i might write a full thing out later, but, like, the brainworms are wriggling and i'm still unsure if it's anything
something something mob au where price suffers a blow to the head on a handoff gone wrong, and while he seems to be cognitively fine in all other ways, there's just one small problem:
he keeps demanding to see his wife- but he's never been married.
he talks about her all the time, tells the boys what she looks like, her name, how they met at a coffee shop she'd worked at- one that's not too far from where he keeps his office. it doesn't take them long to realize he's been harboring something of a crush on the barista at his local coffee place- and a solid thwack to the head with an improvised nightstick has convinced him that the two of you have been together for years.
were price not a) the head of organized crime in the city and b) growing increasingly upset and violent at being kept from his 'wife', they'd just ignore his demands, up his sedatives, and worst case scenario, hire a working girl to put on a wig and play the part for a night. easy peasy, no harm done.
instead, you're snatched up after a closing shift, your car left abandoned with the door half open as you're shoved into a van and given very clear instructions at gunpoint: you will play the role of mrs. price, you will allow him to do and say as he pleases, you will not cause a fuss, run away, or do anything to harm the old man.
you'll be made to play house, to be his perfect housewife under the threat of a bullet to the brain. you're to let him do whatever he likes and pretend it's absolutely fine and normal- groping, smacking, fucking, fingering, all of it. you are his little plaything, given a very specific role to act out. anything less than a completely convincing performance and you'll wind up in the river. or the rose garden. the man in the skull mask is still thinking it over.
it's hard to do anything but agree, especially when all you've been told is that the infamous 'bravo' who runs the 141 gang has asked for you, specifically, despite the fact that you have nothing to do with organized crime. it's terrifying- after all, you're just a barista, worried about picking up enough shifts to pay rent. the most contact with bravo and his gang is reading about the brutal deaths linked to him on the evening news. you couldn't pick him out of a lineup if you tried-
-or so you thought.
your entire world feels like it's caving in on you when you're led to a private room with armed guards at the door, only to see one of your favorite regulars being tended to in an ostentatiously large bed, his eyes lighting up as he bats the doctor's blood pressure cuff away as he reaches out for you as if you're long-lost lovers and not just a barista and the guy who recently switched from americano's to lapsang souchong.
something something it's a terribly confusing thing, after all, to be forced at gunpoint to play wife to someone who actually does make for a very loving and attentive husband- even if he is mafia.
It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.
Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, “Oh, look what I got” or “Look at what all my work has amounted to.”
That’s never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know you’re worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).
Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldn’t be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether.
It’s not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.
But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold.
And it happens that way with your heart too.
There’s a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine.
It’s always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the café with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.
The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them you’ve even grown to recognize over time—students bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.
You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.
They’re harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choice—some boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them.
Then, to him.
He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down.
Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence.
Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that there’s a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun.
You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him.
It’s no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that you’ll cross paths again.
And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time.
That isn’t unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that you’ve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; you’re no different. Neither is he.
It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when you’ve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but it—
It grows.
It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat.
You don’t entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear you’ve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as him—broad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache.
He’s objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy?
Want may not be a strong enough word for what you’re experiencing. It’s more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the café to order his coffee.
You don’t know what to do with yourself when he doesn’t show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that you’ve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesn’t owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesn’t, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.
You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. It’s pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that you’ve become infatuated with wasn’t at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day.
Forgive yourself though. Nothing you’ve ever wanted has come without pain.
What you don’t expect is for him to finally notice you.
It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as you’re about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and he’s already pushing on the other side.
“Traffic jam,” he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. “Here, I’ve got you.”
He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.
You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you can’t move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present.
That wasn’t part of the plan. It’s thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it.
And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mind—the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips.
The only problem is—
Now he knows who you are.
You don’t expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. He’s not the one that’s been pining these past few weeks. He’s not the one that’s been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger.
But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time he’s in.
It’s one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.
Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the café and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.
His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. It’s what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zeno’s Achilles never could.
“Hey stranger, no dance today, huh?” he asks, clearly addressing you.
You don’t know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks you’ve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadn’t considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return.
“Sorry?” you croak.
He gestures with his thumb towards the door. “From the other day, remember?”
You don’t know how you’ll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. “Right. Haha. I guess the dance floor’s closed today.”
You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.
For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way.
The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. It’s too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out.
And he will figure you out. You haven’t exactly played it subtle.
Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you don’t even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable.
You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right.
Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you.
His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you.
At first, it’s nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didn’t realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.
Maybe. Or maybe you’re imagining it.
“So when are you gonna let me take you out for real?”
That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you can’t seem to suppress.
“For real?” you repeat.
