#still burned by overwatch man

[gruvu]

Ever so often I’m tempted to try Warcraft but then I go.. No. No. I shouldn’t.

[diejager]

Hiii I wanted to know if you could do a ghost x hybrid!bunny reader?

Where she’s unaware she’s going through her heat cycle (her first) an she’s giving off a dandrufflike sex pollen, so she goes around the base trying to find him. The recuites are following her like dogs an eventually when he finds her (cause she got lost) he realizes that’s what’s going on and helps her out with her problems ☺️

And honestly if you could do anything with ghost x hybrid!bunny reader I would love love looove it 💗💗

Thank you so much for writing! 💗🐰

Bunny

Pairing : Simon “Ghost” Riley x Bunny Hybrid! Reader

Cw: non-con drugging (unintentional really), sex pollen, heat cycles, bunny hybrid reader, Wc: 1.4k

Fun Fact! Bunny was originally and still is a British term of endearment for girls and young women.

For someone who’d joined Price’s TF for months now, you still couldn’t find your way through these winding halls and sharp corners that made the British base. It was like a maze to your twitching nose and droopy ears, always sending you down the wrong hallway or turning the wrong corner simply because they looked identical, and there wasn’t a plan for the whole base. You’d know, you had asked Price for one after getting lost trying to find the Mess Hall and having the fortune of stumbling into Gaz after wandering the halls of your temporary base.

You, once more, got lost on your way to the gym, the last place you had to search to find Ghost. You had searched the armoury, jumping between soldiers (mostly recruits who’d been sent to your base to train. Most sergeants and higher-ranked soldiers were given their small batch to overwatch.) while looking for your lieutenant, ignoring the dark stares the recruits sent your way. Their pupils dilated and face flushed when you walked past them, bumped shoulders and talked to them. 

While your search for Ghost in the armoury had been fruitless, the other - as equally flushed as the recruits when you spoke to them - sergeants and corporals about him, they advised you to look for the gym and training grounds, knowing the lieutenant would be there if he wasn’t in his room, his office or the armoury. With a grateful nod, you skipped down the corridor, having randomly chosen a path while completely lost. In your small, dazed mind, body heat skyrocketing, skin perspiring and cheeks flushed, you were oblivious to the longing stares people gave you when you walked past them and the number of recruits that had followed you.

They marched in synchronisation metres behind you, acting like a single-celled organism composed of many that followed its prey or another of their kind. Their hands were clammy, their skin heated to a burning red on their ears and cheeks, their hairline stuck to their skin, and their eyes were wide like lost puppies following a treat. 

You lost your way, having to stop and catch someone for directions. Coincidentally, a fellow operator was heading towards the training area, having to meet a teammate for their next briefing. She led you down a familiar hall (was it? Every wall looked the same to you, every spot and crack looked the same on every wall, it had your head spinning in every direction. You were still confused as to why others easily found their way around the whole base.) and pointed out some rooms for you to use as checkpoints when you travelled these halls alone. You thanked her profusely when you found the wide doors to the area you were trying to reach, grasping her hand and giving her a sweet smile, ears flopping at your optimistic movement.

When you reached for the door, you peeked your head through the door, squeezing out when you saw how crowded it was. Ghost preferred solitude and quietness, such a busy and filled room would be a nightmare for a reserved man. He dreaded interacting with people unless he had to (or unless you were part of his loving Task Force 141). Your scent streamed into a wide area, urging heads to turn your way, glazed eyes landing on your head, nose twitching and ears framing your face. They fleeted the room when you left, head tilted towards your scent, ripe and sweet.

You turned to look for the gym, remembering that it was on the other wall, the words gym displayed in bold letters on the door’s sign. You smiled giddily, practically jumping towards it, knowing it was the last place you had to look at. You found him the second you pushed past the door, his broad back standing out around smaller figures around the room even if he seemed to curl into himself on his place on the bench. You went straight his way, the soles of your boots thumping on the slick, shiny floor. It gave you away to the lieutenant who’d heard you walk towards him.

“Ghost,” you smiled, stopping beside his turned body, his sinfully slim hips twisting his skin-tight shirt that stuck to his abdomen like a second skin. “I was searching for you, L.T.”

He muddled silently at you, dark chocolate eyes wandering over your body, over your plush thighs, your round hips, your small stomach, your pressed breast, your naked collar and your face. He flickered to the men that filed in after you, a group of hungry, happy trigger recruits after someone way higher than them. He reeled in the need to growl, watching the way their eyes craved you, fucking you in their mind in every position possible. 

Then his eyes rolled back to you, seeing your flushed cheeks, dilated pupils and sweet grin. The scent that fell from your body was downright delirious, a sickeningly sweet musk that rolled off your body in waves of thin particles of your scent. The stare in your eyes was dazed, dream-like in the way that you gazed at him. It riled him, made him hungry and predatory. 

”You’re in heat, bunny,” he greeted back, voice coming out deeper and raspier than he intended, the low vibration in his chest appearing by itself from his restrained hunger.

He couldn’t fault the recruits that followed you like lost, hungry pups. You were delicious in the haze of your heat (the first one you’ve ever had, he thought. You’d spoken to him once about never having felt the full brunt of heat, they were supposedly painful and made the hybrid needy from what he’d learned. That scared you.), your scent enveloping you in a cocoon of arousing odour, pheromones that attracted males of your kind of human males to satiate your needs.

He couldn't, doesn't mean he wouldn’t because he would. He was faulting them for staring at you so shamelessly, eyes hungering for you. He wasn’t a perfect man, he was far from it, he was the worst kind to be deemed a perfect model. He was imposing, dominating, possessive and deadly, he was a ghost, the dead that came back alive, having no name or face to call his own. Just like the recruits, he wanted you, to take you for himself in the privacy of his dark room. He wanted to bite into those, soft, fluffy ears of yours, always drooping around your face, but never restraining you in combat (you fared surprisingly well, nearly as merciless as him, in combat, tearing down men twice your size with a knife if needed. You were ruthless to your enemy or those that aimed to hurt your little TF.). He wanted to make you cry, to grab your round tail and yank on it until you begged him to stop. He wanted to bite into the scarless skin of your neck, a perfect place for his mark. 

Bunnies liked marks, no? They loved affection and being taken care of, didn’t they? Although you were a hybrid - mostly human with some bunny genetics in your body - you still had some rabbit-like behaviours. He’d seen how you preferred veggies over meat, though you did eat meat on occasion to keep up with the growth of your muscles. He’d seen how you liked soft and smooth things, you had many blankets and personal items you were gifted or bought. He knew you liked jumping and scouting, a bunny's natural curiousity made it peek from beneath the tall grass at things that caught its attention. 

He, however, hasn’t seen how you act in the throes of painful heat, would you submit to a needy, aroused bunny that would ask anything of him; or would you jump him and demand attention, using him as you like. He stopped himself from wandering down that dark path, or at least for now until he got both you and him to his room for privacy. 

“C’mon bunny, let’s go,” he stood up, bag slung over his shoulder while his other hand rested on your lower back, the dip of your vertebrae and the start of your jerking tail. 

He glared at the cowering recruits as he moved between them, they has separated to form a path for you and Ghost. Black-painted skin, dark eyes and a skull-drawn balaclava made them flee, tails tucked between their legs. He held you closer to him, your hip flush to his as he led you to his quarters. That would teach them who you belonged to (perhaps you would show them who he belonged to).

[c-nstellati-ns]

Cole Cassidy stealing your cowboy hat and then he rides you until your balls are drained

fuckk yesss

you and cole were drinking buddies from back in the day, having gotten close during your shared time in blackwatch and the mess that was the downfall of overwatch itself. after everything went to shit, cole had decided it would be best to part ways till things blew over.

of course, you agreed all things considered. you would miss him, but It was for the best. you were only drinking buddies right? those secret shared kisses in the darkness of the bar, subtle touches underneath the table, brief looks to each other whenever reyes was saying dumb shit... only drinking buddies. right.

quite some time went by before you saw cole again. you were a lot older now, a lot wiser. you knew better than to fall back into those habits with the man again but... god, could you really resist? the moment his gaze locked onto you again, that same smile bringing you in once again. cole was older too now, but that charm never left- in fact, it came back better than ever.

who were you to deny the man of a shared drink, "for old time's sake?" he says. who were you to deny the shared bottle of whiskey, noticing how cole watched your lips carefully as you drank? and who were you to deny his sultry whispers against your ear as he fiddles with the buttons of your shirt?

cole cassidy was addicting in more ways than one. you would drink your liver dead if it meant seeing him like this again.

he steals your hat because, "if we're going to do this, we're doing this my way." you have no protests to his words, you drink up each and every bit of it all. he allows you to grab and grope at his body, stomach and thighs growing softer as he gets older. you let out a pleased hum when he pushes you down onto the bed like he owns you, grabbing at your erection with a satisfied sigh.

you can barely hold it all in when he lines himself up to your tip, his own cock throbbing and leaking over your stomach as he says, "god, you don't even know how long i've wanted this." his eyes screwing shut and head tilting back as he slams himself down with a guttural groan.

cole doesn't let you have the pleasure of being able to get your hands on him. instead, he ties them up with his bandana, forcing you to be still for him as he rides you like there's no tomorrow. the feeling of his weight dropping down on you repeatedly send sparks down your spine and makes you think you might never feel something as good as this ever again.

cole makes sure you know how much he's loving this- he's never been the quiet type after all.

he forces you to lay there and take him, repeatedly until his thighs burn deliciously and his hole drips with your spend to make sure you don't forget him when he leaves. he finishes himself off over your stomach and lets out a noise that is forever etched in your brain till the day you die.

he carefully unbinds your hands and lets out a soft sigh at the feeling of your touch all over him. cole made sure you didn't forget him but god, he would never forget you either. the soft touches, those loving words and your beautiful eyes that never failed to draw him in like all those other times. even now, despite being spread open in a mating press underneath you as you spoke such sweet phrases to him, he's never felt so comfortable and alive.

you made him weak. that's why he left in the first place, wasn't it? he couldn't afford to be weak.

that's why you weren't surprised to see his side of the bed empty with all his belongings gone. you'd see him in the future, at least you'd hope.

[genjispeace]

Hate Me Sweetly - Genji X Reader

In which Genji and the reader get trapped in a closet together. The two tend to bicker on missions, and tensions rise in a small space.

tags: long, like seriously buckle in for this one, AFAB reader (mostly gender neutral but Genji does say good girl once), enemies-ish to lovers, I never really hated you, unprotected sex, rough sex, vulgar language, low-key a slow burn (they kissed on page 8 on my writing program), filthy but also sweet and soft (they're in loooooove)

side note: there is a moment in this where a man is threatening the reader. nothing ends up happening, but it felt like I needed to say that.

a/n: whew...hope this one was worth the wait. I am still sick, so it may not be my greatest, but I think this is actually my personal favorite of all i've posted hehehe hope you all enjoy it as much as I do <3

You hold your breath as you walk past one of the guards. He nods at you and you return a shy smile, hiding the majority of your face in your fake maid’s outfit. Being the only person at Overwatch that wasn’t often in the public eye, you’re usually the only option when it comes to sneaking anywhere. Like now, you are sneaking into a small side base that Talon has, hoping that you can retrieve data off one of their servers without making a scene. That sneaking, though, is often accompanied by disagreements from your team members. You have hardly any fighting experience compared to them, which means you are essentially being sent into a pit of vipers. You’re a gifted medic and fairly decent at working computers, but that’s where your experience stops.

“This isn’t a good idea,” a voice crackles over your in-ear device. Genji. He wasn’t a fan of this plan from the start, nor is he ever a fan of you sneaking into places. You grit your teeth and ignore him. He seems to doubt your capabilities in all situations, which grates on your nerves, especially considering how many times you have nursed his wounds and how many times you have successfully snuck in and out of places. You’re a valuable member of the team, which is something seemingly everybody except Genji can agree on. 

“Ignore him. We’ve got your back,” Cassidy’s southern drawl echoes in your ear. You know they do. They hacked into the security cameras and can watch your move, and they are close enough to break in if things go south. You have full faith that you are safe in their hands, even if Genji doesn’t want you there. 

The two men start to bicker through your in-ear and you tune it out easily. You make your way through the long hallways, your heels clacking on the tile floors. You pull at the hem of your dress, which was made to be a bit too short for your liking. It barely goes down past your butt, leaving the majority of your thighs bare. 

“Stop adjusting. You seem nervous,” Reyes’s voice says in your ear. You heave out a sigh as you look up at the camera in the corner of the hallway. A quick glance around you reveals that you’re alone, so you bite out a whisper back into your in-ear.

“I feel naked.” You really do. Not only are your legs nearly bare, but the outfit cuts low across your chest, leaving the top of your breasts visible. It’s cliche, offensive even, but apparently that is how Talon likes their staff dressed. 

“Darlin’, you look great,” Cassidy’s voice echoes again, and you roll your eyes. The two of you have been close friends for a while, so it’s not unlike him to jump at the first chance to tease you. You hear an annoyed sigh in your ear, which you think is from Genji. 

“Shut up, Cassidy. Now isn’t the time for you to stroke-” Genji starts to snap, but Reyes quickly cuts him off. 

“Enough. The security room should be at the end of that hallway on your left.”

You follow the instructions, carefully walking down the hallway. Your footsteps echo in the empty space, and you hate the way you start to shiver. You’re not cold, but the thought of it being nervousness makes you feel weak. You wrap your hand around the handle and start to turn it, Reyes telling you how to access the server in your ear. But, as soon as you push the door open, his voice fades away. 

A guard sits in the security room, leaning back in one of the chairs. Your breath hitches in your chest. This room is supposed to be empty. It is supposed to be an easy-in easy-out job. The room, full of different screens and computers, is bright and jarring, but the only thing catching your attention is the rifle that the guard has sitting on the ground next to him. He is facing away from you, and hasn’t seemed to notice you yet. Maybe you could grab the rifle from him, but what would you do after that? If you shot him, it would be too loud. No, you need a different approach for this one. 

“Get out of there,” Genji says in your ear. Of course he would want you away from it. He thinks you can’t handle just one guard. Maybe he’s right, but you want to prove him wrong. Maybe it’s that desire to make him eat his words that has your feet moving forward, crossing the large room until you’re standing next to the guard in his chair. 

He finally notices you, and you can feel his eyes on you as you bend over and reach for the trash can under the desk. When you hear him let out a low whistle, your skin starts to crawl. Could you knock him out with this? Your grip tightens on the plastic bin. No, not strong enough. Distract him long enough to sneak your flashdrive near the main computer?

“If he touches them, I’ll-” Genji’s voice crackles through the in-ear, but static starts to shriek over it. You flinch at the noise, but pretend to push hair out of your face so you can turn it off. 

“You’re new,” the guard says in a purr. You stand up, holding the small trash can in between you two, like some sort of barrier. He still sits in his chair, but he’s leaning forward now, his eyes tracing your face with intent. Once you’re standing, his eyes trace even lower and his gaze makes your skin crawl. 

“Yeah. Just started,” you mumble. You point at a balled up piece of paper on the other side of the large desk. You can’t get to it without him moving, and you really need to sell this maid act. “Can I get past you?”

“Be my guest,” he says, but barely inches his chair backward. You frown at first, then realize what he’s doing. You’ll have to push past him, practically be in his lap, to grab it. You start to snap something out, but then realize, if you do that and lean back against the desk, you should be able to reach the computer well enough to put your drive near it. It has to be within a few centimeters for around five minutes to get all of the data. Can you even hold out for that long?

You have to. Straightening your back, you place the bin on the ground and step in between the guard and the desk, reaching for that damned piece of paper. You finally grab it, but before you can retreat, the guard scoots his chair forward and pins you against the desk. His dark eyes are level with your breasts, and he seems to be taking advantage of that. You fight back every instinct in your body telling you to hit him and run. Instead, you use your hand that’s not holding the paper to reach into your pocket and pull out the drive. You place it softly behind you, praying that it is close enough. 

“Such a pretty thing. We don’t get many like you around here,” the guard coos, looking up at you. His eyes are dripping with evil and it has you shuddering under his glare. 

“Sorry, I-uh-I’m not-” you whisper out, trying to free yourself from the trap he has you in. He backs up just enough to stand up, but it also gives you enough space to get away, until his hand wraps around your arm. You wince at the feeling of his clammy fingers squeezing against your skin, then he turns you around and pushes you against the back wall. 

“You don’t get to come in here like that and not intend to do anything,” he barks out. His other hand has found its way to your hip, slowly inching upwards. 

“I’m just trying to do my job,” you say, hating the way that your voice shakes. You force your eyes shut. You don’t want to see how he is looking at you anymore. His hand keeps inching upwards, nearly cupping your breasts.

“Oh, you can do a job for me. How about-” he starts, but his voice shifts into a scream. Your eyes snap open and your heart plummets in your chest at the sight. Blood spurts out of what used to be his hand, the thick red liquid painting your dress and your chest. You cringe at the feeling of it, warm and sliding down in between your breasts. You finally snap out of your daze and you look up, where Genji stands a few feet away, his blade now dripping with blood. He moves so fast that neither you nor the guard can react, and the guard’s throat is quickly slit. His body slumps to the ground in a puddle of his own blood. 

“So much for subtlety,” Genji whispers, sheathing his blade behind him.

“I had that handled,” you say, but the way that your voice shakes says otherwise. Genji’s eyes widen at your words, and you wish you could see under the black mask to see the rest of his face.

“Bullshit. You-” 

“Got the data, didn’t I? I would have made it out,” you cut him off. Your fear and shock slowly starts to evolve into frustration. You would have completed the mission without him.

“Fuck the data! Who knows what he would have done to you,” Genji snaps back, closing the distance between the two of you. His chest heaves as his voice rises. He comes close enough you can see the deep brown in his eyes, a color you find beautiful most of the time. Now, though, that brown is alight with frustration. The way he is looking at you would be enough to kill somebody, but you have never backed down from him. 

“I am completely capable of handling this!” You scream out. Genji doesn’t back up, but he doesn’t say anything. He reaches up to your face and pushes onto your in-ear, turning it back on.

“-on your way. You’ll be outnumbered. Find a way to hide until we can get in,” Reyes shouts over the device. 

