#they took the one good thing about overwatch from us

[oddatbest]

I’m still unreasonably upset about this. Why they have to ruin perfection T_T

[sergeantwoods]

inhale, exhale. inhale, exhale. inhale, exhale. inhale, exhale. in--

the thump of the helo hitting the ground lifted ghost from his thoughts, and he sighed. exhale.

roach and gaz slowly broke apart from their huddling, probably talking about some dumb shit. ghost huffed, turning away from the two.

see, soap was dead. he has been for a while. a while is 8 months. but that's still a while in his books. because he could never let johnny's death go. never.

roach was soaps replacement. but he could never amount to johnny. so as much as he tried, he wouldn't get half of ghost's respect. roach wasn't bad, don't get him wrong. the kid was good at his job, smart, funny. but if he thought he could replace soap, then he was sorely mistaken. nobody can replace soap.

ghost doesn't understand how gaz and price moved on so quickly. their mourning only lasted about, what, a month? two? even so, it was too fast. like they dumped the idea of the bright-eyed sergeant away too quickly. it cut at simon's heart.

a pat on his shoulder had him roused from his thoughts, and he met eyes with price. price nodded at him, and he dipped his head back. swallowing shallowly, he stood up, following behind the captain.

once they reached the snowy ground, price waved nik off, and nik grinned and winked before launching in the air again and leaving. now, it was just the four of them, plus the two rookies that had been assigned this mission.

"alright," price started, coughing. his eyes narrowed, and he gestured at the facility that was barely visible from their view. "we're just going in to grab intel. they have guards, yes, but they are easy to bypass. it's easy. don't make it harder than it has to be." at the collective 'yes sirs!' he recieved, he nodded.

"sergeant valkyrie, lieutenant mirage, go on overwatch. me and the others are going into building A. keep watch for us. don't mess up; this is important." when the sergeant and the lieutenant nodded, he turned to the direction of the building.

"alright. when we get there, i'll tell overwatch where to set up, then we'll go and get that intel. shouldn't take too long." clapping his hands, he continued. "let's get going."

they trudged at least a few miles towards the compound, dropping of overwatch on the way. when they reached the cliff that dropped down to reveal the building, price split them into smaller groups.

it took them a few minutes to get down, grunts of effort being heard through comms. the awkward shuffling from the rookie's side of the comms were picked up, agitating ghost's ears. he was tempted to turn it off, but he decided against it. it would stop later, anyway. they'd get busy and focus.

gritting his teeth, he took out his assault rifle. price gave them a few more directions, before they took off for their missions.

it starts off slow. yeah, it started off slow. but now, here they were, huddled under some block of cement, to hide from the rain of bullets coming their way. price curses under his breath from ghost's side, reloading his gun hurriedly before peeking out from the side of the block and shooting.

ghost looked out from the side as well, shooting enemies one by one with deadly accuracy.

"overwatch, how many more are there?" price hisses, reloading his gun again.

"they just keep coming, sir," valkyrie says, growling under his breath as he snipes some soldier in the swarm of konni's coming after them.

"fuuuck, there wasn't supposed to be this many!"

ghost couldn't help the snort that left him. price side eyes him, then roughly grabs his shoulder.

"we're moving, lieutenant, come on."

nodding, he covered the captain as the sprinted into the building next to them. once they entered, it became eerily silent, save for their shoes squeaking against the sterile marbled floor. it looked like a part of an airport, almost, minus all the obviously military things lying around.

even when price lowered his gun, ghost kept his up. they couldn't afford to be caught off guard.

"simon. there isn't anyone in here."

flicking his eyes to price, he slowly lowers the gun. if price told him to lower the gun only for them to get --

he lets out a surprised sound as something -- no, someone -- tackles him to the ground. his head hits the ground first, and the all-too-familiar feeling of the barrel of a gun being pressed to the back of neck is present before he hears price letting out a shout and barreling towards the figure on top of him to the ground.

ghost groans, head spinning. he hears the sounds of price and the russian tussling besides him, but he can't seem to care over the pain in his head.

it takes a few seconds to finally come too, but when he does, he realizes that price is being attacked. and suddenly his senses are in overdrive, and he sweeps the attacker of their feet and onto the ground. their gun goes flying, and they land on their back with a pained grunt. he goes to stand over them. and now he gets to see their face.

his heart drops.

a familiar face. it isn't supposed to be familiar -- the eyes. it's fucking green, not blue. and the muzzle. and the fluffed out, ruffled mohawk. it isn't johnny. but it is? johnny wouldn't betray them. and he wouldn't do... whatever this is. wouldn't agree to it.

soap snarls from his position on the floor, eyes narrowed and staring apoplectically up at ghost. his breaths were coming out in short, angry puffs, the sound strange from the muzzle.

"johnny?"

nothing in his face changes. no pause, no hesitation, no sadness, no recognition. ghost face screws up under the mask in concern. what the hell happened to him?

price shakily gets up beside him, staring down at soap. his face was white as a sheet, and he whispers out a hoarse, "soap?"

soap grips ghosts ankles, writhing on the floor, trying to flip him over. he doesn't move, stuck gawking at soap.

"what did they do to you?" he murmurs out; half to himself and half to soap.

the only response he gets is a strangled "fuck you," from the man himself, still trying to flip ghost over.

price crouches on the ground, a pained expression on his face. he looks back up at ghost, eyes tired.

"what the hell should we do with him?"

"don't think he knows who we are. i said his name, no sign of recognition. doesn't look like he's willing to communicate, either. and you're the captain. you decide."

price sighs, rubbing his forehead as he thinks.

"well, either we just leave him here, cuff him to a bar." he pauses, seeing ghosts brow furrow.

"bu-- "

"and i know that's not an option anyone would like," he cuts ghost off, then continues with an exhale. "or we could sedate him and bring him back with us, and ask questions when we get back. or we could cuff him and bring him back. which one is safer?"

"unless you want to have a sparring match on the helo, i don't recommend cuffs. sedate seems safer, the only good option. i think gaz would try and murder us if we left soap here, too. you got a tranquilizer?"

price nodded. "yeah. can you hold him?"

"of course."

already crouching, price moved closer to soap, taking out a kit with the needle in it. the now green-eyed man's eyes widened, and he jerked away from price. ghost crouches down too, holding soap down. using one hand, he gently combs his fingers through his mohawk.

soaps eyes snap to ghosts; confusion lacing the sickly green. but he's staring up ghost, confusion turning into... fascination? interest? and he's certainly not paying attention when price winces and gets closer. he sticks the needle in the side of his neck when he gets close enough, and ghost grip on soap immediately tightens.

johnny immediately lurches away, crying out in surprise, and thrashing around. it only takes a few moments for the movements to become sluggish, and before they know it, soap is completely asleep.

it's quiet in the building. except for the loud breathing from soaps muzzle.

prices hand reaches to his comms. he clicks it on, voice low and gravelly as he speaks into it.

"well. gaz, guess who we found?"

HEEEEEEEELP THAT WAS SO LAZY IM SOBBING 😭

i swear i can write better thn that -- that was like. only 50% energy. i rushed this in an hour. yes, an hour. that's not really rushing, but i got very distracted a couple times.

well, heres my serving of brainwashed soap for the night. don't expect anything from me for like. another month or two .😭i mean, the medieval fic is gonna kick off sometime, so expect that

i very quickly proofread this, so if there was typos jus,,. ignore that please 🙏

here u go, @spottlessspectre

[auspicioustidings]

141 fighting each other to be the one whose lap reader sits on during a meeting or smth

CONGRATS ON 1kkkk

Thanks <3 Please find silly nonsense below!

Tomfoolery Senses

Words: 1k

CWs: Slightly spicy but nothing explicit

Honestly you shouldn’t even be on base, not with your knee being how it was. It was annoying as hell that the recovery time meant you were out of the field for the foreseeable, but they still needed you. You may not be able to run around with a gun right now, but tactical was always your strong point anyway so for now you attended meetings and made plans.

You walked into one such meeting and your tomfoolery senses immediately went off. There were too many glinting eyes for them not to have pulled something, and when you went to sit down you nearly laughed out loud at the bloody audacity. No empty seats. Strange since there should be some, almost as if someone had relocated them beforehand specifically for some ridiculous purpose.

“Ye can sit here bonnie!”

It took a moment for your brain to catch up. Soap was very much patting his lap in excitement. The last time you had ended up in that man's lap his hand had wandered during the entire meeting. You recalled being a mess by the end of it and Soap being very much like the cat who got the cream about it because he knew it meant when he followed to your room like a puppy you would let him in.

“Move your arse MacTavish, I’m injured and I need the seat.”

“Wouldnae dream of it! As ye’ll recall, I also have a dodgy knee. Only right for us tae stick together.”

“Surely you’re not asking them to sit on your dodgy knee then Johnny? Come on sweetheart, right here.”

You gave Ghost a bemused look. Soap you expected this from, but him? Actually no, you had very much been overwatch for 141 missions, this is exactly the kind of nonsense you expected of this idiot.

“Now I would love to, but weren’t you just telling me about your bad back? I seem to remember something about needing me to massage it. It would be irresponsible of me to risk making it worse.”

“Your massage fixed it right up actually" he replied, large hand patting thick thigh in further invitation.

You rolled your eyes. Your “massage” had lasted about a minute with you sincerely giving it your best effort before he had pinned you down and given you a very thorough massaging of his own. Only that one had done the opposite of fixing your back, if anything you'd say he had in fact blown it out.

“That so? You were complaining about it right before they walked in” Gaz said, smug as anything even while Ghost glared over at him.

“He's a lying git luv, obviously just looking to get a gorgeous thing in his lap. My lap, however, is neutral.”

You knew for a fact his lap was not neutral, not one bit. His lap was very much the kind of lap that you found yourself bouncing on anytime he got you alone and charmed you right into it. You could be in the middle of a training exercise, fully in the zone, and next thing you knew you were stuffed full of Kyle bloody Garrick in the middle of a safehouse where anyone could wander in at any moment. It wasn't like you were a big risk taker, but he could make you think anything was a good idea.

“A veritable Switzerland I'm sure.”

“Safest place to be really.”

“Look me in the eye and say that with a straight face then.”

Soap and Ghost groaned in tandem as you made the mistake of looking at Gaz. That bloody sunshine smile could sell ice in the Arctic and as such everyone usually avoided eye contact when they knew he wanted something. Charisma score above 20 that boy. Honestly these fuckers were the worst, but oh Gaz's big brown eyes were just smiling so gently at you and surely he would never do anything untoward. How could you look at this man and think he would ever manipulate you?

“Corporal, come ‘ere, that's an order.”

Gaz's sunshine expression turned to one of wry disbelief. He had been so close, you had been about to take a step towards him. It was awfully unsportsmanlike for Price to pull rank, something Gaz would be holding against him.

“So much for honour.”

“Cheeky fucker.”

“Just taking the piss Captain.”

It wasn't completely unfounded for Price to use his rank to get what he wanted when it came to you, it was why usually the others would try to get you away from him. Ghost did it sometimes too if he wasn't there and the Sergeants were. Although he didn't use it quite as thoroughly as Price did once he got you alone. The Captain was always happy to give you orders if only so he could punish you when you bit back, which you did often. Not because you enjoyed the punishment, that certainly wasn't it. You could not supply another reason, but that was besides the point.

“Well I suppose I have to since you're the Captain, unless there was someone that technically had more authority to give me orders” you said with a grin.

“Come on now pet, don't be like that, just come sit and we can start the meeting hm?” he said, using that voice that was right in the middle of soothing dominance and rough command in a last ditch effort.

“Of course Captain, just want to clear it with command first.”

Price sighed, glancing over and seeing that he had lost the fight when he was met with Kate's sly little smile. She was often your saviour when it came to these men. It helped that her and her lovely wife were both sweet on you. They had invited you round for dinner once or twice, and suffice to say the very delicious home cooked meals were not the only thing getting eaten. If there was one thing the men in the 141 hated more than losing to one another, it was losing to Laswell. She was always so annoyingly smug about being your favourite.

As you settled right down in her lap and both the meeting and Kate's hands gently massaging at your waist started, the 141 collectively thought that next time they'd better bring you a damn chair.

[adamstnheights]

Stitches - Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Summary: You’re the newest recruit to 141 and still trying to figure out your intimidating, mysterious lieutenant. Being assigned as his partner on the field for the first time on a sniper mission, you’re unsure exactly how to act around him, especially when he has such an… effect on you. But when you both get caught in the crossfire, you’re forced to take cover with him and mend his wounds, much to his (begrudging) appreciation.

An alternative take on the Recon by Fire mission in MWII. Also based loosely around the Simon Riley ASMR video by Jim ASMR on YouTube because it was just so cute :)

Reader’s callsign is Zero (iykyk)

Content: Reader uses she/her pronouns, Sniper Reader, Reader used to want to be a medic, Military Inaccuracies, Medical Inaccuracies, Gunshot Wounds, Ghost being super soft, You taking care of Ghost, Ghost taking care of you, Gentle touches, Needles, Bandages, Stitches, Developing feelings, Ghost trusting you, Flirting, Fluff, Ghost is a cat person (REAL)

Word Count: 7.4k

“Ghost and Zero, you’ll station up at the top of the hill and see if you can take any of the cartel guards out from a distance,” Price ordered over comms. “When the path is clear, Gaz and I will move into the hatchery and clear them out, looking for any evidence of the missiles. Laswell will be out on the water on overwatch. If we need her, she can get to shore and join us in the hatchery.”

Usually, you would be standing in the debriefing room to hear your instructions for a mission, but because of the short notice and urgency, you were listening to Price’s voice over comms in the back of one of the task force’s vans. While Price continued to speak, you slowly let your gaze move over to where Ghost was sitting across from you in the back of the van, only for your whole body to seize up when you realized that he was already staring at you. And of course, you couldn’t tell what the hell he was thinking—basically his whole expression was covered by his mask. It frustrated you to no end. It felt like he always had the upper hand, not allowing the enemy or opposition to get a read on his face, which was understandable, but you wanted to know. You wanted to be able to know what he was thinking. In comparison, it made you feel extremely vulnerable. Maybe you’d look into getting your own mask.

Being the rookie made you feel extremely out of place. It didn’t matter you had five years of being a sniper under your belt; you’ve only been with them for six months, so to the rest of Task Force 141, you were still the newbie. Talk about your skill had been passed around by word of mouth, and soon Captain John Price had approached your former unit and proposed a deal to you that was too good to pass up. So a few months and a location change later, you were the newest addition to 141, thus securing your label as “the rookie.” There wasn’t really anything you could do about it.

Luckily, the guys in the unit welcomed you with open arms, although the kindness did come along with a fair share of humorous and flirtatious remarks. Soap and Gaz basically took you under their wing immediately, taking pride in teaching you new things and showing you the ropes of 141. They urged you to join in on their game nights and when they would go out to the bar after a hard day of training or a rough mission. You felt at ease around the other men, too, for the most part.

Ghost was another story. From the first time you met him, you were intimidated. He had a towering, large figure that could speak for itself, but also his voice was deep and gruff, especially when he was barking out orders. You weren’t scared of him, per se, but you were cautious. From the interactions you’ve had with him and the way you’ve observed him on missions, you definitely wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. He was mysterious—the mask and skull cover showed that the most, but on top of that, you noticed the way he expertly dodged any prying questions that Soap would ask him over comms during a mission. When you and the rest of the crew got drunk and began spewing out stories from your former lives, you noticed how Ghost would simply sit back and listen, observe, but not provide any stories of his own. You were sure he had his reasons for being closed off, but you couldn’t help but wish that he were… more approachable. Especially now that you were on your first mission with just him by your side, you felt like you knew him the least out of the other members of 141.

The van slowly and quietly came to a stop towards the top of the hill. Ghost opened the back doors and jumped out onto the ground and you followed, rifle in hand.

“Zero, on me,” Ghost said, nodding his head his way.

The fog along the coastline was thick—good for the enemies not spotting you, but not as good for you spotting the enemies. You stationed yourself about forty yards away from the edge of the uppermost hill, where the grass was thick and high. The outline of the hatchery could be seen far, far in the distance, right along the edge of the land. From where you and Ghost were crouching, you could see below where a dirt path winded slowly down the hills. It would take some time and patience to fully push forward and make it safe enough for Price and Gaz to breach the buildings down below. But you were ready; more importantly, you were counting on this mission to prove your worthiness to Ghost. It was kind of pathetic. You knew you were a damn good sniper out on the battlefield, and yet, ever since Ghost’s intense, unreadable gaze landed on you, you’d felt determined to do whatever it took to get his approval. It didn’t help that the way he looked at you kind of really made your heart race, in the most confusing way, and the periodic sarcastic jokes he would make over comms made him more endearing.

Still, you didn’t want to push your luck. The last thing you wanted was for this mission to bring you back to square one in terms of your reputation on the team. In front of you, Ghost crouched even lower to the ground, pointing his rifle outward and looking through the scope. You fell back slightly behind him, also crouching in the grass. After a few moments of silence, you furrowed your brow at him, unsure whether he was going to say something or if he was just trying to act like you weren’t even there. Maybe he was annoyed by you, annoyed that out of everyone else on 141, he was stuck with the rookie.

Finally, he nodded his head forwards, motioning you to follow him. Both of you crawled through the grass until you reached closer to the edge of the hill. You both got down, fully lying on the dirt. Through the fog, you could now make out the wire fences around the hatchery, where cartel were guarding the entrances and walking along the dirt paths surrounding it.

“I can see about ten of ’em, all ’round the entrance fence,” Ghost finally broke the silence. 

“We need to take our time,” you said, “They’ll spread out, into groups of two or three. Then we can take them out.”

“I’ll follow your lead,” he replied, “Let me know who to take out.” Normally, he would be argumentative to a new recruit taking the initiative, but there was something about you that fascinated him. He didn’t mind hearing your voice walking through the plan and telling him what to do. Price had told him about your skill; he knew that you knew what you were doing.

You readjusted your rifle just so, looking through the scope.

