Tap l 23 l They/Them l Genderfluid l Sagittarius l INTJ
Heyo! I’m Tap, I’m a digital artist that mainly draws OCs and on occasion I’ll draw characters I like. I myself was once a writer of fanfics but my writing is not as good as I once believed. Maybe I’ll get back into it, but for now I’ll stick with illustrations and improving my story development/world building. I hope to find community here and to share my characters with anyone willing to listen!
★彡 ★彡 ★彡 ★彡 ★彡 ★彡 ★彡 ★彡 ★彡
MlNORS DNI - Although I reblog mostly sfw content, I cannot guarantee a child safe environment. I am an adult and I wish to indulge and share adult content, therefore it’s best to stay away. I am not your parent, I can’t stop you from doing anything but I will block any underage blog that doesn’t respect my wishes.
DNI list includes Al users and bigots.
Fandoms I’m active in:
CoD
LaDs
Supernatural
One Piece
Dungeon Meshi
Frieren
P.S- I selfship so if that bothers you, there’s the door (・Д・)ノ
Okay now imagine cane corso!ghost bonding with terrier!reader
You were so excited to learn you'd be with another dog hybrid, contrary to popular belief they aren't all that common in higher ranks.
For once, you get to have someone who understands you instincts and doesn't scoff at your social behaviors. You get someone to maybe-hopefully pack bond with and not have to explain what that is. You finally get someone high energy to run and play with—
And it turns out he's a giant, sleepy, boring dog.
Lieutenant riley does little more than give you a sniff when he first meets you, a sleepy rumble low in his chest before meandering off. Not what you expected, but it's still nice to bond with him.
Ghost, as it turns out, is a great packmate. He's willing to indulge your more hyper moods, and when he isn't?
"Fuckin' settle down, pup." Ghost grunts, grabbing you by the scruff and tossing you to the floor of the rec room. You barely get a moment to recover before 300+ pounds of dog hybrid lie atop you, pinning you down heavily.
Not matter how hard you bark and growl, ghost just rumbles in his half-sleep, tail slowly wagging.
Without fail, it always seems to make you sleepy too. All that high energy you can never deal with settling right down into a foggy peace, enjoying your packmate on top of you and his scent so close, your own tail wagging.
Which is how the team find you an hour later, happily sleeping under the crushing weight if ghost while he absently watches the birds outside.
Ever since you started working on base as a secretary, no one's been that...fond of you.
Namely because you seem intent on being a homewrecker whenever you talk to ghost or soap.
Everyone knows the two are married, obvious by the rings they were around base and the multiple recruits who've caught them...sharing some marital enjoyment in storage closets. Despite that, you still flirt with ghost and soap whenever possible, blatant to anyone around.
A sweet "morning, gorgeous." to ghost as you pass him in the halls, giving his bicep a quick squeeze, or a "i like the new cologne, johnny."
New showing them the respect they deserve, practically undressing them with your eyes. Of course, only when one of them alone. No one says anything until gaz finds you and soap sharing an obviously heated kiss behind the shooting range.
Gaz...he would never let soap break ghosts heart like that.
So he confronts you, pulls you aside when you get in the next morning and hisses "the hell do you think you're doing, kissing soap like that?"
Gaz isn't sure what he expects but it's certainly not for you to scoff and say "what? You mean i can't kiss my husbands anymore?"
"....ghost and soap are married." Gaz offers weakly, suddenly confused.
"yeah, also married to me" you say pointedly, holding up your hand with a clear wedding band. Then, you pull out your phone, grumbling "I can't believe those dumbasses didn't tell you."
Which is how gaz gets to see lovely photos of you, soap, and ghost all in the same house. Some professional pieces, but most candid.
Gaz asks you to send him some of what you've lovingly dubbed the "sleepy soldiers" genre of soap or ghost passed out in the strangest places....definitely not for blackmail or anything.
Never, in all your years of training to be a field medic, did you think you'd end up wrestling a higher office in the middle of the medical wing because he refuses to get his shots.
Ghost growls and writhes like a rabid animal trapped under rope. His scarred face is twisted into a snarl, mask long ripped-off since you tackled him earlier. You growl back just as harsh, one hand coming up to shove his neck under your body weight "stand down, lieutenant!!"
"Drop it, sergeant!" Ghost grunts, trying to twist out of the lock you have him in. His face is red from exertion, and you swear you've never had to fight this damn hard in your life.
"No! You're getting your fuckin' shots!" With a shout, you slam ghost down and motion to one of the nurses "now!!"
...a week later and ghost still glares at you in the hallways.
Giant of a man, able to walk into active fire like its nothing, terrified of needles. Honestly...your shocked he lived long after finding out he's been dodging his shots for three years.
The Hunter and The Witch~Dean Winchester x f!reader
Summary: Still in California, they make their way to L.A. to investigate a haunted film set.
Warnings: Cannon violence, mentions of suicide (?), flirting, PDA, leaning into the silliness
Word Count: 6.3k
Hollywood Babylon
(Masterlist, Prev Ch, Outfit)
“Warner Brother’s studio first opened in 1927,” the tour guide explains. “The lot has been in continuous operation for eight decades.”
The golf cart rolls forward smoothly, slowly passing by giant warehouses and people pushing giant props around. I practically bounce in my seat, taking in every new detail.
“Hey,” Dean whispers, drawing my attention. “Did you know this was where they filmed ‘Creepshow?’”
He’s been beaming too. He might be more excited about this than I am. It’s adorable.
“Really?” I ask, enjoying his spew of fun facts.
“Uh-huh,” he nods enthusiastically.
“You want a picture?” I offer, holding up my little camera. I know it's very tourist-y of me, but this is too cool to pass up the opportunity.
He nods, adjusting his sunglasses and the way he’s sitting, arm draped along the back of the seat, facing me. I hold the camera up, focusing it on his charming smile and the dorky way he does a thumb up. He’s so cute.
“Now, to the right, here is Stars Hollow,” the tour guide continues. “It’s the setting for the television series, Gilmore Girls. And if we’re lucky, we might even catch one of the show’s stars.”
Sam turns around from the row in front of us. “Can we go?” he asks, deadpanning.
“No, no, no, let's stay,” I plead. I mean, we never get to do anything cool like this.
But Sam rolls his eyes and hops out of the cart anyway, giving us a knowing look and a groan. So, with a lot of reluctance, we leave the slow-moving cart too.
“That was pretty lame of you, Sam,” I remark, side-eying him as we walk around the lot.
“Just tryna keep us focused,” he sighs, unamused. We’re annoying him, but what did he think was going to happen when he took two film nerds to a huge film set!
“Okay, well, did you know this studio is responsible for making the first full-length feature film with synchronized dialogue?” I ask, beaming up at him.
“No, I did–”
“Check it out, it’s Matt Damon!” Dean exclaims suddenly, elbowing his brother.
I follow his gaze to a white guy with short, dirty blonde hair. He kinda does look like Matt Damon.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s not Matt Damon,” Sam answers.
“No, it is,” he insists.
“Well, Matt Damon just picked up a broom and started sweeping,” Sam remarks.
“Yeah, well, he’s probably researching a role or something,” he reasons.
“Ehh, I don’t think so,” he admits. “Hey, this way, I think Stage 9 is over here.”
He pauses in front of a sign, gesturing down a side “road.”
“Come on, man, let’s keep going this way,” Dean pleads.
