Not Satisfied But I Refuse To Work On This Any Longer

Ghost: disrespect abounds here

love this

here is something people have been talking about, but add a bit of ✨spice✨: ghost with autism. more specifically the hyperempathetic kind, that's why he has to detach himself from everyone because otherwise he's overwhelmed by how he feels. the kind that he wears socks at all times when he isn't cleaning himself, because the texture of a pair of socks is consistent. the kind where he's touch-averse, but he seeks the grounding feeling of heavy weight, tight squeezes, and persistent touches to keep him grounded. the kind where he stims by taking apart his guns, cleaning them more times than necessary, and makes everyone think he's just "particular".

autistic ghost>>>

especially with his past. i feel like his dad would have said some shit about empathizing and how it was weak. so ghost definitely starts avoiding people who he gets too close with. except for soap. because soap literally wouldn't leave him alone.

he needs to be grounded. the constant betrayals he's been through, he needs something to remind himself that he's 'safe', that he doesn't need to be as alert as he always is, so the texture of his socks and weighted items (be it a weighted blanket, soap, or both) help his mind relax. even if its just a little bit.

If asked about why he cleans and takes apart his guns so much, ghost will make a comment about 'making sure they're in working order' or 'never know when something will go wrong'. he just really like the clicking sounds and the texture of the cloth use to clean the guns.

same GUYS..

I still get excited when my friends refer to me as their friend

"My friend said" "this is my friend" "they're my friend"

Im freaking out inside every time

LOVE

allistic simon x autistic reader was just so heartwarming and relatable to read as i’m someone with the tism that often feels like a burden on others. it was so lovely, feeling like simon didn’t want to change the reader as a person or expect anything unreasonable of them, but rather accommodate them where he can. i also liked that he didn’t have to compromise himself and was able to do an activity he likes, but also care for reader! all around just really enjoyed the piece.

if i may, i’d love to request something where one of the reader’s safe foods/essential items is out of stock or being discontinued and how simon would help them navigate that situation. one of my fave essentials just got discontinued and i’m devastated lol ♥︎

hi there! i'm very happy that you enjoyed my first autistic reader piece. i'm sorry that your safe food is out of stock ): i get fairly frustrated when i can't have access to things that comfort me. i apologize in advanced for the subpar writing that will ensue this message.

allistic simon x autistic!reader: crisis averted

in which your lovely husband attempts to help you navigate the sudden unavailability of your safe food.

simon came back from his meeting on base a bit winded and more confused than when he'd originally left the home. the meeting was a cooperative planning session involving KorTac, and your husband failed to keep up with the newly-introduced objectives and profiles. his head hurt, frankly. the entire meeting he'd only been wondering what you'd been up to and if you missed him. when he finally entered your shared home, he was relieved to have the workday slide right off his broad, strong shoulders.

simon hummed as he heard the tapping of your PC keyboard, knowing you'd likely well into a deep dive of one of your special interests. he took off his boots by the door and calmly took steps toward the study, whistling as he walked. his eyes fell upon you in the throws of your own world of wonder, irises blown as you took in the information before you. Simon cleared his throat to grab your attention, and you peeled yourself away briefly to greet him. ,"hey Si," you hummed back distractedly, and your husband chuckled in response. "hi lovie," he grinned at you, moving to stand beside you and take in the media you were consuming. he stands there for a moment, enjoying your company, before he decides to trek to the kitchen for a snack.

simon peers around the area for signs of your appetite, signs that you had been feeding yourself and staying hydrated. he was met with an empty sink and dishwasher, and the items in the fridge looked untouched. the water filter was exactly as full as when he left this morning. he sighed, shaking his head before a lightbulb went off. maybe we're out of [food item]. that could do it, he thinks to himself, treking to the pantry to confirm the item was missing. he padded back into the study to greet you again, politely asking for your attention.

when you spin around to see a frowning Simon you instinctively feel puzzled, and of course Simon can tell by the way you stare at him blankly. "lovie, you didn't eat today?" he's soft when he speaks to you, ensuring that you don't feel scolded or punished. Your lover has been so understanding of your mannerisms, fully aware that your appetite was fickle and sometimes undetectable. you shook your head in response, words lost on you as you tried to recall your last meal. "there's no food item so I can't really eat right now," you responded cooly, and Simon nods his head in response. usually he'd kept up with the supply of your items, and he was honestly quite shocked that this wasn't upsetting you as much as he'd always imagined it would. he didn't want to press the issue, but he was mildly concerned that you may be pressing it down. "why didn't you say anything, are you not upset?" the question slides over your head, and you direct your attention back to the media in front of you. " 've been busy today," you respond as your eyes focus again on the screen. Simon sighs again, turning on his heels and heading to the bedroom for a change of clothes. he knew he'd be heading to the store now, or helping you through a meltdown later.

Simon had read up quite a bit on the fickle nature of meltdowns, and he was well versed in how unpredictable they may be. he'd listened to numerous autistic media creators mention their experience in reference to valves. when the 'special interest' tank was where you needed it, and your 'manual labor' valve was at a minimum, then that allowed for things like social interaction or emotional regulation. when you had no time to yourself and no time for the things that keep you happy, your mask began to slip and 'smaller' things that you normally coped with began to feel a lot heavier and less manageable. he knew that your special interest tank currently filled your cup to the brim, allowing you to ignore the constant discomfort of hunger and dehydration. he also knew that should this hunger persist it may heighten other, seemingly less significant, senses and experiences and he'd find himself well into meltdown territory. the longer he waited for you to notice your hunger, the more likely dysregulation would occur.

at the store, Simon's breath is stolen from him. the damned item was out of stock. he haggled a store employee, begging them to check their inventory again, but they'd been completely out of it. Simon found himself driving all over the city in search of this item, but he found nothing. at the fifth store he felt defeated, and he decided to search for the item online. to his dismay, it'd been discontinued. there was a pit in your husband's stomach at the information. to Simon's surprise, it seemed that his lovely spouse's support of this item hadn't been enough to singlehandedly keep the item in service. he scoffed as he thumbed through the list of items he knew you liked, all of which seeming a reach to coax you into eating.

