🚫 MDNI 🚫 I may reblog smut or kink or whump or any combination without tags
Call me Lindsay 💚 ✍🏻 🎨 🌿
If you see an ask from 🦎 it's probably me. I like the allure of being an emoji anon but I also want to grow community!
Howdy! I’ve got ramblings and story snippets for ya (and art!). I mainly enjoy writing whump and fantasy OCs, but I write some COD fanfic too!
She/her, bi (💍➡️🤷🏻♂️), ‘98 (👵🏻), 🇺🇲 (😫💀), Forklift certified
Posting since March 2024 / About Me updated August 2025
Pet Whump Masterlist (in slooowww progress rest in peace I can never hope to finish anything)
Ghost x JustAFriend/Fem!Reader
Most unique posts are tagged #lindsay00000008
Fandoms:
Whump, COD, The OA, Hannibal (NBC), any video game where I can use a bow and arrow or build a house, booktok
Genre interests:
Fantasy (historical, historical AU, original world, isekai)
If modern, would be an AU (omegaverse, magic, multiple worlds, post-apocalypse) OR have something interesting/dark enough to tide me over (serial killer, criminal underworld, etc)
Whump: 80% hurt, 20% comfort. But I love when they’re combined (e.g. caretaker witnesses or is even somehow responsible for the whump, or intimate whumper is comforting whumpee as they whump)
Fav authors: Diana Wynne Jones (whimsical!), C.S Lewis (fantastical!), my sister (who is my mirror and notepad!)
Interacting with me:
Writers…
✅If a post does not use character names, use the scene/prompt/dialogue/idea however you like! You can even continue a snippet in your own part 2 post or reblog (even if I end up continuing it myself). I like to see where different authors take a scene or inspiration. If you’re not sure you can hop on and continue a specific post of mine, drop a comment! Please credit or [link to post] if you’re inspired by something specific, but no biggie.
❌If a post does use character names, or is a reader x character fan fic with multiple parts, I have more of an investment and I’d like to keep those as my own.
🚫Do not put my writing into any AI systems
Readers…
Most story snippets with romance/smut will be hetero but I’ll keep ramblings, whumspo, etc nonspecific
I love any kind of feedback. I especially love comments! Feel free to tag me if you think I'd like something, or send me a request! (I yearn for a stuffed ask box)
Friends…
I’m currently learning Welsh, and a bit of Arabic and Russian. I have a degree in Chinese (and linguistics) as well as intermediate skill in Korean (though I’m way out of practice in those). You can message me in those languages too!
⚠️Blog Content / Trigger Warnings⚠️
General - Sexually explicit and/or violent content. 18+ MDNI.
Why do I like whump? (Link)
If there's a post you think needs an extra CW, no matter how specific, let me know! I don’t tend to tag CWs, so lmk if you’d like me to for a specific topic!
My posts may include:
Smump (Smut + Whump in the same scene/event) - I have since learned that people call it nsfwhump. I will be using both haha
Non/dubcon (I enjoy finding reasons my characters should smash other than because they desire to (e.g. sex pollen, appease a God, break a curse, share life force, etc) May include consent given without full understanding of circumstances or identity (e.g. sex with the man who killed their father, who then tries to kill her etc)
Omegaverse (including hetero, I know that turns some people off)
MF pairings, MMF pairings, MMMF... uh... etc
Breeding, choking, BDSM (the usual)
Monsters (But I’m picky. Yautja is probably my limit. Mostly humanoids. Love a good tall blue alien tbh)
Religious trauma / Purity culture / Cults / Grooming (sexual or otherwise - I'll never write physical csa in a scene but may reference to it)
Pet/slave whump, systemic or just for fun, conditioning, dehumanization
Dad/Mom issues, loud men trauma, narcissism, republicans, being a general disappointment to guardians
Medical whump & experimentation, time gaps/amnesia, seizures, drug usage, hallucination, general illness (although I’m not into bedside caretaker stories unless a whumper is still involved)
Mental illness (anxiety/adhd specifically from personal experience, ptsd, responding to triggers, flashbacks, panic attacks, dissociation, suicidal ideation (overt or casual), self harm impulses, etc)
Torture, gore, blood, scarring, noncon body mod or surgery, sensory deprivation, food restriction, self harm (not super mutilate-y, maybe limbs lost but I’m not too into disfigurement or infection)
Fantasy violence, damsels in distress, generally un-feminist tropes (think those old comic book covers with scantily clad women being attacked by aliens iykyk)
Born-sexy-yesterday - magically mature bodies/minds (e.g. Nymph born from a flower, magical artifact awakened to serve a master, someone was turned into a cat as a child and has just been returned to human in their twenties and is very unknowledgeable of the world. They may still get freaky)
Age gap (no minors, e.g. 42 y/o x 20 y/o, 500+ y/o creature x 20 y/o Human all fine)
Death (including minors)
Content will NOT include:
Extreme whump/maiming to MC without reason or resolution (unless done by irredeemable villains who are later violently slaughtered).
I like my MCs to have a resolution to any trauma or injury faced. I like them to be saved before the breaking point, or at least have their pain acknowledged and healed. As a writer it helps me feel in control. If I would have a hard time giving my MC a happily ever after, I'm less likely to write it that way.