“Fuck,” you whisper. At that, you hear footsteps thundering down the hallway. Genji wraps his hand around your arm and pulls you behind him, leading the both of you to a door you hadn’t even noticed before. He pulls it open and shoves you inside. It’s some sort of utility closet, with various brooms and other supplies scattered around. It’s small, barely enough to fit you, but Genji manages to squeeze in with you. He pulls the door shut and it clicks, leaving the two of you standing there, chest to chest, with nowhere to go. You can’t even try to back up. You can barely breathe with how cramped the closet is. A small light twinkles above your head, barely giving any light. 

“What is your pla-” you start, but Genji clamps his hand around your mouth. You squeak in surprise at his touch, which is more gentle than you would expect from him. He seems to have better hearing than you, perhaps an advancement from his cyborg body, because you hear the door to the security room open after that. You watch Genji’s face with wide eyes as he listens to the men on the other side of the closet door. If they open that door, they’ll kill both of you. Genji’s otherwise soft features are hardened with focus, but you can’t help but shake. You could be dead in a minute. 

The guards’ voices overlap and blend in your mind. You try to pick up on what they’re saying, but any hope of focusing on anything is long gone now. Is this seriously how you’re going to die? Locked in a closet because a mission went sideways? Your chest aches at the thought of it. It may be a cliche, but you have always wanted to grow old with somebody. Find your soulmate, if there is such a thing, and live life to the fullest with them. Now, that wish seems far away.

The guards argue about something, but their footsteps and voices eventually fade. The door to the security room slams shut, and you let out a deep sigh from your nose. Genji lowers his hand away from your mouth, but you stay silent. He doesn’t seem to want to say anything either, but his hand moves against the doorknob and twists it. The door doesn’t move. There is enough light above you to make out a slight frown taking place on Genji’s features as he pushes on the door again, but it still doesn’t give. In the bleak light, you can barely make out the features of the door. It seems to be some kind of industrial one. Not exactly the type that could be knocked down easily. 

“Fuck,” Genji whispers. “Reyes, we’re locked in.”

“Fucking hell, Genji,” Reyes’s voice is in your ear again. “We’re locked out. We’re trying to get in, but we need more reinforcements now that the guards are alert.”

“So what? We just stay in the closet?” You say. Your voice is still quiet, like you’re still scared somebody will hear you. You hear a sigh from the other end before your commander speaks again.

“Yes. Stay put. We’ll work our way in. For now, turn your in-ears off. We don’t know what kind of technology they have. They might be able to scan for it.” Reyes sounds exhausted. 

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, reaching up to turn the device off. Genji doesn’t respond to Reyes, but obeys the command and reaches up to turn his off. That leaves the two of you standing, your fronts flush with one another, locked in a dark closet in silence. At least you’re not dead.

You lean back, your head knocking against the wall. It could be worse. Definitely could be better, but it could still be worse. A soft sigh escapes your lips. Not being in imminent danger, you are finally able to properly take in your surroundings. The cramped closet smells like dust, but the smell of blood takes over. Your skin is sticky with it and it stains. Some of it has dried, but it still leaves red blotches along your skin. It’s a good thing you aren’t squeamish and work with blood, or you would be nauseous now. 

“You okay?” Genji says. You snap up to see him watching you intently, his dark eyes searching your face. Are you okay? Hardly, but you also don’t want to seem weak to him. 

“I’m fine,” you say, and cringe at how weak your voice sounds. 

“Liar,” Genji replies. “Talk to me.”

“Why?” You snort. Maybe it’s being locked up in here, or maybe it’s the emotion from everything that just happened, but everything seems to be piling up. You’re afraid you’re going to snap if you stay like this without letting it out, but you can’t let it out to Genji. Not when he already doesn’t seem to want you on the team. 

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong,” Genji says. His voice is soft and gentle, much like his gaze on you. 

“We almost died,” you whisper out. 

“That’s part of the job,” Genji says softly. Maybe he didn’t mean it in a bad way, but the way he already doesn’t seem to think you can handle it combined with those words is enough to snap the rubber band of your patience. 

“I get it, okay? You don’t think I’m good enough for this. You don’t want me on the team. You hate me,” you yell at him. Your outburst seems to take Genji by surprise, because his eyes widen and his brows furrow. You let out a soft breath, then speak again. “Just forget it.”

“Hate you?” Genji mutters. He lets out a soft snort and you roll your eyes. 

“Just forget it, okay? We could die here, and I’d really rather not have my last moments be spent arguing with you,” you snap out. His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t seem to back down. 

“You think I hate you?” Genji looks down at you, his gaze now sharpened and fully on you. You can’t ignore how your heart beats harder under his stare. God, you’ve always found your attraction to him so irritating. You press your hands back against the wall, steeling yourself. The wall feels clammy against your hands, but it’s the only stability you have, other than leaning in Genji’s body. 

“You obviously do.” Genji’s brows furrow at your words. His gaze drops, then his eyes widen. He snaps his gaze away, staring at one of the walls. It’s hard to see in the dim lighting, but you swear you saw a dusting of pink along his face. You frown at his sudden shyness.

“Your-uh-I think I must have nicked your dress with my blade,” Genji coughs out. You finally look down to see what has the ninja blushing, and a deep red takes over your face too. The top part of your dress is sliced open, showing your soft skin blotched with drying blood. You’re wearing a bra, but the swell of your breasts are still visible, still covered in blood. A sigh escapes your lips as you reach up to the fabric, trying to pull it together and cover yourself up somewhat, but it’s no use. Your chest is bare and covered in blood, and you’re locked in a closet flush with Genji’s front. 

“Stop acting like a schoolboy. You’ve seen boobs before, haven’t you?” You mutter out. It’s going to be more awkward if he continues to refuse to look at you. 

“Of course, I have, but that was by their choice. Not…this,” Genji gestures with what little space he has to move. It’s then that you realize just how close the two of you really are. Your boobs are pressing against his chest, just barely, but the contact is still there. Your cheeks turn even redder at that, and you force yourself not to think about how it makes your nipples harden.

“It’s fine. You can look at me like this,” you say. A small part of you wants him to. You want to see his reaction when he gets a good look at your state. It’s a naive part, though. Surely he wouldn’t feel anything, right?

“You sure? You may not believe it, but I am quite a gentleman,” Genji says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. 

“I’m sure. Or keep staring at the wall. I don’t care.” His head turns slowly, his eyes darkening as he looks at you again. You see a muscle in his jaw tick under the tight mask as his eyes drop lower, just briefly, then return to your face.

“You’re bloody,” Genji says, his rich brown eyes now locked with yours. Maybe he wasn’t interested, if one look is all he wants. You fight the urge to slap yourself. Now is not the time to think like this, especially about Genji, of all people.

“It’s not mine,” is all you can think to say.

“I know. My blades would never touch your skin. I’m angry I even got close,” he mutters, which makes you frown. That is the first time Genji has ever even hinted at being regretful to you. 

“You didn’t hurt me,” you say softly. There’s a sudden tenderness in his eyes, one that you have never seen before. 

“I could have.” 

Genji seems to cut off the conversation after that, not intending to talk about it anymore. The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, you with your head leaned back and Genji leaning against the side wall. You wince when something seems to poke you in the back, and lean forward to adjust how you’re standing. It’s an absentminded movement, but it pushes you further into Genji’s front. You didn’t know it at the time, but it created an unholy amount of friction against Genji. He groans out and rests his forehead against the wall. A groan you mistake for discomfort. 

“Sorry. I think there’s a splinter in the wall,” you explain yourself. You continue moving, not realizing just how much you are rubbing up against him. 

“Please refrain from moving like that,” he breathes out. His voice sounds shaky. You frown, but finally pull the splinter from the wall and flick it to the ground. Except, something else seems to be poking you now. It’s in a different spot, lower and in your front. 

“Genji, move your blade. It’s poking me,” you mumble. Genji sucks in a deep breath as you look down, your eyes widening. You can barely see anything, but it doesn’t seem to be one of his blades pressing against you. 

“That’s not a blade,” you whisper out, your cheeks heating up again. He’s…hard? His clothes cover it for the most part, so you can’t see it, but you can certainly feel it. You look back up at him to see his face the color of cherries. He pushes off the wall and looks down at you, his brown eyes blazing.

“I told you I don’t hate you,” he says. You stare back at him utterly dumbfounded. He’s…attracted to you? No, maybe it’s just the confines of the space. Nothing else. You start to reply when a loud bang sounds from seemingly far away. You jump, which only pushes you more into Genji’s front. There’s some sort of fight happening outside. 

“Fuck. We’re going to die here,” you scream out. You turn to face the door, but Genji cups your face and forces you to look at him. He moves too fast, he always does, and he pulls his mask down and presses a kiss to your lips. It’s soft, ghosting, at first, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. You don’t.

You push further into it, letting him know just how much you want it. You feel him smile against your mouth before his kiss becomes more aggressive, more hungry. His tongue runs along your bottom lip and you whine at it, which gives him entry into your mouth. To say he kisses you would be unfair. He devours you. It’s like he wants to lap up every taste he can, in case he never gets the chance to do it again. Heat starts to flood to your core and you grind against him, but when the door to the security room slams open and shakes against the wall, the two of you pull apart. You pant against him, and he silently adjusts his mask, then unsheathes his sword. Feet stomp outside the closet, and you swear you hear a gun cocking. This is it. You’re going to die here. You get one last look at Genji, his gorgeous brown eyes, his angular face, his dark hair, just to take it all in. Then you squeeze your eyes shut. A tear rolls down your cheek. Is it going to hurt to die?

“They’re in here!” A voice calls out. You snap your eyes open. You recognize that Southern drawl. Cassidy. You try to call out to them, but your voice catches in your throat. You can’t help the smile that takes place on your features, and Genji presses his face against your forehead. He’s kissing you through the mask. 

“Cover your eyes. I need to break this lock,” you hear Cassidy call from the other side. You reach up to do it, but feel Genji wrap himself around you and shift so his back is to the door. He’s shielding you from it. If something goes wrong on Cassidy’s end, it’ll hurt Genji and not you. You try to fight him, but he’s always been stronger. You feel Genji’s hands close around your ears, but the sound of Cassidy’s grenade is still loud enough to make you jump.

“Don’t turn around,” Genji whispers in your ear. Your back is to the door as he lets you go, but you do as he says. Perhaps because you’re too in shock from thinking you were dead to move. 

“Cassidy, give me your shawl,” Genji says. The two start to bicker, but you eventually feel the soft fabric laced with the smell of gunpowder and cigars wrap around your shoulders. It goes down low enough to cover your bare chest, and that’s when it makes sense why he didn’t want you to turn around. Cassidy, and anybody else in the room, would see your chest. Maybe he is a gentleman. 

You soon feel an emptiness behind you and turn around. The bright lights force you to squint as your eyes adjust to it. As soon as your eyes adjust, you notice Genji is nowhere to be found. Cassidy helps you walk, in case you need it, and Reyes leans against the desk with the drive in his hand. He gives you a curt nod, which is his way of saying “good job” without actually saying it. You feel a warmth in your chest at the silent praise from him, but it’s not enough to warm up the cold absence you feel now that Genji isn’t next to you. 

Angela insisted on doing a full check-up on you as soon as you got back. She swatted Cassidy and Reyes both away, kicking them out of the room so she could make sure you were okay. Cassidy scowled at her and said something about his shawl, but the doctor slammed the door in his face. As a medic, you work under Angela a lot, so you know how serious she takes her patient care. There was no use fighting her, even if you did assure her over and over again that you were fine. She eventually discharged you, but not before giving you a loose shirt to wear back. As you were walking out the door, she even pulled you into a tight hug. You smiled at her, your heart warming. She may be your mentor, but she’s a damn good friend too.

You make it back to your room okay and, as soon as your door is shut, you strip off the extra shirt, then the torn up maid’s dress. The blood seeped through your clothes and onto your stomach. It’s dried and cakey now, a stark contrast to your skin. You crank the shower up and jump under the spray, letting it wash away everything. You have to scrub harshly against your chest to get it off, but the warm water soothes you. You’re back at base. You’re safe.

You stay in the shower until your fingers prune, and eventually hop out and change into sweats and a T-shirt. You stop at the mirror in your bathroom, which still has a slight layer of steam. Your attention immediately flies to your lips, and thoughts of Genji flood your mind. Did he kiss you because he wants you? Or was it just because he thought he might die?

There’s no point in fretting about it now, though. It happened. You wouldn’t take it away, and you hope he wouldn’t either. You open your bathroom door and step out into your room, the soft hardwood chilling your bare feet. The same ninja that was just in your thoughts sits on the edge of your bed. He looks up when he hears the door. His hair is wet, a few strands sitting on his forehead, and a cloth mask is on his face. 

“You okay?” His voice breaks through the silence.

“I’m alive,” you say, walking across your room and sitting on the bed next to him. You’re not touching each other, but you could if you moved. You don’t dare, though.

“I’m sorry,” his head hangs.

“What exactly are you apologizing for?” You stare at him. Is he apologizing for kissing you? Your heart sinks. If he tells you that he thinks it was a mistake, your heart may shatter into pieces. 

“Everything. Mostly my blade touching you.” His head still hangs, like he is refusing to make eye contact. 

“Genji, you didn’t hurt me. It didn’t touch my skin. You-”

“I could have!” He shouts. The sudden outburst takes you by surprise, and he stands up quickly and starts to pace your room. “You think I hate you? That’s why I don’t want you on missions?”

“Yes,” you answer him honestly. He stops pacing in front of you, and you have to tilt your head back to look at him. 

“I don’t hate you. I don’t want you on missions because I don’t want you getting hurt. The thought of anything happening to you, of living in a world without you,” Genji starts, but his words fade and he shudders. 

“Why?” Your head spins at his words. He’s always been so harsh about keeping you off missions.

“Because I love you,” he whispers. You almost thought you imagined it, but heat runs along your cheeks. Your gaze drops, but Genji tucks his hand under your chin and forces you to look up at him. “That’s why I kissed you when we heard the fighting. I thought…if I was going to die there, I wanted to be able to kiss you at least once first. That’s why I’m here now.”

“Genji,” you whisper, but his thumb grazing along your bottom lip stops you. 

“I can walk out that door right now. We’ll pretend it was just heat of the moment, not that I couldn’t stomach the idea of dying without kissing you at least once, and we’ll move on. Or…you stop me.”

Genji still rubs his thumb along your lip softly, the touch tender and gentle. The air hangs thick between the two of you. He’s putting his heart on the line. No, he’s putting his heart in your hands. You release a soft breath, as you look up at him. His dark eyes are pleading, almost scared.

“Don’t go,” you breathe out. Your voice sounds like a plea, one that Genji is all too eager to fulfill. You start to rise to your feet, and he watches you carefully, closely, but you don’t miss the spark in his dark eyes. You reach up to his face, wrapping your fingers around the mask. He could stop you at any point now, it would take nothing for him to overpower you, but he doesn’t. You pull the mask off his ears and down, dropping it onto the floor. 

For the first time, you can see under his mask in actual lighting. Pink scars litter his face, dotting across the skin. You feel him take a deep breath as you look at him. Is he really nervous? 

“You’re…” you reach up and touch one of the scars along his cheek “beautiful.”

Genji smiles, a lopsided grin that takes up half of his face. Your stomach flips at that smile, and suddenly want to see it more often. 

“As are you,” he says back. You cup his face, but don’t move otherwise. 

“Can I kiss you?” You say. It sounds like a plea again. 

“Please do,” Genji replies, and it’s enough to have you wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to kiss you. Your lips lock and his scent fills your senses. Walnuts and fresh pine. His tongue darts along your bottom lip again, and you grant him entry easily. Your tongues intertwine and he takes over your entire existence. There’s nothing else. Just Genji. 

It’s softer and more tender than the previous kiss. Something past lust, something more. Your heart thumps in your chest and heat spreads to your core as his hands find their way to your hips. He pushes you down against the bed, the impact making a soft gasp come out. He falls with you, refusing to break the kiss. When you whimper into his mouth, though, he pulls away.

“Don’t make noises like that or you won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” he says. The low, gruff tone of his voice sends shivers along your skin and heat straight down to your core. He looks down at you with wild eyes, a deep hunger hiding under those deep brown orbs. 

“Maybe I want that,” you match his voice with a low one of your own. 

“I told you I love you, right?” He says, making you frown. Why is he asking that?

“Yes,” you reply.

“Good, because I’m going to fuck you like I hate you,” he groans out, then his lips are back on yours. It’s hard, aggressive, and starving. His fingers dig into your hips, where you know there will be bruises. His mouth leaves yours and moves to your neck, pressing harsh kisses along the skin. You whimper out when he bites you, which makes him growl against your skin. You feel his hands push under your shirt and you shudder at his touch on bare skin. His metal hand leaves a chill on your heated skin, but it only adds to the fire blazing inside you.

You don’t have a bra on, so when Genji’s hands ghost over your nipples you let out a soft gasp at the content. He continues sucking bruises into your neck and collarbone, but you feel him smile against your skin at your gasp. Your back arches from just his touch on your nipples, and you pray he gives you some sort of relief soon before you explode. He pulls away from your neck and pulls his hands out from under your shirt, and you whine at the loss of contact. In the time it takes you to blink, Genji rips your shirt off. Literally rips it, tossing the excess fabric away. He sits back on his heels and truly looks at you. Your skin is flush, your breasts moving with each breath you take, sweat beads along your skin. He licks his lips as he looks at you, and the motion is enough to make even more heat go straight to your core. 

“So fucking pretty,” Genji mutters, then his mouth is back on you. This time, though, he takes one of your nipples into his mouth. You gasp out his name as his tongue moves along it. His hand, the metal one, pinches the other nipple. He continues sucking and pinching, but uses his spare hand to push your sweats and underwear down. You help him out and lift your hips, pushing until the clothes are off your body. He moves so one of his legs is in between yours, his knee on the bed. He’s so close to where you need him, but so far away. You squeak when his hand digs into your hip and pulls you down, so you’re rubbing against his leg. Fuck. His pants graze your core, and it’s just barely enough friction to have you grinding down onto it. 

“You gonna ride my leg?” He smiles against your skin. You try to bite back a response, but he takes your nipple in between his teeth and silences you. You keep grinding onto his leg, letting the friction rub against your clit and give you a small amount of relief. But it’s not enough. 