Simon drives the 45 minutes back to the home, and you're pacing in the living room with your headphones on. Simon doesn't even have to ask, he knows you've overdone yourself with the screens and now your head hurts and your ears hurt; your ears always hurt when you're overstimulated. No matter how much you loved [special interest], you still found yourself overwhelmed if you indulged for too long.

you turn the music down at the sight of your husband in the doorway, waiting for him to speak. "Lovie, it seems that item has been discontinued." The words take a moment to be processed, but you fail to hide the disgust and frustration you feel about the information. you feel your chest getting tight, and the music doesn't feel loud enough. "i know this is difficult but-" 'How could we not notice it was discontinued? Why didn't i pay attention! It can't be! I don't want that. I don't want it." you began to cry, frustration coursing through you as your ears began to sting. You'd tried so hard to do better, to feel better for Simon, but now you felt helpless. Your brain began to eat away at you, blaming you for not keeping up with your own foods and snacks. Your pacing continues as you find yourself striking your chest repeatedly, trying to dull the pain of the situation. your mind felt like it was melting, and the tears continued.

Simon steps to you slowly, striking his own chest lightly and he nears your smaller frame. he slowly reaches his arms out beside him, allowing you to walk into his chest. his arms remain at his sides, and he allows the painful stimming to be transferred to his chest. your strikes feel nothing close to anything he'd truly suffered, and he hoped this would help you make it through this world-shattering time. he stands there for as long as you need him to, fully prepared for this to last several hours. the tears stain his shirt as you sniffle and sob, strikes getting lighter and lighter. you cry so much it leaves you dizzy, and your arms slowly reach out to simon's to wrap them around your frame. you give him two taps to let him know that you'd like to be squeezed, and he does so without complaint.

"You're safe, lovie. I'm sure this is very frustrating, so how about we order that Chinese food place you like. I know it's not safe food but it will feed you. I even have the exact order from last time, hm?" you offer him another two taps as confirmation, and he smiles.

Once you begin to come down from your meltdown, Simon is sure to help you change into your favorite pajamas and wraps you in your compression blanket. you two spend the evening in your bed watching your comfort show and eating takeout.

an: i hope this as comforting for you as it was for me while writing. simon would be such a loving and comforting partner, and I deeply believe he'd study you and learn you so well that he can help. if anyone you love is having a meltdown, try to remove any extra emotional or cognitive labor for them.

this is my first headcanon/yap so pls dont judge me lol😭 anyway headcanons(?) of what Simon Ghost Riley is like in a relationship🫶

tw: abuse mentioned (no detail)

-

Finds it hard to love and trust, this fear def started from his fathers abuse throughout his childhood, and never actually seen what real love is like w his parents

Somewhat emotionally unavalible, at last in the beginning, id imagine that during an argument w his lover, he'd shut down or get frustrated and say things he doesnt mean. I dont think he would be great at communicating either, often shutting down things that worry/upset him. With all of this i believe w time and an understanding lover he would be a lot better

Definetly would get to know all of his lovers friends, interests, hobbies etc

Very respectful of boundaries etc

-

this is kinda short but yeah... these r just my opinions!!! first real post hehe

pov: movie night with the riley’s 🫶

AAAS

exit, no entry wound joe bear graves x reader; part 1 (3.8k)

-

Local time at destination: 0500 hours.

And then the world rushes back to him like the culmination of a terrible dream.

Bear wakes up in another rosebush outside the front steps of the local library worse for wear. Blinking out of sleep-crusted eyes, shapes diverging in blurry unfocus before slipping back into material objects. A bench. A door. The thorny stems of roses already on their way out, already depetalling, the ground below covered in a thin layer of them. One petal even sticking to his cheek when he pulls himself off the ground, wincing at the branches that crunch around him, that tug against his skin and clothes.

His clothes smell of cheap liquor. Gin. Bourbon. It hurts to open his eyes, to sit up. 

“Morning, sunshine,” someone says. He remembers hearing it in his dream too. 

He looks to the source of his awakening, blanching when he notices the man staring at him.

Rip sits on the other side of the bushes on his haunches, looking deeply unimpressed. Hair slicked back for a change. “This what you get up to when I’m gone?”

Bear doesn’t respond. He struggles to his feet instead, hangover only just creeping in. Still drunk, to an extent. His knees threaten to buckle under him, forcing him to lay a hand flat on the wall to keep himself upright. One foot in front of the other. The walk home feels endless in the hour before dawn, hardly any light to guide him. 

“Pretty pathetic shit, Bear,” the man says, trailing along behind him. Not quite mockingly, but bordering on it. “Getting piss drunk and passing out in a bush? Really? C’mon, man. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

There’s no sense in responding, Bear knows that now. No sense in even turning around to look. One foot in front of the other. Stumbling home alone under the cloak of night, dawn just around the corner; terrified that one day he’ll have to see it—the sun coming over the mountains, over the horizon. 

It’s been less than a year. He hasn’t yet made his amends with God. Forgiveness sits outside of him. Not quite the right time to let it in. Maybe that time passed a long time ago, a small aperture that shuttered closed at the approach of his eyes. He missed it sometime between killing a boy and losing his mind.

A man cannot hold himself up on the scaffolding of the world alone. There has to be something beneath him. There is no sense in repeating the horrors of the world back to him; he’s already lived them. He’s got something of a Midas touch for death. 

The months have been long since the divorce was finalised, since Lena left for good, since Buckley died, since Rip—since it all went down. If he thinks about it for too long, it seems like a nightmare that he woke up from still mad about; a nightmare he had no choice but to drink himself into a stupor over to escape. That’s the reality of the world. 

“You know, Bear, you’re not the one that’s fuckin’ dead,” Rip spits as he follows behind, matching Bear’s stumbling gait stride for stride. “So you can stop acting like it.”

There’s a truth in Rip’s words and it leaves him feeling nauseous. There’s also a kink in his neck and a headache threatening to split his forehead open. In the belly of him, he has a truth that says that the firmament of heaven is beyond his reach. When he looks up and the sky is void of coruscating light, the meagre stars like an exit with no entry wound, it doesn’t surprise him. Of course there wouldn’t be anything there.

On a good day, his heart feels like it’s weathered a siege. 

“So she left you! It’s time to fuckin’ move on. Go to a bar—I mean, you already are, so step one done—and pick someone up. Go on Christian Mingle or something. You keep living your life like this and you’re going to wind up killing yourself. And then the fuck good that’ll do?”

