I won't be telling my real name, but I don't mind just being called Kerosene or Kero. I'm over eighteen so if you see me on your MDNI posts I promise I'm an adult 🙏. I'm physically disabled and wheelchair bound, if you want to know more about that for some reason- feel free to ask I'm not ashamed of it at all. I write specifically for disabled readers, as I don't see a lot of fanfiction catering to us. I try to write readers as a rounded person and portray the struggles of a disability. ALSO. SO OPEN TO MAKING WRITING BUDDIES. I'M INSANE BUT ILY GUYS
Request Info
Requests are open! You don't have to be disabled to request particular disabilities. You don't have to be disabled to enjoy my writing either. Either way my posts might reach someone who doesn't get fanfiction representation♥️ If you want to request a disability, but don't want to publicly, please feel free to dm me and I won't even mention you specifically if you don't want. Right now, I write for a generic manual wheelchair user reader. I try not to delve too deep into the cause of the disability, so hopefully as many as you can, can still relate and feel included.
Hey there, coming out of my unfortunate hiatus for a moment. Because what the fuck?
To say it's ableist to not back an AI, data scraping, writing stealing, app- is absolutely fucking ridiculous. And the statement itself, is ableist.
This app isn't some original godsend, you literally just steal from unwilling writers. Could have done the opposite, could have been reaching out to authors about moving/merging their work onto the app- but no. Instead you expect writers to figure out to message you, and ask NOT to get stolen from. And that's if you even believe that they're the author, or if you even decide to read the damn email.
There are and have been very good tools for disabled people to read and enjoy content, from app overlays and extensions. Because let's be real, the purpose of this app was not for disabled people, you just ran out of excuses. The entire point is the AI and data.
Do not use disabled people to condone your AI bullshit, do not use disabled people to steal the hard work of writers. Do not use disabled people as an excuse for your bullshit.
Writers, authors, poets. You are not ableist for protecting your hard work.
Guess who might have had a crazy fucked life experience, is in the process of moving, and was forced to take a long ass break from writing silly fanfiction?
My bad pookies 😬
But. I hope to be posting again by next week. Thank you for your patience ♥️
I lounge around 80% of the time and look like I slept -40 hours.
Feel like there would be a two sided fandom.
One side theorizing I have horrific trauma and am a meme template for mental struggles. Like the ones with random sad Nightcore songs and a cheesey sad quote.
The other side just pointing and being like "look at that lazy garbage creature-" and post pictures of me drooling with the little pink bow add on.
Warnings - References to main character death(s), grief, destructive behavior, low self worth, alcohol mentioned, smoking mentioned, unhealthy coping habits, more answers about Elizabeth, mostly flashbacks, brief smut(literally one paragraph lol).
Summary - Simon Riley wakes up in a strange bed, in a strange house. Will he have a second chance at the life he dreams of? The family he lost?
What happens when he wakes up, again?
A /N - this fic is canon adjacent. The timeline is fucky, and something’s are modified to fit the story. Most will be revealed shortly.
———
His head is pounding, a result of what he’s sure is a nasty hangover. He refuses to open his eyes, refuses to face the empty bed that’s too small, suffocating him.
Simon lays there, just listening to the ceiling fan - the off-balance, rhythmic clanking that pulled him from a deep, comfortless sleep. The flat is silent, vacant, outside of this room.
This isn’t right. This isn’t fucking fair.
He can still feel your touch as you laid bare between him and Johnny. He can still feel Johnny’s warm mouth wrapped around his length, can feel the tears he wiped from his pretty cheeks. Licking his lips, he tries to remember the sweet taste of your heat, tries to remember the melodic way you cried his name as filled you again, just last night. It was last night, wasn’t it? When you fell asleep on his chest, his ankles locked with Johnny’s, his fingers in his hair.
It was just last night when he had taken his time to recommit your bodies to his scrambled memory. Hesitantly traced every line on your skin, every freckle on Johnny’s, leaving his marks on the both of you, until he had convinced himself you were real, that you were staying.
Delaying the inevitable, he keeps his eyes closed, trying to cling to that life, for just little bit longer. He was terrified this would happen; terrified that if he tested the bearings, let himself lay the heavy weight of hope on that illusion, that life, that it would all collapse underneath him.
The alarm blares on the nightstand. He ignores it - tries to - as it continues to demand his attention. He recalls the sound of your breathing, Johnny’s snoring. That’s what he was supposed to wake up to. That’s supposed to be his reality. Not this.
The shrieking grates in his ears. His stomach turning, chest aching as he thinks back to another sound, one he longs for, misses with every passing second.
…Elizabeth giggles, one of those painfully cute infant belly laughs.
His arm shoots out, gripping the alarm clock, throwing it across the room, shattering against the wall. “FUCK! I can’t fucking do this again!” Legs swung over the side of the bed, fingers tugging on his hair as he hangs his head. “I can’t be alone again.”
The ceiling fan spins, but he receives no other response.
—
Simon is holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, bouncing and swaying in no distinct pattern. “No, you don’t get it! I can’t do th- I can’t get ‘er- she just won’t stop screamin’ no matter what I do. I don’t know how t’help ‘er and- She won’t even eat! She’s not takin’ any fucking bottle or dummy I offer. She won’t sleep! I swear, we haven’t slept since Johnny’s funeral and-“
“Simon, slow down.” Price cuts him off, having been listening to the same disoriented words for the past five minutes, all while the baby wails in the background. “Listen to me. Just put her in her crib, and step away for a minute.”