Changed my blurb about “no full-on noncon”, ‘cause apparently I’m totally down with dark COD fics with stalking/ kidnapping noncon and pet play… you live and you learn!
Poor hygiene in combination with whump, smut, smump, or general intimacy. Like infected wounds, bodily functions etc (unless plot or worldbuilding related - e.g., where do pet whumpees take a leak?)
I'm a bit of a weeny and like my MCs healthy and clean, even if they're getting tortured :) If they puke they will likely get cleaned up etc
Intense description of injury to toddler, infant, fetus or pregnant person
Pregnancy body horror and writing children suffering gives me heebie jeebies. Also, will not write pregnancy as a happy ending because it terrifies me irl lol. Maybe someday I'll harness my discomfort to make some really banger handmaids-tale kind of stuff.
Minors in sexual scenes
Reminder that this does not include grooming by villains. If I did write something like that, it would be verbal or implied only and never described (e.g. a woman raised to be the perfect, obedient wife might have some groomy backstory scenes and allusion to worse events, but we won't relive them)
Two living weapon whumpees, one defiant, the other compliant.
The compliant follows every order to the letter, they don't complain about their missions. The only time they question authority is to ask "How high?" when told to jump. They don't get punished, their superiors show them off to the other weapons as an example to strive forward to be. They constantly beg and plead with their defiant friend to stop arguing. Stop fighting. Just roll over and be a good dog.
The defiant one is the opposite. They kick, and scream, and fight all the way. When sent on missions, they either do not complete them, or do it in a way that benefits themselves. They talk back to their superiors. They THREATEN their superiors. Their body is littered with scars from the frequency of their punishments.
Everyone's expecting them to desert.
Only for the Compliant Whumpee to be the one who runs away.
it's a simple concept, the soul timer, something even kindergarteners could grasp. simons classmates would gossip about it together on the playground, dreaming up their knights in shining armor or the fateful meeting. while the other kids wanted nothing more than for their timers to speed up, ghost knew almost instinctually he wouldn't make it to the end of his timer.
that's the thought ghost always had around his timer. a faint promise for a boy in a different timeline. maybe one without a zombie who roamed the house at night, or a terror deep in his veins.
joining the military was only further evidence towards his theory. ghost would be dead before he met his soulmate. he'd be sure of it.
except...ghost didn't die. he got through training, lived through hell in that coffin then lived through it again in the burning body of his families home. ghost was found by price, made it all the way to the 141 without dying. his timer lower than he had ever expected to see it.
he doesn't tell anyone when his timer reached forty-eight hours, but he's sure price suspects something when he turns down an op for the first time in his career. a small luxury afforded by his loyalty.
selfishly, foolishly, ghost hopes his soulmate is a civilian. price mentioned a new secretary, maybe them?
the hours tick down, and ghost finds that waiting is agony. he chooses to distract himself, sure he'll feel it when it happens. slogs through paperwork, finishes mission logs that he's been putting off. grabs a tea before meeting the team for touchdown, not distracted enough to not want in on the loop.
"got a live one, sir." johnny tells him, grin wide, lip split and bleeding. "saved most o' the interrogation for you. price wants the best work for this."
ghost looks up just in time to see you stumble out of the heli, dragged along by price. your clothes are bloody, black-eye swelling. your ankle sits at an awkward, painful angle that looks fresh enough he knows it's from gaz.
you look up, meet ghosts eyes with absolute terror.
he feels it, his timer hitting zero.
oblivious, price drags you past ghost, pats his shoulder in that self-satisfied way he does after a hunt. price lowers his voice so you don't hear, "got you one. need it to hurt proper, tie off the loose end after."
ghost...is expected to torture and kill his soulmate. he's not sure he'll say no.
No thoughts just sheep!reader who absolutely lacks any fear when it comes to wolf!141...
The few other prey hybrids on base steer clear of the 141, tackles rising and a bone-deep instinct screaming danger whenever they're around. The subtle way they move with eachother, death curled into every muscle, eyes intense with hunger, it unsettles even the best trained prey hybrids.
Well...except you, for some reason.
A simple sheep hybrid, you're their secretary, got the job from family connections, something simple while looking for better stuff fresh out of uni. You don't seem to fear them at all, blinking at them docile while they circle around you, assessing.
It's....weird, at first. Having a non-wolf happily stand and chat with them, or even seek them out just to be near them. There's no way to initially categorize you in their group...until gaz jokes one day that you're kind of like a helpless pup.
From there it just snowballs, the 141 pack accepting their weird pup into the fold easily enough.
Now when the 141 eat their lunch with plates piled high with meat, a sheep sits between them chewing calmly on fresh clover and greens. When they all gather in the gym to spar and growl and draw blood, occasionally a sheep will join in and they pretend-fight and knock you gently against the mats.
A sheep surrounded by wolves, and yet you're the safest you've ever been. They're protective of their pack, after all. A fact that becomes clear the first time a soldier tries to lay hands on you for a report you mixed up.
After...that. gaz helped you scrub the blood from your wool and you got to sleep in their den! A sheep curled up and snoring with wolves, not an ounce of dread, just warm and cozy.
Okay imagine a soulmark au with biologist!reader who studies mers...
Of course you have a soulmark, just like every other person on earth. Distinct black, covering the entirety of your palm, as though you grabbed someone's arm or touches their shoulder.
