Knights In Shining Tactical Gear | 1

knights in shining tactical gear | 1

s. 'ghost' riley x f!reader x j. 'soap' mactavish

Summary: After the undead apocalypse has destroyed most of society, your main goal is to survive and take care of your baby niece. At a moment of utter desperation, two veterans come to your rescue.

Warnings/Info: Zombie Apocalypse AU | 18+ | tw: suicidal thoughts; angst; dark humor; cussing; tw:blood and gore; fluff; hurt/comfort; found family; strangers to lovers; protective!Ghost and Soap

💀》 Masterlist

You grit your teeth until your jaw nearly pops with every step you take. A sharp pain shoots through your ankle, up your leg whenever your body weight shifts to your right foot.

Your ankle...it's broken, at least badly sprained. You're not sure, you didn't have any time to check since you tripped up and twisted it during your escape from your previous shelter. Plus, you're neither nurse nor doctor.

The garage was dark, a clusterfuck of boxes upon boxes, cartons, a broken car, and tools everywhere, and then it happened, but you had to get out of there fast, or else you would've been trapped.

You gulp down the scream caused by pain and frustration bubbling up in your throat and blink away the tears of fear and agony running down your dirty cheeks as you clutch the bundled-up baby closer to your chest. She's still sleeping, even while the dead are chasing you.

Now you're limping down the road towards the gas station. The large front windows had been broken in, that's why you passed on taking up shelter there when you came through the small-town initially, but the heavy door to the storage room behind the counter was intact then, so perhaps you can barricade yourself in there.

It won't be of any use though, the voice of reason is screaming in the back of your mind, but the pain and hopelessness are making you act haphazardly.

You're out of food, meds, baby formula. You lost your handgun in the previous house, and you'll be trapped again once the dead have caught up with you.

"I can't do it...I can't do it, Derek", you whimper as your arms now begin to ache and tremble from exhaustion. "I'm so sorry"

The snarling and groaning becomes louder as the herd of undead starts closing in behind you. You're a couple of feet ahead of them, but you're getting slower and they keep marching relentlessly.

You'd promised your brother you'd take care of his baby girl as he died in your arms.

"Promise me, Y/N, whatever it takes."

You did. You tried. It wasn't enough.

The dark, scary thoughts come back to you. You could've ended your misery when you still had the chance. A quick, merciful death for Sadie, and a bullet to your head afterwards.

No. God, no! You squeeze your eyes shut as you begin to move faster, and you scream freely then, from the top of your lungs to overshadow the pain.

Sadie jerks awake in your arms and you feel her big inhale of air before she starts crying and wailing with you.

You try to coo at her, try to calm her down while you make your way inside the gast station, but it's little to no use.

Broken glass crunches beneath your boots as you walk inside the building. A quick scan of the store, there's no time for looting or making sure it's deserted. The shelves look empty anyway, and the storage door is still closed.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, sweetheart", you hush her as you spot a crowbar on the counter, caked with dried-up blood at its curved end. You grab it in a haste, carefully securing Sadie close to your chest with your other hand.

"Come on now, please"

You limp behind the counter, your blood now rushing in your ears as adrenaline continues to be the only factor keeping you from crumpling.

There's movement behind you, the glass crunches again as the first undead pool into the store, and when you reach the door handle your heart is violently beating in your throat.

This is it, if the door is locked, you will die and Sadie, too.

But as you push the handle down, the door proofs unlocked and while there seems to be something blocking it from the other side, you manage to push it open just enough to throw the crowbar in and squeeze through afterwards.

You kick it closed behind you and brace your back against it as you try to catch your breath.

Sadie is still crying and clinging to your shirt, so you start rocking her in your arms, leaning in to so she can listen to your voice as you hum a random melody for her.

You flinch when the undead start knocking and throwing themselves at the door.

"It'll hold, honey. We're safe here, they can't get in", you whisper repeatedly, until you start believing it yourself.

There's a wooden chair to your left, and it must've been the object blocking the door before. You reach for it and set it down in front of the door before you sit. You let your gaze wander around the room, your heart still beating fast as you try to take it in. It's not big, but mostly dark. The only source of daylight coming from the tiny window at the top of the wall across from you.

Your left leg bounces nervously as the noise outside becomes louder. You don't know how many of those monsters have followed you. 20? And all the hubbub will only attract more.

Sadie is still fussing as you chew your bottom lip raw, zoned out for a moment as you try to comprehend the situation. You'll crash soon without water and pain meds, when the adrenaline has worn off. You can feel it already as your brain registers your hurt ankle. It's fire licking up your leg now, up to your spine.

You let your head fall back and rest against the, but the permanent knocking and guttural snarls make you sit up straight again.

You can't be taking breaks now.

You don't know how long you've been sitting on the chair, rocking Sadie back to sleep in your tired embrace while the dead continue to try and break in.

They can smell you, sense you, even if you stay perfectly still. Once their only instinct gets triggered, they won't stop hunting a human until you have successfully destroyed the remains of their rotten brain.

You look down at the baby sleeping in your arms; she looks more than peaceful right now, but you know she'll demand some formula soon. You smack your dry lips together and exhale slowly, wincing when you try to wiggle your toes. The pain has subsided a little now that you had a moment to rest, but the numbness of your limb worries you. What if it's broken? You don't know how to fix a broken ankle. Hell, you don't even know if you'll be able to keep the both of you alive through the night.

"Lord, just give me one more day and I'll find someone who can take better care of her", you whimper into the darkness as your eyes well up with a fresh wave of tears.

Suddenly, the steady, sharp firing of gunshots cuts through the familiar noise of guttural snarls and moans. You perk up on your chair as the hammering on the door becomes less and less when the undead abandon their hunt to focus their attention elsewhere.

There's some shouting, more gunshots, closer now too. Sadie wakes up again and wiggles in your arms as new noises echo through the store.

You duck instinctively when some shots are directed at the door.

"Knives out, Johnny. We neeed'a safe our ammo"

"Roger that, Lt."

