saving all my delusions here @ddaydreamdelusionss - Tumblr Blog

𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒌𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏

I Don't Know Why... And Maybe I Don't Want To

word count: 5.5k

pairing: jack abbot x (doctor) reader

summary: after a trauma patient comes into the pitt who reminds you a little too much of your late daughter, you head to the roof to decompress. jack follows, because you didn't survive that fateful day just to throw it all away. and he's there to remind you exactly why you have to keep going.

warnings: angst angst angst, medical gore, heavy themes of death and survivor's guilt, critically injured child, mentions of losing a child in drunk driver crash, mom!wife!reader, suicidal ideation, ptsd, inspired by this scene with al hashimi, no seriously... get your tissues.

notes: can I just day jeff buckley is the perfect angst fuel for this dumpster fire. like what the heck did that man go through. dang. anyway, I'm not too crazy about the ending of this but oh well. I'm still gonna make you cry >:)

Most of the medical dialogue is from the scene with Al Hashimi in S2.EP 10 (I am not smart enough to use any medical jargon lol).

enjoy reading :)

------------------------------------------------------

You hear it first.

A bone chilling cry so familiar, it was like it had come from your own soul.

“Please, please. That’s my son-”

You swivel around in your chair, head craning around the hub of the Pitt as you try and find the source of the distressed crying. Your eyes quickly catch sight of the gurney, Trinity and Mel already at its sides as the paramedics wheel it through, blocking the body splayed on its surface. Dr. Al Hashimi follows closely, a woman wrapped in her arm.

A crying woman, blood dripping down her temple, multiple purpling bruises and cuts visible from where you sat.

“Please, my son-”

The hairs at the back of your neck prickle, goose flesh prickling with a wave of dread as your eyes slide over the little body on the gurney.

You're standing before you know it, your charting abandoned as you grip your stethoscope, sneakers squeaking as you hurry across the Pitt. You follow closely, hand catching the closing door to the trauma room as you slip inside, eyes already scanning the boy laid out.

#the pitt #dr.abbot #ow #:(

venirush

Shipping characters becomes obsolete when you realize you can just ship yourself with them yeah sorry I don't ship any of this other than me and the character making out sloppy

venirush

Get more self indulgent NOW!!!!!

#ww

olyphant-tim

Daniel Craig as Benoit Blanc WAKE UP DEAD MAN: A KNIVES OUT MYSTERY (2025) dir. Rian Johnson

#misc: tv+film #pics

mirrormauve

faultlines

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)

Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.

cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection

Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body.

#cod #ghost #aaaahhh

dr-whitaker

The Pitt (2025) 1.04 ➼ 10:00 A.M.

#the pitt #fp

silverlullabies

Always The Last

Inspired by this post by @tojisun and this post by @rawme-price

cw: hurt no comfort, childhood neglect, depression, cheating, angst

You can always tell when it happens again. That little lurch in your chest, the sting behind your eyes, the way you force your expression blank before anyone can notice. It’s not new. It’s a story you’ve been writing since childhood, a script etched into your skin so deeply it feels like a birthmark.

Nobody ever picks you first.

In the gym, standing on dusty gym floors, the soccer ball at your feet, hands shoved in your pockets, while captains pointed at everyone else first, laughter bouncing like rubber balls across the court. They look at you, then look away, like the thought of you drags their team down before the game even begins.

You learned to stand still, waiting for the teacher’s hand on your shoulder, the mercy-pick, the pity-pair. Not a choice. A burden distributed. Someone sighs, mutters fine, and you slip into the space carved out for leftovers.

It follows you through the years. Group projects in school, everyone pairing off with laughter and inside jokes while you sit silent, waiting for the teacher to notice the one desk still empty.

You’re not a partner; you’re an afterthought. An inconvenience, drifting, alone on your own sinking plank until the teacher’s voice called out, “You go with them.” And the them sighed, rearranged their papers, and made room for you in the corner. Always in the corner. Always peripheral.

Birthdays are the cruelest. You watch invitations exchange hands, bright colors and glitter pens, the little flutters of excitement in everyone else’s palms. Yours stay empty. They’ll tell you, Oh, it must’ve gotten lost, or we didn’t think you’d want to come. As if joy was something you couldn’t be trusted with.

You smiled anyway, cheeks cracking, and told yourself you wouldn’t have gone. But you would have. God, you would have. You would have gone just to feel wanted.

