Hi! Call me Minnie! 25 years old, Writing Blog Currently obsessed with video games + manga + anime: FFXIV, COD, FFXV, etc. I'm broke and drowning in college.
Excited to share my FFXV page art for @ffgentszine 🥰 MY HOMIES I KISS GOODNIGHT!!
If you missed the initial preorder period, don't worry!! Leftover sales go live ✨July 24th✨ Got my copy and it's all so stunning! I'm so honored to be a part of such a beautiful zine project 🥹💖
Simon’s giving the dog his last walk of the evening. He’s on the last third of a cigarette when the dog stops to sniff around the trunk of a tree.
He exhales into the sky then glances down the gap between the houses, and the sightline runs clear across two dark gardens, straight to the back of his house — the kitchen window, blinds up, overhead lights blazing, and you crossing the kitchen right in front of it—
completely nude.
Five seconds, maybe, and you’re gone from the frame, but he’s already doing the recon — the angle of the gap, height of the fence, the pub that turns out people all night — and the information is saying that every pissed bloke stumbling home gets the full exhibition, compliments of his wife.
He sucks down the last of his cigarette as he picks up the pace home, the dog jogging alongside him. He flicks the butt into the street and turns down the path. The back door bangs behind him. You’re still at the counter, and you’re still naked, spooning peanut butter out of the jar. You smile up at him and the dog runs down the hall with the leash dragging.
“Good walk?”
“The blinds,” he points at the window.
“What about them?”
“They’re open.”
You look at the window and furrow your brows. “It’s dark out.”
“It’s dark out there.” He crosses the kitchen and yanks the cord, the slats fall down with a clatter. “I saw ya from the road. If I can see ya, so can every sod stumblin’ home from The Fox.”
“You saw me from the road?”
“Yes!” He points back with his thumb through the wall, in the vague direction of the gap.
“Huh,” you shrug. You dig the spoon back into the jar, unalarmed. “That’s actually kinda impressive.”
He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “There’s a pub at the end of that road, love,” he reiterates.
You lick the spoon clean and talk around the mouthful. “Simon, I really don’t care. It’s hot, nothing fits me anymore, and your son sat on my bladder all damn day.” You gesture at yourself with the spoon — the growing swell of your belly. “Did I mention nothing fits me?”
His eyes drop to your stomach and the scolding dies, the way it always does these days.
“Nothin’ fits?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve got my shirts.”
“Your shirts fit you.” You let him pull you in, his hand finding the curve of belly, splaying across the side. “We outgrew them weeks ago.”
He’s quite a second, thumb rubbing over the spot the baby kicked this morning. “New rule. Clothes off means blinds down.”
“And if I break it?” you tease.
“You won’t,” he grumbles. “And I’m buyin’ bigger shirts.”
He’s never ever heard of that word associated with him in his life.
Probably.
Did he get you pregnant on purpose? Not this time. The man was eager to fuck, 7 months out of divorce, he’d been fooling around with you for a month or so. You were more than ten years younger than him, hot and ready on a silver platter, nice, had that sweet look in your eyes that John couldnt get enough of— not a chance he’d ignore your advances.
Everything was fine and dandy till you stopped taking his calls. Then his texts. You aren’t answering the door to your flat. Not posting on social media anymore. He doesn’t investigate.
Well, not for the first couple of months.
See the man doesn’t take too well with being left in the dirt, doesn’t not do relationships either.
Not after you so shyly asked if he could stay a little longer after your first one night stand. Not after he basked in your afterglow. Ever so tempting, got mystified in every inch of you, from you’re pretty face, every messy curl on your head, your breasts, to your stomach, your thighs your heat between them— that voice that was purring his ear about how thankful you were that he stayed because you’d never in your life been screwed like that.
“M sorry, that was too much.”
“No,” his hand caresses your face, “that was just enough. Ta dove.”
He intended on finding a spot into your life.
So when he finally sees you passing the street, curls high and out of your face, round stomach peaking out of the off shoulder cropped sweater you’re wearing, breast starting to get larger and swollen, a certain glow about you in the flowing beige skirt you wore— he knew for a fact the baby growing inside your womb was his and you would be his for the rest of your lives.
You didn’t know it yet, didn’t know it until he popped up at your new place with your favorite cake from your favorite bakery in hand. Cupped your face and murmured, ‘Was worried about you dovie.’ And your stupid heart fluttered.
Baby Daddy!Price is a good soon to be father, he joins you at the appointment and the baby classes, so adamant about you eating healthy but also helping you eat what you and the baby want. Rubs your feet and your shoulders, may or may not have given your cunt half of his manhood when you were desperate to cum, buys everything the baby may need and even curses out some family members because you wanted the baby shower to be small and intimate, not some big bash where everyone but you is drinking.
But the man doesn’t persuade you to move, you are, in fact, moving. Got you a bigger house so you could even have your own room (you weren’t redy to get back together yet), claims it’s all for the baby. The baby needs the family to be together. The baby needs to see his parents on good terms, the baby needs to be close to his grandparents, the baby likes his voice and his touch so John needs to keep his hands on you in some shape or form.
Lies.
But he’s tame for you. The old man adores you, loves the joy and experience you’re giving him that no one else on the planet has given him. And he’s sharing this experience with you. It can’t get any more perfect than that, can it?
It’s when you’re on the phone with your friends John may or may not block after he hears them trying to get you back into the dating feild.
Why would you need to date anyone else but Price? Who else would marry you when you’re already dependent on him, John may or may not have lead to a few men getting in an accident before your planned dates. No deaths, nothing serious (thankfully).
But it has you worried, completely oblivious to the fact that John’s physically blocking any potential prospects from coming your way, maybe you’re not pretty enough anymore. Maybe they don’t actually find you interesting.
Pure Blasphemy leaving your mouth. Sexiest thing on the planet, and he reminds you. Fucks you right against the mirror so you can see him splitting you open, how beautiful you look all disheveled. John holds your legs wide and your back to him. Can see the exact way heis cock is filling you to the brim, Sledgehammering into your slippery walls that’s gushing either way your mixed fluids, his pre weeping into your needy cunt, threatening to get you pregnant.
“Would look even prettier with a rock on y’ finger birdie, mm- have you all stuffed full ‘f me with a rock on your hand. ‘S what you need.”
And your pussy’s trembling, gasping for air into your lungs because you can imagine the sensation. John used to cum in you all the time when he found out you were on the pill, how warm it felt inside you, makes your mind swirl and put the balls of your feet right in the dovey of his back as he could be deeper, till it was dripping out of you’re hole and your body was limp, and he’d dip his tongue in to plug it up. Smear his tongue all against your sensitive clit and suck your cum up. But you got pregnant, came to your senses that even with the pill, you could end up in the same situation—
“You can’t-“ you’re keening, head rolling back on his hairy shoulder, grabbing at his calloused hands to put you down but he only fucks more of himself inside you, faster— harder— “Oh fuck John- nngh!” He’s doing it on purpose, widened mushroom tip knocking right against your cervix.
You can feel him smirking the way his beard prickles against your skin, sucking a love bite onto you, the bastard, “I can’t what honey?”
“You can’t cum inside- you can’t!” You’re shaking your head but your cunt is gripping him tighter with every rough thrust. His breeder balls are slapping against your cunt with every sloppy roll of his hips, lucky he pulls out just as your walls start to spasm. His cum dripping to the floor as he holds you so close. He lets you down to your feet and hold you close, humping against as you both come down from your highs, his hands squeezing your tits.
He lowly groans, flushed forehead pressing against your messy curls, “Fuck, but you’d look so good pregnant again dove.”
You got lucky.
