Masterlist âȘŒ AO3 âȘŒ Tag Nav/Guidance âȘŒ Request Rules
Hi! I'm Ast (she/they) - Welcome to my little corner of the internet!
I'm a queer, neurodivergent writer based in the UK with a soft spot for slow burns and characters who have been through hell but still manage to fall in love.
Writing stories has always been a passion. I tend to stick to OC-based writing, but that doesn't mean I'll never write xreaders. I do try and write action, but find I prefer to live in the quiet moments between it.
In real life, I'm a night owl and a chronic overthinker. I play Dungeons and Dragons, don't drink enough water, and make playlists and Pinterest boards for all my characters and stories.
My asks are always open. I love answering questions about characters, backstory, my writing process, or just rambling in general. Feel free to drop in!
Hit the break for what I write!
What I Write:
Genres: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Trauma Recovery, Romance.
Tropes I love: Slow burn, mutual pining, reluctant softness, grief and healing, post-trauma intimacy.
Tropes I Avoid: Love triangles, infidelity, "quirky" trauma for drama's sake.
My fics are often OC-centric and character-driven. I haven't really written one-shots yet, but that doesn't mean I won't. I love a good emotional arc.
I'm happy to take requests, but please be patient, as I am neurodivergent and have health problems. I may take longer to respond, or sometimes have motivation issues.
Current Projects đ«
Anonymous and Addicted (COD - GhostxOC)
A retired International Military vet and active special forces operator find each other in the pages of a veterans forum for sobriety. Secrets, recovery, and intimacy unfold.
Anonymous and Addicted is part of the Holding Patterns series, which will receive other entries once AaA has been fully posted. This series WILL contain smut, but not yet.
Posted: AO3
Subject 083 (COD - OC & Captain Price platonic)
An experimental human-bird hybrid is rescued by Task Force 141. Now, under the care of Captain John Price, she must learn to live, speak, and be cared for.
Subject 083 is part of the Wingspan series, which will also receive other entries once S083 has been fully posted. This series is strictly a platonic father/daughter relationship and will not contain romance.
Posted: AO3
Tuning In (Warframe - Arthur NightingalexOC/Female Drifter)
A young war vet and refugee meets a brooding musician at university. Through shared music and chosen family, she learns that healing isn't about being fixed, it's about finding where you belong.
Tuning In is part of the Harmony series, which will receive other entries once TI has been fully posted. This series will likely contain smut, but not yet.
conspiracy theorist reader who accidentally uncovers a international crime ring and is placed under witness protection
reluctant bodyguard ghost who has to listen to you yap while making sure you donât die
ââwhich is so stupid because it is so obviously a psyop set up to destabilize the country and reduce itâs economic power while isolatingââ
âgot anythinâ on lady di?â
ââoh my god, i am SO glad you asked.â
because if ghost was going to be stuck listening to you talk circles about world conspiracies, might as well make it something heâs actually interested in.
and despite your adeptness in connecting the dots, what you donât know is that the man guarding you may or may not have been involved in a .. few of your theories.
scary little bugger, you.
perceptive. a bit touched in the head if anyone asked, but you know your shit.
so he keeps listening to you ramble, mentally checks off what you get right and wrong, and includes it all in his mission reports to laswell, who honest to god probably knew you before the whole âuncovered a crime syndicate operating in multiple countries and threatening national security by bribing politiciansâ thing.
no way you werenât already on a bloody list somewhere with all the mental shit you spew on the reg.
I'm always so amazed by the way you portray the boys so beautifully. I am warmed by your view of them and it always feels like home, so thank you đ
Forgive me if you've been asked this before, but have you drawn Ghost's brother Tommy before? I wondered if perchance you had ideas for him and their relationship đŁ
....... weeping about this... I TOO am amazed, as this is all I've ever wanted
I'd never thought about him directly, but I've referenced him vaguely in this comic... I gotta imagine they were like most siblings: soulmates/nemeses/their only allies in life.. I can't imagine his brother WASN'T every reason Ghost's the kind of leader he is in the game
A while ago an anon came into my inbox to tell me about a Tumblr user who used AI and I never answered you but I promise I saw it and I thank ye!!!