Adulthood doesn’t fix it. It never does. Promotions pass you over, your name forgotten in the shuffle of recognition. “Most improved,” “team player,” “employee of the month”- always someone else. Always louder, brighter, better. You fade to the edges of group photos, cropped out in spirit before the camera even clicks.

People forget you were there, and eventually, so do you.

Love, too. You don’t get asked. You don’t get looked at in that way. When you try to imagine yourself as wanted, your mind stutters, a film reel missing entire frames. Desire glances your way and then looks elsewhere. You wonder if you are translucent, if something in your skin warns them off: not her, never her.

And your parents. You, an only child, yet never their favorite. You could have built yourself into a cathedral of accomplishments and they would still walk past, heads turned toward some imagined child who could have been brighter. You could collapse into ruin and they would only sigh, as though confirming what they always knew.

There’s no winning, only existing in a house that never learned how to see you.

So you stop waiting to be chosen.

You build your life like armor, pretending the emptiness doesn’t ache. You learn to smile when someone brushes past you, learn to say “it’s okay” when you’re forgotten again. You learn to hold your breath and let the silence fill your lungs until you’re drowning, but nobody notices because you’ve grown so quiet they forget you were in the room at all.

You carve yourself into quiet, into corners, into the negative space of every room. You tell yourself it hurts less if you pretend it doesn’t hurt at all.

But when the nights stretch long and silence presses its hands against your throat, the truth slips free:

You are not loved.

You are not hated.

Not, it’s worse than being hated. At least hatred is sharp, alive.

You are not anything.

You are nothing more than the ghost of a choice no one ever made.

And then you meet him on a Tuesday. The bar is a dim aquarium of neon lights and the kind of place where problems dissolve in the bottom of glasses. You go because it’s easier to listen to other people’s stories than to sit at home with yours. You don’t expect anything except the usual ache of watching strangers make each other choices.

Until he looks at you. Once. Then again. A double take that halts the static in the air. His eyes are blue, his mouth set in the kind of line that speaks of storms weathered and survived.

“Evening,” he says, voice low, the sort that holds rooms together. “What’re you having?”

You expect the usual choreography: he buys the drink, you exchange small talk lacquered over emptiness, he follows the gravity of your loneliness like a hunter following blood. You are practiced at stepping out of your own way, at laying down like a welcome mat.

Instead, he sits and asks your name and actually listens when you give it. He tells you his- “John Price”- and it fits him like a well-worn coat. When you deflect with a joke, he smiles into his glass like he’s storing the sound for later.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, and the voice is low, roughened with smoke and years.

You tell yourself it’s obvious what he wants. Men like him don’t buy drinks to be kind. They buy them to get laid. You should say no, but you don’t because when has anyone chosen you, even for that?

The whiskey burns, but his gaze is steady. He listens when you talk, though you keep your sentences small, afraid of spilling too much.

You keep waiting for the angle. For the telling glance at your mouth, the warm hand to your knee, the lean that says come on then. But the night passes and he doesn’t herd you toward the door; he just stays, anchoring the barstool with the patient gravity of a lighthouse.

When he finally asks if he can walk you home, it’s not a script, it’s a question. You say yes, because it’s easier than saying you don’t remember the last time someone asked.

He walks you home without hurry, as though he has nowhere else to be, his stride folded into yours like he’s content to match your shadow. At your door, he stops, hands in his pockets, shoulders broad against the dark. He waits while your key trembles in the lock.

“Here you are, then,” he says at last, voice quiet, polite. Steady. He does not move toward you, does not press, only stands there as if goodnight could be the cleanest ending; tidy, untouched, leaving you to the same silence you’ve always returned to.

You step halfway inside, caught in the stale glow of the hallway light, and glance back. He is still there, solid and unmoving, and for a moment you think: this is where he goes. Perhaps that would be safer. Perhaps easier. Another man who passes through your orbit without collision.

But the hollow ache in you is older than safety, deeper than ease. It begs before you can stop it. So you turn, rise on your toes, and press your mouth to his. A touch full of hesitation, clumsy with doubt, already braced for the recoil, the soft apology, the practiced retreat.

But he doesn’t retreat.

His breath catches, and then the answer is fire. His mouth hardens against yours, heat flooding where you thought only absence lived. One hand curves around your jaw, the other drags at your hip, pulling you in. The kiss deepens, hungry, edged with restraint breaking loose, as if he’s been holding himself at bay all night.