It takes everything in him to not turn around and do something rash. Only the nausea keeps him from making any sudden movements. Even if he were to turn around and do something, his knees would probably buckle under him. Probably throw up the contents of his stomach. Not much in there either. It rumbles when he thinks that, clenching at the thought of food. Then it twists, the nausea returning. 

One foot in front of the other. The walk home takes twice as long, his whole body aching.

“Heard you almost quit. Wouldn’t be the worst idea you ever had. Let Buddha take over—he’s earned it. Get yourself a nice piece of land in fuckin’…Montana or something. Couple cows, maybe some chicken—you could get a dog, Christ. You look like a guy who’d have a dog. Why don’t you have a dog, actually? You would’ve told me if you didn’t like dogs, so it’s not that.”

His forehead is greasy when he touches it to rub his head. Body secreting poison in his sleep. Oily. The corners of his lips crack when he yawns. It’s not like he’s never thought about a dog, about having something to care for, another living thing in his house. 

But—

(“Bear? …I don’t think we should have a child.”)

What he wants often falls to the wayside, slides off him like a glancing blow. 

Her old, familiar shape appears at the sudden loss of a dream: one where Lena’s gaze lingers on him long enough to burn; but then it is the sun.

Bear watches dawn break. Sunday morning. In a different life, he would’ve squinted into the light of a new day and closed his eyes against it, curling into the slighter body tucked into his chest for another hour of rest. Felt the rise and fall of her chest. Woken up to a hot mouth on his cock or fingers curling in his chest hair, petal lips seeking him out. Church after that, showering off the remnants of their morning, solemn in their pews with their chests still holding the laughter of an hour previous. Light as air, as a feather. 

He won’t go to church today; hasn’t in months. Not with the guilt of missing it the week before trailing after him, each missed week compounding month after month. The cracks in his faith webbing. Splintering out like stepping on the lake when it freezes over in the winter, crunching under his boot until he holds his place. Conscious that it could break under his feet.

“I grew up with a dog,” Bear finally responds, voice hoarse. First thing he’s said since last call at the bar. 

“Yeah. Figures. What kind?”

“Black lab. We called her Daisy.”

It’s another lifetime ago. Still living in his parent’s house, Daisy curled by his dad’s feet, her favourite spot to sleep. Television playing at a low volume, mom at the kitchen table doing her crossword, ink bleeding into the side of her hand. It’s been a long time since Bear buried all of them. He’s buried countless people since. 

“What—can’t get another? One and done? That’s how everything works for you?”

Teeth raze across his skin again. Trust Rip to always cut to the quick. Finally back in his neighbourhood at least, the street empty apart from the cars parked in their driveways or along the sidewalk. Bear’s stomach rumbles something fierce now, entreating him to eat. Worse than hunger is how he’d kill for a glass of water though. Anything to settle his head.

“Haven’t wanted a dog,” Bear grumbles, then clears his throat.

“Yeah, you have,” Rip scoffs. Bear hears him kick a rock, sending it skidding across the asphalt. 

“Fuck off.”

Heart silicified in his chest, composed of fossilised shells and rocks and bones. It feels heavy in his chest. 

He turns down the street leading to his house. 

“Gotta let someone else in, Bear. Girl, dog—whatever. You can’t keep this up forever or it’ll kill you.”

When he turns around at the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, the sidewalk beyond his house is empty. 

(So a man lies down and rises not again; till the heavens are no more he will not awake or be roused out of his sleep.)

Every Friday like clockwork, Bear stops at the diner down the street for a coffee and a slice of cherry pie before heading to the bar. 

Today is like any other. He leaves the house with only his keys and wallet and walks the long twenty minutes to the diner. Every time he fights the urge to drive, but there has to be something holding him in place. A reason not to throw it all away. 

It’s never completely empty when he shows up, but it’s never full either. His seat at the back of the room is open as usual, like they put up a sign before he comes ambling down the street that says Reserved for Joe Graves and then pluck it away before he opens the door. It’d be nice if that were the case. Nice to have something just for him for a change. The thought comes with its accompanying pang of shame. Desire is a dangerous thing; anything he’s ever wanted has come at him with sharpened teeth, clamping down on his leg and ripping through the flesh. Bear trap for old Bear. 

He slides into the booth and waits for someone to notice him. Never bothers to flag someone down—if it’s ten minutes or even half an hour before he’s served, that’s fine by him. 

“Hiya,” a clear voice says to his right, pulling him away from staring through the blinds out the window. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

The face Bear turns to meet is pleasant, smiling. Wide and untroubled. It’s not a face he recognizes though, despite months coming to this diner and becoming familiar with the staff. If he had to guess, he’d bet she only started a few days ago, maybe a week at most. She still has the sparkle of someone who hasn’t had the goodness beaten out of them yet. 

“Coffee,” he says, his own smile strained. “And a slice of pie.”

“Sure—we have key lime, blueberry, apple—”

“Cherry,” he interrupts, not letting her build steam. The wick in his chest burns too low for any conversation. The quick flicker of her brow makes the shame in his chest swell again. Forgive me sitting on his lips, unsaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I do this. 

She nods and scurries off to the back, skirt swishing with her movements. Bear notices only because his eyes get stuck there, somewhere between the curves of her hips and the roundness of her ass. When he realizes where he’s let his mind wander, he pulls it back, flattening his lips into a hard line. Any sort of indulgence feels wrong, a taking that shouldn’t be taken. He hasn’t even begun to pay penance for all the damage he’s wrought. 

It’s only on her way back that Bear notices the small bump protruding from under her apron. His mouth goes dry. When she reaches him again, he wordlessly accepts the cup of coffee and her reassurance that the pie will be out in just a minute. For a moment, he can hardly meet her gaze, eyes locked on the gentle curve of her belly, caught off guard in a way he hasn’t been in months. 

The first thought with any clarity is, what is she doing working here? A crummy diner on a Friday night. Down the street from an even sleazier pub. His second thought is to look outside at the poorly lit stretch of road and think that this is no place for a pregnant woman to be alone. He recognizes each car in the parking lot save one, likely hers. Drove herself here with the expectation of driving herself home at the end of the night.

If it had been Lena—well, he never would’ve let it be Lena, but if it had been, Bear can’t imagine letting his pregnant wife drive herself home in the middle of the night. Can hardly stomach the thought. 