Lucky you didn’t get pregnant but there was a scare. Almost as if your body had been achin for it, for this man and only man to knock you up right after fucking you silly.
“‘S a shame.” He exhaled his cigar when you give him the news.
You’re more than relieved, and John understands that. You’re still young. You’d atleast want some of your life to yourself before having anymore kids. You make your way over to him, falling into his arms on the lawn chair. You wrap your arms around him first for once, because at the very least you know he’s safe. This is home. You mumble into his neck, “Maybe when the baby turns four or five we could—“
“—Whatever you want sweetheart, God it’s whatever you want.” He hums, pressing his lips against your temple. Hand running up and down your back as he presses you into him.
You’d definitely be married by the end of the year.
"Wait, so you're telling me that you don't have a secret identity, that's just straight up your full legal name?" "Yeah. All the other superheroes have cover names, pseudonyms or similar, so everyone just assumes that mine is the same."
Captain Price who gets off on you spending his money, need for it all tangled up in this possessive instincts he has spent a lifetime dressing up as practicality because John Price has always been good at making control sound reasonable.
He gives you his card the night before he leave for a mission that will keep him behind enemy lines for months. Presses it into your palm, curls your fingers around it, and holds them there longer than necessary, thumb stroking over your knuckles, and tells you to use it for whatever you need or want, love. Don’t be good about it. I mean it.
It’s not as though he expects you to go out and buy an Hermès bag while he’s gone, he’s not delusional. He knows you.
But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it, doesn’t mean he doesn’t spend long, brutal nights with his hand already shoved down the front of his pants thinking about it.
He thinks about his money providing for you in his absence. Groceries in your fridge because of him. A new dress hanging in your closet because of him. Makeup on your vanity, perfume on your throat, lingerie tucked away in a drawer because you used his card and let him pay for something no one else even gets to see.
He imagines you standing in a changing room, turning in front of a mirror in something sheer and expensive he paid for. Imagines you taking it home and wearing it to bed with nothing underneath, pressed against your cunt while he’s halfway across the world with dirt under his nails and blood in his mouth.
That’s the sort of thing that gets him properly bricked up, cock heavy and leaking against his palm.
It isn’t even about the money. Price has money. Price has never been precious about it. What does him in is the thought of providing for you when he isn’t even there to stand beside you. The thought that his reach still extends into your day. That you can be miles and miles away from him, and some part of your life still has his name attached to it. His card. His account. His money taking care of his girl because his hands can’t. His money keeping you soft and fed and pretty and domestic and needy.
Something that says you let him look after you, even from the other side of the world. Something he can wrap his fist around his cock and stroke to while the rest of the team sleeps two rooms over.
So by the time the mission ends and he’s on his way home from base, exhausted and bruised and still wearing the dirt of the last few months beneath his skin, he’s almost looking forward to checking. He’s in the car with his duffel at his feet, already half hard from anticipation because he’s pathetic in exactly one direction and it’s you. Cock thickening against the seam of his trousers at the thought of opening the app and finding the evidence waiting for him enough to make him want to walk through the door, push you back against the nearest wall, and fuck the gratitude out of you.
Only when the app loads, there’s nothing.
Well, not nothing. The account has moved, technically. Automatic bill pays. Direct deposits. Insurance. Utilities. The same boring transactions that would’ve happened whether he was alive, dead, deployed, or buried in an unmarked hole somewhere.
The kind of financial movement that means systems are functioning, not that you missed him, or needed him, or that you’d stood in a shop with his card in your hand and decided, just this once, to let yourself have something because John told you to.
Price just stares at the screen, thumb hovering uselessly near the transaction list, and feels his mood go sour in a way that would be funny if it didn’t offend him on a cellular level.
Months. He gave you months and full permission, and you spent none of it. You had his card tucked away somewhere, untouched, while he was out there getting himself through hell on the thought of you using it.
He’d been fantasizing about silk and lipstick and the knowledge that you were wearing something he paid for against your soft hips and tits.
And instead, you’d apparently been at home being financially responsible.
It’s a wounded, brooding sort of disbelief that settles heavy under his ribs and then sinks lower, into the same place that had been hard for you the entire ride.
John Price is a grown man, a captain, a soldier with blood on his hands and worse in his conscience, and somehow you’ve managed to hurt his feelings by not spending hus money.
He locks his phone, jaw tight, and spends the rest of the ride home stewing over the fact that you had one simple instruction. Use the card. Let him take care of you. Let him have this one thing while he was gone.
And instead, you behaved.
By the time the car pulls up outside your building, the disappointment has curdled into something darker and more useful.
He’s still hard. Still aching. Still thinking about the fact that you denied him the only pleasure he allowed himself to have while he was away. He’s already decided he’s going to walk through the door, drop his bag, and put his hand between your legs before he’s even finished saying hello.
Going to find out exactly how wet you are for a man who just spent months jerking off to the idea of providing for you. Going to make you open the banking app on his phone while he’s inside you and show you the empty transaction list like and make you explain yourself while he fucks you.
Then he’s going to take you to the nearest shop with his card in your hand and make you spend it while he watches.
Staying Still
masterlist
John Price/female reader
cw: brief sexual content
“Last chance.” He murmurs in your ear, beard brushing your skin. “You sure you don’t want to tap out princess?” You swallow.
“I’m not a quitter.” Your voice trembles, even against your best efforts to keep it steady.
This was supposed to be a joke. A test. A game of chicken you won.
It wasn’t supposed to be… this.
John looks you, blue eyes still bright in the low neon lights of the chapel. You’ve studied his face a thousand times, but you’ve never seen him look like this. A reverence soaked with intensity, limerence.
It must be the alcohol. The night turned morning. This train rapidly careening off the tracks.
The two of you caught up in a dare, caught up in each other, if only for this fleeting moment.
He searches your eyes one last time, and then nods at the Elvis impersonator who’s standing quietly at your side.
“We’re ready.”
Your hand feels heavier.
Which is strange, because why would that be?
There’s sunlight streaming in through the window across the bed, across your face, and you fling your arm over your eyes, trying to block it out, ward off the hangover migraine you can already feel coming.
Jesus Christ, what the hell happened last ni-
“Oh my god.” You shoot straight up in bed, sheets pooling at your waist. The sudden movement has the room spinning, and your hand, your heavy hand, folds down onto the mattress for support, entire body aching. Bones rigid, muscles sore, everything stiff… and sticky between your legs. “Oh my god.” You’re alone in bed, but not the room. The shower is on in the bathroom, steam rolling out from beneath the door, and for a long second, you wonder if you hallucinated the whole thing. If you dreamed it.
No.
The proof, undeniable, blatant, shiny… is sitting on your finger.
“Holy fuck.”
An empty, tipped over champagne bottle catches your eye. Next to it? Your underwear. You’re stark naked beneath the sheets, and when you run your fingers over your face, you feel the telltale hardened sprawl of lashes. You didn’t even wash your makeup off.
But all of that pales in comparison to what happened last night. What you think happened last night.
The ring sparkles at you, mocks you. You try not to dwell on the face that it’s huge, something purchased at one of the high end jewelry stores in one of the hotels. It’s flashy. Multiple carats. Perfect clarity. It’s what every girl wants.
Except you.
Take one look at this ring and it says exactly what you would except. It belongs to a spoiled brat. A girl gone wild, a material girl, a fake, pretty, plastic barbie doll.
The ring brandishes the ugliest truth at you, one you can’t escape.
This is how he sees you.
The shower stops. There’s the sound of a drawer, movement, and you’re split down the middle, debating grabbing all your clothes and making a run for it, or hiding under the bed.