There's more ruckus outside, some kind of hassle, more snarls, then bodies dropping to the floor. Your heart rate drops and your breathing goes shallow as you press your ear to the door.

"Ugly bastard that one", one man says and chuckles. His accent is thick and Scottish, his voice friendly and eager. "tried'ta take a bite o' me hand."

There's another voice, deep and unfaltering. His accent smooth and British.

"Be quicker next time then. Ya done it a million times now, Johnny."

Sadie babbles then, tugs at the fabric of your shirt to get your attention.

"Shh, sweetie. Be quiet...please, be quiet", you coo at her desperately. Perhaps they'll leave you alone if you stay put.

"Ya think she's in there?"

"Must be. It's the only place she coulda gone"

Your stomach drops then. Dealing with the undead was one thing, but running into men as a lone female was quite a different story and you haven't had one good experience yet.

"Lass uh miss...yer in there? We just want ta help ya, thought ya might be in trouble"

You bite your tongue to keep yourself from making a sound while you gently rock Sadie to keep her quiet.

"There's, ah - shit. Uh, we don't want to harm you, miss. We uh we just wanna make sure you're okay"

His deep voice makes a shiver run down your spine and the way he's fumbling with the right words to not scare you, makes you less tense.

"Very smooth with yer words there, Lt. Is that how you used to talk to the ladies? No wonder yer one lonely, ol' bast-"

"Shaddup, Johnny! Bloody hell...the lass is terrified, I'm trying ta make her trust us"

"D'ya even know how you look with that mask on? Blood and guts all over? Fuck, I'm terrified of ya right now"

Their sudden banter makes your brows furrow and your fear of them cease somehow, but a sudden, timid knock makes you jump again.

"Hey, miss? My name is Sergeant John MacTavish, me and Lieutenant Riley here just wanna make sure yer doing okay. We, uh, we heard ya scream and...we heard a baby. The baby yours?"

You're not entirely sure why, but as soon as the sergeant drops his voice to that gentle tone, Sadie's eyes light up with joy. Perhaps she thinks it's her father speaking to her, and the thought makes your heart clench with grief.

"She's -"

Your voice is hoarse as you try to speak up, so you clear your throat before you start again.

"She's my niece. Her name is Sadie", you say and your throat becomes thight as you choke back tears. "She's only eight months old."

"Alright then", John says and lets out a relieved chuckle. "And what's yer name, miss?"

Sadie giggles in your arms, tries to wiggle herself from the blanket and her sudden eagerness calms you down.

"My name is Y/N, Sergeant."

"Have you got any weapons on ya, Y/N?", the other man, the lieutenant, butts in and it makes you suspicious again.

"What if I do?"

"Way ta go, Lt! Make her distrust us again...Jesus fuck"

There's a moment of silence, before the lieutenant speaks up again. More coherent and suave this time. His voice runs down your spine like oil, and you can't help but be curious about his appearance.

"I'd say you're lying, Y/N, but that's fine. I'd probably lie too if I was in your situation. You're a sharp woman. Tough as nails, too"

"Well, I'm trying", you mutter under your breath before another, sharper knock follows.

"So, will ya attack us if we come inside now, Y/N? Aye or nay?"

You snicker at John's choice of words and your throat hurts afterward. Meanwhile, Sadie continues to wiggle and move in your embrace.

"Fine, sweetheart. Don't make me regret this"

You wince again as you slowly lift your aching body from the wooden chair, only to limp towards the wall across from the door.

"You can come in. I'm unarmed", you call out to them as you lean against the wall to keep your weight off your injured ankle.

There's some mumbling, some words shared between the two and you immediately regret your decision, but it's too late now and then the door door is pushed open.

They walk in slowly with heavy boots and steps, obviously armed to their teeth with their rifles raised and the tactical lights pointed at you, and when your gaze falls upon the giant man with the skull mask, your legs nearly cave in.

"All clear, Lt.", the shorter one says and drops his rifle, though it dangles on a sling at his side. His eyes light up as they meet yours and he offers you a friendly smile.

"See, we ain't so bad, huh? We're the good guys", he jokes, then shrugs. "sort of."

You nod eagerly and swallow thickly as he walks towards you. It's too quick, too familiar and you crouch down at the wall even though your ankle punishes you with searing pain, and you hug Sadie so tightly to your chest, you fear she might suffocate.

"Easy there, Soap", the Lieutenant barks, but stays at a reasonable distance. Now you know what the sargeant meant with the mask, the blood and gore.

And John listens to him, backs away immediately to give you space with his hands raised.

"I'm sorry, lass. Didn’t mean ta scare ya right away"

You nod and try not to hyperventilate. Sadie cries out and ease your hold on her at once.

"That's a baby", John says in awe, shooting his lieutenant a look of his shoulder. "a real baby, Lt."

You think you can see him roll his blackened eyes at the statement before he drops his rifle at his side too. He crouches down, but still looks huge, and he points at your legs.

"You hurt?"

Now John gets down on one knee too when he notices the way you're gripping and pawing at your injured ankle. You didn't even notice you were doing it.

"I...I tripped and twisted my ankle. I've been running with it since"

"How long?", he asks soberly while John pulls something out his tactical vest and grabs his canteen from his belt.

"A couple of hours? I'm not sure"

He clicks his tongue while John sucks in a breath.

"Ouch. Sorry, 'bout that, lass. Here...can I give that to you? It's water and some pain meds"

"Only one, Johnny. She's weak and we need her awake to...to care for the baby"

The lieutenant clears his throat then and lets John take care of you for a moment. You're less intimidated now, but still wary; you must be.

"There ya go. Good job", he praises you as you swallow the white pill and drink eagerly from his canteen. John watches with an enchanted smile as you hold the flask to Sadie.

"She's a cutie, eh. I just want'ta squish those chubby cheeks"

You laugh breathlessly and when John has another close look at Sadie, she reaches her little hand out to him. The sight makes you tear up and melt simultaneously.