“No! I can’t leave her in there alone! She has to know I’m not leavin’.” His voice sounds utterly shredded, hoarse with emotion and exhaustion. Price doesn’t tell him, but his lieutenant has never sounded worse. That alone causes alarm bells to sound in the captains mind.
“Yes, you can. You have to. I’m on my way, but you need a break, now. Go lay her down. She’ll be safe.”
“I can’t leave her. She needs me.” Simon needs her, he needs to know he can calm her, that he can be enough for her.
He sighs on the other line, “She does. She needs someone who can be calm, and patient. You can’t do that without taking a minute to yourself. Just put ‘er in the crib, for five minutes. Less, if you have to.”
Simon has never felt like more of a failure as he cries, his back against the bedroom door, listening to his baby screaming, alone in her bed, on the other side.
He’s not enough. He can’t be enough.
She needs her parents.
He needs his mom.
—
Price sighs, watching him shove another empty bottle into the trash bag in his hand. “This has to stop, Simon.” Ghost doesn’t respond. This is Ghost he’s talking to - his face is bare, but he recognizes a mask when he sees one. “You have to pull yourself out of this.”
“Why?” He doesn’t bother looking at him, just continuing with his cleaning. After he broke the clock this morning, he couldn’t stop. Lamps, and books thrown off of shelves, dirty dishes swept off the counter onto the floor. His throat raw, voice nearly gone from yelling. He’s a mess. This life is a mess.
“You know, I shouldn’t even entertain that stupid question.” Price pushes off the wall, coming to stand in front of him. “You know why. You’re a bloody father.” Throwing a piece of dirty laundry in the hamper, paying no mind to the warning in the other man’s eyes. “Don’t you want to bring her home?”
“She is home.” The words are bitter, thick sulfuric tar on his tongue.
Price just shakes his head. “No, she’s not. She needs her dad.”
Simon’s eyes trail to the single item on the mantel. One picture frame, three photos; the largest of the three showing a newborn, swaddled Elizabeth, asleep in the hospital cot, next to a pink stuffed animal nearly as big as her. The other two are from the maternity photo shoot Johnny insisted on; one of all three of you, your men with their hands on your rounded belly, your head thrown back, laughing at something Simon said, Johnny’s cheeks flushed. The last photo shows you alone, wearing a long flowing red gown, your skin gilded and glowing by the setting sun. Angelic, and heaven-sent, his love, his wife.
His eyes cut back to the floor, clearing his throat. “I’m the last person she needs.”
—
“The fuck you mean, you left her?” The bearded man shouts, red in the face, paying no mind to the onlookers outside the pub.
Simon leans his head against the brick wall behind him. “She needed someone calm. Took ‘er to ‘er family.” He closes his eyes, takes a drag of his cigarette. If he didn’t know better - if he couldn’t smell the stench of stale alcohol on his clothes, didn’t just drag him away from the bar like a dog to the curb - Price would swear he was sober.
He steps closer, grabbing the collar of Simon’s shirt, trying to shake some sense into him. “I meant you! I meant she needed you to be calm! I didn’t mean ship her off to your in-laws!”
“What was I s’posed to do?” He pushes his hands off, stumbling forward slightly, emotionless as he says, “She fuckin’ hates me. She knows I’m not really ‘er dad. She knows I’m a bloody wreck.”
“You are her dad! And she’s three months old! She’s not capable of hating anyone-“
“I can’t fuckin’ look at ‘er, okay?!” Cutting him off, his guilt and grief finally spilling from his lips. “I can’t look at ‘er. She looks too much like them. I just- I can’t do this.”
He’s not strong enough, or stable enough, brave enough to face this alone.
He’ll never be enough for her.
Simon lets his captain drag him to the car, drag him up the stairs to his flat, all but throwing him onto the couch. His head is already aching, his arm limp over his eyes, he waits for the door to close behind Price, to be left alone again.
“Tell me you won’t regret it someday.”
He opens one eye, brows drawn at the man squatting in front of him. “What?”
“You said you can only see them in her,” he stands, continues when Simon nods, “Tell me you won’t regret the day when you can’t even see a speck of yourself in her, too.”
He doesn’t respond. Completely unsure of the answer; unsure if she really is better off without him.
Warnings - References to main character death(s), blood mentioned, stitches mentioned, medical inaccuracies(? Johnny’s struggling), alcohol, cursing, general distress, sadness, and grief.
Summary - Simon Riley wakes up in a strange bed, in a strange house. Will he have a second chance at the life he dreams of? The family he lost?
A/N - remember when I said the chapters are based loosely on the song they’re named after? This is very loosely. Be advised.
——
You were waiting by the door the moment Simon said he was bringing someone home, anxiously picking at your nails.
The two of you hadn’t lived here long, so you were surprised he even told anyone where he’d moved to. Never giving away too much too soon, not without good reason.
But you knew he had a good reason when he asked you to get down his first aid kit, “the big one,” he’d told you. The one he uses for more than just first aid, using the sterile tools he keeps stocked in it to act as his own personal doctor - or butcher, somedays. Though now, you suppose, you may be stepping in as a nurse for someone new.
“C’mon, Johnny, almost there, yeah? Just a few more steps.” Your boyfriend prompted the pale-faced man, limp arm wrapped around Simon’s shoulder as he practically carried him into the apartment. The stench of booze radiating off of them. Shaking your head, you decide you’ll ask for details later.
The younger man just grunted in response, eyes flicking up to you for just a moment. You were quick to stamp down the feelings that particular shade of blue stirred in you. Not the time.