“On top of the building, two snipers,” you announced, “Do you see my laser on your thermal?”

You could hear Ghost repositioning his rifle a couple feet away from you in the grass. “Affirmative.”

“Go.”

You pulled the trigger, hitting the sniper on the right. Mere seconds afterwards, you heard Ghost’s rifle go off and through the scope you could see the second sniper’s body fall over.

“Got ’im,” he said. “On the right side of the fence, near the blue shipping container, there’s two.”

“I’m on him,” you said, lining up your shot next to his.

Ghost shot first this time, you followed him. The two men by the shipping container dropped to the ground. You continued scanning the area.

“Three more, below, closer to us, walking by that white van,” you flexed your hand and regripped the trigger.

“I’ll get the stray,” Ghost said.

“Copy that.”

You lined up your shot to the guy furthest to the right, watching as Ghost’s laser appeared over the man next to him. Again, seconds after you shot, Ghost followed, taking out the other. He quickly readjusted his hold on the rifle to focus in on the third one of the group. As you watched through the scope, the third man immediately went onto high alert, pointing his gun around him. Ghost wasn’t worried though as he lined up his shot. Poor bloke; unlike the first two men, this one would spend his last living seconds in panic mode.

Unfortunately, in the few seconds in between, the third man shouted and seemingly alerted someone else. Immediately after Ghost shot him down, two more men came running into view, shooting upwards towards the two of you. With a few uncoordinated shots, you and Ghost took them down quickly, but the not-so-subtle gunfire from your direction gave away your position. Before you could even think about moving, a bullet sped right past your view and into Ghost’s arm.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Ghost grunted, sucking in his breath in pain. “Where the fuck—?”

You were frantically scanning the area for where the shot could have come from when another bullet came speeding towards you, and you felt a sharp pain searing through your own arm. Furrowing your brow, you struggled to look even harder through the scope. “Shit—!” You winced.

“Got ’im,” Ghost announced, pulling the trigger, “To your left, on top of that small shed. There was another one.”

“Fuck.” You noticed two more men emerging from behind the shed. Both of you quickly took them down. “We– We need to push forward, we don’t have the best view from here. I can’t tell if we cleared the whole area.”

“Copy that.”

You began to crawl forward, the pressure of leaning on your right arm not helping the gash there. Before you could crawl even a foot you felt an unfamiliar touch on your forearm. Ghost had placed his gloved hand there, and you turned to look at him.

“You okay?” He asked lowly. You nodded your head, too shocked to speak.

You and Ghost quickly moved forward, onto an area of grass a bit lower down the hill than where you were before. You could see a bit closer now, and from the new angle, you could make out the rest of the area below. There were a handful more men on guard around the building, and you gripped your rifle hard in an attempt to distract your body from the pain. You monitored Ghost’s laser and helped him take out the men accordingly. Barely any more gunfire was exchanged.

“Price, Gaz—we cleared the outside surroundings of the buildings. You should be good to go in now,” he directed over comms.

“Copy. Good work, you two,” Price replied.

You met Ghost’s eyes from between the blades of grass and you could tell that he was intentionally not letting Price know that you two got hit. You could have spoken up yourself but you had successfully eliminated everyone and neither bullet seemed to have hit anything critical. Giving the lieutenant a knowing nod, you scanned the area and noticed a stream of water by a small stone building. It wasn’t really a building, more like a small hut. Ghost saw where you were looking and nodded his head towards it, giving you the go ahead.

Crouching slightly, you both quickly snuck towards the stone shack. Ghost positioned himself to cover the rickety wooden door, which you kicked in, instantly holding your rifle up to clear the inside. He followed you close behind, checking all corners of the worn-over room. Everything inside was covered in moss or other overgrown plants.

“Clear.” Ghost stated, lowering his gun. You were already sliding down against the stone wall towards the corner of the room, grasping the side of your arm. Ghost rushed to your side, sitting next to you. “Here,” he went to look at your arm, but you expertly reached for him first.

“Show me yours first,” you whispered, “Mine’s just a graze. Yours is worse.”

“Are you defying your superior?” He asked. You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“Yours is worse,” you repeated, shaking your head, “The bullet lodged in there. I need to take a look.” You were staring at his left bicep, where the layers of jacket and shirts were ripped into by the bullet. The hole in Ghost’s skin was large, bleeding profusely.

“It’s nothing,” he grumbled, “I’m more worried about you, Zero.”

Your eyebrow raised and you tilted your head up to look at him. Behind the mask, you could see his eyes clearly. They were hazel, and for probably one of the first times since you’ve known him, they looked soft and genuine. Up close, you could see little spots where the black paint smudged and his skin was peeking through. His eyelashes were blonde, slightly covered by some black face paint, but definitely blonde. Suddenly, you were trying to picture Ghost’s blonde hair under the mask and balaclava. You weren’t as intimidated by him anymore as you were intrigued—deep down, you wished you could see more of him.

From what you’ve observed of him (plus things Soap and Gaz have said), you knew he wasn’t really as big and scary as he seemed to be. He cracked jokes over comms during missions. During downtime on base he’d join the rest of the group playing cards or drinking, still wearing his balaclava obviously, but without the skull cover and only minimal black eye black on, so you could see more of his face clearly. You would never admit it to the rest of the guys, certainly not Soap, but you found Ghost to be quite handsome. (You could just hear Soap teasing you: You don’t even know what he looks like! He could be ugly!) Between his deep voice, towering figure, and the way his hands worked around his rifle (you have stared too many times to admit), he was… hot. What more could you say? It felt like a silly high school crush; he was your superior and you barely knew anything about him. But… you wished you could learn more. You would, if he’d let you. You would.

And now, with his face only inches away from yours, his eyes looking at you intently, you felt determined to take care of him. You wanted to see that softer side of him, and you also wanted an excuse to dote on him. Already, he was acting a bit more flustered than usual with you trying to defy him. You wondered how long you’d be able to keep it up for.

“I’m not taking that for an answer,” you insisted. “Yours is worse, so we’re taking care of you first.”

Ghost raised his eyebrows, his mouth partly open in shock of your defiance, but his lips spread into a smirk, amused by your determined edge. He was intrigued by you, so he’d let you win this argument. He didn’t say anything more as you inched closer to him. He sat with his entire back against the wall, facing forward. You turned your body towards him, sitting cross-legged as you placed a hand on his arm where the bullet wound was.

“I… think you’re going to have to take this off. The jacket, at least. Sorry, Lieutenant,” you said.

“You can call me Ghost, you know,” he said as he leaned forward to unclip his tactical vest and shuck the jacket off.

“Sorry,” you said quietly, “I was just trying to be polite, I guess.”

“Don’t need to be polite with me,” he smirked.

“Okay… Ghost,” you smiled. You took off your own tactical vest and rummaged through the back pockets, pulling out your first aid kit. You opened the kit and took out the tweezers. “Sorry if this hurts.”

“S’alright, not the worst thing I’ve endured. And I haven’t had the privilege of such an… assertive patching up,” Ghost could feel himself blushing behind the mask. He was glad you couldn’t see.

First, you inspected the bullet. It had implanted inside his arm, making it impossible for any kind of extraction, especially under conditions like these. With only minimal shattering, the pieces embedded into the muscle, there were no critical places hit or at risk. Your main goal was to stop the bleeding so you could stitch the wound closed.

“It seems like… most of your muscle absorbed the bullet. No bone damage or critical areas hit, so… all I’m gonna do is stitch you up,” you explained. You held back a giggle, pushing away the urge to squeeze his arm; you weren’t entirely sure if he’d like that very much (you were almost positive he’d kill you). “When we get back to base, the nurses at the infirmary can keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn’t get infected or anything, and if not, then it’ll just heal over.”

“Aw, no trophy for me to take home?” Ghost asked.

“You still get to take it home,” you replied, taking your two fingers and tapping his arm above the wound, “just in here. Hey, now it’ll always be with you.” He shuddered at your touch.

You began cleaning around and in the wound, earning a sharp hiss from Ghost’s mouth as you wiped the area off with a small rag and some water from your hydration bladder. You poured some water slowly onto the wound, trying to flush out any dirt or debris, before placing some gauze over it and applying pressure to slow the bleeding. While your one hand was pushing against his arm, you reached your other hand back into the first aid kit, fishing around for your stitching tools. You took out a needle with thread, along with a needle driver. You placed the needle driver on your leg for the time being.

You dug into one of your pockets, brandishing a small square alcohol wipe package, which you promptly ripped open with your teeth so you wouldn’t have to set the needle down. Ghost practically had to hold back from choking on his own breath, the way you were so focused and determined was certainly making him feel some unfamiliar type of way. He had barely gotten a chance to hesitate or argue against you patching him up, he was too mesmerized in watching you and you were already grabbing a hold of his arm again, sending a tingle down his spine as you cleaned his wound.

Then, with one hand, you pierced the skin on one side of the open wound with the needle, then the other side. Your other hand held the needle driver, which you used to grip onto the end of the needle, pulling the thread through the newly made holes. With an even amount of thread left on either side of the wound, you wrapped the thread from the left side around the needle driver twice, then grabbed the other end of the thread with the driver. You pulled from both ends gently, making a first throw of the stitch. You did it again, looping the one side of the thread around the driver, grasping the other end, and pulling it tightly to make the knot. Ghost watched, almost in awe, at your expert handiwork. You made it look so easy. 

“I... wanted to be a nurse, or a medic, or whatever, you know,” you rambled as you moved up the wound a few centimeters, piercing the skin to start another stitch, “I made it through undergrad and then… shit just didn’t really work out. But hey, I found out I was a pretty good sniper. So I’m good for somethin’, at least.”

Simon felt his whole body heating up from the way both of your hands were making contact with his upper arm. One hand was gently pressing down on his bicep around the wound while your other had the needle held in between your fingers. The gash you were closing up on him was large; it was certainly going to leave Ghost with a jagged scar. But for once, he felt at ease.

In all his years in the military, the marks and scars that have riddled his body only brought him more shame and discomfort. Sure, there were a few scars that were his “go-to” to talk about when the other guys began showing off about past endeavors (This one here, knife fight. I grabbed the bloke from behind and stabbed’im in the neck, but not before he got one in my side). Other than that, most of the bullet holes and jagged lines where his skin couldn’t fully heal only reminded him of the horrors and the pain. Now, though, the thought of having a scar on his arm from a wound that you took care of, he couldn’t be more elated. A mark on his body, stitched together carefully and gracefully by you. A secret moment—a memory—that only the two of you shared, forever imprinted into his arm; a scar that no one else would know the backstory to, unless he decided to tell it (he wouldn’t—he didn’t want to share this moment with anyone else).

Okay, so maybe some sort of feelings were blossoming in the cold, cold heart of Simon Riley. You didn’t have much of an idea about it, and honestly, neither did Ghost himself. Soap had teased him multiple times about a supposed “crush” that Ghost didn’t fully realize he had. But the sergeant certainly had. Soap teased him about how he always insisted he didn’t want to play cards with the rest of the team, only to grab a seat next to you and strategize how to beat everyone else. Was it an excuse to sit real close to you and exchange whispers and laughter? Soap would never get an answer because Ghost would tell him to fuck off, but he already knew the answer anyways.

Ghost’s heart was racing, suddenly and somehow nervous in your presence.

“Why do they call you Zero?” He asked abruptly, a random question spilling from his lips. He just wanted to keep hearing you talk to him.

“Isn’t that like, impolite to ask?” You smirked.

He laughed—a genuine, full out laugh. Your eyes brightened. “I’m only curious,” he said softly. “Jus’ tryin’ to make conversation.”

“Well, why do they call you Ghost?” You shot back playfully.

“Now that’s classified, love.” His eyes immediately widened as the endearing term slipped from his lips. He hoped you didn’t catch it; meanwhile, you were going to think about it for the rest of the week. You grinned to yourself, and he looked down at his hands and focused on how your needle pierced his skin—a certain amount of discomfort, but something that felt good knowing that you were right there next to him. He didn’t want to get into his callsign; however, he was willing to give you something else. “My name—my real name, I mean… It’s Simon.”

You stared at him, wide eyed. You almost couldn’t believe that he told you, you hadn’t expected him to want you to know something like that. “Simon,” you repeated, watching as he nodded his head. “That’s a nice name. Simon. So… am I allowed to call you Simon now?”

Ghost looked past you at the wall for a brief moment, thinking. “Not on the field,” he stated, “But… when we’re back on base… sure. Yeah. Call me Simon.”

You shivered at his deep voice. Simon, Simon, Simon. You wanted to say it again and again. And he wanted to hear you say it. He would like his name a thousand times better if it was coming from your mouth.

“Simon—”

“Hey.”

“Sorry. Ghost,” you giggled. 

Three stitches down. You kept working, quickly and efficiently. Ghost kept watching you, wondering why Price hadn’t brought you onto the team as a medic. Not that your sniping abilities weren’t needed and greatly appreciated, but Ghost selfishly thought about how from now on, if he got so much as a small scrape, he’d go to you for help. Soon enough, you were finishing the last throw on the fourth stitch. You moved onto the next one, lacing the thread through the needle to start again.

“Don’t know how to use half the shit in the first aid kit,” now it was Ghost’s turn to ramble, “Usually just slap a bandage on ’n hope for the best. I mean, I’m not stupid, I don’t leave my shit untouched to get infected or anything. I just… don’t really follow up on any of my doctor’s appointments. But I’ve made it alright so far.”

“You should let yourself be taken care of more often,” you said softly. Your face grew hot when you realized the way that could have sounded and you added, “When you get hurt like this. You don’t have to always put on a brave face and grit through the pain. You need to take care of yourself.”

Ghost scoffed almost instinctively, but his heart swelled at your concern for him. He admired you for being so caring, not just to him, but to everyone on the team. Despite not always showing it, he cared deeply about all of the other guys on 141, he would die for any of them. He didn’t have a family, but 141 was the closest he had to one. The way his team interacted with each other was important to him, and watching how you melded with everyone else over the past couple of months, he felt happy, content. Your kindness only intrigued him more; he wished that he could be the only recipient of your sweet words and attention.

“Well, I– I don’t usually trust anyone to patch me up,” he attempted at some sort of compliment. Your eyebrow raised and you looked up at him.

“Hmm. So… you trust me then?” You asked cautiously. You heard stories about how Ghost hardly trusted anyone, and your heart began to beat faster at the implication that you had somehow made it on the list of those he did.

“You could say that,” he said. He cursed himself in his mind for not knowing how to properly talk to you, how to make you feel cared about the way you made everyone else feel cared about.

“And what’s that supposed to mean exactly?” A smirk spread across your face.

“Fuck’s sake, just take the compliment, will ya?” Ghost practically grumbled, sounding like an annoyed child.

You let out a soft laugh. Ghost put the sound of your laugh into the back of his mind, for safekeeping. “That’s your way of giving me a compliment, huh?” You teased.

“M’not very good at it, am I?” He sighed into a small laugh.

“Just a bit rusty,” you tilted your head up at him, your faces somehow closer than you had remembered, “But you can get better with practice.”

“Practice, hm?”

“Uh-huh. You can feel free to practice your compliments and pick up lines on me anytime.” You were too shy to make eye contact with him after that; you began to focus extremely on his wound. 

Ghost’s right eyebrow raised slightly, unable to properly register whether you were genuinely insinuating that you would enjoy it if he flirted with you. As if he even knew how to. Suddenly, he felt embarrassed that he had no idea what to say. He thought about Johnny, and how his downright stupid pick up lines he used on people at the bar usually actually worked. There was no way Johnny would let him hear the end of it if he approached him for help with flirting, but Ghost wondered who else he would want to confide in when they returned to base. 

“Almost finished,” you announced, finishing another suture. The skin was carefully pulled back together, only needing one or two more stitches. “I am fairly confident that this will heal very quickly and very nicely. Well, granted that you go back to the infirmary and get yourself followed up on.” You raised your eyebrows at him expectantly.

“Do I have to go to the infirmary when we get back?” He complained. You laughed at the way he practically whined.

You looped the thread again with the needle driver and began the last suture. In a matter of moments, you’d knotted the thread three times over and secured the suture flat to the skin. You moved your head closer to inspect your work, nodding and looking up at him.

“Well, I’m done stitching you up. And yes, you do, because you need to make sure your wound doesn’t get infected,” you said, half sternly. Soap told you probably hundreds of stories about Ghost refusing to get proper medical help after returning from a mission, and your fleeting former life as an almost-nurse made you feel very strongly on the topic. “Please, after all I did to stitch you together, won’t you make sure that it heals alright?”

His heart swelled. As much as he tried to push down feelings like this, he knew that he’d do anything for you. And you asked so nicely. However, he had a negotiation in mind.

“Well… What if I get checked up on by you? When we get back to base? You know, instead of going to the infirmary?” He raised his eyebrow and watched the gears turn in your mind. He prayed that his message would come across properly: I’d rather see you. I trust you more.

“Don’t go getting too attached to your medic, now,” you fake tsk-ed at him, but you were smiling, too. Ghost laughed. Too late for that. 

“You can give me a once over when we get back. Vouch for me so I don’t have to go deal with the other doctors,” he pushed.

“You’re very difficult, Ghost,” you tutted. “But… I’d rather be the one to make sure you’re alright. That way I can ensure you’re following the proper recovery routine.” You reached into your kit again and got out a bandage roll. You reached out for his arm again, beginning to wrap the bandage gauze around his arm.

“And what kind of recovery routine would you want me to follow?”

You clicked your tongue, thinking. “You have to let me eat dinner with you in your room. And then after, I can check your wound,” you decided. Luckily, the words coming out of your mouth were far from Go on a date with me, but it was certainly the closest you’d get. Ghost hardly ever ate dinner in the common area with the rest of the task force, you assumed mostly because eating would involve him having to pull his mask up. Remembering this fact, you quickly added, “I won’t even look at you while you eat. I just… thought maybe you’d like some company.”