"Alright, ya finished? We need to get going. Get somewhere safe before nightfall"

John coos at Sadie, who giggles at the attention, but he nods and his eyes shift back to you.

"Think ya can walk?"

You press your lips together, suddenly afraid they might leave you behind after all if you say no. But you shake your head reluctantly nonetheless.

"Her ankle's looking pretty grim, Lt. It might get worse if she continues to walk without any support"

The lieutenant has his back turned towards the room as he looks outside into the store with his rifle up again. He peeks over his shoulder, dark eyes assessing yours before he drops his rifle with a sigh, marching towards you.

You push back into the wall, spine stiff like an arrow as he crouches next to John. His mask looks even more frightening close up, with small splatters of dark blood scattered over it. Even his black gloves have a white skeleton print, and you kind of admire the dedication to detail. He still towers over you, but you feel like he tries his best to be on eye level.

"Soap, you take the babe, I'll carry her and then we move fast", he explains factually before adressing you directly. "That alright with you?"

You gulp, biting the inside of your cheek as you nod at him. Meanwhile, John holds his large hands out to you with a look of encouragement in his eyes.

"Promise I'll take good care of her", he assures you before you hand her over to him. He looks down at her with a smile and rocks her gently as he stands up.

"Aye, now your turn", the lieutenant chimes in and your attention is on him again. You want to ask him how he wants to go through with this, but before you can do so, you yelp when he picks you up bridal style like you weigh less than a bag full of feathers.

You awkwardly cling to his tactical vest, unsure how to position yourself in his strong arms while he keeps his gaze straight ahead. You feel his hand on your back, the other resting on your knee, squeezing ever so slightly as he moves.

"Alright, Johnny, moving out."

Is It Still Punishment if It Was Worth It? ~ George Weasley

Summary: Y/N runs into George Weasley after her detention with Umbridge (aka me finishing a request from ages ago)

Warnings: Umbridge *shudders*

Word count: 2.4k

As I left the atrocious pink office, nothing around me stirred, as if the whole castle was frozen, lying in wait for the dawn. Light streamed through the open doorway, heralding my late release from detention. 

“Off to bed, dear,” said that sugary, poisonous voice behind me. “Don’t let Mr. Filch catch you lingering instead of being safe asleep in your bed.” Was it my imagination, or did the throbbing of the back of my hand pulse in time with her voice? 

I wanted nothing more than to scurry away as fast as my legs would allow, but like any predatory animal, Professor Umbridge could smell fear, so I simply bowed my head as demurely as possible, avoiding her deep-set gaze. “Yes, professor.” I could feel the horrid woman’s toad eyes following me as I walked down the wide staircase, heading for the dungeons. 

The door closed behind me with an ominous thud, and the light disappeared. 

Stopping in my tracks, I immediately turned the corner to a little alcove, slumping next to the window. I stared at the colored glass, depicting a dragon breathing flames up into the sky. My wound gave a particularly violent throb. “Ouch,” I hissed under my breath, staring down at the shiny red letters.

I must obey the rules.

Cradling my aching hand to my chest, I let out a long breath. Every pang seemed to ring through my whole body, and yet, instead of acting as a deterrent, I was all the more resolved in my actions. If Umbridge had forced my brother to write those words and endure this pain, even her title as High Inquisitor would not have saved her from my wrath. 

“Well, that’s a first.”

I jolted. At first, I wondered if it’d been the dragon that spoke—often things at Hogwarts spoke when one might think they shouldn’t. But the dragon didn’t move. I looked around me, just in time to see the tapestry further down the stairs shift, and a red-headed boy came out from behind it.

George Weasley. Certified troublemaker with an un-shuttable gob and downright homemade values, the very personification of Godric Gryffindor’s ideal student. 

“Excuse me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

George gestured to my hand. “I didn’t know she punished Slytherins too.” He spoke the word without distaste, but with an emphasis all the same.

I just shook my head and left my alcove, heading for the Slytherin common room. There was no point in arguing in Slytherin’s favor; the history in this castle chronicled many a Slytherin who tried and subsequently had to run for the Hospital Wing before a toenail-growing hex grew too painful to walk.

Unfortunately, the redhead sidled into my path. I took several steps back, checking for the location of his wand, prepared to whip out my own before he could cast anything. But his hands were empty, and judging by the way he watched me, his head was regrettably anything but.

“You’re in my way,” I said calmly.

“Malfoy shouldn’t have done that.”

The simple statement made my lungs falter for breath, but I kept my face impassive. “He didn’t have a choice.”

“No, he had a choice.” George’s maddeningly certain tone set my teeth on edge.

I scoffed, walking down the staircase. “You don’t understand, you couldn’t possibly understand what he faces.”

“Oh, yes,” George’s voice grew louder and mocking, following me on my heels, “poor little rich Malfoy, head of the Inquisitor Squad, can’t handle–”

“Sod off.” My gritted teeth added all the threat I wanted, but George wasn’t deterred.

“What a slog it is, having everything one could possibly–”

I whirled around, my hands finding George’s chest to shove him as hard as I could. “You don’t know what it’s like!” I hissed, glaring at him. “You and your brothers just do whatever you fancy at the moment, whatever wicked thing halfway crosses your mind. Well, not all of us have the luxury of doing what we want.”

George looked as serious as I’d ever seen him. “He could’ve spared you this and he didn’t. No true friend would scurry off to Umbridge to report you like that.”

For a moment, I considered starting a row, but Umbridge’s office was still within earshot, and I didn’t want another round of writing with that cursed quill. So I chose not to acknowledge him, walking down the stairs with my head held high, reaching the bottom of the stairs and quickly walking down the corridor, hoping my feet could outrun George’s mouth. But when I looked to my right, there was George, loping alongside me.

“Seriously–”

“Seriously, George, shut it.” I came to a stop, glaring up at him. “What are you even doing here? It’s past curfew.”

“Some of us are taking turns behind the tapestry,” he said easily. “Watching in case any first or second years get turned out of Umbridge’s office with bleeding hands.”