Simon settled him on the couch, giving you directions to get him water, some painkillers, and to hurry back. When you returned, the man, Johnny, had his head thrown back with his eyes squeezed shut, teeth biting into his fist, as Simon knelt between his legs, stitching a huge, jagged cut along his thigh.
“Here, use this instead, honey.” Johnny grunts but was quick to open his mouth when you offered the leather belt. You stayed by his side, brushing his hair from his face, talking him through it. You held his hand, this stranger, this man, who your partner brought home. Despite the circumstances, something about that feels right.
“All done. I’ll check the bandage in a few hours.” His fingers brush across the skin just under the wrap. “Johnny? Y’okay?”
“Aye, sir,” he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, glancing to you before his eyes flit back down. His lip twitches up, “Shouldnae lemme cry in front of your bird, LT. ‘S not a good look f’me.”
You cluck at that, eyes rolling, but Simon is the first to correct him, a familiar glint in his eyes, crinkling around the corners as he smiles at him.
“You’ve looked worse. ‘Sides, we’re home now, no titles here, Johnny. Just breathe and reset. Neither of us are goin anywhere.” Locking eyes with you, he adds, “We’ll all talk more in the mornin’.”
—
“Si?”
You squeeze his hand and he looks up from the table, realizing you and Johnny are both watching him, waiting for… something. “‘M sorry, what?”
You pout, furrowing your brow as you rise to gather all the plates. “My family, they said they missed you. Hoping maybe they come across this way next time.”
“Oh.” Shame from another life twists in his stomach, watching as Johnny cleans Beth’s face and chubby little hands. She still has those dimples on her knuckles... He clears his throat, standing to help clear the table, “Y-yeah, that’ll be good. Next time.” After setting the dishes in the sink, he brushes his hands down your arms. “I’m just… goin’ t’get ready for bed.”
He just needs a minute, just needs to breathe.
As he leaves, he hears you whisper to Johnny, “What’s wrong with him tonight?” In response, he just hums three syllables.
‘I don’t know’.
What is wrong with him? He should be happy, thrilled, even. He should be taking every second with the two of you, not locking himself in the bathroom alone. It’s just all too much. It still doesn’t make any sense, and he doesn’t have a single clue how to find the answers. This life feels just as real, if not more, than the one before. He wants it to be. He knows this could be his chance to rewrite what happened, rebuild his family. But he’s just so scared that he’ll fuck it up again. That something else will happen, and he’ll lose you - all of you - again.
He tries to push those thoughts away, tries to convince himself that he can tend to this dream and make it right. That he’ll have time to uncover all of the secrets, the confusion, hoping that he’ll have time to study them and learn where he went wrong. He knows he’s bound to make mistakes in this life, same as the last, but maybe, if he tries harder, if he can be better, and more brave, he can keep you all together and safe in this life. He has to keep you all safe.
“Feelin’ better?” You ask, the moment he comes back down the stairs. He’s immediately drawn into your warmth, the air you provide. He’s the bitter cold, you’re always as sweet as spring.
His hands find their resting place on your hips, squeezing the soft flesh, convincing himself that you’re real. “Yeah, I’m alrigh’,” he breathes against your lips, letting you hum in response before he closes the gap. He kissed you just the same as he kissed Johnny when you got home - desperate and clinging to you. But his breath is still taken away by it all. Your hand on his cheek is softer, warmer than his memory can convey, the taste of you when you part your lips to invite him in is more intoxicating than he can explain.
He huffs when you pull away. “Johnny’s unpacking and starting a load of laundry, I’m about to clean this mess from dinner. You got bedtime tonight?”
Simon feels his eyes widen, taking a step back as he looks to Beth in the living room where she tries to pull up in front of the couch. “Alone?” He sounds mortified by the idea.
You laugh at that before dropping your smile and jerking your head back. “Wait. Are you serious?”
He swallows, lies, “No, I can! I just thought she’d rather have you or her Da, y’know, just since - well, she’s been with you lately. Might not,” he glances to her again, his tone dropping, “she might not be used to me anymore.”
You squint. “That’s exactly why she’d want you, Si.” Mapping his face, you sigh as you add, “But if you can’t handle it tonight, I’ll do it.”
“Jus’ put ‘er down together.” Johnny suggests, squatting down to let Elizabeth use his fingers to pull up as support for her wobbly legs. He smiles when she falls on her bottom again. “I’m done, I can handle cleanin’ up down ‘ere.”
“Honey, are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Absolutely.” He soothes you with a wave of his hand, his voice going higher, softer as he turns his attention back to his daughter. “Ye’re sick of Da. Want mama and daddy, don’t ye?” The baby squeals as Johnny scoops her up to blow a raspberry on her belly. His smile blinding with love and pride.
Johnny was always meant to be a dad…
Simon, on the other hand, is completely out of his element. You know something is wrong; he can see your hesitation when he asks for directions during bath-time, the frown and sideways glance when he declines the opportunity to rock her to sleep, just looming in the shadows as he watches you. His fingers tingling to help, but not knowing where to begin. And you’re so patient, encouraging him, reminding him that he’s a good dad.
He knows he’s not.
No less, he’s thankful you don’t question him. At least not until you finally get Elizabeth settled in her crib.
“What is going on with you?” You shout in a whisper, pulling him into the hallway outside her door.
His eyes cut to the light coming up the stairs from the living room, wishing Johnny would interrupt this moment. “What do y’mean?”