This blog is against AI. It's clear, isn't it? I don't spend entire days writing in a language that isn't mine, bothering my native speaker friends about whether this or that is correct, reading synonyms on wordhippo with the same devotion a Christian would read the Bible, melting on the floor because I can't come up with a plot, questioning my writing abilities because said plot never comes up, invoking God to ask Him why, why did you give me this hobby and not something less gut wrenching,
only for an AI user to feed a machine and be done in an hour.
No, sweetheart. You gotta bang your head against concrete like I do. You gotta let your soul guide your fingertips on that keyboard. You gotta go through writing droughts that pick your life apart, only to feel your imagination be replenished on a whim, at the worst possible moment everâin the shower, during sex, while driving, during an exam, at work.
I don't often go on a rant about AI because I think it's a given, and I want to keep my blog centered on fandom and whimsy. But a reminder sometimes it's needed.
Dear GOD I am so sorry. I know I said a few days, my bad. Life is hectic rn but should settle by the start of November. I've not abandoned anything I promise!
Chapter 18: Containable is up on Ao3 now.
Excerpt under the cut!
The problem with having oneâs room near both a nurseâs station and an observation room is that voices carry, especially late at night when there arenât many people around.
Evelyn isnât trying to eavesdrop. Sheâs sitting by her window, sketching the moon in her notebook, when the conversation drifts through the gap under her door.
â-assessment team Monday. Can you believe it?â
âI heard Morrison wants her transferred to Site 7.â
âThatâs insane. Sheâs doing so well here. Why would they-â
âSecurity concerns, apparently. Like sheâs dangerous or something.â
âSheâs the least dangerous person Iâve ever met. She apologised yesterday for making me wait while she finished writing something.â
âI know, but you know how they are about⊠unusual situations. If they decide sheâs too riskyâŠâ
âGod, that would destroy her. After everything sheâs been through.â
The voices fade as the nurses move away, but Evelyn has stopped drawing. Her pencil hovers over the page, hand frozen.
Transferred. Risky. Site 7.Â
She doesnât know what Site 7 is, but something about their tone, the worry in the nurseâs voice, the hushed way they said âdangerous,â makes her wings pull tight against her back.
She knows that tone. Knew it in the lab when doctors spoke about subjects that werenât responding correctly. Subjects that needed âadditional interventionâ or âbehavioural correction.â
Subjects that disappeared.
Her breathing picks up, shallow and rapid. The walls of her room suddenly feel closer, the window too small, everything pressing in likeâ
Yeah so whatever you do, don't think about ghost getting put on trial for the murder of the riley family after some very persistent investigators discovered the "truth"
Don't think about ghost, who's barely been living day to day under price's command because that's all he knows how to do, sitting in a courtroom being testified against as a "highly dangerous and unstable individual, capable of murdering his own family"
And definitely don't think about laswell coming in with evidence to prove ghost innocent. hours of footage, notes, and evidence of the programming he and his comrades endured in roba's captivity.
Make sure not to think about ghost asking to step out, either. How he's sat and listened to the gruesome details of his families murder without so much as a twitch, firmly locked into his own mind. But the second he sees a glimpse of that horrible concrete room he's shaking and desperately asking to step out while the evidence is reviewed.
Don't think about ghost drowning in shame when he walks back in, knowing that all these strangers know what happened to him. That these people have seen him suffer in the most dehumanizing and humiliating ways, and he had no say in the matter.
Don't think about simon who is a free man, exonerated from the murder of his family, now more trapped than ever. He doesn't speak when price leads him back to the hotel, doesn't so much as acknowledge his environment. All of that progress price had made with him, destroyed over the course of two weeks in the name of justice.
Ghost coming into your shop to get something, anything to cover up his arms after they had healed properly.
"Ah, you're my full sleeve, right?" You eye him up, big and strong, with scars that you know not to ask about. Still, you have him sit down so you can check if the scars are good to ink over. No keloids, but a few hypertrophic, should be easy.
It really is, technically speaking. Ghost doesn't care what the tattoo really looks like, just so long as it's generic enough to blend in with the rest of the soldiers and hides the scars well.
"Okay, that's enough for now." You're about a third of the way through, five hours in, and you can tell the scars are hurting with how his hand subtly twitches every ten minutes. "I'll get you set for the break, give me a moment."
Ghost sits up like he wants to drag you back, he just wants this over with. "I can handle it."
Of course, you've dealt with people like him before. Self-destructive and not nearly mentally healthy enough to take care of themselves, it comes with the territory of specializing in scars. So you turn from your station and give him a fine-tuned look "I said we're done. I'm hungry, you need a break, I'll have food delivered. This isn't a request."