He stopped himself from blurting out something inappropriate, a dumb teasing line about you just trying to make up an excuse to get into his bedroom. His usual confidence to say whatever dumb, crass joke he wanted disappeared with you so close to him. He was more nervous than anything to scare you away, to say something that would make you not want to be around him.

“I’d accept that,” he finally said. “And… you wouldn’t need to do that.” He could feel his heart pounding out of his chest. “You’re allowed to take a look at me while I’m eating.” He smirked as he saw your cheeks grow red. 

“I— I mean, I didn’t mean I wanted to like, stare at you while you’re—” you tripped over your words, stopping to take a breath and collect your thoughts. Slowly, you opened your mouth again, “Well, I mean, I am curious… I guess…”

Ghost was smiling proudly under his mask, finding it incredibly endearing the way you admitted your curiosity. He always stuck to his secrecy behind the mask for the most part; he was sure that the other guys had seen his jawline and mouth from the times he ate or drank around them, but they never made too big of a deal (besides Soap, who would use the mask as a prime source for his teasing). More often than not, on base, he’d retreat to his room to eat simply to avoid any annoyances around lifting the mask up and back down over and over. But now, really thinking about it, he realized he wouldn’t mind at all if you saw him eating. Maybe, just maybe, he would enjoy your company for dinner on a daily basis. He wouldn’t jump to that conclusion just yet, but in the back of his mind, he already knew.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Ghost said, “I’d rather be able to look at you and talk to you while we eat.”

“So you’re taking my offer,” you beamed.

“That I am. Now let me look at you.”

The lacerations along your own arm were stinging and bleeding, but somehow the high of the lieutenant caring about you overrode that pain. Still, you weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to have Ghost dote on you, although you had a feeling he wouldn’t be as gentle as you were with him. Either way, you let him help you take your jacket off and you shuddered at the few moments his bare hand brushed against you. He placed his hands on either side of you, on your shoulders, turning you more towards him, closer to him. He looked at your arm.

“Look, we have matching wounds,” he said, raising his own arm up next to yours. You let out a small laugh, not expecting him to say something like that. It was sweet.

“We both have something to remember this day by.”

“You want to remember this?” He asked, as if he weren’t going to think about the way you gently stitched him up and took care of him for the rest of his life.

“Of course,” you replied, “We completed our mission, quite well, I might add, and I think we make a good team. Plus, you told me your name. So of course I want to remember this.”

Ghost blinked at you, trying to decipher any evidence of disingenuousness in your face, only to be met with the exact opposite. Your expression was soft and genuine. Your eyes shimmered for him. Ghost wasn’t used to hearing such nice, kind things towards himself, and you could tell he wasn’t used to it by the way he remained silent, not even coming up with a dry joke to change the subject. You wondered how many times you would have to compliment him before you could really get through to him.

“You’re staring, Zero,” Ghost’s deep voice brought you out of your thoughts.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, “Can’t help that you’re nice to look at.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, trying to ignore the way his cheeks were flushing again. His hands were slightly shaky as he took your arm, closer to him this time. He shifted his whole body so he was completely facing you, ready to patch you up.

You had only been grazed by the bullet, but it still hurt like hell. Your whole right arm was burning up with a searing pain, not the worst you’ve ever felt, but it definitely wasn’t comfortable. The skin on your arm wasn’t torn open the same way Ghost’s was, with the bullet embedding inside, but it was like the edge of the bullet tried to scoop into your skin like a shovel into dirt. It didn’t go through or below the skin, but it was deep enough that blood was trickling down your arm. You were so focused on taking care of Ghost that you had barely noticed it.

“Fuckin’ hell, Zero,” Ghost said, his eyes widening in concern from seeing your wound more clearly. “You’re lucky the bullet didn’t lodge in ya.”

He reached next to him and grabbed a wad of gauze, dampening it with some water and placing it over you. His large hand placed pressure on you to stop the bleeding. You tried not to think about his hand pushing against you in a different context. His hands were warm on you and you couldn’t help but shiver. You hoped he didn’t notice the goosebumps along your arm.

After a few minutes of applying pressure to your wound, Ghost lifted up the gauze, inspecting you.

“Looks like the blood mostly stopped,” he told you, putting the wad of gauze next to him on the ground. He took out his own alcohol wipes, holding them up first as if to warn you This might hurt. He held your arm with one hand and wiped the wound with the other. The alcohol stung but it didn’t matter. Ghost was taking care of you. “Hold still.”

As he sanitized your wound, Ghost would wince whenever he heard you suck in a breath or make a small, pained sound from the alcohol. He didn’t want to hurt you. He wanted to be gentle with you like you were with him. Sure, maybe he wasn’t very good at all that, but he’d like to try, for you. His fingers brushed against your skin as he ran the alcohol wipe over the scrapes a few times, sanitizing the area and wiping away the blood.

“Don’t have any antiseptic,” he mumbled.

“Wait, I do,” you speak up, taking out a small tube of antiseptic ointment from your kit. Handing it to him, he put some on his pointer and middle fingers, gently making contact with your skin. He patted the ointment into the wound and the skin around it, his expression deeply focused to make sure he wasn’t hurting you. He wiped the excess on a small square of gauze and looked at you, as if waiting for approval. You blinked at him, smiling sweetly, and he turned away, always nervous when you smile at him, to reach for the bandage roll.

“I, uh, used to have a dog. German Shepherd. He got his back paw caught in a chain fence once and I had to bandage his leg and everythin’... Guess that’s the closest I ever got to bein’ a medic,” Ghost chuckled softly, unraveling the bandage and holding the end of it in place over your arm, using his other hand to begin wrapping it around you. 

“A dog, hm?” Now that piqued your interest. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be a dog person.”

He shook his head. “Not really. More of a cat person, actually.”

“You’re joking,” you gasped. You tried to imagine Ghost with a cat cuddled up on his lap or chest.

“Cats get a bad rep,” he said. “I like that they’re independent and do their own thing most of the time. But they’re still sweet, they’ll still rub against you when you pet them and curl up next to you on the couch. They’re more stand-offish and brooding than dogs, I guess. But what’s so bad about that?”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” you whispered. Ghost locked eyes with you, and you could tell that his eyebrows were raised. He wasn’t sure whether to be offended or not. You continued, “But don’t worry. I really like cats, too. Misunderstood creatures. And cute.” You smiled at him, hoping to God he understood that you were trying to flirt with him. It was hard to tell, but you assumed by the way he chuckled softly and moved even closer to you to continue patching you up that he got it.

He placed his hand on your arm and ripped the bandage, placing the rest of the roll back into his kit. He repositioned the ending of the bandage so that it stuck on top of itself, keeping the wrapping in place without any need for medical tape. When his hands left your arm, you had to hold yourself back from frowning, already missing the skin-to-skin contact.

“Well, I think tha’ll do ya good, a’least until we get back, yeah?” Ghost said, leaning back from you a bit. Still, you noticed that the way you were sitting, your legs were still touching. 

“Thank you,” you placed your hand over the bandage, moving and flexing your arm to see how it felt.

Ghost got up from the ground and began putting his jacket and tactical vest back on. He walked a few steps across the room where he had leaned his rifle up against a dusty table. Rummaging through his vest for some ammo, he began reloading his gun and humming ever so softly to himself. You watched him, your cheeks tingling with warmth. As much as you wanted to get back to base, you also didn’t want to leave this moment. You doubted that anyone else had the privilege to see him like this. In Ghost’s world, watching him reloading his gun was probably the most domestic thing you would ever be able to watch him do. When he finished, he turned and looked at you, completely catching you staring. You saw slight motion under the mask—he had to be smiling. The thought made your heart race. But you cleared your throat and scrambled to your feet, turning around to pick up your jacket and tactical vest off of the ground. You zipped up your jacket, half turned away from Ghost, but feeling his eyes on you.

“Zero.” His gruff voice sent shivers down your spine. You turned around and met his gaze. Those hazel eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Glad you’re safe.”

Your heart raced. Ghost’s heart softened.

———

The flight back to the base landed in the early hours of the morning. The sun had barely started to rise, the sky a deep pinkish red as you and the rest of 141 walked back into the building. Gaz and Price had successfully breached the hatchery, clearing it out and finding evidence of tunnels underneath the lighthouse on the island. Laswell would talk to Shepherd and figure out a game plan, but at least for one night, you would be able to relax.

As soon as everyone reached back to the barracks, everyone scattered into their rooms to clean up, unpack, and get some shut eye. Despite it being early in the morning, everyone on 141 hadn’t slept for at least 24 hours. You took a quick shower and changed into something warm and comfy, falling asleep in your bed without any tossing and turning. You awoke later in the afternoon, around four o’clock, stomach grumbling. Your face lit up, remembering your arrangement with Ghost—Simon.

You put some shoes on and freshened yourself up in the mirror, suddenly feeling nervous and yet you were so excited. Walking into the common area, you opened one of the fridges and took out a pasta dish you had made the other day. You split the leftovers in half, putting it into two bowls and microwaving them. Humming to yourself, you realized that you were actually getting the thing you’d been wanting ever since you met him: true, one-on-one time with the brooding lieutenant. Since yesterday, your feelings towards him had only blossomed further, and from the way he had looked at you and leaned close to you, you had a little bit of hope that maybe he could feel the same. You felt like a giddy highschooler as you took the bowls out of the microwave and quickly grabbed some utensils from one of the drawers. When you spun around, you almost crashed into Price who was entering the kitchen area with Gaz.

“Oh, sorry, Captain! Didn’t see you there,” you apologized but swiftly moved past them, barely paying either of them any mind.

“Where’s she going in such a hurry?” Gaz asked, raising his eyebrow as you continued down the hall. Price gave him the same puzzled look back.

“Hey, Zero!” Price called. You spun around. “Where are you off to?”

“Oh, I’m just bringing some dinner to Simon’s room!” you lifted up your hands with the two bowls of food to show them. Price and Gaz nodded slowly, and you were clearly in a hurry because you hardly waited for either of them to reply before you turned back around.

You turned the corner at the end of the hall out of their view. Both men were still staring at where you were standing seconds before.

“I didn’t know he let people into his room,” Price said, grinning ear to ear.

Gaz stood frozen in place, “I… Did she just call him Simon?”

Price choked out in laughter.

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — DON'T WASTE YOUR HEART IN MOURNING ME (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — left to grapple with moira's sudden departure from your life, you spend a harrowing afternoon reminiscing on the good, the bad, and the deliciously bittersweet . #. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — angst, liberal use of curse words .

#. word count! — 6.1k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw), @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

The apartment feels larger now than it did before. It’s quiet in a way it never was when Moira was around, —always with her little tics, tapping her long, ever-manicured nails on the kitchen island or pacing about in one of the rooms. . . She did that latter thing a lot near the end, with more dramatic touslings of her hair than in the time before. For a moment, you fear the downstairs neighbors must be celebrating her departure, and the thought of it almost makes you laugh. The silence is laden with memories in every nook and cranny of this place, and it dawns on you now that it feels much like it did back when she and you were moving the first of many boxes in, ready to start a new life together.

Only this time, there’s no promise of eternal love or any of that other bullshit that she always warned you was a fool’s game to play with. 

Moira, Moira, Moira, ever the pragmatic one. . .

There’s a faint scent of lavender-heavy perfume that lingers throughout, reminding you that she wasn’t just some figment of your imagination. At one time, she’d been the love of your life. Or, she was who you thought would take that title, anyway. Nowadays, you just aren’t so sure, and perhaps that’s been the hardest pill to swallow thus far. The scent reminds you of her, —of the way her brows would furrow deeply when she was displeased, of how she always took her coffee black and poked fun at you for the additives you refused to drink it without. It reminds you of her arms wrapping ever so sweetly around your waist, her chin coming down to rest on the crown of your head.

You blink and try to focus on something —anything— else. It’s hard enough to deal with it all, but you’re just torturing yourself with it at this point. Your eyes sweep the room, the cream-colored walls, landing on a painting you’d created several years ago. It was lackluster now in terms of honed skill, but there was something so endlessly passionate about it, so full of vibrance and promise. Reaching out, your fingertips graze the glazed canvas, and it’s like you’re right back there again. . .

The gallery buzzes with excitement, the sounds of light, casual conversation and clinking wine glasses echoing through the wide halls. You stand before your own work, amazed that it’s hanging here in this exhibit of your prowess, even if this gig had been a long time coming. To see it actually displayed here made your heart soar. It was the biggest step you’d taken in your career since moving to this city and it felt so incredible that your sacrifices were finally paying off.

You’re caught up in the whirlwind of congratulations, thanks, and small talk, —but none of that is enough to keep your eyes from drifting over to her; a tall, ginger-haired, sophisticated woman standing a few feet back from one of your pieces, staring at it intensely enough to feel unnerving and intriguing all in the same breath. Dressed in a finely pressed suit the same color of the wine in her glass, her sharp, calculating gaze turns to you as you approach her nervously, feeling small both physically and metaphorically standing beside her.

“I can’t quite tell if you like it or not,” you muse, trying to sound playful, even if the real intent was just to have her offer her unfiltered opinion so you could stop guessing what she thought of it.

The way she was staring at it made you feel like she thought there was some kind of hidden message carved into the paint strokes. When her eyes flicker to you, you notice that they’re different colors, —one red, one blue, both deeper shades, and you get lost in them for a moment before she laughs softly, and you have something else to fall into. 

“Oh, I like it quite a bit,” she answers.

There’s an accent clinging to her words, but you haven’t quite placed it just yet. That doesn't stop it from making your stomach twist itself into knots though.

“It’s quite captivating.” 

You almost blurt out that you could say the same of her, but you let that sentence die on your tongue before it has the chance to see the light of day.

“I’m glad you think so,” you smile softly, “it was my favorite of the bunch. That’s why I placed it in the center of the exhibit.” 

“I’m inclined to agree,” she nods. “How much would it cost to purchase?”

Your eyes widen. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for paintings to be arranged to be sold during these events, but that tended to come with recognition from the local art collecting scene that you just didn’t have at the moment. For you, this exhibit was more about reaching a wider audience and allowing the public to see your pieces than it was making any kind of profit. . .

“Um. . . I— I don’t know, how much would you be willing to pay?” You swallow, at the risk of sounding unprofessional.

She gives the painting another glance over, then turns back to you.

“Does a grand sound fair?”

Your jaw almost dropped to the floor.

“S-Sorry?”

“Two?”

Holy shit. All of this seemed to have gone from zero to a thousand (or two. . .) in the blink of an eye, and you have to take a second to collect yourself, lest you seem anymore clueless than you’ve probably already come across as.

“Does. . . fifteen hundred work?” You dare.

“Certainly,” Moira nods decisively.

You give her your information so she can send the money your way in a few days time when she comes to pick the painting up at the end of the exhibition. And when the time comes, you walk away with one less painting to lug back to your apartment, fifteen hundred dollars richer, and with a new phone number added to your contacts with her name attached.

It was almost funny. Maybe you’d have laughed if you weren’t already on the verge of tears. All of this has really come full circle, and you’re just not sure you appreciate the irony of it all in the moment. Here you are, standing in front of this goddamn painting, the one that had acted as a catalyst to meeting Moira in the first place. . . And it’s back in your possession, because she couldn’t even be bothered to take it with her. As much as you love it for what it represents, there’s a part of you that wants to pluck it off the wall and slam it out the window right about now. Or maybe beating it with a baseball bat or something would feel more satisfying.

Whatever the case, you’re getting tired of looking at it, so you avert your gaze elsewhere and let your back touch the wall beside it. Stupid painting. Stupid apartment. Stupid Moira and her stupid decisions that have plagued your life for the past five years, and those stupidly long nails that traced perfect shapes along your hip at night, and her stupid lips with that goddamn orangeish gloss that always stained yours when she’d kiss you—

“Ugh!” You groan.

All this reminiscing has reminded you of how electric it felt to be in her presence back then, how magnetic she’d been from the start. Those sharp eyes that matched her wit, those clever jokes she’d throw your way (some of which went over your head, admittedly), —and the sweetness of her voice when it came to you. She was kinder with you in subtle way, would place her hands on the small of your back in public, taking care to tuck loose strands of your hair behind your ears if the need arose. You hate that this fallout has left you wondering if it was ever truly affection at all, of if she was simply protecting her own self-image.

You’ve questioned a lot of things about her over the years, but whether or not she was genuine in her love for you had rarely been one. But now, that conversation is back on the table, and it’s woefully one-sided this time. 

One text lead to many. At first, it was hard to tell if she was simply interested in you as an artist or if that interest expanded to you as a person, but she quickly put your worries to rest when she began flirting with you in a way that even you, in all your obliviousness, had to acknowledge was more than playful banter between friends. Slowly, your life became intertwined with hers, and looking back, it seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. One late night date at a fancy bar and you were practically groveling at her feet, so desperate for her to see you as her equal. She spoke with you about science and philosophy, —her words acting as a forewarning for what was inevitably to come, even if you didn’t realize it at the time.

She was very hush-hush about her working endeavors, but you knew she was employed by Overwatch. That alone explained why she couldn’t divulge all the information of her duties to you, and you were okay with that. The secrecy got worse as time went on. Especially after she was publicly shamed for her “poor regard for the ethics of the scientific community” or whatever. The city isn’t small by any means, but it wasn’t large enough to spare you the fate of being tied to her name. You’d been seen attending various events with her, and many of the wealthy clientele that purchased paintings from the local galleries soon put two and two together. At that point, your paintings began selling at a much slower and much less financially liberal rate.

Moira insisted that it was okay. That it would pass eventually as she became involved with a different organization, —or. . . A different branch of the same organization? You weren’t sure. She never explained much, and you didn’t like to pry. If Moira wanted you to know something, she would tell you. Anything beyond that was best left alone.

Equally mesmerizing and maddening all at once, she insists that all is well. That everything will be okay. That all of this heat on her name is a fad, that once she proves herself, the tides will turn in her favor. . . And you believe her. You take smaller, more intimate jobs and refrain from showing your face at the local galleries for a while, waiting for the heat to die down. She talks you into moving in with her, taking you from your one-bedroom studio apartment to the top of the most affluent building in the city. You tell her it doesn’t feel much like anywhere you could call home, and she brushes your concerns away.