“On a date,” Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone weren’t enough to wreck you.
“Oh.”
You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, he’s already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu).
This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died.
It’s everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldn’t want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you can’t quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat.
You’ll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely.
The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you can’t do this anymore. You need to leave—go anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.
But there’s a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land.
What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isn’t what you want? Do you even know what you want?
Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection.
But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. It’s the having that’s dangerous.
You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly it’s too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because he’s deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you.
Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one you’ve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town.
To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory.
Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.
You have to shut your mouth before you—
“A long time,” you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. You hadn't even consciously registered the question before answering. When was your last date?
Kyle doesn’t seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. “I must be one lucky man then.”
He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight.
You assume he means a drink at a bar until you’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch.
What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch.
He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. It’s not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design.
“Do you have, um…any plans tomorrow?” you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm.
“Nope,” he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now.
You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.
The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose.
You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your double’s ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. “If I give you an inch, you’re going to run a mile, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
There’s a lump in your throat when you swallow. “No,” you lie.
He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts.
He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy.
If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they can’t gather themselves enough to retreat.
That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that.
He eats pussy like he hasn’t had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost don’t know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory.
Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread.
You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons.
When have you been someone’s ‘poor baby’? Someone’s darling, sweetheart, honey, that’s it, I’ve got you, that felt good, didn’t it? God, you’re so pretty, I can’t believe you let me—
He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again.
“It’s still sensitive,” you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching.
“So what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means I’m not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?”
“No,” you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks.
Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut.
They don’t stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface.
Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.
“Don’t—don’t say that,” you gasp.
He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. “You can’t tell me that. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Whatever this is, it’s nothing like anything you’ve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath.
Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels.
He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, and—
You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him.
What you don’t expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.
“That’s right, baby,” he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day.
Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. He’s entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly.
When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin.
“I can feel your heart racing,” Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.
And why shouldn’t he? Your heart is racing after all. “I’m nervous.”
“I know you are, baby,” he murmurs. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”
It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. You’ve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you.
“Want me to make this easier on you?” he asks gently. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling.
And wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do?
You nod.
“Okay, honey. Then you don’t have to do it. No telling me to go away. I’ve got it from here.”
When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you don’t stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone.
You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up.
So be it. What use is there in protecting something that’s already his?
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
You’ve found some footing outside your room.
In the last week, you’ve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and you’ve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.
It doesn’t work.
They’re everywhere.
Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. They’re in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you don’t respond, keeping you apprised of the day.
“Johnny’s out until the afternoon, chasin’ down a lead. I’ll be here if you need something.”
“Gonna go out for groceries. D’ye need anything?”
“Simon’s on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.”
It does scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. You’re afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that you’re safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you why you’re here, why you’re trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct. Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.
The outside threat, or them.
Your pills aren’t working.
It’s the fourth morning in a row where you’ve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkiller… and felt nothing.
No relief. No numbness.
Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.
It’s taking a toll.
“Dove?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war you’re playing with yourself. They should be working. Is it because you’re too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?
Simon says your name, but you ignore him.
Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?
A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.
Your reaction doesn’t deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.
“Ye’re warm, sweetheart. Ye feelin’ alright?” You nod, but don’t say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. “Ye barely ate.”
“Not hungry.” You croak. You lean away from him. He’s too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you, he could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-
Stop.
You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. “Whoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?”
“I don’t know.” You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnny’s bright and concerned, Simon’s dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.
“Maybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?” You shake your head.
“No, no… I’ll go back to bed. I’m probably just tired.” An obvious lie, but you can’t admit to them how badly you’re hurting. Your pride won’t allow it.
“Alright…” Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. “Let’s go get ye comfortable.” You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.
You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. You’re not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnny’s, and then Simon’s behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything you’ve ever felt spreading through your blood.
An infection.
They made you sick.
They’re making you sick, still. Somehow.
Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.
You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you can’t. The effort would be too much.
“Jus’ rest.” Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. “I’ll check on ye in a bit.” You scowl.
“I’m fine. Just tired.” You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.
“If ye say so.”
You’re full of restless energy when you wake up.
It’s after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp that’s on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.
You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but there’s this… unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.
Anxiety, you think. Has to be. You’re not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though it’s never felt like this. It’s a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.
The blankets you’re hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.
There’s nothing, except for the empty bedroom.
The bedroom that’s too large, too open.
It’s problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.
You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and you’re enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.
But it still doesn’t feel right.
That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasn’t gone away.
You eye the lamp.
It’s too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.
Better, but still not right.
Maybe it’s the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.
Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.
You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if it’s a fruitless endeavor.
It should work.
It should.
You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.
The closet catches your eye.