“Oh?” I tossed my head, moving my hair to one side. “And if it were a Slytherin first year, would you have greeted them the way you greeted me?” If my kid brother had been the one walking out of the office, I silently asked, would you have comforted him? 

“Perhaps, but I’m willing to bet that they, unlike you, would accept a hug and a trip to the kitchens for some dessert afterwards.”

My stomach rumbled, and I placed my uninjured hand over it. “Well, I’m no first year, so you can go.” I resumed my furious pace.

George easily kept up. “It wasn’t fair of Malfoy to do that.”

Was it impossible for him to leave well enough alone? “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

“Everyone knows you were just protecting your brother.”

I seized the collar of George’s robes, dragging his face down an inch from mine. “Don’t you dare–

“I’m not going to tell,” George said, remarkably calm considering how quickly his position had changed. 

“How am I supposed to trust that?”

“I’m not Malfoy.” 

I considered him for another moment before letting him go. He straightened, smoothing out his robes. “How did you know?” I asked. 

George gave a short laugh. “You’ve never touched a broomstick outside of Flying class, and yet I’m supposed to believe you even have a broomstick to bring into the castle?” He shook his head. “Anyone with eyes knows you’d do anything for your brother, so of course Umbridge is the only one daft enough to fall for your switcheroo.” 

I pondered his words for a moment before turning to walk back to my room. Like before, George kept time beside me. “She shouldn’t have given detention just for having a broomstick.” 

I shook my head. “There are rules.”

“And rules were made to–”

“–be broken?” I rolled my eyes. “Of course. I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a Gryffindor.”

“Says the Slytherin who just got out of detention.” I bit my tongue, trying to stay silent. “You should tell your head of house what Umbridge’s doing, maybe Snape’ll do something about–”

I let out a short laugh. “See, there’s the difference between you and me, George–”

George leapt forward, covering my mouth. Next thing I knew, I was being tugged behind a statue, finally pulled to meet George’s alarmed expression.

This was it. I should’ve known better than to trust a Gryffindor. Now he was going to hex me or curse me or even forgo a wand altogether and use his own two fists. 

Eyes wide, I tried to shove him away, protesting loudly from behind his hand. “Shush!” George said harshly. “Filch!”

I instantly stopped fighting, my heart pounding for a different reason. If George and I were caught by Filch right now, not only would I have another detention with Umbridge, but word would get out. I couldn’t even imagine the trouble I’d be in with my house if they found out I was out at night past curfew with a Gryffindor, and a Weasley at that!

The light of the lantern the caretaker always carried with him after hours grew closer and closer to the statue we crouched behind. George lifted his hand from my mouth, pressing a finger to his lips. I rolled my eyes. As if I didn’t already get the memo. 

“Anyone about, my dear?” Filch’s haughty voice asked. Mrs. Norris meowed back, and I heard the sound of a dark chuckle. "Professor Umbridge might allow us to try our new manacles.”

George and I met eyes. 

He made a stop gesture and then started to creep forward towards Filch. What could he possibly be planning? Filch would see him! 

Then it occurred to me. The noble idiot was about to sacrifice himself so that I would stay undetected. 

Oh no you don’t, I thought, seizing the back of George’s robes, dragging him back. I was not about to owe a Gryffindor anything. I pulled out my wand and a tissue I'd forgotten was there.

Snufflifors, I mouthed. 

The tissue morphed into a white mouse, which immediately scampered down the corridor. Immediately, Mrs. Norris sped after it. 

“My dear!” Filch protested, running after her, the light from his lantern growing farther and farther away until George and I were left alone in the dark. 

“Wow,” George stared in the direction Filch had gone, “that was quite impressive.”

The compliment made my cheeks warm. “Well, some of us jump into things without thinking about the consequences and some of us actually use our brains for more than pranks.” I shoved my wand into my pocket, about to storm down the corridor. 

“So you thought it through beforehand?”

“I didn’t necessarily plan to get caught by–”

“No, you thought through taking the blame for your brother?” 

I stopped short, allowing George to catch up with me. I eyed him warily. Was he fishing for evidence to get my brother in trouble? Or was he fishing for other reasons?  “Of course I did,” I said finally, deciding that my word against George’s was hardly any competition. 

A strange look twinkled in his eyes at that. “You actually thought about getting in trouble?” I didn’t reply. I should’ve known that I wouldn’t need to, because George could easily carry a conversation by himself. “You knew you could lose house points? And Hogsmeade could become off-limits to you? And that you might end up with words scratched into the back of your hand?” 

My silence was the only answer. Truthfully, he was right. I’d thought through all those possibilities. 

I’d earned Slytherin enough points throughout the years that any deduction wouldn’t damage my reputation too badly for anyone not in the Inquisitor Squad, especially under Umbridge’s reign. As for Hogsmeade, the castle itself was large enough to keep me from feeling claustrophobic. And, yes, I even budgeted for the possibility of getting detention with Umbridge; that’s why there was a Soothing potion waiting for me in my room. 

What I hadn’t anticipated was Malfoy being the one to report me. 

So much for being friends. 

George shuffled closer, bringing me to the present with his brown eyes. “You thought through the possibilities, and you still did it?” I nodded, and a grin broke out on his face. “Are you sure you aren’t supposed to be in Gryffindor?”

I made a disgusted sound in the back of my throat. “How dare you,” I said blandly. 

“I’m serious,” he said with a smile that said the opposite. “You’re quite the little risk-taker.” 

“Is it really risk-taking,” I murmured, “if you’re prepared for all the risks?” 

The inner corners of George’s eyebrows turned upward, his smile dimming to a more serious affect. “Was it worth it even though you got caught and punished?” 

“Is it still punishment if it was worth it?” 

His freckled face relaxed at the question, smoothing out until it was without pucker or twinge. “Should there be a rule against it if it’s still worth it?” he murmured.

I brought out my hand, looking down on it so I could once again read the message waiting there. The shiny letters didn’t hold any answers within their crimson hue. “I’m not sure.”

