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â just opened wattpad and almost cried. i used to write so often when i was younger and it really makes me sad how out of touch iâve grown with it. i use to interact with so many people on there and it is different from tumblr.
3.7k words. a retired! simon riley x blind! reader
MOODBOARD â PLAYLIST / masterlist
A wet nose nudged insistently against your hand before a familiar huff of impatience filled the room. You smiled into your pillow.
"Five more minutes."
The huff grew louder. Then came the unmistakable thump of Rexâs tail smacking against your mattress. You only had so long before your furry companion was pressing his wet nose against you again, his tongue leaving a wet sheen on your face.
"Give mommy a few more minutes Rex, please."
And he does just that, giving you at least ten seconds before nudging you again.
"Youâre an impatient one."
Your Shepard responds with an excited whine that sounded suspiciously proud of himself. With a laugh, you reached over the side of the bed until your fingers found warm fur.
His tail accelerated immediately, drumming against the floor hard enough that your downstairs neighbor was probably already questioning his life choices.
"Good morning to you too."
He leaned into your touch, soaking up every scratch behind his ears like he'd gone years without affection instead of a single night's sleep.
You stretched before sitting upright, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from your face.
Your apartment was quiet. Comfortably so. There was no need for a loud alarm when your smart pup had been the only thing awaking you timely.
You'd lived here for nearly three years now, and every creak in the floorboards, every humming appliance, every breeze slipping through the kitchen window had become familiar enough that the place felt like an extension of yourself. It didn't have to be something you saw when you knew it by heart.
Rex waited patiently while you got dressed, though the occasional impatient sigh reminded you breakfast was running behind schedule in his professional opinion.
"Someone's dramatic this morning." His tail answered for him
"Oh, don't start." You pointed your wooden spoon in his general direction while rummaging through the pantry for ingredients.
"You knew who I was when we got paired together."
His tail thumped once. Traitor, yet you laughed anyway.
You moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. Every cabinet, every drawer, every spice rack existed exactly where you'd left it yesterday. There was comfort in that.
People often assumed living alone while blind must have been difficult.
It wasn't. Not when everything had a place. Not when you'd spent your entire life learning your home by memory instead of sight. Your parents made sure of that. They never let anyone mistake blindness for helplessness.
When you were eight, your dad taught you how to make pancakes. By twelve, your mom insisted you learn to do your own laundry. At sixteen, they trusted you to navigate the city with your cane. When you were twenty-two, they hugged you goodbye as you moved into your first apartment.
Not because they wanted you gone but because they knew you'd be okay.
The coffee finished brewing with a cheerful series of clicks and your toast was popping up a second later. From somewhere behind you came an impatient huff, you could feel Rex staring holes through your back.
"Donât look at me like that. I know breakfast is late."
Rex padded across the hardwood, nails clicking rhythmically against the floor until he nudged your leg.
"You eat twice a day. I eat twice a day, we both get fed hm?â
After feeding himâand finally yourselfâyou clipped on his working harness. The familiar click of the harness buckles transformed Rex almost instantly.
The dog who had spent the last hour sighing dramatically over a delayed breakfast straightened beside you, ears perked and tail settling into a calm, controlled sway. His excitement melted into quiet focus as you rested a hand against the sturdy handle spanning his back.
"There's my good boy," you said, smiling. "I was wondering where my professional went."
He licks your hand after a small harrumph. You scratch behind his ear with an easy grin.
"Cocky are we? I remember who stole my slipper yesterday."
He goes quiet at that. He's like a small child sometimes but you loved him regardless.
"Exactly."
The apartment door clicked shut behind you as you slipped your keys into your tote bag. Feeling around the inside of your tote out of habit to make sure nothing was left behind, Phone, wallet, earbuds and Rex's treat pouch.
Beside you, Rex stood a little straighter the moment his harness settled over his shoulders. The playful dog who had spent the last hour pestering you for breakfast disappeared, replaced by the calm, attentive partner who took his job very seriously.
"Ready?" Rex stepped forward without hesitation.
The apartment door clicked shut behind the both of you and Rex stepped into the hallway with that of practiced ease, his pace steady.
Apartment 2B opened immediately and Mrs. Malloy stepped out with the biggest smile on her face.
"Good morning Sweetheart."
She smelled of cinnamon and lavender and the smile that painted your face was wide. Mrs. Malloy had been living in your complex long before you moved in, she was the sweetest and was always dropping by to help clean and give her cookies when she baked too many.
"Morning Mrs. Malloy"
She laughed, the sound warm and familiar. It was followed by the gentle clinking of the silver bracelets she wore every day, a sound you'd come to associate with fresh-baked cookies and unsolicited life advice.
"I was hoping to catch you before work," she said. "I made blueberry muffins last night."
Your eyebrows lifted.
"You've been baking again?"
"My book club needed refreshments."
"And somehow you made enough to feed the entire building.", it was only a little light banter between the both of you.
She said your quick tongue managed to keep her young and on her toes. Nonetheless, she was a sweet soul. Reminded you a lot of your grandmother.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It isn't. I'm just trying to figure out how two dozen muffins became a necessity."
Mrs. Malloy laughed again before pressing something warm into your free hand. The paper bag was still slightly warm, carrying the unmistakable scent of butter and blueberries.
"Well here's a few for later"
"You spoil me."
"Nonsense. Someone has to make sure you're eating."
"I eat."
"I'm sure you do sweetheart"
You waved one last goodbye before stepping into the elevator, the paper bag tucked carefully into your tote. Mrs. Malloy had always been that way. She baked when she was happy, when she was sad, when the weather changed, when it didn't.
At this point you were convinced the woman simply looked for excuses to turn on her oven.
The elevator hummed softly as it descended, familiar enough that you found yourself absentmindedly mouthing along to the song still playing through your earbuds.
Rex leaned comfortably against your leg, patient as ever, his weight a quiet reassurance that never failed to ground you.
The lobby greeted you with the scent of freshly mopped floors and coffee drifting in through the open front doors.
Frank, the building superintendent, was crouched beside a toolbox near the mailboxes, muttering something under his breath that probably wasn't suitable for polite company.
"Morning, Frank." He let out a startled grunt before laughing.
"One of these days you're gonna give me a heart attack."
"I said good morning, that was a fair enough warning."
"I know, I know." He pushed himself to his feet, wiping his hands on an old rag. "You headed to work?"
"Unfortunately."
"I hear they expect you to actually do things there."
"The audacity."
He chuckled, giving Rex a respectful nod instead of reaching for him. "Mornin', buddy."
Rex's ears twitched in acknowledgment, but he never broke stride. Frank watched the two of you head toward the door before calling after you.
"Tell your mama I fixed that leaky pipe she kept fussing about."
You laughed over your shoulder as you spent a brief second reminiscing about your mom calling up Frank when there was a leak in your apartment. She had been visiting for a week just to check in.
"I'll let her know. She'll probably still ask if you're sure.â
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of."
The cool morning air wrapped around you the moment you stepped outside.
The neighborhood was just beginning to wake. Somewhere down the block, a cafĂŠ had propped open its front door, rich coffee and warm pastries spilling onto the sidewalk. A delivery truck rumbled past, followed by the hiss of a city bus pulling up to the curb. Someone nearby was walking their dog, the cheerful jingling of tags growing quieter as they turned the corner.
Rex guided you onto the sidewalk, settling into the easy rhythm the two of you had perfected years ago.
The walk to work wasn't long, but it had become one of your favorite parts of the day. There was something comforting about familiar routines.
â
The first thing Simon noticed every morning wasn't the silence. It had been the opposite, the absence of noise.
There was no radio or television.
Just the gentle creak of his body acting on the programming heâd ingrained from the last thirty years. He preferred it that way though.
Silence wasn't empty and even if it was peaceful, it left Simon alone with his thoughts a lot.
Silence was different. Silence meant nothing was wrong.
The alarm buzzed once. He wouldâve thought that retirement would have kept him from waking up before his alarmâbut then again, itâs hard to teach an old dog new tricks.
His hand reached over before the second vibration.
05:00.
The same time he'd been waking up for years. Retirement hadn't changed that or the nightmares.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, joints protesting before the rest of him did. He could only sit there for a few moments, years of pushing his body past the limits and this was what he had to show for it.
His lower back joined in next, a dull stiffness that wrapped around his spine from years of hauling eighty-pound packs over mountains that hadn't cared whether he made it to the top.
