost said.

His eyes bore into you, though you suspected that was just his disposition rather than him intentionally trying to spook you.

“How’s that sound?”

You tried the name on your tongue, then, you beamed.

“I like it,” you said, giving Ghost a grateful smile.

From that day on, Ghost referred to you as Fawn, a name that the rest of the Base staff called you, too, having nothing else to call you.

Ghost never told you why he picked that name. Perhaps he saw something in you that resembled your namesake. Your newborn optimism, perhaps.

At your bedside night and day, Ghost became the first and only witness of your memories as they slowly revealed themselves to you.

Some were light-hearted, some were filled with the natural sorrow found in human life, and some were downright embarrassing; all of which gave Ghost gradual insights into who you are.

He eventually seemed comfortable enough to make fun of your more embarrassing ones, such as the time you went to a store your crush worked at, only to find that you had toilet paper stuck to the heel of your shoe the entire time.

This became somewhat of a joke between you and Ghost. One that the staff seemed to find confusing.

Whenever staff escorted you to and from the bathroom, Ghost would look down at your feet.

“No toilet paper to worry about this time,” he’d say.

Your face would burn at the memory, but you’d laugh regardless.

You also forced him to listen to music that came to you as visions from another time, tunes which you’d hum to Ghost, who recorded them, took them to whoever, and would come back with the song it originated from.

Soon, you had three or four CDs which contained music you’d enjoyed before your amnesia.

They all felt and sounded familiar. Comforting.

You’d implore (guilt trip) Ghost to listen to them, too.

His face - his eyes, really, the rest of it was covered - were blank as you passed him the headphones, preparing himself to listen to whatever you’d found that day.

He gave no indication of whether he enjoyed it or not.

“I can see why you like it,” is all he would say, passing the headphones back to you.

“Oh?” you said once, laying the headphones on the bed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Ghost leaned forward onto his knees, elbows propped upon them.

“It means,” he began, “that I’m not surprised this is the type of music you listen to.”

You feigned hurt, having slowly regained your ability to utilise humour after your diagnosis, the days getting easier.

“Well, I bet I can guess what type of music you like to listen to.” You held a smile on your face, just bordering on smug.

Ghost gave you a look. “Oh yeah?” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Go on, then.”

You pretended to think for a moment, already having thought this question through many times before. Ghost was elusive, that much was plain to see, yet you imagined him in ways that made him familiar - human - to you.

“I bet you like metal,” you said. “Heavy.”

Ghost gave a sound that may have been a laugh.

“Am I that easy to read?” he said, a smirk vague in his tone.

“No,” you replied, innocently. “I’m just not surprised that’s the type of music you listen to.”

Ghost gave a slow, sarcastic, demeaning clap, muffled by his gloves.

“All right, well done,” he said, the smirk in his voice growing.

The two of you played board games together, too.

Initially, he let you win, claiming that life in the military had left him “No time for leisure.”

Translation: “I haven’t played board games in an age.”

You picked up early on he was letting you win and insisted on having him play fairly.

There was something deeply enigmatic about watching a trained soldier try and mask his frustration when he lands on Mayfair for the third time in Monopoly.

Whenever you’d lose you’d challenge him to another game, thus continuing the cycle of celebration and condemnation, with you claiming he was “cheating” when he won.

“You told me to play fair,” Ghost would say, a smugness in his voice.

Not all times with Ghost were light-hearted, however.

Even if his presence reassured you, there was the overwhelming feeling that you were missing out on something.

You knew you had family, if they were still alive, but you didn’t know them.

Friends, too. You wondered how many you had.

If you had a crush, that meant you interacted with people on some scale, right?

And it was in times like these, times when you just wanted to go home, wherever that was, that Ghost was there for you.

More often than not you’d end up in tears, trying to stifle them.

Ghost said nothing as you wept, chiming in only when he deemed the onslaught over.

“Why don’t blind guys skydive?” he said once.

You sniffed, wiping your nose, and looked at him.

“What?” you said.

“I said, why don’t blind guys skydive?”

You looked down, as if the answer lay in your hands. You shrugged.

“Scares the shit outta their dogs.”

Silence for a second. And then, a laugh.

You gave a laugh, airy at first but firmer the longer it went on.

You put a hand over your mouth, as if to hide your growing smile from Ghost.

Wiping the streaks of tears from your cheeks, you looked at him.

“Thank you,” you said. “I feel a little better.”

“S’what I’m here for.”

About two weeks into your rescue, your physical training began.

Having fully recovered from malnutrition, Base wanted you to start learning how to walk again, both for your convenience and theirs.

Ghost attended each meeting you had to go to, watching from the sidelines as a nurse guided you between two wooden poles.

The sessions were tough. Very tough.

You felt useless, responsible for your own suffering.

“If I’d done more, if I’d fought harder-”

“Then you’d be dead,” Ghost would insist whenever you questioned your choices.

“Types like the ones who kidnapped you don’t enjoy people who can easily fight them off. Trust me, you did the right thing.”

After sessions, you were usually tired, opting to try and push for an extra hour or so to get back your ability to walk quicker.

The nurse would insist you rest immediately afterwards.

One evening, you wanted to push yourself.

“I need to do this,” you told Ghost, pulling your legs over the side of the bed. He stood by your bedside, waiting to catch you if you fell.

“I need to-” you slid off the bed, lost your balance, and fell into Ghost’s arms.

His chest was rock solid, and he held you by your arms, close to him, helping you back up.

“You need to rest,” he said, trying to guide you back to bed.

“No!” You yelled, immediately regretting it.

Still in Ghost’s arms, you looked away, shame overtaking you.

“I’m sorry, Ghost, but I- I really, really need to…”

You didn’t finish your sentence. Ghost remained silent for a minute, then nodded.

“Alright,” he said, pulling you away from the bed.

“I’ll help you.”

In your room, Ghost walked a few laps with you, his hold emigrating from your underarms to your elbows, and then to your hands.

You took uneven, shaking steps, but they were steps in the right direction.

You smiled back at Ghost as he stood behind you, helping you.