You bring him inside, expecting the mechanics of it: clothes, skin, heat, the ache of loneliness masked for an hour. And yes, you have him, all of him, heavy and solid above you, inside you, your body opening like it’s been waiting years for this exact weight. You cling to him like proof that you can be wanted, at least for tonight.

When it’s over, you lie still, already bracing for the cold air of absence when he leaves. You keep your eyes shut so you don’t have to see him go.

But morning comes and he’s still there.

The kettle whistles, and you stumble into the kitchen to find him barefoot, shirtless, filling mugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He glances at you, tired but warm. “Milk? Sugar?”

It should have been one night. He should have been gone before sunrise. That’s what you told yourself, what you prepared for.

But he doesn’t leave that day.

Or the next.

Or the one after.

He texts. He calls. He asks you out again, not for another night tangled in sheets but for dinner, for a walk, for coffee that isn’t instant. He remembers your order, sends you songs, waits for your replies.

And slowly, impossibly, he becomes a fixture. A man who takes up space not just in your bed but in your days, your weeks, your chest. A sudden constant. A voice that threads through the empty places and stitches them shut.

You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. That this is charity, that he’ll realize you’re no one worth the effort. But he never does. When you ask him outright, voice shaking with the confession of a lifetime spent unchosen, he only frowns like you’ve grown another head.

“I picked you,” John Price says, quiet but certain, as if it’s the simplest truth in the world.

And for once you believe it.

The next few months unfurl like a soft miracle. You learn the shape of his absence and the weight of his return, a tide that carries you rather than drowns you. On missions, your phone becomes a hearth. Landed; Eat something; I miss your laugh. He sends a picture of a sunrise from a runway and says it reminded him of the way you say good morning like it matters.

On home weeks, he is domestic and ruinous in how easily you love him. He fixes the loose cupboard hinge, takes your too-dull knives to the sharpener, leaves you notes as if sweetness were a ceremony he intends to perform until it takes.

You have never been first pick, but his life reorganizes around the fact of you. It is not grand. It is not loud. It is consistent.

You begin to believe in ordinary future things: more dates, a larger houseplant, a summer where you don’t move at all because the fan is on and he is asleep with his hand in the waistband of your shorts and the window is open to the sound of late buses sighing at the corner. Happiness enters your routine like an invisible vitamin and you forget to brace.

So when work drags him away again, you know what to do. You fold the bed into a neat rectangle, answer his I’m off with come home safe, and book your train to visit family for a reunion to distract yourself.

The reunion is noise and bodies and bloodlines binding everyone but you. They laugh over stories you were never in, swap photos where your face is missing, ask after one another’s children and jobs and houses but never once after you.

You become part of the wallpaper, a shadow seated at the edge of the table, half-heard, half-forgotten. When the conversation swells too loud to bear, you slip out quietly, and no one notices you’re gone.

You walk until you find the glow of a pub window, golden light spilling into the dark, and let the noise inside pull you forward.

You see him through the glass.

At first you think: Oh. He’s on break. I didn’t know he was stationed nearby. Your mouth opens around a laugh that doesn’t make it out.

He’s at a corner table, relaxed in a way that means he feels safe. Shoulders loose. Head back a little when he laughs. Eight or nine people with him, military haircuts and that particular posture, coiled but comfortable, that soldiers live in when the walls are close and the exits are mapped.

You take two steps inside, the bell over the door a quick bright jingle, and catch his profile cutting clean against the light. There is a woman pressed to his side. No, not pressed- placed. As if the angle of the room were designed for her to occupy the space where his arm rests on the back of her chair.

She is beautiful: lacquered hair, a smile like a polished stone, perfect body and lips and eyes and- She touches his wrist when she laughs, claiming a small square of skin with the absent-minded authority of habit.

You tell yourself coworkers. You tell yourself there are always women on teams. You tell yourself you’re being silly.

And then someone else- another woman, this one blonde- leans in and raises her voice just enough to float over the clatter of plates.

“So,” she says, teasing, delighted, “how did Price propose then? Go on, tell us, we need some blackmail- ”

The room goes wide and thin. Sound steps off a ledge. Somewhere, your body is still walking, but your awareness has fallen through the floorboards into the cold crawl space where old truths huddle.

The beautiful woman lifts her left hand without thinking, lights catching on a ring that throws a scythe of brightness across the table and into your chest. “He did it in the garden,” she says, laughing. “With this ridiculous bouquet- ”

Laughter. Warm, affectionate. Familiar. The kind of sound people make when they have known you long enough to narrate your joy back to you.