Soap would have laughed at the way ghost complied so easily, sitting his ass back down. He's silently grateful for you stopping, taking a moment to settle his beating heart. He's in a well lit studio, there's no straps on the chair, no one wants to hurt him.
The sub you ordered is delicious. Crispy lettuce and tomatoes with three different meats and melty cheese. It's probably the best food ghost has had in months.
"Okay, back to it, big guy?" You go through your routine, and when you finally hold the gun over his arms, ghost doesn't have the urge to flinch away. Stomach full, safe in the private studio, he nods. "Good lad. C'mon, you're gonna look so cool."
Fic Update! Anonymous and Addicted Chapters 9 and 10
Two for one special because Chapter 9 was basically all texting format and I know some people don't like that. Sorry Evelyn crew, gonna have to wait a couple more days for your turn again.
Read Chapter 9 [here] and 10 [here]
Excerpt from 10 below the cut!
âAnyway, thatâs my day. Sorry for the ramble. Just felt good to talk about it out loud, even if youâre not here to talk back. I want to hear about your day, too, even if you canât tell me the classified bits.â
The message ends.
Simon sits in his dark flat, staring at his phone. Heâs replayed it twice without realising, caught up in the sound of her voice, the way she pronounces his name, the quiet strength threaded through her words. No one has called him Simon in⊠well, years.
She sounds exactly like someone who would text at 4 am. Someone who would choose honesty over comfort, connection over safety.
00.03 - Simon
Iâm glad today went well, glad you felt useful. You are useful.Â
00.05 - Faith
Was it weird hearing my voice?
00.06 - Simon
Good weird. Somehow exactly like I imagined, although the accent was different. Not sure if I ever imagined you having one. But it suits you.
Iâm not ready to send voice notes back yet. Is that okay?
00.07 - Faith
Of course thatâs okay.
I just had a lot to say and didnât want to type it all out.
No pressure, text is fine.
Finally got around to starting that Warframe Modern/University/Band AU fic. It's called Tuning in, part of the Harmony series which if I stick to the plan should have four and a half entries of around 15-20 chapters each (The half is bc I have a sorta book 0 that isn't really fanfic strictly, it's just worldbuilding).
Eagle-eyed readers who have read Chapter 9 of Anonymous and Addicted might notice a... connection ;)
Excerpt under the cut!
Read Chapter One [HERE]
Sheâd volunteered for this partly out of guilt (second year meant she should probably contribute something) and partly because manning a stall meant sitting down. And that she could do, given the wheelchair. The chair still feels new, something sleek and stylish that Lotus had offered her as a token of thanks for her service during the war. Gone are the days of being bedbound or in that ramshackle chair they pulled from a destroyed hospital.
The banner is crooked, she realises. She wheels a little closer to straighten it, then thinks better of it. Someone elseâs problem.
âYouâre early.â
The voice comes from behind her, low and slightly rough around the edges. She turns to find a tall man with dark hair that looks like he runs his hands through it on the regular, carrying a box of flyers and wearing the kind of faded band t-shirt that suggests actual musical opinions rather than fashion choices.
âSo are you,â she says.
He sets the box down with more care than it probably warrants. âArthur. I think weâre working this together.â
âCirce.â She watches him arrange the flyers into neat stacks. Something about the methodical way he does it suggests this isnât his natural habitat either. âYouâre the one who plays at the open mic nights.â
Itâs not really a question. Sheâs seen him twice at the grimy pub near campus, both times tucked into a corner with an acoustic guitar, playing covers and the occasional original song that feels too honest for the room.Â
âSometimes.â He glances at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. âYou there?â
âSometimes.â
She doesnât elaborate, and he doesnât push. Another point in his favour.
Hiiiii Updated Subject 083 for Chapter 16! We're almost at Chapter 20, but not to worry, there will be a sequel posted immediately after so you can bookmark it if you'd like.
âFor me?â She asks, and thereâs something young and vulnerable in her voice that makes Johnâs chest tight.
âFor you.â
She reaches out tentatively, fingers hovering over the topmost book before pulling back. âDonât know⊠donât know how good.â
âThereâs no wrong way to look at books, Evelyn. We can read them together, or you can just look at the pictures. Whatever you want.â
Her hand darts forward, quick as a striking bird, and snatches Stellaluna from the pile. She clutches it close to her chest, staring at the cover image of a small bat hanging upside down.