Another couple of weeks passed. Ghost would give you secret after-session sessions, helping you walk wherever you pleased (within the confines of the room).

You were still shaky, very weak in certain areas, but you were getting stronger, more reliable.

You got to know Ghost more whenever you were resting in your room.

“My favourite colour,” you began one day, “is…[f/c].”

Ghost gave a brief noise of acknowledgement.

“What’s yours?” you asked, continuing to colour.

Ghost spoke plainly. “A secret,” he said.

You blinked, wondering if you’d misheard him.

“Huh?” you said, looking up at him.

There was no humour in his eyes. He was dead serious.

“Aww, come on!” you said, oddly hurt by his lack of willing. “You don’t trust me?”

Ghost’s eyes said everything and nothing at the same time.

“Depends,” he said, diplomatically. “D’you trust me?”

“Yes,” you said, without hesitation and with all the certainty of someone who felt nothing but trust and blind faith.

Ghost’s eyes widened for a second, as if he wasn’t expecting your answer, or maybe the light was playing tricks with your eyes. 

Sensing he wasn’t going to say anything, you tried to cover for his absence.

“I mean, it’d be hard not to.” You looked down at your colouring book. You became warm, as if confessing something personal.

“You saved my life, you protect me, you’re always there when I need you,”

“Because it’s my job.” Ghost’s declaration came out as if it were an attack, a deterrent for you to not pursue this line of thinking any further.

You swallowed and continued on.

“Yeah, you could say that,” you said. “But you took this job.”

“I was assigned-”

“No, no, not this one,” you said gesturing to the room, looking squarely at him. “I mean as a soldier.”

Ghost said nothing, only watching you.

“Why would you take a job protecting people if you didn’t see yourself as trustworthy enough for them to rely on you?”

Your question was simple yet revealed a lot. Too much for Ghost’s liking.

Ghost gave no response, his gaze travelling elsewhere.

You dropped the conversation.

The room returned to silence.

“Green.” Ghost’s voice came out of nowhere, low, making you jump.

You looked at him. He said nothing else.

You swallowed, looked down at your box of pencils, and withdrew a green pencil. You passed it to Ghost, who took it reluctantly, and turned the colouring book so he could reach it.

You coloured the rest of the page together.

Then, the interrogations began.

What memories and names Base didn’t gather from your notes, they tried extracting from you in ‘interviews’.

They were simple enough at first: what did you see during your time with the cartel; what were the names of the people you encountered (ones which you hadn’t already alerted them to); how long were you in the cartel’s captivity, etc.

The interviewers were firm yet didn’t push too hard in areas which were still hazy to you.

You gave every detail you could remember and passed on every memory, no matter how small, about your time in captivity.

It brought back unwelcome feelings, the fear, the hunger, the shame…

You were offered psychological aid, which you found to be of some help, though there was an itch the psychiatrist couldn’t quite scratch.

One that you spoke to Ghost about.

“It’s like…it’s like they’re going by a script,” you said, walking with Ghost around your room, leaning against him as you navigated the circuit.

“Like they’re trying to help, they want to help, but…”

“But?” Ghost’s voice was heavy behind you, like a wall. You stopped shambling and Ghost came to a stand-still behind you.

“But…they don’t know how. They don’t know how to help me because they’ve never-”

“Been in your situation.” Ghost finished your sentence.

You turned to look at him, mouth agape as you heaved laboured breaths, your exercise having taken it out of you.

You felt a shiver crawl up your spine. Recognition.

“Yeah,” you said, exasperated. Finally, someone understood!

Ghost nodded. “I know how it feels.”

You both sat down, you on the bed and Ghost in his seat. You shifted, watching him. He searched for something to say.

“I know how your situation’s affected you,” he said. His gaze flitted from your eyes to anywhere else. “And I wish I could say it gets better. But…”

His eyes looked hard, dark. His gaze finally settled on you, penetrating your soul.

“Look, the only way you can start to rebuild your life is to talk to someone.”

“You mean…” You dared not let your gaze slip.

Ghost gave a fractional nod.

“I know these shrinks ain’t much good when it comes to our kind of trauma, but talkin’ to someone who’s been through what you have might make you feel like you’ve not lost the plot.”

You felt like a breakthrough had been made. Something, maybe excitement, crawled up your throat.

“Our?” you said, quiet, as if sharing a secret. A small smile tweaked at the corners of your lips.

Ghost gave no confirmation. But the silence was enough.

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, alongside recovering more menial memories of your past, the interrogations became harsher.

You told and retold the interrogators everything you knew, any new developments which had occurred to you, forced to relive everything which had reduced you to your current condition.

But they weren’t satisfied.

They thought you had something to hide. That you were covering for the cartel by withholding names and knowledge.

The second you were back in your room, you broke down.

You ranted and raved to Ghost, who listened intently, his attention solely on you.

In one hand you squeezed your fist, looking for your stress ball; the one that, ironically, was given to you by the same people who had caused you to need it now.

You couldn’t find it. You turned to Ghost.

Hyperventilating, in your panicked, angered state, you reached out to him.

“Can I squeeze your hand?” you said, words spewing out faster than you could think about them.

Ghost seemed rigid.

You swallowed thickly.

“Please.”

Ghost took a step towards you and, slowly, he raised his hand to you.

You took it, squeezing it, trying to stamp out the anxiety pulsing through you.

With your eyes closed and breathing evening out, you held Ghost’s hand close to you, your grip lessening with every minute that passed.

After your attack, as you got ready for bed, outside of your field of vision, standing just outside your room, you didn’t see Ghost.

Didn’t see him look down at the hand you’d so intimately held, squeezed, close to your chest.

He could feel your remnant, phantom warmth encompassing it.

He clenched his fist, as if trying to hold your hand, the memory of it which swam around his like fish in a pond.

A couple days later, you were set for another interrogation.

While you were holed up in that room, Ghost remained in yours.

He searched for your stress ball, the image of your tear-stained face in the forefront of his mind.

Somewhere within his psyche, as he scoured the space for that little yellow sphere of temporary distraction, your voice echoed.

It thanked him for finding it, held him in its grip, drove him.