“What do I-? Simon, you barely talked, barely ate at dinner. And you didn’t even want to hold Elizabeth? I mean, god, you’re acting like you did when we first brought her home, like you’re scared of her, scared to touch her.” You sigh, fingers rubbing your eyelids, trying to stop yourself from getting too frustrated with him. You soften. “Did something happen while you were gone?”
While he was gone… like he was the lost piece, the one that left a hollow ache in his absence. The one that was missed.
He closes his eyes, tries to steel his expression. Your name falls from his lips, willing you not to press the issue. Refusing to pull the ribbon holding this life, this work of fiction, together. “…I can’t, love.”
You sigh, pulling his palm to the center of your chest, he presses firm. He knows this is something you’ve done for years, the weight being a comfort for yourself alone. But he relishes in it now. Counting each beat of your heart, letting the rhythm wash over him. “Will you just try to focus? Where ever you’re running off to up there… just don’t linger there. We need you to be here.”
“I’ll try, love, I will. You have no idea how much I want to just be here. Not a damn clue.” Sliding his hand up from your chest, he runs his thumb over your lips, feeling them stretch into a small smile before you place a kiss to the calloused pad.
Your hands are chilled where they rest on the sides of his neck, pulling him in. Your noses brush, he cups your jaw, angling your lips to his, but you shake your head. A noticeable shift in your expression - pleading, determined.
“Elizabeth needs you to be home, Simon.”
Your words cut into him, the shame from earlier nearly spilling from the gaping wound in his chest. He has to remind himself that you don’t know, you haven’t experienced his other life. You don’t know. You can’t know how he’s failed her, too. That he wasn’t enou-
There’s a crash, a shattering of glass from downstairs, “God-fuckin’-dammit!”
Simon turns, bounding down the steps in an instant. “Johnny! What happened?” He turns the corner to find him on his knees, agitated hands gathering shards into a pile, red soaking into the wood floor.
“Dropped the goddamn bottle. Cannae even pour a fuckin’ glass of wine anymore.” He mutters under his breath, neck flushed red.
“It’s okay. It was just an accident.” You attempt to diffuse, grabbing a towel, squatting to wrap the glass. Simon’s hand brushes across Johnny’s shoulder, bending to hand you a roll of paper towels and taking the glass to the trash.
“Bleedin’ pathetic, more like!” Johnny helps you sop up the mess. He’s shaking, reaching for another towel when you cover his hand.
“Stop. You’re not pathetic. You’re healing. You’re improving everyday, love.” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You are. The doctor said recovery will be slow. Just have a bit more grace with yourself.”
“I just wanted to do somethin’ for ye both, but I cannae even do that.”
“It was just too heavy.” He clicks his tongue, mumbles some response Simon can’t quite make out, something about him just being too weak. “John, please.”
Simon tries to focus on getting the mop and soapy water, needing to help. But he can’t tear his eyes away from the two of you - Johnny’s hair, longer than usual, tousled from his fingers running through it, you pushing it away from his eyes, rubbing your thumb over his ear. The gentleness the two of you hold for each other being one of the things he missed the most.
He leans into your touch, eyes closed. “I’m sorry, hen.”
“Won’t hear another word about it. Shit happens, but you’ve already come so far. For that alone, baby, we’re so thankful.” You sniff, memories of Johnny laid up in bed causing your voice to become thin.
Simon turns his back on the two of you. He feels like he’s intruding, eavesdropping on a life he wasn’t ever supposed to live.
This isn’t right.
You never knew the grief of losing your partner, of losing Johnny. He wonders if that was a mercy. He wonders if this version of you was called by Price, worried sick, alone with the baby before being swept off to a hospital where your Simon was waiting for you. He wonders if you held his hand, told him everything was going to be okay. He wonders if you cried, together. He wonders if he found comfort in fatherhood, with you still beside him. He wonders if he would have been stronger in this life.
When a character doesn’t realize they’ve been, like, shot or whatever and they hand brushes against their side and comes away wet with blood, and they’re just staring at it like wtf is this and then their knees just totally give out on them and they sink down, maybe gasping a little as the reality finally hits them. That’s good stuff.
I see that, and raise you a character who knows they’ve been shot, but waits until the rest of their crew is out of sight to put their hand against the slowly spreading stain of blood on their shirt, then trying to steady their breathing so they can follow without letting on how injured they are.
Okay but like the character who doesn’t realize they’ve been hurt trying to see if everyone else is okay only to slowly realize that everyone is looking at them with mounting horror. Then they touch their side to find it’s wet and oh no
I feel like we're forgetting the dreaded fourth option.
The character doesn't tell anyone. Nobody gasps and finds their injury. They don't come for help.
But they are missing.. they aren't celebrating with the others after the fight is over.
No. They've gone off like an old mutt, to die away from their companions so nobody worries. Whether their bodies will be buried in snow or taken by the trees.
At least the people they love will just.. think they're gone somewhere.
Even worse if the others are actually angry, cause why would character leave them? They thought they were a team, a family?
They have no idea that character laid there, clutching their wound, gritting their teeth cause they would rather hear their loved ones laughter and celebration than their own wheezes and coughs of soon to be death.
Warnings - References to main character deaths, blood mentioned, cursing, general distress.
Summary - Simon Riley wakes up in a strange bed, in a strange house. Will he have a second chance at the life he dreams of? The family he lost?
(This is mostly just build up, and mostly ghoap 🫠 sorry not sorry they are husbands and I love them)
———
It’s a cruel trick, this reality, this illusion.
It’s cruel how photographs of the four of you line these walls, how the closet is filled with clothes, yours and Johnny’s and Simon’s. It’s cruel that his hoodie smells like you again. That it was found draped over the rocking chair he built, in a nursery he doesn’t recognize. It’s cruel because it feels so real. It feels like home.
