lostintransist

[lostintransist]

This Bunny Bites | Part 16

Part 1 | AO3

Cara caught the whiplash of panic cut like clean heroin with fear as it flashed across your face. She had been turned away for a moment when Johnny’s feet got tangled up on the way to touching down, and he fell. A glance in the mirror showed a face contorted with rage—any trace of the features you and Johnny shared was hidden away under that mask.

God-fucking-dammit. They had been doing so well!

More familiar with mitigating the rage of men than any woman should have a right to claim, Cara stepped between Johnny and you.

“Alright, fucker. Enough of that. You’re feelings are your problem, not hers. Now, grow the fuck up and accept the consequences of burying her with the old man and the house she bought to demolish.” Cara couldn’t keep her lip from curling back when Johnny’s face snarled down at her.

“Your rap sheet isn’t the worst I’ve faced down and won,” raising her voice, she continued, “That’s all she wrote, fuckers. Put your clothes on. It’s not like anyone here is going to pay you to keep them off. While you’re at it, grab a drink, you’re gonna feel it in the morning if you don’t hydrate now.”

Four laughs spread behind her. Cara didn’t remove her eyes from Johnny. Stepping closer, so close that a single breath from either of them would cause them to touch, she said the words that had always burned the soles of her feet to be spoken.

“Your sister is the best person I know. She did all of that without you—in spite of you, even. That evil fuck did more to her than I am allowed to say outside of a recorded line and with a signed plea bargain in hand. You, Sergeant,” she sneered the name, “MacTavish, chose to save a woman when you enlisted and didn’t come back. But now even the queen is dead. Long live the king, because what’s more, one man who doesn’t protect women?”

Gobsmacked was not a word Cara had ever had reason to use before. Johnny’s face, though? It would be the sole example in her mind moving forward.

Turning around, Cara found Kyle’s eyes on her. He stood near his bag by the wall, clothes fisted in hands that stayed by his sides. His gaze didn’t stray, staying on her face, brows tucked, and nose scrunched. He was also on her shit list right now. So instead of acknowledging him, Cara slid to a stop next to John.

“Hi, Captain. No injuries for you tonight?” The touch of honey in her tone does not go unnoticed if the violent rip of Kyle’s shirt over his head meant anything.

John Price could be called an attractive man. He wasn’t yet a silver fox, but Cara felt the term ‘beekeeping age’ fit nicely for him. The crow’s feet fanning from his eyes like wings highlighted the brilliance of his smile. He had already retrieved his shirt, covering up some interesting tattoos Cara had eyed while able. Shame that. John worked on sliding his pants on, one hand pressed against the wall for stability.

He laughed, rich and warm with texture. “No, I have the skills to avoid hurting myself. Though I will never be able to look like you gals do. I’ve never had a chance to ask before, but how do dancers know how to part men from their money so well?”

Cara bit her lip as she watched the trousers skim over his hips and thick hands button them closed. Pulling her gaze back up at the question, she saw the movement to her left. Kyle had thrown her shirt at her, face molted with anger. She caught it, channeling badass as she did. Ignoring Kyle in favor of answering, Cara slid the garment on.

“It’s not hard once you know how to move and what to watch for.” Shirt settled, she slid a hand under her braids to free them from the collar. “Want a demonstration?”

Bunny appeared at her shoulder, hands settling on her waist.

“I can show him.”

The others might have missed the pique pricking at your mouth, but Cara knew you better. You were doing this to needle Johnny. Not one to let a fight brew without throwing in at least a glove, Cara lifted both hands for a round of rock-paper-scissors.

“Best of three?” She asked, faux casualness draping her like a cape.

You caught it—the challenge—and stepped back, hands lifting in reply. Cara turned to face you better, and the battle began— neither would give wihtout a fight.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”

Cara took it with scissors.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”

You tapped your flat palm against Cara’s closed fist, winning with paper that had lost you the last round. Both knowing what was on the line here, something more than a demonstration you would show a new girl at a club, you both readied yourself for the last attempt at winning.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”

Scissors lost to rock, and Cara tipped her head in acknowledgment of defeat. Whatever happened from here was nothing she could have prevented. Lord only knows how hard she tried to keep you out of danger. Never seemed to help. Trouble bloomed in your footsteps.

“John, come and stand here for me,” you pointed to a spot that is close to the pole. Cara knew from experience that distance would put him within reach if you stretched out an arm, but would keep you from slamming your body into him.

A glance around finds Johnny and Ghost both glaring at their captain as he folds his arms and observes you starting to explain how to get and keep a man’s attention. They had both finished putting their clothes on at least.

The hand on Cara’s arm spun her. Kyle’s rum-dark eyes glared at her from under pinched brows and above a flaring nose.

“Can we talk?”

Shaking free of his hold, Cara couldn’t keep from flashing a snarl at him.

“About what? You couldn’t lower yourself to send even a text of ‘No, thank you. I’m not interested’ in my offer of a coffee date.” Cara clicked her heels with more force than necessary as she crossed to where Ghost stood. Settling a hand on his shoulder, she reached down to undo her heels.

“Don’t you know about personal space?” A train rumbling started under her hand.

“In my former line of work? Never.”

All she got in response was a grunt. Turning to settle the opposite hand on his shoulder, one foot freed, Cara purposefully avoided Kyle’s gaze.

If they were going to have this conversation, she wanted a chance to put on pants at least.

“Hold these?”

Ghost takes them without comment or side eye. He would have made a great bouncer. Cara accepted her slacks when Kyle tossed them with a glare. No one commented on the low murmur of you and John having a discussion as you spun slowly around the pole. Pants firmly in place, Cara feels fortified for the conversation she knows will be unavoidable. Men don’t accept nos.

The moment that Cara stepped out of range to sink even a hint of her nails into Ghost’s shoulder, Kyle pounced. His boots squeaked as he pressed a too-hot hand to the base of her spine and gave a ‘friendly invitation’ to move to and through the door. Cara stepped long once her foot cleared the frame and posted up at the wall. Shoulders wide, feet braced, eyes on the frosted glass of the front wall, she waited for Kyle to step around and begin whatever he thought this conversation was going to be.

Seems the man knew something about power plays. He stayed where she had left him, at her back.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he started.

Cara cut him off with a snap of her teeth.

“If you can recite my order from my favorite restaurant in Lebanon, I will suffocate you until not even your soul can scream.” Her hands found her hips, nails tingling with pain where the pressure of her fingertips digging in fought against the glue that kept the picture-perfect acrylics in place.