“No, come on, we’ve gotta work,” Sam reasons, earning a sigh in turn, “Dude, you wanted to come to LA!”
“Yeah, for a vacation,” he answers. “I mean, swimming pools and movie stars! Not to work.”
“I second the swimming pool, we should get a motel with a pool,” I interject, helpfully.
“This seem like swimming pool weather to you?” Sam counters. “I mean, it’s practically Canadian!”
“Dude, it’s shorts weather!” I exclaim. “With just a nice little breeze.”
“Well, I just figured that, you know, after everything that happened with…Madison, you could use a little R-and-R, that’s all,” Dean reasons, moving on from the weather.
“Well, maybe I wanna work, Dean,” he counters. “Maybe it keeps my mind off things.”
And just like that, he wins. How could either of us say anything now?
“Okay, okay, alright,” Dean gives in. “So, this crew guy-what did he, he died on set?”
“Yeah, uh, rumors spreading like wildfire online,” Sam explains, leading the way towards Studio 9. “They’re saying the set’s haunted.”
“Like Poltergeist?” Dean asks.
“Could be a poltergeist,” he considers.
“No, no, no. Like the movie Poltergeist,” Dean corrects. But Sam just shakes his head with a confused look. “You know nothing of your cultural heritage, do you? It was rumored that the set of Poltergeist was cursed. They used real human bones as props. And, like, at least three of the actors died in it.”
“Well, yeah, it might be something like that,” he replies.
“Okay, so who was this guy?” I ask.
“Frank Jaffey,” he answers.
“He got a death certificate or a coroner’s report or anything?” Dean asks.
“Well, no. But it’s LA, you know? It might not even be his real name.”
“Like in Scream 3,” I say.
“Yeah, sure…” Sam answers. “But the girl who found him said she saw something—a vanishing figure.”
“What’s the girl's name?” Dean asks.
“Uh, Tara Benchley, I think,” he replies.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Tara Benchley?” Dean spews, stopping in his tracks. “From ‘Fear dot Com’ and ‘Ghost Ship,’ Tara Benchley? Dude, why didn’t you say so?”
For the first time today, I have no idea what he’s referencing. I’ve never heard of those films before.
“Is she your celebrity crush?” I ask with mild amusement.
“What? No,” he scoffs.
“But you’re suddenly on board?” Sam presses.
“Oh, I just—I mean, I’m a fan of her work. It’s very good,” he explains, standing a little taller.
********
Eventually, we find our way to the studio, wandering into the large warehouse. There are all kinds of people walking around with clipboards and walkie-talkies. And by the set, cameras surrounding it, are two men speaking, one of them far more familiar than the other.
“Oh my God, it’s McG,” I blurt, staring at the tall man from afar. He’s less ginger in person than the cameras make him look online.
“Who?” Sam asks.
“He’s a director!” I explain. “He made the Charlie’s Angels movie!”
“Uh, excuse me, green shirt guy?” A man next to McG yells in our direction. There’s a clipboard in his hand, too, his shaggy hair held back with his headset. Finding no one else in green, Dean points to himself in confusion, looking around again to make sure. “Yeah, you. Come here.”
Dean gives us a wide-eyed look before shuffling towards the guy.
“Can you get me a smoothie from Kraft?” the man asks loud enough for us to hear from a distance.
“You want a what from who?” Dean utters.
“You are a P.A., right?” he scoffs. “This is what you do, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah…he uh…one smoothie coming right up,” Sam interjects, quickly pulling his brother away from the conversation.
“Wait, you, girl,” the man says, snapping and pointing at me.
Wait, me?
“Where are you going?” he asks. “You’re Allie’s replacement, aren’t you?”
“What?” I deadpan.
“Ugh, please don’t tell me they sent another idiot,” he mutters to himself. “Look, Allie got scared off, you’re her replacement, you’re playing Kendra. We’ll shoot your replacement scenes another time. For now, we’re gonna continue where we left off. Alright?”
“Wait, but I’m—“
“They already got you dressed, great, now go look over the script or something, we’re starting at the cabin scene,” he continues, giving me a final once-over before brushing me off with a wave of his hand.
“What the hell just happened?” I utter the second we’re out of hearing, my jaw now permanently dropped.
“You just got cast,” Dean grins.
“But I’ve never acted before. What am I going to do?” I whisper-shout, looking between them with wide eyes.
“Get to reading,” Sam laughs hard.
“No, stop enjoying this,” I lecture. “Help me. Help. Please.”
“Sorry, sweetheart, we have smoothies to get,” Dean answers, enjoying this just as much as his brother, if not more. Betrayed by the people you love. “We’ll be back, trust me, we aren’t gonna miss it.”
“No, no, no, no, no, please, please, please, please,” I spew, total dread filling my chest.
But, they’re already walking away, leaving me to struggle for their own amusement. I can even see the way their heads duck down and their shoulders wrack in fits of laughter.
I hate them.
They’re actually the worst.
********
I stand stiffly on set, eyes focused on the ‘X’ taped beneath my feet to mark where I’m meant to stand. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I shouldn’t do this.
My heart beats wildly in my chest, blood pumping so loud in my ears that everything else is muffled. But the stage lights feel too bright, and all the cameras around are like horrible voids.
The actors around me talk amongst themselves; they're so comfortable in this environment, I almost envy them.
I try to remind myself to breathe, to loosen up my muscles, because really, I have acted before. I act every time we pose as someone for a hunt. It’s not that different when you think about it, right? Right?
My eyes wander past the various cameras, landing on a familiar figure weaving through the crew members. His back is towards me, but I know that it’s him. He places down a tray of smoothies onto a far table, twisting around smoothly to go on his way. Through all the people and all the equipment, his eyes find mine, shining through like little gems. He smiles widely, holding two thumbs up, making a little smile break onto my lips. I want to be mad that he didn’t try to save me from doing this, but he looks so genuine that it’s hard to stay upset.
Maybe this won’t be so bad. I mean, who hasn’t wanted to be in a movie? And it’s a horror movie!
“Quiet, please!” someone shouts, making everyone snap into place, rigid and ready.
Dean gives me one last emphasized thumbs up before disappearing into the crowd, going God knows where.
“On the bell!”
My heart speeds back up, thumping full of dread. But I see Dean’s ecstatic face in my mind, and it eases something in me.
“Alright! Hold the noise, we’re rolling!” Someone else shouts, then on cue, the warehouse lights go off, leaving only the stage lights on.
I play the lines over and over again in my head, hoping I spent enough time with them to not embarrass myself further.
“Why don’t we take it from, ‘come on, it’ll be fun,” McG yells, which is great because that means I don’t have to say anything. “And, action!”
A brunette holds up a big book, standing in front of us. Apparently, this is Tara, who is playing Wendy.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she teases, eyes dropping to the book.
She begins to read, but instead she’s just stammering through the Latin words. My best worried expression turns to pure confusion as she continues. I’m fluent in Latin, and yet I have no idea what she’s trying to say. She’s stumbling over the words, half mumbling them, and all I can really pick up is something about a pig, which could be the poorly written Latin or the fault of her misspeaking.
“Maybe we’ll finish this up tomorrow,” McG says from behind the camera, putting us (mostly me) out of our misery.
“Oh my God, I hate you so much right now!” Tara whines, breaking character.
“Cut!” McG yells, finally allowing the crew to laugh at her breakdown. No wonder why they say Hollywood is toxic.