His right shoulder protested last, the joint grinding faintly as he flexed his fingers beneath the blankets
Simon pushed himself up, a groan falling from his scarred thin lips. âbloody âellâ
He scrubbed a hand over the stubble lining his jaw before reaching automatically for the faded T-shirt draped across the chair beside his bed.
The man staring back from the mirror in the adjoining bathroom wasn't the same one who'd first pulled on an SAS uniform all those years ago.
The lines around his eyes had settled in for good, carved there by too many sleepless nights and too many things he'd rather forget.
Silver had begun threading through the blond beneath the perpetual stubble along his jaw and at his temples, subtle enough that most people probably wouldn't notice.
His shoulders were still broad enough to fill most doorways. Still built like a brick wall but retirement had softened the edges.
His body had earned the rest, even if his mind hadn't quite caught up.
The shower was hot enough to sting. Simon stayed beneath the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat loosen muscles that had stiffened overnight. It never fixed anything.
A faded scar stretched white across the back of his forearm as he reached for the kettle. His coffee, black, was strong enough to strip paint.
Anything weaker wasn't worth drinking.
Simon kept the kitchen spotless. Everything sat exactly where he'd left it the night before. He had learned quickly that old habits never died, they only showed through different ways.
Outside, rain tapped lazily against the kitchen window.
By half six he was already outside. Work gloves stuffed into his back pocket, steel-toed boots and a weathered jacket thrown over the dark gray mechanic uniform.
His lunch consists of some half ass sandwich and whatever was left over from last night's take out. It had been a lot of that recently, but only because he was running low on groceries.
Simon huffed silently, another task to add to the shit load of things he needs to get done. At least it kept him busy.
If there was one thing that Simon hated about retirement was the restlessness.
By seven-thirty, Simon had already been under the bonnet of three different cars. Hands greased stained and clammy.
The garage wasn't busy yet. Just the steady rhythm of impact wrenches, radios murmuring somewhere in the office, and the occasional hiss of compressed air.
The radio in the office crackled to life somewhere behind him, though whoever had arrived first hadn't bothered changing the station yet. A presenter droned on about motorway traffic before disappearing beneath the shrill whine of an impact wrench from one of the service bays.
He preferred evenings to anything else.
Customers hadn't arrived in force, and the lads knew better than to interrupt him unless they had to.
The younger mechanics had learned quickly that Simon wasn't much for conversation while he worked. Questions got answers. Small talk got polite grunts. Neither bothered anyone anymore.
During his lunch, Pete, the only guy Simon tolerated around the shop, had emerged carrying a cardboard tray balanced on one hand.
Pete had owned Thompson's Auto Repair for longer than Simon had been in the military. Somewhere in his early sixties now, he still insisted on opening the garage every morning despite employing enough mechanics that he could have stayed home if he'd wanted.
According to Pete, retirement sounded terribly boring. According to his wife, he simply liked having somewhere to be before six in the morning.
Simon believed them both, he completely understood where Pete had been coming from.
"You know," the man huffed, setting a paper cup beside Simon's toolbox, "one of these days you're going to admit you like me."
Simon looked at the coffee before lifting his eyes to Pete.
"I tolerate you." A joke and Pete could practically see the amusement in Simonâs eyes.
"There it is then."
"What?"
"That's practically affection coming from you." It gets a small shake of Simonâs shoulders.
Two years ago, Pete had hired him with little more than a glance at his qualifications and a handshake. He never pressed for stories about the army after spotting it on Simon's employment history.
The only thing he'd wanted to know was whether Simon knew his way around an engine.
The answer had apparently been convincing enough.
Since then, they'd settled into an understanding that suited them both. Pete talked enough for the pair of them, Simon answered when he had something worth saying, and neither expected the other to be anyone different.
It worked, Pete mightâve been the closest thing Simon would consider a friend since heâs been retired.
The rest of the afternoon passed much as his mornings usually did.
One car became two and two became five. A timing belt that had seen better days. A cracked radiator hose. A stubborn alternator that seemed determined to fight him every step of the way.
None of it bothered Simon. Engines were patient. They didn't care how long it took so long as the job was done properly.
By the time he lowered the last car from the lift, the daylight spilling through the open roller doors had begun to soften into amber. Long shadows stretched across the concrete floor, broken only by the occasional mechanic wheeling a toolbox back towards the workshop.
Someone switched off the compressor. Simon had always been one of the last to leave, he was never in a hurry to return to silence.
The changing room had emptied by the time Simon locked his locker.
His shoulders carried the familiar ache of a day's work, heavy without being unpleasant. It settled differently than the pain left behind by old injuries.
Honest work had a way of reminding him he'd accomplished something by the end of the day.
Outside, the evening air had cooled just enough to chase away the heat trapped inside the garage.
His truck waited where it always did, backed neatly into the far corner of the car park beneath an ageing oak tree that had probably been there longer than the garage itself.
It wasn't much to look at.
A dark grey pickup with more miles than Simon cared to count, a handful of scratches along the bodywork and rust beginning to creep around one rear wheel arch.
It hadnât taken him long to get there. Simon turned into the supermarket car park just as another car pulled into a space near the opposite entrance.
People drifted through the automatic doors in steady waves, each carrying the invisible weight of an ordinary Tuesday.
Simon slipped the black surgical mask over his face and pulled on a black cap before climbing from his truck and slipping his keys into his back pocket.
â
The elementary school was quieter now, though quiet was a relative term. There were still footsteps echoing through the halls, classroom doors opening and closing, and the distant voices of teachers finishing up their last conversations before heading home.
You had always liked this part of the day. It meant the rush was over.
The children had gone home with backpacks full of fun homework and stories they couldn't wait to tell their parents.
The classroom settled back into itself, leaving behind the faint scent of crayons, construction paper, and whatever mystery snack had been spilled during afternoon activities.
"Are you sure you don't want me to walk you out?"
Mrs. Harris's or Sophiaâs voice came from beside your desk. You smiled as you slipped your notebook into your bag.
"I'm sure. You know I can handle the walk to the front office."
"I know you can."
There was no hesitation in her answer. That was one of the reasons you liked working with Sophia. She never hovered and never spoke to you like you were fragile.
She trusted you.
You were amazing with the kids, a gentle soul when it came to them and she appreciated you more than you ever knew.
Every Friday night she would invite you over and she and her husband would have dinner with you. It was a kind gesture and little tradition she instilled once you started working with her.
"Besides," you added, reaching down to adjust Rex's harness, "I think someone is ready to go home."
At the sound of his name, Rex lifted his head from his place beside your desk.
"He's been watching the door for the last fifteen minutes." She countered
"He gets dramatic when his shift ends."
Rex huffed and you rolled your eyes with a smile.
"See? He knows I'm right."
The classroom assistant position had been one of the best decisions you'd made after moving to the city. You didn't write lesson plans or stand at the front of the classroom leading lessons. That was Sophiaâs job.
Your role was different.
You helped students during reading activities, worked with smaller groups, assisted with classroom projects, organized supplies, and supported whichever children needed a little extra patience that day.
Some days that meant helping a child sound out a difficult word.
Other days it meant sitting beside a nervous student until they felt comfortable joining the rest of the class.
Children were honest. They didn't treat you differently because you couldn't see. They simply adapted.
They learned quickly that you knew their voices, their footsteps, and their personalities almost better than they knew themselves.
Rex was a huge help as well. What kid didnât like having a dog in class to help them out.
"You know, I'm convinced half these kids think you have superpowers."
"Some days I think they might be right. The twins asked me if daredevil was my brother the other day. It was the hardest Iâve laughed in a minuteâ
Working here had never felt like something people allowed you to do.
You had coworkers who trusted you, children who relied on you, and a classroom routine you knew as well as your own apartment.
You slipped on your cardigan before leaving, the evening air greeted you as Rex guided you away from the school entrance.
The city was beginning its transition from afternoon to evening. Cars moved steadily along the road.
Somewhere nearby, a restaurant door opened, carrying the smell of dinner into the street.
You adjusted your tote bag on your shoulder. "Alright, Rex."
His ears perked.
"Supermarket?"
The gentle wag of his tail answered before he even moved. Sophia appeared beside you.
âI'm giving you a ride." You paused, rebuttal falling from your lips quickly.
"Sophiaâ"
"Nope.â
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"I know exactly what you were going to say."
"And?"
"And the answer is still no." You laughed quietly.
"You know I can take the bus."
"I know."
"And walk from the stop.â
"I know."