Maybe it’s too big, you wonder. Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.
You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.
It’s dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.
You drag everything you’ve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so they’re perfect for burrowing, snuggling.
Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.
Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.
Everything is a little blurry, if you’re honest.
The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.
You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When there’s a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you don’t move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.
Simon.
Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread it’s a part of what you’ve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.
His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.
“This is nice,” he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, “bit small for your nest though.” The horror is immediate. Is that what this is? Is that what you’ve done? It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt like this.
No. You’re not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open to them.
“It’s not a nest.” You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. “I was just… I needed to get out of bed.” He cocks his head.
“It’s not? Sure looks like one to me.” Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. “It’s okay,” he soothes immediately, “you did good, dove. It’s a good nest.” He’s speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omega preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. It’s like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.
Stop.
Stopstopstopstop please stop-
The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you can’t stop it. You’re paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you can’t do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. “Such a good omega.”
That snaps you out of it.
The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. It’s dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals done to their bones.
You won't let that become who you are. You can't.
You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesn’t last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.
“Dinner’s ready.” You shake your head.
“I’m not hungry.” It’s not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with this situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, it’s still there.
“You need to eat.” You’re about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. “Do you need me to bring you downstairs myself?” He will, you know it. You don’t doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.
“N-no.” You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.
“C’mon then.” He extends his hand, and the part of you that’s growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like it’s being played by a puppeteer. It’s only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He’s not leaving, not until you’re out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. He’s got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.
You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.
It knows you’ll come crawling back before the night is over.
i can recall breathing easy | kyle garrick x reader | 1.2k words
cw: 18+. explicit content, dom/sub undertones, post-war garrick (ptsd/darker themes), spitting, degradation if you squint
Garrick comes home dismantled and stripped down to the bare parts of himself; a skeletal armature that has carried out its function, getting shipped back to home base. He moves through the life cycle of a soldier cleanly, avoiding injury and death and the substandard form of psychosis, right into end of life.
He attends therapy. He avoids drink and drug. He runs every day. He eats right.
He attends funerals. He gets texts from his mates; so-and-so is gone now. He can't fall asleep in his own bed. His dick doesn't work.
When he meets you, he feels clean and bright anger. It should be something he mentions at group later; he won't. Instead, he watches you across the room, eyes tracking as you laugh with a friend. Your body speaks as loud as your voice, your hands and arms their own language that he reads from afar. He knows he was boisterous at parties — before — and that he was his own magnet of charisma.
It was what everyone told him — before.
Here's you now: a radiant beacon of unbridled laughter and lightness. A wellspring of warmth bubbling from you. And he hates you for it.
Maybe that's why he finds you later. Contorts and reshapes himself back into his old skin, tight and ill-fitted, to approach you and buy you a drink. Eventually bully you into a dark corner of the party and put his hands up your dress.
You're game, a smile loose across your bright features.
He doesn't want you at his place. So you take him to yours, too easily, too freely. During the cab ride, his hand works itself back up under your dress, getting you hot and panting until you peel his questing fingers away, for now. You laugh the whole time.
Your place is exactly like you, and he hates it. It's too cute and too sweet and naive in a way that grinds against him. He wonders how many one-night stands have stood in the doorway like him, shadow spoiling bright.
He wants to make you ugly. He wants to leave you angry like him, ruined and dissatisfied. His teeth hurt for it.
You're a good kisser, but Garrick's better. He bites and nibbles your lips, forcing your mouth to open wider than you expect, and the sweetness pours out of you anyway. He bullies you into your bedroom so he can spread his rot deeper into your lair. You gambled wrong this time and brought home something bad.
"On the bed," he orders, toeing his boots off, hands unbuckling his belt.
You pant greedily, climbing up with zero hesitation. The gleam in your eye will fade; he's curious when.
"Strip."
Your dress, lifted high and curved over your shoulders, reveals mismatched underwear and bra. You probably weren't expecting to get fucked tonight. That fact tightens his gut considerably. "Get those fuckin' things off."
Your tits are small, drawn down by age, dark. Bite size.
Thighs wedged at the edge of the bed, he forces you down on your back, your legs spread wide open for his viewing. Your pussy is shining wet and fat up at him, an invitation begging to be licked. He lets himself what noises you'd make.
His prick is rock hard.
He uses his thumbs to spread your lips apart — you make a little soft welp — and complete his inspection. You squirm under his firm, tight hold. It pisses him off.
"Quit fuckin' movin'," he says quietly, and grabs the fat of your pussy one-handed to hear your gasp. To watch your restless hips still completely. A bit like holding a kitten by the scruff of its neck.