You don’t have time to consider either. As soon as you start to roll towards where your bra lays on the floor, the door creaks… and then he’s there. In jeans, without a shirt on, watching you with crossed arms. Your throat dries, lips parting for words that won’t come out. There isn’t a cohesive thought in your head.
Run. Hide. Sprint out the door and onto a plane.
This… this is wrong.
This is your crush gone rancid, desire turned foul. Tarnished by a farce, something fake and vapid, something not meant to last.
A wedding in Vegas.
How cliche.
Your wildest, hopeful dreams would have been to be with John for one day, just for a night and nothing more.
Now you’ve turned it into a mess. A reflection of yourself.
His gaze drops to the ring, and your stomach flips hard.
He doesn’t smile, or frown, or sigh. He just holds steady focus, his laser precision studying her hand like it’s a puzzle.
“Uh, hi.” Your voice cracks, and she finally exhales.
“Oh Ava. What am I going to do with you.”
“Well…” you gesture to the room, its trashed state, the tipped over bottle. “We can… pretend this never happened?” His eyes narrow.
“We can’t.” You’re not sure you’ve ever heard him so serious.
“Okay,” you say, fast. “Okay that’s fine. We can undo it, right? We… this… this happened but it was just a drunken mistake. A crazy, drunken Vegas mistake.” You’re not sure who you’re talking to now, him or you. You add a half hearted laugh, perfectly crafted, but it doesn’t hit.
John’s jaw tightens. It’s subtle, but you see it, just like you always see him. Everywhere. In a room, down the hallway, you feel him around every corner, in every stairwell. Everywhere.
His eyes don’t leave you, and the look in them isn’t desire, or hunger, or something close to carnal. Nothing like they were last night. That’s one thing you can remember. His eyes. Heavy, heated, possessive. Looking up at you from between your legs as his tongue rolled over your clit and you came. Looking at you like he wanted you. Like this wasn’t just a dare, a fluke, a mistake.
But he’s not looking at you like that now. No. Right now, his eyes are clinical. Assessing, diagnosing.
“Ava.” Your shoulders rise to your ears instinctively.
“I didn’t mean…” you start with a whisper, but stop. This is your fault, you know. You took it too far, couldn’t control yourself, couldn’t not take the bait, push it to the limit. You’ve poisoned whatever it was between the two of you. You’ve ruined it. “I… it’s fine. We can get an annulment right now. Today. Don’t they do those? For situations like this? I mean, it’s Vegas. I’m sure there’s a need for it. We can do it before we get on the plane, it will be easy. I’ll look-”
“Stop.” You bite down on the inside of your cheek, instantly silenced. A little girl chastised by her daddy. “You’re spiraling.”
“I am not spiraling.” You snap. His gaze flicks to the bottle, your underwear, the mascara smudged under your eyes, to the ring. Then back to your face, where his expression softens a fraction.
“Okay.” He says in that calm, steady tone, the one that makes you feel insane. The one that could be so soft, so safe if you fell into it. “We’re not going to make any decisions right now.”
“I want-”
“I want you to drink some water and have something to eat.” There’s a knock at the door down the hall. “Room service. Get dressed.”
You scramble as soon as his back is turned, fumbling around for your clothes. This isn’t your room, yours is down the hall, and the only thing you have in here is your skimpy cocktail dress and too high heels.
A cart is wheeled in and a moment later, John reappears, plate and bottle of water in hand. You can’t look at him as he deposits it on the side table. Him, freshly showered, clean, put back together and you, a mess, dirty in your skin tight dress.
Fingers slowly stroke the apple of your cheek. Your heart practically stops in your chest.
“Eat.” He says sternly. “I’ve got to run down to the lobby quick. Stay put, eat your breakfast and drink that bottle of water.” He slips his shoes on, and then looks at her expectantly. “Ava.”
“What?”
“Do not leave this room. Finish your food and wait for me here. Do you understand?” Yes daddy, you want to mock, push back against this heavy hand like you always do. Instead, you force a smile, teeth gnashed together, and lie.
“Yes.”
Facing the music is harder than you anticipated.
You’re not sure what you expected, after fleeing. After sitting in your apartment for two days, hiding. Trying to stave off the consequences.
There were dozens of them. Consequences.
Missed calls. From John, from Daisy, from Liv. Endless text messages, some worried, some sternly worded.
I asked you to stay put.
Answer the phone.
Ava.
And now, as you stare down the barrel of the hospital’s front doors, you feel the full weight of those consequences.
Your stomach twists. Dread and anxiety settle there, spinning in circles, tightening around your neck like a noose.
“Y’alright?” A rough British accent shakes you from your spiral, and you turn to find Doctor Riley standing behind you with an eyebrow raised. Shit.
“Fine, thanks.” You sound like yourself, steady and self-assured, there’s nothing in your voice that betrays the turmoil brewing inside you.
“He’s not here.” You freeze, fingers tightening instinctively on the strap of your bag. “Took today off.”
“Oh.” You shrug. Unbothered, or at least pretending to be. “That’s nice.”
“Daisy called you ten times over the weekend.” He glances at your left hand, gaze turning cool. “She’s upset you were ignoring her.” Your already turbulent stomach twists with guilt.
“I know.” His eyes narrow.
“Fix it.” Doctor Riley, Simon, doesn't mess around when it comes to his wife. She and Riley are the sun, and he’s every planet in the solar system, endlessly rotating around them.
You bite your tongue, swallow the smart response that threatens to slip free.
“I will.” You give him a fake, saccharine smile. “Thanks.” His eyes turn severe, and then he shakes his head.
“Sugar cubes.”
“What?” He smiles, already in motion, headed toward the doors.
“Nothing.”
“Look at me.”
You can’t. You want to, some hidden, terrified part of you desperately wants to, but you’re too afraid.
It’s easier to look at the ceiling. At the wall. At the strip, glowing outside the hotel room window.
“Ava.” He murmurs into your jaw, lips warm on your skin. You’re on fire. Every nerve, every synapses, every single cell inside you is exploding, and every time he rolls his hips, you’re torn between ecstasy and agony. “Ava.” He says again, and you shake your head.
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can.” His body presses into yours, steadily, patiently, and you moan. He’s breaking you into pieces with each thrust, tearing your heart in two.
When you ignore him, he drives forward, hard. Hard enough your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
“John-”
“Give me your eyes, princess.” He says it gently, but there’s a command in his voice, one you can’t fight it, and when you finally look up, he’s there. Waiting. Watching.
Everything is stripped away. He’s not looking at you like a disappointed attending, he’s not glaring at you sternly. He’s not lecturing you, or teasing you, or showering you in that rare, soft praise you occasionally get.
He’s looking at you with something raw in his eyes, something real.
He’s looking at you like this matters.
You have the urge to flee. Crawl out of your skin. Get away from this man who has been living in a secret compartment of your soul for years now, run away from the consequences of making a mockery of your own feelings. Your heart.
Your eyes fill with tears.
His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb catching the first one that rolls towards the pillow from your temple.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He kisses you. Whiskey and cigar roll over your lips and you drink it in, pull him closer. You let yourself believe it for a second, let yourself imagine this not being a dare, a drunken mistake.
When you can’t take the eye contact anymore you wrench your gaze away and bury your face in his neck, tasting the salt and smoke of his skin. That’s where you stay, as he takes you apart and puts you back together over and over again, and the sun starts to rise over Sin City’s skyline.
Daisy is very calm.
It’s annoying, considering she used to be wild, unhinged even, like you. Two peas in a pod. Partners in crime.
If you had a bad idea, you could trust Daisy to double down on it, all while the two of you made Olivia pull her hair out at the roots.
But that was before.