Still, I use the opportunity to shuffle away and be grateful that we hadn’t shot long enough that I would’ve had to act.
I move to stand where I last saw Dean, only having to wait a minute or two before he emerges again, tucking a little box-shaped object into his pocket.
“What’d you get up to?” I ask as he nears.
“Checkin’ for EMF,” he answers, gaze wandering off to the table of food not five feet away from us. “Nothing there though.”
“Maybe that’s for the best. We should get out of here,” I say, watching him conspicuously shuffle towards the food.
“Nope, haven’t gotten to see you act yet,” he muses, picking up a little paper plate and filling it up with small sandwiches.
“It should stay that way. I feel like I’m being hazed,” I remark.
He laughs, hard, eyes sparkling with mischief and endearment, while he brings one of the sandwiches to his mouth.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he mutters through a mouthful of food. “You hungry, sweetheart? You should try this.”
“No thanks,” I say. “I think I’m filled with too much leftover anxiety to be hungry.” But I’m glad he’s enjoying it.
“‘S that bad?” he chuckles through another bite of food.
“I just don’t exude confidence like you do, Dean,” I half-shrug.
“You should, you’re really fucking sexy,” he answers so naturally as if it were an absolute fact.
I bite back a smile and a scoff of laughter. Still, it catches his attention like he expected it, gaze drawn to me.
“If you think you aren’t sexy, we’re gonna have a real problem,” he states, eyes sharpened, and brow quirked just so.
“Hey, you find anything?” Sam asks, popping out of nowhere.
“Nah, there’s no EMF anywhere,” Dean repeats himself.
“Great,” he mumbles. “So, what do you think?”
“Well, I think being a P.A. sucks,” Dean remarks, helpfully. “But the food these people get? Are you kidding me? I mean, look at these things. They’re like miniature Philly cheesesteak sandwiches. They’re delicious.”
He holds one up to Sam, adamant on sharing.
“Maybe later,” Sam says.
“Sandwiches aside, did you find anything while you were gone?” I ask, assuming that’s what he got up to since he didn’t arrive at the same time as Dean did.
“Well, Frank Jeffrey was just filling in for the day. Nobody here knew him or where he lived or anything,” he answers.
“That’s helpful,” I remark.
“‘Found out about as much as I did,” Dean adds.
“No, not quite. I—“
A guy with black hair and glasses interjects with a friendly “Hey, guys.”
“Oh, hey,” Dean responds.
“Sorry,” the man mumbles, squeezing himself in to grab a plate and a sandwich.
“That’s alright,” Dean says, watching the guy walk around with a proud smile. “They’re wonderful!” he shouts after the guy.
“Listen, I did dig up some stuff about Stage 9’s history,” Sam continues, where he left off. “Four people died messily here over the past eighty years. Two suicides and two fatal accidents.”
“Gosh,” I gape. “I’m guessing that means a lot of vengeful spirit material, then.”
“Yeah, we’ve just gotta narrow it down more,” Sam confirms.
“I’ll get right on that,” Dean announces, his attention trailing off onto Tara, who walks by. He follows after her, swiftly stealing a sheet of paper from a passing worker before approaching her.
An uneasy feeling settles into my gut, jealousy gnawing ugly bites into my organs. I trust Dean, I mean, he did just finish calling me sexy, and he once told me that he thought my speaking Latin was hot, and that’s something Tara cannot do. Not to be mean, that is. Besides, when do any of us get the chance to meet an actor we like?
“I’m surprised you’re not saying anything,” Sam remarks from beside me.
“What?” I scoff, trying to play it off. “I-I’m cool, this is fine.”
“Yeah, okay,” he whispers.
But there’s nothing to worry about because Dean returns almost exactly a minute later, paper still in hand. And, he looks irritated, which is actually maybe not a good sign.
“That was quick,” I point out.
“Yeah, well, Frank Jeffery isn’t Frank Jeffery,” he reveals. “He’s Gerard St. James, an actor, who I’m pretty damn sure isn’t dead.”
“What, so he faked it?” Sam asks in disbelief.
“Only one way to find out,” I say.
“Actually, you’re still needed on set,” Dean reveals, holding up the paper for me to see. It’s a call sheet. Great.
“Not this again,” I grumble.
“You’ll do well, just remember you get to be in a horror movie,” he says like it’s easy, stepping close enough to cup my face and press a lingering kiss to my forehead. “I’ll come pick you up later,” he adds, helping himself to a proper kiss.
Take that, Tara.
********
Hours go by in a whirlwind of refilming scenes I had to make up and then continuing with new ones. Between each take, I crammed the script like it was my life, all in hopes of not embarrassing myself.
Dean did keep me updated on what was going on, texting me often. That Geard guy is alive; his death had been faked in order to gain publicity for the movie. Which is very out of touch and horrible if you ask me, but maybe that’s show business. Still, it was nice to hear from Dean and all his silly little messages, like the photo he sent of a star with my name in the middle of it, drawn on a napkin. He said it was my own Hollywood Star, the sweet dork he is.
Now, I’m on set again, set up in the same “abandoned house” I started in. Admittedly, this has all been pretty damn fun.
“When we read from that book, we must have brought them back,” Torrance, who plays Mitch, acts. “Back from hell.”
“None of this makes any sense!” I exclaim as scripted. Luckily, none of this storyline is that far off from what I experience daily.
“It doesn’t matter. We’re not going anywhere until we find Wendy and her sister. Got it?” He retorts. “Good. Now let’s get busy.”
“Cut!” McG yells from behind the camera. “Very nice.”
“No good for sound,” a man holding a boom mike says. “I’m getting some kind of feedback.”
I sigh in tandem with just about everyone else on set. We all want to go home. In fact, I’d like to see my friends again instead of being put through whatever dream/nightmare this is.
“Another costly sound delay!” Someone mocks. “Alright, we’re going again for sound, people!”
“Thank you!” The sound guy chirps, adjusting his headphones.
But, we still wind up at a standstill while we wait for McG to conclude his conversation with the guy who recruited Dean, who I learned was called Brad, and some other guy.
“So, what other films have you been in?” Torrance asks, breaking the silence amongst our waiting.
“Oh, I haven’t. This is my big break. ‘Always wanted to be in a horror movie, though,” I admit, truthfully. “What about you?”
“My first film too,” he nods. “I was a background character in two shows, though.”
“Congrats, then,” I reply.
“Yeah, you too…so—“
“Alright!” McG announces. “We’re gonna add in a couple of lines. Kendra, after you say ‘None of this makes sense,’ say, ‘If they were in Hell, how could they hear our chanting?’ And Mitch, you’ll answer, ‘They must have super hearing!’ Then, continue with your lines like normal.”
That’s a whole lot of telling instead of showing, but alright.
“Sounds good!” Torrance answers for both of us.
“Great!” McG claps. “Let’s start. Places! Quiet on set! And, 3…2…1 and action!”
“When we read from that book, we must have brought them back. Back from Hell,” Torrance repeats in almost the exact same inclination.
“None of this makes any sense!” I exclaim, again. “If they were in Hell, how could they hear our chanting?”
“They must have super-hearing!” Torrance replies, but instead it just sounds stupid and out of place.
Then, there’s a loud crash from above us, something breaking through the ceiling. A horrific scream rips from my throat at the sight of what came through: Brad’s hanging body. His body spins on the rope from the force, his neck left bent at a horrible angle.