He threads his fingers through your pubic hair and tugs, not lightly. A line between your eyebrows appears; the gleam hasn't faded yet, but it's filmed over with confusion.
"Flashin' this fuckin' thing all around the party for anyone to take home, eh?"
"What?"
You weren't. You both know it.
"Just a hungry cunt wantin' to be filled by a stranger's cum, hm?" He grits out as he takes his cock in his other hand, and slides it up against the open mouth of your body. The only mouth he wants to hear from.
Your moan, when the head of his cock makes contact with your drenched cunt, is loud and almost frantic. You are a bad listener and you're trying to work his cock into you already, sweat glistening under your tits.
"Please," you whisper.
"Please what?"
"Please, I need it, that feels so—ohh—"
He bullies his cock into your soft, waiting heat. Drives his hips into the back of your thighs until you cry out, the gasp trilling out in the bedroom. He fucks you like this, standing and bored, until his body drives into the next gear. You're too bright still.
He moves you up further onto the bed and climbs over you, hands on either side of your head. His cock slides out of you, dragging wet across the soft skin of your stomach.
"Open that mouth."
You open your lips.
He spits in your waiting mouth. Lifts a hand and pinches your lips shut so you swallow it. Your eyes are dark and wet, open so wide he could slide right in. He maneuvers you onto your stomach, face pressed into your covers.
A hand on the back of your head, his eyes watching your mouth open desperately to the side, as he bullies your thighs until they're fat together. Drives his hips into your ass to fuck into your cunt, pinning the rest of you down. To take, accept, endure.
The sounds he fucks out of you are as bright as you are — sweet and ugly.
"Oh my fucking god," you babble thickly when he slaps your ass hard, the flesh rippling under his hand. He can't dim it. Can't quiet you.
"Shut up," he growls.
He grabs your asscheeks and feeds them apart with his thumbs, exposing you. And you start coming under him, your body shaking uncontrollably, your sobs wrenched out of you as he fucks you through it.
He's so angry at you, he wants you to scream at him to stop so he can ignore it, but you don't. You don't and your body is taking what he's giving, but taking something else now; draining and bleeding him dry of that rich, bright rage.
And that clean control breaks — his own hips and ass driving him to parts unknown, drowning in your warm flesh and cries, plunging him to a depth. He can't catch his breath, can't get his breath back under pace and control, and then he's coming he's fucking coming for once in ages — in your pubic hair, across your stomach, up to your tits — and he's gasping and bucking, mind blank just blank blank blank for fucking once it's empty and clean and good again. His body collapses on yours, husked and heavy.
When he swims back up, you're drawing circles on his sweaty back. Your legs are spread out under him, hot and damp. You're making soft sounds, almost like a lullaby. He won't — can't — look at you. He pulls off you, the cum sticky, pressed between flesh like a flower.
"Mm," you murmur quietly, a small smile on your face. You disappear into your washroom then return with his cum and your makeup all washed off, hair up in a sloppy bun. You're wearing an oversized t-shirt and baggy boxer shorts, and you ask him to move over a little so you can remake the bed.
You tell him to go pee, then come back to bed.
You'll make coffee in the morning, unless he prefers tea.
bumping into your really nice alpha neighbour in the hallway (who you’ve been on again off again flirting with for weeks now), but squeaking out a little “sorry!” while having to rudely push past him so that you can get into your apartment before your heat gets out of control
vs
him being unable to resist following after you the second you scurry upstairs, every step he takes now getting a little more urgent, his blood hotter, until he’s pacing in front of your door, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; trying everything in his power to keep himself from knocking because the way he is moving now reminds him of a predator and he doesn’t like it - he’s nice, goddammit, he’s nice
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
Your phone is missing.
You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.
You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.
You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.
But you know you had it.
Which means…
You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.
It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.
The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.
“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.
“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”
“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”
He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.
These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.
It’s torture, being here.
And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.
Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.
A craving that can never be satisfied.
It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.
That you can’t find.
You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.
And in order to do that-
you need your phone.
Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.
It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.
You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”
Stop.
What are you doing?
“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.
“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”
“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”
“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.
You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.
“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.
“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.
He says none of those things.
“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.
“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.
“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”
“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”
“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?
“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.
“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”
You hate him.
He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.
You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.
“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.
“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.
“Yes.”
“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.
He moves.
It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.
Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.
Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.
You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.
“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.
But it doesn’t stop there.
He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.
Subharmonics.
It almost brings you to your knees.
“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”
Alpha.
You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.
He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.
You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.
No, that is what you mean.
You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.
“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.
Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.
Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,
“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.
“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.
It’s not fair.
“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”
“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.
“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.
Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.
The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.
He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.
“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.
“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.
“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.
“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.
“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”
“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.
Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.
It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.