She’s not Lena though, so he has no right. 

She’s gone before he has time to say anything else, skirt swishing behind her. It catches his eye again. When he tears his gaze away for a second time, he swallows back the metallic taste of self-loathing. It curdles in his mouth. It’s the sign telling him to stop coveting, stop looking out into the world and wondering what he can take. It’s his hamartia, his fatal flaw; thinking himself above the reproach of God. Thinking that he can kill, fuck, curse, and stray farther and farther from the light only to find his way back in the dark. 

The bell above the door rings when someone else comes in and Bear tenses. His shoulders only relax when two older women step in and head to a table. 

He watches as she picks up a plate from the pass-through window and heads back towards him. When she places it in front of him, he draws a deep breath in, trying to catch more than just the aroma of fresh baked cherries. 

“Here we go…one slice of cherry pie, straight out of the oven.”

“Thanks, honey,” Bear rumbles, smile finally meeting his eyes. 

“No trouble. The guys in the back said they make it special for you. Joe, right?”

That gets him to levy her with the full weight of his attention. The thought of her asking about him. “I go by Bear.”

“Oh. Alright, Bear.” She twists the word around in her mouth and seems to find it satisfying. “I think I’ve heard your name before. You were—I mean, you’re part of Pastor Adams’ parish, right?”

He clears his throat, cutting off the triangle point of his pie with the side of his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Me too,” she confides, voice a low whisper. A secret between strangers. She doesn’t glance around though, doesn’t bother to draw out the ruse. “Or, I was, anyway. Haven’t been to service in awhile. I, um…I remember you. From a year or so back. You and your—um…you and your wife used to always sit up at the front.”

The fork scrapes against the plate. “Ex-wife.”

He catches her wince from the corner of his eye. “Oh. Sorry. You just—” She doesn’t have to say it. The slight dip of her eyes tells him all he has to know, and besides, it’s his own fault for still wearing the ring. Even with the paperwork signed and dated, even with Lena in another state now, starting a new life without him, the thought of taking it off makes him break out in a cold sweat. 

“It’s not—” Bear starts before giving up. He curls his fingers into a fist on the table. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.”

She fidgets in the silence. Bear can’t bring himself to break it or make the atmosphere less oppressive. He tenses under it, the ache in his low back worsening. These days, he always aches. Nerve damage, a disc on the verge of slipping, an old ankle injury that flares up whenever he goes running. A ghost that follows him from haunt to haunt. The ring on his finger is just another old ache. 

“So, uh—” he clears his throat, nodding to her belly. “Your first?” 

It’s inappropriate, hardly his place to ask. Incredibly intrusive for someone he’s met for the first time, a stranger just trying to do her job and serve him coffee and pie before he goes off to drink himself half to death again at the dive bar down the road. 

Still, he asks. 

Only the faintest wrinkle of her nose betrays any embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. First one.”

“Congratulations.” It’s sincere. The envy in his gut is old, but it’s a manageable pain. 

“Thanks,” she says, with a small, private smile, hand resting absently under her belly. “I’m excited. I’m only a couple months along, but, uh…it’s been a journey. Just me and baby against the world, you know.”

That stops him in his tracks. Screws up the whole course of his evening because suddenly the sound of the bell over the door jingling doesn’t draw his attention away. It stays fixed on the smiling girl to his right that just opened her mouth and said something unacceptable. 

“Where’s the dad?” he asks, far too bluntly. 

She shrugs. “Somewhere. Didn’t stick around long enough to tell me where. It’s fine though—I’ve got my little peanut. That’s all that matters.”

“You told him and he left?” 

The pie sits cooling in front of Bear as a pit in his stomach opens up. It’s a terrible, empty hole that holds truths like the fallibility of the body and the good shouldering the burdens of the world.  

He only regrets being so direct when her lip quivers, a little motion that betrays her until she wrests control over her face again. “It’s not his fault. I don’t think he was—well…you know, it was a surprise.”

“That’s—” he struggles to find his words, “—that’s not right.”

Again, she shrugs. “That’s life.”

Bear feels his eyes go hard. A coldness settles under his skin. 

In the deep, dark gut of him, only anger lives. He spends his days questioning why God has allowed everything else in his life to fall apart, has allowed countless other people to die, but refuses, for reasons unbeknownst to him, to kill him. He’s given him enough opportunity and enough reason. 

The answer he circles back to time and again is the same. An eye for an eye. Divine wrath. The litany of his sins could be sung until the end of time and there’d still be more to sing. It’s only right that there would be consequences for him. 

The rage that simmers in his blood now is twofold. It begins with the sharp pang of injustice, of witnessing a punishment meted out to someone innocent. The girl standing by the booth he’s shoved himself into, almost too small for a man of his size, cannot be deserving of the same punishment that he’s brought upon himself. She has never killed. The babe in her belly has never killed. The two of them should never have to meet at the point of two paths converging with the likes of someone like Bear and proceed down the same road together. 

Then it sinks into a familiar territory. A place at the core of him where righteousness gives way to envy, as it always does. After what he's been through, the thought of someone having everything that he's always desperately wanted handed to them on a silver platter and then sending it back leaves him feeling a bit off-kilter. Not quite right. 

“Bear?” Her voice breaks the silence. When he blinks, concerned eyes stare down at him, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. Shaking it off. “Sorry, I—got lost in my head. Sorry.” 

“That’s alright,” she says, again gentle in her voice and smile. “Easy place to get lost in, isn’t it?”

He makes a sound in acknowledgment. Drags the silence out. Her mouth twists shy under his scrutiny. 

“Anyway, I have a few other tables to get to, if you don’t mind. Enjoy your pie. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

He eats his slice of pie in silence as she leaves, eyes following her to her next table. Rage still sizzles under his fingertips. It makes his hands shake, old nerve damage and anger problems. 

It’s like a gun punch to think of her all on her own. It’s not right. For someone like him, well, it’s—deserved, earned. Inevitable, even. Every step taking him further away from grace, from its light. No one who knows his story would think otherwise. 

She’s a pretty thing though, this new waitress. Too tired, the bags under her eyes testament to that, no matter how well she hides them with makeup. Slightly puffy anyway, maybe from a lack of sleep or too many tears. His stomach aches at the thought. It must have come as a shock, the bottom of her world dropping out from under her when the baby’s father took off. Dragged away from the church not through her own doing, but the fault of another. Not her shame to bear, and yet. 