You never concerned yourself with your soulmark, why would you? There's more important things in life than some silly future spouse. Like science, like biology and animals and mers. You've been fascinated with them since you were waddling on two feet, begging to watch video after video of mers and devouring any book you could get your hands on about them.
Of course, no one seemed to like mers just as much as you did. Obsessed, your classmates called you. Driven, more like it. Driven enough to graduate uni and start researching these creatures.
Then you met Gaz on your first expedition.
You two really hit it off. Finally, a like-minded person! You two would talk for hours about mers while processing various water samples below deck. Never once have you felt like someone truly understood you when you gushed about the subtle dietary variations among pods, or the courtship rituals of snail mers.
You began to suspect, with each passing conversation that gaz was...well. yours.
Hard to confirm, when gaz is always completely covered. Hates the cold, he tells you. It's rude to just ask, so you wait. No rush, you like him anyways. When you get funding to follow a specific mer across the ocean as a long-term data collection process, of course gaz tags along.
Ghost, the lone orca mer without a pod.
He's...shockingly sociable after the first month. Swimming alongside the boat while you and gaz film. Technically you're not supposed to touch the mers, but for once gaz isn't wearing gloves when he leans foreward to brush a hand along ghosts side. You can't see his soulmark, only your own, but...if it's there, it will light up when you touch.
You and gaz, soulmates on the same mission. The thought makes your heart flutter.
You reach out and your hand slips.
Instead your palm lies flat against ghosts side, and the distinct shape of a handprint reveals itself amongst the mers skin. It flashes brilliant white, no doubt caught from the multiple cameras.
You look down.
Your palm is flashing the same white.
Gaz has a tight expression on his face, somehow both let-down but horribly excited because your soulmate is a fucking mer!
The chaos that ensues is politely summarized in the notes as "both scientists deliberated on the best course of actions." Which, as gaz points out, is...technically true for the panicked yelling you both shared while ghost drifted alongside the boat in confusion.
Why were you chosen ? You seemed to get it wrong. You weren't chosen by gods, by destiny, or even by me. Out of 8.3 billions calls I sent, only you responded.
I think it would be funny to write a murder mystery where not only did every single character involved have an obvious motive to kill this mf, they were actually all attempting to murder him first, but the murder attempts all cancelled each other out all except for one. Two people tried to poison him but the poisons just happen to work as antidotes for each other, and instead of killing him only gave him the shits, and due to having the shits he couldn't go hunting that day like he had planned, foiling the plans of the one who had conditioned his favourite hunting horse to panic and bolt at the cue of a whistle, and the other murder attempt of tampering with his gun so that it would have exploded his whole face off.
The whole mystery isn't about who could have done it or how, but who was the one who got lucky and actually succeeded.
Coyote hybrid reader wasn't really added to the team. John saw them scavenging around after a mission, luring them into the cabin with peices of jerky.
You were a good thing to keep around, even if you were a bit clingy. You missed your pack, and the men who took you in were a poor replacement. They didn't yowl, they didn't yip, they didn't scavenge... But they were there, and that was enough.
Until you see Coyote hybrid Graves for the first time. He's charming, he's loud, and he has a loud pack of Shadows that follow him around constantly. John keeps you far away from him.
"They are no good for you, pup." John rumbles as he grooms your fluffy ears. "You're a good wolf. You fit in well here." He soothes, your ears pinning back immediately.
"I'm not a wolf. I'm a Coyote." You insist softly, getting a soft growl in response. "Can't I just go scavenging with them just once?" He nips your ear softly, making you yelp and squirm slightly to get off his lap.
Alien crew 141, who takes on a human crew member. They needed someone to do the minor technical fixes on the ship, things modeled after human technology, and you did it well.
"You have eaten the same things for days now." Kyke observers, though you aren't sure where his eyes are. You weren't used to fugas aliens yet, but you couldn't deny he was fascinating to look at. "Are you bored of it?"
"Oh, no. Not really. It's pretty common for most humans." You shurg as you take your plate to your sleeping quarters. Kyle hums quietly in understanding, snooping through your stash of human food. He would remember to look for them on other plants.
The control panel for the lights on the third floor was malfunctioning, which Simon asked you to take a look at. He almost reminded you of an orc, except for the gills on his neck and webs between his fingers. "Ah, easy fix. Some wires need to be replaced..." You mumble as you get to work, Simon silently keeping you company.
"There! All good!" You clap your hands when you finish, slamming the control panel shut. Simon was about to compliment your work when a light bulb popped down the hall. You flinch from the noise, hands reaching for your ears for a second before fidgeting by your sides.
"You are okay?"
"Fine. Humans startle easily sometimes." You flap your hands to shake off the stress, which Simone watches curiously. You did a lot of things he didn't understand... Must be just how humans are.
A free-range group therapy called "get herded, idiot", where you and everyone in your group is set loose to run around on an open field while a highly trained shepherd dog tries to keep you all in one group. I am not sure what benefit this would have for anyone involved.
Toxic!price who hates that you have your own little apartment away from him, right?
He's been trying to convince you to move into his house, petulant about the physical separation and independence it provides you. Price keeps the subject lodged between your spine at every opportunity, always "I could keep you safe here, love. Apartments are so dangerous." Or "yer plannin' to tie the knot anyways, one less thing to worry about later, eh?"