The warm gratitude you’d express plagued him, encompassing him in a similar, diluted warmth he’d felt when you held his hand.

He glanced under your bed. And there it was.

He plucked it and turned it over in his hand.

The gratification of seeing your face light up when he presented it to you fizzed in his mind.

And then another, heavier thought crossed his mind.

The feeling of you close to him, holding, gripping him in your time of need…did something to him.

He’d be the last to admit that he hadn’t felt warmth like that in a long time. And to forfeit it just for a moment’s gratification seemed a waste.

Ghost glanced at the ball. He deposited it deep into his pocket.

He told himself he’d return it to you later.

Later. Later.

Later came as you hobbled down the corridor with the help of a frame.

You seemed stressed. In need of release.

Ghost slid his hand into his pocket. Squeezed the ball.

“Did you find it?” you asked, hopeful. Your optimism was difficult to ignore.

Ghost shook his head. “Negative,” he said, a habit he’d picked up. Slow and intentional. He knew what he was doing. “But I’m here if you need me.” 

And need him, you did.

You ended up confiding in him how the interrogation went, how the interviewers had made you feel like you had something to hide.

All the while, you clutched Ghost’s hand.

No amount of pressure you could muster could possibly hurt him, yet Ghost could tell you were holding back what little strength you had - both physical and mental.

“Don’t be shy,” Ghost said, voice cutting through your anxious ramblings. He looked down at your conjoined hands. “Squeeze harder.”

Something in the way you looked at him, with a look that said ‘I don’t want to hurt you’, crossed your eyes.

A look Ghost had nearly forgotten in his line of work.

You eventually fell into a comfortable rhythm wherein you would squeeze Ghost as hard as you could, leading to him faking injury at one point.

You chided him, you both laughed (or, Ghost nearly laughed), and you rested against your pillow.

“You know,” you said, turning to Ghost, “one day, I hope we won’t need a military.”

You were exhausted. Ghost could tell. He humoured your sleep-deprived ramblings regardless.

“So that people like you don’t have to fight for us.”

“Oh?” Ghost said. He’d be lying if he said his curiosity wasn’t piqued.

You nodded, movements growing sluggish, lethargic.

Your hand still held Ghost’s, resting it upon your stomach.

“You’re people, just like us.” You said, yawning. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Ghost felt an unfamiliar warmth spark in his chest. He ignored it.

“Not gonna happen, I can assure you that.”

“Which part?” you asked, eyes shutting.

Ghost leaned to mutter in your ear: “I’ll always be here to protect you.”

He didn’t know if you’d heard him.

When he withdrew, you were asleep. Still holding him.

He pulled his seat closer to your bedside, unable to bring himself to dislodge his hand from yours.

And that’s how he found you the morning after, awaking from his rigid sleep, still conjoined.

And thus, a habit was born.

After each interrogation, or psychiatrist visit or physical rehabilitation session, you would return to your room with Ghost and squeeze his hand until your anxiety dissipated.

All the while, your memories had begun returning at a quickened pace.

Ghost was learning more about you day by day.

Your favourite food, your home country, the names of your family members.

Your real name.

When he’d heard you say it for the first time, he swore the room got brighter.

It was beautiful and personal in ways that ‘Fawn’ could not compare.

It gave him a place to start searching for traces of you elsewhere.

Social media accounts, certificates, places of work and education - he knew he could find it all.

To make sure you were better off at home than you were at the Base is how he’d justified this interest to himself.

He still called you Fawn when you were alone, the name an inside joke between the two of you.

Speaking of, Ghost exchanged many jokes with you.

Regardless of how illogical or downright plain they were, you laughed each time.

Genuinely laughed.

Ghost wondered if you’d have reacted the same had you not been in the situation you were in right now; practically tethered to him and needing him for everything.

Well, almost everything.

After a few months of physical rehabilitation, you could just about walk again.

Your balance was a little off and you still needed the frame, but it was a start!

Ghost was there with you to celebrate, which, despite their best efforts to make you feel like a caged bird, the Base celebrated, too.

You’d been incredibly useful to them, having turned up many new leads for them to investigate.

As a reward, Base let you do something which caused Ghost to wonder if this was really the best decision.

They let you go to a bar with the boys.

To clarify, they said you could leave your room, the news of which travelled around the Base until it reached the ears of Ghost’s team.

“When were you gonna tell us?” Soap said, Alejandro nearby.

Ghost’s face was blank.

“Didn’t deem it necessary,” he said. And left it at that.

Naturally, Ghost’s team came to visit you and asked if you wanted to go to a bar with them.

“All that alcohol might help you remember something,” said Gaz, looking between you and Ghost.

You looked to Ghost, who, under the silent scrutiny of the other Force members, knew he couldn’t deny you of this freedom.

“Sure,” he said on your behalf. His eyes found yours and, while yours were filled with hope, Ghost’s seemed to exhibit a darkness never before seen by you.

You squeezed his hand that night you were set to leave.

“What if they don’t like me?” you said. “What if I was a terrible person and I remember all the bad things I’ve don-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Ghost’s voice came as a welcome distraction. You looked at him, swallowing your nerves.

“So what if they don’t like you? S’not like you’ll ever see them again.”

Ghost realised what he’d said wasn’t what you wanted to hear when your eyes widened, at which point he cleared his throat and tried again.

“What I mean is that they’ll like you regardless. Hell, they’re excited to just meet you after you’ve been holed up in confinement for the last few months.”

“You think so?” you said. Ghost nodded. And squeezed your hand back.

“I promise.”

The bar was nothing spectacular, being dimly lit and made solely out of wood, it seemed. But it was a change.

Creaking into the room, Alejandro spotted you first, throwing a cheer your way, followed by the rest of the Task Force, turning to face you.

Ghost was your shadow, large and wall-like behind you.

You held onto his wrist, daring not to let go, your other hand on the frame.

“Welcome, (Y/N),” said Gaz, lifting his drink in your general direction before taking a  swig.

You gave him a slight wave, a shy smile crossing your features.

“Come, take a seat with us!” Alejandro hollered, waving you over.