Now, she sits at the lunch table, hands folded under her chin, looking wise beyond her years. Her watchful eyes fix on your face, the perfect picture of contemplation and consideration, a barely-there smirk the only evidence of her amusement.
“The internet says it’s a whole process. I thought I could just file some paperwork.”
“You’re surprised undoing a marriage isn’t so easy?” Daisy raises a brow. You scowl at her.
“It’s not a marriage,” you protest immediately. The word sinks like a stone in your stomach. “It was a wedding, that’s all.” You shove aside the memory that snakes its way up your spine at the word wedding, swallow back the heat pooling on the tip of your tongue as you remember the feeling of John’s body on yours, his hand on yours, fingers intertwined as he buried himself so deep you could feel him in your heart. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It’s not the same.” The chair next to you creaks as Olivia slumps into it, a hand covering her face. She looks beat, and you're eager to change the subject. “You look exhausted.”
“I have the worst assignment today." She reaches for a fry on your plate. “And I swear I’m still hungover.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Daisy says, and Olivia nods somberly.
“I know. That’s why it’s such an issue. When did we get so old? I mean, you’re both married. I’m practically a spinster.” You groan.
“I’m not married. I just… made a legally binding mistake.”
“Uh, I don’t know if you remember but you are married. Trust me, I know. I was there.”
“And I wasn’t.” Daisy takes a swig from her water bottle and frowns. “I can’t believe you got married and I wasn’t there.” You wonder what would have happened if Daisy was there. If she and Simon hadn’t gone to bed. Would she have let you do it? Would she have stopped you?
“Okay, can we please stop talking about this?”
“Why? It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened since Simon and Daisy got married.” Olivia leans in conspiratorially. “Did you consummate said marriage?” Your cheeks burn. Daisy’s mouth forms a O.
“Oh my god.”
“Stop.” You hiss.
“Oh my god, Ava!” Olivia cackles, and the heads around you at other tables turn. You glare at them, at her.
“Liv. Shut up.”
“Okay, okay. But I need to know… how was it? He?” You shake your head.
“It was good and I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Good is an understatement. Good is something you say when a server asks you how your meal is, or when your coworker asks you how your weekend was.
It wasn’t good.
It was everything.
“Okay but you’re not getting out of this.” Olivia decides, looking at her watch as it buzzes. She sighs. “I’ve gotta get back.”
“Me too.” You stand with her, leaving your fries on the table for Daisy. “Talk later?” She smiles.
“Definitely.”
“I think I want to get married,” you muse with a sigh, leaning into Olivia’s side. It’s close to three in the morning, though you’re barely tired. The alcohol buzzing through your veins has kept you going since eight the night before. The guests of honor, Simon and Daisy, tapped out of their own joint bachelor/bachelorette party hours ago. “I’d be a hot bride.” She giggles, and John leans forward, elbows on knees.
“You want to get married, princess?” There’s something in his expression that steals your breath. His lips are no longer tipped upward in an amused smile, and his eyes are dry of mirth. Instead, you see hunger, heated possessiveness. You see…
Challenge.
You shrug.
“Sure. Why not? It seems fun.” You lift your martini to your lips. It’s your fourth of the night, you think. Or fifth. Or who knows, you’ve stopped counting. John’s eyes sweep you. They linger on your calves, work their way up to your knees, your waist, the low cut of your dress. Finally, they find your own gaze, and stay there.
“You should get married, Ava.” Olivia slurs, lists to the side. Kyle puts his arm around her but she straightens, excited, glancing between you and John. “Oh my god, you two should get married! I could be your flower girl!” She keeps going, completely unaware. Johnny is shaking his head at her, the motion that started out as playful now turning more serious. “The two of you would make such cute babies too.”
“Olivia,” Kyle says softly, and she gives him a lighthearted scowl.
“What? It’s not like I’m being serious.” She hiccups, reaches for her drink, pouts when Johnny swipes it before she can get her fingers on it. “That’s not fair.”
“Think ye’ve had enough angel.”
“It’s okay. She’s not serious, right? She never is.” John says, looking at you, and it stings. Olivia’s face twists.
“She’s-”
“Want to bet?” You interrupt her, cutting off whatever she’s going to say, some well-meant defense of your character. “We could get married right now.” Kyle and Johnny exchange an uncomfortable look that you catch from the corner of your eye, but you’re too wrapped up in this to stop and think about it, and the vodka is making your head fuzzy. John cocks his head.
“We could…” he says slowly.
“Unless you’re scared.” He raises an eyebrow.
“Of getting married?”
“Of me.” It comes out small. So much smaller than you imagined it would, a whisper full of fear. His eyes soften, and he stands. Holds out his hand for you to take, and then pulls you up off the couch. You list to the side, off balance in your heels, but he steadies you, holds you in his arms. Your heart pounds in your ears.
“I’m not afraid of you princess.” He murmurs, and briefly strokes your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “We can go find a chapel right now.” You swallow. The world quiets, the sounds of the casino, of Olivia, everything else falls away until it’s just the two of you, staring at one another.
Refusing to back down.
You smile. It’s forced, because this is spiraling out of control. It shouldn’t be him. This farce shouldn’t be happening with the one man you’ve always thought you might want something real with.
You shake it off. Shove it down-
And look him dead in the eye.
“Let’s go then.”
You don’t end up talking to Daisy, or Liv, or anyone later.
The day runs you ragged. Patients, providers, room seven’s sister, the elevator on your side of the floor out of service, all of it all at once leaves you with a headache blooming behind your eyes.
You drive home on autopilot.
You hardly remember getting your bag from the car, getting into your apartment, falling onto your couch. You turn the TV on if only to have background noise, and then stare at the ceiling.
Married.
You’re married.
It's still alien in your mind, on your tongue.
Married to a pipe dream of a man. Married to someone you always hope might see you differently, might know you.
You married him, and it’s not real.
He didn’t choose you.
He chose a dare. A challenge.
A wild, impulsive, ridiculous idea that will make a great story.
The reality of it all drains the life out of you.
Which is why you’re half asleep when someone starts repeatedly knocking at your door.
You stumble up from the couch, tripping over the laundry basket that’s overflowing with clean clothes, trying to tug your t-shirt into place.
The knocks start again.
“I’m coming!” You yell down the hall. “Jesus.”
You don’t look through the peephole. You should have, it may have given you time to prepare, to formulate a plan or just… pretend you’re not home.
Unfortunately, you did not look.
So you have nothing to say when you fling open the door to find John Price standing on your doormat, his arms crossed, head cocked.
“John,” you breathe. His eyes move over your face, your body, your bare left ring finger . His jaw tightens, and then his gaze lifts to yours.
Demons and monsters that torture people because they feed on human suffering are so dumb. People are suffering everywhere my guy go literally any place and take a deep whiff.
Monster that feeds on suffering becomes a professional caretaker for people with chronic pain and terminal illnesses. They can't change the fact that these people are suffering, but they help a bit and in the meantime they're fat and happy off that Sweet Sweet ambient pain in the air.
Two towns over there's a demon lord trying to get their cult to abduct people for torture, but they keep getting stopped by heroes and the like, so they're barely scraping by. Meanwhile Belogarth the Registered PCA is chowing down on back pain, medication side effects and looming mortality for eight hours a day and has become the most powerful demon on earth without realizing it.
Finally a medical professional who believes that they are in pain. Because the fucker is actively chowing down on your agony. Not only am I going to get treated by them I'm going to invite all of my chronically ill friends to come as well.