But you're young, stubborn, and oh so sentimental about the apartment you pay for with your money. An issue price will soon fix too. First, he has to get you moving.
Tough choice between sending garrick or ghost. Simon's more likely to keep tabs afterwards, make sure you don't end up like his poor family. Kyle's more likely to tattle. Price can handle simon, but an internal investigation....
He's never been more thrilled to wake up in the middle of a Saturday night to you sobbing over the phone.
Someone broke into your house, stole stuff, tried to hurt you. It's terrifying, you're panicked beyond belief. Price knows ghost wouldn't go too far, you're just fragile, more evidence he's doing the right thing. Two hours later, price is driving you to his home for safe keeping, assuring you "I've got it handled, love. Bloody police wouldn't be able to find the bastard. C'mon, I'll take you home."
The way you cling to him the rest of the week settles into prices bones. He takes the initiative to move your belongings into the garage, a little project for you to deal with while he's on base. Handles ending your lease, too.
You still wake up at night clinging to price in fear. He'd say it's a good trade-off. A bit of anxiety for keeping you safe from any real dangers.
Can't hurt yourself now if he's got you under his palm.
Simon Riley x Doctor!Reader who specializes in scar treatment
Simon Riley x f!Reader
Notes: Okayyyyy so this may or may not turn into multiple installments, I have no idea :) but I just wrote this little thing on a whim, so if y'all want more, pls lemme know!!
Tags: Meet cute, banter, slight angst, discussion of past injury, hurt/comfort, platonic-not-yet-romantic relationship
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"Doctor, another patient for you in room fifteen," the receptionist chirps from behind their desk, blindly handing you another clip board while they type away at their Microsoft spreadsheet.
"No rest for the wicked. Thanks, Julie," you huff, tugging your gloves off and throwing them into a bin before grabbing the clipboard. You thumb through the pages as you walk, relying on pure muscle memory to bring you to your destination. These days there was barely enough time between patients to grab a snack bar from the vending machine, let alone rest your legs. It paid to have patience in this line of work.
Patient: Simon Aaron Riley
Age: 45, DOB: 19 Dec 1980
Reason for visit: Consultation for traumatic injury scar minimization treatment on face, neck, and scalp. Patient reports that circumstances of injury occurred during military duty: caustic acid burns and non-penetrating blade wounds.
Caustic acid burns, you huff, flicking through the paperwork. You hadn't seen that since residency -- not to the extent reported, at least, and never on the face. Acid burns tended to be relatively rare, especially in comparison to other burn types. One of your friends who'd become an ER doctor had lamented about the uptick in acid attacks not too long ago.
Poor guy, your heart sympathizes. Lets see what we can do.
You breathe outwards before rapping on the door, barely hesitating before pushing inwards.
"Hi!" you greet enthusiastically, sparing the (hulking) man hardly more than a glance before you reach for the hand sanitizer dispenser, "Mr. Riley, is it?"
He clears his throat, "Yes."
His voice is much quieter than you'd expected, soft and muffled, like he hated the sound of it. You resist quirking a brow, turning around to study him while you rub the sanitizer in. He's...
God, he's big.
The stupid, rickety patient chair makes him look like a giant, bulging biceps heaped atop the arm rests like solid steel resting on bamboo scaffolding. If he stood, he'd probably hit his head on the doorway, but sitting there, his shoulders are hunched, his head hung low, the perfect picture of abject reticence. A black facial mask covers his jaw, matching the black baseball cap shielding his head.
Mysterious, your brain interjects.
Clinically self-concious, your (rather blunt) professional self deduces.
Inwardly, you think it's rather impressive, how such a large man manages to shrink himself down into something near invisible, but you keep that observation to yourself. You extend your hand in his direction when you introduce yourself.
"So what brings you in today?" you bounce onto your rolly-chair, scooting closer to the man, eager to hear his story.
He tsks.
"Read my chart, didn't you?" he scoffs, voice twinged with disdain...or is it amusement?
It takes a special type of person to walk the fine line between those two, your inner-world says, hardly offended.
"Yes, but I'd like to hear it in your own words. Better to let words speak rather than typing mistakes," you laugh.
"Hm," he acknowledges.
For a few seconds, you wait for a reply. However, after the awkwardness grows to a palpable level and nothing but the rusty hinges on your wheely-stool remain, it becomes apparent he isn't going to give one. Still, you don't make to interrupt the process.
His chest rises on an inhale, and slowly, his head lifts, just enough for you to see blue irises peek out from the shadow of the brim of his hat. When he finally meets your eye, vision settling across your face, the once stoic set of his brows loosens, pupils expanding to capture the light as best they can. He seems stuck there for a second, drinking you in from your forehead to the tip of your nose, until you cock your head in curiosity. The exhale is punched right out of him, and he hurriedly ducks his head, repositioning the brim of his hat.
Suddenly, he doesn't look so tough.
No, he just looks...shy, eyes darting around the room as if he'd rather stare anywhere else but at you.
He's quite cute, the chronically single part of you chimes in.
AMA Code 9.1.1, your white coat whispers.
Internally, you shake the thought off your back. Focus. This man is looking for your help.