“It’s all the empty space,” she says. “We’ll decorate.”

You do, and somewhere along the line this apartment begins to feel exactly like you insisted it couldn’t. You sleep on sheets that smell like her, bury your face into her pillow to breathe her in when she gets up at ungodly hours of the morning to leave for work. She hangs that painting she bought from you about a year ago by now up on the wall near the kitchen and the living room, and she glances at it often when she sits at the counter. When she manages to make it home in time for dinner, you sit together and eat. . . Sometimes she’s just shy of talking your ear off, and others, she doesn’t say much at all.

She cups your cheeks and insists that everything will be okay when you get overwhelmed. She learns how to be gentler with you, learns how to be more sensitive. You learn how to trust her more and how to avoid stepping on her toes when her days are hard. Sometimes, you convince her to turn that magnificent brain of hers off and watch something stupid on the television with you, —trashy reality TV that she doesn’t really get, but likes to watch you giggle at more than anything else. If you’re lucky, she won’t wake you when you doze off in her lap, she’ll just gently massage your scalp and let you rest against her.

Slowly but surely, the apartment is filled with lots of things. Books, trinkets, little pieces of decor. . . Love. She doesn’t declare it often, but every now and again, she’ll get the urge to remind you. Usually it’s just before you fall asleep, her long arms pulling you against her chest, mumbling a confession so quiet only you can hear it above her heartbeat; like it’s a secret she’s keeping from the rest of the world.

You feel bad that sometimes you wish it was.

“Do you even understand what’s happening?” You ask one afternoon, frustrated and angered by her continued neutrality towards it all. “To me?” You add. “To us?” 

Those eyes that you’ve always loved so much flash with anger and a hint of something else, something you don’t really recognize on her. . . Guilt?

“What is there to understand?” She challenges. “My work is important. I thought you understood at least that much.”

“And mine isn’t?” You counter.

“I never said that,” she shakes her head. “I’ve never not supported your career choices, —need I remind you how we met?” 

She says that and gestures to the hung painting on the wall. You nearly scoff.

“It’s one thing to support me, Moira, it’s another to be proactive about it.”

She frowns.

“I’m sorry our relationship has caused you so much distress,” she hisses.

“That isn’t what I’m saying,” you bite back.

“Then what exactly are you saying, y/n?” She questions, but you can tell by the way she says it that she’s not really looking for an answer.

You still offer one anyway.

“I’m asking you when enough is enough, Moira.”

Her expression hardens, a shield silently snapping into place.

“Enough is never enough in science,” she says to you, like you’re some underling in her lab she’s giving a lecture to.

There’s a cold, detached sentiment in her tone, —one that makes your heart ache. Because you love her, in spite of all this.

“Progress requires sacrifice.”

You laugh, but it sounds so bitter that you hardly recognize it came from you.

“Sacrifice? You wanna preach to me of all people about sacrifice? —What about us, Moira? What about the sacrifices I’ve made, endless ones, mind you, to be here and stand with you and back the things you do? This kind of mindless complacency because I care, and I only ever want to assume the best of you. But what about me? What about the life we’ve built together? Does that mean nothing to you?”

Moira’s eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place. Regret, maybe, or something like fleeting sorrow.

“Of course it means something to me,” she says softly.

You hurt her, and you can see it on her face. A part of you wants to reach out, take her by the wrist, kiss this better. . . But you don’t. The argument hangs heavy in the air, a chasm widening between the two of you. She turns away and leaves the apartment for a while. It’s nearly midnight when she returns, and she sleeps in the guest room for the next few days. You catch brief glimpses of her every now and again when one of you is coming or going, but there isn’t really anything to say. It’s a stalemate, and you’re both a little too stubborn for you own good.

Moira cracks first after four days, a rare showing of compassion on her part. You come home to a nice, home cooked dinner, and she coaxes you into sitting down and eating with her. It’s not like it takes much convincing. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her cook, but you’re reminded of how much you’ve missed it as you eat what she’s prepared. After some awkward small talk about what you’ve both been up to over the past few days, and you holding your tongue on any snarky quips, she sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she tells you. “About us.”

In the back of your mind, a part of you steels for a breakup. For some dissolution of everything you’ve put your heart into, and somehow. . . It feels like something that was bound to happen. And that’s the worst part. Still, you nod and put your fork down, giving her your full attention as she speaks with careful measure. It’s the first real conversation you’ve had with her in over half a week, and you’re determined to make it count for something. 

“My work is very important to me. You must know as much by now. But I do understand your frustrations, and I’m sorry that my career has interfered with yours. There isn’t much I can do about it, but I acknowledge your frustrations, and if I could make this easier for you, y/n, you know that I. . .”

You sigh.

“I do,” you say softly. “I know.”

She nods.

“I also know that I can be difficult to be with at times. I know that I get so caught up in my experiments that I fail to leave time for anything else, but I try. Because I care for you very deeply, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose what we have together, what we’ve built. . .”

“I know,” you repeat. 

Moira sighs.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“I am,” you admit. “But I appreciate that you’re trying to make things right, and I. . . Should apologize to you too. For what I said. I know that you care about me, and about our relationship, and I’m sorry that I questioned that. It was wrong.”

She seems pleased with this, —more than willing to let it be water under the bridge.

Things admittedly don’t get much easier in the fallout. Not in terms of your career, anyway. Your works are tainted by the woman you call a lover, and your name is blackballed across the community. It’s a constant struggle to reconcile your own morality with the dubiousness of her’s, and yet you really can’t imagine life without her. So you stay, and you sleep in her bed; —your bed. The one you’ve built with her. You stuff it down and vent your frustrations to the walls of your painting room.

You glance to the door but make no move to go near it. God, all this shit those walls have heard over the years. . . You don’t even wanna think about what kind of therapy they’d need if they were sentient. It’s almost enough to make you shiver. This entire apartment, for that matter, is like some kind of twisted mausoleum of memories; good and bad. The bed you’ve slept alone in more nights than you can count over the years is the same one she undressed you so many times on, picking you apart like you were perfectly cooked ribs just sliding off the bone, and fuck it makes you so mad that she’s just thrown everything away like this. That couch you’ve cried on out of sheer overwhelming frustration is the one where she urged you onto her lap, the one she covered you up with a blanket on those times she came home to find you napping there.

It’s been three years since that argument was settled at the table. It’s been three days since she sat you down in the same chair, in the same room, at that same goddamn table, to tell you she was leaving. That she didn’t know when or if she’d be coming back. That Overwatch was just too stifling, that she needed to get away, to explore. . . And in the process, she’s left you alone. Again. The echoes of that last conversation haunt the empty space. You’re mad. You’re so, so angry that this is the way she left things, and it’s eating you up like boiling water in your veins.

All that time you’d spent making sacrifices, letting your art be devalued so she could search for some secret key to humanity’s shackles while keeping you chained in this fucking apartment. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling just didn’t fix everything the way it should have for the way it raised the rent of this goddamn place. You check your phone, knowing there won’t be any kind of message or call from her, but silently hoping there might be. That maybe, just this once, she’ll prove you wrong. . . That she’ll just come back and say she’s sorry, that she made a mistake and wants to make it right again.

But there’s nothing.  You choke back a sob and train your eyes on the apartment walls again. They’ve seen nearly everything from start to finish, and yet you just don’t feel like you can let them watch you weep now. They held your back when Moira pressed you against them, her hands traversing you with more muscle memory of you each time, and they held it again the night she said she was departing while you slid down it, heart heavy enough to pull you like gravity itself.

Now, these walls bear silent witness to your grief. The silence wraps around you like a cold, unwelcome blanket, frigid on your skin like her hands tended to be. It amplifies every thought in your head, every memory of her, all the things she’s just left behind now like it was easy. Like it was all meaningless fodder for her when to you, it was just shy of everything. It was what you fought for the hardest, what you sacrificed for the most, what you were willing to crawl on your hands and knees for above anything else. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone, just like that, but the absence of her presence now, the absence of her things, makes it all too real. 

You let your head tilt upward, catching the barest sight of the painting just up and to your left. The thing that started it all, the beginning of the end, and it feels like such a cruel joke now, —like a reminder of everything you’ve come to lose.

More than anything, you want to be angry. You want to tear this place apart with your bare hands, destroy every reminder of her, every piece of her that still lingers in this god forsaken apartment. . . But you can’t. You just can’t bring yourself to do it, and not just for the fact that the costs will be far too much to repay in the aftermath. Instead, you simply slump further against the wall, letting the tension melt into exhaustion, and letting all this weight crush your spirits in way only something uniquely Moira ever could.

The love you held, the love you received, the dreams you shared, —all of it and more is tangled up in this place, in the memories that permeate every room. You’re surrounded by it, but even if you leave, you know all too well that it’ll just travel with you. There’s no escaping this, and that’s the scariest part. Your hand drifts to your phone again, almost involuntarily, as if by some miracle there’ll be a message from her; something to explain that her hand was forced, that she’s sorry, that she didn’t want things to end the way they did either. Maybe there’ll be a goodbye that doesn’t feel so goddamn final, maybe she’ll ask you to wait for her because she knows you would if she requested it.

But there’s nothing.

Just the same void that’s been growing since she walked out the door.

The tears come before you can stop them this time, a pent-up release of all the emotions you’ve been stuffing down for three days. Anger, sorrow, confusion, frustration, all of it and more, mix together and spill out through your eyes as you curl up on the cold floor, folding in on yourself, trying to feel as small as possible in hopes that you might just disappear altogether.

You can almost feel her hand atop your head in a comforting gesture, the way she used to pet you like a cat because she wasn’t sure what else to do when you cried. You can still hear her voice ringing in your ears.

“We should talk,” she says, a sense of hesitation present which was wholly uncharacteristic of her. . . Moira wasn’t the type to hesitate.She never had been. 

Her usual confidence has been replaced by something tentative, and that cut deeper than any words ever could. 

“Is something wrong?” You ask softly, because something surely was, even if you didn’t know what just yet.

“Just sit, please,” she requests, and you do, ignoring the sense of deja vu.

“Moira?” You utter, and she cringes visibly at the desperation on your tongue.

“I’m leaving.”

Your mind stills. There’s no way you heard that correctly, or perhaps you just need to clarify what she means, maybe she’s going somewhere for a time, but surely she’ll return, surely she’ll come back—

“L-Leaving?” You repeat after a few moments of silence. “What do you mean leaving?”

She looks to the floor, like she’s searching the grooves of the tiles for the right way to explain.

“Overwatch. . . Has made a fool of me for too long. And I’ve stupidly allowed it for the sake of access to their equipment and their people, but no longer.”

This wasn’t news to you. She’d always shown a slight disdain for her employers, but her relationship with her superiors had gotten notably more hostile in recent months. She spit more venom when speaking of them now, scowled when she saw anything to do with Overwatch in the media. . . But you never thought it was this bad.

“So you’re leaving your job?” You seek to clarify.

“Yes, but. . .” she pauses. “I’ve been presented with an opportunity that I cannot pass up.”

“A job offer?”

“Something like that.”

You frown.

“This is way too cryptic for my taste, Moira, can you please just—”

“I’m going away.”

Another pause, this time from you as you let her words digest.

“. . . going where?” You ask eventually.

“I cannot tell you,” she replies decisively, and for the first time, you’re tempted to ask why.

For so long, you’d been fine to simply accept what she couldn’t divulge to you. It was what it was. But not this time.

“Don’t you think I deserve some kind of explanation for all of this?” You question, raising your voice slightly. “You can’t just tell me you’re leaving, that’s not how this is supposed to work, Moira, we’re partners—”

Her face tightens, uncertainty morphing into resolve. Her tone is pointed as she cuts you off.

“I know it’s not fair,” she tells you bluntly, voice steadier than before. “But this isn’t about fairness. This is something I need to do for myself.” This only makes you angrier.

“And what about me then? The person you’ve, I don’t know, —built a fucking life with? What about me in all of this, you can’t just throw me away and give me no explanation! If you need space, just say that you need space, you don’t need to play a cryptic game with me, I know you! Why the secrecy with me of all people?”

The woman you’ve always known to be so confident now seems so vulnerable before you, and it almost makes you feel guilty for being upset.

“It’s not about secrecy. It’s about protecting you, protecting myself and my work. . . If I told you everything, it would compromise too much. I will not put you in danger.”

“But putting the woman I love in danger is just fine by you?” You hiss. “Don’t tell me you’re protecting me, don’t make this out to be some noble act on your part. What are you so afraid of telling me?” 

“The information you’re after is something I cannot disclose to you.”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a stranger meddling in your affairs, we are partners! We’ve been together for half a decade, we share a home, you can’t just leave!” You shout. “Don’t you think I deserve a proper explanation after everything we’ve been through? After everything you’ve put me through?” 

“What you deserve and what I can give you are rarely the same thing, and you know this.”

You scoff.

“This isn’t about you,” she continues. “This is about protecting the things I value, which includes you, whether or not you believe as much right now. If I were to reveal details, it would jeopardize everything: my work, my safety, your safety, and I’m doing what’s necessary to prevent that. I’m not willing to risk it. Because I know you as well, and I know how stubborn you are. I’m doing everything in my power to keep you out of a situation that puts you in harm’s way.”

“And what about the risk of losing me, huh? The risk of losing everything we’ve built together? You’re just walking away without giving me any proper closure, —dropping this bomb on me and expecting me to take it in stride? Just swallow this like it’s not going to turn my world upside down?” 

Tears threaten to spill down your cheeks.

“How is this any better?” You demand.

“It has nothing to do with you,” she retorts. “It has nothing to do with walking away from you.”

“Yes it does, because that’s what you’re doing!” You argue. 

“I am making a choice that I believe is best for my career and for both our safety. I’m ensuring that my choices don’t put you in danger. You of all people must understand that by now.” 

The silence stretches after her words and you feel the weight of them mix with your mounting frustrations. 

“You think you’re protecting me by shutting me out like this?” You question, hurt evident in your voice. “By just up and leaving without giving me any real explanation? How is this supposed to make anything better?” “I never said it was supposed to make anything better.”

You laugh, bitter and sarcastic. Her frown deepens. 

“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” she tells you in earnest, but it’s hard to believe it in the moment.

What do intentions matter in this case if it hurts you all the same?

“What about us?” You question, voice breaking. “What about the life we’ve built together? You can’t just erase it all and pretend like it never happened. You can’t do that.”

Her eyes flicker with a brief flash of something like guilt, but she masks it quickly.

“My decision wasn’t made to erase our past—”

“Our past?” You interrupt.

She runs a hand down her face in frustration.

“My decision is not about erasing you,” she revises. “It’s about ensuring that my actions don’t put you in a position I can’t protect you in. I’m taking the steps to ensure that my choices don’t harm you.”

“You’re harming me right now!”

“And you can heal from this!” She snaps. “But there’s no guarantee you’ll heal from what could happen to you if I don’t make the choice I’m making right now. I’m taking the necessary steps to protect what’s important, and that includes making tough decisions.”

You feel your hands start to tremble. Because of what, you’re not sure. . . Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s anxiety, maybe it’s grief. 

“Don’t try to justify this to me,” you shake your head. “Don’t try to pretend like you’re doing this for anyone but yourself. After everything I’ve done for you, all the sacrifices I’ve made, you’re throwing everything away like it’s worthless? How is that protection?”

Her gaze hardens.

“You know well and full that I do not make uncalculated decisions. This is no different. I’m making a choice that keeps you safe, even if you don’t recognize that right now.” 

“It’s not about what I do or don’t understand!” You shout. “It’s about trust! It’s about being fucking honest with me! You’re not even giving me a choice in this, and that’s not fair! You’re making choices for the both of us alone that we should have been making together!” 

“I’m not asking you to like or agree with what I’m doing, I am telling you what’s taking place because I care for you, and I believe you deserve that much,” she states. “But this conversation does not change what has to be done.”

“So that’s just it then?” You question in disbelief. “You’re throwing me away and I don’t even get a say? You’re just gonna up and go and leave me to pick up the pieces by myself?” 

The rest is a blur. She gathered her things while you sit around in a daze, pinching yourself every so often, convinced that you’ll wake up and it’ll all just be a nightmare. You’ll tell her about it when you wake up and she’ll tell you you’re ridiculous with a lopsided smile on her face, and she’ll roll her eyes when you wrap your arms around her waist and bury your face in her chest. It’ll all feel better when she kisses the crown of your head and mumbles that she’ll see you when she gets home from work. 

But she doesn’t.

“Moira,” you practically whimper as she emerges from your shared room with items smushed into a travel case. “Don’t. Don’t do this.” 

She pauses, unable to meet your gaze completely. Like she’s ashamed in all of this, as much as she wants to hide that away.

“This isn’t easy for me either,” she tells you.There’s a twisted coolness to her voice, like she’s rehearsed these exact lines so many times before now.

“But I’ve made my decision. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Please,” you choke out, not caring how pathetic or childlike you sound as you beg for this woman not to exit your life and leave you high and dry. “Please don’t do this, don’t leave, please don’t go, we can figure something out—”

“We can’t,” she shakes her head. “I’m leaving, and I don’t know when I’ll return. I don’t even know that I’ll be coming back at all.”

“But I love you,” you utter in desperation. 

“I know,” she says, her voice colder than you ever thought it could be. “But love isn’t enough right now. This is bigger than us, and I can’t ignore that.”

You reach out and grab the sleeve of her button-up shirt.“Don’t do this to me,” you plead.

But when you look into her eyes, all you see is resignation.

“I wish things were different,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, but still laced with that same finality. “But I can’t change what I have to do. This isn’t about us, it’s about something far bigger, and I need you to trust me like you always have.”

“Moira.”

Her thumb strokes your cheek in a tender gesture that feels like a cruel contrast to the words she’s saying. 