“Genji, please…I need you,” you whimper. You know you sound desperate, but you don’t care. “Inside me.”

Genji’s grip on your hip tightens even more, blurring the line between pain and pleasure, and he growls lowly against your skin. He pulls away long enough to pull all of his clothes off, and it’s your turn to gawk. He’s all lean muscle in a lithe frame. The metal of his hand reaches up his arm, then there’s metal starting around the middle of one of his thighs. You try to gawk more, but he wraps his hand around your ankle and pulls, dragging you along the bed. You feel your breasts bounce with the motion and Genji’s eyes zero in on that too. 

“Do you have any condoms or…?” Genji snaps himself out of his daze, but you shake your head. You’ve had an implant for birth control for years now. 

“I want you, no barriers,” you say. “I want you to finish inside too, if you want.”

“Fuck…” Genji says, his eyes searching your body. “You can’t just say things like that.”

You start to say something back, but his hands on your thighs silences you. Expectation builds up inside you, and you finally feel his fingers rubbing at your core. He rubs slow, agonizing circles into your clit, but it’s enough to have your head rolling back. You’re already wet enough, and he pushes one finger into you slowly. You try to close your thighs, but a sharp smack against one of them freezes you. The fading pain melds pain and pleasure together, and it makes you clench around his finger. 

“You like that? Does my pretty thing like it rough?” He mewls, slowly stroking his finger in and out. 

“Yes,” you mumble in between ragged breaths. He adds another finger, but his pace stays slow.

“Good girl,” he coos, rubbing the spot he had smacked. He starts to pick up his pace, working you with just his fingers. Your orgasm builds up faster than you thought it would, his fingers bringing you to the edge. Your moans and whimpers fill the room, and your hands grip into your bed. Your skin starts to buzz, that familiar feeling building up in your core. Your legs shake, and Genji slaps your thigh again. He slaps the other one, curling his fingers inside of you at the same time, and it’s enough to make you fall apart. You cry out, your back arching off of the bed. Your heart beats in your ears and black dots your vision.

“Pretty when you cum, too,” Genji says, pulling his fingers out of you. He takes them up to his lips, dipping them into his mouth and tasting you off of them. You clench around nothing at the sight, begging for him to give you more. He smiles down at you, pushing your thighs further open so he can align himself at your entrance. 

“Look at me,” he says. Your daze from your last orgasm is slowly coming down, and you’re able to focus. You lock eyes with him and as soon as you do, he starts to push inside you. Your mouth falls open at the stretch, soft whimpers escaping as you take each inch. His brows furrow, but his brown eyes stay on you. He wants to see your face as you take it all. And take it all you do. He’s not small by any means, and the stretch gives you a delectable sting. 

“Fucking hell,” Genji says. He doesn’t move for a bit, letting both of you adjust. “How did I know your pussy would be fucking perfect?”

“How did I know your cock would be perfect?” You say back, which makes a smirk grow on his features. It’s true, he stretches you perfectly, melding pain and pleasure in the most delicate way. He starts to move slowly, and even then, each thrust has soft moans escaping your mouth. He starts to move faster, reaching up to intertwine your fingers together as he does. His other hand, though, does something less tender, as it wraps around your throat. It’s not a tight hold, just enough to keep control, as he thrusts. You clench around him with each thrust, matching his pace with your own. 

“Genji,” you whimper his name out, like a sacred prayer. “Genji.”

“You gonna come around my cock for me like a good girl?” Genji says. You whimper at the sound of such vulgar language coming from his mouth. That, and the praise, of course. You nod, not trusting yourself to form anymore words. His hand leaves your throat and snakes down your body, his fingers reaching your clit. You scream out at the sensation of both, any little resolve you had quickly fizzling away. You toss your head back and scream out his name, your nails digging into the hand he’s still holding in, as your orgasm rocks through you. If you thought the first one was strong, it was nothing compared to this one. Your legs shake, electricity building through your entire body like a crackling live wire. Genji helps you through your release, never easing up on you. You hold tighter onto his hand as he continues to overstimulate you, his fingers still on your clit and his thrusts still quick. You pant out breaths as it comes down, but you can feel yourself continuing to clench around him. He lets out a soft curse, then groans your name. His thrusts come to a messy stop as he reaches his orgasm, his hand in yours tightens as he finishes inside you, the sensation making your legs shake. His head drops into the crook of your neck, the two of you panting against each other. His warm breath tickles your skin as he catches his breath. His soft and fluffy hair tickles your neck in a way that feels incredibly intimate.

“I love you too,” you say. It’s quiet, and you’re not certain he even heard it, but you feel him press a soft kiss to your neck. He pulls back and smiles down at you, that lopsided toothy grin filling your chest with warmth. His skin is sweaty, but it makes him even sexier. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, pulling out and helping you up. You try to walk on your own, but your legs are so weak that you almost drop. He catches you and helps you to the bathroom, where he grabs a washcloth and warms it in the sink. His touch is gentle and tender as he cleans you, a stark contrast to his roughness from earlier. Eventually, he finishes and helps you back to your bed. He lets you on first, then crawls on the bed and presses against you. You roll so you can lay your head on his chest. 

“Genji?” You say softly.

“Hm?”  “I like knowing that you don’t hate me,” you say, but sleepiness seems to take over your voice. Genji laughs, and your heart lurches. You’ve never heard a genuine laugh from him, and it’s a beautiful sound. One you want to earn more often. You start to doze off, listening to his heart beating in his chest and feeling him run his hand up and down your spine. You really like knowing that he doesn’t hate you.

[chosos-husband]

Would an angsty jealous fem reader x lifeweaver fic be doable? Where shes jealous bc lifeweaver likes to flirt around with the others and it ends in her wanting to quit working with overwatch bc she gets hurt watching him with others? Happy ending please! One where they get together hwheh thank you!

Ugh Lifeweaver my BELOVED. Literally love this man so much. Thank you so much for requesting qwq!! Also sry this took forever! I am in college, and it has been screwing me over lately lmfao. Hope you enjoy it :3

I also forgot that I will be writing the reader with neutral identity unless otherwise stated. Thanks!

Niran, in general, was a flirtatious person. He always made cute comments towards the people that he was closer to. Even to those he had just met, he would give the sweetest remarks about something he saw in them.

He had a talent of seeing the best in those around him. Everything living had beauty and value to him. Niran had a calling to protect this inherit beauty.

Of course, this did not end with you. Every message from him was signed off with something just to make you smile. It was impossible to not love him, even if it was just a little. It was hard to not love someone who made you blush every day.

As time passed on, you did learn to love him, a lot actually. You made excuses to visit his office and made reasons for you two to work together, even if there was no logical explanation for that decision.

You learned to admire Niran in the same way he did you. You appreciated him as a being. Physically, he was stunning. Anyone could agree with that. However, you feel in love with him entirely, a large component of that being in his words and actions.

It was easy to feel special with him. It was as natural as breathing to love him.

It's why it burned so much to see him talk that same way to others. For awhile, it was just you. He would only really speak to you in this way. But, quite suddenly, he started talking like that to others.

You analyzed what those peers had that you didn't. You didn't know what Niran's type was, as it kinda seemed like everyone was.

He would compliment their outfits and style. You couldn't help but wonder if that's what he would have preferred out of you. It was simplistic to fall into the trap of what he would have preferred. What would make him adore you as much as you did him.

As more time passed, you grew angry with him. It was cruel. That he would give the impression that you were special to him. Just for him to run around and talk to other people the same way. It just wasn’t fair for him to do this to you.

You couldn’t look at him without him being angry. You couldn’t stand for him to compliment you anymore. You knew how he would be talking that way with just anyone else. It didn't mean anything. It wasn't special to him.

You started just ignoring what he said to you. You would roll your eyes or not respond. Niran tried asking if he was doing something to upset you. But you never answered him, you would simply walk away.

It got to the point where you just didn't want to see his face anymore. Even if he only spoke to you again, it didn't matter. You didn't want to see him anymore. As, all it did was hurt.

You grew with frustration when Overwatch didn't accept your request to transfer departments. They stated that your work with Niran was important and that you two already agreed to work on that assignment together.

Niran looked by as you were putting things into a box. Everyone else had already left the building. You didn't want to make leaving a big scene. You didn't want anyone to question you or try to talk you out of it. It didn't even come to mind how Niran tended to stay later than everyone else did.

"y/n, what are you doing?" He frowned. He knew that you were angry with him. However, Niran still loved you and he didn't want to see you leave.

"Why do you care?" You snapped back. You continued to pack things into boxes.

"I care about you. We've worked together for a long time now. Why do you think I wouldn't?" Niran stepped close to you, which just made you more irritated.

"Don't even try to pull that with me anymore. If you care about me, you wouldn't talk to me like that. You wouldn't flirt with me and then act like I'm nothing the second I step away and there is someone else to talk to. I'm not special to you." You rambled. If you were thinking rationally, you would have seen the hurt in his eyes. That, he hated the idea that he was hurting you this much and didn't even know it.

"That's just the way I speak, it isn't personal, y/n." Niran tried to explain, but you weren't really listening.

"It doesn't matter. I'm leaving Overwatch anyway. You can tell them that when I don't come in tomorrow."

"You can't leave! Our work is together. I work with you and that's the only way it will continue to grow. I can't continue this project alone. "

"Why should I care now?"

"Why are you angry?" Niran was starting to get frustrated with you. Though, he was very good about keeping his anger in check. He just didn't understand how he was supposed to know you were upset without you talking to him.

"Because I loved you and it felt like you loved me back. But I don't mean shit to you. Do I, Niran? Aren't I just some other person in this lab to you?

Niran's eye widened a little bit. The confession was sudden, but provoked. His normal confident, charming demeanor fluttered. He was blushing.

Your confusion grew as you could see him looking for any implication of sarcasm.

"Are you serious?" Niran smiled a little bit. His tone was soft and no longer defensive.

"Why lie now? I'm leaving anyway." You shrugged. There was a level of embarrassment to it. That you are confessing to someone just before running away.

"I do love you. I have for quite a long time really."

Your entire expression softened. Now, you were trying to figure out if he was being sarcastic.

"You don't act like it. I don't really believe you, Niran."

"I have. I wasn't sure how to talk to you. I tried. But I wasn't sure you were interested at all. I only started talking to others to get over it. But I can't say that I ever did. I never stopped thinking about you in that way. I just didn't want to say it and ruin our friendship." He paused. "But I guess I did that anyway, didn't I?"

You stood there, looking into the box that you had on your chair. Maybe this was all just a silly misunderstanding. Perhaps you were just being jealous and refusing to talk to him about it.

"Are you willing to give me another chance?" Niran asked, making you look up. You hesitated for answer for a moment.

"I think I will."

~~

A few months later, you two are cuddling in his room. He definitely appreciated showing his affection through actions. You were laying on top of him, your head resting against his chest. Initially, you were counting his heartbeats, but he kept talking to you and making you forget which number you were on.

"Thank you for giving me another chance y/n." Niran put his fingers through your hair.

"I wouldn't if you weren't so pretty." You were just teasing and it made him smile.

"Then, I'm glad that I am. I don't want to imagine a life where I'm not with you." Those stupid words again. You could feel your face getting a little hot.

"Hush now, I'm going to bed."

Niran was awake a little longer than you. He couldn't stop thinking about this. He was scared that he almost lost you. That him not being able to say it made your relationship almost never happen.

But, he had you now and you had his complete, unforgiving attention.

[yanderes-galore]

Could I request from your prompt list:

4.) "My heart belongs to you, I'll adore anything you do to it."

And/or

12.) "You were never meant to see that! Oh, what have I done...."

With Overwatch's Cole Cassidy. Preferably with a darling they've been living with in a surprisingly normal life with up until this point? He's managed to hide his yandere tendencies and live a totally normal life with them up until now?

Thank you,

~♠️

I can try, sure! Here's you catching Cole Cassidy red handed in some dark acts :) Wasn't entirely sure about plot so I hope this works-

Yandere! Cole Cassidy Prompts 4 + 12

"My heart belongs to you, I'll adore anything you do to it."

"You were never meant to see that! Oh, what have I done...."

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Violence, Manipulation, Jealousy, Murder mentioned, Coercion, General yandere themes, Secret picture taking, Possible OOC Cole, Consensual relationship turned forced.

Cole had been doing his best to hide his... behavior ever since he scored you as his. You were his little darling partner and he was determined to keep things that way. He told himself he'd behave once he got you as his.

Well... He lied to himself... and you.

Cole still seemed to keep his stalking habit. He still seemed to seethe with jealousy when some guy came up to you. With you being his... he thought he could stop.

Yet no matter how much he distracted himself with your sweet touch and smell, he still felt dangerous. When you weren't looking, he still beat up those too close to you. He still used his gun to get rid of the more troublesome issues and he did it all while lying to you.

Perhaps he could stop himself, maybe he really is just another monster. Yet he managed to tell himself that he could hide it and that everything would be okay. He convinced himself he can continue with this because you loved him now.

You haven't found out anything yet...

Until now.

"Shoot... Honey, please listen to me!" Cole panics when he sees your distraught face. In your hands are a select few items he was hoping to keep hidden. Photos of you... newspapers on crimes he's committed... the belongings of those who got in his way... trophies..

"What the hell is all of this!?" You yell, fear in your voice as you stare down at the mess of incriminating evidence. Cole watches as you drop the items on the floor before trying to approach. He couldn't keep it hidden forever, could he?

"You were never meant to see that! Oh, what have I done...."Cole mutters to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. You poor thing... you looked all scared of him and it was all his fault. He could've improved....

He really should've burned those items while he still could.

"You are not the man I've met and fell in love with!" You cry, tears streaming down your face as you back away. Cole notices you back off and steps closer. There's no way he's losing you now.

"Oh baby... Of course I'm the man you fell in love with!" Cole comforts, stepping closer like approaching a scared animal. "My heart belongs to you, I'll adore anything you do to it."

"Get away from me!" You growl, Cole's gaze darkening in response.

"Afraid I can't do that, Darlin'." Cole sighs before cornering you against a wall. You squeal a bit as he pulls you against his chest.

"You have no idea how hard I had to work to get you..." Cole whispers in your ear. "However, now you're mine. You'll ALWAYS be mine... I just wish you didn't have to learn the truth."

Cole chuckles when he sees you struggle. It's a shame, really. You two could've been perfect together. Now he has to work even harder to keep you to himself.

"Now... you and I are going to pretend this never happened, alright?" Cole continues, gaze never leaving yours as he stares you down. "I'll burn those items you dropped and we can be happy, okay?"

You want to refuse... yet you force yourself to nod when Cole frowns in anger.

"Good..." Cole praises, kissing your forehead softly.

"I knew you'd come around for me, Darlin'."

[lockem]

Overwatch Headcanons !

that no one asked for !!!

Genji Shimada !!

This boy really has some issues

He doesn't open up much, due to his past

He used to idolize Hanzo so much when he was younger.

Probably shoves food down his throat and doesn't care if it's still burning hot

Always manages to either be really early to stuff, or really late..

Couldn't believe people actually found him "attractive" (this built his ego)

Chokes on ramen.

Cole Cassidy !!

It's High Noon.

This man learned how to tell the time with just his hands

Probably also likes stargazing

I like to think when he was younger he found out about cowboys and how "awesome and cool and very very attractive" they are, and then began becoming one.

Always missed his shots, though Ana helped him with that.

(probably says "Its High Noon" in his sleep)

Tried asking for a horse/pony once

[jailbird-junkrat-writes]

I am a smidge rusty from not writing for a hot sec and also this is my first Overwatch fic in -years-

Canon: Kinda?

SFW Ramattra x GN Reader Words: 870

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You’d been wondering for longer than you cared to think about. The days had twisted together as each footstep became painful. Your shoes worn away from the unforgiving and ever changing weather. Your feet ached and burned with each step as threadbare sneakers were no match for the rocks underfoot. Each step was slippery and treacherous as you tried to battle with gripless feet over smooth pebbles, which you had wrongly thought would hurt less than trying to climb the jagged rocks.

Least they didn’t cut your hands when you fell and calught yourself.

You let out a broken sob for the first time since you left home. So stubborn and determined not to let the pain seep out of you, fear of once you started you could never stop. But right then, as the thunder rippled in the distance and the cold rain began to fall on your defeated form, you allowed yourself to cry along with the heavens above.

Maybe here and now was where you should just give up. It wasn’t like you had a place to return anyway and you had no idea where you even were. You let out a sigh as the clothes started to stick to your skin as the rain came crashing down. The lighting that struck across the darkness of the sky go you back on your feet enough to sramble up the slippy slope towards the mouth of a shallow cave.

At least it was dry in here.

You took a breath and leaned against the wall, just watching the lighting flash and feel the rumble of thunder in your chest. Still feeling pitiful for yourself. You almost didn’t hear the sound or rocks being desturbed outside the mouth of the cave untill what little light the sky offered you was blocked by a large shape, red lights glowed in the darkness and you jumped when lightining cracked again, enough to light up the the cave and saw the omnic.

“

“Appolgies,” he said, voice well spoken and a pleasent sound. “There’s room for two,” you mumbled and backed further inside as he hunched down, making a mess of the rocks and stones with his large feet as he got comfortable, though he was hunched over. You took a moment to take the omnic in. He was dressed in robes, he must have been from the monastry you’d heard about.

“I guess you guys aren’t waterproof?” You tried to joke, watching your new friends faceplate  turn, taking you in with a low hum. “I could say the same for you, and yet, you cower in here.” Ramattra replied, head tilting to one side, waiting for your comeback.

You just laughed and shurgged. “I guess so,” 

The silence started to drag and you no longer felt it appropriate to sob and lement your awful existance now you had comapny. “I haven’t seen a ravager unit in years,”

“And I do not scare you?” he asked, a question in his tone as you shifted. “Why would it? Humans have done more harm to me then any of your kind has. The reason I’m here is to get away from other humans,” you offered up all this information so freely that Ramattra believed the words.

You introduced yourself to the omnic in the monks robes, offering him a hand which he hesitated to take at first. He however, did shake your hand and you shivered, the cold metal that had been outside touching your warm flesh. “Ramattra,” he said firmly. 

“What brings you here?” you asked as the strom grew worse outside the crave, the wind picking up, becoming violent as it whiped through the valley and it’s slopes, hitting against the rocks that sat pocaraslly.

