Ok so I’ve already written some of it out of order (you may have seen a few of the snippets I posted here or here or here)
But what would you guys think of a hurt-heavy (I MEAN HEAVY) hurt/comfort capture/rescue fic where the female lead (my OC Bella) is a kinda-fresh recruit with crazy good gun skills (like savant level) so she’s put with Tf141. They kinda treat her like their kid lol. She is on a mission with TF141 and gets captured by the enemy and tortured, and then ghost/soap/price go against all orders, and rescue her? Ghost cares about Bella but platonically, it’s kind of a “I can fix her” relationship but instead of her being batshit insane she’s just broken and tries to off herself only a month after being out of the hospital. There will be lots of angst.
I don’t know how I’m going to end it yet it’s just depressing lol
It’s so great being able to type again, my hand is fully healed :D
I don’t have any plans of continuing memories… I can’t open the file anymore out of cringe 😅 let’s hope I can finish this fic. I’ve got hope since I’ve had this same story line in my mind for YEARS just with diff characters.
Oh god so there’s this campus security guy. He’s so fuckin hot and he LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE PHIL GRAVES and kinda acts like him too, swagger and confident but casual at the same time ajenebhehdhdhfh
so someone burned their food and set off the alarms in the kitchen so the police and fire fighters and all the fun people came and he was there 😭😭💀 I wanted to ask his name so I could look him up and get a better look at his face but I’m not a stalker so didn’t do that
THEN yesterday was our fire drill and he was here again I nearly died LMFAOO. He was flirting with one of the younger female fire fighters and I wish I’d gotten a look at his badge
Call signs weren’t supposed to be flattering. More often than not, they were the direct result of some embarrassing fuck-up that trailed a soldier for the rest of their life. They were voted on by the first platoon that a soldier joined, usually within the first few months, and they then spent the next few months cringing every time they heard it. Simon’s first platoon had seen a recruit land the call sign “Seagull” after a drunken dare to nick a fry from their captain’s tray in the mess hall, and he had personally bestowed the call sign “Dash” upon a soldier who had somehow managed to clip himself in the leg with his own bullet. Dumb Ass Shot Himself…
The embarrassment wore off, though. When one was stuck with a name for the rest of their lives, they learned to live with it sooner rather than later. The associated stories either got buried deep or drunkenly flaunted; the stupider the better. The funny ones became a point of pride and the truly humiliating ones eventually settled into something sort of like mundanity. Amusing tales became nothing more than yet another name, a stitched moniker, an email signature. The point was: by the time they made it to the special forces, and especially once they were assigned to a task force, no one gave a shit about their call signs anymore.
Whenever Soap heard his call sign, whenever anyone asked after its origins, he laughed it off, citing his ability to clean house or, more flirtatiously, his ability to clean up after himself, but he always internally cringed.
No one ever noticed. No one except for Ghost.
He never said anything, never asked about it, which Johnny was thankful for, but he was infinitely more thankful that Ghost took every opportunity to call him literally anything else. Sergeant, at first, then Johnny. MacTavish, if he was mad; any other combination of insults if he wasn't, because they both knew he never really meant them. Sunshine, sometimes, in the mornings when Soap stumbled out of bed in whatever safe house they were staying in, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. Scottish Bastard, or Our Johnny, or Pyromaniac, or Lad. Rarely Soap.
It was in his file, Johnny knew, the file that Ghost had read cover to cover, too paranoid to blindly trust Price's judgment with a new team member. Evidently, he hadn't made the connection between the incident report nestled in the sheaves of paper and Johnny's embarrassment. More likely, he just didn't care. Johnny wasn't sure which option he preferred.
Johnny had always had an issue with authority, and joining the military had done nothing to quell his rebellious streak; he was still a teenager, fresh out of basic, barely legal, the first time it happened. His sergeant had been giving him eyes for the entire two months since he'd joined, and Johnny'd be lying if he said he hadn't pushed himself just a little harder in response to the attention. The night of graduation found Johnny in the sergeant's bed, taking everything he was given and begging for more.