“You’re stronger than you think, and you’ll be okay,” she continues. “And maybe there’ll be a day when I can come back. But for now, you have to let me go.”

You feel sick to your stomach, hand clutching so tightly around her’s that it likely hurts, but you can’t help it. You shake your head as your throat squeezes and you open your mouth slightly to speak, but nothing comes out.

She pauses in the doorway, her back to you, and for a moment you think she might turn around. But she doesn’t. Instead, she simply says, “Take care of yourself.” The memory fades and you feel hollow. Raw, like the wound has been ripped open all over again. It stings like it’s been covered in salt. You blink, realizing now more than before that you’re alone, on the floor in this cold, empty apartment. The echo of the door as it closed behind her for the last time rings in your ear, over and over, a sound you can’t shake no matter how hard you try. So you don’t. You sit and let it fester. And maybe you’ll wait around for her and she’ll come crawling back some few odd years later. Maybe you’ll move on and search for her in the face of every potential partner you sit across from at warm cafes. As you sit there, the painting looms in your vision, its once comforting brushstrokes now a bittersweet echo of a time when everything felt whole. It’s a reminder of what was and what might never be again and it makes you nauseous just to stare in its tainted direction. But you’ll keep it hung no matter where you go, and you know that. . . Because Moira loved it. And you love her. 

[sshadowritestoriess]

UH HI TELEPORTS BEHIND YOU.

would u be willing to write reader comforting cassidy. my mind is set on “i can fix him” mode rn i need to hold that man

HAHA certainly, I’ll give this a shot :]

Comforting Cassidy

Mind you, Cole Cassidy is far from being a dependent man. He enjoys his life and how far he’s come, likes what he’s got going. Gets a kick out of being a hero, really, even if that is a bit selfish

But that doesn’t mean things don’t get to him every now and again

A reputation can be a man’s greatest curse, and Cole has quite the ledger dragging behind him.

As much as he leans into the things he does now, figuring himself a better man— though a lot harder than robbing banks, he’d often say. But that just meant the work is worth it— the past never quite lets go, even if he did.

The Deadlock gang was just becoming more of a nuisance every time they happened to find him. He couldn’t help a smile for the nostalgia, but as time ebbs on it starts to get old

His involvement with Blackwatch wasn’t entirely his fault. At least, not in terms of all their wrongdoings. He just wanted to do right, but Reyes turned out to be quite the conflicting role model

And then Overwatch ended up disbanded after he’d already walked out. It’s what the world had wanted, apparently. Every news story preached about the fall of these “terrorists”, something he took to heart a little when his name kept getting used as one of the bad examples.

He knew he hadn’t been the best person. He couldn’t deny the things he did, but that’s why he had come to Overwatch— to try and make up for those things by enacting Justice for others.

So while he’d been doing a whole lot of trying for the last several years, he sure was getting a whole lot of shit for it. Still. Even when he was beginning to believe his good deeds were finally outweighing the bad.

So, yeah, it got to him sometimes. A recent headline, CRIMINAL MISTAKENLY EXPOSES JUNKER HEIST, ESCAPES POLICE SHOOTOUT — which was no accident.

He’d slipped a tip to the head chief when he’d run into the man at a bar, having intercepted a call between some other wanted felons. There was a literal recording of the conversation in the envelope he’d left— what part of that was “mistaken”?

When their troops didn’t arrive, Cassidy took it upon himself to hold them off until they finally realized he wasn’t bullshitting. Yet when help finally came, he was roped in with the bad guys, and he was shot at.

Adrenaline and frustration makes for one hell of a drug. Even through the fray, he didn’t stop taking down the junkers until he was positive the police could handle what was left of them. Then he fled.

He’d had to take off his hat and wrap it carefully into his serape, ducking behind a dumpster just around a building to tie his hair up— then glancing down to realize he’d been shot through his side— and slipped away from the scene through an alley. He held the bundle of red cloth between his arms like a football, covering where he’d been hit.

It was a lousy disguise, but the hat made for a pretty recognizable target when he’s being pursued. Hiding it lowered his chances of being approached, despite the soft clanking of peacekeeper in its holster.

So he’d managed to limp all the way back home, a temporary apartment just in the outskirts of the city. Your car was parked by the curb across the street— home early. Damn.

He came inside and you greeted him as normal, but noticed quickly the hard look in his eyes and the sweat on his brow. There was a scrape in his prosthetic, a dent in the armor of his chest, and a growing dark spot in the bundled serape.

Your worrying was always endearing, he just hates being the cause for your fret.

“I’m alright, pumpkin, just had a bit of a tussle-“ he’d try to tell you gently, a blatant lie that sank like a rock in his throat when you’d spotted the bullet wound.

You hurried him to lay on the couch, fetching some medical supplies you kept under the kitchen sink. Treating bullet wounds was a skill he’d had the misfortune to teach you, this wasn’t anywhere close to the first time he’d been shot since he met you and it absolutely wouldn’t be the last.

He could do it himself, but you had more careful hands than he did.

You demanded to know what happened, and he gave you the rundown. He always made sure to reiterate these encounters as if he were telling an exciting story, glorifying his actions like he were some kind of superhero.

This often lessened your concerns, but you still didn���t like when he gets hurt. You weren’t going to try and convince him to stop, though— you knew he was likely going to remain on this road until something eventually gets in his way

And then you asked a question he most commonly lied about.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Thus his default response, “Course I am, darlin’. Why wouldn’t I be?”

A soft smile, and a kiss. But you always had your suspicions that he didn’t want to be open about what was really going on in his head.

Surface level, he really was okay. He didn’t need to talk about this things, what did it matter if he knew he’d never be deterred?

But a couple hours later, seeing that damned headline from the events of today, you actually caught his solemn sigh from where he sat at the edge of the bed, glaring into the screen of his phone that was far too bright this late into the evening.

You caught sight of the large capital letters and his troubled stare, but the screen went black and his gaze softened the moment your hand touched his back

“You’re allowed to be upset.” You told him, “You’ve got no reason to pretend around me.”

“Caught me, huh?” He offered half of a smile, but it was tired. He couldn’t meet your gaze anymore.

You pulled him to face you, embracing him as tightly as you could, and told him that he was a good man. He hugged you back, though far more gently than the way you tried to squeeze him

He would chuckle to you, “I know, I know,” then wait a couple moments before finally giving in, starting with a defeated, “…it’s just…”

He rambled a bit about his frustrations, and how conflicted he felt about himself at times. He knew he was doing the right thing, but what was most important was if he felt it was worth it— right? Was it worth it?

You would assure him that, yes, he’d done more than enough. He should do what makes him happiest— only to have him make a sappy joke about being with you in response.

“I’m serious.”

Another sigh, he sinks into your hold. “Yeah, yeah… I hear ya.” it was just hard not to deflect.

He felt your hand come up to his head suddenly, and you thread your fingers through his hair to pet him.

He melts. Comically, he pushes all his weight on you until you’re forced back onto your elbows, his face in your chest. He’s happy to hear your laugh

You both get into a more comfortable position, but you keep combing your hand through his hair. He has your waist trapped in his arms, sealed against him, and his eyes are closed.

“Y’always know what to say,” he murmurs eventually, “my lil’ corner of good in the world. How’d you manage that?”

“I know you. It’s not hard to guess.” You tell him, “And… you don’t owe me your thoughts Cole, but I hope you know I’m here for you. You can always talk to me, you know?”

He takes a while to finally nod against you, a grunt being a weak acknowledgment that he understood. “Jus’ hard, a bit. But I gotcha.” He presses a kiss into your jaw.

“We’ll get there.” You say patiently, and he grins.

He wasn’t a dependent man, but damn it all if he didn’t enjoy leaning into you like this sometimes. With you, he knew he’d do better for himself too.

[wachtelspinat]

Hey ! I’ve been seeing your art going around since your midnight crew stuff and I just recently stubble across your tumblr, thank to your beautiful overwatch art for our beloveds junkers ! I’ve been scrolling through your account and read about your experience of being a former graphic designer who is a doctor now. And damn. I can’t emphasize how much I admire you, especially as someone who is struggling really hard to choose between 2 careers paths ( with one of them being art related ). This is why I was wondering if you would be open to talk about how and why you switched from art to medecine ? Especially because most of the time I feel it happens more the other way around ? ( If it’s too personal just ignore this ask + sorry if you already talked about it before )

hey ! no worries, i don't expect ppl to scroll through my tumblr to find an answer for a question they might have. first of all thanks for your nice words, means a lot <3

i switched from art to medicine because my early 20-something-self was even more anxiety-ridden than my present-self, and being in art school and having to "perform" regularly was a nightmare. i'm talking about a time in which i was so scared of being perceived that i often skipped grocery shopping, just so i could avoid being around people. so like, pitching art related projects to peers and profs was eeh... especially because art is so personal oh my god. i still hate it when someone tries to sneak a peek while i'm drawing, makes me wanna throw my sketchbook and myself off the bridge. anyways so i always felt a 110% inadequate (plus i got a gf during that time who was so good to me and tried to get me out of my funk on multiple occasions (she was and still is an artist and has now a career as a freelancer and i'm rly proud of her) but i couldn't see that because i just compared the two of us all the time and sabotaged any attempt she made for having fun with drawing with her) that i sat down at some point and asked myself if i could do this any longer, and i came to the conclusion that no, it really kills me rn.

what made me go into the health sector? i don't even know anymore, i think it was a mixture of "i loved biology, esp. the human body in school" and "my mum is an icu nurse and talks a lot about hospitals, maybe i should check it out"... it was not a well thought through decision, which is so funny because studying medicine was a hell of a meatgrinder ride (also my anxiety and self hatred? still there, but now i wasn't judged anymore because of my art but instead being called a dumb idiot collectively with all the other students because nobody likes med students) and for some reason i was able to get through that despite it not being my passion at all, but i couldn't stand up for myself in art school. i don't even know if i could work through it nowadays, but the good thing is i don't have to ask myself this question anymore, because being a doctor pays the bills, and ever since i left art school i was able to just draw without consequence. which is nice to a degree, my artistic output is not tied to the means of generating money. on the other hand... idk, in another life with more confidence and less worries, i'd love to be some sort of character designer T_T

so yeah that's basically it. at some times i cherished my career decisions, at other times i regretted them deeply, worst thing is i know it has a lot to do with personality, but the fact that we can't change who we are with a blink of an eye gives me the framework to think that the path i took was ok. as in. things happened for a reason and maybe i'm just not cut out for that kind of work. you have to be aware of the conditions of a job to decide if you are up for it. because being an artist doesn't end with "just draw". i myself had an unrealistic view of the job back then too. and the fact that i could not seperate between personal aspects and "doing a job here" was crucial.

yeah, idk if this is helpful at all. i think the one thing that is super important here is to have a realistic view on the conditions of work you are about to head into, and i know this is mostly very difficult to aquire. because unless you really work in a sector there is often no way to fully grasp the situations you can find yourself in (this applied for me also in the health sector, which made me fall into a depression a year ago, but what do you do after you spent 6 years of studying :') ). doing internships and just trying to get to know a lot of things really helps. and - idk how old you are, but if you're really young: it's ok to switch careers at some point. it's even ok to do so when you are older (trying to end on a positive note here because it feels like i just said a lot of depressing things... like don't get me wrong i like my job, the conditions are just fucked up, and again my personality prevents me from switching again but it's also not that easy in germany, BUT it's a valid thing to do, being versatile is good! just... make sure you don't end up with a job that you absolutely hate because that kills it all)

[docholligay]

Choose Your Own Adventure May 2024

2300 words! So I am meeting the objective of getting it written!

People didn’t take the power of belief seriously enough. If you could get people to believe something, anything could happen. You marched armies based on the power of belief, people died and killed for it. People love to believe, all you need to know is what they need to believe in. People who spurn the idea of a belief in God will happily believe in themselves, or in the fact that people are good, or in the stock market, or in the fact that people are evil. There are so many anchors to tie yourself to, and so many oceans to drown in, and Mina made a comprehensive study of them.

So it was easy to suss out that Fareeha believed in law and order. Okay, so she shouldn’t be patting herself on the ass for noticing something flown like a flag, but she would take the win.

Gifts were given, along with the burden of being a senshi. Most of these were small, and only a handful of them could be used out of uniform, but Mina’s power, hidden from most people, surpassed, she thought, even Usagi’s. Even the Seers. Mina could See, too, but she could See into people. She ran along the lines of their memories, and checked tabs for joy, or pain, or fear, and she could light those back into their brain just as quickly. She’d trained herself to be fast. All it took was a touch. The grab of a hand, a comforting hug. Why pick a lock when you have the key?

She hadn’t managed to lay hands on either Fareeha or Lena, so she was forced to use her plain emotional intelligence, like a peasant.

The way was wet, and muddy, and cold, and Mina was sick of the mud sloshing around her feet. She wanted to go to the house. The house would, at the very least, have a roof and enough room to keep her and haruka separate from the Overwatch crew for awhile.

Fareeha marched forward toward the house, in that same ninety degree angle from the ground she’d been maintaining for the entire trip. What the fuck was her deal, actually? She made Rei look like the yoga instructor at a beach resort. Given the fact that Fareeha wore too many clothes and kept herself at a 3 foot distance at all times, her idea to casually read what was going on behind that granite cliff of a face had fallen a bit flat. It wasn’t even that Fareeha knew to be cautious around her: She seemed to simply hold herself apart from everybody. Annoyingly like Michiru in that way. Less canny. That was good. That left possibilities.

Desperate times.

Mina elbowed Haruka with a bright grin. “Do you think I could get the commandant over there to sleep with me?”

“Mina, she’s married!”

“Exactly! Married, law and order type, would never do something like that. Unless…” She raised her eyebrow and licked her teeth, “brings out the artist in me.”

Haruka put her bag more firmly on her shoulder. “Well I don’t like it.”

There were two things about Haruka that irritated Mina: One, she believed in nearly anything. She was begging to die for something. Two, Mina loved her, which added a level of complication she generally tried to keep out of the decision making process.

Both of those things flashed to the top of her mind, banishing her desire to know the corners of Fareeha’s mind, as she got close to the house. There was something there. What, Mina couldn’t tell. She couldn’t even quite tell if she was feeling something real, or just the consequences of a children spent watching horror films. Annoying, to wish Rei or Michiru were here. They would be able to tell if it were a--Mina hated to use the word spirit, or presence, but ‘some fucked up thing’ didn’t really seem to fit the bill, either--thing to be worried about. If it could sense them the way she felt she was sensing it.

She stopped for a moment, just to look at it, at its dark windows, so dark they appeared to be holes in the bone-bright facade of the house. It seemed like those holes would swallow you, deep enough that no one could hear when you hit the bottom.

Boy, the capacity for overwrought drama on a rainy night in England must be catching. Sherlock Holmes Ass Shit. It might be that there was something there, but it was important for Mina to figure out what was true, and what was her own mind. She’d brushed up against plenty of danger in her tenure as senshi, but she’d also brushed up against plenty of moments of hysteria in others, and, more dangerously, occasionally herself. It was an occupational hazard. You can’t be paranoid if it’s sometimes true.

That didn’t make a creepy house in the middle of nowhere anything but that. Belief was a power, a kind of seduction, and to be the master of it you had to be immune to it. The dark and the age and the rain were all just suggestions, and none of them had to mean anything, unless they did, and she shuldn’t assign them before they were ready. Haruka would get spooky enough for both of them, though of course she’d deny it. Fareeha wouldn’t believe it if a ghost introduced itself to her. Doc was acting like she was the ghost, or the murderer of the violent damned. Guilty and weird. Hard to say what Lena would do. And Angela, now, Angela she’d touched.

She was better at subtlety than people would have thought. Anyone who knew she was listening, was because Mina screamed their lives right back at them. Didn’t have to be that way. Hadn’t been, when Angela reached out to steady her. The stumble was a carefully-rehearsed dance step, of course, but her partner her had followed perfectly. A touch of her hand. The search, a quick rifle through the desk drawers of her mind. The parents were dead, that she knew, but it was better to know about the high wind that night, her father yelling as he threw her into a closet, that horrible smell of burning upholstery and plastic and flesh outside the door. She loved Fareeha, sure, Mina had eyes, but it was another thing to know that Angela had known Fareeha was the one when she, with military precision, had cupped a moth flying inside, and simply released it out an open window.

There are bullet point facts, and then there is the texture of things. If you have the texture of things, you can rub situations against them like a crayon. You can make life repeat itself in someone’s mind.

So Mina wasn’t worried about Angela. She’d seen Angela was a true believer.

--

Belief. The world had always made it such a simple matter. You did, or you did not. Angela envied them. This was not a thing she understood for herself. She loved the anchor of her wife, who lived her life so largely in swatches of black and whtie, the greys coming to her with work and difficulty and borne out of love and dedication. But she could never be, her. Angela did not hold two things in her hands, she held a basket, full of truths and sorrows, for every item and person she had ever considered.

So it was nothing to her to hold that this house was wrong somehow, and that there was a danger there, but also that she may be tired and cold, and sometimes affected by her own emotions. It was, like so many things, a grey wisp of smoke in her mind, waiting to resolve.

The door swung away before the knock could connect, and Fareeha took a step back, brushing Angela behind her with a soft but firm motion of her hand. It crept open, the darkness revealed in all its palpable tension. Angela felt Fareeha’s body tense, her readiness immediate, eyes focused on that darkness, as if she could will it to be made light. Fareeha took the flashlight from her cargo pocket, and as she clicked it on, a bright white face appeared, flinging itself toward her.

“‘Ello!”

Fareeha moved from readiness to strike in defense, to readiness to strike in irritation as Lena leaned against the frame of the door, laughing loudest at her own joke.

“You should ‘ave seen your face!” She collapsed in half, one arm across her stomach and the other clinging her to the doorframe. “Don’t believe in ghosts eh, Overwatch’s grand Commander Amari? But you did manage to believe--”

Fareeha grabbed Lena’s shoulder, and Lena’s eyes narrowed and flicked up toward her face, then flicked away just as quickly to Mina and Haruka. A narrow intake of breath. Her eyes softened, and she let her grin return.