“You’re not listenin’ to me.” Simon can’t stop staring at the scribbles someone, probably Johnny, deemed worthy to be put on the fridge. She can hold a crayon, now. He supposes that makes sense.
Price hasn’t stopped staring at him. He’s trying to keep his expression neutral, trying to be the Captain, the guidance he feels Simon needs now. But Ghost can see through it, he can see the way he keeps stopping his knee from bouncing, the gnashing of his molars, the sharp inhales through his nose. He knows his tells, he knows he’s concerned, scared even, for Simon’s wellbeing.
“Okay.” Price brushes his hands down his thighs as he stands. “If none of this is ‘real’, why does it matter if I’m listening? Or better yet, why don’t you make me listen?” He tries to sway him, make Simon see the flaws in his theory.
“I dunno.” He’s decided this isn’t a dream. He usually wakes up when he realizes he’s dreaming. More than that, this… this place has too many details; expiration dates on the food in the pantry, water that gets too hot and too cold, the tag in his shirt scratching his neck. The tiny fingerprints on the windows and walls, the wine stain on the bedroom rug. “But I’m tellin’ you, I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m just fuckin’ not! This isn’t right! This isn’t my house, none of this is mine!” He gestures to the large kitchen he stands in before slamming his hands on the counter. He sees the highchair across the room, your favorite mug by the coffee pot, Mrs. Mactavish’s cookbook she passed down to Johnny. Simon hangs his head. “None of this is mine.”
“Simon. Look at me.” Price lays his hand on his shoulder, he resists the urge to shove him off as he looks in his eyes. “This is yours. This is real. Your family, they’re on their way home, right now.” He pauses, Simon waits. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but just… get yourself together before they get here.” He grabs his keys, pausing to look to look back once more. “And call your bloody therapist.”
He really did try, try to clean himself up, prepare himself for whatever new, twisted trick the universe decides to play on him. As it turns out, there’s no preparing for the impossible, no way to deny a grieving heart the hope impossibilities provide.
The moment he heard the car pull into the driveway, he was out the door in a second, feet scrambling to find purchase on the wet grass. The headlights are too bright, the rain chilling his bones, roaring against the pavement. He can see only the silhouettes, the ghosts’ of his partners. He sees the man walk around the back on the car, a baby fussing as the woman bends into the backseat to pick her up.
They aren’t yours. This is wrong.
A newborn wails, screaming from the cold, the lights. The cry is quickly taken over by frantic machinery, alarms and sirens alerting everyone within range of the danger looming on the horizon. He can’t breathe; the scent of blood overwhelms him. Where the hell is Johnny? There’s a harsh hand shoving him away, away from the bed, away from you, and the baby. He scans the room, there are too many faces, too many bodies. Where is he?
Finally, he spots him. Eyes wide, an ocean of blue, terrified and raging against the storm that just broke. He calls for him, reaches for him, but Johnny pulls away, shaking hands reaching for the baby instead, pulling her to calm and stability - away from Simon.
Lightning strikes, echos like a gunshot.
And it all falls silent.
“Hi, baby! Sorry, you lot can stay in the rain! The girls are goin’ inside!” You shout over the rain, laughing as you press a quick kiss to his cheek, one hand squeezing his arm.
He’s paralyzed as he watches you rush past him, protectively curled around the crying baby in your arms. His cheek stings as if you struck him, his arm going numb where you touched him.
You laughed. You laughed and you kissed him.
And it was real.
“Oi! Run these inside, will ye?” There’s a diaper bag and a duffel bag shoved in his hands, a warm palm pressed softly against his chest for just a moment before Johnny heads back to the car.
“Johnny.” The word almost gets lost in the noise, washed away by the rain, but somehow it reaches his ears.
Soap turns to him, a perplexed look on his face as water soaks his hair, his shirt sticking to his broad chest.
He’s beautiful. He’s real.
“I’ll kiss ye inside, ye dafty! Just c’mon!” His smile is just as radiant, just as tangible as yours.
Just as cruel.
Shaking himself from his daze, he hoists the bags over his shoulders, locks the car before following his family inside the house.
Simon stands in the foyer, dripping on the tile as he watches you lay the baby on the couch, stripping her from her wet clothes. Elizabeth babbles on, as if she wasn’t just screaming and freezing cold, and you talk to her, telling her everything you’re doing, telling her about the robots on her footie pajamas, that she was so brave on the plane, in the car. But that she’s home now.
“We’re all home!” You exclaim, nibbling on her toes, using what he assumes is supposed to be a monster voice, and she giggles, one of those painfully cute infant belly laughs. And Simon laughs too, the noise forcing its way out of his throat, slightly choked, filled with emotions. It feels like a movie. Like a fantasy he had refused to indulge in. This, here, you with your baby, holding her, playing with her. Hearing her laugh. It’s something you never had the chance to do… there, before.
His smile fades, and he wipes his eyes when he hears heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Got some towels, didn’t expect is to be rainin’ so fuckin’ hard.” Johnny whispers the swear as he uses one of the towels to dry his hair, offering another to Simon with a smile.
“Wait.” Grabbing him by the jaw, gently turning his face to the side. “Your head.” Fingers ghost over two dark, raised scars, one beside his eyebrow, the other just above his temple - an entry wound, an exit wound. He can still feel the blood, the matter, pouring from between his fingers, a useless attempt to cling to his shattered family. Simon blinks, swallows the bile threatening to rise in his throat.