You cast Ghost a glance over your shoulder. He nodded stiffly and you made your way to the group.

Ghost came to your side, with you gripping onto his arm.

His hulking mass beside you relieved you somewhat.

And, though he wouldn’t admit it, having you cling to him brought back the same feeling he experienced whenever you squeezed his hand.

Was this perhaps…liking?

The cheers of the team cut his thoughts short.

He knew you’d be safe with his team if he just left. And, with your warmth radiating through him, he felt that he needed to take a step outside to rid himself of this growing affliction.

He made a move to detach himself from you, and, quick as lightning, your hand was atop his.

“Don’t leave,” you whispered to him, eyes pleading as you snapped to look at him.

His heart jumped. Something in him stirred.

“Alright,” he said. “I won’t.”

“Hey,” came Alejandro’s jovial tone. “I can see why Ghost’s been hiding you away and keeping you to himself all this time.”

You felt your face heat up at the implication, then feigned oblivion. Just in case you were misreading the situation.

“Oh?” you said, tone inquisitive.

Alejandro nodded. “You’re very attractive.” He gave you an eye smile.

Your face felt as if it were on fire.

“Ah, look what you’ve done,” came Soap, emerging from the group. “You’ve gone and embarrassed (Y/N)!”

All the while, Ghost was beside you.

He seemed…rigid.

“That’ll do.” Ghost’s stern voice came, cutting through the chatter of the bar.

You nuzzled further into his side, as if trying to cover yourself.

You and Ghost settled into a quiet section of the bar after that, Soap, Alejandro and Gaz coming to pay you a visit whenever they brought you a drink, chatting for a minute or two before feeling ghost’s icy stare on their backs.

That night, laying in bed, you cast Ghost a tired smile.

“M’sorry I’ve been so clingy recently,” you said, Ghost tucking you in beneath the covers.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, trying not to make eye contact with you.

Leaning back into your pillows, you reached for Ghost.

“Nervous?” he said, placing his gloved hand in yours.

“No,” you said. “Just want you nearby.”

Ghost’s heart spiked. He ignored it.

You fell asleep with his hand on your chest, hands holding his.

Ghost couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep without taking you in.

Even in the darkness, your features struck him as ethereal, your temperament and trust enrapturing him in ways he’d never been before.

He sat beside you, your loyal guard, watching over you through the night.

At some point, perhaps lulled to sleep by your rhythmic breathing, he joined you in a world far from this one, in a house you’d never seen before yet had lived in for years. You were happy, with Ghost behind you, unmasked, holding you.

Whether you shared this dream or not was irrelevant to Ghost. The only thing that mattered was that this, for now, felt real.

And yet, dreams can only satisfy the human lust for that which they do not have for so long.

The next day, more confident in your physical ability, you asked Ghost something which held an implication you weren’t yet aware of.

“Play Twister with me,” you said. You had a small smile on your face, one which Ghost was finding more and more difficult to deny.

After much pleading and begging, he eventually relented, more fond of the idea than he’d let on.

However, there was a stoic hesitance about him.

“I might hurt you.” His voice was sincere, yet his tone felt blank, as if he were protecting himself from the thought of injuring you.

You just smiled. “Never,” you said. “I trust you.”

Ghost scarcely contained the warmth seeping through his chest, threatening to make him smile.

He suppressed it.

“Fine,” he said.

Half an hour later, you were tangled together, neither relenting as your competitive nature got the better of you.

You span the dial, then called to Ghost: “Right foot, yellow!”

You tried. You really, really tried. But being pinned under the weight of a 6’2 ½ man and only just getting your strength back didn’t exactly give you an advantage. And stretching yourself too far, spreading your strength too thin, caused you to crumble.

You yelped, falling onto your front, winding yourself.

Ghost remained stationery on top of you.

You turned over onto your back and looked up at him, laughing.

“You can let go now,” you said. “You’ve won.”

“I know,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

You gave a breathless laugh, hands either side of your head.

Ghost lowered himself onto his knees, your legs caged between them.

He didn’t notice until he felt your thighs touch the inside of his legs, at which point he became aware of the position you were in.

His hands were on either side of your shoulders, trapping you beneath him.

You went quiet, the only noise being your laboured breathing as you regained your breath.

You were so close, you noticed, able to see Ghost’s dark eyes searching yours.

Neither of you spoke.

Slowly, cautiously, Ghost leaned down, drawing closer to your face.

You watched, frozen by your own indecision.

Sure, you liked Ghost, but did you like like him?

Your body decided the latter as you tried to meet him in the middle. Instinctual.

The material of his mask just grazed the tip of your nose when a hurried knock came at your door.

Your heart jumped and you gasped, both you and Ghost turning to look at the door.

You regained your breath, chest heaving. “We should…um…” you struggled to find the words to say, sliding out from beneath Ghost.

“Yeah,” he said, getting up. He offered a hand to you, which you took, and hoisted you up.

You landed on his chest, his hand still gripping yours.

You couldn’t bring yourself to let go, and neither could Ghost, by the looks of things.

But alas, the doctor was persistent, calling your name through the door.

You parted without another word, leaning onto your nearby frame. Ghost assumed his usual tall posture, shaking the situation off his shoulders as if it were snow.

A couple weeks later, the foundations upon which you and Ghost had built your friendship came tumbling down.

Base had announced that they were sending you home, having gotten in contact with your family.

More of your memory had resurfaced, as had your strength; enough to reduce the risk of you getting injured somehow during transit.

Upon hearing this, you and Ghost had very different reactions.

Your heart swelled and you cheered, the thought of reuniting with your family again making your body light up.

Ghost remained quiet, no different from usual. But something about his quietude felt…off.

Cold.

Base would discharge you within the next day or so.

You related your plans of what you would do when you returned home.

“I’m going to go to the beach, I’m gonna read more, I-”

Ghost tuned you out, watching you with a vacant stare.

He knew he should have respected that you were bound to leave eventually, as all good things do. But…something about you made this separation more difficult than it needed to be.

Perhaps it was his ego, so inflated with your reliance on him that he could scarcely see himself having any value outside of it.