"Andâ"
"And it's getting late, it's cold outside, and I'm already heading that direction." You opened your mouth.
"Don't argue with me. I have twenty years of teaching experience. I can handle a stubborn person."
You tilted your head.
"Are you calling me stubborn?"
"I'm calling you exactly what you are." Rex nudged your hand.
"See? Even Rex agrees."
A few minutes later, you were settled into the passenger seat of her car while Rex rested comfortably in the back, finally free of his working harness.
Sophia dropped you off at the supermarket just as the evening rush was beginning.
The parking lot carried the usual sounds of a weekday nightâshopping carts rattling across concrete, car doors opening and closing, conversations blending together as people hurried through the last errands of the day.
You thanked her before she left, promising to let her know once you were home. She relented in wanting to wait and drop you off at home, but you were indeed stubborn and didnât want to make her wait any longer.
She waited until Rex had guided you safely toward the entrance before pulling away. The automatic doors opened with a quiet rush of air.
Warmth greeted you first, followed by the familiar scents of fresh bread, produce, and the faint sweetness drifting from the bakery section near the front.
You adjusted your tote bag on your shoulder and tightened your grip on Rex's harness handle.
Neither of you noticed the other.
Not yet.
But in another few minutes, somewhere between the fruit aisle and the refrigerated section, two routines that had remained unchanged for years were finally about to collide.
Š â reesepiveces ( 2026 ) do not steal. comment to be tagged in next chapter!!
Tags: kidnapping, sacrifices, religious references, reader is too angry to die, reader commits murder lol, canon typical violence??, reader gets a kissy on the forehead, a tad crack-ish
Inclusivity tags: reader is referred to w he/him and they/them pronouns, no bodily description, no y/n
A/n: call my brain an apple w all the worms it's got. This was just a blurb at first, but I made room in there for me to potentially make it into... something I guess.
minors dni!
"Cole, I can't fucking focus while they're just... staring at us like that."
"Ignore it, Bess. We have to finish these candles."
You wish a bolt of lightening would come down and strike all three of you at once. Or maybe the building spontaneously combusting would be better. Anything, anything, would be better at this moment than watching your boyfriend and best friend work together to light a summoning circle after having tied you up in your sleep.
For a fraction of a second, you wonder if any gods are watching, if any of them would be willing to give you a boon and allow you one last chance to punch both of these betrayers in the face.
"Okay, okay, the book," Bess mutters, going to the pick up her ritual book from the coffee table you bought. Honestly, if they were going to try to sacrifice you somewhere, your living room is one of the most disrespectful places. Probably right under your bed room.
"I'm sorry," Cole has the gaul to look down at you with a face stricken with grief. Like you're dead already. "We didn't know what else to do. We're both in bad places and you've always been so good to us, so we figured-"
"You better hope this fucking kills me." You grunt. Cole's face melts into a glare. "Because if I'm still breathing, it's going to take more than Satan's intervention to save you from me. I swear on my mother." You jerk forward, making him jump back a step.
"Cole...?" Bess looks at you, then up at Cole with unease. Cole doesn't say anything for a second, sorting his feelings out with a leer before turning to her.
"Read the book."
He drags you into the middle of their pentagram while she sings Latin words off the old book pages. The candles flicker and waver before their flames grow twice as tall. Cole rolls you onto your back and pulls a knife from his back pocket.
"I meant it when I said I'm sorry," Cole mutters. You snarl, but don't jump at him like you want to.
"Yeah? Yeah, you're sorry? Kiss my ass!" You shout over Bess's reading. "If I'm still alive after this, I'm killing you and burying you in the fucking septic tank!" You crane your head up so you can see Bess as well. "Time to get some stuff off my chest, yeah? Bess, I fucked your older brother on the day we graduated."
Her eyes go wide, and she almost stops talking, but Cole shoots her a look that forces her to continue.
"And his friend Carl, the one you had a crush on. And Cole? I never. Fucking. Finished. Ever! You are the only person I've dated who couldn't get me off." Cole's hand's twitch around the blade.
"Are you serious?"
"Does now look like a time to- ack!" You don't get to finish because Bess finished the spell and it was time for your blood to fuel it. The blade buries in your gut, turning this way and that way at measured increments. You just lay there and twitch, breathy gasps falling from your gaping mouth, the pain only throwing fuel to the fires of your rage.
"Please, we call you here! Honor us with your presence!" Bess chants. Cole step away from you when the candles roar and your vision is filled with bright red and orange.
The ground beneath you rumbles. Whispers fill your ears, nothing you can ever imagine understanding, but something tells you they're other summoners. Or maybe little souls of those who were just where you are now, with a people sacrificing them.
It's odd, you think as blood soaks your back, your hair. You thought you'd be more scared in what could be your final moments. But there's only anguish where there should be fear. Only unfettered violent tension felt in your muscles, and a tongue hungering for iron and gore. You're jaw is wound tight enough to shatter your teeth.
If you could think straight, if you weren't about to die, you might be a little concerned. Never have you wanted to sink your fingers into someone's soft bits as much as you do now. This is normal, right? A normal amount of rage for the people taking your life.
Something in your gut tells you it's not.
In the fog of your rage, you missed the appearance of a pair of men above you. They hover, leathery plum colored wings sagging. One wears a leather strap harness across his chest, while the other favors an unbuttoned silk shirt. One of them looks at you curious as the fire dies, steam and copper colored smoke bellowing from his mouth. A thick cigar hangs on his lips.
"You came! There's... two of you?" Cole gawks, then falls to his knees beside Bess. You can't help but scoff at their sniveling forms.
"We did. There are." The one without the cigar brushes back his long mohawk to get a better look at the whimpering humans. They're nothing new to them, just another set of weak little things looking to get something without putting in the work for it.
Well, they might have had to put in the work to capture you, based on the way you still squirm and fight the rope keeping your arms together. So much blood has left you. You are going to die. Yet you spend your last moments doing what most humans find to be a waste of precious time. Being angry. It's interesting.
"What do you want?" The bearded one in the silk shirt grunts out around his cigar. Bess lifts her head just a bit to speak.
"We want to make a trade. A soul for a better life for us."
There's a moment of silence. You blink your heavy lids, growing too tired to do much else anymore. Both demons look back at you, then to the kneeling humans.
"They're not dead." They say at the same time.
Bess and Cole stiffen and finally chance a glance at you. You're bleeding, a glassy look to your eye and a smile on your face, but you're not dead.
"See, Bess?" You cough up blood only to swallow it back down, "what did I tell you? The cunt can't make me come and can't... can't even make me go."
The mohawked devil pops a wicked smile, not even hiding it from his would-be contractors.
Cole fumes. "I can finish the job. Fuck, am I going to finish the job." He stands, moving to step into the circle only to yelp, the invisible border around the summoning circle becoming visible if only to shock Cole back.
"Not so fast," the bearded one spawns a scroll in his hand. He's eyes glow a molten orange as he scans it. "Section 1, clause 3, part 19 states: executioner(s) must sacrifice one(1) human soul to contractee(s)... Let's see... Here it is: Sacrificee(s) must be dead upon arrival so that proper collection can be done. If sacrificee(s) is still soul bond upon arrival, then they are made the true contractor and all work will be conducted with them."
"In other words," the mohawked one grinned, "you should have went for the heart." He taps at his chest.
"Or the neck." The other devil offers.
"Or that vein in they're thigh."
"The sephenous, Johnny."
"Yeah, that."
"No, no!" Cole grabs at his hair as Bess looks like she's about to start crying. You want to laugh. They deserve the despair. They deserve the horror in their mistake. They were going to kill you!
"That means," the devils lean back to look at you. "You're our contractor. You get two requests at the price of one, human. I suggest one of those requests includes healing you." He flicks the ashes of his cigar on your leg. You don't even have to think of what you want most right now.
"I want you to untie me." You roll on your side. They wait for the rest. Cole and Bess look like they're going to shit themselves from the pale faced looks of terror they give you. Your eyes narrow. "And a hammer. A old fashioned iron and wood handled hammer."
Another beat of silence before the infernals bend over in laughter. The room shacks, sulfuric smoke pouring from their mouths to funk up the room. Cole tries to cox Bess to her feet while they're distracted. Their feet can't move though. It's like they're glued in placed and no amount of pulling and tugging could get them loose. Shame.
"Yer a funny one, love. I'll love having your soul for a few eternities." The one in leather floats over you, tilting his head this way and that way to get a good look at you. You settle him with a neutral look. "My name is Johnny. You sure that's what you want? I think you've only got a few minutes left in you."