“Same as you, shelter.” he really was a man of few words wasn’t he? Maybe he didn’e like humans… After what your kind had done you wouldn’t have been surprised, you weren’t crazy about people either.

You were about to switch gears, try and ask something else. You knew you were simply desperate for company after so much solitude, and you thought his voice was wounderful. There was a loud thud outside, one of the large rock piles that formed peeks coming losing, gaining momentum. You gasped when the cave started to shake and the ceiling rattled, coming loose.

“Get down,” Ramattra demanded and you did as you were told, his hulking form crouching over you. Two large arms appeared out of nowhere, Ramattra seemed twice as big as before, making him terrifrying in an instant. But with his new form he hunched over you, arms around your form as the cave crumbled around you both.

Was this how you’d die?

The darkness dissipated as the ominic stood up, flexing his second pair of arms,knocking off the earth that had trapped you both. You watched as his body moved, impressive, was all you could think before he tucked them in and looked down at you. “I trust you are in an acceptable condition to stand?”

“Yea-yes, thanks.” You mumbled and took the hand offered you, pulling up from the floor you almost fell at how unblanced you’d been.

“It seems you are too weak to be alone, perhaps you should come with me.” Ramattra looked at you as you considered his offer… 

“Alright,”

[lullaebies]

Hey hope you're doing well<3

Could you please write Jaehaerys' funeral ( i know i'm horrible 🥲) where his body will be burned like Targaryen rituals? Everyone is waiting for Helaena to say dracarys but she stands still so Aegon steps up and says it

I first have to tell you that this is insane brain twinning because because I have written this exact scenario in a reddit comment before, I gasped when I saw your ask!! wish I had a screenshot omg. Also writing this made me super emotional - I hope this heavy dosage of angst will hit well! —

The boy is laid in an unlit pyre, pale body surrounded by blue flowers that are more alive than him.

Forget-me-nots, are what those gentle blue blossoms are called. Helaena is as pale as the corpse she has been overwatching, the crowd surrounding the area just an illusion to a soul already departed, but in her state she still managed to yell her son deserved to have his favorite flowers around him.

Aegon didn’t know those were his son’s favorite flowers. They are unremarkable in color, dainty in shape; perhaps if he had known before, he would’ve been able to appreciate them some, but seeing them now, this way, makes him want to order every single one in the Seven Kingdoms to be plucked out of the ground.  

He dares not voice that order aloud. The ratcatchers dying didn’t clear out the shame, and tearing at flowers will not do so either. The weight of the boy would have been so light to carry in his arms, but now it is heavier than he could ever lift. The guilt made certain of it. And yet his own wife feels it a tenfold, he knows.

Helaena is by his side, but only Dreamfyre croaks and cries beside him; only Sunfyre answers to her. Mother is holding onto Maelor, conveniently far enough apart from them, enough so her daughter wouldn’t break into tears. Jaehaera found herself in the hands of a grandsire, face deep in his shirt, unable to look towards the pyre. He almost wishes he had any option to do the same, to try and forget — but no, there is no place for it, not anymore.

They have a septon read some blessings, before the boy is to be cremated. It’s a farce of a thing, to have anyone believe that the Seven who are One would bless his son in any way when the Crone already led his murderers to him, when the Mother did nothing when his head was sliced off. He almost wishes the septon was the one to be burned instead. But a sacrifice of a raggedy old man won’t bring a lively boy back.

When the man of the Faith finishes, Targaryen blood is due to say the final word, only they able to make the dragons lay one’s soul to rest. Helaena has switched out of that darned, bloody dress to say it; she bathed and combed her hair and wore her crown for this alone. He keeps himself quiet as he waits for her to say it. Aemond and Daeron are glaring daggers at anyone who dare show even the slightest impatience. Dreamfyre approaches, craning her neck above them. He thinks Helaena has steeled herself finally, and he sees her mouth move open, but it opens to no sound, and when it does give one, it is only a sob. Her shoulders turn as if to cave into themselves and he has to hold her arm to keep her still. She’ll drown them all with her tears before she burns the last remnant of their son.

She has been made to make that call once, already. To say what a mother should never say, and now she must say goodbye to a boy who should’ve been the one to see her off, many many years from now. She opens her mouth, but she cannot speak; Aegon doesn’t know if she’ll ever trust her own words again.

She looks to him when he touches her, the puffy bloodshot eyes being daggers of their own. Daggers, swords, scorpion bolts and all — and all they do is ask for mercy. I can’t, they say.

His eyes are pooling with tears as well, and Aegon swallows his emotions one by one. I can’t, either, he wants to say, it is my fault, his mind supplies. But then the silence around them is unbearable, and the crick in his neck reminds him of the crown they lost the boy for. Sunfyre approaches closer, without him saying a word, and he knows his choice is gone. This I must do.

His lip trembles in contempt. For who? The whole world perhaps, he thinks for a moment. This whole world that still breathes when he never had any air to begin with. May be only for myself. 

Aegon looks at the boy, one last time. To remember the face that has been sown back to the body, the cheeks that he has only ever pinched for moments brief, the brows that have once rose so high when he asked his questions, the lips that made his pouts just like his, full but sullen. But he at least knew how to make them into a bright smile, too.

“Dracarys.”

The golden rays made of fire envelop the pyre whole; Helaena’s face comes to hide against his arm, but Aegon is unable to look away. The blue flowers are scorched into ash, mixing with his remains. Forget-me-nots.

He won’t forget. Aegon knows his son will haunt him until he meets him once more, and he hopes he does. He hopes he chases after him the same way he used to chase him down the halls of the Keep, unrelenting and determined to remind him what he is supposed to be.

I’ll listen, this time. The father you’ll meet next would be one that avenged you, Jaehaerys.

[marksbear]

Hi! Can i request yandere soldier 76 and gabriel reyes with a big himbo reader who really nice to everyone and always do anything to help his friends?

Hey I hope u are doing good! And of course you can have this I love himbo readers! Hope you enjoy!

YANDERE SOLDIER 76 & YANDERE REAPER X HIMBO READER

When H/n first joined overwatch everyone loved him.

He was a fan favorite. He was strong, very tall, extremely attractive and a sweet personalty.

Even though he was (class name) he will always sacrifice himself for others and mostly tries to make sure everyone is okay without even caring about the mission.

Most members of the team were a bit imitated by the big man. But that feeling was quickly gone when Tracer saw him pick flowers for the sick Mercy.

Reyes didn't make an effort to talk to the male only watching and studying him from afar.

Morrison was the man who recruited Y/n. So him and Y/n had a close bond that angered Reyes. Reaper hated the way Soldier would look at you, the way he touched you hell even the way he talked to you.

Both of the men grew possessive of Y/n. The two would often argue about you and the arguments would last hours until Ana had enough of hearing them bicker.

Soon enough the men finally made an "Agreement." Basically that Y/n was theirs, but he just doesn't know it yet.

The two would always talk to Y/n at the same time. The three would talk about all sorts of things. Reaper wouldn't talk much he was more of a listener but would still let his presence known. Soldier would talk back and forth adding his own topics and comments. While Y/n would talk the most rambling about anything that crossed his mind.

One day the trio's daily conversations were interrupted by D.v.a.

"Heyy~ Y/n buddy! Can you go to the game store I was talking about last week and buy me this game?" D.v.a asks with a sweet smile with puppy eyes.

"Of course! But don't worry i'll pay for it. Just send me the picture of the game." Y/n gets up not seeing Gabriel's pissed off face. "Bye guys! I'll see you later." Y/n says before leaving.

Gabriel and Jack watch the big man leave then they look at each other not exchanging a word.

As soon Y/n comes back they stalk him back to D.v.a's room. Y/n knocks on the door humming a random tune to himself. "Y/N! You got it! Please come in!" The young girl asks jumping up and down expediently holding the game her friend bought.

"Can't...Maybe tomorrow. I told widowmaker that i'll be her target practice whatever that means. Tell Genji and Lucio I said hi!" Y/n says smiling at her before leaving to go do his promise.

The next day.

Reaper stares at the shirtless Reinhardt with hatred burning in his eyes. Both Y/n and the large German were shirtless leaning onto each other during breakfast.

Reaper knew nothing was going on between his "Boyfriend" and the German, but god it didn't stop his mind from wondering why the both of you were shirtless leaning on each other.

Solider glares daggers towards Reinhardt clenching the fork in his hand as he watch Reinhardt wrap his arms around Y/n.

Later that day it was team training.

Everyone was working outside y'know testing out new tricks, regular work out, teaching people new things etc etc.

Everything was going well until well H/n got hurt. And I mean hurt badly.

Y/n looked around to see if there were any support heroes that could help him out. Y/n was losing tons of blood, so he ran to reaper with all of the strength he had and passed out on top of him.

Reaper acted fast stopping Y/n's bleeding with some nearby bandages and picked him up leaving the training field while Solider 76 follows. Reaper carried Y/n all the way back to his room opening the door and setting Y/n down by a nearby chair.

Jack rushed in the room shutting the door and locking it before checking up on his boyfriend.

Y/n slowly gets back to his consensus not hearing anything Reaper and Soldier is saying. It's all muffled and loud to Y/n.

"Gabe?" The nickname causes the two men to pause their argument and turn to Y/n. "Yes?" "Am I going to die? Sombra always tells me that I'm gonna die from my clumsiness and I was wondering if that's true?"

The two men think the same thing. "Does this kid believe everything hes told?"

Jack begins to reassure Y/n that hes not gonna die and comfort him giving him praises about his bravery.

"Mhm. And besides Jack and I wouldn't let our boyfriend die." Reaper says boldly standing more closely to him. "Boyfriend? Were boyfriends? I thought Me and Junkrat were dating. We kissed a few hours ago and that's what couples do."

"What" Jack and Gabriel say in union staring at Y/n with their eyes wide. "Yeah? I call him babe while he calls me sweets." Reaper opens his mouth probably going to shout and curse, but before that Jack stops him and takes a lighter choice. "Y/n. You can't be doing that. It's cheating on both of us. And it's very rude. So to avoid all that how bout you mostly stay and hang out with us. We are dating so technically for you not to be a bad boyfriend you have to do what we say."

Y/n thinks for a moment before nodding his head yes. "Does that mean we have to kiss now?" Reaper and Jack exchange a look before nodding.

Y/n stands up and bends down to Jack's level giving him a light kiss on the lips before turning to reaper kissing him as well.

"Now I only have two boyfriends correct?"

"Correct Y/n."

Timeskip!

Since that day Y/n mostly spends his days with his boyfriends. Always giving them little flowers he'll find outside.

Most of the team were happy for the three of them and supported them.

But few members knew. Something had to be up.

Ashe was quick to notice something was wrong with Y/n. Y/n had stopped coming to talk with Bob. Even though most people didn't care about that Ashe knew something had to be wrong. Y/n talked to Bob for hours on end almost everyday to the robot and now he stopped visiting.

Lucio and D.v.a sees the way Jack and Reaper acts from afar when someone is talking or spending time with Y/n. They were always somehow there. Hell they were even at the mission Y/n was on.

Sigma knew something bad was going to happen. Y/n and him were partners for a mission one time and Y/n had accidentally rambled to Sigma about the way his boyfriends would tie him up to a chair and leave him there for days. Sigma immediately started to warn others, but half didn't care and only thought he was crazy.

It was a team mission. Every single overwatch member was in it at an all hands on deck type of mission. But surprisingly soldier 76 as well Reaper doesn't show.

The whole fight was gruesome and dirty.

And well H/n. Well H/n was being H/n. He was saving people left and right not caring about his own body and only caring for others.

He brought many of his team members to safety if they got hurt and other regular citizens.

H/n body was overworked and he pushed through it until it was finally over.

The team all stand side by side with each other many people interviewing them and thanking the heroes.

"H/n. I was wondering if you feel pressured as the new guy to thrive and show everyone that you belong on the team? Since your performance today was top tier."

Y/n head was pounding trying to figure out the words for the answers and his body sways around feeling heavier and heavier.

"Uhm... I don't feel anything at the moment besides the headache. But i'm not trying to show off my speed or my strength. I'm just trying to help the people I care for most. Uhmmm yeah." Y/n answers with a little struggle trying to get everything out as fast as he can.

"Another question for H/n! Are you seeing anyone serious in the moment. Because it was sightings of you with a mysterious woman in a questionable position."

Y/n looks around like did he hear that correctly. Y/n just hands the mic to Lucio lowering his head down.

Epic Timeskip!

By the time Y/n gets back to the overwatch base he lays on Winston begging him to take him to his room.

Winston doesn't argue and carries the big man to his room where his two boyfriends are waiting.

Once the two arrive Y/n slides off of him wishing him goodnight before unlocking the door and walking in shutting and locking it behind him.

The place is quiet and dark.

Y/n walks to his bedroom taking off his hero costume before putting on more casual clothes. Y/n basically collapses on the bed breathing heaving and nervously when he feels eyes on him.

"Y/n. Who is she? DON'T even bother lying because I already know." "My ex..." "And why were you with your ex?" "Because she wanted to ask me something..." "Mind explaining why she was on your lap." Reaper takes Y/n's arms tying them up as Jack ties up his legs.

"I don't know! She said she missed me! Please gabe! I don't wanna do this again. It wasn't my fault." Y/n pleas feeling himself getting picked up off the bed.

"I know cariño~ I know. Just that me and Jack are gonna pay her a visit." Reaper sits Y/n down tying up to a chair before picking up the chair and taking it to a closet.

"This is for your own good Y/n."

"We know what's best for you."

THE END!

[sednonamoris]

violence and timing

Pairing: John Price x gn!reader

Summary: Price is captured by Makarov’s men. It’s difficult to grapple with your feelings for him while mounting a rescue operation - thankfully you learned from the best.

Warnings: Torture + waterboarding (not intensively detailed), canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, strong language, not really a warning but dual POV

Word count: 2,526

A/N: Takes place after call off the dogs (and come home to me) and let me love the lonely out of you, but you don’t have to have read either for this to make sense!! You can also find this story on AO3

—

Price has always had a knack for knowing things he shouldn’t.

When he was a little boy he knew something in their house scared his mother despite the brave face she put on. As a young man he knew there was an ugly price to pay to keep the world right despite what everyone said on the news. Right now, he knows he’s being held underground despite his captors’ best efforts to disorient him. Knows there’s one light source in this room despite the bag over his head. Knows his team will come for him despite their inevitable orders not to. 

No one fights alone, he can hear their voices chorus.

But he is alone, behind enemy lines and waiting for the creak of rusty hinges to signal the next round of torture. It’s been mostly waterboarding, so far - nothing creative. His stoic silences and rasped insults have been met with poorly concealed impatience and base violence. Apparently Makarov never bothered to tell his men that you can’t break someone who’s already broken; They’ll get nothing from him. Bloody amateurs.

If anything, he’s more occupied with the frustration that these people managed to get the drop on him at all. He could’ve kicked himself the second he realized exactly how many of them were swarming his overwatch position, but at least it was him and not his team. Not Ghost, who’s been through enough hardship already. Not Gaz, so young and burning so bright. Not Soap, with enough heart for all of them and then some. Not Hound, who—

Not Hound. 

Anyone but Hound. 

He lets himself wonder, distantly, wistfully, if he’ll ever get to see that fierce face he’s grown to love so much again. Then the door screams open. Heavy footsteps approach. His captors laugh and exchange cruel jabs in Russian. A faint, grim smile twists his lips before they pull the hood off. 

—

These have been the worst seventy-two hours of your life. Too long for a hostage, but still not enough time to separate you from seeing Price brutalized by Makarov’s men, from hearing the sickening crunch as his audio cut out over comms, from watching helplessly while they carried him away from you.

“Hound, get everyone out of--!” plays in your head on a loop. The desperation, the fear, the crack in his voice as he shouted those words as loud as his wartorn lungs could. You nearly took Ghost’s head off for holding you back upon hearing them. 

His last words.

You hope to God they’re not his last words. Setting your jaw, you promise yourself that they won’t be. 

“You doing alright, mate?” Gaz asks. His voice is so much softer than usual. Serious. 

“No.” The admission burns on your tongue. “We need to move fast if we don’t want to be bringing home a bleedin’ body bag.” 

He clasps a warm hand to your shoulder and squeezes. “Cap’s tough. We’ll get him back in one piece.” 

You offer a nod, but can’t bring yourself to say anything more. Pulling anything out of you has been like pulling teeth since he was taken. 

After explaining the bare bones of the situation, Nik agreed to pilot you all out to where Price is being held - some abandoned gulag in The-Middle-of-Fucking-Nowhere, Russia. Anything for a friend, Tserber, he’d said over the phone, and you could have cried in relief. The helo ride has been uncharacteristically quiet. Even Soap struggles to lighten the mood. 

The Russian landscape passes beneath you, snow-capped forests and wide open tundra in turn. You find yourself wondering if he’s cold, of all things. Trapped in some tiny cell, no food or water, certainly nothing to ward off the subzero temperatures of an unheated, underground facility.

Fuck.

You both knew that being together would cause more problems than it solved, at the end of the day, but you’ve never taken a moment to consider how strange your circumstances truly are until now. Most people worry about their partners driving in slippery conditions getting back from the grocery store - something dangerous, sure, but also achingly mundane. Here you are worried about yours overnighting as a hostage in an off-the-grid prison facility. 

Nik sets down three klicks out, give or take. Hoofing it to Price will be the easy part. You just have to hope he can make the trek back. There’s a small comfort in knowing that any one of you would rather carry him the whole way than leave him behind. 

Nik makes a move to grab a gun but you stop him with a shake of your head. “We need you here on stand-by so we can take off straight away. I’ll radio you the moment we have him.”

His eyes soften a fraction at the look on your face. “Good luck, my friend.”

“Spasibo,” you offer a grim smile, then turn to face the rest of your team. Their somber faces are turned to you, waiting. “We’ve got a hike ahead of us, lads, and a load of cunts waiting to get their brains blown out. Silencers on every gun, knives when you can - let’s keep this quiet as long as possible. When we breach I want radio silence ‘til someone grabs Price.”

“Hound and I will go for the Captain,” Ghost adds. “Johnny, Gaz, you two keep the exit clear. Anything goes wrong, you bail and head back to Nikolai. Hound and I will sort out alternative exfil if needed. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Rog’,” they chorus. They won’t bail, you know, or at the very least they’ll put up a fight, but they both know better than to argue that right now.