He hadn't seen that sergeant again after that, but it had more to do with Johnny's SAS training than anything else, and it started a bad habit. Nearly every unit he joined, he eventually ended up in his superior's bed. It was all consensual, and Johnny would be willing to attest to it if need be, but he never got caught, and he moved from unit to unit so often that it never really mattered.
Until it did.
Two years out of basic, about halfway through his SAS training, he got caught. Rather, they got caught. They were in the showers, his lieutenant pressing him against the tile wall, when their captain had walked in. The implications were clear, especially with Johnny on the receiving end, and the lieutenant had gotten discharged, despite Johnny's protestations. It had been his idea, but it still looked like an abuse of power. Word had flown around the base, and Johnny had gotten stuck with the call sign Soap as a terrible joke; "don't drop the soap" was uttered nearly every time he entered a room, and he ended up being the youngest to pass selection largely to get away from the teasing.
Once he joined the SAS, he never saw anyone involved in the incident ever again. The incident report went in his file, but it got buried among the accolades, the outstanding test results, the exceptional service record. No one except his superior officers had the clearance to read his file, which was for the best; their knowledge of his bad habit kept him from indulging, and he hadn't looked at another superior officer the same way since.
Until Ghost. Who called him Johnny, not Soap. Who tolerated and even encouraged his flirting. Who knew every detail of his file but never pushed for more.
Whenever Johnny got too close to a line, Ghost would switch back to Soap, just once, just enough to nudge him back a step, but he was never cruel. It was a slap on the wrist, not a sharp reprimand, and Johnny had learned enough about Ghost's tone and eyes to see the switch for what it was: a gentle warning, a clearly expressed boundary.
And then one of their missions went to shit, and Johnny ended up in the hospital for months, and Ghost stopped calling him Soap altogether. In the aftermath, Johnny danced closer and closer, always expecting his cautionary call sign to fall from Ghost's lips, but it never did. On and off the field, Ghost simply watched Johnny get closer, stopped holding him at arm's length. He started welcoming his flirting, started actively encouraging him, started reciprocating.
The first time they fell into bed together, something panicked fluttered in Johnny's chest. He'd been here before; he'd gotten a lieutenant wrongfully dishonorably discharged before, for nothing more than the very act that he and Ghost had been dancing around for years. The moment before their lips met, he backpedaled sharply, only to be caught by the rigid warmth of Ghost's arms.
Ghost knew. Ghost knew his past, knew his record, knew what he'd been walking into. Ghost didn't care.
Price knew. Price knew his past, knew his penchant for gravitating towards authority, and still had placed him within Ghost's grasp time and time again. Price didn't care.
And Gaz... well, Gaz was Johnny's biggest enabler. Gaz didn't care.
So he let himself take the final step, the leap of faith, and landed safely in Ghost's hold, in Ghost's bed, and in Ghost's life. Loved, satisfied, and most importantly, protected. Safe.
And if he started wearing his call sign like a badge of honor for the first time in his life... well, he was sleeping with a superior officer, and he wasn't ashamed of it anymore. Whenever Ghost looked at him, reverent, bordering on worshipful, Soap couldn't find it within himself to feel a single ounce of embarrassment over his name.
warnings: angst (sorry but it just hurts so good) swearing, mentions of poor mental health, romantic undertones
summary: You've been drowning for a long time and finally someone notices
--
Azriel could hear you crying at night.
He wasn't sure when it started; how long it had been going on before the slinking shadows darted about the house, enjoying their free reign when he hears a noise. One so soft he nearly brushed it off as a breeze but he hears it again. A little louder, more throaty and then it clicks; the undeniable sound of despair being swiftly hidden away by the dark hours of the early morning when others were asleep and none the wiser.
There's an urge to check on you, one so overwhelming he taps his fingers against the smooth mahogany desk filled to the brim with mission reports and carefully notated maps with neat notes tucked in the corner. His ears strain for the sound again, mentally agreeing that if he heard it once more, he'd have no other choice but to check it out.
But nothing sounds.
Not for one minute, or two or twenty but he doesn't forget about it.
Especially not when he sees you the following morning, wearing a bright smile and laughing louder than anyone else in the room. He's subtle in the way he observed you, notating your mannerisms and the effortless charm that dripped from your tongue.