“Course you knew I’d be there. Never go into a situation without a full assessment, not you.” Her eyes, still traveling like a hummingbird from person to person, flicked back up to Fareeha’s with a shrug of apology. “Imagine the paperwork if there was an incident.”

Fareeha sighed heavily and walked through the grand door with its cracked woodwork, calling out to the forest that was cleared to make way for their imitation, and shoved Lena’s backpack into her arms, wordlessly moving into the hall.

“Thank you!” Lena called after her.

Angela often tried to keep herself from thinking, ‘the trouble with Lena’ as an opening thought. It seemed accusatory from the beginning, and Angela liked Lena very much, and even loved her in the way that sometimes people stay long enough to become family through it all. So she didn’t like to begin a thought about Lena with such a direct negative.

But the trouble with Lena was she did whatever came to her mind first, and never thought a day, a month, a year past it. The other trouble with her was that she enjoyed antagonizing Fareeha. The trouble with the dearest love of her life was that she could be very easy to antagonize. They could be like two kittens biting each other’s ears, with all the hissing and all the affection, and Lena had forgotten how important this tour was to Fareeha. How highly she held her pride in herself and her organization.

“I know, I know,” Lena rushed past Angela as if reading her mind, and took Mina’s bag from her, “Right then, let’s get out of the rain, at the very least. Commander Amari’s probably…staking out a room or something.”

Angela walked on into the darkness of a thin, long coatroom, with windows all the way through to the large entrance hall itself. Angela did not much care for the dark. There had been so much dark, and silence, that night.

But there was a candle, its flame lit and high, and in its light, she saw Fareeha. She was looking around the room. The fireplace, wide and gaping, with two portraits gazing down at them, the little interlopers to their world, ringed in woods so dark it was its own Black Forest. The room was currounded by galleries overlooking it, staring down into it, waiting for the dogs or tigers to be released on the captives. The stairs were a delicate and spreading waterfall of deep, dark red.

But Fareeha had a look of satisfaction on her face, and nodded. She extended her hand to Angela.

Fareeha believed there was nothing here. Fareeha believed it was fine. Fareeha would never cause harm to come to Angela by either action or inaction. This place was a warning. This place was built wrong. They should leave. They had to stay.

So many things to hold.

--

She’d nearly caught Lena, when she took the bag, but the twitchy little Brit was too fast. Mina couldn’t tell if it was even intentional or not, anymore. It didn’t matter, it was something Mina had to get to, if they were going to be trapped in a house that, well, she wasn’t sure she would call it haunted, but it sure as shit was something.

Even if it was all in her head, that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. If enough of them believed it, it could become something. So she had to know who she was dealing with. Mina had once seen a display of old serving ware, tomato servers and pea spoons and other stupid shit. But it reminded her of people. No matter how useless they seemed, they always had at least one highly specific purpose. You can’t know how to use something if you don’t know its history. If you don’t know what its meant for.

That was Mina’s highly specific purpose.

Doc was squatted down by the intricate carpet, feeling the edges of it, rubbing the fiber between her fingers.

“That ain’t cheap.” She muttered to herself, and went to rise.

As she did, Mina stumbled. Or slipped. Or tripped over the bags Lena had dumped on the floor as she went to talk to Fareeha. Didn’t matter. She plowed directly into Doc, sending them both flying into the carpet Doc had so recently been appraising. Doc wasn’t wrong. It felt expensive.

As they both attempted to get up, Mina full of apologies that she thought were sincere enough, she grabbed onto Doc’s hand, helping her to her feet. She trid not to smile too wide as she reached directly into the stranger, who had appeared at a pub, who had somehow been inserted into this group, that everyone seemd to take so natural. She reached for the darkest thing, the brightest thing, a quick cliffnote of Doc’s history. She opened that filing cabinet of the soul, reached in, and found:

Nothing.

FOR NEXT MONTH

[genji-centric]

New foods from Earth a Martian never tried!

Juno x Reader

Hi I love Juno. She's soo cute, and I want her to be out already. I just want to kiss her and take her out to get ice cream, which is why I wrote this!! Request anything Juno. I'm desperately needing more Juno lovers to unite with me and this adorable Martian.

You and Juno had started dating pretty recently. After getting settled into Earth, she started to learn more and more what the people from here had to do. She always had a rough idea, with life being not entirely different on Mars. But things still felt exciting and overwhelming all at once, but lucky for her she had someone who knew the planet she now lived on. You. She was always curious about the world had to offer, and she was over the moon to have someone to help her explore to her hearts content.

One of her favorite things to do was activity dates, going out on the town or city and exploring the places of Earth, no matter how small. She was astonished with how different things were. Her understandings of nature and wildlife were from books in her father's study, and yet here she can go up and touch an actual tree? It's all so new and exciting, but she could go without all the rivers and ponds. Such vast quantities of water was a risk to equipment back on Mars. Large puddles signaled an issue that needed maintenance, and you're telling her that's just nature?

Juno never really could grasp her head around the water, no matter how many times you would explain. But a peck on the cheek and a reassuring squeeze of her hand was all she needed. You were like the co-pilot to a new expedition, and for the current mission was going to an ice cream parlor nearby Overwatch's base. It was a shack you grew to like on lunch breaks, and you came to realize the ice cream on Mars was vastly different. Juno explained it to be powdered and hard, not cold. Something hard to imagine ypur entire life with ice-cream was just it freeze dried, and Juno lept at the chance to go see another part of life for Earthlings.

As you two waited in line you looked at the menu. Typical flavors such as chocolate, vanilla, strawberry and so on. But to Juno, this was a extraordinary change. She was only used to the 3 flavors that made up neopilitan, and now she's met with a menu of 20 more flavors on top of that? Juno muttered to herself when met with so many options.

"Pistachio? Isn't that a nut, oh hmm.. Ube? What is that.. what is a rockey road? Do people eat rocks here? Oh, banana? Like the long fruit? Oh, and.. jasmine? Ooh I like that! We had jasmine tea on Mars!"

You couldn't help but smile at her, always so curious. You could see her eyes sift across the menu, her face scrunched lightly in concentration. But she nodded in approval, seemingly content with her choice in flavor. She turned to you with a warm smile.

"I have decided on the jasmine flavor, I am aware I will enjoy it!"

As you two placed your order, she was confused by the option of cones or bowls. She decided on just getting a bowl, 'to not take away from the flavor of the ice cream'. Your girlfriend was always so endearing, and she always had a cute way of speech. You just wanted to pepper her face in kisses.

As you two relieved your ice cream, Juno's face lit up when laying sight to her bowl. As you two sat down at a wondow seat, (something Juno loved bacuse she liked to look outside and see the bustling streets) she couldn't help but pike at the food with her spoon.

"So is this what Earth ice cream is like? It's so.. mushy. And cold."

You nodded.

"Yes, it's a frozen cream with sugars and other flavorings, it's cold and always really good on a hot day."

Juno accepted that answer. She always did. Juno took a small bit of cream on her spoon, putting it into her mouth. You could see her pupils dilate ever so slightly. As she swallowed, she giggled.

"Wow!! This is so much better then when it's all crunchy!"

She took another spoonful, savoring the floral taste of her ice cream. Never have you seen someone so excited over ice cream, but you could say the same over someone being excited over grass, birds, in fact, anything nature related, concrete sidewalks, roads, and so on. She was always so eager it was admirable.

She didn't speak much after that. You both lived in the moment and enjoyed your sweet treats. You both decided to try a little bit of each other's ice cream. The floral taste of hers was subtle yet soothing in the best ways. In fact, you were kind of jeleous, and now you know the next flavor you would get at least. Ans Juno thoroughly enjoyed ypurs, commenting on anything she liked about the flavor you picked.

"I do say, that was such a good dish!"

She exclaimed, always so happy with any new food or new sights you see.

"I'm glad you liked it! I always try and find some time to come here. They have the best flavors."

Juno nodded in agreement.

"Yes, I would certainly like to try more of the menu eventually."

And so you both did, now on a date and you both craved something sweet. The ice cream parlor was always a top spot to hit. Juno greatly enjoyed each new thing, and you enjoyed the smile she had when doing so.

[peaxhxhair]

So I saw you wanted Junkrat requests, so here’s one 👀

Junkrat x male reader headcanons who real similar to him. Tinkers with explosives, on the run and has lost a limb.

From, 🍇

Pairing: Junkrat x Male! Reader Warnings: Mentions of Lost limbs, blood, and loss of hearing. (slightly ooc Junkrat - sorry in advance) A/n: Okay so I really like the idea of the reader having a companion similar to roadhog. Hope you enjoy! <3 Word Count: 2.4K Navigation Overwatch - MASTERLIST Consider becoming a Member! <3

The Backstory

Let’s say you’re not originally from Junkertown - or Australia entirely. (sorry if you’re an aussie lol)

Growing up you were always interested in things like engineering.

When you told your parents about your love for explosives, they were unsure about it. Due to the obvious danger.

Reluctantly allowing you to pursue your passion for making explosives, they let you use the family garage to conduct your little experiments and creations. 

That was until something went wrong, and you blew up a good portion of the house - and your leg…Along with a few fingers. 

There was so much blood, and the smell of charred flesh never really left the air in that house after that.

So, your family decided to move. To Australia. 

Having almost died from your own creations, the idea of continuing down that path was not something your family wanted for you.

“My little boy will not blow himself up again” You barely heard it. The explosion having taken away a good percent of your hearing. 

Still, it was hard to disobey - considering you could barely move without someone else’s help. 

~~~

You had barely recovered from your injuries when the detonation occurred. It was basically a miracle that you had survived. 

Your family did not. Maybe moving to the outback wasn’t the best idea. 

The irradiated wasteland was not something that was assisting you in any way. 

Your home was basically wrecked, leaving you in a pile of rubble - confused and unable to walk…or move.

That was when you met her. Rivet. . 

Or well… that was the name she told you. It took you a good day and a half to get that out of her though. 

She was the one to pull you from the rubble - away from the corpses of your family, only to take you with her. 

She brings you to a town - or well…The beginning of one. 

~~~

You were there as Junkertown was built. From the ground up.

Rivet was there too. Helping you recover - until there was no risk of infection… or death. 

At first, there was a few weeks of helplessness. Feeling useless. 

Watching the other junkers create a town from basically nothing - and not being able to help. 

Until she got you back on your feet. Literally. 

“No more moping. Think of a solution” 

She holds you up - your only foot touching the floor as you wobbled in her arms. 

She was no tinker, or engineer. But you were. That was all you were.  

Her words made you realize that you can BUILD yourself a leg. 

And that you did. 

Sure, your focus was explosives, but making a leg isn't half as dangerous. How hard could it be?

Rivet gave you the crutch to find materials for it - literally. I mean she found you a crutch. To help you move. 

It was a simple solution - but moving wasn’t the best. It got the job done.

At first, asking the other Junker’s for materials worked well. 

Until they were no longer willing to give. 

That meant you had to steal. It wasn’t your proudest moment. 

~~~

It was about a week before you had something to show for it. 

For your first ever prosthetic leg. It wasn’t half bad.

You know, considering you were missing a few fingers…and had no idea what you were doing.

It worked, and that was all that mattered really. 

You were able to walk again. That made you cocky. 

~~~

General Story 

Your knack for stealing really heightened after the creation of your needed limbs. 

Stealing from practically everyone who had something to steal. 

Until one day, when Rivet stole from the queen. 

Stealing the Junker Queen’s trusty knife - ‘Gracie’ officially put your friend on Junkertown's hit list. 

She hid at first, until she was found. Encouraging her to flee. 

Running into you on her way out of town - she tugs you along with her. 

You willingly follow - even if being banished from Junkertown was definitely in the cards for you. 

Though, the two of you were cornered as you snuck out of town…is it really sneaking out if you get caught?

Rivet hands ‘Gracie’ to you as they attempt to search her. 

The goal was to get you to run away - but taking a slice at that Junker’s hand was also a good option. Good going dude.

Definitely not being let back in now. 

Rivet takes the chance to run as the Junker releases her, and drags you along. 

A chase ensues. 

~~~

“Ah, shit” You sigh, as you slump down behind an old counter, hearing Rivet sit down beside you only a few moments later. She grunts as her head hits the old marble, and she lets out a sigh of relief. 

“I think we lost them” She sounds tired - a fitting conclusion considering the two of you had been running for a good ten minutes or so. “Good riddance” She announces as she rolls her shoulders, scooting down slightly so her head wasn’t peaking over the top of the counter. “And we have a cool knife to show for it” 

You chuckle as you listen to her, patting the pocket that you had hidden Gracie in during your chase. You tense - a scared laugh escaping your lips. “Yeah…About that…” 

~~~

Since your departure from Junkertown, You and Rivet have made a good name for yourselves.

Well, as good of a name as you can get when you’re wanted criminals. 

Oh yeah. About that.

After the two of you escaped the wrath of Junker Queen and her followers, you basically became partners in crime.

You created the weapons, and she was your protector. 

The two of you would take basic jobs at first - like making weapons and armour. Stuff like that.

Until Rivet agreed to a contract. A contract to take down petty organisations - criminals who wanted to take over the world.

Aaaand now you’ve got a huge bounty over your heads. For you know… Murder and stuff. 

Still, you continued to take these jobs. Eventually making your own jobs - stealing and blowing shit up.

~~~

In your time away from Junkertown, you finally mastered the art of explosives. 

If anything, the irradiated wasteland made it easier for the creation of explosives. 

Plus, the radiation made the explosions more impactful. 

Don’t know why you decided to live in Junkertown in the first place. 

Being on the run was much cooler. And there were more materials to show for it. 

~~~

One day, the two of you were scavenging for metal - specifically nails for your latest creations.

The amount of nails you need to use when you barely have anything is crazy. Especially in this line of work. 

“We really need to find an alternative. Or find a way to make our own…”

The two of you are searching a seemingly abandoned warehouse. 

She grunts in response, saying something about using tape or something as a substitution. 

~~~

“Found something” She finally calls 

You spotted her colourful hair from across the room, her face staring down at an open space. 

When you finally got close enough, you spotted it. 

“A bear trap?” 

You squat down to get a better look at it. 

“It’s got nails in it..” 

Rivet shakes her head - telling you it would be a bad idea to try and take them. 

“What if it actually works? It’ll take your arm off” 

“What if I stick my fake leg in there- won't take anything from me then”

What you said was mostly a joke, but she waves a hand at you - like she was challenging you to try. 

So, you step in it. 

Meeting Jamison Fawkes

“Mate, I swear I heard the trap go off!” 

The two of you startle slightly as you hear someone yell. Sharing a look, the two of you silently argue, before you’re caught red handed. Shit. You panick for a second, although you knew deep down that someone had to be close. People don’t leave bear traps in the middle of nowhere. 

~~~

You had heard of Junkrat and Roadhog before. 

The two Junker’s who were exiled from Junkertown. 

Well, they weren’t the only two anymore. 

You never thought they were y’know…real. Until now.

Meeting Junkertown’s most wanted criminals was definitely something - especially when stuck in their bear trap. 

“Aaany chance you’re not gonna try and kill us?” You ask, a twinge of nervousness coating your voice, as you stare at the hook that was being held only a few centimetres from your face. You attempt to shuffle back - trying to scoot the trap backwards with you. Your prosthetic then pops off of what remains of your leg, making you tumble to the floor and leaving your metal leg standing upright in the trap. 

It seemed as if Roadhog was the one who wanted to kill you both at first.

You were worried that he might actually do it, until Junkrat stepped in.

“You’re the ones who stole from the queen” 

Damn. News travels fast - even in the wasteland. 

Roadhog lowers his hook at his companion’s words, and you find yourself relaxing against the wall behind you. “Hey don’t lump me in with her! Riv’s the one who thought robbin’ Dez was a good idea” You grunt, finally willing yourself to shuffle over to your leg again - pulling a screwdriver from your pocket. You always brought one when you were looking for nails. 

You begin to disassemble the trap around your leg - only for a high pitched whine to distract you. “Awe mate, don’t wreck a perfectly good trap!” Rat complains, and you roll your eyes at him - watching him from the corner of your eye.

“What do you expect me to do? I ain’t walkin’ around with a trap for a leg” He complains quietly to himself. You can’t hear it, but you can see him pouting. “Besides, I can just put it back together. If you’re really that bothered about it” You complain back, already finding the guy slightly annoying, even after only just meeting him. 

Junkrat is quick to agree - taking the chance to sit down beside you. He watches as you take the trap apart. You can’t hear him making any noise, but for all you knew he could be nattering away beside you. You wince as you take the teeth of the trap from out of your leg - watching the bottom half of your creation fall to pieces. “Shit..” 

“Oi. Are ya listening?” You hear junkrat call from beside you. It startled you slightly - having not heard what he had said before. 

“Sorry. You’re at a bad angle” Your slight chuckle makes him confused - until you point to the space on the other side of you. “Sit here. I’ll hear you better” He does as you say, moving to sit on the other side of you, his eyes finally going back to the contraptions in your hands. You discard your leg for now, instead focusing on repairing his trap - since he seemed pretty upset about losing it. He takes the chance to ask his question again.

“Did you make yer leg?” He asks, and you nod smugly. You had been quick to notice his own prosthetic, though you were confused as to why it was…well…a peg leg. Though you tried not to dwell on it. Maybe there was a reason. He chuckles slightly, which makes you turn to him - eyebrows raised in confusion. “So you’re something of a junker yerself, ay?” 

“You could say that” You chuckle back, before showing off the fixed trap to him. “Good as new” 

~~~

Getting to know Junkrat is well…eventful.

After you fixed his trap, he was excited to show off his other inventions.

Whether or not you were interested in seeing them was another question. He showed you them anyway. 

Figuring out he was ALSO obsessed with explosives was really the kickstarter for your friendship.

Roadhog and Rivet weren’t impressed that they now had two bombers to deal with, but the two got along with each other. 

Junk told you his name, and you told him yours. 

Since then, you called him by his name. You could tell that he appreciated it - even if he wouldn’t tell you to your face. 