"Then let's hurry this up a little, huh?"
"Ooh, you heard 'em." The cigared one snickers and snaps his claws. Two contracts appear in front of your face, both written in a language you can hardly comprehend. A pen appeared in front of your mouth. "Sign on the dotted line please."
You take the quill in your mouth, dip it in the blood beneath you.
"Rah 'ere?"
"Mhm."
You lean forward to dot the paper with your sloppy signature, but bizarrely enough, it seems like the powers that be have decided that they haven't made enough appearances. The floor trembles, and you worry about your poor infrastructure for a fraction of a second, when a set of gold doors spawn right behind you. You roll back onto your back to intake everything. You swear you're hallucinating when a pair of white winged angels step out, the clouded blue of heaven at their back.
"Hello?" You greet stupidly. You must be losing your mind, right? What the fuck is happening.
"Do not sign a thing." The bronzen angel instructs. "Human, we are here as messengers. God sees great things for you in your ascension. Please do not squander that to these demons." He shoots a sharp look at the demonic pair. The angel's counterpart wears a white cloak, obscuring all but his glowing golden eyes. You half expect him to sing "Be not afraid." despite you actively shitting bricks.
Oddly enough, their appearence seems to have some sort of healing property. Your lethargy starts to clear and the blade in your gut starts to get pushed out. Nothing hurts anymore.
"Oh, so we've got a big soul on our hands here, huh?" Johnny smirks. "Price, what's the plan?"
Price the devil throws his cigar to the ground and crushes it.
"Do what we do best. Bargain."
"Don't play with us, Price." The shrouded angel grunts. He's got a mind piercing voice that's got your head ringing, and you swear it echoes despite the room being well furnished. "We can provide them with just as much, if not more, at no cost of their soul." Those gold orbs land on you. "All we ask for is your faith."
"Jesus fucking Christ!" You tug at your bonds with renewed vigor. The angels wince at the mention of their Lord, but only watch as you force yourself upright. "I could not give a rat's ass who gets what! How about this? First one to get me free and a hammer in hand gets my loyalty."
There's two resounding snaps from either side of you. The ropes disappear, a hammer is in your left and right hand. You don't think deeper on what that implies. You finally stand, dropping the hammer in your nondominant hand, and march over to the two people you thought you could trust. They kneel now, seemingly ready to beg for their souls.
"Come on, don't look scared now." You drop your hands on your hips. "What happened to you finishing the job?"
"I didn't want-"
"Say it with your chest." You poke his breast plate with the iron hammer head.
"I didn't want it to come to this!" Cole yells. The divine audience doesn't say anything about it. They watch you curiously as you bounce the hammer in hand. Your soul is visible to them. What should be a glowing ball of light is a red and white morning star, all sharp edges and pulsing like a heart. Your soul will certainly not end up with the others, that much is true.
"I just... I couldn't keep up with you! Your life style, the way you act, your job. I never left good enough. Bess expressed the same thing and we just... clicked. We would have just left, but we could have never lived without struggling, so we just..." He swallows. You can't look at him anymore, hands clenching at what he says next. "The book called for someone we cared for."
''That supposed to make me feel better?" You tilt your head. Cole winces, eyes falling on your feet. You look to Bess. "Thought you were better than this. You were going to kill me. Because what, I was happy? I loved both of you, you could have just talked to me."
"We're sorry! What more do you want?" Bess sobs. You straighten up, bouncing the hammer on your hip, acting like you next action is something to deliberate. You already know what they deserve, and a flash of sadness bubbles in your chest, but it quickly passes as a hot, searing emotion burns a hole into what little hesitation you had left.
"Reckon I want your souls after all the shit you've caused." You grin before swinging the hammer back and caving in Cole's chest.
"Fuck..." is all you can say after everything is done. Cole and Bess lay in a bloody heep, all recognizable features destroyed and crushed. You pant, hands trembling and nothing but white noise and static crunching around in your head. You just killed your best friend and boyfriend. For some reason, you've never felt so light.
Someone's whistle gets followed by a clap.
"Impressive. Done that before?" Johnny chuckles. He floats closer, hand running down your back as he moves past and pokes around the pulped organs. "Shite, did them right in. Can't tell which is which."
"I've never-" you start to answer, but hands are clapped onto your shoulders, shocking you into silence.
"Well, that was a good place to start, lad. Your swings were a bit sloppy, but we can fix that." Price squeezes at your trapezius, massaging the stiffness out of them. A throat clears, and Price sighs like he forgot there was other company.
"We aren't finished. The human is our ward now, Price." The uncloaked angel snaps his finger, pulling you from Price and making you spawn between the two angels. The bronzen angel smiles down at you with teeth so white you could damn near see your reflection.
"There you are. It's nicer to have you close. My friend here is Simon and I'm-"
"Come on, Kyle, you know he's ours!" Johnny spits, his wings flaring out. "We gave him the hammer first, so piss off."
"Uh...huh." Kyle's smile falls. "I think you're a bit mistaken. Look, after executing the human's request, I have his name here." A stone slab appears in front of your face. It's smells like sunshine and warm grass. What the fuck. "His pledge to the Lord has been set and his soul already has a place next to Their throne."
"Right, right, like we don't have documentation neither." Johnny huffs. The stone disappears as a scroll appears next to the devil. The smell of sulfur and smoke wafts over to you. "His name is right there, pretty boy. Getting yer fuckin' lookers on."
Kyle ignores the rude tone and does pull out a pair of reading glasses to go over the scroll. You stand there in the silence, a little too scared to speak up. What could you do anyway? In a blind anger, you didn't really have the mind to think any of this out. Angels and devils are fighting over you because you'd stupid ass was too blood hungry to think past murder. All that can be done is for them to figure this out amongst themselves, and for you to wait for the sentencing. Heaven, or Hell?
"...Simon." Kyle slowly pulls his glasses off. "This is legit. His soul is promised to all of us."
You glance up at Simon, the scary motherfucker. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then pinches the bridge of his nose with a hagard sigh.
"Shit."
That's not good.
Johnny laughs, Price grinning like a dog with a bone. Kyle marches over to you, patting your shoulders with an awkward smile. His demeanor reminds you of the way your mom acted when she said she was going to divorce your dad. And all you can think is "Not this again." Are you going to be spending your afterlife going between heaven and hell forever? Does God get weekends because Their day is Sunday or whatever?
"We need to go and talk this over with some superiors. We'll clean this up," Kyle snaps and the gore is gone, so is the ritual circle and candles. "And we'll get back to you in the morning." He places a feather light kiss on your forehead, and suddenly you're squeaky clean and in the softest set of pajamas you've ever worn. "Stay safe while we're gone and don't allow these two to influence you. Get some rest."
"Blah, blah, blah," Johnny mocks from the sidelines. Price tilts his head, and there's nothing but amusement behind those eyes. Yeah, this is exactly like your parents divorce.
"O-okay? I mean, I'll try." You shrug.
Simon nods. "That's all you can do." He steps back into the golden doorway and Kyle falls in stride. You make some distance, and with a final wave from a white toothed angel, the doors shut with a slam that shakes the house's foundation.
"Just you and us now, stud."
You turn with a comedic slowness to the devils. Price chuffs and floats forward. His assess you, takes you in in all your fluffy white pajama glory, and it seems he finds what he wants when he nods.
"Guess we've got to talk with top brass to see what's going on ourselves. Pity we couldn't stick around longer." The devil's eyes never meet yours, staying glued to various parts of your face. They hop from ears, to your eyebrows, down to your lips. Christ on a bike, is it getting hot in here? His blue, glowing cerulean eyes appear to flash with something.
"Shite, yer right." Johnny groans. "I hate going down there."
"Suck it up, love. You know how I feel about sharing." Price drops his interest in you like an old toy and takes Johnny close by his waist. You watch with a lead poisoned stare as their noses touch intimately, words you can't hear being exchanged. It's kinda of awkward to just stand there and watch but your brain isn't really functioning well enough to tell you to stop.
"Hey, stud." You blink, refocusing on the pair. Johnny seems to have climbed his partner, his legs on his waist and arms around his neck. Price makes busy opening a portal to hell in your livingroom with one hand, supporting Johnny under his ass with the other. "Sit pretty, yeah? 'll be back before those two arseholes, promise."
"Right... yeah." You nod. "Uh, be safe?"