“Hmm…I’ve been to Lebanon once or twice.”

Something about the casualness of the reply sent Cara spinning. Finger pointing already, she took the two steps between them to jab him in the chest.

“I get you don’t want to be seen with a former sex worker, Kyle. You aren’t the first man and sure as hell won’t be the last to reject me on the merits of what I did to get myself secure.”

He stood there, taking the glare and the stabbing of your nail into his flesh, where it left a dent in his shirt, with a hint of a smile. She hated it. Smiles like that always led to mudslinging.

“I don’t care what you did for work. Clearly, you were good at it if tonight is any indication. My hesitations lie in Johnny’s twisted relationship with his sister—”

“Half-sister,” Cara cut in on reflex. You made a point to not claim more familiarity than you had to to your brother.

“Half-sister,” he acknowledged with a tilt of his head, “And the fact is that I run with and against dangerous people.” Kyle’s eyelids tightened as he looked her over. “You aren’t someone I would be satisfied with no longer knowing if I got a chance to see inside.”

A door to Cara’s right opened, cutting off any chance at finding a reply for such an unexpected comment. Sasha stood in the doorway, dwarfed by men who looked like one shouldn’t remember their faces for safety reasons. Her dark brows shot up at seeing her lobby not as empty as she’d left it. With a flick of her hand, Cara got the message.

Both hands shot forward, stopping Kyle’s face from completing the turn he had begun. The tips of her nails caught in the hair coiled behind his ears. His brows went up. Before he had a chance to speak, Cara stepped forward, bringing them as close as she had been to Johnny no less than five minutes ago. Her voice came rushed, hushed, electrified as if one wrong step would send them both into the puddle connected to the downed power line just out of sight.

“Listen to me right now. If you want to make it out of this room alive, you cannot look anywhere but me.” Her tone begged for trust, even as her hands began to shake. “If you can’t stay focused on me, close your eyes.”

Footsteps, heavy and steeped in cologne, passed them.

Kyle stared as if he could read the contents of her soul from the varying shades of brown in her irises.

When, at last, the door shut, Cara let her eyes drift shut. Her head slumped forward, hanging by its weight and the strength of her spine.

“Glad you remember what I taught you,” Sasha’s smooth voice slid like body oil over her skin.

“I am too,” Cara laughed weakly.

Before either woman had a chance to continue the conversation, the door to the studio they had been using flung open. John threw Johnny out with a snarl of ‘get in the fucking car’. As he turned back to face the room, Cara caught sight of a nasty bite on his arm—all red marks and teeth indentations. That would be bruised by morning. Dropping her hands, Cara stared and tried to understand what the hell was happening.

“Bunny! You’re in my car. Go. Ghost, Gaz, clean up here and meet us back at the house.” He turned back, face hard and steam nearly shooting from his ears. Stomping should never be a silent activity. The door swooshed shut behind the injured and pissed of captain as he followed his sergeant out the door.

You appeared a breath later, bare toes gripping the floor for stability and shoes in hand. The glare of your eyes juxtaposed with the tremble in your lip says a lot. Stepping in front of you, Cara settled a hand on each elbow.

“You good, honey?” She lifted her brows as she looked you over for anything that would tell her what the hell had happened. “You don’t need to go with them if you don’t want to.”

Ghost shouldered his way through the door, the remaining few sports drinks dangling from his fingers, using the leftover plastic. His other hand held your bag.

“She doesn’t have a choice.” He dropped the words like a bad breakup, walking away without a backward glance.

The shrug you give does nothing to mask your feelings. When you glance up and see Sasha, you give a small wave.

“Hi, Sasha.”

“Needin’ any help?” She has her firm voice on, the one that would make mobsters sit down and shut up.

“Na,” Cara spoke up. Turning away from you, she tapped your elbow twice to send you out to the car. “Seems we’re all up in some tricky business tonight.”

At Sasha’s nod, Cara knew she had received and accepted the answer. There would be no sharing of secrets. Kyle leaned in her ear as Sasha disappeared into her back office.

“I’m not done with this conversation.”

“How nice for you.” Cara walked away; snatching up her bag off the floor she scanned the room to make sure everything was as clean as it should be. Satisfied with her quick perusal, she flicked off the lights.

Kyle had disappeared by the time the front door closed behind her, along with you, your car, and Cara’s sense of ease for the next few hours until she heard from you. The worry for your safety fought with the annoyance at Kyle the entire drive home.

Two hours later, still up and in bed, Cara laughed at the photo she received from you.

There you stood, flash giving enough light to highlight you and your half-brother curled up on the ground behind you.

The accompanying text message read ‘Turns out fighting men CAN make you feel better!’

Part 15 | Part 17

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[lostintransist]

And all the sudden I'm not the crazy one.

Low-key I can see why @lostintransist be writing how they write. I'm loving these angry comments about this fictional man doing real world despicable man shit.

Sitting here reading the comments like

[lostintransist]

I just really wanted to say that I loved both versions Tears of Dreams and Memories! I read the original first and then the happy version.

I like to headcanon that the happy version is where reader’s soul is in the original. I picture her situations as a combination of 2 other characters: Adelaide from Us’s ballet scene in the tunnels and Lewis from What Remains of Edith Finch’s schizophrenia episodes.

Like her mind and soul are fully in the happy version of their story, but her body is stuck in the original version. Her worse episodes may be when she’s deployed (if she ever is in the happy version), fighting with the others, or whatever. I could also imagine her eventual death being similar to Lewis’s, where her death in the original is perverted into something pleasant in the happy version.

Anyways, I loved this!! Really wanna read more from you!!

Oooh I could absolutely see both of those thoughts! Tears is one of my worst punches to the face in terms of writing, so enjoy as you poke around!

[lostintransist]

There used to be a lot of activities that took place around a populated area like a village or town, which you would encounter before you reached the town itself. Most of those crafts have either been eliminated in the developed world or now take place out of view on private land, and so modern authors don't think of them when creating fantasy worlds or writing historical fiction. I think that sprinkling those in could both enrich the worlds you're writing in and, potentially, add useful plot devices.

For example, your travelers might know that they're near civilization when they start finding trees in the woods that have been tapped, for pitch or for sap. They might find a forester's trap line and trace it back to his hut to get medical care. Maybe they retrace the passage of a peasant and his pig out hunting for truffles. If they're coming along a coast, maybe your travelers come across the pools where sea water is dried down to salt, or the furnaces where bog iron ore is smelted.