That was his first and final line of defence against what the real issue was.

As he watched you get excitable to get away from here, from him (he told himself), his resolve began to crack.

It had been chipped and scathed by other occurrences, sure. But this pressure, this final obstacle, threatened to destroy it entirely.

“What do you think, Ghost?” your voice tuned in as if it were re-emerging from water.

“About what?” he said. He saw little purpose in feigning interest now.

“About me being able to go home.” You wore a smile, a genuine smile. Ghost had seen enough to be able to identify it.

“Good,” he said. “Finally be out of my hair.” There was a venom in his tone that made you double-take.

You tried to ignore it, tried to focus on what the future held for you, but something in Ghost’s demeanour had changed. You sighed, dropped your previous train of thought.

“Ghost…” you said as you slid off the edge of your bed. Your balance had improved, making the trip to Ghost easier than it used to be. He reached out to grab you on instinct.

Standing before him now, you gazed into his eyes, trying to find the root of the issue.

“I wish we got more time together. Under different circumstances, of course.”

Of course, Ghost wanted to say, but he remained mute.

You placed gentle, cautious hands upon his chest, smoothing them over the fabric.

“You’ve been so good to me, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.”

Your hands inched their way up to hold the sides of his mask. He made no move to remove you. His eyes bore into yours, soft in a way you’d never seen them before.

He placed his hands upon your waist, pulling you closer to him, slowly, methodically.

Your mind flashed back to your game of Twister. How close you’d been then and how close you were now.

Without thinking, urged by some sorrowful desire, you pulled Ghost into a tight hug, burying your face into his shoulder.

You sniffed, feeling tears sting your eyes and throat.

Ghost’s arms gingerly encompassed your frame, sliding around your waist, securing you.

The aversion he had to physical touch seemed to dissipate from him as you felt his weight pile on top of you, no longer holding back.

Neither of you spoke.

In your mind flashed a future without Ghost, a very real possibility. In Ghost’s, a future of only you and him. A silent promise he made to the both of you.

It took some time but the two of you eventually separated, with you wiping your nose on your sleeve.

Ghost watched you, hesitant to leave. Hesitant for you to leave.

You went to sleep that night as you never had before; Ghost laying in bed beneath you as you rested on his chest.

In his pocket, Ghost squeezed the stress ball, having found more use for it than you had.

In his haze, overwhelmed by the scent and presence of you, came an idea.

Later that morning, as you prepared to leave the Base, Ghost returned your stress ball to you.

“You found it!” you exclaimed, taking the ball and holding it close to your chest. You beamed up at Ghost, though there was an evident sorrow within you. “Thank you.”

Ghost offered his hand to you as he had many times before. And, for what you believed to be the final time, you took it, squeezing it.

You didn’t want to let go.

And neither did Ghost.

You were escorted onto the aircraft, Base fearing that you may be a target for any remaining cartel members while in the country, thus issuing you with a more discreet method of air travel home; a small helicopter.

You watched as Ghost grew further and further away, waving to you as you did to him, until he was gone.

In your hand you clutched your stress ball. Looking down at it, you turned it over in your hand.

There was something on it.

Looking closely, you saw the unmistakable outline of a phone number written in black ink, along with the word ‘Ghost’ below it.

You smiled, the crushing dejection you’d experienced for many hours before evaporating, replaced with a feeling you had grown all too familiar with.

Hope.

Meanwhile, Ghost got straight to work on tracking your location.

He wanted to know where that aircraft was going, when it would land, and approximately how long it would take for you to get home (and call him).

You may not have been able to see him anymore, but Ghost was watching over you.

This would be far from the last time you’d see him, he’d make absolutely sure of that.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

A/N: Due to tumblr's 4,096 character limit per text box (paragraph), I've had to separate the whole post out like this to be able topost it. I've tried putting the breaks where there would be a time skip so that reader immersion doesn't suffer too much.

Thank you for your patience :-)

[oxbowridgehq]

You flew too high up off the ground, It's stormy wheater an' had to come back down

STATS.

NAME: Bethany Walker GENDER & PRONOUNS: cis woman & she/her AGE: 32 OCCUPATION: actress & singer AFFILIATIONS: Walker FACECLAIMS: Dakota Johnson

ABOUT.

It was a hard life growing up as the baby of the Walker family. Dramatics seemed to be her flare starting at a young age and continuing through her childhood. There was this inkling notion that twisted in the pit of her stomach; a distaste for the ranch. The lifestyle her family consumed themselves in was too mundane for her liking. It was in her teenage years that the growing need to escape seemed to spill over and she never held back how she felt about her life. 

Bethany loved her family, there was no questioning her feelings towards them, despite the bridges that kept them apart. She looked up to them, admired who they were, but always felt like she didn’t fit in. It wasn’t a bad thing, not in her eyes, she knew the life she wanted to live no matter how hard her father seemed to want her to fully commit to the ranch. The only time she felt any sort of resentment towards them was when their mother walked out on them. 

She didn’t resent her how the others did. No, she could understand why her mother did it. The resentment formed because her mother never considered taking her. The conversations that she had to listen to coming from her family, the way they talked about her, only clarified that she didn’t belong there. They were holding her back from her true potential. 

Los Angeles had always called to her. The excitement that would bubble inside of her at the thought of living in the city, pursuing a career in acting and singing, gave her hope. Her family might not have agreed with her aspirations, but that never deterred her. The second she crossed that stage, accepting her high school diploma, her luggage was waiting on the other side, ready to make a name for herself. 

Bethany never expected her life to take the turn that it did. She had spent years barely getting by in the city, her dreams her driving force, that in the early twenties, she landed a role that would make a name for her. An audition that accidentally stumbled upon made a name for her. She had stepped across the threshold that began to build her name in the industry. This was all she had dreamed for and more – no ranch holding her back. 

Like most good things in her life, it was only a matter of time until an obstacle was thrown in her way. The death of her father hit her harder than she expected, guilt for not being closer than she should have been. Bethany packed her bags and made her return home. Unable to stay in the family home, she found a temporary apartment to call home. The visit was only meant to help with the funeral and go through the will, at least a month, before she would make her way back to her home, but she was learning, it wasn’t going to be that easy. 