"Be safe, he says." Price mutters. "Cute." Johnny waves until Price steps through the infernal hole and falls from view. The portal closes right behind him so you'd have no hopes of seeing anything but the red hue of smog and dust.
And here you are. A little dazed, a little sad, probably holding back a break down from the last hour of events. But you're alive and you're healed. There's no blood to clean, you're in comfortable pajamas. Could probably sleep right now if your brain would stop for a minute, but it doesn't look like that's in the plans.
So you look for something to do. Cole and Bess and moved around all your furniture to make the summoning circle. Guess you can start there, right?
PLEASEEEEE UR IDEA WITH MAGE M!READER AND MONSTER!COD MEN I'D LOVE THAT SO FICKING MUCH AND YES I AGREE THERE IS A LACK OF ALL THE VIOLENCE
Pov of how the world sees the reader Vs how TF141 reader :D. I'm in the middle of writing the first chapter of a fic with this idea, but guess who contracted TB like some coal miner đ, me! So here's a sneak peak for the sort of vibe I'm going for while I'm trying to recover:
P.S: Ya'll are free to suggest/requests with this idea cause!
P.S.S: Check out bluegiragi who came up with this AU and give her some love!
Mages and Monsters
Mages are strange creatures.
In a world so full of monstrous hybrids and mythical creatures, mages sit on the proverbial line separating man from monster, stuck in both worlds without any hope of fitting in either one.
Because outwardly, they're average. No different from the billions of other humans. They're not born with the marks of monsterdom; they don't possess horns or leathery scales to shrug off small caliber bullets like dragons do, nor the claws and bone crushing jaws of werewolves, not feathered wings and razor sharp talons of harpies, nor the wraiths ghostly ability to become immaterial.
Because Price and Ghost are experienced enough to see the thing laying beneath the paper thin veneer of normality, are seasoned enough to quickly notice the one thing that puts an 'in' before a mage's 'human' description â Magic. Not the smoke and mirror kind magicians or charlatans use to swindle tourists out of money, but real magic.
The ancient kind, the capricious kind, slumbering like a beast inside the hollowed out cavern of a heart until it awakens with a terrible bloodlust. Each of them can attest to this; Price sports gnarled patched of scar tissue on the scaleless parts of his arm from ice burns, his draconic breath having saved him from frostbite that had devoured more than a few good men. Though Ghost doesn't show much skin, one can sometimes catch sight of branching fern patterns on his neck where lightning magic had shot through him. Gaz's back is peppered with hundreds of little cuts where a glass mage's summoned elegant ornaments had shattered into millions of shards, aiming to take out his wings.
And now Soap sports a mark of his own, his side tender red and blistered with a second degree burn. It could have been much worse, your flames were hot enough to melt steel, the only thing having kept him from an early cremation being the two solid concrete walls your magic had had to travel through to hit him and the enhanced regeneration of his thick hide.
But such power demands a cost â one paid in blood. For magic is as fickle and capricious as a rabid dog, just as eager to lunge for your throat as it will at the enemies, leaving lasting wounds for all to see; rough and calloused palms, skin blackened from blazing heat and freezing cold or marked with fern patterns of electricity, fingers stiff and marred with cuts from thorns and crystals and rock and glass, bone deep cuts where the liquid mana had burst out from the skin, leaving faintly glowing scars that never heal right.
All mages are born with this grievous gift, though one never knows whether it will present itself with a pitiful flicker of embers in a man's dying breath, or with a maelstrom of an infant's first hiccup. That's why most mages are sealed, by choice or force, a process which puts chains on the magic, making it and the mage docile.
But you are unsealed. And you flaunt that fact readily by melting the tail of their APC helicopter with one spell, not even waiting for them to crash before flooding the terrain with suffocating ash, the lenses of their gas masks already fogging up from the heat as they get out of the cloud of heavy sediment before it bursts to flames.
Sometimes the magic becomes unsatisfied with the weakness of the body, demanding more than just its pound of flesh and molding the body like clay to better suit itâ Mage Marks, they're called â the subtle glow of magic in your eyes, the mana visibly pulsing inside your chest, the skin of your arms slipping away like wet paper before growing anew, this time mimicking the surface of magma, or the rocky barnacle encrusted reef, the gnarled bark of a tree, the crystalline inside of a geode, the ice spiked ground of tundra, or any other form that suits the magic in your veins.
The process is excruciating, the mana burrowing and gnawing on every nerve like a parasite that replaces what it eats with itself. But to you, that's an acceptable loss, because marked mages far surpass their unmarked fellows, your magic stronger and wilder, feral and viscous like the primordial force of nature.
So it becomes concerning when you're laying on the floor, captured, battered and bruised and calm.
Ghost had been waterboarding you for a while now, your body tied to a chair that had been tipped back so you were parallel with the ground. With water pooling around your head, your top half would have been soaked to the bone had your magic not been simmering in your veins, the magic suppression momentarily reducing the raging inferno in your chest to a meager flicker of flames.
They can't kill you, but limiting your magic for even a second is death in and of itself.
Your breathing is harsh as Ghost pulls away the cloth over your mouth, asking you a question as steam rises from your skin. Most would give in long before this point, but you just grin, eyes glowing with a burning glow, and make a comment about how good his arse looks from your viewpoint.
You manage only one small note of laughter, pitiful embers sparking at the corners of your lip, before Ghost drops the rag back over your face and begins anew.
Price watches all of this, sharp draconic eyes noting how the mana glows in your chest, pulsing like a second heart (assuming you had one to begin with), noticing how the water turns to steam a little faster when it splashes over your skin.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I just know that when Ghost finds a girl that matches his freak in bed he makes it known to absolutely everyone how crazy good his sex life is. Like walking around the gym with her teeth imprints all up and down his biceps, the lipstick marks not even scrubbed off his chest, bruises and hickeys all along his shoulders, showing off how crazy good the sex was the night prior to the point where it starts making everyone kind of uncomfortable.
He sheds his shirt in the locker room to show off a back full of deep, welting scratches and Gaz takes one look at them before quietly sending Johnny a text from across the room that just reads: "I feel violated."
a chance meeting at the grocery store leaves your guide dog convinced simon riley is his new favorite person. what starts as brief conversations during your daily walks slowly turns into friendship, and then something more.
or
in which an ugly retired soldier falls for a pretty blind girl and her funny little pup.
slow burn, disabilities, strangers to friends to lovers, emotional hurt, angst, hurt/comfort, meet cute, retired! simon, eventual smut
Some people spend their whole lives believing love arrives with fireworks.
Others find it in the quiet.
In familiar footsteps beside them. In comfortable silence. In someone remembering exactly how they take their coffee or slowing their pace without being asked. The kind of love that doesn't announce itself all at once, but settles into your life so naturally that one day you look around and realize home has become another person.
You learn that you canât live without them and that youâll find yourself missing them more than anyone else. It s more than grand gestures and physically intimacy, they become a your better half.
Itâs even better when it happens between two people that others least expect it.
One who grew up in a home overflowing with encouragement, patience, and affection. Blind since birth and never knowing anything different. With parents who taught them that asking for help wasn't weakness, that independence looked different for everyone, and that they were never defined by what they couldn't see. They learned to laugh often, trust easily, and face the world with quiet confidence.
Romance, however, had always passed them by. Not because they didn't want it, they wanted it more than anything, trust, but because it simply... never happened.
The other had learned early that kindness was something earned, not given.
Years in the military had only reinforced the walls they had built around themselves, and retirement hadn't done much to tear them down. Solitude was easier. Safer. It was simpler to keep the world at arm's length than risk letting anyone close enough to see the man beneath the scars.
Having to learn simple things after growing up in a house where fear was taught above all else. Even so, they learned that it was a dog eat dog world then.
By all accounts, they never should have crossed paths.
If not for a quiet afternoon in that neighborhood park.
And one particularly stubborn guide dog who decided that the large, intimidating stranger sitting alone on the same bench every afternoon looked like someone worth saying hello to.
Gaz is also soooo "guy who rescues you when the world is turning to shit and helps you escape the city as it falls apart, but the longer you two stay together, the more you start to realize that you don't think he would let you leave his side now, even if you tried." overflowing gratitude slowly souring as you grow more and more unsettled. going out for a single stroll on your own only for him to come tearing after you, entirely humourless when he finds you, no trace of that good natured, level headed guy you've come to know.
kyle gaz garrick being deployed to the us in the late 60âs and falling in love with the sweet doll who works as a waitress at the diner. she loves to sing to the chordettes, connie francis, and dancing. she has the voice of an angel and all it takes is one smile and heâs smitten. heâs only there for a few months but heâll make the best out of courting her.