âBat,â She whispers.
âHer name is Stellaluna. Sheâs lost and trying to find her family.â
Evelynâs grip on the book tightens. âLike me?â
âSort of. Do you want to see what happens to her?â
Instead of answering, Evelyn carries the book back to her bed, settling cross-legged with it in her lap. She opens it with exaggerated care, fingers trailing along the edges of the pages like they might crumble at the wrong touch.
John watches as she clearly tries to read the words, mouth silently sounding out the words. Eventually, she looks back up at him and tentatively holds out the book.
Ghost who keeps his walls up constantly, except when heâs sick. The child that didnât receive help or comfort as he sat in his own sick blooms. He isolates himself, cause he knows the moment someone he vaguely trusts comes around him when heâs like this, heâll latch on to.
i feel icky so ghost gets to feel 100x worse than i do. so what about a trio of heroes. his three little musketeers coming to save him hm?
woooooo sick fic and forced care!
Ghost x Gaz x Soap x Reader (can be reader platonic or romantic)
...
You know something is wrong long before anyone says it aloud.
Ghost is a man of presence. Even when silent, you feel him in the room, heavy and watchful. When heâs missing, that void is impossible to ignore. The last time anyone saw him was hours ago, after debrief.
Soap is the one who starts worrying first. âBloody hell, anyone seen Ghost?â His voice is light, but his hands flex against his thighs.
Gaz shakes his head. âShould we go check on him? He looked more exhausted than usual after the mission." And of course that's something Gaz would notice.
You all know exactly where heâll be.
His quarters are dark, the curtains are drawn, and the air is stuffy and hot. And there he is, collapsed on the narrow bunk, mask tossed aside on the nightstand. His skin is flushed with fever and his hair is plastered damp to his forehead. Heâs still in half his kit, as if he hadnât the strength to finish undressing before it dragged him down.
For a second, you almost donât recognize him. He looks younger, curled up and shivering on the bunk.
You step in, and Soap and Gaz hover just behind you with armfuls of supplies.
Ghostâs eyes snap open. Bloodshot and rimmed red from exhaustion, but sharp enough to pin the three of you where you stand. His voice grates in his throat, a rasp that sounds almost painful. âOut. Donâtââ He tries to sit up.
Youâre across the room before he can rise more than an inch. âStay down.â
âI saidââ His breath cuts off in a cough that rattles his chest, forcing him sideways. He braces one shaking arm on the mattress to keep himself upright.
He squints at the group of you in the low light. Anger or fear you can't exactly tell.
Whatever it is Soap doesn't care. He barrels past you and sets a mug of tea on the stand, muttering, âYe sound like shite, ye big spook. Drink first, argue later.â
Gaz moves smoother, brining water and medicine into Ghostâs line of sight. âTake them. They'll help yeah?â
Ghost stares, incredulous, as if sheer willpower should be enough to make you all leave. His breathing is slow and half through his mouth. His shoulders tremble with the fever.
And still he shakes his head.
You kneel at the side of the bed next to Soap, lowering yourself until youâre level with him. Up close, his face is sheened with sweat, lashes clumped together, lips chapped. His hands ball in the blanket, knuckles white.
âSimon,â you say softly. âYouâre sick. We want to help. You donât have to fight us.â
His jaw locks. For a moment, you think heâll snarl, force you all out. He could order it, you think. His eyes flick to you, to Soapâs stubborn set jaw, to Gazâs calm steadiness.
âDonâtâŠâ His voice breaks. He drops his gaze, shoulders hunched like heâs bracing for a blow. âDonât fuss. Just leave me.â
Your hand hovers, then settles against his damp forehead. The heat is startling. He flinches, then closes his eyes and sinks into it.
âWeâre not leaving.â
Soap fusses with the blanket, tugging it properly over Ghostâs legs. Gaz heads to get a cool, damp cloth. And you lean in, just enough to sit and stroke his hair from his face.
His hand shoots out, snapping closed around your wrist. For a moment, he looks terrified. But you realize it's not fear of you touching him. It's his fear of you leaving.
It takes time for him to truly stop fighting. He doesnât have the breath for arguments anymore, but his shoulders are tight, and his eyes track each of you. You keep quiet about it, and just share a knowing, concerned glance with Gaz.