By morning, it’s like nothing happened. The ceiling is patched up, the body is gone, and the set is clean. The only indication that something occurred is the whispers spread among the cast and crew. Though I’d like to add a sleepless night. The hours I had the opportunity to sleep were filled with the image of his body dropping again and again. I see messed-up things all the time, but it hasn’t made me immune to the bizarre and horrible.
Speaking of messed up, we’ve continued right where we left off, talking about books, and hearing the chanting from hell. Now, Tara’s character is entering the scene, finally adding something different to this Groundhog Day of filming.
“Wendy?” Torrance, as Mitch, gasps.
“Oh, Mitch! God, you’re alive!” She gushes, hugging him tightly.
“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he smirks.
“Rumble, rumble rumble!” McG narrates from behind the camera. Actually, I laughed the first time he did it, which made us have to restart, so this time I forced myself to keep a straight face.
“Salt,” Tara announces, pulling away from the embrace. “Okay, we need salt. I read in that book that it keeps ghosts away.”
“Kendra, Logan, you guys check the back,” Torrance orders, prompting us to nod in determination and walk off-screen.
I use the opportunity to walk around the camera crew, heading to where I saw Dean last. Luckily, he chose to play his P.A. role again, allowing him to be back on set.
“Um…uh, yeah, cut. Cut!” The director shouts.
“That’s a cut!” Dean mimics in all seriousness, though it makes finding him that much easier.
Seeming to sense me before I say or do anything, he turns in time with my arrival, letting his half-eaten taquito fall onto his plate so he can push his headset off one ear.
“There’s my movie star,” he drawls, smirking devilishly as he eyes me up slowly.
“You’ve seen me do like one scene,” I laugh, standing close to him.
“And?”
“And…that’s hardly ‘star’ material.”
“Says you,” he remarks in a little grumble, handing his plate off to the nearest crew member walking by to rest his hands on my hips. “My girl is gonna be in a movie.”
“A possibly haunted movie,” I add, giving in to his sugary words and proximity.
“Still counts,” he decides.
“I-I-I just can’t wrap my head around the dialogue, you know?” Tara says loudly, unintentionally cutting into our conversation. “Salt? Doesn’t that sound silly? I mean, why would a ghost be afraid of salt?”
“Little does she know,” Dean chuckles, voice low in my ear.
“Okay…Marty?” McG calls out.
“Yo,” Marty, a long-faced man with thick, greying hair, answers, stepping forward.
“What do you think?” McG asks.
“Not married to salt, what do you want? ‘We still sticking with condiments?”
“It just sounds different, not better. What else would a ghost be scared of?” McG continues.
“Sigil—“
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” someone groans from beside me, cutting off my own mumbled response. He’s the same guy who interjected our conversation with his sandwich taking.
“What would a ghost be scared of? Maybe, uh, maybe shotguns,” Marty suggests.
“Okay, that makes even less sense than salt,” McG remarks.
“These people are idiots,” the sandwich guy spits, walking off with a huff of annoyance.
It’s been an interesting two days.
“Walter’s a little testy for a P.A., huh?” Dean muses, watching the man go with a thoughtful look.
“Can’t blame him, there’s constantly so much going on at once, it’s overwhelming,” I reason.
“Hey, how’s it going in here?” Sam asks from behind me, returning from whatever he was up to. Thus forcing me to step out of Dean's grasp to hold a conversation like a normal person.
“It is going really well, man,” Dean grins, adjusting to my movements so that his arm wraps around my waist. “‘Directors really liking Y/N’s work, heard him talking ‘bout ‘being a natural’ and a ‘scream queen.’”
“He does? He was?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he exhales like it’s obvious. “I was eavesdropping."
“Guys, you know when I ask how it’s going in here, I’m talking about the case, right?” Sam interjects. “We don’t really work here.”
“Speak for yourself, I’ve literally had to stay late, learn the script, and I get paid tomorrow,” I retort. “All thanks to you two for thinking you were funny, may I add.”
“Fine, you might be actually, accidentally, working,” he corrects with a grumble. “But I thought you hated being a P.A., Dean.”
“I don’t know, it’s not so bad. I kind of feel like part of the team, you know?” Dean admits, shuffling his feet.
“No,” Sam deadpans. “Anyways, listen, I conned my way into the morgue.”
“And?” Dean asks.
“News reports were right, Brad's a doornail, no question,” he answers.
“I told you!” I exclaim. “You can’t fake the sound of a neck snapping like that.”
“Copy that,” Dean mutters. “I’m sorry, what?”
“They faked it in front of someone before; we had to be sure,” Sam explains, looking at me.
“Fake what?” Dean asks, looking between us.
“Brad’s death. Y/N was right. The reports were right,” Sam answers.
“They are aware.”
“Who’s aware?” Sam asks.
“It’s his headset,” I answer for him.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Dean says again.
“Uh…The newspaper’s right, Brad’s a doornail, no question about it,” Sam repeats for the umpteenth time.
“I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t skip town,” Dean remarks, finally paying attention. “Oh, come here. I want you to hear something,” he adds. “Copy that. On my way.”
Sam gives me an annoyed and knowing look, expecting me to be on his side. But I just shrugged and let Dean lead us away.
“Hey, Dave,” Dean greets a man holding a boom mic. “Can you play ‘em that thing you were playing me earlier?”
“Sure,” Dave answers, bringing us over to a laptop. He clicks a couple of things and offers up a pair of headphones, Sam and I taking an earbud each.
The audio starts normal, crisp even, as it plays the scene from last night, but not even halfway through, there’s a weird staticky noise. It continues to grow distorted, and I know there was nothing going on last night that would’ve caused this externally, so what the hell is going on here?
********
The A.C. hums quietly in the background, the door to the trailer thumping shut behind the youngest Winchester. It’s my first time in this trailer that’s technically mine, or, well, the girl who was playing Kendra before me.
After we listened to the audio, Dean did another EMF sweep, this time getting results. So, the next logical step was to investigate the crime scene, but because that had been cleaned up, the closest thing was a recording of last night.
“Where’d you get that DVD?” Sam asks as Dean inserts it into the machine and turns the TV on.
“They’re called dailies. I got it from Cindy,” Dean explains. “She’s kind of got this on-and-off thing with Drew. He dubbed me an extra copy.”
“They’re ‘on’ right now, if you were wondering,” I mutter to Sam, sitting next to him on the couch.
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Alright,” Dean says, grabbing the remote, pressing play, and collapsing down beside me, arm thrown around the back of the couch.
The scene from last night plays from the beginning, my cheeks growing warm from seeing myself act, my voice playing back at me. Then, of course, comes Brad’s crashing entrance, making me flinch all over again, just this time, the screaming is left to my past self.
“Again,” Sam orders.
Dean nods, rewinding the footage to just before the fall. Again, the ceiling breaks, and Brad comes crashing in, the snap of his neck evident before the screaming.
“Wait, go back, go back,” Sam directs. “Right after. Right aft-yeah. Wait. There.”
Dean has it paused on the right frame, revealing an entirely different set than the one used last night. And standing off in the corner is a ghostly woman wearing a silk robe and painted lips.
“How the…it’s like it’s filmed over,” I mumble.
“It’s like ‘Three Men and a Baby’ all over again,” Dean remarks. “Selleck Danson, Guttenberg, and…I don’t know who played the baby.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam asks, confused as ever.