A hand reached out to touch mine, and my breath caught when I saw, on the back of George’s hand, familiar words, written in narrower handwriting.

I must obey the rules.

“Funny,” George said softly. “Regardless of what happened beforehand, we ended up the same.”

I slowly dragged my eyes up to meet his. “Not quite.” I smiled sadly. “I’m apparently friendless.” 

“Not friendless,” George murmured like a promise. “Not if you don’t want to be.”

I studied him, searching for any sign of deception. His locks had darkened over the years. In our first year, they could only be described as flaming, his hair as dangerous as his tendencies, but now they’d tempered into a comforting copper hue. His freckles also faded, though there were still just as many of them. His eyebrows normally promised even more trouble than his mischievous eyes, but now, nothing in his face seemed disingenuous. “Can Slytherins and Gryffindors even be friends?” I asked.

“Is it risk-taking if you’re prepared for all the risks?” George echoed.

I gave a short laugh. “Touchè.”

“Besides,” George said with a smirk, “you could do with friends better than that old tosser.”

I wanted to laugh, truly I did. Or perhaps I wanted to care little enough to be able to laugh. But alas, I cared too much, so I simply shook it off. “I’d better go, before Filch actually finds us.” 

“Fair enough.” George dropped my hand, and I missed the warmth immediately. “See you around, Y/N?”

I took great care to lessen my smile into a smirk. “If you’re lucky,” I replied.

George gave a relaxed salute before walking back the way we’d come, presumably to take up his place behind the tapestry.

I watched him go. Funny, I may not have been a first year, and he may not have taken me to the kitchens for dessert, and yet…I was glad for anyone else who might leave Umbridge’s office when George waited for them behind the tapestry.

-

Read the continuation here!

If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy my other George fanfic: Seven Years of Bad Luck

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

Logan’s reaction when you wear one of his shirts!

ahhhh anon the imagery that popped into my head with this one... thank you for requesting it <3 maybe a slight warning but Logan calls reader kid, (she's an adult) because he's obviously older than everyone. also smutty implications lol

/

"Kid. Is that my shirt?" Logan is not sure if he's just half-drunk already (it's nearly impossible for him to get drunk as it is on just a few beers) and you're wearing a big, oversized, Calgary Flames jersey.

He's fairly sure that's not yours- he doesn't think you know any Canadian hockey teams, not like that, and the jersey is definitely dated. Logan thinks he got that when the team was early in it's existence.

"Uhhh..." You turn from your spot in front of the kitchen fridge. The X-Mansion is out of milk and creamer, unfortunately. "Maybe? Sorry."

It's not your shirt that bothers Logan, not exactly. From this spot at the kitchen counter- he's leaning over, but he almost has the full view of your legs, because the shirt only meets the beginning parts of your thighs, and he wonders why on earth you have to be so annoyingly delectable. When Logan is trying his best to be professional, a proper X-Men member, you have to go and be half-naked, no pants, just luscious, sweet legs all taut and smooth as you reach upwards to scan through the upper shelf of the fridge.

You're too much for him, he thinks. If Logan was a slightly better person, he might not be having these thoughts at all, let alone considering acting on them- but he thinks about sneaking up behind you and grabbing, squeezing your ass, the back of your thighs.

"I think our laundry got mixed up like a week ago." You try your best to excuse it. Honestly, though? You were happy to steal Logan's jersey.

It's nice and comfy, and the material has worn away into a soft, loose shirt. Best of all, it smells just like him, after years of wearing it- a slight laundry detergent smell is there, but you mostly catch the smell of pine wood, mixed with cigar smoke and maybe something musky.

You didn't expect him to be down here- you didn't want Logan to know your terrible secret.

"And? You just decided you'd keep it, huh?" Logan grumbles, but he's mostly joking. His eyes are soft.

"I didn't-" You turn to him again, and you cross your arms, and it's with a little start that Logan realizes you're not wearing a bra. You're completely naked under there, other than your panties, and he gets a rush of exhilaration thinking about taking them off slowly, with his rough, callused fingers juxtaposed against your supple, soft hips. Gently squeezing your breasts as if he owns them.

There's something hot about it, Logan thinks. You wearing his shirt. As if he loaned it to you. As if he kind of owns you, as if he's your boyfriend. He can't help but feel a deep sense of pleasure. It's not as if all his hook ups and one night stands were clamoring to be his, and it's with fondness that he looks at you again.

"I thought I could give it back to you. After I wore it for a bit." You admit, and Logan has a slight smile.

"Keep it." Logan has a twinkle in his eye, his eyes glancing up and down your figure as he smirks. "It suits you, no pants and all."

He's not really joking about that- it looks way better on you, and to Logan's perverted mind, it is fascinating how this jersey he fills out so well, had a completely different style as it falls on you. It sort of drowns you- leaves your figure to the imagination- but there's just enough that he can see how it skims over your curves, making it easier for him to imagine running his hands over you. Logan thinks about lifting it up from the bottom hem, exposing you.

You turn red, almost forgetting that your legs are bare, and you don't know how to respond to that.

"Really?" You shake your head, ignoring Logan's compliment, knowing that he's just teasing. "Thanks, Logan. It honestly helps me sleep better."

You didn't mean to say that last part- you're not trying to expose the year long crush you've had on the guy- and you stutter over your words, trying not to reveal the comfort you feel around him.

You shut the fridge, and try to leave, but Logan is a little faster, and he's got you right where he wants. Against the fridge. Looking up at him, sweet, meek, just as cute as he remembers.

He leans over you. "Well, I could help you sleep better. If you want."

"Really?" You look up at him, tilting your head a little. "I thought you would think I was just some creep and tell me to fuck off."

"Oh, kid. You think you're the only one who can't stop thinking about us?" Logan swallows. "I think I've liked you since you had to help me figure out the teaching schedule, remember?"

"Who could forget? You were really struggling- your class started an hour late." You joke, and Logan grins. He's not usually such a smiley guy, and it's not something you take light-heartedly. You know he must trust you.