The picture of a well adjusted woman. One who seemed happy and fulfilled until the final line was spoken and the one-woman cast bowed for her performance, basking in the applause from a crowd well entertained.
You were attentive; borderline motherly in the way you took care of everyone around you--easily handing off the food from your plate without even batting an eye and Azriel's brow quirks in attention when he hears you decline more when offered; insisting that you're full, showing off a clean plate as you casually wipe your mouth against dark linen cloth.
However, he's certain you didn't take even a single bite.
It piques his interest; the warning signs of a silent struggle and he finds himself unable to stop from noting other things about you.
Like, the way you seemed to be a reliable sounding board. Mor or Feyre or Cassian would come to you for advice, spilling their burdens on your shoulders and you always welcomed them with open arms. You would nod quietly, never once interrupting and always providing such carefully curated advice. The kind you learned through life experience; pain and sorrow and true mind numbing emptiness that came from growing up with bright embers of hope; only to be pushed into the world and realize how far people will go to snuff those embers out.
And never once did they ask if you needed comfort in return.
“For a spymaster, I would have assumed you’d be better at being subtle when you stare.” It’s startling how silent you’d been, shifting from one end of the room to the next without being detected by his hearing or his shadows—shadows he now notices are circling around your feet, tickling at your bare toes against the wine red rug. “What were you looking at anyway?”
Hazel eyes are calculating when they take you in, brows furrowing when you smile down at him, humming to yourself as you twiddle your toes through the ebbing darkness that grows around your legs, teasing at the hem of your dress with a little tug. “You.”
Rhysand sits proudly in a chair big enough to be a throne, large decorative pillows perched under his arms and a grinning Feyre eased into his lap, head curling into his neck with content. Even Nesta and Cass were sitting closer than usual on the couch, feet bumping at the others as she pretended to be absorbed in some book but there was no way she was actually focusing with Cassian’s arm curled around the back of her shoulders. Mor chats idly with Armen, glittering jewelry shoved on two slim fingers and you can’t help but linger on all the incredibly powerful beings around you.
Such purpose all around and somehow you still couldn’t find your own.
“Well, it’s not everyday I get the privilege of your attention.” You twirl once, the material of your dress skimming the tips of his fingers. “Do tell—how do I look?”
Azriel doesn’t correct how that couldn’t be further from the truth. There’s a pause, his voice more soft when he speaks so it gets drowned out in the chatter behind you. “You look lonely.”
The reply makes you stop your toying with the shadows, gentle smile faltering when you squint down at him, throughly caught off guard. “What?” Azriel watches the second you seem to recompose yourself, smile sliding back in place but he can see the way you look at him, regarding him cautiously; wondering where he was getting at. “That’s ridiculous. I live in a home filled with my closest friends and family.”
You anticipate the nod, the smile and then the conversation will continue like nothing had ever happened; the answer appeasing the questioner and you’d continue about your day as you did all the others. But Azriel doesn’t change the subject, doesn’t accept the answer provided. Instead, a golden hand raises, tea still steaming over the rim. “Then, why do you seem so sad?”
“Where are you getting this from?”
“Because I heard something last night,” He watches the way you freeze, lids squinting a fraction and your hands actually tremble at your side.
“Hm," It’s alarming how good you are at taking control of the conversation; how your body adapts to the emotion that your brain predicts Azriel wants you to convey—happiness. His head slowly tilts to the side when you tip your head back and laugh, one that was so convincing even he nearly fell for it; but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Always the spy, when do you ever take a day off?"
Az can't seem to tear his eyes off of you, not when Cassian chimes in with an inebriated laugh, a heavy hand clapping down on his brothers shoulder and you're grateful for the distraction. The ability to slink into easier conversation, to craft a carefully woven picture of serenity but the golden gaze boring into the back of your head is distracting; makes your hands shake ever so slightly over the width of your glass, the condensation dripping cool trails down the length of your arm.
He doesn't get the chance to speak to you for the rest of the night; either being whisked away by his brothers or somehow getting lead away by Elain and Fey when asking for help bringing out a few more things from the kitchen. Shadows trudge by, being his eyes and ears when one returns with the same conclusion; gone, gone, gone.