You look at his face- not hers, not the ring, him. He is listening to her story with the fond attention you thought you owned a small share of. He looks exactly like himself.

Your mind, traitorous and efficient, supplies the counter-arguments at speed: cover identities, long stories, operational lies, there are reasons, you’re in a city where he didn’t know you’d be, this is a misunderstanding, this is-

But the old script has already risen through your blood like iron. The familiar sting. The chest caving in. The echo of school gyms and captains and pity-pairs and the hard, chalk-dry taste of not being chosen. The present collapses to a single sharpened point: of course.

You could go to him. You could say his name. You could insist the world hold itself to account. Your throat makes a small, animal sound you don’t recognize. You taste copper, then nothing at all.

The story flowers in your head with ruthless speed, as if it’s been waiting in the rafters for the cue to drop: You were the relief night. The warm body. The quiet apartment. The soft landing between assignments.

He saw your loneliness and made it a nest and lay down in it until it was time to be a person again somewhere that mattered. You were always good for this: to be the interim. To be the palm he rested in, just long enough.

The blonde woman asks a second question- you don’t catch it over the sound of your chest caving- and there’s a general cheer, the table clapping, John ducking his head with that shy, crooked smile he gets when too many eyes are on him. It’s almost funny, how the sound lands, like applause at your own disappearance.

You back away. The bell jingles again, thin as a nerve. Night air slaps your face like cold water and the street tilts and rights itself, a boat amid small, messy waves.

You put a hand over your sternum as if you can press the bird back into your ribs and tell it there is no sky to fly into here, only brick and rain and the endless wet shine of a pavement that doesn’t care you’re on it.

Your phone lights in your pocket at the exact wrong time: On your way yet? (from your aunt who forgot you had already been to dinner with them) and below it, as if conjured by cruelty, a pinned thread from him you haven’t opened yet: Signal shite. Will ring late. A life you believed in, still speaking like it expects to be answered.

You do not cry. Not yet. The body has laws, and one is triage: walk first, breathe next, inventory later. You walk. You breathe badly. You do not look back.

At the end of the street there’s a bus shelter with a bench and you sit on the damp metal and let the city peel around you, advertisement light swelling and dimming, rain beading on your lashes and not falling. Your hands are steady. Your mouth is not.

In the glass, your reflection is a faint ghost. You think of the gym again, the captains, the list of names that never included yours until someone needed to make the teams even. You think of how gentle he was with your mornings, your cupboards, your knives. You think of the ring slicing light like a quiet blade.

You were learning how to live inside the word chosen.

Now you remember how to inhabit the lacuna after it.

The city moves. You hold the metal and try to inventory the pieces without touching them. Somewhere in the pub behind you, a table is telling a story about a garden. Somewhere in your pocket, a thread of texts hums like a living wire. Somewhere in your chest, something that had finally come to rest lifts its head and leaves.

It is astonishing, you think dully, how quiet the world can be while a life caves in.

[Part Two]

#cod #price #oh #:(#series

gazlightmehardergazzy

"I'm not on birth control."

You say it nervously, fidgeting with the sheets, and Johnny swears he falls even deeper in love by the second. Swears Johnny Jr. down there could write poetry to back him up. Simon may think he's an idiot, but Johnny thinks he's not, because he's a genius. An absolute genius. Else, how could he land a woman who agrees with him in every way?

God, thank you for this miraculous gift you have given me. If I had known sooner that this is what I would get for not wacking off everyday, I would've stopped years ago.

Great job, MacTavish. Great job, Mini MacTavish.

"Same."

And you're on your back, legs nearly folded next to your ears. He's pressed flush against you there. Beyond excited. Beyond any comprehension of what you really meant, because it was a voiced concern, not a starting pistol for him to try to race to the finish line. It's only the rushed shove of the condom packet against his chest that he stills. You take the split second to push harder with a huff, making him sit back on his haunches, and pray that you're sporting at least a shred of resolve. Any further persuasion of his hips against yours, and you might've dangerously given in.

Dangerously given in to Louis XV, apparently, because he speaks French, now: "But I thought that we weren't on birth control?"

It's then that you notice it. A framed photo behind him: Large, pharisaic, and utterly contrasting with the boyish layout of his room. The beady eyes of his granny with a rosary explained it all.