Maybe they see a column of smoke and follow it to the house-sized kilns of a potter's yard where men work making bricks or roof tiles. From miles away they could smell the unmistakeable odor of pine sap being rendered down into pitch, and follow that to a village. Or they hear the flute playing of a shepherd boy whiling away the hours in the high pasture.

They could find the clearing where the charcoal burners recently broke down an earth kiln, and follow the hoof prints and drag marks of their horse and sledge as they hauled the charcoal back to civilization. Or follow the sound of metal on stone to a quarry or gravel pit. Maybe they know they're nearly to town when they come across a clay bank with signs of recent clay gathering.

Of course around every town and city there will be farms, more densely packed the closer you are. But don't just think of fields of grains or vegetables. Think of managed woodlands, like maybe trees coppiced-- cut and then regrown--to customize the shape or size of the branches. Cows being grazed in a communal green. Waiting as a huge flock of ducks is driven across the road. Orchards in bloom.

If they're approaching by road, there will be things best done out of town. The threshing floor where grain is beaten with flails or run through crushing wheels to separate the grain from its casing, and then winnowed, using the wind to carry away the chaff. Laundresses working in the river, their linens bleaching on the grass at the drying yard. The stench of the tanners, barred from town for stinking so badly. The rushing wheel-race and great creaking wheel of the flour mill.

If it's a larger town, there might be a livestock market outside the gates, with goats milling in woven willow pens or chickens in wooden cages. Or a line of horses for the wealthier buyer or your desperate travelers. There might be a red light district, escaping the regulations of the city proper, or plain old slums. More industrial yards, like the yards where fabric is dyed (these might also smell quite bad, like rotting plant material, or urine).

There are so many things that preindustrial people did and would find familiar that we just don't know about now. So much of life was lived out in the open for anyone to see. Make your world busy and loud and colorful!

[lostintransist]

@beloveds-embrace but when you change your picture

The trope where people don't recognize each other because it's been so long since they last interacted and they've both changed so much that they're basically strangers UNTIL one of them does their Signature Thing™ and the other just stops dead because oh. It's YOU. All at once it's so clearly you

[lostintransist]

"Well that's the problem, my migraine has kicked in faster than my meds."

Thank fucking God I have the weekend off. I think I'm gonna need an extra day to recover from that work fumble.

[lostintransist]

More CoD drawings Laswell study

[lostintransist]

I don't kill women in childbirth babe!

♡The Baby Boom♡

Inspired by this post

Kate frowned as she stared at Task Force 141. They didn't even have the decency to look ashamed or even sorry about the fact that all four of them had to be benched for the next five months minimum. They had to have planned this, some type of sick pact to target her specifically. John stared at her with a raised brow, daring her to challenge the policies surrounding family leave along with all of the pto they had each racked up. Simon seemed like he would rather eat salt than even disclose that he had a partner. Kyle wouldn't meet her gaze, instead opting to keep his focus on the window. That damn Johnny? He grinned like the cat that caught the canary, proud and brimming, a mess of black and white photos in his hand. He brings them out every chance he gets, talking about "Mah wife is giving me two!"

"There's no way you four are all married." Kate sighed, "Let alone each one of you having someone to get pregnant."

"No, only two of us are married currently. In three days, it will be four." Kyle says like the true smart ass that he is.

Kate chooses to ignore ore him for her own sake, "And all of their due dates are in late June early July?" She does the quick math and frowns. Of course, this is because of that mission where they all almost died. She should have never given them the month after to recover and get their heads on straight...and in true 141 team fashion, they did get their heads on straight, and apparently, it worked.

"Laswell, just approve of the extended leave, everyone wins, that new team 451 gets to be tested in the field and the office people won't breathe down our backs about 'Vacation time. Price and that team need vacations or else they will go nuclear'" John quotes exactly what he's heard behind closed doors.

She can't even pretend that she's shocked by what he says, but then again, a point has been made. She signs off on the four sheets of papers and leans back in her chair. "I'll have the wife send you all boxes of diapers and knitted blankets. Seems right up her alley."

Middle of August

Kyle was certain that this was the most tired he's ever been. It's 1:30 in the morning, and his little girl is in shambles over not having her bottle right away. His wife, Alicia, had just fallen asleep 20 minutes ago after pumping, complaints about having sore breast galore. The stupid bottle warmer is taking too long, and he is certain that Zira is going to suffocate with how much she cries.

"It's coming Princess, daddy can't make physics, and thermo dynamics happen any faster." He pats her on the back and presses his lips against her temple. The second she latches onto the nipple she quiets down and glares at him. As if saying, 'I can't believe you took this long.'

Zira Garrick is the youngest to be born out of five whole babies between him and his team. In true 141 fashion, it went Jack Price, Liron Riley, and somehow the MacTavish twins, Blake and Theo, showed up a week early before Zira. The inside joke was that the twins were making up for their parents, always being chronically late for things.

Despite this being the most hectic time of his life, eloping and becoming a dad (and pissing off his family with eloping and then telling them he's gonna be a dad right after) this has been the happiest he's ever been. She's got her mother's eyes, but she mostly takes after him. His wife wasn't too happy about that and complained-

"Nine months and a week," she whined while breastfeeding the other morning, "Nine months and week on my bladder and flipping around like Simone Biles, and you like your daddy? The audacity."

She couldn't see it, but Zira was more like her than him, and he was thankful for it. His phone dings and it's Johnny. He winces inwardly but sighs before checking the message

Soap 🧼: is anyone up for an early morning play date? Think like 9a and bring coffee because me and Si and the wife have been put through the ringer. And we could use outside help😭

Soap 🧼: Kinda worried because we can't leave Si alone and the wife is having the worst baby blues.

Kyle thinks for a moment about what he has on tap for the day. Alicia has been cooped up in the house this week in an attempt to avoid her mother. An argument about 'grandparent's rights' broke out, and she's been easily agitated since, maybe a visit with their friends was in order. His phone dings, and it's John, but clearly, it's his wife, Mrs Price, on the account of all the emojis.

Captain: Sure Johnny! 😀 Claire likes those little cheese danish right? We can make it a nice breakfast ☺️😋! Oh and I found some cute little matching onsies for all of the boys and a cute pink one for Zira!

Captain: oh! And John wanted to know if Simon refilled his meds and if he and Liron needed company to the peds?

It is a jarring reminder that Simon is very much a single father. Not by choice, which makes it all the more upsetting. Kyle remembers the first week when Liron was allowed to come home and how Simon was very much mute the entire time. They, as a team, had spent the two weeks Liron was in the NICU cleaning out his wife's things and putting them away. Simon didn't cry and grieve like most suddenly widowed husbands, but they all knew he was hurting and pit on a stoic face like he normally does.

It's part of the reason why Johnny and his wife Blair insisted and practically begged for the man to stay with them for a while. Kyle thinks it over for a moment and send a message back-

Kyle: sure, Alicia has been craving French toast, if you make that I'll make those hashbrowns you seem to like.

Captain: Sure thing ☺️ see you guys later!

Kyle took a deep breath and looked down his darling princess. She was slowly drifting off, eyes to heavy to fight back sleep.

"Why didn't you wake me?" Alicia yawned from the kitchen door. "You've been up with her all day and half the night."

"Because you need the rest and I don't mind and I want to." He gives her a smile and takes in how sleep clings to her.

"I gotta get back to the salon later today. My regular needs her hair done, and she isn't okay with my apprentice doing it. You know Mrs. Brown." She places a hand on his shoulder and a kiss on his cheek and then smoothes down Zira's hair. "I can't wait till her bonnet is here, it's gonna be too cute."

"Mrs. Brown? The woman who goes out of her way to pinch me on the cheeks when I visit your shop? Ugh."

"Not too much on my client now. She's set in her ways, but she means well."

"Hm," he takes a moment and watches as she makes a snack before he continues, "Johnny wants us over, everyone for breakfast. I think him Blair and Simon need to see other adults."

"How is Simon doing?" She asks.

"He's Simon, doesn't complain and he keeps everything to himself."

"Is he aware that Nicole wouldn't want that?" She whispers, "I already told him that he could come to us too."

"He knows, but he barely wanted to even let Johnny help."

"Well." She settles down at the kitchen table with her snack, plain bread with nutella. Her face is sad and a bit distant, "I'm sure he'll come around, but yeah we should go and see everyone. I'm feeling like a prisoner not being able to see everyone."

"You've been saying you're a prisoner since trimester one." He jokes

"I was pregnant and can no longer drink wine until she is weaned because you have zero pullout game Garrick." She rolls her eyes so hard they may fall out her face, and he chuckles at that.

If only she knew that Zira was a result of his near death experience and their rushed wedding, the result of her not being able to get what she's owed should he ever not come back. He doesn't want to worry her about that. "Come on," he says, "Let's get back to bed and try and sleep before Princess wakes up again."

"You keep calling her that, and she'll think that's her name and act like it." Her laugh is quiet, and it dies off in a yawn. "You're gonna create a monster."

"No better than you. If I don't tell you no, why would I tell her no."

"Jesus be a fence."

Next

[lostintransist]

""It's coming Princess, daddy can't make physics, and thermo dynamics happen any faster." He pats her on the back and presses his lips against her temple. The second she latches onto the nipple she quiets down and glares at him. As if saying, 'I can't believe you took this long.'"

Oh my God it's like you peeped into those first few days of motherhood and saw me.

Also fuck you for killing his wife. Like Vanta, straight to jail!

♡The Baby Boom♡

Inspired by this post

Kate frowned as she stared at Task Force 141. They didn't even have the decency to look ashamed or even sorry about the fact that all four of them had to be benched for the next five months minimum. They had to have planned this, some type of sick pact to target her specifically. John stared at her with a raised brow, daring her to challenge the policies surrounding family leave along with all of the pto they had each racked up. Simon seemed like he would rather eat salt than even disclose that he had a partner. Kyle wouldn't meet her gaze, instead opting to keep his focus on the window. That damn Johnny? He grinned like the cat that caught the canary, proud and brimming, a mess of black and white photos in his hand. He brings them out every chance he gets, talking about "Mah wife is giving me two!"

"There's no way you four are all married." Kate sighed, "Let alone each one of you having someone to get pregnant."

"No, only two of us are married currently. In three days, it will be four." Kyle says like the true smart ass that he is.

Kate chooses to ignore ore him for her own sake, "And all of their due dates are in late June early July?" She does the quick math and frowns. Of course, this is because of that mission where they all almost died. She should have never given them the month after to recover and get their heads on straight...and in true 141 team fashion, they did get their heads on straight, and apparently, it worked.

"Laswell, just approve of the extended leave, everyone wins, that new team 451 gets to be tested in the field and the office people won't breathe down our backs about 'Vacation time. Price and that team need vacations or else they will go nuclear'" John quotes exactly what he's heard behind closed doors.

She can't even pretend that she's shocked by what he says, but then again, a point has been made. She signs off on the four sheets of papers and leans back in her chair. "I'll have the wife send you all boxes of diapers and knitted blankets. Seems right up her alley."

Middle of August

Kyle was certain that this was the most tired he's ever been. It's 1:30 in the morning, and his little girl is in shambles over not having her bottle right away. His wife, Alicia, had just fallen asleep 20 minutes ago after pumping, complaints about having sore breast galore. The stupid bottle warmer is taking too long, and he is certain that Zira is going to suffocate with how much she cries.

"It's coming Princess, daddy can't make physics, and thermo dynamics happen any faster." He pats her on the back and presses his lips against her temple. The second she latches onto the nipple she quiets down and glares at him. As if saying, 'I can't believe you took this long.'

Zira Garrick is the youngest to be born out of five whole babies between him and his team. In true 141 fashion, it went Jack Price, Liron Riley, and somehow the MacTavish twins, Blake and Theo, showed up a week early before Zira. The inside joke was that the twins were making up for their parents, always being chronically late for things.

Despite this being the most hectic time of his life, eloping and becoming a dad (and pissing off his family with eloping and then telling them he's gonna be a dad right after) this has been the happiest he's ever been. She's got her mother's eyes, but she mostly takes after him. His wife wasn't too happy about that and complained-

"Nine months and a week," she whined while breastfeeding the other morning, "Nine months and week on my bladder and flipping around like Simone Biles, and you like your daddy? The audacity."

She couldn't see it, but Zira was more like her than him, and he was thankful for it. His phone dings and it's Johnny. He winces inwardly but sighs before checking the message

Soap 🧼: is anyone up for an early morning play date? Think like 9a and bring coffee because me and Si and the wife have been put through the ringer. And we could use outside help😭

Soap 🧼: Kinda worried because we can't leave Si alone and the wife is having the worst baby blues.

Kyle thinks for a moment about what he has on tap for the day. Alicia has been cooped up in the house this week in an attempt to avoid her mother. An argument about 'grandparent's rights' broke out, and she's been easily agitated since, maybe a visit with their friends was in order. His phone dings, and it's John, but clearly, it's his wife, Mrs Price, on the account of all the emojis.

Captain: Sure Johnny! 😀 Claire likes those little cheese danish right? We can make it a nice breakfast ☺️😋! Oh and I found some cute little matching onsies for all of the boys and a cute pink one for Zira!

Captain: oh! And John wanted to know if Simon refilled his meds and if he and Liron needed company to the peds?

It is a jarring reminder that Simon is very much a single father. Not by choice, which makes it all the more upsetting. Kyle remembers the first week when Liron was allowed to come home and how Simon was very much mute the entire time. They, as a team, had spent the two weeks Liron was in the NICU cleaning out his wife's things and putting them away. Simon didn't cry and grieve like most suddenly widowed husbands, but they all knew he was hurting and pit on a stoic face like he normally does.

It's part of the reason why Johnny and his wife Blair insisted and practically begged for the man to stay with them for a while. Kyle thinks it over for a moment and send a message back-

Kyle: sure, Alicia has been craving French toast, if you make that I'll make those hashbrowns you seem to like.

Captain: Sure thing ☺️ see you guys later!

Kyle took a deep breath and looked down his darling princess. She was slowly drifting off, eyes to heavy to fight back sleep.

"Why didn't you wake me?" Alicia yawned from the kitchen door. "You've been up with her all day and half the night."

"Because you need the rest and I don't mind and I want to." He gives her a smile and takes in how sleep clings to her.

"I gotta get back to the salon later today. My regular needs her hair done, and she isn't okay with my apprentice doing it. You know Mrs. Brown." She places a hand on his shoulder and a kiss on his cheek and then smoothes down Zira's hair. "I can't wait till her bonnet is here, it's gonna be too cute."

"Mrs. Brown? The woman who goes out of her way to pinch me on the cheeks when I visit your shop? Ugh."

"Not too much on my client now. She's set in her ways, but she means well."

"Hm," he takes a moment and watches as she makes a snack before he continues, "Johnny wants us over, everyone for breakfast. I think him Blair and Simon need to see other adults."

"How is Simon doing?" She asks.

"He's Simon, doesn't complain and he keeps everything to himself."

"Is he aware that Nicole wouldn't want that?" She whispers, "I already told him that he could come to us too."

"He knows, but he barely wanted to even let Johnny help."

"Well." She settles down at the kitchen table with her snack, plain bread with nutella. Her face is sad and a bit distant, "I'm sure he'll come around, but yeah we should go and see everyone. I'm feeling like a prisoner not being able to see everyone."

"You've been saying you're a prisoner since trimester one." He jokes

"I was pregnant and can no longer drink wine until she is weaned because you have zero pullout game Garrick." She rolls her eyes so hard they may fall out her face, and he chuckles at that.

If only she knew that Zira was a result of his near death experience and their rushed wedding, the result of her not being able to get what she's owed should he ever not come back. He doesn't want to worry her about that. "Come on," he says, "Let's get back to bed and try and sleep before Princess wakes up again."

"You keep calling her that, and she'll think that's her name and act like it." Her laugh is quiet, and it dies off in a yawn. "You're gonna create a monster."

"No better than you. If I don't tell you no, why would I tell her no."

"Jesus be a fence."

Next

[lostintransist]

Johnny buys a custom friendship necklace with those parts that are magnetic and latch together.

It was a stupid joke really. Saying they'd always stick together. That they need each other. He bought it from a kid making jewelry on his street.

It's a four piece one. Each corner is a necklace charm. This way, as the kid explained it to him, "no one gets left out and they need all four pieces to complete the heart."

Johnny gave it to them one random Thursday, like the silly joke it was supposed to be

Now, Simon wears his under his mask when he's home. Likes when the cool metal rubs his neck. He doesn't like to wear it on missions for fear he'll lose it.

Kyle wears his everyday and adamantly refuses to take it off. Even in the showers.

Price wears his on rougher days. Lets his fingers wear it smooth when he's nervous before a call with brass.

Johnny's stays where it was gently hung around the lip of his urn.

[lostintransist]

Voice note

Pt 2 to this

MDNI 18+ cheater!J.Price x reader

His kisses are bruising against your lips. Bodies heated through and through as his hips slowly grind against yours. It's hot and sweltering even though the air conditioning is on high. It must be actual hell that you've descended into since that missed call of his so many months ago.

It's wrong, flagrantly so. This is someone's husband. Someone else's love of their life and he is balls deep in your pussy. His teeth bite into the soft flesh of your neck and shoulder, leaving marks that you can't even dream of leaving on him.

A hiss escapes your gritted teeth as he knocks you senseless with his dick. The tip of it kisses your cervix and rubs against your g-spot repeatedly. A little pinch of pain blooms each time as your penance for the adultery.

You do not care.

You love him.

Maybe it is your daddy issues. Maybe it is the fact that you've never seen your mom or aunts or nana in a successful relationship. Your daddy was a cheater, and you believe in epigenetics, so maybe you got it from him. Or maybe this is a generational curse that has culminated and manifested in your choice of men.

He's got blue eyes, blue as the sky. A deep voice and stern look that commands respect and power. He's easygoing. A shame that you met him second.

"John, fuck-" You sigh against him and hold on tightly to him. Eyes squeezed shut as another orgasm sneaks up on you, "I'm gonna-"

"Not yet Love." He groans holding you tightly, "not yet, wait for me."

And isn't that a conundrum? Wait for him as if you aren't waiting for him to leave his wife. As if you don't wait for him to come see you when he can get away from his wife? As if you don't wait for him to call you and text you. As if you don't celebrate valentines day the day after and not before? All you do is wait for him.

You do as you are told, though, and do your best to not cum. To not rake your nails down his back. Bite into his shoulder. Let Mrs. Price know that you exist. Your toes curl, back arches into him, eyes roll back, open and unseeing.

(Not seeing him in a rapture state of pleasure is best for you. It makes this more bearable.)

It takes him three sharp thrusts before the heat around you, and in you is scalding hot. He presses himself to you as much as he can. Fingers gripping your hips and angling you up to make sure not a drop of his spend leaks out. He loves doing that. Loves knowing that nobody else has been in or on you. That he consumes, consumes, and consumes you, and you let him.

He whispers into your soul, "I love you so much."

The cold splash of reality settles in when you realize that he says this to his wife, too. Gotta wonder if it's even special. You don't say it back. You instead grip his face and kiss him softly.

"Hi honey bear! Just leaving a message to let you know that me and the girls made it safe to Florence! It's gorgeous out here and I can't wait for you to fly in for the wedding! Marisol almost lost her mind at the airport when we lost track of her wedding dress haha. I love you and see you soon."

You lay still in the bed pretending to be sleeping. It's only a few hours until sunrise. John is an early riser, up before the sun, and he lays down far after the moon rises. Your eyes track his movements as he mills about the room getting ready for his morning jog. He's told you that he can only stay for another day before he has to go to his friend's or teammates wedding. Some polite guy named Kyle, practically raised the guy into an upstanding man.

You only hope he didn't pass along his bad habits.

But the sound of Mrs. Price's voice steels your resolve. You deserve more and better than to be the other woman. It doesn't matter if he pays bills, buys you nice things, fucks you so goddamn good and eats pussy like it's his life's calling. No amount of 'I love you' or 'You're my woman' can make you forget that you aren't being paraded around as Mrs. Price.

"John." You sit up and yawn, as if you hadn't been awake for an hour. "Maybe you should leave today."

"Why's that Love?" He doesn't look up from tying his tennis shoes, he laughs, "You got another boyfriend stopping by?"

It's petty. The words slip from you before you can stop them "Yeah I do."

It's quiet. Deathly quiet as he snaps his gaze to you. Like a predator watching prey. You stare at him, face schooled into something that must make him slightly irate.

"Don't joke like that. I don't want another man in our home."

"You are dragging your feet with that divorce."

"Not this again."

"Yes this again!"

"Look, you have to wait. These things take time. Love." He gets up from the chair and sits on the bed. It doesn't take him much to move you into his embrace. "Are you acting out because you're jealous?" A kiss is pressed to your cheek and his beard tickles.

"Don't ask me stupid questions, John." You shift away from him. Tears blur your vision, and naturally, you place your face into your hands. How did you end up in this mess? You could shoot yourself dead for the mess you're in.

"Look, I'll take some time off and take you on a trip too if that's what my woman wants." Another kiss to your skin, and it stings in the worst way. "Would much rather vacation with my best girl anyway. Pick a place and plan it and put it on the card."

You don't say anything as he gets up and leaves for his jog. It's a hollow gesture to you. When the front door slams shut, you get up and head to your walk-in. In the back labeled 'Keepsakes and memories.' You lift the lid and push aside your photos and things. At the very bottom next to a black and white photo are your prenatal vitamins.

You're leaving him while he's gone.

🤷🏾‍♀️ let me know what you think

Tag: @uraeus56 @queen-stars2 @beautifuleaglealpaca @gxuxhdjdu @betelrus @gazsluckyhat @vmaxis @lostintransist @demothers-empty-blog

Next

[lostintransist]

God, all I can think about is how many highly trained soldiers they've collected who are going to go full WWII Great Escape on them and then come back full Kill Bill style.

18+, mdni (kidnapping, noncon)

Task Force 141, who have such a respectable image and standing within the military that no one would ever suspect, not even for a second, that they have a whole flock of basement wives tucked away in some nice lodge far up North in the woods where no one will ever dare to find them.

And who could ever go after or ask about the few women who've been said to be KIA and MIA during their missions?

You surely don't suspect anything when you join the 141 as a new operator; energetic, proud, motivated, and confident as ever.

Little do you know, however, that their captain and leader has already taken a special liking to you—and whatever the formidable Captain Price decides, will happen eventually.

[lostintransist]

Well you got the idea.

I love to make you feel things, and I like making it linger.

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]

First and foremost I'm hooked on your Butterflies in Blood series. But I'm just curious because I remember you reblogged a post from someone who did a spin off of your Butterflies in Blood series and I can't seem to find them or their fic anymore. Did they remove their blog?

I think, and hopefully they will know better, it was @lumilily or their side blog @chimera-dreams that might have done a spinoff.

But if anyone else has the direct link please step to the front of the class!

Here it is! Follow the link!

[lostintransist]

In And Of Itself | Part 4

Spaces Never Meant To Be Seen

Part 1 | AO3 And a special shout out to @ms-sasa for this special story! Dividers @/plum98

You stare at your screen, annoyed. Another fucking email from someone high up enough in the military that they felt they could usurp the scientific process and ask for protected medical information.

“Da fuck is wrong with these old white men?” You muttered to yourself as you hit reply, added your professor and the head of the study on the email, as well as the POC from the military who was supposed to manage all this bullshit before it reached the research team.

That dealt with, you turned to finish up your notes. You had four cases you were handling. You were on a team of eight, using this as a PhD study. The abstract was boiled down to ‘combining exterior therapies with interior consciousness alterations can help increase the efficacy of all therapies in regard to dealing with a host of neurological struggles.” Your focus was PTSD, and so it appeared with one S. Riley, C-PTSD. Of your four participants, you had one active duty service member, two veterans, and one convicted felon. You had a therapist you spoke with every Friday, helping you debrief from all the time spent in other people’s heads.

It helped.

Every moment not spent in someone else’s thoughts was used to pore over research studies and pluck out the most effective evidence to strengthen your own arguments.

Simon was your Thursday appointment. You didn’t know how to parse out the feelings of liking his sessions the most. He fought you. The solid grip he held on his emotions, even as they wriggled like an eel in his fist, intrigued you. Seeing his traumas didn’t cause him to misstep.

Simon accepted your challenges, though. Watching him shed the PTSD of the deaths that were not his to claim? Freeing. It still made your heart race fast if you thought about it too long. You’ve always wanted to help. When you had been eight, your mother experienced a mental break and was relocated to a mental facility by force. Sometimes nightmares featured her screams. You visited her even now. The frail and wiry creature who claimed your mother’s face didn’t recognize you. She never did.

Glancing at the time on the computer, you swear and slam your laptop closed. You would be running to make your virtual appointment. Today was Thursday.

Despite best efforts, the shouting beyond the closed door was causing you to flinch. At the advice of your own therapist, you had reached as far back into the minds of your participants as you could.

“The oldest traumas are the ones that lay the groundwork for how we see ourselves. If you can address those, bring them to light, all of the other ones will be easier to identify where the cracks lie and how to combat them. It might not work as well for your active duty fellow since they will likely get new traumas thrown in with their old, but it’s worth the work.” Your therapist had been working with you since you were fifteen and coming off an ED diagnosis. She never shied away from telling you the truth.

Simon was in there. Grown and small all at once, reliving the horrors that front doors hid. You couldn’t leave him to that alone. The knob gave slightly under your touch. It moved in its housing as if all the bolts had been slammed around to the point of coming loose. He stood as soon as you appeared. His chest heaved.

“Oh, I think that’s enough of that.” You snapped your fingers. Unnecessary, really, but you found people liked it better when you did something to initiate a change. The volume cut out.

Aching deep in your chest started for this grown man, you said nothing as he shifted his gaze from you to what you assumed was a young version of his mother. She cowered into the corner of the couch as her husband stood over her, yelling abuses. You kept your cool until the father turned and threw an entire coffee table through your body. The startled gasp you couldn’t contain? It caught Simon’s attention and had him shoving you physically into the kitchen. It was the first time the two you had touched, metaphysically or otherwise. Hands as big as his shouldn’t be cold.

“Why are we here?” Simon slammed the door shut, fingers spread wide as his forehead dipped to the surface of the chipped paint.

“Do you trust many people?” You start to skim the cookbooks along one shelf, just to give yourself a reason not to look at him.

“What?” His perplexed question doesn’t surprise you.

“I don’t imagine that you do.” Pulling down a cookbook, you are surprised to find the pages filled with actual recipes and notes. Small hand prints make your lips shift into the slightest of smiles.

“Why does it matter?” Simon all but growled at you as he put his back to the door.

Snapping your eyes to his, you watch how your thought lands.

“You should ask your therapist to help you figure out if your core incorrect belief is ‘no one will come when I call’ or ‘if I disappear no one will miss me’.”

Simon’s face paled. The stark darkness of his scars stretching from the corners of his lips to his earlobes stood out.

“We do a lot of puncturing here—opening up old wounds. The sessions after this are the sterile pads and saline to wash everything out. But that first hit? The first time you hear something that resonates down past your bones? It hurts.” Empathy crept into your tone.

“And how would you know?” He snapped, “You’re not even real.”

The words slapped you back into your professional mindset. Pursing your lips slightly, you straightened and wiped your hands down your skirt.

“Be that as it may, we’ve opened this wound. It will leak until you clean it.” Brushing past Simon, whose shoulders still shook with repressed emotions, you opened the kitchen door. It no longer opened into the past, but the valley of memories.

Striding into the distance so Simon would not hear your exit word, you noted a touch of pink on the horizon where, before, had only existed billowing darkness. Progress.

In and Of Itself Masterlist | Masterlist | AO3 | Taglist

@sweetlittleblackrose @clockboyy @lucienofthelakes @avgdestitute

[lostintransist]

Okay but doing the Ashley name as Ashleigh told me so much about where your head was at 🤣🤣🤣

I was chatting with a @lostintransist , and I just wanted to crank this out real quick.

Title: This is where you draw the line?

Pairing: John Price x wife

Not edited 😌

John Price knew his wife had a past. When he met her, it was when he was young and in some bar and he was pulling her off some bloke who wouldn't take no for an answer and leave her and her friends alone. She was scrappy, loud, and all ten of her nails were bitten off and the guy, how unfortunate, was beaten black and blue. He had kept a grip around her waist and managed to haul her out of the bar.

And the first thing she said to him after all the commotion died down was-

"Thanks. When the cops get here, tell them I went that way." She pointed left and took off right and disappeared into an alleyway. Sure enough, her friends filed a report with the authorities, and he actually found himself assisting in the cover-up, seeing as how the guy who got beat was a coworker who was known for sexual harassment.

The next time he saw her was a few days later, at the commissary on base, and he learned that she was the daughter of some major sent to live with him as a last resort to keep her from trouble. She thanked him for getting her out of that bind and then told him drinks were on her next time they came across each other in a different bar (she couldn't go back to the first one).

That was, gosh, almost fifteen years ago, and since then, he has married her. Had four kids (which was supposed to be three, but that vasectomy baby just kinda showed up). He lives a quiet life now that he's got a desk job (his boys were semi not happy about that promotion).

The argument that led to that is one he will never forget. He had one too many near death experiences, and on the fourth on, she looked at him and said, "Price, have one more near death experience and see what I do." He was quite shaken because his unshakable wife was in tears, and they were halfway through pregnancy four. Also, she never called him Price unless she was angry.

Let it be known he loves his wife, but he doesn't love her temper, and this type of hot rage temper she has going right now can't be calmed or tamed.

She stomps back and forth, car keys in her hand jingling as she gestures wildly. "Bitch I already told you! Beatrice said out the side of her mouth. 'It's a shame her youngest looks like that. Poor John isn't even aware that she cheated.' Like she must not have thought I wouldn't hear it after the PTA meeting when she was speaking to Ashliegh!"

There's a long pause, and John from his position can see his wife getting worked up. And to be fair, if he wasn't their at the birth of his youngest son, he too wouldn't have believed it, but the truth is that his own genes didn't even try.

"That woman has been a right fucking terror on everyone since the back to school jamboree! She should worry about why her own husband isn't allowed near parks and playgrounds and why her edges look like that! Hairline running from her forehead!"

He has to hold back a laugh and a snort when he hears that. Her insults were always the best, even though he doesn't encourage it. He goes back to reading over reports, keeping a loose eye on the time for when he should leave and get the kids from the various after-school things they attend.

"You're right, I should do something about her! And as quiet as it's kept I don't think she can afford four new tires right off the top." She says and stops her pacing. She sounds like a conspiracy is being planned and she's taps her chin in thought. "Yeah I will, I'm sure we can tape plates over your brother's car plates and drive by."

This gets John's attention immediately. He hasn't heard her plot and plan in years. Whatever she is planning can not be legal. She hangs up her phone call and there's this look in her eye that says 'Bail money.' No other thoughts just that.

"Sweetheart no." He says with a sigh, "Whatever you are planning is illegal."

She scrunches up her nose and squints at him, "Be so for real, John."

"I am. We have to set a good example for the kids." He gets up from his spot at the kitchen island where he was working and backs her into the counter. "As much as I know you don't like her, you should try to be nice and just talk it out or ignore her."

He should have just kept his mouth shut after 'Set a good example for the kids.' Because sure enough after she flys off the handle like it was her sworn duty to do so.

"She insulted our marriage and our youngest kid! And she terrorizes everyone who isn't in her Lululemon MLM cult! If I don't do something then everyone suffers!"

"There are better and more legal ways to go about this than whatever you are thinking about doing." He presses a kiss to her forehead.

"I know for a fact that this is not where you draw the line, Johnathon James Price!"

He winces at his full name being hissed between her teeth. She stares at him with the world's most serious glare.

"I know for a fact that you used to take civilians hostage and shoot at child soldiers! Is crime only legal for a government check and not for personal gain? Is that really where we are drawing the line?"

She's too riled up to talk down, especially since she has a point. It isn't, in his opinion, a good one, but also their kids and marriage were insulted. He can't even get a word in to try and deseclate before she is pushing past him.

"Call Simon and ask for four of his ski masks!" Is all she says as she makes her way upstairs, "and where's the good black spray paint? I think she has security cameras too!"

John only sighs heavily.

Honestly, I really do feel like he would marry a military brat of some higher up officer in his youth. And the only reason they met is because of a bar fight he helped break up.

[lostintransist]

@gazstations shout out to you for letting me access words again. (They have been buried under sad and studying). This is a riff off your selkie!soap post. Read as X-reader but I really wanted to write this in first-person perspective.

I grew up around boats. I could mostly solve motor issues and do regular maintenance to keep a vessel afloat. My grandfather and uncles had all taken turns taking us kids on their boats of varying sizes. What I hadn’t grown up around was the sea. Visiting the Great Lakes didn’t count; they don’t have predators that could rip me in half with less than an eighth of the power available to them.

When I had applied for a job to ferry supplies to islands, I did not expect to get anything more than a courtesy ‘We’ve gone with a different applicant’ or no response at all. What happened instead is I got a call dark and early from an international number, a ton of questions. Kieran, my new boss, had ended the call with a job offer and the steps to apply for a work visa. My visa was good for a year. I had recently divorced my abusive ex and wanted to be as far away from the plucking words of his family and mine.

Kieran took me in, calling me a child after his own heart, even though I had both feet firmly in my thirties. I don’t mind it, though; he feeds me and doesn’t question when I go on long walks despite the wind trying to push me over. I learned to love walking while married to my ex. It was freeing. Almost as freeing as feeling the floor dip and bob with the force of the shift of the stars and the weight of the water between me and the earth.

The Delivery Service had several routes for deliveries, typically to smaller islands or to specific families on islands. Many islands had routine deliveries from larger companies, but Old Mrs. Finnegin didn’t trust them. That’s where I came in. Kieran had me working the Orkney and Shetland islands. I had been here since April. It felt odd watching the Fourth of July slip by with nothing more than some firework emojis from friends and videos on my Snapchat on the morning of the fifth.

July brought the orca, though. It was unusual to see them so far north, I’ve been told, but it didn’t stop me from shouting with joy and waving at them the first time I saw a pod in the distance. I’d been in Kieran’s bigger boat that day.

Not so now.

No. Today I sat on a small, partially enclosed fishing boat, bobbing and breathing and feeling more myself than I had in years. Feet shoeless and hanging out over the railing in front of the window, I soaked in the weak summer sun. I knew the laughing phrase of ‘sun’s out, guns out’, but I couldn’t bear to leave my arms free in the splash of the biting sea. Men’s shorts and a well-worn button-up plaid shirt from my dad complemented my bare feet. The air around me, soaked in salt, settled in my lungs like I was welcome. A loud splash and the boat bouncing under me saw my ass scrambling to be off the bow.

Stepping down, I eye what appears to be a seal, nose heaving in air as its body shudders. To my left, something shifted under the water. Confused, I leaned closer and caught the flash of white from around an eye.

My stomach took the express elevator to hell as my heart rose no further than my throat. Orca ate seals. And they, the wolves of the sea, always hunted in packs.

A bump. That’s all it took to get me swearing at the thing that had put me in mortal peril.

“Motherfucker you can’t be here!” The panic screech in my voice can be forgiven—flashes of National Geographic started in my head. “Killer Whales aren’t known to eat humans, but to get at you?”

The seal stared at me. Dark eyes held mine as if tying our fates together.

One of them breached to the right of the boat, the spray of water and suck of air so distinct to air-breathing ocean creatures, took all the strength from my legs.

Ankles crisscrossed and pulled tight enough to rest my elbows on, I pressed the heels of my hands deep into my eye sockets.

“God-fucking-dammit. My bastard ex couldn’t kill me, so the universe sent a seal?” Eyes blinded by blurriness, rip my hands away and shout at the sky, “What kind of fuckass shit is this!?”

Blinking to clear the prints left on my lenses, I see the seal hasn’t moved. It is breathing slower, though. How nice for it. The panic of ancestors hunted from the shadows ripped at this skin behind my sternum, fighting for a way out.

“I’m stressing out about this right now, seal,” I curved my arms into a self-hug, knuckles digging into the underside of my arm. “So, since this problem is your fault, I am going to make you listen to my rambling until my anxiety attack runs out of steam.”

And I did. I subjected that poor animal to a stream of consciousness for twenty minutes while waiting for the pack of water wolves to decide dinner needed to be found elsewhere. When I could breathe again without my bones feeling like rapidly cooling glass, I checked that the orca had, in fact, left. Giving it another few minutes to be sure, I finally started up the motor and pointed the boat toward the harbor.

I needed a goddamn drink, and I didn’t even drink that often!

“Seal, if you ever scare the shit out of me like that again, you’re gonna owe me a fucking cigarette.” I had given up smoking in my twenties, and one winter with pneumonia had cured me of anything that might make it harder to breathe.

The bundle of blubber stayed on Kieran’s boat until I shifted the engine into a new gear, preparing to navigate to the slip. A shift in the air told me something had changed. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the tip of fins disappear past the edge and into the waters below.

“You’re welcome for saving your ass, I guess,” I muttered to myself as I focused my attention on not scraping anything.

Settled neatly in the slip, I killed the engine. The boat needed to be tied up.

“Boarding! I’ll tie ye off.”

A brash and loud voice, masculine in tone, reached my ears as the boat bobbed in a similar way to the seal seeking sanctuary. Spinning around, I can’t keep my hands from my chest.

“Fuck all. What is with the jump scares today?”

All I see of him is a narrow waist, red flannel wrapped tight to it. Strong arms, tattoos, scaffolding up both arms and down both hands that neatly secure the boat to the dock, draw my attention first. When he stands, I can see broad shoulders and what looks like a mohawk in dark brown hair. It’s a touch grown out if that’s what it is.

He turns, mouth pulled up in a smile that showcases his blue eyes.

“Sorry for the startle.” Shoving a hand into a front pocket, he pulls out an open pack of cigarettes, “Want a cig?”