Soap breaks the silence, dragging a chair up with the screech of wood on tile. âRight," he says pulling his journal and pencil out of his pocket. "If we're gonna be here all night, you just lay there and sleep pretty."
Ghost exhales, the barest huff of a laugh through cracked lips. "Like one of your French girls, Johnny."
The three of you laugh a little with him.
Gaz slides down against the wall near the bed, arms folded. âYou? More like sweaty marsh monster."
You stay kneeling by the bed until your legs ache, then easing onto the floor with your back against the frame. His grip on your wrist has softened, every so often his thumb slides over your pulse.
You talk quietly. Little things. A memory of the last mission. The smell of rain outside. Soap interrupts now and then with a joke or his own very important commentary. Through it all, Ghostâs eyes flicker open and shut, fighting the exhaustion that drags at him.
He doesnât like the tea. One sip, a grimace, and Soap swears it's the old kettle's fault. But he swallows the pills with water, grudgingly, conceding to the offers that come every so often.
When the fever breaks into shivers, youâre ready with another blanket. He tenses at first, but when itâs only you tucking the edge beneath his arm, he settles.
Hours pass like that. Soap dozing half-upright in the chair, pencil slipping from his hand. Gaz a quietly nodding off. And you, keeping your hand close, letting Ghost be assured that someone is right there.
Eventually he drifts off too. But even in sleep his brow knots. And in the little moments when he stirs, fever-drunk and searching, his hand finds yours again.
By the dead hours of morning, his breathing is steadier. His hand, heavy on your arm, finally slackens. And you'd like to think, because, at last, he believes you wonât leave.
...
Eventually the fever breaks, the cough ebbs, and Ghost pulls the balaclava back on like nothing happened. He doesnât say a word about the night you stayed with him. And neither do the three of you. But there are signs.
You notice the moment with Gaz. Theyâre bent over a stack of intel printouts, his neat notes scrawled. Ghost looms behind him, reading in silence, until his chin tips down, slowly landing on Gazâs shoulder. Gaz stills for just a moment, but when he tilts his head, Ghost doesnât move away. He keeps reading, says something about old intel, and his hand lingers at Gaz's waist.
Soap catches onto it next. Heâs leaning at the counter in the mess, cracking some awful joke about the state of the rations, when Ghost drifts up behind him. His gloved hand closes on the back of Soapâs shirt, a fist curled tight in the fabric. Just holding there... like a child trying not to get lost in a crowed. Soap keeps on with his complaining like nothing's happened. But his eyes flick sideways, searching for the right thing to do. He can tell Ghost's listening, so he just... lets it happen.
And he almost always finds you. Under briefing tables, his hand brushes against yours and stays there. In transport, his thigh pressed to yours. Once, walking back from drills, his glove found the edge of your jacket and didnât let go until the barracks door shut behind you both.
No one ever says a word when it happens. He doesnât even look at you when it happens.
Soap catches your eye across the table one evening, Gaz right behind him, both with the same look, part surprise and part tenderness theyâll never name. Ghostâs hand curls around yours beneath the wood.
thanks for reading.
something something Ghost doesn't like a bunch of affection and touch and such but he does like it so so much and he like to be in control of when it happens. Finding his autonomy in safety with other or whatever.
The forehead touches started after hard missions- when you're both sweaty and stinking of gunpowder and blood- if you're lucky, not your own- Ghost tugs you close and taps his forehead to yours, goggles clanking, a fast tap that is gone quicker than you can react to it.
He keeps doing it, like a ritual, after he's counted heads and confirmed his squad is back home all together, you get a tug and a tap.
You start inviting it, too. Taking off your goggles and helmet when he approaches, tilting your chin up so he has to step into your space. It takes a moment longer, the touch lingering just a bit, impossible to see unless you're right inside it.
When you peel away your head wrap after one mission and find a split down your forehead, too small for stitches but too big to ignore, Ghost tugs you over to a bench, takes out a first aid kit, and calmly places the butterfly bandages in a line from hair to eyebrow. He holds your chin in his hand when he's done, eyes dark and unreadable under his paint and mask, and moves your chin down-
-and you hold your breath as he places a soft kiss on your forehead instead, lips gentle under the plate of his mask, his breath warm on your chilled skin.