Turns out if you treat the pain then the humans will bring you more humans who are suffering. It's like a restaurant where the waiter is so impressed by your ability to eat food they're giving you more on the house
They say things like "well, it's a real feast day for Belogarth today!" and "if my meds are held up at customs again I'm gonna put Belogarth in a food coma" and Belogarth is the one feeling weird about it
summary: one of jason’s favorite pastimes is putting your things in places you can’t reach so that you have to seek out his help
word count: 0.9k
warnings: jason is taller than the reader (let’s be so fr, he’s taller than most people)
He did it again.
As you dropped yourself from your tiptoes to flat feet, you couldn’t help the huff of irritation that left your lips.
You could practically envision the shit-eating grin that was no doubt on Jason’s face when he finished drying the dishes earlier that day like you asked and conveniently just so happened to leave your favorite mug on the highest shelf possible.
The shelf that you- just so happened- to not be able to reach, no matter how high up on your toes you pushed yourself. Somehow, your poorly-done pottery red and black mug somehow found itself way up there more often than not nowadays.
“Jason,” You tone was clipped as you called into the next room, rounding on your heels to face the doorway just as your six-foot-something boyfriend peeked his head out from around the corner, almost as if he had been waiting there and expecting your call.
His eyes were wide and his expression feigned innocence so well that you almost would have believed it. Had this not been the fourth time in the last week that this very same scenario had happened, that is.
If his clear charade wasn’t the tipoff you needed to confirm your suspicions, it was the fact that he didn’t make a singular comment about you calling him by his full name. Usually when you did, he would automatically be on the defense, whining about how you only ever called him ‘Jay’ or ‘baby’ so something had to be wrong when ‘Jason’ slipped past your lips.
The man didn’t so much as blink as he finished rounding the corner, coming to a stop in front of you and immediately dropping his hands to your hips almost like second nature, “Yeah, sweetheart?” He asked gently, thumbs rubbing unconsciously against the slivers of skin visible at your waist.
You crossed your arms over your chest, clearly unimpressed. For a vigilante raised by the world's greatest detective, he sure wasn’t slick. That much was clear when you watched his gaze dart not-so-subtly to the perch he had set your mug on, and a smug smirk fought its way to be on his lips.
Even as he continued to mindlessly rub soothing circles onto your hips, you remained firm, eyebrows pinched together and lips drawn downwards, “My mug is on the highest shelf. Again.” You spoke, not bothering to keep the accusatory tone to a minimum.
Jason’s lips parted in theatrical shock, swinging his head up to the place you had just mentioned, “God, sweetheart, how did you manage to get it up there?”
Remaining unmoved, you let out a hum of disapproval, eyes narrowing at the way his green eyes snapped to you once more, seeming to enjoy your reaction way too much. You knew him well enough to notice the way he was drinking in every twitch of your eye and muscle tick in your jaw, causing him to attempt to stifle his laughter.
“I didn’t manage to do anything,” You grumbled, hating the way your body was betraying you by slowly melting into his gentle touch little by little, “You always put it up there because you just love when I have to ask you for help.”
He immediately perked up in a way that resembled that of a dog seeking its owner's approval, “You sayin’ you need my help?”
The scowl on your face deepened and you continued to glower at him despite leaning more and more into his warmth with every passing second, “I’m ordering you to get my mug down.”
Jason sent you a wink, “Even better, sweetheart.”
Without breaking eye contact with you- or so much as lifting his heels from off the ground- Jason causally reached one arm up and plucked your beloved mug from its place and delicately delivered it to your hands.
He dropped a quick kiss to the tip of your nose as soon as your hands wrapped around the ceramic, “You’re so cute when you’re mad at me.” His voice was gentle and full of adoration while he gazed down at you as if you hung the stars in the sky.
Ignoring the way he immediately sent butterflies erupting in your stomach at his words, you raised a singular brow his way, “So there was ulterior motive for placing my possessions out of my reach?” You challenged, though there was no bite to your words, “You just like to see me get riled up?”
“Always,” Came his immediate reply, teasing and soft. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“In that case, we’re gonna play a little game of hide and seek with your Red Hood gear.” You poked his chest playfully with your free hand, which wasn’t far away because you had unconsciously moved closer to him, “And I’m going to put it somewhere you can never find it so you can see how it feels.”
Jason’s smile widened, “Now you’re just trying to get me to not go on patrol so I can stay home with you.”
You opened your mouth then closed it, mulling over your thoughts because suddenly, that didn’t seem like too bad of an idea.
He laughed gently, a real laugh that rumbled in his chest and had the corners of his eyes crinkling in the most endearing of ways, “You want me to stay home with you, sweetheart? All you have to do is ask.”
His lips suddenly moved to meet yours in a sweet, unhurried kiss that had those butterflies spurring to life in your stomach once more. Even after all this time of dating, they had never gone away, and you were starting to doubt that they ever really would.
You knew that he would stay by your side tonight if you asked. He would do anything you asked of him.
Except put your mugs on shelves that you can reach. He enjoyed the fallout of his actions a little too much for that.
Sometimes violence is the answer to your problems- or in this case, Simon Riley’s problems
It’s not as if there had been a particular moment where Simon Riley had sat down and decided that he was done with having sex.
Rather, it was the accumulation of torture over the years that had left damage- nerves misfiring or simply not firing at all beneath scar tissue that had healed wrong.
Then there were the other injuries layered over it across the years: the fractures, surgeries, concussions, medications, chronic pain and the permanent state of low grade readiness his body seemed incapable of leaving even when he was technically safe.
Simon had spent enough time in hospitals to know the human body was less a machine than people liked pretending it was. Things went wrong. Sometimes they healed. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes nobody could tell you why.
His cock, apparently, had decided not to.
He’d noticed it gradually.
Morning erections disappearing first, though he couldn’t have said precisely when- not when his mornings were spent around other people and never actually got the time to wank one out before morning drills or in between dodging gunfire.
Then on the rare occasion he did actually feel enough inclination to do something about himself, it became an exercise in diminishing returns: attraction still existed somewhere in his head, sensation technically existed below the waist, but whatever bridge had once connected the two appeared to have been bombed out.
Simon discovered it through the deeply scientific process of occasionally attempting to masturbate and getting absolutely fuck all for his trouble
He could touch himself and get nowhere. Could want, abstractly, and have his body answer with complete indifference. The first few times Simon tested it, he approached the problem the way he approached most of his failures: with detached irritation, as though persistence alone might force the damaged thing back into service.
Eventually he’d stared down at himself, accepted that nothing was happening, pulled his trousers back up and thought, Right. That’s that, then.
He never mentioned it to anyone, not to a doctor and certainly not to Price, because- contrary to popular belief- there were limits to what Simon Riley was willing to survive and the idea of being waterboarded ranked higher on the list of things he’d want to go through again before having John Price know whether his lieutenant’s cock remained operational or not.
He didn’t make an appointment specifically for it either. Doctors had poked, prodded, scanned, stitched and reconstructed enough of him already, and there was something uniquely intolerable about volunteering this particular failure for examination when he had no real intention of actually doing anything with the equipment even if they did manage to fix it.
Casual sex had never really held enough appeal to justify navigating the humiliation of his body refusing to cooperate halfway through. A relationship sounded worse. Relationships required trust, trust required vulnerability, and Simon had never understood the fascination people had with handing another human being that kind of weakness so openly.
So celibacy became another practical adjustment. Fine. Good, even. One less thing to worry about, one less chemical urge trying to convince him another person was necessary.
Simon’s body already demanded sleep, food, medication, physical therapy and the occasional begrudging acknowledgment that he was not, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, composed entirely of out of spite.
He didn’t particularly mind losing one more demand and eventually he stopped checking whether anything had changed. He stopped noticing attractive strangers beyond the detached recognition that, yes, objectively, they were attractive. He stopped wondering whether there might be some circumstance under which his body would respond differently.