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gn reader. angst. death. imposter syndrome. major issues. explosives. canon-level violence.
The bar was a mess of clinking glasses, half-wiped tables, low lights, and stray napkins that never seemed to make it into bins. The hum of chatter mixed with the scrape of chairs on the sticky floor, and the faint smell of spilled beer clung stubbornly to the air. It wasnât the worst place to be on a Friday night, but it wasnât great either.
It fit your mood perfectly.
Soap leaned forward on his elbows, shoulders relaxed, cheeks faintly flushed from his drink. He talked the way he always did. Open, warm, and far too easy to listen to. You envied that about him. You envied a lot about him.
âYou⌠call Ghost during breaks?â you asked, trying to keep your voice level.
âYeah, âcourse. What are friends for?â Soap shrugged, as if the topic wasnât gutting you. As if it was ordinary. As if Ghost picking up his calls was the most expected thing in the world.
Your throat tightened. Soap kept talking.
âHe gets grumpy sometimes but he picks up. Usually. Unless heâs caught up with something. Happens, aye?â
You nodded, but it felt mechanical. Automatic.
You tried not to think about how Ghost sent your calls to voicemail. How your messages went unread until he felt like answering, if he answered. How the only time you managed to get him out for a beer had taken months of trying and even then he sat stiffly, barely engaging, as if you were a task he had to tolerate.
But Soap? Soap had access. Effortless access.
Of course he did.
You coughed, trying to force down the lump that blocked your air.
Soap took it the wrong way. He reached out and patted your back, gentle and concerned. âYâalright there?â
âYeah,â you said quickly, waving him off. âDrink went down the wrong pipe. Thatâs all.â
Soap nodded in sympathy. âRough.â
You looked at him, expression flat. âThanks.â
He accepted that without question. Then, with another sip of his drink:
âSo anyway, I called him up earlier. Asked if he wanted to eat with the McTavish lot for Christmas evening.â
Your pulse stilled.
Soap kept going, unaware of the shift inside you. âTold him he doesnât have to come if heâs busy or tired. But he said heâd think about it. So thatâs something, yeah?â
You didnât answer.
You only hummed when you needed to, nodded when it looked expected.
Ghost. At a Christmas gathering. Ghost, choosing to be anywhere near a family. Ghost, considering a night with people he actually cared about.
Not you, of course. Never you.
You stared down at your drink. The ice was melting, small cracks running through the cubes, tiny drops sliding down your fingers as you held the glass. You kept your eyes on that and not on Soapâs excited grin.
Why would Ghost bother with someone like you when John McTavish was right there, loud, bright, magnetic, impossible to dislike?
Why would he choose the person who struggled to get even a full sentence out of him when he had someone who could pull a laugh from him without even trying?
Why had you thought, even for a moment, that you could matter?
â-Guess the eggnog and me werenât meant to be,â Soap finished with an easy laugh, bringing you back into the conversation.
You forced a small chuckle, head dipping. âYeah,â you said quietly. âGuess it wasnât.â
Your voice held steady. Your hands didnât. The glass trembled in your grip.
Soap didnât notice. No one ever noticed.
And across the bar, laughter from another table cut through the room, Ghostâs subtle voice among them. A short, low sound. One youâd spent months trying to hear.
Not meant for you. Never meant for you.
You stared down at your drink again, letting the ice numb your fingers. It wasnât enough.
â
Luckily, you werenât stupid enough to request a suicide mission from the captain just to knock the sinking feeling out of your chest. Not tonight. Not after a day that had already felt like a slow, deliberate hammering.
You were a hopeless mess, yes. But at least you were alive.
Still, the thought had crossed your mind when you were shoved between Soap and Ghost in the back of the truck. Price, mercifully, was taking his role as designated driver seriously, despite the three drinks that had clearly loosened his usual iron grip on professionalism.
âCan't I shotgun?â you muttered, glancing at Gaz, who was passed out across the front seat, snoring softly.
The captain caught your gaze in the rearview mirror. âYou stop Ghost from murdering Soap.â
Right. Of course. That was your job. To keep the peace. To sit quietly and take up as little space as possible while everyone else fit in perfectly.
You sank further into your jacket, hoping to disappear. If you could disassociate enough, maybe you could escape the tightness of the space pressing against your sides, the brush of Soapâs arm, the subtle heat of Ghost shifting on the other side.
Soap flopped against your shoulder with that irritating ease that made your skin crawl. He slurred softly, âWhatâre your plans for the holidays?â
Of course you were the last person he asked. Last. The afterthought in a chain of voices, a voice that would not have mattered if you werenât there at all. You told yourself it didnât sting, but it did.
â.. Probably-â you almost said âdrink myself to deathâ under your breath, swallowing it instead, â-catch up on sleep.â
The captainâs eyes in the rearview mirror burned into you, a reminder that your sarcasm and bitterness were being meticulously logged somewhere in your psyche for a future psychology session. Thin ice. Always thin ice.
Soap shouted over the engineâs rumble, âWhat? Thatâs so boring!â
The spit from his words landed on your neck, and you winced, brushing it away quickly, trying not to make a scene. âYouâre even worse than Simon!â he added, and your stomach lurched.
Simon. Of course they were on a first-name basis. Of course.
You ignored Ghost shifting next to you, tried to block him out, make your brain stop recording the warmth radiating from the man beside you.
âLeave them alone, Johnny,â Ghost said quietly, and the contrast of his calm to Soapâs chaos only reminded you of your own invisibility.
âOh, câmon! You gotta admit, sleeping in for the entire break?â Soap bellowed.
âSounds like a solid plan to me,â Ghost replied, voice smooth, almost fond.
Fond. Gods, he even sounded fond.
You wished youâd taken up Kyle on that drinking game earlier. Anything to blur the edges of your awareness, anything to stop the feeling that every laugh, every shared glance, every casual touch of John and Simonâs hands was a personal indictment of your own failures.
You thought of nothing and everything at once: the months of trying to get Simonâs attention, the laugh youâd almost coaxed out of him once, the small victories that now felt meaningless.
And the worst part? You knew it wasnât fair. It had never been fair. You had tried. You had waited. You had carved out space in Simonâs life with patience and effort, only to be sidelined, again and again, by the effortless gravity of McTavishâs presence.
You bit your lip until it bled a little, not caring if anyone noticed, not even Ghost. You could feel Soap muttering something beside you, Ghostâs chair creaking as he shifted closer, their voices overlapping into some private universe you werenât allowed to enter.
â
Kyleâs favourite was Price.
Priceâs favourite was Ghost.
Ghostâs favourite was Soap.
Soapâs favourite was Ghost.
And you⌠well, you were part of the task force.
It wasnât anyoneâs fault. No one had done anything cruel. No one had explicitly pushed you away. But the pattern was there, threaded through every conversation, every private joke you werenât present for, every look exchanged over your head.
It felt wrong to even feel it. Childish. Pathetic, even.
You were a grown adult, a soldier, highly trained, highly capable, and intimately familiar with the ugliest parts of warfare. Youâd put bullets in men twice your size without flinching. Youâd watched things that would haunt civilians forever.
And yetâŚ
It felt exactly like being a lonely teenager again, sitting at the lunch table wondering if your friends had another chat you werenât included in. The one they didnât talk about around you. The one you would never see.
You told yourself that 141 wasn't built for friendship. That you werenât owed their affection. That you werenât owed anything.
But the sting still found a way in, sinking into your ribs in the quiet moments between missions.
â
The mission was a mess.
Comms cut out. Intel outdated. More hostiles pouring into the facility than anyone expected.
You didnât have time to think.
You made a call. A risky one.
A wrong one, by Priceâs standards.
You knew the shouting was coming long before it started.
âWhat the bloody hell was that?!â Price roared, and the sound cracked through the room like a hammer.
He didnât wait for your answer. His fist slammed across your cheek, brutal enough to send stars scattering across your vision. You staggered but stayed upright, jaw throbbing.
âDid you listen to me during the briefing at all?!â he barked, stepping into your space, towering over you. âWhat were the mission orders?â
You opened your mouth, but he grabbed your collar and yanked you closer. His breath hit your skin, hot and furious.
âWhat were the mission orders?!â
You forced the words out, even as your throat tightened. âEstablish surveillance⌠wait for reinforcements⌠hold perimeter.â
âThen if you knew,â he snapped, âwhat the fuck was that?â
Your voice shook. You hated that it shook.