He forces the pie down. Bites that taste like nothing, 

Bear hears the lilt of her voice from two tables over. “Refill on your coffee, hun?” 

A supplicant sits in his place as he sips his coffee. The hour slips by into the next and it starts to come together in his mind. Why he's been forced down this long road alone, why God hasn't struck him down yet despite every terrible thing he's done. His eyes follow her flit across the diner, the light seeming to bend around her like a halation. 

When Bear looks across the room at her, he thinks, Lord, do not think I am waiting patiently for your hands. Every part of me trembles with anxiety.

(O Lord, show me I can fall apart together again; but not just yet.)

He stays until the last customer has finally left, waiting for her to come back to his table with an apologetic smile. When she does, Bear hands her his empty plate, watching her take a step back when he scoots out of the booth, rising to his full height. He makes note of the way her eyes round as they follow him up. Taller than her, unsurprisingly. Surprising though, the way her bottom lip droops just the slightest bit. 

“Is it just you closing up?” he asks, voice a tad too gruff. He clears his throat again, looking around for anyone else. 

“Well, the chef’s cleaning up in the back, but, uh—” she looks around the diner, conspicuously empty apart from the two of them. “Yeah. Just me.”

Bear gestures with his chin towards the door. “I’ll wait ‘till you’re done, then walk you to your car.”

“Oh, Joe—”

“Bear,” he corrects.

“Bear,” she amends, fingers twisting together now. He relishes the sound of it on her lips. “You don’t have to. I’m used to it, honestly. I know I just started here, but I’ve done closes before, you know.”

“I’ll wait outside.” A statement now. Stubborn. He’s always been a bit mulish, hard to shake off. 

He can tell the second she relents, shoulders slumping. “Alright. I shouldn’t be too long…you can leave if you get bored though. Won’t blame you.” 

He fights the urge to tilt her head up by the chin to make her meet his eyes. Just barely restrains himself. 

Leaning against a tree out front, he twirls the ring around his finger as he watches her clean up. For the first time in a long time, he slips it off.

awww love this sm omggg

Change of plan

Price being a dad and Simon being autistic, with a side of Ghoap, enjoy!

Captain Price was absent from training. Actually, every Captain and higher was absent from everything. They had one of those monthly meet ups where they learned about useless things no one wants to know. Maybe it was the administration team sharing their suffering with them?  

Anyways, everyone was dozing off. Some were like teenagers trying not to get caught playing games on their phones, others were taking a nap and some rares were actually listening.  

Captain Price was about to doze off, not fully listening, but not asleep just yet.  

‘’... And as we said last meeting the MREs will be changed for the new formula. The crates will arrive next week so we ask that you help clear out any old MREs, as they will be considered unregulated. ‘’ 

Price’s head shot up when he heard that statement, looking almost terrified.  

‘’Something to say, Price?’’  

The man shook his head, his voice would be too strained to be convincing. Already, he was reliving an old nightmare.  

When the meeting ended, he immediately went to the kitchen to steal every old formula MREs he could find, putting them in a special stash that every staff of the kitchen knew not to touch. He did the same for every other place that gave away MREs.  

The stash looked glorious, if he was honest. But he couldn’t quite be proud of himself, the dread of the coming storm weighing on him.  

And it weighed on him for the next week, when they brought the new crates. Then every day after that. His pile was getting smaller every day, and no one was prepared for what was coming.  

… 

Two weeks later. The stash is empty. It’s about to begin.  

The first meal was given to Ghost, and Price sweated as he observed his (son)soldier. Ghost frowned at the meal that was given to him at the cafeteria. Yeah, usually soldiers are given a plate and warm food if they’re not out in the field. But Ghost was a man of routine, and for some reasons he preferred eating MREs every day rather than break that routine.  

He kept frowning as he sat down next to Soap. He looked at the package, noticing every difference. Opened it, groaned at the unusual side dishes given. Usually, he’d get dry crackers with a nutty paste to put on it, as well as a dry cookie and the main meal. This time, he got a fucking pop tart with a granola bar.  

He threw the offending items aside and focused on the main dish. A ratatouille... Something he’d never been served in an MRE before.  

And Price witnessed Ghost get up without eating, throwing everything in the trash.  

He didn’t show up at the next meal. And the next, Price had to ask Soap to find him and get him to eat at least something.  

The hunger must’ve gotten hard to deal with, because the next day he showed up at lunch and got his usual. He sat down, frowning, and opened the MRE. At least now he knew it would be different. He still grimaced at the pop tart, but at least got the main dish warm and tried to taste it. It was a gratin, hard to miss.  

Wrong.  

Ghost only took a couple of bites before he threw the whole thing out.  

The granola bar was the next victim.  

And Jesus was Ghost annoying when his routine was broken up, even worse when he was hungry. He’d snap at everyone, fight on sight and got more violent the more he felt weakened by the lack of nutrients.  

‘’Price, what’s going on with Ghost? He’s barely eating and he almost broke someone’s arm during sparring!’’  

‘’I know... It’s the new MREs, we just have to endure it until he gets used to it.’’ Price sighed, but Soap’s look of confusion didn’t change. He couldn’t blame him. The first time it happened Price was certain that it was a PTSD attack. Ghost had sent a handful of soldiers to the hospital for simply brushing against him.  

‘’He’s like this because of the MREs? What’s different about them?’’  

‘’I don’t know, ask him he’d probably tell you all about it.’’ Price sounded tired, and he was. He knew Ghost couldn’t help it, but it was still a tiring dance.  

But weirdly, Soap did just that.  

The next meal, he sat next to Ghost and waited for a sign of discontent. It came fast, and Soap asked what was the matter. At first, he received short answers, but it seemed like a dam broke when he asked ‘’What’s so different about them?’’.  

And boy, no one ever heard Ghost speak so much. Soap hadn’t understood all that was said, but he understood that there was too much protein additives into it, changing the taste, as well as American brands forcing themselves in there. There was also something about ‘’changing the classic recipes’’...  

But while Ghost was ranting about it, he actually finished eating his meal without noticing. He was also way less grumpy during the next hours. When the next meal came, he didn’t eat it all, and went back to his gloomy self.  