"Offer's still on the table." Logan murmurs, as he traces the collar of his jersey, against your neck and collarbones, and you shiver as he leans in, pressing a kiss on your forehead. It's warm, soft, inviting- but you think Logan must be holding himself back.

"Okay." You whisper up at him, and Logan, being as devious as he is, immediately grasps your waist, your ass, your thighs, squeezing, wanting to feel every bit of flesh, and he feels a deep rumble in his chest- something possessive as he leans in and kisses you, something firm and rough as he feels his shirt around you- and Logan's mouth slots against your own quite easily, open-mouthed, rough kisses that have you shuddering, as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and pinning you against the fridge.

You know Logan didn't mean sleeping. He meant putting you to sleep, by sleeping with you, and this silly double meaning, the idea of getting to do all that and then cuddle and sleep by his side, it makes you smile against his mouth.

Logan doesn't stop kissing you as he lifts you up and away, you still wrapped around him, towards his room, feeling an immense amount of slick, lustful pride that he's bringing back his shirt and his girl there.

a lot’s gonna change

Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!reader

zombie apocalypse au

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 <<

description: after helping Soap and Ghost they invite you back to their safehouse to get warm. both seem to take a keen interest in keeping you around. 

warnings: canon typical violence, pretty tame chapter

word count: 2.5k

“Where are yah headin’?” Soap asks, his face rosy from the cold. The three of you had begun your journey to the other side of town. The two men had claimed to have a makeshift base in an empty house- one with running water. You adjust your own balaclava at the question. There wasn’t an honest answer. 

“Was planning on starting back up North for the Yukon- figure summer there wouldn’t be half bad.” You shrug. It wasn’t entirely untrue. You were confident enough in your abilities to survive in the wild that the idea seemed appealing.

The pair exchange glances with each other, a silent conversation being had without you. It wasn’t uncommon for those in groups to behave this way. when you’re trapped with the same person for so long it must be hard to remain separate individuals rather than a collective. 

 “That’s an awfully long walk from here- that’ll take yah till summer at least. What’s up that way?” Soap questions, his face contorting into confusion. There was nothing in the territories, it was basically the same as before the outbreak. Just like Alaska. The only people living that far North were the Natives that had reclaimed their land. As the infection drags on, resources made from before are getting harder to find in useable condition. Retreating into the wilderness where no infected could reach seemed like the most reasonable option for good weather. 

“Nothing.” You assert. That seems to be a sufficient enough answer for him. 

Keep reading

The Secret History Translation Masterlist

i was going to put this on a spam account but then decided to put it on a public one. who knows, maybe someone will benefit from it! if i’ve made any mistakes, do let me know

à moi. l’histoire d’une de mes folies (to me. the history of one of my follies or my turn. the tale of my madness)

quod erat demonstrandum (it can be shown)

cubitum eamus? (will you sleep with me?)

consummatum est (it is done)

hoi polloi. barbaroi [the many/majority. barbarian (person who doesn’t speak greek)]

bei nacht und nebel (at night and in fog)

deprendi miserum est (it is wretched to be found out)

khairei (hello)

bakchoi (initiates)

cuniculus molestus (annoying rabbit)

arrectis auribus (attentively/ears peeled)

dormir plutôt que vivre (sleep rather than live)

dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort (in a sleep as sweet as death)

requiescat in pace (rest in peace)

n’est-ce pas (isn’t that so)

amor vincit omnia (love conquers all)

raison d’être (reason for existence)

nihil sub sole novum (there is nothing new under the sun)

quel plaisir de vous revoir (what a great pleasure to see you again)

genis gratus, corpore glabellus, arte multiscius, et fortuna opulentus (smooth-cheeked, soft-skinned, well-educated and rich)

dénouement (outcome)

salve, amice (hello, friend)

valesne? (are you well?)

quid est rei? (what is the matter?)

benigne dicis (i thank you)

bureau de tabac (tobacco store)

Χαλεπά τά καλά (beauty is harsh)

mais, vrai, j’ai trop pleuré! (oh, truly, i have wept too much!)

les aubes sont navrantes (the dawns are heartbreaking)

hinc illae lacrimae (hence those tears)

sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat (such eyes, such hands, such looks)

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part nineteen —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The cool paste feels tingly on your skin as you rub it against your bruised stomach, wincing. Christ. Maybe Ghost was right to think he might break you. Beneath the mottled patchwork, another kind of pain stirs— your muscles are growing. Firm and tight. The only soft parts of you left are your breasts and your ass. Gently applying the paste to a nasty purple one on your left cheek, you curiously pinch the sore flesh between your fingers. Scratch that. Even your ass is firming up. 

Arnica has healing properties. Yesterday, you found a patch of it with Blue and created a salve with some water. You already applied some last night before bed. Whether or not it’s helping probably doesn't mean much when new ones are about to be added; still, the placebo effect brings some comfort.

You're still massaging your backside when the bathroom door groans beneath a heavy fist. 

"Hurry up. Grab your bow."

“Shit.” You startle, almost dropping the salve. "Uh, coming.”

Chucking on a clean shirt and your old pair of jeans, you pad out of the bathroom, ignoring the cry of your joints. Ghost is outside waiting for you. Wait— bow? Confusion delivers an uptick to your pulse; you never bring your bow to train.

“What’s going on?”

"The air," he replies in a flat tone.

The stale smell offers enough explanation. You cringe. "Should we split up?"

He shakes his head and nods towards the direction the gentle breeze is rolling in. "No need. It's coming from this way."

In the violet wash of morning, you trail beside him over tall grasses and scattered groundhog burrows as the air leads the way, luring you opposite the clearing where you train. There haven't been any Greys since the one you burned together. For the past few weeks, you'd almost forgotten about their existence— a pleasant naivety for once. 

Neither of you bothers with much small talk. He asks if you're sore, probably noticing how stiff you are, and you answer honestly. That's it.

You keep your attention strictly on the wood bow molded into your palm and the slight rustling of leaves all around you, scanning for signs of anything astray. You don't look at Ghost, even when you feel his eyes flicker to the side of your head. Staring at him for even a second longer than necessary rouses something in your gut that was once easy to label as fear; now you don't know what to call it.