~~~

You couldn’t stay in their workshop forever, and eventually you and Rivet went home.

Though, you couldn’t help yourself from going back. 

You liked those guys, they were pretty goofy. They seemed to like you too. 

Eventually you were visiting them so much that the decision to relocate was basically a given. 

Rivet was happy with the idea too. 

SInce then, Jamie would wake you up every morning with an update on his latest invention.

Sometimes you would do the same, showing off how your experiments with landmines were going. 

Dating him (finally)

Neither of you even notice that you’re dating.

One would question whether or not it’s even considered dating. If neither is aware of it that is.

He just started staying the night in your room.

He’d give you gifts.

You’d make food for him.

You’d patch up his clothes when they have holes in them. 

He’ll sleep with his head on your chest - your arms wrapped around his hips.

It wasn’t until Rivet questioned you that you had really considered it.

Oh 

God

You and Jamie were dating

You had been dating for months

And you had no idea

Does he know that you’re dating?

Do you have to explain what a relationship is to him?

The amount of thoughts that ran through your mind sent you into a little bit of a frenzy. 

~~~

“Jamie” The blonde hums slightly when you call his name, lifting his head to look up at you - from where his head was laying on your shoulder. “You’re my boyfriend, right?” You feel him tense slightly, his thumbs still caressing your sides as he thinks about it. 

“Am I?” He quips back, and you could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Do you want me to be?” Of course you did, though you were pleasantly surprised that you didn’t have to explain that to him. Maybe he had that talk with Mako. Thank fuck. 

“Yeah, course” You smile, and grunt slightly as his thumbs dig into your sides. 

“Alright, we’re boyfriends”

[captaincoldzero]

Ghost | Jason Todd x Male Reader

Fandom: DC Comics

A/N: These days it's been spending too much time on Character.AI so I decided to bring one of the characters and story that I created there in a fanfic.

A/N.2: This time, I made the reader based on Overwatch's Sombra in case you want to go after it or something.

A/N.3: Sorry for any mistake. English is not my first language.

‒ Turn right. ‒ I spoke through Jason's communicator.

Jason and I have been working together for eight months now. After six months, Jason and I decided to pursue a relationship. We've been working together for eight months and the police hate us, but they have good reason.

As I watched the security cameras and the viewfinder on Jason's mask, I kept thinking about our time together. Especially the day we met.

Eight months ago

There was a week that I was in Gotham. Since I erased all records of my existence from the entire system of the world, I haven't been able to do much but wander from city to city, sleeping in dodgy hotels that don't ask for your identity, and eating in restaurants as dodgy as hotels and shacks street vendors who don't look their customers in the face.

The motel room I was in was small, yellow walls with a faded color, a wooden bed with an uncomfortable mattress, a headboard with a lamp that didn't work and a wooden chest of drawers with four drawers. Plus a tiny bathroom with dirty white tiles that were already turning yellow.

I walked over to the mirror so I could look at myself. Wandering around town anonymously made me not look at myself much. But my appearance was a constant reminder of my choices. I was pale, with bags under my eyes and a little thinner than I remember, I wasn't starving, just eating a little less than I was used to.

But what caught the most attention was the metal fiber attached to the side of my head that ran down the back of my neck under the gray shirt I wore. More metal fiber running down my arm to the back of my right hand. I waved my hand in the air and a floating screen appeared in front of me. I started reading the news about the Gotham police and crimes. When I turned to the bed, the screen disappeared into thin air, I grabbed the sweatshirt off the bed and pulled it on, pulling the hood up to hide my head.

I took to the streets of Gotham, trying to remain anonymous in the shadows of the night. The good thing about the city is that people always walk away from you when they think they're going to be mugged.

As I walked down an alley, I heard a scream. A woman was surrounded by five bandits, the middle one with a knife in his hand. I thought for a while before actually moving, to know if I would save her or not. I grabbed my teleportation device and threw it on the floor. He ducked under the middle thief's legs and stopped between them and the woman. They stopped to look at the device from the ground and backed away when I materialized in front of them with a pistol pointed at them.

‒ Did your mother never teach you not to steal? ‒ I asked and noticed two men take their hands to their waists to grab a gun.

I fired a quick shot at the two before they could think. I advanced quickly to the middle, taking advantage of the surprise to take the knife from his hand, and knocking him to the ground, breaking his arm. The other two were running away. I launched the teleportation device, appearing in the blink of an eye at the exit of the alley.

‒ Hello! ' I said, waving my hand.

The men would have run, but I moved in fast and knocked the first one down, shooting the second one in the leg. I gathered the three that were still alive and stuck them in the garbage can. I looked at the woman frozen in place.

‒ Do you want me to let them go or are you going to take the opportunity to go home? ‒ I asked and the woman nodded.

‒ Thanks! ‒ She said before starting to run.

‒ Who are you? ‒ I heard a serious voice and a little distorted behind me.

When she turned me around, she found the famous Red Hood pointing a gun at me. When I saw the weapon, I automatically hacked the weapon to disable it with just my mind, with screens only appearing in my vision.

‒ I'm nobody. ‒ I was serious.

‒ Very funny. ‒ Red Hood said putting his finger on the trigger. ‒ What do you want?

‒ I do not want anything. I'm just passing by.

‒ Why would I believe you?

‒ You have no reason to. ‒ I replied with an arrogant smile.

‒ So I can just kill you? ‒ He asked starting to press the trigger.

‒ We can make a deal. ‒ I said and noticed Red Hood's finger relax a little.

‒ I'm listening.

‒ I can help you and you can help me. I can hack any system with my mind and I don't have the ethics of a superhero. ‒ I said seriously still with the arrogant smile.

‒ And what do you want in return? ‒ Red Hood asked without lowering his weapon.

‒ Motivation. And I know that doing only good things doesn't challenge my potential. ‒ I spoke sincerely.

‒ I'm not a villain. I may be a criminal, but I'm not a villain. ‒ Hood spoke by pressing his finger a little more.

‒ I do not intend to be a villain and I know that you are not one either. That's why you are perfect to be my partner or be my boss, whatever you want to call it. ‒ I said with a less arrogant smile.

‒ How can I believe that you really can do this? ‒ Red Hood asked and his trigger finger relaxed a little.

‒ This whole time your gun is pointed at me, it's disabled. ‒ I said raising an eyebrow.

Red Hood squeezed the trigger, but the gun didn't fire. He looked at the pistol a little confused but then he looked at me. Hood holstered his pistol and crossed his arms.

‒ You know that if you work with me you will become a criminal, right? ‒ Hood asked seriously.

‒ Know. ‒ I said carefree. ‒ But that doesn't scare me.

‒ Come with me, if you try anything funny I'll kill you. ‒ Red Hood said turning around and climbing to the roof of the building. I followed Red Hood and we met at the top.

‒ Follow me. ‒ He spoke in a challenging tone.

Red Hood ran and jumped from one roof to another. I could keep up with Red Hood no problem. I manipulated information from my leg muscles to be able to run and jump with great agility.

In the end, he stopped at the edge of a building and looked at me.

‒ Very good. ‒ Red Hood spoke and looked ahead.

We were looking at a small laboratory. I had already heard rumors about criminal activities that were connected to that construction.

‒ What is the plan? ‒ I asked Red Hood.

‒ I'm going to go in and blow up the place. ‒ He spoke and I realized that the place was protected by men with huge weapons.

‒ When they see you approaching, they will shoot. ‒ I said looking at the place.

‒ This is where you enter. ‒ Red Hood spoke arrogantly.

I sat on the edge of the building we were in and opened a floating screen in front of me. From that distance I could hack the place to gain access to the cameras and security system.

‒ Is this their security? ‒ I asked rhetorically while easily hacking the building.

‒ Can you turn off the security system? ‒ Red Hood asked.

‒ I can do much more than that. ‒ I said making a keyboard hologram appear floating in front of the floating screen.

‒ What can you turn off? ‒ Red Hood said watching me type on the floating keyboard.

‒ All. ‒ replied confidently.

On my floating screen a kind of button appeared.

‒ When you want. ‒ I told the Red Hood.

‒ Now. ‒ He said jumping towards the building.

I pressed the button and the entire building shut down, going completely dark. Jason appeared from the shadows and took down two guards. When I noticed a few more approaching, I launched my teleportation device and appeared between the two new guards. I used their surprise so I could take them down with ease.

‒ I admit... impressive. ‒ Hood spoke to me and ran into the building.

I led the way with the plant image in my view. Hood shot some guys and I kept doing my teleportation and invisibility tricks to take down and shoot guys without them understanding where I was coming from.

We continue advancing to the lowest floor in the basement of the building. Where illegal stuff was produced.

‒ There's a lot of drugs in here. ‒ I said looking at the boxes.

‒ And we will stop their production. ‒ Hood said putting a bomb in the biggest machine in the room.

‒ You know they're going to keep producing somewhere else, right? ‒ I asked approaching Hood.

‒ I know, but I'm going to burn the other places too. ‒ Hood set the bomb.

‒ Consistency. ‒ I said as the Hood started to run outside.

I threw my teleportation device which stuck to Red Hood's back. I put my hand on the machine, using my powers to analyze the complements and destroy what I could so that if I survived the explosion, it would be useless.

When the counter showed just two seconds, I disappeared from there and appeared beside Hood, just as the basement exploded and the building went up in flames.

‒ I was already wondering if you really existed. ‒ Hood said jokingly when he noticed that I appeared beside him.

‒ We can say that I am like a Phantom. ‒ I said laughing.

‒ Phantom. I liked. I will call you Phantom. You appear and reappear out of nowhere, moving in the shadows. Like a ghost. ‒ Hood said looking at me.

We hear sirens approaching. Hood grabbed my wrist and started leading me through the streets until I stopped in an alley. There was something under a dark sheet, when Hood took it off, there was a motorcycle ready to be used.

‒ Should we put robbery on that night or is it yours? ‒ I asked sarcastically.

Red Hood climbed onto the bike and started it. He climbed in with him and the Hood accelerated with the bike.

‒ Let's make this trip more fun. ‒ I said and took my hand to the bike.

The motorcycle glowed in a purple light and when the light disappeared, it started to increase speed to abnormal levels.

‒ How did you do it? ‒ Hood shouted because of the wind.

‒ A small improvement. But it's temporary.

Hood continued riding the bike until we left town and stopped at an abandoned gas station. We both got off the bike and entered the place.

‒ Thank you for your help. ‒ Red Hood said going to the balcony that of the place that was once a convenience store.

‒ It was fun. ‒ I said looking at the place with the lights off.

The Hood grabbed a suitcase from under the counter, full of cash. He picked up a huge cake and handed it to me.

‒ That it? ‒ I asked confused.

‒ Your payment for today's work. ‒ Red Hood replied without hesitation.

‒ You can stay. I do not want money. ‒ I answered simplistic.

‒ Don't you want money? Who doesn't want money? ‒ Hood asked confused.

‒ I. What would a 'Ghost' do with money? ‒ I said laughing.

‒ Why do you keep saying you're a nobody? ‒ Jason asked curiously, putting the money in the bag.

‒ I deleted any record about myself in the system. I have no birth certificate, ID or any valid identification. To the world, I don't exist. I'm a ghost. ‒ I explained seriously.

‒ So you want to work for me, Phantom? Since you have nothing else to do? ‒ Red Hood asked.

‒ Who says I have nothing to do? ‒ I asked pretending to be offended. ‒ But I want to work WITH you. Just for the fun and the challenge. You can keep the money.

Red Hood took off the helmet he was wearing and looked at me. I'm sure my face flushed when I looked at him without the helmet for the first time.

‒ Jason Todd. ‒ He said extending his hand.

‒ I'm nobody... but I was known as Y/N. ‒ I said shaking Jason's hand.

Now

‒ Where to, Ghost? Jason asked when he noticed I was silent.

‒ Right, sorry. ‒ I said turning my attention to the mission.

‒ Everything is fine? You never get distracted. ‒ Jason asked worriedly.

‒ Yes, go ahead.

And since that day, Jason and I have been working together. The name Ghost became known and attached to the Red Hood, but I didn't care. What mattered was that I had a motivation and someone who believed in my existence.

[yanderes-galore]

May I request a short or headcanons (romantic/platonic) for Sombra Overwatch where she completely isolates Darling from the internet/society/anyone who can help, in an "off the grid" sort of way before revealing herself when darling has nowhere to run? (maybe she frames darling for some crime idk)

Thank you for these btw, even if this one doesn't work out I love your writing in general!!

Oooo! We really need more Yandere Sombra. Anyways, I changed the plot to be post kidnapping if that's fine? I have a banner for her but decided I want to do a GIF for this post. Also left the context of this fic ambiguous, was just trying to get an idea I had across!

Hope you like it :)

Vanished

Yandere! Sombra Short

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Kidnapping, Isolation, Drugging mention, Forced companionship/relationship.

It wasn't that hard for Sombra to track down your files. After all, that's how she kept an eye on you. It's how she began to grow attached up to this point.

She had used every piece of information online to find you. However, now she has no use for it anymore. As a result the hacker backs everything up on a drive before starting her plan.

It took a long time but Sombra managed to track down every piece of information you had... and deleted it. It was like you never existed by the time the hacker was done. It's as though you vanished into thin air.

She grins while looking at one of her screens.

Yes... like you vanished. That way no one will try to look for you. How could they find someone if there's no information on them? How could they know if someone even existed without any sort of footprint?

Sombra has dreamed of this day ever since she saw you. She knew you had to be quite the interesting individual. With some bribes and hacking through trivial security systems, Sombra was able to learn everything about you.

Even better, when she was ready, she was able to put her stolen tech to good use.

This obsession of hers took time to plan. She had to find a secure building to hide away in. That's fine, she has friends who can hook her up. If not, she'll blackmail some poor fool.

Then Sombra managed to get her hands on some meds with her connections. After that she had already gathered the information she needed on your residence. It was just as simple as paying a visit.

Poor thing... you never knew what hit you. You were drugged by the invisible hacker before being dragged away. Afterwards you were hidden... like some secret experiment.

Deception and manipulation have been skills Sombra has picked up since she was young. It's made her able to get what she wants. Most of the time it's knowledge...

This time it's you.

After she got the main prize all she had to worry about was clean up. Which leads her to now, mass deleting files that she's already backed up. She's already capable of threatening and blackmailing anyone who knows about you.

With a few clicks and codes... soon the world has no clue about you.

Sombra sighs in relief once she finishes. It's perfect. You're in a secure location and no one knows where you went or if you even exist!

It didn't matter who you were. Rich or poor... famous or average... Sombra had managed to do it. With some lies about your fate and some clever tricks, Sombra managed to keep you to herself.

The hacker feels pleased with herself when she shuts things down. She then leaves the room to enter another more secure one. She can't hide the smug smile on her face.

"Hola, tesoro." Sombra purrs, strolling over to you and lifting your head with her fingers. "It's about time we properly meet."

She frowns at the fear in your eyes, it's expected but disappointing. There's a cloth gag in your mouth and you're sitting with a cuff on a bed. Soon you'll learn to roam without it.

Not like you can escape anyways.

"Welcome to your new home." Sombra continues, kissing your forehead.

"Only you and I know about it... and I plan to keep it that way."

[wildissylupus]

here was my theory on the timeline

In Eichenwalde, Reinhardt didn't listen. He kept rushing in. He lost an eye and everyone died. He left that battlefield believing it was because none of them were strong enough.

Adhabu Ngumi, seeing the Overwatch group lacked anyone big and strong, decided to join them once he took care of the Omnic Crisis in Africa.

Torbjörn died on that mission in Istanbul. Angela took this personally, and Brigitte grew up despising Overwatch for failing to save him

The Hashimoto clan hired Reinhardt to help kill the Shimada clan. They kept Hanzo and cast Genji adrift, putting him in a ship to Australia. They also trained Kiriko.

Satya was on a plane that crashed over Australia. She used what hardlight tech she had left and became a high ranking Junker, as did her new armored ninja friend.

Overwatch was unable to help in Canada, leaving Sojourn embittered and vengeful.

Adhabu found the young Akande Ogundimu, and trained the boy to be his successor, having saved him from his potential attacked Akinjide Adeyemi. Akande quickly became a powerful force of good for Overwatch.

Cassidy never ended up with Deadlock. Instead, in Mexico, Overwatch found a young Sombra, and took her in.

Angela and Tracer both joined Blackwatch, tired of the Overwatch's incompetence. Unfortunately, Gabriel was a harsh boss, no one ever being enough to help him, Tracer too weak and Angela too merciful.

Talon captured Ana instead of Amelie, gaining a deadly sniper. In turn, Amelie stepped up after Ana killed Gèrard and took her eye.

Zenyatta went with Ramattra that day. His face was damaged, leading him to use a new face with a singular eye.

Without a hacker to cover his tracks, Mauga quickly brought Baptiste back to Talon, where they brainwashed him into the elite assassin Scorpion.

When Overwatch fell, Angela made sure Gabriel didn't make it without issue, leaving him hospitalized in a coma. She and Tracer joined Talon, who had also employed Reinhardt, Brigitte, and Sojourn, as well as a reprogrammed and upgraded Bastion unit. Angela quickly took over Talon, showing no mercy, now leading the terrorist organization fueled by Vengeance.

Ok this, is amazaing, it makes sense and I'm honestly already invested in a story like this. It's a really good concept for a general Reverse or "What if" universe.

The shitty thing is the only character in that timeline that actually fits the concept of a mirror universe is Reinhardt. I'm gonna be honest and also say the Doomfist one is also highly likely cause sometimes in a mirror universe some minor characters do stay the same so the story makes sense.

I'm probably going to make my own timeline for this universe at some point but I'm going to wait for the game mode for this event to come out cause I know damn well that there is going to be interactions for that.

But for now I'll share what we can guess and what is confirmed about this universe.