You nod gratefully towards them all before heading out. It’s a long, cold journey ahead and you need to haul ass if you’re going to get in and out before nightfall.

—

“Tell us what you know!” The demand is punctuated with a heavy blow across his face.

Price bares his teeth through a mouth full of blood. “Fuck you.”

“Let me say again,” his captor leans down close to his face with violence on his breath. “You will tell us what you know, SAS. It might be now, it might be later, but I will get it out of you.”

He doesn’t speak another word, but the unmasked hatred written across his face says everything.

—

It’s easy for you and Ghost to slip into a deadly rhythm after working together so long. Crouch, sneak, crunch; slow, fast, slice. His throwing knives whisper death into the cracked concrete halls. Your longer close-combat ones sing an old, bloody song in tandem when you sink them into enemy soldiers - each just one more obstacle between you and Price. You let them bite into the soft flesh between armor plating, right at the junction where their neck meets their shoulder, and think about the way John kisses you there in soft morning light, his whiskers ticklish, his sleepy smile pressed into your skin. 

The prison is in bad shape. Metal bars on cramped cells are composed more of rust than iron, flaking off in a toxic shade of orange-brown. The floor is sturdy concrete but even it has seen better days. Bloodstains. Miscellaneous debris. Most of it looks old, at least a decade just sitting and wasting. There are newer scuff marks in the dust, fresher blood that leads you down, down, and further down the echoing halls. You try not to think about the struggle Price must have put up. Or worse, if he hadn’t put one up at all - the drag of his unconscious body behind masked men; faceless, nameless thugs working to further Makarov’s sick machinations. 

“We should have found him already,” you mutter.

“Easy, Hound. Can’t be far now.” Simon’s reassurance is about as kind as it gets from him, especially in the field. Your frayed nerves must be getting to him. 

It’s reasonable, though, to be so worried. At least to your mind; You should have encountered more resistance. A handful of soldiers are hardly the force you’d expected to reckon with, and the only other place they might be is wherever Price is, doing all manner of terrible things to get information out of him that you know he’ll never give up. Not for anything. 

Then you find the basement staircase.

You creep down silent as the grave. When you tuck yourselves into cover, scant though it is, each breath is kept deep and quiet so the guards ahead don’t hear.

Simon signals the plan of attack, but so close to the objective - to Price - it’s all peripheral. Distantly, you’re aware of your body lurching forward at his mark, but over the roar in your ears you can hear no sound and past the tunnel of your vision you see only red. 

—

Price chokes and gasps for breath. He takes his mind far, far away from the water pouring over his face. Lists through rifle specs like a soldier, then sheep like a child. 

He wants it to stop.

He knows it won’t. 

Then something bursts through the door with all the force of a hurricane and it does.

—

“Drop your fucking weapons!”

“Put your bloody hands up, now!”

You hit them so hard and so fast that not one has a chance to reach for his weapon. The few that were holding them already either obey your shouted commands on instinct or are so cowed by disbelief they forget what’s in their hands before you have them dead on the ground. 

“Clear,” Simon sounds relieved when the last one drops. 

Amidst the carnage, Price sits tied to a metal folding chair. It’s directly beneath a single, swinging lightbulb that emits a frantic and fluttering fluorescence. His hands and feet are bound, too-tight and raw, and even in bad lighting you can see his face is beat to a bloody pulp. It’s all you have time to register before you fly forward to cut the bonds and cradle his face in your hands. 

Blue eyes blink through the water and the blood and the confusion that clumps his eyelashes to drink in your features with pain and wonderment. 

“Hound,” he rasps. “How—?”

“Violence and timing.” Your grin is a savage punctuation of the statement, too-wide and speckled with his captors’ blood. “Now let’s get you out of here.”

—

Past his initial rescue his mind is lost to a fog of pain, but even through that Price remembers the musicality of your voice cussing out the entire hospital staff for not being ready for him. He tries to laugh but it only comes out a painful wheeze. 

—

You hate hospitals almost as much as hospitals hate you. The staff all either shrink away or glare when they see you on your way to monopolize Price’s visiting hours each day. If they just did their jobs maybe you wouldn’t have to fight with them so often, but there’s always something.

His room is too cold. Blankets too few. It’s cramped. Dark. Don’t they know he just came from a place like that? And how would they like to wake up to a dark, miserable little room, huh? And would it kill them to open the blinds and let some fucking sunlight in, little that there is in bleedin’ England? And Jesus, do you have to do everything around here? 

You’ve brought flowers, this time.

Yellow daffodils you’re sure the staff will neglect on his bedside table until they’re sad and wilting, but the splash of colour ought to do him some good. You hope it does him some good.

Three light knocks on the door announce your entrance. There’s a nurse checking his vitals whose eyes widen upon realizing who you are. He scurries away as quickly as he can, and you snort a derisive laugh after him.

“You’re a bloody menace,” Price says with enough fondness in his voice you could burst. John, now that it’s just the two of you. “Do you know the staff draw straws when you’re here?” 

“You say that like you’re not an awful patient,” you tease. It’s half-hearted at best, and even on the equivalent of horse tranquilizers you know he notices.

You busy your hands arranging his flowers in a clear plastic vase, but your eyes cut over to assess his condition today. His eyes are just as clear and sharp as ever, and the swelling on his face has gone down. The cracked ribs hurt like a bitch, you know from experience, but they don’t stop him from sitting up straighter every time you walk through the door. He had been unconscious for four days after his rescue and still all you can think is how much worse everything could have been. How cracked ribs and a broken nose and a fractured eye socket and every carefully catalogued cut and bruise could have been worse.

How he might not have come home at all. 

“You’re staring.”

Your eyes quickly dart back down to the flowers. Flower arranging is at the bottom of your list of skills, but they’re about as bright and cheerful as you could hope, if a little over-cut and crooked in places.

As you turn to set them gently at his bedside he heaves a sigh, heavy between you.

“Now you won’t look at me.” He sounds tired. There’s a twinge of pain at the end of each syllable, but worse than that he sounds like he’s trying so hard to be careful with you. Like you’re the fragile one right now. “What’s wrong, love?”

You scoff past the sudden lump in your throat and finally meet the depths of those blue, blue eyes. “Nothing. I’m being silly.”

“I doubt that very much.” His face creases, warm and a little sad. 

“Fine,” you say. You seat yourself on the edge of his bed and grasp his warm, calloused hand in yours. Stroking a reverent thumb along his knuckles gives you a measure of courage. “I love you.”

He sucks a sharp breath in. 

“I don’t expect you to say it back - you know I won’t ever ask for anything you can’t give - but fuck me, John, when they took you all I could think about was how much I love you and that I hadn’t told you and that you might die and not know.” You dare a glace up at his face with a sheepish smile made of shards of glass. “So, now you know. Don’t go dying on me about it, please and thanks.”

The glacial blue of his eyes warms to Mediterranean Sea, and the smile he gives you damn near breaks your heart. “Darling,” he says, “for the life of me I’ll never know what I did to deserve it, but you’re the kind of person a man could live for.”

I love you, too.

He raises his hand, still in yours, to his mouth. His unshaven whiskers tickle your skin. The kiss he presses to the inside of your wrist is reverent and warm, full of everything he’s never said and is still scared to say out loud. 

I love you, too.

[moralesmilesanhour]

random spiderverse headcanons !! (I'm bored):

Hobie definitely uses more product in his hair than Pavitr, idk WHAT some of you are on about 😭 that is a Black man with wicks

He makes his own products most likely or just steals shit

Speaking of. I'd like to think that Hobie does most shit on his own if he can't get it via bartering or something. Bro is EXCELLENT with a sewing machine

Because in his dimension it's still 1978 he knows fuck-all about social media. The only app on his phone is whatsapp and he'd like to keep it that way

The other spider kids have to explain memes to him

I don't have too many thoughts about Gwen but I hc her as a transfem lesbian/sapphic. I mean who doesn't atp look at her 😭

I've been told that ppl hc Pavitr as being half Keralite (I hope that spelling is correct). So I have also adopted that hc

Pavitr stay with a skincare mask on even though his skin is clear. He likes the texture when you first put it on before it dries

He will remember everything everyone has ever said to him but can't locate the hairbrush he put down five seconds ago (it's in his hand)

Hobie can take two songs from damn near opposing genres and create the perfect transition between them when he's djing. No one knows how he does it (autism)

He and Miles bond over sending each other new music

Hobie owns physical versions of everything. He will pirate music and burn it onto a CD if he has to

Speaking of Miles. That kid is soooo normal about music he will break down every single layer and ad-lib of every song he hears

Very annoying about different headphones and their sound quality

As the movie implies. Margo enjoys switching up her hair and outfits

Considers changing her entire wardrobe when she's bored

Insane at coding websites

Has an unhealthy amount of mobile games on her phone

Plays extremely niche video games that she tells no one about

Eerily good at Overwatch

That's it 😭 uhh nothing more to say here if you have anything to add on feel free to leave it in the tags or replies!

[diejager]

A Fantasy

Pairing: YANDERE Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

Cw: NSFW, DARK, non-con, dub-con, non-con drugging, somnophilia, creampie, possessiveness, obsessiveness, breeding, marking, blood, biting, Stockholm syndrome, tell me if I missed any.

Wc: 9.8k

(A/N): FYI, Tracer’s (Overwatch 2) the reader’s mentor.

Requested by : @oyasumimosura

What stood before you was a great field of devastation and ruin, burned and broken buildings that used to be warm homes, lively parks that were turned to ashes, trees and plants laid wasted around dilapidated cars with broken windows and bent metal. People, young and old, laid motionless on the scarred ground, burnt black or left intact in a pool of their blood. Some were holding hands, a family, friends, a couple. Others were alone, forgotten, and left to their sad deaths.

One minute you were rushing through a portal, behind your mentor and besides your teammates, the Cavalry, as she liked to say. Rushing through fights to protect humanity and omnics and its future. The mission was like the one yesterday, the preparation, the meeting, the briefing, and the deployment, but the fate of it changed. A portal malfunctioned, it sent you elsewhere, far away and lost. This wasn't your world, this wasn't your universe, but now, you were in someone else's universe, playing their game.

The clock had struck and time felt meaningless on the battlefield, the sounds of beating aircraft blades, the booming shot of guns and the shockwaves of grenades were all people could hear. Soldiers were the only ones left, fighting against the other side - the enemy, the traitors, the terrorists - until one came out victorious.

While purposeful, the deaths and ruin of this Occidental village were regretful, families shattered, memories lost, and homes destroyed. All you could do was run around, trying to find the source of those cries you heard. A little girl's, whose tears welled for the mother she lost in the tirade of war.

The longer you ran, the closer you got to her. The girl's purple shirt and jeans were dirtied with soot and ash, dark from what was left of her village. You blinked, fazing through time and space to get to her more quickly. Rounding broken walls and jumping over fallen debris, you left a blue trail behind you, blinking your way to the crying kid.

You wrapped your arms around her, pulling her into your chest when you got to her, recalling to your previous position with the girl, behind a brick wall. She clung to you, eyes red and swollen, lips bit red and her cheeks puffy. She looked like a seven-year-old child, alone, lost, and miserable without her parents or protection.

"Don't worry, love, " you used the words Tracer often used when she saved someone, her reassuring and calm voice. "I'm here."

Those zigzagging lines of light lingered in his mind, a shadow of a woman making her way through the abandoned town. The spring in her steps and the flexibility of her movements, jumping higher than any man should've been able to and changing directions so easily. She was fast, vanishing in a line of blue light and then appearing once more meters away.

Ghost saw her save a child, no older than an eight-year-old - or so he thought. A lone child on the battlefield was dangerous, a death wish for the kid if his enemies got to her first. Fortunately, the athletic woman got to the kid before anyone could, swiping her into her arms and disappearing in a blink. Seconds ago, she stood next to the pole, now all that was left was a blur of blue. She had disappeared as quickly as she appeared.

He picked at the memory constantly, powers, it seemed, were her thing, speed and agility of which no one should be able to wield, but she did and she used it to save a child. Although he admired that from a stranger, the question of her being a danger to them was still left unanswered. Whether she could be trusted or an unknown enemy that would tip the scales in the enemy's favour.

However, months later, after the war ended, there weren't any sightings of her, anywhere on earth, as if she had disappeared - again. He remembered her, though, the determined glint beneath blue goggles, her hair tied in a ponytail, flowing through the air, and her pretty lips.

She could still be in Europe, she probably was, or so he hoped. It would mean that he could run the chance of meeting her, to quench his gnawing curiosity. It would be difficult - near impossible - to find her in the millions living in Europe, but he would keep his eyes open, he had questions and he wanted answers.

He wasn't a believer per se, nor was he an atheist, he had a veto in what he put his trust and belief in. He wouldn't curse others for not believing in a God or gods, he wouldn't scoff at those who believed in them, and everyone had their rights. At this moment, however, the thought of God helping him had crossed his mind.

He had dared cross his limit, entering a small cafe - or a bistro, he wasn't sure - blocks from his flat. It was small and homely, the air was warm with the smell of coffee and tea and the place welcoming with the smiling faces of the cafe's workers.

He sat far into the shop, his back against the softness of the booth's couch, bored eyes observing his surrounding for any danger. Even off duty, the habits that ensured his safety still stuck to him, following him wherever he went.

The waitress, a young-looking woman, with striking eyes and hair pulled in a bun, walked his way. Her face looked familiar, lashes framing her pretty eyes, blushed cheeks and beautiful full lips. He knew those lips, and those eyes, and her build, short and athletic, but strong.

It was the child-saving vigilante he saw, only without her blue goggles and her tight bodysuit, blue and white that emphasized her muscles (it was probably made for usefulness, sticking to her body without any stray cloth when she ran, it made running faster and easier.). Wearing a chemise and black pants, instead of the standard skirt the other women wore, her shoes clicked as she approached him, hand pulling out a pad from her black apron's pocket.

He froze when her hand disappeared into her pocket, the items inside were unknown to him, and the content could be dangerous to him. He had to remind himself that she was a civilian at the moment, not an enemy vying for his head. She was safe, as long as she didn't attack him. He waited for her to speak, her pretty lips forming the words she wanted to tell him.

"Good morning, sir," her voice was melodic, soft and inviting. He craved hearing her speak to him with the soft lull of her tone. "Have you decided?"

Decided? What had she - you - meant by "decided"? Then he remembered he was in a cafe, people walked in to order food and drinks, to go or to eat there. He couldn't drift off like that, he couldn't disappear into the darkest depth of his mind. It was a dangerous place.

He cleared his throat, blonde lashes fluttering as he blinked, staring at your face. You were pretty. His words rumbled out, slightly muffled by his black mask: "No." He neither spoke more nor less, blunt as a hammer and sharp as a knife.

"Would you like more time to decide?" You were polite, smiling at him although his only spoken words were brash. He didn't want you to go yet, he just found you, heard and spoke to you,

"Anything you- uh... you recommend?"

You perked up at his question, seeing a more approachable change in him. Your smile widened, brighter than before as you listed off the menu by heart. Your optimism reminded him of Johnny's, expressively happy and grinning. The cafe - Ma's cafe, he learned from you - had its famously brewed tea latte, a mixture of earl grey and vanilla latte.

He took your recommendation, and you left with a skip, apron bouncing with each step. He watched you walk behind the counter, shuffling around with cups and the machine - he thought it was a coffee machine, those with pre-made coffee in its tank - meticulously, knowing well what he ordered.

You came back minutes later with a smoking mug filled with a milky brown liquid. It was fitting its name - London fog - with the white swirls that mimicked the fog that filled the cool, morning air until early evening when the sun started heating everything.

"Thank you...?" Ghost tried, wanting to know your name, you didn't have a tag on your apron.

You gave him your name with the smile you gave everyone, a customer service kind of smile that would assure that you wouldn't get any complaints about your service. He repeated your name a few times in his mind, memorizing every syllable and the way it sounded so well.

He wanted to repeat your name, whisper it lowly, but he had to make sure you were farther away from him, or you'd hear him obsessively call you. It rolled off his tongue amazingly, a perfect symphony with his deeper, raspy voice. He'll get to know you better, he planned on visiting more often, to learn your schedule and watch over you.

He pushed every intrusive thought back, bringing the mug to his lips (he had pulled down his mask to drink). It was sweet, slightly bitter from the coffee, but sweet nonetheless, perhaps a bit too sugary. He savoured the drink you made him, breathing the warm aroma of your mix. You'd made it, you had it, and served it. It was made for him, with your care and smile.

Ghost came by the next week, wearing the same black hoodie and dark jeans. He sat at the same booth and waited for you to walk by with the same smile as the prior week. You did, eyes wide with recognition when you caught him staring at you from the corner booth. You made your way to him with a grin, clad in a similar uniform and a serving tray under your arm.

"You came back," your calming voice reached his ears, giving him something to cling to in the cafe.

He liked habits, familiar things and usual occasions, but he hated the new and the unknown. They were dangerous, and deadly in his line of work. You expressed your gratitude at the tip he left you, way over the usual price other usual clients would.

"I never got your name."

He hadn't given you his name? That's right, he didn't for fear of people finding out his true identity, a broken man hidden under the mask of a monster - a Ghost. Trust issues stacked with insecurities and his introverted tendencies had made forming relationships much harder, making friends complicated with the backlash of his many blunt comments and irritated huffs, and letting people in from the fear of being betrayed, backstabbed, beaten and abandoned.

You were a vigilante, you saved a girl, you smiled at him and greeted him like you would a friend. You didn't shy away, nor freeze at the mere sight of him. You were new, but you were good - or so he thought you were. To him, you could be the achieved unachievable, a friend made from dust, a relationship formed from miracles and normalcy.

He blinked, mumbling lowly his name, low enough that it only reached your ears. You cocked your head downward, your smile widening as you repeated his name.

"Nice to see you again, Simon. I'm happy to see you again."

He nearly shuddered from hearing his name roll off your tongue, so melodically spoken. He wants to hear you call his name again and again and again, as many times as you could until he got sick of it (he probably wouldn't, he was already addicted to the way you spoke).

He dozed at your words, that you were glad he came back. He was glad too. He wanted to come by the day after his first visit, but it would seem too strange, perhaps dangerous to see him every day at the same spot, at the same time of day. He was a man of schedules, organized and neat planning.

He figured he would start by buying once a week for a month or two, then change it to twice a week for the following months, until seeing him every day would become the norm for you. He would kickstart the routine and make it a usual appearance in your life. He would make *him* a usual appearance in your life.

"Same as last time, Simon?"

God, he loved hearing you say his name. He simply nodded, he would make it his usual, a hut sweet, but enough to drown the bitterness in his soul.

The leaves turned darker, shrivelling and dropping dead to the ground. The mellow sky grew gloomy, and colder with each passing day until it dropped so low that Ghost had to wear a thicker jacket over his usual hoodie. Autumn was at an end and winter crawled ever so closer.

He was back from deployment, on a temporary leave to "relax and diffuse" as Laswell said. Everyone was back home, Price with his cigar and Nik, Gaz back home with his girlfriend, Soap with his rowdy family of seven and Roach went home to open arms and warm welcomes from his parents.

Ghost only had an empty apartment - or he used to, he moved to a house on the quieter side of town - and the cute, dazzling waitress that served at Ma's cafe. That's where he was going, he texted you before he left, letting you know that he was back and ready for a hot cup of London fog and brunch.

You read his message, replying with a "Copy that, Lieutenant". It became a running joke between you after he told you about his work, nothing classified or too detailed, but enough to let you know he was built to fight and survive.

The bell rang when he pushed the door, seeing you peer out of the kitchen once he stepped in. He was hit with a warm embrace, the cafe's heater worked well, warming the place and making it cozy enough to eat with only a t-shirt on. He gave you a nod, finding his way to his usual spot, the one he sat at for the past months.

How many months have passed since he first stumbled here? He couldn't remember everything became a blur when it was associated with you. His moments with you were warmer and calmer than at the start. You opened up to him, walls crumbling down and letting yourself build something out of it: a friendship with Ghost.

He liked being friends - for now. He had plans to make a move, to push farther, into unknown territory and try his luck. He had a feeling you'd say yes, he loved you so much and you showered him with adoration and smiles, you had to be in love with him, no? Of course, you were, he wasn't delusional, he was of sound mind, careful.

"Welcome back, Simon," you strut to him so casually, the same clothes, the same smile. "How was your deployment? Soap and Roach got into any trouble?"

He spoke fondly of his TF, they were his family, and he felt proud when he talked about them to you. He invited them once, and they all loved you as much as he did, you were sociable and easy to talk to. Though Price and Soap had the biggest effect on you, they reminded you of someone. You told him about your friends, chaotic like his TF, but a family. It sounded like an ops team, he wouldn't be surprised. He remembered the first time he saw you, it was still fresh in his memory.

"Soap stirred up some shite again," Ghost huffed, sloshing his shoulders to appear more relaxed in your presence, to make him seem less threatening than he was. "No casualties, everyone made it out fine. Bit bruised but alive."

"That's the main objective, no?" You chuckled at Ghost's indignified groans about Soap and Roach behaving like children high on sugar.

You stuck around longer now, gracing him with a bit of random chatter. He got to know about your days, your activities, your wishful thinking and your goals. He discovered something new every day, whether it came from your lips or from his own time.

You stood by his table until the chef rang the call bell. You winked charmingly and turned to get his order, he hadn't ordered yet, but he came by so often, ordering the same that the employees knew what to make when he walked through the door.

He liked the normalcy, where he came by once every two days when he was on leave. If the Task Force was sent on a mission, he could be gone a few days, a few weeks or a month. It always varied, but he made it work with his hate of the unknown, the unpredictable.

"Are you free tonight, love?" Ghost asked, eyes gazing from your hands to your lips.

He found that open-mouthed expression at his question. You seemed hesitant to answer him, thinking about your reply to the man who tipped you well and was as close as a friend to you; or perhaps you were simply shocked that he finally asked you out, and wondering if you had time for him.

You nodded, a smug smile replacing your shock: "How 'bout eight? I finish at seven tonight."

" 'S fine, eight at the bar down the street?"

"It's a date then."

His heart almost broke his ribs, beating wildly against its cage when the word "date" left your lips. He had a date with you tonight, he couldn't believe his ears. Perhaps you meant as a date between friends than one between lovers, but at that moment, all he could think was how your hands would feel between his, how your soft, plump lips would feel over his and how your body would feel against his, below and over him.

He dove into his delusional mind, imagines and dreams swimming freely, jumping from one to the other. He had dreams for once, a wish that he hoped you'd indulge, and a family he wanted but lost.

Everything seemed to go the way he planned, you waved at him when you saw him waiting outside the bar and giddily joined him. He found a quiet and mellow corner at the bar, a table pushed against the wall with two stools.

The bartenders knew him, he drank here with the others, and they didn't bother him and served and usual. Some were surprised he brought a friend - a woman - with him but left him to his own.

You sat down and downed a few beers while he drank his bourbon. You spoke sporadically, hands waving enthusiastically with every word. Your cheeks were flushed, slightly pink and warm from the alcohol, but you were lively, animated and happy.

It made him happy, seeing you so mirthful around him, being able to let loose from your stricter atmosphere at Ma's cafe. Your tense shoulders were looser, your back relaxed from its ramrod-straight position and your voice felt more invigorated. The alcohol might've played a part, running through your system and making you bolder.

The first time always played well, just as he imagined, and the thing that solidified everything was your parting words: "Next time's on me, Simon!"

You drank together every week, from friends to drinking buddies, there was nothing more intimate than that, to trust someone with your drunk self and your loose tongue, spewing words and thoughts the second they crossed your mind.

That boosted his confidence, the feeling that he could confess, and tell you his deepest and darkest thoughts and wants. You'd know what kind of man he was, broken and messily put together, like a DIY project made by a child gone wrong. He had sharp edges and missing pieces, a cracked personality and dangerous thoughts. He was a SAS soldier after all, once you become one, you see some twisted shit.

Like the week before, you walked out together, your legs shaky but still able to walk home, accompanied by Ghost. He helped you to your apartment, his broad shadow looming over the door, silent as always. When your shaky hands were able to unlock the door, turning the knob and opening the door, you turned around to bid your drinking buddy good night.

Lips parting to say the words, until he cut you off, his chapped lips met yours. His gloved hands caressed your cheek, thumb rubbing under your wide eyes as he held you in place. His lips were warm and plump, but chapped, a scar running over it.

His eyes were closed, lips on you for a few seconds longer until he pulled away, a dazed look in his eyes. While he expected a reaction from you, he hadn't envisioned shock and sadness, one that made his gut plummet. He winced at your expression, unable to understand what he did wrong. He thought you loved him.

"I- Simon, I- I can't, I'm sorry," you hushed out sadly, head turned down to stare at your feet. You were unwilling to gaze into his disappointed - probably heartbroken - eyes.

"Why?" He rasped, voice hoarse as if he hid cried for hours, or was on the brink of tearing up.

"I just can't, Simon," you persisted, feeling much more sober than the last few minutes. His surprise had severed you up - willingly or unwillingly. "I don't mind staying friends, but I can't get too attached. I won't be here much longer."

" 'Cause you're not from here?" He scoffed, but it didn't hold any resentment or irritation, simply sorrow and distress. " 'Cause you're from another world?"

You whipped your head to stare at him, your mouth agape and fearful shock glazed over your eyes. How could he have possibly known? While your identity was fabricated work, you know how to make a believable fake ID, Genji's knowledge helped you. You stepped back, hand reaching for your door knob, unsure of what Simon would do to you now that the secret was out.

He turned and ambled out, shoulders slumped slightly without a word to you. His world shattered once again, God seemed hellbent on making his life a misery.

He stopped coming after your "altercation", you felt horrible, but you couldn't let your heart run wild when you know Winston would find a way to fix the portal in a year or two. One had already passed and you couldn't overindulge in this world's pleasures and leave when you got too attached.

Yet, grief at being relieved that he never appeared again clawed at you, he knew you weren't from his world. It was dangerous information, especially in bad hands, but you couldn't do anything about it. This world had different rules and standards, it worked differently and you weren't book-smart like Winston or Torb. You were a simple agent working under Tracer.

You did, however, regret letting Simon leave so abruptly, he was an amazing friend, the perfect drinking buddy and would probably be a caring lover, but couldn't risk it. Even if you wanted to text him, and apologize over and over until Simon would talk to you again, you knew how to respect people's boundaries. If he left so coldly, never passing by, texting or calling told you enough. He needed time to calm down and clear his mind.

You went back and forth between your home and the cafe every night, your original routine - before meeting Simon - felt alien to you. You'd been so used to seeing Simon at the back of the shop, a hot London fog in his hands and crepes on his plate with melting butter. It was foreign to see the spot occupied by another client, or the cold spot in your chest when it was vacant.

You disliked it. You hated it. The cold, the silence, you wanted to see him at least once.

Can we meet? Usual place. was the sudden text you received from Simon during your shift. It was dated today at 5:39.

Without a second thought, you replied, affirming the date and time, tonight, right after your shift on Friday. A weight was lifted from your shoulder, the silence from Simon was broken and he finally reached out to you. Your break to let him calm down had worked it seemed, the let him cool down and clear his mind.

It was late by the time you got to the pub, around nine. You had returned home and fixed up your depressed look for a more lively one, hoping it would make Simon feel better. You caught him at your usual place, head hung low and demeanour shut off from the world around him. You took hesitant steps towards him, he didn't look exactly sober from the number of cups decorating the table, nor did he look drunk, from his sharp, hooded eyes.

"Simon, " you greeted him slowly, nearly flinching when his brown eyes washed over your smaller figure. Chills erupted through the ends of your nerves, fingers twitching at the sudden burst of danger you felt from your friend. You had no reason to be scared, wary of his demeanour, but not scared or hateful. He'd yet to act out violently or malevolently.

He gave a curt nod, emotions bleeding through his eyes. He was a stoic man, but his eyes were extremely emotional, pain, regret, grief, hate and joy were some you'd seen flash in those pretty brown of his.

He had a whole bottle ordered in advance, the cap still tightly screwed onto the bottle's neck. He poured you a cup, of rum straight out of the bottle without ice or any accessories.

Thanking him, you sipped on your drink it felt hot and heady on your tongue, it burned your throat. You hadn't drank since you'd last seen Simon, weeks ago, and you could see - feel - its effect. You coughed slightly but still downed the rest.

"You wanted to see me?" Your question left an odd sensation on your tongue. He hadn't spoken a word since you walked in, always the brooding, silent menace. He stared, fixated on you or something on you, it was perturbed you.

"I wanted to apologize, love."

You missed that low hum in his voice, and the caring way he said you "love". You'd been used to it since most British you knew always called someone they cared for "love" or "dear", loving terms of endearment used publicly. Now, however, you knew it weighted, an undertone to its meaning, a special significance in his heart.

"Didn't mean to jump you like that," he continued, regret painting his rough tone. "It felt right; to me. Guess I was more plastered than I thought."

He was human and alcohol coursed through his system. It made him bold and erratic, he acted out without a second thought. You could forgive him for the influence his bourbon had on him; you were going to forgive him anyway.

Although you felt better with his apology, forgiveness for his sudden move wasn't what you prioritized. You wanted answers. How did he know? Was it a sudden, incomprehensible blurb that he spat in a spike of hate and pain? Or was it conscience wording from his drunk mind?

"Do you remember that night?" You lost your smile, pursed lips and hardened eyes at your questioning - interrogation of him.

"'Course I do."

"Do you remember what you said? About me coming from somewhere else."

He nodded, eyes levelled to stare straight at you, unwilling to hide or lie, he spoke honestly, "Another world, love. Didn't forget."

"How'd you know? I'm not exactly showcasing it to everyone in bright colours. So how?"

"Saw you save that girl, lil babe crying for her mother," his answer was slow and purposeful, giving you what you wanted to hear. He recalled the event that occurred months prior, everything aligned with your own experience. "We don't - can't - have shite like that, too developed and powerful. Nothin' like that's possible in this era. So I figured you weren't from here. "

His reasoning made sense, his wording was careful, and it seemed like he had time to think about it. The time you gave him had helped. You kept your doubts to yourself, questions you had that he probably didn't have the answer to. A way back; a way home; an escape. All things he had no answer to.

So your shoulders relaxed and asked Simon to pour you a second cup, to which he obliged. You drank and smiled, back to the trying times when you just started drinking with him, the unknown and the awkwardness that lingered in the air stung.

You don't remember how many cups you had, or how many bottles you finished. Did you even finish the first one? Did you get halfway through before your vision started blurring and your mind dazed into mumbles of incoherent words? Simon hadn't touched another cup since the world around you blurred, the corners of your eyes turning black and your movement slowed to a slur.

He paid for the drink on his tab, slinging your arm over his shoulder, hand holding your waist as he walked out. You were drunk out of your mind, but something felt different, you don't remember being this inebriated the last time you drank half a bottle of rum. Was there something else in it?

Simon dropped you in the back, buckling you in before he made sure you sat upright. He was close, his neck bare and sweaty, his musk smelled strong and heavy, smoke and gunpowder weighing at the back of your throat. Although your vision was faulty, you could see the tight muscle of his neck and shoulder tense as he worked.

His scent stuck to you as he closed the door and drove home, the air in the car smelling like him. Whatever had drained you, lulled you to sleep, taking comfort in the familiar warmth even if a small part of you started panicking.

He had you, in the basement of his house, soundproof and padlocked from the outside. Any risk was accounted for and any escape plans were foiled prematurely by his quick mind.

Ghost laid you beneath him, on the soft, plush bed he bought and built for you, queen-sized for the times he'd spend cuddling you. He had you splayed, body limp and limbs pliant to his every desire. He admired your sleeping form, how your lace fluttered lightly and your lips perked, thinking on the corners as if you were wincing - a duck face - and your peaceful expression. You were adorable.

Your shirt came off first, pulled over your head and thrown over his shoulders, then your bra. Without his gloves, your skin felt soft, hot to the touch. Kneading your breasts, he held one in each hand and felt the fat. You twitched and mewled faintly when he pinched your nipples, hardened by the cooler air hitting your drunk-induced heat. He kissed them, lips closing around your nipple and sucking loudly. He gave each one the same amount of attention, pulling off with a wet pop.

His fingers trailed the lines of your abdomen, strong and athletic, but not too burly like anyone in the army. He admired your figure, half-naked and unconscious on his bed, in his home. He kissed down your stomach as he took your pants off, sliding leg after leg out, leaving you only in your panties.

You were beautiful: your skin - soft, your hair - silken, your lips - wonderful to kiss, and your eyes - gems. You were breathtaking to look at, a treasure to his eyes solely. You were an unblemished canvas, unmarked by other men - in his mind - by sin, and your scars were trophies, won through difficult times. He wanted to be the one painting you, displaying you prettily for his eyes alone. Pieces of works were kept secret like Michelangelo's love poems and sketches.

His eyes wandered the expanse of your body, groaning when he saw the wet patch, your body had reacted to his caresses, your arousal turning the spot over your cunt darker, wet. He pushed his nose to it, breathing in the tangy musk. His fingers hooked under the string and ripped it off with a harsh tug. You wouldn't need underwear anymore once he was done with you.

Ghost's pupils dilated, wide, blown eyes as it keyed on your slick cunt. He adjusted your legs, moving them over his shoulders to have better access to you. He gave a testing lap, running the flat of his tongue over your rim, prodding your clenching opening and leaving at your pulsating clit.

You tasted delicious, he growled and dove back. Tongue circling your button, sucking loudly, lifting the protective hood to let it swell and throb. He held your hips tightly ad you squirmed and moaned, but you never awoke. The drug he gave you was potent, tested on bigger, stronger military men. It could knock them out, so it would pull a stronger reaction from you.

It weighed on his mind, that he resolved to drugging you and bringing you home to be able to show you just how much he loved you. He'd preferred if you were awake, he wanted your first time together to be wonderful - fantastic - in all ways, but you would've protested, fought him and left him once more. He couldn't risk losing you completely, it hurt.

He had no other choice and felt guilty, but he couldn't let his mind wander when he had you under him, ripe for the taking. He pushed his thoughts away and concentrated on you, his needy girl.

His tongue returned between your leg, cheek nuzzling into your sweating thighs. He alternated between sucking your button, lips enclosing around it, and dipping his tongue into you, groaning anomalistically at your tensing walls. He pushed his forefinger in, joining his ravenous tongue. His nose bumped your clit, jerking you each time.

A second finger joined the first and his tongue left to give attention to your neglected clit, pumping to the third knuckles and curling upwards. You arched off the bed, hips buckling into his open mouth as he stretched you open with a third finger. The sound was lewd and wet, loud in his ears.

His cock twitched, straining against his pants, the fabric tight and inflexible, nearly painful. He wanted to relieve the tightness, that burning ache deep in his guts, but his needs came second to yours.

He flickered his tongue and pushed his fingers deeper, curling and panting against you. You spasmed, legs closing around his head, squeezing him as you came. His fingers eased out slowly to savour the taste of your arousal, mouth covering your fluttering hole and slurping the slick that drizzled down your ass.

He loved how you tasted, sweet and salty, like a healthy, ripe fruit ready to be bitten into, juicy and perfect. He almost lost himself, dazed by your essence and his anguish; if only you'd accepted him early, you would've been awake and conscious of this act, and you'd be able to love and embrace him as he did to you. He wouldn't have to wait so long, in pain and regret, for not wooing you enough. He wouldn't have to feel so guilty.

Snapping from his hazed thinking, he lowered your legs and climbed off the bed to undress. He peeled his hoodie and shirt, which stuck to his skin by sweat, and he dropped his pants once he unbuckled his belt. His cock bobbed, slapping wetly against his navel before it hung heavily between his legs, the head achingly red and swollen. His balls felt heavy, and tight from all the neglect. They were big and full, ready to pump his seed into you.

He cradled you, pulling your legs over his elbows and slotting his hips to yours, his cock over your slit. He moved his hips, slicking his shaft with your juices, groaning at the wet warmth under him. When it felt slick enough, he dipped the tip in, your labia stretching to swallow his uncut head. The sound was downright filthy in his ears, the squelch and your strained moans.

He watched himself inch deeper, sinking into your depths with unrelenting hunger, panting and growling until he bottomed out, his balls sitting snug against your ass. His bulbous tip kissed your cervix, nudging it as he rolled his hips, testing how deep he could reach and how strong he could fuck.

He slowly pulled out, hearing the wet noise of his cock slipping out to the tip, and slammed in, his balls slapping the roundness of your ass. He rocked wildly, groaning each time he bottomed out, feeling the heat of your walls clench around him like a vice. Your spasming walls wrenched low moans from him, as often as you whimpered and mewled.

"Fuck- you feel so fuckin' good-" he pushed out through his clenched teeth, his cock twitching when you tightened around him.

Your legs shook, your back arching slightly and your voice keening loudly. He covered your body with his, lips meeting yours in a hungry and possessive kiss, tongue diving into your mouth and committing it to memory. His hand found your clit, thumb rubbing your sensitive nub, urging you towards your end.

Keening, you came, gripping him with a vice. He grunted, his pace becoming sloppy as he chased his peak after yours, breathing in your neck with dazed, hooded eyes. He swore, thrusting as deep as he could and came, his seed rushing to fill you.

"Fuck- fuck-" he gasped, rocking a few times into you, riding off his edge until he calmed down.

White globs leaked from your stuffed cunt, rolling down your ass and leaving a trail. His chest rumbled happily, bending down to kiss you slowly, soft and adoring compared to the last. He slid out when he softened, his cum oozing out of your gaping heat, the plug keeping everything in left.

He loved watching you full, oozing of him, asleep and satiated in the bed he bought for you. You were both coated in sweat and cum, hair sticking to your glistening skin. Your dishevelled and panting aroused him, his soft cock jerking upwards, hardening moments after he just came.

"We're not done yet, love."

You felt heavy and warm, a heat - a body - held you tightly, fingers carding through your hair and caressing your back. It smelled like sweat and smoke, a familiar musk. You opened your eyes, seeing a pale, burly chest, Simon's naked chest. You froze, body tensing, shoulders squaring and arms ready to push him back.

"Morning, love," his voice was raspy with sleep, deep and calm as he greeted you, his lips meeting your hairline. "Slept well?"

You frowned, legs moving, jutting out from between his knees as you struggled to free yourself. Your body felt sore, the peak of your discomfort coming from your heat, a pulsating and warm pain. You feared the worst.

When you looked down, you were covered by only a shirt, a big, dark grey t-shirt that smelled like Simon, it reached your knees. You winced, seeing your nakedness and Simon's pants hanging low on his hips, flashing the sharp dip of his navel and his sculpted torso. It left little to imagine, the red blemishes on your neck and shoulders, slightly faded from his careful handling and bruises the size of his fingers around your thighs.

"You-" you coughed before you could day anymore, throat dry and scratchy, alcohol dehydrated people faster.

"Drink," he held you up, back to his chest, arms slipping around you too comfortably to hand you a cup of water, cool and fresh.

He had expected this, he wasn't as delusional as he first seemed, and he was prepared. You took it, gulping it down carefully, counting the seconds - minutes - that would pass until the drug kicked in, if he had diluted any in your water.

He hummed happily, his chest vibrating as he wrapped his arms around you, nosing the collar of your neck, he placed fluttering kisses on your open shoulder. The collar of his shirt slipped from one side, exposing your skin. His teeth grazed you, teasingly nipping you with warm puffs of air.

You gulped, gathering whatever wits you still had after this whole kidnapping situation. Your mind was running miles per second, eyes gleamed over with tensions and tiredness, and your body sore from Simon's perverse affection.

"Where am I?" your voice was small, still raspy from - what you assumed - moaning and mewling.

"Home," he mumbled, latching onto your skin and sucking a dark spot.

Home? It neither meant your flat nor safety. It was *his* home, a prison he built for you. You looked around. You thought it better to get to know the place he decided to keep you captive, to learn and discover its secrets, anything you could use against or for you.

It was like a studio apartment, everything was open apart from the bathroom, it had a small kitchenette with a fridge (probably in case he left for a while, deployed in another country while he kept you here.), a bookshelf filled to the brim with books and a desk pushed to the side. He'd forgone leaving you with a television, a mobile device, a phone or a computer, all were risks of you getting out.

The walls were painted over, bare of windows and stairs lead to a door, locked from both sides. He locked you in his basement, beneath his house and every other neighbour's nose. No one would come to your rescue if you screamed. No one would hear your cries of anguish or your pleas for freedom.

He bit down, teeth pressing onto your skin, denting the scarred flesh with his teeth marks. You yelped, the area hot and painful, his strength leaving an almost skin-deep bleeding, fiery and red. It was irritated and swelled in seconds. He moved from one patch to the other, determined to mark up your shoulder before possibly moving on to the next one.

You squirmed on his lap, trying to free yourself from his restrictive hold. You gripped his hands, digging your blunt nails into his forearms. He scoffed, nuzzling the bites he made, tongue lapping at the bleeding lines.

"Ghost," you gasped, legs kicking and body struggling.

Clicking followed every kick, the distinct sound of metal rattling in a disorderly way. You looked down your leg, catching the cuff around your right ankle, a long chain kept you jailed in the basement. It was long and winding, enough to comfortably walk laps around your new accommodation but too short to reach the door.

You stared at it incredulously, the utter rage and disgust that burned in your gut that he planned to keep you as if you were a glorified pet or some sort of prize he scouted and obtained.

You knew he liked you before, it was a simple and innocent crush, like finding your first one and not knowing how to react. That, and the fact he was a soldier, scarred by time and marked by warfare made him so standoffish. You thought it was simple, but now, it was too late to forget, to not look, to let bygones be bygones.

He was obsessed, not necessarily sane, but not crazy either. He wasn't delusional, by everything he set up as a precaution, but he let his darkness fester, grow and crack the surface of his calm and stoic persona. He was still calm and meticulous, but it was a different kind, storming ideas for your imprisonment and wishes he wanted to make true. Ghost and Simon overlapped, neither good nor evil, he was simply letting the monster rage uncontrolled.

His pent-up emotions drove him to the edge, and your rejection pushed him over, tipping the scale of his sanity. That's how you ended up in your current situation, his hands wandering over your thighs, dipping between them and down to your knees. He still nipped at your skin, biting and pulling the collar down the other shoulder. His teeth sunk into the muscle between your neck and shoulder, warm fingers slipping under his shirt to knead your chest.

You winced, flinching when he plucked your nipples, pulling on them until you let out a pained whine.

"Stop-!" your hands followed his, clamping around his wrists and dragging him out, but he stayed firm, unmoving to your will as he twirled your mounds. "Fucking stop!"

He huffed, hands dropping to your lap. He mumbled into your bitten skin, groaning in complaints about not letting him care for you. His complaints came with hot breaths on your nape, mouthing the back, turning silent and unmoving.

His quietness was familiar to you, his penchant for sifting through his thoughts in utter silence. Then he moved, draping the covers over your body, tucking you in. He stood at your bedside, expression lighting in a gentle smile. Under the dim lighting of the room, he looked like a beautiful angel. A gold halo hovered over his blonde locks, framing his pale skin and warm, brown eyes.

He kissed your forehead, lips lingering a few seconds longer as he took in the calming moment. He had you, he had you in his home.

"How about breakfast? Fried eggs and bangers, how's that sound?"

The normalcy of eating breakfast in bed, to wake up and be greeted with a British breakfast made by Simon. He liked the idea of such normality, it was romantic, domestic even. To be able to cook for you and serve you the food he made, he'd eat at the table in the middle of the room, seated opposite from you.

He left before you could give him a piece of your mind, or your reply to his question. Fried eggs, you knew what that was, but *bangers*, what the fuck was that?

The stairs creaked lightly, bending under Simon's weight, but his steps were silent - dangerous. The lock clicked when it was unlocked, and he left you alone, the door locking behind him. Gone was your escape, gone was your freedom, gone was your life with the door locking before you.

Time seemed endless, it went by in a blink or in long, painful moments that left you angry. He hadn't given you a clock, and without anything technological (the microwave didn't have the time, whatever Simon had done, worked. Time never played on the four-letter screen.), you couldn't tell day from night, seconds from minutes and minutes from hours. Time dragged agonizingly slowly, the only clue was Simon kept a pattern: three meals a day, breakfast, dinner and supper before going to bed with his arms wrapped around you.

How long you've stayed here was unknown. You couldn't know and Simon didn't want to tell you. He changed subjects or glared at you until you dropped it or he decided to drop it. You had no link to the outside, no way of knowing if you'd been announced missing or if anyone was worried. Simon had cut all your connections to the world around you, just outside your reach, on the other side of these walls that confined you.

You desperately needed to know about your case, if they knew, if they filed a missing person report if they were searching for you. It pained you to be ignorant of everything but your small world, the things that happened in your small room. Everything you knew was Simon.

His horribly, soothing words in his deep voice, speaking into your ear or your hair, whispering his dreams and his hopes, his love and his adoration. His wandering hands, raking the tension from your shoulders, the knots in your back, your worry from your eyes and lips, and the pleasure - forced - he brought upon you.

Entertainment was brought through him, or through the books he left for you, most were erudite, both old and new novels. Bram Stoker's Dracula, The Silence of the Lambs and The Heart of Darkness were a few of the novels you'd caught on the bookshelf.

He also fed you. Most days, he'd stay until it was time to eat, he would leave - sometimes half an hour or a whole hour, it ranged between depending on the meal - and come back with warm plates. They always smelled good and they tasted better.

It surprised you how skilled he was in cocking, as he was in infiltration, sniping, abducting and killing. Perhaps he took the time apart from you to forge his plan, to learn to cook and to care.

You ate, slowly and contemplatively. He stared at you eat, always making sure you took the first bites before digging into his own plate. It weighed heavy in your gut, like a reluctant gift you were bestowed, and Simon made sure you ate everything.

You felt dazed, gone, after eating, as if a cloud washed over your mind that made you slower, and sluggish with everything you did. The food was drugged, you were aware of that when you first felt lethargic. It made you less testy, less bratty as Simon grumbled, you were more pliant to his whims and easier to move when you tried fighting him.

Though it eased the nausea that wracked your body in the mornings, the sudden discomfort in your abdomen and the heaviness that the ache gave. You rarely needed to move from the bed if the urge to vomit came up, Simon kept pills for that. If you did, he'd comfort you, holding your hair back as the content of your stomach surged upwards.

Your time spent with Simon was time spent organizing your thoughts, Winston was smart, engineering-wise, he was amazing. Then there was Mercy with her medical breakthrough and Torb with his ingeniously brilliant machines. If they came together, found what went wrong with the portal you went through.

Trace would be so worried if she wasn't already dead worried. She was a caring and responsible mentor, taking you in before and after the fall of Overwatch. Nearly twelve years under her and this was the first mishap. You spent nearly two years in Simon's world - you counted the time your could count, the days you spent working and enjoying life as much as you could in a different place - and your heart never stopped missing your family.

You missed Jack - Soldier: 76 - when he would openly laugh, and Gabriel, when he was still the man he was. You missed Tracer's fussing, blinking around with so much energy, and Reinhardt's proud standard when he loomed over his teammates with his Barrier Field. You missed them horribly, they were the glue that kept you hoping for freedom.

It happened when you nearly conceded to Simon's whims, bending to his will and words, letting his hands wander your body and feeling pleasure - genuine. His confessions were parroted, and his I love youwas returned.

You ate less, however, the lump in your gut grew by the days, weighing heavier and heavier. You had weird cravings, followed by nausea most mornings, gripping the toilet bowl with your head hung low. Simon held your hair back and rubbed soothing circles on your back, bemoaning about your pains and cramps.

He left a few times during your period of captivity, vanishing for long periods - usually a week or two - and had you manage everything on your own. He had cameras set up, watching your every move, connected to whatever device he decided to watch you.

He was deployed a week ago, his steps never walking to the door during the week, but now, you could hear his booming steps around the house. They were loud and intentional. Dread always filled your body when you learned he came back, he was clingy, handsy and obsessive when he came back, growling that he would burn down the world if couldn't have you; or that he was thinking about you - constantly - and that the video feed on his phone was never enough.

You picked up on his pace, hurried and panicked. They stomped around the house in search of something before it stopped at your door. Your ears perked on the clicking of the lock, straining to listen to his heaving breaths.

Crack

You jerked forward. Something behind you cracked, the loud cracking filled the air as you turned. A blue swirl cracked the shift in reality, like glass fracturing and breaking into pieces, it glowed with every line. It pulsed calmly, the swirls capturing your attention. You felt drawn to it, your hands twitching with the urge to touch it, to let your fingers swim in the infinite pool.

"(Name), are you there?" a voice called from the other side, small and feminine. It was dripping with worry and exhaustion. "Luv, are you there?" she cried a second time, a hand emerging from the portal.

You knew the voice, the warm, familiar voice that called out to you with love and compassion. A friend. A mentor. A family.

You reached out to it, hand inches from hers. Then the door to your cage burst open, his screams echoing in the basement. He hurried down the stairs as fast as he could, mask still on his face as he reached for you. His gloved fingers grasped the air for you, rushing towards you with immense worry and fear in his eyes.

Mere seconds behind you, his fingers grazed your back as you fell into the waiting arms of your mentor. He was too late, he fell on the vacant bed, watching the portal close behind you. He clutched the bending, the place you sat moments ago. It was still warm, your heat and smell still mixed into your sheets.

He spun lies about your absence, about your sudden disappearance from his world. You moved away after your breakup, you distanced yourself from him to make the move easier on your heart and his. The TF had accepted the excuse, solemnly nodding about your leave and wishing they could have said farewell to a good friend.

They moved on with life, still smiling nostalgically when you were brought up, but Ghost was left heartbroken. He knew something was wrong that day, the itch in his brain about something happening at home. That's why he was in such a hurry, in a panicked frenzy to get home - to get to you. He was too late though, seeing you being pulled into a portal. Dooming was the effect on him; devastation was the pain in his heart; shattering was the sorrow of his soul.

He poured everything into keeping you, only to lose you. Now, he poured every second of his life into work, never letting his mind wander to the bump on your stomach or the subtle relinquishment in your actions to him.

He was deader than dead, colder and more stoic than before. They saw the change, they understood, but never blamed you. Everyone had fallouts, Simon just had more than the rest of the world. That's why he played Ghost more often than before, building his walls higher and his appearance darker.

Yet somehow, Soap was enthusiastic enough to rope him into playing games on his console (he used to play more before finding time between deployments to jump into a match with the others). Overwatch 2, an evolution of the first made better. Soap promised it was good. His spiel about the characters having a profound background and the gameplay being fun. Ghost was doubtful, he and Soap didn't have the same definition of fun, they were associated with different things.

He liked Soap, though, so he humoured his sergeant. He downloaded it on his console, watching the white line charge until it became playable. Soap had mentioned a few names: Genji, Sombra, Reaper and Zenyatta, he even joked about Reaper resembling him, the skull mask and the dark drapes. He'd also gushed - like an over-enthusiastic gamer - about a new character, a woman, the sole student of this Tracer.

He scoured through the lists of players, eyes skimming over the faces before he spotted a familiar one. It was more cartoonish, drawn in gentle lines and beautiful shades. Your face, it was your beautiful face. He nearly dropped his controller, hands shaking and body heavy.

Was it guilt that washed over him? Was it pain that washed over him? Was it sorrow and melancholy that washed over him? Or was it his world that came crashing down on his shoulders?

The world dulled, his breath became stagnant and shallow as he stared at your hero. You were standing proud and fearless, guns held in your hands with a bright smile. He watched you emote, your character moving as it was coded. He scrolled through your skills and perks, some he remembered you use. You blinked and recalled, moving back and forth between time and space, breaking the fragile shift in the world.

Soap was right about the new hero, you were interesting and lovely. In a flurry of emotions, he opened up your biography - or a snippet of your backstory. Every word bled his heart, every act and every situation wracked his body with sadness. The more he read, the more his tears threatened to fall.

You kept your - his - child, a beautiful kid with his blonde hair and your eyes, a round, yet sharper face like his. You kept him, you hadn't aborted the child. You gave birth and he wasn't there. You took care of your kid and he wasn't there. You watched him grow and he wasn't there.

He cried, body closing on itself. His shoulders shook, his vision blurred and his face streaked with tears. A broken sob broke through his throat, restricted and pained with waves of emotion, deep and harrowing sadness of his loss.

"I miss you, love," he rasped, his fingers gripping his hair, nearly ripping out the seams. "I miss you."

[cher-rium]

Liquid fashioning Snake’s sneaking suit with his own flare.

I really enjoy Liquid as a character. I haven’t played all the games in the franchise quite yet but I’ve finished MGS1.

Here are some headcanons for if Liquid lived through Foxdie or wasn’t targeted by it in the first place:

-He honestly really reminds me of Dio Brando (another fictional fave of mine) so I think he’d have a similar relationship as Dio did with Jonathan. A burning hatred accompanied some level of respect. Maybe Liquid, after being defeated by Snake, would have some respect for him but still bicker and have a corny little rivalry. 

-Honestly, I think he’d share a lot of personality traits with Dio! Just very… not intimidating.

-Since we’re still on the topic of JOJO, I imagined him having hair closer to REO Speedwagon? Like in my head I was like “yeah Liquid has slightly wavy/curly hair” and then I looked up reference images for this drawing and i sharted a little. His hair is so FLAT. I think there should be an appropriate middle-ground where his hair is still straight but has waaayyy more volume similarly to his little PS1 model.

-Liquid seems like the type to hold grudges so I don’t think there’s going to be much forgiving besides tolerance.

-It’d be really comical if Liquid accompanied Snake and Otacon and they’re just dragging around this man-child who keeps complaining and bragging. 

-I intentionally avoided giving Liquid any of the gear that Snake has on his suit. I think Liquid would purposely try to out-do Snake at every turn, thus going into missions naked so he can brag when things go well. 

-However when things don’t go well, I think he’d be like the average Overwatch player and just blame his teammates or bad luck. I feel like he’s the kind of guy to make REALLY shitty decisions in fights just for the sake of looking/feeling cool and then getting his ass beat. 

-And then after a whooping he comes back down to earth and actually does something useful 💀 (or Snake saves him)

-I know the sneaking suit has the shirt for a reason but, bro had his tits out on shadow moses, he can withstand the cold.

-I gave him grey hairs and a few more wrinkles than he initially appeared with to account for his aging.