He is wearing thicker clothes today, the intimidating vest stocked with ammo glued to his chest. You'd gotten used to his more casual wardrobe of gym shorts and hoodies. They make him look... softer, almost. A little less like a death omen. Though, you sincerely doubt there are any soft parts of Ghost left under all that gear, given the rigid planes you felt beneath your hands when you—

"There."

You snap your gaze in the direction Ghost is pointing at.

At first, you don't see anything.

Then, squinting, you make out a red color far too metallic to naturally sprout among the conifers. 

An arrow is urgently slotted on the bowstring as the two of you head towards it, your brows tightly knitted. You've been this way a few times and never saw a— is that a red car?— before. Closing in, your suspicions are confirmed when a stroke of sunlight bounces off the metal bumper. The patchy sedan is tucked within a bush, tail-end sticking out, with half-flat tires resting on corroded rims. Shadows of movement dance behind the tinted windows, too disjointed to be natural.

"What the fuck?" you mutter under your breath, boots scuffing over a long-faded gravel pathway that is now shrouded in weeds. The car must've been following it before winding up in the bush— the occupants no longer human enough to drive.

"They... they must have just turned while they were driving," you think aloud. "When did this even get here?"

"Maybe during the night," Ghost mutters.

He paces forward and swings open the passenger door. A string of moans is released as a Grey lurches within the confinements of the seatbelt, but he quickly silences it with a bullet to the forehead, causing it to flop sideways out of the car. Maybe just a day ago, it was a young man. His hair is fully intact and he's wearing a blue shirt with the Chelsea Football Club logo on the back.

"I wonder why they were driving this way to begin with," you say quietly, stomach rolling.

In the driver's seat is the slumped-over corpse of an older man, having died from so many bite wounds before the infection could take hold. The early stages of decomposition smell almost worse than the infection and you have to breathe through your mouth as you head for the back door. 

"There's another here I think."

You're ready to shoot and put whoever it once was out of their misery when you pry open the door, but the sight of a small body wriggling around makes you freeze. Curled up against the faded leather is an infected boy, no older than eight or nine. His eyes are all white except for the outer rim where a few vessels are still filled with red blood. Your fingertips dig fiercely into the frame of the door as you stare down at him; his soft brown hair, his small hands, his Minecraft shirt. He whimpers and tries to claw at you, mouth hung open in mindless hunger.

The feeling that washes over you is hot and cold at the same time. It's not the first or last time you've seen an infected child, so you don't know why the sight traps you for a few heartbeats.

A voice emerges beside you. "It's not a kid anymore."

You almost forgot Ghost was there. Your teeth clench. "Yeah, I know."

You feel his eyes burning into you. Your fingers tighten and untighten around the arrow's stem as you aim. 

"Hone it, Twix— the anger."

The tension in your jaw releases at the same time as your arrow snaps forward, cutting through the boy's skull and driving his limp body down to the car floor.

“You good?”

You forcefully swallow and look away, giving Ghost a short nod. "Guess that's all of them."

He slowly nods in agreement, studying you, but all he says is, "For now."

“Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“Seen stranger things over the years,” he says. “It seems like they were headed somewhere, maybe needed a new place to settle, and one of them got bit. Infected the others.”

You nod, thinking it over. “What about the car?"

"No fuel left, so it's pretty useless." Rifle still in his grip, he moves around to the hood and props it open. "Might have some parts I can use, though."

While he scavenges for gears that aren't rusted beyond functionality, you take a look at their belongings. There is an empty bottle of whiskey in the cupholder. In the boy's lap is a stuffed tiger that you assume was once white, but now it's a worn of grey. You carefully shift his corpse and take it.

"I have a friend who might be able to care of this for you."

In the trunk, at least, you find some tripwire. 

Dragging the two adult bodies back to the trench for burning is your 'strength' training for the day. Since they haven't decomposed much yet, they're heavy; you go back and forth, taking one at a time. Ghost carries the small one over his shoulder. After the flames snuff out the smell of rot, he relieves you, claiming he has other shit to take care of—more traps to set with the newfound tripwire.

"Hey. Would you like this?" you ask Blue when she's up, handing her the tiger. 

"I'm kinda too old for dolls, Twix." She must see the expression on your face because she shakes her head and disappears into her room for a minute before coming out with a teddy bear. "My mom gave me this one when I was a baby and it just sits on my bed by itself, but now it can have a friend."

You smile and nod. "Yeah, okay."

The day is spent playing board games with her. When she notices how sore you are, she offers an exclusive massage from Grim, who hops over your back and legs as you relax face-down on the couch. However, even with the honorary treatment, the aching lingers. 

"Auntie, I'm over here!"

In a violet-tinted field, you search for the voice.

It's barren and hazy, with no hard edges or places for a little boy to hide; so why is it so hard to find him? You call his name. You wander around, aimless, until you catch a familiar whiff of baked cinnamon and fresh laundry. This way. He's this way. You start running fervently. When a small hand tugs at yours, you whip around and try to grab him, but the soft touch dissolves through your fingers like ash. 

When you wake up, there's a hand on your back and blood on your tongue, evidence that you'd bitten through it during your sleep. The taste is quickly replaced with bile as you launch up, grabbing the sleeve of someone's shirt.

"Oh no, you don't."

The hand moves to your hair, wrapping it around in a fistful before forcing your head to tilt down. A bucket is tucked beneath your chin. You vomit into it, the cool metal rim hissing against your fingertips. Again and again. When it's all out, your throat feels like sandpaper. 

"Done?"

The dark room surrounds you; the perfect place to hide what you know must be a ghastly look on your face. Awareness creeps in, and you're not thrilled by the fact that you've thrown up in front of him twice now. Without looking up at the white skull you know is there, you nod.

Wordlessly, he takes out a cigarette and lighter. You hear a deep inhale. See the dull glow of the flame. Then, he passes it to you and leaves.