It’s late when the knock comes.
“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.
You don’t answer. He sighs.
“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.
But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.
He knocks again.
You meet it with silence.
Finally, after minutes, he gives up and leaves, taking the wave of cardamom and black tea with him, and you slip back into oblivion, closing your eyes to escape into sleep.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; getting shot at apparently has its benefits, one of them being that you get to meet your future husband.
𝐜𝐰; hospital setting, descriptions of gunshot wounds, post surgery pain, swearing, military inaccuracies, reader and ghost are sarcastic asf, hurt/comfort, fluff, it’s 6k words long.
𝐚/𝐧: so many of you loved my lieutenant!reader drabble and it motivated me to write the couple’s first meet. A thank you for reaching 1.5k followers<3
Everything the doctor says reaches you through a thick, cottony haze. His voice drifts in and out like a radio station struggling through static, words slurring together into meaningless fragments of medical jargon you neither have the energy nor the patience to decipher. The anesthesia still clings to your veins, heavy and nauseating, making your thoughts sluggish and your temper dangerously short.
The room smells sharply of antiseptic, sterile enough to sting the inside of your nose. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeps in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Footsteps echo faintly beyond the door. Metal clinks against metal. Every sound feels amplified, scraping against the inside of your skull.
Then the pain starts settling in.
At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.
“We managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.”
You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.
“You’ll be off active duty for several months,” the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. “You’ll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.”
His voice sounds farther away now, as though he’s standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.
“Okay,” you rasp out, "thank you."
Even speaking hurts.
You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesn’t feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.
The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.
Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.
You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.
With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.
That’s when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.
At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediately—you could’ve sworn the men’s and women’s recovery rooms were separated.
As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.
The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. There’s faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes you’re awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression you’re giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.
Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.
“Why are you here?”
Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.
“Too many casualties,” he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. “Hospital’s full. Had to stick you in a spare room.”
You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.
“Okay.”
And just like that, silence returns.
─☆*:・
You can’t sleep, not even close.
The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.
But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You can’t walk—not yet, at least.
A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.
Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.
You glance toward the man again. “What happened to you?”
He doesn’t look at you this time.
“Got shot,” his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. “Upper abdomen,” he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.
“Oh, fuck,” you mutter weakly.
“Yeah,” despite his—still flat—tone, there’s dry humor buried underneath it. “Didn’t hit anything vital, though.”
“Lucky, I guess.”
“Still feels like shit.”
A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.
“What’s your rank?” you ask once the silence stretches too long again.
“Lieutenant.”
That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.
“SAS?” you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.
Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesn’t ring any bells at all.
It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re Simon Riley?”
That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.
How the hell did you figure that out?
“I’m pretty sure it’s you,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Only lieutenant whose face I’ve never seen.”
For a moment, he just stares at you. “Yes. It’s me.”
Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.
Well.
That’s one hell of a roommate assignment.
─☆*:・
The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.
The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.
“You’re staring,” he says flatly.
You blink, realizing you absolutely are. “Just making sure you’re real.”
His visible eye narrows slightly. “Disappointed?”
“A little,” you admit. “Thought you’d be uglier.” A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.
“You always this chatty?” he asks eventually.
His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but there’s still something dryly amused underneath them.
You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.
“Just heavily medicated, don't get used to it,” you mumble and he just grunts in response.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way that’s starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.
You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting way—he got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skin’s paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.
Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.
"You're staring. Again."
"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"
"I'd say it's rude."
“You're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.”
Simon’s brow furrows almost immediately.
“You're dramatic.”
"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, “you've got quite the reputation.”
His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."
"Definitely," you agree with him, “probably terrorize recruits with it.”
"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.
You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The pain’s still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.
Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.
Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.
“You look less murderous now.”
You crack one eye open toward him. “Don’t worry,” you mumble sleepily. “Still judging your face.”
"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.
"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.
"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"
"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."
Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laugh—not a full one, though. He probably hasn’t laughed properly since birth, but it’s there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.
─☆*:・
Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.
Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.
The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."
"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.
His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.
“Go back to sleep,” you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.
“Tempting,” he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Doesn't look like it."
"Shut up."
The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.
"I hate this."
"Everyone does."
The room falls into a quieter silence afterward—not awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.
“First time being benched?” he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrong—being this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?”
“A bit.”
You exhale slowly through your nose. “I don’t know how to sit still,” the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.
Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Gets ugly in your head when you stop moving.”
The words settle heavily between you.
You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.
"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.
"Try not to kill yourself."
"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"
"It's true."
"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"
"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.
"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.
Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.
—☆*:・
By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.
Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.
One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isn’t there before reality catches up.
The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.
You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.
Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.
You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.
Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.