It had been years and whatever part of him had once wanted sex had either been damaged beyond use or buried beneath too much other shit to reach daylight, and Simon had made his peace with that.
Then you arrived and immediately became the most irritating person he had met in recent memory.
Not because you were cruel. Simon could deal with cruel; cruelty was straightforward. You simply possessed a spectacular disregard for the strange force field that usually formed around Ghost.
New recruits tended to give him space. Experienced operators might not fear him, but they understood him well enough not to poke unnecessarily at whatever lived behind the skull mask.
Even Soap, who had elevated testing Simon’s patience into a recreational activity, possessed enough survival instinct to recognize certain lines.
You, however, seemed unaware there were lines at all.
The first time Simon deliberately crowded your space during a disagreement, expecting the usual subtle retreat people made when six-foot-something of masked lieutenant invaded their breathing room, you merely tipped your head back farther and continued arguing. When he leaned down, you leaned forward. When he blocked the doorway afterward because you’d been getting on his nerves for the better part of twenty minutes, you stared at him and asked, “Are you finished?”
“Finished what?” he’d replied, because sometimes Simon could be every bit as juvenile as Soap accused him of being, even if he’s deny it until the day he died.
“This.” You waved vaguely at all of him. “Whatever weird intimidation ritual you’ve got going on. Move.”
He hadn’t and you responded with putting both hands against the center of his chest and shoving him instead. He barely shifted if course, which only seemed to annoy you further.
Your mouth tightened, your boots planted and you shoved again with genuine intent this time while Simon stared down at you in profound disbelief.
Somewhere behind him Soap made the distinctive strangled sound of a man swallowing laughter, and when Simon turned his head just enough all he saw was the sergeant suddenly studying a patch of wall with extraordinary concentration because he valued his continued existence.
By the time Simon looked back, you were already shouldering past the narrow gap you’d created, muttering something about oversized fucking roadblocks.
Deeply irritating. That was Simon’s assessment, and it remained his assessment over the following weeks while you developed an increasingly casual habit of putting your hands on him whenever he was being difficult.
Not affectionately. Never anything he could easily categorize as flirtation.
Rather, you slapped his hand away when he reached for things you were using, nudged his boots aside when he stretched his legs into your path, drove your shoulder into his arm rather than walk around him when he occupied too much corridor.
One afternoon he reached over your head for the exact mug you’d been reaching toward despite three identical ones sitting beside it, and you promptly elbowed him in the ribs.
“Use another one.”
“Wanted this one.”
“You’re a prick.”
“Been told.”
You turned with your mug held against your chest and gave him a look of profound disgust. “Do you wake up every morning and consciously decide to be unbearable, or does it come naturally?”
“Natural talent.”
Something low in his stomach tightened when your eyes narrowed. Simon noticed it only enough to dismiss it. His body produced strange aches, sparks and misfires constantly; one more meant nothing.
The real problem emerged three weeks later over a mission report, largely because Simon had made the decision to edit your wording after you’d already submitted it.
You found him sitting at his desk with the amended copy beside him and launched immediately into an accusation of bureaucratic sabotage.
Simon informed you that he’d corrected inaccuracies. You informed him there had been no inaccuracies. He reminded you that on line of your official report had read, Lieutenant Riley ignored the proposed entry point because apparently God himself whispered a better idea directly into his ear.
“That is an accurate account of events,” you argued.
“Not putting that in an official report.”
“You’re only mad because it makes you sound like an asshole.”
“I am an asshole.”
“Then why are we editing for accuracy?”
You were already moving around the desk while you said it, coming toward him with the particular determined stride Simon had learned meant you were about to invade his personal space as punishment for some perceived crime.
He remained seated though, mostly because standing would have made the whole thing absurd; he was already large enough without looming over you while you complained about paperwork.
You stopped directly between his knees instead, close enough that the fabric over one of your thighs brushed the outside of his. Simon registered it without meaning to and dismissed it.
Then your finger came up and pressed hard into the center of his chest.
“You listen to me, Riley. If you touch my report again without asking, you can take that red pen and shove it so far up your- “
Simon stopped listening.
His body had gone abruptly, impossibly still around one singular point of awareness. There was pressure beneath his pants. Heat. A heavy rush of blood into an organ Simon had, for all practical purposes, considered medically retired.
For several bewildered seconds his brain refused to identify the sensation because it had been absent too long to belong naturally among the catalog of things Simon expected his body to do.
Then his cock gave a distinct pulse against the front of his trousers and every word leaving your mouth vanished beneath one stunned thought.
He was hard.
Not sort of hard, not an ambiguous twitch he could blame on sitting wrong or fabric pressure or some random neurological event.
Simon Riley, who had gone years without getting an erection under considerably more deliberate circumstances, was sitting in his office with a fully functioning cock because you were jabbing him in the chest and telling him to go fuck himself.
You were still speaking, though Simon had no idea what you were saying anymore- although judging by your expression it remained insulting.
He stared at you with such unusual stillness that eventually you stopped on your own, finger still planted against his sternum. “What?”
Simon said nothing.
“What?” you repeated. “Have you gone deaf?”
His gaze dropped to your hand as though it might explain what had just happened. You mistook the look for irritation and removed your finger and Simon waited for the erection to disappear with it. It didn’t.
If anything, the lingering anger in your expression produced another deeply inconvenient pulse.
“No,” he finally said.
“Then say something.”
There were probably several sensible options but Simon chose, “Finished?”
Your whole expression sharpened. “Oh, fuck you.”
You snatched the report from beside him and stormed away, leaving Simon alone in his office with the door swinging behind you and his body apparently celebrating a resurrection.
He sat there for another several seconds before slowly looking down at himself.
The erection remained as undeniable as it was inexplicable. After years of absolutely nothing, his nervous system had apparently located a bypass around the damage because you had yelled at him over paperwork.
Simon stared until disbelief curdled into suspicion, then muttered, “Tha’s fucki’ inconvenient.”
By the following morning, he had explained it away. Bodies were strange. Blood pressure changed. Anger raised adrenaline. Perhaps poking his chest had compressed something in precisely the right way. Perhaps a damaged nerve had fired randomly for the first time in years.
After much deliberation, Simon decided one isolated event proved nothing, and there was absolutely no reason to investigate further.
So it was a completely coincidence, of course, that Simon happened to be standing directly in front of the cutlery drawer the next day, when you needed it.
You’d made tea, reached for the drawer and found approximately two hundred and forty pounds of lieutenant in the way. “Move.”
“Comfy.”
Your hand paused on the mug. “You’re blocking the spoons.”
“Plenty elsewhere.”
“No, there aren’t. They’re in the drawer behind your ass.”
“Sounds inconvenient.”
You stared at him. Simon leaned against the counter with studied indifference, though somewhere beneath that indifference his attention had become embarrassingly focused.
Nothing happened. No stirring. No heat. Simon experienced an emotion dangerously close to disappointment and immediately resented himself for it.
Then you stepped forward, caught a fistful of his shirt at the chest and yanked. “For fuck’s sake, Riley, move.”
His cock went hard so quickly Simon nearly inhaled his own tongue.
There was no ambiguity this time. Your knuckles dragged against his sternum through the fabric, your body crowded directly into his as you tried to haul a man significantly larger than yourself out of the way, and apparently this combination constituted the precise password required to unlock Simon Riley’s long dormant reproductive system.
You succeeded in shifting him half a step, reached around him for the drawer and retrieved your spoon without noticing that Simon had gone rigid for an entirely different reason.
“What’s wrong with you?” you asked when you turned back.
“Nothin’.”
“You look weird.”
“Always look like this.”