So, Soap asked the next day. And the day after. Eventually Ghost got used to the new meals and everything went back to normal.  

Except that if anyone dared to mention the weird taste of the MREs, Ghost appears out of nowhere to explain exactly why that is.  

--- 

Bonus:  

‘’... It should take you two weeks, solo, minimum communication. If you do it well it can take one week only. Are you in? ‘’  

Price was looking intensely at Ghost for any sign of emotion in his eyes. They were in his office, lights off.  

‘’I said, are you in?’’ technically, he knew he was in. But he always had to make sure his soldiers understood the mission and accepted to take part. 

‘’I don’t know, Captain. Will the green tea be refilled when I come back?’’  

The green tea?...  

‘’Oh for fuck’s sake Simon!’’ Price had accidentally bought black tea instead of green when he had to refill the box. Actually, it wasn’t on accident, there was just no more of the usual green tea so he took black tea from the same brand.  

‘’You’re a bloody nightmare! Yes it will be refilled properly!’’  

Ghost straightened up a bit, nodding.  

‘’Then I accept the mission.’’ Smug bastard. 

-----

This is 100% inspired by my reaction to new meals

Also I said I wouldn't write anymore but with school I don't have much time to draw, so writing it is

nothing more flattering than someone saying "oh don't get her going" in reference to you when a topic you're passionate about is brought up

👑Platonic cod with a younger reader who has adhd and got extremely over stimulated by rude soldiers? (People suck)

Thank ya😙

K first of all I don't know hoooow tf I missed that you made a request, thank you, and I gotchu (people do in fact suck).

I'm not sure if I wrote out what you asked for, but this is what I came up with. I do hope you like it.

(This will be a gn!reader I hope that's ok!)

Platonic!141 x gn!reader

Warning: bullying, swearing, badly written fight scenes, actually just bad writing in general.

Dividers by: @cafekitsune

Working with the best of the best comes with a very heavy burden.

For one thing, all of your relationships end up in the gutter or strained even if they're family, friends, or even actual people you're interested in.

But this was an outlet for you to better yourself.

It gave you a routine, and it taught you discipline.

Even if all you wanted to do was sit down and let your mind spiral for even a moment. Even if you wanted to get up from your seat and just fucking move.

How you ended up here is something you have a hard time understanding. But you climbed your way to the top. You've earned your place. So well in fact you've found a home with Laswell. She introduced you to John, and thanks you him, you have a new calling.

Unfortunately, that leads everything full fucking circle.

You start over again. The only ones who know who you are are John and Laswell. The other three know you, but from passing conversations when you're in meetings with them.

They just know you as the backup thanks to Price.

At first such a name easily put you down. No matter what you did, it wouldn't chance the way you felt about certain things. Like if there was a new mission, how everyone treated you like some low-man. Someone to just clean their shit everywhere they fucking go.

And to see the pity come from Garrick or the words of assurance from MacTavish. Oh, you felt tiny.

You just tried to fit in as best as you fucking could.

So you thought maybe making some friends would do you some good.

Until that turns out to be your biggest regret.

Every mistake someone else made, your name had to get thrown in there somehow.

One soldier didn't strap something down, right?

"(L/n) was supposed to help."

Another soldier didn't show up for inventory?

"(L/n) was holding me up."

Soldiers made a riot coming back into the barracks?

"Had to be all (L/n). Rather loud that one."

Jesus Christ, it was incredible the way your name was being drugged through the mud. Eventually, you just stopped interacting with people altogether unless it was absolutely necessary.

Like right now. It's sparring time with your teams. The 141 were busy training among themselves while you were left with your usual 'team.'

One of them straight up walked right up to you, leaning in close so you were the only one who heard. "Honestly, a runt like you doesn't fuckin' belong here." they snicker. "You really think the 141 took a liking to you? You only got to where you were because you got Laswell wrapped around your little finger."

You roll your eyes, ripping away from them before stepping up to the ring. The previous pair had ended their session.

The original partner you were sparring made no sign to move, until you realized the soldier who was just talking to you was making their way into the ring.

You sigh in defeat, unable to think of a reason to get back out. What were you gonna do? Cry about? This wasn't a schoolyard, this was the military.

"Whenever you're ready, runt."

Unbeknownst to you, a few sets of eyes were on you, and not just from your training group surrounding the ring like a pack of wolves.

You felt trapped. You felt targeted. For a while of this happening, it was just too much in this instance. Your head wasn't in the fucking game.

Without that focus, that soldier took you down like you weighed absolutely nothing. One grab and a trip over his foot, you were on your back.

Not even the blows you were landing on the side of his face were doing you any good. Eventually, you did get the upper hand, only to humiliatingly get kicked right in the head.

Everything went dark after the pain blossomed from that side.

This wasn't you. You knew that. You knew you were so much better than this. But how the absolute hell were you to fight this without getting into some drama?

How were you going to prove to those asswipes you belonged here?

Waking up, you squint your eyes at the blinding white light just above you. Blinking to settle them, your sight lands on Price sitting in the corner right next to the door.

His arms are leaning on the armrest as his eyes bore into yours.

For a second you don't say anything until he clears his throat. But even then, he beats you to it.

"Seems I came at the perfect time." He grins. It's small, almost friendly. With a level of professionalism behind it. "Was wanting to talk to you about what happened."

Like a balloon, you feel yourself deflate. Your eyes refuse to meet his after that sentence and all you let out is a quiet, "Oh."

The captain coughs, a light smoker cough you would guess before sitting forward and leaning his elbows on his knees.

"That soldier you were sparring with. Has there been any altercation with 'em?" Price asked, earnestly curious. "Maybe something that was done a while ago that hadn't been brought to my attention?"

You inhale, holding your breath. This felt childish. Right? Tattle-telling on a soldier?

It wasn't like you guys weren't already fighting so...if anything this was on you. It had to be. You just need to better your skills. There is always going to be someone better. There is always going to be someone stronger. There is always something-

"(L/n)." Price interrupts your racing thoughts. "It's up to you if you want to say something. You're not in trouble."

He stands, his hand holding his wrist right in front of him as he slowly walks towards the foot of your bed.

He reaches over, tying your bootlaces as he speaks.

"I know you, (L/n). You're strong. But I'm sure you know there is always someone stronger. That's why your speed and that mind of yours are what drew Laswell to you. You know this."