You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.
One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.
You stare at him for a long moment.
“Riley.”
“I got it.”
You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."
"Said I got it."
“You look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.”
“'M fine.”
“I'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.”
His visible eye narrows immediately.
“Thought ya leg didn’t work.”
“Temporarily,” you shoot back. “Unlike your brain apparently.”
A dangerous silence follows.
Then, somehow, he takes another step.
Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn’t catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.
You sigh heavily.
“Congratulations,” you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."
“I was getting water.”
“There is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.”
“I can do it on my own.”
You blink at him.
"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.” you say flatly. “You’re allowed to ask for help, just—go sit down.”
His mouth twitches faintly at that. You’re strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didn’t make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.
But there’s another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, he’s a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.
Doesn’t feel fair.
─☆*:・
The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.
The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinical—sort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.
You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nurses’ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.
Then the pain hits—one brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.
Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.
Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling above you blurs immediately.
“Oh, fuck—”
The words barely make it out.
Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.
Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.
Your stomach twists sharply.
Another pulse hits.
White flashes behind your eyes.
For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.
Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.
Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. There’s the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
“What happened?” still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.
You try answering him—you really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.
You hate this—how helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.
You’ve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldn’t. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like you’re falling apart at the seams.
The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.
Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomen—he had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.
Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.
The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.
“Hey,” he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.
Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeeze—hard, maybe too hard.
The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.
His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.
Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.
“Don’t,” you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.
Simon’s brows knit slightly.
“Whot?”
“Don't look at me like this,” the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.
For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesn’t answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.
“How’m I looking at you?”
You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t know how to explain it. He is looking at you like you’re something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.
Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.
Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.
You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.
The movement is weak.
Exhausted.
Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.
Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.
“You need a nurse,” he says quietly.
“No.”
The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.
Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.
Simon studies your face for a long moment. There’s exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, there’s something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasn’t there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.
Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.
Simon’s grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.
Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like he’s trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.
Nobody’s ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.
His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.
The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just full—heavy with things neither of you knows how to say.
Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.
“Scared me for a moment,” the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.
He doesn’t look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.
You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.
Most people wouldn’t even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.
The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.
Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.
The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.
Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.
Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.
That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.
His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity that’s become strangely familiar over the last few days. You’re beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough to—tiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.
It should feel invasive.
Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.
“You should sleep,” he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.
The words settle into the dim room quietly.
You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.
Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.
He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.
And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact he’s still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.
"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simon’s eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.
“'M fine.”
“Go lay down,” your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.
"Said I’m fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.
The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.
"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.
"Negative."
"You're insufferable."
“Hm.”
“You’re injured.” you debate a second later.
“So’re you.”
“Yes, but I’m clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.”
That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadn’t realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.
The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.
Your eyelids begin growing heavier.
Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because you’re afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesn’t want him to leave yet.
Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.
“You don’t have to stay over here,” you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.
Simon glances toward you.
“I know,” the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.
You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.
Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.
"You'll get used to it"
"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.
"Everything about the job is scary."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."
"I can't even walk."
"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."
"Still sucks."
After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.
“I know.”
Just two words, but they land heavily.
Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.
Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. He’s already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.
And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you both—all of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.
Simon’s gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.
Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.
Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.
You study him quietly.
The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.
A strange tenderness catches you off guard.
“Go sleep,” you murmur softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
─☆*:・
Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.
The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.
Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.
At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bed—advice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.
Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.
Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.
Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.
Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldn’t: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomen—fingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.
The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.
You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because he’s already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.
“You make it difficult not to,” you answer before thinking better of it.
The words settle into the quiet room between you.
His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.
A subtle movement.
Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.
“Should I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?” he asks eventually.
There’s dry amusement in the question.
You study him for a second before answering.
“No,” the honesty slips out easier than expected.
Simon’s expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.
Not surprise exactly.
Just awareness.
The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.
Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.
Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.
“How bad is it?”
“Better now.” You answer without looking at him.
Something flickers behind his eye at that—relief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.
No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.
You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.
“You stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.
Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.”
He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.
“You know,” you murmur softly, “you’re not nearly as cold as everyone says.”
Simon’s eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."
"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."
He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.
You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.
His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. “You should sleep,” you whisper.
Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. “Eventually.”
You roll your eyes softly. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
There’s a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, you’ve been staring at for the past three days while Simon’s stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.
The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.
“We should go out once we’re discharged.”
His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. “Are you asking me out?”
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Thought I was being obvious.”
A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.
“You know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?” you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, “not a problem.”
You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, “Date sounds fun."
kyle "gaz" garrick x fem!reader | paramedic!gaz x critically ill!reader | masterlist
Chapter Five: out of order
cw: i am extremely sick, so it only makes sense to update this. also, there is a severe lack of gaz in the new mw4 trailer. fuck u activision, i'll do it myself.