"....be more careful, next time," he rumbles, so close you can feel his lips moving, and leaves you there with a pounding heart and flushed cheeks. He doesn't say anything else to you, just moves everyone out and back to base- but you catch him, stripping off his gloves, tired and worn down with everyone sent to their beds.
He's got scrapes on his knuckles the gloves didn't catch, and you lift his hand to your mouth, holding his gaze as you press your lips to his fingers, as gentle as he was, breathing warm over his skin.
"You be careful, too," you murmur, and catch his wrist, his throat, his cheek as he lifts the mask and finally gives you a proper kiss.
i found your subject 083 series earlier today- and i.ate.it.up.
i loved it, it's so well written, the details on eve's 'healing' were wonderful, and all other details you built around it as well.
gonna make an ao3 account and leave comments of that beautiful series (i don't have one now, that's why i could only leave kudos. your series made me make one hahah)
hope your day is great, reading your series certainly made my day better âš
Hiiiii I'm so glad you loved it!! The idea had been banging around in my head for a looooong time, Evelyn truly lives rent free up in there lol. I've been writing for years (mostly in private google docs, but I did do a stint in the Wattpad trenches at 12 or whatever lol) and a few friends encouraged me to post some of my stuff. I always welcome asks or comments as there's no greater motivation imo.
My day has been great, though! And I'm glad you're having a good one too :)
(Also I am honoured to be the one to push you to get an AO3 account haha.)
Second part to this which was orignally inspired by this post by @rawme-price.
It's twice the length of the first one I posted, so it maybe should have been a three-parter but eh. Enjoy! You can find my masterlist here
âȘŒ ⧠âȘ»
The room they give you might as well be a punishment.
Itâs huge, bigger than the others you saw at Shadow Company, with a proper bed, a desk, even a small sitting area. Thereâs a window that looks out over the training grounds, curtains that you can close for privacy, space to pace if you need to work off nervous energy.
It should be a blessing, having your own space. Instead, itâs a nightmare.
You lie on the bed the first night, staring at the ceiling, skin crawling with exposure. The space around you feels cavernous, threatening, like anything could be hiding in the shadows beyond your peripheral vision. Back with the Shadows, you had a crate when you were good, a small space under Rodriguezâs bed when youâd earned the privilege. Contained. Safe. Owned.Â
This room belongs to no one, which means it belongs to you, which means you donât belong anywhere at all.
You try the floor instead, pulling the thin military blanket down to create a nest in the corner. But the floor is too hard, and youâre too exposed, and every small sound from the hallway makes your ears prick and your heart race.
By morning, you havenât really slept at all.
It becomes a pattern. Days blend into each other in a haze of confusion and bone-deep exhaustion. You run laps before dawn, pushing your body until your legs shake and your lungs burn, hoping physical fatigue will override the mental static that keeps you awake. The others notice, of course they do. They gather in small clusters when they think youâre not looking, voices too low for human hearing at this distance but perfectly audible to your enhanced senses.
â...not eating enoughâŠâ
â...barely sleepingâŠâ
â...wonât let us helpâŠâ
â...what did they do to them?â
The concern in their voices makes something twist uncomfortably in your chest. Youâre used to being discussed like property, like a resource to be managed and maintained. But this? This sounds like they actually care, and you donât know what to do with that.
You catch Price watching you during training, expression thoughtful in a way that makes you nervous. Gaz tries to engage you in conversation, casual jokes and observations that you respond to with polite monosyllables. Ghost leaves small offerings outside your door: energy bars, tea bags, a book of crossword puzzles, all of which youâre afraid to touch in case itâs some sort of test.
Soap corners you after a particularly brutal workout, when youâre too tired to deflect properly.
âYou know,â he says conversationally, towelling sweat from his face, âwhen I first joined up, I thought I had to prove myself every single day. Like one mistake and theyâd ship me back to where Iâd come from.â
You donât respond, but you donât walk away either.
âTook me months to realise they werenât waiting for me to fail. They were waiting for me to succeed.â He glances at you sideways. âSometimes the hardest part isnât earning your place, itâs believing you deserve it.â
The breaking point comes three weeks in.
Youâre making your usual pre-dawn circuit of the base perimeter when you catch a scent that stops you cold. Another shifter - canine, but not one of the team. The trail is fresh, maybe an hour old, and it leads directly towards the main building.
Training kicks in before conscious thought. You follow the trail, every sense straining for additional information, rusty from disuse. The scent is wrong, somehow, carries undertones of aggression and territorial challenge that make your hackles rise.