Again, his voice is soft -- so contrastingly soft -- when he speaks.
"I've got scars," he blurts, obviously discomforted and too afraid to hold eye contact.
"Okay," you respond.
Another beat of silence. You hope that it conveys your assent to his control of the conversation.
"And..." he stutters, "And I want them gone."
"Okay," you nod, wheeling backwards to grab a pair of gloves, "And do you mind if I take a look at them? To see what treatments might be best?"
Again, he doesn't answer. You only look on patiently as you situate your gloves. He's not wearing a heart monitor on his fingertip, but if he were, you imagined it'd be racing right about now. He looks towards the closed door, Adam's apple bobbing with a harsh swallow.
"You gonna bring anyone else in? To look?" he mutters.
"It's just a quick exam, doesn't require any tools or assistance," you promise, "But if you'd be more comfortable with another person in the room with us -- or with another physician entirely -- we can certainly make that happen. It's your choice."
"No. It's not that."
He stares at the door for a few more seconds. His hands wring in his lap, and for the second time today, he manages to look you in the eye.
"Just...make it quick. Okay?" he says aloud, commanding.
Don't want anyone else to see, his fidgeting frame conveys.
"Of course," you say, standing from your chair. He reaches for the cap atop his head, shoulders taut, before he unhooks the mask from his ear. You can see it almost immediately despite the way he keeps his vision locked resolutely on the floor. Beneath buzzed blonde hair, you see the beginning of red raised lines, trailing down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. They're long, fluid, and reaching, starkly mottled with color against his pale white skin. When he finally raises his face, you can see that his right eye is drooping at the corner, obscured by a small waxy section of fused skin on his outer eyelid. The eye doesn't look damaged, though.
The scar extends down the entire right side of his face, and the skin is textured there, raised with bright red in every spot that the liquid touched. It recedes into the surface of his skin in some parts -- the flatter portions of his face -- where pools of the substance had time to eat away at his cells a bit longer. The skin is wrinkled and stretched in those parts, including the bit by his eye.
In medical school, you'd studied case photos before. It was quite a distinctive burn pattern due to the way liquid runoff caused scars in the shape of the running droplets themselves, diffused across the surface by gravity, spreading the agony by nature's hand.
You cannot begin to imagine how painful it must have been. Your heart aches imagining how it occurred.
Slowly, you raise your hand to touch the edges of the the marks, assessing their texture.
"How did the injury happen?" you ask between careful fingertip taps, taking mental measurements of the length and size of each mark.
"It's in my chart. They teach you how to read in medical school?" he huffs...almost pouting.
You giggle.
"It is in your chart -- which I can read, by the way. But I want to hear your perspective on it."
He tsks again, "Does that even matter?"
"It's the thing that matters most," you reply -- and rather seriously, too. You emphasize the sentence with a pointed glance at his face, before you return to your task.
The scars are winding, branching things, diffused across his cheek, forehead, nose, and neck, like interconnected constellations across the night sky.
Despite how much pain you know is embedded in them, you can't help but think that, in a way, they're beautiful. Like many of the scars you saw each day, they're part of the people you help. A part that, in many cases, is just as much a facet of them as their hair color or clothing choices. That, and like many other things, something that wasn't so easily removed or erased.
As always, you keep that opinion to yourself. You can't tell whether the idea stemmed from your own clinical interest in them as a specialist. Or maybe the smaller, softer side of you couldn't help but marvel at the way Mother Nature always stitched herself back together in the end, leaving her touch as a reminder that, once the blood had dried and the dust had settled, you would always be made whole again. Someday. Sometime.
Of course, maybe you'd just published too many papers on the topic not to find them interesting by now. Staring out at conference crowds ranting about it for hours tended to do that to a person.
But hey, at least you weren't, like, a podiatrist or something. Somehow, you doubt your friends would find you as cool as you are if you ranted about big toes with the same enthusiasm as you did talking about the mechanism of Lichtenberg figures.
"Acid. There. That good enough for you?"
"Yeah," you curve your head to track the scars through his hairline. He perks up at the feeling your hands brushing through his hair, "And how long ago were these marks made? They seem well-healed given the circumstances of the injury."
He takes a breath in, "I'd say it's been...almost two decades, minus a few years."
"Huh," you raise your brows when you step back, pulling your gloves off.
He latches onto that little sound for some reason.
"What?" his cracked, crooked lips curve into a smirk for the first time since he walked into your office, "You think m'old, doc?"
"What makes you say that, Mr. Riley?" you laugh, "I thought it was pretty nonchalant on my part...they teach us that in school, y'know."
Why are you making jokes with him?
Why are you making jokes with him?
Seriously, this is what happens when you don't have a boyfriend for five years straight. Yeah, maybe you needed to get through medical school, and yeah, maybe you're too busy for a relationship. But then, every time a man so much as looks in your direction your heart starts to lurch.
That, and this is what your last preceptor would call 'ethical bullshit that will bite you in the ass if you let it fester long enough.'
Offput by the combination of those thoughts, you busy yourself with typing your observations into his chart. But of course, that doesn't negate the form of him sitting in the edge of your vision.
(That, or his warm, rumbling laugh. Or his awkward half-smile. Or the way that, when you leant closer to him, his cologne wafted over you in waves.)
Yeah, you should revisit your ethics textbook.