“No, you’re acting weird.”
Simon left without making the tea he’d ostensibly entered the kitchen to prepare.
Still, twice could still be coincidence. Simon clung to that argument for roughly forty eight hours before curiosity overwhelmed dignity and the entire situation deteriorated into an experiment he refused to acknowledge he was conducting.
He began noticing variables with the clinical attention he would normally reserve for surveillance. Ordinary proximity produced nothing reliable. Sitting beside you during briefings didn’t do it. Your shoulder bumping his in a crowded transport didn’t do it. You once passed him a weapon and your fingers brushed his glove, and his nervous system remained entirely uninterested.
There was something reassuring about that at first. Perhaps the episodes really were random.
Then he ignored you while you were trying to ask him a question.
“Riley.”
Simon continued inspecting the rifle in his hands.
“Riley.”
Nothing.
“Simon.”
There it was: that warning woven through his name, irritation sharpening the edges. Simon looked up and caught the full force of your glare just as warmth tightened low behind his belt.
“Wot?” he asked.
“I’ve been talking to you.”
“Have you?”
Your eyes narrowed further. His cock stirred harder.
Simon turned back toward the weapons bench before you could notice the slight adjustment in his stance.
Three times constituted a pattern.
After that, his behavior became indefensible.
He discovered that if he deliberately moved one of your things, you would hunt him down to complain. If he blocked your route, you would put your hands on him rather than politely ask twice. If he took the pen nearest your fingers instead of any of the other four available, you would slap the back of his hand. If he walked away while you were talking, you would occasionally grab the back of his vest and yank him to a halt, which produced such an immediate response the first time that Simon had needed to invent an urgent reason to leave the room before you noticed.
He tested other possibilities privately because, despite what his increasingly deranged behavior suggested, Simon was still attempting to establish whether you were actually the variable.
A woman flirted openly with him during leave; nothing. He watched pornography one evening and experienced such profound indifference that halfway through he became distracted wondering whether he’d cleaned the knife he’d used on a security guard earlier. He tried touching himself without any outside stimulus and got little more than the same sluggish response he’d become accustomed to years before.
The following afternoon you stormed into the common room because he’d eaten something with your name written very clearly across the container and jabbed him in the chest, snarling. “I swear to God, Riley, I’m going to kill you.”
His body responded like somebody had thrown a switch, cock harder than diamonds.
Simon stared at you as heat settled heavily between his legs. You stared back, waiting for remorse that was not forthcoming.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
A profoundly defective impulse surfaced. Simon leaned slightly closer. “Gonna have to try harder than that.”
Your mouth fell open before outrage filled the space. “You absolute fucking bastard.”
You attempted to leap at him, spitting profanities and attempting- Simon assumed- to claw his eyes out but Gaz intercepted and kept you off of him. Still, you managed to shove his shoulder and his cock throbbed in response.
Simon stepped back immediately, which only made you look suspicious. “Stay away from my food,” you snapped, throwing Gaz’s hands off of you, before walking out.
Gaz lowered his hands and looked toward Simon.
Simon turned his head very slowly.
Gaz’s eyebrows rose.
“Wot?”
“Didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Gaz gave him a deeply searching look- perceptive bastard- before finally settling on. “Not a conversation I’m looking to have, mate.”
Simon went upstairs, shut his bedroom door and sat on the edge of his mattress with both hands dragged over his mask.
It should have been good news. That was the part he could not reconcile. For years he’d assumed the damage was permanent, another small theft committed by men and circumstances that had already taken enough from him.
He had accepted it because Simon understood loss better than he understood recovery; there was peace in declaring something gone and never hoping for it again after all.
Now, against every expectation, his body was proving that some pathway still existed. Something beneath the scar tissue and damaged nerves still knew what to do. Under any reasonable circumstance, that should have felt like getting a piece of himself back.
Instead, Simon was being forced to confront the humiliating possibility that his cock was not broken so much as catastrophically selective.
Apparently lingerie did nothing for it. Flirting did nothing. Attractive strangers did nothing. Pornography had nearly put him to sleep.
But you glaring at him like you were three seconds away from committing an indictable offense? Excellent. You hauling him around by his clothes? Evidently irresistible. You shoving him because he was deliberately standing somewhere inconvenient? His nervous system seemed to consider it practically erotic.
It got worse because Simon genuinely enjoyed irritating you even without the increasingly inconvenient physical reward attached to it. There was something satisfying about the immediacy of your reactions.
Most people behaved differently around Ghost. They measured their words. Watched his hands. Gave the mask more space than it physically occupied. Even people who knew him eventually retained some instinctive awareness that he could become frightening very quickly if circumstances demanded it.
But you treated him like an enormous nuisance.
Simon could stand silently behind hardened soldiers and watch their shoulders stiffen; but all you would do is look over, discover him hovering there, and tell him his breathing was annoying you. People feared monsters but you only responded with irritation at the one who stole your mug.
Simon did not examine why that distinction mattered to him. Instead, he moved your mug again.
The situation finally collapsed when he blocked you in a corridor for no reason beyond the fact that he knew exactly what would happen.
You stopped in front of him with immediate suspicion. “Move.”
Simon remained where he was, arms folded.
“Riley.”
“Hm?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” You gestured at the width of him occupying nearly the entire passage. “Standing exactly where I need to go.”
“Small corridor.”
“Exactly and you’re somehow taking up all of it.”
“Skill.”
You stepped left. Simon stepped left. You stopped and stared at him. He could see realization beginning, he dawning certainty that his obstruction was deliberate. You moved right. Simon mirrored you again.
“Are you twelve?”
“Could ask you the same.”
“Oh, my God.” You tried left one more time. He blocked you, and now your patience broke visibly. Your shoulders squared, your jaw tightened and when you spoke again your voice dropped into that particular warning register his body had inexplicably decided it adored. “Move, Riley.”
Heat tightened beneath his belt.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He should have stepped aside then. He had his answer. He had, in fact, accumulated an absurd quantity of answers over the previous week and required absolutely no further data.
Instead, despite being a grown ass adult, Simon leaned one shoulder against the wall and heard himself say, “Make me.”
You went very still.
There was a small part of Simon’s brain, the portion apparently not currently occupied by destroying his own dignity, that recognized he had pushed this into ridiculous territory.
Then you planted both hands against his chest and shoved hard enough to drive his shoulder into the wall.
The response was immediate and vicious. His cock surged against the front of his pants, balls tightening instinctively, breath catching just enough that you noticed. Your hands remained spread over his chest while your expression changed from irritation to confusion.
Simon looked down at them.
You followed his gaze, but this time your attention continued lower.
Silence settled between you.
Simon felt the exact moment you understood.
Your eyes lifted slowly back to his.
“No.”
He said nothing.
Your mouth began to twitch. “No fucking way. Is that why you’ve been fucking with me?”
“No.”
The denial came far too quickly.
Your expression transformed. “Oh my God.”
Simon pushed away from the wall. “Don’t.”
“You have been deliberately pissing me off.”
“Have not.”
“You moved my boots yesterday.”
“Safety hazard.”
“They were under my bed.”
“Could’ve tripped.”
“In my sleep?”
“Dangerous business.”
You stared at him for a long second before laughter broke through. Not polite laughter either. You actually bent slightly with it, one hand still braced against his vest while Simon considered every decision he had made since entering military service and wondered which one had placed him on the path toward this precise humiliation and whether he could go find his enemies and beg for the west release of death.
“You ate my food,” you accused between breaths.
“Was hungry.”
“You stole my pen out of my hand when there were three sitting next to it.”
“Liked yours.”
“You stood in front of the spoon drawer for five fucking minutes.”