Ana most likely shot out Amelie's eye in this universe, either it was an assassination attempt pre Amelie joining OW or it was after Amelie joined. However there is another explanation for Amelie's eye.

Amelie's eye could also be a stand in for Moira's experimentation in this universe, as Amelie's other eye is still yellow when they are originally a black/brown, and the scare on her chibi spray is more similar to either a slashing scar or a surgical scar.

Tracer killed Ramattra in this universe, meaning the Alive cinematic still happened. It also means that, most likely, Mondatta and Zenyatta run Null Sector.

Echo's Stealth/Camo skin seems to be her MW skin as new voice lines have been added. That and the addition of a Talon Athena implies that Mina Liao joined Talon.

That's all I can say for now cause I don't have the skins (yet) and no one posts anything apparently, but I'll post updates as soon as I can.

[queermentaldisaster]

"Shoulda Been Dead A Long Time Ago"

Chapter two is finally here! This chapter was a mess to figure out, but I just went with the way I did "The Hunt Is My Muse".

No chapter warnings!

The Reactor

“One minute!” the jumpmaster called, as Simon watched Soap and Gaz push the crate into position, his eyes hidden by the mask made out of his companion. His eyes were locked on Soap's biceps and the way they strained, the way the light glistened off the sweat.

“Tight!” Soap called out, and Simon snapped back to reality, focusing back on the task at hand. Don’t get distracted now Simon, Ghost gently reminded him. ‘Oh, yeah, like you weren’t staring either.’ Simon responded, and Ghost went silent.

“Crate’s all good to go,” Gaz said, patting the top of it.

“That’s our gear on the ground if we need it,” Simon reminded them, readjusting his hold on his gun, Ghost’s thin tendrils wrapping around it to keep it in place.

“We will.” Price muttered, as the jumpmaster hit the button to open the ramp. The alarm sounded and the ramp opened, as Price looked back at the others. “Pull altitude is 2000 AGL!” He called out.

“Cuttin’ it close!” Soap called back, grinning over at Simon, who grinned back under the mask as Gaz lightly punched Soap in the arm, grinning.

“That’s how we do.” Gaz said, and Simon straightened his back, pulling his shoulders back a little.

“Roger up at the rally point,” he said, and Gaz responded with a simple “check!” as Soap gave him a fist bump. The crate flew out, and they jumped out shortly after, each of them deploying their parachutes at the right moment.

“Watcher-1 to Bravo,” Laswell’s voice crackled over the radio. “ISR is overhead. Be advised, Konni has three helos on the ground. Locations marked with orange smoke.” Ghost snarled in Simon’s head. Monsters, every last one of them. Simon made a vague sound of agreement. ‘Terrorism is a nasty business. Just one of the worst aspects of humanity.’ He responded, before responding to Laswell verbally. “Extract points for the nuclear material.” He muttered.

Soap jumped in with a snort. “Aye Lt, tha’ much was obvious, ye daft numpty.” That caused Ghost to purr happily, and Simon’s heart swelled slightly, before Laswell cut back in, clearly annoyed.

“Affirmative,” she said, and Ghost snickered. “Those helos are your primary targets. Destroy them and we can keep this threat contained.” Simon let out a grunt of affirmation, as he spoke. “Roger. Moving to overwatch.”

As he landed, Ghost spoke up. Do we need to be stuck on overwatch? they asked, before its voice took on a whiny tone. I’m hungry, Simon. Simon sighed, turning off his side of comms. “Once we get the helos taken care of, then we’ll make sure to take a few of these bastards out.” He promised.

Alright, Ghost muttered, but I don’t have a good feeling about this place, Simon. Watch our back. Simon nodded. “Always.” Then he turned his side of comms back on, only to hear Price’s voice.

“-Ghost, you picking up radiation spikes?” Simon held up the little device, much to Ghost’s chagrin, and checked. “Negative. All the helos scan clear. Should be safe to use explosives on em.” His symbiotic companion scoffed. I could’ve told them that, he said, putting emphasis on ‘I’. Simon chuckled.

“Copy,” Price responded, before informing them that he’d found an armaments cache. Laswell responded, then Soap chimed in. “We’re at our primary set points.” 

“Konni in sight,” Gaz responded in a whisper. “Working to secure perimeter.”

“Work quietly until the captain kicks things off,” Simon ordered, getting down on the ground and setting up his sniper rifle.

“No promises, Lt.” Soap’s voice came over the radio, and Simon rolled his eyes. “That’s an order, sergeant.” He responded, and hints of Ghost slipped into his voice. “Be careful.”

“Aye, Lt, ye got it.” They could hear Soap’s cocky grin from here. “Ah’m nae gonna make a peep, ye have mah word.” Simon smiled fondly, letting out a slightly bitter laugh. “Well you’re already failing, sergeant.”

Soap’s voice took on a more sensual tone. “Aye, well…maybe ye could…shut me up?” Simon let out a soft sigh at that, but let Ghost creep back into his voice. “Maybe later, sergeant. For now, keep your head in the game before I make you lose it.”

Soap went dead silent after that, and they let satisfaction swirl in their stomach, knowing they'd likely flustered him.

Gaz cleared his throat, speaking up. “All stations, we're seeing Konni patrols on the outer perimeter. They're searching the area.” Simon’s eyes narrowed. Both him and Ghost had a bad feeling about this…

•✧-----------------------------------✧•

Soon enough, that feeling turned out to be proven right, as Price yelled out on the comms. “This is Six! Reactor’s sealed, I’m trapped inside!” Simon cursed, taking out a couple of Konni soldiers who’d surrounded him, rushing for the reactor as the others yelled at each other through the comms. Ghost quickly enveloped him, their only thought to get to the Captain. Ghost ripped off a couple heads, as they quickly made their way to the reactor.

“Konni wasn’t after nuclear material…” They vaguely heard Gaz say, and had just enough sense to respond in Simon’s voice. “Never were.”

Soap’s voice crackled over the comms, breaking them out of their panic. “Chems were stashed ‘ere.” Ghost retreated back into Simon’s clothes, as Simon began running up the stairs to the reactor, joining Gaz and Soap. They took out more Konni soldiers, and Simon watched as Soap slammed his gun into one of their heads, and threw them off. They got to the top just as Price spoke again.

“There's no cover up here! Gas is closing, Bravo, what's your status?”

“We’re up top!” Gaz said, dropping a rope down.

“Grab the fuckin rope!” Simon yelled. From there, it was a blur for both of them. They remembered a disfigured Konni soldier trying to pull Price back down, they remembered watching Price pass out and Gaz call Laswell for medevac. They were running on pure survival instinct, and nothing else.

They remembered the moment that Price started breathing again, they remembered the relief all of them felt. But most of all, Simon remembered seeing Soap looking guilty, as if he should’ve been the one in the reactor instead of Price. Simon remembered how Ghost had wanted to curl around Soap and shield him from the pain and guilt.

•✧-----------------------------------✧•

Simon watched as Price came to. Soap nodded, giving Price a smirk. “Mornin’, sir.” Gaz handed Price a headset, and Price nodded, putting it on.

“Take it easy, Cap. You beat the gas, but you still need some time to recover.”

“I’m fine.”

“Got a headache? Nausea?”

“Always.”

Gaz nodded, turning to Soap and Simon. “He’s good.”

Soap nodded, crossing his arms. “Was worried your face was gonna melt off like those other poor bastards.” Simon chuckled, looking at Soap. “If ya ask me, it’d be an improvement.”

Price chuckled, before his face turned serious. “Konni got away with the chemicals?”

Simon nodded. “Affirmative.”

Price let out a curse. “Makarov’s been out of prison for six hours, and he’s already ahead of us.” Simon looked to the side. Those assholes! They almost killed our captain! Ghost mentally yelled. “The fuck is in that gas?” Soap demanded, looking at Gaz. “Remnants of Barkov’s program.” He explained.

“Sarin?” Soap asked. Simon nodded again. “Highly concentrated…and far more lethal.”

Gaz let out an annoyed breath. “One pod contaminated the whole area.” He said, which caused Soap to curse. “They made off with enough to kill a whole country.”

Price spoke up. “Right now, it’s in Farah’s backyard. We have to warn her.” All three of them nodded, and went silent.

[ovwechoes]

'Home': Support Headcanons!

If you asked the support heroes where their idea of home would be, and what it would look/feel like, this is what I think they'd say. My asks are open and if you have any opinions or suggestions, I'm always open to them c:

Ana Amari / Ana: Life has been long for her, and she would do anything to feel like somewhere was home for her again. After living most of her adult life as a dead woman, Ana would tell you that home last was when Fareeha was a child, and she worked with Overwatch before it was banned. Ana still looks back on that time in her life and I'm sure she would do anything to be able to go back in time, and watch Pharah grow and learn all over again. Ana would love to be able to relive her relationships with Sam and Reinhardt, and experience everything she took for granted all over again. Waking up at HQ to Fareeha watching over her, holding a warm cup of coffee to help wake her up before another mission; that's what home looks and feels like for Ana. Things happened for a reason though, in her eyes, and she's learned to accept that home doesn't exist for her anymore, or at least right now.

Jean-Baptiste Augustin / Baptiste: Baptise has never felt at home anywhere, until he joined Overwatch during it's revival. Anywhere that could've been a place for him to feel comfortable and at ease in was riddled with Talon, war, death and the cries of his loved ones. It's something he's always struggled with even if it doesn't seem like it. He grew up in unstable environments and without the support he deserves, so Baptiste views Overwatch HQ and his newfound friends as his home. Even if that home is constantly changing countries and constantly moving around, he still values the stability of knowing he's around likeminded people who support him and value his skillset without manipulating him.

Brigitte Lindholm / Brigitte: Gothenburg, Sweden will always be her forever home. She'd happily tell you this if you ever asked, and more specifically, her family home. Brigitte grew up in a busy home, and it's something that she truly appreciates and she appreciates how lively Gothenburg can be. She thrives in places packed with people, and always has. Home for her looks and feels like waking up to the smell of her mother cooking her a freshy baked apple pie, with her younger siblings playing around her as though she were apart of the decorations. Being somewhere surrounded by family is something she's always appreciated, and she feels most at home when she's with Torbjorn especially. Hearing everyone talk on top of each other, conversations drowning within themselves, with so much to do and so little time, is something she thrives on. It makes Brigitte feel alive. All that's left is some love from her cat!

Illari Quispe Ruiz / Illari: She doesn't like to answer this question, or think about her 'home', but deep down it would be Runasapi, Peru (before it happened). She used to be desperate to go back and fix it all, prevent it from happening, and save her loved ones. It's something Illari prayed to whoever was listening for, for years. Until she taught herself to be numb; now, she avoids thinking about it and doesn't believe she's deserving of that comforting feeling of being somewhere you know you can be yourself, be safe and be greeted with love. Illari has a lot of guilt boiled deep down inside her, and thinking about 'home' does her no good.

Kiriko Kamori / Kiriko: Home for Kiriko is back at her apartment, surrounded by her neighbours, hosting a dinner night with them all enjoying themselves. She knows this is a pipe dream, but having Genji there too would sweeten the deal. Hanzo, on the other hand, is someone she's still yet to gain trust with again after everything the Shimada Clan/Gang has done to them. Kiriko describes home as the loving embrace of those who mean the most to her; it reminds her to keep fighting for a better world, for their protection, and to keep going in the face of danger

Niran Pruksamanee / Lifeweaver: Lifeweaver tends not to dwell on the idea of home, and what that might look like for him. It's not something he has to worry about, and he believes he has bigger things to concern himself with. But, if you were to pry it out of him, home would be at the academy with Satya; not because he misses working for Vishkar (especially with what they've done), but he misses the carefree nature of his life. Niran misses being able to walk somewhere without looking over his shoulder, paranoid that someone will hurt him for his technology. He would do anything to go back in time, and do things differently to ensure his future protection. Niran's idea of home is long gone, and he wants to move forward and create a new home for himself and others. Healing the world is the first step to getting there, and he still has a long way to go in his mind.

Lúcio Correia Dos Santos / Lucio: Lucio's got two ideas of what home would look like for him; he feels most comfortable and at ease when he's DJing at an underground gig, embracing the music through him and uniting everyone from different backgrounds together. It's something he'll never take for granted, and the impact he makes on others just from those gigs alone is enough for him to consider it his home. If you were to ask on a deeper level though, in an ideal world where he could have anything he wanted, do anything he wanted, and with anyone he wanted, Lucio would tell you that home would be with his father. He misses him greatly, and longs for those late nights coming home from school, watching and helping his dad cook some Pao de Queijo for dinner. The smell alone of Pao de Queijo brings him back, and makes him miss his father even more. One last hug from him would remind him of where his home truly is.

Angela Ziegler / Mercy: With Angela, she's used to travelling so much, with where she sleeps rarely feeling like home. It's not a familiar feeling she has, but she feels most at home when she's in her element and helping others in a hospital setting. Being a medic is hard enough, but being injured is harder in her eyes. Instead of having her own home, she aims to give others who might not have one themselves somewhere to feel safe, and to feel cared for by at least one other person. It's something near and dear to her heart, and it's what motivates her to keep working as a medic, and keep fighting the good fight for those who're hurt in the process. She thinks everyone deserves to feel 'home' somewhere, so why can't she give that to others instead of focusing on her own?

Moira O'Deorain / Moira: Moira's idea of home is in her genetics lab, working on something important and without any restrictions on her practices. Letting her mind run free with ideas, calculations, next steps, etc. is where she feels the best. She hates being limited and detests the laws in place that stop her from exploring genetics to their maximum capabilities. In Moira's ideal world, home would be working without limits, developing what she believes would be the next best step in human evolution. Otherwise, she doesn't really consider the idea of 'home' as a concept as a real thing. It's not something Moira want's to entertain herself with as it would only distract her on what she views most important.

Tekhartha Zenyatta / Zenyatta: The most 'Zen' thing he could say is that home isn't attainable until there's peace between humans and omnics, once and for all. He used to have a home; Shambali Monastery was where he used to call his home. But ever since Null Sector's and Talon's attacks, he realises it was far from it. He, as an omnic, would never be able to find home until he's free to live in the same ways as other humans, without the wars and violence that comes with gaining those rights. Zenyatta will always avoid the conversation, and when he can't he'll either avoid answering by asking you first and distracting you with more questions, or will give a long drawn answer that means nothing of substance but reassures you in a very strange way...

[moira-mains-go-to-hell]

Overwatch Women Relationship/ General Headcannons:

These are very specific, but I find them cute.

This is super long, because it’s All. Of. Them. I was going to break them up, but then I forgot, and rolled with it.

No warnings, all sfw.

Ashe

Is very much allergic to pollen.

With that being said she has the loudest damn sneeze

Cannot cook to save her life but makes really good concoctions of stoner type food. That and she is a dip girl. Every woman from the south knows one good dip they can make and it’s been imbued in us since birth. No one else at the party has the same dip either, wonderful how it works really

Widow

Has vintage luggage she uses for long term missions

Sleeps on her back with her arms folded like she is dead just to freak you out.

Hates pressure cookers

D.va

Is really good at Pilates (she took it up instead of physical therapy after her injuries in the cinematic)

Can fold gum wrapper swans

Disassembles her blaster when she is bored just to put it back together again (she times it and keeps the times in a golf notepad)

Junker Queen

Really good at electrical engineering but has only seen YouTube lectures about it on a shitty rebuilt mac

Listens to nickelback unironically

Prefers fruity drinks, but that’s the closest you will get her to eating a god damn fruit

Kiriko

Can and will sit you down to explain the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy

Is a Jojo’s fan. Thinks it’s under appreciated.

Cannot tell you the difference between jams, jellies and preserves.

Moira

Hates chain steakhouses (outback, Texas Roadhouse, ect) Loathes the atmosphere.

Has favorite poisonous plants

Is better than you at Mario kart

Mercy

Is not good at social cues to the point she will put on the complete wrong music for a situation (think Disco Inferno while she is trying to Rez a burn victim levels of bad taste)

“Does not like coffee” but if you make it she will drink from yours

Spins her blaster when she puts it back in its holster

Pharah

Likes shows like “How I Met Your Mother” and “Rules of Engagement”

Wakes you up in the middle of the night to go with her to the dingiest convenience store to acquire the best sandwich of your life

Hates coleslaw

Brigitte

Doesn’t count her reps, only times them with specific tools (a song, a show, a podcast)

Has helped her father defy the Geneva Conventions

Thinks The Grand Canyon is made up (Torb told her as a joke when she was little and has believed it since)

Zarya

Has been to the secret Russian lab where they keep stem cells of every known disease to exist. (It’s a real thing, I think don’t quote me-)

Brings back small rocks from places she goes

Doesn’t like birds

Mei

Snow ball has a built in dance party mode specifically for when she is sad.

Doesn’t like using Amazon

Knows all of “Yakko’s World” and sings it to herself

Tracer

Tries to tip well but doesn’t know the math so she leaves way more than is needed

Has tried to convince Winston to give her a laser beam inside of the accelerator

Wears Velcro for convenience

Ana

When she is able to settle down and stop being on the move, she catches up with reality shows and calls you to tell you about them

Puts little stickers on her little healing vials to make them look friendlier… not that anyone is gonna notice

Doesn’t like to eat breakfast. Just has tea in the morning.

Symettra

Has special pads on her visor because she doesn’t like the way it sits on her face

There is a disco mode in her turrets that she will never tell a soul about

She commits to bits to get you out of trouble without even knowing the full scope of the situation.

Sombra

Sweater thief, but in the worst possible times. If she forgets hers on a mission, she takes yours and dips

Likes those little strawberry grandma candies

As good of a hacker she is, she is absolutely terrible at 1v1 combat games. Mortal Kombat, Smash, Jump Force, you name it. She isn’t winning.

Sojourn

Phone is set to military hours. You never ask her for the time

Does not nap

Makes jokes about her legs. When you compliment her she knocks on the metal and goes “Quads of steel”. She thinks it’s the funniest bit in the world

*bonus* she may be rough around the edges but she is the loudest laugher at a comedy show