âCaptain, I- I needed to-â
âNo,â he said sharply, cutting you off with a finger pointed at your face. âDonât you âCaptainâ me like that. You disobeyed direct orders. You just cost us-â
He shoved you back, and you hit the wall hard, shoulder screaming. Soap shifted where he stood, as if instinctively wanting to step in, but Ghostâs hand landed on his arm, a silent warning.
Stay out of it.
You didnât look at them.
You couldnât.
â
Laswellâs report took thirty minutes. Your explanation took two.
Her verdict was simple: Your deviation was made in an attempt to extract the team after the facility filled with unexpected hostiles.
You had acted to protect their lives. You should have followed orders. Both were true.
Outside the briefing room, the hallway felt colder. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. You couldnât look at Price. You didnât think you could handle whatever expression he had now. Anger, disappointment, pity. Either one made your stomach roil.
For long seconds, neither of you spoke. You stared at the floor. He stared at the wall. Ghost and Soap lingered farther down the corridor, unusually quiet.
Finally, Price approached. He stopped beside you. âLook at me.â
You did. Because you had to.
For the first time tonight, he wasnât furious. He looked older instead. Tired. His jaw worked as if he was chewing on words he didnât want to say. Then: âI shouldnât have hit you.â
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
He continued. âI was angry. We were blindsided. I took it out on you. That was out of line.â
His hand rested on your shoulder. Gentle, almost, and steady. The same hand that had thrown the punch. âYou made a call under pressure. A bad one, but you were trying to get us all out. Thatâs clear.â
You tried to swallow past the tightness in your throat. âI didnât want anyone hurt.â
âI know.â
You nodded. Not because you forgave him, you doubted he'd care if you didn't. Not because you wanted to talk, neither of you seemed to be in the mood.
But because it was the only response your body seemed capable of and the one that Price seemed to want.
He gave a small exhale, something between relief and regret, and stepped back. âGet some rest.â
He walked away, boots echoing down the hall. Soap followed after a hesitant moment. Ghost lingered the longest, enough that you felt his gaze on your cheek, your jaw, the bruise forming.
You didnât look at him.
â
Garrick was a good kid.
More than capable. Quick on his feet. Sharp in ways recruits twice his age werenât.
You actually enjoyed sparring with him. He listened. He adjusted. He didnât get frustrated when you swept him onto the mat for the third, fourth, fifth time. He laughed through the bruises. And you caught yourself liking the role, someone older, more experienced, someone who could teach him something worthwhile.
Youâd tap his shoulder in warning before shifting your stance. âGuard up.â
âAlready up,â heâd grin.
And he meant it. He was trying.
But every time, every damn time, his eyes drifted.
Not at the floor. Not even at the clock. But to Price.
Captain walked by once, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, and Gazâs entire focus slid toward him like metal pulled by a magnet. A small tilt of his head. A spark in his eyes. A silent pull. You could almost see his body shift to face him fully, even if he stayed planted in front of you.
Hero worship? No. Not quite.
Price wasnât a hero. And Garrick certainly wasnât fourteen.
Didnât stop it from feeling like that sometimes.
It never hurt enough to complain. Never hurt enough to resent Gaz for it. You just noticed it the way you noticed the cold before snow.
So you huffed in laughter when his attention slipped mid-spar.
Youâd clap him on the shoulder, pull his weight over your hip, and slam him onto the mat one last time.
Heâd wheeze, blinking up at the ceiling before laughing. âAlright, switch?â
You offered him your hand. He took it instantly, grinning wide and bright, hauling himself to his feet with a bounce you rarely saw when he was sparring with you.
âFor sure! Thanks for the spar, mate!â
âYeah, no-â you watched him jog toward Price, practically vibrating with energy, â-worries.â
You dusted off your hands, quiet settling into your bones. The mat felt colder under your knees than it had before.
Price clapped Gaz on the back. Gaz lit up.
Of course he did.
Of course thatâs who he gravitated toward. Of course you werenât the one he looked up to.
You told yourself it didnât matter. You told yourself you were fine, you werenât supposed to want that kind of connection anyway. You weren't even in your 30s yet!
And yetâŚSomething inside you faded a little each time it happened.
â
Later that week, the base was quiet, the halls half-lit. You stood in the kitchen alone, the hum of the fridge the only sound. The light overhead was dim, casting long, lazy shadows across the counters. Laswell had surprised you with the cupcake. A ridiculous little thing, almost childish, bright and colorful, the frosting swirled in a gradient of colors that didnât match anything you wouldâve picked.
âI didnât know which color you liked best,â sheâd said, almost sheepish.
You didnât know what your face had looked like in that moment. Grateful, maybe. Soft. Probably pathetic, if sheâd gotten a good look at the way your hands had wrapped around the cupcake like it was a lifeline.
She placed the candle gently in the center, lit it, and stepped back.
For the first time in years, maybe since your fifteenth birthday or the one after it that didnât happen at all, you felt warm. Like someone had nudged the world back into focus just for a moment.
Then the hallway cracked open with Priceâs voice. âAlright, debrief for the mission in five!â
Duty first. Always duty first. The echo carried through the halls, bouncing off the walls. And just like that, the small bubble of stillness shattered.
You held the cupcake a little longer, thumb brushing the frosting and smearing the gradient slightly. It felt right, somehow. Messy, small, and yours.
You blew out the candle. Quietly. No wish coming to mind.
Carefully, you set the cupcake on top of the fridge. Balanced it just so. A small, absurd monument.
You turned to grab a mug from the cabinet, rinsing it absentmindedly under the tap. Water ran over your fingers, dripped down the counter. You didnât bother drying them properly, just left the small puddle there.
The base creaked around you, the usual mix of distant chatter, footsteps, and the low hum of machinery. You leaned against the counter after you filled your mug with coffee, shoulders slack, watching the cupcake from the corner of your eye.
Soapâs voice floated from behind you. âOi. Whatâs that up there?â
You didnât look at him. Just tilted your head toward the fridge.
âItâs⌠nothing,â you said softly.
âCupcake?â His grin was sheepish. âLaswellâs handiwork?â
You gave the faintest shrug, not moving.
He straightened, hands on his hips, frowning like a parent scolding a child. Or trying to. Then, without another word, he hopped and grabbed the cupcake.
You froze.
He tilted it toward his mouth, frosting smeared across his fingers, and took a big bite. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. Licked his fingers.
You blinked.
âOi,â you said finally. âThat-â
He raised an eyebrow, smiling like you were sharing a joke. âItâs just a cupcake.â
You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. What could you say? Complain? Yell? It wasnât worth it. He was right. It was childish. Silly. And you⌠you didnât have the energy to be angry. Not really.
Soap took another bite, humming softly, satisfied. âNot bad. Laswellâs got skills, eh?â
He was right. It was good. And it had been meant for you. And now it was gone. And that was⌠fine.
You leaned back against the counter, watching him polish off the last crumbs.
Soap clapped the empty cupcake wrapper in his hand and tossed it in the bin, grinning like nothing had happened. âCheers, mate. That was worth it.â
You nodded, tiredly, letting the warmth linger in your chest, even if it had come at the expense of your birthday treat.
â
You couldn't quite hear the team against your ear com. They were a mess of static and blood loss, a slurry of vowels and panic that you couldnât separate. Everything was too loud and too quiet at once.
You tasted the grit of the sand against your tongue, a terrible mix with the iron of your blood trying to choke you out. The ground was warm under your back, too warm, and something sharp nudged between your ribs every time you breathed. You tried not to think about what it was. Or what it was attached to.
Price was screaming something. His voice came warped, distorted, the kind of strained tone you never associated with him. Couldâve been him. Couldâve been your brain filling in the blanks.
â-copy? Do you copy?!â
â-think heâs- God, Soap, you bloody-â
â-weâre circling back! Hold on!â
Static drowned them out again.
You wanted to turn your com off. You wanted peace. Just a moment where the ringing in your head and the drone of the rotor blades didnât mix into a single, nauseating hum.
The helicopter was a tiny dot overhead now, growing farther and farther away. You blinked slowly. It wasnât their fault, you knew. Even if you always halfâbelieved everyone must hate you, they didnât mean to leave you behind.
(Your psychologist had said once that believing everyone actively disliked you was a sign of an ego far too big for its position. You didnât like that session very much.)
It wasnât their fault your legs had been crushed by debris from one of Soapâs explosives.