Or maybe you should buy another vibrator.
(Maybe you should do both.)
"Never thought I'd live to see the day a lab-coat developed a sense o' humor," he huffs, still smiling, before he reaches out to grab ahold of your name tag. The reel of the tag snaps back into place with a teasing noise, "How long you been wearing that thing anyway, huh? A year? Maybe two? Or do they enroll into medical school straight out of daycare these days?"
"Hey!" you swat at his hand before it can pluck at your name tag again, and suddenly, he's anything but shy, "You sayin' I have a babyface?"
"Uh-huh," he chuckles, "Doesn't match the white coat, love. Hate to break it to you."
"Pot calling the kettle black."
At that, he balks. His confidence falters, and for a second, the syllables get caught in his mouth.
"What? You think I came outta the womb lookin' like this?"
He gestures to the myriad of scars across his face, disdain evident in his expression.
"What?" you plop back down on your rolly-stool, "No. Just sayin', if you're trying to get a discount on the botox, it's gonna take more convincing than that. You look pretty good for your age."
That last bring yanks a laugh out of his stiff frame.
"'For my age?' What am I, seventy-five?"
"Well, seeing as how my professors never taught me to read a chart, it's a possibility, I guess..."
"Fuck off," he huffs, laughing.
"Aww, c'mon, don't say that just yet," you rock back and forth on your stool, "We're just getting to the fun part."
"The fun part?" he mutters.
"Yeah," you swivel back towards the computer, clacking away once more, "The anti-smoking lecture I'm professionally obligated to give you. From your chart. Which I can read."
"Save it."
"You want lung cancer?"
"Save it."
"Then stop smoking."
"Done."
You giggle, shaking your head.
"What?" he snickers.
"Y'know, I can see the Marlboro package sticking out of your pocket, right?"
Behind you, he straightens up in his chair to glance down at his belt, below which is the red and white façade of that familiar package. He licks his lips.
"What, a man can't change his mind, love?"
Love. God, you nearly melt at the stupid little quip.
"Not sayin' that, it's just..." you cross your arms, giving him a long hard look, "You don't look like the type to go back on your own convictions."
"You callin' me stubborn?"
"Not at all," you roll your eyes, "You sure you're not projecting?"
At that, he's got no good response. He merely lets his smile widen, just enough to let his teeth show through, and for that alone, you figure you can forgive yourself for your own professional transgressions.
"Well, smoking aside..." you sigh, forcing yourself back to business. You hate the way Simon's smile falls at the sudden transition, "You're in good shape for treatment. We can discuss the intricacies in further appointments, but there are several options depending on your own preferences. For the contracture scars around the eyelid, that'd most likely require surgical correction, but if you're aiming for less invasive options, laser treatments and topical medications would work as well."
"Whichever works the fastest," he speaks, voice deepening into something serious. He looks back down at the floor. It strikes something within you, and you brace yourself to act as the bearer of bad news.
"Mr. Riley--"
"Simon," he interjects, "Call me Simon."
You nod.
"Simon," You scoot your stool closer, "Before we get any deeper into exploring your options, I just want to make sure that you have reasonable expectations for your treatment."
He balks, hands wringing again, "''Reasonable expectations?'"
"Yes," you inhale lowly, "Given the extent of your injuries, and given the nature of your other inujuries as well...It's unlikely that the appearance of your scars can be completely negated. They can be reduced, yes, but they can't be removed. Not in the sense that you may be thinking, at least."
"Why not?" he asks -- no, demands. It's wrought with emotion, verging on anger. You don't recoil, however, you only continue onwards.
"Well...when you sustain a burn, it doesn't just affect the surface or the appearance of your skin. Altogether, what you might call...'the architecture' of your skin has changed. Scar tissue isn't normal skin, and aside from that, the blood vessels and hair follicles may have been damaged, too. With chemical burns like yours, the thickness of the burns is difficult to counter. Chemical burns can be deep, speaking relatively, and even with treatment, it's often not possible--"
"Why not?" he demands again loudly, and this time, his voice strains around the exclamation. He leans forward in his seat, and you're pinned beneath his harsh glare.
Instead of launching into another explanation, you let him sit in the silence, in the anger and emotions. The longer you look onwards, empathy hardly wavering on your face, the faster his belligerent expression falls into something...deeply hurt.
His anger falls away, whether it be from remorse for shouting at you or grief for his own situation, he ducks down to bury his face in his hands. A far cry from the man you'd just been joking with.
For minutes, you sit in silence. Simon, repetitively running his hands over his face -- over those raised red scars he despised. And you, looking on, unable to promise anything more than you could give.
"Simon," you eventually speak, quieting your tone, "Why'd you come in today? I mean, after almost twenty years living with these scars...why now? What changed?"
You hear him sniffle beneath the cover of his hands.
God, is he crying?
If it were possible, your heart breaks even further. Slowly, you wheel backwards to grab a box of tissues out of the supply cabinet.
"Does it even matter?" his voice is muffled from the hands he hides behind, warbled with tears. He's determined not to let you see them. (Not to let himself have them).
"Yes, Simon," you pull a tissue from the box, holding it out in his direction, "It matters. I could give you a whole spiel about the health science behind resilience and purpose in recovery, but I'm not saying this because of the research. I'm saying this because I'm your doctor and I care about you."