Kyle Garrick would rather suck start a shotgun than ever work day shift again.
If the volume of calls weren't bad enough, then it's the watchful eyes and pressing noses breathing down the back of his neck that puts him on edge. He smiles and laughs when it's socially acceptable, and yet again politely declines another offer of becoming a supervisor, no matter how many times they dangle the pay raise and benefits in front of his face. Worst of all, he doesn't even get shift differential for this. Flat rate pay for flat rate shit.
His head aches by the time he's clocking out and groaning through the 5PM rush hour. He thinks of his bed and how much his muscles yearn for the cooling sheets and plush pillow and the mattress that always keeps his botched back muscles in place. He's near skipping through the complex door as he approaches the lift.
Out of order. Please use stairs.
Stiff fingers toy with the top of his trauma shears as he stares at the sign. He glares at it as if he can intimidate the lettering enough to morph before his very eyes and quickly bring the lift back in order, but thirty seconds later and he's still standing there, and the machine is still broken.
It's only one flight of stairs that separates Kyle from his apartment, but it's enough to make the pain worse. Tension grows in his lower back like tender breath on hot coals, blowing until they're glowing cherry red, searing through his skin until it's biting at the tips of his nerves. The door opens then closes. His gear hits the floor. One boot is left in the hallway while the other lingers by threshold of his bedroom.
He makes a bitter promise to himself to shower when he wakes up—whenever that may be—before collapsing on the bed, stripped down to his boxers. A little voice mocks him in the back of his mind.
If Price could see the mess I've just left after work, I'd never hear the end of it.
The end of that thought is nipped by his phone receiving a call. It's enough to send Kyle into fight or flight—more tones, pager buzzing on his hip, another call, more paperwork. Rolling over onto his side, he yanks it off of his nightstand and stares at the unfamiliar numbers with a squint.
"Fucking telemarketers," he mutters before declining the call.
The silence that follows is bitter. Whatever peace he was able to garner sours within an instant as he rests his phone on his stomach. The afternoon sun seeps through his blackout curtains like the glinting blade of a knife cutting across his ceiling. He thinks about how much he needs a vacation, but the idea dissolves in his skull the moment he remembers he doesn't have anywhere left to go that isn't tainted by his soldier past.
It's why he took this job. He can't deal with the trash of being a police officer and would never want to tarnish himself with such an idea, but any other job wouldn't be able to read his scars. No one else would understand the jokes, the umbra-tinted humor. The glassy stares, the long walks, the tight silence.
Once more, the phone rings. Something softer and less intrusive this time, but it's still enough to get Kyle's heart rate up higher than he'd like. It's the same number again. The text that illuminates his screen makes his stomach sink.
Hey, sorry if you're at work. I just don't know who else to call. A dog bit Ophelia and we're at the vet. They said we're good to go home but I'm not feeling well and I don't really have the cash for a ride or anything.
Don't worry if you're busy though. I can always find someone else.
Or I could take the bus, I just wasn't sure I could make it to the stop.
Sorry for the spam.
Suddenly, the ache ebbs.
Send me the address.
The sun is in his eyes for the entire drive over, and he curses throughout it all the way until he's parked and rushing through the front door to find you. Blood follows him. He's not sure why or where it comes from. Maybe it's continuing to linger after his shift, or maybe it's just stained in his memory from the first time he ever saw you and the subsequent scar that followed—forever ingrained in your forehead.
Kyle finds you sitting on a wide couch in the waiting room with Ophelia's head in your lap. The pup's hand rests on your knee, wrapped in pristine bandages that smell of antibacterial ointment and lidocaine. Her dark eyes grow heavy to the point she can't even garner the excitement in her gaze when she eyes him coming through the door. Numbed. Anesthetized until the throbbing stops.
Somehow, you look worse for wear than Ophelia. Puffy red eyes, nose sniffling every other second, fingers wrapped around your inhaler like it's the only lifeline you have left and you're clutching the remnants of the old one as she crumbles away in your lap. You manage the type of smile that makes his throat tight. It's fractured, and you're pulling at it so tight it spills; a laceration pulled too taut.
"Thanks for coming to get us," you sniffle, hand resting on Ophelia's head. She huffs, eyes closing tight as she melts into you.
Before Kyle does anything, he ignores the ache in his knees as he bends down to your height, keeping a comfortable distance from where you and Ophelia are curling around one another on the couch. "What happened?"
You roll your eyes in frustration, like the mere recollection of it pains you. "Headed to the market for some food, and some lady had her stupid fucking dog in there with her. She claimed it was a service animal, but he obviously wasn't because the bastard bit her."