“There’s a scene in the movie where people say that the camera caught a ghost on film,” he explains. “Apparently, in the background of one of the scenes, there was this boy that nobody remembers from set. Spirit photography.”
“Well, I’ve seen her before,” Sam declares, staring at the screen intensely.
“You have?” I ask.
********
I shuffle my way off set, trying to be inconspicuous so I don’t get swept away again.
Sam had left before to figure out how he recognized the spirit, which had taken enough time for filming to start up again. Now, I’m breaking away, meeting the Winchesters in our agreed spot.
“There she is,” Dean grins widely, lounging in a folding chair, man-spreading to the max. And, of course, his headset is still in place.
“Hi, sorry,” I exhale, stepping closer to the table he and Sam are occupying.
Dean beckons me with a small gesture of his hand, immediately pulling me down to sit on his thigh when I’m close enough. My legs are between his spread ones, his arm at my back. He ignores the side look Sam gives us, shrugging and saying:
“What? There’s no other chair,” like it’s the most obvious explanation in the world.
“…Anyways, you’re just in time,” Sam nods, unfolding a piece of paper from his pocket.
“Yeah, go for Ozzy,” Dean suddenly says. The headset…again. “No, I don’t have a 20 on Tara, I think she’s 10-100.”
“Oh, I got eyes on Y/N,” he says next, hand slipping up the hem of my shirt, his thumb rubbing back and forth against the skin of my back. “Okay, copy that. Alright, what were you saying?”
Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Elise Drummond, starlet back in the thirties. ‘Had an affair with a studio exec. He uses her up, does her, leaves her destitute, so Elise hangs herself from Stage 9’s rafters, right into a scene they’re shooting.”
“Just like our man, Brad,” Dean nods. “So, what, she’s got it in for the studio brass?”
“Possibly. I mean, it’s a motive,” Sam answers. “And Brad’s death matches hers exactly.”
“We’re digging tonight, aren’t we?” Dean remarks.
“Maybe not. Why did this only happen now? I mean, this studio isn’t exactly new. What could’ve triggered this?” I say, rattling off my train of thought, something itching at the back of my mind.
“You have something?” Dean asks, gaze boring into my expression.
“I don’t know…” I mumble, trying to detect what’s bothering me. “One sec.”
I leave Dean's lap and warmth to round the set, beelining it to the first script I see. I snatch the packet off of one of the fancy movie chairs, flicking through the pages with a scene in mind. Finding it, I skim through the passage of Latin, making alarm bells go off in my head.
“Should’ve seen it before,” I mutter as I return to the Winchesters. I place the packet down, finger pointing to the passage of text. “In this scene, Tara’s character is accidentally summoning the demons, or whatever, for the movie. But this is an actual summoning spell. At first, I thought it was Latin because she was butchering it so badly, but it's not. It's Enochian. I just…I didn’t realize it before because I was trying not to vomit everywhere.”
“Well, what the hell is that doing in a Hollywood movie?” Sam asks, looking up from the script.
A little awkwardly, we wander into the doorway of the writer, Marty’s, office. He’s lounging back in his chair, talking on the phone with an edge of annoyance. Then his eyes jump to us in the doorway, giving us a strange look as he hangs up on whoever he was talking to.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” The long-faced man asks. “Are you having problems on set? With the script?”
“Oh, um, no,” I shake my head.
“Sorry, we—we couldn’t help ourselves. We just had to tell you that we also read the script,” Sam jumps in, gesturing towards him and Dean.
“And?” Marty presses, unamused.
“Yeah,” he nods. “It’s, uh, it’s awesome.”
“Awesome,” Dean nods.
“I know it’s pretty rockin’, right?” Marty smiles, leaning in as if he were absorbing the praise. “I’m glad you guys liked it.”
“Yeah, yeah, we especially liked the, uh, Enochian summoning rituals,” I pile on.
“Yup, great attention to detail,” Sam adds.
His smile falters. “Attention to detail is usually all me, but I didn’t write that Latin crap. No, man, that’s Walter. Walter Dixon, the original writer. You like that garbage?”
What’s this dude got against Latin?
“Wait, ‘Walter the P.A.’ Walter?” Dean asks.
“No, he’s not a P.A.,” Marty clarifies. “He’s got a clause in his contract that allows him to come on set.”
“But he wrote the invocations?” Dean continues.
“He wrote a whack-job screenplay. There’s no pace, there’s no love interest, it’s all wackadoo exposition,” Marty corrects, holding up a finger. “I had to cut, like, ninety percent of it to make it readable, the other ten percent to make it good.”
********
“You know, this is pretty good,” I say, turning to the next page of Walter’s screenplay. They changed a lot of what he wrote, including the original name “Lord of the Dead.”
“They should’ve kept it,” Dean adds.
“Yeah, and it reads like a how-to manual of conjugation, like a textbook on how to summon ghosts and get them to do whatever you want,” Sam points out.
“Like kill people,” Dean finishes for him.
“Yep. So, let’s say somewhere down the line, Walter learned some pretty black magic,” Sam continues.
“And let’s say he’s pissed at these people for wrecking his movie,” Dean topples on.
“Hell of a motive,” I say.
“One worth checking out,” Dean concludes. “You think Walter’s gonna be home?”
“No, he’s probably still on set,” I answer.
“Why? It’s late, and filming is over,” Sam points out.
“Exactly. It’s the perfect time to kill someone else. I mean, you really think he’s going to stop at one person? And who is still alive that ruined his script?”
“Martin,” Sam exhales.
“Look, if I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But I think we should get the guns and check the sets,” I suggest. “Plus, I’m never wrong.”
********
After checking the abandoned building set, I thought I may have actually been wrong. But when we enter the warehouse with the forest set, the shouting coming from around the corner tells me all I need to know.
“Walter, please! Walter, help me!” Martin screams as a ghostly male figure drags him by his collar towards an industrial fan. “He—“
A loud bang booms through the large space, the calculated shot hitting the ghost square in the chest, making it vanish in a puff of smoke. Dean steps forward, lowering the gun just enough.
“You are one hell of a P.A.,” Martin remarks, scrambling to sit up.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean answers.
“What are you—“
“The jig is up, Walter,” I cut him off, taking careful steps towards him.
He scurries up the stairs of the rafter, Sam immediately jumping in front of me and climbing up after him.
“Raising these spirits from the dead? Making them murder for you? That’s playing with fire,” Sam tells him.
“You don’t understand,” he utters.
“You know what? You’re right, I don’t understand,” Sam admits.
“Just…wait, look,” Walter stammers. “You put your heart and soul into something, years of hard work. It’s years, and then they take it! And they crap all over it! And then—and then they want you to smile and say, ‘thank you.’”
“Walter, listen. It’s just a movie. That’s it,” Sam urges.
Walter scoffs, and I have to agree. I even take offense to that; a movie is never just a movie.
“Look…I’ve nothing against you, man. Or either of you!” he gestures towards Dean and me. “You’re not a part of this. Just please, please, leave. But Martin’s gotta stay.”
“Hey, man, we got nothin’ against you either,” I admit, holding my hands up in surrender. “But you can’t just kill people. We can’t let you do that.”
“Not that we like him either, or anything,” Dean mutters. “It’s just a matter of principle.”
“Then I’m sorry, too,” Walter responds. He raises his arm, and clutched within his hand is a talisman, circular with some sort of ‘x’ or ‘t’ inside of it.