She felt like a foreigner in a place that she once called home.  

[sortofanobsession]

Will o’ the Wisp - Ch. 8 (Umbrella Academy WIP) Diego x Reader slow burn

Author’s note: A bit of a shorter chapter this time. Events of Episode 1x07 The Day That Was. No translations needed this time.

So as it goes, Y/N = your name. Y/N/N = your nickname. Reader pronouns She/Her.

Tag Requests are Open just message me.

Primary Pairing: Diego Hargreeves x Female!Reader (Slow Burn Season 1)

Series/TUA Masterlist

Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 9

Word count: 2k+

Content Warning: Drugs, Drinking, Anger, Sibling Rivalry, Blood, Passing Out, Injury, (Temporary) Fatal Injury, Head trauma, Cardiac arrest, CPR, Stitches, Police, Arrest, mentions of death, mentions of murder, cussing/swearing/cursing, Panic Attacks, Exhaustion

Chapter 8: Things that do Matter

"Harold Jenkins?" Allison asks, holding the note from the Commission.

"Who the hell is Harold Jenkins?" Diego asks. 

"I don't know," Five says as he tosses the empty coffee cup across the room. "Yet. But I do know that he's responsible for the apocalypse. So we have to find him. And we have to do it now."

"How is he connected to what's gonna happen?" Luther asks.

"I don't know," Five answers.

"Wait, so you just know his name? That's it?"

“That's enough," Five informs.

"There's probably dozens of Jenkinses," 

"Well," Five admits. "We just better start looking, then."

"Am I the only one that's skeptical here? I mean, how exactly do you know all of this about what's his name?"

 "Harold Jenkins."

"You know those lunatics in masks who attacked the house?"

"Oh, yeah, I think I remember those guys."

"Yeah, the ones that attacked us while you were getting drunk."

"Yeah," Five says. "Them. They were sent by the Temps Commission to stop me from coming back and preventing the end of life on Earth."

"The Temps what?"

"My former employer. They monitor all of time and space to make sure that whatever is supposed to happen happens. They believe the apocalypse is coming in three days. So I went to Commission headquarters and intercepted a message that was meant for said lunatics. 'Protect Harold Jenkins'. So he must be responsible for the apocalypse."

"What do you mean, protect time and space?" Allison asks at the same time Diego says he’s going after Hazel and Cha-Cha.

"Do you have any idea,” Allison starts. “How insane this sounds?"

"You know what else is insane?” Five counters. “I look like a 13-year-old boy. Y/N glows like she is made of neon. Klaus talks to the dead, and Luther thinks he's fooling everybody with that overcoat. Everything about us is insane. It always has been."

"He's got a point there," Klaus acknowledges. 

"We didn't choose this life. We're just living it."

"For the next three days, anyway."

"But the last time we tried to stop it, we all died."

"Why is this time any different?"

 "Why shouldn't I go home to my daughter?" "Because this time, I'm here. We have the name of the man responsible."

"Guys, we actually have the chance of saving the lives of billions of people,” Five insists. “Including Claire."

Allison is surprised. "You know her name?"

 "I do, and I'd like to live long enough to meet her,” Five tells her. 

All right."

"Let's get this bastard," Allison states.

"You had me at Gerald Jenkins," Diego says. 

"Harold Jenkins," Five corrects him. 

"Whatever."

Y/N chuckles but nods.

Diego continues. "I've already lost two people this week, I'm not losing anyone else." She reaches over and gently puts her hand on the one in the sling.

"And Luther?"

"Yeah, you go. I'm gonna stay and go through Dad's files. I still think this has something to do with why he sent me to the Moon."

"Seriously?" Diego asks. "Now you wanna make the end of the world about you and Dad?"

"No. 'Watch for threats.' That's what he told me.” 

Diego can feel his sister’s sigh. 

“You think that's a coincidence? This all has to be connected somehow."

"No, we should all stick together."

"We don't have time for this," Five says.

"Let's roll."

"I know where we can find this asshole."

“Diego…” she starts. 

"Klaus, you're with me."

"Yeah. I'm good,” Klaus tells them. “I think I'll, uh I think I'll pass. I'm feeling a little under."

Diego looks at Y/N when he moves, but she doesn't. "Would you be mad if I stayed here?" She asks him.

"You want to stay?" He repeats. She always wanted to go with him, one way or another. Even when he didn’t want her to. It set off alarms in his head, especially after the way she was acting when Viktor was there. "What's wrong?" 

Five seems to get impatient, but Diego glares and waves him off. "I'll be right there," he tells their younger-looking, much older brother. Five relents, for now.

She looks at Diego. “You go. I’ll stay here and see if I can help Luther. I need some sleep. I can get that here. You have to admit I'm off my game. I'm too tired. I didn't even see V get here, and the Wisp was in full form in the room. I barely reacted when Five-"

"Luz, look at me," he tells her. His hand was on her cheek to make her really look at him. He studies her face. His thumb brushes along the dark circles under her eyes. She must be bone tired to actually admit it. "Okay, you get some sleep and see what you can do after. Keep those two in line if you have to." 

"DIEGO!" Five calls him.

"ALRIGHT!" Diego turns and shouts back.

"Be careful," she says.

"Of course, can't do anything stupid without you, I promised. Right?"

She nods. "Now go before Five has a rage stroke fitting of the old man he is."

"I'm starting to regret asking the two of you to get along," Five glares at Diego as he approaches the car. 

"Well, I regret you a lot, so there's that," Diego counters. 

"Y/N is staying?" Allison asks.

"Yeah, she is going to get some sleep and then do whatever she can to help."

"And you're okay with that?" Both Five and Allison are surprised.

"Would I rather we all be going, of course, but her powers can be a drain. If she needs the rest up, so we have a better chance of stopping this guy, then better now than later. Besides, Luther and Klaus are here, Pogo too. They'll look after her."

She manages to get a bit of sleep. When shouting wakes her. She finds Klaus in his room.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Luther left,” he tells her.

“What? Why?” 