#cod #soap #nsfw #lol

dcminions

CHARLIE'S ANGELS : FULL THROTTLE ( 2003 )

#misc: tv+film #pics

gazlightmehardergazzy

"Oh. Hell. No."

tw// mdni, adult content, Johnny "MacTavish" x gender neutral reader, Johnny doesn't know about condom expiration dates

oOo

He pauses. There's a look of abrupt confusion that wipes the smug grin off of his face once you snap your legs shut. There stands Johnny MacTavish, who probably has never been told no in his entire life, especially when it comes to the targets of his amorous affections. His cock still juts out proudly regardless of its owner's bemusement. God. You were barely hoovering that fatty for a good while as best as you could, considering how his tongue was all the way up your hole. And now, he was about to take you to pound town until—

"Yeah, I don't play like that." OK, your underwear is completely soaked so maybe just pants this time. Might need to crabwalk out of here. "How long's that thing been in there? What's the expiration date?!"

Condom in the wallet? This guy is a living meme. Who still does that? Do most guys still do that? Also, that shit looked kinda vintage???

"Relax."

Also, his room is high key tacky af. What did you expect out of a bachelor pad? You were focused way too much on choking down a dick, a very good dick, a very model-esque dick, mind you, but seeing the lame faded posters and paraphernalia of bikini models, guns, cars, and random liquor in the room...Is that a bulk container of marmite on his table? Laundry hamper looked full, too. Ugh.

He crinkles the foil and flips another lamp on. Judging by the look of the wrapper, it definitely didn't look like one that was on the market today. You roll your eyes when he opens the packet and twirls the condom on his index finger in circles as he attempts to read any semblance of text. You were beyond staying when he read the date out loud.

"Expiration date? How can these things go bad?"

You have got to be kidding. You ask again through gritted teeth. "What's. The. Expiration. Date?"

There had better be a date.

"All right, all right." No, it's not all right. "Says here. Hmmn...'bout..."

Okay...

"Ten years ago?"

Goodbye. You jump into your pants and shoes. Bye. Sayonara. Hasta la vista. Man trying to use expired-ass condoms on your cautious ass?

Goodbye.

"Wait—"

No wait. Where the fuck is the door? Too bad you nearly collapse from your traitorous legs being too numb from the thirty-minute, various-poses rim session, courtesy of Mr. Clueless who also catches you right on time. You nearly mourn the loss of the happy appendage that poked into your belly as he presses you against him in an attempt to keep you steady. A good night with good food, good drinks, and a good-looking man with a good cock. Too bad things went south.

He stills you as you try to find your balance. Once you did, you gave one last sad look at the pearly precum oozing from the tip you played lolly with and began a pitiful flight.

Ok. Not sure how your shirt and one sock ended up on top of the bookshelf. Whatever.

As you attempt to rescue your clothing, he strides over. Once again, you try to escape faster at his last words. This guy is nuts.

"But it still works!"

#cod #soap #nsfw #lol

angeldeleche-deactivated2025112

holding onto the sides of his face as he fucks you and you’re mindlessly babbling about how good his cock feels, how good he’s fucking you … and he is laughing softly, kissing your lips, asking: “yeah? that feel good, pretty? yeah?”

he’s five years old

PEAR MILLE-FEUILLE ─── carmy berzatto

summary: the evolution of you and carmy's relationship, as told by the layers of the dessert that brought you together in the first place, and almost ruined your life. or: the four times carmy caught himself falling in love with you, and the one time he actually let himself. (10k)

characters: carmy berzatto / fem!reader, mentions of claire / carmy, luca, richie jerimovich, sydney adamu, chef terry

contents: slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, idiots in love, angst (hurt/comfort), jealousy, so much yearning, reheating sydcarmy nachos, canon divergent (i kinda mish-mash the events of season 2 and 3 together here for funsies), cw for mentions of grief, talks of depression and anxiety, smut 18+ (carmy's touch-starved and cries during sex, you heard it here first guys!)

( NAVIGATION ) | ( AO3 )

pear mille-feuille, a classic parisian dessert, meaning "a thousand layers" in french, pronounced: pair-meel-fwee.

—

I. BURNT CARAMEL

Carmy rushed out of the restaurant with his pulse thrumming in his throat and the word of David Fields bouncing around in his pounding skull. “I don’t think about you at all,” he’d said. “I don’t think about you at all. I don’t think about you at all—” Carmy shoved the metal door open with a too-aggressive hand, so hard it hit the brick wall on the other side with a resounding bang.