Johnny bats his arm down, reaching to touch his head. “Ach, I’m fine, Si. Just still ugly, s’all. You know the boss still won’t let me do anythin’ I’m not ‘supposed’ to. Bleedin’ dictator, she is.”
I heard that!” You shout, pausing from prepping Beth’s bottle to wait for a response.
Feigning guilt, he calls out a sweet, “Sorry, hen!” He turns back to Simon, “See? Nothin’ gets past that one- Hey. Are ye okay, love?”
Simon’s chest caves in with a sharp exhale, the endearment breaking any restraint he had left. One hand grips the back of Johnny’s neck, the other pulling him in by the waist. He gasps at the sudden movement but quickly melts into the embrace when his lips touch Simon’s. There are a thousand words, a thousand more emotions poured into the kiss - words Simon once spilled, his knees muddy and bruised, over two nondescript graves. Johnny’s tongue brushes against his and he chokes back a sob. It all becomes too much, too real, too perfect. You’re humming in the kitchen, some nursery rhyme put to a catchy tune. John pulls back, his eyes glowing with concern and love.
“What’s wrong?”
He buries his head in his neck, “I missed you. I missed you so fuckin’ much.”
John coos, “We missed ye too, but we’re home now, aye?” He tries to pull back, but the clinging arms tighten their hold around him.
“Yeah. Home now. We’re all home now.”
——
A/N - lmk what you think :) there will be more reader and Beth in the next chapter I promise
Pairing: 141 x gn!Reader
Words: 1.8K~
Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you?
a/n: just cute little moments w/ a lot of banter bc ofc
Chapter 24: Pokémon?
“So, yeah, now, even their Captain wants to…” You trail off awkwardly as you press your lips together, looking at the dropped jaws on the other side of the brunch table from you.
“Hun, I don’t- We might-” Leah starts as she stares at you, blinking away the surprise as she holds the utensils.
“Right?” Mia retorts as she stares at you. “The candle I lit for you worked too well, I reckon…”
“No, really, we girlbossed a bit too close to the sun… Manifested this too hard.” Leah adds, making Mia agree eagerly.
Your face warms up and you lower your head, taking a sip of your tea. You definitely shouldn’t be having this talk about your love and sex life inside this French bistro… but alas.
“Four? I mean… Four fwb would be understandable, you know?” Mia adds and Leah nods.
“But four boyfriends?” Leah adds. “And they’re all friends, and work together?”
“They’re not my boyfriends!” You retort as you say sharply, your face burning up a bit.
“Oh yeah? Are you seeing anyone else?” Leah retorts, ever the more logical of the three of you.
“No, but like, when would I have the time for that?” You retort and that earns chuckles from all three of you.
“Good point.” Leah concedes as she sips her own warm cappuccino.
“Besides, they literally BEAT-” Mia lowers her voice when she realize she’s being too loud. “they beat Ethan’s arse for you.” She whisper shouts. “Fwbs don’t do that, boyfriends do!”
“Right!” Leah agrees and gestures at them. “They’re absolutely your boyfriends.”
“I hate you all.” You retort and shake your head, amused, which causes all three of you to break into giggles.
“So, which one of them is, you know-” Mia asks just as you just ate a bit of omelette, causing your eyes to widen as you stare at her.
“I feel like I’m being mocked.” You quip.
Once again the two of them erupt with laughs. “I’m sorry, hun, but we’ve gotta live precariously through you!” Leah says, Mia nodding in agreement.
“Nooo, you’re taking the piss out of me!” You reply with a chuckle.
“C’moooooon! Gossip with us! We barely see you nowadays!” Mia begs as she puts her hands together in pleading.
“Oh bloody hell…” You retort. “I don’t know-”
“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease!” Mia begs.
“Alright! Gosh, I was going to say ‘I don’t know because I haven’t been with all of them yet’!” You reply.
“You haven’t?!” The girls say with a loud gasp that attracts loads of side-eye from the other patrons. You’re probably going to get kicked out soon.
“Will you shush?” You scold them, eyes widened and lips pressed together. “No, I haven’t.”
“You’ve got to!” Mia tells you.
“We’ll get there, we’re taking it slow.” You reply.
“Babes, they beat up your ex-” Leah tells you. “They’ve all slept over at some point, they pick you up from work every day, as long as they’re in town-” She continues to list, counting with her fingers.
“Right, you’re skipping through all the loops. There’s no ‘taking it slow’!” Mia adds. “Hop on those cocks, bloody hell!”
“MIA!” You scold her with a dropped jaw.
“Oh, don’t play coy now! You’ve got four boyfriends!” Leah retorts and narrows her eyes at you, sticking her tongue out now.
“Right, collecting them like trading cards.” Mia adds, causing the three of you to laugh again.
“They’re like Pokémon, you’ve just Gotta Catch’Em All!” Leah adds, causing you to cover your mouth to hide a snort of a laugh.
“Fuck you both, honestly!” You quip playfully. You missed them, missed the laughs they’ve provided you.
“No, but really now.” Leah says once you’ve all calmed down. “They make you really happy, we can see it.” She looks at you with a warm smile on her lips.
“They do.” You confirm with a sheepish nod and smile.
“I really hopes it works out between you and them.” Mia adds. “It’s so nice to see you smile this much!” Her tone is sincere and sweet.
“Thank you…” You say softly. “I hope so too.” You tell them.
“It better, or I’ll go after them with my pipe!” Mia warns, referencing an inside joke between the three of you, a piece of rusty pipe a repairman left behind at her flat after fixing her bathroom sink, which she now uses as her ‘signature weapon’.