For a few more seconds, he cries silently into his hands, sucking in every hitching breath, like maybe if he tried hard enough, you'd never notice the tearstains on his collar. It takes awhile, but eventually, he reaches out shakily to take the tissue.
You don't recoil, not even when he lifts his head, and exposes his swollen, reddened eyes. His words are shaky when he finally opens his mouth.
"My nephew..." he manages, nearly choking, "He's -- he turns three years old in a few weeks."
"Yeah?" You pull another tissue, "He's what makes you want to get rid of the scars?"
He nods his head, and for a split-second, that look of sadness on his face deepens into an aching look of sheer anguish.
"He's a sensitive lad, gets -- gets nightmares real easy," he looks down at his boots, "Last time I went over, he burst right into tears, and -- and my brother said he woke up cryin' for damn near the whole weekend."
A sob escapes his mouth before he can stop it. He swallows it and clears his throat.
"He's so scared of me he won't come near. Won't let me hold him. Won't let me talk to him," he shakes his head as more tears burst forth, "He's terrified of me. His own uncle. Because I look like this."
He gestures towards the smattering of scars across his face, tissue clutched in his balled up fist, "Because this is who I am."
"Simon, that's..." you reach forward to grab his fist, squeezing it between your warm hands.
"My brother says he'll grow out of it, that -- that it's not a big deal, but..." you hand him another tissue, "I know it's not easy for them. And -- and sometimes I wonder...if maybe they'd be better off if I stopped going to see them altogether."
Immediately, you shake your head, scooting your stool closer emphatically, "That's -- that's not the answer, Simon. I promise."
"Yeah?" he looks up at you, watery eyes unsteady, "Then what is? Because -- if you can't get rid of them, then what's even the point of trying?"
That strikes a chord within you. Seeing him there, looking to you for help, for comfort, for answers...Your preceptor told you not to get close to your patients, but after this...How could she expect you to put up walls?
You reach for the box of tissues, and lift one towards his face. He can't help but flinch backwards when you raise it words his injured cheek, but when you hold steady in the face of his reproach, he squeezes your hand in silent consent.
You dab around the corner of his injured eye, studying the contracture marks beneath your tissue. His fingers twine with yours, nervous and worked up, but you don't rush.
Already, it's hard to imagine his face different than what is already is, but if it's as important as he believes...
"Simon, I can't promise you more than what science has to give," you whisper, "But if there's anything I've learned in the past few years, it's that nature is more surprising than we give it credit for."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." you swipe across his jaw, where several tears hang, "Research might say one thing, but the results of treatment might surprise you. What you think is a small difference might be what changes everything. How your family thinks about your appearance...how your nephew thinks about your appearance..."
You squeeze his hand.
"How you think about yourself."
His brows draw tight when you say that.
"That's why it's worth trying. Because if that's what you think is best for yourself, then all of us should listen."
You let your eyes wash over his face, wash over his harsh cheekbones, sharp jaw, blonde hair, and white-red skin. The color looks like supernovas against his complexion, like something tended to, healed, and stitched back together with love in every thread.
"You think so?"
"I think so," you nod, "And I promise I'll do anything to help you get there."
He spends a few more seconds studying the conviction in your eyes, studying the way your hand fits against his own, but eventually, he manages a deep breath, and he gives a small but sure nod.
"Okay," you nod back, tapping your figures against his hand, before you turn your stool and grab a piece of paper from the supply cabinet. You don't waste a minute before starting to write.
"Here," you rip a section of the paper off, "It's my personal number."
"What for?" he suddenly straightens up, something...unreadable and confused overcoming his face.
"I'm booked out for months -- gotta love the efficiency of the healthcare system," you complain sardonically, "If I left you with Julie, she'd do her best to find you a place, but this is important, and I don't want you falling between the cracks."
You stand from your stool, "Whenever you get a chance, call me. I'll fit you in after hours, come up with a plan that's better than just 'wait and see.'"
At that, something akin to hope flickers in his eyes. He looks down at the small scrap of paper and the loopy handwriting thereon, before he gathers himself and finally stands.
For a split second, you're blinded by how tall he is. God, you nearly have to crane your neck just to maintain eye contact.
"Okay," he nods, tucking the baseball cap back over his head, "I will."
"Then..." you smile, sticking out your hand, "I look forward to it, Simon."
He looks down at the offered hand, at your starched white coat, and the irresistible glimmer in your eye.
He didn't know it then, but in the future, he'd come to realize that moment was just the beginning of it all. What followed was deeper than he could've thought. Deeper than seven layers of scar tissue. Deeper than a scalpel could cut. Deeper than he'd dared to let himself imagine.
Now, he knows its significance. But back then, it was only ten little numbers, written in sparkly pen ink, with the letters 'M.D.' left in signature.
Ghost may not know much about relationships, but he's pretty sure you're not supposed to touch his hands this much.
At first the thought you just really liked hand-holding. Always looping your fingers around his in the hallway, a conscious effort to stay connected to him. Ghost likes it when you do, blushing under his mask like a schoolboy.
But that wasn't all of it, just the beginning really.
"Gimme your hand, si." You tell him almost every day during meals. Reaching across the table to rub your thumbs into his palm, watching with fascination at the way skin moves over bone. Ghost has to remind himself to eat instead of watch you play with his hand.