For the rest of the night, Azriel remained on edge, unable to relax into the drink in his hand and his foot is practically bouncing a hole in the hardwood when the others finally start filtering out for the night; stumbling into one another on their way to their rooms. Ears strain to hear each door close and he's light on his feet when he bristles down the hall, sharply turning to the right and once he's at the end of the hall he comes to an abrupt stop.
Light still pours out from the crack beneath your door and nerves build in his stomach when he sees the shadow of your feet walking past; there was no reasonable explanation to be here—on this floor—and that becomes abhorrantly apparent when the door opens and your raising a brow at him. "Listening in on ladies in their bedchambers is not very gentlemanly of you."
"I wasn't. Well, I was but it wasn't like that." Azriel's walking past you, entering your room without even asking and he seems genuinely startled by the way it looks. Not that it was dirty or unkempt but it was painstakingly bare. Years of living there and still there were no pictures on the wall, no trinkets or feminine flare; just a bed with thick blankets and a shelf filled to the brim with books. A desk with a single sketchbook and a little bag of pencils and charcoals.
"What?"
He's still taking it in; it had to have been nearly eighty years and still it looked almost identical as it had when Rhys had first offered it to you as your own. "It's just not what I expected, that's all."
Your arms are crossed over your chest, hair braided tightly and it swayed as you walked, still dripping wet from a shower. It was alarmingly warm but you still wore a long sleeved shirt and fluffy socks that went up to your knees. "What did you expect?"
Az shrugs, turning to face you when he hears the way you slowly close the door. "You've been here a while. I suppose I had just expected to see more of you in here."
"Another one of your assessments?" There's no hiding the bite in your tone, the defensive stance you take when he begins wandering around; eyes eating up what little things you did have. Fingers graze over the spines of books, picking up one with tons of little dog-eared pages. "Please do tell what my lack of interest in interior decor says about me."
Book pages flutter, stopping when he catches one page more crinkled than most and his brows furrow when realizing the wrinkly circular dots were tears—your tears. "I wasn't evaluating you but since you asked," Azriel tucks the book under his arm and your lips part with a huff but he doesn't acknowledge the grumbles you give about taking things without asking. He's too busy scanning the contents of your desk; a cup of pens, little bottles of paints and a few brushes to accompany them. The thin drawer attached is half-filled with sketchbooks that were tightly bound an sealed with wax; a clear sign to stay the fuck out. "It shows that even after claiming to be perfectly content in a house filled with your so called "closest friends and family", you still refuse to get settled. That could stem from a plethora of things; variables I've accounted for but a definite conclusion is still pending at this time."
"Asshole," You all but hiss, smacking his hands away from sifting through the pages of the sketches and scribbles scrawled beside them— angsty little depictions of your thoughts when things got too overwhelming; when all you craved was a hot bath, one of Rhys' expensive bottles and an empty house so you could dance the line on how long you could hold your breath underwater.
"You asked." Ever the observer, noting the key you pull from under the neckline of your shirt, bending at the knee to unlock the side cabinet and open it just enough to shove the sketchbook inside. It's locked up tight and the intrigue only grows. "You also didn't say I was wrong."
"Fine," You concede, arms behind your back and braced against the desk, a body barrier between him and the secrets you weren't ready to confess. "You were wrong."
Azriel only smiles and your breath actually catches by how genuinely handsome he is. For once, he's not in his fighting leathers but somehow, the laid-back fashion of his dark sweatpants and t-shirt had your knees even more shaky. "Okay, then tell me something about you—something real."
The request startles you, brows screwing up and nose crinkling. "Why?"
A hand waves around him, shadows sliding over barren walls as if to aid in making Az's point. "Because, I should be able to get everything I need to know from being in what should be the most intimate place in the world for you but all I can get is that you like expensive sheets and quality curtains."
"I enjoy good sleep." It was the only two things that mattered when the sadness really set in. When minutes blurred into hours and in a blink of an eye you'd somehow skipped all three meals and everyone was shuffling away to their rooms for the night. "And I'll have you know the pens and colored pencils alone are more expensive than the duvet and curtains combined."