“Right, you’re gonna pipe four soldiers?” You joke a bit, sarcastically.
“Oh no, hun, they’re the ones piping you!” Mia adds and you all lose it laughing again.
“So when are we going to meet them?” Leah teases.
-
You shouldn’t have been surprised that Kyle would answer your texts so quick.
You also shouldn’t have been surprised that he brought Johnny in tow.
And yet you were.
You texted Kyle your location and in less than 20 minutes he was jogging up the pavement, Johnny hot on his heels. You could see them coming through the window.
“Bloody hell…” You mutter as you watch them turn to go through the front door of the café/bistro.
“What?” Leah asks and before you can say anything, they both turn to look at where you are, finding Kyle and Johnny strolling right in and in your direction, cute little smirks on their lips.
Your friends recognize them immediately, of course, you had shown plenty of pictures, especially when you had just matched them on Tinder… But seeing them in real life is always different.
Kyle’s pretty boy-ing as usual. White v-neck to show off his collar bones and defined chest, grey jeans, white Converse and a black denim jacket overtop of it. He has his cutest smile on, pretty lashes fluttering as he comes to stand by your side.
“Hi, lovie…” He greets you and leans down, kissing the top of your head, before turning to greet your friends. “Hey, I’m Kyle!” He says politely.
He barely has time to say anything else before Johnny, throws himself onto the free chair next to you, the last one at this table for four, his arms wrapping around your shoulders.
“Mo leannan, ye look so bonnie…” He says before gripping you around the jaw and stealing a direct, open-mouthed kiss from you. Your eyes widen the moment he does, causing you to carefully hold onto his beefy forearm, returning the kiss to the best of your (embarrassed) abilities.
Just as you’re pulling away, you can hear Kyle justifying the kiss to your flabbergasted friends. “Forgive ‘im, he was raised in a barn.”
“Haud Yer Wheesht! I was not!” Johnny retorts as he turns to look at your friends. “Hi, I’m Johnny.” He adds as a greeting, a lopsided smirk on his face, as he reaches forward to… shake hands with your friends.
Johnny smells strongly of deodorant. That Lynx body spray shite he always sprays on himself. It’s not bad, but it’s strong… You’re only lucky the leather jacket he’s wearing conceals it a bit.
It’s an old thing, maybe a couple of decades’ old, the leather starting to wear out over the shoulders, and he’s paired it with a light blue hoodie, dark jeans and black combat boots.
“Was too.” Kyle retorts, a bit childishly as he comes to stand by your side, his hands caressing your bare arms in the t-shirt you’re wearing. “You three been having fun?” He asks you and your friends. Ever mature and considerate, he is.
Your friends are still just staring. Sure, they knew you haven’t been lying to them as you told them about your relationship with these men but it’s one thing to hear about it, the other to see it.
“Yep, we had fun, Gaz…” You say softly, catching the way Johnny’s just serving himself to the dessert you haven’t yet touched on your plate.
“You really were raised in a barn.” You tell him. “Don’t even ask permission to eat my food?” You scold him, which causes him to smirk again.
“Either I stuff my mouth with food or with you. And I’m still civilised enough to know the last one is frowned upon to do in public.” Johnny retorts, then his smile grows into an impish grin. “Unless you’re into some… kinky things.” He winks.
That causes you to sputter and look away, grumbling under your breath as his ever-present tendency to make dirty jokes.
“I like ‘im!” Mia announces suddenly as she stares at Johnny.
“I knew you would. You two think the same.” You tell her and shake your head. “Which is why I only asked Kyle to come.” You add and stare at Kyle with a cocked brow, as if questioning why he didn’t come along.
“He was on his knees begging to come. What was I supposed to do? Leave ‘im behind?” Kyle quips, a playful smirk on his lips.
“Was not!!!!” Johnny retorts. “I just figured out he was coming to see you and joined in!” He adds. “Plus, my feelings are hurt you didn’t want me to come!” He tells you with a fake pout.
“Oh, piss off, it’s not that I didn’t want you to come!” You say simply. “It’s just that you’re…”
“A dickhead.” Kyle finishes for you.
“NO!” You scold Kyle. “I was going to say ‘Intense’.”
“Intense? That feels like a euphemism for something bad, mo leannan!” The Scot tells you as he pops a macaron into his mouth.
“That’s ‘cause it is.” Kyle replies for you.
“It’s not- Kyle!”
“And your friends already like me, don’t ye?” Johnny turns his attention to the girls.
“Yes, we do!” Mia replies and nods.
Leah still hasn’t shaken out of her stupor. “My God, there’s two of them.” She says as she looks back and forth between Mia and Johnny.
“I know… I know…” You soothe her in a playfully annoyed tone.
“So, Johnny, is it?” Mia quips and leans forward to whisper conspirationally. “Give it to us straight. How does it work?” She points vaguely at you and him and Kyle.
“Mia!” You scold her this time. “I thought we were past those topics?”
“‘Those’ topics?” Kyle asks as he lowers himself near you to listen in better. “And what topics would those be?” He adds, as if he’s not perfectly aware they mean you guys’ sex life.
“Oh my God, Kyle, not you too!” You whine as you look at him.
“Nae, it’s fine that they’re curious!” Johnny quips on the other side. “I’ll gladly tell ye all about it!”
“Johnny!” You scold him again, sounding ever the more exasperated.
“Oh, you wouldn’t have anythin’ to tell either way, you dickhead.” Kyle retorts. “I’m the only one that has all the tea to share.”