Simon’s silence convicted him more effectively than anything he might have said.
“You’ve been fucking with me because it gets you off.”
“Wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
He had nothing.
Your laughter returned, softer now but infinitely more dangerous because amusement was giving way to curiosity. Simon recognized the shift immediately. You looked down again, not long enough to be crude, merely long enough to confirm the evidence remained present, then back up at him. Something in your expression sharpened with wicked understanding.
“You’re a fucking freak, Riley.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“That do it too?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Simon caught your wrists when you pressed both hands to his chest again, intending only to remove them. The movement changed your expression instantly. Amusement flashed into irritation at being restrained, your weight shifting toward him instead of away.
“Let go.”
His erection throbbed so hard Simon nearly swore.
Your eyes narrowed.
Simon shut his own for half a second because apparently there were indignities even he required time to process. When he opened them, you were staring at him with a new kind of fascination.
“Oh,” you said quietly.
Simon released your wrists.
You didn’t move back.
Neither did he.
The corridor had somehow become smaller around you both, the joking edge thinning into awareness. You watched him for a second, then reached forward with deliberate slowness and hooked one finger beneath the edge of his pants. Simon knew exactly what you were doing now. More importantly, so did you.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“Bullshit.”
You tugged him half an inch closer.
His jaw tightened as his cock reacted instantly.
That awful, delighted grin spread across your face before cupping your palm around the hard, obvious shape of his cock through the fabric and closing your fingers.
Simon’s entire body betrayed him at once.
His head tipped back against the wall with a dull, undignified thunk. His eyes rolled upward so hard he briefly saw the inside of his own skull. A sound escaped him that could generously be described as a groan and less generously as a whine.
He stayed like that for a second- head thrown back, eyes somewhere in the rafters, cock throbbing shamelessly in the warm curve of your hand- while his brain attempted to process the sheer fucking audacity of the situation.
You gave a small, experimental squeeze.
Simon’s hips jerked forward of their own accord- traitors- and he locked every muscle he still had control over, forcing himself still, which only made the next pulse against your palm more obvious.
“Christ,” he muttered at the ceiling, voice strangled.
You didn’t let go. If anything, you adjusted your grip with the calm curiosity of someone who had just discovered a particularly interesting malfunction and intended to poke it until it made more interesting noises. Your thumb stroked once along the ridge of him, and Simon’s breath left him in a short, punched out sound that was deeply unhelpful to whatever remaining dignity he was trying to cling to.
You tilted your head, still cupping him, and watched the way his throat worked under the mask.
“So,” you said, far too conversationally for someone currently holding a lieutenant’s previously non-functional cock in her hand, “this is the bit where you explain yourself, or…?”
Simon dragged his eyes back down to you with visible effort. The mask hid most of his expression, but the set of his shoulders suggested a man who had just realised he had spent the better part of two weeks engineering his own public humiliation and was now living with the consequences.
“Not explainin’ a fuckin’ thing,” he managed, voice rough. “While you’re still holdin’ my cock in your hand. You’re becoming a problem.”
“I’m becoming a problem? You’ve spent the last week acting like a primary school boy pulling someone’s hair because apparently your dick needs interpersonal conflict to function.”
“Tha’s not what’s happening.”
“You got hard because I shoved you into a wall.”
“Coincidence.”
“I can test that.”
“You fuckin’ will not.”
Your grin widened and your palm pressed down and Ghost nearly saw God long enough to ask why after nearly thirty years of suffering, this was apparently the punchline.
Before he could ask, God apparently decided to throw the poor suffering bastard a bone because Soap’s voice sounded from around the corner. “Ghost, ye seen- “
Simon stepped away from you with enough speed that you nearly stumbled forward.
Soap rounded the corner, stopped and took in the scene. You were suspiciously amused. Simon was standing at an equally suspicious angle with his hands planted on his hips and approximately three feet more distance between you than two people naturally needed. Johnny’s gaze moved from you to Ghost, back to you and then very deliberately refused to travel any lower.
“Aye,” Soap said slowly.
Nobody answered.
He nodded to himself. “Actually, never mind.”
Soap turned around.
“MacTavish.”
His pace increased.
“Johnny.”
“Didnae see anything, LT.”
“You didn’t.”
“Exactly.”
He disappeared around the corner before Simon could decide whether murder was worth the paperwork.
You made it perhaps two seconds before laughter burst out of you again, and Simon dragged one hand down the front of his mask while your amusement echoed through the corridor.
This, apparently, was his life now. He had survived torture, burial, gunfire, explosions and enough bodily damage to permanently alter the way his nervous system functioned, only to discover that whatever remained of his sexual response had crawled out of its grave specifically for the most confrontational person he knew.
The pattern had become painfully specific: you close enough to crowd him, your voice edged with irritation, your hands on his chest because Simon had deliberately made himself impossible to tolerate.
His body had surveyed years of opportunity with complete indifference, ignored every conventional invitation offered to it, then watched you square up against a man nearly twice your mass and apparently made an executive decision.
That one. You need to fuck that one.
The thought arrived so clearly Simon actually glanced upward again as though God might be willizng to throw him another bone.
Apparently he’d used up all this good will because the Almighty wasn’t.
There was only you, still laughing as you pushed past him and deliberately knocked your shoulder into his chest on the way.
“Move, Riley.”
His cock twitched again.
Simon closed his eyes and stood perfectly still in the corridor while the universe continued to punish him for crimes he could not presently recall committing and groaned out. “Fuck’s sake.”
a thing they don't tell you about turning 40 is that you'll be reading a book about a Hot Old Man and then the author says he's like 36 or 37 :((
if you're gonna call him old, i need him to have: greying (or fully grey/white) hair. a dick that doesn't work a lot. a dick that has one orgasm per encounter. a back that goes out because they swatted at a wasp wrong. a back that needs to be in like, sniper position in order to eat pussy if that's his pref. pre-retirement info saved on his computer.
I just love reading fanfic and I just love creating fake scenarios and I just love imagining every character I like being obsessed with me and I just love being crazy and I’m not ashamed to love fanfic at my grown age
author. Please please please continue with talia basically snatching away neglected reader like "yep, thats mine." I would love to read more and I want to see how you put a twist on the story. Love oove love your writing!!
original post
I will in the future; right now I’m a little stuck with my Constantine two‑shot.
But I would love to write more about Talia and the daughter she didn’t know she needed.
I imagine the reader’s personality as someone people perceive as dumb and sort of a brat, but in fact she is kind and brutally honest (most people can’t handle honesty). It’s so easy to twist her personality with mean rumors, especially when she doesn’t correct anyone. She doesn’t care if she is happy, that’s enough. Being neglected taught her she can have peace by herself, but even if she’s fine on her own, she still has friends.
She doesn’t need a mom, but she will cherish Talia—not from the lack of a mother in her life, but because Talia adds joy to it. They love each other genuinely. Talia can act like a regular mom, even more when Bruce finds out and go insane about it. But she has enemies, so… maybe they end up having a little bonding adventure.
"I feel like I’m in Taken," the reader whispers while bullets fly over their heads.
"Don’t dream about being kidnapped, dear," Talia chastises.
"Yeah, you’re way cooler than Liam Neeson," the reader admits.
"And you thought Kosovo would be boring," Talia teases.
"Didn’t expect the James Bond twist, but I’m embracing it."
"Are you calling me a James Bond villain?"
"Of course not. I know you’re going to win."
The bullets stop, and Talia jumps out before they can recharge.
"Don’t tell your father about our little detour," Talia warns.
"I would never, but I already texted Grandpa, and he’s sending me creepy laughing memes again."
"I told you my father was too old to understand pop culture."