But before he can begin chanting, lips forming the first letter, the talisman vanishes, appearing in my hand. Having no clever quip to say, I give him a knowing, pointed look as I recite the words to set the spirits free from control.
“What the–” he mutters, scrambling further up the rafter with wide eyes.
I frown, knowing what’s to come, because their freedom means his death. Regardless of being under no one’s control, they will want revenge for what he made them do. There is no stopping that. I turn my back just as an invisible force drags him down, his guttural screams filling the air.
My cheeks burn as a round of applause breaks out amongst the crew members. It’s the last day of filming. Or, at least it is for me. I have no idea what kind of scenes they may or may not reshoot with the other cast members, but that’s no longer my problem.
I bow my head in a sheepish ‘thank you,’ then trudge my way off set.
“Now that that humiliation ritual, and bucket list number, is over,” I say, standing in front of the Winchesters. “I have a bikini that is in desperate need of exposure.”
I watch the way my words process in Dean’s mind, his jaw going slack, eyebrows rising, the cogs in his brain turning, and a smile spreading on his lips as his eyes lazily dip down my figure.
Then, he’s turning to his brother, saying: “You heard the woman.”
Satisfied, I turn on my heels, leading the way out.
“God, I love this town,” Dean mutters.
(Next Chapter)
A/N: In a couple hours I’m gonna be presenting my research paper in front of a whole bunch of people at school, like a whole department. I might die so wish me luck.
Might take me a minute to read this but I will get through it! Why do I always happen to be sick or sad when updates are released like I’m struggling through my wisdom tooth removal right now and the nausea is killing me.
soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words “oh my god, please, don’t.” plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, he’d been terrified of what that meant. he’d heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, he’d heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and he’d even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker he’d put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good he’d just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.
It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”
He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.
You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”
Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”
Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”
He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.
You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, “Make it up to me, then?”
Thinking about reader exclusively referring to ghost as "the missus"...
Really, it started as a joke. A little teasing jab at ghost for always being so soft with you, more affection than malice when you chose the title.
Offered anonymity, too. When other soldiers were talking about their sweet things at home, you could slip right in with "the missus is the same with me. Clinging to me all the time." Instead of mentioning lieutenant riley and having to explain why you, as a sergeant, are dating ghost.
That doesn't stop the fact ghost blushes bright red when you casually comment "the missus loves it when I'm big spoon. Settles her down right quick." At the breakfast table. Or when you snort at prices usual complaint about his wife and add "my darling gifts me stuff too. It's so cute, her little crafts, keeps the missus occipied."
Ghost should be embarrassed by it. He's a 6 foot fuck-around giant of a man who's killed more people than he cares to count. His skin is rough with callouses and scars and no one would ever describe him as pretty.
Except....except you do. You call ghost your "pretty little missus." And you...mean it?
It makes ghosts stomach flutter in a weird way. He likes being your missus. The idea that he even could be something soft and tucked away from war like all the other soldiers wives are.
Ghost makes eggs for you in the morning the same as he always does, but smiles to himself about acting like your missus. He cuddles you in bed, he tries to bake you cookies. He's domestic and soft and everything simon has never been allowed to be.
When you call him "missus" ghost feels...seen. loved. It's...nice.
The safehouse is quiet in that rare way it only gets after a night off. Most of the team turned in hours ago, but you and Simon Riley ended up lingering in the kitchen with a half-finished bottle of cheap whisky someone smuggled back from deployment.
Simon doesn’t drink much. Everyone knows that.
Which is exactly why it’s a bit surreal seeing him like this.
He’s slouched back in the chair across from you, mask pushed up just enough to drink earlier and now sitting crooked on his face. His hair’s a mess, the short blond strands sticking up like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times.
You swirl what’s left in your glass, watching him.
Simon’s staring at you.
Not in the usual guarded way, either. No tension in his shoulders, no scanning the room like he’s expecting someone to kick the door in. Just… looking.
“You alright there, L.T.?” you ask.
He hums.
Not a word. Just a low little sound in the back of his throat as he keeps staring.
“Simon.”
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring.”
“Am not.”
“You are.”
He tilts his head slightly, considering that like it’s a complicated tactical question.
“Maybe a bit,” he admits, voice rougher than usual.
The alcohol’s gotten to him just enough to loosen his tongue. His accent’s thicker now too—northern vowels heavier, consonants a bit lazy.
You lean your elbow on the table.
“What’s so interesting then?”
Simon shrugs slowly, gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again.
“You,” he says simply.
You snort.
“Right. Sure.”
“Serious.”
The way he says it makes you pause.
There’s no teasing in his tone. No usual sarcasm. Just blunt honesty.
He drags a hand down his face, fingers catching on the edge of his mask before letting it fall back against his chin.
“You ever think,” he starts, voice slow, “about how you’ve got everyone wrapped round your little finger?”
“That’s definitely not true.”
“Is.”
He gestures vaguely at you with his glass.
“Price listens to you. Soap does whatever you ask. Gaz too.”
“That’s called teamwork, Simon.”
“Mm.”
He doesn’t sound convinced.
A quiet beat passes.
Then he leans forward a little, elbows on the table.
“Reckon you’d be good at bossin’ people around,” he says.
You blink.
“I already do.”
“Nah,” he mutters. “Different kind.”
Your eyes narrow.
“What kind?”
Simon squints like he’s trying to decide if he should say something.
The whisky clearly makes that decision for him.
“The kind where you tell someone to stay put,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Or get on their knees.”
You nearly choke on your drink.
“Simon.”
“What?”
“You’re drunk.”
“Little bit.”
He doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest.
If anything, he seems thoughtful.
“Think I’d like it,” he adds.
“Like what?”
“Being told what to do.”
You stare at him.
He’s completely serious.
Simon Riley—six-foot-something, terrifying in the field, the man half the task force is scared of—is sitting at the kitchen table casually confessing he’d enjoy being bossed around.
“Right,” you say slowly. “We’re definitely blaming the alcohol for this conversation.”
Simon chuckles under his breath.
Low. Warm.
“Probably.”
But he doesn’t take it back.
Instead he leans back in his chair again, tipping his head toward the ceiling like he’s thinking hard about something.
“You’d be good at it though,” he continues after a moment.
“I’m not entertaining this.”
“Just sayin’.”
He looks back at you, eyes half-lidded but focused.
“Got that voice, y’know.”
“What voice?”
“The one you use when you’re givin’ orders.”
Your face feels warmer now.
“That’s my normal voice.”
“Mm,” Simon says, unconvinced.
Another quiet moment passes.
Then he mutters, almost to himself—
“Wouldn’t mind you tellin’ me to stay still.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Oh my god.”
“What?”
“You’re literally my superior officer.”
“Technically.”
“Simon.”
He tilts his head again, studying your reaction like this is fascinating.
“Just talkin’.”
“You’re talking about being dominated.”
“By you.”
“Simon.”
“What?”
He doesn’t even look apologetic.
Instead he grins faintly, the expression small but genuine.
“You’re actin’ like I said something weird.”
“You did.”
He hums again.
“Alright then.”
He rests his cheek in his hand.
“Hypothetically.”
“No.”
“Hypothetically,” he continues anyway, ignoring you completely, “if someone—say you—told me to lie back and behave…”
You push your chair back slightly.
“Simon Riley.”
He keeps going.