Wrong angle, wrong timing, wrong day.
You hadnât even heard the collapse before you were already on the ground staring at a sky that didnât care.
Still felt like shit though.
You shifted a little, just a fraction, and felt a clink beneath you. Metal brushing metal. Something taped. Something with edges too neat. You ignored it. Youâd been ignoring it for a while now.
Someone was saying something through the com again. No⌠not saying.
Singing.
A soft voice, ragged at the edges.
Laswell.
âHappy birthday⌠to youâŚâ
You froze. Or maybe your body was already still and your brain just noticed. Your vision blurred, tears slipping down your cheeks and into the sand. How long had it been since someone sang that to you?
âHappy birthday⌠to youâŚâ
â-Donât you dare close your eyes, stay with us!â
â-pilot says weâre losing fuel, we canât-â
Your fingertips brushed the wires tucked under you, the faint warmth of something that shouldnât be warm. One of the packets pressed awkwardly into your spine when you inhaled. You tried not to laugh.
thinking of JOHNNYMCTAVISH being a total creep for the young baker.
TW : stalker! soap
âhey your boyfriendâs back.â
you look at chelsea in confusion. boyfriend? as far as you knew, you were single. the lonely little flat you had on the other side of town could attest for that. it was clear it was only person living there. well, one person and a bad ass cat who did nothing but tear up your things when you weren't there.
she grins and you knowingly and you let out an immediate groan, a feeling of uneasiness filing your gut and spilling on your face. ever since you started working here at this quaint little bakery, some blue eyed scotsman, john mctavish, has been coming in almost three days out of the week and requesting you personally. the bakery didn't even wait tables which made it even all the more weird and awkward for you. you just so happened to be working the cash register the first day he came in. from then on it's been nothing but weird glances and awkward conversation.
there was something deeply unsettling about the consistency of it all. he never seemed to come at random. somehow, without fail, he arrived on your shifts and never the mornings you swapped with another coworker, never the afternoons you'd called out sick. at first you'd convinced yourself it was coincidence, but coincidences didn't repeat themselves with military precision. it was as though he knew your schedule before you did. the realization burrowed beneath your skin until you found yourself checking the front windows every time the bell over the door rang.
it even had you looking over your shoulder when you made the walk home.
youâd never seen him before, never had a conversation or a run in with him but for some vaguely unknown reason to you, it had become a freakish habit of his. chelsea gives you a funny look and you scowl at her, opening the door and peaking through the crack to see him waiting at his practical designated spot, for you.
his eyes immediately land you and you fight the shiver that runs through your body like cold water. he smiles, all teeth and gums but itâs more animalistic than boyish and it makes you feel all out of sorts. as handsome as he was, the guy had a creep aura around him, not mention just how fucking huge he was.
âi donât know why you act that way. heâs kinda hot.â
âyou serve him then.â
âiâve tried. he only has eyes for you.â chelsea grins and pokes you in the back but you slap her hand away. besides being uncomfortable, the guy did leave a really hefty tip, one too big for some baker at a bakery. if chelsea wasn't constantly in your ear chirping about how hot and good for business he was, you would have told him to fuck off by now. you had patience, but not that much. especially for a man.
you close the door before moving pass chelsea to continue working on a fresh batch of croissants. it may have not been big deal, but this had become a continuous thing. chelsea may have seen it as a joke, but this little triad got very old very fast.
eventually, after sliding the croissants into the over and giving yourself a mental pep talk, you washed your hands and tightened your apron before walking out from the kitchen. like a moth to a flame, his eerie blue eye were on you. you've struuggled enough in life to understand the art of code switching and pretending. with the big smile you plastered on your face, you would never think that you were actually planning on just leaving out the back kitchen door as if you were never there in the first place.
"there's ma bonnie girl."
gross.
you greet him, the sweetness in your voice had you internally cringing. you pulled out the chair across from him, sitting down with the fakest smile you could muster, cheeks straining from how believable you were trying to make yourself out to be. anything not to lose this fucking job, even so, you had a cautioning fear that if you happened to piss this guy off, the thought of losing your job would be the least of your worries.
"would nae miss seeing ye for the world bon. took ye a bit long to come out, started to think ye didn't wanna see me." you let out a quiet laugh that sounded painfully forced even to your own ears, fingers smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your apron before folding neatly in your lap.
"it's been a busy morning." a lie. not that he would know though. his eye lingered on you, studying your face in that same unnerving way he always did. like every twitch of your expression meant something.
"aye. been workin' harder lately, yeah bon?"
"comes with the job."
"naw." his voice remained gentle.
"comes with the bills."
your smile held for another second before beginning to strain.
"i think everyone's got bills." he nodded once. "but no' everyone's landlord hikes rent by three hundred dollars in the middle o' the lease."
the blood drained from your face and you stared at him. johnny rested his forearms against the table, his gaze drifting over your face before settling somewhere just beyond you. your mouth parted, but nothing came out. johnny didn't seem to notice, or maybe he did, but misunderstood the reason.
"dirty thing to do ta such sweet girl. should be illegal."
he reached for his coffee, taking an easy sip. your pulse was pounding so hard you could hear it. his words settled like rocks in your stomach. you hadn't told anyone, not even chelsea. hell, you hadn't even called your mum because you knew she'd only worry and insist on sending money she didn't have.
you'd spent the last month pretending everything was fine. buying cheaper groceries. skipping meals when you had to. walking to work whenever the fuel light came on because every gallon mattered. no one knew. not one soul. but johnny smiled to himself.
"s'why i leave ye the extra cash."
john's tone was playful but the look in his eye said otherwise.
the rest of the conversation passed in a haze you couldn't quite remember. your body stayed rooted in the chair while your mind clawed desperately for some explanation that didn't end with the same horrifying conclusion.
you found yourself nodding at things he said without actually hearing them, smiling when it seemed appropriate because years of customer service had trained your body to move on its own. every now and then he'd laugh, and you'd force one in return, all while your pulse hammered so violently you were certain he had to hear it.
when john left, he left with a a sloppy kiss on your cheek, slipping a hundred dollar bill in your back pocket.
after that it didn't take long before he started mentioning things you couldn't remember telling him. your favorite pastry, the fact you hated cinnamon in your coffee, that you always switched your rings from one hand to the other halfway through your shift because the dough made your fingers swell. tiny details that should've been invisible to anyone who wasn't deliberately paying attention. you laughed them off the first few times, assuming maybe you'd let something slip in conversation, but eventually the list grew too long to explain away. the first time shouldâve been enough.
you found yourself changing little habits just to test him. wearing your hair differently. taking your break later than usual. parking around the corner instead of behind the bakery. somehow he'd notice every single change, offering casual comments with that same unnerving smile that suggested he expected you to be impressed rather than disturbed. every confirmation tightened the knot already living in your stomach.
for the first time since he'd started coming into the bakery, you had stopped wondering why he was so interested in you.
you started to wonder how long he'd been watching before you ever noticed him.
downright ugly simon x blind reader who lives alone with her guide dog who has taken a liking to the retired soldier. kinda of a meet cute situation, bump into one another at the park and now you have a guide dog and a man you can only describe as huge living with you. but heâs the sweetest and most gentle with you.
halfway through his list of reasons he's toying worh himself through his pants, stroking and moving it, showing off the outline. his other hand is over your shoulder, gently brushing fingertips over your tit.
"you know i'm huge, right?" he says. "Pornstar big."
"Shut up."
"i'm serious. im massive." "touch it and see."
when you go to reach, he's pushing down his pants to give you a proper handful of the biggest cock you've ever seen-
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my absolute favourite Ghost fics are the ones that have him just be an objectively terrible lover. Like just a horrendous fuck. No charisma, no charm, no finesse, just an ugly disgusting stinking lust and a rough fuck before he comes without warning you and then rubs the calloused heel of his palm over your clit until you come (if he even remembers to do that or cares enough to get you off). 0/10. Youâd never repeat it again if he gave you that option, but sadly he doesnât because youâre a much better lover than he is and heâs greedy enough to keep coming back for more.
thoughts of dean winchester having some sort of complicated feelings for an old hunting buddy of his late father. complicated because he sees this man as a father figure. someone he looks up to, heâd been around long before he and sam started back hunting together again. heâd been a part of their hunting lives for as long as dean could remember. there had always been something there. something everyone but dean himself could see and it was almost unhealthy. sam would see the way his brother stared at him with adoration in his eyes, the need and yearning that dean had for no one else.
gracieabrams
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner
