Deity of Angst

| ADHD Aficionado™ | she/they | 30-ish |

[lostintransist]

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Call of Duty

Vibes

Relationships

Taglist | AO3

Original Writing | Anti-Hero Ending

Shout out to @saradika for the stellar decoration options!

[lostintransist]

This Bunny Bites | Part 18

Part 1 | AO3

Your deep focus and contemplation on the fight you had with Johnny last night was shattered with the shifting of the chair across from yours. Dutson was a man who yearned for a 'chase'. You gave one. No exchange of numbers, just appearing in places he was known to frequent every so often. Predators noticed patterns—sometimes they also forgot they weren't always the largest meat-eater in the biome. Today's appearance took shape in the bistro that catered to the most expensive and elite in the city. How surprised would those at the table be to see a jackal in bunny skin in their midst.

Lifting your gaze as you did your mimosa, you let your eyes smile and warm at the idea of sharing a meal with such an important man. Both lies.

"Jeffrey! What a surprise seeing you here! How are you this morning?" Sitting forward on your chair, you reached across the table to grip his too soft fingers between yours.

"Been a hell of a morning." He chuckled in a high-handed fashion. You affected your expression to show the appropriate amount of concern. Duston gave a limp squeeze of your hand. "I must say, Bunny, you are one hell of a hard woman to find."

The brittle aspect of your smile couldn't be faked. Shifting in your seat, you pulled your hand away as you straightened your back, toying with the stem of your glass. He looked you over, not your face, but the tits hoisted high and the draping of the silk blouse you borrowed from Cara with the sole purpose of looking sophisticated. You had forgotten a silk blouse acceptable at brunch when shopping with Lover Boy. Sipping on your drink once again, you gave yourself a moment to recalibrate your face. Giving a small hum as you settled the base of the glass just so, you glanced up at him through your lashes.

"You've been looking for me? Find anything interesting as you chased the White Rabbit?" Placing your elbows on the white tablecloth, you layered your hands and rested your chin atop them. The subtle tug of the conversation to Alice In Wonderland likely would lead him astray. Men who thought themselves smarter than everyone around them often thought of themselves as the Cheshire Cat, and not the Mad Hatter who's brilliance had all been stripped away by degrees. Mercury poisoning. What a dangerous way to go.

Dutson smirked as he leaned back in his chair, a small finger wave to a passing worker. "I'll take the eggs Benedict and an orange juice." He turned back to you without so much as an acknowledgement of the bus boy he had just demanded usurp the actual waiter's job. "No rabbits found, I'm afraid. Who would you say you are in the story of Alice?"

"I've always been partial to the Red Queen myself," you tossed out with a shrug as you turned back to your cheese danish, where it lay neglected on your plate.

"Oh? And why is that?" Dutson pulled his phone out; a glance at the screen showed a contact labeled "Mother" calling him. He ignored it. The device went face down on the table.

"Classic literature tends to file itself neatly under the Madonna/whore complex." Cutting a bite-sized sliver of your food, you brought the morsel to your mouth, "If those are my options, I will choose the woman with the best chance of creating her own choices."

Holding eye contact with Duston, you wrapped your lips around the fork before returning it to the table with a sensual slowness. You were good at performing sex. The brightness of the lights didn't deter you. Not anymore. Dutson's eye dilation at your lips spoke of your winning strategy.

His words came in a slower cadence than before.

"What choices would you make?" Dutson's eyes finally drifted up to yours as you placed another bite of breakfast on your tongue.

The smirk you gave had to have been the most real reaction you had given him so far.

"The ones that leave me fucked well, holding the winning hand, and with enough money to disappear."

He laughed, that airy, stupid, rich person laugh.

You took it as first blood.

The morning Dutson had invaded your breakfast table, you made a point to do the whole exchange of numbers that would let his people reach "your people". The entire interaction made you want to roll your eyes so hard they popped out of your skull, and then continued on rolling without you. But you could play secretary as well as you could queen. Or whore. The only role you could never quite conquer had always been the one that read as authentically you.

The prick of that truth is enough to draw you back to the matter at hand. You needed to move. Dance. You needed to feel the floor shake from the base beneath your toes as every ugly thought and feeling flowed from your body and mind. Dancing freed you.

Dutson had rushed off before his breakfast had arrived, his mother squaking in his ear. You thanked the waiter, who wore no name tag, and asked for a box. Johnny sat in the car, playing chauffeur today, and he would likely not turn his nose up at a free breakfast. You hoped. The waiter blinked like you had forgotten you line when you smiled at him with a warm 'thank you' falling off your tongue when he handed you the box of breakfast and informed you that Dutson had covered the bill. He scurried away not long after that.

Striding to the door, you fired off a quick text to the unsaved number in your phone.

>Ready when you are.

<Already waiting. Moved the car when Duston fled the scene like his arse was on fire.

>Mother dearest called him home.

You didn't have time to see if a reply rolled in from Johnny before he was exiting the driver's seat and positioning himself at the open back door. Neither of you shared a word as you slid into the back seat.

Only once the cute waiter and the sour memories were in the rear view did Johnny speak up.

"How's the fishin'?"

"Grand, found myself a marlin in the wild."

The grin shared between you ached with the fierceness of old wounds as the winds began to change. The bastard you shared as a sperm donor had once gone on a three-week-long fishing expedition. When he stumbled back through the door, on any mix of uppers and downers, he could only mumble about a marlin he'd nearly had between his hands before the line snapped.

"Price wants eyes on you any time you're out and about from now until we wrap this all up." Johnny's eyes stayed firmly on the road, ignoring the piercing stare you stabbed at him from the rear view mirror or to his shoulders.

"How nice it must be to want," you replied icily.

A glance you caught into the mirror, a slight shake of his head to indicate the recommendation to not fight.

Annoyed at your acceptance and the bile creeping up the back of your throat, you folded your arms and turned your eyes to the passing buildings.

"What's he expecting me to do? Wait like a princess for a carriage?"

"Aye."

Instead of letting your face react—you knew Johnny was watching—you took a deep breath and focused on lowering your shoulders and tightening the muscles that sat neatly against your spine. You had learned how to do it when you needed to stop shivering. No one knew you could do it; it wasn't like you could explain 'I tell my body to stand up straight and tighten my core and lengthen my spine and I can hold back the shivers for three to five seconds at a time' without sounding crazy. It made your ribs ache if you did it for too long.

The silence lingered while the buildings became shabbier and more familiar. Nearly home.

"I dislike the highhanded changes made about my life. Tell Total that he only gets one more lateral move before I force him back to contract negotiations."

Johnny pulled the car to a stop—you didn't wait for the wheels to stop turning before the door began swinging open.

"Total?" He called over his shoulder to you.

Turning, you bend down to see his face when it lands, "Well, if he can change the price, I can change the total."

Slamming the door on Johnny's laughter, you trudged up the stairs to your door. The itchy feeling in your soul hasn't left. Only amplified.

Ghost was the one that found you. Phone off, left at home with a note in your neatest handwriting sticking to the screen. 'BRB, blowing off steam.' Seems Total didn't like being given the slip. You wouldn't have needed to walk out the door without your music if you could have just trusted that he hadn't already bugged your phone. Your muscles froze as you spun slowly around the pole. He had to have bugged your car. The fucker was going to pay for that.

Sasha had let you borrow her private studio when you knocked on her office door.

"You look like hell." It had been the first thing she said to you after looking up from her computer.

"Thanks, Sash. You were always one to keep it honest." Shifting from one foot to another, you crumpled the elbow of your opposite sleeve in your hand. "Lot of childhood memories trying to surface right now. Can I borrow a pole for the night, and some music if you have any to spare?"

The jacket had been more a comfort than a need. Armor in cotton.

A softness Sasha held in reserve for the youngest girls at the club shifted through her expression like dawn. It sent an ache through your jaw and your fingers to clench tighter.

"All my public rooms are in use today."

You were the only one who heard the crack. It hurt like a fault line giving way.

Sasha continued, a look in her eyes that burned like the red-hot end of a cigarette.

"What I can do for you, though, is get you set up in my private space. That room has a dual connection to my playlists; you won't be able to choose what's playing, but it's better than nothing." Sasha tipped her chin toward her computer, "I've got to work on billing tonight and can't do that without music."

Not even the times you had fists around your neck had made your throat feel this tight. All you could do was nod in thanks. No conversation plucked at your raw emotional strings as you followed Sasha out of the office and further down the dark hall. Thank god. Roughly fourteen steps later, she reached for a specific portion of the dark wall and pushed into a new, darker space.

Sasha had the mood lighting on and set before your 'not presentable even for the grocery store' sneakers passed the threshold. She strode across the room, flicking open a hidden panel, and smooth jazz poured into the space, grains of sand replacing the air you needed to breathe. You hadn't made it more than two steps into the room when she turned on a heel and crossed the room. Sasha cared well for those she deemed as hers.

It hurt worse, the soft pat to your wrist of the hand that still clutched your sleeve like it could buoy you out of hell, because she didn't say a word. The click of the latch had you scrambling out of your clothes. Shoes went flying as you toed them off, followed by your sweater that got caught on your hair as you yanked. Pants turned inside out as you escaped them. No better than a toddler stripping; even your socks landed in two different directions. Then you did the thing you always warned new people never to do—you launched yourself at the pole without warming up in the slightest.

The next hour saw you pulling out your hardest moves and holding them, fighting the quivers of pain as your muscles fought with your feelings.

You ignored him when the door opened. If he found this room, it was because Sasha let him; you did wonder what he had offered her for the knowledge. It took another five minutes before you addressed him. Ghost had planted him back against the wall, eyes tracking you as you spun round and round. He shifted only once, head leaning forward as he stretched his back. Due to your bad luck, he nearly took a heel to the temple for his trouble.

"You're going to end up with a concussion if you do that again." You had aimed for a neutral tone. What came out had been a growl.

"Wouldn't be the first," came the flippant reply.

Once your toes could scrape the floor, you stomped up to the man. Hands curled into your fists and resting on your hips, you glared up at him. Why the good golly fuck had genetics said this asshole needs to be excessively tall?

"The fuck is wrong with you?"

Dark eyes flicked between yours above his black medical mask.

"Don't know. Shrink refuses to see me anymore." Ghost gave a single shrug of his shoulder to accompany his blase statement.

"Of course he fucking doesn't." Annoyed beyond belief and not even sure why, you spun on the ball of your foot and shifted into a twirl around the pole.

You had completed one full rotation when he opened his big mouth.

"Never had a private pole session before."

Welp. Guess you were done exhausting yourself of emotions. Letting yourself rotate a half turn further, you shifted into a walk the instant your feet found the hardwood. Sasha had left the panel open for you. With a quick flick, it opened. A scan found a dial that wasn't pointed down like all the others. You twisted until it clicked. That done, you stalked back across the room and snatched up your clothes off the floor.

Both feet were back on the floor, hands shimmying your pants up your thighs, when a hint of a breath brushed over the back of your neck. The gooseflesh skittered down both arms.

That should have been it.

It never was.

Frozen, you watched as an arm, bare of tattoos and with a sleeve shoved up close to his elbow, curved around your waist, never quite touching as wide, thick fingers flicked at the jewel of your belly button ring.

"Never could figure out the appeal of these."

Breathing hurt. The physical stretching of the fascia between your ribs ached with Ghost touching you, but not.

"Piercings?"

"Gems." He gave a slight tug that yanked the bottom out of your stomach as he did it.

When the warmth at your back disappeared, you forced your shaking arms into motion. Completing the task of getting your pants over your ass, you turned to look at Ghost. He watched you. Something about the tilt of his shoulders told you he thought he had won something by taking you by surprise. That wouldn't last long. One should never battle outside their weight class for a reason.

Lifting your shirt from the floor with your foot, you slid the tight baby tee over your bra. Once it settled flush on your skin, you snaked a hand up the back, unclipping your bra. Everyone knows the move: left hand to right shoulder, down comes a strap. Right hand to left shoulder, and the girls are free. You pull your bra out from the front of your shirt and toss it to Ghost. Your battle lines drawn, you don't wait for him to catch the distraction to bend over and slide your socks on and begin to tie your shoes. Men had been taught to like breasts perky, up high for gazing. They never needed to be forced to like them as they hung.

The glance you pass over his groin as you stand confirmed what you hoped. Someone noticed.

"Gems are made to catch the light," you flicked one of the gems on the nipple piercing while staring at his face, "and the eye."

It took a long, long moment before Ghost could pull his eyes up from the taut fabric of your shirt. You smirked. He glowered. And so it began.

It went on like that, a brush of his hand over your ass as you stepped out of the room, and he turned off the lights. You raised him a step into his space, brushing all back against him as you opened the door to leave the building. He tried again after you had settled into the passenger seat of the car. Man thought he was so slick trying to 'help' you with putting your seatbelt on. You took it from him with a raising of your brow.

Ghost lost in totality when you forced him through a drive-through for some late-night takeaway. When the cashier's voice traveled through the ether, you shed your seatbelt and leaned over the center console, both hands on Ghost's thighs, your thumb brushing his tip, as you placed your order. At the window, he passed over his card without a word and drove away before you had a chance to reingage your seatbelt. You did nothing to contain the triumphant smile that toyed at your lips.

The small snack dragged out its existence until you were parked in front of your building. You watched him stiffly climb from the vehicle and round the engine for your door. Setting the empty container in the cupholder to force him to think of you later, you stood from the now open door.

Starting for the door, you heard his near-silent footsteps trail behind you.

"What a gentleman, holding my bra, buying me a snack, and even walking me to my door." You gave a hum of pleasure.

The light above your apartment burned out four nights ago. That's why you didn't see it coming. Before you could key in your door code, Ghost's hands were on you, spinning you.

“I thought you said you have seven piercings,” Ghost backed you against the door.

He dipped low, the puff of his air on your neck sending your spine straighter than before. He had taken off his mask. Not that you could see anything. You were a sadist, though, the tantalizing want making the interaction rank higher and higher.

Nose bumping your ear, you heard a whisper.

“One, two.” The hint of his breath across your eyes told you where he headed next. “Three, four.”

Hands brushed against your shirt as they rose to your breasts. The lack of bra only now becoming a weapon against you instead of only him.

A whimper, nearly pained, escaped you as his thumbs brushed over them.

“Five, six. But where is seven?” The tip of his tongue flicked your tragus.

Grabbing the meat of one thumb, you pulled his hand down, fighting with the waist of your bottoms with the other. Throwing your head back against the door as his hand brushed the skin just above your lower lips, you pushed his hand further. Further still.

“Curl your finger, Ghost.”

Hot damn you hadn’t been this turned on since…well, ever.

He did as commanded, and white flashed across your vision.

The man became a gargoyle, allowing you to punch in the code, twist the doorknob, and slip inside. The light you left on above the stove gave you the hints of a strong nose, cheeks stained with scars, and a dumbfounded look.

“Seven.” You closed the door in his face.

Locking it, you headed straight to your room. You needed to write a sex scene for one of your novels and then work out your tension on a couple of toys and pass out for the night.

Part 17 | Part 19

Bunny Masterlist | Masterlist | Taglist

Cute divider from @/jimzittos

A/N: Hi..hello..not dead…sorry bout that unexpected hiatus…still kinda on hiatus but I was able to finish up this chapter and am going to try and work my way through my open stories while I continue to suffer under the weight of my licensure choices.

@leahnicole1219 @notsochillnerd @darling006 @harperstyles @lucienofthelakes @redkarmakai @demothers-empty-blog @cheese-pull @itsmeamysworld @fluffysmiko @w0ede @skeletonsucker @defronix @lilynotdilly @whisperwispxx @stinkii-boii @hyperfixation-train-station @littlelovebug98 @throwing-up-butterflies @Gazsluckyhat @MindsofJade @nocturnal-nyx @Infectious_Art @synthe4u @synthe4u @LilynotDilly @danielle143 @yunchen898 @idleviewer @infectious-art @little-mini-me-world @littlelovebug98 @sweetlittleblackrose @clockboyy @lucienofthelakes @avgdestitute @wunder-blunder @shitaaba @realitysucksgivemefictionalmen @angrydragonvoid @flintthegoodboyo @uraeus56 @thisishwrworld @Milliemoocow @emilymikado @shitaaba @echo9821 @bunny-bun @decaffeinatedtimetraveler94

[r-u-amused]

6 photos, no selfies

thank you so much for tagging me pretty @a-girlcandreamx <3

i'd like to see 6 photos from: @the-casual-cat, @lostintransist, @sunshinegalxx, @skyrigel, @pantomime-spring, @marcinho42, and @kashiin-kojii if you guys feel like it<3

[lostintransist]

@lialucis tag you're it.

[r-u-amused]

6 photos, no selfies

thank you so much for tagging me pretty @a-girlcandreamx <3

i'd like to see 6 photos from: @the-casual-cat, @lostintransist, @sunshinegalxx, @skyrigel, @pantomime-spring, @marcinho42, and @kashiin-kojii if you guys feel like it<3

[lostintransist]

@lialucis tag you're it.

[cutiecusp]

Blessing. Part five.

Keegan russ x reader.

Brothers best friend x HEA trope ( i promise!)

Part four here.

@kaeyasfuturewife @muneca-lemon-steppa @gardenof-venus @soraya-daydreams @yesornowaitidontknow @thevoiceinyourheadx @shadowdark00 @lunamoonbby @incredible-walker @identity2212 @pukbadger @urbimom @corvid007 @wordsfromshona @shadows-empress @m00xy @canyonmooncreations @oniraki @evie-119 @havoc973 @kylies-lover-blog @ishipdabands @cmbghost @heckinspooks @midwesternwitchery @masterclassofescapism @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @skeletonsucker @ghost-soaps-shadow @veryberry26 @nananadende @lostintransist @bmtillerbabe

[lostintransist]

CUTIE! I CANT GET IN THE SHOWER TO CRY ABOUT THIS FOR A FEW MORE HOURS!

[stanmarvelous]

What AO3 tag are you?

I’ve officially been called out.

Thanks for the tag @phoenix-in-writing! 😅

No pressure tags: @steelandvibranium @tw1sters @miraclediviner @ornateglass @elixirfromthestars @wherewinterblooms @buck-star

[bloodless-scorpio-33]

CRYING

@phinksyhxhfan @a-lua-da @moxxyandthekat @strawbxrrypies @queerbookbitch + anyone who wants to join

[strawbxrrypies-deactivated20260]

Uhh guys....

Does this mean I hate myself!?!

@unassumingcavegoblin @scorpiothearachnid @auburnplots @queerbookbitch @qqueenoftheamazons @wordslikepoisonn @rosessecretcemetary @myphycopharmacologist +open tags

[wordslikepoisonn]

thanks for the taggg! <3

…i have no words left anymore

🪽 no pressure tags: @literallygoldrush @misdollie @mikefaistlvr @i-was-a-willow @itzursafespace @caravalxjurdan240 @sunshine-fahey @mads-xincai + open tagsss (lmk if you don’t do this kinda thing!

[caravalxjurdan240]

I.....thanks?

(I'm not even a registered user and only use the website like once in a blue moon, that too only for wholesome bestie-type fics, not romance, wdym idiots in love? I don't understand!!!)

No pressure tags: @stories-i-guess @itzursafespace @flyerguardian @booklover5111 @ejkreader @venusoftheflytraps @dovewhoreofbabylon @madockisser @vanillafaye @colourobserver

[booklover5111]

thx for the taggg

ok pre-quiz im kinda scared...

WAIT THIS IS SO TRUEEEEE SLOW BURN IS LITERALLY MY FAVORITE TROPEEEEEE

whys this kinda accurate lollll

tags: @kittlover @i-couldntfindanoncringeusername @tooprecious2gamble @imogenisthebesthr @forsakenfrogmaster @a-nerdyfairy-princess @honeyfbh @livreadz @shestheworst @fantasygeek-134 @h0n3ybe3z @i-love-zelda-16

[something-xoxo]

i love au fics!!! seeing modern or historical adaptations done well makes me soo happy so this result is me!

no pressure tags: @sssoulsuckerrr @chelseamorninggirl @theteaqueendom @separatist-apologist @greenvelvetcouture @acourtofladydeath @freakingata

[chelseamorninggirl]

I do wish that, yes.

No pressure tags: @xxvalkyriesxx @jellybeanjellyfishblog @themadmorrigan @frostystarlight @musty-old-claptrap @freyjascatchariot @wolfnesta

[themadmorrigan]

Yeah, this tracks.

Tagging: @frostystarlight @limeandorange @tria1and3rr0r @snowwhitewithanxiety @irithiadourden @gooseyjossip

[frostystarlight]

Quick, everyone act surprised!

Tagging: @buffy-vanserra @limeandorange @chelseamorninggirl @primulagoldworthy @tria1and3rr0r @mistandmemories

[buffy-vanserra]

hell yeah tbh this tracks. I do consider myself pro whimsy

tagging @g00seg1rl @the-darkestminds @zenkindoflove @whisperingmidnights @whimsycinnamon @eatsbooks @hornysadfrog and anyone else who wants in <3

[zenkindoflove]

Twins @buffy-vanserra

Tagging: @crazy-ache @itsblobross @olenvasynyt @works-of-heart @musty-old-claptrap @gooseyjossip @chaol-apologist

[crazy-ache]

Yesss this does make sense as someone always lost in the possibilities of my brain (I am a terrible listener in real life lmao)

Tagging: @sapphiresandgold @tinyy-jj @chaol-apologist @itsblobross @huntquinlan @fluffy-cloudz (no pressure)

[itsblobross]

Someone help, my asexual ass got lost 😂😂

Thanks @crazy-ache and @zenkindoflove for tagging me

I’m tagging @fluffy-cloudz @olenvasynyt @fluffy-cloudz @the-darkestminds @snowwhitewithanxiety sorry if some of you guys are tagged already 😂

[teenagellamaangel]

OKAY

I'm tagging @demothers-empty-blog @prythianpages @boolger @superhoeva @the-californicationist @gloomwitchwrites @deadbranch @dragonnarrative-writes

no pressure guys, ily

[demothers-empty-blog]

Tumblr has a problem with me, why didn’t i see this sooner oml 😩 did the test twice out of curiosity…

no pressure tags 🏷️ @konigofmyheart13 @rosegold-darling @roonerius @lostintransist @umber-cinders do it, don’t do it, do it in secret idc either way sending love 🫶

[lostintransist]

[ladybugkissing]

to poke a sleeping bear - ch. 3

bear shifter!john price x waitress!reader

warnings: none

“Alex, the burger from table 7 was supposed to have tomato and lettuce on the side.”

“Would it really kill ‘em to just take it off the bun themselves?”

Apparently not, as you’re sliding the untouched plate back to him. Alex rolls his eyes, chewing on a toothpick tucked between his lips. His mustache quirks to the side as his expression sits sour, but you’re all too used to his attitude during busy shifts.

You hear the door to the kitchen squeak open, the familiar timbre of Gaz’s voice sounding out as he mumbles out a firm “behind you.” You scoot forward to accommodate as he whisks an armful of plates to the sink to be washed, where Phil waits with an unamused expression. Watching the two of them interact was always akin to two cats who hated each other, always snarling and growling.

“Yeah I’ll be sure to wash these, princess,” Phil grumbles, making Gaz snicker when he sets down the last of the dishes. As he passes you to leave the kitchen, Gaz gives you a knowing smirk.

“Your regular is here, by the way.”

Your regular? As in..?

Following Gaz out the door, you take a peak at the last booth in your section and see him: John-fucking-Price. He’s here way earlier than he usually visits, and you’re unfortunately in that mid-rush-hour frenzy that leaves you looking like you were raised by feral dogs. Menu in his hands (as if he even needs it), you can tell that he just walked in.

And he looks fucking exquisite, too. His hair is messier than usual, and looks slightly damp. Fuck, he’s even in his park ranger uniform - he must’ve just gotten off of work. With no one obviously in need of your assistance, you suppose that now is a better time than ever to approach him.

“Hey John,” you hum, putting on that sugary-sweet smile. Your hands dart for the yellow notepad you keep tucked in your apron - anything to keep yourself occupied and from fiddling with your fingers like some kind of nervous schoolgirl. John looks up at you, smiles, and that’s when it hits you.

… Why the fuck does the whole room smell like fish?

In The Year of Our Lord, 2025, you never thought that ‘getting the ick’ was as real and as much of a kneejerk reaction as people insisted it to be. But right now? Shit, you think you just shivered down to your fucking bones.

The worst part, perhaps, is how you try to rationalize it within the 1 second that it takes for John to reply to you. He’s a park ranger, maybe he had to catch or handle some fish for work? Maybe it was his lunch? Maybe someone from another table ordered something entirely rank and disgusting? Maybe, just maybe, Alex is playing the biggest prank on you ever by deploying a whole can of Whoop-Ass right at your table?

However, considering how John’s eyes don’t seem to be watering quite like yours, you’re inclined to believe that it’s all him. And, while you want to say that that’s enough to squash the crush you’ve had on him for forever now, the pooling pit of shame and embarrassment in your stomach tells you that it would likely take a lot more to deter your desperate ass.

“Hey honey. Busy tonight?”

“No.” You speak without thinking. It is in the middle of rush hour. The few seats left available are the high-top chairs that everyone hates to sit in. Not necessarily indicative of a calm night, but you suppose that if John really cared, he would’ve come to that conclusion himself.

Is his beard wet, too? What the fuck was he doing?

John’s facial hair quirks up when he smiles. Some flecks of grey catch the yellow overhead lighting and shimmer slightly, but all it really does is tell you that you might have a thing for older men.

“Uhm- unsweet tea, then?”

He gives an affirmative nod, and you take great comfort in avoiding eye contact to stare at the notepad in your hand. Before you go to ask if he’s ready to order, he beats you to the punch.

“And my usual, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh, it never is,” You reply quickly, the smile on your face too trained and too obviously muscle memory. You never thought a smile could be so unapproachable, but the faux joy you wear like cheap perfume each evening is enough to make any customer ascertain that you’d rather be doing fuck-all.

Frankly, you’re just glad that he didn’t order the kitchen’s whole supply like he did the other night. You’re not sure you can prepare yourself to carry all those plates back into the kitchen again.

You jot down John’s normal order, a hefty stack of pancakes, three eggs (scrambled), and a heap of bacon. He always asks for the bacon not to be crispy. Why? You’re not sure. The idea of limp, greasy bacon doesn’t necessarily appeal to the senses in your brain that tell you it looks a little too close to raw. But John eats it, so it must be okay, you suppose.

You’re also becoming increasingly certain that maybe he has no sense of taste OR smell. There’s no way he doesn’t notice the briny, fishy scent. There’s. No. Way.

After telling John that his order will be right out, you make your way to the back to leave it with Phil and Alex. And there they are, perched at the stoves like some gossipping school girls with Gaz of all people. Looks like he made his way back to the kitchen before you had.

“I'm telling you, mate, that Mister Price must ‘ave fallen into a spawning pool or somethin’. Smells right rank.” Of course, Gaz is talking about John. You almost feel a swell of burning within your chest and cheeks, like you need to defend him from petty kitchen gossip. You pin John's ticket to the line, fully knowing that neither cook is at their station to receive it. No, they're more occupied with Gaz.

“I mean, he's a ranger. That's kinda what they do, right?” Alex tilts his head, an amused grin sitting on his face. His arms are crossed, almost skeptically. Gaz shakes his head.

“Nah, man! I'm mates with one of the other rangers that works with him - Si never comes around smelling like a week-old seafood boil.”

“Jesus Christ, Kyle. Don't make me picture that,” Phil tuts.

Finally, you intercept by clearing your throat. The three men look your way, wide-eyed like they know they've been caught snooping in the cookie jar. Your brows furrow, giving each of them a disappointed glare.

“Can you guys finish this conversation another time? Maybe during closing? I'm looking at 3 separate orders on the line right now and no cooks starting on them.”

They get moving.

You return to John's table not long after, only to see that both of the previously-occupied booths next to him have since been vacated. The tips left by each check look sparse, but you try not to think about that.

“Here you go, John. Nice and fresh for you.”

John gives you a smile that his whole beard follows. If it weren't for the smell radiating off of him, it'd be your chest fluttering in response instead of your stomach.

“Thanks, honey. As always.”

It's not hard to return the smile. You rarely get customers as respectful as him, and even rarer do you have ones that tip so well. Speaking of, you can't help but remember the tip he left you during his last visit to the diner. One hundred percent is enough of a tip for a regular meal, but ordering the whole menu? You're sure his bank - or Mister Shepherd - gave him hell for that kind of hit to his wallet.

“Y'know,” you say after a moment. You're hardly even thinking about it, moreso concentrating on trying not to wretch. “That was really nice, what you did the other night. You sure you meant to leave that big of a tip?”

John pauses, mouth partially agape as he holds a fork full of scrambled eggs to his lips. After a moment, he shrugs.

“I came in right before closing and made you run around like a chicken with its head cut off. You deserved it, honey. Least I could do.”

Fuck. You wish you could kiss him on the mouth (after he hoses himself down, of course). That couple hundred sitting in your bank account is gonna make your next grocery trip a full restock kind of day. Maybe you can splurge and buy yourself some of that lotion you've been eyeing in the drugstore. God knows you need something nice once in a while.

“Well- uh-” It’s not often that you find yourself stuttering like this while on the job. “I really appreciated it. Still do. That kind of made my whole night.” You can hardly fathom how easily he just forked over all that money. If you had to guess, a park ranger probably doesn’t make enough to eat out consistently AND leave such large tips. Whatever well John pulls from must be pretty deep. And yet, he chooses to spend it on a random waitress.

It’s at that moment that you hear the jingle of the door, only to catch another table taking their leave. The diner seems like the rush is coming to an end. At least, for now. You’ve got a few tables to bus and clean, but otherwise, everything seems peaceful. Just peaceful enough - you think - to sit with John and chat with him. It’s not the first time you’ve used your spare time to conversate with him. At this point, your nose is becoming used to the pungent smell of fish, too.

John looks up at you, half-hunched over his own plate of food, when you slide into the booth. He’s dragging forkfuls of food to his mouth with little regard for manners; it’s funnily both hurried and sluggish, like he’s trying to eat everything before he falls asleep.

“So… I was visiting the library earlier today. Haven’t been there in a while.”

“Mmh. Like it there. Y’find anything you like?” One of his eyebrows raises curiously. You think about telling John about the book you found - the very one with his name written inside. Maybe he’d find it funny or endearing, thinking about how you were both interested in the same book. But then again, he might find it creepy and assume you went looking for something of the sort. Which… isn’t entirely wrong. You did go to the library to find something to impress him, but not necessarily to find a book that he’s overly-attached to. That part just… fell into your open palms, is all.

Opting to play it safe, you feign ignorance. “Oh- you like the library too? I’ve been looking for some book recommendations,” you reply, giving John an earnest smile.

“I don’t think you’d like my favorite books much. They’re pretty boring, honey.”

“Oh yeah? What’s so boring about your favorite books?”

“S’ all wilderness stuff. Animals and tracking n’ hunting. Can’t say I’ve met many girls like you who’re into that kind of stuff.”

“Well… having someone to talk about it with would definitely make it less boring, I think. And who knows? Maybe you could teach me something?”

Are you laying it on too thick? Is it obvious that you’re flirting? Those are the thoughts permeating your addled brain as you rest your chin on your hand, your smile turning softer. John tilts his chin up just a bit, looking at you directly. His expression is remarkably hard to read, but you can’t help but feel like he’s somehow hypervigilant of every emotion skipping across your face like stones on water.

He waits. After a moment, John lets out a small, thoughtful hum. Then, just as he opens his mouth, you hear it:

“Is someone gonna clean these damn tables?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Mister Shepherd. You swallow thickly, eyes squeezing shut just as that small moment disappears between you both. Without another word, you slide out from the booth, a sigh leaving your lips.

“Sorry, sir. I’m on it.”

John watches you go - watches you dart in and out of the back, empty dishes in hand, and clean the place up. Something sticks to him like a fly in a glue trap, continuously buzzing just enough to catch his attention. Maybe he’s a bit too tired tonight and he’s mistaken, but that seemed to be quite a pleasant conversation shared between you. Not like you’ve never had one before, but this time it’s different.

He’s not going to naively pretend like the whole dinner rush ended early for any reason other than his smell. Maybe John’s big, hulking, thousand-pound bear could be excused for smelling like a spawning pool, but as a human? He’s astounding that you weren’t running for the hills. Astounded, and… impressed. It’s sticking with John how much you always want to socialize with him, even when he’s not necessarily in the sweetest of moods. No matter how weird he smells or how aloof he acts, you always feed him with a smile.

Something akin to a lightbulb fizzes to life in John’s brain. It’s like finding the key to an old, locked door. A stark realization that something has changed, that there’s a new route to take if he just chooses to step through.

Maybe you’re not as different to him as he always thought.

Before John leaves that night, he writes some book recommendations for you on a napkin and leaves it beside his check and a wad of cash.

masterlist

taglist: @lavenderloss , @motzglorp , @beebeechaos, @alils, @onceuponanightmareisawme, @pipsysstuff, @lostintransist, @neapolitan--girl, @yearning-ka, @cherriexicangel, @wowtheuniverse,

divider credits: @/cafekitsune (Wind Breaker sets)

a/n: sorry this took so long to get out lol the ao3 author curse reached across platforms and got me. this was the last pre-written chapter i had for this fic, so the next one might take longer just because i haven't even started it yet. anyways, i hope you like this sillier chapter :3

[lostintransist]

Have to get the idea out of my head:

John marries a woman (ace) and they happily live life until one day he brings Nik home and then they have a cute little life where the woman is safe and loved and John doesn't have to hide the fact he loves her but is in love with Nik.

[lostintransist]

I am home so I can say more about this now.

CW: Hurt/comfort, tad bit of miscommunication

You had met John young. (Twenty-five is a baby adult and in your thirties you would fight anyone who said different.) Fresh-faced and straight out of college, you knew that your life would most likely never involve love, a family, marriage. Sadly, you were not attracted to women and that more and more seemed a requirement to live a happy ace life with a partner.

Tending bars had gotten you through college, and when you couldn't find a job in your field it kept you fed. Tending near a military base leads to some...interesting... interactions. Most of these were easy to navigate, pulling rank and ensuring that the bar's number was on the list of approved phone numbers to be forwarded to whoever was in charge on any given night. You had called the base requesting backup after wave after wave of drunken disorderlies stumbled into your bar and yelled about getting cut off.

John had showed up. Repeatedly.

Offering him a drink on the house became so standard that you would start prepping his drink as soon as you ended your call.

The first time he had come by you were both boots on the bar, fire extinguisher raised as if the drunks were zombies coming for your innards. Three shouts from him and every man with a pair of testies on the line fell into formation.

When he came in next you got a text from your coworker that the military man from the base was looking for you. As that information was in no way enticing enough to leave your bed you replied and rolled over.

It had been another three months before you saw John again. When he rolled in the door uncalled you stared. You stared because of his unexpected arrival and because of the black eye, the limp, and the general state of exhaustion that oozed off him. Setting him up on a stool where you could keep an eye on him you and John talked. Every time you passed or had a second to breathe you did so in front of John.

It came up eventually, your being ace and his, well he didn't say he was gay but he didn't say he was into women. The two of you commiserated about the lack of options for love and companionship into old age and John disappeared for months again.

When he turned up next he came with his team. You smiled and waved as you saw him, glad he had company as they set up at a booth. Each man had taken a turn to grab drinks. The pretty black man with a wicked smart smile flirted, as did the blue eyed mohawk man. Both got your small smile and their drinks. The tall one with the mask asked for his drink with a quiet voice and took it with a gentle hand.

Turned out that night was a bit of a test.

John wanted a wife. Did he get into the twisty, knotted threads of his emotions about it? No. He wanted someone warm and feminine to come home to each night and after jobs but he didn't want someone he would need to sleep with. The idea of someone, a woman, growing with child tented his pants like he was thirteen and thinking too hard. He wanted cuddles and laughter and love, but not sex.

It took him a year to work up his nerve to bring up the idea. You had blinked at him like an orange cat who missed the brain cell by millimeters.

"Why?"

John folded his arms, unfolded them, then shoved his hands in his pockets. Giving up on either of those he pulled off his hat and rubbed his head.

"Tax benefits?" He tilted his head and looked at you hopefully as the words tripped out of his mouth.

You had laughed and agreed to a few dates.

A few dates turned into a few more. A few more turned into a set of rings and a date with a judge.

You agreed on a two bedroom flat but often spent the night in each others beds because sleepy cuddles were some of the best comforts either of you had found. John still went on missions and you finally found a job in your field. Life was good.

Years passed honey slow and all the better for it. And then one day John brought his boyfriend home and flipped your world on its head.

"I'm home!" You call into the flat as you pull your key from the lock and kick off your shoes. Hissing as your feet stretch for the first time all day you glance up and lock eyes with someone you had never seen before.

Dark hair, slicked back but hanging loose around his shoulder a man stands in your kitchen. With his broad shoulders and the tasteful amount of chest hair popping between the open buttons of his shirt you try and figure out why the hell he was in your flat.

John appears around the unknown man, a hand at his waist and chin on a shoulder.

"Welcome home. I meant to catch you before you met Nik, but uh..." his voice petered out. John hadn't been nervous around you in a long time. "This is my boyfriend."

The smile you give is real and big and you are so happy for him even as part of you stumbles back in shock, knowing your happy marriage would be over soon. You knew one day John would find someone who could meet all his needs and you would be left with good memories and a friend you cried over a couple times a year. Offering your hand to Nik is not only logical, it's right.

"Hi Nik. It's really nice to meet you."

He shakes your hand, palm wide and warm against your own.

"I'm gonna go change, and uh...yeah. I'm gonna go change."

You know you are repeating yourself but you can't help it. Tucked safely behind your bedroom door you pull out the luggage from under your bed and pack a few days worth of work and home clothes in it. Grabbing a new outfit you feel comfortable leaving the house in you duck into the bathroom and take a quick shower. When the items that live in there are bundled out with your towel they are tucked neatly into your bag as well.

Joining them for dinner is a weird experiance. John is smiling like you have never seen and his Nik follows him with eyes spilling over with hearts. John does not bring up any sleeping arrangements for the night. Hotel would be the answer for you tonight.

Standing from the table you rinse your dishes and load them in the washer. Offering a smile and a wave you snag your luggage and head out the door.

John catches you, foot on the break and checking the space behind the car.

"Where are you going?" Confusion is painted across his face as he braces both hands on the car and speaks to you through the window.

Leaving the car in reverse, you roll the window down.

"John, you brought home your boyfriend," your eyes flick to the closed front door and back to him, "You don't need you wife here on your first night with him in your home. We can talk about this tomorrow and figure out what divorce will look like."

You swallow hard, nose starting to run as he stares at you like an atom bomb detonator.

"Divorce?" He now looks sea sick atop his horror.

"Why would you need a wife you don't have sex with when you have a boyfriend who you do sleep with?" You lift and drop one shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. "I'm off work early tomorrow, do you want me to come by the base and we can chat?"

He doesn't reply but lets his hands drop from your car. Your smile shakes as you roll the window up and back out of the driveway.

[Well. That got out of hand. Uuuum if anyone has any ideas on how I fix this mess hit me up.]

Part 2 | Part 3 | Bonus

@demothers-empty-blog

Masterlist

[swiss-mrs]

I cannot explain to you how important this concept is to me holy shit

[lostintransist]

I love this story so much and it's such a special one to me.

[lostintransist]

How Many Yellow Flags Equal A Red One?

Read on AO3

The bank had a concourse. I stood in line, examining the windows high above my head as I waited in the line that never seemed to move, deciding if the word rotunda would be more accurate. Not words I got to use often, concourse or rotunda, but I liked words, so getting to use them to their fullest extent was a neat time.

"Ma'am?"

A voice from behind me, accent thick enough to smell the manure clinging to the hem of his Levi's, startled me from my wordy contemplation.

Startled, I turned around and found a man—taller than me by a few inches—looking at me with an expectant tilt to his eyebrows. The mid-afternoon light that illuminated the space showed off the variations of color in his blond hair; I would have called it ditchwater blond, but most people didn't really like that term. He wore a black V-neck and had a tattoo that peeked above the edge of the collar.

Giving a hum of a question, I lifted both brows at him. He pointed back in the direction I had originally been facing. A space had grown between me and the next person in line—a large distance. Oops! Letting out a little embarrassed laugh, I scooted up in the line. That's what I get for zoning out during the lunch break rush at the bank. Turning back, I gave the man a smile.

"Thank you, I must have been deeper in thought than I realized." A scratch to the back of my head to accompany my appreciation; the short hairs were likely all askew now. I shifted to turn back to waiting in line like a normal person. But he seemed to have other plans.

"What had you so distracted?" The question comes with a bit of a laugh, but not one that makes me feel like he's laughing at me, more the situation.

Adjusting to keep an eye on the line and be able to glance at him while we chatted, I replied. "I was actually thinking about what word to use for this space."

Looking in his eyes, I caught the double brow raise, head tilt combo of a questioning confusion. Looking upward, I swirled my finger in a circle to indicate the room we waited in. The high, domed ceiling drew the gaze. It was pretty.

"I was trying to decide if this was a concourse or a rotunda." The sentence finished off with a shrug. Before I could turn back to waiting, he asked another question. Either he was actually interested or trying to pass the time. I could oblige for either.

"And what did you decide?"

"Don't know yet, I'm still going back and forth on it." His open posture, relaxed shoulders, and one thumb tucked into a pocket all spoke of being open to conversation. I chanced it. "Which do you think would fit better?"

He looked, eyes narrowing, and a scar that looked like it healed without stitches but needed them highlighted on his cheek as he made a slow spin. Completing his turn, he locked eyes with mine.

"I can't say I know what either word means, so I'm no help there."

He looked so earnestly honest about it that a laugh erupted out of me. I will admit he had a nice smile as he grinned at my mirth. When I could place words in a row again, I stepped forward with the line and explained the differences. A concourse was typically a large area that connected two other spaces, but had also come to mean a large room like this, vs. a rotunda being any roofed building with a circular floor plan. The man rocked back on the heels of his boots as he gave them both a think through.

"I think," he began slowly, "that a rotunda would make more sense from the descriptions you've given me."

Pulling a face of acceptance, I nodded and looked around the space once more. "Rotunda it is. Thanks for your help."

"I can help the next guest." The call came from one of the harried tellers who sat behind the counter.

Nodding to them, I turned back to my conversation companion.

"It was nice to chat with you. Good luck with your bank things."

He stuck out a hand, the offer of a handshake clear.

"Thank you, ma'am. I'm Phillip, by the way."

Shaking his hand, my grip firm and dry, I started to step away. "It's nice to meet you, Phillip. I'm Emery."

Leaving him behind wasn't hard, but he lingered in my head. I wasn't a huge fan of blonds, but his blue eyes would stick in my memory long after the interaction ended.

When a population reaches a certain threshold, the likelihood of running into someone again by chance drops by increasing degrees. There were things one could do to shrink the pool of people one would likely see again but those looked like dating apps and the circles of hell Dante philosophized and pontificated about.

Yes. I was on one. I didn't open it often, annoyed with the amount of dick pics and the overwhelming feeling of choices that weren't really choices that came at me from the jump. I let it be an activity for when I visited the bathroom at work mostly. Quick bouts of time where I could swipe and possibly reply to messages that would eventually lead nowhere. It wasn't that I was looking for love, I had that in spades in my friends and all the connections that fed the well of need in my soul for acceptance. But lord almighty, what did a girl have to do to find someone who could fulfill a couple sexual needs and not make it weird afterward? The couple of dates I had been on in the last few months either didn't go anywhere fun or they ended up getting into a committed relationship soon after meeting me and either ghosted me or became a friend. Instead of a vibrant tide pool teeming with life, all I found was the corpses of the creatures left behind when the ocean receded. So, bupkis.

Tuesday was not a day I expected to see a familiar face slide across my dating app. Phillip, the man who asked what words meant in the middle of the bank, smiled up at me from my screen. The little scar on his cheek was almost enough for me to interact. The sound of the toilet in the next stall over flushing brought me back. My ass had gone numb. My teeth were leaving imprints in my lip. Who knew how long I had been staring at the one damn photo on his profile.

Nope.

Can't be doing that.

I locked the phone and finished up before heading back to work.

It was still there, taunting me, later when I opened my phone again in the lunch room. A friend from another department, Sharon, caught sight of it before I could close the app. She appeared over my shoulder like a goddamned wraith.

"Oooh, he's cute. You gonna say you're interested?"

"That's not how this app works," I shot her a look, thumb moving to dismiss him. Before I could Sharon marked me as interested. Turning to give her all my best HR appropriate insults I nearly missed my phone vibrating on the table.

Sharon sent me a smug look as she glanced from the screen to my face, "Looks like someone might be interested you too."

"Wha—?" Twisting back in my seat, I saw a new message had appeared. It came from one Phillip Graves. A litany of curses spiraled in and around my skull, I did not know what do in a situation like this. Could I unmatch from him after he had already sent me a message? I mean, likely, yes. But would I feel okay doing that? Could I just see what he said and then unmatch? Fuck. Why was I so nervous to open that damn message?

I could feel the stress filling up the pockets where my jaw hinged at my face. It happened to be the same feeling that came on before I started to race to worship a porcelain god. My neurons fired again and again trying to find a way out of this without being an unnecessary asshole—how the hell did I deal with this? The litany of my favorite words started up again. Sipping small breaths of air, I addressed my phone.

The screen had gone dark in my self reflection and panic. Okay, deep breaths. Waking the screen with a touch to my lock button, I keyed in my pin and tapped into the message portal of the dating app.

>Hey there stranger.

I could hear his accent even through the text format. I fought the twitch of my lips.

>Got any more words for me to learn today?

Swallowing only highlighted the bubble of stress swelling between my lungs and my ribs. Maybe this wouldn't be bad. Yes, my last boyfriend had also been a ditchwater blond with blue eyes and a similar build but this panic could likely be chalked up to the burbling of all my unprocessed trauma from that relationship (that, yes, I had refused to bring up to my therapist thus far. I had issues. Sue the government, not me).

I slowly typed out a reply and then firmly logged out of the app and closed it for good measure.

<Currently? The only ones coming to mind are flabbergasted and bewildered. Know either of those?

What I would find hours later, ensconced on my best friend's couch for our weekly movie session, turned out to be laughter. I logged back in; trepidation waylaid me. The slight rustle of the popcorn bag at the other end of the couch grounded me to the moment when I opened the chat again.

>🤔 Hmm. I know one of those. My Gran would shout them at us kids when we did something stupid. "Phillip, I am flabbergasted you could be so damn stupid!" *I was eight. Everyone is stupid at eight.

I couldn't help but laugh. Again. Goddammit. The bastard had made me laugh both times we had talked so far.

"Whatcha doing, Emery?" Ali's sudden appearance over my shoulder—when she had previously been cozied into her end of the couch—send my heart rate through the roof.

"Jesus, fuck, Ali! Warn a bitch would ya?"

She paid me no mind, instead slowly wedging a finger between my phone and my chest where I had slammed it when she scared the shit outta me. Her dark eyes scoured the short back and forth before lifting to me. The shadows and highlights of the movie played across her features. Suspicion.

"Why is he talking like he's already met you?"

Blowing out a breath, I passed the phone over and went boneless into the supportive caress of the cushions and told her what had happened, and all of my current fears up to this point.

"Want me to look into him?"

The NSA could use some tips from women with an internet access these days.

"Could I stop you?" I asked, defeated already.

"I mean…" Ali hedged as if the answer weren't 'I'll do it once you go home'.

"I doubt it's going anywhere, Ali. His coloring and build remind me too much of Austin and I don't know that I could handle a date with him." Ali, also, did not know some of the more…particular…details of that relationship. For good reason, I didn't think I would have bail money for what she would have done to him if I had been forthcoming about the interpersonals of that relationship.

"How about a surface level dive, and I only tell you if I find anything hinky?"

Ali had put on her 'I'm so innocent, don't look at me like that' face when I side-eyed her. Heaving a deep sigh, I pushed up from the couch to press a hand to her shoulder.

"Only if you find something concerning. Okay? I don't want to make it weird."

"You got it, dude!" She sent me a comical thumbs up that I rolled my eyes at, but left me smiling as I returned my focus to the big screen.

Sneaking glances at my phone, I did reply.

<I think I was more stupid at eighteen than I was at eight.

>Eighteen is a special kind of stupid, I think. All hormones and existential dread.

<Have they gotten better since you aged a few more years?

>The hormones? Settled for the most part, my joints like to remind me I'm near ancient anymore. Dread, I find, is soothed best by a well laid plan.

<My plans tend to go awry often enough that I've stopped making them, or if I do they have flexibility built in. Seems to save me heartache.

>You're much too beautiful to be letting your heart suffer under slippery plans.

>Speaking of plans, if you're free in two nights, my company is renting out a bar and opening a tab. There will be music and games and free alcohol. If you're free I would enjoy learning more new words from ya, but no pressure. It can be a friendly meeting, where if we don't enjoy each other's company outside the rotunda of a bank then we part ways and never speak again.

<It would depend on the time.

<And which bar.

Phillip replied with the details like he had been staring at his phone waiting for my reply to arrive. It shouldn't have been a point in his favor. It was.

Sitting in the parking lot, I stared at the bar. Getting ready for my office job had not taken any more time than normal; even if I actually went inside for a first date, I wouldn't be overdressed. The outfit still rocked. Soft slacks that sat at my natural waist and made my long legs look extra long, a black tank top, and a cardigan to fight the perpetual office chill. A cute pair of earrings and a matching necklace, both were in gold to match my cute little nose ring, made me feel like I could handle networking or running into an old friend. None of that helped the nerves about the date, though. I had talked myself in and out of coming so many times that when I eventually climbed in my car after work finally ended, I flipped a coin. That damnable thing failed me when it demanded, by its presentation of tails, to go inside.

"Okay, Emery. It's one drink. Get a whiskey, make some polite conversation, smile—for the love of god don't laugh—and then go home. You can do this." The pep talk didn't help.

I didn't see him when I first walked in. Bellying up to the bar, I ordered a whiskey, a Dr. Pepper, and a basket of fries. If nothing else, I would put food in my face and then could scoot on home having satisfied my obligation to try. It didn't work out like that. Phillip slid into view to my left, a wide smile greeting me.

"Emery! You made it."

Smiling in reply, I twisted in the seat to take him in fully. My mind still dinged about the yellow flags of blond hair and blue eyes, but the warning sounds were quieter in the volume of the bar.

"Well, your offer of a friendly meeting that, if it doesn't work out, results in never speaking again had some real appeal to it," I shrugged. Phillip laughed as I had intended. Movement on the other side of the bar saw the bartender returning with my whiskey lemonade. I lifted it to my lips with a nod of thanks. The feeling of vapors, like I could breathe a single flame into a forest fire, filled my mouth. Some decent whiskey.

"Thanks, Sam, will you add anything Emery has ordered to my tab?" His pleasant expression didn't shift between the bartender—Sam—and me. Damn him, all these minor things were seriously stacking up to begin to equate to a green flag. How many yellow flags equal a red one? And how many red flags would be enough for me to go home? Did I want to go home?

"You got it, Phil. Need anything else for the group?" Sam flicked a cleaning towel over one shoulder as he addressed Phillip.

"Those yahoos are all good right now. Thanks, Sam. Could I get a beer when you get a moment?" Phillip rapped the counter with a knuckle as he lifted a brow at me. "Is this seat free?"

The fucker made me laugh within five minutes! Doomed. I was fucking doomed.

"All yours, Phil."

Sam wandered away as Phillip winced and arranged himself in the chair next to me.

"If given the choice, I prefer Phillip." He accepted his drink from Sam with a nod before turning his entire body to address me.

"Phillip it is," I acknowledged with a nod. Shifting in my own seat, one leg going over the other and scooting to sit fully on the seat, I continued. "So, why invite a first date to a work shindig?"

"The team will leave me alone for more than two minutes in a row if I'm sitting at the bar with a beautiful woman."

Phillip said it so casually, as if he were commenting on the height of the clouds. Too bad for him, I snorted into my drink.

"I'm no woman, more a siphonophore made of Lego mini figs."

Looking up from where I settled my glass on the bar top, I found Phillip, head tipped, brows tilted, eyes scouring my face.

Pulling the inside of my lip between my teeth, I made a silly face at him.

"Another new word?"

He nodded, taking a mouthful of his rum and Coke.

Focusing on my fingernail as it tapped against my glass, I started placing words in a row to give the neatest explanation I could.

"Siphonophores are animals found mostly in the deep ocean. Where most creatures are made of different types of cells that all belong to the single entity, these guys are different because each of their cells is a distinct being." Digging out my phone from my pocket, I quickly pulled up an image. "This is a Portuguese Man'o'war; most people think they are jellyfish, but they are actually siphonophores. I think they are so cool, I actually have a tattoo of one on my leg."

When I looked up from my phone, I caught the most interesting look on Phillip's face.

"What?"

He chuckled lightly and shook his head. "I like that you do that."

"That being?" I narrowed my eyes at him as I dragged the word out. My phone made its way back into my pocket.

"You don't dumb down your language, even for a country bumpkin like me." Bashful sat funny on his shoulders.

"Bumpkins don't get to the point of having a company card and carte blanche to bring dates to work events," I countered. "And I would say I am sapiosexual," I explained before he could ask, "sapiosexuality means I don't experience attraction unless I find someone intelligent. My 'twenty-dollar words,' as my mom called them, are a really good way to filter out people who don't enjoy spending so much on a single sentence."

Phillip leaned back in his chair slightly,

"Most of my words would fall in the two to three dollar range, but they get the point across." Phillip sipped his drink, still watching me.

"And I imagine they are good words." Shifting my legs around—my foot that dangled had started to go numb—I finished my thought. "I get really upset when people misunderstand me. I thought as a kid that if I could simply pick the exact right word for what I thought, felt, experienced, then no one could argue with me about what I had to say."

Finding I had said a touch more than I would have preferred, I took a swallow of my drink.

"Does that still happen to you as an adult?" Phillip questioned.

The laugh that erupted out of me caught me by surprise with its honesty.

"Constantly."

Phillip's gaze softened. "Well, if you don't mind my company a bit longer, I would love to learn more of your twenty-dollar words."

My lips quirked into something nearing a smile without my consent. I spent an hour talking with him.

When I finally got home and shuffled myself off to bed, I found a text from Phillip waiting for me.

>Do you always listen to your music at frame-rattling volume in the car?

Smirking, I fired off a single-word reply.

<Yep.

I did then follow it up with more thoughts.

<Sometimes I need to feel my bones, and if the bass can't be felt two cars over its not high enough. Do you have a current repeat song?

I kept talking to him. The fact that I had started to like a man itched like a healing wound in my soul and made me want to peel open my ribcage to scratch it. Or kill it. My mileage would vary, I think. Phillip got a second date because he asked…and because he had sent me a food delivery credit when I happened to complain that I had forgotten to pack my lunch for work that day. It made me want to bite him, violently. Or kiss him. Less…violently.

It has been said that a good man is a mediocre woman, but I had to wonder if this man was raised by a single mother or a grandmother with a crack shot because the care and attention he gave me honestly made me think he was love bombing me. I remained cautious. It didn't hurt that Ali hadn't found anything of real concern other than that he had been a Marine and that he was currently listed as the owner/operator of a business called Shadow Company. Neither of us could figure out what he actually did for work, but I kept an ear out for it when we chatted. When asked, Phillip explained that he offered employment to men and women after leaving military service—from any military—which sometimes involved them using skills their governments taught them or sometimes re-purposing their skills to help transition them into civilian life. So, an answer; but not really. The only thing that kept me from labeling his caring behavior as manipulation had to be the hours and hours that would go between text messages, and sometimes the heads-up that he would be out of contact for a few days. Those were not the behaviors of someone trying to hijack my nervous system into allowing him entrance to my bed. He wasn't pushy, nor did he make fun of me for my large words, or for anything, as a matter of fact. The conversations flowed, and he was interesting. Phillip told funny stories and had strong convictions, but never once did those opinions trample over my lived experience.

That was how I ended up at the rodeo, hip to hip with Phillip on our seventh date. Thinking about how the date started made me want to smile and shout out my annoyance at smiling at a man, again. He had picked me up from a Wal-Mart parking lot, the area well-lit and a good middle distance between our homes, so neither he nor I had to go out of our way to enjoy this date. I had been leaning on my car, phone in hand, when he rolled up. I pocketed the device with a smile. Before he could put his truck in park—the small size of it surprised and pleased me—I had the door open and my ass heading for the bench seat.

"Emery," Phillip chided me with a glower, "Don't you know you should let a man open doors for you?"

I smirked as I replied, "Chivalry is dead. Be faster next time."

The look he shot me as the door clicked shut should have been a warning. I smiled all the wider at his mild irritation. Conversation flowed well on the drive, the walk, and the whole date, honestly. Once we got seated, most of my time got split between watching the bull riders and rodeo clowns, or Phillip, as he animatedly discussed certain performances with the random man we had met upon sitting down. It was a startling refreshment to see a man so passionate and excited without dipping into toxicity.

When his conversation partner stood and began a trek to the restrooms, Phillip turned to me.

"What?" He lifted a brow at me as he sipped on his drink.

"What do you mean 'what'?" I asked him, confused.

"You were staring at me. That's what."

"I wasn't staring," I crossed my arms, a touch petulant, "I was enjoying the view."

Phillip snorted, nearly ending up with beer up his nose. He pressed a warm palm to my knee that sat next to his and shook it to and fro.

"The view? You were staring at me, not any of those pretty bull riders down there."

Curling my fingers around his, I stopped the shaking but slid his hand a touch further up my thigh.

"I think you're prettier than they are," I tilted my chin toward the pen where a new man readied himself to hold on tight and keep seated for a lengthy eight seconds. "It's actually why I was so hesitant to go on a date with you."

Glancing back at him, I could see I had said too much. Rushing on before Phillip could finish forming an idea of a question, I asked one of my own that made sense as I spoke it, but had never thought to ask before.

"You can only watch a young man nearly end his life so many times before it becomes a bit boring. So, what do you like so much about the rodeo?"

He gave me a look that said many things all at once; we will be coming back to that comment you tried to glaze over, hints of trying to gauge my seriousness in the question, and a hefty dose of judgment about finding others' near-death experiences underwhelming. Instead of pushing on the topics that wouldn't lead the conversation anywhere but topics too heavy for a public space, Phillip pulsed his grip on my leg twice before replying.

"When I was small, my uncles would bring me to the rodeo. Not these big bull bouncing events, no, they took me to mutton busting and the barrel racing."

I cut in with a spluttering laugh, "What is mutton busting?"

Phillip gave me a wry smile, "Sheep riding, littles get placed on the back of a fluffy idiot, and they try to hold on." He bumped his shoulder with mine as he continued chiding me, "Now, let me finish my story."

I nodded once, lips quirked in a touch of a smile. Phillip had this light in his eyes, something I hadn't seen before but liked nonetheless.

"Okay, where was I?" He looked at me as if I were going to offer up his last bookmark after avowing myself to silence at his request. I lifted both bows and tongued my lip between my teeth as I waited for him to find it himself.

Laughing, Phillip lifted his hand from my thigh and pulled my hand closest to him to his lips for a quick kiss.

"You're a menace, Emery, but god if I'm not falling for it. So, my uncles were ropers and farmhands. When they had a spare day, they scooped me up from my ma's house and brought me down here. Now, one thing to know about me as a kid, I could fall down standing still—atrocious balance. Seeing all the other kids racing and riding sparked fantasies in my mind much too big for my little body. But, oh, how I begged any adult who would listen to me to let me try mutton busting. No one let me. None of my uncles, nor my mother, would budge on the topic. By the time I had collected enough balance to try, I was too big. I did take home first one year in barrel racing and came in third calf-roping before I joined the Marines."

My stomach tried to grow wings from the way it fluttered about from his 'falling for it' comment. Focus, Emery. Listen to his story because it's interesting, and don't get distracted by his lips that you want to kiss so damn bad.

"Which do you think you would have liked better if you had the chance to try? Mutton busting or barrel racing?"

I liked watching his face shift as he thought. He also didn't answer without thought—it made me respect him for at least pretending to offer my question contemplation.

"I think," he started slowly, voice rising as the volume around us did to finish his thought. Another young man was gearing up to risk his life for a belt buckle and bragging rights, I watched from the corner of my eye. The volume would escalate shortly. "Mutton busting would have been more fun, but racing was something else."

I forgot to ask what he meant in the excitement of this young man making it .05 seconds longer than the prior longest time tonight, and claimed victory. Phillip helped me from the stands as my energy started to wane with the more time that passed. My ass had gone numb. The jerk laughed. He laced our fingers together as he guided me around and through crowds toward the makeshift parking lot.

He kissed me that night. In the distant light from the arena, his hand linked with mine as we closed in on the truck, Phillip leaned close and whispered his question.

"Can I kiss—"

I didn't let him finish his sentence. Kissing him was nice, no chapped lips, and his facial hair didn't stab me like it wanted to draw blood. It moved slowly, press and retreat until the fight to keep the insects in my chest from escaping made me pull back.

Phillip looked like I had flash-banged him. Eyes wide but unseeing. His hands hovered over my hips, the circuit incomplete on the thought that would have landed them on my body. Silly man. I might love it.

That thought scared the ever-loving shit outta me. To distract myself from that terrifyingly honest look at myself, I changed the topic with a joking offer.

"Alright there, cowboy? Need me to drive?"

After a hard shake of his head and a couple blinks, he looked down at me and narrowed his eyes. One of his arms stretched out, around my back, forcing me to move or be knocked over. Turning to see what he had been going for, Phillip circled his other arm around my waist and pulled me back into his chest as he opened the car door.

"A menace, I say," he grumbled into my ear.

It became an unspoken race between us—reaching for the door handle. Sometimes I would open his and wait for him to notice. The first time I did that, I stared at him with a shit-eating grin until he looked for me since I hadn't appeared as expected. Phillip stalked around the truck and scooped me up around the ribs before walking me back to my side of the car, door still open as it waited for my entrance. Another time, Phillip unlocked the car, and after getting out to open the passenger door, I slid into the driver's seat and asked for the keys. He gawked at me as the Marine in him tried to figure out how the hell to deal with me. I lifted a brow and said 'didn't you know I could drive a stick?' He took the challenge and passed me his sparse keys. I drove that little truck like I'd been doing it all my life. I only caught him adjusting himself once as I parked us at the bar. Phillip had invited me line dancing; I wore my best jeans and my favorite pair of worn in converse with a cute top that needed some strong nipple tape to keep those girls from playing the role of Kool-Aid man all night.

Turns out line dancing? Absolutely not my thing. Phillip, heeding my warning, put us near the edge of the dance floor. I only tripped twice. Before drinks arrived at the table. After two whiskeys, I sat and watched Phillip fall in step and hit every move on point. We tended to go back and forth on events, finding things we both enjoyed or introducing the other to a favorite activity. Phillip had invited me to this one like he was scared I would say no. Getting to watch him smile and laugh like he did filled me with a deep well of satisfaction. He’d had worn a cowboy hat today. Something about his neatly combed hair appearing from beneath the wide brim made something squirm in my gut.

As annoying as it was to still like men, the longer I got to know Phillip, the more I liked him—unfortunate gender and all.

We'd had conversations, here and there, about what intimacy could look like if either of us indicated we would like more. He'd never mentioned the thing about wearing a cowboy's hat home, but I was a well-educated woman with a deep sense for when some aspect of a culture could have multiple meanings. Me—and a deep dive—found that answer real quick. I didn't expect to need it. Ever.

Phillip sank into the chair next to me, pulling my half-finished drink from between my hands where I slid it back and forth across the table. He threw it back with barely a change in expression. The wink he flashed me did nothing to ease my narrowed eyes.

"That was my drink."

"Yes, it was darlin', but I paid for it." Phillip leaned in and planted a kiss on my cheek.

"Alright, alright. I'll let you have it, this time," I rolled my eyes but smiled through it.

We spent the next twenty minutes enjoying each other's company and the vibes of the bar. I loved it.

Now, I'm gonna be honest. I have no fucking idea how Phillip ended up across the bar, yo-yo in hand as he went back and forth with a young man showing off tricks. What I will cop to is that the hard-won skill, one that would take genuine hours to hone, and wasn't something easily shown off, nor used to harm someone, tickled something deep in my soul and led an itch to start that only getting put through a mattress or bouncing on it like I was trying to void the warranty would solve. Phillip somehow did a trick that sent the yo-yo around his thigh before returning.

Waiting wasn't happening anymore.

Slipping through the people dotting the bar, I finally settled next to him as he handed the young man back his tool. Phillip turned to me and offered an elbow like a gods-be-damned gentleman. Smile included. Having just watched him whip out tricks like he had spent hours holed up in a room learning how to do yo-yo for nothing beyond the pleasure of the skill made me want to suck the fucking life outta him. I reached up and, without a word, lifted his hat off his head. Eye contact seemed especially important right now, so I held it as I planted the slightly sweaty inner brim against my forehead.

A dangerous light flickered in Phillip's eyes.

He leaned in. The difference in our heights became starkly apparent as he tilted his head to reach below the brim.

"Do you know what you're sayin' takin' my hat, Emery?"

I batted my lashes twice before replying, saccharine sweet.

"It better be saying unless you want this to be a parking lot event with witnesses, it's time to go."

Phillip froze. Not just frozen, 404 error page not found, blue screen of death, kind of froze. When the processing caught up to his ears, he scooped me up under the legs and one arm around my ribs and carried me from the bar.

He let me open the door to his truck that night to avoid putting me down anywhere but the seat.

I called it a win.

Masterlist | Phillip Graves Masterlist | Taglist

@angrydragonvoid @revnatheshadow @Milliemoocow @lucienofthelakes

[lostintransist]

Tears from Dreams and Memories

Cross-posted from AO3, check out the tags over there but reader beware. I kill everyone in this little one-shot, and if I don't kill them they wish they were dead.

Check those tags out here.

Seriously, if you didn't check out the tags I kill everyone or they wish they were dead. Readers beware.

Happy Ending AU

You shouldn’t be running down the halls of the base. You know you shouldn’t be running. But fuck all if they weren’t right on your heels. The men had come back on base drunk and the creepy ones had searched you out. You choked down the sobs that threatened to escape. If you could just get far enough away you might be ab—

You slam into something hard. You had taken the corner fast, a hand still behind you on the wall to help you pivot. You look up, and up, and up. A hard skull mask stares down at you. Blackout paint hides everything beyond the whites of his eyes.

Maniacal laughter starts up from behind you. You can’t stop the flinch that wracks your body. Shifting your aim for the pocket of space between the man and the wall, your socks shift ever so slightly against the inside of your boots. His hand shoots out, grasping your arm before you pass him.

“Wait.”

The tone reeked of a command. No one gave commands on a base like this unless they knew they had the authority to back up the demand. The thump of steps against the thin carpet have you letting out a high-pitched keen and pulling against the bear paw holding you in place.

“Please, please, please let me go.” You barely understand the words tripping off your tongue.

Barbed wire is wrapped around your spine, it pulls tight when two men appear at the end of the hall.

“Ho ho! You found her! Our friend here owes us a good time tonight for bailing on drinks off base.” The blond sways only in his eyes, shifting over your breasts and ass.

The man with the black hair just leers, it’s almost worse.

The man holding you makes no move to let you go or tell off the men who followed you over half of the base for their ‘fun’. A change in the air occurs, a pin of a grenade hitting the dirt.

The hand on your arm tightens. The British accent surprises you, the base had been briefed that a unit on loan from the UK would be joining them for a few months. The line repeated to every man and woman below a certain rank is to leave them alone and if you have any questions submit them to the liaisons.

“Get back to your rooms, you have two seconds to get out of my sight or I will be having a chat with your base commander in the morning.”

They gape at skull man, their drunk minds stumbling trying to catch up.

“What?” The blond questions.

“One.”

Both men start to back up, and the menace in that single word tightens around your throat. You escaped two predators only to land with a stronger one.

“Tw—”

The soldiers take off, the threat finally processes past the alcohol. You pinwheel your arm as their boots disappear behind the corner. You break free of the grip on your arm and start forward away from this new evil. One step is all you can take before arms wrap tight around your chest. He caught your arms too, fingers dangling by your thighs.

All the fight in your body leaves, and your brain decides that there is no escape. Your head rolls forward, you don’t even have the energy to blink.

When your position changes your mind starts recording new memories. Looking around you find yourself on a chair in the kitchen connected to the mess hall. The beast of a man stands in front of you slowly adding hot water to a cup. Your breaths pick up speed, fingers curling on the edge of the chair.

Skull face turns and drops a knee in front of you. He looms close but doesn’t touch any part of you.

“None of that now, I am not here to hurt you. We are just having some tea and then I will walk you to your room.” He speaks with a slow tone as if coaxing a feral cat from beneath a car.

You can’t tell where his accent is from, England for sure but not the common one associated with the country in your mind.

“I..I…I don’t..don’t…like tea.” You stutter at him.

You see his brows draw down despite the mask.

“Well, I will give you a warm cup to hold while I drink my tea then.” His voice is as deep as it should be with the breadth of his shoulders.

He stays on his knee, looking you over until at some point known only to him, he stands. He removes the tea bag from both cups. He adds a splash of milk to both cups and an ungodly amount of sugar. He gives both a quick mix and hands you one. He pops a hip on the stainless steel counter. He’s so damn tall he has his left foot flat on the floor and still comfortably sit on the counter his right foot swaying slightly.

“Can you even,” deep shuddering breath, “call that tea with how much sugar is in it?”

“Can’t call it anything if you don’t try it,” he slips a finger below his mask lifting it enough to fit the mug to his mouth. He wears gloves too.

Once the mask cleared the edge of his jaw you slam your head down. You stare at the tea, the milk slowly swirling into the water. You turn away and take a sip. The idea of milk and water as a drink still didn’t compute but the sugar masked any issues you might have had.

You sip at the drink finishing only about half when the sounds of movement bring your head back to the scary man in the room with you. His hand is stretched out to you. Glancing up and down it you slowly place your cup in his hand. You don’t feel so adrift after the quiet company.

You stand, awkwardly holding your elbows while he rinses the cups and spoon, leaving them in the empty sink. When he turns back to you he motions with his fingers for you to head out of the kitchen. You do as instructed. He picks up the chair on his way out. You hold open the swinging door, manners ingrained from childhood. He nods his thanks, tucking the chair just so below the table.

You don’t move until he looks at you. You let the door swing shut and begin to lead the way back to your room. Once you clear the doors of the mess hall he falls into step with you. You walk the brightly lit halls, walls dotted with darkness for windows. He remains a steady presence at your side until you stop in front of a door that looks exactly like the others.

“Thank you for your help,” you stare at your boots, curling your toes inside them.

“Lock your door tonight.”

With that final command, he turns and walks away. You don’t know where the UK team is staying but it is nowhere near the dorms you slept in. You do as instructed, locking the door behind you after you confirm that your roommate is already in bed, snoring lightly. Sleep comes slowly, a skull mask haunting you behind your eyelids.

✮✮✮

Price stares down at his tea, blinking slowly. He sat in an empty officer’s room. The base commander was courting the 141. He had yet to come out with the goal of this collaboration. He wonders absently if the tip of a flask would make the morning meetings easier to handle.

A file is slapped down on the table in front of him. Ghost sits down, a seat between them.

“I want this one.”

Price blinks at the file, his cup, and then finally his lieutenant.

“It is too early for this. Speak clearly. What do you want?”

In lieu of answering Ghost reaches over and flips open the folder. It’s a personnel file. A neutral-faced woman stares out at him from the small photo.

“I am not helping you get a girlfriend, Ghost.”

His joke doesn’t land. Ghost snatches the mug of tea from his hand.

“Don’t be crass, I hate the team the base commander has given us to work with. I want this one.”

“You want a soldier right out basic who knows next to nothing about this base and has probably never even met the commander to be our new point of contact?” Price can’t keep the exasperation out of his voice.

Ghost slurps at the tea. Price sighs and massages right above his eyebrows. This would be a hard sell to the base commander.

“I’ll see what I can do, now get the fuck out of my face. I don’t want to see you until lunch.”

✮✮✮

The wrinkles on the base commander’s face absorbed light like a black hole. Price stood before the man’s desk, face neutral.

“You want to change from the team of our hand-chosen soldiers to accommodate any need you have on base for a baby? Am I understanding that right?” He flipped through the file Ghost had dropped on the table just this morning.

“My lieutenant has a tendency to eat anyone he doesn’t tolerate.”

“He eats people?” the commander cut in.

“I have no confirmation of if he actually eats people, commander, only that he will chew through any team you give him until they all beg for reassignment. To avoid that strain on your teams I am asking that you give us this one soldier who has been requested.” Price lays the facts out reasonably, tone hinting that the commander would be an idiot to ignore this request.

“How did they even meet? We have strict orders for most of our people to not interact with your team at all,” he tossed down the file on this desk.

“I tend not to ask questions that will only result in a dead-eyed stare. He won’t tell me even if I asked, I’ve learned to roll with what he gives me.”

The commander steeples his fingers, elbows resting on the arms of his office chair. Price noted the power move but was more concerned about what the mess hall would be serving for lunch. He wondered if he could put in a request for a clam chowder, the warm creamy soup would hit the spot.

“Alright, I will reassign your current team and give you this one soldier. The paperwork should be done by dinner. I will have her also move to your section as she will need to be on hand for your team.” The commander leaned back in his chair, “Is there anything else your team needs right now, Captain Price?”

“No sir, everything has been satisfactory. I have a few things to finish up, I will see you at the 1100 meeting.” Price extracts himself from the commander’s office, closing the door behind him.

Soap pushed off the wall falling into step.

“So we getting a new aide? Because Ghost requested one?” He groused. “Ghost who would have bit the aide from the last base if it didn’t mean removing his mask?”

Price smirked, “In all fairness that man was an areshole.”

“Aye he was, but why the request?” Soap pushed open the door they had come to. They were near the training grounds.

“Don’t know Soap. Why don’t we find out?” Price aimed for someone who looked to be in charge.

✮✮✮

You pause, looking around. You were almost sure that someone had just called for you. You look around and see a man waving you down from the edge of the training area. You check that you are clear to cross before jogging over.

“Good, come with me.”

You follow. When you finally slow you are presented to two men. They had to be members of the 141 with skull face. One man, taller than you but not by much kept a trimmed beard, crow’s feet around his eyes. The other man towered over you, almost as tall as skull face, the mohawk added several inches to his height.

“This the recruit you were looking for?” The man who walked you over pointed a thumb in your direction.

“Think so,” the bearded man said. He stuck out his hand, “Nice to meet you, you can call me Price.”

You shake his hand, twice up and down with firm pressure. You had to learn to ‘shake like a man’.

Mohawk man sticks out his hand next, “Soap.”

You shake his hand and nod, turning back to the man who walked you over.

“Is that all, sir? All of us low-ranking members have standing orders to not speak to any of the 141,” you infuse your words with an ‘I’m just doing my job’ tone.

Soap snorts out a laugh, covering it poorly with a cough into his fist.

The man before you stutters before Price jumps in.

“Thank you, that will be all.” He can’t help but smile as you nod and turn on your heel heading back to your task.

As you are walking away you hear Soap’s comment.

“I can see why ‘e wants her, much more spunk there than anywhere else on this base.”

✮✮✮

The news comes down the line of your reassignment to become the sole attendant of the 141. You scarf down dinner, they wanted you presented to the team at 1800. You speed walk to your room, the clock showing a measly twenty minutes to pack your life up to move halfway across base.

You make it, squeaking through the door exactly the time you were requested. The base commander stands, hands tucked in one another behind his low back. He stands looking out the window over a group of training soldiers.

He ignores your presence for a moment before turning towards you.

“Ah, come in. We have a few things to discuss before I introduce you to the team. One question before we start, do you know why you were requested to be our liaison?”

You answer honestly, “Sir, I have not even a singular idea as to why.”

He hums, “We need this to go well. We need to borrow from the 141 from time to time and can only do that if they agree. Your job is to do whatever is needed to secure their agreement.”

Your stomach turns sour at the word choice, do whatever is needed. The military is no different than a pimp, only difference is one gets cheers and free meals at IHOP.

“Of course, sir, I will do my best.”

“Good, now here is what you need to know…”

The meeting takes another twenty minutes; your brain a bit fried when you lift your bag to follow the commander.

You take stock of the nicer flooring and art as you enter the building just beside the commanders. He lived on base since his wife passed nearly a year ago. You enter a room, you would still call it a living room despite all the time in the military.

Soap and a man you haven’t seen sit on the couch intently focused on their game of Mario Kart. They raced along the Rainbow Road. Price and skull face sat at a table near the wall. Price worked away on a laptop and skull face held an e-reader. A fifth man reclined in a chair near Soap, clearly asleep. Feet spread wide, head tipped across the back of the chair, an arm thrown over his eyes.

“This is where you will be staying. Captain Price will be in charge of you until they leave in a few months time. I will leave the introductions of the team to him.” The commander claps a hand on your shoulder, knocking you forward a step.

Price looks up at the motion, pulling a small headphone from his ear.

“Ah, Commander. Thank you for delivering our new aide, we will take good care of her.” He stood, striding over and offering a hand again.

You shake it again, focused on the retreating sounds of the commander. Once the door clicks behind him you feel the tension release slightly from your shoulders.

“Welcome, let’s get you introduced to everyone and then get you settled.” Price smiled at you warmly, the crow’s feet showing it to be a common state for him. “You’ve met Soap, next to him is Gaz.”

Neither man acknowledges their name, too focused on the game. They are on their third lap, neck, and neck for the lead. Gaz drops back slightly and throws a blue shell, effectively taking first. Soap jumps to his feet, shouting.

“You feckin’ cheatin’ son of a whore! Not even Mother Mary will save you after this!” His accent came out thick in his anger.

Gaz just laughed as he crossed the finish line. Soap rolled in at fifth. With their outburst done Price continues his introductions.

“The sleeping man is Roach, he doesn’t speak much so don’t worry if he doesn’t respond to you. And then we have our L.T., Ghost,” Price gestures to the masked man.

You can’t stop the words. They escape, your brain slowing down the embarrassment to exacerbate the stress.

“Ghosts don’t have bones.” Such a matter-of-fact tone. Fuck a duck, why are you like this?

Ghost stands. You swallow hard. He clears the space between you in three long strides. Mother-fucking giant of a man.

“What?”

He asks as if he hadn’t heard, not as if he were offended.

You roll your lips between your teeth, answering a bit louder despite his now closer position.

“Ghosts don’t have bones, so your mask is a bit of a silly choice.”

Every man awake busts into laughter except Ghost. You glance over and Gaz is hanging off Soap, struggling to breathe. Soap is curled forward hugging his stomach. Price smothers a chuckle next to you.

You look back at Ghost, his eyes squint slightly at you. You give an awkward smile.

“L.T. how has no one ever thought about that before?” Gaz is out of breath and falls back into laughter after his question.

Ghost blinks once at you.

“Follow me, I will show you to your room.”

You wince at his back, throwing a glance at Price.

“You’ll be okay, he won’t hold it against you,” the laughter in his voice didn’t reassure you.

You scurry after the man you insulted by accident, wincing at every sound you make. The only sound Ghost makes is the slight swish of his pants as they cross with each step. He leads you down a short hall, turning right at the first choice. There are two doors down this short hall. He taps the second one.

“This is your room. Mine is next door.”

“I am really sorry, I didn’t mean to make a joke of your mask,” you stumble over your words.

“Don’t apologize, it’s a funny thought and the men will take to you easier after the joke,” he replies evenly.

You wince again and look at the door.

“Is there anything I need to handle tonight?”

“No, other than we have a nightly debrief at 2000 in the main room.”

You blow out a short breath. “Okay, I can do that.”

Stepping into the room you are surprised at the single bed, dresser, and desk. Still all military issue but nicer. You drop your bag on the bed, looking over the space. You hadn’t truly been alone since you signed up, this might be an adjustment.

Turning back to the door you startle, Ghost is still standing in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes on you.

“Can I help you with something, lieutenant?” you ask, curious as to why he is still standing in the doorway.

“No. Feel free to join us when you are ready.” He turns away, the sound of his steps quickly fading.

You sit down on the chair at the desk. You put your head in your hands, elbows propped on your knees. How the hell did you end up here? Last night you were running for your life and now you are helping court a specialty group from the UK for the base commander. The only person from the team you spoke to last night had been Ghost. Did he have something to do with this change?

You eventually join the team back in the main room. The 2000 debrief had just been a fancy way of saying they all have a cup of tea before bed. Roach pulled out a deck of cards and you soon found yourself in a game of poker you would lose. You laugh more at the table with these men than you had in all the months you had been in the military. You fell asleep that night a soft smile on your face, the door locked tight.

✮✮✮

The months passed quickly, you became texting buddies with everyone on the team beyond Ghost. He watched you. You noticed but ignored it. He happened to be a grown man and if he had something to say he would have to buck up and use his words.

Roach comes alive through your text conversations, he is full of observations and quirky sayings. He is your favorite texting buddy.

As the time for the 141 to return come crept closer without a hard yes or no from Price about working with the base in the future the commander crept further up your ass. After a particularly unhelpful meeting where the commander ended up yelling at you, you stormed into your room. Throwing yourself face down on your bed, muttering curses.

“Can I help you?”

Your eyes blow wide in the darkness created by your face being compressed into the mattress.

Shit. Fuck. Dammit. You had missed your door and landed on Ghost’s bed. You pushed up from the mattress on your hands and one knee. The other foot already searched for the ground.

“Nope, sorry Ghost. I just had a bad meeting and missed my door,” you can’t help the blush overtaking your face.

One foot on the floor you pull your torso up, ready to turn and race out of the room once your second foot touches the carpet.

“Pause.”

You freeze finally looking up to see Ghost working at his desk. He has a soft balaclava on today, still a skull painted on but much more inviting than the hard mask. He has no darkening makeup on today, you can see dark brows and light, fair skin of England showing through the hole in the mask. You devour the peek into him.

“Sit,” he turns from you pulling open a drawer of his desk.

You shift to do as you are told. He has never been unkind to you, just the opposite actually. The two men who chased you across the base had been reassigned across the country shortly after you joined the team. Neither of you said it out loud but you know that only Ghost had been aware of what happened.

He spins his chair back towards you. He holds out his e-reader. This thing goes everywhere with him. Ghost could be called a voracious reader. You glance between the small device and his face, not touching the offering.

“Pick anything you like, feel free to stay until you feel better.”

You reach forward, fingers slow to grasp. Once you have a firm grip he lets go and turns back to his work. Starting the device a book opens halfway through. You back out to the main page and scroll through the options.

Several of the titles garner a raised brow.

“Didn’t take you for a smut reader, Ghost.”

The only response is a creaking of the chair as he shifts. Your lips twitch with a smile. You choose a title vaguely familiar and start from the beginning. You read sitting on Ghost’s bed until the nightly debrief. The next day you find yourself knocking at his closed door. You’re just going to ask to borrow his reader until you can finish the story.

When he opens the door what could be called a smile reaches his eyes. The edges of them shift together the barest hint.

“It’s on the bed, right where you left off.”

Bashfulness overcomes you, forcing your gaze to swing down to your boots. You slip past him, sitting against the wall feet dangling off the bed. Once the story has well and truly sucked you in you reach down and remove your boots, eyes not leaving the words as they thud to the floor. Ghost doesn’t say a single word as you end up stretching across his bed feet swinging through the air.

A knock at the door jolts you out of the story. Price’s voice comes after a knock slightly farther away.

“Debrief will be a bit late today, 2030.”

You lock eyes with Ghost, remaining silent. As Price’s footsteps walk away you flip to a sitting position and shove your toes back into your boots. You set the reader down, focused on getting the ties just right. Once they feel tight enough you stand.

“Thanks for letting me read, I guess I will come back when you have a moment you can spare it.” You can’t keep your fingers from digging into your pockets. You can’t believe you rolled yourself all over his bed while reading.

“You are welcome any time. If you are close why don’t you take it tonight and return it in the morning?” his head tilts ever so slightly.

“Really?” Your brows rise as does your voice with the question. “If you don’t mind. I can finish the book after debrief and return it before lights out.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he raised a brow as a challenge.

“I’m not saying you do,” you glare at him. “Confirming your level of seriousness is not doubting you.”

“If you say so.”

You stick your tongue out at him.

“Careful with that thing, some could take it as an invitation.” He turns back to his desk as you gape at him.

Did Ghost flirt with you?

You snap up the e-reader, holding it close to your chest as you leave the room. You let the door hang ajar, knowing it bothers him.

You wander into the main room, tucking the small tablet into your side pocket. Setting the kettle to boil you prepare a cup for each man, dropping a preferred tea bag in each. As everyone settles in around the table you finish adding milk and sugar to mugs and passing them out. Ghost sits last.

“Sugar with tea for you,” you place the cup down in front of him and take the seat to his right.

Soap chuckled, “Go’ta say L.T. she’s got you pegged.”

“Too bad we can’t throw her in our luggage for when we head home,” Gaz chimed in.

Price leaned back in his chair, “Well now there’s a thought. How long do you have left?”

You finish your sip of hot chocolate, “Only about a year, but I am not planning on re-upping.”

“Wanna come work for the 141?” Price lifts a brow at you.

“Put that offer in writing so I can get a visa and absolutely,” you grin. With how much Price griped about paperwork you doubted he would follow through on getting you a work visa.

He glared at you, “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Have you known me to do anything less?” you challenge.

“Do the paperwork Price, or I will.” Ghost dropped the statement like a smoking gun to a criminal case.

You smirk down into your cup, taking a sip to avoid a comment. Ghost hates paperwork more than Price and is so meticulous with it because he hates when he has to redo the ‘fucking devil’s work’.

The men leave the table as their tea is finished, rinsing the mugs before settling into the final activity of the night. You stay at the table and pull out the e-reader. The book sucks you back in.

“Is that Ghost’s reader?” Soap’s shocked voice rips you from the climax of the story.

“What? Uh, yeah.” You settle back into the battle, your main character taking a knife to the ribs.

“Did he let you borrow it or…” he lets the question hang, a noose swinging in the wind.

Irritated, you put the tablet down. Turning to look at Soap you reply.

“Of course he let me borrow it. I’ve been using it for a few days.”

Soap’s brows shoot up his forehead, nearly touching his mohawk.

“Really? Well, that’s an interesting development.”

“I guess? Now my character just got stabbed so if there is nothing else I am going to finish this before lights out so I can return it.” You turn back to the table and get absorbed back into reading.

You return the reader to Ghost before bed and only use it in behind the safety of his door until they leave.

✮✮✮

The anticipation of pain has never once made the pain hurt less.

They are leaving, your friends are heading home to the UK. Price is the one who sat you down and gave you the dates. Two days, in two days you would walk them to their plane and have to move on like you didn’t find family in some of the scariest men you have ever met. You hold it together until you get out of his sight.

Tears slip down your cheeks, a silent testament of the love that has grown for them. You slip into Ghost’s room. He should be out right now, off training with Roach. He isn’t.

Asleep with his boots on, Ghost is sprawled out across his bed. One hand dangles out over the edge. You sit against the bed, his arm draping over your shoulder. You hold his large hand in both of yours. You know he is probably awake, but he does you the kindness of staying still. He isn’t wearing his gloves today. Ghost had many healed scrapes and scars to explore. You let your fingers drift over his hand, bumping over every ridge.

You sniff as tears continue to flow down your cheeks, splattering against your shirt. It’s hard for you to believe that you can love these wacky guys to the point of pain at their departure. You slid right into the dynamic of the crew as if they had held a place for you. Cutting off arguments between the 141 and everyone else had become your primary job. You could talk down any member from retaliatory action for both minor and major slights. You toed the lines between both Price and the base commander to find common enough ground for their agreement to be settled. You still didn’t know why they were here, only that an agreement had been reached with you as a go-between more often than not. Now they were leaving. Leaving you behind. Knowing they have jobs waiting for them, for missions to be completed doesn’t ease the ache in your chest.

You stay like that, fingertips drifting over the skin of his hand until the storm in your chest has petered out and the only signs it ravaged your soul are the tracks on your cheeks and the tears drying on your shirt.

You sniff once, sliding your fingers to fit between his.

“I know you’re probably awake, but thank you for letting me use you for comfort.” You squeeze his fingers once before standing.

Scooting out and away from the bed you take care to not look at him. This private comfort you stole from his sleeping form could only be that, private. Seeing his eyes would shatter the flimsy barrier to your heart and you couldn’t afford to lose any more of that worn organ to men across the sea. Your fingers stayed locked with his as you stood, reaching, touching until at last the kiss of his fingerprints whispered their goodbyes.

You close the door softly behind you, heading for the bathroom. Standing before the mirror with the bright white light illuminating your blotchy face you tuck away your pain to deal with in the dark. You scrub your face with cool water and redo your hair. When a soldier with a job looks back at you instead of a woman losing her family you leave the bathroom.

✮✮✮

Two days later you say your goodbyes. Your number is entered into so many new phones and you are repeatedly asked which secure platform you will use to chat with them all. Their flight is scheduled to leave at 0320, at midnight you are scouring the rooms they used confirming everyone has packed everything.

Ghost finds you ass in the air while your hand stretches for a book Gaz had been missing for three weeks. It had fallen between his bed and the wall. When you snag it you pull back triumphant. You see his legs first, glancing all the way up at his face.

“Oh, hi, Ghost. I am just checking everyone got everything before you all leave,” you smile up at him.

He doesn’t respond, just offering a hand down to you. You take it gratefully, pulling yourself up. Taking a step back you look him over. He is wearing his soft balaclava today, he tends to wear them when he needs to be more comfortable than scary.

“All ready to go home? I bet you are going to be glad for an overcast day and a good cuppa,” the happiness in your voice isn’t faked. Ghost has complained to you a few times about the terrible tea here.

“Ready to be home, not looking forward to the flight.” He looks you over scouring your face, his gaze scrapes like steel wool over your nerves. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

The husky tone of his voice catches you off guard enough that you comply without thought. Gaz’s book is lifted from your hands, leaving them empty.

As you stand you hear the buzzing of the bright light above you, the sound of Velcro opening, and the quiet sounds of breaths, both yours and Ghosts. The fingers on your cheek are a surprise, the callouses marking your skin as they trail from your jaw to your eye.

You push your face into the touch, savoring the contact. His thumb brushes against your lips. You flick the tip of your tongue against it, tasting the ridges unique to that finger. He slides away from your mouth, thumb and fingers curling around your jaw and tipping your face up. He kisses you then. Riots start inside your body. Part of you yearns to open your eyes, devour him, touch the breadth of his flesh. The other, stronger part of you screws your eyes shut tighter, taking the gift as it is given and demanding nothing more.

He kisses as if he bottles his kindness and doles it out only for you. The press of his lips against yours will keep you going. He pulls back ever so slightly.

“I’ll see you in a year dove, stay safe,” he says the words against your lips, pressing them together once more. He puts something in your hands as he steps away, his fingers still on your face.

You keep your eyes closed, waiting for some sign it would be safe to open them again. His thumb taps your jaw before drifting away.

“Open your eyes already you silly bird,” the smile in his voice is unmistakable. His fingers slip away as your eyes open.

This mask is down again, you smirk up at him.

“Why am I a silly bird for respecting boundaries you big oaf? If you wanted me to see your face you wouldn’t have asked me to close my eyes.”

He shrugs, “Didn’t think you would let me kiss you if you saw it coming.”

You can’t stop the full belly laugh that erupts out of you. “I don’t know how to respond to that!”

Shaking your head you look down and pause. Your head snaps up.

“You’re giving me your e-reader? Why?” your brows draw together as you look at him.

He shrugs again, shoulders shifting just enough to indicate he didn’t have a real reason to share.

“It’s still logged in, feel free to buy any book that piques your interest.” His hands lift to your face, cupping your cheeks.

Your eyes flutter closed at the contact. His forehead connects with yours, his warm breath kissing your face as it filters through the mask.

“Don’t die before I get there okay?” You open your eyes, staring straight into his. This close you can see the variations of brown striping through them.

“Can’t promise nothin’, but I’ll do my best.” He sounds sincere.

You give in to the urge to hug him. He hesitates before returning the gesture. You stand with him, listening to his heartbeat until you have soaked in the pressure of his presence. You pull back first, wiping at your eyes.

“Let’s get you to your ride, Price will come looking for you soon.”

You grab Gaz’s book, tuck the e-reader in a side pocket, and walk with Ghost to the hanger. The silence between you is comfortable and tinged with the moments you have shared in silence before.

As you get close you wave the book at Gaz who jogs over.

“Where did you find it? I looked everywhere,” he takes the book gratefully.

“Everywhere but under your bed obviously.”

Ghost snorts, walking past you to join Price near the gangplank of the plane. You’ve said all your goodbyes at this point. You only stay to see them off. Everyone but Ghost gives you a hug or a pat on the back as they board the plane. You wave until the door shuts and watch until the dim lights of the wings are swallowed by the darkness.

You blow out a breath and speak into the darkness.

“One year, you can make it one more year.”

✮✮✮

Six months in you can tell things are getting bad for them. It takes longer and longer for replies to come into your messages and when Soap is willing to share what’s happening it is summed up in a single word.

Mole.

They go dark for another three months. Your days are filled with a background of worry and a foreground of doing what you are told.

Ghost is the one who breaks the silence.

>Your paperwork is through, your visa should arrive soon.

The cheer you give in the mess hall has every eye on you. Pinching your lips between your teeth you clean up your tray and slip outside.

>Anything special I should do after it arrives?

His reply comes quick.

>Pack.

You laugh. Some would miss the dry wit with which he pokes at you. You miss him, them.

>I have a few months left before I am out. Should I fly into Heathrow?

>Yes. Send Price your flight details and someone will come get you.

You send a kissy face emoji in response, imagining the eye roll that this would incite.

The final three months slip by like water. Your off time is filled with nailing down travel details and fighting with Price via email over the contract he sent you. He set up a fair contract, but he wanted you on his team so why not ask for a few extra vacation days?

✮✮✮

Soap is the one to pick you up when your flight lands. You drag your achy bones through customs, the clash of accents all around you weighing on your brain.

You set your bags down to hug him. He laughs.

“Miss me bonnie lass?”

You mumble your reply into his chest.

“I’m not anyone’s ‘bonnie lass’.” You nearly match his accent on the words.

“I donne believe you, but tis good to see you back. Let’s get you to HQ.” He looks down at your bags, “This all you have?”

You ignore the prick of judgment the question causes in you. There is nothing wrong with a transatlantic move that only has you bring a carry-on and a backpack.

“That’s it, I pack pretty light. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

He gives you a heavy side-eye.

“Never said there was.”

Conversation falls back into familiar territory as Soap fights his way out of the airport, car inching forward until they are at last out of the city. You don’t fight the pull of your eyelids to meet in sleep as Soap sings along to the radio. A hand on your shoulder wakes you. Soap smirks at you from the other seat.

“Rise and shine sleeping beauty.”

You roll your eyes and focus beyond the windshield at an old barn. You glance at Soap, confused.

He chuckles as he replies, “England is old, we have to reuse what we can.”

“Alright, whatever you say.” You step out of the car, feeling odd to be leaving the left side as a passenger.

You leave your bags in the car. Soap wanted to introduce you to the full team before showing you to the shared flat you would be living in until you could secure your own lodgings.

He is talking about the area, waving his arms this way, and that pointing out the range and the picnic tables. He pulls open a person-sized door beside the massive barn doors.

“We’re ho-” his shout into the building is cut off.

Something wet sprays across the side of your face. You snap your gaze to Soap. His face is gone, just a mass of bloody tissue gushing blood to the floor.

The scream that erupts from you is genuine. You had managed to avoid combat with the army and had never seen what a bullet could do to someone’s face. He falls slowly, almost as if his body is still fighting against gravity.

A hand claps over your mouth, unfamiliar voices yelling at you to ‘hush up or end up like him.’

You are dragged further into the building before your wrists are secured behind you. You are hurled into a large, windowless room landing next to the gasping body of Gaz. He can’t see you since his eyes are gone.

You vomit, doing your best to aim it away from him. When all the acid has been purged from your body you look around between dry heaves. Roach is hanging by his hands to a hook coming from the ceiling, Price’s face is slowly being peeled away as questions are being shouted at him. Ghost is missing, but you can’t decide if that is a good or bad thing.

Gaz starts to choke, bloody spittle dotting the floor in front of him. You scoot closer to him and lay your head on his. You can’t save him dammit but you can at least let him know he isn’t alone as he goes.

“It’s okay Gaz, you can go. Just stop fighting, rest.” The panic flooding your body makes it hard to talk.

He calms at your voice though, one final cough splattering the knees of your jeans. Gone.

You are wrenched upwards by your hair. You scream and stand, anything to relieve the pressure on your scalp. You are forced to stand before Price, your friend.

You can see a silver molar wink at you from his mangled face.

“Who is this Price?” The question comes from a calm voice.

How could anyone be calm at this time? Your eyes can’t settle on a single thing, flicking from person to person looking for a way out.

“No one, just a new liaison. Just flew in.”

The fact he answers the question tells you there is no way out of this.

A commotion at the door draws everyone’s gaze. Ghost is being dragged in by the back of his shirt, head lolling.

“Look what we found hiding in the rafters, a ghost!” All the men standing laugh as if this is all some big joke.

They tie him to a chair right next to Price. When they rip off his mask you look away.

“Ah lads, she is shy about his face. Good thing there won’t be much to see after we are done with him,” the man with his hand in your hair chortles.

They torture him, making you watch. Each scream from your friends snaps a tenuous hold on reality. Something deep in your brain stem seems to break when you see the bullet enter Price’s skull then hear it blast through Ghost’s. You aren’t anything any more. Nothing can touch you because while your body pumps blood your soul has followed your friends to the afterlife.

They don’t let you in of course, the angels dither over where to send you. You slip away from the pearly gates as they argue, wandering the fence that blocks paradise until hear the hooting laughter of Price getting caught off guard by a particularly funny joke. You find them all playing cards as if they were waiting for you. A cheer goes up and Ghost offers you a hand to hold.

✮✮✮

The night nurse can’t keep a yawn from her face. She takes a long swallow of her energy drink. She was getting to old for this shift. She stands her knees cracking like rice cripsies. Her trainee jumping up joined her.

“Let’s do rounds, midnight is pretty hopping around here. We have several patients that get restless around that time.”

Moving to the door she keys in the code for the day to enter the ward. She leads the way to the craft room. Most of the patients tended to congregate here during the night. The emergency lights meant this room never reached the level of darkness of the personal rooms.

Only one patient today, a young woman from the States who had been deemed too mentally unstable to stand trial. The doctors keep her heavily medicated for fear of her harming herself or others. The nurses gave extra doses of meds as they were able, her constant weeping scared the other patients. 

“Ah, just one tonight. This one you do need to watch out for though when you are working,” the older nurse watched from the doorway as her patient stared out the window rocking slowly.

“Why? She doesn’t look like trouble.” The baby nurse had so much to learn.

“First rule of psych, crazy is always strong. Second is that looks have no bearing on the mind. She’s from the States, word is that she tortured and killed at least eight men who were all special forces trained. The thought around here is that she had a mental break and snapped. Not that I believe that much any more. Management has mentioned that her former commander from the US is filing a lawsuit to get her case reopened. I looked it up, turns out she never saw combat so there is no way she could have taken out eight trained men. The US embasay is trying to get her home.”

“Oh,” the baby nurse took in the information, slightly more worried about their career choice than before the shift started.

“You’ll do fine, let’s go do our bed checks.” The older nurse turned away from the craft room. “There is nothing else we can do to help her.”

Masterlist

Happy Ending AU

[lostintransist]

I love this fucking story so fucking much.

[raveninrouge]

You're frustrated with Ghost ignoring you.

Alex enters the room.

Y/N: “Hi Alex, wow your arms look great today~”

Ghost appears from the SHADOWS.

Ghost: “Alex.”

Alex: “BROTHER SHE STARTED IT—"

[lostintransist]

Oh my god... My blog is a preteen.

[lostintransist]

What the FUCK was I dreaming about at two in the morning that led to this?!

[angelbabymikaa]

[wuuruvu]

[kindly-whisper-norbury]

[sheepispink]

keep seeing tiktoks abt this so reader who grew up in the complete opposite of a living room family, and is afraid to spend time with the others (gn!reader)

—-

John had thought you were a clean freak initially, and lord was he glad about that. Compared to you, they’d leave their jackets strewn over the rec room couch, shoes kicked in a large pile, and dishes in the sink when the dishwasher was right there. It got on his nerves most days, especially when he had to raise his brow when they all denied being the last one to finish the teabags in the pot. Then there was you.

You who joined the team only recently with a determination that surprisingly hadn’t fizzled out in the training programs taken to get to this level. In your first few days, John was convinced you had been living off base. Not once had he seen your mug on the coffee table, your phone beeping quietly on the counter or even muddy tracks left behind after an outdoor session. It made him proud of you– of your competence even in tougher times. You were a perfect fit after all.

“Don’t you guys ever think about how the newbie never sits in the rec room?” Kyle suddenly says, sticking his fork into the chicken and then into his mouth. It’s true, even with their erratic schedules, you’ve never been actually seen relaxing or sitting in there.

“Well, it’s not going to be comfortable with you all dumping your clothes everywhere.” John huffs, and Ghost rolls his eyes giving Soap a look that makes him snort.

“Not everywhere. Kyle’s right ye know. It’s a bit weird tae not even sit there once, not even for a cuppa.” He imitates Ghost’s speech with the last words, elbowing the larger man until he chuckles but eventually agrees too.

“Never see them there either. Maybe their bedroom is just more comfortable.”

The four off them pass it off as nothing, and the months pass with nothing changing. That’s until a mission goes haywire, forcing you all to pull together what you can to salvage what you can and turn it right around. It works, thanks to the efforts you all made throughout the whole month. When you return to base in the early morning, everyone stumbles to their room but you, who collapses onto the couch before your legs give out altogether. You sleep there the entire night, not that any of them mind, just keeping a watchful eye on you when you occasionally twitch.

It’s midday when you wake, the rest of them looking equally as exhausted; Price is even wearing a loose jumper as he leans against the kitchen counter. “Morning, sleepyhead.” He chuckles at your sleepy eyes blinking at him, stepping around to start brewing you a tea.. Or maybe a coffee will do you better.

You, however, react very differently.

“I- i’m so sorry.” You jump upright immediately, not caring about the drool spilling onto your chin as you fix the pillows, pat down the dents your body made from sleeping for so long, and smooth out the creases in the leather. Only to realise the dirt you had accidentally stained the pillows with. “Shit— sorry— sorry.” You pull the pillowcase off before he can answer, almost stumbling over your shoes which you quickly slip on, before dashing out the door to the laundry room. He’s left in stunned silence, confused and unsure what had left you so startled.

It’s later that evening when he hears a soft knock at the door, the time ticking towards nine. “Come in.”

The handle goes down as you push it open, your head lowered as you enter, hands trying their best not to grip the edge of your shirt to soothe your nerves. “I- i’m really sorry i hogged the couch this morning a-and dirtied the pillows. I tried to get it out the best i can but there’s stains from oil i think and–”

“It’s fine, kid. Kyle dropped a whole box of nachos on it before.” Your eyes snap up, meeting his warm eyes and the gentle tug of his lips. He doesn't look angry in the slightest, not even disappointed, and you’re just left confused.

“But that was at least an accident.. I should’ve known i’d dirty it. I didn’t think ahead..” You mumble back, and he raises a brow at your insistence. The boys never cared much more than a groan and promising they’d try to fix it with as many washes they could.

You must just be nervous because you’re new.

He chuckles gently, shaking his head. “Go back to your barracks and stop worryin’ already. I let you off the hook, didn't I?” He watches as you nod quickly, and walk out with a quick thank you and goodnight, the door closing quietly in your hands.

Although, that incident only made him notice everything all the more. The way you never slammed anything too harshly, took the fastest route to the kitchen and back, and even that you never even thought to hang up your coat on the back of the door. Everything was always kept in your room, and even when he did peek inside, there were no mugs lingering around, always immediately washed or put in the dishwasher for later.

He hates it.

When an injury leaves you discharged for a month, it’s like you never even lived there. They dont know what tea you drink, they dont know which one is the mug you like the most, there isn't even your netflix profile on the tv. All he can think about is the dread he’d feel if you actually did go KIA, and all he’d have is the papers confirming you’d transferred to the team as proof. Papers were nothing to him, he wanted proof you lived.

He doesn't care about dirt, and he doesn't care about you hogging the couch.

John wants to see you purposefully lay on the couch to spite him. He wants to remember your grin, and he wants to remember your squeal when he threatens you. John wants to hear your soft snores when he walks in for his midday cup, drool spilling onto the pillows and feet digging permanent marks into the leather cushions. He wants to see you drop crumbs over your shirt and waddle awkwardly to the bin to throw it away.

He wants to hear your laughter as you giggle at a comedy, your yelp as you watch a horror movie, or even your humming as you scroll through your phone, giggling at whatever video you see next.

That Friday he orders you to join them in the rec room, not giving you a way out as he forces you to sit beside him on the couch. Kyle’s made the messiest plate of cheesy nachos, passing you one for yourself aswell. Price doesnt bat an eye when it eventually drops, spilling over before you can take it but he does pull you back down when you try and handle it.

“Just a pillow.” He hums, arm tight around your shoulders, and your eyes go wide.

It takes until the others get up to take a piss break, get more drinks, or more snacks, for you to look up at him.“..Why aren’t you mad? I messed it up.”

He shrugs, adjusting himself so you can lean into him better than before. “Cause accidents happen..”

“But—“

“Let me finish.” He huffs, amusement rising on his face, especially when you immediately let him, looking sheepish. “I know you didn't mean to. So it doesn't matter. Besides, whenever I look at that silly yellow stain, I'll think of you.”

“Oh fuck!” Soap groans, and you both look over, a giggle bubbling in your throat as the coke he just opened fizzes up in his face and splatters all over him. Price groans loudly, making you laugh harder as he pretends to be sick of him. “That one you are cleaning up now, Mactavish.”

——

bruh my brother caught me writing this so you guys better like this

cod masterlist

buy me a coffee :)

[sheepispink]

this was supposed to be cute but now its angst because it just happened to me.

No matter what the situation, good or bad, you would always make sure everyone was included.

Sure not everyone wanted to be, but you always had the option available, not forceful, just waiting in case they ever decided to come around. It wasn't limited to just your teammates, no it was any ranking member, higher and lower or even civilians. You’d explain a joke if someone looked a little confused, introduce a new person whenever the group was already comfortable with each other. Those who stayed away would still receive a slice of the cake you all celebrated with, delivered to their doorstep if not by hand.

It was big things and little things— you would tell the new ally about all the inside jokes, make sure the rookie could repeat the route back to you before they found their way again, hell you’d always have a song request sheet at any form of a party— none were ever denied either.

When you joined the taskforce, that didn't change either. They had heard what you were like, but they never felt the way you purposely made sure everyone was in the loop. It was all so natural, and that’s why it worked so perfectly.

Well, except from Ghost.

He wasn't rude, per se, but he did have his tendencies to not bother or straight up ignore your attempts. That was fine to you though, you were always respectful of his boundaries. Even.. when he immediately denied your invite every single time. Some people were just stubborn. So you didn't push twice, just nodded and said “well, we’d love you there if you decide to come!” and that was always that.

“Guess who waited in line to get the collaboration meal.” You grin wide, already knowing it was only you and the sergeants who were obsessed with this series. They look at you with wide eyes as you step into the rec room holding the paper takeaway bags in your hands with a large grin. Everyone had a long day, and you had booked the afternoon a month prior when the announcement of the meal first came out. They had been mildly upset all day that they wouldn’t be able to catch it in time, only for you to walk in like their saviour.

“I love ye so damn much.” Soap announces, squashing your cheeks between his palms and you laugh as he pretends to give you the fattest kiss.

Gaz playfully kneels to the floor, hands clasped. “Please, bring me my salvation. I need it— the combo meal, the one with the limited edition bucket. Show it to me.”

You all giggle, including a chuckle from Price who just entered to witness the shenanigans. “What’s all this about?”

“Eat it with us and find out!” You say excitedly, tugging his sleeve over to the kitchen island, and sitting yourself on a stool. The sergeants unpack all the things you bought as you catch Price up to speed on why you were all excited about this, both because of the show that it was in collaboration to, and the new flavours.

“Okay, okay, are you guys ready?”” Gaz says, holding the burger up to his face with pure joy at the dripping sauce.

“Wait— let me text Ghost-“ You begin, cut off as he enters, looking a little annoyed at something. Well, that was weird. He doesn't show it when he looks over though, coming up. “Oh— I was just going to text you. You can— I mean, you should try some. We’re all trying it.”

He raises a brow at you, then the food, before shaking his head and going towards the couch. Well that was enough of an answer before you all dug into the meal, all excitedly chattering about how good it tastes and the flavours in your mouth

When you’re done, sipping on the milkshake and leaning onto Price’s shoulder, you show him the cool little cards that come with the meal. They’re cheap, but they’re still fun and he seems intrigued especially when you show him how you can scratch out to reveal different things. When he excuses himself to the bathroom, you glance over at Ghost who's watching yesterday's football highlights, catching up it seems.

If he was really annoyed, he wouldnt stay in the rec room, would he? You assume so, and approach from behind, watching it with him until eventually an ad begins playing. “Wow.. I didn't think they could ever make a comeback, especially with every past game.” You hum, fingers drumming against the sofa and he just grunts, eyes fixed on his phone. Still, you continue, placing one of the mystery little bags that came with the meal on the couch cushion next to him. “Cute right? They come with the collab meals. You should open it and see which one you got.

Just as you’re about to wait and see if he will, Gaz suddenly calls you. “Wow look, the store’s already sold out. Man this queue was insane, were you really in it?” Shocked, you run back over, watching the video Gaz holds up to you. “Woah, that’s insane. I didn't realise the queue was that long. Damn, I'm glad I got there earlier now.”

You completely forget about the whole ordeal, going on about your day and even going back to your separate things at times. Yeah, you should probably just go to sleep soon anyway, but you’re really craving a few of those nuts you keep on the coffee table. So, half awake, you walk into the rec room, padding over to the coffee table. In your haze, your knee accidentally knocks over the remote, sending it under the couch.

“Damnit..” You groan, kneeling down to reach for it… only for two things to come out. One, the remote and two, the surprise bag you gave Ghost earlier.

Still full, the item still inside.

He didn't open it. That was expected, and fine by you. Even if it didn't move off the spot you left it, or just moved onto the coffee table. Hell even the table stand you could get by. But shoved beneath the couch?

You spent hours trying to get that, waited in line and booked your paid leave off for it. Maybe you it’s what you deserved for trying for so long, like a cold slap in the face. Because for as long as you’ve made sure he always had a place in your plans, you’ve never had a place in his.

——

im pissed off fym i go OUT my way to show you something and you do that..

buy me a coffee!

[lostintransist]

Had a thought to follow this:

No one really noticed the change—at least not at first. (Ghost might have noticed but since you haven't laid even a single iota of your vision on him since finding your hard won spoiles discarded like even the effort to hide his shameful neglect of your care and attention, you wouldn't know).

You stopped caring—trying—when it came to Ghost. Full stop.

The threshold for being treated as if one were dead is a length only Hobbits would go. And a singlular man.

An ex had pointed it out first, the tendency when mad to mentally block someone from your vision and hearing. It wasn't pettiness. It was survival, and self-soothing.

Captain Price asked about it, once when it had been far too late in the day for any reasonable conversation to occur.

"You don't look at Ghost, or acknowledge his presence in any way. What happened?" The gruff question arrived with the same delivery that it did before terrorists.

Looking up from your paperwork you let the feelings words couldn't piece together sit on your face as you replied, "How many times would you let someone hurt you before you stopped trying, John? I care, deeply, but crocodiles prowl the depths of that well. Ghost is more likely to end up with teeth holes than a lungful of air from me."

Twisting your rage to point at the paperwork before you the final sentence slipped between your teeth that snapped shut behind them.

"Three little words, no thank you, and I wouldn't leave him to get death rolled and his body stuffed among the roots to rot."

[lanialania00]

I saw a shirt that said that