“…maybe sit on my face a bit—”
“SIMON.”
He blinks at you.
“What?”
“You cannot just say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because we work together!”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re drunk!”
“Also yeah.”
He considers you for a second longer before adding casually—
“Still mean it though.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“Please go to bed.”
Simon lets out a quiet laugh.
“Bossy.”
“That wasn’t an invitation.”
“Shame.”
He pushes himself up from the table, swaying just slightly before steadying.
As he walks past you toward the hallway, he pauses.
Then he leans down just a bit closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial murmur.
“Y’know,” he says softly, “if you ever did want to boss me around…”
You groan.
“Simon.”
He grins again, eyes bright despite the alcohol.
“…reckon I’d behave real nice for you.”
Then he strolls off toward the bedrooms like he didn’t just detonate the most unhinged conversation of your life.
And judging by the smug little glance he throws over his shoulder—
Imagine being the new secretary of the 141, and you just...can't take your eyes off ghost.
He's taller than most on base, easily bigger too, with thick muscles padded under layers of fat. You spend far too long staring at the way his rappelling harness squeezes his thighs when he kneels.
The only problem? He's married.
Married to sergeant mactavish, who is technically also your boss. Unlike ghost, who doesn't seem concerned with anyone other than his team, there's no way soap hasn't noticed how flustered you get when you talk to ghost.
It's humiliating, crushing on a married man, or rather daydreaming about the outline you can see pressed into the inner thigh of his pants. How he easily manhandles you out of the way from getting trampled in the halls. Those calloused hands burning against your skin.
It was only a matter of time before soap came knocking on your office door, a knowing look in his eye.
"Look, sir, I'm really sorry–" you try to get out before he can really tear you apart, no point playing dumb "I swear, I have no intentions of getting between your marriage–"
Soaps bark of laughter cuts you off, makes you blush warmly. He smiles good-naturedly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him "what, ye thought this was a warning? Kid, you don't threaten me an' ghost one bit."
Before you can apologize, soap continues "I'm here with an offer. You're ghosts type, and I'm sure you can handle his...rougher treatment."
"What..." it takes a moment for your brain to connect the dots, mind lagging because...certainly not. You scan soaps face for any hint of joke "you're...you're asking me to–? With you and him–?"
"Uh. No." Soap wrinkles his nose a bit, but smoothes it over with a grin "I don't partake, kid. Not my thing. But ghost likes a bit o' fun now an' then. You." Eyes trail along your body, not hungry but appraising "you look plenty fun for him."
"Oh my god." You mumble, face burning and sinking into your seat. Soap selecting you like a cut of meat for his husband to enjoy should not be as hot as it is.
"That a yes? Fine either way, figured you'd like the offer." Soap asks, calm and assured in his role. He smiles a bit, if only to tease you "if you do really well we might keep ye around as a dog. Make my life easier, hm?"
Oh you are definitely jerking off the second soap leave, nodding frantically "yeah. Yes. Yes, please. Anything."
The small chuckle soap lets out as he leaves only adds to your horrible mix of embarrassment and arousal. Fuck.
Nothing could have prepared you for that. Soap texting you an address with instructions not five minutes later gives you plenty to look foreward to.
pairing: bodyguard!simon "ghost" riley x singer!reader
summary: your bodyguard has to protect you from a mob of crazy fans and intrusive paparazzi
"good night, new york city! i love you so fucking much!" you shouted into the microphone, grinning ear to ear. you had just finished the encore for the last show on your world tour, waving to the crowd, blowing kisses as you were lifted below the stage, disappearing from their view. you've been on tour for 7 months now, traveling through different continents, exploring the cultures of each city.
you begged for your final show to be in the city so you could just take a simple car ride home after your last bow. you don't know how your team pulled it off, but you were grateful.
your tour broke many records, every arena selling out completely. when you found out people were spending thousands of dollars on resale tickets just to see you, you immediately complained to your label, making them reach out to the ticket selling company. the company was able to retrieve a lot of tickets from scalpers to sale to your fans for the original price. you wanted to see your fans just as much as they wanted to see you!
this was the most grueling tour you've had in your career, never being on one for so long, let alone performing over 80 times in different places of the world. your body was completely wrecked, feeling every ache and cramp as you jumped and singed for the final time. your muscles were so sore, knowing your band and dancers were feeling the same. and don't even mention your mental health during tour. let's just say you had many, many breakdowns, your bodyguard having to shield you from paparazzi, who often found you outside your hotels. of course they would always come during the worst times!
unfortunately, some photos were leaked of you crying your eyes out, headlines asking if a secret boyfriend broke up with you, or if you suddenly lost your record deal? just a bunch of stupid shit.
you had endless interviews, photoshoots, and appearances you had to make while on tour, which only added more stress.
you loved your craft, not wanting to change it for anything in the world, very grateful for all the experiences you've had, but you couldn't deny the damage it has done to your body and psyche. you were deserving of a long break after this.
"great show, y/n! that's a wrap!" you heard the robotic voice tell you in your in-ears as the final count ended. you see your mom first, pulling your in-ears out.
"i'm so proud of you, sweetie! what an amazing show! it's been an absolute pleasure seeing you chase your dreams," she hugged you, "always knew you could do it," she kissed your forehead. you could feel tears fill your eyes from your mother's words, knowing you were also crying because the tour was actually over.
you've been moving nonstop the last 7 months. sure, you've had little breaks, but nothing longer than three weeks. you were finally done.
you see your manager next, smiling at her. she returns the smile, letting you hug her. "i'm so proud of you too! after 7 very, very long months, you did it! congrats girl!" your manager winks at you, causing you to laugh. it was a long 7 months.
you suddenly heard shouting, the sound of rapid footsteps getting closer to you. you turn towards the commotion, eyes widening at the sight, the smile never leaving your face.
your dancers and band were full on sprinting towards you, excited whoo hoos! and yeahs! escaping them.
when they reached you, you were circled by them, a group hug taking place, something wet dripping on you.
five of your dancers had champagne bottles popped open, shaking them up and down to celebrate.
you all laughed, reveling in each other's company for the final time on this tour, feeling sticky from the alcohol.
soon your bodyguard, simon, came up behind you, a hand reaching to the small of your back, "have a car coming for you in 10. do ya' need to do anything before leaving?" he asks you, leaning down to your height so you could properly hear him.
when you hired simon two years ago to be your bodyguard, the headlines went crazy. rumors were started on social media, pictures of you and him trending, it was madness.
people thought simon was your boyfriend at first, seeing how he would open every door for you, assisting you when you needed it. even more questions and rumors were raised when people realized the new, mystery man seemingly glued to your side never removed his mask, making his identity unknown. hell, you still didn't even know what simon looked like, and it wasn't your place to budge. he did an amazing job at protecting you, so you weren't complaining.
you had enough of the buzz at some point, getting your press manager to make a statement that you hired a new bodyguard, a man that went by "ghost".
this seemed to satisfy people, the trending ending within the next week.
he stayed bent, leaning his ear towards your mouth, waiting for your response. "no, i'll be ready to leave as soon as they arrive. i'm so beat and tired." "understood," he nods, standing up, "and great show, kid. you were incredible out there," he pulls his hand away.
you internally frown from his loss of contact. you knew it was inappropriate, but you also knew you were attracted to simon. he was a muscular man that treated you nicely. okay, maybe he was paid to treat you nicely, but it still made your stomach drop.