Youâre so focused on tracking that you donât notice Ghost until his hand closes around your wrist.
âWhat are you doing?â He asks quietly. Heâs in human form, dressed in his usual kit, but his grip is firm enough to stop you in your tracks.
âIntruder,â you breathe, nodding towards the trail. âShifter. Armed, probably. Came in from the east fence line about an hour ago.â
Ghostâs eyes sharpen, and he brings your wrist to his nose, scenting where youâve been. His expression darkens. âSoap,â he calls, and somehow the other man appears out of the shadows, moving towards you.
âWhatâs the situation?â Soap asks, already reaching for his radio.
âUnknown shifter, hostile intent,â Ghost reports, his hand still wrapped around your wrist like an anchor. âThey picked up the trail.â
And then something extraordinary happens. Instead of taking over, instead of pushing you aside so the real soldiers can handle things, they look to you.
âWhich way?â Soap asks
You blink, certain youâve misunderstood. âI- what?â
âYouâre the one with the trail,â Ghost says patiently. âWhich way did they go?â
Your mouth opens and closes soundlessly. Back with the shadows, finding an intruder meant reporting to your handler, who would report to their commanding officer, who would decide how to proceed. Shifters werenât tactical assets; they were early warning systems at best, and here are the two other team shifters, one a higher rank than you, looking to you to lead them. Neither of them has made to move to find Price, eyes focused on you.
âHey,â Soap says gently, and thereâs no impatience in his voice, no frustration at your hesitation. âWe need your nose, yeah? Trust us to have your back, and weâll trust you to lead.â
Trust. The word hits you like a physical blow, foreign and terrifying and desperately wanted all at once.
âNorth,â you whisper, then clear your throat and try again. âNorth towards the armoury, trailâs getting stronger.â
âGood,â Ghost says, and his grip on your wrists shifts, becomes something that feels less like restraint. âLead on.â
The intruder turns out to be a lone wolf shifter, literally and figuratively, whoâd been hired to gather intelligence on the baseâs security protocols. You track him to a maintenance shed where heâs photographing patrol schedules, and the team moves with fluid precision to surround him. No shots fired, no injuries, just professional competence that leaves you breathless with something that might be pride.
âExcellent work,â Price says afterwards, and the praise hits you like a drug, warm and dizzying and desperately needed. âYour nose might have just prevented a serious security breach.â
You duck your head, overwhelmed. âJust doing my job, sir.â
âNo,â he says firmly, and when you look up, his expression is serious. âYou went above and beyond. That kind of initiative? Thatâs what makes a soldier great.â
Soap whoops, loud and exuberant, and before you can react, heâs got his arms around you in a brief, fierce hug. âBloody brilliant,â he says against your ear, and his scent is pack-warm, proud-happy-safe in a way that makes your chest tight.
Ghost doesnât hug you, but he does rest his hand briefly on your shoulder, a solid weight that feels like approval. Even Gaz, who spent most of the incident still in bed, seeks you out later to offer his congratulations.Â
For the first time since joining the 141, you feel you might actually belong.
The feeling doesnât last.
That night, alone in your too-big room, the anxiety comes crashing back with interest. You pace the perimeter like a caged animal, skin crawling, mind spinning. Maybe the incident was a fluke. Maybe they were just being polite. Maybe tomorrow theyâll remember youâre not really one of them, that youâre just a tool on loan from another organisation.
You end up on the floor again, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to your chest. The praise from earlier feels distant now, overwhelmed by the familiar voice in your head that whispers youâre not good enough, not worth the trouble, not really wanted. You try to ignore the fact the voice warps into that of the shadows.
A soft knock at your door makes you freeze. âItâs me,â Ghostâs voice, muffled by the wooden barrier between you. âCan I come in?â
Your throat works soundlessly. You want to say yes - desperately want the company, the connection, the proof that youâre maybe not as alone as you feel. But what if this is where he tells you that today was a mistake? What if heâs here to set expectations, to make sure you donât get ideas above your station?
âPlease,â he adds quietly, and the single word carries so much gentle patience that your resolve crumbles.
âCome in,â you manage.
He enters slowly, giving you time to object, to change your mind. Heâs not in his usual tactical gear, just a simple black t-shirt and cargo pants, though he still wears the skull mask. His eyes find you immediately, taking in your position on the floor, the untouched bed, the careful distance youâve put between yourself and the door.