“He found the research he did while on the moon, and dad didn’t even look at it,” Klaus says.

“But that…what?” she says in shock. “I’m going to talk to Pogo.”

She looks at her father’s office and sees the mess Luther left. “Pogo?” She goes to find him.

“Yes, Miss Y/N,” he answers. 

“What happened?” she asks. Pogo explains most of what happened between Reginald and Luther. Or as much as he is willing to say. She helps him straighten a few things up before Klaus seems to have a change of heart and tells her that Luther wanted to be more carefree like him and that they should probably find him.

“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?!” She runs to her room and grabs her jacket. “We need to find him!” She sends out a handful of Wisps but keeps her body moving and searching as she does. “I’ll look. You just make sure I don’t get hit by a car or anything. You can manage that at least, right?”

“I’m sorry, Sunshine,” Klaus says.

“Can you do that?” she repeats.

“Of course, I’m not going to let you get hit by a car or get shot…again. Diego would murder me.”

“Okay, thank you,” she says before putting more focus into her search. 

“We should have taken him to the hospital.” Allison and Diego manage to get a bloody Five back to the Academy. 

“A kid with a shrapnel wound might raise some questions,” Five tells them.

“Yeah, well, so does the murder shrine in Harold Jenkins' attic.” 

“He's still losing blood.” 

“What do we do?” 

“We gotta get the shrapnel out.” 

Diego sees Grace. 

“Diego, where are you going?” Allison asks. 

“Mom?” Diego asks. 

“Oh, hello, Diego, dear.”

 “What... How are you still... walking around?”

“One foot in front of the other,” Grace tells him. “Why? How do you do it?”

He gets Grace to save Five. 

Klaus keeps looking at his sister nervously as he argues with Ben. She barely even registers him talking. Her concern for Luther is pushing her more than her father ever did as a kid. She ignores the throbbing behind her temples as she searches. The throbbing pain turns into a full-blown nauseating migraine as she follows a lead to a rave. After hearing someone mention the hairiest man they have ever seen. That had to be him. She pulls back all but two orbs to search. “He’s here somewhere. Find him.” She and Klaus split up.

“Anything?” Diego asks as they stand in the hall outside of Five’s room. 

“There's no answer at Viktor's place,” Allison tells him. “And the receptionist at the music school said he was a no-show for his lessons today.”

“Hey, you okay?” 

“Yeah.”

“I don't know. It's just surreal seeing him. I just wanna tell him that I'm s -”

“We don't have enough time.” Diego says. “We gotta go.”

“I don't know, Diego.”

“Five is laying there, unconscious.”

“We need him.”

“We can do this ourselves”

“We did that already, remember? We all ended up dead.”

Allison is unsure.

“I'm just I'm thinking I should go and see Claire before,” she tells him. 

“You can't run away from this, Allison,” he states. “That's what started this whole mess in the first place.” He glances at the empty rooms around them and thinks about what is happening. What has happened. Everything that still needs to be done.

“Luther was right,” he admits, much to Allison’s surprise. 

“I didn't think I would ever hear you say those words,” she says. 

“Yeah, well, we gotta stick together,” Diego insists. 

“Where do we start?”

“There's no other addresses in the file, but there is another relation listed.”

“Jenkins' grandmother,” he tells her. “She lived near Jackpine Road.”

“You think he took her there?” 

“It's a good enough place to start.”

“Nope,” Diego says and starts moving in the other direction down the road. “Come on, this way.”

“Wait,” Allison says, confused, “but the car is back that way.”

“Trust me, okay?” Diego implores. “Come on.”

“But what is going on?”

“They're here for me,” he tells her. “They think I did something.” 

Allison has to ask. “What do they think you did?”

Police sirens signal that their time to chat is running out.

“Murder,” Diego answers.

Allison can’t help but ask, “Did you?” 

“No, no, no, of course not, okay?” Diego insists. “Y/N was there too. Why would you ask that about me, anyway?”

“She isn’t here. And I mean, you do carry knives with you everywhere.”

“Yeah, okay, we're gonna have to split, okay?” Diego says. “I'm in charge.” He looks over at her. “Remember? Viktor needs you.”

“Don't do anything stupid, okay?” Allison says. Diego because she isn’t the sister that is usually telling him that. And he’d promised that sister that he wouldn’t do anything stupid. Now here he was about to get arrested. She was not going to be happy about that.

“Drop it!” The officer tells Diego.

“Weapon on the ground, Diego.”

Diego winces in pain as his injured arm is pulled roughly.

“I expected better from you, Chuck,” Diego says.

“I got orders,” Beaman says, “You and your glowing sister. Don't make this harder than it already is.”

“Glad she’s not here then,” Diego admits.

“Diego Hargreeves, you're under arrest on the suspicion of the murder of Detective Eudora Patch.”

“Rodriguez, I thought we were friends.”

“You killed a cop, asshole.”

“You have the right to remain silent,” The cop continues. “Anything you say - can and will be used against you.”

Diego spits at him. “Use that against me.”

She can’t believe what she is seeing when she does find him. "Luther?!" She stares in shock at her hulking brother's clearly inebriated form. Shirtless and dancing like a maniac. 

"Y/N/N!" Luther gestures for her to come closer and hugs her a bit too tight. He doesn't notice the way she winces at the pinch of pain in her arm. She had a feeling he'd torn a couple of her stitches, causing her to drop the Wisps forms. Her powers return to her and make her glow. He sets her back on her feet. Her hand goes up to her injured arm. "Guys! This is my sister, Y/N. You should see what you can do!" 

"Her aura is so bright," someone says. She flinches back when she feels someone touch her face. 

"That's nothing. You should see the Wisp!"

"Hey! Watch it. That's not my aura. It's my powers," she says, pulling back and swatting away the hands that reach for her with her good arm. She turns back to Luther. "Luther, we need to find Klaus and go home."

Her brother looks around almost comically but comes up with nothing. "But this is fun!" 

She sighs. She knows she can’t physically move him. What choice does she really have. "Right, just stay here. I’m going to find Klaus my way. Don't you dare wander off on me," she points at Luther. "Okay, big brother? I need you to have my back."