you, shamefully, used your bodyguard as a muse, your lust towards him being an inspiration for a song, a song that may have went number one.
that was a secret you would always keep to yourself. you didn't even tell your producer the truth of how you got the idea for the song, not wanting to verbally admit your small crush on your bodyguard.
you didn't even want to acknowledge it.
you smile at him, moving hair behind your ear, "thanks so much, si! i know you saw me at some low times in the last few months, but i'm so happy you were able to help me through all of it. i'm really thankful i have a fantastic bodyguard like you."
simon stared down at you, watching as you began to fiddle with the rings on your fingers, something he noticed you did whenever you were anxious.
he grabs your hands, taking a hold of both with one of his, "m' happy i could watch over you too, kid. wouldn' change it for anything."
you heart fluttered at this, watching the man in front of you use his other hand to press on his headset. "heard, moving y/n now."
he leans back down to you, dropping your hands, "car arrived a lil' early. we can leave wheneva' yer ready."
you nod, turning towards your crew and mother, walking over to them. "thank you all so much for this incredible journey. i can't believe we've been to 6 different continents together performing music that we all love. i will cherish these moments forever. i will never, ever forget this extraordinary experience. i love you all so much. i feel like you're all family!" you were full on crying at this point.
you could hear small whimpers leave your crew and mom after hearing your speech. you were all feeling very emotional! you felt like you were leaving a part of yourself behind.
you grouped hugged again, swearing this was your actual last hug. you waved to everyone as you exited, saying "alright, we all need thirty hours of sleep now," causing laughs from them.
simon placed a hand on your back again, something he did while transporting you between point a and b, leading you to the car.
"traffic was bad, so they couldn' pull up to the exit door. gonna have to walk two blocks," he says to you as he held a door open.
"fuck! i wish i knew that before leaving, i would've grabbed a jacket. i hope no one notices."
you knew it was too good to be true.
as soon as you rounded the corner, your bodyguard behind you, people noticed you immediately. you could tell they were fans leaving your concert because of their gorgeous outfits. your fans were fucking awesome.
"oh my god!" "is that y/n?" "that's actually her! she's with her bodyguard!"
you moved your head down, quickening your pace to the car, snorting. ghost the bodyguard seemed to have fans too.
the car was only one more block away. you loved your fans and usually never turned down a photo, but you were so tired, you didn't think you could handle it tonight.
suddenly, bright flashes illuminate the dark street, your vision blurring. this was so stupid, you were literally wearing your encore outfit, dozens of sparkles glimmering in the streetlights. of course people were gonna fucking notice you!
simon moved to cover your body, his massive frame doing a decent job at shielding the lights, your vision slowly returning. "this will never happen again. we'll wait all night for them to come to the door if we have to," your bodyguard turns to you.
you nodded in response, using your hand to cover your face, seeing simon use his hands to cover your face too.
the car was coming into view, you also noticing the large crowd that surrounded it. you loved living in the city, but you hated how many people were in the city.
you were a couple feet away from entering the car when it happened. some guy quickly lunged at you, the crowd gasping around you, more flashes going off.
you closed your eyes, body freezing. you braced yourself for impact, but never felt anything. screaming was suddenly heard, "stay the fuck away!" a deep voice grunted.
your eyes opened to see your bodyguard pinning the man on the floor, him talking quickly into his ear piece. before you know it, simon was next to you again, grabbing your arm, pulling you towards the car.
more shouting and camera flashes happened as you reached the car, knowing this was going to go viral later. another shit hole to deal with.
he let you get in first, following behind you, shutting the door. you looked out the tinted windows, seeing the man who tried to lunge at you in handcuffs with three officers surrounding him.
you were in shock, not really knowing what to think or say. fans have grabbed you before, not letting go when they needed to, but you've never had someone lunge at you. it shook you up.
"so sorry that happened," simon says, looking you over, "did he touch ya? are ya hurt at all?" he examines you more. you shake your head, "i-i'm alright. he didn't touch me," you were short with your response.
he frowned, knowing you just wanted a peaceful night after a draining tour and some asshole took that away from you. this stupid car should've been parked at the exit door anyways. why did he think it would be a good idea for you to walk to the car, in new york fucking city of all places, right after your sold out show? he was kicking himself.
"s' okay, si! i swear," you say, choosing to rest your head against the man. you just wanted to sleep.
he sat there, letting you lay for the remainder of the drive to your home. he wouldn't let anything like that happen to you ever again.
the 141 finding out reader isn't a guy behind their mask (fem reader x simon) request from @wolfiemagic
You joined the 141 almost a year ago, everything was great, minus one small detail. They all thought you were a guy. You wore a mask just like Simon, originally you got it to help blend in during missions but just like Simon you grew to love it and wear it daily. The 141 never asked about it, or pried you to take it off, probably because they were used to Simon, that's what made you stay. But because of that mask, they never saw you, and they had just assumed you were also a guy, and well you never corrected them.
It was far from the first time someone assumed you were a guy, most of the time you just let people assume that. When they know you're a girl they tend to look down on you and doubt you, it just got easier for you if they thought you were a guy. You've had people straight up ignore you, but that never happens when they think you're a guy. You've been with the 141 long enough to know they don't think like that, but now it just seems so weird to tell them, and a part of you is worried they'll be mad that you lied to them.
Honestly at first you weren't sure how you had gotten away with it, but over the years you've started piecing things together. Your callsign was bird because you had a deeper voice than the average girl, but a higher voice than the average guy. The callsign made people stop asking about your unusually high voice, they just accepted you were a guy with a higher voice, but they definitely made fun of you for it. Every month you claimed to be sick, and no one ever paid enough attention to the dates to see the consistency, Soap just joked that you had the worst immune system. You always wore baggy clothes, not to hide your identity but just because you liked it. You tended to wear a binder during training, honestly you just preferred it over a sports bra.
The most confusing thing to you was Price. He had looked over your chart, including your medical shit, so either he somehow didn't notice or he was just playing along. You later learned while out drinking with them that Price always asks Laswell to only give him the important bits of information, too much paper work he said, apparently this didn't include your sex. You later called Laswell to confirm this and she just said your secret is safe with her, even after you explained it wasn't necessarily a secret.
You've been on plenty of missions with the 141, and they never notice. Right now you were on a regular mission, that was until an enemy managed to sneak up behind you. They sliced your stomach before pushing you out of the window, they even managed to shoot you on your fall down. Thankfully the cut wasn't too deep, the shot only hit your upper arm, and they didn't come to confirm your death. Even with your injuries and fall you had enough energy to alert the team, very shakily you told them where you were. Simon immediately answered “stay there, I’m coming” you just kept mumbling his name softly, he had always been nice to you, and odd quiet sort of nice, not what you would expect from him.
Your eyes were just starting to go blurry when you felt Simon pick you up. As soon as he gets you into the vehicle he starts taking care of your wounds. Putting pressure on your stomach, while Soap helps bandage the wound, Gaz putting pressure on your shoulder. You would definitely need stitches, and as soon as Price got in they were heading straight to the nearest hospital. Price was the one who removed your mask, he knew it was something personal but your life was more important and he needed to make sure you were breathing. You saw them all stare, the way they actually looked you over, now without all the gear on, their hands still worked following Simon's orders, but they looked utterly shocked, all of them except Simon. Simon focused on your wounds but he did look at your face once, almost as if he knew and understood.