"You look like shit today."

You can't even be offended, fully aware of the purple painted beneath your eyes. One look at you quirks his brow up in that annoying mannerism of his.

You offer a tight-lipped simper, mumbling. "At least I can always count on you for brutal honesty."

"Good trait to look for in an ally." He throws the gauze at you and you begin wrapping up. "I don't suppose it has anything to do with the fact you nearly ruined another shirt of mine last night."

You tie off the gauze and glance up. "Look, I'm s—" you stop yourself, "I mean, I'm not sorry, because you wanted my box open so now it's open. You already knew the potential consequences."

"Try opening it without emptying your stomach next time."

You flash him a look. "I think I miss when you pretended I didn't exist."

"And I miss getting a full night of sleep."

"Can we just get started? I'm ready."

Ghost keeps his eyes on you as he motions a fisted hand. "As you wish."

When the familiar dance begins, and adrenaline ripples up your spine, you realize that you missed this yesterday. The rest felt good, but this— the thrill of seeing Ghost start to get as worked up as you, the sweat stains on his shirt matching your own... it is something you itch for these days. 

You get a few hits in that have your ego swelling. But then— the rough night catches up with you after half an hour of wordless sparring. Your breathing grows labored, while his is barely winded.

"Tired yet?" he asks.

"No," you say, but he calls you out immediately.

"You're a terrible liar," he reminds you. A few more swings have your lungs burning as you dodge until one finally catches up with you, and whatever healing your homemade salve has done is erased by a fresh layer of pain. 

As you clutch your side, he changes the subject. "Are you going to tell me what it was about then?"

"What what was about?"

"Whatever was making you whimper in your sleep."

Your face twists. "I wasn't 'whimpering'."

"Fine, then. Crying," he corrects plainly.

You sigh through your nose, averting your gaze only for a moment, then focusing back on him before he can strike you again. His words hang in the air, ignored, as you jab an elbow toward his ribs. He grabs you by the knob of it and pulls you unnecessarily close to his chest. When you try to wriggle free by placing a hand on his chest, he fists your hair, which has slipped out of a bun into a haphazard ponytail, and tugs hard enough to force your eyes up to his.

His gaze is demanding but his voice is light— a mere breath over your forehead. "Tell me why someone who has seen plenty of infected kids by now seemed so bothered by the one she saw yesterday. He reminded you of someone, didn't he?"

The mention of it makes you snap. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Trying to act like you know anything about me."

"I know enough. You are easy to read."

So that feeling you get when he looks at you isn't just in your head; he truly can see through. Your nails dig into your palm. "There's no need to read me. We're not friends. We're just... allies, or whatever."

"Or whatever," he repeats thoughtfully, tasting the words. "You talk like a teenager."

"Compared to you I might as well be," you retort.

"Jesus." He chuffs out an exhale, eyes flickering down for a moment before returning up to yours, narrowing. "Let's not change the subject here." 

"Fine. Take this stupid Halloween mask off," you lift the hand on his chest up to the hem of his balaclava, feeling how weighted the fabric is with sweat. "And I will tell you all about it."

His jaw flexes before he gently guides your hand away. "Tempting offer, but I'll pass."

You refuse to acknowledge the tinge of embarrassment at his dismissal and inch back as far as the hand on your hair will allow. The close proximity, or harsh sun, is making it hard to breathe. "Well, it's not fair for you to ask me shit about my life when you don't even let me see your face."

"I never claimed to be fair." 

"I promise I won't vomit no matter how ugly you are. I've seen worse things out here."

His hand tightens. "I think I miss when you were scared of me. Less mouthy back then."

"Well, I'm not anymore."

"No?" He flips you around so your back is against him, one hand settling on the toned curve of your hip. His voice lowers to your ear. "Maybe I need to fix that."

An unwelcomed shiver courses through you. He lets go. A wristbone nudges against your spine, shoving you forward. Irritation simmers in your veins when his remark finally registers, and you whirl around, readying your stance. 

"If you even think about threatening me after I explicitly asked you not to, then I would suggest sleeping with a knife tonight."

"Who's threatening who, Twix?" He gives a low chuckle. "Relax. I'm sure I could handle you in my sleep, anyway."

He's egging you on; you know it. And yet, you stubbornly take the bait. His knee— the right one. That's where you got him last time that made him falter. Maybe an old injury. But when you swing a boot at it, he expects your attempt, knocking you away by the ankle. 

"Ah. Eager to get me beneath you again?"

Pink sears your cheeks as you wipe a trickle of sweat from your forehead. "I'm eager to humble you for once."

"Might need to keep your dinner down to do that."

You grit your teeth. So maybe he did allow it last time. The realization darts your eyes to his wide stance, searching for an idea. Without second-guessing yourself, you kick at the other knee. He must find your second attempt amusing because he easily predicts it, but before he can catch your leg, you snap it back and drop yourself to the ground.

The brief distraction allows the second of time needed to fit yourself between his legs. You're slim enough to push through, kicking at the inside of both knees once you're on the other side. His legs buckle, and you reach up to pull his arm, finishing the job.

Once he's down, you scramble to get on top, not caring if your boot kicks his face in the process. You grab both of his wrists and bring them above his head, but it's impossible to wrap your fingers all the way around them. Instead, you lace them through his fingers, breathing hard in his face as your breasts meld against the solid heat of him.

"Did you allow that?" 

His voice is rougher than you've ever heard it. "No."

Your lips furl. "Good."

A dark gleam passes through his dilated pupils that makes your head fuzzy. You let go of his hands. Immediately, they gravitate to your hips again, thumbs fiercely pressing into the sliver of skin exposed from where your shirt rides up. You don't move even an inch, frozen in place as you stare down at where he grips you against him. That feeling in your gut deepens and spreads. It is hard to pinpoint—so insane and foreign yet familiar at the same time—but one thing is certain: it begins and ends where his rough skin touches yours.

Before you can figure anything else out, a scream shatters the air, and Ghost rips you off of him in one swift movement.