You finally let a long breath out of your nose, blinking rapidly. "I know."

"Good."

Price gently finishes the bow he made out of your laces, and pats your boot. Another sly smile on his face. "Well, you know," He continues, "This isn't a friendship club. We're all adults here. And you surely won't get in trouble if you know..."

He stares into your eyes knowingly. "...decide you've had enough of the bullshit. Right?"

Your brows slowly furrow in, unsure if you're reading his words correctly. But he doesn't elaborate further. Instead, he turns and walks to the door. "Oh by the way," He turns to look at you. "Ghost and the others will be handling your training during your conditioning hours. Be on time now, (Y/n)."

With that, he slips out the door, leaving you to dwell on his hidden messages. If that's what you should call it.

...

"Again."

You groan from the ground, eyes landing on the hand in front of you and the grin from Soap. "Come on, then. Up ye go." He quips as he pulls you to your feet.

"Try tha' again. And remember to put all that strength into that kick. That's yer knockout. Ghost? Ready?"

The lieutenant's brown eyes bore into yours. It reminds you of Price sitting intensely in the corner of the medical room. Fighting the lieutenant doesn't feel as...well...violent? If that's the right term to use.

Sure this lean, mean, killing machine is a much harder target to fight. But you can't complain. Especially since he is kicking your fucking ass.

"If you step to the left again," Ghost warns. "You'll be rollin' off the side of that ring."

Yeah. Safe to say you've been at this for a while now.

Before you can even begin, the door to the gym opens and a whistle sounds out. "Tav!" Sergeant Garrick's voice sounds out. "Price needs you!"

Soap breathes out his nose before nodding towards you. "Strengthen that kick, you'll have the fucker down before he even blinks." He speaks as he starts to walk to the doorway. Something tells you he isn't referring to Ghost.

The sergeants tap each other, sort of like they tap each other into a situation, which brings a small chuckle to your face.

"Come on, (L/n)." Ghost calls to you. "Need your focus, not trying to send you back to medical."

The recent memory deflates your newfound joy just as Garrick reaches the end of the ring. Before you could even take your stance, you see Ghost wag his finger at you. "Try that again."

You frown. "Sorry?"

You begin to maneuver your stance, thinking you were off balance or something of the sort before he walks up to you and pokes you right between your collarbone.

"When someone is fucking nitpicking you. Stop givin' them a reaction." He grunts. "They know how to hurt you. People you trust would even use that against you."

Garrick leans on one of the ropes, adding in. "Keep your face straight when you're up against someone." He points to Ghost. "If you can't see their emotions, you can't predict their next move."

Just as he says that Ghost becomes lax, looking into your soul with his hands to his sides. You swallow a groan, feeling your body screaming at you.

Like, you fully believed Sergeant Garrick, Ghost really didn't have to show you what he meant.

But then the lieutenant just starts...stalking around you. The both of you go in circle after circle until he finally,

and might I say finally,

strikes.

You jump in your skin, feeling one arm go around your waist, the other hoisting the rest of you up and just dropping down onto the mat with a loud 'oof'. The impact takes the wind right out of you.

You lay there for a moment, with half of the 141 task force staring at your position.

"You really didn't have to do all that." You wheeze out. "I fully believed you."

A hand is outreached to you, and with mild (not so mild) hesitation, you take it. Ghost pats you on the back as you take your walk of shame to the bench right on the side, next to Gaz.

"You know, that was a lot more patience than we thought you were gonna show." He smiles. "Truly. The amount of times Ghost gets Soap with that trick? Never gets old."

He reaches behind you, grabbing a water bottle that was passed to him by your lieutenant and handing it to you. "Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen you make that first move before, Ghost."

The lieutenant chuckles, leaning on the ring. "No. The little soldier had me tired of waiting." He opens his own bottle, picking it up to his lips. "You could really use tha' the next time that prick wants to give you shit."

You frown, confused. "What do you-"

"Soldier," Gaz sighs. "We see the way you let these tossers treat you. You could have said or done something about it a lot sooner."

You're quiet for a moment before sitting up straight and taking another drink of water. "Just don't want to cause issues. Laswell wanted me to take care of myself."

"But to let these nobody's treat you like shit? For the sake of laying low when you don't have to?" Gaz's words have you making eye contact with him. He's staring at you as if he's trying to pull you apart, find out something that really isn't hard to find.

You don't like confrontation. Never was your strong suit. If you needed something shut down, it was difficult to do on your own.

Not impossible sure, but when you're constantly the punching bag it takes a toll on your confidence.

Hell, that's why you joined the military. What else did you have going for yourself?

"Yeah...I guess I just didn't wanna hurt anyone."

"Well, we're not telling you to kill anyone." Ghost cuts in. His steel eyes bore into yours. "Not now anyways."

At that, and you're not sure why, but you crack a smile. Nodding you finish off your water bottle and stand up.

"Am I excused, sir?" You look to Ghost, who only nods his head.

"See you tomorrow, soldier."

...

The next day, both the sergeants and the lieutenant meet you in the gym. It's eerily empty again, save for a few stragglers talking in the corner.

Soap spots you first, giving you a grin. "Righ' on time. In the ring, now."

A sigh leaves your lips as he ducks under and over the bars of the ring, seeing as you're fighting the most excited member today.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did ye wan' Gaz to be in front of ye? We can arrange tha'-"

"No!" You hiss out. "No, please God, no. This is fine. Just...just don't do that fucking thing with your arm and your thumb."

Gaz heaves a large sigh. "Soap we told you to stop doin' that to the rookies."

"Aye, but they're not a rookie now? Are they?" Soap grins.

"MacTavish."

"Aye, sir."

You laugh, setting down your items before joining Soap in the ring. "Alright. What are we working on today?"

The room falls silent, watching as the smile remains on the sergeant's face but then he leans back into the ropes, shrugging.

"Last day of conditioning. Just wanted to talk."

Your brows furrow. "Sorry?"

"You heard him." Ghost calls from behind you, on the other side of the barricade. "You're just talking."

"Aye." Soap puts his hands behind his back, walking towards you. "And just know, truly, 's nothin' personal."

Confusion hits you harder than any punch you received this week. You didn't know what that meant. Nor what it could mean. It scared you only for a moment until Soap reached out and shoved you off balance.