âRough night?â he asks, sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet away. Close enough to talk easily, far enough to avoid crowding your space.
You shrug, not trusting your voice.
âWant to talk about it?âÂ
âNothing to talk about,â you lie.
Ghost is quiet for a long time, studying you with sharp brown eyes. âYou know,â he says finally, âfirst few months I was here, I slept under my bed.â
Your head snaps up.
âCouldnât handle all the space,â he continues conversationally. âFelt too exposed, too vulnerable. Used to drag my mattress down there, raise the legs, make a proper nest of it.â
âWhat changed?â The question slips out before you can stop it.
âTime. Patience. Team that didnât give up on me even when I was being difficult.â His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, suggesting a smile behind the mask. âSoap used to leave me food outside my door. Drove me mad at first, thought it was pity or some sort of test. Took weeks to realise he was just taking care of pack.â
Pack. Thereâs that word again, the one that makes your chest tight with longing.
âIâm not pack,â you say quietly.
âWhy not?â
The question is so simple, so direct, that it steals your breath. âIâm not- I wasnât- the Shadows donât work that way.â
âThe Shadows arenât here,â Ghost points out gently. âWe are.â
You stare at him, searching for the trick, the catch, the condition that will make this kindness make sense. âI donât know how to- Iâm not good at-â
âNeither was I,â he interrupts. âNeither was Soap, apparently, if you can believe that. I still struggle to. Price had to teach us both how to be people instead of soldiers. Took bloody forever, but he was patient.â
âWhat if I mess up?â
âThen weâll figure it out together.â He shifts slightly, angling towards you. âPack isnât about being perfect, itâs about being present. About letting people care about you, and caring back. Price and Gaz arenât shifters, but theyâre still pack because they care.âÂ
You have to close your eyes against the sudden sting of tears. âI donât know how to do that.â
âWant to learn?â
You open your eyes to find Ghost extending his wrist toward you, the same gesture soap had made weeks ago. The one youâd rejected out of fear and conditioning and bone-deep certainty that you didnât deserve what was being offered.
Your hand shakes as you reach out, fingertips barely brushing his pulse point to move it closer to your nose. His scent is pack-warm, patient-kind-safe, with undertones of acceptance that make your chest ache.
âThere you go,â he murmurs, and his free hand comes up to rest lightly on your knee in return. âJust like that.â
Youâre crying now, silent tears that track down your cheeks, but for the first time in weeks, you donât feel alone.Â
âI sleep under the bed,â you admit in a whisper.Â
âI know,â Ghost says gently. âSoap figured it out first. Heâs got better hearing than the rest of us. Weâve been wondering how to help without making it worse.â
âYou donât think Iâm broken?â
âI think youâre healing,â he corrects, âand healing takes time.â
The next morning, you find a care package outside your door. Energy bars from Ghost, herbal tea from Gaz, a worn paperback novel from Price, and a small stuffed German Shepard from Soap with a note that reads: For when the room gets too big.
When you go for breakfast to join them, Soapâs face lights up like youâve given him a gift instead of the other way around. Ghost nods approvingly from across the table, saying not a word of last night. Priceâs smile is small but genuine, and Gaz shuffles up on the bench to make room for you without being asked.
Change comes in small increments after that. Ghost teaches you how to build a proper nest in the corner of your room, shows you how to arrange furniture to create a secure space that feels contained instead of exposed. Gaz brings you books and puzzles, things to occupy your mind. Soap shares stories about his own adjustment period, the mistakes he made and lessons he learned. Price starts checking in with you personally, not just as your commanding officer but as someone who genuinely cares about your well-being.
You still struggle. Still have bad days when things are overwhelming and you retreat into old patterns and defensive behaviours. But now, when that happens, you have people who notice. Who care. Who donât give up on you when you want to give up on yourself. And occasionally, you even shift. Willingly, instead of by force. And instead of a sharp tug of a lead to the collar, you get pet and left alone.
Pack, you learn, isnât about being perfect. Itâs about being known, being accepted, and being valued for who you are instead of what you can do. Itâs about trust that runs both ways - their faith that youâll let them help, and your faith that theyâll be there when you need them.
Itâs about belonging, finally and completely, to something bigger than yourself.
And for the first time in a long time, you begin to understand what that feels like.