“KYLE!” You scold him too, your head going back and forth between the two men flanking you.
The banter continues, your friends seemingly absolutely engrossed in the two sergeants, the way they’re making you sweat, and almost begging for the side of the gossip you had swiftly evaded earlier in the brunch.
“God help me survive this-” You murmur to yourself, feeling crescently embarrassed as everyone on the table takes the piss out of you. “I hate you all… I should’ve just invited Simon…”
Warnings - References to main character deaths, alcohol mentioned, pregnancy mentioned.
Summary - Simon Riley wakes up in a strange bed, in a strange house.
———
The bed is bigger…
That’s the first thought that crosses Simon’s groggy brain, as he rolls from his stomach to his back.
Why is the bed bigger?
His eyes snap open, legs swinging off the side of the mattress instantly. Where is he? He’s certain he didn’t go home with anyone last night - no matter how much his therapist tells him to ‘Get out there’, he knows he’s not ready. Besides, whoever lives here wouldn’t be interested in him. This house is too nice for a man like him, too warm. It would probably be comforting if he didn’t have alarm bells going off in his head, his aching body bracing for an attack.
He takes a deep breath to ground himself. ‘Inhale, exhale. Reset, Simon’, you’d have told him. The house smells familiar, smells like you, like Johnny, like home. His heart aches.
Where the hell am I?
Simon stands to get his phone off the dresser, but he gets three steps before something squeaks under his foot. No, no. This isn’t right. He shakes his head as he picks up the fluffy pink pig, squeezing its belly to confirm that’s where the sound came from, to confirm it’s real. The noise feels like a punch to the gut.
No. You don’t belong here.
Price. Price would know what happened. He saw him last night, didn’t he? He can’t be sure, it all seems fuzzy, like a dream, another life. He’s surprised his head isn’t pounding.
“Y’know what time it is, Riley?” The captain grumbles after three rings, his voice gruff and low.
He glances to the clock and grimaces. “Sorry, sir. But I need-“ what? Does he need help, back-up? No, he’s certain he’s not in danger, not here. Just fucking confused. “-need some answers. Where did I go after the pub last night? Who did I go with? And where is Beth?”
Price huffs on the other line, voice low to not disturb his wife, “What’re talkin’ about?” The bed creaks, he assumes he’s sitting up now. “I dropped you off at home right after the debrief. Didn’t go to a damn pub. You wanted to get some sleep before your family gets home today. Obviously, Beth is included in that. Where else would a damn baby be?” He says the last part under his breath, but Simon’s breath catches in his throat.
“What?”
He sighs, “Just call one of ‘em - Soap, or your wife. See when they’re landin’ today, Simon.”
His legs nearly give out, flashes of painful memories - of mourning and loneliness, longing and despair - knocking him off balance. Stumbling back onto the bed, he croaks out, “Johnny?” He’s scrambling, trying to sort through a million questions hitting all at once, his brain is too slow, too lost, but something else clicks. “My wife,” he says your name like a question, like a plea. “They’re alive?” This isn’t real, none of this is real. This is a dream. He needs to wake up.
“What? Of course they’re- Fuck, are you drunk?”
“No, no, I -“ He hangs his head between his knees, lowering the phone for a moment. He definitely doesn’t feel sober. “I dunno what’s goin’ on,” he admits after a long moment.
“Fuck, Simon.” He can practically see the captain running his hand down his face in frustration. “Scratch what I said, you do NOT call them. Just stay put. ‘M on my way.” Simon can hear a quiet voice in the background asking what’s wrong, a rustling on the line before Price’s voice responds, barely muffled, “Somethin’s not right. Think he’s drinkin’ again.” There’s a mumbled response, a small complaint, then an apology, a promise to make it up later. He doesn’t care that they’re talking about him like he’s a nuisance, a burden. He feels like one. He doesn’t know what any of this means.
He reaches and picks up the familiar stuffed pig again. It’s personalized, embroidered on each hoof; a birthdate, a weight, a height, and the name Beth over the initials RM, all details he knows by heart. A small smile spreads over his face, but it quickly falls as a memory sours his brain.
“I know it doesn’t really matter, John, but just for simplicity for the newborn photos. Pink piggy for a girl, blue rhino for a boy.” You explained, holding up each toy in turn.
Johnny rolled his eyes, looking to Simon for help, “Tell yer wife we should know the gender before it’s born so we only have to buy one bleedin’ animal.”
You scoffed before correcting him, “‘They’, not ‘it’,” playfully shoving him in the chest, calling him some elementary ’mean’ name as Simon pulled you in, lips to temple.
He hummed, masked smile spreading against your head, “Thought she was yours this mornin’. Or, you only claim ‘er when she doesn’t wanna get outta bed?” He tightened his grip around your shoulders, not letting you go when you teasingly tried to pull away, Johnny laughing at Simon’s insinuation and the embarrassment on your face. “Plus, we all agreed on waitin’, Johnny. Not just mama here.” He rubbed his free hand over your stomach, wishing you were farther along so he could feel the baby too.
The way you both looked up at him when the moniker fell from his lips - the love in your eyes, the pride in Johnny’s smile - is an image he’ll never forget.
An image that has haunted him since you died, that has plagued his dreams since Johnny followed you to the grave.
He supposes this is no different. Just a sick and twisted nightmare his brain conjured up.
Still staring at the stuffed animal, feeling its fur, the plastic eyes, the stitching. All of it feels so real, so vivid. How can he be dreaming, when everything that just yesterday felt a universe away, is right here, in the palm of his hand?