-I can kindaaaa see him applying black eyeliner to his waterline. I also added really long eyelashes since I think he’d slay mascara too !

-I don’t think he and Otacon would get along at all initially. My thought is that Otacon tries to introduce him to anime or Japanese media as a whole to try to find something they can both enjoy. Personally, I really see Otacon being into your typical high school or magical girl anime and Liquid would be super-turned off from it. So instead they’d watch like Cowboy Bebop, Yu Yu Hakusho, Berserk, Ghost in the Shell, AKIRA, etc. Stuff that might be appealing to some random guy.

-It’s kinda hard to speak on anything relating to Snake cuzzzz uhhhh y’know I haven’t actually played most of the games– I’m particularly referring to the one where Liquid is a kid! (WHICH im really tempted to play rn in the middle of MGS2 since I REALLY wanna see Lil Liquid). That would give a lot more context ‘cuz I’m currently learning about everything relating to the other games via fanart and discussion posts here on Tumblr 💀

-Idk maybe they can bond on shared trauma man i got no clue

-Raiden? Uh? Okay say he’s [Liquid] involved in MGS2 (or at least the start of it since I haven’t gotten very far in): I feel like Raiden would be really annoyed by Liquid. Just a crazy dumbass making things more stressful than they already are. 

-I didn’t really draw it here but I think Liquid would have downturned eyes while Snake would have upturned eyes. Idk like if I could show the facial structure in my head, Liquid’s sitting face would be really miserable looking. Snake’s would be resting furrowed and seem more intimidating.

-Don’t know much about Solidus and Liquid (for some reason the only interactions I see between them in fanart is either them being shipped together or Liquid about to violently assault the old fuck) but do you know that image of Spiderman getting dunked on by Venom??? Ok so I think that’s them 😭 As soon as Liquid knows there’s an even better clone out there he’d just have a fuckin’ temper tantrum like Muscle Man from Regular Show and make it his mission to dunk on that old man.

-I think Liquid would CONSTANTLY smell like fuckin’ sweat despite literally being shirtless 24/7

-If Liquid were in the modern day he’d smell like 72 gallons of axe body spray

-On nice occasions he would smell like 72 gallons of cologne 

-He’d be a gym bro for sure

-Carrying around protein shakes, talking about gains, and crying about how his stocks are plummeting 

-His hair is definitely a little greasy

-I honestly think he’d have trouble growing facial hair in comparison to the other clones

-I feel like he’s the kinda guy to sit in a corner of a dark room and stare at Otacon to scare the ever-loving shit out of him. 

-Also seems like the kind of guy to have trouble sleeping at night so he just roams like a FNAF animatronic. 

-Seems like the kind of guy to ask Otacon what he’s doing out of boredom and then immediately regret it and space out.

-Ok so I had a thought. I think instead of smoking like Snake and Big Boss do, I think Liquid would drink.

-Y’know the room you find Otacon in MGS1? Where you fight funny ninja robo man? Ok so I think Liquid specifically asked for Otacon to be put into there so that everytime he switches to the security cameras in that room he just laughs at his goofy ass.

-Seems like the type of guy to ask “can i put on your glasses?” and then proceed to act like he just got shot by a firing squad from how blind you are (he does this to Otacon for sure)

-I’d think that Liquid’s ego is so inflated that he’d lack bitchess due to the “I’m too good for them” mentality 

-Upon seeing Ocelot I’d like to think that Liquid would bitch-slap him.

-Seems like the kind of fella to enjoy a meal consisting of dinosaur chicken nuggets, crinkle-cut fries, and mac n’ cheese.

Alright that’s enough headcanons goo-bye.

[tonberry-yoda]

Hii hope you're having a great day~! Might I get some cooking with Lifeweaver headcanons?

Sidenote: almost forgot to put in "with" on there 💀

Cooking with Lifeweaver

notes - PLEASE ANON THAT IS SO FUNNY OMFG i would never make headcanons of cooking lifeweaver, but I would love to do cooking with him LMFAO this made my day, thank you anon <3333

okay I still need to know more about this beauty, so I can't tell if he would be a good cook or a bad cook

let me think here for a moment anon

hmmmmmm

like would he be this amazing cook or would be burn the kitchen down???

OKAY

I think he WAS really bad at cooking

especially before college

like only ramen was on the menu for this man

but then he came to be this AMAZING cook

like seasoning is ON POINT

on that note anon

you're a very talented cook

like you love it more than anything

and when you met lifeweaver... he was... eh

so you taught him how to cook

let's just say cooking for and with you became his love language

he loves to wrap his arms around you and hum songs while you wait for water to boil or for something to cook

AND OMG HE LOVES TO BAKE WITH YOU

like getting icing on your nose and licking it off??? PLEASE THIS MAN LOVES IT OMFGGGGGG

and it's fun for him to make you a sweet treat!!

he loves cooking with you and will DASH into the kitchen when he smells food and pout if you made food without him

also, dancing in the kitchen for him is like EVERYTHING

so expect while you're doing the dishes afterwards for him to sweep you off your feet into a romantic little dance <333

~~~~~

overwatch masterlist | pinned post

2023 @tonberry-yoda – do not repost or claim ANY of my work as your own! likes, reblogs, and comments are not only welcome, but appreciated

~~~~~

[raisindave]

[Chapter 40] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content Warning: Description of violence and death.

It wasn't worth translating to Soap or Ghost what their zip-tied Tango was saying to them. They probably didn't care to hear the Arabic verbal barrage the man slumped over Soap's shoulder was spewing their way. The way he immediately carried on after Soap threw him onto the back of the dune buggy would almost be funny if it weren't for the deathly serious context. There didn't seem to be any need to clarify where to go either, as they wordlessly whipped the roaring engine back into motion and tore back into the dunes. 

Meanwhile, Laswell had typed walls of text into her laptop, flurrying fingers stopping with a breath. It left you oddly uneasy without the tapping white noise you've become accustomed to. The room felt lighter since there was no longer the fear of the unknown, but now it was the known that lingered in your conscience. A recently evacuated complex and test subjects with fresh bullet holes in their temples. Only by the grace of sheer luck did Farah spot that lone soul fleeing on foot in the desert. Who knows what evidence he hid with those precious seconds before 141 tore through that quarry. It's impossible to know what might've been burned or shredded, and a flicker of a glance at Price's headcam on screen showed him rifling through mountains of waterlogged documents- utterly unreadable. 

Your stomach nearly flipped as Gaz lifted himself on top of one of the crushers, spotting a dark churned pulp within, the makeup of which you couldn't bring yourself to imagine. There's no doubt that the quarry was the hotspot. One hotspot. For all you know, this could be the tip of the iceberg. Right now, you could just work with what you could and go one step at a time. 

"All Bravo, this is Watcher. Bravo 0-6 I need you to get as much evidence as possible at that compound. Keep your gloves on and head on a swivel. We're sending all of this footage back home. Bravo 0-7, bring the Tango out back and let's have a chat with him. We'll meet you there." Laswell's words painted a clear picture of orders, stern and certain, evident by the chorus of 'solid copy' in response. 

We'll meet you there. She has to mean Farah, right? She's shifting in her seat like she's ready to stand, and every emotion crashes into your mind with such ferocity that it makes your sinews crackle with anticipation. She's standing, and you do, too. You don't know why, but you just did. Firecrackling tension trickles down your thigh, and lightheadedness clouds your senses. 

"Cricket," Laswell gestured to the door with the laptop she'd scooped under her arm. 

Before you could blink, you were already forcing paralyzed tendons into action, hearing the sound of your own footsteps before you could even register the subsequent actions. At least she led the way; otherwise, you'd have no idea where you were going. Once again, you're tapping down the ironwork catwalks, but only this time at an accelerated pace. The stairs crashed under you, fluttering down each step, catching a flash of blonde whip around the base of the stairs toward the exit ramp. With a light hop, she had broken into a jog. You did, too. She pushed past the unlatched door into the white sunshine. You did, too. Laswell swung herself into a smaller, more pedestrian dune buggy than the boys' model. You did, too.

Dust and the smell of gasoline flooded your senses, fighting inconsequentially to keep coarse sand from flying into your hair and eyes. At least Farah would still be on overwatch, though something told you this barren, pathless golden wild didn't come with many passers-by. You gripped the buggy's metal frame like it would be drifting away into that blinding sky if it weren't for your courageous vice, even when your wrist muscles trembled with strain. 

Only when you were in the passenger seat, following the same twin pairs of tracks the task force had left as sandy breadcrumbs, did you actually connect with your circumstance. They're going to have you in the complex, among rank and putrid rotting bodies, sifting through evidence to uncover some key evidence. The smell of a dead body is a hard thing to get out of your system. Let alone the sight. At least you have time to mentally prep yourself for the onslaught, but most of all, you were eager to help unravel this plot. If anything, those bodies should be an incentive to get this intel rather than a root of apprehension. No time for emotions. Just do your job. Do it for Basmala. Do it for her daughter who should be studying in Brussels right now. 

It's so odd to see the quarry in person, like it's stepping into the screen you'd been watching minutes before, even down to the perspective. You've seen Gaz's identical perspective in the passenger seat of a vehicle, the same as you, crashing and soaring over heaving dunes. Only this time, the phantom falling sensation became more real than ever. A wavy view of tall concrete walls came closer and closer, the scorching ground making it look like a hazy grey cloud. Be it your elevated heart rate or the sun pommeling your dark tee-shirt, a thin layer of sweat made your vice on the fuselage slip with every plummeting hill. 

Price's raised palm looked like a torch in the darkness, like a British and moustached Lady Liberty, signalling you into the harbour with open arms. Only it wasn't a harbour; it was a shambling stone construction with a crooked sign hanging on for dear life above a brutally rusted set of doors. Ghost and Soap stood vigil over their catch, guns drawn, like hunters eagerly displaying their game for social media. Poor fucker was zip-tied up like a prized hog with a burlap sack reading 'onion' in Arabic taped around his head. Gaz reached over to place his palm on the roof over Laswell's side of the buggy, saying something in that accent that you couldn't quite catch. Fuck, maybe this heat is getting to you because Price was signalling for you to join, and leaded muscles scarcely cooperated. 

Hot sand took no time to spread their scalding words through the rubber of your boots. The desert sand has a way of being so deafeningly loud with its radiance, like you're hearing the sound of your own eardrums baking. They were talking about the elephant in the room, being the prisoner, and what to do with him. Frankly, you couldn't care less. You just wanted to get inside and get to work, to get out of the sun. It's when you hear your own name in the context of this stranger that your eyes snap into focus. 

"It can't be on the record," Price mouthed, "But Cricket can get us a written transcript when she's done. Right?"

Your face hardened. You were hearing things, seeing mouths move and eyes land on you, but it still wasn't loading in your overheating hardware. Even when your mouth hung open, hot air on your teeth provided an unwelcome sensory overload that made your stomach heave. 

"Wh-" you breathed.

"We'll get you and Ghost to take him over by that old hydroelectric dam, and let us know what he's got to say," Price clarified, those icy blue eyes did not provide the cooling relief you were craving. 

"I doubt he'll just volunteer the info... They- they're probably threatening to do to his family what they did to Basmala." Finally, a sensical thought slipped into your mind and past your lips as the situation clicked. 

"Ghost has a way of making people talk," Laswell nodded, glancing over her shoulder at the phantom.

"He might be better at your job than you," Gaz joked with that shit-eating grin he and Soap liked to sport. 

You managed your fiercest look past your furrowed eyebrows with remarkable ease since it came so naturally. By now, you're well aware that he's joking. Probably. Maybe. 

"I prefer to operate within the Geneva Conventions," you chided. 

"Conventions and rules will only get you so far sometimes," Price swaggered into view with folded arms. 

"And getting them to talk is one thing; getting them to say the right chatter is another. It's yet another thing is to actually understand what they're whaling."

"He's the best chance we've got," Laswell's voice cut deep, not only because you've never heard her be so sharp in your direction, but because she was right. 

You had no problem with catching a dishonourable condemnation or discharge if it meant standing up against torturing someone. Torture. That's what it is, torture. In so many ways, this was out of your league. Out of your skillset. Out of the things you weren’t psychologically equipped to absorb into your conscience. This one little flicker kept you in it, though. Those yellow mary-janes. If this is what it takes to unravel this grisly plot, you'll have to get your hands dirty. You'd rather take the weight on your shoulders of this poor soul's torment over the sleepless nights of feeling like you could've done more. Another set of impossible choices. Once again, a tragic ethical dilemma. If only one of those textbooks back in London had the wise words of some decorated linguist's solution, but maybe that's the thing; history is written by the victors. 

"I'll do it," you insisted dutifully. 

"Good," Price nodded, patting a gloved palm over your shoulder. 

The heat of his palm was unwelcome, but that placid face said that he was aware of your psychological sacrifice, a big ordeal for your rank. These guys have probably done this dozens of times before. You wouldn't be shocked if your lieutenant's number was closer to the combination of theirs. Yet, the crinkled smiling eyes he shared with you, likely somewhat sarcastically, said he was proud. He's definitely more than aware of your recognition of the satire in the action, though. 

"Don't worry about Ghost, he doesn't bite," Laswell grinned warmly, reassuming her position behind the wheel of her dune buggy. 

Oh Kate, if you only knew the half of it. 

Soap and Ghost bantered about something seemingly hilarious while you grappled with the ethical dilemma afoot. Every time you thought the mission was moving impossibly fast, a quick gearshift sent the operation into a new warp speed. The rest of the crew had gone inside, evident by the squealing rust, and Laswell had tore back toward the observatory to fire off more communications. Reality looked like a movie taking place before your eyes as if you were in the front row at a movie theatre. Soap's posture suggested he was just turning to leave, concluding his chatter. No Soap, don't go. Don't help Ghost heave that bound mass into the back of one of the buggies, wrestling against his explosive protests. At least he had the courtesy to buckle him in though, safety first. Now, his gaze turned to you. He was walking over to you. There's that stupid fucking grin. 

"See you soon, Cricket. LT'll make your first time extra special," another slap on your shoulder, he looked like he was on the edge of a laughing fit. 

He was obviously referring to the grim reality of forced information gathering. Obviously, he's talking about the torture. You felt your face scrunch into a tight-lipped smile. He seemed content with your wavering response, turning on his heels with one last look to his comrade. Fucking Soap. It's a wonder what he sees in this grim fucker, and what humour he seems to find in him. Maybe it'll be worth eavesdropping on their next banter session. With sprightly efficiency, he disappeared into the abyss below that collapsed, once vibrantly painted sign. The door clicked shut to a choir of shrieking metal, gone from view. Now you were alone. Alone, save for the dreadful, loathing figure that's utterly disgusted by having to exist in your presence, with their mouth wrapped in cloth that's sparing you from a view of barred fangs- and the hostage. 

As he approached, he blocked out the sun, making you look up past furrowed brows to meet his stoic gaze. That stupid fucking white plate in the shape of a skull caught the glare of the sun, eagerly reflecting bleaching white into reluctant pupils. You detested being there with him, and the odd humour reflected in his eyes. Humour, of all things. The fucker had the nerve to smirk at you through dark eyes, staring down his nose at you. He was getting a kick out of how uneasy and upset you were. Sick fucker, it's like he forgot that you're not the one he's supposed to torture. You'd be so much more at ease if it were anyone else. It'd be so much more doable, having constructive reassurance from someone with positive rapport to help guide you. No. Yet another trial by fire, though at least the Grim Reaper was already here to drag you to hell once this was done. Wipe that smug look off your face. 

"In," he flicked his chin to the vehicle that held the writhing subject. 

You detested taking orders from him, turning over your shoulder to the buggy. It's when you felt a featherlight hand on the base of your spine that your nerves sparked alive like firecrackers, leaving tingling flesh in their wake. Scorching breath halted in your throat, threatening to singe fragile lungs. Stepping into the machine like he suggested left your mind spinning. A simple action with dire consequences. He was just helping you climb back into the dune buggy. That's really it. The humming engine matched the vibrations of your humming nerves.

Every cascading hill made the hogtied Tango in the back seat groan against his confines like a cat in a bag. What set your mind at ease was that he wasn't protesting his innocence or asserting some grand misunderstanding with every outburst. This fucker had the nerve to call you every curse word in the book, including a handful of regional phrases that you hadn't had the grace of being exposed to in your academic setting- though you could infer their meaning. This guy knew he was caught, and your masked colleague was interested in making him sing, not scream. 

At least being in motion made a breeze breathe across your damp skin, even though it felt more like standing in front of a hairdryer. Last time you were alone with this man, truly alone, you couldn't control yourself. A spur-of-the-moment action made you act on deeply rooted instincts. Though that time, you had alcohol as fuel. However, this time, you have something much worse; lingering glances and heavy-lidded daydreams that'd spent months marinating. The head has a funny way of prying these unspeakable thoughts from your conscience when you're in heat like this, like you're sweating out the toxins in your system. 

What the fuck am I thinking? This is work. This is a job that has to be done. Seconds earlier, I was considering a dishonourable discharge. That one action. That second of touch did that to me. Am I that touch starved? What the fuck is wrong with me?

"Farah, how copy?" Laswell's voice cut through Ghost's radio over your shoulder, snapping you out of your trance. 

"Peachy," Farah retorted, stern and apathetic. 

"Good to hear. The Bravo 0-6, 2-6 and 7-1 will search the quarry and gather a case. We're counting on your overwatch."

"Rog."

"Watcher out," Laswell ceased the dialogue, forcing the quiet company back into an uneasy silence.

A hazy mountain, long and straight, manifested into the shape of what seemed to be the destination in the afternoon sun. Broad letters in abjad script confidently noted Al Mazrah Hydro, though by the depressed state of the dam, it looked like it had been long abandoned in the peak of the desert's punishing heat. Sprawling vertical streams of orange and red led to leaky pipes, far beyond repair, forking up and down the 100 ft mass of concrete and stone. The closer you got, the more your heart rate steadied, making way for a washing sense of duty. Duty and confidence. It's time to make this fucker pay. Wring out every drop of information that can make his warlord bosses pay for what they did to these people, what they did to Basmala, and all those graveless names from that transmission. Luckily, it came with the bonus of extracting crucial information about his boss or some game-changing intel that could turn this entire operation on its head. Details that Ghost will gleefully unburden him from with practiced brutality.

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