Azriel hums, fingers ghosting over the tin specifically made to hold them in place, perfectly color coded and all sharped to a point. "You draw? How don't I know that?"
"Because it doesn't save lives." It's meant as a joke, it even sounds like one but for some reason the shadowsinger can't seem to share the laugh. You refuse to meet his eye, creating some distance and tucking the key swiftly back under the fabric of your shirt, hands moving to fiddle with the ends of your sleeves. "I'm not all that good anyway."
"Good enough to spend so much money on supplies."
You let out an annoyed sigh and it doesn't affect him one bit; in fact, he finds himself enjoying any other emotion besides the faux smile he'd seen permanently plastered across your features. Your room smells like something Azriel can't place and he finds himself moving again, taking in more and more, trying to find the source of the sweet scent. "Is there a reason that you're here? You know, in my room instead of your own on the floor above us." You begin to trail behind him, following his line of sight and you too begin looking for whatever he was, rummaging through your closet and sniffing at your perfumes. "What are you doing?"
"I can smell something," It comes out distracted, body working without rationality when he ducks into your bathroom, sifting around shampoos and conditioners, soaps shaped like flowers and ivy but none of it is right. Not until he moves to the little cart by your clawfoot tub, fingers ruffling about vials and jars until he finds something that has your spine straightening. “What is this?”
There’s a pause while your will your voice to relax. “Infused rum.”
“Infused with?”
A scoff, bare toes on glossy floors when you snatch the bottle from him. “I don’t know, I don’t pay extra to get a history lesson. I just like how it makes me feel.”
Azriel raises a brow, eyes scanning the rest of the cart before sparing a glance at the empty tub. “In the bath?”
“Everyone has their own version of relaxation.” The bottle clinks back into place on the cart, tucked inconspicuously next to the other brightly colored vials and jars; perfectly hidden to anyone not equipped to pay attention to such things. “Do you usually question Mor or Elain of their drinking habits?”
It’s meant to push him away. To cut deep and throw him off your trail because Azriel was getting too close—too personal. “I would if they came to dinners faking smiles.” One step ahead forces you to take one step back, eyes squinting like a wounded animal bracing for one hell of a fight if it meant getting away. “I would if I saw them fading into nothing after spending their nights sobbing themselves to sleep.”
“Now you’re just speculating.”
“Am I?” Azriel pushes, evading your space and ignoring your attempts to create distance. It has to be some sort of manipulation tactic; distracting you with his intense presence in order to scramble your brain so that by time you realize he’s backed you into a corner—it’s too late. “Then tell me I’m wrong.” His left hand raises, his wrist enclosed in shadows as his fingers curl around your neck. Your pulse hums against his skin, heartrate spiking at the intimate touch and all words are robbed from your vocabulary.
“Azriel—“
The low rasp of his voice cuts you off, gentle grip never faltering from your neck. A shiver runs down your spine, the callouses on his thumb a welcomed roughness when sweeping at the curve of your chin. “It’s okay to be sad,” His scent is overwhelming, affecting your body similarly to a few glasses of fae wine and it takes effort for your knees not to tremble. “Just don’t let it consume you.”
For a second you think he’ll kiss you with how intensely he stares at your mouth, pulse still jumping against his fingertips.
The distance never fully closes and the phantom reminder of his touch remains branded on your skin as he slowly exits your room. And for the first time in years, instead of sniffling wrinkles into novels overflowing with friendship and love or drowning your sorrows in curated liquors —you sit at your desk and draw the sharp lines of Azriel’s jaw and that intense darkness shadowing golden irises and somewhere along the lines, you find a sliver of hope.
Doe and Her Health (TW: Talk of Weight, EDs, Masking, Mental Health Problems)
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Physical Health
Doe overall maintains a relatively good health. However, she does have past health problems and current health conditions that do affect her mentally just as much as it does physically. For one, Doe devloped a higher metabolism rate, which makes it hard for her to gain weight, much less maintain a healthy weight range. Not to mention when her father further pushed her for her training, he made snide remarks about her body and weight (mind you she was a child still during this time), and given she grew up during the 90s-2000s, the whole push to be “skinny” was insanely high and detrimental for a child/teenage girl like her.