"Yeah, of course," Luther nods. "Guys watch this," he says when she closes her eyes and summons multiple small orbs again. She ignores the oohs and ahhs around her and sends them out to search. "Crazy, right? So cool." She hears Luther say. "Hey, don't touch." Luther scolds someone when she feels a hand in her hair, but it's gone before she can bring more attention back. 

"Klaus!" She shouts and turns to Luther. "Don't leave." 

"I won't!" Luther says but she decides to leave a small whip orb with him. She goes to where she had seen their brother.

"Klaus!" she shouts, but his form is almost too still, and others seem to be gathering around him. She can feel dread creep up her spine. "Klaus, please!” She slaps his cheek. Ignoring the chatter and stares around them as her body glows intensely blue from her anxieties shining through the Wisp inside her. He wasn’t breathing. She must have said it out loud because someone comes closer and starts giving him CPR. Her normally well-maintained focus to keep the Wisp down is gone as she watches the stranger try to revive her brother. The orb she left with Luther fades as she pleads with Klaus. "Come on! You don't get to leave me too!" She can feel tears on her face as she begs. "This isn't how Five saw it, and you don't get to go without me. I can't lose both you and Ben. I can't." She lets out a laughing sob as Klaus seems to come around.

"Sunshine?" Klaus blinks at her.

"DON'T SCARE ME LIKE THAT!" She shouts as she scrambles to her feet, pulling him up and into a hug. He feels her shake. 

Klaus feels a hint of guilt as Ben berates him for upsetting the one sibling that routinely cared for them. "Hey, Sunshine, I'm okay," Klaus assures her, wiping some of the tears off her face. "I'm sorry, I was…trying to help Luther."

"Luther!" She gasps, her hand going to Klaus' and dragging him back to where she had left Luther, but he was gone. She curses in every language she knows. Earning odd looks from the people around them. “ I told him to stay here. I left a Wisp with him, but I lost it when you weren't waking up." 

"Sorry," Klaus says as they look around. She finds out that Luther had been kicked out. "Are you bleeding?" He looks at her arm. "We need to get that taken care of." 

"We need to find Luther!"

"We can do both," he says.

They track Luther back to the Academy, and Klaus can tell his sister is practically dead on her feet. The search and panic attack she had when she found him seemed to drain any energy reserves she had been surviving on. She could hardly protest when Grace redoes her sutures and tucks her in. She’s out before Grace even leaves the room. The Wisp a dim glow in the dark room as he closes the door. 

[plaguedpirate]

  　  　  　  　  　  　    　　𝖟𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖆 𝖟𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖊

zarina zarate is based on zarina from disney fairies. she is a 28 year old fairy, peddler, and uses she/her pronouns. she has the power of flight and pixie dust alchemy.

penned by HARPER

reflection

face claim: seychell gabriel sexuality: bisexual height: 5'3 eye color: brown hair color: brown piercings: n/a - she took them all out upon arriving to evermore tattoos: n/a

attitude

positive traits: adaptable, resourceful, independent, industrious, humorous, perceptive, protective negative traits: paranoid, withdrawn, defensive, self-destructive, compulsive, mischievous likes: the ocean, alchemy, experimenting with things usually left untouched, nature walks, french braids, the smell of freshly-poured coffee, wearing boots for almost every occasion, the smell of fresh cut wood, wanderlust, being alone dislikes: being ignored, having her ideas shut down, allowing her trauma to resurface, saying goodbye, car horns, closed-minded people, feeling like she can't breathe, being taken advantage of, sweating phobias: athazagoraphobia ( the fear of being forgotten ) hobbies: collecting trinkets, buying strange beverages from the liquor store and sampling them, being a porch pirate, singing sea shanties under her breath, experimenting with the remaining pixie dust she has in the solitude of her apartment, watching pirate movies and weirdly reminiscing. aesthetic: the smell of sea salt, the feeling of sand between bare toes, flannels and heavy boots, a multipurpose red scarf, a forgotten driftwood scented candle crackling on a dining room table, the smoke that trails from an extinguished flame, the sensation of relief that comes along with stretching, an old fashioned with extra orange bitters, whispers of the past coming from the faces of those one left behind

relations

mother: n/a father: n/a sibling(s): n/a pet(s): n/a

headcanons

⚔ zarina is reluctant in building connections with people due to having so many of her past relationships result in her being cast to the wayside or taken advantage of. her trust issues run particularly deep and so earning her respect or allegiance takes A LOT. ⚔ zarina isn’t proud of being a peddler but given as it is the only “talent” she has ?? she’ll take it. her acting skills have certainly started an upwards climb, given as she could gaslight anyone into believing an object she was selling did in fact come from an ancient burial ground and NOT their backyard. ⚔ the fairy has mixed and conflicting feelings about the other fairies; they were part of a community that had rejected her full force and with little remorse; a community who doubted her and belittled her curiosities. she believes none of them had taken her side when the accident happened, and accuses them of never even bothering to hear her out. whether or not those accusations are true aren’t important to zarina, and so she only trusts them as far as she could throw them. ⚔ she loves a good old-fashioned made with whiskey distilled at on ship in salt-infused barrels. jefferson’s ocean is a fave, and she always gets an extra twist of orange in hers. no extra twist?? she won’t drink it.  ⚔ the ocean was a safe space for her, endless rolling waves that moved without judgment, without question, without doubting themselves. not having an ocean in evermore is really hard for her, but the lakes in the park and the creeks in the river are likely where she can be found when she’s stuck in her own head… which is often. ⚔ when she’s stressed, walking alone at night, or feeling particularly anxious; she’ll sing old sea-shanties to herself to build her confidence and make her feel safe. a weird habit, being as those who taught her the shanties completely abandoned her and threatened her life but… part of her sometimes misses the crew she was with. even if it was temporary, for a short while, zarina felt like her and her talents meant something. therefore, the shanties are a weird comfort for her. ⚔ zarina is conflicted about their feelings being trapped in evermore… part of her has found peace with it, the other part of her yearns for a life in which she is able to do more. all she has ever wanted was to do more.