He waited for the cool Chicago night air to smack him in the face, to remind him how to breathe again. He got a heavy whiff of warm caramel and sweet pear instead.

With his tattooed knuckles running hard along his tight chest, he turned his head to find a strange woman he only vaguely recognized sitting on the curb a few feet away — dressed for a funeral, wearing a wrinkled black dress and a run in her tights along the knee. A plate of something sweet rested in her lap.

“Uh… Hi,” Carmy greeted shakily, half-strangled from the leftover panic still clutching him hard by the throat.

“Hi,” you responded quietly, as if choked by some strange emotion of your own.

#the bear #carmy #smut #ao3

jenrubyjane

Thor: Ragnarok (2017) dir. Taika Waititi

#marvel #misc: tv+film #pics

gloomwitchwrites

Hii I like your writings! If you're still taking requests, can you write something about Eomer and the female reader? The reader is Aragorn's older sister. A ranger and a renowned warrior. After Eomer personally meets the owner of the stories he's been hearing for years, he may begin to fall in love with her. If you write, thank you in advance, if you don't I totally understand, no problem.~

A Sudden Spark

Éomer x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: mild suggestive themes, slight canon-divergence, fluff, yearning, crush at first sight

Word Count: 1.4k

ao3 // main masterlist

Note: Greetings, Anon! I'm SO sorry it took me so long to get to this request. It has been sitting in my inbox for a hot minute. Thank you so much for reaching out and dropping this off. I hope you enjoy this little thing I put together.

#lotr #eomer #oh #ao3

tacticaldiary

Where One Goes, The Other Follows

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Angst.

Note: Mentions of attempted suicide. Death on a mission

"You said we'd get out of this, remember? You promised."

She feels him shake his head minutely, a movement she might have missed if not for how close she was pressed against him. "Promised you'd...get out."

A/N: I don't feel great, so you get to not feel great with me! You're welcome!

Masterlist

It hurts.

Everything aches, a deep-seated anguish pulsing through her entire body. Like a shot to heart...no, a shot to the heart would have been quicker than this. Painless. Instant.

Merciful.

She chokes on shallow breaths as blood pools between the shaky hands pressed to the middle of her abdomen. Crimson gurgles up in her throat, so metallic she can almost make herself relax with the familiarity of it.

A simple mission, they had told her. A simple in and out, no clearance to engage. Keep it clean and quiet. When Price had handed her the packet of information, Ghost already flipping through a similar one, she'd joked about it being a vacation from the gruelling environments the team is usually forced to tough out.

It was supposed to be easy.

So why does she have a bullet lodged in her stomach? Why did they pick up the intel in a suspiciously empty warehouse, only to be ambushed by a few dozen Russian soldiers laying in wait? Their intel was rotten, she grits her teeth at the thought.

Pinned behind a metal container, the roar of gunfire crescendos over her ears. Pressed thigh to thigh, she feels hopelessness claw at her when Ghost makes a frustrated sound at the empty clicking of his last pistol.

Nothing. They had nothing but the slowing beat of their hearts and the uncertainty of their lives.

Despite the situation, she laughs. A tortured, humourless, choked sound as her head hits the metal behind her. One soldier injured, the other soon to be ripped apart by dozen. What a way to go out.

Ghost glances at her, eyes a little too wide under his mask.

It was funny. Everything was a little funny under the prospect of dying right now.

"Keep pressure on that." He orders when her hands slip. "They don't know we're out of ammo." Patting down his vest for a second, he unclips a grenade. The last one there, a last resort. You didn't throw a grenade like that in a close quartered environment unless it was a last resort.

"We'll make a run for the shutter on the left once this goes off, yeah?" He says, eyebrows knitting together in what's blatant concern when she doesn't respond. "Copy, Sergeant?" He says sharply, moving to shake her shoulder.

"I can't move, Simon." Comes a soft reply, the resigned tone sends chills down his spine. "I'll stay here and distract them. You take the shutter. Gotta get this intel to Price."

"Negative." he barks, shifting into position. "We move as I planned. Evac is just beyond those doors in the field. They won't follow us there, not enough cover against heavy fire."

For a moment she comes back to herself. Did he not hear her? "I can't...Simon I can't move-"

"Heard you the first time, love." That's all he says before pulling the pin out and tossing the object. There are a couple of clinks as it rolls, then the shouts and yells of their enemies as they recognise the threat. "I'm gonna get you out of here."