She would eat less food for a long period of time, until it became she ate nothing.
Doe would repeatedly collapse during training, even keel over from starvation to the point of tears. A part of her knew what she was doing was wrong, but the other part of her wanted her father to be proud of her no matter how many times he raised the bar for her. It had gotten so bad that Doe, before her father was finally arrested, weighed nearly 98 pounds at 5’10”. She even had to be forced medication and therapy in order to regain control of her weight and health. Initially, Doe was refusing the medication due to the trauma by her father and the people training her, but the therapy during her secondary school days eventually got her to take it and regain weight to a relatively healthy weight, albeit still somewhat underweight (but not dangerously so).
Now, at 32, she weighs a good 125 lbs, and is doing a lot better with her weight maintenance and taking her medications.
However, she does sometimes forget to eat and gets too close to relapsing with her ED. Thankfully, Ghost is there to notice this and when he calculated the calories from her day, he makes her a huge breakfast or dinner and even tells her he would lace her food with her medicine just so that she knows he cares so much about her, even goes as far as eating with her.
Mental Health
Now it’s pretty obvious that Doe has been through a lot throughout her life, and yes, therapy does work for her. Though that doesn’t exactly mean she isn’t safe from triggers of all kinds, whether that be PTSD or ADHD.
Doe for the longest time had been under serious scrutiny from her father, causing her to struggle horribly with stress, anxiety, and even depression, though she was never allowed to show weakness around him. She had to see things no child should even have to see, and that alone caused unnecessary distress on the girl to the point she eventually became desensitized by violence and horrors.
Doe habitually bottles up her problems and internal emotions, forcing herself to mask in order to fit in and keep up appearances. But she so longs to be open about herself and her emotions, she doesn’t want to deter people away from her.
ADHD makes things even harder on her as she even tends to be hard on herself when things go wrong in a mission, causing her to silently have a panic attack the moment she can get alone time. If or when someone walks in on her having one of her episodes, she quickly pulls herself together and tells them she’s fine (she isn’t).
After her father’s attempt on her life, his own, and her siblings, her uncle took the triplets in and he had them undergo some serious therapy sessions as teenagers, especially Doe. He felt awful that he couldn’t be there for his niblings, but it also would have gotten him killed if he ever got near the compound where they were living against their will.
Now an adult well into her 30s, Doe strives to live a better life even if she does have a more “childish” take on it. Sometimes she can be quite loud and cheery, boisterous and playful, but remember, that’s the side she never got to express growing up.
But even that side, added on to masking, can wear her down all over. She might not realize in the moment she has gone too far with her emotions and expressiveness, but when called out on it, she’ll start off as defensive, but soon enough, she’ll apologize; even if it makes her feel like shit she did that without knowing it.
I really should have chosen a writing class as my ‘heavy class’ this semester but nah I did chem. Today is my 3 hour lab and 1 hour lecture 🥲 I don’t understand anything 😅
sigh is it too early to ponder dom!ghost with a chronically ill partner integrating your care into the whole dom/sub arrangement
he watches you stretch every morning before handing off a protein smoothie that tastes way better than the shit they sell pre-made near the pharmacy, takes note of any exercises causing you trouble so HE can bring it up at your next appointment
even researches the electromagnetic machine they use at the end of every session, obsessed with the slightly dopey look you get after your pain has been pulsed away for the afternoon
buys you the cute pill organizer you've had your eye on so med time is just a tad more fun, a deep inventory of over the counter medicine taking up a whole cabinet in the master bath
he always carries nausea meds on him these days, the kind that dissolve under your tongue and taste of artificial blueberry
he gives incentives and rewards for completing the mundane routines associated with your illness, the habits you're more likely to forget or not prioritize
there's a star chart hung on the refrigerator, memorializing every time you've swallowed a pill or eaten a meal without complaint
when you compartmentalize too much he's there to wring it out of you, all the pain and suffering, until you're boneless and the fatigue drags you into a full night's rest :3