Whenever ghost does anything, it seems your eyes are ways glued to his hands. He could have an entire conversation without ever seeing your eyes just because he's also cleaning his rifle.
Still, he's not sure he gets it until you're both in bed one night, body's warm with food and easy slow enjoyment. Ghost has your back pressed to his chest, trying to sleep but you keep moving.
"Okay, lovie? Yer uncomfortable?" He prompts quietly, voice low and rough on the edge of sleep.
"Yeah, I'm fine," you grunt, still shifting in place. You toss and turn, obviously uncomfortable like ghost sometimes gets with his clothes. Like somethings completely off, "I just– I need– here, give me this–"
You grab ghosts hand—and for a second he thinks you'll just hold it like you always do—and place it around your neck.
Ghost stares, stunned.
You absolutely melt, a delighted little smile on your face as you cozy up into his chest. Apparently, you've never felt better than you do with a trained killers hand around your throat. As if he wouldn't kill you, as if it's not even a possibility when he has so many nightmares. You curl up in the center of a bear trap with him.
Inspired by a little chat with @youarehereyouaresafe
Imagine ghost forced into retirement as androids become increasingly advanced and take his place, right?
He's left with practically nothing while a mockery of a soldier fights other hollow-chested things. What's the point of a war if there's no bloodshed? If there's no weight? Ghost hates androids, hate what they've made of him.
He can't even fucking escape them in retirement, it seems everyone has or wants one. They scan out his food at the shops, drive him places on the bus, chat with people on the streets like they could ever be human.
People love them, fawn over them. All ghost sees is a cheap plastic toy. He's seen what a real android is, the kind that moves like the perfect human on the field, the kind that's packed full of processing power for complex political decisions in a fight. Used a few during missions, cannon fodder.
Now...he's alone. No structure, no bloodshed to lean on, and a face too disfigured to keep anyone around.
Ghost begins to look at those foolish "companion bots" a little different. Warm hole, clean house. It's a nice toy, at least. But every single one ghost has taken a chance to brows seems subpar to even the basic androids from the field. Nothing could compare, their slow response time and jerky movement irritate him.
So...ghost decides if the best out there are war bots, then he'll get himself a war bot.
Bots are so often dumped, it's not difficult to find a good one in an area technically only accessible to the military. He pulls one out of a pile of other models, on the smaller side for ease of repair...or dismantling if things go wrong.
The wiring is a pain, takes him weeks, and giving the bot a warm cunt scrapped from another almost makes him lose his appetite all together. But it works in the end.
Ghost has himself a pretty little bot, outfitted to serve him perfectly. It still has blood in the seams of it's faceplate. Ghost kind of likes the familiarity.
All he has to do is turn it on.
====
Cold.
The first thing your processor tells you. Cold. Slow restart, bits and peices of your mind collecting into one.
You're familiar with the process, happens when they sweep you after every mission. You enjoy the predictable ping up your servos and frames of sensors switching on, relaying information to you main hud—
Wait.
Those...those sensors are wrong. Unfamiliar.
Your processor stutters over the information, it snags like a hook through your data. Absently, you try to initiate your cooling vents only to find they have been moved to your sides instead of your chassis.
Panicked, you skip your normal sequence and prioritize optics.
The sudden sensory input burns. You aren't in your storage case.
Instead...you're in...a house. Basement, maybe. The table is metal. Cold, your sensors offer. You look down to find why you're receiving extra data and—
That. That's not your model. You know your model down to each screw in your motherboard.
You've been tampered with— you need to report— but when you try to contact your company there's nothing. Your connection has been severed.
It takes .6 seconds too long for you to process when your optics receive less light, a shadow cast upon you. You look up, up, up to see...you run his face through your political database of every possible person of interest no matter how small.
Nothing.
You have no idea who this is. What he wants. It takes you too long to realize you need to switch on your audio reception.
"Morning, lovie," the man croons. His voice doesn't match any you know. One rough, human hand brushes along the plates of your neck, and the sensory inputs makes you lag.
"Ready to be my new wife? Gonna have to change your code a bit, figure it's easier when I can see the affect live."
Stalker!soap who doesn't particularly want to fuck you or anything, though he'd never say no. You're just an interesting thing for him to chew on between missions. Watching through the cameras in your house, occasionally visiting while you're on base.
Of course he knows about your little breakup. He watched it happen. He also watched you fall apart afterwards. Eating takeout most days if anything at all, leaving trash around your home, abandoning your hobbies.
Well. Soap can't have his pretty pet self-destructing, can he?
Kidnapper!soap who decides to be more proactive, takes you while you're sleeping with a window foolishly unlocked. He's got a nice, secluded house out in the woods that gaz helped him find.
You wake up in a...shockingly nice room. No window, but theres a bed and various craft supplies, a laptop, even some plushies you recognize as your own. Eventually you'll meet soap, learn exactly what kind of man he is. He wont hurt you unless you make him, you're only here so he can keep you safe, after all.
Soap who takes away any worries or stress you could ever have, in exchange for your autonomy and privacy. Maybe you'll earn some of those back...someday.
𝕎𝕙𝕦𝕞𝕡spiration🦎 @lindsay00000008 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