Hope dwindles, like the last rays of light before the sunset. There was no getting her out of here. She knows that. Dead weight is tough to deal with, useless in their line of work.

"Promise?" She breathes out roughly, a joke for a dying soldier.

The conviction he meets her eyes with, fierce and determined makes even her dark thoughts halt in their tracks. "I promise."

She closes her eyes, braces for the loud noise and flying shrapnel, only to be yanked to her feet and thrown over a broad shoulder. The movement makes pain wash across her body, enough to make black dot her vision, but she gets her bearings and clutches onto the back of his vest anyway, letting him do as he pleases.

The explosion sounds, ringing in their ears and Simon takes off instantly. Ducking behind containers, he almost makes it to the exit before shots start firing again.

He grunts, jolts more than a few times before he reaches the shutters, slipping out and slamming them shut behind him.

The metal and concrete is scraped from her vision, replaced with a green field and the sound of a chopper's blades whirring. Wind blows against her hair and for a moment it seems surreal.

She thought she was going to die. A shuddering gasp makes its way through her as they stop midway through the field. Simon moves to set her down gently-

And sways.

"Simon-?" She starts to ask, halfway to the ground. Eyebrows furrowed in intense concentration, she can't help but notice the way his mask is damp from sweat...his clothes too, and surely that much of a run wouldn't have been enough to wear him out. She's so making fun of him the moment she can suck in a full breath if that's the case, and-

Simon buckles to the ground, taking her with him. She lands on top of him, pulling a strangled groan out of the man. "Shit, are you...you okay?" She pants, clutching a hand to her wound before sitting up on her knees next to him.

Her entire front is covered in more blood that it had been before, and that's odd because...oh.

His front is stained with enough blood to make his previously green vest the colour of wine.

The sight stuns her, knocks the breath out of her because...what?

"Hey, you-Simon you're bleeding." She gasps, abandoning her own woes to take a better look at him. Blinking away the sluggish dizziness from her own blood loss, she carefully tears off his vest and-

His torso is riddled with bullet holes.

Too many to count. All of them bubbling and bleeding, pouring out liquid that should be inside him because he needs that, it's important and he's going to bleed out if this keeps going...

Hands hovering over his chest, they move from injury to injury, not knowing which one to press down on. For each one there were three more, and the fight against the rising panic and bile rising in her is getting tougher and tougher by the second.

"Made it out, at least." He breathes, shallow and raspy.

"You-you're bleeding." Is all she can manage to say, voice shaky.

In shock.

"I noticed." His humour isn't appreciated.

"I'm sorry." She chokes out. "I didn't...you got shot because I-"

"Oi." He grits out. A shaky, trembling hand moves to cup her jaw and despite the state he's in the touch is grounding and as rough as ever. "None of...that."

"You can't die." She encases his palm with her own, keeps it pressed there uncaring of the blood slicking her face. "You can't. Simon, you-it's okay. It's going to be okay." A sob rips its way out of her, though she tries to choke the rest back.

"Can't...can't kill someone who's already dead...love." He mumbles into her hair, blooding it with blood that he's coughing up way too fast to not be concerned about.

"Don't leave," She begs, hunched over him, clutching onto his gear. She wants it off, wants to rip it all off and feel his skin, press her hand against his chest, and make sure his heart never stops beating. "Don't leave me, Simon. I can't- I need you." With a scratchy voice, she pleads and begs, trying to keep him talking. "You promised, remember? You promised we'd get out."

She feels him shake his head minutely, a movement she might have missed if not for how close she was pressed against him. "Promised you'd...get out." He croaks, bleeding out but nevertheless the same strong, still presence as always.

Still...still?

Her breath chokes her, her entire body trembling as her grip on his shirt tightens. "Simon...?" She whispers. No answer.

A sob rips out of her, raw and painful because this wasn't real. It was a dream. There was no other explanation.

She'd wake up in her room, head pillowed on his chest and pretending to still be asleep just to have a few more minutes of his warmth. Simon would chuckle, she'd feel the motion under her skin, and he'd prod at her side, line kisses against her forehead until a smile broke free and her ruse was up.

They'd be happy.

She'd be happy.

Her face stays pressed against him, her grip iron. She doesn't pull away, letting the primal fear and grief mix with the senseless hope that maybe he was still alive. She hadn't confirmed it. Hadn't peeked up to see it, so maybe he was still there, waiting for her. Like he said he always would.