Attention moving to your loyal friend, he cautiously eyes the bandages. His fingers twitch. He's used to poking and prodding, but this type of patient isn't one he's familiar with. "What's the damage?"
"Couple of stitches. Rabies booster in case the prick was sick. They're sending us home with antibiotics and pain meds for her to take, along with the orders to return in a couple of days so they can put a cast on her," you spew.
Kyle's brows rise. "Her arm's fractured?"
"Near her wrist, I think, yeah," you solemnly nod. "She's too swollen for a cast to do any good, and she can hardly walk and I just…"
Squeeze and inhale—medicine floods your lungs as you take a moment to breathe, then cough. Problems spew through Kyle's brain; crying, the increase of mucus, the physical movement are all undesirable aspects with your sickness. Pausing, Kyle reminds himself he isn't your doctor, and he can't cure you. But he can at least do this much for you.
"Come on, Sunshine, let's get you two home."
Ophelia is too inebriated and injured to walk, and when the sight of that alone nearly sends you spiraling once again, Kyle doesn't hesitate to scoop her into his arms. She's certainly the lightest patient he's lifted all day, and the pure shock of the image along with his request for you to open the car door for him is enough to snap you out of whatever frustration induced breakdown you were on the path towards.
On the ride home, Kyle sets one hand on the steering wheel and the other rubbing at his enervated eyes while he focuses too hard on the lines on the road to ensure he doesn't swerve where he shouldn't. Your talking keeps him awake. With heated words and fiery expletives, you retell the story of the market in greater detail. You curse everything from the misspelled lettering on the dog's vest to the blatant disregard for everyone's safety bringing such a misbehaved mutt into the store.
"She didn't even apologize," you rehash, arms crossed and eyes glowering through the window. "Told me Ophe antagonized him and that it was my fault. Left the store in a hurry so I couldn't even get any information from the cunt. Fuck, if I ever see her again, I'm breaking her wrist."
"Just, do it while I'm off shift," Kyle interjects.
"No promises."
When you arrive back at the apartment, Kyle once again lifts Ophelia into his arms and lumbers behind you with a wide stance to make up for the odd shift in weight. Your door seems to be in the process of being fixed, he notes. New wood to replace the splintered boards, hardware half drilled in, but not quite where it ought to be. The inside looks better—lived in, now, and no longer hospital plain. You have a futon shoved up against the wall next to a standing lamp that's illuminating the living room on the lowest setting.
A guitar hides in the corner. Soft grain and a worn neck that seeps through the dark stain between the frets. Well loved into destruction, he thinks about asking you about it until you're interrupting his thoughts, directing him to lay Ophelia on your bed.
She's grown more lucid now, but she's still not quite there. Looking up at him with glassy eyes, Kyle nearly feels his heart shatter as he offers her his palm to lick at. Heavy lids swallow her eyes as she rests her head on the mattress, not at all bothered by the way your weight dips in next to her. You cough and it's wet. It's enough to pull Ophelia from her slumber, but it isn't long before she's crashing again.
The sniffling returns. You rub at your eyes. Kyle already know what's coming before your mouth opens.
"I dunno what I'm gonna do." Your voice is tight. Incensed in the way frustration lingers after a wrongdoing. "She's not just some pet, she helps me. People don't fucking get that-that if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be able to live on my own and now I'm not sure what I'm gonna do while she's healing."
Even after all these years—or even these last few weeks since you've moved in—Kyle still isn't good with the mushy talk. With the reassurance. He's seen too much for that. Witnessed more meat and ichor than any human ever should. All he knows for sure is that he's got working hands, and he might as well put them to use.
"You've got my number," he gently reminds.
When you look away from Ophelia, you find Kyle leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face heavy. Scoffing, you shake your head. "Oh, fuck off."
"I'm being serious," he deadpans.
"What, so you want me to call you every time I need my inhaler?" you challenge.
He shrugs. "That's what I'm here for, Sunshine."
You're about to go off on another tirade when you pause. You raise a finger, grimace falling on your face with a poorly concealed smirk in disbelief. "That's not becoming a thing."
"What?" Kyle asks, feigning cluelessness.
"That nickname."
"Bit too late for that… Sunshine."
Exacerbated, you groan and throw yourself back onto your bed with enough violence to shake Ophelia. Peeved, she huffs and kicks her feet against your side, but her strength is negligible.
"Get the fuck out of my apartment, Kyle," you say, voice wooden.
Slipping out of the doorway, he gives a half-assed salute just out of your view. "I'll be right upstairs if you need anything."
"I won't! I'm not a baby, I can take care of myself!" you call.
"Whatever you say, Sunshine."
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