Immediately, you try and position yourself before he tuts at you. "Nae. I'm not fightin' ye today."

You lower your hands, the body still tensed because you don't know what's happening.

"Sorry, I'm lost here."

"Aye. Small minded. Cannae says I'm surprised."

What?

"Sorry?"

"Stop apologizing." The sergeant snaps. "We'll have to work on tha' too."

You're arms crossed, almost like you're guarding yourself. A confused smile breaks through your face, and now you're really unsure of what the fuck is happening.

"Can someone explain to me-"

"Ye need an explanation?" Soap sneers. "Need someone to hold yer fuckin' hand all the time?"

He's walking right next to you, going around you like a shark in the water. "How have ye made it this fuckin' far?" He laughs, and a deep grave tone settles in his voice. "Ye think people owe ye the respect we've earned?"

Ouch. Yeah, that one hurt a bit. You've only been a part of this task force for a fucking year. And you assumed you and Soap formed a small friendly bond.

"How did ye survive selection." he continues. "Honestly. The amount of fuckin' crap ye must've tapped away on should be extraordinary."

"Dude." You scoff. "What the fuck is happening?"

"Again with the fuckin' questions. Ye really think you're gonna get any answers," for once, from this weird interrogation (if that's what you call it), he hesitates. His eyes glance at Ghosts, staring before he nods. You don't even get the chance to say anything or even look behind you before he hits you with it. "A runt like ye doesn't belong here."

The room falls silent. So quiet you could hear a pin drop.

If it wasn't for the way Soap's Adam's apple was bobbing around, you would've taken him very seriously. His eyes refused to leave yours. But you can see the nervousness.

You understood what this was.

Your anger dies down, and you fight any emotion that threatens to come up. It's not easy. You spent years trying to control your emotions. Holding things in, disassociating as a coping mechanism.

This is not the time nor the place to do that, however.

"Nothing to say? Runt?" Soap smirks. It's breaking him.

"Runt's never have a thing to fuckin say. Too busy worrin' bout-"

"Say somethin', (L/n)." Ghost states in the middle of the sergeant's degradation. "Go on then. Give him what he wants."

'Try that again.' the lieutenant's voice goes through your head. 'They know how to hurt you. People you trust can use that against you.'

"Come on then. Say somethin'." Soap hisses right beside your ear. "Aren't ye just dying to run along? Tell me? What'd ye plan on doing, runt?"

You stay rigid as can be. Your eyes never leave a spot you choose to stare at. If you stared at it long enough, you can just mentally check out of this. It'll go by faster.

"Yer just gonna stand there, are ye? Keepin' quiet like a good little solder? Doin as yer told-"

Your eyes snap to his. Emotionless, with a cold smile on your face.

It successfully stops Soap from whatever he was going to say next. The both of you stare at one another for a moment before Soap is the first to break. "Good." He grins. "You finished your last training."

Soap pats you on your shoulder, walking away from you until he's out of the ring.

"What the fuck was that...?" You question. "What You just...hurt my fuckin' feelings and call it training?"

"If we gave you a sticker would you feel better?" Gaz asks, sarcasm dripping though his teeth. "We're teaching you what to do the next time you're in a pinch."

Ghost knocks on the ring floor from his side. "You can't always use your fist, (L/n). But you can always trust that minimal interaction is the best way to get them frustrated."

"And if they decide they need to get physical," Gaz points to Soap, as the other sergeant sits on the bench, finishing his sentence. "Then ye have full authority to let loose!"

"To an extent." Ghost warns.

You blink up at the ceiling, light huffs of laughter breaking from your throat. "You guys are tellin' me," You walk towards the edge, leaning on the ropes. "That this is all because you want me to-"

"earn your respect, (L/n)." The Captain's voice rings out from the entryway. "Show these muppets just why you were handpicked for us."

...

The next team training came a lot sooner than you thought. You've had minimal interaction with the prior group until you were in sparring teams again. What was supposed to be four groups of six, ended up turning into a giant turn-taking fight. People were standing off to the sides, watching the fights go on.

The same asshole from before walks right up to you, standing shoulder to shoulder as you watched the first two soldiers go at it.

It ends with one picking the other up, and dropping him upon his side, a sticking crack sounding from the fall.

A series of 'ooohs' goes around the ring, even the winner kneeling before his partner and helping him out of the ring.

"Take him to medical." The Captain excuses them. He turns to you, motioning to the ring. "You're up (L/n)."

You choose not to make a sound, nor give much of a reaction. Until the asshole's name gets called out to enter with you. His sickening laugh prickles your skin as you make eye contact with all three of the other members across the gym. They each nod at you before you turn around and face your opponent.

"You ready for another beatdown, runt?" He smirks, fists up.

"Keep it focused, Soldiers. if you have time to talk, you have time to waste. And I don't want my fucking time wasted." Price hollers from the side.

Your opponent grins at you, watching your every move. You don't take a stance right away. Your arms appear limp y your sides as you begin to circle each other. You're on high alert, unsure if you would be at this for some time like your training with the lieutenant.

"Come on, runt. You gonna make a move?" He teases. "Come on. Show me that big guy mental the boy showed you this week."

His comment breaks you. A smile cracks through your facade and you can hear Soap speak. "Show time."

Your opponent's patience wears thin, as he rushes and throws a punch right to your left side. Where you had the habit of turning to. But you step to your right, reel back your hand, and land a punch right to his throat.

The soldiers around wince and groan at the sight. But you take no moment to stop before you wrap an arm around his waist and flip him over when the other lifts his legs over your shoulder.

He hits the ground with a loud thud, immediately trying to get back up. His sight must've not been all there, as he stumbles and lands on his knee. "Piece of fucking shit-"

"Oh shut up." You groan out before you swing your leg around, your heel meeting his jaw, and knocking him out.

You sigh, relief flooding your veins as you put an arm up in victory. Turning to the guys with a bright, toothy grin on your face.

"There's that bright smile." Laswell chuckles beside Price. "Hasn't done that in some time."

The captain nods, watching as you make your way straight to his three teammates, each of them patting you with their own words of praise.

"Oh, yes." He sends you his own nod of approval when you turn to look at him with a light that seems to return to your eyes. "Glad it came back."

Thanks for requesting- so sorry it took forever to come out.

Please comment and/or reblog I'd appreciate it! Requests are open!