Hours, days, maybe minutes? A period of time later footsteps thunder behind her. Shrouded in delirium and grief, she's still a soldier, and her instincts kick in.

Protect, protect, protect.

It's a mantra in her head as she curls over him, unwilling to let them take him away from her.

People surround them but her grip does not falter. Hands grab at her shoulder and someone's speaking, saying words, what...

"-go, you have to let go." The voice is...shaky?

Gaz?

Confused, she tilts her head up a centimeter to catch a glimpse of the person who has her. Gaz. It was Gaz. Looking exhausted, shaken but determined. His eyes flitter away from Ghost on the ground repeatedly.

"Gaz?" She asks, voice cracking. He nods, taking her confusion to his advantage and pulling her to her feet. When she makes a strangled sound and hunched over, he finally notes the wound on her abdomen and curses.

"We need a medic." He calls over his shoulder, pulling to sling her arm over his shoulder. "We've got you, exfil's here. You're gonna be alright now, yeah?"

"N-no." She shakes her head, fuzzy and full. "Not me, I-...Simon...Ghost, you have to help him he's..." A hacking cough cuts her off, sending sharp flares of pain all across her body. Gaz firmly keeps her head towards the front when she tries to look back. "What-...no, not me." A weak attempt at pulling away is made, "Simon, Gaz I need to help...Ghost." Mumbling to herself half incoherent, she finally bats his hand away and turns to cast a glance back.

Her steps falter into nothing when she sees her boyfriend.

The sliver of skin beneath his mask is a sickly pale, blood dripping out from under it. His balaclava is soaked in blood, a strange waterboarding technique to chart for the future, her delirious mind unhelpfully supplies.

It's the stillness that jarrs her, makes the reality finally sink in.

Simon was quiet, he was purposeful, he could lay looking through a sniper scope in one place for hours but he was never still.

This kind of stillness was one brought by the absence of the warmth of light.

Gaz is talking...is he? His mouth is moving that much she can see out of the corner of her eyes, but all she can hear is static as her mind clicks together a devastating picture, a scene that would haunt her for as long as she lives.

Dead.

She thinks she might throw up.

Simon. Ghost. Simon was dead.

They were supposed to be a pair. Unbreakable. Where one went, the other followed offering the silent reassurance that neither of them would ever be alone.

Where one went, the other followed.

She lunges against Gaz's hold, the strength in her battered form surprising the soldier enough to allow her to rip free and stumble over to her lover.

Shaky hands fumble around Simon's body, one of them grips his gloved one in her own tightly, God he was cold, how was he already cold? until cool metal meets her fingertips, slicked with their blood.

People call her name. One person...maybe five? It doesn't matter, nothing matters right now but the press of the barrel against her forehead.

There's no hesitation when she pulls the trigger.

But there's a distinct lack of blinding pain.

A stunned, heavy silence takes hold of the field. Slowly, guilt and dread and hate and self-loathing curling up in her gut, she peels her eyes open to see her team. Her family.

And if the cold corpse of her lover beside her wasn't already punishment enough, the devastated, broken, confused looks on theirs' definitely does.

Soap makes a strangled noise when she pulls the trigger again, her head full of cotton.

Click.

Oh.

That's right.

The chamber was empty, wasn't it?

Staring numbly at the gun, at the pistol that Simon had carried with him throughout his entire career, she doesn't fight the hands that grip at her, that pull her up.

Doesn't fight the way Simon's cold hand slips from hers. When the gun is gently pried from her iron grip.

Words fall upon deaf ears, a buzzing sound accompanying her glazed over expression as she stares at two soldiers dragging over a body bag towards him over Price's shoulder.

"It's alright, lass." Soap mumbles in her ear, and distinctly she notes the sheer of tears in his eyes out of the corner of his own. "We've got ya."

"He's..." She says faintly. Simon's head is zipped into the bag out of view. "Gone..."

And then she cries. No, crying is too lenient a word, for what leaves her is a sound reserved for a wounded animal, a sound that not even the most experienced interrogators could ever hope to coax out of her. She wails and cries, hoarse and raw because nothing about this was okay. Nothing was okay. Nothing would ever be okay again.

Because she was alive.

And her other half was dead.

And she was still alive.

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(1/08/2023)

#cod #ghost #what. the. fuck.#omg #ow #:(

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PEDRO PASCAL attending the Chanel Womenswear Spring/Summer 2026 show (October 06, 2025)

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